Work Text:
Akutagawa can’t quite remember what he did wrong this time.
The events of today started to blur the minute his mentor’s face twisted into cruelty, his unbandaged eye staring unblinking at him with a hatred that he does not remember giving a reason to exist.
There’s no great variety in the emotions that cross through his mentor’s face whenever he looks at Akutagawa; they tend to range between mockery – cruel, always cruel –, displeasure, hatred, and indifference. Interest, at times, but rarely enough that there’s no point in counting it.
Before, he assumed that was just the way of the Mafia; why, after all, would there be anything but misery in a place that’s so keen on causing it?
Such theory was set aside quickly. The longer he stayed, the more he saw the different ways in which people treated each other. Even his mentor seemed to shift around certain people, not brighten, but maybe dull the incandescence of his hate.
Akutagawa, it seemed, was special in his treatment. He does not know why, but he’s sure he must’ve deserved it, somehow.
He’s weak, his mentor says, pathetic. That must be it. He couldn’t save the other children, after all, he only barely saved Gin. His weakness must be revolting, must have warranted this – it must be his fault, somehow.
There’s a resounding crack that breaks him from his thoughts; his ribs, he thinks. At least one or two. He does not feel the pain now, but he knows he will later, when his mind fuses with his body again.
A special type of anger lays on his mentor’s face when he looks upon him, the only thing he is able to focus on at the moment. Akutagawa knows that it’s because of him – his lack of reaction seems to fuel the scorching violence, but there is no rectifying this. It’s immediate and automatic: as soon as he’s in his mentor’s presence, and he feels the terrifying chill of eyes turning colder towards him, the ties are cut and his consciousness separates.
Vaguely, he feels the air being knocked out of him. He’s been kicked into a wall, maybe. There’s blood pouring from his lips as he coughs and heaves, and dripping down his forehead as well.
He might die here, he realises.
Loathing is all he sees when he looks up, in the shape of a a cruel snarl and uncaring eyes. There’s no quenching that type of anger, he’s all aware. The chances of his mentor not stopping are just as great, if not greater, than the chances of him doing so.
Akutagawa wonders if he's supposed to defend himself.
There’s be no point but to further humiliate him, of course. His ability is useless here; all he has is his body and his mind, disharmonious as they are, and neither of those have ever been of any help to him when it comes to his mentor.
His body is weak, and his mind pales before him.
If killing him is what his mentor really wants, then that’s what is going to happen.
“Dazai.” The voice is strong as it echoes through the room, resonating even in Akutagawa’s displaced mind.
Before him, his mentor stops, schooling his expression into something other before turning around with a purposefully fake smile. His whole demeanour has shifted, the new presence in the room less deserving of the amount of malice he directed towards Akutagawa.
“Chuuya.” He says, the sound muted in Akutagawa’s mind again, and ah.
The second half of double black.
Akutagawa doesn’t know much about him, has only seen him in glances and blurs as he walks by or away, red hair stark against dark clothes. His mentor doesn’t care to be around him much, so there was never any reason for them to be introduced. Gin talks about him with appreciation and respect however, and from the snippets of conversations he hears as he walks amidst other mafia members, he seems to be worthy of it.
A stray thought wonders if he’s really all that good if he associates with his mentor.
He can’t focus on his face, or the conversation they’re having, too busy trying to get himself into a sitting position and finding his body unwilling to obey, but he hears the last of the words they utter:
“Mori’s asking for you.” Nakahara Chuuya says, and his mentor’s lips curl in a distaste greater even than the one he aims Akutagawa’s way. It’s strangely soothing, the fact that there seems to be someone his mentor despises more than he seems to despise him.
There are no words exchanged between them at Nakahara’s announcement; all Akutagawa gets is a look of indifference and a nod of dismissal before his mentor walks out of the room, leaving him behind to fend for himself as usual.
A door clicks shut and a weight is pushed from Akutagawa’s mind, as the world starts falling into shape again.
He hears footsteps coming his way, and when he looks up, he can make out Nakahara’s face, a frown of disapproval that does not feel menacing on his face as he walks towards him slowly, as someone would approach a wounded animal.
Which is what he is, he thinks with bitter amusement as pain starts sweeping through his body, sharper than he has ever felt before. Port Mafia’s beaten stray dog.
“Fucking Dazai.” Nakahara whispers in front of him, the resounding edge of displeasure in his voice. His eyes are bright blue and appraising as he slides them through what must a pathetic scene, but at no point does he seem dismissive or disgusted.
Instead, Akutagawa feels the weight of concern falling upon him.
It’s not something he’s entirely unfamiliar with – he was as sickly as a child as he is as an adolescent, and that has always stirred up worry in the ones around him, usually his sister or the other kids in the favela.
To have it come from a Mafia executive, someone he has never truly interacted with and who has no reason to care, however, feels odd.
