Chapter Text
The bell over the tattoo studio’s door chimed a soft, metallic note as Atsushi stepped inside. The scent hit him first—sterile alcohol, warm ink, a hint of sandalwood from the incense burning quietly on the counter. The place felt nothing like the horror he’d expected. It was… calm. Almost safe.
A single tattoo chair sat in the back, bathed in amber light. Standing beside it was the artist.
Akutagawa Ryuunosuke.
He looked exactly like the rumours described—a man cut from black ink and sharp lines, hair falling in an asymmetrical curtain over his pale face, eyes dark enough that it was impossible to tell where pupil ended and iris began. His gloves were already on, his tools meticulously aligned.
Atsushi swallowed.
“Um—hi. I’m here for my appointment.”
Akutagawa’s gaze flicked to him, unreadable, not cold exactly… but intense. “Atsushi Nakajima?”
“Y-Yes.”
A small nod. “You’re on time. Good. Sit.”
Atsushi obeyed, dropping into the chair like his knees were made of paper. He wrung his hands together in his lap, unable to stop the small tremors running through him.
Akutagawa studied him for a moment. “Is this your first time getting a tattoo?”
“It is.” Atsushi’s voice cracked. He coughed lightly, trying again. “…I’d like a scar cover-up.”
A pause. Not judgement—just stillness, like Akutagawa was waiting for him to continue.
Atsushi took a shaky breath.
“I—I want something big enough to hide most of it. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time but… artists usually refuse when they see it.”
“See what?” Akutagawa asked flatly.
His throat tightened.
He didn’t want to do this part. Didn’t want someone else to look at him like he was a ruined thing. But if he didn’t show it… no one would ever cover it.
Slowly, with hands that shook so badly it took effort to grip the hem, Atsushi pulled off his shirt.
He turned around.
For a moment nothing happened.
And then—
Akutagawa’s breath stopped.
Ten seconds. Maybe longer. Atsushi couldn’t see his expression, but he could feel it—the kind of silence that shifts the temperature of the room.
Because Atsushi’s back was ruined.
Raised scars carved like gouges, silver-white stripes that clawed down his spine, old burns blooming like warped flowers across his ribs. A body shaped not by chance but by cruelty. Torture rendered in flesh.
A story written by someone who never believed the boy would survive long enough for anyone else to read it.
Atsushi’s shoulders tightened as shame prickled his skin. “Sorry,” he whispered. “It’s not quite—well. I understand if you’d refuse, really. I just thought maybe—”
He began turning around, ready to grab his shirt, ready to leave.
“No.”
Atsushi froze.
Akutagawa’s voice was low, rougher than before—scraped out of somewhere deeper.
“I’m going to give you that tattoo.”
Atsushi blinked. “You… you will?”
Akutagawa stepped closer. Not touching him—just close enough that Atsushi felt the warmth of his presence.
“These scars aren’t something to hide because they’re ugly.” His eyes travelled slowly across the map of healed wounds. “They’re something to honour because you’re still alive.”
Atsushi’s breath hitched.
“I…” He swallowed hard. “I don’t want them to be all people see.”
“They won’t,” Akutagawa said. “Not after tonight.”
A long, careful moment passed.
Then Akutagawa walked around him, pulling over a rolling stool. “Tell me what you want. Not just the style—tell me what you want this tattoo to say.”
Atsushi thought for a moment.
“I want it to mean that… I’m not what happened to me.”
His voice trembled.
“And that I’m still trying.”
Akutagawa’s expression softened in a way that almost didn’t seem possible for his sharp features.
“I can work with that.”
He pulled out his sketchbook and began drawing. His hands moved with a precision and grace that made Atsushi stare. He wasn’t just drawing lines—he was shaping intention, possibility, a future.
After several minutes, Akutagawa turned the sketchpad around.
A tiger—fierce, climbing upward, surrounded by curling waves and peonies. Not broken. Not wounded. Ascending.
Atsushi’s breath caught painfully. “That’s—beautiful.”
“It’s you,” Akutagawa said simply.
Atsushi blinked rapidly, overwhelmed. “Thank you. Really. I… I don’t know how to—”
“No need.” Akutagawa stood. “Lay down. Face forward. I’ll start with a gentle line test to see how your skin reacts.”
Atsushi did as told, pressing his cheek to the cool leather of the chair.
Akutagawa adjusted the light, then rested his hand lightly over one of the larger scars. Not touching the tenderest part—just enough to ground him.
“You’re safe,” he murmured, so quietly Atsushi wondered if he imagined it.
Then the tattoo machine buzzed alive.
The first touch of the needle sent a small jolt through Atsushi’s body—but something strange happened.
He didn’t flinch.
Akutagawa’s hand remained steady, guiding the machine with deliberate, reverent strokes. Pain bloomed, sharp and warm, but it wasn’t the same pain that had carved the scars. This pain was different.
This pain was creation, not destruction.
Time dissolved into soft breaths and the hum of the machine. Every so often, Akutagawa paused to wipe ink from Atsushi’s back—his touch oddly gentle for someone with such severe eyes.
“Does it hurt too much?” Akutagawa asked quietly.
“No,” Atsushi murmured. “It… actually feels okay.”
“Good.”
After nearly two hours, Akutagawa stopped.
“We’ll continue next session,” he said. “I don’t want to overwhelm your skin the first day.”
Atsushi pushed himself up slowly and turned to look at him, shirt still off, feeling strangely unashamed.
“Thank you,” he said again, voice thick. “Really. I wasn’t expecting anyone to accept…”
“I don’t accept clients,” Akutagawa said bluntly. “I accept people.”
Atsushi’s eyes widened.
“I accepted you.”
Silence stretched between them—heavy, warm, charged.
Atsushi swallowed. “So… do I book the next session at the counter?”
“No.” Akutagawa reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “You contact me directly.”
Atsushi stared at it.
“You don’t do that for everyone, do you?”
“No.”
Atsushi felt heat rush to his cheeks.
“…Okay. I will.”
Akutagawa nodded once. “Good.”
Atsushi slipped his shirt back on, opened his phone, and saved the number before he could chicken out.
As he walked toward the door, Akutagawa called out:
“Atsushi.”
He turned.
Akutagawa’s eyes were softer than ink, warmer than fire.
“When this is done,” he said, “you’ll never look at your back with fear again.”
Atsushi held his gaze.
“Not fear,” he said quietly. “Hope.”
And for the first time in years…
He meant it.