Work Text:
The terror jolts Fukuzawa from sleep. He’s half up, hand on his sword, before he recognizes what’s happening. The terror is not his. The hammering heart and the ice-water blood are not his. The jagged breath.
Of course the new kid has nightmares.
He lets go of his sword and lies back down. Perhaps someday he’ll take in a stray not wracked with demons. Until such an unlikely event, he’s well-practiced riding unfamiliar emotions. He stares unfocused, losing his gaze in the shadows crisscrossing his ceiling beams. Rests his hand on his chest and feels his ribs rising and falling, so much slower and steadier than Nakajima Atsushi’s staccato gasps.
The bond Fukuzawa shares with his employees is a strange one. It runs deep. It runs differently with each of them. There is the ability control, of course. There is also this: when they need him, their emotions echo through him. And All Men Are Equal, but some need him more than others.
He hasn't felt a pull this strong since he took Dazai in. At least Atsushi seems rather less likely to stab him if he attempts to help.
Atsushi’s terror ebbs gradually into hatred. Despair. Like a heavy fog caught in their lungs. When it subsides at last, Fukuzawa does not sleep well, but he has no heart for complaint. Atsushi is certainly sleeping worse.
≁
The next three nights pass no better. On the fourth, weighed down with dread, Fukuzawa decides it is time to take drastic measures. He rises from bed, pads to his kitchen, and begins making tea.
As the kettle heats, he breathes. Slowly. Deliberately. Achieves calm, then projects it. He likes keeping his employees close. He can keep an eye on them, and it feels right knowing they’re all under his roof. This is easier too, exuding warmth, strength, a sense of safety. He learned long ago to contain and protect his own emotions, and he learned how to lower his guard.
Atsushi can answer if he likes. If he is sensitive enough to hear the call. Worst case scenario, Fukuzawa will have tea.
He is sitting down at his table when he hears the faint slide of a door upstairs. Soon after, tentative footsteps outside his door.
He is halfway done with his tea before he decides Atsushi is never going to knock. Perplexing. Mildly irritating. This has always worked before. Then again, he has never before had an employee quite so nervous. He sighs and goes to open the door.
Atsushi jumps back, bristling like a startled cat. “I’m sorry—I saw your light on—I was sleepwalking! Fuck. Sir. I’m just going to go now…”
Fukuzawa waits for him to take a breath before saying, “I made too much tea. Come in and help me with it.”
The marks of his nightmares are dark and strong on him. His eyes are wide, anxious. He looks very thin in his dark jinbei, and it’s hard to imagine that narrow jaw opening to show fangs, or those shaking hands twisting into claws.
Fukuzawa turns aside, leaving Atsushi in the open door. He kneels at the table and pours a second cup of tea. He doesn’t look up, but he’s aware with every other sense as Atsushi gathers his nerves. Takes one halting step, then another, and sits at the table to Fukuzawa’s left.
“Thanks,” Atsushi says as he takes the cup. His hands are still shaking.
Fukuzawa pauses, fingers light on the edge of his own cup. His mind light, centering, and as he focuses on confidence, safety, warmth, he sees Atsushi’s hands steady, his shoulders relax. “Of course,” Fukuzawa says, lifting the cup to his lips. “My door is always open to my employees, Atsushi-kun.”
He does not know much of Atsushi’s life before now. He knows far more, certainly, than Atsushi does. He knows this much: Atsushi has never had anyone to lean on but himself.
≁
Peaceful days don’t last long in this profession. Fukuzawa hears the commotion moments before Naomi bursts into his office: “We have a problem, sir.”
“Thank you, Naomi.” He sets down Dazai’s report. Hand on his sword hilt, he walks calmly through the office to the kitchenette, where a half-mad weretiger is scoring claw marks through the table.
Fukuzawa pauses in the doorway and assesses. Atsushi’s eyes are mad and yellow, his arms and legs transformed. Long tail lashing in fury as he crashes into the counter, knocking over the microwave. His cat ears pin back in his shaggy hair. The floor glitters with broken glass, glistens with water. Waves of fury, panic—loathing—
Fukuzawa grits his teeth and shuts that out as best as he can. Glances back at the rest of the office. “Where’s Dazai?”
“Still on this morning’s job,” Yosano answers from behind him. She’s holding a gun that Fukuzawa hopes is only loaded with a tranquilizer. Further back are Ranpo, Tanizaki, Naomi, and Haruno, and Fukuzawa realizes there are too many people in the room.
