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Sometimes, when the nights stretch for a tad too long, and the hustle and bustle of Yokohama is drowned by the rushing blood in his ears, heartbeat erratic and breathing ragged, Akutagawa’s soul feels weightless as it nestles in his chest.
Small little thing it is, barely there, marred and charred and lazily sewed together, but its weight would make his figure bend in half to support the mass of his spirit, his back hunched, his vertebras sticking out from under his skin, muscles straining from trying to keep him standing straight. He could walk around covered in foreign sticky crimson, still warm, still alive, and his soul, his damned, heavy soul, would buzz innocently, sometimes scolding, sometimes nurturing, but never happily floating through his chest, no, never.
But sometimes, when his mind was desperately grasping onto what little consciousness he still possessed, when his body felt too heavy and his bones popped from tension and agony, and he was blinded from the lack of air in his bloodstream, his useless limbs would sink into the ground, the coldness of concrete a welcomed old friend, and he’d watch, unseeing, as his traitor blood eagerly painted the worn grey an ugly shade of crimson.
At first, the colour would hurt his eyes, harsh against the backdrop of black and white, but for red was always a harsh, tyrannic hue, it would bring his friends along, rows of blues, yellows and greens, and they would blend and swirl until his brain was begging them to stop.
Ant then his soul, his weak, traitorous soul would chirp happily and leap out of his chest, through the empty space between his ribs, through muscle and skin and the thin layer of fat he worked so hard to keep, and he would watch the small thing with lidded eyes, watch the joy and glee and freedom, foreign emotions he never had the privilege to experience.
It is quite ironic, all things considered, to feel so unshackled, so full of life, when he’s dancing on the line of life and death. It is a unique performance, sometimes a solo, sometimes a duet, and he knows it’s not real, for his lungs don’t give him any trouble as he hops and twirls under the judgement of the moon. His soul would join in, bubbling and babbling, and the small smile he’d let himself have would look just right, no longer out of place, no longer hastily sewed on his face like an afterthought, lopsided with loose threads and a forgotten needle sticking out on the side.
He is not unfamiliar with dancing. He is a marionette puppet with strings reinforced with metal, every pull from life just another step in the endless twirl of colours and lights he never managed to identify. But here, being so disconnected from reality, at a place where pain was a concept his body never once experienced, he could throw off his shackles, his strings reinforced with metal, the unwelcomed touch of a young man, his body made of old wood and chipped paint, and he’d be reborn into a body he never dared to wish for before, with round cheeks and a pair of lungs feeding him eagerly with gulps of oxygen.
Akutagawa Ryunosuke may have grown, from scrawny boy to an equally scrawny teenager, but at times like this, at times when his soul was so disconnected from his body and Rashomon was no longer hugging his back reassuringly, luringly, lovingly, he could indulge in a made-up childhood of endless candy, pristine clear sheets with the scent of laundry detergent clinging to the fabric, and a ceiling above his bed free from water damage and ugly deep cracks.
Sometimes, when the blood loss was far too great, and his brain was so deprived of oxygen he was seeing stars, he would imagine things beyond his little made-up children’s room. He’d see a sea of green grass, an endless meadow of water dropworst, mugwort, butterbur and rakkyo, plants a slum rat such as himself would struggle to find in the heart of Suribachi City.
He’d see cobblestone, a worn-out road, a laundry line with clothes drying in the gentle rays of sunshine. He’d see a church with a huge bronze bell, old buildings with chipped paint on their walls, worn out doorknobs and stairs so old they’re more concave than a straight line. He’d see schoolkids in their matching uniforms and backpacks so shiny they reflect the sunlight, the proof of hardworking parents diligently scrubbing them clean the previous night. He’d see their faces, all eight of them, still full of life and childlike wonder, their cheeks round and puffy, and their eyes all looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to join in whatever mischief they were planning for the day. He’d kiss his mother goodbye – always his mother, only his mother -, grab Gin’s hand, and the group of eight would turn ten in an instant. They’d flow down the hill like rainwater, finished homeworks proudly hiding in their bags, notebooks and pencils diligently sitting there as well, waiting for the right period to be picked out and used during literature or mathematics.
They’d laugh and joke around, hopping from one cobblestone to the next, and as they passed old buildings and the edge of the town the adults around them would wish them a good day as they passed them, ruffling his hair and patting his shoulder, their touch never lingering for longer than a few seconds. He’d hear Gin giggle, the sound so sweet and natural, and the clouds resembling a herd of sheep on the sky would keep them pleasantly cool from the shy morning sunlight.
They’d arrive to school, all ten of them, unharmed, skins sunkissed and stomachs full, cheeks red and hairs ruffled from the gentle breeze and the kindness of the adults around them, and his legs would thank him as he sat down in front of the blackboard, still slightly greyish in colour from yesterday’s lesson.
He’d look at Gin and she’d look at him in return, her eyes just the right shade of grey to look convincing, but her expression would sour as she saw the searching look on his face.
It’s all fake.
