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Chapter Text

Atsushi drifted through the autumn park, his steps carrying him unconsciously back to a place where he had once known peace. Above him, golden ginkgo leaves whispered in the wind, loosening one by one and drifting down like extinguished sparks. The sunset stained the sky in muted shades of rose and amber. Yet despite the warmth of the scene, an icy emptiness ruled within him.

He halted at a bench beneath a towering tree, its fallen leaves already woven into a thin golden carpet upon the ground. Lowering himself slowly, he drew out a thermos and a porcelain cup — silver-grey, scattered with tiny silver stars — one of the first things he had ever bought with his Agency salary. A small treasure meant to bring joy, though now it offered no comfort.

His hands, trembling faintly from the wind and the tension inside him, poured the tea with care. The fragrance of chrysanthemum rose into the air — gentle, soothing, like a fragile echo of something bright long vanished. He cradled the cup in both palms, seeking its warmth, yet felt only cold — not of the air, but of the soul.

His gaze wandered over the autumn landscape, but he saw neither the beauty of falling leaves nor the sunset’s light flickering on the pond. His thoughts, like hunting shadows, circled back again and again to the moment from which he had tried to flee.

That accursed ship.

Akutagawa. The image burned in his memory, so vivid it eclipsed everything else. Atsushi could almost smell the iron tang of his blood, hear the cold ring of steel.

The brunette’s death, his vow, that brief, impossible meeting… all of it had carved itself into Atsushi’s mind like an inescapable fate. Even now — knowing Akutagawa lived—he could not shake the suffocating weight of guilt.

He remembered the last time the mafioso’s eyes had met his own: filled with pain, estrangement, and grim resolve. On that ship Atsushi had understood — Fukuchi surpassed them both. Too seasoned, too strong. And he — weak, trembling, powerless — had failed to stand as Akutagawa’s equal.

The brunette had taken the fatal blow upon himself. Had forced Atsushi to flee, dragging him away despite his protests, leaving no chance to remain and fight at his side. Even now, Atsushi could not forget how Akutagawa, bloodied and torn, had pulled him toward safety.

He should have been stronger. Then his partner would not have had to…

Memory returned in fragments: crimson blood spreading across Akutagawa’s snow-white shirt. His cold gaze, within which — despite everything — a fragile glimmer of hope still flickered.

And that smile.

A farewell.

He had never thought he would see it — least of all then. A fleeting, almost weightless smile, one he had once begged the brunette for. A smile that was both a gift and goodbye.

“Why?”

The question struck him again, unrelenting. He could not grasp what had driven Akutagawa. Why had he chosen death rather than survival at the cost of Atsushi’s life? Why had he insisted, even managing a faint, mocking smirk at the edge of death?

Run, you fool.

The voice resounded in his mind once more — sharp, laced with its familiar derision. Yet beneath it lingered something else. Warmth.

Atsushi’s fingers trembled as he tightened his grip on the cup. He closed his eyes, struggling to hold back the tears rising in his throat.

He despised this feeling — helplessness, despair. And the autumn around him — so beautiful, so immaculate — felt like nothing more than scenery for an inevitable tragedy.

— Hey, kiddo, are you even breathing? — a low, slightly mocking voice sounded beside him.

The blond flinched and snapped his eyes open. He looked up and saw a man with auburn hair, dressed in a long coat. The stranger stood barely a step away, a cup of coffee in hand, while the light autumn wind played with his hair.

— Well? — the man continued, raising one brow. — You were sitting so still I thought maybe you’d decided to become a statue in this park.

The redhead laughed, a short, slightly husky laugh, then dropped unceremoniously onto the bench beside him.

— What’s with you? — he tossed carelessly, setting his cup down.

Atsushi, still stunned, quickly turned his eyes away, feeling his cheeks begin to warm.

— Nothing… I’m fine, — he muttered, forcing a smile. But his voice sounded so unconvincing that even he himself did not believe it.

— “I’m fine,” — the redhead mimicked, tipping his head back. — That’s exactly what people say when, in fact, they’re anything but fine.

Atsushi stayed silent, fixing his eyes on his cup.

— Alright, don’t want to talk — your call, — the man went on, leaning back slightly and stretching out his legs. He looked at the golden leaves as if that were his main purpose here. — Autumn’s beautiful, isn’t it? Makes it easier to forget the crap when the scenery looks like this.

Atsushi still said nothing, but his gaze wavered for a moment. The redhead caught it and smirked.

— Hm. What tea have you got there? — he asked, nodding toward the cup.

— Chrysanthemum, — Atsushi answered quietly, almost reflexively wrapping his hands around the porcelain.

— Chrysanthemum, you say? — the man smirked a little wider. — Refined taste, kiddo. Seasonal stuff — light, with a honey note. I’m more of a strong-liquor type myself, but I’ve tried it.

He paused and looked at Atsushi.

— Thanks to an acquaintance, — he added, watching the young man as though deliberately waiting for his reaction.

Atsushi lifted his head, wary.

— An acquaintance?

— Yeah, Akutagawa, — the man said calmly.

The name struck Atsushi’s nerves. His fingers clenched more tightly around the cup, his breath grew heavier. He raised his eyes to the stranger, tension and uncertain hope tangled in his gaze.

— You… you knew him?

The redhead gave a short huff and tilted his head slightly.

— Knew? I know him. We worked side by side for quite a while. If anything, he’s my protégé. So yes, kid, I know Akutagawa.

— Protégé? — Atsushi repeated, the pressure in his chest tightening further. — In the Mafia?

— Mm-hm. In the Mafia, — the man confirmed evenly, his eyes drifting somewhere into the distance. — Nakahara Chūya, if you haven’t heard.

The name and title came together instantly in Atsushi’s mind. He had heard of him from Dazai. The Mafia’s Divine Punishment. One of its most dangerous, ruthless, and powerful operatives.

But Chūya’s gaze was unexpectedly gentle, and there was no threat in his tone.

— And you must be the weretiger with the seven-million bounty, — Chūya went on with a faint grin. — Well, now I see why you look so down.

Atsushi opened his mouth, but no words came. Chūya noticed and narrowed his eyes slightly.

— You’re clearly worried about him, — he concluded, his voice softer now, though no less certain.

— No… I mean, yes, — Atsushi swallowed nervously and, after a pause, admitted honestly: — I just want to know… how he’s feeling.

Chūya watched him in silence for a few seconds, then slowly smiled. It wasn’t mocking. More weary.

— How he’s feeling? — he echoed, as if testing the words on his tongue. — Alive, if that’s what you mean. But, to be honest, that poor kid doesn’t know how to feel.

Atsushi watched him intently.

— But you already know that, don’t you?

The last words sounded as though Chūya spoke not only of Akutagawa, but of himself. He set his cup on the bench and folded his arms across his chest, his gaze still fixed on the golden leaves around them.

— Do you always think so much? — he asked, throwing a quick glance at Atsushi.

The question made him flinch again, but this time he did not deny the obvious.

— Probably, — he answered softly, offering a faint smile; his voice, however, came out muffled.

Chūya smirked and shook his head.

— You know, when I first started working with the Mafia, I had the same bad habit — overthinking everything. Every step, every word, every look — as if any of that could change anything.

— And you… stopped? — Atsushi couldn’t hide his surprise.

— Ha, not entirely, — Chūya snorted. — But I learned that obsessing over thoughts is like walking in circles. The more you dig, the less chance you’ve got to climb out.

Atsushi fell silent, lowering his eyes to the cup.

Chūya watched him and sighed, as if giving in.

— Alright, let’s be honest. You look like you’ve been run over by a truck. Guess who or what caused that?

Atsushi faltered, unable to find his words. He knew perfectly well where the conversation was headed, the direction he wanted to avoid, but Chūya seemed intent on finding the truth.

— Listen, — Chūya continued, his voice softening. — I know what you think about him. About him and what happened.

Atsushi froze; his fingers tightened around the cup.

— Akutagawa… he did come back, — Chūya began, glancing aside as if choosing his next words. — Alive. Which no one expected. Not even him.

Atsushi looked up, his eyes widening.

— He… came back? — he repeated, though he already knew it better than anyone.

— He came back, — Chūya confirmed. — But… he’s different.

He paused for a moment, then added:

— He was always difficult, you know that. A loner. But before he at least tried… to stand by his team. Now… he’s become even more distant.

The words sank into Atsushi’s chest more firmly than he had expected.

— What do you mean? — he asked quietly.

Chūya glanced at him from the corner of his eye; his expression turned serious.

— It’s hard to explain. As if he exists somewhere on the border. Standing on one bank of a river, looking at the other, but not intending to cross.

Those words hit Atsushi harder than he’d anticipated.

— He… doesn’t hold to his team? — his voice was barely audible.

— No, I wouldn’t say not at all, — Chūya replied. — But before he at least made an effort… Now it seems he’s decided it’s no longer his concern.

Atsushi looked away; his hands trembled as he gripped the cup tighter.

— Why? — he exhaled, barely aware that he had spoken aloud.

— You asking me? — Chūya finally looked at him. — Maybe you know better than I do why he became like this.

Atsushi lowered his gaze; his hands trembled. Scarlet streams of blood, Akutagawa’s faint smile, the sound of metal cutting through the air… All of it rose before his eyes, setting his chest ablaze with painful heat.

— Because he died for me, — he whispered.

Chūya did not answer at once. He only looked at Atsushi a little longer than usual, as if trying to measure how deep that guilt truly ran.

Unnoticed by the redhead, Atsushi kept turning everything he had heard over in his mind. Now it was no longer merely the burden of guilt he carried. It had become a challenge. He suddenly realized what he had to do.

“If before he avoided building bonds because he believed he would soon die, then now he no longer has that reason. Yet instead of living, he withdraws even further.”

Something new kindled in his heart — a fierce urge to wrench Akutagawa out of that darkness. To restore his faith, to show him that life not only goes on, but can hold more meaning than the desperate need to prove one’s worth to Dazai.

“If I don’t help him, then who will?”

Noticing how Atsushi was retreating into himself, Chūya leaned forward slightly, closing the distance just enough while keeping his tone easy.

— You know, kid, — he began calmly, with a faint, almost hidden smile, — if you’d like, how about we take a walk tomorrow evening? Autumn’s when the park looks its best, and tea always tastes better out in the open air.

Atsushi lifted his eyes to him, a little surprised by the offer.

— A walk? — he repeated, as though he hadn’t quite grasped the meaning.

— That’s right, — Chūya nodded, settling back against the bench. — We’ll have something warm to drink, talk a bit. Besides, I still haven’t thanked you for returning my wallet. I ought to repay a favor like that.

Atsushi smiled faintly, glancing aside in awkwardness. He remembered how, a week earlier, he had found Chūya’s wallet in a bar and returned it. It had begun with a brief thanks and ended in a conversation that unexpectedly turned into an acquaintance. But here, meeting him in the park, Atsushi hadn’t recognized him at once.

The redhead, watching him closely, added a shade more gently:

— It’s… a kind of thank you. So don’t think I’m dragging you into my company for nothing.

Atsushi nodded a little hesitantly.

— Alright… — he said quietly, though there was the faintest trace of relief in his voice.

Chūya smirked, and after a moment’s thought, let his eyes wander off into the distance.

— By the way, if you’re curious, I could tell you a couple of teas Akutagawa likes, — he remarked, as if in passing.

The brunette’s name made Atsushi look up at once. His eyes showed both nervousness and interest.

— Really? — he asked, almost in a whisper, as though afraid the offer might turn out to be a joke.

— Of course, — Chūya confirmed, his smirk widening a touch. — Ryūnosuke knows more about tea than any normal person. Even when I was his mentor, he could spend hours talking about it with the kind of seriousness that made it seem like the most important thing in the world.

Unexpectedly, Atsushi smiled. It was quiet, modest, but filled with genuine gratitude.

— Thank you, — he said softly.

Chūya waved it off, as if it were nothing.

— Don’t mention it. It’s only tea. So, tomorrow here, same time?

Atsushi hesitated, but this time his nod came with more certainty.

— Yes, agreed.

Chūya rose, adjusting the collar of his coat, and cast him one last look.

— Just don’t sit here tomorrow with that face like you’ve got nowhere to go, — he said, his tone a touch stern, yet unexpectedly warm. — See you tomorrow, kid.

He left, carrying with him the faint scent of coffee and the soft rustle of leaves beneath his steps. Atsushi watched him go, feeling the weight in his chest ease a little. That invitation — so simple, yet tinged with care — left behind a quiet warmth, as though for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t alone.

Taking a sip of his cooling tea, Atsushi closed his eyes and allowed himself, if only for a moment, to forget the guilt gnawing at him. Tomorrow’s meeting now felt like something important — a step forward he had been desperately searching for.

***

The warm glow of lamps in the small café shimmered in the surface of Atsushi’s tea, the cup held carefully in both hands. In front of him sat a plate with a dessert he hadn’t yet touched. Across from him, Chūya leaned back in his chair, a cup of coffee in one hand while the other idly turned a new kanzashi between his fingers, carved with delicate maple leaves.

— It suits you, — Atsushi remarked, offering a shy smile.

— Of course it does. I’ve got good taste, — Chūya replied smugly, glancing over the piece before flicking his eyes toward the white metal hairpin resting beside Atsushi’s cup. — But you — if you want to wear that gift — you’ll have to do something about your hair.

Atsushi frowned, his fingers tightening slightly around the cup.

— Are you serious? My haircut’s fine.

Chūya gave a dry chuckle, took a sip of his coffee, and tilted his head.

— Fine? Looks more like a reminder of everything you’ve been through. You don’t have to keep dragging that baggage around. Let your hair grow, Atsushi. Maybe it’s time you allowed yourself something new.

The words caught the blond off guard, but before he could respond, Chūya shifted the topic:

— By the way, I’ve been thinking. You want to help Akutagawa, don’t you?

Atsushi tensed, heat creeping faintly into his face.

— Yes… — he admitted after a short pause.

— Then here’s the thing. Akutagawa’s problem isn’t only that he keeps his distance. His team — the Black Lizards — they’ve always been ready to follow him through fire and water, but he never gave them the chance to be more than just tools.

Setting his cup down, Chūya folded his arms across his chest.

— If you want to help him, you’ll have to start with them. Get that team to work with the Agency. Let them see how people can stand closer together and still remain professionals. This truce is the perfect opportunity.

Atsushi’s brows rose in surprise.

— You think they’d agree to work with us?

— With you — maybe. You’re not like the rest. They’ll be cautious, but if you prove yourself, it could be the beginning of something bigger.

Atsushi fell silent, turning the words over. For the first time in a long while, he felt a clear path open before him — one that might truly help Akutagawa.

Meanwhile, Chūya smirked and added with a teasing edge:

— But first decide where you’ll wear that kanzashi. Or cut your hair, so I don’t have to be embarrassed by how you look in my gifts.

Atsushi only shook his head, but in his eyes flickered the faintest spark of hope.

Chapter Text

The pier was chilly, the sea breeze cutting through Atsushi’s light jacket and making him shiver. Chūya, standing beside him, looked entirely at ease, as if the cold could not touch him. A small silver lighter flicked idly between his fingers while his gaze stayed fixed on a nearby Mafia building.

— Ready, kitty? — he asked without looking at Atsushi, though a faint smile colored his tone.

Atsushi gave a restrained nod, though his hands trembled — and not from the weather.

— Relax, — Chūya went on, finally turning his eyes on him. — Everything’s under control. I’m here, and no one will even dare open their mouth.

The words rang with such assurance it was as if confidence itself had spoken, not a man. And it worked: Atsushi straightened, drawing in a deep breath.

The office doors thudded shut behind them, cutting off the chill outside. But the air within was no warmer — the icy stares of Akutagawa’s squad fixed on Atsushi only thickened the tension. Their eyes drilled into him, weighing every movement.

It was almost like the orphanage. The same wary looks, the same silent judgment. Once again, he felt like the outsider in a place that did not want him, where every step had to be justified.

Sensing the faint tightening of Atsushi’s shoulders, Chūya stepped forward, his voice steady and commanding:

— This is Nakajima Atsushi. Starting today, he’ll be working with your team. — His gaze swept the room, lingering a fraction longer on Akutagawa.

— His duties are limited: patrol, monitoring espers, and neutralizing threats to the city. This is part of our truce with the Agency. He doesn’t interfere in your business, and you don’t drag him into anything outside the city’s protection. If anyone has questions or complaints — you bring them to me. Personally.

The room fell silent. Under Chūya’s cold, unyielding stare, no one dared voice protest.

— Hello, — Atsushi said quietly but firmly, trying to keep his composure even as the tension coiled into a knot inside him.

Akutagawa’s eyes never left him. In that gaze flickered surprise and a simmering anger. He narrowed his eyes, as if unable to believe this werewolf had once again crossed his path.

— And how did you end up here, Jinko? — he drawled, his voice edged with mockery. — Or is the Agency really that short on work?

Chūya turned toward him, his tone calm, yet every syllable sharp with precision:

— If you’ve got questions, Akutagawa, bring them to me. But understand—his involvement in this mission has my approval. Your job is to make sure everything runs smoothly.

Akutagawa ground his teeth but said nothing. Only his piercing stare remained fixed on Atsushi, as though trying to puzzle out why he was here.

— Glad to see you in the team again, — came a soft voice. Atsushi turned to see Gin stepping closer, offering a faint smile and her hand.

— Thank you, Gin, — he replied, feeling some of the weight in the room ease at last.

Their brief handshake was enough to draw sidelong glances from the others. One by one, they lowered their eyes. If Gin accepted him, then perhaps it was safe to at least try.

Chūya shot Akutagawa’s sister a barely perceptible look of thanks before addressing the team again:

— Today he’ll survey the pier, learn what he needs, and tonight Gin will show him a few key places. This is his orientation day. Work starts tomorrow.

He turned back to Atsushi, his voice softening for just a moment:

— You’ll manage, kitty.

Atsushi nodded, Chūya’s words steadying the unease inside him. The redhead pivoted toward the door, his stride brisk, confident.

Once he was gone, the tension grew easier to bear, though Atsushi could still feel certain eyes tracking him. Akutagawa, however, had yet to look away — as if intent on watching his every step.

***

The first day working with the Black Lizards passed surprisingly quietly. Though the glares at the start had been less than welcoming, the team gradually accepted Atsushi’s presence. Gin helped him in her usual reserved way, pointing out key spots around the docks and the safehouses. Higuchi kept her distance, cool but without open discontent. The rest of the squad did their best simply to ignore him, focusing on their duties.

By the time the sun had sunk below the horizon, the weary mafiosi began drifting home. As Atsushi gathered his things, the silence of the docks closed in. Only one figure remained, unmoving by the railings, haloed in the dull glow of the lamps.

Akutagawa stood staring down at the dark water, his form rigid as carved stone—tense, yet somehow… lost.

Atsushi hesitated. He knew perfectly well that a conversation could go badly, yet something inside him pushed him forward. Clenching his fists to steady himself, he walked toward the figure at the rails.

— Akutagawa, — he called softly.

There was no immediate response. The man’s hands stayed locked on the cold metal, still as if frozen. After several seconds, he finally spoke without turning:

— What?

— How are you? — Atsushi stepped a little closer, striving to keep his voice even.

At last Akutagawa raised his head from the water and turned. His cold eyes met Atsushi’s, carrying a question: You’re serious?

— Why should that matter to you, Jinko? — he asked, dry, almost contemptuous.

Atsushi tensed, but did not back away.

— Because… — he began, faltering for just a heartbeat as he searched for words. — Because I’ve noticed you’ve been keeping your distance. Not only from me, but from the team.

Akutagawa narrowed his eyes, as if the subject itself was both pointless and irritating.

— What did you come here for? To lecture me?

— No, — Atsushi answered firmly. — I just want to understand.

Akutagawa turned back toward the water.

— There’s nothing to understand. I’m here to work. Everything else is irrelevant.

— But your team… — Atsushi took another step closer, feeling the words press forward against some unyielding wall. — They put in the effort for you. Especially Higuchi-san. She always places herself in your shadow, always quick to act before you even need to ask. You must have noticed.

Akutagawa’s head snapped up sharply. For a fraction of a second, there was the faintest flicker in his eyes—too brief to be called surprise, but enough to betray that he had, in fact, noticed.

— She’s my subordinate, — he said curtly, as if to erase that flicker by force. — She does what she’s told.

Atsushi hesitated, watching him. The words were harsh, but the edge in his tone rang too sharp, as though he wasn’t just dismissing Higuchi, but denying something in himself.

— Maybe for her it’s more than just work, — Atsushi said carefully, his voice gentle but steady.

— Not everyone’s like that, — Atsushi disagreed, stepping close.

— Everyone, — Akutagawa snapped, his voice hard and absolute.

Atsushi exhaled, his shoulders dipping faintly, but he held his ground.

— Akutagawa, solitude only feels acceptable when you have a choice, — he said, watching the tense profile of the other man. — But one day you’ll look back and realize no one is there. And then it won’t be your choice anymore. It will be the result of pushing away everyone who ever tried to stay.

The words, soft but carrying quiet steel, made Akutagawa freeze. His grip on the railing tightened, though he still avoided looking at Atsushi.

— And what if that suits me? — he said at last, his voice sharp, as though to sever the conversation entirely.

— Then I would stay silent, — Atsushi answered honestly, without looking away. — But… I don’t believe that’s the truth.

Akutagawa turned on him sharply. His eyes were dark, but the tightness in his shoulders betrayed that the words had struck deeper than he wanted to admit.

— What are you trying to prove, Jinko? — he asked coldly, though his voice was just a shade too soft to fully mask the response within.

— With whom? — Akutagawa asked with biting sarcasm, narrowing his eyes as if testing his patience.

— With Higuchi-san, — Atsushi said firmly. — She respects you, she cares about you.

Akutagawa’s face twitched, but the irritation soon hardened into a cold mask.

— You’re suggesting I waste my time on that? — his voice had dropped lower, though it lacked the sharp finality of before.

— Just a little time, — Atsushi answered softly, taking a small step closer. — And if you don’t like it, you can always return to the way things are now.

Silence fell between them, broken only by the quiet lapping of the waves. Atsushi felt the tension in the air but didn’t move, waiting for an answer.

— Fine, — Akutagawa said at last. His voice was restrained, yet there was a faint undertone of weariness. — But only because I want to see how far your naïveté will take you.

Atsushi smiled, almost in relief, though he did not voice his triumph.

— If it means helping you find common ground with someone good, I’ll stay as long as it takes, — he replied warmly. — Besides… she matters to you.

Those words made Akutagawa tense again. His eyes flashed, but he quickly turned away, gaze returning to the dark water.

— It doesn’t matter, — he said defiantly, though his voice quivered almost imperceptibly.

— It does, — Atsushi countered quietly. — I saw you save her… even at the cost of your mission to capture the weretiger, the very first time we met. You made a choice then, and… maybe you’ll never admit it, but it was the right one.

Ryūnosuke turned sharply, his gaze locking onto Atsushi’s face with such force that the young man’s breath caught.

— You talk too much, Jinko, — he said slowly, but instead of venom his voice carried a strange blend of irritation and something deeper.

His eyes lingered on Atsushi’s face a moment longer than they should have, before he turned away, his fingers loosening their grip on the railing.

— See you tomorrow. Don’t be late, — he said quietly, then turned and walked unhurriedly toward the end of the pier.

Atsushi watched him go, noticing that Akutagawa’s steps were just a little slower than usual, as though he half-expected someone to call him back. In Atsushi’s chest, a warm spark flickered: even beneath all that coldness, there was something alive still, something that might yet respond to warmth.

***

The sun still blazed high, flooding the port with merciless heat. Akutagawa’s team had settled in the shadow of the massive ships, where the warm breeze offered some relief from the suffocating air. Higuchi, speaking quietly with another subordinate near a pile of crates, kept her distance, as did the rest of the mafiosi, leaving Ryūnosuke his usual solitude. Atsushi, on the other hand, could not find his place at all.

He stood near Ryūnosuke, who leaned against a steel beam, his gaze fixed on the bustling harbor. It seemed empty, but Atsushi knew better. He had seen often enough how sharp those eyes were, catching the slightest movement — a man who missed nothing, even when he looked as if lost in thought.

And yet now, something was different. The mask of cold indifference was still there, but threaded through it was something faint, something that looked almost like fatigue.

— Akutagawa, — he said at last, taking a step closer.

— What now, Jinko? — came the cold reply, Ryūnosuke not lifting his gaze from the horizon.

— I wanted to talk about attentiveness, — Atsushi began, fighting the tremor in his voice. — About how much it means to notice the small things in people.

Ryūnosuke turned his head slowly, casting him a glance laced with boredom and a flicker of mockery.

— And why should that matter to me? — he asked dryly.

— Because it shows that you care, — Atsushi said softly, yet firmly. — Sometimes that’s the most important thing someone can receive from another.

— You still want me to apply this to Higuchi? — Akutagawa’s tone sharpened, a faint edge of hostility making Atsushi falter.

— Yes, — he nodded, holding his ground despite the tension. — She deserves for her efforts to be seen.

Ryūnosuke said nothing. His gaze slipped past him, toward the approaching blond-haired girl carrying a steaming cup of tea.

— Senpai, — Higuchi’s voice was steady, ignoring Atsushi’s presence entirely. — I thought you might want something refreshing.

She offered the cup. Her eyes flicked over Atsushi briefly, heavy with disdain.

— Four cubes? — Akutagawa asked as he accepted it.

— Of course, — she replied quickly, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Ryūnosuke gave a short nod and took a sip. Atsushi watched in silence, searching for something in his expression.

— That’s attentiveness, — he said when Higuchi had stepped away. — She knows you only drink your tea with four cubes of sugar. She remembered because you matter to her.

— And what would you have me do with that? — Ryūnosuke asked, his tone edged with a hidden weariness.

— Try doing the same, — Atsushi suggested gently. — Maybe you won’t get it right the first time, but that’s not what counts. What matters is showing you notice.

— You talk too much, — Akutagawa cut him off, taking another sip.

Silence fell between them. Atsushi’s fists clenched at his sides, his chest tightening with strain.

— I only want you not to be alone, — he whispered at last, his voice trembling.

Ryūnosuke stilled. His gaze softened, if only slightly, though irritation still burned in his tone.

— You want me to grow closer to someone like her, Jinko? — he asked with biting irony.

— To someone who cares about you, — Atsushi answered calmly.

For an instant something strange flickered in Akutagawa’s eyes — something struck too deep, too sudden. He turned away, drained the last of the tea, and finally said quietly:

— If that’s all, stop pressing me.

Before Atsushi could respond, he slipped behind the corner, leaving him in the shade with the stifling sense that he had reached for a threshold, but failed to cross it.

A few minutes later, Akutagawa returned. In his hands was a cup of black tea — and to Atsushi’s astonishment, it was not for himself.

Ryūnosuke stepped close, halting in front of him. His movements were deliberate, almost languid, yet his gaze was sharp, as though issuing a challenge.

— This is for you, — he said, holding the cup out.

— For me? — Atsushi repeated, startled, taking it into his hands.

He glanced from the tea back to Akutagawa, utterly at a loss.

— But… wasn’t it meant for Higuchi-san? — he murmured.

Ryūnosuke looked at him with a faint, almost lazy smirk, laced with something unpleasant.

— You take three cubes of sugar in your tea, Jinko, — he said. His tone was level, almost detached, as though it were nothing but an idle remark. — So you can assume I’ve understood the lesson.

Atsushi froze. He had never mentioned that. Never even thought Akutagawa might notice.

— You… noticed? — he breathed, staring at him in a mix of wonder and disquiet.

— It’s not difficult, if you don’t waste your time on pointless talk, — Ryūnosuke replied, already turning away. His voice was cold, but the glance he cast back burned with a strange, unreadable irritation.

— Akutagawa… — Atsushi began, but was cut off.

— Consider today’s lesson finished, — Ryūnosuke said curtly, striding off without waiting for an answer.

Atsushi was left standing alone, fingers trembling around the warm cup, his heart tightening painfully. Everything had gone wrong. He had wanted to help Akutagawa, to show him how to be attentive to others — and instead…

Instead it felt as though Akutagawa had been the one to care for him. Harshly, mockingly, yet with a flicker of warmth Atsushi had never expected.

But that warmth cut deeper than rejection. Instead of pride, he felt a raw sting, as though his own kindness had been twisted out of shape and thrust back into his hands. Akutagawa had taken his effort, acknowledged it — and then turned it into something else, a gesture that reminded Atsushi who truly held control between them.

It was not victory. It was a quiet humiliation, sweetened with a taste of warmth so sharp it hurt all the more.

Chapter Text

The dark night had draped the port in a heavy shroud, pierced only by the rare patches of light from the lanterns that did nothing but emphasize the emptiness around them. The air was damp and cold, cutting down to the bone. The day’s heat had given way to a biting wind that made the wooden boards of the pier creak softly with each gust.

Atsushi sat at the edge of the pier, his back pressed against a cold metal beam. His shoulders were tense, his weary, thoughtful gaze fixed somewhere far out on the black mirror of the water. The light jacket did little against the wind; every so often he rubbed his hands together for warmth. But instead of comfort, there was only the growing weight of loneliness.

Not far from him stood Akutagawa. His figure, rigid and still, looked as though it had been carved from marble. He stared off to the side, hands tucked deep in his coat pockets. If he was tired, it showed nowhere in his stance — only in the hard line of his pressed lips.

— You’re still here? — came Gin’s quiet voice. She appeared suddenly at her brother’s side, her dark eyes flicking questioningly toward Atsushi.

— Waiting for Nakahara, — Atsushi answered shortly, with a slightly strained smile.

Gin gave a silent nod, but her gaze lingered with caution. She remained a moment longer beside her brother, then moved away toward Higuchi, leaving the two of them alone.

— Akutagawa, — Atsushi spoke after a long pause, lifting his eyes to Ryūnosuke.

— What? — came the reply, without a glance in his direction. The voice was detached, almost indifferent, though Atsushi caught the familiar edge of irritation buried within.

— I wanted to talk about gratitude, — Atsushi began carefully, keeping his tone steady.

Akutagawa turned his head slowly, fixing him with a cold stare.

— About what?

— About gratitude, — Atsushi repeated, firmer this time. — It matters.

Something like the faintest smirk touched Ryūnosuke’s lips.

— Seriously?

— Seriously, — Atsushi nodded, pushing himself to his feet. He could barely keep from shivering in the cold, but his voice was steady. — It’s a way of showing that you value others. Their efforts. Or simply their presence.

Akutagawa didn’t answer right away. His gaze swept over Atsushi’s face, as if weighing just how much he believed in his own words.

— You’re far too naïve, — he finally said, turning back toward the water.

— It’s not naïveté, — Atsushi replied, the words sharp with conviction. — It’s what makes bonds warmer. People deserve to know they’re valued.

— Recognition is enough, — Akutagawa said dryly. — If someone does their job, you acknowledge the result. That’s honest. Anything more is unnecessary.

Atsushi felt a surge of protest rising inside him, words pressing at the back of his throat. But he stopped himself. He could sense this was a raw, tender place for Akutagawa — one careless push, and the man would shut down completely. For now, it was better to hold his silence, to keep the conversation from slipping away into another wall of cold detachment.

Ryūnosuke only stared into the distance, silent. A thin beam of light from a lantern traced the edge of his profile, concealing whatever emotion might have surfaced there. The wind picked up, sending ripples across the dark water below.

Atsushi clenched his fists, feeling how every word seemed to reach for something deeper than courtesy alone.

The dark night, washed in the sound of wind and the faint creak of the pier’s boards, seemed to hold its breath when Higuchi approached Atsushi and Akutagawa. In her arms she carried a warm, soft blanket, its folds swaying gently with her steps. She stopped, hugging the fabric nervously, her eyes flickering first toward her commander and then to Atsushi, who still shivered against the cold, arms wrapped tightly around himself.

– Senpai, – she began, her voice carrying its usual respectful tremor, – perhaps you should take this? It gets truly cold at night.

The brunette turned his head slowly toward her, a faint furrow between his brows. Silence stretched out for several seconds, taut as a drawn string. Then Ryūnosuke lowered his gaze to the blanket in her hands, then to Atsushi. A lazy, malicious smirk curved his lips, sharp enough to make Higuchi’s fingers tremble.

– How noble of you, Higuchi, – he murmured, his voice laced with a dangerous softness. – So tenderly caring for anyone who looks like a half-frozen stray cat.

Atsushi’s eyes widened, the words cutting far too close to himself.

– Akutagawa, – he started, but the mafioso was already reaching out, taking the blanket from Higuchi’s arms.

– An excellent display of your devotion, – he continued, tilting his head toward her, mocking in the smallest of gestures. Then he turned to Atsushi, the blanket dangling carelessly from one hand as he stepped closer.

He crouched in front of the weretiger, close enough that their gazes locked – too close for Atsushi to feel at ease.

In one swift yet deliberate motion, Akutagawa draped the blanket over his shoulders. The gesture was precise, almost meticulous, as though he truly cared about arranging it properly so Atsushi would be warm. Yet in the slow way his hands smoothed the folds, there was something unnervingly taunting.

– There, – he added, rising to his feet and glancing back at Higuchi over his shoulder. – I trust he’ll appreciate your concern.

Atsushi flushed, heat rushing to his face even as the cold edge of mockery lingered in Ryūnosuke’s words.

– Akutagawa, I… – he stammered, but Ryūnosuke had already turned away.

He cast a brief look at Higuchi, who stood rigid, her hands clenched into fists.

– You’re far too attentive, Higuchi. Keep it up.

The words were formal, but the undercurrent of ridicule was impossible to miss. Higuchi averted her eyes.

– Of course, Senpai, – she said softly, though her voice was tight with strain.

She turned and walked away briskly, her back betraying the sting of concealed hurt.

Gin, who had been watching silently from the shadows, gave a short, derisive snort but, as always, said nothing. She simply melted back into the darkness between the containers, leaving the two of them alone in uneasy silence.

Atsushi stared down at the blanket, warmth rising in his cheeks. Why had he once again become the object of Akutagawa’s attention? Why had Higuchi’s genuine kindness been twisted into this?

His throat tightened as he clutched the blanket closer. The words still stung with mockery, but beneath it… there was something in Akutagawa’s gesture that left him breathless. As if he’d tried, in the same motion, to wound and to acknowledge.

– Akutagawa… – Atsushi tried again, but Ryūnosuke cut him off.

– Enough, Jinko. – He smiled coldly, lips curling at one corner. – You ought to value my efforts more. After all, I followed through with your little lesson, didn’t I?

Atsushi said nothing. His throat closed around a feeling he couldn’t quite name – as though the care he had tried to teach Akutagawa had been wrapped in irony and thrown back at him.

Chapter Text

— And so, I told that idiot, that if he ever tried to overtake me on his motorcycle again, I’d twist him into a knot right there on the track! — Chūya was saying loudly, clearly exaggerating his gestures for comic effect.

— And what did he do? — Atsushi laughed quietly, playing along with his mood.

— Nothing! Of course, nothing! He had enough sense not to test my nerves.

The early rays of the sun painted the streets in warm golden light, promising a clear day. Atsushi and Chūya walked toward the office unhurriedly, talking about random things. Chūya carried coffee, and Atsushi — a couple of bags with sandwiches, but the conversation was clearly in the elder’s hands.

In the corner of the room, at a small metal desk, Akutagawa and Gin were already seated. Ryūnosuke was bent over some document, the usual hard line frozen on his lips, his gaze focused and cold. Gin was silent, as always, and seemed almost invisible in the half-light of the corner.

Atsushi felt how the lightness, with which he had spoken a second ago, vanished. A familiar tension coiled in his chest, and he lowered his eyes, as if trying to disappear into the air.

Chūya noticed at once, catching the way the blond had stiffened.

— Morning, — he tossed casually, nodding toward Ryūnosuke and Gin. His tone was neutral, but steady.

Akutagawa slowly lifted his eyes to them. His gaze narrowed slightly, but he said nothing. Gin also stayed silent, giving Atsushi only the briefest glance before returning to her papers.

Chūya, without waiting for a reply, slipped his arm around the blond’s shoulder and steered him back toward the door.

— Hey, — he said with a grin, nudging Atsushi forward. — Nothing beats breakfast with a sea view, right?

— Chūya-san… — Atsushi began, fumbling for words, his voice tinged with gratitude.

— No “Chūya-san,” kiddo. Don’t forget who’s in charge here. And now let’s go. I haven’t even finished my story yet, — Chūya smirked, giving Atsushi another push.

They disappeared through the door, leaving behind only the echo of footsteps and the faint trace of coffee in the air.

Ryūnosuke, who had been watching the whole scene in silence, grimaced faintly. His fingers tightened around the pen at his desk until the knuckles whitened; the movement was almost involuntary. His jaw worked once, a muscle twitching under the skin, and for a heartbeat his posture grew rigid — as if the hand on the blond’s shoulder had been a grip he could feel in his bones. When the door finally closed, he let out a short, sharp breath and tapped the pen against the paper with a little more force than necessary.

— They get along well, — Gin remarked softly, breaking the silence.

— Too well, — Akutagawa said curtly, his gaze still fixed on the door. His voice carried a coldness heavier than before, and for a moment his shoulders drew up, as if bracing against a blow.

***

The sunset bled crimson and gold across the port, long shadows falling over the planks of the pier, the air thick with salt and coal. The mission had ended without surprises, but the weight of the day hung heavy.

Atsushi stood at the water’s edge, head lowered, hands shoved in his pockets. His shoulders sagged, his breathing steady but heavy. All morning he’d been strangely quiet — just a faint nod during the briefing, not even his usual greeting for Akutagawa. He’d carried out orders in silence, with a grim obedience that felt more like absence than presence.

As the sun sank lower, staining the water purple, Akutagawa approached. His steps were quiet but purposeful, not careless — and Atsushi caught that edge immediately. It wasn’t the lazy disdain with which Akutagawa had once brushed off the idea of “lessons.” This time he came with pressure, with demand. And Atsushi, unsettled, could not fathom why.

— Jinko, — Akutagawa’s voice was cold, arms folded across his chest.

Atsushi flinched, lifting his head.

— Akutagawa?

— You said you’d teach me, — he said evenly, though the restraint in his voice cut like glass. — Then why has the entire day passed without a single worthwhile word from you?

The accusation left Atsushi momentarily frozen. Just days ago it had been him, fumbling and desperate, trying to push through indifference, begging for the chance to speak. And back then, Akutagawa had treated it all with dismissive contempt. But now — this sharp demand, this insistence — felt completely out of place.

— Forgive me, Akutagawa, — Atsushi murmured, forcing a smile that faltered at once. — I haven’t taken my words back.

— And?

Atsushi inhaled, as if to steady himself, before glancing toward Higuchi, who stood nearby, turned away to the water.

— Today’s lesson could be attentiveness, — he said quietly, but with intent.

— And what is that supposed to mean? — Akutagawa’s brow arched, voice clipped.

— It’s not gratitude, or merely noting habits, — Atsushi explained, holding his gaze. — It’s sensing another’s mood, showing empathy. If someone is joyful, you share it; if they’re hurting, you offer support.

His voice softened, warmer.

— It could change a great deal, — Atsushi went on, his voice lower now, yet warmer. — You understand, don’t you, that the people around you need to know that you value them.

— The people around me, — Ryūnosuke echoed with a faint, curling smile. — You truly believe I value anyone?

Atsushi sighed, almost imperceptibly, his eyes returning to Higuchi.

— Look at her, — he said quietly. — She’s more unsettled than usual. I think she feels awkward about yesterday.

Silence stretched between them, Akutagawa’s stare fixed and icy.

— You could approach her now, — Atsushi pressed, gentle but firm. — We’re not in plain sight. It’s a good chance to ease the tension.

Akutagawa let out a low sound — half a scoff, half something darker. His words came cool, but sharper than before, laced with an edge that bit deeper than logic alone.

— Why her? Yesterday she ignored you completely, while you were freezing half to death. And now you stand here insisting her little displays of care should be cherished. Tell me, Jinko — why do you bend over backward for her, when she had nothing to spare for you?

The words cut. Atsushi felt the sting, not just in what was said, but in the way it was spoken — too heated, too pointed, as if the reproach wasn’t about Higuchi at all. Something in Akutagawa’s tone sounded almost personal, like an anger that had nothing to do with fairness and everything to do with where Atsushi’s gaze was turned.

Atsushi wanted to respond — wanted to ask why it mattered so much — but something in Akutagawa’s eyes warned him away. He drew a breath instead, steadying himself.

— Because it’s the right thing to do, — he answered softly. — Care should be mutual.

Akutagawa gave a sharp, dismissive snort, arms folding tighter, but for the briefest flicker his gaze wavered — before the mask of ice fell back in place.

Atsushi let out a quiet breath and walked toward Higuchi. She heard his steps and spun around sharply, her face twisted with irritation.

— What do you want, were-tiger? — Her voice was sharp, but it carried a trembling edge, more from pent-up tension than fear.

— Higuchi-san, — Atsushi began softly, trying to keep his tone gentle. — I wanted to apologize for yesterday.

— Apologize? — she snapped, eyes narrowing. — Do you think that fixes the mess you made?

Her words lashed out like whips, bitter and quick.

— You barged into something you don’t understand, — she hissed, her fists clenching at her sides. — My bond with senpai is none of your concern. And that little stunt with the blanket… you twisted what I meant into something else entirely.

Atsushi blinked, caught off guard, but forced himself to hold her gaze.

— Please, don’t dwell on it, — he said quietly. — You’re still part of the team. Akutagawa-senpai trusts you.

For the briefest moment, her eyes widened with surprise — but the flicker was instantly drowned in anger.

— You know nothing, — she spat. — So stay out of it. And stay away from senpai.

She turned on her heel and stormed off, her footsteps cracking against the wooden planks of the pier. Atsushi remained where he was, his shoulders sagging, though his face betrayed no hurt.

Behind him, quiet footsteps drew closer. Ryunosuke stopped so near that Atsushi caught the faint fragrance of his cologne: the cool hush of a dawn forest, sharp with resin, threaded through with the dark, bittersweet bite of juniper berries. It was elegant, austere, and chillingly intimate.

— And what was the point of that? — Akutagawa’s voice was cold, restrained, but lined with irritation. — You persist, Jinko, as if you truly believe you can change anything. Why?

Atsushi froze for a moment, then answered steadily, though weariness touched his words:

— Because I believe there’s good in everyone. Even if they can’t see it themselves.

— Your naïveté is revolting, — Akutagawa cut him off. — You still don’t understand — your faith is worthless. Especially to me.

Atsushi lowered his gaze, his shoulders sinking further. He had heard such words from him countless times, yet each one sliced differently, freshly cruel.

— Akutagawa, — he said quietly, tension threading his voice. He dropped his eyes for a moment, as if bracing himself. — May I ask you something?

Ryunosuke crossed his arms lazily, his eyes sharp but cold.

— You’ll ask anyway, Jinko, — he replied with faint mockery. — Why waste time?

Atsushi inhaled as if preparing to dive into ice. His fingers tightened unconsciously, his voice unsteady.

— What do you feel when you hurt others? When you tear apart bonds, or wound someone with your words… or worse?..

For an instant Akutagawa’s brow lifted, surprise flickering across his face, but it vanished beneath his usual mask of indifference.

— You ask as though there should be something I feel, — he said coldly.

— And is there? — Atsushi forced himself to meet his eyes, though his chest constricted.

— No. — Akutagawa’s reply was short, almost languid. — They’re to blame themselves.

Atsushi frowned, disbelief and disappointment flashing across his features. He swallowed down the urge to argue and instead asked:

— Why?

— Because they’re weak, — Akutagawa’s voice cracked like a whip, each word soaked in contempt. — People are splinters. Push a little harder, and they break. If someone can’t withstand my words or my blows, that’s their problem — not mine.

Atsushi felt sweat prickle on his palms. It was hard to remain calm, but he forced his voice to stay steady.

— But doesn’t it touch you at all? Have you never wondered what it feels like for them?

— Jinko. — Akutagawa’s smile was thin, almost mocking, yet hollow beneath the surface. — You still don’t get it. I don’t care.

Atsushi turned away, his eyes falling to the ground. Silence pressed between them, heavy and suffocating. When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter, yet heavy with pain:

— I can’t believe you truly don’t care.

— Why are you so sure? — Akutagawa narrowed his eyes, his tone colder now, though a faint note of irritation slipped through.

— Because I can see you get angry, — Atsushi answered, his voice trembling. — I see how it stings you when someone doesn’t meet your expectations.

— That’s not anger. That’s annoyance, — Ryunosuke cut in sharply, as if the word anger itself was dangerous.

— And isn’t annoyance still a feeling? — Atsushi countered quietly.

The question caught him off guard. His lips twitched, but instead of answering he only narrowed his eyes.

— Why do you keep analyzing me, Jinko?

— Because it hurts, — Atsushi blurted, almost in a whisper, surprising himself.

Akutagawa’s body went tense, his eyes darkening, his voice dropping low and dangerous:

— What?

— It hurts when you say those things, — Atsushi repeated, steadier now though still raw. — When you make me look like a fool in front of everyone. When you mock me for trying to care. It hurts.

Ryunosuke turned slowly, his gaze sharp, burning into him — yet behind it flickered something quick and uncertain, like doubt.

— So you really are that weak, Jinko? — he said with a smirk that looked more like a grimace.

— Maybe, — Atsushi admitted evenly. — But that doesn’t mean I can stop feeling.

— Your feelings are your problem, — Akutagawa snapped. His voice was harsh, but taut, like a string pulled too tight.

Atsushi smiled faintly, sadness edging his mouth.

— Maybe they are. — His voice softened. — But when you hurt someone again, when you shatter a bond or wound someone you actually care about, I want you to remember this.

Ryunosuke shot him a razor glance, as if deciding whether the words were worth a response. At last he tilted his head, his tone laced with cold mockery:

— You’re the only fool who insists on seeing something in me that doesn’t exist.

Atsushi stiffened but held himself still. He exhaled slowly.

— That’s not true, Akutagawa. It’s just that you don’t call “people” the ones who matter to you.

Ryunosuke gave a short, sharp laugh, though his eyes glittered with something harsher.

— Funny to hear that from you, — he sneered, arms tightening across his chest. — Are you really claiming there are people like that — more than one?

Atsushi met his gaze, voice calm but firm:

— Maybe just enough for it to matter.

A dark, almost predatory glint flashed in Akutagawa’s eyes.

— Amusing, — he murmured, his smirk sharpening. — Because not long ago, you were the one telling me that if only one person thinks I’m weak, it means nothing.

He stared at him, challenging, as though daring Atsushi to break.

Atsushi faltered, his eyes widening, like someone struck at the core. For a second he looked wounded, exposed.

— You remember that? — the were-tiger asked quietly, disbelief shading into sorrow.

Ryunosuke’s gaze swept over him — hard, impenetrable, yet lined with a weary cruelty.

— I remember plenty, Jinko, — he spat, lifting his chin. — And do you know what I hate most about you? You cling to one good thing as if it could repaint the whole world. But the moment someone points at one ugly truth, you’re ready to snap in two.

The words hung sharp in the air. But beneath his scorn, the bitterness was too raw, too close — as though he were describing himself more than Atsushi.

Atsushi stayed silent. He lowered his gaze, as if weighing what he had just heard, then lifted it back to Akutagawa — and in his eyes swam regret and a soft, almost tender understanding.

— You’re right, — he said at last, his voice quiet but steady. — But, Akutagawa, you do the very same thing. Only in reverse.

Ryūnosuke narrowed his eyes.

— What?

— You have this remarkable habit, — Atsushi continued, his tone gentler now, though his words carried a precise weight. — You dismiss everything good if there’s too little of it. If there’s one good thing, you’ll find a thousand reasons to grind it into the dirt.

Akutagawa’s eyes thinned further, but he didn’t cut him off.

— And if there’s one bad thing, — Atsushi pressed on, holding his gaze, — you make it your banner. You let it define everything — the people around you, the world, yourself.

Ryūnosuke didn’t answer right away. His face stayed rigid, but something indefinable flickered in his eyes, as if Atsushi’s words had brushed against the part of him he tried hardest to avoid. At last, after a long pause, his lips twisted into a grim smile.

— You really think I’m like that? — his voice came low, yet still sharp as a blade.

Atsushi nodded, his expression unwavering.

— I do. But I also think that’s not all you are. You’re stronger than you believe, Akutagawa.

Ryūnosuke snapped his head up, his eyes locking onto Atsushi’s. For a moment he said nothing, only clenching his fists so tightly the knuckles blanched.

— You… — he began, but his voice cracked, too low and ragged to carry anger alone. — You really think you can just say things like that?

Atsushi flinched faintly, but held his gaze.

— I said what I feel, — he replied, soft but unshaken.

— Feel? — Akutagawa echoed, the corners of his lips twitching into a crooked, pained smirk. — Feel, Jinko? You think that means anything to me? That your pitiful sympathy could ever change me?

He stepped forward, closing the distance until only a breath separated them. Ryūnosuke’s stare burned, though more than rage gleamed in it.

— I don’t ask you for anything. I don’t want anything. And yet you... — For a moment, the air itself seemed to freeze. Ryūnosuke didn’t move, only clenched his fingers harder into his palm, his gaze dimming, turning distant. The line of his mouth twitched — and then pressed into a cold, almost cruel smirk.

— Shut up! — he burst out, his voice tearing through the silence of the pier, jagged and raw. — Shut up before I tear you apart!

He stepped closer, every motion trembling with more than rage — with something muffled, something he refused to name. His breathing was uneven, his shoulders shuddering as though his body betrayed him, but he tore his eyes away and spun sharply on his heel.

— You don’t know anything about me, Jinko! — he threw over his shoulder, his figure cutting against the burning horizon as he strode down the length of the pier.

Atsushi remained where he stood, alone against the sinking sun. The weight of their exchange pressed down harder than ever, heavy as the tide beneath the planks. He closed his eyes, exhaling quietly into the salt-stained air.

— And you don’t know anything about me either, Akutagawa, — he whispered to the sea.

Chapter Text

Atsushi pulled on his coat, wrapped a scarf over his uniform, and stepped outside, lingering for a moment by the door. The street was quiet, only the occasional car rushing along the highway in the distance. Chūya was waiting by the gate with a cup of coffee in hand, his figure calm and assured even in the morning chill.

— You’re slow, — he remarked, lifting his gaze. But the moment he looked more closely at the were-tiger, his calm shifted into displeased severity. — You’re sick, aren’t you?

— Good morning, Chūya-san, — Atsushi replied evenly, ignoring the question.

— Don’t dodge, — Chūya cut him off sharply, stepping closer. His eyes swept over Atsushi with a gaze that left no room for argument. — You’re pale, dark circles under your eyes, and your steps look like you could collapse any second.

— I’m fine, — Atsushi answered curtly, but there was a stubbornness behind his calm.

— Fine? — Chūya repeated, frowning. He gripped his shoulder and stopped him. — You look like a gust of wind could carry you off. Where do you think you’re going like this?

Atsushi paused briefly, struggling to keep his composure.

— I have responsibilities, — he said softly. His voice trembled almost imperceptibly, as if the word meant more than duty. — I can’t just stay home.

Chūya snorted, released his shoulder, and crossed his arms.

— Responsibilities, huh. Always the martyr, — he threw out, a mocking note in his voice. But his eyes hardened, almost protective. — Now seriously. Go back inside. You’re on sick leave today.

Atsushi raised a doubtful brow.

— There are no sick leaves in the Mafia, — he said, tilting his head slightly.

Chūya smirked at one corner of his mouth and shrugged.

— True. But you’re not in the Mafia, blondie. Though, I’ll admit, lately we’ve been together so much I almost forget that.

Atsushi faltered, then straightened his shoulders, gathering his resolve.

— I still have work. I must…

— Don’t give me that “must,” — Chūya cut in, seizing him by the elbow and steering him back toward the door.

— But… — Atsushi began, but stopped when he met Chūya’s unyielding gaze.

— Listen, you already work like a hunted beast, — Chūya snapped, though his grip on the elbow was more steady than rough. — And right now, you don’t even look capable of defending yourself, let alone anyone else. So — back inside.

Atsushi frowned, but didn’t pull away, only muttered quietly:

— I need to see…

— Akutagawa? — Chūya arched a brow, and the corner of his mouth twitched as though in mockery, though his eyes narrowed with something sharper. — That’s your motivation? You think he’ll appreciate you showing up barely able to stand?

— It doesn’t matter, — Atsushi muttered, looking aside. His voice betrayed the weight behind the words.

— No, it does. Because you’ll burn yourself out long before you’re given the chance to change anything.

Atsushi clenched his fists but didn’t argue. Chūya, seeing he was ready to yield, nodded toward the house.

— Good. Make yourself some tea, take something for the fever, and don’t you dare leave the house. Understood?

— Understood, — Atsushi murmured.

— Good. If you need anything, call me, — Chūya said, turning away and heading toward the pier, tossing over his shoulder: — Rest up, blondie.

Chūya left, and Atsushi stayed home as promised. He spent half the day reading, dozing lightly, and trying to distract himself from heavy thoughts. But the unease lingered. By noon he felt somewhat better — at least physically. Pulling himself together, he stepped outside with a box of cookies he’d bought yesterday at a small bakery near his home.

When he appeared at the Mafia’s port office, the people inside barely spared him a glance before returning to their business. Atsushi set the box down on the communal table and opened it, letting anyone take what they wished. The sweetness quickly drew attention: someone grabbed a cookie in silence, another muttered something that sounded like thanks.

Atsushi allowed himself the faintest smile, scanning the room. But Akutagawa was nowhere in sight. His chest tightened. He didn’t dare ask out loud at first. Instead, he approached Gin, who sat by the window sorting through a pile of papers.

— Gin-san, excuse me… Could you tell me where Akutagawa-san is? — he asked carefully, trying to keep his voice even.

Gin lifted her eyes to him, a faint crease appearing between her brows, as if weighing whether she should answer at all.

— On a mission, — she said curtly.

— What kind of mission? — the words escaped before Atsushi could stop himself.

— An unscheduled cleanup, — she added with cool indifference, her attention already drifting back to the papers. — Nothing unusual. Just getting rid of competitors.

Her tone was so casual, as if she were talking about taking out the trash, that it cut through Atsushi like a blade. He froze, his heart constricting painfully in his chest.

Images flared in his mind: blood, the unfeeling glint in Akutagawa’s eyes, that practiced indifference as life drained from someone in front of him.

“Why doesn’t he see how terrifying this is?” 

Atsushi bit his lip until it turned white.

But Gin’s expression made it clear: the conversation was already over. She was shielding her brother with silence, closing a door Atsushi couldn’t force open. He gave a stiff nod of thanks and quickly left the office.

Back in the dormitory, he felt hollowed out, like a lemon squeezed dry. He brewed herbal tea, took his medicine, sat on the edge of the bed and tried to anchor himself with small routines. They had always helped before. But not this time. Not when thoughts of Akutagawa kept dragging him under, again and again.

“There’s nothing I can do to change that side of him. No words, no forced promises will ever be enough”, he thought, pressing his face into his hands, as if he could hold back the weight threatening to crush him.

Later that evening, just as he had begun to drift off, the phone on the table buzzed. Atsushi opened his eyes, blinking at the screen in confusion. Chuuya’s name made his breath catch for a second.

— Hello? — he picked up, trying to make his voice sound steadier than he felt.

— Blondie, how are you holding up? — came Chuuya’s voice.

— I’m fine, Chuuya-san, — Atsushi replied, though his voice still carried a faint note of weariness.

— You’re too quiet. I don’t like it, — Chuuya’s tone held a trace of teasing, though it didn’t quite hide his concern. — Let’s meet up.

— Where? — Atsushi asked, surprised.

— The bar on the corner of Third and Sixth. Not far from you.

— Uh… alright, — Atsushi agreed, a little taken aback.

— Good. I’ll be waiting, — Chuuya cut in, and the line went dead.

Atsushi stared at the phone for a moment, trying to understand why Chuuya had suddenly decided to meet with him. But he didn’t dwell on it for long. Quickly changing into plain black clothes so as not to draw attention, he left the house and headed toward the bar.

The bar was bathed in soft shadow, lit only by the warm glow of old-fashioned lamps. The air was thick with the mingled scents of tobacco and alcohol, underscored by the low murmur of conversations. Seated at one of the tables in the back, Chuuya spotted Atsushi the moment he stepped inside. Raising a hand to catch his attention, he called out with a smile:

— Atsushi, over here! Don’t just stand there like you’re lost!

Atsushi froze, his gaze flicking quickly over the table. Beside Chuuya sat Akutagawa, who seemed to pay no mind to Chuuya’s voice. The brunette lazily traced a finger around the rim of his half-empty glass, his face betraying nothing but brooding detachment. Judging by the number of empty glasses already on the table, his evening had clearly started off heavy.

— Chuuya-san… — Atsushi faltered slightly, unsure why he had been called here, but Chuuya didn’t give him a chance to hesitate.

— Come on, don’t make me walk over there, — the redhead chuckled, standing up. His steps were steady, confident, but free of irritation. Reaching Atsushi, he briefly touched his shoulder, nudging him forward. — There’s room for you too.

Atsushi felt awkward, but retreat was no longer an option. Akutagawa flicked his eyes toward him, a fleeting glance that was gone almost as soon as it appeared.

— I didn’t mean to intrude… — Atsushi tried timidly, but Chuuya only shook his head, his smile widening.

— Stop it, — he said gently, though there was a quiet insistence in his tone, as he easily took Atsushi’s hand. The touch was steady, unyielding, but not forceful — as if he already knew resistance would be pointless.

— Maybe this is how he relaxes, — Akutagawa murmured, deliberately low, though the words cut sharp. — Clinging to whoever’s willing to pet him. That’s what you are, Atsushi, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter who it is, as long as they give you attention.

The jealousy in his tone was unmistakable, like venom disguised as indifference.

Atsushi froze, a painful tightness twisting inside. The words pierced deeper than he expected. But instead of shrinking back, he drew in a slow breath and raised his eyes with quiet firmness.

— Akutagawa, — he said evenly, his gaze meeting his rival’s head-on. — You often speak as though you already know everything about me. But if you want, I can teach you not to jump to conclusions so quickly.

The words struck like a line drawn in the sand — sharper, bolder than Atsushi usually allowed himself. For a fleeting moment, Akutagawa faltered. His eyes flickered, as if he hadn’t expected Atsushi to push back, not against his aggression.

Chuuya’s brows arched in surprise, though when he caught Atsushi’s expression, his gaze softened.

— Don’t take it to heart, Blondie, — he said, his hand tightening slightly on Atsushi’s shoulder.

— No, it’s fine, Chuuya-san, — Atsushi replied softly, gently lifting Chuuya’s hand from his shoulder. His movements were smooth, leaving just enough of a touch so it didn’t feel like rejection. — Just… not right now.

Chuuya narrowed his eyes but didn’t press. He only tapped his fingers lightly against the table, as if giving Atsushi the space to hold his own ground. Then he leaned back on the sofa, legs crossed, watching the two of them with calm attentiveness.

