Work Text:
In the weeks after Dazai leaves, Chuuya throws himself into his work. There are many opportunities to be violent in the mafia, and Chuuya takes them all, killing in a rage that he hasn’t experienced in years. Time blurs, separated by jobs more than days, and Chuuya is brutally efficient. The people on his team avoid him; the most they can do on the mission is stay out of his way.
Eventually, as with all things, his rage comes to an end. It’s another mission, an unquantifiable number of days since Dazai left, and for once there is someone who won’t stay out of his way, propelled by a pain that might surpass his own. Akutagawa looks inhuman, skinnier than he has ever been and covered in bloodstains that reek enough to have been present for days. His eyes are gaunt, deep-set in his skull, and red-rimmed in a way that Chuuya has become accustomed to hiding under eyeliner. He steps in Chuuya’s path, little thought to the bullets poised to fire at his back, and then rashoumon is blocking Chuuya’s view.
He has just enough time to recognise where he has seen the look on Akutagawa’s face - in his own mirror - before his field of vision is clear again, and the job has been done. Fifty people dead in an instant, and their orders were just to find one .
“Next,” Akutagawa growls, shoving past his back-up. Chuuya’s back-up, technically, but he’d been denied the release this time, and Akutagawa’s bony elbow in his ribs is the shock he needs to realign his perspectives: he wasn’t the only one left behind.
Akutagawa’s office room, which he shares with the rest of his team, is cold and almost completely empty. No one has any personal items on the desks, and people keep their heads down until they hear Chuuya enter, at which point they stare blank-eyed at the interruption for a few seconds before leaping into action, chairs scraping across wooden floors.
“I’ll fetch Akutagawa-san,” a blonde woman about his own age - Higuchi, based on the quick run-through he’d done of Akutagawa’s team - bows twice, deeper than necessary, and rushes towards a side door, “and prepare tea. Please, Nakahara-sama, sit.”
She’s gone before Chuuya has the chance to tell her he hates the honorific, and judging by the panicked flush on her face it might be for the best. Higuchi is new, he remembers, and she doesn’t look cut out for this, but he’s thought the same thing about plenty of hard hitters before and it’s none of his business, so he doesn’t bother to make a note. He hears the sound of a teapot beginning to boil and a low murmur before the door opens again and Akutagawa emerges, eyes flickering over Chuuya with mild suspicion.
He offers a short bow, both hands behind his back, impossibly stiff, and Chuuya waves it off with a blunt hand. Mori is the only person Chuuya bothers with formalities for; Port Mafia ceremony still feels foreign to him, like trying on a suit that has been tailored for someone else. Akutagawa takes a seat on the couch opposite him, his hands on his knees, and the gulf of the coffee table between them stretches out with the silence that follows.
Akutagawa looks no better than the last time Chuuya saw him. If anything, he is more drawn, resembling the spectre the Port Mafia’s enemies describe him as. His wrists are hidden behind the frills of his shirt; bony fingers with chipped nails clutch at the fabric of his trousers, which hang like curtains from his knees. His face is more grey than pale, the only colour to be found in his bloodshot eyes.
Chuuya thinks for a moment that someone needs to show him how to use makeup; it’s been Chuuya’s best defence against visible weakness for years. It’s shallow, though, and not what he’s here for, so he shoves the impulse down and waits for Akutagawa to speak.
He doesn’t. There’s an intake of breath and a stifled cough, and then Higuchi slides a tea set with two cups onto the coffee table, leaning backwards as she does as if trying to avoid entering their line of sight. She looks up at Chuuya out of the corner of her eyes, and when he smiles at her she turns away abruptly.
“This is nice,” Chuuya says about the tea set, and it is. Nothing else in the room has personality, but this is an antique, painted delicately with panels of birds and fine reeds. Akutagawa nods, a grunt of assent, and Chuuya is glad to see that he’s retained enough of himself to keep his manners. He doesn’t want to talk, but he won’t ignore a superior.
