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Some days, nothing feels real.
Some days, Jun’ichiro spends hours pinching the skin of his forearm between his fingers, nails digging into the flesh until he draws blood, because it is the only way he can assure himself he is not an illusion. Because the alternative is digging his fingers into something—or someone—else until he’s caused enough harm to believe it is real.
Some days, he comes into work to find a roll of bandages on his desk. He has yet to figure out whether Dazai or Ranpo is the one leaving them, but he supposes it doesn’t matter. He takes them to the bathroom, rolls up his sleeves, and replaces the bloodied wrap leftover from the previous day. He stares at himself in the mirror, presses his hand against the cool reflection, and counts his breaths. Then, he returns to the office and resumes work as usual.
Some days, nothing feels real. But Jun’ichiro has gotten good at pretending.
For example, right now, there is a mafioso making tea in his kitchen. Michizou Tachihara is too good to be true—a fearless mafia assassin whose loyalty to his friends is unwavering. He’s reckless and stubborn and always polite to cashiers, and he shouldn’t technically be in Jun’ichiro’s dorm right now, but he is far from the only Agency member to have invited an enemy into their home.
Michizou places one steaming mug on the table in front of Jun’ichiro, then settles on the couch with his own mug cupped in his hands. Jun’ichiro does not pick up his tea for fear of his fingers passing straight through the cup.
The sunlight filtering into the room is too bright, artificial-like, and the world appears hyperrealistic. Everything is plastic-y and vibrant, like leaves that are too green or flowers with petals a little too perfect. It might be Jun’ichiro’s mind playing tricks on him.
Or it might be that he’s created the perfect evening for himself and a boyfriend he never had in the first place.
“You alright?” Michizou asks. He takes a sip of his tea, wincing as it burns his tongue. “You look a little…out of it.”
(Does Jun’ichiro know Michizou burnt his tongue because this is his illusion and he’s in control of every movement, even if only subconsciously? Or is it merely a guess based on the still-steaming liquid in Michizou’s cup and his chronic impatience?)
Jun’ichiro smiles. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
It’s not a lie, exactly—when nothing feels real, it’s hard to get much sleep. He’s always worried that he’ll wake up and everything will be gone. He’ll find himself back on the streets, starving, curled in on himself trying to preserve his own body heat, wondering where his next meal will come from. In the days before he and Naomi found each other, before there was a roof over his head—what if Jun’ichiro is still six years old in the throes of grief after his parents’ deaths and his entire life is nothing but an illusion created by the agonizing mourning of a child who misses their mom?
Would Jun’ichiro have any way of knowing?
Before joining the Agency and falling under the dominion of All Men Are Equal, he would create illusions without meaning to. He wouldn’t know the difference until the continued use of his Ability drained enough energy that the false images began to fall apart, disintegrating into thousands of tiny green flecks of light. Like snowflakes. But if the Armed Detective Agency isn’t real, neither is Fukuzawa or his Ability. Has Jun’ichiro simply grown enough that he can keep up his illusions for an indefinite amount of time?
Michizou frowns. He takes another sip of his tea as if it’s had time to cool, because apparently he enjoys burning his taste buds. Jun’ichiro might create someone like that. It’s a good balance against his tendency to overthink everything.
“Having trouble sleeping?”
Jun’ichiro nods.
He eyes the mug on the table. Tea sounds good right now, but…
Keeping Michizou here sounds nicer. Some illusions are worth the pain they bring when they inevitably fade away.
Michizou clicks his tongue. “There’s some sort of tea that’s supposed to help you sleep—old man Hirotsu likes it. Lavender-scented things too, I guess, but I call bullshit on that one. A flower curing insomnia? Give me a break— Jun?”
Jun’ichiro blinks. “Huh? I was listening. Bedtime tea and lavender for sleep.”
Michizou studies him, hazel eyes piercing his soul. Jun’ichiro tries focusing on small details. Michizou’s cheeks are splattered with freckles. The band-aid typically across the bridge of his nose is nowhere to be seen. Jun’ichiro had asked, once, why he always wore it, and Michizou explained it helped him get into the mindset of an assassin.
I wasn’t always a bad kid, you know, he’d said. I was gonna be a soldier, just like my brother. I was gonna make my parents proud. It’s easier to have something that shuts off those thoughts when I’m on the job, which is where the band-aid comes in. I put it on, and my past doesn’t matter anymore. I’m just a Black Lizard battalion leader followin’ the Boss’ orders.
When he and Jun’ichiro had first started this dance—meeting in secret, stealing kisses in the dark, gasping for air between wandering hands and swollen lips—Michizou always kept the band-aid on.
Jun’ichiro doesn’t remember when he stopped wearing it around him. Maybe that means something. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe nothing matters because maybe nothing is real. Maybe Jun’ichiro could close his eyes and float out of his body and leave everything behind because this universe has never existed at all.
Michizou sets his mug down on the table, then leans closer. Jun’ichiro backs away quickly, making himself as small as possible. Less of a chance for Michizou to touch him, less of a chance for this to fall apart, less of a chance to be left alone.
