Archive of Our Own ^beta

It is, surprisingly, a good day.

Granted, it’s been only about ten minutes since he has woken up, but he can feel it, deep down in his soul. It’s Byakko’s influence certainly, and while Atsushi is not a cat — and he will argue that to his grave, thanks — he does have to admit that Byakko’s given him some sort of sixth sense to rely on. For what purpose exactly, he doesn’t know. But it has helped him avoid being roped into Dazai’s death-defying hijinks, helped him instinctively fetch groceries he forgot on his shopping list, and even helped him not always be last to vacate a room whenever Yosano walks in.

Maybe the final point is a bit iffy. Yosano’s a friend, which is probably why it doesn’t quite work as well to detect the danger of accompanying her on her shopping trips as an over-glorified porter.

Point is, it’s a good day. Atsushi has no trouble rolling out of his futon (still stuffed in the closet even after Kyouka moved out; it’s true that old habits die hard) and out into the warm sunbeam cast over the floor from the drawn open curtains. His clothes are less wrinkled than usual, and even his comb doesn’t snap when he brushes out the knots in his hair, not even once.

He even hums out a little melody as he brushes his teeth, wandering away from the corner of the room that could only dubiously be considered a bathroom, and strolling across the length of his flat until he reaches the calendar hanging up on the opposing wall.

It’s a responsible habit to have, Atsushi has learnt over time, to keep a calendar somewhere. It was a moving-in gift from Kunikida, or more so a threat after the man had practically broken through his front door to nail the damn thing on his wall. And it isn’t as if Atsushi isn’t grateful. The calendar has saved his ass multiple times from forgetting various important dates, like his friend’s birthdays. Kunikida had even taken into consideration buying Atsushi a calendar with cutesy animal illustrations on it, something he still appreciates even if the design was originally marketed for children.

Toothbrush held between his teeth, he flips through the pages (he could never bring himself to rip off months after they passed; think of the little tiger cub drawn on March!), scanning for today’s date. It takes him another second, even after the third look, to even notice the appointment written for today. Because, well—

This box — today’s box — is different, and Atsushi only vaguely remembers marking it down months ago, but there’s no debate on the fact that the box is there and highlighted too, not in actual neon highlighter, but in the most horrifically vibrant red a sharpie could offer, scribbled in with messy lines and large blots that remind him faintly of splattered blood.

There’s only one single word written in the box in precise hand, barely legible due to the black ink that bleeds through into the red, but when Atsushi reads it, he chokes on a mouthful of minty foam.

Run.

Atsushi doesn’t think he has ever understood the phrase ‘quaking in your boots’ until now. In fact, he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to reasonably use the phrase ever again after this, because Atsushi is quite literally shaking like a leaf, jumping at his own shadow and cowering away from any tree branches that look a little too much like dark tendrils of murderous intent for his liking. And while Atsushi is not scared of Akutagawa — not anymore at least — he doesn’t think he will ever be this terrified in his life ever again; if he manages to survive this, he’d be able to skydive off strange whale-shaped flying vessels a million times without blinking an eye.

It’s a miracle then, that he manages to arrive at the ADA’s office at all. He stumbles into the room like he’s drunk, barely saving himself from kissing the tiled floor when he stumbles over his own feet trying to simultaneously walk in a straight line while looking over his shoulder every dozen or so seconds. Y’know, just in case.

Nobody notices his embarrassing behaviour (probably, hopefully), so he scrambles to his desk, closing the window behind his chair with perhaps a bit too much force than necessary before collapsing into his seat. He takes a deep breath in and looks around. There are no suspicious trench coats in sight, only the faces of his coworkers, all deadly enough on their own to (hopefully, probably) protect him if any bloodthirsty coats were to show up. Still, it does nothing to lessen his nerves.

“What’s got your panties in a twist, Atsushi-kun?”

Atsushi, understandably for someone who has spent the first hours of their day living in the very definition of paranoia, jumps a meter into the air. He turns, to see who is speaking to him, catching a glimpse of a damn trench coat—

So you can’t really blame him when he transforms his fist into a tiger, swinging it at his assailant’s head. In the very next split second, as Atsushi feels his knuckles connect with something, the entire office blinds itself with an impossibly bright light. And when it settles and his eyesight manages to clear up, a far more difficult feat for him personally, he blanches and nearly crumbles to the ground.

“D-Dazai-san?” Atsushi squeaks. His tiger fist is now a human one, caught firmly in the palm of his almost-victim’s hand; when he tries to pull away, Dazai’s grip, impossibly, tightens further until Atsushi’s entire hand is near paralyzed.

Dazai sighs in mock despair, “What happened to workplace respect, huh?” He sighs again, much louder this time, catching the attention of everyone else who wasn’t already looking their way, much to Atsushi’s abject horror. “Good morning, Dazai-san! You look great today, Dazai-san! I look up to you so much— Oof!”

Atsushi’s hand is saved when a pen goes whirling across the office nib-first like an arrow, nailing Dazai perfectly in the back of his head. A good thing, because Atsushi was pretty sure his arm was going numb. Distantly, he hears a second pen shoot through the air more than he sees it, clattering on the ground impressively close to his feet.

“I don’t want to hear you talk about workplace conduct, Dazai!” And Atsushi doesn’t have to look up at all to know who said that. “In fact, you should have known that Atsushi would have reacted the way he did! He has checked his back twenty-two times in the last five minutes—”

“Kunikida-san, you counted?” Atsushi gets out numbly.

“In fact, I would say you did know the brat was jumpy all this morning!” Kunikida keeps yelling, as if Atsushi said nothing at all. It’s kind of intimidating really, with how he’s slowly inching closer and closer to the two of them one step at a time like some horror mascot. “And you provoked him anyway!”

“Ehhh? Kunikida-kun, you can’t just say things like that without evidence! Why would I ever do that to my favourite Atsushi-kun?”

“I think it’ll be better to ask why wouldn’t you!”

At this point, Kunikida has his hands fisted in the lapels of Dazai’s trench coat. Atsushi glances around frantically for help, mostly because he does not want another incident of Dazai being thrown out the window, but only finds Kenji watching the verbal going-on physical quarrel with wide fascinated eyes. Atsushi really hopes that for the sake of the entirety of Yokohama, Kenji doesn’t ever pick up anything from the two of them.

They’re also standing right in front of his desk. And Atsushi knows better than to get between the two of them when they’re like this (read: when Dazai is provoking Kunikida to an early retirement), so he sort of shuffles aside, glancing around the room and accidentally making eye-contact with Ranpo.

The detective is sitting at his usual desk, legs propped up on its surface that is absolutely littered with candy wrappers, more than half of them already empty. Before Atsushi can even quickly turn away, Ranpo’s eyes open in a quick flash of emerald, locking onto his jittery frame for a fraction of a millisecond, before shutting again with his lips turning up towards a cheshire grin.

Great.

“Atsushi-kun!” Ranpo’s voice rings out, audible even over the squabbling in the corner, “Do me a favour, will you?” He asks, before continuing right on without waiting for Atsushi’s input, not that it would have come. He’s used to this already. “I ordered some sweets from the café downstairs. Go pick them up for me.”

It is a setup. It is most definitely a setup. But Atsushi can’t say no. Or, more like, Ranpo wouldn’t let him.

It doesn’t mean he won’t try though. “Ranpo-san, can Kenji-kun go instead—?”

“No.” Is the immediate answer. It was worth a shot.

Head held high, attempting to be undeterred by his all-consuming fear, Atsushi turns around and marches back out of the office, staunchly ignoring Ranpo’s call of good luck! and Kenji’s identical parroting thereafter.

He is very proud to say that he only looks back over his shoulder four times on his way down.

