Work Text:
-Akutagawa-
Akutagawa cannot sleep.
Sleep has never come easily to him, but tonight it outright refuses. His mind will not still, no matter how he closes his eyes, no matter how he controls his breathing. Rashōmon stirs faintly at his back, responding to his unrest.
Perhaps it’s because of the encounter earlier that morning.
The Armed Detective Agency.
Dazai.
And him.
The weretiger.
Atsushi Nakajima crashed into his life the same way he always does—uninvited, unworthy and yet somehow impossible to ignore. Just like the late spring day in which they had met.
When Dazai had stood between them and decided that Atsushi was worth saving.
Worth guiding.
Worth praising.
Akutagawa clenches his jaw.
The useless jinko sinks his claws into everything—into Dazai’s attention, into the battlefield, into Akutagawa’s thoughts—and refuses to let go. He fumbles, hesitates, questions himself…and yet the world bends to accommodate him anyway.
Akutagawa despises him.
Yet… he feels—
No. Not admiration.
Never admiration.
Envy.
Atsushi has everything Akutagawa has bled for. Power that grows instead of devours. Allies that stay. A mentor who corrects instead of discards. Yet even after all that, the weretiger still has the audacity to look uncertain, to doubt himself, to say that he is not enough.
As if not enough has ever stopped him from being chosen.
Akutagawa’s entire existence has been shaped around earning praise that never came. Every mission, every body, every shredded enemy was meant to prove his worth to Dazai Osamu.
Yet Atsushi receives that recognition simply by surviving.
Why does the weretiger still fight like he has something left to prove?
Who does he think he owes?
What drives him to throw himself into death again and again, teeth bared and trembling, as if failure would erase him entirely?
A sudden knock shatters the silence.
Not a knock—banging. Sloppy, uneven, careless. The sound of someone who is likely highly intoxicated.
Akutagawa’s eyes snap open.
Who.
Who would come to the headquarters of the Port Mafia at 1:23 a.m. and expect to leave alive?
He rises without hesitation, long coat whispering against the floor as he crosses the room. His hand is already half-raised, Rashōmon eager to respond. He fully expects a drunk lower-ranked Mafia member who has made the fatal mistake of knocking on the wrong door.
He yanks it open.
“…Atsushi?”
The weretiger is slumped against the wall, breath shallow, one hand clutched tightly to his side. His clothes are torn, his posture collapsing in on itself as if sheer willpower is the only thing keeping him upright.
Akutagawa’s chest tightens before he can stop it.
Atsushi looks up and forces a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Took you fucking long enough,” he mutters, attempting a laugh. It comes out strained, brittle with pain. “What were you doing—making out with someone?”
Akutagawa does not answer.
For once, he cannot.
He clicks his tongue at the foolish thought.
“How vulgar,” Akutagawa says, already stepping aside, not bothering to lend a hand. “If you are going to collapse, do it inside.”
He does not reach for Atsushi.
He does not need to.
The moment Atsushi’s knees buckle, Rashōmon lashes out—not at him, but around him. Black fabric snaps into place, catching him before he can hit the floor, dragging him just far enough across the threshold before releasing him in an unceremonious heap.
Akuatagawa shuts the door with a sharp kick.
The silence that follows is thick. Pressing.
“Explain,” he orders, looking down at the crumpled figure. His gaze is cold, clinical, dissecting. “Who did this?”
Atsushi exhales, fingers pressing harder into his side. “You’re… really not going to ask if I’m okay?”
Akutagawa scoffs. “If you were dying, you wouldn’t be talking.”
That earns him a weak huff of laughter. “Wow. Comforting.”
The sound grates.
Akutagawa turns away before it can settle in his chest. He crosses the room and retrieves the medical kit from the cabinet without hesitation, movements sharp, practiced. He drops it beside Atsushi with unnecessary force.
The clatter echoes.
Atsushi stiffens, suddenly wary. He turns his head away. “I don’t need it.”
“You misunderstand,” Akutagawa says, crouching only after the words leave him. “If you bleed out on Mafia property, Dazai will be insufferable.”
“No, you misunderstand,” Atsushi bites back. “The weretiger will heal it on its own. I just needed somewhere to rest until then.”
Akutagawa makes a face of disgust, fingers stalling on the latch of the kit. “Yes. It will heal,” he says coolly. “Uncleaned. Unsutured. Unaligned.”
