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The sound of coughing had become a familiar signal to Nakajima Atsushi— a presence he knew all too well. As Atsushi slipped a cigarette from his pocket and moved to light it, he glanced to his side and found the man he had longed to see. It had been two months since they had crossed paths. Two months without Akutagawa Ryunosuke obsessively hunting him down. A blessing… and a mystery Atsushi had no intention of questioning.
Now, as their eyes met, the older man seemed to hesitate, as if debating whether to stay or walk away. But his pride was far too great for retreat. And truthfully, Atsushi didn’t mind Akutagawa’s presence. He never did hold a personal grudge against the mafioso.
Akutagawa looked Atsushi up and down before scoffing quietly. Then he stepped forward, stopping in front of the bench Atsushi occupied, and sat beside him. His back rested against the cold wire fence of the alley. Atsushi flicked the lighter again, making sure Akutagawa wouldn’t suddenly strike and burn his face out of spite. Only when he was certain did he bring the flame to the cigarette. The tip glowed. He inhaled. The first drag burned sharply down his throat— spicy, heavy, strong. The taste lingered: ginger and bitter tobacco, thick and grounding. It stung, but it comforted him all the same. Beside him, Akutagawa coughed again.
Atsushi assumed the coughing was meant to catch his attention. Without a word, he slipped another cigarette from his pocket and held it out toward Akutagawa, thinking he might want one too. Akutagawa looked down at it with visible distaste, frowning as though the cigarette had personally insulted his entire bloodline. Then he turned his gaze away.
“I can’t smoke,” he said simply. Atsushi didn’t quite understand what he meant by that. So he kept the cigarette extended toward him anyway, exhaling a thin stream of smoke as he did.
“You can always learn,” Atsushi replied calmly, though he deliberately looked away. Nervousness began creeping beneath his skin, settling into every pore. A small part of him wondered if he was overstepping— forcing something trivial, unnecessary. But… the Mafia should know this kind of thing, shouldn’t they? Smoking. Drinking. Casinos. Maybe even robbery. That was the image Atsushi had in mind, at least.
“Not that, dumbass! I— I really can’t.” The way Akutagawa said it finally caught Atsushi’s full attention. There was something in his voice— desperation. Insecurity. As if this wasn’t a choice. As if he hated that he even had to say it. As if Atsushi should have already understood. It stirred something in Atsushi’s chest. Something fragile. Something dangerous that he didn’t dare to examine too closely. He refused to fall into that abyss— the possibility of developing feelings for someone who killed without hesitation. But seeing Akutagawa like this… It made him swallow awkwardly. “I have a terminal lung illness,” Akutagawa confessed. He kept his gaze lowered, as though the words themselves were shameful. As though admitting weakness was more painful than the illness. The fact that he said it out loud made Atsushi’s chest tighten. Akutagawa never talked about himself. Even when Atsushi carelessly nudged at sensitive topics, the mafioso would shut down or lash out. But now, he had chosen to speak. And all Atsushi could do was respect that. Slowly, Atsushi lowered the cigarette and slipped it back into his pocket.
“Okay. Sorry.” He hesitated before lifting his hand slightly, the cigarette still between his fingers. “Is this… okay?”
Akutagawa stared at Atsushi’s hand for a long moment without lifting his head. His gaze lingered there, quiet and unreadable. Then he looked away again.
“Yes,” he said simply. Atsushi brought the cigarette back to his lips and exhaled another stream of smoke. The scent drifted between them, curling through the alley like fog carried off by the wind. “You… smoke regularly?” Akutagawa asked. The question sounded hesitant, caught somewhere between genuine curiosity and an attempt at small talk. Atsushi tried not to smile at the effort.
“Not really,” he replied. “It’s more like… I picked up this hobby. Making cigarettes, I guess. I don’t even know why. I never used to smoke before all this.”
“You… make cigarettes?” Akutagawa repeated, brows faintly knitting. “You should pick a cheaper hobby.” The jab was dry, almost automatic. But it made Atsushi laugh anyway. He looked down, tapping the cigarette lightly to shake off the ash before bringing it back to his lips for another drag. The ember flared softly in the dim alley light.
