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Some Locked Room Mysteries Are Better Than Others

Summary:

« They were in a big blank room without windows or furniture. There was a door, but it was locked. There was something written above it in western characters:
écriture automatique
Titre : »

Atsushi and Akutagawa find themselves trapped in a Skill-fuelled locked room. They regret everything about it.

Notes:

For the genre (?) Supernatural Locked-Room and for the prompts "Enemies Must Work Together/Trust Each Other To Solve Problem And/Or Prevent (Fate Worse Than?) Death" as well as "Locked In A Room" (for obvious reasons)!

This fic is a collaboration with WordsofMotion, who co-wrote and betaread it! Thank you for helping shape this into something far better than it had any right to be <3

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Some Locked Room Mysteries Are Better Than Others

Atsushi had gone through too much, from childhood abuse to fighting for the life of people he loved, to be able to rank “being stuck in a closed space with Akutagawa” among the worst experiences of his existence; still, the current situation was at least a strong contender in the non-trauma-inducing category.

“There must be an opening somewhere,” Akutagawa growled.

There was a beat. In the normal world, this was the moment when Akutagawa’s coat would have half-transformed into a fanged monstrosity to tear through the clean, white walls that surrounded them. In the closed Skill-created room where they were trapped, all it did was ripple a little dramatically when its owner stepped forward. Akutagawa turned toward Atsushi, glaring at him as if he was personally responsible for the current situation.

Objectively speaking, Akutagawa was a frail, sickly-looking man whose pitch-black hair, eyes and coat only made him seem thinner and more pallid. Without their Abilities, Atsushi was stronger, tougher and faster.

Subjectively speaking –

“Man-tiger –” Akutagawa snarled.

“I told you,” Atsushi snapped with nervous anger, “that Skills don’t work in Poe’s books! I can’t even break the door!”

It was those eyes. That expression. Akutagawa appeared like a cold mafia killer up to the moment he stared at you and you realized that he was actually a rabid mafia killer. Atsushi wasn’t afraid of him any more, but it didn't preclude legitimate cautiousness. Right now, his survival instincts were still screaming at him to check for anything that could be used as a weapon.

Thankfully, there wasn't anything of the sort; they were in a big blank room without windows or furniture. There was a door, but it was locked. There was something written above it in western characters:

écriture automatique

Titre :

Dazai would have known what it meant, because Dazai knew everything; Atsushi could only stare at it with resigned perplexity.

“You’re useless,” Akutagawa stated with undeserved scorn.

“Excuse me? You’re useless too! You can’t use your Skill either!”

Akutagawa flared. Atsushi continued before the mafioso could launch onto the warpath.

“Listen, Poe usually writes mysteries. If we want to get out, we have to solve the enigma of… whatever this is.”

Akutagawa went down from a ten to a nine on the Akutagawa Aggressivity Scale (scope: from seven to ten).

“This is a closed room without any content to decrypt,” he retorted.

“Well… Maybe the text on the wall?” Atsushi suggested hopefully.

“I can’t read that.”

“Neither can I.”

They stared at each other. Akutagawa narrowed his eyes. Atsushi braced himself for another fight and quietly sank into despair.

It was not actually Poe’s fault. The man was a staunch Detective Agency ally now, or at least a staunch Ranpo ally. But this was his Skill, or rather a bastardized version of his Skill stolen by some French terrorist or something who’d come to Yokohama for mayhem, and Atsushi couldn’t help but to curse Poe at least a little for having such a stupidly powerful ability.

“Man-Tiger, look.”

Atsushi blinked, taken aback by words that weren’t insults, and reflexively obeyed. The text on the wall had changed to a more readable automatic writing followed by subtitles:

Title: Trapped In A Locked Room

Language: Japanese

Genre: Mystery

“What is that?”

“Why would I know?” Akutagawa retorted.

Atsushi glared at him.

“Can’t you pretend to co-operate even for a second?”

Akutagawa glared back at him.

“Am I attacking you right now, Man-Tiger?”

“No?”

“Then I’m co-operating.”

“That’s not co-operation! You –”

The title on the wall was changing to Trapped In A Locked Room With My Enemy. What did this mean? Was the Skill commenting on their behaviour?

“Akutagawa, have you seen this?”

“I have eyes, Man-Tiger.”

Once again, Atsushi wished that he was stuck with anyone but the human murder machine that was currently standing at his side.

