Chapter Text
The first time they fight Fukuchi and his time sword, they fail.
The second time they try they—
How many times? How many failures? He’s not enough, never enough, but he’s not the one Fukuchi takes.
Akutagawa falls.
Atsushi runs.
Time keeps skipping, blurring, leaping forward between moments which stretch too long. Never long enough to make a difference.
Hunting Dogs, vampires, a war to end all wars—Ranpo’s plans fall apart before they’re spoken.
Dazai can’t help.
Kunikida is—
Kenji, Tanizaki, the president—Atsushi was too slow, too afraid, too stupid, too useless.
He doesn’t remember how to survive by himself. He gets up anyway. He must; there is no one else.
No one but him.
Until there is.
His savior stands over him, defiant, strong, heartbeat a steady drum in his head.
Akutagawa slants a challenging look his way, confidence oozing from his thin shoulders to straighten Atsushi’s tired spine.
They move, weaving themselves tightly together, more in synch than they have a right to be as they bite and slash and claw and get up and get up and get up.
A blink, Rashomon surrounding them both, Atsushi’s claws dripping red and Akutagawa’s bellow suffusing his own.
His memories skip, each cut through time splicing his thoughts, their plans, each other.
Akutagawa beside him, then gone.
His claws are buried deep in the meat of a gaping nothing.
Rashomon saves him, but Rashomon isn’t with him yet.
Akutagawa is there, behind him, protecting and protected.
No, to the left—blood on his face.
No, he’s in step, surging forth with a roar gone deeper with pain, Rashomon vicious around Akutagawa, around Atsushi, a shield, a blade, hungry and relentless and alive.
They fight against time, against reality, against a plan laid out for centuries.
They fight, determination a wildfire they feed between themselves.
They merge.
Power pours through his limbs, more than one body is meant to hold. He screams. Akutagawa screams with him, strong enough, stubborn enough, tearing himself open to share the burden between them. Rashomon and Beast Beneath the Moonlight.
Atsushi and Akutagawa.
He doesn’t know who reaches first. It doesn’t matter; they are caught.
They become.
Akutagawa’s with him. It’s where he belongs. Atsushi will keep him safe, make sure they’re all safe, no matter what it takes.
They fight against a demon, against a man-made god, and this time they’re faster than time itself.
Tiger claws crackle with red energy, carving through reality and deity both.
Nothing but rubble remains around them, but they’ve won.
His skin sits wrong over his bones.
He’s taken so many hits, his body one deep ache from the constant regeneration. Closing his eyes makes it worse. His stomach roils as the world surges and dips, head spinning, spinning, spinning.
There’s so much dust in the air he can barely breathe. His shirt’s tattered. The remains of his pants cling to his hips, held up by tacky blood and a shredded belt.
But they did it. They won.
The world, the agency, Akutagawa—everyone will be safe, now. It’s over. It’s over. Everything will be okay.
Oh, the relief from that thought alone is dangerous. Atsushi sways, nearly tumbling to his knees.
But, no, no, he can’t. There’s no time to rest, not yet. His pain doesn’t matter.
They were separated in those final moments, the last chunk of the building crashing down in a plume of dirt and concrete. He has to find his partner. He has to get him home.
If Atsushi can’t breathe, Akutagawa must be suffocating.
He staggers on.
“Akutagawa,” he shouts, shoving rubble aside. His throat’s too dry, and he coughs, calling out between hacking bursts. Grime coats his tongue and stoppers his nose. He takes a moment, hands on his knees, to work enough saliva into his mouth to spit.
It comes out gray. So does the sneeze that clears his nose.
Disgusting.
He wipes an equally gray hand across his face, and spits again.
Several of his teeth lie in the rubble somewhere. His tongue runs over their replacements, sharp and probably as gross as the rest of him.
Everything hurts. Claws, limbs, half of his tail—How much of him lies forgotten in the ruins they’ve made of the airport? He lost track. How many times can he regenerate before he stops being himself?
But they’re alive.
“Akuta—“ he coughs, bent double as his body tries to force more of that gray slime from of his lungs. “Akutagawa?”
Rashomon hugs his shoulders, but Akutagawa’s endless well of power has grown; a tendril that does not come from the jacket twines around his ankle. He follows her around another mountain of debris to find Akutagawa hunched and breathless on his hands and knees, hair hiding his face.
Dirt and grit turns him every bit as gray as Atsushi.
He dredges up a smile at the sight.
That overwhelming relief trembles through his limbs all over again.
They survived.
“You’re okay,” Atsushi closes his aching eyes for a moment, head swimming. “Akutagawa.”
There’s nothing else to say, so he says it again.
“Akutagawa.”
Too much bleeds into the sigh, turning a simple name into an invocation. What kind of prayers would Akutagawa receive? Atsushi’s, obviously, if only to deny them on principle. He’s too tired to laugh, swaying along with the unsteady ground as he waits for his partner’s pithy reply.
He’s missed that low rumble.
Someone chokes.
His eyes snap open.