A superior. It feels strange to consider himself one; Akutagawa is just two years younger than him, after all, and had joined the mafia not long after Chuuya himself. He was a mess, and immature, but the way he had tailed after Dazai had thrown him back to his time with the Sheep, and Akutagawa’s loneliness had spoken to Chuuya, perhaps more than it had to himself, and definitely more than it had to Dazai. Akutagawa hasn’t really gained any friends in the mafia from what Chuuya has seen, and now he looks lonelier than ever, a thin figure on a wide couch, chasms of space on either side of him.
“Alright,” Chuuya says, clapping his hands. Everyone in the room flinches. “Come and see me on Friday once you’re done with things. That’s an order, Akutagawa, I’ll be very disappointed if you don’t show.”
It feels awkward to use his weight, almost comical, since people tended to either listen to him or not regardless of whether he was ordering them, but Akutagawa doesn’t laugh at him. He nods instead, jerky and slow, standing to bow even as the tendons around his jaw twitch in irritation. He’ll obey, but he’s clearly not happy about it.
Good , Chuuya thinks, walking out with his hands in his pockets. Irritation gives him something to work with.
Chuuya doesn’t waste any time when Akutagawa arrives at his office; he’s dressed to leave and Akutagawa is coming with him whether he wants to or not. He snaps his fingers with a practiced confidence, leaving a gaping Akutagawa in his wake.
“Follow me.”
He doesn’t leave room for negotiation, and Akutagawa, a soldier even without his commander, does as he’s told, trailing along behind Chuuya like a waifish shadow. He doesn’t ask where they’re going until they’ve been walking for five minutes, at which point Chuuya stops, allowing him to catch up.
“My place, obviously. It’s not far - I hate a commute.”
It’s difficult for Chuuya to tell whether Akutagawa’s lack of argument is a good thing or not. They haven’t spent much time together before this; Dazai kept his pupil away from most others’ influence, especially Chuuya’s, because he was allegedly angry enough already . Chuuya hasn’t seen anything to disprove that, in all fairness: Akutagawa’s track record speaks for itself, and the cold rage Chuuya saw on their job together hasn’t subsided after two weeks, even though there is nowhere to direct it now.
Cruel of Dazai to give him nowhere else to turn, Chuuya thinks, for once appreciating his own situation. For all the hurt Dazai's betrayal had caused him, he had never been the center of his world. Chuuya isn't sure that Akutagawa had even perceived the world before Dazai. There would be one after him, at least; Chuuya was determined to show him that.
Akutagawa’s expression shows a little change once he’s let into Chuuya’s apartment, and it sparks pride in him. He’s made a home for himself in the three years since he joined the mafia, and he has developed a taste for the finer things. Most of his furniture is imported, and each item was chosen with care. He put it all back piece by piece after he’d trashed it, infuriated by his burned out car and absent partner, because he loved his home, and he knew he needed somewhere he could go. The brief part of Akutagawa’s lips and the flicker of surprise in his gaze is all Chuuya needs to feel validated.
“Sit,” he says, pointing to the couch, throwing his coat over the hook and heading towards the wine rack. Obedient to a fault, Akutagawa does as he’s told, his own coat - Dazai’s old coat - wrapped around him like armour. That’s what it is, technically, but it doesn’t make him look any less ridiculous, stiff on a couch made for lounging. Chuuya returns with a bottle and two glasses, pouring one out for each of them, and Akutagawa stares at the one that is placed in front of him, not reaching out to take it even as Chuuya drinks from his own.
Chuuya thinks about saying something; thinks about the million things he could say, and how many of them he shouldn’t. In the end, he turns on the television, flicking over to a reality show and leaning back, his arm thrown over the back of the couch in a parody of relaxation. He’s not comfortable, no one could be with a broken man sat ramrod straight beside them, but he’s always been good at overcompensating.
