Archive of Our Own

Akutagawa knew there were more cons than pros when he accepted this mission from the Mafia. For one, he has never gone abroad, especially in a country on the other side of the world, so it's more than embarrassing trying not to get caught while hunting down a rogue Port Mafia member, unfamiliar with the alleys and other escape routes.

Two, he really, really hates the heat here.

Nonetheless, his goal has been accomplished, so he can go home and lounge in front of his air-conditioner. His black coat will attract the wrong kind of attention, so he has been wearing khaki pants and light-colored shirts since he landed here. Khaki pants. Jesus.

Adjusting his black sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, he waits by the side of the road for a ride to the station, raising his arm with his thumb pointed out. He could pay for a car, but he is quite far from town (damn slimy traitor slithering all over the place). Besides, hitchhiking is completely free and Akutagawa doesn't have to threaten anyone. Win-win.

Several vehicles pass by him, leaving only dust and smoke behind them. It's hell with the already scorching weather, and Akutagawa is all but at his wit's end when, naturally, things get worse.

It's raining.

He purses his lips as the acidic smell of water on dry soil hits his senses, his glasses fogging up and his shirt clinging to his skin. The air tingles with electricity and he looks up exactly as lightning begins to flash across the sky, the heavy gray cumulonimbus clouds at a distance finally reaching his area like a looming promise of doom.

Great.

Hauling his small duffel bag over his shoulder, he whirls to seek shelter, only to bump into someone's chest. 

"Get out of my—"

"Mafia guy?"

Flinching, Akutagawa steps back, ready to strike. His shirt glows red, splitting into sharp tendrils as he scowls at the stranger. "Who—"

"What the hell, relax!"

Akutagawa doesn't attack nor does he deactivate his ability, but he stares down the stranger, noting the opened buttons of his white shirt, which is muddy at the sleeves. He has suspenders over his shoulders and his bright orange hair is stuck to his forehead, wet with the rain.

He meets the stranger's eyes just in time to receive wiggling eyebrows. "Like what you see?"

"Waste my time and I'm going to kill you." Akutagawa doesn't see any weapons, but maybe this one is also an ability user, so he can't keep his guard down. "Who are you and how do you know about the Mafia?"

"I'm hurt." He presses a hand to his chest, his lopsided grin making Akutagawa's blood boil. "You're speaking pretty good English though, so maybe I'll be nice. Have you heard about the Guild? We—fuck!" He rolls away from Akutagawa's assault, mud clinging to his skin as he hits the ground. "Fuck you, man! Chill out!"

Akutagawa is far from "chill". He is beyond agitated. He grunts, wrapping Rashomon around the Guild member and effectively rendering his arms useless. "Speak." The rain is pelting harder now, splattering Akutagawa's shoes with dirt.

"Mark Twain?" To his credit, Twain doesn't look scared, not in the least bit. "AKA best sniper of the Guild? Ring any bells?"

"I see." Akutagawa remembers now. He wasn't ordered to investigate deeply on the Guild back when they had been wreaking havoc in Yokohama, but he was familiar with the names of the members. "What are you doing here? I thought the Guild had disbanded. Why are you still following me? What are you concocti—"

"Wait, I think you're misunderstanding something, dude." Twain barely reacts when Rashomon raises him a few feet off the ground. "I live here. If anything, I have the right to assume that you're here to track me down."

"That's impossible. You are irrelevant."

"And you are pretty—ouch!" Akutagawa ignores the sudden irritated warmth in his cheeks, focusing on squeezing the life out of this son of a bitch. Twain laughs even as his face contorts with pain. "Ah, shit. You're really pissed off, huh. Why don't you take a breather and...wait. No, don't kill me. I gotta make some meds for my sister. She's sick."

The mafioso pauses, just barely. "You're lying."

And even if he's telling the truth, Akutagawa doesn't care. He has killed so many people with families and hopes and dreams. One more certainly doesn't make any difference.

Twain grins. "Why don't you just leave me here, eh, Akutagawa? I was minding my business. I'll pretend I didn't see you and all."

"I can kill you and pretend I did not see you and all," Akutagawa returns with a deadpan, dropping the Guild member with a loud thump. "You have wasted my time. You're weak and disgusting. I'm leaving."

Akutagawa is only here for that one mission anyway. Disposing of people from other organizations isn't part of his job description at the moment. Besides, he has a flight to catch. He is desperate to wear his coat again and be done with the temperamental weather patterns in this country.

"You going to town? The roads are blocked."

Akutagawa halts without glancing over his shoulder. "That is none of your business."

"What? Are you talking? I can't hear you." Twain's wet footsteps approach him, and for a brief second, Akutagawa wants to stab him for real. "But yeah I was walking back from the entrance and saw the landslide. Look, the cars are driving back."

Unfortunately, Twain is right. With a scowl, Akutagawa watches as vehicles pass by the two of them. The visibility is decreasing with every minute, too, the wind and fog making it difficult to stay safe in such an open area. He hadn't bothered checking in to an inn, certain that the job would be done immediately. He wasn't wrong, but he should have checked the weather. 

Such a simple misstep and he still failed...

"You gonna freeze to death here?"

Akutagawa casts him a sidelong glare. "What's keeping you here?" He coughs quite violently, the cold seeping through his skin. Dammit. He shouldn't be out in this condition. 

Twain starts walking to where Akutagawa had come from, one hand raised by his ear. "Come on, I'll let you have a warm bath or something."

Akutagawa does not move.

Twain keeps going, calling out, "Your choice!" 

Akutagawa takes another look at the small line of traffic forming on the road, feels the stinging downpour on his arms, and makes his decision.

A two-story house stands in the middle of a field, the walls a faded blue that peels off at some parts to reveal white patches underneath. It's a classic American home, straight out of magazines Akutagawa used to browse.

The travel had been short and easy, following the path of the road until Twain steered them away to a trail that led to the opening of this grassland. A hundred or so meters away is a barn house, but the rain is so much stronger now that Akutagawa cannot pinpoint the exact color.

They remain quiet as they trudge towards the property, the porch creaking under their shoes as they stop at the doorstep.

Twain turns to him. "If you lay a hand on any of my siblings, I'll kill you."

