Chapter Text
“It's poor judgment', said Grandpa 'to call anything by a name. We don't know what a hobgoblin or a vampire or a troll is. Could be lots of things. You can't heave them into categories with labels and say they'll act one way or another. That'd be silly. They're people. People who do things. Yes, that's the way to put it. People who *do* things.”
- Ray Bradbury, The October Country
+++
Come in, Akutagawa!
The message was scrawled in thick black ink across the note taped to Jinko's door.
He shivered, ducking a little further into the relative warmth of his coat as the wind blew snow in his face and ruffled his hair. He continued to frown at the note as if doing so might induce it to burst into flame or at least make it a less violently ostentatious shade of pink.
It didn't.
"Do you want to come back to mine?"
The second time Jinko had asked that question of him, it had been a few weeks since their last fight, since Jinko had issued that same invitation as they stood damp and exhausted at the river's edge.
It had been convenient, reasonable, at the time, even if he’d thought Jinko foolish for offering. He’d often regretted agreeing since, his thoughts too often flitting back over the awkwardness of the stilted apologies and grudging gratitude they’d exchanged the following morning before he’d left.
There’d been reason to see him since, not until Dazai-san had called to request he meet Jinko to exchange information
They’d met on a bench in a small park nestled in a cozy residential neighborhood between the port and the Agency’s office, exchanging folders and quiet, disgruntled greetings.
It should have been simple.
Only....
Jinko frowned down at the contents of the folder, flipping back and forth through the few pages in contained incessantly, “But I don’t…”
Ryuunosuke frowned down at the file Jinko had brought him, neatly typed and color coded and completely useless as it told him nothing he didn’t already know.
“This is all stuff we already know,” Jinko lamented, slapping the file closed, an echo of his own irritation in his voice. “Did you learn anything new?”
“No,” he replied, closing his own file and handing it back.
“Why’d he have us come all the way out here to talk about stuff we already know?” Jinko tossed the files down onto the bench between them and melted into a slouch so exaggerated that it seemed as if he might slither off and flop over onto the ground below at any moment. “Why?”
He didn’t know the answer to that. He’d long ago given up trying to puzzle out why Dazai-san did anything he did.
Unsure what else to do, he retrieved the file he’d brought and stood, only a little surprised when Jinko huffed a sigh and followed suit. They walked together in silence to the park entrance and it was just when he was turning to go that Jinko blurted out:
"Do you want to come back to mine?"
Though the words had frozen him in place, it had taken him an awkwardly long time to realize that there was no one else around and so he must have been speaking to him.
“Yours?” He’d asked finally, glancing back at him to find him looking away, scuffing his shoe against the curb, restless fingers twisting the file folder in his hands this way and that.
“My apartment, I mean,” he mumbled, still looking away.
Neither of them were injured, he was tired from a day spent running errands around town, but not so tired that he couldn't make his own way home.
There was no obvious reason for the invitation and yet there it was, hanging in the air between them as inappropriate and unexpected in the moment as pornography in a teashop.
"Why?"
"I don’t have anything else to do today. Dazai-san said I could just go home after and I just thought it would be nice to, um, cards. To play cards. If you want to."
He didn't.
But he'd found himself nodding assent anyway.
Gin was on assignment with some of the others and his apartment would be chilled and silent, empty and still as a tomb.
So, for the second time, he’d followed Jinko to his apartment.
It was still small and neat and generally unremarkable.
They'd sat on the floor playing a card game filled with rules that kept changing on the pretext of Jinko having forgotten about them until they became pertinent. By the time they'd finished playing it was already full dark outside.
Jinko had crowed his victory over him with a wide grin as if beating him were some great feat worthy of celebration.
Which was, of course, completely ridiculous.
He still didn’t fully understand all the rules and he was almost certain jinko had made up the entire game on the fly just to vex him.
Yet he'd still accepted the invitation to play a second round which had run much longer than the first since they'd spent much of it arguing over the rules while drinking weak tea and sharing a packet of biscuits between them.
By the time they'd finished the second round, which he'd apparently managed to win though he still wasn't quite certain how, Jinko had been yawning hugely and had been quick to inform him that he could stay, if he wanted, had gone as far as to offer him the use of his own futon, but he’d shaken his head and pushed to his feet to stumble out the door towards home with a mumbled thank you for the game coughed against the back of his hand as he went.
