Chapter Text
Routine and stability are two things that Atsushi Nakajima savors in his life. Routine, the early morning route of work; newspaper deliveries. The path never changes. Therefore, he doesn't have to worry about the way his hands shake and his teeth chatter when he speaks. There's very rarely someone to speak to, after-all. Only the hum of birds, and sometimes the wind as he walks freely down the route his feet have memorized thousands of times over now.
Stability, because his routine brings him an apartment, albeit small. He hangs photos of his friends, his little sister Kyouka, and her pet rabbit. Eventually a small corner of Kyouka’s own home becomes a shrine for her rabbit, a large off-white heap of fluff named Snow. She takes good care of the rabbit, and sends pictures often.
Travel a bit further, and canisters of tea leaves fill a medium sized shelf adjacent to the sink in the kitchenette. Atsushi often finds himself making tea at odd hours. A 2 AM cup of lavender here, a 9PM cup of standard green there.
Small space, a small circle, a small job. It's enough for him, at the moment.
Even when routine brings him terror, it's still something he would rather deal with than sudden and frenzied change. Nightmares have been consistent in the life of Atsushi Nakajima, visions of filtered light shining through glass that depicts the exact opposite part; a serene ambience woven of multi-colored shards becomes the backdrop of the scene he’s subjected to, and he feels that it is mocking him. The line shines over him but he feels nothing but pain, on his face, his arms and legs, sometimes spreading through every fiber of his body. There's the sound of children crying every time, and the pleading becomes like a repeating record to him.
The word ‘worthless’ is always ingrained deeper and deeper, unchanging as he wakes upon locking eyes with a man he feels he should hate. He's never met the man, but something inside of him has an almost primal response to his presence, tossing him back into consciousness with a yell. The clock reads 2 AM. Atsushi sweeps his bangs back from his forehead, cringing when he feels his fingers brush against something damp. He often wakes up sweating, crying, maybe even screaming (hopefully not loud enough to wake the neighbors).
He brews a cup of tea, back against the kitchen corner as he sips at the warmth in his mug. His eyes start to grow heavy again, boring holes into the wall across from him. Deciding to down the rest of his tea and ditch the mug in the sink for later usage, he shuffles out of the dimly lit kitchen and back into his bed.
The last thing he thinks before sleep reclaims him, is that he hates this part of the day.
Routine is okay, though. Even if it’s a borderline vicious one.
As if Atsushi had jinxed himself, another vicious cycle began. Nightfall brought nightmares as usual, of course, but with a twist that had him quite literally pinned to his sheets. The same old mantra would echo in his head, he’d wake with a gasp, a yell, a scream - anything goes - and then he’d see it.
A pale figure in the corner of his room. The figure seemed to almost glow, skin luminescent yet drained all at once against the dark backdrop surrounding them both. A faint red glow could be seen as the figure shifted, drifting through the room like a slow spreading lightning. Atsushi felt his lips part, an action that felt like prying a rusted door open, but nothing of use came out. Not a sound. He gives up. Sleep takes him once more, and he drifts through the next day more anxious than usual.
Most nights, the figure stays in it’s favorite corner.
Others, it drifts closer to Atsushi’s bed - either lurking at the edge, staring holes into his sheets, his face - one night it comes close enough that Atsushi swears he feels breath on his face.
He also swears that this figure - this man, Atsushi figures out on the third night - is strikingly familiar. High cheekbones, thick lashes, a demeanor that conducts a symphony of emotion within his ribcage as his own bright eyes stare back. The thought prompts Atsushi to shut his eyes and silently pray away his consciousness. Most nights it works, and Atsushi drifts off to the sensation of eyes all over him. When he wakes again, the curtains are still drawn shut, but the air of dread is long gone.
Weeks of this begin to take a visible toll. If there was one thing Atsushi felt was pleasant about himself, it was his face. He’d been told over the years that his eyes were a number of things. Exquisite, stunning, gorgeous - a plethora of compliments that gave him the tiny shred of self confidence he managed to hang onto after high school.
Now, they were sporting designer bags. His neighbor casts him a concerned glance when he nearly trips down the stairs of their complex, catching himself at the last moment.
“I wouldn’t normally advocate for this, but maybe you should take a day for yourself.”
Atsushi sags against the railing, slowly turning himself towards the source of concern.
Doppo Kunikida. Atsushi’s neighbor for a year now, and possibly the only man on their floor with his life put together. He won’t bring up the screaming matches that can easily be overheard through the walls, since he’s pretty sure Kunikida lives alone, and that would make for one awkward 8 AM conversation.
Either way, he still fares better than Atsushi ever has.
“Tempting, but I do have rent to pay.”
Atsushi sighs, pressing the heel of his palm against his eye. Sparks fly across his vision for a few seconds, and when he looks at Kunikida again - with both eyes - the man is clearly incredulous.
“Can’t pay rent if you’re dead, kid.”
The door to apartment 187 clicks shut.
Atsushi stares at the chipped paint above the door knob for a bit longer than necessary, and then heaves himself back up the stairs.
