little flower boy (of alacrity and salvation) - SpeedingCheetah - 文豪ストレイドッグス (2024)

Atsushi was a boy with fangs and white fur, with gleaming back stripes and a word of genuine displeasure upon his tongue. He was a tiger underneath the flesh that made him human, and he wished to lie about such a thing. He did not want to be what children feared, but that was just what he was. A child. He was a child with blood on his lips and smeared across his sunken-in cheeks, and sickness to go with his shaking frame. He was a little kid who liked planes and clouds, and the sweet smell of green tea in the afternoon.

The story books he read were often lost within his head, characters made from thin and watery paper that made him feel alone. They could not cure him of his exhaustion or desire to fly, and so he stopped expecting them to. He read books to fill the gaping hole that was where his heart should have beated, and that was okay.

It was okay, for his lungs ached and he watched the moon through a gleaming predator. He could taste the sunrise in his mouth and feel the heat of the day warm up hsi cold and otherwise miserable form. The orphanage could not stop him from anything that would have hurt him, and so he breathed in the crisp air of the morning dawn, listening to every beck and call.

Who was to stop him, if not for the tiger that snarled and breathed down his neck and lived in his very veins? The world would not stop spinning, and the days would not stop passing as time went by. He could not ask it to, and so he didn’t. Atsushi liked to watch the clouds change shape, even if the weather was too hot for him or too cold for his trembling frame.

So, as a little boy, Atsushi learned to be grateful for the feeling of fangs inside him rather than on the outside, gripping him tightly with hate. No one could hate him as much as he hated himself, so surely the pain that the tiger brought was something that would not faze him in the long run.

The children called him mean names, and he would only frown at them in return. He knew better than to let them hurt him, so he ignored it. He was really good at ignoring people and what they said, apparently. It brushed off of him, rolled down his back like water, and he could laugh until his shoulders shook and the tiger inside of him was chortling.

They called his gift a curse, something violent. Perhaps that was what it was supposed to be; A creature meant for destruction. But at least that such a thing belonged to him, heeding to his desires now that he made them clear. He wanted, wished even, that just once the tiger would be willing to suffice. It didn’t have to be forever, but it would be nice.

He wanted to rest until something stopped him from doing so, and the only thing left now was the fangs of a beast inside of him or the angry words of a man in a long jacket with stern and unforgiving eyes. Atsushi was not scared of him though, not anymore, not when the tiger yielded to him. It followed and did what he wanted, and that was a godsend.

“Protect me, please,” Is what he whispered, in the dead of night. He whispered it out loud, holding his shaking body close and closing his eyes while moonlight from a window far above caressed his skin. He whispered pleas for mercy, pleas for obedience. He whispered to the tiger under his skin, in his veins, in his small and weak body. No one knew how much he whispered, speaking in such a tone that one would think he was not a child, but an adult.

The little boy was just a boy though, a child who carried a great burden that was spoken of as if it were a curse. Perhaps it was, at first. The tiger lunged, incredibly fast and vibrant underneath the moon. It bit at the metal of his cell and paced at night, and he stayed within his head, barely able to connect his thoughts together.

He did not know how to stop his body from shaking, or how to stop his arms from turning into one of a tiger’s, a beast that glowed brightly under moonlight. But he knew that he was a beast, a creature stronger than a human. Under his flesh was a monster that he embodied, that he could become.

His mind was calm, rippleless and free. It only spilled over the edges when the burden became too much and his tears became fuel for his anger. When the headmaster yelled, only once or twice did Atsushi dare to yell back. His heart had hammered in his chest those times, fear spilling into his expression until all that remained was an ebbed and dried up anger that became bittersweet with time.

He had yelled back, and the headmaster had said something vile. But there was only so much a little boy could take before he snapped, and the second time he had fought against the horrible things said to him was all it had taken for him to break and scream his life back out in repetition. He never asked to have a gift that the orphanage claimed was evil.

“It’s not my fault I was abandoned here to be raised by you!” Atsushi had cried out, clutching his sleeve with wide and glossy eyes. He had been so mad that day, so mad and upset. He had only been six. “It’s not my fault that I have an ability you think is stupid! I could hurt you, and I could hurt myself! I wouldn’t even know until I came back from that!”

The headmaster had slapped him upside the head that day, but Atsushi had not wavered. He remembered the burning sensation of heat, and the way his mind was tainted with displeasure no matter how hard he tried to calm down. He did not like himself for getting mad, but he did not like the director for ever raising a hand to him.

The tiger within his skin hissed and withered, and if there had ever been a day where Atsushi had been so close to just letting his toxicity spill forth, that day would have been the one. But he calmed down, cooled off. He paced about, cutting down his anger and turning it to steady devotion to do more.

He focused on breathing in deeply, swallowing the air and scents of morning light whole. There was no reason for him to try and fight against nature when that was what embraced him when no one else would. So he cussed his cheeks and soothed his anger, soothed his sadness and stopped wallowing as much. The hole in his chest, the gaping embodiment that made him feel like trash, still remained.

But that was alright, because he breathed in the taste of chazuke and spit out the vile that made him sick. He took the pieces of himself and put his shaking body back together again, over and over, until he finally trembled but stood whole.

Each night when his skin tingled and his mind ached, he learned to grow used to the feeling of having a power such as the one he had. He learned to breathe deeply or not at all, and to listen to no one but the whispers of the wind and the gentle hum of his own voice in the back of his throat; Echoing within his head when the silence became too much.

“Is it my fault?” He would ask the empty cell he was often left in. The silence that followed was enough of an answer for the child.

Atsushi Nakajima was just a boy, but he had been six years old when he learned that there was nothing better than learning how to rely on himself; And never hurting another soul again. His was the only one that would ever get damaged.

— — —

Distaste was a common feeling on his tongue. It wrapped around Atsushi’s mind and left him to cry, leaving him feeling empty and achy all over. His hands shook with effort each night, and he curled up on thin mattresses or the concrete floor.

He dreamed of life and death and people with wings and smiles and cat-like eyes. He dreamed of the sun and the moon being best friends, dreamed of flowers wilting without water and a boy with white hair and two-toned eyes watering them with a red bucket that burned brightly under light. He dreamed of falling into a pattern where he ate chazuke for lunch every day and never got hurt. He dreamed of being a child, for that was all he was.

It was okay if he cried a little, when no one was looking. He was a tired soul, restless and never able to think straight. His heart hammered in his chest, a beating drum that pounded and never ceased. Sometimes he wondered how long it would take before the pain he felt would ebb away and leave him with nothing at all.

The tiger did not roar in his ears like he expected it to. Even now, under direct moonlight, the beast that Atsushi knew to be himself was not angry or hateful. It was calm. He was calm. Everything was quiet as time ticked by, and it wasn’t a bad thing. In another world, possibly, it might have been horrendous. But it was fine in this reality, for his mind was one in the same with the beast he harbored deeply within him, and he could breathe.

The window of the room he was in was stained many different colors. It was pretty, nearly as friendly-looking as the memories and dreams that Atsushi’s head created for him to watch and view. To enjoy and live through, time and time again.

He had flown a plane, once, in a dream. It had been a good dream; Where the world bloomed with life and the headmaster was not alive. Atsushi had been the pilot of a plane made of camellias and daisies, as silly as it sounded. The rain inside his head was the sky’s tears, but it had been so lovely. It had been calming, pleasant, and something he wished his mind would allow him to dream about again.

“Do you yield to me?” He whispered, out loud. His hands were gripping a white sheet, and he was curled up upon a mattress. His ribs hurt, and his lungs heaved with effort. The beast did not reply, and the room stayed empty. It felt like he was left alone again, without anyone at all. Perhaps that was better. The loneliness of never being worthy, rather than the pain of having too much expected of him.

Expectations were never easily fulfilled. He learned that too, when he was much younger, and when his skin ached at the slightest touch and his head was underwater more often than not. Atsushi was a quiet boy, someone who only ever whispered his answers. He no longer yelled, and had no fight left in him.

All he wanted was to grow and live. He wanted to get his chance to bloom, to grow up, and to exist without being cut and clipped from his foreign roots. Yes, the little boy grew in foreign land that did not belong to him, but that was okay. He was okay with being misplaced, because the grass would surely be green if he searched long enough.

If he could walk and run, then he could learn to fly. If he could learn to do that, then perhaps he could learn how to breathe without feeling constricted beyond any and all belief.

He wouldn’t be upset if he just learned how to exist without fear, and held himself at night when his heart beat too loudly and the pain of being left without anyone to ever look up to became too much. The silence hurt his head sometimes, too. He would be embedded with the same feeling of pointlessness until nothing else but an empty husk remained. Tears would surely fall from his eyes, and it would be another night wasted on pity and misery.

He wished he could shed tears that weren’t so heavy. They weighed down on him, nearly as much as the burden of being this person. He was just a boy with dreams that were pointless to others, just a boy who followed the sound of the wind and cantering of porcelain. He was just a little kid who liked flowers and talked out loud, when no one was around.

The gentle breeze of the hallways pushed through the gap under the bedroom door, and distantly he recalled that this was not a cell room. This was not a cell. It wasn’t his cell, either, to be specific. He wondered how he got here, and if it was just a lucid dream he would not remember in the morning.

Atsushi wondered how long it would take before something haunted him, and he would be unable to breathe again. Maybe he would cease to exist come the next dawn he saw, when the sunlight were to touch his skin and caress his brittle bones under the thin layers of flesh he had across his shaking form.

The boy was quiet, even now. The tiger did not speak anymore, and Atsushi wondered if it would obey him. If he asked it to protect him until he died, he wondered if the creature would do just that. He wondered about many things, and although he would most likely never get an answer, he liked to wonder. He liked to guess and try to understand, no matter how troublesome it became.

“Do you hate me..?” He asked, again, like a scared little kid. There were no noises inside the bedroom, not so much as a freak of a floorboard or a squeak of the mattress. He couldn’t hear anything at all, and nothing changed. It was deathly quiet and there were no signs of anything else. He wondered if the world was treating him silently because he hated loud noises.

Maybe it was, he couldn’t be certain though. He could never be certain.

When even after a few hours went by, and Atsushi heard nothing but the steady pace of his own quiet rasps for air, he started to long for the sound of footsteps and the sound of a growl within his ears. He missed the loudness of the blooming world he was born into.

— — —

Atsushi knew that exhaustion came in many forms, and that he was not at fault for anything that happened. He was tired more often than not, but that was okay, because he was warm inside and was drinking hot tea that burned his tongue.

He was fourteen when he decided to run, fourteen when he decided that the orphanage had overstayed its welcome within his life. So he ran, with a book bag across his chest and his heart in his hands; Extended to whoever dared to Rae h out and grab it. He was a child when his world was flipped from black and white to white and black. He was a child when everything became fuzzier, and when the tiger became one with him.

When he was hungry, so was the tiger. When he was upset, so was the tiger. When his head hurt, he could feel a creature resting its head within his lap and rumble. Even if the beast was just an ability, a figment of power and strength, Atsushi couldn’t comprehend why it obeyed him.

