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Dazai almost didn’t recognize him.
It wasn’t the face—that sharp, pale profile was unmistakable. It wasn’t even the way he walked, quiet and deliberate, like every step had already been decided before it happened. No, what threw Dazai off was everything else.
Akutagawa was… normal.
No long black coat. No Rashōmon lurking like a shadow at his heels. Just a soft, oversized sweater layered over a collared shirt, the fabric slightly rumpled like he’d dressed himself without much thought. The sleeves swallowed his hands. His shorts were so small they were barely visible beneath the hem.
Dazai blinked once, then twice.
“…Well now,” he murmured, already smiling to himself. “This is interesting.”
And, of course, he followed.
—
Akutagawa moved through the street without purpose—at least, that’s what it looked like. He didn’t glance at anyone. Didn’t acknowledge the world. Just… walked.
Until he didn’t.
A small cat sat near the edge of the sidewalk, tucked beside a low wall. Scruffy, thin, but alert—its tail curled neatly around its paws as it watched passersby with cautious eyes.
Akutagawa walked past it.
Dazai smirked faintly. Of course.
But then—
Akutagawa stopped.
Dazai’s interest sharpened instantly.
Slowly, almost like the decision took effort, Akutagawa turned around. He stepped back toward the cat, stopping a few feet away.
The cat blinked up at him.
There was a pause.
Then Akutagawa crouched.
Dazai leaned slightly against a lamppost, watching closely.
Akutagawa reached out—hesitant at first—and gently rested his fingers on the cat’s head.
The cat didn’t flinch.
If anything, it leaned into the touch.
Akutagawa froze for half a second… then his shoulders relaxed, just barely.
From his bag, he pulled out a small wrapped bundle. Carefully, he unwrapped it to reveal a piece of fish.
Dazai’s eyebrows lifted.
“You came prepared?” he whispered under his breath.
Akutagawa placed the fish in front of the cat.
The cat sniffed it, then began to eat eagerly.
A quiet, soft meow followed.
And then—
Akutagawa… responded.
“…Meow.”
Dazai nearly choked.
It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t sarcastic.
It was… genuine.
Akutagawa tilted his head slightly, as if listening. Then, very seriously, he meowed again—quieter this time—and stroked the cat’s back in slow, careful motions.
The cat purred.
And then it pressed itself against him.
Akutagawa blinked, startled, before shifting—lowering himself fully onto his knees so he could pet it more comfortably. His movements were gentle, deliberate, like he was afraid of doing something wrong.
“…You’re bold,” he murmured softly to the cat.
The cat, of course, had no objections.
It climbed halfway into his lap.
Dazai covered his mouth, barely containing his laughter.
This… this is priceless.
—
After a few minutes, Akutagawa carefully lifted the cat.
“…You have no collar,” he noted, turning it slightly to check again.
The cat blinked at him.
“…Then you are stray.”
A pause.
“…That is unacceptable.”
Dazai tilted his head. “Oh?”
Akutagawa held the cat closer.
“…You will come with me.”
Just like that.
Decision made.
—
Dazai followed at a distance as Akutagawa walked home, the cat tucked securely in his arms. Every now and then, Akutagawa would glance down at it, his expression unreadable—but his grip would tighten just slightly, protective.
When they reached the penthouse building, Dazai finally stopped.
He watched Akutagawa disappear inside, then let out a quiet laugh.
“Well… that’s new.”
He turned away, hands in his pockets.
“…I wonder how long it takes before the tiger gets involved.”
—
Inside the penthouse, Akutagawa shut the door with a soft click.
The cat wriggled slightly in his arms.
“…You will remain still,” he said, though his tone lacked any real bite.
He set the cat down carefully on the couch.
It immediately began exploring.
Akutagawa watched it for a moment, then turned toward his room.
A few minutes later, he emerged changed.
The oversized black sweater hung even lower now, slipping off one shoulder slightly. The soft collared shirt beneath it was neat, but the sweater swallowed most of it. The hem brushed low enough that his shorts were almost entirely hidden.
He coughed lightly into his hand.
“…Unnecessary.”
The cat jumped onto the couch cushions, circling before settling.
Akutagawa hesitated.
Then he reached for his phone.
He stared at the screen for a long moment before typing.
Come over.
He paused.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
I require assistance.
Pause.
Delete.
His fingers hovered.
