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He was six and sickly when he was jolted by the presence of that figure by the river. Even from a distance an aura emitted from the still silhouette, dark against the scintillating waves of the river. An aura which warned him that whatever it was, it wasn’t entirely human.
As a little child who knew nothing of the world, yet longed to know everything in it, the ginger-haired boy gulped down any lingering trepidation, and bravely moved forwards on his small feet to reach the bank of the river where he always came to fish. The closer he was, the more solid the figure seemed to be, instead of the shadowy feel he first laid eyes on. His sandals crushed the striking green grass beneath his feet, leaving momentary imprints which healed itself minutes later. The metal hooks clacked loudly in the plastic bucket. He swallowed another lump of fear.
His grandmother had told him stories of the mysterious happenings in the mountainous area multiple times before. Stories of spirits who held parties from evening till dusk, of deities whose shrines must be well kept, of yokai who kidnapped children and licked their bones clean. He never truly believed her, being the precocious child he was, but sometimes as he lay in the dark, he fancied he could hear the faint tinkling of bells that always accompanied blue fox fire sounding from the mountains.
He kept quiet when he came close enough to see it, but his eyes could not betray his feelings. Dressed in a teal yukata and black haori, stark white bandages wrapped around arms and neck, fluffy cream ears and fluffier tails with a hint of blue at the tips. Five of those tails. The little boy watched in silent awe as the fox spirit (for he was sure it was a fox spirit, just like his grandmother made them out to be) took a long drag from a thin pipe, breathing smoke through its nostrils. How strange that a fox spirit would be here, normally they did not prefer the waters.
The little boy was about to sit a few yards away from the magnificent spirit and continue fishing, pretending as if nothing happened so as to not scare the spirit away, but he slipped on a wet patch of grass and sent the hooks flying from his yellow plastic bucket. Startled, the spirit who was in the middle of another drag choked on the smoke, coughing painfully into his hand.
Amber eyes meet ocean ones. They held their positions for minutes, both parties quite surprised by the presence of the other. The little boy could not speak, his voice lodged itself at the back of his throat, tongue clung to his teeth. He wondered if he would be killed. But the fox spirit was the first one to regain composure, still in a hoarse and breathless voice asked: “You can see me?”
“Oi, shitty Dazai,” without further warning, the ginger brought his sandal-clad foot down harshly near the fox spirit’s tail, causing said appendage to twitch horribly and retract to the main body. ‘I said move.”
“Ah Chuuya you’re so mean!” exclaimed the yokai, hands clutching protectively at the almost abused tail. “What would happen if my tail was squashed or got dirty? Do you know how hard it is so wash dirt from my fine fur? It’ll take days for it to completely dry I tell you, days! And by then I’ll be lugging around a damp tail fo— ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch! I’m sorry!” He pushed the offending foot away which was grinding into his lower back.
Chuuya clicked his tongue loudly. “Shut up. I asked you to move and you didn’t. What else was I supposed to do?” With practiced movements, he deftly hooked the bait and checked the length of the fishing line, tugging a few more times for good measure.
“How about not causing bodily harm?” spat Dazai venomously. Seeing no reaction he sighed loudly and shook his head. “Is violence the only thing on your mind?” You’ll never get a girlfriend that way, you know, girls don’t actually dig bad boys, it’s a myth. But then again, you’re so short you’ll never eve—- ow ow ow ow ow! I’m sorry!”
Even though he could feel the rising heat in his cheeks, Chuuya kicked Dazai once more. “Who the hell are you calling short, huh? I’m still a growing boy!” Yes, he was still only fifteen, he had a long way to go. Hopefully.
Dazai’s five fluffy tails thrashed about wildly, ears pressed flat onto his skull. With tears filling his eyes like the drama queen he is, he shouted, “Chuuya you meanie! You’ll never grow any taller! I’m cursing you for it!”
