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Atsushi treasures the few softer moments he shared with Ryuunosuke. Ryuunosuke Akutagawa will always be the love of his life, his stars to the moon, the ozone layer to his earth, and the promise ring that fits snugly on his ring finger, that hasn’t been moved in months.
It’s been months. Months in which Atsushi has laid in his partner’s bed, looking at Ryuunosuke’s forlorn coat sitting on the vanity chair opposite his side of the room. It looks lonely, somehow, without the sickly man’s shoulders to hold it up. Yet he has not the courage to slip off of the satin covers, to reach out to Ryuunosuke’s dearest friend and console the mourning ability. He knows Rashomon is deep in her own silk, hiding away in layers of fabric sewn with careful appreciation.
It would feel wrong, somehow, to wear his former partner’s ability on his back, but maybe if he convinced his legs to slide out between the sheets, and take two steps across the hardwood floor, that feels oh so empty without Ryuunosuke’s bare feet to trod all over it in the morning and evening light seeping through the window.
And he does. Painstakingly slow, but even so, he does it. His toes curl into the carpeted rug that sits underneath the vanity.
He stares, for a long time, warring in his own mind whether he should pick up the fabric that was part of Ryuunosuke’s very self. His lover’s bare soul, with Rashomon weeding in between the seams of his being.
His bony hand reaches out, hesitantly, fingers trembling faintly. They close around the neck of the coat, and he lifts her with a care that he has not had for anyone or himself in a long time.
“Hello,” he whispers, fingers curling tighter, and he feels tears well up in his eyes. they trail down his face, tracing the shape of his nose and falling onto his (Ryuu’s) white t-shirt.
Atsushi can still smell the faint mint cologne.
It makes him sick.
He makes a last second decision to slide Rashomon onto his own shoulders, an unfamiliar weight to them that has his tears falling even harder. He clings onto the fabric and hugs it around himself, sliding off of his feet and onto his knees. They hit the ground with a devastating force, that Atsushi knows will bruise later. That Atsushi knows will raise questions, and his friends will have known that he’s been out of bed.
He hears a noise, a sound that seems so familiar yet he can’t recall what it is.
He remembers the sound Rashomon made when emerging from Ryuunosuke’s coat. He sobs, fat droplets soaking into the carpet when they hit the floor, and he slouches further into himself. He feels Rashomon’s soft yet so sharp being wipe away his tears, her presence a nudge in his mind.
She’s not gone, somehow. She’s here. “He died, but I remain,” she seems to say, and Atsushi knows that if she took on a human form she’d have her arms wrapped around him, a comforting shield from the outside world that cost him Ryuunosuke’s life.
“I missed you,” he murmurs, quiet and raspy. His throat stings with unuse, his chords rusty enough that they leave a metal tinge in his mouth.
Rashomon just curls around him tighter, and Atsushi almost wants to transform. It’s close to midnight, now, so he would have no trouble. But he would be devastated if his tiger counter-part incapacitated Rashomon in anyway.
He’d never be able to look at himself. But Rashomon clearly wants him to. She nudges at his cheek eagerly. Atsushi knows that Byakko and Rashomon loved each other just as much as Ryuunosuke and Atsushi loved one another.
So, he slips out of his clothes, leaving the cold from the cracked window to seep into his skin, caressing his bones and flowing along with the blood in his veins. He curls up further into Rashomon, willing Byakko to come to the forefront of his being, and Byakko easily comes.
Tiger and coat entertwine, Byakko nipping playfully at Rashomon’s sleeve with surprising intimacy. They missed each other. They never want to be apart ever again.
Byakko carries Rashomon carefully in their jaws, jumping onto the bed and stopping when it creaks under their weight. They continue when they’re sure the bed won’t collapse in on itself, and they place Rashomon carefully around them, curling up and shifting to get comfortable.
Rashomon glows red, extending to wrap around the tiger as she did when Ryuunosuke called for demonic armor.
Byakko rumbles, a sound that makes the bed tremble, and flicks their tail. The appendage settles down over Byakko’s protected paws.
They move no more. Byakko chuffs once more, before they sink into a sleep just a deep as Rashomon, who allows herself to rest, for the first time since she was created.
And somehow, this is only the beginning.