“What’s wrong?” Michizou demands. “You’re acting weird.”
Jun’ichiro swallows around the lump in his throat.
He hasn’t had a day like this in a while, not since he and Michizou barreled into each other’s lives. Does that mean something? Is Jun’ichiro looking for a sign that his life is real, or is he searching for proof that it’s fake? Will he only find whichever it is he expects?
Should he have told Michizou earlier, about the days his mind wages war on itself? Or would that have only made him run? Would it have only caused Michizou to realize he’s an illusion himself, forcing Jun’ichiro to cancel out his ability and re-create a new Michizou from the ashes?
But— No— The only illusion Jun’ichiro has made with so much of their own agency is one he distinctly remembers creating. Or— at least, he remembers the origin. He remembers being thirteen years old, holding Naomi’s lifeless body in his arms, sobbing into her chest until a familiar hand landed on his shoulder. He remembers looking up into Naomi’s eyes, vibrant with life despite the fact that he was still clutching her corpse. He remembers the living Naomi closing the dead Naomi’s eyes with the gentlest of touches, then whispering in his ear, Don’t worry. I’m never going to leave you.
He doesn’t remember such an instance with Michizou, or anyone from the Detective Agency. If they’re illusions, they can’t be based on real people. And could Jun’ichiro really come up with such a bizarre assortment of characters? Despite the nature of his ability, he’s never been an especially creative person.
“Michi,” he whispers, throat thick and aching with unshed tears. He starts to reach out, but stops before he can make contact. Michizou’s eyes shine too bright in the afternoon sunlight. But his skin…
His freckles are uneven splotches of color. Acne scars dot the left side of his face, and there’s a pale mark above his eyebrow where Gin struck him with a knife during training. His lips are cracked and dry because despite Jun’ichiro’s constant reminders, he never uses chapstick. The bridge of his nose is lighter than the rest of his face from band-aids blocking out the sun.
His skin isn’t smooth and flawless like Naomi’s. He looks real.
“Sometimes I get worried,” Jun’ichiro hears himself say. “I’m afraid this is too good to be true.”
Michizou’s expression twists into one of confusion, and Jun’ichiro braces himself for impact. He squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to watch as luminescent snowflakes fill the air.
But then Michizou’s hand wraps around his, linking their fingers, and it’s warm. Cracked lips brush against his knuckles and a whimper escapes Jun’ichiro’s mouth.
“Jun,” Michizou says softly. His other hand cups Jun’ichiro’s cheek, and it’s enough to coax Jun’ichiro’s eyes open. “I’m real,” he promises. “I’m here. You’d never be able to think up someone like me.”
A strangled laugh finds its way out of Jun’ichiro’s throat. Michizou is right, probably, but Jun’ichiro could tell himself that a thousand times over and it wouldn’t sound believable until it came in someone else’s voice.
“You’re sure?”
Michizou nods, that stupid lopsided smile Jun’ichiro loves so much sliding onto his face. “Positive. There’s way more to me than you could ever imagine. …Like— did you know that when I was younger, I had a friend who liked to dip cherries in pizza sauce?”
“You had friends before you joined the Mafia?” Jun’ichiro asks, before he’s even registered the rest of the sentence. “Wait.” He blanches. “What?”
Michizou chuckles. “See? You’d never be able to make that up.”
“Maybe I would. I think what’s more unbelievable is you having friends.”
“Hey!”
Jun’ichiro leans further into Michizou’s touch. Even if this isn’t real, it’s a staggeringly nice illusion—one that makes Jun’ichiro feel loved and warm and hopeful. Maybe it would be easier if Michizou were to hurt him, if he were to draw blood, just so Jun’ichiro could have proof of his existence. But Michizou won’t do anything of the sort while they’re together like this. Not when the band-aid is off his nose and they’re just two kids sitting on the couch instead of a detective and a mafioso from opposing organizations.
So Jun’ichiro goes for the next best thing. He tugs Michizou into a kiss, smashing their lips together like he needs it to live. And maybe there are better ways to go about proving the existence of the world around him, but when Michizou kisses back just as hard, thoughts of better coping mechanisms fall to the wayside. His grip on Jun’ichiro’s hand tightens and his teeth sink into Jun’ichiro’s bottom lip.
It’s not enough to draw blood, but it’s enough to sting. It’s enough to draw a gasp out of Jun’ichiro, allowing Michizou to slip his tongue between Jun’ichiro’s parted lips.
It’s enough to convince Jun’ichiro, at least for the moment, that Michizou is not merely an ability-spawned illusion. He’s real, and he’s here, and he’s kissing Jun’ichirou breathless. Kissing him like a snowstorm, like a flood, like an explosion leaving thousands of shrapnel scraps embedded in Jun’ichiro’s flesh.
He digs his fingers into the back of Michizou’s neck, threads them through his hair, pulls him closer, closer, closer.
He’s real. They’re real.
This is real.
There are some days when nothing feels real to Jun’ichiro.
But right now, he trusts Michizou is.