Even the mafia boss had been nicer.

***

Twenty minutes later, they hadn’t made any progress. They had, however, bickered enough that the title had been upgraded to Trapped In A Locked Room With The Man I Hate Most In The World.

“See?” Atsushi snapped, gesturing at the accusing words. “This is why I didn’t want to team up with you! I don’t get why Dazai keeps putting us together!”

There was no doubt that Dazai’s intelligence defied human understanding, just like Ranpo’s. There was also no doubt that Atsushi and Akutagawa would never, ever get along. Still, for some reason, Dazai persisted when it came to pairing them up whenever the Detective Agency and the Mafia had to fight side by side.

Of course, Atsushi trusted Dazai with his life, but he wished to know what mysterious twist of brainpower made Dazai think there was any hope here. Dazai only ever answered his questions with nonsense, because Dazai was Dazai.

Akutagawa sneered.

“As if you could ever dream of understanding him.”

“Well, at least I try, instead of just treating him like some unfathomable deity!” Atsushi snapped.

“I don’t try because I’ve known him longer than you!”

“Well, I know him better than you do!”

Akutagawa’s eyes widened with murderous rage.

“I’ll kill you here and now,” he growled.

Atsushi saw movement at the corner of his vision. The text was changing again.

“I’m not fighting you in enemy territory,” he retorted, trying to read while still staring Akutagawa down. “Look, the title’s updating!”

Trapped In A Locked Room With My Love Rival. Wait! Wait, no!

“Akutagawa!” He cried out in distress, unsure of what he wished to say but very certain that he wanted to express it.

“‘Murder mystery’?” Akutagawa read aloud.

“No, the title!… Wait, what?”

The genre had switched too. Suddenly, the room began to change: the blank walls and floor turned to intricate wooden panels, a fireplace sprouted up, paintings blossomed from nothingness…

Had the Skill waited for them to find a genre? It did say automatic writing. Were they supposed to lead the plot? Poe’s scenarios were usually prepared in advance, but this was a distorted version of his normal power.

Now what? Was the Skill convinced they’d kill each other? Or was it going to try to force them down a murder mystery story? Ranpo and Yosano had told Atsushi about the time they’d been sucked into Poe’s books: in spite of her strength and fighting skills, Yosano had almost perished…

“Akutagawa, we have to switch genres while we can!”

“Why?”

“Because one of us will probably die if we don’t,” Atsushi snapped.

He saw Akutagawa’s expression and hastened to add:

“And we promised to face each other in a few months, didn’t we? So we have to stay alive. Also, you swore to me that you wouldn’t kill until then. Also, you are not the man I hate the most in the world and I wouldn’t ever attempt to murder you, no matter the circumstances –”

Desperation was making him ramble, but he had no idea how to change genre – nor if it was even possible any more – and all that he could do was to try to throw words at the problem. Dazai – well, Dazai was impervious to all Skills, so he’d never have fallen into such a predicament, but if he had, he'd have been out in a blink.

Dazai! Atsushi grabbed blindly onto this argument.

“Dazai paired us together this time, too. As you said, we can’t reach the level of the partnership he had with Nakahara, but we should at least show him that we can overcome this kind of obstacle.”

Akutagawa’s expression changed at once from his usual “Atsushi is talking and I hate it” to the sort of intense and worrying determination that only Dazai could inspire in him.

“I won’t harm you,” he stated coldly.

Atsushi snaked a glance at the wall. They were still a murder mystery, but the words seemed… slightly faded? Pieces of furniture were materializing around them: a coffee table, a couch...

“Just a bit more,” he urged Akutagawa.

Akutagawa scowled.

“I will protect you,” he said sourly.

The words disappeared. Atsushi did a little fist pump.

“What?” Akutagawa hissed, staring at the wall.

Atsushi imitated him.

The title was now Trapped In A Locked Room, I Learned To Know My Love Rival and the genre was Moving stories: friendship.

Atsushi just wanted to cry.

***

“I was killed by my friend,” the ghost whispered eerily, “and I shall not let you go unless you move me with your relationship.”

She looked like a European, with striking blond curls, gorgeous green eyes and an old-fashioned European dress. The effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that Atsushi could see through her. He’d expected to be more scared by the sight of a ghost, even in such a specific setting, but he was apparently more blasé and/or focused on “anything to get us out of there” than he’d thought.

“Rash –” Akutagawa started, and then scowled when he remembered that he couldn’t use his Skill.