Finally—
Come over.
He hit send before he could overthink it.
He set the phone down immediately, as if distance would lessen the weight of what he’d just done.
“…He will come,” he muttered.
He wasn’t sure if that was a statement… or a hope.
—
It didn’t take long.
A knock came at the door.
Akutagawa stiffened.
For a moment, something flickered across his expression—hesitation, tension, something deeper.
Then he walked over and opened it.
Atsushi stood there, slightly out of breath.
“Akutagawa! You just said ‘come over’—I thought something was wrong—”
He stopped.
Blinking.
“…Is that a cat?”
Akutagawa glanced back at the couch.
“…Yes.”
The cat looked at Atsushi.
Atsushi looked at the cat.
Then back at Akutagawa.
“…You got a cat.”
“…It had no owner.”
“That doesn’t usually mean you just—adopt it on the spot?!”
Akutagawa frowned slightly.
“…It does now.”
Atsushi stared at him for a second longer.
Then, slowly…
He smiled.
“…Okay.”
Akutagawa blinked.
“…Okay?”
“Yeah,” Atsushi said, stepping inside. “I mean… I get it.”
He crouched near the couch, holding out a hand. The cat sniffed it, then accepted him almost immediately.
Akutagawa watched closely.
“…You are accepted.”
Atsushi laughed softly. “I guess I am.”
There was a quiet moment.
Then Akutagawa spoke again, more quietly this time.
“…You are a tiger.”
Atsushi froze. “…What?”
Akutagawa looked at the cat.
“…A tiger is… a large feline.”
“…Yeah…?”
“…You are therefore… comparable.”
Atsushi blinked.
Then—
“…Are you saying you invited me over because I’m ‘basically a cat’?”
Akutagawa hesitated.
“…Yes.”
Atsushi burst out laughing.
Akutagawa stiffened slightly, unsure.
But Atsushi wasn’t mocking him.
Not even a little.
“…That’s—wow, okay,” Atsushi managed, wiping his eye. “That’s actually kind of cute.”
Akutagawa went very still.
“…Cute?”
“Yeah,” Atsushi said, smiling at him. “You wanted help with your cat, right?”
“…Yes.”
“Then I’ll help.”
Simple.
Easy.
No hesitation.
Akutagawa’s chest tightened slightly.
He looked away.
“…Very well.”
—
They spent the next hour on the couch.
The cat ended up sprawled across both of them, completely content.
Atsushi talked—about random things, about the Agency, about how to take care of a cat. Akutagawa listened.
Occasionally, he would respond. Short, clipped answers.
But he stayed.
He didn’t leave.
And neither did Atsushi.
At some point, the cat curled up against Akutagawa’s side.
Akutagawa hesitated… then gently rested a hand on its back.
Atsushi noticed.
He didn’t say anything.
Just smiled softly.
—
“…It requires a name,” Akutagawa said after a while.
Atsushi glanced over. “Oh! Yeah, definitely.”
They both looked at the cat.
“…What about something simple?” Atsushi suggested. “Like… Kuro?”
Akutagawa considered it.
“…Acceptable.”
Atsushi grinned. “Kuro it is.”
The cat—Kuro—flicked its tail.
—
Later, when Atsushi stood to leave, Akutagawa walked him to the door.
There was that hesitation again.
That quiet, almost invisible tension.
“…You will return,” Akutagawa said.
It wasn’t a question.
But it wasn’t quite a command, either.
Atsushi met his eyes.
“…Yeah,” he said gently. “If you want me to.”
Akutagawa looked away.
“…I do.”
Atsushi smiled.
“…Then I will.”
He stepped out.
The door closed softly behind him.
—
Akutagawa stood there for a long moment.
Then he turned back toward the living room.
Kuro was still curled on the couch.
Waiting.
Akutagawa walked over and sat down beside it, carefully.
“…He will return,” he murmured.
The cat purred.
Akutagawa rested his hand against its back.
And for once—
The silence didn’t feel empty.
The days after that settled into something… unfamiliar.
Not chaotic. Not tense.
Routine.
Kuro would greet Atsushi at the door every time without fail, weaving around his legs like he’d been waiting all day—which, honestly, he probably had. Atsushi would laugh, crouch down, and scoop him up, always greeting him first.
Akutagawa pretended not to notice that.
But he always stood a little closer to the door when Atsushi was expected.