“Huh.” Down came the fishing rod onto the yokai’s head, the whack echoed across the mountain and sent birds flying from the trees. Ocean eyes narrowed menacingly. “If you curse me, that means all I have to do is kill you and the curse will be lifted right?” He cracked his knuckles, a maniacal smile fixed firmly on his face. “You’re a suicidal bastard anyway, so be grateful shitty Dazai.” He took up the fishing pole and began tapping it on his shoulder. “I’ll send you on a one-way ticket to hell.”
“But I want to have a pure, cheerful, energetic and comfortable suicide!?”
No birds flew from the resounding whack this time.
Chuuya and his family visited their so-called vacation home every summer. Every summer, they would be met with the semi-dilapidated state of the small house, with weathered paper screens and damp tatami from the leaks in the thatched roof. Still, they loved the quaint place with its wide verandah which was the best spot for moon-viewing, the patch of land behind it which herbs grew, the rusted and squeaky metal gate in front which caught onto his shirt many times whilst he was younger. It was a quaint house a little further from a quaint village, the peace doing wonders for his foster mother’s illness every year and the cool shaded them from the scorching summer heat.
But his favourite had always been the river seated near the valley, coursing endlessly with fresh fish. Amidst the loud buzzing of the cicadas and the rays of the bright sun, he would make his way down trodden earth paths out of the village, greeting people he knew as he passed by. Down he would keep going, this time through the unmarked greenery of the forest until he reached the cool blue river, where on most days, he would also find the fox spirit Dazai waiting for him.
After the initial scare for both of them nine years ago, they had somehow become friends. Well, ‘somehow’ wasn’t an accurate word. Dazai had forcefully wriggled his way into Chuuya’s personal space, curled his five tails around them into a nest, and started asking a lifetime’s worth of questions.
“Whats your name? How old are you? Where are you from? Why are you here? Do you like fish? I love fish! You don’t? Then why are you here?”
Even after he had managed to answer all these preliminary questions as a child, the fox spirit continued his barrage of them, overwhelming him entirely.
“What’s the world like now? Are there not any wars going on? There used to be tons you know. They kept messing up the landscape.”
“What’s ice-cream? Is it really made of ice? How could you find ice in these ridiculously hot summers?”
“I know what a phone is! I’ve seen some people hold that rectangular things to their ears before! They look very stupid laughing at nothing like that, but since we all do it sometimes, I guess we’re all stupid. How do they work? No, not the laughs, the phones. You’re not very bright are you?”
Every summer he would head to the river to fish, to enjoy the waters. Every summer, he wondered if the tightening in his chest would go away somehow. Every summer, he would want to turn back and never go to the river again. Every summer, when he reached there, Dazai would be waiting for him with an infectious smile.
“Ah, Odasaku came by yesterday!” exclaimed Dazai just as Chuuya was about to nod off to sleep. The summer heat was killing him, he wondered why Dazai could endure being wrapped up in all his bandages so.
He raised an eyebrow and rubbed sleepily at his eyes. “Is that so?”
The fox spirit nodded enthusiastically. “He was halfway into his latest storytelling pursuit apparently.” Dazai absentmindedly twirled a finger in the for of his closest tail. “He came with Ango in tow, both clearly drunk off their asses, and we all sang until the dawn broke!”
Chuuya nodded at his words, but could feel them pass over him. He remembers Oda the Inugami clearest when said yokai had rested a warm palm on his head, ruffling his hair affectionately when he was eight. The kind yokai had given him a sweet peach which he gobbled in seconds, and always brought pink peaches he mysteriously found somewhere in the summer heat for Chuuya when he visited.
Ango had a permanently exhausted look on his face, with heavy bags under his eyes and which Dazai laughed at constantly, mocking that it was natural for a racoon. He was throttled after immediately. Chuuya likes Ango’s straightforwardness and serious demeanour, but he definitely liked his ability as a Tanuki yokai more. With a mere leaf on his head, Ango could shape-shift into anyone and whatever object he had laid his eyes on. Once, he had purposely transformed into the ugly kid who was bullying eight-year-old Chuuya and scared the bully in the dead of the night, making him squeal loud enough to wake the neighbourhood.