“Call him and tell him to finish the job, but return immediately after,” he says, returning his full attention to Atsushi. The boy’s cowering in the corner now, not going anywhere. “Everyone else clear out. Take the rest of the day off.”
“Are you sure, sir?” Yosano asks, too eagerly. “I can provide care should either of you get injured.”
The rest are already high-tailing it for the free afternoon.
“I’m sure. But leave that gun, just in case.”
Then they’re alone, and the only sound in the office is Atsushi’s low growling. Fukuzawa pauses a moment longer in the doorway, then turns his back on the tiger. He moves to the lobby and sits on the couch.
You can’t catch a cat by chasing it.
There are magazines on the table. He grabs one that Kenji must have subscribed to—The Discerning Farmer’s Almanac of Cattle—and starts reading. Pretending to, anyway. The words transpose with those of the report he had been reading before the interruption. It is the only proper report Dazai has completed since he joined the Agency: an investigation into the origins of Nakajima Atsushi.
Nakajima’s file was redacted from orphanage’s annual medical records for that year.
He has no idea what has triggered the current panic attack, but the kid is spoiled for choice. Fukuzawa flips the page as if he’s reading. All he sees is Dazai’s abysmal handwriting.
September of the same year, Nurse A filed complaint against the headmaster for withholding food as punishment. Department declined to investigate.
Light footsteps and clicking claws. Fukuzawa doesn’t look up, just says, “Sit down.”
The couch dips with Atsushi’s weight. From the corner of his eye, Fukuzawa can see his arms still covered in fur where they wrap around his knees. His tail flicks. He’s a miserable ball of nerves, and—Fukuzawa feels perhaps the slightest pang of guilt for thinking this next bit—absolutely adorable, in a bedraggled kitten sort of way.
“That’s good,” Fukuzawa says, and when he feels the surprise, the ease of tension, “Very good.”
Atsushi sinks back against the sofa. His breath slows, but he’s still trembling and terrified.
Fukuzawa sets the magazine down and says, “I haven’t seen you transformed before,” which is a lie, because Dazai had taken discreet pictures. “May I?”
He isn’t sure Atsushi can hear him properly, so he reaches very slowly. He can immobilize Atsushi easily, but he would rather not need to.
Atsushi holds still for him as he takes his hand. Paw. He pulls the paw away from Atsushi’s knees and turns it over, palm up. He traces the rough pads, feeling the incredible heat of the tiger’s body. Runs his thumb over a long claw and traces the curves of knuckles. His fur is as soft as it looks—softer—and his bones are so strong.
This is to distract Atsushi, Fukuzawa tells himself as he strokes the back of Atsushi’s hand. To calm him down. Certainly not because he’s fascinated by the giant kitty paw.
His fur is really very soft.
Atsushi has moved closer now, a side effect of Fukuzawa pulling his arm over. His shoulder rests warm against Fukuzawa’s arm, and his knees are very close. He’s looking down at his arm too. Fukuzawa can’t see his face, just the top of his shaggy head and his ears tucked back against his skull.
“It’s still so strange,” Atsushi says at last. His voice is painfully rough. “That’s me. But doesn’t feel like—ah!”
His hand spasms. Fukuzawa grips tighter on instinct, bracing, but Atsushi isn’t attacking. He’s transforming. His claws retract slowly, his fingers shrink, and the fur seems to melt away. It’s strange to watch and strange to feel the bones shifting in his grasp, until it’s not a giant paw but a bare, slim hand between his.
“Fuck,” Atsushi says quietly. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he melts closer. He sounds half asleep, and Fukuzawa feels his exhaustion as if it’s his own. “I’m really sorry. I’ll—I’ll clean up the kitchen. I’ll make it up to everyone. I promise.”
Fukuzawa rubs the back of his hand again, this time feeling warm skin over fragile bones. “I know you will.” And then, because he is still working out how to manage Nakajima Atsushi, “You’re a good employee, Atsushi-kun. The agency is lucky to have you.”
Yes. Atsushi shivers at the words, and a warm pleased confusion echoes between them, and Fukuzawa mentally checks off, praise.
≁
Dazai arrives an hour later. “I see you have this under control, sir.”
“Thank you, Dazai-kun. But bring me your report from my office.” He gestures at Atsushi’s head heavy against his shoulder. “I can’t move.”
He pretends not to notice Dazai’s smirk.
≁
Wild tigers, maniac doctors, murderous shadows—Fukuzawa enjoys his job, despite or because of the occupational hazards. The part he hates, though, is the bureaucracy. And the paperwork. He would not go back to simpler times, of course, but he reserves the right to bitch about it in his own head.
