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“Well he’s not staying with me. There’s barely any room in my closet,” Yosano says adamantly. She drums her fingers along the edge of the conference table, turning to face her companion on the right. “What about you, Oda?”
“I’ll be away for a week.”
At the front of the room, Kenji cheerfully crosses out both of their names on the whiteboard.
“Hm. Tanizaki’s out for obvious reasons.” Yosano’s eyes briefly flit over Naomi’s hand on her brother’s before banishing the image from her memory. “Kunikida’s too much of a neat freak to room with someone, so he’ll be the last resort—” The aforementioned man scowls at the comment but doesn’t say anything. “—Kenji?”
“Yes!” Kenji waves his expo marker in the air. “I’d love to but I’ll be visiting my hometown for a few days.” He then strikes through his own name with a flourish.
“Ranpo—”
A rustle of a potato chip bag. “Don’t wanna~”
Yosano sighs. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Akutagawa watches this spectacle unfold from his place at the far end of the table and starts to regret having spoken up at all. Regret—now that’s a feeling he hasn’t experienced in a while. The most recent instance, he keenly recalls, was when he realized his own actions had driven his sister away from him.
Regret. A perfect way to summarize his misgivings about this rehome Akutagawa campaign his coworkers are currently running in the conference room.
All he’d done was ask for advice on how best to stay warm while his landlord fixed the heating issue in his apartment. He’d survived harsher winters in the past, of course, but surviving by a hair’s breadth wasn’t exactly an enjoyable way to live. It was only recently that he’d found himself in a slightly more forgiving environment—the complacency that came with comfort must have loosened his tongue.
Ranpo finishes saying something that Akutagawa only manages to catch the tail end of—something that sounds suspiciously like with the newbies.
There are immediate murmurs of agreement and a few ingratiating exclamations of Great idea, Ranpo-san! Then, Oda’s pulling out his phone and saying into the receiver, “Hey, Dazai. Can Akutagawa stay at your place for a few days until his heat gets fixed?”
The enthusiastic response that pours out from the other end is utterly unbefitting a man who had, until just recently, been in control of the entire Port Mafia. Akutagawa would have been impressed by the hold his mentor seems to have over a former crime lord if his soul weren’t currently being sold to the devil.
Clearing his throat, he speaks up to let them know he’s perfectly capable of weathering a cold night or two, and is promptly shot down.
“Brat, it’s the dead of winter,” Yosano drawls. “Just take the offer. Or would you prefer to receive my treatment after you inevitably come down with hypothermia?” There’s a wicked glimmer in her eyes that he doesn’t like one bit. “When it comes to amputating frostbitten appendages, I’m quite well-versed.”
Traitorously, his body shudders, remembering all too well the sensation of chainsaw teeth on flesh. He says nothing.
Yosano leans back, satisfied, and everyone starts gathering their things so they can return to their desks. The final message on the whiteboard, scribbled over hastily erased smudge marks, is Homestay with Atsushi and Kyouka.
Akutagawa sits for a while longer in the empty conference room, reflecting on his life up to this point.
This is a cold place, devoid of love.
***
Some time after lunch, Kunikida pulls him aside in that solemn manner he usually reserves for his lectures on How to Be a Functioning Member of Society.
“Listen here, Akutagawa. It’s not that I don’t find your plight pitiable, so I’ll offer you a piece of advice or two.”
Akutagawa gives a slow nod. Usually, Kunikida’s lectures bore him to tears—when he even bothers to listen to them at all—but the subject this time is of great interest to him. If there’s one thing he’s learned from working at a detective agency, it’s that information is vital. And he’ll need all the information he can get if he plans to make it through the next few days alive.
Adjusting his glasses, Kunikida continues. “Navigating the ins and outs of a homestay can oftentimes resemble trudging through a minefield. A good starting point is getting to know the people you’ll be staying with.”
“I see.”
Know thy enemy—a sound piece of advice. Akutagawa does a mental assessment of his current intel (details courtesy of Nakajima):
Nakahara Chuuya, the gravity manipulator. With his unparalleled combat strength and the ability to black hole bomb cockroaches into oblivion, he’s the greatest threat in terms of raw fighing power.
Dazai Osamu, an ability nullifier who kidnapped Akutagawa’s sister four years ago and also never takes the trash out on time. His fighting prowess is low, but he makes up for it by being annoyingly sharp-witted.
