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Atsushi comes back to consciousness slowly, like someone surfacing from the bottom of a lake. Everything is heavy—his eyelids, his limbs, even the air feels thick enough to choke on. The world filters in through muted senses: the smell of damp concrete, the faint hum of city traffic somewhere overhead, the warmth of a hand pressed to his shoulder.
Then someone speaks.
“You’ll have to forgive Atsushi here,” a familiar voice croons in a singsong tone. “He’s suffering from a temporary bout of memory loss.”
Atsushi blinks, squinting up at a silhouette. Brown hair. A ridiculous smile. A bandaged neck. He feels like he should know this man—like the sight of him should spark something important.
Instead, his mind is empty as a wiped slate.
“Memory… loss?” Atsushi echoes, throat dry.
“That’s right!” the man chirps, rocking back on his heels. “Atsushi-kun, this is your partner, Akutagawa Ryuunosuke.”
Atsushi sits up too quickly. Pain lances through his skull, white and sharp.
“Partner?” he rasps.
He turns to the second figure he hadn’t noticed before.
A man in black. Long coat torn at the hem. Pale skin. Sharp eyes that look like they could cut glass. His expression holds the restraint of a man wrestling down a hundred emotions behind a single breath.
Akutagawa Ryuunosuke.
The name means nothing. And yet—
A strange tug thrums in Atsushi’s chest. Familiarity. Fear. Something almost like anticipation.
Akutagawa stares at him as if he’s waiting for something—some recognition, some insult, some challenge. When none comes, his jaw tightens.
“…You really don’t remember,” Akutagawa says quietly, more statement than question.
His voice is icy, but underneath it is something Atsushi can’t name. Something thin and fragile.
Dazai claps his hands once.
“Well! While Atsushi-kun’s brain reboots, let me fill him in on the situation. You both were on an assignment—”
“We were handling it,” Akutagawa snaps, eyes flicking away. “Until Atsushi rushed in without thinking.”
“I did?” Atsushi asks, genuinely confused.
Dazai sighs dramatically. “It was very heroic, very noble, very predictable. Unfortunately, the enemy’s ability—Mnemonic Void—hit you directly. Poof! Bye-bye memories. Only temporary, of course. Probably. Maybe. I think.”
Atsushi stares at him in increasing horror. “ONLY PROBABLY?”
Dazai beams as if this is great news. “Welcome back, sunshine!”
They move to a safer location—a quiet warehouse near the river. Akutagawa walks half a step ahead, coat swaying, posture stiff. Dazai keeps up a constant stream of unnecessary commentary, clearly enjoying himself far too much.
Atsushi follows them, hands shoved in his pockets, trying to make sense of his world.
“Um… Mr. Dazai?” Atsushi finally asks. “Who am I exactly?”
Dazai lights up. “Oh! You’re Atsushi Nakajima. Eighteen. Member of the Agency. Tiger ability. Chronic overthinker. Emotionally volatile but lovable.”
Atsushi flushes. “Oh.”
“And utterly devoted to your partner,” Dazai adds casually.
Atsushi freezes. “Devoted?”
Akutagawa nearly trips over his own feet.
“I—what?” Atsushi splutters.
Dazai hums. “Emotionally, spiritually, combat-wise—”
“Dazai,” Akutagawa growls, voice low with murderous promise.
“Oh look!” Dazai chirps brightly. “Akutagawa’s jealous—how nostalgic!”
“I am not—jealous—of this idiot’s inability to remember basic information!”
Atsushi stares between them, feeling more lost by the minute.
“…So you’re my partner?” he asks Akutagawa softly.
Akutagawa stiffens, eyes flicking to Atsushi before darting away.
“In combat. Only in combat.”
“Oh,” Atsushi murmurs. For a reason he can’t explain, that answer stings.
While Dazai vanishes to “check intel” (which probably means he’s off eating snacks), Atsushi and Akutagawa are left alone in the warehouse.
Atsushi fidgets. Akutagawa pretends not to watch him fidget.
Finally, Atsushi sighs.
“I’m sorry. I know this must be… inconvenient for you.”