— You’ve given me a good idea for today’s lesson, Akutagawa. Today… — Atsushi exhaled, lacing his fingers together in front of him so as not to betray his nerves, — we can make it about touch.

— Touch? — Akutagawa repeated, folding his arms, as if the very word itself tasted bitter.

— It’s what helps when words fail, — Atsushi explained gently, keeping his tone calm despite the tension in the air. — A touch can tell someone you’re there, that they’re safe with you.

— Utter nonsense, — Ryūnosuke cut him off, scowling.

— No, — Atsushi countered, his voice a shade firmer. — It matters. It’s what makes us human. It’s an exchange of warmth, of spirit, and… Akutagawa, don’t roll your eyes, please, I’m absolutely serious right now.

Atsushi paused, breathing out so his irritation wouldn’t show. He noticed the slight narrowing of Akutagawa’s eyes, as if he meant to challenge every word, yet he stayed silent.

— Let me show you, — Atsushi offered, meeting his gaze steadily.

— You want to touch me? — Akutagawa scoffed, mocking, though something uncertain flickered in his eyes.

— Only if you allow it, — Atsushi answered softly. — I won’t hurt you.

— As if you even could, Jinko, — Ryūnosuke snapped, his brows knitting.

Atsushi ignored the barb and smiled faintly, his gaze calm, almost forgiving.

— All the more reason.

He reached out slowly, movements so fluid they were almost intangible, and let his fingers rest lightly over Akutagawa’s hand. The touch was delicate, nearly weightless, yet it held no fear and no awkwardness. It felt strangely natural, as if it had always belonged there. Atsushi gave the cold fingers a gentle squeeze, offering his warmth. He held on for a few seconds, as though letting Akutagawa grow used to the sensation, then withdrew just as smoothly.

Ryūnosuke sat in silence, his gaze lingering on his own palm. The ghost of the touch still clung to his skin, elusive but undeniable. When it faded, a hollow sting flared inside—painful, not in the body but somewhere much deeper. He clenched his hand into a fist, as if to erase the feeling, and only sharpened the ache. He looked up at Atsushi, who seemed perfectly calm.

— Well? — Atsushi asked with a gentle smile, a faint spark of hope glinting in his eyes.

— This is the most pointless lesson you’ve ever given me, — Ryūnosuke said coldly, pushing to his feet.

He tossed a half-empty glass and a few bills onto the table with careless force.

— Go touch someone else, — he threw over his shoulder, his voice sharp, defensive. — That’s what you do, isn’t it? Holding on to anyone willing, as if it means something. You’re the same with everyone. Don’t pretend this is different.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He headed for the exit in hard, deliberate steps; only the weight of his footsteps and the sudden chill in the air remained behind.

Atsushi stared silently at the closed door, his face calm though everything inside him tightened. He lowered his gaze to his hands, as if checking whether they were still warm.

— Fool, — Chūya muttered, watching Akutagawa’s retreating silhouette.

Atsushi didn’t answer. He felt as though he had missed something important, even though he had done everything right.

— Blondie, — Chūya touched his shoulder. — Don’t take it to heart. You did what you could.

— Perhaps, Chūya-san, — Atsushi replied, though his voice lacked conviction. — But I know he won’t come back.

Chūya only sighed heavily, drumming his fingers against the table again.

Ryūnosuke walked quickly, as though trying to escape not only Atsushi but himself. His shoulders were tense, his steps sharp and uneven. He didn’t want to think about what was gnawing at him now, but every stride carried a strange heaviness in his chest. The warmth that had so unexpectedly settled in him from the touch was already gone, leaving only emptiness in its wake.

Atsushi caught up with him easily but didn’t dare speak at once. He kept a half-step behind, careful not to shatter the fragile tension strung between them. His golden-violet eyes clung to Akutagawa’s figure, as though afraid he would dissolve into the night the moment Atsushi looked away.

— Akutagawa, — he called softly.

Ryūnosuke didn’t stop, but his pace slowed. He wanted Atsushi’s voice silenced, his presence erased — yet with every step that unwelcome warmth crept back in.

— Akutagawa, — Atsushi said again, searching for a tone that wouldn’t sound too soft, nor too insistent.

— What? — he snapped, not looking at him.

— I… — Atsushi faltered, searching for words. — I just wanted to say… it felt like I said or did something wrong.

Ryūnosuke halted. His figure froze in the lantern light, his shadow stretched across the pavement. He turned his head, and a flash of irritation flickered in his eyes.

— You really think that matters? — he threw back coldly. — Are you that naive?

Atsushi lowered his gaze, then lifted it again, guilt and determination mingling in his eyes.

— Yes, — he answered quietly. — It matters to me.

Ryūnosuke stared at him for several moments, unable to form an answer. Everything inside screamed to reject those words, that foolish concern Atsushi seemed to lavish on anyone. And yet, this time it felt different.

— We barely spoke today, — Atsushi tried again, his voice trembling between gentleness and hesitation. — How was your day? How are you feeling?

Ryūnosuke snorted, quickening his pace.

— None of your business, Jinko, — his reply was sharper than perhaps he intended, but Atsushi didn’t back down.

— I know, — he admitted softly. There was no hurt in his voice, only a quiet desire to continue. — But my lessons aren’t finished yet. I think it would help to review, to make sure I explained everything clearly.

— You’re too meticulous, — Akutagawa cut him off.

— Perhaps, — Atsushi agreed easily, as if unfazed by his tone. — But since I took it on, I feel responsible.

Ryūnosuke unexpectedly slowed, and Atsushi caught his gaze — sharp as a blade, but with something else flickering behind it. Hidden. Unclear.

— Responsible? — he echoed with light sarcasm, as if testing how far Atsushi would go.

— Yes, — Atsushi nodded, his smile a little warmer than usual. — If one of the lessons wasn’t good enough, I’ll stay and explain as many times as it takes.

A shadow crossed Akutagawa’s face, unreadable. Then, before Atsushi realized what was happening, there was a sudden, sharp tug — Ryūnosuke had seized his wrist. His grip was strong, almost too strong, but beneath the violence there was something else: urgency, a refusal to let him slip away.

— The last lesson was dreadful, — he murmured, almost a whisper, his voice low and tinged with irritation and… something personal.

Atsushi froze, his breath faltering, but he didn’t pull back. A faint tremor traveled from his wrist to his shoulder, yet in his golden-violet eyes there was more curiosity than fear.

— O… you think it should be repeated?

Ryūnosuke’s eyes narrowed. His fingers tightened further around Atsushi’s wrist, the pressure sharp enough to draw a hiss of breath — though Atsushi’s healing would erase the marks soon enough.

— Definitely, — Ryūnosuke said curtly. His grip tightened still more, the words laced with something darker. — And preferably without Chūya.

The name was spat out like venom, and for a moment Atsushi faltered, struck by the hatred in his tone.

— A-alright… — he stammered, struggling against the unexpected force.

Ryūnosuke jerked him forward abruptly, forcing him closer. Their shoulders nearly brushed. Before Atsushi could speak, Akutagawa turned and dragged him toward home, his strides sharp and commanding. Atsushi’s steps echoed more softly alongside his, unsteady, yet he didn’t resist.

Along the way, Atsushi tried to read him, but the rigid set of his shoulders and the clenched fists left no doubt: Ryūnosuke was wound tight.

When they reached the building, Akutagawa stopped. His grip slackened slightly — silent permission to pull away, as eloquent as his earlier violence.

Atsushi gently freed himself, but before stepping back, he hesitated. Gathering his courage, he closed the gap and carefully embraced him.

— Thank you for tonight, — he whispered, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

Ryūnosuke tensed, his body rigid as stone. For several seconds he remained motionless, and Atsushi began to withdraw — but then, unexpectedly, Akutagawa lifted his arms. His hands touched Atsushi’s back uncertainly, as if the gesture was foreign to him, but he still answered the embrace.

— You’re strange, — Ryūnosuke murmured, his voice steady but tinged with bewilderment and quiet disarray.

— Perhaps, — Atsushi replied with a faint smile, feeling his heartbeat echoing loud in his chest.

Ryūnosuke drew back slightly, though he didn’t release him at once. His gaze was heavy, piercing, as though trying to read something in Atsushi’s face.

— Do you realize you’re difficult to deal with? — he added, his tone steady yet weary.

— I know, — Atsushi agreed softly. — But I’m willing to try and do better.

He smiled, letting go and stepping back.

— Good night, Akutagawa, — he said, the warmth in his voice unmistakable.

Ryūnosuke didn’t answer at once. He watched him with a long, studying look, stubbornness mixed with something close to uncertainty. His fingers twitched, as though he meant to grab Atsushi’s wrist again, but instead he turned away and disappeared inside.

Atsushi followed him with his eyes, the ghost of his touch still lingering on his skin. He brushed his wrist thoughtfully, a faint, strange smile tugging at his lips.

Chapter Text

Fog wrapped around the port, erasing the horizon line and turning everything into a blurred, shifting canvas. The yellowish glow of the lamps barely pierced through the falling raindrops, spilling softly across the wet planks of the pier and casting smudged shadows. The drizzle thickened with each passing moment, and the damp air seeped beneath clothing, cutting straight to the bone. Autumn, edging into winter, left its cold trace in every breath.

Atsushi stood beneath one of the lamps, holding his arms tight against his chest as though it could shield him from the piercing chill. His gaze was fixed on the murky, almost black surface of the water, but his thoughts wandered far away. He drew a slow breath, gathering himself before daring to speak.

— Akutagawa, — he called softly, turning toward the figure a few steps away.

Ryūnosuke, standing slightly aside, turned. The light fell across his face, carving out his sharp features, yet his expression remained hidden — cold and indifferent, as though the weather itself had seeped into his soul.

— What do you want, Jinko? — he snapped, his voice carrying its familiar sharpness.

Atsushi didn’t look away, though that habitual bite still stirred faint tension inside him. By now, he knew that more often than not it masked weariness or distrust rather than true anger.

— Tonight I wanted to speak about honesty, — he began, taking a step closer.

— Honesty? — Ryūnosuke echoed, raising a brow. His tone was steeped in sarcasm, as the fog was steeped in dampness. — You still haven’t given up on your lessons?

— Yes, — Atsushi nodded, his voice quiet yet firm. — About honesty. About how important it is to put feelings into words.

— And what exactly are you trying to say? — Akutagawa asked lazily, folding his arms across his chest. His stance radiated indifference, yet his eyes betrayed something else — a taut expectancy.

— I think it’s one of your strengths, — Atsushi went on, his tone softening. — You know how to be straightforward. But sometimes it sounds like you want to wound, not to be understood.

Ryūnosuke gave a short, dismissive snort, his lips twisting as though he might cut the conversation short with a single word.

— And?

— Sincerity isn’t always harshness, — Atsushi said, stepping closer again. He knew he was breaking the usual distance between them, but this mattered. — It’s also the ability to show that you care.

Ryūnosuke narrowed his eyes slightly, his stare so sharp it felt to Atsushi as though it might slice him apart.

— Honesty is truth, Jinko, — the mafioso spoke slowly, each word weighed with icy calm. — If truth hurts, the fault lies not with the one who speaks it.

Atsushi fell silent, turning his eyes aside. In the distance, barely visible through the fog, stood Higuchi. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering either from the cold, or perhaps from something else.

— Very well. If you’re not in the mood for something new… how about refreshing a couple of previous topics? Just a few minutes of practice? — he offered quietly, nodding toward the girl.

Ryūnosuke followed his gaze, then narrowed his eyes with quiet irritation.

— You want me… with her? — his voice came low, almost threatening.

Atsushi nodded slowly.

— She’s your ally. It could be not only a lesson, but a way… to build something.

For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the sound of rain. Ryūnosuke stood as if wrestling with himself, before sharply turning away, throwing over his shoulder:

— And how exactly do you imagine that?

— She’s freezing, but trying to hold on so you won’t think she’s weak or useless, — Atsushi said gently, keeping his eyes on him. — Go to her. Take her hand. Ask how her day was. It would be a good way to end the evening and… at the very least, it would warm you both. You’re cold too right now, you’ve just learned not to show it.

Ryūnosuke’s gaze shifted slowly toward Higuchi. Her figure was barely visible in the fog — slight, tense, as though she were trying to dissolve into the surrounding gray. For a moment his thoughts stalled, as though the chain of habit and logic had suddenly snapped. He almost stepped forward, but something inside him froze.

A memory surfaced. Warm, almost scalding, like a drop of molten wax against cold skin. Atsushi’s fingers brushing his hand back at the bar. A fleeting, almost weightless touch he had hardly registered then. But now… now he felt it with a new intensity.

Soft, assured fingers. Golden skin that, strangely, almost perfectly matched his own — cold-white, like alabaster. He noticed how striking that contrast was, and the realization seared through him.

That touch had been too personal. Too… right. Like a piece of sugar dissolving on the tongue. Warmth that demanded return, that pulled you in.

Ryūnosuke looked back at Higuchi. Now her silhouette in the fog seemed alien, distant. The thought of stepping up to her, of taking her hand, sparked not warmth but a faint irritation. No — not irritation. Rejection.

— No, — he cut off shortly, turning away.

— Why? — Atsushi asked, a note of disappointment in his voice.

Ryūnosuke spun back sharply, his gaze bristling, almost threatening.

— I don’t want to, — he said, the words harsher than he intended. — It’s disgusting.

The look in Atsushi’s eyes shifted — surprise, then confusion. That wasn’t what Ryūnosuke wanted to see. Not what he meant to reveal. Because what burned in his chest wasn’t disgust at her. It was the thought that he had almost imagined her touch as his.

Why was he even thinking about this? Why did his mind keep circling back to that touch that had seemed so accidental? To Atsushi’s words, his warmth, those infuriatingly gentle looks?

It drove him mad. But as always, Ryūnosuke kept it buried, his surface cold, almost indifferent. He knew that if he slipped now, if he betrayed even a fraction of what he felt — the conversation would end. Atsushi would walk away. And the night would become emptier, colder still.

He drew a deep breath, forcing himself back under control.

— Handle it yourself, Jinko, — he muttered without turning back.

Atsushi lifted his head, but before he could answer, their exchange was interrupted by Higuchi.

Her steps were careful, her voice unsteady, like a student called to the front of the class. She stopped a few paces away, visibly nervous yet trying to hold herself together.

— Akutagawa-senpai, — she began, meeting his eyes for only a moment. — The company car is delayed. We may have to wait about an hour…

She dropped her gaze, as if persuading herself to go on.

— It’s cold here at the pier tonight. Maybe… we could go to a café? It’s warm there, and we could have something hot to drink.

Ryūnosuke was silent for a long while, his cold gaze fixed steadily on her. He tilted his head slightly, like a predator weighing whether the effort would even be worth it.

— A café? — he drawled at last, slow and languid, as if tasting the word.

— Y-yes, — Higuchi nodded quickly, doing her best not to let her unease show.

The faintest smirk flickered across Ryūnosuke’s face — thin, almost mocking.

Ryūnosuke tilted his head slightly, his voice calm to the point of mockery.

— A café? How fitting. There’s a cat café nearby.

He let the pause drag just long enough before adding, with a languid cruelty:

— Why not take Jinko there instead? Let them pet him, feed him, maybe even keep him. Strays like him tend to wander until someone decides they’re worth holding on to.

The words slipped out as if he barely cared, but the sharp edge in them cut deeper than open malice.

— Forgive me for disturbing you, Akutagawa-senpai, — Higuchi said shortly. Her voice faltered but she forced herself to appear calm before she quickly turned and disappeared into the mist.

Ryūnosuke watched her retreat in silence until her steps faded into the noise of the port.

Atsushi folded his arms across his chest and let out a quiet breath.

— You do realize that was too much, — he said, keeping his gaze averted.

— I was being honest, — Ryūnosuke answered evenly, his voice still carrying that same lazy sharpness he had turned on Higuchi.

Atsushi paused, his tone softer now, almost thoughtful.

— Maybe. But sometimes honesty cuts deeper than you think… and not always where you intend it to.

The words slipped out quietly, as though he was talking to himself — yet it was clear the remark hadn’t been meant for Higuchi alone.

Atsushi watched Akutagawa closely, as if trying to see past the irritation in his eyes, searching for something the other would never admit aloud. He knew he shouldn’t speak, knew any answer would come back sharp as a blade — but silence felt worse.

— Akutagawa, — he said softly. His voice was steady at first, then faltered under the weight of the rain and the silence between them.

Ryūnosuke turned a cold gaze on him, eyes heavy with irritation and an undertone of exhaustion.

— What now, Jinko? — he asked, his tone edged, close to breaking.

Atsushi’s hands curled into fists, as if to anchor himself.

— I know Dazai’s leaving left a… wound, — he began carefully, but with a quiet firmness.

Akutagawa’s eyes flashed, and he took a step closer, his frame drawn tight.

— Don’t speak of him, — he snapped, the sharpness hiding a raw tremor of pain.

— You’re hurting, — Atsushi continued, refusing to flinch. — And I… I wish I could ease that.

— Ease it? — Akutagawa’s laugh was low and bitter, more defense than derision. — Don’t waste your pity on me.

Atsushi stepped closer still, lowering his voice though the insistence in it only grew.

— You look only at the emptiness he left behind, Akutagawa. But isn’t there… something else? People who are here, with you, now?

Ryūnosuke was silent for a beat, then gave a harsh, mirthless laugh, cutting through the fog.

— What people? You? That pathetic team? — his voice rose, jagged and hoarse. — Do you think anyone could ever matter the same way?

— That’s not what I’m saying, — Atsushi replied, the weariness plain in his tone. — I’m saying life doesn’t end there.

The words, quiet against the rain, lingered like the sting of a blade’s edge. Akutagawa turned toward the dark water, his shoulders sinking as though under a weight he couldn’t shake off.

— You don’t have to stay inside that grief forever, — Atsushi whispered, his voice trembling despite his resolve.

Ryūnosuke spun back toward him, eyes burning with fury and something deeper, almost unbearable.

— You don’t understand a thing, Jinko, — he said, his voice raw, scraped thin by pain.

Atsushi let the silence stand. His words seemed to vanish into the mist. The pause between them grew heavier, like the autumn rain soaking into the wooden planks of the pier. Akutagawa faced the water again, unmoving — yet in his silence there was something dangerous, as if he were already preparing the next blow.

— It’s late already, — Atsushi finally said, trying to sound confident, though his voice betrayed his weariness. — I think we should postpone this lesson.

Ryūnosuke didn’t even turn.

— As you wish, — he threw back with icy indifference, though there was something else behind it. The tight line of his shoulders, unnaturally stiff, seemed to foreshadow a storm he didn’t want to show.

Atsushi lowered his head a little, folding his hands before him, and still tried:

— I’m sorry… maybe I just didn’t measure up.

Ryūnosuke spun sharply, his gaze cutting into the weretiger:

— Shut it. — His voice was sharp, cutting through the rain like a blade. — You don’t get to dig into things that aren’t yours.

Atsushi felt a sting in his chest, but only nodded slowly, recognizing that saying more was pointless.

The tense silence was suddenly broken by the sound of footsteps. A dark figure approached along the pier with smooth confidence. The red coat against the rain looked almost unreal, like a flare of fire cutting through the veil of gray.

Chūya stopped a few paces away, casting a careful glance first at one, then the other.

— Still here? — he said, his voice even but touched with a faint weariness, as though the rain and late hour added nothing to his mood.

Ryūnosuke snapped his head toward him, his gaze locking onto Chūya with something close to a challenge, but he remained silent. Chūya narrowed his eyes, picking up on something unusual in the air. He didn’t need long to notice the heaviness in Atsushi’s slumped shoulders, the way he avoided lifting his gaze, as if trying to hide behind a wall of silence.

Atsushi lifted his head and looked at Chūya, letting out a weary breath:

— Chūya-san…

Chūya glanced over them with a hint of mockery, then gave a short snort:

— Let’s cut the tension, shall we. You two look like you’re about to start baring your souls.

— What do you want, Nakahara? — Ryūnosuke snapped, his voice tight, his gaze sharp.

Chūya smirked, narrowing his eyes at him:

— Just passing by. And I figured, if you’re already halfway to a dramatic scene in the rain, then this play isn’t complete without me.

Annoyance flared in Ryūnosuke’s eyes, but he forced himself into silence, jaw set.

— Atsu, — Chūya suddenly turned to the weretiger, his tone softening. — Come here. You’re soaked.

He stepped closer, offering Atsushi his coat, but Atsushi shook his head, trying to protest.

— Come on now, don’t be difficult, — Chūya added, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder. — Otherwise you’ll get sick, and I’ll be the one cleaning up the mess.

Atsushi gave a short nod, feeling slightly awkward.

Ryūnosuke, watching them in silence, clenched his jaw hard, the muscles in his face taut with restrained anger. His eyes darkened, but he didn’t let the words slip — not here, not in front of Chūya.

— The car won’t make it, — Chūya went on, as if noticing nothing. — The driver’s stuck in traffic. So you’ll have to manage on your own.

— Useless idiot, — Ryūnosuke muttered, his voice low, the insult aimed more at the situation than at Chūya himself, before turning away with visible irritation.

Chūya cast him a brief look, sharp with disapproval, and Ryūnosuke held still under it. Then Chūya’s attention shifted back to Atsushi entirely. He stepped closer, tilting his head slightly to catch the tiger-boy’s eyes.

— Hey, are you alright? — he asked, his voice softer now, yet carrying that steady confidence Chūya could have used to calm even a raging storm.

Atsushi lifted his gaze to him, eyes full of emotions he couldn’t hide. There was a glimmer in them — not from the rain, but from something Chūya couldn’t immediately name. He knew it wasn’t the reflection of the streetlights.

— I… yeah, — Atsushi murmured, but his voice faltered, betraying everything.

Chūya raised an eyebrow, doubt flickering across his face, but he didn’t press. Instead, a sudden smirk touched his lips.

— There’s a cat café not far from here, — he said, tilting his head slightly, an ironic note in his tone. — Warm, cozy, and the cats are fluffy. Just like you.

Atsushi froze, unable for a moment to tell if this was serious. Against the backdrop of Ryūnosuke’s cold, cutting words, it sounded almost like a gift of fate.

— I… — he tried again, but his voice trembled once more. Instead of words, he simply nodded — quick, short, as though afraid Chūya might change his mind. — Thank you.

The man’s smile widened just a little, warm and encouraging.

— That’s better, — he said, extending his hand. He brushed his fingers lightly against Atsushi’s, testing the reaction. When Atsushi didn’t pull away, Chūya closed his hand around his with quiet confidence.

— Let’s go, — he added softly.

From the outside, the scene looked almost peaceful. Almost. Ryūnosuke watched in silence, his figure unmoving, framed by the rain. His eyes — cold and dark as a storm-tossed sea — tracked every gesture. His lips twitched, as if he wanted to speak, but pressed into a thin line instead.

Chūya, seemingly oblivious to Ryūnosuke’s gaze — or perhaps deliberately ignoring it — leaned a little closer to Atsushi, still holding his hand.

— There’s nothing here worth staying for, and you know it, — he said quietly, though loud enough for Akutagawa to hear.

Atsushi gave a small nod. He allowed Chūya to lead him off the pier, their figures gradually fading into the mist, swallowed by the glow of the streetlamps.

Chapter Text

On the second floor of the cat café, the world felt quietly detached from reality, as though time itself had slowed and thickened here. Lamps glowed with a honeyed warmth beneath the ceiling, their light pooling across worn wooden tables. The air carried the mingled scent of croissants still warm from the oven, dark coffee, and the faint musk of fur — a cocoon of comfort against the damp chill pressing at the windows.

Rain tapped softly against the fogged glass, not the cold, biting downpour of the pier, but something gentler — background music instead of threat, the echo of a storm left behind. The floorboards creaked under the shifting weight of small paws, their sounds joining the hush of the room like another reassurance: here, nothing sharp intruded.

Atsushi and Chūya sat by the window, blurred city lights glimmering beyond the condensation, hesitant to cut through the October mist.

They had barely settled before a small army of cats padded toward them, silent but certain. Chūya, a sly smile tugging at his lips, scooped up a snow-white kitten. Its tiny nose pressed eagerly against his fingers, and he scratched behind its ear with a languid satisfaction, eyes narrowing as if savoring the claim.

— Look, Atsushi, — he said, amusement threading through his voice. — What a little thing. I’d say this one’s my favorite for the night.

Atsushi’s answering smile softened his face, though he didn’t remain an observer for long. A large black cat with a snowy bib leapt decisively into his lap. Startled, he caught her, hands sinking into thick, living warmth. The cat purred immediately, a low, steady hum that vibrated against him, nudging her nose into his cheek as though she had chosen him long ago.

— She’s beautiful, — he whispered, voice barely rising above the gentle chorus of purring and the steady patter of rain. He stroked her back with the kind of care one reserves for something fragile, as if even the softest touch might break the moment.

Chūya studied him in silence. The tightness that had weighed on Atsushi’s shoulders since the pier had melted away, replaced by something fragile, unguarded. His eyes, once shadowed, now glowed faintly in the lamplight, reflecting the same quiet joy vibrating in the creature nestled against him.

“Too sensitive”, — Chūya thought, fingers absently tracing the kitten’s silken ear. 

“He absorbs it all — irritation, anger, every stray emotion around him. Especially Ryūnosuke’s. And he doesn’t even notice how it gnaws at him, drop by drop.”

His gaze lingered. Atsushi sat wholly absorbed, palm gliding along the black cat’s back with reverence, as though touching something sacred. The cat’s purr blended with the muted creak of the floorboards and the softened rhythm of the rain, weaving a fragile sense of peace.

“He doesn’t see it — that his tenderness is both shield and blade,” — Chūya mused, the crease between his brows deepening. 

“Ryūnosuke mistakes it for weakness. He presses, again and again, waiting for Atsushi to splinter. And instead, Atsushi keeps stepping forward, into that abyss, convinced he can heal what lives there.”

The kitten in Chūya’s arms purred louder, vibrating against his chest. He tightened his hold just slightly, grounding himself against thoughts that pressed closer than he wanted.

“But that’s him. Light, stubborn and unyielding, refusing to see the shadows, even in Ryūnosuke — especially in him. Even when he’s pushed away, nearly thrown out, he doesn’t let go.”

Chūya turned toward the window. Rain trickled down the glass in slow rivulets, catching reflections of the city’s muted glow. Here, the storm had softened, but the memory of it clung to him still — sharp voices, raw silence, the look in Ryūnosuke’s eyes. And now, beside him, Atsushi sat in lamplight, fragile and warm, as though carrying a piece of a different world.

The soft glow of the cat café wrapped itself around everything, warm and muted, but Chūya hardly noticed it. Another scene lingered before his eyes instead: the harsh glare of bar lamps, the hum of voices, the scrape of chairs — all of it dulled by the sudden tension that had settled over their table that night.

He’d arrived first, as usual, and poured himself a glass of whiskey without waiting for company. Fifteen minutes later, Akutagawa appeared — shoulders tight, eyes too sharp, carrying himself like someone dragged in against his will. Which, Chūya thought, wasn’t far from the truth.

— At least try to look like you’re here for more than punishment, — Chūya had muttered with a crooked smile, leaning against the counter and turning his glass between his fingers.

Ryūnosuke didn’t even glance his way. He stayed silent, as always, as if words belonged to another world and the evening itself were a sentence. Chūya knew he should try to break the tension, but instead he simply drank. It was pointless.

Damn Dazai, he’d thought bitterly, but said nothing. Any attempt at conversation would only make Ryūnosuke retreat further. Talking to a brick wall would’ve been easier.

— Drink, — he’d snapped, sliding a glass of absinthe across the counter. — Maybe it’ll thaw you out.

Akutagawa took it reluctantly, his expression showing it was nothing but a prop — a cover for the thoughts that never let him go.

Half an hour passed, the alcohol loosening the edge of their shoulders, when the door creaked open again.

Atsushi.

He stood framed in the doorway, frozen like he’d stumbled into the wrong place. That hesitant stillness in his movements, that doubtful look — Atsushi never entered a room as if it belonged to him.

— Jinko? — Akutagawa breathed, and in his voice Chūya caught something that made his brow lift. Surprise, yes. But not just that. It was a tone that commanded attention even when you didn’t want to give it.

Chūya turned, and the atmosphere shifted at once. The tension radiating off Akutagawa thickened into something tangible. His gaze locked onto Atsushi, sharp and dangerous, almost predatory — though he himself seemed unaware of it.

Unable to resist, Chūya rose and slung an arm casually over Atsushi’s shoulders, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

— Atsushi, over here! Don’t just stand there like you’re lost! — he’d said lightly, his tone deliberately easy, though he could feel Ryūnosuke’s stare burning into his back.

Atsushi only offered a timid smile, stepping closer, but the way his body stiffened betrayed how keenly he felt Akutagawa’s tension. Chūya could’ve left it there, but he knew how these games worked. He chose to push.

— See? No problem at all, — he added, voice pitched a little louder than needed — just enough to catch Ryūnosuke.

He was right. Akutagawa’s eyes flared, and in them Chūya saw everything: irritation, anger, and… jealousy. So raw it could’ve been carved with a knife.

— Are you here to have a drink, or just to show everyone how accommodating you can be? — Akutagawa snapped as they drew closer.

Chūya felt Atsushi tense beside him at the venom in that voice. But, as always, the boy said nothing. Patient to the point of self-destruction, as though endurance alone could shift the weight between them.

If I say anything, Ryūnosuke will either explode or walk out, Chūya had thought then. So instead, he raised his glass and took a long sip, deliberately ignoring the way Akutagawa’s glare seared into him.

Remembering it now, Chūya exhaled softly, fingers brushing over the kitten sprawled across his lap. The gentle purr contrasted sharply with the bitterness of his thoughts.

The trouble is, that poor kid’s never learned how to deal with what he feels, he thought with a wry twist of his mouth. He destroys whatever stirs weakness in him. And Atsushi… sooner or later, he’ll become just another casualty of that habit if this keeps up.

Chūya glanced at the blond across the table. Atsushi sat quietly, stroking the black cat with the white chest patch, his face peaceful, almost serene.

But Atsushi, too… Chūya’s thoughts pressed on, that unwelcome protest rising in him again. He wears himself down. Clings to Ryūnosuke with such desperate resolve, as if it’s the only thing anchoring him. If he keeps going like this, he’ll burn himself out. And Ryūnosuke… he won’t even notice. Or if he does, it’ll be when it’s already too late.

The kitten in his lap purred softly, as if catching the weight of his mood. Chūya leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on Atsushi — who seemed far away, gaze drifting past the cat in his hands, into some chaos only he could see. The chaos Akutagawa always left in his wake.

The light in the café was warm and low, settling like a soft haze over every surface. It should have been comforting, but Chūya barely felt it. His eyes lingered on Atsushi, weighing each word before it left his lips. One wrong move — too sharp, too careless — and the boy would fold into himself. And right now, that couldn’t be allowed.

— You know, Atsushi, — his voice dropped lower, less insistent, almost like reassurance — you look like you’re holding on by a thread.

The boy flinched, lifting his gaze in startled denial.

— What? No, I’m fine, — he answered quickly. But the tremor in his voice betrayed him.

Chūya only raised a brow, the curve of his mouth wry, unconvinced.

— Sure. Say it again if you want. Maybe the cat will buy it.

As if on cue, the black cat in Atsushi’s lap gave a sharp, disgruntled meow. The boy’s face heated; he turned his eyes aside, fumbling for composure.

Chūya smirked, but there was no amusement in it. The truth was too plain. Jinko was splitting himself in two — between his need to help Ryūnosuke and the exhaustion eating him alive — and he was too stubborn to admit it.

He watched Atsushi’s hand move absently along the cat’s back, each stroke slow, distracted, as though he was half somewhere else. The animal purred softly, filling the silence between words. For a moment, it almost sounded louder than the muted clink of dishes around them.

— I’m just tired. A little. It’s nothing, — Atsushi murmured, defensive, though his eyes betrayed more than he wanted.

Chūya sighed, his fingers tightening faintly around the white kitten curled against his chest.

— Atsushi, you know I don’t give advice often, — he said, voice steady, almost gentle. — But let’s be honest. You’re throwing everything you have into doing what even Dazai couldn’t.

The boy’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing, sharp with resistance.

— I’m not trying to replace Dazai.

— Of course not, — Chūya snorted, lips quirking faintly. — You’re nothing like him. You’re too damn good for people like us. And that’s what worries me.

Atsushi’s hand stilled on the cat’s neck. He didn’t lift his gaze, and Chūya let the silence stretch a moment before speaking again.

— Listen, Akutagawa’s a catastrophe in human skin. Dazai knew him longer than any of us, and even he couldn’t break through that wall. But you? You actually want to change something. That’s admirable. But you’re pouring so much of yourself into it, you’re forgetting where the line is.

— That’s not true, — Atsushi whispered, though his voice carried no weight.

Chūya tilted his head, eyes soft but steady, his words deliberate.

— You haven’t even noticed, have you? Every time he shuts you out, you try again. And again. And if nothing shifts, this cycle could last forever.

The cat in Atsushi’s lap purred louder, as though filling the silence. The boy said nothing, his fingers still moving through its fur, but the struggle behind his eyes betrayed him.

Chūya leaned back slightly, gaze never leaving him. His voice softened, though the edge of certainty remained:

— I’m not telling you to leave him. Just… take a step back. Catch your breath. You deserve that. He does too. If you keep pushing forward, you’ll burn out. And he’ll only shut himself off harder.

Atsushi’s lips parted, his voice a breath more than sound:

— I just don’t want him to be alone.

The raw sincerity silenced Chūya for a heartbeat. Then he exhaled slowly, his tone firm once again:

— And you won’t be able to stay by his side if you destroy yourself. Taking a pause isn’t betrayal, Atsushi. It’s giving both of you time.

The soft glow of the cat café wrapped around everything in warm, muffled tones, but Chūya had other plans for the atmosphere. A flicker of mischief lit his eyes as he scooped up the white, fluffy kitten that had made itself comfortable on his lap. With almost ceremonial precision, he lifted it to Atsushi’s eye level.

— Well then, kitty, — he announced with mock solemnity, his voice carrying a barely concealed smirk. — Time to form the new Shin Soukoku.

Atsushi froze. His gaze darted from Chūya to the kitten and back again. He blinked several times, as if trying to confirm he’d heard correctly.

— A… new one? — he echoed, hesitant, like he was afraid he’d missed some crucial context.

Chūya arched a brow with exaggerated seriousness, as though he had just delivered a world-shaking idea worthy of applause.

It clicked. Laughter burst from Atsushi’s chest, sudden and unrestrained, ringing out with a sincerity that filled the space like light. The black cat in his arms shot up, gave an offended meow, and stalked a few steps away, glaring.

— That’s brilliant! — Atsushi gasped, wiping at tears born of laughter, though it did little to stop the shaking in his shoulders.

— Of course it is, — Chūya replied with absolute conviction, reclining in his chair as though there had never been a doubt.

Half an hour and several cocktails later, the café felt unreal, almost dreamlike. Chūya watched with wry amusement as a flushed and tipsy Atsushi struggled to keep his balance, cheeks blazing from the alcohol, eyes sparkling. The boy’s phone wobbled slightly in his hand as he angled the camera toward them both.

— Ladies and gentlemen, — Atsushi began, but his voice broke into laughter midway, — this is an official announcement…

— Shin Soukoku, — Chūya intoned theatrically, raising the kitten like a new banner. — As of tonight, we’ve got ourselves a brand new formation!

Atsushi tried desperately to keep a straight face but failed spectacularly, collapsing against Chūya’s shoulder in a fit of laughter.

— I… I can’t! — he wheezed, clutching at the man’s arm as if for dear life. — Chuuuyyyaaa… oh God…

Watching him struggle for breath, Chūya leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Atsushi’s flushed cheek. With his other hand, he raised his glass toward the camera in a mock toast, elegance intact despite the chaos.

— Easy there, kid, — he murmured with exaggerated care.

That was it. Atsushi surrendered, sliding down to the floor in tears of laughter. His phone slipped from his hand and landed with a muted thud.

Chūya flicked his fingers lazily, Ability lifting the device back into the air. The camera steadied on them again, catching Atsushi sprawled on the floor, still laughing helplessly as the black cat stared in bewildered disapproval.

— And so, dear viewers, — Chūya drawled, slipping an arm around the boy as he caught his breath, — after a brief intermission to revive our lovely host, the show will resume.

Atsushi tried to mumble a protest, but laughter drowned the words.

Chūya winked at the camera before ending the recording. A cruel little smile ghosted across his lips, sharp and fleeting, like a knife drawn just long enough to remind of its edge. The air around him seemed heavier, as if the laughter from moments ago had been a fragile curtain ripped aside. His eyes, fixed on the glowing screen for a heartbeat too long, carried something darker — not amusement, not pride, but the kind of simmering fury that needed an outlet.

— Dazai’s going to love this, — he muttered under his breath, though the venom in his voice made it clear the words weren’t meant as praise.

By the time he looked back at Atsushi — sprawled on the floor, flushed and smiling faintly — that shadow was gone, buried beneath the easy grin he wore like armor. But the storm remained just behind it, waiting.

***

The kitchen was steeped in silence, broken only by the muted clink of a spoon striking against the sides of a small cup. Akutagawa sat at the table, stirring his tea without thought. His gaze was fixed somewhere in the distance, yet unfocused — the usual expression of calm, almost unnerving concentration had given way to something undefined. Gin sat across from him, her eyes never leaving his face, her own cup untouched.

When the spoon dipped into the sugar bowl again, its motion froze midair, then repeated — for the sixth time. Gin frowned.

“Ryūnosuke, you’ve over-sweetened it already,” she said carefully.

It was as if he came back to himself. He lifted his eyes to her, uncomprehending, before finally noticing the cup in front of him. The tea had turned a cloudy white from too much sugar, undrinkable even for someone with as much of a sweet tooth as him.

— Damn it, — he muttered under his breath, pushing the cup aside as if the sight of it irritated him.

Gin’s frown deepened, her gaze steady and insistent.

— You’re distracted today, — she said, her voice carrying both worry and a hint of measured firmness. — Did something happen?

Akutagawa shook his head. He said nothing — the words were stuck somewhere in his throat, heavy and oppressive. His thoughts were far away, in another time, another place. On the pier, where Chūya had walked off with Jinko after dropping just one line: “There’s nothing here worth staying for, and you know it.”

The words refused to leave him. Over and over, they echoed in his head, tearing him apart from the inside. Not a suggestion, not an opinion — a statement, delivered with absolute certainty, as if Chūya were confirming an undeniable fact. And the most unbearable thing… was the possibility that he was right.

Atsushi wasn’t obliged to stay. Nothing tied him here. He could simply turn around and leave, abandoning Akutagawa alone. The thought made Ryūnosuke grit his teeth.

“No. That won’t happen.”

He forced his fists to clench tighter, trying to drive away the treacherous chill of doubt. Atsushi had promised. He himself had said he wouldn’t leave. And as long as that promise existed, it remained his anchor.

For the briefest moment, a foreign thought flashed through his mind: 

“I could use it. Twist it. Trap him with it.”

He shoved it away violently. His chest tightened unpleasantly at the very idea. But he smothered the feeling — the same way he smothered everything that might render him weak. If Atsushi had chosen to be this… noble, then let him bear the weight of it.

Again, his thoughts circled back to how easily Chūya had led Atsushi away from the pier. That image clung to him, weighing him down with something strange, unnatural. Was Jinko really that easy to draw along? Was he really so pliant?

But why Chūya? Why did every word Nakahara tossed into the air seem to catch Atsushi’s ear, as if some hidden meaning were buried between the lines? Why did he so easily yield to Chūya’s will — no questions, no resistance? Why did he lean his furry ears under Chūya’s hand when they crossed paths at the office entrance — not just allowing it, but almost seeking it out?

With him, it was nothing like that. Atsushi didn’t laugh with him. Didn’t smile. Almost always carried himself tensely, as if waiting — either for retreat or for a blow.

And, of course, he would never agree to go with him to some ridiculous cat café… Or would he?

The phone buzzed against the wood of the table.

Akutagawa shot it a glance, meaning to ignore it. But the screen lit up again, letters sharp and insistent:

“Video from @chuuya_nk.”

Chūya. Which meant Atsushi was still with him.

A sharp breath escaped him, more like a hiss than anything else. 

“Of course they were still together.”

His fingers twitched once, then reached for the phone almost lazily, as though the motion itself annoyed him. He paused with the device in his hand, eyes narrowing at the glowing screen.

“What now? Another brilliant performance from Nakahara with his obedient little audience?”

The thought was sour, edged with a bitterness he didn’t bother to hide even from himself.

With a flick sharper than he intended, he unlocked the screen.

“Fine. Let’s see what ridiculous thing they’re so occupied with.”

His gaze immediately fell on the video: Chuuya, confident and self-satisfied as always, and… Atsushi. Both of them visibly drunk, laughing so freely that their unrestrained joy spilled through the screen.

Akutagawa’s first reaction was a curl of contempt. 

“Of course. That fool Jinkō let himself be dragged to some ridiculous cat café, trailing after Nakahara like a soaked stray cat. Pathetic.”

— The New Shin Soukoku! — Chuuya proclaimed loudly, as if it were an event of cosmic importance.

Atsushi, his cheeks flushed and golden eyes glittering, tried to compose a serious face, but broke down instantly, chuckling softly and hiding his face against Chuuya’s shoulder.

Something in Akutagawa’s chest clenched and then tore apart. His hand convulsively tightened around the phone, and he couldn’t look away as Chuuya, without the slightest hint of shame, kissed Atsushi on the cheek, pulled him close with that familiar, commanding gesture, and then raised his glass with theatrical confidence:

— As of tonight, we’ve got ourselves a brand new formation!

Those words echoed in his head, and everything else seemed to collapse into a void.

His hand clenched tighter around the phone.

“The new Shin Soukoku. Chuuya and Atsushi.”

The words rang in Akutagawa’s mind, seeping into every corner of his thoughts. Chuuya and Atsushi. New partners. They had decided it behind his back — in just a few hours. And that wasn’t enough: they had posted the video so the entire world would see. So everyone would understand just how unnecessary he was now. How easily Atsushi — his partner — could replace him.

He had expected something trivial, some foolish nonsense to sneer at. Instead, what he saw was worse than mockery. It felt like betrayal. Like being discarded. Like being erased.

A sharp clatter pulled him back to reality. The cup he had been holding struck the saucer too hard, the porcelain ringing in protest. Gin flinched, her anxious eyes fixed on her brother.

— Ryūnosuke, is something wrong?

He didn’t answer. Her voice reached him as if from another world. He rose abruptly, grabbed his coat in sharp movements, nearly tearing the seams at the shoulders.

— Ryūnosuke! — Gin shot to her feet, watching him warily.

He said nothing. The noise in his head swelled, drowning out her voice, drowning out every sound around him, leaving only one thing: rage. It filled every vein, pounded in his temples, burned within him until he thought he might choke on it.

Atsushi.

His thoughts snapped like a whip, each word sharper and more painful than the last. 

“He had promised. Promised he would stay. Promised he would be there. Promised… and now he…”

He had traded him away. Traded him for Chuuya, as if everything between them meant nothing. As if every word, every effort — was nothing.

Akutagawa walked out of the room. He didn’t look back. His steps struck heavy and distinct, each echoing like thunder in his ears. Rage boiled, scorching away the last scraps of reason.

— Ryūnosuke! — Gin’s voice rang louder, more insistent, but he didn’t slow down.

The girl froze in the kitchen doorway, watching his figure vanish into the dark. She could only stare helplessly after him, realizing there was no stopping him now.

“He’s not himself”, — she thought, her heart tightening with dread.

Her brother’s echoing steps faded into the distance, leaving Gin alone with her worry — and with the cold silence that settled over the empty house.

Chapter Text

The dormitory of the “Army of Good” — as he scornfully called it in his thoughts — looked even more repulsive under the dim glow of the streetlamp. Those cozy, “warm” windows seemed to sneer at him. Inside, no doubt, it was comfortable, quiet, peaceful. A place where everyone could find a spot for themselves.

“But not for me.”

That bitter conclusion struck him square in the chest, unleashing another surge of rage. Akutagawa kept walking without pause, blind to the cold seeping under his coat. His pulse thundered in his ears louder than the night silence, his thoughts a fiery whirlpool. Anger, resentment, humiliation, disappointment, betrayed hope…

“You promised, Jinko… you promised.”

But admitting that to himself was impossible. The thought — that he needed Atsushi, that his own feelings hinged on that were-tiger — was unbearable. Far easier to cling to anger, to the suffocating sense of injustice that threatened to tear him apart.

By the time he reached the entrance, he was barely thinking at all. He simply stretched out his hand, ready to rip the door off its hinges, to storm inside and spit out everything boiling in his chest. But the door swung open first — and standing there was the last person he wanted to see.

— Well, well, who do we have here? — drawled Dazai, gazing down at him with a mocking expression.

Akutagawa froze. Anger flared anew, but this time it crashed against the cold wall that this man always stirred inside him.

— What the hell are you doing here? — his voice came out sharp, clipped.

— Hmm… — Dazai pursed his lips, pretending to think. — Perhaps I live here? And what about you — what’s a Mafia Hound doing on Agency grounds? Did you come back to your beloved mentor? Such touching loyalty, Akutagawa-kun.

That deliberately cheerful tone, that insufferable face — it was maddening.

— Don’t flatter yourself, Dazai-san, — his voice was cold, though inside everything seethed.

— You wound me, — Dazai sighed with theatrical sorrow, pressing a hand to his chest.

“Stop. Just move aside. Stop.”

— I’m not here for you, — Akutagawa barely kept himself from snapping. — Get out of my way.

— Oh? — Dazai narrowed his eyes, his smile sharpening. — If not for me, then for whom? Don’t tell me… my sweet little kitten?

That phrase hit harder than all his mockery put together. Rage burst outward, driving Akutagawa forward, abruptly closing the distance.

— Get lost, — his voice was taut, almost breaking, but with such force that Dazai froze for a moment.

— You’ve expanded your vocabulary, — Dazai noted calmly, raising a brow. — Chuuya seems to be a decent teacher.

Chuuya.

The name exploded in his mind again, fanning the flames inside him. Akutagawa nearly lunged forward just to escape that mocking face, but Dazai shifted smoothly, blocking his path.

— You’re in a foul mood, Akutagawa-kun. Perhaps I can help? Or maybe it would be wiser to just send you home before you do something foolish?

His words were light, but his gaze… Dazai’s gaze pierced straight through him, reading him like an open book.

Akutagawa stopped. His breathing was heavy, his hands trembled. He wanted to shove this man aside, but he couldn’t. All he could do was glare — a look full of hatred, pain, and something else he couldn’t even name.

Before Dazai could throw out another provoking remark, another figure emerged from the shadows of the entrance.

Atsushi, eyes narrowed from exhaustion, keys clenched in his hand, stopped in front of the door. His hair was disheveled, and he smelled of strong coffee and sweets. Weariness was written across his face — but when he noticed Akutagawa and Dazai, he froze in surprise.

— Akutagawa? — Atsushi’s voice was sleepy, but carried a note of genuine warmth.

Dazai turned, his smirk stretching even wider.

— Oh, and our little tiger is back. What an unexpected reunion.

Ryuunosuke snapped his head toward Atsushi, like a predator catching the sound of prey.

Dazai’s words instantly dissolved into nothing but an irritating background buzz. All his focus was now locked on the were-tiger. Atsushi, still standing by the door, watched him warily. A shadow of unease flickered in his gaze when he noticed the tension in Akutagawa’s stance.

— Did something happen? — Atsushi asked carefully, taking a tiny step back, as if trying to preserve a safe distance.

But that didn’t stop Akutagawa. The next second, he was already there, seizing Atsushi by the collar and slamming him against the cold brick wall.

— You! — he snarled, his voice cracking with rage. The fabric stretched taut, on the verge of tearing. — What the hell, Jinko?! You decided to become Chuuya’s partner behind my back?! How am I supposed to take that?!

Atsushi froze. His eyes went wide, fear mingling with utter bewilderment. His heart pounded so loud he could hear it in his ears.

— I… I don’t understand what you mean, — he whispered, raising his hands in a placating gesture, as if to calm him.

That submissiveness even caught Dazai off guard. He raised an eyebrow, lazily observing.

— How fascinating, — he drawled, lifting his shoulders in a careless shrug. — Atsushi-kun, you’re not the same anymore. Akutagawa, be careful. Break his spine and “Shin Soukoku” will be an even more one-sided duet.

— Shut up, — Ryuunosuke snapped, not turning his head toward Dazai. His grip on Atsushi’s shirt only tightened, as if even that wasn’t enough to smother the fury boiling in him.

Atsushi looked up at him — confusion bordering on panic frozen in his gaze. He couldn’t understand what he’d done wrong. That look, too calm and yet far too sad, knocked Akutagawa off balance.

— Don’t you dare pretend you don’t understand! — Akutagawa shook him with such force that the fabric strained again, threatening to rip. His voice cracked, torn between a scream and despair. — “New Shin Soukoku”? Are you serious? You thought you could trade everything we had for a bottle of booze and a couple of cats?!

Atsushi didn’t look away. His face had gone pale, but still he didn’t fight back. Only his shoulders tightened, as if bracing for a blow, and he breathed out softly:

— We… never had anything that could be traded.

The words rang in Akutagawa’s ears like a slap. He froze for an instant, but the fury boiling inside him wouldn’t stop. His grip on Atsushi’s collar trembled, his voice tearing out raw and furious:

— Don’t you dare say that! Don’t you fucking dare — after everything — !

Dazai only watched, arms crossed over his chest.

— Little tiger, you really shouldn’t have provoked him. You know how sensitive he is.

— Stay out of this! — Akutagawa barked again, whipping his head toward Dazai so sharply that Atsushi felt the grip on his shirt loosen.

For a moment, silence fell. Only the sound of their ragged breathing filled the night. Atsushi said nothing, too cautious to speak. His gaze — steady, waiting — was unbearable to Akutagawa.

And it only infuriated him more.

Dazai, who had been standing nearby with that mocking, eternal smile, took a step closer. His hand landed casually on Akutagawa’s shoulder.

The touch was worse than a blow. Light, almost weightless — and yet filled with everything that could drive him to the edge: pain, humiliation, fear. His muscles tightened instinctively, as if bracing for a strike. The sensation was too familiar, too vivid to ignore. Every time Dazai touched him, something terrible followed. And now his body screamed one thing: push him away, run, do anything not to let this man break him again.

But he stood there. Stood frozen, paralyzed — and hated himself for it.

Then Atsushi’s hand came to rest on his other shoulder, and in an instant it erased the burn left by Dazai. Gentle, warm, almost soothing — it was utterly alien. His body didn’t know how to respond to touches like that. Safe. Kind.

“Why is he doing this?”

— Dazai-san, — Atsushi’s voice was calm, but carried a firm warning. — Please, not now.

Akutagawa heard the warning, sharp and clear — and it wasn’t directed at him, but at Dazai.

His chest rose and fell sharply, fists clenched so tightly that nails dug into his palms, but he didn’t shove away either Dazai or Atsushi. The moment hung in the air like a taut string, ready to snap.

Dazai withdrew his hand, stepping back with a careless smile, turning toward Atsushi.

— As you say, Atsushi-kun, — he smirked, as though the whole scene meant nothing to him. But something flickered in his eyes — a fleeting spark of interest.

Atsushi turned to Akutagawa, his fingers tightening slightly on his shoulders.

— Akutagawa, — he said quietly, his voice soft, yet carrying an inner strength. — Please, give me a chance to explain.

He wasn’t making excuses, wasn’t trying to force his own truth. His words sounded almost pleading, as though he was seeking a path to Akutagawa not through power, but through understanding.

Ryuunosuke stared straight at him, as if trying to burn through that gentle gaze with sheer hatred. His chest heaved with deep, ragged breaths. For a moment, he looked ready to lash out again — but Atsushi’s warm hands on his shoulders, that light touch, meaningless yet shielding, like brushing against a cut too delicate to press, stopped him.

“Why does this feel so… strange?”

Softness. Warmth. Safety. These feelings were foreign to him. They irritated him, like something unnatural. And yet, at the same time, there was something… tolerable about them.

— Fine, — he finally forced out, his voice still edged with threat, though no longer raised. His gaze remained sharp, but no longer burning with the same fury.

Atsushi smiled — just a little, almost imperceptibly.

— Thank you, — he whispered, his voice full of genuine gratitude.

Dazai remained the observer. His smirk trembled just a little, but he still didn’t say a word, letting the moment run its course.

— Let’s go upstairs, — Atsushi suggested, loosening his hold but still staying close. — We can talk in my room.

Akutagawa lingered for a moment, as if wrestling with himself, then finally gave a short nod and slowly followed after him.

Dazai, watching them go, folded his arms across his chest and let a low, detached chuckle slip past his lips:

— Such a tender little scene… almost sweet.

Chapter Text

They climbed the stairs to the third floor of the old, timeworn dormitory.

Luckily for Atsushi, Kyouka was staying over at Naomi’s tonight, and the rest of the tenants were either fast asleep or wrapped up in their own affairs. Their way to the room went unnoticed, sparing them any unwanted encounters. It was a small relief for Atsushi, considering his companion’s mood.

The dim glow of weak lamps cast long shadows along the walls, creating an illusion of warmth that couldn’t quite smooth out the tension hanging in the air. Their steps echoed dully through the empty hallway, and even in the silence Atsushi could feel Akutagawa’s gaze fixed on him. He didn’t seem to look away for even a moment, as if he were waiting for something — an answer, or another blow.

— Are you sure you want to talk about this tonight? — Atsushi asked carefully, stopping in front of his door. His voice was quiet, almost hushed, so as not to disturb the night. — It’s been a hard day. You must be tired. I can make up a bed for you in the living room, and we can talk in the morning.

— No. We’ll talk now, — Akutagawa cut him off shortly. His voice was firm, his gaze sharp, though not as blazing as it usually was.

Atsushi nodded silently and opened the door, letting him inside.

The room greeted them with simplicity and a touch of warmth: a neatly made bed, a modest desk cluttered with papers, and a pale rug that softened the chill of the floor. Atsushi’s eyes flicked nervously across the room. He gestured toward the chair by the desk, inviting Akutagawa to sit, but the man shook his head curtly and remained standing by the wall, arms crossed.

Tension still shaped his figure, but it no longer felt quite so explosive. Atsushi exhaled and, locking the door, gave a brief warning:

— Please, try to keep your voice down. If the others hear you’re here, it’ll draw too much attention. Then we definitely won’t be able to talk in peace.

Akutagawa didn’t answer. He only cast a dark look at Atsushi, but didn’t argue. That silent concession let Atsushi ease, if only slightly.

— I’ll make tea, — he added quietly, nodding toward the small kitchenette in the corner.

With that, he moved to the kettle, feeling the tension in the room even against his back. When the water began to boil, Atsushi stole a glance at Akutagawa.

He was still standing against the wall, as if written into its shadows, his gaze distant, almost empty. Atsushi realized he wasn’t here, not in this room. His thoughts were somewhere far inside himself, and that inner storm showed in the taut line of his posture.

Atsushi drew in a quiet breath, careful not to disturb this fragile silence, and turned back to the kettle. The conversation promised to be a long one.

When the tea was ready, Atsushi set two cups on the table and motioned for Akutagawa to sit on the soft corner of the couch. The brunette hesitated, casting a dark glance at the cups, but obeyed all the same. His tension, like a coiled spring, hadn’t gone anywhere: he sat down, arms crossed, staring at Atsushi as though waiting for a trick.

Atsushi, on the other hand, tried to keep calm, though the faint tremor of his tail, twitching against the floor with growing urgency, betrayed him. His tiger’s ears were pressed flat to his head, as if every glance from Akutagawa made it harder to withstand the pressure.

— Let’s just watch this together, — he suggested, forcing his voice to stay steady as he pulled out his phone. His fingers trembled slightly while he searched for the video. He skipped straight to the middle before pressing play. — Here.

The video opened with a scene of Chuuya and Atsushi sitting on the floor, laughing helplessly. They clung to each other to keep from collapsing completely, the absurdity of it all making it look as if laughter was the only thing keeping them afloat.

The camera shifted, and two cats appeared on screen: a black one with a white chest cradled in Atsushi’s arms, and a snow-white kitten held by Chuuya. Both cats stared wide-eyed into the camera, their expressions caught somewhere between shock and mild panic. They meowed anxiously, desperate to escape the tipsy espers holding them hostage.

— This is our new Shin Soukoku duo! — Chuuya declared, his voice riding the edge of too-loud enthusiasm.

— We’re a perfect match with them, — Atsushi laughed, looking straight into the lens.

Chuuya smirked, leaning comfortably on Atsushi’s shoulder. His words slurred slightly as he added:

— We’ll call the black grump Aku, and the fluffy white one Atsu. In the next video, we’ll give them official IDs for the Cuteness Division of the Port Mafia!

Atsushi hardly watched the video — his focus was on Akutagawa. At first, the brunette looked detached, almost indifferent, but the moment their “names” were spoken, his eyes narrowed sharply. His brows knit together, his lips curled as though he were about to speak — then thought better of it.

— This… — he started, then fell silent.

— It’s just a joke, — Atsushi explained softly, his voice gentle. His tail had already coiled around his leg, betraying his nerves. He was trying to sound calm, but the clipped, piercing look from Akutagawa made his shoulders draw inward.

Something strange flickered across Akutagawa’s face: a tangle of relief, confusion, and the embers of anger that refused to die down.

— Why… — he muttered under his breath, the word more exhaled than spoken.

When the video ended, he shoved the phone away, tossing it onto the table with enough force to make a teacup tremble. Atsushi instinctively hunched his shoulders, his tail lashing against the floor. Akutagawa leaned back, fists trembling as they clenched tight. His voice, when it finally broke free, was ragged:

— That was not funny. It’s a fucking joke at my expense! You and him — laughing, naming cats after us like it’s some kind of game. And me? I’m just supposed to sit here and watch?

His eyes burned, the fury turned inward now, shame bleeding through every harsh word.

Atsushi lifted his head, alarm flickering in his wide gaze. The brunette’s eyes were darker than ever, filled with a rage that had nothing to do with the cats on screen and everything to do with the raw nerve the video had struck.

— I’m sorry, — Atsushi said gently, his voice careful, almost pleading. — Chūya and I were just messing around. He’d had a rough day too. I never meant…

He stopped short, biting off the rest before it slipped out.

“Never meant to make you feel like I’d rather be with him. Never meant to show you that.”

He swallowed hard, steadied his breath, and added quietly:

— Forgive me for the misunderstanding. I wish I had better words right now.

Akutagawa stayed silent, his gaze burning straight through Atsushi. The blond felt his nerves stretched to the breaking point. His beastlike ears flattened against the back of his head, and his tail twitched nervously, knocking against the leg of the chair. He quickly hid it, wrapping it around his leg as if that could conceal his state.

