Chapter Text
On Atsushi’s eighteenth birthday, the orphanage that raised him—never mind that it also repeatedly tried to shatter him beyond repair—shuts its doors in his face. The director stares at him from the other side of the bars, wearing that smirk he does as he waits for Atsushi to break down in tears.
The truth is, he’s been ready for this moment since he was old enough to have a part-time job. He managed to hide his bank account and his various part-time gigs (full-time in the summer). By scrounging up every yen he could, Atsushi has enough for key money in a cheap studio apartment and two months’ living expenses. It’s partly his resourcefulness: he has learned where and how to look for work over the years, how to tell whether a job will be worth his time. Before he could even work, he managed to convince a restaurant owner to hire him under the table at fourteen. When the time came, that restaurant owner hired him on, then gave him a recommendation for a job that paid better.
He jumped from one part-time job to the other, doing what he needed to to prepare for the future, knowing the whole time where his passions were.
Which was why, in his last year of high school, he ignored colleges entirely and focused on applying for full-time internships, specifically at publishing companies.
Against all odds, one company gave him a chance. The president himself, Souseki Natsume, insisted, “I don’t give a damn if he’s seventeen. He is diligent, keen, and eager, and if we won’t have him, I’m sure one of our competitors will.” Beneath such praise, Atsushi could only bow his head. He didn’t expect it to come to anything until he got a letter with an offer.
The night received that letter from the company president, he cried himself to sleep, not out of hunger or pain. For entirely different reasons. Quietly, because if he woke anyone else, he’d probably get another beating. But as he cried, he smiled because this hell now had a definite end.
So when the door slams in his face, he can’t cry. Instead, Atsushi only smiles, flies his middle finger, and spits a laugh at the orphanage director as the man behind the bars scowls. Then. hoisting his bag up, he paces away with his hands in his pockets.
No more beatings. No more punishments. Best of all, no more threats that his meals will be taken away if he slouches a little because he’s tired or sends someone a wrong look or cries because the other orphans cut his hair jagged. And, because he’s no longer in high school, no more being forced to dye his white hair to “fit in,” even if it is his natural color.
His first matter of business after his forcible liberation is to find an apartment. He manages to rent a shabby studio apartment a few train stops from the publisher’s office. He knows he can get reimbursed for his train tickets at the end of each month. The utilities are a little tricky to arrange on short notice, but the landlord helps him out. Even though he was fully prepared to spend a night on the street, there’s no need because everything is settled before he has to.
The first night there, he winds up crying again. Even if he’s renting it, it’s his . He sleeps on the floor, blanketed by one of his hoodies, using his bag as a pillow.
The next day, his attempts to make this shabby little dwelling a home begin in earnest. “Dazai-san, I’m sorry to call you unannounced, especially during a holiday.”
“Ah,” Dazai says. He’s in his fourth year of editorial work, primarily to poet Nakahara Chuuya. In Atsushi’s one month of part-time work, he’s been mentoring Atsushi through the finer points of leaving feedback on documents. But after Golden Week, Atsushi will transition to full-time work and pay, though he’ll continue under Dazai’s guidance. “It’s not a problem at all, Atsushi-kun. Did you need something?”
“Yeah. I was wondering if you knew of some places to get cheap home goods. I need a futon. I can get kitchen stuff at the Daiso—“
“Atsushi-kun,” Dazai interrupts. “Did you move?”
“Ah… kind of? Not voluntarily. Anyway, it’s not a huge deal. I was ready for it, so—”
“I’m buying you a futon.”
“Dazai-san, you don’t have to do anything like—”
“Atsushi-kun.” On the other end of the phone, the brunet clicks his tongue. “I know I don’t have to do anything. I’m saying I want to as a way to ease this time of change.”
Atsushi can’t really argue. Dazai takes care of everything. The futon gets delivered, and it’s easily the most comfortable bed he has ever slept on. It’s brand new. There’s no spring digging into his back. The covers are soft.