Akutagawa tilts his head, interest piqued. Is it possible that Twain actually has the strength to match him? Does this white trash know how many battles Akutagawa has won? "Very well."

They regard each other for a long while, then Twain grins, pulling the screen door open. "Okay, man. Home sweet home." 

Before Akutagawa could reply, someone barreled towards Twain, pigtails bouncing against her shoulders. "Sammy!" She giggles, fastening herself to Twain's waist like he isn't dripping wet. "Charlie! Sammy is home!"

"Sammy?" Akutagawa raises a brow. "I thought your name was Mark Twain."

"Oh, yeah, of course I'm Mark." Twain says, picking the girl up until she's propped against his hip. "Silly goose, Anna. Must be your allergies, hm?"

"Oh, is he one of your workmates?" Anna says in a stage whisper, trying and failing to be secretive at the way she eyes Akutagawa. The mafioso purses his lips in mild irritation, coughing into his fist. Forget dying from his lung disease—he's going to collapse right here.

Twain lets out a forced laugh, stepping out of his boots to lead them further inside. "Yeah, exactly! Hey, Akutagawa, come on in. Bathroom's here."

Begrudgingly, Akutagawa follows suit. A puddle of water precedes each of his steps, but nobody seems to mind, not when everyone is too busy greeting Twain.

Akutagawa stays still as they reach the kitchen, his body seizing up with tension as he does a swift headcount. Six in total, excluding him and Twain. Four are seated around a rectangular dining table while one is standing. Three females, three males, all ranging from five to twenty years old, at most. The oldest-looking woman and the youngest boy have brown hair. The rest have alarmingly bright orange heads.

If they attack... If they do so much as—

"Brother," the woman says, pressing her cheek to Twain's. She has a high ponytail and pretty emerald eyes, which drifts over to Akutagawa almost imperceptibly. "Will you introduce us?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course." Twain smiles at Akutagawa, gesturing towards the small crowd. "Akutagawa, my family. Fam, meet Akutagawa. He's a..." Twain checks him up and down. "...wet dog, I think."

"How would you like to die?" Akutagawa says flatly, feeling self-conscious with how he's presenting himself. Unprofessional. Unsatisfactory. Shameful. "May I use the bathroom?"

The woman pipes in, elbowing her brother in the gut. Twain guffaws. "I'll lead you to it, Mister Akutagawa." She nods. "I'm Charlotte. Please call me Charlie."

Akutagawa does not answer as he lets himself be led away. He peels his eyes for any signs of threat, quickly assessing possible exit routes. The house is surprisingly spacious, but he has yet to see a back door, although he supposes Twain is the most skilled around here anyway. Akutagawa will certainly not be hurt by a toddler, so the front door suffices. He's certain Twain wouldn't put up that much of a fight in the first place, not if he wants to keep his family safe.

"Are you his friend? He's never brought anybody here."

He tears his gaze away from a picture frame of the family hung on the wall to answer Charlie. "We're enemies."

A beat. "You've killed people?"

"You don't sound surprised."

"Sa—Mark isn't exactly a creative liar." They stop in front of a door, a white slab of wood filled with crayon drawings of misshapen animals. "Here. There's towels under the sink. Leave your clothes inside and I can wash them for you."

"No need," he says, pushing the door open. "I will not be staying."

As soon as he's alone, Akutagawa heaves a breath he's been holding, still as tense as ever. It's nerve-wracking, being in a foreign country in this disarming place filled with so much life. It doesn't help that he cannot read Twain's mind at all. Why is he treating Akutagawa like a guest? Like he cannot murder every single soul in this house in the blink of an eye?

Better yet, why is Akutagawa here?

He could have ignored the offer, could have listened to his ego and gone to search for an inn. Surely it wouldn't be that hard to find a place to stay for the night, one where he doesn't have to watch his back for literal or metaphorical knives. 

He could have made a wiser decision, but he didn't, so why?

I can do this. I'm strong. Nobody can defeat me.

It would've been easier to believe if he weren't coughing his lungs out while he steps under the warm drizzle of the shower.

He still has his clothes on, glancing every so often at the door in case somebody ambushes him. Washing all the mud off his skin is arduous, but he moves as fast as he can. No need to expose himself further. It's bad enough that he had willingly agreed to go with an enemy organization's member like a complete fool. He cannot dwell.

Now, if only the storm would calm down enough for him to go back to Japan…

He wants to go home. Yokohama is not a nice city at all, not for someone like him, but he knows every nook and cranny like the back of his hand. He knows where to corner people, where to hide.  

It's infinitely better than here, where he's surrounded by such a seemingly warm atmosphere that can very well blow up in his face later on. Soon.

Someone knocks and Akutagawa almost demolishes the whole bathroom right then and there, ability activated without hesitation. "What?" he says, turning the shower off.

Twain's voice is muffled behind the wood. "Clothes. Figured you don't have anything dry."

Akutagawa stands a foot away from it, Rashomon on standby. "Leave it on the floor."

"The floor? Weird, but okay." 

"Leave."

"Geez." Footsteps recede. "I'm turning now, yeah? I'm not looking...!" 

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

Akutagawa cracks the door open, satisfied that the coast is clear, and bends down to snatch the pile of clothes on the floor, shutting himself inside in record time. He retrieves a towel as per Charlotte's instruction and checks the walls and corners of the area for cameras before he strips off his clothes, pulling on his new outfit.

He is given a white t-shirt, a hideous dark blue-and-yellow flannel shirt, and a pair of loose pants. No underwear. Figures. At least he has Rashomon.

His duffel bag is on the floor. It only has his black coat and some dollar bills (stacks) that need to be dried for actual monetary use. He wouldn't have brought any bag at all if it didn't raise suspicion.

He leaves it where it is, refusing to drag it back in the house with him and make a mess on the floor. He has inconvenienced Twain enough; he cannot afford another debt.

Well, the worst case scenario is that Akutagawa will either fight him head-on or slap him with money. The latter might work, seeing as Twain was Fitzgerald's employee, but the former is a guaranteed victory for Akutagawa.

The kitchen/dining room is rowdy when he returns. The smaller ones are eating, feasting on fried chicken and pasta. Twain, now changed into a clean shirt (still unbuttoned) and trousers, is laughing with the others and reaching over the table to ruffle a boy's hair. 