His trip in the elevator is uneventful (the elevator’s doors screech as they slide open), the front door to the main street opens to bright sunlight (the wooden frame rattles as it’s pried open), and the sidewalk is as perfectly paved as ever as he takes a step over the threshold (there’s a very familiar dark shadow standing right behind the door as it closes).

Wait.

There’s a very familiar, human-shaped dark shadow standing right behind the door, only visible as it swings closed behind Atsushi’s back.

Atsushi has withstood torture. He has held his own and has defeated multiple god-equivalent ability-users. He had saved the world and Yokohama itself from total destruction at least three times over.

So, Atsushi does not scream, even as he makes eye-contact with the shadow and its hollow silver eyes. Atsushi does not give the satisfaction of a verbal reaction. Atsushi does not even flinch backwards or trip over his own feet. Atsushi, very noblely, turns tail and fucking sprints in the opposite direction.

It’s far too late to run. Akutagawa in no time at all, taking advantage of his knowledge of the backstreets of the city, corners him in a dark alley, stalking precise steps forwards like predator to prey, and Atsushi can not believe he is going to die this way. He looks up, above Akutagawa’s head, wondering if his tiger legs would be able to launch him above and over the other man high and fast enough to escape. He then wonders if it is worth the pain of probably losing all his limbs in the process.

It doesn’t matter anyways as in the next split second, Rashoumon shoots out, wrapping around his stomach in tight — yet not suffocating — loops. Before he knows it, he’s yanked up into the air with a yelp, left dangling in the air like a pathetic excuse of a rag doll. Great.

“Can we please talk about this?” Atsushi begs to Akutagawa, to the cobblestone ground, or maybe to the very inanimate coat, the brick walls around them, or perhaps even to the heaven above. “I haven’t even written out my will yet.”

Though, it’s not like he has much to give away anyways. But the thought of the Agency tearing into his belongings for his laptop (which is the most recent model, at least out of the rest of the dingy ones the ADA had) the second he’s dead is too horrific of an image to have. It would be a bloodbath, and he means that literally.

“Look, let me go for a minute, okay?” Atsushi pleads. Akutagawa doesn’t meet his eyes; his eyes are closed in fact, because he apparently feels the need to show off his finely-toned kidnapping skills to a very unwilling and perfectly singular audience. “Just one minute. Let me head back to the agency and give my laptop to Kyouka-chan since she’s still doing all her paperwork on her tiny flip phone, and if I die without giving it to her, I think she and Yosano-sensei would actually fight to the death over it—”

It’s only half-hearted, not because he truly wants to die, but more so because he doubts Akutagawa would release him for anything, let alone for a property claim on a laptop he could probably buy twenty times over without the slightest dent to his pockets. Akutagawa is that kind of guy after all, it’s how he got his nickname as the Port Mafia’s bloodhound. Once he sinks his teeth in, he’d never let go.

Atsushi just wishes he had written out his will this morning when he had the chance.

A lull beat hangs in the air, thick as the silence between them. Then suddenly, much to Atsushi’s surprise, he feels himself fall, his stomach dropping into his throat as he tumbles down towards the ground, landing heavily on his now-scraped palms. His knees hit the concrete ground with a loud cracking sound; Atsushi winces.

He looks up, glaring at Akutagawa. “Oi! Couldn’t you have let me down more gently?”

What’s Akutagawa going to do? Kill him again? Even with that piercing glare, he’d have to do much better than that. And Atsushi knows this because he’s been through a lot worse. Mostly also at Akutagawa’s hands.

“Get up.”

“What?” Atsushi snaps, rubbing at his hands, watching as the scratches start to already scab over.

“I said, get up, Jinko.” Rashoumon goes straight for him once again, striking through the concrete where he had knelt seconds ago; Atsushi had jumped back, positioned low on the ground, ready to attack.

But Akutagawa wasn’t even in a remotely offensive position, let alone a defensive one. In fact, the man was shuffling his feet against the ground, arms crossed and eyes averted towards a far-away distance behind Atsushi’s shoulder. When Atsushi turns to look for himself, he finds nothing there but the brick wall. Odd.

“Jinko,” Akutagawa starts. He’s doing some sort of weird aborted movement, arms crossing and then uncrossing in turns. “Let us talk elsewhere.”

Atsushi should say no. “Huh?” He sputters instead, which Akutagawa, of course, seems to take as a yes instead.

Without waiting for him to follow, the mafioso turns sharply on his heels and starts to stroll away, leaving Atsushi to scramble to catch up. Not that he has to for far, as Akutagawa, peculiarly enough, retraces their chase back to the ADA. It isn’t until Rashoumon holds open the door to the café, the little bell above the door singing a cheerful chime, that Atsushi realizes something may be terribly wrong.

Something is terribly wrong. Atsushi should have trusted his instincts. Even if Byakko had no objections, Atsushi should have turned tail the minute Akutagawa showed up.

Or well, he did. He tried. Maybe he really should have tried to jump over Akutagawa’s head. Maybe he should have attempted to manifest a new part of his ability to dig a hole under the ground and hide in it. Maybe he should just get up and leave the café right now because there are plates upon plates of sweets being delivered to the table and Atsushi has no clue what is going on.

Akutagawa… He didn’t seem to be holding Atsushi hostage. He didn’t seem to be doing much of anything actually, eyes closed and arms crossed, posture as elegant as ever from where he sits across from Atsushi in an intimate little booth in the corner of the establishment.

The waitress beams at Akutagawa as she places down what is hopefully the last menu order — a cup of faintly sweet-smelling tea — in front of him. Atsushi watches, sweat dripping down his back, as the waitress and Akutagawa share a silent conversation: a bright smile, a nod. Another nod and then a small incline of the head. From behind the waitress tending their table, a spot of red hair with a high-collared dress catches Atsushi’s eyes.

Lucy.

She spots him too. They stared for a minute at each other as Atsushi made frantic hand signals under the table that looked more like spasms than anything comprehensible. Lucy squints at him, turquoise eyes darting between Atsushi’s whole demeanour and Akutagawa’s whole pretentious calm. She squints some more, making some kind of face along the lines of what is wrong with you? before heading behind the bar counter.

Betrayed, Atsushi thinks, pulling hard on his tie. It doesn’t do much except make him choke a bit on air.

“What are you making that face for?”

At some point, the waitress had left their table alone. And now, it really was just him and Akutagawa and the dozens of desserts on their table.

“Um,” Atsushi says smartly.

Now Akutagawa is squinting at him too. “Since when have you had manners, Jinko?” He lifts one of his crossed arms to gesture at the table; Atsushi follows the movement perhaps a bit too intently. “Eat up.”

Something is definitely wrong. “This is for me?”

“Is that not what I had just said?” And while Akutagawa doesn’t physically roll his eyes, it does feel like he did. “Hurry it up,” he commands, but before Atsushi could snap back at him on how dare you tell me what to do, Akutagawa once again turns away. “I have… a proposal for you, if you’d be so inclined to listen.”

A proposal. The last time Atsushi heard a proposal of any sort from Akutagawa, it was basically an attempt to get him killed.

But free food was free food. And Atsushi didn’t see Akutagawa spill anything onto it. And he doubted the waitress would have done anything to him too… And it would really be a sad waste if he weren’t to eat it… And Yosano was upstairs if anything did go wrong, right?

Atsushi does take a sniff of the cake though, just as a precaution. It smells just like a chocolate cake, nothing special. He picks up a spoon and scoops a piece, slowly bringing it to his mouth. And when the first of the soft, fluffy texture hits his tongue, he revalutes that opinion. No wonder Kyouka loved it here.