Can’t pay rent if you’re dead, Atsushi mimics, eyes stinging as he reproduces his apartment key from his front pocket. He misses the keyhole twice, unlocks it the third try, and nearly falls inward with the door once it opens.
Nearly.
He has more dignity than that.
His shoes are slid off his feet and back to their designated mat, apartment quiet save for the shuffling of his feet against carpet as Atsushi drags himself to the kitchen. Chamomile tea is calling his name. The sleep deprivation must be really getting to him now, because Atsushi swears he hears something rummaging about in his empty apartment. A silent laugh bubbles in his throat, leaving his lips as more of a bitter huff than anything. Bitter that Kunikida was right, he does need this day to himself, he’s losing his mind at this point—
The rummaging stops for a brief moment before the sound of glass clinking against glass makes itself known, and Atsushi isn’t too sure that he can explain something that loud away. The sound repeats, followed by a sigh, and a deep voice.
“Tangerine? Seriously, Jinko? You’ve always had shit taste, but come on..”
He pauses in the middle of the hallway, suddenly very alert. There is something making noise in his kitchen.
His first instinct is to run. Knock on Kunikida’s door, he’s large enough to subdue an intruder if need be. Atsushi’s second thought is to walk into the kitchen and see for himself.
Maybe he won’t have to pay rent if the curiosity kills him first.
Atsushi takes silent steps toward the kitchen, freezing once he has a clear view of the room and the occupant. He slaps a hand over his own mouth to muffle the noise of shock that tries to escape him.
The figure from his nightmares whirls around. It glances between Atsushi and his tea shelf, expression akin to a toddler who's been caught with one hand in the cookie jar.
Silence reigns for a beat, Atsushi’s brain working overtime to process the image his eyes are feeding him. He pinches himself once, twice, a third time when the figure doesn’t disappear. It - no, he rolls his eyes and turns back towards Atsushi’s tea assortment.
So, this is real.
“What the fuck?”
Atsushi is forced to face the eerie silence when no response is given, just a scrutinizing gaze glossing over each shelf in his pantry. While Atsushi is no skeptic, he’s seen enough weird shit in his life to believe in some type of being sharing their space - a frequent visitor of such might take some getting used to.
Clearing his throat, Atsushi steels himself. If this is real, he might as well figure out what some stalker ghost would want with him, right?
“So...come here often?”
A sharp glance followed by an eye roll is his only response, and Atsushi couldn’t say he expected anything less after the words left his mouth. Maybe it was better off shut.
Nevertheless, it gets him to speak.
“Clearly,” the word is barely anything more than a sigh.
“Before you ask the inevitable - have you considered black out curtains? They’re quite convenient--”
“For you, right? Since you seem to enjoy the corner of my bedroom, for whatever reason.”
“It’s comfortable.”
He matches the spite in Atsushi’s voice, stilling in front of the pantry. His brow screws ever so slightly, as if he’s struggling to think, or has some sort of killer migraine. Finally, after a moment of pouty deliberation, he speaks again.
“I recognized your suffering...and decided to keep watch.” He mutters, brow creasing as he turns his head back in the direction of the cabinet. Black tendrils snake around, reaching the places his hands do not. Atsushi blinks in response, taking a moment to process the words. One can. Two cans. Three..
“The nightmares?”
Atsushi’s head cocks to the side, and he feels some inane urge to laugh. The nightmares have never been a stranger to him, so why is this figure only showing itself now?
“You know about them?”
“I have my guesses. Either way, your distress is clear as day.”
Atsushi hums in response. More questions can be asked later, he guesses, when his mind isn’t trying to work overtime figuring out what some demon could possibly want with him. His stare is blank, eyes narrowing only when a fourth can is snatched--
“Can you...not? Steal my groceries, I mean.”
A sniff, distasteful.
“Why?”
“I don’t get paid enough to fuel some demon’s fascination with tea.”
Atsushi swears a smile ghosts across the other’s lips, gone before he can decide if he had truly seen it or not.
“Akutagawa.”
The cans are gently set back down.
“Just in case you get tired of saying ‘some demon’.”
Akutagawa. As the name rolls off his tongue in response, Atsushi feels the same wave of oppressive nostalgia wash over him again. The tug at his mind makes him feel almost dizzy as he watches the demon move about, and he takes a few steps towards the pantry in order to tear his gaze away. He blindly reaches for tea to make, the cold can against his palm grounding him just enough to form another question.
“Can you even drink this?”
Atsushi’s head whips around to raise his brows at Akutagawa, who makes a point of letting his hand phase through one of his kitchen chairs.
“Having a corporeal body is overrated,” he mutters.
A small pot is placed onto the stove. Atsushi’s brain tries to make sense of his situation once again, speeding down more avenues until his remaining energy seeps out of him. He decides to not dignify the demon’s display with a response, lest another conversation sparks, this time about the pros and cons of not phasing through furniture and walls.
At least, until a pale hand reaches around him to turn the dial on, flame bursting to life under the pot. Atsushi jumps a bit, and Akutagawa places a very real hand on his shoulder to steady him.
“It can be convenient, though.”
