Chapter Text
Close as he may have reached his hand, Dostoevsky was never a god. The divine being is rejecting his purpose. His will is not greater, but equally human. Every tool has its breaking point; every sentient being has its limits.
Atsushi comes up with a plan. A reckless plan, a fool’s plan, but it would put an end to all the madness. He’s so tired.
“I’m going to get you an opening. Be fast,” is all he says to Akutagawa. Together, in tandem, they pinch the demon and the god toward each other. He charges Dostoevsky, gives him no quarter, no chance to move aside. Shoves him at the divine being who thrusts his holy blade into the demon’s heart. Through the god’s, a sword of Rashomon pierces. From behind himself, a blade emerges through space, from another time, and strikes Atsushi clean through.
Clutching tight onto shoulders, to keep the man in place, or maybe himself, he counts. One, two, three. The body before him collapses, taking him down with it. A final twist before his heart is cleanly torn. If all went well, the flash before him is not his fading consciousness, but the man-made horror making way for fragile humanity, unable to feign, or perhaps endure, the impossible any longer. The world has been sufficiently righted.
With a sigh, he thinks it worked.
Three bodies lie unmoving on the ground, though only two still bleed. Fukuchi was long dead. Akutagawa above them has bled enough already.
It’s dark. Not so dark that he can’t see anything, the hour has simply grown late. He sits, has been sitting for awhile, on the torn up ground of the airport. Never alone, though his various companions seem to disagree.
At first, it was Akutagawa, who, in the time that felt like a blink to himself though by the slight shift of the lowering sun he knew was longer, had at some point moved his body to the side. Away from the two who killed him. Akutagawa who sat beside the corpse, expression weary, his frown lines deep. He didn’t once look at Atsushi; not his corpse, and not where he plopped himself down to Akutagawa’s other side either. Just stared straight ahead, hand covering the corpse’s eyes, as if trying to convince himself the weretiger had simply fallen unconscious. Atsushi waited with them, unsure of where else to go.
When members from the agency approached, he didn’t stir right away. Akutagawa put up no particular front, made no attempt to pick a fight when they got his attention. Stood slowly, hands to knees, when he couldn’t seem to find a reason he should stay, as the body with a gaping hole where his heart should have been was covered, moved to a stretcher, and was taken away from his side.
Atsushi doesn’t know where he went after that, having instead chosen to stay and watch the others for awhile. So far so good, they all seemed to be doing alright, just undeniably exhausted.
Tanizaki assisted Yosano in dealing with the body, and after some short discussion, Fukuzawa dismissed everyone else back to the agency to collect themselves and regroup, a hand to guide a sobbing Kyoka. Only Kunikida remained, acting on the information they were given that Dazai should return “soon.” He stayed too, with the hope that he doesn’t just make the night colder.
Trying to talk to Kunikida as he restlessly paced in wait was a bust as well. Not that he expected any different, as he’s yet to be acknowledged by anyone. In a strange sort of way, being so wholly ignored like this was almost nostalgic. That depressing thought was what made him sit back down in the first place, watching Kunikida walk about and mutter incoherently to himself.
Every so often, his hand goes over his own heart, and Kunikida then has to cover his mouth. Atsushi wonders if having seen his own body with his heart carved clean out of his chest should make him feel ill, but maybe he’s immune? Are ghosts immune to things like nausea? Or is he just too personally messed up, used to seeing himself battered and beaten? Surely this would be different, but there’s no one he can ask.
He wishes he could help Kunikida, help any of the others, but he can’t. He’s a ghost and he knows it because there really isn’t any other explanation for what’s happening. Kunikida rubs at his temple for the hundredth or so time, and wanders inside the abandoned airport. When he emerges, it’s with a bottle of water and some little snack in a plastic wrapper. He highly doubts there was anyone inside to sell that to him, but he wouldn’t tattle even if he could.
It does beg the question though: can he eat? Or perhaps more importantly, does he even need to? Probably not, considering he should be absolutely famished by now, between the hours of waiting, and the strain that had been put on his—
Ah. He doesn’t have a body anymore. No more hunger, then.
The next while is spent continuing to question his new state of existence, and the hole in his body’s chest. It really had just felt like a twist, but perhaps that’s the power of a sword that manipulates time and space. At least it was fast. It had to be. Absently, he wonders what Akutagawa had done with his heart, if anything. It certainly hadn’t been put back.
Finally, his thoughts are interrupted by the distant sound of a plane coming in. A small one, and it takes a bit longer for Kunikida to react to it. That his enhanced hearing appears to be intact is baffling, and raises yet more questions , but that can only be Dazai arriving, so he’ll back burner those thoughts for now.
The anticipation practically burns after waiting for only-Kunikida-knows how long. Which momentarily brings Atsushi back to the question of what exactly is wrong with him, if he can still feel emotions, yet felt nothing at the sight of his own gored corpse.
Dazai is back.
The plane lands, and shortly after emerges Dazai, with Sigma before him and a redhead he’s pretty sure he should recognize but can’t place behind him. The relief battles the shock at seeing Sigma again, alive and hale and whole enough, that he doesn’t care to question how he even wound up wherever Dazai was being kept. They all seem fatigued, but it’s Dazai leaning heavily on the short redhead that makes him notice the improvised splint on Dazai’s leg. Kunikida is already calling for an ambulance, not acknowledging Dazai’s attempt to wave and laugh him off. Even to Atsushi, he can see it’s forced, and the redhead reaches up with his free arm to flick him for it, telling him to “just accept the help for once, dumb ass.”
Dazai pouts, and with practiced petulance turns away to ask Kunikida after the agency. After Atsushi by name, to his own shock.
He narrows his eyes at Kunikida, pain truly forgotten this time, as the blond man can’t meet his eyes suddenly. “Kunikida. Where are they?”
Jaw tense, he answers, “The rest of the agency returned to the office, though many have likely turned in for the night by now. I waited here to collect you.”
“Atsushi is well, then?” Sigma cuts in. “Dazai explained a bit of what should have been happening here during our flight. I owe him a proper thanks. For his words.”
This visibly surprises the others, though for himself, he’s just confused. He doesn’t remember saying anything particularly kind to the man. Just a failed attempt to keep them both from falling from the sky, and a yell.
The short laugh that escapes him can’t be helped when Dazai says, “He would surely have stayed as well, if only to keep Kunikida company so he didn’t have to wait alone.” That’s exactly what he did. Of course Dazai would know that, even without realizing how correct he is.
“He left with Yosano and Tanizaki,” Kunikida does not lie. His hand clenches around his notebook.
“With Yosano? In what state, Kunikida, answer me.”
The swallow is audible in the empty air. “On a stretcher. His chest was carved open, his heart removed.” His eyes shut tight. “Atsushi is dead, Dazai.”
With a start, Atsushi realizes that’s the first anyone has said it outright. Sigma’s face falls, and the redhead’s eyebrows shoot up.
Dazai’s face twitches, just slightly. “Is that so…” His eyes try to meet Kunikida’s, expression blanker than Atsushi swears he’s ever seen it. “When is the ambulance arriving? I’m sick of having to lean on a hat rack.”
Two faces whip around to look at Dazai. The redhead’s expression just sours, scowling ahead, but not arguing with him. Sigma and Kunikida, however, are something caught between utterly flabbergasted and horrified.
Indignation is quick to take over Kunikida. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say? Your self-proclaimed mentee is dead and you move on, just like that? What is wrong with you, Dazai?!”
Dazai purses his lips, but the redhead interrupts whatever he might’ve said. “Don’t waste your breath, yelling ain’t bringing anybody back. Just ignore the waste of bandages, and take him off my hands already.”