Super short and sweet, written on my phone at lunch, contribution for Akutagawa's bday!
Akutagawa wakes up and already feels a headache pulsing at his temple.
Outside his bedroom, he can hear the organized mess of people who cannot manage to keep things a surprise if their lives counted on it. Someone shuffles. Someone else drops something. Higuchi fusses over somethinf he can't make out and Gin probably comes to her rescue. Someone yelps. Nakahara’s voice hisses, “Keep it down, dumbass, you're gonna wake him!” to which Tachihara's voice says, slightly quieter, “you're one to talk.” This is followed by more shuffling noises, a loud clang, and then Nakahara telling Hirotsu sorry.
Sighing, Akutagawa pushes himself out of bed. If the smell of something burning is anything to go off of, whatever is about to happen is inevitable.
Truly, he's surrounded by idiots.
Akutagawa opens his door and hears muffled voices and shushing noises as if they haven't already given themselves away.
Still, when he turns the corner and the five of them jump out with a destroyed looking cake, screaming “surprise!” Akutagawa can't help but smile.
~
After a long day of forced festivities, Akutagawa sits at the pier.
It was a fun day, he'll admit, even begrudgingly. It was a lot, though, very loud and busy. Now, he stares at his hand, wonders how those around him can hold onto him without being covered in death and blood. Were his hands made for such things? Wasn't the reason to live he was given built on destruction?
The sound of pounding footsteps draws his attention and he tenses.
“Akutu—” the voice stops next to him, panting.
Akutagawa looks over and blinks in surprise. Atsushi is there, doubled over, breathing hard. “Weretiger, why are you here?”
“I heard—” he stays bent, but looks up with a smile. A blinding, pure smile that threatens to eat Akutagawa whole. “I heard it was your birthday! I didn't want to miss it.”
Something seizes in Akutagawa’s chest. “You ran all the way here for that?”
“Yep!” Atsushi straightens and Akutagawa isn't sure that the red on his cheeks is just from exertion. He reaches into his pocket and then holds something out, eyes slipping shut as his smile grows impossibly gentle. “Happy birthday, Akutagawa.”
Akutagawa blinks at Atsushi's hands. Held out toward him is a small, travel size sewing repair kit.
Before he can say anything, Atsushi begins to ramble. “Just in case... you know what if your jacket gets torn and it messes with Rashomon. Though I guess the ability would fix it. But anyway, Kyoka said that this would probably help you out and I know you hate asking for help so—”
“Thank you,” Akutagawa says.
Atsushi shuts up quick. His head tilts to the side like he can't process what Akutagawa said.
“I won't be repeating myself,” Akutagawa mutters, feeling his face heat up. He grabs the kit from Atsushi's hands and if he lingers there, who's to say?
Afterall, in Atsushi's hands, Akutagawa's feel less tainted.
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Here's the thing.
Akutagawa wears Dazai's coat, and to me, that is a physical representation of the darkness Akutagawa inherited from him. The chains that Dazai freed himself from by leaving the mafia, but also the ones he placed on Akutagawa. That same darkness that Akutagawa shoulders much better than Dazai ever did; he doesn't get lost inside it, and it doesn't swallow him alive, because if Akutagawa is anything, he is a survivor. He has an indomitable spirit; even as life has done its best to beat him down and keep him there, Akutagawa has come right back up, fierce and teeth baring.
But here's the thing...when he fought in that boat, when he outdid a man who literally could manipulate time and space in order to save Atsushi–
Akutagawa was only in his white dress shirt. He fought to the best of his ability, making his own decisions about his fate, and that particular decision was to protect the life of his rival. It was to sacrifice himself to do this one good thing.
No mission. No obligation. No mistake.
There was no coat. No chains. Only him.
Only the person he truly is.
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all of my dreams are in color
His hand is the brush now, his blood the ink. He drags his injury across the canvas, spreading it haphazardly across the weretiger’s scattered limbs.
It stings, not a lot, but enough, and for a moment, Ryuunosuke thinks he feels human again.
Yes, blood is a fine substitute for ink.
[or, akutagawa paints the weretiger and reflects]
🖌2,400 words | akutagawa-centric, sskk🖌
🖌a birthday present for @ryuvnosuke <3🖌
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