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There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense.
Akutagawa stomps from the first-floor cafe to the stairs, muttering under his breath. He activates Rashomon and vaults up a flight, all the while trying to concoct a plan in his mind. He has confronted plenty of imposing figures—he has even confronted the dreaded man in black—yet something about this meeting twists his gut. It’s less biting than his usual anxiety, less like a hot knife and more like a firm, warm grip on his heart that threatens to drop it into his stomach. Less painful, but very real and very unfamiliar. He tries to swallow it down as he ascends to the agency’s door, dissolving Rashomon with a flourish of his coat.
He stares at the frosted glass. Sure enough, light inside signals its occupant—there are few people who would willingly stay behind once the clock hit 5PM. Oda-san will at least stay in the building with a novel or his notebook, but claims it’s wrong to mix work and pleasure. Though Oda-san sanctioned this entire ordeal, which seems beyond mixing; Akutagawa worries if what he is about to do will emulsify into something unspeakable.
He waits until a silhouette crosses the window, then throws open the door with a flourish. The slamming of door hinges echoes into the empty office—a few papers slip off desks and flit toward the ground.
Kunikida Doppo looks up from his desk.
Akutagawa stays standing in the doorway, unmoving, hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“Akutagawa-kun,” Kunikida says with a slight frown, “I thought you’d gone home.”
“No.” It’s all Akutagawa can manage—even if it’s dreadfully obvious. He doesn’t dare to take a step closer, watching the man sift through papers until they form two neat piles on his desk. In the moment, he takes the chance to take an appreciative gaze at his person; Kunikida is slightly frumpy from overworking, the ribbon at his collar is undone, and his hair hangs loosely, freed from its usual low ponytail. It is nothing short of angelic to witness, and it makes Akutagawa second-guess his confidence—something that is very rare.
Blinking, Kunikida clears his throat and eyes Akutagawa with a raised brow. “Oh—okay. What can I help you with?”
He sounds so genuine despite his curiosity, like he would drop whatever he had been doing to solve his problem. This particular problem might be more difficult to solve as it did not require paper-shredding or intimidation.
Akutagawa stays quiet, unmoving. The gears in his mind creak to a halt, attempting to sputter into motion—it only produces a wide-eyed, blank stare. One that seems to go right through Kunikida.
Thankfully, he is prone to giving such looks. More often than once his eyes have been compared to black holes, voids, and bottomless pits. So, Kunikida is less unsettled than the average joe, scrunching his brow and pushing up his glasses.
“Akutagawa-kun?”
With a shuddering breath, Akutagawa turns and exits, slamming the door behind him.
He’s unable to see Kunikida through the glass, but the man wears an expression only slightly shocked—more so tinged with confusion. This is not the oddest Akutagawa has behaved.
Akutagawa doubles over, hands on his knees, teeth gritted and chattering in suppressed anger and mortification. He’s so stupid, he mentally chides himself. Rashomon glows beneath his fingertips as he worries at his hem. How can he just blurt out what he wants to say? Is there not some pretense or courting ritual? Oda-san did not say anything beyond “do it.” In the moment, it seemed like stellar instruction—now it seems lacking. Foolish.
And foolish he is not.
He hears his name beyond the door, muffled, and opens it to find Kunikida already reaching for the doorknob.
“Ah, okay, you’re still here. I was wondering what you—”
“Quiet.”
Kunikida blinks, eyes wide. “Huh?”
Huffing, Akutagawa shoves him away from the door, further into the agency, so he can shut it behind them. “Sit down. I must speak with you.”
When Kunikida doesn’t move, he continues to push him all the way to his desk. He even pulls out the desk chair, setting his hands on Kunikida’s shoulders when he seems reluctant to sit, forcing him down onto the squeaky seat. (If the touch makes Akutagawa’s stomach flip, if the feeling of Kunikida’s broad, muscled shoulders makes his fingers twitch, if Kunikida should blush, he ignores it.)
“Wh-what’s up?” Kunikida asks as Akutagawa swivels the chair so they’re facing each other.
“You have been the most vexing, incessant presence,” Akutagawa begins, ignoring Kunikida as he opens his mouth to reply. “I have tried to ignore it—but it is futile. So I must order you now: get out of my head!”
Kunikida knits his brow, and Akutagawa copies the expression in his own annoyance. Did he not make himself clear? This is what Oda-san said to do. And Oda-san cannot be wrong about such things, he reads so many romance novels.
“…what?” Kunikida asks, tone breathless.
“You heard me,” Akutagawa growls.