He coughed, covering his mouth with a delicate elegance that was entirely unwarranted from such a brute. Akutagawa's whole appearance was a lie, anyway. No human lawnmower should have looked that fragile. Even without his Skill's help, Akutagawa was also capable of physical feats which were one percent natural abilities, sixty percent pure willpower and thirty-nine percent sheer spite.

“Stop resorting to violence all the time!” Atsushi snapped. “It's a ghost anyway! You can’t harm her!”

“You won’t know unless you try,” Akutagawa snarled. “Stop giving up at the slightest obstacle, Man-Tiger.”

“You –” Atsushi started, exasperated, before he cut himself off.

Better not risk the crime genre yet again – or something worse like a “rivalry” plot where they’d have to fight a ghost for Dazai’s hand or the like.

“Come on,” he urged his enemy, trying not to reflect too hard on what he was about to say. “We have to get out of here as quickly as possible, right? So let’s... prove our friendship to her.”

For once, Atsushi fully agreed with the expression on Akutagawa’s face.

***

The room was now fully furnished and decorated. Its opulence was downright unnerving.

“Sit,” Akutagawa ordered.

Very, very cautiously, Atsushi pulled the chair from the table. It was made of dark, clearly precious wood. Floral patterns had been underlined with gold leaves along its legs and arms. The embroidered cushion sank perfectly under his weight, neither too firm nor too soft.

“Why are you so scared of a seat?” Akutagawa asked judgmentally.

“I’ve never seen this degree of luxury, okay?” Atsushi retorted. “Maybe this is easy for you, since you have your mafia salary, but I’m just a young detective and I grew up in an orphanage! That seat is worth a decade of my pay...”

I wasn’t scared when Dazai showed me the opulence of the Headquarters and I grew up in the slums.”

“Well, you weren’t beaten whenever you touched something too expensive!”

I didn’t even approach anything expensive until Dazai took me in.”

“You had such painful childhoods!” The ghost exclaimed mournfully.

Atsushi looked at her. Something, maybe the detective instincts he was trying so hard to hone by observing his elders colleagues, made him turn to the wall.

Title: Trapped In A Locked Room, I Learned To Know My Love Rival’s Secret Pain

Genre: Moving stories: friendship, pathos, drama.

Damnit. He looked at Akutagawa. The mafioso met his gaze. They didn’t need to exchange words to know: anything but pathos.

“We’re fine now,” Akutagawa stated flatly.

“The important thing is that we’re healthy and well now!” Atsushi exclaimed, trying to sound enthusiastic.

Well, as healthy as Akutagawa could be, at least. Atsushi would never allude to it, though. The last time he’d looked worried when the other had coughed, he’d gotten a tongue-lashing sharp enough to understand that sometimes, the best mercy was actually to show none. They didn’t talk about Akutagawa’s health, they never alluded to the fact that they’d saved each other’s life a few times, and they pulled no punches. The opposite would have been a breach of the unspoken etiquette between them.

“I never dwell on the past,” Akutagawa said. “The most important thing is the present.”

“Oh, yes. And it allowed us to better appreciate our current life!”

“Indeed. Other people cannot understand the simple pleasure of eating something you like to your heart’s content.”

“Or sugar!” Atsushi exclaimed, nostalgic. “Back in the orphanage –”

No, no talking about the chocolate black market of the orphanage. They were trying to un-pathos the situation before the ghost started asking them to cry or something. He quickly steered the course away with a more cheerful anecdote:

“Well, anyway, I know it’s childish, but I love my tea with a ton of sugar!”

“Likewise,” Akutagawa nodded gravely.

Atsushi startled.

“You like sugar?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You look more like the bitter tea type...”

“You don’t know me.”

“Well, I will learn,” Atsushi retorted vengefully, “as we play a fun game of cards.”

He’d played with Dazai and Kunikida as the former tried and succeeded in pushing the latter to the limit of his patience. He could endure anything.

Akutagawa scowled but didn’t protest. The pack of cards had been conspicuously placed in the middle of the table. It was clearly one of their, for lack of a better term, friendship missions.

“I will win,” Akutagawa announced.

Well, they were off to a great start.

***

Atsushi had genuinely thought he would let Akutagawa win. Of the two of them, he was the reasonable one; he wasn’t jealous, murderous, or a criminal.

Two minutes into the game, he’d completely forgotten about his resolve and was trying his best to crush Akutagawa.

