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It has been almost a year since Atsushi pulled Dazai from the river, and though they had avoided it as much as possible during that time, they find themself gravitating towards the bank once again. The exact date that it happened evades them - Atsushi had been too faint, too disoriented to pay attention to the calendar in the days leading up to their encounter, and the days following it had passed in a blur of unbelievable circumstances. At the Agency, time passed case by case rather than week by week, and it was only the seasons coming full circle, the last of the winter winds chilling Atsushi’s ears and rippling along the grass, that enlightened them as to why they had been brought to this place. Nostalgia is a funny thing and a stranger to Atsushi, who has so little to remember fondly, and it makes them shiver far more than the cold as they regard the river in front of them.
Atsushi’s life changed forever here, an about turn that brought noise and the buzz of activity, of passion into their world, and yet the water is silent and still, cars thrumming quietly past on the adjacent road, oblivious to the spot’s significance. There is no one around, only a few ducks fishing with their tails and feet in the air, and the sun has begun to set, casting a mudded blush over the surface.
The water isn’t that deep. Deeper than a person is tall, certainly, but Dazai most likely wouldn’t have drowned before Kunikida found him. Back then, Atsushi hadn’t had the presence of mind to consider something as important as the depth of the water. They had been frozen by fear and indecision; it was a miracle that they had dove in at all.
In many ways, Atsushi thinks, they haven’t changed at all. Fear is what drives them as much as it is what holds them back. Atsushi had no idea that the man they saved would save them in return - that so much of their purpose would be revealed through one miraculous gesture. They wonder how one might go about thanking a river: a moment of peace to even think these thoughts would not have been conceivable a year ago.
Atsushi is jolted from the fantasy by a clamor that shakes the bank, startling the ducks out of the water. They follow their flight to the sky, looking for the rain clouds that should accompany thunder, but it isn’t the sky that had shattered at all, but the river. The surface of the water doesn’t ripple so much as it shatters, light peeling through the cracks, and the resulting splash is an explosion that has Atsushi scrambling to cover themself. Droplets rain down as shards of glass, cutting into their forearms, but before it can finish falling it is water again, and when they finally peek out from behind their fingers the water is as still as it ever was. The only change is that there is a body in the water, floating downstream without urgency, its torn trench coat fanning out as a shroud.
It has been a year since Atsushi pulled Dazai from the river, and in many ways Atsushi has been born anew. They don’t hesitate anymore; instead they plunge in without so much as removing their shoes, swimming in long strokes towards the body and reaching out for it without sparing a thought for the strangeness of the occurrence. A hand grasps blindly at their elbow and they reach for it, following the line of an arm, down the shoulders and securing their grip on a slender waist. The tiger’s strength allows Atsushi to pull the stranger to shore, the sharp pain in their lungs nothing compared to the assurance that the person they are saving is alive. The crawl onto the bank is agonising, even with the tiger’s muscles, and they take a moment to catch their breath, shaking what they can of the ice cold water from their hair and clothes before they regard the still form lying beside them.
Akutagawa looks almost peaceful in his unconsciousness. Atsushi has never seen him in anything other than black before, and the image of him in beige and white is so jarring that Atsushi falls to their knees, peering at his face and brushing damp hair away. His features are unmistakable, even if he’s been growing his hair out. Atsushi feels as though they might be cursed; more so when Akutagawa begins to cough, rolling over to allow the water to spill from his lungs.
Atsushi moves away, frightened of retaliation for saving his life, but hovers nearby. Drowning doesn’t seem to be something that Akutagawa would allow to happen easily, after all, and the shattering of the river definitely seemed like something that the Agency should pay attention to. Akutagawa continues to retch, but eventually the coughs subside, his breathing the softer wheezing that Atsushi has become accustomed to.
“...Are you alright?” Atsushi asks after a moment’s pause, wary and reluctant. Akutagawa sits up, blinking slowly, his bangs hanging in heavy clumps over his face. He looks wrecked, like he’s been pulled through a tsunami, and true horror sets in when Akutagawa reaches out to squeeze their hand with a tenderness Atsushi didn’t think it capable of. He smiles, and Atsushi’s stomach drops.
“Nakajima,” he says. The intensity of Akutagawa’s gaze warms Atsushi’s face. All of the composure and resolution Atsushi felt when they dove into the water has vanished now, the palpable relief in Akutagawa’s voice like a siren that drowns out all rational thought.
