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Higuchi had said " I love you" a thousand times before. Every variation of those words had slipped by him but he could never bring himself to completely dismiss the notion. He just never felt like those words were meant for him. Those "I love you”s were made for the person she thought he was, a handsome hero who would save her if push came to shove, or maybe a lone wolf who was only looking for someone to lean on to be good, or something else she had only believed him to be. But those words were never for him, not really. Maybe they were for his face, even with his sunken in eye sockets and pale veiny skin that scared children to the bone: Perhaps she had imagined a reflection of light in his eyes that blinded her to the bottomless black ichor that resides beyond his pupils.
In truth, he was rotten to the core, no fiber left untouched by the plague of bloodlust. Every life he took only spread the infection deeper like a disease corrupting the very threads that held him together, but he had no intention of stopping. Living had become meaningless, all he wanted was revenge…or was it praise now? Or was it to live happily with his sister? Regardless, his body withered away, succumbing to the night's cold bony fingers as the price.
Dazai, the one who had picked him up from the bloodied ground he could barely stand on, had now picked someone else as his pupil, tossing him away like highway trash. Even after becoming the rabid mutt with a coat of charcoal black Dazai had made him, to be abandoned for someone shiny and new... Of course he was jealous! He was seething with jealousy! Jealous of everything that stray ragamuffin had been handed on a silver platter, things he had worked years just to have a glimpse at, things he would kill for, had killed for. How could some pampered brat appreciate what he had longed for? The hate spilled deep into his veins, deep in the salt rubbed wounds cutting through his sickly flesh. He hated that spoiled were-tiger who took everything he had been given for granted, just as he hated that fickle bastard who had molded him into a crumbling mess of shaking bones. He hated both of them, all of them! Every last ADA member, every last one of Dazai’s “friends” who deserved his praise more than someone who had given his life away. He wanted to drown all of them in the pool of his despair so maybe then Dazai would look at him, see him, praise him even if it was just once…
And then there was Kyouka. In the same broken shape as he once was, young and afraid, heart charred into black coal suffocated like a bird in a cage. She longed for the light as he did so long ago but unlike Akutagawa she found someone who could actually give it to her. He had found light in the eyes of a beast who dragged him further into black insanity. She was so easily brought to the sunny days he could only peer at from the back alleys of the night. Maybe he had spent so long in the dark that the light he thought was the sun was just a dreary street light flickering on and off in a blinding annoyance. If he reached into the sunlight now, would it burn his pale flesh? Would he have ever been suited for a life basking in sunlight? What was the difference between two broken children? Did she deserve salvation more than he did? What was so wrong with him that he didn’t deserve that too?! More jealousy bubbled, more hate writhed and wrigled in his stomach like a tapeworm feeding off his anguish. Though try as he might he could not bring himself to hate a child, only the light in which she bathed. The light of the white tiger.
Yes, his hatred for the were-tiger ran as deep as blood; bloating his lungs with a bubbling bile begging to burst at the slightest bump. How had he captured Dazai’s keen eye by doing nothing but aimlessly meandering towards the slaughterhouse when it had taken nearly killing himself just for the same man to even look in his own direction? Moreover with that mutt saved from the slaughterhouse it became a competition for Dazai's limited and adoring attention. A race to be the star pupil, the only pupil, a race he could not lose even if it took the last bloody, shaken breath from his shriveled and tarred lungs he would hear those words. Dazai had been the only one to place a hand on his back when he needed it, why should he give that up to some stray cat? So what if he was starving? Let him starve! He had starved for years without a glance, why did the tiger need to be so coddled? What did that were-tiger have that he didn’t? The thought burned more than any flesh wound, more than acid rubbed straight into his eyes, more than his entire nervous system being set on fire.The words he needed to hear would be tailored to him, no more comparisons to the moon sized hole Dazai left behind. But, even in his wildest dreams, he could never really hear them. After all these years he didn’t feel like he deserved them. After giving his life, his death, his everything, he still didn’t believe he truly deserved those words no matter how horribly he needed to hear them. How could anyone be around such a man like Dazai and feel anything but empty after he leaves? So for taking his only chance to hear those words he so needed to hear, he wished that were-tiger would crawl right back to that hell hole he came from and die like the rat he was.
