Hello! How are you? I hope well, nwn Anyway, I hope I'm not being selfish by asking if you could write a Soulmate AU with Akutagawa (I love him *-*) in which each of them have a clock that is a countdown of how long they have to find the other or else they will die(!) You can end it angsty or not --We need more angst in the world :)--. If not, it's fine! Have a great day/afternoon/night!
scenarios are actually closed but fuck it. written on my laggy comp so i decided to say “screw it” with capitalization, sorry. conditions changed to they have to accept each other as soulmates.
bathroom. six. standing in the tub, up to your ankles in water. towel wrapped around your body. hair damp. wrist out, fingers tracing the clock inked into your skin. thirteen years, twelve days, seven hours and nine minutes. unknown meanings, uncertain futures. the door is locked and your sister shouts at you to hurry up.
bathroom. seven. toothbrush and toothpaste in hand. you’re scrubbing the white collar of your uniform. someone punched you in the nose today. you can’t remember who, but there was blood all over the place. “toothpaste helps with the blood,” yous sister tells you. she’s rubbed her thumb over your cheek. she left with a pocketful of change to buy a snack.
bathroom. eight. shower handle broken. needle in hand. the house is falling apart, you say. everything’s a mess. all you see is the collapse and nothing else. you are young and all you see is the excitement. you’re wearing long sleeves to cover the clock. eleven years, two-hundred sixty-five days, two hours, and fifty-nine minutes. you don’t know what it means.
bathroom. ten. the tiles are wet. the corners of the shower-tub contraption are sharp. slipped, cracked your head open, blood painting the cold floor beneath you in a mesmerizing spiral. you’re too dizzy to comprehend what’s going on. your mother’s shouting, your sister is trying to lift you. rushed off to the hospital.
bathroom. twelve. the door locked behind you, pressing your body as close as you can to it as if it will stop them from getting in. someone’s trying to rob the coffeeshop. you’re breathing slowly, quietly, as if they can hear you. footsteps outside. heart pounding. you stop breathing, as if that could still your heart. it’s then that you realize that your damned inked watch ticks. seven years, twenty-nine days, seventeen hours, one minute. you don’t know that it’s only in your head.
bathroom. thirteen. flashing lights and bodies hitting the ground. you can’t tell is the wailing is the sirens or you. it’s you. hands pulling you back, voices rising in a confusing cacophony. you were supposed to be in the car but you had forgotten your lunch. words replay in your mind for hours and hours and hours and it just doesn’t stop. dead dead dead dead dead -
bathroom. fourteen. there’s a girl with you. she’s twelve. there’s a cut on her face and skinned knees. she’s poor, you can tell. “i live in the slums,” she tells you. like she’s trying to stop you from helping her. you ignore her, pulling toothpaste from the cabinet and holding your hand out for her shirt. clothes are piled neatly next to her. you’re going to give her your sister’s savings.
bathroom. fifteen. he’s bandaging your sprained wrist. “only idiots punch like that,” he tells you. you glare. as if he has any right to be telling you what to do. you saved his sister and he repays you in insults. he catches your expression and doesn’t say anything. he shoves you from the shack without even thanking you. next time, you’ll let him die. you’ll let the other orphans gut him. you won’t turn your head when you walk down the street. you’ll deliver the groceries to your mother like you were supposed to. next time, you tell yourself.
bathroom. sixteen. the you in the mirror glowers back at you. messy hair, a haunted look in your eyes. of course. you had just seen him kill a boy. you tell yourself it’s expected. you found his sister and him on the brink of death. it’s how things work in the slums. you rub your hands over your face, over your eyes. you need sleep. arms still covered in long sleeves, clock still counting down. three years, two days, sixteen hours, thirty-five minutes.
bathroom. seventeen. you’re drunk. someone’s pushing you up against the wall, someone’s lips are on yours and you’re not doing anything to stop them. you don’t even know where you are or who’s with you. he had dragged you with him. shoved fancy clothes into your arms and told you to change and pulled you with him. you don’t understand where you are, but he told you that you didn’t have to. go with him once, and you’ll never have to see him again. good, you replied. ever since you met him, you had to deal with too much.
bathroom. seventeen. where am i where am i what happened what did i do. you’re puking up your guts in the toilet of a nice apartment. hands are holding hair away from your face. they’re surprisingly gentle. the callouses on them are the only thing that identify him. neither of you have spoken to each other. when you straighten, you realize you’re not wearing long sleeves. the clock is stark against your skin for both of you to see. one year, three-hundred sixty-two days, three hours, five minutes.
bathroom. eighteen. you’re pressing your hands against your forehead. you don’t know what to do. you’re bleeding from your bottom lip from biting yourself too hard. dressed in black from head to toe. outside your mother’s body waits, your family paying their respects. there are dark rings under your eyes. you don’t know what to do.
bathroom. eighteen. knife against your throat. you’ve been lost in a whirlwind of confusion, and someone had promised to explain but he had vanished. now a killer stands in your house. your house. the one you had grown up in, the one you had watched your mother and sister die in. you almost let the robber cut your throat.
bathroom. nineteen. fingers intertwined with yours. voice promising that he’ll never leave you alone again. they’re chasing you. there’s a bounty on your head in the underworld simply because you’ve been in the wrong place at the wrong time for too many occasions. you don’t believe him. he’s never been there for you. you’ve had to get yourself out of too many messes.
bathroom. nineteen. you’re staring at your clock. five days, seven hours, twenty-one minutes. you don’t know what happens when it runs down.
bathroom. twenty. body draped over the couch. fingers running over cold skin, eyebrows pulling together in a frown. he rolls up your sleeve, sees the clock at zero years, zero days, zero hours, zero minutes. he pulls up his own sleeve. there is no clock.