He looks at Atsushi properly then—really looks.
“It will leave a scar.”
“Like I don’t already have plenty,” Atsushi laughs.
Too light.
The sound sits wrong. Akutagawa’s jaw tightens.
“Where,” he asks, before he can stop himself, “do you have scars from?”
He knows the basics. The orphanage. The streets. Then Dazai, stepping in like some benevolent force of nature and handing Atsushi a family Akutagawa had only ever heard of in theory.
So where did the rest come from?
“Please,” Atsushi snorts. “Half of them are from you and your friends.”
Something twists sharply in Akutagawa’s stomach.
It’s true—but not that true. Not enough to account for the way Atsushi says it, casual, practiced, like he’s long since stopped counting.
Akutagawa forces his expression into place.
“Then wouldn’t that make you want me to stitch it back?” he says, tone sharp, deliberately dismissive.
It works. Atsushi looks away.
“I don’t need stitches,” he mutters. “It’ll heal fine without them.”
Akutagawa watches him for a beat too long.
He thinks of the way Atsushi flinched at the kit. The way his gaze slid away. Fine. If the weretiger has ghosts tied to needles and sterile rooms, that is none of Akutagawa’s concern.
He has his own.
“At least let me clean it,” Akutagawa says.
The words land heavier than intended.
Atsushi startles, head snapping back toward him.
Akutagawa ignores the look, extends a hand. Atsushi takes it, and Akutagawa immediately yanks him to his feet with far less ceremony than the moment warrants.
Atsushi hisses, breath catching as pressure pulls at the wound.
“Tch. Weak,” Akutagawa mutters, though his grip tightens instead of loosens.
Atsushi doesn’t last a second upright. His legs give, and he stumbles forward. Akutagawa reacts without thinking, arm snapping around Atsushi’s torso, catching him beneath the armpits before he can fall.
Rashōmon stirs, restless.
They half-walk, half-drag their way to the couch—a black cotton sectional, clean, orderly. Akutagawa registers the color with irritation.
Don’t stain it.
He lowers Atsushi onto the cushions.
Too gently.
He notices immediately.
More gently than he has ever lowered anyone else.
Akutagawa straightens, fingers curling at his side, irritation flaring—not at Atsushi, but at himself.
He scoffs. “Don’t read into this.”
“Take off your shirt,” Akutagawa says, snapping a pair of latex gloves into place with deliberate precision.
Atsushi cracks one eye open. “Wow,” he mutters. “Straight to the point. At least buy me dinner first.”
Akutagawa does not look at him. “Do not mistake urgency for interest.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
The gloves snap again as Akutagawa adjusts them. The sound is clean. Controlled. Unlike the shallow drag of Atsushi’s breathing.
“Don’t make me put another wound in you,” Akutagawa replies flatly.
Atsushi gives a weak, breathy laugh. “See? That’s flirting in your language.”
Akutagawa’s eyes flick toward him, cool and unimpressed. “Neither would I hesitate. Now remove it.”
A pause.
“…Please.”
The word lands awkwardly between them.
Atsushi blinks, surprised enough that it dulls the edge of his sarcasm. Then he rolls his eyes. “Bossy.
He pushes himself up onto his elbows, slow and unsteady. The movement costs him more than he lets on; his jaw tightens, breath catching halfway through. His fingers fumble at the buttons of his shirt, missing one, then another.
He keeps looking at Akutagawa while he does it.
Akutagawa finds the ceiling fascinating.
Fabric shifts. Buttons slip free one by one. Atsushi’s hands begin to tremble—not dramatically, just enough to make the last button take longer than it should.
“You’re stalling,” Akutagawa says.
“Am not.”
“You are.”
Atsushi huffs softly and shrugs the shirt off his shoulders. The motion draws a sharper inhale from him this time. He tosses the shirt to the floor, where it lands heavier than cloth should. Soaked almost entirely through with blood.
He lowers himself back against the couch.
For a moment, he closes his eyes.
Akutagawa finally looks.
The wound is angry but not catastrophic. Blood loss, however, has a way of accumulating quietly. Atsushi’s skin is paler than before—less gold, more gray beneath the lamplight. A faint sheen of sweat clings to his collarbone.
“You are shivering,” Akutagawa observes.
