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The warehouse began collapsing at precisely eleven forty-six.
Atsushi knew the time because he was looking directly at his watch when the ceiling cracked above them.
“Akutagawa!”
Rashoumon tore through the falling support beam before it could crush them. Splintered wood scattered across the floor, forcing Atsushi to throw an arm over the terrified child clinging to his side.
“I am occupied,” Akutagawa snapped.
“I noticed!”
Gunfire rang from the walkway overhead.
Atsushi twisted, shielding the child as bullets ripped through the back of his coat. They struck his transformed skin and fell harmlessly to the floor.
Mostly harmlessly.
One grazed his shoulder deeply enough to make him hiss.
Akutagawa’s eyes flashed.
Rashoumon surged upward with enough violence to tear the metal walkway from the warehouse wall.
“Not the entire building!” Atsushi shouted.
“Then remove the hostages faster.”
“There are six of them!”
“And you possess two arms. Adapt.”
“You could help!”
“I am helping.”
“You’re destroying everything!”
“The criminals are inside everything.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
Another explosion cut him off.
Atsushi stared at the fire spreading across the far wall.
Akutagawa stared back.
“You did not do that,” he said.
“Why would you immediately assume it was me?”
“You are catastrophically incompetent.”
“You tried to cut a bomb in half twenty minutes ago!”
“It stopped counting down.”
“Because you broke the display!”
“It did not explode.”
A second explosion shook the warehouse.
Akutagawa glanced toward the flames. “That one was also not mine.”
“I’m going to kill you myself.”
“Get in line.”
Despite the smoke burning his throat, Atsushi laughed.
Akutagawa looked at him as if he had finally lost his mind.
Maybe he had.
They had been trapped in the warehouse for forty-seven minutes, pursued across three levels by armed smugglers while trying to rescue six abducted ability users. One of the children had bitten Atsushi. Another had thrown a chair at Akutagawa. The smuggling ring’s leader had escaped through an underground tunnel, and their extraction route was currently on fire.
It was going considerably better than most of their missions together.
Atsushi tightened his grip on the child. “Can you clear the east exit?”
“I can clear every exit.”
“Without bringing the ceiling down.”
Akutagawa’s expression soured.
“That was an instruction,” Atsushi added.
“I do not accept instructions from you.”
“Would you accept a polite request?”
“No.”
“A bribe?”
“With what money?”
Atsushi opened his mouth, then closed it.
“Exactly,” Akutagawa said.
Rashoumon shot across the warehouse, slicing through the debris blocking the east doors. Cool night air rushed through the opening.
The surviving smugglers raised their weapons.
Akutagawa stepped between them and Atsushi.
His coat spread behind him like enormous black wings, blotting out the firelight.
“Leave,” he commanded.
Atsushi gathered the children and ran.
He made it fifteen steps before he heard Akutagawa cough.
It was a quiet sound, almost lost beneath the gunfire.
Atsushi stopped anyway.
He hated that he always noticed.
“Keep going,” he told the oldest child. “The police are outside. Don’t stop until you reach them.”
“What about you?”
“I have to collect something.”
Akutagawa would have stabbed him for that description. The thought was strangely comforting.
Atsushi turned and sprinted back into the flames.
By the time he reached Akutagawa, the remaining smugglers were unconscious. Some of them were even breathing.
Akutagawa stood in the center of the warehouse with one hand pressed against his side. Blood slipped between his fingers.
“You’re hurt.”
“A remarkable observation.”
“What happened?”
“One of them possessed an ability that allowed him to conceal weapons.”
“You didn’t notice the knife?”
“He concealed it.”
“He stabbed you from the front!”
“Your concern is irritating.”
“So is your face.”
Atsushi caught him around the waist before his knees could buckle.
Akutagawa stiffened. “Release me.”
“No.”
“I am capable of walking.”
“Then why aren’t you doing it?”
“I am conserving energy.”
“Of course you are.”
Akutagawa attempted to push him away. The movement only opened the wound further, spilling fresh blood down his shirt.
Atsushi’s stomach twisted.
“Stop moving,” he ordered.
“Do not presume—”
The building groaned around them.
Atsushi lifted him.
For three stunned seconds, Akutagawa said nothing.
Then Rashoumon erupted.
“Put me down!”
“No!”
“I will dismember you!”
“You can dismember me outside!”