Anna blinks at him and points a finger. "Hey!"

Twain swats her hand with a click of his tongue. "Anna, that's rude."

"It's rude to swear too, but you still do it," says an orange-haired boy at about early teen years. 

"Adult matters, Tommy. Akutagawa, sit down and eat. The storm's not letting up so you might as well get comfy."

Definitely not.

Robotically, Akutagawa takes a seat at the other end of the table, the only free chair left. A plate is placed in front of him, followed by a set of utensils. The youngest kid is right beside him, staring at him with eerily steady brown eyes. 

Akutagawa should have established this one thing.

He hates kids.

"I'm Oliver," says the boy, spaghetti sauce all over his mouth. "I'm five."

"I'm Akutagawa," he says curtly, wanting to remove himself from this conversation as soon as possible. He isn't hungry, but he will shove food in his mouth if it means not talking to anyone.

Unfortunately, his response catches the attention of another child on his other side, older and...scowling. "I don't like you," she says in a hiss, stabbing her plate with a fork. The grating sound makes Akutagawa's ears bleed. "Why are you with our brother?"

Oliver leans in to pop his head out of the line of siblings, smearing more sauce on his shirt when it brushes his messy plate. "Sammy! Grace is being mean to Akutawa!"

"It's Akutagawa, you idio—"

"Hey, Grace, be nice. Don't make Akutagawa mad or he's gonna try to stab you." Twain winks at the mafioso from the opposite end of the table. "You, too, man. Be nice."

"Can I leave now?" he asks, crossing his arms. Everyone falls silent and watches him, and Charlie speaks up before he could squirm out of discomfort.

"I doubt my brother is forcing you to be here. You can leave, but the storm is only going to get stronger from here." 

"I hate it. I want to play with my friends," grumbles another sibling. God, Akutagawa cannot keep track. They're like a den of pigs; everyone looks the same. "Stupid rain."

"That's Noah," Oliver tells Akutagawa, grinning. There's a piece of pasta stuck between his teeth.

"You're disgusting," Akutagawa comments, shoving a nearby napkin towards the boy. "Wipe your face."

Grace glares at him, going as far as kicking his shin under the table. Akutagawa almost activates Rashomon. Almost. "You're a bad person."

"I am aware."

Twain stands and attends to Oliver, shooting Akutagawa a tight-lipped smile before addressing Grace. "Young lady, don't make me fight this mad dog in the house."

Akutagawa has the urge to punch Twain, which isn't all that surprising. Twain deserves it for breathing. "Call me dog again and I will tear your jaw off."

Oliver gasps. "No!"

"Hey, that's mean, dude, and not in front of my family—"

"You can do that?"

Silence.

"Noah," Twain says, "that is not the point."

It's too noisy. Too crowded. Akutagawa has a weight on his chest, overwhelmed with the mere number of bodies around him. The Port Mafia has many people, but he does his missions by himself more often than not, so he never really learned how to get used to this kind of chaos, especially one where nobody is trying to kill anybody.

It must have shown on his face somehow—which is impossible, because he is a master of stoicism—because Twain claps his hands and calms everyone down. "Okay! If you're done eating, get the hell out of here. Also, Thomas, Noah, do the dishes."

"What? But Charlie and Grace should do it! They're girls!"

"And you're gay, Tommy, but I'm telling you to suck it up anyway. Gender roles, my ass." Twain carries Oliver, now clean except for his shirt, and nods at Akutagawa. "Come on, I'll show you your room."

Akutagawa swears he only trails after Twain because he wants to get away from his siblings. Yes, that's all. He is absolutely not looking forward to bedtime. 

He should pay Twain before he leaves. Akutagawa doesn't want to owe him favors; he's an enemy despite the Guild being in shambles. Also, there's still the possibility that Twain is just being nice to soften Akutagawa up before he eliminates him. It would be logical—Akutagawa did ruin his little foreign organization.

(Okay, him and Jinko. Whatever.)

They climb a set of wooden stairs, Oliver babbling senselessly to his brother as Twain opens the first door to the right. "It's my room. I'll crash in my brother's, so yeah."

Akutagawa lingers by the doorway, watching Twain tidy up. The room is relatively small, the bed shoved to the wall where a glass window is partly covered with a white curtain. There is a closet, a green beanbag, a table full of books and…is that a pistol? 

Oliver is back on the floor, and his pudgy limbs run to Akutagawa with a wide smile. "Akutawa!"

The mafioso glares. "What."

Giggling, Oliver grasps the hem of Akutagawa's flannel shirt. "Akutawa."

Twain is making his bed, on all fours as he pats his pillows. "Ollie, don't bother our guest." To Akutagawa, he says, "Don't mind him. He's always excited when he meets new people."

"Why are you being awfully cordial with me?" he blurts out, arms crossed in an attempt to intimidate. He wouldn't have to try, normally, but Twain and his whole family do not seem to have one shred of survival instinct in them. Especially this idiot Oliver and his stupid child face. "Feeding me... Letting me into your bed... Have you lost your mind?"

"Woah, man. When you say it like that, you'd think I'm trying to get into your pants. I mean, yeah, you're pretty cute, I guess. But that's—"

"What?" Akutagawa passes Oliver, touching his head so he wouldn't fall if he's accidently bumped into. Annoying children are always in the way. "Are you mocking me?"

It was like earlier, when he was called pretty, and his body reacted the same, warming up like an uncontrollable teenager. He smothers his embarrassment by putting all of his attention on Rashomon, the red glow of his clothes illuminating the dim room.

Twain doesn't answer right away, but he's laughing as he lies on the bed. Laughing, like Akutagawa isn't standing at the foot with Rashomon activated. "Listen, I'm out of the Guild. I don't give a rat's ass about what they're up to right now. I left ASAP when Moby Dick sank."

"How is that relevant to the current situation?"

A pause. "I actually don't know."

"Rasho—"

"Hey!" Twain raises his arms at his sides, head turned towards his brother. "Ollie, we're just playing. Don't do this to the others, 'kay?"

"Can I join you?"

"Absolutely not." Twain bats his eyelashes at the mafioso. "Mister Mafia here is already having enough fun. Right?"

It's only because Akutagawa has been looking that he realizes how suggestive this situation is; Twain is on the bed with his unbuttoned shirt, hands now behind his head as if he doesn't mind whatever happens to him. Whatever Akutagawa does to him.