His aching head, now. Night has well fallen, and he’s the last one in the office, except for—
There is a light knock at his open door.
“Come in, Atsushi-kun.”
Atsushi pushes the door open further. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, I just thought you might… I was making some for myself and...”
Fukuzawa smells the tea before he sees it clutched between Atsushi’s hands. “Thank you,” he says, which is common politeness and shouldn’t make Atsushi flush like that. Shouldn’t make his thoughts sing like that in the back of Fukuzawa’s mind. “Has Dazai been making you do his reports? You’re welcome to ignore him when he tries.”
“No.” Atsushi sets the tea on the desk, then remains close. “I mean, not today, at least.”
“That’s good. I only wondered because you’re here so late.”
Atsushi has the tail of his belt between his fingers. He twists and turns it, and Fukuzawa is certain he doesn’t realize how he’d fidgeting. His face is flushed inexplicably pink. “Oh. Uh. I just lost track of time. Sir.”
He bows and is gone an instant later.
Fukuzawa sighs and reaches for the tea. It’s brewed too strong. He doesn’t mind.
At least Atsushi seems to be settling in well.
≁
That night, Fukuzawa is wrenched again from sleep. Again gasping, heart pounding, but this is no nightmare. This is sweat and heat and lightning arcs of pleasure. He groans. He’s hard and desperate, and his hand slides down. He cups his cock through thin cotton. He’s on fire, and each touch feels clumsy. Unpracticed. Like a—
Like a much younger man, he realizes. This is not his own arousal.
Atsushi is a floor above him and all the way down the hall, and Fukuzawa can feel him touching himself. There is so much space between them, but in the dark of his mind, there is none at all. They’ve shared terror; they’ve shared loathing; tonight, they share breath and skin and a furious need.
Still gasping for breath, nerves still burning with Atsushi’s arousal, he tries to center himself. To pull back. To separate his thoughts from Atsushi’s sensations. He can’t. The connection is too strong, and he is only more aware of Atsushi’s hand curled around Atsushi’s cock, like it’s curled around his own, jerking frantically. He can taste the sweat on Atsushi’s temple. He arches up. He imagines Atsushi’s head fallen back on the pillow, mouth open, gasping silently.
He summons all his strength to hold still. To not grasp himself. To not rut into his hand. But that’s all he can do. It’s beyond his power to pull his hand away.
The night is dark. He screws his eyes shut. All they share is sensation and emotion, but Fukuzawa’s traitorous mind supplies the rest. He can’t blame his gift for imagining what Atsushi might look like now. Arching up into his own palm—is he naked? No, still dressed, but his shirt’s riding up his chest, and moonlight gilds his ribs, his trembling stomach, the hollows of his hips.
His hand disappears under his shorts, too desperate to take them off. The flash of pain is his teeth in the back of his hand, muffling his whimpers.
Fukuzawa hears nothing but his own harsh breath. He imagines Atsushi tries to stay quiet, however good it feels. He wonders what it would take to draw a cry from him, and he bucks unwillingly into his own hand.
He feels Atsushi’s hand rough on his cock, driving close to release. Closer. There is a new flash of feeling, sharp and bright through the building heat. Wordless warmth. Safety. Need calm pleasure rest. The taste of green tea, and a strong hand around his wrist.
Atsushi’s wrist. Fukuzawa’s hand.
Then Atsushi spills over the edge, and Fukuzawa is caught in his release. He feels Atsushi in his mind, in his skin, arching in pleasure, so sweet it hurts. So blinding hot he barely feels his own body following.
The pleasure ebbs slowly, until the only breath he hears is his own, slowing, and the only hands he feels are his own, fallen slack against his sheets. His limbs unlock. He sits, then shakes his head, as if he can physically clear out the remnants of connection.
His apartment is silent and empty. He is alone and, for the first time in a very long time, taken aback.
He is not used to his employees needing him quite like that.
≁
Crushes are natural, Fukuzawa reflects over his paperwork the next day. And Atsushi is a very vulnerable young man. It is only natural that he would develop an attraction towards an older, stronger source of security in his life.
Completely natural.
He really needs to put a stop to it, though. He’s not Mori.
Fukuzawa sighs and resumes reading Kunikida’s overlong report on a lost poodle. Alas that brevity doesn’t seem to be an ideal.