Two glasses of wine and the show’s progression are enough for him to forget that Akutagawa doesn’t want to be beside him. He makes disparaging comments about the participants, judging their decisions and nudging Akutagawa’s side when his predictions are proven right. Akutagawa doesn’t speak, doesn’t react except to rub his ribs when Chuuya elbows him, and his glass of wine remains untouched. Eventually, Chuuya drinks it himself and orders Akutagawa to give him an opinion, to which he receives a dull, “You were right, of course, Nakahara-san.”
Chuuya laughs. With the flush of wine the contrast between Akutagawa’s awkward deference and his brutality on the field seems even more amusing, and he laughs until his stomach hurts, spurred on by the visible twitch in Akutagawa’s jaw.
When his laughter subsides, he offers Akutagawa a brief, sympathetic smile. The last few hours must have been hell for him, but he’s still here and that means something.
“Alright, I’ll release you,” he says, and the speed with which Akutagawa stands up to leave is almost enough to set Chuuya off again. “You’re coming back, though. Every Friday night, you and me, Terrace House. Get some opinions of your own.”
“Yes, Sir,” Akutagawa responds as he bows, the puzzlement clear in his furrowed brow when he looks back at Chuuya. He doesn’t have to get it, though, he only has to show up.
A theme park is the least likely destination for either of them to spend an off day, and that’s exactly why Chuuya picks it. He doesn’t want them to get caught up in work and Akutagawa is in desperate need of fresh air that isn’t tainted by the smell of blood, so he buys the tickets on impulse, cornering Akutagawa at the headquarters so that he has to hear him out.
“You’re always so cagey at my apartment,” Chuuya says by way of explanation. “I thought this would level the playing field; we could try something new together.”
Akutagawa regards the tickets with a level of disdain that ought to be reserved for insects - or maybe Dazai - and his mouth works around the katakana with a slow dedication. Chuuya’s familiar with it; he didn’t learn to read until later in life as well, so he waits patiently until Akutagawa is done pronouncing the words.
“What the fuck is a Cosmo World?”
Akutagawa has been nothing but polite with him until now, the disparity between their positions held at the forefront of his mind, but this outburst is so far from that that Chuuya snorts, and it’s hard to feel guilty even when Akutagawa scowls at him because his amusement is a refreshing change of pace. Work drains him, and more often than not Akutagawa is a source of concern, but recently he has been making Chuuya laugh in increasing frequency, and it lifts Chuuya’s spirits, making him feel lighter for the rest of the day.
And this was supposed to be about him .
“I know, right?” Chuuya shrugs, but he keeps his hand outstretched, offering the ticket with sincerity. “Wanna go find out?”
By now Akutagawa has learned that when Chuuya is asking him he’s supposed to do as he’s told, and Chuuya is grateful that he doesn’t have to order him explicitly, because the destination is frighteningly close to a couple’s outing, and Chuuya has too much pride to command someone to go on a date with him. Akutagawa jerks his head in assent, snatching the ticket and storming away in search of his next assignment, and Chuuya sighs in relief. He’ll take what he can get.
Chuuya isn’t sure if they’ll accept a ticket that’s been damaged by blood stains. It’s an idle worry, brought to him by arriving ten minutes early - an old, anxious habit that he doesn’t like to confront - and it turns out to be uncalled for, because Akutagawa’s ticket is pristine. The wallet it’s kept in is much closer to Chuuya’s expectations, though, torn and dirtied to the point that it looks like it was stolen from a victim, and Chuuya makes a note that he needs to buy him a new one before it falls to pieces.
“Well?” Akutagawa says. He’s still wearing his work clothes, a solemn figure against the bright colours of the theme park entrance and Chuuya’s own casual outfit. He likes to be flashy because he has to blend in at work, but he still thinks Akutagawa might stand out more, stiff and gothic, so he slaps his back, encouraging him to relax. Akutagawa begins to cough and Chuuya immediately feels guilty, rubbing where he had smacked until it subsides.
