Work Text:
Lawnmower: My apartment. 18:00, Bring swim trunks
Atsushi stares down at the message, a confused frown on his face.
“Is something wrong?” Kyouka is staring up at him, concern shining in her eyes.
“It’s nothing, just a spam text,” he puts on a reassuring smile, replies to the message with a ‘?’, and tucks his phone back into his pocket. Kyouka nods and turns her attention back to her overly-sweet crêpe.
Now, Atsushi stands at the door of his rival’s home. It certainly isn’t the first time he’s been here, but it never gets any less weird.
He brings a finger up to ring the doorbell, and less than a second later the door opens as though Akutagawa had been standing there, waiting. The raven doesn’t greet him, nor does he give him a chance to speak.
“Follow me.” He states simply, turning on his heel and walking further into his abode. Unfortunately, he isn’t wearing his stark, black coat, so the action lacks its typical flair.
With a despondent sigh, Atsushi steps into the genkan and toes his shoes off, following the other into the depths of his apartment.
They make their way until they reach the bathroom situated at the end of the hallway. Behind Akutagawa, Atsushi can make out what seems to be a paper shopping bag on the counter.
“Are you wearing the swim trunks?”
“Yes??”
“Good.”
In a flash, Rashoumon lashes out and grapples onto Atsushi’s work pants, yanking them down and almost toppling him over in the process.
A yelp tumbles from his mouth as he stumbles to remove the cloth from around his ankles, “Hey–! What are you doing?!”
“Take off your shirt.”
Atsushi gapes at the other in disbelief, “Can you at least explain to me what we’re doing?!”
It’s then that the contents of the paper bag are revealed to the detective, held up by tendrils of cloth.
“Deshedding,” the mafioso replies simply.
With a sigh, Atsushi steps into the empty tub that resides in the bathroom, Akutagawa sitting on the floor next to it with his elbows propped up on the edge.
“Why are we doing this?” He asks.
“Because you’re getting your lousy fur all over my clothing– and my apartment, by extension.” Rashoumon floats out the door and returns with Akutagawa’s usually pitch black coat. Now, though, there are very visible white hairs scattered around on the cloth and the younger suppresses a wince at the sight. “Activate your ability. Arms first.”
Without further argument, the weretiger channels byakko, allowing her fur to ripple across his arms. Akutagawa uses Rashoumon to grab the showerhead and turn on the very-much ice-cold water. Atsushi barely manages to suppress the yelp that tries to escape, instead letting out a strained squeak paired with a violent jolt that probably would have been more of a jump if he hadn’t contained himself. He spares a glance at Akutagawa’s face, and that’s all it takes for him to tell he’s suppressing a laugh. He gets the faintest glimpse of the upwards tilt to the corners of his mouth before he covers it up with his hand and lets out a painfully fake cough.
Moving the showerhead away from the weretiger, he puts his hand under the water, grimacing at the temperature and waiting for it to get to an appropriate level of warmth. Once deemed acceptable, he reaches for the deshedding shampoo held out by Rahoumon and flips open the cap with a click.
“Hold out your arms.” he instructs, and Atsushi obeys– though not without complaint.
“Can’t I do this myself?”
“I don’t trust your idiotic Jinko-brain to do it properly. The only way to ensure its effectiveness.”
The detective rolls his eyes, “Sure, that’s why.”
“Hush, jinko.” The mafioso turns over the bottle, squeezing out a glossy gel that smells of oats onto the other’s arms. Briefly, he runs the water over them to wet the fur before placing the showerhead in the bucket he had set in the tub beforehand to collect the water. Using his hands, he lathers in the soap, blunt nails gently scratching the skin underneath.”
Akutagawa makes a grossed out sound and pulls his hands away, holding them up for Atsushi to see, “See? Look at the amount of fur that’s come off already; we’ve barely even started. At this point maybe you should just fully transform and I can get the black lizard to rake it all off…”
The look Atsushi gives him is horrified, “Don’t even joke like that,”
Akutagawa fails to suppress the chuckle that claws its way out and moves to continue his ministrations, electing to ignore the way his rival’s expression morphs into one more akin to amazement.