“Y-yes, I did, but—I don’t know what you mean? I’m sorry if… if my presence at work has disturbed you somehow. We can talk about it—”
“There is nothing more to discuss.”
“No, clearly—clearly, there is, Akutagawa-kun. I want to understand what I’ve done, how I can help you!” Again, so genuine. How dare this man be so nice? Akutagawa pouts at his sincere display, and decides to voice it:
“You are too nice.”
Kunikida blinks in disbelief. “I’m—?”
“You are too nice to me,” Akutagawa amends, frowning still.
“Oh?” Kunikida’s eyes go wide. “I—sorry?”
“Yes. Stop it, so I may stop thinking about you.” Kunikida still looks shocked, and Akutagawa wonders if it’s his manners, so he adds, “please,” for good measure. Oda-san is always telling him to be more polite.
“Thinking… about… me,” Kunikida breathes out each word in a shudder.
Akutagawa nods, pleased Kunikida finally seems to understand. He turns on his heel, considering his mission complete; even if the weight hasn’t fully lifted off his shoulders, the burden certainly feels lighter. Before he can take a further step, though, a hand grips his arm—firm.
He turns back to face an exasperated Kunikida, uncharacteristically red in the face. Well, uncharacteristic in that it doesn’t appear to be from anger or frustration—his eyes are swimming with something Akutagawa cannot recognize. Not yet. “Where are you going?”
“…home.”
“After just dropping a bomb like that?!”
“I’ve said what I needed to,” Akutagawa answers nonchalantly.
“No, no—unless… am I misinterpreting?” Kunikida drops his grip, reluctantly. Akutagawa stares at him, unblinking, waiting for the gears to stop turning in his superior’s mind. “It sounds like… you have feelings for me.”
Akutagawa stiffens, not expecting to have a follow-up conversation to his declaration. He feels blood rush to his cheeks and looks away.
“Like I said, should you cease treating me—the way you do, then it would probably stop.”
Kunikida looks offended. “What?! Why would I do that—?”
“Because, if it is a burden to me, I cannot imagine what it would feel like for you,” he huffs, defeated.
There is absolutely no way, not in a million years, that a man like Kunikida Doppo—put-together, successful, attentive—would waste his time thinking about Akutagawa Ryuunosuke—orphaned, awkward, unsettling. In any manner, in any capacity, except to scold him for intimidating clients. It’s laughable (if Akutagawa ever felt inclined to laugh in his miserable existence) to imagine.
“That’s how you feel?” Kunikida’s soft tone pulls him from his self-loathing spiral. “Oh, Akutagawa-kun…”
Great, pity. Probably the only thing he would—
Something squeezes Akutagawa’s hand. He looks down to see another hand over his own.
“I have feelings for you too!”
Akutagawa stares. And stares. Wondering if the words are figments of his battered mind. If the sight before him is a hallucination, the warmth of the tan fingers lacing between his own is but a phantom. If he can hear anything else above the rattle of his heart against his ribcage, the blood pooling in his ears, his stomach doing that strange somersault. He expresses it all as eloquently as he could:
“What.”
“I do… I was worried you didn’t, well, think about that kind of stuff at all.”
“I… I did not,” Akutagawa admits, “not until you.”
He hasn’t had the privilege of spare time, of safety, of comfort to think on sentimental things like affection or even friendship. Not until he joined the agency. Until then, it’s been thinking about his sister, the next meal, the next day—and whether it would come. Since then, it’s just been about paper-shredding, about farming with Kenji, about Kunikida Doppo, about Oda-san’s novels, about Kunikida Doppo, about Ranpo’s candy, about Kunikida Doppo, about Kunikida Doppo, and about Kunikida Doppo.
“And that’s okay,” Kunikida answers him, squeezing his hand tight. “Y’know, my Ideal says I’m not supposed to be looking for romance right now—but, well, it found me, I guess. Even I can’t ignore fate. Or you.”
Akutagawa manages to meet his gaze, finding comfort in that Kunikida looks just as flustered as he feels.
“I do not believe in fate, but I do believe you are very real.”
Kunikida laughs whole-heartedly, getting to his feet. “I think that’s a good start.” He grins broadly, and Akutagawa’s knees feel so weak that it inexplicably makes him want to dive out the window—maybe to escape the sheer radiance of his smile. They drop their hands so Kunikida can open his Ideal. “Tea tomorrow morning? 8:30?”
Akutagawa nods, watching him pencil in the date, before heading out the door.
He finds himself smiling, and for once, doesn’t try to hide it.
I must learn to be content with being happier than I deserve.