“Oh god, you’re concussed. How many fingers am I holding up?”
Akutagawa frowns. His chest still labours, but he moves faster than Atsushi can anticipate, loosening their tie and tugging at the undone collar of their shirt to expose their neck. Atsushi can do nothing but stutter as Akutagawa cups their neck with a familiarity that even Kyouka hasn’t achieved, his thumb tracing the tendons and bobbing lump in their throat. Akutagawa’s concerned eyes are too much for Atsushi, and they cast their gaze downwards, only to observe that Akutagawa is wearing a skirt. They had been too wrapped up in the trench coat to notice; the skirt, at least, is black.
“You’re not my Nakajima,” Akutagawa says, his hand still on their neck, and Atsushi hopes to god that he’s correct. They’ve never belonged to anyone - no matter what the Headmaster might have said - and they have no intention of starting with Akutagawa. Akutagawa’s hand falls into his lap, and any colour he might have had drains from his face. He looks bereft, soaked to the bone and staring at his own trembling hands, and Atsushi feels a pang of sympathy, loathe as they are to admit it.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Do you know me?” he asks, voice breaking. Atsushi does him the courtesy of attributing it to the drowning. “I mean, do you know a version of me? Am I...familiar to you?”
Atsushi thinks to the tenderness that this Akutagawa had regarded them with and winces. “I do. I don’t think… You’re not him, are you? We - we aren’t friends.”
“Of course not…” Akutagawa whispers, voice a hoarse whisper. He looks desolate, and Atsushi tries to imagine how hearing that about them could make any version of Akutagawa show such a display. After a moment, he looks up firmly, mouth a thin line. “You said ‘him’. I’m a woman, just so you know. I think...I might have crossed dimensions.”
Atsushi looks over Akutagawa’s shoulder at the river. It’s as still as it was before and the ducks have returned to the surface, ignoring the humans on the bank as if they had never left. Alternate realities might have seemed preposterous to Atsushi at one point, but right now they can only accept it: it’s more plausible than the Akutagawa from this dimension treating them with so much civility, at any rate. They mentally correct themself, reverting to thinking of the Akutagawa in front of them as she . It made them easier to separate, at least.
“Wait, you’re not...Gin, are you?” Atsushi asks. The name comes after a little thought - they haven’t seen her more than twice, but the knowledge that Akutagawa has family was too incongruous for them to easily forget. Akutagawa shakes her head.
“I’m Ryuu. Ryuuka is the name I chose...Your Akutagawa probably goes by Ryuunosuke still,” she wrinkles her nose when Atsushi nods their head, and despite the anxious beat of their heart, they manage not to pry. They do yelp though, when Akutagawa grabs their arm, squeezing with a force Atsushi didn’t know she could muster. “You know my sister?”
“No!” Atsushi exclaims, and Akutagawa releases them, the same desolate look replacing the hope that had graced her features. Atsushi’s Akutagawa - and they shudder at referring to him as such - has only ever shown them hatred and anger, and it startles Atsushi to see such open expressions on the familiar face. The quivering downward twitch of her lip discomfits Atsushi. “I’ve met her, but we’re not friends either, sorry. She - she’s with you a lot.”
“She is?” Atsushi didn’t expect that to bring Akutagawa any relief, but her expression levels out to something that’s almost a smile. “Oh. I see.”
It might just be that this Akutagawa is tired from drowning - or the journey through dimensions, whatever that must feel like - but Atsushi knows that they need to take advantage of this compliance. They brace themself for rejection or attack, wringing out their shirt as they speak.
“I should take you to the Agency. That’s - do you have that where you’re from? It’s where I work. They’ll be able to help you.”
They cringe even as they say it. In all honesty, Atsushi isn’t sure if the Agency would help Akutagawa at all, regardless of which dimension she came from. Atsushi still wasn’t certain that they wanted to help - despite the pretty shows of emotion, this was unmistakably Akutagawa, and their leg still felt sore at the sight of her. To their surprise, though, Akutagawa shows no signs of suspicion, pulling herself up from the ground and shaking out her sodden skirt.
“You’re right. It’s the most sensible place to start. Is it still this way?” Akutagawa strides up the bank ahead of Atsushi, leaving them to stumble after her, and they don’t feel much like they’ve taken a prisoner at all.