It’s a soothing process; scrub, brush, rinse, brush. Atsushi feels himself decompress, practically melting under the gentle care being bestowed upon him.
“Don’t pass out, jinko.”
The detective snaps to attention and looks to his partner, who is currently scraping clumps of fur into the trash bin, “Sorry.”
His partner tsks, turning back to him with a human hairbrush in his grasp instead of the previous undercoat brush, “You apologize too much, weretiger.”
“What time is it? And what’s that for?” He questions, pointing at the object in Akutagawa’s hand.
“19:45. And it’s for your hair, fool.”
Atsushi stares at the brush akin to the way one would regard a knife in their face.
He’s never liked his hair being touched.
It’s not a sense of dread one obtains naturally, but one that is learned from more than a decade of mistreatment and abuse. He can remember bony hands, clutched tight around dirtied, white strands and dragging. The scars on his side seem to itch. There are a select number of people that he has allowed to touch his hair, and even then it was rare.
Akutagawa’s voice pierces his thoughts, “Jinko.”
“What? Sorry, I spaced out.”
“We don’t have to do your hair if you don’t want to.”
Atsushi is silent for a moment, mulling it over in his mind. He already trusts the other with his life, so what’s trusting him to brush his hair?
“No, it’s fine. I trust you.” Akutagawa's eyebrows raise, betraying the impartial mask he does his best to maintain. Atsushi rolls his eyes, “Don’t look so surprised, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. Just be gentle.” He adds, as though the man had been anything but.
“...Okay. Turn around.”
The white-haired man nods and shimmies around so that his back is turned towards the other.
Akutagawa grabs the showerhead, ensuring that it’s on a gentle setting, “I’m gonna wet your hair, now.” He waits for Atsushi’s acknowledgement and runs the water over his head, using his hand to shield the detective’s face. He begins the same process they’d done for Atsushi’s arms and legs. Atsushi subconsciously leans into the touch, eyes falling closed; and Akutagawa lets him. No snarky remarks, no smug statements.
When the raven gets to actually combing out his hair, he’s surprised. “Did you already brush your hair? There’s hardly anything coming out.”
“Hm..? Yeah, like two days ago. I had Kyouka help, though.”
The older hums, “You two have grown close.”
Atsushi smiles, “Yeah. She’s kinda what I imagine having a younger sister would be like.”
“Does she still live with you?”
He suppresses the shake of his head, “No, not since the Decay of Angels incident. The president renovated the dorms after we defeated Ame-no-gozen, so she has her own now.”
“I see.” A pause. “I’m… happy, for her.”
The smile on Atsushi’s face grows even fonder. The delivery is choppy, but genuine sentiment shines through nonetheless. He supposes the current atmosphere must be doing a number of the layers of walls Akutagawa has built up throughout his life– melting them down like ice, one by one.
“Have you ever thought about what life would be like outside of the mafia?” he asks, half expecting a dismissive huff.
“I hadn’t.” the other states, grabbing the showerhead once more.
Atsushi turns his head to the side to look at his rival, but is immediately redirected by a pale hand, “Hadn’t?”
“Hadn’t.” he reaffirms, “Not for a long time.”
The white-haired man tilts his head back, relishing in the warmth of the water running through his hair and down his back, “What changed?”
There’s a brief silence as Akutagawa runs his fingers through white strands, stripping away the soapy remains of the shampoo.
“It was after we defeated Ame-no-gozen, I suppose. The thought had appeared previously, but only very briefly and even then it was…” he trails off and Atsushi waits patiently. It was only after you made space for yourself in my life that those thoughts began, he thinks, continuing to pet at the other’s head despite the soap being long gone. “It felt… Good. To know that I had helped to save billions of people from a terrible demise. I hadn’t expected to receive any form of gratification from my contribution. I only assisted because Dazai had once again inserted himself into my life.”
“Would you ever consider leaving the mafia? Or maybe even joining the agency?” Atsushi turns around and rests his head on his arms over the wall of the tub, eyes bright and wide.
This time, Akutagawa does huff, “Don’t be preposterous, jinko. There is no place for me outside of the mafia.”
