Chapter Text
𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦.
Ryũnosuke Akutagawa was not scared. He was alone. Physically? He had people. He had family. He had friends.
But he was mentally and emotionally dead and buried.
Ryũnosuke was no idiot, though; that does not mean he was the highest on the IQ chain.
After all, a child who sleeps in the dirt has no room for education, only survival.
He was a machine to most. To everyone who could look him in the eye, he was a blank-eyed machine. Perhaps, if he stopped blinking just enough and breathed quieter, everyone would think he really was one.
Everyone but her. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘨𝘪𝘯.
She was the only person who could see through it, who could see the slight shine in his eyes when he saw her happy, or his friends not hungry.
A shame, he couldn't be less than a shadow of everyone's nightmares.
T̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶m̶a̶y̶b̶e̶,̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶s̶t̶o̶p̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶o̶w̶n̶.̶
An emotionless machine can not dream. Therefore, there would be no nightmares in the Corner of his vision as he lay awake in the middle of the night, holding his cold friend.
When did he get so cold?
It had been a week since Kyuu froze to death in the middle of the night. Bringing deafening silence to the children of the slums as they mourn their friend.
... It had been a week since Ryũnosuke's cold eyes hardened. Since he stopped getting that small shine in his eye. Since you could barely hear him whisper a breath.
Like he had died himself that day.
Gin noticed. She always noticed everything.
He's glad she didn't ask him about it.
He stopped trying to eat. Stopped trying to ration for himself, instead giving most of his food to gin and some to the other children.
It's not like he wasn't hungry (Kami knows that's not true. After all, the best he could get was a piece of bread a week, and even that was much for a child like him), he just couldn't bear the thought of eating, knowing there was one less mouth to feed.
He couldn't protect them. Couldn't save them. Couldn't even save himself from the pile of despair he had dug himself.
He would thank Kami that Gin didn't push him on it, but he knows He does not want his thanks. Perhaps if he prayed enough, the man Above would send him just a little bit of hope.
𝘏𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦.
Guilt. It burned low in his stomach.
_______________________
The last thing he remembers about his mother is her eyes. Her Beautiful, light blue eyes.
He supposes that he and Gin got their father's eyes.
Her eyes were beautiful, when not harsh. The only relevant memories of her black hair are of her pushing him aside with such disgust, he would think she was one of the strangers not giving him and the children of the slums nothing more than a glance before tossing pennies at them.
That is not what he tells Gin.
Ryũnosuke tells Gin their mother was the sweetest, kindest, and most charitable person on the planet, much like his sister.
He doesn't like lying to her, and he's almost positive she sees right through it, but it's better than telling her their mother could be mistaken for one of the disgusted citizens of Japan throwing them pennies.
God, what some money would do for them.
It had been three weeks, two days, and five hours since their friends were slaughtered.
It had been three weeks, two days, and four hours since he learned he was gifted.
When he left to go try to kill the men who shot down his friends, they captured him. They learned about his ability, even when he himself did not know of this.
He's glad now. That he knows. Otherwise, he and Gin would be starving right now. Being magically gifted was something he did not know existed, but it was not unwelcome, especially since it earned Gin and him some food.
Painting came naturally to him. Almost as natural as looking out for his sister. The rich men loved his drawings, most turning out better than their top artists.
That earned them some money.
On a good day, a few people would come up and ask for drawings.
Even though it was useful, it was also useless. In certain situations, what would painting do? What would a canvas do for him if he were getting mauled by dogs or beaten into the dirt?
That's when he learned his ability was more than just being an expert artist.
A drawing for a man who was disgusted by dogs and thought of them as vile, wished for a painting of a dog getting beheaded.
The dog that always barked next door to the man was somehow quiet now.
A drawing of birds getting shot down by a hunter. It was unusually quiet in the hunting woods the next week.
A drawing of a sun being nowhere seen in the sky, even when it is not night for a fortune teller. There was an eclipse the next morning.
He's glad his customers don't usually come back for a second drawing, it would seem odd for whatever he drew to come true 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘤𝘦.
This is useful.
This is beautiful.
This is... Vile.