“It’s dramatic effect,” Atsushi murmurs. “Thought it’d add to the mood.”
His teeth click together lightly at the end of the sentence.
Akutagawa steps closer.
Up close, the signs are clearer. The tremor in Atsushi’s fingers where they rest against his own ribs. The slight delay before he responds to questions. The way his breath comes a little too shallow, a little too fast, as though he’s rationing it.
“How long,” Akutagawa asks evenly, reaching for gauze, “have you been bleeding?”
Atsushi hums thoughtfully, eyes still shut. His fingers tap erratically against the cushion, as if counting backwards from something.
“Not long,” he says at first.
Akutagawa waits.
“…Maybe,” Atsushi amends, swallowing, “an hour.”
Silence.
Akutagawa’s hands still.
“An hour,” he repeats.
Atsushi cracks an eye open, sheepish. “Time flies?”
Akutagawa’s stare sharpens. “You lost this much blood in an hour and thought it unnecessary to mention?”
“I was busy.”
“Doing what.”
“Bleeding,” Atsushi replies weakly.
Akutagawa clicks his tongue, but the irritation sits thinner now—threaded with something tighter. He presses gauze gently against the wound. Atsushi flinches, but less than before.
“Why,” Akutagawa asks, voice clipped, “did you not go to the Agency?”
The question has been lingering since the door opened. It simply becomes unavoidable now.
Atsushi’s eyes drift shut again.
“Too far,” he mutters, breath slipping unevenly through his teeth. “Didn’t think I’d make it.”
Akutagawa’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“And,” Atsushi adds after a second, quieter, “you were closer.”
The gauze soaks slowly. Not flooding—just steady.
“You could have chosen anyone,” Akutagawa says.
Atsushi’s lips twitch faintly. “Not anyone.”
Akutagawa doesn’t respond.
“You were the closest,” Atsushi repeats, voice softer now. “And the safest.”
Safe.
The word lands strangely.
Akutagawa frowns.
He adjusts his grip automatically when Atsushi sways slightly under his hands. The tremor in Atsushi’s body worsens—not dramatically, just incrementally. A subtle chill creeping through him. His skin feels cooler than it should beneath Akutagawa’s gloved fingers.
“You are colder,” Akutagawa states.
“I run hot usually,” Atsushi murmurs. “Guess I’m not feeling well.”
His attempt at humor trails thinner than before.
Akutagawa leans closer without thinking, studying his pupils, the sluggish way they track back to him when he speaks.
“Stay awake,” Akutagawa orders.
Atsushi frowns faintly. “Wasn’t planning on—”
“Stay awake,”
Akutagawa repeats, sharper.
Rashōmon stirs along his back, restless—not attacking, not striking. Just there. Watching.
Atsushi focuses on him with visible effort now. “You look worried.”
“I am assessing.”
“Uh-huh.”
Akutagawa presses fresh gauze into place, movements precise, controlled.
“Next time,” he says coldly, “you will calculate distance before you allow yourself to lose this much blood.”
Atsushi’s lips curve faintly despite the pallor. “Next time I’ll schedule my injury better.”
“There will not be a next time.”
Atsushi looks at him then—not joking.
“…Okay,” he says.
The room falls quieter.
Akutagawa keeps pressure steady against the wound, replacing gauze as needed. The bleeding has slowed, but not enough to be comfortable.
Atsushi’s responses have, too.
“You’re quiet,” Atsushi murmurs after a moment.
“I am working.”
“Usually you insult me at least three times during this process.”
“You are deteriorating. I am prioritizing.”
Atsushi smiles faintly at that. It lingers for a second too long before slipping away.
His head tilts slightly against the back of the couch.
Akutagawa notices the change first in Atsushi’s eyes.
They don’t close — not fully. They just… lose focus. Like he’s looking through the ceiling instead of at it.
“Atsushi.”
No response.
Rashōmon shifts sharply.
Atsushi’s hand, which had been resting against his side, slides a few centimeters lower. His fingers twitch once, then go still.
Akutagawa’s grip tightens.
“Atsushi.”
A blink this time. Slow. Delayed.
“Hm?”
His voice is softer. Distant.
“You will not lose consciousness,” Akutagawa says evenly.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” Atsushi replies, but the words slur at the edges.
His body sags another inch.
That is when Akutagawa moves.
