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Atsushi still shies away from crowded places. There’s no chance that he’ll turn into a beast, mindless and feral; Fukuzawa has seen to that, asked fewer questions than perhaps he should have, when Akutagawa showed up with two members of the Port Mafia and said that they wanted to join the Agency, instead. It took less time and effort to make Kyouka and Atsushi both full members than it had for Akutagawa to join, and the irony is not lost on him, that they would both be better at playing the part of the hero than Akutagawa.
“You’re going to catch a cold, were-tiger,” Akutagawa says, approaching Atsushi where he sits as white as a ghost in the night, a sharp silhouette on the roof. The nickname falls off his tongue as easily as the coat does off his arms, both of them weapons turned harmless in the ambient light of the moon.
Atsushi doesn’t look up at him, but he reaches out, pulls the gently coalescing material of Rashoumon over his shoulders, allowing the fabric to dance fondly between his fingertips before it settles around him like a living blanket.
“I like when you call me that,” Atsushi murmurs, and Akutagawa looks studiously away, out at the Yokohama skyline. “It sounds nicer.”
“You can’t be the ‘White Reaper of the Port Mafia’ if you aren’t in the Port Mafia,” Akutagawa says, like it takes away from the nickname, like it makes the nickname anything other than a fond endearment. He ruins it by dropping to sit next to Atsushi, both of them letting their legs dangle off the edge of the building, a gentle temptation of fate that neither of them have any fear of.
“Yeah,” Atsushi agrees. He leans towards Akutagawa, the threads of Rashoumon automatically cascading towards its master, wrapping them both securely in fabric that’s stronger than mere clothing. “Maybe that’s why I like it.”
Akutagawa allows the contact, keeps his back straight as Atsushi leans his head on Akutagawa’s shoulder. Privately, Akutagawa doesn’t see how that can be comfortable -- he’s skin and bones; his shoulder makes a poor substitute for a pillow -- but Atsushi seems as unbothered as ever, and the peaceful rhythm of his breathing relieves some of the tension from Akutagawa’s frame.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Atsushi says, and Akutagawa almost blurts yes before he realizing that Atsushi is more than likely not talking about the gentle lines of Atsushi’s body or the way the city lights reflect off his hair.
“The moon?” Akutagawa guesses, because that sounds like the sort of thing that normal people would find aesthetically pleasing.
“Mm,” Atsushi agrees, eyes half-lidded. “And the city, at night.”
“It’s the same as it’s always been,” Akutagawa says, too quickly, realizing only afterwards that it’s a sight that Atsushi could never have enjoyed like this, before. The brightness of the full moon is a newfound pleasure, to Atsushi, when before it had only ever meant suffering, and the intoxicating taste of freedom must be nearly overwhelming.
“It’s different,” Atsushi says.
Akutagawa doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t trust himself not to cross any of the boundaries that he and Atsushi have carefully erected around themselves, two people so used to the idea that no one else will protect them that they have to do it alone. They’re adjusting, now -- the two of them with each other, with Kyouka, with the Agency -- but it isn’t easy, and Akutagawa doesn’t know where any of Atsushi’s feelings turn into hidden landmines any better than he knows his own.
“I’m seeing it with you,” Atsushi offers, and he moves his head, tilts it up so he can look at Akutagawa, his breath falling in warm puffs on the exposed skin of Akutagawa’s neck. Rashoumon, a traitor, makes no move to block Akutagawa’s skin.
“That’s,” Akutagawa says, and then stumbles on the sentence, staring straight ahead so that he doesn’t have to acknowledge the heat that rises in his cheeks.
Atsushi laughs, soft and quiet, and Akutagawa’s chest clenches up, because the sound is rare but shines brighter than the moon in Akutagawa’s vision.
“Sorry,” Atsushi says, but he doesn’t sound very sorry at all. He lifts his hand up, carefully untangling it from Rashoumon’s clutches, and Akutagawa hesitates, before raising his own. They lace their fingers together, as entwined as their destinies, tied together by an unshareable secret and similar pasts.