“I guess I should have thought that one through…” he says, and Akutagawa glares in response. “Let’s go in, huh? I’ll buy you something nice to apologise.”
Neither of them want to do anything. They eye the roller coaster with suspicion: it’s both too much and not enough of an adrenaline rush, and Akutagawa doesn’t want to be strapped in. Chuuya protests at the sight of the log flume, not wanting to wet his hair, and the video arcade seems a crass given their profession, the sound of simulated gunfire making them both wince. Eventually, they come to the Ferris Wheel, and Chuuya bites back a smile when he catches Akutagawa’s expression softening into something curious and excited.
He wants to show him something normal. Chuuya hasn’t experienced much of it himself, but he clings to his memories at the worst times, and perhaps this can bring Akutagawa some of the peace he needs.
It’s a cloudless day, and the sun reflects brightly off the sea behind them as they begin their ascent, sitting next to each other in silence while the carriage sways. The skyline becomes apparent as they get higher, and Chuuya can’t help but let out a sigh of contentment. He loves this city, laid out before him in all its chaotic glory, and the view is incredible. He’s sure Akutagawa must feel the same.
“I got hit by a sniper from that rooftop,” Akutagawa volunteers. The wheel has stopped for other people to get on, and they are rocking three quarters of the way up. Chuuya starts - Akutagawa has barely spoken since they arrived and hasn’t begun a conversation by himself at all - and follows the line of his outstretched arm. He cusses.
“That’s a popular spot. I fucking hate snipers. It’s a cowards way of killing someone - they know I can’t stop a bullet I can’t see.”
Akutagawa grunts in agreement and Chuuya continues, “there are ways around it, though.”
“Oh?”
Work is what they came here to get away from, but when Chuuya drags his gaze away from the city he sees Akutagawa leaning towards him, attentive and almost respectful. He’s thinking about something, and Chuuya hopes that it might be the future, because he hasn’t seen that look in Akutagawa’s eyes since Dazai left.
He guides Akutagawa through the most popular hideouts for snipers, pointing at each one as they reach the peak of the ferris wheel. Akutagawa’s ability is better from a distance, Chuuya knows, but he’s never seen him use it to get up high, so he points it out as something to work on.
“The higher you are, the more you can see,” Chuuya says, and Akutagawa nods, this time not polite but interested , and the burn of his focus twists something inside Chuuya’s gut. “Make sure you have a full view of the battlefield when you go in.”
Akutagawa nods again, and Chuuya thinks he might understand why Dazai had kept him to himself. Having Akutagawa’s full attention is like being submerged in fire, uncomfortable but dangerously addictive. When the ferris wheel starts to descend he has to pull his own gaze back to the skyline he loves so much, and he can still feel Akutagawa staring at him until the carriage stops.
Chuuya owes him a gift and it seems a waste to leave after just one activity, so in the end he buys yakitori and they find a bench to sit on, people watching. Chuuya makes judgements on people’s outfits that Akutagawa tells him he has no right to make, and Chuuya revels in the sharpness of Akutagawa’s tongue, so seldom directed at him.
“Hey!” small children run up to Akutagawa when he stands up to dispose of his skewer. They form a circle around him, and for a split second Chuuya thinks he’s going to have to shut Akutagawa down, because rashoumon flares from the tail of his coat, sharp and defensive, stopping just over the children’s heads. He flinches and makes to stand, but the children just clap. “Oooh.”
They must think he works here in cosplay. One of the children reaches up a small hand to grasp at rashoumon, and he pulls it away, face a picture of panic; Chuuya is torn between going to his rescue and taking a picture. Looking around, even Akutagawa can see that there is no point in killing here. He’s not working, there’s no job that they stand in the way of, and the children aren’t a threat to anything but his dignity. They cheer for him, asking questions that Akutagawa doesn’t know how to answer, and Chuuya decides to sit back, waiting to see how things pan out.