“I suppose. But… it’s therapeutic, you know?” Atsushi said softly. “It’s something that takes time to perfect. And even then, it can always be improved. I like that.” He wasn’t sure why he was being so honest. Akutagawa had never been patient enough to listen to his rambling before. But this time… he didn’t interrupt. Akutagawa simply listened, gaze lowered to his feet. Atsushi hadn’t expected that. The quiet stretched between them before he spoke again. “So… your illness. Is it… bad? It’s terminal. Right?” Akutagawa’s head snapped up slightly.
"What? You're glad that I could died?"
“What? No! No, no, no—” Atsushi’s voice caught in his throat. “I just… I’m… I’m worried.” The confession felt dangerous. Akutagawa hated him. Atsushi knew that. It would have made sense to return the feeling— clean, simple, mutual. But the thought of Akutagawa being sick… of him running out of time, trapped in a body that refused to cooperate… it made something twist painfully in Atsushi’s chest. Wrong. It felt wrong. He felt worried. Sad, even. Like he would miss this. The arguments, the fights, the sharp words. Especially now that, somehow, impossibly… it felt like they were getting closer. “I want to know more about you,” Atsushi admitted quietly. “What you feel. If it hurts. If it doesn’t. If you cry at night. If you hate it.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I want to know all of it. That’s why I asked.” The words felt almost forbidden once they left his mouth. He took another drag from his cigarette to steady himself, though his hand trembled slightly. Beside him, Akutagawa let out a slow sigh.
“It’s… bad,” Akutagawa admitted quietly. “The illness. Sometimes I can’t breathe. Sometimes my chest aches so much that I don’t know what to do.” His voice was low, threaded with a faint rasp. “I’m making everyone worried.” Atsushi lowered his gaze, silently absorbing the confession. He couldn’t take it. His chest tightened painfully, squeezing around something he still refused to name. The weight of it pressed down on him so suddenly that he had to fight to keep his composure. He hadn’t expected it to hurt this much. He tried not to cry. His hand trembled as he brought the cigarette back to his lips, more out of habit than desire. “I like figs.” The words came out of nowhere. Atsushi’s head snapped toward Akutagawa, eyes widening in disbelief.
"What?"
“You want to know me, right?” Akutagawa continued. “I like figs. I like fruit desserts. I prefer udon for lunch. I like tea so much that Kouyou-san usually drags me to her office just to try her newest collection.” He paused briefly. “And… my favorite flower is the Black Lily.” Atsushi was fully turned toward him now. The wind drifted through the alley, brushing past them, stirring their hair. Atsushi couldn’t stop looking at Akutagawa. At the sharp lines of his face, at the quiet intensity in his eyes. Black Lily, huh? A flower that resembled him so perfectly it was almost unsettling. Atsushi knew that flower. Back at the orphanage, when he was still part of the children’s choir, there had been a performance where they each carried a Black Lily in their hands. It had stood in stark contrast against their white clothing. It was beautiful. It looked dangerous. It was… him. Magnificent. Elegant. Striking. Like a cold wind cutting through a starless night. Like a shadow sharp enough to draw blood if you reached out without thinking. Mesmerizing— and yet threatening. And now Atsushi could see it clearly. The Black Lily wasn’t just a flower. It was sitting right beside him.
“You… have good taste,” Atsushi managed at last. Akutagawa scoffed. But at the corner of his lips, there was the faintest curl of a smile. Atsushi pretended not to notice. Yet as he took another drag from his cigarette, he didn’t realize he was smiling too.
.
.
.
Week after week passed. And somehow, without ever saying it aloud, they began meeting there once every week. The same alley. The same bench. The same quiet understanding. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. Even their arguments grew fewer.
They used to yell at each other during every mission— teeth bared, voices sharp, fists ready. Every encounter had been a battlefield of pride and rivalry. But now… In this lonely, cold, unremarkable alley, they were allowed to be something else. Not enemies. Not rivals trying to prove their strength. Not survivors bracing for the next inevitable clash. Not two people obligated to hate each other simply because of where they stood. Here, they could just be themselves. Two figures sitting side by side, shoulders nearly touching, speaking softly about whatever stray thought drifted into their minds. And somehow… that was enough.
