Autumn of Soiled Sorrow

by Amalia2103

Summary:

One moment Chuuya was drowning in his mind and the next he was drowning in reality.

A continuation of the manga following chapter 101.

Notes:

***MAJOR SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 101***

Chapter 1: Paradoxical Human Life

Summary:

He just needed to hang on.

He didn’t want to die.

But fate had other plans.

“...Sorry there weren’t any! Well, then. Goodbye!”

Who said that?

The light came back to Chuuya’s once undead eyes and suddenly he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know where he was nor how he had got there. All he knew was the unforgiving cold depths of which surround him, leaving him with no concept of up or down.

His body spasmed and his lungs felt like they were about to burst from his chest. What was happening? Where was he? Why couldn’t he remember? Was he… drowning? Who was that voice? What did they mean?

Why was he drowning? He couldn’t remember, his thoughts were all jumbled, just flashes here and there and he felt almost like there was a void in his mind that was blocking some kind of vital information. He supposed the how and why didn’t really matter though now, as he was faced with the much more pressing matter of his current circumstances.

The fact that he could not breathe. The fact that he did not know how to get out of this. The fact that the water begged to enter his lungs, promising to be just as sweet as air.

He didn’t want to die.

Why can’t he remember how he got there?

There was so much in his life that he'd never gotten to do and to think that all of that would be taken away from him by a death so stupid as drowning from circumstances that he couldn’t even remember? It was ridiculous.

If he drowned here, he would never get to have tea with Kouyou again. He would never get to go out drinking again.

He would never get to own a dog.

It would’ve been so funny to torment Dazai with the dog. He’d always hated them.

He wished they’d been able to repair their relationship.

His fists clenched and unclenched, as he struggled under the water. He’s supposed to be one of the strongest ability users in all of Japan. Yet, the cruel prison walls and suffocating circumstances of which surround him said otherwise.

He felt weak.

Actually, there was always been a part of him that’s felt weak.

His entire life, he had always been a tool to be utilized by those around him. First with the lab and Arahabaki, then with the sheep, then with Dazai and the Port Mafia. He had never gotten to be himself.

Then again, who would he even be without someone else to light the path?

He couldn’t say he knew, because he’d never gotten that far. Sure, he was an Executive, who had people at his constant command, but he’d never been at the forefront of decision-making. He’d never been the so-called smartest in the room; the one with all the answers. That person had always been Mori or Kouyou or Dazai. He’d never made a choice that had been entirely his own in his entire life and knowing that felt like shards of glass fracturing the fragile remains of his soul if he even had one.

Why couldn’t he ever catch a break?

Why couldn’t he ever be free?

It was almost ironic that he was drowning, when he’d felt like he was for his entire life. Fate never seemed to give him a break. It was always the next mission, the next betrayal, the next heartbreak.

He had been running for so long and now he feels his stamina slipping. Rest had never seemed so beautiful.

However even though Chuuya wanted to be able to finally rest, his heart had always craved life. Even when circumstances become their most dire and he felt like his world was falling apart, he still clung to it. So, he refused to give up.

Not yet.

Chuuya didn’t want to die. He wanted to live. He wanted to drink expensive wines, while reading poems crafted by his favorites. He wanted to buy more hats that Dazai would probably call distasteful, as if shitty Dazai knew anything about fashion. He wanted to make fun of Dazai and his terrible life choices. He didn’t want to let go.

His hands desperately clawed out at the water surrounding him, searching for some kind of stabilizer that didn’t exist. His heart rate rose as sharp pains stabbed into his chest. He needed air. He needed it now. He needed to take a breath or he was going to die. Chuuya didn’t want to die.

Arahabaki screamed in his mind.

GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET AWAY! GET AWAY! GET OUT!

It was so loud. It was so cold. It was so painful. Why was everything so much?

Involuntarily Chuuya’s body curled inwards on itself, like if he made himself even smaller it would save him. He grabbed his head, pulling at his hair, the pain shooting more adrenaline through his system, helping him hang on.

He just needed to hang on.

He didn’t want to die.

But fate had other plans.

His lungs cried out for air that they’d never receive and he felt himself beginning to lose the battle to stop himself from taking in a breath where he knows he’ll never get one. The moment he breathed in this water, it would be over. At that point, he’d really be drowning and this whole situation would be even more real than it already was.

Still, one can only fight against the inevitable for so long.

It was too much and had been too long. His mouth opened against his will and he took a deep breath in.

There was a split second, where his brain told him that he had been silly and by taking in a breath now, he would be okay. It was this brief moment of sweet, false hope that was over almost as soon as it entered his mind, because he was drowning in water that’s drained away all the oxygen, so instead of the lightness of air, his lungs filled with the heaviness of water instead.

His hands clawed at his throat, as if he could rip the murderous water straight out of it and painful red lines dug into his skin in the wake of his desperation.

His eyes bulged from their sockets.

His heart was hammering in his chest and he wanted control more than he had ever wanted it. Things couldn’t end like this. All that he had lived through just ended by water.

He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know why he was drowning. He didn’t know what to do.

Dazai would know what to do. Despite how much it pained him to say it, Dazai had always been able to come up with a plan even in the bleakest of moments, where all had seemed lost. It was one of the only things that idiot was good for.

Where was he now?

Despite their differences, Chuuya hoped that he was okay. While he might say that he hated him, in his heart Chuuya loved the idiot and hoped that the fate he met was much less gruesome than this.

The strength began to leave his limbs, as his body convulsed in the strangling tides. He could feel his once racing heart begin to slow. Arahabaki was still screaming, but it didn’t matter anymore, not as the darkness began to close in and he could feel consciousness slipping through his fingers. The water ran in and out of his body, a poisoned oxygen that sought to be his doom.

As his consciousness faded away into oblivion, Chuuya thought back to when he'd first joined the Port Mafia. At first, he remembered actually hating having Dazai assigned to him as his partner, but over time the two grew close, no matter how much they bickered and fought.

He remembered their first mission together. He remembered meeting up again for the first time in four years. He remembered how Dazai would always pull him back from corruption. He remembered how Dazai would always save him, because despite everything, they would always be there for each other. After all, they trusted each other. So why wasn’t Dazai here to save him this time? Why was he so alone? He didn’t want to go. Not like this. Not alone in suffocating darkness.

But that wasn’t his choice to make.

So, as his body fell limp in the cruel depths, Chuuya fell backwards into his mind and accepted that this time Osamu Dazai wouldn’t be there to save him, nor could he save himself.

He just wished that he got to tell Dazai what a piece of shit he was for one last time, but he couldn’t have everything he wanted. So instead, to ground himself, he would just have to hold onto his love for Dazai in his heart and reminisce back on their adventures as kids, as he finally let himself let go.

How strange people are before they fall into dreams of death.

From the depths of the tenebrous room, a blinding red light exploded to reveal an anomaly, sending the prison's alarms into a frenzy.

Chapter 2: The Field Which Was Burning Until Yesterday

Summary:

Control is the one thing he constantly strives to have.

Even if no one else cares. Even if no one else deems him as their first choice. Even if all feels lost, Chuuya’s fine as long as he knows he’s in control. He needs to know that he has the ability to make his own choices. That’s what makes him feel more human. That’s what makes him feel more like his own person.

That’s also exactly what makes losing himself to corruption so hard.

Notes:

It’s super late and I have to work tomorrow lol. But it’s not like I can sleep anyways, so here’s the next chapter! :)

Chuuya doesn’t dream. He never has and he never will. It’s just yet another thing that makes him question his humanity.

When he closes his eyes he doesn’t get to see painted blue skies and endless green fields. He doesn’t experience the fear of coming as the only one unprepared for an exam, only to wake up in a state of relief to realize it was only a dream. He doesn’t even get to see the faces of friends who’ve long since left, lost to the swirling black abyss of the Port Mafia. He doesn’t even get to see darkness.

When Chuuya falls asleep, he is faced with a blankness. Essentially, the absence of anything. It’s like he’s an astronaut lost in deep space, cut from the once grounding tether that held him to everything he’d ever known. Or rather it’s worse than that because unlike the astronaut who would float amid stars and sparkling rays of color highlighting the darkness, Chuuya experiences nothing. He is nothing.

It is things like this that make Chuuya feel like A5158 the most.

A thing tore from meaning. A thing that was not truly alive. A thing that was long lines of binary code stretching out to create a monster who couldn’t keep a home. A monster who had killed his own men, while lost in the throes of a terrible corrupted state. A monster who no matter how hard he tried would always be second best, if even that, and never the first choice.

While Chuuya often has his heart on his sleeve, these feelings are something Chuuya tries hard not to acknowledge, because those thoughts make him feel weak and out of control.

Control is the one thing he constantly strives to have.

Even if no one else cares. Even if no one else deems him as their first choice. Even if all feels lost, Chuuya’s fine as long as he knows he’s in control. He needs to know that he has the ability to make his own choices. That’s what makes him feel more human. That’s what makes him feel more like his own person.

That’s also exactly what makes losing himself to corruption so hard.

When he’s in his corrupted state, he’s no longer calling the shots. Instead, he’s trapped in the backseat, having handed the wheel over to a sadistic psychopath with no morals or ethics. It’s a state where his only chance for survival is Dazai.

Trusting Dazai for survival wasn’t necessarily the problem though. Back when they’d been partners, Chuuya had often relied on Dazai to save him and vice versa. The thing is, without corruption coming into play, Chuuya still had control of his bodily autonomy. With corruption, all the cards were in Dazai’s court. So instead of playing a fair game where both had at least somewhat equal shares of power, with corruption Dazai quite literally held onto all of the power to either give Chuuya back his hand or set the entire deck of cards into burning pits of hellfire.

Simply, imagine trusting a nihilist, someone who is the antonym of life, with your own.

Truly terrifying.

Every. Single. Time

Still, there’s some idiotic part of him that wants to trust the sociopathic bastard, because while Dazai might not be the most stable person, he always has a plan. He’s always thinking ten steps ahead, like he’s in some endless game of chess, strategizing for an indubitable win.

So Chuuya trusts Dazai to bring him back from corruption. He trusts Dazai to save him, because no matter the man’s many flaws, he’s always been there. He’s always managed to corner Arahabaki into checkmate before Chuuya succumbs and is lost into the endless abyss of his unconscious mind, becoming something even less than A5158.

So while Chuuya will always exhaust all other options before he uses corruption, sometimes he just has to let go. Sometimes he has to accept becoming nothing. Sometimes he has to trust that Dazai will give him back his deck and not just throw all the cards in hellfire

Control is something Chuuya rarely gives up, but now as his body twitches in suffocating rhythms at the edge of death, he is forced into submission and reminded once again of his lack of humanity.

That he is A5158. That he is Arahabaki. That he is a monster.

A tool to be used by all others; not even a real person. Instead, just a long series of binary code creating a vessel for a monster. Something that shouldn’t even exist, if not for the cruelty of the lab.

If only those goddamn scientists hadn’t cursed him to this life.

Normally, Chuuya has to use a chant to unleash Arahabaki, but really the chant isn’t needed nor is the taking off of his gloves. Those things just give him a sense of self. They make him feel like corruption is a decision that he’s making rather than just succumbing to the screams of the damned cursed being within him. Those things help him feel like he’s more in control.

Now however such methods are beyond him as he’s been placed into a position where he quite literally is unable to speak and has lost all of his mobility. Chuuya is only able to give in to the monster that is Arahabaki. He has no control here because corruption is his only chance at life and Chuuya doesn’t want to die.

The thought of what’ll happen after his death terrifies him, because he doesn’t know what to expect. At least people have the option to hope for something after.

If he isn’t human then what awaits him? Just more blankness? He’s so tired of being alone, so the thought of being condemned to an eternity lost and forever alone terrifies him.

It’s startling to realize just how little power one has in the grand scheme of things until the tipping point is falling over the edge and you're faced with every action that has led to the devastating presence of the present.

Left with no choice, Chuuya lets go and Arahabaki takes the reins.

He doesn’t want to die and this is the only possible way out. He just hopes Dazai figures out where he is and saves him like he always does.

A blinding red light explodes from the depths of the tenebrous room, sending the prison’s alarms into a frenzy.

The water is gone, pulled through the power of a black hole formed of condensed gravitons cultivated by the god.

Red markings burn into the skin of the vessel and stab a reminder into the branding only hidden by the choker around its neck. Already, there is blood flowing freely from its mouth, hitting the ground rhythmically like rain. Blood streams too from its soulless white eyes like tears and falls from its ears in rivulets, painting its skin crimson.

It laughs maniacally or rather it would be if its vocal cords weren’t shredded by the cruelty of the angry tides and the blood that filled its throat. Instead, strangled airy gasps fall from its mangled throat, which echoes around the closed-off room, where only one other resides.

He too has been torn apart by the tides, just managing to cling onto life like a cockroach.

Purple-hued eyes watch the monster from the ground and a sinister smile falls upon Dostoevsky’s face as Arahabaki makes its way towards him, continuing to choke on its own blood, as its limbs move in unnatural ways. It’s a gruesome sight, but Dostoevsky isn’t afraid, because now the pawn has fallen into his hands and he will dispose of it before it has the chance to cross the board and become a queen.

Arahabaki is standing over the demon now, eyes of malice reflecting in Dostoevsky’s unwavering gaze. A black hole forms in the palm of the entity’s hand, but Dostoevsky is completely unfazed as he reaches forward and lays the palm of his hand on the god, expecting it to succumb to his all-powerful ability. He wonders how Dazai will react upon seeing his plan fail so miserably.

It’s an amusing thought to think of seeing the shock in Dazai’s usually ever so confident gaze, having known that he not only failed to kill his opponent but also murdered his ex-partner in cold blood for no reason, because even if Dazai pretends not to care, Dostoevsky knows he does. It’s obvious to anyone who knows how to look.

Any moment now Arahabaki will be punished for his crimes and Dostoevsky will rise triumphantly against Dazai.

Except it’d been a few seconds now and the entity was still above him, soundlessly cackling with a black hole that was getting closer and closer to his face.

What?

His ability wasn’t working. That wasn’t right…

A rare look of shock passed across Dostoevsky’s face before he was met with a swirling black mass ripping his head from his body, which slumped to the floor, a single hand laid out as if reaching for salvation it would never find.

With no more life left for the god to snuff out, it turned to randomly throwing condensed gravitons at its surroundings, seeking to destroy the ability-proof room to no avail, which only increased its anger tenfold, as it pushed itself further and further to the limits of its power.

Mindlessly Arahabaki kept doing this until the body of its vessel could no longer take the strain, falling to one knee as copious amounts of blood poured from its body, and bones snapped under the pressure. It, however, did not care about the pain nor the current unsuitable quality of life its vessel was currently placed in. It only knew how to destroy and would continue to try to do so to the room until the heart of its vessel gave out and blood filled the room where water had once been.

Arahabaki did not care about the future. It only cared about the moment.

As both of its vessel’s knees finally gave up, Arahabaki collapsed to the ground. The god was weakening and wouldn’t be able to keep this up for much longer, as the vessel’s loss of strength only continued to accelerate to increasingly dangerous levels. Still, the god didn’t give up in its rampage, as powerful bursts of condensed gravitons flew from its hands and exploded against the room’s walls, splattering both its and Dostoevsky’s blood into twisting scarlet shapes, reminiscent of Picasso.

Arahabaki was growing irritated at the current state of dwindling power at its disposal. It didn’t care that it was going to die, it just wanted to paint a crimson picture unlike any the world had ever seen before. Just like Dostoevsky, Arahabaki desperately sought salvation through the throes of violence and the metallic tang of destined endings.

However, just before Arahabaki completely lost both itself and its vessel to madness, a loud bang sounded at the sealed door to the room.

A new target.

Turning its crazed gaze onto the entry, Arahabaki, with the last of its strength, lifted a hand to unleash hell upon whoever was going to open that door.

It took a few more moments before the door opened and the sound of quick footsteps entered the room. The person that entered was a man with dark brown hair and eyes that looked almost fearful, it was a look that seemed almost unnatural on this person for whatever reason.

Usually, Arahabaki would just end lives indiscriminately and blast the man away into a broken smattering of blood and bone, but there was something about the man that was familiar and it threw the god off. It was also almost like there was this voice screaming at it from deep within to leave this person alone and redirect its attention elsewhere. It was something that made it loosen its grip on the reins, so it stopped wreaking havoc if only for the moment, called back by some kind of desperate force.

The man placed a hand on the god’s shoulder and suddenly that slight loss of control turned into a total loss of control.

As the god faded into the background, screaming its anger at having been overtaken into the void, so did the darkly colored pinpricks surrounded in soulless white, which were quickly overtaken once again by their usual vibrant blue.

Chuuya returned to his body to find himself in incredible pain, as blood poured from his mouth, eyes, ears, and the many abrasions that Arahabaki had left on his body.

While corruption had saved him from drowning in the suffocating tides, he was now ironically enough about to drown in his own blood if Dazai didn’t do something soon.

Granted, regardless of whether Dazai managed to save him or not, Chuuya was currently unable to recognize the idiot for who he was. As he was too entrapped in his pain to pick up on things such as that. So, it’s not like Chuuya would be able to blame him if he failed.

A moan grated against his throat and he curled onto his side in a fetal position in an attempt to escape from the pain.

Everything hurt.

Corruption had never been this bad.

It felt like his ribs were stabbing straight through his lungs, it felt like his heart had just been thrown around in a game of catch and it felt like his brain had just been yanked out, cut up, and then stuffed right back into his head in mismatched pieces, sending pain shooting throughout his entire system.

A voice sounds above him then, accompanied by a blurry figure dressed in white. He looks and feels familiar somehow, but Chuuya struggles to place it in the midst of his delirium.

“...Chuuya… Chuuya… need… hold… stay….”

His brow furrows in confusion and Chuuya tries to open his mouth to talk, but instead of words, he only coughs up more blood. This only seems to worry the person more, as they pull him onto their lap, causing his already aggravated wounds to tear even more. A silent scream of agony escapes him and his teeth grit together, his eyes slamming shut once more.

Who was this person? Why were they hurting him?

“...be okay… Chuuya… please don’t…. this wasn’t supposed… you too… not… Odasaku…”

Why were they still talking to him? He just wanted to rest, as his body begins to give in to the pain and the pull of unconsciousness loosens his muscles. He’s so tired. In fact, he doesn’t think he’s ever been this tired. Maybe if he just takes a little nap he’ll feel better and this will all go away. It’s funny though, this person with their endless nagging kind of reminds him of Dazai.

He wonders what that bastard is doing. Probably something stupid. Whatever it is though, he’s probably having a much better time than Chuuya at least, is what he thinks jokingly to himself as he falls away.

At last, he can finally rest. He’ll get up in a little while, but for the moment he just needs to take a quick break.

It’ll be fine, he thinks to himself, as something wet falls onto his cheek and he slips away into a blank expanse of nothingness.

Chapter 3: That Smile Somehow Wasn’t the Smile of a Living Person

Summary:

Dazai doesn’t trust, it’s just not in his nature. 

Notes:

Dazai's POV

Dazai doesn’t trust, it’s just not in his nature.  

His entire life has been a series of both life and people disappointing him. It happens over and over again to the point where he has just learned to never get excited over things anymore because he’s so used to meeting disappointment in the end.

Every time he opens his heart and tries to trust it fails. Like how he used to hang out at Bar Lupin with Ango and Odasaku, back when he was in the Port Mafia. That was one thing in his life that made him excited, that made him feel more up to the thought of giving his life a chance. However, just like every other event that promised glad tidings in his life that one too ultimately failed.  

In the end, Ango was a heartless traitor and Odasaku was left to die.

So over time, Dazai just learns not to feel, because if you don’t feel anything then nothing can ever truly hurt you.

The annoying thing is that it’s always been different with Chuuya. Dazai just can't bring himself to lose total trust in his old partner. He just can't bring himself to completely stop caring about him.

Generally, Dazai can separate himself from reality, becoming a spectator in regard to his own life.

He can’t do that with Chuuya.

He’s never been able to figure out why or maybe he just doesn’t want to admit it, but Chuuya’s always made him feel more human. Whenever he’s around him, it’s like Chuuya’s a tether pulling him back to reality from the abyss upon which his mind usually resides, separate from all else.

It’s why Dazai considers Chuuya to be such a despicable card for Fyodor to play. In pulling Chuuya into their game of wits, Fyodor is trying to expose Dazai’s humanity to make him hesitate and allow that demon to arise victoriously. Still, while Chuuya may expose Dazai’s humanity just as Dostoevsky knows he does, Dazai’s always been a good actor, or else he would not be where he is now. So with that knowledge in mind, Dazai gets ready to set his endgame in motion.

Chuuya and Fyodor are already trapped in that fateful room and Dazai knows that he can not mess this up because if he does, it won’t just be Fyodor that dies, but Chuuya too.

He grabs the microphone before him.

Taunts leave his mouth, as he brags about his impending victory to Dostoevsky, while he glares with a clenched fist pressed against the ceiling. If Dazai were anybody else, the look that Fyodor is giving him right now would send chills up his spine. Yet, he is Dazai Osamu, so instead all he feels is indifference and perhaps a bit of disappointment that everything is going according to his plan so easily.

Why is everyone so boring in the end?

Then, he looks at Chuuya, the one fatal flaw to his plan.

There’s a part of him that wants to say nothing to his old partner because if he does that means he’s giving Fyodor a confirmation that he has successfully picked Dazai’s one weakness and in doing so was successfully hurting him. He doesn't want to give that demon hope because doing so could ruin everything.

But Dazai can’t help but say goodbye.

Just in case… because a part of him is terrified that his plan will fall through and then he’ll never get to say a fulfilling goodbye.  

He’s so scared of going through the pain that consumed him with Odasaku's passing again. So perhaps, if he uses this goodbye as a failsafe it'll hurt less if everything goes to shit.

So he says goodbye. Just in case, because it’s not like Chuuya will actually die right? Dazai would never let him die because it would just be so disappointing if he lived longer than him.

“Chuuya, this is also my farewell to you.”

Something churns in Dazai’s gut, so he reminds himself once more that this isn’t a farewell.   No.   It’s just a precaution.

“It’s unfortunate that it had to come to this, but from the seven years since we met, all we’ve done is quarrel with each other,” Dazai continues, accidentally making eye contact with Chuuya through the security feed for the first time. Before he’d been too scared to stare into the soulless eyes caused by Bram Stoker because in doing so he’d have to admit to himself that the Chuuya he grew up with, the only one who made him feel human was truly gone and replaced with something else, something different.

So then why, when he looked into Chuuya’s eyes, did they look so startlingly human?

“There were moments when our hearts reached out to each other. Now that I think of it like-” Dazai’s gaze shifted and lost focus as if looking at something no one else could see. Thoughts of times since passed with Chuuya filled his mind, as he reminisced over those simpler times.

He was so scared that this was a real goodbye.

As soon as that fear entered him as a conscious thought, however, Dazai immediately came back to reality and remembered the game.

He couldn’t let Fyodor know how much he cared about Chuuya, so in a moment of impulsivity, Dazai took back everything he said.

“Sorry, there weren’t really any! Well then. Goodbye.”

Why did he say that?  Why the fuck  did he say that? Does he care about beating Fyodor that much? What if Chuuya dies and that’s the last thing he ever says to him. 

Dazai doesn’t get scared, so then why does his chest feel like it’s constricting his heart, a fake smile tugging at his cheeks.

Terrified human eyes disappear under the pull of the water and Dazai watches just hoping that all goes according to plan, because what he just said can’t be the last thing he ever says to Chuuya, because even though he may not always show it, he loves him.

At least as much as Dazai is capable of ever loving someone.

“We actually won,” a voice sounds from behind him, almost causing Dazai to jump, being so lost in his thoughts. He’d honestly forgotten Sigma was in the room for a bit.

Was the possibility of losing Chuuya affecting him that much?

Carefully concealing his innermost thoughts with a relaxed posture and a large smile, Dazai beckoned for Sigma to come closer to the security feed until he was standing right next to him.

In silence, they watched the darkened feed, consumed by the water until suddenly a bright red burst from somewhere deep within the room, which seemed to pull all the water from the room.

Perfect. His plan was working then.

Arahabaki stood in the center of the room. Blood is already streaming from its eyes, ears, and mouth, causing a bit of worry to settle in Dazai’s gut, which only translates outwardly through the slight narrowing of his eyes.

Still, everything was going according to plan, so Dazai forced himself not to rush in to save Chuuya from the grasp of corruption just yet.

He watched as Arahabki approached Fyodor, the demon who was the only one to ever really challenge Dazai mentally. Finally, he would be able to dispose of the man and place him in an indubitable checkmate from which there was no chance of recovery.

The demon had lost.

Or that was what Dazai thought until he saw Dostoevsky reach out and fearlessly place a palm upon the god.

He would kill him. Arahabaki was far from innocent and Chuuya being a Mafia Executive on top of that would certainly mean the end.

Dazai might actually lose.

Except, instead of Arahabaki falling to the floor dead, a rare look of shock passed across Dostoevsky’s face instead, as the god stayed standing and thankfully alive. A black hole expanding in Arahabaki’s fingers flew from his hand and gruesomely tore Dostoevsky’s head from his body.

What?

Dazai watched his rival's body hit the floor, as blood spurted from his neck.  

He stared at the hand which reached out as if looking for salvation. Salvation Fyodor would now never find and felt like everything had been sucked from within him. 

There was another opponent, defeated yet again by him.

That was one of the greatest curses of Dazai’s life, everything came easily to him. Sometimes he wished he was able to be as genuinely surprised as someone like Sigma, whose jaw was practically on the floor at the sight of Fyodor’s headless body.

It wasn’t that Dazai wanted to be defeated. He liked winning just as much as the next person and yet what bothered him was that everyone was so easy to predict. Of course, he wasn’t as good at it as Ranpo, but Dazai was still able to always think ten steps ahead of his enemies with great accuracy.

That was what made his life so boring and pointless. The predictability of it. For what point is there in living if you always know what happens next?

The god fell to one knee and Dazai was flung out of his dark thoughts.

Shit.   

He had to get to him now. What had he been doing just standing around? Fyodor was gone, there was no use thinking about it any further than that. If he wasn’t fast enough, Chuuya was going to die.

Dazai sprinted out of the room, surprising Sigma who had up until that moment been frozen in shock at the sight of the image of a brutally murdered Fyodor filling his vision. Dazai could hear the sound of footsteps sounding behind him, but didn’t even check to make sure it was Sigma and not some guard hellbent on killing him. All he could think of was saving Chuuya.

He couldn’t end seven years with the words that he’d said.

He couldn’t let Chuuya die like that.

Making it to the door that led to the room, Dazai punched in the code overriding the lock controls, and waited for the door to open. 

Gradually, it opened, much too slow for his liking, as he slammed his fist into it in a rare show of impatience, because he had to get to Chuuya  now.  Finally, it opened with a resounding bang and Dazai rushed into the room to find an image that would forever be burned into his mind.

Chuuya was laid collapsed on the ground while the god inside of him sapped away all of his strength. A hand raised in his direction, but nothing came out of it as though something or rather someone was holding the god back.

For a moment Dazai just stood there horrified at how late he was until the true implications of the scenario finally fully burned into him and he sprinted towards Chuuya, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder to nullify the god.

Soulless whites were once more taken over by what should’ve been a vibrant blue if not for how faded they were now, ridden with pain and suffering.

Dazai watched as Chuuya curled up into a fetal position and a moan filled with pain left his mouth. His heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. What if Chuuya died like this? What if he died believing that Dazai never cared? The possibility made it feel like a knife was twisting in Dazai’s gut. True regret stirred within him.

In a rare moment of vulnerability, Dazai sat down next to him, running a soothing hand through his hair.

“Chuuya… Chuuya, I’m so sorry. I need you to hold on okay? Please stay.”

Chuuya said nothing in return. Instead, he just coughed, causing more blood to slip from his mouth. Dazai felt sick.

There was just so much blood and his body felt so broken as Dazai pulled him onto his lap, in an attempt to comfort him while he looked over his injuries.

The silent scream that followed would forever be branded into his brain.

Dazai was so scared that he was going to lose Chuuya. This was the one fatal flaw of his plan. Originally, he thought he’d only be up against Dostoevsky, but Chuuya being with him had been a wild card and now he was paying the price for not accounting for such a thing in his initial planning.

Chuuya was the one person who made him feel things. The one person who he felt comfortable being more vulnerable with because Chuuya was one of the only people who saw underneath the façade and saw who Dazai truly was as a person. Yet, somehow he still stayed.

Dazai couldn’t lose him.

“It’s going to be okay, Chuuya,” he tried his best to reassure him, discovering more and more of the horrible state that Chuuya’s body was in.  

If he didn’t get medical attention soon, he would die.

It was just too real and too much and Dazai was so tired and he just-

“Please don’t go,” Dazai choked on his own words, as tears began to slip down his cheeks, curling his body protectively over the smaller mafioso. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. I can’t lose you too.  Please. Not like Odasaku. Chuuya, I-”

Dazai couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t right. Why was he feeling so much? He wasn’t supposed to feel this much, but as he stared into terrified eyes which were beginning to blink shut, he felt himself panicking and couldn’t think of what to do next.

Chuuya closed his eyes.

“No, no, no, no, NO!  Chuuya wake up!” Dazai shook him by the shoulders, “Chuuya, please! Don’t leave me… this wasn’t supposed to happen. I was supposed to save you! Just… Chuuya, please…  I love you.”

Hiccuping sobs consumed Dazai as he pulled Chuuya into a tight embrace. If he were feeling well, Chuuya would probably cuss him out for ruining his clothes with his tears, even though they were already drenched in water. The thought of that almost made Dazai laugh before a spasm of pain racked Chuuya’s body pulling him back to the present.

Dazai buried his face into the crook of Chuuya’s neck.

He’d miscalculated.  He was too slow and now he was going to pay for it.

“Don’t go, don’t go,  please.   I'm so sorry... I'm so so so sorry...”

There was no answer to his pleas, only the sound of a fading heartbeat.

Chapter 4: Soiled Sorrow in its Torpor Dreams of Death

Summary:

Was he alright?

Notes:

Sorry it’s been a while since the last update, life’s been crazy, but I’m back now with the next chapter! I hope you all enjoy it :)

Dazai couldn’t breathe.

He can feel Chuuya’s thready pulse fluttering against his cheek, as scarlet claws its way up Dazai’s once pristine prison uniform, forever scarring this moment into the fabric. He’s so scared that if he lets go, that pulse that he’s straining so desperately to feel and hear will fade into nothingness and he’ll be once more left alone in this world that he so struggles to connect with. Still, lamenting over his failures isn’t going to do anything for anyone. So Dazai does what he does best.

He lets go. It’s the only thing he knows how to do.

He retreats into his mind, his soul fading into the tenebrous depths, as instinct takes over and Dazai pulls himself to his feet with Chuuya still in his arms.

“Time to go!” A huge smile tugs forcefully at Dazai’s cheeks, straining the muscles there.

Sigma stands at the exit, watching him with narrow eyes and furrowed brows. He looks like he wants to ask Dazai something, but no words leave his mouth, so Dazai continues talking in order to fill the silence and turn attention away from himself and his momentary break of character. 

“I did promise I’d get you out of here alive after all!”

Sigma nods but stays quiet as he follows Dazai through the corridors. His eyes keep darting in between Dazai and the limp figure in his arms as if trying to figure out their connection to one another. At the moment though, Dazai couldn’t find it within himself to really care about Sigma’s opinions on his relationship with Chuuya or anything else for that matter. His body was on autopilot, as his mind spiraled into self-deprecating thoughts.

A voice whispered in his ear that maybe the next time he tried to kill himself, he should make sure that he actually had follow-through. Perhaps he’ll even make himself drown just like he did to Chuuya, in order to experience the same pain he’d put him through. An eye for an eye. A death for a death. It was only right. It was his penance.

“Dazai… are you okay?”

The question jolted him out of his thoughts and took him several moments to process. He could pull the muscles at the corners of his smile twinging as they struggled momentarily to maintain the façade. Like candlelight on the verge of burning out.

Was he alright?

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked him that. Come to think of it, had anyone ever asked him that? He honestly couldn’t remember.

His family had always been… well he didn’t like to think about that. Mori had never really cared about anyone and had been way more interested in just trying to use Dazai as a pawn in his schemes. Dazai had let Odasaku die, so any concerns Oda had ever had about him didn’t matter. Atsushi and Kunikida just kind of got used to Dazai being that way. And Chuuya… well they never really did talk about stuff like that. It was always just jabs and beating around the bush with them. Conversations about mental health weren’t exactly their forte.

Regardless, even if anyone was genuinely interested in the state of Dazai’s wellbeing, he wouldn’t really know how to talk about it. Those emotions and feelings that were so deeply woven into his soul made him feel like he was trapped under the rubble of a fallen building every time he turned to face them. Like the walls were closing in. Dust covering his face. Metal jabbing through his legs. A chain collar tightened against his throat. Pressure from above. Pressure from below. His lungs caved inwards. A place of no escape. A place of no return. A place where he couldn’t breathe.

“I am doing so wonderful! That is just ever so kind of you to ask, Sigma!”  

The cheerful expression on Dazai’s face and the carefree patter of his footsteps echoing across the prison vastly contradicted the state that he was currently in, with a bloody, nearly-dead figure clutched tightly in his arms and the scarlet patches on his uniform.

There was no way that he was okay, but Sigma had his own problems and barely even knew Dazai, so just like everyone else, he predictably stopped caring enough to inquire and turned away leaving Dazai once more alone with the weight of his collapsing mental health.

The walls were closing in. His back was caving inwards with pressure. His skull felt like it was going to split in two. He couldn’t keep doing this. His plan wasn’t perfect. He failed. He’d actually failed. He’d failed everyone. He’d failed Chuuya. He’d failed-

Dazai turned down another corridor and headed towards the elevators, which he was able to bypass easily, having already murdered most of the guards in the prison with the help of the time-stopping ability that left only him unaffected until suddenly he was standing outside of Meursault prison.

How… uneventful.

It would’ve been the perfect escape if not for the sagging body hanging from his arms, just barely holding onto life. Chuuya always had been so stubborn when it came to living, it was one of the biggest differences between them. Dazai sought his end, whereas Chuuya sought his future.

Beyond the prison, Gogol was waiting with a portrait of green laid out beyond him, as trees swayed in the wind and birdsong echoed throughout the wilderness. His pale eyes pierced into Dazai’s darker ones, as a playful frown tugged at his lips. His eyes then turned to Chuuya, who was still held securely against Dazai’s chest. For a moment, faint interest sparkled in the man’s eyes, but ultimately his interest in Dostoevsky’s failure won out against his interest in the dying man in Dazai’s arms.

“Dos-kun's dead… how tragic. I had such high expectations for him,” Gogol paused, seeming lost in thought for a moment before continuing, “well, it is what it is, I guess!”  

The antidote was handed over to Dazai, who injected it into his arm, while still keeping a tight grip on Chuuya.

“Anyways, I guess I should be going!” Gogol mused, before grabbing Sigma, who let out a startled yelp after having been quiet all this time. The two were sent falling back into one of his portals in a flash, leaving Dazai and Chuuya alone outside of Meursault with an endless forest that seemed to go on for miles. Lost in France. All alone.

The carefully crafted mask slipped from Dazai’s face, as he once more examined Chuuya’s state. Blood continued to bleed sluggishly from multiple wounds spanning across his body and having been drowned beforehand did nothing to help his current state. If Dazai didn’t patch up his wounds quickly, then Chuuya really would die and he really would be all alone. If that happened, then his next attempt wouldn’t be something to laugh off.

Wanting to put some distance between them and the prison, before tending to Chuuya, in order to help secure their escape, Dazai set off at a quick pace through the woods. He found himself taking deer paths at random to make himself harder to follow as he plowed through the underbrush.

It was strange being back outside again after having been in that prison for so long. As birdsong and the sun poking through the leaves of trees greeted him instead of the sterile lifeless walls and the taunting of Dostoevsky’s voice.

At the thought of the demon, the image of his body flashed in front of Dazai’s mind’s eye and he wondered once more why he had been unable to kill Chuuya.

Of course, he was grateful that Chuuya hadn’t been murdered by someone as despicable as Dostoevsky, but still by all rights if drowning and being consumed by corruption had failed to kill him, the touch of Dostoevsky’s palm should have done the job. Along with that, how had Chuuya broken free of his vampiric state? Dazai had at first assumed that perhaps Arahabaki had overridden such a thing, but now he wasn’t so sure when he thought back, because when he thought hard about it, he was pretty sure that Chuuya’s eyes had cleared right before he’d slipped underneath those heavy tides. If he was right in that, then that meant that it couldn’t have been Arahabaki to break him free of such a curse. Yet if it wasn’t Arahabaki that had broken him free of those chains, then what had done the job?

Still, as much as Dazai wanted to find out those answers now, there were other much more pressing matters that he had to deal with immediately, such as dealing with the worst of Chuuya’s wounds.

After putting a few miles between them and the prison, Dazai laid Chuuya down gently on the forest floor, propping him up against the sturdy trunk of an old tree. Then, he quickly got to work doing a closer inspection of the wounds covering his old partner’s body.

A few cuts and scrapes were scattered across his face, but nothing life-threatening there. His vocal cords however appeared to be a bit damaged, by the way, weak rattling wheezes racked Chuuya’s body in the place of regular breathing patterns. Grabbing Chuuya’s knife that he’d once taken in order to free Q, a faint smile tugging at his cheeks for just a moment at the memory, he cut open Chuuya’s shirt, to further examine the damage that had been wrecked upon his body.

For the most part, he seemed alright, if not for the long, red, jagged slash that tore diagonally across his chest, most likely courtesy of Arahabaki. So, this was the source of the problem. If Dazai didn’t fix this quickly, then Chuuya would most definitely bleed out on this very forest floor.

There wasn’t much time and only one way that Dazai could think of that could fix this.

He’d never missed Yosano’s ability more.

He didn’t have much time, as Chuuya grew increasingly pale and his breathing became more erratic. So, Dazai got to work quickly collecting an assortment of dry sticks and arranging them into a small campfire, before setting it ablaze.

The knife he’d taken from Chuuya earlier began to feel heavier somehow.

Before he went any further, Dazai grabbed one more stick, this one being a bit sturdier than the others, before placing it into Chuuya’s mouth, because if nothing else would awaken Chuuya, the pain of what he was about to do would. Still, it was the only way to save him, because out here in the wild with essentially nothing, they didn’t have many other options left.

Dazai really hoped this worked, because in terms of plans this really was a last resort.

Holding the knife steadily in his hand, he thrust it into the mocking flames, his dark eyes reflecting right back at him through the knife. He could feel it growing hotter in his hand from the hilt but still waited until it began to glow a faint red. As soon as the scarlet color entered the knife, Dazai pulled it from the blistering heat and made his way back over to Chuuya, who continued to slowly bleed out from the life-threatening wound in his chest.

This was the only way.

He pressed the knife against Chuuya's skin.

A scream was ripped from a mangled throat, as terrified blue eyes stretched open to meet brown.

Notes:

Chuuya’s POV next chapter :)

Chapter 5: I Want to Gaze at the Horizon but I Can't

Summary:

His body felt as though it’d been engulfed in flame, while something that tasted like dirt rested in his mouth. Definitely, not the way he wanted his day to be going. A scream tore itself from his throat, as he desperately tried to pull away from the source, but something or perhaps someone was pinning him to the ground, trapping him in a world of fire. Whatever it was that had been placed in his mouth snapped almost immediately and distantly he recognized that he’d bitten down on his tongue shortly thereafter, filling his mouth with a familiar metallic tang.

Notes:

Hello! Back with another chapter, I hope you enjoy it!

Pain.

Chuuya’s eyes shot open. 

His body felt as though it’d been engulfed in flame, while something that tasted like dirt rested in his mouth. Definitely, not the way he wanted his day to be going. A scream tore itself from his throat, as he desperately tried to pull away from the source, but something or perhaps someone was pinning him to the ground, trapping him in a world of fire. Whatever it was that had been placed in his mouth snapped almost immediately and distantly he recognized that he’d bitten down on his tongue shortly thereafter, filling his mouth with a familiar metallic tang.

A mix of confusion and anger swirled through his mind, as he tried to figure out what was happening and why he couldn’t use Tainted to escape.

Was this hell? Had he finally gotten what he deserved?

Yet that didn’t make any sense, because if he didn’t dream, then why would he get an afterlife either? No, he had to be alive. 

Still, that left the question of who was doing this?

Through the distressing pain, Chuuya could barely organize his thoughts, but his blood still ran mafia black. He was trained to handle situations like these. So, he forced himself to turn his focus away from the pain and onto his surrounding, in order to figure out just what was going on.

He was able to make out brown eyes, wavy brown hair, and a somehow familiar cool calculating expression staring down at him from above.

They had to be the one doing this and they just looked so familiar. Still, Chuuya just couldn’t quite place it.

He racked his brain searching for an answer, but another wave of that fiery, hot pain ripped another scream from his mouth, distracting him, as white filled his vision and his nerves burned

He coughed and felt something wet and sticky spray from his lips. Belatedly he realized it was his own blood, causing his struggles to renew in strength, despite the pain that it left him in.

He didn’t like feeling powerless and out of control. He needed to have his autonomy back. He needed to escape. This person was going to kill him if he didn't.

Who was doing this? Even better, why were they doing this?

Again, Chuuya racked his brain for the answer, but the blinding pain was all-consuming making it difficult for him to figure it out until the person said something that gave him pause.

“If you keep moving like that Hatrack, you’re only going to make it worse.”

Hatrack. Only Dazai would call him that.

Dazai… was Dazai the one trying to kill him?

“Dazai please… fuck… Dazai stop,” Chuuya wheezed each word, sending daggers down his throat.  

He began to panic, as he realized that if Dazai kept touching him in this state; kept hurting him in this state, then there really was no hope of getting free. As long as Dazai had a hold of him, Chuuya couldn’t use his ability and even though Dazai was much scrawnier than Chuuya was in comparison, he’d grown up in the mafia too and knew how to hold his own, especially with Chuuya being as injured as he was. 

While Chuuya was a stubborn individual, he also understood when he was outmatched, and this was one of those cases.

He hated begging, but it seemed to be his only option.

“Let me… go… shitty Dazai,” Chuuya took in a couple of ragged gasps, which turned into another scream as searing pain shot through him again. “What… the fuck… are you… doing?”

“One more time and then it’s over,” Chuuya heard Dazai’s voice sound above him, causing him to increase his struggles even more. Was this it? Was Dazai going to finally kill him? Why? What had he done wrong?

It was like being stabbed by Shirase all over again. The sting of the betrayal being much sharper than the actual blade itself.

“Dazai, no. Stop… please.”

Throughout his life, Chuuya had always held a rather interesting relationship with Dazai. When they’d first met at fifteen they had come together as competitive rivals. Then, after the betrayal of the Sheep, they became unlikely allies, which had then turned into Double Black and eventually developed into something… more. For a time. However, whatever that could’ve turned into was destroyed the moment Dazai turned his back on the mafia; turned his back on Chuuya.

Sometimes when Chuuya was alone, he would wonder what would’ve happened if Dazai had asked him to come with him. Would he have turned his back on Kouyou? On Hirotsu? On Akutagawa?

He wanted to say yes, just to spite Dazai for leaving without him. Yet, after a few drinks he always came to the same conclusion that no, he wouldn’t have left, because deep down, he felt like he didn’t deserve to be in the light. Not after all the lives that he had taken. Not after all of the damage and destruction that he’d brought upon the world by just living in it. Next to that, he would never abandon his family. He’d been on the receiving end of that too many times to ever desire to do that to anyone else.

That was the difference between him and Dazai. Chuuya understood that actions had consequences. Chuuya understood loyalty. Dazai generally just tended to act in his own self-interest.

Still, he thought that despite everything they shared a common bond. That at the end of the day they had some sort of understanding between them.  

He thought that Dazai had cared or at least cared as much as was possible for someone like him. However, it appeared that was not the case and so, as he'd recognized before, it was just like he was being stabbed with Shirase’s poisoned blade all over again, except Dazai’s weapon was much more lethal having come from the hand of a true demon.

He wondered where he’d gone wrong. When their playful hatred had turned so real for Dazai, that he had plans to kill him. Honestly, Chuuya didn’t know, but he wished he did. That was probably one of the things he would regret most, losing someone he had considered his closest friend, as sick and twisted as their relationship could sometimes get. He loved Dazai and a part of him wished that they could’ve become more like they’d started to before Dazai had left the Port Mafia, but those were only dreams, something that Chuuya could never obtain and so he would have to settle for never knowing. He could only do what he could with the hand he'd been dealt.

At least a death at the hands of Dazai Osamu meant that he could die as himself. That was worth something.

One last vision of searing white flashed before his gaze before everything faded to black and Chuuya felt himself drifting off into that realm of nothingness.

Perhaps he could finally rest.

---

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Chuuya awoke to the sensation of a firm mattress underneath him, blankets restricting his movements, stiff muscles, aches all over his body, and a painfully dry throat. A grandfather clock rested against the far wall, the echo of its hands reverberating around the room, while old wooden walls surrounded him.

For a moment confusion consumed him, as he tried to figure out where he was and how he’d gotten here, when suddenly all the memories of previous events came flooding back, making him feel like he was drowning all over again.

Dazai had been about to kill him? Why was he here? Why was he still alive?

No matter what had happened though, Chuuya knew one thing. He had to get out of here.

He didn’t know where he was nor could he entirely remember how he had ended up in this situation in the first place. The last thing that he could recall was that he had been on a mission for Mori, investigating… something? He quite honestly couldn’t quite recall what that mission was for, which sent a feeling of unease unfurling in his gut. After that, he'd fallen into this hell: drowning, corruption, Dazai trying to kill him, and just pretty much everything, in general, going to shit.

It was just too weird. Too much.

He already had enough missing memories, he didn’t want nor need anymore.

Carefully Chuuya pushed himself up into a sitting position, before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. So far so good. With the exception of maybe a rib or two, nothing felt broken so he should be able to walk out of here.

At least that’s what he thought before he actually tried standing up and taking a step.

Immediately, nausea overcame him, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and his vision faded to black.

He blinked his eyes open to find himself sprawled out on the floor.

“Dammit,” he rasped through his parched throat, struggling to push himself to his knees, before falling back against the side of the bed. He was just so angry. At Dazai. At his weakness. At everything.

He had no clue where he was. He couldn’t remember the past several weeks? Months? He wasn’t sure. Dazai had tried to kill him. Everything hurt and he wasn't able to escape.

The door to the room creaked open, as his attempted murderer made his way into the room.

“Chuuya! You’re finally awake!" Dazai placed a dramatic hand against his chest, as his face shone with mock relief. "It was so annoying having to listen to your endless snoring, you know. I should record it for you, you sound like an old station wagon! I even dragged you all the way here, it took me miles to find this old cabin, which you’re lucky I did, or who knows what would’ve happened. You must be so grateful, I’ve saved your life yet again, I mean-”

“The fuck are you talking about? You tried to kill me.” Chuuya’s voice came out low and raspy, as red-hot anger flooded through his veins, while he watched Dazai try to play the hero.

At Chuuya's words, Dazai’s expression flickered from one of surprise and regret for only the briefest of moments, before the mask came back on.

“You’re so funny Chuuya, I didn’t try to kill you, I saved you. In fact, you should be very grateful to me. Without me, you’d be dead.”

“You attacked me,” Chuuya protested, “in the woods. I saw it happen with my own eyes Dazai.  Don’t fucking lie to me.”

At that Dazai laughed. The bastard actually laughed.

Chuuya’s fists clenched.

“I was cauterizing your wounds. Chuuya’s such an idiot. This is why I should do all the thinking in our relationship. I wouldn’t be surprised if your brain was the size of a cherry!”

“Oh,” was all Chuuya could bring himself to say at the realization, because that actually did make sense, now that he thought about it. He lifted his shirt to examine where a nasty burn covered his chest, aligning with Dazai's words. It would probably scar, not that Chuuya could really bring himself to care because a scar was much better than being dead.

Dazai took a few steps forward, reaching his hands under Chuuya’s armpits and tossing him a bit roughly back onto the bed.

“The fuck? Get off of me, dumbass!” Chuuya protested, trying to twist away from Dazai’s grip, who only let go once Chuuya was sitting securely against the bed frame, watching Dazai with a cold glare.

“So talkative,” Dazai mused, “maybe I should put you back under the water.”

Put him back under the water…

“What?”

Had that been Dazai? Had Dazai been the one to let him drown? Come to think of it, who else could’ve? He could vaguely remember Dostoevsky, being stuck with him, which ruled him out. Some random guard in the prison could’ve, but then how would Dazai have known or been able to save him in time? From what Chuuya could remember from his vague memories upon waking up from the throes of corruption, only the cellblock that he’d been in had been affected, so the whole prison would not have felt the full rage of Arahabaki.

In fact, if he thought back hard enough, he remembered that there had been a voice just before he’d slipped under the treacherous currents, wishing him farewell.

Chuuya’s eyes widened and his blood turned to ice, as he met Dazai’s gaze.

“It was you. You let me drown.”

Dazai frowned, “it was the only way to defeat Fyodor, Chuuya,” he shrugged, “regardless it all worked out in the end because look at us! We escaped! I’d call that a win.”

“A win?” Chuuya laughed, despite how much it hurt, “you’d call that a fucking win? Dazai, I could’ve died! I would have died if not by drowning, then by corruption if you hadn't saved me in time. What happened to giving me a choice about letting go to Arahabaki, huh? What the actual fuck! Do you really care so little that you’d sacrifice me like I’m some… some fucking pawn in your stupidass game of chess with Dostoevsky!” His frame racked with coughs, before taking an exasperated breath. “You can’t do that to people, Dazai… this is real life with real people . We’re not… we’re not… this isn’t fucking chess! Why can’t you just understand that? But I mean, I can’t really be surprised can I? I mean all you’ve ever fucking cared about is yourself. You don’t really care about me, or Atsushi, or Kunikida, or Odasaku-”

At the mention of that name, Dazai’s expression went dark.

“You shouldn’t talk about things you don’t know about.”

Another laugh spilled from Chuuya’s lips, “oh so you did care? About Odasaku? It's good to know you only care about people who are already dead. Did you try killing him too? Is that what happened? Only realizing you cared when it was too late-”

A part of Chuuya knew that he was going too far, but another part of him didn't care. After all, Dazai went too far all the time and where were his consequences? Ethics aside, it was too late to dodge Dazai’s fist the moment he noticed it coming for his face, sending his head slamming back into the bedpost, a wound on his forehead re-opening and sending blood dripping down into his eyes.

“Shut the fuck up,” soulless black covered the expanse of Dazai’s eyes and for a moment Chuuya was startled by his choice of wording, as Dazai was rarely one to cuss. For a moment, he actually almost felt bad and a nagging voice in his head prompted him to apologize, but the anger lurking within him quickly overrode that feeling, leaving the state of the situation no better and only worse.

“Oh so now you see how it feels,” Chuuya taunted, “to have other people toy with your emotions. Doesn’t feel good does it?”

Dazai took a menacing step forward, towering over Chuuya. Anyone else would’ve been filled with terror, but not Chuuya because at the end of the day he saw Dazai for who he truly was. Unlike anyone else. He had the unique experience of being able to look into his soul.

“You know you should be careful with how you talk to me,” Dazai spoke between clenched teeth. “You were nothing before I brought you into the Mafia. You were a figurehead for an organization that just saw you as a monster , a lab rat , a number . You have me to thank for everything, so act more grateful or maybe I’ll just have to leave you too and for good this time. After all, no one ever stays, do they Chuuya? Not when it counts. Not the Sheep, not the Flags, not your subordinates who you endlessly fail to protect. Kouyou will always choose Kyouka over you and honestly," Dazai tapped a finger against his chin, mockingly pretending to be deep in thought, "you’ve been missing for quite a while Chuuya, and guess what? No one’s been looking for you.  Absolutely no one . You'll never be first, not when it counts. Even I’d choose others before I’d ever chose you, as you saw when I let you drown back at the prison. Honestly, I didn’t know if it would work, but I did it anyway, because why not? I only get to live for so long, so I’d better make it as interesting as possible before I finally find myself facing death. You say you don’t want to be used as a pawn Chuuya? Well, maybe that’s just what you were put here to be.”

Dazai turned and left the room, the echo of the door slamming shut behind him. Meanwhile, Chuuya stared off into space, turning the conversation back over in his mind, while the screams of Arahabaki reverberated in his skull and a single tear slipped down his cheek.

Notes:

Only a couple more days until Chapter 102! Who else is terrified? :D

It’ll probably be fine though, we can just all collectively gaslight each other into believing that Chuuya will be okay.

Chapter 6: I am Living Resigned to Fatigue

Summary:

Chuuya had never felt more alone, as Dazai’s words echoed through his mind.

Was that really how Dazai felt?

After all of those years did he really just consider him to be nothing more than just another pawn in his game of chess? Someone who was cursed to always be controlled by others, never making a real choice for himself? Someone who was just caught up in the means to another’s end?

Notes:

Hey! I’m back with another chapter for you all

TW in the endnotes <3

Chuuya had never felt more alone, as Dazai’s words echoed through his mind.

Was that really how Dazai felt?

After all of those years did he really just consider him to be nothing more than just another pawn in his game of chess? Someone who was cursed to always be controlled by others, never making a real choice for himself? Someone who was just caught up in the means to another’s end?

He didn't want to believe it, but Dazai had tried to kill him, so he wouldn’t be surprised if there was at least a bit of truth hidden somewhere within his words.

The worst part of it all though was that while Chuuya wanted to be angry and rage against all the hurtful things that Dazai had said and done to him like he usually did, he just felt empty instead. Like one of Arahabaki’s black holes was stuck in his chest, pulling him past the event horizon; a point of no return.

He knew he shouldn’t have said the things that he did to Dazai and hated himself for bringing up Odasaku, but Dazai had tried to kill him and even went so far as to punch him during their argument, so there was also a part of him that felt justified in what he'd said, disgusting as he knew it was. Plus, there was what Dazai had said to him too. That definitely still stung.

Why did they have to have that fight?

However, maybe that fight had been a long time coming.  

There had always been tension in their relationship with one another. It just came as a natural side effect of their strong personalities. So, if Chuuya was honest with himself, it was only a matter of time until a breaking point had been reached, as had just happened.

He just wished that what had been said between them hadn’t held so many elements of truth.

With a sigh, Chuuya rubbed at his eyes, while wishing that he was able to release these emotions in a healthier way, rather than just lamenting over what had happened. He wished that he could sob. He wished that he could rage at the world and fight back against all those who had ever thought to drag him down. He wished that he could talk to Dazai. He wished that they could apologize to each other. He wished that everything would be okay.

But he was tired.

So very tired.

He couldn’t deal with it anymore. The constant betrayal, pain, and loss that plagued his everyday life. He just wanted a break from it all, but with the life, he lived there was no room for breaks. So, Chuuya did the next best thing, as he laid back down in the bed and closed his eyes, willing himself to fall asleep. 

He needed an escape from the physical, mental, and emotional pain that the world had wrought upon him and this was the only way he currently saw how.

---

Why did he always say the wrong thing?

Dazai slammed the door shut behind him, as he made his way into the old cabin’s rustic living room, faint creaks sounding with each step he took.

Chuuya’s words echoed in his ears.

"Did you try killing him too? Is that what happened?"

Dazai's fist still stung with the reminder of what he’d done to Chuuya after he’d said that.

He made his way over to a couch in the middle of the room, practically tearing at the seams and just generally uncomfortable. He was sure it’d seen better days, but it was fine, a couch like this was probably what he deserved anyway.

He continued to think back to his argument with Chuuya and Dazai found himself regretting it more and more with time. The thing was that Chuuya was right in what he’d said about Odasaku. It was after all Dazai’s fault that he’d died because if he hadn’t wasted all that time in Mori’s office and instead had just gone straight to Odasaku or if he’d just done anything else,  anything more,  then maybe Odasaku would still be here. Yet, that didn’t happen. Instead, Dazai had slacked off and let Odasaku die. It was his own fault. After all, he knew he was cursed with never getting anything he had ever truly wanted and he had still tried to have a friendship with Odasaku. 

He’d cursed him. He’d been the harbinger of his death. It was all his fault. 

So hearing Odasaku brought up in such a manner had spiked intense levels of self-hatred in Dazai that he hadn’t felt in quite a while and instead of turning those feelings of anger towards himself, like he wished he would have, he'd lashed out and thrown them onto Chuuya.

Still, punching Chuuya and telling him all those awful things was just downright cruel and Dazai knew it. Chuuya had a reason to be angry and hurt, and while Chuuya had definitely overstepped a boundary, Dazai had overstepped many more with his visceral reaction.

He didn’t even mean what he said.

To him, Chuuya would never be the second choice. It was why he always saved him from the grasp of Arahabaki when he was lost in corruption. It was why Chuuya was one of the only people to see what was beneath his bandages. It was why he did everything in his power to keep Chuuya from dying just like Odasaku had.

He should have kept his mouth shut. He shouldn't have made that drowning joke. He wished he could just disappear and have all of his problems disappear with him. 

All he ever did was push people away.

All he ever did was make the people he loved hate him.

And it was all his own fault.

If he were more careful with what he'd said. If he'd paid attention to other people's boundaries. If he'd listened. If he'd stopped talking for just one second, then maybe he wouldn't be in the position that he'd found himself in now.  

But did he even want that?

Every relationship, he'd ever had always ended the same way.

Heartbreak. Betrayal. Bloodshed. Death.

Every. Single. Time.

Was it really ethical to subject people to that?

So he lied, he pushed others away, he betrayed his own desires, because he knew he was rotten and deep down didn’t want anyone else to become contaminated by his own corruption of being.

But Chuuya was different. Every time Dazai tried to push him away, he came back with more force each time. When Dazai would try to make fun of him, Chuuya would just trade barbs right back. Every time he betrayed him, Chuuya would meet him with forgiveness and understanding at least on some level.

But this time, they’d crossed each other’s boundaries past the event horizon; the point of no return. This time Dazai was scared that this relationship was going to end like all the other ones.

He didn’t know if he’d be able to handle that, despite how much he felt like he didn’t deserve to have someone like Chuuya in his life. A person who despite having practically grown up in the mafia, still held empathy and compassion in his heart. A person who still held light in his eyes, after having been through so much pain, tragedy, betrayal, and death. A person who Dazai respected. A person who Dazai wanted to be okay.

He dropped his head into his hands, his fingers pulling at his hair, feeling some of it tear free from the roots. The faint pain of it grounded him. Made him feel better. Deep down, he wished it wouldn’t.

He raised his head, letting his hands fall back down to his sides and the hair that he’d pulled out glided down to rest upon the emaciated couch.

Regardless of whether or not they would be able to come back from this, he at least had to apologize. It was the least he could do.

His eyes turned to the door that led to the room where Chuuya resided.

He needed to get up. He needed to go over there. He needed to apologize.

But when he was finally presented with facing the consequences of his actions, his legs suddenly felt like they’d been tied to the ground. His body refused to move. His mind whispered traitorous thoughts, telling him that Chuuya would never forgive him and that he deserved that, because why should someone like Chuuya be forced to stare at Dazai through a kaleidoscope any longer? He deserved to see Dazai for who he truly was. He deserved a chance to run away and a part of Dazai hoped that he did run because he knew that if he was in Chuuya’s position, he would.

After all, all he ever did was run. From his emotions, his friends, and his problems. Then, he just turned it into some joke, because that was what his life was, wasn't it? Just one big old joke.

It was going to break him one day if it hadn’t already.

Still, Dazai couldn’t run forever and Chuuya deserved to be given a choice in terms of how he felt about Dazai. It was something that he'd always tried to give him in the past, so he still felt horrible that he'd forced Chuuya back into his game once more, but this time without any offering of consent to do what he did. Then again, when he thought back, Dazai knew that there was no other way to get out of there with both of them alive. There truly had been no time to give Chuuya a choice. Still, that conclusion didn't fix anything. The damage was already done, so now all he had to work with was the aftermath.

He had to make up for his failures and apologize to Chuuya. Something that didn't usually happen in their relationship, at least not upfront. Usually, when they had deeper discussions, it was presented in hidden meanings within the barbs that they threw at one another.

However, this time playful barbs wouldn’t fix what was said. This time, they actually had to talk, as much as Dazai didn't want to. For if they didn't, this could potentially be the end of Double Black and selfishly, Dazai didn’t want that either.

So, he forced himself off of the broken couch and made his way to the bedroom door, after filling a glass of water in the kitchen to give to Chuuya, who was probably parched after everything he’d gone through. Another thorn seemed to stab through his chest, as he realized that he probably should’ve brought Chuuya some water earlier.

It was too late for that now though, so better late than never, he supposed.

He opened the door to find Chuuya passed out on the bed, faint snores sounding with each breath he took.

As horrible as he knew it was, a part of him was relieved because it meant that he wouldn't have to confront the aftermath of their argument just yet.

Earlier, he’d told Chuuya that his snores had annoyed him on his way to finding the cabin, but that had been a lie.

When he’d been picking his way through the woods, Chuuya held tightly in his arms as he searched for a place to take up refuge in, Chuuya’s snoring had been one of the few things that had kept him going because that noise let him know that he still had something to live for. Someone to protect. Someone who he cared about.

It had let him know that Chuuya was still alive.

Still, there was another part of him that wished that Chuuya wasn't sleeping so that they could talk like he had planned to do instead of prolonging that inevitable and painful conversation. Dazai needed to tell him just how sorry he was for what he’d said because he was. He never should have said the things he did.

If Chuuya left him too, he didn’t know what he’d do… actually never mind, scratch that, he knew exactly what he’d do.

Yet, after becoming a part of the ADA and realizing that there was more to life than he'd initially thought before joining, he didn’t know if he completely wanted to do that anymore, no matter how much his traitorous thoughts screamed at him otherwise.

Pulling a chair up next to the bed, Dazai placed the water glass he’d brought with him upon the bedside table, before sitting down and combing his fingers through Chuuya’s hair, who continued to sleep through it. Distantly, Dazai registered that his eye was starting to turn a dark purple, from the blow of Dazai’s fist and he was already so hurt.

Chuuya had to be in so much pain.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice was small, something that was generally incredibly unnatural for him, and yet, for once in his life he wasn’t pretending or playing games.

“I’m so sorry.”

Dazai stayed there for a few moments longer, continuing to run his hands through Chuuya’s hair, before he finally stood up and walked back out the door, upon realizing that Chuuya wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon.

Closing the door behind him, much more gently this time than the previous time before, Dazai made his way back over to the couch, each step away from the bedroom door making his self-hatred increase tenfold.

He didn’t make it all the way.

A flighty feeling began to consume his chest. All the blood in his body seemed to rush up to his ears. His heart thudded in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. Chuuya would never forgive him. He couldn't breathe.

He collapsed to the floor, his knees buckling, and his back hitting the hard, unforgiving wall.

His hands clawed at the back of his neck, rising up and down his hairline.

He was a horrible person. He deserved to have Chuuya never forgive him. He deserved to feel this pain.

Quick, gasping breaths left him winded and wide eyes stared unseeingly into the wall ahead of him.

He had to calm down, he knew he did, but the thought of even trying to calm down somehow made things worse, as his mind turned against him.

You don’t deserve calm. You don’t deserve peace. You did this to yourself.

It was true. It was all true. Every single word of it.

“Stop,” he choked out to no one in particular.

His vision blurred, but he wasn’t crying. He felt like his heart was going to split into two. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t-

And then as quickly as the attack came, it left, leaving him feeling numb all over again.

Blank, disoriented eyes stared through the far wall.

He was so tired.

---

When Chuuya awoke, night had fallen and he could hear the sounds of owls echoing through the trees in the distance.

He was thankful as he recognized that sleeping had helped him feel at least a little bit better. He no longer felt quite as numb as before and he could feel that his body was healing. Granted, he still had a black eye blossoming on his face from where Dazai had punched him. Along with sparks of anger regarding what Dazai had said and done, paired with his own guilt at what he had also said and done. Then, there was the aftermath of drowning and corruption that of course still remained.

Still, he was happy that he finally felt more… normal about it. Instead of that chilling, all-encompassing numbness that he had felt initially following the argument. At least now he had anger and guilt back on his side. That had to count for something, right?

As he continued to wake up, he noticed just how parched his throat was. He’d meant to get water before, but then the argument had happened and it had understandably just kind of left his mind. Still, he didn’t really want to leave the room to grab water and risk potentially running into Dazai.

He just didn’t know what he wanted to say to him yet.

A part of him wanted to walk right up to that bastard, saying "yo Dazai," and throwing a punch his way that sent him straight through the wall, but as soon as that thought entered his mind, he was plagued with the guilt, because he’d said horrible things as well. Trying to solve a fight with another fight would do absolutely nothing. So Chuuya did his best to accept that with a groan.

Why did everything have to be so complicated?

He wished that he could just pretend like nothing had happened, but their argument had been far too serious for that, so that wouldn't work either.

Eventually, Chuuya just decided that if he ran into Dazai, he’d just do his best to ignore him until he had a plan regarding what to do.

Slowly, Chuuya pulled himself up and slid his legs off of the side of the bed, carefully placing his feet on the floor and slowly applying his weight, as to test his ability to walk.

He quickly found that even just placing his feet on the floor really hurt, so instead he tapped into Tainted and made himself float a few millimeters off the ground so that he wouldn’t have to deal with the pain of walking nor would he exhaust himself by using his ability after having so recently used corruption.

However, as soon as he made it to the door, the glinting of a glass caught his eye and he turned back towards the bed to realize that there had been a perfectly good glass of water sitting there the whole time and he never even needed to expend so much energy in the first place.

Well fuck, his mind supplied.

Still, the only way that that glass had made it there, was if Dazai had done it and despite wanting to resolve their argument and work things out, whether that meant beating the shit out of that bastard or politely talking it out like the mentally stable people that they weren’t, he sure as hell wasn’t drinking water that had been procured by Dazai Osamu.

He was kind of hungry too, so it wouldn’t hurt to see if there was any food in the kitchen as well.

So, opening the door, Chuuya found himself in a small living room, a kitchen sitting at the end of it.

And there, in that living room, standing between him and the kitchen, sat the man that he'd really been wanting to avoid, staring blankly at a wall, all of the life seeming to have faded from his eyes. One might’ve thought he was dead, if not for the faint rise and fall of his chest.

All of Chuuya’s thoughts of food and water instantly vanished, as he observed the man who had made the past few days of his life a living hell, now looking so weak and broken on the floor.

For a moment, Chuuya just wanted to walk away and avoid Dazai as he'd initially planned because he didn’t really feel like dealing with Dazai, his mental state, or the fallout of their argument. He just wanted a break from it all. However, life was hardly ever that fair.

Regardless, unlike Dazai, Chuuya didn't run from his problems, or rather he was at least a bit better at it.

He was going to try to do the mentally stable thing. He was going to try to talk it out.

So, he cleared his throat, causing Dazai to break his trance-like state, as he stared at the wall to meet Chuuya’s cerulean eyes, having finally taken notice of his presence.

He watched as Dazai lifted himself off the ground and made his way over, looking entirely unreadable to the average onlooker. Still, Chuuya wasn't just anyone. He could see the regret and fatigue lurking within him.

Chuuya sat down on the couch, wincing slightly at the horrible condition it was in, which wasn't at all kind to his injuries. Still, he forced back the pain and instead made himself focus on the oncoming conversation, as Dazai took a seat next to him, shifting uncomfortably.

“We need to talk.”

Notes:

TW: Panic Attack

I hope you all enjoyed the chapter! I should have the next one up soon :)

Chapter 7: With Each Shower Autumn Deepens, People Say

Summary:

Dazai was, of course, no help.

Notes:

Hey! I’m back with another chapter. I hope you all enjoy it :)

“We need to talk.”

As soon as those words left Chuuya’s mouth, a heavy silence seemed to weigh down upon them from above. Despite, having initiated this conversation, Chuuya suddenly felt as though his mouth were stuffed with cotton, as he searched for what to say next. He knew that the argument that had taken place between him and Dazai was something that they needed to talk about and yet when faced with actually having such a conversation his entire vocabulary seemed to have left his brain, as the two sat there in awkward silence.

Dazai was, of course, no help.

Generally, all that bastard did was talk, but when faced with the implications of a serious conversation, he instantly seemed to shut down, leaving it all to Chuuya to deal with, He couldn’t entirely blame Dazai though, given his upbringing and emotionally constipated demeanor in general, but it wasn’t like Chuuya had it much better when it that arena, so it irritated him to no end that he was the one who had to lead this conversation. Granted that was based on the assumption that he could even figure out how to start it.

A minute passed by, then two, until suddenly Dazai moved to stand up, heading into the bedroom where Chuuya had previously resided. For a moment, disappointment flooded through Chuuya, as he thought Dazai was walking away, but that was quickly replaced by confusion when he saw Dazai return with the water glass that he had previously left in the room. That same one that Chuuya had chosen to ignore out of sheer spite.

Making his way back to the couch, Dazai held it out towards Chuuya, offering it up to him with a smug smirk.

Begrudgingly, Chuuya accepted the glass, taking a couple of sips, only because he was incredibly thirsty and due to all the distractions currently plaguing his life had only been able to do something about it now. Under any other circumstances, he would’ve loved to throw the water back in Dazai’s smug face, just to see what expression his face would take. 

“Chuuya’s so silly. No wonder you couldn’t talk with how dry your throat must be! You’re so lucky you have me or you could end up getting dehydrated,” Dazai tapped his chin, as though in thought, “it’s not a good way to die you know. I tried it once actually! Terrible experience… zero out of ten. Incredibly painful too. Just all around not worth-”

“Do you ever just shut the hell up?”

A crease appeared between Dazai’s brows, “Chuuya’s so mean, I’m just trying to help you!”

“Dazai,” Chuuya gritted out, “sit down.”

A heavy silence once more resumed between the two of them, before finally, Dazai sat back down on the couch.

“So, what do you want to talk about?”

A flare of anger unfurled at the base of Chuuya’s spine.

“I don't know smart guy, wanna give a guess?”

“Was the water I gave you not cold enough?” Dazai offered, “I know I got it for you a couple of hours ago, but I didn’t want to waste it, so-”

“Dazai, I'm not upset about a fucking glass of water! For once in your life can you please just be serious?” Chuuya turned his body so that he was facing Dazai on the couch, who was desperately trying to avoid eye contact. “I want to talk about the things we said. It’s just, I overstepped and…” Chuuya finally gave up searching for Dazai’s gaze, “I’m sorry.”

The confession changed something within Dazai's demeanor as he straightened, his eyes narrowing in confusion. This time he was the one who sought Chuuya’s gaze, “what are you apologizing for?”

Was the idiot really that dumb or did he just want Chuuya to spell it out? All this talk of feelings and emotions made him want to run out the front door and leave this all behind like the pair had done to one another so many times in the past when faced with similar situations like this. Still, this was a conversation that they had to have if they ever wanted to work through what they had both done and said to each other, or rather it was at least a start. 

“I’m sorry for bringing up Odasaku,” at the mention of the name, Dazai's ever-present mask seemed to slip up for all but a moment, as a rare flicker of grief and pain shone in his eyes. The slip of emotion was quickly corrected, however, as Dazai's usual mask slipped right back into place. Still, it was a slip-up that the average person wouldn’t notice, something that Chuuya was not. No matter how hard Dazai tried to hide from the world, Chuuya knew and saw him for who he was. No matter how fucked up their relationship got, he and Dazai would always have that integral understanding of each other and that was just another reason why Chuuya needed to have this conversation. At the end of the day, he was so scared of losing that understanding. Of being lost in a world where there was no one left who truly saw him for who he was. Not as A5158. Not as a vessel for Arahabaki. Not as a mean's to an end. Not as another piece on the chessboard, for even though Dazai had called him a pawn, something that had really hurt, he knew that Dazai didn’t mean it. That was just him trying to push Chuuya away in a moment of irrational thinking because that was another thing Chuuya knew about Dazai, another reason why he shouldn’t have brought up Odasaku.

Dazai was terrified of pain.

So he closed himself off to the world in hopes of saving himself from the possibility of heartache or despair that might have otherwise consumed him had he opened up his heart. After all, you can’t get shot if there’s no ammunition to do so in the first place.

But Chuuya was done with that bullshit. He didn’t want to lose Dazai and he didn’t want Dazai to let go of him, so he was going to fix this. He couldn’t lose another friend. Not after everyone who was already gone. Not while he was lost, in some unknown spot in the world, with no memory as to how he’d gotten there. 

He couldn’t be alone with only the screams of Arahabaki to keep him company, so he had to keep his relationship with Dazai. He couldn’t lose him, because no matter how much they bickered, quarreled, and fought, Chuuya loved him. He needed him.

So, he apologized. He apologized and meant it because what he'd said was shitty and he couldn't lose another friend.

Dazai was quiet for a long while before he finally spoke, “oh, um… it’s fine.”

Another spot of awkward silence reigned between the two.

“Okay, that’s enough emotions for one day!”

“Dazai you gave me a fucking black eye, I swear to god, if you don’t apologize too-”

Dazai laughed, before sobering up under Chuuya’s glare, “I was kidding, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Upon noticing that Chuuya did not find his so-called joke funny at all, Dazai immediately began to backtrack, “it’s just this whole thing isn’t really something I’m used to doing. We’ve just never really talked like this, so it’s just… well,” Dazai paused, collecting himself, “I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have punched you that was… well I don’t know what I was thinking, but it was stupid. I’m sorry,” a distant look filled Dazai’s eyes, “I'm sorry for what happened back at the prison too. It's just... I wasn't thinking clearly. I didn’t expect Fyodor to use you back at Mersault, so when he did, I panicked and came up with the first plan I could with the limited time I had. I didn’t want you to drown. I swear. It was just the only way I saw us both making it out of there alive... the only way I saw  you  making it out of there alive. There was just so much going on and you were a vampire and everything just happened all at once and-”

Chuuya held a hand up, cutting Dazai off.