≁
Panic ricochets through his ribs, sudden and painful. Fukuzawa rolls over in bed and stares into the darkness. Counts out his breaths until the panic fades.
Perhaps that will be the end of it.
He stays there, motionless, uneasy, as he hears the stairs creak. As he hears light footsteps outside his door. Eventually, a small body slumping exhausted to the porch steps, alone.
≁
The bruises darken under Atsushi’s eyes. The nerves return. He drops another glass and would have transformed had Dazai not been in that day to stop him.
The stress builds and builds and Fukuzawa has lived long enough to know such tension is unsustainable. He cannot sleep without being woken by Atsushi’s nightmares. He cannot work without flashes of panic. Nerves. Worse still: desire.
This can’t continue.
He’ll arrange a business trip, he decides. He’s been meaning to visit a government friend’s remodeled hotel up in the mountains; he’s been putting the man off for months, and they’re overdue discussion of certain business arrangements. He’ll take Tanizaki and Naomi and leave—he cringes for a moment, deciding—Kunikida in charge for a week, and by the time he returns, Atsushi will have forgotten this.
They will both have forgotten this.
He’s about to call Naomi in to start making the arrangements, but when there is a knock at his door. He calls, “Come in.”
Atsushi is very pale, save the dark circles under his eyes. “I’m sorry to interrupt—is this a bad time? Sorry, it probably is, I can come back later.”
Fukuzawa asks very mildly, “What is it?”
Atsushi closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath. He closes the door behind himself and leans on it. He’s doing that thing again, wrapping his belt between his fingers over and over and over, until he collapses into a bow. “I want to offer my resignation.”
Fukuzawa sets his pen down. He folds his hands on his desk and leans in. “Why?”
“Uh,” Atsushi says, head nearly touching the floor. He’s pretty flexible. He straightens back up, red-faced, but still doesn’t meet Fukuzawa’s eyes. “I’m not good at this. And it’s dangerous, and it’s a bad idea, and I’m… I’m just bad at this. I can’t even keep the tiger under control. I keep sprouting fucking ears and a tail! I’m useless. You shouldn’t have hired me. Sir.”
“Atsushi-kun, look at me,” Fukuzawa says, and regrets it immediately, because Atsushi does. His eyes are unfairly pretty. “I can’t accept your resignation for those reasons. Dazai-kun says you’ve been doing fantastically, as he expected. Kunikida-kun says you have been adequate, which is high praise.”
Atsushi blinks, startled. “Really? I thought…” He clenches his jaw and looks away again.
“Atsushi-kun,” he says, low, and the subsequent flush in Atsushi’s face is gratifying. “I have been nothing but pleased with your performance in the agency. Besides, the ears are charming.”
He really likes the way Atsushi goes beet-red at the slightest praise.
“It’s just.” Atsushi swallows. His composure falters, and Fukuzawa feels the dark nausea. His next words are a barely-there mumble: “You said your door would always be open.”
Fukuzawa has a sinking feeling he has miscalculated. It is not a feeling he experiences often, and certainly not with his employees. Atsushi is his, irrevocably. Fukuzawa’s chief indulgence is a selfish possessiveness over his belongings. He will keep Atsushi at a distance or he will keep him close. Either way, he will keep him; All Men Are Equal does not lightly release his charges. Distance seems to have backfired, and so…
Fukuzawa stands and crosses the room. Atsushi’s head tips back to look at him. He’s so small to contain such power. So fragile to contain such strength. Such vulnerable potential, and Fukuzawa has never been able to resist a stray in need of his protection.
“I did say that,” he says. He’s about to continue, I’ve been busy. He’s about to make excuses. But Atsushi’s staring up at him so wide-eyed, so desperate for truth, so ready to be abandoned, that the lie dries up on his lips. Instead he says, “The trouble is I like you too much.”
There is a sudden emptiness in the room. A blankness in Fukuzawa’s head. An absence of tension, damped down by Atsushi’s shock.
Fukuzawa can’t resist reaching out. Atsushi’s skin is soft under his fingertips, and his chin lifts obediently with the slightest pressure. “I understand if you still want to resign, given that. But I would really prefer if you stayed.”
The emptiness burns away with kindled desperation. Atsushi tightens his fists and his throat jumps under Fukuzawa’s touch. “I want to stay.”
“Good boy,” Fukuzawa says, and kisses the whimper from his lips.
He half expects Atsushi to panic, jerk back. Instead, Atsushi melts into it, pressing up on his toes. Fukuzawa’s hand falls on instinct to his waist to steady him. To feel the warmth of him.
