Work Text:
The first kiss Akutagawa ever gives him is two years after he has met the man and on their sixth mission together. Akutagawa is barely conscious, wavering at the edge of life, a gushing wound on his chest and Atsushi is busy trying to cover the cut with one hand, while stroking Akutagawa's pale face with the other.
“I won't leave you,” he promises Akutagawa without thinking and Akutagawa answers with a peck on Atsushi's hand, without even opening his eyes or making a sound, beyond the laboured, short breathing.
For a while there Atsushi is too afraid Akutagawa will never open his eyes that he doesn't even register the chaste brush of those thin, cold lips... but Akutagawa makes through the night, and the morning, and after, and two days later, lying on his own bed, Atsushi randomly remembers the touch.
He can't sleep that night.
The first kiss Atsushi ever gives Akutagawa is on their eight mission together. Akutagawa is ready to pounce on an enemy whom Atsushi has suspicions may not be an enemy, in fact. Akutagawa's temper, however, has the heat of a volcano and the only way to stop him from maiming the so-called enemy is by physically holding him.
Atsushi is not sure why he buries his face on Akutagawa's shoulder from behind, while he hugs him tight and strong, and then even leaves a kiss on Akutagawa's shoulder. It is not necessary to stop Akutagawa; not at all. But he does it, as though he must. As though it is the most natural gesture. As though it is expected and normal.
Did Akutagawa even feel it? Atsushi does not know. But Akutagawa does stop.
Atsushi can't sleep well the whole week; the worst yet, in the rare times he briefly does fall into slumber, Akutagawa's thin, tall figure keeps appearing in the haze of his mind. It's a curse, he concludes.
The first kiss Akutagawa gives him, while fully conscious, is when they meet at the cemetery one fateful afternoon. Atsushi is crying in front of a tombstone of somebody he does not even know, per se, having met only a couple weeks ago. But sometimes you do not have to know someone for long to feel them so deep and same. Sometimes a common bond matters too much—a common suffering, even more so. Thus, a stranger becomes a relative he has never met, he has no relations of one blood to speak of, but one oppression that befell them both. A relative of pain, he finds, is quite an intimate type of relative too.
“It's silly... isn't it?” Atsushi asks between sobs he can hardly stop, “I should be over this already. I should be over this past already but it keeps coming. If not the torturers, the tortured. And every time, I am pitiful again. Worthless again.”
“It is silly,” Akutagawa says, in that carefully neutral voice of his and Atsushi can't help but chuckle, bitterly. He knew Akutagawa would say so. He knew that Akutagawa would even use that specific voice to say so. He knew that's why he even asked.
What he didn't know that Akutagawa would stay. That he would crouch near him in front of the fresh tombstone. That he would put a tentative hand on Atsushi's shoulder. That he would let Atsushi cry practically in his arms. That he would whisper, “You are not there anymore. It has ended already.” That when Atsushi has had his fill with tears, they would look at each other for more than a second, wordless, and Akutagawa would wipe away his tears with clumsy fingers; always thin, always cold.
That Akutagawa would move his bangs apart and softly kiss his forehead. Lips just as thin, just as cold.
Miraculously, Atsushi sleeps very well that night.
The first kiss he gives Akutagawa, outside of an immediate urgency and with full, deliberate affection, is after some small talk over urban legends of Yokohama, as they sit side by side at the pier. It is desolate, being the Mafia's territory and recently site of a rumoured, nasty showdown—which Atsushi knows because he was part of it. So was Akutagawa.
There is no reason for him to be there now though and there is no reason for Akutagawa to be there either. They didn't really agree to meet in advance either. Atsushi had said that the sunrise was beautiful there—as they inhaled the sight trying to forget the literally bloody mess they were after three hours of combat. Akutagawa had replied, so was the sunset.
And there they are, two days after yet another disaster averted, sitting next to each other, legs dangling down, watching the waves roll and seabirds cry while sky turns from one colour to another. In the same place and maybe still a little messed, no blood though.
“I think I am fond of you.” Akutagawa confesses. It is abrupt. They weren't even talking about anything remotely related. Atsushi's surprise passes fast though, and he is left with a blush and palpitations he does not know how to cope with. Startling but not unforeseen; he has caught those stray gazes and lingering touches. He did not think Akutagawa would put it in words though, ever. It must have taken quite some courage.
He looks at Akutagawa, who is decisively not looking back and instead staring at the ocean, stress lines visible all over his young, perpetually tired face, hands restless on his lap. Atsushi moves his own hand over Akutagawa's and those thin fingers finally stop fiddling. They are cold, unlike Atsushi's. He has known that beforehand, the knowledge somehow drops a phantom weight in his stomach.
“Akutagawa,” he says, because he wants Akutagawa not only to hear this but to see as well. As if witnessing Atsushi's mouth in motion, pronouncing each word will convey the message a lot better. Perhaps it will. When Akutagawa gives him a tentative look, Atsushi smiles; “I think I am fond of you, too.”
They look at each other without a sound except the song of the ocean surrounding them and then Atsushi remembers something, and then Atsushi wants something—and he wants it so much, suddenly, all he can see are Akutagawa's lips.
“May I...” he says, feeling his ears burn—is this how it happens? Is this how it is done? He has no idea; he has never done this. Never been involved in this sort of thing. Only imagined it a few times in feverish nights recently. He hopes he isn't making a mistake, leaning forward and asking for this. Is it too much? But Akutagawa nods a 'yes', and Atsushi knows that it's alright.
It's alright then, it's alright, finally, it's alright—and the first taste of Akutagawa's lips reminds him of ocean; salty and overwhelming despite being so simple. Cold yet burning at the first dip. So vast when so small. He is so fascinated that his hands shake, and in his grasp, he feels, Akutagawa's shake too.