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The alleyway was dark and narrow, concealed enough to hide away the fight within its walls.
(i have a secret)
He snarls, white teeth flashing bright against dark fur, dark night, dark shadow, and stands his ground.
(that i shall never tell)
Hands reach out, grasping, disgusting, with wire and collars and leashes—
(and if you should hear it)
A growl of warning as fever lit eyes flash—
(then hear it well)
He does not need hands when fangs work just as well—
(this is the secret)
Blood pours into his mouth, drips down to the ground, and he pulls—
(hidden in a lie)
Screaming, as he clamps down harder on the flesh inside his mouth—
(and it is this)
Hands reach out, desperate, pleading, with guns and needles and rope—
(you shall never take me alive)
He stands proudly in a pool of his own blood, large and black and angry, and he throws his head back towards the sky and howls.
Claws click against the ground as metal clinks gently against itself. The room is dim and narrow, patched together in shades of damp grey and brown.
The bars locking him in the room are solid, silver, unbreakable.
He is not strong enough to break them.
(He used to be stronger than this, when he had four paws.)
The small window above his head casts light in the cell, and he raises his head to look at the moon.
The night is still new.
(Still beginning, still starting.)
Tonight, he is captured.
(He knows with a deep instinct that he is not alone.)
Tonight, he is no more a human.
(With intuition in place of thoughts and words.)
Tonight, he roams in white.
(He used to be scared of this.)
Tonight, he moves along the edges of his cell, and waits.
(There is a predator here, and there is only him.)
Dog fighting rings are such odd things, aren’t they?
(the rip of skin)
Humans cheer as they watch their claimed ‘best friends’ die.
(the rain of blood)
How much time until it gets boring?
(the howl of dogs)
How much longer can it take?
(the beat of drums)
How many kills before something stops living?
(the white of bone)
How much hurt until a soul completely breaks?
(the red of heart)
He stands, proud despite the wounds on his body.
(the terrible smile)
He stalks towards the gate so foolishly left unlocked.
(of an angry god)
If these people had wanted him tame—
(and the people call)
He lunges, mouth open, for someone’s throat.
(for war)
—they had found the wrong dog.
(He is only ever tame for certain people, and these are most certainly not them.)
A door swings open, creaking on rusty hinges, as several people drag something into the room.
He watches serenely, lying regally in his cold metal cell, as that something snaps teeth and claws at the arms holding it immobile.
The air is gently scented with the smell of iron and fear, and bright gold eyes observe patiently as a gate is unlocked and something is pushed in.
(In with him.)
He could kill it. That is what the people want to happen anyway.
(Easily, easily.)
There is no food for a predator here. Not if they want him without energy, not if they want him compliant.
(Nothing except rot and dried bones.)
The hunt would not be satisfying, but the food would be sufficient.
(As a human he would not think this, but he is not a human.)
He yawns, a large mouth lined with sharpness, and slowly gets up.
(It would be so easy, and his stomach is not full.)
Padding over to the wounded dog, he prepares to strike.
(Human thought is muffled, and what use is it here?)
He does not care when the dog's eyes open.
(As gleaming silver meets bright gold.)
He wants to bite the dog, and so the dog bites back.
(A shock of clear, startling pain, just as it was the first time.)
He growls, no mercy ready to be given, and goes in for the kill.
(Where have I met you before?)
The dog, weak and bleeding and helpless, looks at him defiantly.
(He looks at him with pride in his eyes, despite the cracks inside it.)
He is wounded, but that is fine. Pain is something he is used to.
(heavy is the head)
He is in a new prison, with a new cellmate, and that is fine. He will make himself survive.
(that carries a heavy crown)
He looks up into white and black and gold, and he glares with all the strength he has left.
(of thorns and)
To rely on one’s own self is a harsh lesson beat in him again and again. In this, too, he will be fine.
(well wishes and)
So he readies for something to tear at his shoulder, to rip down his back. In this, too, there will be pain.