He steps back. "If you're going to duel with me—"

"—then I would've done that back there." With a grunt, Twain sits up and scratches his head. "I'm not nice, Aku. I just recognized you earlier and as I've said, the roads are blocked. I can't have you killing my neighbors or something just to have a roof over your head."

"Yet you did not seem to mind when you were shooting Jinko and risking the lives of Yokohama's citizens."

"Well, those Yokohama people aren't my neighbors, are they?" he retorts with a roll of his eyes. "My siblings would cry if their playmates died."

He rises then, stretching his arms. Akutagawa keeps a straight face even as he silently admires the solid lines of Twain's abdominal muscles, twisting with every minute action. Jinko has quite the build, too, but Twain obviously pays special attention to his body and takes care of it, the sheer roughness of his appearance proof of what he does here.

...Not that any of that is worth mentioning, let alone thinking about. What's wrong with him?

"I'll leave you, Aku. Promise I won't attack you or anything if you behave." He steers Oliver away with him, waving. "Lock the door if you want. Also, I have porn mags under the bed if you're bored."

"Don't call me that."

The door shuts. "Okay, Aku!"

Akutagawa stares at the ceiling, the rain pattering against the window in the background. It must be a few hours after midnight, his mind wide awake with suspicion even as his body sinks into the mattress, so unlike the one every Japanese has in their house. No wonder white people have crooked spines.

Twain didn't bother him again after that, but Akutagawa still paced around the room at first, ears twitching at attention once the whole family finished with their nightly activities and started to prepare for bed.

Nobody knocked on the door as footsteps and chatter emanated on the other side. Noah and Grace, in particular, seemed to banter a lot, and Anna did all the laughing.

He heard Twain, too, but his voice wasn't loud enough for his words to be deciphered. Akutagawa didn't let his guard down, though. This could very well be a trap to bait him. Pretending to be a perfect family, persuading Akutagawa to drop his defenses...

He should be out of here by tomorrow. He has money; it'll be easy.

"Mister Akutagawa, your money tore apart."

Akutagawa stares at his cash (or what's left of it), splayed across the coffee table. Twain is standing beside him, arms akimbo as he whistles low. Charlie, the bearer of the news, smiles apologetically.

The world has got to be fucking kidding him.

"Money," Oliver gushes, plucking one and holding it up to Grace and Anna. "Let's buy candy!"

"That's a hundred bucks, buddy, you don't—"

"Keep it," Akutagawa cuts Twain off, frowning at the children, but mostly at his money. Thousands of dollars worth of paper now reduced to mush or crumpled bills... "Take one each." He nods at Charlotte. "You as well."

"Me too?" Twain says, invading Akutagawa's line of vision when he leans in with a hopeful expression.

"Fine. Take two hundred more for the other two children."

Seven hundred dollars down the drain. At least Akutagawa has paid off his debt, and more. The Twain family is lucky; Akutagawa doesn't even spend money on himself that much, if at all.

"Nah, dude, I'm kidding." Twain walks away, suspenders down for a change, although his shirt stays unbuttoned for some reason. "I'll be in the barn with Tommie and Noah. You can drop by, Aku. There's not much to do around here. Also, the rain stopped more or less, but the roads are still blocked. I think it'll take about a week."

"Why?"

"I don't know, man. I'm not Google."

Charlotte comes back to the living room from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "The authorities think it's an ability user who took advantage of the storm and destroyed the roads."

Akutagawa and Twain exchange a look.

Anna blinks at Akutagawa. "Mark, is he an ability user, too?"

"Yeah. He has badass powers."

Oliver hangs himself around Akutagawa again, small fists clutching his pants. "Are you gonna help?"

"No," the two ability users say, and Twain is already pulling the front door open with an obnoxious laugh. "Not gonna catch some bitch for free!"

Akutagawa stares after him, alienated as four of the seven family members huddle around him.

A week...

Will he really last that long here?

A coloring book lands on his lap, opened on a page of a poorly-colored rabbit. Oliver stares at him with large eyes, kneeling on the carpet and bracing his hands on Akutagawa's knees.

"What now?"

"Let's color!"

Akutagawa returns to his flip phone, failing to get a bar of signal for the umpteenth time. "No."

"But my brothers are working and my sisters don't want to play with me."

"How is that my problem?" 

"Please, Akutawa?"

"You—" The mafioso looks down, his glower useless in the face of Oliver's pout. The living room is empty save for the both of them, and Akutagawa had been enjoying the peace, seated on the couch for the last hour. Until this kid comes to ruin it.

Akutagawa's lips stretch in a flat line. Might as well indulge Oliver, then. It isn't like he wants to go out and bathe in the sun like a moron. "Where are your crayons?"

Oliver sits on the floor crossed-legged, presenting a hard plastic container and shaking the contents inside. "Sit with me."

"You are so annoying." Akutagawa obliges nevertheless, and he blames this on his boredom. The worst thing at present is the fact that the Port Mafia wouldn't be wondering where he is, given his nature to do whatever he wants. It wouldn't cross their (or anybody's, for that matter) mind that their mad dog is spending a Tuesday morning picking out what color to choose for a two-dimensional giraffe.

Much to his surprise, Oliver grows quiet as they begin, a broken orange crayon between his fingers as he draws circles on a cat. Akutagawa takes the chance to study the boy's features, noting how different he looks than the rest of the Twains. He is the only one without a speck of green or orange on him. Like an outcast.

"Who do you often play with?" he asks, not pausing from doing his half of the page.

"Just me."

"Why don't you get your siblings to play with you?"

"Sammy plays with me, but he works too hard." Oliver abandons the orange and goes for magenta, the colors muddy when they mix. "Charlie is always tired. Anna breaks the crayons so I don't like playing with her. Grace is mean. Tommy and Noah are always in the barn or with their friends."

"And yet every one of you seemed so close last night."

"Maybe they don't like me." A shrug. "Nobody likes little kids."

Akutagawa doesn't respond, doesn't know how to. He could deny Oliver's words, but to what extent is that factual? His upbringing hindered him from seeking comfort in words, more so to give them to others. He is the adult here, but Oliver seems well beyond his years already with his easy acceptance that maybe the people he's considering family may not be seeing him as such.