Always opened it faster than necessary.
Always… waited.
—
On the fourth day, Atsushi brought snacks.
On the fifth, he brought a small toy for Kuro.
On the sixth—
He brought flowers.
—
Akutagawa wasn’t ready.
He hadn’t been expecting him so early.
He hadn’t been expecting… anything, really.
The knock came, and he moved automatically, still half-distracted, still not fully composed. He opened the door without thinking—
—and froze.
Atsushi stood there, slightly nervous, holding a small bundle of flowers in his hands.
“Uh—hi,” Atsushi said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, um… I saw these and thought—well—it’s Valentine’s Day, and I didn’t know if you—”
He stopped.
His eyes shifted.
Down.
Akutagawa’s breath hitched.
He hadn’t changed.
The oversized sweater was gone.
Instead, he wore a simple short-sleeved shirt.
And his arms—
There was no hiding them.
Faint, pale lines layered over darker, newer ones. Some thin, some deeper. Some healed, some not.
Raw.
Exposed.
Obvious.
Akutagawa stepped back instinctively, but it was too late.
Atsushi had already seen.
—
The silence stretched.
Akutagawa couldn’t look at him.
“…You may leave,” he said quietly.
But there was no command in it.
No force.
Just… something fragile.
Atsushi didn’t move.
“…Akutagawa,” he said softly.
No response.
“…Can I come in?”
Akutagawa hesitated.
Everything in him screamed to shut the door.
To end it here.
Before—
“…Yes,” he said anyway.
—
Atsushi stepped inside slowly, carefully, like he was entering something delicate.
He set the flowers down on the table without comment.
Kuro padded over, meowing, but even he seemed quieter than usual, sensing the shift.
Atsushi’s attention didn’t leave Akutagawa.
“…Does it hurt?” he asked gently.
Akutagawa stiffened.
“…Irrelevant.”
“It’s not irrelevant.”
Silence.
Atsushi took a small step closer.
“…When did it start?”
Akutagawa’s hands trembled.
“…Stop.”
His voice cracked.
“…Please.”
That was new.
Atsushi’s expression softened immediately.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. I’ll stop asking.”
He didn’t step back, though.
He didn’t leave.
He just… stayed.
“…Can I at least help?” he asked quietly.
Akutagawa shook his head.
“…No.”
But his voice was unsteady.
Unconvincing.
Atsushi hesitated.
Then, slowly—
He reached out.
Not for Akutagawa’s arm.
Not for the injuries.
Just… for his hand.
He stopped just short of touching him.
“…Only if you’re okay with it,” he said.
Akutagawa stared at his hand.
At the space between them.
At how easy it would be to pull away.
To refuse.
To be alone again.
…
His fingers twitched.
Then, slowly—
They moved forward.
And rested against Atsushi’s.
Barely.
But enough.
—
That was all it took.
The moment their hands touched, something in Akutagawa cracked.
His shoulders shook.
“…I do not understand,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Why you would—”
His breath hitched.
“…Why you would stay.”
Atsushi didn’t hesitate.
“I want to.”
Simple.
Honest.
Akutagawa’s vision blurred.
“…That is not sufficient reason.”
“It is for me.”
Tears slipped down Akutagawa’s face before he could stop them.
“…People do not remain,” he said quietly. “They leave when—”
He stopped.
Couldn’t finish.
Atsushi gently squeezed his hand.
“I’m still here,” he said.
Akutagawa’s knees nearly gave out.
—
Atsushi reacted instantly, guiding him carefully toward the couch.
“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” he murmured. “Sit down—just—yeah, here…”
Akutagawa didn’t resist.
Didn’t fight.
He sat.
Barely holding himself together.
Kuro jumped up beside them, curling close like a silent presence.
Atsushi moved carefully, grabbing the small first-aid kit he’d noticed before.
“…Can I?” he asked softly.
Akutagawa didn’t answer.
But he didn’t pull away when Atsushi gently took his arm.
That was enough.
—
Atsushi worked slowly.
Carefully.
Cleaning, wrapping, adjusting.
He didn’t rush.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t react in a way that made Akutagawa feel worse.
Just… steady.
“…You don’t have to hide from me,” Atsushi said quietly as he worked.
Akutagawa let out a shaky breath.
“…I do.”
“No,” Atsushi said gently. “You don’t.”
Silence.
