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Akutagawa's funeral is a small affair.
To Atsushi, it feels like a duty to show up.
Back then, he had thought that if Akutagawa really died, it wouldn't be in any mundane way and instead the earth would part and the demons would drag him all the way to hell. The ceremony happening now is normal to the point where it seems wrong.
The priest is giving a speech and even though Atsushi wonders how many of those words are true. He knows he can't exactly deny any of them. He can't deny that he was a loyal, honest man and that he left this world way too young.
And other words that the priest says, he can't confirm. He hears that Akutagawa was a good, caring brother, but the only way he can verify that is by searching for Gin, trying to read anything from her expression. But all his effort is for naught and after a while of looking at her — standing in the front row with her hair down, back straight in a way only the mafia could teach and a suit that followed all the curves of her body — Atsushi realizes that he's staring, trying to count all the similarities to her brother that he can find in her form.
He turns his eyes to the ground, tracing the tips of his shoes. He should have paid more attention to cleaning them in the morning. Now the dirt that gathered on their tips makes him feel more unwelcome than he should be, surrounded by mafiosi who used to be his enemies.
Maybe it's all deserved.
After all, it's his fault Akutagawa is dead. His fault that he was too weak to save him. Too weak to defeat Fukuchi. Most people don't stay long, almost as if it was some kind of Mafia obligation and by the time the priest finishes his speech, all the words of it had already managed to escape his head and only their meaning lingers, all the questions that he doubts he'll ever find answers to.
To his surprise, Higuchi hadn't showed up at all — maybe she couldn't bring herself to — and Hirotsu was one of the first to leave. He didn't know what to make of Chuuya's absence and he wondered whether it would be justified to feel anger towards Dazai. After all, it was always his orders that caused Akutagawa to lay his body, even his life, down on a sacrificial altar without a second thought.
The important thing is that after everybody had left, he's alone with Gin. Both of them are standing above the grave. Neither of them is saying a thing, neither of them is crying. They just stare at the familiar name engraved in the stone tablet.
Akutagawa Ryuunosuke.
"I never knew his name was Ryuunosuke," Atsushi says, though he probably should keep quiet, but for some reason that thought feels so incredibly heavy on his heart that he can't let it go. He never even knew his full name.
Gin nods, for the first time during the ceremony engaging with him in any way. He doesn't blame her. Why would she want to talk to someone who's the cause of her brother's death?
"He's always been a secretive person," she says, her voice sounds distant, carries more grief than a wail would. "When we were kids he was so sensitive, but then we ended up in the slums and he couldn't be. He grew cold because emotions were weakness and angry because he was powerless to protect the ones he cared about from the cruelty of the world. And then Dazai took him in and rewarded his coldness and anger. But I know under all of this, he was still sensitive."
Atsushi bows his head, because it's hard to imagine any of that. But at the same time he wonders where he would be if it wasn't for the Agency. He wonders where Akutagawa would be if somebody with a kinder hand would have taken him in back then. He wonders how he used to be before the slums and before the Mafia. Before the Silent Mad Dog and before the Black-clothed Hellhound. Back when he was just a stray to be molded by whichever hands took him in.
He kneels in front of the gravestone, almost as if he wanted to get on an eye level with it.
"Who were you, Akutagawa?" he asks, but the gravestone predictably remains cold and quiet. Even the bottomless black eyes he could search for an answer in are gone.
"He used to write letters," Gin says, voice soft as she puts her hand on his shoulder, even this touch is calculated and precise almost as if it was a habit. "To you. I think you should read them."
Something about the Akutagawas' apartment seems wrong. Something about how in no shape or form it reminds him of a villain's lair. Something about how cozy it is, with plants lining the window sills and the mismatched antique furniture in every corner. Something about the collection of expensive tea boxes in the corner of the kitchen and the few magnets from touristy spots in Tokyo and Osaka. As if under all that rabid aggression and the heavy, rippling black cloak, there was someone just as human as everyone else.
Gin doesn't say much. The entire train ride here she has been quiet and now, instead of saying a word, she opts for grabbing his wrist and pulling Atsushi into the bedroom which without a doubt used to belong to Akutagawa. He can still feel his smell linger, he can notice all the human parts that he would have never thought about. A framed poster of some Western band, a still unfolded futon, a half used up jar of warming gel and a nearly empty box of bandages.
It feels wrong to be here. He shouldn't be here.
But it's Gin who invited him and it's Gin who gets on her tiptoes to pull a small cardboard box from the top of the wardrobe before setting it in the corner of the futon.
"They're for you to read," she says, voice quiet, but not as quiet as her footsteps when she leaves the room.
The door is shut with a soft sound and Atsushi is left alone with Akutagawa's ghost. Ryuunosuke's ghost. It takes him a minute or two and at least five deep breaths to get himself to open the box and take the first letter out. It's small. Unassuming. It's a letter. He doesn't know what else did he expect?
