Chapter Text
i.
The phone rings at 7:34am on his first day off in months, the sound sharp and grating as it echoes off the walls of Akutagawa’s apartment. The sun is streaking through the blinds, a striped gold pattern crawling across his bedsheets as if to further invade his space.
He drags a hand down his face, wincing as his thumb catches on a sore spot beneath his ear, a lingering phantom pain from a landed hit a few days prior. He rolls his jaw and sits up, pushing back the plush duvet and yanking the phone off his nightstand.
Chuuya’s number flashes up at him behind his cracked screen and he answers with a huff, bringing the device to his ear.
“What?”
Chuuya chuckles on the other end, derisive but not unkind. “Good morning to you too, hellhound. Vacation’s over. We’ve got a target that needs our attention.”
Akutagawa grits his teeth, reaching up to tug at his hair. “And you’re suddenly incapable of handling this alone because?”
The phone crackles as Chuuya scoffs. “Not up to me, kid. Boss’ orders.”
“Oh, who else?” Akutugawa sneers. “Can it at least be painful?”
“That’s the spirit,” Chuuya says, his grin looping irritatingly through his words. “Warehouse 17 down at the harbor, one hour. The back entrance.”
“Fine.”
He clicks the phone off before Chuuya can offer a sign off and tosses away the rest of his blankets, stalking across the room to his closet to retrieve his coat. His shirt and pants are left in a tangled pile at the foot of his bed, abandoned there the previous night in anticipation of a full day to himself. As he fastens the button on his pants, his eyes catch on a long white hair, caught near the seam. It’s too thick to be a human hair, and too short and pale to be his or Gin’s anyway.
The corner of his lip curls. Jinko.
The wretched cat must have shed on him during one of their more recent altercations. He plucks the hair away, cursing himself for failing to notice sooner. He doesn’t want Atsushi lingering on him any more than he already does.
He sweeps through the hall and past the kitchen, hardly in the mood for a meal. He rarely is, truthfully, but irritation only ever seems to lessen his hunger.
Luckily - for the rest of Yokohama, not necessarily for Akutagawa - his walk down to the harbor is undisturbed. It’s a rare warm morning for the season, the sky spotted over with just enough overcast to keep the city from overheating. The citizens avoid him as best they can, evidently not keen on a dark cloud ruining their sunny day.
It’s just as well. The last thing Akutagawa wants is interference. He tugs the collar of his coat closer, Rashomon simmering beneath his skin. He takes comfort in it, like always, although today perhaps there’s something bittersweet about it. If he’s going to have his day ruined, at least he won’t be alone in his misery. As Chuuya is often eager to remind him, such a thing loves company.
It’s still early when he reaches the warehouse, but Chuuya is already waiting. He’s leaning against the peeling steel wall, coat slung over his shoulders as he twists a bullet between his fingers. He flicks it up when he sees Akutagawa, letting it hover for a moment before dropping back into his palm and vanishing into his vest pocket.
“You’re early,” he remarks, flicking the brim of his hat in what can only be a greeting.
Akutagawa just stares. “Is that a problem?”
Chuuya tilts his head. “Depends. Did you eat something today?”
Akutagawa doesn’t answer, and Chuuya frowns. “Kid, c’mon - “
“Save it!” Akutagawa hisses, a cough tearing itself from his lungs a moment later. Chuuya stiffens, and his glare just deepens. He doesn’t care how well Chuuya means - he’s not in the mood to be coddled at the best of times, and this is hardly one of those. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Chuuya opens his mouth as though he’s going to protest and apparently thinks better of it, shrugging. “Have it your way, then.”
He reaches for the lock on the warehouse and it crumples like paper, the door swinging open on rusty hinges. It reeks of oil and fish on the inside, dented shipping crates stacked towards a drooping ceiling like the skyline of a filthy city.
Akutagawa slips inside and Chuuya follows, sealing the door behind them with another dent. They’re alone for now, but Chuuya still indicates their hiding place with a jerk of his head, a small opening between crates on the lefthand side. It should have been a tight squeeze, but between Akutagawa’s size and Chuuya’s height, they manage well enough.
Chuuya leans against the far crate, removing the bullet from his pocket and resuming his fiddling. “They’ve got a few weapon caches in the warehouses near this wharf. We just need to know which warehouses, then you’re free to dispose of them, not before. Got it?”
Akutagawa rolls his eyes. “You speak as if I’m too quick on the draw.”
Chuuya raises an eyebrow, a silent and grating affirmation, and Akutagwa just scoffs. The air in the warehouse is damp and sour, and he can already feel it prickling at his lungs. He tugs at the hem of his shirt to distract himself. “How long until they show their faces?”
Chuuya’s watch catches the light coming in through the upper windows, gray through the grime pasted to the glass. “Half an hour, give or take. Why, you need to use the bathroom?”