“…I am not…” Akutagawa swallowed. “…someone worth staying for.”
Atsushi paused.
Then looked up at him.
“…That’s not your decision to make for me.”
Akutagawa blinked.
“…What?”
Atsushi smiled softly.
“I decide who I stay for.”
He adjusted the bandage.
“…And I’m choosing you.”
—
Akutagawa’s chest tightened painfully.
“…Why?”
Atsushi hesitated.
“…Because you care,” he said finally. “Even if you don’t think you do. I’ve seen it.”
His gaze flicked briefly to Kuro.
“…And because you try. Even when it’s hard.”
Akutagawa couldn’t speak.
Could barely breathe.
—
By the time Atsushi finished, the room had gone quiet again.
Not heavy.
Not suffocating.
Just… quiet.
Akutagawa hadn’t moved.
Atsushi hadn’t left.
Their shoulders brushed lightly where they sat.
Kuro had settled against Akutagawa’s side, purring softly.
“…You can lean on me, you know,” Atsushi said after a while.
Akutagawa tensed.
“…That is unnecessary.”
Atsushi didn’t argue.
“…Okay.”
A pause.
Then, softer—
“…But you can, if you want to.”
—
It took a long time.
Minutes.
Maybe longer.
But eventually—
Akutagawa shifted.
Just slightly.
Enough that his shoulder pressed more firmly against Atsushi’s.
Atsushi stayed perfectly still.
Let him decide.
Let him move at his own pace.
—
Slowly…
Carefully…
Akutagawa leaned.
—
At first, it was barely anything.
Just the weight of his head brushing Atsushi’s shoulder.
But then—
He didn’t stop.
He sank further, resting fully against him.
His grip tightened slightly in Atsushi’s shirt.
As if testing whether he’d be pushed away.
Atsushi didn’t move.
Didn’t pull back.
Instead, he shifted just enough to make it more comfortable, one arm coming up hesitantly before resting lightly around Akutagawa’s shoulders.
“…Is this okay?” he asked quietly.
Akutagawa nodded against him.
Barely.
But it was there.
—
Hours passed like that.
Neither of them spoke much.
They didn’t need to.
Kuro slept curled against Akutagawa’s side, occasionally stretching or flicking his tail.
At some point, Atsushi adjusted slightly, and Akutagawa shifted with him without waking fully—like it was instinct.
Like it was safe.
—
Eventually…
Akutagawa’s breathing slowed.
Evened out.
Softened.
—
He fell asleep.
—
Atsushi froze at first.
Then looked down.
Akutagawa’s face was relaxed in a way he’d never seen before. The usual tension, the sharp edges—they were gone.
He looked… younger.
Softer.
Safer.
Atsushi’s chest tightened.
“…You really don’t let yourself rest, do you…” he murmured quietly.
He adjusted his hold slightly, more secure now, one hand resting gently against Akutagawa’s arm—careful of the bandages.
Kuro shifted, climbing closer, pressing into both of them like he’d decided this was his place now.
Atsushi smiled faintly.
“…Guess it’s the three of us now, huh…”
—
He didn’t move.
Didn’t dare disturb him.
Just sat there, holding him gently, letting him sleep.
Letting him have this.
Something quiet.
Something warm.
Something that didn’t leave.
—
And for once—
Akutagawa didn’t wake up alone.
Morning came quietly.
Golden sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the penthouse, soft and warm, spilling across the couch in a gentle glow. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, catching the light like tiny stars.
Akutagawa stirred.
At first, it was just a small shift—barely noticeable. A slow inhale. A faint tightening of his fingers where they rested against fabric.
Then he blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Everything felt… warm.
Too warm.
And soft.
And—
He froze.
There was weight beneath him. Solid. Steady.
Arms around him.
Holding him.
Akutagawa’s eyes opened fully.
He was in Atsushi’s lap.
Curled slightly against him, head tucked near his shoulder, one of Atsushi’s arms wrapped securely around his back, the other resting gently along his side—careful, even in sleep, not to press against the bandaged areas.
Kuro was curled against his hip, purring faintly, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.
Akutagawa’s entire body went still.
His face burned.
“…What—”
He stopped himself, voice barely a whisper.
Atsushi was still.
Still enough that—
He’s asleep.
The thought came quickly.
Akutagawa swallowed.
Slowly, carefully, he lifted his head just enough to look at him.