Akutagawa scoffs. “Your brain damage is hardly my concern.”
Atsushi raises a brow. “Really? Because you keep glancing at me like you’re waiting for me to remember something.”
Akutagawa’s ears turn faintly red.
“I—am not.”
“You just did it again.”
“I—shut up.”
Atsushi tilts his head, curiosity outweighing caution.
“Were we close?”
Akutagawa’s throat bobs.
“In… some ways,” he says quietly. “Familiarity breeds efficiency.”
“Is that all?”
A long silence.
Finally Akutagawa speaks again, each word dragged out of him like it’s painful.
“…You were insufferable. Annoying. Recklessly self-sacrificing.”
Atsushi blinks. “That sounds negative.”
“And,” Akutagawa adds, voice barely above a whisper, “you trusted me.”
The words hang between them like fragile glass.
Atsushi’s breath hitches. He doesn’t know why—he doesn’t remember—but something in his chest aches.
“…Did I?” he asks quietly.
“Yes.” Akutagawa looks away. “More than I deserved.”
Atsushi’s amnesia doesn’t erase instincts. When Akutagawa trips on some debris, Atsushi moves without thinking—quick, fluid, protective—catching him by the elbow.
Akutagawa startles. “What—what are you—”
“Sorry!” Atsushi yelps, stepping back. “It was instinct.”
Akutagawa’s eyes widen, just a fraction.
“…You always did things like that,” he mutters.
“Like what?”
“Protecting me.”
Atsushi blushes. “Oh.”
“And being unbearably sentimental.”
“That sounds right.”
Akutagawa huffs a quiet laugh. It’s small. Barely there. But it softens his entire face.
Atsushi stares at him, oddly mesmerized.
“…Hey,” he murmurs, voice gentle. “Could you tell me something?”
Akutagawa lifts a brow. “What now?”
“What was I to you? Before all this?”
Akutagawa freezes.
His throat works. His hands curl at his sides. He looks away, words dragged out of him in a brittle whisper:
“…A rival. A nuisance. A burden.”
A pause.
“…And something more I never found the word for.”
Atsushi’s heart stutters.
He steps closer. “Do you want me to remember you?”
Akutagawa’s breath catches.
“More than anything,” he whispers, before he can stop himself.
Dazai chooses that exact moment to reappear, clapping loudly.
“Well! I’ve confirmed it. The ability’s effects will fade soon. A few hours, maybe.”
Atsushi swallows hard.
“So I’ll remember everything?”
“Yes! Every fight, every moment, every time you and Akutagawa bickered like an old married couple.”
“We do not—” both men shout at the same time.
Dazai beams. “Look! Perfect synchronization. Partners to the core.”
Akutagawa looks like he wants to melt into a puddle and die.
Atsushi rubs his temple. “Right. So soon, I’ll remember… us. Everything.”
“Yes,” Akutagawa says quietly. “You will.”
Atsushi hesitates.
“Before I do…” He steps closer. “Can I ask something?”
Akutagawa braces himself.
“…Were we happy?”
Akutagawa’s breath catches so sharply it sounds like pain.
But his answer is soft. Honest.
“…Sometimes.”
Atsushi nods, feeling warmth bloom in his chest.
“That’s enough,” he says. “For now.”
Hours later, the ache in Atsushi’s head intensifies. Flashes of images. Voices. Shadows. Laughter. Fighting. Akutagawa. Akutagawa. Akutagawa.
His eyes fly open.
“I remember.”
Akutagawa whirls around, breath hitching.
“Do you?”
Atsushi takes a shaky step forward.
“Yes. Everything.”
Then, softer:
“Especially you.”
Something breaks in Akutagawa’s expression—shame, relief, something rawer than either.
Atsushi smiles faintly.
“And for the record?”
He touches Akutagawa’s sleeve.
“You weren’t just my partner.”
Akutagawa’s breath catches.
“You were the person I always kept trying to reach.”
Akutagawa stares at him—silent, still, stunned.
Then, finally, barely audible:
“…Welcome back.”
Atsushi laughs softly.
“It’s good to be back.”
And for the first time all day, Akutagawa lets himself breathe.