The apartment had been as cold and still and dark as he'd expected when he arrived that night, but he hadn't had much time to care about such things as he’d collapsed into bed without bothering to do more than toe off his boots in the entryway. His coat had been warm around him and smelled vaguely of Jinko's terrible tea.
The third time he’d visited Jinko’s apartment had been after another fight, this time against a mutual enemy rather than each other and he'd bled all over his floor and most of his blankets while Jinko wound gauze around his arm and complained, loudly and at great length, about how he should have just let him take him back to the agency instead.
He had eventually given up that losing battle and insisted he talk to him instead.
"Talk about what?" He'd asked, because it seemed like a sensible enough request even if his thoughts still seemed to stumble over the idea and face plant against the vowels making it impossibly to grasp the why of it.
And that hadn't made much sense at all.
"I don't know, anything? Just... I think you should stay awake."
"Isn't that for concussions?"
"I don't know, but you've lost a lot of blood and I just-"
"Not so much," he commented, staring down at the dark of his coat puddled around him. He must have taken it off, but he couldn't quite recall doing so. His hands and Jinko's were both dyed dark and sticky by the blood still leaking from his wounds and the bandages he'd been winding painstakingly around his forearm were already turning red. "Stitches,” he observed, staring at the blood seeping through the layers of white fabric.
Jinko looked back up, startled, as if the word had bitten him. His eyes were wide, almost comical, and his face was too close, too pale, "What?"
"The wound. It needs stitches," he replied, every word a chore.
"I told you we should have gone to the agency," he squawked. "I don't know how to- I can't- I... what are you doing?!'
So loud.
"Useless," he breathed, swaying as he pushed away from the bloodstained floor and Jinko's unnecessary, oppressive concern with the vague, half-formed intention of stumbling home. He had a sewing kit in the kitchen for just such occasions. "Do it myself."
He didn't remember falling, but he did remember the impact of his forehead against a bony shoulder, the catch of fingers in his hair, the pressure of a hand at his waist supporting his weight as it were a small thing.
Warm.
Jinko was always so warm or, perhaps, he was simply always cold. He wasn't sure, but it was comfortable there and the panicked rasp of his surname was of little consequence when he was so tired.
He'd woken later to an ache in his arm and Jinko glowering at him from inches away, shadows like bruises beneath his eyes.
"Good. You're awake. Your friend is coming to pick you up."
"Friend?" He repeated and the word came out rough as he turned the word over in his mind and found it made no more sense after a moment of contemplation than it had coming out of Jinko's mouth.
"Higuchi-san. She called while you were sleeping and I told her you were a stubborn, stupid jerk and she's coming to pick you up so someone can redo your stupid stitches properly."
He frowned drawing his arm up to stare at the dark uneven lines scattered across the pale of his skin like ants at a picnic. The thread was thick and sturdy and though it wasn't pretty it was serviceable. "It’s fine like this," he murmured finally, dropping his arm back between them with a sigh and letting his eyes fall shut to avoid Jinko’s surprise. "Tell her not to bother."
“You tell her not to bother! She won’t believe you said that, I don’t even believe you said that and I just listened to you say it. Plus, she threatened to make me into a rug if I didn’t tell her where you were so she could come pick you up.”
“You’d make a terrible rug. Too loud.”
Even without seeing it, he could picture the scrunch of Jinko’s face perfectly, the enthusiastic twitch of annoyance at the corner of his eye. The way his mouth must have twisted into a pout as he chose to ignore the jab.
“And what do you mean tell her not to bother?”
“I can make my own way home.”
“Don’t be dumb,” jinko scoffed. “You passed out on me and I had to clean up like a bucket of your blood off the floor. You shouldn’t go anywhere on your own yet.”
“Later.”
“What?”
“I’ll go later.”
Jinko fell silent and it would be delightful if it weren’t so sudden or so unexpected. He cracks one eye open to peer at his red-faced, slack-jawed expression and closes it again as he sees the beginnings of a smile crawl across his lips.