One hand snaps up, fingers gripping Atsushi’s jaw firmly — not painfully, but with enough force to hold him in place. He tilts his face upward, forcing eye contact.
“Look at me.”
Atsushi’s lashes flutter. His pupils struggle to track.
“Hey,” Atsushi breathes weakly. “Didn’t know you liked this angle.”
Akutagawa’s eyes flash.
“If you attempt humor again, I will reconsider keeping you alive,” he says coldly.
But his thumb presses subtly against Atsushi’s pulse point at his jaw.
Counting.
Too slow.
Rashōmon coils tighter around his shoulders, not attacking — bracing.
Atsushi’s head tips forward again.
Akutagawa’s voice sharpens, cutting through the room.
“Atsushi.”
A pause.
“…Ryūnosuke?”
The name lands wrong.
Akutagawa stills for half a heartbeat.
Atsushi only uses his given name when he’s exhausted. Or delirious. Or not fully present.
“Do not,” Akutagawa says, quieter now but edged with something dangerous, “grow sentimental.”
Atsushi’s lips twitch weakly. “You’re… blurry.”
“I am directly in front of you.”
“Yeah. That’s the problem.”
His eyes slip halfway closed.
Akutagawa’s restraint fractures.
Rashōmon lashes outward, not in violence, but in sudden, sharp movement — slicing open a nearby curtain to let colder night air flood the room. The temperature shift is immediate.
Atsushi inhales sharply at the chill.
“Stay awake,” Akutagawa orders again, this time without pretense.
He shifts his grip, one arm sliding behind Atsushi’s back to pull him more upright. Not gentle. Efficient. Controlled.
Atsushi sags into him anyway.
His skin is colder now.
Akutagawa can feel the tremor running through him — the body trying to compensate. Trying and failing.
“You said,” Akutagawa says tightly, “that you chose this location because it was safe.”
Atsushi makes a faint sound that might be agreement.
“Then demonstrate better judgment.”
His hand presses more firmly at the wound. Not reckless — but decisive.
“Atsushi. Answer me.”
“…Yeah?”
“What year is it.”
A pause.
A beat too long.
Atsushi frowns faintly, like the question is unreasonable. “That’s rude.”
Akutagawa’s jaw tightens.
Rashōmon tightens with it.
“Atsushi.”
“…It’s fine,” Atsushi insists weakly. “I just need a minute.”
“You do not have a minute.”
That finally forces Atsushi’s eyes to open a little wider.
There it is.
Not fear.
But recognition.
Akutagawa does not look panicked. His expression is still carved from stone. His voice still level.
But his grip has not loosened once.
And Rashōmon has not moved away from Atsushi’s body since the moment his gaze began to slip.
“You will remain conscious,” Akutagawa says, low and unwavering. “You will heal. And you will not make me regret allowing you through that door.”
Atsushi swallows.
“…You’d miss me,” he murmurs.
Akutagawa leans closer.
“If you close your eyes again,” he says softly — dangerously — “I will make you regret it.”
Atsushi huffs a faint breath that could almost be a laugh.
But he keeps his eyes open.
And Akutagawa keeps his eyes on him.
When he goes to lower Atsushi onto the couch he notices them.
Not the fresh injury—that one's obvious, temporary, loud. It’s the older marks that catch his attention once Atsushi shifts, fabric pulling just enough to expose skin usually kept hidden.
Thin white lines along his ribs.
A jagged mark near his shoulder, poorly healed.
Faint impressions crossing his back, uneven, overlapping—too deliberate to be accidental.
Akutagawa stills.
They are not from tonight.
Not from the Mafia.
Not even from recent months.
They are scars that have settled into the body. Scars that belong to a time when healing was optional and pain was routine.
He glances up and sees Atsushi’s–yellow? Purple?— eyes tracking his movements.
“What?” he stiffens.
“Nothing,” Akutagawa says immediately. Too quickly. He adjusts his grip, deliberately rougher than necessary, as if force will erase what he’s just catalogued. “You move too much.”
Atsushi hesitates, then laughs softly. “Didn’t think you were the observant type.”
Akutagawa ignores the comment.
His gaze flicks back—once, involuntarily. He counts without meaning to. Measures depth, angle, age. The way some of them overlap tells a story he does not want to finish hearing.
These are not the scars of battle.
