Akutagawa was having a nice, strangely nostalgic meal at an ordinary tonkatsu place when his peace was interrupted by two bobbing heads coming over to the counter.
He must be cursed somehow, because it was the two people he owed a most challenging emotional encounters aside from Dazai-san.
The were-tiger, of course, ordered chazuke— incriminatingly, just like him. Kyouka herself ordered tofu as usual. Akutagawa had made sure she has that too, at the Port Mafia. Had given her a reason to live, a cause to kill for, just as Dazai had done to him— and yet she had left.
Akutagawa was happy for Kyouka. He knew the feeling of gaining a place to belong. The feeling of a skin-warm coat and a hand on his back. But he was still befuddled. It seemed almost sacrilegious that the best thing that ever happened in his life wasn't appreciated.
The Were-Tiger, in contrast, he was unexpectedly coming to understand.
That brought to mind the question of whether or not he should tell the Were-Tiger about that vision… This would be awkward, he just knew it. Not only was it an intense invasion into his privacy, it was also a mysterious ability attack that even all the resources of the Port Mafia couldn't identify.
But then there was the obvious explanation about his chazuke…
The detective brought up short as he rounded the curved counter and saw Akutagawa. An expression of terrified surprise settled over his face— an overreaction by any means. It was Akutagawa who should dread their encounter.
"Akutagawa."
"Were-Tiger." He replied.
Having ordered and paid already, Atsushi and Kyouka had no choice but to sit down on the same counter as Akutagawa. In the small shop, even the furthest spot was no more than a couple of meters away.
A tense silence followed, during which Akutagawa observed the Were-Tiger's physical relish of his first bite of the chazuke.
The warm, slightly mushy rice. The aroma of the tea. The feeling of a filling stomach.
Yes, Akutagawa knew those sensations.
Returning to his half-empty bowl, the mafia resumed eating. But the dreaded conversation made him nauseous, the chazuke losing its taste and becoming just another cheap meal. By the time he said his thanks of the meal, Atsushi was also finishing up.
Technically, he could leave. Technically, they could both leave and call this charade over with. And yet, both of them feel, they owe each other something. It charged the air in the small shop.
Finally, Akutagawa gave in, and in the same moment,
"Akutagawa—
"Jinko—
"I have something to—
"Listen—
And they fell silent again, each waiting for the other to continue.
Tentatively, "You… seemed to like chazuke." From Atsushi.
"It's… a newfound taste."
Another silence.
"Look, Akutagawa, you wouldn't like this, but I have something to tell you."
"I had a vision." Interjected Akutagawa, getting annoyed with the Jinko's complete inability to be courteous and take turns speaking.
"A… vision?" Atsushi repeated, the words he was going to say coming unexpected from the other person.
"Yes. An ability attack, if you will. It's currently unidentifiable."
"And… what happened in it?"
Akutagawa was surprised at this willingness to listen, the lack of suspicion concerning a phenomenon he just admitted was unexplainable.
"I— became the past you, just for a few minutes."
Dawning realization in Atsushi. It has been happening to him, too. And then there were the empty bowls, now cleared by the shop owner. Chazuke bowls.
"The night I sneaked into the kitchen…"
"The chazuke was delicious." Akutagawa did not say 'ambrosial', though that would have been more than accurate. He did not say a word about that sense of unbelonging, either. Of being home and not having a home at the same time.
Atsushi's heterochromatic eyes burned him. Akutagawa had already expected this anger— not specifically this form of the anger, silent and intense, but this reaction was within imagination. What the were-tiger said after the long silence certainly wasn't.
Atsushi closed his eyes, shrugged as if nothing at all mattered in the world, and casually, "I'm glad I don't have to explain it then. I saw the visions twice, you know, the time you ambushed someone before the Port Mafia and the time you first met Dazai-san….. Akutagawa?"
Akutagawa's mind balked at the sheer brazenness of it. The ambush, he didn't mind, not even the bit about Gin and his street friends and Rashoumon and the wretched emptiness inside him. He didn't mind someone peeking in on any of that.
But Dazai-san.