“Okay,” his voice sounds strange, shaky, but he can hear the smile in it. “That’s… okay, but you still have to call and tell her otherwise she’ll probably come over anyway and skin me on principle.”
He gropes half-heartedly for his phone, not particularly surprised when the cool, familiar plastic is pressed into his hand.
He pushes the button that auto-dials her number by feel and slides the phone under his head.
Higuchi’s voice is abrupt and harried when she answers, not bothering even with the most cursory of pleasantries. “He had better be-“
“It’s fine,” he cut in since she obviously thought it was Jinko on the other end of the line. “Don’t do anything unnecessary. Contact me only if you must.”
There was a beat of silence.
“He said you were wounded,” she inquired finally, her voice uncharacteristically cautious, hesitant. It was irritating. “That he wasn’t sure he’d done the stitches properly.”
He frowned at the phone; he’d never enjoyed repeating himself. “It’s fine.”
“If you’re certain,” she replied, hesitant again and he pressed the button to disconnect the call. He’d said what needed to be said, anything more would be… too much. He could barely sort out his motivations for himself, he had no desire to share his confusion with his subordinate.
By the time he pushed the phone aside he realized that Jinko had been uncharacteristically silent for a surprisingly long period. He opened his eyes to find that at some point while his attention was on Higuchi’s voice over the line, he had dozed off, cheek pillowed against his bent arm, mouth gone slack. His breathing was soft and even and far too close as it whispered warm across his knuckles.
He sighed, scooting a bit further away before settling down and following suit, mildly surprised by how easy it was to sleep beside him even without the overwhelming weight of injury or exhaustion to pull him down.
He’d woken next to the morning sun shining bright and annoying through the window and the mumble of Jinko’s voice, pitched low and still rough with sleep. “No, it’s fine. I’m just tired. No, don’t come. Definitely don’t. No, I don’t want coffee. Stop looking for an excuse to barge in.”
He cracked one eye open to find him still lying nearby, staring at him as if he’d been doing so for hours.
It was a little disconcerting.
“No, I need to go. Stop, I’m gonna go now. Don’t come over,” he warned again as he pressed the button to end his call, turning his attention back toward him with the tentative beginnings of a smile. “Hungry?”
“Thirsty,” he replied roughly, pulling the blanket up over his mouth to muffle a cough.
“Okay,” Jinko murmured, pushing his own blankets aside to get up and pad barefoot into the kitchen.
He watched him go in silence.
It had been almost too simple to fall into the habit after that day, comfortable, like slipping into a warm bath.
The fourth time he’d half-carried Jinko back after he’d over-used his power to the point of exhaustion by healing far too many wounds in too brief a time. They'd both ended up collapsed in a heap just inside the door and he'd fallen asleep with him snuffling against his ear, his weight warm and heavy across his back.
The fifth time they’d been surrounded by files Dazai-san had insisted they absolutely had to go through to research the group that had been attempting to gain a foothold in the city by purchasing some of the Port Mafia's smaller holdings.
They hadn’t found anything of use and the next day Dazai-san had insisted it was because Jinko had taken the wrong boxes to sort through.
“He’s lying,” Jinko had grumbled, but he’d known that without being told by the sly smile on Dazai-san's face.
After that... the visits had begun to blend together.
He’d lost track of the number of times his feet had found their way to that place, to that door, to that floor, seeking out Jinko’s company whenever the invitation was offered in the weeks and months after that second visit.
It was convenience, sometimes, necessity, often, but not always.
He didn’t remember the first time he’d come there without intending to, slumping against his door to bang out a tired knock after a long night, but he did remember the way Jinko had smiled at him, a little surprised, but strangely pleased and obliging even though all he did was shove a box of biscuits at him and stumble inside, slumping to the floor and falling asleep almost immediately.
He wasn't at all sure why he'd come then or why he was there now.
Or why Jinko had seemed to expect that he would.
He scowled at the presumptuous stationery again.
It remained a smug, bright pink reminder that his presence here had become a too common occurrence.
One that was apparently disconcertingly welcome.
It is a dangerous addiction, this craving for the warmth and hospitality of that place and the acceptance offered by the one who dwelled within.
