Archive of Our Own

Most days, Atsushi is indifferent to water. Despite living in a port city and not hesitating to leap headfirst into the river when he saw Dazai drowning—a decision he is on the whole grateful for but that he regrets from time to time—water doesn’t really appeal to him. It’s nice to look at. It’s nice to take a bath in.

But when it rains…

Rain reminds Atsushi of things he doesn’t want to remember. A dark office illuminated by a flash of lightning. Long shadows. The orphanage director hunched over, sleeping on the desk, his hand still on a glass. A smell—he still isn’t sure what it was. It doesn’t smell like rain. It’s strong. It makes him dizzy. He goes back to bed before he gives the director another reason to punish him. He makes it back even though he’s afraid of the dark, buries himself in his blankets, and cries himself back to sleep.

That memory isn’t displaced by the crowd of umbrellas he’s nestled among as he walks through Chinatown, but he does think of the last time he was here. His “date” with Kyouka seems so long ago, farther back than that oddly potent memory of seeking out comfort where he already knew there was none.

A steady drizzle falls overhead. He glances up at the clouds through the clear plastic umbrella he picked up at a hundred-yen store. He isn’t really going anywhere. He was out for a walk, it started raining, he retreated into Daiso… life can’t stop every time it rains, after all.

Atsushi passes store fronts peppered with customers. The smell of meat buns is enticing, but on days like this, it has to be chazuke. He knows a place or two nearby. He’s not hungry, but he needs something warm to distract him from all the cold thoughts in his head. Worse still, he feels so unmotivated to walk there.

He’s about to give in and just go when his skin prickles like someone is trying to dismember him with a look. He stops for a moment, letting the full-body shudder rush through him. When he recovers, he peers both ways through the crowd. One side of the street is a steady current of people. The other is in a similar state, except there’s one lone stationery figure, a hostage to the rain caught without an umbrella.

Akutagawa. The name shoots through him, and closer traumas flood his mind. Mostly being impaled or ripped apart by Rashomon and trying to think through the agony. But it’s already getting easier. It has to as part of the Armed Detective Agency. Beneath that, there’s something akin to satisfaction from shattering Akutagawa’s ability and throwing him into the sea with a punch. It’s not the violence that satisfies Atsushi. He fights because he has to. It’s the fact that, in spite of everything, he somehow bested someone raised to beat people like him. He survived. And if that’s not a victory, Atsushi is certain he’ll never know what makes one.

At first, he thinks Akutagawa hasn’t seen him, that it was just the beast inside him taking notice of the possible danger, stretching and flexing its claws, then curling back up to sleep until Atsushi calls on that power again. Unfortunately, as he looks, he realizes Akutagawa’s silver eyes are piercing right through him. He swallows and starts to twist his head in the direction he was just walking but stops when he remembers one of the many reasons he regrets saving Dazai.

One day shortly after Atsushi’s first confrontation with Akutagawa, Dazai remarks, “You should do something nice for him.”

It’s so startling, Atsushi whips around and half shouts, “Why on earth would I do that? And why would you suggest it? We’re enemies.”

Dazai hums and stretches his arms over his head. “No particular reason, I guess.”

But there’s something in Dazai’s tone… in retrospect, Atsushi isn’t sure whether it’s an ulterior motive, a trace of slyness, or some old regret he’s carrying around from his Port Mafia days. Whatever it is, it never has sat right with Atsushi. He briefly recalls those words after punching Akutagawa straight into the ocean. Now that Dazai’s suggestion is back again, he’s still not sure how seriously to take it. It’s Dazai, after all. But now, as Atsushi studies Akutagawa hiding under the awning of a souvenir shop, he feels… he’s not sure what it is, but it’s akin to what he felt on rainy nights at the orphanage. While the Armed Detective Agency has given him plenty of the kindness, he’s vaguely aware that right now, he’s probably not the one who needs it most.

Atsushi notices the umbrella rack Akutagawa is standing next to. It’s not empty. Strange that he doesn’t just steal one, that someone in the Port Mafia would do anything honorable. He tries to puzzle through it, but as a bike races by and nearly clips the underside of his own umbrella, he realizes he’s been staring at Akutagawa for far too long. He glances away, tries to decide whether he should keep walking. He knows he isn’t going to, so he steps under the awning. Akutagawa recedes and keeps glaring from his periphery as Atsushi folds his umbrella and drops it into the umbrella stand. He rises, maintaining steady eye contact in case the mafioso chooses violence. Oddly, Akutagawa doesn’t.

“Take it.”

Akutagawa arches one of his thin brows.

“I’m not coming back for it,” he announces, as if that explains what he’s doing, then steps back into the crowd and picks up his pace. There’s a Lawson a few streets away. If he goes quick enough, he won’t be too uncomfortably damp—

“Jinko.”

Atsushi bristles. Something in the way Akutagawa says it is…pitiable. Like he’s never found the kindness he’s looking for, either. Atsushi hates the nickname, but he turns around anyway and finds Akutagawa opening the umbrella he’s just deposited.

“How far away is… wherever you’re going?”

Atsushi tips his head.

“The rain’s going to get worse. There’s a bad storm coming.”

“What are you even—”

“I don’t want to be in debt to someone from the Agency,” Akutagawa continues, stepping out from under the awning. “And since we seem to be going in opposite directions, there’s no time for me to take you wherever and get back to my place.”

“I’ll just buy another—”

A gust of wind cuts Atsushi off. It’s cold and cutting, a warning of the coming squall.

The rain stops falling on him, and he realizes Akutagawa is sharing the space under the umbrella with him. “My place is seven minutes walking. Five walking fast,” he continues. “You can wait it out there.”

Atsushi is pretty sure his jaw hits the pavement. Akutagawa’s place. Where he lives. He tries to stammer an objection, but neither his mouth nor mind succeed.

“Come on,” Akutagawa says, and starts walking without even waiting for Atsushi to answer. The desire to stay dry prompts him to move. They’re walking in tandem under an umbrella. Atsushi can hear the slight difference in the rhythm of their steps. “What’s the hold up?” Akutagawa growls. “Do you want to wind up looking like a drowned weretiger?”

“Nothing! Nothing! It’s—” Atsushi catches the dark-haired man staring at him, realizes how loud he’s being, and clears his throat. “This isn’t some kind of trap, is it?”

“Why would it be a trap?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe something to do with you being in the Port Mafia?”

Akutagawa lets out a huff. For a moment, he’s smiling. Atsushi realizes it’s a laugh. Suddenly, his face feels hot. He folds his arms, partly out of ire, but also because his left arm is exposed to the rain and he’s tired of it getting damp.

“Am I the only one who remembers how, not long ago, you were trying to kidnap me?”

“What do I care about rudeness? I’m in the Port Mafia, after all.”