“You insufferable—”
Part of the ceiling collapsed behind them.
Atsushi ran faster.
“You’re bleeding on my floor.”
Akutagawa looked down at the thin streak of red winding around his wrist, then back at Atsushi with an expression of profound indifference.
“It is not your floor.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“It is the Armed Detective Agency’s floor.”
“That’s even worse.”
Atsushi locked the infirmary door before Akutagawa could decide that collapsing dramatically in an alley was preferable to accepting help.
Everyone else was still downstairs handling the police, the hostages, and the remains of the smuggling operation. Yosano had accompanied one of the injured children to the hospital, leaving Atsushi with strict instructions to clean their wounds and refrain from causing any more structural damage.
She had looked directly at Akutagawa during the last part.
Akutagawa sat rigidly on the examination table, his coat gathered around him like a hostile shadow.
“Take off your shirt,” Atsushi said.
“No.”
“I need to see the wound.”
“You saw it earlier.”
“It was dark, the warehouse was collapsing, and you were threatening to remove my internal organs.”
“I remain willing.”
“Take off the shirt.”
Akutagawa raised one eyebrow. “You have become unusually commanding.”
Atsushi felt heat creep up his neck. “This is medical.”
“Of course.”
“Why did you say it like that?”
“I said nothing.”
“You said it sarcastically.”
“I said two words.”
“They were sarcastic words.”
Atsushi turned toward the cabinet before Akutagawa could see his face. He began gathering antiseptic, gauze, bandages, and anything else that might keep his hands occupied.
Fabric rustled behind him.
When Atsushi turned back, his mind stopped functioning.
Akutagawa had shrugged his coat from his shoulders. His shirt hung open, several buttons having been lost during the fight. Pale skin stretched over the sharp lines of his chest and abdomen, marked by a history of scars.
Some Atsushi recognized.
Others he didn’t.
Atsushi wondered how many wounds Akutagawa had treated alone. How many times he had dismissed his own pain because nobody had ever taught him that surviving something did not make it insignificant.
“Have you forgotten how bandages work?” Akutagawa asked.
“No.”
“You are staring.”
“I’m assessing the injury.”
“My injury is lower.”
Atsushi’s gaze betrayed him before he could stop it.
The stab wound cut across Akutagawa’s side, narrowly missing anything vital. It was ugly but shallow, exactly as Akutagawa had claimed.
That did not explain why Akutagawa’s mouth had curved into the faintest suggestion of a smirk.
“You did that on purpose,” Atsushi accused.
“Prove it.”
Atsushi soaked a cloth in antiseptic and pressed it against the wound with considerably less gentleness than necessary.
Akutagawa hissed. Rashoumon rose behind him.
“Try it,” Atsushi said. “I’ll make you bandage yourself.”
The black tendrils hovered.
Then, slowly, they sank back into Akutagawa’s discarded coat.
Atsushi should have felt victorious. Instead, he became acutely aware of where he was standing.
Between Akutagawa’s knees.
One of Atsushi’s hands rested on the examination table beside Akutagawa’s hip. The other was pressed against his bare side. Akutagawa’s skin was cool beneath his palm, except around the wound where it burned with angry heat.
Atsushi swallowed.
Akutagawa watched him.
“What?” Atsushi asked.
“You are trembling.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I’m tired.”
“A poor lie.”
Atsushi focused on cleaning the wound. “You lost a lot of blood.”
“I have lost more.”
“That doesn’t make this fine.”
“You worry excessively.”
“And you don’t worry enough.”
Akutagawa’s gaze dropped to the claw marks visible beneath the torn shoulder of Atsushi’s shirt.
“You are also injured.”
“I heal.”
“That does not make it fine.”
Atsushi stopped.
Akutagawa seemed to realize what he had said. His expression closed immediately.
“Was that concern?” Atsushi asked.
“No.”
“It sounded like concern.”
“Your hearing was damaged in the explosion.”
“You came back for me.”
“You were blocking my escape route.”
“You stepped in front of those bullets.”
“They could not harm Rashoumon.”
“But they could hurt me.”
Akutagawa’s jaw tightened.
Atsushi set the bloodied cloth aside.
“You always do that,” he said quietly.
“Do what?”
“Act like every decent thing you do was an accident.”
“I do not perform decent acts.”
“You protected those kids.”