These are the scars of endurance.
“Those,” Akutagawa says abruptly, voice sharp enough to cut, “are not from me.”
Atsushi goes quiet.
For a beat too long.
“…No,” he admits. “Most aren’t.”
Akutagawa’s jaw tightens.
He thinks of the orphanage Atsushi spoke of too lightly. Of hunger described like an inconvenience. Of fear framed as motivation. He thinks of how Atsushi flinched at the medical kit. How he laughed too easily. How he treats pain like an expectation rather than a warning.
Akutagawa presses the cloth down harder than necessary.
Atsushi winces—but this time he bites it back.
Good, Akutagwa thinks. Stupid.
“You heal fast,” Akutagawa says, tone clipped. “That does not mean you are indestructible.”
Atsushi blinks at him. “Is that… concern?”
Akutagawa’s eyes snap up, sharp and furious. “Do not assign meaning where there is none.”
He finishes securing the bandage with swift, efficient movements, then withdraws his hands as if the contact burns. Rashōmon settles, though its edge still hums faintly, dissatisfied.
“People who rely on regeneration,” Akutagawa continues coldly, standing, “tend to forget how much damage they accumulate.”
Atsushi watches him carefully. “You noticed anyway.”
Silence stretches.
Akutagawa turns his back first.
“…Rest,” he orders. “You will not survive if you continue treating your body as expendable.”
Atsushi is quiet for a long moment.
Then, softly, “You do the same thing.”
Akutagawa pauses at the window.
For a fraction of a second, his reflection stares back at him—gaunt, hollow-cheeked, sharp as broken glass.
He clicks his tongue. “Do not compare yourself to me.”
He leaves the room before Atsushi can respond.
In his bedroom, he grabs the first shirt within reach—black, long-sleeved, soft cotton. It will hang off Atsushi’s frame, but it will suffice. He returns without ceremony and tosses it toward him.
Harder than necessary.
Atsushi catches it with one hand. “Careful,” he mutters. “You’ll bruise me.”
“You regenerate.”
“That doesn’t mean I enjoy the process.”
“Put it on.”
Atsushi pushes himself upright again, slower this time. The oversized shirt slips over his shoulders and down his arms, swallowing him whole. The sleeves extend past his hands. The hem brushes mid-thigh.
Akutagawa watches.
He shouldn’t.
He does.
The black fabric against pale skin looks—
He turns away sharply.
Behind him, Atsushi snorts softly. “You’re staring.”
“I am assessing.”
“Uh-huh.”
The room grows quiet again. Not hostile. Just heavy.
Akutagawa can feel Atsushi’s eyes following him.
He refuses to acknowledge the faint heat creeping up his neck.
Ridiculous.
He pivots abruptly and heads toward the kitchen.
There’s a shift behind him—fabric against cushion, a small intake of breath.
“Stay where you are,” Akutagawa says without turning.
“Where are you going?” Atsushi asks, already pushing himself onto his elbows again.
Akutagawa spins back around, crosses the space in three long strides, and presses a firm hand to Atsushi’s shoulder, pushing him back down against the couch.
“I said stay.”
Atsushi blinks up at him. “Bossy.”
“I am going to make food,” Akutagawa says bluntly.
Atsushi stares at him.
“…You cook?”
“I possess basic survival skills. Unlike you.”
“I cook!” Atsushi protests weakly. “Sometimes.”
“What qualifies as ‘cooking’ to you.”
“…Instant noodles count.”
“They do not.”
Atsushi huffs. “I didn’t think you cared that much.”
Akutagawa straightens slowly. “It is three in the morning. You disturbed my peace, you nearly ruined my couch, and you are contaminating my air with dramatic sighing. And yet you believe this is concern?”
Atsushi grins faintly. “You sound concerned.”
“The food is for me,” Akutagawa continues coldly. “If you want any, you may prepare your own.”
Atsushi stares at him incredulously. “You’re going to make me cook after I almost died?”
“You did not ‘almost die.’”
“I was literally fading.”
“You were mildly lightheaded.”
“I called you Ryūnosuke.”
“That proves nothing.”
“It proves everything.”
Akutagawa’s eyes narrow. “My medical skill prevented escalation.”
Atsushi snorts. “Your medical skill? You mean my healing.”
“If I had not intervened, you would have continued losing blood.”
