Work Text:
Akutagawa was uniquely disposed to feeling extremely vulnerable without his clothes.
He knew that it was a relatively normal feeling, that nudity was an exposing state of being, but when he read about it in books there was a distinct lack of the dread and genuine fear that Akutagawa obtained when even a single layer of clothing was removed from his shoulders.
His power and his strength and his purpose lay within his ability which relied on his clothes. It therefore should not be unexpected that he would grow emotionally attached to such articles.
When Dazai had pressed the coat to his thin, small frame as a teenager, it had smelt of cheap cologne, the chemicals had invaded his airways, burned his throat. He had bought up a lifetime supply with his first paycheck, not wanting that smell to ever fade away from Dazai’s coat that had become his own. It reminded him of why he was alive, why he kept working so hard, of the fact he had to continuously prove himself everyday, in hopes he would receive Dazai’s acknowledgement.
When it was confirmed that Dazai had left the Port Mafia, Akutagawa had locked himself in his room and wrapped the coat tightly around himself, and had sobbed until his stomach ached, until the coat had disappeared and he was wrapped in a ball of Rashomon, retreating amongst layers of fabric that smelt of Dazai. It was just as much suffocating as it was comforting, but Akutagawa was no longer able to have a reprieve without a level of pain. Dazai had made him dependent on suffering just as much as the lure of praise.
So he let himself be choked by Rashomon and by that shitty cologne until it finally fell apart, the tangle of fabric disappearing as soon as he felt light headed from the lack of air in his lungs.
That was the moment he hardened his resolve and decided Dazai couldn’t be dead, or a traitor. But he was missing, and Akutagawa was going to be the one to find him. So he ignored the snarky comments when he showed up to the Port Mafia in that coat everyday after, about how he should move on from the traitor.
But after a few months, people stopped caring. And after a few years people forgot that the coat had ever belonged to Dazai.
He killed countless people using his ability, spearing hearts, disemboweling guts, wrapping the tendrils around enemies and squeezing until their eyes popped out from the sockets. And then every evening he delicately washed off the bloodstains, his hands turning blue in the cold water, the bathtub stained red.
He hoped when he found Dazai again, he’d appreciate the care he took, that the coat remained in perfect condition, that it still had his scent. He hoped Dazai would see the love he put into the fabric and recognise the feelings he held for the man. The ones that made him dizzy and unwell. That kept him awake late into the night.
He walked towards that day, that fantastical day, where he was valued and wanted. The coat a heavy weight on his shoulders of expectations never met. Wrapped around him like a hug, one that crushed his ribs. But Akutagawa had lived his whole life unable to breathe, he had known no different. At least the coat was warm, at least his deterioration had purpose.
His coat kept him safe. Dazai kept him safe. He was grateful everyday for what had been given to him.