Akutagawa aspires to have that kind of strength, even though he knows he is as weak as they come.

Like all children do, Oliver moves on to topic after topic, asking Akutagawa if he had seen an elephant in person or touched a tiger (technically, Jinko is one, so he answered yes, much to Oliver's awe).

This is how Twain finds them two or three hours later. Akutagawa had been preoccupied with holding Oliver back so he would stop threatening to color Akutagawa's pants if he didn't give him a glass of water, so he didn't register the added presence at first.

"Charlie! I—oh."

Akutagawa glances up from the green crayon he successfully snatched from Oliver. Twain is sweaty and grimy, every inch of his muscles visible now that he is topless. "You are dirty."

"Why do you have your hand in my brother's face?"

"S-Sammy!" Oliver calls, voice muffled against Akutagawa's palm as he tries and fails to reach for the coloring tool. "Charlie went out with her girlfriend." He grunts, stretching his short arm to no avail. "Help me!"

"Stop being dramatic," Akutagawa grumbles, letting go. Oliver plops between his legs, peeling Akutagawa's fingers off the crayon. The mafioso sighs. "I hate you."

"Akutawa, Akutawa," he sing-songs, drawing lines on the coloring book. 

Twain is gaping at them, and Akutagawa starts to feel...weird. Is it really unbelievable that he can act normal and not attack people? "What do you think you're looking at?"

"How…" Twain helplessly gestures with his hands. "How?"

"Have you been truly reduced to the utter humiliating excuse for a man that you are that you cannot form a proper thought?"

"Ouch. Also, I was just shocked." Shaking his head, Twain strides to the direction of the bathroom. "Can you cook?"

"I refuse to be ordered around like a maid."

"Geez. Charlie isn't here and I can't cook shit. Do you want to eat my food?"

"Akutawa! Cook for us!" Akutagawa does not even try to hide his eye roll when the five-year-old presses against his side. "Sammy's fried chicken tastes like shit!"

Twain barks out a laugh, and his blush is visible thanks to the sunlight that filters through a nearby window. "Um, Ollie…maybe you shouldn't expose me to Akutagawa."

"I am surprised that you're more concerned about that rather than the fact that your toddler brother just cursed." Not that Akutagawa gives a damn, really. He could get thrown in jail if he told people what he had been doing when he was five. 

Waving a dismissive hand, Twain makes for the stairs. "Please. Cursing is the last thing you gotta worry about here. You haven't even seen these dummies when they fight." His voice gradually gets more distant as he reaches the top of the stairs. "I'll be back in a sec. I'll just clean up."

"I don't care," the mafioso mutters, whirling around to stare at the kitchen. 

It's messier than what he has back in his apartment in Yokohama. The condiments are in no particular order or matching containers, the tiles soiled with drops of water and even milk. Akutagawa opens a cupboard, grimacing when he is met with dust. He knew Twain wasn't a tidy person at all, but what is this junk?

Oliver is still hovering about, never straying even a foot away. Where is this kid's sense of danger? "Do you like chicken, Akutawa?" 

Akutagawa tries the fridge next, pulling out a bag of meat. At least that's one less problem. "Dead or alive?"

The child giggles uncontrollably, hugging Akutagawa's leg. The mafioso rolls his eyes again. He is sure to be cross-eyed by the time he returns to Yokohama. Chuuya would comment on his attitude if he were here, and it's freeing to some extent not to have a superior observing his moves. 

Despite Twain's general loud speaking voice, he moves quietly, proof of his profession as a hired gunman. Akutagawa wouldn't have noticed if it weren't for his own honed skills. And Oliver's obvious finger-pointing.

"This is absolutely distasteful," Akutagawa says, shooting Twain a glare. "How do you expect me to find anything worth cooking here?"

Twain clicks his tongue in thought. "I can fix that. Maybe." He rummages through different cupboards without difficulty, placing spices and bowls and other ingredients on the counter. Akutagawa hates how proud he looks just for doing the bare minimum. "There. I'll help you out. Hey Ollie, my li'l marshmallow… Get out of here."

"But I want to cook with Akutawa!"

"Akuta—?" Twain bends over the counter with a hearty chortle. Akutagawa taps his foot impatiently. "Okay, buddy, go now. Kitchen's not for kids." He winks at the mafioso as he ushers his sibling out of the room, which earns him a more severe glare. "Stay there, Ollie, or I'm gonna feed you to spiders."

"No, Sammy!"

"You are insufferable even to your family," Akutagawa comments as he unloads the raw chicken into a metal bowl. "I do not know how this household manages."

"Hm, I think it's because I'm not around much." A shrug. It is only because Akutagawa had glanced that he noticed Twain's buttons are open again. "Can't really be annoyed at someone you don't see most of the time."

"Oliver has mentioned your absence, yes."

"Oh, yeah, I don't know how you did it, but thanks for playing with my brother." Twain washes the chicken under the running faucet and dries it off by tilting the bowl. "He's real shy, that one. You have no idea how glad I am that he's suddenly so lively."

"Even when he is mingling around a murderer?"

"Hey, I am a murderer, but you don't see me making those arguments."

Akutagawa debates on saying what exactly is on his mind, but decides to share anyway. What more does he have to lose, really, when he is out here socializing with these people on his own accord? "He needs friends his age. Simply waiting for his siblings to spare him attention is not going to cut it."

Maybe he's feeling a bit protective of Oliver, just because he's had the same problems before. It isn't literally the same, since Akutagawa knew people didn't want a young killer as a friend. Oliver is different though. He's normal and can therefore make lasting relationships that do not include hatred and bitterness.

For once, Twain falls silent. Akutagawa takes this short reprieve by seasoning the chicken with salt, pepper, paprika, and garlic powder. "I will not speak further regarding this subject matter," Akutagawa says. "It is not my place."

"No, no, it's fine." Sighing, Twain scratches his head and leans his hips against the counter. "I know the others aren't getting along with Ollie. Since Mom died, I…" His eyes widen, the image reminding Akutagawa of a cartoon character. "Never mind. You don't want to know that."

"Whether I enjoy hearing about your stories or not is none of your business." He nods towards the stove. Twain sets up the pan without further prompting. Commendable quick thinking. "Simply say what you want. I do not pry."