And every week… Atsushi would bring another new cigarette. His own creation. Each time, Akutagawa would be met with a different scent curling from the smoke, each one shaping a new atmosphere. Somehow, some of it reflected what Atsushi was feeling. Akutagawa wasn’t a smoker, so he couldn’t pretend to know the subtle notes of taste or smell. Yet sometimes, a strong clove scent would reach him— sharp, biting, and it told him immediately: Atsushi was not okay. He was angry. Distracted. Haunted by dark thoughts Akutagawa dared not touch. Other times, there would be a hint of something sweet, almost like fruit. Atsushi would tell him cheerfully that he had just been experimenting with fruity aromas, trying to carve out a sweeter taste. Akutagawa never quite understood what “sweet” meant — sweet like dessert? Like tea? Or the fruit itself? But he didn’t need to. The sweetness spoke for itself. It meant Atsushi was happy, light, cheerful, positive. And that… was Akutagawa’s favorite scent to find in Atsushi’s cigarettes. Sometimes, the smoke was just plain tobacco. Bland. Dry. Like Hirotsu’s old-school cigarettes, the ones Nakahara Chuuya loved to complain about, the ones Tachihara would cough from because they were too strong. And from that, Akutagawa understood something else. Atsushi was tired. Bored. Uninspired. That was all it could mean.
Each cigarettes create each mood and smell that went through Akutagawa's mind. It's creative for Atsushi to come up with something brand new everytime they met although Akutagawa didn't really know where did this hobby coming from. But it started to effect Akutagawa, because... Everytime he smells a blow of cigarette, Akutagawa would turn around, thinking that there's Atsushi somewhere with his creative cigarettes. Akutagawa would complaining inside his mind, thinking that Atsushi could come up with better cigarettes than those average commercial one. And Akutagawa himself didn't know why the thought of cigarettes linking it directly to Atsushi.
Each cigarette carried its own mood, its own scent, winding through Akutagawa’s mind. It was creative of Atsushi, inventing something new every time they met. Akutagawa didn’t understand where this hobby came from, but… it started to affect him. Every time the smoke curled past him, Akutagawa would turn instinctively, half-expecting to see Atsushi nearby with his latest creation. He would scold himself silently— thinking that Atsushi could make better cigarettes than any average commercial brand. And yet, for some reason, he couldn’t separate the smell of smoke from the presence of Atsushi.
It used to be a source of insecurity. A 20-year-old man, grown and part of the Port Mafia, yet he didn’t drink. He didn’t smoke. During meetings, when smoke curled lazily through the room like an unforgiving punishment, Akutagawa never lit a cigarette. He never touched the drinks set before him. He would sit, composed, even as his lungs screamed in protest, threatening to bolt from the room in a fit of coughing. Chuuya would quietly excuse him before the discussions turned casual, when smoking and drinking became part of the conversation. But Akutagawa knew what whispered behind his back. How fragile he was. How unfit he was for the mafia. And he hated it. He hated how his body betrayed him. How it refused, just once, to comply with his will. It wasn’t the addictive burn of nicotine against his lips that he crave. Not the faint, piercing heat in his lungs. It was respect.
And, as far as he could tell… he had none.
He's wasn't respected.
Excluded from Mafia life. All because of a sickness that had grown with him. As his body got taller, stronger, bigger— yet still betrayed him. He coughed annoyingly, like a fragile Victorian boy. He didn’t smoke. He didn’t drink. He was useless.
Not even as strong as everyone else.
That’s why… Being with Atsushi calmed him. It reminded him who he was. What he liked. Who he used to be. The choices he could make. A world of possibilities. An option. Atsushi made him feel safe. Safe without pretense. Safe without having to smoke to belong. Atsushi treated him like… like he mattered. And it made Akutagawa’s chest ache. Because God forbid he fall in love with something so unbearably bright. He was only smoke curling around a fire. Tasting it from a distance. Never daring to become part of it.
So Akutagawa swallowed it. Pretending the taste of every interaction didn’t leave a bitterness sharp enough to corrode him. Pretending the smoke curling into his coat was nothing more than a faint perfume, not a toxic grain dragging him toward the abyss.
Pretending every word Atsushi spoke wasn’t a treasure he could clutch forever, bright enough to illuminate the edges of his dark world. And yet… it was enough. With Atsushi here, just being near him was enough. Sitting beside him. Inhaling the scents of Atsushi’s cigarettes. Wondering, quietly, what Atsushi felt each day. It was enough.
Because he knew, he could not take this moment for granted.
.
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.
6 months later...