“Jinko,” Akutagawa starts, slowly. If Atsushi were not dancing among the fluffy cake clouds right now, he may have noticed the almost nervous way Akutagawa adjusted his sleeves, how his words seemed to hitch roughly on his lips. “Nakajima. Recently, I have been pondering on a question I have perpetually dwelled on for the last months.”

He clears his throat with a half-cough. Atsushi takes his third slice of cake.

“Six months ago, we had decided on this date for our duel to prove the validity of our respective philosophies,” he continues, “However, since then, I feel that our… status has changed.”

Akutagawa takes a sharp intake of breath, shoulder bunching up as he leans forwards across the table. “Which is why I find myself asking you now: instead of today, allow me to take you out this weekend. Will you accept?”

A beat.

Atsushi, with wide eyes and his mouth full of pastries, blinks. To… take him out? Wasn’t that already what they were going to do today? Wasn’t that exactly what Akutagawa already attempted less than an hour ago? A rescheduling to the weekend? Is that really the best idea?

He can’t swallow down his food fast enough, half-suffocating and at least with the decency to cover his mouth, Atsushi chokes out smartly, “Yes?!”

Akutagawa's eyes widened in turn. “Yes?”

Aw, fuck.

“I-I mean—” Atsushi stammers, dropping his spoon back onto the table; every single plate was polished to a tee. God, it’s not like he could say no after eating the food Akutagawa bought him. Equivalent exchange, right? And their promise— it is not as if he could break it without repercussions. “Sure?” He agrees finally, weakly, not entirely sure what he’s getting into.

And oddly enough, Atsushi watches enraptured, as the corner of Akutagawa’s lips turns up into a decidedly not-wicked in the slightest, but rather a lovely, soft grin. Something — fear most certainly, guilt, probably — pangs hard against Atsushi’s ribcage.

“I see,” Akutagawa says quietly. Atsushi still can’t get over that plush curve of his lips, the tiny peek of sharp teeth; it’s a bloodthirsty look. It has to be. “I will await you then.”

Atsushi calmly walks into his apartment. Locks the door. He takes a quick shower to rinse off the pebbles and grains of sand that stuck on him when Akutagawa dropped him back onto the concrete face-first. Thinks of Akutagawa and realizes with dawning horror:

“We’re going to fight to the death,” he mutters, the actual concept only dawning upon him as water rushes down his skin. “We are going to fight to the death this weekend. We have prep time. Akutagawa has prep time.” Atsushi would sink to the floor if he could. He almost slips instead because he’s still standing in the shower on wet shower tiles while showering. “Akutagawa is going to kill me. I’m—”

“—going to die,” Atsushi says for the hundredth time, having fled his apartment immediately to retreat back to the café.

Lucy, now clad in the café’s standard uniform and balancing a dozen plates in one hand, slams her free hand on the table hard enough that Atsushi thinks the floor too, shakes with the impact. The plates in her hand however, stay perfectly still. It would be impressive, Atsushi would think normally, if he wasn’t in the middle of his ongoing crisis. He’s been begging Lucy to trap him in Anne’s room to no avail. He doesn’t care if it’s cowardly. He is going to die.

“At this point,” she hisses at him, “I wish you will, just so I can stop hearing you complain—” The café’s bell suddenly rings, bright and cheery, and just as suddenly, Lucy’s disposition changes, turning to the door with a sunny smile, “Hello, welcome—!” A pause; again, one that Atsushi would have paid more attention to if he wasn’t breaking down. And then, “Oh, it’s you.”

Despite the bell chiming, the café, even to Atsushi’s superb hearing, is completely silent. Not that it mattered, when he worked with so many master martial artists and assassins and just ability users in general; being completely quiet is a skill practically everyone in Yokohama has in their arsenal. He figures, hopefully, that if Lucy recognizes the person and isn’t siccing Anne on them, he’d probably be fine. Despite all her bite, Atsushi doubts Lucy would actually kill him. Probably. He’s pretty sure they’re past that, at this point. Maybe.

He doesn’t as so much hear the movement than rather feel it, a delicate breeze of wind that brushes past his side as the new customer walks by him; he doesn’t see how the customer stops next to his seat as his head lies face-down on the table’s surface, but he does feel the booth’s cushion dip as they plop down next to him. And that alarms Atsushi enough to look up.

“Kyouka-chan?” Atsushi blinks.

Kyouka doesn’t even bother to say hello. With a perfectly blank expression, still not sparing to look at him in the slightest, she pulls out a bright red notebook adorned with cat stickers out of the front of her kimono. Sets it down on the table. Pulls out the pink gel pen Atsushi had bought her the other day, mostly because of the small bunny pendant attached to the lid. Also sets it down, and then finally turns to acknowledge Atsushi with a grave expression in her eyes that he doesn’t enjoy in the slightest.

“Kyouka-chan,” he tries again. At some point, Lucy had slipped away unnoticed. Which was more than fair as now that Atsushi was actually paying attention, Kyouka very noticeably was emitting the aura of a man marching to his grave.

“I heard about your fight with Akutagawa,” she says, solemn, and Atsushi feels his heart drop into his stomach. “I thought it would be best to be prepared.”

“P-Prepared?” Atsushi leans forwards as Kyouka flips open her notebook. Lines upon lines of neat writing fill the pages. And on the very top, written in pink highlighter and lined in gold ink, are the words funeral plans’ in large, blocky characters. He pales.

“If you were wondering,” Kyouka starts, “It’s not that I don’t believe you will not win.” And she makes sure to really drive it forwards, leaning as such towards him until he’s nearly flush against the booth’s wall. “However…” She pulls a face, which basically just means the slightest twitch of her eyes, “Akutagawa has also improved.”

Funeral plans. It is, ironically enough considering his day-to-day life, not something he has thought of before. Frankly, in the before — with how he can easily and usually splits his life into the categories of before the ADA and with the ADA — he never thought he’d get a funeral to begin with. But now, he has friends and he has family. He has people who would miss him. Atsushi swallows.

“A funeral…” His fingers drum against the table, frantic. “Okay. But Kyouka-chan, how do you already have things planned?”

“Dazai-san told me how Akutagawa whisked you away this morning,” she replies flatly, “And I lived with you, so I know about the six month date on your calendar.” A pause. “And then Ranpo-san told me you were fine, and that you and Akutagawa had picked a different date.” And then another pause, because that’s just how Kyouka spoke. “Though he was laughing the entire time.”

Atsushi would like to take that as a good sign. Until the words actually register in his mind and he is almost compelled to ask, “Dazai-san said what happened to me?” Then, “Wait, Dazai-san saw what happened to me and didn’t do anything?”

Kyouka refuses to meet his eye, turning back towards her notebook; it’s almost judgemental in nature, how she slowly leans back away from him. Atsushi would say that it wasn’t what it looked like (both because it wasn’t. There was no whisking away but rather dragging, and Dazai-san is prone to exaggeration at the most vexing of times), but only saying that would only make it seem like it was what it looked like.

And Kyouka clearly already had ideas. Atsushi was not going to contribute further to those at all.

“You could go with a traditional casket burial.” Kyouka thumbs the page, bright highlighter reciting lists of common funeral arrangements. To anyone else walking by, this would look absolutely morbid. It’s already morbid to Atsushi, though that’s probably because he’d be the funeral’s starring guest. “But that is common. And boring.”

“Boring,” Atsushi echoes. “I’m almost afraid to ask, Kyouka-chan, but what are your less… boring plans?”

It is quite horrifying to see the way Kyouka’s eyes light up. It’s even more so when she starts flipping the pages of her notebook with a speed Atsushi really only sees when she’s in the middle of life-or-death combat.