(the pleading of the dead)
But he has always been something wild, something mean. Even if he must lie here, he will fight back.
(heavy is the head)
The white and gold come closer, the growl not audible any more.
(that carries a broken crown)
And it leans down to nose at his head, softly, where it wanted to break his neck.
(of starbursts and)
He struggles, tiredness and illness and injury pulling at his limbs—
(sunlight and)
—as a white and gold monster picks him up and lays him gently on its bed.
(the feeling)
It’s only a ratty blanket, a single piece of softness against the hardness of the floor.
(of waiting to drown)
And it is warm, where the tiger lays down and starts to lick his wounds.
The tiger raises his head and looks carefully at the beast lying beside him.
Such a large dog, still so small compared to him.
(He had always seemed so unbeatable.)
Such a large dog should not be so thin.
(So small.)
Under long black fur, the dog’s body is only skin and bones. Unhealthy. Sick.
(Has he always been this way?)
He lets out a gust of air and nuzzles closer to his companion. For now, at least, he can only do his best to help him warm. Tomorrow, he will worry about food. Tomorrow, he will worry about how to mend those open wounds.
The tiger closes his eyes, a silent guardian in the night, and waits for morning to come.
He wakes in warmth, slowly, softly, with the ache of hurt in his body.
It is safe, here.
The softness next to him moves, a low rumble he understands as are you okay, and he is alive, alive, alive.
The tiger did not harm him after all.
The sunlight pours in, gentle and welcoming, and he thinks that maybe he’s still asleep. It’s so safe. So peaceful.
Are you okay? The tiger asks him, in long licks on his head, across his spine.
Does it still hurt? In the small nudges against his legs and face.
Once, he knew a tiger. He can not remember if they are the same. Still, he answers, with the stretch of his back, the arch of his neck, I’m fine, so don’t worry about me.
He answers, bumping his head into the tiger’s shoulder, thank you for not killing me.
(It is so much easier like this, to be grateful, to be kind. It is so much easier, when he can not remember the taste of ash and failure, and the way they stuck on his tongue.)
It is easy, not having to be alone.
The cell contains them with bars that are solid, sturdy, caging, and they pace along them as one and then two.
(i am lonely)
The tiger walks surely, always ready to leap despite the heavy weight around his neck, and there is power in those legs, those sheathed claws.
(i am great)
The dog snarls, fierce and unforgiving, and he stalks around the edges, in shadows, in beats of time.
(i sink slowly)
Days pass and they heal, and they starve, fed on scraps of misery and the sickening sound of faint cheers. Days pass, and soon, it is tiger-and-dog in whatever they do. They adjust quickly, and it is easy.
(into shape)
I know you, they say to each other. Even if I do not know how.
(as something)
They stay there, first as one and then two, and it is easier this way. It is easier, not being alone.
(part of you)
It is easier like this, and together, they wait.
(Days pass, and they are closer. Days pass, and they live. It is easier like this, when they do not remember fighting. It is easier like this, when they work as one.
There is not much else to do, when all of your mind says the other is someone to be trusted.)
The humans come in, quick words and quicker gestures, and they fill the room with greed and fear.
Two pairs of eyes watch in derision, as they scramble about to find a treat.
They come closer once they find it, high-pitched voices and soothing tones as they try to lure them apart.
Come here, doggy.
Be a good boy and come here.
Come here, mutt.
Listen to us.
Listen to us.
Listen to us and obey!
Come here!
Loud and louder as the dog doesn’t listen—as he hides his face in his companion’s side. The sun shines high and bright through the small window, and it’s noon. A good time to sleep.
The tiger curls around him, lowering his head, ready to follow him in slumber.
They forgot that they were weaker now, too used to the threat of each other.
The first shot makes the dog yelp, more surprised than in pain, and the second makes him growl harshly, baring his teeth at the people on the other side.
This makes the tiger jerk his head around, teeth bared in a snarl, all muscles tensing in preparation to pounce.
The third hits the tiger, the fourth hitting his chest as he rears back.
It is a mistake.