Izumi Kyouka, a former assassin and the wielder of a phantom-like ability. Nakajima swears she’s the sweetest little sister ever, but Akutagawa has seen the way she eyes him whenever he talks to Nakajima and he’s half-convinced she’s planning to slit his throat in his sleep.
His prospects don’t look good. Nevertheless, he will not lose heart. It’s as Oda always says—Keep a level head and stay tough. He can’t fall in a place like this, before he’s even reunited with his sister.
“I’m hesitant to trust ex-mafiosi, of course, but Oda assures me they’re reasonable people,” Kunikida says, oblivious to Akutagawa’s inner battle. “I suppose if anyone is a good judge of character, it would be him. At any rate, it’s better to err on the side of caution and do something to neutralize any potential hostility before it crops up.”
“Understood. What is the most optimal way to take down such formidable foes?”
Kunikida stares at him. “Wha—take down? I’m talking about bringing them a gift.”
“A gift to make them lower their guards?” Subterfuge is not his preferred method of attack, but he is nothing if not adaptable.
“No, a gift of goodwill. A box of tea leaves or a nice set of wagashi, for example.”
Akutagawa fails to see how a box of wagashi is going to help subdue the literal embodiment of gravity. Unless the wagashi are poisoned. “Is this not a lesson on how to fight strong opponents?” he asks.
“This is a lesson on homestay etiquette.”
“Oh,” Akutagawa says. He takes a minute or two to replay their conversation in his head with this new bit of context. “I see.”
Kunikida rubs a hand against his forehead, exhaling sharply. “I’m glad we cleared that up. Honestly, why do you always jump straight to violence?”
“So when do I strangle the—”
“There will be no strangling!”
***
“Don’t worry,” Nakajima reassures him for the fifth time as they approach their destination with his luggage in tow. “Chuuya-san might seem intimidating, but he’s actually very nice!”
“Except when he gets mad,” Izumi adds from beside him.
“Ah, yeah…” Nakajima quickly works a smile back on his face. “But he only really gets that way with Dazai-san! As long as you behave, he probably won’t kick in your teeth.”
This does nothing to reassure Akutagawa.
He shifts the bottle of sake he’s been carrying to his other hand. Nakajima had filled him in on Nakahara’s wine obsession earlier, but with his current salary, he can’t really afford any of the expensive brands. This will have to do. And if the gift causes offense, combat is always an option.
In the genkan, Nakajima and Izumi announce their return while they remove their jackets and shoes. Akutagawa’s gaze is directed downwards at his own snow-covered boots when he hears light footsteps approaching.
“Welcome back,” a low voice greets them. After a pause, it speaks in his direction. “Akutagawa, was it? The shitty mackerel told me you’ll be staying with us for a few days. Nice to meet ya, I guess.”
Akutagawa raises his head, ready to put into action the first rule of Kunikida’s Homestay Etiquette Guidebook—Express gratitude to your hosts for inviting you into their home—and freezes.
Nakahara Chuuya glares back at him with a giant cleaver in his right hand, face and clothes splattered with blood.
Rashoumon thrums to life beneath the surface of Akutagawa’s overcoat, invisible to the eye but ready to attack at the first order. According to Nakajima, Nakahara can alter the gravity vectors of anything he touches. In short, anything with mass or a physical form is ineffective against him. The best Akutagawa can hope for is to strike faster than Nakahara can react and catch him off guard. However, this will only work once. With this single chance, he’ll have to simultaneously disarm Nakahara, catch him off balance, and knock him out. All before he activates his ability. The timing has to be perfe—
“Thanks for letting him stay here, Chuuya-san!” Nakajima says, striding past Akutagawa to greet his housemate. “You’re all bloody! What are you making?”
“Oh, this?” Nakahara peers down at his bloodstained apron as if registering his ghastly appearance for the first time. “The old lady from downstairs gave me a whole lamb as thanks for me fixing the leak in her ceiling, so I’ve just been hacking away at it. I’ll be done in a bit. The three of you can go clean up first.”
With a nod, Nakajima walks ahead with Izumi, rolling the suitcase in front of him. Akutagawa follows after them, stopping when a hand clamps down firmly on his shoulder.
“Appreciate the gift. You can just leave that on the table over there,” Nakahara says from behind him in an exceedingly casual tone. “You seem to have a good head on your shoulders, so I’ll only warn you once.” His voice draws closer, until it’s only a breath away from Akutagawa’s ear. “If you ever hurt Atsushi or Kyouka again, I’ll kill you.”