He spends a moment admiring Akutagawa's handwriting. It's surprisingly neat. The signs he had made were small, but even, stark black against the off-white paper. Akutagawa is not very wordy.
Dear Weretiger,
I do not understand what somebody like Dazai can see in a pathetic mongrel like you. Then again, I can never figure out a thing behind that man's thought process. It's a fool's effort. Still, looking at you is like seeing every part of myself that should be despised. Then why? What was wrong with me and what is that he finds of interest in you.
Akutagawa
He looks at the letter for a moment, going over all the signs again, almost as if he hoped that he had misread something, but it's just that. Of course. He should have laughed at himself for expecting anything else.
Still, he sets the letter down and takes another.
Dear Weretiger,
You're a disgusting critter, but I hope Kyouka can blossom wherever you have taken her. If it is within your powers, bring the will of life back into her eyes. It's another thing I failed to do. Maybe it will prove as easy for you as earning Dazai's approval was. Maybe in the end I am a fool and Dazai has reasons for seeing some strength within you.
Akutagawa
Atsushi takes a deep breath and sets the letter down. It makes his stomach painfully twist, because Akutagawa clearly cared about Kyouka in some weird twisted way that Atsushi couldn't quite understand. Or maybe he understood it too well. It was the same cruel way that Dazai had cared about Akutagawa and the Headmaster cared about him.
It was not a way to care about anyone. He wishes he could have made Akutagawa see that earlier.
A good five minutes pass before he takes another letter out of the box. His hands are shaking and his heart feels like a drum inside of his chest.
Dear Weretiger,
If our battle against Goncharov proved anything, it is that I might have misjudged you. I think I'm coming closer to figuring out what Dazai saw in you with each of our meetings. Whilst I can't find most of your traits admirable in any way I can recognize your willingness to help people and your kindness, but I can't comprehend how Dazai plans to use them.
Akutagawa
His eyes go over the scratched out sentence at least three times before he finally decides to move on to another letter.
Dear Weretiger,
Fulfilling my duties to the Mafia without killing proves to be more challenging than I would have expected. One slip in the wrong direction and the enemy will take my life, one wrong step in the other, and the executives will have my head on a silver platter. My life is only as long as it's useful to the Mafia. Or maybe that was your goal all along. You devious beast.
Akutagawa
Atsushi's stomach twists at all the implications of the latter. He never wanted anything bad to happen to Akutagawa, he just wanted him to see the world beyond killing. He just wanted to show him the strength that wasn't just selfish bloodshed.
And what did that get him?
Akutagawa is dead. And it's his fault. And he wants to scratch at his throat until it's open and he's bleeding all over Akutagawa's bed. Instead he harshly wipes at the tears forming in his eyes and takes another later out of the box.
Dear Weretiger,
I doubt you'll ever know this. It's probably better if you don't. Dazai asked me to trail you when he can't keep an eye on you. Pathetic, really. I should have denied, but in the end, I'm just a humble dog and my heart remains with my master. Your Agency is truly something. Like a family in a way. I haven't experienced anything close to that since my friends from the slums were still alive. Maybe I don't hate you. Maybe I never did. Or maybe I do. All I know is that I'm tired of wallowing in envy. I will prove myself worthy, even if it kills me.
Akutagawa
By the time he's done with the letter, he can feel something warm and wet on his face. It takes him a few heartbeats to realize that he's crying and another few sobs to take the final letter out of the box. At that point, he can't even care that his own tears are staining the paper.
Dear Weretiger,
Maybe I was wrong. Not about you, but about my feelings. Maybe I hated you, because there was something in you I admired. Maybe I couldn't allow myself to like you. I wish we could talk about it over tea when the days are peaceful, but I doubt I will live long enough to see peaceful days. I can feel the end coming in my blood. This letter, though I doubt you'll ever see it, is probably one of the last ones.
Goodbye,
Akutagawa Ryuunosuke
Atsushi hugs the letter to his chest as he curls on the bed into the fetal position. His body shakes with sobs. The tiger's senses allow him to hear that on the other side of the door, Gin is making tea, but she doesn't walk into the room. She gives him space even when he screams and wails into Akutagwa's pillows.
When he sees Akutagawa again, he's a ghost. Atsushi can tell that it's physically him, can notice the newfound clarity in his eyes and how the Rashoumon abandons its wretched form for something more distinguished, nearly reminding him of a knight's armor.
But deep inside, Atsushi can only see a ghost. The letters that he wasn't meant to see. A fight against the malediction that was never meant to happen. A second chance that someone as weak as him didn't deserve.
This time he promises himself that he won't let Akutagawa die, and if he has to perish to keep that promise then so be it.
And yet, by some miracle, or maybe by fate, by how it was always meant to be, they survive. The enemy has been defeated and they're still there. Still alive.
