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His dreams are tainted with rich brunette locks enriched in his blood, a mocking glare from one eye that bleeds superiority and arrogance, causing him to shudder, and rough, calloused hands that comfortably gift bruises on his sickly, pale skin. Yet, he allows it to happen and remembers to breathe after he shouts and before he attacks.
“You are weak.”
His voice eerily echoes everywhere and nowhere, in places he expects and doesn’t.
For all the years he had known him, Akutagawa saw nothing but a cold and ruthless figure donned in bandages and black, egotistically sauntering around his mind, a reminder of strength. He was a God dressed in flesh, walking among mere mortals and Akutagawa had no other choice but to worship him.
For someone who had disappeared without a trace, Dazai sure left a big imprint on his apprentice.
“Why is it you?”
Akutagawa finds out he has been replaced.
He has been replaced by a weak, lanky boy with an awful haircut.
His eyes are purple and yellow, alike the bruises that coloured the blank canvas of his flesh, each one a different memory, a different lesson. For some odd reason, that is the only place Akutagawa sees those awful colours.
His anger is only fuelled further when he sees fear painted in those bruised eyes.
Wasn’t he taught that to show weakness meant you had already lost?
~
Feeling power coursing through his veins, he promptly slices off the boy’s leg, slowly smiling behind a cough when the melodious sounds of sorrowful screaming and screeching fill his ears.
Is this what he heard all those years ago?
The tiger’s moves are sloppy but he is definitely not weak. Fear visibly lingers around the blue aura of the beast, illuminating the visible shock swirling in grey eyes.
The alleyway is no longer darkened and Akutagawa has never felt more indignant in his life.
“Okay, that’s enough.”
The familiar rush of ‘No longer human’ was a bitter, nostalgic sensation, but he had craved it.
As the luminous streams of light subside, stormy eyes seek out the icy glare behind the power; but it was nowhere to be found. Instead, warm sienna irises express amusement and are accompanied by the crooked curve of a smirk, greeting a confused Akutagawa.
“Come on, Atsushi-kun!”
Atsushi-kun?
The man in the black trench coat feels a pang of jealousy and disbelief the moment the man who once harshly trained him softens his gaze and gently approaches the boy with the bruised eyes.
He never called Akutagawa by his name.
Why is it him?
The man in chains is weaker than Akutagawa remembers and he smirks.
“I see… you’ve climbed up the ranks.” The elder of the pair’s voice is softer and sweeter than the younger remembers, but still holds the airy arrogance that blossoms from his personality. It’s almost as if all of his hard work paid off all those years. Akutagawa looks for a sliver of pride within the man across him.
The twenty year old steps closer to the prisoner because he thinks he can’t hurt him anymore.
He is so, very wrong.
He’s far too close to his sun and the wax he had worked so hard to mould into his brittle feathered wings is melting away, far too quickly for him to stop and gather his feathers.
“I’ll say this to you now, but it was a challenge to train you.”
“You are weak.”
The smirk is no longer present on Akutagawa’s ghostly pale face, but on the bloodied brunette’s instead.
“You were a slow learner.”
“Only the strongest survive.”
He feels the need to breathe before the punch and inhales deeply before clenching his fists, ready to fight back. He has prepared himself for the moment he gets to punch Dazai back, to make him feel his pain, his torture, his agony.
“You always disobeyed instructions.”
“You're doing it all wrong!”
He feels every single bruise on every single part of his body resurface and suddenly everything comes crashing down, because he doesn’t want to hear this anymore. He feels blood rising up his throat, threatening to spill out, along with his feelings, for the first time in years (and Dazai hasn't even touched him yet).
“Not to mention that useless ability of yours…”
“I could've killed you by now.”
The ‘dog’ of the port mafia is falling into his thunderstorm of emotions and he realises he isn’t ready to hear whatever is being said. He feels sicker than he usually feels and wants to run away, but somehow he is drawn closer to the offending figure, dragged by his unstable spout of unreleased pain and-
“My new subordinate is far superior to you.”
“You’ve already lost.”
He doesn’t know it yet, but this is the very moment his heart shatters.
His stomach lurches and he no longer feels superior, flying high amid his hubris. He’s sinking and his thoughts are drowning him, pushing the air out of his lungs.
He releases a yell and punches the source of his pain and all he gets back is that conceited smirk. It isn’t as satisfying as he thought it would be and he still feels nauseous. He wants to give back the pain Dazai inflicted on him, yet he doesn’t want to let go; it’s all he has left. He’s eternally anchored with his ailing (and Dazai was never willing to dive that deep for him anyway).
He watches blood drip from his hand and wonders if Dazai ever felt satisfied drawing blood out of his frail, pathetic body, watching it shrivel and crumple over puddles of blood, saliva and silent tears. Maybe this pain was worth keeping, motivating him to survive. But was he so desperate to survive that he would throw it all away for some shameless suicidal soul?
“Why is it him?” Akutagawa whispers as he walks away, too far away and quiet for Dazai to hear.
~
“I did it for Atsushi-kun.”
His chest is in agony and the pain spreads so rapidly that Akutagawa can’t cover his mouth on time when he coughs out blood.
A sentence worth eight syllables was capable of controlling his body to writhe in pain. Yet he allows it to happen, remembering to breathe after he shouts and before he attacks.
“I-I wanted to know who put the bounty on him.”
“To show weakness means you’ve already lost.”
“You may have fooled your apprentice, but you can never fool your old partner.”
“You’ve already lost.”
He doesn’t know why he lingers around the stair case, eavesdropping. Blood drips from his mouth and tastes metallic and bitter and cold when he swallows it, out of sight. (Red never complemented his porcelain skin, anyway.)
But if that is what love tastes like, he would rather starve to death.
He walks away, head held high and hands in the pockets of his armor, the tattered old black trench coat that he couldn’t quite grow into or let go of.
His dreams are still haunted by the same brunette locks, intense stare and calloused hands. But this time, they’re accompanied with lavender and primrose eyes, soft and gentle and so so very weak.
It hurts more than any physical injury he has ever experienced, yet he allows it.
He remembers to breathe after he whispers and before he walks away.
It hurts so much, he wants to die.
What he doesn’t realise is that he doesn’t want to let go of this pain, so he endures it for another day and suddenly the blood doesn’t taste so bitter.
“But just because something tastes sweet, doesn’t mean it is. Don’t be so naïve, boy.”