Atsushi’s face was relaxed, eyes closed, breathing even.
Peaceful.
Akutagawa stared.
Something in his chest tightened again—like it had the night before—but softer this time. Not sharp. Not painful.
Just… full.
He hesitated.
Then, almost without thinking—
He shifted closer.
Very slightly.
Testing.
Waiting.
Atsushi didn’t move.
So…
Akutagawa let himself move again.
This time, more deliberately.
He tucked his head into the crook of Atsushi’s neck, pressing closer, his fingers curling lightly into Atsushi’s shirt.
Warm.
Safe.
A small, shaky breath left him.
“…Just briefly,” he murmured to himself.
As if that justified it.
As if that made it temporary.
—
“…You’re awake.”
Akutagawa froze.
Completely.
His brain stopped.
His body refused to move.
Atsushi’s voice was soft. Gentle. Right above him.
Awake.
He had been awake.
Akutagawa’s face went even hotter, if that was possible.
“…You—”
His voice failed.
Atsushi shifted slightly—not pulling away, just enough to look down at him, his hold still secure, still careful.
“…Good morning,” he said softly.
Akutagawa did not move.
Did not respond.
He simply remained there, very obviously still pressed against Atsushi, very obviously caught.
“…You may release me,” he said finally, voice tight.
Atsushi blinked.
“…Do you want me to?”
Akutagawa hesitated.
That question—
It wasn’t teasing.
It wasn’t mocking.
It was genuine.
And that made it worse.
“…I—”
He couldn’t say yes.
But he couldn’t say no, either.
Atsushi’s expression softened just a little.
“…We can stay like this for a bit,” he offered quietly. “If you want.”
Akutagawa’s grip tightened slightly in his shirt.
“…Only briefly,” he muttered.
Atsushi smiled faintly.
“…Of course.”
—
They stayed like that.
Longer than “briefly.”
Akutagawa didn’t realize how much he’d missed this—something he’d never really had in the first place.
Being held without expectation.
Without fear.
Without… consequence.
His breathing slowed again, not quite asleep this time—just… resting.
Kuro shifted closer, pressing into his side, purring louder now, as if approving.
Atsushi’s hand moved slightly, resting more securely against Akutagawa’s back, thumb brushing lightly over the fabric of his shirt in slow, absent motions.
“…You’re warm,” Atsushi murmured.
Akutagawa stiffened slightly.
“…That is a normal human trait.”
Atsushi huffed a quiet laugh.
“I know.”
A pause.
“…I just mean it’s nice.”
Akutagawa didn’t answer.
But he didn’t pull away.
—
Eventually, reality crept back in.
Akutagawa shifted, slower this time, reluctantly pulling back.
“…We should… disengage,” he said, avoiding eye contact.
Atsushi nodded.
“…Yeah.”
But neither of them moved right away.
It took a few seconds before they actually separated.
And even then—
The space between them felt… noticeable.
—
Atsushi stretched slightly, standing up.
“I’ll make something to eat,” he said. “You should sit.”
Akutagawa frowned.
“…I am capable of—”
“I know,” Atsushi said gently. “Just… let me, okay?”
Akutagawa hesitated.
Then, quietly—
“…Very well.”
—
A few minutes later, Akutagawa sat at the table, watching.
Atsushi moved around the kitchen with an ease that felt… strange, in this space. Like he didn’t belong—and yet, somehow, he did.
Comfortable.
At ease.
Akutagawa folded his hands in his lap.
“…You possess culinary skills,” he observed.
Atsushi smiled slightly. “Basic ones.”
He stirred the rice gently.
“It’s just tea over rice. Nothing fancy.”
Akutagawa watched the motion carefully.
“…You also treated my injuries competently.”
Atsushi paused for a moment.
“…Yeah.”
“…How?”
Atsushi glanced back at him.
“…Yosano taught me.”
Akutagawa’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“…The Agency physician.”
“Yeah,” Atsushi said. “She makes sure we all know basic first aid. Just in case.”
He turned back to the stove.
“…I didn’t want to mess up,” he added quietly.
Akutagawa blinked.
“…Mess up?”
“With you,” Atsushi said simply.
—
The words lingered.
Akutagawa looked down at his hands.
“…I see.”
—
When the food was ready, Atsushi set it down in front of him.
“Careful, it’s hot.”
Akutagawa nodded slightly and picked up his chopsticks.