If a voice could convey an eye roll, Akutagawa’s definitely would. They stop at a crosswalk, wait for the light to change, and cross once it does. There’s an apartment building a little farther down that side of the street. Atsushi guesses that’s where they’re heading. As much as he wants to focus on mentally tracing his route from that building back to his own apartment to form a viable escape route, he finds himself far more interested in responding. Rubbing his head, Atsushi murmurs, “This coming from the one who wouldn’t steal an umbrella.”

“Doing that would mean transferring my own predicament to someone who probably doesn’t deserve it.”

Atsushi has no clue not sure how to read Akutagawa’s response, whether it’s genuine or filled with some hidden motive. The wind picks up again, and Akutagawa pivots so fast, Atsushi almost forgets to follow him. He stumbles under a covered hallway out of the rain and watches Akutagawa shake some of the water out of the umbrella. “There’s an elevator. Unless you’d prefer to take the stairs.”

“Of… course not.” Atsushi straightens. He’s starting to relax. Maybe a bit too much. He doesn’t expect this sort of generosity from anyone, especially not his enemy. Briefly, he wonders if what Dazai said has anything to do with his choice, but he decides pretty quickly that it’s just… something he wants to do, strange as it is.

The elevator ascends to the top floor. When they reach it, Akutagawa turns left, and Atsushi trails behind him. The wind is worse now, and the scant rain that does hit Atsushi stings his skin. While shielding his eyes, he watches Akutagawa fish the key out of his pocket and slip it into the door. Atsushi steps inside as he holds it open. The entrance is narrow, but he makes enough space for them both.

Daylight disappears as the door falls shut, but there’s a dim light further inside. A light comes on overhead. He squints against it, then opens his eyes to find Akutagawa has stretches an arm past him to turn it on. The closeness makes his head buzz for some reason, and the fact that the beast in him doesn’t react at all…

Akutagawa hangs the umbrella just inside the door, then stoops to remove his shoes. Atsushi follows suit, balancing his hand on a wall while working his left one off. It’s hard to keep an eye on Akutagawa through the process. He almost slips. Almost. But he manages to get both his shoes off. By the time he’s lined them up near the entrance, Akutagawa has receded further down the hallway. “Sorry for the intrusion,” he murmurs as he follows. He passes a washing machine and walks through a fairly narrow kitchen. There’s a couple of bar stools, a burner, an empty sink… there are a few liquor bottles above the mini-fridge. He stops to study their colors and shapes. For some reason, the deep green one catches his eye.

“It’s gin,” Akutagawa says from the other side of the bar.

Atsushi turns to him. He’s sitting at a low black lacquered table on a pillow. Beyond the sliding glass door that leads out to a balcony, he sees dark clouds blurred by rain. “There’s no way you got all of this after you turned twenty.”

Akutagawa huffs again and covers his mouth.

“Quit laughing at me.”

“Port Mafia,” Akutagawa deadpans. “Remember?”

Atsushi is barely willing to admit it to himself, but he’s honest to a fault, so he does anyway. For the moment, he has forgotten Akutagawa is his enemy. And strangely, now that he remembers, he doesn’t feel any less welcome in the sleek apartment.

“Sit down,” he says. “I’ll make you something.”

“I’m not even—” He’s about to say old enough when a rumble of thunder cuts him off. His eyes spin around the place like he expects something to crash through the walls. Atsushi realizes how ridiculous he must look, but Akutagawa is already on his feet. “You don’t have to trouble—”

“Sit.”

Atsushi thinks there’s a fringe of a smile in Akutagawa’s voice even though there’s none on his face. So, he sits at the low table across from where Akutagawa was a moment before and listens to the rustling in the kitchen.

 “You strike me as the kind of person who would drink nothing but Chu-Hi and fruity cocktails.”

“I like other things!”

Akutagawa stares at him from over the bar. The way the yellow light of the fridge pours over his silhouette… it’s soft. “Like what?”

There’s no mistaking it. It’s a genuine question, one that catches Atsushi off-guard. His mouth nearly drops open again, but he catches it this time and fidgets instead.

“Chazuke,” he murmurs. “If I’m eating something sweet, I prefer strawberries.”

Akutagawa makes a noise, probably of acknowledgment. After that, Atsushi hears more movement. The fridge door closing, a knife against a cutting board, the sound of something solid tapping. When he glances up, Akutagawa is facing the room, but his attention belongs to the two glasses he has on the counter. His face disappears as he dips into the freezer. When he stands, he adds ice to both. It’s mesmerizing, watching Akutagawa’s focused motions. He uncaps the green bottle, measures a shot and a half, pours it into each cup. Atsushi hears a hiss, then the faint sound of fizz. He mixes each minimally with a stirrer, adds a lime to the rim, and carries both glasses to the table. He sets one down in front of Atsushi and returns to his pillow with the other.

“Is this also something you learned in the Port Mafia?” Atsushi asks, regarding the drink.

Akutagawa removes the lime from the rim of his glass and squeezes it. “It’s a hobby.”

“You have those?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Atsushi looks at the drink again. “What is it?”

A pair of gray eyes crosses the table. “A strawberry gin smash,” he says from behind his glass. He takes a sip, sets his glass down, and leans his elbow on the table.

With Akutagawa staring outside at the balcony and nothing to distract him, Atsushi lifts the glass and takes a sip. The alcohol hits hard. It’s fresh, a little grassy. There’s a flavor behind that. He can’t name it, but it’s not unpleasant. As the gin wears off, there’s a hint of sweetness, a little fresh mint, some sourness from the lime…

“This is…”

Akutagawa turns to him again. The distant look on his face dissolves.

“…actually really good.”

There’s no denying that Akutagawa smiles this time before staring out at his balcony again, looking almost captivated by the storm. He reaches for his glass and drinks. Atsushi follows suit. The gin is a bit less overbearing this time. And yet… what little he has drank urges him to fill the silence, so he does with a question that seems to fit the situation.

“Do you… like the rain?”

“Hmm?” Akutagawa takes a longer drink from his cup this time. “I wouldn’t necessarily say I like rain. Storms, though…” Lightning illuminates his features as he turns back to Atsushi, still leaning on his hand. He has his glass in the other, looking completely at ease. Atsushi, on the other hand, braces himself for the crack of thunder. When it arrives, he tightens his grip on his glass. The ice inside clinks. “You don’t.”

Atsushi shakes his head.

“Why?”

“It’s stupid.” He spits the words, hoping that’s enough to fend off the question. And to his relief, Akutagawa seems to get the hint.

“The gin is from Kyoto,” Akutagawa murmurs, as if he can’t bear the silence either. “It’s distilled with green tea. I haven’t had much of it, but since you said you like chazuke…”

Atsushi drinks again. If he drinks, he won’t talk. The problem is, the more he drinks, the closer he gets to the bottom to the cup. Then, he’ll have no choice.

“If this is your first ever cocktail, you should slow down, Jinko.”

“I’m fine,” Atsushi retorts.

Akutagawa huffs again.

“Quit laughing at me!”

“Well, at least you’re not slurring.” Akutagawa empties his glass. “Yet. And you’re as loud as usual.”

