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Atsushi Nakajima had always known that his meals were… lackluster.
When you grow up being treated like a burden and then spend most of your adult life trying to make rent on barely liveable wages, you learn to stretch your yen into things that technically keep you alive. Cups of instant noodles. Discount rice balls that taste like sadness. Convenience-store sandwiches with more air than filling.
He knew it wasn’t ideal.
He just didn’t expect Akutagawa of all people to be the one who took issue with it.
The day began like any other: Atsushi running errands for the Agency, trying to ignore the tight, hollow ache in his stomach after skipping breakfast. Kunikida had lectured him last week about budgeting, and Ranpo had helpfully pointed out that “death by starvation is a very inefficient way to get out of paperwork.”
But none of that mattered right now. He was hungry. And hungry Atsushi… was loud.
GrrrrrRROOWL.
His stomach practically screamed during a tense rooftop confrontation with Akutagawa.
Akutagawa lowered Rashōmon mid-strike and stared.
Atsushi flushed a deep crimson. “S-Sorry! I must’ve—uh—forgot to eat this morning.”
He expected mockery. A snide remark about being pathetic. Maybe even a threat.
Instead, Akutagawa’s eye twitched.
Not in annoyance.
In offense.
“You forgot to eat,” he repeated flatly.
“Yeah. I’ll get something after this—”
“No.”
Atsushi blinked. “…No?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Before Atsushi could ask, Akutagawa turned, coat whipping in the wind.
“We’re done.”
“But—weren’t we fighting?”
“Not anymore.”
“Why not?!”
Akutagawa’s voice came out strangely tight. “…It would be dishonourable to defeat an opponent who is not functioning at full capacity.”
Atsushi just stared.
Akutagawa turned away, clearly appalled by the sound of his own words.
The next day, Atsushi opened the Agency door to find—
A box.
Not a small box. A huge, intimidating, suspiciously heavy box.
With his name on it.
Inside?
Food.
A ridiculous amount of food.
Enough to feed the entire Agency for a week.
He blinked at a bundle of neatly packed bento containers, stacks of fresh vegetables, perfectly portioned meal-prep kits, and snacks that were way above his pay grade.
Even a note.
A note that read:
Eat.
Signed with the world’s angriest, most aggressive handwriting:
A.
Atsushi nearly choked. “Akutagawa—bought me groceries?!”
Ranpo, appearing from nowhere as usual, peeked over his shoulder. “Oh. Wow. That’s expensive.”
“What do I do?!”
“Well,” Ranpo said, munching a stolen snack, “if you don’t eat it, he might kill you.”
Kunikida folded his arms. “Or yell at you for wasting money. Possibly both.”
Atsushi sank to the floor.
He found Akutagawa later that evening near the riverbank, staring dramatically at the water as if he was posing for a magazine called Emo Assassin Monthly.
Atsushi marched up. “Akutagawa!”
Akutagawa didn’t look at him. “What.”
“You sent me food.”
“…Prove it.”
“You signed it.”
“A coincidence.”
“In your handwriting.”
“Forgery.”
“It had your scent.”
Akutagawa sputtered. “Why were you—You—You imbecile!”
Atsushi stepped closer. “Why are you doing this?”
Akutagawa spun around, cloak snapping like an irritated bat.
“I am doing nothing.”
“You bought me a month’s worth of meals!”
“That was not—It—” He inhaled sharply through his nose. “You are insufferable.”
“So you’re not denying it?”
Akutagawa’s jaw clenched so hard Atsushi heard the grind.
“...It is simply strategically unsound for my rival to collapse during combat due to malnutrition,” he said stiffly. “If I defeat you, I want it to be because I was stronger. Not because you were too busy fainting like a Victorian orphan.”
“I DO NOT FAINT LIKE AN ORPHAN—”
“You do.”
Atsushi sputtered. “Why do you even care that much? You’ve beaten me before!”
Something flickered in Akutagawa’s eyes.
Something Atsushi couldn’t identify.
“It was unsatisfactory,” Akutagawa said finally. “Fighting you now—without you holding back, without the scars of starvation—”
He faltered. His voice dropped.
“It feels…different.”
Atsushi stared.
“Are you saying you like fighting me?”
Akutagawa looked horrified. “Do not twist my words into something sentimental.”
“You enjoy our rivalry?”
“Stop.”
“You lo—”
“STOP.”
Atsushi thought the groceries were a one-time thing.
They were not.
Every mission, every meeting, every time Atsushi wandered within a five-meter radius of Akutagawa…
Food appeared.
-
Bento lunches placed wordlessly beside him.
-
Bags of fresh produce delivered to the Agency.
-
A thermos of hot soup shoved into his hands on cold days.
-
Protein bars thrown at him from across rooftops like deadly nutritional projectiles.
One time, Atsushi struggled to open a stubborn jar of pickles.
And Akutagawa materialised from thin air, snatched it from his hands, opened it effortlessly, and vanished again.
He didn’t speak a single word.
Atsushi screamed into the night sky.
Eventually, Atsushi reached his limit.
He cornered Akutagawa behind an abandoned warehouse like he was staging an intervention.
“Akutagawa, you need to STOP feeding me!”
Akutagawa looked at him like he had just confessed to burning down an orphanage (which, ironically, Atsushi would feel morally obligated to save).
“No.”
“Why not?!”
“Because you are still too thin.”
“I am NOT—”
“You are.”
“I am LITERALLY within normal BMI—”
“Not acceptable.”
Atsushi threw his hands up. “What do you want from me?!”
Akutagawa hesitated.
When he spoke, it was quieter. Almost reluctant.
“I want...”
He swallowed.
“…I want a worthy opponent.”
Atsushi blinked.
“You are strong. But you starve yourself without noticing. You forget to eat. You push yourself too hard. It is…” He exhaled sharply. “…infuriating.”
Something warm crept into Atsushi’s chest.
“I didn’t know you were worried about me,” he said, smiling softly.
Akutagawa recoiled like he’d been stabbed.
“I am NOT worried—"
“You’re worried.”
“I AM NOT—”
“You care—”
“IF YOU SAY ‘CARE’ AGAIN I WILL END YOU.”
Atsushi laughed, light and bright and surprised at himself.
Akutagawa’s face went scarlet.
After that, Atsushi didn’t fight it.
He ate the lunches.
He accepted the groceries.
He let Akutagawa insist on hot meals when they crossed paths.
And, occasionally…
He found himself leaving things for Akutagawa, too.
A cup of tea beside him during tense missions.
A warm meal set down silently.
A note that simply said:
Don’t skip dinner.
Akutagawa never thanked him.
But he ate everything.
Every time.
One evening, Atsushi found Akutagawa standing in a grocery store aisle, holding two brands of rice like it was the most important decision of his life.
Atsushi raised a brow. “Are you seriously comparing calories?”
“This one is fortified,” Akutagawa muttered.
“That’s baby rice cereal.”
Akutagawa froze.
Atsushi giggled.
Akutagawa looked ready to self-destruct.
“Shut up.”
“Never.”
“You are intolerable.”
“And you’re feeding me better than the orphanage ever did.”
Akutagawa went silent.
And for the first time…
He didn’t deny anything.