— “The right words,” is it? — Akutagawa finally spoke, his voice low and strained. — Then better say nothing at all, if all you can offer is this nonsense.

Atsushi flinched, his eyes dropping to the table. His shoulders tightened, but he didn’t reply. He only gave a small nod, as if accepting it. He knew that any word now could set off the storm again.

Akutagawa frowned, his fingers clenched into a fist against the edge of the table. He looked like he was trying to say something, but the words refused to come.

— Do you even understand… — he snapped suddenly, then broke off. His voice wavered, and with his teeth clenched he turned toward the window.

The city noise beyond the glass sounded too loud, tearing through the heavy silence of the room. Atsushi raised his eyes cautiously, trying to read what was happening inside Akutagawa’s head, but he didn’t dare to ask.

— Forget it, — the brunette spat, not turning back. — If you want to apologize, then learn to do it properly. Your “I’m sorry”… is useless.

The words were harsh, but there was no usual venom in them. More exhaustion — as if he was chastising not only Atsushi, but himself.

Atsushi froze, and his expression shifted at once. His beastlike ears pressed flat, his tail twitched once and stilled. In his eyes flickered disbelief, then fear, quickly smothered by a bleak, almost hopeless resignation. The silence between them felt tangible, the very air thick and heavy.

Akutagawa’s phrase echoed in his mind: “Apologize properly.”

His throat went dry. Fear wrapped itself around him — sticky, paralyzing. His heart sped up, but he felt too drained to resist. A feverish heat flooded his body, only to fade into a piercing cold despair.

— I understand, — he breathed at last. His voice was so faint it sounded as if he wasn’t speaking to Akutagawa, but to himself.

He didn’t explain. He didn’t try to justify himself. Everything was clear — far too clear. Slowly, as if through fog, he stepped closer, close enough to feel the shadow Akutagawa’s figure cast across his face. The blond nudged him forward — gently, yet insistent. Akutagawa startled, stumbling back until his spine hit the corner of the sofa.

— What are you doing? — It took him a moment to find his voice. The words came out sharp, but it was more confusion than threat.

Instead of answering, Atsushi sank to his knees before him. The movement was too soft, too obedient to be insulting. He bowed his head, as if yielding himself entirely to the brunette. His hands brushed lightly over Akutagawa’s chest and narrow waist through the thin fabric of his shirt, then moved down toward the buckle of his belt.

— Jinko… — he almost whispered, trying to find any words at all, but his throat seemed to lock shut. He caught the weretiger’s wrists, but instead of pushing him away, he simply froze.

Atsushi raised unusually dark, violet eyes to him. The look he met the brunette with was filled with submission. Strange, unnatural submission, laced with buried pain and a muted sorrow.

— You told me yourself to apologize properly, — the weretiger’s voice was lifeless, as if he were quoting someone else’s words etched into memory. — Don’t you know what that means? In the orphanage it always meant the same thing.

Akutagawa’s hands trembled harder, and he let go.

— No, — he whispered. His voice was hoarse, strangled. — I… I didn’t know.

Atsushi’s words still rang in his head. In that simple statement there was something wrong, something agonizing. And suddenly Akutagawa realized that he didn’t know. He hadn’t known what Atsushi meant, and, perhaps, he didn’t want to.

Atsushi relaxed ever so slightly, but still didn’t move. His shoulders lowered, his eyes slid away.

— That’s how it always works, — he said, as though explaining something simple and obvious. — It’s better to agree while they’re still asking nicely. Waiting until they force you is worse.

— Stop it, — Akutagawa snapped, but his voice faltered, stripped of its usual harshness.

Atsushi didn’t react. His voice grew a little louder, but still sounded hollow:

— You could have forced me, couldn’t you?

The words struck the brunette raw. He clenched his teeth, unable to believe what he’d just heard. For the first time in a long while he felt powerless. His anger at himself tangled with a sickening guilt rising from the depths.

— Do you think I’m so pathetic I’d try to get anything that way?

The words came sharp, like steel across glass, and for a moment hung heavy in the air. Atsushi flinched, but didn’t retreat. His eyes — filled with quiet submission — stayed fixed on Akutagawa.

— I… — he started, but faltered, unable to find the right words.

Akutagawa’s lips trembled, as though ready to say more, but instead he ground his teeth. His fingers convulsed around the weretiger’s wrists, then loosened.

— I don’t want you, I don’t want that, Jinko, — he pressed on, furious, trying to bury everything he truly felt. — and the fact you thought I could makes you even more pathetic.

He spoke without choosing his words, blind to how Atsushi’s face grew paler with each one. Only when silence fell did he hear the blond inhale sharply.

— I’m sorry, — Atsushi whispered, but there was no remorse in his voice — only painful, hopeless exhaustion.

That tone, that look he still hadn’t turned away, felt like something snapping inside Akutagawa. His rage twisted suddenly into disgust — but not for the weretiger. For himself.

— Even if… even if this wasn’t about the situation, — he forced the words out slowly. — How could you ever think I’d want something like that from…

He cut off, as if finishing the phrase was impossible. His eyes stayed fixed on the weretiger as he added, almost with loathing:

— From a flea-bitten, insufferable stray cat like you.

Atsushi stepped half a pace back, but his expression didn’t change. The same submissive gaze, the same detached silence that drove Akutagawa mad.

— Sorry for another misunderstanding, — the weretiger said softly, without protest or defense.

For a moment, Akutagawa almost reached for him — but instead turned away, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened.

— You need to learn to take responsibility for your words, Jinko, — he threw out at last, but now his tone held no rage, only dryness. — And stop thinking someone like me would ever be interested in something so vile.

The silence in the room was almost tangible, filling the space between them like a cold fog. Akutagawa sat, eyes locked on the blond. His gaze was heavy, intent, yet threaded with a strange mix of emotions — impenetrable cold and a restless struggle, as though he were searching in Atsushi’s actions for answers he had no wish to find.

— I’ll head to the kitchen, I guess, — Atsushi said at last, rising. His voice was a shade quieter than usual, but steady, as if he were holding the rest of it in check.

— Hm, — Ryūnosuke replied, noncommittal. It sounded like assent, but his gaze stayed just as wary.

Atsushi, with a faint, lopsided smile, slipped out of the room. Soon the rustle of packets and the even sound of running water drifted from the kitchen.

— Ramen with vegetables? — he called, deliberately skirting anything heavier.

He shrugged on a light apron, lit the burner, set a pot of water to boil, and, almost on autopilot, began to cook. His hands gave a small tremor when he took up the knife for the carrots, but he caught himself quickly, diving into the ritual like a safe harbor.

A quiet “hm” came back to him — a heartbeat late, as if Ryūnosuke had paused to think. A few minutes later the brunet appeared in the doorway, sat without a word on the cushioned corner bench, and kept watching Atsushi like a predator tracking prey — but not with the intent to pounce.

Atsushi could feel that look on his skin. His palms dampened, yet he tried not to show it. He added greens to the simmering broth, keeping Ryūnosuke’s every shift in the corner of his eye. The brunet’s stare, though, was different this time: less cold than careful, as if he himself didn’t know why he couldn’t look away.

When the water rolled to a boil, Atsushi slid in the noodles, set the lid, and finally turned. Leaning a hip to the counter, he glanced over at Ryūnosuke, a light, almost apologetic smile touching his face.

— It’ll be ready soon, — he said, aiming for ordinary.

Ryūnosuke didn’t answer. He only dipped his chin a fraction, and the tension in his shoulders — barely there at first — began, slowly, to ease.

Atsushi noticed and felt a small prick of relief, which he pushed aside at once. Nothing had truly changed. The quiet might be peaceful, but it was still fragile.

As if to prove the point, Ryūnosuke spoke:

— Do you always do that?

Atsushi faltered at the sound of his voice.

— Do what?

— Soothe yourself… with routine, — Ryūnosuke said. His gaze stayed fixed on the weretiger, but his tone was softer than usual.

— It helps, — Atsushi answered shortly, turning back to lift the lid. He needed a few seconds to hide the stir in him. — It’ll be done in a couple of minutes.

He could feel the brunet’s eyes still burning between his shoulder blades. The silence settled again, but it carried something else now — a tension that could become more, if either of them dared to keep going.

The heaviness in Ryūnosuke’s eyelids began to drag them down, and Atsushi decided not to let him drift off right there at the table. He knew the longer they sat in this hush, the harder it would be for both of them. Weariness pressed on their shoulders — thick as syrup — filling the air between them.

Somewhere in the kitchen, the kettle’s relay clicked; a soft simmer answered from the pot.

— Do you ever think about trying to talk to Higuchi again? — Atsushi’s voice landed gently in the quiet, almost unobtrusive.

Ryūnosuke lifted a heavy, furrowed gaze to him. Something unreadable settled in it — irritation, surprise, or both. One thing was clear: he hadn’t expected the question. He said nothing at first, as if weighing whether the weretiger deserved an answer at all. His thumb traced the rim of the cup, once, twice; his jaw set, then eased.

— Just curious, — Atsushi added softly, a slightly wider, apologetic smile flickering across his face in an attempt to smooth the edge of the moment.

The lid on the pot trembled; broth burbled low. One of Atsushi’s ears twitched, then stilled. His tail gave a nervous flick against his calf and went quiet again.

Ryūnosuke narrowed his eyes; when he spoke, the bite was there — dulled by fatigue, but unmistakable.

— Jinko, if you want me on top of this, just say so.

It came out like a worn threat no one fully believed — not even him. Atsushi didn’t argue. He let a beat pass, keeping his face composed, though his ears dipped a fraction under the pressure of the stare. He hoped Ryūnosuke would go on.

Steam curled up, catching the light; the soft tick of cooling metal answered somewhere in the room. The silence returned — changed now — taut, capable of becoming something else if either of them dared to push a little further.

— Not necessarily now, — Atsushi said, almost in a whisper, offering the out before it could turn into a wall. He lifted the lid, letting the steam bloom, and glanced back over his shoulder. — It helps to know you might try. That’s all.

Ryūnosuke’s attention held on him — less cold than before, more cautious, as if he himself didn’t understand why he kept watching. His shoulders, tight since the start, eased by a notch. He didn’t answer; he didn’t have to. The kettle hummed, the ramen simmered, and the two of them stood in the thin, fragile hush that passes for peace when words would only make the water boil.

After a minute of taut silence, Ryūnosuke did speak:

— I’ve noticed how she looks at me. — He kept his eyes on the rolling boil, as if the burbling broth could swallow the words he was already saying too much of. — But it doesn’t reach me.

Atsushi leaned in a fraction, saying nothing. The only way to keep this fragile thread was to let Akutagawa talk without cutting across him.

— She sees what’s convenient to see. A handsome face. The showpiece image I need for work, — his voice stayed low, roughened with a tired self-dislike, as though he disliked the sound even as he made it. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. — And that urge to pity, to please, to take things off my hands until there’s no room left for me to be myself. It’s… her way of stepping down, and my way of standing still. It never leads anywhere.

He flicked Atsushi a brief look to make sure he was being heard. The weretiger’s steady, attentive gaze made him tense almost imperceptibly, but he went on:

— Worse, she doesn’t try to understand me. At all. She keeps pressing the same point as if repetition could change anything. Offers the same thing, won’t hear no. Talking to her is like talking to a wall. On a good day. — His thumb skimmed the rim of the mug; the motion looked more like habit than thought. — I’ve tried fitting the picture. It’s easier than explaining what’s wrong inside the frame. You can’t live like that for long.

The edge in his tone carried exhaustion more than ire — the weariness of explaining yourself to someone who never really listens.

Atsushi listened, swallowing the urge to ask. He’d never guessed how closely Akutagawa had parsed his ties with Higuchi behind that cold mask.

— With you, it’s… different, — Ryūnosuke added suddenly, still watching the pot. His voice dropped, almost wary. — With her I’m always on display. With you… You talk to me, not at me.

Atsushi’s heart hitched. The unguarded words touched something deep. He lowered his gaze, focusing on the stove as if that could hide the heat in his face.

— Thank you for telling me, — he said softly, steady and sincere, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

Akutagawa stiffened at once. His shoulders twitched; his mouth pressed into a thin line. He turned away like a man already regretting the admission and with no clean way to take it back.

— But… in one thing I agree with Higuchi, — Atsushi went on carefully. His voice stayed gentle, but he watched the other man’s face.

Ryūnosuke shot him a taut, mistrustful glance. Irritation hovered, checked at the edge.

— For example?

Atsushi thought a beat, then smiled — light, almost apologetic.

— For example, you really are handsome, — he said honestly, keeping his eyes off Ryūnosuke’s for once.

The brunette froze; his gaze went abruptly colder, but instead of the usual flare, something else thickened the air. Distrust tangled with a flicker of disorientation. He knew he looked good — knew it too well to be surprised by compliments. But hearing it from Atsushi…

His fingers curled into a fist; a tightness ghosted his mouth. Too personal. Too close.

— Ramen’s ready, — Atsushi cut in quickly, with a small smile. — Best while it’s hot. Enjoy.

Akutagawa said nothing, glowering at the pot. He didn’t need to answer — he knew it was better to leave the conversation where it lay.

They ate in silence. Only the soft click of chopsticks against bowls disturbed the calm. Little by little, the tension in the room began to slacken, as if each of them stepped back a pace to give the other breathing room.

When the bowls were empty, Atsushi stood and set them in the sink before turning back to the brunette.

— It’s very late. Will you stay here till morning? — he asked quietly, tossing a cautious glance over his shoulder.

Akutagawa lifted his eyes from the tabletop, narrowing them as if trying to puzzle out the subtext in the weretiger’s words. Instead of answering, he let his gaze wander — lingering, appraising — over Atsushi’s open collar, the exposed line of his clavicles and the slim cut of his throat.

— You’ve really thought this offer through, Jinko? — his voice came soft, the low, almost lazy curl of mockery making it clear the question wasn’t simple.

Atsushi tensed a fraction under that scrutiny, then gathered himself. His look was steady when he answered:

— Yes, I have. We both need rest.

At the word rest, the corner of Akutagawa’s mouth twitched, touching his face with the faintest, predatory smile.

— Rest, then, — he drawled, voice dropping, as if he were speaking more to himself than to Atsushi.

The blond let out a thin breath, choosing not to dwell on his tone. His hands, busy with the cups, moved with measured calm.

— Exactly. You need to recover your strength, and I need at least a little sleep, — he added, clearing the table and heading for the sink. His voice stayed even, unforced. — I’m still on sick leave tomorrow, but I’d be glad to walk you in. What time do you usually get up?

Akutagawa leaned back in his chair with a soft huff, tracking the blond’s movements. His gaze eased, though a shadow of barely checked amusement still flickered there.

— I’ve got a couple of hours till work, Jinko, — he said, that indulgent, almost languid note slipping in. — So, fine, I’ll crash in this dump for a bit.

He let a beat pass before adding, a touch more sharply:

— And you don’t need to see me off. Last thing I need is someone spotting me with an Agency mutt off the clock.

Standing with his back to him, Atsushi rolled his eyes despite himself, but said nothing. Only the faint pull at the corner of his mouth betrayed the irritation he smoothed over with composure.

In the living room, Atsushi quickly laid out a futon on the floor, flicking a brief look at Akutagawa: he stood at the window, calm, not even sparing the mattress a glance. For him, sleeping on a hard floor was familiar — childhood had taught him the ground.

— Unfortunately, this is the only futon, — the blond warned, rubbing at his neck, a little abashed. — I hope you don’t mind.

— Doesn’t matter, — Akutagawa replied, studying the glow of the nightlight as it washed the walls.

Atsushi let out a short breath and lay down first, settling on the edge of the futon. The moment his head touched the pillow, he shut his eyes, plainly spent from the day.

— I’m done for tonight, — he mumbled, as if forcing the words through his fatigue.

— Agreed, — Akutagawa tossed back, with a hum so soft it could’ve been the echo of his own breathing.

He lowered himself onto the futon and turned toward the wall, but sleep didn’t come. The mattress dipped under his weight, yet not enough for the body to fully loosen.

For a while he lay still, trying not to listen to the sounds behind him. Atsushi’s breathing smoothed out, quieter, steadier. Then — a small shift. The futon gave again, and warmth pooled along one side of Akutagawa’s body.

He went rigid. His muscles tightened, not with combat-readiness but with a kind of bewilderment.

Atsushi had rolled over, knees tucked up as if instinctively seeking heat; his tail slid across the futon and brushed the brunette’s thigh. The motion was so unselfconscious it felt almost deliberate.

— Jinko, keep your… — he began, a soft rasp of irritation, and broke off when he saw the blond was already asleep.

The tail stayed where it was, like a throw tossed carelessly over him. Akutagawa was silent for several seconds, feeling Atsushi’s warm breath somewhere at the back of his head. He tensed, conditioned to meet any touch as a threat.

“It’s only sleep”, — he told himself, as if excusing the closeness. — “He just isn’t controlling himself.”

But the thought didn’t ease anything. The heat of Atsushi’s body — gentle, uninsistent — seemed to fill the space on its own. It didn’t press, didn’t intrude; it simply grew more tangible.

He had long forgotten what it was to fall asleep feeling safe, not like a cornered animal. Here he didn’t have to track every rustle or brace for some noise outside. Even another’s presence, which usually chafed, lulled him now.

“If anyone comes in, Rashōmon will tear them to pieces.”

The thought, honed and familiar as a blade, almost tugged one corner of his mouth. It had always been there, a shield.

And yet, wrapped in the soft sounds of night and those occasional quiet breaths, the shield lowered. Atsushi purred something in his sleep; his tail twitched. Akutagawa almost brushed it away, then left his hand where it was, staring into the dark with a faint, pensive look.

Sleep came slowly, almost imperceptibly. He closed his eyes; his thoughts thinned, and with them the tension ebbed.

When he opened his eyes again, thin bands of sunlight slipped through the slats of the curtains, laying pale stripes across the room. He frowned and turned his head toward the wall clock.

9:47.

His gaze locked on the face; something tightened unpleasantly inside. I overslept.

He jerked upright — and froze. Something soft and warm pressed at his shoulder, holding him in place.

Jinko.

The weretiger, curled up beside him on the futon, slept hard, clutching the stolen blanket. His tail lay lazily across the thin mattress, the animal ears giving the faintest twitch; his breathing was even, almost lulling. Akutagawa stared at him with an expression that mixed anger and bewilderment.

Annoyance rose from the bottom up — not at Jinko, at himself. Why did I allow this?

His fingers dug into the blanket’s edge, as if grabbing a handrail. He wasn’t used to this — to softness, to someone else’s warmth within arm’s reach. Less still to the treacherous way his own body answered: a viscous heat low down, a coiled spring under the skin straining to release. A nearly audible, shameful sound snagged in his throat. 

“Seriously?!” — he snarled inwardly, teeth clenched.

He looked at the sleeper — too close, too calm. He wanted to shove him away. To get up and leave. But couldn’t. The warmth of another body, the quiet breath, the barest flick of a tail — all of it tugged at him, slow and adhesive, as if there were a strange, misplaced normalcy in this nearness.

“Why does this feel… normal?”

He tightened his grip on the fabric; his chest cinched with a dull heat. Wrong. He wasn’t used to relaxing this far. Wasn’t used to closeness that didn’t stink of threat. And yet — there was something in it that was… pleasant.

The thought flared; he recoiled from it as from a burn. His mouth twisted with contempt.

— Enough, — he breathed, barely audible.

“Enough. He’s just a dumb cat. This means nothing.”

But the heat kept hauling itself up from inside, fog-warm, flooding muscle after muscle. Shameful. Wrong.

He pushed to his feet in one sharp motion, careful not to wake the blond. Every movement came out abrupt, like shaking off invisible straps. Residual warmth on his skin stung like a reminder: his body — damn body — had betrayed him; it had wanted that warmth.

He crossed to the chair, snatched up his coat, threw it over his shoulders. Drew a deeper breath — and inside, Rashōmon stirred, a whisper of steel, a second pulse. It steadied his breathing, let him reassemble himself; reminded him what he was. A weapon. Cold.

Even that didn’t fully drown the warmth left on his skin.

He cut a glance at the futon. Jinko, none the wiser, slept on with his face buried in the pillow. Something cramped inside Akutagawa — not anger. Envy. How can you be that calm? How can you be that unguarded…

He severed the thought and stepped for the door.

The corridor air met him with a chill, sharp as ground glass. He inhaled hard, hoping it would scour him clean. But the anger at himself — hot, unyielding — held fast.

“Why did I let that happen? Why…”

His steps landed heavy along the hall; the coat dragged after him like a shadow. Fingers ran the seam by habit — a gesture that gave no anchor.

“I need to refocus. This means nothing.”

Halfway to the rendezvous point, he caught hurried footsteps behind him. Too loud for an empty alley. He slowed without turning, shoulders tightening on instinct.

— Akutagawa-sama!

Higuchi’s voice, quivering with nerves, cut the air; everything inside him cinched tight.

She drew level, breathless, cheeks faintly flushed. The pale urgency in her eyes was insistent, almost piercing, and so sincere it made him want to shove her away.

— You’re late… — she managed, stopping at his side as if trying to read what was wrong with him. — It’s… it’s so unlike you. I started to worry something had happened.

He let his gaze skim over her — brief, almost contemptuous. The concern on her face, the devotion in her voice, sparked an irritation he couldn’t name. One look was enough for her to grasp he had no intention of answering.

— I’m fine, — he said, flatly, eyes back on the road.

She nodded, but kept pace as always. Every uneven breath, every sidelong glance landed too loudly. They weighed on him, and yet he couldn’t simply stop and tell her to go.

He was angry.

Not at her. At himself.

He was late. Unforgivably scattered. And all because of that damned cat who had stripped him of his calm and clarity. Even now, kilometers away, that warm chaos still clung to his mind and refused to let it settle.

— I’m sorry… — Higuchi’s voice came soft, almost tentative. She walked beside him as if seeking permission. — You’re always so precise, so composed. I thought maybe…

— You think too much, — he cut in, not looking at her.

She fell silent, but her words stuck, refusing to dissolve.

Precise. Composed.

Yes. That was what he had always been. He aimed for flawlessness, sharp as a blade. Always. It was his role, his marrow. But today? Today he was late. Today his thoughts wandered elsewhere — to the warmth of another’s breath and the flick of cat ears.

He hated himself for it.

Everything in his chest cinched back into a painful knot — irritation, anger, shame. Higuchi, keeping pace beside him, only sharpened the feeling.

“Composed.”

But he wasn’t composed. He was broken. Her devotion, her care — so simple and right — looked to him like mockery. Everything he felt right now narrowed to a single thought: he didn’t measure up to his own standards.

Higuchi kept quiet, but her silence tasted faintly of bitterness. She was content just to walk beside him. Once, he might have found that worthy of respect. Not today. Today there was only irritation.

Jinko. His smile, his warmth… that naive look he kept turning on people. Even on him.

How could Atsushi be so selfless? How could he give himself away so easily, wanting nothing in return? How could he smile so sincerely, as if this world had no room for doubt or pain? And then… how could he leave him? On the pier. Where Chūya held out a hand and called him along.

If it didn’t matter to Atsushi who laughed with him, who went with him to that stupid cat café, why should it matter to Akutagawa now?

The thoughts tightened his throat, spreading like a heavy, poisonous draught through his mind. They churned as he walked beside Higuchi, forcing himself into the cold, even shell of indifference. It was the one thing he truly did well. Detachment. Refusing the feelings he wasn’t supposed to have.

But something in him had cracked.

— Are you free tonight? His voice came level, unruffled, as if the question meant nothing.

He didn’t at once understand why he’d asked.

Higuchi stopped short. Her eyes flew wide; her face showed a mix of confusion and joy.

— Uh… no, Akutagawa-sama! Not at all!

He looked at her. Straight into those loyal, shining eyes where happiness was written so plainly.

— Then let’s go to a cat café, he said, his tone almost dispassionate.

A beat. Only Higuchi’s breathing filled the air. She couldn’t at once believe what she’d heard.

— Of course! Yes, of course, Akutagawa-sama!

Her joy was deafening — so sincere it seemed to swell in the air around them. Inside him there was nothing. Only chaos.

He kept walking, feeling Higuchi’s delight lap behind him like a small, insistent wave. Her happiness, her bright, almost childlike energy filled the space but never touched him. Inside there was only cold—  a dense, icy indifference with which he tried to smother his thoughts.

He stared straight ahead, refusing himself even a glance back, refusing to see her radiant face. One thought kept sounding in his head: “It means nothing.”

Cat café. That idea, that place—what could it possibly mean to him? Just a room. A few tables, a few cats, a cup of coffee, nothing more. Did it really matter who sat across from him? Who looked at him over a steaming cup?

“This could have been Higuchi. Or someone else. Or no one.”

He felt everything inside him cinch tight whenever his mind circled back to the one thing he’d been trying to throw out. A breath slipped out—barely there—then he ground his teeth and forced himself steady.

“Does it even matter who asks how I’m doing? Who puts a hand on my shoulder when all I want is to tear the world apart?”

His fingers curled into fists, hidden in the pockets of his coat.

“It doesn’t matter at all.”

Did it matter who was there at night? Whose breath sounded in the dark, whose hands brushed his skin? Who stayed till morning, who met his eyes as if they spoke the same language?

He stopped, pulled a hard, cold lungful of air. His gaze went dark, almost bottomless.

“It doesn’t matter. It could be anyone.”

And still—the more he repeated it, the louder, more insistent, more painful another voice sounded in his head. Soft, almost pleading, the kind of voice you want to run from.

“It can’t be anyone.”

Akutagawa moved again, his stride sharpening as if he could outpace himself.

“This is ridiculous. Attachments are weakness. Feelings are just a crack chaos rushes through.”

He remembered years ago, when he’d been younger and had tried to allow himself attachments. They mattered to him then — those he called friends. He lost them. Lost all of them. The day they died before his eyes, when he saw their bodies, cold and broken, his world came apart.

He remembered losing control. Chasing the one who took everything, brain drowned in vengeance. Rashōmon tore through anything in its way, and even that couldn’t bring back what was gone. Ryūnosuke was nearly killed, and he didn’t care. The only thing that kept him breathing was the unendurable fact that he’d been too weak to save them.

He clenched his jaw, those memories waking with every gust that burned his face. 

“Attachments are weakness. Feelings are chains that break you.”

Then why did he still remember Jinko’s words? Why didn’t they burn out like any other flash of pain?

“How can you bear this life unless someone tells you it’s all right? That it’s good you’re in this world.”

They kept sounding in his head. Why did Jinko see him like that? Why did he understand what no one else saw? He didn’t look at him with pity, or with contempt, but with something… genuine. Clean.

“It doesn’t matter. It means nothing.”

Akutagawa stopped again, dragging in the icy air, trying to calm the quick, ragged beat of his pulse. His fingers clenched harder; nails bit his palms and left stinging crescents.

He needed to convince himself Jinko was no one. Just another person trying to play the hero. But the more he said it, the thinner the words became. Jinko was the only one who had looked deeper, seen what Ryūnosuke barely admitted was there at all.

And it was driving him mad.

He pushed forward, forcing himself to ignore the storm in his head. Each step, each breath he dedicated to a single task: convincing himself he needed neither Jinko nor his warmth. Nor his words. Nor his gaze.

“I don’t need it. It means nothing.”

He repeated it like a spell, like a rescue line. But the words refused to harden into armor. Every memory, every image of Jinko — his soft gaze, his warmth — gnawed at the spell, leaving it useless.

As if the air itself, saturated with those memories, insisted on its own truth. And the harder Akutagawa denied it, the louder that small, faltering voice became, whispering that this mattered. That he needed it.

Chapter Text

The morning was far too early for a call — especially from Chūya. The phone buzzed irritably across the nightstand, as if determined to shake Atsushi out of his doze.

— Blondie, get dressed. I’ll swing by in half an hour.

— Uh… did something happen? — Atsushi mumbled, yawning, trying to tame his bed-mussed hair with one hand while the other held the phone.

— No, nothing like that. But if you keep sitting at home pondering how to fix things with that gloomy mutt, you’ll turn just as dreary. Boring. Move it, we’ve got plans.

The line went dead before he could ask anything else.

Exactly thirty minutes later a motorcycle snarled outside the building. Atsushi was fumbling his tie as he hurried downstairs, where Chūya already waited — looking not early-roused at all but perfectly in his element: the bike gleamed in the first light, and Chūya, in a flawless black coat with his usual cigarette, might as well have stepped out of a poster.

— You really want to ride like this? — Atsushi asked, nervously straightening his collar that suddenly felt far too plain next to Chūya.

Chūya gave him a quick once-over, the corners of his mouth lifting.

— Of course. And you look like a recent grad who ducked into a café before an interview. We’ll survive, — he said, handing the weretiger a helmet.

Atsushi flushed but obediently put it on, feeling awkward.

— Where are we going? — he asked, eyeing the bike.

— It’s a surprise. Trust me, — Chūya waved him off and kicked the engine to life.

The motor growled; Atsushi nearly flinched, then climbed on behind him.

Half an hour later they rolled up to a quiet park on the city’s edge. No downtown bustle here — just a pond with a glass-still surface and a few stray walkers drifting along the paths.

Atsushi looked around, at a loss, while Chūya flipped up the seat without a word and pulled out a small bag.

— What’s that?

— A picnic, — Chūya turned with a faintly superior look. — And not just any picnic. We’re feeding ducks.

— Ducks? — Atsushi blinked.

— Yes, ducks, — he repeated with emphasis, as if that should explain everything. — It’s relaxing. And you need to relax. You’ve been keyed up ever since we announced our “new duo.”

He produced a fresh loaf with theatrical flourish, tore off a piece, and nodded toward the water.

— Chop-chop — get started.

Reluctantly, Atsushi took a couple of slices and followed him to the shore. Beneath a spreading tree, Chūya shook out a blanket and sat with the air of a man very much in control.

— Well? What do you think? — he asked after a minute, watching the ducks dive one after another for the crumbs.

— Unexpected… but I think I like it, — Atsushi answered with a slight smile, tossing another piece into the pond.

Chuya nodded, pleased, as the ducks jostled and shoved.

— Notice how ducks have zero sense of personal space? You throw one crumb and they’re ready to brawl for it. Ring any bells about certain acquaintances?

Atsushi snorted, covering his mouth with his hand. His eyes made it clear he caught the hint perfectly.

— Since you brought it up… do you think Akutagawa’s all right? — he asked, trying to make it sound offhand and not quite succeeding.

Chuya tensed. His hands stalled for a beat before he let out a sharp breath.

— Are you kidding me? — Chuya shot him a hard look, irritation edging his voice, as if he were fighting the urge to say, “How many times do we have to do this?” — We came here to feed ducks, and you’re cranking up the same old tune about him again?

Atsushi went still. His eyes widened, as if the words hit harder than he’d expected. Then he lowered his gaze, as if to hide from the sudden bite.

Chuya, not noticing at first, pressed on, no longer bothering to mask his annoyance:

— You really are something, Atsushi. I drag you out to clear your head, give your brain a breather, and you latch onto that topic like a duck on bread.

The words hung in the air like a weight. Atsushi clenched a bit of bread in his fist instead of throwing it. His shoulders trembled; he seemed about to speak, but only pressed his pale lips tighter.

And then Chuya saw it. He saw how Atsushi’s shoulders rose and fell too tensely, how he seemed to fold in on himself as if bracing for another hit. It stopped Chuya cold. He realized he’d pushed too far. Too sharp. Too rough.

“Great. I’m acting like that gloomy bastard,” — flashed through his mind.

He drew a slow breath, set the bread aside, and shifted closer, softening his expression.

— Hey, — his voice came out lower, gentler. — Sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out like that.

Atsushi lifted his eyes, wary still.

— It’s just… — Chuya raked a hand through his hair, mussing it. — I wanted you to exhale. To let it go for a second. And I’ve probably managed to do the opposite.

Atsushi looked at him, his eyes still carrying the same fragile vulnerability as before.

— I… I just thought I could ask, — he said quietly, his voice unsteady. — But if that bothers you, then…

— Hey, hey, hold on. — Chuya reached out and touched his shoulder, stopping the spill of words. — You don’t bother me. I’m the idiot, snapping at you like you’re one of my people. Sorry, Atsushi. That wasn’t yours to carry. And I get why you’re thinking about him.

Chuya leaned back on his hands and looked out at the ducks still wheeling across the water. A wind rucked the pond into tiny scales of light; somewhere a gull needled the quiet, and sunlight flashed on the surface like broken glass.

— You know, I’m not always… uh, delicate, — he said, his mouth tilting into a wry smile while his eyes didn’t quite join in. — But I wanted you to hear this: you don’t have to think about him all the time. He’ll manage, one way or another. And you deserve to have someone think about you, too.

The words landed unexpectedly sincere, and for a moment Atsushi felt as if Chuya weren’t only talking about him.

— Thank you, — he said at last, his voice a shade steadier.

Atsushi didn’t move right away. His thumb worked the damp paper edge of the bread sleeve, the small motion steadying him.

— Good, — Chuya replied, his tone sliding back into its easy confidence. — Now get back to the ducks. They’re clearly offended you stopped feeding them.

Atsushi smiled, warmer this time, and flicked another piece of bread into the pond. Two drakes shouldered a third off the crumb; it spun, regrouped, and came back harder. Chuya watched, then glanced over, satisfied to see the tension slipping from Atsushi’s shoulders.

“Maybe I’m not so hopeless after all,” he thought, watching Atsushi’s smile widen.

— Listen, he’s fine. He moves at his own pace, his own rhythm. Honestly, you’re doing more for him than he deserves. But that’s who you are — you always think you can save everyone.

Atsushi’s brow tightened; his eyes dropped to the water where the ducks still scrapped for crumbs. Chuya clocked it — that subtle sense that his words had sunk back into the current of Atsushi’s thoughts about Akutagawa — and, yes, it stung.

Atsushi studied the ducks gliding over the flat, bright surface, then looked up, suddenly:

— And you? — quiet, but genuinely curious. — You take on more than you have to, too.

The question caught Chuya off guard. He wasn’t used to anyone asking how he felt — least of all Jinko, who was forever swallowed by his own worries and other people’s drama. But here it was: a simple question with real care in it.

— All right, kid, bull’s-eye. But at least I know how to carve out time for myself. Like right now, — he tipped his chin toward the pond, keeping his voice light. — You, on the other hand, just keep giving yourself away.

He took a long pull of champagne and stared out at the water, where the ducks’ wakes crossed and frayed — bright seams unspooling over the pond.

“These ducks are better than Akutagawa,” Nakahara thought with an unexpected bleakness. “At least they take what they’re given and are satisfied. And him… he takes and takes, and it’s never enough. A bottomless well you can’t fill. Atsushi does everything for him, because of him — and what does he get in return? Cold, anger, the same grinding attacks.”

The thought sat in Chuya’s chest like a stone. He took another sip, trying to drown in champagne the slow, rising heat of envy. Yes — envy. It had come out of nowhere, hot and stinging like molten metal.

“Why don’t I get even half of that warmth?” flashed through his mind. He knew it was foolish. He’d never been the one people tended to, the one anyone worried over.

“Since when does it even feel good to have someone think about me?”

Chuya glanced at Atsushi. The kid was watching him with a soft, almost childlike smile, plainly relieved the air had finally lightened. That guileless sincerity only needled Chuya more.

“He has no idea how used I am to being the caretaker, never the one cared for,” Chuya thought. “And this idiot keeps throwing his warmth under the knife. Handing it out like it’s endless. Even to me.”

Atsushi laughed, and the sound cut through Chuya’s gloom like a blade of light through heavy fog.

“Maybe I should just enjoy this,” Chuya thought, as one of the ducks made off with a hunk of baguette straight off the blanket.

— You’re hurting, — Atsushi said suddenly, so softly it was almost lost to the wind.

Chuya turned to him sharply, surprise flickering in his eyes. Atsushi reached out and touched his fingers with care, as if the slightest pressure might frighten him off.

— I just wanted you to know: you matter to me, — he went on, lowering his gaze.

Chuya fell silent. The words struck deeper than he’d admit. The unexpected heat of Atsushi’s fingers threw him off balance.

Without letting go of Chuya’s hand, Atsushi plucked a tiny wildflower from the grass and, smiling, tucked it into the redhead’s hair.

— What’s this? — Chuya asked, looking at him as if he were some small, baffling riddle.

— A flower, — Atsushi answered simply. — You’re sitting like this… hair down. You wear the no-hat look even better, — he whispered, meeting his eyes.

Chuya went still. His first impulse was to brush it off, say something cutting — but a strange ache rose in his chest. Such a small kindness, almost nothing. And yet to him it felt like luxury. Akutagawa got this in full, over and over. And every time he ground it underfoot. While Chuya… Chuya could barely hold on to this scrap of warmth.

“And you still go back to him, again and again,” Chuya thought, and for the first time in his life he wanted to shout at Atsushi.

— You really think you can be enough for everyone? — his voice came out harsher than he meant.

Atsushi stilled, studying him, but didn’t look away.

— I… don’t know, — he admitted quietly. — Maybe I can’t. But I still want to try.

The words hit Chuya harder than he expected. Something inside him tightened, as if a knife had run along the edge of his heart.

— You think it’s that simple, huh? Handing yourself out to anyone who asks. As if your kindness can’t run dry. But it does, Atsushi, — Chuya exhaled, eyes sliding back toward the pond. — There isn’t enough for everyone. There isn’t enough already.

He heard Atsushi draw breath to answer, and he lifted a hand, cutting him off.

— Drop it— you won’t hear me, either way.

Silence fell — not warm, but charged, like the air before a storm. Atsushi looked at Chuya and understood he wasn’t angry at all. He was hurt. At Atsushi, at Akutagawa, at the whole world — and at himself.

Atsushi reached out and brushed Chuya’s fingers again.

— Maybe I can’t be enough for everyone, — he said softly, as if damping down a live ember. — But I can be enough for you.

Chuya took a sip of champagne, his gaze still fixed somewhere in the distance. He tried to wear his usual lightness, but something heavy had lodged under his ribs. The quiet stretched, and Atsushi, watching him, felt the subtle shift. First he edged closer, testing whether Chuya would notice. Then his tail slipped over, barely grazing the man’s hand — a gentle reminder: I’m here.

— Hey, kiddo, — Chuya muttered, flinching just a little. — What are you doing?

— Nothing, — Atsushi answered so softly his voice almost folded into the breeze. His tail looped lightly around Chuya’s wrist, as if to warm it. — You just look… far away. I thought this might help.

— You think too much, kitten, — Chuya breathed, trying to summon his usual bite. But the warmth of the touch was melting something in him, and he let his hand stay.

That small, steady contact made him realize how much he was used to leading in every bond, to carrying the load. And now, when someone simply noticed him — not the mafia executive, not the strongest, not the problem-solver, but just Chuya who sometimes gets tired — he felt a strange, aching heat.

“This kid has no idea how good this feels. And how much it hurts. It hurts because you know it isn’t meant for you, but for someone else. You’re getting crumbs off the table where that damned Akutagawa sits, whose gratitude is nothing but hollow echo,” he thought, tightening his fingers around the daisy’s thin stem.

— You’re kind to everyone, — Chuya said aloud, suddenly hoarse. He paused, searching for the shape of it. — But you do understand you can’t spend yourself on those who don’t value it… right?

Atsushi smiled faintly and answered in a way that, for a beat, stole Chuya’s breath:

— What I get back is enough. Even from you.

Chuya looked at him for a long time, then nodded. Barely. Almost without knowing it.

Chapter Text

The call came too early for anyone sane — and definitely too early for Chūya. Atsushi’s phone buzzed across the nightstand, a low, insistent rattle that shook the last scraps of sleep from him.

— Blondie, up. Thirty minutes. I’m swinging by.

— Uh… what do you mean?.. — he mumbled, one hand in his hair, the other on the phone.

— Trust me. Dress comfortable-nice; if you can swing home, do. You’ll enjoy this.

The line went dead. No room for protests — there never was with Chūya.

Exactly thirty minutes later, an engine’s purr stitched itself through the stairwell. Atsushi jogged out, still straightening his tie as he hit the curb. The red bike caught the pale morning like a stroke of lacquer; Chūya straddled it in a black coat and that easy, practiced poise, a cigarette ghosting between two fingers.

— You’re really planning to ride like this? — Atsushi asked, fingers fussing at his collar.

Chūya gave him a look up and down, one corner of his mouth ticking up.

— Sure. And you look like a grad on a coffee run before his first interview. We’ll survive. — He held out a helmet.

A flush, a nod, the clumsy weight of the helmet settling. The engine turned from purr to growl; Atsushi climbed on, careful, the city yawning open as they slipped through it.

Hours later, the city was a rumor behind them. Mountains rose; the air turned thin and clean, pine-cold and wet with stone. Cloud laid itself between ridgelines like torn silk. Ahead — strung between two cliffs — a glass bridge, unreal enough to make the sky doubt itself.

— Wow… — Atsushi breathed, stopping at the lip. The pane beneath his boot mirrored the white drift below; his stomach tipped, then steadied.

— Not bad, right? — Chūya crossed his arms, pride faint in the set of his shoulders. — Sometimes you need the world from a height. And sometimes you need your nerves to remember they’re alive.

— I wouldn’t call this… calming, — Atsushi said, trying not to keep looking down.

Chūya laughed and stepped onto the bridge first. The glass exhaled under his heel — a small, clean sound — the cables answering with a soft, metallic hum.

— Well? — He didn’t look back, just extended a hand.

Atsushi drew air deep enough to sting. Step. Another. The sky under his sole fluttered and held. He let go of the rail with his pinky last, as if peeling away a thought he hadn’t meant to have.

Wind sang along the cables like bowed wire. Sun spilled from behind a cloud and the deck flared; their reflections unhooked from their feet and drifted below, walking the blue beneath them. A thin sheen of moisture beaded on the handrail; Atsushi’s palm slid, steadied. Somewhere, far under the glass, a stream stitched silver through the green.

They moved in a rhythm of short phrases — glass, breath, step, breath — until the span widened to a lookout. Chūya stopped near the edge, slipped out his phone, framed a couple of shots. He checked the screen, nodded once, then flicked two fingers: come.

— Over here, kid. Look at that line. — His hand cut the horizon. — Beats four walls, doesn’t it?

Atsushi stepped alongside him. Cloud bunched and thinned between ranges; forests ran to the world’s rim, a rumpled quilt of emerald. A warm gust shoved a shimmer of sunshowers across the span — droplets like seed-pearls on the glass. He smiled, small and real, and let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been bracing.

— Yeah… You’re right. It’s… incredible.

They stood like that for a beat, the bridge thrumming a low chord through their boots, light crawling across their coats. Chūya slid him a sidelong glance — approval kept casual.

— Better than stewing. Don’t think. Look. — He pointed again, then let his hand fall, knuckles tapping the rail like a metronome.

Atsushi followed the gesture — and then the horizon sharpened. On the far end of the bridge, two figures resolved out of glare: cutouts against the bright. The slash of a coat hem in the wind. A posture he knew too well. His breath caught; the bridge suddenly felt narrower, the glass louder underfoot, as if the whole span had leaned forward with him to see.

He didn’t say the names. He didn’t have to. The silhouettes waited at the clouds’ edge, dark against all that white, and the air between the two halves of the sky drew tight as a string.

— That… — he began, but his voice betrayed him and fell away before the sentence could form.

Chūya turned his head, puzzled, to see what had struck his companion silent.

On the far side of the bridge stood two figures. Akutagawa and Higuchi. They looked disarmingly at ease: Akutagawa without his usual black coat — just a plain black shirt and dark jeans — and Higuchi in a pale knit dress and cardigan, suddenly delicate beside him. From a distance they looked like a couple.

— Hm… — Chūya drawled, narrowing his eyes. His voice had a playful lilt. — Well, that’s interesting. Look at them. Seems your lessons did take, kid. They’ve clearly found a way to talk.

Atsushi couldn’t look away. Higuchi, a little shy, slipped her hand through Akutagawa’s arm; he leaned down, almost naturally, unexpectedly gently, to catch whatever she was saying. It looked so effortless, so… close.

The bridge, the sky, the mountains — all of it blurred. His chest cinched tight until there wasn’t enough air to breathe. His throat went dry, his body went weightless, his hands wouldn’t quite obey. He turned away too quickly, hiding his paling face from Chūya.

— Hey. You okay? — Chūya’s voice came softer than usual, edged with concern.

— I’m fine, — Atsushi said, trying to steady his tone. The corners of his mouth attempted a smile and landed somewhere brittle. — This… this is what I was aiming for. I wanted them to come together.

Chūya frowned, eyes fixed on him.

— You sure? Because you look like you’re about to pass out.

— I’m fine, really, — Atsushi said too fast, stepping back from the railing. His gaze skittered outward, anywhere but the redhead.

Inside, everything drew into a painful knot. 

“This is how it’s supposed to be,” — he told himself. — “It’s right. I wanted him to learn how to be closer to people. To have a connection with someone who cares about him. I knew they might start seeing each other. It’s… it’s normal.”

The words struck like matches — and guttered in the dark.

Chūya fell quiet for a beat, watching him closely. Then, almost offhand:

— Silver lining? You did your job. Look at Higuchi glued to his side — they’re clearly together. Even the great Akutagawa managed to become someone’s boyfriend. Credit where it’s due.

Meant as comfort, the words only pressed heavier on Atsushi’s shoulders. He nodded without turning his head and drew a long breath to steady the shake in his chest.

— Thank you, Chūya-san, — he said softly, almost a whisper. Then, taking another step back: — I… I’m going to step away for a moment.

Chūya watched him for a long second before he nodded, signaling he wouldn’t push.

— All right. We’ll head home soon — after I grab a couple more shots. You stay here and breathe.

Chūya turned, pulling out his phone, and Atsushi stayed where he was, forcing his eyes toward the sunset and his breath into an even rhythm. 

“Everything is going the way it should,” — he told himself, but the words brought no relief at all.

Atsushi felt the weight of emptiness hanging over him. The mountains and forest below still glowed with the gold of sunset, but the splendor had turned distant, foreign, as if something had cut him off from reality. All he could see was one scene that wouldn’t let him go: Higuchi taking Akutagawa’s hand, and him, leaning a little closer to catch her words. The image stuck, looping and looping like a record caught in its groove.

It wasn’t jealousy.

Not hurt, not even anger.

It was despair.

All-consuming, heavy—like a cold seeping inward and locking up his whole being. It choked him, drew the air from his lungs, as if the world itself were vanishing, leaving him alone in a boundless dark. Inside, everything collapsed, sifting to ash. Thoughts, feelings, his very self slipped away like sand through his fingers.

It felt like a slow, inevitable sinking into nothing—like he’d just learned his life would end in an hour and there was nothing, absolutely nothing to be done about it.

Everything around him lost its meaning. The wind wasn’t fresh anymore, the sunset wasn’t beautiful. The mountains and the trees no longer felt real; their grandeur went flat, without depth. Atsushi no longer felt like a person at all—only a shell, emptied out, burned hollow.

This is how it should be. Everything is going the way it ought to, he told himself again and again, a spell he clung to in desperation. But the words meant nothing now. They sounded empty, like an echo thrown into a vast void. Why didn’t it feel all right? Why did it seem like something in him was gone for good?

He swallowed hard, realizing he couldn’t stand here another second. He knew that if he looked back toward Akutagawa and Higuchi, he wouldn’t hold together. Barely aware of moving, he turned away, and his legs carried him off on their own.

He almost ran, keeping his eyes off the faces around him. It felt like their looks pierced him like arrows, like every passerby could tell something was wrong. His heart cinched so tight he nearly couldn’t breathe. His throat burned, and tears rose the moment he took another step.

He crossed the bridge and dropped into the shadow at the mountain’s base. Trees closed off the last of the sun’s gold. Here, no one could see him. Here, at last, he stopped. His legs went to cotton, refusing another pace. He wavered, braced himself against the wall, and felt his strength ebb with the pain tearing at him from inside.

The weakness came in waves, one after another. He shut his eyes and drew a slow breath, but the air scorched his lungs instead of easing them. His whole body trembled, as if it pushed back against the fact of existing.

Somewhere deep down, a desperate, fragile thought flickered: “I can’t… I can’t be alone right now.”

It struck like lightning. Unwelcome, even frightening—and inescapable. However much he wanted to disappear, to hide from everyone, he understood: if he stayed alone, he would drown in this.

His hands shook as he pulled out his phone. The screen blurred for a moment, then cleared; he found the name in his contacts. Chūya. The only person he could call. He hit the icon and went still.

The first ring. The second.

— Hey, kid, where are you? You said you needed some time, — Chūya’s voice was level, with a thread of worry running through it.

Atsushi said nothing, scraping together the will to answer. His voice shook before he even spoke.

— Chūya-san… I… could you… stay with me? Now?

For a few seconds everything went quiet again. He heard only his own breathing, getting heavier.

— Of course I can. Where are you? — Chūya’s voice softened, steadied, as if he already understood.

— I’m… past the bridge, — Atsushi whispered, feeling tears rise.

— Stay there. I’m coming to you, — Chūya said, short and certain.

Atsushi nodded, knowing no one could see. The line clicked off, and he was alone with the silence again.

Leaning into the cold wall, he closed his eyes. His breath was uneven, his body still shaking, but the thought of Chūya coming toward him brought the faintest hint of relief. The world was still falling apart, but at least he wasn’t in it alone.

Chūya found him beyond the bridge, at a small overlook. Evening light laid a golden wash across the wooden bench, but Atsushi looked as if the world’s light had gone out long ago. He sat hunched, gaze fixed on the ground, shoulders shivering with swallowed sobs. His fists were clenched so tight the knuckles had gone white.

Chūya slowed, careful not to jar the fragile moment. He stepped closer and caught the redness in Atsushi’s eyes, the trembling of his lips as he pressed them together, as if that could keep everything inside.

— Hey, kid… — Chūya said quietly, sitting down beside him.

He set a hand, light and deliberate, on Atsushi’s shoulder, and Atsushi didn’t answer. He only pressed his palms harder to his face, as if he could hide behind them from the whole world. The sob that broke out then wasn’t loud; it cut the air precisely because it was small.

— Thank you for coming, — he said after a while. Small. Honest.

— Don’t make me say ‘anytime,’ — Chūya answered, dryly. And then, softer, — Anytime.

— I… I can’t… — Atsushi stammered, his voice shaking. The rest failed him; sound broke, and all he could do was curl tighter and cry.

Chūya kept silent. Sometimes any words only get in the way. He stayed beside him and let the storm spend itself.

He sat with Atsushi on the old wooden bench, slightly hunched, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. The cold evening wind moved his hair, and he didn’t bother to smooth it down.

— Cry if you need to. I’m staying, — he said, calm, eyes on the fading sky, though all his attention rested on the boy at his side.

The simple permission seemed to open a floodgate. Atsushi folded forward, not to vanish, but to let the pain come through; with each sob, a little of it left him.

A minute, two… the sobs began to fade. His breathing was still ragged, his lips still trembled, but the tears finally started to dry. Atsushi slowly lowered his hands, no longer trying to hide, though his gaze stayed fixed on the ground.

— I… — he began, his voice hoarse, almost a whisper. — I’m probably the one who needed to… — He swallowed the last of his tears before he could go on: — The one who needed to understand his own feelings… It isn’t Akutagawa… It’s me.

The words hung there, heavy as lead. Chūya studied him closely, tilting his head a fraction.

— Well, kid, — he said at last, taking his hand off Atsushi’s shoulder and folding his arms across his chest, — recognition is the first step. Not the most pleasant, sure, but the most important.

Atsushi gave the slightest nod. He didn’t know what to say, and Chūya wasn’t asking for an answer anyway.

Chūya frowned, taking him in with a careful look. He didn’t press, letting the boy speak at his own pace, but the alertness in his eyes betrayed a quiet concern.

— I thought that… that I was glad, — Atsushi said at last, fingers knotting together. His voice was low, almost a whisper, but the strain in it was unmistakable. — That it got easier… to understand myself. That I was happy for him…

He faltered, and his voice began to shake. There was no certainty in his words, no strength.

— But it’s… it’s all a lie! — the cry tore out of him, sharp and desperate. — I’m not happy! It’s awful, Chūya-san, it’s just… awful!

He choked on the words, covering his face with both hands as if that could shield him from what was crushing him inside. The shiver in his shoulders, the muffled, helpless sounds he couldn’t hold back said more than he could.

— I… I can’t see them together, — he whispered through the hitch of his breath. — I can’t. I can’t look at Akutagawa, I can’t look at Higuchi… It hurts. It hurts like being cut alive.

Chūya said nothing. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t rush to fill the silence. His face stayed composed, only a thin shadow of sorrow in his eyes. He waited until the storm inside Atsushi eased, and then he spoke:

— It’s normal, kid. — His voice was gentle, but sure. — When you’ve been there so long, tried to help, done everything you could, and then it all turns out… like this. Of course it hurts. And that’s normal. Don’t blame yourself for what you feel.

Atsushi let out a hard breath, as if those words only sharpened the struggle inside him. He shook his head and clenched his hands to keep himself still.

— But what now? — his voice came out broken, almost pleading. — How can I… how am I supposed to work with him again? How do I help him? I won’t even be able to look at him…

Chūya paused, a humorless curl to his mouth, as if he knew this kind of pain too well.

— You’re Akutagawa’s partner, Atsushi, — he said, his tone turning a shade firmer. — That doesn’t change just because you try to avoid him. Sooner or later, you two will end up face-to-face. You know that as well as I do.

— But… — Atsushi stammered, his heart clenching on the word.

Chūya narrowed his eyes, pressing on:

— And not only with him. Today you saw him with Higuchi. Be ready, kiddo — one day you’ll see him with someone else. And likely more than once.

The words hit Atsushi like a slab of stone. He went still, unable to believe what he’d just heard.

— Why?.. — he breathed, so softly it barely qualified as speech, every word dragged through pain.

Chūya lifted a shoulder, something like bitter irony in his tone:

— Because he hits too many nerves at once — unapproachable, cold, and still somehow compelling. Men like that collect admirers without trying.

Atsushi lowered his head; his fingers clenched hard in the fabric of his trousers.

— I get why it happens, but… I can’t be there for it, — he said quietly. — I just… I can’t.

Chūya exhaled, letting the tension slip from his shoulders, and set his palm on the boy’s shoulder. His voice dropped, softer:

— No one wants that kind of truth, kiddo. Some days it won’t look away.

Atsushi kept staring downward, as if the answers might be written in the dirt. His shoulders twitched now and then, barely, but the tears no longer fell.

The silence stretched on, and every stray sound — the rustle of leaves, the rare footfalls of passersby — only underlined its weight. At last, Atsushi lifted his head a fraction. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet it seemed afraid to fracture the moment.

— Chūya-san… have you… ever felt anything like this?

Chūya stilled. Something flickered across his face — surprise, a flash of memory, and perhaps something else besides. He glanced away, exhaled through his nose, and let out a small, bitter huff.

— You want to know if you’re anything like me? — he asked, bracing his elbows on his knees. His voice was taut, as if each word had to be forced through. — Fine. Yes. I’ve felt it.

Atsushi looked up at him — exhausted, hurting — but with a faint spark of curiosity now.

— Tell me, — he said, almost in a whisper, as if the wrong breath might spook this rare honesty.

Chūya was quiet for a long time. His gaze slid past the treeline, into the dusk that pooled beyond. He seemed to wrestle something into place before he finally spoke.

— You know Dazai. Everyone does. He’s the kind who can charm anyone and walk away without leaving a footprint. — A smile tugged at his mouth, but it was stripped of warmth, all bitterness. — And I was the idiot who thought I could be the exception.

Atsushi frowned. His fingers worried at the edge of his coat, but he held his tongue.

— He’s… always been like that, — Chūya went on, lower now, almost intimate. — Sometimes he does a thing, says a thing, looks at you in a way that makes you think you matter to him. That you… mean something. And then… — He cut himself off sharply, fist tightening in the fabric of his trousers. — Then he moves on. To someone else. Same voice, same words, same damned look. And you realize that’s just how he exists.

Atsushi swallowed, feeling the story thread inward, stitching itself into his own raw places.

— And you… — he faltered, then pushed through anyway. — Did you love him?

Chūya gave a small, humorless sound; not irritation, only fatigue—and a touch of mockery for himself.

— Love him? — He looked aside, thinking. — Maybe. Or maybe I was just hooked on what he made me feel. He could… make you believe you mattered. Even if it was a lie.

There was a beat of quiet before he added, almost under his breath:

— And every time I see him with someone else, with some woman… it feels like being pulled apart at the seams. Like I’m losing myself. Until I make myself look away.

Atsushi, surprising even himself, leaned forward a little. His voice was thin, but steady.

— That’s… that’s what it’s like right now. I feel like something inside me is collapsing.

Chūya turned his head slowly, his sharp gaze holding on Atsushi longer than usual.

— Yeah, kid. That’s exactly what you’re feeling. Welcome to the club.

They sat in it together for a few long seconds — the kind of pain that needs no explanation — while the wind and the occasional footsteps threaded the quiet.

Then Chūya straightened a fraction, his voice softening, almost soothing.

— But you know what? I get by. And you will, too.

Atsushi looked over, doubt darkening his eyes, and somewhere deep down, a glimmer that could be hope.

— How? — he asked, barely audible, as if afraid of the answer.

Chūya drew a deep breath, shoulders easing as he let it out. He turned away, staring at the muddled horizon beyond the river.

— People will tell you the “healthy” way is to face it head-on. Walk up to Akutagawa, congratulate him on Higuchi, smile, pretend you don’t care.

Atsushi flinched; even the thought made his eyes fly wide.

— I can’t… — he managed, the words breaking.

Chūya looked back and said, sharp but not unkind:

— And you shouldn’t. — He leaned in a little; his gaze cut like a blade. — You’re not built for that. It isn’t your nature.

— But… isn’t that weakness? — Atsushi murmured. His hands trembled again; he clasped them so tight his knuckles blanched.

— No. It’s just you, — Chūya said, firm and sure. — You feel too much, Atsu. You take everything to heart, even when it doesn’t deserve the space. You can’t just “get over it” by standing there with them. You’ll only break yourself worse if you try.

Atsushi looked away, as if the words hit harder than he expected. His shoulders shivered; he closed his eyes.

— Then what do I do? — he breathed at last.

Chūya sighed; when he spoke, the gentleness held, but the steel remained.

— Run, Atsushi. Run from it. From him.

Atsushi’s head snapped up, disbelief stark on his face.

— Run?

— Yeah. Run, — Chūya repeated, calm and unwavering. — It’s not cowardice. It’s survival. Right now you’ve got to protect what’s left of you. If that means avoiding Akutagawa, Higuchi, hell, the whole damn world — do it. Step back. Close the door.

The silence that followed was tight as a wire. Atsushi sat with it, as if someone had finally given him permission to be “weak.”

— Does that mean… I’m never going to be able to look him in the eye again? — he whispered, all painful uncertainty.