The door was never locked and Jinko never seemed bothered by his showing up at odd hours and passing out on his floor.
He had woken more than once facedown on his floor in much the same position he'd stumbled though the door and fallen into.
Sometimes, most times, he would wake to find a blanket had been draped over him.
Always he would find him curled up nearby. Never close enough to touch, but wherever he laid down, Jinko always seemed to position his futon near enough that more than once he'd opened his eyes to find himself staring at that pale pinched face, at that brow furrowed by some inconvenient dream.
He'd reached out once, just once, to smooth his finger across his forehead in an impulsive attempt to sooth the tension away.
He didn't like to think about how he'd shifted into the touch, how the whimper of sound that had slipped from his sleeping lips had made him feel queasy and warm. The way it had made his hand tremble and his breath draw sharp and quick in his chest.
He'd never done it again.
After that, whenever he woke, he’d always stumbled to his feet and dragged himself out and towards his own place, leaving a thank you jotted on the paper Jinko kept on his little desk and locking the door behind him even though Jinko had never seen fit to lock it when they were there.
They still fought often as their organizations were at odds as frequently as not and Boss Pervert had taken to sending him to deal with the Dazai-san’s Agency more and more frequently in recent months.
He does not like to dwell on thoughts of why.
Why he has been given simultaneously more to do and less. Why his assignments have thrown him into Jinko’s path time and again as both ally and foe. It felt as if he was being tested though no one had said as much. Still, he had seen the sharp attention of Drunk Hat’s gaze that warned caution whenever they passed each other.
He could tell by Boss Pervert’s empty smile and dead eyes that he is meant to think of all these assignments as promotion, as a show of good faith, of trust, of an attempt to cater to his interests, but where Dazai-san’s acknowledgement had eased an ache within him, Boss Pervert’s acknowledgement makes his skin crawl.
It makes him anxious, but he doesn’t know how to give that anxiety purpose, to form it into something he can actually use rather than something that simply makes him feel paranoid and uncertain, so he’s shoved it down, away, to be ignored until it could be honed into something practical and more easily defined.
In the end it all just served to make him almost grateful for those precious few assignments that sent him elsewhere, that allowed him the mindless relief of indiscriminate slaughter. It’s easier to take, to kill, to steal from strangers than familiar foes. The thrill of fighting Jinko was better than all those things, but it seemed to grow more needlessly complicated with every passing day.
With ever night that lead him to that familiar apartment, to sleep in a nest of borrowed blankets and the increasingly familiar comfort he finds there.
There’d been no more reason to come there this night than there ever was.
He hadn’t made the decision to go there, not consciously, but he’d still found himself trudging through the light snow into the familiar courtyard, the obnoxious orange light of the lamps overhead, flickering and buzzing as he climbed the slippery stairs to find that note taped to his door.
His assignment had taken longer than it should have, but instead of returning to headquarters, he’d retreated to Jinko’s apartment with a packet of biscuits he'd taken to keeping on hand. There was blood on his shoes and the beginnings of what would no doubt be an interesting bruise aching across his cheekbone.
He still knocked, as was his custom, but when he hadn’t answered, he’d taken the note from the door and slipped it into the pocket of his coat before unfastening his bloodstained boots, setting them beside the door and slipping inside in damp socks to find the apartment warm and dimly lit but empty.
He frowned, mildly annoyed by how stupid it was of him to leave it unlocked on the off chance that he’d come by.
Idiot cat.
He ignored the guest slippers and instead padded into the kitchen in his bloodstained stockings to wash the filth from his hands.
It would be easier to clear the blood he trekked across the floor from the wood than it would have been to clean it from the slippers.
Probably.
By the time the water finally ran clear and he’d used a towel to clear up the blood he’d tracked across the floor he was shivering again and he settled his hands in his pockets to dry before sliding back against the wall near the door to wait for Jinko to return.
“Again.”
It hurts to breathe.
“Again. You’re going to be the mafia’s dog, so you’d better be a useful one that knows when to bark and cower and kill.”
He glares up at him to find him still looming over him, watching him with cold, dead eyes that say that he’ll never be enough.
“Akutagawa?”