It takes everything in Akutagawa not to skewer the hat right off his coworker’s head. “Shut up.”
Chuuya chuckles instead. “Boy, remind me to tell the boss never to call you on your day off again. You’re pissier than Elise.”
“Do not bring up that devil to me right now,” Akutagawa snaps, and Chuuya raises his hands.
“Fine, fine. Something else you want to talk about, then? Like why you didn’t eat?”
Rashomon pierces the steel just left of Chuuya’s ear and the man’s nonchalant expression doesn’t twitch.
“I would greatly prefer silence, actually,” Akutagawa says. “I’ve heard meditation does wonders for one’s mental health.”
To his relief, Chuuya sighs, closing his eyes and tipping his head back against the crate. The bullet between his fingers flickers, and Akutagawa watches it with a dismissive sort of annoyance.
Their wait slips by blissfully quick, the sound of nearby dock work and the distant ocean their only accompaniment, and it’s not long before the front doors of the warehouse creak open, footsteps and the unmistakable rattle of firearms echoing in the space. Chuuya’s eyes snap open, titling his head as he listens.
“ - nighttime to transfer the larger crates,” a voice says, gruff and slow.
“Won’t it look more suspicious at night?” another voice asks.
“There won’t be anyone at night, idiot,” a third voice replies, thinner and higher than the first two. There’s a rattle somewhere, closer than all the voices.
Akutagawa holds up four fingers, and Chuuya nods.
“Fine, nighttime,” the second voice says. “Where are they comin’ from and where are they goin’?”
“12, 19, and 28,” the first voice says. “Think you can manage that many numbers?”
Someone scoffs. “Hilarious.”
“Great,” the third voice says, mirthless and cold. “And this doesn’t leave this warehouse until the deal’s done.”
Chuuya doesn’t have to say a word. One moment he’s standing in front of Akutagawa, listening with a keen gleam in his eyes, and the next he’s ten feet in the air, one heel braced on the edge of the highest shipping crate.
“You’re damn right it’s not leaving!” he crows, kicking hard. The crate flashes with energy and sails down, sinking into the concrete like it’s a mattress. The two men he crushes to bloody bits don’t even have time to scream.
Akutagawa darts out from behind the lower crate, face to face with one of the remaining man’s guns. He fires and Akutagawa ducks, the bullet grazing the shoulder of his coat. He rounds on the man, Rashomon reacting before he can fire again, spearing through his hand, fingers crumpling.
The man yells in pain, dropping the weapon with a clatter. He has a knife out a moment later, lunging. Akutagawa sweeps under the arc of his arms, tumbling and pushing himself to his feet with enough time to whip around and send Rashomon skewering through the man’s stomach. His cry splinters off into a wet, guttural groan as Rashomon flings him off against a wall where he sprawls near his gun, blood pooling beneath his mangled body, a near perfect match to the gaudy red jacket he’s wearing.
Behind Akutagawa, bones crack as Chuuya crushes something vital in their last opponent, and the warehouse is silent once again.
He reaches up to pick at the hole in his jacket, frowning. An easy enough repair, he’s certain, even as the sight unsettles him, the white of his blouse peering through black wool like the moon through dark clouds.
Near the entrance of the warehouse, someone claps.
Akutagawa whips around with a snarl, Rashomon flaring. Chuuya stops him in an instant, and he realizes why a moment later.
Dazai tucks his hands into his pockets, grinning so wide it looks painful. Worse still, Atsushi stands behind him, tugging at the hem of his glove.
“Oh, well done,” Dazai drawls, surveying the scene. “I hope you got everything you needed from them. I wouldn’t be surprised if you missed something, listening in from all the way down there.”
Chuuya snarls, folding his arms and marching towards the detectives. “Fuck off, bastard. Do you want my intel or not?”
Dazai leans down, shoulder hunched like a feline’s. “Well, we both know I won’t be begging for it.”
Akutagwa huffs. Some side deal with the ADA, then. He doesn’t know if Mori’s aware or not, and frankly he hardly cares. He doubts even someone like Mori could get between whatever Chuuya and Dazai have going on, once they’d made up their minds.
He lets them bicker, staring down Atsushi in the meantime. The light from outside silhouettes his form, a golden outline running along the white of his shirt and the silver of his hair. The corners of his eyes are folded in the irritating, permanent sort of concern he always seems to experience when he looks at Akutagawa, like he’s looking at something small and weak that needs help.
“Nice weather today,” he offers.
Akutagawa scoffs, shoving by him and into the fresh air of the dock. “Spare me your pitiful attempts at conversation, jinko.”
Atushi turns and frowns, brows pressing together over his iridescent eyes. “Well, sorry for being polite. Why do you have to do this every time?”