“They were necessary to the mission.”
“You protected me.”
“You are necessary to Dazai-san’s plan.”
Atsushi tried not to flinch.
It was ridiculous that Akutagawa could still do that—invoke Dazai’s name like a weapon and leave Atsushi feeling like the unwanted orphan he had once been.
“Right,” Atsushi said. “Of course.”
He reached for the bandages.
Akutagawa caught his wrist.
Atsushi looked down at his fingers, then up at his face.
“You misunderstand,” Akutagawa said.
“Then explain it.”
Silence.
Atsushi waited.
Akutagawa stared at him with the distinct resentment of a man being forced to translate his emotions into language.
“Dazai-san’s plan,” he finally said, “would be inconvenienced by your death.”
“Wow. I feel much better.”
“I was not finished.”
Atsushi closed his mouth.
Akutagawa’s grip loosened, though he did not release him.
“His plan would survive,” he continued. “As would the Agency. As would the city.”
“But?”
The word barely escaped Atsushi’s throat.
Akutagawa’s thumb moved once against the inside of his wrist.
“I am uncertain that I would.”
The room went silent.
All of Atsushi’s anger vanished so quickly it left him unsteady.
Akutagawa looked away, evidently deciding that the opposite wall was less threatening than Atsushi’s expression.
“You can’t say something like that and then refuse to look at me,” Atsushi whispered.
“I just did.”
“Akutagawa.”
“What?”
Atsushi placed two fingers beneath his chin and turned his face back.
Akutagawa could have stopped him. Rashoumon could have torn through Atsushi’s arm before he completed the movement.
He allowed it.
Atsushi’s heart slammed painfully against his ribs.
“You hate me,” he said.
“Often.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It is the only one you deserve.”
“But not always?”
Akutagawa watched him with the same terrible concentration he brought to battle—as though Atsushi were another puzzle to solve, another opponent whose defenses he intended to dismantle.
“I find you loud,” Akutagawa said.
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“Naive.”
“Akutagawa.”
“Reckless. Irritating. Sanctimonious.”
“Anything else?”
Akutagawa’s gaze fell to Atsushi’s mouth.
“Beautiful.”
Atsushi forgot how to breathe.
Akutagawa appeared equally surprised by the admission.
For once, neither of them had an insult ready.
Atsushi curled his fingers against Akutagawa’s waist.
Akutagawa went perfectly still.
“Tell me to move,” Atsushi said.
“I will not.”
“Tell me this is only another fight.”
“No.”
Atsushi leaned closer. “Tell me you don’t want me to kiss you.”
Akutagawa caught the front of his shirt and dragged him forward.
Their mouths met like the beginning of another battle.
The first kiss was all teeth, anger, and wounded pride. Atsushi gripped the table hard enough to bend the edge beneath his fingers. Akutagawa pulled him closer until no space remained between them, one cold hand sliding around the back of his neck.
Atsushi had imagined this before.
Not deliberately. Never deliberately.
The thoughts had simply appeared during long missions and sleepless nights: Akutagawa’s sharp mouth, his elegant hands, the rare flashes of emotion hidden beneath his composure.
Reality was nothing like those thoughts.
It was messier.
Hungrier.
Akutagawa kissed as if surrendering would kill him. Even seated and injured, he fought for control, fingers tightening in Atsushi’s hair whenever Atsushi attempted to slow them down.
Atsushi broke away when breathing became necessary.
Akutagawa followed, lips brushing the corner of his mouth.
“This is a terrible idea,” Atsushi whispered.
“Most ideas involving you are.”
“You’re such an ass.”
“And still you have not moved.”
Atsushi kissed him again.
This time, it was slower.
Akutagawa’s fingers slipped into his hair. Atsushi felt the faint tremor in them and realized, with a rush of dizzying satisfaction, that Akutagawa was no more composed than he was.
All that arrogance was another kind of armor.
Atsushi pressed a kiss beneath his jaw.
Akutagawa inhaled sharply.
There.
Atsushi did it again.
“Jinko,” Akutagawa said. His voice carried a warning that had lost almost all its edge.
Atsushi smiled against his skin. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
Akutagawa’s nails scraped lightly over his scalp.
Atsushi shivered.
“Do not become smug.”
“I’m not smug.”
“You are intolerable.”
“You called me beautiful.”
“I was suffering from blood loss.”