Atsushi shakes his head as Akutagawa backs away, footfall just barely loud enough for him to make out the demon’s path to his living room as he stares into the empty pot on the stove. A moment’s deliberation leads him back into action, the only sounds filling the apartment being the sound of running water and clang of ceramic mugs.
Eventually, Akutagawa lounging on his couch becomes a routine sight when he isn’t tagging along for the day - closely following Atsushi on his paper route, suddenly manifesting next to him in the market. Some days, he talks to Atsushi as if they’re two normal people sharing an apartment, a typical life, unaffected by whatever happens after you die.
Others, he looks at Atsushi as if the man pains him, and vanishes for the day before any questions can be asked.
Whether or not Atsushi wants to, he finds himself oddly affected by the days that his new counterpart isn’t by his side - he tries to blame it on the lack of company, lack of friends - but he can’t fool the way his chest tightens a little bit when Akutagawa seems to close himself off, building walls that seem impossible to break.
Sometimes, he wonders if the man is familiar for a reason. Atsushi reasons each and every way, because of course there isn’t a way he’d know the man, even if the way he speaks reminds him of somebody that he can’t quite identify.
The way he walks, the way he quietly analyzes everything around him - like a guard dog on edge. He wonders if Akutagawa was his guard dog, some twisted play on a guardian angel. Maybe his angel took an extended vacation, so they sent the last person available.
Even if Atsushi isn’t a skeptic, he has no right to be anymore, the thought of the two being bound together by some overarching fate made his head spin. In turn, Atsushi shoved the thought to the deepest part of his mind, not to be dwelled on any longer.
At least until his neighbor begins screaming at nothing again.
Akutagawa’s expression reads many things at once as they sit quietly, Atsushi pinching the bridge of his nose. Kunikida’s voice can be heard loud and clear through the walls that separate them,
“ HOW HARD IS IT TO REFRAIN FROM KNOCKING EVERYTHING OFF EVERY SHELF IN THE HOUSE, HUH?”
No audible reply can be heard, just more frantic stomping as Kunkikda seems to run throughout the apartment, chasing the culprit of destruction up and down the halls. Atsushi looks to Akutagawa, hands open in a ‘I don’t know’ type gesture to match the confusion on his face.
“Didn’t you tell me he lived alone?”
Akutagawa glances towards the wall again, the noise from the other side ceasing briefly. Atsushi worries his lip, scratching the back of his neck as he attempts to recall any instance of Kunikida having a roommate, a pet, anything. It isn’t like he sees the man often, but he’d think that something like this would have made itself known by now. Kunikida’s seen Kyouka a handful of times, even seen her bunny on the rare occasions the pet visits with her. Even so, Atsushi shakes his head, no clear recollection of the man ever even having company, save for a short redhead that Atsushi has caught the back of as he leaves, and Kunikida’s door swings shut.
“I assumed so, if you want to be technical,” Atsushi sighs, throwing himself back against the arm of the couch.
“So you don’t actually know.”
Atsushi raises his head a little, lips pressed into a thin line.
“I only ever see him leaving or loitering outside his door. Sometimes, if he’s feeling particularly sassy, he’ll lecture me on life habits--”
Atsushi pauses, remembering their last conversation in the stairwell, brows furrowing.
“--about sleep, actually,” he stretches his words, making it apparent how taxing Akutagawa’s little bout of terrorizing him at night was. Another beat of silence passes, and Atsushi speaks again.
“The only other person I’ve ever seen him interact with is some short ginger guy, but I’ve never spoken to him either.”
As if he had struck gold, Akutagawa’s eyes widen before he can think to control his expression, the gears turning in his mind the most obvious Atsushi’s ever seen. They stare at each other for a moment, Akutagawa fully aware that he’s been caught - doing what, Atsushi isn’t sure - but it’s something to add to the list of questions he’s thought up since Akutagawa first showed himself.
Neither of them speak, Atsushi too afraid of driving him off once again, or heightening the emotion that swirls in Akutagawa’s eyes when Atsushi pushes and prods too far. An emotion that he can’t quite place, no matter how hard he dwells on the look.
Fear, sadness, anger, apathy - sometimes, the slightest glimmer of hope, and none of it ever makes sense to Atsushi, but he knows that whatever he’s done resonates far deeper than he's aware of.
Once more, Atsushi finds himself wondering if the demon is familiar for a reason. Before that train of thought can take off for the thousandth time, the noise from Kunikida’s apartment picks up once more. Atsushi allows his head to slam full force back onto the arm of the couch, one arm slung over his face.
“I don’t know what goes on over there, case closed,” he mutters, and Akutagawa huffs from the other end of the couch. Atsushi feels the cushions shift momentarily, Akutagawa’s legs taking purchase to the left of Atsushi’s body before the man stills completely.
“Some detective you are,” Akutagawa replies, tone flat as can be.
Atsushi laughs, exhaustion from the week finally washing over his body as he settles into the couch.
“I don’t think I’d be cut out for that type of work,” he breathes, his last few words morphing into a yawn.
The last thing Atsushi wonders before everything goes black, Akutagawa’s legs pressed into his side, is if demons need sleep too.