“If I hadn’t healed, you’d be panicking.”
Akutagawa’s expression goes flat.
“I do not panic.”
“You sliced your own curtain open.”
“That was ventilation.”
“Sure.”
Akutagawa exhales slowly through his nose.
“You will eat,” he says at last. “Your body requires fuel to compensate for blood loss.”
Atsushi raises a brow. “So it is for me.”
“It is for whoever consumes it first.”
Atsushi smiles lazily. “You’re bad at pretending.”
“And you are bad at nearly dying quietly.”
“That wasn’t on purpose.”
“It rarely is.”
There’s a pause.
Atsushi’s smile fades just a fraction. “You didn’t have to let me stay.”
Akutagawa does not hesitate. “Yes. I did.”
The certainty in his voice makes Atsushi blink.
Akutagawa turns away before that can linger.
“Do not move,” he repeats, heading for the kitchen. “If you attempt to stand again, I will restrain you.”
“With Rashōmon?”
“With a chair.”
Atsushi laughs softly. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you are exhausting.”
From the kitchen, cabinet doors open. The quiet clink of ceramic. Running water. The faint scent of rice and miso beginning to warm the air.
Atsushi shifts on the couch, watching the doorway.
“…You’re really cooking,” he calls out.
“Yes.”
“For someone who doesn’t care.”
Akutagawa pauses just out of sight.
“…Be silent,” he replies.
But he does not stop cooking.
The apartment grows warmer with the quiet hiss of the stove.
Atsushi drifts somewhere between awake and asleep, lulled by the faint clatter of dishes and the steady rhythm of movement in the kitchen. His body feels heavy now — not painful, just wrung out. The kind of exhaustion that seeps into bone.
He doesn’t realize he’s closing his eyes until—
“Do not fall asleep.”
Atsushi startles slightly.
Akutagawa stands over him, expression flat, holding a bowl in one hand and a pair of chopsticks in the other.
Steam curls upward between them.
“I wasn’t,” Atsushi mumbles.
“You were.”
“I was resting my eyes.”
“You were unconscious.”
“I was not—”
Akutagawa sets the bowl down on the low table with a soft clink that feels louder than it is.
“Sit up.”
Atsushi groans quietly but obeys — or tries to.
His arms tremble the moment he pushes against the couch. The movement makes his vision swim unpleasantly. He manages to get halfway upright before his strength falters and he drops back against the cushions with a soft thud.
“…That didn’t occur,” he mutters.
Akutagawa stares at him.
“You are pathetic.”
“I lost blood.”
“You regenerate.”
“Not instantly,” Atsushi snaps weakly. “It takes energy.”
“Then acquire some.”
“Hard to do when gravity is winning.”
Akutagawa’s eyes narrow.
“Sit. Up.”
Atsushi makes another attempt, jaw tightening. His muscles shake more noticeably this time. He gets farther — elbows locked, shoulders lifted — and then his breath hitches sharply.
The room tilts.
He sways.
Before he can fall sideways, a hand grips the back of his oversized collar.
Firm. Steady.
Annoyed.
Akutagawa clicks his tongue. “Incompetent.”
He doesn’t comment on the fact that he’s now supporting half of Atsushi’s weight.
With deliberate stiffness, Akutagawa shifts his grip — one hand at Atsushi’s shoulder, the other bracing lightly at his side — and pulls him upright.
Atsushi inhales sharply at the closeness.
“You said you weren’t helping,” he murmurs.
“I am preventing you from spilling food on my floor.”
“Oh. Of course.”
Akutagawa releases him the second Atsushi is stable — though his hand lingers a fraction too long at his side before withdrawing.
“Remain upright.”
“Yes, sir.”
Akutagawa hands him the bowl.
Atsushi takes it carefully. His fingers brush Akutagawa’s knuckles — warm from the bowl.
Akutagawa pulls back like he’s been burned.
“Eat.”
Atsushi looks down at it.
“Is that ginger?”
Akutagawa stiffens slightly. “It aids circulation.”
Atsushi’s lips twitch. “So you were thinking about the blood loss.”
“I was thinking about efficiency.”
“Right.”
Atsushi takes a small bite.
The warmth hits his stomach like relief. He didn’t realize how empty he felt until now.
He exhales quietly.
Akutagawa notices.