“I’m not—”

The crack of thunder that interrupts him. He doesn’t wince this time despite how close it is, but he knows his fear is showing on his face, partly because of the way Akutagawa is staring at him with a silent question he’s apparently too polite to ask.

“Why…” Atsushi hates how his voice shakes. “Why do you like this kind of weather, anyway?”

Akutagawa sets his glass down and turns to Atsushi. He leans on his hand again. “Because there’s something beautiful about it.”

“It’s terrifying.”

“It can be both,” Akutagawa replies, draining his glass. He rises to his feet without so much as a wobble. “You want another one?”

Atsushi slides his glass across the table and leans against his hand. His head is starting to feel light. He doesn’t even pay attention to Akutagawa while he makes this one. He wants to look. He’s willing to admit that to himself, but he’s still not sure why.

He’s not sure he wants to know.

When his cocktail glass is back in front of him with fresh ice, more strawberries, and a new lime wedge, he reaches for it. But then, Akutagawa sets a taller glass down beside it. “Water,” he explains. “Drink it first. Slowly.” That last word reverberates in Atsushi’s mind, which is already screaming that Akutagawa is lingering too close for too long. Fortunately, his enemy—are they even enemies right now?—returns to his own cushion. “I put less gin in that one. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

“I’m not a lightweight,” Atsushi mutters, but he still sips the water Akutagawa provided him with.

Another huff. “You’re not thinking of making this a competition.” Akutagawa meets his glance. “That’s something only stupid and immature people do. Which are you, Jinko? Or is it both?”

“I told you,” Atsushi growls, pausing to swallow some water. “My name is Atsushi. Nakajima Atsushi. Just call me that like everyone else does.”

“You want me to call you by your first name?”

“Why not?” Atsushi waves his hand. The gin has put him enough at ease to banter, even if his host has tried to kill him on several occasions. “We’re sitting in your apartment drinking. I’d say that’s grounds for being on a first-name basis.”

“I’m your enemy.”

The gin emboldens him. “Not right now, you’re not.”

“I’m just doing this to pay you back,” Akutagawa mutters.

“Is that really all this is?” Atsushi blurts out the question, but as soon as it leaves his mouth, he knows he’s asking himself that just as much as he’s asking Akutagawa, who’s now blinking at him.

“I told you before—”

“No, I mean… this is so much for just an umbrella. I’m in your apartment. Drinking your alcohol. This isn’t returning the favor. It’s giving me the burden of debt.”

“Jinko—”

Atsushi’s head is swimming. He knows he’s talking a little too fast, but everything he’s said makes sense. “You’re not just doing this to be nice. You want something out of it. So what? You liquored me up to deliver me to the Port Mafia? Is that it? Or is there something else?”

Akutagawa stares at him, and Atsushi wonders why he has the expression that he does. Instead of asking, he looks for the answer in his cocktail glass.

And then, it hits him.

Not Akutagawa. No. He’s still an enigma. That smell from back then, from back at the orphanage… that not quite pine smell…

It’s such a strong realization… Akutagawa is beside him now—he probably moved while Atsushi was in his blank daze—coaxing the half-empty glass out of Atsushi’s trembling fingers.

But Atsushi is no longer in Akutagawa’s apartment. He’s back in that damnable dark office, with the director hunched over his desk, his unconscious hand still wrapped around a glass with a diamond pattern.

There’s a flash of lighting. The crack of thunder follows immediately. Atsushi buries his face in his hands, clenches his jaw to hold back whatever is about to come out.

“Jinko.”

He lets out a shaky breath, then pulls in air. He deflates. His head continues to spin. That trauma hangs around him like a ghost. He’s sure it’s his fault. It’s always been his fault. He’s the tiger, after all, the one that brings misfortune.

“Jinko,” Akutagawa says again.

He can’t, though, not while that memory is burning like citrus in a fresh wound.

“You have to breathe, Atsushi.”

Did Akutagawa just say his name, or is he so drunk, that’s just what he hears? Either way, Atsushi sinks a little lower, leans towards where the sound came from. To his surprise, he falls against Akutagawa. His enemy, his host… maybe in some strange way, they’re even friends right now despite all the violence they’ve done to one another. “Say,” Atsushi murmurs. His voice is oddly steady despite how shaky he feels. “What do they make gin out of, anyway?”

“Juniper berries,” Akutagawa answers.

“Juniper,” Atsushi echoes. He peels his hands away from his face and stares at them. He half expects to see tiger paws like that first night Dazai forced him to face a truth he didn’t want to. “It was juniper.”

“What are you talking about?”

Atsushi shakes his head and tries to sit up. Despite how physically weak Akutagawa is, he holds Atsushi down with one hand pressing between his shoulders. Atsushi can’t stand the silence. Naturally, because of the alcohol—it can’t be anything else—words spill out of his mouth.

“Back at the orphanage, the director. That glass he always fell asleep holding. The smell of it.” He stops because his chest hurts. “I always hated storms, but there was no kindness anywhere in that place. Not for me. Maybe—” His voice hitches. Maybe there isn’t any for me anywhere. Maybe everyone at the Agency is just pretending. Maybe Akutagawa is, too. Something inside him cracks. It hurts. It hurts in ways he can’t describe even though it’s been with him for years, dormant, hibernating. Now that the gin has dragged it out, it rages like a storm, drawing noise after agonized noise from him.

As if it weren’t enough to wind up in Akutagawa’s apartment, Atsushi realizes he’s now sobbing on Akutagawa’s shoulder. He knows nothing can stop it. He just has to ride it out. So he reaches for any kindness Akutagawa will offer him because that’s what he needs. Even though he expects to find none, he feels the gentle weight of arms around his shoulders pulling him closer.

Like every storm, it passes. Finally. It’s still pouring outside. There’s still thunder in the distance. But Atsushi is more at peace now. He’s ashamed, mostly, but at the very least, that monstrous grief inside of him has gone back to the dark hole it dwells in. Atsushi takes a few slow breaths and sits up, wiping his face. He’s not really sure what to say. When he looks at Akutagawa, it’s pretty clear from his blank expression that he’s not sure what to say, either.

Atsushi swallows and looks at the floor. “I’m—”

“I—”

They start at the same instant. Atsushi glances up at Akutagawa. There’s something in his face that wasn’t there when he glanced down. Color. He’s blushing, and Atsushi can’t stop staring because he doesn’t want to forget how awkward Akutagawa looks.

“You go,” Akutagawa murmurs, pulling one of his knees up. “And quit staring.”

“Ah. Sorry.” Atsushi rubs the back of his head. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“And what…” Akutagawa sends him a scathing look. “…are you apologizing for?”

“Oh. Uh… I guess… interrupting you. And also for… you know. Drunk crying? Is that a thing?”

Akutagawa folds his arms. “You apologized three times. What was the third one for?”

Atsushi smiles weakly. “For staring?” He glances up to find Akutagawa glowering. “Come on. I apologized.”