He’s too old for this sort of bad decision, but fuck, it feels good. Like a sword in his hand. Like a fresh cup of tea. Like standing on a street corner and sucking in the salt and smoke air and watching his city flow around him. Like—
It feels like nothing so much as what it is. The deep, warm satisfaction of giving his subordinate what he needs. The tentative press of soft lips, the halting breaths.
The moment Atsushi freezes under his hands, as his sense of reality crashes back. Fukuzawa pulls away gently and gives him room to stumble back.
Atsushi’s hand flies to his mouth, eyes wide. “Sorry,” he gasps. He crashes into the door and fumbles with the doorknob. “I just—I left my toothbrush on the stove—going to burn—”
He manages to get the door open, and Fukuzawa manages not to laugh until he’s gone and fled. He touches his lips too. He can’t quite tell whose elation is spinning through his veins.
≁
Night falls whisper-soft over Yokohama. Fukuzawa returns late to his apartment to find Atsushi sitting at the door. He’s much calmer than he was in the office, though that isn’t saying much. His arms circle his knees, and his fingers twist together.
He must have heard Fukuzawa approach, but he doesn’t look up until Fukuzawa says his name and reaches down.
Atsushi takes his hand and lets Fukuzawa pull him to his feet. His hand is so small. The skin rough. Fukuzawa feels the raised line of a scar along the back of it.
“I can make tea,” Fukuzawa says.
Atsushi shakes his head. “I’m just tired. And I—I feel safe with you. I know it’s weird, but I wanted…”
“You want to rest.”
Atsushi’s shudder reverberates through them both. “Please.”
He lets go of Atsushi’s hand to open the door. Atsushi follows him so closely they’re practically touching anyway. Fukuzawa slips his shoes off and locks the door behind them. “Give me a minute.”
He runs his fingers behind Atsushi’s ear, through soft silver hair, just to make Atsushi flush before he walks away.
He walks the perimeter of his apartment, as he does every night. Checks the windows and closets and the thin places in the walls. He takes his time, even with the warm distraction of his tiger’s presence.
“All right,” he says, as he moves towards his dresser. Atsushi, waiting so obediently, only moves once released by his words. It’s a sweet and dangerous power. Also sweet: he feels Atsushi’s eyes on him as he undresses and redresses. The room is dark, the moon thin, but he knows Atsushi’s eyes are keen.
He unrolls his futon and straightens the sheets. Sets out two pillows and lays his sword beside the bed. Atsushi has moved to the threshold of the bedroom, but no further. He has taken his shoes and socks off, but nothing else. In a fit of self-indulgence, Fukuzawa considers lending him pajamas, just to see him swimming in them. To see the too-large neckline slipping from his narrow shoulders.
Another time, perhaps, if this continues.
(He thinks it will.)
“Leave anything on the floor,” Fukuzawa says, lowering himself to the futon. “My home is yours.” He does not lie down, though. He leans his arm on his knees and watches to see what Atsushi will take off.
Atsushi takes a deep breath, then removes his tie. He unbuckles his belt and suspenders and slips out of his trousers. Disappointingly—not surprisingly—he leaves on the rest.
Greedy, Fukuzawa chides himself, as Atsushi pads forward and kneels on the futon beside him. His eyes are so wide, they catch every scarce hint of light in the room.
“Can I,” Atsushi falters. His hand hovers scant centimeters from Fukuzawa’s shoulder.
It would be cruel to force him to ask for something so easy to give. Fukuzawa kisses him. Slowly, gently, as Atsushi’s hand tightens in his collar, then loosens.
The kiss ends, but they don’t part. Atsushi’s forehead falls against his neck, and his arm falls around Atsushi’s shoulders. His lips press into Atsushi’s hair, and Atsushi shivers like the tenderness is a revelation.
Atsushi is too tired for more than this tonight. Fukuzawa is too; the days of resisting his gift have taken their toll. He lies down and pulls Atsushi with him. Atsushi curls instinctively towards him, head over his heart, bonelessly limp.
He mumbles against Fukuzawa’s chest, “Sometimes I feel you. When you’re not even there.”
Fukuzawa runs his fingers through soft silver hair. “Does that bother you?”
Atsushi curls in closer. Breathes, like confession, “No.”
Fukuzawa strokes down the too-lean lines of his back, and feels Atsushi melt further with every simple touch. He has never met a stray so eager to be tamed.
Contentment resonates between them. It doesn’t matter whose.