Chūya held his gaze a long moment before he answered:

— No, kid. It means you won’t look him in the eye until it doesn’t tear you in half anymore. Until it’s settled inside you — so familiar you can fake “I’m fine.”

— Thank you, Chūya-san…

Chūya patted his shoulder; his hand lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if trying to pass along warmth the blond had run out of.

— I’m here, kid. However bad it gets, I’m staying. Now up you get. Have you tried the best hot chocolate in this city? I figure you need something sweet.

Atsushi only nodded and rose. Chūya could see how much it cost him — how even simple movement looked like a feat for someone whose world had just caved in.

Later, in a cozy café steeped in cocoa and fresh-baked sweetness, Chūya watched Atsushi bite into a grape mochi, a quick glimpse of small sharp teeth and lengthened canines flashing and gone. He tried to keep himself even—he even smiled—but the smile was thin ice, ready to fracture at the lightest touch.

Chūya’s gaze slid to his own plate. Banana and chocolate. What an idiotic choice. He took a bite and immediately pushed it away.

— Shit, — he muttered.

— Who in their right mind decided this was a normal flavor?

Atsushi gave a small, quiet laugh and nudged his own plate across.

— Try mine, Chūya-san. Kyōhō grape. If you like wine, you’ll like this.

Chūya went still, staring at the offered plate. Such a simple, guileless gesture… and yet painfully warm. He took a mochi and bit in; the taste bloomed rich and bright, with a clean little tang.

— Not bad, — he said shortly, handing the plate back.

Atsushi smiled—warmer this time, warmer than the moment required—and that warmth lodged itself under Chūya’s skin like a small fire no one could put out.

“You’re not just anyone,” he thought, turning back to his cup of chocolate.

But the thought brought old images in its wake. Dazai. That calm, mocking voice; that cold look, as if he always knew exactly how the story ended.

“He broke me. And he broke that poor boy.”

Chūya had never seen Ryūnosuke as merely someone’s protégé. There was force in that young man — raw, unruly — and so much potential. Now all of it seemed wreathed in smoke: an illusion of who Akutagawa wanted to be just to earn approval. Approval from someone who would never give it.

Dazai had left Ryūnosuke the way he once left Chūya: hollowed out. He planted hope and then shattered it, as if it meant nothing. And Akutagawa, like Chūya before him, remained in that scorched-out emptiness. Only Chūya had crawled free. Akutagawa hadn’t.

“What if I do the same thing?”

Chūya clenched his teeth. He knew he was standing at a split in the road. He could reach out and give Atsushi the warmth he so clearly needed. That, too, had its danger.

“What if I turn into Dazai? What if I take his life in my hands and leave nothing true behind?”

And yet — had Dazai ever left them a choice? He had poisoned them both, taught them to doubt their own feelings, their right to be human. Wasn’t it because of him that Akutagawa became what he is? Wasn’t it because of Dazai that he pushed Atsushi away, choosing the safer illusion simply because he’s terrified of the smallest hint of acceptance?

Chūya ground his jaw, staring into his cup.

Atsushi was too good for this. Too bright, even with his anxiety and hang-ups. He deserved something real — not the cold, frightening dynamic he’d been dragged into by Akutagawa.

“This kitten doesn’t deserve to be turned into another shard of the burned-out earth Dazai left behind.”

“Goddammit, Ryūnosuke,” he thought. “What guarantee is there you’ll ever see your mistakes? That you won’t make Atsushi the next casualty?”

Then his eyes drifted back to Atsushi, who happened to look up just then and smile again. A slight smile, but full of thanks. Of trust.

“And what guarantee is there that I can just stand aside while you broke his heart?”

Somewhere deep down, that thought caught and spread, filling him with fear — and with the urge to act.

He wanted to feel only anger, only contempt. Instead there came something prickly and strange. Akutagawa was a fool. Young, hot-tempered, explosive. He was wrong — like anyone is wrong — like Chūya himself once was.

“But that was his choice,” Chūya thought, eyes narrowing over his cup.

Akutagawa could have chosen differently. He could have held on to Atsushi, could have reached out and accepted him. Instead, he turned away.

And now, in his place, stood Chūya. A man already at the brink, feeling everything in him press toward the next step.

“Don’t I have the right to keep Atsu close? To shield him from pain he doesn’t deserve? Can’t I try to give him what he needs, before it’s too late?”

Another thought — cold and heavy — pressed back.

“If I do, I leave them no choice. Not him. Not that poor boy.”

Chūya lowered his eyes, one hand curling into a fist beneath the table.

— Chūya-san, were you thinking about something? — Atsushi’s quiet voice pulled him out of it.

Chūya flinched, then smoothed his expression and let a crooked smile show.

— I’m thinking your Kyōhō really is better than this garbage, — he grumbled, nodding at his own plate.

Atsushi smiled again, and Chūya felt that light scorch its way inside him.

“I can’t promise I’ll get it right,” — he thought, taking a sip of chocolate. — “But maybe this time — maybe it’ll still be better than nothing.”

He shut his eyes, feeling two forces drag him in opposite directions. He was at a crossroads, and not a single road looked right.

Chapter Text

Atsushi understood the moment he saw them on the bridge.

He needed no explanations, no careful study of gestures or glances. It was all too plain: Akutagawa and Higuchi were together.

But to admit it… to accept it — was unbearable.

“Maybe I read it wrong,” he told himself later, grasping at anything. “Maybe it was a coincidence. They’re colleagues, right? Just colleagues…”

He repeated it over and over, but the false hope he tried to clutch crumbled under the weight of his own eyes. He’d fled the bridge before those thoughts could take root.

They came back anyway. And now, days later, they wiped away the last of his doubt.

After the mission, Atsushi — as always — hung back, waiting until everyone drifted off. He barely registered Akutagawa stopping at the far edge of the yard, as if waiting. Barely registered Higuchi walking up to him.

But he couldn’t miss the way she, a touch uncertain, took his hand. The motion pinned his gaze in place; the rest of the world held its breath.

She said something — softly, too far away to hear. Akutagawa looked at her, gave a short nod, and said something back; his voice was its usual restraint, and yet there was something new inside it.

They turned and headed toward the park. Unhurried. As if no one else existed.

“So this is what it looks like,” Atsushi thought, the taste of iron in the back of his throat.

Not an illusion. Not a mistake. What he had seen on the bridge had been the truth.

He almost turned away — almost ran — but his feet refused him. He kept telling himself he had to move on, and some wordless fire burned everything hollow inside.

“I can’t watch this,” he thought, feeling his throat cinch tight.

Forcing himself to take a single step back, he turned, breathing hard, and walked away. His legs carried him toward the pier — somewhere he could just be alone. Somewhere he didn’t have to pretend he was fine.

On the way, he stopped at a familiar flower shop.

The florist, long used to his visits, spotted him and waved.

— Atsushi-kun! We’ve just had a fresh delivery! Look at these black-violet irises, — he said, beckoning him closer. — Or perhaps the red spider lilies? We also have European-style white lilies, very elegant…

Atsushi stalled, eyes dropping to the bright, blood-red petals.

— I think the spider lilies will do, — he said quietly, his voice almost drained of life.

The shopkeeper nodded and began to wrap the bouquet with care, but Atsushi was no longer watching. He stood there, studying the flowers as if they might answer him.

“These walks to the pier, these bouquets… it has always felt like a funeral. A funeral for what lay between us. For what I felt for him. And now… now it makes even more sense.”

Fragrant and fragile, the flowers seemed like the emblem of everything he had lost before he’d ever had the chance to keep it.

When he finally reached the pier, the sky had already washed itself in cold shades of gray. He sat down on the stones at the water’s edge and hugged his knees. Beside him lay the bouquet and a cup of green tea, its steam mingling with the briny air. A thin wind scoured his face, bone-deep, but inside him it was even colder.

“Why do I keep coming here? … No, why can’t I stop?” — he thought.

He watched the waves lazily break against the rocks. “Why does this place keep pulling me back?”

He closed his eyes and the memories rose up again: the ice, the burn in his lungs, the sting of the freezing water. His hands had trembled, his legs had refused to move, and one thought had hammered in his head: He died so I could live.

Since then he’d come back here — tea, flowers, and a pain that would not let go. The place felt like a thread tying him to Ryūnosuke, a thin line snapped on the ship, and every time he performed the ritual he hoped, absurdly, that it might stitch that emptiness a little.

Everything collapsed the instant he heard footsteps above him. Foreign footsteps.

He looked up and froze. There were two people on the pier: Ryūnosuke and Higuchi.

They stood by the rail and, though their voices were low, snippets of speech drifted down to him. Higuchi was saying something — soft, almost tender. Ryūnosuke answered in short, measured tones, calm in a way that felt unfamiliar.

“They’re mocking me…”

Atsushi dropped his head and clenched his fists. Pain washed over him in a dull, numbing swell. All the things he had tried to preserve here — memories, feelings, hope — suddenly felt pointless.

They’d stolen even this last piece of him.

— Could we… maybe next week? — Higuchi’s voice trembled with shy hope.

— If there aren’t any sudden missions, I can, — Ryūnosuke answered, flat and steady.

— Then… it’s a date, — she breathed, and for a heartbeat she lost herself, whispering so low it might have been only for him — I love you, Ryūnosuke-sempai.

The words fell into the air like a gunshot.

Atsushi felt them hit him in the chest, each syllable a cold, precise cut. He had no need to look; he didn’t need to read their gestures or search for proof. The world telescoped to a single, unbearable image: Higuchi slipping her hand into Ryūnosuke’s, his shoulder dipping toward her to catch the sound of her voice. That small, ordinary intimacy looped in his head like a groove stuck on repeat.

— It’s mutual, — Ryūnosuke said after a breath, voice unmoving as stone.

Those two words finished him. They slid under his ribs and scraped his beating heart like ice. He loves her. Of course. That’s how it should be. The thought sat on him like a lead weight, and every “should” in the world sounded like mockery.

Chuya’s words — “you’ll learn to live with it” — flickered through his mind like a guttering candle. He tried to latch on to them, to make them into a lifeline. He tried to breathe the advice in and steel himself. But the image wouldn’t let go. The sky, the mountains, the whole sunset — beauty that once steadied him — turned distant and false, as if someone had painted a picture of the world over the real thing.

“Maybe I should die here”, — an absurd, raw thought flared and vanished, the kind that belongs to people who’ve been hollowed out.

He tasted iron. Tears burned. His throat tightened so badly that each breath felt like a theft. 

“What am I left with?” 

The question wasn’t rhetorical; it landed in him like a verdict.

He tried the thin charm of logic — “this is for the best, he’ll be happy,” — then abandoned it as hollow as the sunset. He wanted to scream, to run back and tear the world apart. Instead he pressed his palms to his face and let the tears come. They were hot and useless and true.

Somewhere a voice — distant, impossibly calm — reached him through the fog: Chuya was right. 

“You’ll learn to live with it.” 

He clung to it like driftwood. Not because it comforted, but because it was company. Because the alternative was being utterly, unbearably alone in that cold, and he could not bear the thought of that tonight.

He stayed, trembling on the edge between breaking and holding on, while behind him Ryūnosuke’s voices with Higuchi threaded the dusk like a blade.

Аtsushi touched the bouquet beside the steaming cup of green tea with the gentlest of fingers. The scarlet spider-lilies brushed the stone he was sitting on as if reaching for the cold earth — just like his thoughts, which always slid downward into the dark. His hands betrayed him with a tremor; he locked his fingers together to choke back the weakness.

A single thought flickered across his mind: Leave. Just go. Find Chūya, call him, tell him everything that was strangling him from the inside. The redhead would listen without interruption, then spit out some cutting, honest line that, somehow, always helped him stand up again. But the moment Atsushi imagined saying those words aloud something inside him flipped and turned itself inside out.

“You’re weak,” came a voice in his head — not his own, but Ryūnosuke’s: clipped, cold, corrosive. “You run to Chūya for comfort. As if he isn’t suffering himself. As if he still has strength left to pull you, pathetic, from this pit when he’s barely holding on.” A nervous laugh escaped Atsushi’s lips. The bitterness of that voice was achingly familiar. Chūya’s face rose, for a second, in his mind: tired, wearing that small, constant smirk that pretended not to care about the world — which wasn’t true. That face had been visiting him too often these last weeks.

He drew a deep breath, but the air seemed to freeze — heavy, unwilling to fill his lungs. His knuckles whitened; his eyes slid back to the flowers. For an instant he wanted to seize the bouquet and hurl it into the water. Everything — the tea, the flowers, the memories — felt like shackles anchoring him to the past, pulling him down. If they were gone, maybe I could be let go too.

But he stayed. He sat and watched the petals tremble in the wind.

“Ryūnosuke saved me then, at the cost of his life. He pulled me out. Why?” The thought struck like a brand, hotter even than the January cold. 

“So I’d remain like this? To realise that without him all of this is only emptiness? That by saving me he made me a stranger in his world? That I could never return?”

Looking into the dark water, Atsushi felt a terrible recognition of Chūya’s silence for the first time. The redhead knew this hollow — the loss of a loved one, the death of a future that would never come. Chūya spoke of it rarely, but every glance, every pause, every inhalation when they were alone shouted it louder than words. Once, conversations with him had been a distraction from Ryūnosuke’s sharpness and the endless ache he left behind. Now they were something more: not merely a respite, but a search for a reason to keep living — a desperate attempt to accept, with a terrifying clarity, that his feelings for the dark-haired man were always doomed.

The sudden ring of his phone tore him out of his thoughts. Atsushi hurriedly pulled it out, praying the sound hadn’t drawn attention.

— Hello? — his voice was quiet, uncertain.

— Blondie, where are you? — Chuuya’s voice was calm, though tinged with a faint note of worry.

— At the pier, Chuuya-san, — Atsushi answered, trying to keep his tone even, though his heart was pounding far too fast.

— Jinko? — came a cold voice from above, unmistakably Akutagawa’s. — What the hell are you doing here?

Atsushi flinched, but didn’t turn, clutching the phone tighter in his hand.

— Alone? — Chuuya’s voice softened slightly.

— No, — said Atsushi, his voice trembling just a little. — Akutagawa and Higuchi-san are here.

There was a pause on the other end, then Chuuya spoke, his voice carrying a bitter, knowing tenderness:

— They’re together, and you’re down there alone? Do you want me to come?

— No, — Atsushi exhaled. — Chuuya-san, how are you? Are you all right?

— I’m fine, — Chuuya replied with a touch of surprise. — What about you?

Atsushi opened his mouth to answer, but once again heard the call from above.

— Jinko, my damn cat, I’m talking to you! — Akutagawa’s voice came louder, harsher, but Atsushi ignored him again.

— Chuuya-san, may I stay at your place tonight? — Atsushi finally asked, his voice trembling more than he wanted it to.

Another pause, and then the redhead answered gently:

— Of course, kitten. Just pick up something sweet on your way. We’ll meet at the bar — the one with the hummingbird sign. You remember it.

— All right, I’ll bring some… — Atsushi whispered, but then jolted as he felt movement behind him.

— What are you… — he began, turning, but fell silent when a sharp, painful grip clamped around his wrist. Akutagawa’s hand crushed down so hard his nails nearly dug into skin, then with a sudden jerk he wrenched the phone away and hurled it into the water with such force that the splash split the night’s silence.

Atsushi froze, staring at him in utter shock. The phone was already gone beneath the dark waves, but before he could even register it, his body moved on instinct: he stepped toward the edge, as if he could reach for what was lost — only to feel a violent shove.

— Don’t even think about it, idiot, — Akutagawa snarled, shoving him back onto the stones. The push was so rough that Atsushi barely kept his balance, staggering, nearly falling.

He lifted his gaze to Akutagawa, still stunned. The man looked back at him coldly, with a faint trace of contempt. Somewhere in the distance Higuchi’s voice carried down, but brunette no longer heard a thing.

Atsushi’s voice shook under the weight of emotion. The blond couldn’t hold it in any longer:

— Why?! — he cried out, his voice snapping like an overstrung wire. His eyes gleamed, his chest burned with pain.

— Why? — Akutagawa took a sharp step forward, his gaze blazing with fury. — Because you’re pathetic, Jinko!

— What?! — was all Atsushi could breathe out, stunned by the force of that anger.

— Every time things get hard, you crawl to my mentor! — the brunette’s voice lashed like a whip, cutting the air. Another step closer. — Crying on his shoulder, whining, complaining! You cling to him like some cowardly, wretched creature!

— I never… — Atsushi tried to speak, but Akutagawa gave him no chance:

— You use him! Shamelessly, without restraint! You’re a weakling who always needs someone stronger to hide behind! First Dazai, now Chuuya! You can’t do a damn thing on your own!

The words struck Atsushi like a blow to the heart. His body faltered, weak under the weight of them, yet somehow he gathered himself, forcing his spine straight.

— You don’t know… — he began, but froze as the shadows of Rashomon suddenly lashed toward him. Black ribbons coiled around his wrists, his waist, tightening hard, almost painfully.

— Pathetic, cowardly cat, Akutagawa hissed, dragging him closer, like a predator ready for the final strike. — The only thing you’re capable of is laying flowers and tea at a grave for a dead version of me, because you’ll never have the courage to face me alive.

Atsushi stood frozen, barely breathing. Rashomon held him fast, leaving him defenseless before Akutagawa. His eyes brimmed again with tears, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the figure before him.

The brunette looked down at him, cold as ice. And in that moment, Atsushi remembered why his heart had once reached so desperately for this man. Because even in his fury, Akutagawa saw right through him. He understood Atsushi in a way no one else ever had. And that realization only made it hurt more.

But was it the truth? Or were these just the words of someone who hated him as much as Atsushi hated himself now?

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to pull himself together, but the pain caused by Akutagawa’s words kept spreading through his mind.

— Leave me the hell alone! — he shouted, his voice breaking into something close to a sob.

Akutagawa froze. His face seemed carved in stone, and only the widening of his eyes betrayed the instant shock. Yet the pause lasted only a heartbeat — his gaze darkened, filling with irritation, and he stepped closer.

— Alone? — his voice came out a harsh whisper, but the threat in it was far stronger than any shout. — Do you really think I’ll leave you alone after what you’ve done?

— What I’ve done?! — Atsushi jerked back, only to feel sharp pain as strong fingers clamped down on his shoulder, refusing to let him retreat.

— I can’t even imagine how much courage it takes to stay by your side. You act like… — Atsushi pushed on, his voice trembling, though he tried to make it louder.

The brunette didn’t move, his dark eyes boring into the were-tiger’s face.

— Like what? A monster?.. — Akutagawa narrowed his gaze, his voice cold as ice.

— No. Like an ASSHOLE!!! — Atsushi yelled, each syllable tearing itself out as if he’d been holding it back for far too long. — Go deal with your own damn life, Akutagawa, and stay out of someone else’s!

The brunette’s steps were slow and tense, but relentless. He kept moving closer, like a predator intent on crushing its prey.

— You cry because of me. You run from me. But you keep coming here, as if this place belongs to you, — he said quietly, but there was a strange edge in his voice.

— You don’t even understand what you’re doing right now, — Atsushi said softly, meeting the brunette’s gaze.

Those words seemed to break something in Akutagawa. His grip on the were-tiger’s shoulder tightened, but instead of pushing him away or turning his back, the brunette only closed the distance further. His words were rough, furious, but his actions told another story.

Atsushi saw it. And that realization, strange and contradictory, left him paralyzed.

— If you can’t figure out where you belong, I’ll show you, — Akutagawa hissed, his voice low and threatening.

His voice was rough, nearly breaking, and his grip felt like an iron trap. Atsushi tried to say something, but the air was cut off: Rashomon’s ribbons suddenly slid around his throat, tightening just enough to leave only a thin gap for breath.

— Let go… — he rasped, clawing at the sharp edges of the ability.

But no answer came. Akutagawa’s eyes burned into him, searing with focused rage. The brunette looked almost detached, though his hands were crushing into Atsushi’s shirt, pinning him in place.

With every moment Rashomon grew tighter, as if obeying the suppressed fury of its master. Atsushi felt his breath struggling through his throat, and suddenly fear crept in. Not for himself, but for the one standing before him.

He could almost hear the sound of that familiar “snap,” the moment when Akutagawa tipped into uncontrollable rage. And this time, he couldn’t understand why.

— Leave me… alone! — he whispered, but the words were nearly swallowed by the suffocating silence.

Akutagawa leaned in closer, his face only a few inches away. The anger etched across his features felt almost tangible, yet something flickered in his gaze — so fleeting that Atsushi couldn’t quite catch it.

— You have no idea how pathetic you are, Jinko, — the brunette hissed, but his voice had dropped, no longer fueled by fury, carrying instead a strain of some unspoken inner pain.

And it was that tone that made Atsushi meet his eyes. For a heartbeat, as sharp and sudden as a lightning strike, their gazes locked.

Akutagawa froze. His fingers were still fisted in Atsushi’s collar, his breath uneven, as though realization had crashed over him. Rage, fury, irritation — all of it fell back before something new, something terrifying. He suddenly understood he wanted… to touch him. But not to strike. Not to make him suffer.

His gaze lingered, just for a moment, on Atsushi’s lips. A strange heaviness settled low in his stomach — tight, hot — and it disoriented him more than any fight ever had.

“What am I doing?”

Panic surged. Akutagawa abruptly released him and stumbled back a step, as if the contact had burned. Rashomon slackened at once, though it didn’t let Atsushi go completely, still hanging between them like a trembling barrier.

The brunette braced against the wall beside him, breathing hard. His face was as cold as ever, yet his eyes betrayed a confusion he couldn’t mask.

Coughing, Atsushi slid down against the wall, clutching at his throat. He looked up at Akutagawa, a mix of hurt and bewilderment written in his gaze.

— You don’t even know why you keep coming here, — Akutagawa finally broke the silence, his voice stripped of its earlier sharpness. He still tried to sound cold, but even to himself the words rang hollow. — You run away, only to come back again… as if you had the right.

— I… — Atsushi began, but the words failed him.

Akutagawa turned sharply, his gaze cold once more, but absent of the raw fury from before. Instead, it was the look of someone struggling to contain the weight of what was overflowing inside.

— Shut up, Jinko, — he snapped, though the words rang unconvincing.

Silence followed. The brunette lowered his head, covering his mouth with his hand as if to hide the storm of emotion on his face. If Atsushi hadn’t known him so well, he might have thought Akutagawa looked almost… embarrassed.

The ribbons of Rashomon, still binding him, trembled faintly. For a heartbeat they hung there, uncertain, then slowly slid away, releasing Atsushi at last.

The brunette never lifted his eyes.

Atsushi struggled to steady his breath, his lungs burning as if starved of air. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, avoiding Akutagawa’s eyes, and stepped back a few paces.

— I’m sorry for intruding on your date. Good night, — he whispered, forcing his voice into something steady, though the undertone of hurt and fragility still slipped through.

He spun on his heel and walked away, shoulders stiff, trying to keep his posture straight even as his legs threatened to give out beneath him.

The silence that followed his departure was almost tangible. It draped itself over the pier like a heavy shroud, as if the place itself sought to swallow the last echoes of anger and tension that had just torn through the air.

Akutagawa remained rooted to the spot. His fists, still clenched, trembled faintly. His gaze drifted somewhere into the distance, yet inevitably returned to the bouquet and the teacup left abandoned on the wooden boards.

— Senpai… shall we go? — Higuchi’s voice broke the silence, cautious, almost timid.

He did not answer at once.

— Go home, — he said at last, without turning to her. His voice was cold, detached — yet stripped of its usual sharpness.

Higuchi frowned, uncertain. She studied him for several moments, hoping to find some trace of meaning in the stillness of his features. But his face remained fixed, unmoving, like stone.

— Until tomorrow, Senpai, — she murmured softly, and with one last glance at his back, she turned and left.

Her footsteps faded into the distance. Akutagawa did not watch her go. His eyes remained fixed on the bouquet and the teacup.

Higuchi’s presence… or her absence — he could not feel the difference. Her devotion was loud, insistent, her care constant, but it never left behind anything that clung to him. Not the way Jinko did.

His gaze lingered on the crimson flowers, lying beside the cup. Against the dark wood, their color burned itself into his mind, searing an impression he could not shake. A flash of something stirred inside his chest — not anger, not irritation. Something else.

His hands slowly uncurled. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he drew in a deeper breath, and yet instead of relief, the weight within him only grew heavier.

He shut his eyes, as if he could silence the chaos rising in his head. But it was too late — that storm would no longer be ignored.

Only moments ago, Atsushi had stood here. Now the silence in his absence pressed down heavier than any blade, sharper than any insult. It wasn’t Jinko who had chosen to walk away — it was him, Akutagawa, who had driven him off with threats and fury.

And what was left behind was emptiness.

Not the clean, hollow quiet of solitude — but a suffocating void, raw and jagged, clawing at him from the inside. A silence that echoed like a wound that would not close.

It hurt.

It hurt almost like that night on the pier, when Atsushi had left with Chūya and the world had turned unbearably still. But back then, he had blamed them both. Now… now he could not pretend. This time the blame circled back, sharp and merciless, until it settled where it belonged.

Squarely on himself.

And standing there, fists unclenched, breath shallow, eyes locked on the flowers and the cup, Akutagawa felt it — as though the pier beneath his feet had split open, and he was sinking into a darkness carved entirely of his own making.

He took a step forward and slowly lowered himself into a crouch before the bouquet. His fingers hovered in the air for a moment, as if afraid to touch the petals, then brushed lightly against their velvety surface.

— All of this… for me? — he whispered, barely audible.

His gaze shifted to the cup of tea. Modest, almost forgettable — and that was what made it so starkly his. Not for display, but for him, in silence, in care.

He lifted the cup in his hands. The warmth hadn’t faded yet. Akutagawa brought it to his lips, took a small sip, and the familiar taste spread across his tongue.

“Sweet.”

Exactly four cubes of sugar. Just the way he always drank it. Jinko knew that.

That simple realization pierced into him like a blade. Why did the one he despised still remember how he liked his tea? Why did Jinko care for him, even after what he’d said, what he’d done? Why… did it matter so unbearably much to him?

The bouquet’s crimson shone with a violence of color against the night, like a light too sharp for the dark to contain. It was not anger, not resentment that it stirred in him, but something far more unbearable — the ache of being remembered. He stared at lilies for a long time, pressing their image into his mind until it hurt. All of it — a reminder of Jinko. Of his gestures, always so contradictory. Of his care, hidden behind fear.

But hadn’t he, Akutagawa, just done the same? Shouting at Jinko, humiliating him, lashing out at him for coming, for thinking of him, for bringing flowers — as though to a meeting. And yet here he was, instead of running after him and speaking, standing in the same place, struggling to make sense of himself.

His fingers closed around the stems, as if they could give him answers.

— You’re still thinking of me, — he whispered, his voice trembling. For an instant, true weakness broke through. He swallowed it quickly, straightened, clutching the bouquet to his chest.

For a moment he wondered — what should he do now? Go home? Leave the flowers here, where they didn’t belong to him? Or take them with him, as if that would change anything?

But the longer he stood, the stronger something dark and sticky flared inside him. He needed to escape. He needed to break free from this closed circle, where every step, every thought dragged him back to Jinko again.

Akutagawa slowly turned and made his way toward the nearest bar. He knew it wouldn’t solve his problems, but he no longer had the strength to hold himself together.

***

Akutagawa sat at the bar, clutching the bouquet in both hands. The crimson petals were too bright, too alive for this dim, smoke-soaked room. They looked like a stray detail, completely out of place in his hands, yet he couldn’t let them go. In front of him stood a glass of absinthe, where murky shadows flickered in the bar’s tired light.

“ I drove him away myself. I chose this. So why… ”

His fingers slowly, almost unconsciously, stroked the flower stems. The threats, the insults, the bitterness in Atsushi’s voice, his eyes full of hurt… all of it came back in echo, as if he were stuck inside that moment.

Each swallow of absinthe spread through his body in a heavy wave, but brought no relief. The alcohol didn’t take the pain away — it only made it sharper, as if underlining that there was no escape from himself.

— Never thought I’d see you here with flowers, — came a familiar voice, breaking the viscous quiet around him. — For Higuchi? Grim choice. Those would suit you more than a sweet girl.

Akutagawa slowly raised his gaze. Chūya, in his unchanging coat and hat, had already come closer. His eyes slid over the brunette, lingered on the bouquet locked in his hands, then lifted to his face.

— Why aren’t you with Jinko? — Akutagawa snapped, skipping any greeting. His voice sounded dry and bitter, and his eyes slipped back to the glass, as if he were afraid to meet another’s gaze.

Chūya frowned slightly, but didn’t look away, watching the brunette’s condition closely.

— We couldn’t set a time, — he answered calmly. — And I lost contact with him. I think he needs some time to sort himself out.

“And also because you drowned his phone — because he was talking to me, not you,” — Chūya added inwardly, but kept quiet. Akutagawa didn’t look ready to hear anything like that. “Poor, love-sick boy. ”

— Sort himself out… — Akutagawa repeated, the corners of his mouth twitching into a bitter, fractured smile. He hadn’t meant to laugh, but the sound tore out anyway — hoarse and hollow.

He dropped his gaze back to the glass, as if the answer might be hiding there.

— Kiddo, — Chūya said softly, stepping closer and leaning on the counter beside him. His voice grew quieter, almost personal. — What happened?

— Nothing, — Akutagawa threw shortly, without lifting his eyes from the absinthe’s emerald sheen. He pushed the glass away, as if the alcohol no longer mattered.

Chūya didn’t retreat. He leaned a little nearer, studying the tired, still-taut lines of the brunette’s face.

— You look awful, — he said quietly, without a trace of mockery.

— Then don’t look, — Akutagawa cut off. His voice sounded detached, but there was a bitterness in it that burned from the inside.

Chūya watched him a few seconds more, then straightened, allowing Akutagawa to sink back into the silence he clearly didn’t know how to handle.

— Atsushi said he needs some time alone, — Chūya switched the subject without warning, settling onto the stool beside him. — You know, it happens.

— Of course, — Akutagawa gave a bitter half-smile, tightening his grip on the bouquet. — It’s always easy for him. Just turn and walk away.

— Easy? — Chūya echoed, as if unsure he’d heard right. — You serious right now?

— My damn cat can’t do anything but run, — the brunette muttered, clamping a hand around his glass. — To you, to the Agency, to the pier, anywhere so long as not to…

He cut himself off, as if realizing he’d said too much. The words clogged in his throat, heavy and dragging him under.

Chūya watched him, pretending not to notice the stumble. He lifted his glass, took a slow sip of wine, and said:

— And you?

Akutagawa snapped his head over, eyes narrowing.

— What?

— And you, Ryūnosuke? — Chūya’s gaze stayed almost too calm as he set the glass back on the counter. — All that yelling at him, hiding behind rage and those little attacks — that’s a kind of running, too, isn’t it?

The brunette blew out a sharp breath, as if someone had driven a fist straight into a bruise. His fingers locked tighter around the glass, as though that could hold him together.

— You have no idea what you’re talking about, — he ground out between his teeth.

Chūya squinted, but his voice stayed low and even — not goading, almost helpful:

— You know, — he leaned in, — I’m your mentor. Which means I’m here to support you, whether you like it or not.

Akutagawa’s jaw clicked; he could feel his defenses starting to buckle under the weight of those plain, almost offhand words.

— I don’t need anyone’s support, — he shot back. But his voice hitched, and he could only hope Chūya hadn’t heard it.

Chūya huffed — not mockery so much as a wry, almost friendly snort.

— Maybe you don’t, — he allowed, watching him closely. — Or maybe you do — just from one particular person.

Silence stretched, filled only by the bar’s muffled hum. Chūya let it breathe, giving Akutagawa time to reach the obvious himself.

— And I don’t mean Dazai, — he added with the faintest smile, taking another sip.

Akutagawa looked away, staring down the glass. He didn’t know what to say — wasn’t even sure he wanted to. Every sentence Chūya spoke sliced his thoughts open, forcing him to glance into corners of himself he’d avoided for years.

Chūya’s gaze drifted back to the bouquet. Akutagawa’s pale fingers were idly sifting through the scarlet petals. Slowly, almost uncertainly, as if the flowers were something priceless that might be broken by accident.

Chūya held his breath without meaning to. He knew Ryūnosuke as a man who kept his hands in his pockets or clenched them into fists. Hands made to tear, to rend, to ruin. Not to touch like this… gently. Not to shield.

The brunette seemed not to notice what he was doing. His fingers stilled on a single petal, barely grazing its velvet face. The gesture was so fragile that Chūya himself felt like an intruder on something too private.

He knew that care, that touch — the same as his own only a few days ago.

A warm afternoon, Atsushi’s smile, a daisy tucked into his copper hair. Chūya remembered reaching to pluck it out and then leaving it there, not daring to break the moment.

Now Ryūnosuke sat before him. Stubborn, sharp as a knife, the kind of man who does nothing but shove away anyone who tries to come close. And still — somehow Atsushi had gotten through.

Not just flowers in someone’s hands. A symbol.

The realization hit Chūya cold in the chest.

“What am I even doing? Was I really going to interfere? Take from him the one person whose warmth he can still answer? Be worse to him than that bastard Dazai?”

The redhead exhaled, nervously rotating the wineglass in his hand.

— Listen, — he said, keeping his tone light, as if it were only a friendly remark. — That’s between you and Atsushi. But you know, sometimes it’s better just to talk.

Akutagawa didn’t look up. His fingers were still resting on the petal, trembling almost imperceptibly.

— He won’t listen to me, — he rasped.

— Are you sure? — Chūya asked, studying him.

Ryūnosuke shifted, as if to answer, and fell silent. Instead he clutched the flowers tighter, drawing them to his chest, as if that simple act could hold on to something already slipping away.

Chūya let the pause stand, allowing the quiet to fill the space between them.

— You know, I’m not going to choose, — his voice came dull, almost tired. — Not you, not him. You’re both damn stubborn. And damn unhappy.

Akutagawa jerked his shoulder, as if to shake the talk off and couldn’t. His gaze flicked to the flowers he was crushing in his fingers like a life ring in a storm. The petals had crumpled a little, their crimson looked almost bloody under the bar’s dim lights.

— You think he’ll want to listen to me? — the brunette’s voice broke, coming out too quiet, almost pathetic. He kept his eyes on the bouquet as if the answers were tucked between the petals. — What if he just… drops these missions? Leaves for good? For the Agency? Or… — his voice thinned further. — Leaves. Another city. Far from all of it. From me.

Chūya watched him in silence. Words sank in the thick, almost suffocating air. He saw Akutagawa’s fingers tremble, the slight shiver in his shoulders.

— Kiddo, — he said at last, lifting his hands as if to steady the brunette on the edge of the pit he’d dug for himself. — Easy. You’re overthinking.

— And what if I’m not? — Akutagawa snapped; louder now, though the fracture still ran through his voice. He crushed the bouquet harder until a few petals tore free and fell onto the counter. — What if he really leaves? I… — he broke off and dropped his head.

The flowers in his hands no longer looked beautiful. They looked fragile, broken — a mirror of his own state.

Chūya let out a slow breath, eyes never leaving him.

— You know what I think? — he said quietly. — You’re not afraid he’ll leave. You’re afraid he’ll stay.

Akutagawa’s head jerked up, anger and pain crowding his gaze.

— What do you even know? — it came out rough, but it shook.

Chūya snorted, glancing down at his wine.

— More than you think, Ryūnosuke, — he said, turning the glass between his fingers.

— He… scares me, — Akutagawa said so softly Chūya barely caught it.

The redhead blinked, unable to hide a flicker of surprise. Given everything he knew about this man, the admission sounded almost impossible.

— Atsu? — he asked, making sure he’d heard right. — That sweet kid?

Akutagawa’s shoulder twitched, as if the nickname scraped raw.

— Yes, — he said shortly, dropping his eyes to the scarlet petals. His hands trembled as he set the bouquet beside the glass, as though he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to hold it any longer.

— Because he… he does something to me, — Akutagawa went on, his voice almost failing. — I can’t focus. I can’t be… myself.

Chūya exhaled slowly, a look passing through his eyes that was too knowing — almost painful — to name.

“How I know that feeling…”

He leaned in a touch, turning the stem of his glass. The small ring of crystal against wood nicked the silence.

— Ryūnosuke, — he began softly, scarcely more than a whisper. — Have you ever considered that maybe this is you? The real you?

Akutagawa’s head snapped up. His eyes, clouded with anger and confusion, searched Chūya’s face for any kind of purchase.

— What are you getting at? — he managed at last; the certainty was gone, leaving only a thin attempt at control.

Chūya looked at him over the rim of his glass, his gaze piercing but, surprisingly, gentle.

— Nothing you don’t already know, — he said, taking a small sip.

Silence settled again between them, thicker this time, as if the air itself congealed under the weight. Akutagawa’s gaze dropped back to the bouquet; his fingers twitched, barely, as though afraid to break the fragile petals.

Chūya watched him in silence. It was a strange, contradictory sight: a man who could wipe out everything around him with ease now looked frighteningly vulnerable, as if he were standing on the edge.

“If Atsushi managed to touch something real in him, maybe not everything’s lost,” Chūya thought, but he said nothing aloud. He knew that if he voiced it, Akutagawa would wall himself off behind anger in an instant. Instead, he pretended the moment wasn’t as important as it seemed.

— Have another, Ryūnosuke, — he tossed off, lowering his eyes to his glass again. — You’ve got far too many emotions on your face for one evening.

The bar’s drone wrapped the room — voices, laughter, muffled music. But for Akutagawa it all drowned in the shadow of his thoughts. He sat motionless, his gaze fixed on the bouquet whose scarlet petals looked too bright for this half-light.

He sat motionless, as if he’d forgotten Chūya was there at all, while the redhead’s pale fingers slipped, out of habit, back to his glass. Chūya studied him for a beat, then his eyes flicked past him, over Akutagawa’s shoulder. Something crossed his face — gone in a heartbeat, and he was calm again.

— Sorry, kiddo, I’ve got to go. See you tomorrow, — Chūya said evenly, laying a few bills on the counter and getting to his feet.

Akutagawa didn’t even lift his head, sunk in his own thoughts. Only when the sound of Chūya’s footsteps dissolved into the noise did he slowly look back at the bouquet lying beside him. The petals — red as fresh blood — stood out against the dark wood of the counter.

His hand, almost mechanically, reached for the flowers. His fingers touched one of the blooms — the motion froze for an instant, as if he were afraid to lay a hand on it. Then he took the blossom and turned it between his fingertips. It was almost gentle, almost careful — so much so the gesture felt alien on Akutagawa. He’d never handled anything like this. Never.

It lasted only a few seconds before his fingers clenched. The lily, poised and elegant a moment ago, crumpled in his fist. Its petals, like torn wings, scattered into the glass. Akutagawa watched the flower sink into the clear liquid, which began to blush red.

His reflection wavered there, distorted by the ripple of petals. His features smudged, turning unrecognizable.

— Why do you always… hurt me like this? — he breathed, barely audible—whether to the reflection, or to the one who’d brought the flowers.

Music, laughter, the clink of glasses — suddenly it was all unbearably loud, as if the bar itself insisted the world kept moving while Akutagawa stood still in his dark. He didn’t look away from the glass, from the dead, empty eyes of his own reflection staring back.

His hand jerked, but he didn’t smash the glass the way he once would have. He only gripped it so hard his fingers blanched. Another moment and the fragile crystal might not have held — but Akutagawa let go, refusing to let anger crest completely. Instead he watched the mangled petals again, almost transfixed, as they sank.

“You wouldn’t even notice if I disappeared,” he thought — but he knew it wasn’t true. And that only made it worse.

Chapter Text

A month filled with quiet thoughts drifted past Atsushi like a fog. Everything he did felt like a desperate attempt to fill the hollow inside. Staying late at the office, burying himself in routine — he worked until exhaustion blurred the edges of thought. Yet every time he came home, the inevitable silence wrapped around him, and the heavy ache returned in waves, stronger than before.

He hadn’t crossed paths with Akutagawa again. Their communication had shrunk to the bare minimum, and even the need to coordinate with the Black Lizards didn’t break the fragile distance Atsushi had built between himself and everyone else. He avoided not only Ryūnosuke, but anything that might remind him that once, he’d wanted to be his partner.

Work became mechanical: observation, brief reports, nothing extra. His colleagues seemed to accept his coldness as a given. Higuchi sometimes tossed out sharp remarks, but they slid past him without leaving a mark. Only Chūya — with his piercing gaze and his cursed ability to see more than he should — occasionally broke through that fragile isolation.

Today, like on any other day, Chūya appeared at the pier with the air of a man who kept the world under control — even if, in truth, that control was an illusion. A brief exchange with Akutagawa, a quick glance over the reports — it all took no more than a minute. Ryūnosuke gave a grim nod, visibly irritated, but Chūya only waved a hand, turning away.

— Keep working, — he threw over his shoulder, walking off with careless ease.

His steps slowed only when he reached Atsushi, who stood at the very edge of the pier, motionless, staring into the distance like a statue. The water mirrored the gray sky, and the blond looked just as pale and faded as the landscape itself.

— Hey, kid, — Chūya stopped beside him, arms crossed. His voice carried its usual hint of a smirk, but his eyes betrayed his weariness. — How’s life?

Atsushi tore himself away from his thoughts and looked at him. His faint, almost strained smile barely passed for an emotion.

— I’m alive, — he said quietly, turning his gaze back to the gray waves. — And you?

— Alive, like you, — Chūya answered with a humorless chuckle. — If you can even call that living.

Silence settled between them. Only the murmur of water and distant voices disturbed it, but Atsushi didn’t seem to notice. Chūya tilted his head slightly, studying the young man’s profile as if searching for something hidden there.

Atsushi gave a small nod but said nothing. His hands clutched the railing tightly, as if it was the only thing keeping him anchored in reality.

Chūya glanced at the water, then back at Atsushi’s face. His expression hardened, but his tone stayed even:

— He’s not going to let you rest that easily, is he?

Atsushi flinched but didn’t turn. His shoulders sank a little, and when he spoke, his voice was barely audible:

— I’m trying… just to work.

Chūya snorted.

— You mean to tell me that helps?

The blond remained silent, staring out at the horizon as if the answer might be hiding there. But there was no answer — only the cold wind and the dull slap of waves.

— You know, kiddo, — Chūya said, lifting his eyes to the low sky, — the ones who pretend they don’t feel anything are usually the first to burn out.

For the first time, Atsushi looked at him. His eyes were dim, tired — but somewhere deep inside, something flickered, fragile and raw. Maybe fear. Maybe despair.

— What should I do? — his voice broke, the words spilling out as if he barely dared to speak them.

Chūya stayed quiet for a moment before answering. His gaze was hard, almost rough, yet somehow it didn’t feel heavy.

— Live, — he said finally. — Live, even if it hurts. That’s more than he ever did.

The words, sharp as stones, hung in the air long after they were spoken. Atsushi looked away again, but his hands loosened — as if some invisible weight had eased, if only slightly.

Chūya looked at him one last time, exhaled deeply, and left, leaving the blond alone.

The silence of the pier filled once more with the sounds of wind and waves, but somewhere within it, an echo still lingered: “Live…”

***

Today’s meeting with the Mafia wasn’t held at the usual pier, but in a stifling room of a small office near the Port. The space was far too cramped for everyone gathered there, yet Atsushi kept his distance, standing in the farthest corner. His arms were loosely wrapped around himself, his gaze deliberately avoiding faces — especially one, the presence of which pressed on him almost physically.

Akutagawa stood before the team, as straight and composed as ever, his voice clear and unwavering. As he spoke about the mission details, his eyes swept over the people in front of him, sharp and precise, moving from one face to another. When his gaze caught on the figure of Atsushi at the very back, it lingered for a fraction of a second — almost unconsciously.

His voice was low, steady, perfectly measured — like a cold blade cutting through the tense air. Each word struck in rhythm, deliberate and unflinching, reinforcing his control, his discipline.

Atsushi listened, but he wasn’t really hearing. All that reached him was Akutagawa’s voice, sinking deep into his consciousness. It reminded him of the whisper of an approaching storm — commanding, inescapable, hypnotic. The words themselves blurred, replaced by that haunting sensation. He could feel how that voice pulled at him, how it made him loosen his hold on his own awareness.

Breathing suddenly became difficult. The air felt dense, like water, and the distance to the door — endless. Slowly, he lifted his eyes from the floor, looked toward the exit, and then, unable to bear it any longer, turned and left.

“Enough. I can’t listen to this anymore…”

Without raising his eyes, Atsushi quietly stepped out. The door closed behind him almost soundlessly. On his way out, he caught Higuchi’s gaze — her disapproval was plain, almost cold.

Akutagawa kept talking. Neither his tone nor his posture wavered, as though nothing had happened. But when the door closed after Atsushi, something flickered in his eyes — more than irritation. For a moment, his gaze darted toward the door — sharp, piercing, and yet somehow… hollow.

No one noticed. Akutagawa forced himself back to the briefing, burying that shadow of emotion behind the familiar mask.

Outside, Atsushi took a deep breath, hoping the cool air would help him calm down. But Akutagawa’s voice still echoed in his head. He tilted his head back, gazing at the sky veiled in gray clouds, then closed his eyes, trying to shake off the lingering sound.

Why did I even listen to him? — the thought flashed through his mind, bitter as wormwood.

He could feel himself slipping out of control, and that frightened him more than anything.

Atsushi stood at the edge of the pier, surrounded by silence, broken only by the gentle slap of waves and the gusts of cold wind. The sun had long since set, leaving behind nothing but a dim gray sky and the pale glow of the lamps lining the dock. In front of him, on the railing, sat a cup of cooling tea. Thin wisps of steam rose faintly into the chill air, and the soft scent of citrus mingled with the briny smell of the sea.

He rested his cheek against his hand, eyes fixed on the distance — though his gaze was empty. Everything before him blurred into a single shapeless haze. The wind tugged at his hair, stirred the long tail that curled loosely around his leg, trembling slightly — the only sign of the tension that bound him.

Thoughts came and went like waves. They dragged him backward, to places he no longer wanted to return to. And, as always, every path led back to Akutagawa. That endless circle of memories and questions tore him apart from within.

He exhaled heavily, as if trying to force the feeling out of himself, but the weight inside wouldn’t lift. Slowly, Atsushi slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The screen’s soft bluish glow illuminated his face, accentuating the fatigue, the shadows under his eyes, and the faint, flickering gleam of his golden irises.

His fingers hovered over the screen, as if afraid to move. For several long seconds he stared at it without blinking, as though the entire world depended on what he would do next. Then, drawing a breath deeper than usual, he finally opened the gallery.

Photos. There were only a few, but each one, like a hook, sank into his heart.

In the first picture — a sunset on the glass bridge. The sky shimmered with shades of orange, crimson, and violet, as if it were deliberately trying to show how beautiful this moment was. But Atsushi’s gaze was drawn not to the colors of the sky, but to the figures in the foreground — Akutagawa and Higuchi.

Akutagawa stood calmly, with a slight tilt of his head. His profile seemed carved, and his eyes were focused on something in the distance. There was an unusual softness in his posture, something unfamiliar to him. Next to him stood Higuchi — radiant, with genuine joy in her eyes and a touch of nervous excitement in her smile.

Atsushi felt his chest tighten. He gripped the phone so hard his fingers turned white. Unconsciously, he began swiping through the photos.

The next one, and another. The sunset, the streetlights, Higuchi with a cup of coffee, and next to her — Akutagawa. In one of the photos he was looking straight into the camera, his gaze calm, almost… warm? Atsushi tensed, as if that gaze were directed at him, and immediately caught himself thinking that.

Under one of Chuuya’s photos, he noticed a comment: “Everything was perfect! Thank you for the best evening of my life!”

Those words carved into his mind. Atsushi quickly turned off the screen, lowered the phone and gripped the railing of the pier, as if that could help him deal with what was rising inside. The wind burned his face, but tears were already welling up, and no cold air could stop them.

He closed his eyes, but those same pictures still appeared before him: Akutagawa beside someone who looked so happy, and he himself — seeing him as he never had before.

The phone lit up again in his hand. As if on autopilot, he unlocked the screen and began saving the photos. One after another. Pictures, comments, everything.

“This will help,” he told himself coldly, feeling his heart beating in his throat. “Every time I want to go to him, to speak, I’ll look at them. They’ll remind me where I belong.”

He inhaled slowly, but it didn’t help.

“He doesn’t need me. Everything I could give him, I already gave. Now he has those he wants to be near. People who make him… happy.”

Each word echoed like a torn, aching wound inside.

The wind grew stronger, and a wave splashed over the wooden planks of the pier, spraying his legs. Atsushi didn’t even move. His gaze was empty, and the tail wrapped around his leg gave a barely visible twitch.

“Get used to it,” he repeated to himself, feeling something inside him break. “Get used to not being part of his life anymore. Get used to it.”

His gaze turned again to the dark, restless surface of the water. The wind scattered thin wisps of steam rising from the cup. The scent of tea wrapped around him softly, but even that brought no comfort.

Atsushi closed his eyes, whispering what had become his mantra over the past days: this is part of reality he had to accept. He had to get used to it. Because otherwise, he simply wouldn’t survive if it happened again.

Footsteps sounded behind him — quiet, but far too distinct in the silence of the pier. Atsushi turned slowly, his gaze lifting with a trace of hope toward whoever had approached.

— Chuya-san, you’re early tod… — he began, but his voice faltered at once.

Instead of the red-haired mentor he’d expected, Akutagawa stood before him.

The brunette looked at him, his face carrying its usual cold restraint, yet somewhere deep in his eyes something sharp flickered — like a spark. Not irritation. Something more complicated.

Atsushi froze, then abruptly turned his gaze away. For just a moment, his blurred, red-rimmed eyes met Akutagawa’s piercing stare, and that instant was enough for a heavy, suffocating silence to fall between them.

Akutagawa took a step closer, never breaking eye contact. He noticed the reddened eyelids, the trembling fingers clutching the phone, trying to hide it. But what struck him most was something else.

— You… really thought it was Chuya?

His voice was quiet, almost calm, but something icy slipped through it.

Atsushi flinched as if struck. He drew in a sharp, shaky breath, lowering his head even more.

— I’m sorry… — he managed hoarsely, covering his face with his hand. His voice was fractured, barely more than a whisper.

— You ran out of the briefing, — Akutagawa continued, taking another step forward. There was no habitual sharpness in his tone. He was looking at Atsushi, and his own emotions suddenly felt too tangled, too heavy to put into words.

Atsushi could feel that pressure. His heart was hammering, panic rising in waves.

— I’m sorry, — he repeated, breaking into a whisper, still not daring to lift his head. His fingers clutched the edge of the railing tighter, and his tail trembled faintly, as though trying to hide from that gaze.

Akutagawa stayed silent, as if waiting for something. His eyes drifted over the trembling shape of the were-tiger — the tense shoulders, the desperate effort to hide the traces of tears. He couldn’t understand why this affected him so much. Why he couldn’t just turn and walk away, as he always did.

— Jinko… — he began, but didn’t finish.

Atsushi suddenly spun around and bolted, as if the weight of the moment had become unbearable. His ability flared instantly — his movements blurred, dissolving into air. He ran without looking back.

— Jinko! — Akutagawa’s voice came out sharp, almost angry — but the tiger was already gone.

The brunette stood there, staring at the spot where Atsushi had just been. The wind tugged at his hair, but he didn’t seem to notice.

The abandoned teacup stood lonely on the railing, beside deep scratches in the asphalt left by claws.

Akutagawa remained at the edge of the pier, motionless. His fingers slowly curled into fists, nails biting into his palms until pain broke through — but even that couldn’t drown out the other feeling.

He stared into the darkness, in the direction Atsushi had vanished. His heartbeat was slow and heavy, but inside, a storm was rising — anger, bitterness, confusion, all tangled together.

— Again… — he exhaled so quietly that the wind carried the word away at once.

He didn’t know which feeling burned stronger — the irritation that Atsushi had run away again, or the hurt of not being given even the chance to say a single word.

Akutagawa knew that Atsushi would avoid the conversation. The were-tiger had always been a stupid, skittish cat. But for some reason, this time everything felt different.

He remembered how Atsushi had turned around — tear-streaked, broken. Barely lifting his eyes, he had spoken another man’s name. Chuya-san… It struck something sharp and painful in his chest.

“I came here for you. To at least once try to make sense of this chaos you leave behind.”

Atsushi hadn’t even truly looked at him. He turned away so quickly, as if he couldn’t bear his presence. And instead of explaining himself, he just… ran.

Akutagawa exhaled heavily, lowering his gaze; his fists unclenched, but his fingers stayed tense.

“Why did I even come here?”

Inside him, irritation was growing stronger. And it wasn’t only because of what Atsushi had done — it was because of himself. He was angry that he’d let these emotions take over, that he’d broken his usual order for something that, in the end, only he seemed to need.

Anger burned inside him, mixing with bitterness.

He finally forced himself to move and stepped closer to the edge of the pier. His eyes caught on the railing, where the cup still stood. The steam above it had almost vanished, but the faint scent of mint and orange still lingered in the air.

Akutagawa silently looked at the cup left on the railing. Small, with silver stars — just as ridiculous as its owner.

Jinko always carried it with him, as if it meant something. How many times had Akutagawa seen him drink his tea from it — almost as sweet as the were-tiger himself. Three sugar cubes. Always three.

The brunette ran his finger along the rim of the porcelain, unconsciously holding his breath. This thing was personal. Something Atsushi had touched every day. Now it rested in his hands — the last tangible link to the one who had just disappeared.

Akutagawa should have been angry. At were-tiger. At himself. At this stupid, already-cold tea. Instead, he brought the cup to his lips and took a sip.

Something about the act felt wrong. Almost frightening.

As if Atsushi were still there.

Irritation flared up again, sharp and burning.

Stupid, worthless Jinko. First he walks out in the middle of a briefing, then looks at him with that miserable, tear-streaked face — and then runs off without even saying a word.

“When did everything become so… unbearable, Jinko? When did your presence stop being infuriating, and your absence become impossible to endure?”

The mafioso stared at the patterns on the cup, but all he could see was emptiness. That heavy, suffocating feeling he’d been trying to ignore was only growing stronger.

With every day.

With every step Atsushi took away from him.

Foolish Jinko. He’d have to give this pathetic “cat bowl” back to him.

But not today. Today, Akutagawa would take it with him.

The brunette was still holding the cup when soft footsteps sounded behind him.

—  Akutagawa-senpai, — Higuchi’s voice was gentle, almost uncertain. — It’s getting late… Perhaps we could walk to the lake? The fresh air might help you clear your mind.

He slowly lifted his gaze to her, but no emotion was reflected in his silver eyes. For a moment, he simply stood there in silence, as if weighing what she had just said — and then, with an indifferent nod, took a step forward.

The walk was supposed to help. He was supposed to clear his mind.

But as they moved deeper into the quiet streets, Higuchi’s words began to fade, dissolving into the viscous emptiness of his thoughts. She was talking about familiar things — assignments, work, how beautiful the lake looked at night — yet it all slipped past him.

Akutagawa wasn’t listening.

Each step echoed in his head, a hollow reminder of something unbearable. Only moments ago he had been standing on the pier. Only moments ago he had looked into the were-tiger’s tearful eyes. Only moments ago… he had taken that damned step forward.

And for what?

To hear himself mistaken for Chuya?

To see Atsushi recoil from him as if he were something foreign, dangerous?

To watch him run again — without even trying to explain?

The weight in his chest grew heavier — thick, relentless, impossible to shake off.

He walked beside Higuchi, but he was infinitely far from her.

From everything.

When did it all become so unbearable?…

Chapter Text

The sky above the port was darkening, threatening to pour down rain at any moment. The air was heavy, suffocatingly humid, making clothes cling to the skin, and the water below seemed thick, almost motionless. The day was drawing to a close, but instead of relief, the atmosphere carried only exhaustion.

The Black Lizards had gathered on the pier, quietly exchanging words as they waited for the signal to leave. Some looked grim, others rubbed their temples lazily, trying to shake off a headache after a long day. The tension was slowly settling on everyone’s shoulders, until it was broken by a sharp voice:

— One moment of silence, please!

Higuchi stood slightly ahead, her posture straight, her voice — clear, almost cheerful. But beneath that cheerfulness, something else could be felt — something deliberately confident, with a touch of superiority.

— There will be no briefing tomorrow, — she announced, shifting her gaze from one face to another. — Akutagawa-senpai is leaving for another mission tonight. He’ll be gone for several days.

A dull silence hung in the air for a moment. A few people exchanged glances; someone nodded, taking in the information. Most accepted it as something ordinary, but in a few eyes there was a flicker of interest — whenever Akutagawa’s name was mentioned, indifference was rare.

Higuchi seemed to savor that short pause, as if deliberately emphasizing just how high her senpai stood.

— I’ll hand out folders with the information for the next couple of days now, — she continued. — Anyone who receives theirs can head home. Read everything carefully so there won’t be any stupid questions tomorrow.

She moved along the group, smoothly handing out the documents. Her movements were precise, confident, almost rehearsed. Each time she passed a folder, she paused for a moment — smiled at her own, threw a quick comment, arched an eyebrow mockingly if someone hesitated with a response.

The Black Lizards accepted the folders with varying reactions: some nodded curtly, others cast dark glances to the side, but no one dared show discontent.

Everything went on evenly, habitually, until the last person came into Higuchi’s view — the only one she hadn’t yet handed a document to.

Atsushi.

Her smile widened slightly, her gaze sharpened.

A strange gleam flashed in her eyes as she took a step closer.

— This one’s for you, — said Higuchi, extending the folder.

But instead of handing it to him, she pretended to drop it.

A dull slap.

The folder landed right in a puddle at Atsushi’s feet. Water instantly soaked through the paper, dirt spreading across the pages as they began to come apart. He stared at it, not immediately understanding what had just happened.

— Oh! — exclaimed Higuchi, feigning surprise as she covered her mouth with her hand. Her voice sounded exaggeratedly apologetic, tinged with false regret. — Sorry! I thought Akutagawa-sempai’s partner would have good enough reflexes to catch a folder.

A short chuckle sounded in the background. Atsushi’s ears twitched. Then another — someone in the team snickered quietly, as if waiting for what would happen next.

Higuchi didn’t stop.

— What a shame you’re so clumsy, — she added, stepping back slightly to better watch his reaction.

Atsushi was still silent. He looked down at the dirty, wet folder. Something tightened in his chest.

She… had done it on purpose.

The thought pierced through his mind, and he suddenly felt something rising inside — heavy, muted, almost like a growl. He could have believed it was an accident, but Higuchi was looking at him too directly, too expectantly. The team was watching. Someone was hiding a smirk.

“They expect me to just pick it up and walk away.”

Atsushi slowly clenched his hands into fists; his claws dug into his palms. He tried to breathe evenly, but the air in his lungs grew heavy. Another second — and his tail twitched, betraying the tension.

“Stay calm. It’s just paper. Just water. Just…”

But inside, everything was boiling.