“It’s the alcohol, not you.”

“I know,” Atsushi answers, “but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be accountable, right?”

Akutagawa covers his mouth with one hand and glances away. His face has shifted from a pale pink to a red. His black hair falls away from his ears, and Atsushi realizes they match Akutagawa’s face. “Jinko,” he says to his palm.

“Yeah?”

Akutagawa’s gray eyes collide with his own. “Are you better?”

Atsushi shrugs. “I don’t think I’ll ever be better.” He’s still a little dizzy, but at least his nausea is gone. He guesses it was from the memory more than anything else.

“You offered me that umbrella knowing you’d get rained on. Was that just generosity?”

“Huh?” Atsushi chews on the question before answering. “I don’t know. Maybe?” He supposes that’s not the answer Akutagawa was looking for, judging from how his hand falls away from his mouth to reveal a frown. “What about all this? Was it just to pay me back?”

Akutagawa looks him dead in the face. “No.”

There’s something in Akutagawa’s voice—regret or remorse—but there’s also something buried underneath it. Akutagawa’s tone makes Atsushi’s head start to spin again. He starts to really examine why, but refuses to go further than remembering he has asked himself the question. He has to push a word into the silence, so he says, “Oh.”

Akutagawa scoffs. “Oh, what?”

“Just oh,” he answers. “Is there something I’m missing?”

Akutagawa pinches the bridge of his nose, then drops his hand again. “Jinko—”

“Atsushi,” he interjects.

Akutagawa doesn’t correct himself. “If generosity is all this is, and if what you said earlier about me paying you back too much is true, then there’s something you can do for me that will make us even.”

“What?” Atsushi can’t believe he’s asking like he wants to know. No, not like; he does want to know. But he also wants to wait for Akutagawa to say it. Or not. He’s fine either way, but he doesn’t want to force an answer. Whatever it is, it’s brought a sheepishness to Akutagawa’s expression.

“It’s stupid,” he finally says.

Atsushi shakes his head. “I told you something stupid earlier.”

“That wasn’t—” Akutagawa sighs and meets Atsushi’s gaze. Normally, they’re dull like coal, but now, they’re almost shimmering. “Hug me again.”

Whatever train of thought Atsushi had derails. “What?”

“I said hug me again.” Akutagawa clears his throat. “If… you don’t want to, I’d rather you not. And I’d understand—”

Atsushi cuts him off. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

He listens to Akutagawa echo the word. His eyes widen a little more, and Atsushi gives him a nod accompanied by a smile. A moment later, he winds his arms around Akutagawa—his enemy, his host, his… whatever they are right now—and squeezes gently. He listens to the breath Akutagawa lets out, feels the mafioso’s arms snake around him. It’s warm. But it also finally makes him face the question he’s been avoiding all night.

“What even is this?” he asks.

Akutagawa pulls away, and it stings a little, almost like he’s been driven away by Atsushi’s question. “Are you asking me?”

“I’m asking both of us,” Atsushi admits.

Akutagawa glances at the glass door in his living room, and Atsushi’s eyes follow. It’s getting dark. “The rain isn’t letting up.”

“No,” Atsushi murmurs, happy to change the subject. Then, he starts pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll take my chances. I’ve imposed on your hospitality eno—”

The minute his balance skews, he’s suspended above the floor he nearly fell on. When he opens his eyes, he sees Akutagawa hasn’t moved at all, and that he’s wrapped in dark tendrils of shadow. He remembers that these same dark tendrils have nearly gutted him, but now, they seem almost docile as they set him down.

“Just stay,” Akutagawa says. “I don’t mind.”

That’s how they wind up splitting a leftover bento, a frozen pizza, and a piece of fruit roll cake from the convenience store for dinner. Atsushi drinks another glass of water. By the end of the meal, the dizziness is gone, and Atsushi feels sober. They bathe—separately of course. Atsushi doesn’t intend to spend long in the tub, but the warm water is so different than the rain. It’s relaxing, inviting.

Not as inviting as—He stops himself and covers his mouth before he can let out a noise. He was not just thinking about hugging Akutagawa. No, he wasn’t. And he’s not now, either, as he climbs out of the tub, towels himself dry, and starts to dress himself in the same clothes he wore there. He leaves the suspenders and tie, deciding that’s comfortable enough to sleep.

As Atsushi emerges, Akutagawa—Atsushi notices he’s no longer wearing his black coat—pushes a shirt and a pair of pajama pants into his hands. “Take the bed,” he says before disappearing into his own bathroom and shutting the door.

They’re similar enough in build that Atsushi can fit in the clothes. And it’s not like he’s walking around in them anyway, but it’s strange, wearing clothes that aren’t his. They’ve been given to him, albeit temporarily, but they smell different than his own. They smell like Akutagawa. He realizes this as he removes all of his own clothes except his boxers and shimmies into the T-shirt. He sets his folded clothes in a corner, out of the way of the futon Akutagawa has spread on the ground and his low double bed, which he has offered Atsushi tonight for some reason.

Atsushi paces back into the kitchen for another glass of water. He’s still sipping it when Akutagawa emerges, drying his hair with the towel around his shoulders, carrying his own discarded clothes.

Atsushi feels Akutagawa peer at him. It’s not a glare this time, just an observing glance that lasts a little longer than it should. It’s still early, but Atsushi is tired. The alcohol, the full stomach he now has, and the trauma coming back to him all converge and come out as a yawn he covers. It’s like that took all the energy out of him. So, when the step into Akutagawa’s bedroom, Atsushi murmurs, “I can’t take your bed from you.”

“Jinko—”

“You’ve been generous enough,” he says, pushing the covers on the floor aside. “Besides, I’m used to sleeping like this.”

Akutagawa is too tired to argue. Or maybe he’s crestfallen. In either case, the lights go out, Atsushi listens to him pace across the floor, and he crawls into his own bed.

As tired as Atsushi is, he thinks he’ll fall asleep quickly. He doesn’t. He keeps jerking awake in the room dimly lit by the city lights outside, and every time he does, whatever thought that’s in his mind flees. He shuts his eyes to try again, but he remembers a little better this time. What is it? he asks himself. What is all of this, if it’s not just kindness or generosity? The more he tries to name it, the more unnamable it seems. A soft, annoyed growl seeps out of him.

“You can’t sleep either.”

In truth, Atsushi has been so preoccupied with the question on his mind that he’s nearly forgotten Akutagawa is in the room, but that observation serves as a reminder. “Guess not.”

“Is the storm still bothering you?”

“Not really,” he murmurs, rolling onto his back.

“What about whatever those memories were?”

Atsushi shakes his head, then remembers Akutagawa can’t see him. “Not right now.”

Akutagawa hums, and Atsushi tries to decide what it means. Before he can, Akutagawa speaks again. “Jinko.”

“Yeah?”

“Come up here.”

Atsushi rolls so he’s facing the bed. “Why?”