Sadly he never seemed to die. He wanted to live so badly, his unyielding will felt almost otherworldly. But he could not shake the sense of familiarity with the white tiger. The pain the tiger had experienced was just like the dog's own, but his resolve, his reaction, his soul was so different. How much must the tiger despise the dark, to be so completely appalled by it, he would rather die than betray the light? Or was it to love the light so greatly you wouldn't dare cloud it? Or maybe it ran deeper than the sun, perhaps that light came from within? Had he just been born into good and Akutagawa into bad? What wretched hand of god separated their worlds? Was that what made people like Kyouka and the white tiger more deserving of a good life than himself? Luck? Miracles? Angelic intervention? Their hands were no more free of sin than his own, so why did they get to be wiped clean? What was wrong with him? Why didn’t he deserve that life? Was he not human as well?
What was there to love about humanity anyways? Humans are dark and desperate, acting only out of selfish greed, so why should he be better? If humanity turned its back on him, he would turn his back on humanity and walk with the rabid dogs of the night. Humans killed humans, dogs killed humans, humans killed dogs, dogs killed dogs. Only idiots acted selflessly, yet… That tiger walked a path of selflessness, didn’t he? That were-tiger that made him promise to work for some moral high ground preaching “don’t kill” with a reward of killing. What a ridiculous proposal, but if it could get Dazai’s attention anything was worth a shot in the dark, even the light. It had been easy at first, like a game, to find some way to execute his plans without completely erasing his targets. Then it was difficult. He was like an addict and without his fix, there was something inside him that itched to watch the light go out in his victims’ eyes, suffocated by his own boney hands. Orders that had long since been forgotten by their commander had remained with him even as he tried to rid himself of any scar that man had branded into his flesh. Why was it that some indignant orphan found on the side of the street was the one to make him see that? How dare that runt be the one to see that before even he could. After a while it was easy again, the phrase “wouldn’t even hurt a fly” was something he never wished to associate with himself but now it became undeniably and humiliatingly true. Yet through all his ‘oh so moral’ behavior there was still something about that white tiger he wanted to stamp out so badly that he would become an angel just to drag him back down to hell. Hate was power, jealousy was strength, and praise was his weakness, and the tiger showed him all three.
There was a day the were-tiger had stalked him, he could feel him watching beyond the bushes, it felt almost nostalgic to feel someone analyzing his every move. It made him giddy to follow orders again, even if to an unhealthy extent. He got lost in the simplicity of the promise as “don’t kill anyone” whittled down to “don’t kill” which morphed into “kindness” to his utter distaste. He found himself walking that stupid selfless path as he placed a ladybug back on its leaf and grimaced at his own gentle hands. How utterly pitiful am I? he thought whilst redirecting a procession of ants. How pathetic that I , the great black dog of the mafia, can’t even kill a mosquito that bites me, let alone the hordes of men I once could? Not even held back by my own rotting body, but rather something less than human, a stray tabby who surely believes himself SO much better than me. So good and moral in the fleeting light of dusk, so lucky to be under his teacher's guidance. He had never been particularly prideful, but even his own thoughts seemed to be deeming what little he had left of his soul. Even still, all the struggle and agony caused by his own withdrawals would be worth it to kill that were-tiger: to strangle the life out of him with his own two hands like he had wanted to for so long. He would make that mongrel feel every bit of pain and embarrassment he felt, he would beat it into his skull until this disgusting feeling in his heart was snuffed out. But there wasn’t much time left on his ticking clock, and there were still eyes on his back as he let the ants move on even if he wanted to stomp on each one.
God, how fucking pathetic I’ve become…
Even after the were-tiger had given up stalking him the promise lingered with a bitter taste of embarrassment. Why did it bother him so much that he had left? Why should he care if that idiotic were-tiger isn’t there to see him keep his promise? Of course he couldn’t care less! So why did that distrusting look on his face feel so painful?