“You’re not,” Akutagawa says, raising his hand up to his mouth even though he doesn’t feel the need to cough. If he could expel embarrassment from his lungs, that would be one thing, but the emotion seems to live in his cheeks and his stomach and the rush of heat down his spine.
“I’m not,” Atsushi agrees, turning his head back to look at the city. Akutagawa finds that he misses the feeling of Atsushi’s breath on his neck the instant that it’s gone. “Why did you follow me?”
Akutagawa thinks before he replies, this time, trying to exercise a single modicum of self-control when he’s always been more likely to react in an instant. Words don’t come easily, to someone like Akutagawa, not like action does, and so he considers his options for a moment, turns his own head and meets Atsushi’s lips at the halfway mark, like Atsushi could read his mind and know exactly what he was thinking.
Atsushi shifts, careless even on the ledge of a building -- why wouldn’t he be, when he could survive the fall -- but Rashoumon extends out with the movement, a tight tether back to Akutagawa. Atsushi is in midair for a split second, supported only by Rashoumon, his trust in Akutagawa near absolute, before he swings around to straddle Akutagawa’s legs, bracket them with his own and gentle set himself down.
“Were you worried?” Atsushi asks, the moonlight lighting up his skin and hair until he seems to be made of silver.
“No,” Akutagawa says. “You don’t require my worry, were-tiger.”
Atsushi’s eyes are half-lidded, bright yellow in the darkness, pupils elongated. Akutagawa knows that gaze; predatory and confident, in a way that he so rarely is. Atsushi has only recently come to find a tenuous peace with his gift, but Akutagawa was there to hold him down even before Fukuzawa’s power brought Atsushi’s in line. Akutagawa has been there since the night Dazai left them, a reliable surface for Atsushi to press up against and lose himself without fear of who he could hurt.
“I don’t,” Atsushi agrees, hands on Akutagawa’s hips. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t still do it.”
A part of Akutagawa is offended. He’s never been a worrier, never been consumed with anxiety. Even now, Gin is so far beyond him that he can’t conceive of where she could be; the worry is like an old wound that has long since scarred over, only paining him when he presses too deep against it.
Atsushi’s existence is no such burden to him, even if they had started as enemies. They had both been twisted into what they were by Dazai’s machinations, Akutagawa understands that now, but even so -- he doesn’t know what the correct response to that is. Anger is the easiest for him, the deep-seated rage that has powered him for most of his life, as dark red as the blood he’s spilled, but something about Atsushi wipes that away, makes him feel as light as the moonlight that dances across Atsushi’s skin.
“I don’t waste my time on pointless things,” Akutagawa says. He raises his hands, too, puts them on Atsushi’s hips. Atsushi moves his hands up, puts them down on Akutagawa’s shoulders and pushes him backwards. Akutagawa allows it, his only defense against preternatural strength currently wrapped lazily around Atsushi’s waist, curled up like it’s a contented cat instead of a gift that Akutagawa has used to kill countless people.
“What am I?” Atsushi asks. There’s the hint of a child there, the deep-seated insecurity that can only come from growing up a monster, growing up held back from the rest of society and never feeling completely human. His eyes shift under Akutagawa’s gaze, from the monster to the human and back again, and Akutagawa understands completely.
“You’re not,” Akutagawa says, reaching up to Atsushi as he hovers over him, almost as bright as the moonlight behind him, “a pointless thing.” When he puts his fingers to Atsushi’s neck, Atsushi flinches, automatically, hands grabbing too tight at Akutagawa’s shoulders. Akutagawa doesn’t move, leaves his fingers there, a light touch against the ring of circular scars that wrap around his neck.
“I -- sorry,” Atsushi says, more human than cat in the moment, his eyes holding only his apology and his hesitance.
“Why didn’t these heal?” Akutagawa asks. He presses his finger into one and then waits for Atsushi to relax before he moves on to the next one, fingers walking around the side of Atsushi’s neck until his hand is pressed lightly to the nape.