"Hey, you—" Atsushi stopped mid-sentence as he caught sight of Akutagawa walking toward him. Akutagawa… looked terrible. His face was pale, almost translucent. His lips cracked and colorless. His eyes were swollen, rimmed red, as if he had been crying all day before arriving. He slid onto the bench beside Atsushi without a word. Atsushi froze, still trying to process it. He knew Akutagawa was sick. But this… this was worse than he had imagined.
"Jinko." Akutagawa said, his voice rough and raspy. Atsushi’s chest tightened. He tried not to tremble at the sound. “I have one wish,” Akutagawa continued, his tone steady, deliberate. “And my wish is… I want to try one of your cigarettes.” There was a bravery to it— a finality. No pretenses. No denial. Akutagawa wasn’t hiding his need this time. Atsushi blinked, struggling to process the words.
“I—what? Aren’t you—”
“I’m dying, Jinko. It’s… getting worse. And I… I want to spend the last of my days doing what I want. And I… I want to try smoking. But it has to be your creation. Please, Jin—Atsushi. I need it. Please…” Atsushi’s eyes couldn’t leave Akutagawa’s pleading face. Tears welled up in Akutagawa’s eyes as he spoke, and for the first time, he called Atsushi by his name— not the usual 'Jinko.' It broke something inside Atsushi. Akutagawa just wanted to survive. To feel. To experience something he had missed. And he wanted to share it with Atsushi. That alone shattered Atsushi’s heart.
Without thinking, he pulled Akutagawa into a hug, letting him bury his face against his shoulder. Akutagawa’s body trembled as he shook with silent sobs, hiding his cries in Atsushi’s embrace. Atsushi held him close, refusing to let go.
“Can you stay for a week more? I’ll try my best.” That was all Akutagawa needed. He nodded, still buried against Atsushi’s shoulder. A silent promise passed between them in the alley they shared— a promise that would end someday. Someday when Akutagawa would no longer be strong enough to walk there. One day… that alley would be quiet and cold again, like the first time Atsushi had discovered it. Because in less than a month, Akutagawa would not be there with him anymore.
That night, Akutagawa returned home alone, refusing to walk with him. Atsushi made his way back to the ADA dorm. In the front yard stood a small wooden storage shed— unused, fragile-looking, and empty of purpose. But it was his space. The place where Atsushi made his cigarettes. Where he air-dried the tobacco. Mixed the casing. Rolled and formulated each one. A small sanctuary of comfort after long days at ADA, after exhausting missions, after moments that left his heart heavy. Atsushi looked around the shed and took a deep breath. He needed to get back to work.
But his mind kept returning to Akutagawa. To his fragile, eternal beauty, slowly corrupted by illness. How his pale skin still radiated a ghostly kind of perfection. How the tears against his shoulder felt cold, like night water in a magical fountain. How his lips… had become delicate, fragile, like a porcelain doll cracking at the edges. Atsushi fought to hold back his own tears, yet his thoughts kept circling, relentless: What should I make for this cigarette?
Usually, his creations reflected his own mood, his own likes, his wants, his needs. But now… he couldn’t think of anything for himself. He had to make something Akutagawa would enjoy. Perhaps a fruit-flavored blend… sweet, soft, comforting. Perhaps something strong, bold— the kind any Mafia member might appreciate. But none of it felt right. None of it felt like Akutagawa. The fruit would be too lazy, too light— a disappointment for someone smoking for the first time. The strong blend would only make him cough, struggle… and he couldn’t bear the thought. Most importantly…
Akutagawa was everything at once. Mesmerizing. Captivating. Blinding in the sharp, impossible precision of his presence. He was like cracked porcelain, meant to be protected in a glass coffin, yet shaken violently until the edges splintered and the surface began to break. And still… Atsushi loved it. He loved the way Akutagawa’s lashes were far too long for someone so harsh. The way his body seemed almost weightless, too thin, too fragile— like the wind could sweep him away in a single breath. Atsushi took it all in. Every fragment. Every sharp edge. Every glint of beauty, every trace of brokenness, every bit of majesty in the way he held himself together while falling apart. It was a perfection he could never recreate. A work of art that would drive him mad if he tried. And yet… he had promised Akutagawa. He had promised that he would craft this cigarette for him. So he would. He had to.
.
.
.