“That…is not my intention,” Akutagawa manages to squeeze out, too high-strung to turn around or make any sudden movements. It might just be his imagination, but his entire body feels rooted in place.
“Good.” The hand on his shoulder releases its grip, moving to give his back a hearty slap that sends him stumbling. “Enjoy your stay.”
Just as quickly, Nakahara is gone, leaving only the weight of his warning hanging in the air behind him.
Akutagawa spends the rest of the night looking over his shoulder for short, angry redheads.
***
If he were to summarize mealtime in the slums in one word, it would be war. The children of the slums were always in competition—with each other, with the adults, with that gnawing, hollowing ache that claimed more and more of them each day. Like rabid mutts, they fought over scraps, stole goods from unsuspecting peddlers, even ate weeds to stave off that insatiable hunger.
It was savagery born from raw necessity.
Currently, he finds himself bearing witness to a different sort of savagery.
“If you put one more fucking crab stick in the pot, I’m gonna shove your face in there!” Nakahara growls, pointing his chopsticks at Dazai menacingly.
Without breaking eye contact, Dazai empties the entire pack of crack sticks into the pot.
Nakajima steadies the sloshing pot as Nakahara lunges at Dazai over the kotatsu. A few plates of sliced meats and vegetables fly up from the impact—Akutagawa catches them mid-air with Rashoumon before they can spill all over the table. As the two older men scuffle over the ideal ratio of soup stock to crack sticks, Nakajima assures him that this is just par for the course.
Scooching a little further away from the commotion, Akutagawa lets his legs stretch out beneath the kotatsu and revels in the warmth packed into that tiny table. Most of his meals for the past four years have been eaten alone, so this no holds barred nabe is a first for him.
The large pot in the center of the table is drowning in crab sticks. Parts of other ingredients peek out through the gaps—the corner of a piece of boiled tofu, a few thick strands of udon, a large chunk of lamb thigh. Platefuls of the most arbitrary raw ingredients cover the table surface in no discernible order. It’s more madness than nabe, but somehow it fits right into this sort of atmosphere.
Dazai and Nakahara continue to spite each other by shoving ingredients into the pot they know the other will hate. The pot, of course, starts to boil over, which leads to Nakajima frantically ladling food into everyone’s bowls. Akutagawa considers protesting that he can’t possibly finish all of it, but in the face of Nakajima’s earnest appeals to try this or that, the words quickly die away. Izumi, meanwhile, takes advantage of the ensuing chaos to eat all the boiled tofu and shiitake.
It would have been fine—if a little hectic—for things to proceed like this. But Akutagawa’s life is never without challenges, and his latest one comes in the form of Nakahara dumping a spoonful of boiled broad beans into his bowl.
“Don’t hold back, we’ve got a lot more left,” he says, and while Akutagawa appreciates the hospitality, there are broad beans in his bowl.
He stares at the mound of vile, mealy green things. Kunikida has nailed it into his head that he must graciously accept any meal his host prepares—showing open disdain for it is equivalent to spitting on their grandmother’s ashes. That being said, while he knows what is expected of him, he’s not entirely sure he has the strength to do it.
With unsteady hands, he picks up one of the beans with his chopsticks and puts it in his mouth. Chews a little. Thinks that he’d honestly rather get stabbed by Gin again.
Twenty excruciating minutes elapse like this, before Nakajima leans over and whispers, “Is something wrong? You don’t look so good.”
Normally, Akutagawa would have perished before admitting such a weakness to someone, but the broad beans have caused him more pain than Kunikida’s Sexual Harassment in the Workplace modules, so he begrudgingly fills Nakajima in on his predicament.
“You don’t like broad beans? Why didn’t you say that earlier?” Nakajima starts spooning the beans into his own bowl. “I’ll eat them for you.” In exchange, he deposits a few chunks of white radish into Akutagawa’s bowl. “You’re fine with daikon, right? Have some of that instead.”
Akutagawa is so glad they’re friends.
***
“You know, I’m a little envious of you.”
The words are spoken so softly that if Akutagawa had been just a little more absorbed in his task, he would have missed them. But his mind is far from the foaming suds and splash of faucet water, and the after-dinner mood is tranquil, so he hears them clearly.
A questioning gaze directed at Nakajima earns him a bit of elaboration.
