#b.s.d

                                                                                                           The Black Camellia was a well known, locally owned coffee shop, which occupied a building that had once been a tavern. Since the tavern had been shut down, a number of businesses had rented the space, but the Camellia was the first to remain for more than a handful of years. The story went that the owner of the building had a writer friend who would drop by his apartment on the second floor with such annoying frequency, that eventually he just opened a coffee shop so the man had somewhere to be.

While no one seemed willing, or able, to confirm or deny this, it did make for an interesting story. And stories were something that the Camellia had come to pride itself on. Whether it was the story about the writer-friend, or the atmosphere of the place, the Camellia drew a large literary crowd. Men and women could be found scattered around the former tavern at all hours, scribbling in notebooks and on scrap paper, typing on laptops and arranging scattered notes.

Poetry readings and author meet-and-greets were staples of the Black Camellia calendar, and in the last year, an open mic had been arranged on Wednesday nights. Young writers were free to get up on the small stage at the back of the building and read their work aloud to whatever audience had collected itself. All sorts of people showed up. Experienced writers, amateurs, professors, students, poets, novelists, songwriters, comedians, playwrights-- You never knew who would get up on stage.

The most recent person to be up there was Atsushi Nakajima.

Atsushi and stupidity were old friends, but bravery was a new acquaintance. At the moment, Atsushi was still trying to determine which of the two had just accompanied him up in front of the microphone. His hands, fumbling to tie shut his leather journal, said that bravery had definitely allowed him to put himself out there like that. His knocking knees, however, said bravery was nowhere in the building.

Tonight's crowd had been nothing to scoff at, either. Especially not for him; he'd never been able to read in front of his class in school, let alone complete strangers. But, he had gone up there anyway. After weeks of sitting at the table in the corner, fidgeting with his notebook and listening in awe to all the different voices and their flowing syntax, he'd actually done it.

He slid back into his spot at that same table now, a little proud he'd made it back to his seat without tripping over himself. The small cup of espresso he'd bought was still sitting there, probably lukewarm by now. Atsushi picked it up and downed it anyway, forcing the bitter coffee down his dry throat to his stomach.

Truth be told, Atsushi didn't actually like espresso all that much. Or any coffee, really. He'd gotten the pricy little cup of caffeine because it had seemed like the kind of thing a writer with some self-confidence would drink. Not exactly the shot of liquid courage his friend Ranpo would have suggested but, hey, close enough.

Though the taste made him grimace, the espresso did actually help to settle his stomach and calm his nerves. He took a deep breath, resting his hands on his notebook and exhaling slowly. In his mind, he replayed the last twenty minutes. Reading the excerpt of his short story, getting lost in his own words, and finishing only to be greeted by an enthusiastic round of applause.

They were just being nice. They do that for everyone. drawled his self-sabotaging brain. For once, Atsushi vehemently told his thoughts to shut the fuck up.

When he opened his eyes, Atsushi found himself no longer alone at his table.

To his right, the next author got up on the stage, clearing her throat before beginning her piece. Atsushi would have loved to have given her his full attention, but he was a little distracted. Who could blame him? The man who had appeared across the table from him looked like he'd stepped off the pages of a Vogue avant garde photoshoot.

Atsushi tried not to stare, really he did, because he had been taught a great deal of manners in his life, but he couldn't help it. The man had an alluring set of features. A face that would have been boyish if his eyes weren't so fathomless, thin lips that were the kind of succulent pink you couldn't help glancing at, sharp cheekbones and chin, and unruly hair just begging to have fingers tangled in it.

As he was struggling to scatter the dazed admiration of the man his mind was providing, the stranger spoke.

"I'd like to buy you a drink." he said. "And give you my number, if you'd like it."

"Yes!" Atsushi blurted.

He was immediately embarrassed by his own eagerness, but also a little glad that anxiety hadn't had a chance to stop him. Maybe the espresso was liquid courage after all.

"Yes to the drink, or yes to my number?"

"Ah-- B-both?"

The stranger's lips quirked into something of a bemused smile.

"Well," he hummed. "I did offer."

He produced a pen and pad of paper, on which he proceeded to write his name, phone number, and email. The page was torn out and handed to Atsushi, who took a moment to just stare at the perfect script. Who had such pristine penmanship?

"To clarify," Atsushi asked, feeling a little more bold. "Are you giving me this for professional reasons, or are you--"

"I'm asking you out."

"Oh."

"On a date."

"Well, yes."