“Too hot?” he asks, sharper than necessary.
“No,” Atsushi says softly. “It’s good.”
Silence.
Akutagawa folds his arms.
“Do not exaggerate.”
“I’m not.” Atsushi glances up at him. “You’re good at cooking.”
“I follow instructions.”
“From where? A cookbook titled Meals for Stubborn Idiots?”
Akutagawa’s eyes flicker. “I learned while living alone.”
The teasing fades slightly.
Atsushi takes another bite, smiling, he eats in silence for a moment.
Halfway through the bowl, his movements slow again.
Akutagawa notices immediately.
“You are fading.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are swaying.”
“I am not—”
His chopsticks slip.
Akutagawa catches the bowl before it tips.
Their hands collide again, steadier this time.
Atsushi blinks, breath shallow.
“…Okay,” he mutters. “Maybe I’m a little tired.”
“A revelation.”
Akutagawa does not remove his hand from the bowl.
“Finish eating.”
“You’re still holding it.”
“Yes.”
“So you are helping.”
“I am stabilizing the container.”
Atsushi’s mouth curves.
“…Thank you.”
The words are quiet. Not teasing.
Just honest.
Akutagawa goes still.
For a moment, the air shifts.
“…Do not mistake practicality for sentiment,” he says at last.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But Atsushi’s voice is softer now. Less strained.
Akutagawa waits until the bowl is empty before taking it from him.
When Atsushi slumps back against the couch again, eyes already drifting shut, Akutagawa watches carefully.
“…You may sleep,” he says.
Atsushi hums faintly. “You won’t kick me out?”
“It is nearly dawn.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Akutagawa hesitates.
“…No.”
Atsushi smiles without opening his eyes.
“Good.”
His breathing evens out within minutes, shoulders slack beneath the oversized black shirt. The blanket rises and falls in a steady rhythm.
Akutagawa stands there longer than necessary.
Then, with visible irritation at himself, he pulls a blanket from the chair and drapes it over Atsushi.
He adjusts it once.
Just slightly.
“…Troublesome,” he mutters.
Akutagawa remains standing beside the couch.
Watching.
Ensuring.
He tells himself that is all he is doing.
The apartment is silent now. No clatter. No teasing voice. No reckless movement threatening to undo the fragile stability of the room.
Just the quiet sound of someone alive.
He should go back to bed.
He does not.
Instead, he lowers himself into the chair opposite the couch, posture rigid, hands folded in his lap.
The dim light catches Atsushi’s hair — pale strands fanned messily across the cushion. There’s dried exhaustion at the edges of his eyes. Faint bruising where blood loss hollowed his face earlier.
He looks smaller like this.
Less infuriating.
Akutagawa clicks his tongue softly.
“Careless,” he mutters under his breath.
Atsushi shifts slightly in his sleep.
Akutagawa stills.
There is a thin line between survival and self-destruction. He knows it intimately. He has walked it willingly for years.
And yet—
When Atsushi does it, something in his chest tightens unpleasantly.
Annoyance.
Only annoyance.
He exhales slowly.
“You treat your body as expendable,” he had said.
But the words had echoed too closely.
His reflection in the window earlier — sharp, gaunt, familiar.
Do not compare yourself to me.
And yet Atsushi had.
Without fear. Without hesitation.
Akutagawa’s jaw tightens.
It is irrational to be unsettled by that.
Irrational to remain seated here.
Irrational to monitor the rise and fall of someone else’s breathing.
Still—
He does not move.
Time passes. Minutes. Maybe more.
The darkness outside begins to thin imperceptibly.
On the couch, Atsushi stirs.
A small, disoriented sound leaves him — somewhere between a breath and a question.
His hand shifts beneath the blanket, fingers twitching like he’s reaching for something in a dream.
Akutagawa notices immediately.
“Atsushi,” he says quietly.
No response.
Atsushi’s brows knit faintly. His breathing quickens, uneven for a moment — as though waking into unfamiliar surroundings.
His eyes open abruptly.
They’re unfocused.
Pale and glassy with sleep.
He looks around, confusion flickering across his face.
“…Where—”
His gaze lands on Akutagawa.
For a second, he looks almost startled.
Then—
His hand shoots out.
It catches fabric.
Akutagawa stiffens.
Atsushi’s fingers have curled tightly into the sleeve of his coat.