The weretiger frowns, “How so?”
“I am a natural-born killer, Atsushi. I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember. I do not belong with those who bask in the light of day.” I am undeserving goes unsaid, but Atsushi hears it nonetheless– he always does.
“You haven’t killed anyone in over a year, Akutagawa– hell, you hardly even attack me anymore. You act like you wanted to start killing in the first place; it’s not your fault that you were born into such an environment. You might not know it, but you are kinder than you give yourself credit for.”
The younger’s arms shoot out in exasperation, “You extended our promise to bugs for crying out loud! You act like my hands aren’t dirty too; you know damn well what happened with Shibusawa. You calling yourself unworthy of living in the light and helping people is the same as saying that Kyouka, Dazai-san, or I aren’t either.”
Akutagawa opens his mouth to protest, but Atsushi glares and raises himself to sit on the ledge next to his partner, his hand falling out of his hair, “I don’t care if you can’t recognize it; you are kind, intelligent, and you are strong.” Atsushi raises a hand to jab at the other’s chest, “You can say what you want, but it is obvious to me and everyone else around us that you have grown, so don’t fall back into this cycle of putting yourself down as though you’re mere trash, because you’re not.” His hands have moved to hold the mafioso’s face, keeping his gaze on him and staring determinedly into his eyes.
Akutagawa’s eyes are the widest Atsushi has ever seen them and he fears Akutagawa may start to cry. He doesn’t.
Akutagawa stares at his partner in amazement, brows raised as high as they can go. He feels as though he might cry. He doesn’t.
Akutagawa doesn’t say anything, so Atsushi pulls him into a hug– their first since their fight with Ame-no-gozen. He remembers it well, fueled by relief and adrenaline and desperation to know that the other was truly there. It’s tight and warm and drops of chilled water from Atsushi’s hair drip onto the other’s T-shirt and streak onto his face.
Hesitantly, the raven brings his hands up to gently rest against the other’s back. He mumbles into the detective’s shoulder, “You’re getting me wet, Jinko.”
Atsushi laughs, light and airy, “Sorry.”
He pulls away and Akutagawa feels the need to pull him back in and secure him with Rashoumon. Akutagawa sighs, motioning for Atsushi to stay put while he goes to the sink to pull out his hairdryer and a towel from the cabinet underneath. When he returns, Atsushi faces his back to him once again, already knowing Akutagawa wouldn’t let him do it himself. Akutagawa unfolds the towel and lays it over Atsushi’s head, gently pressing it down to absorb the water. Once he’s sure he’s gotten as much as he can out with the towel, he plugs in the hairdryer and aims it at Atsushi.
It goes by fast, the moisture evaporating away in about a minute. Atsushi hears Akutagawa snort behind him, and before he could ask what it was about, Rashoumon holds up a small mirror in front of him. His hair is poofed up, sticking out at weird angles (weirder than usual, at least).
He gapes at his reflection, then turns to his so-called partner, “Akutagawa!”
The older says nothing, a small smirk on his face as he materializes another tendril of Rashoumon to grab a hairbrush and flatten out the cotton-ball his hair had transformed into.
“What time is it, by the way?”
“Hmm, 20 minutes until 22:00.”
“It’s been three hours?!” Atsushi exclaims.
Akutagawa’s smirk grows, “Time flies when you’re being groomed like a dog,”
He shoots an inauthentic glare at the other, “Not funny.”
“Whatever you say, weretiger. It’s rather late, perhaps you should spend the night.”
The detective raises a brow, “Did you plan this?”
“That would be preposterous, jinko.”
“Uhhuh, so the fact that Rashoumon is holding a set of pajamas in my size is completely unrelated?” Atsushi looks behind Akutagawa, eyeing the ability floating innocently by her master, cloth held loosely in her jaw.
“Precisely,” the raven states, turning on his heel and exiting the bathroom, “It seems you are finally putting those detective skills of yours to use. Now dry off and change, we can deal with all the fur in the morning.”
Atsushi smiles to himself, looking down at the clothes Rashoumon had deposited into his arms, “Sure.”