He wished he could sleep the horrors of reality away. He wished the taste of copper on his tongue didn’t scare him as much as it did, and that he was trembling in the rain as he walked. He took what he had, all of his dreams and stories and fragile memories, and he ran. He took what little he had ever been allowed to have when he was a child, and he walked away from the dangers that plagued his life. He ran, and that was okay.

There was no one to tell him to slow down, not when he knew his limits. He knew how to run, and he had always known how to hide. There was no reason for him to tremble under a person’s gaze, not anymore, and so he willingly ke5 himself get lost in daydreams.

The morning fog was something he adored. He loved the feeling of mist upon his skin. He loved many things, now that he wasn’t stuck within the orphanage. He learned that the rain was a nice thing, as long as he didn’t stay out in the bad weather for long. It did not matter to him if he shivered from the frigidness, because he would smile dreamily at the feeling. His teeth would chatter, and he would shake the water out of his hair once he hid under a tree.

If his home was a place of cruelty, then he did not want a home. The tiger would agree with him on such a thing. It made no sense to him for his life to be bound by a shackle and a metal ball, tethered to a chain-link fence that prohibited from running like he wanted to. The soil under him was rich and dark, and the grass was green.

The little boy with eyes of dusk and skin so pale he looked like a ghost smiled brightly and continued on their way. They walked, and when they stepped into puddles, they smiled back at the muggy reflection of a child who looked happier than they had ever been. Yes, Atsushi was only fourteen when he ran away.

But when he ran away, he ran like hell and wasn’t scared of being caught. He ran because he was guaranteed a chance at life, even if it would be hard. Fear was a powerful motivator, and he was fearful of his orphanage. The boy wasn’t willing to go back, not when he would be an adult soon anyways. Four years wasn’t too long, not at all, it would just feel as if it were.

So he let the feeling of sunlight touch his head and cup his cheeks. He let the world guide him about, let his soul be guided by the urges of bright lights and the scent of tea and rice. He knew it was silly, being so quiet and so tired when his legs kept moving and he kept thinking of things that were syrupy sweet like raw honey, but that was okay.

A lot of things were okay, now that he wasn’t being hurt. The tiger agreed in solemn kindness. It was a lot less harsh, now. His chest didn’t feel as tight as it used to, and he knew that his hands would one day stop shaking once he wasn’t so sick. He coughed up bile once in a while, and woke up to his head hurting, but he knew it was just the price of running away.

It wasn’t his fault for being ill, when he was born into a world so cruel. But the world was also very beautiful, full of kindness and a type of cheer that only a few people could ever be observant enough to see. His lungs heaved and his voice was scratchy, but he felt free. He felt lighter than he had, and he was better off.

Even if he was only a young person, about to be a teenager, he wasn’t scared. He wasn’t scared of death, not when he had lived in such close quarters with it as a child. The flowers he saw sway in the wind made him think of peace and resilience. It made him wonder if he could ever become a flower, a small blossom that sprouted from the ground.

The boy took what he had, and he held it close to his heart. The tiger laced under his skin, and the urge to let loose underneath the moonlight was as strong as ever. But he was good at ignoring those urges. Atsushi prodded himself on such a thing, the small benefit of years of trauma built up and weighing him down.

And yet, he walked along the sidewalks in clothes far too big on him, a coat stolen from the headmaster’s office and a sweater that he had fought tooth and nail for. He hadn’t let it go, and hadn’t allowed another orphan to take it away. It was his to keep, and his to wear. It was soft on his skin, but it was cold and wet with river water and rain.

Somewhere along the lines, as he walked down the city streets with his eyes locked upon the bright neon signs and puddles of broken glass and what might’ve been liquor, blood dyed his chest red and his face a metallic crimson. It had been an accident, he was sure, because his heart was beating in his chest going and going and going until it was gone. Pat, pat, pat, His heart went. Pat, pat, pat.

There had been blood in his mouth and on his tongue, the sounds of cop cars wailing and the sound of his head spinning. He was only fourteen when he killed a man, was only fourteen when he looked up and away from a corpse to meet the nearly fearful gaze of a man by the alias of Mizuku. That man was a cop with kind eyes and fair skin, but he had looked at Atsushi with pity and something like concern.

Atsushi had shed tears, shaking his head and gasping for air. The tiger had been violent that day. It had been angry at someone for trying to grab at the boy’s arm. In return the child, even if they had never wanted to be violent, had shown their fangs and bit down upon one’s gullet in a matter of seconds. Fear-induced seconds. Fear-induced panic.

That day had been a wreck. The cops on scene, the flashing red and blue lights and the wailing sound of the sirens. He had stood still, painfully so, gasping for air with weak lungs that struggled to squeeze and function normally. And then all that panic had gone away, and his mind had shut off when the sound of voices were too loud and the people in uniform got too close.

When his memories came back to him, he was in a small room with a cup of hot chocolate before him and his hands cuffed to a table, only providing enough room for him to reach out and pick up the cup of sweet liquid. It reminded him of chai. He hadn’t tried to dwell on it in those moments.

There was a cop across the table in front of him, clipboard in hand. They were Mizuku, the cop that took Atsushi in only a few days after he had gotten arrested. The man had looked at him, sympathy in his gaze, “Do you have a home?”

“I don’t want to go back to it,” Atsushi had whispered, instantly. His head had spun at the idea, and he tensed up in his seat. His stomach had growled, and his heart had thundered. He had felt ill, like his throat was too tight and his chest was being sat upon by something far too heavy. The boy had never felt that way before, not since he left the orphanage far behind.

“Okay, I can work with that.” He had said, nodding once. Fear had displayed itself on Atsushi’s face, and he had shook with apprehension at such a comment. He had been surprised.

“You can?” He had asked, silently. His voice had not worked in those moments, falling airy and wet inside his throat. Atsushi had never expected such an answer from a stranger, a law-enforcer or not. His hands had trembled upon the metal table. The surface had been cold. He had never liked the cold.

“You are scared, alone, and unwilling to go home. That’s okay. I’ll see what I can do,” Mizuku had said, simply, as if there was no other reason for a human to want to help. He wondered if this was kindness. He had wondered if the cop actually would help, or if they’d send him back to the facility and make him eat dirt. Plants need rich soil to grow. The orphanage soil was dry and rubbery upon his tongue and under his palms.

“O-Okay,” The weretiger had whispered, airy and half-aware. His eyes had been wide, his head had spun about in many circles, and he had been scrambling on the inside for a moment of peace and hospitality. He had not received any, not in those moments, but he had been given relief instead.

“I’ll do my best to help you, Nakajima-Kun,” The man had said, setting down his clipboard and looking up with eyes that were no longer pitiful or fearful. They were calm, like a puddle that had yet to be splashed. It made Atsushi wonder if humans could still be kind to monsters like him.

The officer had smiled, something sympathetic and reassuring within their expression as they looked at him, “You don’t need to be worried anymore.”

— — —

“The headmaster of my orphanage said I care too much, and so it made me care too little in the end, and I think he’s right,” The child said, one night during dinner. They were eating curry. It was spicy, but it was warm and tasted good. He liked it, not as much as chazuke, but he still liked it.

The evening light fluttered through the open window in the kitchen, and the light above the table was glowing softly. The apartment that the officer lived in felt safe. It felt like what a real home should be like. Atsushi had his own room here, one that the officer had spent the time cleaning out and rearranging things just so the weretiger wouldn’t sleep upon the ground. He had a real bed, one with an oak-frame and a nice mattress.

He had books and four pillows and a nice blanket; As well as a weighted one. He had a small flower on the windowsill, and empty picture frames that hung on the walls. The officer, Mizuku, had told him that they both would go and get pictures and fun things once Atsushi settled in. Once he felt okay, like he belonged. Atsushi already felt like he was okay, and like he belonged. It was safe and nice here.

“What’s wrong with caring too much?” The officer asked, and the child didn’t have an answer. They were eating dinner, and Atsushi had gained the courage to share something he had never been able to share with anyone else. No one would ever listen to him before, and so he figured he wouldn’t have been listened to here. He was wrong.

“I don’t know,” Atsushi said, albeit sourly, but he wasn’t exactly mad. He was tired and wanted to sleep, but he also wanted to laugh and smile. It was a strange complication he didn’t understand. “But it annoyed the staff there, so I stopped trying to be empathetic. They called me cold for it. I-I couldn’t win, not when I couldn’t ever please them with anything.”

“I think you are average, Nakajima-Kun,” Mizuku laughed, only a bit. But it was a gentle and non-judge mental sound. It was careful and peaceful, laced with reassurance and what might’ve been concern.

“Really?” The boy asked, voice airy. The steam from the curry caressed his face, and brushed over his nose. It made him want to sneeze, but he didn’t. He stared with wide eyes, disbelief and confusion being painted across his pale face. His expression was one that was an endless thing, never ceasing to come to the cliff side and fall off.

“Yes, you are very kind, even though you are scared,” Mizuku elaborated, with a gentle smile. The boy wondered if the man understood what it was like to be scared of everything that moved or breathed. Maybe the man was just good at seeing the obvious and finding a way to assist those who couldn’t see them at all. Maybe the man across from Atsushi at the dinner table was just a good person.

“I’m scared?” He blinked. He didn’t know why he thought it was strange, not really, but he swallowed his confusion and stared dumbly. He knew he was scared, in one way or another, but he never knew why. He just went with it. He just let his fears and discomfort drive him up a wall and away from other people’s touch.

The tiger hissed, sometimes, when people got too close. Mizuku had never been scared of the tiger, but worried instead. An ability-user, backed into a corner and fearful of everything that lived. Fear became more likely than one would think. Fear was what made life plausible, in some cases.

“You tremble like a wet cat in the rain,” The man said, with a sympathetic smile. It was not meant to be hurtful, but it made Atsushi mull over the person’s words nonetheless. He stabbed at the tofu in front of him, frowning slightly, and the officer exhaled just a bit. “But that’s not a bad thing.”

After a few moments, the boy met the officer’s gaze again, speaking so quietly it was nearly inaudible. He was terrified on the inside. Perhaps he always will be. Perhaps he won’t. His voice was weak in his throat, “It’s not?”

“No, not in the slightest,” The officer said, still offering a consoling and reassuring expression. He set his chopsticks down, tilting his head slightly. “Being scared is just an emotion, and one day you might not be scared anymore. It’s okay to have to wait and get better slowly.”

“I wish you could have told my caretakers that, Mizuku-San..” The boy muttered, after a few minutes of silence. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t even all that upset. He was just tired and lost, and had only ever been raised up by people who treated him badly. They dehumanized what little humanity he had while he was there, and called him worthless. They called him stupid for ever thinking he could be anything but a waste of space.

“You aren’t in the orphanage anymore, though, and even if you aren’t permanently under my guardianship, I will take care of you until you want to leave,” Mizuku said, and his tone was reassuring. It was soft and quiet and made Atsushi feel listened to. The child looked up, meeting the officer’s gaze as they spoke, “Are you okay with that?”

“I-..” He bit his tongue, closing his mouth. He was okay with staying here, under the officer’s roof. He was okay with being safe here, even if it would not last for long. The boy blinked once, nodding slightly. Hesitation. Fear. Those things plagued him, but he answered the question anyway, “Okay.”