“You weren’t.”
“Then temporary insanity.”
“I can remind you of what you said tomorrow.”
“You will not live until tomorrow.”
Atsushi laughed softly.
Akutagawa stared at him.
“What?” Atsushi asked.
“You are laughing.”
“So?”
“At me.”
“Would you prefer I laugh at someone else?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Something inside Atsushi softened.
He lifted a hand to Akutagawa’s face, giving him ample time to pull away. When he didn’t, Atsushi traced the sharp line of his cheekbone with his thumb.
Akutagawa’s expression became guarded.
“You don’t have to look like that,” Atsushi said.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m about to hurt you.”
“I do not fear you.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
Atsushi traced the edge of an old scar beneath Akutagawa’s collarbone.
Akutagawa flinched—not from pain, Atsushi thought, but from being handled as if his body were something precious.
Something worth protecting.
“Tell me to stop,” Atsushi whispered.
Akutagawa’s grip tightened.
“I mean it.”
For once, there was no insult waiting on his tongue. His eyes searched Atsushi’s face, wary and hungry in equal measure.
“Do you wish to stop?” Akutagawa asked.
“No.”
“Then neither do I.”
The answer settled between them like a struck match.
Atsushi kissed him until his own lips felt bruised. Akutagawa’s coat curled around his waist, not restraining him, only holding him there. Atsushi could have moved away whenever he wanted.
Knowing that he was choosing to stay made every touch burn hotter.
When Atsushi’s hand slipped beneath the open edge of Akutagawa’s shirt, Akutagawa shuddered.
It was startlingly human.
Atsushi drew back just enough to meet his eyes. “Still okay?”
Akutagawa looked offended by the question.
Then something in his expression changed.
“Yes,” he said.
The word was quiet but certain.
Atsushi kissed him again.
The examination table rattled as he stumbled forward. Rashoumon snapped out to catch the first-aid kit before it struck the floor, depositing it safely on the counter without either of them looking away.
Atsushi laughed against Akutagawa’s mouth.
“Don’t,” Akutagawa said.
“Was Rashoumon being helpful?”
“I will kill you.”
“You’re busy.”
Akutagawa’s answering smile was small, sharp, and breathtaking.
Atsushi wanted to see it again.
He kissed the corner of Akutagawa’s mouth, then his cheek, his jaw, and the sensitive spot just beneath his ear that made Akutagawa’s breath catch.
The smile disappeared, but only because Akutagawa appeared to have forgotten how facial expressions worked.
“Satisfied?” he asked tightly.
“Not remotely.”
“Greedy tiger.”
“Coming from you?”
Akutagawa’s coat tightened around his waist and pulled him forward.
Atsushi caught himself with both hands on the table.
Their noses nearly touched.
“I could make you regret that insolence,” Akutagawa murmured.
Atsushi’s pulse jumped.
“Is that a threat?”
“A promise.”
The lights in the hallway switched off.
Neither moved.
“The building is closing,” Atsushi whispered.
“I am aware.”
“We should leave.”
“Undoubtedly.”
Atsushi glanced at the locked door, then back at Akutagawa’s swollen lips and ruined composure.
“But your wound—”
“Bandaged.”
“Your shirt—”
“Repairable.”
“And this?”
Akutagawa studied him. Some of the hunger in his expression softened into something far more dangerous.
“This changes nothing,” he said.
Atsushi smiled. “Of course not.”
“Tomorrow, you will remain an insufferable nuisance.”
“And you’ll still be a homicidal coat rack.”
“I despise you.”
“Frequently?”
Akutagawa pulled him close again.
“Frequently,” he agreed before their mouths met.
Atsushi’s apartment was closer.
That was the only reason they went there.
It had nothing to do with the way Akutagawa’s coat remained curled around Atsushi’s wrist as they walked through the quiet streets. Nothing to do with how their shoulders repeatedly brushed or how neither man made any effort to put more distance between them.
“This place is small,” Akutagawa said when Atsushi opened the door.
“It’s affordable.”
“It resembles a storage cupboard.”
“You live in a basement.”
“It is spacious.”
“It has no windows.”
“Windows are structural weaknesses.”
Atsushi closed the door behind them. “Would you prefer to leave?”
Akutagawa looked at him.
“No.”
The single word made the apartment feel even smaller.
