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…But this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In an hurried manner he immediately began an enquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her in an agitated manner, and thus began:
“Oda-san.”
The gruff voice pulls the man away from his novel with a questioning noise. He sets the book aside and gestures to the empty seat on the other side of the booth, which the young man seems to reluctantly take.
“Akutagawa-kun, to what do I owe this interruption?” Oda asks, taking a long sip of his coffee—because he feels like he’ll need it.
“You will give me advice,” is all the boy says, making Oda snort in amusement.
Leave it to Akutagawa to find such an impervious way to ask for help. At once, it is an order and a favor, like Oda should be honored. Most would be offended, but at this point, Oda is more than used to it and considers himself lucky to receive such candor. He sits back against his vinyl seat—it makes an uncomfortable squelching noise—and tries to appear nonchalant.
“Training is tomorrow. I’m off the clock,” he begins, meaning to say more before he is interrupted:
“It is not related to combat.”
This is surprising. He leans forward with narrowed eyes, matching Akutagawa’s permanent furrowed brow. “What, then?”
For the first time in a very long time, Oda watches Akutagawa’s rigid posture deflate—subtle but enough for him to notice. The boy is always up for a challenge, never one to shrink from anything except the occasional stack of paperwork—so to see him so… humbled, for lack of a better term, almost unnerves him. He doesn’t get much time to dwell on it, though, for Akutagawa snaps back upright into his typical unyielding stature with a look of determination.
“Can you have a grudge against someone if they have yet to harm you?”
Oda’s thoughtful expression deepens into concern. He makes a dwindling noise before offering his response, “Well, yes. Sometimes you just don’t like people at first glance—that’s normal.”
“This is not normal,” Akutagawa says abruptly. He plants his hands firmly on the table, staring him down with sudden venom. “I have disliked—hated— loathed plenty, Oda-san. I would know this.”
“Okay, okay,” Oda sighs. “What exactly is going on, then?”
“I do not know.”
“Describe it to me, Akutagawa-kun, you’re giving me absolutely nothing to go off of.”
Akutagawa shifts uncomfortably in his seat again. He glances sideways out the cafe window, eye twitching as he mutters under his breath. Oda waits patiently for his reply, taking another sip of coffee before deciding it needs more sugar. He’s halfway through the packet when Akutagawa comes up with the words.
“I keep… thinking. About someone. And it will not stop. And it is annoying.”
“Thinking?” Oda repeats, fiddling with the edge of his book. “With what… How are you thinking about this person?”
“I have told you it is not anger, but—this person just appears in my thoughts, regardless of the task. It does not feel negative at all. The only frustration I feel is the fact that I cannot concentrate and my efficiency will suffer.”
Oda has a small inkling that nudges the back of his brain; he feels the metaphorical light bulb appear above his head.
Damn his weakness for little orphans—it’s why he ends up in so many confounding conversations about absolutely normal things. Granted, they’re usually younger than twenty, but Akutagawa has always been a special case, and he has a particular paternal fondness for him (even with their meager age disparity) that he tries to keep at bay, in case it was unwanted. Now, however, it returns, full swing—in raptures of mirth at just what the poor boy has discovered.
He tries to keep his tone even, devoid of condescension or amusement. “Would we dare to suggest that these are… positive feelings?”
Akutagawa scoffs. “That is a possibility.”
“Do you feel anything… special towards them?”
Akutagawa’s face twists up. “Special?”
“Do you… care about this person? Do you worry about them? What happens to them? What they think of you?”
“I respect this person, but surely that means nothing. I would prefer if they wouldn’t die. That would be—bad. And their opinion of me is… irrelevant.”
What happens next threatens to knock Oda out of the booth—Akutagawa blushes. Bright pink against his pale, near-translucent skin.
“Oh,” is all Oda can manage. “Do I know this person?”
Like a deer in headlights, Akutagawa’s eyes bulge, threatening to burst out of his skull. “No,” he answers, too quickly.
“That’s odd, because I feel like the only people you know are people you know because of me. I know you don’t go out much.” Oda strokes his chin theatrically; he might enjoy the way his musing makes Akutagawa squirm. Just a tiny bit. “Come to think of it, do you interact with anyone outside of the agency?”
The remaining fragments of Akutagawa’s mask shatter as he lets out a hiss. Oda feels Flawless activate itself, getting a lovely image of Rashomon slicing his body in two, straight down the middle. He jumps out of the booth, coffee in hand, to dodge it and takes a gulp of victory. Akutagawa is still seething but elects not to attack him further, hands balled into fists at his sides.
“There is absolutely nothing wrong with a crush, Akutagawa-kun.” Oda speaks softly, as if to a rabid animal—which may be half-true, though he’d not admit it aloud.
“It cannot be! I do not succumb to such things!”
Oda frowns, taking a few guarded steps closer to him. “There is no… succumbing,” even for a writer, the word feels funny in his mouth, “to anything. It’s a completely normal part of life. Perhaps you never had the chance to think about these kinds of things, with everything you’ve had to deal with.”
“It is foolish.”
Oda shrugs. “Sometimes. It’s the nature of love to be foolish, there’s plenty of books about it. This one, for example—”
“I am not foolish,” Akutagawa retorts with a scowl. “Nor am I in love.”
“Maybe not, no. But it doesn’t hurt to explore these feelings.” Oda sighs, cautiously returning to his seat. “If you are in love, it isn’t something to fret over.”
Akutagawa just pouts at him. If he didn’t know what the kid could do, he might’ve compared him to a kicked puppy.
“Can I get her name?”
“...there is none.”
Oda pauses mid-sip, raising an eyebrow. “His?”
Akutagawa’s blush returns full-force, but he makes a valiant effort to shake his head. Oda can’t help but smile, hoping it comes across as reassuring and not at Akutagawa’s expense.
“Tanizaki? Naomi might have something to say about that. Ranpo? He might be too old. Kenji is too young. Ah.” He shrugs his shoulders in realization.
“No, you are mistaken—”
“Ku–”
“It is NOT—”
“–ni–”
“I made everything up—”
“–kida.”
Akutagawa swallows any further protests. Oda keeps his guard up, guessing he might get almost-impaled again. The boy only slumps backward, looking oddly defeated.
“Chin up,” Oda tries, pushing his now-empty mug aside. He looks off into the distance with an absent half-smile. “I could see you two together.”
“Well, banish that image from your mind, because it could never be.”
“Nonsense, you haven’t even said anything to him.”
“And I never will,” Akutagawa says with an air of finality. It’s tinged with something wistful that makes Oda’s heart clench in that paternal way.
“You will.” He picks up his book and searches for where he left off. He decides on a different strategy as he leafs through pages, keeping his eyes averted and tone firm: “You’re strong. You wouldn’t let something minuscule like this cow you.”
Akutagawa perks up imperceptibly. He gets to his feet. “You are correct. I have been foolish.”
“I bet he’s still in the office. He stays late, you know.”
“Then I am wasting my time. I will confront him and tell him to stop invading my mind.”
“Yes, you go do that,” Oda says, only half-listening as he finds his last chapter. He slides his bookmark out onto the table.
Akutagawa stomps off with new purpose, the sound of his footsteps retreating toward the stairwell until they fade into nothing. Oda looks down at his book, rereading the last few sentences before coming to the first new declaration, and finds it fitting:
“In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”