He was glad that Dazai had such good friends, and by extension that he did too. No matter what he said to cover up his full-body blushes, Chuuya did worry about Dazai during the months that he wasn’t here. What did Dazai do in the spring, autumn and winter? Did he still sit at the edge of the river every day, no matter the weather? Would he always wait for him or would he one day disappear? Was he lonely?
He hated it when Dazai felt lonely. Sometimes there were bursts of quiet melancholy for the fox spirit, and he would sink into deep thought, tails curling around him in a protective shield, head nestled between his drawn-up knees. Chuuya knew from experience that it was best not to prod and let him mull over whatever it was, rather than asking intently only for him to retreat further into his shell. So he would fish, keep his eyes on the glittering brightness of the water, the breeze swaying gently through the eaves of the trees, the occasional rabbit sniffling at the air and perking its ears before fleeing into the dense bushes. There was nothing else he could do, and he hated it.
Once, a year ago when he was seventeen, Dazai had brought up his face from one of these happenings and sighed painfully into the air. Chuuya wisely kept his mouth shut and said nothing, half-afraid that the yokai would tell his story, and half-afraid he would not. Dazai’s ears twitched in anxiousness before he began recounting softly, almost in a whisper so Chuuya had to strain to hear, a story that happened a long time ago.
There was a child who could see him too, but he cannot recount how long it has been. The concept of time is skewered for yokai, who live much longer than humans, so he cannot be accurate in the least. But he remembers it all so clearly, this child with squinted eyes who was not at all afraid of him, even the malicious-looking him from back in the day. The child would come to the tree where he lounged every day, shouting questions up at him until he was thoroughly annoyed and had to come down. Then they would talk, or rather, the child talked incessantly and he kept his eyes averted yet still close enough, sometimes making the appropriate noises in the appropriate places. Despite his coldness, the child never wavered and kept coming back to visit him day after day.
The seasons changed and the leaves of the tree browned and fell, in spring the buds blossomed beautifully into pale pink sakura. The child was older now, no longer a child but a young teen, but he still came to speak with him. He brought stories of his village, of the world, and recited all the facts he read in books he borrowed or bought from the local peddler. The boy told him one day that bones were believed to be found under every sakura tree.
“It can’t be entirely true, I know, but wouldn’t it be fascinating? Imagine, how many sakura trees actually bloom so beautifully because of the human remains they were feeding on? How do you think people would react to that?” He excitedly talked on while gesticulating wildly. “I mean, those bodies could have been buried so simply because they were murdered! That would explain why there’s an absence of graves at least. It’s basically a coverup.”
He took a bite from what looked like a red bean mochi. “One day, I’ll solve all those murders. I’ll make sure of it. Huh? I can’t solve all of them? Nonsense! After all, I’m the world’s greatest detective!”
The boy’s name was Edogawa Ranpo, and he stopped coming to visit sometime after. Dazai didn’t ask around much, even though he had felt a gnawing emptiness grow inside him. He came upon two minor yokai by chance, they were Oni, dressed typically in ragged clothes and had horns jutting out from the crown of their heads. It was by pure chance that he saw two emerald eyeballs grotesquely strung as a necklace upon one of their necks, and Ranpo’s hat sticking out of the other’s fist. He didn’t remember the sound of their pathetic begging and agonising screams, but he did remember how he lost a part of him, as if a tail had been chopped viciously off.
Ranpo was his only best friend then. And he had died by association.
Chuuya listened patiently till the end, not interrupting even once, eyes set firmly forward. Next to him, he heard the beginnings of sobs.