“Not everything does,” Atsushi says, and his voice is quiet, drifting through the night with the backdrop of Yokohama’s bustle beneath them. He lowers his gaze, unable or unwilling to quite meet Akutagawa’s eyes, and Akutagawa wonders how many memories are playing back in Atsushi’s mind.
“No,” Akutagawa agrees. Atsushi tilts his head, finally, nuzzling into Akutagawa’s palm, and Akutagawa lets him, waits until Atsushi’s grip on his shoulders relaxes and his breathing evens back out. “Not everything.”
Atsushi’s smile is wane, when he gives it, but genuine. There’s no need to lie, between the two of them, not when they have between them more shared experiences than anyone should. Rashoumon drags against both of them, coiling and then uncoiling around them both, barely keeping the form of a coat on Atsushi’s thin body.
Atsushi lowers his hands, finally, drops them to the hem of Akutawaga’s shirt and then presses underneath. Akutagawa’s stomach quivers at the touch, the sharp inhale giving away the fact that even as they’ve grown close over the past several months, he hasn’t quite become accustomed to this, to the soft touch of someone else on his skin, to the feeling of tenderness from someone else capable of such bloodshed.
“Who do you think we would be,” Atsushi asks, his fingers tracing across the scars that Akutagawa has accumulated over his countless battles, “without them?”
Akutagawa imagines, for a moment, another life: in which he is not a monster, in which he was never burdened with a so-called gift. He could be an older brother to Gin; he could be someone’s son. Going to school like a regular child, busying himself with extracurriculars and friendships. Maybe he would meet Atsushi, there, and have a high school romance -- he can imagine, for a split second, the word senpai on Atsushi’s lips, the sight of cherry blossoms falling in white hair.
“I don’t know,” Akutagawa says, and it’s the truth: the images in his mind fall away the second he stops concentrating on them, because in a universe of a thousand what if possibilities, the only thing he knows to be real is this life and this existence.
He isn’t Dazai; he doesn’t know if there’s a better ending out there for him.
“I think we would still be the same,” Akutagawa says, withdrawing his hand from Atsushi’s neck and the scars that mark his skin.
Atsushi’s smile is a warm balm for Akutagawa’s weariness, when he gives it, and Akutagawa wonders how anyone could ever have considered someone so radiant a monster. Next to Akutagawa, isn’t it clear that something has gone so terribly wrong, that it was meant to be Atsushi to play the better role, for Akutagawa to be the monster?
--Ah, but surely Dazai planned for that, didn’t he, all those years ago. Akutagawa thinks of the time they first met, back then, wonders what it was that Dazai did or didn’t see in him, wonders how many threads Dazai had already laid down even before Akutagawa had seen him.
In the end, whether it was by Dazai’s interference or something like fate, Atsushi and Akutagawa are drawn inexorably towards each other in a way that Akutagawa doesn’t think even the Book could prevent or change.
It’s what he wants to believe, at the end of the day: that in every world, in every universe, no matter how many things change, he and Atsushi can still be monsters together.
Akutagawa isn’t strong enough to voice the kinds of things that he feels, not like Atsushi can, sometimes, so instead of telling Atsushi how much he wants to stay with him, how much more he feels like they are when they fight together, how Atsushi makes Akutagawa feel a little less like he should be trying to kill the beast inside of himself at all times -- the beast currently curled, very contentedly, around them both, more evidence of Akutagawa’s true feelings than he wants to consider -- he just reaches up, pulls Atsushi down into another kiss and feels Atsushi purr against his lips. Physical action is easier than emotional, even when the two are as tied together as Atsushi and Akutagawa are, these days.
They both wear their monstrous skins in front of each other, baring themselves in the face of the person they’ve trusted won’t betray the intimacy. At the end of the day, Akutagawa doesn’t know which is more truthful -- the beasts or the humanity they both feel like they don’t quite fit into.