The breeze ruffling his hair through the open window, the uneven wooden desk in front of him, the scratchy pillow on his chair. The letters above the blackboard, the smell of chalk and coffee, the voice of his teacher taking attendance. Her voice gentle but growing more and more frustrated as every name she read out was met with silence, all eight of them, and he doesn’t need to look around to know they’re all gone. The air turns colder, no longer the pleasant spring breeze it once was, and the sheet of sweat on his forehead clings to his skin the second he finds himself grasping for air despite his lungs working fine just mere seconds ago.
It's all made up.
He had never seen meadows of water dropworst, mugwort, butterbur and rakkyo, cobblestone paths and old stairs worn down by the passing of time, laundry lines with clean clothes still warm from the gentle sunlight, a church with an old bell, or even a pristine school uniform so soft to the touch. Akutagawa had never attended school or even had the pleasure to be around one, to sit under an open window and soak up the knowledge without setting foot in the building. He had never kissed goodbye to his mother – only his mother -, and the group of eight had never looked at him so carefree and inviting. They had been dependent on him, yes, as all small children are, because Akutagawa was older, stronger, and his presence was imposing like and adult’s, wielding a beast straight out of a nightmare. Too bad a bad reputation and an imposing presence was never enough to change the inevitable, but he damn wished it did, for his strength alone always left him at the most crucial of times.
As if on cue, Rashomon emerged from the depths of his coat, no longer a pristine white uniform but a patchy mess of fabrics and threads glued together, and the rumble of power against his back was equally grounding and frustrating. Gin looked at him the same way she always did, her grief masterfully covered by affection, and they’d huddle around together as the world around them turned grey.
The siblings watched owlishly as the white lines on the blackboard broke in two, old school desks now laying around in pieces, the walls marred with cuts, cracks and mold, and the sound of birds chirping, and the rustling of leaves was replaced by distant shouting and banging. If he was to take a deeper breath, he’d smell metal and chlorine, but old habits die hard, and it’s been too long since he was able to carelessly fill up his lungs.
Gin too, still so warm just a second ago, was nothing but an old ragdoll against his side, with dumb bead eyes and the most pathetic little sewed-on smile he ever had the displeasure to witness. Even his own, although unnatural and out of place, looked more presentable in hindsight. Still, for she was still Gin in his eyes, he pulled her closer, ruffling her worn yarn hair and mourning the loss of her body heat. It is an awfully chilly evening, despite being late spring.
He knew the script like the back of his hand. It’s always the same, unchanging, going from harsh colours making him dizzy to a dull grey, from the smell of freshly baked goods to iron and gunpowder. Gin too, with her scratched up bead eyes, with her patchy dress, with the bullet wound on her arm, the same place her blood poured from on that night, sticky crimson now replaced by old filling. Even that damn book was the same, that damned old children’s book that always smelled like trash and death itself, a smell he never quite managed get rid of, no matter how many times he wiped the cover off with a damp cloth.
He never took that book from her, no matter how many times he saw this dream. It would be so easy, like stealing a lollipop from a child, but why would he, when he had learned the content of it years ago, starting from the credits to the faded drawings to the name of the publisher, every word from the story still lodged to some hidden part of his brain to this day. It was Gin’s favourite book, something their mother fought tooth and nail to get her, opting to give up two days of her rations just to make her happy, and he had never seen a brighter thing than her sparkly eyes ever since. When their mother died, mere days after the unusual gift, her body covered in rashes from syphilis and collarbones so prominent he feared they might cut her skin open, that book was the only source of happiness Gin didn’t deny from herself. Even here, deep in his dream, the item was sacred, something his own fingers shall never touch carelessly, the covers still a dull blue with a house on a hill, a laundry line with freshly washed clothes fluttering in the wind, an old church with a bell, an old village.
It was almost comical, how his brain opted to dissociate and make him relive a reality in a book they probably didn’t even have anymore, a memento from a time their only title was slum rat. The back of his neck aches as if it’s being burned, but he pays no mind to it.
When his lungs start to burn, he doesn’t think much of it. It is merely a painful indicator that once again, dancing on the line of life and death, he fell on the more favourable side. Maybe not to him, but to Gin, and he would never wish to cause her any more harm than he already had done.
When his mouth fills with water, he starts to panic.
It isn’t in the script, it’s improvised, it’s wrong, it’s so out of place it makes him nauseous.
He starts to fight with it, keeping his jaw unhinged while he is facing the ground, waiting for the water to leave his body, but as if the water was waiting for this to happen, it crawled back into his mouth, flowing down his windpipe until it settled in his scarred lungs, and all he can do is flail his arms in protest, scratching at his throat, erratic and uncoordinated and frankly, hideous.
Waking up is always abrupt and disturbing, not having any air in his system is truly just the cherry on top.
The world around him is so cold it wakes a deep ache in his chest. His face, his fingers, the damp shirt stuck to his body, and for a second he’s back in the slums hiding under old cardboard, curled around his sister to keep her warm against the cruel winter night. He was – is – missing his coat. It’s almost calming, if it wasn’t for his heart frantically beating in his ribcage, some beats stretched out, some just a light tap, but he feels them all the same, in the tingle of his fingertips, the burn of his chest, the scratchiness of his throat, the relentless pounding of his head as blood pumps through his veins.
