Chapter Text
1.
Atsushi slumps against the wall of the alley, chest heaving, body trembling, and the gash along his ribs prickling with the uncomfortable sensation of his skin hastily knitting itself back together.
He raises his gaze to check on Akutagawa; he’s at least not bleeding and managing to hold himself upright unassisted, but it’s a close thing. Despite Atsushi taking most of the blows in melee combat and Akutagawa staying above the fray with his ranged attacks, he’s clearly exhausted. It makes sense; for all of Akutagawa’s tremendous offensive power, his stamina is almost laughable. That’s why Atsushi’s job is to take the hits; he can endure what Akutagawa can’t. The already-healed wound on his ribs is proof enough of that.
Braced against the wall of the alley, Atsushi slides to the ground. Healing a wound that deep that quickly takes most of his strength, so much so that he can barely remain standing, but he’s prepared this time. He reaches deep into his pocket and pulls out two tuna mayonnaise onigiri, painstakingly wrapped in plastic to keep them fresh and unharmed during the battle.
He tears the plastic open and shoves almost half of the onigiri in his mouth in one bite, eyes fluttering closed with the relief of having even a bit of his energy replenished.
“You brought snacks , Weretiger?”
Atsushi opens his eyes; Akutagawa is glaring at him across the alley, and irritation coils hot in Atsushi’s gut.
“Yeah, well some of us actually expend energy during a fight, rather than just standing in one place and letting our fancy Ability do all the work.”
“Of course you’d see it that way; your understanding of Special Abilities is so painfully rudimentary,” Akutagawa scoffs, but there’s the barest tremble beneath his words, and when Atsushi shoves another bite of onigiri into his mouth, Akutagawa’s eyes track its movements perfectly.
So that’s what this is about, Atsushi thinks, his anger dissipating as quickly as it came. What an idiot. You know you can just say that you’re hungry, right?
Wordlessly, Atsushi tosses the other onigiri to Akutagawa, and Rashoumon snatches it out of the air, pulling it close so Akutagawa can appraise it suspiciously.
“What is this?” he asks flatly.
“Don’t be stupid. We both fought hard, and you’re probably hungry too. Just eat it, okay?”
Akutagawa levels him with a glare.
“I do not need charity , Weretiger, and least of all from you.”
Atsushi acts as if Akutagawa hadn’t spoken, instead focusing on finishing his onigiri in three more enormous bites. And by the time he’s nibbled every last stray grain of rice off of his fingertips and glances over to check on Akutagawa, he’s about halfway through finishing his own.
Atsushi doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t make fun of the way Akutagawa is dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief. And he certainly doesn’t invite Akutagawa to come sit and eat beside him.
No, they finish eating and part ways as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, although Atsushi can’t help but feel that something small and unnamable has occurred between the two of them.
2.
The harsh buzz of the card reader declining Atsushi’s payment sends a jolt of panic straight through his chest.
“Sorry, let me try again,” he says, hastily swiping a second time. “My card‘s been acting funny lately.”
It’s a lie, and both Atsushi and the cashier likely know it. It’s two days before payday, some bills were due earlier in the week, and that birthday present for Kyouka ended up costing far more than Atsushi had anticipated. Simply put, he’s broke, at least until Friday, when his next paycheck comes through.
Atsushi frantically digs through his basket, trying to see if there are any non-essential purchases he can get rid of. But his shopping is already meager: rice, eggs, a few cuts of meat that were marked down to half-price today, a handful of fresh vegetables. It’s not like he was exactly splurging on anything.
“Sir,” the cashier says gently, “there’s a long line behind you.”
Atsushi glances behind him at the half-dozen other shoppers waiting to check out. He doesn’t want to hold them up, and he definitely doesn’t want to get this cashier in hot water with her manager, who’s staring at the two of them disapprovingly from the store entrance.
“Right, sorry,” Atsushi says, trying to act nonchalant. “I’ll just, uh, try again later.”
It’s fine, Atsushi tells himself firmly. He’ll be able to buy groceries when he gets paid on Friday, so he just has to get through this evening and Thursday, and that’s nothing he hasn’t done before. Hunger was as constant a companion as pain throughout his childhood; even when he wasn’t being starved outright, he never earned enough points through the orphanage’s barbaric system to guarantee three meals every day.