The first bite was quiet.
Simple.
Warm.
“…It is adequate,” he said.
Atsushi laughed. “High praise.”
Akutagawa continued eating.
But his mind had already drifted.
To something else.
—
The flowers.
—
They sat on the table nearby, slightly shifted from where Atsushi had placed them the day before.
Still fresh.
Still bright.
Akutagawa set his chopsticks down.
“…You brought those,” he said.
Atsushi glanced over.
“…Yeah.”
“…Why?”
Atsushi froze.
Just slightly.
“…It was Valentine’s Day,” he said carefully.
“That does not explain your reasoning.”
Atsushi hesitated.
Akutagawa’s gaze didn’t waver.
“…I require clarification.”
Silence.
Atsushi rubbed the back of his neck again, a nervous habit.
“…Do you really not know?” he asked quietly.
“…No.”
Atsushi let out a slow breath.
Then—
He stepped closer.
“…I brought them because I like you.”
The words landed softly.
But they hit hard.
Akutagawa went completely still.
“…Define,” he said, though his voice was quieter now.
Atsushi smiled faintly.
“…I mean… I care about you. A lot.”
He looked down briefly, then back up.
“…I think about you when I’m not here. I worry about you. I want to be around you.”
His voice softened.
“…And when you’re hurting, I want to help.”
Akutagawa’s chest tightened again.
“…That is illogical.”
“Yeah,” Atsushi said with a small laugh. “It kind of is.”
A pause.
“…But it’s real.”
—
Akutagawa stared at him.
“…You are aware of my… deficiencies.”
Atsushi’s expression didn’t change.
“…I am.”
“…And yet you persist.”
“Yeah.”
“…Why.”
Atsushi stepped closer.
Close enough that there was barely space between them.
“…Because you’re worth it,” he said quietly.
Akutagawa’s breath caught.
“…You don’t get to decide you’re not.”
—
Silence.
Heavy.
But not suffocating.
Just… full.
Akutagawa’s hands trembled slightly at his sides.
“…I do not understand how to… reciprocate such feelings.”
Atsushi’s expression softened even more.
“…You don’t have to do anything perfectly.”
A small step closer.
“…Just be honest.”
—
Akutagawa swallowed.
His throat felt tight.
“…When you are absent,” he began slowly, “the environment becomes… unpleasant.”
Atsushi blinked.
“…When you are present,” Akutagawa continued, voice quieter now, “there is… a reduction in distress.”
Atsushi’s lips twitched.
“…That’s one way to say it.”
Akutagawa looked at him directly.
“…I experience a desire for your continued presence.”
A pause.
“…Consistently.”
Atsushi’s heart practically stopped.
“…Akutagawa…”
“…And when you engage in physical proximity,” he added, his voice dropping even further, “I do not find it… disagreeable.”
Atsushi let out a soft laugh.
“…Not disagreeable, huh?”
Akutagawa’s face flushed.
“…That is not the primary point.”
“…Then what is?”
Akutagawa hesitated.
For a long moment.
Then—
“…I believe,” he said quietly, “that I… feel similarly.”
—
Atsushi’s breath caught.
“…You mean—”
Akutagawa nodded once.
Small.
But certain.
“…Yes.”
—
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then Atsushi smiled.
Soft. Warm. A little overwhelmed.
“…Can I—”
He hesitated.
“…Can I k-kiss you?”
Akutagawa blinked.
Then, after a moment—
“…Yes.”
—
Atsushi didn’t rush.
He stepped forward carefully, wrapping his arms around Akutagawa gently—mindful, always mindful.
Jently Atsushi cuped Akutagawa’s cheek and pulls him close, there lips meet gently.
Akutagawa stiffened for half a second.
Then—
Slowly—
He leaned into it.
His arms came up, hesitantly at first, then more certain, resting against Atsushi’s back.
Kuro jumped up onto the table, then onto the back of the chair, as if determined to be included, pressing against both of them with an indignant little meow.
Atsushi laughed softly into the kiss before pulling away but keeping his arms around Akutagawa.
“…Guess he approves.”
Akutagawa huffed quietly.
“…He is persistent.”
—
They stayed like that for a while.
Not rushed.
Not awkward.
Just… close.
—
And for the first time—
It wasn’t just something fragile.
It wasn’t something temporary.
It was real.
And it was theirs.