He walked the streets of Yokohama long after the sun had set, still pondering how exactly to wipe that look off that were-tiger's face as he felt eyes on his back once again. The same catlike eyes that had watched him from a distance now stood before him in confidence calling out his name. That pale face Akutagawa knew so well as a source of annoyance was momentarily flushed a rosy pink that made him bite his tongue before something nasty slipped between his crooked teeth. In that same moment of restraint the were-tiger, whom he so despised, offered what he had craved most in this world: praise. Even something as simple as “you really aren't doing too bad,” felt like a dagger being shoved straight through his ribcage to collapse his heart. That wasn’t the worst of it. He had gone out of his way to reward him, sure, it was just a bit of street food, but it was more than he had in a long while if not ever. No matter how many times Higuchi thrust a basket of gifts in his direction it never felt this good, it always felt like a pitiable “you tried” trophy or a consolation prize for his inescapable weakness. This tiger made him feel more over pork buns in a day than he had for Higuchi in all the years they had known each other. This tiger had made him feel like for once in his miserable life he earned it, and god it felt good . This tiger had set his whole soul ablaze with just a few measly words and a bite of food, he wanted to be bathed in this feeling, wrapped in the warmth of its simplicity. For so long it had been difficult to obey this order, to keep his promise, and now there was someone right in front of him who was telling him “good job”. It was almost vindictive to hear those words, as if he had lived to spite the god who had betrayed him. He snatched his hard earned victory straight from the tigers clean paws, barely noticing the dirty look he gave him as he did so; It didn't matter now that he had the savory taste of praise melting in his mouth.
But it did matter. It stung to watch him turn his back and walk off into the night. He had just gotten a taste of that sickening saccharine sincerity and now he only wanted more. He had slaughtered his life away to hear those words and he would cough another sea of blood before he let them slip through his grasp now. Yet he carefully watched as the white tiger disappeared into the bright city lights before he, too, slinked back into the alleys he called home.
It was not long after they fought side by side again. Commanded and imprisoned by Dazai; Akutagawa had been sent to follow close behind the tiger as a kind of safety net. He was a backup to Dazai’s shiny new pupil once again, one step behind watching like his shadow as the rats ran round and round the were-tiger. He stalked as he was the night, he was the blackness, he was the orders he was given. The were-tiger was stupid, foolish, arrogant, idiotic, ignorant, simpleminded, moronic, naive, brain dead, slow witted, and obtuse, but the tiger was like a mirror. He had cracks, ones that ran just like spider webs across his glass heart. He was so similar, yet so different. He was nothing like the tiger, for even in his darkest hour there was always someone to save him. The one he had brought into the light was there to light his path when he was in the dark. Even as guns blazed, shattering their eardrums, the were-tiger was not alone, and for that he was strong. As Akutagawa watched from the shadows, he wondered if it would be the same for him. In all his darkness, would there be anyone who would stand by him when he needed it the most? If he was doing such a “good job” would the tiger reach out for him if he needed a hand out of hell?
He only watched as the tiger played cat and mouse, being chased from the sewers to the sky. He watched as he shined his light on everyone he touched. Had that light rubbed off on him too? It had been so long that he had been gnawing on the memory of “good job” that he forgot it had even been uttered by someone he despised so dearly. It was a pearl he had been rolling pinched between his thumb and pointer finger like it would reveal something he hadn’t seen before if he stared long enough. But one smile couldn’t cauterize every wound on his body, no matter how much he wished it could. It was completely unsatisfactory. After all these years he had gotten just what he wanted and he felt nothing. He wanted more. He wanted to smother that light out to save it just for his own eyes. He wanted to set the rats a trap and let the cat get fat in his gentle care so he could shoot it out back with ease. He wanted to hold a knife to his neck and to stare into his eyes for as long as his heart desired without question. It was every emotion all at once, but all he could do was watch, bound back by orders still hoping for another bit of praise from someone who could barely seem to cast a glance in his direction. Watching from the shadows, scared to reach into the light, scared to burn his skin, but wanting to feel the warmth of sunlight radiating from that tiger's warm fur. But all he could do was watch, he could only stand from afar to watch as the tiger was beaten into a corner and hopelessness consumed him. And this time there was no angel to save him: there was only a blackened rabid mongrel that craved to feel the crunch of bones in his jaws again.