H̶e̶ l̶o̶v̶e̶s̶ i̶t̶.̶
It was a hot evening, dry, suffocating hot, when he decided to use his ability for once to do something meaningful.
"Ryũnosuke, you think this one's going to work this time?"
Ryũnosuke nodded.
His fingers were cracked from drawing with the chalk, fingertips scratched up from how thin the stick of chalk was.
Gin had found it for him, a few thin sticks of chalk, used to nubs and dulled by rain, but enough to draw with.
He was drawing something new, a stranger he'd seen the other day dropping a basket of bread, bottles of water, and canvases and paints under a tarp in an alleyway. The same alleyway he and Gin were in right now.
If it worked, Gin wouldn't have to pick more fights for him this week.
He wouldn't be one of the other children of the slums beaten and stolen from.
Because if this worked, he would be able to use his ability.
And if he could use his ability... he could protect the one person who mattered to him.
____________________________
It worked.
Oh, Kami, it worked.
There was enough food for at least a week in there.
And the paints...
Those were high quality.
Ryũnosuke's breathing quickened, a smile breaking out on his face before he began coughing again.
But unlike most times, he actually had water to soothe it.
Gin seemed happy too, being able to actually fill her stomach.
Things seemed a bit better after that.
Someone took notice of a painting he was doing on a small canvas and, probably out of pity, asked him to do one of them.
So he did.
It didn't take long.
Ryũnosuke had always known he was an artist at heart, but now that he had the tools to do so, it came to him naturally.
Of course, he demanded payment before letting them see the painting; he wasn't stupid. Giving things away for free when you were able to was great, sure, but he and Gin weren't able to.
He only had 10 canvases. Small, cheap ones, barely bigger than his bony hand.
The stranger had clearly been expecting something shabby, a semi-decent painting at most.
The shock on their face when they saw the photo-realistic portrait of themself when Ryũnosuke handed the small canvas to them in exchange for 1500 yen was nice to say the least.
The stranger took a picture of the canvas, said thank you, and left.
It began happening more often.
He'd become something of a commodity, he supposed.
Strangers would find where he and Gin were in the slums, sometimes tourists who just wanted a souvenir, other times rich men who wanted pictures of themselves.
It made enough money that he and Gin were able to actually eat most days by buying vending machine or convenience store food.
It was a mutual arrangement. People would feel a sense of justice for helping starving children, but also getting an amazing painting for cheap money out of it, while Gin and Ryũnosuke would be able to eat that day.
Good days now had at least dozens of customers trying to seek him out, getting small paintings from him.
Even bad days would still have at least half a dozen people come up to him and ask for a painting.
Then, the fortunes started coming in.
Apparently, word of his ability had gotten around.
Most considered it a superstition, rumours of a child in the slums of Suribachi city who could paint the future if you paid him enough.
Most of the rich men who knew about the rumors came once and didn't come again. Or if they did come again, he and Gin were gone.
The rich men usually wished misfortune upon others. Car accidents, building fires, sometimes petty things like rain on a wedding.
Gin knew about his ability. And while at first, she told him not to use it, since it would paint a target on their backs, once the first commissions for fortune paintings started rolling in, usually paying enough money to go to a restaurant if they actually wanted to, she stopped objecting.
As a matter of fact, she started bringing him paints and canvases, using the money he earned to get him more supplies.
In a way, he supposed, they both felt guilty.
Gin felt guilty because Ryũnosuke was spending his time and effort making paintings that gave them food to eat, while she couldn't help with anything.
She was the parasite profiting off of his success.
The one surviving because of his fortune.
Ryũnosuke felt guilty for making Gin get him supplies and not being able to protect her.
Money didn't make up for the years of her getting beaten down to protect him.
Having food didn't make up for years of going to bed hungry and starving.
Having an ability that made money didn't make up for not having an ability that could protect her.
It was a cycle of guilt and use that neither of them could break.
But they were surviving.
And that's what mattered.
But they were surviving.
And that's what mattered.
It felt nice. 𝘉𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯.
After meeting more people, knowing more about this 'ability', he decided he needed a name for this.
For his gift.
𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦.