Work Text:
Akutagawa was not a romantic man.
He found no beauty in the little things of life like the common folk did. Nor did he find splendor in the extravagant. He found himself to feel indifference in the face of exquisite art and the more expensive wine. He cared not for silk nor velvet outside of its capabilities of mutilating his enemies. There were no apples of his eyes. No objects of his affections. He had no such feelings in regards to another person and such.
Until one man named Atsushi Nakajima rushed in his life like a storm followed by a rainbow.
They fought each other. They fought together. And they were so much better fighting together. They tore each other apart. Peeling each other layer by layer until only bones remain. He devoured his heart with the mouth of a beast. And he devoured his heart with that mouth of his. The beautiful, precious mouth of his that left Akutagawa fighting the boiling desire to be claimed by those pair of lips. Because that was treacherous. It was blasphemy to himself and everything he stood for. To his strength. To his history. To the very religion that he worships in his everyday life.
Atsushi could be his religion.
How dare Akutagawa think such sacrilegious thoughts. Yet he finds that he does not care. He had once centered his everything in a single man before, so he was not new to doing it. Yet this was different.
Atsushi Nakajima was memento mori. He was in the way he accelerated every pulse in his body. The way his heart collides with his ribcage so hard. He fears he might bruise his poor muscle. The way his weakened lungs breathes just a bit harsher than usual. He fears his lungs might just collapse on him. The way his cheeks flush with a prominent darkness. And Atsushi was the pink in his cheeks, and the flush of his lips. He was the radiating heat. Like a sun.
A sunshine boy.
And Akutagawa was moonlight.
Moony Akutagawa and sunny Atsushi. Opposites as opposite as can be. Yet he yearns. And what is love but the yearning of the soul? Love was in the morning birds that chirps every morning when he comes to meet Atsushi. Love was whatever consumes his being every time a pair of silver eyes lay their gaze upon the gradient irises that reflects dawn.
Because Akutagawa hated Atsushi. And Akutagawa loves Atsushi. And Akutagawa was reaching for his hand. And he put his hand in his. And he put his hand in his. And their fingers interlock.
Their backs were laid flat against the grass at the top of a hill. The wind passing by them like time. There were not clouds in the sky. Bright blue skies. And Akutagawa once thought it was to mock him. Now, nothing could be more perfect than this.
Nothing could be more perfect than a man named Akutagawa Ryuunosuke with one Atsushi Nakajima.