It could not be helped, Akutagawa knows. He didn't choose to enter into these strange past visions. Did not and will never choose to go into the were-tiger's of all people. He sensed that it was the same for Atsushi as well.
Yet the stab with Rashoumon was automatic, cresting with a hatred that was inevitable. Black cloth sliced white, and slid into flesh. Atsushi was not expecting it. Blood splattered all over the floor and narrow wooden walls of the shop. The poor shop keeper, fortunately, had recognized him for a mafia and respectfully retreated inside a long time ago. The restaurant was empty.
Akutagawa, too, felt empty when he withdrew Rashoumon and let the limp form of the were-tiger crumple to the floor.
"Aku…tagawa?" Atsushi rasped almost quizzically. Even now the tiger's regeneration is working its magic.
The Mad Dog of Port Mafia opened his mouth to speak, to lash out with this indescribable rage that brims out of his gut, but there were no words. Instead, there was pain.
A hackle replaced outrage. The familiar taste of bile. The constricting of the chest. The light-headedness that comes with the absence of air.
"How dare you!" Stammered Akutagawa between coughing fits. The esteemed memory of Dazai-san, the warmth of a black coat— this black coat— and the feel of a hand on his back, of feeling he belonged, now violated. It felt sacrilegious. It felt unforgivable.
He felt himself rush forward even as the world flipped, Rashoumon roaring black and red and menacing—
— And steel bars came out of nowhere and knocked the wind out of him. He reeled back, his nose spilling blood on the cold stone floor. He couldn't feel his clothes on him anymore.
Well… yes, he could feel it, if he concentrated, but it was superficial, a mere presence resting against his skin rather than an extension of his will. Akutagawa suddenly felt like his arms had been cut off.
Rashoumon was gone.
Next came the sensation of cold. His entire body was trembling. He put his hands on his nose— the flesh was wiggling under his fingers, the bone mending itself. By the time he stumbled forward to touch the bars, the pain was gone and the nose was exactly as it should be.
Except, of course, the shape was different. Akutagawa peered into the reflection on the metal and saw a dirty, silver-haired orphan. Atsushi.
Another vision of the past.
Why was the were-tiger put in a cage? The question resonated with Atsushi's young body, a rhythm of why, why, why humming in his shivering bones. He had been a good boy, or tried his hardest to be, he'd done his chores, played nicely with the other children, never complained or raised his voice, so why, why, why.
Akutagawa reached for the bars, thinking to break himself out, and recoiled when he touched it. The coldness alone could have cut a finger off his hand.
The stone walls were cold, too, and damp. Left without any better clothes than the rags he was wearing, Akutagawa huddled Atsushi's body down in the middle of the room and curled into a ball.
The thrum of question continued in time with the clattering of his teeth. Why, why, why, why, why, why, why?
"It's because you're worthless." Said a voice in front of him. In the dark basement the figure cast no shadows. "Worthless scums have no place in this establishment. Be grateful you are kept at all, boy."
With difficulty Akutagawa lifted his head to look at the newcomer, saw a formidable but shadowed face of a man in a long white robe.
He could not understand why, for he has no context for the vision, but the words cut him open and let the cold seeped inside of him, turning him grey, turning all of his flesh into stone. Silenced all the questions.
Worthless scum.
A tray was set just outside the bars, within his easy reach. The broth looked like plain water rather than food, and Akutagawa didn't have to feel it to know that it's cold. But it was something.
"You do not deserve even this much, boy. This is an act of great generosity, do you understand?"
The words bubbled out of him, "Yes, Headmaster."
And the man left.
Akutagawa figured he should probably eat. He got up, took an awkward step, and suddenly he was not cold anymore. Under him was concrete, not rough stone. There were no broth, no darkness, no steel bars.
He was on the street, and someone was holding him up. His arm was draped over someone's shoulder. His head hanging at chest-level, where he can see blood-soaked cloth that was ripped open dangling above the ground, swaying,
"Akutagawa?"
He blinked a few more times, tried to expel the remnants of bone-shattering cold. The echoes of questions and cruel answers.
"Who…"
"So you're awake. Stabbing me out of the blue like that was not very nice."