Work Text:
“Mr. A’s Art Class”
Dazai had convinced himself he was only here for research. A children’s art class, after all, was a perfect place to observe developing minds, emotional expression, and how tiny humans managed to be simultaneously sticky and loud. He slipped his hands into his coat pockets and stepped inside the community center classroom.
Instantly, chaos.
Crayons rolled across tables like escapees. Paper stuck to the bottoms of tiny shoes. A six-year-old was aggressively explaining the superiority of glitter glue to a four-year-old who looked near tears. And in the middle of it all stood a very tired assistant art teacher trying to herd everyone into chairs.
“Is Mr. A coming today?” a little girl asked, tugging on the assistant’s sleeve.
“He’s just grabbing more supplies,” the assistant assured her, brushing hair out of her eyes. “He’ll be right—”
The door swung open.
Dazai blinked.
Walking in with a calmness that seemed physically impossible in the face of twenty hyper art gremlins was Akutagawa Ryuunosuke.
But not his Akutagawa—the fierce one, the sharp-tongued one, the one who nearly murdered him at least three times a month. No. This Akutagawa wore an old off-white apron speckled with years of paint—tiny handprints, faded splotches, and at the hem, a row of childish little flowers drawn in markers. Under it, a light blue button-up with the sleeves pushed to his elbows revealed tattoos curling along his arms: colorful flowers blooming up one forearm, and on the backs of his hands, a simple bold “L” and “R.”
A light blue bandana peeked from his pocket. His white pants had a tiny embroidered butterfly on the thigh. On his wrist, a bracelet shaped like a tiny white tiger.
He looked… soft.
“MR. A!!”
The chorus hit like a tidal wave as the kids launched toward him. Akutagawa barely had time to push the box of supplies onto a table before they crashed into his legs and waist.
He wobbled a bit until he crouched down to meet them at eye level, his expression softening in a way Dazai had never seen.
“Good afternoon,” he said, voice quiet but warm.
One child hugged him, and he gently patted their head. Another shoved a messy drawing in his face, and he nodded solemnly, as if examining a priceless artifact. A boy held up his fist; Akutagawa bumped it without hesitation. Another hovered nearby, avoiding contact, and Akutagawa simply offered a tiny bow instead.
Everything was so natural for him. So easy.
Dazai stood frozen in the doorway, hands hanging uselessly at his sides.
Akutagawa—terror of the Port Mafia, scourge of Yokohama, walking embodiment of a thundercloud—smiled faintly as he brushed a strand of hair from a child’s face.
“Alright,” he said, rising with surprising gentleness. “Everyone to your stations. Today we’re learning about warm colors.”
A collective oooooh filled the room.
Dazai’s mouth worked soundlessly before he finally croaked, “Akutagawa?”
Akutagawa looked over, blinking at him like he had just noticed the sun was in the room.
“Oh.” A pause. “Dazai-san. Why are you here?”
“Well—” Dazai gestured vaguely at the children, “—research! The developing minds of children! Emotional insight! The future!”
One girl tugged on Akutagawa’s apron. “Mr. A, is that your friend?”
Akutagawa hesitated. “He’s… an acquaintance.”
Dazai gasped dramatically.
She squinted at Dazai. “He looks weird.”
Akutagawa didn’t even try to defend him. “Yes.”
Dazai clutched his heart in betrayal while the girl nodded in solemn agreement.
Before he could retort, another child grabbed Akutagawa’s hand. “Mr. A, can you help me mix purple again? Mine keeps turning brown!”
Akutagawa nodded and followed them, slipping back into his role as calmly as if he’d been doing it his whole life.
Dazai watched, floored, as Akutagawa knelt beside the child, guiding tiny fingers with infinite patience.
Who knew this was inside him?
Who knew Rashōmon’s Devil also knew how to organize glitter, negotiate crayon turf wars, and single-handedly calm a room full of emotional landmines?