Even with two on one it was just another game of cat and mouse. It had taken every ounce of strength they had just to land a single blow. They were hunted through the ship by something worse than a were-tiger, worse than a cat of any kind, a force of pure destruction. As the dog leaned on the tiger's shoulder a sense of irony flooded his mind, hadn’t every shoulder he had leaned on pushed him down further into the dirt? He pushed away before the tiger could, which he surely would, as all people the dog had trusted before seemed to think they surely should. But there was something different about the tiger than those who had hurt him in the past. Even though they fought, the tiger had no intention of hurting him, not truly. He carried him every time he was hurt and saved his life at every turn. For the tiger thought no less of him and his rushing sands of time, he hadn’t stopped treating him as an enemy, a comrade, an equal. Higuchi always treated him like a baby who had to be protected because he was fragile . But the tiger bit, the tiger scratched, the tiger banged him against walls like he was invincible. Even if he was bleeding like hell, it felt amazing. He wasn’t just a disgusting mass to the tiger, he was truly a comrade, someone he could trust and lean on. He saw it when he descended upon the battlefield. The white tiger's indigo eyes shining like gold at the bottom of an ocean. It was a gold he had never seen before, it was trust, hope, relief, happiness. No one had looked at him with eyes like that. He wondered if this was how people felt when they saw the Mona Lisa or the Starry Night: Something so eye-catching you could stare at it for the rest of your life without even blinking.
It was under these unfortunate circumstances he was forced to come to terms with everything he knew about those golden indigo eyes. Screaming out his name begging for him to live past whatever deadly blow was headed for his head next. At some point he really had succumbed to the tiger's light. Maybe it was his concern, or his care, either way it was so intoxicating to be valued he could hardly resist giving at least some pinch of gentleness back. He knew his own clock was already cut short, but the tiger had so much love for life, and so much time left to live it. At that moment, he knew he wouldn’t survive this fight, or rather he shouldn’t. But he could at least make out one sincere smile to the white tiger. One last breath from his lungs to curse his name. One last look at the hand reaching out for his crumbling body.
But he had no more time left to reach back.
Death was contemplation. Reliving his own memories again and again like movies. His childhood came first, he knew that story all too well. He could still remember the look of every one of his friends' bodies on the ground, their last screams burned into his mind for all eternity. He tried so hard to drown out the cacophony with more screams and more blood but it was always there. Ringing in the back of his mind like a fly buzzing around his head. Every bruise he collected ripping through the men who murdered his friends laid out in front of him like haunting bloodstains on white cloth. His hands had been stained a sickening yellow after all these years of blood dripping down them.
He wondered if there was any other path. Was there some other universe he could possibly be forgiven for his sins in this life? Is there a life out there that didn’t turn out like this? Or was it always destined to end in this tragedy? Would he always be so selfish he could only see his own shortcomings after they had driven him off a cliff?
What’s wrong with me? Why break yourself like this? All in search of what exactly? Happiness? Love? Did your sister not love you? Have you not let her down and left her all alone like you swore you never would? You may have become exactly what Dazai wanted but now what do you have to show for it? Not even Dazai wants the mangy mutt you have become. You threw away every chance of happiness in an endless pursuit of it. You are a tragedy. You are but a child. You are shaking in the corner of your room in fear someone will open the door whispering your desperate pleas to a deaf god. You are the story that would make grown men cry and rip out their hearts not for the sweetness, but to look away for the pure eye gouging stupidity of it all. Your entire life was a waste.