One of the girls tugs on Akutagawa’s coat, saying something that Chuuya can’t hear, and Akutagawa hides his face before raising rashomon again. He sees the fabric wind around itself, flickering, until a flower - a daffodil - is formed, and he offers it to the girl without looking at her. The flower is black, leaves twisting with an ominous aura, but the girl takes it with delight. Chuuya can’t deny that it’s beautiful, and the surprise is enough to make his breath catch in his throat. He had no idea that rashoumon could make anything other than a blade.
“Thank you, Mr. Vampire!” They wave, and Akutagawa’s furious shock breaks the mood, making Chuuya laugh until he falls off the bench.
“Get some casual clothes, you ass. People are always going to think you’re a cosplayer or a serial killer when you’re dressed like that. Gin-kun can help you, right?”
Akutagawa mutters furiously, still embarrassed, but the next time Chuuya sees him on a day off he’s wearing black jeans that flatter his slim figure, and Chuuya has to ignore the thrill he feels at seeing that he took his advice to heart.
“I don’t understand why she entertains this man at all.”
Akutagawa has been visiting Chuuya for seven Fridays. He sits in the same spot on the couch every time, keeping his thin frame tightly enclosed as if he has been relegated to the space, and barely moves except to nod an assent when Chuuya prompts him. Chuuya pours a glass of wine for him at the start of each evening, and at the end Chuuya downs it before telling Akutagawa to leave. It’s a tradition, now, part of a ritual that Chuuya had no idea he was starting, but one he’s grown comfortable with.
Tonight their tradition has been broken. Akutagawa has spoken of his own accord, and Chuuya turns his head to see him leaning forward, his chin in his hand, staring at the TV with genuine puzzlement.
“He’s nothing but irritating, and she’s already stated that he doesn’t meet her standards. Why bother? Do people really live like this?”
Chuuya examines his wine glass. It’s only his third, so he shouldn’t be drunk, but impulse takes over him and his arm is around Akutagawa’s waist before he’s even aware of it, squeezing him tightly. “Right? I knew you’d be great to watch this with. Tear them to shreds, Akkun, use that cutting tongue of yours!”
Akutagawa looks at him out of the corner of his eye, frozen where Chuuya is holding him, but after Chuuya releases him (abruptly, because damn, he could have lost his life there, and he doesn’t want to know if Rashoumon would be capable of devouring the space in which he formed his gravitons), he does as he’s asked. It’s like a dam has burst, and Chuuya realises he must have been holding back all this time, unwilling to share his thoughts until he had an idea of Chuuya’s motives.
He wonders if Akutagawa knows them now; that would make one of them, because Chuuya has long since lost sight of them.
Akutagawa talks and Chuuya laughs, and when the only wine left is the wine in Akutagawa’s glass he nudges it towards him, insistent.
“You’re allowed to drink it, you know. That’s why I pour it, I’m not being polite.”
“An eighteen year old offering alcohol to a sixteen year old doesn’t particularly come across as polite , Nakahara. I wasn’t under any illusion.”
Right, he has an attitude. Chuuya had heard of it from Dazai, but it had sounded more troublesome than the amusement it causes him now. “We’re in the mafia! What’s a few years off twenty between friends and criminals? Besides, it was anesan that got me drinking wine in the first place - I’m just passing on the torch.”
An exhale - something choked into Akutagawa’s hand - was that a laugh ? “No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” Chuuya drinks the glass, swallowing it in two gulps, and the alcohol rushes to his cheeks when he catches Akutagawa staring, following the line of Chuuya’s throat with a gaze that never wavers and an intensity that never simmers. When he sets the glass down, Akutagawa takes his cue, and Chuuya watches the door for a long time after he’s gone, empty bottle of wine balanced on his forehead where he lies on the couch.