Dazai exhaled, a grin curling onto his lips.
Well.
This was going to be interesting.
Akutagawa stepped toward the front of the room, brushing a fleck of yellow paint from his apron. Instantly—the children quieted. Chairs scooted. Crayons stopped rolling. Even the glitter-debate duo paused mid-argument.
Dazai nearly choked.
How did he do that?
Akutagawa clasped his hands behind his back, posture straight but gentle.
“Today,” he began, his voice soft but firm, “we’re going to talk about warm colors—reds, oranges, and yellows. These colors can make your art feel energetic or comforting.”
As he spoke, his hands moved with him—graceful, fluid motions in sign language. Every key sentence was signed clearly, precisely. His fingers shaped the words with ease:
WARM COLORS. FEELING. MIX. TRY.
In the front row, a small deaf boy named Haru watched him with bright eyes, hands folded neatly in his lap. Akutagawa paused once to make sure Haru caught his attention, then repeated the explanation with slower signs, letting the boy see his mouth movements too.
Haru nodded in understanding, a soft smile blooming.
“Okay,” Akutagawa continued, speaking and signing simultaneously, “now everyone will choose one warm color and make a picture of something that feels happy to you.”
A chorus of excited gasps echoed through the room.
“But—” Akutagawa held up a finger, “—remember to mix your colors carefully. If you mix evry color on your pallet, everything will turn brown.”
A collective shudder from half the class, clearly traumatized from previous mud-colored disasters.
“And,” he added, “if you want help, raise your hand.”
At once, twenty tiny hands shot straight into the air.
Akutagawa blinked slightly surprised. “…Raise your hand when you need help.”
Most of the hands lowered—though a few stayed up because the owners had already forgotten why they raised them in the first place.
Then the room burst into gentle chaos: crayons scratching, paint splatting, little voices mumbling ideas. Dazai stood to the side, stunned, as Akutagawa moved among the tables like it was second nature.
At one table:
A girl frowned at her paper. “Mr. A, my fire looks weird.”
Akutagawa leaned beside her. “Fire is alive. It moves.” He guided her brushstroke lightly. “Try smaller strokes here. And more orange in the center.”
At another:
A boy had already mixed everything into a brown blob. Akutagawa crouched beside him, offering a small smile. “Let’s start again,” he signed and said. “I’ll help you.”
The boy nodded, relieved.
Then Haru waved his hand. Akutagawa approached immediately.
Haru signed, HOW MAKE YELLOW BRIGHTER?
Akutagawa signed back, ADD LITTLE WHITE. NOT TOO MUCH. WATCH.
He carefully dipped a brush and painted a demonstration stroke. Haru grinned, copying him perfectly.
And throughout it all—
He never raised his voice.
Never looked impatient.
Never hesitated to kneel, bend, or sit to be eye-level with them.
Dazai’s jaw slowly dropped further with every passing minute.
This man is a natural, he thought, almost offended.
When the boy who didn’t like touch held up a paintbrush like a sword, Akutagawa simply smiled softly and said, “Good job.”
When a girl asked why his hands said “L” and “R,” he explained, “So I don’t accidentally loosen a screw or tighten a jar,” he said completely straight-faced—and she accepted this as profound wisdom, with a serious nod she walked back to her seat.
By the time every child was focused and creating something they were proud of, Akutagawa glanced up
And caught Dazai staring at him with an expression he didn’t know Dazai could make:
Shock. Genuine admiration. And maybe a little awe.
Akutagawa blinked.
“…What?”
Dazai shook his head slowly.
“Nothing,” he murmured. “Just… learning more about the developing mind.”
But Akutagawa suspected Dazai had learned something very different today.
A sharp crash! cut through the chatter.
Every kid froze.
Dazai jerked his head toward the sound—half-expecting Rashōmon to explode across the room or for Akutagawa to snap with the same intensity he used in Port Mafia briefings.