Akutagawa stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know. Why do you have to be so irritating in everything you do?”
Atsushi makes a sound that’s almost a snarl, shoulders tensing, the fur of his tiger form bristling beneath his skin. “You wanna do this now? We can - !”
By his ear, something moves. Rashomon rears, but it’s too late. A gunshot rings out and Atsushi yells, collapsing to his knees, hand clasped to his shoulder as blood seeps between his fingers, spilling across his shirt.
The man on the other end of the warehouse drops the gun again, his skull and brain reduced to a fine paste by a blast from Chuuya. Dazai is already at Atsushi’s side.
“Easy, kid,” he says, with a tenderness that makes Akutagawa sick. “Breathe.”
Atsushi puffs some hair from his eyes. “Easy for you to say.”
He glares up at Akutagawa. “I thought you got them all.”
“I did!” Akutagawa snaps.
“Apparently not!” Atsushi snaps back, trying to struggle out of Dazai’s grasp and to hit feet. Akutagawa braces himself, ready.
“Enough!” Chuuya yells, louder than both of them. “Get him out of here, asshole. We’ve wasted enough time.”
Dazai rolls his eyes, hauling Atsushi to his feet, one arm hooked under his shoulders. The bleeding already seems to have stymied, and Akutagawa looks away. He’ll live. He always does, regrettably.
Atsushi has no parting words for him, and soon it’s just him and Chuuya on the docks again, the bodies in the warehouse rotting behind them.
Chuuya adjusts his hat. “He’ll be fine, kid.”
Akutagawa spits. “As if I care.”
Chuuya gives him a knowing look that makes him want to put a hole between his eyes and shrugs. “Alright. Rest of the day’s yours, then. Enjoy it.”
“I won’t,” Akutagawa declares resolutely, and Chuuya just chuckles.
True to his word, he doesn’t. He runs errands until dusk, banal tasks that keep him just busy enough that he doesn’t consider hunting down some random annoyance and giving them an even worse day. Atsushi’s pained face flickers behind his eyes every now and then, and he dismisses it irritably.
He sews up the gash in his coat when he gets home in the evening before hanging it up, running a finger over the pucker and sighing.
He flicks off the lights and tugs on his sleeping clothes, crumpling onto the bed and closing his eyes. For the first time since he awoke, it’s finally silent.
The silence shatters only a moment later as his phone buzzes and he groans, cursing and snatching the thing. He clicks it on harshly, ready to silence it for as long as necessary if it means he can finally have a moment of peace. The hard lines of his expression soften a moment later in the screen’s reflection as he reads the notification. Gin train station, 8am. Their special assignment in Tokyo is finally over, he remembers.
He sets the phone aside, gentler this time. Something in his chest soothes itself, the text flickering behind his eyes like a heartbeat as he rolls over, tugging the covers up to his chin.
Outside, it starts to rain, a gentle patter against the glass of his window. The street lights glow, warm like a fireplace. Akutagawa closes his eyes, pressing his cheek into the pillow as sleep overtakes him.
ii.
The phone rings at 7:34am on his first day off in months, the sound sharp and grating as it echoes off the walls of Akutagawa’s apartment. The sun is streaking through the blinds, a striped gold pattern crawling across his bedsheets as if to further invade his space.
He drags a hand down his face, wincing as his thumb catches on a sore spot beneath his ear, a lingering phantom pain from a landed hit a few days prior. He rolls his jaw and sits up, pushing back the plush duvet and yanking the phone off his nightstand.
Chuuya’s number flashes up at him behind his cracked screen and he pauses, something flickering at the back of his mind. He shrugs it off and answers with a huff, bringing the device to his ear.
“Hello?”
Chuuya chuckles on the other end, derisive but not unkind. “Good morning. Hope you slept well, because your vacation’s over. We’ve got a target that needs our attention.”
Akutagawa frowns, reaching up to tug at his hair. He’d worked with Chuuya yesterday, hadn’t he? Not an uncommon occurence, of course. Perhaps he should really file for a proper vacation. “And this target is somehow too hard for you to handle all by yourself, why?”
The phone crackles as Chuuya scoffs. “Wasn’t up to me, kid. Boss’ orders.”
“Oh, who else?” Akutugawa sneers. “Can it at least be painful?”
“That’s the spirit,” Chuuya says, his grin looping irritatingly through his words. “Warehouse 17 down at the harbor, one hour. The back entrance.”
“Fine.”
He clicks the phone off before Chuuya can offer a goodbye and tosses away the rest of his blankets, stalking across the room to his closet to retrieve his coat. His shirt and pants are left in a tangled pile at the foot of his bed, abandoned there the previous night in anticipation of a full day to himself. He reaches for his pants and stops, spreading them out across his bed. He knows what he’s looking for as soon as he finds it, a long white hair, caught near the seam. It’s too thick to be a human hair, and too short and pale to be his or Gin’s anyway.