Day by day slipped by like sand between fingers. Important moments passed, yet none were marked on any calendar. Atsushi waited impatiently on the usual bench, anxiety crawling along his spine. Would Akutagawa come? Would he fulfill his last wish? He told himself it couldn’t be the last time. It couldn’t. This wasn’t the final meeting. Atsushi refused to believe it. After everything they had been through, it was only natural he would miss him. Because Akutagawa who could vanish so completely, leaving nothing but absence behind. Hours drifted past. The wind grew colder with each tap of Atsushi’s foot against the alley’s hard ground. He didn’t dare light a cigarette— not yet. He couldn’t bear to fill the air with any scent before Akutagawa arrived.
After two hours, a soft sound— a crouching step against the pavement— made him lift his gaze. There he stood. Akutagawa. Hand buried in his jacket pocket, not wearing his usual Rashomon coat, probably because today he wasn’t working. Still pale. Sickly, yet impossibly beautiful. His eyes half-lidded, calm as ever, reflecting the moonlight like a quiet promise in the night wind.
"Hey." Atsushi managed to say it, his voice barely above a whisper. Akutagawa didn’t answer. He simply sat beside him, silent, as though the weight of the world pressed them both into stillness. They remained there together, wrapped in an awkward, fragile quiet. Atsushi fidgeted with his fingers, unsure what to do, unsure what to say. He didn’t want to make it real. He couldn’t accept the truth yet: that from this day forward, everything would change the moment he handed over the cigarette. With that single creation in his pocket, Atsushi could give Akutagawa something eternal— a fleeting happiness, a taste of the normalcy he had missed so desperately in his final days. But at the same time… He could also end Akutagawa’s suffering faster than either of them could anticipate. One cigarette. One small, delicate spark. One ticking bomb of mortality and desire. And Atsushi held it all in his hands, trembling, knowing that what he gave would carry both life and release.
With a twitching motion, Atsushi slowly lifted his hand, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a cigarette and extended it toward Akutagawa, his gaze fixed somewhere else. Neither of them looked at the cigarette, nor were they ready for what was about to happen. Minutes passed in a tense, fragile silence. Then Akutagawa lifted his hand and took it. He studied it carefully, eyes tracing the neat, almost fragile roll of tobacco. The slight ashiness of its handmade surface spoke of Atsushi’s care, of time and thought folded into every twist and turn of the paper. Bringing the cigarette to his nose, Akutagawa inhaled gently. A faint scent rose— subtle, precise, almost distant, like a flower left far away in a sunlit field.
It stirred something deep inside him, a memory he couldn’t place, a familiarity he couldn’t name. From his side, Atsushi flicked a lighter. The small flame wavered, warm and steady. Akutagawa brought the cigarette to his lips, nervous but strangely impatient. He leaned closer to Atsushi, until the edge of the cigarette caught the flame, glowing faintly, promising something he hadn’t dared hope for.
He would lie if he claimed to know how to smoke. The first drag burned violently. Smoke clawed down his throat, sharp and biting. A faint chill lingered around his lips, cold and unexpected, like winter air brushing over a flower. He coughed, violently, instinctively, but there was something beneath it— a thrill, a curiosity, a sensation that was entirely new. Atsushi lit his own cigarette in tandem, the curling smoke around them mingling. One scent braided with the other: Atsushi’s careful creation, warm, faintly sweet, faintly spicy— Akutagawa felt it wrap around him, grounding him, marking this moment as his own.
"The first time will sting. But… believe me, it will pass. Just… take a deep breath, and focus on the taste.” Atsushi guided him patiently. Akutagawa stared, searching for any sign of deceit, any hint that Atsushi might be lying. But there was none. Only that soft, calm expression, the quiet patience in his eyes, teaching him how to smoke. He had imagined Chuuya would have been the one to teach him this. But of all people… it was Atsushi. And Akutagawa trusted him.