A little boy stood beside a table, eyes wide, a cup shattered at his feet. Water spread in a thin puddle around the glitter and paint stains already on the floor.
The room held its breath.
Dazai braced himself.
Here it comes, he thought. Akutagawa’s about to—
But Akutagawa just walked over. Calm. Even-paced. Completely unfazed.
He knelt beside the child, placing a steady hand on his shoulder—not gripping, not scolding, just grounding.
“Are you hurt?” he asked quietly.
The boy sniffled, shaking his head. “N-No… I’m sorry…”
“It’s okay.” Akutagawa checked his hands, his shoes, his sleeves for cuts—carefully, gently. “You’re not hurt. That’s what matters.”
Dazai’s jaw nearly hit the floor.
Akutagawa reached for a towel, blocking the child with his body so no one would step near the glass. Without a hint of frustration, he dried up the water first so the kids wouldn’t slip. Then he swept the glass into a dustpan with practiced ease—like this wasn’t the first cup casualty of the semester.
He even picked up the smaller shards with a wet paper towel to be safe.
Not once did his voice rise.
Not once did impatience flicker in his eyes.
When he stood again, he tossed the trash away, wiped his hands on his apron, and went to the cabinet.
The boy stood curled in on himself, waiting for anger that never came.
Instead, Akutagawa offered him a small smile and a clean plastic cup.
“Here,” he said softly. “Accidents happen. Try this one—it’s harder to break.”
The boy’s face brightened instantly, shoulders relaxing.
“Thank you, Mr. A…”
“You’re welcome,” Akutagawa replied, patting his head once before moving to help another child mix paint.
Dazai stared.
Stared.
Akutagawa—deadly, volatile, chronically pissed-off Akutagawa—had just handled a stressful situation like he’d been trained by the universe’s gentlest monk.
Dazai approached slowly.
“You…” he began, eyes narrowed in disbelief, “…didn’t yell.”
Akutagawa arched a brow. “Why would I yell? He was scared.”
Dazai pointed a dramatic finger at him. “But you yell at me! Constantly!”
Akutagawa didn’t even look up from adjusting a child’s paint palette.
“That’s different,” he said simply.
“How?!” Dazai sputtered.
Akutagawa gave him a bored glance. “You deserve it.”
One of the kids giggled. Dazai gasped, offended and betrayed.
Meanwhile, Akutagawa handed a tiny paintbrush back to a little girl and added softly, “Good job mixing your colors.”
And somehow—Dazai wasn’t sure how—he realized:
This was the calmest he’d ever seen Akutagawa.
This room. These kids. This softness.
This was a side of him almost no one else got to see.
And Dazai felt the smallest tug in his chest—curiosity, affection, and a strange respect he couldn’t explain.
Dazai leaned back against a supply shelf, arms loosely crossed as he watched Akutagawa move around the classroom—quiet, steady, completely in his element.
It was strange. Strange in a way that made Dazai feel like he was seeing something private.
Then, as Akutagawa bent down to help a child fix their paintbrush grip, something glinted at his collar.
Dazai squinted.
There—peeking out from the neckline of that light blue button-up.
A thin gold chain.
And at the end of it…
A locket.
A heart-shaped, gold locket resting against Akutagawa’s chest, the metal catching the sun from the window. Long chain. Soft shine. Very unlike the sharp, cold aesthetic Akutagawa usually lived in.
Dazai straightened slowly.
“…Hooo?” he murmured to himself, eyes narrowing in gleeful suspicion.
He stepped closer, pretending to inspect the children’s warm-color paintings while actually leaning just enough to confirm what he saw.
Yes. Definitely a locket.
A sentimental piece.
A personal piece.
And Akutagawa wore it like it was second nature.
Dazai blinked.
He had never—not once—seen him wear jewelry . And this wasn’t Port Mafia gear, or some accessory for effect.
This was something someone cherished.
Something someone kept close to their heart.