Akutagawa burbles, one hand pressed to his throat. His back heaves. Red floods down his arm to pool beneath.
“No!”
Atsushi hurls himself across the remaining space.
Terror burns cold from the inside out.
He scrabbles at him, knocking his hand aside as he yanks Akutagawa’s face up.
The wound splitting his throat ripples, seals itself shut, but the blood remains.
So much blood.
It overwhelms his nose and glues Akutagawa’s shirt to his chest.
No air moves through Akutagwa’s lungs despite how wide his mouth opens. His hands shake as they clench in the threadbare remains of Atsushi’s clothes. Pain and fear billow from him in waves, but his face is empty.
Except his eyes.
They’re enormous in his grimy face, bright and feral, wavering between silver and ruby so much faster than the slowing beat of his heart.
Fangs slice through his lip as they grow and shrink and—
“No,” Atsushi begs, demands despite the wobbling of his voice. His knees hit the ground. “No, you’re fine, Akutagawa, you’re gonna be okay, you are, breathe for me, c’mon, stay with me, please!“
As though the words give him permission, Akutagawa manages a mouthful of air, nearly choking again in his need.
The fangs disappear.
He gasps, wheezing a fragmented, “Go, get out,” in a voice Atsushi doesn’t recognize.
Blood sprouts anew from the gash in his throat.
It’s everywhere, pouring hot and thick over Atsushi’s hands and down his arms as he tries to hold his partner’s body together with slippery fingers. There’s another waterfall in his chest—the stab wound, blooming fresh. He doesn’t have enough hands to keep the blood in.
More bubbles between Akutagwa’s teeth. It spills from the corner of his mouth. The silver of his eyes dulls between breaths.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up—“
A sickening crack splits the air, Akutagawa’s arm breaking. Rashomon wrenches the limb into place in a furious burst of fabric.
He can’t think.
It’s over. They’re supposed to be safe. Why aren’t they safe?
The wounds close, and crimson eyes blink at him. They barely open.
Akutagawa’s weight lists into him, Atsushi’s hands holding him together, terrified to let go even as he feels Akutagawa struggle to swallow against his palms.
The book, it has to be—someone’s trying to shift their story, trying to change things, but Ango said the book has to make sense, which means Akutagawa doesn’t.
Dead, undead.
Gone or changed.
Bloodless lips move without sound. Rashomon bursts from the jacket on Atsushi’s back, long spears driving into the ground to wrench him away.
He’s never moved so fast, slicing through the ability as he flings the jacket off.
Akutagawa can’t hold himself up. His face ends up jammed into Atsushi’s collarbone.
Fuck the story, to hell with the narrative. He’s lived in a world without Akutagawa once. He won’t again.
“Tiger,” Akutagawa croaks, weak and broken and—feeble hands push at his chest.
Atsushi catches them. “Not leaving you,” he snarls, falling back onto his rear, legs akimbo as he hauls Akutagawa into his lap. “You listening, asshole? I am not leaving you!” He shoves the flat of his wrist between Akutagawa’s teeth.
Teeth become fangs. They slice so deep they nearly come right back out the other side. Too many tendons sever under the onslaught, Atushi’s fingers spasming by Akutagawa’s cheek. White-hot agony consumes Atsushi’s arm, leaving him gasping, whining, hunched over Akutagawa, holding him tight.
It’s impossible to tell where his blood ends and Akutagawa’s begins.
The pain is nothing compared to the heartbroken moan Akutagawa gives. Delicate fingers wrap reverently, possessively, around Atsushi’s wrist and cradle his twitching hand.
Life pours straight from Atsushi’s furious heart into the waiting heat of Akutagawa’s mouth.
Spots begin to dance along the edges of the world. Atsushi breathes through the dizziness.
His partner is curled between his legs, tucked into his shoulder, cradled, protected, precious.
Precious. The thought slips through Atsushi’s consciousness the same way Akutagawa’s blood oozes through his fingers, leaving a stain he can’t acknowledge yet.
Akutagawa’s heart continues to beat.
And beat.
And beat.
Atsushi allows the rhythm to take over his own.
The wound on Akutagawa’s throat does not reopen. It scabs and scars and fades beneath his fumbling fingertips.
He wills the splotches from his vision, hones his senses as best he can, opens his mouth to taste mouthful after mouthful of gritty air as he holds Akutagawa close. He has to be alert, has to protect them while Akutagawa is vulnerable.
There’s no way to tell how long they sit, twined around each other as Akutagawa takes what he needs. Long enough for his wrist to attempt to close. Long enough for a second, much neater bite that makes his eyelids flutter.
He presses his mouth to Akutagawa’s temple. It’s wet, sweat and blood coating Atsushi’s lips as he breathes Akutagawa in.
They’ve been fighting for days, weeks. He hasn’t stopped since the hostage video, an entire lifetime ago. The tiger’s been right at the surface, healing and fighting and running and…
Every time, he forced himself back up. He had to. Has to. He can’t stop.