Twain watches him for such a long moment that Akutagawa wants to fidget. "You're very weird."

The anger rises in immediate retaliation. "I—"

"I meant that as a compliment, by the way. You're weirdly...comforting. Which is also weird, because you're glaring at me in a very not comforting way right now."

"You have one second to shut up."

"Why would I do that? This is my house!"

"And I am cooking your food right now."

Instead of quitting, Twain grins, slapping Akutagawa's back. The shorter man is too shocked to react, tensing up by instinct. "Nah, Ollie's gonna eat that. I doubt you'd want him dead."

"I can assure you I—"

"Hey, Aku." With a more somber expression, Twain crosses his arms, green eyes on Akutagawa's hands under the running faucet. "You're welcome here, m'kay? I know you've been jumpy since yesterday and I don't blame you, but my family's innocent."

"Nobody's innocent," he protests evenly, holding out a palm over the pan to gauge the oil's temperature. 

Twain clicks his tongue. "Well, my siblings are, so don't hurt them." He steps closer to Akutagawa when the mafioso dunks the first chicken into the pan. The sizzling oil coaxes a small sound from Twain, who is quick to hide it with a cough. "I'm the only ability user here. Cross my heart."

"Why are you trying so hard to be nice to me?" Akutagawa asks. It doesn't make sense, try as he might to understand the intentions behind the former Guild member's actions. "I have nothing to repay you with."

"And I ain't asking you to." Twain flashes him one of his unabashed genuine smiles, and the shine of his pearly white teeth almost blinds Akutagawa. Stupid white person. "You're welcome here is all I'm saying… You can stay for as long as you want."

As long as he wants…

Nobody has ever said that to him before. As far as Akutagawa is concerned, everyone wants him away, the mere mention of his name causing grown men to cry and grovel for mercy. He cannot blame them—he made sure his image is intimidating, scary, that no soul would dare to question his strength. 

Yet again, he doesn't understand what's wrong with Twain's head.

On his third day with the Twain family (Akutagawa knows their real last name is Clemens, thanks to the blabbermouth Oliver), he ends up watching over the young ones while Charlie and Twain visit town to lend some communal assistance to clean up the damages the storm caused. Akutagawa didn't peg Twain to be someone who serves his community, but his entire stay here has been a complete culture shock anyway, so he learned not to ask.

"Akutawa!" 

Heaving an inaudible sigh, Akutagawa glances up from the magazine he's pretending to read, not batting an eyelash anymore when Oliver runs to him, dripping with water even as he's wrapped in a towel. "You're going to trip and—I told you." Akutagawa rolls his eyes, holding up the child with Rashomon.

Thomas pads towards the living room with a scowl, the front of his gray shirt soaked with water. "I said stay still, Ollie! You keep on making a mess whenever you take baths!"

"I don't like bath bombs but you still put them there!"

"Because Sammy buys them and you're a kid, so what do you even know?!"

"Do not talk to your brother like that," Akutagawa says quietly, tugging a pouting Oliver towards him so he can properly dry his hair. 

Thomas huffs. "He's being stupid."

"And you're being a loser." With gentle fingers, Akutagawa ruffles Oliver's damp hair, fitting the towel around him more snugly. "Does it fill you with satisfaction to trample on a child who does not even understand half of what you're saying?"

He isn't really one to talk, being someone who destroys everything in his path without much thought, but nobody in this house has to know that. He had learned plenty enough with what he did to Kyouka, with what he turned her into.

He is loath to admit it, but he agrees with her staying in the Armed Detective Agency. They are a bunch of incompetent fools, with the exception of that one named Kunikida, but it's the better place to be for a young ability user.

"You're just the same as everyone," Thomas spits, seething with as much venom as he could muster as a 14-year-old. "Y'all always call me a loser and a twink and-and a faggot."

Akutagawa glances up, taken aback. "What? When did I say that?" Did he miss something? He turns to Oliver as if the toddler would know a thing about what's happening, not at all surprised that he just blinks with those big eyes.

Instead of answering, Thomas stomps away, running up the stairs with a grunt. Oliver yelps as a door slams shut.

Silence.

"He's angry."

Akutagawa glares at the child. "I figured that out, thank you very much."

That night, Thomas refuses to come down for dinner. Twain and Charlie are still nowhere to be found, so Akutagawa is left to fend for himself (and for five others). 

"No! Stop playing with the soap!"

"This is your fault for not learning how to use the dishwasher!"

"Mister Akutagawa, Grace is being mean!"

"Be quiet," the mafioso says, frowning at Grace and Anna. "Stop being childish and finish your chores now. You said you can handle it."

Grace rolls her eyes. "You wouldn't turn on the dishwasher, so we're forced to do it by hand."

Akutagawa does not know how to use a dishwasher, used to the simple life of manual labor. The kids will gang up on him if he ever says that, though. "Would you rather I do the dishes then tell your brother that you ate chocolates tonight?"

Blackmail. Classic Mafia technique.

Anna screeches, running to him with soapy fingers. Akutagawa holds her back using Rashomon, the tendrils wrapped around her waist. "You promised not to tell!" she screams, unrelenting with her efforts to reach him. "Mister Akutagawa!"

"Finish up here," he says as he stands from his seat at the head of the table, taking the tray with a plate of food and a glass of water with him. Briefly, he checks up on Oliver and Noah who are swinging a storybook around and playing video games respectively in the living room. The girls might have shouted a few more insults his way, but he is quick to forget them. Kids are stupid anyway.

He has done recon on this family, which is why he knows which room Thomas is staying in. He knocks three times. "Open the door."

"... Go away."

"I will break the door down and tell your brother that—" Thomas' upset pout greets him, "—you have been an accommodating host." He steps inside before he is shunned. "I shall enter."

"What do you want?" It is Akutagawa's first time in this room. With all the time in the world, he studies the interior—from the two double bunkers to the posters on the wall to the clothes on the floor.

"This place is disgusting."

Thomas plops onto the bottom bed with light blue sheets. "Yes, and? Get out."

"Not until you eat."

"I don't want to eat!"

"Stop being a brat and consume the food your family has worked hard to provide," he says sternly, using his ability to safely deliver the tray to the space beside Thomas. "I know you're hungry."

