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There’s nothing in this world worse than a crowded beach during a heatwave. If nothing else, Akutagawa is absolutely sure of this fact.
The sun is a scorching weight across his thin shoulders as he walks along the boardwalk. Sand shifts across the boards at his every step, stirred by a sea breeze that only nudges the humidity this way and that. His red swim trunks are awkward and baggy around his thin legs, and the thin cotton shirt over his tank sticks with sweat. Without much cloth to work with, he instinctively feels a twinge of vulnerability. His ability is severely limited like this, but there’s no way his fragile constitution could stand anything more than this.
A passerby bumps his shoulder roughly. He keeps walking, even when the stranger turns back to apologize. Akutagawa loathes the summer sun, but he abhors undercover reconnaissance even more.
This resort town is packed with locals and tourists alike. All manners of people walk along the streets, boardwalk, and sand with an aimless whimsy only possible in these scorching summer months. The waves lap against the shore calmly and without a care but for the children and the surfers who venture out into the deep blue depths. The air tastes of sea salt and fried seafood. Ocean static interspaces the murmurs and cries of a society so elated to enjoy such a beautiful day.
Akutagawa sighs. His new sandals are going to give him ugly blisters at this rate, he’s sure of it.
“We’re almost there, geez. Don’t be such a grump, you vampire.”
The underboss accompanying him on this mission seems like the natural antithesis to Akutagawa’s current misery. Under a stylish visor, the man’s long red tresses are tied in a familiar band behind his ear. His print linen shirt is unbuttoned and proudly open, allowing every hint of cool breeze to tickle his bare torso. His naturally darker skin is at home under the sun, and Akutagawa is sure that he shouldn’t be so horribly jealous of how easy Chuuya makes it look, walking through this oven of a town.
“Forgive me, Chuuya-san, but I’m not accustomed to the weather along the coast,” he says under his breath, as if the action of speaking drains all of his energy.
“Should we head to the water so you can cool off?” Chuuya counters with a playful spark in his expression, “I’ll make sure you don’t drown like a common street rat, since I’m sure someone like you can’t swim.”
“No, thank you,” Akutagawa immediately says, not at all interested in arguing with a superior.
They walk into a denser crowd near a few food stalls and souvenir vendors. Maneuvering around the sun-dazed people is more frustrating than anything else, but they can’t afford to shout or make a scene. They break apart and meet back up after bumping their own way through lines of barely-clothed beach-goers. They silently side-step screaming children. Eventually they pass unnoticed, but not without leaving Akutagawa far more haggard and worn-out than the few minutes before they passed through the intense crowd nearly begging for bottled water and gut-wrenching snacks.
What Akutagawa would give to be at home in his high-rise apartment right now, his bare back to the fan and a small glass of iced tea in his hands…
“I’ve got it!” Chuuya suddenly declares with all the bravado and confidence of a man who’s just solved the secrets of the universe, “You need a sunhat!”
Akutagawa stops mid-step on the boardwalk, his daydreams of a peaceful afternoon off evaporating at once.
“Come again?” he says.
“Over there! That pagoda has a good selection!” Chuuya says instead, leading Akutagawa toward a stall with a few too many brightly colored articles of clothing. But the awning leans out far enough to offer a fair few meters of shade, so Akutagawa follows without much hesitation. Shade promises at least some relief from the heat, after all. His tortured skin could surely use the rest from the relentless assault.
Akutagawa easily finds the fan in the corner by the register while Chuuya peers at all of the wares for sale. His gray eyes stare, mirthlessly, as Chuuya holds up one hat after another in Akutagawa’s direction, peering at him too thoughtfully for a task so mundane. The shopkeeper is eyeing them, perhaps a bit more wary than any normal person should be in the current tourism season, but Akutagawa ignores the stranger with ease. He’s just thankful for the slight reprieve from the horrible heat, thankful that he’s starting to feel a little more human again and less like a molten puddle of misery-goop.