The pair of them make a sorry sight, trudging damply along the side of the road, and with the shock of the afternoon Atsushi barely has enough energy to lift their feet. There is barely any sun left; what light remains is hidden behind a haze of dusty pink clouds, and Atsushi shivers, sneezing and wiping their nose with a damp sleeve. Only then does Akutagawa cease her brutal pace, turning immediately and struggling out of her coat, holding it out to them with a clenched fist.
Her coat. Atsushi eyes it suspiciously, half expecting Rashoumon to emerge and devour them at any moment. As far as Atsushi is concerned, it’s entirely possible - they have worked with Akutagawa several times now, even if it wasn’t this Akutagawa, and having a common goal has never been enough to stop him from trying to take a bite out of them before.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” they ask when Akutagawa jerks the coat in her hands, limp and barely threatening in spite of Atsushi’s experience. It drips onto the floor, a puddle forming on the pavement.
“You’re cold,” Akutagawa replies, all patience and no sarcasm. Atsushi shivers again and Akutagawa presses the coat against their chest. They’re pushed a few steps backwards, retreating from the motion, but there’s no force behind it.
“It’s wet!” Atsushi says, their hands in the air. “That won’t help.”
For a moment Akutagawa’s brow draws together, pinched, and she opens her mouth to say something but changes her mind before the breath can escape, shrugging and turning away. The coat is pulled back onto her shoulders and she starts to walk again without comment.
Atsushi wishes she had spoken. They watch the narrow slope of her shoulders from behind, torn over what to be the most disturbed by. The Akutagawa they know guards Rashoumon with an obsessive ferocity, personifying it in the coat even though Atsushi is sure he can manipulate any fabric, as long as he’s wearing it. The few times he has shared the coat with Atsushi it has been in moments of extreme desperation and with even greater reluctance. Afterwards he would snatch it back as if it were his child and Atsushi might burn it just by wearing it. It was part of the thrill, Atsushi thought, that he guarded it so carefully and let Atsushi access the power anyway.
This Akutagawa offered her coat without even a second of hesitation, the same tenderness in her eyes that they had seen when her fingers touched their cheek. She knows the way back to headquarters even better than Atsushi does, getting them there in half the time it would have taken them. They can only follow speechlessly behind, poised as if ready to capture her, knowing full well that any pretense at her being in their custody is futile. This Akutagawa wants to go to the Detective Agency. If she changes her mind and decides to seek out the mafia, Atsushi is fairly certain that they won’t be able to stop her.
Whatever drives her forward seems to be enough, though, and she makes it into the elevator without trouble, Atsushi clasping their hands behind their back as they step in beside her. The tension in the air would struggle to be cut even under Atsushi’s claws, but Akutagawa doesn’t seem to notice. Atsushi wonders if elevators have as much potency in her memories of them as they do for Atsushi. It feels like as soon as the doors close, they have entered another dimension, one in which Akutagawa becomes a little more tangible, a little more human. This time, though, she seems as distant as ever, and Atsushi remembers with a small laugh that she is already in a different universe, and this elevator is just as strange to her as anything else.
“Is something amusing?” Akutagawa asks, quirking an eyebrow. Atsushi flinches reflexively, but she doesn’t seem defensive.
“We - the Akutagawa I know, I mean - we always talk the most in elevators. I don’t know why. It’s like a pause, isn’t it? Because you both have to wait to reach your destination. The first time we had a proper conversation was in an elevator.”
Akutagawa smiles. It’s not the first time she has smiled in Atsushi’s company, but they’re still caught off guard by it. She looks tired, and her hair clings to her like she has been drowned - she almost was - but there is so much less strain in her features than Atsushi is used to seeing. She is identical to the Akutagawa Atsushi knows, and yet so foreign to them they barely recognise her.
For a split second Atsushi thinks that she’s quite beautiful. Then they come to their senses, physically shaking themself. Akutagawa, thinking that they’re cold, gives their arm a quick squeeze.
“Our first conversation was in the offices of the ADA,” she tells them, and even though Atsushi didn’t ask, they prick up their ears, curious. “We talked about sugar. It was a while after that before we could talk again.”
“ Sugar ?” Atsushi mouths, shaking their head and disbelieving. It’s impossible to imagine themself chatting with Akutagawa in the office about something so small. It’s impossible to imagine Akutagawa in the office with any ease at all - and yet here she is, striding out of the elevator like she owns the place and heading straight towards Kunikida’s desk when she passes through the door.