The man's smile widened by a few centimeters, clearly amused. Honestly, Atsushi could have stared dreamily at him for hours if he wanted to, but something else had occurred to him.

He'd seen this man before. He'd known it the second he sat down, but had mostly figured that was just due to the crowd of regulars who frequented the Black Camellia. Upon further inspection, and rereading the paper in his hand twice, Atsushi confirmed that this was not just a man.

This was Ryunosuke Akutagawa. Regular of the Black Camellia. Published poet. And protege of the Osamu Dazai, who had more literary awards than there were literary awards to be given. The only reason he hadn't recognized him the first time he saw him get up on stage a few weeks prior was that Ryunosuke was known for avoiding the public eye, preferring to keep to himself.

But there he was, elegant, talented, and absolutely, unfairly gorgeous, sitting right across from Atsushi. If the caffeine weren't hitting him just about then, he may have fainted.

"Uh, I hope this isn't rude of me to ask," Atsushi said. "But, wh--"

"If the next words out of your mouth are "why are you asking someone like me out" I'm going to get up and leave this table."

Atsushi snapped his mouth shut. Then, belatedly affronted;

"I could've been about to say anything!"

"Yes. But that's what you were about to say, wasn't it?"

Since he could neither deny this nor confirm it with his pride intact, Atsushi cast around for something else to say.

"So," he began. "What brings you to somewhere like this?"

That sounded like a really bad pickup line. Which was even worse because Ryunosuke had already asked him out. Atsushi wondered if he could subtly throw himself out a window.

"First," Ryunosuke said, completely unaffected. "I said I would buy you a drink. What would you like?"

At night the Camellia offered a selection of wines and liquors for the discerning palette, which usually made for interesting readings as the evening wore on. Atsushi wasn't much of a drinker though, so after a moment's deliberation about whether or not he should fake it, he said;

"Actually, milk tea would be really nice."

Ryunosuke looked momentarily surprised, but this quickly became a smile.

"Funny," he said. "I'm not a very big fan of alcohol either."

Atsushi didn't bother pointing out that he'd never said anything like that, watching as Ryunosuke wove through the scattered tables and chairs towards the front of the cafe.

Maybe it was his imagination, or the espresso turning his thoughts over too fast for him to catch them, but Atsushi swore there was... something between them. A connection that made Ryunosuke markedly easier to read than his subtle expressions should have allowed. And for some reason, he thought it was the same for him.

Ryunosuke returned a few minutes later, two teas in hand, and set one in front of Atsushi. He settled back into the chair across from him, taking a slow sip of his tea. Atsushi did the same, pretending it didn't burn his tongue.

"You know the story of how this place got opened, right?" Ryunosuke said, once he'd set his cup down.

"The rumor about the owner and their friend, right?"

"Yes, well, the friend was Dazai."

Atsushi gaped, which seemed to thoroughly amuse Ryunosuke.

"His best friend owns the building; Chuuya Nakahara. He's the redhead behind the bar sometimes. They've known each other since middle school."

"No way."

"It's true. Chuuya has always been good with food, apparently. Dazai used to invite himself, and sometimes me, over for breakfast, lunch, and dinner when he was feeling particularly ornery. Chuuya bitched and moaned about it, but he never turned us away."

"And, what, he just got sick of you two barging in on him and opened a cafe?"

Ryunosuke shrugged.

"More or less."

"That's crazy."

"So is Chuuya." he sipped his tea again, dark eyes focused on Atsushi over the rim of his cup. "And what brings you to the Camellia, Atsushi?"

It took Atsushi a moment to remember that he'd had to announce his name when he read and that Ryunosuke could not actually read his mind. He looked like he could. Like he already knew every single one of his secrets. It didn't feel as uncomfortable as Atsushi would have expected.

"Curiosity?" he laughed sheepishly. "I'd heard a lot of writers come here, and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about... A lot of people said this place was like good luck for authors, and I thought, hey, I could use some of that."

Smiling wistfully, he cast his eyes around the sitting area. The ambiance lighting made the cramped room seem much fancier than it was, like they were all dinner guests to some great performance on stage.

"I stayed for the atmosphere, though. Luck or not, this place really is great for writing, or just relaxing for a while."

Ryunosuke regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then went back to nursing his tea.

"You don't need it."

"Pardon?"

"Luck. You, Atsushi, do not need luck."

Atsushi wasn't sure if he looked as bewildered as he felt, but he thought he might. Ryunosuke set his cup down and leaned forward on his elbows, which brought their faces closer together and shut down at least a third of Atsushi's brain.