Atsushi’s fangs nip Akutagawa’s lips, but he’s careful not to draw blood, and Akutagawa is grateful, given his own capacity for healing is considerably less than the tiger’s. Akutagawa matches with a bite of his own, the flat of his teeth offering far less of a threat while simultaneously stating that he won’t be that easily outmatched. He can feel Atsushi smile against his lips, lay himself flush and flat against Akutagawa. Rashoumon surges back underneath them, a negative space that braces them with marginally more comfort than the concrete of the building.
Atsushi turns those fangs onto Akutagawa’s neck, dragging them down the sensitive skin rather than biting down, and Akutagawa feels his breathing stutter in his lungs. There’s a primal sort of fear at having teeth against his throat like that, the teeth of something that could easily tear the flesh away and leave him to bleed out, but Rashoumon only drags down both their arms rather than merging in any sort of threat. That sort of hostility was worked out of their systems weeks ago, when they were first adjusting to being allies instead of enemies, burdened with a secret so heavy that Atsushi couldn’t even confide in Kyouka. Now there’s nothing but anticipation, and the gossamer thread of trust and affection that joins the two of them when they’re like this.
Akutagawa murmurs were-tiger again, the words thick in his throat and his fingers raising up to press into Atsushi’s hair. He’s half-surprised that he doesn’t feel soft fur under his fingers, but Atsushi seems to be getting more and more fine control over the beast within, only allowing it to shape his teeth and claws and eyes instead of his entire being. He purrs, despite the lack of physical changes, when Akutagawa’s nails scrape over his scalp. When Atsushi tilts his head, catches Akutagawa’s gaze, his eyes glint in the moonlight.
You’re beautiful, Akutagawa thinks, but doesn’t say; overtures like that are out of character for him, and he can’t imagine ever giving any volume to the thought. It’s a pity that Atsushi was hidden away in the darkness of the Port Mafia for so long, but maybe it was worth it, for how naturally he seems to exist in the night. The darkness feels like home to both of them, wrapped up together in their own world where they’re free to exist without repercussion or rebuke.
“Can I,” Atsushi asks, soft and slow, so much more cautious with his voice than with his claws, “see yours?”
There’s no question of what Atsushi is referring to when he presses against a scar on Akutagawa’s ribcage, one that Akutagawa remembers he received when he was a child, long before he could wield Rashoumon with any degree of talent. He doesn’t remember what did it, the injury itself long since faded out of his memory.
Akutagawa doesn’t answer with words, but with action. When he sits up, Atsushi moves with him, leaning back and allowing him the room he needs. Akutagawa winds Rashoumon back into the familiar shape of a coat only to shed it, leaving them both exposed to the chill night air that he’s certain neither of them feel at the moment. His shirt is next, and he removes it with less trepidation than he had the first time they did this, but Atsushi surges forward with the same amount of interest, pressing his hands flat across Akutagawa’s chest.
It’s still a feeling that Akutagawa isn’t used to, the feeling of warm hands on his skin. The touch of another human, much less someone as fearsome as himself -- how could he have ever thought that he would find someone who could tolerate the blood on his hands, much less match all of his atrocities?
There’s a certain scar across his side that Atsushi avoids for a long moment. He traces down every lowered gash and every raised piece of skin except for that one, and Akutagawa struggles to keep his breathing on an even keel under the careful touches. Scars from his childhood, from where Gin had stabbed him, from all the fights Akutagawa has had over the years. Finally, he presses the flats of his fingertips against one of the newest scars, still red and raised, and traces the same path that once caused the mark.
“It seems unfair,” Atsushi murmurs, gaze fixed on Akutagawa’s torso, warm fingertips pressing into the skin that doesn’t quite feel the touch as readily as most of Akutagawa’s body. “You didn’t leave any on me.”