To his utter dismay, he lost anyway. Akutagawa didn’t smile, as he never did, but he somehow managed to look smug.

“I’ve played with some of the best mafia gamblers. You can’t hope to compare.”

“Well, good for you,” Atsushi retorted sourly.

He glanced at the ghost. She seemed dubious, which was understandable given the alacrity they’d demonstrated through the game. At least, pathos and drama had disappeared from the genre list – but friendship was starting to fade, too.

There was just one way they’d ever succeeded in acting in perfect sync, and that was –

Atsushi kindly smiled at the ghost.

“Would you like to play with us? The losers will owe the winner a favour.”

***

“You owe me a favour,” Akutagawa informed Atsushi.

“I know, Akutagawa.”

And then, because Atsushi was the reasonable one, he forced himself to add:

“Congratulations!”

Akutagawa seemed at least disconcerted enough by the acknowledgement that it made it worth it.

“I owe you a favour too,” the ghost confessed sulkily.

“Let us out,” Akutagawa demanded without hesitation.

“I can’t.”

“You gave your word.”

“I did! But I literally can’t. That story has no satisfying ending! Even though this is automatic writing, we need some semblance of conclusion, and this isn’t it! I might be a narrative emanation of the room, but I have to abide by the rules.”

She stared hard at them.

“I must tell you that I… I don’t know if you can become friends.”

The answer was quite clearly “no.” The fact that Atsushi had to argue against it would probably haunt him for the rest of his life, but they needed to get out of this room before he had to suffer through more bonding with Akutagawa.

“We did beat you together, though?”

“Yes! That was a nice moment,” the ghost agreed enthusiastically.

That had been a stressful moment. The narrative had quite literally stacked the cards against them, trying to indebt them to the spectre.

“You had such nice chemistry in that game!" She sighed happily. "I could feel you had real trust in each other... And the way you smiled when Akutagawa won was so sweet!”

Atsushi attempted to hide his horror. Had he? Well, he'd been relieved that they'd won, but did she need to say it like that? She sounded like Dazai. Wait, was this a Dazai plot? No, no way. The man could be devious, but not that devious, and he couldn't predict the manner Poe's abilities had been twisted anyway...

Right?

Atsushi decided to stop thinking about it.

“Thank you…?” He answered the ghost.

“But that’s not enough," she continued sadly. "Do you see that genre?”

Atsushi obediently looked at the wall. Their current genre had thankfully returned to Moving stories: friendship.

“We require friendship. Your relationship is certainly intense and gripping, but it’s not friendship. I believe that we should think about more things you should do to prove your feelings. Trust exercises?”

“What?”

“That thing where you let yourself fall and your companion has to catch you!”

Atsushi stared at Akutagawa. Akutagawa stared back at him. He’d rarely felt such perfect understanding between them.

“That’s impossible,” Akutagawa stated with heroically restrained hostility.

“You should think more positively!” The ghost answered brightly.

Atsushi could see Akutagawa’s lips starting to form the world Rashomon and stopping.

***

Two hours later, they’d erred toward Crime Mystery again, somehow added Psychological to their list of enduring genres, briefly been titled Trapped In A Locked Room With My Fated Enemy then Trapped In A Locked Room: A Horror Tale, and they were currently going full cycle by returning to Trapped In A Locked Room With My Love Rival, except their genres were now Feelings, Psychological and…

“Romance,” Akutagawa read in a flat voice.

He was reaching the end of his rope, Atsushi could tell. He wasn’t close to Akutagawa by any means, but they’d fought together or at each other's side enough times that he could discern the difference between Akutagawa's normal indifferent front, his annoyed expressionless appearance and his “I believe I'm calm, yet I'm actually about to stab everything” controlled facade. A sword rack had materialized near the chimney a while ago and Atsushi was trying very, very hard not to look at it.

“I think we fought too much about Dazai again,” he suggested cautiously. “That Skill seems pretty sensitive to narrative hints...”

Akutagawa twitched. Atsushi tensed, eighteen years of finely-tuned survival instincts blaring in alarm.

“Ghost,” Akutagawa called coldly.

“Yes?” The spectre answered cheerfully.

“Three actions related to romance. That’ll be enough to prove an evolution in our relationship, right?”

“Romance with w… Oh! That would explain the intensity of your behaviour towards each other!” She exclaimed, delighted. “But I don’t know –”

“You owe me a favour.”