“We can cremate you,” she starts, which is a normal thing Atsushi thinks. Which is of course when it goes completely off the rails. “Then we can use your ashes to make fireworks. We could host a fireworks show. Or we can launch them at the Port Mafia’s most flammable bases.”

Even if dead, Atsushi really doesn’t want himself to cause any more property damage than it already has. “I don’t think I like the idea of me… exploding. At things.”

Kyouka frowns, twirling her pen between her fingers. The little rabbit charm attached spins along with her movement in dizzying spirals. "Then, how about we cremate your body and press it into a gem. But we keep your skull and—"

"No!" Atsushi blurts, a little too hastily. He recoils slightly. "N-No! No skulls and no jewels. None of that, please." The last time skulls and jewels were put in the same sentence, half the entire city was destroyed. He is not doing or contributing to that again, dead or not.

"Hm. We can cremate you—"

"Kyouka-chan, what's with you and cremating me?"

"How about we cremate you and swirl your ashes into marbles?" Kyouka says. She taps her pen against the edge of the table; the bunny charm smacks into the wood with a cheap click. "Therefore, everyone can have a piece of you to remember you by."

Atsushi might have thought that maybe to anyone else, the idea may be a bit macabre, if not completely nauseating (carrying around a piece of someone never really sounded good in any way, context or not), but to Atsushi, who has been stabbed more times than he could count on both hands and feet, it sounds somewhat genius. He nods, slowly. "That's not bad. Check it off."

Kyouka does exactly that, circling the bullet point in one quick flourish. "I want pink ashes for my marbles."

"...It's not like I'd be around to stop you."

They brainstorm a few more ideas, huddled over the table serious, as if they were discussing the plan for the takeover of the entire world. It isn’t until the noise of a plate being set on their table that they look up to see Lucy back again, watching the two of them with a complicated expression on her face.

“Honestly, you two care too much for this.” She clicks her teeth. She pushes the plate down to Kyouka — a beautifully ornate slice of strawberry shortcake, one most definitely on Atsushi’s dime. “The Akutagawa guy,” she says, as if she didn’t see him drag Atsushi into a booth hours prior. “Didn’t you defeat him before?”

Atsushi blinks. Kyouka digs into the cake like she hasn’t eaten in days, which is something Atsushi should probably check up on her for. “I mean. Yeah?” He winces. “But Kyouka-chan said he’s gotten stronger. And I think so too.”

Lucy rolls her eyes, and sits herself down on the opposite side of the booth impromptu. She should still be on shift actually, Atsushi thinks but for safety reasons doesn’t say. “So? You’ve got stronger too. Isn’t it also likely you’ll overpower him and kill him?”

And Atsushi has never truly considered that option, not legitimately. It tends to slip his mind often, that he almost did kill Akutagawa, back on the cargo boat, punching the man hard enough to fling him into the sea. He never learnt how Akutagawa was brought back to land, the severity of his injuries, how close he might have been to death. Atsushi has never thought about it in such a way, how he nearly once killed the man now technically his partner, since back then, it was fair game. And now, Akutagawa hardly attempted to stab him anymore. But soon, in this promised duel, they’ll back to square one.

And now, he has to consciously choose to strike again and again until Akutagawa really is dead.

His heart revolts against the idea, beating quick enough that he can feel his blood rushing away from his chest, the hand of evil squeezing out the remains in a burst. It’s the thought of killing certainly that’s making him feel this way.

And oh god. Akutagawa would also have people that would miss him, wouldn’t he? There would be at least Gin, Higuchi, and the rest of the Black Lizards. They had a right to a funeral for Akutagawa too, a chance to grieve. Assuming they wouldn’t immediately attempt to bury him alive once the news broke, Atsushi would host it. Atsushi would attend. It would be the least he could do.

The thought is troublesome. At first, he believes it to be guilt; planning the funeral of a man he is going to kill with his own two hands and own free will. But then, the thought of standing over Akutagawa’s grave, confronting all those who cared about the man, still visiting him as time passed because he can’t just stay away from Akutagawa like that. It's as if waves after waves of nausea crashed into him.

Atsushi’s definitely been silent for way too long now. Kyouka and Lucy exchange looks as if he weren’t even there, pinched brows and downturned lips speaking volumes. Lucy smooths down the folds of her skirt once and looks away, fingers curling into the fabric tight enough to crease. Kyouka turns back to him and says, quietly, less unrestrained, “We can plan a funeral for him, too.”

Atsushi attempts a weak smile for lack of knowledge of what else he could possibly do. “Kyouka-chan, what do you think about flowers?”

Atsushi finds a flower shop after about five minutes of a very intense session of fighting google maps.

It’s hidden away on a smaller walkway, antique storefronts clustered together on each side in a way that allow for doors to be propped right open, spilling out gentle peals of laughter and light scents of baked goods and candles. It’s awfully cozy, Atsushi thinks. Even when the streets are empty as they are now, with it being the middle of the working day, there is a sense of warmth that permeates through the road, like a small village town far away from the city. Though, not like Atsushi would know. But it’s the general aesthetic that fits. It is something that he thinks Kenji or Kunikida would appreciate.

The flower shop is simple enough to find, with the street outside ladened with vivid flowers stacked up on soft green shelves that immediately catches the eye. Especially since, much to Atsushi’s surprise, they seemed to be the only other person on the street that just so happened shopping at the same place, flitting back and forth between the various outdoor shelves, snapping photos with a fervour as if possessed.

An employee perhaps, Atsushi thinks, one that is trying to gather promotional material for the store. The view is scenic enough, and the blooms gorgeous. It wouldn’t be a surprise.

But as Atsushi approaches closer, it seems less and less likely. In fact, the person appears more and more familiar. A pitch black suit and dark sunglasses resting low on their nose. A rigour to their movements that suggests a familiarity with combat, with evasion and assault. Golden hair tied neatly up into a high bun.

“It’s you!” Atsushi shrieks, a few meters away from who is definitely Higuchi Ichiyou, standing shock-still as she stares back.

This is, undoubtedly, dangerous. This is Akutagawa’s assistant. His right-hand man— or, well, woman. A creeping sensation crawls up Atsushi’s spine under his shirt, beads of sweat sliding down and mixing together into an awful tingling prickle. Is she here to spy on him? Has Akutagawa figured him out? He’s only here to pick out flowers for himself! Scout’s honor! And Atsushi was never a scout so he’s lying, but he’s here mostly for himself.

Oddly enough, Higuchi doesn’t immediately attempt to gun him down. Atsushi peers around the area with skittish eyes; a single tumbleweed passes by. He turns back to Higuchi, who stares right back, her hands now buried in a rather large bouquet of flowers and not all behind her back to pull out those dual machine guns Atsushi knows she somehow stores in her pockets at all times. It should be a good thing, Atsushi thinks, that Higuchi doesn’t seem to want to murder him in cold blood, especially with such an opportunity without any witnesses around. It should be good, that Atsushi wouldn’t have to regrow his organs or heal bullet holes again today. Instead, Atsushi just feels concerned.

Higuchi continues to stare at him. Her eyes get this sort of manic glee in them that scares him more than any bullets possibly could, and not just because bullets can’t actually kill him. A gust of wind passes by, rustling the bouquets right off their shelves. Atsushi catches them all of course, and with a weaponry of flowers in his arms, Higuchi’s eyes only grow brighter.

Weird.

“Um, Higuchi-san, right?” Atsushi asks hesitantly. She’s clutching the roses tightly enough that he’s afraid she’ll prick herself on the thorns. And as far as he’s aware, she doesn’t have a self-healing ability. “Are… you alright?”