The chain around the tiger’s throat goes taut, pulling him towards the other side, away from his companion.
The fifth shot hits the dog, barking and trying to attack from the other side of the bars.
The fifth shot fells him, drugs finally weakening his body, until he goes to sleep, too close to the door. (Too close to the wrong people.)
There is no sixth shot.
The people come in, slick voices and oily tones, and they take the dog away.
The tiger strains against the chain, desperate and something like grieving, and roars.
It is not enough, and the rusty door swings shut.
(It is enough, and the chains start breaking.)
Several hours later, once the drugs have worn off, he is once more in the ring. The voices rise around him, falling and breaking apart, echoing in his ears like thunder.
This is a strong one, they say, watch him fight.
You have the wrong one, he wants to say with a mouth he doesn’t have, I was never strong enough.
Instead, he is made of sharp edges and cruelty, survival written down into every bit of his flesh. Instead, he gets used to failure, of the bile that fills his mouth. Instead, he is not enough, and never will be.
(The truth of the matter is this: they have always been more similar to each other than they want to admit.)
So he builds himself up with danger, with pride. He makes himself a cold weapon that keeps trying to grow. Being a dog changed that, he knows. It twisted some parts of that, bent them oddly. As a dog, it’s easier, when he doesn’t have to be strong.
Now, with the ring in front of him, the fight before his eyes, he takes those pieces of himself, out of shape and distant, and forces them back into place.
(the beat)
He is not a human, not right now, but he had been a street dog first. He became a rabid one after. Being human was never an option.
(of my heart)
There is no need for human anger when a canine one is just as desperate.
(is a sacred moment)
So he readies himself, and when the gate opens, he moves forward in hungry movements, a hunter surrounded by prey.
(a priceless treasure)
(Whoever makes the first move wins.)
He is fast and lethal, and does not let them fight back. They battle, many against one, and he is stubborn, prideful, bloodthirsty. He will not fall.
(i've given to you)
(Pride is all he can have, when he has nothing else.)
They continue this way for an age that he loses track of, too many bodies piled up as more and more dogs are sent in to die. They can not win, not against him.
(so keep my heart)
He lunges, open mouthed, for another victim’s throat—
(and hold it gently)
The other dogs start barking in alarm and terror, while the humans cry and scramble away.
(and i will always)
—he falls short, held in place by the call he hears.
(be loyal to you)
He stands on four legs, with a grin stained red and deadly, a dark spot against the dullness of the rest of the world, and above him, the tiger is bright.
He runs, loping strides across rock and wood and gravel. The air is fresher, away from the ring, away from captivity. The sun is getting lower, streaks of orange making their way across the sky. The people following them were left behind a while ago.
(honeysuckle)
Like this, they are free.
(verdant green)
He runs, wind rushing through his fur and bringing with it scents of dirt and grass and water. They are in the wilderness, now, surrounded by tall, old trees.
(a garden for my misery)
They stop running when the sky starts turning a darker blue, settling in the hollow of an overturned trunk, its roots still half buried in the ground. He moves further in, against the back, and lets himself drop to the floor.
(the sky cries)
After a moment, his companion follows.
(in shades of gray)
A black head with white tipped ears snuffles at his neck, and he knows that the chain he broke has left its mark. It was worth it, though. He had made it in time.
(as winter washes it all away)
A snort from the black dog breaks him out of his thoughts, and he sees the glare aimed at him, can almost hear the grumbled ‘fool’.
(star of bethlehem)
He chuffs out a laugh, hooking a paw around the dog’s back and knocking him over. At the startled yelp that’s released, he brings the small body closer to him.
(shining white)
Well.
(and gladiolus striking)
Smaller than him, at least, he thinks with no small amount of amusement, recalling the memory of a large black dog dive bombing several humans holding tranquilizers.
(as spring comes)
The dog, prickly from being forcibly cuddled (again), nips at his leg.
(to try again)
In return, he settles his head atop the other’s, a low, soothing rumble starting in his chest.