Saying ‘okay’ was easier than saying he didn’t understand or know how to answer. Saying ‘okay’ was easier than saying he wasn’t sure or wasn’t ready to ever determine his own fate. Saying ‘okay’ was easier than doing anything else.

“I’ll be your guardian until you tell me I can’t,” Mizuku spoke, his voice firm but not angry. The man wasn’t being authoritative. He was saying something with the intent to prove it, with the intent to make sure Atsushi knew he wasn’t lying. His words were not empty. His words were true and made the boy’s head get muddy and messy.

The child nodded, not trusting himself to share words. He didn’t know if talking would be a good idea, not when the tiger within him was fidgeting and pacing and making his gut do flips. He was worried, for some reason, and it made his head pound. The curry on the table smelled good. Distantly, the boy wondered if he’d be allowed a second serving if he were to ask. Of course he would.

“And you can be safe here. You can be okay here, even if it takes you several years to reach that point. I promise you that.” The man said, again, as if repeating those firm words would help loosen up the tight hold of self-hate that had its hands wrapped around Atsushi’s throat. Being reassured was nice. Being validated and told he didn’t need to heal so quickly was nice.

Atsushi wasn’t sure when his eyes started to water, but he was going to blame the curry and say it was too hot for his taste buds. He sniffled, voice wet, “O-Okay.”

— — —

Atsushi had twelve plants in his room. He was happier here, where the sunlight flooded the bedroom and cascaded across his floor. The boy laid across the ground with a hazy mind, breathing steadily. Mizuku had given him three air-filters for his room, something to help keep the air as clean as it could. He had said it was because Atsushi’s lungs were hurting, just like his.

And they were. That much was utterly true, even though he hated to admit it. He hated choking on nothing, coughing up bile, and feeling nauseous more often than not, but at least now he wasn’t ignored. The officer came into his room when he heard the child coughing loudly, when Atsushi started heaving and his body convulsed against his will.

He was safe here, within the apartment, counting pages in books he could not read and then scavenging through the dirt in empty pots while Mizuku sorted through files in the living room. Sometimes the officer had tubes in their nose, latched onto an oxygen tank. Atsushi did his best to never stare too long at the medical equipment, instead occupying himself with asking questions about the papers the adult skimmed through and sorted.

“Nakajima-Kun, you have weak lungs like me,” The adult said, after several moments. Atsushi looked up from what he was staring at, trying to piece together within his mind. He had weak lungs, yes, and a bad immune system. He got sick easily, and took longer to dispose of the illnesses he contracted. The officer had the same issue, although it seemed that they only struggled with their lungs.

The child, though, struggled with nearly everything. His hands trembled and he got cold easily, as well as overheating. He couldn’t bear to move too fast, but did so anyway even if he knew the consequences that followed. Atsushi was a tiger under his skin and could cause an uproar of panic within a few minutes if that’s what he wanted. But he didn’t want that.

He didn’t want to be a threat or a violent soul. He didn’t want to be the monster that the orphanage said he was, said they had created. He didn’t want to become what everyone expected of him, not when he was trying so hard to be good.

“Yeah..” Atsushi nodded, only slightly. He stared at the words on the pages upon the oak table, not understanding what it said. He couldn’t read Japanese all that well. If it were in English, maybe the gears in his head would be able to translate things for him and he'd understand everything better. The child swallowed thickly, looking up to the officer, “Does it ever get better?”

“If you can get the right treatment,” Mizuku said, quietly. He reached over, ruffling Atsushi’s hair. It made the child feel wanted, made the child feel as if they were cared for. And they were, they had to be because the officer with kind eyes and a beating heart looked at him fondly and told him that he was safe. “I’m still working on getting you a Doctor’s Appointment. Do you know what those are?”

“I do,” Atsushi nodded, once the adult’s hand wasn’t resting upon his head. He had only been given a few vaccinations when he was a child, and had only been seen by one doctor when he was about seven. He didn’t remember much about that visit. The tiger told him that it was a good thing.The child continued, very quiet, “A person fixes you up.”

“Yeah, they try their best. I go to a doctor for my lungs, and I know that such a thing might help you, too,” Mizuku said, and the man’s gaze was equally soft as it was concerned. The officer was a good person, but even Atsushi could see the way they had stopped going to work nearly as much as they used to. They coughed often, almost as much as the weretiger did. It made the child nervous that they were going to die soon, and leave him all alone to fend for himself.

It made him feel sick, too. The idea of losing another person, especially someone as nice as the officer who made him chazuke if he politely asked and gave him masks to wear and air filters for his bedroom were to die. He didn’t want to lose another person, not when they took care of him- Not when they seemed to love him.

Mizukzu didn’t overstep boundaries and taught Atsushi how to tend to flowers and common houseplants. He taught the child how to smile and laugh and stop trembling as much, even if Atsushi still froze up now and then. The officer wasn’t cruel. The officer wouldn’t ever hurt him.

The man took care of him with the intent to keep him safe, to keep him alive, to keep him well. Most people would never even try to do that for a child who was scared of loud noises and trembled when someone tried to hold his hand without warning. But the officer tried to understand, and tried to help. Mizuku smiled in his direction, gently, “So I’m going to see what I can do for you, okay?”

“Okay,” Atsushi agreed, because agreeing had always been easier than trying to figure out what he actually wanted. Agreeing with the ideas and desires of other people, whenever the option arised, had always been easier for him. It did not matter in the long-run.

If the officer thought taking him to the doctor's would help, then maybe it would.

— — —

“What’s someone doing out here so early?” Someone asked, their voice appearing right behind where a fourteen year old stood, leaning over the rails of a bridge. He was cloaked in a pale-blue shirt, something that made his head fuzzy, and his hair tied back in a small braid. He was allowed to walk around the area for as long as he wanted, as long as he returned back home before evening.

The officer said he wasn’t supposed to be locked away from the sun, and so he could do as he pleased as long as it was safe. As long as he was safe and okay, and stayed nearby, he could walk and let the sun hit his face and not worry about being yelled at for it.

It was a nice day, the air crisp and his head clearer than it had been in a long time. He was supposed to go to the library today, with the man in the blue and black uniform. They were going to get books, and he was allowed to read whatever he wanted. The man had offered to teach him how to read Japanese better, but all Atsushi wanted to do today was read another novel and listen to a soft melody on the internet. It would be nice if he could do that.

“‘M just catching the sun,” Atsushi hummed, quietly. The early dawn battered against his blood-splattered face, and he leaned over the rail just a bit more to let the sunlight dance across his pale skin. He felt nice, now that he had stalked through fields and fields of hidden and shriveled up plants. He felt nice, even now, with a stranger’s calculating gaze searing into the side of his head.

He was just catching the sun before it went away, lazily leaning over the edge of the bridge to get a taste of the golden patterns of sunrise. His back ached and throbbed with the remains of angry scrapes, but it was a fuzzy and distant thing, for he was accommodated to it.

After all, the weretiger had learned how to ignore the sensation when he was young, when he was smaller and more agile. He had once adapted to it when he had been quicker to learn, and quick to follow orders, even if they hurt him in the aftermath. The orphanage had never been sincere, but once or twice he was relieved that they had told him about the tiger early on.

They had shared a secret he thought was a curse, and although it probably was; He knew how to control it now. He knew it must’ve tainted his blood a dark hue of destruction and disposition, but that was fine, for he could taste copper and acid when his tongue was sliced upon his own fangs. It did not faze him, not anymore, not more than the growls or angry moments where he felt hopeless in the light of dusk.

The headmaster had beaten it into him, had yelled and screamed in his face that his curse was not something to be happy for, and that he needed to get it under control. So Atsushi did, and he started when he was young. It had ached and tore him apart at first, guilt and displeasure a common feeling within his early childhood. But that was alright, for his fangs only ever pierced metal bars and his hate became fuel to live his life, rather than die.

Even if death sat upon a great hill, so close to him, for all he had to do was turn into the beast he resented and bound to its lap so it would scratch him behind the ears, Atsushi could not bring himself to ever think about the idea for long. Yes, death was always near. It sat upon a great mound of bones and bodies, a large grave that made the boy feel a sense of hopelessness deep inside.

“You have blood on your face, did you know that?” The person asked, tipping their head at him. The smile on their face, as observant and cunning as it was, did not make the weretiger feel weak. He was used to those types of expressions, was used to being looked at for being such an abnormality.

A stranger with bandages thickly wrapped around their body was nothing new, not when he recognized the hollow look buried deep within their eyes. He had the same expression, albeit lighter. He wasn’t as worn down as he used to be, not when he ran from people and scattered down alleyways faster than he could blink.

But here he stood, hands scrubbed raw from a bad night, and his mind hazy with the feeling of weightlessness that only ever came to him when he was under the sunlight. The officer always bandaged his wounds when he had them, but the sunlight was what made him feel better. A tranquil moment in time, where not even a soul could shake his peace. It was temporary, of course, but so was life. Everything would soon die, himself included. There was no reason for him to paint a naive fantasy, not anymore.

“Yeah,” He replied, so quietly. Blood was like concealer to him, for it hid the tiny freckles that were only visible in direct light, and the permanent nicks and scars that would never go away. Blood covered him in a mask of red, and not a mask of bruises and sadness. A small but sad smile appeared, tugging at the corners of his lips.

It was an expression he wore without worry, for he often exposed himself to the truths he would have once tried so hard to ignore. He was desperate for peace, surely, but he also wished for the resilience of the tiger within his beating heart. He had blood on his mouth from tearing into a dove, but not of murder. He knew how to yield and follow normal instincts rather than the ones if violence to the humanity he possessed somewhere within his mind.

“But it was just a bird, so it’s okay,” He exhaled, hearing birds chirp far away. His mind spun with a delicate feeling, something fluttering and bright. The sunlight was far brighter though, and so he swallowed his enjoyment and let a hum form in his throat, letting the yellow petals of daybreak cast themselves over his frail form. “Birds are nice.”

“I suppose they are,” They said, carefully, tipping their head at him. He stared briefly, from the corner of his eye, before letting a soft smile appear on his blood splattered face. They returned the expression in a similar fashion, but their hand extended and lightly grasped his limb. “You might want to move away from the edge, though, falling in probably would not be so pleasant unless you are looking for such a thing.”

I’m not looking to die, He thought, but his words were very distant, even inside of his own head. He wasn’t sure why he would want to live, not when he was so tired, but when he ignored the turmoil in his head long enough, the boy felt better. Mizuku said it wasn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, but the officer had only smiled and gently ruffled his hair.

“Ah, maybe..” Atsushi hummed, but he didn’t move. The hand on his shoulder was gentle, but it was tight. It wasn’t as warm as the morning sunshine, though. The sun was warm on his skin, and it felt better than the ice pack that Mizuku had placed against his cheek only two nights ago. It was hot and yellow and shone brightly, a pool of ethereal molten light far, far, far away within the sky.

He wasn’t going to fall into the river, nor jump into it. Not on purpose, and not to feel the water enclose around him and fill his lungs. Such a thing didn’t seem pleasant, and he knew it. He wanted to bathe in sunlight, not cold and churning water that would surely make him feel sick and ill.