Thomas blushes as his stomach grumbles on cue, glare still hard on Akutagawa. "Why do you even care? You're Sammy's friend… You kill people, too."

"I do not care," he clarifies, biting his tongue to stop a smirk when Thomas flinches. "I did not call you a twink or a faggot. Do you want to talk about it?"

"You…You're really rude, you know?"

"Irrelevant." He crosses his arms, lips pursed for a moment. "So?" he settles, uncomfortable at what he is about to do. "Talk."

Thomas scowls. "I don't want to."

"That's fine. I will be the one to speak, then." Akutagawa gathers his bearings, wondering why he's in this situation. "Do you like boys?"

"You said you—"

"Because I like boys, too," Akutagawa interrupts, clearing his throat after. He lets Thomas gape at him. "My preferences have nothing to do with how I act as a member of society. You have to understand that there's a difference between being oppressed and being plain rude to others." A tiny shrug. "You don't need to apologize to Oliver, but you must learn how to control your reactions."

"I'm just a kid."

"And Oliver is just a toddler." Akutagawa stands, done with this interaction. What the hell was he even thinking? This isn't his family—why is he succumbing to the urge to educate them? "Stop acting like a brat and start acting like a good brother."

He leaves as fast as he arrived, mouth tasting bitter for some reason.

When Akutagawa returns downstairs, Twain is waiting for him in the living room, holding two bottles of beer.

"Come on," the redhead says before Akutagawa could even acknowledge him properly. Tired of resisting these stubborn people, Akutagawa trails after him, the cold breeze of the night brushing his cheeks.

The soil is damp from the light drizzle in the afternoon, the moisture permeating the air and Akutagawa's senses. It's weirdly refreshing, the scent of the earth. 

They stop under a tree near the barn, Twain making himself comfortable on the wide checkered hammock tied to thick branches. 

"Come on!" Twain grins and holds out a bottle to him, the condensation dripping from his palm. "There's space for you here. Sit down."

I don't want to is already at the tip of his tongue, yet Akutagawa goes against every neuron that tells him to stay put and settles next to the American, their thighs brushing as the hammock dips down under both of their weights.

"I don't drink beer," says Akutagawa. For some reason.

"Hm, that's cool. Do you want water, then?"

Akutagawa glances at Twain, then at the drink he has on hand. Twain is already drinking, already watching the view of his medium-sized ranch like he's living the life. Maybe he is. Maybe this is his ambition, to provide for his family and to get drunk under the stars on the nights he wants to unwind.

"No, I shall try this."

Twain, for some reason, smiles gently, just an upturned curl of his mouth—no teeth, no mischief. Akutagawa takes a sip of the bitter beer that tastes like piss so he wouldn't have to think about why he feels warm all over.

Akutagawa was expecting to be subjected to another session of conversation, since the Twain family seems to be a talkative lot in general, so he was truly surprised when Twain remained quiet, peacefully nursing his drink.

Why isn't he talking? Why isn't he interrogating Akutagawa? He left his family in the care of a mass murderer . Isn't he going to question him until Akutagawa makes a mistake?

But Twain just keeps humming a tune under his breath, just keeps gulping on his terrible beer until it empties out. Even when he gestures to take Akutagawa's mostly full bottle, he still doesn't talk.

Two beers and a gust of wind later, the only thing that Akutagawa hears is the comforting buzzing of crickets, the croaking of a frog, and the whisper of the air. He and Twain stay close together, skin touching, body heat wrapping around each other.

He doesn't know how long they stay there, with him seated with his spine as straight as a rod and with Twain almost, almost, leaning against his shoulder. The taste of the alcohol has long left his tongue, and he can smell its aroma on Twain's shirt, but beyond his newly-discovered dislike of beer—

It's peaceful. Quiet.

And very warm.

The next morning, when Akutagawa sleepily drags himself to the bathroom, fully convinced that he's the only one awake at this hour, he almost bumps into Twain.

Twain waves right in his face, murmuring, "Morning, Aku."

It's bizzare how Akutagawa suddenly feels wide awake as he gazes up at the redhead, who doesn't even look like he's expecting a response.

But Akutagawa answers. For some reason. "Good morning."

Twain smiles again, and Akutagawa can't help but think there's something he should be understanding.

Akutagawa is getting over his embarrassment for existing in general. That's the only plausible reason why, even though Twain caught him—caught, like he's doing an illegal activity—reading Hansel and Gretel to Oliver and Anna as a bedtime story, he barely flinches.

Barely. He still did, inside.

It happens by chance. Akutagawa is about to walk in the kitchen when he hears Thomas and Oliver conversing. For a moment, he thinks the older is bullying the younger again, but that's not the case. Far from it.

"You're making me make you PB&J for three people. Why?"

"Sammy says I can't hold knives."

"No, dummy, I'm asking why for three people."

"For my friends!"

A pause. "Friends? You have those? You never leave the house."

"Yes, but you're my friend and Akutagawa is my friend." Oliver giggles, muffled like he's covering his mouth. "Akutagawa is my best friend!"

"Don't shout if you don't want him to know that you're pretending you can't say his name!"

Akutagawa strolls back to the living room, biting back a smile.

Kids.

One afternoon, as Akutagawa washes the dishes, Grace walks up to him with a cranky pout.

"Do you need something?" he asks, willing Rashomon to dry the plates. "Dessert is over."

"I don't want dessert." 

"Then—"

"You do know that it's been over a week since you came here, right?"

Akutagawa stares after the kid, who stomps away in her usual fashion, remembering the phone he had forgotten to charge after the second day. 

Oh.

He didn't know.

The clock is ticking. The clock has gone past Akutagawa's deadline. He doesn't even know what his exact deadline was, but he feels it ending anyway, a few days ago. He has been here for ten days, after all.

The clock is ticking, and yet he's watching Twain drown himself in the third beer of the night. Like Port Mafia will not be after his neck once he turns on his phone, assuming there's a signal now.

Unlike the first time, Twain is running his mouth this evening, rambling about his pigs, his chickens, and, of course, his siblings. He talks and talks, and sometimes Akutagawa fails to see the connection between the topics he's stringing along, but he still listens like Twain is a case file to be memorized, like someone would quiz him about why Twain has a bias for his rooster Billy.