When Akutagawa’s better, he’ll get up again. He has to keep going. Can’t crumble. He has to survive. Protect. Live, so he can find the others, so he can get Akutagawa out.
The pull on his wrist lessens. Akutagawa’s making pleased sounds deep in his chest, eyes closed as he suckles on Atsushi’s lifeblood.
It’s distracting. He’s supposed to be on look out. He keeps watching the man in his lap.
Is his life so precious to you? He can’t remember who asked.
There’s a pinprick of claws against Atsushi’s skin and then a tongue laves across his wrist. His fingers jerk, sensation returning as his body knits itself back together for the millionth, trillionth time.
Akutagawa might actually hate him after this.
That hurts more than anything else. It’s worth it so long as he lives.
The seal of his mouth over Atsushi’s skin breaks with a wet pop, and then the air is full of Akutagawa’s harsh breathing. His fangs are so much smaller in his mouth, framed by the swollen cherry of his lips. Blood coats him from the chin down and turns the white tips of his hair pink.
He stares up at Atsushi with full moon eyes.
It’s the first time the moon’s ever been beautiful.
Beneath his searching fingers, Akutagawa’s pulse is steady and true.
Not the same, not fully changed, something in between.
Akutagawa wheezes, one hand dropping from Atsushi’s wrist to cup the bloody skin of his own throat. “That shouldn’t have worked,” he gasps, words crushed along the edges rather than snapped crisply from his tongue.
The world swims. Atsushi closes his eyes.
He offers thanks and jumbled promises to every god and spirit he’s ever read about, grateful beyond rationality. Euphoria turns his bones to broth, leaving his limbs as useful as noodles.
It worked.
Gravity sinks greedy fingers into his useless muscles. He slumps back, trying to laugh but too out of breath as Akutagawa falls with him, sprawling over his chest and clutching at his shoulders.
It worked.
There’s a part of his brain that’s more tiger than man, and it gives a pleased chuff as Akutagawa buries his face in his throat. Atsushi tilts his head back, rewarded with Akutagawa’s mouth closing over his skin. Lips smear across his neck and shoulder.
Akutagawa is safe.
Human teeth and a lazy tongue worry at him absently. Familiar steel ribbons wrap around his exposed calves and encircle his waist.
Good. Rashomon won’t let him float away and leave Akutagawa alone.
Atsushi hums as Rashomon’s tendrils split into thinner and thinner threads, slinking down to his ankles and up to his collarbones. He’d tilt his chin further back if he knew how.
The mouth on his throat pauses. Atsushi hums again, lower and unhappy. Akutagawa soothes him with a swipe of his tongue.
“Stupid,” Akutagawa mumbles into his throat. His voice is too wrecked to be angry, but he tries. It’s one of the best things Atsushi’s heard in forever. “Your heart is struggling.”
There’s a scrape, palms over gravel, and Akutagawa’s chest lifts, only to collapse right back down as his arms give out. “Shouldn’t have let me take so much.”
Atsushi grunts in wordless reassurance, blindly reaching out to gather searching hands back into his own. Mindlessly, he presses shaking fingers to his mouth for a kiss that makes Akutagawa’s breathing hitch, and then clumsily sets them under his jaw. They shift, spreading to encompass his throat, seeking Atsushi’s pulse and digging in.
“Okay,” Atushi’s not sure if the words make it outside of his head. “It’s okay.”
“If you die,” Akutagawa snarls as fiercely as a newborn’s wail, “I will kill you.”
“Not gonna.” Talking is hard. His tongue doesn’t quite remember how to fit in his mouth. “Gimmie a minute.”
The body atop him goes limp. Rashomon tightens, cradling him from chin to ankle.
His eyes leak.
Akutagawa notices, one trembling hand batting at his face. He’s kitten-weak and uncoordinated, slapping Atsushi in the nose before giving up and splaying his hand over Atsushi’s heart instead.
“Why,” Akutagawa asks, uneven and far away.
Why what?
There’s a fluttering against Atsushi’s skin, somewhere below his chin.
Eyelashes? Akutagawa has eyelashes. They’re black and white and so long…
The fight’s over. Whatever was threatening to take Akutagawa away is over, too. He needs to get up, get them both out of here, has to find the others.
Because they won.
But the weight of him holds Atsushi against the ravaged earth like it’s where he belongs. Wet lips catch on his skin as they call for him.
They won.
Akutagawa’s okay.
They can take a minute before Atsushi shifts and carries him out. They can…
When Akutagawa speaks again, the sound tugs him back toward consciousness. “What were you thinking?”
What was he thinking?
Had he been thinking?
He’d been thinking no.
Atsushi holds him as tightly as he can with water in his limbs.
“Changed,” he thinks he slurs into the hair tickling his chin. There’s a sound, but he can’t make sense of it.
“Dead or changed,” Atsushi’s grip fails, fingers catching in the fabric of Akutagawa’s shirt.
He’s safe. Akutagawa’s safe. They’re together, how could they be anything else?