“You’re always looking ahead, after all,” Nakajima says as he dries the plate Akutagawa hands him with a towel. “Even when you falter, you get up right away. You don’t let anything stop you. That time when you were trying to save Gin-san, and now, with the current case.” Setting the dried plate on the dishrack, he aims a sheepish grin at Akutagawa. “I envy that.”
“Is it really something worth praising?”
“It is. Because unlike you, I’m a coward. When I realized I couldn’t fulfill the headmaster’s final wish, I was ready to die.” He takes the next plate from Rashoumon’s outstretched grasp, rubbing circles against it with the towel as he speaks. His voice is faraway, as if recounting a distant memory. “But then you told me to move on. That if I was to fail, you would simply laugh at me. And honestly? That kind of pissed me off.”
“Did it now?”
Akutagawa only remembers that day in flashes of fragmented sensations—the strain of his muscles as he pushed them far beyond their limits, the red-hued sky, and Nakajima’s tear-stained face, twisted in shock. He had seemed so pathetic then, so lost, that Akutagawa had spoken his mind without thinking.
Nakajima nods, tone light despite the wryness of his words. “I was too overwhelmed to say it at the time, but inside I was thinking, Ugh, what a jerk. Where does he get off telling me what to do when his own sister doesn’t even want to see him?”
“It seems I’ve offended you,” Akutagawa states flatly, scrubbing at his dish a little harder than necessary.
Nakajima lets out a laugh that’s more air than sound. “Not at all. Actually, I like that about you. Like I said, you’re always looking ahead. It makes me feel like I can’t lose to you.”
Akutagawa doesn’t think he’s done anything particularly commendable. He’d let his need for vengeance blind him, alienated his sister, and even lashed out at a friend trying to help. It had been all too easy to get swallowed up by his own destructive urges. Despite that, Nakajima looks at him with those clear eyes, free of enmity—with something like respect.
Looks at him as if he is more than just a senseless beast.
His hand comes to a halt above the sink, the sponge dripping soap bubbles onto the bowl below. He feels strangely subdued when he speaks, as if the air between them is fragile, and raising his voice any further will shatter it to pieces.
“You have plenty of merit yourself, Tiger. You call yourself a coward, but you once leapt off a building knowing you couldn’t use your ability, did you not? That spirit and strength of will—the agency recognized those qualities of yours and accepted you as one of its members.” He turns on the faucet, letting the running water drown out this sudden bout of sentimentality. “An agency member must always hold their head high. As such, it’s pointless to seek what you lack in others.”
Rinsing off the bowl, he hands it off to Rashoumon to pass along. When he gets no reaction from the other side, he turns his head to find Nakajima staring at him, his mouth parted into a little o.
“What?”
As if coming to his senses, Nakajima quickly takes the bowl. “Sorry, I was just thinking…you’ve changed since then.”
“Have I?”
“Yes. I feel like you’ve become warmer. You never would’ve said those things before.” Nakajima’s smile grows a touch fonder, and while it isn’t entirely foreign to Akutagawa anymore, it still catches him off guard. “Thanks, Akutagawa. You don’t know how much that means to me. Gin-san was wrong about you. I’m sure she’ll realize that some day.”
Something stirs inside of him then, ever so faintly.
Gin had once told him he was the type of person who wasn’t meant to hold anyone dear. That his loved ones would only ever end up as collateral in the wake of his violent tendencies. Up until that day, she must have been right.
But Nakajima is right there, smiling at him, full of light. A stark contrast to the baleful reaper who had once aimed his claws at Akutagawa’s throat. The realization hits then, that if he had killed Nakajima that day, he would never have gotten to see this sight. They wouldn’t be here like this now, chatting about insignificant things over the kitchen counter.
Just as Akutagawa had finally grasped the meaning of hatred all those years ago, a second emotion, less barbed but just as unwieldy, spills over—
Gratitude.
For the mentor who found him starving by a riverbank and took him in. For the young man who unhesitantly became his first ally. For the boy who honored the memory of his departed companions. For the senpai who rushed to this aid when he was fighting alone.
For the one standing before him now, calling his name.
—Don’t give in to your own beast, Akutagawa.
—Take care, Akutagawa-kun.
—You’re carrying the better halves of them, Akutagawa-san.
—Thanks, Akutagawa.