He sighs. Jinko.
The wretched cat must have shed on him during one of their more recent altercations. He plucks the hair away, irritated that he hadn’t noticed it sooner. He doesn’t want Atsushi lingering on him any more than he already does.
He sweeps through the hall and past the kitchen before pausing. He’s hardly in the mood for a meal - rarely is, truthfully - but something stops him, nagging at the back of his mind. He surrenders to it a moment later, tugging open one of the cabinets and retrieving a packet of the crackers Gin likes. There’s only three left in the box afterwards, and he makes a mental note to fetch more later. They’re too salty-sweet for him, but he eats them anyway, and it annoys him when he feels better, some distant pain fading away. He sets a kettle to boil and takes some tea, too, the blend Gin had bought to help with his lungs. The cup is warm between his fingers, the herbal mixture settling pleasantly in his stomach.
Luckily - for the rest of Yokohama, not necessarily for Akutagawa - his walk down to the harbor is undisturbed. It’s a rare warm streak for the season, the sky still spotted with just enough overcast to keep the city from sweltering. The citizens avoid him as best they can, evidently not keen on a dark cloud ruining their sunny day.
It’s just as well. The last thing Akutagawa wants is interference. He tugs the collar of his coat closer, Rashomon simmering beneath his skin. He takes comfort in it, like always, although today perhaps there’s something bittersweet about it. If he’s going to have his day ruined, at least he won’t be alone in his misery. As Chuuya is often eager to remind him, such a thing loves company.
He reaches the warehouse and Chuuya is waiting for him, squinting out onto the docks. He’s leaning against the peeling steel wall, coat slung over his shoulders as he twists a bullet between his fingers. He flicks it up when he sees Akutagawa, letting it hover for a moment before dropping back into his palm and vanishing into his vest pocket.
“There you are,” he remarks, flicking the brim of his hat in what can only be a greeting.
Akutagawa just stares. “Here I am.”
Chuuya tilts his head. “You alright? I expected you to be more…pissy about this whole thing.”
“Keep it up and I will be,” Akutagawa snaps. A cough prickles at his lungs but settles quickly. Maybe that tea wasn’t a complete hoax, after all. Chuuya just chuckles.
“Alright, alright,” he says, reaching for the lock on the warehouse. It crumples like paper beneath his ability, the door swinging open on rusty hinges. It reeks of oil and fish on the inside, dented shipping crates stacked towards a drooping ceiling like the skyline of a filthy city.
They slip inside and Chuuya seals the door behind them with another dent. They’re alone for now, but Akutagawa still hurries for their hiding place, a small, tucked away opening between crates on the lefthand side of the warehouse. It should have been a tight squeeze, but between Akutagawa’s size and Chuuya’s height, they manage well enough.
Chuuya leans against the far crate, removing the bullet from his pocket and resuming his fiddling. “They’ve got a few weapon caches in the warehouses near this wharf. We just need to know which warehouses, then you’re free to dispose of them, not before. Got it?”
Akutagawa rolls his eyes. “You speak as if I’m too quick on the draw.”
Chuuya raises an eyebrow, a silent and grating affirmation, and Akutagwa just scoffs. The air in the warehouse is damp and sour, but his lungs aren’t protesting the way they usually do. “How long until they show their faces? Half an hour?”
Chuuya’s watch catches the light coming in through the upper windows, gray through the grime pasted to the glass. “More like five minutes, give or take. Why, you need to use the bathroom?”
It takes everything in Akutagawa not to skewer the hat right off his coworker’s head. “Shut up.”
Chuuya chuckles instead. “Boy, remind me to tell the boss never to call you on your day off again. You’re pissier than Elise.”
“Do not bring up that devil to me right now,” Akutagawa snaps, and Chuuya raises his hands.
“Fine, fine. Something else you want to talk about, then?”
Akutagawa bristles. “I would greatly prefer silence, actually. I’ve heard meditation does wonders for one’s mental health.”
Chuuya opens his mouth to reply, but he’s interrupted by the front doors of the warehouse creaking open, footsteps and the unmistakable rattle of firearms echoing in the space. His lips snap together, tilting his head as he listens.
“ - nighttime to transfer the larger crates,” a voice says, gruff and slow.
“Won’t it look more suspicious at night?” another voice asks.
Akutagawa holds up four fingers, and Chuuya blinks.
“There won’t be anyone at night, idiot,” a third voice replies, thinner and higher than the first two. There’s a rattle somewhere, closer than all the voices. Chuuya’s expression clears and he nods at Akutagawa’s signal, brows arching in an impressed expression. Akutagwa’s impressed with himself, too.
“Fine, nighttime,” the second voice says. “Where are they comin’ from and where are they goin’?”