“I feel bad about making you sleep on the floor,” Akutagawa answers. “If you want to stay there, then—”

But Atsushi’s already climbing out of the futon and pulling back Akutagawa’s covers. He listens to Akutagawa shuffle back so they can both fit comfortably. It’s a bit awkward if he thinks about it, so he doesn’t. Besides, there’s still some space between them. That’s good, Atsushi tells himself. In the next moment, he wants it gone.

“That question you asked earlier. About what this is.”

Oh. They’re talking now. About that of all things. “What about it?” Atsushi asks.

He feels Akutagawa shift beside him. It takes a moment for Atsushi to realize it, but he knows the slight movement of air hitting his face is Akutagawa’s breath. Too close, he tells himself, rolling over to face the opposite direction. The echo of that thought gets distorted and comes back as, Not close enough.

“I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”

To Atsushi, it sounds like some kind of confession. The fact that Akutagawa’s hands press against his back only adds to his suspicion.

“In the Port Mafia, there are only two kinds of touch. There’s the corrective kind meant to make sure you know your place, and there’s the necessary kind meant to keep most wounds from becoming fatal. So… which one is this?”

Akutagawa’s hand slide up and around him, and something broader than two palms presses against his back. Not knowing what else to do, Atsushi stiffens at the pressure of Akutagawa’s chest. The man is breathing on the back of his neck, and it’s making his body heat up in less than desirable ways.

Apparently, Akutagawa reads this as a rejection because he almost immediately lets go and rolls over. “Sorry,” he says. “I can’t even blame the alcohol for that.”

“What do you mean?” Atsushi’s afraid to ask, but the question comes out of him anyway because he wants to know even if the answer terrifies him.

“I drink,” Akutagawa explains, “but I don’t get drunk. I’m sure I could, given my lung disease. But I always stop myself short of losing control. I drink because I like the taste and the warmth. That’s it.”

Atsushi inhales.

“I guess… it’s a warmth I can’t really get anywhere else.”

Akutagawa is not being vulnerable. He’s not. Atsushi tells himself that, but he’s a shitty liar. He doesn’t even believe himself.

“I shouldn’t have—”

“Ryuunosuke.” Atsushi tries the name out. It feels strange in his mouth, but not as strange as whatever compels him to roll over and face the dark-haired man. Now that his eyes have adjusted, he can see Akutagawa staring at him. He tries to read the exact expression on the mafioso’s face.

“You’re staring again,” Akutagawa comments.

“So are you.”

Another laugh. Seems he’s been laughed at all night. He shuts his eyes, deciding this entire situation is beyond him, but then, the weight of something rests against his face. He peers at Akutagawa and realizes the distance between them is so small. If he wanted to, he could—

“Letting you sleep in my bed… it’s pretty generous, don’t you think?”

Atsushi stops breathing entirely. It’s like he’s reading Atsushi’s mind. He tells himself it’s a joke, that Akutagawa is messing with him, that this is so many levels of fucked up because this man has tried to kill him. He still is. But right now, he’s apparently interested in something else.

Atsushi pulls in a breath. “That’s—”

Akutagawa stops him by erasing what little space exists between their mouths. Atsushi feels the slow sweep of thumb along his cheek, the light pressure of Akutagawa’s lips against his, like he’s still unsure of what he’s doing. Akutagawa draws away with the quietest sigh. Atsushi wonders if he’s smiling, but it’s impossible to see anything but the glint of his dark eyes and the outline of his silhouette in the room.

“Why… did you…” He stammers the words and covers his mouth with his hand.

Akutagawa scoffs. “You’re so dense.”

“Generosity? Is that it? Because you’re letting me sleep here?”

“Jinko—”

“Idiot,” he snaps. “This isn’t the sort of thing you do for generosity! It’s something you do with someone you li—”

Akutagawa’s lips press against his again. Of course, he takes full advantage of the fact that Atsushi’s mouth is open. And Atsushi… his heart pounds like rain on the window, and his head spins like he’s just taken a swill of gin straight from the bottle. He lets out a quiet whimper and opens his eyes even though they’re still kissing. Akutagawa’s are open, too, studying him. Atsushi is more than aware he could pull back from whatever this is. But that’s the problem: he doesn’t want to.

Akutagawa recedes, panting even though their movements aren’t quick enough to make them breathless. Atsushi imagines it’s because the effort he’s put forth to do what he’s done. “I…” Akutagawa rasps. “I…”

Atsushi can’t stand that they’re apart. He grabs a fistful of Akutagawa’s shirt and surges forward to kiss him again. Before their mouths meet, an inexplicable spike of pain races up Atsushi’s skull, and he hisses, folding his hands around his nose to make sure he’s not bleeding. “Sorry! I’m sorry. I’m—”

“You have a damn hard head, Jinko,” Akutagawa cuts in, rubbing his forehead. “Quit apologizing and kiss me.”

Atsushi is shocked he has an invitation even though he botched his first attempt. And as strange as all of this is, he wants to try again. He carries himself forward a little more slowly this time, grasping at the shirt Akutagawa is sleeping in as he brings their lips together. When he gives Akutagawa’s bottom lip an experimental nibble, he opens his mouth. And it’s… unreal. He’s never even stopped to think about anything like this. Atsushi deepens the kiss. He has no idea what he’s doing, but he knows what he wants. As he peers at Akutagawa again, he finds the dark-haired man’s eyes closed. A quick breath escapes Akutagawa’s nose as Atsushi sets his palm against the side of Akutagawa’s face.

Just as they’re starting to work together in that kiss, Atsushi breaks away.

“What?” Akutagawa demands.

“I—just… are we…” Atsushi stops stammering and tries to gather his thoughts, but all he can think of is how good it feels to kiss Akutagawa. “Aren’t we… supposed to do this with girls?”

“I’m not interested in anything like that.”

Oh, Atsushi thinks.

“Are you?”

“I don’t… really know.” He thinks about the date he and Kyouka went on. It’s awkward. Because they’re young, because they’re friends. Because Atsushi has never had friends. He enjoyed himself, it’s true, but he didn’t want to do anything like this with her. “I… never really stopped to think about it, I guess.”

“You’ve never kissed someone?”

Atsushi shakes his head. Apparently, Akutagawa does catch the movement. He rolls onto his back and covers his face with his hands and mumbles, “Fuck,” loud enough so Atsushi can hear him. After pulling a breath in, he says it again, a little louder. “Just… fuck.”

“Akutagawa—”

“Don’t.” Atsushi watches him press his hands against his face. “I took advantage of you. I… shouldn’t have—”

“I liked it.” It’s embarrassing, but it’s better than listening to Akutagawa berate himself. Atsushi catches the dark glint in Akutagawa’s eyes as he turns his head on the pillow.

“You’re saying that to make me feel better.”

Atsushi shakes his head again. “I want you to feel better, but that’s not the only reason I’m saying it. And I guess… it’s true that it makes no sense.” He scoots a little closer to Akutagawa, rests his hand against the other man’s arm. “But it’s terrifying, and it’s beautiful.”