The touch on the back of his neck burns, and unwelcomed intruder, the hand of a young man, and he desperately tries to claw at it with his own fingers to try to pry it off, but it doesn’t budge. If anything, the hand holds him tighter, dull fingernails leaving crescent shaped indentations on his skin, and he claws and pulls and panics , but it’s all futile, all useless, and his eyes widen when all his outburst does is push out what little air was still stuck in his lungs, small bubbles leaving through his mouth and nose. He thinks he screams, his mouth wide open and face frozen in horror, but he hopes, prays he doesn’t. The water stings his eyes, and it’s truly awful.
Rashomon doesn’t know what to do, her tendrils bunched up close to his body, and with every wild twitch of his limbs, they shout out to a million directions, piercing concrete and metal and his own body, the small cuts oozing with blood doing little to ease his lightheadedness. He regrets beating absolute obedience into her, but it’s water under the bridge he supposes.
Adrenaline kicks in, wrapping him up in layers of pure survival instincts, and he kicks, hard, up into the sky in hopes that the sole of his shoes will connect with something solid. It doesn’t. He tries to lift his head, teeth barred like a wild dog’s, and gods, he must truly look awful, drenched and shivering and more of a beast than a kid. His fingers are clutching the metal basin now, he thinks he can feel some rust under his fingernails, and pushes up, hard, his muscles straining and his shoulders seconds away from popping out of their sockets, and it is then when he hears it, the only sound other than his own frantic heartbeat; giggling, laughing, taunting.
He is making fun of him.
It is nothing but a cruel game to him, seeing him choke and drown and die, and Akutagawa doesn’t know if he wants to strangle him or himself first.
He had never hated someone more than he hates Osamu Dazai.
Perhaps it is his mind playing a cruel prank on him, but he hears a loud bang, and it’s as if the ground shook beneath his trembling knees. A flash of orange and the hand on the back of his neck is gone, and the pressure that kept him hunched over is but a faraway memory.
He doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t have the strength to. His face floats in the water, dazed and boneless like a marionette doll with its strings cut, and he doesn’t know if the stinging of his eyes is from the chlorine or his tears. His aching shoulders get grabbed harshly and he is out of the water in one swift motion, hitting the concrete with his elbow, and air had never tasted so sweet on his tongue. He hacks, coughs, and throws up water and whatever else he still had in his stomach, uncaring of where the disgusting sludge would end up. In retrospect, he should probably apologise for dirtying such expensive-looking shoes, but his peripheral vision is quickly overwhelmed by a pair of gloved hands, one brushing his wet hair out of his face, the other creeping behind, patting his back until his coughing eases and his windpipe is cleared out enough to take a proper breath. He gulps it down greedily, uncaring of the burn in his chest, the pounding headache, the nausea, and he is hit with fatigue so overwhelming he falls to the ground completely boneless.
Everything shifts, swirls, shades of grey, black, red and orange, and he truly believes if he doesn’t focus on one spot, he might just pass away from overstimulation.
As he’s looking up at the ceiling of the training ground, through the blood pounding in his ears and Rashomon’s embrace as his coat gets placed on top of his chest, he hears shouting, going from low grows to high screeching, and bangs so loud they make him wince.
The fights between Dazai and Chuuya are never a pretty sight. They’re animated, almost primal in nature, with the tension so high he could cut it with a butter knife. In the heat of the moment, Dazai gets hit square in the jaw, and his head snaps back with a painful recoil. He stays like that for a second or two, with his head hanging low, and when he slowly lifts his head back up, the smile on his face is straight out of a nightmare.
Chuuya grabs the front of Dazai’s shirt and shakes , pushing him against the door, and Dazai is laughing, cackling, with eyes deeper than the night sky outside, until he gets another fist to the face, on his cheek, right under his left eye. It will no doubt bruise. The sound of the crack is deafening, and Dazai is quiet for a second, then the giggles are back, bubbling up from the deepest part of his chest, and he had never looked more demonic in Akutagawa’s eyes.
After a while, the giggling dies down, and Akutagawa’s own raspy breathing aside, it’s awfully quiet tonight.
Dazai, still held up by a seething Chuuya, is looking ahead now, looking past his ginger partner, looking past the basin filled with ice cold water and the blood seeping into the floor, and when his eyes meet with Akutagawa’s, they turn up in a mocking smile.
No words are exchanged, but the boy receives the message all the same.
It’s not an oath, it’s a vow, a declaration of war. The next time Akutagawa goes down, he will stay down forever.
He will be put down, like the dirty mut he is.
He doesn’t think he was ever more aware of a gun laying on the ground close to him more than he is now.
There’s not a single bone in his body that doubts the unsaid promise. There is only so many times his guardian angel in the form of Nakahara Chuuya can save his skin.
Through the greedy gulps of air, he can only feel the branding on the back of his neck in the form of a bruise.
It feels like a curse.