“12, 19, and 28,” the first voice says. “Think you can manage that many numbers?”
Someone scoffs. “Hilarious.”
“Great,” the third voice says, mirthless and cold. “And this doesn’t leave this warehouse until the deal’s done.”
Akutagawa braces, and Chuuya grins. One moment he’s standing in front of Akutagawa, listening with a keen gleam in his eyes, and the next he’s ten feet in the air, one heel braced on the edge of the highest shipping crate.
“You’re damn right it’s not leaving!” he crows, kicking hard. The crate flashes with energy and sails down, sinking into the concrete like it’s a mattress. The two men he crushes to bloody bits don’t even have time to scream.
Akutagawa darts out from behind the lower crate, face to face with one of the remaining man’s guns. Rashomon reacts before he can fire, spearing through his hand, fingers crumpling.
The man yells in pain, dropping the weapon with a clatter. He reaches for a knife and Rashomon catches his shoulder before he can get it out. His cry of pain splinters off into a wet, gutteral groan as another trendil of Rashomon splices through his stomach before flinging him off against a wall where he sprawls near his gun, blood pooling beneath his mangled body, an uncanny match to the gaudy red jacket he’s wearing.
Akutagwa turns in time to see their last opponent’s ribcage crumple inwards with a twist of Chuuya’s fist, lungs flattened too quickly for them to make a sound. The warehouse is silent again afterwards.
Akutagawa reaches up to rub at his shoulder, fingers catching on the wool as he turns back to look at the man in red. He stares glassy eyed up at the ceiling, unmoving.
Near the entrance of the warehouse, someone claps.
Akutagawa whips around with a snarl, Rashomon flaring. Chuuya stops him in an instant, and he realizes why a moment later.
Dazai tucks his hands into his pockets, grinning so wide it looks painful. Worse still, Atsushi stands behind him, tugging at the hem of his glove.
“Oh, well done,” Dazai drawls, surveying the scene. “I hope you got everything you needed from them. I wouldn’t be surprised if you missed something, listening in from all the way down there.”
Chuuya snarls, folding his arms and marching towards the detectives. “Fuck off, bastard. Do you want my intel or not?”
Dazai leans down, shoulder hunched like a feline’s. “Well, we both know I won’t be begging for it.”
Akutagawa stops, blinking. He’s not surprised Chuuya has some side deal with Dazai. He doesn’t know if Mori’s aware or not, and frankly he hardly cares. He doubts even someone like Mori could get between whatever Chuuya and Dazai have going on, once they’d made up their minds. It’s just strange, because he’s almost certain they’ve talked about this before.
It seems impossible. He’d remember seeing Dazai so recently.
He glances at Atsushi in the meantime, frowning. The light from outside silhouettes his form, a golden outline running along the white of his shirt and the silver of his hair. The corners of his eyes are folded in the irritating, permanent sort of concern he always seems to experience when he looks at Akutagawa, like he’s looking at something that needs his help.
“Nice weather today,” he offers.
Akutagawa sighs, brushing by him and into the fresh air of the dock. “Spare me your pitiful attempts at conversation, jinko.”
Atushi turns and frowns, brows pressing together over his iridescent eyes. “Well, sorry for being polite. Why do you have to do this every time?”
Akutagawa stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know. Why do you have to be so irritating in - ?”
He stops, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as he whips around.
“Get down!”
Atsushi makes a sound that’s almost a snarl, shoulders tensing, the fur of his tiger form bristling beneath his skin. “You think you can - ?”
By his ear, something moves, and Akutagawa lunges. They both tumble to the dirty concrete with a thud as a gunshot rings out, echoing in the empty warehouse.
The man on the other end of the warehouse drops the gun again, his skull and brain reduced to a fine paste by a blast from Chuuya. Akutagwa groans, head falling back against the concrete. In their tumble, Atsushi had reacted, managing to flip them over so he’s hovering over him, hands braced on either side of Akutagawa’s head, the long silver lock of his hair hanging down between them.
”Thanks,” he says, and Akutagawa sneers.
“Get off me!”
He shoves and Atsushi lands on his side with a wince. He struggles to his feet after Akutagawa as he brushes grime off his coat. “You’re so fucking impossible!”
Akutagawa rolls his eyes. “And you’re idiotic.”
“Oh, am I?” Atsushi asks, folding his arms, leaning close. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, boyish and charming as Akutagawa leans away. “Why’d you save me, then?”
Rashomon flares, and Chuuya steps between them, hands out like he’s taming wild beasts. “Enough!”
He glares at a smirking Dazai. “Both of you, get out of here. We’ve wasted enough time.”
Dazai rolls his eyes, slinging an arm over Atsushi’s shoulder and wheeling him away, teeth still bared. “See you next time, boys.”