“I was a… vampire?”  He inspected Dazai’s pupils. “Dazai… are you high?”

Dazai sputtered, “high? What? No… or well, I guess I had a bit to drink earlier, but that doesn't count. Whoever owns this place left some great champagne in one of the cupboards. You should really try it later! But uh, yeah, why were you asking?”

Chuuya studied him carefully. He was definitely going to try that champagne later, but he still wasn't sure whether or not Dazai was telling the truth about being high, because if he was telling the truth then why the hell had he been a vampire?

It took a moment, but finally, realization dawned upon Dazai’s features, as he eventually figured out where Chuuya was coming from.  

Interest lit up in his eyes.

"You don’t remember? Interesting… well there’s this ability user named Bram Stoker, whose ability can be used to turn others into vampires, essentially taking away one’s sense of self," Dazai paused, "Chuuya, what is the last thing you remember before Mersault?”

He didn’t want to believe it, but what Dazai was saying was starting to make sense. He’d heard of Bram Stoker before through his work and it was an easy explanation for the gap in time that he was missing, but still, he knew himself and that he wasn’t one to typically be caught off guard so easily. It bothered him to know that someone had one-upped him and taken what could’ve easily been months of his life.

“The last thing I remember is going on some kind of mission for Mori, but I can’t remember what for. Then, it’s just like there’s this large blank period of time. It's like some kind of fucking hole has been dug into my memory and I can’t remember a single fucking thing about it," A bitter laugh escaped him. "So, that whole time I was a vampire, then? A fucking vampire, under someone else’s control? I can’t keep playing this same fucking game over and over again of being someone else’s goddamn dog! It’s too much Dazai and I just… I’m so tired. I’m so goddamn fucking tired. I can't keep doing this anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” this time Dazai’s voice wasn’t hidden underneath the countless layers that he usually used to protect himself. Something that had long been ingrained in him from a young age. This time his voice was genuine. Real. “You don’t deserve to feel that way.” 

Chuuya watched as Dazai stared distantly at the far wall as though he could see something that no one else could and looked down as he felt the expanse of Dazai’s palm covering his gloved one.

“I didn’t want to drown you nor did I want to force you into using corruption,” Dazai spoke, his voice low and reminiscent, “but seeing you so powerless next to someone as powerful as Fyodor was, I saw drowning you and just acting like an asshole in general as the only way to ever possibly break you free of Bram Stoker's ability. That way, I could make you angry enough to subconsciously give over control to Arahabaki, before returning you to yourself and Fyodor would be taken out regardless. I don't want to lose you Chuuya and honestly, I was  terrified ," Dazai's voice cracked, as his gaze returned to Chuuya's own, and his grip on Chuuya's hand tightened. "The thing is though, and I might be wrong, but I think that you returned to yourself before you gave up control to Arahabaki and I still can't figure out how or why. It happened right before you disappeared underneath the water and that… that honestly terrified me, Chuuya, when I saw your eyes again. Your real eyes slip underneath the water.  You slip underneath the water. It scared me and I’m sorry.  I’m sorry for always being such a dick. For never being there when you needed me. I’m sorry for being so selfish. I’m sorry for all of the countless times I’ve left. I just… no matter how much this voice in my head tells me to keep people at an arm’s length, to keep  you  at an arm's length and just let go, when the opportunity arises, it’s terrifying," Dazai looked down at their intertwined hands, "I don’t want to lose you.  I can’t.  So, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for all the times I’ve hurt you. I don’t want to be this way and it seems cliche to say I’m going to change, but I want to change Chuuya, I really do, because I can’t lose you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Okay,” Chuuya replied, “it’s okay.”

Together, they sat there on the couch, their hands clasped together in between them.

Finally, Dazai was the one to break the silence, meeting Chuuya's eyes once more.

“Chuuya, can I tell you something? It’s just, you don’t have to say anything back but I just need you to know that I, well… Chuuya I-”

A loud banging sounded at the front door and the two sprung apart, as the banging only seemed to increase in volume.

“Police! Ouvrez!”

Well fuck.

Notes:

Translation:

“Police! Ouvrez!” - “Police! Open up!”

Chapter 8: He Gazed Hard at the Yellow Butterflies

Summary:

Fists pounded, as the frame threatened to fall.

How could he have been so careless?  

Notes:

I hope you all have been having a good day! Here’s the next chapter! :)

The door shook with exertion.

Fists pounded, as the frame threatened to fall.

How could he have been so careless?  

Usually, Dazai would have already switched locations by now, but with Chuuya being so injured, it had complicated things and made him hesitant to move so quickly with Chuuya still being as weakened as he was from Meursault.  Something that had been partially his fault.

He needed to make a plan and make one fast if they were both going to make it out of here alive.

It was funny how whenever he was with Chuuya, he tended to seek ways to live rather than die.

Thousands of plans flitted through his mind’s eye, as he sought one that would result in his desired outcome.

They were in the middle of the woods, which meant that the party that was checking this cabin had to be somewhere between four to six people. 

Calling themselves the police had to be a cover.  

After all, they were an easy scapegoat, in case the cabin happened to be housed by regular citizens. In reality, judging from the force of the pounding and the splintering of the wood, as the door began to break apart piece by piece, these people had to be ability users. However, their allegiance was not one that Dazai was sure of, as he wasn't quite as well versed on French ability user organizations, having never seen the point.  

After all, these ability users couldn't be under Fyodor, or at least the chances were very low, seeing as he was dead, leaving his people in a probable scramble for power against each other.  They'd be too busy for Dazai right now.  Perhaps later a problem would be posed, but for now, the wound was still too fresh to have scabbed over enough so that they could return to the fight just yet.

However, regardless of whether they were assassins contracted by Meursault, a whole new dangerous group of French ability users, or something else, they were his and Chuuya's enemies who sought them bodily harm. So, that’s how Dazai would see them. No matter their true allegiance, it didn't matter. There was simply no time to work out such irrelevant details and semantics. 

When they finally managed to break down that door, which Dazai knew they would soon, he and Chuuya would have to be prepared to face unknown abilities, so to do that Dazai would have to make sure that-

His thoughts trailed off, as Chuuya suddenly spoke up, a faint red hue lighting up his body.

“If you go now, I should be able to hold them off,” Chuuya began to approach the door, his body tensing with the anticipation of a fight, despite the slight pained shaking of his limbs and the fact that he was hovering above the ground, giving way to the fact that it was still too painful for him to walk unassisted.

“Wow, I knew Chuuya was stupid, but I didn’t realize he was that stupid! If I left, then there goes the chance that they’ll end my miserable existence!”

Dazai made his way over to Chuuya, swinging one arm behind his back, while the other swept under his legs, as they buckled, in response to Dazai’s ability.

To Chuuya’s disdain, he was suddenly held in a bridal carry.

“You fucking bastard!  Let go of me!”

Chuuya twisted in Dazai’s grip, in a desperate attempt to escape

Instead of giving him the satisfaction of a response, Dazai just carried him behind the singular living room table, before setting him down with a smirk.

As soon as Dazai released Chuuya from his grip, he scrambled a short distance away in a desperate attempt to regain his dignity, before forcing himself into a sitting position, as Dazai flipped the table before them, using it for a makeshift barrier.

“Pick me up again and I’ll kill you,” Chuuya threatened, turning his flaming gaze upon Dazai.

Dazai laughed, “but Chuuya!  It's so fun to carry you around with how little you are," Chuuya smacked Dazai's arm who in turn looked at him with big, betrayed eyes, placing a hand over his heart.

"Chuuya, how could you?"

"Fuck you, Dazai."

"Your plan was so stupid anyway, hatrack," Dazai teased, before doing a terrible imitation of Chuuya, "oi!  My name's Chuuya, I'm one-hundred-sixty centimeters short and a huge idiot!  So, I'm going to stand in front of a door, without any backup, with an unsure number of people trying to kill me, while not even being able to stand on my own without using my ability to make me float like a tinny, little, pretty princess!"

"Dazai, if you don't shut up right the fuck now-"

"Chuuya, Chuuya," Dazai protested, "they would’ve gunned us down immediately without a cover! It’s honestly a miracle that you’ve managed to survive without me. But alas! You need not worry, for I have a brilliant plan in mind!”

“Oh yeah?” Chuuya sneered, “And what exactly is your oh-so-brilliant plan?”

The sound of the pounding knocks increased in volume, another unnatural crack appearing on the door. It wouldn’t be much longer before their opponents made it in.

“Well, it’s practically foolproof!” Dazai exclaimed, throwing his arms out excitedly, in grand contrast to the harrowing situation that they were currently in. “When those ability users,” Dazai paused to see if the fact that he was calling them ability users rather than police had caught Chuuya by surprise, but he seemed entirely unfazed, as he impatiently eyed Dazai, waiting for him to finish talking. 

Good. 

That meant that at least his sense hadn't entirely left him after all he'd gone through during that harrowing escape at Mersault like his strength had.  It still didn't make sense why he would tell Dazai to run and cover for him, but that was probably just a fluke.  He would try not to worry too much about that show of idiocy.

 "Well," Dazai continued, "when they break through the door, I need you to make sure to focus your ability on this table," Dazai tapped the flipped table before them for emphasis, "and make sure that nothing can pass it. That way we’ll have a shield, and you won’t have to exert too much energy outside of that.” A devilish scarlet glint haunted Dazai’s eyes, “I, on the other hand, will make sure that these people are properly disposed of.”

At that moment the door broke down and everything went to shit.

---

Wood chips went flying everywhere, as the remnants of the door flung from its hinges. Even though Chuuya would always consider Dazai a total idiot, he trusted his plans, no matter how insane they could sometimes be. Immediately, he activated his ability, alighting the table in a red glaring hue. He hated that he couldn’t be of more use, in the wake of everything that had happened, but this would just have to make due for the moment until he eventually healed. A future that he was growing more and more impatient for with every unfortunate turn of fate.

Bullets ricocheted off the table at alarming speeds, while Chuuya did his best to direct them back in the general direction that they seemed to stem from, hoping to be somewhat more useful than just a glorified shield. 

The deafening sound of a gun echoed through his ears. Back in their mafia days, when Dazai had been rather trigger-happy, Chuuya had once tried to convince Dazai to get a silencer.  That had been before he'd gotten used to the sound after having been around it almost every day for years.  However, Dazai had instantly refused. He'd said something about the loud, ringing noise bringing more excitement into his life.  Which at the time and honestly still today, Chuuya thought was weird, because since when did the loud banging of a gun, right by your ear, spark joy? Still, Chuuya had seen how depressed Dazai had been back then and still saw how it clung to him now, so he'd let the matter go like several others because, at the end of the day, he didn't exactly hate Dazai like he so often said he did.

At the end of the day, Chuuya might even go so far as to say that he wanted him to be happy. So, if something as stupid as a loud gun could bring that into Dazai's life in any shape or form, then he'd decided, back then, that he would bear how the sound made him want to literally jab a screwdriver through his head in order to tune it out.

Of course, after having been in the mafia for so long, Chuuya had eventually gotten used to the noise.  Still, the memory, long forgotten until now, somehow managed to spark a warm feeling in his chest that managed to renew his strength, if only for the moment, as he willed his ability to withstand its overuse.

He wondered if the sound of the gun still brought excitement into Dazai’s life or if that, just like almost everything else in Dazai's life, had eventually failed him, doing nothing to help fill the void that was Dazai’s heart.

He hoped it did.

But honestly, he wasn’t sure.

Except, wait a moment… Dazai couldn’t have had his own gun on him after having been in prison for who knew how long, which meant that the only way he could've gotten one was if it was one of Chuuya’s.

Goddammit. Fucking Dazai.

Distracted by his thoughts, Chuuya was late to realize that one of the ability users had somehow gotten close enough to lay a hand on their table and stare down at them from above, while Dazai’s bullets hovered before their body.

His whole body screamed in agony, as he felt Dazai suddenly jerk them both back and a pained groan escaped through his gritted teeth, while bullets imbedded themselves right where they had been mere moments before.

What the fuck?

What kind of ability user was he?

While Dazai was generally considered the brains out of the two, Chuuya was far from being stupid. If he was, he would’ve been dead a long time ago, nor would he have ever become a Mafia Executive and been good at it. So, it didn’t take him very long to come to the conclusion that he was sure Dazai had already met.

This man couldn’t manipulate gravity like him or else he would’ve just ripped the table away from them to get at them instead of making the riskier move of walking right up to it. Especially with how weak Chuuya currently was, it would've been easy after a few attempts.  Something that pained him to admit.  However, the fact that he’d chosen the halted bullets as his weapon, hinted that he could manipulate metal. It was the most logical conclusion to draw. However, Chuuya would still be sure to be wary just in case he was wrong because one could never be too careful when facing such an opponent. Especially being as injured as he was.

A feral light was brewing in the man’s eyes and it was then that Chuuya realized that his other four comrades lay dead on the floor of the cabin, blood oozing from the fatal wounds inflicted by Dazai’s impeccable aim.

A hole was flung in his theory at that, however, because if they had been shot dead by bullets, then why hadn't this man saved them?  Unless, he was entirely focused on himself, in which case they'd have to be even more careful because a person who only valued their own life and no others was an incredibly dangerous one at that.  This meant that the feral light in this man's eyes wasn't because he mourned the loss of his comrades. Rather, he was scared of losing his own life as they had. 

He was only looking out for himself.

That wasn't the only obstacle, however, because this man seemed to have a tight grip on his ability, which made going up against him all the more dangerous.  

Dazai’s bullets were useless and Chuuya was already basically incapacitated himself. Along with that, this man was desperate to survive, being deadset on killing them both, so that he could live to see another sunrise.

Perhaps, they could spin that to their advantage though. People often made mistakes when overcome with emotion. Still, they had to find an opening, something that seemed far and few in between now that the cover of their safety was gone.

Whatever they decided to do, they’d have to figure it out quickly.

Why couldn’t things ever go as planned?

The man stretched a hand towards the cabin’s kitchen, sending an array of knives soaring towards the pair. Desperately, Chuuya stretched a hand outwards, reaching within himself and forcing his ability into use once more, despite the emaciated state of his body. The knives trembled between the two, as they fought for control. 

Sweat bedded in Chuuya’s hairline and he clenched his teeth in concentration.

“Dazai,” he gritted out, desperate for the idiot to just figure this out already.

Upon hearing no response, Chuuya swatted at the space next to him, while still keeping most of his concentration on keeping the knives from stabbing the both of them, only to find empty air.

The fuck?

Where the hell was he?

Had he just up and fucking left?

Thankfully, regardless of whatever Dazai was doing, the opposing ability user didn't seem to notice nor care, being much too focused on his battle of wills against Chuuya to take notice of the bastard.

Chuuya’s hold on the knives began to slip, as the other ability user began to overpower him. Anger coursed through his veins at the feeling of such uselessness. Usually, he’d have finished this in seconds, but the damn prison-break at Meursault had wrecked his body.

Chuuya wanted to believe that Dazai had a plan while he was just barely holding back the other ability user, but another part of him whispered that Dazai had finally realized just how completely useless Chuuya was and abandoned him yet again.

However, Chuuya had to give him credit, because Dazai was never one to run away from a challenge, so Chuuya wasn’t surprised to see him, as he suddenly seemed to materialize behind the ability user, ironically holding one of Chuuya’s throwing knives in his hand that he must have swiped off of him just like the gun. Even though Dazai was using it to save their lives, he still found himself feeling slightly irritated that he thought it was okay to just take his things. Then again, this was Dazai. Chuuya doubted he’d ever understand the concept of boundaries when it came to stealing other people’s things.

He watched as Dazai grabbed the man’s shoulder in order to cancel out his ability, before mercilessly slitting his throat.

The man’s body fell to the floor, joining his comrades.

Chuuya finally let go of his hold on the knives, letting them clatter to the ground, as he in turn slumped back against the wall behind him. He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut, from the exertion that the past few minutes had put on his body at such short notice after all that it had already endured.

“You can’t fall asleep just yet, Slug,” Chuuya heard Dazai’s voice sound from above him.

“I wasn’t sleeping you idiot,” Chuuya retorted, lowering his hand and glaring up at Dazai above him with fire in his eyes. “In fact, I’m doing great.”

In order to assure him of this Chuuya forced himself to stand and take a few convincing steps forwards towards Dazai, which resulted in him almost immediately falling over, as a tidal wave of pain crashed through his senses.

Generally, Chuuya’s pain tolerance was pretty high.

However, he had been drowned, almost lost himself to corruption, then almost died because of those two things combined, had a wound cauterized, was dehydrated, in desperate need of food, and mentally and emotionally drained next to all of that after having just exerted his ability once again while he was still recovering from everything else.

However, just before his face could make impact with the floor, Dazai reached out and grabbed his arm with one hand, while grabbing the small of his back with his other, as he lifted a defiant Chuuya up in his arms.

“Looks like I’ll just have to carry you again, hatrack,” Dazai teased and Chuuya wanted to kill him for his taunting tone, or at least snark back, but he was exhausted and couldn’t keep his weakened body awake any longer, as he finally succumbed to rest.

---

They couldn’t stay here any longer. That was a conclusion that Dazai had reached almost immediately in the aftermath of the struggle, as he lay Chuuya down on the old rickety couch, before digging around in a small storage cabinet until he found a decently-sized backpack that he deemed suitable for storing necessities. He was quick to fill it with some random cans of food that definitely had to be expired and filled the several water bottles that he could find, before shoving them in as well. Finally, he stripped the cabin's bed of its blankets, so that the two would be able to stay somewhat warm while they search for a new place to lay low and hid a few of Chuuya's knives in the crevices of the bag.

In the time that it took to do all of that, about half an hour had passed and Dazai knew that they'd have to go now or it'd be too late. Sooner or later, someone would notice that these five had yet to report back and would send more to investigate. If that happened, who knew how many would get sent? While Dazai did actually have a general idea, he didn’t want to stick around to see if he was right or not, especially with the shape that Chuuya was currently in. So, pulling the backpack over his shoulders, he lifted Chuuya up in his arms, ignoring the slightly exhausted tremors that ran through them at the overuse of having been put under so much strain recently, and let his snores assure him that he was alright.

“You’re so heavy for being so short,” Dazai grumbled under his breath, as he made his way out of the cabin and started off into the darkened woods, as the moon and stars shone down from above.

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed the chapter! :)

Chapter 9: A Single Tree in the Grass

Summary:

The pounding of rain rang through his ears, cracks of thunder and lightning lit up the night. The wind whistled through the trees.

Slowly, Chuuya began to regain consciousness.

Notes:

Sorry, it’s taken me so long to update lol, life’s been crazy, but I finally have more time now, so I should get back into a more regular posting schedule :)

The pounding of rain rang through his ears, cracks of thunder and lightning lit up the night. The wind whistled through the trees.

Slowly, Chuuya began to regain consciousness.

He opened his eyes, giving them a few seconds to adjust, before finding himself in some sort of cave.  Dazai sat a few feet away from him, staring into the beyond. 

Distantly, he recognized that a few blankets from the cabin were pulled over him, in an attempt to protect him from the cold. Meanwhile, Dazai just sat there with his now soaked prison clothes wetly hugging his body.

For a moment, Chuuya considered offering Dazai to join him under the warmth of the blankets, in order to protect him from the cold as well.  However, before he could say anything, he stopped himself, the feeling of what that could imply hanging heavy in his chest.

But would that really be such a bad thing?

Chuuya pushed the thought from his mind. Best not to think about it.

Dazai must’ve realized that they couldn’t stay in that cabin any longer after everything that had happened. Rightfully so too, it was what Chuuya would’ve chosen to do too, had he not been overwhelmed by his decimated body. It was just annoying that they had nowhere better to go for the moment other than places found by mere luck, being in a country neither was incredibly well-versed in. 

Pushing back the pain pulsating through his numerous injuries, Chuuya forced himself into a sitting position, gritting his teeth as his cauterized wound flared on his chest.  Still, he was grateful to note that the pain wasn't as bad as it had been previously, most likely courtesy of Arahabaki.  One of the only things he was good for, Chuuya supposed.

“You’re awake,” Dazai turned away from the chaotic night that lay beyond the pair, turning all of his attention upon Chuuya. Lightning flashed behind the one once called Demon Prodigy, lighting up the right side of his face in a flash of blinding light.

“Astute observation, dumbass, no wonder people think you're so smart,” Chuuya grumbled back, grateful that they could both fall back into their usual routine of snarky jabs, despite all that had happened between them. It was something that made him eternally thankful for his relationship with Dazai, because no matter how bad things got they always bounced back and looked out for each other. Not that he would ever tell him that. He'd be dead before he ever told Dazai that.

“Aww, Chuuya thinks I’m smart? I didn’t know you were so kind!”

Never mind, fuck Dazai.

Chuuya rolled his eyes, not giving Dazai the satisfaction of a response. A few beats of silence stretched between the two, before Dazai finally broke it, shrugging a backpack off of his shoulders and reaching into it to produce a snack bar and a plastic water bottle.

“You look emaciated and just kind of gross overall,” Dazai muttered disapprovingly, shoving the snack bar and water in Chuuya's direction, who snatched the offering away from Dazai with a glare, “you’re already so short, so we wouldn’t want you to shrink any shorter.”

“Fuck you, I’m still growing,” Chuuya grumbled, taking a defiant bite out of the bar.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dazai waved him off, “keep telling yourself that, if that’s what helps you sleep at night.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

Dazai just laughed.

Chuuya liked it when he laughed.

It didn’t take long for him to finish the snack bar and water, before realizing that he had yet to see Dazai eat or drink anything since they’d met up back at the prison, and despite his endless irritation at the other’s mere existence that didn’t mean he liked Dazai’s self-destructive habits.

“You should really have something too,” Chuuya pointed out, eyeing Dazai’s thin frame,

Like Chuuya had assumed he would, Dazai immediately shook his head, “I already had some earlier, but aww, that’s so sweet! You care about me? Who would’ve thought,” Dazai reached a hand out, tousling up Chuuya’s hair, who almost immediately tore it off of him, beginning to threateningly tighten his grip on the bastard’s wrist in retaliation.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!” Dazai complained, wriggling his arm that was still stuck in Chuuya’s grasp. “Chuuya’s so mean!”

After a few more moments of self-indulgent revenge, Chuuya let go of the offending arm, before grabbing the backpack that Dazai had left in between them.

After a few moments of searching, he was finally able to produce an identical snack bar and bottle of water like what Dazai had given him, before tossing them in the idiot’s direction, who caught them on impulse.

“I told you I already had some earlier,” Dazai complained.

“You really think you can lie to me, Dazai?” Chuuya challenged. He knew Dazai and he knew that it was incredibly unlucky that he’d eaten or drunk anything substantial for a while now. 

When they’d been partners in the Port Mafia, Dazai had often neglected his basic needs when put under pressure and stress, which given the lives they'd lived back then and even still today was practically every waking moment. 

Often, back then, Chuuya would bring him crab-related dishes that he'd made extra of because he'd been trying out a new recipe and had "accidentally" doubled the batch or he'd bring him extra cases of water bottles that he’d “accidentally” bought. 

He'd always told himself that he did it because he couldn’t have Dazai using dehydration or starvation as an excuse to get out of pulling his weight on their joint missions or to get out of paperwork, which was something Dazai would probably end up doing regardless, regretfully. The real truth was something Chuuya only occasionally thought about in moments of weakness. Something he often did his best to repress.

Dazai luckily didn’t give much more push-back and did, in fact, eat the entire bar and manage to finish off the water bottle.

“We should put the bottles outside to collect the rainwater,” Chuuya suggested, almost as an afterthought. “We don’t know how long it’ll be until we figure out a way out of this damn mess and I’d really rather not die of dehydration. That’d be pretty lame.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty painful too,” Dazai agreed, “definitely not the way, I’d want to go.” He grabbed both of their bottles, screwing the caps back off and dropping them in the backpack before setting them outside. “When I go…” Dazai trailed off, seeming to mentally go to a place that was far beyond the reaches of anyone else. 

It was a thing he did that always made something in Chuuya’s stomach clench, while electrifying sparks seemed to shoot up from his abdomen to his shoulders. If he didn’t know any better, he might think he was worried, but this was Dazai he was talking about. They hated each other… or at least that was what Chuuya had always tried to convince himself to think. For if he accepted how he might really feel about Dazai, the reason why he always forgave him with every turn, then he would have to be completely vulnerable. 

Chuuya hated being vulnerable. 

Giving someone that kind of control over his life was something that terrified him because every time he’d ever showed any sense of vulnerability to someone else it seldom ended well. It was safer to hide behind banter, taunts, and jabs, because if that real level of vulnerability were ever to be exposed and then rejected, then all that banter, all those jokes, and all those jabs that Chuuya claimed to hate so much might be gone forever. No matter what he said about his relationship with Dazai. No matter how much toxicity they had to combat in whatever their relationship was. No matter how irritating Dazai got, there was one truth that Chuuya knew deep within himself.

He couldn’t bear losing Dazai.

“Anyways!” Dazai went on, having returned from his traitorous thoughts and breaking Chuuya out of his. “This rain will definitely put a hindrance on any patrols that are out there looking for us.  But alas!  They’ll probably still be out there regardless, since we did kind of break out of a max security prison, after all. I can take first watch since Chuuya must be feeling so tired and lazy under all of those blankets.”

At that, Chuuya rolled his eyes at the bastard, “Dazai, all I’ve been doing is sleeping for the past few days, it’s your turn now, dumbass. I can take first watch, but you need to sleep unless you want the circles under your eyes to sink in any deeper. It makes you look like a zombie. It's actually really fucking creepy and all that shit.”

“But Chuuya’s so weak from all his injuries!” Dazai protested, “if anyone’s a zombie, it’s you.”

“Dazai,” Chuuya dragged a hand down his face, “you need to sleep.”

Dazai opened his mouth again, but before he could say anything Chuuya untangled himself from the blankets, striding over to the bastard, with a finger pointed in the direction of where he’d previously resided. In the back of his mind, he found himself grateful that he was finally able to walk again with minimal pain, one of the positives of having the power of a god residing within him.

“Just go to sleep.”

“So bossy," Dazai smirked, making Chuuya's stomach do a weird flipping thing that he definitely didn't want to look any further into, "but fine, only if Chuuya says please and wakes me up in a few hours for second watch.”

“Please, dear God, I need a break from listening to your goddamn voice.”

At that, Dazai finally acquiesced, making his way under the softness of the blankets and laying down.  Finally closing his eyes much to Chuuya’s relief.

It took a while before Dazai actually fell asleep, which Chuuya was able to tell by his breathing patterns, having known him for as long as he did.

Back when they were kids in the mafia, Dazai would occasionally have nightmares, something Chuuya doubted many people knew about with the exception of himself, maybe Odasaku, and regretfully Mori, having been the cause for many of them.

Back then, whenever they’d roomed together, Chuuya would occasionally wake up to the sound of heavy breathing, which he’d eventually been able to correlate with nightmares. With time, Dazai had gotten better and better at hiding it, but Chuuya was a light sleeper himself, so he’d still generally wake up whenever Dazai had them.

Usually, the heavy breathing would eventually fade to something reminiscent of the peaceful, soft breathing of comfortable sleep. Still, if one were to listen closely, a hitch of breath every now and then could be heard, as Dazai lost himself in probable thoughts of the past.

So, over time, Chuuya learned the difference between Dazai’s breathing patterns.

Every time, Dazai was struck with one of those nightmares though, Chuuya always felt like he should do something. Perhaps comfort him or offer him some form of assurance or just do something at least. Yet, Chuuya would always end up just pretending to sleep, akin to Dazai, because, unlike Dazai, he didn’t dream nor get nightmares, so he wasn’t sure what to say, because he’d never been in that position himself. What if he crossed a line and Dazai abandoned him? Like The Sheep? Like The Flags? Like everyone else eventually seemed to.

So, he left Dazai alone with those horrific images flashing before his eyes because he didn’t know what to do.

Now, he regretted it.  He should've done something.

The day he’d discovered Dazai had left, he’d drunk a bottle of Pétrus. An exorbitantly expensive wine that he’d once bought for a special occasion. A wine he’d hoped to someday share with someone he cared about… like Dazai.

But instead, he drank it to forget.

Forget all the things he could’ve done differently. Forget all those who’d left him. Forget how he’d never be anyone’s first choice. Forget it all.

Except, maybe now he and Dazai would have a second chance to make things right between them, now that it was just them against the world and they had to stick together.

So, Chuuya listened to Dazai's steady, restful breathing, as he stared out into the darkness.  Grateful that at least for tonight while he stayed up, protecting the both of them, Dazai was free of any nightmares.

He never woke him for second watch.

If Dazai noticed in the morning he didn’t say anything about it. Instead, they both just packed everything up in the backpack, along with the now rain-filled water bottles, before setting off into the wilderness that was now alit with morning dew, the rain and storm having retreated along with the darkness of the night.

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed the chapter <3

Chapter 10: The Smoke Rises Meandering in the Stagnant Air

Summary:

Jean?

Who the fuck was Jean?

Notes:

Hey! Back with a new chapter. :)

On a side note, I finally got a copy of Storm Bringer and it’s so good! Has anyone else read it yet?

The air was fresh with the smell of the soft grass beneath their shoes as the two made their way through the underbrush. Birds sang morning melodies above their head and the sun sparkled down from up above, illuminating the woods in a gentle glow.

It would have been beautiful if not for the circumstances that had placed them there. So instead of enjoying the nature around him, Chuuya was absolutely pissed.

They’d been walking for what felt like hours and despite his fast-paced healing, Chuuya was beginning to feel exhaustion set in, after everything that he’d put his body through. Not that he’d tell Dazai that. That piece of shit would probably just use his suffering as another way to make fun of him. The situation was already bad, so giving Dazai more ammunition for his stupid jokes was pretty much the last thing that Chuuya wanted to do right now.

Regardless, they surely had to come across a village or at least something at some point. Yet, as the three hours bled into five which bled into eight, Chuuya was beginning to give up hope. Next to that, it’s not like they could stop to take too many breaks with the relentless patrols that they were just barely managing to keep off their tail.

He wished he could just close his eyes and magically end up back in his bed in Yokohama.

“If I don’t see any signs of civilization within the next hour, I might have to take you up on a double-suicide.”

As Chuuya expected, Dazai didn’t miss a beat, his nose crinkling in disgust.

“A double suicide with you? Yeah… no thanks. Hard pass. I’d rather go back to Mersault.”

"Fuck you too, Dazai."

A few more hours went by and Chuuya was only growing more and more irritated by their current circumstances. Even worse than that, he had no idea how this whole situation had even started on his end.

He cast his mind back, again trying to remember what had happened. Yet all he could remember was being on a mission for Mori before his mind felt void where there should be memories. He couldn’t even remember what the mission had been for or whether or not anyone else had been with him.  Something had happened on that mission though.  Something that had gotten him involved with Bram Stoker that had left him under a vampiric state up until Mersault, where he'd awoken only to almost immediately succumb to drowning and corruption.

After everything with the lab, the thought of more missing memories and what that could imply terrified him.

So lost in his thoughts, Chuuya almost didn’t notice when Dazai stopped in his tracks in front of him. His whole body was tense and he was staring into the distance as if he saw something.

“Dazai? What is it?”

Chuuya barely had time to react, as Dazai spun around and shoved them both behind a tree. Bullets pelted the ground, where they’d been standing only seconds prior.

“Shit,” Chuuya hissed, as a couple of his still-healing wounds were jostled by the impact.

“There’s a sniper twenty meters ahead of us.” Dazai eyed him worriedly, surely wondering if he’d be able to keep up with everything his body had been through, but all this did was manage to somehow irritate Chuuya further.

“Stop looking at me like that. I’m not a piece of fucking glass!”

Chuuya pushed past Dazai, making sure to slam his shoulder into his side as he passed him. Now, knowing what he was relatively up against, Chuuya stepped out from behind the tree.

“Hey, asshole! What are you waiting for? Light me up!”

After everything that had happened, Chuuya needed an outlet for his frustrations with the world. So, this poor sniper would just have to pay the price.

Chuuya expected the sniper to light him up immediately, as was suggested, but then logic suddenly flooded his mind, as he realized they probably knew his ability. If they did, then they weren’t going to shoot. Which meant…

A cry of pain sounded behind him.

“Dazai!”

He raced back behind the tree to see a young woman plunging a syringe into Dazai’s neck. He then proceeded to watch in horror, as Dazai’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and he slumped to the forest floor. The faint rise and fall of Dazai’s chest was the only thing reassuring him that he was still alive.

Energy crackled at his fingertips.  If he was irritated before, he was enraged now.  Arahabaki whispered words of destruction and chaos in his ears.

“What did you do.”

The woman scoffed, casting the syringe to the side. “It’s only a paralytic, nothing to get so worked up about.”

Why wasn’t she afraid of him? She should be afraid of him.

Chuuya dashed forward, twisting his body into one of his signature high kicks. However, as soon as his shoe collided with her face, sending her flying to the ground, something felt off. He just couldn’t quite figure out what it was however until suddenly, he realized that Arahabaki was usually quiet.

Nullification?

She was just like Dazai.

The thing was though that she wasn’t touching him anymore, so theoretically, he should be able to use his ability again. Testing the theory while the woman was still grounded, Chuuya attempted to make himself hover over the ground. A simple trick. Something he should be able to do.

It wasn’t working. Why wasn’t it working?

“Surprised?” She picked herself up off the ground, rolling her shoulders and spitting some stray blood out to the forest floor. “I thought you might be. Jean and I actually made a bet about whether or not you would be.”

Jean?

Who the fuck was Jean?

Suddenly, Chuuya’s eyes flooded with clarity as he remembered the sniper. It was a moment too late, however, as he felt the butt of the sniper's gun collide with the back of his head.  Chuuya slumped to the forest floor, joining Dazai in unconsciousness.
_______

Dazai awoke to the blinding glare of bright white lights in a completely sterile room. Distantly he recalled having been attacked by some woman with a syringe, before losing consciousness.  It had been a while since he'd had someone catch him off guard like that and the thought that she had done so, especially so effectively, unnerved him. He looked down to find himself tied to a chair, his bindings connected to someone behind him.  That someone was Chuuya.

They were back in Mersault. Dread flooded the bottom of his stomach.

“Chuuya,” Dazai hissed, “Chuuya, wake up.”

If he could just get Chuuya to wake up, then they could use Chuuya’s ability to get out of here, while Dazai disabled any technology that got in their way. It was a quick plan, built upon fast thinking and recklessness, but it was the only one that Dazai could come up with that could get them out of here now on short notice. Dazai knew what this place was like having been stuck here with Fyodor for so long. He didn’t want Chuuya to have to experience the things that he had gone through. The thought of having to witness that made him want to throw up.

Even worse, Dazai knew what room they were currently in.

This was a torture chamber.

A groan sounded from behind him, as Chuuya slowly regained consciousness.

“Dazai, what happened? Where the hell are we?”

“Mersault.” All the humor had left Dazai's voice and what remained was something more neutral, detached. “Chuuya, can you use your ability to get us out of here?”

A few beats of silence passed and Dazai could hear Chuuya’s breathing pick up, which definitely was not a good sign.

“Dazai, I don’t know what she did, but ever since we ran into that bitch in the woods, I haven’t been able to use my ability.  I mean, she's not even touching me!  I don't know what the fuck is going on.”

Well, that kind of threw a wrench in his plans.

The door to the room opened with a bang, effectively ending their conversation, as the same woman from earlier entered, with a stoic man in tow. From the way he held himself and his demeanor, Dazai quickly gauged that he was probably the sniper from the woods. From the familiarity the two seemed to share, Dazai also assumed that they were most likely partners, as well.

“Chuuya Nakahara, Osamu Dazai,” The woman greeted, as she lifted a briefcase onto a singular table in the corner of the room. Her partner stood near the door, a pistol now being held in his steady grip, probably there for insurance in case anything went wrong.

“You speak good Japanese for being French,” Dazai attempted small talk, as he tried to buy himself time to think about what they should do next, being trapped in a less than optimal situation with the loss of Chuuya's ability, “you’ve ever been to Japan?”

She laughed, as she carefully picked through some of her tools, until finally coming away with a simple rag.  Odd, Dazai expected her to go for a knife, gun, or even a whip... not a rag.  What exactly was she planning?

“I guess you could say that.”

A spy then.

“Jean,” the woman called out, before saying something in french that Dazai couldn’t quite make out. It was the one language that he’d just never seemed to be able to get. However, where he failed in french, he’d reluctantly admit that Chuuya excelled. So, he could only hope that Chuuya would be paying attention to what they said so that he could ask him later.

Dazai was flung from his thoughts, as Jean left his place near the door and made his way over to him instead, pressing a gun to his head.

“You know what? I thought that my first stay at Mersault was bad, but this sucks. When I get out of here, I’m finding your yelp page and rating this establishment a zero out of ten!”

“The lowest you can do is one out of five, dumbass,” Dazai heard Chuuya grumble out from behind him.

“Okay, fine. I’ll rate you one out of five, but only because I can’t rate you zero out of ten. That’s how bad I rate your service. Now, what’s us being in a torture chamber all about? What do you want to know? I mean there’s a lot to choose from! I’m just trying to narrow it down.”

The woman didn’t answer, nor did she pay attention to Dazai’s antics, instead she just approached Chuuya untying his bindings and promising him that if he made any wrong move that she’d have her partner splatter Dazai’s brains all across the floor.

Dazai watched, as the two entered his line of vision, Chuuya now having left the chair, his bindings cast aside. The woman led him over to a stiff medical-looking bed, making him lay down flat on top of it, once again under the threat of Dazai’s demise.  She fastened straps to his wrists, arms, ankles, legs, chest, and neck, which more than promised to hold him down and prevent him from escaping, especially with the loss of his ability. A situation that Dazai was still trying to figure out. He knew that the woman had to have some kind of a nullification ability, but the extent to which it worked left him puzzled since she didn't have to maintain contact with Chuuya for it to work.

The woman increased the incline of the chair so Chuuya was leaning back at about an angle of twenty degrees. Then proceeded to drape the rag she’d grabbed from the briefcase over Chuuya’s face and produce what looked like a hose from a small chest next to the chair, before attaching it to the spout of a nearby sink.

As kids, both he and Chuuya had been trained on how to withstand torture in the mafia, but as Dazai began to realize exactly which torture method the woman was going for, his heart sank.

“How did you escape Mersault?”

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed the chapter <3

Chapter 11: Death Already May Not Be Far Off...

Summary:

Everything burned, as the water mercilessly assaulted his body. 

It was so dark. 

TW: Waterboarding/Torture

Notes:

Hey, ya’ll! I’m back with another chapter for you. I hope you’ve all been having a good week :)

I may or may not have lightly waterboarded myself to try and figure out how to write it... >.>

Chuuya was hit with the depth of the situation, as the rag was forced over his face. He was trapped here and there was nothing that he could do about it. He would just have to trust Dazai's disgusting craftiness and hope that it would be enough to get them both out of here alive. 

Chuuya would just have to hope that he would be able to withstand what was sure to come.

It irritated him to no end that this was how it always seemed to go. He didn’t entirely blame Dazai, but it seemed like whenever they ended up together, his life always fell into that bastard's hands. For once, he just wanted all the cards on his side.

As the gravity of the situation continued to sink in, Chuuya longed for his ability. He longed to be free of these restraints. Anything that would give him any semblance of control over the situation that he found himself currently trapped in.

Next to him, he could hear the woman demanding to know how they’d escaped Meursault. He was entirely unsurprised to hear Dazai just make crude jokes in response.

A hand pressed down on his forehead, leaving him feeling even more incapacitated than he already was.

This was happening and it was happening now.

Chuuya took a deep breath, as he prepared himself for what was to come. He’d been taught how to handle situations like these, being in the Port Mafia.  He'd even gone through torture in the past. However, he’d never been waterboarded. So, taking all of his training and past experiences with similar situations, Chuuya forced himself to think of a memory. A good one. To help him focus on something else that was not this. He couldn’t let himself panic. He couldn’t lose himself. The moment he did that, it would all be over.

The sound of a knob turning sounded from behind him.

They were eighteen and Dazai still had yet to leave the mafia. It was the first time in months that they’d got a day entirely to themselves without interruption.

Water poured from the spout of the hose and coated his forehead. The rag clung to his face. Chuuya forced himself to remain still. He didn’t breathe.  He couldn't breathe. He forced himself to keep his face as relaxed as possible.

They’d decided to take a trip to the arcade. Just the two of them. After several rounds, however, Chuuya found himself screaming at Dazai, calling him out for cheating, after getting beat for the umpteenth time in some kind of battle royale game. Meanwhile, that asshole had the audacity to be bent over laughing, calling him a sore loser.

Water streamed down his face and entered his nose, unforgivingly. Chuuya couldn’t help it, as he began to cough, his body desperately trying to rid itself of the fluid that mercilessly infiltrated his system.

Chuuya challenged Dazai to yet another rematch. Except for this time, it was for all or nothing. To no one’s surprise, except for Chuuya, Dazai won yet again. Once more, Chuuya found himself cursing the bastard out, which ultimately led to the two being kicked out of the arcade for causing a scene. It hardly bothered them though and they actually found it quite funny, as they made their way through the streets of Yokohama, joking about the exasperated looks on the faces of the arcade's management until they came upon an ice cream parlor.

Everything burned, as the water mercilessly assaulted his body. 

It was so dark. 

The rag was pressed claustrophobically against his face, making him feel like he was back in that room. Where Dazai’s voice had tauntingly wished him a farewell through the intercom.  His words echoed through Chuuya's ears, but Chuuya took his resolve and forced such thoughts away. He couldn’t think of that right now. He couldn’t panic. He needed to focus on his memory. On that good memory.  The memory that would keep him grounded and tethered to this world. So, he forced himself to relax, once more, but deep down, he knew his will was starting to give.

Upon reaching the parlor, Chuuya ended up getting vanilla, while Dazai got chocolate. It was pretty good, coming from one of their favorite shops.  

Together, the pair dipped into an alleyway, bickering as they finished their cones in the protection of the darkness which consumed the light around them.

His torturer let up for a moment, lifting the end of the rag slightly. Just enough so that Chuuya could forcefully drag in some much-needed air. His throat was raw from the brutal attack that had been wrecked upon it. He was pretty sure he could hear the woman and Dazai conversing about something in the background, but couldn't bring himself to care enough to listen. 

All he needed was to focus on not breaking under the pressure. 

He needed to stay in control. He couldn’t let himself break. He just had to hold on until it was all over.  

This couldn't go on forever, after all.  At some point, Dazai would save them, and then he would make fun of Dazai for not doing something sooner.  They'd fall back into their usual antics and it would be okay. It had to be. So he just needed to hold on until then. He had to trust Dazai, as hard as that could sometimes be because he couldn't do this alone.  Not strapped down and lying prone on the table, as his torturer led an onslaught against him. Doing things alone just simply wouldn’t be possible with the situation that they’d found themselves in. Chuuya had to trust Dazai to find a way out and Dazai had to trust Chuuya not to break. Once again, he reassured himself that Dazai had things under control and so did he. 

It would all be fine.  Everything was going to be okay.

He wasn’t drowning. He wasn’t drowning. He wasn’t drowning. He was going to be okay.

The rag was pulled back over his face and suddenly, he couldn’t breathe again, as the onslaught of water resumed.

When they’d finished their ice cream, the pair headed back towards Chuuya's apartment. After he’d found out that Dazai called a shipping container his home, Chuuya had made it his mission to make sure that the idiot stayed somewhere a bit more habitable. A place that was currently Chuuya’s guest room. He told Dazai that it was because his shipping container was unsanitary and gross. That he didn’t want the person who was his partner, living in such a dump and dragging the smell along with him whenever they worked together. That wasn’t the real reason though. The real reason was something that Chuuya kept to himself. Something that he still had yet to confess.

Water assaulted his nose, mouth, and ears. Desperation stirred within Chuuya's gut, as he longed to get away. He didn’t want this. He needed to escape. He needed to get out of here now, but he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t. So panicking would do absolutely nothing, except make it worse. He tried his best to remind himself of this, but it was hard to use reason when he was up against an intense assault against this body. Once more, he forced himself to think of better times. He couldn’t focus on what was happening to him right now. He couldn’t break.  He needed to stay calm, as best as he could.

Except that was easier said than done.

The sound of Dazai’s voice filtering through the intercom invaded his thoughts once more.  Again, he forced it away. He couldn’t think of that right now. He needed to focus on that memory instead. That day. That nice day.

Once they were back at Chuuya’s apartment, the two competed against each other in a few rounds of Tetris. 

It was decided that the loser had to cook dinner. 

Somehow, Chuuya finally managed to win and he laughed in Dazai's face, teasing him about how he had finally lost and now had to cook. He kept his teasing up until Dazai actually started cooking and then proceeded to almost burn Chuuya’s entire apartment down.

It was at that moment that Chuuya wondered if Dazai had actually lost on purpose, just so that he could be a menace to Chuuya’s kitchen. However, he didn’t allow himself to follow that train of thought much further, deciding that he’d much prefer to think that he'd won on his own, over believing that Dazai had let him win on purpose. 

Frantically, Chuuya had patted out the fire that luckily didn’t go beyond a kitchen towel, while Dazai just burst into laughter. So, maybe saying Dazai almost burned down his apartment was a bit of an exaggeration, as the only victim of the fire was, in fact, a measly towel, but Chuuya hardly cared. 

It was on that day that Chuuya decided to ban Dazai from ever cooking in his apartment again. So, in the end, in order to combat any more kitchen mishaps, they ended up ordering takeout instead.

Chuuya did his best to keep himself from swallowing too much water, but it was everywhere, penetrating his system and making him think of things he’d rather forget. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to be anywhere but here. Still, he forced himself to keep it together, but it was becoming too much, even for him.  Someone who had been trained to hold out against things like this. 

The flow of the water never seemed to stop, and he found himself beginning to lose his sense of time. The breaks in between began to feel shorter and shorter, as every moment seemed to blur together into infinity. Against his will, his control finally broke and his body began to thrash, a primal urge filling him to break free of the bondages because he needed to get away. He couldn’t do this anymore. It was becoming too much and he just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t. Why wasn't it over yet?  Was Dazai going to let him die this time?  Was this how he went out? He tried to reassure himself once more that it would be okay. Except that, it wasn't okay.  None of this was.  Why was his life only ever just a series of unending misery?

They ended up getting two bowls of soba and some dumplings. It was quite honestly amazing. Perhaps even better than the ice cream that they'd had earlier. After they'd finished their meal and placed their dishes in the sink, Dazai made his way to the door.

“Well, then. Goodbye!”

A red hue entered his singular eye, not covered by the bandages, as he stared down at Chuuya. The walls seemed to distort, making Chuuya feel even smaller than he was. Except… no, no, no. That wasn’t right. After they'd finished their soba and dumplings, they'd played some video games, before falling asleep on the couch, together. It'd been nice. So incredibly nice. The perfect memory to keep him grounded.

Except that wasn’t what Chuuya saw, as his mind’s eye fell into madness, under the stress of the situation that he was in.

Dazai disappeared. Quite literally flickered out of existence, as he left Chuuya all alone.

Laughter echoed in Chuuya’s ears.

“You thought I cared about you? Well, look at what good that did for you, Chuuya. Now, you’re going to drown. You’re going to die. Such a loyal dog, but loyalty has never done anything for you, has it? In the end, everyone still leaves. Even me.”

Dazai’s voice echoed through the empty room, which began to morph and take shape to resemble that horrible room in Meursault.

Water surrounded him and he looked down to see hands grabbing at his feet, pulling him under.

He couldn’t do this.

With that, he broke.

Chuuya could no longer tell what was real and what was fake. The water was everywhere, all-consuming until it was all that he knew. He couldn’t hear. He couldn’t see. He could only feel it as it pooled in his throat, stabbed at his lungs, lit his nose on fire, and reached for his heart. 

He was back in that room. Being pulled under the water while Arahabaki screamed in his mind to let go and give him the reins. Except for this time, there were no other voices, just his own tormented thoughts.  Arahabaki was silent, as was his ability. He was lost under the pull of the water with no sense of up or down, unable to move.

He wanted it to stop. He’d never wanted something to stop so bad, but his torturer didn’t give in to the shaking of his body nor his muffled pleas that became garbled by the rag and water.  The torture just went on and on, until suddenly Chuuya felt consciousness beginning to leave him.

He tried to hold on.  He really did, but in the end, it was too much, as his body finally succumbed to the pressure of the torture.  In the safety of unconsciousness, where there was naught but blank space, at least he would be protected from the horrors of his current situation. Even if that empty state made him feel less than human.  Even if it meant he was giving up, he just couldn't do this anymore.

In the distance, he could’ve sworn he heard someone screaming his name, but there was nothing left in him to care.  Finally, he let himself fade away.

---

Dazai forced himself to let go of his attachment to Chuuya, despite knowing that the woman probably wouldn't entirely believe his uninterested act, after having presumably seen the video feed of their first escape. Still, Dazai continued to hold his composure, not even breaking it as Chuuya's body began to thrash against the restraints, no matter how much he secretly wanted to. 

He couldn't answer the woman and tell her how he'd gotten them out of here the first time, because if he did, then that would mean that they'd have no chance to do it again.  So he met her questioning with crude comments to try and irritate her into making a slip-up.

Chuuya would be okay. 

He would be able to handle the torture. He had to. He was the strongest person Dazai knew, after all. So, he would be okay.

It was disappointing how wishful thinking seldom seemed to become reality.

Chuuya's body fell limp and Dazai's world froze along with it.  He called his name, but Chuuya was entirely unresponsive, while something dark and twisted swirled in the woman’s eyes.  She didn’t let up from the torture, even though Chuuya was obviously unconscious.

Something within him snapped and suddenly, he felt like he was eighteen years old again, seeing Oda’s body limp against the floor. The only thing that differentiated them was the barely decipherable rise and fall of Chuuya’s chest.

Red filled his vision and it only took him a moment to break free of his bindings, grabbing Jean’s gun from him and shooting him dead. Dazai didn’t even watch the body fall to the floor, he had already readjusted the gun to refocus on the woman who had brought them here.

Except somehow in the time that it’d taken for him to do that, she’d grabbed a gun of her own, pressing it tightly against Chuuya’s temple.

Checkmate.

“Put the gun down, Osamu,” the woman instructed, the sound of his first name sounding unnatural as it rang through the tense air. 

No one called him that.

Calculations flickered through Dazai’s mind, as he tried to figure out whether he’d be able to kill the woman before she killed Chuuya. In the end, he knew it was too much of a risk and scowled, as he let the gun fall to the floor, kicking it over to her. The woman picked it up, while still keeping her weapon trained on Chuuya. She didn’t even seem interested in the death of her partner. A chill ran through Dazai as he realized that she almost reminded him of his younger self before he’d left the mafia.

He allowed the woman to lead him back over to the chair and redo his restraints. This time, Dazai found her tightening them until they were biting into his skin, leaving burning scarlet marks in their wake.

With that, the woman tore the rag away from Chuuya’s face, before lifting her dead partner with the faintest of frowns on her face.

“When I return, I expect you to tell me how you escaped. If you don’t, then next time, I won’t be quite as merciful.”

The woman exited the room, the door slamming shut behind her.

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Another one should be coming within the next week <3

Chapter 12: He Said Laughing That The Stars Would Become Me, Only Recently

Summary:

Chuuya awoke to the white walls of that accursed room, his whole body feeling like he’d just been run over by a truck.

Notes:

Hey, I’m back with another chapter! I hope you all enjoy it. :)

Chuuya awoke to the white walls of that accursed room, his whole body feeling like he’d just been run over by a truck.

As came to, he realized that he'd been taken from where he’d initially been strapped down on the bed, in favor of another chair with bonds adorning his body and keeping him securely rooted to it. 

The lingering effects of the torture haunted him, as the memories began to assault his mind. He felt like he could still feel the water pooling at the bottom of his throat and his body shaking futilely against the bindings. Still, now was not the time to reminisce over such things. There was simply no time for that.

Dazai sat across from him, eyeing him with muted concern.  However, that quickly melted into his usual frozen expression, upon realizing that Chuuya was awake.

“Finally, you’re awake! It took you long enough. I was getting so bored waiting for you to wake up. Imagine if you hadn’t and died on me over something as lousy as waterboarding! I would’ve been so disappointed. You are my dog, after all. Dogs aren’t supposed to die before their masters.”

“Just shut up, asshole,” Chuuya grumbled back, “neither of us is dying here and for the thousandth time, I am not your fucking dog.”

They both fell silent, as the sound of the door creaking open echoed across the room and the woman from earlier stepped in, her face devoid of emotion. Chuuya’s body tensed, while Dazai kept up his usual icy, nonchalant demeanor.

"Where's your partner?"  Chuuya snarked, eyeing her suspiciousness.

She walked up to Chuuya grabbing his face with one hand, instead of answering him, while reaching into her pocket with the other to unveil a knife. He stilled his body, as he prepared for the stinging sensation of the sharp metal drawing scarlet lines across his skin.  That was not what happened, however, as his expectations were completely scattered.  Instead of digging into him, the knife instead cut through his bondings. 

The woman quickly stepped back once she’d finished.

It took Chuuya a moment to process what had just happened.  Even Dazai looked a little bit surprised. However, the moment passed quickly, as Chuuya jumped into action, aiming a sweeping kick at the woman, in an attempt to ground her. For even without his ability, Chuuya Nakahara was still dangerous, being one of the best martial artists in the Port Mafia.

The woman narrowly twisted out of the way, dodging the kick by mere millimeters and pulling a concealed gun from her waist, pointing it directly at Dazai’s head.

“Careful,” she warned, “it’d be a shame if I had to shoot your friend.”

“Friend?” Chuuya spat, “I don’t know if I’d call him that.” Still, Chuuya refrained from advancing any further, at the threat of Dazai’s life slipping through his fingers like the lives of so many others he’d watch fade away through the duration of his own.

Dazai just watched the whole thing play out, the bored look having morphed into one of faint amusement.

“If you want to shoot me in the head, I’d prefer it if you did it from the back. Hit the brainstem, you know? That way I can have a quick, painless death! You know honestly, that might not actually be such a bad idea-”

“Shut up, shitty Dazai,” Chuuya cut him off, keeping his attention still mostly focused on the woman, who was looking a bit put off by Dazai’s words, but quickly recovered, as she partially followed through on what he said and walked around behind him. She adjusted her aim, shoving the barrel into the back of his head.  However, her aim kept the gun pointed just above the brainstem, rather than at it, as Dazai had wished.  He looked almost disappointed for a moment before that morphed back into his usual bored look.

“Now, I want you to come here and stand in front of Osamu, Chuuya,” the woman instructed and confusion fluttered across Chuuya’s face at her usage of Dazai’s given name. He watched a flicker of irritation cross Dazai’s face, but he refrained from saying anything. Instead, he just raised his eyes to meet Chuuya’s, watching as he approached him.

The woman drew the knife she’d used to cut through Chuuya’s bonds earlier and inspected it briefly before offering Chuuya the hilt. He took it, although confusion flickered through his gaze, at having been handed such a weapon until suddenly it clicked and he felt his heart sink to his stomach.

“Good,” the woman encouraged, realizing he'd gotten it with the faint change of his expression. “Now, as you've probably guessed, I’m going to instruct you on what to do. If you don’t listen, then I’ll shoot Osamu in the back of the head and make sure I hit as many nerves as possible to make sure he doesn't die easily. I doubt either of you would want that. Such a painful way to die really. But it isn't like he doesn't deserve it. I mean, in leaving this place you killed so many. Plus, now you've even murdered my partner too, to make it even better, at the hands of the ever-so-generous Osamu!” She paused, and where she'd been practically void of emotion in the aftermath of Jean's death, now something seemed to break in her gaze, almost as if she was realizing for the first time that what had happened was real, “Jean had a family you know. He and his husband had just adopted two kids. Five and twelve years old. But now, because of you two, his husband will be raising those two kids alone on a fucking barista salary. I wouldn’t be surprised if they get sent back into the system really as fucked up as that is.  Still, I doubt that either of you gives a damn about that! You're so wrapped up in your own little fucking world of playing mafioso and detective, never thinking about the consequences of your own goddamn actions.” Her eyes locked onto Chuuya’s, “so now, you or your friend here are going to tell me how you two escaped from this prison or I’ll make you inflict the sort of pain that you both have inflicted upon so many, upon Osamu here ten-fucking-fold."

As much as Chuuya didn’t want to admit it, what she said had affected him, as much as he felt almost nothing but disdain towards the woman herself. He felt horrible now about asking where her partner was upon seeing her walk through the door. Faint feelings of self-hatred stirred in the gut too at the thought of two kids, now without one of their fathers, and the probable threat of going back into the system weighing on their young backs, all because of him and Dazai. 

Dazai, however, seemed unaffected, as per usual. At least on the outside.

“Yes, yes such a sad story. Anyways, let’s just get on with it. I’d like to just get this over with, instead of waiting all day listening to your sob story, if that’s cool with you? The anticipation is killing me.”

The woman tightened her grip on the gun.

“Cut the bandages off of his arms and neck,” the woman instructed, eyes hard and cold.

What?

Chuuya hadn’t expected that. He’d anticipated being instructed to draw blood, not tearing away the carefully wrapped bandages, serving as one of the only things that protected Dazai from his past. Yet, somehow doing this felt worse than what he’d expected he’d have to do.

He readied the knife, holding the end of the bandages up with his index finger for easier access and more assurance that he wouldn't accidentally cut Dazai in the process. He was sure that Dazai wanted to be anywhere else but here with the incoming loss of one of his most significant boundaries, judging from how he'd gone totally silent rather than making another jab. 

Chuuya already knew what lay beneath, having been his partner for so long. Still, he’d never asked where they’d come from, although he could guess. It just wasn’t his business and something that Dazai didn’t really like to go into or even really acknowledge, hence the bandages. Still, Chuuya knew that they couldn’t just give away how they’d escaped, not that he was even entirely sure of the answer to that question, as Dazai had done most of the planning on that one with Chuuya having been essentially out of commission for most of it.  He also couldn't allow Dazai to be shot while he just stood there, useless, as much as he claimed to hate him.  So, Chuuya steadied his hand and tore the first set of bandages on Dazai’s right arm clean off.

They fluttered like feathers to the floor.

He repeated this process on Dazai’s left arm, feeling terrible all the while. He wanted to tell him he was sorry for what he was doing. That he didn’t have a choice, but he knew that Dazai already knew that. 

To most, Dazai would seem unfazed, meeting Chuuya’s gaze steadily and keeping his body relaxed for the most part. However, Chuuya knew Dazai much better than a lot of people and could tell by the increasingly distant look in Dazai’s eyes, as the brown in his eyes began to dull, that this was hurting him, possibly more than any flesh-wound ever could. This was taking the autonomy of his body away from him. Stripping him bare for all of the world to see.

Where the bandages used to reside there was now pale skin, having been unexposed to any sunlight in so long. Upon them were a seemingly endless number of jagged scars, burn marks, and old gunshot wounds. Chuuya didn’t let his eyes linger long, as he moved on to Dazai’s neck.

He slid one hand behind Dazai’s neck, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse against his palm. 

At the feel of surprisingly silky hair covering his fingers, an idea began to form in his mind.

He brought the knife up to Dazai's neck.

Behind them, the woman looked almost proud that she’d managed to manipulate the once infamous Double Black into such a situation, as a smile began to blossom on her face.

Carefully, Chuuya began to slice the sharp blade down the bandages covering Dazai’s throat, gently so that he didn't accidentally knick his skin. Then, he began to softly tap morse code on the back of Dazai’s neck, where his hair covered Chuuya’s hand.

Lean forward. Five seconds.

He counted down in his mind, the knife sliding down Dazai’s throat going with the pace of his counting.

Five… four… three… two… one…

Zero.

Dazai flung his body forward and Chuuya swung his knifed hand away from Dazai’s throat, stabbing the blade into the barrel of the gun and forcing it upwards.  It flung from the woman’s grip and flew through the air, clattering to the floor a few meters away, the knife still stuck in the barrel.

The woman sprang back with a yell, and Chuuya lept after her, shoving his hands into his pockets.

He aimed a high kick at her jugular, which she just narrowly managed to dodge, by quickly side-stepping to the right. Chuuya didn’t let up though, as he launched into kick after kick until finally, the woman managed to dislodge another knife from her boot and swing it at him, forcing Chuuya to leap back. She lunged again and he quickly stepped to the side, a bit too late, however, as he felt the edge of the blade glance off of his cheek.

In retaliation and the humiliation of her landing a hit, Chuuya spun around aiming a kick to her side that sent the woman flying into the far wall. The sound of something cracking echoed throughout the room, but whatever the woman had just broken didn’t faze her, as she jumped back up to her feet, while something feral lit up her eyes.

"I should've just killed you both when we found you."

The woman sprung at Chuuya again, the knife swinging down towards his throat. He managed to lean back just in time, evading the hit, however, having been distracted by the knife, he wasn’t ready for the feeling of the woman aiming a kick of her own at his gut. He was sent him flying backward, gasping for breath.

It had all been a distraction Chuuya realized belatedly, as he saw her now sprinting towards the gun that lay on the floor.

He ran after her with a shout but was too late, as she grabbed the gun, tearing the knife from the barrel and aiming it at his heart.

She fired without a second thought.

There was no time to get out of the way. This was it. He was going to die.

Time seemed to slow down and his whole life flashed before his eyes, as the projectile got closer and closer. He remembered joining the sheep, exploring the underworld with Dazai, doing karaoke with Akutagawa and Gin, spending days sipping tea and chatting with Kouyou, and longed for just one more moment of the sweetness of life.

He didn’t want to die.

Yet, suddenly he wished the bullet had just collided with him, as bright white clothing suddenly entered the edge of his vision and slammed into him. Meanwhile, he was sent flying out of the projectile's way.

He landed, his muscles hurting from the impact, but overall he was unharmed.

His eyes flickered to his left and his eyes widened with unbridled rage shining their depths, as he began to realize the full extent of what had just happened.

Once white clothes were now scarlet and quickly darkening in color, as Dazai lay wheezing on the ground, curled up and clutching a bullet wound that had mercilessly entered his side.

The bullet that had been meant for Chuuya.

“Dazai!"

Notes:

Next chapter should be up sometime next week :)

Chapter 13: Soiled Sorrow Frightens Me Piteously

Summary:

He didn’t have his ability. He didn’t have Arahabaki. He only had himself, but that was all he needed.

He refused to let them die here. He refused to let Dazai die here.

TW: Graphic Violence

Notes:

I had a random spark of motivation and wrote this chapter a bit earlier than I usually do lol. I hope ya’ll enjoy it <3

Dazai had saved him. Dazai was bleeding out on the floor. Dazai was going to die.

Because of the bullet.  Because of him.  It was always because of him.

He should've been faster.  He should've been stronger.  Dazai shouldn't be lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

With a cry of rage, Chuuya tore off his gloves and ran at the woman. He wanted to feel her pulse come to a stop. He wanted to feel the life leaving her body.

Another bullet fired from the gun.  He jolted his body to the side, just barely managing to evade it.  It was too late for her to fire another.

He slammed into her, pinning her up against the wall.

He didn’t have his ability. He didn’t have Arahabaki. He only had himself, but that was all he needed.

He refused to let them die here. He refused to let Dazai die here.

He twisted her wrist, forcing her to drop the gun. The woman's eyes glowed with sheer hatred at having lost the upper hand. Now, having disposed of the immediate threat that she possessed, he reached a hand up grabbing the woman’s neck and squeezing tight.

He then lifted his arm until she was dangling a few inches off the floor. Her legs kicked out beneath her and her eyes began to bulge, as red veins enlarged in their depths.

He squeezed tighter and tighter, enjoying the look of pain and fear suddenly beginning to adorn her face.

She didn’t deserve to live. She was a monster. She deserved to die.

Chuuya would make sure she paid for her sins.

However, a sudden jolting pain that resonated somewhere in his gut said otherwise, as he dropped her with a pained gasp.

He looked down.

A knife was protruding from his stomach, distantly reminding him of his parting with the sheep.

If he didn’t remove it, then in theory he should be alright at least for the short run.

The thing was though, if he took it out, he could use this weapon to defeat the woman, who was now desperately gasping for breath on the floor, after having been almost straggled to death by his own monstrous hands. He could end this now. For while he would love to kill her with his own two hands, doing this, the unexpected, would be much more efficient.

Chuuya tore the blade from his stomach, stifling down the scream of pain that tried to escape his throat, before dropping down beside the woman.

He grabbed her from behind, straddling her waist with his legs and gripping her forehead with his empty hand to keep her still.

He lifted the blade, moving it to swipe cleanly across her neck.

She reached up, just barely managing to stop the blade before it could make contact, as she caught it with her hand.  The blade tore through her palm.

Chuuya continued to apply pressure, feeling the blade starting to press up against bone.

“Okay, okay, okay. Stop! Stop! Stop! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” The woman suddenly cried out, finally breaking her composure completely when faced with the high probability of her own death. Instead of the once fearless woman, now there was someone who sounded broken, afraid, and ever-so human.

“I have a daughter, please,” the woman continued, her voice catching on her words, as she began to sob.

Chuuya pressed down harder, beginning to saw against the bone in her hands, making the woman scream.  He had to do this.  He had to kill her to save Dazai.

“She’s five! She just started primary school, please, dear god. Please don’t kill me. I can’t leave her alone. I can’t. My name's Camille, this organization is the only way to afford to support my daughter. Her name’s Yuan and she’s so smart and bright and I’m all that she has left. Please. My wife died. Years ago. If I leave she’ll have no one left. Please, please, don’t kill me. I'm sorry I shot your friend! I had no choice.  Please, please you've got to believe me. I'm so incredibly sorry! Don't make me leave my daughter all alone.  Please don't leave my baby all on her own.  Oh god, please.”

Yuan.

He’d known a Yuan once.

The starts of tears prickled in the corners of his eyes and his grip faltered for a moment, as he remembered the girl with pink hair and a teasing manner, who had once been like a sister to him. The girl who had been one of the people who had helped save him from the streets.

That girl had lost both of her parents. Could he really do that to another child?

In that moment of hesitation, Camille tore the knife from his hands with her own torn ones and jabbed it backward with the desperation that only a mother could possess.  She just narrowly missed Chuuya’s left eye, as he flung himself to the side.  It would've been a direct hit too, if not for the sorry state of her hands which trembled as they gripped the knife.

That was stupid. So incredibly stupid. He couldn’t afford to get distracted by such things. He could’ve ended it then and there, but now he’d have to find a new opening.

He couldn't let Dazai die.  After all, he was supposed to be the one to kill him, right?  Not some measly bullet.

So he had to make sure Dazai was okay.  Even if that meant once more sacrificing the humanity that he longed to have.

He had to kill Camille.  Even if it left her child alone.  It was either kill or be killed.  There was no other choice.

It didn’t take much for Chuuya to reclaim the knife, as he tore it once more from Camille's scarlet hands.

He twisted his body, so he was now crouched over her while she lay prone on the floor.

He grabbed Camille’s hands, pinning them to the ground.

Lifting the knife, he brought it down on her jugular.

Except he was stopped again, the blade now sticking right through her right hand that had somehow escaped his grip.

“Please, I can’t leave my baby. I can’t leave my little girl. Please, have mercy. Oh god, please.”

He tore the knife up, splitting her hand in two, and stabbed down.

“No! Please-”

Blood gurgled in her throat, as he stabbed down hard. Her body seized. He didn’t stay to watch. In the back of his mind, he wondered what would become of the girl, who was now without any mother.  All because of him.

“Monster.” He thought he heard behind him as he got off of her and raced towards Dazai, but it was alright. He already knew that. He’d known for a long time.

Upon reaching him, Chuuya slid to the floor, hands fluttering up to Dazai's throat, as he desperately checked his pulse. It was faint and much too slow for his liking, but he was still alive. He was still breathing.

That would just have to be enough.

Grabbing Dazai and swinging him up upon his back, Chuuya stumbled towards the door. The woman was dead now, rendering her nullifying ability useless against Chuuya, but now with the weight of his old partner pressed up against his back, he once again faced the reality of being without the helpful assistance of his ability. 

Essentially, he’d be doing this alone.

But alas, he couldn’t fail. He wouldn’t fail. He would just have to be enough on his own.

His stomach burned from the darkening stab wound that gushed blood from his gut, but he ignored it, thinking of how much worse Dazai’s bullet wound was. He'd survived much worse in the mafia anyways.

He could do this. He would get them out of there no matter what it took.

They wouldn’t die here. They couldn’t.

Stepping up to the woman’s body, he swiped her high clearance keycard from her coat pocket. Then, went to go pick up the pistol, the metal that had caused so much damage to Dazai’s now frail frame weighing heavily in his hand.

Once he left the interrogation room, there would be no telling what he’d face. With the number of cameras in this place, he’d be up against almost impossible odds, but hadn’t it been that way his entire life? He’d find a way. He always did.

Swiping the keycard, Chuuya opened the door and ran.

Immediately gunfire chased him down the hallway, as he dodged and evaded the cruel metal, his training in the mafia and adrenaline fueling him.

Spinning around corners, ducking behind any sort of cover he could find, and shooting blind cover-fire behind him, Chuuya ran through the facility looking for an elevator or anything that could potentially bring him to the surface and out of this hell.

Bang.

A shot tore through his shoulder, sending him pitching forward, while scarlet red dripped down his clothes from the new hole marring his body.

Chuuya cried out in pain, as his vision swam with black spots.

But he couldn’t stop. He had to save Dazai. He couldn’t give up just yet.

So, he continued to run, shots echoing behind him, while he shot back, in a continued attempt to buy himself some time and cover. Another stray bullet hit his leg, making him stumble momentarily, but he kept running, even as his blood was drained from all the holes in his body.

He wouldn’t just lay down and die without a fight.  He couldn't.

Spinning around another corner, Chuuya was met with not more guns, but rather a heavily built man grinning, as he approached the pair with a long, serrated knife. Chuuya raised his gun, firing in retaliation, but the gun merely clicked.

It was empty. Fucking empty.

What lovely timing.

Chuuya twisted to the side, narrowly dodging the man, as he swung the knife at him.

Managing to put a little distance between himself and the man, Chuuya quickly laid Dazai up against the wall, before turning to face the man once more, bunching up his fists.

His ability stirred within him like a spark ready to burst into a fire.

The man swung at him again and Chuuya flipped backward, narrowly avoiding the knife once more. The fast motion stung his stab wound and he groaned, pressing a hand up against it, in a desperate attempt to quiet the pain.

He needed to end this quickly.

Seeing his show of weakness, his opponent let down his guard a bit, assuming he'd have an easy kill.  It was a slip-up.  A slip up that he would never make again.  For Chuuya would neither fall so easily to a mere knife nor some random man.

The burly man swiped at him again, but this time with a little bit less precision, having misjudged his target for someone weaker than Chuuya actually was.

It was something that Chuuya had anticipated. 

That time, instead of evading, he just grabbed the knife and used his ability to stop it from breaking his skin. The man’s eyes widened in shock and he tried to back away but it was already too late, as Chuuya grabbed the man's wrist and proceeded to fling him against the far wall.

The man was dead on impact.

Blood exploded against the wall and dripped down Chuuya’s face, matting in his hair.

Such violence and for what?

He ran to grab Dazai once more, lifting him onto his back. Then, he proceeded to again race down the ghostly hallways, narrowly avoiding gunfire that he could no longer deter with the now empty pistol and sudden lack of cover, as the hallways started to get increasingly narrow.

The gunshots in his arm and leg burned and his gut throbbed, but he forced himself to ignore it. If he let it get to him and stopped now, even just to catch his breath, he knew he wouldn’t be getting back up. 

He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t let Dazai die, just because he was weak.

Finally, he came upon an elevator and almost started crying out of relief. Chuuya sprinted up to it, frantically hitting the up button and flashing the keycard against a box placed next to the contraption, as the sound of his pursuers got increasingly closer.

The first of the pursuers emerged, letting out a volley of gunfire.

The door opened.

Chuuya flung both himself and Dazai into the machine, as where they had been standing only seconds prior was lit up with heavy fire.  Desperately, he pressed them both up against the elevator's side in a last-ditch attempt for cover. Then, frantically he began jamming the buttons for the top floor and to get the doors to close.

One of the guards appeared in front of the elevator just as the doors were almost closed and lit the machine up with a volley of fire, as Chuuya ducked down. He pulled Dazai up even closer to his body, using his back as a shield.  Then Chuuya squeezed his eyes shut and prepared for the worst.

The elevator mirror behind them shattered into a million pieces, but Chuuya barely felt it as some dug into his back, his other injuries drowning out the pain from the glass.

It was only out of sheer luck that none of the bullets hit them.

Finally, the doors shut.

They had peace. No matter how short it would soon inevitably be cut.

They wouldn’t be getting out of this one, this time, would they?  It appeared their luck may have finally run out.

Once they reached the surface, there were sure to be people waiting for them there and there would be nothing left to do but die.

Chuuya shifted his position so that he was now sitting next to Dazai, rather than over him.  He let his head rest against the others.

Was this really going to be how he died? In a volley of gunfire? In a foreign country with the man who he claimed to hate? The man who he actually loved?

A cough sounded next to him and Chuuya’s eyes widened, turning his blue gaze upon Dazai’s brown.

“Chuuya,” Dazai rasped, “Ango… coming.”

What?

He wasn’t able to ask what exactly Dazai meant by that, but it was too late anyway, as the elevator came to a stop and Dazai slipped back into unconsciousness.

Chuuya forced himself to stand, lifting Dazai upon his back once more.

What Dazai had said could just be him losing his sanity in the throes of death, but what if he was right? What if Ango was coming?

Regardless, Ango wasn’t going to make it in time at this rate, because Chuuya doubted he’d be waiting on the other side of that door.