“You know Chuuya, it’s my fault he died,” Dazai whispered, as if the confession took all the life from him. “He was going to work hard and fulfil his dream, but I took it from him. I stole everything from him.” He took a shuddering breath. “I shouldn’t be alive… Instead of Ranpo, they should’ve killed me. They should’ve spared him? Why did they pick him? I should be dead! I should be dead!”
Dazai felt Chuuya wrap his own hands around his curled fists, nails digging so hard into his palms he felt no hurt. “Dazai, stop,” came the commanding voice.
The yokai shook his head, salty tears welled in his eyes and threatened to fall. “It’s my fault, Chuuya,” he muttered softly. His ears were pressed flat onto his skull. “I- I killed him. I- ”
“No, you didn’t.” Chuuya cut in forcefully, hands tightening on Dazai’s thin and bandaged wrists. “It was an accident, Dazai. You weren’t responsible for any of it. You hear me?” He lowered his face so that it came level with Dazai’s and met his eyes. “Nothing happened because of you. It was an accident.” If asked, Chuuya would never agree that his voice bordered on pleading and that he was scared of seeing Dazai this way.
The yokai smiled ruefully as his tears slid down heavily. “What if it happens to you?”
Chuuya steeled his voice and his grip. “It won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m me.”
Dazai choked a sarcastic laugh and closed his eyes. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It doesn’t have to. You just have to believe in me.” Chuuya kept his gaze steady and channelled all the sincerity he could into his voice and his hands. “Trust me, Dazai. Trust me.”
For a moment, he thought he had succeeded, but the yokai shook his head. In an apologetic tone, he whispered, “I can’t.”
“-uya! Chuuya!”
The ginger blinked his eyes open once again, only to be greeted with the sight of Dazai’s face unnaturally close to his. Grunting, he waved a hand to swat Dazai away, repulsed by the clarity of his memories.
Dazai pouted. “You’re always like this! You never listen to my stories properly!”
“I’m listening, I’m listening,” said the ginger before he stifled a yawn. “Not my fault your stories are lame and boring.”
“Why you —!” The yokai gnashed his teeth. “I’m doing this out of the good of my heart you ungrateful little shrimp!”
“Hah!? Who’re you callin’ a shrimp you suicidal bastard!?”
Standing up abruptly, Dazai twirled around. “You are~! You are~! Eighteen and still a midget~! No wonder you can’t bag a girlfriend! No one would ever want a shrimp as a boyfr— guhhhhhh!”
Even as a yokai, Dazai sustained multiple bruises from the metal fishing pole and the hard punches that were brought down with fury upon his abdomen.
On the other hand, Chuuya was just silently grateful that his friend never brought up such melancholic topics again.
“I’m getting married.”
Dazai’s ears shot up and his tails bristled, but thankfully Chuuya was too caught up in his own thoughts to notice. “Oh? When?” He tried to play it off as nonchalantly as possible, even though the gnawing hole in him began to grow.
“Next week, at the end of summer.” To his own ears his voice sounded strained, Chuuya hoped against all hope that the ever-perceptive Dazai wouldn’t pick up on it. “She’s a nice girl.”
The yokai hummed softly, planted his hands behind him and leaned to look up at a sky so cloudless and blue it brought tears to his eyes. “I’m sure she is. You picked her after all.”
“I didn’t,” he bit out harshly. “Well, not really.” Chuuya fingered a blade of grass and plucked it, only managing to tear it in half. “Mom’s probably going to die soon, and she’s wanted to see us married ever since middle school, so…” More mutilated grasses fell from his fingers. “It just panned out that way.”
Dazai wanted to add a smarting remark, something like ‘And what? You live for your mother?’, and if it were anyone but Chuuya he would. He knew how much Chuuya valued his foster family, the only people to take him in. “I see,” he said instead. “Well, I believe I owe you a big congratulations then! You’ve finally found a girl who would love someone as short as you, congratulations Chuuya!”
All of Dazai’s false cheer fell short at Chuuya’s feet, along with the dead grass. “Mm, thanks Dazai.”