Chuuya is the first person to have paid attention to Akutagawa since Dazai left, and no one else was allowed to before; that’s all it is. He didn’t miss the heat behind Akutagawa’s stare and wouldn’t deny that it’s tempting, when something is offered to him, to take it. But he’s finally getting somewhere, and somehow he’s starting to enjoy Akutagawa’s company. Taking advantage of his vulnerability right now would be too low, even for him.
Dazai would do it , he thinks briefly, and that strengthens his resolve even more.
Conversation opens up after that, but they don’t talk about Dazai. Chuuya is certain, if he brings him up, that Akutagawa will leave, and maybe the point of all this had been to talk about Dazai, to make him talk about Dazai, but more has grown here that he wants to hold onto, and he’s selfish. That’s why he’s still here, after all, and why he still makes Akutagawa obey.
“I’m angry too, you know.”
It's another three weeks before Chuuya can bring it up, and even then it's only spurred on by Akutagawa showing up on his doorstep with a bruised jaw and deep, worrisome scratches across his bicep, shrugging it off when Chuuya asks if he should seek medical treatment. “You know the job. I succeeded, and that's all that matters.”
But is isn't, and as far as Chuuya is concerned it never has been. Under his command, results at the cost of comrades’ lives aren't worth it, and Chuuya realises he has no idea whether Akutagawa has been told that his survival is just as important as the mission's success.
Not that it would matter to him right now. Akutagawa's gaze is fixed on an unreachable goal; on the back of a man who will never turn to look at him, and it makes Chuuya furious on a scale above selfish, on a scale he rarely feels. When Akutagawa looks at him, begging him not to continue, Chuuya does anyway, because they have been quiet for long enough, and Akutagawa is only going to fall deeper if no one interferes.
“I'm pissed. He didn't tell us anything. I was his partner, you were his subordinate. The least he owed us was a note, a goodbye. I think about it every day.”
“I see,” Akutagawa says, the words heavy on his tongue and in Chuuya's ears. Chuuya wishes he could explain the indignance he feels, at his own neglect and at Akutagawa's, but he knows that Akutagawa can't understand his feelings because he is too helpless, drowning in his own. Chuuya wants his rage to be a lifeline, thrown into a dizzying storm; he hopes that Akutagawa will catch it.
“Well, I wouldn't have followed him anyway, wherever he's gone,” Chuuya remembers his vow to Mori, his position and his subordinates; the people who would be as lost as Akutagawa is now, if not as bereft. “You would have, though.”
Akutagawa stiffens. “I'm loyal to the Port Mafia.”
“I know. This isn’t a test, Akutagawa. You would have followed him anyway.”
There is a long silence. Beneath the usual dull of Akutagawa's eyes something flickers, and his inhale is a wheeze, lungs crackling with unvoiced emotion. Chuuya wonders for a moment if Akutagawa even recognises what he's feeling; how could he, with no one to teach him?
He says nothing. Chuuya puts a hand on his knee, and Akutagawa stares at it like it's something foreign. Like he doesn't have two of his own.
“He didn't let you follow him. Stay here and be strong, and then maybe one day one of us will get to kick his ass for leaving.”
Akutagawa twitches. He nods, and there's that sound again. Is he really able to laugh when Dazai's name lingers so closely?
“There will be a queue, I imagine,” Akutagawa replies. Chuuya raises his wine glass, and neither of them say anything for the rest of the night, the TV blaring light against their faces.
Chuuya’s plan of resistance had banked entirely on the certainty that Akutagawa would never act on whatever he had begun to feel. Though brash, he had never been forward, even as the barriers between them began to fall, and Akutagawa didn’t seem to understand his own feelings to begin with, considering the visible confusion Chuuya saw on his face whenever he flushed at Chuuya’s touch or gestures.
This isn’t the first time Chuuya has underestimated Akutagawa, though, and it probably won’t be the last. They’ve been meeting for twenty-five weeks when Akutagawa is the one to start a serious conversation for once; over half a year since Dazai left.
“I think it’s time that we acknowledged your mission has been a success, Nakahara.”