There's a hand on his shoulder and a familiar voice in his ear, far too kind and cautious to belong to Dazai-san. Far too tentative in the asking to belong to anyone but him really, but at the moment of waking he's still too caught in the lingering pain and exhaustion of memory to connect with that knowledge in any meaningful way. By the time he does he's already lashed out, Rashomon spinning to manic, panicked life around him, lunging to protect him from a past he doesn't wish to change.
He opens his eyes to a darkened room, heaving unsteady breaths as he regained his bearings enough to withdraw his power from where several points of the living cloth had pierced Jinko's pale shirt and punched through the thin body beneath. The spill of blood that follows their withdrawal seems black in the dimly lit darkness, dribbling down his chest as the fabric falls limb, fluttering back to the ground around him, the energy that animated it dying to silence and regret. His heart is in his throat as he forces himself to ease further along the wall towards the door, to move away from the boy kneeling in front of him looking down at his chest with that idiotic expression of surprise.
“You shouldn't have woken me,” he murmured, glancing away, pulling his knees up against his chest, uncomfortable. He can't keep the accusatory note from his voice, not that he'd want to even if he could.
He does not feel guilty.
He had warned him before about waking him to avoid this situation.
It was Jinko's own fault for not heeding it.
The world outside the windows was dark, covered in a thick grey fog that made the orange glow of the street lamps beyond seemed soft and unnatural were it cast long shadows across Jinko's modest apartment.
“You were having a nightmare,” he answered as if that explained anything, as if he were meant to understand with only those words to guide him. Jinko’s ability had already activated to heal him, a soft, whirling blue glow that briefly illuminated the dark of the room as it swirled around him.
“All the more reason," he replied, on unfamiliar ground and unsure what else to say.
Jinko ignored his admonishment, of course, sighing as he twisted around to flop back to lie beside him, boneless and loose, his head landing a scant inch from Ryuunosuke’s knee as if he hadn’t even noticed the proximity.
His wounds had already closed, but the holes in his shirt remained, rimmed with the blotchy, damp dark of blood. He fingered one of the holes, frowning thoughtfully, “I go through a lot of shirts when I’m with you.”
That was true.
This hadn’t been the first time he’d violently startled and lashed out when Jinko was too loud or moved too fast, he was just usually fast enough to dodge the worst of the potential damage. The loss of control was as embarrassing as ever, but Jinko never seemed to mind.
Not that he cared whether Jinko was bothered by it.
He was the one who had invited him in that first day, after all, and every night he’d spent there since.
Jinko had no one to blame but himself for the consequences of his actions... just as he himself would have no one else to blame if one day Boss Pervert decides to dispose of him for his.
Ryuunosuke slowly pushed himself to his feet, frowning down at his eyes, at the way they always seem to gleam in the darkness.
It was his own fault.
Still.
He doesn't like owing people things... especially not him.
“Don’t look at me,” he warned, working loose the buttons on his coat and shrugging it off his shoulders.
Jinko made a scandalized noise and leapt to his feet, scrambling about indecisively for a moment before finally whirling around to face the window, “W-w-w-w-what are you doing?”
He frowned at his back, ignoring the question as irrelevant. “Take off your shirt and give it to me.”
“My shirt?” His voice was high, squeaky with some ridiculous, inexplicable panic.
“Yes,” he replied, ignoring the heat warming his throat, his face, as he kept his focus on removing his ascot, unfastening the tiny, shiny buttons on his shirt.
It wasn’t weird.
It wasn’t.
It was practical.
He simply didn’t wish to owe him anything.
If he felt as if he owed him than it would ruin this. These quiet moments. It would make it feel like obligation. He needed to balance the scales between them and he certainly wasn’t about to give him money or buy him a new shirt.
It would attract unwanted attention to this strange nameless thing between them that he hasn’t even told Gin about.
Not that there’s anything to tell.
Not that any of this meant anything particular or noteworthy.
Not that they were anything more than strangers who’d fallen into step together.
Theirs was a fragile partnership built on convenience and changing circumstance and it might fall apart at any moment.
He would not miss it when it was gone, but he could value it while it lasted.
He set each article carefully aside, folded neatly, precisely, not because he particularly cared whether the fabric wrinkled, but because it gave him something to think about besides the fact that he was laying himself bare in front of someone who was still in many ways his enemy. It was… unsettling.