Dazai’s brain began spinning with theories.
Is it from a family member? Did he buy it? Did someone give it to him? Is there a PICTURE inside? Oh, this is delicious.
He was seconds from concocting a dramatic theory involving childhood love, secret pasts, and tragic memories when—
A little girl tugged on Akutagawa’s apron and asked, “Mr. A, what’s that necklace?”
Akutagawa blinked, lifted a hand to the locket instinctively, and paused.
He didn’t hide it.
He didn’t snap.
He just… touched it gently.
“It’s my locket,” he said softly. “It’s special to me.”
“Why?” she asked, blinking big curious eyes.
Akutagawa hesitated only a moment—just long enough for Dazai to register that it meant something.
“Because,” he said quietly, “it reminds me of someone important.”
Dazai’s mind exploded.
WHO?! WHO?? WHO IS IMPORTANT?!
He stepped forward so fast he nearly tripped over a stool.
“Someone important, hmm?” Dazai said, voice far too bright. “Who might that be, Akutagawa~?”
Akutagawa turned, meeting his gaze with the flattest expression humanly possible.
“None of your business,” he said bluntly.
Dazai clutched his chest in equal parts offense and nosy curiosity. “Tell meee—”
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
A kid tugged Dazai’s sleeve. “Mister weird man, you’re interrupting class.”
Dazai froze. “Mister—what?”
The child pointed. “Mr. A’s teaching.”
Akutagawa gave the faintest smirk.
Dazai deflated.
But as he backed away, his eyes drifted again to the locket glinting against Akutagawa’s chest.
Mysterious. Out of character. Precious.
Dazai grinned to himself.
He would get answers.
Eventually.
But for now, he settled against the wall again, watching as Akutagawa bent down to help Haru sign "duck" inside of "fuck"
A long gold chain glimmered faintly with each movement.
And Dazai thought—not for the first time—
There was more to Akutagawa Ryuunosuke than anyone realized.
Dazai was not letting this go.
Not when Akutagawa was walking around with a gold heart-shaped locket like he was starring in a quiet romance novel instead of a crime syndicate.
He waited until Akutagawa had finished showing a child how to mix yellow into orange with red. The second Akutagawa straightened, Dazai slid in beside him like a detective who absolutely should not be trusted.
“So,” Dazai said lightly, “someone important, huh? Someone you keep close to your heart?”
Akutagawa picked up a paint cup, ignoring him entirely.
Dazai leaned closer. “A friend? A family member? Someone from your past? Someone tragically lost? Someone—”
Akutagawa didn’t even look at him.
“My boyfriend,” he said plainly, voice calm and level—as if stating the color of the sky—and then walked away to help a child adjust their paper.
Dazai froze.
…What?
The paint room faded around him.
The chatter of kids dissolved.
His brain did a full, audible reboot.
B—boyfriend??
He blinked once.
Twice.
A third time, slower, as if that would make the word rearrange itself into something else.
But no. Akutagawa was already kneeling beside Haru, signing GOOD JOB while the little boy proudly held up a painting that looked like a sun exploding.
Composed. Unbothered. Like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb.
Meanwhile, Dazai felt like someone had unplugged him from reality.
Akutagawa has a boyfriend.
Akutagawa.
THE Akutagawa.
Deadliest snarling disaster in Yokohama by night, beloved art teacher by day.
Dazai’s mouth opened soundlessly as he pointed at the locket, his brain catching up painfully slow.
“…You’re gay?”
Akutagawa didn’t even glance up from cleaning a paintbrush. “Yes.”
“Yes??” Dazai sputtered. “Just—yes?? No dramatic reveal? No tension? No backstory monologue? You just—say it?”
Akutagawa shrugged. “It’s not complicated.”
Dazai staggered back a step, clutching his chest like he’d been shot. “Not complicated? Not complicated?? Akutagawa—Ryuunosuke—you’ve been in the mafia for years and you think this is the thing that’s not complicated?!”