His breath catches in his throat. Despite everything he’s lost, something lays there atop his pile of miserable regrets, glittering prettily. Something he would have carelessly trampled beneath his feet, if Gin had not torn away the blinders around his eyes.
Suddenly, he’s overwhelmed with the urge to see her. His throat constricts, as if the words he had always wanted to say to her—to get her to stay—have suddenly lodged themselves in his chest.
He wants to see Gin, to share with her this precious world he found.
***
“No one’s gonna attack you in the bath, that’s ridiculous!”
“On the contrary, no state is more defenseless than when one is bathing. It’s only logical for an enemy to strike then.”
“…Is that why you asked me how I felt about being naked that one time?”
“Why else?”
“…I can stand guard outside the bathroom, if you want.”
“I would appreciate it.”
***
The night air pries at his skin, stealing away the residual heat from his bath. Despite the temperature in the apartment, he shivers.
“Do you have enough blankets?” Nakajima asks as he pulls back the covers of his futon.
“Plenty.”
More than he knows what to do with, actually. The two extra sets of duvets Nakahara left earlier—along with an unnecessary comment about how he had plenty of experience dealing with anemic twigs—are pushed up against the closet door. An oversized red hair bow, courtesy of Izumi, crowns the offering. (Akutagawa is still trying to figure out if she had been serious when she insisted he wear it to match his ability.)
Even Dazai had been more agreeable than usual—which is to say he had been making himself scarce. The last they’d heard of his whereabouts, Nakahara had yelled something about stupid river driftwood and then slammed the door to the apartment.
In their own way, they were trying to make Akutagawa feel welcome. Despite their reservations towards him, and the very fresh wound of what he’d almost done—a crushed windpipe, the life fading out of heterochromatic eyes, a twinge of something resembling guilt—they were willing to accept him.
Nakajima has strange friends—is ultimately the conclusion Akutagawa settles on. But when he thinks about it, they’re no stranger than the agency members. And at least for tonight, they look a little less like enemies and more like a friend’s loved ones.
When the lights go off, he allows himself to relax beneath the covers. The room is slightly larger than his own, but somehow less spacious. The silhouettes formed by the furniture and piled up clothes are different. The coffee stains on the ceiling look a little more vivid. Instead of silence, the quiet breaths of the person beside him punctuate his thoughts.
At some point, in the far corner of subconscious thoughts, a memory of a frigid winter morning floats to the surface. Biting frost and numb fingers, a white stillness that blanketed the earth in gentle death.
—Nii-san, I’m cold.
—Come here, Gin.
He’d held that tiny body against his, wrapped his arms and every bit of Rashoumon he could muster around her. They’d trembled until they were too tired to even move. Every breath burned their lungs. It might have been easier to succumb to the snow, to give in to silence. But still, their bodies continued to shiver, and that at least let each other know they were still there.
A pleasant weight envelops him then, as if shielding him from the harsh winds. Instinctively, he draws closer to the source of the heat, curls into silky smoothness and low rumbles. In his dreams, he can almost imagine it’s tiger fur, pure white, bathed in the glow of the moon.
—Are you still cold?
—It’s…warmer now. Thank you. It’s warm.
***
“How did it go?”
Akutagawa glares down the group of traitors crowded around his desk. It hasn’t even been five minutes since he arrived at the office with Nakajima and Izumi, and his colleagues are already pressing him for details about his weekend.
Tanizaki at least has the decency to mask his curiosity behind a sincere inquiry. The others do not show the same tact.
“Did you enjoy your trip behind enemy lines?” Yosano smirks.
Ranpo grins around a mouthful of lollipop. “Bring back any good intel?”
“Did anything scandalous happen?” Naomi asks with an uncommon amount of glee.
Even Kunikida takes a jab at him. “I hope you didn’t end up strangling anyone,” he says nonchalantly, but Akutagawa catches the corner of his lips pulling up the moment he turns away.
They are insidious, abhorrent people with far too much time on their hands. He makes sure to let them know that.
All he gets in response is uproarious laughter.
Nakajima, who’s been awkwardly hanging around the edge of the crowd, soon gets roped into the questioning too.
“Did Akutagawa-san get into a fight with anyone?”
“Akutagawa-kun made you stand guard over his bath?!”
“Please tell me you took pictures of him in the bow—”
He answers everything with a nervous smile, but he seems comfortable enough, so Akutagawa leaves them to it.
This kind of merry commotion, much to his chagrin, is starting to sound like home.