Yosano looks up from where Ranpo is carefully painting her nails, the detective sitting crisscrossed on Yosano’s desk, meeting Atsushi’s eyes. “Ah, he’s back from the dead,” she says, casually, but Atsushi can see she’s giving him a thorough once-over.
Ranpo’s head tilts, but he doesn’t look away from what he’s currently occupied with. “Ah, Atsushi-kun, is that Akutagawa’s coat?”
The weretiger freezes instinctively. Rashomon clings tighter, the upside collar around his neck curling around his neck protectively. Ranpo pauses again, and then opens his mouth once more. “We’re all glad to see you, Atsushi-kun.”
That makes Rashomon loosen, but still keeping her grip on his torso tight. Atsushi himself unravels, letting out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. He nods sharply, spinning on his heel to make his way to his desk. Surprisingly, Kunikida hasn’t overloaded his personal desk with reports, and when Atsushi glances over, all Kunikida does is nod, as if he understands, and turns back to his own paperwork.
Somehow, it feels comforting. He takes a seat, Rashomon stretching the fabric and peeking over his shoulder, nuzzling against his neck. He pushes his head into the touch, ever so slightly, and relaxes into his chair.
Junichiro approaches hesitantly, a muffin in his hand and coffee in the other. “I thought you’d be hungry, Atsushi-kun. I didn’t know if you’d eaten yet,” he says, holding out the muffin as an offering. His pupils are shaking, but Atsushi knows that he looks devastatingly thin. Especially with Rashomon using him as a fitting mannequin.
He smiles, albeit faintly, and it doesn’t seem to touch his eyes, but he is smiling, nonetheless. He doesn’t smile with his teeth anymore. He hasn’t, not since Ryuunosuke’s passing. Well, his vampirism.
He’s dead, to the world. Dazai says it’s unlikely he’ll ever be himself, so they separated him from his ability using another ability user’s power. Ryuunosuke is out there, somewhere, with sharper canines and a thirst for blood, and he is out there without Atsushi. He’s without Atsushi and Rashomon and even Gin, who’d been spared from the vampirism during the whole Decay of Angels situation, surprisingly.
Atsushi feels tears in his eyes, and when he meets Dazai’s eyes, the corners of his lips begin to wobble. Kyouka is beside the former mafia executive, looking on with sympathetic but passive eyes. It takes Atsushi a moment to realize that she’s afraid. Whether of making him upset or upset because he’s wearing her abuser’s ability, he doesn’t know, and frankly, can’t care. He shifts in his seat, flinching when Dazai slides himself up onto his subordinate’s desk, his friend’s desk, and opens his arms, sitting crisscross and crinkling the old forgotten paperwork Atsushi has left behind.
Atsushi is falling into them before he can blink. He cries, openly, and his fingers are digging into Dazai’s back so hard the Kyouka, from behind, takes them and holds them. Her hands are cold.
Freezing cold, but grounding. He’s not on earth right now. He’s floating, memories of the past wizzing by at a speed that Atsushi knows what it was, but doesn’t have enough time before moving onto the next one. Dazai is murmuring, something he can’t make out, and he just curls further into the older man’s arms.
His back is rubbed from behind, and he recognizes Yosano’s perfectly clipped nails, massaging his shoulders, and keeping careful mind of Rashomon on his back. Rashomon seems to appreciate the gentle touch, and ripples when Yosano reaches out again.
“Atsushi,” Dazai murmurs, almost a ghost of a whisper. Time slows when Dazai speaks, and it always has. That’s one thing that will never change. Dazai’s voice has the ability to control time, so that you’re always listening to it. You never will not hear it.
“It will be okay.”
The boy just sobs harder.
”Nakajima,” is uttered in a voice that Atsushi thought he’d never hear on a Sunday night. He grunts in acknowledgement, not bothering to turn around. He refuses to even look at his opponent this late at night. He might go crazy. Or kill himself.
Right now, he wouldn’t mind either of them, if he’s honest. He hears Akutagawa sigh, and feels a presence approach him. He’s almost completely sure that Akutagawa is about to push him off of the ledge, but narrows his eyes suspiciously when all the older boy does is take a gentle seat next to him.
