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"I wish we never met."
Vile words escape his mouth with no point or goal to take back nor return. He means it. Pure hatred, but betrayal and sorrow, rises in his mind. Thoughts from his heart take over his brain, negating his ability to think rationally in this unfortunate situation. People cower at the horrifying sight of two arguing detectives often well-praised for their shared teamwork skills as well as intelligence and useful abilities aiding in saving the lives of the innocent. His sparkling eyes gaze into the dark eyes of his once called partner. His face whiter than snow, hands colder than the icy months in Antarctica, but his behavior warms up like the shift from Winter to Spring and then to Summer. Slowly, but surely. He still remembers, the death in those empty, void-like eyes.
Tachihara points the gun downwards, on his guard for any sudden movement.
Akutagawa makes no effort in moving, eyelids who wish to closely cling to each other a cursed reminder of those sleepless nights worrying over this current serious predicament. His mouth covered by the scarf warming up his neck, a few moments earlier Tachihara had lovingly fixed it. The action held a taste of melancholy. Warm hands fleetingly brushed the chilly cheek of the once feared Hellhound.
And yet, despite the frustration in Tachihara's tone, all Akutagawa could notice is how bland the sun seems next to those bright eyes.
Akutagawa's hand carefully rests on the gun, lowering it further. "You do not need to threaten me."
It did not matter whether the gun was pointed at him or not, trust was a veil covering Akutagawa's eyes.
Tachihara remains quiet.
Akutagawa drags on. "What the President has said, does not matter. But it is the truth. You are in no way betraying my heart by placing me in handcuffs."
"Fuck." Tachihara takes a step back, eyes narrowed so much he almost closes them. "Why the fuck did you have to waddle in my life and ruin everything? Everything was going so good.."
Akutagawa wonders, if he had not loved Chuuya, would he have met Tachihara? Perhaps on opposite sides, perhaps never. Torturing him was not something Akutagawa intended on. Half of his heart is in Tachihara's chest, lies lay heavy on his soul. Each cough determinates Akutagawa to scream out his feelings for the other until his vocal cords rip apart and he chokes on his own blood, but he does not say anything. Once labeled as a dog, always a dog.
"I can not offer an apology worth enough your forgiveness," Akutagawa replies, voice never waivering despite his clammy, shaky hands. Training in front of the mirror might have helped. "All I can hope for is, is that I will return to you once more."
"Don't fucking say that."
He does not wish to believe this is true.
Homely café turns into a nostalgic memory of the dark setting Akutagawa once thrived in before leaving everything and Gin behind. But, he had never left fully. Secretive conversations with his old mentor took a toll on his mind, the first healthy rivalry drowned him in much lighter attention. In his brain, lays an inbedded memory of the first glance of the ginger tuff of hair belonging to Tachihara, the notorious little thief of the agency.
Akutagawa will miss stargazing with Tachihara. Dark skies brightened up by Tachihara's words rambling on and on about various, random topics such as guns or newest pranks with Nikolai. For every star there is, his love for Tachihara doubles.
"Believing in impractical delusions will only make this worse," Akutagawa says. Pale hand reaches up to Tachihara's cheek. "I had planned to turn myself in once Dazai has been successfully fooled. It seems like I have underestimated my own mentor."
"Just.. shut the fuck up." Tachihara awkwardly slaps Akutagawa's hand away after a pause, hesitating. "Did you even plan on telling me all of this or was that supposed to be some shitty hidden secret?"
Tachihara backs away further, every little touch from Akutagawa he adored now a fragment of a broken, rusted memory of a simple traitor. But wasn't he just another traitor if his goal was to quietly shove Akutagawa into a prison cell? That makes two of them. If they were magnets, their similarity would cause them to fly away from each other. But there is something, a little thing, keeping them together. A rope, or those shitty cursed feelings, meekly attempting to force them close. As seconds tick, the rope is stretched and stretched, until it is no longer able to support ugly frustration and betrayal mixing with the hideous side of love. Arguments should remain behind closed doors.
"I do realize this is far from ideal," Akutagawa admits, keeping his distance. His voice a tad muffled, the woollen scarf covers the lower part of his face. Yet his tone remains sincere (as sincere as a hidden mafioso could sound, which is not that much), but formal. "My pride does not allow me to grovel at your feet for your forgiveness."
Classic Akutagawa, elegance and eloquence reeks off of his figure.
But alas, despite displeasing, his brutal bluntness is a thing Tachihara admires. After all, what could a lie like Tachihara know about truth?
Tachihara is no better than Akutagawa, he knows it.
"Go fuck yourself, motherfucker."
Tachihara softly bites his lower lip, doubts wanting to pour out of his heart into the air between them. Vulgar words drip out of his lips like a mindless habit. Immaturity his third name. Tachihara's thumb glides over the handle, proper gun etiquette has been drilled into his head countless of times. He disobeyed the etiquette thousands of times. But why is it that now his throat constricts — as if a boa rested on his shoulders — at the thought of accidentally putting a bullet into Akutagawa's brain? He's supposed to hate him. But hate is so close to love.
"Using vulgarity in public spaces is a serious sign of improper manners, Tachihara." Akutagawa spares Tachihara another few seconds of his voice, albeit it's a bit raspy from the sore throat from a few days ago.
Every decision matters.
Does he throw everything he was generously given by the President himself or does he throw away his heart?
Tachihara opens his mouth. Words remain as hostile as possible despite his heart beating in the rhythm of Akutagawa's heart. "You're still going to jail, Hellhound."
Their environment is quiet. Tables left with food, the poor worker still slaving away at this café. The irrational decison to pull out a gun is a widely looked down trait of Tachihara. Akutagawa — having a similar impatience and temperament — finds it endearing, though annoying.
"So be it," Akutagawa accepts. Eyes closing in this fateful moment, safety is a thing Tachihara will always be identified with. "Letting my life lay in the hands of vicious criminals is better than letting go off of destruction. I never knew how to live. You steal. I kill."
Yet another thing, another reason they're so close. Poverty strips you out of true happines and life, health. While money might not bring happiness, crying without the constant feel of hunger is a much better option than crying whilst worrying about the survival of yourself and others.
How do you truly live after seeing such horrors of fragile skin wrapping around the visible bones of people, animals?
"..it's a big difference." Tachihara responds, gaze averts from the sickly pale face of Akutagawa. It's gorgeous. But it reminds Tachihara of how little time they have together.
In the next life, will we exchange faces? You wouldn't be too proud to wear my shitty face, I know that.
"I don't blame you. Be happy." Akutagawa wishes him.
Time is slipping.
Either Tachihara betrays him or a meaningless police officer.
"...I can't." Tachihara utters out. His loud and boasting voice reduced into a quiet mutter.
"You can. And should."
Akutagawa is letting him go.
It's common knowledge, loving a mafioso will never go right. A small glimmer of hope still rests in his soul.
Tachihara turns his head away, gun returning into is previous resting place. It is no longer a threat, but it never really was. "You're such a bitchy traitor. I hate you so much."
An out of place snort leaves Akutagawa. Tachihara's eyes widen lightly for a split second, wishing to cherish this small moment of joy showing on Akutagawa's always blank face. But he doesn't. The routine of finding ways to make Akutagawa to smile will disappear along with Akutagawa, just like the lunch dates where neither of them refuse food.
"That simply sounds like a love confession, Michizou."
"..it is, Ryuunosuke."
A last confession of love before getting ripped apart from each other in the President's sick plan.