When Chuuya finally comes to a stop in front of Akutagawa, he’s holding a hat in either hand with a beaming smile on his face. The larger is potentially the biggest canvas monstrosity on the whole boardwalk. It’s wide, floppy brim would extend well past Akutagawa’s shoulders like a lifeless, sulking umbrella. Horizontal stripes run in even, thick circles, alternating black and yellow from the top to the forced folds at the ends. He’s not sure if the ugly thing is meant to better resemble a giant target or a horrible rendition of a bumble bee, and the more he thinks on the lack of distinction between the two, the worse his head hurts.
The second hat, nearly entirely engulfed by the brim of the first, is a simple visor made of lightweight wicker stitching. Pastel blooms are embroidered lazily across the wide, curved brim. There’s a mess of thread that looks hopelessly knotted off to one side of the flowers, all browns and black and yellow, and Akutagawa can’t really tell what it’s supposed to resemble until his gaze follows the broken English stitched in cursive along the edge of the brim:
Sweet as can Bee.
The choice becomes obvious as soon as he parses the pun. He closes his eyes and sighs heavily, resigned to his fate. All other choices, including refusing Chuuya’s offer and walking beneath the harsh rays completely unprotected, are absolutely unthinkable.
“How much for the striped one?” he asks the shopkeeper. Chuuya laughs victoriously before rushing to put the horrendously offensive bee-pun visor back where it belongs.
The man in the sweat-stained tank behind the counter is not amused by their antics. His dark hair and darker stubble is thinned from too much time spent out in the sun. His wiry frame speaks more of a familiar malnutrition than any notion of fitness. There’s an old pair of plastic sunglasses perched atop his head, as if glued in place from sitting there for years and years.
“¥2500 for the big one,” he drawls, boredom and disdain dripping from every syllable.
Akutagawa hands him the notes silently, and when Chuuya heads back out into the sun, he doesn’t bother to wait for his meagre change. Chuuya plops the huge thing on Akutagawa’s head as they pass each other, not at all perturbed at the fact that he has to jump up on his toes to reach. They continue their trek in silence, back out in the throng of summer. Chuuya takes a huge swig from the water bottle he’d impulsively snatched from the stall. Akutagawa adjusts the hat so that it rests better against his sweat-crusted hair.
Somehow, the hat actually helps keep him marginally cooler. He discretely tests the fibres, and they react easily to Rashomon’s influence. For as much of a fashion disaster as it is, it had been a decent choice, after all. He ignores the way children and teenagers snicker behind their hands at him when they pass. It’s of no consequence, after all.
“That was the snitch?” Akutagawa asks when they’ve managed to walk another block or so away from the stall.
Chuuya hums, no longer smiling. “We’ll deal with him on our way back, if we must. You ready to hear what his so-called associates have to say?”
They turn at a side street, and they follow the weeds and broken asphalt away from the sand-covered shore. The crowds of beachgoers are significantly thinner here, closer to the true establishments of this town, where the locals make payments at the centuries’ old post office and the town hall in one large storm away from collapsing. The salt air here reeks of cleaned fish and abandoned garbage.
This, Akutagawa thinks, is much more manageable. This darkness lingering despite the harsh sunlight is familiar. The unrelenting brightness only washes out all the colors and joy until his eyes burn at the contrast. The pale streets sizzle with heat and horror. The few who walk these streets are tired, so very, very tired.
This is mafia territory. This is where hopelessness thrives. This is where people like Akutagawa can make a name for themselves using violence and terror instead of money and fame.
“I’m not interested in what any of them have to say,” Akutagawa finally replies as the only pub in town appears around the next dilapidated corner. “Let’s get this over with and go back to Yokohama.”
Chuuya smirks, saying a demure, “ Of course, sweet bee, ” in English.
Akutagawa nearly hits him, but he’d have to leave the shade of his new hat to do so, and he honestly finds the effort more cumbersome than the jab, so he lets it…
He lets it be.