“My sister used to say that Sunday was a holy day, a day of the lord, back in the slums we grew up in,” the assassin begins, choosing his words carefully, and yet the roll off of his tongue like he’s speaking from a practiced script. “She struggled for something to believe in, fought for a higher being in hopes that one day, maybe it’d save us from our life of struggle.”
Atsushi chuffs, blinking owlishly. He curls into himself, shivering when a cold front clings to his bare skin. He’s in shorts and a tee-shirt, huddling around himself for warmth. Akutagawa doesn’t spare him a glance.
“I hated you, for the longest time,” he continues. “I wondered what you had that churned out Dazai-san’s approval like butter, what I couldn’t achieve even if I tried my best. I still wonder what made him regain his humanity, because I’m well aware he had none when he was a Port Mafia executive.”
Atsushi swallows, hard. He says nothing, but his eyes finally meet with Akutagawa’s half-way. They stare, stupidly, at each-other, and Atsushi becomes aware of the faint brown freckles near Akutagawa’s eyes.
The raven-hair speaks again. “I don’t hate you, not anymore. It’s admiration, more than everything, and I hate that even more than I hated you. I’m jealous.”
Atsushi gains the courage to open his mouth, and when he speaks, his voice is high-pitched and wobbly. “You shouldn’t be,” he whispers, his throat clamming up at the end, cutting him off.
Akutagawa sighs, and releases Rashomon to wrap tightly around Atsushi’s wrists. “I’ll catch you if you fall,” he says quietly, eyes darting between him and the cityscape below.
Atsushi doesn’t speak. He can’t, in fear that when he does, his voice will crack and break. But he does look over at the older boy, a silent question sparking between them.
Why?
Atsushi speaks anyways. “Why would you?” he asks, glaring up into the stars that twinkle and linger in the faint sky. Light pollution has dimmed them tremendously, but Atsushi has seen the true form of the stars. The powerful constellations that he would think of to fall asleep, even though he never really got to see them when he was a child.
Rashomon loosens her grip, easing but still tight enough to prevent him from jumping. He resents her, in a way. Because Akutagawa and Rashomon work so well together, and Byakko refuses to even tolerate Atsushi.
Akutagawa inches closer. His hackles raise, and he nervously looks to the side. The boy is looking at him. No, not looking, admiring.
“I think I love you,” he says, finally. “I don’t want to fight you anymore.”
Atsushi scoffs, but he has an inkling that assassins don’t lie. “You’re just saying that so I don’t jum-”
Lips. Against his own chapped ones. They clash heavily, with Rashomon enveloping the both of them so that they don’t fall while climbing all over each other.
Atsushi lets the other man take initiative. “Akutagawa-” he gasps, pulling away and inhaling sharply.
“Call me Ryuunosuke,” is all he says, before they’re kissing again. It’s almost blissful, feeling freezing hands grip the nape of his neck. Ryuunosuke traces his lips in little kisses, pulling at the corners to get Atsushi to kiss back.
He does, eventually. It just takes him a minute to stop short circuiting to get his shit together.
Atsushi blinks back into the present, still entranced by the warmth of Dazai’s arms, wrapped tightly around his person. The feeling was grounding, bringing him back down from whatever he was in.
A flashback.
He chokes on another cry, his nails digging into Dazai’s back. “Ah, glad to see you’re back, Atsushi-kun,” he says quietly, ruffling Atsushi’s hair before pulling away.
Yosano is still behind him, fingers kneading gently circle into his shoulders. When Atsushi turns to face her, she just smiles. “Atsushi-kun.”
He blinks, but smiles back hesitantly. Kunikida approaches warily. “Kenji-kun will take you home, Atsushi-kun.”
Kenji smiles, his eyes squeezed shut as they always are when his lips curve upward, and waves politely. “I’ll get you home safely, Atsushi-san!” The aforementioned boy nods shortly, still feeling stiff and uncomfortable from all of the agency’s eyes on him. Kenji leads him out by a hand, still cheerful. He pulls Atsushi into the ADA’s elevator, only letting go of Atsushi’s hand to adjust his hat and press the lobby button.
The walk to their apartments is relatively short, and eventually they stop at his and Kyouka’s door, standing awkwardly for a moment in silence. “Oomph-”
Kenji had enveloped him in a tight hug. A really tight hug. Atsushi grunts, hugging the younger boy back after he comes back from his momentary shock. “We’re here for you, Atsushi. Always,” he says, into Atsushi’s shirt. Then he pulls away, waves quickly, and salutes before padding off to his own apartment.