His breath caught in his throat and he coughed weakly, muffling the sound against the back of his hand.
“Okay?” Jinko asked, voice soft.
He hated that tone.
As if he were something weak, something to be coddled, something to be pitied.
He caught himself halfway through a shrug before clearing his throat and offering a muttered, “It’s fine.”
Even thought it wasn't.
He undid the fastenings at his cuffs and slipped his shirt off, draping it across the low table that served as Jinko’s desk with the rest of the clothing he’d removed. He didn’t shiver, but it was a close thing. The apartment was warm, but it had been a long time since he’d been this defenseless in front of anyone.
Even longer since he’d been so of his own volition.
The tiger was standing still in front of the balcony doors, his suspenders hanging loose and limp around his waist. His ruined shirt clasped, crumpled, in one fist and held out to the side, wavering slightly as he trembled.
It almost made him smile.
It was still a strange, unfamiliar novelty to be trusted.
Much less to be trusted by someone he had tried to kill on more than one occasion.
Much less by this idiot who regularly allowed him into his home for no good reason and slept close to him as if it were nothing special.
It might always be a novelty for so long as it lasted.
He still wasn’t certain that he agreed that he had earned that level of trust… or any level of trust for that matter. What had happened between them, when they fought together that first time and every time since… shouldn’t have mattered so much, shouldn’t have changed things between them at all much less so completely, but there was no point in denying that it had been the start of something like understanding.
And it was comfortable there.
Breathing that air, sleeping in his space, was comfortable in a way nothing ever had been.
It wouldn’t last, nothing did, but he was hesitant to be the one to break their unspoken truce, to be the one to flinch and retreat after so long.
He did not look at Jinko’s back.
Did not stare overlong at the scars there.
They were not his to look at, not his to touch.
Instead, he touched cool fingers to the back of Atsushi’s too warm hand, unsurprised when Atsushi yelped and dropped the shirt, instantly scrambling to snatch it back with a flurry of inarticulate sounds that might have been curses from anyone else.
“Oh, um, hi,” he murmured finally, staring up at him from where he’d fallen to his knees, ruined, rumpled shirt recaptured and held between them like a shield. “Sorry. I… sorry, you’re…”
His face was so red.
“It’s fine.”
He’s not sure that it is, but he says it anyway, ignoring the queasy flutter that rolls weakly through him.
He knows how he looks.
The years below took their toll, exacted their price upon his frail body, and the years since had done little to make it up. Training and the few intense battles he’s engaged in have made his pale chest rough with scars, and more recent battles had peppered the flesh with bruises. It had not improved matters, though he’s had little enough reason for it to be an issue over the years.
He's not altogether certain why he's dwelling on it now.
He reaches out to pluck the shirt from his grip and slips it on gingerly. It’s tight in the shoulders and still warm from his body, which he tries very hard not to think about, as he closes his eyes to get a feel for the weave of the cloth before activating his ability with a whisper.
The fabric snaps and howls around him, stretching and biting at the air before settling down again as he allows the ability to fade, to fold back inside him. When he opens his eyes, the tiger’s shirt is still stained with blood, but whole once more and Jinko was staring at him with those wide, wide eyes again.
It makes him uncomfortable.
He removes the shirt quickly, shoving it back into his hands, a little annoyed when it almost falls again before he manages to grab it.
“That-That was amazing!”
His smile was too bright, too warm, like his shirt had been. It makes him feel strange, awkward so he turns quickly back to his own clothes, donning each item with swift, jerky motions. “I didn’t know you could do something like that with your power.”
His frown deepens, Dazai-san’s words echoing in his head and spilling from his lips reflexively, “It’s a useless power.”
“It isn’t!” And Atsushi is there in front of him again, ducking around him, too close, shirt on but hanging open and his breath catches in his throat. “It’s a really great power. You’re really… you…”
They’re close, too close, and he feels warm, his chest strangely tight. It isn’t as if he cares what Jinko thinks of him. It isn’t as if it matters at all, but there’s something trapped in the space between them that he can’t quite make sense of.
