Work Text:
Then I’ll ask you where we’re going
Private talk, in writing, when will it be done?
Here we go now
The existence of mobile phones defeats the purpose and added labor of writing letters, but that’s their preferred method of communication.
An unfinished letter sits on Atsushi’s desk in the office. Halfway finished, hastily folded and thrown in his drawer with the pen left uncapped.
No one can ever know the contents of the letters being sent back and forth. They never publicly spoke of it either.
All are being discreetly sent and received. With their positions in their jobs, getting it to the recipient is harder than it sounds.
The rules for mailing a letter are simple; add a stamp, the destination address, and the return address!
Probably not simple when it came to the Atsushi and Akutagawa.
Atsushi’s unfinished letter never made it to Akutagawa’s hands before he bled out on the ship deck.
The devastation of a broken promise.
If you knew I loved you, you’d swoon.
Killing me, there’s no end to it.
Is there some grand meaning behind it all?
When he and Akutagawa teamed up for the first time to take down Dostoevsky?
When Akutagawa appeared when Atsushi was scared of fighting alone?
What was the true result behind it?
“Ever since you made that promise, you haven’t killed anyone?”
“Of course, I keep my promises.”
Or was it all the reason of chance?
Atsushi never got an answer. He didn’t know, neither did anyone.
“Is his life that important to you?”
Yes. Yes, it is.
There’s no end to the night.
A sacrifice to the person who showed me the light. A wonderful and beautiful thing.
Thank you for finding me.
I believed in you— trusting my armor to you—
—If I could’ve foreseen this premonition, I would have protected us.
There are places that can only be seen by stopping—places we can’t go.
I want to keep it private.
I want to stay messy
Gains and losses,
Kiss in the moonlight
There’s nothing secret or subtle about meeting your enemy and supposed partner when the moon is at its brightest.
Meet me tonight
Atsushi sits on the railing, Akutagawa just behind him, standing. The cold night blows.
His fingers reach for white hair, carding his hair in small sections before stopping at the crown. Akutagawa leans down and presses his lips just beside where his hand is, just above the single black strand of hair that compliments the white by his nape.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“...I’ll allow that.”
The light of the moon will remember how their cheeks flushed pink, but never themselves.
If he could name that feeling, it’d be ecstasy.