Minutes passed as he learned, awkward and clumsy at first. It was… humbling. But also safe. Because it was Atsushi. Patient. Gentle. Soft. With each drag, Akutagawa began to understand. He felt it settle in his chest, warming, sharp, alive. The smoke curled around them, filling the alley with a scent both foreign and intimate, wrapping the quiet space around them like a fragile thread of memory. He tried to place it, to name it, but all he could do was feel it. And now… he could taste it too. With a slight, careful twitch of his hand, he brought the cigarette to his lips again. Another drag. Eyes closed. Mind reaching for the flavors hidden in the smoke. Dry tobacco leaves, earthy and grounding. A trace of white musk, subtle, almost shy. A whisper of spice— sandalwood, warm and gentle, perfectly woven into the blend. A faint sweetness, delicate, never overpowering. A light, hidden bitterness, lingering on the back of his tongue. And somewhere in the middle, a fragrance bridging the musk and the sandalwood. Familiar, haunting, something once known but now forgotten. It was intoxicating.
"Black Lily. You said you like it." Atsushi said suddenly, as if reading the thoughts Akutagawa hadn’t dared speak. Akutagawa glanced at him, confused. Black Lily… Could it be? He took another careful drag of the cigarette, savoring it, testing it, trying to confirm the elusive thought lingering in his chest. “Don’t you think… this cigarette reminds you of something?” Atsushi asked, his voice soft, almost reverent. Akutagawa’s eyes fell on the cigarette as if it held a hidden clue, a secret he could uncover just by looking. He didn’t want to admit it— didn’t want to let himself feel it. But his mind had already decided. This cigarette… It was not like Atsushi’s usual creations. This one was different. Carefully made. Crafted not for flavor alone, but for memory. Atsushi had captured someone inside it. Someone special. Someone who played with his mind, and… perhaps, his heart.
"It’s… me, isn’t it?” Akutagawa whispered finally, breaking the silence that had stretched between them, fragile as smoke.
"Yeah… Black Lily,” Atsushi whispered, voice trembling as if each word could shatter. “It represents you. It fits you. I… I didn’t know if I could make this work. I didn’t know if I could capture you in a cigarette, because you’re… everything all at once. You’re brave. You’re sharp. Independent. Calm and collected, yet burning with anger underneath. But more than that… you’re magnificent. Like moonlight slicing through a dark sky. Like thin ice over a frozen lake— fragile, glinting, dangerous. Mesmerizing. A flower with thorns. You’re like this dry tobacco leaf, with hints of fragrance and sweetness, and leaving just the faintest bitterness behind. That’s you. That’s who you are… to me. And I would never, ever regret you.”
“Atsushi, please—”
"No. I… I want you to know that I—”
“You don’t say that to a corpse!”
Silence fell. Heavy. Absolute. Atsushi felt the weight of the words, the danger of the territory he’d crossed. There was no taking it back. No undoing it. So he sat. Motionless. Except for a slight, trembling movement as he brought the cigarette to his lips again. Tears streamed down his face. Breath faltering. Heart screaming. He drew in the smoke. Let it fill him. Let it burn him. And when he exhaled, the smoke rolled through the alley like a dream too bright, too sharp… and tasted like a nightmare he couldn’t escape.
.
.
.
Footsteps echoed faintly against the alley walls. The crunch of gravel underfoot was the only sound in his tiny, lonely hiding place. Nakajima Atsushi still came here every week. A month had passed since… since the moon stopped being bright. He pulled the cigarette from his pocket and lit it. The flame flickered, small and warm, and he drew in a slow, trembling drag, closing his eyes to absorb every nuance. Musk. Sandalwood. Sweetness. Bitterness. All at once— a memory captured in smoke.
“I never thought smoke could taste like memory… until you were here.”
He never made another cigarette with a different blend. Only this one. The one that reminded him of someone. Of a striking personality. Half-lidded eyes that could level a person with a glance, yet held a quiet, unyielding gravity. Stiff posture. Impulsive actions tempered by silent obedience. Dangerous, beautiful, mesmerizing— all at once.
Someone impossible to describe fully.
Akutagawa Ryunosuke.
Atsushi exhaled slowly, smoke curling around him like a whispered farewell.
“See you later, my one and only.”
Atsushi whispered to the night, voice barely more than the wind itself, as it carried the faint curl of a scent he would always remember.
He glanced to his side, half-expecting, half-wishing to see him there, even though no one was. And then, with a gentle, trembling hand, Atsushi placed a single Black Lily on the chair beside him. The chair where Akutagawa had always sat.
A silent tribute. A quiet memory. A presence that lingered in the scent, the smoke, and the spaces between breaths. Atsushi took a deep breath and salvage the curling scent of Akutagawa Ryunosuke.
- END -