Atsushi turns the knob, nose twitching when he enters. It smells floral and foreign, but maybe that’s just because he hasn’t been here in so long. The place is oddly clean, and the boy knows it’s because of Kyouka’s tendencies to keep very organized.
There’s someone in here. He notices the footprint on the kitchen floor, too big to be Kyouka’s. And she wouldn’t walk on it with her shoes on anyways.
He braces himself, even Rashomon extending from Ryuunosuke’s coat to bare her teeth behind his head. He sees a flash of red hair, and that stupid hat. Rashomon relaxes. Atsushi doesn’t.
“Chuuya-san,” he says, warily. “Why are you in my apartment?” Chuuya kicks back on their sofa, his and Kyouka’s sofa, as if he lives there. The older man yawns. “I see you’ve got Akutagawa’s ability on your back,” he says, casually, and lifts his chin to meet Atsushi’s eyes.
He narrows his. “Her name is Rashomon,” he murmurs, self-conscious. Chuuya throws his head back and laughs. “Okay, kiddo. Gotcha. I was wondering if you knew why Akutagawa’s ability is still alive.”
Atsushi shakes his head, his hands trembling. Rashomon offers a comforting ruffle against his shoulders. Chuuya hmns, giving Rashomon’s figure an indescribable look. Atsushi is burning up under his clothes, but he pays it no mind. The ginger speaks again, this time quietly.
“He loved you, kid.”
Chuuya left long ago. Atsushi, sits, in his closet, with Rashomon as a comforting presence that shields his back from the world. He chuffs when his phone rings. Hesitantly pressing the answer button, he pulls enough energy to bring it to his ear.
“Are you home?” is the first thing he hears. It’s Kyouka. Kyouka and her quiet tone.
He nods, forgetting she can’t see him, and then confirms vocally. “Yeah, I am,” he whispers. She exhales, and Atsushi is certain that her worry is wafting through the screen into his face. He sighs, audibly, and rubs his face with his hand. “I bought chazuke to-go,” she says.
“For me?”
“For you.”
He clears his throat. “Ah, thank you Kyouka-chan, get home safely,” he says, and then hangs up, because suddenly the coat on his back feels the weight of a boulder, a chain around his waist. He feels as if he’s being forced to haul it up a hill, and even with his tiger strength, his walls are crumbling.
He is crumbling all together. Bits and pieces on the floor everywhere he trails. Cracking off like clay left in the kiln for too long. Fragile, an atom bomb ready to explode. He’s sure that when the chain reaction sets off, there won’t be pieces of him left.
He sets out two bowls, because he knows that he won’t be able to finish the chazuke Kyouka bought by himself.
He hasn’t finished a meal in a long time.
Kyouka picks up steamy noodles with her chopsticks, looking intently across the table to see Atsushi poking at his own. She slams her fist on the table. “I thought chazuke was your favorite. What changed?” she demands, threatening, but he doesn’t fail to notice the terrified tremble in her voice.
Is she scared of how much he changed? Or is she scared of the being residing on his shoulders?
He doesn’t want to know. He inhales softly and chuffs. “I’m sorry, Kyouka-chan. I haven’t had an appetite recently,” he explains, truthfully, because he never lies to his sister. He can’t.
She stands up, Demon Snow forming dutifully behind her. Atsushi shrinks back. “You loved him,” she said, defiant. “You love him.”
He hiccups, hands gripping the rough fabric of Rashomon. “I do,” he says, voice crackling. “I do, I do,”
“..And I wish I didn’t.”
She pauses. “There are no wishes with love. You love him, and you can’t wish you didn’t because you do.” And with that, she scoops up the bowl of chazuke, gives Atsushi another intent gaze while Demon Snow dissipates, and retires to her room as quickly as she can.
He sits in the space until the sun rises. He doesn’t sleep. No, he can’t. There’s a persistent ache in his head. Ryuunosuke can never sleep again. He will never wake, it says, curling down his spine and rooting deep in his intestines.
The light of dawn brings warmth to the right side of his face. He yawns, trying to suppress it but failing. Rashomon ripples in discomfort, and Atsushi takes a shot in the dark when he thinks she must not like warmth, Even though her body is the one warming his own.
