“ don’t do that— don’t shut down on me. let me in. ”
“ why should i? ” he rips away from chuuya’s outstretched hand, that reaches out to him despite the aura of violence bellowing off of rashomon. “ tell me, nakahara-san, what makes you think — i owe you nothing. do you hear me? i don’t owe you shit. ” words are sharpened into points, meant to cause harm, while also capturing the breadth of it all, of akutagawa’s resistance to accepting anything with an inkling of commitment. how can one commit to returning even the smallest of favors when their death is imminent? lurking in their rearview, always creeping in the corner of their eye. a stranger and an old friend.
he hides himself away from prying eyes, the ones who look down on him and say nothing as his lungs seethe and crack within the confines of his chest. he wants nothing to do with it; allow him to die alone where no one will wake to his stinking corpse waiting to be buried. akutagawa vibrates with unbridled rage; rage at his condition, rage at his circumstances, rage at the god that damned him here. none of it is truly rage at chuuya. “ touch me again and i will dispose of that hand for you, ” the stray growls a promise he isn’t sure he wouldn’t keep before turning completely away and stomping off to find a place to be alone.