“Surely the risk is present for you, hm?” The person asked, and their voice had turned into a lower tone, something less amused and more careful. Atsushi wondered if this person had nearly died a few times, too, but somehow survived. Judging by the look in their eye, he could get his own explanation. He didn’t need to ask.

“I can swim,” He mumbled, brows only knitting together for a moment or two before his confusion twisted into understanding. The stranger was worried he was going to try and die, genuinely, and not just dip his legs into the current to feel his muscles stop aching.

Why a stranger would care for him, someone so quiet and airheaded, he did not know. Perhaps the blood on his face was strange, or the scars on his hands that trailed up his forearms in angry marks from scratching too much, or maybe the way he talked with such a dazed look that gave things away. It made no sense as to what would be given away, though, for he only wanted life inside of his head and the feeling of acceptance in his heart.

It was silly, maybe, how he viewed the world without daring to truly open his eyes fully, but that was okay, too. He did not wish to die, not in the traditional sense, for he didn’t have any desire for his body to rot and decompose as all corpses did. If he were to die, by any reason, he wished to become a little flower on a windowsill, glowing with yellow and white petals. If he could be such a thing, he imagined he would be very content.

So he allowed the stranger to tug him away from the edge, and away from the nice warm sunlight that Atsushi had been seeking. The new dawn had hit his face when he walked home, having bowed to the stranger and offered his thanks for something he still did not understand.

They had given him a smile in return, something almost hollow. Atsushi did not question it, tipping his head in respect and not saying a word, manners drilled into his head from both scream-matches from the orphanage staff and kind guidance in the form of a police officer with a beating heart.

— — —

The man who took care of Atsushi died due to their lung disease finally progressing into something horrid. It hadn’t been fair, not until the bitter end. The man had been making coffee in the kitchen, and had started to cough and choke on the air. It had been utterly abrupt.

It shouldn’t have happened. It shouldn’t have ever happened. But it did, and Atsushi had cried for days, and still cried even now. He had been asleep, sick with a fever, and his guardian had been making coffee after spending the whole night up and awake by the weretiger’s side, trying to help.

His guardian had died and Atsushi hadn’t even known until a few hours later, once he dragged himself out of bed and called out for the man who raised him for two years. He hadn’t learned that Mizuku had died until he could walk, a blanket draped across his shoulders and his body shaking horribly as he tried to find where the officer had gone, “Mizuku-San? Where are y-you?”

There had been no way for him to have known his guardian was to die. There had been no way for him to have done anything at all. So he hadn’t, not after he saw the limp body of a man he called a parent and the spilt coffee across the tiles. Atsushi had called one-one-nine, a shaky voice making it past his lips as he stared with unseeing eyes at the room he had learned to call his home.

He had been sixteen, and yet he had still felt like a child. He had been sick and trembling and coughing. A fever was hard to kill. A guilty sensation was hard to get rid of. His guardian had died due to having sacrificed their time trying to keep the weretiger alive. Atsushi wondered if it was all his fault. Mizuku would tell him it wasn’t, firmly. But the officer wasn’t here. So was it?

Atsushi emancipated himself when he was sixteen, while he was in online school and still learning how to tend to the flowers he had deemed to be the prettiest of them all. It was funny like that, how Mizuku had said he wanted to be reincarnated as a flower if he were to die.

“What happens after death?” The child had asked, when he was fifteen. The officer had looked at him in mild surprise, before their gaze had softened and they had hummed in contemplation. The answer they settled upon was simple and tranquil.

“I don’t know, Nakajima-Kun.. But I would like to say that there’s something,” Mizuku had said, before smiling and reaching over to brush his hand over the flower-bud of a poppy. Atsushi had blinked, and the man had continued, “ I would like to reincarnate after my death. If I could, I’d like to be a flower.”

Thinking back on it, Atsushi wanted to be a flower if he died, too. A flower that swayed in the wind and bloomed during the rainy season, so that anyone who had a bad day would be able to see a pretty flower and smile a bit to themselves.

His guardian’s funeral had been small and quiet, and Atsushi had stayed the longest. The man had nice co-workers, people in uniform who stopped and stayed for most of the process. They gave the sixteen year old their condolences and bouquets of flowers. Some even gave him envelopes with cards, sharing stories and parabolic things in hopes to help lessen the pain and burden that Atsushi must’ve been carrying.

His guardian was dead, so Atsushi was given everything the man owned. The apartment, the salary that now sat untouched in the officer’s bank account. It was a nice amount of money; But the weretiger rarely touched it. He was legally an adult now; Having finished online school.

Atsushi finished his education early on, struggling to understand written Japanese through it all, but succeeding and passing. He had graduated alone, without Mizuku there to tell him he did well. The only thing his struggles had to offer him was his English teacher sending him an email after graduation, telling him how proud she was of him. It had made him feel a bit less sh*tty, but after that he did not seek out further interaction.

He had cleaned up the apartment, slowly and meticulously. He had made sure everything was in order, and then packaged up all the things he couldn’t bear to look at. For quite some time, he had stared at Mizuku’s hat and ran his scarred fingertips over the blue material, before he had placed it on his bed and cleaned up the rest of the apartment.

It had taken two months for him to come to terms with it all, and within those two months he had planned an entire funeral and graduated his school early. His head hurt the most, pounding and spinning and saying cruel things into his ears. The tiger didn’t like it, and neither did the sixteen year old who now wore a dead man’s hat.

Two months had gone by, and only then, once his head hurt and he felt sick inside, had he gone to visit the graveyard where Mizuku had been buried. He brought flowers and tears and cried himself a puddle of self-hate and blame. He forgave himself only hours later, rocking his shaking frame back into a dull sleep on the train ride home.

Mizuku would not have wanted him to yell angry things at his reflection, or to call himself worthless. The officer’s shadow, a dark but comforting thing, would have embraced him if not for the fact that the man was dead.

So Atsushi visited graveyards because of how sad they were. Perhaps it was because his soul ached for another person to care for him, or for a family to take him in and hug him until he cried from the pressure.

Maybe it was a cruel way to punish himself, a moderate way to hurt his already bleeding heart. He was already hurt, already growing despite it having been a while. His mind was in shambles, placed across the world like pieces to a game. In another world, maybe something would be easier. But it could also be harder, in another realm, where he wasn’t suffering already.

But here, as he wandered with bouquets of flowers inside of a graveyard that made his head spin, he knew that he wasn’t just visiting the man’s grave to feel clarity. His body was no longer laced with alacrity. Atsushi was just hurting, and when he hurt, he had always learned that it was easier to let himself get hurt over and over again until healing looked the same as misery.

So the child brought flowers for his guardian’s soul, and hoped that sometimes soon he would find a way to heal his broken mind and mend himself again so he wouldn’t cry every other day.

— — —

Alacrity came in the form of a train ticket to nowhere. Atsushi did not know where he was going to go, or how far he was willing to travel, but he had a ticket in his hands and a book bag slung across his shoulder with the officer’s hat upon his head. He had his favorite flower in its pot, stuffed into the netting where a water-bottle was supposed to go.

There was no reason for him to try and leave this place, to try and go past the roads of Yokohama, but there was something urging him to try. And he found himself listening. He knew that there was something strange about it all, something sad, but he was always sad. He was mellow.

But he was hurting on the inside. He was crying a sea’s worth of expectations that his soul would not be able to reach. He wanted to make the officer proud, even if the man was far away in another realm of existence. Death, the afterlife, or in a field where other pretty flowers were growing and blooming. The teenager did not know.

“Do you like poppies?” He had asked Mizuku before, laughing slightly. He had been covered in dirt, and the two of them had been doing volunteer work at a public garden near the library. Atsushi had been wearing a mask, one to help filter that dust and soil out of the air so he would not cough too much, and Mizuku had been wearing the same.

The boy had found that he liked volunteer work and observing nature. He had always liked to do the things a gardener did, and that had meant listening and following all of his guardian’s instructions.

“I do. They are pretty colors, aren’t they?” The cop had agreed. He had reached over and lightly poked Atsushi in the cheek, having been grinning under his mask. “After this, we can go buy some at the plant-shop down the street for your room.”

And they had; The two of them had finished that pretty little garden, and had then left caked in mud and dirt and laughing. The weretiger had found out that he liked to garden, and liked to watch plants grow. Mizuku indulged him with books on plants and flowers and nature and the life of vines and moss; And Atsushi had done his absolute best to show how happy he was.

But here he was, now, at a train station with a random ticket he could not read. He had asked to purchase a ticket that could take him as far away as it could. That was all he specified, “May I purchase the ticket that travels the farthest?”

The worker at the booth had scavenged in the back before sliding a ticket through the glass hole, saying something that Atsushi no longer could recall. All he knew was that the ticket he now had in his hands was bound to take him far away, even if such a thing wasn’t very far at all. The apartment he lived in was carefully locked up, and he knew that within the week, he would return to the small little home he had been present in since he was fourteen.

Looking around, he waited patiently, out of the way of the bustling crowds of people who were scrambling to get to their train. His train’s number was sixty-three, and was scheduled to reach the station within about fifteen or ten minutes. Most people weren’t trying to get that train, it seemed, and were struggling to find the other trains that were already present; Like numbers thirty-two or seventeen.

But off to the side, only a few feet away from Atsushi, was a person who wore a hat and had a ticket in their hands. They looked confused, their cheeks puffed out in what some might e called defeat. But it looked more complicated than that. The weretiger contemplated his life choices, looking at the people around him, before shoving his hesitance away and slipping through the crowd.

He made his way over to the other adult, nervousness biting at his heels as he came closer. Once he was shoulder-to-shoulder, he cleared his throat and offered a small grimace of a smile; Not wearing a mask to shield his expression. The dust in the air wasn’t very nice, but it was a sacrifice that had to be made. “Do you know where you are going?”

I don't know where I’m going either, His mind hummed. Atsushi did his best to ignore it, not wanting to dwell on his own struggles. Surely he would be too tired to walk or travel far once he got off the train, wherever his destination was.

The stranger hummed, and the tiger twitched its ears to hear the noise. They swung their head around to look at Atsushi, not seeming bothered by the teeanger who had walked up to them and asked a question without any formal introduction or explanation. Perhaps they had expected it. Perhaps they had seen Atsushi come over, even if they had never even opened their eyes.

“Nope! I’m lost again,” The man said, fixing the hat upon his head. Atsushi stared dumbly, looking at the stranger before looking at the bustling station. Being lost wasn’t a good thing, he knew that from first-hand experience. He liked to know where he was going and what was happening.

The tiger liked to know things like that, too, and so Atsushi did his best to gather as much information on where he was going or what he was doing. It was easier for him when he could figure things out and have knowledge right under his fingertips, even if it took a day or two to actually learn about everything and connect the dots. Time wasn’t something he worried about, only who was involved and who was slowed down.

Time could tick by, slow or fast, and Atsushi would still press forwards. He carried himself up high, let his head touch the clouds and skin get pressed by flower petals and hot water that he used to make tea. The scent of the earth and soil was nice, and so Atsushi often got lost in it.