Akutagawa watches Atsushi go, something like relief festering in his chest. Soon it’s just him and Chuuya on the docks again, the bodies in the warehouse rotting behind them.
Chuuya adjusts his hat, watching him out of the corner of his eye. “That was impressive, kid. I’m surprised you stuck your neck out for him like that.”
Akutagawa spits. “It won’t happen again.”
Chuuya gives him a knowing look that makes him want to put a hole between his eyes and shrugs. “Alright, sure. Well, rest of the day’s yours now. Enjoy it.”
“I won’t,” Akutagawa declares resolutely, and Chuuya just chuckles.
True to his word, he doesn’t. He runs errands until dusk, banal tasks that keep him just busy enough, including a new packet of crackers for Gin. Atsushi’s smirk flickers behind his eyes every now and then, and he dismisses it irritably.
He hangs up his coat beside his bed, running a hand down the sleeve before flicking off the lights and tugging on his sleeping clothes. The bed creaks as he crumples into it, closing his eyes. For the first time since he awoke, it’s finally silent.
The silence shatters only a moment later as his phone buzzes and he groans, cursing and snatching the thing. He clicks it on harshly, ready to silence it for as long as necessary if it means he can finally have a moment of peace. The hard lines of his expression soften a moment later in the screen’s reflection as he reads the notification. Gin train station, 8am. Their special assignment in Tokyo is finally over, he remembers. It’s been too long since he’s seen them. Far too long.
He sits up a little too quickly and sets the phone aside, gentler this time.
No, it couldn’t be. It’s absurd. He reaches into his nightstand drawer anyway, retrieving a pen and a scrap notebook sheaf. He scribbles the reminder on it, leaving it on top of his phone. It will be there tomorrow, just in case. If he missed something.
He settles back into his sheets and rolls over, tugging the covers up to his chin.
Outside, it starts to rain, a gentle patter against the glass of his window. The street lights glow, warm like a fireplace. Akutagawa closes his eyes, pressing his cheek into the pillow as sleep overtakes him.
iii.
His phone rings at 7:34am, the sound sharp and grating as it echoes off the walls of his apartment.
Akutagawa sits bolt upright, jaw twinging. The sun is streaking through the blinds, a striped gold pattern crawling forebodingly across his bedsheets as if to further invade his space.
No. No, no, no.
He shoves back his covers and looks at his phone. The note is gone, and he seizes the device, already knowing what he’s about to see.
Sure enough, Chuuya’s number flashes up at him behind his cracked screen. His fingers shake in spite of himself and he answers, bringing the phone to his ear.
“Yes?”
Chuuya chuckles on the other end, derisive but not unkind. “Good morning. Hope you slept well, because your vacation’s over. We’ve got a target that needs our attention.”
Akutagawa takes a shaking breath, reaching up to tug at his hair. “Let me guess. Warehouse, down at the harbor?”
The line goes silent for a moment before Chuuya responds. “Boss already call you, then?”
Akutagawa grips at the edge of his mattress. He refuses to believe it. Not without proof. “Something like that. I’ll meet you in an hour.”
“Easy, kid,” Chuuya says. “I haven’t told you where.”
“Warehouse 17, I got it,” Akutagawa snaps, his voice rough with irritation. He clicks the phone off before Chuuya can respond and pushes himself out of bed, stalking across the room to his closet to retrieve his coat. His shirt and pants are left in a tangled pile at the foot of his bed, abandoned there the previous night in anticipation of a full day to himself. He tosses his pants out across his bed, plucking away the hair that waits for him there, long, white, too thick to be a human‘s.
Jinko.
He peels the hair off carefully, something strange and fond curling in his throat at the sight of it in his palm. It flutters to the ground a moment later as he tries to shove the feeling aside. He already fears he’s going mad. The last thing he needs is Atsushi lingering on him any more than he already does.
He sweeps through the hall and past the kitchen before pausing. It hardly seems like the time for breakfast, not when he might have a much bigger problem, but having something in his stomach had made everything yesterday - was it? - a bit more bearable, as loathe as he is to admit it. He makes miso and rice from a packet, sets a kettle to boil for tea. When he opens the cabinet to retrieve the mixture, he sees Gin’s crackers, four bright packages tucked away in the shadows.
He swallows hard, and breakfast doesn’t go down easy.
He stalks through the city to the warehouse at a brisk pace, the warm day glaring down at him, seeping hot into his coat. The citizens avoid him as best they can, evidently not keen on a dark cloud ruining their sunny day.
It’s just as well. The last thing Akutagawa wants is interference. He tugs the collar of his coat closer, Rashomon simmering beneath his skin. He’s glad to have it still, at least. Whatever is going on, he won’t be alone to face it. As Chuuya is often eager to remind him, misery loves company.