Atsushi’s bedroom contained one narrow bed, a dresser, and a lamp that cast everything in warm amber light. He suddenly became aware of every unfolded shirt and abandoned book in the room.
Akutagawa examined the space.
“If you insult my decorating, you can sleep outside.”
“You have not decorated.”
“I have things.”
“You have one plant.”
“It’s alive.”
“Debatable.”
Atsushi folded his arms. “Do you want something to sleep in or not?”
Akutagawa glanced down at his ruined shirt.
Atsushi found an oversized white T-shirt and handed it to him. Akutagawa held it at arm’s length as if Atsushi had offered him a dead animal.
“This belongs to you.”
“That’s generally how lending clothes works.”
“It will not fit.”
“It’s oversized on me.”
Akutagawa frowned. “Why?”
“Because sometimes people like comfortable things.”
“Pathetic.”
“Wear the bloody shirt.”
Atsushi changed in the bathroom, taking longer than necessary to wash the smoke and dried blood from his skin. When he returned, Akutagawa was sitting on the edge of the bed wearing Atsushi’s shirt.
The hem reached halfway down his thighs.
Atsushi stopped in the doorway.
Akutagawa looked up. “Do not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say it looks comfortable.”
“You are a poor liar.”
Atsushi crossed the room until he stood in front of him.
Akutagawa watched him approach but did not move away.
“Are we going to pretend that nothing happened?” Atsushi asked.
“That was your suggestion.”
“I thought it was yours.”
“Then we are both cowards.”
Atsushi considered that.
“Probably.”
He touched Akutagawa’s cheek.
Akutagawa leaned into his hand before apparently realizing what he was doing. His expression hardened, but the damage had already been done.
Atsushi smiled.
“Not a word,” Akutagawa warned.
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Another lie.”
“Maybe.”
Akutagawa caught his wrist and kissed the center of his palm.
The gesture was unexpectedly gentle.
It left Atsushi more shaken than everything they had done in the infirmary.
“Ryuu,” he whispered.
Akutagawa froze.
Atsushi had never called him that before. The intimacy of it filled the room.
“Again,” Akutagawa said.
Atsushi’s heart ached.
“Ryuu.”
Akutagawa pulled him down.
They fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and black fabric, kissing like they had spent years starving for it. Perhaps they had. Every argument, every challenge, and every moment spent watching the other walk away had led them here.
Atsushi paused with his forehead resting against Akutagawa’s.
“We don’t have to do anything else.”
“I know.”
“You can stay anyway.”
“I know.”
“And tomorrow—”
“Tomorrow,” Akutagawa interrupted, “you may return to being irritating.”
“Only tomorrow?”
“I am making an exception tonight.”
Atsushi smiled and kissed him again.
Later, the lamp went dark. Their remaining words disappeared beneath soft laughter, broken threats, and kisses neither of them could pretend were accidental.
When Atsushi woke sometime before dawn, Akutagawa was curled against his side with his face buried against Atsushi’s shoulder. Rashoumon lay draped across them both like an extra blanket.
Atsushi held perfectly still.
Akutagawa looked peaceful.
Not merely asleep. Peaceful.
Atsushi had never seen him that way.
He brushed a strand of dark hair away from Akutagawa’s face.
One gray eye opened.
“If you tell anyone,” Akutagawa murmured, “I will reduce this building to rubble.”
“Good morning to you too.”
Akutagawa closed his eye again but made no attempt to move.
Atsushi allowed himself a smile.
“This still changes nothing, right?”
“Nothing.”
“So we won’t be doing it again?”
Silence.
“Akutagawa?”
“Go back to sleep.”
“Is that a yes?”
Rashoumon pulled the blanket over Atsushi’s face.
He laughed beneath it.
Later, when they slipped into the Armed Detective Agency wearing yesterday’s clothing, neither mentioned what had happened.
Atsushi’s collar was crooked.
Akutagawa’s shirt was missing two buttons.
Dazai took one look at them and smiled.
Kunikida broke his pen.
Kyouka silently pushed a cup of tea toward Atsushi.
“They’re going to be unbearable about this,” Atsushi whispered.
Akutagawa’s hand brushed his beneath the table.
“They already were.”
“So this changes nothing?”
Akutagawa laced their fingers together where no one else could see.
“Nothing,” he said.
They arranged another mission together that afternoon.
Purely for professional reasons.