“Oh. Being lost isn’t any good,” The seventeen year old mumbled, and he looked at the crowd again. Then, his gaze went back to the stranger and he swallowed his anxiety with one small blink. Mizuku had always told him manners were a good thing to have, but for some reason, Atsushi couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth and introduce himself. His head felt too muggy for him to even try.

“It isn’t! My train number is..” The stranger agreed, quickly. They sounded fed-up with their situation, but it was more so a childish huff than actual frustration. The pond inside the weretiger rippled, just a tad bit, and he let his gaze squint at the ticket in the stranger’s hands. Atsushi blinked in sucrose when he recognized the pantsing, despite not quite knowing what it meant. The kanji and numbers were the same on his own ticket.

“Oh, you are on my train. I can show you where it’ll arrive?” The teeanger tilted his head before speaking, looking back at his own ticket. The stranger hummed, peering over to compare the two tickets. “The train doesn’t come for another ten minutes.”

“Really?” The man looked away from the ticket, laughing slightly. But their voice changed, becoming something curious and almost accusatory. It didn’t bother Atsushi, though, and he only listened with hollow and light-weight eyes. The plant in his shoulder-bag swayed in the gentle breeze. “That’s rather nice coming from a stranger!”

“I’d rather be a nice stranger rather than a cruel one,” Atsushi replied with a small nod. His stomach did flips as a train horn went off, howling in the air. The tiger in his body roared back, but it was such a quiet sound in comparison. He promised himself to go hunt seagulls on the beach or river beds once he rode this train and got off at the very last stop. He gave the stranger a small grimace, but an expression like a confused and minuscule smile appeared upon his face, “The train is this way.”

— — —

Atsushi was quick to learn that life had many things to offer him. The world around him kept spinning, and Atsushi stared at his own reflection in a puddle of rain. The sounds of birds chirping and the weather hitting the side of his face was enough to keep him awake.

So he stood still, a bouquet of lilies in his hands. They were pretty colors, pale white and pink. He liked poppies a bit more, and orchids too. Red camellias were gorgeous from afar, but he never knew how to take care of them without messing up. Mizuku told him he didn’t need to be good at taking care of every flower he came across. Atsushi always disagreed, though, almost in defiance. But his defiance was not angry and it was a calm thing. A rippleless pond inside of his weak and shaking body.

His lungs still heaved breaths that were shallow and trembled in the cold air,but it didn’t hurt him as much as it used to. Maybe it was because his trips to the graveyard, cleaning off headstones and humming melodies that used to be hummed to him. Perhaps those soft songs were helping him move on, or maybe they simply tethered him to his sorrows.

The tiger certainly didn’t know anymore than he did, which no longer made Atsushi anxious. His health wasn’t the best, and it probably wouldn’t get any better as time went on, but he felt okay. The rain would wash away his pain, even if it took quite a while. If pain came with shivers and coughs, then he’d wrap himself upon comfort and warm blankets that were far too thick for him to feel safe in.

But safety was not what he was seeking, not security or faith. He was seeking out the graveyard he always went to, with trembling legs and a hat upon his head. The bad weather would not stop him. Who else would, either? No one knew him like he knew himself, a leaf floating on a surface of a puddle that was constantly stomped upon. He knew of little comfort, but he smiled brightly anyways.

“Are you alright?” Someone called out, and Atsushi blinked the haze away from his eyes. The rain continued to pour, and the street lights flickered in the distance. It was early evening, but the dark and gloomy clouds up above painted an atmosphere that nearly made him feel unwelcome. If it was the universe’s way of telling him he wasn’t wanted, then the universe needed to try again and say such a thing more directly.

“I’m alright.” He nodded, blinking the water out of his gaze and letting his head swivel to look at the person jogging over to him, a white umbrella extended in a subtle gesture. As soon as they were close, Atsushi felt the rain no longer beat against his nape or wet hands, covered by the shielding cloak of an umbrella that belonged to a mere child. Why does a stranger care?

“You shouldn’t be out here in the rain,” The boy said, and he stared at Atsushi’s cloaked shoulders. The weretiger wore a raincoat the color of sunlight, shiny and bright yellow. It was albeit childish, with tiny white circles sewed in near the hem of the article, but Atsushi had never wanted to change how he was. The officer had given him many things, and left many things in Atsushi's name. A few raincoats and decaying plants that the boy worked hard to keep alive we’re all that he truly valued. And the hat upon his head, as patched up as it was.

“Oh, it’s okay,” He said, smiling slightly. He felt sick in the stomach, dizzy on his two feet, but that was okay. The rain soothed his raging mind, and made the tiger dip down into unknown territory. It wasn’t angry either, or sick like him. It was just quiet. It was peaceful, tranquil, and not nearly as unhinged as it had been a week or so again.

“I’m Kenji Miyazawa,” The stranger, now deemed as Miyazawa, greeted him after a few minutes. He smiled, and Atsushi blinked in subtle surprise at the gesture. The gears within the weretiger’s head churned, and their mind kickstarted a bunch of things without his permission. He wondered why all people greeted another like this, but he shook the thought away. It was a friendly gesture.

“I’m Atsushi,” The weretiger said, their eyes calculating and airy. Almost guarded unintentionally, something cloudy and grey filling what might’ve once been bright and sunny dusk within his irises. That look cleared up in a matter of moments, and once it did, Miyazawa made an ‘Oh’ sound. He pointed towards Atsushi’s face, “I like your eyes.”

“Ah, and I like your straw-hat.” The weretiger mumbled, blinking in amiability. He liked the straw-hat the child was wearing, sure, but it wouldn’t help if the storm were to become any more violent. He knew it would soon be storming worse than it already was, which was why he had been on his way to visit the officer’s grave before he couldn’t. A bit of water from the clouds up above wouldn’t stop him from that. He paused, slightly, “What is a child doing out in a rainstorm?”

“I like the rain.” Is the only answer that’s as offered, the boy’s expression unchanging. Yes, the rain was a nice thing. He liked it, no matter how cold it was or how wet and soaked he became by the end of the pouring and frigid weather.

“I do too,” He said, and he meant it. He really did mean it. The rain was a nice thing, and he had long since learned to indulge in the nice things of life. The weretiger tried to ignore the bad, as much as he could. The headmaster’s voice in his memories, or the dead corpse of the man in the alleyway when he was only fourteen. He tried to forget it all, but only enough so he wouldn’t cry.

Sometimes even trying to forget his memories did not work, but that was alright. Atsushi tried his best not to dwell on it, for he knew he would only feel dejected by the end of it. It wasn’t his fault for what had happened to him all those years ago. He knew that now, as his head was a bit clearer.

“You have flowers. Are they for someone?” The straw-hat wearing boy asked, and the rain poured down continuously. It was a nice thing, if it weren’t for the fact a pang of displeasure went through him. He looked at the bouquet of lilies in his hand, and smiled slightly. It was always a slight expression. A slight smile. A slight laugh. Always something half-there but half-not.

“My guardian,” Atsushi hummed, tilting his head. Thunder roared up ahead. It wasn’t anything new, and no longer scared him. He was used to the rain, as well as the sound of the tiger in his head under his skin. The sounds of rain and stormy weather didn’t hurt him like it used to. He offered a small smile, something soft, “The storm just happened to startle me.”

“That makes sense,” Miyazawa agreed, warmly, still holding his umbrella out to cover Atsushi from the rain. It made the weretiger feel happy, just a bit, even as their mind ran in circles and the thorns of the flower stems they held cut their palms through the gloves they wore. The boy smiled at him, in return, “It startled me too, when I was walking home. But I’m okay now. Are you?”

Maybe he was a bit better, in the presence of another person. Maybe talking would help him feel better, feel less tired and useless in the eyes of the universe he had been born into.

“Yeah,” The tiger agreed, a feeling of weightlessness tugging at their sleeves as they nodded once. The rain trickled down the umbrella, and only then did Atsushi wonder if this was what kindness was supposed to be. He wondered if the boy before him, with freckles and blonde hair, had known that Atsushi felt ill before these moments.

“Do you want company?” The child asked him, and the older teenager felt something in his mind splinter apart at the soft question. It was a genuine question, something that wasn’t mocking or teasing. It was a stranger’s way of offering seclusion and peace, even if they could not offer much else. It made Atsushi’s head hurt and heart ache in a way he hadn’t felt in quite some time. Company would be nice, even if it hurt him more than it comforted his wayside soul.

“Ah?” He blinked, looking down at the preteen, his gaze widening slightly. And suddenly he felt ill again, a trembling mess who was soaked with rain, carrying a bundle of flowers that were dripping and rolling with water droplets of crystallized weather. The sky’s tears matched his own.

The boy stared at him for a few seconds, before wincing slightly. The thunder roared above, around that was painfully similar to Atsushi when he tugged at the seams of birds and took their feathers out with fangs and claws of a beast that could barely see. A red sheen of blood were to roar through him, and only once or twice would he wonder what to do.

“To your friend’s grave, you look a bit lonely,” Miyazawa said, tipping his head at him and giving a reassuring smile. It made Atsushi order just how observant the child was, or if his misery was merely very obvious. Perhaps it was a mixture of both, a deprived fatigue that made him look weaker and sadder than he felt. Or it was the cold hard truth, and he could not tell just yet.

He was lonely. He was very lonely, quietly cooped up in the officer’s apartment with plants he could barely keep alive. He had no friends and didn’t leave the apartment often, only walking outside to deliver flowers to a headstone that should not exist. Sometimes he wondered if he would meet the same fate as the one that Mizuku had, with lungs falling so bitter and shriveled they no longer worked. Atsushi wondered if the tiger could heal him from a lack of oxygen.

The teenager with silvery-white hair and weak hands was a weretiger who devoured birds and threatened to eat humans, walking in the dark on the nights where Atsushi’s mind wouldn’t rest and he became ill with exhaustion and self-hate. His loneliness was something that he hated, but couldn’t get rid of. He was scared of losing the one thing he had always been given as a child.

Atsushi tried to find hope and life within everything he could. He tried his best to be human, to be okay, to be what he was never allowed to be. So he sought out the kindness of the weather and sunlight, and the warm feeling of a blanket across his shoulders. He sought out happiness.

Most of all, he sought out salvation. And today, for whatever reason, salvation came in the form of a stranger named Kenji Miyazawa who offered to keep him company at his guardian's grave.

— — —

There was a reason that the boy lived with the burdens of his past. He knew that he did not wish to forget all of his memories, even if most of them were extremely unpleasant to be so much as reminded of. Atsushi knew that he was better off understanding why he was ‘cold-shouldered’ but never heartless, rather than being lost and confused about it all.

But here he was, getting lost in the haze of aromas from plants that were probably making him dizzy. They were overwhelming after a while, the flowers mixing in with the bright pops of color that bloomed in his head at a moment’s notice. Atsushi ran a small flower shop, something he opened up only a few weeks back once he turned eighteen. That’s how old he was now, and it had been two years since Mizuku had passed away.

Distantly, whenever Atsushi felt sick and queasy, he would try to read old stories that the officer had given him to practice his Japanese with. He read those books at night or during his work-hours, for his shop was not a busy place. That was fine, seeing as he didn’t use much electricity or heat in the apartment, or grocery shopped often.