Atsushi had never been the type to react to provocation. He knew what it was like to be the target of mockery. He had endured it countless times. But something inside had changed.

He remembered the way Akutagawa looked at him when he ran from the pier.

He remembered how Chuya told him to keep living.

How the world he had only begun to rebuild had started crumbling again.

As if every day, every word, every emotion he’d tried to hold onto was turning into ashes settling on his heart.

His nerves snapped.

Click.

Snow-white fur swept over his arms and legs. Claws lengthened, biting into the wet asphalt. Muscles tightened, holding back the impulse to move. His ears twitched, catching every sound around him.

And when he lifted his gaze to Higuchi, his eyes flared blood-purple.

She didn’t even have time to recoil before Atsushi stepped forward and seized her by the throat.

— What are you… — her voice drowned, turning into a strangled rasp as his clawed fingers closed around her neck.

He gave her no time to understand what was happening. A jerk — and her feet skidded across the slick planks, leaving chaotic scuffs in the wood from her heels. Her fingers grabbed at his wrist in panic, scratching skin, but he didn’t even flinch.

He dragged her to the very edge of the pier, ignoring the trembling blows raining against his arm. They meant nothing.

The first person to realize what was happening let out a sharp breath. Then someone else held theirs.

But no one intervened.

Higuchi spasmed, her heels thudding dully as they slid over the wet boards, but there was too little purchase. Her hands snatched desperately at the air, trying to catch on something, anything, but there was nothing here except his cold, alien grip.

And then she understood.

He really would throw her down.

Atsushi did not stop. Did not slow.

He simply hurled her into the water.

A loud splash tore through the frozen silence, followed by the short, ragged inhales of those watching.

She went under, and a single second of silence stretched like an eternity.

Atsushi stared down, unblinking. As if checking whether anything living remained in her.

Her head broke the surface. She choked, gulping air, thrashing in the water as she tried to find a way out.

— Damn it, somebody help her! — someone finally broke and sprinted for the edge.

Most of them stood frozen.

Fear hung in the air, in the trembling stares, in white-knuckled hands.

Not fear for her. Fear of him.

Of those feral eyes, of the calm, indifferent fury with which he had just flung her into the water.

Atsushi turned away as if nothing had happened.

He walked to the puddle where the ruined folder lay, picked it up in one clawed hand, and lazily uncurled his fingers.

The wet paper began to split at once. Mud blurred the text, glued the pages together.

For several seconds he just watched.

Then he crushed the folder flat in his fist.

As if that — not Higuchi, not the frightened stares, not the fear that had flooded the pier — was what had truly driven him mad.

As if the world around him were cracking, and he stubbornly focused on the one thing he could control.

“When did it all become so… unbearable?”

The thought drifted through his head like a barely audible echo. But he didn’t try to answer it.

Gin stood off to the side, watching.

She saw Atsushi hurl Higuchi into the water with brute force, saw how those who a heartbeat earlier had laughed at him froze in taut silence. She saw his back, the set of his shoulders, the clawed fingers crushing the dirty, water-blurred folder.

Most of all — she saw his face.

The malice was gone. Only emptiness remained.

That look didn’t remind her of the boy she’d seen when he first appeared in the Mafia. Back then he’d looked bewildered, wary, yet still clung to every scrap of kindness, even when it came from people who were anything but kind.

She had watched the way he dealt with her brother — how tensely he tracked his every move, how he hunted for attention in those rare, cold words. How he latched onto any chance to be useful.

Now the same Atsushi stood before her — but something in him had cracked.

Gin came closer, her steps barely audible on the wet boards. She carried her own folder in her hands.

— I can share with you, Nakajima-kun, — she said evenly.

He turned. His feral eyes, slit-pupiled, settled on her face. For a few seconds he said nothing, then dipped his head in a slow nod.

— Thank you, — he said.

The voice was soft, polite. But there was something else in it. Not malice, not rage — a ghostly, muffled sorrow.

She knew that tone.

Before her stood that very same Atsushi again. Careful. Keen. The one who winces at roughness, but always returns kindness, in whatever form it’s given.

Gin leaned in a fraction.

— If you want, — she offered quietly, — we can go to the café nearby. Have some tea, read the briefing together.

Atsushi went still.

Right now any conversation felt like more than he could manage, the urge to be alone was almost instinct. But Gin’s voice was calm, even, with no hint of pity.

He nodded.

— Fine, — he answered softly.

They reached a small café on the next street. Inside it was quiet, scented with fresh pastry and warm spiced tea. At this hour there were hardly any patrons — just a couple of people at the far tables. Gin chose a seat by the window, and they sat facing each other.

— It’s always calm here, — she said, handing Atsushi a cup of tea.

He took it with a brief nod but didn’t even look at the drink. Instead he opened the folder in silence and sank into the reading. Gin didn’t intrude. She watched him over the rim of her cup, letting the quiet comfortably fill the space between them. Her calm was natural, unhurried — the kind he himself lacked.

The briefing turned out to be simple. By the time they reached the end, the tea had cooled, and the tension that had held Atsushi tight after the conflict had quietly eased.

— Well, now you definitely won’t miss anything important, — Gin commented, closing the folder.

— Thank you for the help, — Atsushi replied, allowing himself the first faint smile of the evening.

He didn’t yet know what exactly had shifted, only that with Gin it was easier to breathe. She didn’t look at him warily, didn’t throw him glances laced with scorn or mockery. She simply sat with him, and that alone felt like a strange reprieve.

— How was your day? — he asked after a minute, still a little distant.

— Ordinary, — Gin shrugged. — Nothing interesting. But… not all that bad.

The conversation flowed even and smooth, without sharp edges. Gin answered briefly, but with a touch of warmth, giving Atsushi the sense that no one here would needle him, no one expected excuses or explanations. It felt like rest.

But rest always ends.

When the tea was finished and the conversation had slowed of its own accord, Gin set her cup aside and, suddenly, leaned forward a fraction.

Atsushi sensed the shift at once.

The space between them seemed to contract, the air turn a shade heavier. She looked straight at him, and for a moment it seemed to him that her gray eyes darkened.

That cold, impassive steel… He knew that look. Knew it far too well.

Something inside him tightened, painfully.

— You owe me now, — Gin said evenly, without a flicker of emotion.

Atsushi didn’t answer at once.

He opened his mouth, about to say something like “Don’t mention it” — and stopped.

The silence between them stretched for several seconds, too long for an ordinary exchange. His fingers tightened, unbidden, on the cooled cup, and his gaze held on her face, studying the details.

She was waiting.

And he understood: all of it — her calm, her support, her unruffled voice — none of it was accidental.

Her softness was nothing but tactic. She knew exactly what needed to be said. She knew exactly what needed to be done.

So that he’d feel obliged. So that he couldn’t simply walk away and leave her help unanswered.

Atsushi exhaled and, finally, gave a small smile — taut, barely there.

— I understand, — he said quietly. — And what is it you want?

Gin didn’t look away. Her gaze was direct, almost piercing — not threatening, not angry, but the kind you couldn’t ignore.

— When my brother returns in two days, — she began evenly, her voice calm, but in that calm there was a firm, unshakable strength, — you will go to him and talk to him the same way you just talked to me.

Atsushi tensed without meaning to.

— You will ask how his day went. How he feels. And when he starts yelling, as he usually does, you won’t run from him. You’ll wait until he calms down. Beside him.

Something in her words made Atsushi hold his breath.

Gin’s voice had nothing in common with her brother’s. There was none of that sharp, impatient malice, none of the mounting irritation Akutagawa lashed out at him with again and again. But even so…

It was still like him.

The same uncompromising certainty. The same insistence, as if no other option existed.

She wasn’t asking. She was stating.

— You do understand that… — he began, but Gin didn’t let him finish.

— Nothing else will do, — she cut in. Her voice was still even, but there was something in it that made everything inside Atsushi clench, painfully. — This is the only thing I ask.

— Why do you want this? — he asked, but his voice wavered. — He already has someone to talk to about how his day went. Someone to walk with. Someone to kiss. What do you even want me to say to him?..

Gin looked just as calm, but there was something in her eyes that made everything inside him draw tight.

— I don’t care what you say, — she replied. — Make room for him to speak.

He felt a chill spread through his chest.

She didn’t let him answer.

— Talk to him before he does something he can’t undo. Before he kills you. Or himself.

Silence settled over the table, heavy and crushing.

The world around them seemed to sink into a muffled hush.

Atsushi looked at her, but saw something else entirely.

He saw the blade of a sword, slick with scarlet.

He felt black ribbons coil around him, clamp down in a desperate grip and haul him off the field of battle, then fling him down into safety.

He saw Ryunosuke’s gaze for the last time, believing he would never see it again.

Gin kept looking straight at him, and there wasn’t a trace of doubt in her eyes.

— All right, — he said at last, lowering his gaze. — I’ll try.

— You won’t try, — Gin corrected calmly. — You’ll do it.

Atsushi tensed even more.

She gave him no room to retreat.

— All right, — he forced out, feeling the words tear him apart from the inside.

Gin said nothing more.

But her gaze, cold and dispassionate, like ice water, burned straight through him.

And in that moment he felt the same thing he felt every time he faced her brother.

The same authority. The same ruthless single-mindedness. The same inevitability he always wanted to run from.

But now — nowhere to run.

Chapter Text

The office door slammed open, crashing into the wall so hard dust sifted from the ceiling. Conversations died at once. Every gaze snapped to the man in the doorway, and in the next heartbeat the air in the room thickened, turned viscous, choking, crushing, like the moment before a storm’s most ruinous blow.

— I’ve got, fucking, no time, — Chuya’s voice was cold and razor-sharp, cleaving the taut silence. — So everyone shut up and listen.

In the same instant, gravity crashed down on the room with annihilating force. Metal tables groaned, the floor split into a spiderweb of fine cracks. People dropped to their knees, barely able to draw breath. Even those who, seconds earlier, wore smug little smirks were now pressed to the floor, struggling against the pressure.

Even Akutagawa.

For a heartbeat he froze, shocked to realize he couldn’t stay standing. That he was being forced to submit.

Fury scorched him from the inside, but he made himself lift his head. Meet the senior mafioso’s eyes.

The man looked down at him, and in those blue eyes burned not mere irritation — a pure, gutting rage.

— Are you, for fuck’s sake, in your right mind, Akutagawa? — his voice was dangerously even.

Akutagawa mastered himself with effort, muscles strung tight, hands braced to the floor, but he refused to look broken.

— About what?

Chuya narrowed his eyes, his mouth twisting into a contemptuous smile.

— About the fact that your stupid whore… — he snapped toward Higuichi, and she flinched but didn’t dare lift her head, only clenched her fingers tighter against her knees. — Decided she could publicly humiliate someone under my protection.

He took a slow step forward, his boots thudding dully against the floor. The air thickened still further, the gravity pressed down as if in the next moment it would snap everyone kneeling before him.

— I am aware, — steel rang in his voice, — of how she dropped that damn folder in the muck while pretending it was an accident.

Chuya’s glance knifed back to Akutagawa, and now there was nothing in those blue eyes but fury.

— Do you even remember who’s in charge here? Did you forget what place I hold in the Mafia, and what place you hold?!

Akutagawa met his gaze, and something prickly, stubborn kindled in his eyes, but not defiance. He was angry, but silent. He held himself together. Though his shoulders were taut, his fingers bunched spasmodically in the fabric of his clothes.

It didn’t matter to Chuya.

— I put that werecat under my protection. From day one. In front of all of you. — He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping, all the more dangerous for it. — Which means any disrespect to him is disrespect to me.

The ability crushing everyone suddenly eased. Air rushed into the lungs of those who, a heartbeat ago, could hardly breathe, as if a clenched throat had been forced open.

Except for Akutagawa.

On him the gravity still bore down, as if an invisible hand were closing around his throat, making sure he understood that this — was not just a conversation.

Chuya measured him with an icy stare. The room held a suffocating, strung-tight silence through which you could almost hear the hearts hammering in the chests of those still on their knees.

— You’ve let your unit rot, Akutagawa. And apparently every bitch you’re screwing — Chuya didn’t so much as change his tone, saying it like he was talking about the weather — thinks that gives her the right to ignore the head of the Enforcement Division.

He spoke slowly, evenly; each sound dropped into the room with honed, killing clarity.

— Tell me… whose fault is that? Who pays for that whore’s swagger? For that disrespect, huh, kiddo?

A dead hush settled over the room.

— You’ve got two options, — he went on, cold. — Either I make it crystal clear to your girl. Or I make it clear to you. Because it seems you can’t keep your mutts on a leash.

The next instant, gravity slammed down again. The air went viscous, heavy, bowing people to the floor as if space itself had submitted to Chuya’s rage.

— Well? How long do I have to wait for you to spit out an answer? — he sneered, pinning Akutagawa with his gaze.

Akutagawa didn’t move. Not a muscle in his face twitched, but inside everything cinched into an icy knot.

“What the hell?”

Two days ago he’d left on assignment. Two days. And now, standing in front of Nakahara, he had no idea what this was about.

But Chuya was looking at him. Not at Higuchi. At him.

Which meant he had to take it.

— I’ll accept any punishment, — Akutagawa answered. Calm. Even. Like the leader of his team.

Chuya raked him with a long look that held not a trace of satisfaction.

— You’ll work the Slums for a week. Lowest rank. Alone. I forbid you to use any Mafia resources; you’ll sweat for two — for yourself and for your slut. You’ll go over the details with Hirotsu. Dismissed, — he snapped, dry as dust.

He turned and walked out without a backward glance.

The door slammed.

And the pressure vanished.

As if a knife had been driven into the taut knot of tension and cut it open — the air in the room became breathable again, but for some reason no one felt any lighter.

Akutagawa rose from his knees slowly, spine held perfectly straight, but inside him a hurricane raged. He could feel the strain twisting into a hard mass, pressing under his ribs, flooding his lungs with black, acrid fury.

He shifted his gaze to Higuchi. She didn’t dare lift her head, but her shoulders were shaking with leftover fear.

— Explain yourself, — he threw out, quiet, almost lazy.

And that laziness was more dangerous than a shout.

Higuchi flinched, swallowed, as if her throat had gone dry.

— I… Akutagawa-sama… It was a misunderstanding!

— Get to the point.

He hadn’t raised his voice, but she fell silent at once, hands knotting feverishly in front of her.

— I… I dropped the folder in the mud instead of handing it to Jinko, — her voice was thin, cracked.

Akutagawa closed his eyes.

Inhale.

Exhale.

He counted his heartbeats, slow. If he let the anger loose, he’d have to aim it at someone, and Higuchi wasn’t the target — she was only the cause.

When he looked at her again, his face was empty, like the surface of a frozen lake.

— You disobeyed Chuya’s order, — he said slowly.

Higuchi trembled harder.

— I… I didn’t mean…

— Enough, — Akutagawa cut her off. Dull, even.

He stared without blinking. Allowed not a single movement. The air in the room was heavy, saturated with choking tension.

— If you’ve got time for excuses, spend it on work.

Higuchi jerked, nodded, sprang to her feet and, without looking back, almost ran out of the room.

As soon as the door closed behind her, someone in the room let out a quiet breath.

But Akutagawa kept standing motionless. Still. Perfect.

He didn’t permit himself a single movement, though everything inside him demanded he break something. A plank, a chair, his own bones, anything to spill the mounting, searing frenzy.

Chuya had just reminded him, in front of everyone, exactly where he stood in the Mafia. And he himself had just allowed himself to be humiliated.

A dull, black fury flared in him anew.

The silence was torn by a short, mocking sound.

— Nakahara’s really overdoing it, — Tachihara tossed out lazily, cracking his neck.

Akutagawa raised his eyes to him, slowly.

Tachihara sat with one leg thrown over the other, arms folded across his chest. A sneer was fixed on his face, but beneath it you could make out something more — anger, dissatisfaction, a buried irritation that had clearly been building for a long time.

— What do you mean? — Akutagawa’s voice was flawlessly even.

Tachihara snorted again.

— Your girl, — he nodded toward the door Higuichi had slipped through, — just slipped up. Made a mistake. And they ground her into the dirt for it like she was some enemy of the organization, not someone who’s served the Mafia faithfully since day one.

He leaned forward a little, his lips twisting into a contemptuous smirk.

— And that damn werecat from the Agency has acted from the start like anything goes for him. Like he’s above the rest. And for what? What has he done to deserve it?

A heavy, cold tension settled in the air.

Akutagawa held the pause, studying Tachihara with a look that could frost even the hottest hell. Then, clipped, with icy precision, he threw:

— Explain.

Tachihara smirked, but there was nothing amused in it.

— It just looks, from where I’m standing, like he’s the cockiest one here, — he snapped. — Because, whichever way you slice it, he’s clearly sleeping with Chuya.

Dead silence fell over the room again.

But this time it was truly dangerous.

Akutagawa didn’t stir. Not a single movement, not a single emotion.

Tachihara noticed. But didn’t stop.

— Well why else, huh? — his voice was sharp, needling. Almost accusatory. — Why the hell would Nakahara take him under his wing right off the bat? The mangy kitty hadn’t even crossed the threshold and he already had an easy gig, protection, giggles with Nakahara every morning. Dead sure he’s bouncing on his dick for every cup of coffee. A cutesy, fuckin’ kitten with ears.

He leaned back in his chair, giving Akutagawa a careful once-over.

— You know it. We all know it. — Now there was something new in his voice. Almost disgust. — We just don’t say it to Nakahara’s face. People value their lives.

He snorted, as if at himself.

— Man could kill you for that.

Akutagawa didn’t so much as flinch.

His face stayed flawlessly composed, his gaze cold and empty, but something inside him gave way. Sharp, ragged thoughts slammed into his mind, tangling, pressing, poisoning from within.

A notion—tenacious, clammy, ugly—sank its claws into him and wouldn’t let him breathe. The longer he kept silent, the deeper it burrowed, swelling from a snide rumor into a nagging certainty.

“That werecat is sleeping with Chuya.”

Words he should have dismissed at once. Words that made no sense. Yet instead of crumbling to dust, they gnawed into his consciousness, forcing him to sift through every scene, every detail that now looked different.

Every motion. Every gesture.

Chuya standing too close to Atsushi, too protective. Chuya covering for him without a word, stepping in even when no one asked. Chuya’s hand settling on the blond’s shoulder, quiet and lingering just a shade too long.

Those moments had always lived at the edges of his awareness—scattered, disconnected, meaningless.

But now they clicked into a chain.

That damned evening he first saw them together off the clock.

He’d been on a date with Higuchi. Empty, pointless. She talked, laughed, said something or other, and he… he saw them.

Chuya and Atsushi on that same bridge.

Akutagawa didn’t hear what Chuya said. But he saw the reaction.

Atsushi went still; his shoulders trembled; and in his eyes, for a heartbeat, flashed a pain so stark that even Akutagawa, long inured to other people’s suffering, felt something like discomfort.

Then Chuya turned away to photograph the view, and Atsushi pivoted and bolted.

The blond hurried down toward the river, his steps uneven and sharp, like a man fleeing not someone else but himself.

Akutagawa shouldn’t have stopped, shouldn’t have drifted to the rail and left Higuchi standing alone mid-bridge. He shouldn’t have looked.

But he looked.

He watched Atsushi cry.

His shoulders convulsed; he clutched his head in both hands, as if trying to keep himself from shattering. Silent sobs tore him apart, ripped that damned blond to pieces right there before Akutagawa’s eyes.

He could have simply turned away. Pretended none of it concerned him. That he was indifferent. That he didn’t care.

Instead he stood and watched. Watched while something dark, viscous, formless swelled inside him. It clung to his bones, slid through his veins, pressed on his chest until breathing grew difficult.

Part of him wanted to go to him. 

Not to comfort — no. Not out of pity.

He wanted to grab that foolish cat by the scruff, shake him, force him to talk. To hear what happened. To hear his voice—that trembling, stumbling voice, saturated with emotions Akutagawa himself did not possess.

But he didn’t do it.

He wrenched his gaze aside, walked away—and now rage was at his throat.

He’d made the mistake.

Chuya hadn’t.

He watched the redhead not go after the shifter right away. He stood up top, arms folded, watching that fragile, shaking figure below. And then he went down after all.

He saw Chuya sit beside the shifter, not touching him, but too close, wrong-close. He saw him say something, and Atsushi shuddered even harder, fingers digging into his hair. He saw Chuya, after a pause, finally reach out, set a hand on his shoulder. And the worst part — he saw that Atsushi didn’t pull away. That he didn’t flinch, didn’t turn aside, didn’t say a word. That he leaned closer.

It all added up.

Every small thing, every stray glance, every touch, even that stupid cat video.

This isn’t care. Not just protection. It’s more. It’s something else.

His head seemed to ring, his heart to pound too hard. That it was all a lie, nonsense, but… it still added up.

And that.

It was destroying him.

Anger, fury, the hate for the whole world began to gutter, replaced by something slow, sticky, enveloping, like poison.

“Tachihara was right.”

The thought turned him inside out.

He wanted to smash something to hell. Grind everything around him to dust.

But worst of all was the understanding.

Unlike Chuya, who had openly shielded the shifter even from something as petty as Higuchi’s pathetic little stunt, Akutagawa had been weak.

So weak he couldn’t — never mind protect him. He couldn’t even go over. Go over and ask why Atsushi had been crying like his world was crumbling into ash…

***

Gin sat across from her brother, fingers nervously tightening around her teacup. Steam curled up in thin spirals, and she didn’t even notice.

— This is too cruel, — she said at last. — Sending you to the Slums…

Akutagawa didn’t answer right away. He sat motionless, remote, as if it had nothing to do with him at all. As if it belonged to someone else.

But Gin knew her brother. She saw his fingers cinch a fraction tighter on the cup.

— I saw how it happened, — she went on carefully. — That incident with the folder…

Akutagawa stared at a single point.

He hadn’t seen it. He hadn’t been there.

Two days on another assignment. Two days while something important was happening. Two days — and when he returned, he hadn’t had time to ask, to see, to understand at all what had happened.

And now — a few hours to pack, and he was already to be sent to the Slums, punished for something he hadn’t even seen.

Gin watched him, waiting for an answer.

— What do you think? — she asked softly.

Akutagawa lifted his head, unruffled.

— I think Chuya was right.

Gin frowned.

— But you didn’t even—

— He didn’t just leave it be, — Akutagawa cut in. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in his voice. — He protected the one he’d assumed responsibility for. In front of everyone.

Gin went still, studying his face.

Akutagawa let out a slow breath.

— Yes, he used his status.

He seemed to be thinking aloud. His voice was even, yet something almost weightless threaded through it — not mockery, not anger, but… acceptance?

Then his mouth tilted in the faintest ghost of a smile.

— But status is only a tool.

He looked down at his hands.

— As is the Ability.

Gin watched her brother, feeling the worry gather in her chest.

He sat absolutely still, his gaze fixed on nothing, as if his mind had long since drifted far away. Usually, when something bothered him, he at least clenched his fists, flexed his fingers, hid his anger in the smallest movements. But now… Now there wasn’t even that.

— How do you feel? — she asked carefully.

Akutagawa slowly turned his eyes to her.

There was no anger in them, no irritation, not even fatigue. Only a cold, frozen emptiness.

— It’s unfair, — he said quietly.

Gin frowned a little, already about to offer something consoling — something like, Chuya can be unfair, but this isn’t the worst punishment you could have gotten…

But Akutagawa finished:

— It’s unfair that I won’t see Jinko for a whole week.

Gin felt a chill spread through her.

Had she been wrong? Misheard?

But Akutagawa didn’t look as if he’d misspoken. His voice stayed just as even, just as cold, as if he weren’t talking about his own punishment, not about a week spent in the place he and his sister had once barely escaped alive… but about something that truly mattered.

Not a week in the Slums he hated.

Not grimy, backbreaking work for two in that cursed place where their miserable, impoverished childhood had played out.

Not a week in a world where, as a child, he’d seen death more often than sunlight.

No.

A week. Without. Jinko.

That was what troubled him.

Gin looked at her brother, her fingers slowly tightening around the cup. She knew. She’d noticed.

How his gaze lingered on the weretiger longer than it should. How he tracked every movement, every small gesture. How he unconsciously stepped forward every time the boy tried to hide. How he failed to see he’d already gone too far.

But now…

Now it wasn’t merely troubling. It was becoming something else. Something like the situation with Dazai — with one critical difference.

This time, the one he was drawn to was weaker than he was.

Not a savior, not a mentor, not someone he strained to live up to. Just a strange, slightly frightened young man trying to survive. Beside her brother’s obsessive, steel-hard will, the boy looked breakable, like the glass-sheen of early spring ice. 

He wouldn’t outrun this forever. 

Sooner or later her brother would get what he wanted. Gin had made sure of it, just days ago.

Chapter Text

The warehouse loomed over the pier, its grim silhouette dissolving into the darkness of the night.

The Black Lizards had already taken their positions around the building, preparing for the operation.

Their movements were silent, precise — professionalism radiated from every step.

Akutagawa had been gone all week, and Atsushi didn’t know where.

He hadn’t asked. He hadn’t looked.

He was grateful for that.

After that evening — after the realization — he had started avoiding the brunette deliberately.

He tried not to cross paths with him, not to stay in the same room.

It was easier that way than facing, again and again, the reminder that he was now with Higuchi.

Gin had barely appeared either. When she did pass by, her gaze lingered on him strangely — too focused, too probing.

As if she were checking whether he’d run away, whether he still remembered the promise he’d made her.

He could’ve asked Chūya. But he didn’t.

Chūya had been busy lately — days, nights, all the same.

Their conversations had dwindled to brief messages and fragments of late calls, where Nakahara always sounded hoarse with exhaustion.

Atsushi only asked how he was feeling.

Where he wanted to go when he finally came home.

Never about him.

He was trying to live on.

Now he stood aside, watching the team move, and felt he didn’t belong there.

He used to try to connect with them. Thought he had to — that it was his role, his purpose — to unite the team, to help Akutagawa find common ground with others.

But now Akutagawa got along just fine without him.

Now the entire team, including the brunette himself, had bonded over their shared hatred of the were-tiger.

And only Chūya… only he stayed by his side.

But this mission…

It was different. More serious. More dangerous.

The enemy was an esper — his ability, his katana — disturbingly reminiscent of Fukuchi.

Atsushi’s thoughts spiraled, tightening into a knot of raw fear.

What if it happens again? What if Akutagawa does it again — charges ahead, reckless, overconfident, like always? What if he once more decides he can win at any cost? What if he tries to prove again that he’s stronger than everyone else? What if… what if he dies again?

The world around him turned distant, flat, unreal.

A ringing filled his ears. His chest felt crushed.

Atsushi drew a shaky breath, but it didn’t help — the air refused to come.

His own hands, wrapped around his shoulders by habit, felt cold — almost lifeless.

And in that instant, he felt another presence.

A sharp chill ran down his spine.

And then he knew — he was not alone.

Akutagawa was there. Just one step away.

Wherever the mafioso had disappeared to all week, that place had left its mark — exhaustion clinging to him, something dark and suffocating in the air around him, like the heavy scent of decay in a damp crypt.

The brunette moved with composure, his gaze cold, hard.

Not anger. Not disdain. Something else. Sharper, more dangerous — like the edge of a blade pressed to the throat, not yet cutting, but ready.

Atsushi tensed as he came too close.

Silently, he took a step back, keeping a safe distance between them.

— Jinko, — Akutagawa’s voice broke the silence. It was calm, detached — yet there was a pulse of impatience beneath it. — Are you planning to just stand here, trembling in fear?

Atsushi took a deep breath, trying not to betray his nervousness.

But the air was thick, heavy — as if soaked with blood.

He wasn’t seeing the pier, nor the mafioso standing a step away.

In front of his eyes was another Akutagawa.

The one bleeding out beneath a clear sky, his fading gaze finding the violet-gold eyes that held him.

The one dying on the deck of the liner, torn apart by the flash of a man’s blade.

The one whose breathing had grown harsh, broken, drowning.

The one whose eyes lost their light as a scarlet stream ran from beneath his fingers, down his neck, drop by drop dissolving into the salty water.

Atsushi screamed — but the cry drowned in the roar of the waves and the dull thud of his heart.

He saw the last drops of life spill away with the blood, saw Akutagawa’s dark eyes slowly fade, turn empty, lifeless.

“I was a step away from him. I was so close. And I couldn’t reach him. What if he dies again…?”

His fingers curled into a fist. His body felt either too light or too heavy — unbearably foreign, as if he’d collapse with one wrong move.

— I just want to make sure you understand how serious this is, — Atsushi said quietly, forcing his voice to remain even. — One of the espers is very skilled. And he managed to retrieve his weapon before we arrived.

Akutagawa snorted.

— You still think I need your advice?

— I just want you to be careful.

“What if he dies?”

Atsushi exhaled sharply, folding his arms across his chest.

— Going in alone wouldn’t be the smartest decision for a mafioso, — he threw back.

Then, almost without thinking, added:

— And Dazai-san wouldn’t approve of such self-willed heroics.

He knew that would get a reaction.

But Akutagawa didn’t even flinch.

His eyes narrowed slightly, but there was no familiar tension there, no hunger for recognition. Only cold.

— Stop dragging Dazai-san into every sentence just to make your words sound weightier, Jinko.

“What?..”

Atsushi’s head snapped up. Something wavered inside — irritation, disappointment, fear.

He was used to that name — Dazai-san — striking a nerve, making Akutagawa falter, grow cautious.

But now — nothing.

Akutagawa was looking straight at him, as if trying to read something unspoken in his face.

— If you’re that worried, you can come with me, — he said coldly.

He turned toward the warehouse and started forward.

And in that moment, something snapped.

“He’s going to die.”

The thought broke into his mind and refused to leave.

“He’s going to die.”

Like that time.

Again.

Atsushi couldn’t breathe.

What if blood gushed from a torn throat, if those gray eyes slowly dimmed, if the last drops of life merged with the salt water at his feet?

What if he didn’t even have time to catch him?

What if he couldn’t do anything — again?

“No.”

He couldn’t let that happen.

His body moved on its own.

He didn’t think.

He simply shoved Akutagawa aside — and dashed in first.

Moonlight, breaking through the rifts in the clouds, flashed in his eyes — gold and violet, burning with fury.

A sudden burst — and he vanished into the darkness of the warehouse, swallowed by the night.

Akutagawa froze, stunned, watching him go. A flash of white tail by the doorway — and then it was gone.

— Idiot, — the mafioso hissed, frowning.

They were supposed to enter together. They were supposed to work together.

And that stupid cat…

Akutagawa stepped forward, not caring that he was now in full view of anyone who might be waiting inside.

Something else mattered more.

The brunette slipped through the half-open door, scanning the dim hall.

The warehouse greeted him with blood.

Akutagawa had known he would find something like this. He should have known. But when he stepped inside — when his eyes adjusted to the half-light, when the heavy, damp air filled his lungs — it threw him off for a moment.

Blood spread across the floor, seeping into the cracks of the concrete, leaving claw marks frozen in silence.

The people were dead. But this wasn’t just killing.

They’d been torn apart — some almost beyond recognition. Torn muscles, severed tendons, broken joints. Fingers still twitched in the last spasms of nerves.

Too fast. Too many.

Someone had been bitten clean in half. Someone else had died before they even realized they were dead.

Akutagawa raised his gaze.

On the metal beam above, where the light barely reached, stood Atsushi.

The moonlight shimmered in his eyes — violet and gold — caught on the soft curve of his ears; his white tail swayed lazily against the steel.

— The esper… resisted.

The were-tiger’s voice was quiet, almost detached.

But something in that tone was wrong.

Akutagawa let his eyes sweep the hall again.

There were no signs of a real fight here. No struggle.

Only slaughter.

Only torn bodies — and Atsushi’s unnervingly calm voice, as he looked down at him without blinking.

Something warm dripped onto Akutagawa’s wrist.

He tilted his head.

A thick, dark drop.

He slowly lifted his gaze higher.

Above Atsushi, hanging from the same beam — something dangled.

No.

Someone.

The esper’s severed head — empty eyes frozen wide, face twisted in pain — had been staring at him the whole time.

Akutagawa’s jaw tightened.

He met the were-tiger’s gaze in silence.

— Resisted?

His voice was calm, but the calm held venom.

— And tell me, how exactly did he manage such fierce resistance in the few seconds you’ve been here, Jinko?

The beast’s lips curved — a ghost of a smile, thin and strained, as if carved from pain itself.

Atsushi dropped down.

He landed with such lightness that even the blood clinging to his claws trembled, shivering at the impact. Yet a single drop escaped, falling soundlessly, leaving a small scarlet bloom upon the concrete.

He rose to his full height, tail swaying behind him in a slow, liquid arc — but his gaze remained fixed on Akutagawa, tired, distant, unfocused, like someone staring through the veil of a dream.

— Either way, it’s done, — his voice came low, muted, touched with quiet irritation. One ear turned aside; his head tilted, a movement half weary, half defensive, as if he didn’t want to hear what might come next. — If you meant to complain that I ruined your mood — get in line.

He stood still, utterly still, yet nothing about him was calm.

Every line of his body was strung tight, like a wire on the edge of breaking — shoulders drawn, tail twitching, claws opening and closing, restless, uncertain, ready.

He watched Akutagawa’s every step — not with anger, nor with defiance, but with something smaller, colder.

Caution.

No — worse.

Fear.

Akutagawa halted.

Something in that stillness, in that trembling gaze, tugged at a memory long buried.

He had seen Atsushi like this before — not here, not now, but on that day when they had both lost everything that made them extraordinary.

Back then, Atsushi had stood before him, a gun shaking in his hands.

He’d forced his spine straight, lips pressed thin, jaw locked, trying to believe he could pull the trigger.

He’d looked at him with the same eyes he had now — wild and cornered, filled with that unbearable mix of panic and surrender, the look of a creature who fights only because retreat is no longer possible.

He had been afraid then.

And now…

— You… are afraid. Of me?.. — Akutagawa’s voice broke the silence, low and uneven, as if it no longer belonged to him.

Atsushi’s ear flicked — a quick, dismissive twitch. His mouth moved in the shadow of something like a smile, but his claws didn’t waver.

Akutagawa drew in a slow breath, and let it out again.

There was no need for words.

Atsushi feared him.

Just as he had before.

Feared him so much that he’d rather bury that fear in another’s blood — than face it again by standing at his side.

The tension between them was almost tangible — like a tightly drawn string, ready to snap at the smallest movement.

Akutagawa stood still, not taking another step. His fingers slowly curled into fists; his breath grew uneven, and something dull and corrosive began to spread through his chest — a pain without shape, but sharp enough to cut.

Why?

Why did this realization hurt so much? Why did it claw at his ribs, tearing through him with that cold, slicing ache?

Before him, the truth began to take form — dark, simple, terrifying in its clarity. The past weeks lined up, one after another: Atsushi’s distance, his shrinking from every conversation, his panicked flight at the pier when Akutagawa saw the tears in his eyes.

All of it now made sense.

All but one thing.

Why.

Yes, he had been harsh. But that was nothing new.

Atsushi had endured his irritation before, sometimes even fought back. They’d lashed out at each other, hurled words like blades — and somehow always found their balance again.

So why now? Why was the were-tiger acting as if every encounter was agony — as if being near him had become unbearable?

There was no real reason.

No explanation.

Except…

Chūya.

The thought struck him — sudden, slicing, like a cold gust of wind — and his fists clenched tighter.

Chūya, who found a way into Atsushi’s trust.

Chūya, who had influence.

Ever since Nakahara began taking the were-tiger along to meetings, giving him too much of his time, too much of his attention — something in their fragile balance had started to unravel.

Could it be that Chūya had turned Atsushi against him? That he looked him in the eyes and said one thing, but whispered something else behind his back?

Not just growing close — but making sure Akutagawa was left behind. Couldn’t see him. Couldn’t speak to him.

Chūya had sent him away for a week — far from Atsushi.

Could that have only been the beginning?

Had Nakahara decided to take that stubborn, foolish cat away from him entirely?

And what then — was Akutagawa simply supposed to allow it? To accept it in silence?

Not even ask?

Not even try to find out if Atsushi truly meant to leave?

To abandon him?

A damp, narrow alley.

The dim light of a streetlamp — trembling, about to die.

He’s fourteen, and far too weak to drag his friend’s body — yet he still clings to that blood-slick hand, as if the warmth of his fingers might return if he just holds on long enough.

— Get up. Come on, please.

His voice breaks, thin and trembling — but he keeps speaking, as if he could call the dead back with words alone.

But the boy doesn’t move.

A little further — another body. And another.

Small, fragile, ruined.

Eyes open to the dark.

He’d been with them only hours ago.

He’d known them forever.

He’d seen them laugh.

Run.

Steal food, share it, smile.

Now they don’t breathe.

He’s alone.

The cold seeps in, tightens around his chest until it hurts to inhale.

He wants to scream — but what for?

Who would come?

No one ever did.

His teeth clench.

He lets go of his friend’s hand.

Lets go — because there’s nothing else left to do.

Just like now.

Akutagawa exhales — slow, deliberate — and takes a step forward, eyes locked on the were-tiger.

— Jinko… — quiet, but edged.

The word itself was a command.

Atsushi flinched — barely — but didn’t answer.

A small tremor ran through his shoulders, the faintest shift in weight — and he was ready to bolt.

— Don’t you dare, — the words left him cold, controlled — yet behind them something cracked,

something desperate, raw, unspoken.

But Atsushi was already moving.

Almost soundless — a blur, a breath of wind brushing past his cheek.

A thin, vanishing shadow.

Atsushi was gone, and Akutagawa stood motionless.

Like then. Like that day he learned what silence really meant.

Back then, it had been the end.

Now — he wasn’t sure. 

Maybe endings just come back, wearing different faces.

Chapter Text

The apartment was silent. The silence pressed down, the silence filled everything around. Akutagawa sat in the kitchen, unmoving, his fingers wrapped around a cup of long-cold tea. He couldn’t even remember when he’d brewed it — a minute ago? An hour? Time seemed to blur, to lose its edges.

Thoughts circled in a closed loop, returning again and again to this evening. To those violet-and-golden eyes — wary, tense, distant. To the movement of were-tiger’s shoulders, to that short flinch, to the light step backward.

Atsushi kept retreating. Again and again.

Retreating, as if every time he saw something dangerous before him. Something frightening.

Something that was Akutagawa.

He blinked slowly, but the image of the were-tiger’s face still stood before his eyes — closed, guarded, filled with the taut readiness to run.

He had seen him like this before. He had seen that fear in Atsushi’s eyes when the boy stood before him, trembling, gripping a gun so tightly his knuckles turned white. Back then it had seemed natural — Akutagawa really could have killed him. But now…

Now it was different. Not the same. Wrong.

What had changed? Why?

The silence around him grew heavier, wrapping around him, seeping into his skin.

At some point, he felt he was not alone.

Gin stood in the doorway of the kitchen. She didn’t move, just watched him. He knew that look — not judging, not curious, but wary. Like someone afraid that any sudden motion might crack a piece of fragile glass.

— How was your day?

Her voice was quiet, careful, but within that carefulness there was care.

— Fine, — he exhaled.

The word fell into the silence and sank into it, like a stone into black water.

Gin didn’t answer, but she didn’t leave. He knew what she felt. She had seen it. She always saw.

— Night shift in two hours, — he said, almost mechanically, trying to fill the silence, to shield himself from her gaze.

— Where? — her voice was calm, but he could hear the tension beneath it.

He gave the address without looking at her. Gin stayed quiet for a few more seconds, then quietly left the kitchen.

A moment later he heard the balcony door slide open, followed by a muffled, irritated voice. He couldn’t make out the words, but he knew: she was calling someone. Speaking in short, sharp phrases. Anger trembled in her voice, barely held under control.

Akutagawa closed his eyes.

He didn’t want to know who she was calling. Didn’t want to think.

Didn’t want to see that look again — the one filled with fear.

But the thoughts kept returning. Pulling him under.

“How the hell to survive this day. How to make it to the next.”

In his head, despite the exhaustion, thoughts kept spinning in a frantic loop.

Chūya.

He couldn’t stop circling that name — like a poisoned splinter buried too deep to pull out. The suspicion Tachihara had thrown at him before he was sent to serve his punishment in the Slums had begun to take root, spreading inside him, poisoning everything else.

“Could Nakahara really have turned Atsushi against me?”

His fingers tightened around the cup until the porcelain creaked.

Was Atsushi really seeing that red-haired bastard? Could he have looked Akutagawa in the eye, said he would stay — only to turn away the next moment and build something real, something intimate, with Nakahara?

Then what the hell had that been between them? Pity? A lie? A game to pass the time?

Dazai had played with him too.

The thought hit like a blade — slow, cold, and merciless — sinking deep beneath his ribs, where even breath refused to reach.

It wasn’t anger that burned now. It was the echo of something older, sharper — the same fear that once hollowed him out when he realized Dazai had never meant to stay.

The thought stabbed into his chest like a rusted knife.

How had the were-tiger even ended up on those “joint” missions between the Agency and the Mafia? Why with the Black Lizards, of all people?

“There’s no logic in this,” — Akutagawa thought. — “If Chūya had wanted to bring the were-tiger closer to the Mafia just for himself, he’d have placed him in the Executives, not the Lizards. It’s as if I… no. Not as if. I’m clearly missing something. Something’s wrong with this whole situation.”

Something didn’t fit.

When had it all even started?

Atsushi hadn’t acted like this before. Even when Akutagawa had burst into his apartment in the middle of the night over that stupid video, Atsushi hadn’t backed down or run, though he had been scared. His tail had trembled, his ears pressed flat against his head — but he had still driven Dazai away from the brunette, brought him into his room, fed him, offered for him to stay.

He had spoken softly.

He had reached out with those foolish “communication lessons.”

He hadn’t been afraid to touch him. Hadn’t been afraid to offer those pathetic… “apologies.”

And now he wouldn’t even meet his eyes, stepping back every time Akutagawa came close.

“Why couldn’t he just talk to me — like before?”

Gin returned to the kitchen, but Akutagawa barely registered her presence. Her gaze moved over him — over the tense fingers frozen above the table, the slumped shoulders, the faint trembling that betrayed more than any words could. He had always been composed, always in control, but now even he couldn’t hide how deeply what he felt was breaking him apart.

She set a fresh cup of tea before him — hot, steeped in a faint scent of mint, as if something so small could soften the weight of this endlessly gray evening.

— If you want, you can skip the night shift. I’ll go instead, — she said evenly, her voice steady, refusing to crack.

Akutagawa slowly raised his eyes. They were empty. Not the kind of emptiness born of exhaustion or lack of sleep, but something far deeper — an unhealed fracture running through the very core of him.

— I’ll go, — he said stubbornly, shaking his head.

Gin didn’t argue. She just watched him for a moment longer — as if trying to read something in his face — and silently left the room.

From the balcony, her voice sounded again. This time she wasn’t shouting, but that only made the fury in her words more frightening. She spoke low, deliberate, slicing each sentence like a knife — and even through the closed door, it was clear who that anger was meant for.

Akutagawa exhaled and covered his face with his hand. The cup burned against his palm, but he didn’t let go — clinging to it as if it were the last thing keeping him grounded.

All he wanted now was to understand how to bring his damn cat back to where he belongs — to where Akutagawa could still breathe.

***

Akutagawa exhaled through clenched teeth, staring down.

The criminal sprawled on the asphalt looked like a dead fish washed ashore — twitching pathetically, wheezing through the gag, already worthless to anyone.

Meaningless. Useless.

Just like this damn night shift.

He’d expected something more. Wanted — even for an hour, for a minute — to drown out the dull, suffocating pressure inside, but it was over before it even began. No satisfaction. No relief. Just the same dragging emptiness that made him sick to his stomach.

Why had he even left the house tonight?

He pushed off the pavement and walked toward the edge of the pier. Leaned against the cold metal railing, lowered his head, closed his eyes. The salty wind hit his face, sharp and pointless, stirring nothing but irritation. He’d wanted to shake off the unbearable weight in his chest — and instead only sank deeper into it.

What now?

Midnight. The whole night ahead.

The thought flashed sharp as a blade between the ribs. Call Higuchi. Of course she’d agree — she always did. He wouldn’t even have to think — just say the first thing that came to mind. Go watch the stars? Perfect. Drag her into some alley and fuck her like a cheap whore? That would work too.

Akutagawa grimaced, fingers tightening on the rail.

The stars didn’t interest him. And Higuchi — she’d make a poor whore anyway.

Pathetic.

He exhaled.

What a brilliant range of choices. Stars or filth. Romance or rot.

As if any of it still meant a damn thing.

Akutagawa pulled out his phone and, before he could think twice, dialed the number.

A couple of long tones.

— Senpai? — Higuchi’s voice was bright, eager, full of that cloying, habitual readiness to obey.

He barely opened his mouth before freezing.

Just a few meters away, under the dim streetlight, a familiar silhouette took shape.

Jinko.

The were-tiger stood still. His eyes — tired, wary — met Akutagawa’s for only a heartbeat before he looked away, breaking that fragile connection almost before it began. It all happened too fast. Too fast for Akutagawa to truly register that he was seeing him here, on the pier, where no one should have been.

Higuchi’s voice came again through the receiver — softer now, almost like she was calling out to him.

But he wasn’t listening anymore.

His fingers moved sharply, pressing end call, and with a dull click the phone snapped shut.

Atsushi still hadn’t moved. Neither closer nor farther. As if even he didn’t know why he’d come.

That hesitation — that soft, uncertain stillness — only made Akutagawa angrier.

Something was rising inside him — hot, sharp, tearing.

The whole day, the whole night, the endless emptiness — and now this.

A silent, exhausted Atsushi who looked at him like they were nothing but strangers passing on the street.

As if it wasn’t him, not Akutagawa, who’d spent the past month trying to understand him.

— That’s rude, — Atsushi said quietly, without looking up. — To hang up like that.

His voice was even, emotionless. As if he had the right to tell him what was rude.

That was it.

— That’s all you have to say?! — Akutagawa’s voice burst out, harsher and louder than he meant. Anger clawed at his throat, throbbed in his temples, drowned out thought. — After the way you’ve been acting, like some worthless bastard, ignoring me in front of everyone?!

Atsushi flinched — but didn’t leave, though it looked like that was exactly what he’d been about to do.

— I… — he started, but faltered, as if the words had turned to dust in his throat.

Akutagawa took a step forward.

Anger seethed inside him — burning, twisting, eating away at everything left intact. His fists clenched, nails biting into his palms, but there was no holding it back now.

— Why are you avoiding me?! — his voice broke, rough and uneven, spilling into a hiss. — Why are you— why aren’t you here anymore?!

Atsushi looked up. Only for a second. But it was enough.

Something flickered in his eyes — something too familiar, too scorching — pain. Quiet, real, the kind you can’t hide.

And yet he tried. Lowered his head, looked away, as if he could just wait this out, as if silence could stop the weakness from surfacing.

— I… didn’t mean to, — he said softly. — It’s… — he exhaled sharply, like the words were too heavy to carry. — It’s not that simple.

A dry, broken laugh tore from mafioso — bitter, unwilling.

— Nothing’s that simple, — he snapped. — But you don’t even try to explain what the hell is wrong with you!

Atsushi said nothing.

The few meters between them stretched into an abyss. Only the dull, steady whisper of water beneath the pier broke the silence.

When Atsushi drew a faint breath and shifted ever so slightly, something inside Akutagawa detonated.

His eyes fell on the were-tiger’s thin wrists, the trembling hands — fragile, exposed. Rashomon stirred, as if on its own, tendrils unfurling toward him, knowing exactly what he wanted.

Atsushi noticed. Flinched. But didn’t step back.

One step — that’s all it would take. Akutagawa could grab him, hold him, make him stay.

But at the last instant, something inside him tore loose. His teeth clenched, fingers spasmed, and Rashomon wavered in the air — defiant, resisting — before folding back behind him, leaving only emptiness.

Atsushi closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply, as if summoning what little strength he had left. Then — slowly, carefully — he stepped closer. His movements were catlike, graceful, but too deliberate, too tense, as though any wrong motion might shatter the fragile balance between them.

Now he was within arm’s reach.

Akutagawa could see the pallor of his face, the faint tremor in his lips.

His hands still shook. Atsushi tried to hide them behind his back, but Akutagawa noticed. That small, desperate effort — to stand his ground despite the fear — struck him like a blade to the ribs. And somehow, that was what enraged him most.

Atsushi spoke first.

— How… are you feeling?

His voice was quiet. Almost normal. Almost like before.

Were-tiger lifted his eyes — and in them, there was something broken. Something unbearably tired.

— How was your day? 

As if that question could still mean something.

Akutagawa froze, drawing in a quiet breath. He hadn’t expected the question.

It took him a second to gather his thoughts — to rebuild the armor that had cracked for an instant.

— Since when do you care?

His voice was sharp, curt, wrapped in the cold detachment that had long since become a shield. He didn’t even turn toward Atsushi.

The weretiger exhaled, eyes sliding away. After a pause, he spoke again:

— Today’s mission… did it go the way you planned?

— If you hadn’t been showing off, it would’ve been perfect, — Akutagawa muttered, his tone clipped.

Atsushi leaned back against the railing, arms loosely crossed.

— Strange. You’d think all those “communication lessons” would’ve done something by now, — he said with a tired half-smile. — Are you doing this on purpose, or…

He trailed off.

A tense silence fell between them — thick, humming, broken only by the soft murmur of water beneath the pier.

Akutagawa said nothing, but his gaze betrayed something more than irritation — something edged with disbelief.

— What are you trying to say, Jinko? — he asked at last, his jaw tightening.

Atsushi turned his eyes to the distant horizon, where faint light shimmered over the dark sea.

When he spoke again, his voice was soft, almost steady — but beneath that calm, something raw was trembling.

— Why are you cruel to me?

A beat.

— Because… judging by how you were on the glass bridge… you already know how to talk to people. You know how to stay calm. How to listen. How to care. Not only with Gin — with others, too.

The words were gentle in sound — but they cut deep.

— I saw you that day, — Atsushi continued quietly. — And your photos… on Higuchi’s account. When I was scrolling through Chūya’s page.

Akutagawa blinked, losing the thread for a heartbeat, then turned sharply away.

When he spoke again, his tone was controlled, but there was tension beneath it — the kind that scrapes.

— So you were looking through my photos too? — his voice split the silence like glass.

Atsushi flinched, but held his ground.

— Funny that those are the only ones you saw, — Akutagawa said evenly. — Higuchi and I have been seeing each other for a month now. We’ve… gone out. After work.

Atsushi froze. The words hit too fast, too clean.

— A month?.. — he repeated softly. No anger, no protest — only disbelief. As if something had quietly torn loose inside him.

His fingers trembled; he caught the fabric of his sleeve, as if clinging to the last thread of balance.

Akutagawa didn’t look his way. His gaze stayed fixed on the dark water — though his hand, almost without meaning to, clenched a little tighter.

Silence thickened, heavy and airless, broken only by the slow rhythm of waves hitting the pier. Atsushi couldn’t look up — afraid Akutagawa might say something else. Something that would finish what was left of him.

At last, he spoke — quietly, too quietly.

— It’s good that you’re not alone anymore. That’s… a good start.

His voice was calm. Too calm. As if he were trying to convince himself it was true.

Akutagawa didn’t move. He just stared at the water, unmoving, while his fingers tightened again, slowly.

“What a pitiful, hollow consolation.”

Atsushi’s fingers tightened around the fabric of his jacket.

The whole scene was unbearable, and he didn’t want—couldn’t—stay in it any longer.

— I… should go, — he said at last, his voice low, fighting to keep it steady.

— To Chūya, — Akutagawa cut in sharply. It wasn’t a question.

Atsushi froze. His lips parted slightly, as if to say something, but he only nodded instead, eyes dropping away from Akutagawa’s.

— Yeah. To Chūya. Who else?

His voice was quiet, distant. There was something resigned in it — as if he’d long since accepted that there was no other choice left.

— He’s the only one still happy to see me.

The words hit Akutagawa harder than he expected. Pain shot through his chest, sharp and merciless, as if someone had taken hold of his ribs and begun to crush them slowly.

“The only one?”

That was a lie. It had to be.

— The only one? — he repeated, his tone turning into a jagged mockery, though something dangerous flickered in his eyes. — So that’s your savior now? Or are you just too much of a coward to stand without hiding behind his back?

Atsushi flinched; his shoulders tensed, but he quickly pulled himself together.

— What are you trying to say? — he asked, trying not to let the irritation slip through, though his voice came out soft — almost a whisper.

Akutagawa tilted his head slightly, a smile ghosting across his lips — cold, venomous, without even a trace of satisfaction.

— Do you want me to spell it out? — he said, eyes narrowing. — It’s easier to run to him than to stay here and look me in the eyes.

Atsushi stepped back. His gaze drifted again, sideways, searching for escape.

Something tore inside Akutagawa. He didn’t think — he just broke.

— Don’t.

The word was quiet, but it carried the weight of a command — so sharp and cold that Atsushi froze, startled.

Their eyes met. Rage burned in Akutagawa’s gaze, but beneath it — buried deep, trembling — was something he was fighting to suppress.

Something fragile. Almost unbearable.

— Answer me, — the brunette snapped. — Why do you think you can just leave things as they are?

Atsushi flinched. His animal ears flattened slightly against his head, his tail giving a nervous twitch.

— Because… — he began, but his voice faltered, trembling despite his efforts to keep it steady. He swallowed hard, forcing the words out:

— I don’t want to keep getting in your way — not when you’ve finally moved on. I should be glad for you, wish you and Higuchi-san well instead of forcing my help on you when you never asked for it. When no one ever needed it but me.

Akutagawa went still.

Atsushi’s words hung in the air like a blow — one that knocked the breath from his lungs for a second. Something inside him tightened so sharply he almost winced.

He didn’t want to hear that.

Didn’t want to believe Atsushi truly meant it.

His lips twitched, but he forced himself back into control. His gaze turned cold again, tense, fixed on the were-tiger.

— Is that so?.. — His voice was oddly quiet, but there was something dangerous underneath, unstable, like a wire drawn too tight.

Atsushi said nothing. His eyes darted sideways again, searching for an escape.

“No. Don’t you dare.”

— Aren’t you even going to ask me how those dates went? — Akutagawa hissed, sharper now, his anger cracking through his composure. — What I felt? You saw a few photos, a few meetings, filled in the rest with whatever the hell you wanted — and decided you understood everything?!

Atsushi stood gripping the cold metal rail of the pier, fingers white.

He didn’t want to look at him.

He couldn’t.

His gaze stayed fixed on the water, where the faint city lights shimmered in broken reflection.

If he looked at Akutagawa now — everything would collapse.

His breathing came uneven, tight in his chest, but he forced himself upright. When he spoke again, his voice was calm. Too calm.

— How were they, Akutagawa? — he asked quietly, trying to sound neutral. — What was it like?

Akutagawa narrowed his eyes — surprised, perhaps, that Atsushi had asked after all. Or maybe it was the effort it had taken him to ask that stunned him more.

He paused, searching for a word — and in that pause, something felt off, blurred, as if he didn’t want to speak but couldn’t stop himself anymore.

— They weren’t anything, — he said at last.

Atsushi turned his head slightly, not hiding a trace of surprise.

— It felt like any ordinary mission — blending in, keeping cover, — Akutagawa added. His voice was even, almost detached, but that evenness sounded hollow — mechanical, as if he were reciting a report he’d rehearsed in advance.

— The places were beautiful. Some of them… I’d go back to.

He winced faintly, as if something unpleasant had surfaced in memory.

— Higuchi looked happy. She was taking pictures every second. There wasn’t much room left to… breathe.

The last word carried a thin thread of cold irony.

There was a chill in his tone — a mocking edge — but Atsushi heard something else beneath it.

Something fractured. Irritated.

The blonde said nothing, only nodded. His fingers clenched harder around the metal railing until his knuckles went white. He felt as if he were sinking — as if the conversation itself were dragging him under, the exhaustion pressing him into the ground, leaving him no strength even to run.

— I saw you too. That day. On the bridge.

Atsushi froze — like an animal realizing it had stepped into a trap.

Something flickered in his eyes — not fear of danger, but the kind of dread that comes from being forced to hear what one cannot bear to know.

He turned slowly, looking at Akutagawa as though hoping he’d misheard.

— You… saw me?

Akutagawa tilted his head, studying him.

— Yes. You and Nakahara.

His voice was clipped, sharp — the sound of someone who doesn’t want to say the words, but can’t hold them back.

— You two aren’t exactly hard to notice.

Atsushi stared at him wearily, as if trying to hold something inside — though he already knew he couldn’t.

Akutagawa saw it.

And struck.

— From what I could tell, your date with Nakahara didn’t go that well, — he said, pausing before the next blow. — What did he tell you that made you cry under that bridge for half an hour?

His tone was biting, edged with mockery — but beneath it seethed something else entirely.

Resentment.

Anger.

That dull, burning ache he hadn’t managed — or hadn’t wanted — to silence.

Atsushi looked at Akutagawa with an almost empty gaze — though there was still a flicker of something like disbelief, edged with quiet confusion, as if he couldn’t quite accept that this conversation was really happening.

He drew in a slow breath, exhaled, and spoke softly:

— Pff… So you saw one scene — torn out of context — and decided you understood everything?

There was exhaustion in his voice.

Not the kind that comes after a long day, but the kind that had been building for weeks — a dull, quiet erosion that blurred the line between indifference and despair, turning his tone into something faded, hollowed-out.

— Chūya didn’t say anything bad to me. On the contrary, he tried to support me… because I was just… so tired back then. — Atsushi bit his lip slightly, as if the words weighed more than he’d expected. — And we’re not lovers. Not a couple. I know there are rumors — but we’re more like… companions in misfortune.

He turned his gaze back toward the water. His eyes had darkened; his voice grew quieter, as though he was speaking more to himself than to Akutagawa.

— He probably just pities me, he went on. Because he’s been through something similar. But that’s still better than when people only talked to me because of my ability — or because they had to. It’s more than I’ve ever had. More than I deserve.

Somewhere deep inside, a thin layer of ice cracked.

His shoulders sank.

And in his eyes spread the same quiet hopelessness that had already settled in his voice.

Akutagawa said nothing — but his silence pressed down, heavy and suffocating.

He watched Atsushi closely, as if trying to catch something between the lines — something that hadn’t been spoken aloud.

Then his voice came, quiet and deliberate, as though he were testing the edge of his own courage.

— And how do you… feel, when you go on dates with someone?

Atsushi’s brows lifted slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his face — as if he couldn’t quite see where the question was leading.

He gave a small shrug, leaned back against the cold metal railing.

— No idea. I’ve never gone on one.

He gave a faint laugh — short, dull, almost emotionless.

It sounded less like amusement and more like an admission of defeat.

Akutagawa looked away.

It wasn’t abrupt, but there was tension in the movement — a quiet strain, as if it cost him something just to keep this conversation alive.