“Fine, fine. Give me three romantic actions, but with a real feeling of evolution, alright? Something we can wrap up in a nice narrative at the end of it.”

“Wait, I didn’t...” Atsushi protested, taken aback.

Akutagawa turned toward him, his gaze dark and ferocious.

“Man-Tiger. ‘Proofs of friendship’ require communication and unacceptable efforts. If we go the romance route, we can be done in thirty minutes.”

“Thirty minutes?!”

“Less if you stop making me waste my time on convincing you. What do you prefer, holding my hand or trust exercises?”

“You would drop me, right?”

“Yes,” answered Akutagawa with the utter lack of soul and shame that Atsushi had learned to expect from him.

“Let’s hold hands,” Atsushi said.

***

Akutagawa was not taking any chances, so he got the ghost to validate the displays of romance beforehand. They’d start with holding hands, continue with hand petting and upgrade with a kiss. Akutagawa described the whole thing with the kind of steely resolve he showed before a fight. Atsushi just gave up on trying to picture anything and decided to go with the flow.

Going with the flow turned out to be harder than expected when it involved taking Akutagawa’s hand.

“Man-Tiger,” Akutagawa said, holding out the offending appendage.

“I know!”

“So?”

Atsushi swallowed and gathered all of his bravery.

He reached out to Akutagawa’s hand. He touched it and pressed their palm together. He almost managed to keep from recoiling at the contact, then willed his fingers closed. There. Hand held.

Akutagawa’s hand.

Thank God Dazai wasn’t there. They’d have to take this secret to the grave.

Akutagawa’s skin was colder than it should have been, and softer than Atsushi had expected. It didn’t bear any calluses, just the ridges and dips of a few scars. His hand was a bit thinner than Atsushi’s, more delicate.

It didn’t feel like a killer’s hand. It didn’t feel like anything Atsushi had ever known, as his very mind rebelled against realizing that he was holding Akutagawa’s hand and refused to analyze the situation further.

Akutagawa coughed and pulled him down onto the couch.

“Let’s wait for validation.”

“This is not very romantic!” the ghost complained.

“This is our brand of romantic. Anyway, you said you’d take it.”

She sighed.

“True. Okay, hold it for thirty seconds at least.”

Atsushi barely bit back on a protest and sat with Akutagawa, trying to focus on anything but the situation... Was he starting to sweat? God, he was, wasn’t it? He was warming Akutagawa’s skin, so it was making him too hot and Akutagawa was going to think he was gross – not that he cared –

He cared immensely. It was one thing to be hated for stupid reasons and another to be found disgusting.

“Man-Tiger.”

Akutagawa’s voice was dripping with disapprobation. Atsushi startled, almost releasing his grip.

“Y-yes?”

“This is just hand-holding. Why are you trembling?”

“I – huh –”

He couldn't pretend he felt disturbed, could he? They might have been doing the strict romantic minimum, but he wasn’t sure he could break role to that extent.

“I’ve never held anyone’s hand like this before,” he resigned himself to saying instead.

Akutagawa stared at him. The irritation he felt from the mafioso’s usual lack of empathy was familiar, almost reassuring in its hostile normalcy.

Some of us have some sensibility, okay?” He snapped.

“And yours is excessive.”

“Listen – anyway, this is supposed to be a tender moment, so I’m not fighting you!”

“Good, because we still have seven seconds to go.”

“Already?”

“Yes. Count them in your head. It will keep you busy.”

From doing nonsense was the clear meaning, but it was actually good advice: it gave him something to do and lessened the stress. Akutagawa wasn't saying anything about the sweat. Maybe he didn't care? It would have been rather hypocritical to complain about it when he was so often drenched in blood, wouldn't it? Atsushi decided on that line of defense if the mafioso tried to say anything.

Akutagawa didn't seem to sweat. His skin was warmer. Surprisingly, his grip wasn't too strong. Atsushi had been sure it'd be a death vice...

“We’re done,” Akutagawa finally told him.

Atsushi retrieved his hand, half-drunk with relief.

“Now for the petting.”

Atsushi was not going to survive this.

***

“We shall sit facing each other,” Akutagawa said with the kind of expression he probably wore when explaining to younger mafiosos where to stab for maximum pain.

“Okay,” Atsushi replied faintly.

They sat on each side of the table.

“Put your hand forward.”