After a moment, Akutagawa turns towards him. “I still should have asked properly.”

“Ask me now.”

Akutagawa makes a choked noise that sends Atsushi into a fit of giggles. It’s still awkward. He imagines it would be less awkward with a little more gin, but he wants to be fully present for… whatever this is. When he gets tired of waiting, he reaches out and smooths Akutagawa’s face. This is different for him. For both of them, he imagines. What Akutagawa said about touch in the Port mafia… it explains a lot: Akutagawa’s request for a hug, the way he touched Atsushi’s face earlier, the way he welcomes Atsushi as he lines their mouths up again, the soft hum he emits as they kiss…

It’s gentle. It’s nerve-wracking. It’s soft and strange, welcoming and wonderful, and so, so new. Akutagawa is the first person to kiss him, to be kissed by him, to be that gentle and—he hopes—genuine.

Akutagawa pulls away to breathe, but once he has, Atsushi is welcoming him back. He could do this all night. Half of him plans to. Their movements are still slow. They’re becoming more coordinated. But Atsushi wants them to be closer. They’re side-by-side, and there’s too much space between them, so he pulls away, tries to say so. He stammers, though, because he’s afraid of being rejected, because they’ve been making out for long enough that Atsushi feels a physical desire building in him. And, he realizes, he’s shaking.

Akutagawa smooths his face, a silent reassurance that whatever’s going through his mind can’t hurt him forever any more than it can stop this from happening. So, swallowing, Atsushi shifts his weight so he can roll Akutagawa onto his back. Inexplicably, he complies. With his arms on either side of Akutagawa’s shoulders, he lowers himself until their chests are touching. His legs are still on his side of the bed, but his right thigh is flush with Akutagawa’s left.

“I never took you for the assertive type,” Akutagawa murmurs. He’s definitely smiling, judging from his voice, as he passes his thumb along Atsushi’s cheekbone. “Kiss me again.”

Atsushi complies. A faint recollection of their fights sits in the back of his mind. The property damage, the way they damage each other’s bodies and minds… but Akutagawa curls his fingers around Atsushi’s biceps and lets out a noise into Atsushi’s mouth, and that thought is gone. He wants to kiss Akutagawa. They’re not enemies right now. And this is odd for friendship. They’re something else. Atsushi likes it, wants more of it. He pushes himself up without breaking their kiss, far enough so he can tuck one of his knees in and shift again. He slots his left knee between Akutagawa’s, breaks away for air, then buries his head in Akutagawa’s shoulder at the electric pleasure that races through him. When his mind starts working again, he realizes Akutagawa’s thigh is pressing against this groin. It’s as unpredictable as it is unfathomable. The pressure shifts. A noise slips out of his mouth and goes straight into Akutagawa’s ear. He practically combusts from embarrassment.

“You’re this worked up from kissing? You do at least know what a boner is, right?”

Atsushi pulls away and tries to decide what to do while they’re like this. “Of… of course I—” the rest of his sentence dissolves as Akutagawa shifts his leg again. This time, Atsushi moves his hips. He needs friction. He needs—more.

“Is that the Jinko or the gin talking?”

His face bursts into flames. “Please forget I said that out loud.”

“Never.” Atsushi manages to exhale as Akutagawa’s fingers trail along the back of his neck. He still hasn’t moved his leg, but at that angle, Atsushi can see the clear smirk on the mafioso’s face. The room turns, and now, he’s the one with his back against the mattress. Akutagawa’s shadow looms over him. He knows he should be afraid, and he is, but not for his life. “You’re scared.”

It’s a comment, not a question, but he still nods his head.

The hesitation comes back into Akutagawa’s face. “I guess I’m used to the Port Mafia pace of things like this. Because it’s a dangerous life.”

“And…” Atsushi raises his hands, then drags them down Akutagawa’s bare arms slowly, gently. “Because touches like this don’t exist in the Port Mafia.” Akutagawa’s arms shake beneath Atsushi’s fingers, and he wonders if it’s because of how they’re positioned, how good it feels, or how much he’s holding himself back.

“Maybe.” Akutagawa pauses, then lets out a slow breath. “Whatever this is, I want to make sure you’re okay with it.”

“Huh?”

Akutagawa sighs and sits up. He’s straddling Atsushi’s legs, burying his face in his hands.

And Atsushi watches, puzzled, patient, wanting. When Akutagawa doesn’t say anything, he props himself up on his elbows. “Akutagawa—”

“I want to touch you.” Akutagawa blurts the words out, then folds his arms and glances away. “But not unless you’re okay with it.”

Atsushi knows it’s a question. Even though he’s never done this with anyone, he understand the gravity of consent. Akutagawa seeks it out, and that’s another puzzle in and of itself. He could just take what he wanted, bind Atsushi up with Rashomon and… that thought makes him shudder, more out of curiosity than anything. And Akutagawa is right… this pace is breakneck for most people. They just kissed for the first time. They haven’t even properly confessed—are there even feelings to confess?— and now Akutagawa wants to give him a hand job. Atsushi knows clear feelings are important in this situation, but he also acknowledges that they aren’t ready to talk about those now. But they are ready to act, and he wants Akutagawa to touch him more. Atsushi’s head spins, but it’s not the gin this time. It’s his own desire, and the weight of what he’s about to say pressing down on him.

“I…”

Akutagawa lifts his head.

“Offering to do that is too generous.” He cups Akutagawa’s face in his hands. “So let me touch you, too.”

When Akutagawa kisses him again, it’s somehow even better than before. There’s something new in it. A heat. An affirmation. A reciprocal desire. Atsushi’s hands slide down Akutagawa’s arms again. He feels Akutagawa shudder, feels the press of fingers against his scalp. Atsushi vaguely registers Akutagawa’s hand slide beneath the borrowed shirt to begin exploring Atsushi’s lower back. A rhythm in the kiss changes, and Atsushi lets out a noise that Akutagawa immediately swallows. He has no idea how his hands still work, but he slides them across Akutagawa’s thighs.

“What—” Akutagawa manages, breaking away.

“Your shirt.” Atsushi is shocked he has managed those words between gulps of air and grips the bottom hem. “Your shirt,” he repeats, hoping those words convey his meaning. Akutagawa grasps Atsushi’s hands and pushes them back. Even that movement is gentle in its own way. He watches, transfixed, as Akutagawa pulls the garment he’s wearing over his head and devours the exposed skin with his eyes. He’s so pale, so thin… like this, Akutagawa looks strangely delicate. When Atsushi raises his face to Akutagawa’s, he finds the man’s gray eyes on some empty corner of the room. That insecurity… Atsushi’s heart hurts. He wants so badly to make it better, but he doesn’t know how, or if he even can. Still, he tries.

“Akutagawa.”