For a few moments, neither of them spoke. Only the wind filled the space between words.

Then:

— …What if you went.

Silence. The question hung between them, too simple to be dangerous — and yet it was.

Atsushi turned his head slowly, searching Akutagawa’s face — waiting for a follow-up, an explanation, a half-smile. Anything.

But Akutagawa didn’t move. He kept his eyes fixed ahead; his expression gave nothing away.

Atsushi exhaled, his fingers trembling slightly as they tightened on the hem of his jacket.

— You must be joking, — he muttered at last.

The corner of his mouth twitched — a ghost of a smile — but his voice was thick with quiet despair.

— It’s not like anyone would want to go out with me anyway.

His voice faltered, and he dropped his gaze quickly, hiding it. His hands slipped down, clutching at the edge of his jacket as though for balance.

— My world’s smaller than you think, — he said after a pause. ​​— Smaller, quieter… emptier.

There was no accusation in his tone, no bitterness — only exhaustion, dense and heavy, the kind that sounded like something long since settled.

— There are only a few people in it.

He drew a shallow breath, as if testing whether to continue.

— If you think I let people close easily, just because I smile at everyone…

Atsushi slowly lifted his eyes. There was something strange in his gaze — a trace of bitterness, but it wasn’t directed at Akutagawa. It was turned inward.

— I’m sorry you got the wrong impression of me.

He looked away before he could see the brunet’s reaction, staring at the restless water beyond the rail.

But the silence between them had shifted — too taut, too deep, as if something inevitable was about to break.

Then fingers closed around his wrist.

At first, gently — almost tentative — but the grip tightened fast.

Atsushi flinched, but before he could pull away, Akutagawa yanked him forward — hard — only to shove him back again.

The cold railing hit his spine with a dull thud; the breath tore out of his chest.

— Hey!..

The word caught in his throat.

Akutagawa was already close. Too close.

— How can you be such a hopelessly stupid cat?

His voice came out low, furious — frayed at the edges, as if torn between anger and pain.

Before Atsushi could answer, Akutagawa’s hand shot up, fingers gripping his chin, forcing his face upward. Steel-grey eyes locked onto his — sharp, merciless, burning.

— Do you at least find your food bowl in the morning, Jinko? Or do you wait for Nakahara to feed you by hand?

The words cut like a slap. But this wasn’t the kind of rage Atsushi remembered — not cold hatred, not blind fury born of pride.

There was something else there.

Something deeper.

Harsher.

Almost helpless.

Desperation.

— Every time I was with Higuchi, it only looked normal. You understand?

His voice trembled — not from weakness, but from something burning through him,

a fire too long caged inside.

He shoved Atsushi away, then stopped himself — his grip tightening on the other’s wrist, caught between restraint and cruelty.

Too close again.

Their breaths collided in the cold air, uneven, heavy.

— Normal, — he repeated, his voice hollow.

As if testing the word — and finding it rotten.

Then came the violent jerk. Atsushi hit the railing again; the metal groaned under the impact.

— It made me sick!

The words cracked through the air, raw and shaking, too honest to be contained.

Akutagawa laughed — a low, joyless sound.

— Because it wasn’t right. Because she wasn’t the one

Atsushi froze. His hands clung to the railing, knuckles white,

nowhere left to run.

— I forced myself, — Akutagawa rasped — shouting now, each word tearing through him. — Forced myself to sit there, to listen to her empty chatter, to let her pull me along—

“Like a puppet. Like a hollow shell. Like someone I never was.”

— And for what?!

He suddenly let go, as if the act of holding him had burned his skin.

Atsushi stumbled, barely catching his balance.

Akutagawa tilted his head back, gasping for breath —

then laughed.

Quietly. Raggedly. Almost broken.

— Just to prove it doesn’t work…

When his eyes met Atsushi’s again, they burned — not with fury now, but with something worse. There was no smile. Only ruin. And the too-late realization that he had locked himself inside the very cage he built.

— I don’t want just anyone, Jinko.

His voice had gone low, hoarse, strangely quiet, as if he was speaking not to Atsushi, but to himself.

— I don’t want someone I don’t truly want.

Akutagawa’s hand closed around the blond’s throat — precise, professional, without a hint of doubt. The strength was calculated perfectly — just enough for the tiger to feel the threat, but not enough to choke.

Atsushi tensed almost instinctively, bracing for another burst of rage. But it didn’t come.

Akutagawa’s voice sounded too even, too cold-blooded, too empty.

— For especially dense cats, I’ll repeat, — he tilted his head slightly, looking the blond straight in the eyes.

A pause. A faint exhale. The silence stretched — brittle, deliberate.

— What if you went.

Another pause. His eyes didn’t move.

— With me.

Atsushi blinked, feeling the world around him twist out of shape. A second ago he’d expected threats, new accusations, anger — but instead he heard something absurd, impossible, spoken with murderous seriousness.

But that wasn’t the truly frightening part.

He knew he was supposed to be afraid, but instead of fear, a dull, suffocating sense of wrongness spread through his chest. As if he was watching a man balancing on the edge of a cliff, not even noticing there was no ground beneath his feet anymore.

— And you’d better think carefully about your answer, Jinko, — the mafioso added, leaning a little closer. His breath scorched the other’s skin, and his fingers trembled faintly against the blond’s neck. — Because I’ve already spent my entire week’s supply of patience on this conversation.

But you weren’t patient.

You were just trying to convince yourself you could be.

But you were wrong.

Atsushi could feel his heart beating too fast, too loud — but not from fear for himself. He’d long stopped fearing pain. What he couldn’t stand was when someone else hurt themselves.

Especially him.

“Ryu… Are you in pain?”

Atsushi could feel it in every breath he took, in the sudden sharpness of his movements — the tension in his shoulders, the slight shiver in his fingers, as if even he didn’t know whether to cling to him or to push him away.

He knew he should resist, should protest, should try to break free…

But he couldn’t.

Because that voice wasn’t the voice of someone who wanted to hurt him.

It was the voice of someone who no longer felt his own pain. Someone who had lost himself, and now kept walking only because if he stopped, he would fall apart.

— What about Higuchi? — Atsushi’s voice was quiet, almost tender.

He didn’t want to wound him. Didn’t want to press. He just couldn’t stand watching him keep destroying himself.

Akutagawa went still. Silence fell — thick and heavy, like the stillness before a storm. For a heartbeat, his fingers slackened. 

Atsushi saw his shoulders tremble, saw a fleeting shadow pass across his face.

“Wrong…” 

He’d said the wrong thing.

— Wrong answer, — Akutagawa said softly.

And there was no rage, no sarcasm in his voice — only cold, numb indifference, the kind that makes your insides freeze.

Atsushi felt something inside him crack under that gaze.

“God. Then how are you supposed to say it right?”

Chapter Text

When Akutagawa raised his head, his eyes were empty. A perfect, indifferent cold — so absolute that the night itself seemed more alive.

The ribbons of Rashōmon stirred.

They didn’t strike — they moved softly, almost tenderly, winding around his throat, brushing against the skin with a dry whisper. Atsushi flinched, realizing the danger only a second too late.

— A–Akutagawa…

His voice broke and vanished.

But Ryūnosuke wasn’t listening. Wasn’t even looking.

Then the ground disappeared beneath him, and Atsushi understood he was falling. Cold water slammed into his face, closed around him — and the world fell silent.

Abruptly. Completely.

For a few seconds, there was still light — trembling reflections from the pier lamps above. He still searched for a glimpse of him — Akutagawa had to be there, standing at the edge, looking down.

Then a faint tug at were-tiger’s throat — barely perceptible, like the last breath before a dive — and something was decided.

Rashōmon pulled him deeper. It wasn’t just a grip anymore — it was a weight. Heavy, merciless, tightening in dark rings that dragged him down, where the silt slipped under his fingers, where the water thickened, dark as oil.

Down here, the light barely reached.

Atsushi lifted his head — upward, into the inky black, where far above, faint and blurred, like a shadow behind murky glass, stood a lone, pale figure.

Still. Motionless.

Like a statue on someone else’s grave.

Terror crushed his chest harder than the ribbons. The feeling was too familiar. His body was failing; his lungs burned; and in his mind, scenes from another life flickered to life.

The orphanage.

The swampy water of the old canal.

The director’s icy eyes as he pushed him under.

The same pain. The same fear. The same hands gripping his neck — only now they weren’t hands at all, but slick, predatory ribbons that could never be escaped. Atsushi jerked — too late, too weak — not to save himself, but because his body remembered what it was like to fight.

And for a moment, he forgot where he was.

The pier was gone.

He was eight again.

No one would come.

No one would save him.

Darkness closed in from every side. The pressure grew, dragging him down, into shifting sand, where there was no light, no air — where he was utterly alone.

Then, suddenly — as if a decision had been made at the very last second — the grip loosened. The ribbons tore him upward — into another world, cold and sharp with air that cut like knives. He gasped, choking, coughing, the burn in his throat searing like fire. Then he was thrown — hard — onto the pier.

Atsushi hit the wooden planks, soaked and trembling. His claws dug into the boards as if afraid the water might take him again.

The roar of the river and the voices of the past thundered in his head.

He sobbed once — but the tears wouldn’t come. Fear held him too tightly, leaving nothing inside but the crushing weight of mute, absolute horror.

Akutagawa stood over the boy, and for the first time, Atsushi couldn’t read his expression. Mafioso’s silhouette — dark against the light of the streetlamps — seemed almost unreal, but when were-tiger dared to look up, the gray eyes, usually cold, burned through him, revealing not just fury, but something else.

Something fractured.

The ribbons of Rashōmon, moments ago ready to become his noose, now hung suspended — as if uncertain, afraid to touch him again.

Then Akutagawa sank to his knees, his hands gripping Atsushi’s shoulders. The hold was firm, but not with that blind rage the blonde knew so well.

— I’m still waiting for the right answer, Jinko, — the voice was low, hoarse, breaking at the edges of the words.

Atsushi tried to turn away, but fingers tangled sharply in his hair, forcing him to look straight into those gray, clouded eyes.

— Do you hear me? — soft, dangerous. — I won’t let you go again. Not to Chūya. Not to anyone else.

“Never.”

The word came quieter, almost trembling — and at that very moment, the grip in his hair eased. Barely, for a heartbeat. But Atsushi felt it.

His chest burned; his breath was ragged; pain pounded in his temples. The world blurred, tilted, and he had to blink several times before he could focus on Akutagawa’s face again.

Akutagawa’s eyes were no longer empty.

They searched him, pleaded with him — demanding something that couldn’t be spoken.

Atsushi shivered — not from fear.

Now, this close, he understood: it wasn’t hatred. It wasn’t the need to destroy.

It was a cry for help, spoken in the only language Akutagawa had ever learned.

The language of violence.

“If I don’t help him… who will?”

A trembling rose in his chest. Almost unconsciously, listening to his own thoughts, the boy nodded.

— Fine… fine, I’ll go. With you.

It came out as a whisper. Fragile. Trembling — not just from fear.

Then the world moved again. The grip on his wrists loosened, faltered — and before he could think, Akutagawa pulled him close.

It wasn’t rage anymore.

It was something desperate — as if his body moved before his mind could stop it, clinging to the one thing that still felt real.

Atsushi froze, dazed, breath caught in his throat. But he didn’t pull away.

Akutagawa’s hands pressed against his back — not to restrain, but to remember. His breath came shallow, uneven; his heart beat too fast, too hard, as if afraid the silence would crush it.

And Atsushi realized, dimly, that this wasn’t dominance. It was a confession — wordless, shivering, all edges and silence.

When the tremor in his body finally broke, Akutagawa let out a sound — soft, cracked, almost lost.

A sigh, or maybe a sob too tired to finish.

A sound that carried exhaustion, hunger, and the fragile echo of relief.

Akutagawa rose slowly.

For a few seconds, he just stood there, looking down at Atsushi — as if trying to make sense of something, to understand what he was supposed to do now.

As if he hadn’t expected the were-tiger to agree.

— Get up, — mafioso said shortly, reaching out his hand and, without waiting for an answer, pulled him to his feet.

Atsushi flinched, trying to obey, but his body — drained, heavy, soaked through — wouldn’t respond. The world swayed; he nearly lost balance, but Akutagawa didn’t let him fall. His fingers clamped around Atsushi’s wrist, holding him upright, refusing to let him sink back onto the wet planks of the pier.

— I’ll walk you home, — his voice was low, flat, leaving no room for argument.

— You don’t have to… — Atsushi began, but the words died under the weight of those leaden eyes.

— You look like you’ll collapse the moment you move, — Akutagawa said dryly. His tone had softened, but the tension was still there, strung tight beneath the calm. — You’re coming with me.

Atsushi didn’t argue. He simply nodded — too tired to protest, and knowing that refusal would only set the brunette’s off again.

They walked through the empty streets, lit by scattered lamps. The houses loomed dark and hollow, and the air, dry after the water, scratched at the lungs.

Atsushi could still feel Akutagawa’s hand around his wrist — not rough, but too firm, as if the elder man feared that the moment he let go, Atsushi would vanish.

Neither of them spoke.

Atsushi didn’t look at mafioso, but caught glimpses — the way Akutagawa walked straight-backed, eyes fixed ahead, his face unreadable.

Only sometimes did his fingers tighten slightly, as though checking — you’re still here, aren’t you?

And every time Atsushi shifted, just a little, Ryūnosuke flinched — barely, but enough to notice.

Atsushi realized how deep in thought mafioso was when they missed the first turn toward the Agency.

He hesitated, hoping the brunette would notice on his own. But when they passed another street, it became pointless to stay silent.

Atsu reached out with his free hand, gently touching Akutagawa’s shoulder, fingers brushing the damp fabric of his coat.

— Akutagawa, we need to turn back. The Agency’s that way, — his voice came out quiet, hoarse from everything that had happened.

Akutagawa froze, just for a second, as if realizing only now where they were. His gray eyes narrowed slightly as he scanned the street, irritation flickering through his face.

— You went too deep inside yourself, — Atsushi said softly, watching him. — Were you going to ask something?

Mafioso shot him a quick, searching look — uncertain, almost defensive. For a moment, it seemed he really wanted to ask. But the ease with which Atsushi read him only made him bristle.

— It’s fine, — Atsushi exhaled, offering a small, tired smile. It wasn’t forced — just quiet, worn, real. — You can ask.

Akutagawa’s voice, when it finally came, was measured, but heavy.

— This makes absolutely no sense. — His tone was sharp, but under it — confusion, maybe even disbelief. His gaze lingered on Atsushi, narrowed, as if trying to find a hidden answer. — You’re still part of the Agency. Yet you walked into the Mafia with Nakahara. He spoke for you, arranged the best possible terms — better than most ever get. And after all that… you ended up with the Black Lizards. Not in the Executive Division. Why?

— Because that was the agreement from the start. Your division. I never planned to work with Chūya-san.

— Why?.. — Akutagawa’s voice was quieter now, not as steady as usual. There was a faint tremor under the words, something he probably didn’t even notice himself.

Atsushi exhaled softly, as if reaching back to a memory that still stung. When he spoke again, he didn’t look at Akutagawa right away; his gaze drifted, unfocused.

— Because… after the Amenodozen incident, I was worried about you, — his voice dropped lower, almost uncertain whether it was something he was allowed to say. — I heard you weren’t doing well. That you might’ve been… lonely. More than before.

— You heard? — Ryūnosuke narrowed his eyes.

— Yes. From Chūya-san, — Atsushi tilted his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. — We met by chance, in a park. He asked how I’d been… asked about chrysanthemum tea. But it was hard to keep the conversation going. Because I was thinking about you.

He hesitated for a moment, as if deciding whether to stop there — whether to leave some things unsaid.

— That’s how it started. With you, — his voice trembled on the last word, not from fear or guilt, but from honesty too bare to hide.

A flicker of disbelief crossed Akutagawa’s face. He pressed his lips together, chin lifting slightly — a defensive gesture, as if distance could shield him — but the tension in his eyes betrayed him.

— So you reached out to him because of me? — His tone was almost neutral, but beneath it there was something fragile, uncertain — something Akutagawa himself might not have recognized.

— Yes, — Atsushi answered quietly. — We became friends because you matter. To both of us.

He said it — and felt the air between them change.

Akutagawa looked at him as if unsure whether to believe him. Something flickered in his eyes — confusion, maybe fear — before he looked away sharply, letting out a sound that might’ve been a scoff, though his voice carried no real strength. His steps quickened, as if to outrun the moment.

Atsushi followed silently, keeping pace. From time to time, he glanced at him — cautious, searching — but Akutagawa didn’t look back. His shoulders were tense; his thoughts were far away.

“That was… unusual,” — Atsushi realized, biting his lip. 

Until now, Akutagawa had only once asked him something personal — back then, it was why he fought, and even that question had revolved around Dazai. But now… now it was about something else. About why Atsushi had chosen to stay near him — not Chūya.

The realization struck late, tightening in his chest.

He understood that, lost in his own turmoil, he had stopped noticing the changes in Ryūnosuke. He had shut them out, stopped listening to his voice, stopped reading the shifts in his face, stopped feeling his moods the way he used to.

Because that was easier.

But now, walking side by side again — talking again, after everything — Atsushi began to piece together what he’d been avoiding.

The last month, Akutagawa had been different. If it had happened before, Atsushi would’ve seen it immediately. Back then, even the smallest changes had seemed meaningful. Even that night — when Akutagawa and Higuchi found him at the pier. Something had felt wrong from the start, but Atsushi hadn’t understood what. Everything about Akutagawa’s behavior had been… off. He told Higuchi her feelings were mutual — and then left her standing there, the moment he saw Atsushi talking to Chūya.

After the briefing were-tiger had ran from. After the bloodbath at the warehouse. Every time, Akutagawa had found him.

Had come closer.

And every time, Atsushi had been too consumed by fear to see how uncharacteristic it was.

How much it meant.

Since when, even?..

But it hadn’t started a month ago. Atsushi had simply never understood the reasons. Never asked.

Why had Akutagawa caught him on the Moby Dick when he was already falling — thousands of meters down?

Why, when their abilities collided, hadn’t he used that moment to finish it, but instead said, calmly, “Let’s go, Jinko,” and led him to the nearest shelter?

Why… why had Ryūnosuke saved were-tiger on that ship?

Atsushi couldn’t stop the memory — the words that had been forced into him over and over. His mentor had loved that definition, had worshiped it, as if it contained the ultimate truth of the world. He’d made Atsushi repeat it every time he was sent out of the basement.

“Madness is doing the same thing again and again, expecting a different result.”

Wasn’t that what Akutagawa was doing?

He attacked, again and again. Pushed, threatened, cornered — as if believing that if he did it enough times, something would finally change. 

But nothing ever did.

How many times had he tried to kill Atsushi?

How many times had he saved him instead?

How many times had he said things meant to drive a silver-haired boy away, only to step closer the next second?

And how many times had Atsushi let it happen — thinking that next time would be different?

If Gin hadn’t stepped in… If she hadn’t come face to face now…

“Talk to him. Before he kills you. Or himself. Again.”

Again.

Gin had understood. She’d seen how bad it had gotten. And Atsushi knew she was right.

But wasn’t it his fault, too?

He’d known something was wrong with Akutagawa. Known he’d gone too far. He’d seen the way the Mafia’s Hound lived on stubbornness alone — on anger, and nothing else.

And he’d still looked away.

Because he didn’t want to deal with it. Because he was tired. Because… He hadn’t been there when Akutagawa needed him.

And now it had all come to this — Ryūnosuke had dragged a promise of a date out of him after almost drowning him in the bay.

So what would the next “again” look like?..

Atsushi felt that thick, unpleasant heaviness rise in his chest, spreading like tar.

He’d been hoping for a different result, too.

When they reached the house, Atsushi tried carefully to pull his hand free, but Akutagawa was still holding on. Only when they stopped by the door did the brunette seem to realize it — that he hadn’t let go — and slowly loosened his grip.

Atsushi didn’t pull away immediately. Just like that night at the bar, he let the touch fade gradually, so it felt natural.

— Take a hot bath, — Akutagawa said without looking at him. — Take your medicine. You’re shaking. Tomorrow evening we have plans, and I need you in proper condition — not sick and useless.

Too harsh.

For a brief moment, a hot, sharp irritation flared in Atsushi’s chest. He almost clenched his teeth, looking at Akutagawa — harsh, detached, pretending again that nothing had happened, that he wasn’t shaking just as badly on the inside.

— That’s… cruel, Akutagawa, — his voice came out quieter than he wanted, but clear enough. — You almost drowned me, and now you tell me not to catch a cold.

Akutagawa didn’t answer. His face stayed expressionless, but Atsushi noticed how his lips parted slightly — as if he was holding something back.

— You and my mentor would’ve gotten along, — Atsushi said, his voice carrying a kind of weary acceptance, almost resignation. — He also thought that was an effective way to make me obedient.

Akutagawa flinched. Not sharply — just a small movement of the shoulders, like a gust of cold air had passed through him. His lips trembled, his breath caught.

He hadn’t expected that.

Or maybe he hadn’t expected it to hurt. For a fraction of a second, something unfamiliar crossed his face. Almost panic.

Then he looked away, exhaling sharply — as if forcing the emotions back down where they belonged. His face was blank again, but Atsushi could tell: the blow had landed deeper than he’d meant it to.

Silence fell between them once more.

Atsushi looked at him — tired, but without anger now, only with a dull sadness. Then turned toward the door.

— Good night, Akutagawa, — he said softly. — See you tomorrow.

The brunette stood still for a few seconds, saying nothing. Then he turned, and without a word, walked away.

His eyes were still cold — but now Atsushi couldn’t shake the feeling that there was too much emptiness in them.

***

Gin sighed heavily, remembering how she had yelled at Atsushi just a few hours earlier.

She hadn’t wanted to give the detective the address of her brother’s night job — she’d clenched her teeth before saying the street name, and regretted it immediately after.

But there had been no other way. It was the only thing she could do to help Ryunosuke, who had been looking worse and worse over the past month.

Now, though, as she looked at him, Gin wondered for the first time if she’d made the right choice.

Her brother was sitting at the table with a cup of tea in his hands, a strange, startlingly soft smile frozen on his face.

She had never seen that expression before.

— You don’t often look that pleased, — she said carefully, breaking the silence.

Akutagawa flinched and turned toward her.

Gin stood in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, her eyes narrowed slightly, watching him with a mix of curiosity and caution.

— You’re in a good mood tonight, — she went on.

— Yes, — he answered quietly. Almost tenderly. — Very.

Gin frowned.

That very sounded off. Not like happiness — more like a kind of forbidden pleasure.

— How was the mission? — she asked, keeping her tone neutral.

Akutagawa looked away, lifted the cup to his lips, and took a slow sip.

She could see how he was dragging the moment out, weighing his words.

— Excellent, — he said at last, lightly, casually. — Though… perhaps I failed it.

Gin raised an eyebrow.

— I left the captured criminal tied up on the pier, — he added, with a faint smile. — Forgot all about him, actually.

— You… forgot what? — she straightened, disbelief flickering in her voice.

— Doesn’t matter, — he waved it off, a light smile curving his lips.

Then he laughed. Not cruelly. Not in hysteria. Just — lightly, clearly. Like an ordinary person.

Something twisted inside her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard him laugh like that. Part of her wanted to be glad — but something about it was wrong.

As if the laughter didn’t belong to her brother at all.

— Someone will find him tomorrow and drag him either to our office or to the police, — Ryūnosuke added calmly.

Another sip of tea, as if they were talking about the weather.

Gin couldn’t hold it in anymore.

— Ryūnosuke… — she said softly, searching his face. — Are you all right?

Akutagawa looked at her, his gaze still and unreadable.

— Yes, — he said. — Perfectly fine.

And smiled again.

Gin didn’t believe him. She noticed the way his fingers tightened slightly around the cup.

— But you know, Gin… — his voice dropped lower, quieter, almost gentle. — For the first time in my life, I’m sure I’m doing the right thing.

Gin frowned deeper.

— Sure?

Ryūnosuke nodded. There was a strange fire in his eyes — something between obsession and satisfaction.

— Yes. That damn cat won’t get away from me ever again.

A chill ran down Gin’s spine. She wanted to say something — but stopped when she saw him trace the rim of his cup with one finger, slowly, thoughtfully, as if outlining the edges of something he now considered his own.

Akutagawa was thinking.

He replayed the memories of that night over and over. How, for the first time in a long while, he had managed to hold Atsushi down. To make him stay. Not willingly — but the result was what mattered, wasn’t it?

The irony wasn’t lost on him. He knew perfectly well he had done the same thing Dazai once did to him: crushed someone’s will through fear, manipulation, and force.

That was how Mafia had broken him. That was how the Headmaster had tried to break Atsushi.

He’d read the were-tiger’s file thoroughly — before the hunt, before driving him to the brink on the Moby Dick.

“Wasn’t it almost funny?”

Ryūnosuke smirked faintly. He knew Atsushi would hate him for it eventually. Hatred was the only outcome possible — the only emotion that would remain between them.

But that would come later. 

For now, he didn’t care.

“That will come later,” — he thought, taking another sip of tea. Right now, there was only one thing that mattered: Atsushi hadn’t run.

He’d stayed.

And tomorrow… tomorrow would be whatever Ryūnosuke wanted it to be.

Akutagawa slowly traced his finger along the rim of the cup, watching the faint ripple disturb the surface of the tea. It felt as if the thoughts in his head were moving the same way — colliding, churning, never settling. If anything, they were getting heavier with each passing second.

There — standing before Atsushi.

There — for the first time in so long — he had known that everything was as it should be.

But now, sitting alone in the quiet kitchen, he felt… something different.

Emptiness?

No.

Irritation.

As if the moment he had fought so hard for had slipped through his fingers, leaving only its afterimage — pale, intangible. It hadn’t gone perfectly tonight.

Tomorrow, he would fix it. 

Tomorrow, he would do it right.

His gaze drifted over the table and stopped on the phone.

He needed to talk to Higuchi. To put an end to her useless attempts to stay close. Not because he felt anything about it — just because it distracted him.

“I have far bigger plans for Jinko.”

The tea was bitter. He took a sip — and froze. Something clenched inside his chest.

The pier.

Atsushi before him.

On his knees.

Shaking.

Helpless.

Terrified.

Unable to fight back.

The image burned into his mind brought with it a strange mixture of sensations: triumph, deep dark satisfaction — and something else, hovering between memory and unspoken desire.

If only he had cried.

If his lips had trembled, if his breath had broken, if he had covered his face with his hands, unable to stop the sobs.

If tears had run down his cheeks, mingling with the water.

If he had looked up at him — wide-eyed, frightened — and whispered through the quiver in his voice, that faint, desperate plea:

“Akutagawa… please.”

Akutagawa exhaled slowly. The thought ignited something inside him — a feeling that was both cold and burning, heavy and electric.

He could almost feel how that single missing detail would have completed the picture. It would have been… right. 

Perfect.

He set the cup down too sharply, inhaling harder than he needed to.

Why? Why did he feel as if he was about to fall apart?

Everything was going according to plan. His plan.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would begin in earnest.

Tonight had only been the prelude.

And yet… There, beside Atsushi — in the quiet of the night city, when Atsushi walked next to him, still wet and trembling from the water, exhausted but alive — something had felt wrong.

Different.

As if the air itself had softened. As if his anger could no longer fill his chest completely, as if something inside refused to be as hard as before.

It wasn’t enough. There wasn’t enough hatred left to hold him upright. 

And that terrified him. Now, sitting alone, he almost despised himself for that moment of weakness.

As if he hadn’t been the one holding, but the one being held.

As if he hadn’t cornered, but had been standing on the edge himself.

As if next to Atsushi he hadn’t been stronger — but fragile.

Akutagawa drew a deep breath, feeling his fingers tremble faintly.

“No, — he thought, forcing his mind back to the present. — Not like that.”

His thoughts were jumping, twisting, breaking apart with frightening speed.

He knew something was wrong — that he wasn’t supposed to feel this way. He was supposed to feel power. Satisfaction. He was supposed to know he’d won. But inside, the cold still lingered. And until he got rid of it — until it was gone — he couldn’t truly enjoy the victory.

Something had to change. Atsushi had to break the right way. Properly.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would begin.

Tonight could be for something else.

Leaving his cooling tea on the table, Akutagawa went to the bathroom. With a familiar movement, he turned the shower on full blast, allowing the hot water to pleasantly envelop his body.

These feelings, these thoughts — they weren't new. He had already caught himself feeling this way after that incident on the pier. After he finally understood what he really wanted, what he had wanted all along from that hopelessly stupid and timid cat.

When Higuchi called him later, after returning home from the bar and placing those scarlet lilies in a vase near his bed. When he fucked her with a passion that surprised even him, closing his eyes and thinking of someone else entirely, then pushing those thoughts back into the recesses of his mind. When he came inside her, barely restraining himself from calling her by another name, one so familiar, so cloyingly sweet.

His lower abdomen felt like it was on fire, burning with a thirst for touch. It seemed that in this state, a couple of movements of his hand would be enough to bring himself to release. 

What is he like in bed, this were-cat? Gentle? Warm? With fluffy ears that can be stroked and caressed. With a long tail that can be pulled, pushing him deeper inside. With soft hair that you could run your fingers through, pulling him closer so that he couldn't pull away when the brunette pushed his cock inside, thrusting it all the way to the hilt, forcing the were-tiger to take Ryūnosuke inside him — completely, without residue.

The brunette's fingers slid lower, wrapping around the excited cock and stroking it — quickly, greedily. Without unnecessary foreplay.

What was he like inside? Atsushi? Narrow, tight, surely. Pliant. Able to endure pain — but not the kind Akutagawa would inflict on him, hammering into him roughly, at an aggressive pace.

He would make him cry, sob with pain and pleasure. Squirm beneath him, helplessly gasping for air in the rare moments between pitiful, submissive sobs and moans.

Stupid cat. He must finally feel who he belongs to. Feel how Ryūnosuke reaches the final edge, how his heavy cock, swollen from unbearable tension, pours inside, filling Atsushi to the brim. Feel how his belly swells, barely containing Akutagawa's seed as he cums inside the blond, again and again.

Loud, wet slaps. Suppressed cries. A weak voice, exhausted, calling Ryūnosuke's name, then breaking into a plaintive, thin moan as the brunette speeds up, emptying himself one last time.

The release washed over Akutagawa like a bright, explosive wave woven from lust and emotion. He barely managed to stifle a cry, leaning back exhausted against the wet tiles behind him.

“Atsu…”

His own voice, muffled by the sound of the water, sounded almost as gentle and plaintive as the were-tiger's voice in Ryūnosuke's head.

Chapter Text

Atsushi stepped into the kitchen, trailing wet footprints. His clothes clung unpleasantly, the cold biting down to the bone, but he barely cared. The blonde felt wrung out, his thoughts in knots; all he wanted was a little quiet.

Dazai, sprawled lazily on the couch in the corner, lifted his gaze from the phone.

— You picked a fight with the water, Atsushi-kun, and lost? — Osamu drawled with a faint smile.

The were-tiger didn’t even look his way. He set the kettle on and slowly reached for the first-aid kit.

— Dazai-san… — the voice was quiet, almost fragile.

— Hm?..

Atsushi tightened his grip on the little medicine packet, as if deciding whether to go on.

— What do you think of Akutagawa? 

Dazai froze for a heartbeat, then stretched and set his phone aside, clearly aware this wouldn’t be a short conversation.

— What do I think? — he looked at Atsushi more closely. — Don’t you think you’ve been paying him a bit too much attention? 

— That’s not it… — Atsushi shut his eyes, trying to gather himself. — It’s just… 

He trailed off, as if the right words wouldn’t come.

Dazai stayed silent. Weariness and the usual mockery flickered in his gaze, and under that — something else, an unpleasant foreboding.

— He… it’s like he’s destroying himself, — Atsushi said at last. — Even when he’s in pain, he doesn’t stop. As if he can’t. As if he doesn’t know there’s any other way. 

The boy ran a finger along the rim of the cup, as though trying to catch hold of something he couldn’t name.

— And in the end, he’s the one who suffers the most. 

Dazai watched the young detective with a cool half-smile; a thin shade of irritation crossed his hazel eyes.

— You say that as if he didn’t choose it himself. 

Atsushi looked up, not immediately understanding.

— But… 

— He suffers because he keeps making the same choice again and again, — Dazai said calmly, leaning back. — Because he doesn’t want to see there’s another way. Because it’s easier to blame everyone else than admit he could have acted differently.

Atsushi started to speak, then fell silent.

— Feeling compassion for those who truly can’t change their fate — that’s one thing, — Dazai continued, thoughtful. — Wasting your time on someone who builds his own cage and insists the key is lost… 

Osamu didn’t finish, but he didn’t have to.

Atsushi said nothing; his gaze slipped to the cup of cooling tea.

— I just… I don’t know how to stop it, — were-tiger admitted softly.

Dazai looked away, twisting the end of his bandage around one finger. Only after a few seconds did he say, slowly:

— Maybe you shouldn’t stop it. Maybe he likes it that way — suffering in the dark, hating, choosing himself over the people around him. And envying those who still have enough faith to live differently. 

Atsushi’s shoulders sank; he hugged the warm ceramic tighter.

— But that’s… terrible. And so… so sad… — the boy said.

For a moment, tense silence pooled in the kitchen. Dazai, leaning back, slowly swirled his cup, watching the steam curl up. Then, almost indifferently, he said:

— You feel sorry for him so much, though he’s hardly the sort of person who deserves even pity. 

Atsushi lifted his gaze sharply, but turned it away almost at once.

— I’m not… — he faltered, his fingers tightening around the warm ceramic. — It’s just… I can’t stand watching him hurt himself over what he does. 

Dazai’s smile thinned; it didn’t reach his eyes.

— Does that make him a victim? 

The boy didn’t answer right away.

— I mean… — Were-tiger was speaking lower and lower, as if afraid of his own words. — He always goes all the way. Acts first and only then thinks about the fallout. Or, worse, he mistakenly assumes he can handle that fallout. Sometimes I feel like he… misreads himself. He’s too emotional.

Dazai didn’t interrupt, but a flicker of irritation passed through his gaze. He disliked it when Atsushi fixated on what didn’t deserve attention.

— You used that against him on the Moby Dick, didn’t you? — Atsushi asked suddenly.

A brow ticked upward; Dazai only tilted his head, thoughtful.

— Any strong emotion, Atsushi-kun, is an opening. An opening you can use to your own ends, — he observed quietly.

Something tightened unpleasantly inside Atsushi. The elder man spoke calmly, almost detached; that calm made the words sound even harsher. And although Atsushi understood… understood there was truth in it… something in him stubbornly refused to accept it as easily as Dazai did.

— I think about it a lot, — the boy began softly, then faltered, as if catching himself not knowing how to shape what he wanted to say. — Back then it felt right. As if that was how it had to be. But now…

He clenched the cup. Warm ceramic bit into his fingers, and he barely noticed.

— Now I see it was cruel. I didn’t know him as a person. I only saw an enemy. So I never considered how he might feel in that moment.

A sharp breath, as if the admission cost him.

— And now… now I know he’s someone who sacrifices himself far too often, because that’s what he’s learned.

The last words came almost with effort.

— He doesn’t even see how dangerous it is. For him it’s… second nature. But I can see how easy a target he is. For those who know how to exploit it.

Atsushi glanced at Dazai and just as quickly looked down again, as if afraid to find his fear confirmed in the man’s eyes.

— It’s like… a snarl of thread, and I don’t even know where to take hold of it. I thought… maybe start by apologizing. For everything between us. And then… then deal with the rest.

Dazai regarded him closely, with no trace of comfort. He leaned back, hands on the armrest.

— Atsushi-kun, — he said, reflective, arms now folding over his chest, — you need to understand one thing. People like Akutagawa don’t receive apologies the way you think.

— Why?

Dazai inclined his head, as if weighing phrasing.

— Because he crossed that pain threshold long ago — the one below which apologies, consolation, even concern can actually touch anything in him.

— You mean… he can’t feel it?

A faint smile; not a hint of warmth.

— He can, but only through something… heavier. More personal. Something harder and deeper than any apology.

Atsushi went still, eyes dropping to his cup.

— For example… staying beside him, even when he wants to kill you?

— Exactly, — Dazai went on, almost imperturbable now. — Men like Akutagawa — and, for that matter, men like me, — he allowed himself a small smirk, — live beyond what you’d call normal emotion.

He paused; his gaze turned blade-keen.

— Do you know what that means, Atsushi-kun?

— What?

The man reclined again, never breaking eye contact.

— That you don’t stay because you chose to. You stay because he did.

The blunt edge of it made Atsushi flinch. He tightened his hold on the cup and shook his head.

— I think… he’s missing something essential.

Dazai laughed softly, as if arriving at a conclusion; there was no mirth in it.

— And you think you can give it to him?

— I don’t know, — Atsushi lifted his eyes. — Maybe he won’t even want it. But… someone has to at least try.

Dazai said nothing, studying him; after a beat he spoke, slowly, almost reluctantly, looking away:

— You can still try. And what will you do if he never accepts it?

Silence. Atsushi gripped the cup. There was something stubborn in his gaze — and something else: uncertainty, hope thinning, perhaps more than Dazai could fathom.

— In that case… I’ll keep searching. For what he will accept. Words, presence — those aren’t the only things that can exist between people, — silver-haired boy said, weariness edging his voice.

Dazai’s smile returned, more for himself than for Atsushi.

— You’re right, — his voice gentled. — Just understand this, Atsushi-kun: when a man can’t govern his emotions, someone else governs them. And if he still hasn’t learned that thing, your presence is unlikely to be what changes him.

Atsushi met his gaze; for a heartbeat something like bitterness flickered in Osamu’s eyes — if he’d let himself call it that. Too much time had passed; too much had been done. Both Dazai and Akutagawa had strayed far beyond the point where things were still easy to change.

— Wanting to help him is how he’ll keep you close, — Dazai added, quiet, almost unruffled. — You understand that for sure, don’t you?

Atsushi didn’t answer right away. The kitchen sank back into silence, heavy and a little stifling, like reality itself.

In the end, Dazai leaned back; his gaze stayed taut, yet now there was something almost human in it.

— Are you still sure he deserves your time, Atsushi-kun? — he asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

Dazai was looking at Atsushi, thoughtful, but his mind wandered elsewhere, to another time. He remembered a night a month ago — the night Akutagawa burst into the Agency. A noiseless shadow, cold fury in his eyes, a voice packed with rage that clogged in his throat and refused to come out clean. He didn’t attack, but he looked ready to tear apart anyone who stepped in his way.

Back then, Atsushi managed to stop him.

And the strangest part wasn’t even that the blond calmed that mafioso. The strange part was that Akutagawa allowed himself to be calmed at all.

Allowed someone other than Dazai to do it. It wasn’t like him. It… didn’t fit.

Dazai had wondered about it then.

And now — he remembered.

Something had shifted.

Akutagawa was beside himself. Not merely angry, but frenzied with rage. He shouted, and in the torrent Dazai caught something odd — accusations, sharp, furious, not entirely coherent, yet painfully familiar.

“ …trade everything we had…” “Don’t you fucking dare — after everything!” “…become Chuuya’s partner behind my back?!”

And if Dazai hadn’t known the context — hadn’t known about the Agency–Mafia cooperation, that Atsushi and Chūya were simply working together — the scene would have looked most of all like a jealous boyfriend’s tantrum, hurling accusations of cheating.

Perhaps that’s exactly how Akutagawa perceived it. Whether he got it or not.

Dazai could read people, even people like Akutagawa. Atsushi wasn’t the brunette’s guiding star, not someone to live up to. So it had to be something else.

“But what? Love?”

Dazai smiled to himself. 

“As if.” 

He knew all too well what Akutagawa was capable of. He had endured the full force of that mad, misshapen attachment.

It was, in its way, touching. Loyalty. Devotion.

It was, in its way… pathetic. Revolting. Twisted.

When that child began to lift him onto a pedestal, turning him into something more than a man, it wasn’t merely unpleasant. It was painful. A stripping away of a human face. When Akutagawa turned Dazai into a god, it was, in its own way, disgusting.

Osamu had never asked to be deified, to be seen in that light. It wasn’t just the blind devotion of a street waif pulled from the gutter — it was something else. He wasn’t prepared to be that object of worship. In his head, in his soul, it inspired only repulsion.

It was pitiable. Insanely pitiable. But not as tragedy.

It was disgusting not because Dazai didn’t know how to exploit such devotion. He did, and he kept on using people as he pleased. But something in Akutagawa’s blind attachment made him recoil. It wasn’t love; it was dependence — transmuted into hatred the moment Akutagawa felt his expectations, his hopes, had been betrayed.

And yet… something was off.

Dazai knew how to manipulate people — that was true. But even he had moments when something slipped past his understanding.

He’d expected Akutagawa to sink his teeth into a new enemy with the same obsession he’d chased the old one. That the blind hatred he felt for Atsushi would, given the right nudge, slowly decant into equally blind admiration.

But that evening he saw the way Atsushi spoke to him.

Saw the way his hands touched Akutagawa.

And how Akutagawa… allowed it.

And Dazai understood there was something wrong in that. Once, the brunette had chased only one thing — recognition, attention, approval. He’d clawed for it to the last drop, bleeding pride, rage, and stubbornness. He always looked up, to where Dazai stood, because he couldn’t see anyone who stood at his level.

But now he was looking straight ahead. At Atsushi. At a real, reachable target. Only — to what end?

— I don’t see anything wrong with that, — came a quiet voice.

Dazai lifted his eyes. Atsushi was staring into his cup, fingertips resting lightly on its rim.

— With what, exactly? — Osamu asked slowly.

— With being close to him.

It was said simply, without hesitation. As if the boy were speaking of an ordinary thing — fair weather, or the fact that it would soon be dark.

Dazai didn’t look away.

— It’s what he’s always wanted, — Atsushi went on, tracing the edge of the cup with a thoughtful finger. — But he never got it in a way he really needed to. From anyone.

He said it with understanding. Even with a touch of gentleness.

Dazai disliked that tone.

— You’re excusing him?

Atsushi shook his head.

— No. But if you want something your whole life and the whole life you’re told “no,” isn’t it natural — to snap, eventually?

He lifted his gaze to Dazai, and there was something strange in his amethyst-golden eyes.

— And to be honest… I don’t see any reason to tell him “no.”

The silence in the room suddenly felt heavier. Dazai didn’t move, but something inside him gave a small, sharp ring.

Akutagawa was too starved for closeness, too splintered to simply take it the way others do. No — he would seize. He would press it beneath his heel. He would make that closeness belong to him alone, by whatever means.

Dazai understood, very clearly all at once, how this could end.

— You truly see no reason to tell him “no”?

Atsushi didn’t look away.

— I don’t.

Something in his tone made Dazai tense. It wasn’t defiance. Not stubbornness. More like… comprehension? As if Atsushi knew something he didn’t. As if he’d long ago accepted what Dazai was only beginning to grasp.

— You know, Atsushi-kun, — his voice was soft, but his gaze remained intent, — what will you do if one morning you wake up and realize you no longer have a choice?

Atsushi regarded him calmly.

— I don’t see a problem with that, Dazai-san.

He drew a light breath, let it go, as if weighing the words, then added, just as evenly:

— There’s hardly been a choice for most of our lives — neither for me, nor for him.

Dazai narrowed his eyes a fraction.

— That doesn’t mean it shouldn’t exist.

Atsushi smiled — tiredly, without a trace of amusement.

— It means you don’t have to be afraid of it.

He considered for a moment, then added quietly:

— I know what it’s like — to be told “no” your whole life. It’s… painful.

There was no justification in that. Only a statement.

Dazai watched him for a long time. And then realized he was doing the very thing he hadn’t wanted to do.

Looking up.

Chapter Text

In the morning, Gin left the house without a word, having packed everything she needed for the mission ahead. The things lay in her backpack neatly, as always, but her mind was a mess. After last night’s conversation with Ryūnosuke, the feeling that something had gone wrong wouldn’t leave her. She tried to persuade herself she’d done the right thing, but one look at her brother — and her certainty dissolved, leaving only a vague unease.

They walked to the pier together, in silence. The morning hush hung between them, heavy and damp, like fog over the water. Gin kept pace at his side, casting him glances now and then.

Something had changed.

His posture was as straight as ever, his stride measured, yet there was something unnaturally fluid in the movement. He looked… relaxed.

Too relaxed.

Too quiet.

And that shadow of a smile on his face — light, almost imperceptible, yet so out of place that Gin suddenly felt a chill.

By the mini–office the team had already gathered. Tachihara and several others were waiting on the pier; the air was heavy with moisture, a cool wind blowing in from the sea. Gin’s gaze moved over the people by habit, then snagged at once on a familiar figure.

Atsushi.

He looked unwell. Red–rimmed eyes, dark crescents, a face set in fatigue and dejection. He clearly hadn’t slept. Gin knew it at a glance.

— Good morning, Atsushi, — said Akutagawa.

Gin could almost feel something tighten inside her. A quiet, even voice — not merely indifferent, but gentle. She thought she was hearing him like this for the first time.

Atsushi halted a few paces away, as if weighing his reply. His gaze was still wary, but not frightened. He still kept his distance, yet without that inward stiffness that had, only yesterday, made it hard for him even to look the brunette’s way.

— Good morning, Akutagawa, — he said at last. His voice was steady, but tired, touched with something melancholy, resigned.

Akutagawa tipped his head, almost lazily, and his lips curved in a slight, unpleasant smirk.

— “Akutagawa”? — he echoed with offhand derision. — Has the stray cat’s memory grown so poor he’s forgotten his owner’s name?

Gin held her breath in spite of herself. She was used to her brother’s harshness, his contempt, his caustic tongue — yet this line carried something else. Not just mockery, not just a jeer: there was a demanding note in his voice, one that allowed no dissent.

Atsushi flinched minutely, his eyes flicking aside, but he didn’t step back. He only exhaled, slow, as if gathering himself.

— If you talk to me like a pet and not a person, then I suppose it doesn’t matter what I call you, — he said quietly. There was no anger in his voice, no challenge, only a tired, barely audible sadness.

Gin tensed. She expected irritation, a fresh burst of anger — but instead her brother stepped forward, closing the distance.

Too close.

His hands rose and settled on Atsushi’s shoulders. His fingers touched the white shirt lightly, almost carefully, yet Gin could see the slight tightening — the readiness to press harder if Atsushi dared to balk.

— Look at me, — his voice was even, but it carried weight.

Atsushi lifted his eyes obediently. Their gazes met, and for a heartbeat Gin thought something shifted in her brother’s expression — in those cold, silver eyes a strange, troubling fire flared.

— Try again, Atsushi, — Akutagawa said, soft but insistent.

Atsushi held his breath. His shoulders sank a fraction beneath Ryūnosuke’s fingers — not from fear, not from weakness, but as if acknowledging there was no way out.

— Good morning, Ryū… Ryūnosuke, — he said at last.

The black–haired mafioso’s name sounded soft, uncommonly melodic, the first syllables drawn out. Even Gin, who had heard that name a hundred times, stilled for a moment, startled by how differently it sounded in Atsushi’s mouth.

Akutagawa was silent a beat. Then his fingers slowly eased their grip, and something like satisfaction flickered in his eyes.

— Good, — he said quietly. Calm. As if nothing at all had happened.

She watched his fingers tighten on Atsushi’s shoulders — not roughly, yet firm enough to say: he wouldn’t let go until he heard what he wanted. She saw impatience flare in those lead–gray eyes, the flash of swift, almost invisible irritation when Atsushi hesitated. And then — the satisfaction, when the blond finally spoke his name.

Gin tensed despite herself. There was something too personal here, too wrong. Not the showy condescension that usually slipped into her brother’s voice, not the practiced cruelty she was used to.

Akutagawa had never allowed himself anything like this. He had never laid himself bare so openly, never displayed his attachment — if one could even call it attachment. Even when he spoke of Dazai, even when his hatred and devotion were obvious, he stayed closed, controlled. But now…

The way he stood too close to Atsushi. The way his fingers lingered on the shifter’s shoulders a heartbeat longer than they should. The way his voice sounded gentle, with a threat humming beneath that gentleness.

Gin saw Atsushi’s shoulders ease down, the quiet, yielding look he gave Akutagawa, as if he knew resistance was useless. Yet there was no fear in his eyes — and that was the strangest part of all.

Ryūnosuke saw it, too. The way he pressed a little harder into Atsushi’s shoulders; the way his gaze darkened for an instant, betraying a deep, inarticulate irritation.

In that moment, Gin understood: her brother was no longer in control of himself.

He might have thought he was, but the way he looked at Atsushi said otherwise.

This wasn’t strategy, wasn’t cold calculation. He wasn’t performing for the team, wasn’t staging his superiority.

It was personal.

Too personal.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have…” — the thought flashed through her mind, but she didn’t finish it.

Atsushi smiled softly, and with that smile he drew a boundary — stepping aside, but not back, gently reminding him of the work.

— Your team is waiting for instructions, Ryūnosuke. — The shifter’s voice was low, as if meant only for the two of them. — And I’m very much looking forward to this evening, to spending it with you.

Gin caught the faint tremor in her brother’s eyes. Irritation? Displeasure? And then — a brief flare of something entirely out of place, almost sorrow. As if he didn’t want the moment to end.

She turned away, unwilling to meet either Atsushi’s gaze or her brother’s.

It was too late to change anything.

All she could do was hope that Ryūnosuke knew what he was doing.

***

The day seemed to stretch on without end.

Daytime duties were dull, steeped in a hopeless sort of tedium, and Akutagawa ached for this useless day to be over already. Everything grated. Sorting files. People whose voices felt too loud. A pair of idiots who, for some reason, decided to slip into the Port Mafia’s offices in broad daylight.

He meant to end them in a heartbeat — and would swear he’d have done it without a second thought, if not for the latest interference from a certain silver-haired idiot.

Rashōmon’s black blades slid forward, only to meet the Moon Beast’s razor claws at the last instant.

Tch.

— You’re lucky I’m in the mood today, Atsushi, — he tossed out, smoothly drawing the black ribbons back into the coat’s cloth.

A lie. He wasn’t in any mood at all.

Back to sorting papers — of the more specialized kind this time.

A fresh shipment of narcotics — that goes in the drawer. The last thing he needed was Jinko catching sight of the client’s name.

A fresh shipment of whores — that goes to Hirotsu. The last thing he needed was Jinko trying to “save” one of them and catching a knife under the ribs from the first who decided he was bad for business.

The feeling that the day would never end dogged him until evening finally came.

Akutagawa didn’t immediately register how he’d ended up by the far pier — the place where he usually waited for his girlfriend.

Ex-girlfriend.

He stood at the very edge of the dock, wordless and strangely calm. The wind worried his hair, and he paid it no mind. He didn’t move, didn’t make a single wasted gesture. His gaze fixed far off, on nothing — focused, removed, as if he weren’t here at all but somewhere else, far past this evening, this city, this moment.

Through that cold, even calm, something unnatural pressed up, wrong at the seams. As if something inside him had gone quiet too fast, too dead. As if the air itself had stalled in expectation, drawn tight, held in a tense hush.

He was calm.

Too calm.

Akutagawa let his eyes fall shut, as if listening. He didn’t even need to turn to know — she was already here.

Higuchi hesitated before she approached. He didn’t look irritated, and that was exactly what unsettled her. All day he had been restrained, even unusually quiet. She was used to his cold anger, to clipped orders, to contemptuous looks — but this mute calm felt wrong.

Ichie stepped forward carefully.

— Senpai, — she called softly, brushing his hand with a tentative touch.

The reaction was instant and sharp. Akutagawa jerked away as if from a burn. His calm vanished in a breath, and his eyes flashed with a cold, almost furious revulsion.

— Don’t touch me, — he ground out, voice low and strung tight.

Higuchi flinched at the severity of it. Her fingers, a moment ago resting lightly on his hand, twitched; she didn’t pull back at once, as if she couldn’t quite believe he had actually shaken her off.

— Senpai… — slipped out of her, small and at a loss.

He didn’t look away. The eyes that were usually just cold now burned with irritation — heavy, pressing, the kind that steals your breath. He wasn’t merely angry; he was offended that she had dared to lay a hand on him at all, had dragged him up from depths of thought she would never be allowed to see. 

Higuchi knew that look. But never before had it been aimed at her. Something cinched hard inside her.

— I’m sorry, — the girl said quietly, stepping back. — I didn’t mean to disturb you.

Her voice was even, yet mafioso noticed the tiny quiver of her fingers, the quick bite to her lip — almost invisible, but real.

She startled, then gathered herself and went on:

— I thought… maybe we could go to the theater this evening? They’re showing…

— I’m sick of you, — the man cut in, voice cracking like a whip. — I have other plans. I don’t have time to drift around with you wherever.

Her face flickered, but she didn’t move.

— I’m sorry… — Higuchi began, eyes lowering. — I didn’t mean to…

— Why the hell are you so persistent? — he snapped, vicious, leaning on every word. His chest lifted in ragged pulls; his voice carried a furious frustration with nowhere to go. The lash of it tore the pier’s silence, turning a few heads among the crew who hadn’t left yet. — You think I enjoy whatever you want me to? You think I want to stay by your side?!

He stared at her, breathing hard, and with each second stoked himself hotter.

What is she doing here?

What the hell does she want from him?

How does she dare to touch him at all?

He felt something detonate inside. How that question infuriated him. How her voice grated. Her gaze. Her mere presence.

He hated it. He hated her. Hated that she stood here where Atsushi should have been. Hated that she looked at him with pain and understanding, as if she could save him.

Hated that beside her he felt nothing but suffocating emptiness.

Higuchi froze for a heartbeat. Her lashes trembled, and Akutagawa realized he was seeing that look again. Meek, pained, steeped in the very properly submission that would have driven him mad, horny and hot-blooded for one right person.

But that person wasn’t she.

— Why are you so angry?.. — girl’s voice was barely there, and it was enough for something inside him to snap.

He knew exactly what she felt.

The brunette stepped in, making her tilt back. Wind tore at the hem of his coat; he himself was still as a drawn string.

He struck her. 

The hand rose fast, clean, without a flicker of doubt. The sharp slap split the air like a shot. Higuchi swayed, but didn’t lift a hand to her face, didn’t flare in return. She only blinked once, looking off to the side. She had long been accustomed to such treatment from her loved one…

Akutagawa clenched his teeth.

“Damn.”

It wasn’t right.

Not the right pain, not the right tremor, not the right submission.

“Not the right person.”

He recoiled hard, turning away as if her compliance burned worse than a blow would have.

— Ryūnosuke.

Brunette whipped around, the irritation not yet cooled from the flare of rage. But when his gaze struck Atsushi, something else flashed there — taut nerves, a dull fury that refused to settle.

— What did you come here for? — mafioso snapped. — I’m not finished.

Atsushi didn’t flinch, didn’t step back, though his feline ears flicked, barely. He let out a short breath, gathering himself before he answered:

— I can hear your “not finished” from the other end of the pier.

The tip of his tail twitched, betraying a string of tension. He didn’t look at Higuchi, but he knew she heard every word.

— Ryūnosuke, — were-tiger went on softly, voice even, almost careful. — Take responsibility for your previous relationship before you start a new one.

Akutagawa turned on the younger one, stared almost searing, but Nakajima held it.

— What did you?..

Atsushi gave the smallest shake of his head, eyes steady.

— I understand this is uneasy for you. You may feel upset. You may feel angry for yourself. — There was no rebuke in his tone, no judgment. Only plain honesty. — But the person who love you more than everything in her life didn’t deserve to be treated like that. And you know it. Better than anyone else.

Tension pressed the air flat. Akutagawa said nothing. Every part of him demanded he shove the words away, rage louder, cling to the irritation — but… something stayed his hand.

“Before you start a new one…”

The line landed strangely calm. Ordinary.

Only last night Ryūnosuke had forced his damn cat into a promised date. Mafioso had threatened, pursued, cornered. And now this cat spoke of a relationship as if it were inevitable.

As if it would be. As if a raver-haired man wouldn’t need to tear it out with threats and a grip around a wrist, waiting for the bitter moment he’d hear — “I hate you.”

Something shifted inside, but Akutagawa refused to let it show. He kept his silver eyes on Atsushi, listening to that steady voice, catching the shades inside it. Calm, truthful, without condemnation. As if the werebeast simply knew this was how it had to be.

That naturalness scraped mafioso’s nerves raw. The air around them seemed to discharge. The tension Akutagawa himself had wound tight suddenly lost its edge. There was something painfully wrong in it — and yet, for the smallest fraction of a second, it felt as if he could breathe a little easier.

From the side, a few paces off, Higuchi watched Atsushi in silence. Her lips quivered, but no words came.

“—Take responsibility for your previous relationship…”

The phrase lodged in her head like an alarm bell. Like a point of no return.

She had always known this moment would come. Always. And yet, just now, the pier’s cold air seemed to cut her skin sharper than it ever had.

As if, for the first time, she felt how lonely it is to stand beside someone who is no longer with you. As if she had never noticed how his gaze slipped past her. As if only now she understood she’d been holding on not to a person — but to an illusion.

An illusion that crumbled right in front of her.

Tears stung, but Higuchi clenched her fists and would not let them fall.

Because he would not look. He would not ask what was wrong. Not now. Not later.

Atsushi glanced at her — only for a moment, just long enough to make it clear he wouldn’t be stepping in any further.

— I’m heading to the office, — he said softly. — If this runs long, I’ll wait at the café with the butterfly sign.

Boy’s voice was gentle, but the old distant indifference was gone. What lingered instead was tired calm, a light melancholy, as if he’d simply accepted the inevitable. He turned, gave the slightest flick of his plumed tail, and walked off the pier.

Higuchi followed him with her eyes, then almost at once looked back to Akutagawa.

He said nothing. He stood taut, no longer angry. The wind teased his hair, tugged at the hem of his coat, and the steel-gray of his eyes held none of the fury that had flared there a moment ago.

— I’m sorry, Ichie, — Akutagawa said at last.

His voice was quiet, stripped of its former harshness, and heavy with something he rarely let anyone see.

Higuchi held her breath.

— All of this was a mistake.

It took her a moment to grasp what he meant.

— Not your mistake. Mine alone, — brunette went on, lowering his gaze, as if the words weighed more than any fight. — I never should have started this. I never should have offered a hope I knew to be false.

Her fingers trembled. She drew breath to speak, but he lifted a hand — no force, only certainty — and stopped her.

— Please, don’t ever return to this conversation. I’ve made my decision.

His voice dropped lower, steadier — yet there was something unsettling in it. He paused between the words, as if measuring each one.

— You deserve more, Ichie. Someone who will make you the center of their world. Someone who will truly see you.

Her heart tightened.

He spoke evenly, even carefully, but it wasn’t the care she had once dreamed of. There was no regret in his tone, no contrition — only a cold, considered honesty.

The air seemed to thicken, pressing against her chest. Higuchi felt her heart pull tight again. Akutagawa was calm, and yet something slipped through that carefully held composure — something she suddenly understood.