Kunikida has his head in his paperwork as usual, and assumes that Akutagawa is Atsushi. “You’re late,” he snaps. “I hope you have -”
The drip of water onto the floor catches Kunikida’s attention, and he lifts his head, responding in the millisecond it takes him to realise that the person standing in front of him isn’t Atsushi at all, but someone less familiar and much more threatening. He knocks his chair over as he leaps to his feet, pulling a shotgun from his waistcoat and aiming it with practiced precision. His shout of alarm draws everyone else’s attention, and there’s a mad scramble as Kenji and Naomi rush to respond.
“What are you doing here?” Kunikida asks, and Atsushi feels a rush of admiration when he doesn’t shoot on sight. His face is flushed, gaze flicking over Akutagawa’s form and then to Atsushi standing helplessly behind her, palms open and waving frantically. “What are you wearing? Why are you both wet?”
“Seeking assistance,” Akutagawa answers, her voice measured. “My uniform. I was in the river and Nakajima pulled me out.”
Naomi’s shrill “Nakajima!?” is silenced by Kenji’s hands over her mouth, and Kunikida wavers, but doesn’t lower the pistol. He keeps it levelled just above Akutagawa’s chest, turning his attention to Atsushi and waiting for an explanation. Before they can speak, they’re interrupted by another voice.
“Ah, my favourite coffee beans were out of stock...Kunikida-kun, you have to order them online, okay, I can’t work without my - oh?”
Of course Atsushi expects some reaction when Akutagawa hears Dazai speaking - some truths are universal, or pan-universal after all - but what they’re not expecting is that reaction to be one of outright hostility. Rashoumon flares, baring explosive fangs around her, white where Atsushi is used to seeing black, and the daggers of her ability point straight towards a startled Dazai, just out of his tactile reach. Even stranger, Atsushi fings themself subject to a tight, protective grip at their elbow as Akutagawa shoves them behind her, a portion of her ability shielding Atsushi from the outside world.
Akutagawa had only protected Atsushi twice before; only when their missions called for it, and exceptionally reluctantly. This Akutagawa though, seemed ready to put her life on the line for them - not that it was in danger now, but Akutagawa seems convinced it is. Her chest rises and falls unsteadily, glaring at Dazai over her coughs.
“How did you -?” Akutagawa began, and then shook her head. “Nevermind how, I don’t care. Just - leave Nakajima alone. Haven’t you done enough damage already?”
“Shouldn’t we be saying that to you?” Kunikida spits, his gun still trained on Akutagawa, confusion plain behind his glasses. “What the fuck is going on?”
“I’d like to know that,” Dazai spoke coolly. The surprise had faded from his eyes and he was serious now, hands in his pocket and smile dangerously aloof. “Who is this person that looks just like Akutagawa?”
“I’m Akutagawa,” she growls. Rashoumon surges forward and Dazai dismisses it with a wave of a hand. It shatters in the air, white glass and smoke, and Akutagawa stumbles backwards.
“No, you’re not,” Dazai retorts. Atsushi stares - if they hadn’t seen Akutagawa emerge through a portal or felt her gentle touch, they would have never been able to guess this was a different person, even in spite of the outfit change. “You think I wouldn’t recognise my dear former tutee? Do I have to touch your wrist to make you reveal your true form?”
He takes a few steps forward and rashoumon flares again, this time not for Akutagawa to attack or defend herself, but to push Atsushi backwards, away from Dazai. No one seems to hear Atsushi’s weak protest, the room focussed instead on Dazai’s hand wrapped firmly around a tense, unchanging Akutagawa’s wrist.
“Your tutee?” Akutagawa says, aghast. The disgust in her voice is evident, and Atsushi has to double check that she’s addressing Dazai - somewhere, their Akutagawa is probably choking. “I would never submit to you. You took everything from me - even the chance to take your life.”
“I...What?” Dazai falters, and there’s a collective inhale from everyone else in the world. “My life? I’m dead?”
“You were . How you’re here, I don’t know, but it doesn’t surprise me,” she sniffs. “You’ve always been despicable. You owe Atsushi an apology.”
Somewhere, to someone, Dazai is dead. Though confronted with the possibility on a regular enough basis, Atsushi has never been able to imagine a world without their saviour. It seemed bleak, something too hopeless to consider. But this is a reality Akutagawa lives in - one she wants to live in. The knowledge settles uncomfortably in Atsushi’s chest, a lead weight that threatens to drag them back under the river they have just escaped from.