“Stop acting so pathetic,” the headmaster’s voice echoes from inside his head. “What, you save a few civilians here and there and suddenly you’re all high and mighty? You think you deserve to be handed everything you want? An empty stomach will do you good; it might manage to shrink your over-inflated ego a bit.”
No, Atsushi thinks sternly. Get out of my head. You died; you can’t hurt me anymore.
But Atsushi knows it’s untrue; the headmaster isn’t the sort of person who can be hindered by a grave. He’s here, beside Atsushi in the supermarket, so real that Atsushi could practically reach out and touch him. He’s here and he’s right; that’s the worst part of all. Atsushi’s gotten complacent lately, too certain of his own worth despite having done little to prove it. Going hungry for a day or two will humble him, and rightfully.
Atsushi’s close to hyperventilating now, and his shaky hands fumble with his card as he tries to shove it back into his wallet. It falls to the linoleum floor of the supermarket and he ducks down to grab it, trying to sneak a moment with his head between his knees so he doesn’t vomit and humiliate himself further.
But when he at last gathers the strength to stand back up, a full grocery bag is shoved into his hands. He stares at it in awe; it’s all there. The rice, the eggs, everything. And the receipt sitting at the top of the bag must mean it was paid for, too. Atsushi only just manages to lift his gaze in time to see Akutagawa spinning on his heels and stalking out of the supermarket without a word.
The bag trembles in Atsushi’s hands, and he stares at it in disbelief. People don’t come to his aid. No one cares when he’s frightened and desperate and alone. He’s left to retch and shake and scream to empty, uncaring rooms — it’s how it’s always been, and how it always will be.
People don’t help him, least of all Akutagawa.
“Hey, wait up!” Atsushi calls, chasing after him.
Akutagawa continues walking out of the doors and down the sidewalk as if he hadn’t heard.
“Hey! Akutagawa! Don’t ignore me!”
At last Atsushi catches up to Akutagawa, and reaches out a hand to grab Akutagawa’s shoulder to stop him, but before he makes contact, Rashoumon surges forward and wraps around Atsushi’s wrist, holding his hand still in the air. And only then does Akutagawa turn to face him.
“Must you always make a scene in public?” he demands. His voice is tense with something Atsushi can’t quite place and there’s a strange flush of color high on his cheeks.
“I wasn’t meaning to make a scene. I just wanted to catch up to you so I could say th—”
Another tendril of Rashoumon flies out and seals itself over Atsushi’s mouth before he can finish his sentence.
“I am not interested in your inane expressions of gratitude. I merely did not want to continue feeling indebted to someone like you. The score has been settled between us now. Don’t expect any more favors.”
Atsushi peels the tendril off of his mouth and stares at Akutagawa, uncomprehending.
“‘Indebted?’” he echoes. “When did you ever owe me a debt?”
“You provided me with a meal several weeks ago. Now I’ve done the same for you. Neither of us owes the other anything anymore.”
Atsushi stares at Akutagawa, mouth agape. Does he mean the onigiri after that battle? Has he really been under the impression that he owed Atsushi some sort of repayment for a small portion of rice when he was hungry? Had he been carrying that guilt around all this time?
Atsushi wants to snap about how ridiculous he’s being, but by the time he’s gathered his thoughts enough to respond, Akutagawa has already used Rashoumon to propel himself up to the nearest rooftop and has vaulted two blocks away.
“You didn’t owe me, you idiot,” Atsushi mutters to the empty sidewalk. “I just didn’t want you to be hungry, that’s all.”
3.
Of all Dazai’s hare-brained schemes, mandatory sparring sessions between Atsushi and Akutagawa is either the worst or the best. It’s too early to tell which, though.
On one hand, their teamwork in battle has improved significantly since they’ve started training together, and Atsushi can’t deny the satisfaction that comes from fighting a well-matched opponent. In a few rare moments, he even finds himself having fun.