He’d have to buy them some time. He’d have to buy Dazai some time.

He always knew he'd die young. He just wished he could die as himself.

Now resolved to what he had to do, Chuuya slipped his hat off his head, placing it on Dazai’s own. At least if he died, he could force Dazai into wearing what he considered to be terrible fashion. It would be one last taunt before he likely succumbed to what he was about to do.

“I love you. I’m sorry I never said that."

The doors opened. Chuuya stepped out without any hesitation to find himself on the outside.

He laid Dazai up against the side of the prison.

The brightest green grass unfurled beneath his feet. Deep blue colored the sky above, speckled with clouds. The sun warmed his skin.

Maybe this wouldn't be the worst place to die.

The firing squad stood out before him, ability users bringing unknown variables into the mix stretched throughout their ranks. It was silent, as they waited to see what he’d do.

Unlike the man with the knife, they understood he was dangerous.  These people played it safe.

Chuuya looked back one last time, taking in the sight of Osamu Dazai for what could be the very last time. If he was going to die, he didn’t want to forget the man who’d somehow managed to hold a place in his heart despite every obstacle that had ever been thrown between them.

But he couldn’t hold off the inevitable forever.

Instead of charging at the enemy. Instead of surrendering. Instead of begging for his life. Instead of exhausting his natural ability. Instead of doing anything they expected, Chuuya just stared up at the beauty of the sky up above, imagining that he was somewhere else. Anywhere else, but here. Somewhere happy. Somewhere where he could finally be free and not stuck in this life. This sad, endlessly violent life.

But alas, this life was all that he had.

A life of killing.

He didn't want to die, but he had to and he would make peace with that if it meant that Dazai would see another day. Dazai would do the same for him. He already had, after all, in taking that bullet.

Chuuya needed to buy Dazai some time, if there was any hope of Ango coming, just like Dazai had said. Maybe this wouldn't even result in his death either. Maybe he would be saved too. Except such a wish was incredibly far-fetched given the circumstances. So, he let it go as soon as the thought entered his mind.

The world would be okay without him. After all, at the end of the day, he was just another monster, as would soon become apparent if it wasn't already.

The words of the fateful poem exploded throughout the clearing, as he let go for what he knew could very well be the last time.

“O grantors of dark disgrace, do not wake me again…”

Notes:

Next chapter should be up soon :)

Chapter 14: Soiled Sorrow Can’t Be Remedied

Summary:

The inferno did not end in his dreams.

Notes:

I was going to try writing this a bit earlier than I ended up doing so, but then after two years of successfully evading it, I finally caught a really bad case of Covid. Even though, I’m up to date on all my vaccinations and masking, so that’s fun lol. So yeah, anyways, getting this out earlier than today went down the drain, because of that. But now I’m lucid enough to write and function again, so here’s the next chapter!

Stay safe, this new variant sucks ass <3

Autumn had finally arrived.

Multicolored leaves glided to the ground, while the wind coaxed its way through the trees up above. It chilled what would otherwise be an unbearably hot day.

The sky up above was black, while a white sun slowly fell over the horizon. Ethereal gray lighting settled over the clearing.

Dazai sat underneath a sturdy maple tree. A red-haired man sat next to him.

“Is it finally over?” Dazai asked, turning towards the man next to him. The mask that he so often wore was gone now, replaced by the look of someone lost and fatigued for a lifetime.

The man next to him was quiet for a long while before he finally spoke.

“I don’t know, Dazai. Would you like it to be?”

Did he want it to be over? 

At first, Dazai wanted to say yes. In fact, in the past, he probably would have without a second thought. Except, before he could open his mouth to give that answer, something he couldn't quite describe stopped him. 

A shiver ran throughout his body. 

Something was wrong. He had no qualms with dying and yet, something deep within him felt like doing so now would be wrong. Maybe even a betrayal?

“I thought I did.”

The man wrapped an arm around Dazai's shoulders, pulling him closer until Dazai's head was comfortably resting on his own shoulder.

“I’m proud of you, y’know?” The man went on, changing the subject, as the previous one was seemingly forgotten.  At least for the moment.

Dazai’s brows furrowed.

“Proud? Why?”

“You went to that Detective Agency. You tried to become better,” the man paused momentarily, as if deep in thought, “I know you. I know it wasn’t easy and that you don’t see things in black and white like many of the rest of us do. But whether or not you can see things for what they are in terms of good or evil, I think you are beginning to see what is right.  The fact that you're doing something about that makes me proud."

"But what if I'm only doing it, because of what you made me promise?"

"Does it really matter, Dazai?"

And did it?  If he was helping people and trying his best to follow the moral route, did it matter if he was doing it of his own conscious choice or a promise he'd made long ago?

Was there even a concrete answer to such a question?

A comfortable silence fell between the two until finally, Dazai broke it.

“Odasaku,” he asked, his voice suddenly uncharacteristically small and broken-sounding, “is any of this real?”

“Maybe,” Odasaku offered, “or maybe not. Perhaps this is the border to the afterlife or simply your brain trying to make sense of what could be its final moments. But again, Dazai, does it really matter?"

"I wish I could just stay here with you."

Odasaku sighed.

“We both know that's not possible.”

It was true.  Dazai knew that this would not last because he still had something to do.  Yet, exactly what it was still, irritatingly enough, escaped his mind.

“Why can't I remember why I need to go back? I never forget things! Why can’t I remember, Odasaku?” 

“Again, only you can answer that question, Dazai.”

As Dazai stressed over his fragmented mind, Odasaku reached down, picking up a scarlet leaf and twirling the stem in his fingertips.

“I finally finished that novel I told you about. When it’s your time, maybe you could read it and give me your thoughts, but that won't be for a while now. Please, take care of yourself. There are lots of people who care about you, even if you don’t care about yourself. You always were like a son to me, Dazai. So remember, I'll always be proud of you.”

If Dazai's eyes glistened in the fading light, neither of them said anything. 

Perhaps though, neither of them had to.

The scarlet leaf fluttered out of Odasaku’s fingertips with the prompting of another gust of wind, sending it into Dazai’s hands.

The moment the leaf touched him, the world lit up in an inferno of red and he suddenly remembered why he had to go back.

“Chuuya.”

---

The inferno did not end in his dreams.

Dazai opened his eyes to a stabbing pain in his gut and a world brought to hell.  Scarlet stained the grass covered the expanse before him.  The dreary sky was covered in smoke and fire raged throughout the trees beyond the clearing.

He was laying against the front of the prison, one of its cold walls chilling his back. Somehow between the time that he'd been shot and now, Chuuya must've managed to get them out.

His heart beat irregularly in his chest. 

Good, he noted, monitoring the methodically spaced out beats, he must've started such a message subconsciously.  Now if Ango could just listen to what he was transmitting and get here in time, they might be able to put an end to this nightmare.

Regret filled him that he hadn't just asked him for direct assistance earlier.

Still, he didn't entirely fault himself for his lack of foresight.  Seeing Ango was like a slap to the face.  Every time he saw him, he was reminded of his betrayal and the part that he'd played in Odasaku's death.  So to say the least, he liked to keep their interactions to a bare minimum, whenever possible.

If only he had just let that grudge go earlier.

Now both he and Chuuya would pay for his idiocy.  

Actually... where was Chuuya?  Shouldn't he be here with him?

Cackling in the distance suddenly made him come to his senses and he cursed himself for not realizing it sooner.

Corruption.

He needed to move fast.

Biting back the pain, Dazai tried to force himself to stand but was unable to as a slick substance beneath him caused him to fall right back down.  He squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds, again forcing back the pain, before trying to figure out what it was that he had slipped on so that it wouldn't happen again.

However, upon inspecting the ground beneath him, he was quick to discover that he was bleeding out way faster than he'd thought.  That he had slipped in his own blood.  

It was almost ironic that he was standing in the way of himself.

Still, he refused to let that one failed attempt stop him. Giving it one more try, this one thankfully being successful, now that he was aware of what had hindered him the first time, Dazai finally got to his feet and began limping forwards, towards the sound of the broken cackling of Arahabaki.

He pressed a hand tightly to his stomach, as he walked, in a last-ditch attempt to stop the blood loss and maintain coherency for as long as he could.

What he wouldn't do to have his bandages again right now. He almost felt naked without them.

Screams echoed throughout the smokey clearing surrounding him and multiple times, he just barely managed to stop himself from tripping over one of the numerous dead bodies covering the ground.

After a few minutes of searching, Dazai finally found him.

He was fighting an ability user. 

At this point, from what Dazai could guess, they were probably one of the only ones remaining. 

They seemed to be able to manipulate space, as they glitched throughout the terrain from one spot to another, fruitlessly attempting to make hits, while dodging Chuuya's gravitons. It was a shame, Dazai thought to himself, that the ability user had not trained their ability any stronger than it currently was. If they had, then perhaps they could have just teleported far away from the prison and lived to see another day, but alas their ability did not seem to be quite that powerful. At best, they only seemed to be able to manage to teleport a few meters at a time.

In the long run, they didn't stand a chance.

He was right.

As sick as it probably was, Dazai was mesmerized, as he watched a graviton emerge from Chuuya's palm, this one much bigger than the others. 

There was nowhere for the ability user to go.

A scream. A collision. A mangled body.

It was over. Just like that.

If Chuuya were conscious, he would probably find it revolting.

But Dazai? Dazai thought such incredible power was beautiful. It was perhaps one of the few things about Chuuya that he didn't hate.

Another deranged cackle dragged him from his thoughts.

Right. He had to save Chuuya.

As stealthily as he could manage, Dazai managed to get behind him and place a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Before him, Chuuya’s body trembled slightly as he came back to consciousness. It didn’t take long before he slumped to the ground, Dazai falling with him so that they were lying side by side on the ashy ground.

He could only hope Ango made it fast enough.

Chuuya's eyes were already fluttering shut and Dazai noted the copious amounts of blood flowing from his body that couldn't only be from corruption.

He poked his cheek.

“Hey Chuuya, don't fall asleep yet. I don't want to have to die with the likes of you. That'd be gross.”

A snort of laughter sounded next to him.

“I'm just closing my eyes, shitty Dazai. I'm not dead yet. Anyways, imagine what it’s like for me, having to die with a suicidal maniac like you? I’ve had to deal with your shit for so long and now I’ve even gotta die with you, like c’mon.  I need a fucking break.”

A momentary silence settled between the two.

“It wasn’t all bad though, was it?” Dazai finally asked, his hand slipping away from his stomach wound to find Chuuya’s instead.

He let him.

“I guess not," Chuuya acquiesced, cracking tired eyes open before closing them again, "especially the fact that you haven’t noticed it yet.” 

A burst of broken-sounding laughter came from the depths of Chuuya’s chest, provoking a coughing fit that left him looking even closer to death’s door than before.

But Dazai didn't focus on that, because Chuuya wasn't dying. He couldn't be dying. After all, Dazai was not going to die with Chuuya. Such a thing was beyond preposterous. In fact, even the thought itself was vile and made him feel nauseous. So, instead of focusing on the color fading from his old partner's face, he elected to just focus on what he'd said.

Dazai’s eyes narrowed.

“What exactly do you mean by it?”

Lifting a weak, wavering hand, Chuuya tapped the top of Dazai’s head, except his touch was hindered by something. But by what exactly?

Dazai reached a hand up, finding none other than his old partner’s hat. Chuuya must’ve put it on him before succumbing to corruption.

He pouted, “how could you subject me to such poor fashion?”

Yet, for some reason, he didn’t take the hat off.

“Just in case I go,” was all Chuuya said in response, catching Dazai a bit off-guard, as his breathing began to slow down even more, “I don’t want to be forgotten.”

“I already told you, you're not going to die and no one could ever forget someone as irritating as you.”

"Then let's just say I wanted to subject you to poor fashion, just like you said. I did it before I unleashed corruption. I guess I thought it’d be funny or some shit."

Another bout of silence rang out between the two of them, except this time it was Chuuya who broke it.

“Dazai? You know I’ve always cared about you, right? I used corruption to try to save you and I just wanted you to know that before I… before I…”

Another coughing fit wracked his body and Dazai reached out, pulling him closer.

“It’s okay. I know, and I…,” his eyes shifted to the side momentarily, as though this were uncharted territory in which he desperately didn’t want to misstep, “I care about you too.”

He waited for a response but was only met with silence.

A stillness filled the clearing.

“Chuuya?”

There was no answer.

A single tear slipped down Dazai's cheek, and his grip tightened, almost desperately, on the redhead next to him.

He closed his eyes, finally succumbing to the beckoning call of the darkness that awaited.

In the distance, the sound of rotor blades cut through the air, as a man with jet black hair and rounded glasses commanded it to the floor of the clearing.

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed the chapter :)

The next one should be up soon.

Chapter 15: Late Cicadas Are Already Singing Everywhere

Summary:

Chuuya groaned, finding himself beyond exasperated with Dazai's cruel intent to ruin all of his favorite clothes.

Notes:

Hello! I’m back with another chapter. I hope you all are doing well <3

Chuuya awoke to the feeling of warm sheets, aching limbs and a primal sense of fear buried deep within his bones.

It took him a moment to pinpoint where the panicked feelings were coming from.  Then, there it was, almost like whiplash, as his memories of the previous events suddenly came rushing back. 

A waterfall of information and devastation rained down in an onslaught against his mind.

Meursault.  Drowning.  Torture.  Escapes. Bullets. Stabbings. Corruption.

“I almost thought you’d never wake up.”

Chuuya turned his head towards the voice and there he was.

Osamu Dazai.

“Hey, Chuuya.”

Dazai was seated on a chair at his bedside, a worn-looking book laying on his lap. A book that he was now ignoring in favor of looking at Chuuya, seemingly relieved to see that he had finally woken up.

Images of Dazai falling to the ground, blood spurting from his chest filled Chuuya's vision.

"Dazai, the bullet.  You're okay?” 

Worry and guilt clawed at Chuuya’s insides. If only he’d been just a bit faster and more aware, then such an unnecessary complication wouldn't have taken place. If he'd been better, Dazai wouldn't have needed to intercept the bullet. If he'd been better, Dazai wouldn't have gotten hurt at all.

It was simple, as much as he tried, Chuuya was just never good enough.  It was why he needed to know that despite his failure, Dazai was okay, because if he wasn't and it was Chuuya's fault, he didn't know if he would ever be able to forgive himself.

Dazai was speechless for a moment, his brows furrowing.

“You were drowned, tortured, shot twice, stabbed in the stomach, overdid corruption, and still the very first thing you ask me is how my single bullet wound is?”  Dazai laughed. "You're such an idiot. I'm fine, but that's still so sweet of you! I didn’t know you were such a caring person! A single bullet won’t be enough to kill me, though."

"Shut up, asshole," Chuuya scowled, all of his aforementioned empathy dissipating with Dazai's words, "how the fuck did we get out of that hellhole anyways?"

"I contacted Ango and got him to pick us up. He owes me." A dark expression momentarily covered Dazai's face, as though he were remembering some past event, before the usual mask slipped right back on. "Anyways, he dropped us off at this safe house with enough medical supplies to make sure we’ll both be able to recover just fine. So far, it’s been about a week.”

Chuuya nodded, accepting the explanation. He was especially relieved to know that he hadn't just used corruption for nothing and Ango had indeed pulled through just like Dazai said he would, and got them out of there.

Then, his attention shifted to something else that Dazai had said.

“Wait. I've been out for an entire fucking week?”

"Yeah," past worries seemed to cloud over Dazai's eyes. Something that would be imperceptible to most people, but not to Chuuya, "you really overdid corruption the second time, especially having used it twice in such a small period of time. You shouldn’t have done that, you know.”

“Dazai, if I didn’t use corruption, we’d be dead.”

At first, Dazai seemed hesitant to agree, most likely out of sheer stubbornness, but eventually, he acquiesced to what Chuuya said, accepting the reality of things.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Dazai eyed the door, seemingly uncomfortable with the sentimental way that the conversation was going. “But anyways," he continued, changing the subject, "all of that stuff hardly matters now. I’ve actually been working on a project that I've been really wanting to show you once you woke up!”

Dazai reached down to grab something laying on the floor next to him, before offering it to Chuuya.

Relief filled him when he realized that it was his hat. However, that feeling quickly turned into fear, when he realized that the 'project' that Dazai was referencing probably involved it.

Chuuya took the hat from him, eyeing it suspiciously.

“Dazai, what the fuck did you do to my hat?”

“Look inside of it!” Dazai urged, his eyes lighting up dangerously, leaving Chuuya mildly terrified.

Peering into the hat, he finally saw what Dazai was talking about. On the inside of the very top of the hat, a patch was sewn in that spelled out ‘hatrack.’

“Now your coat and hat are matching!”

Chuuya groaned, finding himself beyond exasperated with Dazai's cruel intent to ruin all of his favorite clothes.

“Damn it, Dazai. I’m seriously going to kill you one day.”

Dazai just laughed, only managing to infuriate Chuuya even more.

They stayed like that, just bantering back and forth, until midnight fell, cloaking the room in darkness.

Chuuya was just barely managing to keep his eyes open, as Dazai went off on a tangent, complaining about all of the work that Kunikida was probably going to make him do when he found out that he was out of prison. 

Chuuya didn't know much about the guy, but he could vaguely remember him from when he’d rescued the Agency from the Hunting Dogs. 

Honestly, Chuuya had thought that he was probably dead after pulling the stunt he did.

He was glad to know that that wasn't the case.

Despite not knowing very much about Kunikida, he seemed like someone Chuuya would enjoy grabbing a drink with. Especially with how much Dazai complained about him. It was actually hilariously similar to the way that he complained about Chuuya himself. 

Maybe after all of this was over, they could grab drinks at Bar Lupin and talk shit about Dazai for all the crap that he had put them both through.

The thought was rather comforting.

“Chuuya,” Dazai complained, “are you even listening to me? It’s going to be terrible! He’s going to make me do so much paperwork and he won't let me leave until I do. He's a cruel man. He doesn't understand how useless it all is. I mean, what's the worst thing that could happen if I don't do it? Plus, I can probably trick Atsushi into doing it anyways, so it's not like it'll never get done. I never do any kind of paperwork in my personal life anyways. I mean, I don't think I've ever done taxes, and look where it's gotten me. I'm doing great!”

“Dazai, it’s your literal fucking job to do that paperwork. And tax evasion? Really? Dazai, I'm in the Mafia and I still do my taxes. You need to get your shit together.”

“Stop siding with Kunikida, Chuuya. It’s annoying.”

"Have you heard yourself?"

Dazai groaned, throwing his hands out dramatically. "Chuuya, I'm not annoying, but I guess that I'm not surprised that you don't get that. I mean with how short you are, you're brain can't be that big."

“Oh, just shut up the hell up you idiot.”

“Make me.”

A beat of silence fell between them. Their eyes met. An incomprehensible feeling swirled in his gut and slowly reached its way up to his throat. Distantly, he wondered if Dazai felt the same.

Dazai coughed, effectively ending the moment.

He moved to stand up.

“It’s getting late. Uh… I’m going to head to bed. See you in the morning.”

And then, he was gone, leaving Chuuya all alone and wondering what the hell had just happened.

---

Atsushi was panicking.

He stumbled through the streets of Yokohama with an unconscious figure held tightly in his arms.

His breath was short and quick. His lungs screamed for air. Yet, stopping and taking anything that resembled a break was simply something that he could not afford to do right now, so he pushed his body to go faster, ignoring his own evident exhaustion.

There was no room for failure. He had to make it before it was too late. He would never forgive himself if he was.

It was almost desperate, the way that Atsushi made his way through dark alleyways, almost tripping over his own feet several times in the midst of all of his own inner turmoil.

There was a safe house that he knew couldn’t be too far from where he was. It was one that Dazai had told him about once, just in case he ever ran into a situation in which he needed it. 

A situation like the one that he was in now.

Atsushi willed himself to go even faster. He didn't have much time. He couldn't fail. Not now. Not after how far he had come. Everything that he had done.

By the time he finally made it to the safe house, Atsushi felt like he was about to collapse. His arms shook with the strain of carrying another person for several kilometers. 

He honestly wanted nothing more than to just lay down and go to sleep for years, but things could never be so simple.

Forcing himself to focus, Atsushi shifted the weight of the person in his arms, to punch in the door code and let himself in.

The lockbox flashed green.

He opened the door and stepped into the small townhome only to be met with the barrel of a gun pointed point-blank at his face.

"Atsushi?"

Chapter 16: Today Too Snow Falls On It

Summary:

Why did he always seem to find a way to manage to fuck everything up?

Notes:

Longest chapter yet! :)

Laying in the bedroom opposite to Chuuya’s, Dazai felt like shooting himself, as he thought over their latest conversation.

Why did he always seem to find a way to manage to fuck everything up?

Recently, he’d been getting a strange feeling in his chest, almost like his heart was being squeezed, whenever he was with Chuuya. Actually, scratch that, he couldn't keep lying to himself, because this was something that he'd felt for quite a while. 

Except now, the feeling had been getting stronger.

Overwhelming almost.

It was just all too much.

Of course, Dazai knew what it meant. He’d known for a long time actually. However, the probability of such a feeling ever being reciprocated was incredibly low, so why even bother to pursue it? He’d put Chuuya through hell the entire time they’d known each other anyways, so what reason was there for Chuuya to like him back? 

To love someone like him?

A part of him screamed that Chuuya did feel the same way, especially with the way that he always flirted back. However, even if that was the case, that thought was almost instantly silenced by another.

The thought that he did not deserve such a thing.

Why would someone as cruel as him deserve love? As selfish as he was, at least he understood that.

Irritated at his wandering mind, Dazai closed his eyes, in a desperate attempt to fall asleep, only to dream up the impossibilities of worlds where such a divide between him and Chuuya was not present. A world in which Dazai wasn’t trapped by his guilt. A world in which they were free of the draining tethers that kept them tied down to their dangerous ways of living. A world in which it was okay for him to love. A world in which it was okay for him to be loved.

It was a stupid dream. Childish even.

But thoughts of traveling the world with Chuuya, of loving Chuuya and getting to be loved by him, continued to plague his mind.

It was a nice thought.

But alas, that was all that it was.

Irritated at his nagging insomnia, Dazai dragged himself out of bed and made his way into the kitchen to make himself some coffee. If he was going to stay awake, he’d at least give himself a way to keep his lucidity.

Something that he could find through the instant coffee kept in the cupboard.

Pouring a packet of it into a glass, he filled the rest of it with some water and ice, being much too lazy and impatient to heat up the liquid in the small microwave within the kitchen.

Taking a sip, he found the coffee to be a bit bitter, but overall decent. So he didn’t bother searching around for any cream or sugar.

Setting the coffee down on the countertop, Dazai moved to sit on one of the stools that sat next to it, in hopes to enjoy his coffee without the hassle of standing.

However, before he could sit down, the faint noise of the door code being entered caught his attention.  

Alarms bells rang through Dazai's mind, as he whipped his gun out from his coat, making his way over to the door.

Waiting for it to open, he expected one of the Hunting Dogs or a member of the french organization that he and Chuuya had taken out.

However, he was met with neither. Instead, the door opened to reveal Atsushi, a limp figure held tightly in his arms.

“Atsushi?”

Dazai’s brows furrowed in confusion, but he stepped off to the side, allowing Atsushi to enter, who seemed about just as surprised to see him.

Then the next thing he knew, Atsushi had set down the person he was carrying and lept into his arms, capturing Dazai in a tight hug. For a long moment, he remained frozen in shock at such a genuine display of affection, before slowly wrapping his arms around his prodigy, who was now openly sobbing into his chest.

“I was so worried,” Atsushi managed to get out between sobs, once again shocking Dazai, who just continued to hold Atsushi and let him cry. It was something that Dazai wished that he’d been allowed to do at his age. Something that he wished he’d let Akutagawa do rather than the cycle of abuse that he’d shoved upon him.

Speaking of which, was that Akutagawa that Atsushi had brought with him?

How was he even still alive?

Dazai answered his own question, as he finally noticed the sickly pallor of his skin, even worse than before with his lung disease, and the lack of his chest rising and falling.

He was dead.

A surprising pang of grief stabbed through Dazai’s heart at the realization and he grabbed Atsushi a little tighter. He supposed that he should’ve expected this though, given how he had been the one to bend things in such a direction. It was his fault that Akutagawa was dead, after all, and yet, upon seeing the damage that he had wrought upon his former apprentice, he was suddenly overcome with regret at what he had done.

Still, there was no time to grieve for long. He had to figure out what was going on.

“Atsushi,” Dazai pulled away from the hug, resting his hands on Atsushi’s shoulders, “what happened?”

However, before Atsushi could gather his bearings and answer him, the two wear interrupted by Chuuya limping into the room, his ability being the only thing keeping him upright.

“What’s going on?”

“What are you doing out of bed?”

“Fuck off, Dazai,” Chuuya protested, his eyes flickering over to Atsushi, “what are you doing here?”

“I-” Atsushi started, but was unable to finish, as Chuuya suddenly noticed Akutagawa laying prone on the floor.

A mix of fear and sorrow lit up in his old partner’s eyes. Unlike Dazai’s toxic relationship with Akutagawa, he was well aware that Chuuya had made many attempts to undo the traumatic scars that his abuse had left upon Akutagawa after he had left. He knew that Chuuya had tried to step in as a brotherly or perhaps paternal role for the younger Mafioso. So obviously seeing him laying there dead left Chuuya shaken, as someone who already had a terrible track record of keeping those he cared about alive.

The display of grief didn’t last long though, as it soon fell into anger and a wrathful gaze fell upon Atsushi.

“What did you do?”

Finally, managing to speak, Atsushi raised his hands defensively.

“I didn’t kill him, I swear,” he pleaded, however to Dazai’s trained ears, he wasn’t entirely sure that that was what Atsushi actually believed. However, he let him continue without interjecting, “he was struck down by Fukuchi, but Bram’s ability was used on him, so he’s still alive. If we use Dazai’s ability, then we can bring him back! The only thing though, is that he’ll be returned to the state that he was in when he was first infected, which means that he’ll die without immediate assistance. So, if we can just find Yosano and get her to save him after Dazai nullifies the ability, then it'll all be fine! Ryuunosuke was even knocked unconscious by an ability, so he’ll probably stay out for a while which gives us even more time to find her.”

So Akutagawa wasn’t dead then. A flood of relief flowed through Dazai. Why had he ever set up such events to take place, in the first place?  He could've found another way. He knew he could've, but his rotten ways were ingrained into him. He truly was a monster.  Now Akutagawa's future would be placed in the hands of a bunch of complex 'what ifs?'.

Veering away from such a dark topic, however, Dazai also found it quite interesting to note that Atsushi was referring to Akutagawa by his first name. Although he couldn't say that he was entirely surprised.

Next to him, Chuuya seemed elated, gratitude flooding through his features.

“Good,” was all he said in relief, as he finally gave up on standing and made his way over to the couch, sitting down, as his legs finally gave out on him.

Dazai and Atsushi were quick to join him, after Atsushi managed to prop Akutagawa up in a chair, making sure to bind him to it as a precaution and taking away his coat, just in case he did wake up.

Finally, with all three of them sitting down, Dazai asked the question that he knew both he and Chuuya had.

“Atsushi, what happened?”

---

Six hours prior.

Pain exploded throughout Atsushi's body, in the aftermath of his capture by Teruko. He couldn’t stop though, he had to find Aya and Bram. Just as Ranpo had ordered him to.

If he didn’t, then who was he but a fraud? An imposter? The Agency had helped him out when he was at his lowest and he owed them everything in return. If he were to fail now, then why did he deserve to have such a second chance? If he failed those around him, then what would give him a reason to be?

Ignoring the wounds which became even more agitated with every step, Atsushi picked up his pace until he was sprinting at full speed through the airport.

He had to find them.

Yet as he ran, narrowly avoiding the vampires that had been set upon them, they were nowhere to be found.

He was worthless. Better yet a failure. He couldn’t even do this right.

But then, Atsushi burst through a door to find himself in a parking garage, and there they were. Relief flooded throughout his entire body for a moment, only to be replaced by fear a moment later upon seeing the state of things.

The laundry truck with the top taken clean off caught his attention first.  

Then there was Aya.

Different from her usual confident demeanor, Aya was shaking in terror with Bram at her side. There was blood matting her clothes, but Atsushi was unable to tell whether it was hers, someone else’s, or both. The thought was worrying regardless. Especially given her age. Again Atsushi berated himself for not being better and for letting others suffer, because of his seeming inability to be there when others needed him the most.

It was then that he noticed something else and froze.

Aya and Bram weren’t alone.

On the floor of the garage, motionless, was someone who he thought he’d never see again. Someone who made his blood rush up to his ears, as suddenly everything else faded away. Suddenly, it was like he was back on that boat, those painful last words ringing through his ears, while he desperately searched for an answer as to why he'd been saved.

He couldn’t breathe. He could barely even think.

“Ryuunosuke.” The name rolled off his tongue in a breath, as though if he said it any louder, he would risk shattering the glass upon which Ryuunosuke’s now seemingly fragile life rested within.

Then, Atsushi was running. 

Aya and Bram had faded into the background and now all he could see was Ryuunosuke, the man who he loved. The man who had taken Fukuchi’s blade to save him. He couldn’t leave him again. He had to stay by his side. He couldn’t lose him after only just finding him once more.

He prepared to skid down to Ryuunosuke’s side. He had to check his pulse and make sure he was still breathing. Atsushi couldn’t live with himself if he wasn't.

However, his plans were quickly torn to shreds as a small girl threw herself in front of him, grabbing his legs.

It was Aya, who was, upon closer inspection, sobbing.

“No! Please don’t. You’re from the Agency, right? I remember seeing you with Kunikida.” Her voice trembled, her grip only tightening on his legs.

“Let me go. I have to help him.” Atsushi tried to tear her arms off of him, only to have her regain her grip return almost immediately, determination seemingly something that she wasn’t lacking in. Why was she doing this anyway? Could she not see that Ryuunosuke was laying there, prone on the ground? Could she not see that he needed their help?

How was he still alive anyway?

Unless…

“No. No, no, no, no, no.” Atsushi gasped, a hand flying to his mouth, as he stumbled backward, finally escaping from Aya’s grip in his change of direction, before losing his footing and falling to the ground.

“He attacked us,” Aya explained, eyes alight with a mix of fear and determination. “We have to do something before he wakes up. Please, help us.”

“He was infected?” It was all Atsushi could say, his voice barely a whisper.

It was all his fault.

“Yes,” Aya confirmed, “he’s one of them and when he wakes up he’s going to kill us all. So please, help us before that happens!”

Finally gaining a bit more control of his erratic breathing, Atsushi stood up, making his way over to Ryuunosuke, who was out cold.  

Placing a hand to his neck, Atsushi felt his heart drop as he was met with no pulse.

A tear slipped down his cheek and then another until suddenly he was sobbing with Aya, hunched over Ryuunosuke’s cold, dead body.

Just as he was returned to him, he was taken away again.  Unlike Aya claimed, he wouldn't be waking up this time.

How cruel the world was.

A hand reached out, gripping his shoulder as if to grab his attention, but Atsushi didn’t turn around. He felt like he was frozen in ice, as his world shattered in two for what felt like the thousandth time.

Why did he have to deal with such pain? Why was the world so cruel to him? Why couldn’t he ever catch a break? He never asked for anything and this is what was given to him! A cold body and a life full of regrets.

“He’s not dead yet,” a voice sounded behind him. It was Bram, he distantly recognized.

“What?” A small spark of hope lit up within Atsushi's chest.

“His pulse is simply gone, due to his current state. If you were to nullify the effects of my ability, then he would be returned to normal. However, that remains to be impossible at the moment, so I employ you to listen to Aya and put an end to his suffering.”

The hope in his heart grew. Even though Bram claimed the nullification of his ability to be impossible, if he could get Ryuunosuke to Dazai, then he would be able to save him. With the mere touch of Dazai’s finger, Ryuunosuke would be granted another chance at life.

But then, the other part of what Bram had said, suddenly sunk in.

If he were to bring Ryuunosuke back without certain precautions set in place, then that would mean that he’d come back with a slit throat and just bleed out in agony all over again, as he was returned to his original state. However, if they could find Yosano, then she could heal him upon his return and all would be well.

It was going to be okay. It had to be okay.

It was then that another question entered his mind.

“Why is he unconscious?”

A silence fell between Aya and Bram as if they were waiting for the other to speak until Aya finally broke the silence.

“It was me… my ability, I-”

She was cut off by the sound of a bang, as the door burst open once more, this time however to reveal a pissed-off Teruko.

She'd found him. Shit.

"We have to go now!"

Activating his ability, Atsushi slammed his fist into the nearest car window, breaking it, before quickly unlocking it and shoving Bram, Aya, and Ryuunosuke into the back seats.

Then, he jumped into the front of the car, making quick work of hotwiring it, just like Dazai had taught him. It was only upon the ignition of the engine, however, that he was suddenly left with the sudden realization that he barely knew how to drive.

What was he doing?

Both Kunikida and Dazai had tried to teach him. The only problem though was that both had incredibly different teaching styles and neither was entirely good. With Kunikida, he was basically screamed at every two seconds to slow down and stop jerking the car around. With Dazai… well he was just surprised that they both had managed to survive those so-called lessons.

Still, he knew the basics, and with the adrenaline pumping through his veins, he managed to muster up the courage to at least try. It wasn't like he had much of a choice anyways.

Teruko was closing in. There wasn’t much time.  They had to go now.

“Hurry!” He heard someone yell in the back, which did little to help his anxiety.

Slamming down on the gas, Atsushi tore out of the garage, narrowly avoiding hitting several other parked cars.

He had to go faster. He couldn’t risk their capture. He couldn’t fail Ranpo. He couldn’t fail the Agency.

Finally managing to merge into traffic, Atsushi did his best to mimic other drivers and draw upon his own vague knowledge.

The back of the car was all but silent, as Atsushi made his way through the streets, doing his best to abide by the driving laws that he barely knew.

He really should’ve found a better driving instructor.

Quickly glancing up at the rearview mirror, Atsushi checked in on the quiet backseats of the car. Ryuunosuke was still out, slumped over in the seat that Atsushi had quickly placed him in. Meanwhile, Aya sat in the middle, pressed up against Bram as if she was trying to put as much distance between her and Ryuunosuke as possible.

Although it pained him to admit it, he could understand why, so he didn't bother saying anything.

They continued driving like that for a few hours, a safehouse locked in Atsushi’s mind to take them to, where he knew they would be safe, at least for a while.

It was one that Dazai had told him about, long ago, in case he ever ran into any sort of trouble that required its usage. A failsafe perhaps.

So lost in his thoughts, Atsushi failed to notice the red light up ahead and gunned straight through it, only noticing his mistake, when he noticed a cop car headed straight for the side of his vehicle.

Gassing it, Atsushi managed to avoid a collision, but that was the least of his worries now. 

Apparently, his driving skills were even worse than he thought, because not only had he just blown through a red light, but he had also narrowly collided with a cop car in doing so.

This day just couldn’t get any better.

He could only imagine the look of sheer terror and disappointment on Kunikida’s face if he could see him now. Dazai on the other hand would probably be laughing.

Red lights and the sound of a siren blared behind him, as the screeching of tires pulled the cop car in line with him.

Making a split-second decision, Atsushi panicked and slammed the gas pedal to the floor. His hands gripped the steering wheel for dear life with the mindless terror of driving a metal death machine that he had little knowledge of how to navigate.

“What are you doing?” He heard Aya screech in the back, along with some more incoherent screaming coming from both her and Bram.

Honestly though, they were probably right.

How stupid could he be?

Why hadn’t he just pulled over?

Swerving through traffic, Atsushi narrowly avoided numerous accidents, as the sound of sirens multiplied behind him. What had he done? How stupid could he be, a car chase was the last thing that he needed right now. He should’ve just pulled over and dealt with the consequences then and there. He shouldn’t have panicked.

It was too late to back down now though, as Atsushi spun the car off the road and down an alleyway, having no clue as to what he was doing, only the thought of escaping being on his mind.

Tearing out of the alleyway, he spun the car back onto the road and for a brief moment was proud of himself, thinking that he had escaped, until suddenly a cop car pulled out right in front of him, seemingly from nowhere, and he was unable to hit the breaks fast enough to stop.

Atsushi, Aya, and Bram all screamed as they collided with the cop car, sending their own car flying into the air and landing with a painful crunch on its hood.

Fresh waves of pain surged through Atsushi’s body, as the impact invaded his bones and tore new wounds into his flesh. He was a bit surprised that he hadn’t just passed out upon impact, but was also grateful that he hadn’t.

Bram and Aya on the other hand didn’t seem to be so lucky.

Both were hanging from the ceiling of the car, blood dripping down their faces, their eyes closed. However, upon a closer inspection, Atsushi noticed that both still seemed to be breathing fine, and with the cops closing in on them, they’d hopefully be able to get some kind of medical treatment.

He couldn’t save them all anyways and even though he knew it was his mission to save Aya and Bram, he couldn’t just leave Ryuunosuke behind.

It wasn’t like the police wouldn’t leave Aya and Bram here to die anyways. However, both he and Ryuunosuke were wanted men, who could potentially be gunned down, so this was the practical choice. Next to that, Atsushi couldn’t find it within himself to leave Ryuunosuke behind again.

Images from the battle with Fukuchi flashed through his mind’s eye and he activated his ability, tearing through the seatbelt which kept him rooted to his seat, before tearing the door next to him off its hinges. Upon crawling out of the car, he was then quick to break Ryuunosuke out of his own restraints, before lifting him up into his arms, despite the pain and exhaustion that ran throughout Atsushi's entire body.

He would never leave him behind again. Not this time.

So, that was how Atsushi found himself running through the streets of Yokohama with Ryuunosuke clutched tightly in his arms, blood matting both of their clothes from both the wreak and Teruko.

This time, he was going to save Ryuunosuke.

He had to.

---

By the time Atsushi had wrapped up his summary of everything that had happened during the time that he and Dazai had been separated from each other, he was beyond exhausted and it practically felt like gravity was weighing down on his still-healing bones.

In all honesty, he wanted nothing more than to just curl up and sleep for all of eternity after the havoc and chaos that had been wrought upon his daily life as of late.

Both Chuuya and Dazai seemed to notice this, as they offered him Dazai’s bedroom. At first, Atsushi tried to protest against it, offering to take the couch instead. However, it didn't take long for him to lose the uphill battle, as Chuuya finally broke him down.

“As much as he irritates me, that shitty idiot can share my room,” Chuuya argued, throwing Atsushi into checkmate and pulling what seemed to be a rare startled expression onto Dazai’s face.

After arrangements had finally been decided, Dazai helped Atsushi bring Ryuunosuke, who was still bound to the chair and unconscious into his room, while being careful not to make direct contact with him, before leaving him to help Chuuya back into their now shared space.

Finally granted a moment of peace in the darkened room, Atsushi broke down, pulling at his hair and sobbing. His longing for sleep seemed to have disappeared now that he was alone, replaced with self-loathing.

His back hit the wall and he slid to the floor next to Ryuunosuke, grabbing his hand with a sort of pained desperation.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, “I’m so so sorry. It should’ve been me. It shouldn’t have been you. I’m so sorry that I wasn't strong enough.”

No one answered him. Instead, the darkness just seemed to encroach even closer, as Atsushi was left with nothing more than a heart torn to shreds and only the smallest golden flicker of hope that everything that had been lost could be restored.

If only he were better.

Why couldn’t he be better?

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed the chapter. :)

Next one should be up soon!

Chapter 17: Soiled Sorrow Has No Desires or Wishes

Summary:

He hated how defenseless his newfound lack of self-sufficiency made him feel. While Chuuya knew he was sure to bounce back within a few days, given the power that Arahabaki gave him, he hated the days that he struggled like this one.

He didn’t like being backed into corners and yet, it was something that had plagued him his whole life since he was a kid. Still, it wasn’t like there was much that he could actually do about it.  It was just in the cards that life had handed him. 

Notes:

Hey! I’m back with another chapter. :)

Chuuya even surprised himself when he’d offered Dazai to share his room.

Spending the night with that irritating asshole? 

What had he been thinking? 

In all honesty, there was no way he could’ve had any thoughts running through his head when he'd made that decision, because why would he ever want to be stuck with Dazai for such an aggravatingly long amount of time?

Once, Dazai got back from helping Atsushi bring Akutagawa into their now shared room, Chuuya almost groaned at the annoyingly smug look on his face.  

He wasn’t going to get any peace tonight, was he?

Allowing Dazai to help him stand, the two made their way into what once had been Chuuya’s room.  Then, albeit begrudgingly, Chuuya let Dazai help him lay down on the bed. 

He hated how defenseless his newfound lack of self-sufficiency made him feel. While Chuuya knew he was sure to bounce back within a few days, given the power that Arahabaki gave him, he hated the days that he struggled like this one.

He didn’t like being backed into corners and yet, it was something that had plagued him his whole life since he was a kid. Still, it wasn’t like there was much that he could actually do about it. It was just in the cards that life had handed him. 

Recognizing that fact seemed to make it all ten times worse.

The bed dipped down beside him and Chuuya was entirely unsurprised to see Dazai joining him on the mattress.  That bastard would never sleep on the floor.

A part of Chuuya contemplated shoving Dazai off the bed and forcing him to sleep on the ground. However, Chuuya knew that even trying to pull a stunt like that would be fruitless in the end. Dazai was like a cockroach.  He always came back no matter the circumstances, so it just wasn't worth it. 

Plus, as much as Chuuya hated to admit it, after everything that Dazai had done for him, the least he deserved was a bed.

Closing his eyes, Chuuya willed himself to fall asleep.

Except found that he couldn’t, as the ghost-like sensation of someone staring at him kept him from the pull of unconsciousness.

“Dazai,” Chuuya gritted out between his teeth, “go to fucking sleep.”

“But I’m not tired! Besides, with how loud you snore, it’s not like I’ll be getting much sleep anyways.”

“Hey, fuck you! I don’t snore,” Chuuya protested, his eyes finally opening to glare into Dazai’s. “If anything, you do. You used to snore all the time when we were kids and had to share rooms on missions. Do you know how irritating that was? I barely got any sleep because of it.”

“Neither did I,” Dazai confessed. A cruel look crossed his face, making Chuuya do a double-take.

“Wait a damn second. Did you do that on purpose? Goddamn it, Dazai!"

"I was imitating you! I wanted you to know how it felt!"

"God, I hate you.”

“I doubt you could ever hate me, as much as I hate you,” Dazai grumbled back.

As much as Dazai endlessly made Chuuya want to strangle him, it was nice, to be able to fall back into their routine of playful jabs. Especially after everything that they had been through within the past couple of weeks.

Although Chuuya would safeguard this secret with his life, their banter was one thing that Chuuya truly loved about Dazai.

“It was your own fault anyways since I was imitating you,” Dazai continued. "So it's not like you can be mad at me. I mean, if you just stopped snoring then I wouldn't have to imitate you.”

“Dazai!” Chuuya yelled, ignoring the fact that there were now two others in the safe house. “I. Don’t. Fucking. Snore.”

At first, Dazai didn’t say anything in return. Instead, he just reached over and opened a drawer in a cabinet that sat next to the bed. From it, he retrieved a phone that looked a little bit worn.

Hitting the power button, Dazai turned it on and then proceeded to make his way through the camera roll until suddenly he stopped on a video with a very familiar background.

The Battle against Lovecraft.

Looking proud of himself, Dazai hit the play button and adjusted the screen so that both he and Chuuya could watch.

Chuuya inwardly cringed as the camera zoomed in on him laying in a clearing, the snores that Dazai had described now echoing throughout their shared room.

“You know what, fuck you! Filming people while they're sleeping is creepy as hell. You do know that right?” Chuuya tore the phone away from Dazai’s tight grip, who let out a protest at the sudden action.

Quickly depositing the video in the trash folder, Chuuya passed the phone back to Dazai, who didn’t seem as disappointed as he should be. Granted, Chuuya wasn’t entirely surprised. Knowing that bastard, he probably had multiple backups on multiple other devices.

“You know you can retrieve videos from the trash folder, right?”

“Shut the fuck up, Dazai.”

---

Atsushi couldn’t sleep.

Instead, he just sat there, his hand tightly gripping Ryuunosuke’s. Silent tears streaked down his cheeks, in the dead of night.

The battle against Fukuchi played on repeat within his mind.

“What you did was so stupid, you know?” Atsushi’s gaze turned to stare at Akutagawa’s limp form.

Unsurprisingly, there was no response.

A sad laugh rang throughout the room.

“Back then… before this, if you heard me call you stupid, you probably would’ve tried to tear off my right leg again with Rashomon... or maybe not. I guess you were getting better. I was really proud of you, you know?”  

Atsushi sighed.

“I miss talking to you. Not like this though. Like this, I feel like I'm talking to a ghost. I mean, you're right there, Ryuunosuke, I'm holding your hand, and yet, somehow you're still gone. I want you back. No. I need you back.”

Atsushi drummed the fingers of his other hand against his knee, in an attempt to ground himself.

“Still, even with what we had. I still don’t understand why you did what you did, Ryuunosuke. Why did you save me from Fukuchi? You told me ‘You fool. Hurry up and go.’  What does that even mean? Why didn’t you run? Why did you leave me? Why did I leave you?”

Atsushi bit his lip, stress weighing down his body.

“Still, whether or not I’ll ever learn the meaning of your last words, they make me wonder if we ever could’ve been something more. Because well… I think that we could have. Ryuunosuke, I think I loved you. No, that's wrong... I know I loved you. But now you’re gone and I can never tell you that. God, I’m so stupid! Look at me making a confession like that to someone who’s no longer even here! It’s pathetic. Then again, you never confessed to me either while you were still living, so I guess that makes you pathetic too.”

Silence.

“Where the hell am I even going with this?”  

Atsushi lifted a hand, running it through his hair. 

His fingers pulled at the roots until his scalp began to hurt.

“I'm going to bring you back. I won't rest until I do, because even though you irritated me to no end, we both cared at the end of the day. I know we did. I just wish that you’d left the Port Mafia. You would’ve done great at the Armed Detective Agency. Imagine, you’d even get to work with Dazai. He probably would've just taken advantage of you though and made you do all of his paperwork. You probably wouldn't have complained though. You would've done all the paperwork in the world for Dazai's approval, because did I forget to mention you’re an idiot?”

Again, he was met with no response.

“I hate not hearing your voice,” Atsushi confessed, dropping the hand gripping his hair back into his lap. “I hate that you're not telling me how pathetic I am. I hate that you’re not giving me shit for things that don’t even matter. I hate that I miss you so goddamn much!”

A sob escaped Atsushi’s mouth.

“I miss you. I miss you so much and I hate that there's nothing that I can do that would bring you back. Right here. Right now.”

A finger twitched in his hand, almost as if Ryuunosuke were finally responding to his words.

“Ryuunosuke?”

Atsushi let go of Ryuunosuke's hand and stood, observing his friend, who still appeared to be unconscious.

“Huh, weird.” His brow furrowed and he moved to sit back down.

However, just before he could, cloudy gray eyes snapped open, startling Atsushi, who stumbled back a couple of steps.

A sharp tendril of Rashomon broke through the bindings, before tearing right through Atsushi’s exposed stomach.

He let out a cry of pain as fear lit up in his eyes. Desperately, Atsushi blinked his eyes, praying that he’d just fallen asleep and this all was a nightmare. This couldn't be happening. 

Not now. Not yet! 

He'd thought that he'd at least have a day to figure things out, but now his assumption was quite literally gutting him alive.

Scarlet-colored blood dripped down Atsushi’s chin and he felt like he was going to be sick. He didn’t want to fight Ryuunosuke. Not after everything he’d done to save him.

What if he had to kill him?

“Ryuunosuke, stop. It’s me!”

His pleas fell on deaf ears, as Ryuunosuke only proceeded to tear off his leg, leaving Atsushi doubled-over in pain on the floor.

He had been stupid. So stupid.

Against Atsushi's will, their planned battle that they had planned during a time that now felt like so long ago, had come early.

Notes:

I hope you all enjoyed the chapter :)

Next one should be up within the week.

Chapter 18: Soiled Sorrow Covered With Snow Curls Up

Summary:

As much as Dazai could be an outright prick, the thought of losing him made him feel like stones were weighing down on his chest and like there wasn’t enough air to fill his lungs.

Notes:

Hello! I’m back with another chapter.

Having Dazai by his side as Chuuya began to drift off to sleep was nice.

Of course, he still hadn’t entirely forgiven Dazai for everything that he had done, but after they’d almost lost each other at Meursault, Chuuya just needed a break from the overwhelming emotions that followed thinking about such things. So while he planned to talk everything out with Dazai, it was also a conversation that he wanted to have when he wasn’t in terrible pain just trying to walk around.

Dazai seemed to feel the same.

Regardless, Chuuya wanted to cut the bastard some slack. After all, if Dazai hadn’t taken that bullet for him, then Chuuya knew that he’d be dead right now. 

Honestly, he was kind of surprised that he wasn’t even so.

So he enjoyed the banter that he shared with Dazai and let them both heal before the coming of such a conversation because he didn’t want to accidentally say something he didn't mean in the heat of the moment. 

As much as Dazai could be an outright prick, the thought of losing him made him feel like stones were weighing down on his chest and like there wasn’t enough air to fill his lungs.

The feeling wasn’t healthy and he knew that, because he’d long ago accepted that as much as he loved Dazai, their relationship was toxic.

Still, they were older now and had a wider view of the world.  They could change.

Since Dazai had joined the Agency, as much as he still had his moments, he had become a better person. To say that he hadn’t would be an outright lie borne of prejudice and contempt. So if Dazai had changed so much surrounded by people he’d known not even half the amount of time that he’d known Chuuya, then Chuuya held out hope that Dazai would change for him as well. That he would try to be better. Less manipulative. Less controlling. Less cruel.

Then there were areas that Chuuya knew he had to improve as well. He had to work on his anger issues, his trust issues, and his slowly darkening morality.

They both had a lot to work on, but Chuuya was sure that they could do it together.  They just needed to wait until they had a moment in which they could communicate effectively and clearly.

If such a time would even come.

Finally beginning to push such thoughts away from the center-front of his mind, so that he could get some sleep, Chuuya felt himself beginning to drift off towards that empty span of nothingness. A void of incomprehensible space.

However, just before he could finally fall asleep, the sound of shouting sounded from the room next to them.

Chuuya jolted awake, looking over to see that Dazai had had the same reaction.

What the hell was that?

Chuuya watched as Dazai jumped out of the bed, grabbing his gun, the joking expression from their earlier conversation now gone from his face as he shot out of the door.

Swinging his legs over the bed, Chuuya tried to follow but instantly collapsed as he placed the entirety of his weight on his legs.

He’d forgotten. Fuck.

Using his ability, a red glow surrounded him as he used Tainted to help him glide over the floor, in pursuit of Dazai.

He already had a dark sinister feeling curling in his chest about what he knew he was sure to find, but he didn’t want to voice it. Not yet, because if he accepted it, then he knew how such an interaction was sure to end.

How had they been so stupid? Thinking that they’d actually have time? Enough to get to Yosano? They should’ve been more careful. More cautious.

It was far too late for that now though, and so they would just have to pay the unfortunate consequences, as painful as they would end up being.

It didn’t take long for Chuuya to make it into the room, finding his way next to Dazai who stood still at the doorframe, watching what was taking place with a rare show of regret and horror visible on his face.

So he was thinking the same, wasn’t he?

Still, with how he had treated Akutagawa in the past, Chuuya couldn’t say he wasn’t a little bit surprised to see such displays of emotion on his face. Of course, he knew that Dazai cared about Akutagawa, but he was just surprised to see it.

The scene that they had walked into was a rather gruesome one. Akutagawa had broken free of his restraints and was now pining an impaled Atsushi to the ground with Rashomon. Griping the ability with his hands, Atsushi was begging Akutagawa to stop, to come back to him. He was so lost in the moment that he didn’t even seem to notice Dazai and Chuuya at the door, frozen in shock.

Chuuya at their carelessness.

Dazai at what he would inevitably have to do.

And then Chuuya was moving, he reached out, grabbing Rashomon and freeing Atsushi from its grip with his ability.

Cold, unseeing eyes turned on him.

It was so weird seeing eyes so devoid of emotion on Akutagawa.

Back when Dazai had left, Akutagawa had been in a bad place. Dazai was, while undeniably abusive, someone who Akutagawa had really looked up to. So having him leave without even so much as a goodbye had hurt Akutagawa deeply. 

He’d started picking up more of the riskier missions than necessary, expanding his bloodlust and exhausting his already sickly body.

Chuuya was finally the one to put an end to it, or at least as much as he could.

One night, Chuuya had found him, deep circles under his eyes, writing up reports for Mori. It looked like the poor kid hadn’t slept in ages, so Chuuya went over to him and somehow managed to convince him to finish them in the morning.

After that, he’d bought the kid a taxi and got him back to his shared apartment with Gin.

Helping him like that, as small as it was, made Chuuya feel good, because if he couldn’t help himself get over Dazai’s abandonment, then the next best thing, he supposed, was to help someone else.

Giving what he wished he received.

In the following years, Chuuya continued to do things like that, picking up the more dangerous missions for himself, so that Akutagawa would have a smaller pool to choose from, making sure that he didn’t overwork himself, as best as he could, and from time to time taking him and his sister out to do menial things like karaoke or going out for drinks.

Then after Atsushi, Akutagawa really started to become better. Even taking a vow not to kill for six months.

Chuuya had been so proud of him.

So it hurt him to see those empty eyes staring straight into his soul because it reminded him of all the progress that Akutagawa made, only to now have it all taken from him.

Coming back to himself, Chuuya flung himself to the side to narrowly avoid another strike from Rashomon. He gritted his teeth at the aching sensation such movement sent through his ribs.

They should’ve been more careful. They should’ve done something more withstanding than tying him to a fucking chair.  If they had then maybe they wouldn't be in this terrible situation.

Atsushi had gotten back up now and was moving towards Akutagawa with his hands held up, a desperate look shining in his watery eyes.

“Please, come back. I can’t live knowing I did this to you. Please Ryuunosuke, I can’t. I know it should’ve been me. It really should’ve been me. I mean, you would’ve known what to do. You always did. I don’t. I can just be so weak, Ryuu and I can’t do this without you. I miss you. I miss you so much. So please, just come back.”

There was no answer.

Instead, Rashomon just raced towards Atsushi, who didn’t even try to dodge, just staring at it with confusion like he couldn’t quite make sense of what was happening. He didn’t even look scared at the thought that it could end his life.

It was just sad.

Dazai wasn’t much better either. 

He was still standing at the door.  

Entirely still. Face blank.

It was completely unlike him and yet, Chuuya understood. He always understood.  

Dazai was hurting.  He was finally realizing just how much he'd fucked up.

Chuuya wished that Akutagawa knew how much Dazai cared because, underneath the mask of disapproval and disgust, Dazai really did care about him. He just didn’t know how to show it, because Akutagawa reminded him so much of a more emotional version of his younger self. Dazai had never been the best at self-love.

Intercepting Rashomon, Chuuya redirected it into the far wall, making the entire house tremble on its foundations.

They couldn’t let this continue for much longer.

Feeling the strain of using his ability in a fight like this, so soon after everything that he had put his body through back at Meursault, Chuuya forced himself to swallow back the pain and exhaustion as he lunged at Akutagawa, his fist colliding with the younger’s jaw and sending him flying back.

Akutagawa didn’t even wince, so far gone from humanity as he was. Instead, he just took the hit.

It was so unlike him that it hurt.

Akutagawa was someone who felt too much, not this thing that had taken over his body, leaving him practically void of emotion.

He didn’t stay down for very long though, instantly springing back to his feet and sending attacks out left and right.

Chuuya did his best to protect the three of them from the onslaught, but it was difficult having Atsushi distracting him with his painful pleas for Akutagawa to return to himself and Dazai just standing at the doorway, locked away in his mind. Then there was the glaringly obvious fact that Chuuya was hardly in good enough shape to put up a fight, given that he couldn’t even walk on his own, needing to use his ability to even move around.

So when Akutagawa finally managed to break through Chuuya’s defenses, he wasn’t surprised.

Rashomon slammed into him, nailing him in the chest and sending him flying backward into the wall.

Before impact, Chuuya did manage to alter his density so that the impact wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. However, with the great strain that he was already putting on his ability, he was still left a little bit stunned from the impact as he slide to the floor, narrowly dodging another attack from Rashomon by twisting his body to the side.

Seeing Chuuya being thrown around like that was what finally seemed to break Dazai from his uncharacteristic trance-like state, as he finally waltzed into the room, positioning himself in front of Chuuya.

“Akutagawa!” He exclaimed with a wave, all the emotion from earlier had left his features, “long time no see. You seem a bit weaker than the last time I saw you, a bit disappointing, don’t you think? I mean Chuuya is tiny! You should've taken him way earlier.”

Chuuya was floored. Ignoring Dazai's comment about his height, out of all the things that Dazai could have said, he chose to say that? What was the fuck was he thinking? Anger settled deep within Chuuya’s chest, but it didn’t last for long when suddenly, he began to realize what Dazai was doing. When he did, he just wanted to wrap Dazai up in a hug and never let go.

When Chuuya had been trapped under the same ability that Akutagawa was right now, Dazai had been able to bring him out of it, by managing to tap into Chuuya’s emotions and making him angry enough to come back. All Akutagawa had ever wanted was Dazai’s approval, so saying what Dazai was saying right now had a chance of bringing him back just like it had Chuuya, going by the same theory.

However, in doing so, they were still running the risk that he'd come back dying or dead from the battle that he'd endured before being possessed by Bram's ability.  Except maybe without using Dazai's ability outright, this way the risk might be a little bit less.  Just maybe.

Akutagawa stared blankly at Dazai. Not making any moves of aggression just yet, but it was still quite obvious that he was trapped in his vampiric state.

“What are you doing?” Chuuya heard Atsushi exclaim, rushing over to Dazai’s side. “Why would you say that to him?”

“Because he’s a disappointment,” Dazai continued, as though he were pointing out the obvious, staring straight into Akutagawa's eyes. “I mean really Akutagawa, you let yourself fall to such a lowly ability? How incredibly sad.”

Atsushi’s hands clenched into fists, glaring at Dazai with what Chuuya could only regretfully describe as hatred. Unlike Chuuya, he didn't realize what Dazai was doing. Honestly though, how could he?

It was sad. Really fucking sad.

Rashomon was getting ready for another attack.

Chuuya wanted to explain it all to Atsushi. He wanted to tell him exactly what Dazai was doing, but there wasn’t enough time. There was never enough time.

Besides, much to Dazai’s probable horror, his attempt to bring Akutagawa back without his ability didn’t even work.

And then, everything just seemed to happen really fast.

Still collapsed on the floor, Chuuya felt helpless. A feeling that he hated.

Atsushi was fuming at Dazai. His back was turned to Akutagawa.

Rashomon struck out, but instead of aiming for Dazai, the one who was trying to egg him on, it aimed for Atsushi’s heart with the intent to kill.

Atsushi who didn’t see it coming.

Atsushi who was about to die.

Chuuya watched in horror as Dazai sprung forward, shoving Atsushi out of the way.

He knew this was how it would end. They both did, but seeing it become a reality made it so much worse.

Atsushi fell to the ground.

Dazai reached a hand out nullifying Rashomon.

And in turn, Bram’s ability as well.

Atsushi was standing again now, staring at Akutagawa in horror as he came back to himself, the light of his remaining life returning to his eyes.

It was almost ghost-like how the gash from Fukuchi's blade tore open once more, as blood began to spill from Akutagawa’s throat.

Chuuya's heart felt like it had sunk to his stomach.

However, looking into Atsushi’s eyes, Akutagawa didn’t look scared at the thought of dying or confused about where he was. Instead, he just smiled, before collapsing to the ground.

Atsushi caught him before he hit it and suddenly Chuuya felt like he was intruding upon something terrible and undeniably private.

Akutagawa was sprawled out on the ground his head resting on Atsushi’s lap.

“Oh god. Oh god.” Atsushi stuttered out, a panicked hand fluttering over Akutagawa’s neck as if that would stop the bleeding.  

“It’s okay. I don't... I don't regret it,” Akutagawa rasped out, despite how painful it must’ve been for such words to leave his mouth, and then Atsushi was sobbing. His cries were loud and pained.

“But I just got you back! Don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me here! I can’t do it without you. I’m sorry it was you, it should’ve been me. I know, it should’ve been me.”

“No… it was always… meant to be me.” Akutagawa coughed at the strain from using his voice and his eyes watered. “Not… not your fault.”

Atsushi just cried holding him tighter.

It was then that Akutagawa seemed to notice Dazai standing a short distance away.

“Dazai?” Akutagawa rasped, a little bit of life seeming to return to his eyes, but still too far gone to be confused by his presence. “I did… what you asked. I saved... him. Are you… are you finally proud of me?”

“I was always proud of you. I’m sorry I never showed it.” It was so uncharacteristic of him, but Dazai looked like he was about to start crying himself.

Atsushi tensed up at the words and Chuuya was confused, but Akutagawa seemed satisfied.

“Good,” Akutagawa rasped.

A weight seemed to disappear from Akutagawa's chest at the confession. Then his eyes rose to meet Atsushi's once more, something bittersweet swimming within them.

"I'm sorry," Atsushi was still crying, "I'm so so sorry."

With the last of his strength, Akutagawa lifted a hand, placing it against Atsushi's cheek who leaned into it.

"Don't...be sorry. I did... did it... because I... because I love... love... y-"

Akutagawa couldn't even finish his sentence as he finally slumped in Atsushi's arms. 

He was gone.

The world seemed to stop spinning.

Atsushi was no longer sobbing. Dazai was no longer talking. Chuuya was no longer moving.

It was so still as though one little change would cause everything to break like glass.

And it did.

Atsushi’s had his head hung over Akutagawa’s body. His arms held him tightly like if he held him close enough it would bring him back. He was silent. Deadly silent. Silent tears made their way down his face.

Chuuya couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t even begin to process his own grief over the situation. 

The boy who he had tried to help. The boy who he had cared about like a son. How the hell was he going to tell Gin? Even the thought of it just broke his heart.

He watched as Atsushi finally began to truly break down over Akutagawa’s body. An unearthly, animalistic scream of hurt and loss built up in his throat. 

It was so raw that it even pained Chuuya, someone who only knew Atsushi in passing. 

Finally, as he began to feel some tears of his own making their way down his face, the haunting reality of the situation began to sink in. He watched in silence as Dazai took a step forward, trying to comfort his protégé.

“Atsushi? It’s going to be okay, alright? I’m so sorry.”

Atsushi didn’t reply, just continuing to hug Akutagawa to his body. His eyes were stretched wide with horror shining in their depths. 

He looked almost lost.

It was only when Dazai finally rested a hand on his shoulder that Atsushi broke free from his paralyzing grief.

Atsushi was broken and trembling, so when he lifted his head to meet Dazai’s eyes, Chuuya was slightly surprised to see rage pooling within them.

“What did he mean when he said that he did what you asked? What did he mean when he said that he saved someone? What did you do, Dazai?” Atsushi’s voice was a whisper, like if he raised it any louder everything would fall to pieces more so than it already had.

A beat of silence.

"Tell me!"

“I did what I did to protect you,” Dazai wouldn't meet Atsushi’s gaze. “It was the only way.”

Silence.

Atsushi didn’t ask for any elaboration, because even Chuuya could figure out what that meant. 

Whatever he did, Dazai did something to make sure that Akutagawa would protect Atsushi.

Atsushi would hate him for it.

Chuuya however, knew Akutagawa well enough to know that he had made that decision of his own discretion as much as Dazai and Atsushi might want to take the blame for themselves.

Akutagawa had loved Atsushi, just as he had tried to say. It was obvious even to Chuuya that he would do anything to save him.  Chuuya would do the same for Dazai anyways.

Besides, after a few drinks, Atsushi was all Akutagawa seemed to want to talk about.

Gently, Atsushi laid Akutagawa down on the carpet, using his hand to carefully slide his eyes shut. Then, he stood, making his way over to Dazai.

Chuuya and Atsushi arguably didn’t know each other very well. Sure they had interacted in the past, but they'd never really gotten to know each other very well. However, from what Chuuya had gathered, Atsushi was not one to head straight for violence. That was always something much more in tune for Akutagawa to do. So he was a little surprised when Atsushi raised a fist, slamming it straight into Dazai's face, sending him to the floor with an audible crack.

Dazai didn’t try to block. He didn’t try to plead. He just let it happen and when he fell to the ground he stayed there, staring blankly into the distance as the past finally caught up to him.

With his ability, Atsushi probably would’ve sent him flying straight through the wall.

“You should’ve just let me die! Because of you, I'll never even get to tell him that I love him too, dammit!  It just should’ve been me. It should’ve been me. It should’ve been me…”

He looked so lost and even though Chuuya wasn’t close to him, it was obvious to anyone that he needed some form of comfort. With Dazai now taken out of the equation, the only one left was Chuuya. So using his ability to help him stand, Chuuya made his way over to Atsushi and wrapped his arms around him, enveloping him in a hug.

At first, Atsushi was stiff, seemingly confused as to what was happening, but then he seemed to sink into Chuuya’s arms, wrapping his own around Chuuya’s waist and wetting his shirt with his tears.

It hurt to realize that he’d never get to see Akutagawa again.

It really fucking hurt.

Finally, the hug ended and Chuuya took a step back, slightly surprised when Atsushi didn’t go right back to Akutagawa. Instead, he just stood there for a few moments, as he glared at Dazai, who was still laying there on the floor, looking equally as lost as Atsushi.

“Get out.” Atsushi’s voice was low and angry. It was so unlike what Chuuya had known him to be like.

Dazai finally pushed himself up and off the ground, resting on his knees.

“Atsushi, I’m sorry. I should’ve thought farther ahead. I didn’t think-”

“You never do! All you ever do is think about yourself. You lie and you hurt and you manipulate those around you all for your own personal gain and I hate it. I hate you, Dazai!”

“Atsushi-”

“Get out!” Atsushi was trembling, pointing at the door, tears still streaming down his face. “Just… just get out!”

Finally, Dazai listened. He stood, face full of loss and regret.  

For a moment his eyes settled on the still body of Akutagawa that still laid there lifelessly.

Then, he left and headed back in the direction of their shared room.

Chuuya was quick to follow. As much as he didn’t really want to leave Atsushi alone with the dead body of the man who he had loved, he needed to make sure that Dazai would be okay too.  

Regardless, he was sure that Atsushi would probably want some time alone with Akutagawa before they figured out plans for his burial.

When he made it back to their room, Dazai was curled up in their bed, just staring at the far wall with a broken expression twisting his face.

“Dazai…” Chuuya’s heart broke for the tenth time that day as he made his way to their bed and pulled Dazai up against his chest, pulling his head up against his shoulder.

And then Dazai just broke.

He was crying harder than Chuuya had ever heard him cry before. 

With Dazai, crying was a rare occurrence, but when he did it was generally quiet and much more subdued.

But now Akutagawa was dead and Dazai was lost because it was indisputable that it was at least partially his fault, whether or not he'd actually wished death upon Akutagawa.

For Chuuya the loss felt like he was slowly having a sword being stabbed through his chest. It was agonizing. Painful.

For Dazai it must’ve been tenfold.

Even though Dazai had failed Akutagawa, it didn’t mean that he hadn’t cared. Chuuya knew that Akutagawa had been someone who Dazai had loved like a parent loved their child. He just didn’t know how to show such affection, because he’d never had a good example between Mori and what Chuuya speculated Dazai’s parents had been like from some conversations that they’d had after one too many drinks.

So Dazai had taken Akutagawa and tried to make him unbeatable in all the ways that he knew how. As fucked up as it all was, he wanted to protect Akutagawa. He wanted to give him the ability to live his own life.

And despite that Akutagawa was still dead, seemingly because of something else that Dazai had ingrained into him. That he had to protect Atsushi.

Chuuya couldn’t say that he was entirely surprised. He knew that Atsushi was someone who Dazai also cared about deeply in that parental way. Except with Atsushi, Dazai hadn’t fucked up quite as bad. There was still hope that he might be able to have a good life.

Akutagawa hadn’t had that opportunity. As much as Chuuya would’ve been happy for him to see him thriving in the light, with the way that Akutagawa’s path was paved. With the type of person he was. With the way that his life had gone, such a thing was a distant dream.

Maybe it was possible in another reality, but not here. Not now. Not in this time and place.

So saving Atsushi was the logical answer and cold, hard logic was something that Dazai stood by because even if nothing else could be trusted, logic could. 

Logic was factual. Logic was immovable. Logic would never let you down.

It didn’t make the outcome ever hurt any less though.

“I killed him,” Dazai breathed out in between sobs, “I really killed him. I mean... I mean it’s all my fault. Chuuya… I don’t… I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t deserve to be here anymore.”

Chuuya's arms tightened around Dazai, his heart rate picking increasing in speed at Dazai’s words.

“Osamu, please don’t say that.”

“But Chuuya, I don’t deserve to live. What’s the point to living if all I ever do is destroy everything around me? It’s like I’m cursed. No, I am cursed. Every turn of the way I bring down hell on those around me and yet, I’m still here. Why am I still here?”

Chuuya had never been good with words, so instead of refuting what Dazai had said with some long pretty monologue, he just lifted Dazai’s head with a finger, staring into his teary brown eyes with his own blue.

“You can’t control everything. Sometimes people just die.”

“Then why don’t I? When I told him to protect Atsushi, I didn’t mean… I never meant-”

“Dazai...” Chuuya rested his hand on his cheek and Dazai leaned into the touch, squeezing his eyes shut. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Dazai didn’t seem to really believe him, but he stopped talking after that.

His head sunk into Chuuya’s shoulder once more and both of them allowed each other to break down in each other’s arms over the loss of someone who had been like a son to both of them throughout their lives.

That night, no one slept.

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed the chapter! :)

Chapter 19: I Try as Hard as I Can to Love, Something I Don’t Know

Summary:

Ryuunosuke Akutagawa was buried on a Sunday, in a secluded space that was hidden away from all of society.

On a day of no significance. In a place of no significance. During a moment of no significance.

Notes:

Hey! I’m back with another chapter :)

Ryuunosuke Akutagawa was buried on a Sunday, in a secluded space that was hidden away from all of society.

On a day of no significance. In a place of no significance. During a moment of no significance.

To others, this would perhaps be a day of joy if nothing else. The day that cruelty of one of the Port Mafia’s most prominent Executives came to an end. The day that, to them, the sun perhaps shone a little bit brighter, because that was just one more broken person gone from the world.

Atsushi Nakajima didn’t feel either of those ways. He didn’t feel like the day was insignificant nor did he feel happy. 

He expected to feel sad. He wanted to feel sad. 

And he was... at least at first.

The whole night and first day following Akutagawa’s death, he had been a mess. It had been full of endless sobbing, begging, and denial. 

All that he wanted in the world was for his best friend to come back.

He had pleaded to any god that might exist to let them swap places, because why did he deserve to be here any more than Ryuunosuke did?  As much as he knew the type of person Ryuunosuke had been, that was what he had been born into.  It was all that he knew and yet, he'd still tried to become better.

For Atsushi.

Why had he ever gotten involved with Ryuunosuke?

It was all his fault...

It was all Dazai's fault...

Atsushi hated it all.  Why couldn't he ever seem to catch a break?

And then the third day came and suddenly the unbearable feelings of sadness and grief were gone.

Instead, something else stood in their place.

 The absence of anything.

Nothing.

It was almost as if all of the emotions in his body had left with the endless flood of tears that had streaked down his cheeks.

It was odd, because never in his life had Atsushi felt nothing. Even back in the orphanage with everything that he went through, he had always been fairly in touch with his emotions, something that the Headmaster had hated. So while he was definitely not mentally well after everything that he had gone through, he’d never felt like this.

Blank. Unfeeling. Empty.

The feeling was hard to describe, but Atsushi supposed that it was almost like he was trapped underwater in the middle of the ocean. He could see the rays of the sunlight flickering in, and showing him the way to the surface. Yet, the darkness of what was below was just so welcoming, as it beckoned him to meet its embrace. After all, even if he did swim up towards the air and sun that gave him life, he’d also be swimming towards the knowledge that he was lost in the middle of the sea with nowhere to go. The darkness of the ocean floor would not give him such false promises.

So that was the thing, why breach the surface when you’re destined to drown anyway?

The letter he’d written the previous night felt heavy in his pocket, as he helped Dazai and Chuuya dig the grave.

As he dug, deeper and deeper, he lost his mind to that room. The blood. The weight of Ryuunosuke in his arms, who had felt so dangerously light.

And those words. Those goddamn words... 

“Don't...be sorry. I did... did it... because I... because I love... love... y-”

Atsushi would forever hate himself for never saying it back.

Another part of him, however, wished that Ryuunosuke had never loved him.

If Ryuunosuke had never loved him then maybe they wouldn’t be digging his grave. If Ryuunosuke had never loved him then maybe he would've still been around to live another day.  If Ryuunosuke had never loved him then maybe Atsushi could've been the one they were digging the grave for.

Perhaps without Atsushi, Ryuunosuke would've been happier.

Perhaps without Atsushi, Ryuunosuke would’ve received Dazai’s approval sooner than on his deathbed.

No… that part wasn’t Atsushi’s fault. That was Dazai’s.

The offending person had been rather quiet since he’d murdered Akutagawa with the touch of his finger.

Which was good.

Atsushi hoped that whatever he was feeling was even a fraction of how Akutagawa had felt at the slice of the cold blading sliding across his throat. An experience that he had had to go through twice at that. 

All because of Dazai.

Maybe Dazai really should’ve just left him at that riverbank. If he had, then Atsushi wouldn’t have to deal with all of this pain or this vortex feeling deep within his chest that tore the emotion from his throat and made him feel like he was floating away in uncharted space with no way to tether himself back to Earth.