It felt like the beginning of a punishment. Atsushi’s heart was beating too fast and too quickly. He almost slapped the table; Akutagawa stared at him.

"Stop being so nervous, Man-Tiger."

"I'm doing my best, okay?" Atsushi snapped.

"Then your best is terrible. I will start.”

Akutagawa took his hand with completely uncharacteristic gentleness, ignoring Atsushi's reflexive twitch, and enveloped it between his own, cradling it like something fragile. One of his hands was still warmer from Atsushi’s touch. Their scars brushed against each other, contrasting with the smoothness of skin.

Atsushi’s breath caught. He looked at Akutagawa to see if he’d noticed his reaction, but the mafioso was just staring at his work with the merciless focus he usually directed toward his enemies.

The fingers of Akutagawa's right hand gently slid between Atsushi’s, intermingling with a slowness that brought excruciating intimacy to the movement. It felt almost exploratory, or maybe like a request, or an invitation. The fingertips of his left hand caressed Atsushi’s palm along its lines and curves, soothing over the occasional scar, patient in a way that was completely foreign to Akutagawa; then his thumb brushed down to the inside of Atsushi’s wrist and traced the shade of his veins. It slid back up to his palm in small, dragged circles. The touch felt like fire, so gentle it hurt, more vivid and intense than any of Atsushi's occasional guilty attempts to find some solitary pleasure – and far more erotic. Atsushi’s skin was raw, oversensitive, his mind trapped in the moment; anchored on one side by the embrace of Akutagawa’s fingers, unmoored on the other by the caressing intimacy of his touch.

Atsushi couldn’t breathe.

“You’re trembling again,” Akutagawa pointed out.

“Nngh,” Atsushi attempted. “Ngyes.”

Akutagawa looked at him and seemed disconcerted by what he saw, stopping his movements. Heat suffused Atsushi's cheeks. If sheer embarrassment could have killed, he'd have keeled over on the spot; alas, it didn't, and left him with the whole mess.

“Does it work that well? I just imitated Dazai. I didn’t think you'd be that sensitive.”

“D-Dazai…?”

“This opening tactic is one of his favourites when he touches a woman's hand. He often flirted when I accompanied him, so I took notes.”

Questions were crowding Atsushi’s head in that moment, but he was mostly full of why. Why would Akutagawa take notes? Why did Dazai have favourite opening tactics? Why would he flirt in front of a subordinate, while he was busy being some feared mafia mogul or something? Why had Akutagawa decided to use this on Atsushi?

Why was Atsushi letting Akutagawa molest his hand?

Why everything?

"Is it enough?" He asked the ghost, trying not to sound too desperate and failing.

The spectre grinned at him, her cheek flushed with the colour of l... death?

"Thirty more seconds for narrative consistency!"

Atsushi didn’t usually think of himself as the cursing type, but today he sorely wished he had the vocabulary to express his complete and utter dismay. Several different protests died on his tongue before he voiced them, knowing full-well that this was their only escape and no amount of complaining about it would change the direction their encounter was going. This was better than a murder mystery, he told himself fiercely, even as his insides clenched at the thought of touching Akutagawa again.

Like a rabid dog with a bone, the mafioso held out his hand expectantly, mouth set in a grim line, and Atsushi forced himself to inch his hand back in range. Somehow, even though he was expecting it, the second round of hand petting was even worse than the first. His earlier reaction — which he desperately tried not to dwell on — seemed to have been enough to unsettle his partner, and this time Akutagawa’s touch did nothing but make him sweat, too erratic, too harsh, and too unsure in its direction. Atsushi did his best to stare at a suddenly very riveting whorl of wood on the table and tried not to flinch every time Akutagawa grabbed his fingers a little too roughly.

He could do this. It was only thirty seconds. He’d endured much, much worse.

(Though that was arguably starting to become debatable.)

Finally, finally, Akutagawa released his hand from the clammy prison that their clasped digits had become, and it took all of Atsushi’s swiftly deteriorating courage not to yank his hand back beneath the table. He felt simultaneously too hot and too cold, rubbing his hands together as he squirmed in his seat, still not able to look Akutagawa in the eye. (Somehow, he had the sinking feeling that he’d lost a sizable amount of Akutagawa’s good opinion, which was doubly worse given that he hadn’t had that much to begin with.)