Something that feels like Rashomon, some monster snapping and consuming the distance until he can feel the warmth of his breath across his cheek.
His stomach churns with something that feels nothing and everything like hunger.
He should say something, but there are no words, no name he can call to bring it forth or banish it, to clarify it into something he can understand.
“You’re really, um, great,” Jinko finishes awkwardly, face bright red as he spins off towards the kitchen.
He’s left staring after him, feeling the cold so much more acutely than he had before.
He thought he was… great?
He’s not sure how to feel about that.
He’s not sure why he’s here.
Again.
He should never have come.
“Do you, um, you’re… a-are you hungry? I-I could make something,” Jinko calls glancing about frantically, as if desperate for some easy distraction.
That, at least, is a sentiment he can understand.
“No, thanks,” he replied, turning his attention back to the business of dressing. “You only know how to make chazuke.”
“So? I like chazuke. Maybe if I knew what you liked I could learn to make that too,” Jinko grouched, settling on running water and putting the kettle on with a huff.
“I like you.”
The words are out hanging there in the space between them and even though he was the one who said them, they feel like they belong to someone else.
They feel like an uninvited guest and now he feels that way as well.
He shouldn’t be here.
He should never have come here in the first place, not this night or any of the nights before. It had always been a poor idea. Boss Pervert did not encourage connections outside the mafia. Especially not with the agency… Dazai-san’s agency… he should never have….
“Don’t just run away when you’re the one saying stuff like that!”
He hadn’t even realized he was halfway to the door until Jinko's words brought him up short.
“Jinko….” He began, fingers clamping down against the cuffs of his jacket sleeves.
“Atsushi!”
There's the stomp of bare feet against the mat and then he finds himself staring down into Jinko’s face as he ducked around in front of him and planted himself there to glare up at him with that strange constipated expression he always wore when he was frustrated.
"At-su-shi!" He spat the word in bitter fragments as if he had no idea that he'd known the shape of those syllables hours, days, before he’d ever laid eyes on the actual article. “If you like me, call me by my name for once! Not Jinko, I mean, I know I’m that too, but that’s not who I am. I don’t go around calling you….”
He stalls scrambling for a nickname, face screwing up in a frown. “Um… coat guy? Shadow jacket? But, I mean, it’s not just the jacket, right? It’s everything you wear, so… space eating thingy? Monster clothes?”
“Shut up.”
“Huh? Don’t tell me to shut up! You like me!”
“I take it back.”
“You can’t take it back! You said it and you can’t take it back, because I won’t forget it and I… I like you too, so… so you can’t take it back. I won’t let you. Just…”
His face is so red, his cheeks blown out and eyes averted, fingers catching and tugging at his hanging suspenders.
His name.
How was he supposed to say it when he can’t even bring himself to think it?
I like you.
Why had he said that?
Why had he said it back?
Why was he...?
There’s a tap at the window and it startles them both.
Jinko is the one to draw the curtain open and then step aside to gesture him forward, “I think it’s for you.”
Gin stands there, blurry and dark behind the foggy window, dressed for work, looking distinctly out of place against the drift of snow and the flicker of too orange light.
Gin wipes a hand across the glass to clear it and though they meet his gaze steadily, he can see the taint of fear in their eyes.
He knew what they must look like, clothes disheveled, futon a mess. He’s not unaware of these things, but he’s never been good at explaining himself and Gin has never asked it of him.
"You’ve been requested,” Gin murmured, voice muffled, fingers tracing characters across the glass for a moment, pressing fingers against the reflection of his face or their own and then Gin is gone, melting back into the night as if they were never there at all.
“I have to go,” he commented, letting the curtain fall back into place as he buttoned his shirt with quick, shaky motions.
Gin wouldn’t have come if it weren’t important, if there wasn’t a danger in not. Gin knew better than to take such risks. That was the promise they’d made when Gin had joined the Port Mafia. They would be siblings only during their brief time off periods so his decisions would never impact Gin unnecessarily. Nails that stick out in the mafia were quick to be smashed down.
Gin wouldn’t have violated that promise without reason.
“Oh… okay, I… okay. Thanks for, um, coming and for the, uh, shirt. For fixing it, I mean.”