“You have super healing abilities,” Akutagawa says, very matter-of-fact about the subject. His injuries hadn’t, at the end of their fight, been enough to trouble Yosano with, much to Akutagawa’s relief, and so the hits that Atsushi had managed to land -- well, they’d scarred over, exactly as he expected.
He hadn’t thought anything of it, at the time.
“You have your own,” Akutagawa says, and looks at Atsushi’s neck.
“That’s not the same,” Atsushi says, very mildly, like he isn’t quite sure of himself when he’s voicing disagreement. “That was -- we had to. You’d be the same, without this.”
Akutagawa’s hand moves almost before he realizes it, and it startles them both when he presses down over Atsushi’s hand, hard enough that the nails on Atsushi’s hand threatens to break the skin on Akutagawa’s chest.
“Do you think I’d be the same with you?” Akutagawa asks, and it’s a demand, too hard and too angry, and Atsushi jerks back. Rashoumon isn’t behind him, and his balance is precarious on the edge of the building, but Akutagawa doesn’t let go of Atsushi’s hand, doesn’t let go of Atsushi. “After everything?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Atsushi says, eyes wide. “But before we met, you were--”
“A monster,” Akutagawa says, and Atsushi flinches, redirecting the words back at himself.
“That isn’t,” Atsushi starts, and then stops.
Akutagawa looks at him, allowing the silence to drag on between them until it’s as thick as Rashoumon.
“What is within you,” Akutagawa says, reaching up to press his hand over Atsushi’s chest, “was never as monstrous as what is within me.”
Akutagawa’s mind spins wildly for a moment, thinking of further other worlds, other lives: if Gin had been Atsushi’s sister, perhaps they could have stayed together. Perhaps he could have done what Akutagawa didn’t, Atsushi’s loyalty thick in his veins where Akutagawa only has anger.
“You aren’t a monster,” Atsushi says, softly. He curls his fingers against Akutagawa’s chest, his form entirely human, as harmless as he might have been in another life.
“I’m monstrous,” Akutagawa says. It’s the truth, and Atsushi’s mouth moves but no words come out, no sounds to try and sway Akutagawa to the contrary. Akutagawa may do good things, but he is not a good person -- it does not come naturally to him, and the gap between himself and Atsushi has become more and more apparent the longer Atsushi spends with the Agency.
Akutagawa would be angry about that, too, but he finds it easier to turn any anger at Atsushi back onto himself in a twisted self-loathing.
“Well,” Atsushi says, finally, looking at Akutagawa and setting his jaw in a familiar line of determination. “If you wouldn’t be the same without me, then I won’t let you be a monster.”
It’s too much trust, isn’t it? To trust that Atsushi will somehow -- miraculously -- keep Akutagawa from being the person that he always has been, that he might be deep down inside his rotten core. Akutagawa doesn’t know how to handle that degree of trust. He doesn’t know if he’s capable of it.
“You shouldn’t make promises like that,” Akutagawa says, but there’s a thorn pressing hard into his heart that feels like the jagged edge of hope, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.
“You’re stuck with me.” Atsushi’s voice is firm, and he flattens his hands back down on Akutagawa’s chest, leaning down until his forehead bumps against Akutagawa’s. Akutagawa closes his eyes, feeling that thorn in his chest growing big enough that he worries there won’t be room for his heart to beat.
“Good,” Akutagawa says, but it sounds more like don’t leave even to his own ears.
This time, when Atsushi kisses him, there’s no fangs or hint of beast: it’s a tender, fragile kiss that Akutagawa fears he might break it if he isn’t careful. The kiss lasts longer, Atsushi sprawling out on top of Akutagawa until his weight presses down and his warmth wraps around Akutagawa.
“Now who’s going to catch a cold,” Atsushi murmurs, thumb rubbing circles across Akutagawa’s hip bone. They leave the previous conversation where it was: half-unfinished, but both of them unwilling to press too hard all at once.
“You’re warm enough for the both of us,” Akutagawa says, and reaches out. Rashoumon flows around both of them to shield them from the world as Atsushi smiles and leans back in.