Sweet Sorrow in Black Cloth
A Ryūnosuke Akutagawa Drabble, exploring your navigation of loving him, even with the looming threat of his inevitable end. This is very word heavy without a shred of dialogue. Think…almost an introspection.
There’s no real plot, just an exploration of his character. I love him too much that I wanted to give justice to his depth and struggles.
With that being said, please enjoy.
Warnings: Sadness, a bit of angst, fanfic cannot fix Akutagawa’s lung disease in this one (sorry about that).
Masterlist
꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦
Love is such a fickle feeling. Giving all that you are just to prove your care and devotion for a person who isn’t guaranteed to stay by your side. Or, you may find yourself loving a doomed future. A pain that is unavoidable, brought closer only by the cruel throes of time. Unmoveable, unwavering. And as predictable as that end would be, no amount of preparation would ever be able to soothe it.
Knowing this, you still cared. You still gave all that you were, because—like a dying bird that hit a window—you never knew when the pain would strike. When the day would come that the pillows were cold, fluffed, and never to be laid upon again. It was all you could do.
At the beginning of it all, loving the Black-Fanged Hellhound was like walking through an unmarked minefield. Never knowing which step would be the wrong one, the one that would end you in an instant.
Loving him was like petting the stray dog wandering on the streets, waiting for when it would finally bite.
You could care so much about him, supporting him at his weakest–loving him through every brittle moment–but there was always that one chance. That inevitable moment when he would snap-back. When he would sink those poisoned fangs into your hand because it was overwhelming. Because he wasn’t used to being loved, only beaten and abandoned. Believing himself unworthy of affection, of the true care of another.
It was like reaching for a Rose in the thornbush, despite being poked and scratched.
Watching him leave each morning–before the sun had time to peek curiously over the horizon–was an ache to your soul. Holding onto him just a bit longer, regardless of the thorns that poked your very being, before he put on that mask. That cold, uncaring stranger that kept him safe. It kept you away from him, away from any ties that would distract him. The work always came first to him…because at least it would always be there for him. Always calling him back, always giving him a purpose.
Loving this beast was akin to fixing a broken vase. Patching the cracks and splinters with glue, despite the feeling that it would never be whole again. That it may never hold the amount it used to.
You couldn’t fix him, not entirely. Words and touches couldn’t heal the years of harsh slaps and sharp tongues. It couldn’t magically make the yearning–and pain–in his soul magically disappear. Simply, you could only strive to help put his pieces back together. To seal the cracks with porcelain and gold that would make his wounds stronger, but not invisible.
It was hard, loving such a wounded person. He had his moments, his lapses in judgement when it felt the world might crumble. His self-preservation kicking in to keep him safe, even if it meant sacrificing those closest to him. You never hated him for it, only those that had broken his viewpoint to see it this way. You quietly despised those who had shattered his mirror and fractured how he experienced the world.
No, you stood by him. Why? Because loving Ryūnosuke made it all worthwhile. It was a quiet love, one that needed no words. Only simple touches and assurances that this was real. That it wasn’t a shard of glass pointed against his heart, ready to strike when his guard was down.
Loving him was like touching the soft black fur of a cat that had been relaxing in the sun. It was soothing, and smelt of home. Of a comfort that only existed when the cat had found it safe enough to seek the light.
As he let his walls down around you, a hidden warmth lied deep inside. A care that was quiet, but still so fulfilling. He let you bask in the tenderness of a fire he held close to his heart. No longer was he burning in the light, but resting in it. Resting quietly in the peace and love that you shone onto him, he clung desperately to it like a moth to a flame. Silently, he hoped it wouldn’t burn him.
It was like keeping a chipped plate in the cabinet. Stored safely so no harm could come to it, yet never being able to toss it away like trash. The thought of it being broken on the ground was too much to think about. It caused your heart to simply ache.
Through every harsh word–through his struggles–you would never leave him. Even his pain and nightmares couldn’t keep you away. On the contrary, it made you hold him closer. You couldn’t abandon him. To put him on an edge and watch him fall–no doubt breaking as soon he hit the floor–made your very soul cry out in anguish. You would keep him close to you, close to his heart. Because cutting yourself on the chip of his heart was worth the beauty he held across his soul.
But at the end of it all, loving Ryūnosuke was like watching your favorite flower slowly wilt. Steady as disease overtook its roots, crawling up the stem and stealing its air and life. That no matter how much water you gave it, its fate was inevitable.
As you stared at him one night–his expression soft with the hold of sleep–you found yourself watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. Stunted only slightly by the occasional hitch of breath or light cough, he rested peacefully. He held a quiet beauty. One that shone through when his sharp expression faded away, leaving only peace. A true peace that could only be achieved through sleep, when the world was put away from his mind.
But, at the inevitable moment, will this all have been worth it? Will all the love, care, and light you’ve given even matter at the end? When the world takes from you that blossoming flower and leaves only an empty space in your heart. Is that single bloom worth the wilting soon after?
Does knowing you can never change its fate make it easier to live with sorrow?
You aren’t sure. When that day comes, you doubt you will be then, either. It’s a dangerous thought, but you knew it had to come. Yet, what difference would it make in worrying today than tomorrow? What could you hope to change?
You turned on your side, reaching a hand down beneath the covers to fit between his fingers. Resting your forehead against his arm, you found your eyes slowly closing. Soon, you would join him in that dream realm. In a place where those worries would be put aside for the time being, where they could no longer haunt you. A space where you could live blissfully and ignorantly, until reality called from the sun’s morning rays.
A gentle squeeze of your hand just before sleep pulled you under had your breath hitching. It was simple, and yet your mind could only focus on the reassurance it carried.
I’m here.
Sleep came easy that night. Today’s weaknesses would become tomorrow’s strengths. Until that very day, you’d hold your battered flower tight. Keeping him close and keeping alive his blooming moments just a little longer.