He hunted pigeons and seagulls instead, the tiger grumbling over one thing or another. That had always been easier for him, so that's what he did. Mizuku had asked him if he was okay with raw food, and Atsushi had always said that it was fresh, not just raw.

His mind was in the gutter, but that was perfectly okay. He heard the shop’s door chime, and he looked up from the plant he had carefully been checking over for decaying leaves. Even if it was only a plant that bloomed during the summer, he felt bad for everything that withered and died. If reincarnation was real, he worried that Mizuku would die because of his lack of precision.

The eighteen year old swallowed thickly, placing the pot back down on the workbench that was pressed up against the wall, and turning towards the counter to face the entire shop rather than his own little corner. He called out, “Hello, how may I help you?”

And within a singular minute, he saw a person’s head poke around from one of the shelves, brown hair messy and eyes wide with a feigned cheerfulness. The expression wasn’t energized, but it made the weretiger’s stomach do flips anyways.

“Ah! I am looking for someone,” The brunette blinked, a smile on their face. They glanced around the shop, their gaze taking in everything that small little room had to offer. Plants were stuffed in every corner and on every shelf; Alongside gardening tools and a few other knickknacks. Pottery that Atsushi had handmade and had no use for.

“I’m unsure how I can help you then,” Atsushi said, albeit solemnly. He tipped his head at the taller individual, offering a small smile. His hands twitched at his sides, and he let his gaze slip away from the potential customer within his shop to all the plants and vines that dangled from ceiling pots. “I can help you find plants, but not people. I’m not good at that, sadly.”

“Oh, no, I am looking for someone by the name of Atsushi Nakajima? They run a shop around here, but I wasn’t sure what type. Do you perhaps-” The stranger waved their hands, in a dismissing gesture that was meant to be friendly and carefree. Their eyes glowed, flashing recognition as they stared at the shop owner behind the counter.

Atsushi hummed, tipping his head and giving a soft expression. This person was the stranger from the bridge, three years ago, when he had leaned over the railing. He kept his mouth shut about it, slipping past his fingers and nodding once in greeting. “My name is Atsushi, and I run this shop here.. So maybe I can help you, then. Was there something that happened? A witness report?”

“Oh, you know who I am!” The stranger exclaimed, although their voice did not raise in volume. Yes, the orphan could say he knew who the adult was, but only vaguely. A detective, an employee to an ability-user based agency. A place where people who had powers untouchable by society were given a home. He knew this man from the bridge, three years ago, and now from the newspapers. That was all.

“Only barely. Your agency, it’s a few blocks from here. A small building, with pincushion-moss near the edges. It’s very pretty,” Atsushi elaborated, smiling at the image that filled his head. Moss was normally wet and damp, but it was nice to look at. He had a few moss-plants in his apartment, although he didn’t like to touch that type of plant all that much.

“You must really like plants,” The adult said, humor on their face. But it wasn’t mocking or teasing, it was only small-talk to make way for a pleasant introduction. The young adult thought it was almost funny, too, how nice it was to talk to another. Company was nice.

“My guardian loved them. He wanted to reincarnate as one, so I promised I would take care of each flower I found until they came back,” He shrugged, not caring if what he said sounded crazy or stupid. If Mizuku wanted to be a flower in his next life, then Atsushi would do his very best to be one too, but only after he took care of the flowers he saw on the daily.

The stranger smiled, rather than commenting on the hopeful way Atsushi viewed the world and death. Then again, not even the boy with two-toned eyes would call it a hopeful perspective. The brunette tipped their head, a mock greeting as if they were tipping an imaginary hat, “My name is Osamu Dazai!”

“Nice to meet you,” The eighteen year old smiled, not offering anything else. The man already knew his name and what he was selling here, and so Atsushi’s side of this introduction was not needed. He did not offer a hand out to shake, keeping a soft and carefully carved expression upon his face instead.

“My agency heard some rumors going around about you, and so I was placed on your case,” Dazai said, and for some reason it made Atsushi wonder just how much the man before him actually knew. The boy in gardener’s clothes ignored those thoughts and pressed forwards.

“I wasn’t aware I had a case.. Only a record. You could check with the local police force about it, I’m sure they still have everything in check,” He suggested, after a moment of pondering on what to say. He knew that he had legally been listed as an independent party since he was sixteen, as he had emancipated himself right after Mizuku had been officially labeled as deceased, but that was it. He knew he had three assault charges to his name, and one murder placed under as ‘self-defense’.

The assault charges were merely bad decisions on hunting down criminals in broad daylight, when he wasn’t in tiger form, but he no longer did that. If he was desperate enough to attack, he now only did it with his ability, and at night.

“It’s not about your last record or anything, don’t worry! It’s actually about the tiger that has been wandering this area.” Dazai explained with a lack of judgement or interest in their words. Or perhaps it was better that way, or maybe they were just great at having a facade to put on in a moment’s notice. “Do you know anything about that, Atsushi-San?”

“That sounds like my ability,” He nodded, drumming his gloved fingers across the countertop. The dirt on his apron was starting to bug him, and the lights up above were starting to feel a tad bit too bright. Oh well. “If you sought me out for it, I’m assuming the law is after me for using it without a permit?”

“Something like that!” Dazai waved one of their hands, still smiling. They were an ‘entity’ in a human’s body, a person uncomfortable with living after so much must’ve happened to them. They were lost, and Atsushi knew that feeling all too well. As they spoke, their voice became one of routine and not free-will, something of an object or pawn, rather than a human. The weretiger tried not to dwell on it too much. “Do you think you’d be willing to come with me for tea, so we can talk?”

“If that is what you’d like, then sure,” Atsushi bowed his head, blinking once before reaching over to a small light switch behind the counter and flicking it off. The light above him flickered before dimming, and he hummed to himself before walking towards the exit that was carved out of the table side. His shop was small, but it made him feel alive. Salvaged from the rubble of his agony, even.

“I apologize if my ability has been of any trouble, that was not my intent when I used it,” The weretiger said, offering his genuine apologies with a s,all bow of his head as he tugged off his gardening gloves and set them down on the counter. He looked back at the detective, nose scrunching up slightly in distaste, “A gang of some sort, from what I understand, has breached this area and caused harm to the daycare down the street. I’d rather not have it happen again.”

“Ah, vigilantism?” The person asked, blinking only once. Yes, it was vigilantism in the law’s eyes. He saw no problem with it though, and for that he did not care. Dazai looked at him oddly for a moment, their eyes flickering with something almost like familiarity before it was shut down and turned into a warm yet heart wrenching abyss.

“I thought it was simpler than trying to justify sitting by doing nothing,” He shrugged, his eyes looking around the shop before deeming it as best as it could be. He hung his dirt-smudged apron up by the shelf near the counter, and traded it out for his raincoat instead. The bright gold color made him feel airy and free, even if there aren’t any clouds outside in the sky.

“Maybe,” Dazai agreed after a few minutes. Atsushi had a strange feeling that the man was thinking of their own past actions, and what they could have done to perhaps have been better. The weretiger was thinking the same thing, really, underneath his pathetic and dazed nature.

The eighteen year old liked to live with his past actions, even if he regretted them. At least then he would not forget what he lived for, and why he existed at all.

— — —

Running was something Atsushi was good at. He was good at running and hiding and throwing himself into the midst of crossfire, because he knew the tiger would take care of everything and anything that were to happen to his health in those moments. Even if his immune system was too damaged to be fixed by the tiger, that was okay, because his ability granted him life through his veins and spite in his heart.

He was on a train, with his lungs heaving painfully and head under a thick cloud of disdain. He agreed to help the agency where he could, a gentle association that resulted in him bringing the office of ability-users plants and tea more often than not. The building’s window sills were lined up with more pots of soil and sprouts and flower buds than one would guess.

Atsushi ran a small business, trimming and growing flowers that most would not expect to grow in Japan. He read English novels behind the counter and listened to a variety of music when no one was around, playing it over the shop’s radio. It was quiet. It was nice.

He remembered who Kenji was when he first met the boy, back in the rain, when he was seventeen. He had smiled and let the child come with him to his guardian’s grave, let himself get lost in the feeling of having company. The weretiger had smiled and greeted him that day, after Dazai took him back to the agency for some special greeting.

Dazai was the stranger who met him when he was fifteen, leaning over the railing of a bridge, catching sunlight. The eighteen year old tried not to think too much about how the detective’s smile and expression reeked of plaster and faculties, tried not to think about how being around the adult made him feel sadness and guilt. But he had seen the adult for the second time, at his own flower shop, asking for Atsushi to co-partner with the Armed Detective Agency.

He wasn’t forced to join, or forced to turn himself in to the police. So he had smiled, a bemused laugh upon his lips as he reached out with a soil covered hand to gently pat the detective’s knuckles. “I’d be happy to be of assistance.”

But here he was, on a train that he had been taking to return to the agency with Yosano. She had invited him on a shopping trip, something he only vaguely remembered Mizuku bringing him on once or twice before the man’s death. He was on a train, one that he did not pay tickets for. Yosano had insisted that she paid, and he had only nodded mutely and let her.

Here he was, now, on a train that could not take him anywhere he wanted to go. Salvation was far off, locked under boxes in a storage unit above his apartment, right by the flower shop only two streets away. His head spun, and it felt as if tender were needles stabbing his sides. The eighteen year old’s arm hurt from where it had been slashed.

The mafia, the organization that so many were scared of or did not know existed, had sent a few people to attack this train and cause a commotion. It had not been a part of the plan for this outing. Yosano had been wanting to know him, and he had been wanting to be of use and a good person. So, he caved in and agreed to shop with her, and now the train had been ambushed; Himself included. The doctor from the agency, too.

“Do you have a name?” He asked, breathlessly. His shoulder stitched and mended itself back up, gaze clearing up just enough for him to see the shape of a girl with a red kimono and yellow datejime. Her clothing had golden patterns of what looked like plants and vines. It was a pretty pattern.

“My name is Kyouka Izumi,” The girl, Izumi, spoke softly. Her gaze was trembling, though, an ambivalent trait in comparison to how she might’ve been expected to act. She was just a child, but she was an assassin too. A good one at that.

“I’m Atsushi,” He greeted in kind, voice even and loud enough for the girl to hear him over the whirling and whipping wind. He looked at the bomb strapped to her chest, “I like flowers and sunlight, and I visit graveyards to respect the dead. I have weak lungs that will result in my demise, and I would be eternally grateful if you gave me that bomb, as to not kill anyone else.”

“I d-don’t want to kill,” She blurted after a moment of tense staring, and he blinked once in response. There were tears in her eyes. He wondered if she too, from a young age, had been forced into a role that she did not want. Perhaps she was waiting for a savior, like Atsushi had been when he was fourteen. Perhaps she was hurting, just as much as he was.

The eighteen year old frowned, but it wasn’t an angry expression. He wasn’t ever angry anymore, only the tiger was. The part of him that was violent and uncanny. The creature under his skin, in his blood. That thing could be angry and mad, but Atsushi was a calm storm. He didn’t yell or scream, and wasn’t violent. He was secluded and resigned and soft, like the texture of flower petals. He fell into old habits and did not bother trying to shake them off like he tried to shake off rain or tears or blood.