At the very least, Higuchi straightens up as soon as she hears her name. Her hand immediately flies up to her head in a salute so sharp that Atsushi is almost envious of the Port Mafia’s work ethic before remembering that it’s, well, the Port Mafia.

“I’m perfectly fine, jinko— er, I mean, Nakajima-san!” Higuchi recites like she’s giving a report to a superior. Which Atsushi very much is not. And since when has she — or anyone in the Mafia for that matter — started calling him by his actual name? And still, what’s with that bright grin? “I’m out on a mission for Akutagawa-senpai!”

For Akutagawa?

Atsushi risks another glance towards the large sign hanging over the front door. It’s clearly a flower shop. Atsushi knows this. He googled it online. That’s half the entire reason he’s here. For flowers.

For Akutagawa’s grave.

He swallows, ignoring the churning in his chest. His eyes dart between the pastel wood trimmings of the storefront, the warm lighting spilling out from the door, a giant crochet bunny covered in yarn flowers sitting limp behind pink-tinted glass. In the reflection, Atsushi’s irises glow gold; in the reflection, Higuchi continues to stare at him, unblinking with wide eyes.

Atsushi leans forwards, holding a hand to the side of his face, “This… isn’t some kind of…” he lowers his voice, as if conveying a playground secret, “front, is it?”

Higuchi stares at him like he’s stupid. Which is rude, because Atsushi thinks his question was very reasonable. Since when has Akutagawa bought flowers? Why is he getting flowers? Why is he sending his subordinates to grab them for him instead of getting them himself? Then, with a strange jolt, Atsushi wonders who exactly Akutagawa could be getting flowers for. If they're even for a person at all. Maybe he just wants to spruce up his probably-dusty bedroom. And why is Atsushi even thinking about the state of Akutagawa's bedroom? He should be more concerned about his own.

Lots of questions.

Higuchi is still staring at him as if he has just grown another head. Which only uneases him because that isn’t actually one of the many skills he does possess.

“Um,” Atsushi says, wondering if it’s still too late to turn tail and scram. But he’s still holding about a dozen bouquets of flowers in askew his arms because he still hasn't put them back and he is not going to commit a crime over a conversation about Akutagawa and whatever weird flower thing he has going on, and why is he still thinking about this?

Higuchi is still saluting. At him. “Nakajima-san!”

Atsushi dropped into a parallel realm when crossing the road earlier. It’s the only explanation. He looks down at the flowers. Squints.

“Nakajima-san!” She repeats, cheery. “What are you doing here on this fine day?” Her gaze drifts to the bouquets. “Some shopping?”

“Um,” Atsushi repeats because he is still not entirely convinced he’s fully lucid. “I guess?” He offers weakly, before he’s hit with the full absurdity of the situation as a whole: or rather, just how conveniently this scene managed to line up perfectly for him.

The thing is, Atsushi doesn’t know too much about flowers. He can differentiate between a lily and a tulip and rose of course — he’s pretty sure that anyone can, really — but that’s about where his knowledge ended. The orphanage he grew up in didn’t have many books on horticulture, let alone floriography. And his knowledge on Akutagawa, Atsushi had begun to learn, wasn’t nearly as intensive as he once thought it was. He knew nothing of the man beyond his combat abilities and their similar hardships. But that made sense, didn’t it? He tries to justify.

That is how their relationship began, after all.

And now, Atsushi thinks with a stark lurch in his stomach, that is how their relationship will end, too.

But here was his answer, wasn’t it? Higuchi’s knowledge of Akutagawa is probably near encyclopedic for better or for worse. As far as Atsushi is aware, there is no person other than perhaps Gin who knows Akutagawa better than Higuchi does, for all her endless pursuits of the man.

(Except too, except for Akutagawa himself. And wouldn’t that be quite the scenario, Atsushi smiles wryly. How would that even pan out? A bright sunny day, sorting through bright flowers peacefully on the streets of Yokohama, together? Akutagawa’s whole getup would clash wildly against the soft backdrop of the shop, an amusing contradiction between how Atsushi knows him to be— Or, what he thinks he knows Akutagawa to be?

Would he blush if Atsushi were to pass him a flower? Atsushi doesn’t think he has ever seen Akutagawa genuinely flustered before, his face always dusted with that unnatural paleness only stained when covered with blood and dirt, or exerted from a drawn-out battle. It would be curious to see. It would be curious to try. Just for curiosity's sake, of course.)

“Higuchi-san,” he starts, hesitant, “If you have time… Can I ask you a few things?” He pauses and somehow, a little more hesitantly, adds, “It’s about Akutagawa.”

“About Akutagawa-senpai?” Higuchi props her chin up on her fingers, looking aside, pensive. “Hm. I don’t think I ever actually heard Akutagawa-senpai mention a favourite flower before.”

Atsushi’s shoulders deflate. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense— Wait.” He pauses. “How did you know I was going to ask about Akutagawa’s flower preferences?”

That blank stare is back again. “Well, we are in front of a flower shop, Nakajima-san.”

Ah. Right.

Atsushi laughs weakly, and says as much out loud. “My bad. I just thought—” He shuffles the bouquet in his arms and frowns. “I dunno what I thought. I guess Akutagawa isn’t a flower guy, huh?”

“Is that why you’re here, Nakajima-san?” Higuchi asks, “To pick up flowers for Akutagawa-senpai? Because if that’s the case—” Again, she looks at the pile in his arms judgmentally, which is just about the moment Atsushi realizes that the bouquets are all bundles of bright red roses. “I didn’t exactly take you as being such a romantic.”

“These are not—!” Atsushi protests. He’s pretty sure his face is burning off right now. Higuchi is looking at him like he’s the most fascinating circus clown alive. He wishes his face would burn off. It’ll probably be faster to grow it back again than to calm his rising blush. “These aren’t for Akutagawa!” He protests.

When Higuchi’s suspicious stare doesn’t let up, he adds, “I mean, I wouldn’t get him roses!”

While Atsushi knows he said he didn’t know much about flower language, he at the very least does know what roses mean from all the Valentine’s marketing he’s seen and from being in the general vicinity of Dazai-san so often: love, beauty, passion. It is hardly something appropriate to give Akutagawa; it isn’t something appropriate for Atsushi to give to Akutagawa. Especially not for his grave.

And in any other situation? Atsushi isn’t even going to entertain that thought. He slices the sheer image into pieces. Just like Akutagawa would if he ever caught wind of this conversation. They’re only days away from tearing each other into pieces, Atsushi thinks glumly. What kind of person would bring roses to… that sort of… rendezvous.

“I see,” Higuchi muses, apparently having still been talking when Atsushi was having his crisis. “So that is why you asked about Akutagawa-senpai’s favourite flower… You aren’t much of a cliché’s man, are you, Nakajima-san?”

It takes a moment for Atsushi to realize that she’s actually expecting an answer. “Um, not really?”

“...Maybe flowers are not the best idea then…” She continues, voice thoughtful now in a manner that makes it seem like she’s including Atsushi into the conversation. As if Atsushi had a single clue what she was talking about in the slightest.

“Higuchi-san…?”

“If you were to ask me, Nakajima-san,” Higuchi says, matter-of-fact and sudden in a way that almost gives him whiplash, “I think sunflowers would be a good fit.”

Atsushi blinks. “What?”

“Wouldn’t it be so sweet?” And Atsushi watches, horrified, as Higuchi immediately switches gears, eyes sparkling, her palms pressed against her flushed cheeks. “Akutagawa-senpai in a field of bright, yellow sunflowers! Full of life and strength, facing the sun despite its burn…!”

And Atsushi can imagine it. Terribly, horribly, awfully so in its vividity. His chest pumps a dull beat.

