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Snow is the enemy.
Many things are.
His body, for one. Wretched and wrecked and unable to withstand the things he needed to do. Enough so that he has to have Rashomon wrap around him like armor so he can puppet himself through battle.
Only, now he isn’t quite so miserable. His breathing has improved. He has gained weight. He is sleeping through the night.
Still, he has other enemies.
Dazai for example. Someone he hates. Someone he… well, he does not know if he loved him. Even when he wrapped a coat around his shoulders and gave him a reason to live, he does not think it was love he felt. Gratitude, maybe. Grief. Terror. Adulation.
Except… except things are less fraught at the moment. He still obeys his master’s call. (You know why, don’t you?) but he no longer has that yoke around his neck. He can look at Dazai’s number on his screen and hang up. He knows the man is not a monster but, well, just a man. He does not fear him. He can admire his intelligence, he can respect him, but he is no longer Dazai’s dog.
So, not his enemy, but something else.
At least he retains the weretiger as an enemy. The infuriating monster is the antithesis to everything he is. The tiger to his dragon, the light to his dark, the sun to his moon. He holds Dazai’s mentorship, the esteem of his colleagues, a kind and caring heart. He goes left and Atsushi goes right. Even his gaze is the opposite, bright eyes that gleam even in the moonlight, a stark comparison to his own dark and heavy gaze.
Eyes that are on him now, as Atsushi has turned from the window and whispered, “It’s snowing,” in a soft and awestruck voice.
An enemy for certain, one that interferes with Akutagawa’s sleep and wakes up in the middle of the night to tell him it’s snowing.
“I see that weretiger. Go back to bed.” His voice is hoarse with exhaustion. “You have seen snow before, surely.”
“Not like this.”
He cracks one eye open. “Not like what?”
“Uhm…” He reads the truth in Atsushi’s hesitation. It means that whatever Atsushi has to say is quietly devastating, a fact of life from the time before the ADA. It’s the hesitation that comes before he shares a time when he had a nail driven through his foot, or he was starved for two days for breaking a dish, or tied up in a cell for reasons he could not understand at the time. Akutagawa knows better to think he has heard all of the atrocities committed against the child he was back then.
Akutagawa reaches out and finds his hand in the dark. When he does, when fingers curl against him, he squeezes. His hand is warm in his.
“Not that I could enjoy. Not that wasn’t a punishment. Having to go out without shoes. Having to spend the night out there if I’d messed up.” He squeezes Akutagawa’s hand back, then lets go so he can roll onto his side and watch the snow continue to fall outside their window.
He snakes an arm around his waist and settles at the weretiger’s back, so he can watch the snow fall over his shoulder.
It comes in thick puffs and it’s just starting to catch on the trees. The world is quiet outside. They are warm under a thick duvet but there is a crispness to the air, even inside as they are. The snow is a dazzling white, coating all of the city’s sins in a shiny new coat that speaks of potential. It is pretty, even he has to admit. Prettier still is Atsushi, watching with wide eyes. The weretiger is a blessing in and of himself. He is not perfect. Like the snow, a lot of his illusions of purity is just that. An illusion. He can play the martyr when he wants, but he is just as vicious as Akutagawa. He might be cheery, yes, but sometimes there are days when he cannot drag himself out of bed and it is Akutagawa’s turn to care for him, to bring him food and insist he takes a shower. Not perfect, but that’s okay. He himself is far from it.
Atsushi shifts and realizes that he’s still awake. When he catches Akutagawa’s eye he blinks, then looks away. “But right, yeah, sorry, I know it’s late. Wait - what are you -”
His question breaks off in confusion, as Akutagawa is slipping out of bed.
“I’m sorry,” Atsushi says as he starts to apologize. Then a jacket hits him in the face.
“Put that on,” he commands. “And grab a scarf.”
“Oh.” Atsushi follows him in getting out of bed. “Are you-”
“Don’t ask me if I’m sure.”
“Okay.” He sees the moment Atsushi slips from worried Akutagawa is angry, to excited about the prospect in front of them. “Okay!” He smiles, showing a snaggletoothed fang and crinkling his nose. “I’ll race you outside!”
There is a flurry of movement in their bedroom as they dash to get on enough clothing to dart outside. It is a closer battle than might have been expected - Akutagawa uses Rashomon of course, but Atsushi is a heater in and of himself and does not need the confines of things like a jacket or shoes to stay warm.
“Too slow!” he calls out as he darts out the door. Just as fast Rashomon lashes out and wraps around his calf. Atsushi crashes to the ground. He runs past.
“No fair,” he calls out as he scrambles out of Rashomon’s grasp and gets to his feet. Akutagawa turns in the hallway to gloat but then a fuzzy black and white blur darts past him and throws open the door. A gust of chill floods the apartment, but he is too busy catching up to notice.
He supposes it is not fair to call Atsushi his enemy any longer. In fact, he does not think he ever was.