Still, though, at least they were done with… whatever that was. He would have to spend the next few hours scrubbing his mind clean of the mental image of Akutagawa taking notes on Dazai’s flirting techniques, and then maybe drown his sorrows in some kind of alcoholic beverage to forget the way his heart had raced when Akutagawa had brushed his thumb against the delicate skin above his veins and—

Nope, nope, not thinking about it anymore, he was pretending this never happened. They were going to get out of here together and be free and he could taste the sweet, sweet relief it would bring and—

Atsushi’s blood ran cold when he saw the ghost’s face morph into a look of unrivaled anticipation. He had completely forgotten the last of their chosen “romantic actions.”

***

The couch was deemed “the most appropriate” location, a throwback to their hand holding session, and Atsushi could feel the ghost’s gaze boring into the back of his head as he squished himself into the furthest corner away from Akutagawa. When he’d agreed to the terms of their release he hadn’t been thinking that far ahead, too focused on the promised freedom to consider what they would have to do to get it. The hand holding had been… fine, in the same way that him turning into a were-tiger was ‘fine’. But the hand petting had proven to be more intimate than he’d expected and now—

He looked up to find Akutagawa staring at his face like it was a heavily guarded safehouse with his assassination target locked inside. It made all the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and Atsushi dropped his gaze immediately to the couch cushions, heart hammering in his ears as he tried to wedge himself deeper into the corner.

He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t, he was going to ask to the ghost to switch the genre back to murder mystery and let the story take him out of his misery—

“Man-Tiger.”

Without hesitation, Akutagawa hauled him closer by the front of his shirt, and Atsushi swore he heard the ghost squeal in the background. The sound just put him even more on edge, and for once he was grateful that neither of them had their Skill, lest he put his hands through Akutagawa’s chest when he slammed them against it to stop the mafioso from pulling him any closer. Even without the tiger’s powers, though, it was still enough to make Akutagawa grunt, his eyes narrowing threateningly.

Man-Tiger,” Akutagawa warned, and Atsushi’s tongue was still too heavy in his mouth to produce any kind of useful reply. Instead, he settled for awkwardly grabbing onto the lapels if only so he has something to ground himself with, nearly regretting his choice when it made Akutagawa bristle like a cornered cat. For several long and anguished heartbeats, neither of them moved a muscle, but Atsushi was horrendous when it came to staring contests. Unsurprisingly, he caved first, his eyes flicking down to Akutagawa’s dry, chapped lips and swallowing audibly as he looked away.

He had never once considered himself a courageous man, but he also had his pride, and pride could be one hell of a motivator when it came to his little back and forth with the man before him. Akutagawa had led them successfully through two of the three trials, and he couldn't very well let the mafioso take credit for yet another of their victories. He had to help here. He had to…

He had to just do it.

Before he could overthink it, Atsushi leaned in, pressing his pursed lips somewhere in the vicinity of Akutagawa’s mouth as the man jerked backwards in surprise, the result being somewhere between a horrible kiss and a mistimed headbutt. It made Atsushi’s face burn with humiliation all the same, apologies and accusations both warring to break free from his mouth first, but as soon as he so much as took a breath to speak, Akutagawa struck like a coiled snake.

It hurt this time, what with the ferocity of Akutagawa’s attack on his lips, but the pain was but an afterthought in the wake of the fact that Akutagawa’s tongue was in his mouth oh god. Atsushi had thought he’d known true despair, but apparently life was determined to humble his foolish assumptions.

“Aku—Akut—mmf!”

Unable to break the mafioso’s grip on him, Atsushi tried to turn his head to get some control over whatever the hell this was, with limited success. Akutagawa was as relentless here as he was in combat, chasing Atsushi’s lips and slotting them back with his own, only growing more agitated the more Atsushi squirmed.

Somewhere in the background, Atsushi heard the ghost sigh dreamily.

The reminder of their audience only served to ratchet Atsushi’s mortification up to eleven, and for a brief but powerful moment, he wanted to bury his head between the cushions of the couch and never come out again. He knew he was trembling again, hands still grasping uselessly at Akutagawa’s jacket, but he didn’t know what else to do. It wasn’t like he’d ever kissed anyone before, and now here was his… what, enemy? Rival? Fated partner? Taking his first kiss so violently Atsushi was certain he’d never want to do it again.

He startled when he felt fingers against his own, the kiss breaking long enough for Akutagawa to pry one of his hands off the jacket and bring it up to touch his face, grimacing as he did so.