It’s only when Higuchi leaves, turning the corner with a skip in her step, that Atsushi remembers that he never did find out what business Akutagawa may have had with a quaint little flower shop tucked away in such a minor corner of the city.

(“Akutagawa-senpai!”

Higuchi rounds the corner of the Black Lizard’s headquarters so quickly that she nearly slides straight into the opposing wall. Gin raises an eyebrow at her, but ultimately doesn’t say anything. Hirotsu does the exact same, though with a finely-practiced precision that manages to not express any judgement. Tachihara is thankfully not present. Off with his other friends, most likely.

Akutagawa turns around in the overly large swivel chair at the main desk. On all three monitors, he has up images and locations of various restaurants around the city. Higuchi can see, from how she is positioned half-diagonally against the wall, that he even has a bullet-point list of various highly ranked restaurants complete with some of their reviews, all handwritten. It is, Higuchi thinks half-dreamily and half-amused, atrociously sweet.

“Higuchi,” he acknowledges. He sweeps a disapproving look at Hirotsu and Gin, who immediately turn away and go back to work — by which Higuchi means the game of blackjack they’re playing under their respective stacks of paperwork. “What is it?”

She salutes, razor-sharp in her motions, heels clicking together and arms whipping up so fast it could probably act as a weapon of its own. “Akutagawa-senpai! I ran into the jinko— er, Nakajima-san, when out on the mission you sent me on!”

That catches Akutagawa’s attention, as well as the attention of everyone else in the room. Higuchi does not at all miss the way Hirotsu uses his ability to subtly push the sofa a tad bit closer to listen in.

“Hm?” Akutagawa leans forwards in his chair as well, eyes glittering. “Did you manage to procure any information from the jinko then?”

Here it is, the moment of truth. Higuchi can’t stop the grin that sprouts up on her face. “Senpai! Nakajima-san does not seem to be very fond of the idea of receiving flowers!” And then, on a trailing thought, she adds, “Ah, but he did ask what kind of flowers you liked!”

Akutagawa leans even more forward somehow. Now even Gin is using her legs to push the sofa towards them, but they’re not being subtle, with the loud creaking noise and all. “And what did you tell him?”

“I don’t know what your favourite flowers are.” And if that thought bothered Higuchi, she surprisingly didn’t show it for once. “So I told him sunflowers, Akutagawa-senpai!”

Done with pretending not to eavesdrop into their conversation, Gin’s hands start flying a mile a minute, “Sunflowers are a good match for him. You made a good call,” they sign at Higuchi, which has the blonde preening, cheeks flushed.

Even Hirotsu is nodding along. Subtly, of course, because he’s totally not listening in at all.

“Hm,” Akutagawa repeats, and Higuchi watches with bated breath as the corner of her superior’s lips turn up towards something almost resembling a pleased smile. He leans back in his chair, and after a moment further of deliberation: “Excellent work, Higuchi.”

Higuchi’s grin could probably rival the goddamn sun. “Of course, Senpai!” And because she is on a roll, she chirpily adds, “Do you want me to scope out the restaurants on your list so far? I can get to it immediately!”

“Isn’t this an abuse of workplace resources,” Gin signs to Hirotsu, who doesn’t acknowledge the question at all as he still has the decency to pretend he is most definitely not eavesdropping on what is probably the most interesting piece of gossip the Port Mafia’s had since half of their ranks turned into vampires.

Gin turns back to Akutagawa to give her signature-sibling-judgemental-look, only to find him handing Higuchi a three-page list of restaurants. Deciding that if this was the only entertainment they’d get this week, they might as well milk it for everything it's worth.)

The day before calamity, Atsushi runs into Akutagawa at the supermarket.

Or perhaps run is too harsh a word. Yes, Atsushi would instead say that the day before his world ends, he spots Akutagawa in his local grocery store, picking figs in the produce aisle.

Atsushi is not ashamed at all to admit he pauses to watch the man for a minute, observing the turn of the mafioso’s long fingers as he inspects the fruit under the supermarket’s shitty fluorescent lights. Akutagawa’s silver eyes glint in the lighting, and Atsushi’s grip tightens on the handle of his shopping basket.

He hasn’t seen Akutagawa since the café. It’s been only a few days, so Atsushi doesn’t know what he was expecting. Akutagawa looks the same as always, unhealthily pale and frighteningly sickly. It’s the same as always, but a tendril of dread curls up in Atsushi’s stomach, protesting on excuses to find ways to push at cancelling the fight now that he is truly able to see the frail health his rival is in. He’s done worse to you and others in worse condition, he doesn't need any pity, Atsushi reminds himself. After he blinks, he almost expects to see a thin line of blood flowing down Akutagawa’s neck. Instead, he finds Akutagawa staring right back.

And so there is no point in hiding now, Atsushi reasons as he moves over, standing next to Akutagawa, who doesn’t seem to have a shopping basket at all.

“Hey,” Atsushi says, like a loser.

Akutagawa tilts his head to the side, revealing more of the pale line of his unmarred throat. “Jinko,” he acknowledges. But instead of walking away like expected, his gaze falls upon the basket in Atsushi’s hands. “Out shopping?”

“What do you think?” Atsushi replies with a bit more bite than he wanted. He clears his throat and takes a step back. Akutagawa hasn’t ever made him this skittish (skittish, not fearful) in a while. “I’m done, actually.” He jerks a finger over his shoulder, hopefully at the cash register. “Just thought I’d… say hi.”

Akutagawa only hums in response, looking back at the figs for a moment before once again dividing his full attention to Atsushi. “Well?”

Atsushi will never get this guy. “Well, what?”

“Did you not say you were about to check out?”

Seriously. “If you don’t want to talk to me right now, you can just say that instead, y’know.”

“On the contrary,” Akutagawa says, whatever that may mean.

He finds out very soon though, as Akutagawa proceeds to follow him over to the cash register, lingering behind his frame like a persistent phantom. Atsushi tries his best to ignore him lurking over his shoulder as the cashier scans his items.

Akutagawa has more honour than to stab him now. He would like to think that he’s able to know that much about his rival.

“...will be your total, sir,” the cashier tells him in the most standard customer-service voice imaginable. “Will you be paying cash, sir?”

“Right, give me a minute—” Atsushi has no idea which pocket had eaten his wallet.

“There is no need for that.”

There’s a long beep accompanied by the whirling of a receipt printing. Atsushi doesn’t even understand what had even happened until Akutagawa has already escorted him out of the store, Rashoumon holding onto his groceries in a hook-like grip.

“Hm,” Akutagawa remarks idly. He’s staring at the receipt. “You should focus on eating more real food, and not the instant noodle junk you seem to be so fond of.”

And that irritates Atsushi enough to snatch the receipt from his hand, scanning it himself, “We can’t all be like you, alright? I can’t afford anything else, and—” he whirls back on the man, “Why did you just pay for me? I could have done so myself! I’m not that broke! I just needed a second to find my wallet.”

Akutagawa looked entirely unperturbed. “Hm? I thought it was customary for one to purchase gifts before their scheduled date.”

What the hell? What kind of medieval skirmish etiquette has Akutagawa been reading up on? And most importantly: “What kind of gift is groceries, Akutagawa?!”

Only now Akutagawa looked agitated. Again, what the hell? “Are you saying you’d prefer something else?”

“No,” Atsushi emphasizes. He’s sort of glad Rashoumon is holding on to his bags, if only so that he can rub his eyes in exhaustion. “What I’m saying is that—”

It’s obvious what it is this time: Atsushi feels bad. First the cakes, now his groceries too. He’s not some sort of charity case. He doesn’t need handouts. Especially not from Akutagawa.