Reluctantly, Akutagawa’s silver eyes return to his face. Atsushi takes a breath and pulls his own shirt off. He hopes Akutagawa can see him smiling in the dark.

“There. We’re even.” The air in the room feels cold and heavy on his skin. He laughs, more from nerves than anything, and scratches his face.

“Sorry,” Akutagawa murmurs. “My body’s not much to look at.”

So that was it. It’s odd to imagine Akutagawa is shy or self-conscious considering he was the one who started this, but still, Atsushi wants to make him more comfortable. He looks again, and this time, he reaches out for Akutagawa’s narrow shoulders. He sweeps his fingers along Akutagawa’s collar bone, then smooths them down his chest. He feels Akutagawa watching him, but he focuses on his own movements, the smooth sensation of Akutagawa’s skin under his. “You’re enough,” Atsushi murmurs. He raises his eyes. “More than enough. Is it weird to call you beautiful?”

Akutagawa sags against him, clutching his shoulders, and there’s so much skin on skin, Atsushi’s mind buzzes. They tip back onto the pillow, and the way their bodies line up… it’s like a lock and a key, a perfect fit. As thin as Akutagawa is, the man’s weight presses a breath out of Atsushi. Once his mind catches up with the situation, he smooths his palms over Akutagawa’s shoulder blades and hugs him.

“Atsushi.” The shaky name hits his ear.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, knowing full well those words won’t erase whatever it is Akutagawa is grappling with, but he hopes it means something. The words, and whatever they’re doing. He smooths his hands down Akutagawa’s back, stopping at his thin waist, resting there with a weight he hopes is comforting.

When Akutagawa shifts, Atsushi whines at the friction. He feels lips against his shoulder, and the noise he’s been holding in spills out.

Akutagawa huffs against his skin, then rises. “You’re pretty sensitive.” Atsushi opens his mouth to respond, but Akutagawa presses against his lips with two fingers. “I… don’t just want to jerk you off.” As if to explain, Akutagawa begins to map out Atsushi’s chest with his hands. Those featherlight touches nearly drive him mad. His lips part as Akutagawa’s fingers draw shudders and gasps out of him. Akutagawa peppers his skin with soft kisses. It’s so… Atsushi doesn’t have a word for it, but he knows what it’s doing to him.

“Akutagawa.” He presses his fingertips so hard against Akutagawa’s shoulders, he’s sure he’s left bruises. He wants… he needs…

And he receives. Akutagawa’s hand slides beneath the pajama pants he’s borrowing and the boxers he’s been wearing all day. And he chokes. The shape of Akutagawa’s hand is different than his own, and he has no control over how it touches him. And the whine he lets out when that hand slips away…

“We should take the rest of our clothes off,” Akutagawa states. How casually he says it… Atsushi is pretty sure he’d die of mortification if he wasn’t already fully hard. “It’ll make clean-up easier. Is that good with you?”

“Yes,” Atsushi breathes. He feels a tug at his clothes and lifts his hips. He’s shocked at how soft the sheets feel beneath his skin, how real everything suddenly is. It shocks him. He listens to the rustle as Akutagawa disrobes. That only winds him up more.

But then, Akutagawa is touching him again, smoothing his thumbs over Atsushi’s hip bones, trailing his fingers down the outsides of his thighs, then brushing them along the insides. No one has touched him like this ever, with incredible reverence and gentleness, but that isn’t all he wants right now.

“Akutagawa, please—” He shuts his eyes tight.

“You want me to touch you somewhere else,” Akutagawa observes.

Atsushi nods his head.

“Look at me.”

He does, and God, if Akutagawa doesn’t look unreal hovering over him like that. “I need…” Atsushi realizes how filthy what he’s about to say sounds, so he stops himself.

Akutagawa shuffles forward, setting his arms on either side of Atsushi’s shoulders, and leans so his mouth is against Atsushi’s ear. “You need what?”

“I—” Atsushi begins, but his words dissolve when Akutagawa nibbles his earlobe. He clutches Akutagawa’s shoulders, gulping air like he hasn’t breathed in years. He can’t say it, so he arches his hips, and his erection brushes against Akutagawa’s skin. It’s so good, he nearly sobs. With the pleasure of that contact he’s been craving, Atsushi barely registers Akutagawa’s teeth scrape his earlobe as he twists away and hisses.

“Fuck, Jinko… warn me next time.” Atsushi hears Akutagawa say that as his weight shifts, and that delicious friction comes back in a more deliberate form. Atsushi’s mouth falls open. He wants so badly to be able to think and articulate how good this is, but all he can manage is a moan. Although… he also continues clinging to Akutagawa’s shoulders as the man above him starts to rock. It’s still gentle, but the friction numbs Atsushi’s mind to everything else. He feels Akutagawa’s own hardness sliding against his own and chokes.

Akutagawa lets out a ragged breath against Atsushi’s ear. “Too much?”

Atsushi’s hand slides off Akutagawa’s back and flops down on the bed, and the movement stops. He comes back to himself bit by bit. Outside, he realizes the storm has picked up again, but Akutagawa has so much of his focus, it doesn’t even bother him.

“Can I touch you again?” Akutagawa whispers.

Atsushi pulls in air and forces his exhale into a word. “Yes.” It’s all he can manage. He tries to form a sentence, but his mouth won’t cooperate. He can only make a wordless noise when Akutagawa wraps his slender fingers around his cock and starts stroking it.

Somewhere in the back of his brain, Atsushi remembers this isn’t just about him, that he should at least be reciprocating. Even though his whole body feels like a spring wound too tight, he slides his hand along the blankets until he finds Akutagawa’s knee.

The grip doesn’t go away, but the movement stops. Atsushi grits his teeth and growls through them. He pulls in a breath and focuses on trailing his fingers up Akutagawa’s leg, slowly. Gray eyes settle against his, and they stare at each other as Atsushi finds the point where Akutagawa’s leg meets his hip joint and smooths the skin with his thumb. A strained hum works out of Akutagawa, but he doesn’t break their stare. Atsushi supposes the man above him fully expects the touch to travel in a certain direction, so he moves his fingers back down Akutagawa’s leg.

“Jinko,” he growls, giving Atsushi’s member a firm squeeze.

Atsushi hisses and throws his head back, digging his fingernails into Akutagawa’s thigh. “What?” he breathes.

Akutagawa’s fingers trail down his shaft, and Atsushi’s entire body shudders at how good it feels. “When you said you wanted to touch me, I thought you meant this.”

It’s a struggle, given how hard he is, how ready he is for Akutagawa to finally, finally get him off, but he forces his head to move until their eyes are lined up again. His fingers scurry up the inside of Akutagawa’s thigh and brush against his erection. Atsushi wishes he could see Akutagawa’s face better, see how his pupils blow wide with that touch. He settles for listening to the air break out of Akutagawa’s lungs and the shudder he gives as Atsushi moves his hand. Part of Atsushi wishes he could see it, but feeling it is enough. He gives Akutagawa a few experimental strokes, much like the ones he uses on himself when he’s alone taking care of his own arousal, and Akutagawa’s hand returns to his own cock.