One of the kids looked up. “Mister weird man, are you having a crisis?”
Dazai dropped to his knees, hands in his hair. “I might be.” another kid looks at Dazai and whispers to a girl next to him "he looks as straight as Mr.A's rainbow bendy ruler" the girl next to him nods seriously before going back to her drawing of fire.
Meanwhile, Akutagawa calmly patted a child’s shoulder and said, “Ignore him,” as if Dazai wasn’t collapsing behind him in emotional disarray.
But after a moment, Akutagawa glanced over his shoulder—just once, just briefly—and there was the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. Barely there. Almost invisible.
If Dazai hadn’t been staring at him like a broken robot, he might’ve missed it.
Instead, Dazai whispered dramatically, “I can’t believe I learned more about you in this art class than in two years of working together.”
Akutagawa raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you should attend more often, I've seen your suspect sketches.”
The kids giggled.
Dazai swore he’d never recover from this.
But as he looked again at the locket resting gently against Akutagawa’s chest—heart-shaped, gold, clearly loved—he realized something.
There were parts of Akutagawa he had never expected to see.
And maybe…
He had only seen the surface.
Dazai was still processing—still kneeling dramatically on the floor—when one of the kids at the paint table piped up, completely oblivious to the emotional meltdown occurring three feet away.
“Mr. A,” the girl said, kicking her legs under her chair, “is Mr. Nakajima coming to visit again today?”
Akutagawa, who’d been wiping paint off a brush, paused.
Just paused.
And then—
He smiled.
A soft, warm, unguarded smile that Dazai had quite literally never seen on his face. Not even once. The kind of smile a person made when they heard a name that lived somewhere safe in their heart.
A faint pink dusted across his cheeks—barely there, but unmistakable.
“Yes,” Akutagawa said quietly, almost shyly. “He’s stopping by after work.”
Dazai’s entire world stopped.
Akutagawa just—blushed?!
The girl beamed. “Yay! He always helps us with the markers! And he draws animals with us!”
Another kid chimed in, “Yeah, Mr. Nakajima makes the best tiger noises!”
Akutagawa’s faint blush deepened, and he cleared his throat, trying—failing—to look neutral. “He’s… good with children.”
Dazai stared at him.
Stared at him like he had never seen him before.
“Mr. Nakajima…?” Dazai repeated slowly, his voice cracking on the name. “As in—Atsushi Nakajima?”
Akutagawa’s ears turned pink.
“Yes,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Dazai slapped both hands to his face. “Atsushi?! ATSUSHI?! You’re dating Atsushi?! The two of you are—?! You—l o c k e t—t h e—heart—Atsushi—?!”
Akutagawa calmly moved a paint cup away from a child about to spill it. “Dazai-san, please lower your voice. You’re scaring the children.”
“I’M scaring the—?! YOU’RE—THIS—WHAT—”
A small boy tugged on Dazai’s sleeve. “Mister weird man, are you okay?”
Dazai seized the edge of a desk as if for stability. “No. No, little one. Mister Weird Man is not okay.” Dazai said while looking like he's having a mid life crisis.
Meanwhile, Akutagawa pretended he wasn’t smothering a smile, but the blush lingered stubbornly across his cheeks.
The kids continued:
“Mr. Nakajima said he likes your flowers, Mr. A!”
“Mr. Nakajima brings snacks sometimes!”
“He helps you clean up when he visits!”
“And he looked really happy last week when you hugged him—”
“Okay,” Akutagawa cut in swiftly, cheeks blooming red now. “Let’s focus on our warm colors, please.”
Dazai slowly sank to the floor again.
“Akutagawa… Ryuunosuke… Mister brooding storm cloud… is dating the sunshine boy…” he whispered to himself, staring into nothing.
Meanwhile, Akutagawa kneaded gentle fingers through a child’s hair to fix a paint-splattered cowlick, his blush still faint but present.
