Chapter Text
Two things are for certain.
One: Akutagawa Ryūnosuke is one of the most ruthless and brutal assassins of the Port Mafia, possibly even in the whole of Japan.
He’s a prodigy, a child that grew up alone and lost, someone who had so little left to lose that he found his destiny in a profession–a job that’s twisted him into the ultimate killing machine, allowed him to get stronger and made him almost invincible, giving him the security he so deeply craved as a child.
Akutagawa doesn’t care about anything or anyone–at least that’s what he tells himself–he values strength and respect above all, because nothing will ever be able to touch him if he reigns with terror and fear.
There’s another man, who’s surprisingly not all that different from the other, even though his beliefs couldn’t be further from the assassin's. Nakajima Atsushi, too, has been an invisible child, an orphan who’s been banished to the streets and left to die, neglect and rejection the only things he knew for the longest time, much like Akutagawa himself.
And yet, Atsushi grew up to be quite the opposite of the other, because where Akutagawa found solace in strength and pain, Atsushi found it in the form of acceptance, love and kindness.
In a way they’re like day and night, like black and white, the stark contrast of their physical appearances only a weak watered down version of their clashing characters, and yet, they somehow found themselves as partners.
Opposites attract, they say, and in some weird twisted way Akutagawa thinks that might be true–because while Akutagawa and Atsushi are skilled and powerful on their own, together they’re untouchable, the perfect combination of cruelty and compassion, of recklessness and caution; and Akutagawa can’t think of anyone he’d rather have at his side anymore, whether it be guarding his back or passing the time, their once vicious animosity melted into something close to an amiable partnership.
Two: Akutagawa Ryūnosuke is dying.
He can sense it with every wheezing breath and every night he spends in anguish, he feels it in the way his movements get weaker, lacking the usual precision and speed and he knows he doesn’t have a lot of time left. A slow and agonising death, befitting a murderer like him, he thinks, as he crouches in the dark and wills the gruelling pain to stop, with no one left to blame but his very own partner.
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It starts innocently enough.
His chronic cough merely seems to be getting worse, the times when he needs to excuse himself from a meeting to calm down getting more frequent, and more often than not his coughs get so painful that his body’s aching for the soothing release of water.
Higuchi and Chūya are the ones who are constantly on his back about it, fussing over him like a damn infant, and Akutagawa hates it. If there’s one thing he despises most in the world it’s weakness–and showing himself even slightly weak or vulnerable like this is the greatest insult to his person and Akutagawa sees it as only another one of his body’s ways of betraying him.
“And lastly, I would like to address the issue with the foreign organisation wreaking havoc in Yokohama. Chūya-kun, did you already–"
Mori’s speech is suddenly interrupted as a coughing fit befalls Akutagawa and he coughs harshly, his attempt at holding back only making it more biting. Most of the Mafia members in the room pointedly avoid looking at the assassin, fumbling with their suits or running their hands through their hair, unsure how to act around the other’s seemingly worsening health condition.
Chūya throws him a concerned glance from the front row, furrowing his brows in a very Chūya-like manner, and Gin silently stands up and starts walking towards him when Mori clears his throat and cocks his head, fixing his eyes on Akutagawa.
“Akutagawa-kun. Why don’t you step outside for a little while and take some time for yourself?”
Akutagawa tries to respond to his boss’ order but as soon as he opens his mouth, the only thing coming out is another cough, the hacking sound cutting the air and deepening Chūya's frown. He brings a hand up to his face and covers his mouth, glaring stoically at the floor in front of him, and inwardly curses his weak body for putting him in a situation like this.
Abruptly, he stands up, dragging his chair across the floor which causes a few of the other members to throw him a glance before they quickly avert their eyes again.
“I will–” his voice is hoarse and he struggles to control the itch in the back of his throat as he speaks, “–excuse myself. Please continue your meeting without me.” He gives a curt bow and turns to leave the room, the sensation of eyes following him making his back tingle, and he feels hot with shame and anger as he clenches his fists, Rashōmon twitching behind him.
Instead of waiting outside the room, though, he decides to go to his own, just the thought of going back in there and facing all the pitying looks enough to make his skin crawl.
He tries his best to suppress his coughing on the way, staring daggers at the people who walk past him and dare look at him. When he finally reaches the safety of his room, he quickly closes the door behind him and lets out a shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding. The breath triggers another attack, scratching the inside of his throat and he has to cough again, despising his body more with every violent shake.
He’s pathetic. This human shell surrounding him nothing more than the sorry excuse of a body and once again he thanks Rashōmon for giving him strength and allowing him to feel at least somewhat respectable.
After the last cough subsides and his breathing settles down, he eventually moves from his position on the floor, half cowering with his back pressed against the door. He straightens his body and breathes in deeply and slowly, careful not to aggravate his throat, before attempting to take off Rashōmon, the heavy leather suddenly making it hard to breathe.
He’s just about to shrug it off his shoulders, when he feels another cough rise up in his throat, the stinging sensation a lot more unpleasant than usual and he stills, squeezing his eyes shut and bringing a hand to his mouth.
He coughs and coughs, like he wants to cough up a lung, and suddenly he has to bend over in agony, thinking that he might even have to pay a visit to Mori-san later, if only it meant getting rid of this pain.
Something soft and wet touches the inside of his hand, as his cough magically dies down, and Akutagawa’s whole body freezes. His rattled breathing fills the silence, lingering in the room, the elevated heartbeat in his chest makes his ears ring and he doesn’t want to look.
After a few minutes of silent waiting, however, he can’t avoid it any longer and reluctantly opens his eyes, feeling his stomach plummet and the blood in his veins run cold when he realises he was right. Because there it is, resting comfortably in the palm of his hand.
A flower.
Akutagawa hisses and lets it fall to the ground as if it burned him. He scowls at the flower, as if that’d make it any less real, and tries his best to calm his still rising heartbeat. This isn’t supposed to the happen. Not now, not ever. And not to him. He’s Akutagawa, the ruthless murderer, the unbreakable human killing machine, the rabid dog of the Mafia.
He’s Akutagawa of the Port Mafia and he’s got Hanahaki disease.
His mind goes blank and all he can do is stare at the flower on the ground, his body frozen in place, only Rashōmon’s twitching and dancing behind him a sign that he’s still conscious. Tentatively, almost tenderly, Akutagawa leans down and picks up the flower with his long, delicate fingers, twirling it around a few times as he inspects it closer.
A white daisy, appearing almost silver in the light of the full moon shining in from the windows.
Akutagawa’s no fool, he knows very well how the Hanahaki disease works, having heard countless tales and warnings about it during his time in the Mafia, and he instantly recognises the flower as what it is–Nakajima Atsushi.
A growl escapes him and he clenches his fist, crushing the daisy in it. There’s no denying it any longer, he knows that, it’s like his body is mocking him, taunting him, for even attempting to ignore it in the first place.
He hates his body for giving in, for being weak and despicable, and he hates it for betraying him like this. But most of all, he hates himself for letting it happen and he’d hate Atsushi, too, but he’s afraid that’s no longer a possibility.
When he slowly uncurls his fist again, there are only crumpled and torn petals left, a cruel sense of comfort in it, like it could have all been his imagination, but as he raises his eyes, he feels another cough rising up in his throat, another flower tearing its way up, and he knows it’s real.
He’s Akutagawa of the Port Mafia and he’s hopelessly in love with the man-tiger Atsushi.