No, he informed himself, this is not the appropriate time to kiss him.

"Luck is for idiots who don't want to work for a goal, or incompetents who know they'll never make it. You're not either of those things."

"I--"

"No." Ryunosuke interrupted before he could get a word of denial in. "You're not. Atsushi, I'm not sure what planet you're on, but here on earth you are what I call a brilliant writer." he scowled. "And if no one has bothered to tell you that, then it's a fucking shame."

Atsushi felt his mouth drop open in shock. Akutagawa Ryunosuke did not seem like the type of man who tossed the word brilliant around willingly.

"...Thank you." Atsushi said weakly, not sure how else to respond.

"I'd like to show your work to Dazai sometime. He knows more people in the industry than me, I'm sure he'd know someone to show it to to see about publishing."

"S-sure."

"Am I overwhelming you?"

"Kind of. A little. Yes. I mean."

Atsushi sat back, laughing and rubbing a hand over his face.

"Wow. I own both of your anthologies."

"I'm flattered, I didn't think anyone even remembered the first one."

"Would it be really tacky to ask you to sign them?"

"Only if you do it before our date."

The caffeine, Atsushi decided, had to be getting to him. There was no other explanation for his sudden self-assurance.

He sat forward, arms on the table, and it brought him close enough to Ryunosuke he could see his dark lashes fluttering against his cheek. There were about fifty metaphors running through his head to describe how completely distracting those lashes were, and maybe when he got home he'd write them all down.

"One more question?" he asked.

"I suppose I can allow that."

"Can I please kiss you when we go on that date? Because I think I've spent the last ten minutes wanting to and I don't know how I'll last an entire date not kissing you."

Ryunosuke blinked his dark eyes and said, without missing a beat;

"Or you could do it now."

"Or I could do it now."

So he did it then.

Whoever was on stage was doing a good job keeping the audience's attention, so no one paid any mind to the authors in the corner table as they kissed. It was chaste, for how fervent it was, but there was a promising spark of something that lingered on Atsushi's lips even as he pulled away. Ryunosuke was looking at him appraisingly, like he'd just turned the next page of an intriguing novel and was eager to continue the story.

Atsushi, still brimming with uncharacteristic boldness, leaned back in and kissed him again.

                                                                 There was a high section of a rocky outcrop, which hung out over the water,  from which the ocean looked nothing but clear, aqua blue. The kind of blue where you could taste the wetness of the word on your tongue, and suddenly understand where aqua came from. It was a breathtaking place, far enough above the water that you felt as if you were miles above the world, at the whim of the sun and sea air.

On sunny days, when the sky was clear, light would glitter off the water's surface and shine straight down to the sands below. From the perch on the outcrop, one could look down at the fish darting to and fro, and the seaweed swaying in the currents. Nature itself became overwhelmingly mystical when viewed from such an angle, like one could step from the rock straight into some magical land.

Akutagawa had always considered that this would be a good place to die. One last look over the horizon, the cotton candy clouds and the blinding sunlight painted across the ocean's surface in streaks of color. It was beautiful and simple, the air was clean and there was no sound but the lapping of the waves on the rocks. He couldn't remember when he had decided he would die here, just that he had.

The hospital bracelet resting limply around his wrist marked his fifth visit to the emergency room in two months . His diagnosis hadn't been good to begin with, but even the doctors seemed unnerved by how quickly he was deteriorating. Treatment options had been pressed into his arms like unwanted gifts until his thoughts were a mantra of medical terms he didn't understand. He was very tired, and very sick of being sick.

Akutagawa breathed in deeply, drinking in the sharp ocean air and letting it fill his failing lungs as much as they would allow. The crispness of the morning was invigorating, he felt as though he could run a marathon and then back home before breakfast.

He couldn't. The spell would be broken as soon as he stepped from this very spot, but here, in this place, he felt alive.

It was why he wanted to die here. Not in some sterilized hospital bed, surrounded by pulsing machines and his fretting sister. If he had to die ( and he had to, there was no way to save his life now ) then he wanted to die feeling alive.

He stretched his arms out on either side, as far as they would go, like at any moment the breeze would lift him up and carry him far, far away. There was a placid calmness to accepting his mortality, and the control he had over it. Akutagawa exhaled slowly, and then took two steps over the edge of the outcrop.

Gravity took him from there.