Atsushi swallows, peeking between his fingers to see Akutagawa still standing in front of him, graceful and standing strong, like some sort of knight at Atsushi’s service.

He doesn’t need handouts. Especially not from Akutagawa. Especially not like this. Because relationships are supposed to be reciprocated. Even ones like theirs.

And it’s then that Atsushi is struck with a terrible idea. The sort of idea Atsushi wouldn’t have ever thought of if he hadn’t already previously thought of it before. An idea to assuage the bubbling chill in his stomach. An idea so indulgent that Atsushi almost feels worse for going along with it if it weren’t just so perfect.

“Akutagawa—” he says, breathlessly and sudden. He holds his hands in front of him for a second as he backs up. “Akutagawa, stay— stay here a minute, okay?”

“Jinko, what are you—?”

But Atsushi is already dashing away, legs transformed into those of a tiger as he rushes over to a familiar street not too far away from this particular supermarket. A street filled with snug little stores and warm lights. It doesn’t take him too long to make his purchase, and he’s rushing back as soon as he takes the gift into hand.

When he gets back, Akutagawa, true to Atsushi’s words, has not moved an inch, though his eyes widen as he witnesses Atsushi rush back to him, something bright and delicate and yellow in his hands—

“For you,” Atsushi pants. He leans over in his fatigue, one hand resting on his knees, the other thrusting forwards a large bouquet of fresh, golden sunflowers.

Silence. Even the streets still around them as Atsushi feels the icy brush of the pads of Akutagawa’s fingers brush his own, closing around the bouquet’s stem. Silence, even as Akutagawa yanks the bouquet straight out of Atsushi’s hands. And when Atsushi looks up—

His breath snatches roughly in his throat.

“What,” Akutagawa growls, voice rough despite how Atsushi can physically see the gentle tremble of his lips, his near-desperate grip on the glittering wrapping of the bouquet, and most importantly, the ever-blooming blush crawling up his neck, settling on his cheeks and brushing the tips of his ears. “What the hell is this.”

Atsushi tries to swallow, only to find his throat now painfully dry. He stares, trying to memorize the exact shade of the scarlet hue on Akutagawa’s sharp features as it quickly fades away the longer it takes Atsushi to answer.

“A gift,” Atsushi croaks out. “For you.”

Akutagawa audibly inhales. He takes a step forwards, then another, Atsushi only hearing the steps of the man’s heels as his vision is obscured by nothing but Akutagawa as he leans in towards Atsushi, eyes impossibly dark. Atsushi feels himself tremble, raising his arms up in defense, mouth opening to speak up before Akutagawa manages to beat him towards it:

“Whatever this is supposed to be,” Akutagawa says lowly; Atsushi can feel his breath dance across the bridge of his nose, feel the heat of his words press within his mouth, damp on his tongue. “Save it for tomorrow, Nakajima.”

But I can’t, Atsushi wants to protest, because tomorrow, there may not be anything left except an stone grave.

But of course, he doesn’t say it. It’s arrogant, it’s inappropriate, and Atsushi, more than anything, feels it to be terribly wrong. So he doesn’t say anything at all.

Akutagawa leans back, swaying slightly as he does. Rashoumon nudges the bag of groceries back into Atsushi’s hands before retreating back into its master’s coat. And Atsushi watches as Akutagawa holds the flowers close to his chest, shoulder trembling, before walking away without another word.

He doesn’t give the flowers to Rashoumon. He doesn’t give them back to Atsushi. His ears are still impossibly red. He thinks he can count that as his win.

Higuchi was right. Sunflower really did suit Akutagawa well.

Akutagawa — somehow getting ahold of Atsushi’s phone number in a way he refuses to think about too long or at all — sends him the location for their meeting spot early the next morning, with nothing else other than a time later in the evening and an even more ominous ‘dress nicely’ text.

It’s something Atsushi finds more amusing than offending really, since he is perfectly aware his closet is lacking beyond what he normally wears. And besides, what he usually wears is nice. It’s professional and was chosen by all the members of the ADA. It is for that reason it is very nice.

Still, he obeys partially anyways, picking out a yellow button-up and deciding on white suspenders and a brand-new black tie, though he keeps his pants and shoes the same.

It doesn’t actually occur to him at all, why Akutagawa may be asking him to dress nicely for the duel to the death. Not until he ends up in front of a very fancy-looking restaurant, equipped with glimmering chandeliers of what looks like real diamonds to his uneducated eye, and very professional-looking cooks with their tall chef hats and all.

Atsushi checks the address on his phone again. Looks up. Punches the address into a search engine to double-check. He suddenly feels incredibly underdressed.

“Jinko. What are you standing around for?”

Atsushi does not shriek. He doesn’t even attempt to punch anyone this time. But he still does end up whirling around in the direction the voice came, perhaps a little too quickly as he ends up over-rotating and nearly falling flat on his ass if it weren’t for a pair of cool hands to grab him by the waist.

Atsushi freezes. And not just because Akutagawa has his hands on him.

It’s still Akutagawa’s fault though. Surprisingly, Akutagawa is not wearing his signature coat. He isn’t even dressed up in what Atsushi would consider as overpriced-restaurant-‘nice’, though he still looks like a normal person’s definition of ‘nice’.

A white button-up that crept up tall on his neck, fastened by a smaller version of his usual jabot, dark slacks that hugged flatteringly around his typically hidden legs, and a warm coat stitched with gold details hanging over his shoulders, matching the thin black face mask over the lower half of his face.

Scratch that. Normal person’s definition of nice? Akutagawa looked devastatingly handsome like this.

“Akutagawa,” Atsushi manages to get out. He can’t stop staring at how the fabric of the mask emphasizes his high cheekbones. Akutagawa’s hands still rest on his hips. “You… look nice,” Atsushi says, because he does.

Akutagawa raises an eyebrow at him. “Hm. I’m surprised to say I think the same of you.”

It takes a moment for the sentence to really set in. “Hey! What’s that supposed to—”

But Akutagawa, clearly, no longer seemed to be listening. Pulling out a pocket watch from his coat (a pocket watch of all things!), he frowns, before grabbing onto Atsushi’s hand and effectively pushing away all and every last thought from his mind. He’s actually grabbing him, with his hand. No Rashoumon in sight, which Atsushi thinks must account for something.

Akutagawa’s hands are stupidly cold like always. Atsushi feels his own palms heat up.

“We have a reservation,” Akutagawa explains, before out of nowhere, to Atsushi’s surprise, he starts to pull on Atsushi’s hand, moving through the crowd and away from the glitz and glamour of the fancy restaurant.

“Wait, aren’t we—?” Atsushi yelps as he’s roughly yanked to Akutagawa’s side so that they’re walking next to each other, matching step for step. “Can you not be such a brute for a minute, Akutagawa?”

“Hmph,” Akutagawa scoffs, “You were walking too slow.” Atsushi watches as his metal gaze flickers onto him and while Atsushi may not be able to see his mouth, he knows for sure the man is smirking at him. “Is there an issue? Did you wish to eat at that ostentatious place?”

“Well…” Now that Akutagawa mentioned it, not really. It wasn’t really his sort of scene. The prestige, the opulent displays of wealth; it’ll probably make his skin crawl the whole time. “I guess not,” he admits. “But if that’s not where we’re headed, why did you ask to meet up there?”

“Simple.” Akutagawa turns them around a corner, and then three more of them in quick succession. “It was the simplest way to ensure you wouldn’t get lost.”

“Excuse me?”

The restaurant Akutagawa picks out doesn’t look cheap by any means, but it is certainly less flashy than the other one. When they walk in, the waitress acknowledges Akutagawa by name, smiling the whole time as she leads the two over to a small booth in the corner of the establishment.