He's speaking so much, so fast, his voice a mesmerizing drawl that keeps Akutagawa interested. Akutagawa doesn't think he can ever tell him to shut up. Maybe.

Akutagawa must have been too quiet, because Twain eventually pauses from his Guild tales, turning to him with a smile. Akutagawa was trained to notice every single thing in any situation, so he knows for a fact that Twain is smiling differently now, more...sweetly.

Akutagawa's heart skips for an unknown reason, and he considers pushing Twain off the hammock, yet his muscles are locked in place.

"What are you looking at?" he forces out. Why does he sound so weak?

Twain giggles, emerald eyes shining against the yellow light of the battery-powered lantern resting on his lap. "You."

There must be something really wrong with Akutagawa's heart.

"You're so pretty, you know," Twain says, curling a thin lock of Akutagawa's hair around his finger. The smell of alcohol is strong, but Twain's lavender-scented fabric softener is stronger. "Sometimes I don't stay in the house because I can't look away from you and, hic, I don't want to be weird."

"You're being weird in this instance."

"Yeah, but I'm not completely sober," he reasons out with a dopey smirk. "I can pretend that I forgot."

Akutagawa doesn't breathe, doesn't move. There is no way he's finding Twain cute right now. Impossible! "Do you make it a habit to act so embarrassingly?"

"Yeah." Giggling, Twain slumps against him, his ginger hair tickling Akutagawa's cheek. "Did you know that many people have a crush on me?"

"I wonder why."

"Because I'm handsome!" Akutagawa freezes as Twain presses a kiss on his neck. "Don't want them though…"

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know." Grunting, Twain pushes him down to the hammock, shamelessly draping himself over Akutagawa's chest. The light is dimmer now that the lantern is knocked to the ground. "I want to be close to you."

"...I can see that," he manages, gripping the man's biceps. Oh. Oh, wow, what solid muscles. "You're making a mistake."

Silence.

"You can push me away, you know," Twain mumbles sleepily, rubbing his nose on Akutagawa's shoulder. Weird bitch. "I won't be mad, promise."

"I know."

Akutagawa doesn't move. 

Why?

"I really like you, Aku."

And somehow, hearing it doesn't steal Akutagawa's breath away. It doesn't fluster him or makes him want to hide.

Somehow, Akutagawa—quietly accepts it.

Twain likes him. It's simple. Akutagawa doesn't believe him, doesn't want to hope for something as childish and fleeting as affection. But Twain raises his head and he looks at Akutagawa like he's the brightest thing in this dark night, and Akutagawa wonders if he could dare want, after all.

"Sammy." Twain startles. "Mark." Akutagawa can barely hear his own voice, fingers shaking as he brushes Twain's unruly hair. It's soft, the softest nest of hair he has ever touched. 

Samuel Clemens, Mark Twain—whatever this man wants to be called… Akutagawa wants to kiss him no matter what.

In this country, Akutagawa can almost pretend that he's normal, that there isn't a pile of corpses inside his closet and under his bed. That he's just a foreigner crashing in this large family's house until he can get back on his feet.

In this country, Akutagawa can lean in and close the distance between them. Because here, someone is smiling at him like he deserves to have good things.

He kisses Twain, just a gentle touch of lips. Akutagawa's first kiss.

"I don't know how to do this," he admits. He doesn't feel ashamed, for some reason.

"I'd kiss you properly, but I know you don't like beer."

Akutagawa rubs circles over Twain's nose, dull nails scratching the smattering of freckles there. He's never noticed those before. "I've faced more formidable enemies than your disgusting drink."

And they're kissing for real, Twain's skillful mouth slowly easing Akutagawa into the act, never rushing, never pushing for more. Akutagawa is sloppy, close to unresponsive, but Twain feels so warm and perfect and heavy on him that he just lets go of any thought, palms curled around Twain's broad shoulders.

Something wet splatters on his forehead, followed by another, and another. It rains hard, the water soaking them within minutes. Akutagawa moans softly, the weather drowning out the sound. Judging from Twain's smirk against his mouth, however, Akutagawa knows he's been busted.

When they pull away, the redhead starts to pepper small pecks on Akutagawa's cheeks and jaw, and the mafioso naturally surrenders to him. Just this once.

"Will you forget this tomorrow?" Akutagawa asks after a moment, breathless. His hair and clothes are sticking to his skin, and when it would usually make him uncomfortable, it merely grounds him tonight.

Twain laughs against his mouth, kissing him again.

It tastes like watered-down beer and a little secret.

Akutagawa wakes up to a Mark Twain nearly knocking his door down, to an excited Oliver jumping at him on the bed, and to a red-nosed Anna sharing the recent allergy she acquired from plums.

Twain sneaks in a kiss when the kids were busy pushing each other, and Akutagawa feels a little too light-headed for a supposed morning person.

There was no ability user causing the rain, and Akutagawa pretends he's annoyed at this revelation. Deep inside, he just doesn't want to let himself believe that this has all been a plan of fate, confusing and random as it may seem. 

He leaves on the 12th day, with Twain untangling a sobbing Oliver from Akutagawa's leg and the rest of the Twain family bidding him farewell.

He has Twain's number saved on his phone despite not having asked for it, despite not discussing what happens after—what will become of the fragile relationship they have when there are continents between them.

But Akutagawa is not sad. He doesn't yearn to have that week and a half again. He's relieved that he won't have to break up children's fights anymore. He's relieved that he won't have to cook for so many people anymore. There was only so much noise he could put up with, even though he, unfortunately, got used to the chaos inside and outside the Twain household.

Akutagawa doesn't miss Twain and his stupid smile. He doesn't long for his touch nor his words. For him, Twain is just...there. He feels constant, somehow, notwithstanding his free-spirited countenance. He feels like a faraway dream that keeps on visiting Akutagawa's consciousness, teasing him to either desire more or push Twain away.

I really like you, Aku.

Even when Japan eventually becomes visible through the airplane window, he can only think of how odd his mission had turned out to be.

How warm his heart had felt.

Perhaps he really likes Twain, too.

From: Twain

To: Akutagawa

It's hot as hell here

From: Twain

To: Akutagawa

I wish the rain didn't stop

From: Akutagawa

To: Twain

The sentiment is mutual.