No one would cry over his death. Higuchi would only cry for a shell she falsely idolized. Surely Dazai would only scoff at his weakness. Not even his own sister would cry, for there would be no tears shed for the man beyond humanity. There would be no mourning the monster he had become. Or perhaps had always been.
Engulfing silence was all that was left for him.
Shitty and unsatisfying as always.
He sulked, biting his fingernails down to his cuticles for the hand he could not grab, gnawing on his own tongue until it bled for all the words he did not say, cracking his bones for the body that should have already been mangled by a tiger. And he greedily began to wonder, acting on his sins one last time before submitting to infinity. He wondered if, almost hoped, if it was even possible that: the tiger would cry for him. Would he shed a tear for a fallen comrade, or maybe smile after a battle won and an annoying pest exterminated? What kind of face was he making now? Was it twisted with anguish or calm as summer's breeze? If he were here now what would he say? The thought burned at the seed planted deep in his chest that he long knew if he gave it any more attention it would burst through his ribs once in an agonizing blossom of something he would only admit to being hatred.
He wanted to appear at the tigers side to dry his tears and gloat that he could never die by the hands of another. But to say that he had to admit in his own greed all he wanted was to imagine a tear rolling down his furred cheek in his dearth. But in his sin he had been punished with ignorance for he knew nothing about the tiger aside from his fury. He wished only now that he had known more of his gentleness, having just barely tasted its savory comfort in his life. But perhaps it was karma for his blackened heart never to see the sun. He did remember when he told the tiger it was all his fault; that everything horrible happening to him and to those he held dear, was his fault. He wondered if the tiger now blamed himself for his death or if the tiger ever held him dear enough to be affected by his absence. He wondered if the tiger remembered it as he did, if he could see the child beyond those words pointing a judging finger away from his own broken arm: casting the blame for his own rage on others. Of course he remembered when the tiger's words had cut just as deep; pulling at the loose nerve of his abandonment like his personal chew toy screaming with agony but saying nothing back. He wondered if there was a bleeding kitten behind those words hissing past its own wounds or it was just something he deserved to hear. Perhaps those torturous words were the ones truly meant just for him. Regardless, the tiger was the only one to ever have enough spine to cause him such pain, and that agony was something like an old friend. But the tiger was also the one to give him gentle gifts and carry him to more victories than he would like to admit.
Through the foggy mists of purgatory he could hear a voice. Soft and familiar it called out to him. It was a ray of light at the bottom of the ocean, a single star in endless night, a drop of water in the desert.
It was Atsushi.
That voice he had hated for so long, he suddenly longed to hear as it filled his mind echoing like birdsong. He wasn’t in control of his own body now, he couldn’t stop the fabric from contorting in misshapen ways away from his heart. He couldn’t pull his own punches the way the tiger had. But after everything, it crushed him more than anything that the tiger still believed in him. After every gash and every wound and every brutal beating they had given each other. Even now. How could he still believe that he was there? Or that he was worth saving? How could he still say “come back to me” as if they were not bound under a promise of death? Even after his fangs had sunk deep into the soft flesh of the tigers neck he did not stop believing. And for the first time the limping, ragged, soot covered, mutt of the mafia wanted to live . He wanted to live for the love of a white tiger.
Old folk tales say a person only has so much luck to use in their lives. In that moment this poor child who had known nothing but slaughter felt he had used far too much of his in an instant. For when he opened his eyes he was in the arms of a white tiger squeezing him tight. His voice shook, still begging for Akutagwa as blood poured from a million slashes all along his body, soaking a deep red into his white shirt. Waves of guilt crashed against him. He could feel his dull claws digging into his back, blood dripping down his spine, but he didn’t have the energy nor the will to fight back. All he could do was embrace the tiger with limp arms and lay still in his grasp from exhaustion. His body was heavy and weak, seeking comfort anywhere he could find it. As promised the tiger is the one to hold his bare heart beating in his hands. The poor dog knew it could be crushed with little effort from the were-tiger's jaws if he so desired. Yet the tiger held him so gently he simply melted into the touch.