“Are you ready for my opinion yet?” Ranpo chimes in from his desk when the silence becomes too heavy to bear. He leans back in his desk chair, examining his nails. “This is because of the Book.”
“Oh,” Dazai says, his eyes widening in realisation. He drops Akutagawa’s wrist, ignoring the colour that drains from her face. “That makes sense.”
“The Book ?” Kunikida asks, “What does the Book have to do with this? Is Akutagawa trying to teach himself to hate you by writing an alternate, female version of himself into existence? He should just try working with you.”
“How do you know about the Book?” Akutagawa asks, pained. “That’s too many - it’s too many people. Unless you lied to me about that, too.”
She glares back at Dazai, who shrugs, smiling. Atsushi’s shoulders heave and they pinch their temples as they start to put the pieces together.
The Book has always been a source of confusion for Atsushi. Its function made it desirable, and Atsushi is allegedly a key, but they could never understand how exactly it worked. Now, staring at an Akutagawa changed almost beyond recognition and yet undeniably Akutagawa , things begin to make sense.
“The Book creates alternate dimensions each time it’s written in? There’s a universe out there where Akutagawa is nice to me?”
“And I’m dead,” Dazai adds, apparently unbothered. He studies Akutagawa again, murmuring thoughtfully. “That coat…”
“Don’t touch it!” Akutagawa snaps before Dazai can reach forward, using her ability to form a shield. An odd shiver runs through Atsushi as they realise she’s just as protective of her coat - at least, for anyone but Atsushi.
“Leave Nakajima alone .”
She had sounded so fierce - driven by something Atsushi can’t understand. Honestly, looking at the rosey flush dusting this Akutagawa’s sharp cheekbones, they aren’t sure that they want to.
Dazai holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender, backing off as Kunikida’s sense of propriety beats out his suspicion. He pulls up a chair for Akutagawa, and when she smiles and thanks him there’s a familiarity in the motion that no one quite knows how to deal with.
If Dazai isn’t here in her world - if he never was, and given Akutagawa’s blatant mistrust it seems like he might not have left the mafia - then Kunikida must have stepped in as Akutagawa’s closest mentor. That is, supposing that Akutagawa has Atsushi’s role in the other universe. But Akutagawa knows Atsushi too, and trusts them more than anyone else, so it can’t be a simple give and take situation.
Atsushi’s head is beginning to hurt. Looking at the pinched expression on Kunikida’s face, eyes narrowed behind his glasses at Akutagawa’s now strained smile, they think they might not be the only one.
“Two Akutagawas is far too many for one world,” Ranpo comments, despondent. “The other one is enough work by himself.”
The Akutagawa on the chair colours at the comment, her lip twitching in disgruntlement, but Atsushi doesn’t have it in them to lie and pretend that he isn’t a lot to handle. No one disagrees and she huffs, her arms folding over her damp shirt comically.
“At least this one works for the Agency,” Atsushi says, a half-hearted effort to cheer her up. Everyone looks at them in astonishment. “What, you haven’t figured that out yet? She told me. So she’ll be loyal to us…probably.”
“Either way, we’d best look after this one for now. We can’t have the two of them running into each other, especially if this one works for us,” Dazai says with a sigh. “Can you imagine?”
“ One of the Akutagawas you’re speaking about is here, you know,” Akutagawa says from the chair, her lips forming a severe pout. It’s almost endearing on her bedraggled form, now that Atsushi has had enough confirmation that she means them no harm. “You said he - then I haven’t - I’m a man, here? That’s how I present? Where am I, if not at the Agency?”
The discomfort in her features is one Atsushi is painfully familiar with; one they have faced in the mirror countless times as they struggled to come to terms with the world’s perception of them, and its contrast in how they want to be perceived. Despite the water damage and excepting the coat, Akutagawa’s outfit is perfectly tailored - the skirt is of fine quality, reminiscent of Yosano’s. Atsushi can see the traces of mascara beneath her lashes, smudged and blurred by her passage through the river.
Atsushi has never spared a thought for how the Akutagawa that has tormented them might perceive his gender - whether he faces any difficulty when he looks in the mirror, whether he is kept awake at night not by the lives he has taken but by the complicated existence that everyone is pressured to abide by - but it is clear that this Akutagawa has suffered to get where she is. They think about being confronted with a version of Atsushi that hasn’t made the changes they feel necessary to survive and cringe. Even without adding in the fact that Akutagawa is a villain hired to kill when no one else will, its news they don’t want to deliver.