He was speaking of someone specific. Someone else. Not her.

Mafioso lifted his eyes and, for the first time in this exchange, looked straight at her.

— I wish that for you, — he said quietly. — Never spend your life on someone who cannot become your world.

Higuchi, still not fully steady after his parting words — the kind that knock the ground out from under you — said bitterly:

— You know, I should probably thank Atsushi. Without him… we probably never would’ve had a proper talk…

Akutagawa turned his head toward her, slowly. His gaze changed in an instant, as if someone had ripped a mask clean off. The restraint was gone, even the usual cold indifference — in its place, a menacing, banked fury.

— What have you just said?.. — he asked softly, almost soundlessly.

There was something wrong in that voice. A hollow resonance, like a bottomless shaft you fall into without even knowing when the drop began.

Higuchi felt her fingers go cold.

— I only said… that I’m thankful to Atsushi… — the girl began carefully, not understanding what had gone wrong.

Akutagawa didn't let her finish. He lunged so abruptly her body didn’t even have time to react. His fingers clamped around Ichie’s wrist, squeezing so hard the pain lanced through the girl, and her heart skipped a beat.

— You’re thankful?! — mafioso’s voice snapped, like a predator baring its teeth just before it goes for the throat.

He wasn’t merely angry. 

He wasn’t himself.

Something inside the young man had broken — or perhaps had always been broken, thinly hidden beneath a fragile shell of discipline and grim composure.

His grip tightened; his breath turned ragged.

— You… are grateful to him? — Akutagawa spoke quietly, each word driven in like a rusted knife. — Because of him we “talked properly”?

Higuchi parted her lips, then faltered.

She felt that one wrong word now…

She didn’t know how this would end.

Her pulse hammered in her temples; tremors ran through her; her heart cinched tight into a knot.

— Don’t say it like that, — Ryūnosuke hissed, still not releasing her hand.

She felt his fingers quiver — not loosening, but clenching harder, as if he were holding himself back from tearing her apart on the spot. But that restraint was brittle, like ice with black water roiling beneath.

— So what now, Ichie? — mafioso began, soft, almost tender, and that borrowed gentleness carried something genuinely frightening. — Do you like my Atsushi now?

— What? — Higuchi froze where she stood, stunned by the sudden, crooked question.

— I’m asking, — he repeated, stepping closer, his voice sinking to a dangerous whisper, — do you like my damn, stupid cat? Have you decided he suits you better than I do?

— Senpai, that’s not… — she started, and brunette tightened his grip so sharply she cried out.

— Don’t you dare interrupt me, bitch, — he cut in.

There was no awareness left in Akutagawa’s eyes — only black, bottomless fury. She saw his chest heave, saw the brief, pained twitch across his face, as if he couldn’t bear his own thoughts.

He didn’t hear her words. Her explanations meant nothing.

He wasn’t even angry anymore.

He was thinking feverishly.

— All this time, it wasn’t Chūya — it was you, you useless whore? — he snarled, his mouth twisting, as though the very thought made him sick. — Decided you could take him for yourself?! You kept needling him on purpose, counting on Chūya to blow up and send me away so I’d never find out?!!

— No, Senpai, no! — she burst out, feeling his fingers bite almost into bone. — There was nothing, Senpai, please, you’re getting it wrong…

But he wasn’t listening. He couldn’t hear her.

— Wrong?! — his voice fractured into a strangled laugh with nothing human in it. — You were at it from the start. You knew. You wanted me to think that damn cat was mine. To make me believe. And then you’d just…

His eyes flew wide; he sucked in air, as if something terrible had just come clear.

— You wanted me to be left alone.

He thought he was being logical. Thought he’d found the answer. Thought this was reality.

Higuchi blinked, uncomprehending.

— Senpai, I…

— You knew, — he repeated, no longer looking at her. He spoke quickly, snapping breaths between the words, feverish. — You knew that if Chūya took him, I wouldn’t be able to… I wouldn’t be able to do anything. I wouldn’t be able to take him back. I wouldn’t be able…

He looked at her again, and her breath caught.

— I wouldn’t be able to live without him, — he finished, barely audible.

A beat — and his face contorted into a grimace of rage, as though he’d come to hate himself for the admission.

— Don’t lie to me, — he hissed. — Think I won’t know if you do? Want to test which one of you lasts longer if I dunk you both in the bay?!

Higuchi shuddered.

This wasn’t just a threat. He was genuinely considering it.

There was no conscious malice left in his gaze — only the abyss of some ungoverned, unnatural frenzy, skirting madness. Then his eyes flicked aside — erratic, as if he were trying to seize something invisible.

— Or maybe… maybe it’s him, — he muttered, suddenly unsettled. — Maybe he set this up on purpose? Maybe he wants me to think that you…

He broke off. His pupils dilated; his breath went ragged. One more sharp inhale — and he snapped back to her.

— N-nothing happened, Senpai, I swear… — she whispered, desperately trying to steady him.

But he wasn’t listening. He couldn’t stop.

— Bitch, I knew it… — he hissed, not even looking at her. He wasn’t speaking to her anymore. He was speaking to himself.

— You can’t, you can’t leave that stupid cat unsupervised… Chūya knew it, but I… I let it happen… I did it again…

He gasped; the grip flickered and would not relent. He was deep in his own chasm, where the dark learns your name, and the deeper he went, the more it answered. 

He couldn’t get out. 

He couldn’t make it stop.

Never could.

The words weren’t meant for her, yet Higuchi heard them anyway. They hooked into her mind like rusted barbs and dragged up silt — scraps of memory she’d dismissed as harmless.

The were-tiger’s offhand lines. That uncanny gravity between him and Akutagawa. The way Ryūnosuke had said his name this morning — too soft for mockery, too focused for indifference.

A flicker on the bridge: his gaze catching Chūya and the were-tiger; the silver-haired boy turning away from the copper-haired mafioso and bolting downslope as if something sacred had shattered.

The blanket brunette laid over the were-tiger’s shaking shoulders — the blanket Higuchi had brought for Ryūnosuke, knowing how the wet night gnawed his bones.

The frothing rage when he heard the rumor the were-tiger might be sleeping with Nakahara. All of it knitted together with a sick, inevitable logic.

It was the were-tiger. All the time. It was him.

Higuchi understood she’d been lying to herself from the start. Ryūnosuke had never been like this with her. With her, he was contained: frozen winter sea under perfect clear ice. Hard, cold, controlled. She’d even called it solace once: a silence they could split between them.

But the truth stood before her now.

Her beloved one wasn’t calm.

He simply didn’t care.

She looked into his eyes, warped wide with mania, and understood — he could never fly apart like this for her. No amount of patience or prayer would break him over her.

But one careless mention of Atsushi — and he flew off the rails...

The knowledge pierced clean and cold. She saw, with merciless clarity, that she would never be her beloved one's world. She would never truly reach him.

And it wasn’t about cruelty. Not the killing, not the clean ease with which he could leave streets rinsed in red. They had both killed until persons for them starts to become just one more piece of a flesh, living this miserable life day by day. They both slept without remembering faces of the ones they took life from.

But Akutagawa did not live here. In this world. Ever. He lived in a sinkhole of pure, hollow night. Black, bottomless, swallowing.

And within it there was only one light now.

One that person for the dark to seal around.

— You… you don’t understand, — she whispered, voice splintering.

He turned his head — slow and final, like a blade deciding.

— What don’t I understand, — brunette said, tightening on her wrist until the bones clicked.

— You. Are. Losing. Your. Mind.

The pier froze. Sodium lamps stuttered. Ropes rasped against iron. The sea pushed in — thick as tar.

Ryūnosuke laughed once — a short, barked sound — and shoved her so hard the planks boomed under her heels.

— I don’t understand, — he echoed, and now the tremor in his voice came from somewhere deeper than anger, something wearing its way outward. — Maybe that’s right. Maybe I lose my mind when the one I want isn’t here.

The words fell out of him like blood — hot, undeniable, already staining everything.

Higuchi stepped back, color leached from her face.

— I’m sorry, Senpai, — the girl breathed. — I… I didn’t know.

He lifted his eyes to her: suspicion, ruin, a clean hollow where the rest of him should be.

— You knew nothing, — mafioso said. — Don’t even think about it.

She nodded. Fear shut a hand around her heart. He hadn’t threatened her, but she understood: name what she’d seen, and he would erase the witness.

— I should go, — she said softly.

— Leave, — he said.

He didn’t look at her.

He didn’t move.

The silence thickened until even the wash under the pilings went mute. The lamp-light lay on his skin; his breath rasped in and out as if the night were learning how to strangle. Somewhere in that lightless trench where he kept himself, something turned and showed its teeth, and he knew — Higuchi had been right.

He was really going insane.

Chapter Text

Akutagawa stayed on the pier, watching Higuchi until her outline thinned and bled into the half-dark of the streets. A salt-damp wind drew a raw chill off the water, but it brought no ease. It only fanned the fire inside him — acrid, airless, unbearable.

Jealousy and anger didn’t ebb. If anything, they closed in with ice-tipped claws, digging deeper, catching on his ribs, his throat, his thoughts.

“Atsushi…”

He’s always too kind to others. Too available. Too… careless.

He went after Chūya when the man tossed him a few warm words and a café? He let that copper-haired bastard kiss him, hold him, keep a hand a heartbeat too long at his waist?

What if it was the same with Higuchi? What if it was the same with someone else?

Or no — worse. What if it was more than that.

What if it was MORE THAT THAT?..

With SOMEONE ELSE.

Not with HIM.

Not with Ryūnosuke.

What if, right now — this very moment — HIS Atsushi was with SOMEONE ELSE?

The thought turned like a hexed wheel, poisoning every second.

He felt himself sinking. Thick, oil-black envy filled his lungs. The dark water of despair cinched his chest, pulling the air out of him, the thoughts, even the sense of what was real. The emptiness around him sharpened to the point of pain, as if the whole world had stepped away and left him alone in this lightless room.

Worst of all — Atsushi wasn’t here. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t with Ryūnosuke.

If mafioso found out… If anyone dared come close to Atsushi, to speak to him, to look at him the way they shouldn’t — that would be the end of whoever reached for that damned cat.

— Fuck, — young man breathed under his breath. His voice shook, and his fingers closed at his temples, as if he could hold the storm in by sheer pressure when it was already breaking through.

Akutagawa wheeled around and moved off the pier. His steps were quick, almost nervous, but his back stayed straight, as if posture alone could hide the riot inside. He knew he couldn’t live like this — his heart was beating itself senseless, and he could almost hear it screaming, “I can’t live like this anymore…”, but the words dissolved in the roar of feeling.

His plans for the evening, everything he’d laid out, shattered into scraps. Nothing held. One aim remained. One desire clenched tight around his heart until it hurt — his Atsushi.

​​The port office was close, yet the walk stretched into an eternity. He went in without noticing the doors slap shut behind him and headed for his room. Rage burned in his chest — not at Higuchi, not at the were-tiger, not even at himself. Something more primitive, unendurable; a feeling that demanded an outlet now and would not be governed.

He shut the door, fell into the chair, and pressed his temples with both hands, as if he could force his pulse to heel. How could he calm down when his life no longer belonged to him? When mind and marrow had been dissolved in this fevered churn, captive to the thought that he had already lost everything?

He needed to see him.

Now.

To hear his voice.

To feel that he was here, close. That he wasn’t leaving, wasn’t lying, wasn’t about to betray him at the first open door.

He had to be sure his Atsushi belonged only to him. Would always belong only to him. The rest could wait.

The phone trembled in his hand. His finger slipped on the third digit. He stopped, scrubbed the screen, started over. His heart thudded, pain striking back into his temples. He dialed and pressed the phone to his ear, listening to the monotone rings.

One.

Two.

— Ryūnosuke? — the voice cut the silence. Warm. Even.

For an instant everything inside him seized. That calm. How could he sound so calm when Ryūnosuke was suffocating in the dark?

— Come to the office. Right now, — mafioso's voice came out dry, hoarse, as if something unseen had a hand to his throat.

— Did something happen?

Irritation flared. It sounded like doubt, like he didn’t understand.

— Just come! — Akutagawa snapped so hard he felt something inside jerk loose, the last thread to this world tearing. He dropped the call and let the phone hit the desk.

The dull knock rang too loudly in the office quiet.

He froze, palms to his temples. He tried to school his breathing, but every movement felt heavy, as if the air had turned to syrup. The white lights cut his eyes — a scalpel parting reality. His heart hammered so hard the blows ran through him, bone to bone.

He didn’t know how long it was. A minute. Ten.

When the door opened, he didn’t look up at once.

Atsushi stood in the doorway, rinsed by the dim light. His eyes were tired, yet alive, warm. Nothing like Akutagawa’s.

He crossed the room without a word, without hesitation, and sank gently to his knees before the mafioso. His gaze was attentive, a little sad, carrying a quiet understanding.

Warm fingers brushed the dark-haired man’s hands, slid softly along his wrists. Akutagawa flinched — barely — but didn’t pull away; he only tightened around the boy’s fingers in an unthinking, nervous clasp.

— Ryūnosuke… what happened? Did the talk with Higuchi go badly?

Atsushi’s voice — calm, kind, threaded with worry — broke a seam in the dull, rabid anger flooding the older man. Ryūnosuke lifted his eyes to him — hopeless, spent.

— Yes, — he said softly, barely holding back a tremor. — She said something terrible.

A complaint, a hurt. For a breath his voice sounded almost human, almost vulnerable. Then something shifted — a dark inevitability nicked the smooth fabric of his tone like a torn seam.

— What was there between you and Higuchi while I was gone?

Akutagawa’s voice was low, muffled. There was no accusation in it. Only weight — dense, electric, like air before a storm.

Atsushi’s ears dipped, and bitter comprehension flickered in his violet-gold eyes. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, like a far-off wash of surf.

— There was one ugly incident.

He paused, as if gathering strewn fragments back into a thread. — She humiliated me, made a spectacle of me in front of everyone. And it… it was the last straw then. Too… painful.

Ryūnosuke held his breath. It wasn’t what he’d expected to hear; the sound of it knocked his thinking sideways. He looked away and drew a long, raw breath.

— I snapped and pushed her off the pier, — Atsushi went on. His voice was sincere but resigned, like admitting a loss that could not be taken back. — I might apologize later.

After a short silence he looked up again; something like a rueful resolve edged his tone.

— There’s something I’ve wanted to apologize to you for, Ryūnosuke… for a long time, — he said quietly. Not just guilt and deference in it, but a tender, aching resolve, like a last beam of light trying to force its way through the dark of what had been.

Under the hot, artificial glare that filled the office, Atsushi closed his eyes for a heartbeat, as if gathering himself. When he spoke, the voice was soft but cuttingly clear, every word carrying the weight of blame and regret.

— Do you remember that day on the Moby Dick? — he began, holding Ryūnosuke’s gaze. — When you came to take my life.

Akutagawa went still. His face hardened into a mask.

— Back then… — Atsushi lowered his eyes. — When Dazai-san ordered me to throw the communicator overboard, I didn’t even think what that would be for you.

He drew a painful breath; his shoulders trembled faintly.

— All I saw in front of me was a man who’d come to kill me. Cold. Cruel. Full of hatred, wanting to wipe me off the face of the earth just because… — he faltered, searching the words. — Just because Dazai-san provoked you. Pricked your pride. Played on what you felt for him.

Ryūnosuke kept silent, but irritation had already lit behind his eyes. He didn’t interrupt.

— And I didn’t think… — Atsushi bit his lip, his hands tensing. — About what you felt. About how much it hurt to realize you’d been used again.

His chest tightened on the memory. The scene rose as sharp as then: Akutagawa, warped with fury, lunging; breath broken by coughs; blood blooming on white cloth. And the words. Words with which Dazai, easily, almost casually, broke the man before him — from miles away, from years away.

— I’m… sorry, — Atsushi’s voice dropped until it was scarcely audible in the oppressive office hush. — Sorry I didn’t see it sooner. That I let myself be pulled into the way they used your weak points to kill your faith in your own strength.

Ryūnosuke did not answer. His expression didn’t change, yet the air thickened, nearly tangible. Heavy. Expectant.

Atsushi drew breath, as if bracing, and went on:

— But now… now that I know you as a person, — he lifted his eyes; remorse shone there without disguise, — I understand it was a cruel, base thing to do.

He inclined his head; hair slid forward, but he did not look away.

— Now I know the only right choice I could have made then was to walk up to you. Simply walk up and… put that damned communicator into your hands.

Ryūnosuke jolted. A whole storm crossed his eyes — shock, bitterness, anger — but not at Atsushi.

— Into… my hands? — he repeated, the words fraying to a whisper.

— Yes, — Atsushi said, steady. — Because even then you deserved more than to be a pawn in Dazai’s game.

Something in those words broke the silence between them.

Ryūnosuke’s lips parted, as if to speak, but the words stuck. His fists tightened; the anger that would usually find the door through rage dissolved instead into the still air of the office. In its place came something else — a compound of pain and astonishment, as if for the first time he’d heard what he never expected to hear at all.

For several long, strung-tight seconds he only looked at the boy bowed before him, studying him as though to weigh the truth of every syllable.

The hard light carved sharp shadows along his face, carved his cheekbones into edges, made his gaze almost unbearably heavy.

— That is the last thing I expected to hear from you today, Jinko, — he said at last, the voice low and hoarse.

Akutagawa leaned in a fraction; his fingers touched Atsushi’s hands. The motion was slow, careful — as if he himself didn’t know why he was doing it. Then, as though deciding, he brushed the boy’s chin, tilting it up.

Their eyes met.

— This… revelation matters to me.

A strange gleam crossed Ryūnosuke’s gaze; he inclined a breath closer. Only inches lived between them now.

— But, — his voice fell to a whisper laced with a cold, dangerous certainty, — if you said it to turn my head…

He smiled — barely; no warmth, only the anticipation of something inevitable.

— It won’t work, Atsushi.

Atsushi felt the look slip into the dark. Still close, and already far — beyond the room’s hard light. The silver-gray of the mafioso’s eyes shone under the lamps yet held something unreachable, cold.

An ocean of night.

Words of regret, of contrition, of owning the wrong — flung like lifelines — fell into that ocean. Sank without a ripple. Dazai had warned him. For men like Akutagawa there is no hope in consolation. No point in comfort or understanding. The words don’t land, don’t stay, don’t change a thing.

Dazai was almost right.

Not entirely.

Akutagawa heard. If only for a breath, for one short admission — "This revelation matters to me" — he heard. And then, too quickly, he shoved it aside, replaced it with something else. "If you said it to turn my head… It won’t work, Atsushi."

He was looking through him, thinking of something beyond. He was speaking, but the meaning lived not in the words, rather in what shadowed them.

"You said something true, but what I need right now is different."

It felt like despair.

A small pain opened in Atsushi — the pain of not knowing what, exactly, Ryūnosuke needed. That he could not simply put it into the man’s hands and say Here. Take it.

Yet he wanted to.

He wanted his words not just to sound but to remain, to mend, to make Akutagawa look away from the swallowing dark and look at him. See him.

Atsushi lifted his hand without thinking and covered Akutagawa’s wrist, still resting under his chin. Those pale, thin fingers were so cold. He wanted to warm them.

The dark-haired man’s gaze deepened; the corner of his mouth twitched — a smile that resembled hurt more than joy.

— Although… perhaps I should thank Dazai-san for the communicator, — Ryūnosuke murmured, as if thinking aloud. — After all, that little order kept you alive, Jinko.

His fingers went still, then slid — soft, almost cautious — to the side of the were-tiger’s neck. The motion wasn’t a threat, and yet it carried a live tension, warm as a wire humming.

— You’re here now. Finally here, beside me, — his voice dropped lower, roughened to velvet. He tilted his head, studying Atsushi with a dark, intent focus, as if seeing him for the first time, as if trying to commit every detail to memory.

A shadow of irony passed over his face, but behind it lay something deeper — darker, almost pained.

— Who would have imagined, half a year ago… that it would come to this?

He was speaking softer, the voice failing to a whisper.

— You kneel before me and ask forgiveness. And I…

Akutagawa broke off. His gaze fell; only then did he register how Atsushi’s palms rested obediently on his knees. The warmth burning through cloth made his breath quicken, made the body answer before thought could catch up.

Something inside him shivered.

He wasn’t thinking about forgiveness.

He wasn’t thinking about words.

Only about how easily Atsushi accepted his touch.

A thin, lifeless smile nicked Ryūnosuke’s lips — too late, too pointless to pretend he didn’t want this.

His hand tightened at the boy’s throat a shade more than it should have — not to threaten, but to hold. Beneath his fingers lived warm, quick skin. A need surged up — raw, animal, shameful as it was natural.

— And I am not thinking about your words at all, Atsushi, — he breathed, the corners of his mouth barely stirring with a quiet, unnerving smile.

Contempt for himself snapped like a whip.

This should not be.

He should not feel this.

But Atsushi was too close, too trusting, too willing to stay.

— If you’re not thinking about my words right now… — Atsushi’s voice was quiet, strung tight like a wire at breaking. He felt everything cinch inside him, his heart running too fast, but it was too late to step back. — Perhaps what you want is for me to apologize to you… properly?

A faint smile touched his mouth — not coy, not meek, but uncertain, as if even he was unsure this was the right way. Yet the words were out, hanging in the air between them, and something in that air had already changed.

He surprised himself for saying it aloud; there was no taking it back. He didn’t try. He didn’t soften or retreat. They both knew what he meant.

Akutagawa narrowed his eyes. Something dark and dangerous moved there — and not only that. A shadow of satisfaction tugged at the corners of his mouth, as if Atsushi had just said the thing he’d been waiting for and would never have demanded.

— Maybe, — he said, and his voice came out unexpectedly gentle. Too gentle.

Atsushi knew what hid beneath that gentleness — predation, pressure — and that was the worst of it: he knew, and still he kept his gaze steady on Ryūnosuke’s.

He moved forward slowly, as if through viscous dark. His breath snagged; his shoulders trembled; he did not stop. He saw Ryūnosuke go very still, saw those leaden eyes widen in a brief disbelief — and gave himself no room for second thoughts.

Lips touched lips — tentative, careful, as if Atsushi feared to fracture whatever fragile balance lived between them. Warmth — tender and terrifying in how natural it was — pierced them both. It wasn’t a kiss of hunger or heat; it was merely contact, light as sweet cloud, and unbearably sensate.

Akutagawa froze. He could not — must not — feel this. Impossible. Unreasonable. Wrong.

And yet here it was — the softness of the were-tiger’s mouth, the hitch of his breath, the look with no fear in it. Atsushi… first. Atsushi had done it himself. Freely. It unmade him more than anything he’d braced for.

Noise roared in his head, but when warm fingers skimmed his shoulders, something inside answered with startling force. A faint, nearly soundless moan slipped his lips. He shut his eyes and seized Atsushi, threading his hand into the soft hair, refusing him distance.

Heat slipped inward, all the way in, into the place where there had only ever been unlit night. It filled it, scorched it, poisoned it with something that made him flinch.

This should not happen. He should not want it. And yet the moment Atsushi touched him, logic, fear, disgust at his own softness — all fell through.

Atsushi stayed close, let him set the pace, didn’t pull away, didn’t run. That touch — gentle, careful — remained here, near, within. No refusal. No struggle. A simple acceptance.

When they parted, the silence between them was almost solid, pressing.

Akutagawa looked at him as if he couldn’t grasp what had just occurred. His breath was uneven; his hands stayed where they were, as though moving them would grind the moment to dust.

His gaze was heavy, painfully personal, and when he spoke, his voice rasped into a half-whisper:

— You…

As if each word were an ordeal.

— You really…

He broke off, unable to finish. Something clutched inside — too sharp, too alive. His fingers drifted along Atsushi’s cheek and stilled. The gesture wasn’t planned; it was instinct. He looked at him as if to memorize every line, drinking the nearness with a hungry tenacity — reaching for what he was never meant to touch.

— Why… did you do it? — The thread of his voice frayed; there was no anger there, no judgment — only a plea: explain.

Atsushi flinched, just a little, but didn’t step away. His gaze dipped; violet-lemon eyes shimmered in the cold light, reflecting a whole palette of feeling.

— Because I wanted to, — he said, simple enough to pierce. — I wanted to be closer to you, Ryūnosuke.

Grief, tenderness, something fine and fragile lived in the words.

Akutagawa shivered; his fingers fisted in the fabric at Atsushi’s waist, as if he could anchor himself to the real — to this moment, to the heat that felt impossible. He closed his eyes and let himself drift for the span of a stolen breath.

Pain cinched the chest; a whirl of thoughts rose sharp and fast: What if it isn’t forever? What if this is weakness? What if it’s pity…? The doubts flared like flame — and he drove them down with a fury beyond speech. He didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to ask. Wanted only what was happening now.

— Atsu… — his voice cracked — hoarse, shaking, nothing like his usual ice.

Atsushi startled, not from shock, but from that unnamed feeling bound up in a single softened name. He didn’t withdraw. He didn’t push him off.

— Closer, — Ryūnosuke breathed — barely sound, almost broken.

And Atsushi heard. He leaned in, catching his mouth again — this time not cautious, not soft, but deep and demanding.

Akutagawa kissed as if to wrench something vital free, to take by force what had always been denied him. There was no neatness in it, no restraint — only hunger, thirst, desperation.

And beneath that harshness lived something else.

Atsushi felt it. So he didn’t retreat, didn’t protest. He simply let Ryūnosuke take what he needed.

And then… then something changed. Too quickly, too suddenly, the kiss shed its hardness, turned softer — almost asking. As if even Akutagawa hadn’t noticed when his demand thinned into need.

Only then did Atsushi let himself draw back a little, just enough to breathe.

Akutagawa drew back as if the air had turned suddenly, chokingly heavy. Desire still burned in his eyes — dark, ruinous, eating him from the inside. Desire he despised. Anger. Despair. That sharp, piercing happiness that hurt to touch.

He looked at Atsushi — and saw everything. Amethyst-and-gold eyes catching the weak lamp-light and breaking it into cold flecks along an inhuman, many-colored iris. Lips parted, flushed from kissing. Those black-and-white strands, soft and sleek, fitting so perfectly into his palm.

“This is beautiful.”

It was that thought that struck hardest. That made his heart brace in fear.

He felt himself slipping. Becoming someone else, someone weak, someone foreign. One more touch, one more kiss — and he would be trapped, unable to climb back out. Because he would believe. In the delusion, the sweet illusion, the utopia where he could be loved. Where he could be accepted.

How foolish. How naïve. How vile.

Love?

As if.

He knew all too well what happens to those who let themselves believe in anything good. The one you let too near can do only one thing — use it. Dry you out, turn you inside out, take everything you have and drop you like a broken toy.

He had lived it once. Once was enough.

He swore there would be no second time.

Never.

It had been — in its way — dignifying. A promise to give meaning to a useless existence. To allow him to be of use.

It was, in its way, filthy. Pitiful. Feelings too strong for a boy who never learned how to wear them without looking monstrous.

It was painful. A stripping of a human face. When Dazai made him an instrument, a thing he owned, it was its own kind of disgusting.

Akutagawa knew this was the world’s order. You are useful — or you are left to die. He did not object. He asked for nothing else. He was ready to be anything — a knife, a blade, a well-trained dog — as long as he would not be abandoned. But somewhere deep down, the taste of it made him sick.

It was not love.

It was gratitude, awe. A hunger to be worthy. And the thirst to feel — just once — that he was not only a tool. That he was a person.

It never happened.

And how easily it all curdled into hate when he understood he’d been seen through from the start. Dazai knew. Dazai understood.

Just as Atsushi did.

He had said it himself, down in the catacombs, flinging that truth at his face.

That Ryūnosuke is not a person. A psychopath and a killer who thinks only of how to carve up anyone standing near.

Is it any wonder Dazai left? Is it any wonder that one day Atsushi will do the same?

So why let him closer?

Like this — this is already too close. Too hot. Too wanted. Too…

“Disgusting.”

This time he would do it right.

The fingers that had just touched Atsushi’s face so carefully slackened. The softness went out of them, leaving only emptiness.

Akutagawa pulled away sharply, as if the kiss had burned straight through him. He saw Atsushi flinch; the cat ears folded back into his hair — instinct, answering that sudden movement. No fear in it. No understanding. Only confusion.

It angered him.

“Doesn’t he see? Doesn’t he see how stupid this is? How… cruel?”

— Leave, — he said. The voice rasped, and there was steel in it.

Atsushi jolted as if slapped.

Ryūnosuke didn’t let himself look again. One more glance and he would break.

Atsushi frowned a little, recoiling. Bewilderment and pain flashed in his gaze.

— What…? — were-tiger breathed, but Akutagawa cut him off.

— It’s time you went home, — he said, hard and flat, the edge of a blade that left no room for doubt. His stare fixed on the window, where the first drops of rain were already beginning to blur the city’s lines.

— Home?.. — Atsushi echoed, and his voice shook.

Akutagawa didn’t answer at once. He clenched his hands until the knuckles went white.

— Tomorrow, — he exhaled, low, — we have an important meeting.

— A meeting?.. — Atsushi knit his brows, mind still scrambling for purchase against the sudden break in reality, the shift that happened in a second. — Ryūnosuke… are you all right? Do you… feel bad?..

Akutagawa finally looked at him.

There was nothing left in those abyss-black eyes. No heat, no turmoil, no ravenous urge to drag the boy closer. Only bottomless, foreign emptiness.

— Our arrangement, Jinko, — mafioso said, dry as ash, laying the line between them and turning everything that had happened to nothing. To a mistake. — You remember it.

Chapter Text

The silence in the room had thickened-dense, almost touchable, like the heavy breath of a storm about to break.

Beyond the window, rain tapped in a steady, unyielding rhythm, merging with the unsteady pulse thudding in his chest — fast, erratic, painful.

— We had an agreement, Jinko.

Akutagawa’s voice was flat, but within that flatness crawled something cold and terrifying — detachment.

It was that voice. The one Atsushi remembered from their very first encounter — glacial, merciless, coiled like a snake around his lungs, squeezing every breath into a trembling shiver.

— Six months — mafioso continued. — I kept my word.

— You… you’re serious?

Atsushi flinched. His voice cracked into a whisper — confused, wounded, trembling with disbelief.

— Do I look like I’m joking?

There was no hesitation in Akutagawa’s reply — only the dull weight of something irrevocable.

That voice — so dry, so final — carved the space between them with surgical precision. And in that silver gaze, there was no warmth, no familiar edge of anger, no hunger to rip the other apart. Only emptiness.

And that was what frightened Atsushi most. He barely managed to hold his stare, as a choking ache unfurled in his chest — slow, wide, inevitable.

For a moment, the man standing before him was no longer the one he’d touched, kissed, pleaded with. It wasn’t the man he argued with hours ago, whose nearness had felt almost heartbreakingly natural.

It was someone else.

A stranger.

The Akutagawa he had first met — ruthless, unreachable, the Port Mafia’s blade made flesh.

“I was blind — Atsushi thought, breath catching. — To ever believe I could reach him. Even for a second. Even if… even if I thought he felt something too.”

The thoughts he never dared name clawed their way to the surface.

“Maybe it had never been love. Maybe it was just obsession — jagged, unpredictable, laced with violence and need — the only thing this fractured man had left to offer.”

— Why…? — the boy’s voice broke as he looked away. — Why are you doing this, Ryūnosuke?

— A deal — Akutagawa cut in, brittle and rehearsed, eyes avoiding his.

— A deal…

Atsushi echoed the words with a bitter smile.

— You really think that matters? After everything? After last night? After you let me…

His voice trembled, but he forced himself onward.

— You let me touch you. Kiss you. You really want to erase that? Burn it down to ash?

Akutagawa drew in a breath, sharp as if cornered. His gaze snapped up, a storm brewing behind the iron surface — pain, rage, and something too heavy to name. His fingers, previously limp, curled into his coat.

— It doesn’t matter — he spat, too fast, too firm.

He needed to believe it. Needed to make Atsushi believe it. But the hands he kept folded so tightly in his lap betrayed him — they trembled.

“Everything I felt… everything I feel… it has to stop.”

Atsushi froze. His breath caught — ragged, broken, trembling in his chest. He bit his lip, as if to steady himself, but when he spoke, his voice still cracked:

— My death won’t heal your pain.

The words were quiet. But there was no fear in them. No pleading. Only raw, desperate honesty. He raised his gaze — and in his amethyst-gold eyes burned a quiet resolve, strong enough to shatter ice.

Akutagawa had already turned away. But those words made him pause. Something shifted — barely — in the frozen lines of his face. A shadow of doubt, a fracture.

— I’m not saying this because I want to live — Atsushi continued, his voice shaking but firm. — I want you to live.

Akutagawa flinched, like the words had struck bone.

— Ryu… please — the name fell from Atsushi’s lips in a near-whisper, and it carried the full weight of everything he felt. — Let’s just go home. Together.

Akutagawa looked at him. His expression remained distant — but Atsushi understood: it wasn’t apathy.

It was a defense.

The last wall he could still hide behind.

— I want to kiss you again — he said softly, and there was something like prayer in the way he said it. — To hold you. To share those honey candies I brought from the festival last week. To apologize to you… as many times as you want. In any way you need.

He paused, breathing unevenly. The tears rose fast and hot. He couldn’t stop them.

— Please…

The word broke mid-air. He dropped his head — not in defeat, but in surrender.

To the moment.

To his truth.

To everything he could no longer run from.

The first tear left a shining trail down his cheek. Another clung to his lashes, then slipped — falling in silence onto his clasped hands.

— I love you.

I love you.

For the first time, Atsushi didn’t hide behind politeness. Didn’t say “you” in the distant, formal tone he always used.

He said it plainly.

Directly.

No hesitation.

No shields.

And for a moment — just one — the room became perfectly, devastatingly silent. Only the steady hush of rain outside remained, tapping gently at the glass, like the heartbeat of a world that no longer mattered.

Akutagawa closed his eyes.

His fingers trembled, ever so slightly. But he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t let himself respond.

— Tomorrow, Jinko — he finally said. His voice was sharp, clipped — but it carried the faintest tremor, almost invisible. — We finish this tomorrow.

And he turned away, sealing the silence between them like a blade slicing clean through what remained.

Atsushi stood frozen, his breath jagged, uneven — boiling inside with grief, helplessness, fury.

He rose slowly. Each inhale was heavy. Each heartbeat echoed like a drum of something already ending.

And now what?

Should he scream? Break? Beg?

Should he strike back — speak in the only language Akutagawa seemed to understand? The language of death, of violence, of blood?

Should he drag that infuriating, stubborn man back to the pier and drown him in his own madness — until something real spilled out, something that made sense?

Or… should he finally surrender.

Surrender to the truth that not everything in this world can be healed by love.

That sometimes, no matter how fiercely you speak — a person will not hear you.

No matter the words. No matter the language.

— Midnight tomorrow — Atsushi breathed. His voice was low, almost even — but inside it pulsed a bitter kind of knowing. — I’ll be waiting. Where we first met.

The blonde didn’t say anything else. Didn’t look back. He turned and walked toward the door, leaving behind a silence that rang like broken bells.

Akutagawa didn’t stop him. He sat in the chair, watching Atsushi walk away — slowly, steadily, as if each step was carved in fate long ago.

He watched until the door closed. Until even the echo of footsteps was gone.

Ryūnosuke shut his eyes, letting his head fall back against the chair. Something ached in his chest — a raw, hollow pain, like an old wound torn open again.

He pressed trembling fingers to his temples, trying to quiet the rising storm behind his eyes.

“I can’t walk away from this.”

The thought cut through him like a red-hot blade.

He couldn’t not show up tomorrow. He couldn’t not end it.

He had to kill him. He had to.

His fingers clenched tighter. Atsushi’s face flashed before him — those wide, uncertain eyes, that soft voice, those lips still warm on his own.

Akutagawa exhaled sharply, flinging the memory away like it burned.

“I’ll kill him, and it’ll all end. These feelings. This pain. This weakness… gone.”

He had to do it.

But then why did the thought only make it worse?

He parted his lips to breathe deeper.

— It’s just weakness… just emotions — he muttered, trying to force the words out loud. His voice trembled, hollow. — I’ve killed before. I’ll kill him, like all the others…

But even as he said it — his voice broke.

— …I’ll prove I’m stronger than this.

Stronger than the ache.

Stronger than this feeling.

Stronger than the fear…

“…that if I don’t do it now —

He’ll leave me.

Just like Dazai-san did.”

His palm pressed hard against his face. His breath came ragged.

— It’s just emotion — he whispered. — Just weakness.

He shouldn’t care. He would get through it. Like always. Like he was trained to.

“You’re pathetic, Ryūnosuke. You’re losing your mind.”

He rose slowly, as if his body had turned to lead. The air in the room thickened — suffocating, pressing in. The words he’d spoken didn’t leave — they lingered in the walls, clung to the floor, echoed inside his ribs.

He walked to the window. Outside — rain carved silver scars across the city, erasing the world in sheets of light.

And then the thought hit him. Simple. Piercing.

“Atsushi’s out there right now. He’ll be soaked to the bone before he gets home.”

Akutagawa froze.

He could see it — Atsushi walking, head bowed, no umbrella, his hair dripping wet, shivering under the downpour. Stopping for a moment, arms wrapped around himself for warmth… before moving on.

The brunette shouldn’t care.

But he did. He nearly saw himself — stepping out, catching up to Atsushi, grabbing his wrist, pulling him back. He almost heard himself say it: “Forget it. There won’t be a fight.”

But then—

No.

NO.

NO!!!

“Stop it!!!”— the thought sliced through him like a command.

He turned from the window, jaw clenched.

“Why the hell am I thinking about this?! I’ll kill him tomorrow. I want to kill him.”

But the truth was…

He’d rather kill himself. He knew that. Just as surely as he knew the rain was still falling — and that the man staring back at him in the glass had dead, dull eyes.

Self-hatred boiled inside him, burning like a red-hot iron on living flesh.

“I hate myself.”

He leaned against the glass, his forehead touching the cold surface.

“For my cruelty.”

For seeing only weakness in Atsushi all this time.

“For my wrong desires.”

For the fact that once he touched him, that weakness turned out to be something else. For the fact that now he couldn't stop thinking about it.

“For my weakness.”

For feeling something more than just obsession in this room. For the fact that one kiss was enough to ignite a desire within him unlike any of his previous passions. Burning. Uncontrollable. The kind that made him want to either burn up or burn everything around him.

For wanting to feel his Atsushi again.

Stronger.

Deeper.

More painfully.

He wanted to hear his voice. He wanted to hear Atsushi beg him. Not for mercy — no. For something else.

He wanted to throw this cat onto the nearest office desk, impale him on his painfully erect cock, and fuck him until the brunette came as many times as it took to fill Atsushi completely. Until he pumped him full of his seed, so abundantly and densely that the were-tiger wouldn't be able to stand normally on his thin cat legs. He would only be able to moan plaintively and softly beneath him until Ryūnosuke had satisfied this wrong, abnormal hunger for closeness, even just a little, and held out long enough to get the blond home without fucking him in the nearest alleyway. And at home... he would no longer have to hold back.

But that's not normal.

It's dirty.

It's disgusting.

Anger, shame, despair, fear, desire — all mixed together into a burning, deadly poison that overwhelmed Ryūnosuke. His self-hatred was so strong, so all-consuming, that it incinerated even that heat that someone else would call passionate love.

Somewhere on the very edge of consciousness, he knew. This thirst was something more. More terrifying. More destructive. More real.

He shouldn't feel this way. He shouldn't want it so badly.

‘Kill him. Kill me. What the hell's the difference?’

Akutagawa laughed hoarsely, choked with emotion. There was no joy or relief in this laugh — only a broken, hysterical emptiness.

He looked up and met his own reflection in the glass. Eyes. Empty, like the night outside the window. Empty, like himself. But in this darkness, there was a faint spark — painful, doomed. He looked at himself and did not recognise himself.

The rain whispered endlessly outside, a steady pulse in the dark.

— I shouldn’t have let myself be weak — the words fell from his lips, faint, barely alive.

His voice dissolved into the sound of rain.

— I shouldn’t have let myself… Atsushi… Even if he came too close, I just… I’ll kill him. Yes. That’s the right thing. This time, I’ll get it right—

“Right?”

The voice was slow, familiar, soaked in lazy mockery. He would’ve known it anywhere. Even in hell.

— Dazai-san…?

He didn’t see him. He didn’t need to. Dazai-san was there — behind Akutagawa, inside him, always in his head.

“Letting emotions rule you again? Wasn’t it enough when I left? Do you want him to leave you too?”

Akutagawa’s fingers clenched before he could stop them. Panic crept in under his ribs. 

— No. Not now. — he whispered.

He couldn’t let this spiral. Dazai was gone. Dazai had abandoned him. Dazai had nothing to do with this.

“But you already know I am. Don't you, Ryūnosuke-kun?”

— Shut up! — The young man hissed, curling his hands around the armrest like it was the only solid thing left.

But the voice didn’t stop.

“Once you kill him, it’ll all be over.”

Yes. Of course. That made sense. Didn’t it?..

Brunette sucked in a sharp breath, eyes squeezed shut, clinging to the thought like a rope in floodwater.

— I’ll kill him — mafioso whispered. This time, there was no tremor, no ache. Just quiet, painful certainty. — Yes. That’s the right thing.

Dazai laughed. That laugh — he’d heard it before, too many times, and it still made his stomach twist.

“You really believe that? Haven’t you figured it out yet? You’ve already lost.”

Akutagawa snapped upright. 

No. 

NO. 

He couldn’t afford to think like that. Tomorrow he would kill the were-tiger. It wouldn’t be a duel. It wouldn’t be a battle. As if his gentle gaze, his tender lips, his warm touch had never touched this disgusting, weak part of Ryunosuke that he had neither the right nor the luxury to allow himself.

He had to do it. To end their six-month deal as he had planned from the beginning.

But the harder the brunette tried to hold on to that thought, the louder Dazai's voice sounded in his head, stretching out every word:

“You’re pathetic, Ryūnosuke.”

— No — mafioso exhaled, but the voice pressed on.

“He doesn’t need you. Just like I didn’t.”

Not mocking, this time. Disgusted. Like that day. That moment when Dazai disappeared for four years without a word. Like that moment when Akutagawa was left bleeding on the deck, alone, understanding that everything he’d lived for was crumbling.

“Just like now…”

His breathing faltered. His hands clenched white-knuckled.

— Tomorrow — he breathed. — Tomorrow it ends.

“This time I’ll get it right.”

But even inside his own head, the words no longer belonged to him.

Ryūnosuke closed his eyes. And a strange lightness washed over him — delicate, almost blissful. Like everything had finally found its place. Like the world outside had slipped behind a sheet of glass, and he stood behind it, untouched. Safe.

This wouldn’t be a fight. No. He’d fought enough to know the difference. Tomorrow, he would simply take Atsushi’s life. Like he had with so many others.

“And then, finally — it would be quiet.”

Akutagawa opened his eyes and looked toward the window. There was no city now. No rain. Only darkness. And within it — the reflection of his own eyes.

Lifeless.

Unrecognizable.

Chapter Text

Rain drummed against the asphalt, drowning out the city’s breath, folding all sound into a single, endless hiss. Water slid from rooftops, gurgled down gutters, spilled into puddles with smudged halos of light. The drops came in waves, washing away everything — the dirt of the streets, the hum of engines, the muffled voices.

Thoughts.

Atsushi walked slowly, almost soundlessly, his steps steady and unbroken. Hands buried deep in his pockets, shoulders faintly slumped. His gaze was fixed ahead, but not on anything — he looked through people, signs, lights, without really seeing. His legs carried him forward, sure and steady, as if they knew the way better than he did.

When he finally stopped, his awareness caught up to his body. For a moment, his eyes seemed to clear.

The rocky shore beside the pier.

That place.

The cold wind from the bay struck his face, soaked the air with damp salt — but he barely felt it. Water crashed heavily against stone, but what rose before his eyes was something else entirely: a frozen surface, white spray, breath choking into a ragged cough. Wet fingers grasping at slick rock. Trembling hands that couldn’t hold on…

Hadn’t been strong enough to save. Hadn’t been an equal.

As if he ever really had a chance.

Atsushi sat down on the cold, wet stones. Their sharp edges pressed through his thin clothes, cutting into skin, but he didn’t seem to notice — just as he ignored the rain now lashing his shoulders in heavy sheets, or the wind seeping into his bones. Here, in this place, he could let his thoughts drift — far away, to a place where reality faded into something half-imagined.

Before him stretched the dark, restless water. The waves rose and fell, breaking on the shore with a dull, steady roar. Their movement was almost hypnotic — but Atsushi no longer looked at them the way he once had.He no longer saw only fear in that dark, deep water, as it was after the day he was forced to let his beloved person die in the open sea.

A strange, ironic truth: he had become for Akutagawa both the one worth dying for — and the one he would destroy at any cost.

— So beautiful and terrifying at the same time. As himself… — Atsushi whispered, not even realizing he had spoken aloud.

“To be that important. To be that hated.”

Somewhere inside, the echo of an ending hummed low and certain.

Were-tiger’s lips curled, just barely, into a bitter smile.

The rain kept falling, coursing cold over stone and skin, rinsing the last crumbs of warmth away. Atsushi did not move. He sat at the lip of the shore, staring into the dark water that held a corpse-pale sky. He heard that voice again—empty, level, cold—as if they’d been speaking of something trivial.

He remembered the heavy knock of his heart when their lips met; how Akutagawa’s breath hitched; how the hunger in his gaze, in a single breath, curdled into horror and then, almost at once, into the practiced indifference brunette uses to shutter anything he deems excessive.

Atsushi knew that look. He knew what it meant — what Akutagawa had felt in that brief second between fragile happiness and the fall into his own abyss.

“He thinks my death will mend everything. He thinks if he cannot bear it, he has to destroy it. Cut it to pieces. He thinks he can return to whoever he was before we met.”

Atsushi let out a slow breath and closed his eyes.

It was true — bitter, inescapable. He saw how Akutagawa clung to that illusion as if it were the only thing that could keep him afloat — as if one step back, the erasure of what frightens him, could restore his earlier shape.

“It doesn’t work like that.”

The silver-haired boy lowered his head. The hands lay loosely on the slick stones; rain stitched clear threads along his fingers, pooling into glassy tracks.

“It’ll be the same as with Higuchi and those “they-weren’t-anything” dates between them. He’ll force himself to carry the weight of the choice until the disgust at his own actions hollows him out — and then he’ll break again.”

Atsushi’s mouth twitched; a thin, empty smile.

“So the wheel turns.”

The young detective had tried to give Ryūnosuke the truth. He had said that his death would bring no relief, that pain would not vanish but sharpen, corrosive and sure. Nakajima knew it because he had lived it — loss, mistake, blame, reaching back for what cannot be returned.

But Akutagawa did not hear him. Worse — he chose not to.

Atsushi shut his eyes as the downpour drew cold lines across his face and seeped through cloth to bone. The shiver in his body no longer mattered — too small beside what worked within.

“Useless…”

Were-tiger had seen something flicker in those silver-gray eyes, and yet he knew it meant nothing for his precious and insane raven-haired disaster. 

“Too stubborn, too crushed by his own inner world, too swallowed by what is happening to him to see anything else. As ever. Like on the ship, when none of my words found purchase. Like every other collision, when he drove himself deeper into the pit and then raged at having no way out.”

A softer smile now — no even irony in it, only recognition.

“I will die. He will stay alive. Alone”

Were-tiger smoothed a wet palm over his trousers, looked at his fingers as though they weren’t his.

And it doesn’t matter.

It won’t matter if the fight is fair. It won’t matter how strong Rashōmon is this time. The end was cast the moment Ryūnosuke spoke it — calm, certain, as if naming the weather.

Atsushi had done all he could. 

“If even a kiss made him recoil from himself — if he could not bear that instant of nearness, that living heat — then it was over. He refuses to hear himself. And if he won’t hear himself, he will not hear me.”

The boy watched the water and let the thought settle until it filled him entire.

“Perhaps my death will buy him a pause. A quiet. Perhaps someone will come who can pull him back. Someone stronger. Better. Someone he can love more than he wants to kill.”

Atsushi blinked, oddly calm before the shape of it.

“Chūya. Dazai. Gin. Even Higuchi — she loves him, doesn’t she?”

A small, soundless laugh escaped him.

“Absurd. Imagine wishing happiness to the one whose hand will end me tomorrow.”

He wiped his face — the rain and the salt he hadn’t noticed.

“Perhaps I’m as mad as he is,” — the boy thought, tenderly. He lifted his gaze to the sky, thick with slow, dark clouds.

— We were, after all, the price of one another…

***

Atsushi stepped into his room, closed the door, and, for a heartbeat, simply stood there.

Almost like last night, wasn’t it? After Ryūnosuke had punched that wretched date out of him — no point to it now. There would be no evening with the brunette; there would be an execution instead.

Water bled from were-tiger’s hair, soaked his shirt, tapped from his fingertips to the floor — small, solitary sounds inside a thick, breathless quiet.

He looked around.

The room met him with indifference. The bed made with care, books standing in a straight file, not a spare object on the desk. No sign of a presence, no pulse of a life — only damp air, the musty scent of rain, and a weak street-lamp smear across the dull glass.

He ran a palm along his collar, tugged the fabric off one shoulder. The cloth clung chill to skin.

This room… it wasn’t home. Home is warmth; the sense that someone waits. A light in the window, familiar steps behind the wall, a voice saying your name.

Here there was only emptiness. It had always been here. He had simply failed to notice.

The young detective peeled off the soaked clothes, chose something clean and dry. A hot shower to quiet the fine tremor. Then the kitchen, the kettle.

“Give the hands a task. Lend the heart a gentler rhythm.”

He found mint, let a few leaves fall into the cup, added a thin slice of orange. When the heat finally settled in his hands, Atsushi sat, looked down into the dark little pool, and let himself think.

What would he do before he died? There wasn’t much time.

“Write a will? Sensible. Logical. But what do I have to leave — and to whom?”

The meager wages he’d been saving “just in case” could become something else. Gifts. He would wait for morning, wait for the shops to open, and spend the day buying. Wrap them in festive paper, tie them with soft, bright ribbons. Sign them — carefully, by hand — with love for…

For Kyōka. For Dazai. For Fukuzawa. For Tanizaki…

For Chūya.

For Gin.

For—

His fingers tightened around the cup. Something inside quivered, a taut string reaching its limit.

“For Ryū.”

The thought struck hard, straight through the weak place, and opened him. He shouldn’t be thinking it. It was pointless. Things would end the way Akutagawa had decided; nothing would unmake it. And yet Atsushi couldn’t do otherwise. He had to.

The gesture.

The farewell.

Not to make Ryūnosuke understand. Not so mafioso would remember, once Atsushi was gone.

For himself. To say one last “I love you”, even if it went unanswered. He didn’t need it to be kept. Didn’t need it to be accepted. Perhaps the brunette would tear the gift to shreds, throw it away without a second look. That would be his choice.

Atsushi had made his.

The shops would open at dawn. One night remained. The last night. But it didn’t feel long or short — only another night, no different from a thousand that had passed.

Only one more of his nights among the thousand to come that would belong to other people.

Were-tiger moved slowly — not to prolong anything, but because his hands kept stalling halfway through a motion, fingers loosening, will slipping; then he made himself go on. He stacked his belongings into boxes not for keeping but so they would be easy to throw away. Shifted, straightened, adjusted small angles as if the angle mattered.

It didn’t.

He knew that, and still he worked with an unneeded, insistent neatness.

When everything lay sorted, he swept the clothes into a trash bag without hesitation. He kept only what he wore: clean, black. When it happens, blood will be quieter on dark cloth.

He stopped and studied his hands. The skin at his fingertips was reddened from strain, and he felt nothing. He wondered whether he would feel anything at all when the moment came.

He lowered his gaze, exhaled, and made himself return to the task.

Some boxes he left unsealed. Perhaps someone would want something. The persimmon-shaped teapot he brewed from tonight. The sketchbook with its smooth, cream-white pages — so many still blank. He had taken to drawing after work; lately it was the only thing that steadied him.

Perhaps someone would take the pots of green — violets, crocuses, a fern, an avocado, a small rose. 

“Would anyone water them?”

He had set them along the sills, scattered them around the room until the emptiness held islands of living green. He greeted every bud, sometimes kissed a leaf — God, how lovely they were. He watered them each morning, even when he was late.

Now… now they might simply wither. Like everything else. Like him.

Perhaps they’d be taken to the dump.

As he once was — wrapped in a garbage bag and left to the slow, plastic hush of breath running out while the cold drew life from a small, unwanted body.

There had been no one to stop it. No voice to say this should not be. No one was glad simply that Atsushi existed in the world.

His life had begun that way. Why should it end differently?

He is being set aside. Again.

And this time, he wanted for it to be the last.

Atsushi rose from the table without quite noticing, his body moving first, his mind somewhere far behind. He reached for the shelf and found the smooth glaze of the teapot. Warm. Familiar weight.

The very pot he used when Kyōka came over. The same one he held on lonelier nights, cupping the heat as if warmth could travel deeper than skin.

“Maybe I should leave it for Kyōka. I remember she once said it was pretty…”

In his other hand — out of habit, not hunger — a small packet of honey drops from the festival. His hands knew the choreography; he let them perform it because that was easier.

Weak fingers trembled. The pot slid.

For the span of a blink were-tiger slipped out of the world and only watched: porcelain turning in the light, the lamp’s shine running along its glaze, the thin handle twitching, then flying free as it struck the floor.

Shards burst outward.

The crack of breaking china sliced the room’s heavy hush. Then came a second sound—quieter, somehow crueler—the scatter of little golden candies tapping across the floor, rolling under table and cupboard. They looked like bits of amber hurled ashore by a dark sea.

Atsushi stilled. For several seconds he only looked.

At the broken porcelain. At the sugared debris. At the chaos he had made. Then, thoughtlessly, as if lowered by inertia, he sank to his knees.

“Broken things can be gathered. But do they ever come back?”

The boy lifted a fragment. Warm on one side. Knife-edge on the other. Like a razor. Like a claw. Like a sliver of ice slipping under the breastbone before you realize it has already gone through.

His fingers slid through crushed candy. The tacky sweetness clung to his skin like fresh blood.

“Broken things must be gathered. And then thrown away.”

Strange. Only last night, before sleep, he’d thought — he wanted to brew tea for Ryūnosuke. Invite him over. Just… sit near him.

What would it be like? Would Akutagawa hold the cup the way he always does, delicately, two fingers? Say something cutting and then, grudgingly, sip? What face would he make? How would his voice sound?

“It will not happen. Not now. Not on any other night. Never again.”

Something inside him gave. Quietly. Almost without a sound. Like porcelain.

Atsushi remained on the floor, his gaze on the shards, unable to say why he kept drawing them together. It felt like lining up a silence he could not mend.

His breath snagged; thoughts frayed in every direction until they narrowed to a single line.

“This is the end.”

Final. Irreversible.

“Never again.”

The words plucked his nerves bare like a taut string. His fingers shook, and one shard slid from his palm.

A soft, dull tap.

Suddenly the boy could not breathe. His chest cinched tight, as if an unseen noose had drawn down and down.

His violet eyes filled. He blinked to dam the tears and failed. They ran hot over his cheeks, fell onto his shaking hands, onto the sticky sugar grit, onto the pieces of a teapot he would never hold again. He wiped them away, and again, but the stream did not stop.

Something inside broke loose. He flinched — then folded to the floor, limp, like a marionette with its strings cut.

The sobs came in heaving jolts, wrecking his breath, shaking him through. He cried as he never had — until the tremor reached his temples, until air clawed into his lungs in ragged, desperate gasps, and the room wavered before him with each fresh wave of dizziness.

Somewhere within that boundless despair, in the viscous, black gulf tearing him apart from within, a small, strangled sound surfaced — something between a moan and a trembling mewl.

Byakko answered him, mirroring his pain. She did not wail, did not keen — only thinned into pleading little sobs inside him, sharp and forlorn, as if she too could endure no more. She suffered because he suffered. She feared because he feared. He felt her not as power coursing his blood, but as a tremor along the bones, as a pain lighting every nerve, as the echo of his own hopelessness driven deep within and now spilling out.

His throat cinched. His heart battered at his ribs until it seemed it would break.

Atsushi was choking. Byakko — with him.

He did not know how long he sat like that, dissolving into the ache, their single, shared agony. But when the tears at last ran dry, when breath steadied a fraction, when the shuddering ebbed — Byakko, too, fell silent. And suddenly he understood that they both were left utterly alone.

He was still short of breath. Each inhale came shallow and ragged, as if invisible fingers were tightening around his chest.

“I have to stand”

The thought sounded dull, hollow, without any true will to obey it.

“I must…”

Were-tiger tried to move; his muscles answered with ache and weakness, as if stone-cold stiffness had set into every joint.

A chill went through him. A thin, pinched shiver traveled his body, snagging at shoulders, fingers, breath. Atsushi forced himself upright — slowly, unsteadily, on cotton legs, as though he were walking across ice that might crack at any moment.

The room lay dark and quiet. Too quiet. Like an empty house. Like a world already left.

“I only need to sleep a little.”

The boy curled into the chair by the window, arms around himself, drew the plush tail over his shoulders as if fur could ward off the cold, the weariness, the hollow that gnawed within.

“Only a little. Only until morning.”

There was no sleep, only a heavy oblivion — a thick, clinging haze that swallowed him whole, letting him neither fall fully asleep nor wake at all.

When Atsushi opened his eyes again, the sky beyond the window had begun to pale.

The gray, wintry light poured over the streets, ran the ridgelines of roofs, touched the bare twigs. Somewhere a siren wound up; at the crossing, an engine hummed. First footsteps. Doors. Voices. People came out, hurried along — someone stifled a yawn and straightened a scarf, someone checked a phone, someone answered someone else.

Life went on.

The silver-haired detective watched it, and still felt nothing. His face stared back from the glass — pale, spent, bruised with sleepless shadows. He looked at himself and didn’t recognize who was looking. As if this world no longer had any claim on him.

He didn’t know how long it had been since he woke. Minutes, hours — it made no difference.

“My last dawn.”

The thought was quiet, mournful, without anger, without despair. Simply a fact.

“Why does it look so beautiful now?”

He wet his lips and drew in the cool air, sharp with morning.

“Because I won’t ever see it again?”

His fingers tightened on the arm of the chair. He tried to memorize it — that light, the tint of the sky, the soft lay of cloud — as if he could carry it with him.

Atsushi rose. His body was heavy still, soaked with the night’s fatigue and bitterness, yet his movements came steady, exact, with no tremor in the hands.

He went to the mirror and, almost without thinking, began to set himself in order. He cupped cool water and washed as if he could rinse away not only sleep, but the night itself — its weight, its unliftable futility. He smoothed the hair back, gathered it carefully, methodically, into a tight knot at the nape.

Not slowly to stretch the moment — slowly because, if this was the last time, then every gesture carried weight.