Before he knew it, they had finished digging the hole. 

Now, it was time for the hard part. 

The burial.

They hadn’t been able to buy a casket. With all of them being wanted, going out to buy something so pricey was dangerous, so instead, they had settled on a blanket that would softly wrap around Ryuunosuke for all of eternity until the sun exploded and the world was pulled into the void of the universe.

Atsushi was the one to lay Ryuunosuke to rest.

Picking him up, wrapped so gently in the blanket, Atsushi paused before laying him down in the six feet hole beneath him. Memories of their partnership danced in his mind’s eye and for the thousandth time, since his death, Atsushi wished that he’d just said the words. Those three goddamn words that he would now never have the chance to say again.

But the time had passed and now Ryuunosuke was no more. The body in his arms was just that: a body. It was not filled with the determination, defiance, and daring honesty that made up Ryuunosuke Akutagawa. Instead, it was just the remains of someone who was no longer there.

Someone who was gone.

So, Atsushi let go. He laid the body down upon the dirt, reminding himself that this was not Ryuunosuke. 

It was just a body. Only a body. A body without a soul. A body without a mind. A body that held no significance, because now it was just a body. No longer a tangible human being.

Climbing out of the pit, everyone was silent as they shoveled dirt upon the grave.  Upon the body.

It wasn’t Ryuunosuke. It wasn’t Ryuunosuke. It wasn’t Ryuunosuke.

Except it was.

Because even if the body was just a body, it had once been someone. Someone remarkable. Someone Atsushi had cared about. Someone Atsushi had truly loved.

Someone who would never come back.

Before he knew it, the hole had been covered again and now the only thing that gave away the disturbance was the square of what had once been vibrant green grass, now replaced by crumbly dirt.

A headstone was placed at the front of the grave.

It was the one thing that they had decided to do. Even though the grave was to be left mostly unmarked, given who Ryuunosuke was, Atsushi couldn’t just leave him there without a single to symbolize that he had once been a living person. 

To not do so would hurt too much.

The headstone had no name, for the protection of the gravesite. Honestly, it wasn't even a classic headstone, but rather a large rock that Atsushi had carved Ryuunosuke's initials into.

It was the least that they could do without risking everything and Atsushi hated it, because as much as the world might disagree, he knew that Ryuunosuke deserved so much more.

But the past was unchangeable, so it wasn’t like there was anything that they could do to fix it.

There was only onward. The next step forward.

Atsushi was so tired of it.

Chuuya was the first to speak. He told an amusing story about the first time that he and Akutagawa went drinking together. It was a funny story and Atsushi probably would’ve laughed if he hadn’t felt so trapped in his mind. If he had felt more human.

Wrapping up his story, Chuuya started to show a bit more emotion, claiming that Akutagawa had felt like a son to him and that he would miss him deeply.

Dazai tried to go next, but Atsushi cut him off with a dark look.

Pulling the letter that he’d written the previous day out of his pocket, Atsushi's hands trembled, and suddenly the emptiness that he'd felt the past few days began to fall to pieces.

Ryuunosuke was dead.

And suddenly, everything felt so real.  Like he'd been living in a thickly layered fog, to suddenly have it all disappear at once and be faced with the scorching hot sun from up above with no room to adjust.

The glass pieces that held up his soul began to shatter, as the words flowed from his heart.

“Dear Ryuunosuke,

I miss you. I miss our banter. I miss talking to you. I miss your strange love of figs. I miss everything about you.

The fact that I’ll never get to see you again is killing me because you’re gone and somehow everything is worse now.

Everything.

You’d probably laugh and call me a fool for lamenting over your death. I mean, while you were alive, you’d always criticize me for remaining so trapped in the past that it was like I was no longer living in the present.

But it hurts, okay?  Your gone and I feel like I don't know what to do anymore.

Maybe if I had been faster, maybe if I had been smarter, maybe if I hadn’t been in your life, then maybe you would still be here. 

Maybe I would be the one at the end of Fukuchi’s blade instead.  

Would that really be so bad?

I don’t know.

I just know that it would mean that you would still be here because Ryuunosuke it hurts knowing that I’ll never see you again.

You’re six feet under in the middle of god knows where and I’m here. Still here. Trapped here.

Why aren’t you with me?

We were supposed to have that battle after six months, remember? So why did you have to die? Now, we’ll never be able to see who’ll really come out on top all because of the swipe of a blade and the cruel touch of a finger.

But it’s not your fault. 

It’s mine. It’s Dazai’s.

I’ll never forgive him by the way, as much as I know you respect him.

You deserved better. So much better.

Before you died, you told me that you loved me and it kills me that I never got to say the same back because Ryuunosuke, I need you to know that I love you too. I love you more than I could ever express through the words of any language in history.

I just hope you didn’t die thinking that your feelings were unrequited or that I did truly hate you with everything that we’ve said to each other in the past.

Our relationship was never perfect, but never doubt that I loved you. That I still love you.

And one day we will meet again. At least I hope we will if there is anything after this life.

I love you.

I hope you knew that.

Yours,

Atsushi Nakajima”

Placing the note next to the headstone, Atsushi brushed his fingertips against the initials so delicately carved into the stone.

The last piece of Ryuunosuke that he had.

Dazai stepped forward, opening his mouth as if he were about to speak.

The glass finally shattered to pieces.

Atsushi snapped.

Where he had once felt nothing, suddenly he felt everything.

“No.”

Dazai looked at him, meeting his gaze. He looked so lost and almost sad, an expression that he rarely saw on Dazai’s face. Normally, Atsushi would feel bad and want to help him, but not now. 

Now seeing that expression on Dazai's face just made him feel even angrier.

Dazai had done this, so he didn’t deserve to feel this way. He didn’t deserve to speak. He didn’t deserve anything for something that was all his fault.

“Atsushi-”

“Just for once, shut the fuck up, Dazai.”

Everyone froze.

Atsushi was seething with anger, as emotions warred within his chest, feeling like they were going to tear him apart from the inside.

Chuuya was watching the entire interaction with concern. He looked like he wanted to say something, but kept his mouth shut.

And Dazai… Dazai was still, incredibly still. 

All of the emotion that had been on his face only moments ago was now gone.

And somehow that just made Atsushi even angrier.

“You did this. It’s your fault that we’re here. It’s your fault that all Ryuunosuke gets for his grave are small initials carved into a rock in the middle of nowhere. It’s your fault that I’ll never get to see him again. Everything Dazai, it’s all your fault! So, if you're going to pretend that you were good to Ryuunosuke and give him some nice, well-thought-out speech, I won’t let you. You don’t deserve that, because you treated him like shit during his life. So it’s too little too late. You should’ve told him you cared when he was still full of life. Not on his deathbed. Not at his grave. I hope you're in pain. I hope you feel overcome with remorse and guilt at what you've done because it’s your fault that Ryuunosuke ended up here. Honestly, when you think about it though, every terrible thing that’s happened in Yokohama can be traced back to you when you really think about it though. I honestly don't really know why I ever gave a shit about you. So, fuck you, Dazai. I hope you have a nice life.”

Atsushi didn’t wait for Dazai to say anything back, instead, he just tore off, leaving the gravesite at a brisk pace. He thought he could hear Dazai and Chuuya calling after him as he left, but paid it no mind.

They probably thought he’d end up back at the safe house anyways.

But no, that was not where he was going.

He was going to find Fukuchi and he was going to give him a death that rivaled Ryuunosuke’s tenfold.

All of his morality towards that man had vanished the moment he'd killed his best friend and with everything that had happened in the past several days, Atsushi sought revenge.

He would not be taking no for an answer.

Notes:

Usually the titles that I choose for each chapter come from lines of Chuuya Nakahara’s poems “Autumn” and “Soiled Sorrow,” hence the title of this fic “Autumn of Soiled Sorrow." However, instead of going with lines from either of those poems in this chapter, I instead chose a line from another one of Chuuya Nakahara’s poems titled “Fig Leaves,” since Ryuunosuke Akutagawa liked figs and tone of that poem sounds incredibly lonely and depressed, just like him.

So yeah... I hope you enjoyed the chapter! <3

Chapter 20: The Wraiths of Heatwaves Keep Standing Up and Sitting Down

Summary:

An old VHS cassette tape lay on the ground. Whoever had knocked was long gone. It was almost as if they'd never been there in the first place, if not for the tape that had mysteriously appeared.

Notes:

Hey, I’m back with another chapter :)

Atsushi disappeared from his sight and Dazai felt like another piece of his soul had been chipped off.

How had he fucked up so badly?

Wasn’t he supposed to be the one with the grand plan? The one to make everything better?

So, then why couldn’t he ever do it when things really counted? Why did his so-called genius falter when he really cared?

Rain began to fall from up above, just as a hand settled on his shoulder.

Chuuya.

“He’ll come back. He’s just gonna need some time. So c’mon, let’s go home.”

The walk back to the safehouse was silent.

By the time they got back both of them were practically soaked.

Dazai couldn’t help it, as he found himself subconsciously glancing towards the room that Atsushi and Akutagawa had stayed in.

If he had come up with a better plan would things have been different?

If he had trained Akutagawa better and taught him to put himself first, would things have been different?

If he had never placed Akutagawa in a position where he felt like he had to protect Atsushi would things have been different?

The answer was yes.

He’d always known that.

He just didn't expect the consequences of his actions to hurt this much.

His entire life, Dazai had tried to think of people as pieces on a chess board. It was easier that way because if you thought of people as little wooden inanimate objects on a checkered board, you could pretend that they weren’t real. That they didn’t have feelings or lives or blood running through their veins.

His parents taught him that. The old boss taught him that. Mori taught him that.

Every single parental figure that he ever had growing up had taught him that it was safer and all around easier to pretend. So Dazai had grown up dancing around the grip of reality. It was easier than admitting that every death hurt. It was easier than admitting that he hated himself. It was easier than admitting that all those jokes and so-called gags about wanting to kill himself weren’t just him kidding around.

So, hiding from reality, Dazai turned Akutagawa into a chess piece.

A wooden pawn. Not real. Inanimate. Fake. Like a puppet on strings.

By letting that cold thought process plague his mind, he’d done terrible things to Akutagawa. He’d beaten him, broken him, and played with his head. 

Dazai had done things to him that no one should have to grow up with.

But that was what Dazai himself had grown up with. So, in some sick way, he thought that what he was doing was the right thing. He even thought that he was truly helping Akutagawa because it worked. Right?

So, he ignored the twisting feeling in his gut, every time that he brought Akutagawa to tears. Just like he ignored the guilt, every time Akutagawa looked up at him in adoration.

But now time had passed and things were different.

Akutagawa was dead, and Dazai was just beginning to realize how terribly he’d treated him.

Atsushi’s outburst had only solidified the fact.

Excuses still ran through his head, though, despite his acceptance of the facts in the aftermath of Akutagawa's death. 

He told himself that since he grew up in a similar way to how he'd brought up Akutagawa, he didn't know any better. Besides, Dazai had been only a teenager himself when he was his apprentice.

But such excuses were futile in a mind as quick as Dazai’s.

As much as he was grateful for his genius, sometimes he hated how it forced him to face the dreaded reality of things.

Dazai’s mind reminded him that even though he grew up raised in chaos and abuse, it didn't permit how he'd treated Akutagawa. After all, he'd personally known how terrifying and damaging his upbringing had been.

Instead of making sure that no one else had to go through what he did, 
he continued the cycle of abuse.

What he would give to go back and fix it all.

But it was too late now. Time was fleeting and Akutagawa was dead.

At least he had told Akutagawa that he was proud of him before he'd left. Although Atsushi was right, he should've done it sooner.

A hand grabbed his wrist, pulling him back to the present. Dazai glanced over to see Chuuya eyeing him worriedly.

“Why don’t we get changed? We’re both soaked.”

Right...

At the reminder, he suddenly became hyperaware of the feeling of the cold, wet clothes claustrophobically hugging his body.

“Yeah, okay.”

Twenty minutes later, Dazai found himself on a kitchen stool, while Chuuya cooked some kind of stirfry. The latter of which kept sending nervous glances at his ex-partner.

“You know it wasn’t your fault, right?”

“I know.”

“Dazai, I’m being serious. Atsushi’s still young, and just lost someone who he loved. He didn’t actually mean what he said. Akutagawa chose to sacrifice himself anyways. No one ever could've forced him to do something like that.”

Dazai’s hand curled into a fist in his lap, his nails biting into his skin.

“I know.”

“Dazai, please-”

Anger exploded within the pit of Dazai's stomach.

Not at Chuuya, but rather at himself.

“Well, what do you want me to say Chuuya?” Dazai snapped. “That I’m innocent? That I didn’t do what I did? I ruined Akutagawa. I made him the way that he was and to make it even better I told him to kill himself to save Atsushi. So yeah, I murdered him or whatever you want to call it. But it's fine because everything is great, isn't it? It always is! But look, I don't deserve to keep getting away with all the terrible shit that I do!”

Turning off the burner, Chuuya started to make his way around the counter, holding his hands out in front of him.

“Dazai-”

“No! Don’t try to comfort me. Don’t tell me that I didn’t know what I was doing. I knew exactly what I was doing, every step of the way, because I’m sick, Chuuya. I’m fucking demented. And I… I don’t deserve to be here. So just stop trying to defend me, okay? Back at Mersault, you almost died because of me. I’ve failed you countless times as a partner and as a friend. You don’t deserve that, Chuuya. You’re so kind and you always come back. It doesn't seem to matter how many times I screw you over and I just... I don’t deserve that. So please just stop.”

Standing up, Dazai tried to leave, but a hand reached out grabbing his wrist.

He didn’t turn around, but he didn’t tear free of the grip either.

“Dazai, you're right. You have done terrible things, but so have I. Don’t forget that. Neither of us is perfect, but I don't think anyone is. Yes, you have done terrible things to me, Akutagawa, and many others. Just don't forget that you're not the only one with red in your ledger. I’ve killed people Dazai. Probably more than you. People with lives. People with friends. People with families. Back in that prison, remember that one guard? She seemed so cold at the time. Cruel even. But was she really any different from us? I mean, she was just doing her job and trying to survive. Y'know, before I killed her, she begged me to stop. She begged me to let her live. Her name was Camille and before I killed her, she told me that she had a daughter. Her name's Yuan and look, I had a friend back when I was back with The Sheep with that name, so it made me freeze up. Gave me pause, y'know? Because at that moment I realized that I was committing the exact same act that had left my Yuan feeling so helpless. I still did it anyway though, I mean I had to, or at least that's what I'm telling myself. It doesn't make the whole thing haunt me any fucking less though. In killing Camille, I left a child motherless and with a lifetime of trauma. You’re not the only one who’s guilty Dazai. Everyone is. But that doesn’t take away your worth nor does it take away your humanity. Giving up does. Refusing to change does. You’re not a good person Dazai, but neither am I. Maybe no one is. I mean look how fucked up the world is. Still, I’d like to at least think that we can at least learn from our mistakes. That we can maybe become better with time.”

“And what if I can’t?”

“You can. I know it.”

Dazai turned around, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Why don't you ever give up on me? I’ve been so cruel to you.”

“I already told you.”

“You still shouldn’t. Chuuya, the people in my life don’t get happy endings.”

“Then, maybe we can change that. Together.” Chuuya reached out a hand, cupping Dazai's cheek, who found himself subconsciously leaning into it with a foreign feeling settling into the pit of his stomach.

“Okay, maybe we can try.”

“But I also stay, because Dazai… or well, look I need to tell you something…” Chuuya’s glanced away falling silent. His hand fell from Dazai’s face.

The air felt like glass. One touch and it would break.

“What?”

Dazai's voice was whisper quiet. His eyes searched for Chuuya’s own, which slowly returned to meet his gaze.

“It’s just… I, well-”

Chuuya almost jumped out of his own skin at the sound of someone loudly banging on the door.

The previous conversation was immediately forgotten, as both of them quickly headed over to the beaten door, expecting to see Atsushi.

That however was not the case.

Dazai opened the door.

An old VHS cassette tape lay on the ground. Whoever had knocked was long gone. It was almost as if they'd never been there in the first place, if not for the tape that had mysteriously appeared.

Picking up the tape, Dazai felt Chuuya stiffen up beside him.

“The hell? A fucking VHS? Who in the fucking hell uses that fucking shit anymore? Better yet, who the hell found us here anyway? Actually, lemme take care of that. I’ll find out and make sure they don’t come back. A fucking VHS? I mean fuck.”

However, before Chuuya could actually leave to try and pursue whoever had left the tape, Dazai caught him by the arm.

“Don’t.”

There was something about this whole situation that didn’t feel right. Dazai couldn’t quite figure out what it was just yet, but he just had this gut feeling that he should watch the tape before making any moves or he'd regret it. So, shutting the front door and making sure to lock it, Dazai forced Chuuya to follow him into the living room, where the sole Tv sat.

The Tv was, quite luckily, rather old, as the safehouse hadn’t been updated in quite a while. So, Dazai was able to easily slip the tape into the player.

With the click of a few buttons the video began to play and what Dazai saw caught him so off-guard that his jaw almost fell wide open in shock.

There on the screen, wearing his stupid hat, was Fyodor Dostoevsky.

He smiled widely and a chill ran up Dazai’s spine. Why couldn't he ever catch a break?

“Did you miss me?”

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed the chapter <3

Chapter 21: Under the Cloudy Sky

Summary:

“Did you miss me?”

Notes:

Another chapter for ya’ll <3

“Did you miss me?”

The words were cold, canvasing the room in an expanse of ice. This wasn’t right. Fyodor was supposed to be dead.

Chuuya had killed him himself.

“You must be in shock! I mean, look at me!  I'm Alive!” Fyodor laughed, an odd sound coming from him. “Well don’t be too surprised, I won’t go that easily.”

Dazai was unnaturally still next to him, watching the screen with a show of unadulterated anger settling over his face.

“I made a deal with Gogol to help me escape in exchange for well… something that he could not refuse, put simply. The whole thing with the poison and escaping was simply for my own personal amusement. I was never actually there, but it was hilarious to watch.”

Fyodor leaned back in his chair, his expression relaxed.  Then, eerily his eyes turned to meet Chuuya's own through the screen as if he were actually there.

“It really makes you think," Fyodor mused, "if I escaped before the prison break, then it begs the question as to who did you kill? It’s such a funny question because in order to understand the full answer you would have to remember how you were turned into a vampire yourself and that’s the thing. You don’t remember, do you Chuuya?”

Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

“Why don’t I help you? Does Project 49 sound familiar?”

Project 49.

Suddenly, it all came rushing back.

---

Unknown Number of Months Prior
Project 49

Chuuya sorted through the numerous desk drawers of the small office, searching for a document that supposedly had dirt on the Port Mafia. Mori had sent Kouyou, Gin, Higuchi, and him to find it. 

However, much to his disdain, Kouyou had been the only one to show up.

He was going to kill Gin and Higuchi when he found them. Still, it wasn’t like them to just not show up for work. Doing so could be a death sentence in the mafia, so deep down in his heart, Chuuya did find himself a little worried about whatever their current predicament was because there had to be an important reason why they weren't here.

“Maybe they finally hooked up,” Kouyou joked from across the room as if she were reading his thoughts. “I’m sure they’re fine. So let’s just find this document and then we can deal with that situation later.”

“Yeah yeah,” Chuuya muttered back.

It took another hour of searching before Chuuya finally held up the piece of paper triumphantly.

“Found it. Fucking finally.”

Kouyou laughed from where she had been looking through another drawer.

“Good, then let’s go.”

Despite his concern for Gin and Higuchi, the mission had been fairly underwhelming. He’d expected more from an organization intelligent enough to get any semblance of real dirt on the Port Mafia, but at least this way they could just slip in and out without the need for a mess. It was honestly strange that they hadn’t run into anyone while they’d been there, but who was he to judge? Now that they’d lost their leverage, Mori would send out the grunts to get rid of the organization. They’d be disbanded and dead by the end of the week.

Leaving the office, Chuuya strolled down the dark hallways with Kouyou right behind him. Carefully, he made sure to stay out of the way of the cameras, redirecting them when needed with his ability.

The exit was fast approaching. However, as Chuuya turned another corner he stopped at the sight of a dark figure at the end of the hallway.

They stood still. Unmoving.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Chuuya turned his head about to crack a joke to Kouyou about the creepy stranger. However, he was startled upon realizing that she was no longer there.

“Kouyou?”

His fists clenched and he turned back to face the person.

Only to find that no one was there anymore either.

“Hey, asshole! What the fuck did you do to her? I’ll kill you, y’know? Just come out, goddammit.”

Again, he was met with silence.

Okay, something was really wrong.

A twisting feeling turned in his gut before Chuuya felt someone slam into his side, flinging him into the opposite wall. His instincts just barely managed to activate his gravity manipulation, softening the impact.

Not just anyone got the upper hand on him. Who the fuck was this?

Looking around, Chuuya searched for his attacker, only to find that they had disappeared once again.

He engulfed his body in a dangerous red light, carefully surveying the darkness.

“Stop hiding, you fucking coward.”

The twirling glint of flying steel caught his eye just in time and Chuuya reached out, grabbing the blade before it could reach his stomach.

It was odd because something about the blade seemed really familiar. The size, the weight, the feel.

And then, it suddenly clicked. Painfully so.

“Gin?”

Out from the darkness came the assassin, her face blank and soulless.

And her eyes…

They were pitch black.  

Unnatural.

“Gin, what happened to you?”

There was no reply, as Gin shot forward, a blade aimed for his neck.

Diving to the side, Chuuya avoided the hit, but couldn’t quite bring himself to counter. He’d helped bring up Gin in the Mafia. He’d helped train her. The thought of hurting her, of killing her, made him want to throw up.

Someone had to be doing this to her. She couldn’t be doing this of her own free will.

“Gin, stop. Just snap the fuck out of it,” Chuuya gritted out, grabbing her wrist, as she again tried to stab a blade into his neck. 

Shoving her away, Chuuya stepped back.

“Gin?” Chuuya tried again, but there was still no sign of recognition in her eyes.

Instead, Gin just dashed forward, a knife aimed, this time, for Chuuya’s head.

He ducked, swiping Gin’s legs out from under her, and watched as she collapsed to the ground without a single sound.

Like a puppet cut from its strings.

How was he going to tell Akutagawa?

Jumping up almost inhumanly, Gin swung a fist at him that Chuuya easily grabbed before spinning her around and slamming her into the wall.

Perhaps if he could just knock her out, he could take her away to someone who could help and figure out what the fuck was going on. He wouldn’t settle for less. He couldn’t.

Using one hand to keep her pinned to the wall, Chuuya raised his other to wrap it around her neck. He just needed to apply enough pressure to knock her out. Then he would find Kouyou and they could all escape together.

Except his plans were dashed as a bullet whizzed past his head, making him jump back on instinct.

“The fuck?”

Out of the shadows came another familiar face.  

Higuchi.

She too had the same darkened eyes as Gin, along with something off about her whole demeanor.

Okay, so things were more complicated now, but Chuuya had dealt with worse. He’d be able to incapacitate them and then all four of them would get out of here and figure this all out.  Happily ever after and all that shit.

Taking a deep breath, Chuuya grabbed Gin, flinging her into the far wall with enough force to knock her unconscious for the moment. It was going to leave a few bruises, but it would just have to do.

Approaching Higuchi, who relentlessly fired shot after shot, Chuuya was way more unfazed than he was with Gin. Higuchi's bullets wouldn’t be able to actually hurt him and while she was skilled, Higuchi didn't quite have the cunning of Gin.

Upon reaching her, Chuuya grabbed her, slamming her to the ground and effectively knocking her unconscious.

Great.

Now he just had to find Kouyou.

“Real nice of you to let me do all the dirty work,” Chuuya joked, “now where are you? I'm really tired, so let’s just go home so we can figure out what happened to these two idiots and fix it.”

He was met with silence, as the darkness seemed to encroach just a little bit closer.

Where the fuck was she?

His gut twisted, as fear again began to crawl up his throat. What if Higuchi and Gin had gotten to her? What if she was hurt?  Or worse... 

But then there she was, coming out of the shadows, and making Chuuya’s body sag in relief.

“Thank fuck. You scared the shit outta me, y’know?” Chuuya laughed, running a hand through his hair. “Now c’mon, let’s go home.”

Chuuya turned around.

And then everything happened so quickly that he barely even had time to process it all until he was falling to the ground in a world of pain. Blood seeped out of his body from where there was now a long, red, jagged slash across his chest.

Kouyou’s Golden Demon towered above him, her Katana dripping with his blood.

Oh.

Oh no.

A boot kicked his side, making Chuuya gasp in pain, as he was forced onto his back.

Above him was Kouyou, but she was wrong. Her face was blank. Her eyes were dark and soulless.

“No... Kouyou please... don’t do this...”

Tears slipped down his cheeks as his pleas fell on deaf ears.

Kouyou sunk down next to him.

Fangs glistened in the darkness.

A sharp, stabbing feeling pierced his neck.

And then there was nothing.

---

“Do you remember now?”

Chuuya couldn’t breathe, as his vision blurred and suddenly everything felt like it was happening too fast.  It was too much.  He couldn't do this.

The cauterized wound on his chest twinged with phantom pain.  The wound that he thought had come from corruption.

Kouyou. He’d been with Kouyou when it’d happened.

There’d been a body double.

Fyodor had dragged up that specific memory because the body double…

Fuck…

Oh god… fuck… no…

“It really makes you think, if I escaped then who did you kill?"

Does Project 49 sound familiar, Chuuya?”

“No!  No, just shut the fuck up! Please! Just... fuck! God fucking dammit! I can’t do this… please… just stop… fucking shit… no... I didn't... I couldn't...”

“Chuuya?” Dazai tried, attempting to calm him down, as he placed a hand on his shoulder.

Why was he doing that? 

Chuuya knew that Dazai wasn’t oblivious to the gravity of the situation. He couldn't be. He too had to understand what Chuuya had done. He too had to understand that he had killed his sister.

“So now you realize that you killed her. I just wish I could see the look on your face.  I bet it's hilarious! You see, your sister, Kouyou, had a bad heart and the lord sent me here to bring justice to the deserving. So she had to die. I do hope you understand.”

Dazai tightened his grip on his shoulder.

Suddenly Chuuya couldn’t take it anymore.

He lunged for the remote, but Dazai stopped him just in time, grabbing his wrist and forcing him to sit back on the coach.

“Turn it off,” Chuuya struggled. “Please, just make it stop.”

“I’m sorry, you know I can’t.”

Gentle arms engulfed Chuuya in a hug and he sunk into it, turning his head away from the screen.

He understood why they had to keep the tape playing, but he hated it. He hated it all.

“We found an ability user, a lovely person, who could cast powerful illusions onto other people.  The illusions were so real in fact that the people under their influence actually started to believe they really were the person that the illusionist had turned them into. But hardly any of that matters now, we’ve made sure that that ability user won’t ever be resurfacing if you know what I mean.  I was quite disappointed though that neither of you realized that it wasn't me. Especially when Kouyou, under the guise of myself, touched Chuuya during corruption and he didn't die.  So tragic.  So sad.”

A smirk tugged at his lips, as Fyodor leaned forward in his seat, his hands clasped together in his lap.

“Now, Dazai, the real reason that I'm sending this. It's just that I think I’ve waited long enough, so I’ve come to bargain with you. I suppose one could say that I found someone earlier today wandering the streets alone. Very dangerous, you know? So, I thought to myself, why don’t I help them and bring them back with me?”

Chuuya glanced up just in time to see the camera shift over to reveal an unconscious Atsushi, bound and gagged.

Dazai tensed next to him.

“If you don’t tell me the location of The Book within the next week, then perhaps Atsushi can go join Kouyou. You wouldn’t want that now would you, Dazai? Anyways, I trust you to know how to find me and if you can’t then perhaps I’ll just have to find you. I mean, I’d have to give Atsushi’s body to someone to bury. I would never want to disrespect the dead.”

The video ended and the Tv lit up with static.

Dazai turned it off.

The air felt like glass.

“I killed her, Dazai. I killed my own fucking sister.”

“No,” Dazai argued, pulling Chuuya closer to his body, “no you didn’t. Fyodor did.”

“But it’s my fault, Dazai. I’m... I'm a monster. She didn’t even get to die as herself.”

Grabbing his face in both of his hands, Dazai pressed his forehead against Chuuya's own, eyeing him tenderly.

“Don’t call yourself that. You’re not a monster, Chuuya. You’re too annoyingly human to ever be considered such a thing."

Pulling Chuuya into his arms, Dazai’s lips settled next to his ear.

“It’ll be okay, alright? Everything will be fine.”

Notes:

Next chapter will be up some time soon. :)

Chapter 22: The Telegraph Pole Stood Out Against the Evening Sky

Summary:

Fate was a total dick with a stick up its ass.

Notes:

This chapter took so much research lol. Worth it though

Three Hours Prior

Tearing through the streets of Yokohama, Atsushi didn’t know where he was going. He just knew that he had to find Fukuchi.

If he found him. If he killed him. Then maybe he could stop himself from feeling like he was being eaten alive.

The first time that Ryuunosuke had died, it had been painful, but he’d been so wrapped up in everything else that he had never really had the time to process his grief. Instead, he’d swallowed it down and locked the pain away in a box before throwing away the key

But then, he saw him again…

And thought that maybe they had a second chance...

But then, he blinked and Ryuunosuke was gone once more…

And the box... well it was full.  So when he desperately tried to shove away the feelings once more, it was all too much.

The box was already bursting at the seams and so, it just exploded like that.

An explosion of memories. An explosion of grief. An explosion of hurt.

It was all too much.

But still, that didn't quite get the picture across

So perhaps, it was like he was rewatching his favorite show. He knew when to laugh and when to cry. He could recall his favorite lines, chanting them in sync with the actors. He could even choose the episode, always understanding the baseline of what was happening and all the inside jokes. 

But then lightning struck and suddenly nothing made sense anymore.

The Tv began playing every single episode of the show all at once. Sure, it was a show that he loved or at least thought he did, but now it was all wrong. Words turned incoherent. A hundred smiles taunted him. A hundred screams strangled him. A hundred sobs broke him. Nothing made sense anymore. This wasn’t his favorite show any longer. Instead, it was just some incoherent mess from which he couldn’t discern any semblance of comprehensibility.

He tried to turn the Tv off.  

He tried to bash it in with a bat.  

Nothing worked.  

He was trapped in an unintelligible version of a world that he had once loved. A world that no longer made any sense. A world that he didn’t know if he wanted to be in anymore.

Earlier he’d blamed Dazai. However as Atsushi continued to briskly make his way down Yokohama's streets, left alone with naught but the company of his own mind, he found himself beginning to regret that decision.

What Dazai had done and how he had treated Ryuunosuke was fucked up. There was no arguing about that.

But Dazai didn’t make the call to save him in the end.  He didn't shove Ryuunosuke in the way of Fukuchi's blade.  He didn't force Ryuunosuke to tell him to go and leave him there to die.

That was Ryuunosuke's choice.

Ryuunosuke had saved him.  Ryuunosuke had sacrificed himself.

To amount Ryuunosuke's legacy to bending down to the will of Osamu Dazai would be to discredit him from having the ability to be his own person.  It would be to discredit him from having his own will.

To do so would also be to burn Dazai at the stake for a choice that wasn’t of his own making.

For even if Dazai had been the one to give Ryuunosuke the match, Ryuunosuke had been the one to light it.

He didn't have to.

He chose to.

As the thought continued to burn into Atsushi's mind, he found himself almost turning around. He found himself wanting to apologize to Dazai for blaming him for Ryuunosuke’s death. Yet the thought of tearing Fukuchi apart overpowered that desire, so he forced himself to continue walking.

Eventually, he would have to stumble upon someone who could point him in the right direction and even if he didn't, walking down these streets gave him a chance to think.  It gave him a chance to strategize.

Even if he didn't know exactly where he was going.  Even if he didn't yet know how to find Fukuchi, he would just keep putting one foot in front of the other and trust fate.

Except there was just one thing that Atsushi hadn't entirely accounted for.

Fate was a total dick with a stick up its ass.

Atsushi was jolted from his thoughts at the sound of a snicker echoing through his ears.

He froze.

Turning his head, Atsushi looked towards where it had sounded from, only to be met with a dark alleyway seemingly devoid of life.

The rational part of his mind screamed at him to just walk away, but curiosity won out in the end and he headed towards the sound.

Demons of times past taunted him from within his mind.

Maybe it’s Fukuchi. Maybe he’s laughing at you.

So wrapped up in his thoughts, Atsushi didn’t notice as the shadows shifted and took the form of a man behind him. He didn’t realize what was happening, as something hard slammed into the back of his head.

He only saw revenge turned to darkness, as he collapsed and his consciousness faded into oblivion.

---

Present

His whole life, Chuuya had been haunted by death.

But not in a conventional way.

Instead of falling to it himself, as he should have an innumerable amount of times, it seemed that he was the harbinger of it to everyone else.

And he knew that he shouldn’t be lamenting about such things, especially after reassuring Dazai that Akutagawa’s death wasn’t his fault. Especially after reassuring him that it had just been a cruel twist of fate.

But Kouyou was his sister. A constant in his life, who had always been a guiding hand that he knew he could trust.

She had been one of the last people who hadn't left.

Until she had, and just like with The Flags, it was all his fault.

Despite everything that she had done for him, he had killed her…

Now she was just brain matter and blood splattered across the floor of a prison in a place that was over six thousand miles away.

And sure, it was Arahabki that had done it.

And sure, it was a cruel trick cultivated by the demented mind of Dostoevsky.  

And sure, it was something that no one could have seen coming.

But that didn't make it hurt any less.

A hand carding through his hair brought him back to reality, and he turned to face Dazai next to him.

“Why does this always happen to us?”

Dazai didn’t reply. Instead, he just let the question hang in the air, open-ended and unanswered.

For a few more hours Chuuya just lay there, curled up against Dazai on the sole couch of the living room, both sharing stories about Kouyou and Akutagawa, as they reminisced about a time that had already come to pass.

Still, pressing matters were at hand, and as much as Chuuya wanted to just stay there in that moment and give himself time to finally breathe and grieve about all the shortcomings life had handed him that simply wasn't possible.

He knew it and Dazai did too.

They had to face Fyodor. They had to save Atsushi. 

They always had to do something.

After taking just a few more moments to prepare himself to once again suppress the pressure of the demons that wanted to tear him apart from within, Chuuya finally acquiesced and forced himself to return to the reality of his life with Dazai following his lead shortly thereafter.

They would fall back into their routine. They would banter, joke, tease and forget until this was all over. Only then would they be allowed to figure out the rest.

“Now, how the fuck are we gonna find this motherfucker?”

A smile tugged at Dazai’s lips.

“I’m glad you asked."

The melancholy of the past few hours faded into the background, as they shifted back towards the more pressing matters of the current. Almost like a light switch.

Chuuya watched as Dazai stood, heading over to the Tv and ejecting the VHS tape from the player, before sitting next to Chuuya once more.

Lifting the tape, Dazai's eyes narrowed as he studied it. 

His gaze flitted over the inscribing on the top of the VHS as the echoes of calculations lit up in his eyes. Watching him like this, so invested and focused made something warm curl in the pit of Chuuya’s stomach, but he forced himself to push the feeling away for now just like everything else.

Now was not the time for that.

It only took a few more seconds, before Dazai finally looked up from the tape looking proud.

“I found him.”

“Okay great! Now, where the hell is he?”

Smugly, Dazai tilted the tape in Chuuya’s direction so that he could see the writing scrawled across the top of the tape.

Color/35 Minutes Rated R 
Closed Captioned Cat. No. 060261 9 
Section #: 2524N
INFORMATIONS ON PUBLIC SCREENING OF THIS VIDEO CAN BE OBTAINED BY CALLING (045)139-3721 
PrintEd in Japan

While Chuuya considered himself to be somewhat intelligent, no matter what Dazai said, the writing on the tape looked rather normal to him. Of course, the 'E' being capitalized in 'PrintEd' was a bit odd, but it could honestly just be chalked up to some weird typo. 

Still, it had to be a code of some kind if Dazai was practically shoving it in his face.

“It’s a code,” Dazai said, mirroring his thoughts.

“Wow, I never would have guessed.”

Ignoring the sarcastic comment, Dazai continued.

“Honestly, I’m kind of surprised Dostoevsky didn’t come up with something more clever. This is pretty juvenile actually, but I mean at least it’ll still make me sound smart to someone like you-”

Chuuya grabbed his jaw, silencing him.

“Just fucking explain it already.”

“I was just about to if you’d let me get to it,” Dazai complained, yanking his face away from Chuuya's hand with mock hurt. “Anyways, it’s pretty simple. As you can see, at the top of the tape, it says ‘Color/35 Minutes Rated R.' The thing is though that the video was not even close to thirty-five minutes, so that already means something is off. However, if you take the parts that say ‘color’ and ‘Rated R’ you can deduce that it’s referring to the color red-”

“Why the fuck would anyone deduce that?”

“Chuuya don’t try to comprehend things that you’ll never understand. Anyways, now we’ve got that piece of information, we know that Fyodor is hiding somewhere involving the color red."

"You didn't answer my question, jackass."

"Ugh fine, for this part of the code, we're working from the outside in. Since the most obvious color starting with the letter R would be red, we know that the location has something to do with that color," Dazai explained with a dramatic eye roll like Chuuya was the odd one for not understanding.

The explanation honestly still didn't do much to help explain Dazai's logic.  Especially why he was working from the outside in, but Chuuya just let it go, knowing that given Dazai was Dazai, he probably wouldn't be getting a clear answer no matter how much he pestered him.  Instead, he decided to just let Dazai get to enjoy sounding smart without questions because then at least that way his bragging would hopefully be over quicker.

"Okay, so moving on, the tape says that it's thirty-five minutes long when it's definitely not. Along with that, there are a lot of random numbers thrown around on this tape, and knowing Fyodor, I’m going to assume that those are the start of coordinates, which means that thirty-five minutes actually mean 35°.” Dazai lifted his eyebrows, throwing his hands out as though he were some kind of remarkable genius, which in part he kind of was.

Not that Chuuya would ever admit that.

“Aren’t you going to say anything? Like maybe I don't know, ‘great job Dazai, you’re amazing!’”

“Great job Dazai, you’re amazing!” Chuuya exclaimed, although his voice lacked any semblance of enthusiasm to back up the sentiment. “Now what the fuck are the rest of the coordinates?”

“So mean,” Dazai complained, but did go back to explaining the technicalities of his deduction. “So now that we’ve worked through the first line, we know that our location has something to do with the color red and has coordinates starting with 35°. So moving on to the second line we’ve got ‘Closed Captioned Cat. No. 060261 9.’ Firstly, I’m going to assume that ‘Closed Captioned’ means that we’re going somewhere that’s considered private. Then there's the category number, which has the numbers ‘060261 9,’ which is weird because why is the last number the only one that's separated? Now, a normal person might overlook this and assume that the space was accidental and the coordinates are continuing, but I’m not-”

“Obviously,” Chuuya sarcastically chimed in to which Dazai shot him a glare, but continued regardless of the snide remark.

“Now if you would stop interrupting me, the fact that this is a category number seems to point more towards a room number perhaps, if you will, not coordinates. After all, a location isn’t a category but a room can be categorized. This means that '060261' is the room number while '9' is the sector that it's in since it's improbable for a room number to simply be referred to as number nine."

Although Chuuya would never admit it, Dazai’s ability to be able to logic his way through the world was something that amazed him. It made him feel safe too, because if Dazai was this smart then why should he ever need to worry about the next step?  Dazai would always have a plan and a light to guide the way. Of course, there were faulted moments, but in the end, Dazai almost always seemed to find a way to pull through. Chuuya just wished Dazai saw things that way too. For as much as Dazai prided over his work, Chuuya knew that deep down Dazai had always felt inadequate. Perhaps that was what fueled him to be as smart as he was because he was scared that without his intelligence people would realize just how worthless he was and leave. As much as that wasn't true.

“Now, moving onto the next line, it reads “Section #: 2524N.’ This is odd because why is the section number ending in a letter rather than another number? And look, I know what you're thinking," Dazai raised his voice, in a terrible attempt to try and mimick Chuuya, "But Dazai, some section numbers do have letters!"

"That definitely wasn't what I was fucking thinking, and you know what, fuck you, I don't sound like that." 

Ignoring him, Dazai continued, "and to that, I say, dear Chuuya, you are so incredibly stupid." 

Chuuya flipped him off, only to have the gesture ignored just as well.

"It just doesn't make sense that there's only one letter in the section number with the rest of the digits being numbers and that's because the coordinates are continuing and 'N' stands for ‘North,’ which then means that twenty-five and twenty-four are the northern coordinates. So now we have a red private property in the ninth sector with room number 060261 and we know that the location's coordinates start with 35°25’24”N. Now, because we’ve got coordinates coming from the north, that means that the next set will either come from the west or east, which rules out the south. Since north was denoted with the letter ‘N,’ that probably means that we’re looking for a capital ‘E’ or ‘W’ if we’re looking for consistency. So this brings us to the fourth and fifth lines which are going to tie in together. Looking at the fifth line, which reads ‘PrintEd in Japan,’ we can see that the ‘E’ here is capitalized, so now we’ve figured out that the next set of coordinates will be set to the east.” Dazai turned towards Chuuya, in a desperate search for validation.

“Impressive,” Chuuya deadpanned, but it was enough for Dazai who practically beamed at the questionable praise and continued as though Chuuya had delivered him with a round of extravagant applause and roses. 

Honestly, it was probably just to try to piss Chuuya off.

“So then reading the fourth line ‘INFORMATIONS ON PUBLIC SCREENING OF THIS VIDEO CAN BE OBTAINED BY CALLING (045)139-3721’ we can deduce multiple things,” Dazai continued, pointing a finger at the referenced part of the tape. “First we tell that this phone number is fake because it simply doesn’t contain the right amount of numbers to be considered one, which all the more points towards this being a code. Then, we’ve got the area code for Yokohama in ‘(045).’ So, this means that the rest of the numbers here reference the coordinates that we’re lacking for the east. ‘139’ must be the first part with ‘37’ and ‘21’ being the next parts of the coordinates, due to the separation. So now, we've got 139°37’21”E and with that, we’ve found our rat.”

Pulling up google earth, Dazai plugged in the coordinates 35°25’24”N, 139°37’21”E, before setting his virtual person on the ground, to drag himself past an old Coca-Cola machine and towards a self-storage facility. Chuuya watched as Dazai forced the app to take him to the front of the facility where two doors stood. One red, one blue.

“I’m so good at this,” Dazai bragged, zooming in on the red door, which read ‘trunk room first-floor entrance.’ Then zooming back out Dazai, moved back towards the coca cola machine, so he could peer at the first-floor storage units, zooming in on their numbers until he finally came across the one that he was looking for. Sure enough, the furthest unit contained unit number 060261 and was in sector number 9.

“Fuck yeah.”

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed the chapter <3

Totally forgot how VHS tapes work lmao, so I was literally looking through a bunch of really old stored away tapes to figure out how to write out the code for this chapter. Also, the self-storage facility described in this chapter is a real place that I found after two hours of scouring throughout the Yokohama area on google earth lol

Chapter 23: Long Years' Fatigue

Summary:

A cold feeling curled in Chuuya’s chest and even though he was sure that they would be able to pull this off with Dazai’s tact and his physicality, something just felt wrong. Something that he couldn’t quite place.

Notes:

TW: Child Abuse

The moon and streetlights being the only sources of light left, Dazai and Chuuya slipped onto the darkened Yokohama streets, towards the facility that held Atsushi.

A cold feeling curled in Chuuya’s chest and even though he was sure that they would be able to pull this off with Dazai’s tact and his physicality, something just felt wrong. Something that he couldn’t quite place.

Irritated by his lack of ability to explain why his gut was twisting and his nerves were fraying at the ends, Chuuya forced himself to turn his thoughts away from the matter. They didn’t have the time to address his unease. If they didn’t get to Atsushi quickly and get him out of there, who knew what could happen?

And sure, Chuuya didn’t really know the kid very well, but from the brief interactions that they’d had and how Dazai spoke so highly of him, it seemed like he was someone worth saving. 

As much as Chuuya didn’t like the way that Atsushi had taken his anger over Akutagawa’s death out on Dazai.

However, that aside, there was something that Chuuya needed to talk to Dazai about. It was something that he had found off-putting when Dostoevsky had said it, but with everything else, he’d simply brushed it off to the side.

But now, time had passed and the words were on loop in his head.

He needed to ask.

“Dazai…”

“Yeah?”

“When Dostoevsky asked you to deliver him The Book, what did he mean by that?”

Next to him, Dazai was silent.  

The cold surrounding them seemed to close in impossibly closer, as the sleeves of Chuuya’s coat wavered in the wind.

“Dazai?” Chuuya prompted again, shooting him a wary look.

“How much do you know about The Book?”

“I've only heard rumors mostly. That it’s some kind of device that can rewrite the world or something. Dazai, why does Dostoevsky think you know where it is? Why does he think that you have it?”

Again, Dazai was deathly quiet beside him, as they continued to make their way down the darkened, empty streets,

It was odd because this reaction wasn’t like him. Not at all.

Usually, when Dazai had some kind of upper hand against Chuuya like an all-powerful book that essentially held the might of a god, he wouldn’t be able to stop talking about it. He’d be bragging and rubbing it in Chuuya’s face, even if he couldn’t or didn’t want to give him all the details. He would at least let Chuuya know that he had one-upped him.

But that was not how Dazai was acting now.

And in all honesty, it was kind of starting to freak Chuuya out a little bit.

“Dammit Dazai, why won’t you answer me?” Chuuya side-eyed Dazai, who had his hands in his pockets, pointedly avoiding Chuuya’s gaze.

“Look,” Dazai sighed, seeming oddly disturbed, “let’s just not talk about it anymore, alright? It’s… safer that way. Besides, the location of The Book hardly matters anyways, because it’s not like I’m actually going to give it to Dostoevsky. We’ve already got a plan, we head to the facility, I’ll distract him, while you grab Atsushi. Then we break out and go on our merry way. I… I promise I’ll tell you about The Book later, but just not right now, okay? Please?”

Despite still being perturbed by Dazai’s unusual behavior, Chuuya knew that it was best to just let it go. Granted, he would be sure to hold Dazai to his promise that this conversation wasn’t over yet. Especially with how weird he was being about it.

“Fine.”

The rest of the walk to the facility was fairly quiet with only a few words shared in between.

And then, before they knew it, they were there.

Slipping past a row of vending machines, a pink motorbike caught Chuuya’s eye and he momentarily stopped to admire it. Perhaps, if they had time, he couldn’t hotwire it and-

“Chuuya,” Dazai jerked him forward, much to his disdain as he tore his arm free of Dazai’s grip. “You already have one of those, you don’t need another one.”

“Fuck off,” Chuuya snapped back, but without any real weight behind the words as the facility finally loomed before them.

The red door, as had been foretold in the coded message beckoned them to enter.  

All it took was one well-placed kick and Chuuya sent the door flying off its hinges into the dark hallways that now lay out before them.

“Wow Chuuya, you're so discreet!"

“Oh shut the hell up.”

The walls of the facility were unnervingly sterile as they stepped inside. Above them, a row of automatic lights clung to the ceiling. However, they did not light up upon their entrance. At first, Chuuya wondered if Dostoevsky had cut the power. However, when he recognized the familiar sound and feel of glass crunching under his shoes, he realized that rather than the power being cut, the lights had been blown apart by something.

Or perhaps someone…

He was glad that he and Dazai had studied the layout of the building and knew where the storage unit that they needed to get to was or they would have been shit out of luck. It was so dark that Chuuya now couldn’t even see even a few meters ahead of him and what he could see was incredibly hard to make out in detail as they went further and further into the facility.

And then something reached out and grabbed his ankle.

“Holy shit!” Chuuya yelled, jumping back and pulling Dazai with him, as a jolt of fear sent him into high alert.  

Squinting into the darkness Chuuya tried to make out who had grabbed him and was only able to make out the faint outline of a person sprawled out on the floor.  

A pained moan slipped through their teeth.

“Run…”

The unnerving chill that Chuuya had experienced earlier came back, as soon as the words left the person’s mouth. They had to be a security guard, judging from the faint outline of a uniform that Chuuya’s eyes were finally starting to make out. Along with the uniform, as his eyes finally started to adjust, he noticed that they also seemed to be soaked in their own blood.

Dostoevsky had to have done this. Still, it was odd that he had left this person alive. Such a thing was dangerous and he had to have known that. So why was this person here? A warning? A threat? Something else?

Next to him, Dazai stiffened.

“What do you mean?”

“He has… has a…”

The person broke off into a fit of coughs.

“What does he have?” Dazai asked, crouching down to better hear the person before them.

His initial shock having passed, now that he realized that this person wasn't a threat, Chuuya leaned in closer. He strained his ears, desperately trying to hear what the person was attempting to say.

But the next words that left the person’s mouth were far too quiet for either of them to make out.

Before either of them could ask the person to repeat what they had said, they stilled as their final breath left their body. Dead.

Despite the unnerving feelings running through his veins and a traitorous voice in his mind screaming at him to turn around and get the hell out of there, Chuuya forced himself onwards, Dazai walking soundlessly beside him.

A few more bodies littered the floor on their way to the unit, but none of them showed any signs of life like the first had.  

These people had died quickly and horrifically. Their bodies were now merely blood-soaked husks of the people that they had once been.

It was unsettling, to say the least.

Rounding a corner they finally found themselves at the storage unit.

Grabbing the handle of the door and tearing it off from its hinges, they came upon the very demon himself.

Fyodor Dostoevsky.

But he wasn’t alone.

Behind him, Atsushi was bound and gagged to a chair, as had been predicted. However, there was someone else that Chuuya thought that he’d never see again.

It was the woman that he had murdered back at the prison.

The woman whose daughter he had robbed of a mother.  

Camille.

Except, who was that little girl standing at her side? Looking not a day over five. 

Unless…

Oh god.

Both stared at him with sightless black eyes that were invoked by none other than Bram’s ability.

Chuuya felt his heart sink to his stomach.

This was all his fault.

---

One week prior

Yuan was starving.

It had been weeks since her mom had come home and while she’d been able to stay hydrated, she hadn’t eaten in days. Her hair was matted to her scalp, a migraine pounded behind her eyes, her stomach felt like it was cannibalizing itself and all of her teeth ached.

She missed her mom tucking her into bed. She missed her mom reading her bedtime stories. She missed her mom checking for monsters under her bed. She missed her mom telling her that everything would be alright.

Why had her mom left her? What had she done wrong?

Ever since the passing of her mama, her mom had been so sad. So, Yuan had tried her best to make her laugh and smile, because she didn’t like it when her mom’s eyes watered while staring at old photographs of her mama. She didn’t like it when her mom looked like she was barely able to hold it all together. She didn't like it when her mom's eyes dulled and she seemed to slip away from reality.

Yuan had tried so hard to make her mom feel better.

Maybe it just hadn’t been enough.

Curling up in a ball on the floor of the living room, the little girl began to cry.

“I want my mom,” she sobbed over and over again.

Unsurprisingly, there was no answer.

The loneliness even made Yuan pray that the monsters under her bed that her mom used to scare away would come back to give her at least some semblance of company. At least then, she would have someone to talk to. Even if they were scary.  

Maybe if she hugged them or if she made them laugh at one of her jokes that her mom used to find so funny, then they would love her. Maybe they wouldn’t leave. Maybe they would be okay.

Yuan's thoughts immediately disappeared at the sound of the door to the apartment creaking open.

Excitement flooded throughout her entire nervous system, as she jumped up, eyes filling with tears that were now of relief rather than grief.

Her mom was finally home.

As her mom stepped inside the apartment though, the door closing with a resounding thud behind her, something seemed wrong. However, in her exhausted state, the little girl couldn't quite place it.

Regardless, this was the first time that Yuan had seen her mom in weeks and she had missed her so much. So, she ignored the gut feeling in favor of racing toward her mom and enveloping her in a hug, sobbing all the while.

When the hug wasn’t returned, a pained feeling pulled at the little girl’s heart. Her beliefs that her mom had left because of her resolidified as she stared up into her mom’s eyes about to beg her to love her again.

Only, instead of her mom's gentle gaze, she found tenebrous pools, resembling those of the monsters that haunted her room.

This was not her mom.

Jolting backward the little girl’s cries began to get louder.

“You’re not my mom. You’re not my mom! Where’s my mommy? I want my mommy!”

The monster raced forward with inhuman speed and the little girl screamed.

She regretted ever praying for even the monsters under her bed to save her from her loneliness.

She just wanted her mom.

Arms wrapped around her and something sharp pricked the side of her neck.

And then…

Well, then there was nothing.

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed the Chapter <3

Chapter 24: Soiled Sorrow, Today Too Wind Blows On It

Summary:

He was the man who had forced Chuuya under his will just like N had back at the Lab. He was the man who had made him murder Kouyou. He was the man who was starting to painfully remind him of N. He was the man who was trying to take everything from him.

Notes:

Another chapter for ya'll :)

Seeing the woman from the prison and her daughter standing there as puppets for someone as cruel as Dostoevsky felt like a knife to his chest.

Especially realizing that his own actions had led to it.

And sure, Chuuya didn’t like Camille. She had tortured him. She had tried to kill him. She had shot Dazai.

But Camille's daughter shouldn't have to be condemned to the same fate as her mother and honestly, even Camille didn't deserve to have the freedom of her own will taken from her. No one did.

To be forced under the will of someone else, especially with your own daughter, was something Chuuya wouldn’t wish on even his worst enemy. A person’s mind was supposed to be their own. Not someone else's.

Chuuya could empathize with that from personal experience.

He had to help them. It was the right thing to do, and even if Camille would drop dead the moment that she was pulled free from Bram’s ability, her daughter would hopefully not suffer the same fate. Besides, at least in death, Camille could be free. With the resources that Chuuya had from the Mafia, it shouldn't be too hard to set Yuan up with a decent adoptive family.  

It was the least he could do after everything that he had taken from her.

He just needed to find the right moment.  

Even if it wasn't today. He'd find a way.

It would be hard without the use of his ability, due to Camille’s nullification. However, her presence meant that she had to be canceling out Dostoevsky’s ability too. So perhaps that could give him a bit of an advantage, especially with his strong set of martial arts skills that still held strong without the use of his ability.

Chuuya had been dying to beat the shit out of Dostoevsky anyway.

He hated that man.

He was the man who had forced Chuuya under his will just like N had back at the Lab. He was the man who had made him murder Kouyou. He was the man who was starting to painfully remind him of N. He was the man who was trying to take everything from him.

He was the man Chuuya was going to kill.

“Ah, Dazai! How lovely it is to see you here.” Dostoevsky’s voice echoed throughout the room, filling what would have otherwise been a cavernous void.

Chuuya didn’t miss the way that he was entirely ignored. Again, being immediately discarded as soon as he lost his use. The only person there that Dostoevsky seemed to have eyes for was Dazai. It was rather intense the way that Dostoevsky and Dazai were staring at each other. It was almost as if they were having an entirely separate conversation in their minds separate from the one being spoken aloud.

And sure, Chuuya couldn’t say that he was entirely disappointed that Dostoevsky didn’t seem to give a shit about him because he didn't give a fuck about the man's opinions. It was just the lack of respect that made his blood boil. The way that he acted like Chuuya wasn’t even there.

Like he wasn’t human.

“Fyodor," Dazai replied in greeting, "it's so good to see you too! I must say though that you really are starting to slip up. It took me less than a second to crack your elementary code. I expected better from you. It was all so disappointing, to be honest.”

Instead of giving Dazai the satisfaction of a reply, Dostoevsky just laughed, as though Dazai had told him some kind of hilarious joke.

“Okay, okay, now while I have missed this, I don’t have time for us to stand here all day talking about such menial things. So, tell me Dazai… where is The Book?”

Chuuya watched as shadows danced over Dazai’s face at the mention of the cursed item and suddenly he was staring at the Demon Prodigy again for the first time in years. Dazai’s eyes were dark and utterly void of light, as he took a step forward closer to Dostoevsky. His hair hung forward, covering his right eye.

“What do you want with The Book?”

“I think you already know, Dazai.”

Dazai’s silence was enough of an answer.

Dostoevsky took a calculated step forward, the variance between the two of them beginning to diminish dangerously.

Chuuya felt like he was watching a game of chess. Except, the board was void of its familiar checkered pattern, and the pieces were replaced by unidentifiable objects which were only known to the select few who controlled the game.

“Now,” Dostoevsky continued, “where is The Book? I mean if you don’t want to tell me that is up to you, but you know, I would hate it if something happened to befall your dear prodigy because of such foolish actions. It truly would be just so utterly terrible.”

Chuuya tensed, his eyes flickering over to Atsushi, who was still bound and gagged in the corner of the room. He looked out of it, probably from the obvious signs of torture that littered his body. His eyes were wide and watching the interaction take place with an intense show of fear. He looked like he was trying to say something, but whatever it was had been silenced by the gag.

But it was weird because something about the fear that was coming off of him in waves seemed off…

It was almost like he wasn't terrified of his capture, but rather something else that Chuuya couldn't quite place.

Upon closer inspection, Chuuya also noticed that it almost looked like Atsushi was pushing himself back against the chair that confined him within its grasp rather than leaning away from it.

It was all just so odd...

Of course, Chuuya would never judge someone for being scared in a hostage situation where you had all of the control over your life taken away from you. Yet, something about this version of fear that Atsushi was displaying was wrong.

Still, it just didn’t make any sense.

Then again, perhaps he was just blowing things out of proportion. Dostoevsky had probably drugged Atsushi and that was most likely why he was acting all weird.

Besides, Dazai would probably know if something else was going on, right?

He’d just have to trust him.

“So much faith in me caring about Atsushi. Did you really think I’d give you The Book just to save one person?” Dazai said, his voice low and void of any emotion.

“If you did not care, then why are you here?”

“Obviously because I missed you so much. We spent all that time in Meursault together, only to be torn apart from each other. Can’t I miss an old friend?” Dazai said, throwing his arms out with a façade full of sorrow.

“Always so sarcastic, it’s no wonder you surround yourself with lesser beings. At least they can find you amusing,” as he spoke, Dostoevsky made sure to pointedly stare at Chuuya.

Okay, fuck that guy.

“Hey,” Chuuya snapped, finally forcing his way into the conversation, “who the fuck are you calling a lesser being? And me finding Dazai funny? As fucking if. His humor is about as shitty as his personality.”

“Chuuya,” Dazai gasped, placing a hand on his heart, “you think I'm funny? I mean I have an amazing personality so-”

“Oh my fucking god. Just shut the fuck up Dazai.”

Dostoevsky watched the conversation before him with a faint show of exasperation.

“Nakahara," Dostoevsky finally spoke, "while we're on the talk of such amusing things. Tell me, did you enjoy my message? The part about your sister was my favorite.”

And just like that, all Chuuya could see was red.

He thought he heard Dazai yell his name and felt the brush of fingertips glancing against his bicep, but he didn’t care.

No one was allowed to disrespect Kouyou like that.

Especially not after what Dostoevsky had done.

Forgoing one of his signature kicks and instead raising a fist, he was about to slam Dostoevsky into the far wall, when a blur in the corner of his vision slammed into him, sending him crumbling to the floor.

A weight settled down on top of him pinning him to the ground as hands wrapped around his neck.

Camille.

Goddammit.

How could he have been so careless?

Struggling under her grip, Chuuya tried to throw her off of him, but her grip was unmoving with the supernatural strength granted to her by none other than Bram's ability.  

Without the use of his ability, Chuuya was trapped.

Camille’s mouth opened, revealing sharp fangs that began to lower towards his neck, sending Chuuya into an inward panic.

He couldn’t fall under someone else’s control again. He couldn’t. Where the fuck was Dazai? Why wasn’t he helping him?

“Dazai…” Chuuya choked out, clawing at the hands at his throat, while also trying to shove her face away so that he wouldn't fall back under the terrible curse. He'd rather die than be back in that state.

Camille's grip just continued to tighten until Chuuya’s vision darkened and his lungs screamed for air.

It was like he was back at Meursault again.

As the water filled his lungs and stole away his breath.

Suddenly he wasn’t looking up at Camille, but rather he was far beneath the ocean. So deep that he could not tell the difference between up and down. It was just darkness everywhere. Desperately he tried to pull himself in all different directions in a futile attempt to reach the surface, but it was to no avail.

Until suddenly the weight disappeared and he was back in that room, gasping for breath.

What the fuck just happened?

Forcing himself to stay conscious, Chuuya forced himself to his feet, holding a hand to his throat.

Taking in his surroundings he was met with chaos.

Dazai was standing with a smoking gun in his grasp. He looked furious.

His victim was Camille, who now lay unmoving on the floor with a bullet pierced straight through her skull.  

Camille’s daughter wasn't reacting at all to her mother’s death. Instead, she just stood perfectly still, no sign of grief or emotion crossing her eyes under the terrible trance that fate had forced her into.

Dostoevsky was standing right behind Atsushi now, a hand hovering right over his neck.

“That wasn't very smart now was it, Dazai?” Dostoevsky taunted, “with her ability, my own was erased, but now you’ve gone and killed her. You’ve sacrificed a queen to save a pawn and now the scales tilt in my favor. It's truly unfortunate really. You’ve grown soft.”

“Move away from Atsushi, Fyodor. I won’t ask twice.” Any teasing from earlier had left Dazai’s voice, replaced by a stone-cold seriousness.

“No... I don’t think I will, but that could change under the circumstances that you give me The Book.”

Moving closer to Dazai, Chuuya prepared to follow his lead on whatever plan he came up with. His throat hurt and his body had to be black and blue from the struggle, but he’d been through worse. He could tend to his wounds later, now wasn't the time for that.

“I don’t think so," Dazai replied coldly.

“One touch is all it takes. Do you really want to be the cause of another one of your students’ deaths?"

Dostoevsky grabbed the neckline of Atsushi’s shirt, making the poor kid look even more terrified than he was already. Fyodor's eyes bore into Dazai’s as a battle of wits seemed to take place between the two on another plane of existence.

Until finally Dazai turned away.

“Okay.”  

Dazai’s seemed quiet and withdrawn. It was unnerving because it was so unlike him.

And even though Chuuya didn’t know exactly what The Book was, he knew that it was powerful. Plus, if it really could rewrite the world as rumors had foretold, then it definitely wasn’t something that Dostoevsky should have.

“Dazai,” Chuuya protested, his eyes widening in shock, “what are you doing?”

Dazai didn’t answer him. Instead, he just looked defeated, as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a white book lined in gold. It looked almost soft to the touch and perfectly pristine, as though it repelled all dirt from itself, and knowing what the bottom of Dazai’s pockets looked like it probably did.

Dostoevsky’s eyes lit up at the sight, but he didn’t let go of Atsushi. At least not yet.

“Slide it over to me,” Dostoevsky demanded.

“No,” Dazai countered, “we’ll do a trade-off. Untie Atsushi and let him walk towards me. Then, I’ll slide you The Book.”

Chuuya didn’t like this one bit, but he trusted Dazai so he just followed his lead. Dostoevsky also seemed hesitant at first for different reasons but accepted the deal nonetheless after just a few moments.

Dostoevsky made quick work of untying Atsushi. However, he did make sure to leave the gag on, which was odd, to say the least. Still, there were much more pressing matters at the moment so Chuuya didn't pay the action much mind. 

In the immediate aftermath of his sudden spacial freedom, Atsushi leapt up and away from the chair on reflex. Except then weird something happened, filling Chuuya once more with great unease.

After only a few steps forward, Atsushi’s eyes widened as if he had suddenly remembered something important and he began backtracking back towards the danger. Back towards Dostoevsky.

What the hell?

But there was simply no time to question such things. They were running out of time. So Chuuya rushed forward and grabbed Atsushi by the arm before practically dragging the kid out of the room, while Dazai slid The Book towards Dostoevsky.

He'd come back for Camille's kid later. There just simply wasn't the time nor opportunity right now.

And then they were running, which was difficult with Atsushi's resistance, so Chuuya eventually just pulled Atsushi up into his arms while the kid thrashed in his grip. If he’d been any less fit and lacked the use of his ability, Chuuya probably would’ve dropped him by now.  

Which eventually he did anyway, as claws tore into his right arm, making him fumble and fall to the ground, as Atsushi tumbled out of his grip, just as they exited the accursed facility.

“Chuuya!” Dazai yelled, backtracking towards the pair, noticing the deep red marks torn through Chuuya’s fairly otherwise unmarked skin, before his gaze shifted to Atsushi with a rare show of fear, as the kid stumbled up to his feet and reached for the door to reenter the facility.

Atsushi seemed frantic. Something was horribly wrong. Why was he running back towards his captor rather than away from him?

Standing up, Chuuya did his best to ignore the sharp pain running through him from where Atsushi had torn three long jagged gashes into his arm in his panic.

What made him desperate enough to harm the people who were trying to save him?

Chuuya watched as Dazai grabbed Atsushi's wrist, just before he could slip back inside which immediately sent the kid further into his frenzy.

So, looking for answers, Dazai tore off the gag.

And immediately Atsushi was speaking, tears building up in his eyes and desperate sobs hitching his breath.

“I’m sorry,” Atsushi cried, “I need to go back, Dazai. I need to go back. You don’t understand. I’m sorry about what I said! Ryuunosuke’s death wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry, Dazai! I’m so sorry! I n-need to go. Now! I need to. It’s like… I just…  let go, dammit!”  Atsushi screamed, trying once more to tear his wrist free from Dazai’s grip, but something was beginning to dawn in Dazai’s eyes that only made him tighten his grip.

Approaching the two, Chuuya noticed Dazai looked painfully lost.

“Like your entrance exam…” was all Dazai said, seeming to realize something beyond Chuuya's grasp. Dazai's voice was low and haunted. He looked like he wanted to throw up, the mask that he usually so easily kept up having entirely disappeared.

Chuuya didn’t know what that meant, but it couldn’t mean anything good based on the context of the situation happening now. He watched as Atsushi simply nodded, agreeing with whatever Dazai had said. He looked more exhausted than someone his age ever should.

“Yeah, like my entrance exam…”

Atsushi stopped his struggles for a moment, his eyes falling to the ground.

The world seemed to fade away and Chuuya suddenly felt like it was only the three of them with himself as a spectator to something truly terrible.

“I can fix this,” Dazai started to plead. “I can fix this, alright? Just give me a second to think and I can fix this! I promise I can. I can’t lose you too! Please, I can’t!”

A breeze wafted through the air, as the sun started to rise in the distance sending a burst of color into the night sky to chase away the darkness. It would’ve been beautiful under other circumstances, but now the beauty of the sky above just taunted those below like some kind of cruel joke.

“I… I don’t want to die. I… I really, truly don’t want to and I’m sorry, Dazai. I am… but I just… there's no other way. There’s no time. So go live a good life, okay? If not for yourself then for me.”

Atsushi slammed a sharp kick into Dazai’s stomach, managing to hit him and send him reeling backward, only by sheer luck and the desperation coursing through his body.

Then, Atsushi was running, tearing the door open, and disappearing back into the facility.

As soon as he had recovered, Dazai rushed forward, trying to run after him.

And Chuuya, despite not being entirely in the loop with what was going on, felt something within his gut telling him that if Dazai went back in there he would die and Chuuya couldn’t let that happen. So he leapt forward, grabbing Dazai by the waist and dragging him backward, while he twisted and turned in his grip.

“No! Let me go! Dammit, Chuuya! Please just let me go! I need to go back in there! I need to save him! I can’t lose anyone else! Please, he’s going to die…” His voice cracked and broke off into sobs.

“I’m sorry, but I can't lose you either.”

A loud noise. A burst of white light.

Two bodies lay upon the scorched ground. The smaller one curled protectively over the taller one as if he’d tried to save him from the blast in the milliseconds that his brain had had a chance to register it.

The faint rises and falls of their chests were all that signaled life.

---

When Atsushi pictured his death, it was never like this.

Running frantically through the claustrophobic hallways of the facility with the knowledge that there was no hope of getting out alive this time was both terrifying and tranquil. He didn't want to die, but at least it would be quick and this way he could try to take Dostoevsky with him.

When Dostoevsky had strapped that bomb to his chest, he'd thought it had been some sick sort of joke at first or rather he’d tried to force himself to believe that it’d been some sick sort of joke because he didn’t want to die. Not yet. He still had so much to do.  

He wanted to find Fukuchi and make him pay for what he had done.

He wanted to take Kyouka to this new crepe shop he’d found. It was expensive and probably a bit of a waste of money, but their crepes were so good and Kyouka was someone who would appreciate that.

He wanted to hug Kunikida one more time. To tell him how grateful he was for everything the man had done for him. He wanted to go have tea at the cafe beneath the Agency on more time to eat pastries, drink coffee and complain about Dazai’s antics.

He wanted to go see the cows that Kenji spoke so fondly of.

He wanted to go on one more shopping spree for Yosano.

He wanted to go on one more chaotic train ride with Ranpo.

He wanted to live.

But he couldn’t. Fate would simply not see it so.

It didn’t take him long to reach the room.

Tearing the door open, Atsushi rushed inside to find Fyodor talking to Gogol, who much to his surprise, was now in the room as well. A part of him wondered if he had been in there the whole time, hiding.

“-not The Book. That bastard gave me 'The Complete Guide to Suicide.'"

The book that Dazai had given Fyodor now lay on the ground, the false cover having been slid off to reveal Dazai’s favorite book instead.

And it was all so ridiculous that Atsushi started laughing, startling the two men who finally looked in his direction to stare at him with a mix of emotions that he didn’t care enough to discern.

“You’ve lost Dostoevsky," Atsushi laughed, "you’ve lost.”

“Gogol, we need to go now.”

Sprinting forward Atsushi reached out, with the desperation that could only be held by a dying man, and grabbed Dostoevsky’s left arm just as he was rushing through the portal with Gogol and the small girl who accompanied them.  

If he was going to die anyways, then why fear Dostoevsky’s touch?

The portal closed because it had to. They knew what was going to happen in only a matter of seconds. Still, with the portal closing, it did manage to sever Dostoevsky’s dominant left arm from his body, leaving Atsushi with the smallest sense of accomplishment, as he cast it to the side.

His act to weaken Dostoevsky gave him hope that just maybe he wasn’t dying for nothing.

Besides he’d saved Dazai and Chuuya too, which had to count for something.

He’d lived a good life.

He’d tried to at least.

A loud noise. A burst of white light.

Atsushi Nakajima was no more, as his ashes sparkled in the dawn of a new day that he would never rise to see.

Notes:

Sorry... lmfao

It'll have a happy ending I swear. Please don't kill me <3 <3 <3

Chapter 25: I No Longer Have Anything

Summary:

Atsushi awoke to the smell of morning dew.

TW: Suicide Attempt

Notes:

Hello. I'm back with another chapter for ya'll! :)

Atsushi awoke to the smell of morning dew.

Before him, an emerald field stretched on into oblivion, speckled with wildflowers and the carrying gentle buzzing sound of bees. Above him hung an orange tree, the sweetness of its citrus fruits filling the air with their sweet aroma. The sky was pitch black up above with a white sun shining right out of the darkness. All around him, the world was lit up in ethereal gray lighting that somehow seemed to promise serenity and tranquility. Both were things that Atsushi had not felt in a very long time.

He knew he was dead. The lack of pain that should’ve been dragging down his body had he survived the blast told him as much, alongside the transcendental world in which he now found himself.  

As much as a part of him still wished that he had had more time, he had managed to save Dazai and Chuuya, and he had even weakened Dostoevsky in the wake of his death. Besides, he hadn't even felt any pain at the moment of the explosion.

It hadn’t been the worst way to die.

Regardless, it wasn't like there was anything that he could do to change things.

The fluttering of a captivating pearl butterfly broke Atsushi out of his thoughts, as he glanced over to admire it. There was just something about the creature that made it seem divine in the midst of all else.  

It seemed to beckon to him as if it were telling him: “follow me.” 

It was a request that something within him knew that he had to obey.

So he did.

He ran through the grassy landscape, in pursuit of the beautiful creature which fluttered before him. His strides grew longer and his pace faster as he realized that his body didn’t grow tired with the movement, but rather felt full of endless energy and stamina.  

It was thrilling.

Eventually, the butterfly brought him away from the field and into a breathtaking forest. Sunlight glinted through the trees, birds sang songs of perfect pitch and rhythm, and the ground beneath his feet was carefully paved in tangent with where the butterfly was leading him.

Atsushi probably ran for hours, but in this domain, time was insignificant. For here, such a thing simply did not exist in concept.

Eventually, the butterfly led him to a clearing in the middle of the forest before disappearing entirely in a metaphysical burst of ethereal white light. 

A sparkling stream danced under the sunlight and delicately crafted train tracks stretched out before him. Next to the train tracks was a bench where someone ever so familiar was sitting and staring into the distance. It was almost as if they were waiting for someone.

Atsushi felt his heart clench in his chest, as he took a nervous step forward. The beginning of tears were sparkling in his eyes from both the grief of the past and the relief that they were once again reunited.

“Ryuunosuke.”

Atsushi had never seen someone move so fast.  

At the sound of his name, Ryuunosuke practically jumped out of his seat and sprinted over to Atsushi, wrapping him up in a tight hug, as if Atsushi could disappear at any moment. Without even thinking, Atsushi wrapped his arms around Ryuunosuke just as well.

But then, almost as quickly as Ryuunosuke had grabbed him, he was shoving him back, a look of fear in his eyes.

“Wait. Why are you here already? Atsushi… you shouldn’t be here. I mean it hasn’t been very long, has it? It couldn’t have been. Atsushi, what happened?”

Instead of answering the question, Atsushi just shook his head, before recapturing Ryuunosuke in a hug that he reluctantly returned.

“It doesn’t matter, alright? It’s… it’s okay.”

Ryuunosuke didn’t seem to particularly like that answer but he let it go, relaxing in Atsushi's arms.

