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Akutagawa’s hand trembled as he gripped the edge of the hallway wall. His knees were still unsteady from having sat hunched over the low coffee table for—what had it been? Four hours? Five? The unfinished reports scattered around his apartment would say longer. His head pulsed with the dull, throbbing ache only sleep deprivation could produce, and each step he took felt like wading through water.
He reached the door at last, fingers brushing the cold metal of the handle. He inhaled once, sharply—an attempt at gathering what little energy he had left—and pulled it open.
The rasp of breath that left him was not a gasp but something dangerously close to one.
There, on the other side of the doorway, stood Atsushi Nakajima.
Soaked. Literally dripping. Hair plastered to his face in pale blond streaks, jacket stuck to his shoulders like he’d crawled out of a river rather than walked through rain. He looked like a very miserable, very wet cat, blinking up at Akutagawa as though unsure whether he’d knock or run away.
And unfortunately for him, Akutagawa had opened the door first.
“Weretiger,” he said, voice thin and rasped, more from exhaustion than disgust—but Atsushi didn’t need to know that. “What are you doing here? Must you interrupt my solitude twice in one day?”
He coughed immediately after, turning his head with a sharp wince. There was no hiding it. He looked awful: sleep-starved pallor, dark bruised circles under his eyes, shoulders slumped beneath the weight of too many hours awake.
Atsushi nervously wrapped his arms around himself, shivering so visibly it made Akutagawa’s eye twitch. “Uh… funny thing actually…”
He tried for a laugh. It came out pathetic.
“The girls are having a sleepover at mine and Kyouka’s place,” he continued, voice trembling just a little each time a cold shiver ran down his spine. “And Dazai’s over at Chuuya-san’s—don’t ask, I have no idea why—and, um… when I was halfway home it suddenly started pouring.”
Akutagawa stared.
Just stared.
For five long, absolutely silent seconds.
His blank expression didn’t even seem to land on Atsushi—more like he was staring through him, at some nonexistent writing on the wall behind him. Atsushi shifted uneasily, half expecting Rashōmon to suddenly appear and fling him back down the hallway.
But nothing happened.
Instead, Akutagawa blinked… slowly. Twice.
“You’re soaked,” he said at last. Flat. Obvious.
“Yes,” Atsushi squeaked.
“You look ridiculous.”
“I—I know.”
“You’ll drip on my floors.”
Atsushi wilted. “Sorry.”
Another long pause. Akutagawa looked like he was doing some very intense mental math, the kind only chronically exhausted, emotionally repressed mafia members could possibly understand.
Then, with a sigh that sounded like it physically pained him, he stepped aside.
“Well? Come inside. Before you get pneumonia and make this my problem.”
Atsushi practically tripped into the apartment, mumbling thanks as he tried not to leave puddles everywhere. Akutagawa shut the door behind him, leaning on it for a moment as if the simple motion threatened to topple him.
“You’re shaking,” he said bluntly.
Atsushi nodded, embarrassed. “It’s… cold.”
“Obviously.”
Rashōmon twitched irritably at his shoulder—uncomfortable, annoyed, but begrudgingly obedient. A black tendril snapped out and grabbed a towel from the shelf by the laundry nook, tossing it in Atsushi’s direction.
Atsushi yelped, barely catching it.
“You could have handed it to me,” he complained.
“I could have,” Akutagawa replied, monotone. “But this is already more charity than you deserve.”
Still, he was watching him. Carefully. Too carefully. Eyes sharp despite the exhaustion dragging his posture downward.
Atsushi scrubbed at his hair, teeth chattering. Water pooled at his feet. Akutagawa groaned under his breath.
“Take off the jacket,” he instructed. “You’re making a mess.”
Atsushi obeyed instantly, peeling the wet garment off and standing there awkwardly in his damp shirt. The apartment air wasn’t warm enough to combat the cold seeping into his bones.
Akutagawa sighed again—long, weary, defeated.
“You won’t make it back to your place like this,” he muttered. “The rain’s too heavy.”
Atsushi swallowed. “Um… yeah. I kind of figured that out.”
“So stay here.”
Atsushi blinked. “What?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Akutagawa snapped weakly. “You’ll spend the night here. I’d rather tolerate your presence than drag your corpse to Yosano in the morning.”
Heat bloomed across Atsushi’s cheeks. Not because of the words—Akutagawa was always dramatic about death—but because he said it like it was the most logical conclusion in the world.
The apartment was small, dimly lit. The soft hum of the heater filled the silence between them. Atsushi rubbed at his wet sleeves, still trembling.
Akutagawa noticed.
Without a word, he walked toward his bedroom. His steps were slow, uneven. He returned with a spare sweater—thin, black, worn at the cuffs.
He held it out like an offering he desperately wanted to take back.
Atsushi stared. “Is… is that yours?”
Akutagawa glared. “Do you see anyone else living here?”
“I—right! Sorry!”
He took it with both hands, careful, as though it were some fragile artifact rather than a piece of clothing. When he slipped it on, the warmth hit him immediately. And the scent.
Atsushi froze.
Why did Akutagawa’s clothes smell… nice?
Not cologne. Just… clean. Crisp. A little herbal. Something soft beneath the exhaustion and sharpness he always carried.
He cleared his throat quickly. “Um. Thank you.”
Akutagawa looked away. “Don’t read into it.”
“Oh. I wouldn’t!”
“Good.”
Atsushi watched him for a moment. For all his barbs and cold tone, Akutagawa’s shoulders were slumped—not defensive, but tired. Very tired. He wasn’t pacing. He wasn’t snarling. He was barely holding himself up.
“You should sleep,” Atsushi said quietly.
Akutagawa scoffed. “I don’t—”
He wobbled.
Just slightly. But enough.
Atsushi stepped forward on instinct, hands half-raised in case he fell.
Akutagawa froze, as though offended by his own weakness being witnessed.
“I’m fine,” he hissed.
“You’re not fine.”
“I said I’m—”
“You’re trembling worse than I am,” Atsushi insisted.
And he was right.
For a moment, the apartment filled with nothing but the sound of distant rainfall and their uneven breathing.
Then Akutagawa’s posture finally sagged. A tiny crack in the armour.
“...Perhaps I am… slightly fatigued.”
“Slightly?” Atsushi repeated, incredulous.
“Shut up.”
Atsushi smiled. Soft. Warm. The kind of smile Akutagawa always pretended not to see even though it annoyed him precisely because he did notice.
“Let me make tea,” Atsushi offered gently. “Then you can sleep. I’ll stay on the couch.”
Akutagawa opened his mouth to argue—because of course he did—but another tremor took his knees. Atsushi was at his side instantly, steadying him.
Akutagawa didn’t pull away.
Couldn’t.
Didn’t want to.
“…The kitchen is on the left,” he murmured, voice small with exhaustion.
Atsushi nodded. “Okay.”
“Don’t touch anything unnecessary.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t break anything.”
“I never break anything!”
Akutagawa gave him a pointed look.
“…Almost never,” Atsushi corrected. “I can behave.”
Akutagawa exhaled, finally allowing himself to lean—just a bit—against the wall.
Atsushi turned toward the kitchen.
But then he heard the quietest thing he’d ever heard leave Akutagawa’s lips:
“...Thank you.”
Atsushi paused.
A soft smile tugged at his lips.
“You’re welcome.”
The rain continued falling outside—steady, relentless. But inside the apartment, warmth finally began to return, slowly filling the tiny, dim space with something neither of them dared name but both of them felt.
Something awkward.
Something gentle.
Something almost like comfort.
And maybe—just maybe—something almost like care.