On the other, he’s at least a little worried that Akutagawa might actually kill him when they’re fighting unsupervised in the empty gym, and play the whole thing off as an accident.
But Atsushi doesn’t have that concern today. No, today Akutagawa’s attacks are weak and sluggish, and his reaction time is so poor that Atsushi actually manages to evade the usually impenetrable defense of Rashoumon and tackle him to the ground.
Akutagawa stares up at Atsushi with hazy, unfocused eyes, his nostrils flaring with desperation for air and his skin clammy and even paler than usual. He doesn’t even attempt to retaliate.
“Come on,” Atsushi says, releasing Akutagawa from where he’d pinned him. “You’re clearly exhausted. Let’s take a break.”
Atsushi gets to his feet and holds out a hand to help Akutagawa up after him, but rather than take it, he sends a tendril of Rashoumon flying out of nowhere, hitting Atsushi hard enough to send him sailing across the room and into the far wall.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Atsushi shouts, unsteadily clambering back to his feet. “That was just low!”
Propelled by Rashoumon, Akutagawa is on Atsushi in an instant. He holds a tendril sharpened to a vicious point right against Atsushi’s carotid artery, pressing just hard enough to break the skin.
“How dare you,” Akutagawa hisses.
Atsushi blinks up at him in bewilderment.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“There are no ‘breaks’ in battle, you idiotic beast. Do you really think me so weak as to need your charity?”
Charity – it’s the same word Akutagawa had used when Atsushi had offered him the onigiri. As if there could exist only contempt or pity between them, no allowances made for something like kindness.
And just like that, the fight goes out of Atsushi entirely. His whole body relaxes and he meets Akutagawa’s gaze with steadiness, not fury. Although he can’t explain why, it’s suddenly vital that Akutagawa allows himself this small act of mercy. It suddenly means more to Atsushi than his own life.
“We both need a break,” Atsushi says softly. “There’s no shame in that.”
Akutagawa snarls and presses harder against Atsushi’s throat, enough to start a small stream of blood. Still, Atsushi refuses to waver. He won’t fight back. Right now, he’d sooner die than raise a hand to Akutagawa.
Akutagawa holds Atsushi’s gaze for several interminable moments before, at last, releasing him.
“You’re a coward, Weretiger,” he says quietly, sitting on one of the benches in the empty gym.
“Yeah, and you’re hungry,” Atsushi responds, fetching his bag and digging around until he finds a bottle of sports drink and an energy bar.
Atsushi joins him on the bench, opens the bottle of sports drink and hands it over to Akutagawa, who, to Atsushi’s surprise, takes it without complaint. He takes several long gulps, throat bobbing with the effort, before handing it back.
Atsushi feels an inexplicable sense of satisfaction; he made the right call in starting with the drink. He’s fainted from hunger enough times to know the importance of a quick dose of sugar when a person’s that far gone.
Once Akutagawa has drunk his fill, Atsushi unwraps the energy bar and wordlessly hands it over to him. He devours it in a matter of moments, and then fixes Atsushi with a glare.
“What?” Atsushi says, uncomfortable with the sudden scrutiny. “Sorry that I didn’t have anything more suited to your refined tastes, but beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Where is yours?” Akutagawa asks flatly.
“What?”
“You had two, last time. Where is the other one? The one for you.”
Atsushi’s cheeks flush hot, although he isn’t sure why.
“I’m not hungry right now,” he says, doing his best to affect confidence. “I’ll have mine later.”
“You are a terrible liar,” Akutagawa snarls. “Where do you get to thinking that someone—”
“As weak and pathetic as me has any right to condescend to you like this, right?” Atsushi interrupts. “I’ve heard this same tirade a million times. Listen, you were about to pass out, so you needed it more than I did. You don’t have to make it some weird power play. Just buy my groceries again if it’s really going to bother you that much.”
Akutagawa stares Atsushi down, and for a fleeting moment, Atsushi worries that he might really die here. But something in Akutagawa’s expression softens, almost imperceptibly, and he sighs.
“Very well, Weretiger.”
Atsushi uses all of his strength to keep himself from smiling as he extends a hand to help Akutagawa back to his feet.
And this time, Akutagawa takes it.