“Okay.”

They held each other for a long while, just enjoying the others' embrace in a place where they had an infinite amount of time to do whatever they wanted with no troubles to worry about. Then, after a while, they finally pulled away from one another to go sit down on the bench where Atsushi had found Ryuunosuke.

As they sat down, Atsushi leaned his head against Ryuunosuke’s shoulder, who had wrapped an arm around his waist.

“I love you, you know that right? I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to say it back.” Atsushi’s hands fumbled nervously in his lap, his eyes downcast.

Ryuunosuke’s grip tightened.

“I know and I love you too. I’ve been waiting here for you. I just... I didn’t want to go without you.” 

Ryuunosuke’s voice was softer than it ever had been when he’d been alive and it was nice to see him finally being able to take a break from all the stressors and hardships that their lives had presented. As for the part about them going somewhere, the destination was left open-ended. However, some otherworldly sense reassured Atsushi that wherever it was would be a place where they would finally get to have some much-needed and well-deserved rest.

A comfortable silence fell between the two.

Until finally another thought crossed Atsushi’s mind.

“I almost forgot... Ryuunosuke, about Fukuchi… I’m so sorry. I tried to kill him but everything just got so complicated and then Dostoevsky-”

Ryuunosuke cut Atsushi off with a kiss, whose eyes widened with surprise before they closed and he leaned into it. Just enjoying the moment, instead of focusing on a past that could never be changed.

After finally breaking off the kiss and pulling away from one another, Ryuunosuke’s lips settled against Atsushi’s ear who had laid his head against his shoulder once more.

“It’s alright, killing never was a good look on you anyways.”

And that extra reassurance was all that he needed.

He had done a good job with the circumstances that he had been given.

He had lived a good life.

So, Atsushi let go of all of his woes and misgivings. Finally forgiving himself for all that he had not accomplished because at least he had tried his best. One person could only ever do so much.

The whistle of a train sounded in the distance, drawing closer and closer, as smoke billowed through the air following its path. Besides him, Ryuunosuke stood, before holding out a hand out for Atsushi to join him. Together, hand in hand, the two walked up to the railroad, as the train drew to a halt.

It was coated in a pristine white, the windows reflecting the landscape that surrounded it. Before them, stood a door that opened without prompting to reveal a hidden paradise within. It was a place so beautifully flawless that no human mind could ever conjure it up without having seen it firsthand.

Together, the two walked inside, hand in hand, without glancing back once.

The doors closed and the train disappeared into the distance. Only the sound of its empyrean whistle, which still echoed throughout the woods, gave way to the fact that it was ever even there.

---

Chuuya awoke to his body feeling as though it were on fire. Beneath him, lay Dazai who he quickly rolled off of with a groan of pain. The area around him was coated in smoke and it took him a moment to remember just exactly what had happened. However, when he did his whole body stiffened.

Terrified that Dazai might be dead, Chuuya forced himself to sit up despite the pain, before grabbing his wrist and searching for a pulse. He almost collapsed in relief when he found it. It wasn’t as strong as it should be, but it wasn’t weak either.

But then the fear came back when he realized that Atsushi was almost certainly dead.

How was Dazai going to react?

Unfortunately, it didn’t take very long for him to discover the answer.

After about another minute Chuuya noticed Dazai’s fingers beginning to twitch, a telltale sign that he was starting to wake up.

At first, when Dazai’s eyes opened he looked about as confused as Chuuya had felt upon waking up. However, that expression didn’t last very long, as it quickly morphed into one of sheer horror.

Chuuya watched as Dazai jumped to his feet, ignoring the unimaginable pain that he had to be in just like Chuuya was himself.

And then Dazai was sprinting towards the demolished building screaming Atsushi’s name with raw pain torn into every syllable. It didn’t take long for him to disappear into the smoke and ruins, heightening Chuuya’s anxiety, as he finally forced himself to his feet with another groan of pain.

“Dazai!” Chuuya yelled, his voice grating against his raw throat, as he began to run after him, despite the jolts of pain that doing so sent throughout his whole body.

It took him a few minutes to find Dazai, raising Chuuya’s heart rate with every passing moment as time ticked by. This wasn’t a time when Dazai could be trusted to be left alone. He needed to find him now.

And then he did.

Chuuya slowed his pace, as he found Dazai collapsed on the ground holding a small piece of fabric, that looked like it had come from a belt, tightly in his grip.  

Belatedly, Chuuya realized with horror that it had probably come from the belt that Atsushi had once sported.  

Sobs wracked Dazai's frame and Chuuya didn’t think that he’d ever seen him so distraught before in his entire life.

“It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault,” Dazai was sobbing to himself over and over, trembling all the while.

Approaching Dazai slowly and with care, Chuuya settled down next to him, before wrapping his arms around Dazai’s waist and pulling him towards his body.

At first, Dazai stiffened, before realizing who it was and relaxing into Chuuya’s grip, his head burrowing into Chuuya’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Chuuya said, remorse shining in his eyes, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Dazai's grip tightened around him, as he pressed himself closer to Chuuya’s body as if that would somehow allow him to disappear from the dark reality that was now facing him.

“Why does everyone I love always die?”

Chuuya didn’t have an answer for that. No one did, so he just threaded a hand through Dazai’s hair and held him close, because that was all that he could do.

“It’s going to be okay.”

Apparently, that wasn't the right thing to say, as at those words Dazai was suddenly pulling away, the sobs quieting and replaced by a vacant expression.

“Yeah, it will be.” Dazai's voice was different. He sounded as though he were on some other plane of existence and red flags began firing off in Chuuya’s mind.

The next few moments seemed almost as if they were in slow motion, panic and desperation being the only things that were controlling Chuuya’s body.

Dazai reached into his holster and pulled out his gun. He placed it at his temple without a single ounce of hesitation.

Chuuya rushed forward, tackling Dazai to the ground. He grabbed the gun, tearing it from Dazai's grasp just as he pulled the trigger.

The bullet narrowly missed Dazai's head as it whizzed through the air and slammed into some more ruins in the distance.

If Chuuya had been any slower, Atsushi wouldn’t have been the only one who had died there.

“No! Just let me die, please fuck! I don’t want to be here anymore. I can’t do this! Please, Chuuya. Please. I hate this world. I hate myself! All I ever do is lose over and over in this never-ending goddamn fucking cycle and it hurts. It hurts so goddamn much and it’s all my own fault because every goddamn problem and every goddamn loss that I’ve ever had always starts with me. I’m a curse, Chuuya! I'm a fucking curse! All the people I love and all of the people who are important to me are destined to die, because I'm a terrible person, Chuuya. My death would be a favor to the world. So please, I'm fucking begging you! Let me take their place instead. Give me the gun, Chuuya! Please! Goddamn it Chuuya, give me the fucking gun!” Dazai was sobbing again, a lifetime of pain shining in his eyes.

Tears fell from Chuuya's eyes and his hands shook, as he frantically emptied the chamber of the gun, before tossing it into the distance. He then had to practically restrain Dazai, in order to stop him from running after it until he finally gave up, falling limp in Chuuya’s arms.

“You can’t leave me here,” Chuuya begged, “Please, Dazai, you're all I have left. I can’t lose you. Please.”

Dazai was shaking, his eyes desperately searching for another way out. However, as Chuuya tightened his grip, Dazai’s mind finally left his self-sabotaging thoughts, and instead, he just found himself lost in his grief, as Chuuya desperately tried to console him to no avail.

And then, as the sound of sirens burst cut through the smokey air, Chuuya knew that they had to go. As much as Dazai might not be ready.

Yet, when Chuuya tried to stand his legs betrayed him, giving out and forcing him to sink back to the ground. Dazai wasn’t doing much better.

Lost in desperate thoughts of how they would get out of this, Chuuya almost didn’t notice the man clad all brown emerging from the shadows.

“A5158, Dazai,” the man greeted, and before Chuuya could even process what was happening he felt the pang of a dart stab into his neck, only allowed since Dazai currently resides in his arms, effectively nullifying his ability. As Chuuya felt himself falling backward, his eyes slipping shut, he noticed that Dazai too had been struck.

He didn’t know how much longer he could do this.

Everything faded to black.

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed the chapter <3

Chapter 26: Where Have The Butterflies Flown To?

Summary:

The softness of foreign bed sheets was the first thing Chuuya noticed as he slowly came to.

TW: Discussion/Mentions of Suicide Attempt, Self-Harm and Suicidal Thoughts

Notes:

Depression is a bitch. If you ever need help, please reach out to your country's services and those around you <3

The softness of foreign bed sheets was the first thing Chuuya noticed as he slowly came to.

The second thing that he noticed was that his wounds had been tended to and were covered with soft bandages.

Blearily blinking open his tired eyes, he confusedly studied his surroundings. 

It looked like he was in some kind of guest room in a nicely furnished middle-class apartment. After having been shot with a tranquilizing dart, a room like this was one of the last things that he expected to see upon waking.

However, perhaps it was all some kind of ploy to make him let his guard down. Chuuya hadn’t survived this long by just trusting what appeared to be good to be actually good. Anyone who kept that mindset with the lifestyle that Chuuya lived never lasted very long. Even while Chuuya had always expected himself to die young, given his line of work, he refused to let himself die over such basic mistakes.

Soundlessly, Chuuya slipped out of the bed and made his way to the door. In the back of his mind, he registered that someone had removed the clothes he’d been wearing when he’d been caught up in the explosion, in favor of replacing them with sweatpants and a hoodie. The thought of someone doing something like that while he was unconscious bothered him, but he’d been through much worse, so he did his best to keep the implications out of his mind.

Resting his hand on the doorknob, Chuuya resolved himself to find Dazai and get them the hell out of this place as soon as he took out whoever had come after them. Then, when they got out, Chuuya would find them some other safe house where they’d be okay since the old one had been compromised the moment Dostoevsky had figured out where it was.

Once they arrived at the new safe house, they’d talk about what had happened in the aftermath of the explosion, as hard as that would probably be. Dazai had almost died so that conversation needed to happen.

Pushing down on the doorknob, Chuuya was surprised to find that the door was unlocked. He’d expected to have to use his ability, but he supposed this was easier, so who was he to complain? Even if the thought that this implied that whoever had tranquilized him and Dazai didn’t see him as a threat unnerved him.

Silently swinging the door open, Chuuya stepped into the apartment’s living room ready to take out whoever had taken them there. However, the sight that met his eyes, made him quickly change his demeanor.

Sitting on two couches on opposite sides of the room were Dazai and none other than Ango Sakaguchi. Dazai was scrolling through his phone while ignoring Ango, who was attempting and failing to make basic conversation with him.

The situation didn’t feel dangerous in the slightest.  

In all honesty, it just felt kind of awkward.

It was at that moment that the pair seemed to notice Chuuya’s presence.

Dazai briefly glanced up from his phone to acknowledge Chuuya before turning back to it. Meanwhile, Ango sat up straighter in his seat, quieting his attempted small talk with Dazai.

“A5158,” Ango greeted, his posture becoming stiffer, “I’m glad to see you’re finally awake, especially after the stunt the two of you pulled.”

“Sakaguchi,” Chuuya returned with a curt nod of his head, ignoring the subtle jab at his name as he took a seat beside Dazai. “What happened at the facility wasn’t us and I don’t think it was bad enough to resort to tranquilizing darts. How’d you find us anyway?”

“You can never be too careful,” Ango mused, “besides, getting you two out of there was easier with both of you unconscious. As to how I found you… well, it's kind of hard to miss a giant explosion, especially when you're in the line of work that I am. As to how I knew it was you two, well... I have my ways. You should honestly be more grateful that I was there, you'd both probably be dead if I wasn't.”

“Sure, of course,” Chuuya dismissed with a wave of his hand, too exhausted with the current state of his life to argue any further. “So, where’d you bring us?”

“Oh, well this is actually one of my apartments. I just thought that since you couldn’t even manage to stay undercover at that safe house for a month that this would be a bit better. I mean you're on the run, so no one’s going to expect you to be housed by a government agent. Besides, I owe Dazai…” Ango trailed off, his gaze honing in on Dazai as if hoping that his statement would get him any sort of recognition whether it be good or bad. However, Dazai just continued to entirely ignore Ango and the conversation around him. It was almost as though he wasn't even in the same room.

Chuuya knew that Dazai had certain reservations when it came to Ango. Even Chuuya did, as Ango didn’t always make himself the easiest person to like with how his dedication to his work often caused him to overlook the feelings of those around him.

While Chuuya wasn’t entirely sure of the exact reason for Ango and Dazai’s fallout, as he knew that they once used to be drinking buddies, he had an idea that it had something to do with Odasaku.  

The timing of Odasaku's death and both of their departures from the Port Mafia were too close together to be considered a coincidence. Still, it wasn’t like it was something that he could just ask about and expect a straight answer. The whole topic of Dazai’s friendship with Odasaku was a sore one. It was best to just leave the timing of such a conversation up to Dazai if it ever happened at all.

Nevertheless, regardless of whether Ango potentially playing a part in Odasaku’s death or not was the reason that Dazai seemed to hate the man, Chuuya understood Dazai’s fundamental distrust of Ango. So, he didn’t blame him for turning down any conversation fired his way, especially since with Dazai there was always a reason for everything he did. Even down to the last detail.

“Well, thanks for letting us stay here, I guess."

He couldn’t wait for this conversation to just be over and for Ango to leave so that he could finally talk to Dazai. They had some things that they needed to address, after what had happened at the facility.

Like when Dazai had picked up the gun.

The desperation in Dazai’s movement and the grief seared into his eyes would forever be burned into Chuuya’s brain.

He needed to make sure that if he left Dazai alone, something like that wouldn’t happen again. For while he knew that Dazai had suicidal tendencies, it had been a long time since he’d seen him make a serious attempt.

The thought that if he had been even a second later in tearing the gun out of Dazai’s hands, he would be dead right now terrified him.

Ango stood up from his seat, seemingly noticing that he had overstayed his welcome despite this being his own apartment. Next to Chuuya, Dazai tensed almost imperceptibly at the movement. It was the only sign that he was acknowledging Ango’s presence at all.

“I have to go to work,” Ango announced, as his gaze bore into Dazai who continued to refuse to look up from his phone, “but I’ll be back sometime this evening.”

With one last look in Dazai’s direction with something that looked almost like regret shining behind them, Ango left, locking the door behind him.

Finally, Dazai set down his phone. His eyes were trained on the space that Ango had previously occupied. However, there was something about Dazai's eyes that made it seem like he wasn’t entirely there. It was almost as if his mind were on some other plane of existence while his body stayed rooted to the ground only by the will of life’s chains which kept it ingrained in reality.

However, the odd moment only lasted a few more seconds before Dazai finally relaxed and leaned back in his seat. A contented look slipped over his face.  

To anyone else, he would’ve looked totally fine, but Chuuya didn’t buy the cheap act.  Especially after everything that had happened.

“He’s finally gone,” Dazai exclaimed, heaving a sigh of relief and throwing his arms out. “Honestly, I deserve an award for putting up with all that I do. Anyway, now that he’s gone, I’ve got a few ideas on where Fyodor may have gone-”

“Dazai,” Chuuya cut in, “we can do that, but first can we talk about what happened at the facility?”

Dazai shook his head with a roll of his eyes, as he gave Chuuya a playful shove, “don't change the subject. Anyways, I’ve narrowed it down to two places. The first one-”

“Dazai,” Chuuya cut in again, as worry stirred in the pit of his stomach. This wasn't a conversation that could just be pushed to the side any longer. “We really need to talk about what happened at the facility. You tried… you tried to kill yourself.”

“Chuuya, why are you acting so weird? Did Ango add something extra to the tranquilizer dart he shot you with? Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if whatever it was is still in your bloodstream. With how short you are, your metabolism is probably super slow with processing it. Anyways, you already know it’s my dream to have a double suicide with a beautiful woman and you are definitely not that, so I don’t see what all of this is about?” Dazai complained, theatrically waving his hands around.

Ignoring Dazai’s jab regarding his height, Chuuya’s fists clenched at his sides as he tried to disregard the frustration stirring within him. He had to control his emotions because despite how angry he was getting, acting on it wouldn't help anything. This wasn’t about him anyways, so he’d just have to swallow back the irritation at being dismissed because he needed to help Dazai. What Dazai had tried to do was serious and would have been permanent had Chuuya not acted as fast as he did.  

There was much more determination behind this most recent attempt than previous ones.

Honestly, that shouldn't mean much though, because an attempt at all was worrying. Why hadn’t he ever tried to help Dazai in the past? Why hadn't he ever tried to talk about this before?

He wished he didn’t know the answer.

Growing up, Chuuya had always been an afterthought for everyone he’d ever crossed paths with.

Yet for the few years that they were partners, Chuuya had felt like someone finally cared. For even though they constantly fought and thought up schemes to prank one another with, it was undeniable that they shared a powerful bond. Even if they had never really talked about anything serious for more than a few minutes back then.

Back then, like many others, Chuuya had known about Dazai’s tendency toward self-harm and his suicidal thoughts. There had even been many moments when they were on the battlefield that Dazai’s bandages would loosen, allowing Chuuya to see glimpses of the scars that graced his skin underneath. They were too straight and neat to be anything else, besides scars put there by Dazai himself.

He remembered the more serious attempts where Mori had worked tirelessly to make sure Dazai’s life didn’t slip through their fingers.

At the time, it had scared him, but he hadn’t said anything.  

He hadn’t even tried to help or find out how he could.

The reason? As stupid as it was, Chuuya was terrified that if he did do something to try to help Dazai that he would get angry at him for prying into his private life and leave him just like everyone did, which ironically enough happened regardless. It was just so selfish and childish that Chuuya hated himself for it.

Then while they did share a unique sort of intimacy that perhaps would have grown into something more had Dazai not left, they had never been great at emotions. Dazai ignored them while Chuuya became consumed by them. So serious topics were just generally not something that they did, because of that just as well.

However, now that they were older and had been through so much in the past several weeks, Chuuya knew that they couldn’t keep playing this game of pretending that everything was alright and that Dazai’s suicide jokes were simply gags because they weren’t.

Still, Chuuya was realistic because, with the lives that they had led, it wasn’t like they had many options when it came to mental health. For example, going to a therapist would be difficult, because what exactly was Dazai supposed to tell them?

“Hi! I'm traumatized because I became an Executive of the Port Mafia when I was fifteen, where I was made to kill people regularly under the training of my abusive mentor Mori Ougai. You see, we really bonded when I became the sole witness to his killing of the previous boss. In all honesty though, I never really liked him. Also, I think he gave me some daddy issues when he emotionally manipulated and physically tortured me into becoming the Demon Prodigy.”

Yeah... so therapy would probably end with Dazai on death row.

And sure then there were antidepressants like Wellbutrin, Prozac, Lexapro, Zoloft, and Effexor amongst others. However, when Mori had made Dazai go on a couple of them during the years that they’d been in the Port Mafia, it had always ended with Dazai disposing of the pills in various ways until Mori gave up. A couple of times he'd even tried overdosing on some of them.

He said they made his mind feel foggy to which Mori would tell him that was because he wasn’t on the right dosage or medication. Dazai never wanted to hear it though.

However, Chuuya was almost certain that while some of the pills and dosages had probably made Dazai's head feel cloudy like he had claimed that that most likely wasn’t always the case. He was almost certain that the real reason was that Dazai thought that he deserved to feel terrible. So, he let his mental health take its toll.

But Chuuya couldn’t let him keep doing that to himself, because no one deserved to feel like shit every day to the point where they felt like the only way out of such suffering was suicide.

He had to stop being so scared of saying something. He had to stop being so scared of trying to help because if he didn’t then the next time he woke up it might be to Dazai’s body hanging limply in the living room in which they now resided.

If that happened, when Chuuya could have done something to prevent it, he would never forgive himself.

Still, it wasn’t like he could just tell Dazai that he needed to stay because Chuuya would be irreparably damaged if he chose to end it all. If Chuuya did that, then that would make things all about him, which was entirely the wrong thing to do. He needed to make sure that Dazai felt listened to. He needed to make sure that Dazai realized that all of the pain that had been wrought upon his life wasn’t completely his fault. He needed to make sure that Dazai knew that lots of people really did care about and love him. He needed to make sure that Dazai knew that if he left, the world would feel much darker in the loss of the light that Dazai claimed not to have.

So, Chuuya resolved himself to the conversation. He wouldn’t let Dazai just dance around the topic while wearing his usual façade this time.

“Dazai, you could have died. What happened to Atsushi wasn't your fault. What happened to Akutagawa wasn't your fault. It was Fyodor's.”

At the mention of his former prodigies, Dazai’s veneer finally disappeared in its entirety, now replaced by a look of aggravation. He minutely leaned further away from Chuuya.

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

In the past, Chuuya would’ve respected that wish. He would’ve just let life move forward because he was terrified that if he tried too hard to make someone do something they would then lose all interest in remaining by his side. This was serious though and he might be the only person that Dazai had left to talk to, at least for the time being.  

This time, Chuuya wouldn’t just let things slide as he had in the past.

Of course, he wasn’t naïve enough to think that lending Dazai his ear would magically cure his depression and all the other mental issues that he probably had. However, it would at least be something, and that was better than nothing. So, he’d just have to force himself to stop being so ensnared by his own insecurities, to help Dazai before it was too late.

“Atsushi loved you like a father and so did Akutagawa. It was Fyodor that killed them, not you. Please understand that.”

Dazai’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“Stop it.”

“Dazai,” Chuuya tried again, “please, just talk to me. I want to listen.”

“No,” Dazai reiterated, but his voice cracked this time, as the mask started to break.

“Please.”

“Shut up.”

“Dazai, why do you want to kill yourself?” The question wasn’t accusatory or argumentative, but rather an open inquiry. A plea to gain some semblance of understanding as to how he could help, because they couldn’t keep playing this game. Dazai’s struggle with mental health needed to be addressed before it was too late.

This time, Dazai didn’t tell Chuuya to stop, instead his gaze somehow just turned even more distant and he seemed deeply bothered by something.

“Why do you care so much? You never have in the past.”

A claustrophobic air settled over them, making Chuuya feel even more uncomfortable than he already was. He was sure that Dazai felt the same way sitting next to him because despite getting a bit better at communicating in the past several weeks, they’d never had a conversation addressing something quite as serious as this.

“I should have been there for you sooner. I’m sorry I wasn’t.”

Dazai seemed startled by his answer, his eyes widening and finally flickering over to meet Chuuya’s.

“Wait… I didn’t mean that. You don’t have to apologize.”

“No,” Chuuya dissented, “I do. It’s no excuse, but I was a selfish kid back then. I should’ve tried to help you a long time ago.”

A blend of malaise and concern flashed across Dazai’s gaze.

“Chuuya, you were a lot of things but you were never selfish.”

“No Dazai, I was, but this isn’t about me. You know lots of people care about you right? You know that lots of people… well lots of people love you. I’m not trying to tell you that you should live your life for the contentment of others, but I want you to know that if you ever feel like you’re going to… try something, there will always be someone you can talk to whether that’s me, Kunikida or anyone else at your Agency. It doesn’t matter when you need any of us, because we’ll be there for you day and night. You’ve had a difficult life and the circumstances that were handed to you aren’t your fault. So, if you ever want to try to seek any further help, I’d even be willing to drive you to pick up medication or to any therapist if you’re able to find a suitable one… it’s just, you matter, alright? I just want to make sure you know that. If you ever need to talk, I will always be here. No matter what.”

Next to him, Dazai was unnaturally silent and seemingly lost in his thoughts as he deciphered what Chuuya had said, but then a glimmer of solace seemed to wash over him as he came to the conclusion that Chuuya had been hoping for.

“Thanks,” was all he said in response, his voice unusually quiet and small. His eyes glossed over with the sheen of unshed tears that he quickly wiped away.

And sure it wasn’t perfect. Dazai wasn’t magically cured of all of his various mental illnesses. However, no matter how small the notion was, he now seemed to have at least some semblance of understanding that maybe he did matter.

It wasn’t a solution. It wasn’t an antidote.

It was however a glimpse of hope that maybe there was light at the end of the long tunnel that was his life. No matter how dim that light might be.

Then, because Chuuya didn’t want to end the conversation on such a grim note, he cracked a smile.

“Besides, you can’t let me outlive you. If you do, then I'll win and we both know that you can’t have that.”

For the first time in weeks, Dazai actually laughed.

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed the chapter :)

Chapter 27: The Weather's Really Fine Today, The Sky's Azure Is Dim With Tears

Summary:

The ephemerality of life terrified Ango.  He couldn’t be someone like A5158 because he was petrified of what could come after his inevitable death. After all, if any kind of afterlife did exist, he knew for sure that with the life he’d led he would not be going to any sort of haven.  Nothing would stand in the way of that.

Notes:

TW: Brief mention of ED

Another chapter for ya'll <3

In the distance, the sun fell over the horizon as Ango made his way through the bustling city streets of Yokohama.

It had been a long day for him, full of meetings with self-entitled officials.  It was always exhausting listening to them drone on and on about metrics and the importance of maintaining the proper power structure of the organization.  Still, Ango was just glad that the day was finally over, rather than needing to go into overtime, because for a long while that was definitely where it seemed like things were going.

Still, he had one more stop before he headed back to his apartment: the grocery store.  

His apartment was quite honestly lacking in the food supply at the moment and with the guests that he had recently acquired that would need to change.

Generally, when it came to himself and food, Ango would just snack on things whenever he had time.  He couldn't even remember the last time he'd had a real cooked meal.  It wasn't healthy, but he was honestly just so exhausted that he just didn’t care enough to do anything about it.

Stepping inside a corner store, Ango set upon finding something to eat.

After browsing through the aisles for several minutes he settled on a salad kit, wafu dressing, and some packs of crab ramen.  

Back in the Mafia, Ango remembered that Dazai seemed to have some sort of strange love for crab.  Ango hoped that he still did.

Making his way to the front counter, Ango was quick to pay before leaving with his bagged items.  This time, headed back to his apartment.

However, upon making it back and walking up to the front door, Ango's hand hovered just above the doorknob rather than twisting it and walking inside immediately.

It was because, on the other side, Ango could hear the faint sounds of laughter.  It made a bittersweet feeling curl in his chest, as he was reminded of all the times that he and Odasaku had shared with Dazai.  

Ango hadn't heard laughter in his apartment in four years and it hurt him to think that things would never be that way again.

Odasaku was dead.

And Dazai… well, Dazai hated him.

But Ango didn’t blame him for that.  He couldn’t blame him for that.  

He’d played a part in the events that had led to Odasaku’s death.  So, if Ango were Dazai, then he’d probably hate himself too.  Then again, Ango already hated himself so who even needed all of those extra steps in the first place?  It was all the same in the end.

Finally twisting the doorknob and heading inside, Ango set the groceries down on the counter.

In the living room, Dazai and A5158 were playing some sort of fighting game on his Wii.

Well… he couldn’t exactly say it was his.

Back when Odasaku had still been alive, the two of them along with Dazai had all pitched in for the gaming system as something to do after long work days.  So occasionally, after much-needed drinks at Bar Lupin, they’d head back to Ango’s apartment to play around on it.

Ango personally had never been really good at gaming nor was it something that he did very often in what little free time he did have.  However, he’d always enjoyed playing with Odasaku and Dazai, because with them it had been fun and that was a feeling that he didn't often experience in his life.

As for the reason why Ango had it in his apartment it was because it’d been decided at the time of purchasing it that he was the most responsible out of the three, regardless of his inclination towards gaming.

After he departed from the Port Mafia, Odasaku died, and Dazai defected, Ango had considered throwing away the device along with all of the games that they'd pitched in to buy, but could never actually bring himself to do it.

He couldn’t let go of the last piece he had of Odasaku.  

He couldn’t let go of the last piece he had of Dazai.

And sure, Dazai wasn’t dead.  But to Dazai, Ango basically was.

He missed how it used to be, but what had happened had been his own fault.

He didn’t deserve to mourn it.

Seeming to finally notice his appearance, Dazai and A5158 quieted, turning off the device and setting the controls aside.

“I got crab ramen and salad,” Ango said, unpacking the groceries.  “It should only take about five minutes to prepare.”

“I’m not very hungry, thanks though,” Dazai dismissed, before disappearing into his designated guest room and leaving Ango alone with A5158.

Ango was flooded with disappointment as he was left alone with one of the last people he felt comfortable around.

However, it was apparently Ango’s lucky day as A5158 was quick to dismiss himself just as well, heading straight after Dazai.

So much for buying food for them.

Preparing a salad and placing crab ramen in the microwave, Ango watched the plate turn round and round.

Lots of people liked A5158, but Ango had never really understood the hype.  A part of him felt bad because he knew how close Dazai was to A5158 and since Dazai was someone who Ango really did care about, he felt guilty that he hated his best friend or whatever they were to one another.  Honestly, Ango couldn’t entirely tell.

But that was beside the point.

The reason that Ango did not favor A5158 was because of his impulsiveness.  He ran straight into almost all of his problems without well-thought-out plans or an ounce of fear because the might of his ability had deluded him into thinking that he was near unstoppable.

Throughout his life, Ango had seen many people who were exactly like that.

All of them had always ended up dead one way or another and all of them held something that Ango could never obtain.  Something that he desperately wanted, but felt too far out of reach to ever grasp.

Bravery.

Deep down, he wanted to be that kind of foolish.  He wanted to be that kind of bold.  He wanted to be that kind of fearless.

But something was holding him back.

Fear.

The ephemerality of life terrified Ango.  He couldn’t be someone like A5158 because he was petrified of what could come after his inevitable death. After all, if any kind of afterlife did exist, he knew for sure that with the life he’d led he would not be going to any sort of haven.  Nothing would stand in the way of that.

So he let Odasaku die and he let Dazai hate him for it without trying to do anything to prevent either from happening.

At least that way he was still alive right?  

He was still here.  That had to count for something.

But still, he was envious.

So, when he came into contact with people like A5158 who were valiant and brave, he tried to belittle and dehumanize them like how he referred to A5158 by his id number rather than his actual name.

He was a coward.  A terrified coward.

But he'd long ago decided that it was too late for him to change anyway.  So, what was even the point?

The beeping of the microwave sounded, pulling him from his thoughts, and signaling that his ramen was finally done.  

Popping open the door, Ango grabbed the steaming noodles from the machine and set them down on his kitchen table next to his freshly prepared salad.  However just before he could eat, the echo of impatient knocking sounded at the door filling him with suspicion.

He didn’t have any visitors to expect today, especially with Dazai and A5158 here.  Perhaps, it could be solicitors, but they didn’t often frequent his complex so that wouldn’t make much sense.  

A gut feeling in his stomach told him to stay far away from the door, but as the banging got increasingly louder Ango grew too irritated to care.

He was probably wrong to think something was off.  Besides, if it was anyone dangerous they’d be more likely to quietly sneak in.  This behavior really was more akin to eager missionaries or overly-enthusiastic salesmen.

He’d just have to send them away.  Solicitors could be so annoyingly persistent.

With an exasperated sigh, Ango swung the door open, prepared to turn away whoever it was.  

Normally, he'd look through the peephole first to determine who it was before opening the door, but after the exhausting day that he'd had it just slipped his mind.  

It was something that Ango would regret for the rest of his life, as his eyes widened in shock.

No.  

There was no way that they could have found them already.  There was no way that they could have found them at all.  Ango had taken every precaution in the book to avoid this encounter and yet, the consequences of his miscalculations were standing right in front of him.

Terror ran down Ango's spine.  Desperately, he tried to slam the door shut.  However, it was far too late now, as the firm grip of a one-armed man caught the door.  Distantly he wondered how that had happened.

“That’s no way to treat a welcomed guest, Sakaguchi,” Dostoevsky said as he forced his way inside, Nikolai Gogol and Sigma tagging along right behind him, “now, why don’t you tell me where Dazai and Nakahara are?”

Stumbling backward, Ango held his hands up in surrender.  

He was no match for someone like Dostoevsky and so just like that Ango gave up.

“They’re in there,” Ango said, pointing towards the door to the room that Dazai and A5158 had disappeared into.

“How kind of you to tell us so quickly.  You have my sincerest thanks, Sakaguchi.”

Dostoevsky made a gesture to Gogol who in return pulled out a pistol from his holster.  He pointed it in Ango’s direction.

Ango’s panic increased tenfold as he took several more steps backward, trying to increase the distance between himself and the deadly weapon now pointed in his direction.

“I’m cooperating alright?  You don’t need to shoot me.  Just tell me wh-.”

Two loud bangs rang through the air.

Then silence.

---

There was no way in hell that Chuuya would be spending any time with Ango that he didn’t have to and luckily Dazai felt the same way.

Dismissing himself and heading straight after Dazai, Chuuya disappeared into the room grateful that he wouldn’t have to deal with that awkward situation any longer.

He never did understand why Ango hated him so much to the point where being around him made Chuuya feel like pulling his hair out, but whatever the reason was it hardly mattered so long as he didn’t need to be anywhere near that cynical asshole.

What Dazai had seen in him back when the two had still been a part of the Port Mafia, Chuuya would never know.  He was just grateful that Dazai at least seemed to notice the lack of appeal that that man held now.

In the room, the man in question was sitting at a small desk, beginning to lay out pieces of scratch paper and scrawling plans out on them in messy handwriting.  

Now that the distraction of the game was gone, he was right back to work.

Chuuya almost groaned out loud.  They had already talked about this.  With everything going on they just needed a break from it all, even if it was only for a day.  Nevertheless, here Dazai was already scrawling out plans when they’d decided to take a break today this morning.  

Everything had been going so well before Ango got back.

Fucking bureaucrats.  They always had to ruin everything.

“Dazai, what the fuck are you doing?”

Silence.

“Dazai, we literally talked about this, this morning."

Silence.

Hot irritation running through his veins, Chuuya walked up to the desk and reached out to swipe the papers.

“Goddamnit, Dazai I swear to-.”

“Chuuya!  Just stop it, alright?  I know, but I need this… I have to… I have to fix this.  This is all my fault and if I just… if I just…”  Dazai's voice caught and his shoulders tensed.  He looked almost vulnerable.  “What if I’m finally losing it?  In the past I’ve always been able to get out of nearly every situation I've ever been in, but now… Chuuya the people that I care about keep dying left and right and I… I don’t know what to do anymore.  Why don’t I know what to do?  Please, I can’t do this… just tell me what to do.  How do I fix this?  Why doesn't anything make sense anymore?”

Worry pooled in Chuuya's gut.  He cast his gaze to the side.

Words were failing him.  He had no idea what to say and honestly, he didn't think that there truly was any answer that would ever satisfy Dazai's question.

So, he did the next best thing.  He forced himself to be vulnerable too.

“You’ll figure it out… I mean you always do.  Ever since we were kids, you’ve always been one step ahead and it's always so fucking annoying... but not always in a bad way.  You’re probably the smartest person I’ve ever met and look Dazai, don’t let that get to your fucking head.  I mean that academically because in terms of common sense you’re still a total idiot.  It's just that I... I know you’ll figure it out, okay?  Just not today.  Take a break today and then we can do this tomorrow.  Together.”

Dazai was quiet for a long time before he finally spoke again, sounding uncharacteristically small.

“What if I still fail?”

“Then you fail, but look Dazai, that's not gonna happen.”

“But how do you know?”

“Because I trust you alright?  I just know… I just know, because I... because I fucking lo-.”

Chuuya's eyes widened and he shut his mouth before he could finish that sentence.  That was stupid.  He couldn’t say something like that.  How fucking idiotic could he be?

“Because you what?”

Panic raced through his chest, as he searched his mind for a convincing lie only to come up blank.

However, Chuuya was saved from answering that question as the sound of two gunshots piercing through the air sounded just beyond the door.

Instantly, the two of them shot into action, the conversation disappearing from their minds for the moment as they raced out of the room and into a horrific reality.

Ango was unnaturally still, as blood seeped from two bullet holes buried deep into his left shoulder and leg.  Chuuya would’ve thought he was dead if not for the faintest rise and fall of his chest.

And then there he was, his accomplices standing behind him.

Fyodor Dostoevsky, Nikolai Gogol and Sigma.

The devil and his circle of demons.

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed the chapter :)

Chapter 28: Isn't The Sun Shining On The Grass?

Summary:

He would make the demon beg for the mercy that he had never shown his victims. He’d make sure that Dostoevsky's death was slow and painful so that he could feel the blood leaving his body and the final static beats of his own heart.  

Notes:

Sorry it's been a while since I last posted. Life's been crazy lol

Dostoevsky was smiling.  

Dazai wanted to kill him.  

The last that they'd seen each other, he'd turned Atsushi into an unwilling suicide bomber. He'd killed him.

Now he was here with the audacity to smile?

A few meters away, Ango was laying on the ground, slowly staining the carpet crimson from what appeared to be a gunshot wound.

That had to be what the loud banging noise had been. He wasn't surprised that it had been the sound of a gun going off, but he just didn't expect Ango to be the one on the ground.

For a brief moment, there was a small part of Dazai that was desperate to make sure that Ango would be okay. The worry stemmed from a fragment of the person who he'd left behind upon leaving the Port Mafia. The person who would find rare glimpses of happiness in outings at Bar Lupin. The person who had been trapped in a demented version of a hell with few comforts. The person who had all but died the day that Odasaku had perished.

The moment of fear for Ango's life was not long-lasting.

Whatever had happened to Ango, there was nothing that could be done at the moment. After regathering himself, a sadistic part of him was almost satisfied to see the bastard laying there just like Odasaku once had. Maybe now Ango could feel the excruciating pain that Odasaku had suffered upon his death. Maybe now he would better realize just exactly what he had done.

“Dostoevsky,” Dazai greeted, his voice ringing through the air without any intonation or emotion.

“Dazai,” Dostoevsky replied in greeting, the vexing smirk still resting on his face. "Have you reconsidered your position on giving me The Book? I mean maybe you should, especially judging how it went last time you refused. That boy... what was his name? Atsuji? Arashi? You'll have to forgive me, he was rather forgettable having hardly been a Saint. I suppose perhaps you should be grateful though, for I have granted him freedom from his guilt and sin-"

Dazai wasn't typically prone to acting on emotions and often rooted himself in logic. However, with the hell that he'd gone through since Meursault, he found that all he could see was red that drowned out all else.

Dostoevsky wasn't able to get any more words in, as Dazai pulled his gun, firing off several shots aimed to kill.

Everything erupted into chaos.

The bullets barely missed Dostoevsky’s head. They would have made contact had he not been saved by Gogol warping him across the room just in time.

Ducking behind a couch for cover, and reloading his gun, Dazai watched as Chuuya engaged in a fight with Gogol and Sigma, leaving Fyodor for him.

Perfect.

He would make the demon beg for the mercy that he had never shown his victims. He’d make sure that Dostoevsky's death was slow and painful so that he could feel the blood leaving his body and the final static beats of his own heart.  

Dazai would make him pay for what he had done.

“You should just do us all a favor and give me The Book, Dazai. It would save us from all this trouble, don’t you think? I mean, if you give it to me, no more of your friends have to die,” Fyodor said from behind a table that had been overturned in the madness.

“You really think I care that much about some supposed magic book? Look, I seriously don’t know where it is.”

The cocking of a gun sounded from Fyodor’s position and Dazai’s eyes narrowed in anticipation.

“You've become so amusing, Dazai. You're almost making me laugh at how bad that falsehood is. Ever since Meursault you’ve grown careless. It’s almost getting monotonous playing these games of ours because it’s becoming so effortless to tell when you’re lying. Is the mortality of those you care about at last getting to you? Are their losses perhaps finally beginning to cloud your judgment, and making you overthink, because you're scared that if you don’t get things right the next time, then the pang of loss is just going to repeat itself over and over again?”

Lifting the barrel of the gun just over the coach, Dazai aligned it towards the position where Fyodor’s voice was coming from. A blind shot like that would be one in a million for many, but for Dazai it was child’s play.

Or at least it should’ve been.

Firing off two rounds, Dazai listened for the telltale sound of the cold lead burying its way into soft flesh. However, instead of that, the bullets instead buried themselves into the floor, as could be heard by the telltale noise of splintering wood.

Silence.

And then a hand on his shoulder, turning Dazai’s blood to ice.

“See? So boringly predictable, it’s almost sad.”

A bang echoed throughout the air.

Dropping his own gun and grabbing the barrel of Dostoevsky's, Dazai was able to redirect the trajectory of the bullet just in time, so that it slammed into the far wall instead of his flesh.

In front of him, Dostoevsky’s eyes burned with anger, as Dazai slammed him back into the wall, while they wrestled for the gun. A part of Dazai wondered what it would be like to just let go and let Dostoevsky kill him, but then as his eyes caught the sight of Chuuya engaged in his own fight against Gogol and Sigma on the other side of the room, the thoughts dissipated from his head.

In the end, Dazai managed to tear the gun free of Dostoevsky’s grip, pistol-whipping him and sending him crumbling to the floor.

Dostoevsky was unconscious. He was unguarded. Dazai could do anything and there was nothing that he could do to stop it.

Dazai’s hands began to shake, something that only a very trained eye would be able to see, as he trained the gun at the man’s head.

He wanted to kill him.

He’d killed Atsushi. He’d killed Akutagawa. He’d killed so many people and who knew who he would take next if he were to be left alive?

What if he killed Chuuya? One touch of his hand was all that it would take.

Logically, he knew that it was better to keep Dostoevsky alive to find out more about his plans and ability, before turning him over to the proper authorities so that justice could be served.  

It was what Odasaku would want him to do after all.

But pulling the trigger… well it would be so easy and vindicating.

It wouldn’t be too hard to explain away anyways. He could just say it was in self-defense and that was that.

Dostoevsky was right, the mortality of those he cared about was getting to him.

His finger tightened on the trigger and a voice that sounded oddly like Mori echoed in his head.

Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.

The sound of a gunshot erupted into the air.

But it was not from Dazai’s gun.

At the far corner of the room, Sigma gasped before crumpling to the ground. His gun fell from his grasp as blood began to pool from his shoulder. Chuuya watched the spectacle, as Dazai quickly pieced together that Sigma had naïvely tried to shoot Chuuya only to have the bullet redirected right back at him. It was a shame, to be honest. As much as Dazai loathed Sigma for teaming up with such a despicable bastard, he had expected better from him than trying to shoot a gravity manipulator with a measly bullet.

Gogol was quick to fall shortly thereafter as Chuuya managed to slam him into the far wall, rendering him unconscious.

Those two having been taken care of, Dazai turned back to Dostoevsky.

His gun was still angled for a shot that would most certainly be fatal. However, as his adrenaline began to fade, so did his grip on the trigger.

If he killed Dostoevsky, he’d make sure that his death would be far more painful than a quick death incited by a gun.

So finally holstering his gun, Dazai suddenly found his mind turning to something else.

Something important.

Why had Dostoevsky and his companions been so easy to defeat? Where had the cruel trickery that was normally involved in Dostoevsky’s attacks been? Sure, he'd shot Ango, but Dazai didn't care about that. Besides, if the shot had been fatal Ango probably would've been dead already, as the rise and fall of his chest told otherwise.

Even more so, upon realizing that Dostoevsky and Sigma had been taken out, why didn’t Gogol just teleport away? That would be the smart thing to do and even Dostoevsky would probably approve on the count that Gogol would later just teleport him and Sigma away. Even more so, the more that he thought about it why had Sigma tried to shoot Chuuya with a gun? He had to know that that wouldn't work and Sigma wasn't stupid.

Something was very wrong here.

Dostoevsky had allowed himself to be captured for some reason and Dazai would have to figure it out before it was too late.

---

Upon Dazai's insistence, they’d managed to discreetly lay Ango’s body down in an alleyway, before making an anonymous call that he’d been shot. Chuuya had been a bit reluctant to do something so unsightly, especially since they hadn’t even waited for the ambulance, but Ango wasn't someone he particularly liked anyway, so he eventually just let it go.

Currently, they stood before the three bound and gagged Decay of the Angels members, awaiting consciousness to return to their still bodies. Their wounds had been wrapped to make sure that they didn't bleed out, but Chuuya would make sure that that privilege didn't last if they ran out of use. He was almost certain that Dazai felt the same.

Personally, Chuuya couldn’t wait for that to happen, because he was pissed. These assholes had led to the deaths of so many who both he and Dazai had cared about. More than that, Dostoevsky had treated their deaths like some great joke, as though they had simply been meant for the fates that had befallen them.  

Of course, this all had to culminate the one time that he and Dazai were supposed to be taking just one goddamn day to decompress. Apparently, they couldn’t even have that. Not a single fucking day. Instead, these fuckers had decided to get in the way and send that small hope to hell.

Why had he even bothered hoping? Nothing he’d desired ever worked out in the end anyways.

Next to him, Dazai was still, as his eyes bore into Dostoevsky, who sat slumped in his chair.  

Dostoevsky's head hung downwards with his hair obscuring his eyes from view, as though they held some secret that was to be kept from the world.

“You know glaring at him isn’t going to do anything, right?”  

Chuuya waited for the banter that he was sure to get back, but Dazai was unnervingly quiet.

“Hey bastard, I’m talking to you.”

Silence.

“Dazai?”

Finally turning his gaze away from Dostoevsky, Dazai met Chuuya’s gaze. His expression was entirely blank, much like it had often been four years prior.

It was an expression that Dazai rarely used around him, so seeing him being so guarded when they were the only two conscious people in the room was unnerving to say the least.

“They've had enough rest." Dazai finally said, his voice sinister, "it's time for them to wake up.”

Notes:

I hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter <3

Chapter 29: Today Not Even The Sparrows Are Cheeping

Summary:

It was a laugh that he hadn’t heard in a very long time.

The same laugh that Dazai had once made the very first time they’d worked together, as he’d shot that guard over and over again, while the life in his own eyes seemed to dissipate along with his victim’s.

 

TW: Domestic/Child Abuse

Notes:

Dazai interrogates Dostoevsky and a glimpse is given into Dostoevsky's past

20 Years Prior

His parents were screaming at each other in the kitchen. They never seemed to do anything else anymore.

At this point, it was honestly just white noise. Something to be expected.

Fyodor was curled up on the couch, a small blanket knitted by his grandmother stretched out to cover his whole body while “Well, Just You Wait!” played on the Tv.

In the show, it was Hare against Wolf. Wolf would chase after Hare only to be thwarted every time.

Hare was his favorite. Fyodor loved how no matter how difficult the situations that he landed himself in were, he always managed to find a way out.

In this episode, Wolf was observing Hare who was tending to some plants in the building above him. He seemed to be contemplating ways to defeat him.

But Fyodor knew better.

Wolf would never be able to defeat Hare! Hare was intelligent and always thought ten steps ahead.  

The causation of the demise of Hare was simply impossible for someone like Wolf.

“I can’t keep living like this!” Fyodor heard his mother scream at his father in the kitchen, but he kept his attention focused on the Tv.  

The Tv was safe, even in “Well, Just You Wait!” everything was resolved in the end and no one died forever. If he just kept his eyes on the Tv then everything would be okay.

“And you think I fucking can, you damn woman?” His father shouted back.

Wolf was climbing a rope now, struggling to reach Hare.

“Get out, Mikhail! Just get out!”

Hare reached out with a pair of scissors, snipping the rope and sending Wolf plummeting to the ground below.

“Goddamnit, Maria!”

The sound of a fist colliding against his mother's cheek, which sent her flying into the cabinets behind her, finally tore Fyodor’s attention away from the Tv.

His father had always been a powerful man.

But now, red-faced and standing over his mother with clenched fists and rage thrumming through his veins, he was truly terrifying.

On the ground, his mother was wailing, begging his father to stop.  

She was begging him to at least not do it in front of their child.

Fyodor stood up, his blanket falling with his ascent.

“Mom?” He sniffled.

“Go to your room, sweetheart.” She told him, tears shining in her eyes.

At that, something irreparable within him broke. A feeling that no child should ever have to experience.

“Stop hurting her! Stop it!” He wailed, running up to his father and reaching out for his sleeve to try and pull him away from his mother no matter how futile such an action would end up being.

He never even managed to brush his fingers against the fabric.

Honestly he barely even registered what happened next.

He charged at his father.  

His mother screamed.  

A hand collided with his face.  

He flew through the air, before colliding into the far wall, and slumping to the floor.

Instinctively, Fyodor curled up in fetal position, preparing for the inevitability of the blows that were sure to follow the first, but when none followed and suddenly his mother was screaming his father’s name of all things, Fyodor opened his eyes to a sight that he would never forget. A sight that would haunt his dreams for many years to come.

His father was lying on the ground.

Dead.

How?

He hated him, but to see him dead?

The boy began to wail, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Dad!” He cried out, slowly approaching the body as his own trembled, “Dad, wake up!”

“Fyodor,” his mother choked out between sobs, “it’s okay, it’s going to be okay.”

She reached out for him, bringing him into her safe embrace.

Except, when the time for the hug to come to an end came to its natural conclusion, she wouldn’t let go. Not even as Fyodor sobbed and squirmed in her embrace.

“Mom, let me go!” He cried, finally twisting free.

Instead of apologizing, getting angry, or even just anything at all, his mother simply slumped to the floor.

Just like his father had...

“No…” Fyodor choked out. “Mom? Mom? Mom! No, no, no, no, no! Please come back! Please! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Just come back! Please! I promise I'll be good! Don't go, please! Mom!”

In the distance, cartoon music played, as the wolf was hauled off to justice for his crimes.

---

Present

“What do you want with The Book?”

Tendrils of scarlet wove their way down Dostoevsky’s remaining arm as the devilish eyes of the one who had once been called the Demon Prodigy met his own. Next to Dostoevsky were Gogol and Sigma who watched with gags that prevented them from interrupting the two geniuses.

Chuuya’s hands clenched into fists at his sides as Dostoevsky dared to laugh.

“Have you truly fallen so low as to not even know the answer to that elementary question? You already know the answer. I wish to free the world of abilities.”

Dostoevsky’s head whipped backward as Dazai’s fist slammed into it, bruising his knuckles a dull purple and leaving Dostoevsky with a blackening eye.

“We both know it’s not as simple as that,” Dazai replied, examining the bruising on his hand as though it were a disgrace to have such a blemish come from someone like Dostoevsky.

The way he was acting now was starting to remind Chuuya of someone who he had thought was long gone with the death of Odasaku.

“Perhaps,” Dostoevsky replied seeming bored before his eyes lit up as though he’d finally thought of something truly fascinating.

His eyes flickered over to meet Chuuya’s before turning back to Dazai’s.

“Why do you care about why I want to get rid of abilities? Are you perhaps afraid that if I do then your friend, the lab experiment, will no longer exist? I’ve heard of his case you know and honestly, I must say that I am most curious to see what happens when everything finally does fall into place.”

Chuuya’s heart stopped.

How did Dostoevsky know that about that part of his past?

Along with that, could what he'd just speculated potentially be true?

Whispers were all he’d heard of Dostoevsky’s plans with The Book.  

He knew that the basis of what he planned to do was to erase abilities from existence. However, Chuuya had never thought of it in any more depth than that.

If he was the clone, an artificial ability who thought it was human, then did that mean that he would simply disappear from existence upon such a thing coming to fruition?

Would anyone even remember him or would he be forgotten, as though he had never even been there in the first place?

In his life, Chuuya didn’t ask for much. He understood if he couldn’t be someone’s first choice or even their second. He understood that with the lifestyle he lived not many would stick around for long be it through death, defection, or reassignment. However, the thought that he would simply vanish from all of history sent an odd kind of chill through his bones.

Such a prospect almost seemed worse than death.

At least in death, people would mourn you, keeping you alive in memories and photographs.

If what Dostoevsky had predicted was true then he wouldn’t even have that.

But would it even matter if he was no longer sentient?

“Chuuya’s human,” he heard Dazai say amid his devastating thoughts, “no lines of code could ever create someone I hate so much. Now, stop trying to change the subject. Why do you want The Book?”

“I already told you.”

“Why do you want to get rid of abilities?”

“I already told you.”

“Fine, then why did you let yourself get captured so easily?”

“The Demon Prodigy would have been able to figure out something so embarrassingly rudimentary immediately.”

A knife whistled through the air stopping millimeters away from Dostoevsky’s neck, as Dazai grabbed him by his hair, a few strands tearing free from their roots.

“If I was still him, then you’d be dead right now.”

“No, no, no. If you were still him, then you would’ve joined me. This new you is being gradually compromised by human emotion. It’s disgusting. If you would just let go and see the truth of the world, you would understand why it needs a new beginning.”

“Stop diverting the conversation.”

Dostoevsky laughed, his eyes crinkling tauntingly at the corners, “but it’s just so funny when you keep falling for it.”

At that, something in Dazai just seemed to snap.

It was a shift that only attuned eyes would be able to see.

Like Chuuya’s.

One moment, Dostoevsky was laughing, bound to his chair and the next, Dazai had tackled him to the floor, the chair breaking into pieces with the impact.

Dostoevsky's laughter finally faded as his mind slipped into unconsciousness, while Dazai’s fists pounded into his face over and over without any semblance of leeway.

Gogol watched in amusement, while Sigma seemed terrified.

Chuuya waited for Dazai to stop. He waited for him to realize that he’d knocked Dostoevsky out and that beating him like this any further wasn’t going to do anything.

But he didn’t. Instead, he just started laughing, almost exactly like Dostoevsky had moments prior.

But Dazai's laugh was not a laugh of mockery.

Instead, it was a broken sound. Like glass shattering into a million pieces.

It was a laugh that he hadn’t heard in a very long time.

The same laugh that Dazai had once made the very first time they’d worked together, as he’d shot that guard over and over again, while the life in his own eyes seemed to dissipate along with his victim’s.

Walking over and grabbing Dazai by the waist, Chuuya tore him off of Dostoevsky who now lay prone on the floor, his face a mess of bruises. As much as he hated the man, Dostoevsky had vital information that he could provide them with the proper amount of persuasion applied.  

With him in their possession, they couldn't afford to kill him just yet.

“Dazai, stop!” Chuuya pleaded, forcing Dazai back while he desperately tried to tear himself free of Chuuya's grip.

“Let me kill him, Chuuya!" Dazai laughed, an unhinged light setting an inferno ablaze in his eyes, "I need to kill him! Chuuya, please. Please, just let me do it!”

The laughter increased in volume.

He had to put an end to this.

With slight regret stirring in his heart, Chuuya pulled Dazai tightly against his body before sending a sharp blow to his carotid sinus.

Immediately, Dazai slumped in his arms.

Lifting him, Chuuya brought him to his bedroom, laying him down and pulling the bedsheets over his still body.

Dazai wasn’t in the right state of mind to be conducting such an interrogation, so while he felt slightly bad about knocking him out, Chuuya knew it was for the best.

Or at least he thought it was because when he walked back out of the bedroom something was very wrong.

He’d been gone for not even two minutes, but in the time that had taken him, Dostoevsky, Gogol, and Sigma were gone.

Shit.

Notes:

I hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter <3

Chapter 30: The Sound Of The Cobblers' Rolling Drums

Summary:

Chuuya was perched on a kitchen chair, a glass of Château grasped firmly in his grip. Twirling the glass, he stared into the pool of alluring scarlet liquid, while wondering just how much of it he'd have to drink to get drunk.

Probably not that much. Granted, he would never admit it.

TW: Discussions of Suicide/Suicidal Thoughts

Notes:

Hey! I'm finally back. Wrote a longer one for ya'll with the wait. Thanks for being patient <3

A few hours had passed since Dostoevsky had fled with Sigma and Gogol.

Chuuya was perched on a kitchen chair, a glass of Château grasped firmly in his grip. Twirling the glass, he stared into the pool of alluring scarlet liquid, while wondering just how much of it he'd have to drink to get drunk.

Probably not that much. Granted, he would never admit it.

Briefly, he'd consider paying Ango back, but it was unlikely that he'd even notice some of it was missing with the bottle having already been opened. Regardless, with the type of person Ango was, he honestly probably deserved it.

Dazai would be waking up soon. Personally, Chuuya was surprised that he hadn’t awoken already. Not that that was entirely a bad thing though. He doubted that the inevitable conversation they were sure to soon have would be a good one with what had happened.

At least the wine would keep him from having the conversation sober.

Suddenly, almost as though he had been summoned just by the thought of him running through Chuuya’s mind, the bedroom door opened to reveal Dazai.

Shadows cast down his right side and his hands were balled up into fists, as he made his way over to Chuuya.  

Simply put, he looked pissed.

Setting the glass of wine down, Chuuya resigned himself to the coming conversation.

Dazai’s eyes flitted over to where Dostoevsky, Gogol, and Sigma had once been tied up. An area that was now vacant with torn ropes cast across the floor.

The burning presence of Dazai’s cool gaze turned back to Chuuya.

“Where are they?”

Chuuya stiffened, his eyes shifting to the side.

“They’re gone.”

The temperature seemed to go down several degrees, as a long beat of silence hung in the air.

“They’re gone,” Dazai repeated with an odd lilt to his voice.

Chuuya took a careful step forward.

“It wasn’t my intention-”

Dazai waved Chuuya's words off with a careless flick of his hand.

“No, no. Don’t apologize. It’s fine. Everything is great actually. You incapacitated me right before I could kill the man who murdered Atsushi and Akutagawa. You did a great job! No, a wonderful one! Seriously! This is great… this is just great!”

“Dazai…” Chuuya took another hesitant step forward.

“What, Chuuya?” Dazai's gaze sharpened, as he too took a step forward. “I already told you. It’s fine. I mean Dostoevsky is just so interesting. It really would’ve been a shame for me to kill him. Honestly, you did the world a favor. You know what? Thank you! Thank you so much, Chuuya. You did so great!”

Guilt wormed its way into Chuuya’s heart. He could practically feel Dazai pulling away from him. Meanwhile, the sarcasm dripping from every word left him feeling like a knife was twisting in his gut.

He hated this. He wanted to make this all go away because there was a part of him that truly felt bad. There was a part of him that even agreed with Dazai, despite knowing that Dostoevsky wasn't someone they could just kill.

However, with the way Dazai was talking to him, taunts lying behind every word, he couldn't keep himself calm and centered enough to formulate a healthy response.  

The way Dazai was speaking to him was making him anxious, a feeling that only turned him defensive and bitter.

“Look. I didn’t mean for them to escape, alright? You were gonna kill Dostoevsky! And we just... we can't just do that. His victims deserve real justice and who knows what kind of fucked up shit he has planned in the event of his death. I just… I didn’t have a fucking choice! Alright? Why don’t you get that?”

Dazai finally closed the distance between them, forcing Chuuya to look up to meet his gaze.

“You always have a choice. You just chose the wrong one.”

"Dazai, we don’t even know how far Dostoevsky’s network runs, for all we know maybe that’s what he wanted. It’s like with Mori, you know. He’s a fucking bastard, but killing him would only result in worse things to come.”

“Look at you actually thinking for once,” Dazai mocked, his eyes narrowing. “But you know there’s a reason why back in the mafia I did the planning while you did all the heavy work. What you just said carries a whole lot of assumptions. You can’t strategize so loosely when it comes to Dostoevsky. It’ll only end up with you getting everyone killed.”

Chuuya took a step back, hurt shining plainly in his eyes.

“Shut up.”

“Oh, so you can’t even refute it?” Dazai snapped. “It’s no wonder everyone always ends up leaving you with your utter lack of conviction. It sure as hell drove me away.”

Chuuya stiffened, his blood turning to ice.

After a moment, Dazai froze too, as though he’d only just realized what he’d said. Immediately, regret began to coat his features. Meanwhile, Chuuya was stumbling backward, images of the Sheep and numerous others from the past flying through his mind’s eye in all but a moment.

“Wait, Chuuya. I’m sorry, I… I didn’t mean it,” Dazai tried in a poor attempt to save the situation.

Chuuya was silent, as made his exit from the room, and headed into the bedroom that Ango had lent him.

The door slammed shut with an air of finality.

---

Dazai’s mind was a whirlwind of barely contained chaos.

He shouldn’t have snapped at Chuuya like that and the fact that he did was eating him alive.

There was no way for Chuuya to know that his actions would lead to Dostoevsky’s escape. He had simply been going off of what he knew.  

If Dazai were in Chuuya's position and if his psyche didn't feel like it was collapsing inwards on itself, he probably would've done the exact same thing.

Why was he losing his nerve?

Why was he so selfish?

Why did he always hurt the only people who cared?

He had to go in there and apologize.

Forcing himself to relax, Dazai cautiously approached the door. Gently, he tapped his knuckles against the frame.

“Chuuya?”

Silence.

“Chuuya, I’m sorry. I just… can I come in?”

Again, only silence met him. However, instead of giving up and just walking away like he once would have, Dazai forced himself to open the door.

He stepped inside.

Chuuya was sitting on the bed, fiddling with a Rubik's Cube that Ango must’ve left on one of the numerous shelves in the room.  

Despite Dazai beginning to move closer, Chuuya’s eyes never left the Cube as he continued to fruitlessly spin the pieces around.Cautiously, Dazai took a seat next to Chuuya on the bed, his eyes bearing into his hands which fiddled in his lap.

“I shouldn’t have said the things I did. I’m sorry.”

Chuuya's eyes still didn’t raise from the Cube as he just continued to spin the pieces around, a vibrant array of colors shifting in all directions.

“Chuuya, please talk to me. I’m sorry.”Chuuya tensed next to him, the first sign of acknowledgment he'd given Dazai since he'd entered the room.

“What do you want me to say, Dazai?” Chuuya finally spoke. “It’s alright? No worries? Why does it even matter? I mean if I’m lacking  conviction  as you said, then my words are fucking obsolete anyway, aren’t they? You don’t give a fuck about apologizing. You just want to be absolved. You always do.”

“Chuuya, that’s not-.”

Finally setting down the Rubik’s Cube, Chuuya raised his gaze to meet Dazai’s.

“I get that I fucked up, but I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep giving you second chances upon second chances only for you to just fuck me over every goddamn time. It’s just… it’s just not okay, alright? I get that I can be a bit of a dick too sometimes, but at least I don’t intentionally screw people over time and time again. At least I don’t constantly dig into their deepest insecurities only to come up with some cheap-ass apology. And look, as much as I don’t want to and even though I said I won’t, I’m going to give you another chance because if I don’t I’m going to end up alone and I can’t… I can’t… because I care about you and I just…” Chuuya’s shoulders tensed, an anxious breath escaping him, “look Dazai, it’s okay. I know… I know you didn’t mean what you said, but just… please try. Please try to stop doing this, because I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to take it.”

“Okay."

Chuuya's eyes widened as though he was surprised that Dazai wasn't putting up a fight.

"I’ll try harder. I promise. I really am sorry.”

“Thanks...”

A bout of silence stretched between the two before Dazai finally spoke up once more, his voice lighter this time.

"You know, you didn't have to strangle me though. You could've just-"

"Dazai, shut up. You deserved it with all the shit you put me through."

Dazai laughed and then so did Chuuya.

"Yeah, I guess I did."

---

Sigma warily kept pace with Dostoevsky and Gogol as they headed back to the flat that Gogol had managed to acquire by some unknown means. At this point, Sigma knew better than to ask.

Every step he took sent a jolt of pain stabbing through his shoulder. He knew Chuuya had a gravity ability and that it was pointless to shoot him, but Dostoevsky had taken them there on the premise of purposefully getting caught and of course, so they had to make it believable. Sigma's ability wasn't exactly meant for combat, so the bullets fired from his gun were mostly meant to be used as a distraction. He just didn't expect Chuuya to redirect one of his bullets right back at him. That was just dirty.

Looking back though, he probably should've.

A black eye was beginning to blossom across Dostoevsky’s face, as blood dripped from his forehead. However, he was grinning as though he’d just won the lottery.  

In his hands, he was clenching a red and white book. It was the reason for his pride and why they'd all sought to be captured in the first place.

Dostoevsky had needed to find its location and being captured had given him time to figure all that out before they made their escape.

Still, despite being relieved their plan had worked, the unnatural glimmer in Dostoevsky's eyes unnerved Sigma.

He wanted to break free of this life and the chaos that followed it. However, Dostoevsky had made a deal that was impossible for both him and Gogol to refuse. So it seemed only time would tell until he could break free from the fold.

Although, he did suppose that being stuck with Dostoevsky was a bit better than being stuck with Dazai like he had been for a while back at Meursault. While both were delusional geniuses, at least Dostoevsky had a code. That was something that Dazai seemed to lack, in Sigma's opinion. So as much as he found himself loathing Dostoevsky more and more with every interaction that they had, Sigma had concluded that he was the lesser of two evils in this fight.

Then again, if Dostoevsky used The Book to rid the world of all abilities like he claimed he wanted to, would that erase Sigma as well?

Still, maybe after all that he’d done that wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing.

At least that way he’d finally have a purpose. 

The purpose of sacrificing himself so that the world could bask in the new world that Dostoevsky claimed would be beyond the most charming of masterpieces.

Sigma returned to reality, as the three made their way into the flat.

Dostoevsky set the book on the quaint kitchen table. Then, with a single finger, he began to trace over the title, as though the mere lettering of the book was precious.

And suddenly Sigma couldn’t stop himself from asking. It was rare to ever see Dostoevsky so intrigued with something. Much less a book.

“What’s so special about it?”

Dostoevsky’s eyes traversed over to meet his own.

“‘The Ultimate Guide to Suicide.’ It was written by Wataru Tsurumi and seems to be one of Dazai’s favorites. It's ironic though because as much as one might initially think that that makes sense given Dazai’s tendencies, Tsurumi while trying to lessen the stigma of suicide despised the concept of double suicide. Essentially, he thought in doing such a thing, you were no longer in control of your life and as such, a despicable being. So, in the manual, there are no mentions of group suicides. It really makes you wonder... why would Dazai have a book written by an author who thinks his so-called dream is worthless? Dazai's vain. He wouldn't obsess over a book written by someone who would despise his mere existence.”

Dostoevsky tilted his head as if in thought.

“Even if you put respect aside, Dazai, while despicable, does not hold onto things unless he needs them. This guide… gives him nothing that he doesn't already know. Even still, it has no intention of helping him die by the means he claims to crave. So, it made me think. What if he has the book for another reason? You see, most people would overlook what I know. They wouldn’t see the holes. My predictions even were solidified by that decoy he gave me back at the storage facility. He must’ve thought that using such a thing would turn me away from the truth. Reverse psychology you might call it. Alas, I see through his ruse. This book is a guide yes… but not for suicide. It’s a guide to The Book.”

Sigma didn’t know what to say, as Dostoevsky opened the manual, gesturing for him and Gogol to come closer.

“On the very last page, Dazai took notes. They seem harmless. However, if you use Fibonacci’s Sequence as a cipher then you'll see that this book spells out a location.”

Dostoevsky opened the book and began to read, his finger pointing out each letter as he spoke.

"Shimmering hues in a pensive moment of pure clarity is what occurred indescribably the first time I thought I could now depart from this miserable life. I thought I’d done it, but such grave hopes only ever lead to disappointment. I’m trapped and beginning to think that there is no escape. Still, it was garish of me to ever think I would be able to sever myself from the rope that is slowly strangling my soul alive.

It won’t be shimmering hues of lights I see, but rather complex tenebrosity in the darkness of the hell that is sure to greet me.

However, perhaps someone like me is even unworthy of hell. Maybe that’s why every time I try to depart from this corrupted world, I am yanked back, like a child’s yo-yo. For my string is held strong by the undeniable weight of my sins.

The darkness shuns me and yet, so does the light. So where am I to go?

That’s right. I shall go right back into the hand of the child throwing me back and forth, back and forth. Forever trapped in an infernal loop of madness.

I wonder how Chuuya does it.

I hate the way he clings to life. It’s as if his string from the yo-yo snapped and wrapped around the child’s finger, refusing to unwind from its tight embrace.

What does he see that ostensibly I can’t? Why doesn’t he understand that the only true escape is one of forever rest?

I hate how short he is. I hate his taste in wine. I hate his poetry books. I hate his dumb personality. I hate his even dumber hat. I hate that he’s making me want to live.

God, I hate him.

Perhaps that’s what my life is though. An endless torrent of things I hate being sent to torment me. I take back what I said earlier about not being able to ever go to hell because maybe I’m already there.

Perhaps I really did die that first time I attempted and this is my punishment for the life I've lived.

I’ve done so many terrible things.

Is it bad I don’t feel much of anything about it?

While it is undeniable that I am filled with nothing but loathing towards myself, I do find myself feeling numb when it comes to violence and killing. I wonder if I was always that way or if life has paved me into this person.  

I’m honestly not sure I can say.

Sometimes I wish that I was born without the intelligence that I hold. It’s funny because so many would claim that they want the opposite. They would want all of the knowledge of the Universe. They would think that it would free them.

In my experience, the more knowledge one has, the more one loses their freedom.

Ignorance is bliss is the reality of the world.

When you know things, you realize simple truths about the idiosyncrasies of life and those truths are often not ones that many would find agreeable. Most bestowed with such knowledge would simply go insane. Many have already...”

Dostoevsky stopped reading, shutting the book with a faint hint of disgust.

“I won’t bore you with the rest of Dazai’s dramatics, but upon using Fibonacci’s Sequence to decode it, the hidden message says ‘S Shipping Container.’” Dostoevsky cracked a smile.

Sigma’s eyes narrowed in thought, “what does that mean?”

“Back when he was in the Port Mafia, Dazai used to live in a shipping container. Its exact location's mostly unknown, but now we have a radius in how the code indicates the southern side of the Port. It shouldn’t take me too long to figure out which one Dazai used to reside in and once we do figure that out, we can claim The Book as ours and bestow freedom upon our new world. I bet he won’t even realize we have it until it’s too late. He’s probably too busy arguing with Nakahara, just as was planned.”

Outside rain began to pelt down from the heavens, as Dostoevsky set to work narrowing down the location, with Sigma and Gogol at his side.

Notes:

I hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter :)

Chapter 31: Fields Beyond Repose

Summary:

The room was dimly lit. The feeling of Chuuya’s hand on his shoulder, his thumb subconsciously moving back and forth, made Dazai feel as though he were within the hearth of a crackling fire.

Everything felt gentle. Everything felt safe.

Notes:

Happy New Years Eve!

TW: Mentions of Child Abuse

Why had Dostoevsky allowed himself to be captured, only to leave shortly thereafter?

Laying on the living room couch, Dazai searched his mind for an answer only to come up with nothing.  

The whole thing just made no sense.

He’d already searched through all of the official documents Ango kept in a small safe by his desk, to see if there were any missing, but all the documents were there and nothing appeared to have been tampered with or touched.

It hadn't even been that hard to break into. He just had to look for which letters had the most prominent fingerprints on the safe. That had left the letters 'i,' 'l,' 'n,' 'p' and 'u.'  

Unscrambled it was lupin.

Before opening it, Dazai had almost wondered if it was some kind of joke or even a trick.  

In the end, it was not, as much as he willed it to be so.

He wanted so badly to just hate that bastard. He didn't want to think of him as someone who had ever cared. He didn't want to think of him as someone who could still care.

Pulling himself back to the present, Dazai forced himself to continue to ponder over his dilemma. He ran a stressed hand through his hair.

What was Dostoevsky's play?

Still, nothing came to mind.

Why couldn’t he just figure this out? Situations like this one used to come easily to him. It'd been like child's play.

Ever since Meursault, his mind had been a torrent of chaos and he found it near impossible to focus like he used to because what if he messed up again?

What if he failed?

One wrong move and everything that he had taken so long to build up could shatter.

And yet, this fear was in itself also causing all of his mistakes. Chuuya’s near death, Atsushi’s death, Akutagawa’s death, and Dostoevsky’s escape.  

It was all a goddamn paradox.  

Logically, he knew that such outcomes meant that he had to collect himself and stop letting his long-dormant emotions continue to surface, as they only clouded his judgment. However, that was easier said than done after having suppressed them for so long.

“Fuck,” Dazai sighed, irritation setting his nerves on fire.

From the kitchen, an insufferable person let out a laugh.

“Careful, you’re beginning to sound like me.”

Dazai’s nose crinkled in mock disgust.

“Don’t insult me. No one could ever sound as inarticulate as you.”

“Hey,” Chuuya protested, “I’m hardly inarticulate. But you… well, you might be as good as illiterate. I mean your writing... that shit is like its own fucking language. I can only decipher it because I’ve known you for so goddamn long, asshole.”

Dazai rolled his eyes.

“My handwriting is perfectly fine actually. I just write like that because I know it annoys you.”

“Oh, just fuck off you asshole. That's a goddamn lie and we both know it. If it's not, then I swear to fuck I'll beat the everliving shit out of you,” Chuuya’s brow furrowed in faux annoyance, as he finally took a seat on the couch, after roughly shoving Dazai’s legs off to make room for himself.

“So violent,” Dazai mocked but nevertheless readjusted his position so that he was now sitting up just the same as Chuuya.

“So, what’re you thinking about?”

Dazai sighed, the teasing air finally transitioning into something more serious.

“There had to be a reason that Dostoevsky allowed himself to be captured, but I can’t figure it out,” Dazai’s eyes fell to his knees, “and it’s just… I should be able to figure this out, Chuuya. Why am I panicking? Why can’t I think? It’s never been like this until recently and it’s just... well, to be honest, it's kind of freaking me out. I keep making mistakes and who knows how many it’ll take until I get everyone else I care about killed? How long will it take until…” Dazai trailed off, pausing for a moment to regather his thoughts. “I can’t keep living like this. I want to go back to how it was. I mean, before Meursault, I was fine! Perfectly fine! But then, you almost died… and I… I just…”

A comforting hand settled upon Dazai’s shoulder, just as he raised his eyes to meet Chuuya’s own.

“Dazai, it’s not your fault. It’s only human to get overwhelmed with the shit circumstances life gave you. Life's just catching up to you is all. That's natural.”

Dazai’s brow furrowed and he shook his head.