And for the first time ever…
He looked almost soft.
Almost glowing.
Someone said “Nakajima,” and Akutagawa smiled like the name alone was warmth.
And Dazai realized—
He had never stood a chance at understanding Akutagawa fully.
Not until now.
The classroom door clicked open.
Atsushi stepped inside, brushing wind-tousled hair out of his eyes. His dark brown jacket was half-zipped over a crisp white button-up, cargo shorts brushing his knees, boots thudding softly on the floor. The gold heart locket around his neck glimmered faintly with each step.
And on the back of his neck—inked in soft gray lines—clouds curled and swirled, wrapping around to disappear beneath the collar of his shirt.
Dazai noticed immediately. Matching lockets. Tattoos. Domestic energy.
He almost fainted for the second time that hour.
But his attention was pulled upward when he saw what Akutagawa was doing.
Akutagawa stood near the drying rack with a child perched comfortably on his shoulders—the kid reaching high, fingers stretching toward a paper clipped to the top row.
Akutagawa held him steady with both hands, completely unfazed.
“Got it!” the kid cheered, triumphant as he plucked down his painting.
Akutagawa carefully lifted him down, setting him on the ground like he weighed nothing, smoothing the boy’s shirt after.
A small laugh came from the doorway.
Atsushi. Watching with the softest expression Dazai had ever seen on him.
“You always find the shortest kids to reach the tallest things,” Atsushi teased gently.
Akutagawa turned, and the faintest pink touched his cheeks. “They asked.”
Atsushi stepped closer, his boots tapping lightly against the floor. The kids lit up instantly.
“Mr. Nakajima!!”
They rushed him, swarming his legs, tugging at his jacket, asking if he brought snacks or if he could draw another tiger or if he could help them find the purple marker.
Atsushi laughed, ruffling a few heads.
But his eyes kept drifting to Akutagawa.
And that gold heart locket around his neck swung slightly as he leaned down to high-five a child.
Dazai pointed dramatically. “You two—YOU’RE MATCHING—”
Before he could erupt further, he noticed the intricate tattoo swirling on the back of Atsushi’s neck.
“Atsushi-kun,” Dazai demanded, “since WHEN do you have tattoos?!”
Atsushi blinked, touching his neck. “Oh—this? Ryuu designed it.”
Dazai slowly turned toward Akutagawa, betrayed by reality. “…It goes down his back." Akutagawa said like it was obvious.
Akutagawa nodded. “All the way to my lower back.”
Dazai sputtered like an overworked kettle.
Meanwhile, Atsushi walked over to Akutagawa, brushing aside a loose strand of black hair.
“You’ve got paint on your cheek,” he murmured, smiling.
Before Akutagawa could answer, Atsushi leaned in and kissed him there—soft, warm, tender.
A faint pink lip tint was left behind.
Akutagawa froze for half a second.
Then the tension melted from his shoulders, his eyes going soft—almost glowing.
One of the kids gasped. “Mr. A’s blushing!”
Akutagawa shot Dazai a look that promised violence if he dared comment.
Dazai raised both hands. “I won’t say a word. I’ll just scream internally.”
Atsushi adjusted his jacket, glancing at the clock. “I just stopped by to drop off the markers and remind you I’m making dinner tonight.” He smiled, slightly sheepish. “Text me when you’re heading home, okay?”
Akutagawa nodded, quiet affection flickering in his eyes. “I will.”
Atsushi waved to the kids, received a chorus of “Bye Mr. Nakajima!!,” and slipped out the door, his locket gleaming as it vanished behind it.
And as the door clicked shut, the room felt a little warmer.
Dazai stared at Akutagawa for a long moment.
“…You’re in love.”
Akutagawa, still faintly pink where Atsushi kissed him, answered softly:
“Yes.”
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Sorry if characters are ooc idk how to write them super well, any-gay I hope you enjoyed!!!