When the strands lay flat, he reached for the slender kanzashi. The metal was cool, bright in the morning, touched with white acacia.

Chūya’s gift.

The first one — from the days when neither of them knew how it would end. When he sat in a café, listening to the red-haired mafioso’s easy voice, drinking coffee and wondering whether there was courage enough in him to take a real first step. 

To draw closer. To finally reach for his beloved raven-haired disaster.

The boy's fingers lingered on the smooth metal. He remembered how Chūya, half teasing, pressed the pin into his hand, how he’d flushed, unsure whether he was allowed to accept, and how Chūya only snorted: “Wear it. It’ll suit you.”

How simple it was then.

How simple he was then.

He truly believed he could thaw the ice. That if he was patient enough, kind enough, he could offer a hand to someone who had never learned how to take it — not tearing skin, not threatening ruin.

He did believe.

Time after time Atsushi spoke to Akutagawa about warmth, about how people can’t live without it. Time after time he let himself hold him, let their hands stay clasped even when fingers tightened hard enough to bruise. He kept reaching out, kept trying to explain, while Rashōmon bucked and bled forward, finding no wall to stop it.

Atsushi didn’t let go, even when he was beaten. Even when he was drowned.

He thought that if he refused to grow bitter, if he held fast to the idea that he was not the same as Akutagawa and would not hurt back, he could make it to the end.

He tried to teach something that mattered, to show there was another way — and found himself in Akutagawa’s hands not as the one who brings warmth, but as something to be carved apart in another paroxysm of hatred for the world and for himself. When Akutagawa held him under the water, Atsushi could have seen only cruelty; instead he saw something else — a man terrified of his own weakness — and he stayed.

And this is where the path ends…

The boy fixed the pin into his hair with care, let his fingertips travel the smooth line of metal, stealing one last second to memorize the feel of it.

Then, just as quietly, he crossed to the dresser and slid open the top drawer.

A small mirror. His hands moved of their own accord, as if the body no longer belonged to him. Mascara along the lashes, a brush across the mouth. 

“A breath more color. A breath more life.”

For a few minutes more, he could pretend he was still alive.

The thought almost made him laugh. A thin, bitter sound. A dead man’s face, touched with cosmetics to pass for living. Everything he did now felt just as absurd. Would it matter when the blood washed it clean? When only the shell remained, perhaps not even found in time?

Atsushi looked into the glass.

The eyes were empty. Bottomless. Black wells where nothing had burned for a long time. As if the body had already been vacated.

The boy didn’t know why he was doing any of it. Who would care how he looked? Who would care if anything of him remained?

No one.

He had no family, no home, not even a corner that was his to return to. There would be no one to see him off. No one to close his eyes.

When it ended, they would throw him away. As they had once thrown him from the orphanage. As they had, again and again.

They would burn him with the nameless, heaped together like refuse.

Were-tiger ran a finger over the lips and blurred the color. His fingers shook. The laugh lodged somewhere in his throat. Still he continued. Hair, then clothes. Precise, methodical.

Not for himself.

Simply because this is how it should be. Because order makes parting easier. Because Atsushi could not allow himself to leave in a state of scatter and senselessness, as if he had never been a human at all.

Even if he never truly was.

Dawn’s gold at the rim of the world thinned into a clear, wintry silver. The first snow. It didn’t so much fall as arrive — soundless, crystal-clean, immaculate. Blinding white, crisp underfoot, flashing with shards of morning sun.

Atsushi let his eyes sweep the room one last time, stepped out, and, out of habit, turned the key in the lock. He froze.

Why? Why lock a door he would never open again?

He would not be coming back.

The world lurched, as if water rushed over glass. The boy’s legs went slack. He dropped to his knees — heavy, boneless, as if before a grave. The keys slid from the fingers and rang faintly against the floor.

He doesn’t want to die.

He doesn’t want to leave.

He doesn’t want to say goodbye.

He doesn’t want to leave his raven-haired disaster alone.

He doesn’t want—

Atsushi dragged in a ragged breath, ice cutting the lungs. He only had to calm down. Stand up. Walk. His body would not obey.

He wanted to stop this. Wanted the day to turn back into an ordinary day. But it didn’t matter. What he wanted had never mattered. It didn’t now. 

What mattered was what he wanted.

Ryūnosuke.

Hopelessly stubborn, maddening, unshakable once he chose.

The one who did not admit another’s will. The one who decided for them both — from the first collision, the first look. Always the one to go ahead. To take the weight of every decision — even when it meant killing. Even when it meant letting go. Even when it meant breaking everything.

Atsushi had always felt his strength. Even while falling. Even when he was ready to surrender — to the enemy, the circumstance, life itself.

Time after time, Ryūnosuke pulled him from his knees. Not with words. Not with comfort. Simply by being who he was: by the way he looked at the were-tiger, by what he expected of him, by refusing to let him vanish.

“You don’t stay because you chose to. You stay because he did.”

Dazai’s voice flickered up from memory — amused, and far too accurate.

And it was true. The boy had always known it. Of the two of them — for all that split them apart, for the hatred under which something larger had always throbbed, for all the battles and blood — the one who wanted to live was Akutagawa.

Not Atsushi. Never Atsushi.

The blonde had believed he was being hauled toward life, that Akutagawa dragged him up out of the depths and shoved him forward to fight. But it was otherwise. All along were-tiger was not walking toward life. He was walking toward his death — the death prepared by the very one who once refused to let him disappear.

Akutagawa saved him — only to kill him. He lifted him, lent him strength, pulled him from the pit — not so the boy would live, but so he would die by mafioso’s hand.

Atsushi pressed his palms to the floor, feeling the cold seep into them.

“Now the pieces fell into place.”

He had flown too close, pale moth to a searing flame. He should have known; should have understood — the fire would kill him sooner or later, no matter how mesmerizing its light.

From people like Atsushi, only ash remains. And people like Akutagawa go on burning. Scorching others to the bone. Scorching themselves.

Slowly, Nakajima got to his feet. His fingers trembled, but gathered the keys. He set them back into the lock — not turning it, only leaving them there. Let them stay. He would not need them.

The blonde drew up his hood, buried his hands in his pockets. His fingers found the earphones by instinct, and music spilled through him — bright, regular, filling the mind, pushing the spare thoughts out to the edges.

He must not freeze now, in his last minutes of being.

He could not stand here in the speechless, crackling snow, in the empty courtyard, sinking into his own pain. He had to reach the mall. Buy the gifts. Wrap them. Do everything he had planned.

Call Chūya. Speak to him once more. Thank him for everything. Say what should be said while his heart still beat. And then… then do what must be done.

Chapter Text

The bell over the door gave a small, melodious chime and the air answered softly as the door fell shut behind the were-tiger. Warmth lived in the shop: light poured from the ceiling and pooled on lacquered cases, on cool ceramics, on the thin facets of glass pendants. The smell of pine, spice and fresh coffee braided with the tart scent of paper and varnish. Everything here was almost too gentle, too unhurried, as if time itself paused between tidy shelves lined with tiny omikuji, wooden boxes carved with cranes and carp, neat ranks of cups traced with pale sakura.

Atsushi let his fingers drift across the cold glass of a case, but his gaze wouldn’t settle. Everything was beautiful — graceful, storied — and none of it mattered. 

He could choose anything. And still be wrong.

The boy exhaled, found his phone in his pocket, swept a thumb across the screen to the name he knew by heart, and hesitated for a breath. Then he tapped.

— Chūya-san, — his voice came out soft, warm, perfectly polite, with the faintest undertone of something personal. — Forgive the intrusion. I’m choosing a souvenir for you and wanted to ask… what would you like to keep? There’s a sea of lovely things here, for example…

He began to list them: a chrysanthemum furoshiki; a tancho crane for long life; a porcelain sake set; a tea cup with raku glaze; a stamped notebook with a brushwork motto. Something else, perhaps. Then he caught himself and added that he could simply send photos so Chūya could pick whatever pleased him most.

Noise bled through the line: dull thuds, the slap of shots, clipped shouts, steel on steel. Someone cried out; something heavy hit the floor. And through that chaos — treating it as nothing worth remark — Chūya’s voice, impatient and still composed:

— Blondie, let’s discuss this later.

Atsushi closed his eyes, breathing once, and answered, even and contained, yet with the inevitable bitterness of truth:

— I’m sorry… — no complaint in it, only a resigned finality. — But I only have today. Of all people, you’re the last I want to tell “later”… and then never speak to again.

The clatter of gunfire and the clipped commands thinned into a ringing pause. All he heard was Chūya’s breathing — a little off, as if caught wrong-footed by the literal meaning of those words.

— Wait a minute, — Chūya said, sudden and almost sharp.

Footsteps, quick. A door. Hollow echo — he’d moved away from the fight.

When he spoke again, his voice had changed. No irritation now; no habitual haste. Only a measured, heavy caution:

— What the hell is going on, Atsushi?

— Akutagawa reminded me of our agreement, — Atsushi spoke evenly, almost matter-of-fact, as if naming an item on a receipt. — A fight to the death in exchange for six months without killing from his side. And the deadline… is tonight, at midnight.

On the other end, Chūya said nothing.

— I hoped he would change his mind, — the same level tone, gentled by resigned bitterness. — But he’s set on it. So… one of us has to die until the next sunrise.

A breath hit the line — sharp, strained.

— And I don’t want that someone to be him.

— You’ve got to be fucking kidding me… — Chūya’s voice snapped. — You’re fucking kidding me?!

Footfalls. A hard exhale. The restless scuff of someone pacing with nowhere to put his hands.

— For fuck’s sake, Atsushi, I’m on the other side of the planet right now! — he hissed through his teeth, fury so helpless it sounded ready to dash the phone against a wall. — I can’t—!

— I understand, — Atsushi breathed, soft, conciliatory, as if steadying the elder man — as if it were Chūya, not the boy, who needed to hold it together. — So you’ll choose a keepsake now, and I’ll send it by post. You can pick it up when you’re home again, Chūya-san.

Silence. Even his breathing thinned out.

— I’ll miss you where the higanbana bloom, Chūya-san. When Higan comes round, we’ll see each other; until then, hold our moments like lanterns.

He drew a small breath, gathering himself.

— The time we spent together was truly beautiful. Thank you. For everything. Could you… say goodbye to me now?

The pause lasted just under a minute.

Then the line went dead. Somewhere far away a phone met a wall; a harsh scrape skittered across the floor, then nothing.

Atsushi let his breath go, looking at the screen. Call ended. No return call. No message. He caught himself waiting — one second, two — but the glass stayed dark. Perfectly indifferent.

Chūya hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t said goodbye. Only hurled the phone, raging.

Were-tiger ran his tongue over dry lips. He wasn’t angry. He didn’t blame Chūya. It made sense; it was almost logical.

And still — it hurts.

Perhaps that was its own confession: Chūya could not accept the choice. He couldn’t bear the fact of a farewell. Just as Akutagawa couldn’t bear what he felt. One forced him to fight; the other… let the last call fall to silence.

Atsushi tipped his head, drawing the resin-bitter breath of pine and spice a little deeper, as if scent alone could anchor him to the present. The shop was warm and still. Lantern-light wavered on the glass cases. People drifted past the shelves, their voices hushed to a soft, quilted murmur.

The boy’s gaze moved along the displays as though seeing them for the first time. Anything at all. Little gods in bronze, bright crystals, glossy postcards, old coins with their worn relief… What would he have chosen if this were an ordinary day?

His eyes caught on bowls carved from pale, milky onyx. Small. Smooth. Perfectly turned. Nestled in a wooden box lined with velvet, they looked like something set apart — enduring, almost warm despite their cool polish.

Atsushi let the faintest smile touch his mouth.

“I hope he’ll like them.”

In the end, such bowls would serve not only for saké. Chūya would find them a use.

“At least this would remain. At least something would…”

Atsushi stepped out of the shop and filled his lungs with the damp cold. After the store’s sweet, spiced air, the street tasted especially clean. Snow fell slowly, almost lazily, and vanished the instant it touched the ground, leaving only a thin wet sheen on the asphalt.

The day had tipped past its middle. Time was running too quickly.

One last gift remained.

The most important.

The silver-haired detective didn’t hurry. He wandered from storefront to storefront, peering into windowlight, weighing options. He didn’t want anything merely decent, anything that would suit anyone. He wanted something personal.

Let it be small, even simple — so long as it was true.

He wanted to give everything at once: calligraphy brushes with a perfect center of balance; a tea caddy with gold embossing; a small still life — ripe peaches and grapes — to sit in a kitchen and echo the word home.

“But… what does home feel like to Akutagawa?..”

Atsushi studied the painting, and his mind offered nothing. He had never once stepped inside the brunette’s apartment — though he’d climbed that staircase dozens of times. He had passed that door again and again on his way to Chūya’s. Were-tiger didn’t know its smell, its walls, its light — was it warm, was it cold? What stood on the shelves; what filled the cupboards; whether the table held anything but weapons and papers.

“Why is it so easy to find a good gift — and so hard to find something real? Something that would touch him. Something he wouldn’t throw away, wouldn’t forget, wouldn’t let gather dust in a far corner.”

The searching took hours.

By the time he left the post office, evening had sunk the city in lights. The air was crisp and full of far voices and the low, oceanic roar of traffic. All of it felt wrong. Out of place. As if the world had forgotten to hold its breath today, as if everything kept moving forward while, for him, time had stopped.

He finished the last letters, tied the last ribbons, and all that remained was to send them.

The line inched on forever. Minute by minute the edges of the world lost their focus: voices blurred into a padded hum, the light thinned, space went soft at its borders. He filled in the forms slowly, intently, checking each letter, each number. There could be no mistakes. There would be no one left to correct them.

He wrapped Akutagawa’s gift with a particular care. He had agonized over the paper. Longer still over the thing itself. He hoped it might carry what he could no longer say aloud. And yet… did it matter?

“Will he like it?”

In another time, another life, Atsushi would have asked the brunette to his face. In another life he would have seen the answer: would Akutagawa keep the gift, or drop it unopened into a drawer.

They say on the far shore, all questions find their answers.

If that is so, Atsushi would know soon.

***

Atsushi arrived on time.

He halted at the mouth of the alley, breath thin, unwilling to take that last step just yet. Nothing to mark the place — narrow walls, the sharp stink of asphalt and old grime, a faint smear of light from a distant lamp. There are hundreds of alleys like this in the city. Thousands.

But this one was the only one.

How many times he’d remembered it. Seen it in dreams, felt the rasp of concrete under his fingertips, tasted his own blood again on his lips. How many times he’d returned here in thought, knowing that in life he would set foot here only once — on the day he came to finish what had begun.

That very first fight.

It should have been the last. If Dazai hadn’t intervened, it would have ended that day.

But now he was here. At last.

Deeper in the alley, where the shadow kept his outline, Akutagawa was already waiting. Black coat poured into black night; his face stayed half in shade.

Atsushi stepped forward. Snow cracked softly underfoot.

Ryūnosuke turned his head, slowly.

— Jinko.

A cold, even voice.

Not “Atsushi.” Not even “cat.” Just Jinko.

As if nothing had changed. As if they were still enemies on either side of a barricade, ready to tear each other apart the moment a gap opened.

— Won’t Dazai-san be here? — Atsushi glanced back, though he already knew. No one else was in the alley.

— Dazai-san has nothing to do with this. This is between us. — Akutagawa’s voice was level, almost colorless.

— Is it necessary? This… duel?

— Yes. I can’t allow a weakness. I’ll kill you — and prove I’m stronger.

Atsushi nodded. He had expected to hear it. Expected to see Akutagawa exactly like this — cold, resolved, full of his habitual cruelty. And yet something was wrong.

That voice…

Not harsh, not angry, not bitter. Just empty. As if someone else were speaking through him. As if the brunette himself didn’t understand why his words sounded the way they did.

— Love isn’t weakness, Ryū.

Akutagawa looked at him — not sharply, not with irritation, but slowly, with a lag, as if the meaning reached him a beat late.

— I don’t love you, Jinko.

A dull, even, toneless line. The way a person speaks who only wants the conversation to end.

— I love you, Ryūnosuke.

He hadn’t meant to say it. The words slipped free on their own — because there was no longer any difference between saying them aloud and thinking them only to himself.

Akutagawa didn’t move. His fingers didn’t twitch; his breathing didn’t hitch. Still, Atsushi saw it — something in the gaze. Not an answer, no. Only a pause. Only a silence too long before the next word.

— It doesn’t matter. — The voice was almost a whisper. Not because he chose to speak softly, but because nothing else would come. — Fight, as you promised.

Atsushi let out a quiet breath.

— Yes… I know.

Atsushi let his gaze slip along Akutagawa’s face, noting — almost helplessly — how beautiful it was. Features fine to the point of fragility. Alabaster skin, thinner under this light, as if lit from within. A keen winter flush along his cheekbones. Eyes like molten silver under a fringe of coal-black lashes.

“He looks so heartbreakingly lovely. Is it only because I’m seeing him for the last time…?”

— Stop staring.

Akutagawa’s voice was toneless, as if borrowed.

And yet, inside that strangeness, there was a faint softness.

Mafioso’s slender fingers stirred — and the night flowered with Rashomon’s scarlet threads. Alive, they uncurled in the air, tracing the shape of her master’s breath, pulsing to the beat of his heart. A deep, low sound filled the alley — not sharp, not threatening, but strong — more like the far echo of a heavy bell.

Red light ran over the filigree of the Demonic Armor, lay across his skin, pooled in the long shadow of his lashes.

— Think you can win by standing there like a post?

Brunette’s lips moved in the dark — almost a smile.

— No, — Atsushi answered with a small, easy tenderness. — I think you’d look better than me in a coffin.

Ryūnosuke frowned, but the retort never came.

Atsushi was already moving.

A light whirl of snow rose under soft animal pads, a pale train streaming through the night air.

The first strikes were feelers. The Moon Beast’s claws skated over dark cloth, leaving torn grooves — felt, but not deep enough to touch flesh. For a heartbeat the alley flashed with a scatter of scarlet sparks.

Rashomon answered with a muted groan; the wounds sealed at once. Obsidian ribbons snapped up and forward — whiplash-true and merciless.

Akutagawa attacked immediately. No games, no trial slaps, no temper. Too focused, unnaturally calm. He slipped aside fast, but without haste, and from clean distance sent the Ability’s blades cutting toward the were-beast again.

He struck in earnest. Clean. To kill.

But the Byakko was faster.

She always had been.

Were-tiger’s body moved as if the instincts ran at the limit of the possible — uncanny grace, feral reflex, predator strength, a hot pulse of rage in the veins. He and the Beast were one thing now, one creature shouldering a single life, a single fate.

One heart between them.

Atsushi drew the claws back in the last fraction of a second. He let himself graze the pale cheek of his opponent — just enough to touch, not enough to scar that beautiful face.

And then the blonde felt his shirt turning warm and wet and sticky with his own blood, spilling from the torn throat.

For an instant the Ability's azure glow flared, reaching to knit the mortal wound — Atsushi forced it down. No trace of the Beast remained — only a man, weak, dying, no longer trying to resist.

Because this was not a fight about rivalry for him. Not about killing, or whose Ability could outstrip the other’s. Not about the strongest surviving.

— Why aren’t you fighting?! — Akutagawa barked, his low voice slicing the night like a blade. — Get up! Defend yourself!

Atsushi kept standing, his palms braced against the wall behind him. His shoulders lifted and fell in light, ragged breaths. The world tilted.

A fuller breath — impossible. Blood had already streaked the corner of his paling mouth, yet he looked at Akutagawa — not with contempt, not with hate. His gaze was unbearably gentle, even as the body locked in pain and cold.

— Because… — the blond’s voice frayed, thinned. — I can’t hurt you.

And warmer, softer:

— Because I love you, Ryū. Even now.

Akutagawa didn’t answer. He stood facing the blond, ringed by black, hissing bands. A dense red radiance wrapped him like a dark incantation. Rashomon bared its teeth, scraped with razor music, ready to bite living flesh the instant Atsushi stepped forward.

But Atsushi did not take a single step.

His body buckled — spent, defenseless. The knees went out from under the blonde; his hands slipped off the wall and crushed the dirty, frozen snow. There was wetness under his palms, but not the bright cold kind. Warm. Sticky.

The were-tiger understood, all at once, that the snow around him was no longer white.

Everything was blood.

It surged from under his skin in pulsing bursts, fell from his lips in heavy drops, soaked into the frozen ground, sketching dark, peculiar patterns.

Sounds dimmed. Drew back. The brunette’s voice, the predatory hiss of the Ability, the far city noise — each fell away. Akutagawa’s shape turned paler, more spectral. Was the snowfall veiling him, or was Atsushi already crossing into a place where no one was?

“It’s so cold.

So lonely.

So frightening.

There won’t be a miracle. No one will come. No one will save me.

Did you feel the same, Ryū?

On the ship.

When you were dying, thinking I would go on. Without you.

But the world is fair, whether you believed it or not.

See?

I’m dying now, thinking that in my place you will go on.

We’ve traded places.

Just as you always wanted…”

When the blond sagged boneless into the crimson snow, Akutagawa stood a while longer across from him. He looked — silent, intent. As if waiting for a ruse. For the were-tiger to rise, to hiss something sharp about kindness toward the world and its people, to lunge again and knock aside another Rashomon strike. To call brunette by name — desperate, tearing at the throat — in some foolish attempt to step closer, to drag Ryūnosuke back from himself.

The thick dark of a winter evening slid over the streets, blurring the lines of buildings, swallowing sound. It felt as if the world itself was holding its breath.

…

Too quiet.

Ryūnosuke took a barely visible step forward. Reflex more than will. He stopped, fingers tightening. Rashomon’s ribbons drooped, lost their edge, and hung in the wind.

He stared at what was left of his opponent — no, of Atsushi — and something inside him went breaking, slow and brutal, like ice cracking under the weight of a man who realized too late he had stepped in the wrong place.

A heavy, pressing feeling closed over mafioso. An expectancy left hanging in the air. As if he had missed something. As if something else still ought to happen.

…

Nothing.

…

…

Akutagawa breathed out, barely a sound, a pale cloud rising in the frost.

He ought to be sure. Simply go closer, bend, set his fingers to the bloodless skin. He ought to tell himself he had done it, carried the thing to its end.

Instead, he moved forward slowly, as if against his own will, and took one more step.

— Atsushi…

The name broke, became a muffled breath. Too quiet for the dead to hear. Too quiet to admit to himself that he was still waiting for an answer.

Then he blinked hard, caught his lower lip between his teeth — as if realizing what he was doing — and recoiled.

“Check his pulse, Ryūnosuke. Isn’t that what normal people do?”

He could have sworn the voice came from behind him, a shade to his right. Ryūnosuke turned almost at once, a quick, jittering snap.

No one.

But he had heard his former mentor just now — same as last night, in the office.

“What, afraid?”

This time the voice arrived from the other side. Very close, very soft. As if Dazai-san had breathed the words against the brunette’s ear, warm air skimming his skin.

“Go on. One step. Why are you frozen there like a pathetic pup?”

Akutagawa could still do it.

But if he touched the body drowning in snow — if he made sure — then it would become real. 

And he did not want it real.

His coat flared; he took the first step away. Then another. And another.

Slow at first. Then faster.

He was leaving.

No — running.

But he had won. So what was wrong, for God’s sake?

Winners don’t bolt down an alley and throw themselves against a wall, gulping air like a drowning man, unable to quiet a heart gone feral.

“How pathetic you are, Ryūnosuke.”

Mafioso’s breathing snagged. He slammed his fist into the brick.

— Shut up!

Snow crackled again beneath his shoes, thinning the blood into the white haze, leaving only dark blots in the drift. He came out onto a busier street, and the world… had not changed. Streetlamps. Voices. The warm shine of shopfronts. Someone’s laughter.

The world kept walking forward as if nothing had happened.

He caught someone looking at him — a passerby. The man studied his face for a second and then looked away.

Because it didn’t matter. No one knew there was blood on his hands. No one cared. Just as he didn’t care.

Right?

“Right…”

Akutagawa laughed. Quietly, hoarsely, ragged at the edges.

Pain clanged in his temples, his lungs, his chest.

He clutched the collar of his coat, teeth locked, unable to still the tremor.

“You can’t even look.”

— Shut up…

The whisper frayed, lost in the city’s noise.

Dazai-san had been right. As always.

Ryūnosuke really couldn’t look.

And so he simply walked.

Where — didn’t matter.

Anywhere, so long as it was away.

The brunette moved with the flow of people hurrying home. They slid past almost without seeing him, as if he were an empty space in the pavement. Someone brushed his shoulder, tossed a quick apology, and dissolved into the crowd.

Cold air burned his lungs. Far off, billboards flickered; the voices of strangers blurred into a low, warm drone; footsteps tapped wet asphalt. The city lived, moved, breathed, as before. Everything was the same.

The world had not changed. 

The world did not care that Ryūnosuke had left another dead body behind him. That the corpse of some were-beast was stiffening by degrees under a gauze of silver snow.

And yet… Surely something should have changed. Shouldn’t it? Otherwise what was any of this for — this duel, this night, all of it…?

Fear… agitation… both thinned out inside him, like ink diffusing through water. A moment ago his thoughts were jagged, torn; now everything was flattening. Easier. Quieter. The panic, too, receded. What remained was a strange, heavy stillness within.

As if he had stepped sideways out of reality. Sounds came muffled, as though through wadding. Faces blurred into passing shades. The world was here, but it no longer touched him.

Perhaps this was how it was meant to be.

He only had to walk home.

Only had to wait.

Akutagawa didn’t know how long. A few hours. A night. Longer. But sooner or later, it had to ease.

He could not be mistaken.

The apartment door yielded at once. Street-noise stayed on the far side; the hush inside received him with its usual composure. He slid off his coat, hung it on the hook, brushed a palm down the lapels damp with snow. Drops slid to the floor, leaving dark commas; he paid them no mind.

His chest was strangely quiet.

Not empty — emptiness was sharp, painful, something you could feel. Here… there was nothing.

He crossed to the bed, sat on the edge, and exhaled. Slowly, deliberately. Any moment now it would lighten. It had to. He only needed to wait a little.

How long?

He didn’t know.

Just wait.

Let go of the thoughts; don’t cling to the sensations. Everything was right. This was how it should be. It was what he wanted, what he’d walked toward. Atsushi was gone. He had gone silent, stopped coming closer, stopped crossing boundaries, stopped embracing, drinking his tea, smiling, kissing.

Therefore, relief should come.

He lowered his gaze to his hands — clean, immaculate. No trace of blood. The snow that touched his skin had washed it away on the way home, running cold water over those pale fingers. Nothing remained to remind him.

Then why was there still pressure in his chest?

No.

It will pass.

He was simply tired.

…

He only needed to wait a little longer.

…

Akutagawa leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and closed his eyes. Inhale. Exhale. Slow. Even.

Lighter.

…

Just a little more, and it would be lighter.

…

…

Just wait.

…

…

…

Just…

…

wait.

Chapter Text

Yokohama met Chūya with cold and a slate-colored sky. He couldn’t remember the airport, couldn’t remember the hours in the air. He stepped onto a plane in Paris, and now he stood here under a needling rain in a city that hadn’t changed.

Atsushi was dead.

The thought didn’t feel real. It simply was. Quiet, indisputable, braided into the ordinary: the sky is gray, the air smells of salt, and Atsushi is dead.

By day’s end the boy’s body still lay in the morgue, unclaimed, unnamed. No papers, no insurance, no family. No one to come for Nakajima Atsushi. They had entered him into the ledger with the rest — another nameless corpse on chilled steel tables.

Chūya walked inside, unaware of the sound of his own steps. Sterile quiet; the scent of iron and damp. People moved with practiced calm. For them, it was an ordinary day.

For Chūya, too.

— I’m taking him.

No one asked a question. No one asked who he was to the deceased. They only slid a stack of forms his way. Familiar boxes, numbers, stamps. He knew what to do.

His hands were still. Ink bled on the page until the words dissolved into rows of empty symbols. Chūya blinked to bring them back into focus; his head filled with silence.

Nakahara didn’t hurry to sign. He stood and let the cold stupor bite into his chest. It was only another document. Another formality. Cooper-haired mafioso had signed this kind of paper dozens of times, claiming his Mafia boys from the cold.

But this wasn’t one of his men. Not someone who knew the bargain — money, power, prestige.

This was a child.

A poor, naïve child who should never have ended up here.

The man sat in the waiting room and filled the forms, now and then sipping at a coffee gone lukewarm. Bitter, tasteless. He drank without tasting. The pen moved evenly across the page. Boxes, signatures, dates. Another line. Another date.

When the door creaked, he didn’t flinch. He paused for a heartbeat and kept writing.

Dazai sat across from him. Too quiet. Too calm.

Chūya didn’t look up.

But Dazai looked. Long, carefully — as if he were reading something in the way those fingers locked, in the stubborn set of the mouth, in the measured motions.

— Would you mind if I help with the paperwork?

Chūya glanced at him. A spark of anger flared in the blue — small, powerless, like an ember in cold ash. It went out at once. He lowered his gaze and tightened his hold on the pen.

— Put it all under my name. You remember the banking details.

— The Director asked me to convey—

— No.

A crack of noise.

Chūya shot to his feet and slammed his palm on the desk. The empty cup slid off the edge and broke with a dull clatter.

— No! Shut the hell up! — Man’s voice frayed, rasping. — I don’t give a damn about your Director, your Agency, your goddamn staged concern! I don’t need help! I’m not handing this over to any of  you!

Dazai didn’t startle. He didn’t look away. He only breathed out softly, as if he had expected the flame.

— Chūya.

Neutral. Too even, too calm.

— Go to hell, — Chūya said, spent.

He was breathing hard. Blood hammered in his temples; a blunt pain cinched his chest. He looked at Dazai and didn’t see him.

Only the empty room.

Only the forms he had filled a hundred times.

Only the place across from him where Atsushi should have been sitting.

Nakahara wiped his face with his palm, but the skin stayed wet. His fingers trembled; his heart ran too fast. He clenched his teeth and shoved the feeling back — into the black, bottomless pit inside where it belonged.

— Just… just fill these, — his voice broke and sank to a hoarse whisper. — I’ll call when I settle on a church. He was Catholic, wasn’t he?

— Yes, — Dazai said, brief as a nod.

He drew the papers closer and squared the stack. The motions were practiced, even. As if this wasn’t his first time either.

Chūya stared at the lines, but the words smudged. The ink quivered as if the paper had flooded. He blinked once, twice, gripped the pen, and kept writing.

Silence gathered. Heavy, viscous, as if the air had gone thick and stalled in their lungs.

— Want more coffee?

Dazai’s voice cut the quiet, unexpectedly gentle.

Chūya twitched, barely. He lifted his head, met that gaze — intent, too dark.

— Yes, — he answered softly.

He was the first to look away.

The night promised to be long.

***

Akutagawa stopped at the church steps.

He stood there, feeling something cinch tight inside him, a sheet of ice rising to his throat.

He hadn’t meant to go in. The heavy oak doors were veined with cracked varnish. Closed, and yet he knew what waited beyond them.

A coffin. Strangers come to say goodbye. The kind of hush where every word sounds like a ghost.

He wasn’t here for that.

He would not cross the threshold.

Dazai noticed brunette first. He was standing beside Chūya, saying something, but the words dissolved in the surf of blood in Akutagawa’s ears. Chūya didn’t answer. He was motionless as marble. The pallor sharpened the bruised hollows under his eyes; his gaze had been burned clean to emptiness.

When Akutagawa drew nearer, Chūya looked up.

It wasn’t merely a look.

The contempt struck him like a lash, pinned him to the paving.

Not rage. Not hatred. A cold, perfected scorn — as if Akutagawa were something foul in slow decay, the sort of thing you push away without touching. As if his being here were an insult.

Chūya clenched his jaw. His fingers twitched into fists, but he said nothing. He simply turned his head.

— We’ll talk later, — he said to Dazai. His voice was dry, as if burnt from within. And he left, quick and cutting.

Akutagawa stayed where he was. Still as stone, with a shrill, ringing emptiness inside.

— I surpassed him, Dazai-san.

Dazai said nothing.

— He was weak. Useless. You have to admit I’m better, — Akutagawa pressed on.

Dazai still didn’t look at the young man. Hazel eyes followed the direction Chūya had gone. A long, motionless silence stretched between them like a black gulf.

— Better? By what measure? — Dazai spoke at last. His voice was flat and colorless, as washed-out as the Yokohama sky.

Akutagawa blinked. Something in him shifted — slight, almost imperceptible.

— Because I’m stronger, — he barked, hard and sharp, as if a crack of sound could force Dazai to see him. — We fought. He’s gone. And I — I won.

Dazai turned his head at last. Slowly, as if each degree cost effort.

— I don’t see a victory here, — he said, the voice low and dull, as though traveling up through water. — You lost. You lost to the monster inside you.

He looked straight into Akutagawa’s eyes.

No scorn. No anger. No hope. Only emptiness — bottomless, pulling.

— As of this moment, you’re dead to me. The same as Atsushi.

Everything in Akutagawa convulsed. Something inside parted — not with a snap, but with a slow, rotten tear. Sound vanished for an instant. The world narrowed, dimmed. Only those words remained.

— You… — his mouth had gone dry. The word came out split and brittle. He swallowed, hard. — You’re lying.

Dazai said nothing. He only looked at him — still, unblinking, dead.

Something dark and viscous rose in Akutagawa’s chest. It burned like poison, like a fear hidden too long. Like hatred turned inward.

— You’re lying! — the shout cracked the air like a whip. Loud, raw, until the throat hurt. — You’re lying!

Dazai didn’t even flinch.

Only the wind moved, riffling dry leaves at their feet.

The elder man shook his head — slowly, almost lazily, a soft refusal.

— You’re exactly the same, Akutagawa-kun, — the voice was light, almost amused, like a breeze before a storm. But there wasn’t a trace of warmth in it. None of that languid mockery he used to hide his real face. — Broken. Useless. Pathetic. Dense as a brick and stubborn past any use, as if that ever changes a thing.

Osamu didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t meet the gaze. He simply turned — neat, offensively easy — and took a step after Chūya. As if the conversation were over. As if Akutagawa were no one at all.

— And you’re still a liar! — the reply tore free, hoarse with exposed rage. — You promised you’d give me a reason to live if I followed you into the Mafia! And then you just vanished! — he was almost gasping. — As if your word meant nothing!

Dazai stopped. His back remained straight, hands in his pockets, but something in the line of him changed. For a second. For two heartbeats.

Then he turned, slow. There was no indifference in his eyes now, no void. Only irritation. Cold. Cutting.

— I kept my promise, — he said quietly. Dully. As if swallowing the words with the hurt. — You know that. Don’t you?

Akutagawa froze. He didn’t know how to breathe. How to meet that gaze. His shoulders shook with anger, but inside everything was already going to pieces.

— I promised you’d have what you wanted once you were ready, — Dazai went on, level as ever, as if they were discussing some old contract. — Judging by the nonsense you’re doing… you won’t be ready. Ever.

He fell silent, exhaled — as if the line had cost him all his strength. For an instant something like weariness flickered in his eyes — a deep, viscous kind that grows only in those who have hoped too long.

— And there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m sorry.

“Sorry.”

The word dropped into the space between them like a muffled shot. Not loud. But the kind that kills.

Akutagawa went still. The world dimmed, blurred under the roar in his ears. He couldn’t at once understand why that simple word stabbed so deeply. Why it lodged in his throat and would not let him breathe.

Dazai-san… apologized?

Was this a dream? A vision? Or had things truly come so far that even he — the man Akutagawa had thought unshakable — was giving up?

But Dazai didn’t vanish, didn’t turn away. He stood across from him and looked. And in that look there was no sneer. No irritation. No hope. Only bottomless, dead quiet. A vacancy with no room left for Akutagawa.

As if he were… truly dead.

“No.”

Something inside began to thrash, to hammer, like a wounded animal. Panic, breaking free.

“No…”

He could not let this be true.

“NO.”

If Dazai-san had lowered his hands — if he no longer saw meaning in the brunette, if Dazai-san was discarding him like a broken tool — then what was the point of living at all?

Why exist, if the one he lived for now looked at him as though he’d never been?

“Don’t you understand? — a voice flared in his head. — How can a man bear this life unless someone tells him it’s all right, that it is enough — simply to live?”

Those words. A voice too bright, too alive — and therefore unbearable. It flared in memory like the glare before a collapse and lodged in his chest, as if another’s heart had started beating inside him.

If someone would tell him they accept him as he is.

If he did not have to thrash forever, like a penned beast, trying to turn a worthless existence into a life.

He did not want to remember. And yet he remembered this, always — in moments when all else fell away. When the ground opened and reason shook, with nothing to hold. Those words had saved him. Had made him stand up, again and again.

Even now, when the one who spoke them had gone silent forever.

Not now.

Not later.

Never again.

Akutagawa clenched his teeth and snapped his gaze aside, as if he could shake the words off, scrape them clean, erase them.

— Tsk, — the sound tore from his carved mouth. Mafioso lifted his head; his voice rang out hard and steady, honed to a poisoned edge. — I’ll make you acknowledge me, Dazai-san. If not now, then later.

Dazai exhaled. Tired. Slow. As if he were looking at something long since, hopelessly broken.

— What stands behind the acknowledgment of a human life, Akutagawa-kun?

The words fell between them — flat, almost indifferent.

Akutagawa kept silent. He didn’t understand the question. Didn’t understand what was being asked of him.

He knew how to survive. How to kill. How to display strength. But he did not know what lay behind that acknowledgment, and so he could not answer.

Silence stretched out, stale and airless, like the catacombs. Then everything went very, very quiet.

— All right, — Dazai said softly, giving the faintest nod. — Too abstract for you. Let’s try it another way.

The man stepped closer, and his voice turned gentle — almost tender — the way a doctor speaks while naming a fatal diagnosis:

— Who stands behind the acknowledgment of a human life, Akutagawa-kun? Who tells you that you have worth?

It slid under the skin like a thin blade.

“Who?..”

Akutagawa didn’t know. The question grazed something hidden too deep, too fragile.

— …You do, Dazai-san, — the answer came dull, unsure, almost a question. Even the sound of it — so simple, so sincere — felt unbearably shameful.

Dazai gave a short, air-light laugh — soundless almost — but there was something fractured in it, as if he were laughing not at Akutagawa but through him, toward the void.

— Who tells a person they can bear this life? That it is worth anything at all?

Another cut. Deeper.

Akutagawa tensed; his shoulders jerked. He didn’t understand. Or refused to. Or was afraid.

— I… — his voice faltered, like someone losing his balance. He swallowed, fists closing as if grasping a last handhold. — I don’t—

“—that it’s all right, that it’s normal — just to live?”

A foreign echo speared him from within.

Atsushi’s words.

Words he hated. Words he remembered.

Words he couldn’t scrape off.

— Someone… else… says it? — it broke out of him on its own.

He wasn’t sure. Didn’t know if it was right. But he said it. Because inside, everything but these words had gone too quiet.

Dazai looked at him and, with deliberate laziness, clapped his hands. Then sighed, worn to the thread.

— Bravo, Akutagawa-kun.

There was no admiration in his tone. No approval.

— Since you finally understand that, turn to the person in your life who does that. Because I wasn’t that person, and I won’t be.

Something cold cinched tight around Akutagawa’s chest.

— The words you want to hear belong to someone else in my life. I won’t say them to you sincerely. Never. Not with you. Not with someone like you.

Not with someone like you.

The phrase went in like needles. Under the ribs. Into the heart.

— Then with what kind of someone?! — it ripped out of brunette.

He came apart at once — no thought, no feeling — drowned in a surge of fury, scalding and raw with pain, humiliation, and desperate spite.

— With someone like Atsushi?!

He broke off.

His fingers twitched; his lips hung parted for a beat, as if his breath had snagged in his throat.

“Why… that name?”

Why did it surface first, instinctive as an exhale?

Dazai watched him for a long time. Too long — long enough for the silence to mean more than mere fatigue. There was no judgment in his look, only inevitability — as if he already knew how this would end. 

As if he’d known from the start.

— With someone who makes you feel, — Osamu said at last. His voice was even, quiet, almost detached, like a thought he’d rehearsed a hundred times before allowing it into air.

— With someone to whom you want to say those words for real. Without falseness. As much as you long to hear them back.

Dazai tilted his head slightly — not in mockery, not in reproach — simply as one sets the final piece upon the board.

— You understand. You knew the reason yourself… don’t you?

Akutagawa didn’t. Didn’t want to. But something shifted inside — thin and vile, the way a shard moves in a wound.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

His chest tightened — like the breath before a scream, like the instant just before something in you snaps.

He turned sharply and walked away. Not from pain, but from a thick, dragging terror. Because the truth was already near. Already almost shouted. Already once torn from his lips.

A name. A shadow. A dead man.

The one who looked at him differently. The one who acted differently. The one who showed him that perhaps living was not so terrifying.

The emptiness inside answered with echo. And with every step, it seemed to draw closer.

***

Cold came first.

Not frost — something sodden, muffled, raw. It wrapped the skin, slipped beneath the clothes, as if it meant to clutch the body itself, the marrow. Atsushi jerked, dragged air into his lungs — then coughed. Rot and damp. Rusted iron. Nearby, a sheet of water lay dark and stagnant. 

A pool?

Were-tiger didn’t understand at once where he was. The body wouldn’t answer. Breath, movement, even his own hands felt foreign against the wet, icy floor. His fingers trembled like a sick man’s. Every motion rang through the bones with ache — as if he’d lain there for an age.

He tried to rise. Stopped — iron sang, panic clicked into place. Shackles bit at his wrists. Chains yanked tight and painful, as if to say: you’re not going anywhere. Not now.

…Again.

A slash of memory cut across his sight — cellar; stone; the drip of water; hunger; fear; alone; hate.

Atsushi squeezed his eyes shut. Exhaled, short and hard, as if he could push the vision out with breath. It didn’t go. But something else rose with it — hotter, more alive. Not fear.

Anger.

Claws — animal, bright — tore the air. Metal screamed and parted like rotten flesh. Chains hit the floor with a dead, hollow clatter. He didn’t stop — one stroke sheared the lock. The door groaned and gave.

He stepped out, bare feet on a floor cold enough to bite. The air was heavy, viscous, like a bog. It dragged at the lungs as if the world itself resisted each breath. The damp wasn’t only in the air — the walls seemed steeped in it to their foundations, centuries of neglect exhaling back at him. Everything around him breathed oblivion.

A wan light labored through the dark, lifting only silhouettes — blurred, estranged. Soft shadows wavered, marrying the slick stains on the walls. At his side lay a pool, almost at his hip. The sort that reflected nothing. Oil-black water, opaque and trembling. Its surface shivered now and then, a slow, sticky lap.

Atsushi went still.

The lap was too even. Too… alive. An unnatural regularity; a breathing. Someone else’s breath, from below. He saw nothing under that skin of water — and that was the worst of it.

Silence broke — not by sound, but by premonition.

His hands were still shaking from effort, from fear, from cold. Even when he cut his bonds, the claws hadn’t come from fury but from panic. He was afraid. Truly. Afraid of the dark, of the solitude, of the water staring up at him, unblinking. Afraid this was not a place but a gaze.

“You’re only frightened,” — he tried to tell himself. 

The thought rang dull, lifeless. Still, he didn’t look away. He couldn’t.

Perhaps it was irrational. Perhaps it was only water.

But that lap… it sounded like a wave breaking on a pier. That pier where he once sat, staring so long into the deep it seemed the water would claim him. Where memories reached from inside like hands. Where he was alone.

As he was now.

Alone. Again. In the dark. In a place he didn’t know. No footfall, no human breath. Only that slow, viscous murmuring at his feet.

“Kidnapped?”

The word flared through him and left a raw hollow behind.

“How did I come here?”

It had to be a mission. The Agency? A joint op with the Mafia?… He couldn’t call it up. Couldn’t even swear what the last morning had been. The last voice. The last look.

The gap in memory was too dense. Too sealed.

The boy stood, listening to the water. The quieter the world became, the louder it lapped.

It was cold.

Not January’s bite on skin — another cold, the kind that frosts from within, sheathes the bones, fills the lungs. He felt not blood but silence moving in his veins. And the longer he lay in it, the more he dissolved.

Cold.

So cold — colder than ever. As if the blood no longer existed in his body. No longer warmed what strength he had left.

Blood…?

Nausea rose. The kind that turns you inside out on your own entrails.

He remembered.

Wet, unnaturally sticky snow beneath his numbed fingers. Beneath his knees, his palms, before his eyes — everything flooded in red.

As if all that made him living had already leaked away. Only a shell remained, heavier each second under clinging, frozen snow. It was strange — no pain. Pain had fallen behind somewhere, crumbling with something he hadn’t managed to hold. He blinked and the world shuddered, blushed. Murky blood soaked the ground, spread under him, threaded between his fingers.

He hadn’t understood at once that he was dying.

When he did — he wasn’t surprised.

It had to be so. Everything had been moving toward it. Everything in him had long been coming to an end.

Someone stood nearby.

The boy lifted his gaze. Slow, with effort, as if his neck were weighted by the feeling that drags at you when you sense the end. 

A figure. 

Familiar. 

Someone he knew better than he wished.

Akutagawa Ryūnosuke.

The brunette didn’t move. Only watched. In that look there was no anger, not even regret. Only emptiness. Set. Impenetrable. Atsushi couldn’t see his face, yet he knew — there was silence. And in that silence everything was said.

Atsushi said something to his killer. He thinks so. The last thing he managed to breathe through blood. Some piece of himself of which nothing remained. A request? A question? Perhaps only a name.

Akutagawa said nothing back.

Not a word.

He only stood — until Atsushi’s breath thinned to a thread, until his eyes began to close. Until the world held itself still.

And then—

A step.

Another.

Akutagawa turned. Calmly. Coldly. As if there was nothing left in him that might require stopping. 

Mafioso didn’t look back. Didn’t come near. Didn’t say forgive me.

He simply left.

He left no sound, no outline, no shadow. Only silence. A pressure like water when you’ve gone too deep and no longer know whether you’re rising or drowning for good.

Atsushi lay there a long while without moving. The snow drank his blood, took on ugly red marbling, heavy and sour. Cold bored deeper, burned the skin, found the bone. His fingers stiffened; his sense of his own body blurred, smudged, went foreign.

Then cold turned to heat. At first a faint ember. Then a pulse, scalding, driving into the brain of him.

Pain became unbearable.

He wanted to scream. To strip the skin from his fingers, tear it from arms, face, chest. To wrench out the fire, tear out this unendurable torture.

But there was no strength for anything. He felt the fire eating him from within, felt something splinter, crumble, burn to ash. And then—

Everything went out.

…

Atsushi dropped his gaze to his hands.

And the world tilted.

Fingers — black. Not with grime, not with soot. Black to a deathly dullness, as if no heat, no life, no him remained inside them.

He inhaled too sharply. Air snapped in his chest and stuck there — cold, caustic, like breathing ice. The ringing in his ears swelled, as if everything within him was shouting: no, not this, it can’t be.

What was wrong with him?

Why?

The boy didn’t know. He didn’t understand. He only recoiled, shuddered, pushed himself upright, scraping the wall for purchase. The corridor smeared, the stone pressed in. Still he stumbled forward — tripping, almost feeling his way — to the pool. The water looked oily, viscous, like crude.

He wasn’t thinking. He couldn’t.

His knees struck stone with a dull knock. His fingers pressed to the freezing plane. Were-tiger began to rub, to scrub, to scour this nightmare away — as if it were dirt, another’s skin, a dream you wake by washing.

“Come off. Go away. Give me back my hands.”

The blackness did not leave.

He scrubbed harder. To pain. To numbness. Until the skin on his palms scarcely registered touch — yet the color remained. It was still there.

And the fingers were rigid. Frost-bitten. He could feel the water’s cold — but not himself. Not the weight of his body, the usual answering thrum, the life beneath the skin.

The boy stared at his own hands as if they belonged to someone else. They no longer looked like his. They were foreign hands. Dead, foreign hands jutting from his sleeves.

For the first time since waking, he understood — something was truly, profoundly wrong.

Air vanished. His ribcage cinched tight, as if palms had locked around it. He tried to breathe deeper—his body would not obey. His knees folded and he struck the stone.

He couldn’t even sit.

Breath went ragged, quick, frightened. One thought spun and spun, draining him as it went: what is happening?

“I died… I was supposed to die.”

He remembered — scarlet snow, trembling fingers, the bleaching cold, the sight dimming out. He remembered blood leaving the body, breath slowing. He remembered the end coming — quiet, painless, almost gentle. That was how it was meant to be.

And yet he was here. In this dark, this damp, with fingers as if charred from the inside. In a body that held nothing but fear. In a place whose very walls seemed steeped in rot. Where the air refused to be breathed, and every inhalation tore panic loose.

What was this?

Hell? His private hell — stretched thin, sticky as a dream you cannot wake from? Had he never climbed free? Was he still there?

The body would not answer him. He slid down the wall, thudded shoulder-first to the stone, curled almost small — pitiful, a wounded animal pressed to earth.

“Who dragged me here? Could it be… Akutagawa?”

No. No. He remembered that too clearly. The black-haired mafioso left. He watched — and left. No word. No touch. No farewell. He simply turned and walked away, as if nothing they’d been could weigh anything anymore.

Why would he… come back?

Back then, under that gray sky with the world going quiet, Atsushi believed it was the end.

Now  —he didn’t know what this was. Or whether it would end at all.

A sound.

Barely there, a shiver in the air.

Were-tiger’s ears pricked. The tail went taut; the fur rose. Through the viscous quiet came a creak — soft, as if a door were opening somewhere far down a corridor. The echo rolled low along the stone. Then — footfalls.

Unhurried. Measured. Coming closer.

Atsushi flinched. His heart tore loose.

He couldn’t see the figure — the light wavered in the passage and soon thinned to nothing — but it didn’t matter. He knew. Whoever brought him here. Whoever shackled him. Whoever locked him away alone.

The body answered first. Instinct before thought.

Run.

Silver-haired boy ducked, tucked his head, pinned his ears. Claws slid free, tendons braced. He kicked off, sprang upward, caught the cold, wet stone. It skidded under his pads, damp plaster broke in his grip — still he held on. He pressed himself into the corner beneath the ceiling, his whole body trembling.

His heart hammered in his ears. Breathing hurt. The fur of his tail stood bristled; the ears thrummed with strain.

Footsteps came closer. Stopped. A door sighed. Someone entered.

Below — a shadow. A shape. The briefest shift.

No time to wait. Atsushi pushed off — dropped. The fall died under a soft animal pad. He bolted.

Run.

Before it’s too late.

Again.

He flew, barely kissing the floor with his paws — forward, forward, to where the dark was fractionally thinner. His ears caught every filament of sound, swiveling at the faintest rasp; his pulse beat in his temples.

He had no idea where. Only this: not there. Anywhere but back.

Walls streaked past too fast — wet, flaking, like the gullet of a beast. Everything stank of rot. Of fear. Of — them.

He cut a corner — and froze, sharp enough to bite his pads. A door loomed. Big, rust-scarred, with a heavy lock. But open. Slightly open.

He slowed his breath. Crept. Stretched his neck. Beyond — the stairs up. Narrow. Steep. Mildewed steps climbing toward a light that was dim, but alive.

He stepped.

Then again.

The staircase met him hard — his legs shook from strain, from fear, from the certainty that there could be another trap, more chain, more dark.

But as long as he moved — he lived.

He made it out.

The wooden door at the top wasn’t latched. He shoved it — light hit him like a blade, burning out whatever the dark had left behind. He spilled outside, almost fell — and for a long time could not stand.

The world met him with silence. A waste lot. Broken concrete. Sparse, harsh shrubs worrying in the wind. Far off — a sloping rise; beyond it, streets, distant lamps. Yokohama. Asleep like a dead animal, its mouth of streetlights half-open.

Were-tiger went still.

Cold touched the back of his neck, slid under his collar. It was quiet. Unnaturally. The air felt foreign, as if it did not belong to him — and he did not belong to it.

He took a step. Then another. A pebble skittered underfoot, ticked away. Somewhere a dog barked.

The city wasn’t asleep. Yokohama kept on living. As if nothing had changed. As if he had not died. As if nothing had happened at all.

His fingers shook. He clenched them, fighting not to look down. Fighting to breathe. It didn’t work.

The body was here. The rest…

He died back then. In January. 

That was all. 

The end.

And now… what is this now? He didn’t know. The not-knowing made him want to scream.

He stood on the lip of it — felt neither life, nor self, nor the wish to step forward. Night moved around him. Atsushi simply stood. In the hollow.

Silent.

Alive. 

And no one’s.

Chapter Text

The manor door slammed so hard a chandelier shivered somewhere in the depths of the manore.

Chūya didn’t turn at the executioner’s sour bark behind him. The Port Mafia’s hangman could stew on his own. Let Wilhelm be displeased; Chūya had his own reason to be in a foul mood — one stubborn, headlong, goddamn reason.

Night met Nakahara with a muffled wind, wet cold, a low sky pressing down. The air was charged — as if the city itself knew someone was meant to die tonight.

Which only made mafioso angrier.

The head of the Executive Division stood at the top step, a lighter bitten into his palm until the nails hurt, staring out at a city sliding into dark.

He hated being made to run the streets. Hated it more when the runner was someone who was supposed to sit still.

Chūya drew hard on a strong cigarette — sharp enough to scrape his chest raw. In, out.

Everything grated. It wasn’t as if this was his first hunt. Far from it. Runaways were an old craft. He’d driven them like animals, smoked them from their holes, dragged them back to their cages — to Mori, to Wilhelm — and once upon a time with Dazai, back when life still pretended to be predictable. 

Before, the two of Soukoku always managed to do it together. Now Chūya does it on his own.

Runaways rarely sprint into nowhere. They go to where the world feels least hostile. A pocket of safety. A place to wait the storm out. Or — at the very least — a place to die like a human being.

Home? Already checked. Empty. So he’s not that foolish.

Contacts? Please. Laughable. That brat had none.

Chūya breathed smoke, eyes half-closed. The bitter, familiar taste of tobacco on his lips helped gather his thoughts together.

Sometimes the fastest way to find a man is to think like him. Strip the personal. Imagine you’re not an executioner, not a boss, not a partner — just a fugitive.

Frightened. Shocked. Alone. Running on fumes.

Nakahara flicked the lighter again and swore under his breath.

A few places fit. Quiet. Deserted. Where no one would interfere — with hiding, or with dying.

— The pier.

The man was almost certain. And if he was right, then all that was left was to carry the damned thing through to the end.

Chūya pulled out his phone and fired off a string of pins to his men.

“Check these spots. Anyone hanging around — bring them to my office. No noise.”

He didn’t want a ripple. Not tonight. But delay would cost too much. He had no intention of conceding ground — not to police, not to rivals, not to some other arm of the Mafia hungry to poach what belongs to Nakahara. If anyone found that fool first, the whole chase would be for nothing.

The phone vanished back into his pocket.

Chūya cut down from the high street and slipped into a familiar alley.

He walked fast. Angry. Irritated. As if every step reminded him he could have ended this an hour ago — if the party in question hadn’t bolted like always, forcing Chūya to slash one location after another, a rigged game with stakes far too high.

The pier met him with the rasp of water and a hush. Wet, briny air slid under his coat and bit.

At this hour on Port Mafia ground there should be only our people — or vermin reaching for what isn’t theirs, and sensibly fed to the harbor for it. But tonight there was someone else.

Someone who shouldn’t be here. Not like this.

At the very end of the concrete, where the water’s breath braided with the breathing of the city and yellow lamps shivered in the bay’s reflection, a figure stood. Pale. Light. Unreal. As if sketched in air. As if a blink would erase him.

“Found you.”

Chūya didn’t go straight in. He stopped beneath the concrete span, watching, letting time thin. As if he wanted to be sure. As if he half-hoped to be wrong.

The figure did not vanish. Did not flicker. Did not turn.

Mafioso drew night in through his teeth — salt and someone else’s fatigue — and let himself not start by shouting. Hands in pockets. A deliberately unhurried step.

As if Nakahara hadn’t come for the were-tiger at all. As if he were merely passing by.

Chūya went down to the water.

The lamps cast long, broken shadows over the slab, and each step thudded somewhere inside his chest. He stopped beside the boy. Not too close — close enough to be heard.

— Not afraid? — he asked, low, eyes on the dark. The voice was flat, a touch rough. — Standing here like this. Five minutes from our office.

— Afraid, — came the answer. Quiet, almost a breath. — But… this is where I used to talk with you. Where I kept coming while I was alive.

He didn’t ask how Chūya appeared out of nowhere. Didn’t ask how he knew to look here and not in the wet earth where, by the look of things, young detective ought to be.

— Nothing seems to change here, — the blond murmured, almost a whisper. — No matter how often I come back… I end up thinking the same thing.

Chūya let the air out slowly — too slowly. As if he had to push it free to keep from breaking.

He remembered this place. How close everything came to falling apart, even when it seemed it already had. Back then he’d still hoped — stubborn, stupid — that he could hold the line. That as long as Atsushi’s voice was on the other end, as long as they spoke, met, traded the weight of feeling, there was still a chance for both of them to claw back from the pit those selfish bastards had thrown them into.

And then he heard him. Akutagawa. A voice like ground glass sliced into their call after a few failed grabs for attention. The were-tiger’s startled breath, the splash. And then nothing. No voice, no air. No Atsushi — not yet dead, but already beginning to thin away.

— Atsushi, — Chūya called, quiet on purpose, smoothing the edge of his voice.

— Yes, Chūya-san?..

Soft. Unarmed. Not the way someone should sound after being killed and left to dogs, rats, and crows.

Chūya looked away.

He couldn’t look at the boy. Not now. Or he’d spit it right in his face: “You’re thinking about him again, aren’t you? Here, of all places?

How many times, for fuck’s sake?

You came here to remember the moment that hysterical bastard tore your phone away so you’d finally speak to him and not to me?”

He was angry — the kind of anger that belongs to those who’ve survived death, solitude, and helplessness and now stand exactly where everything went wrong.

But not now.

Too much pain has already been spent. He can’t add more.

Not yet.

The were-tiger turned his head — a gentle look, too understanding for the living. As if he hadn’t clawed his way back from the dead at all, but had merely wandered down to the pier between evenings, and tomorrow they’d walk to the office together, two blocks from here, like always.

“Next time the bridge? Or the lake? Our spot. With me.”

Chūya felt his mouth tremble and bit the lower lip until metal bloomed on his tongue.

“No. Not now. Too soon.”

— Let’s go home, kiddo, — he said, rough. He could hear the fatigue in it himself, refusing to sit right with that thin attempt at authority.

By habit he held out a coat — dense, feather-light — and a hat.

— Cover your face. No point parading around like this. If they recognize you, there’ll be questions. Not just for you.

Atsushi nodded. He wrapped himself in someone else’s clothes and felt no warmth. He truly didn’t want to be looked at. Not like this. Not now.