“No, Chuuya I should be better. I should be better than this. I should be able to get into Dostoevsky’s head. I should be able to know what he’s thinking. I should be able to do all this and I can’t! I fucking can’t. I just… what's wrong with me?”

Chuuya’s face fell.

“Dazai, nothing’s wrong with you.”

“It shouldn’t… things shouldn’t be like this,” Dazai’s voice cracked, a raw sound that only a select few had ever been privy to.

Worried eyes studied his own.

“I’m sorry. I’m being dramatic. We should just-”

“Dazai,” Chuuya stopped him, “it’s okay, alright? It’s okay.”

Silence filled the air for a few moments before Dazai finally spoke, his voice unusually soft.

“Thanks.”

“Course.”

The room was dimly lit. The feeling of Chuuya’s hand on his shoulder, his thumb subconsciously moving back and forth, made Dazai feel as though he were within the hearth of a crackling fire.

Everything felt gentle. Everything felt safe.

Chuuya’s eyes were looking into his own, his iridescent azure gaze reminding Dazai of the calming blue waves that he used to watch back when he lived on the Port in that old shipping container.  

Whenever things had been hard or stressful, he’d always found himself at the railings staring off into the sea and wondering if perhaps on the other side of that ocean someone was staring back at him. Someone whose life wasn’t filled with killing. Someone whose life didn’t feel like an endless struggle.

The calming environment had always alleviated such stress. It made him feel safe. Protected even.

And now Chuuya…

Wait.

The Port!

Dazai’s previous thoughts abandoned him as the dawning realization of what Dostoevsky had done suddenly filled his mind.

He sprung to his feet, startling Chuuya next to him and breaking the trance of whatever that moment could've been.

“What is it?”

Dazai didn’t answer. Instead, he rushed into the room that Ango had lent him.  

A cold feeling was starting to crawl its way up from his stomach. How could he have been so thoughtless? So stupid?

It was gone.

It was actually gone.

“He found it,” Dazai finally said.

“The fuck’s that mean?”

“Dostoevsky. He took my book. Chuuya, it'll give him the location of The Book. I didn't think he'd figure something like that out. I even took precautions with the decoy! But he figured it out. He knows. He fucking knows! Dammit!” Dazai took off running for the door, but Chuuya grabbed ahold of his arm before he could, effectively stopping him.

“Dazai. We’ll get him, alright? I don’t entirely understand what’s going on here, but you seem to know where he’ll end up, so let’s just go about this smartly, alright? We need a plan and I need to know what the fuck is going on. Then, that fucker will pay for what he did. I promise we’ll make sure of it.”

Forcing his tensed muscles to relax, Dazai allowed Chuuya to drag him back over to the couch, before sitting down once more.

“Alright,” Dazai acquiesced. “I’ll tell you everything but then, we are going to rip that motherfucker to shreds.”

---

19 Years Prior

The streets of St. Petersburg were cold and unforgiving. That was one of the things that Fyodor had learned rather quickly.

It had been a year since the deaths of his parents. Quickly, the small boy had learned the cruel realities of the real world past his father's hungry fists and hateful words, as he was forced to beg for rubles and sleep in dirty cardboard boxes hidden away in tenebrous alleyways.

Life had become agony. An agony that no seven-year-old should ever have to experience.

And yet, even though he couldn’t even stand to even look at his hands anymore, Fyodor wanted to live. He didn’t want to let go.

So he didn’t.

Just barely, the boy managed to somehow scrap by that first year despite the voices in his head echoing his mother’s screams, as they told him what he was. They called him a monster. A murderer. Unlovable.

However, as time continued to go by, Fyodor found his small body shivering with cold, his skin pulled tightly up against his bones, and his legs aching so much that he couldn’t bare to stand any longer.

The year he'd survived alone had been out of sheer luck. Such a thing never lasted forever.

So now, curled up in some tiny cardboard box that barely protected him from the terrible Russian winds with blue-tinged hands and feet, Fyodor began to cry.  

The tears were entirely silent as they made their way down his face.

Funny, his father had taught him how to do that.

As much as he had hated that man, Fyodor couldn’t help but miss him sometimes. While the man had been nothing short of hotheaded and abusive, he still had those moments when he’d act like a real father. Perhaps, given time those moments could’ve turned into an eternity.

Or maybe that wasn’t quite it.

Maybe his father had been kind, but Fyodor had just been too bad of a son to recognize it. Maybe he deserved all of those blows that his father had dealt to him before his curse. Maybe he deserved all of the yelling and anger. Maybe he deserved the cigarette burns that still remained etched into his skin. Maybe it all really had been his fault.

Yeah… that was exactly right. His father had loved him. He’d just been trying to mold him into a good child. All of the abuse had just been out of love.

And he’d returned his father's love by killing him.

Perhaps he really should die here and allow himself to drift away with the tempest that whistled through the bleak city streets.

Fyodor closed his eyes. His parent’s faces drifted through his mind’s eye. Smiles were painting their faces, looks that had been foreign to both of them in life.

However, just before Fyodor was able to drift away entirely, he felt a hand grab his shoulder, shaking him harshly.

“Hey, kid? You alright?”

Blinking his eyes open, Fyodor was shocked to see a boy who couldn’t be any older than sixteen hovering over him.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, the words that attempted to leave only seemed to scrape against his throat like knives against metal, making him wince.

“Aleksey!” The boy’s voice rang out, seeming to realize his inability to speak, as he summoned another boy to his side. They seemed similar in age. “Go back and tell the others. I’ll carry him. Get some blankets, food, and water ready.”

Aleksey nodded before turning and sprinting away from the scene.

Exhaustion weighed down on Fyodor’s young body, but something within him tensed up a bit at something the boy had said. Except as soon as the reason crossed his mind it disappeared. What had made him tense like that? What was he forgetting?

He never forgot things.

It was something that his father had hated because it meant that he’d been able to beat him at most things despite being so young. Chess, Russian Draughts, Durak. Eventually, he’d just started losing on purpose to try and make his father happy. However, despite the losses not ending in a beating, they still only ever ended with gloating and degradation.

With his father, there was no winning.

Perhaps his thoughts from earlier had been wrong...

None of that mattered now though, he supposed. His father was dead and he was here, cold surrounding him and strange boys trying to take him somewhere.

Wait…

They were trying to take him somewhere.

Panic surged through his small body, as images of death flitted through his mind.  

Pictures of his father’s body forever strewn across the floor and his mother slumped over with unseeing eyes.

That was what he had been forgetting.

They couldn’t touch him.

“No…” Fyodor finally managed to get out, doing his best to squirm away from the boy. However, his message was lost in translation as the boy seemed to think that Fyodor was scared of him rather than the truth of Fyodor being terrified of himself.

Crouching down, the boy held out his hands as if to show he wasn’t a threat.

“It’s alright,” the boy said, his voice soft, “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”

Fyodor tried to say something. Anything. He had to get away. He would kill this boy and then Aleksey would come back and then everyone would know what a monster he was. Everyone would know of his terrible curse. He didn’t want that. He couldn’t have that.

Why couldn’t he just be normal? Why couldn’t he just be like everyone else? He had never asked for this. He didn’t want to kill people. Who would? He wanted to be free from this hell.

Yet, there was nothing that he could do as the boy continued to approach, still keeping his non-threatening stance to assure Fyodor that he wasn’t a threat.

If only he knew…

“My name’s Mikhail,” the boy said, his voice light and airy, “what’s yours?”

Mikhail… that had been his father’s name.

Was this some kind of cruel joke?

Seeming to notice that he had said something wrong, Mikhail looked almost guilty.

“I mean you don’t have to tell me your name if you don’t want to, but let’s just get you somewhere warmer alright?”

Why was he being so nice?

Even before his curse, Fyodor never met a person so trusting and kind. Why wouldn’t he just go away? Just who exactly was he?

Again, Fyodor tried to prevent Mikhail’s approach, but it was fruitless, as Mikhail's hands reached for him and pulled him upon his back.

Fyodor froze. He waited for Mikhail to collapse. He waited for the death that was sure to come. He waited for the crushing weight of his curse to activate.

Shockingly, none of that happened.

Instead, Mikhail just secured Fyodor's position on his back before heading out and telling him all about the place he was taking him to, in order to fill the emptiness that surrounded them as he walked.

“...it’s this old factory we found, pretty cool right? Aleksey and Apollon insisted that we call it The Petrashevsky Circle because well it’s shaped like a circle and I guess I’m technically the one who found it. My last name’s Petrashevsky. I mean, I think it’s a little dumb because I don’t need it to be named after me, but it just kind of stuck, you know? Anyway, it's really nice. You’ll love it! It’s much nicer than these alleyways at least. I would know. I used to live on the streets too, you know? But now, well you’ll see…”

It had been so long since he’d had contact with another human being and the feeling finally allowed him to relax just a little bit.  

Perhaps things would finally be okay or at least a little bit better than they had been before.

He still didn’t think his curse had been lifted and was too scared to try and find out. For now, he'd just consider Mikhail the exception.

It was nice knowing that there was a person with whom he didn't have to be so afraid.

“My name’s Fyodor,” he finally managed to breathe out.

Mikhail stopped, and adrenaline rushed through Fyodor's veins, suddenly terrified that he’d said something wrong.

But Mikhail did not drop him. He did not leave him behind, instead, he just continued walking as though nothing had happened.

“Fyodor… I like it. That was my little brother’s name, he would’ve been your age if…” Mikhail trailed off, disappearing into his thoughts.

Was. If.

“I’m sorry,” Fyodor managed to say after a few attempts, but Mikhail just shook his head.

“Don’t apologize, it’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have even mentioned it. You must be tired though, so if you want to go to sleep that’s alright. We're almost there and when you wake up I’ll show you around, okay?”

For the first time in his life, Fyodor felt like things might actually end up being okay. So he finally allowed himself to close his eyes.

"Don't... don't let them touch me..." Fyodor mumbled before finally drifting off into unconsciousness, feeling safe for perhaps the very first time in his life.

Notes:

I hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter <3

Chapter 32: Something of a Brassy Glitter

Summary:

“The bottom of Tokyo Bay.”

For a long moment, a heavy silence rang throughout the air.

“The bottom of Tokyo Bay,” Chuuya repeated.

“The bottom of Tokyo Bay,” Dazai assured.

“Well, fuck.”

Notes:

TW: Insinuation of possible SA (although nothing actually occurs), Child Abuse

As Dazai told him of the capabilities that The Book held, Chuuya found himself stricken into a rare bout of silence.

The rumors had been true.

The Book really could rewrite reality. At least in a sense. Of course, there were still rules. Whatever someone wrote in it had to be consistent in terms of narrative. A whole side even had to be filled with writing in order to take effect.

If Dostoevsky got his hands on something so powerful, who knew what he would do? He said he wanted to eradicate the world of ability users, but what else? Was there anything he wasn’t saying? That he was leaving out?

Doing his best to process the rather overwhelming information that had just been dumped on him, Chuuya ran a stressed hand through his hair.

“Okay… okay. This is fine. This is so totally fine. Everything is just great,” Chuuya did his best to calm himself to no avail, “fuck, Dazai! Why the fuck would you leave a goddamn fucking map to a goddamn fucking murder book? We’re all gonna die. We’re all gonna fucking die! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”

“Calm down. I don’t know, okay? I wrote it back when I was still in the Port Mafia. I was young and dramatic. I mean, you know what I was like. I wanted to be all cool, dark, and mysterious, so I wrote general directions to The Book in The Complete Guide to Suicide, because I didn’t think anyone would ever think that the directions to The Book could be in it. I guess I thought it was funny that the directions were right under everyone's noses," at the feral look in Chuuya's eyes, Dazai caught himself, "but of course, I don't think it's funny anymore. Regardless of my old feelings towards what I did, I still took precautions. I mean I even coded the location using the Fibonacci Sequence. Who codes things using the Fibonacci Sequence? No one, that’s who. My design was flawless.”

“Except to Fyodor apparently," Chuuya pointed out, "he didn’t even have to read it first to figure out the directions were in there, and I’m not even gonna ask what a Fibonacci Sequence is,” Chuuya groaned in defeat. “Look, let’s just get to The Book before Fyodor does and then, well figure shit out from there. So where the fuck is it?”

Guilt slid into Dazai’s eyes at the question and he was quiet for a few moments before speaking.

“The bottom of Tokyo Bay.”

For a long moment, a heavy silence rang throughout the air.

“The bottom of Tokyo Bay,” Chuuya repeated.

“The bottom of Tokyo Bay,” Dazai assured.

“Well, fuck.”

“I mean it’s on the Port, so we’ll have the home turf. Both of us know our way around there and the place where I sunk it is by that old shipping container I used to live in so-”

“Dazai,” Chuuya cut in, “just shut up for a moment. I... I just need a second.”

“Yeah, yeah okay.”

Taking a deep breath, Chuuya attempted to recenter himself.

“So, The Book is at the bottom of Tokyo Bay on the Port.”

“Yeah, I tied it to a boulder and sank it. I couldn’t chance someone finding it or retrieving it, so the rope’s strong and there are some military-grade locks on it, but with your ability…” Dazai trailed off there, seeming to notice the sudden change in Chuuya’s demeanor.

Images of that accursed room in Meursault assaulted his vision. The place he had almost drowned. The place where Kouyou had died, whom at the time he had unfortunately thought to be Dostoevsky.

Then there was that time that he and Dazai had spent locked up and he'd been forced into that terrible feeling of simulated drowning when Camille had waterboarded him.

Could he throw himself back into the water after all of that?

Did he have a choice?

“You know, I could probably figure something else,” Dazai said, “you don’t have to-.”

Chuuya stopped him once more.

“No, we both know I have to do it,” he sighed warily, “it’s okay. Neither of us could’ve predicted something like this.”

Dazai looked like he wanted to argue against that, but there was no logical argument to be had, so he refrained from saying anything while regret shone bright in his eyes.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Dazai said.

“No,” Chuuya replied with a shake of his head, “it’s alright. Now let’s get going. We need to get there before Dostoevsky does.”

Dazai nodded in agreement. Then swallowing back his look of guilt, he grabbed one of Ango’s guns as the two left the apartment and headed out into the night.

---

19 Years Prior

Golden sunlight filtered in through a window high up above, coaxing Fyodor back to the world of waking.

Opening his eyes, he was at first surprised to see himself not met with the cold streets of St. Petersburg, but rather a small room with protective gray walls that glinted in the calm sunlight that filtered into the room.  

Warm blankets were tightly wrapped around his malnourished figure and the mattress beneath him felt like a blessing to his back.

Someone had saved him. Someone had cared.

It hadn't all been a dream.

Growing up, all his parents ever seemed to do was fight with each other, which had made constant bickering and screaming the norm.

Every fight ended the same. His mother fell to the fists of his father and then himself, sometimes the inverse.

While sometimes he'd gotten involved, he hadn't always. Sometimes he'd tried to hide to escape the inevitable and yet his father would still find him, beating him until he could cry no more.

He still didn't understand why.

Perhaps he had reminded his father of a younger version of himself, and the beating and yelling had been a twisted form of self-harm, stemming from a deep unresolved self-hatred towards himself. Perhaps his father had just been a cruel soul whose only reprieve was found through the narrow-mindedness that such violence created. With violence, one did not have to focus on anything except for the moment at hand.  

Regardless, his father was dead. He'd killed him. So he supposed he'd probably never know the truth. It was pointless to dwell on it.

Then, there was his mother. He had truly loved her, but there had been so many times when she had just stood off to the side and allowed his mistreatment at the hands of his father. Why hadn’t she taken him and run? Why hadn’t she thought that he was worthy of saving?

Then again, she was dead too. So, who cared? It didn't matter.  

At least that was what he tried to tell himself.

Living on the streets had been no better than with his parents. While he managed to mostly escape physical abuse, people looked at him with looks ranging anywhere from disgust to pity. Yet, no one had ever tried to take him in. No one had ever tried to truly help. They didn’t even try to help him get to an orphanage. They just let him, a mere child, slowly shrivel away on the cold Russian streets, simply because he hadn’t been worth their time.  

They had more important things to do after all.

How selfish the hearts of people could be.

And yet Mikhail had somehow defied Fyodor's once stagnant constructed view of humanity.

Mikhail, a boy no older than fifteen, had reached his heart out to a stranger who he’d seen was in trouble. A stranger who could’ve been anyone. Mikhail didn’t hesitate, he didn’t falter, he’d just done. Mikhail had saved him.

It was strange.

His whole life, Fyodor had grown up in the presence of all of the darkness that humanity had to offer. Having lived for so long in such a place had forced him to grow accustomed to it and learn to see within the tenebrosity of such cavernous bindings. So to now be thrust into a new world, shining full of ethereal golden light left him practically blinded.

Still, while such a sudden stroke of change in his perception of reality left Fyodor feeling frazzled, he found that as his eyes adjusted to the world, it really was so much more beautiful in the presence of the light.

The sound of a voice broke him out of his thoughts.

“Oh hey, you’re awake! How are you feeling?”

Pushing himself up slowly so that he sat upright, Fyodor’s eyes darted around the room, looking for who had spoken.

It was none other than the boy who had saved him.

Mikhail.

It was funny that he shared his father’s name. It was almost as though life was trying to apologize for his shit upbringing with the coming of this man. Like a second chance almost.

Because although his father and this boy shared the same name, they couldn’t be any more different.

“I…” Fyodor’s voice cracked from his lack of hydration, “I’m alright.”

It was an obvious lie and Mikhail was far from an idiot as his brow crinkled with worry. He quickly grabbed a bottle of water off a small desk before offering it to Fyodor, who tentatively grabbed it before drinking.

He never knew water could taste so good.

It had been so long since he'd last drunk properly filtered water. It was honestly amazing that he hadn’t dropped dead solely because of that yet.

Somehow, his body had miraculously stayed breathing and fighting.

Somehow he had stayed alive.

It took him less than ten seconds to finish drinking all of the water, which probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do given his current circumstances, but luckily the water stayed down and he saved himself from any possible embarrassment that could’ve presented itself.

“Thank you,” Fyodor said quietly, handing the bottle back to Mikhail who set it back where he’d grabbed it from.

“Of course,” Mikhail replied with a concerned look still gracing his features. He looked like he wanted to ask something, but couldn’t quite bring himself to do so.

However, it didn’t take long for his curiosity to win out, as Mikhail finally spoke.

“Before you passed out, you... well, you told me…” Mikhail paused, gritting his teeth as if he were thinking of something truly vile before continuing, “you told me ‘not to let them touch you.’ It's just that... I want to know, only if you’re comfortable that is... is there anyone who I need to take care of? Because I can... well you know... I just… you’re young. Like what, seven? I mean not that something like that is okay at any age. But that doesn't... look, if you need to talk or need me to do anything about whoever they are, I’d be more than glad to do so.”

Fyodor was confused. What was he talking about? Regardless, he at least understood that Mikhail had mistaken what he’d said as fear towards others and not toward himself. To allow him to continue believing that would be an indirect lie.  

Lying was bad. Lying led to pain. He didn't like lying, especially to someone like Mikhail. Someone who, for once, seemed to genuinely care.

He had to tell him about his curse.

Except, what if telling Mikhail made him become just like everyone else? What if at the moment of knowing his curse, he left too? For even though it didn’t seem to have any effect on Mikhail that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t be scared, if not for himself then for the others who were here.

Fyodor wanted everything to stop. He wanted time to freeze over for all of eternity so that he didn't have to face the terrible decision that was now being laid out before him.  

There were no good options here. Being honest with Mikhail could condemn him, but leaving him in the dark could lead to even more death plus he'd be lying. Father had taught him never to lie. If any 'lesson' had ever stuck with him, it was that one.

So neither choice was an ideal one, but if Mikhail truly was as good of a person as he seemed to be then he wouldn’t leave, right? He couldn’t.

Yet, what if Mikhail didn’t believe him? What if he told him and Mikhail thought that he was just spinning lies, even though the terrible bindings of his curse were the truth? What if it led to even more death? What if-

Fyodor forced his heart rate to slow down, taking several deep breaths. It was something he'd learned to do in the aftermath of his father’s rage. At that time it had been a means of survival. Perhaps it still was even now.

He couldn't panic. 

As he finally managed to reach some semblance of calm, Fyodor settled on an option. He knew what he had to do.

He had to tell Mikhail the truth.

As Fyodor finally began to speak, he found that even though he felt he was doing the right thing, he couldn’t bring himself to meet Mikhail’s eyes.

“I… I'm cursed,” he said and his body began to shake as soon as the terrible words left his mouth.

“Cursed?” Mikhail watched him with inquisitive sad eyes.  

“Everyone I touch… they die and I’m… I’m scared. I don’t want it and I… I don’t know what I did,” Fyodor’s breathing began to speed up, along with his speech. He closed his eyes in an attempt to hide from the world, as a few tears slipped down his cheeks. "For some reason, it doesn't work on you, so you... you don't have to worry about that but I still don't know why and I just- I'm sorry.   I'm sorry!   It’s scary and I just... I want to go  home!”

Home.  

Did such a place even exist for someone like him?

Fyodor didn’t dare open his eyes, terrified to be met with the rejection that had constantly plagued his life thus far. It wasn’t until he felt the angelic touch of gentle arms encompassing his trembling frame that he finally blinked them open in shock.

Mikhail was hugging him.

The last time he’d been hugged…

With that, Fyodor broke. His cries turned into sobs with sound for the first time since that day. Almost frantically, he held onto Mikhail like he was the only one rooting him to reality.

Even though they’d only just met, Fyodor felt like he might finally have someone who cared. A once in a lifetime bond found only by the sheer luck of the draw.

A brother.

They stayed like that for a while. Mikhail assured him incessantly that everything would be okay and that he was safe until they finally broke apart, as Fyodor’s eyes ran out of liquid and his body finally began to still in comparison to the trembling mess that he’d been only moments prior.

Upon pulling apart, Mikhail studied Fyodor, a kind look on his face with an undercurrent of a deep sadness running just below the surface

“What you have… it isn’t a curse. It’s called an ability. I would know because I have one too. It’s why you’re unable to kill me.” Mikhail explained, his eyes trailing off to the side and filling with memories of the past. “I still age, but I can't die” Mikhail’s finally eyes returned to Fyodor’s own, “so, just know you’re not alone okay? I understand how hard it can be, so I’ll make sure no one touches you or anything like that. I’ll make sure that you never have to deal with what you have again and if you ever want to talk about it… I’m here, alright? My little brother… was like us and I wasn’t as there for him as I should’ve been. I don’t want to make that mistake again, so you don’t have to be afraid around me. I promise.”

“Okay,” Fyodor said, a flicker of hope beginning to stir within him.

“Okay,” Mikhail replied, a small smile tugging on the corners of his cheeks.

Perhaps things would finally be alright. Truly this time.

Seasons passed and Fyodor continued to grow close to Mikhail. It was strange having someone healthy to look up to. In the past, he’d never had such an opportunity. So to now be met with it was foreign, but in a way that he craved because he was so tired of what he had grown to know as the norm. It was like he’d finally breached the surface of the deepest ocean to breathe in the sweetness of untainted air for the very first time in his life.

He didn’t want things to change.

He finally had a brother and perhaps even a family in the others who also lived within The Petrashevsky Circle.

For so long it’d felt like a part of him had been missing. He’d felt like he could never be enough. Now, however, he felt like he was able to live almost normally.

Sure, they were all poor to the point that they survived off of hunted meat and whatever else they could find within the Russian wilderness since most were too young to work any substantial jobs if they could even find one with their ‘uneducated’ status. Yet, the fact that they were poor did not necessarily mean that the people within The Petrashevsky Circle were unhappy. Of course, sometimes it sucked not to be able to live as easily as those within the upper lower, middle and upper classes, but they still all had each other. To them, that was enough.

After his first couple of weeks in the factory, Fyodor, despite loving The Petrashevsky Circle, had found himself quickly growing bored with the lack of entertainment in the new life that he had found himself in. Now that he’d acquired safety, he wanted to truly live and experience things.

With his ability, going out in public was out of the question. If someone so much as bumped into him… well he didn’t want to think about it.

But what else was left? He still didn’t really know his way around the factory and while he enjoyed interacting with all of those who lived in The Petrashevsky Circle, he still had to keep himself slightly distanced so he didn’t accidently slip up and allow any sort of contact.

He didn’t want to lose this. He couldn’t lose this.

If he did, he was sure it would break him.

Eventually, Mikhail seemed to notice his predicament, and so he’d managed to bring back a Rubik’s Cube from town, by a means that he kept brushing off to the side.

Fyodor knew he'd stolen it.

Having grown up in an unstable household and being a victim of it all, Fyodor found himself highly adverse to anything that may be considered unjust or cruel.

But this was Mikhail…

The person who had saved him. His brother.

So, he supposed that it was okay. Mikhail probably found some kind of ethical way to do it anyway with how kind his heart was.

Upon receiving the Cube, it took about a minute for him to figure it out. It was fun getting to finally use his brain like this. He liked puzzles. He liked getting to show off to his brother.

Mikhail had fallen quiet upon realizing just how quickly he’d figured out how to solve the Rubik's Cube, even going so far as to ask him if he was sure that he’d never messed around with one in the past.

He hadn’t.

Perplexed, but proud, Mikhail had scrambled up the Cube over and over with Fyodor shaving off several seconds each time until he finally found himself at three seconds.

Three seconds.

Right after he’d done that, Fyodor remembered Mikhail had put his hands on his shoulders calling him a genius before pulling him into a tight embrace.

That time was a memory that Fyodor would hold onto forever.

After that day, Fyodor had found himself searching for any and every puzzle that he could get his hands on. He'd do anything to make Mikhail proud. Anything to get any semblance of recognition.

Such a feeling was addicting after having been denied it his whole life.

It wasn't long before he'd moved on from puzzles to building things.  

With nothing but the scraps that he’d found lying around the factory and an old book on engineering that he’d found from a small library that lay on the far side of the factory, he’d managed to get the factory’s lighting system back on again so that it was now illuminated in iridescent light.

His hands which had once been made to kill were now bringing about light.

It was more than he could've ever asked for.

From there he’d only continued to build upon his achievements.

He’d reactivated and refurbished the factory’s old kitchen space giving those within The Petrashevsky Circle their very own freezer, refrigerator, microwave, and oven. Then, shortly after that, he’d built an area for gardening to help lower the issue of food scarcity during the long Russian winters. He’d even refurbished an old 1984 Abat-7 without having so much as an inch of knowledge on computers previously. His mind just sort of guided him while his hands did the rest. The computer even had 96 KB of memory which left endless opportunities for what could be done with it with so much space. It even made a funny noise every time it was turned on.

Life couldn’t be better.  

A few more months passed and Fyodor’s eighth birthday arrived. He truly was the happiest that he’d ever been in his entire life.

The day passed uneventfully for the most part, but Fyodor didn’t mind. Everyone within The Petrashevsky Circle greeted him like family and wished him a happy birthday. A few even gave him some small thoughtful gifts.

It was nice.

The only thing that was bothering him was that Mikhail was nowhere to be found. He’d checked his room earlier in the morning, having wanted to hang out like they usually did, but he was gone. His bed sheets were unnervingly ruffled from signs of a quick departure.

It worried him.

Mikhail always made his bed. So that meant that something had to be wrong.

Then again, perhaps he was making too big of a deal out of this. Maybe Mikhail had just forgotten to make his bed and he was just somewhere in the facility that Fyodor wasn't thinking of looking,

Except when were his gut feelings ever wrong?

Ultimately, he'd decided to head back to his room and play with the Rubik's Cube that Mikhail had bought him so long ago. Yet, as the day came to a close, Fyodor found that he couldn’t take it any longer, as his fears only continued to rise.

Mikhail had to be in trouble. He wouldn’t be gone this long if he wasn’t.

He wouldn’t have left Fyodor alone on his birthday.

So taking a deep breath, Fyodor resolved himself to do something he hadn’t even so much as considered since joining The Petrashevsky Circle.

He was going to go outside. He was going to find Mikhail.

Opening his door, Fyodor made to rush out.

He didn't get very far.

Upon rushing out of his room he immediately collided with someone much taller and older than himself. Slamming into each other, they both crashed to the ground along with something else that instantly crumbled upon impact. It was viscous, smooth, and… sweet?

“Shitttt,” he heard someone groan next to him.

Mikhail.

Relief surged through Fyodor, as he lifted himself off the floor.

Mikhail was okay. He was alright.

Shortly after his welcomed revelation, however, a peculiar smell hit his nose and he looked down to realize just exactly what had fallen with them.A pie. Smelling distinctly of apples and cinnamon. Sharlotka.

Mikhail had gotten him a pie for his birthday.

No one had ever done that. Not even his own parents.

When he’d been making predictions about where Mikhail was he hadn’t considered that he was doing something so considerate for him. He hadn’t considered that Mikhail would care so much about something as minuscule as his birthday.

“You… you got me a pie,” Fyodor said, his words slow and eyes wide.

“Yeah, well I tried at least,” Mikhail replied with a self-deprecating laugh.

That’s right. Mikhail had gone through all this trouble to do this for him and he’d repaid him by barrelling into him like some delinquent and sending his thoughtful gift crashing to the floor in a million irreparable pieces.

Guilt settled in Fyodor’s stomach and his eyes drifted off to the side as if too heavy to maintain eye contact.

“I’m sorry, I should've watched where I was going. No one’s ever gotten me a pie before. It was really nice of you. I promise that I didn’t mean to-.”

Seeming to realize where Fyodor’s thought process was going, Mikhail cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“No one’s ever-?” Mikhail stopped himself, before continuing, “Don’t apologize. What happened was my fault,  I  should’ve watched where  I  was going.”

The argument was a feeble one since Fyodor had been the one to run into Mikhail, but he didn’t feel like arguing so he just remained silent.

“Hey,” Mikhail said, noticing his disbelieving demeanor. “It’s not your fault alright? Plus, there’s a tradition that we can still take part in with what we've got here… or well I guess it’s mostly with cake but that’s beside the point. It’s pretty fun… let me show you.”

At first Fyodor's brow just crinkled in confusion, because what tradition was Mikhail talking about that involved a beyond-decimated pie? However, as soon as Mikhail reached out, grabbing a fistful of pie in his hand, he was able to quickly piece things together. His eyes went wide and he ducked as bits of pie went sailing over his head, a few pieces entangling themselves in his hair.

For a moment all was silent until suddenly Fyodor was curled over laughing so hard his chest hurt and his lungs burned.

“You… did you… you threw a piece of pie at me!” The corners of his eyes crinkled and for once he actually looked his age, as his head fell back with the force of his laughter.

Picking up another piece of pie, Mikhail chucked it at him hitting him squarely in the face.

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

His laughter finally managed to settle down to a few strays burst, as Fyodor grabbed his own piece of pie, chucking it right back at his assailant.

“Hey!” Mikhail protested, rubbing pie off of his face, “that’s not part of the tradition!” However, he was laughing too now as he grabbed another handful of pie, taking cover behind Fyodor’s bed.

They spent the whole night like that, laughing and chucking bits of pie back and forth at each other until they had finally exhausted themselves and fell asleep amid their pie-ridden battleground.

Much later, Fyodor would wish that he could return to that moment.

There was so much that he had taken for granted.

Notes:

I hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter <3

Chapter 33: And The Sun Sets...

Summary:

“Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault,” Chuuya assured, giving Dazai’s shoulder a calming squeeze.

Seemingly surprised by the gesture, Dazai eyed him for a moment in surprise as if to say ‘but how do you know that?’

“You were a child," Chuuya continued in an attempt to reassure him, "now, let’s pick up our pace, I want to get to the Port before Dostoevsky does.”

“Yeah, yeah okay,” Dazai said, his voice sounding a bit lighter now.

“Okay,” Chuuya replied and with that, the two continued on toward the Port, as the stars shone down from above lighting their way.

Notes:

TW: Depictions of burn victims

Sorry I haven't updated in a while. My life got super busy for a second there, but now I'm back with the longest chapter yet so I hope ya'll enjoy. <3

Things felt strangely peaceful as they walked under the cover of the stars. Meanwhile, Chuuya did his best not to think about the fate that awaited him in the Port’s murky depths.

He would just have to trust in Dazai like he always did. He wasn’t going to drown this time. He wasn’t and he just simply had to believe that.

The city streets were quiet, as most people had long since passed out in their beds. Next to him, Dazai’s footsteps were practically soundless against the roughness of the ground below from a lifetime of hiding both metaphorically and literally.

“How'd you even find The Book in the first place?” Chuuya asked, breaking the silence. It had been a question on his mind for a while now, but he’d just never really found a moment to ask. However now with such a long walk ahead of them, it seemed like as good a time as any.

Dazai’s eyes shifted off into the distance and the slight tension filling his frame betrayed his feeling of discomfort. All of these movements were small, minuscule even, and only someone who was truly paying attention would ever even get close to noticing. However, Chuuya had known Dazai for years. He knew who he was and was nearly able to see right through his every move. So he saw the show of emotion as clear as daylight because he was the one person who Dazai could never truly hide from no matter how hard he tried. Such a thing was simply impossible.

Upon noticing that it didn’t seem like Dazai was going to answer him, Chuuya tried again.

“You can tell me, y’know? In a couple of hours, it's not like it'll matter anyways.”

“It’s not that,” Dazai finally said, his tone tighter than usual. “I’m just not very proud of the way that I got it.”

Under other contexts, Dazai probably wouldn’t have been that honest. To anyone else he probably would’ve just made some stupid conveniently placed joke to divert his accomplice's attention away from the question asked. However, just like Chuuya knew he understood Dazai, Dazai understood him just as well if not even more so. Hence, Dazai knew that with Chuuya something like that would simply never work. He was much too persistent.

“We’ve all done things we’re not proud of. You can tell me. I just… if I’m going to be doing what I have to do to get The Book, I at least want to know where it came from.”

Dazai seemed to be lost in his mind for a long moment, as an internal debate seemed to wage war within him before he finally broke his silence.

“The old boss, before Mori, you remember hearing of him right?”

“Well yeah, I guess I know a bit,” Chuuya replied, not entirely sure where Dazai was going with that scrap of information. He remembered Mori’s confession of having killed the old boss and knew something of Dazai's association with what had happened. Everything else he’d heard of the man had all been echoed histories of the past. In short, from what Chuuya understood, he’d been a bloodthirsty man, whose bloodlust had led to his eventual downfall as he fell into the pits of insanity.

“He was my grandfather,” Dazai said, his voice was so quiet that Chuuya almost had to strain his ears to hear what he said.

“What?”   Was all Chuuya could manage to say at first, as the shocking nature of the confession hit him. Any semblance of serenity that the night had once seemed to carry faded into the background now replaced by the horrific implications of what Dazai had just said. “Dazai I-.”

Dazai didn’t let him finish. Instead, he just raised a placating hand and continued.

“It’s fine or it is what it is at least, but either way it doesn’t matter. The old boss, my…  grandfather,”  he spat the word out as though it left a foul taste on his tongue, “was obsessed with The Book and the power that came with it, so after receiving a tip from St. Petersburg, Russia, he took me with him to retrieve it. It was where I met Fyo- Dostoevsky for the first time actually…” his voice trailed off again and he almost looked guilty for a moment, before continuing. “But that doesn’t matter. We had to do some considerably unethical things but eventually, we did get The Book and its finding was a secret shared only between me and my grandfather. After that, it wasn't long until he was killed by Mori. I’m still not entirely sure that I can say why he never ended up putting The Book to use. He always said that it just wasn’t the right time, but I think he was probably just scared of making some kind of mistake. He was a pretty paranoid guy while he was still alive. Anyways, after he died, I’ve just kept it hidden at the Port. I didn’t want to risk someone taking it and I’ve had no reason to tamper with reality myself. Well… I suppose there was this one time where I considered, but that well- that doesn’t matter. None of this does. Let’s just… let’s just get this over with, alright?” Dazai’s eyes were flitting around the darkened alleyways surrounding them as if someone could jump out at any moment and erase them from reality and seeing Dazai so uneasy left a curling feeling in Chuuya’s gut.

“Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault,” Chuuya assured, giving Dazai’s shoulder a calming squeeze.

Seemingly surprised by the gesture, Dazai eyed him for a moment in surprise as if to say  ‘but how do you know that?’

“You were a child," Chuuya continued in an attempt to reassure him, "now, let’s pick up our pace, I want to get to the Port before Dostoevsky does.”

“Yeah, yeah okay,” Dazai said, his voice sounding a bit lighter now.

“Okay,” Chuuya replied and with that, the two continued on toward the Port, as the stars shone down from above lighting their way.

---

13 Years Prior

Mikhail had been acting strange lately.

Usually, he was ever so jovial. He’d always brighten every room he entered with his kind presence. However, as of late he’d begun to seclude himself more and more, only ever seeming to leave his room for necessities.  

Every time he did though, his eyes seemed to trace every cracked wall and broken floorboard as if there were hidden eyes inside watching his every move.

Fyodor wasn’t an idiot. If he wanted to, he knew he could probably deduce the reason behind all of this. Except Mikhail was his family. He was his brother. Someone he trusted. Invading his privacy like that seemed like a terrible thing to do and Fyodor knew that he would hate for Mikhail to do the same to him were their roles reversed.

Still, that did not mean that he didn’t want to know the reasoning behind Mikhail’s new behavior.

The thing was that he wanted Mikhail to tell him.

So, Fyodor would make a point to go visit him daily, bringing him his favorite kind of tea and snacks. Every time he knocked upon that door, he would always hear the strangest noise of scurrying and slamming, as if Mikhail was covering up the traces of something he didn’t want Fyodor to see.

And Fyodor did his best to look past it.

Because Mikhail was his brother. Because he cared. Because he didn’t know what he’d do if he went through losing his family all over again. Because what if he confronted Mikhail and he got defensive and pushed him away entirely?

He couldn’t lose anyone else.

If he did… he didn’t know what would become of him.

It was a cold day in December when the façade finally shattered to pieces. It had only been a matter of time.

Fyodor approached Mikhail’s door for the umpteenth time with a steaming mug of green tea in one hand and some chips in the other.

Situating the chips under his arm for a moment so that he could knock on the door, Fyodor waited.

Again, he heard the sound of scurrying.

Again, he heard the sound of slamming.

And then the door opened to reveal Mikhail’s face. Deep bags were etched under his eyes, tinged purple from what had to have been many sleepless nights.

“Hey,” Mikhail greeted him, a warm smile blossoming its way across his face. His body language changed too, to something much more welcoming upon realizing it was only Fyodor. The only thing that gave away that something was truly wrong was Mikhail's attentive gaze, which carefully surveyed the hallways beyond as if he were just waiting for someone to pounce.

“Hey,” Fyodor replied, reaching his hand out to offer the mug of tea to Mikhail who quickly and gratefully accepted it. “I was wondering if you wanted to hang out for a bit. I don’t know, just talk maybe?”

“Yeah always, of course,” Mikhail said, a kind reverberation echoing throughout his voice. "C’mon, come in.”

Mikhail settled a hand on Fyodor’s shoulder, pulling him inside before quickly shutting the door behind them.

As the door slammed shut, Fyodor was finally able to take in the state of the room.

It looked as clean as ever, just like it always did whenever he visited. Whatever Mikhail was doing when he wasn’t there, was always hidden away by the time he opened the door, which is why it took Fyodor a moment to notice something new and out of the ordinary was lying on the floor.

An enticing white book with a tantalizing golden design outlining the cover.

The moment he laid eyes on it he felt Mikhail stiffen next to him. It was almost as if he was realizing that he’d made some kind of grave mistake. Yet, Fyodor paid his brother no mind, because perhaps people might call him crazy for it, but it was almost as though the book was calling out to him. It was odd, but he felt like he could practically hear the pages whispering his name.

It wasn’t in a metaphorical sense or an entirely literal one either. The place in which the phenomenon lay was somewhere in between. Indescribable. Intoxicating.

Before he knew it, the bag of chips had fallen from his hand and he was lifting up the book in his hands, examining the beautiful piece of history that was now before him. Somehow he knew it was something ever so delicate and yet powerful beyond even his own imagination.

He was just about to open it when Mikhail finally seemed to break free of whatever startled trance had previously held him. He ran over to Fyodor, tearing the book from his hands and tossing it aside with a look of fear radiating off of his face.

Fyodor stilled.

Never in his life had Mikhail so much as pinched him. So to now have him tearing something away from him so violently was startling. Had he done something wrong that he just didn’t realize? He was about to beg for forgiveness when he finally made eye contact with Mikhail who was looking at him with so much love and fear that the words themselves died in his throat.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You can’t… I’m sorry, I thought I’d put it away. I thought-.” Whatever words Mikhail was about to say died on his tongue, as instead he just pulled Fyodor into a tight embrace. It was one of those hugs where you’re holding onto someone for dear life as if you’re trying to pull them into you. The kind where you can feel each other’s bones in a way that is somehow not uncomfortable but rather comforting. The kind one might wish for on a desolate day filled with sorrow. The kind a person never forgets.

And yet, Fyodor didn’t understand what was happening. He didn't understand why Mikhail was acting like this.

Was this all about that book?

Again, he felt a deep urge to just logic his way into figuring out what was going on and get it all over with. Yet, at the end that deep respect that he held for his brother won out.  

Mikhail would tell him. He just had to trust him.

Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to meet him halfway.

So, as the embrace finally ended and Fyodor found himself now stuck in an unnerving silence where Mikhail refused to even meet his eyes, Fyodor resolved to ask him what was going on. A primal part of him was scared that if he did and crossed some sort of unknown boundary Mikhail would cast him out of his life and he would lose the only semblance of a family that he had left. However, the logical side of him told him that such a thought was beyond foolish.

Mikhail would never do that to him.

They were family. Family in that they had chosen to be. No one had forced it. So they wouldn’t leave each other, lest death pulled them apart.

So Fyodor took a chance.

“Mikhail, what’s so important about that book?”

Mikhail was silent for a long time, something raw seeming to flash through his eyes, as though he were suddenly finding himself thinking of something truly devastating.

So when he finally spoke, Fyodor prepared himself for the worst.

“Remember when I told you I had a little brother? It must’ve been years ago now. I know I don’t really talk about him all that much, but as you know you both share a name. Mostly though, he went by Fedya.” The way Mikhail spoke made him sound detached. Like he was trying to separate himself from the story he was about to tell and a part of Fyodor almost wanted to reassure him that it was alright if he couldn’t tell him what was happening. Yet, he needed to know, and so he let Mikhail continue his tragic tale, as his eye bore empathetically into Mikhail’s own.

“When I was ten and Fedya-” Mikhail’s voice quivered and he had to take a moment before continuing, “when Fedya was five, our father got involved with a small group of revolutionists. He’d been a former KGB agent and from what I could gather had been forced to do many things he wasn’t proud of. I guess it made him lose faith in the government because he saw it as a dictatorship rather than the communism it should have been, which I have to say that I… I think I agree. So, he and his group of revolutionaries decided that they would try their hand at taking down the Soviets. I don’t know why they thought they’d be able to do it. I mean my father was always what you might call an eccentric man... but the other ones... I truly don't know. Maybe they were just desperate? Desperate for change? I suppose it doesn't really matter in the end though, they're all dead regardless. Anyways, on December 26 of 1987, hilariously enough exactly four years before the fall of the Soviet Union, my father came home with a book.   That book.”

Fyodor’s eyes were again drawn to the pristine white book that spoke of both inexplainable and unbridled power. The kind that a person could kill for. The kind that could truly corrupt.

“He… he said that he’d found a solution to all the world’s problems and being so young and naïve I believed him. I didn’t ask why or what he meant by that. Instead, I just trusted that my father was right and that that book would save us because I was ten. I was… I was fucking  ten.”   Mikhail’s voice cracked and he choked back a sob.  

Fyodor placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder giving it a light squeeze. His heart felt like it was being twisted in knots. He didn't like seeing Mikhail like this. It seemed unnatural. Undue.

Mikhail glanced at the hand now resting on his shoulder with glassy eyes and a tight-lipped smile that briefly transpired over his face before going back to that haunted demeanor that seemed wrong on someone as good as him.

Mikhail didn’t deserve whatever had happened to him. Of that Fyodor was sure.

Why couldn’t they just be happy? Why was the world like this?

“Anyways,” Mikhail continued on, before clearing his throat, “I never did get to see what the book did because that same night just as we were finishing up dinner there was a knock at the door. My father got up to answer it and…” a tear slipped down his cheek, one that Mikhail was quick to wipe away, “there was a loud noise. It... well it just seemed to tear through the air and everything just happened so fast and- well one moment my father was standing there and the next he was staggering backward and collapsing to the ground, as blood poured from the gunshot that had embedded itself into his fucking head. My mother… she screamed. She was always so composed, not really one to show much emotion. That day though, she screamed like I’d never heard someone scream before and I was terrified because my father was dead and I just… I didn’t know what to do. Next to me, my brother was still and silent. I… I think he was in shock and I just-” Mikhail had to stop again to compose himself, his body trembling with shaky breaths.

It took about a minute for Mikhail’s breathing to steady once more, despite his mind seeming like it was still trapped in a place from so long ago. It was painful to look at, like that claustrophobic feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when someone you care about tells you something tragic that happened to them and you know you’re entirely powerless to do anything about it.

“The next thing I knew the house was on fire and the entrances were blocked. I don't know when that started, but it didn't matter. I watched the flames consume my father's corpse and terrified I tried to escape. I ran to the back of the house, desperately ramming my body into the backdoor over and over and over again, but nothing worked. I was trapped. Looking back, I suppose I could’ve tried a window, but I was so young and panicked and consumed with fear that I didn’t even think about it. Eventually, I found myself trapped in the kitchen with Fedya. In all of the chaos, my mother was no longer with us, so I don’t know the details of her death, but I can only hope that it was quick, because Fedya’s… i-it wasn’t. It really wasn't and it still haunts me to this day. I see his face in my nightmares, screaming and begging me to just- and I just... I- it was terrible. It was truly terrible.”

Mikhail took a deep breath, as though trying to center himself, while silent tears made their way down his cheeks that he was now no longer bothering to wipe away.

“In the kitchen, we found ourselves backed up against the cupboard and I shoved Fedya behind me to try and protect him even though it was obviously fruitless, but it was just that he wasn’t supposed to die! He was five! He was  fucking five.   If anyone should’ve died it should’ve been me… it should’ve been fucking  me.”

“Mikhail-” Fyodor tried, worry alight in his eyes, but Mikhail silenced him with a shake of his head.

“I watched him burn while I burned too. He screamed and screamed, but there was nothing I could do with all of the goddamn agony that I was in too. Y’know it’s funny because at the time I thought that the screaming was the painful part, but that’s not true. The truth is that the silence that followed was the worst shit I’ve ever known and ever will because when his screams died, I knew that he did too and I was alone. Truly alone and just fucking powerless. After that, I thought I would die too because I had been burning for so long and had given up. No one should be able to live through what happened to me and yet after finally falling into the sweetness of unconsciousness, I awoke to blackened rubble that had once been my home with charred corpses surrounding me. Everything was gone, except this book,” Mikhail lifted it up and his eyes seemed to bear into the cover like it held all the secrets in the world, “this book was left untouched as if there’d never even been a fire in the first place.”

“Mikhail, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s alright,” Mikhail assured him, “it happened a long time ago and you had no part in it. There is nothing to be sorry about. Stuff like this just happens sometimes and that’s okay… or well it’s not, but you get my point. We all find other important things. We all find other reasons to live. We have to.”

As the falling of his tears finally began to subside, Mikhail continued on, “I still didn’t understand how I was alive and seemingly without any burn marks too despite knowing that I had been alight, but I didn’t have time to question any of that at the time and would figure it all out much later, because the Soviets were there and I knew I had to run. Someone had told them about my father’s band of revolutionaries and they needed to extinguish any hope that might arise from it, which meant making an example of us, even though my brother and I weren’t even old enough to understand politics in their entirety yet. We were children! So, I took the book and ran. It was the only piece of my family that I had left and my father had placed so much faith in it that in taking it, it almost felt like I had a piece of him with me. Eventually, I discovered a small slip of paper in the back, but the message was encoded so it wasn’t until very recently that I figured out what it meant and Fyodor, with this book we could change the world. The potential it has is beyond what anyone could possibly imagine. So with it, I want to create a utopia, where I can be with my brother again. A utopia where my parents are still alive and you’re there too. A utopia where there aren't any fucked up dictatorships or capitalist bullshit to worry about. It’ll be a world without abilities that control a piece of who we are. It’ll be a world where people can truly be free.”

“I think I’d like that,” Fyodor said, his voice soft and quiet.

“Yeah, Mikhail said, “me too.”

“But I still don’t understand. You haven’t been sleeping for months and you eye the corridors like someone is going to burst out of them and kill you despite your ability. You’re scaring me and I’m getting worried about you. Is this related to the book? To any of it? I want to help you Mikhail and I need you to talk to me because I want to understand. I want to truly understand.”

Mikhail sighed heavily, as though a thousand weights were pressing against him.

“I think someone is trying to get the book. It’s just that I keep thinking I see people, who I know are definitely not from the Circle, roaming the hallways. I only ever get glimpses, but I know they’re real. Fyodor, I swear to you I know they’re real. I’m not… I’m not crazy, okay? They’re here and it’s for this fucking book and I can’t let them have it. I won’t let them have it. Promise me you won’t either. Promise me!” Mikhail’s voice had taken on a sharper edge now, making Fyodor subconsciously pull back before nodding.

“Okay. I… I promise, but Mikhail you’re scaring me. If you’re right about this, do you have any idea who it is? Who would want the book? I mean how would they even know you had it in the first place?”

“I don’t fucking- I… I don’t know. I don’t  know  and that scares the shit out of me because it means it could be anyone. Maybe someone here saw I had it and recognized it somehow. Maybe they sold me out for money, I don’t fucking know, but I swear that everything will be okay all right? I… I won’t let them have it and you won’t either. We’re going to build a perfect world from this thing. A beautiful place where no one ever goes hungry. A place where there aren’t any orphans. A place where people aren’t assholes to one another. A place where classes don’t exist and don’t need to. It’ll be great, alright? And in that world, we are going to be together. You’ll get to meet my younger brother and my parents and we’ll all be one big family. In that place, we’ll be happy. Truly happy.” Mikhail placed his hands upon Fyodor’s shoulders, his glassy eyes bearing into Fyodor’s own.

“Okay,” Fyodor said, his voice soft but tension still filling his body at the emotional turn that the night had taken.

“I just…” Mikhail continued, “I just have to figure out all of the ramifications and implications of this new world. I need to get it perfectly right the first time, because if I don't, who knows, maybe I won’t get another chance. So it has to be perfect. Wait... actually, why don’t you help me? You’re smart, I mean way smarter than me at least. God was I stupid to hide this from you, but I guess you know now. So yeah, we'll work on this together. We’ll-”

There are moments in life when everything slows down. In reality, the events that take place happen in a matter of seconds, perhaps even milliseconds, but to the person in question, the events seem to take place in a time that feels like it spans an eternity. Except this subjective time is cruel, because despite feeling like time has stretched itself out, one’s mind and body can only act with the physics of the real-time provided. So a person is often forced to just watch events play out while helpless all the while. A tragic fate. A cruel one.

So whatever Mikhail was about to say, he never finished as the sound of a grenade tore through the hallway, sending the door of Mikhail’s room tearing off its hinges and slamming into the far wall. Fyodor’s eyes shot open wide in shock and he barely processed what was happening, as Mikhail crashed into him shielding him from the blast with his own body like some demented version of a human shield.

The two were flung into the far wall and Fyodor felt his head slam back against it with a sickening crack, as scarlet began to mat the hair on the back of his head.

At first, nothing seemed to make sense. His vision was blurry and fragmented by black spots, as his eyes desperately searched the surrounding area, in a frantic attempt to make sense of it. There was a fire in the hallway that he could now see as a result of the newly missing door.

The screams of his companions echoed throughout the hallways.

His curse had finally caught up with him.

Smoke was beginning to fill the area as Mikhail rose to his feet, a cut dripping blood from just above his eyebrow. It looked like it hurt, but Fyodor did his best to reassure himself that Mikhail would be alright because of his ability that staved off death. Mikhail was one person in his life who was truly untouchable. Mikhail would not leave him.

“They're here,” Mikhail said, eyes blown wide with fear and his voice holding a terrified sort of echo to it. “Fyodor, come on, we need to go.   Now!”

Fyodor tried to stand. However, as soon as he put weight on his left leg a surge of pain ran through his body and he fell to the floor once more.

“Mikhail,” he said, the edge of his voice taking on a slightly panicked tone, “I- I can’t… I can’t stand up. My leg… I-.”

“It’s okay.  It's okay,” Mikhail assured him, although the dread in his eyes said something completely different. Still, he carefully wrapped an arm around Fyodor, helping him to his feet, before grabbing the book with his free hand.

“Let’s go.”

In another world where he didn’t exist, Fyodor was sure that Mikhail would’ve tried to help the rest of their companions in the facility and perhaps would've even been successful at doing it. However, with his injury, Mikhail wasn’t taking any chances, so as they finally managed to sneak through the facility and get out of a back door that slammed with a thudding noise that hinted at finality, Fyodor knew that Mikhail’s choice would most certainly lead to the deaths of the others as a result of saving his own. They had all been way too caught off guard to deal with an attack like that. Besides, they were all still quite young and while perhaps some of them could hold their own in a street fight, this was something entirely different. He and Mikhail had only managed to evade their attackers out of sheer luck.

But luck is never something that lasts forever.

They’d only taken a few steps away from the facility and into the freshly fallen December snow when Fyodor realized that this was the first time in six years that he’d ever left the comforts of the indoors. It was strange to again feel the sharp winds beating against his skin and the stabbing feeling of snow pelting down against his body, while his and Mikhail’s blood dripped down into the otherwise pure white snow, tainting it scarlet.

It was odd how quickly life could change. How one moment you could feel so secure and the next you could feel like you had to fight for your life.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to go back to how things had been not even an hour ago, but that reality was gone and it would never be coming back.

As they began to stumble through the woods, the shouts of pursuers behind them spurring them on faster, Fyodor thought about the book and how much he longed for the world Mikhail had told him about.

A world where everyone could be free. A harmonious place.

The antithesis of the world in which he lived. A place that was highlighted especially by the situation that they were currently in. If they just kept running then maybe they would get to that world and this would never happen. They could rewrite their own history and that of the world itself.

The shouting was getting closer and he could feel Mikhail trying to get him to move faster. Except he couldn’t. Everything hurt and he could barely breathe. Finally, the feeling culminated when his injured leg banged against a fallen tree trunk and Fyodor fell to the ground with a yelp, slipping out of Mikhail’s arms.

A part of him wondered if Mikhail would leave him like so many others had, but instead, he just came rushing back.

“Come on! Get up! Please,  Fedya!   I won’t let you die. I won't! So, please just get up! We need to go now!”

Fedya?

Oh.

Allowing Mikhail to once again pull him to his feet, the two continued to stumble through the woods until Fyodor felt Mikhail suddenly grind to a halt, leaving the two standing in the middle of nowhere while their pursuers were sure to only be getting closer.

It took Fyodor a moment to figure out why Mikhail had stopped, but when he did, his mouth almost dropped open in shock.

There in front of them was a small boy. He couldn’t be any older than perhaps nine or ten. Except something was off about the kid. Bandages were wrapped all over his body, covering his right eye, arms, and neck. There was this dead look in his remaining eye too like someone had taken away the sun from his universe and snuffed it out for all of eternity. However, if one were to look close enough they'd notice the small exception of a small burst of minuscule iridescent light buried deep within the innermost center of his eye as though he were trying to hide it away from all of humanity. Perhaps seeing that small sign of hope might have reassured Fyodor, but the gun in the kid’s hands pointed directly at him quickly snuffed it out.

“Don’t move,” the kid demanded in a voice that sounded much too old for someone so young. It was clear he was a foreigner from the way his accent had the slightest lilt to it that could only be recognized by someone as attuned to details as Fyodor.

“Hey, we’re cool,” Fyodor heard Mikhail try to reason next to him, “you’re just a kid. You don’t want to do this. This is my brother, alright? His name's Fyodor and I’m Mikhail. We’re not a threat and we don’t want to hurt you. So just put the gun down, okay? Please?” Mikhail had pushed Fyodor behind him and was beginning to take tentative steps in the kid’s direction.

“You’re lying,” was all the kid said before putting into action the sequence of events that would haunt Fyodor for the rest of his life.

Pulling the trigger, the kid’s bullet slammed into Mikhail’s shoulder, sending him sprawling to the ground with a cry of pain. With a guttural scream, Fyodor ran towards his brother, the presence of the kid leaving his mind amid his panic.

His brother was hurt and that was all that mattered.

Upon reaching his brother, Fyodor’s hands pushed down against the wound in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding despite logically knowing that the bullet wouldn’t kill him. It was just that seeing his brother so vulnerable like this made it feel like he had been shot too. Mikhail was supposed to be okay. Mikhail was supposed to be the strong one. Mikhail was supposed to be his jovial, extroverted, and happy older brother. Not this man crying out in pain on the ground with a bullet lodged in his shoulder.

Fyodor hated this. He just wanted his old life from earlier that day to come back. Why was the world so fucked up? Why was it so unforgiving?

“Get up,” Fyodor pleaded, “please Mikhail, just get up! We have to go, please  I’m scared!”

Mikhail was watching him with wide fearful eyes, but couldn’t seem to move from his place on the ground and it wasn’t like Fyodor could help him up with both of their injuries. They were stuck and Mikhail was about to be forced to watch him die.

“Run!   Fedya run!”   Mikhail pleaded, but Fyodor just shook his head as tears began to stain his cheeks.

“N-n-no. No, Mikhail! I’m not leaving you!”

“Fedya please I-.”

Mikhail's voice cut out and his body lay still.

Lifeless. Emotionless. Dead.

“Mikhail?” Fyodor breathed out tentatively before his mind descended into panic. “Mikhail no, wake up! Please wake up! You said you wouldn’t leave me! You weren’t supposed to leave me! Come back! Please just come back! This wasn't supposed to happen! It's impossible! You said it was impossible! Why did you lie? Why?” Fyodor’s hands grabbed Mikhail’s shirt in fistfuls of fabric as if that could pull him back to the land of the living. However, just like was sure to be expected, it did not. Death had claimed Mikhail and that was that. He was dead and gone. Forever.

But how?

And then suddenly it all clicked into place. A chain of likelihoods known only to minds like Fyodor's.

There was a faint blue glow around the kid that was just beginning to fade. In all the chaos he had approached the two until he had brushed against the side of Mikhail’s leg and suddenly Fyodor understood.

Not many would be able to slot all of the pieces together like him but he wasn’t just anyone else. The kid had a nullification ability. He had made Fyodor kill his own brother. This kid… was a monster.

“You-” Fyodor didn’t know what to say as his red-rimmed eyes bore into the blankness of the kid's own, “you did this. You made me kill him. You-you monster. I-.”

And then before he knew what he was doing, Fyodor was tackling the kid to the ground, his hands wrapping around his throat in a kind of animalistic rage.

It was odd because the kid didn’t even try to stop him. Instead, he just lay there, as if he were just waiting for death to claim him. Fyodor watched as closed his eyes as though waiting for a final peace. Instead of making Fyodor feel bad and lose his resolve, it just infuriated him all the more, as his grip around the kid’s throat only tightened. What he was doing wasn't supposed to feel peaceful. It was supposed to hurt.

“He was my brother!” Fyodor sobbed. “And you took him from me. The only family I had left! He… I… why would you do that? How could you do that? I hate you! I fucking hate you!”

“I’m sorry,” he thought he heard the kid quietly choke out beneath him, but whether that was his imagination or reality didn’t matter because he didn’t want to forgive him. He would never forgive him. He couldn’t He simply couldn’t.

“Fuck you! Just die already!” Fyodor yelled, the sound painfully scraping against his throat. His eyes tightened with anger. He was going to kill this kid and eviscerate him from the earth. He was going to pay for what he had done as the punishment begot by his crime.

Fyodor could kill the sensation of life bleeding out beneath his fingers as sharply as the harsh cold snow beneath them. He could feel the kid's body giving out until suddenly something hard hit him in the ribs and sent him flying into a nearby tree with an unsettling crack.

Adrenaline and shock poured through his system, as he tried to make sense of what had happened, but everything suddenly felt so far away and distant that he couldn’t seem to make sense of much of anything besides his brother was dead and nothing would ever be the same again.

“Stop being so dramatic,” Fyodor heard the sound of the gruff elderly voice in the distance. “Go see if he’s dead.”

Footsteps began to approach him and Fyodor wanted to fight. He wanted to scream and run. He wanted to kill the whole world and then himself, but he could do none of those things. So instead he just lay there still and in pain, his body and mind shattered in scarlet snow.

He barely registered the feeling of fingers against his pulse, before the kid’s voice rang out after several moments of hesitation.

“Yeah…” the kid said. “He’s dead.”

He'd lied... but why?

Fyodor supposed it didn't matter. The kid had still taken everything from him and sparing his life wouldn't make up for all that he had taken. Nothing could.

Blinking his eyes open for the last time that night he could barely make out an older man lifting up the book that could’ve bestowed Mikhail’s perfect world upon the universe, before passing it to the kid to carry.

And then they were gone.

Fyodor felt a hole open up in his soul that could never be repaired.

He was going to kill those who had taken everything from him.

And he was going to get that book back in Mikhail's honor even if it was the last thing that he ever did.

Mikhail would have his perfect world, even if it ended up killing him in the end, because Mikhail had been his brother. He had been there when no one else had.

No one would ever one-up him again.

He would finish this and no one would stand in his way.

And that kid?

From him, he would take everything.

Notes:

I hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter <3

Chapter 34: Nothing At All

Summary:

Subconsciously, Chuuya took a step back from the edge, his breathing quickening as his eyes warily scanned the unforgiving depths.

He didn’t want to do this. He really did not want to do this.

Notes:

Back with another chapter <3

The Port was dimly lit, accompanied by a feeling of vacancy.

Dostoevsky, Gogol, and Sigma were nowhere to be seen.

It wasn’t long until they were standing before the Bay, the caliginous water almost seeming to mock Chuuya from where he stood.  

The tenebrosity of the night, which reflected against the depths, made the water impossible to see through. It was as though a hidden terror lay just beneath the surface, hiding narrowly out of view from his gaze.

Suddenly he was back at Meursault, his sense of up and down gone from reality and replaced with madness.

The strength began to leave his limbs, as his body convulsed in the strangling tides. He could feel his once-racing heart begin to slow. Arahabaki was still screaming, but it didn’t matter anymore, not as the darkness began to close in and he could feel consciousness slipping through his fingers. The water ran in and out of his body, poisoned oxygen that sought to be his doom.

Subconsciously, Chuuya took a step back from the edge, his breathing quickening as his eyes warily scanned the unforgiving depths.

He didn’t want to do this. He really did not want to do this.

It was then that a hand settled on his shoulder. Kind, gentle, and affirming. All things that his fifteen-year-old self would have laughed at if such terms were used to describe the man who was now standing next to him.

The wind whistled around them, leaving Chuuya’s hair to tremble in its grasp as a cold shiver ran down his back.

“I won’t force you to do this,” Dazai said, but the words sounded hollow because there was no other way. They both knew it.

That didn't stop the terror though, because he was still there. Back at Muersualt with the part of his soul that had never left. He was still drowning in that room. He was still being strapped down to a table and getting waterboarded by Camille.  

He was still fucking there.

A phantom burning sensation seemed to encapsulate his whole body, as his breathing began to grow harsher and he suddenly discovered that he couldn’t actually give Dazai an answer. Everything was just too much and all at once.

He was there. He was still fucking there and he would never escape. He hated it.

“Chuuya?”

Dazai was now standing in front of him. His brows were furrowed and his head cocked ever-so-slightly to the side.

“Chuuya? If you can't do this, you know that's okay, right? It’s my fault it’s down there anyway, so I can figure out something else and just get it myself. You don't have to do this if you don't want to. I promise.”

At the mention of Dazai going down to get it, Chuuya was finally able to break free of his trance, or at least as much as he could. The strangling sensation of fear still clawed at his throat and threatened to pull out all of the air from his lungs, just as the water once had. Still, he was present. Present enough at least.

“No,” Chuuya said, shaking his head, “no, this is stupid. Goddamn it, this is so fucking stupid. I don’t know why I’m feeling like this. I just- damn it. Dazai, you’re not going down there. We both know you can’t swim the 80 meters down and back without drowning, which isn’t even considering just how goddamn cold the water is and the whole untangling process of the chains that you decided to wrap The Book in. I just- I’ll do it, but I need a moment. Just a moment and then, I’ll… I’ll go and get it. I'll go and get it.”

A part of Chuuya expected Dazai to resist. Maybe even a small selfish part of him actually hoped for it, but in the end, such a thing never came to be.

“Okay,” was all Dazai said instead, “but it won’t be like Meursault this time, alright? I promise you that I won’t let that happen again.”

“Y-yeah… yeah okay,” Chuuya replied, his voice wavering as he swallowed back the emotions that threatened to bubble to the surface.

Flashing Chuuya a reassuring smile, Dazai took a step back, but his eyes remained on him all the same.

Everything would be okay.

Dazai wouldn’t let him drown. He just had to trust him like he always did.

Taking one last deep breath, Chuuya stared into the unforgiving depths of the darkness below. Then, without a second thought to avoid any further hesitation, he descended into the frigid water.

Water poured from the spout of the hose and coated his forehead. The rag clung to his face. Chuuya forced himself to remain still. He didn’t breathe. He couldn't breathe. 

Images of the past assaulted his mind, as he forced himself faster, increasing his mass to impossible amounts, as his desperation spurred him onwards. He tried to remind himself that he wasn’t back at Meursault. That this wasn’t that room nor was he being tortured by Camille, but his mind wouldn’t listen. It taunted him like some devil hidden within. He begged the flurry of images to just go away, but that voice in his head refused to listen.  

It just seemed to laugh at his misery.

Everything burned, as the water mercilessly assaulted his body. His body spasmed and his lungs felt like they were about to burst from his chest.

The water around him was claustrophobic and nausea turned his stomach. He had to keep going though. He had to do this. After all, he couldn't let Fyodor get The Book. Who knew what he’d do with it? So Chuuya forced himself to continue onward despite the panic and the fear, as difficult as it was.

Finally, after what felt like nearly an eternity but in reality was only about a mere thirty seconds, Chuuya felt the looseness of sand beneath his feet.

The Book had to be close.

It was then that a certain tugging feeling erupted somewhere deep within his conscience. It was difficult to explain, but perhaps it was almost as though someone was tugging him along with the help of a metaphysical rope. Despite the fear that continued to engulf his body, this sensation was somehow calming. It slowly began to drown out the voice in his head, which filled his mind with horrible memories, instead replacing them with feelings of steady resolve.

Following the feeling, it was only a few more moments before Chuuya managed to find The Book. It seemed to have a sort of ethereal glow in the otherwise pitch-darkness of the Bay’s floor.

It was bound in chains that would’ve been nearly impossible for the average person to unbind. However, for Chuuya, it was mere child’s play, as he quickly tore The Book free of its prison.

Holding it was odd because while the depths surrounding him left everything soaked through with water, the Bay seemed to avoid The Book, just barely dancing away from it by what had to be mere millimeters, almost as if it were some kind of royalty.

About a minute had gone by and Chuuya could feel his lungs starting to burn and ache with the lack of oxygen, sending a fresh jolt of panic down his spine. The only thing that was stopping him from succumbing to his distress seemed to be The Book with its intoxicating aura of utter calm.

He needed to get back to the surface.

Pushing himself off the sandy floor and keeping a firm grip on The Book, Chuuya began to propel himself towards the surface.

It was almost over now and then he'd never have to go swimming again.

Except, as what had to be another full minute went by and his lungs continued to cry out in that painfully familiar agony, Chuuya found himself beginning to fill with dread. It had only taken him half that time to make it to the floor of the Bay. Why hadn't he breached the surface yet?

He needed air.

Chuuya’s body spasmed in the depths of the Bay and suddenly, the aura of calm coming from The Book wasn’t enough to keep him from feeling the full extent of his panic.

Which way was up again?

Frantically, he began to swim as fast as he could in all directions, but there was only that cruel darkness. Not even the bottom of the Bay.  

He was lost in a never-ending hell.  

Drowning again.

The white-hot panic coursing through his mind sent sparks of electrifying adrenaline up and down his spine. Perhaps the only thing that had propelled him into holding his breath as long as he had.

It had now been three minutes since he’d last taken a breath.

And suddenly he couldn’t stop himself.

Hot saline tears leaked out from the corners of his eyes, becoming indistinguishable from the water that surrounded him.  

He hated this.

It was happening again. Why the fuck was it happening again?

His mouth opened of its own accord and he took in a deep breath of what his body had convinced itself would be oxygen.

It wasn’t. Of course, it fucking wasn't.

He couldn’t do this again. Dazai had assured him that he wouldn’t drown this time. Yet, somehow here he was.

No, that was cheap, he couldn't blame Dazai.

He could only blame himself.

What kind of idiot couldn’t tell up from down? What kind of idiot managed to drown themselves three times?

A stabbing feeling plunged through his chest, as his lungs continued to take in deep breaths of the icy water against his will.  

He was about to call upon Arahabaki in a last-ditch attempt to save himself. Except, the moment he attempt to, he was almost instantaneously stopped by some kind of mental block.

He didn't want to go.

Not yet.

He should have never agreed to this.

He should have listened to Dazai when he offered to find another way.

But now it was too late.

With that, he was plunged into darkness. One just as cold and consuming as the water that surrounded him.

Then, there was nothing.

Notes:

Hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter! ;)

Chapter 35: Autumn Is A Mountain's Shadow On A Day Of White Wind

Summary:

A part of Dazai left with Chuuya as he disappeared into the bay.

In his absence, the wind began to pick up until it was roaring in Dazai's ears, as though trying to tell him something in some long-forgotten tongue.

It didn't take much longer until the wind was accompanied by the sound of footsteps.

Chuuya was gone, but Dazai was not alone.

Notes:

Back with another chapter, sorry it's been so long <3

TW: Gunshot Wounds, CPR, Character Death, Temporary Character Death

A part of Dazai left with Chuuya as he disappeared into the bay.

In his absence, the wind began to pick up until it was roaring in Dazai's ears, as though trying to tell him something in some long-forgotten tongue.

It didn't take much longer until the wind was accompanied by the sound of footsteps.

Chuuya was gone, but Dazai was not alone.

“Dostoevsky,” Dazai greeted, his voice grating and clipped.

Slowly, he turned around.

“Dazai,” Fyodor returned with an infuriatingly polite inclination of his head.

Next to him stood Sigma and Gogol.  

Both of them were scared. That was easy for someone like Dazai to figure out.  

One of them hid it behind the veneer of being someone they weren't. Someone courageous and confident. Someone formidable and firm. At the end of the day though, they were none of those things. The truth was they didn't even know who they were. Life terrified them because if they held no identity and lacked so much that others seemed to so easily grasp, then who were they to live?

The other tried to hide it by joking and laughing amid and at trauma. That person was so very damaged, yet would never speak to it. Of course with the single exception of said trauma being caught up in the rhythm of a joke, only to be quickly moved on from. They were much too scared to face life's monsters, so they laughed in the face of fear as though it could make it disapparate.

Perhaps someone better than Dazai would want to help. Perhaps someone better than him would care.

But he didn’t. These people didn't matter to him and regardless of their reasons, they were in league with Dostoevsky.

To be in league with someone so cruel… well any reason that they might’ve had would never be good enough. Not for him. Never for him.

Dazai even believed that knowing their respective reasons as to why they were here now with Dostoevsky.

Purpose for Sigma. Freedom for Gogol.

And yet, was that what he’d truly given them?

The answer was obvious just by looking at them.

Gogol had even realized it at one point and so had Sigma. They had become aware of lies that could only span so long and yet, Dostoevsky was never one to slip up for very long.  

He’d drawn them back into the fold.

Still, while Dazai could not bring himself to emphasize, perhaps he could give them that of which Dostoevsky continued to fail to deliver.

Perhaps he could give them purpose and freedom.

The purpose and freedom of fate.

But first, he had a much more pressing matter.

Dazai drew Ango’s gun, lining his aim up right between Dostoevsky’s eyes.

“Don’t move,” Dazai demanded, his voice low and cold.

He expected Dostoevsky to ignore him entirely. To push the boundaries. Except something was wrong because instead of doing anything, Fyodor just stood there for a long moment looking like Dazai had shot him already.

Fyodor was scared… or perhaps not quite scared. He just looked wrong. So wrong.

But why?

And then he realized.

“Don’t move,” Dazai demanded, in slightly accented Russian. His voice was low and cold because it had to be.  

He had to do this for his grandfather. These two people before him were just unfortunate casualties.

If he didn’t deliver results… well he didn’t want to think about that.

“Hey, we’re cool,” the man standing before him tried to reason, “you’re just a kid. You don’t want to do this.”

He didn’t. The man was right by that standard, but what he wanted didn’t matter. It never had and never would.

“This is my brother, alright?” The man continued. “His name’s Fyodor and I’m Mikhail. We’re not a threat and we don’t want to hurt you. So just put down the gun, okay? Please?”

The man, Mikhail, had now managed to push his younger brother behind him.

He was protecting him.

A pang of jealousy echoed in Dazai’s fragmented heart.

Why did this kid get to have someone who cared about him while he didn’t get jack shit? It wasn’t fair. It was fucking fair.

And then Mikhail began walking towards him. Like he thought Dazai wasn’t a threat. Like he thought Dazai was just some kid who had no clue what he was doing.

Dazai knew exactly what he was doing.

How dare these people underestimate him. How dare they care about each other. How dare they have something Dazai could never have.

“You’re lying,” Dazai said.

Then he pulled the trigger and everything erupted into chaos.

The rest was a blur of guilt and regret.

The kind that he never wanted to address.  

The kind that he wanted to forget about.

It took several more moments before Dostoevsky had recovered from the breaking of his usual façade. At least from the fear aspect.