: : :
When the tiger held out his hands for Akutagawa’ he was reluctant to reach out. Even when he wanted to, it was much easier to rip and tear through flesh than submit to it. He had been so used to scraping and clawing he didn't even know if he could stop. Slowly, as he handed his phantom pale palms over, the look in his eyes desperately begged the tiger “please take good care of me”. His exhausted gaze was met with the tiger's vibrant ametrine eyes, pure with unwavering will and bursting with life. It was easy to get lost in the intensity of his stare and the comfort it gave to this dog. It was safe. A feeling he had not known before even in his own sister, in his mentor, in his team or his coworkers. A safety that made him want to close his eyes and fall into a hole meant for the purity of a white rabbit running late to fulfill the needs of its heart.
Akutagawa had spent his entire life hunting, always moving, never giving into his creaking joints or the nauseous feeling that never seemed to leave. He had pushed so hard against the light for so long his body had finally submitted to its gentle warmth . Now he lay sprawled out upon the lap of a white tiger, every weak point exposed, every wound pulled open, every greedy desire he had laid in front of him: Victory, bloodshed, recognition, praise, belonging, comfort, safety, validation, honesty... love. The tiger did not bite, nor scoff, nor turn his head at the blood on his hands. The tiger did not turn away, did not leave him, did not abandon him even after he tried so hard to push him away. The tiger did not even wince at the festering lacerations that covered his sallow body beyond the many layers he wore. The tiger simply let him lay in his lap, open wounds and open heart, stroking his hair as if he were a child running from nightmares in dreamland. The tiger's paws grazed the scar across his neck, carefully, gently, barely, almost scared to reopen it and relive the nightmare. The tiger's heartbeat felt so close, his warm fingers occasionally brushing against his forehead as he uttered three delicate words with a whisper as soft as the rolling sea foam on ocean waves.
“ I love you.”
I love you. I love you . You, who lives in darkness with a charcoal black heart and blood dripping from your fingertips, I love you . You, who is broken and craves validation from a man with an empty heart, I love you . You, who lay idly in my lap with wounds so deep and so painful, I love every gash, every lesion, every nauseating part of you, I love you .
It was just those three words, meaningless jargon, empty vowels, but they cut deeper than any flesh wound and they hugged him tight in warm arms. It was so outlandishly oxymoronic it was almost plain stupid, as his feelings always were when it came to the tiger.
The words weren't meant for a prince charming or a villainous beast, they were spoken just for his miserable self.
He felt as if fireworks had been set off in his heart, the finale raging on as he looked into the white tigers round eyes, so bright and so loving it hurt. The feeling of being loved and cared for had been pushed so far down in the pursuit of itself, that when dragged to the surface a hurricane of emotions came along with it. After so many years of suppressing every emotion he had he forgot how much he needed it, how he had begged and beaten for it. Now that it had been laid down at his feet, given to him on a silver platter, carefully handed to him through rough hands that were beaten to blood just like his own, all he could do was cry.
He wasn't sad, he was unimaginably happy, he wanted to jump and scream at the top of his lungs until they gave out. But all he could do is sob, sob in the shushing arms of someone he had hated so deeply for so long, now unsure how he felt anything short of the gentlest care. Pulling meekly at the fabric of his sweater that smelled like sunlight and staining it with his tears he couldn't seem to stop. He had been so jealous of the tiger's light he sunk further into darkness, but now he wanted to stand beside the tiger in his path of the sun he could only feel shame. Not ashamed of his past in the dark, but that he now wanted to stand in the light, to stand with the tiger he hated, together. There was something truly sick about him that now he could have everything he could ever want he was still reluctant to take hold. At least now, he knew there was someone who would continue to hold out their hands until he was ready to take hold. He had someone who he could cry to when it all became too much, someone to care, someone to love, someone to speak gentle hushes to his ear when he was nothing but a broken heart.
For now, as he lay in the tiger's den, all he could think about were the words that were finally, painfully, undeniably, just for him.
“I love you”