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Summary
Hot tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with the rain and falling on his icy, wet hands. He ran his hand over his wet face with special difficulty, removing the dirty, blond bangs from his eyes so that he could look at such a native black coat. All the humidity of the day, dirt and dust had soaked into him, but Atsushi could only howl desperately, burying his face in the wet cloth.
In a pathetic attempt to inhale the familiar scent of Akutagawa again, he only became horrified to realize how the rain was washing away not only the traces of his blood, but also the tart aroma of the mafia's perfume that he needed now.
He sniffed, childishly blurring the traces of his hysteria with the sleeve of his tattered and dirty shirt, trying to catch at least the last hint of his partner's scent, but to no avail.