Down he plummeted, through the air and then straight into the water below. The force of his body hitting the water shocked the breath from his parted lips, and the cold took the rest from his lungs. Bubbles escaped his mouth, flying towards the surface as his limp body sunk into the clear blue water. It was surreal. The fathomless depths stretched beneath him, and he could see down, down, down into the empty blue of the ocean. But around him, there was life, in flora and fauna alike.

He twisted his body, as if he meant to rest his back on the shadow of the ocean floor, gazing up at the surface lights glittering overhead. A school of fish darted across his vision. The sunlight danced over the waves.

He had been right, this was a good way to die. The feeling of his lungs constricting was familiar, unobtrusive, and so all there was was the blueness of the water and his fading consciousness. In a way, it was almost like going to sleep. He was drifting away into a cool darkness. It was peaceful.

From the corner of his eye, Akutagawa registered some kind of movement in the water. Something large, and swift, though he couldn't quite make out what through his fading vision. His mind, growing hazier as seconds ticked by, provided an image of a shark.

Ah. Akutagawa thought. Fuck.

Well, he supposed he had brought it on himself. A corpse in the ocean was sure to attract hungry marine life, and he'd considered more than once that he may end up a mangled mess on the seafloor. It hadn't bothered him at the time, but he had also rather been counting on the mangling happening after he was dead.

The pain in his lungs was one thing, but being eaten alive seemed particularly unpleasant. Maybe this was God punishing him for the sin of taking his own life.

For some reason, his oxygen-deprived brain found this thought particularly funny, and another cloud of bubbles escaped his lips. It might have been a laugh if he were above the water, or maybe just a sigh. His vision was nothing but a blur of light, and his thoughts were shutting off one by one, like candles flickering out. Maybe being eaten alive wasn't in his future after all.

In his growing delirium, Akutagawa swore he felt something tugging on the collar of his shirt. Then, something touching his face. The feeling was distant, the numbness in his body spreading, turning his senses into pleasant nothingness. He was drifting away, the light was blinking out and soon he would cease to be, confined to a watery tomb of his own choosing.

Except, the darkness did not swallow him. It hovered, a pinprick of light still visible in the distance, and then to his astonishment it began to recede. Could death be that swift? The transition between this life and whatever came next truly so easy? It was still cold, his body still felt far away, but his vision was slowly coming back into focus.

Akutagawa's eyes flickered open, drowsy, blinking for clarity, and there before him was a face. For a moment, he thought he was hallucinating, until feeling began to return to his body and he recognized the pressure of hands on his cheeks. His eyes flew wide, mouth opening to shout in surprise and releasing a slew of bubbles instead.

The face scowled, and its owner dove forward and pressed their mouths together. Even if he'd tried, Akutagawa couldn't have struggled. His body felt heavy, limbs tingling, and however deep into the water he had drifted it had become numbingly cold.

And then, he realized he was breathing. Akutagawa's thoughts stopped immediately, still sluggish and trying to collect themselves, trying to process this. Surely, he must be hallucinating, imagining the feeling of it-- But, no. He was.

He was breathing.

On land his breaths were shallow things that rattled his chest and drew long, harsh coughs from his lungs. Breathing had been painful for years, agonizing as of late, to the point the oxygen mask in the emergency room had become something of a dear friend. And yet, he was breathing now. Far beneath the water, breath was filling his lungs, making them expand and contract as if they functioned perfectly.

He could physically feel the oxygen rushing to his brain. Clarity came like a tidal wave of thoughts and sensations.

There was something swaying in the water, his eyes registered it as an undulating presence that moved with unnerving elegance. He focused on it until it became clear, and a chill carried through him as he recognized the dorsal fin of a shark. Akutagawa drew his eyes up along the curve of the fin, along the swaying tail, until he realized that it disappeared before it ever became a full shark.

It was connected, instead, to the young man kissing air into his lungs. Akutagawa blinked.

I've died. I've died and gone to a very peculiar sort of heaven. Or perhaps hell?

The merman ( he had to be a merman, hadn't he? ) disconnected their lips, drawing back far enough he could scope critical eyes over his face.

Heaven. Akutagawa heard his thoughts conclude.

He was distressingly pretty, his would-be savior. Though his body spoke of a fearsome predator, he had a kind, worried face. His eyes were the same tarnished yellow of gold coins, and his hair was as milky as his skin. The curve of his mouth was cherubic, and there was something about the pure worry creasing his brow that made Akutagawa want to wipe all concerns from his mind.

Then he kissed him again.