He reaches the warehouse in record time and Chuuya is waiting for him, squinting out onto the docks. He’s leaning against the peeling steel wall, coat slung over his shoulders as he twists a bullet between his fingers. He flicks it up when he sees Akutagawa, letting it hover for a moment before dropping back into his palm and vanishing into his vest pocket.
“There you are,” he remarks, flicking the brim of his hat in what can only be a greeting.
Akutagawa just stares. “Let’s go.”
Chuuya tilts his head. “You alright? I expected you to be more…pissy about this whole thing.”
“I’ve got other things to worry about,” Akutagawa snaps. A cough prickles at his lungs afterwards but settles quickly. Maybe he’ll make the tea a regular morning occurrence. Chuuya just chuckles.
“Alright, alright,” he says, reaching for the lock on the warehouse. It crumples like paper beneath his ability, the door swinging open on rusty hinges. The familiar scent of oil and fish scrapes over them, the dented shipping crates stacked towards a drooping ceiling inside like the jagged teeth of a horrible monster.
Akutagawa hurries for their hiding place, the small, tucked away opening between crates on the lefthand side of the warehouse, as Chuuya seals the door behind them with another dent.
They fit easily in the nook. Of course they fit. They always fit.
Chuuya leans against the far crate, removing the bullet from his pocket and resuming his fiddling. He opens his mouth and Akutagwa interrupts him.
“Weapon caches, right?” he says, and Chuuya’s brows shoot up behind the auburn fringe of his hair. “Some warehouses along the wharf?”
“Yeah,” Chuuya says, eyes narrowing. “Guess Boss briefed you, too. Just as well, saves me the time.”
Akutagawa wets his lips. “It’s warehouses 12, 19, and 28. They have the caches.”
Chuuya scoffs. “How the hell do you figure that?”
Akutagawa sighs. The air in the warehouse is damp and sour, but his lungs still aren’t protesting the way they usually do. “I’m right. You’ll see.”
His companion blinks, clearly not believing him. He flicks his sleeve back to look at his watch, and the gold of the piece catches the light coming in through the upper windows, gray through the grime pasted to the glass. “Look, kid, they’ll be here any minute. Something you wanna tell me in the meantime?”
Akutagawa bristles. “I would greatly prefer silence, actually. I’ve heard meditation does wonders for one’s mental health.”
Chuuya opens his mouth to reply, but he’s interrupted by the front doors of the warehouse creaking open, footsteps and the unmistakable rattle of firearms echoing in the space. His lips snap together, tilting his head as he listens.
Akutagawa holds up four fingers, and Chuuya looks at him, baffled.
“ - nighttime to transfer the larger crates,” a voice says, gruff and slow.
“Won’t it look more suspicious at night?” another voice asks.
“There won’t be anyone at night, idiot,” a third voice replies, thinner and higher than the first two. There’s a rattle somewhere, closer than all the voices.
Chuuya blinks once, twice, three times. Akutagawa can almost hear the gears turning in his head, running the numbers again and again. He reaches the same conclusion each time, eyes wide as he stares at Akutagawa. There’s no denying it. Four people, and Akutagawa had known before the first one even spoke.
“Fine, nighttime,” the second voice says. “Where are they comin’ from and where are they goin’?”
“12, 19, and 28,” the first voice says. “Think you can manage that many numbers?”
Someone scoffs. “Hilarious.”
“Great,” the third voice says, mirthless and cold. “And this doesn’t leave this warehouse until the deal’s done.”
Akutagawa braces, and Chuuya grins. One moment he’s standing in front of Akutagawa, listening with a keen gleam in his eyes, and the next he’s ten feet in the air, one heel braced on the edge of the highest shipping crate.
“You’re damn right it’s not leaving!” he crows, kicking hard. The crate flashes with energy and sails down, sinking into the concrete like it’s a mattress. The two men he crushes to bloody bits don’t even have time to scream.
Akutagawa darts out from behind the lower crate, spearing his opponent through the stomach before he can even fire. The man’s cry of pain splinters off into a wet, gutteral groan as blood pours up from his throat and down his chin, Rashomon flinging him off against a wall where he sprawls on the floor, blood pooling beneath his mangled body, an uncanny match to the gaudy red jacket he’s wearing.
Akutagwa turns, watching as their last opponent lunges for Chuuya, knife in hand. Chuuya leaps easily, sailing overhead with a cackle before reaching out, landing neatly and curling his fist. The woman’s rib cage crumples inwards at the blast and she collapses, lungs flattened too quickly for her to make a sound. The warehouse is silent again afterwards.
Akutagawa reaches up to rub at his shoulder, fingers catching on the wool. “And now we wait for Dazai, yes?”
Chuuya freezes. “What the fuck?”