The letters flash in front of his eyes. Every meticulously scribbled sign. Every Dear Weretiger. The Akutagawa crossed out in favor of Ryuunosuke. The confession of feelings that quite wasn't. That was never meant to be. The things that he only got to see, because he didn't think he would ever get to see Akutagawa again.
He sinks to his knees, because his legs are too weak to keep his body standing, and when Akutagawa starts walking towards him, he's sure that it's to call out his weakness, but instead he stops in front of him.
The black threads of Rashoumon retreat, revealing his pale hand for a split heartbeat before his slender fingers disappear in Atsushi's dirty, sweat-soaked hair.
"I would have expected the tiger would provide you with more stamina," he says, trying to keep his voice cold, but in the end holding no mockery in it no matter how much Atsushi finds himself looking for any signs of it.
"You're panting too," he says and he can't hold back neither the tears nor the smile.
"Indeed." Akutagawa nods, looking up at the sky as the first drops of the rain begin to fall, as if the world wanted to wash away all the bloodshed and the sorrow of today. "But I fought the good fight and I won. Maybe that's enough."
He finally sways and then collapses onto the asphalt next to Atsushi, body too sore to move, but Atsushi has no intention of going anywhere. His hand searches for Akutagawa's hand but in the end holds back, too unsure to hold it.
They fought the good fight. Maybe that's enough.
"Do you think that's what starts a more peaceful chapter in the life of this city?" Atsushi asks, staring at the sky, at the clouds circling way above them.
"More peaceful than before. At least for now," Akutagawa replies, his tone flat. This time it's him who searches for the touch and their fingers finally intertwine. Atsushi can feel all the callouses and all the old scars as if they were leaving an imprint on his very soul.
"In that case, maybe we could go out? Get some tea, Ryuunosuke?"
The last of Akutagawa's letters flashes in the back of his mind again, moments before he realizes that Akutagawa is staring at him, eyes as black as the darkness of the night, but not quite as empty as he remembered them to be.
"How do you know my name?"
"Is it important? Yes or no. Now."
Atsushi doesn't know many good tea houses. He probably should have known at least a few by now, but he never bothered to learn. He decides that the president's suggestion is the best that he can come up with and blindly hopes that it will be enough to please Akutagawa.
By the time he arrives, Akutagawa is already waiting, still wearing the jacket that used to belong to Bram Stoker, the one that makes Rashoumon look like a knight's armor.
"Ryuunosuke, so you came," he greets, slightly bowing his head.
"How could I pass up on your offer," he swallows and then finishes the sentence, as if he was struggling to pronounce a word in a foreign language. "Atsushi?"
The mere mention of his name makes his heart skip a beat. He grabs Akutagawa's wrist and pulls him inside.
"Black tea and…?" he says, eyes flicking towards Akutagawa, waiting for an answer.
The man looks down for a moment, almost as if he was embarrassed, or at least not used to being shown that level of affection.
"Hojicha. Hojicha for me," he says, voice barely louder than a whisper.
"Got it," Atsushi nods. "I'll order. Can you find us a place to sit?"
Akutagawa responds with a curt nod and gracefully maneuvers the small tea house, disappearing into the labyrinth of tables.
By the time Atsushi finds him with a small bamboo tray and two cups of still hot tea, he's already starting to look impatient, arms crossed against his chest and foot tapping against the wooden panelling of the floor.
"Took you long enough," he spits coldly, but Atsushi could sense some strange affection behind those words.
"I was waiting for the tea. I thought you wouldn't appreciate waiting for it."
"Fool," Akutagawa rolls his eyes. "I find the time spent around you to be quite pleasant."
Atsushi frowns. Most of the time they spent around each other, they were desperately trying not to die.
"Then is there anything else that you would like me to know?" Atsushi asks, observing as Akutagawa drops the sugar cubes into his tea. One cube. Two cubes. Three cubes. Four cubes. Excessive. Atsushi stops at two.
"You remember what I said before I died?" he asks, tips of his fingers tracing the freshly pink scar on his throat.
"You didn't need words," Atsushi nodded. "Only actions."
Before he could say anything else, Akutagawa leaned over the table and pressed a kiss to his lips. Vicious and desperate as he's always been, but at the same time impossible to refuse. Atsushi kissed back, allowing Akutagawa's tongue to slip past his lips.
Two days later, Atsushi finds a letter on his doorstep. The handwriting is familiar.
Dear Atsushi,
I hope this letter finds you well. I quite enjoyed our time at the tea house, and if it's not a problem, I'd like to meet you again. Friday at 16:30. The address is at the back of this letter.
Ryuunosuke
He turns the sheet of paper around and smiles at the address. It's Yokohama Cat Museum. Weirdly appropriate. He shoves the letter into the pocket of his slacks and whispers, "I'll be there."
Akutagawa isn't there to hear this, but he hopes that he knows. He hopes that he lingers in his mind like a ghost, just as Akutagawa lingers in his.