The next day, he spends a little more than he normally would on a product to strip the color out of his hair. Once it’s white again, he winds up re-dyeing one lock black as an experiment and a way to get rid of the rest of the dye that he has. He winds up liking it more than he thought. Once his hair is dry, he goes to Daiso to buy some basics, then to an electronics store to buy a rice cooker. It’s worth the twelve-thousand yen he drops on one.
He skips breakfast and lunch, but for dinner, he makes himself chazuke. He eats four whole bowls before taking a shower and collapsing into his futon, so sated that he couldn’t read another page if he tried. The pillows are soft, the blankets warm… and he still has a whole day until he goes back to work.
On the third day, he relaxes. He has earned a break. He spends most of the day reading in bed, but he does take a walk, stopping at a family restaurant for lunch on the way back.
When he returns to work the next day, Dazai does a double-take. “Atsushi-kun—”
“It’s my natural hair color,” he mumbles, “and I’m tired of dyeing it black to fit in.”
“I was going to compliment you,” Dazai states, shrugging.
“Ah.” Atsushi fiddles with the long side of his hair. “Sorry. I’m not… used to that.”
“Poor Atsushi-kun is so pure…”
“I told you about my life, Dazai-san. Of course I have a hard time accepting compliments.” Atsushi frowns and glances away. “Also, uh… thank you very much for the house-warming gift.”
Dazai smiles. “Been getting a lot of use out of that futon?”
“Yeah. I sleep really well on it.”
Dazai chuckles. “I probably shouldn’t tell you everyone else pitched in and got you a bunch of stuff.”
“If anyone got me a rice cooker—”
“You think too small, Atsushi-kun.”
His coworkers, despite having only been his coworkers for a month, turned out to be more generous than he anticipated: Kouyou and Yosano bought him a box of expensive, fancy Japanese sweets, Fukuzawa and Mori a tea set, Ango from marketing a hot water kettle, Chuuya a fancy notebook and pen… there are other gifts, some more practical than others, but all of them equally touching and welcome. He winds up hitching a ride with Kunikida from sales, who offers to help him take everything people bought him home. At the door, Kunikida hands him a good kitchen knife.
“This is the same kind of knife I bought when I moved out the first time,” he explains, handing it over. “I hope you accept this gift.”
“I appreciate it, thank you.” Atsushi receives it with a bow.
He tests it out that night when he makes himself dinner and finds that it is as versatile as it is practical.
Hard to believe that was almost five months ago. In that short time, Atusshi feels he has grown as an editor. Despite his age, his colleagues treat him as an equal and respect his input. He has easily found his stride, and at least once every week or two, he stops—in the middle of reading a draft of someone’s work or brushing his teeth or dyeing that black streak in his hair again—to think about how grateful he is to have this job, to consider how much he has learned, how happy he is to have the knowledge that he does.
He doesn’t anticipate the challenge that will come near the middle of September, when out of nowhere, Dazai announces, “I think it’s time you learn the finer points of editing work.”
Atsushi tips his head. “You mean I haven’t been…”
“Oh, no, Atsushi-kun, you misunderstand.” Dazai sets the document he’s looking at down. “You’re doing really well with document review. What I mean is, I think it’s time you work with a specific writer on a more long-term basis.”
“Ah.”
Dazai peers up at him. “Do you not feel ready?”
“I honestly feel a little nervous about it, but if you think I’m ready, I’ll try being more confident in myself.”
“That’s the spirit!” Dazai grins and passes him a thumbs up. “Now, let’s talk about possible authors. When you started here in April, you said you were interested in writing short stories, right?”
“Yeah,” Atsushi murmurs, never mind that he hasn’t written a thing.
Dazai turns back to his keyboard. “Then I have the perfect person.”
The “perfect person,” as it turns out, is one Akutagawa Ryuunosuke. Atsushi knows the name; he’s familiar with Akutagawa’s first publication, In a Grove , a collection of short stories that came out in Akutagawa’s first year of high school. When Dazai presents him with the name a week or so later, he stammers, “Wait, are you serious?” Because truth be told, in his mind, Akutagawa is a big deal, well-known because he got published at such a young age.