He should be angry.
In any other circumstances, he would be angry, this he knows.
He is not angry at all.
Akutagawa doesn’t quite understand why; maybe it’s because he’s so tired, or because of how much pain he’s in. Maybe he has a concussion, maybe his mind is not completely settled back into reality yet.
Maybe it’s the way that Nakahara’s concern doesn’t feel at all like pity, feels soft and real like the kind Gin aims his way at times.
He cannot bring himself to be angry.
A cough hacks through him, dry and bloody, disturbing his broken ribs and bringing out a groan of pain that sounds piteous even to his own ears.
Getting up seems like a herculean task, but he attempts it anyway.
Trying to support himself on his elbows alone would put too much strain on his ribs, so he summons Rashōmon to aid him, supporting his movements and adding a strength he would not otherwise possess.
He only manages to sit himself down against the wall, breath laboured from the effort of keeping his cries silent as he maneuvers through the pain that comes with motion.
“You can just ask for help, you know?” Nakahara says, and Akutagawa almost startles; he’d forgotten he was there, too focused on getting himself off his own puddle of blood. There is a slight frown on Nakahara’s face that Akutagawa does not understand and does not seek to.
“To what point? I can do it alone.” It’s not a lie, at least, even if it does sound ungrateful and rude – this is something he has done since he met his mentor. Picking himself up no matter how broken he seems is something he’s adept at now. “This is nothing I’m not used to.”
“He just leaves you here like this?” There is surprise mixed with indignation in his voice, and Akutagawa only gets further away from comprehending this situation. He can’t imagine what reason someone like Nakahara Chuuya would have to care even in the slightest about what happens or doesn’t between him and his mentor, can’t fathom the idea of someone of such high rank even thinking of him as anything more than a means to an end. “Of course he does. No longer human indeed.”
Akutagawa doesn’t know how to answer, so he doesn’t, just stands still and breathes to the best of his ability as he watches Nakahara’s face contort from an angry frown to resignation and back to concern.
“He was going to kill you.” He says and although Akutagawa was aware of this, the words still hit him with strength, a high wave in a tempestuous sea that crashes against him and leaves him drowning with no means to save himself.
He lets out a harsh breath, shaky and painful, but says nothing. He knows this song, after all, the vitriol his mentor sings to him as he’s taught a lesson with purples and blues, with red splattered on concrete and unmeant streaks of dried salt on his cheeks. He knows the reasons, now – it’s inherent within him, the weakness, a type that was fused with his very soul at birth. He can’t rid himself of it, no matter how hard he tries, and it’s obvious, it must be since his mentor seems to see it so well.
“He was, yes.” Akutagawa says at last, and outraged confusion flashes across Nakahara’s face.
“Were you not going to defend yourself?” He asks, and if Akutagawa could chuckle without further rupturing any of his arteries, he would.
“Would there be any point in trying?” His mouth tastes metallic, and the air smells of ash and dust mixed with sweat, blood and something else he cannot recognise. “If he sincerely wanted me dead, could I really have stopped him?”
Nakahara is quiet, but that’s enough answer for him. He already knew it, after all.
“Do you need any help?” Akutagawa lifts his gaze up to him, eyes wide. Nakahara seems sincere, the scowl on his face seemingly aimed at the situation rather than at him.
He has no basis of comparison for this type of behaviour coming from this specific person; Nakahara Chuuya is not someone he ever directly interacted with, someone he’s only heard of and walked by. He has no way of knowing if this is typical or atypical, if it’s a layered trick orchestrated by his mentor, or if a genuine offer coming from arguably the strongest person in the organisation he works for.
Akutagawa is not used to kindness from strangers, and this must be clear in his face or his body language because Nakahara sighs and extends a gloved hand towards him.
“I’m just offering help, there’s no underlying ploy. I know that as Dazai’s subordinate this might seem suspicious, but Dazai is a piece of shit and you really shouldn’t use him as a base for comparison.” Still, Akutagawa hesitates. It feels like cheating, to receive help, and he’s sure his mentor will punish him for it if he takes the hand being offered. At the same time, though, his mind is hazy with pain and Nakahara seems candid, his lips turned into a soft smile of encouragement. “Also, I do have an ability that will help you walk without pain.”
Akutagawa exhales heavily in amusement.
He gives in.
Nakahara doesn’t seem to mind how bloody his hand is as he wraps it around his bare wrist for support, doesn’t seem to mind that at first Akutagawa loses his balance due to the shift in how gravity acts upon him and stumbles forward, colliding with him and dirtying his clothes.
He doesn’t seem to mind as he leads Akutagawa to the on-call doctor they keep around, nor does he seem to mind waiting for him to get patched up and put back together again.
And at the end of the day, Akutagawa is still broken and bruised, still weak and worthless, but he finds that at least there is someone around who doesn’t really seem to mind him being that way.