“Your hands are cold,” Akutagawa complained, and the criticism was enough to stir Atsushi’s tiny little rebellious streak into action.

“Well your lips are dry! And you suck at kissing!”

Akutagawa’s nostrils flared, his hand clenching tighter over Atsushi’s, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he made a face like he had just swallowed soured milk, and then leaned in slowly, stopping when his face was close enough to Atsushi’s that he could feel the mafioso’s breath against his cheeks. This, at least, was a gesture that Atsushi was familiar with, even if Akutagawa ruined it by the constipated look on his face. Tamping down on the borderline hysterical laughter that threatened to bubble out of him, Atsushi squared his shoulders and leaned in as well, cautious but determined.

This time, Akutagawa didn't come in hard and fast, but he kissed with more assertiveness than someone with no experience ought to, experimenting with different angles without any consideration as to what Atsushi might enjoy. There was something incredibly irksome about that, and though Atsushi tolerated it at first, it wasn’t long before he balked at letting Akutagawa keep the lead. Bringing both hands to the mafioso’s cheeks in a gesture that had Akutagawa going stiff as a board, Atsushi surged forward and kissed him hard, if only to prove a point.

It was like a switch had been flicked, a feeling not unlike that which he experienced in the moments they fought together coursing through his veins. He felt simultaneously clear-headed and energized, heartbeat thrumming in his ears as Akutagawa gave back as good as he got, the two of them moving together in that eerily synchronized way that only seemed to happen when times were truly dire. If anyone had asked him if they’d achieve the same kind of battle harmony they did out in the field anywhere else, Atsushi would have vehemently denied it, and yet here he was making out with Akutagawa on a fantasy couch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His mouth tingled everywhere that Akutagawa’s tongue touched, the fire he'd felt when their hands had brushed before amplified to the level of a supernova, threatening to immolate him from the inside out. He felt dizzy with it all, everything too much and somehow not enough, pressing close to Akutagawa’s frail form like he was his anchor in the storm. Someone was moaning softly, but Atsushi was too focused on learning what made Akutagawa tick to care, finally gathering enough daring to close his lips tighter around the mafiosos’ tongue and sucking.

The noise Akutagawa made was intoxicating, but he didn’t give Atsushi any time to pursue it further. Instead, he broke the kiss to sink his teeth into the sharp edge of Atsushi’s jaw and he whimpered, hands buried in the mafioso’s hair as he tugged on it to drag Akutagawa back towards his mouth instead. He understood why people did this now, why they craved it, and he let himself be swept away by the sensation, too caught up to be embarrassed by the soft, wet sounds he was making between kisses.

This was insane. Akutagawa was going to kill him one day and still.

He never wanted it to stop.

The sound of fluttering made Atsushi open his eyes, pulling away just enough to watch the walls around them disintegrate into sheets of blank paper, the Skill finished now that they’d fulfilled their respective roles. The pair of them were left seated on the parking lot floor where they were first “captured”, no sign of the Skill or its user. The sheer bone deep relief was enough to make Atsushi grin, breathless and a little manic at Akutagawa as he leaned back and reveled in the feel of concrete beneath his hands, hardly caring about the way the rough surface scratched at his fingers.

They’d done it! They’d survived the automatic writing and emerged in one piece and now they would never, ever have to talk about what went on because there were no witnesses and—

“Yo! Fancy meeting you two here!”

Oh.

Oh no no no nono—

Atsushi remained frozen in place as he watched Akutagawa’s face turn a few colours he didn’t even know human skin was capable of going. His lips started to form familiar syllables, before the mafioso thought better of it, jaw clenching in a way that promised swift and brutal violence. As the closest being proximity wise, normally that would have been enough to put Atsushi on guard, but he was too busy trapped in the downward spiral of his own thoughts at the prospect that Dazai of all people had seen them kissing, he was never going to live this down, he should have just died in the book and spared himself this cruel fate—

He barely stifled a yelp when Akutagawa shoved him away, landing in an undignified sprawl on the concrete while the mafioso stormed off in a huff. Which, to be honest, was fine as well. Perhaps if he just lay here, Dazai would think he was dead and leave him be. Maybe he was already dead. Or a dream! A horrible nightmare he would wake up from at any moment now.

“Atsushiiii~” Dazai sing-songed, too close for comfort. “What ever am I going to write on the mission report?”

Atsushi’s answering whimper was lost in the palms of his hands as he buried his face in them.