Not aggressive.
Not desperate.
Just… anchoring.
As though confirming something solid is there.
Akutagawa goes completely still.
“…You are awake,” he says flatly.
Atsushi blinks slowly, trying to orient himself.
“…I thought…” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
His grip tightens slightly.
Akutagawa looks down at the hand twisted in black fabric.
He could pull away easily.
He does not.
“You are in my apartment,” he states. “You lost blood. You ate. You slept.”
Atsushi exhales, tension draining visibly from his shoulders.
“Oh.”
A pause.
“…You’re still here.”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“…Why?”
Akutagawa’s expression hardens automatically.
“You are disoriented.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Silence.
The faintest light of early morning begins to spill through the window, soft gray-blue stretching across the floor.
Akutagawa looks toward it briefly.
“…You would have attempted to stand again,” he says at last.
Atsushi’s lips twitch faintly.
“So you stayed to stop me.”
“Yes.”
“…You’re really bad at leaving.”
Akutagawa narrows his eyes.
“You are still holding my sleeve.”
Atsushi looks down as if only just realizing.
He hesitates.
Doesn’t let go.
“…Sorry.”
The word is quiet.
But his fingers remain curled there.
Akutagawa exhales slowly through his nose.
“If you are capable of gripping fabric, you are capable of releasing it.”
“Mm.”
He does not.
The room grows lighter.
The fragile tension of night begins to dissolve into morning.
Atsushi finally pushes himself up slowly — carefully this time. He sways only slightly.
Akutagawa instinctively shifts forward.
Atsushi notices.
Smiles.
“I’ve got it.”
“…See that you do.”
Atsushi lets go of his sleeve.
The absence of pressure feels immediate.
Unsettling.
Morning light spills fully across the couch now, catching the oversized black shirt, the blanket pooled around Atsushi’s waist.
They both seem to notice it at the same time.
This.
The domesticity of it.
The quiet.
The fact that Atsushi is still here.
Awake.
Alive.
Akutagawa straightens.
“You should leave before it is fully daylight.”
Atsushi tilts his head. “Kicking me out already?”
“You have recovered sufficiently.”
Atsushi studies him for a long moment.
“…Can I at least brush my teeth first?”
Akutagawa pauses.
“The bathroom is to the left.”
Atsushi grins faintly. “See? Domestic.”
Akutagawa turns sharply away. “Do not misuse that word.”
Atsushi stands carefully, testing his balance.
He pauses at the doorway.
“Thank you,” he says again.
This time, he doesn’t disguise it with teasing.
The morning light makes everything feel more exposed.
Akutagawa does not look at him.
“Do not make a habit of it.”
“I won’t.”
Atsushi disappears into the bathroom.
Water runs.
Akutagawa remains in the center of the living room, staring at the faint wrinkles left in his sleeve.
He smooths them out carefully.
“…Troublesome,” he mutters again.
Atsushi emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, steadier on his feet.
Not well.
Just enough.
“Thanks,” he says, softer now. Not teasing. Not deflecting. “For everything.”
Akutagawa does not look at him.
“Do not repeat the incident.”
“I’ll try.”
The space between them stretches — fragile, unguarded.
Atsushi moves to the door. His fingers rest on the handle. He hesitates.
“…You didn’t have to stay.”
Akutagawa’s jaw tightens.
“Yes,” he says.
It is the only answer he allows.
The door opens.
Morning air slips in — pale, indifferent, carrying the faint hum of a city beginning to wake.
Atsushi steps through.
For half a second, it seems like he might turn back.
He doesn’t.
The door shuts with a soft click.
Silence settles.
Akutagawa remains where he stands.
He tells himself to move.
He does not.
The apartment feels unfamiliar in its stillness. The couch cushion still bears the impression of where Atsushi had slept. The blanket lies folded but not put away. The faint scent of ginger lingers in the air.
His gaze rests on the door.
Just briefly.
Just until he confirms it is fully closed.
Just until he confirms there will be no second knock.
Just until—
Too long.
The realization comes quietly.
He is still looking at it.
Waiting.
For what, he cannot say.
The handle does not turn.
The hallway remains silent.
Morning light creeps further across the floor, indifferent to his stillness.
Akutagawa exhales slowly.
“…Troublesome,” he mutters.
But he does not look away from the door.
And the door does not move.