He nods, uncomfortable.
He is dressed and there was no reason to stay and every reason to go and yet he lingered, uncertain, the beginnings of that name stalled on his tongue.
They liked each other.
What did that even mean?
“Um. Call if you need… I don’t know. Or come by, I…” Jinko reached out to fiddle with the collar of his coat, rough fingers brushing his throat.
“What are we doing?”
He yanked his fingers back as if the words had singed his skin, “What? I w-wasn’t doing anything! You-You're the one who comes here, you know!”
"You're the one who leaves the door unlocked," he replied, tension snapping the words terse and irritable from his tongue. His brow furrowed, confused as much by the overreaction as by how annoyed he was that Jinko had stopped fiddling about with his collar. It had been…
"Because I know you're coming!" He snapped, throwing his arms wide.
Jinko's chest was still bare, the shirt hanging open, half-buttoned and his skin was lined with pale scars.
His fingers reach out to close around that cloth without his permission, sliding across the smooth fabric to join button to hole.
It was easy to ignore Jinko's dramatics when he had something else to focus on. He refastened the buttons slowly, methodically and the act makes the temptation to touch those scars, that brown skin, fall away as they’re sealed away from view. His fingers linger even as he fastened the last button, exerting gentle pressure against the rise and fall of his chest.
He can feel the frantic scampering rhythm of his heart.
A soft noise, almost a whimper, drew his gaze back up to study Jinko's face.
Still so red.
“I’m… Akutagawa, I’m…”
Warm fingers brushed his cheek, catching at the pale tips of his hair, sliding it back to hook behind his ear, brushing against the shell.
The touch is gentle, barely there at all, but it makes him feel… fragile, breakable, in a way he hadn’t felt in years, his legs turning to water beneath him, unsteady and turbulent as the churn of the ocean.
It makes him feel....
He breaks away as his throat tightens, seized by the sudden need to cough, and he turns away abruptly, smothering the stream against the back of his hand, gagging, jaw and throat and chest aching with the force of it.
Catching his breath in the aftermath, he stared for a moment at the smattering of blood scattered across the back of his hand before wiping any trace of it away against the dark of his coat.
Weak.
He should leave.
He should never have been here at all.
This night or any other.
No good would come from this.
Whatever it was.
No good had ever come from wanting.
“Sorry for the trouble, good evening," he says it quickly, quietly, taking refuge in the distance afforded by such useless pleasantries.
“Wait!”
He stops and turns and maybe Jinko wasn’t expecting it, because he’s hurrying to catch up and suddenly he’s close, too close, and he inhales sharply and flinches back just before he might have slammed into him.
“Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes in a rush, breathing too fast for the brief distance he’s crossed.
He waits, expectant, but Jinko just continues to stand there, uncertain, shifting nervously from foot to foot, fingers fidgeting awkwardly at his sides.
Those words still linger between them, permeating every moment with an inescapable pressure like the pregnant pause before a storm breaks.
They’re like travelers lost on a dark road neither certain how to move forward or how to move back, which direction would be the better, safer choice. Knowing there’s a choice to be made, that they can’t linger stagnant in this moment forever, but unable to commit to the possibility of being wrong.
“Next time,” he murmurs finally, hesitantly, shifting his gaze away from Jinko to the orange light flickering through his pale curtains. "You could make chazuke."
"I thought you didn't like it," he replied, easing closer, his voice heavy with suspicion.
He shrugs, uncomfortable, studying the cuff of his jacket, how it had been made stiff by dried blood. He'd need to tend to it once he returned to his apartment.
"Okay," Jinko comments finally, the suspicion easing into something lighter, warmer, more cheerful. "Next time."
He nodded, forcing himself to turn, to twist the handle and pull the door open, turning the lock as he steps out into the night beyond.
“Good night, Akutagawa.”
It was said so softly as he pulled the door closed that he almost missed it.
His fingers clench white with strain against the handle as he shut the door behind him with a snap, “Good night....”
He’s halfway down the stairs, coat pulled close against the chill of winter air and the falling snow, when his breath puffs white and whisper soft around the bittersweet taste of that unfamiliar word on his tongue.
Just this once.
Just for himself.
“Atsushi.”