“What?” Chuuya is tired and his mind is slow from a bottle of merlot and a week-long assignment. His body is bruised and aching, and he’s been gradually slumping into the couch at Akutagawa’s side as the evening wears on, struggling to keep track of the drama unfolding on the television. Akutagawa has been shooting glances his way, back still rigid even if he’s allowed himself to take up more space - just a little, by letting his thighs spread naturally - but Chuuya is too comfortable to do anything about it until Akutagawa speaks.
His hands are on his knees, thumb stroking the edge of the joint. Dimly, Chuuya notices that they don’t look as frail as before.
“My efficiency at work has improved, there’s less collateral damage amongst my comrades, and my physical strength has recovered. My last medical check up showed positive signs,” when Chuuya continues to gape at Akutagawa, he looks away. “Mori-san asked you to do this, didn’t he?”
“What? No, Mori doesn’t give a shit as long as the job gets done. He was pleased with your whole - thing,” Chuuya says, gesturing vaguely, and then winces. “Sorry.”
“No need,” Akutagawa says, will a dull acceptance that makes Chuuya’s throat feel raw. Does he even care that he’s a pawn? “Then...you pitied me?”
The words crack on their exit from Akutagawa’s lips, a disgust in them that Chuuya can tell isn’t targeted in his direction. Akutagawa’s pain is visceral, radiating from him in waves that threaten to sober Chuuya up, and he grimaces, placing a gloved hand over Akutagawa’s and squeezing it. He’s gained strength, but Chuuya still feels as if the stiff knuckles might be crushed under the force of his grip.
“No, Akkun. Akutagawa, it’s not like that. I didn’t pity you - well, maybe a little, before I knew you, I just - I get it. Dazai makes holes in people that only he can fill, and he doesn’t think about that when he leaves. I just wanted to show you you can carry on, even with the hole. I’m trying to do the same.”
Akutagwa’s knuckles are white, trembling beneath Chuuya’s hand, and he’s staring at his knees with a fierce emotion that Chuuya can’t quite identify. He only knows that he’s felt it before in himself, and that he doesn’t want Akutagawa to experience it alone.
“This was about me as much as it was about you. It gave me something to do, and someone who...understands, even if he doesn’t know he does because he’s a goddamn idiot who can’t see two feet in front of him.”
“I can,” Akutagawa insists. Suddenly he’s looking right at Chuuya and his palms have turned upwards to grip Chuuya’s hands. He holds them awkwardly, grasping the sides like he’s never done it before, like he doesn’t know how to.
Chuuya sees the intent in Akutagawa’s eyes, the determined flush that dusts his cheeks, and he panics. Instinctively he tries to pull away, but Akutagawa holds his hands in a tight grip, and Chuuya doesn’t really want to go anywhere anyway, he just knows that he should.
“I can see what’s in front of me,” Akutagawa says. Chuuya’s mouth is dry and he wishes he had water instead of wine.
“Akutagawa, I’m not a good replacement for him,” he begins, and Akutagawa’s lip trembles. Shit, he’s about to cry . “I just mean - this is a bad idea, I didn’t want you to just transfer your feelings for Dazai to-”
“This isn’t about Dazai-san,” Akutagawa’s voice is heated, too weak to yell but as close as he can get, and then he’s taking up the whole couch, so much of Chuuya’s space like he’s allowed to. He’s angry in a way that Chuuya has never seen him be, and for a second he thinks that this is it, because like this he doesn’t have the will to resist if Akutagawa tries to cut him down. “This is about everything but him.”
“Oh,” Chuuya breathes. Akutagawa’s face is red, close enough to Chuuya’s that he can feel the heat radiating off it, and his eyes are black and full of intent. Chuuya underestimated him; his maturity and his intentions, and what he will do for what he wants. “Okay.”
Akutagawa closes the gap between them, and Chuuya realises that he’s right. This has never been about Dazai; only what he left behind.