“May I have the bomb?” The flower-shop owner asked, reaching up with a bloody hand to fix the officer’s hat upon his head. It was a comforting thing, despite how patchy and bloodied it was now. The train boomed, and more lemon-bombs went off. He wondered how many people had died, and if Yosano was alright. He hoped so.

“My name is Kyouka Izumi. I like rabbits and tofu, and I detest dogs and lightning. After the mafia picked me up, I have killed thirty five people in under six months,” She said instead of answering the question. The phone crackled from her hand, and distantly did he wonder why the phone controlled such an elegant thing such as the spirit guardian that was ‘Demon Snow’.

The girl took a step back, closer to the gaping hole in the train’s side. His head hurt. His lungs squeezed, and panic clawed at his chest. The young adult swallowed the blood on his tongue. “I have killed only one, but I have hurt more than you have, Izumi-San. You don’t have to heed to a master’s order.”

He had actually killed more than that, of course, but the tiger had been the one to deliver each fatal snap. So he wasn’t sure if it really counted.

You don’t need to obey anyone you don’t want to. Atsushi thought, and when he met the girl's blue gaze, he saw something flicker to life after being buried under so much defeat for so long.

“I’ll take the bomb,” He told her, more directly. His arm popped back into place, and his pupils turned back into slits. The tiger in his skin brimmed with attention, perching in his head and readying to lunge. Only distantly did he wonder if trying to fight agaisnt what was happening would be worth it. The bomb would go off soon, he knew it would, and that was scary enough.

“I killed thirty-five people. The last was a family of three; A mother, a father, and a little boy. The demon cut their heads off,” Izumi repeated. The image that popped into Atsushi’s mind was one of pain and sadness, but the taste of his own blood in his mouth kept him glued to reality. The girl had the bomb. Yosano was still in another part of this train, fighting or reviving lost souls.

The eighteen year old, an orphan of their own desires, did not waver any longer. Izumi did not want to kill, he knew this, for she had said it. She did not want to kill or take anyone’s life. Her ability was powerful and vast and made Atsushi feel puny, but that was okay, too. He had always been a bit pathetic after all.

“The tiger ripped the man’s heart out,” Atsushi agreed, sharing what little stories he had to offer. It was a gruesome memory, a vivid reflection of a beast in a mirror rather than a scared child. He knew of nothing at all, nothing that could help him. His skin itches and his head spun. He wished he could go back to the graveyards and wander around with a bouquet in hand, freshly cut and hand-bound. Perhaps his guardian would call him a good child if he took care of someone again.

Judging by the look upon the girl’s face at such a statement, she saw the same pain in his gaze that threaded through her body and mind all the time. The mafia was a cruel thing, for it cut and cut and cut until nothing remained of a person’s ability to live. If he had not been found by Mizuku, he would have been found at the hands of death or the hands of a leader with inhumane intent.

Perhaps, if he weren't a flower boy to a graveyard unheard, he would have been a killer and not a traumatized ability-user who was seeking salvation for everything he wanted but never received.

“Izumi-San, if you don’t wish to kill, that’s fine. I’ll take the bomb, now, and you’ll be okay,” He conceded, his tone simple and calm. His eyes did not flicker, and his limbs did not tremble. He did not crack, not like a broken vase. Not anymore. Atsushi knew what fear was, and knew that free-will did not come easy to some people.

He swallowed his pity, offering only calm serenity. The girl’s lips trembled, and she squeezed the phone in her hand. It crackled, a person’s voice present. He ignored it, and so did Izumi. Atsushi had learned that kindness was salvation, and company was comfort. So he did what so many did to him, offering out his presence as a safety for lost tears to find their way back home, “You can leave it all behind and visit the graveyard with me, instead.”

The girl shook with unheard hitched breaths. Her voice wobbled, before she took two last steps backwards, “I don’t want to kill anymore.”

Izumi fell out of the moving train, and Atsushi dove right after her.

— — —

The agency was home, now. It was a home that Atsushi never thought he would receive, not after Mizuku had died. But here he sat, bandaged hands holding a cup of tea, and a child resting her head on his shoulder. An assassin of a bad man, an assassin who was trained too young to be a pawn to an organization that Atsushi wished he could put to the ground; Hundreds of feet under, not just six.

But he was just one eighteen year old who could not seem to die, wilting away with lungs that cursed him with a sh*tty immune system and being prone to fevers and colds. He swallowed the emptiness that filled his mouth, that dry air that cut off his throat from constricting.

Atsushi was just a child himself, someone who was raised in pain, and taught to endure it rather than embrace it and cope. His home had once been the apartment several blocks away, in a small neighborhood with a daycare and school nearby and a large library right around the corner. He had once called that his home, but suddenly it wasn’t as warm and quiet as the agency.

It was colder there, gloomy and tainted with the bile and sadness of a death that he wished he could have prevented. But he was not immortal, and neither had Mizuku been. He could not have saved his guardian, even if he sobbed over a thousand graves and asked each soul how they died so he could find a way to stop the inescapable from actually happening.

So he moved, he breathed in the scent of fresh air. The agency, a humble and lively place full of ability-users and kind people with dark pasts that must’ve haunted them all for different reasons, they let him stay. They let him stay, and now he promised to be there until his final moments. As long as he tried his best and kept himself healthy, he should have several years left. Dazai told him that he was similar to a past pupil, a comment that made Atsushi’s mind tick.He did not ask what the adult meant, only blinking.

The people on the train were safe. It had been four days now, and Izumi had clung onto his arm like a little kid. He supposed that was all she was, and it was true. She did not deserve to be treated as an adult when she was so obviously young and quiet and quick to obey. That wasn’t how a child should be. He knew such a thing best.

“She killed thirty-five people,” Kunikida’s voice brought Atsushi back to reality, and he looked up and breathed in again. He wasn’t at his apartment, and he wasn’t in his shop surrounded by buzzing flies and colorful flowers and blooming pinks. He was safe, resting on a couch, with tea before him and a girl resting against him as if he were a lifeline. Perhaps he was, he did not know.

“Ah, but I have killed someone, too. I’ve hunted down humans, ripped their limbs off and threatened to behead them,” The weretiger said, quietly. His head felt muggy. He fiddled with his cup again, for the fifth time. He had hunted down people at night, taken off their hands and tossed them aside. Vigilantism was not a clean thing, and he knew what blood could do to taint someone's ‘innocence’.

He looked up, tiredly, something pleading in his strung-out gaze. Atsushi had been taken in after he made a mistake, something out of fear and defense. Izumi should be allowed the same courtesy. “Aren’t I a similar threat, if not for the fact I am not a coward’s weapon?”

“The mafia isn’t exactly just one person, though.. Or a cowardly organization,” Tanizaki muttered, but it seemed that he wasn’t trying to be nagging. Atsushi would have recognized the tone if he were, and so he blinked only once. The scent of tea made him tired, but aware all at once. He wondered if the tiger wanted to sleep again after being used so fervently, so accurately without restraint for the ability-user’s own life.

“The mafia as a whole can go and choke on the soil I use to grow plants and flowers in,” He responded dully, a note of impatience seeping through his voice. His gaze slid over to Tanizaki, and he frowned slightly, “Perhaps if they get mud on their hands rather than blood, they’ll do something with their existence that doesn’t include using children as pawns.”

“Well aren’t you rather violent today,” Dazai hummed, and Atsushi moved his gaze back to the couch across from him. This was Atsushi’s version of violence; The way he spoke with a teacup in his hand, threatening to shatter and spill its contents across his lap and floor. The bitterness in his tone, the remaining hate that plagued him.

A small smile, one of recognition, twitched onto his face and made him feel less constricted. Less like a weapon that had just ripped a bomb off a girl’s chest and plummeted into the sea far below a moving train. Less like a tiger that helped a child onto her feet, both drenched in salty water that made their bruises and shared cuts hurt. “A child was forced to cut me into tiny pieces, so yes, I’m a tad bit upset.”

“A tad bit?” The brunette echoed, a faint laugh upon his lips. He huffed, tilting his head at the weretiger. If Atsushi weren’t so tired, so prone to laughing away his troubles like the gentle breeze, maybe he would have been mad at the implications in Dazai’s tone. But he wasn’t, and so he smiled again.

“Only a little. It wasn’t her choice, she said as much. There’s fear in her gaze,” Atsushi said, with a limp shrug. He lifted the cup of tea to his lips, letting the hot liquid burn his tongue and feel the steam hot his face and paint a picture of remorse and concern within his head. He looked back at Dazai, giving a softer expression, one that wasn’t forced by the tears in his eyes that remained unshed, “Fear justifies more than the common person would think, don’t you agree?”

Fear justified many things. Fear caused him to kill a man in an alleyway, and then go out of his way to clean Mizuku’s apartment and water plants to make sure they remained alive. Fear was what made him a person who willingly walked under moonlight in the form of a looking beast, appearing in illegal drug cartels and biting down upon grown men’s shoulders, digging his claws in.

He had been scared, yearning for safety and protection. After the officer who had protected him died, passed away in the kitchen while making coffee, Atsushi had given in to the sweet cravings of doing the things that most would never dare to do. So, he picked up all the pieces of himself, swallowed the bitter pill of life’s burdens, and let himself become a flower boy who could become a monster in a second’s notice. A child who became a monster to fit the perspective of those who thought of him as only such; A creature made to kill, made to slaughter.

“I suppose so,” Was the response he was given, something dark hollowing itself out in the detective’s gaze for the briefest of moments. And then, as soon as it had appeared, it was gone again. The good-nature and brightness returned to everything but his gaze, and the smile he wore upon his face did not reach his eyes. It was sad and utterly empty.

“It’s okay if you do not wish to keep her present, because I will,” The eighteen year old said quietly. He felt a sense of belonging here, at the agency, and he couldn’t quite place why. Maybe it was because they did not tell him he was worthless, but did not ask too many questions like Mizuku had. They did not let him wander and do anything he wanted like the officer had, but there was respect and boundaries and complicated strings of understanding that he refused to cut into tiny strands of unsalvageable rope.

“Why would you risk that?” Kunikida inquired, after a few minutes. His tone didn’t tell Atsushi anything at all. It was a simple and non-judge mental question. Something that was genuine, or even sincere.

“I’m not afraid of authorities. I was raised by one, and they taught me how to believe, and how to see,” Atsushi said, the words spilling past his lips like blood out of a cut. The phrase, ‘how to live’ was left unsaid, but it remained heavy in the room. The words were sharp on his tongue, but airy once spoken. It was strange to think about, really, but everything was strange. “I know my limits. Protecting a child is easily within my reach.”

“Her kill count isn’t what would stop her from joining the agency; It’s the fact she doesn't have protection from us, seeing as she’s a wanted criminal right now,” Kunikida explained, sighing and reaching up to rub at his forehead. Atsushi listened patiently. “Everyone knows her name, and even if we want to keep her safe, it’s not logical to try and do so right now. That means we need to come up with a better plan-”

“Okay,” He said, cutting the blonde off. So all they needed was a plan, okay. He was good at following the orders and demands of others, so surely the agency could find a solution, and then they all could just be fine for a little bit. That’s all he wanted to reach; The peak of solitude and comfort where he could breathe and so could everyone else.