Where the fear had dissipated there was anger. An inferno that raged in the depths of his irises.

“I shouldn't be surprised, you always did seem to have a thing for killing in front of children.”

From the shadows emerged a small girl, who Dazai was quite surprised he’d only now noticed. However, as soon as her presence made itself clear, Dazai was quick to fit the pieces together.

This was Camille’s kid, Yuan, the daughter of the Meursault guard. She'd been corrupted by Bram Stoker’s ability and for some reason, Dostoevsky had kept her in his presence.

His mind was an empty chamber that regaled no answers, as fear began to thrum through his veins knowing that this child being here couldn't mean anything good.

Why couldn't he think? Why was he becoming so useless?

He hated it. He hated whatever this was.

“Why is she with you?” Dazai gritted out, a hidden flood of shame filling him.

Dostoevsky smiled. He knew.

Dazai’s finger tightened on the trigger.

“Well, it’s quite funny actually. Children of ability users often carry abilities of their own and Yuan, well her ability turned out to be quite convenient. You see, Yuan can manipulate space, which makes this whole thing doubly funny because how long has it been since Chuuya dove into the Bay? At least two minutes, right?”

Dazai’s heart stuttered in his chest and the gun trembled in his grasp.

He’d forgotten. How had he forgotten? He was supposed to keep track of things like this. He always had. He always did up until recently and now Chuuya, who was the most important person in his life was in danger because of him.

How had he not noticed? How had he gotten so wrapped up in this interaction that he stopped paying attention to the person who mattered most?

He promised that he wouldn’t let him drown. Not again, and yet…

He needed to save him. He needed to make up for the unforgivable thing that he had done.

So Dazai did what he needed to do.

In less than a moment, Dazai altered the angle of his gun ever-so-slightly and pulled the trigger.

The bullet slammed straight into Sigma’s chest.

Or at least it would have if Gogol hadn't warped himself in front of Sigma at the last moment, just before the bullet could make its mark.

Gogol crumpled to the ground like a puppet cut from its strings and Sigma let out a wail that sounded a bit like “Nikolai,” before sinking to his knees. His hands were trembling over the body that had already gone still.

“Whatever you’re having that girl do. You need to make her stop and bring Chuuya back now."

Seemingly unbothered by his fallen comrade, Dostoevsky just met Dazai’s gaze levelly and unafraid.

“I'm afraid that I can't do that.”

Dazai fired his gun again.

This time the bullet made its mark. Sigma keeled over and then was no more.

“Bring him back!” Dazai yelled as he turned his gun on Yuan and took a dangerous step forward.

“Or what,” Fyodor snapped back, “you’ll kill a little girl just like you murdered my brother. Like you murdered Mikhail!”  

Fyodor’s voice cracked uncharacteristically upon uttering his brother’s name, but Dazai did not care. At least that was what he told himself.

Chuuya was in danger. He had to save him no matter the cost.

A gunshot echoed through the air.

Except his gun had not been the one to make such a noise.

There was a burning feeling in his hand from where Dostoevsky had somehow managed to shoot straight through it in all but an instant. Dazai hadn’t even had time to see him actually draw the gun.

His own clattered to the floor and with it, he felt Chuuya's life slipping through his fingers.

His hand burned, but such a feeling was hardly new. He'd been in many similar situations in the past, but he'd always managed to come out on top.

So why couldn't he move? Why did he feel so trapped?

He had to run. He had to fight. He had to save Chuuya. Except for some reason he couldn’t, as instead his breathing only began to quicken and he felt so incredibly small.  

He was frozen in place.  

Why couldn’t he move? He needed to move.

“Sigma and Gogol weren’t pure. I agree that they had to die,” Dostoevsky mused, as he began to approach Dazai. The gun in his hand was smoking, like the smoke that had risen off that facility so long ago. “But a child?” Dostoevsky pondered. “how could you even think to kill a child to save someone who is just another murderer like you.”

Chuuya was going to die. Why couldn’t he move? Why couldn’t he act? Why was the weight of the world crushing him so?

Dostoevsky raised his gun, pushing it straight into Dazai’s forehead.

He no longer said anything and neither did Dazai.

Anything else they needed to say the other already knew.

Memories of Chuuya filled his mind in what he was now sure would be his final moments.

Why was he so weak?

“Stop!” A voice rang out through the air.

Dazai's eyes flickered away from Dostoevsky, to see a figure beginning to make his way toward them, a gun in his hands pointed at the back of Dostoevsky’s head. It was only the slight grimace on his face and faint tremble of his hands that said the man had recently been injured.

That and the fact that Dazai immediately recognized who the man was. His gait, his voice. Everything.

It was Ango.

What was he doing?

“Put down the gun,” Ango instructed and surprisingly Dostoevsky did. Something was wrong though because now the bastard was smiling as though a truly devious thought had entered his mind.

Dazai couldn’t find it in himself to worry about it now though, as suddenly with the presence of backup, strength seemed to return to his body and his panic faded into the distance.

Ango could take care of Dostoevsky while he saved Chuuya. It would be alright and whether or not that was actually true didn’t matter because it just had to be.

He had to save Chuuya. It had been three minutes now and if he waited any longer, Dazai was scared that this time he wouldn’t be able to bring Chuuya back.

Dostoevsky was right though, he couldn’t kill the kid. Chuuya wouldn’t want that and honestly, in his heart, he didn’t think he wanted that either. Still, he needed to incapacitate Yuan, so approaching her with a speed only borne of desperation, he made the blow quick.

She would be out for the foreseeable future and would only bear a bruise from the encounter.

Still, that didn't change the fact that he'd just hit a kid, but there was no time for dwelling upon that. Not with Chuuya's life on the line.

Dazai dove into the water.

It was freezing, but Dazai barely noticed as he desperately searched for the only person who had ever truly understood him.  

He couldn’t lose Chuuya. If he did, he didn’t think he would ever recover.

So relief filled him, as he finally caught sight of ginger hair.

However, the feeling didn't last long as he swam closer and noticed that Chuuya’s body was limp and unmoving, turning his blood to ice.

He had to act fast. Before it was too late.

Perhaps it already was.

Grabbing Chuuya and The Book, which had been clenched in his hands, Dazai propelled them to the surface with the sheer willpower of his panic and fear.

Dragging Chuuya out of the water, Dazai threw The Book to the side, as his hands desperately searched for a pulse.

Nothing.

He did not breathe nor did his heart beat.

Someone so loud and extravagant reduced to this.

Dostoevsky, Ango, and everyone else left his mind. All the world was gone and only Chuuya remained.

“No, no, no, no, no. Chuuya wake up!” Dazai begged as he began the rhythmic pulsings of CPR on Chuuya's painfully still body. “I can’t do this again. I’m sorry that I couldn’t save you sooner. I’m sorry that I lied. So please just come back to me. I’m sorry. I'm so sorry. Please Chuuya, I’m sorry!”

A rib cracked, then shattered.

Terror pierced through Dazai’s heart.

He couldn’t lose him. Not again. Not now.

Another rib caved under the pressure of the compressions of his desperate hands.

But then just as Dazai was beginning to lose all hope, Chuuya jolted upwards letting out hacking coughs as water spilled from his body.

Chuuya’s eyes were haunted and hollow, as Dazai pulled him forward in a tight embrace. He held on to him as though Chuuya could fade away and vanish at any moment.

“I’m sorry,” Dazai sobbed, pleading for forgiveness, “I’m so sorry.”

Chuuya hugged him back, but no words left him as painful coughs continued to tear through his trembling diaphragm.

Finally, after several more moments, the coughing stopped and Chuuya slumped further into Dazai’s embrace.

“Not your fault,” he murmured, his voice sounding weak. Still, Dazai saw the way he had his body leaned ever-so-slightly away from the direction of the bay.

That fear. That terror. That had been his doing.

It was undeniable and the proof of it was right there.

But now wasn’t the time to argue.

Dazai pulled Chuuya closer to him, only loosening his grip as a slight whimper of pain left Chuuya’s lips.

“Shit, your ribs, I’m sorry. Fuck Chuuya, I-.”

“Dazai,” Chuuya said, his voice raspy from all the strain his body had been put through, “I… I told you it’s fine. I don't... I don't really want to talk about it right now. So, what the fuck happened?”

That question made reality snap back into focus. That question made Dazai remember that losing Chuuya wasn’t the only thing that he should be afraid of. That question made him remember them.

Self-hatred coursed through him as he realized that this was the second time that night that he had failed to be fully aware in the wake of dire happenings.

“Dostoevsky, Ango,” Dazai murmured absentmindedly, only now realizing how odd it was that he'd heard from neither of them.

Looking around, he was quick to realize that Dostoevsky was gone, along with Yuan.

So instead of the devil and the child, all his eyes met were three bodies, laying still upon the cold, barren ground. Their blood mixed in with the darkness of the night, the oxygen having fled from it.

Except that wasn’t right…

There only should have been two bodies.

Sigma and Gogol.

So who was the third?

Such a question was pointless. He already knew. It was just that he didn't want to believe it.

“I’ll be… I’ll be right back,” Dazai said, his voice sounding distant, as though it were a hundred-year-old echo persisting through the vastness of a neverending cave. The voice was one of someone long since gone, who’d become nothing but a fragment of who they’d once been.

Dazai stood.

Slowly, he began to approach the third body.

The world faded away as he walked and his ears felt as though they’d been stuffed with cotton.

Why was his mind providing him answers when he desperately wanted to deny them? Why was it in the moments of true agony that he felt trapped within his own flesh?

The truth couldn’t be right. It just couldn't. He had to be wrong. He needed to be wrong.

Then, the body was before him and the truth.  The goddamn undeniable truth stared straight into his eyes and no longer could he even attempt to push it away.

He felt like he was 18 again. Back in Mimic’s Base. Except for this time, he didn’t get closure. He didn’t get to share this person’s final moments with them. He didn’t even get to say a simple goodbye.

As much as he'd hated Ango, he’d still cared about him.  

Deep down within his terribly shattered heart, he’d wanted to have what they’d once had. He’d wanted that bond to just fucking come back.

And maybe that was why he just continued to run even farther away.

Because he was scared. Scared that he’d only be left behind again.

And would that have happened? Maybe. But maybe not.

Now, he would simply never get to know.

In his heart though, he thought he had an answer. Ango had snuck out of a hospital with a gunshot wound, found him, and saved both him and Chuuya.

It was one hell of an apology if he'd ever seen one. Without what he had done Chuuya would be dead by now and so would Dazai.

So he did what he never could while Ango had still been alive.

“I forgive you,” Dazai said after several moments of standing there encased in waves of grief. A few tears made their way down his cheeks, which he was quick to sweep away, “and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that it had to end like this.”

Then, doing his best to compose himself, Dazai turned back towards Chuuya, leaving yet another fragmented piece of his past behind. Simply because there was no other option.

However, as Dazai got closer to Chuuya he noticed that something was terribly wrong. Chuuya was frantically searching for something despite it quite obviously sending jolts of pain through his body with how it jostled his broken ribs.

Another pang of guilt made its way through Dazai’s body. He had done that. He had hurt Chuuya. So, it didn't matter what he said. This was his fault. All his fault.

“What’s wrong?” Dazai asked, upon finally reaching him.

Chuuya looked up at him, his eyes wide with fear. He never had been much good at hiding his emotions with all of the power that his ability held.

“The Book. Did you grab it when you found me? Cause it’s not fucking here, Dazai. I mean, if you did, it’s… it’s fucking gone and we did all of this shit for nothing. Oh fuck, Dazai. I just... I can't, I-  fuck!”

Suddenly, everything made sense. If Ango was dead that meant that he hadn’t been able to fully stop Dostoevsky. So if The Book was gone…

“What have I done…”

---

Ango awoke to an emerald clearing encompassed by surreal gray lighting.

The smell of fresh morning dew flooded his senses and the ground was soft as he made his way to his feet.

He was dead. He knew such a thing was as certain as the pain that had flooded him when Dostoevsky had grabbed him.

In his escape from the hospital, while he'd managed to procure a firearm through questionable means he hadn't had time to grab ammo and Dostoevsky had quickly seen through his bluff.

But why was he here? In this transcendental place with a sky full of protective darkness and an iridescent white sun.

He didn’t deserve this.

As much as the thought of what he knew he deserved terrified him, he knew that it was where he ought to be. There was no question about that.

He deserved to be tormented for the pain which he had put so many through. He deserved to be treated as how he had treated others in his life.

Waking up in that hospital with his final memory being betraying Dazai and in association, Chuuya, he'd felt terrible. More so than he had ever felt in his life. So, he'd done what he had to, in order to find them and buy them time from that monster.

Still, saving Dazai and Chuuya, in the end, was hardly enough to be considered redemption, He had done so many unforgivable things in his life. Things that were so far past the point of return that hope of redeeming himself had long since fled from his life.  

So the question begged to be asked again.

Why was he here?

He didn’t deserve to be somewhere so beautiful.

“Ango,” a voice sounded out from behind him, cutting through his thoughts with the sharpness and precision of a chef’s most prized knife.  

Ango froze and time seemed to stop if it had ever even existed in this place in the first place.

He knew that voice almost as well as he knew his own. Perhaps even better. It was a voice that he clung to, that he made sure to never forget. Even as the details of the person's face and mannerisms began to dissipate from his mind, he made sure that he never forgot their voice.

“Odasaku,” Ango breathed, turning around to see him standing there for the first time in over four years.

Oda's ginger hair waved in the wind and his kind brown eyes bore into Ango’s in a way that was just so warm and welcoming that he almost broke down right then and there.

How could Oda look at him in such a way after everything that he had done? How could he not hate him?

It wasn't that Ango wanted Oda to hate him. In fact, he rather wanted the opposite.

The thing was though that he didn't deserve that. Ango deserved contempt. He deserved scorn. He deserved disdain.

Yet, despite all that, Ango found that he couldn't quite hold himself back.

He'd missed Oda so much.

So before he knew it, he was running.

So was Oda.

They met in the middle, wrapping their arms tightly around each other, as the rest of the world faded away until it was only them.   Just them.

“I’m sorry,” Ango said, his voice shaking, “for everything. I’m so sorry.”

Oda pulled back at that, his hands settling on Ango's shoulders. For a terrifying moment, Ango was horrified that he would now see him as he truly was and leave. However, he only searched Ango’s gaze for a moment before shaking his head.

“We’ve all done terrible things, Ango. It never made me love you any less. We did what we had to, in order to survive. Besides we hardly had the best circumstances, to begin with.”

He loved him.

Oda loved him.

Even after all that he had done.

“I love you too, you know?” Ango replied, his eyes glassy and a shaky laugh leaving him as the shattered fragments of hate and fear buried within him were stomped down into oblivion.

“Well, I’m glad,” Oda said, his voice trembling with emotion, “or that would’ve been pretty awkward.”

Tears flooded down both of their cheeks but for the first time in forever real smiles pulled at their cheeks and Ango placed a hand gently against Oda’s cheek, before pulling him in closer.

In response, Oda’s hands snaked around his waist, filling his chest with what could only be described as pure, unadulterated love.

He watched as Oda’s eyes briefly flickered to his lips before he shut them.

Ango quickly followed suit, as Oda closed off the remaining distance.

They kissed.

For the first time ever, Ango was home.

Notes:

Hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter! <3

Chapter 36: Your and My Shadows Dimly Falling

Summary:

Chuuya’s whole body throbbed as tendrils of adrenaline sprinted up and down his spine in nauseating circles.

He’d put himself through yet another literal hell only to be met with nothing to show for it all over again.

Notes:

Another chapter for ya'll <3

TW: Gunshot Wounds, Broken Ribs, Suicidal Ideation

The Book was heavy in his coat pocket, as Fyodor fled the scene. 

Before leaving entirely, however, he did make sure to lift Camille’s daughter up with his remaining arm, taking her with him. All the while, making sure to refrain from skin to skin contact.

Another surge of hatred ran through Fyodor's veins, as he was reminded of his father who had left him in such a state many times. To see Dazai do the same to this girl was sickening and whatever reasoning he had hardly mattered.

He'd hurt a child.  

How could someone hurt a child? Sure, she wasn't entirely human at the moment, what with Bram Stoker's ability, but that hardly mattered. At the end of the day, she was still a kid.

Dazai was none the wiser to any of this, lost as he was in his desperate attempts to bring Chuuya back to life.  

For a brief moment, Fyodor considered turning back and ending them both right then and there for good.  

Besides, with the current state of desperate vulnerability that Dazai was currently in, who's to say that he would even see such a thing coming?

Except that was the thing, a desperate and vulnerable Dazai was also simultaneously a dangerous and unpredictable Dazai.

So, despite his yearning desire to tear the two apart, Fyodor managed to shut the thought away at least for the moment.

The most important thing right now was The Book and preserving it. Later, he could erase both of them with it whether or not Chuuya survived this, because if he stayed here any longer it would only increase the likelihood of Dazai retaliating against him. It'd be much too dangerous, even if Dazai had been slipping lately. So in the end, it just simply wasn't worth the risk.

So Fyodor let it go, at least for the moment. Instead opting to flee the scene, as he had originally intended.

So that was it. He had finally done it.

Mikhail’s beautiful vision would finally be shown to the world in an epoch of bliss.

A place where only those who were truly deserving would ever get to go.

It's why he couldn't find it within himself to care about Sigma and Gogol's deaths because he'd already come to terms with that inevitability a long time ago.

Sinners had no place in the new world, including himself.

Long ago, he had become a monster to destroy other monsters.  

While at times vain and cocky, Fyodor within his heart knew that being a monster who killed other monsters didn't make him any less of one himself.

At the end of the day, he was a killer, which in turn made him a monster.

So when the time came that all monsters were expunged from the world, he too would fall to the depths of whatever awaited him on the other side. That was if there was even anything at all.

As much as Fyodor preached about following the will of God to his followers, most of that was just to manipulate them under a shared common guidance. Personally, he didn’t know what to think when it came to all of that. Perhaps it was one of the only things he didn’t know.

However, what he did know was that monsters had no place in Mikhail’s world. So as much as he wanted to see his brother again, he’d long ago accepted that if Mikhail were to see him now, he would be horrified by what his younger brother had become. So because of that, Fyodor would do everything in his power to ensure that he never did.

Fyodor would die and Mikhail would live.  

Fyodor would be saving him, just as Mikhail had once saved him in a time that now felt so long ago.  

It was poetic almost, the world that he would make.

More than that, it would be utterly perfect in every conceivable way by which Mikhail had longed to live by.

A world that thrived through utopian socialism. A world where everyone lived happily and carefree. A world where Mikhail’s original family was still alive. A world without war. A world without abilities. A world without hate, disdain, and monsters.

A world Fyodor would never get to see.

However, as much as he knew Mikhail's perfect world could not be so without the erasure of his existence, he also knew that there were intervening factors that would need to be taken care of.

In a time that had long since passed, Mikhail had told him that he wanted him to be there in that perfect world. So regardless of whether or not Mikhail could ever conceivably forgive him, if he remembered Fyodor then there was a chance that his death could hurt him.

So, he'd erase himself entirely. So that he no longer even lived on in memories.

He'd essentially be a forgotten martyr.

Still, the thought of such a thing didn't make him sad. His brother had given him his own perfect world once after all, so it was only fair that he now returned the favor.

He'd already gotten his taste of happiness back at The Circle anyways, so now it was Mikhail's turn.

There was still much to plan, however, as eager as he was to set everything into motion at that very moment. So he'd still need a bit more time before putting a pen to the paper that continued to weigh down his coat pocket.

This was a plan that he could not risk messing up. He’d have one chance at this and that was it. No more attempts, especially since he wouldn’t be there to see it.

So, he’d make sure to ensure that every crack was sealed and every break was mended.

His brother, who had been and still was his best friend, deserved no less.

---

Chuuya’s whole body throbbed as tendrils of adrenaline sprinted up and down his spine in nauseating circles.

He’d put himself through yet another literal hell only to be met with nothing to show for it all over again.  

Next to that all of that, this felt like the umpteenth time he’d been drowned and nearly died, which was seeming to become an increasingly prevalent theme in his life that he most definitely did not appreciate.

Behind him, the sound of waves lapping hungrily against the side of the dock made him subconsciously inch further away from the edge, as he finally tried to stand only to immediately fall backward with a strangled gasp of pain. Meanwhile, jolts of what practically felt like electric shocks seemed to light up his whole rib cage.

He was surprised he hadn’t noticed the pain in his ribs earlier. Perhaps the adrenaline from the whole situation had drowned the pain of it all out, but now that chemical response was finally fading from his body, he found himself to be left in excruciating pain. It was probably from the CPR, Chuuya distantly noted to himself. He thought he'd heard Dazai mumble something about that amid his existential crisis over losing The Book.

Given the life he'd led, Chuuya did have a fairly high pain tolerance. However, a fair amount of that was just learning how to deal with pain. So regretfully, it didn’t necessarily excuse him from the stimuli.  

Growing up in The Lab, then The Sheep, and finally The Port Mafia, he’d learned ways to manage pain.  

By acknowledging it and moving on, by distracting himself with other things, by keeping himself in motion, by remembering how he’d experienced so much worse in the past that would make his current state seem laughable.

So he forced himself to swallow down the scream building in his throat, before turning to Dazai who was now sitting on the ground next to him with a glazed-over look in his eyes. Like he was both there and so terribly far gone at the exact same time.

“Did you really have to break my fucking ribs, bastard?” Chuuya quipped in a weak attempt to lighten the mood. Unsurprisingly, Dazai didn’t grace him with an answer. It didn’t even seem like he registered that Chuuya was even there.

“Dazai?” Chuuya prodded, before hesitantly setting a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

It was a dumb question to ask.  

Of course, he wasn’t okay. Dostoevsky had taken The Book and everything was fucked now. The fact that he’d even tried to lighten the mood was laughable and apparently, Dazai must’ve thought so too if he was even thinking anything at all because he still refrained from saying anything or even merely acknowledging Chuuya’s existence.

He hated this.

For the past year, it felt like everything had just continued to trend further down along a road made of utter bullshit. It made him long for the days back when he and Dazai had been in the Mafia together as Double Black. Back when it had been them against the world. They'd been happier then, right?

Except that wasn't true. Dazai had been actively suicidal and Chuuya had found himself lost in an endless stream of traumatic events, amongst much else.

Had there ever been a time when they'd been happy? Truly happy?

What did that even mean?

It was all just too fucking existential and left Chuuya feeling exhausted. Every fucking piece of what was happening made him feel like the world was slowly crumbling beneath his feet with nothing left for him to do, as gravity too slipped away from his fingertips, leaving him all alone in the blank expanse of the nothingness that greeted him every night in the place of dreams.

Yet, even as he felt hopeless, he refused to let the world crush his spirit entirely. His whole life had been built upon traumatic experience upon traumatic experience, and if he’d learned anything from it, it was that if he truly wanted to change his situation he needed to stand back up. Whether that be out of love, desire, spite, sheer persistence or anything else was irrelevant.

He just needed to get back up. Metaphorically though of course, because if he tried standing again without assistance, then with the current state his ribs were in, he was almost certain that he was going to pass the fuck out.

“Look Dazai, it’s not over yet, alright?” Chuuya said, his eyes scanning Dazai’s features as though trying to sort the fragmented pieces back together, “we can still fix this. I mean as much as I am loath to admit it, you really are quite a bit of a genius and I know that you think that you’ve been fucking up way too much lately, but here's the thing. If anyone else were standing where you are now, they would have been fucked before they'd even gotten started. So let’s just get back to the apartment and then we can go from there. We’ll figure out wherever the fuck that bastard is hiding and kill him. Then we’ll take The Book and put it away somewhere where no one will ever be able to find it”

For several more moments, a silence lapsed between the two before finally, Dazai’s eyes shifted to meet his own. They looked oddly heavy in their sockets with purple eyebags drawn into his gaunt face. He looked so very tired, as though having gone through a lifetime of sleepless nights. Almost as though he were so tired that he could no longer find it in himself to care about anything.

Almost.

“Yeah, I know,” Dazai finally said, albeit warily, before making his way to his feet and stretching a hand out towards Chuuya, "let's just go home."

“I don’t think I can stand…” Chuuya replied, apologetic notes worming their way into his tone, before trailing off as he noticed that Dazai was offering him his non-dominant hand. To the average person, it was doubtful that they'd even notice, but Chuuya had known Dazai for almost a decade. He knew Dazai intimately and he also knew that Dazai never did anything unintentionally.

“Why are you offering me your left?” It was only now that Chuuya noticed that Dazai had the offending right hand hidden behind his back, which was furthermore swallowed by the darkness that surrounded them.  

Something was wrong.

However, despite the horrible implications that were seemingly approaching at the speed of light, Dazai just let out a small laugh, his eyes drifting away for a moment before settling back on Chuuya’s.

“All of this happens, and you’re paying attention to what hand I’m using? What, do you got a crush on me or something? I'm fine alright, I just wasn't thinking."

“Then why won’t you show me your hand?” Chuuya retorted, his brow furrowing, as he quickly brushed past Dazai's comment about him having some kind of crush on him. Although, if his face turned a bit red at the comment, no one would ever know under the protection of the darkness surrounding them.

“Chuuya,” Dazai insisted, sounding exasperated, “I already told you that I’m alright. So it’s fine, okay?”

“No, Dazai. Show me your hand,” Chuuya reiterated, remaining firm in his stance.

Their eyes met, both refusing to back down until Dazai finally relented.

“Fine,” he sighed, “Dostoevsky shot me, but it’s fine. I wrapped it in some extra bandages I had on me and sure it’s a bit soggy I guess, but I’ll change it when we get back to the apartment. I’ve dealt with worse and you’re far more injured than I am, so just let me help you up and then we can walk back together and get all of this sorted out.”  

Dazai brought his hand forward to reveal it to him.  

Scarlet wet bandages clung to it like Dazai had described and another bout of exhaustion seemed to weigh down upon Chuuya’s shoulders.

They seriously couldn’t catch a break, could they?

Chuuya sighed, his hand warily reaching up to pinch his nose in exasperation.

“I would kill for the day the universe finally cuts us a fucking break.”

“C’mon,” Dazai said, pushing past his comment, as he bent down to wrap an arm around Chuuya’s right side, “I’ll help you up.”

Using Dazai as a support to get into a standing position, Chuuya gritted his teeth as pain flared throughout his whole body. It was agonizing, but having Dazai there to steady him prevented him from going through the more unfortunate side effects of his brutalized ribcage, like for instance passing out.

Then slowly, agonizingly so, the two began their trek back to the apartment, defeat weighing heavily down upon their shoulders and yet, the smallest glimmers of hope remaining lit nonetheless in both of their eyes.

They would fix this.

Anything less was simply unacceptable.

Notes:

I hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter <3

Chapter 37: I May Be More Wretched Than A Dog

Summary:

As he finally finished up his work, Chuuya took a moment to admire it.

“You know what? I think I’m better at this than you.”

A soft look had settled into Dazai’s eyes and they seemed to almost glimmer in the moment of levity.

“I don’t know, Chuuya,” Dazai replied, “when I look at you the word artistic doesn’t exactly illuminate in my mind.”

Notes:

Another chapter for ya'll <3

Finally surpassed 100k words, let's go!! 🎉
Also, thank you so much for all the interest on this fic, it means a lot to me <3

Finally, sorry this chapter is a bit late. So funny story, I burnt the whole palm of my dominant hand on a super hot oven and had a bunch of other crazy life stuff going on soooo yeah. Lol. I'll try to be faster with updates now though that my hand is healedish (*slay*) and my life is finally allowing me a bit more free time to write this. :)

TW: Suicidal Thoughts, Blood & Injury

The apartment door closed soundlessly behind them or perhaps that was wrong. Perhaps it only appeared to be soundless, because of the existential state of reality that had been thrust upon them.

Who knew?

Eager to finally sit down, Chuuya was quick to sink down into the plush living room couch with the help of Dazai, who quickly settled down next to him shortly thereafter.

“Fuck… we still gotta take care of this shit,” Chuuya grumble exhaustedly, as he lazily gestured toward Dazai’s bullet-ridden hand and his broken ribs.  

“Yeah,” he heard Dazai say next to him, sounding equally as tired but still trying to push past it, “here, I’ll grab the stuff. Stay there.”

A part of Chuuya felt guilty that he wasn't helping Dazai gather up the needed supplies, but another part of him was too tired to do anything about it. So, he ended up just waiting, sinking further into the couch cushions, while his broken ribs seemed as though they were lit ablaze in his chest.

A few more minutes passed by, before finally, the couch dipped again, signifying Dazai had returned.

Chuuya’s eyes flickered over to see what Dazai had collected as he sat up with a slight grimace in favor of the scream of pain that wanted to leave him. 

In Dazai’s lap lay a roll of bandages, some Eva A, vaseline, a gauze pad, and an ice pack he must’ve found in the freezer at some point while he'd been gone.

“Take that soggy bandage off, go wash your hand and I’ll wrap it for you,” Chuuya mumbled, gesturing towards Dazai’s offending hand where blood still pulsed from the hole in it, in a way that would've made Chuuya want to vomit had his whole life not revolved around violence.

Instead of just listening to him, however, Dazai seemed to have other ideas.

Just like he always did.

Why couldn't anything ever be easy?

“Chuuya, you’ve got two broken ribs. My hand is fine, I mean I can barely feel it, see?” In a lousy attempt to emphasize his point, Dazai prodded at his hand with an encouraging smile. However, the effect was quickly lost if it had ever even sunk in at all in the first place, by the increasingly darkening scarlet stain that tainted the foul bandages he currently had it wrapped in.

“Dazai,” Chuuya gritted out, before forcing himself to sit up despite the bout of agony it sent through him, “you were shot in the fucking hand and the bleeding still hasn’t stopped. You could go into fucking septic shock if we don't do something about it now. My ribs can wait, they’ve practically already healed with Arahabaki’s assistance. So let’s just take care of your hand first, alright?” The part about his ribs being pretty much healed had been a lie and he knew Dazai knew it, but he wasn’t incorrect in his assurance that Arahabaki would fix it. It would just take a bit more time as was fairly obvious. Still, there was the point that his ribs wouldn’t leave him in any kind of immediate mortal danger with the help of Arahabaki at least for the moment.

“Chuuya-” Dazai fruitlessly tried again, before immediately being cut off.

“Dazai, please. Just this once, can you listen to me?”

A bout of silence rang out between the two in which Dazai seemed greatly conflicted before finally he stood defeated.

“Fine, but as soon as we do that, I get to take care of your ribs.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chuuya chided, rolling his eyes.

Dazai disappeared back into the bathroom. The telltale sound of the facet turning on signified to him that Dazai had indeed listened to his advice for once in his life. A surge of triumph flooded through Chuuya's chest at the noise. If only such an occurrence were more common.

When Dazai came back out, his hand was free of the ruined bandages and washed clean. Blood still sluggishly pulsed from the wound but with proper care, it’d probably heal just fine. Dazai’s body seemed astonishingly impervious to most acts of violence anyway.

Grabbing the Eva A first, Chuuya unscrewed the cap, while doing his best to ignore the sharp flare of pain that was sent through his ribs at the movement.

“Here,” Chuuya said, passing Dazai two pills before taking two of his own.

He knew that the pills probably wouldn’t do much for Dazai’s condition with his more than unfortunate history of built-up tolerance. However, it was still better than nothing and Chuuya felt wrong to be the only one taking the pills without giving Dazai any. Granted, he knew that he probably wasn't much better with the metabolism bestowed upon him by Arahabki.

Reaching over, Chuuya then grabbed the vaseline before gesturing for Dazai to give him his hand. Without hesitating, Dazai held it out, offering it to him. The amount of trust that fueled their relationship had always been something that had been special to him because he knew that almost no one else ever saw Dazai like this. Even if they did, it was probably only in the briefest of moments.

Taking Dazai's proffered hand in his own, Chuuya held it gently with one hand, whilst using the other to generously apply the vaseline to the wound. It only took a minute at most, before Chuuya was satisfied with his work and slid two gauze pads out of their encasements.

Gently, he laid a pad on each side of the wound, before he began to wrap it in a fresh bandage. His mouth set into a thin line, as he focused on his work, making sure that the bandage wasn’t unbearably tight to the point that it cut off circulation and yet also not so loose that it had the potential to slip from its position on Dazai’s hand.

As he finally finished up his work, Chuuya took a moment to admire it.

“You know what? I think I’m better at this than you.”

A soft look had settled into Dazai’s eyes and they seemed to almost glimmer in the moment of levity.

“I don’t know, Chuuya,” Dazai replied, “when I look at you the word artistic doesn’t exactly illuminate in my mind.”

“Hey!” Chuuya protested, before lowering his voice as the loud reverberation sent another echo of pain through his chest. “I’ll have you know that I am very artistic. Fuck you.”

“Really?” Dazai pressed, raising a brow.

“Yes really, you asshole. I write poetry,  so there.”

A moment of dead silence passed between the two, as Chuuya’s realized what he'd said and the implications, as his cheeks began to take on a deep red hue, rather making him resemble a tomato. Meanwhile, Dazai’s eyes, though still dulled by recent events, took on a dangerous sparkle of enthusiasm.

“Can I read them?” A terrifying smile slowly began to make its way across Dazai’s face.

“Um yeah, fuck no. You’d just laugh at them.”

“But Chuuya-” Dazai whined.

“No, Dazai,” Chuuya replied firmly, but the smile that was now beginning to pull at his lips despite himself took away from any scathing quality the comment might’ve otherwise held.

“I promise I won’t laugh,” Dazai futilely assured him. “Please Chuuya, I’m begging you. I need to see these. My life is meaningless without them.”

“Fine,” Chuuya finally conceded, “but only after you help me with my ribs.”

“Great,” Dazai said, practically beaming now.

Moments like these reminded Chuuya about why he’d fallen in love with Dazai in the first place.

The thought came unbidden into his mind, and this time he didn’t even try to shove it away, being much too exhausted to do so. Of course, he would refrain from acting on it, because who knew how Dazai felt? He doubted it was the same way and he couldn’t risk losing their friendship over something as stupid as unreciprocated feelings.

Being able to have these moments of levity with Dazai amid unequivocally traumatic events, was something he was unable to experience with any other. They were both in pain and yet, they still found ways to make each other smile and laugh despite it.

It was just really nice, and in lives as painful as their own, such moments felt like rays of warmth on a chilly day.

Perhaps others would look in and see them joking in times of morbid reality and call them callous. The thing was that those people only saw from that perspective because they had never experienced things from the life perspectives of Chuuya and Dazai. Perhaps in their worlds acting in such a way really was callous or insensitive, but life experiences were not universal. So in the end, it simply did not matter.

“Okay, okay, let me help you with your ribs, so we can get to the poetry faster,” Dazai said, and Chuuya nodded in acceptance, slowly shrugging off his coat and then beginning to pull upwards at his shirt. This only lasted a few moments, however, as Chuuya was quick to find himself falling back into the couch cushions while stars dotted his vision and agony erupted in his chest.

“Shit,” he heard Dazai say from somewhere beside him, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let you do that. Here let me help you.”

It took them several minutes of Dazai helping Chuuya get the shirt off as painlessly as possible but went much better than it would’ve gone had Chuuya tried to do it all on his own. In all honesty, they probably should’ve just cut the shirt open, but it was a really nice shirt and Chuuya couldn’t bring himself to ruin the fabric more than it had been already.

So now, bare-chested, exhausted, and in pain, Chuuya lay still with unconscious beckoning, while Dazai began to inspect the damage.

However, he was quite quickly drawn from his withdrawn state as the featherlight touches of careful fingertips began to explore his chest.

A feeling he could only find himself stupidly relating to butterflies settled in his throat and gut, as he desperately found himself fighting to hold back a blush.

This was just Dazai seeking out the extent of the damage, nothing more.

Chuuya just hoped Dazai didn’t notice the increase in his heart rate, and that if he did, he wouldn’t mention it.

“It doesn’t seem like it’ll be too bad in the long run,” Dazai finally assessed, “you’ll just need to ice it and it should fix itself with Arahabaki’s help like you said.”

Several minutes later, the two managed to set Chuuya up with one of Ango’s spare hoodies and a large ice pack laying across his chest.

“So, how about some poetry now?” Dazai prodded, his eyes alight with exaggerated childlike excitement.

“Yeah, well when we get out of this, I’ll let you read it. They’re all back at my apartment, and it’s not like we can just go there right now with everything going on so…”

At the reminder of the reality of their situation, a somber silence fell over the two.

A pang of hatred stabbed at his heart for ruining the mood, but deep down he knew it was bound to happen eventually.

“Chuuya…” Dazai said, his voice soft and eyes pained, “I’m so sorry I didn’t keep my promise.”

“Dazai-” Chuuya tried to cut in, before being quickly silenced, as Dazai began to speak over him.

“No, no, no, just let me finish. I just… I know you don’t think I should feel bad about what happened, but I do. I keep making all these mistakes that I used to never make and it’s putting you and others in danger or just outright killing them and just what if next time… what if the next time I get you killed you too? I mean if I did that, I don't think I'd ever be able to live with myself. I'd find a way to end it. A way that would be permanent.”

“Dazai,” Chuuya protested, his voice cracking as shards of glass seemed to burrow into his chest. “You’re not going to kill me and even if something did happen, please don't do that. There are others who care... who you can talk to.”

“Yeah... I mean it's just... it’s just my whole life, I’ve always been expected to know exactly what to do. I’ve been expected to see life as a fucking chessboard, always peering ten steps again and I’m tired, Chuuya. I’m so fucking tired and the more I slip up, the more tired I get, and so on and so on in this neverending fucked up cycle of me failing everyone who’s ever meant something to me. So I just... if I lost you... well, it'd be hard you know? Then there’s what happened to Ango…”

“Dazai," Chuuya protested, eyes narrowing in confusion, "what happened to Ango was entirely Dostoevsky's fault. Regardless, he's in the hospital right now. He's pretty resilient, I'm sure he'll be okay."

“Oh,” Dazai said and he sounded wrong, so terribly wrong, “you didn’t notice.”

“Notice what?”

“Ango’s dead. He left the hospital to save us at the Port and Dostoevsky killed him.”

An oppressive heaviness seemed to weigh down the air in the room.

“He's dead," was all Chuuya could bring himself to say in the end, not entirely sure how he felt about that.

“Yeah... he's dead,” Dazai confirmed, eyes distant and unfocused. “He distracted Dostoevsky so that I could jump in after you and save you. He’s probably the only reason we’re both still alive… and I... I just wish that we had ended things differently and under better circumstances. I mean he probably died thinking I still hated him,” a sardonic laugh tore its way out of Dazai’s chest, “I mean I did for so many years, but I’m just so tired now, and I… I just wish that I had gotten the chance to tell him how much I missed him. I wish I had gotten the chance to tell him how I missed going out for drinks and just talking. Too late now though, I guess. Always too late…”

“I’m sure he knew,” Chuuya tried, setting aside his own feelings about the matter for the moment, “and even if he didn't, what happened wasn’t your fault. None of this is. I know I keep telling you this, but you need to understand it, okay?”

“Yeah… um yeah, okay. Thanks,” Dazai said, eyes still vacant, but now finally meeting Chuuya’s once more.

“‘Course.”

He would tell him a million more times if that was what it took.

“I don't think I tell you this enough, but I really appreciate you, Chuuya,” Dazai said, the look of vacancy finally beginning to fade from his eyes in favor of vulnerability and something else that Chuuya couldn't quite identify, "for sticking around and all that. Not many do and I know I deserve it because I can be... difficult sometimes. I just… sometimes I well- I don’t know, this is really shit timing, but I... well look I… well I just need you to know that I… that I just well… fuck Chuuya, it’s just that I’m in fucking lo-.”

The ringing of the home phone cut off whatever Dazai had been about to say next, and Chuuya was too scared to even speculate on what it was for fear that he’d be wrong. Even as his heart screamed for what he thought Dazai was about to say to be true, it simply wasn't worth the risk.

For a brief moment, the two just stared at the phone debating what to do, before finally Dazai rose from his seat and picked it up, lifting it to his ear.

And then there was something he didn’t think he'd ever see again.

An unhindered smile spread across Dazai’s face at the voice of whoever was speaking to him from the other side of the phone before he too began to speak into the phone's transmitter, relief evident in his voice.

“Hey, Kunikida.”

Notes:

Hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter :)

Chapter 38: That Point on That Road

Summary:

Chuuya was already awake, a cup of tea in his hand, while his eyes scanned a newspaper.  He looked distraught, his face pulled into a grimace.

And then Dazai saw the leading story and understood.  All he had to do was look at the picture heading it

The building.  The explosion.  The place where Atsushi had died.

Dazai’s heart stuttered in his chest, but he forced himself to hold back anything else that threatened to rise to the surface.

He would deal with it later.  Maybe never.

Notes:

TW: Discussions of death

 

Heeeeeeeeeyyyy, so I'm back with the milk... :)

Has it been months? Maybe. Am I sorry? Yes. Am I back now? Also yes. Did I recently discover that I am chronically ill (the fanfic writer curse is real ya'll beware)? Also also yes. Is this an excuse? Not really no, I just procrastinated the fuck out of the last few months. But now my motivation is back now for real, so get ready for regular updates again!

Dazai didn’t sleep that night.

He couldn’t.

Instead, Dazai's eyes remained wide open, staring up into the expanse of the umber, rustic ceiling above him.  

Alone, he scanned the intricate details of the boards, delicately tracing the brown planes that divided the wood up into controlled quadrants much like a monochromatic chess board devoid of all clarity.  Unless of course, one took the time to notice the small differences.  A crack or a slightly darker slab of wood.  The way some planes were slightly larger than others, which could allow one to better be able to map out where those black and white squares should be, should one’s mind apply itself.

Tomorrow, he would be reunited with the Agency.  

Tomorrow, he would be reunited with Kunikida, Ranpo, Poe, Yosano, Naomi, Kyōka, Kenji, Tanizaki, and Fukuzawa.

As much as he kept himself closed off from the world, the agency was probably the closest thing he’d ever had to a family, Chuuya aside.  

He missed them dearly.

When they reunited, he would eagerly greet them with his usual playful and rather flippant demeanor, but deep down somewhere within his fractured heart he would be bursting with relief.  For even if everything else had gone to shit, at least he still had them.

And Chuuya.

Always Chuuya.

Seconds passed.  Then minutes.  Then hours.

The sun rose and the humming of cars thrummed through the air around him like a bow to a violin.

Until it was morning.

And he knew it was time to go.

Climbing out of bed, Dazai made his way to the bathroom mirror.

Dark, heavy eyebags were carved into his face like the trenches of the war reflected in his heart.  His hair had grown out a bit since Meursault, now curling just beneath his chin.  Meanwhile, his skin was pulled taut against his face and his eyes seemed even more dull than usual.

Turning on the sink, Dazai made a small effort to wash his face.  To wash away the exhaustion from sleepless nights and grime from all that had happened in the past few days.

And while cupping the water into his hands and bringing it to his face did very little to solve those problems, it was at least a step.  No one could deny that.

Turning off the sink, Dazai made to leave his bedroom and head out into the living room, as he turned his prior conversation with Kunikida over in his mind.

Yesterday, Kunikida had called him with the intent of meeting the following morning in an alleyway not too far from the apartment.  With him, he had Ranpo, Poe, Yosano, Kyōka, Kenji, Tanizaki, and Fukuzawa.

Despite being relieved that they were all alive, Dazai had still been a bit confused as to how they'd found him at first.  Granted, Kunikida had been quick to assuage most of the worries that he might’ve otherwise had.

Apparently, before Ango had headed out to the docks to meet his fate, he had gotten ahold of Kunikida and informed him of everything going on in case he didn't make it out alive.  Which, of course, he didn't.

The reminder of Ango's death had felt like another stab to his gut, amongst the many other things that had been plaguing him so recently.

Still, while Dazai was relieved to know that there was a plausible explanation as to how Kunikida had found him, he nevertheless found a bit of apprehension continuing to circle in his gut regarding the whole situation.

Dostoevsky still had The Book, and next to Chuuya, Kunikida was probably the second most trusted living person he had in his life.  So if this ended up being too good to be true, he didn't know what he'd do.  The mere thought of such a thing was practically unbearable.

In the end, however, Dazai decided that he’d just need to trust him and figure out everything else down the road.  He’d performed many similar miracles in the past, and as much as those cruel voices in his head fought to drag him down, he forced it all away.

It would be okay.  He had to believe that it would all be okay.

Leaving such thoughts behind for the moment, Dazai turned the doorknob, leaving the bedroom, and walking out into the living room.

Chuuya was already awake, a cup of tea in his hand, while his eyes scanned a newspaper.  He looked distraught, his face pulled into a grimace.

And then Dazai saw the leading story and understood.  All he had to do was look at the picture heading it

The building.  The explosion.  The place where Atsushi had died.

Dazai’s heart stuttered in his chest, but he forced himself to hold back anything else that threatened to rise to the surface.

He would deal with it later.  Maybe never.

Chuuya wouldn’t be happy about that though.  He’d probably want to talk to him about it and how it made him feel.  It was something that Dazai had always envied about Chuuya.  He was entirely unafraid to wear his emotions on his sleeve, uncaring about what the rest of the world may think.

Dazai wished he could be like that too.  It probably felt freeing, cathartic even.  However, such a grand change was easier said than done.

However, none of that mattered now.  Not when they had other matters to tend to.

“It’s time to go, Chuuya.”

It was subtle, but Chuuya flinched where he sat, having been so invested in the story that he'd failed to notice Dazai's approach.  Dazai watched as quickly flipped over the newspaper to hide the leading story.

Despite everything, the kindness of such a gesture made the ghost of a smile pull at Dazai’s lips before he recomposed himself.  He didn't deserve Chuuya to protect him from the rest of the world, especially not from something that he'd done and knew had been his fault, at least in part.  However, the fact that Chuuya did so anyway pulled at his heartstrings.

He really did love him, despite not knowing how to even begin to say it.

“We’ll get The Book back, you know that right?” Chuuya asked as they headed out the door, and departed from the apartment.  “Especially now that we've got your agency folks with us.”

“Yeah, of course.”  However, whether or not Dazai actually believed what he said was left entirely up to interpretation.

---

The morning air was cold as they arrived at their destination, a hidden alleyway bordered by tall dark infrastructure that cast a grand shadows.  Overhead the sun was just beginning to rise in a sky painted blue with shimmers of purple hiding in its midst.

A gentle breeze wafted through the otherwise still air, dancing through the curls of Dazai’s hair.

After all this time, he would finally be reunited with Kunikida and the rest of those at the agency.  At last, it was happening.

It’d been so long since he’d last seen them now, but their faces had never faded from his mind.  Kunikida with his ever-present serious expressions and amusingly easy-to-irritate personality.  Ranpo with his signature glasses and endearing sweet tooth.  Poe, more of an honorary member, with his raccoon and attention to detail.  Yosano with her quick attitude and cunning personality.  Kyōka with her kind heart and love of crepes.  Kenji with his sweet naivety despite all he’d been through and love for humanity.

And Fukuzawa.

The man who had believed in him enough to give him a second chance.

Next to Chuuya, those people were his family, and although he would never admit it out loud, he loved them.

And he would be so happy to see them again.

Yet, there was a large part of him that was terrified that when they learned about what had happened to Atsushi, they would blame and resent him for his death.  He was scared that their backs would turn and they would walk away for the last time.

Despite Chuuya’s reassurances, Dazai knew that he had played a rather large role in what had happened.  Honestly, he wouldn’t even blame those from the agency if they hated him after learning of what had happened.  If he were them, he would hate himself too.  He frankly already did.

But life moved on.

Dostoevsky was a bigger problem at the moment, and he and Chuuya wouldn’t be able to conquer the demon alone and escape unscathed.  Especially not now with him having The Book.

And admitting that to himself, that he needed their help, almost made him hate himself even more.

For almost his whole life, he’d never felt comfortable accepting help.

From a young age, back when he’d gone by a different name, amongst the Tsushima's, that had long been abandoned, he’d learned that to ask for help was to be considered a failure.  Successful people didn’t need help.  Intelligent people didn’t need help.  Anyone worth something didn’t need help.

These lessons had been ingrained into him in more ways than one.

Until he met Chuuya.  His first-ever partner.

When they’d first started working together, Dazai had worked so hard to give off the illusion that he was the one in control.  

Sure he and Chuuya were partners in title, but Dazai, of course, had all of the ideas.  Dazai didn’t need Chuuya’s help, but rather just kept him around as someone to do the dirty work.  He made bets that he knew he’d win so that he could call Chuuya demeaning things like his dog and feel superior to the other.

But at the end of the day, all it was, was him making a desperate attempt to convince himself that he was still in control.  He wasn’t receiving any kind of help, by having Chuuya as his partner. 

He wasn’t a failure.

Chuuya was just a dog.  A braindead dog who did his bidding.

And such a lie that was.

As days turned into months, which then turned into years, he was forced to see the truth of things.

Chuuya had a beautifully strategic mind, especially in the heat of the moment, he was always unafraid to speak his mind and was, in all honesty, insanely intelligent.  In a total state of veracity, Chuuya was the final puzzle piece that had been missing his whole life, because while they were two separate entities, cut into their own shapes and with their own spread of the bigger picture, when they came together, somehow against all odds, it made Dazai feel complete.  A hidden-away piece of his heart hoped that it made Chuuya feel the same way too.

As much as he loved to tease Chuuya, at the end of the day, Dazai had never truly seen him as his dog.  Chuuya was his partner.  Chuuya was his best friend.  Chuuya was someone who had taught him that accepting and going to others for help was not solely reserved for the weak, but rather a wise and strategic benefit of life.

It was funny how all the biggest lies he’d ever told were to himself.

Next to him, Chuuya shuffled in place, rubbing a hand up and down his arm to help with the circulation.

“Hey, Dazai.  You alright?  You were zoning out for a second there, idiot,”  Chuuya’s voice was tinged with sarcasm, in an ineffectual attempt to mask the true undertone of worry in his words.

“Of course,” Dazai replied, “I’m always fine.”

Next to him, Dazai heard Chuuya holding back what sounded like laughter.

“You?  Always fine?”  Chuuya teased, bumping his shoulder against Dazai’s own, “well now I believe you even less.”

“I don’t know,” Dazai said, his eyes flicking away from Chuuya’s, “it’s just that this will be my first time seeing them in so long, and it just worries me because I need them back in life… and I need their help, but what if they turn their backs on me after learning about what happened to Atsushi?  Chuuya, if we don’t have them to help us get The Book back from Dostoevsky, then I’m- look right now, it’s just you and me, and we work well together, incredibly well actually, but against The Book?  We can’t do that alone.  We need their help, because if we don’t get it then I’m terrified about what that means.  I just… I don’t want to lose them.... and you.  I don’t know if I can handle losing anyone else.  I'm just so tired, Chuuya.  I've never felt this tired.”

An arm made its way across his shoulders, drawing his eyes and full attention back to Chuuya.

“You aren’t gonna lose me, Dazai, and you won’t lose them either.  They’ll show up soon and then together we’ll defeat that bastard, Dostoevsky.  Then afterward we can all head down to Bar Lupin, and get wasted.  It’ll be great.  Sound good?  So quit your moping or whatever the fuck this is, and just believe in me, okay?”

“Yeah, I know.”

The sun continued to rise as the pair waited for the agency to arrive until a full hour had gone by from the original meeting time and still, no one showed.

“Something’s not right,” Dazai mumbled under his breath, his eyes narrowing.  “Kunikida would never be a second late to anything, much less an hour.  He even has this little notebook for keeping track of his day.  Honestly, it's always seemed a bit neurotic to me, but it did prove to be good entertainment for me, in finding ways to throw him off his schedule.  Although I suppose I only did that when nothing particularly important was going on, so it still doesn’t explain his deviation.  He should be here.  I know he should be here.”

Next to him Chuuya stiffened and seemed as though he was about to voice his agreement, however before he could a chilling scream cut through the air making them both fall silent and still.

It was coming from the building behind them, the entrance to it being a purple door that was just waiting to be unlocked.

And that scream... Dazai knew that scream.

His heart plummeted in his chest, and then he was running.

He couldn’t lose anyone else.

Not now.  Not again.

Notes:

I hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter! ;)

Chapter 39: Blown By The November Wind

Summary:

It was a trap. That much was certain. However, it wasn’t like he really had many other options in terms of next steps at the moment.

He couldn’t just not go through that door. Not after what he had heard.

Notes:

Hello! I'm back with another chapter! <3

1 Day Prior

He had it. He finally had it.

Upon the wooden desk before Fyodor lay The Book.  

All around him, the walls of the hotel room he'd found, thanks to the body in the closet, seemed ever so near. So indubitably claustrophobic.

Whatever he did. Whatever happened next. He could not mess it up.

It was incredible how something so ineffable, something so powerful, could be so seemingly diminutive.  

Small. Unassuming. Impuissant.

The riotousness of it all almost made him want to laugh.

Because out of all of the things in the universe, the most puissant thing ended up being a fucking book.

But honestly, did any of that even really matter? Matter and meaning were constructs anyway, so who was to say a book couldn't be the most powerful thing in the universe? All that mattered right now was that he'd won. He'd triumphed and now he'd finally be able to give Mikhail his beautiful world.

No one would stop him. No one could stop him.

A few meters away, he watched as Camille’s child played with a Rubik’s Cube he'd found in the bedside drawer, much like the one that Mikhail had given him in a time that now felt so long ago.

He missed him so much.

There were many times following Mikhail’s death when he’d wondered what they’d be doing in that very moment, had he not fallen. Most often, whenever he was sad or reminiscent.

He’d think about them creating a new world together, going out to a warm diner to eat piroshki, going skiing at Red Valley in the Kastorensky District, making bliny together, playing a game of Durak, and so much more.

But that life had been stolen from him by Dazai.

Even now the curse that Dazai had placed upon him on that day had yet to end.  

Dazai had made him kill. Dazai had turned him into a killer. Dazai had constructed him into a person whom his brother could never love.

So now, he would build this new world. He would give Mikhail piroshki and skiing and bliny and Durak and everything else. Except in this reality, he would not be there to see it too.

And although he knew it was necessary, he hated it.  

He hated it so fucking much.

Not because he was afraid to die. Sure, the uncertainty of what came after or the lack thereof had left him lying awake some nights, but he’d mostly accepted the inevitability that death eventually came for everyone. So, there was no point in fearing something that he simply could not control.

It was more because Dazai had stolen his humanity. Dazai had stolen the kind relief of knowing that even if all of the world were to hate him, there would be at least one person who defied the rest. Someone who truly cared.

But he was a killer; a murderer. He was irredeemable and unworthy of any form of unconditional love. No matter his convictions or reasons.

If he saw him now, Mikhail would hate the man who he had become.

So, he would die as unloved as the day he was born.

But if that meant that Mikhail could be happy again. Then, he supposed that maybe that was okay.

The pages of The Book felt deceivingly soft and almost warm beneath his fingertips. It was as if the paper had only just been freshly printed with that new book smell too. It wafted through the air like vanilla and almonds. Ever so soothingly.

It was time to test it out.

His gaze settled upon Camille’s daughter, Yuan, who still sat there playing with her Rubik’s Cube on the floor of the hotel room.

He began to write.

As he wrote in the scrawling cursive of his native tongue, the words seemed to almost twinkle ethereally.

It was beautiful. Like a galaxy being created by the serpentine intricacy of his words and penmanship.

It didn’t take long until he’d finished his addition to the world. His first test.

Now, he just had to wait and see if it worked.

In the place where Yuan had previously been playing with the Rubik’s Cube, it now fell from her fingertips.

She stood up and as she did, something miraculous happened.

However, it was not unexpected.

All signs of vampirism left her eyes. Almost as though, somewhere else in the world, Fukuchi had dropped dead and Bram had regained full power of his ability once more.

And Fukuchi aside, who would willingly enslave a child? At least not Bram of all people.

Still, despite Yuan regaining full control of herself, the young girl did not panic. Instead she just slowly walked up to Fyodor with the appearance of naïve innocence and wide inquisitive eyes. An expression and air that only a child could ever capture.

“Do you know where my mommy is?”

It was a question he’d expected, but it did nothing to help him feel like he was swallowing glass shards down his throat.

The death of his own mother flashed before his eyes.

“Why don’t we go down to the police station? I’m sure they can help you there and we can find your mommy."

“Okay,” the little girl nodded.

And so they left.

The walk to the station was spent quietly and upon entering the station no one even batted an eye at him.

Almost as if they had spent too many sleepless nights to be wakeful or watchful enough to keep an eye out for a face like his.

“Excuse me,” he greeted an officer near the entrance, “I believe this girl is lost.”

“Oh, and who might you be?” Looking down at the small girl next to him, the officer gave her a quaint smile.

Yuan however did not answer, instead, she was silent and sent Fyodor a look of utter confusion.

“She only speaks French and a bit of English,” Fyodor explained. “But her name’s Yuan.”

“Ah, well I don’t speak much of either, but my partner took French back in school. Have her come with me. We’ll take good care of her.”

Fyodor nodded, “thank you.” Then turning to Yuan, he crouched down so that he was at her level.

Wringing her hands out before her, the girl suddenly looked ever so small and so very afraid.

“You need to go with that man,” Fyodor told her, pointing to the officer in question, “he’s going to take you to someone who can help you.”

“Why can’t you help me?” Yuan asked, her eyes finally flicking upwards to meet his own, glassy and sad.

“You’ll be happier with them. I promise,” Fyodor said, smiling reassuringly. Then reaching into his pocket, he grabbed out the Rubik’s Cube that she had dropped earlier. Something that he’d made sure to grab just before he made his way out the door.

He passed it to her, all the while being incredibly careful not to make direct contact.

“When I was your age and lost my own family, my brother got one of these for me,” Fyodor said. “So, if you’re ever afraid or unsure or maybe you just feel stuck and don’t know what to do, you can fiddle with this and know that just like the colors can be turned back to their proper sides, everything in real life can be okay again too. There will always be another sunrise and another sunset, and I can promise you that at the end of this, everything will be alright. I made sure of it.”

Then, he stood up and left, the door of the police station closing soundly behind him.

And although he didn’t look back, he could’ve sworn he’d heard a small voice calling out a goodbye and perhaps even a thank you.

It wasn’t a very long walk back to the hotel, but once he’d made it a laugh of astonishment burst forth from deep within his chest because it had actually worked. The words that he’d written on the page to free Yuan of all of this had come to life.

Somewhere out there, Yuan would get connected to a long-lost Aunt, who would then bring her up safe and happy in the French countryside. She’d live a good, long, happy life.

Just as Mikhail would soon have too.

Now, with that out of the way, it was time for the second test. The only difference with this one would be that it was definitely not quite as philanthropic.

Still, that wouldn’t make it any less satisfying.

Most of all though, he was excited for the grand finale that came after. Still, he couldn’t rush it. So picking up his pen he began to write. A tale of Ango contacting the Detective Agency right before his death, and giving them a number by which they could contact Dazai. A tale of realization and betrayal.

A tale that would never be forgotten by Osamu Dazai.

---

Present

Dazai had never run so fast in his life. His heart nearly felt like it was about to beat out of his chest.

That scream had been Kunikida. In all of his life, he’d never heard Kunikida scream like that or even scream much at all.  

It almost sounded as though he were dying.

Upon reaching the door, Dazai yanked at the handle, half expecting it to be locked.

Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t. Almost as though he were supposed to and expected to go into the room.

It was a trap. That much was certain. However, it wasn’t like he really had many other options in terms of next steps at the moment.  

He couldn’t just not go through that door. Not after what he had heard.

If Kunikida was hurt or even dead, and possibly the others as well, then there was simply no other choice.

He stepped inside, Chuuya right on his heels.

He expected to see torture devices. He expected to see blood coating the walls. He expected to see death. He expected to see carnage.

What he did not expect to see was Dostoevsky standing tall behind the members of the Agency, whose eyes turned to him immediately upon his entrance with varying looks of horror and betrayal.

Fists were clenched at their sides in silent rage, and all was quiet for a few more moments until Dazai finally spoke, raising his gaze to meet Dostoevsky’s own. Breaking through the tense ice-like quality of the room.

“Why are you here? What did you do to them?”

“Oh, why I’m here hardly matters, don’t you think? Besides, I’m sure you already know why. As for what I did to them… well, you see, I just thought that this whole lot was a bit uneducated as to the truth of our shared past. So, I decided to educate them.”

There were many things that Dostoevsky could’ve meant by that but one possibility and possibility alone stood out in Dazai’s mind among the rest.

Mikhail.

“You told them about The Petrashevsky Circle, didn’t you? About your brother? Then you took away their true judgments of what happened and manipulated them to your side with The Book. Like puppets.”

“Manipulated them like puppets?” Dostoevsky’s gaze hardened, his voice low and angry, “you forced me to kill my own brother. The only person who’d ever really cared about me in this whole horrid world, and then after that, you just left me there to die. But it doesn't end there, does it? Because all of this was over a book. A powerful one, sure, but still just a book. A simple book that you never even ended up having the decency to use, be it for good or bad. Which, when you think about it, means that my brother died for nothing. So no, I didn’t manipulate your agency, I’ve simply enlightened them to the real Osamu Dazai. Perhaps I used The Book to encourage the route of thinking that they ended up on. Yet, no real story can ever be brought into reality without believability, so I’d take their hatred for what it’s worth.”

“He was a child when that happened. What happened wasn’t his fault.” Chuuya, despite not knowing all of the circumstances surrounding what had happened, took several steps closer to Dostoevsky. At the same time, Dazai noticed that he had shifted his position so he stood slightly ahead of Dazai, almost as though he were using his own body as a human shield.

Still, despite the valiant defense, it did nothing to deter Dostoevsky.

“Well, so was I,” was all Dostoevsky said in return, only briefly sparing Chuuya a glance before he turned his attention back to Dazai.

A beat of silence stretched throughout the room, before finally, one of the agency members spoke for the first time since they’d been reunited.

Kunikida began to walk forward until he was only a few feet away from where Dazai stood. Just ahead, Dazai noticed Chuuya tense, as his focus seemed to narrow in on whatever was about to transpire.

He had always been so loyal. Perhaps even to a fault.

“Why did you do it, Dazai? Trading a life for a book?” Kunikida took another step closer, pulling his gun and flicking off the safety.

Chuuya shifted closer to Dazai.

“To think that for all of these years, I’ve been careless and let your foolishness go, because, at the end of the day, I thought that you were a good person deep down. That somewhere within you, you had a good heart. But to kill someone over a book? Why would you do that? He was so young Dazai and so good. How could you take his life away from him?”

Dazai didn’t answer that. He couldn’t answer that. So instead, he looked past Kunikida, letting his eyes settle on Dostoevsky's once more.

“Taking my family away won’t bring yours back, Dostoevsky,” Dazai said, “it’ll only bring about more death. So if you want to kill me, then just do it already. And not with them. If you want to kill me, I want you to be the one taking my life. I’m done with your games. It was fun at first, but now I think I’ve quite lost my appetite for it.”

“You thought I brought them here to kill you?” Dostoevsky asked incredulously. “Think about it, Dazai. I know you’ve been failing at that lately, but this is just embarrassing, even for you. I’m not going to kill you. Not yet, because before I do that I want you as your world burns to the ground, just like mine did. So no, your agency, your precious Kunikida, Ranpoo, Poe, Yosano, Naomi, Kyōka, Kenji, Tanizaki, and Fukuzawa aren’t here to kill you. They're here to kill your pet, just as my story commands what with your beliefs of manipulation and puppetering. For not only have they realized the cruel havoc that you've wrecked upon my own life, but so too the havoc that is wrecked upon the earth by the vengeful god Arahabaki. Something that powerful and deadly simply cannot be allowed to live. Not even its vessel. So now you’ve got a choice, Dazai. Will you let them kill your dog or will you kill your so-called family to save him? The choice is yours.”

Notes:

Hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter <3

Chapter 40: Abandoned Like A Dog

Summary:

I have finally have a break from University, so thank fuck I am free from now until January. So alas, here's the next chapter <3

Notes:

The air felt like a fresh sheet of ice. As if, one false move could shatter everything into a million irreparable pieces.

The air felt like a fresh sheet of ice. As if, one false move could shatter everything into a million irreparable pieces.

Despite that, Chuuya had never personally been all too fond of caution. Neither was he a fan of letting people get away with what he considered to be absolute bullshit.

“I’m not his fucking dog,” Chuuya spat out between gritted teeth. “And if you’ve already written down what happens in that goddamn book, then what’s the fucking point of us fighting anyway? I mean isn't all this shit supposed to be predestined now?”

Dostoevsky kept his attention on Dazai, refusing to answer him.  

The bastard was acting like he wasn’t even there.

“Hey! I’m talking to you, you asshole. If you’re going to pull me into a fight to the death, the least you can do is answer my fucking question.”

Again, nothing.

Up until Dazai finally spoke.

“Answer his question, Dostoevsky.” Dazai’s voice was low, dangerous almost. A dark glint highlighted his russet eyes.

“And why would I answer a question that you already know the answer to? Tell him yourself Dazai, if you're so desperate for him to know.”

Dazai stiffened where he stood, as if all the puzzle pieces Dostoevsky had scattered to the wind had finally managed to slot together into a pyrrhic masterpiece, while Chuuya just watched the interaction dumbfounded.

“What the fuck does he mean by that? Dazai, what the hell’s going on?”

An apprehensive silence hung between the two of them.  

For a moment, albeit a brief one, Chuuya was terrified that even Dazai might not answer him. Until finally, to Chuuya’s relief, he spoke.

“He never wrote the ending. That way, I’m forced to choose between you or the Agency. That way, I can’t blame The Book or anyone else for what happens, because whatever I choose will end up being of my own free will.”

Dostoevsky smirked from where he stood while giving a small nod to confirm what Dazai had said.

Chuuya wanted nothing more than to beat that smug look off of his face. In fact, he already would have, if he wasn't so wary of all the power Dostoevsky now had with The Book in his possession.

However, that didn't mean he'd refrain from any other means besides the physical.

“Are you sure that this is what your brother would want?” Chuuya asked, forcing his voice into a more genuine tone, in a hopeless attempt to try to get through to the monster before him or at the very least just make him feel something; anything. “Mikhail? That was his name, right? Are you sure that he would want this bloodshed in his name? Look, you’re not the only one who’s lost people. Hell, I get it, I’ve lost more people I considered family than I can count. And while I sure as hell made sure I got vengeance, I never intentionally pulled other innocent people into the mix. Doing that won’t solve anything, it just makes you a reflection of everything you claim to hate.”

The temperature of the room seemed to drop several degrees, as Dostoevsky’s previously negligent gaze suddenly bore into Chuuya’s own at the mention of Mikhail’s name.

“Don’t you dare speak his name, like you know anything regarding what happened. What I am doing is a punishment fit for the crime committed, and everyone here is complicit by association, so there really are no innocents like you seem to be implying. Regardless, Dazai killed my family, so now I will kill his. It is as simple as that. An eye for an eye. So why should I not be allowed to even out the red in our ledgers? It is only what is just.”

“But is that really justice, or just impudence?” Chuuya countered.

Instead of answering, Dostoevsky simply turned his back to Chuuya's words, letting them echo before falling silent to the world forever, as he took a seat in the corner of the room. Just far enough from where the action was sure to soon take place.

Then, with four simple words uttered from his treacherous lips, everything erupted into chaos.

“Kill the gravity manipulator.”

---

17 Years Prior

It was warm that June, as Fyodor found himself curled up on the soft plush couch of The Circle’s library. Above him, open windows let the soothing heat of the afternoon sun warm his back, while simultaneously allowing a calming breeze to drift throughout the room.

In his hands was a well-loved book gifted to him by Mikhail, the spine bent and pages worn from its many years of usage.

So lost in the text, Fyodor didn’t notice that Mikhail had joined him until a strong hand was ruffling up his hair, and his familiar, carefree laugh lit up the room.

“Mikhail!” Fyodor protested, but it was obvious that his heart wasn’t in it, as he made no move to get away.

“Oh come on,” Mikhail jested in turn, but stopped despite his protest, “you know you love me.” He sat down, taking a seat next to his little brother, before wrapping an arm around his shoulders, and pulling him closer for emphasis.

After squirming in his older brother's arms for a few moments, with no actual intention of getting away, Fyodor finally gave up. Much to Mikhail’s satisfaction, as he slumped deeper into the half-embrace.

“Giving up?” Mikhail teased.

“Shut up,” Fyodor replied, but there wasn’t any heat to the words, as he leaned over to rest his head against his brother’s shoulder.

They stayed like that for a moment, before Mikhail, with his brother's permission, pulled the book from his hands.

“You know when I first got this book for you, I never expected you to like it this much. How many times have you read it now? Like seven?”

“Thirteen,” Fyodor corrected.

“Impressive,” Mikhail mused, glancing down to see which spot Fyodor had left off at, before handing the book back.

“You know, when I was younger, someone who was very special to me gave me that very same book,” Mikhail said, with a small squeeze of Fyodor’s shoulder and a reminiscent look in his eyes accompanying his words. “I remember that after we’d parted ways and I accidentally lost the copy, it was something that I searched long and hard for, in an attempt to find it again, just because I had enjoyed it that much. It was irritating though, because I could just never seem to find it. Like the story had just been a figment of my imagination that I must’ve dreamt up or something. It wasn’t until after I found you that I found another copy in town. It was sitting at this empty table in a cafe, lost and abandoned. It seemed a waste to just let it sit there collecting dust, so I grabbed it and gave it to you shortly after. I'd always thought that I’d want to read it over and over again once I managed to find another copy, but I think I’m just happy letting the book be and moving on with my life. Still, I’m glad that you’re getting a good use out of it, and even though once was enough for me, I’m glad to see that you enjoy it so much that you’ve someone managed to read it thirteen times. So, I just want you to know that I’m really proud of you. You know that right, Fedya? You’re a good kid. A smart one too.”

Instead of saying anything Fyodor just let his eyes close, head resting upon his brother’s shoulder and enjoying the feel of basking in the warmth of the sun’s gentle rays radiating through the openings of the windows up above.

Mikhail pulled Fyodor closer, letting him drift off in the peace of the moment.

“I love you, kid.”

---

Present

The sound of a gunshot rang through the air, as Kunikida fired off his pistol and the bullet slammed into Chuuya’s chest, before bouncing off and clattering to the ground.

Before him, Dazai stood stock still, as though he were caught in a nightmare. Which honestly, Chuuya supposed, he kind of was. But now, wasn’t really the best time for breaking down the weight of it all. Therapy and all that other crap would just have to come later if they wanted any chance of survival

“Dazai, snap out of it,” Chuuya pleaded. “I don’t want to kill your friends, but they’re kind of leaving me no choice unless you figure out a way out of this for us.”

The sound of a katana being unsheathed, forced Chuuya’s gaze away from where Dazai stood, to warily eye Fukuzawa.  

The older man met his eyes unflinchingly, before barreling towards him faster than Chuuya's eyes could track.

The blade swung through the air, headed straight for his heart. It all happened so fast that instinct alone had him reversing the pull of gravity on the blade the moment it made contact, intending for the blade and Fukuzawa to be sent careening off in the opposite direction.

Except instead of that happening, the moment contact was made, Fukuzawa and his katana just flickered and glitched out of existence, covered in a snow-like green light, as though neither had ever even been there in the first place.

“What the fuck…” Chuuya backpedaled, reevaluating the area to discover that not only had Fukuzawa vanished, but so had everyone else. So now, it was only him, Dostoevsky, and Dazai, who was still frozen amid the hellbent conundrum.

Searching his mind for answers as to whether any of them had ever been there at all, he suddenly remembered the feeling of Kunikida’s bullet slamming into his chest, before clattering harmlessly to the ground.

That had to have been real. He’d felt that.

But when he looked, the bullet was gone too.

Unless…

Chuuya headed back over to the spot where he remembered the bullet having fallen, feeling around for it with the point of his shoe. For a long moment, there was nothing, until suddenly he felt something roll beneath the craftsmanship of the fine leather.

This was an illusion. One of them was casting an illusion.

Tensing, Chuuya waited for the inevitability of facing his would-be killers essentially blind. Casting his mind back, he tried to think about who exactly it was that was doing this. It took him a moment until finally he remembered a snippet of conversation he’d once had with Dazai about some kid from the Agency named Tanizaki. He could barely remember what the conversation itself had been centered on, but he was pretty sure it’d revolved around Dazai somehow using Tanizaki’s ability to steal canned crab without his knowledge.

He’d thought the story had been pretty funny at the time, he recalls.

Now though, he finds nothing about Tanizaki’s ability anything of the sort.

“I know what you’re doing,” Chuuya snapped, “just quit all of this illusion crap already and fight me face-to-face.”

Nothing of the sort happened, but he supposed the goading was at least worth a shot.

Instead, the sound of two guns went off, the bullets slamming uselessly into his side, before hitting the floor much like the first. His mind quickly tried to surmise who was doing the shooting, eventually concluding that one of them had to be Kunikida and the other perhaps being the American? It would at least be in character from what he’d heard of that country.

Still, it wasn’t like the guns would do much to someone like him and they had to know that. This meant that this was being done as a distraction, to force his attention away from the remaining ability users who could use that distraction to take him on unawares.

The tantalizing whispers of Arahabaki began to grow in his mind, promising how quickly it could all be over if only he used corruption. Still, his resolve held. As much as he personally didn’t care all too much for these people, they had given Dazai a better life at the Agency. At least far better than anything he’d ever had at the Port Mafia. They too were Dazai’s family, and he just didn’t have the heart in him to take that from him, despite any threats he might make. Hence why he let the bullets clatter to the floor, instead of just boomeranging them straight back into the bodies that had sent them his way.

That bastard, Dostoevsky, probably already knew all that too. He had to.