Dazai appears behind him a moment later, clapping before tucking his hands into his pockets, grinning so wide it looks painful. Atsushi’s with him, tugging at the hem of his glove. Akutagawa’s almost relieved to see him. He refuses to think about why.
“Oh, well done,” Dazai drawls, surveying the scene. “I hope you got everything you needed from them. I wouldn’t be surprised if you missed something, listening in from all the way down there.”
Chuuya snarls, folding his arms and marching towards the detectives. “Fuck off, bastard. Did you tell him we were meeting?”
Dazai frowns, cocking his head, eyes flickering to Akutagawa for a brief moment. “No. Why would I have done that, sweetheart?”
Chuuya scoffs. “Don’t ‘sweetheart’ me, you’re lying!”
Their bickering fades as Akutagawa looks at Atsushi. The light from outside silhouettes his form, a golden outline running along the white of his shirt and the silver of his hair. The corners of his eyes are folded in the familiar, permanent sort of concern he always seems to experience when he looks at Akutagawa, like he’s looking at something that needs his help.
“Nice weather today,” he offers.
Akutagawa says nothing, just brushes by him and into the fresh air of the dock. “Yes, lovely.”
Atushi turns and frowns, brows pressing together over his iridescent eyes. “That was less…irritable, than I expected. Is everything okay?”
Akutagawa stuffs his hands into his pockets, bristling. It can’t be true. “Everything is fine, jinko.”
He stops, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as he whips around.
He doesn’t bother to say anything this time, just lunging. Atsushi yelps in surprise and they both tumble to the dirty concrete with a thud as a gunshot rings out, echoing in the empty warehouse.
The man on the other end of the warehouse drops his gun again, his skull and brain reduced to a fine paste by a blast from Chuuya. Akutagwa groans, head falling back against the concrete. In their tumble, Atsushi had reacted, managing to flip them over so he’s hovering over him, hands braced on either side of Akutagawa’s head, the long silver lock of his hair hanging down between them.
“Thanks,” he says, and Akutagawa’s head spins.
“Get off me!”
He shoves and Atsushi lands on his side with a wince. He struggles to his feet after Akutagawa as he brushes grime off his coat. “You’re so fucking impossible!”
Akutagawa turns away, squeezing his eyes so tight that colors flicker behind his vision. “Shut up. Shut up!”
Atsushi circles around him, folding his arms, leaning close. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, boyish and charming as Akutagawa leans away, heart pounding up his throat. “You just saved my life, Akutagawa. Why?”
Rashomon flares, and Chuuya steps between them, hands out like he’s taming wild beasts. “Enough!”
He glares at a smirking Dazai. “Both of you, get out of here. We’ve wasted enough time. And don’t fucking go behind my back next time!”
Dazai rolls his eyes, slinging an arm over Atsushi’s shoulder and wheeling him away. “See you next time, boys.”
“Wait, Dazai,” Atsushi says, looking over his shoulder. His eyes meet Akutagawa’s and Akutagawa almost agrees with him. Wait. Help me.
Dazai chuckles. “They’ve got this, kid. C’mon, you’ve got paperwork to do.”
“It’s your paperwork!”
Akutagawa's chest twists as they go. He sways on his feet, the world wavering around him. It’s just him and Chuuya on the docks again, the bodies in the warehouse rotting behind them.
Chuuya adjusts his hat, watching him out of the corner of his eye. “That was…uncanny, kid. What the fuck is going on?”
Akutagawa wets his lips. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
Chuuya gives him a look he doesn’t know how to decipher and sighs. “Alright, sure. Well, rest of the day’s yours now. Enjoy it.”
“Thanks,” Akutagawa says, his mind a million miles away, and Chuuya blinks in surprise. His fingers brush over Akutagawa’s shoulder, an echo of a farewell.
He runs his errands until dusk, methodical and robotic, the banal tasks keeping him just busy enough that he doesn’t spiral into a wretched, snarling panic. Atsushi’s eyes flicker in his mind every now and then and he dismisses the memory, heart writhing.
He hangs up his coat beside his bed, running a hand down the sleeve before flicking off the lights and tugging on his sleeping clothes. The bed creaks as he crumples into it, closing his eyes. For the first time since he awoke, it’s finally silent.
The silence shatters only a moment later as his phone buzzes and he reaches for it with shaking fingers, the notification bittersweet as it greets him. Gin train station, 8am.
He doesn’t know if Gin would know what to do. He just knows he wishes they were here.
He sets the phone aside, gentler this time. Maybe it’s all a bad dream. Maybe he’ll wake up and it will be tomorrow, and everything can go back to normal.
He settles back into his sheets and rolls over, tugging the covers up to his chin.
Outside, it starts to rain, a gentle patter against the glass of his window. The street lights glow, warm like a fireplace. Akutagawa closes his eyes, pressing his cheek into the pillow as he sinks into a fitful sleep.