Atsushi is coming down with a very severe case of déjà vu.

They don’t get a menu. As soon as they are seated, plates upon plates of sushi are brought out, covering the entire surface. Across the table, Akutagawa hums, pleased, pulling off his mask and folding it into his pocket. Atsushi blinks as at least ten small bowls of chazuke are placed delicately in front of him.

The food smells heavenly. Every single time Atsushi thinks his life can’t get any more confusing, he is proven wrong.

What is this even supposed to be? Atsushi eyes the surrounding tables suspiciously, watching and listening to the gentle laughter of families and couples as they dine their evening away. There’s a giant clicking sound in front of him; he looks down to see Akutagawa not at all subtly drop a few pieces of sushi on Atsushi’s plate. He looks up; Akutagawa is once again raising an eyebrow at him.

Déjà vu.

Is this some sort of last hoorah? A final perfect meal before Atsushi kicked into whatever may come after death? A show of dominance? It’s already very much a show of wealth.

Atsushi, slowly again, making eye-contact with Akutagawa the entire time, scoops a spoonful of chazuke in his mouth.

It is, unfortunately, the best goddamn chazuke he’s had in his life.

Dinner is a simple affair, mostly because Atsushi is too busy stuffing his face to make conversation. Akutagawa didn’t seem to mind though. In fact, Atsushi caught him many times staring at his face with sparkling eyes weirdly enough, and had pretended not to notice how Rashoumon kept on sneaking more and more pieces of sushi his way.

And speaking of Rashoumon, Akutagawa appears to have much more control over his ability now. Atsushi watches as over the course of their dinner, how Rashoumon manages to manifest from both Akutagawa’s coat and his shirt’s sleeve in alternating patterns; the ability even managed to use chopsticks, to Atsushi’s amusement. 

But that just meant that Akutagawa was not to be underestimated. High on alert, as the two of them stroll the harborfront after their meal with the dim moonlight watching over them from above, Atsushi feels those tendrils of doubt cling on again weighing his arms down like lead.

If Akutagawa were to attack now, Atsushi wouldn’t know what to do.

Eventually, they make it out to a port, standing by the edge of the water and staring out at its rippling edges; in the reflection under him, Atsushi sees nothing but pure hesitance strewn across his face.

And so, he makes his decision.

“Akutagawa,” Atsushi starts in a rush, but the words near evaporate when the man actually turns his way. Akutagawa is breathtaking in the dark like this, under the cool lighting his pale skin almost seems to glow, angelic and eerie in equal turns. But still beautiful.

Atsushi doesn’t know what he feels about Akutagawa. Just that he doesn’t want to hurt him, not anymore, that he doesn’t want to make him bleed bright pain, that he doesn’t want his only way of meeting him again after this to be by a stone grave.

Atsushi wants Akutagawa here, with him. He wants to know more about him. Because Atsushi only knows Akutagawa like the back of his hand, in the sense that it’s etched into his skin, into his living and impossible to forget. He knows all of Akutagawa’s attacks, the way he functions on and off the battlefield, the way he moves, always poised with a blade’s grace. He knows what ticks him off, what motivates him, knows what it is like to see Akutagawa snap when pushed a little too far, knows how it feels to take the brunt of it all.

But now, after all this— it’s simply not enough.

“Akutagawa,” Atsushi repeats, firmer this time, and he doesn’t hesitate when he takes Akutagawa’s hand in his own, a shot of liquid courage lighting up his insides at how his eyes widen. “I’m sorry.”

Akutagawa blinks, clearly hurt in a way Atsushi has never seen before and never wants to see again. “Pardon me?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t go through with this,” Atsushi says in a rush, and he sees Akutagawa’s mouth open, feels his hands tense, and so he carries on quicker before Akutagawa could say a word, “I know I promised you that we’d fight, that we’d see who was better, but—” Atsushi swallows; the moment of truth. “I can’t kill you.”

Akutagawa’s expression goes from hurt to perplexed at an astronomical speed. “Pardon me?”

“I know it’s unfair, and I know we made that promise,” Atsushi continues to ramble, strengthening his grip, “But I can’t— I can’t hurt you. I don’t want to,” he swallows, and ignores how Akutagawa tries to speak up again. “I understand though if you don’t feel the same way, or if in penance you wish to kill me—”

“Atsushi.” And it’s really the use of his first name that has Atsushi’s mouth snapping shut, blinking up at Akutagawa with wide eyes from where he is at some time having sunk halfway to his knees.

But Akutagawa doesn’t offer any reassurance, any ‘it’s okay’ or ‘I understand’s or 'I'll cut your face off's; instead, he looks at Atsushi like he’s the stupidest person alive before asking, “Atsushi, what do you think this is?”

Atsushi blinks, eyes feeling strangely wet. “What?”

“Is that why you have been acting so strangely?” Akutagawa muses, “Atsushi, did you think this was a duel? That I asked you to battle me today?”

“But—” His mind whirls so quickly that not even he can fully comprehend it himself. “But you said you’d take me out—”

“Yes,” Akutagawa cuts in dryly. “On a date.”

Atsushi blinks. Blinks again. His eyes suddenly feel incredibly wet.

“Are you—? Are you crying?” Akutagawa almost takes a step back, before realizing that’s probably not the best move and moving closer instead. To Atsushi's horror, Akutagawa arms moves to tilt up Atsushi’s chin, just as large glossy tears begin spill down his cheeks, falling onto Akutagawa’s hand.

“Be quiet,” Atsushi hisses, “I thought— I thought I had to kill you. I had funeral plans you know? For both of us?”

“I am aware,” Akutagawa says blankly. He’s turning Atsushi’s chin side to side like he’s a doll, his eyes tracing the tears that fall. Jerk. “Kyouka told me.”

“She what?” Atsushi’s sob turns into a laugh, “And you didn’t think anything was weird about that?”

“I would have thought her to have been planning my death since we first met,” he replies blankly, before letting go of him entirely. The loss of warmth is probably the biggest shock to Atsushi’s system today. So, immediately after, he reaches forwards and takes Akutagawa’s hand. It is still so stupidly cold. It makes an equally stupid smile start to form on Atsushi’s lips.

And Akutagawa looks at him like Atsushi is personally holding up the moon in the sky. “Even after clearing up your foolish assumption, you still—?”

“Obviously.” Atsushi tries to snort, but the snot and tears makes it kind of gross. From the expression on Akutagawa’s face, it is clear he feels the same, “Did you not hear what I said? I—”

An explosion goes off in the distance suddenly, a bright flash of light shooting above their heads; this time, Atsushi really does screech, jumping up and behind Akutagawa’s frame. But Akutagawa expresses no such shock, nor fear.

“I can not believe they actually did it,” Akutagawa says, his tone a cross between touched and absolutely murderous. In the distance, Atsushi hears a faint cry of ‘Akutagawa-senpai!’ followed by a hush and an examination of ‘quiet down, nee-san!’, and he manages to pry his face away from the crook of Akutagawa’s neck just in time to see the shimmering explosion of a firework go off above their head, bright pink and in the shape of a heart.

“Did you have a hand in—”

“No.”

“But Higuchi-san—”

“I—”

Whatever Akutagawa was going to say to defend himself falls upon deaf ears as another firework goes off. Except that instead of shooting into the sky, the pair of them watch on in horror as the firework launches sideways, straight into a departing boat.

“This is why I told them not to—” Akutagawa hisses. In the distance now, other than the Black Lizard’s frantic panicking, Atsushi can make out the sound of police sirens wailing closer and closer.

He tightens his grip on Akutagawa’s hand; meets his eyes, wide and bright and alive.

And then, together, they run.