The compressing sound of a blade slicing through air caught his attention at the last moment before it struck. Spinning around, he caught the invisible blade in his hand, while using the other to land a punch against the swordsman’s cheek, with enough force to send them sprawling unconscious to the floor. He took a moment to think of who it had been, before deciding on Fukuzawa, from the long brittle hair he’d felt upon his fist while making contact.

One down. Now there were just eight more to go.

Great.

The faint swishing of clothing behind him was the only thing that alerted him to the next attack.  

Chuuya spun around, grabbing the fist headed for him on a lucky guess, just as the feeling of cold steel slammed into his back. Keeping his grip on the first attacker's fist, he reversed the gravity against the blade to send it careening in the opposite direction, but unfortunately not quite fast enough. Chuuya winced as the blade tore through his back, luckily only superficially. Still, he hated that someone had even managed to land a hit in the first place.

Forcing his mind away from the unfortunate hit for the moment, as there was simply no time to dwell on such things, he pulled his initial attacker forward by his grasp on their fist, before wrapping his other hand around their jugular and squeezing with just enough force to make their body sag in his grip.

He let the unconscious body to the floor. All the while, the irritating feeling of bullets continued to slam against his body, entirely useless and beyond aggravating.

It was time to deal with Blondie and the American.

Running towards the source of the bullets, Chuuya managed to slam into one of the gunmen, tackling him to the floor. The force of it all seemed to have knocked this one out too, as the person fell limp far too quickly for it to be a fake-out, yet their chest still rose and fell with each breath signaling that they remained alive. It was probably the American, he quickly judged, given that he was sure Kunikida had a far higher chance of dodging and knowing how to break a fall.

“Poe!” A voice cried out, somewhere to his right, and then uncoordinated fists were slamming uselessly into his side. The person, whoever it was, had to know that what they were doing was futile, but that hardly mattered. Whatever they were doing now, the gesture was entirely based upon emotion. So incredibly human.

His stomach sunk at the thought, an inkling of guilt settling into his bones for what he had to do next.

Spinning around, he slammed a fist into the person’s stomach, letting them fall unconscious next to the American.

That made four. He was halfway through and had managed not to kill anyone yet. Despite Dazai still being totally out of it.

Standing up straight once more, Chuuya surveyed his surroundings, listening for even the faintest sound of footsteps, the whistle of a blade, or a fist swinging through the air.

Instead, he was met with nothing. Even the gunfire from Kunikida’s firearm had been silenced.

“Stop hiding already,” Chuuya demanded, “it’s already four versus one, are you really going to take the coward’s way out?”

Again, there was silence. Nothing but silence.

Until finally, someone broke it. Shattering what had felt like a film of ice coating the air into a million irreparable pieces.

“Chuuya,” the voice, both a familiar and welcome one, rang through the air.  

He turned around to face it.

Before him stood Dazai, seeming to have finally come out of whatever trance he’d fallen into.

“Dazai, thank fuck. You got a plan? I’ve taken four of them out already, but don't worry I kept them alive. So I’m guessing it’s just Yosano, Kenji, Kunikida, and Tanizaki now. Those are their names, right? Please, tell me you’ve got a plan.”

“It’ll be fine,” Dazai assured him, “of course I’ve got a plan. I always have a plan.”

Closing the distance between them, relieved that Dazai had finally snapped out of it, an odd almost unsettled feeling began to fill his chest.

Something sounded off about Dazai’s voice.

But that was crazy. Wasn’t it?

Yes. It was, he decided.

For, in the end, his loyalty and trust for Dazai would always win out.  

He let himself relax just a bit, relieved that now that Dazai had a plan maybe they'd both really be able to get The Book and get out of here alive without killing everyone from the Agency.

With Dazai here, perhaps everything really would be okay.

“Everything will be fine,” Dazai said, echoing his thoughts, “I promise.”

Then, before he could even register what was happening, the cold feeling of a chilled steel dagger slammed into his left shoulder.  The man before him tensed upon noticing that he’d just barely missed his heart, before twisting the dagger and making the wound explode with even more pain. 

This wasn't Dazai.

Dazai didn't sound quite like this.

Dazai would never have such shit aim.

Of course he wouldn't.

The image of Dazai before him flickered into something resembling pixelated green snow, before vanishing. In Dazai’s place stood Tanizaki with the blade still firmly planted in Chuuya’s shoulder, before tearing it out and fading back into the background, leaving Chuuya gasping in pain as blood began to pour from the wound in what seemed like dangerous amounts.

If that Dazai hadn’t been real, then where the fuck was the real Dazai? He scanned the area, while his right hand came up to his shoulder in a rather useless attempt to stop the bleeding.

Only Dostoevsky remained in sight, a smile lighting up his face in the distance.

Dazai was gone.

Notes:

I hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter! <3

Chapter 41: Who Knows Such Things Anyway?

Summary:

He wanted to go home.

But how could he, when such a place didn’t even truly exist? When it never even had in the first place?

Notes:

I'm alive. I'm currently in my last semester of University, so that's been wild. It's crazy to think about how much has happened since I started writing this, like time has seriously gone by so fast. I look forward to writing and releasing the ending of this fic, as we draw increasingly nearer to the final chapter 50, which is insane because initially this was just gonna be like 2 chapters. Meanwhile we've now got like what? Over 110k words? Lmao. So much for brevity, this shit's gonna be long as fuck by the time it's done.

TW: Child Abuse, Homophobia, Graphic Depictions of Violence

The world felt like it was spinning, as enraptured in chaos as it was. Yet, Dazai found himself frozen in place, and trapped in the eye of the storm.

Warring thoughts waged through his mind, as he desperately searched for a way out of it all. He just needed to think of a way to save both Chuuya and The Agency.  

The ending of it all was still yet to be determined. So, there still had to be some kind of hope that such a wish could become reality.

Yet, every train of thought that he delved into always resulted in someone dying. Every ‘solution’ was just as fucked as his own head, and it made him want to just sink down to his knees and scream his throat raw.

If he hadn't killed Mikhail, would the world have been different? Would everyone still be alive?

---

13 Years Prior

The sound of snow crunching beneath his feet reverberated in Dazai’s ears.

Something once pristine and beautiful, marred and decimated by the imprint of his very own existence.

It was just like the snow that had been pulverized beneath the weight of that boy’s brother only a mere thirty minutes prior, as the once untouched white surrounding the boy, Mikhail, had gradually turned scarlet by the inherently destructive nature of his malignant hands.

And sure, he’d let the kid, Fyodor, live, but it was freezing out and he was now completely alone. Chances were that he would freeze to death without help. So had he actually saved him or just prolonged a miserable ending to a tragic life?

He wanted to go home.

But how could he, when such a place didn’t even truly exist? When it never even had in the first place?

“Stop lagging,” his grandfather snapped up ahead of him, sending an unwelcome feeling, akin to shards of glass hurling through his gut, through him.

Avoiding the cold gaze now bearing down upon him, Dazai picked up his pace, in order to put himself right next to his grandfather, forcing him to take multiple steps for his grandfather's every single pace, so that he could properly keep up.

He was so tired.

“You still have an accent when you speak Russian. You need to get rid of it,” his grandfather continued, his voice sharp with criticism, despite his his own accent in Russian being much thicker.

“Okay, I’m sorry.”

“I mean I ask so little of you, and still you continue to be such a great disappointment. It’s honestly just exhausting to watch. When I was your age, I already spoke twelve languages fluently, shot much straighter than you’ve ever managed to, and carried out hundreds of flawless executions for my father. Meanwhile, you haven’t done shit, and don’t think that I don’t fucking know that you let that kid live,” a manic glint lit up hungry eyes and Dazai froze as his heart seemed to plummet in his chest, “I see everything and I only allowed it to see if you’d really follow through with that asinine shit. Still, he’ll probably die anyway with the awful state of his injuries and just how cold it is out here. It'll probably be much more painful than the quick death that you could've given him, but I'm sure that you've already come to that conclusion yourself. You’re exactly like your mother Shūji, a waste of time and space. You keep this up and what happened to her and that asshole of a boyfriend might be your fate next.”

Shūji. He'd always hated that name. It's why he'd picked his own, not that his grandfather respected that in the least.

Images of blood-splattered walls and the bits and pieces of his parents scattered across the floor flickered unpromptedly through his mind’s eye in tangent with the loose thought of his old identity.

He remembered his mother’s favorite red heel, protruding with grotesque blood and bone, while her legs lay chopped up on the other side of the room. He remembered the two glazed-over brown eyes of his father rolling grotesquely across the floor of that accursed room.

And screaming. So much screaming.

He remembered being so scared that he’d be next.

He didn’t want to ever feel the pain that he’d seen in their eyes and heard in their screams. So lost in their pain that they’d forgotten about anything else.

When he died, he wanted it to be quick and painless. Since that dreadful day, he’d sworn to himself that he would never go through the deathly, hellish torment that his parents had ended up meeting in their deaths, even if it meant taking things into his own hands.

“I’ll do better, I promise.”

He knew what was coming next, but he also knew that it was pointless to stop it.

The aged palm of his grandfather slammed into his face with such force that it sent him flying to the cold ground beneath him.

Snow buried its way into his clothes, and he forced himself to stay still and refrain from shivering like his body desperately wanted to in response to the cold shock.

Shivering was for women, according to his grandfather. So, while he thought that was stupid, he dreaded to think of how much worse it would make this already awful situation for him if he did.

“Doing better isn’t good enough,” his grandfather’s gruff voice sounded above him. “You need to be perfect.”

“Okay.”

“Now get up, and stop laying there like you're some kind of despondent little girl. You’re a boy Shūji, and boys don’t succumb to dumb womanly emotions. I mean, you’ll never find any woman to love you if you keep acting like this. Even if you do happen to find one, at this point it's practically guaranteed that she's bound to leave you in the end, because if you keep acting the way that you are, she's bound to end up thinking that you’re some kind of fucked up queer. I mean, you and I both know about how everyone feels about those freaks. So stop cowering down there like you have any reason to feel sorry for yourself. I mean you should be grateful, you know? Most grandfathers wouldn’t take in a kid as stupid as you. Most grandfathers wouldn’t be as kind and charitable as I have. Most grandfathers wouldn't look past how you're such a failure that even my own emotional bitch of a daughter didn’t want you. Even that idiot boyfriend of hers saw you for what you really are, but me? I made that sacrifice and took you in, and I promise you that you’ll be stronger for it, even if right now you are still quite the fucking disappointment. I suppose that I'll just have to continue to beat it the fuck out of you.”

“Okay.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Dazai’s blood turned as cold as the ice surrounding them.

He hated him.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

---

Present

Time was running out. He needed to do something now.

The sound of gunshots rang throughout the space, as he looked over just in time to see Chuuya tackle an invisible figure to the ground.

“Poe!” A voice cried out, from across the room. It had to be Ranpo, Dazai deduced immediately. Of course, it was Ranpo.

He had to step in and help Chuuya now or this could end up going south really soon for both sides. Sure, Chuuya was strong and seemed to be doing a good job of taking the agency members out without killing or seriously injuring them, but he could only keep it up for so long before he was faced with a life-or-death decision.

However, just before he could step in to help, he belatedly noticed the presence of someone discreetly approaching him, only given away by the creaking of a faulty floorboard. Yet, before he could do anything in retaliation, or call out to Chuuya, a hand clamped down over his and a strong arm wrapped around his waist, as he was pulled bodily out of the room, and then into an adjacent one before anyone even had the chance to notice what had happened.

Granted, that was with the exception of Fyodor, of course, who just watched the whole interaction taking place with an amused smile as though he were watching some somehow even more fucked up version of The Kardashians.

Behind him, the person had already rematerialized with the touch of No Longer Human, and now stood in full view of him, but that hardly mattered. He’d know this person even without being able to see them. Rather, he knew exactly who this person was the moment that floorboard had creaked.  

This person was one of the only people who knew how to sneak up on him.  

This person was someone who he cared for deeply.  

This person was someone whom he was now terrified he might have to take out to get back to Chuuya, who was now alone, with a fate left terrifyingly in a limbo of uncertainty.

Kunikida shoved Dazai into the corner of the room and took a few steps back, clutching his head with one hand as though in the midst of a terrible migraine. He then went on to clench his jaw and grit his teeth like what he wanted to say to Dazai physically hurt.

“What’s happening now is just like what happened with Gogol and The Book, right Dazai? Please tell me that’s true because my mind feels like it's collapsing inwards on itself with just how much I can’t believe this. Everyone out there is still under Dostoevsky's spell. At first, Ranpo did have some doubts, but the President immediately pulled him aside and by the time they were back, Ranpo had changed his mind. I don’t trust it, Dazai. I just don’t trust it. So please, tell me that this is all wrong because it has to be. It needs to be.”

The problem was that every word Dostoevsky had said was technically true. Granted there had been some points of perspective left out.

His mind desperately searched for the right answer. A way to get out of this. Yet the only way that came to mind with at least some level of prospect and potential was something that he didn't really relish in doing.

But was there really any other choice?

He needed to talk to him.  

Genuinely. 

He needed to just be honest and tell him why he’d done what he did, even though he knew that what he'd done was still appalling, no matter any of his excuses. At least that way, he could give his friend some perspective. At least that way, he would know why.

He couldn’t joke or lie his way out of this one. Not this time.

“Kunikida, everything that Dostoevsky said was true-”

“Dazai, no. Please,” Kunikida cut him off, practically pleading.

He hated this. He hated being so vulnerable.

Yet it was the only possible way that he could think of to get out of this situation as successfully as possible and return to Chuuya’s side before anything too terrible happened.

Taking a deep breath, Dazai forced himself to continue.

“Let me finish,” he said, letting out a heavy sigh, “just let me finish talking and explain it from my point of view. Please, that’s all I ask of you. I know what I did was wrong, but it’s more complicated than that, so please, just let me explain.”

The air around them felt suffocating, but Kunikida still acquiesced to his request with a minute nod.

“Okay.”

“Kunikida, everything that Dostoevsky said was true,” Dazai repeated, feeling the familiar of shame curling uncomfortably in his gut.

“However,” Dazai continued, “there’s more to it than what he thinks happened. You have to understand that I was only nine when this all occurred, okay? My parents had just been killed a few years prior in a mafia hit, which left me in the custody of my grandfather who wasn’t really… well to say the least, he wasn’t really all that great. He actually ordered the mafia hit I mentioned, which in my opinion is just hilarious given that he hated children, but that hit ended him up with one.”

“Dazai, I’m so sorry, I never knew,” Kunikida said, but he just shook his head.

“It’s fine… they weren’t all that great either, I guess. But I mean it is what it is. Anyway, that isn’t the point. When I met Mikhail and Fyodor, I was nine and like I said, under my grandfather’s custody, who was the head of the Port Mafia at the time. That man was probably the most broken person I’d ever met in my life, violent and abusive to anyone and everyone around him. And while I don’t think I would’ve minded dying at that period of my life, I knew that I never wanted to die at his hands, because I knew that if he did it, he’d make it really fucking hurt.”

The walls of the room felt as though they were slowly pressing closer, claustrophobically entrapping him within the memories that frequented his nightmares.

“Anyways,” Dazai continued, “he’s the reason I met Fyodor and committed the actions that led to Mikhail’s death. I didn’t do what I did because I wanted to kill him. You have to understand that, I need you to understand that. It’s just because I was nine and scared. He’d taken me to St. Petersburg, Russia because apparently he’d heard some rumor about The Book being there, which it was. Eventually, we found the place where it was held in this abandoned facility-type thing, filled with a bunch of homeless kids and young people. It wasn't very long after that that he'd lit it on fire and burned the whole place to the ground. I remember him laughing while it happened with this deranged look in his eyes. He told me to remember what I was witnessing because it was what true beauty in the world looked like. Yet, all I could see was people being burned to death and dying of smoke inhalation, and it made me wonder that if one day I became too boring or disappointing in his eyes, would I face that exact same fate too? Dying in anguish and agony? And while at that time I don’t think that I really wanted to live, I knew that I definitely didn’t want to go in any way that he ever could’ve designed. Not after what I’d seen him do. I knew that a way out by his hands would be inescapable and ugly if he truly set his mind to it. So I avoided it at all costs because deep down I was terrified about just exactly what that bastard was capable of.”

The walls seemed to somehow get even more impossibly close around him, as all of the wretched memories from that time continued to flood into his mind without mercy. For the umpteenth time in his life, he found himself once again grateful that his grandfather was long dead now, thanks to the assassination that he'd carried out with Mori, as despicable as that man was too by his own right.

“So, because I was scared, I did what he wanted. I acted out his plan to kill Mikhail by using his little brother’s ability, which we were able to deduce from months of information from an informant on the inside, who also died in that fire because my grandfather never allowed any loose ends to ever go on living in any of his projects. I think the guy’s name was Sergei… Sergei Nechayev? I’m not totally sure though, so I could be wrong. I suppose that it hardly matters anyway now, what with him being dead and all. But yeah, everything was burning to ash and the man who I was stuck with was basking in it all like he was at one of the Illumination shows in Nabana no Sato.”

“I understand what I did was bad,” Dazai said, “but you have to understand that at the time I didn’t think I had any other choice but to do what I did. I was nine and scared and didn’t know what else to do. So, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Silence filled the room, as Dazai waited for Kunikida to act. In his heart, he knew the answer to what was bound to happen, but his mind still ran amuck with all of the terrible possibilities and reactions that it could possibly conjure up.

However, despite everything that told him Kunikida would hate him and leave him then and there, comforting arms still only wrapped their way around Dazai and pulled him close in a tight embrace. While, in his heart, he'd known that Kunikida would forgive him, this kind of reaction was so unexpected that for a long moment, he just stood there frozen. Until finally, his mind caught up with reality, and he returned the embrace with a desperate fervor.

This was the first time they’d ever hugged, he realized belatedly.

“I’m so sorry that happened,” Kunikida said, still holding him, “you could’ve told me earlier. I would’ve understood.”

“Surprisingly enough, it’s not my favorite subject to talk about,” Dazai replied, going with the honest answer, “but thank you. I really appreciate it.”

They hugged for a moment longer before finally pulling apart.

Kunikida looked at him with a bit of a twinkle in his eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that you appreciate me before.”  

The teasing comment made a warm feeling blossom in Dazai's chest, as he could feel the beginnings of their original dynamic reignite once more.

“Did I say that?” Dazai teased back, lifting a finger to tap his chin, as though he were in deep thought, eyes drifting off to the side. “I don’t know if I quite remember that.”

“Yeah haha, very funny.”

He wanted this moment of peace to last forever, but nothing lasted forever, and as painful as it was, there was still one more thing that Kunikida needed to know.

“Before we go back, there’s one more thing I need to tell you and I don’t know how to put it lightly so I’m just going to go ahead and say it.”

Kunikida’s brows furrowed in concern, “what do you mean?”

“Kunikida, Atsushi’s dead. He was killed, while caught up in Fyodor’s plan to get back at me and pocket The Book. That bastard strapped him up in a suicide vest and blew him up. Despite it all, the kid tried to take him out with him, but he still somehow managed to get away. I’m so sorry.”

All the levity from the previous moment was gone now, as Kunikida trembled where he stood, quite obviously in shock, as his mouth opened and closed, like a fish out of water.  

He seemed as though he'd suddenly forgotten how to speak in the midst of the overwhelming grief that had just enveloped him.

In the end, the single word that ended up coming out of his mouth was small, as his voice cracked painfully.

“What?”

“Doppo, I’m so sorry.”

“No… no, he can’t be… you’re lying! You have to be lying! Tell me you're lying, Osamu!”

Before him, Kunikida was trembling, his face crumbling with the grief of such a loss.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ll kill him. I’ll-" Kunikida took a deep breath, angrily swiping away the stray tears that rolled down his cheeks, not that it did much as they just kept coming.

“We’ll kill him together,” Dazai promised, “but one thing that I do need you to promise me is that you won’t harm Chuuya, and will help me keep the others from harming him too. He has no part in this, Dostoevsky’s just trying to use him to get to me.”

At first, apprehension filled Kunikida’s gaze, but it wasn’t too much longer before it'd bled into a look that could be defined as something much more thoughtful.

“Why is Chuuya so important to you, Dazai?”

The question made him pause as he racked his mind for a proper answer, despite his heart ringing out the truth instantly.

“Killing him could damage our alliance with The Port Mafia, which could end up leading to further much more pressing problems, because-”

“No,” Kunikida cut him off, “that’s not what I asked. I don’t care about why it’s practical to keep Chuuya safe for political reasons, I want to know why you want to keep him safe. I know you, Dazai, and I know how smart you are. You’ll always have some kind of loophole for anything that could get messed up in a political context, so why do you really care about what happens to Chuuya?”

Dazai didn’t answer, and the air brimmed with tension.

“I mean even thinking back before all of this, you used to find almost any excuse to bring him up at the Agency. I suppose most of what you said were complaints, but there was always an undertone of respect. You care about him, don’t you?”

Silence.

“It’s okay if you do,” Kunikida continued, “you’re my friend and I’ll always support you. So, just let me ask you this. Do you love him, Dazai?”

For a long moment, silence held the room hostage, as the temperature seemed to drop into the negatives. However, as Dazai finally raised his gaze up from the ground after a few more moments of silence had gone by, it was as though the sun had risen again into a clear sky full of transparency and promise.

“Yes, I do. Love him, I mean.”

“Then that’s all I need to know. Now let's go kill that rat bastard."

Notes:

I hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter <3

Chapter 42: The Rain Stops, The Wind Blows

Summary:

Chuuya’s vision swam before his eyes, as blood continued to pour from the wound in his shoulder.  He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to hold on much longer like this.  Especially with more people, whom he had yet to neutralize.

If only these assholes weren’t Dazai’s friends or forcibly brainwashed or whatever the fuck else was going on.  It really would have made his life so much easier if this situation were only more black and white.

Notes:

Heyyyyyyyyyyyyy. So, I know it’s been a while, but alas I am alive. Slayyyy. A lot has happened. I graduated university, moved to a whole new area, got a corporate job with the best spinny chair in the world and am all in all probably the happiest I’ve ever been. So alas, now that I don’t work retail 40-50 hrs a week on top of full time university, and my body has mostly recovered from all of that, I have more time to write! So, I don’t want to jinx it, but I should hopefully be able to crank out these last several chapters much faster now.

Okay anyways, love ya’ll and hope you enjoy.

Blood began to spurt in uncomfortable amounts from the wound in his shoulder where Tanizaki had stabbed him, causing Chuuya to tense, before finally dropping to his knees.  His right hand lifted to clench down tightly over the wound.

His ribs, in turn, sent sharp pains of protest through his abdomen; an unfortunate result in his sudden change of position.

Why couldn’t anything ever be easy?

“Stay the hell away from me,” Chuuya demanded through gritted blood-speckled teeth. Meanwhile, his eyes darted around the room, desperately trying to figure out where the next attack would be coming from .

It was only the faint creaking of a floorboard and the subtle shift in the air to his right that alerted him of the next attack.

Removing his bloodied hand from his ruined shoulder, Chuuya grabbed the invisible fist aimed for his head just before it made contact.

He squeezed.

Bones crunched and splintered into bits in his hand, as the scream of the perpetrator reverberated through the room.  However, with the shock coursing through their body, it didn’t take long until they’d crumpled to the ground themselves; unconscious and utterly silent.

He fucking hated this.

Chuuya’s vision swam before his eyes, as blood continued to pour from the wound in his shoulder.  He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to hold on much longer like this.  Especially with more people, whom he had yet to neutralize.

If only these assholes weren’t Dazai’s friends or forcibly brainwashed or whatever the fuck else was going on.  It really would have made his life so much easier if this situation were only more black and white.

But it wasn’t and he wasn’t about to kill Dazai’s friends, so he forced himself to carefully tune into his surroundings . He had to make sure that he did this right without any killing or getting himself even more injured than he already was.

So he waited for the subtlest shift in the air, the faintest sound of footsteps on the old floorboards, or whatever the fuck else he managed to catch. 

Anything that could give him a focused location.

And then, there it was.

Creak.

It’d come from the floorboard just five paces in front of him.

It took less than a second for Chuuya to raise his arm and send the assailant careening into the far wall before they subsequently fell into unconsciousness. 

With the copious amounts of blood loss Chuuya was currently experiencing, the action had taken a lot of focus to execute properly and make sure the person only fell into unconsciousness rather than death.

It’s why he didn’t realize the knife until it was already partially plunged into his back.

Letting out a gasp of pain to try and bury the scream that longed to erupt from his chest, he forced the weight of gravity to stop both the knife and its user from continuing the action, before flinging both of them backward.

As the knife was pulled from his flesh, the scream that he’d been previously trying to hide finally left him in an anguished cry, as blood began to cascade from the wound, just like the one on his shoulder.

And fuck.  Why the hell had he taken that out?  He shouldn’t have done that.  He knew better than that.

With that thought, Chuuya crumpled to the floor, his whole body screaming in pain.

After having thrown the final perpetrator, Tanizaki, against the far wall, reality had finally returned to its original state. 

Surrounding him, he could see the bodies of all of Dazai’s friends whose minds had been twisted by Dostoevsky, the bastard who sat there watching everything with a look on his face akin to amusement.

Chuuya longed to reach out and crush Dostoevsky with his ability. However, with how unstable everything was at the moment with The Book, Dostoevsky's own dangerous ability, and Dazai missing, he was worried about what such an action could lead to. 

There were just too many unknown variables to simply take Dostoevsky out like that .  Besides, he still wasn’t totally sure how Dostoevsky’s ability worked anyway.  So even if he did reach out to Dostoevsky with his power would that be equivalent to direct touch since the force came from him?  Would it still end up resulting in his death?

He didn’t know.

He was entirely out of his depth.

So instead, he’d just have to stall until he figured things out or Dazai returned with a plan.

Thinking of Dazai…

“What the fuck did you do with Dazai?”

At that, Dostoevsky just laughed, before finally rising to his feet and making his way over the gravity manipulator.

“ Chuuya, I didn’t do anything to Dazai.  He just decided to leave you like everyone always does.  It hurts , doesn’t it?   Always coming in second?  I saw him running off with Kunikida earlier actually, while you were fighting for your life. So, I suppose he just decided to get out of here while he still has the chance and leave with the man who replaced you.”

“You’re lying,” Chuuya protested, but to his chagrin, he finally noticed for the first time that among all of Dazai’s friends, Kunikida was indeed missing.  

"He's done it before," Dostoevsky pointed out.

In a show of defiance, Chuuya tried to force himself back to his feet before crumpling over in pain again with a grimace.

“Fuck you! I know you’re lying, you asshole because he wouldn’t do that to me again.  Not now. Not like this.  Not again.”

“So defiant,” Dostoevsky tilted his head in consideration from where he now stood towering over Chuuya, “but it’s all so obviously a façade.  You just don’t want to let people see how scared of everything you are.  So you bury that fear with anger, bravado, and defiance. You’re so terrified of being seen as weak that even now with your broken ribs, numerous stab wounds, and everything else, you’re still fighting back.  It’s honestly kind of sad if I’m being completely honest .  You don’t think you deserve to be weak or scared or sad, because why should you be allowed to feel those emotions with all that you’ve done to others?  So, of course, you hide it.  You hide it and bury those emotions until all anyone else can see is some unfeeling monster, who's hellbent on revenge, because that's what you have to be.   A monster sculpted by the cruel hands of society.   A monster who needs to tear apart those who have wronged you.  A monster who needs to tear apart the world.  A monster who needs to tear apart everything.”

“Oh fuck you, asshole, and your pompous fuck-ass speeches!  I mean, it sounds more like you're talking about yourself than me anyway. Therapy's an option, y'know? Rather than mass murder and mind control?”

Dostoevsky merely shrugged, “what does it truly matter?  Soon this will all be over and the world will know true peace.  Not whatever this is.  I mean, think about the state of the world, Chuuya, and ask yourself why you’re fighting me?   I’m trying to turn humanity into a beautiful thing.  I mean, as people we were given the human trait of empathy.  Scientifically, we know that we, as humans, are all capable of using it or at least pretending to.  Yet, instead, we all just fight and we kill and we destroy."

Fyodor’s eyes bore down into his own.

“We condemn people born with abilities they never chose to have, because the presence of the unknown is seen as a threat to be vanquished and eradicated rather than accepted and nourished.  We deny the poor the food and water that they need to survive because they don't have enough of the human construct that is currency, even though we as a society have proven that there’s enough food and water for all of us to live contented lives.  We bomb innocent children in the Middle East and justify it through the dehumanization of saying that they would’ve just been future terrorists anyway.  We know that climate change is scientifically proven to be getting worse and worse, but of course that’s the common person’s fault for using a plastic straw, not the billionaires who are responsible for over half of the damage with their private jets and endless fossil fuel usage.  We make the young and innocent fight the ruling class’s stupid blood-filled wars, bringing them back forever changed and scarred by what they see, rather than negotiating and working things out peacefully.  We look at two people in a same-sex relationship who love each other and decide they must be punished for something that would otherwise be seen as sweet and pure, had they only been a man and a woman.  We see a person born in the wrong body find themself as the person they were always meant to be, whether they be a man, woman, nonbinary, or anything else, and tell them that they’re an abomination for the crime of being true to themselves.  We force people's quality of life to revolve around how much special paper they can collect. We let the world burn and ultimately, do nothing to stop it.”

“Humanity is an abomination,” Fyodor continued, “and I plan to fix it.  I will rid the world of all of its cruelty and give us a paradise where we will all stand on equal footing; accepted and free.  Of course, to be on equal ground, I will, unfortunately, have to get rid of abilities due to the presence of power it can give one over another, but it is a minuscule price to pay for paradise.  I will construct a world where everyone, no matter their circumstances, gets the opportunity to live a fulfilling life. It'll be a world so far from what we currently experience in this late-stage fascist capitalistic hellscape that is suffocating our world of today.  I am trying to save the world, Chuuya.  I am trying to save it from the devilish state of humanity.  I will give us a world built upon goodness and truth.  I will give us a world built upon peace and integrity.  I’m trying to save the world from itself, Chuuya.  Why can’t you and Dazai see that?”

“Motherfucker, of course, I agree with all that shit and think that humanity’s a steaming pile of shit.  I’m sure Dazai does too, but it doesn’t mean you get to play God.  That kind of power is dangerous, especially in the wrong hands.  One wrong sentence or phrase and perhaps you’ve condemned us all to an even worse hellscape than this one.  I mean even if you do get the world you want, what would be the side effects of rewriting history?  What you're thinking of doing is drastic.  And sure, maybe everything turns out fine and perfect like you want it to, but what happens, if the world you think you're building ends up being even worse than the one that you already know?”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Dostoevsky mockingly pretended to ponder, “maybe my brave new world could go wrong, but I can always tweak things until I get it right, and I will get it right.”

“Okay, well, look asshole, I know the world is fucked up.  Again, I agree with everything you said about that but forcing people into subjugation under your will and what you think is the right way to do things is hypocritical.  You can still help people, but stripping free will from everyone and forcing them into things only capable of what your own will wants is tyranny.  You’d be no better than one of those capitalist dictators in this world you claim to hate.  And look, again, I do agree with you.  I, again, do agree with all those things you said earlier being incredibly fucked up, but you can still help humanity without stripping away everyone’s free will.  You can help people, by bringing justice to those who make the world that way.  You can get rid of those dictators and bitchass motherfuckers.  You can do whatever you want with them.  I don’t care.  But what you plan to do is collective punishment, in planning to take away everyone's free will.  And look, you can’t employ collective punishment just because certain individuals do incredibly fucked up things.  That’s just not right.  It’d make you just as bad as the oppressor.”

“I am not the oppressor here!” Dostoevsky yelled, finally losing his composure, “over and over again the world has taken everything from me!  A good family, a good life, my brother, and now I am just trying to fix it all. I am trying to save everyone so that no one will ever have t o experience that kind of pain again! It's not collective punishment. It's only what's necessary."

“Fine then,” Chuuya snapped, “don’t listen to me and become the thing you claimed to hate.  A God ruling over everyone else.  Forcing his will upon the world.”

“You know… I was going to wait for Dazai to come back first before I killed you, but perhaps I should just do it now.  I suppose it won't be as satisfying as doing it in front of him, but it’s no matter.  I’ll still have my revenge either way.  Besides, I’ve had enough of your idiotic thoughts for a lifetime.”

Instinctively, Chuuya began to scramble backward, a trail of blood following him, as he dragged his weakening body across the floor.  One touch from Dostoevsky and it would all be over. It couldn't end like this. Not now.  Fuck.  Where in the hell was Dazai?

Dostoevsky, eyes cool and lit up with a predatory glint, took his time, as he slowly followed the gravity manipulator, allowing him the illusion of a potential getaway that deep down they both knew he would never truly be able to accomplish without help.

So, when that help finally did arrive, Chuuya had never felt more relieved in his entire life.

The sound of two sets of footsteps briskly entering the room had both Chuuya and Dostoevsky turning their heads to look at the commotion, as Kunikida and Dazai burst inside.

Upon entering, it didn’t take long for Dazai’s eyes to meet his own, before widening in horror at the state of his body.

Dostoevsky, upon the return of Dazai and Kunikida, did luckily halt his lethal ascent toward Chuuya, in favor of turning his attention to Dazai.

Still, that didn’t mean Dostoevsky had forgotten him entirely.  He still carried a purpose for that bastard, one Chuuya refused to give him for as long as he could.

“Ah Dazai,” Dostoevsky smiled, “you’re just in time.”

Notes:

I hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter <3

Chapter 43: Spring Will Come Again, People Say

Summary:

“You know, you’re lucky I’ve kept you alive this long.  I was considering just waiting for you to bleed out, but maybe we should speed up this curtain call.”

Chuuya felt Dazai’s muscles tense, as he shifted his body to put himself between Chuuya and Dostoevsky.

“Let us wake up Yosano, Dostoevsky.  Please, he’s going to bleed out, and I’m not going to let that happen.”

Notes:

A new chapter for ya’ll :)

I hope ya’ll are having a good October! <3

A chill settled into the room, as Chuuya watched the interaction from the floor.  As much as he wanted to get up and fight, he knew he couldn’t.  Such an action would be equivalent to suicide.

“Get away from him, Dostoevsky.  It’s me you want, not him.”  The muscles in Dazai’s jaw visibly tightened, as he raised his gaze from Chuuya’s to meet Dostoevsky’s own.

It was silent for a long moment, before Dostoevsky finally spoke, tilting his head thoughtfully.  “The Narodniks.  Have you ever heard of them?”

“Yes, they were a 19th-century group of Russian socialists who tried to overthrow the government.  A phenomenon that was quite popular for that time, but not something I’d deem too important to be talking about right now.  You need to get away from Chuuya, Dostoevsky.”

Putting his hand in his pocket, Dostoevsky leaned back on the balls of his feet.

“The explanation you’ve given is a simple one, Dazai.  A throwaway line for every one-sided 'historical' textbook ever created.  This evil, violent group fought against the rulers of their land and lost. What monsters.  The end.  Except that's not the full story, the Narodniks were not always violent, as you say.  In the beginning, they were actually quite peaceful.  There were thousands of them, most of them young students, who traveled to and from numerous rural villages, where they educated the peasants and tried to inspire them towards fighting for a better life, where they could truly be free.”

“But you see,” Dostoevsky paused, “there was a problem.  And this problem didn't even have to do with the dictators they were against- not directly, at least.  No, hilariously not at all, because the issue, Dazai, was the people.  The peasants who had lived their oppressive ways of life for far too long. Cruel traditions of subjugation hammered into generations upon generations.  Too many of the people of that time were brainwashed into believing that the way of life that they had lived for so long was as good as it could get, because what difference could they as one person make? And even if they did join that fight for change, what if it just led to an untimely death and failure?  What if they never got to see the promised world, despite being part of the fight for it? After all, if such a thing were even possible, wouldn't it just be better to wait for it on the sidelines, because if it happens then you get to inherit its beauty without charge, and if it doesn't... well at least you're still alive.  Of course, such thoughts were not isolated to that time. You still see it everywhere in today's world."

“But still, it’s fascinating. As humans, we are all well aware of the utopia that we could live in, but the hatred and greed that rests within the heart of humanity squanders ever truly being able to obtain such a world for everyone. We could have a world that's beautiful and serene, built upon love and acceptance. Yet, instead of reaching out for such beauty, we just shrug it off.  After all, world peace and universal comfort are the naïve dreams of a child.  We, in the real world, know such a thing is not possible.  Not unless you’re truly willing to sacrifice everything first. And I mean how many people would truly be willing to do that?”

“In our world full of greed and avarice, change cannot come without violence, because violence always precedes real change. The Americans gained independence by gunning down the British.  The French fought numerous bloody revolutionary wars, as they separated heads from bodies at the guillotine to gain their independence.  The Haitians fought back against their oppressors in a bloodstained war to gain their independence.  The Cubans fought in a bloody revolt to escape their U.S.-backed dictator and gain their independence. And yet, even though all of those countries gained a version of freedom for some, you’ll notice that violence, pain, and death are still prevalent in all of them. This is important to remember."

“Getting back to the Narodniks, though.  They saw that the peasants of Russia were lost.  Lost in a world where they felt like change was impossible.  Like they were caught in the rush of a hurricane, swept away into its strong winds at a frightening velocity, and yanked away from any solid earth beneath their feet that might’ve otherwise grounded them in the belief that they could attain freedom.  So, the Narodniks had to show them that it was possible in some other way.”

“Talking hadn’t done anything, the Narodniks knew that, and so some brave members came together, to carry out those violent acts you mentioned.  They assassinated the Tsar, Alexander II, and committed several other acts of so-called terrorism to try and free the minds of their fellow Russians who were still lost in the dark. They tried to show them that the cruel dictators who tried to control their lives were not infallible nor were they Gods. They tried to show them that if they, as Russians, came together to bring about a new world, they could.  And yet, despite this, the Narodniks still lost.  Sure, the government was hunting them down and there was a bit of infighting between each other and other similar campaigns, but the real reason that they lost was because of everyday people. If the peasants had not had their hope for a free Russia squandered and crushed at birth, if they had joined the Narodniks, then perhaps they would’ve freed Russia.  But they didn’t.  So the Narodniks fell, because of the scared common citizen, and with it a freer Russia."

“How the fuck is any of that bullshit relevant,” Chuuya spat out through gritted teeth, his hands clutching at his wounds in what practically felt like a useless attempt now to stem the bleeding.

“It’s not something I’d expect you to know.  I mean, are you even truly human?”

“Stop it, Dostoevsky,” Dazai said from the other side of the room, as he cautiously began to approach.  “I get what you’re saying.  That shaky or momentary change only comes with violence because those in power need to be forced into submission to bring about any kind of real change. Yet, true lasting change comes from changing everyone’s minds about the utopia we could have.  I get it, but free will is still fundamental to humanity.  I'm sure we can find other ways to make things better that doesn’t mean forcing every person on the planet to be something that they're not, because if you do that then is that even life anymore or just a program running at your ideological whims?”

“That's a good question," Dostoevsky replied, pretending to ponder Dazai's words.  "Perhaps, you should ask your special little friend.  I have a feeling Chuuya knows a lot about programs.”

“You motherfuck-” Chuuya’s voice cut off with a gasp of pain as he tried once more to get to his feet, before sinking back to the ground, his wounds flaring with ire.

He could feel Dazai’s eyes on him.  He could see the fear and vulnerability that he too felt himself, as he looked into those brown eyes.

How had everything gone so wrong so fast?

Then, the next thing he knew, Dazai was quickening his steps until he had finally reached Chuuya and sank to his knees by his side to examine his wounds. 

Surprisingly, Dostoevsky let it happen without trying to interfere.  Meanwhile, Kunikida stayed where he was on the other side of the room, staying as a silent observer for the moment.

“Did he do this to you?” Dazai asked, his hands slightly shaking as they hovered over Chuuya's wounds.

“Me?” Dostoevsky laughed, “no Dazai, I didn’t do that.  It was your friends; those Agency freaks, after you left him all alone.  If he tried, I’m sure Chuuya could’ve killed them all, but he held himself back for you and it resulted in this.  The things we do for love.” 

“You still brainwashed them into doing this to him.  It’s still your fault.  Kunikida, I need you to wake up Yosano.  He’s bleeding out.  I’m sure we can convince her to help if it’s the both of us.”  

Chuuya held back a groan of pain, as Dazai’s hands finally stilled in their shaking to firmly press down over his own to put more pressure on the wounds.

Kunikida began to approach Yosano, but not before Dostoevsky reached her side first.

“One step closer and she’s gone,” he warned.

Kunikida stilled, his stance tense.

“Please Dostoevsky,” Dazai tried, pushing aside his pride.  “Please don’t do this.”

“You know there was another thing about the Narodniks that I always found interesting. It's a rather intriguing prospect that ties back into that still prevalent violence, pain, and death that remained in all of those countries that went through revolutions for freedom that I mentioned earlier.  I told you it was important to remember for a reason.  For when the Narodniks killed the Tsar at the time, Alexander II, the aristocrats just replaced him with Alexander III.  Terrified of ending up like his father, Tsar Alexander III tightened autocratic control and forcefully dismantled even the smallest signs of potential revolution.  You see, that’s the other thing about people.  You can never truly kill evil, because more evil will always take its place.”

“Save the speech asshole,” Chuuya said between gritted teeth, “it doesn’t make you sound smart.  You just sound like you have a giant stick up your ass.”

Instead of getting offended, Dostoevsky just laughed, “perhaps I should make what I’m saying easier to understand for the more... simpler-minded among us,” his gaze flickered between Chuuya and Kunikida.

“Picture a crazy Uncle, one so many seem to have; a rare guest at family gatherings. He fills the air with his wild musings, a chaotic symphony that makes you question his sanity.  Yet, despite it all, he’s still family."

"Then one fateful day, amidst laughter and stories, a thunderous roar breaks from the sky above—a bomb descends, and in a heartbeat, chaos reigns.  You awaken to silence, surrounded by the stillness of the lost: your eccentric Uncle, along with others, now mere memories."

"So, tell me, when you arise from this nightmare, do you thank the hands that forged such destruction?  That caused you such pain?  Or does a fire of vengeance burn within you, because you start thinking what if your Uncle was right? I mean, they did silence him after all and took out the others with him to do it."

"The thing is that you can’t simply strike down terrorists because just like Hydras from those old Greek myths, you would simply end up only creating more and more to stand in their place. Consequently eradicating all evil would mean extinguishing humanity itself, and what sorrow would lie in such solitude?"

"So, the only path to quelling such darkness is to embrace it, to wear its mantle yourself. Only then can you rewrite the narrative of this world, crafting a tapestry where freedom can bloom for all.  For to truly rebuild the world you have to rewrite its narrative entirely."

“For the love of fuck, this isn’t fucking poetry night at some dank-ass bar and you’re the farthest thing from this fucking martyr you seem to be painting yourself as.  Would you just shut the fuck up already?”  Chuuya said, rolling his eyes.

A darkness glittered in Dostoevsky’s eyes, as he took one step away from Yosano and one step closer to Chuuya.

“You know, you’re lucky I’ve kept you alive this long.  I was considering just waiting for you to bleed out, but maybe we should speed up this curtain call.”

Chuuya felt Dazai’s muscles tense, as he shifted his body to put himself between Chuuya and Dostoevsky.

“Let us wake up Yosano, Dostoevsky.  Please, he’s going to bleed out, and I’m not going to let that happen.”

“Not going to let that happen, huh?”  Dostoevsky replied.  “It’s hilarious that you think you have any say, but fine, I suppose I can wake her up.”

Before anyone could react Dostoevsky was at Yosano’s side and gently cupping her cheek with his hand.

Her eyes flickered open for a moment, widening in shock and then pain, as her body briefly tensed, before she fell limp and her eyes stared cloudily off into the abyss of death.

Dostoevsky rose to his feet once more.

The room was still.  Kunikida was frozen in shock, as Chuuya and Dazai watched Dostoevsky stand there, both in disbelief of what had just happened so quickly.

"There you go, her eyes can be wide open forever now.   Wide awake, just like you wanted."

“You- you bastard... you- fuck!" You killed her,” Kunikida finally spoke for the first time since entering the room. A trembling hand came up to hover over his mouth that was gaping wide open in shock, as his voice shook over his broken words.  “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!   You- you killed my friend.”

“A small price to pay for the new world.”

There was a cry of rage and Kunikida was running at Dostoevsky- a mad look in his eyes.

But Dostoevsky just stood there and smiled.

Like everything was going just how he’d planned.

Notes:

I hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter <3

Chapter 44: What Lives in the Sea

Summary:

His world had fractured into fragments scattered across infinity, and deep within his heart, he knew that things would simply never be the same again.

It was funny though, because he and Mikhail had shared so many moments. So why, when he tried to recall what he looked like, could he only remember that image of him lying lifeless in the snow? So still, where he'd once been so full of life.

Notes:

Happy Holidays to anyone who celebrates!

 

Only six more chapters to go now... :)

11 Years Prior

The snow had long since swallowed the world around him. It'd been years since he'd left St. Petersburg, but still, the unrelenting chill had found harbor within his bones. Slowly eating away at the person he once was.

Fyodor had once thought he was finally beginning to understand the world and his place in it, but ever since his brother's death, it now felt as though he were looking through a kaleidoscope. 

His world had fractured into fragments scattered across infinity, and deep within his heart, he knew that things would simply never be the same again.

It was funny though, because he and Mikhail had shared so many moments. So why, when he tried to recall what he looked like, could he only remember that image of him lying lifeless in the snow? So still, where he'd once been so full of life.

It hardly mattered that nine thousand kilometers now stood between him and Mikhail’s final resting place. He could never escape that day that had haunted his very soul ever since.

In the distance, the flickering of lights caught Fyodor's eye.  They were faint through the onslaught of snow, but still something that held the promise of warmth. 

No matter how temporary it would be.

He continued to walk towards the lights until finally, a sheet steel sign stood before him, teetering slightly in the wind.

добро пожаловать в Владивосток.  Welcome to Vladivostok.

Letters that had once been so delicately carved in white onto a warm blue background, now found themselves faded as rust and degradation gnawed away at something that used to be a beautiful declaration of home.  

It was clear that no one had cared for the sign in a very long time.

Fyodor pulled his jacket closer to his body, as the snowstorm began to grow worse.  As he walked, the imprints left by his boots were quickly covered by the snow, as though he’d never even been there in the first place. As though he were a mere ghost of a person.

Shops began to pop up all around him, as he continued to make his way through the city. The inviting smell of pie wafting toward him from a nearby bakery threw him back to a simpler time when he'd been so sure of his place in the world. Except now he was thinking of Mikhail and he was back there in the snow while a fire burned away the only home he had ever had in the distance and his brother's eyes were staring sightlessly past him and the world was fracturing and he didn't know what to do and Mikhail was dead and Mikhail was dead and Mikhail was dead and Mikhail was dead and Mikhail was dead...

He needed a drink.

The lights of a nearby bar flickered invitingly, as he made his way over. 

Its title was written invitingly, curling in a delicate font. 

Обордователь.  Oborudovatel.

Opening the door, he was immediately greeted with the sight of warm lighting, laughter, and a large number of people he easily identified as maritime workers.

Grabbing a stool at the bar, Fyodor grabbed the attention of a bartender, before ordering a grain vodka and Borodinsky bread.  At first, the barman just gave him a weird look and looked like he was going to ask him to leave, which Fyodor surmised was due to his age. However, after placing a generous amount of rubles down on the counter that he’d earned working odd jobs and the occasional pickpocketing, the barman just nodded and got to work.

It didn’t take long before the glass of clear liquid and bread were placed before him.  Fyodor took a bit of the bread first, savoring the taste, before taking a sip of the vodka and allowing the flavors to mix.  Meanwhile, the numerous conversations of strangers danced in his ears.

"...and this guy tells me that I'm the one in the wrong. I mean what the actual fuck, man. He's the one who got with my wife..."

"...you need to listen to me! Privatization is destroying this country..."

"...bro, I'm not lying! I really did fight that bear and win..."

“...and look there's this new job for sending bulk shipments of exports to Japan.  The job pays about a thousand rubles per month, which isn’t great, but with the state of things right now, I guess we just gotta take what we can get, y’know?”

The world froze.

Exports to Japan.

A cruel bandaged face flashed before his mind’s eye.

“Run!   Fedya run!”   Mikhail pleaded, but Fyodor just shook his head as tears began to stain his cheeks.

“N-n-no. No, Mikhail! I’m not leaving you!”

“Fedya please I-.”

Mikhail's voice cut out and his body lay still.

Lifeless. Emotionless. Dead.

His bread and vodka were now forgotten, as Fyodor stood and made his way over to the group of men. His eyes scanned the group before he managed to single out the man who’d mentioned the job.  He was tall and rugged from a life obviously filled with work in grueling conditions.  Someone who might’ve intimidated him two years prior, but now left him feeling nothing.

“Are they still hiring maritime workers for the import to Japan?”

The man’s head turned to study him, “what are you, fifteen?”

Yes, his mind supplied.

“Eighteen,” he lied.  “I just look younger than I am.”

“Sure kid,” the man laughed, turning away, “sure.”

Irritation coursed through Fyodor’s veins.  This man would not ignore him. He simply couldn't afford such an outcome, if he wanted to ever make things right.

“Are they still hiring maritime workers for the import to Japan?” He repeated, making sure to enunciate every word carefully.

The man side-eyed him before sighing, “yes, but look kid, you’re young and stick thin.  This job involves heavy manual labor, long hours, and poor ventilation.  Trust me when I say that it’s not something you’d want to do.  Just go home, okaykid?”

Home.  It’d been two years since he’d had such a thing.  A commodity he doubted he’d ever truly have again.

“I don’t have one,” Fyodor replied truthfully, indignation coating his tone, "and I need this job, so please if you would be so kind as to let me know how I can join, I’d really appreciate it.”

The man studied him for a moment, “kid, look I-”

“Oh for fucks sake, Ivan,” one of the man’s friends cut in.  “Just tell the kid.  We started working on the ships when we were even younger than I’d assume he is.  I swear, you're always like this.  Just stop being such a hypocrite and tell him.”

“Dmitri-” Ivan started in protest before quickly being cut off by another one of the men.

“You should listen to what he’s saying, Ivan.  I was younger than any of you when I first started working there, and none of you ever seemed to care.”

“Of course we cared, Smerdyakov,” another man protested, “and Ivan’s right.  Kids shouldn’t be working on the boats at that age.  We should all know that from personal experience.”

“God Alyosha, are you ever not patronizing?” Smerdyakov replied with a roll of his eyes, before turning his attention back to Fyodor.  “Look kid, I’ve heard about the job, Ivan’s talking about.  So, if you want in, just talk to Grigory down at the docks.  Let him know I sent you and he’ll get you in.”

“Thanks,” Fyodor said, anticipation flooding through him at the opportunity that had finally presented itself.  Maybe he could finally make things right.

Without another word, Fyodor turned on his heel, and quickly made his way out the door. Meanwhile, his forgotten vodka and bread still waited for him back at the bar.  

Waiting for someone who would never come back.

Forgotten vodka and bread that would soon be sustenance for naught but the city's rats.

---

Present

Kunikida slammed to a halt a few meters away from Dostoevsky, pulling his gun from its holster, and firing.

Once. Twice. Thrice.

Dostoevsky didn’t even flinch. Instead, he just turned his head to stare directly down the barrel of the gun, as the sound of gunfire reverberated throughout the air.

And against all odds, he continued to just stand there. A laugh building in his throat.

Alive and unmarred by lead.

“You haven’t been counting,” Dostoevsky admonished.  “I have.  You already wasted your clip on Chuuya, and now you’ve run out of bullets.  So blinded by your rage, you didn’t even notice.  I would still be careful with that gun though, if I were you.  Did you know that if the barrel of the gun is close enough to someone you can still hurt or even kill them with a blank?  Unfortunately for you, getting close enough to do that would mean I’d also be close enough to reach out and kill you before you even managed to pull the trigger.  It’s truly quite the conundrum that we’ve found ourselves in, isn’t it?”

“Why are you doing this?  You didn’t have to kill her!  She did nothing to you!”  Kunikida was shaking where he stood, as his eyes prickled with tears. His gaze was stuck now, staring down, shellshocked, at the corpse that had once been one of his closest friends.

“Perhaps,” Dostoevsky said, “but neither did my brother when your friend led him to the slaughter.”

“Dazai was a child,” Chuuya snapped from where he lay on the ground.  “What happened was awful, but he was just a kid.  It wasn’t his fault.  You both were just dealt shitty circumstances that were out of both of your control."

“You don’t understand,” Dostoevsky said, “you can’t understand how wrong you are.  I mean you were born of a science experiment , you’ve never experienced the loss of a real family.  I’m sure Dazai’s tried to be nice and tell you that you’re the real one of flesh and blood.  Perhaps, come to think of it, it’s not even him trying to be nice to you, but rather bestowing a kindness upon himself in believing that the person with whom he finds himself closest to is real.  Alas, that is naught but a lie, because all you are is code,” Dostoevsky spat.  “You can’t even begin to comprehend the difficulties and agony of life and loss. Perhaps, you can simulate such emotions, but you can never truly feel them in the way someone with an actual soul can.  I suppose it hardly matters now though.  With those wounds, I don’t think you’ll be leaving this place alive.”

“Fuck you.”  Chuuya’s fists tightened and he forced himself into a sitting position, despite Dazai’s immediate protest and the pain that wracked through his body at the movement.

“Even if I’m code or not real or whatever the fuck else, at least I can simulate enough goddamn empathy to know that no matter how noble the reason, enslaving the minds of an entire population is wrong.  I know you think I’m an idiot, because I’m not as gifted as you or Dazai with your fancy words and shit, but I can still think for myself.  I agree with you, the world is fucked up and we’d be better off if we set aside our differences and worked together to build some kind of utopia, where everyone has a chance at a good life, through socialism or communism or whatever the fuck, but forcing everyone to do so would destroy the autonomy that both require to truly exist.  Your world would not be a utopia, because it would be a dictatorship ruled by your whims.  Like I said earlier, doing this will only make you as bad as the oppressors that you so claim to despise, because again, you’ll be forcing everyone to enact your own will no matter how noble your so-called cause.”

“I’ve had enough of this,” Dostoevsky snapped.  “There’s no point in trying to make any of you understand something you simply lack the intellect for. So, how about we bring an end to this?”

Notes:

I hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter <3

Chapter 45: Above Me The Falling Snow

Summary:

“You're a fucking monster,”  Chuuya snapped, gritting his teeth through the blinding pain that wracked his body, “a goddamn monster.”

Notes:

It’s almost been 3 years since I started writing this. That’s fucking crazy lol

A heaviness engulfed the surrounding air, as Dostoevsky's words sunk in.

“You can’t do this,” Chuuya protested, grimacing as another wave of pain coursed throughout his body.  “We won't let you fucking do this.”

“Alright, well tell me, how exactly are you going to stop me?”  Dostoevsky posed offhandedly.  “I mean look at you, you’re bleeding out on the floor while your untimely death creeps around the corner.  Even on the off chance that you do survive your wounds, you’re still just an Ability sustained by code. It doesn't matter if you or Dazai want to think differently, because at the end of the day that's just simply the truth of the matter. Besides, once I’m through with everything I plan to do and Abilities are gone, you’ll simply cease to exist just like the suffering of this world.  What you think or want doesn’t matter, Nakahara, because you won’t be there to see it anyway.  Instead, you’ll simply wilt away from humanity’s recollection, forgettable as you are, as the world is brought forth into a new age of enlightenment.”

“You're a fucking monster,”  Chuuya snapped, gritting his teeth through the blinding pain that wracked his body, “a goddamn monster.”

“I never said I wasn’t,” Fyodor replied almost solemnly, as something that looked eerily close to conflict crossed his gaze, before quickly reverting back to resolve.  “However,” Dostoevsky continued, “perhaps for the future of mankind, I have to be.  No great change comes with great sacrifice.  In the grand history of the world, there has not been a single widespread change in humanity's way of life that was brought forth without suffering and violence. At least this way, with The Book, none of the violence or sacrifice will be remembered.  Sure the transitionary period might hurt, but it’s fairly humane in the grand scheme of things, because again, after the fact, no one will remember the pain.  I mean if anyone else wanted to make the world as beautiful as I wish to through any other means, just imagine the death toll that would lead to.  This is the only way forward for humanity.”

“It’s in your coat pocket, isn’t it?” Dazai interjected, “you wouldn’t dare keep it out of your direct reach, lest anyone try to take it.

Dostoevsky stiffened for all but a second, likely imperceptible to anyone else, but not Dazai.

“So it is,” gently removing himself from where he’d been holding Chuuya, careful not to jostle him too much, Dazai stood and walked over to Dostoevsky until he was nose to nose with him.

Dostoevsky held his silence.

“Hand it over, Dostoevsky,” Dazai demanded, “we both know your Ability doesn’t work on me.  You can’t just kill me with a single touch like you could Chuuya or Kunikida.  So, don’t be stupid.”

“You better give it to him, you bastard,” Kunikida spat, his eyes slightly crazed as he continued to stare down at the broken body of his dear friend.  “Because if you don’t then I will relish every goddamn second of killing you.”

Dostoevsky’s gaze flickered measuredly between the two, before settling on Dazai.

Then three things happened very fast.

Dostoevsky unholstered a gun, hidden away on the side of his person.

Then, without looking, he fired.

Without a sound, Kunikida’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, as his body thudded to the ground next to Yosano. New tendrils of scarlet blood mixed with Yosano's own.

“No!”  Dazai cried out, but before he could do anything, the same gun was pushed into his chest.

“You fucking asshole!”  Chuuya yelled from where he lay grounded on the cold floor.

Dostoevsky didn’t even bother looking at what he’d done, as a disconcerting calmness filled his gaze.

“Assumptions are dangerous, Dazai," Dostoevsky chastised.  "I don’t need my Ability to kill people.  No one does.  As for The Book, I will not lie to you, just like you guessed, it is in my coat pocket.  However, the clock is ticking, you’ve got my gun in your chest and no one else here can possibly do anything to stop me.”

“So, whether you like it or not, this is happening," Dostoevsky continued.  "Nakahara will cease to exist, forgotten to the world, and you will feel the pain I felt in having the closest person to you taken away in a moment.  Although, all is not lost, for soon we will step into a new world where there is no pain, suffering, or accursed Abilities that only drive humanity further apart. Instead, there will only be peace and prosperity in a new luminous golden age that is coming up upon the horizon.  In fact, while you have been wasting all your time trying to reason with me with all your faulted opinions, there are now only thirty minutes left on the clock until we turn the page to the next chapter of humanity.  A world that will make my brother proud.”

“But will he be proud of you?”  Dazai pushed.

Dostoevsky’s finger tightened on the trigger, “that doesn’t matter.”

“How so?”  Dazai protested.  “If you’re truly doing all of this for him, and presumably bringing him back, based on what you’ve been saying.  Then, why doesn’t it matter what he thinks of the way your so-called peaceful world is claimed?  From our brief encounter, and how you speak of him, it seems like your brother was a pacifist.  So, it's beyond doubtful that he would agree with what you’re doing.  Look, again, I agree that this world you're creating does mostly sound nice in theory. I don't take any issue with the establishment of a socialist or communist government. In fact, I think it'd actually be a good thing compared to what we have right now. However, if you force everyone to follow a certain set of rules born of the way that you think that the world should work, doesn't that kill all the freedoms of it? Doesn't the forcefulness of it mean that you'd actually end up with a tyrannical autocracy, because you’d be taking away everyone’s agency?  That’s not a free world born of freethinking, because again that’s an autocratic regime pretending to be something that it isn’t. You'd essentially be taking away the freedom of being able to say that two plus two equals four.  You're from Russia, you should know all about that.”

“You know nothing of my upbringing,” Dostoevsky spat, “and sure, I suppose you’re not entirely wrong in what you’ve said of my homeland.  Yes, they did verbally promise social freedoms to keep the masses complacent after the fall of the USSR, before actually implementing widespread privatization and repealing our social services, amongst other things that plunged us into the autocratic capitalist oligarchy that Russia is today, no matter what any government official might say on the contrary.  However, my world won’t look like that.  I grew up in that environment.  I’m smart enough to know how not to repeat my own country’s mistakes.”

“And how much are you willing to bet on that?”  Dazai asked.  “No one really knows how the book works in its entirety.  So, how can you be so sure that this perfect world of yours will stand the test of time?”

“How can you be so sure that it won’t?”  Dostoevsky returned.  “Sometimes we have to take risks for the betterment of society.  This is just one of those risks.  Maybe you’re right, in saying that my brother would never be proud of the way that I’m going about this.  Perhaps, he’d even see me as the monster that you and Nakahara see me as, but I can live with that.  I can live with that, knowing that he’ll get to experience the world of his dreams, because at the very least I owe him that.  I would become a monster ten times over if it meant repaying him for all he did for me, by giving him the paradise he once dreamed of seeing.  Suffering is the state of the human condition.  A weakness and a flaw.  I can take that away.  I can give everyone a world truly worth living in.”

“Stop it with all your assholish rambling,” Chuuya snapped, forcing his way into the conversation, “you don't know jack shit and all you're doing is just talking a lot and using big fancy words to make it sound like you know what you're doing. Taking away people’s free will is fucked.  That shouldn’t be fucking controversial.”

“Free will,” Dostoevsky muttered, “but does such a thing even really exist?  Did you know, Nakahara, that time is a proven illusion?  It changes based on the gravitational force of any given environment or even the speed of any given thing.  It’s called time dilation, which is a concept within The Theory of Relativity.  About thirty seconds ago, you told me that ‘taking away people’s free will is fucked’ and I replied by posing the question of whether free will truly exists.  That conversation happened in the past, and because we can not time travel backward in time, which, again, is simply an everpresent illusion, I can never change what I said or did and neither can you.  So, because we can not change the past, which is, again, an illusion, then how can we ever possibly truly change the fate of the future through that of free will? For the past was once the future and the future is always destined to become the past, which is impossible to change. So with that, is not all of existence and the path it takes already written in stone by that scientifically backed logic?  Both are within the same state of being, being that of the illusion of time, so who’s to say that we, in and of ourselves, have the free will and power to truly make any actual choices?  I mean for all anyone knows, we’re just characters in the story of the universe to be pushed and pulled around at the whims of our creators.  Free will does not exist, Chuuya, not really, because if it did, then time would not remain impossible to change within the irrefutable deceptive pretense that is so illustrated within that of our existence.  What happens shall happen and that is that.  At least this way, people will live in a world that actually cares about them.”

“Yeah, that was a lot of words, so I'll be honest in saying that I didn't even understand like half of that, but even I can still tell you that what you just said is such bullshit,”  Chuuya said, as he finally forced himself back to his feet with a groan of pain he couldn’t quite hold back.  “You're just looking to sound smart and avoid accountability.”

“Chuuya stop,” Dazai said, a flicker of fear creeping its way into his voice, while his eyes couldn’t help but stray to the pool of blood that was only growing larger around Kunikida.  “Please.”

"Yes Nakahara,” Dostoevsky placated, “you should stop.  Or did you forget that I have a gun pressed up against your Partner’s chest?”

“No shit,” Chuuya replied, but did refrain from moving from where he stood for the moment, as his legs shook from all that he had endured. Scarlet tendrils of blood wove their way down his body, as his hand remained clasped down on the wound on his shoulder.  “No fucking shit.”

Notes:

I hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter <3

Chapter 46: In The Slaughterhouse

Summary:

Dostoevsky’s eyes flickered over to meet Chuuya’s.

“You won’t be leaving this place alive,”  Dostoevsky glowered, as he trembled with barely-concealed rage.

“Now!”  Chuuya yelled.

Notes:

Heyyyy! I'm back with another chapter.

The past few months have been crazy.

I've been going out and protesting at the ICE Detention Center near me, because fuck ICE and the government.

I've been gassed (also got kettled (purposefully surrounded on all sides) in gas too one time by ICE lmao, which is illegal to do without extreme cause and there wasn't one, with an ICE agent literally yelling "kettle these motherfuckers" like they're not even trying to hide it), shot multiple times with pepper bullets, and had numerous gas canisters shot at my legs with these fucking grenade launcher guns (luckily I got quick reflexes and have been able to dodge them so far, but I have a friend who wasn't so lucky and had his whole ankle blown open by one, along the many others having similar things happen to them. I.e. broken legs, arms, etc.).

They've been using a wide range of gasses on us, including, from what I've gathered so far, tear gas (white), hexachloroethane which does a whole slew of things to people (also used on Iranians by their government in at least 2022, something the US condemned while using it on their own citizens as well, given this is not the first time) (in the green gas), super concentrated CS gas that gives you chemical burns (orange gas), some kind of gas that can make you infertile that I guess they used during Standing Rock (yellow gas), and another gas that gives you burns (red gas). All of these gasses can also give you cancer and a bunch of other shit as well.

I own a gas mask that I wear, but even still the gas is always in the air whether or not they're actively gassing people because it's so heavy and they use it so much. So ultimately it's so much gas that it's basically destined to get through a gas mask anyway, if you're out there long enough, which I'm usually out there for 7-9 hours when I go lol. I literally had to get an x-ray and inhaler for my lungs because of it lmao.

Society must function for its people. We cannot allow ourselves or others around us to be crushed under the boot of a society that's built on falsehoods and lies. We are all human and we cannot let immorality and fascists take control of our futures. For any Americans, if we don't fight back against this now then we're basically doomed to tyranny. Our government has always been this way but things are getting drastically worse and fast.

Where our horribly immoral genocide of the Native Americans was once the blueprint used by Hitler during The Holocaust (something Hitler talked about in depth), we now come back full circle to recycle that blueprint as our own once more. What's happening right now is terrible and entirely unsustainable. As of today, the Supreme Court has ruled that anyone can be kidnapped off the streets by ICE based on skin color, race, language, and speaking English with an accent (granted this was already happening, it's just officially legal now).

For anyone who is able-bodied to do so, we need to take to the streets and be loud as we can now before it's too late. No one is coming to save us, but ourselves. If you'd like any advice for protesting, I'm more than happy to help, as well. I'd also like to say that even if you don't have anyone to go with, I promise that you will make life-long friends with others there. It's a very intense environment if you're protesting at the actual detention centers, so you bond pretty quickly. However, do make sure someone knows where you are regardless. So, again, if anyone needs any advice regarding any of this, please just let me know!

Anyways, stay safe and I hope ya'll enjoy the chapter!

Forcing himself to focus, Chuuya called upon his ability.  Reaching out to the blood spilling from his body, he compelled it to halt its descent and resume its normal course, as though the skin that kept it inside was still there.

Exhaustion coursed through him as he did this, but there was no other choice.  He had to help Dazai in taking out Dostoevsky, or they’d be condemning the world to a new reality, devoid of free will.

“If your brother had access to The Book and stood in your place, do you really think he’d do as you’re doing now?  Are you sure he wouldn’t be horrified by the decisions that you’re making and all the choices that you made to get to this point?  I mean, just look at all the people that you’ve hurt and killed.  Are you really sure that he would approve?”

“I thought I told you to stop talking,” Dostoevsky replied, voice carefully kept even.

This wasn’t going anywhere.  Dostoevsky had Dazai at gunpoint; meanwhile, Chuuya found himself teetering on the verge of death.  If they weren’t smart about this, then everything would be fucked.  Quite honestly, it already was.

Desperately, Chuuya racked his brain for something to do, when suddenly an idea hit him; as basic as it was, it could quite possibly be their only way out of this.

Dostoevsky was already angry.  If he played into that and managed to make him fully lose his head, while attempting to discreetly communicate to Dazai what was going on, then maybe...

“Listen, Dostoevsky.  I’m already aware that you aren’t the biggest fan of mine.  Trying to scare me?  To make me just give up?  Make me cower before the weight of your laughable attempt at righteousness… as if I’d ever let pretentious vermin like you make me do anything.  Dostoevsky, does it bother you that your brother would hate the man that you’ve become, and I mean, be truly disgusted?  Lose this shit attempt at this holier-than-thou-ass façade.  Control is all you care about, because you’d go so low as to use your own brother’s death and his suffering to justify the deaths and suffering of others.  Take your desperation for meaning and shove it up your ass for all I care.  The world will never see you as its savior, and your brother’s spirit must hate you, because all you are is a washed-out, lowlife piece of crap that no one could ever love.  Gun to his head, I’m sure your brother would pull the trigger if he saw who you’ve become, because how could he not?  When your life ends, if there’s anything after this, I doubt he’ll even wish to see the slightest glimpse of you in the next life.  I bet he hates you for all that you’ve done.  Say, in all that you’ve done, do you even have anyone left who even gives a shit about you anymore?  Now I’d say no, because I’ll be completely honest when I say that no one could ever love or even like something as broken as you.”

Dostoevsky’s eyes flickered over to meet Chuuya’s.

“You won’t be leaving this place alive,”  Dostoevsky glowered, as he trembled with barely-concealed rage.

“Now!”  Chuuya yelled.

Dazai’s hand slammed into the side of the barrel of the gun, shoving it away from him and back towards Dostoevsky, before slamming his other injured hand into the opposing side of the grip, making him briefly grimace in pain, as he forced the gun from Dostoevsky’s grasp.

The gun clattered to the floor.

For a moment, all was still.

Then, chaos.

Dazai went to kick the gun back towards Chuuya, as Dostoevsky went to kick it back towards his side of the room, and away from the two of them.  Ultimately, sending the gun sliding off into the far wall, far away from all three of them.

Dostoevsky ran for it, as did Dazai.  Chuuya wanted to, but between the pain from his wounds and exhaustion from using his ability to keep from bleeding out, he found himself unable to move fast enough as he hobbled a few steps forward, fighting through the pain.

Having now reached the opposing side of the room, Dazai and Dostoevsky dove for the gun. Dostoevsky, having reached it first, fired twice as Dazai slammed his hand against the barrel of the gun, shoving it away from himself and leaving the bullets narrowly missing him by a few millimeters, as they slammed into the far wall instead.

The two grappled for the gun, as Chuuya slowly continued making his way over to them, gritting his teeth in pain, as the agony stemming from his wounds continued to flare throughout his whole body.

Both hands now wrapped around the gun, despite the pain flaring through Dazai’s injured one, he finally managed to overpower Dostoevsky and take the gun from him.  

He raised the gun to Dostoevsky’s head.

Fyodor blanched.  Dazai fired.

The gun merely clicked.  The chamber was empty.

Time seemed to freeze.

Incandescent anger overtook Fyodor’s face.

“You already took my brother from me.  I won’t let you take this from me, too.”

Lunging forward, Fyodor tackled and pinned Dazai to the ground, whose head slammed down with an audible crack.

Fyodor’s face twisted with rage and acrimony.

Raising his fist, he brutally brought it down hard against Dazai’s face, breaking his nose with a resonant and painful snap.

“This world was my brother’s dream!”  Fyodor raised his fist again before bringing it down once more.  “You both say he would hate me for what I’ve done, and maybe you’re right!  Maybe he would!”  He laughed, his voice tinged with madness, “but he told me that he wanted this world to be brought about, so I will not fail him.  I refuse to fail him ever again.  So, maybe he’d think me a monster for everything I’ve done to get to this point, but he’ll understand.  He has to.  He has to, because it’ll be our world.  A world where no one will fail him ever again.”

Fyodor’s fist continued to slam harshly against Dazai’s bloodied face, whose breathing began to become labored and short, as he started to lose consciousness.

“I’m giving him this world because you stole it from us, Dazai.  I know I became a monster for it, but I had to.  This world and people like you who stand in my way forced me to.  Mikhail saved me, so now it’s my turn to save him.  With The Book, I’ll bring him back.  I’ll give him this world.  I’ll give him something truly beautiful.”

Fyodor ceased his ruthless assault for all but a moment before wrapping his hand around Dazai’s throat and beginning to squeeze.  Dazai managed to bring his hands up in an attempt to break free, but he was already weakened from before.  Fyodor only continued to tighten his grip as Dazai slowly suffocated beneath him.

“You know, originally,” Fyodor continued, “I wasn’t planning to be in that world with him.  I know I’m a monster, as I’ve already admitted, and crimes must have their punishments, but it’s a whole new world, and we’ve all done terrible things.  So maybe with that second chance, we can be truly happy, and I can live the good life that I should’ve lived if you’d never come along and stolen it from me, alongside this rotten world.  So, I’m going to kill you now, and then I’m going to kill you’re dumb little pet, Dazai, because there’s nothing you can do to stop me.  You’re almost dead, and Nakahara’s already on the verge of it.  So I’m going to do that, and then I’m going to go on to live a good life.  The most beautiful life you could ever imagine.  One that you’ll finally have no power over, because-”

Fyodor’s voice cut off, his eyes going wide, as his grip loosened on Dazai’s neck, who immediately burst into a coughing fit, as he struggled to bring air in.

“No,” Fyodor breathed in horror.  “No…”

Chuuya stood behind him, legs trembling beneath him in a struggle to stay standing, while his hand lay pressed against Fyodor’s upper back.

Quickly, Chuuya pulled his hand away, as Fyodor fell to the ground limp, his eyes glazing over.  Dead.  

Dazai shoved the body off and away from himself, still locked in a coughing fit and fighting for air.

“Chuuya?”  Dazai murmured, once the coughing had finally subsided.  “Chuuya, what did you do?”

Too weak to continue standing, Chuuya collapsed next to Dazai, leaning against him and breathing heavily.

“He was touching you, so I knew his ability couldn’t hurt me.  I just need him to keep his focus on you.  So, while he was distracted with killing you, I used gravity to blow up his heart.”

“Using my agony as a distraction?  I think that’s a new low, Chuuya.  How cruel,” Dazai complained, but gave Chuuya’s shoulder a playful nudge.

“Ungrateful bastard,” Chuuya snapped back, but with a playful smile that danced on his lips.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Dazai rolled his eyes, before forcing himself to get up and reach into the coat pocket where Fyodor kept The Book.

Walking back over to Chuuya and sitting back down, Dazai opened it.

His eyes lit up with horror.

“Fuck.”

Notes:

Thanks for reading!