(and irises start blooming)
If he had a human body, maybe now he would be smiling. That would be fine, he thinks.
This is okay.
(It is easier like this, to be brave, to be relied on. It is easier like this, when he can not remember why he was scared in the first place, when his enemy is someone he needs to help. It is easier like this, when they work together instead of against and apart.
It is so much easier like this, when he cannot remember the taste of ash and blood, and how they stuck on his tongue like failure.)
The land is quiet, breathless in the moments before dawn.
A tiger sleeps, and thinks he can hear, distantly, the call of someone familiar. (Kindness, guidance, the one who gave him a home.)
A dog sleeps, and thinks he can hear the muffled sound of his name. (Cruelty, guidance, the one who had thrown him away.)
“Sleep, you two. You’ve done well.”
(And Dazai touches them, these two large beasts curled up together, and watches as the Ability holding them in those forms breaks. They will return to fighting each other when they wake, he knows, return to being resentful and distrustful—it’s too soon for anything else.
Animals have always had stronger instincts, though. In that way, they are far smarter than humans. In that way…
Dazai smiles, just a little, because he also knows that these two apprentices of his will be fine.)
Atsushi grips the paper bag full of bread in his arms tightly and hurries back in the direction of the ADA office.
He didn’t mean to be out so long!
Really!
And he hadn’t meant to make that lady mad at him!
It was an accident that he just so happened to bump into the stand and knock off the topmost can onto her head—
Okay, he can admit that doesn’t sound very convincing. But it’s true!
Atsushi continues to recall what happened in the store because he was too distracted by the scent of meat.
Meat!
Not chazuke! Just plain meat!
You were a tiger for a while, Atsushi, Kunikida-san had told him. It might take a while for your mind to completely adjust to being human again.
He understands that more than the others probably realize. He can’t really remember his time as a tiger, but when they told him that he was rescued from a dog fighting ring that had wanted to try their hand at smuggling exotic animals, he still got the impression of biting metal and hunger.
(Aching, bitter, cold.)
Still, though.
Atsushi dearly hopes that the adjustment happens soon because he doesn’t know if he can take something like that happening over and over again. What if he had to help someone? What if he had to fight? Would he stop in the middle of battle just because he smelled something nice?
He isn’t really paying attention to where he’s going beyond the fact that it’s the way to work, so maybe it shouldn’t be that much of a surprise when the still active, big cat part of his brain sits up and does the mental equivalent of a poke.
Atsushi still stops too suddenly and almost trips because of it, though, and the tiger in his head rumbles a laugh.
Stumbling, he makes sure that he didn’t drop anything, and then spins to find what caused his tiger-mind to be so alert. Atsushi can’t see anything except people and cars, a normal scene in the afternoon, nothing that would— there!
A long black coat, black hair, pale skin—Akutagawa!
Akutagawa! He almost shouts, surprised and wary, and Atsushi wants to figure out what he’s doing here, except—
Dog. Black, fluffy, large. Still smaller than us. Sick. Fighter. Warm. Friend.
Good dog.
—except that he can’t move, can’t yell past the rush of satisfaction in his chest, the pleasure at seeing a friend, the pressing thought of ‘he’s fine’.
The tiger in his head—large and powerful, with no care for trauma or human morals—lets out a small, mental roar, and Atsushi suddenly realizes that Akutagawa is looking at him too.
Atsushi should be ready for a fight. He should really get moving, be prepared for the first attack. Why isn’t he moving?
“Weretiger,” Akutagawa says from across the street. “Stop standing there like a fool.”
Numbly, he can only watch as Akutagawa walks away.
Later, as he hands out bread to the other members of the office, Atsushi thinks of weretiger and how it sounded a lot like hello.
The tiger in his head is large and powerful—enough to break out of chains and a cell despite the drugs in its system and not technically being an Ability—and as it lays down peacefully and finally melts away, all Atsushi can remember is the feeling of not being alone.
Hey, weretiger. I’m fine.
(Thank you for not hurting me.)