He shifts in the seat he’d sat in for a while, watching the sun rise higher into the sky, golden yellow reflecting off of the Port Mafia headquarters in the distance. The climbing ball of gas creates a harsh glare that makes him have to squint his eyes. They seem to be functioning okay, with one of their treasured mafioso’s rendered incapable. In more ways than just one.
“Atsushi.”
He startles, jerking and spilling the coffee that just landed in front of him. Kyouka is there, sleepy-eyed, yet still sharp and aware of her surroundings. Her hair is tied up into a half-assed bun, one that she clearly didn’t put effort in, but just a elegantly looking as her neat ponytails that frame her shoulders.
“Kyouka-chan… I’m so sorry,” he says, apology spilling from his lips. She pokes his cheek. “Stop that, Atsushi-kun.”
She tuts, giving him a softer smile than the look she had given him yesterday. He shrinks under her gaze, and only relaxes when she turns around to grab a towel to clean up his mess. He always makes messes these days, too careless to wonder if he should clean himself up or not.
“You’ve been gone so long, I forgot what it’s like to have someone else in this apartment,” she says quietly, dishes clinking together and the sound of water droning in the background. “It’s nice,” she continues.
“I missed you.”
“… I missed you too, Kyouka-chan.”
He laces his shoes silently, and Kyouka looks over from where she’s seated on the futon, reading some kind of book. “Are you heading out?”
Atsushi nods. “I wanted to go visit some old shops I haven’t been… been to in a while,” he murmurs, and sees Kyouka rise gently from her position. “Do you want me to come?” she asks, and sniffs when he shakes his head quietly.
“…Be safe, Atsushi-kun.”
He presses the glass door open gently, hearing the ding! that alerts the familiar clerk to look up from where she’s arranging a beautiful bouquet—White Lilies, if he’s right—and she smiles, skin crinkling up at the edges.
“Nakajima-san, I haven’t seen you in so long!” She hurries over, embracing him in a heartfelt hug that still has his shoulders tensing. The clerk seems to notice, and backs away gently. “You don’t look well, son,” she says, pinching his sunken cheeks.
“I have tea broiling in the back, come in. You’re safe here.”
“Ah, you want an arrangement? I can get that done in no time,” she says after her cup clinks on the table. He nods, feeling shy.
“…”
“…”
“How much?” he blurts, before sinking into his seat and blushing furiously. She grins. “Free of charge, dear.” The light reflects off of her dark eyes, and yet they still seem friendly. He observes her again, after a while of no contact. She spurs on.
“You’ve been a welcome customer, Nakajima-san, and I want to repay you for all of the times you’ve purchased something from me. It’s a gift. When’s your birthday?”
“I don’t know.”
She blinks. “An early-late-birthday-birthday present, then. I insist,” she says, finishing her tea. She stands with a flourish, her ability carrying her cup easily to the sink. Vines that once griped the ceiling bend down to curl around the handle, and while they’re at it, find Atsushi’s too. He bows low, murmuring a gentle thank-you before following her out.
“I know he’s gone, Nakajima-san, and I know you feel the need to repay him. He’ll love these,” she says quietly, pressing the arrangement of solemn flowers into his hands. Forgiveness, they sing. Love, they chatter.
“..Atsushi.”
“Hm?”
“Call me Atsushi.”
He leaves with a weight settled in his heart and a bouquet in his hands. He holds it gently, as if it’s glass. Nothing can happen to it.
He passes what he think might be Tachihara, but ignores the mafioso and keeps walking. It’s a long walk to a graveyard, after all.
He stops. Forgets Ryuunosuke is not dead, just gone, and turns around briefly. He feels his body shake, feels Rashomon envelope him entirely when he crashes to the ground.
He wakes to a butterfly pin and dark, dark hair. Manicured pretty red nails, and eyes that are so cold yet make him feel as if he’s burning.
“You passed out on a pedestrian crosswalk, Atsushi-kun. Citizens thought you had died,” she says, slowly, enunciating every little word.
He chuffs. “I got it.” He sits up, almost mechanically. Yosano sighs, and takes off her glasses with an elegant flourish.
“Atsushi-kun.”
“…”
“Talk to me.”