He was twenty-five, and he heard the tinkling of bells before he registered the familiar figure standing before him. He dropped his briefcase and stared weak-limbed, willing his voice to function as it did only a couple of minutes ago at the office. “Da-Dazai…?”
The yokai smiled at him, silhouetted by the reddening sky. “Shall we have a talk?” He spun swiftly on his geta, wooden clogs clacking away.
Dazai led him out of the cluster of houses, one of them his where his wife was waiting, and to a metal railing which wounded around the local park. It was a dismal park, but everyone used it all the same. Now, the cracked children’s playground and overgrown bushes sprawling across the walking paths in it lent it an ominous aura. The yokai perched himself on the rusted railing and Chuuya did the same, retrieved briefcase in his lap.
They were silent and Dazai didn’t seem willing to break the silence as he had on their very first encounter, he had his eyes closed and was basking in the evening glow. Chuuya swallowed past the hard lump in his throat. “Dazai,” even saying his name hurt, glass fragments slicing his chest. “why are you here?”
Dazai hummed softly, that hum which Chuuya had heard on so many occasions and could probably analyse the nuance of each one, except for this one. The yokai slowly opened amber orbs which blended seamlessly with the evening sky, turning them steadily on Chuuya. “I’m leaving to go on a journey. Just thought you should know.”
“A journey?” cried Chuuya incredulously, dropping his briefcase again in his haste to stand up. “Where?” he demanded through the pounding ache in his chest, the sharp pain behind his eyes. “I thought you’d never leave that river.”
“Mm, well see Chuuya, I can’t say.” He cast his eyes downwards for a moment but brought them back up with a crooked smile. “I’m on a journey to find myself I guess?”
“That’s ridiculous!” shouted the ginger. “You’d be leaving Oda and Ango behind! Can you even travel? And what about — !” He stopped himself short by biting down on his lip. What about their meetings every summer? Did it mean nothing to him? Was all of it just another past time? Did he fail at being a replacement for Ranpo? Didn’t Dazai know that he’s the only person he looks forward to meeting, that he had secured an irreplaceable part of his life?
Long nails scraped lightly across his scalp and he felt the warmth of an embrace. “No!” he shouted, pushing Dazai away forcefully. He cheeks were soaked with trails of tears. “Get away from me! I don’t want your pity, shitty Dazai!”
Dazai frowned with pained eyes, grimacing. But he was stubborn when he wanted to be, so he advance, only to be pushed back by Chuuya again. They continued this back and forth a handful of times before Chuuya gave in, the exhaustion of the day and the abrupt news bombed on him taking its toll. Wrapped in Dazai’s arms and tails, he sobbed and pounded at the yokai’s chest. “Stupid Dazai. Stupid Dazai. Stupid Dazai.” he mumbled continuously on autopilot.
He felt warm breath breathing across his hair and the press of lips against his hairline on his forehead. His eyes widened and he stopped his words and motions, but his heart kept tearing itself to pieces.
“You’re not a replacement, Chuuya, silly.” Dazai smiled into his hair and tightened his hold on the ginger whom he came to love so much. “Number one. Chuuya has always been my number one.”
His heart buoyed at the words, so sincerely spoken unlike how Dazai usually was. He curled his hands into fists on Dazai’s chest. Knowing that Dazai would never come back, something left him, something important.
“Chuuya has a family to protect now,” continued the smiling yokai. “Chuuya doesn’t need me anymore.”
Before the ginger could angrily retort, Dazai gently and lovingly nuzzled at his head, tails wrapping around him tighter. “You don’t need to be bound to me anymore. Go live your life, Chuuya. I know, if it’s you,” here he laughed prematurely at his own joke, a habit of his. “if it’s you, you’ll make it. I believe in you.”
And then he was gone, leaving nothing but the lengthening shadows of a summer’s evening and a wrapped dried mackerel at Chuuya’s feet.