The touches are still gentle, still appreciative, but they’re becoming something else. There’s a fervor in them similar to what caused them to bump heads. Atsushi is surprised he has lasted this long, if he’s being honest with himself, but he’s glad he has. What they’re doing… it’s feels good in ways that aren’t sexual, too.

That realization, or the way Akutagawa twists his hand unexpectedly, rips a moan out of Atsushi and breaks his focus.

Akutagawa’s words cut through his reverie. “Don’t stop.” It’s at once a plea and demand, and despite how wound up he is, he picks up the pace of his strokes as well, smooths his thumb over the leaking head of Akutagawa’s cock, feels it twitch against his palm.

“Close,” Atsushi pushes the word out as his own pleasure spikes. “I’m close. So close. Aku—ta—” He tries to say the rest of Akutagawa’s name, but it comes out as something high-pitched that burns his throat. The building pressure in his abdomen uncoils in the sweetest of ways. Something hot and wet drips onto his abdomen. The mattress shifts as Akutagawa swoops down and plants a searing kiss on his lips. The noise Akutagawa makes into it… Atsushi hears the wet slide of his hand as he strokes Akutagawa to completion. Even after they’ve both come, they keep kissing. Atsushi tastes the inside of Akutagawa’s mouth, slides his clean hand into the man’s still slightly damp hair, and they get tangled up in each other. The mess matters, but it doesn’t matter as much as this.

Akutagawa breaks away and collapses onto Atsushi, coughing softly in his hand with his head tipped away. When the coughing continues, Atsushi moves his hand onto Akutagawa’s shoulders. He’s still riding the high of his orgasm, the first he’s ever had because of someone else. As blissful and boneless and tired as he feels, he knows they’ll have to get up. The trouble is, he’s so relaxed, he wants to sleep while they’re still tangled up in each other like this, mess be damned. All this skin against his… the soft sound of Akutagawa’s breath in his ear… he half thinks this is an oddly satisfying dream.

Outside, the rain is still hammering against the window. There’s a flash of lightning, and he sees the pale hue of Akutagawa’s bare skin. It only makes him cling harder.

But every dream ends. “Jinko,” Akutagawa murmurs. “Let me up.”

Atsushi unwinds his arm. The room feels even colder when Akutagawa throws the covers back and rises. He sits on the edge of the bed for a moment before rising. A light in the hallway comes on. It’s so aggressively yellow, he slings his arm over his eyes to block it out. He hears a faucet, then the faint sound of Akutagawa’s feet returning. He moves his arm, and studies Akutagawa’s naked shadow. The weight of what they’ve just done starts to sink in, and he fights the urge to hide. He starts to sit up, but a hand on his shoulder stills him. A damp cloth slides across his skin, no less gentle than Akutagawa’s touches before. Atsushi watches him the whole time. This is a side of the mafioso he never imagined, and one he definitely doesn’t want to forget, especially now that they’ve—

“I’m beginning to think staring is your hobby,” Akutagawa remarks, pulling the cloth away to clean himself.

“I can’t help it,” Atsushi finally responds. “I like the way you look.”

Akutagawa glances at him, then scoffs. “You’re still strung out.”

“I am,” Atsushi agrees, sighing at the ceiling. “But I’d say it even if I weren’t.”

That awkwardness that he’s been fighting off… suddenly, it comes back. He seeks escape from it and closes his eyes.

“Are you planning on sleeping like that?” Akutagawa asks.

Atsushi hums his affirmative. Akutagawa departs, and for a moment, all that awkwardness turns to pain. Not long after, the yellow light behind Atsushi’s eyelids disappears, and Akutagawa’s quiet steps reenter the room, accompanied by a long, low roll of distant thunder. The bed shifts again and peers at Akutagawa as he crawls to his side. Atsushi feels the weight of the covers settle over him, followed by Akutagawa shuffling beside him. Atsushi turns to see the other man huddled up in the blankets, facing the wall. “Akutagawa.”

He grunts something.

“Can I… come closer?”

“Is the storm bothering you?”

“No.”

Atsushi watches him roll onto his back. “Why, then?”

He has no answer to offer because he still doesn’t know, but he feels Akutagawa pull him closer anyway.

Skin to skin, they fall asleep. When morning beats against Akutagawa’s bedroom window and draws Atsushi into consciousness, the first thing he sees is Akutagawa leaning on one hand, studying him.

There’s some space between them, but Atsushi knows there’s something more solid, too. He sits up without remembering he’s still naked, but he ignores the coldness of the room and swings his feet off the bed. He doesn’t get up, though. He just stares at the floor and remembers the way they touched each other.

“Jinko,” Akutagawa says to his back. “What the hell was last night to you?”

Atsushi pulls in a breath and gives the only answer he can manage. “I… don’t know.” It’s an honest one, but the guilt still floods him. He hears Akutagawa sit up and puts his head in his hands, slowly lets out a breath. “What about you?”

“I…” Akutagawa pauses, and Atsushi turns to watch him shake his head. “I don’t know, either.”

Atsushi isn’t sure whether he believes the dark-haired man. Something in Akutagawa’s tone… maybe disappointment… makes it impossible to believe. So, he sets one foot on his knee—that’s the quickest way to feel as naked as he is—and sets his hand on top of Akutagawa’s. The gesture earns him a perplexed look. “Want to find out together?”

The smile on Akutagawa’s face sticks with him even after he goes into work for the day. It’s warm, sincere, genuine. All the things he never thought Akutagawa was. Along with that, there’s a strong notion that one day, they’ll have to fight each other again. Until then, though…

“Hey, Atsushi-kun.”

Dazai’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts, and he spins his chair to find the brunette way too close for comfort.

“Your hair smells really good. Don’t tell me you’re trying a new shampoo?”

It’s unsettling that Dazai notices the difference in the smell of his hair, and it would take too much energy to explain the one part of the truth he’s comfortable in telling other people, so he puts on the most convincing smile he can manage and says, “Oh, yeah. I got a sample from the drugstore the other day.”

“Ah, is that what it is?” Dazai leans back in his chair, and Atsushi watches the gears in his head turn.

“Are you seriously slacking off again?” Kunikida barks from his desk. “Get back to work!”

“Of course,” Dazai announces, pivoting in his chair. As he turns away, Atsushi hears him mumble, “I could have sworn I recognized the smell somewhere.”

Atsushi thinks nothing of it until he’s alone in his dorm room where, between bites of yakisoba, he thinks of the umbrella he left at Akutagawa’s apartment. An instant later, he remembers Dazai was in the Port Mafia, that Akutagawa was his underling, and that Dazai probably knows exactly where he recognizes the smell from. The disposable chopsticks he’s been eating his dinner will fall out of his hand. Shock becomes horror. Horror becomes mortification. And the only way to fend off both is for him to bury his head in a pillow and scream into it.