“Okay?” The idealist paused, as if he hadn’t anticipated the eighteen year old to agree so easily. Perhaps he was too used to dealing with Dazai’s childish antics to realize that the orphan with white hair and a tiger under his skin was childish, but only when he was alone. Only when no one could tell him how to live.

“Yeah. Okay,” Atsushi nodded without any further resistance, giving a kind smile in response to the words that had spilled from the other detective’s mouth. He wouldn’t argue anymore, then, not until someone tried to talk about the topic again and he was left to grasp at nothing but empty air.

Izumi didn’t stir once, and so all Atsushi did was sip from his cup of tea with half-lidded eyes. All the agency needed was a plan and a reason, and a cover-up alibi. The weretiger could figure something out.

— — —

It was early evening when Atsushi finished writing all the reports Kunikida had wanted. He turned off his computer and finished scanning over all the paper, most of which he finally understood, and neatly piled it upon the corner of his desk. The dozens of small succulents that took up so much space stared back at him, and he only waited for a few moments before humming to himself and getting out of his seat.

He stretched for a few minutes and shoved his bangs out of his face. He had already fixed the coffee machine in the break room and cleaned out the stairwell during his lunch break after eating chazuke with Izumi and shoving a cup of green tea into Dazai’s hands. The detective had looked at him oddly, but Atsushi hadn’t given him any room to set the cup of tea down without at least drinking some of it.

If the agency could all make Atsushi remember to rest, then he had the privilege to remind his superior and co-workers to eat and take a break, too. The eighteen year old paused, mulling over the day’s events and checking over the list of things he had written down to do. Everything on the list was already crossed off, though, so he huffed.

His mind felt heavy, as if there was someone putting pressure on him. Sometimes guilt came back to gnaw on him after a long day, but today hadn’t been very long at all, so it made no sense.

As soon as he made sure his desk was cleaned up, he pushed in his chair and reached for his shoulder-bag that was pressed against the side of the wooden leg. He was half-way through slipping it over his head so it could rest firmly against his side before Yosano spoke up and caught his attention. “Where are you going, Atsushi-Kun?”

“Ah, I’m going to the graveyard again,” He replied, blinking once. Atsushi wasn’t exactly sure why it felt like he was revealing such a secret when he said that, but it felt like the sudden weight that had been placed on his shoulders only minutes ago had lifted yet again. He visited Mizuku’s grave to deliver flowers and offer updates on his life, even if they were never spoken out loud.

The weretiger looked over to her, and she squinted at him for a moment before recognition dawned on her face. Her features softened into something more understanding, and her tone became feather-light. It was different than when someone talked to him as if he was fragile, so he wasn’t put off by her voice when she spoke next, “Oh, alright, do you want anyone to accompany you..?”

“It’s okay, I’ll be fine,” He shook his head, offering something of a nervous laugh. But his anxiety was not very strong, and it fluttered away after a moment’s notice. Sundays were always strange days, but he had a routine he did every week on this day specifically; And so he planned to follow through with it.

“If you say so,” Edogawa hummed, from where he sat at his desk. His back was turned, and he was doodling absently on a notepad. Atsushi was accustomed to the detective’s antics, and wouldn’t have it any other way. A small smile twitched its way onto his face, and he rolled his eyes. The adult didn’t need to guess anything, not when they already knew exactly what Atsushi was thinking. The weretiger’s emotions were both blatantly obvious as they were easy to understand.

“Be back before dusk, yeah?” The detective said, spinning in a full circle in his chair. He faced Atsushi, green eyes still closed. His face was in the shape of a pout, but it was something that the entire agency knew too well. “Kyouka-Chan might get worried if you are gone too long without her.”

Izumi was currently with Naomi, Junichirou and Kenji, getting a very late lunch. They had offered to take Atsushi with them, but he had declined with a smile and a hug given to the four of them. Izumi’s hug had lasted the longest, per the ex-assassin’s desires, but that had not mattered. Once the four of them returned, Atsushi would be gone and at the graveyard, and then he would come back to the agency afterward and smile and talk and do whatever it was that the rest of his co-workers were doing.

“Tell her I’ll be fine,” He decided to say, shrugging meekly but without haste. His tone remained calm and unwavering, a peaceful sound in the office that was normally full of typing and rustling and Dazai laughing at Kunikida. It was quieter in the evenings, normally, as long as there wasn’t a case that needed to be worked on. “If I’m late, could you water the orchids on the left-”

“Left side of the largest window, yes, I have it covered,” The doctor of the agency filled the sentence in for him, casting the weretiger a glance that was both fond and amused. It made Atsushi’s gaze flicker with mild amusem*nt too, and he felt weightless again in a haze that wasn’t going to result in tears. It was a nice feeling.

“Make sure to take it easy on yourself, and to be safe. Are you taking the train?” She continued, saying her usual departing phrase. Atsushi internally promised himself to be safe and take his time while visiting his guardian’s grave, nodding silently inside of his head. The woman was just making sure her words rang loud and clear, seeing as the weretiger was prone to forgetting things like self-preservation.

“Yeah,” Atsushi nodded. He was going to take the train to reach the graveyard, stay there for a few hours in peaceful silence, and then go back to the officer’s apartment to water all the plants there and sweep the floors and clean the counters. It was an old habit now, but he did it every Sunday as long as he had the chance. It didn’t matter if he didn’t need to do it, for he still would.

“Alright,” Yosano said, from where she was currently positioned behind a desk. There were papers scattered at her hands, and she looked him over from where she was sitting for a moment before nodding. Her tone was gentler than he had heard it in quite awhile, and it made him feel less like a burden and more like a person who was getting through his issues. “See you later, Atsushi-Kun. Don’t push yourself.”

Everyone in the agency told him not to do that. He wondered if it was because they were worried he would break down and not be able to kickstart his humanity again, or if they were concerned for his health. It was probably something entirely different, and he simply could not figure it out.

“I won’t, Yosano-Sensei. Don’t hurt your hands, Edogawa-San. I’ll see you both shortly,” The boy hummed, about to depart. He sent a knowing look at Edogawa, but his voice did not change from the respectful and carefree tone it had been moments ago. The detective had damaged hands from something in his childhood, and Atsushi was not one to go without noticing such a thing.

He wasn’t the most observant person on the planet, and far from as vigilant as Dazai or Edogawa was, but he noticed a lot of things. The tiny things, or the things that were covered up under layers of doubt or disregard. The more prominent things in life slipped his mind, but the things that needed attentive looks or apologies were what always cling to him and became obvious first.

“If you are late, you better bring back sweets! Not flowers, we already have enough,” The world’s greatest detective announced, and the doctor of the agency deadpanned for a single minute before swiveling back around to continue to finish up whatever paperwork she had offered to do while the others were absent. Kunikida and Dazai were both finishing up a witness report, something that Atsushi had offered to do this morning, but had been denied in favor of letting him ‘stay at the agency and not deal with angry people who had no common sense’.

“Whatever you say, Edogawa-San. There’s no such thing as having enough flowers,” The weretiger shrugged again, looking at the agency’s main office and mentally tallying up all the plants that were there. Most of them had been brought in courtesy of the eighteen year old himself, but there were four of them that had already been here. Atsushi was relatively certain that with all the new flowers and greenery present, it felt more lively. The orchids were nice colors this time of the year, too.

“Sweets, Atsushi-Kun! Sweets!” Edogawa reiterated without pause, waving one hand in dismissal. It was kinda funny, really.

As a whole, Atsushi was the one to be sent off taking care of outside-issues and doing the common tasks. Even with his ability, as strong as it was, the agency didn’t force him into situations where he had to use it. Such a thing was nice. He was the person who tended to the agency’s silent affairs and made sure everything that was in order, stayed in order.

He was the wayside soul who held someone close and protected them, and in return they pet his fur after a mission when he couldn’t bring himself to become a human again. Dazai sometimes asked him if he would ever gain the confidence to walk away from what others asked of him, and all Atsushi had done was smile softly and shrug, dirt on his cheeks and hair tied up out of his face. “The agency is my home. I don’t think I’ll leave anytime soon. I like it here.”

The brunette had returned his smile, something twisting and churning in the other’s gaze. The weretiger knew that Dazai struggled underneath it all, just like Atsushi used to, and so he had tilted his head and extended one hand to give the detective a half-embrace. Good people could have been bad people in the past, or done severely bad things. All he knew was that he did not want anyone in the agency to think they were bad when they were actually good.

So he had hugged Dazai, and hadn’t minded the way the other tensed up in mild surprise. Many people were surprised when Atsushi came to a conclusion over someone’s health and their turmoil, especially when the weretiger didn’t show any signs of comprehension over such a thing.

“I’ll stay here, you know? So I hope you choose to stay, too,” Is what he had whispered to the detective, after pulling away from the hug and offering a kind smile. Dazai had stared at him, face carefully blank. Atsushi knew that the adult wasn’t mad, only confused. Who would say such a thing, after all? A person who knew the struggle of wanting to die, that’s who.

Sometimes Dazai wasn’t here at the agency after work-hours, and sometimes he was. Atsushi knew that the brunette was probably at home or wandering aimlessly, and for that the newest addition to the agency was quick to try and be present for most outings. He asked for his superior to stay, with a gaze that slotted similarly within the troubles of life, just like Dazai’s own.

Although the detective’s gaze was sharper and more hollow, Atsushi’s could still cut and cause pain to be present again. He had just been lucky enough that someone had taken the time to reassure him and make him become a ‘better person’.

“Alright, if I’m late, I’ll bring back something. I’ll see you both within the evening, rest well until then,” The weretiger caved, sighing slightly. There was no annoyance or frustration in his voice though, only pliable relief that never seemed to leave. His mind fluttered, and his ability tugged at his limbs and urged him to visit his guardian’s grave again for this week.

“See you!” Yosano said again, waving him away with gloved hands. He obliged easily, backing off with a small wave in goodbye before adjusting his shoulder bag and fixing the hand-picked bouquet of lilies and daisies he carried. No, he did not have bouquet making skills. That was not something he specialized in.

That was okay, though, because he knew that his guardian would be happy to have fresh flowers every week anyways. Mizuku liked flowers, and so did Atsushi. They made him happy, and that was good enough. The agency made him happier, though, and so he knew he would always come back to the place where detectives laughed and teased one another and he was always welcomed with a smile or an offer for a hug.

“Do you want a hug?” Izumi had asked him, and he had smiled and dipped down to hug her gently. He liked hugs and holding hands and bumping shoulders and handing people gifts of all sorts of things. Apparently the agency liked those things too, in their own ways.

“Have you found your salvation yet, flower boy?” Dazai had asked, a teasing tone in their voice. Atsushi never minded it, and he would laugh softly and reach over to gently push against the frame of his superior. At one point, salvation seemed so far away. Relief and fixing all his problems with willing alacrity seemed impossible. And then it wasn’t, and suddenly his chest didn’t hurt nearly as much as it did anymore.

Yes, flowers made Atsushi happy. He was the little flower boy of alacrity and salvation; And for once, he didn’t hate being called such a thing.