This time, Akutagawa pressed back as best he could, hands fumbling for purchase on the merman's thin shoulders. He was cool to the touch, skin slick, but nothing had ever felt more real in his life. The merman exhaled into his mouth, forcing breath into his lungs. Akutagawa accepted greedily.

He couldn't remember a time, not one moment, in his life where he had breathed easily. It had always been a struggle, a journey between one breath and the next. Sometimes he didn't sleep, afraid if he let himself rest his body would simply forget to draw in a breath. The taste of the air in his lungs had always been tinged with copper, blood wetting his tongue between rancid, choking breaths.

This was pure. This breath, shared between his mouth and the merman's, was clean and free of pain. It felt like his whole body was being cleansed of the things that ailed it. He could taste salt on the tip of his tongue, feel the ocean current in his belly, and for a moment he swore he heard the waves singing against his ears.

Again, the merman drew away. This time his hands fell from Akutagawa's cheeks, arms linking around his middle instead. The merman twisted his body, pulling Akutagawa forward against his chest as his powerful tail swung through the water. They were moving, and though he had no sense of direction, Akutagawa could only guess it was towards the shore.

He didn't want to go ashore, he didn't want to leave the water. He chased the merman's mouth, delighted when his lips parted and he breathed for the both of them. The feeling of it was addictive, better than the pure oxygen from the mask in the ER, better than any high from painkillers he'd had to take when his coughing grew too painful. It might have been the feeling of breathing without effort, or it might have been the merman's soft lips on his own, he wasn't sure. Did it matter?

The ocean dragged by, fish and seaweed brushing against them as the merman swam. Somewhere along the way, Akutagawa's arms wrapped themselves around his neck, the fingers of one hand tangling into his creamy hair. It was silken to the touch, and the merman laughed into his mouth every time his fingers brushed the back of his neck.

Akutagawa had never felt so dizzingly infatuated in his life.

Abruptly, the shallows rushed to meet them. Their heads broke the surface at the same time as their mouths disconnected, and Akutagawa was greeted by a mouthful of seawater. He choked and spluttered as the merman dragged them both higher along the sand, until the water only came high enough to cover their waists.

Akutagawa shook his head and tried to breath, but the air stuck in his throat. He coughed. Once, then twice, and then many more times after until his body was shaking with the need to breathe. He wiped his mouth once the coughing subsided and tried to breathe again.

Oxygen burned from his mouth to his lungs. He could taste the impurities, the chemicals, the city smog. Each breath was sour, painful, and abrupt.

He raised his head in time to see the merman drawing back towards the water. Panic gripped him.

"Wait!" he rasped, snatching at the merman's wrist. "Wait-- Please, don't go--!"

His lungs rebelled, rejecting his attempts to breathe and speak like anyone else might be capable of. Shoulders hunched, he dissolved into another coughing fit, more painful than the last. He lost his grip on the merman, the need to clutch at his own throat too great.

A hand rested gently on his knee.

"You can't do that again." the merman said. His voice was soft, soothing. Like a summer breeze. "If you do, I'll save you again."

Akutagawa raised his eyes, mouth still covered by his trembling hand. Pain flickered over the merman's face and he leaned a little closer.

"Please." he pleaded. "I can't do that again. If I do it too much, you'll never be able to come back up."

Akutagawa's hand found the merman's beneath the water. He slid their fingers together, relishing how easily they locked into one another, like they'd been made to fit.

"But," he breathed. "You'll do it again?"

The merman nodded earnestly.

"Every time."

He ducked forward, and this time the kiss he pressed to Akutagawa's bloodied lips had nothing to do with a need to breathe. He slipped away, back into the incoming tide, until he was drawn away into the sea.

For a while, Akutagawa sat there in the shallows, soaked to the bone and watching the waves.

One week later, Akutagawa stood on the rock outcrop, staring out over the clearness of the sea. Pale lips were parted to drag rattling breaths into his throat, half of which never made it to his lungs. Breathing grew more painful by the day, the rot of the open air pungent on his tongue. Tap water had begun to taste like sewage, cooked meat was all tasteless leather, the inside of his mouth felt like sandpaper.

He had stood there, on the edge of the rock outcrop, every morning. The same pattern repeated every day, each incarnation of it lasting a little longer than the one before. One day, he would not resurface.

Far below, a white dorsal fin broke the surface. Through the glassy water, Akutagawa could make out the shape of a circling body, twisting in figure-eights, just out of sight.