“You probably shouldn’t worry about it,” Dazai says, patting her on the head despite her growl. “Who knows how these universes work, maybe you knowing too much about yourself will cause a collapse in the fabric of existence. At least with the pronouns we can almost tell who we’re talking about. I’ll fetch you a towel.”
Dazai strides out of the room, his posture as untroubled as ever. When you carry the weight that he does on your shoulders, Atsushi supposes even the most shocking of events can’t leave a dent.
“More than three people knowing about the Book is supposed to tear the fabric of existence,” Akutagawa mutters, scowling, “and yet here we are.”
“ Everyone knows about the Book here,” Atsushi muses over Akutagawa’s sharp look. “I mean, not everyone, but there’s the Guild, Fyodor, the government, and some other individuals who’ve tried to get hold of it. It’s been more than three people for a while. Ages. I definitely wasn’t the third person to find out about it.”
“Maybe that’s why you’re here,” Ranpo pipes up cheerily. “Maybe it’s the apocalypse.”
Atsushi is about to reply scathingly when they hear their own voice, frantic and blurred, not from their throat but from behind them. They turn rapidly, but there is only a wide mirror behind them. It reflects their face, pale with red-rimmed eyes, and a line of scars they are unfamiliar with around their throat. They stare at the mirror as if it’s a window, looking through Atsushi’s own shocked gaze, unseeing and filled with concern.
“She just vanished …”
“Nakajima,” Akutagawa says their name like a prayer, standing from the chair and joining Atsushi as she looks into the mirror. Her gaze is wistful as she scans the choppy lengths of Atsushi’s reflection’s hair, her hand reaching out and then jerking back as if scared to disturb the vision, and Atsushi finally sees it.
All of the gentleness; the fierce way she defended them and the tenderness in her gaze; the caress of her fingertips against Atsushi’s cheek as she’d gazed up at them, half unconscious and clinging to Atsushi like a lifeline...it isn’t for them. This is the ‘Nakajima’ that Akutagawa would happily risk her life for - one who looks the same as them and yet so unfamiliar, more guarded, more hurt , as if Atsushi can imagine such a thing, and - the realisation sinks into them with a seeping dread, recognising something in themself that only they will be able to see - in love with Akutagawa.
A man approaches in a beige overcoat not unlike the ragged one Akutagawa wears in that universe. His hair, oak brown and shaggy, hides his face, but his lays a hand on Nakajima’s shoulder that oozes security. Atsushi finds themself reaching for their own shoulder, wishing that they could feel the weight of his calloused fingers, somehow familiar despite never having met him in this life.
“We’ll find her. Kunikida and Ranpo are already on the case - if Ranpo gets involved this early, you know we’ll have answers in no time at all.”
In the background of the real world - or Atsushi’s real world, since the other is just as if not more real to the Akutagawa who coughs beside them - Ranpo hums, pleased. Some truths are absolute, after all.
“But -”
“ We’ll find her . And until then, she’ll hold her own. When has she ever given us a reason to doubt?”
Beside Atsushi, Akutagawa’s lip curves ever so slightly into a smile, one so lonely and sad that Atsushi can’t help but touch her elbow, seeking to comfort her. She glances at them, her fist clenching at her side, and Atsushi wonders - is she imagining holding Nakajima’s hand? Are Nakajima’s feelings requited in that universe?
“Here, Akutagawa, no need to thank - me…”
There’s a soft thud as the towel Dazai brought falls to the floor, and another as he trips over the corner of his desk in an effort to get to the mirror. Dazai is agitated as Atsushi has never seen him, bandaged arms reaching out towards the mirror, his face gaunt and hallowed. He looks as if he’s seen a ghost.
“ Oda -?”
Before Dazai can touch the mirror, the man he addressed as Oda looks towards them and the glass shatters, splintering with the same high pitched sound that Atsushi had heard at the river. When it subsides, silence abounds in the agency, but for Dazai’s intake of breath, and his struggle to compose himself.
Dazai’s expression has returned to normal again before Atsushi identifies the name Oda as the one they had seen written on the grave of his lost friend just a few months prior. He smiles, running a hand through his hair, and Atsushi has no idea what comfort to offer him. The world this Akutagawa has come from offers a wealth of earth-shattering actualities, it seems, and Atsushi still has to come to terms with their own.
How could any universe exist where they didn’t just worry for, but loved Akutagawa? And how are they going to look him in the eye next time they encounter one another?