“Mmm. I brought it up with President Souseki, and he thinks you two would be a good match for each other.” Dazai mixes his latte stick into a cup of hot water. “You’ve probably heard already, but Akutagawa-kun has been in a rut for ages. He’s published more, but nothing sold as well or received the same attention as his first book.” Setting the cup down, he spins his chair. “Therefore!” He pats Atsushi’s shoulder. “It’s up to you to help him out however you can.”
“However I can?” Atsushi echoed. “I thought the contract specified my required duties.”
“Atsushi-kun…” Dazai clicks his tongue. “It’s true, but you’re being a bit short-sighted.”
“I mean…” He touches his glasses. “To be fair, I’ve needed these for most of my life.”
“New frames?”
“Yeah,” Atsushi says. “I finally got around to buying some last weekend. But you were saying?”
Dazai sips his latte. “The contract, much like the books we edit, is a piece of paper full of words. It’s legally binding, sure, but it’s still just paper. It doesn’t account for the human elements of editorial work.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know Fukuzawa-dono.”
Atsushi nods, and Dazai waves him closer. “It’s not really a secret, but I hear most of his job where Mori-sensei is concerned consists of home visits, high-end meals, and babysitting.”
Atsushi tips his head. “That… he sounds more like a personal assistant than an editor.”
“Right?” There’s something almost giddy about his voice. “The contract doesn’t say anything about that, but with twelve years of experience with our company and a handful of years before, Fukuzawa-dono knows exactly what he needs to do to support Mori-sensei and his success, and he’s obviously more than willing to do it.”
Nodding again, Atsushi folds his arms. “What about Nakahara-sensei?”
“Hmm?” Dazai asks.
“Your contract with him is similar, right?”
Smiling, Dazai murmurs, “You know I do as little work as physically possible. If Chuuya needs that kind of help, he’s on his own.”
Dazai says that, but more than once, he has seen his senior dipping into a shop that sells alcohol and coming out with a bag that probably contains at least one expensive bottle of wine.
“In other words, it’s just a matter of preference, a case-by-case choice that editors and writers hash out together beyond the confines of the contract. Or sometimes beneath it.” Dazai takes another swig of his drink, then shuts his laptop and stretches. “Anyway…” He rolls his chair back and rises, stretching. “If you need advice on declining any outlandish requests, you can practice on me.”
“I’m not a pushover, Dazai-san,” Atsushi retorts.
“Then buy my lunch.”
“Okay.”
Dazai passes him a bland look.
“I’m doing it to thank you for the honest advice,” Atsushi retorts, spinning away. “When I sign the contract with Akutagawa-sensei, I fully expect you to return the favor—” He feels a tap on his shoulder again and turns to Dazai, who looks inexplicably serious.
“You have a good heart. I’m not telling you this to sell your work short, but when I say I think you’ll be good for this job, that’s the first thing that comes to mind.”
Another week passes. The president calls him into the office with a contract Akutagawa has already put his name stamp on, accompanied by a short story he has recently written. He skims the contract first: six months, prioritizing Akutagawa’s work over other assignments (which would at most would be a handful since he’s still an intern). Then, he moves on to the attached document. Atsushi pretends to read it, but in truth, the writing has no bearing on his decision.
As if reading his mind, Natsume announces, “You already decided.”
Atsushi glances up. “Yeah, I did. And I already see the problem: there’s no passion behind these words.”
Natsume smiles. “I do wonder how Akutagawa-sensei will take that.”
“I dealt with all sorts of horrors in the orphanage,” he retorts, putting his name stamp on the contract next to Akutagawa’s. As the red ink dries, he caps his stamp and glances across the table. “I’m prepared to deal with him.”
Nodding, Natsume says, “This will take you right to the end of your internship.”
Atsushi nods.
“If I’m not mistaken, and I seldom am in matters like this, this contract will be your legacy here.”
“I understand, sir.” He bows, rises, and leaves the president’s office.
As soon as he reaches Dazai’s desk, he clears his throat and announces, “I’ll be taking that lunch now if you’re not busy.”
Of course, Dazai rises to oblige. He’ll use any excuse not to work.