Chapter Text
A thin stream of incense smoke curls up to the ceiling, filling the room with the scent of sandalwood and peach blossoms. The window shutters are tightly closed. The evening coolness oozes in through the cracks in the window frame. Therefore, a thin smoke wriggles like a snake in a dance to the crying flute of a draft.
But the sweet scent of incense will not change the mournful solemnity of the funeral home. This smell only dilutes it, bringing with it a touch of /fake life/. Tomorrow there will be a farewell ceremony with the deceased and a funeral. But now this place seems to be frozen in anticipation of what is to come.
Traditional paper dolls and wreaths of all colors and sizes stand in orderly rows along the walls upholstered in silk and wood. Chiffon draperies hang down in perfect folds – pale and white, like a shroud. The fluttering light from a single floor lamp barely illuminates the room. He desperately disperses the shadows until he dies, withering away completely. What an irony that even a light in this place could not survive.
In the center of the room there are two corpse caskets on a stand. Their lids are lowered, hiding the contents, and a narrow path of warm light from the next room crosses the polished wood obliquely. And if there is peace, silence and serenity in the farewell hall, then in the waiting room you can hear whispers and rustles that come into the darkness with glimpses of life through the slightly open door.
"What a misfortune..."
"So young..."
"He never got married, did he? There wasn't even an engagement? But such a prominent young man... was."
"Now, if not in life, then in death he will not be alone..."
"Dazai ... What a loss. But the bride..."
"Shhh! Shut up! And don't you dare blab about it anywhere..."
"Happiness to the newlyweds and let them rest in peace."
These words sounded insincere and twofold, where grief flowed in half with contempt.
In the circle of his large family, Dazai Osamu was a black sheep. Hardly anyone could turn the tongue to express himself more rudely /In a family not without a freak/.
Dazai Osamu was a handsome young man. He was smarter than his years and well-mannered. He was predicted to have a brilliant future. However, he was the /hero with a thousand faces/. For sure, no one could say, what was going on in his head.
He could charm anyone with his foxy smile. Therefore, many girls sighed for him, experiencing the torments of falling in love. But none of them lingered in the heart of Osamu himself. If someone was able to trample on the threshold, it can be considered luck.
The young man spent his free time in a teahouse, where he stayed up late into the night, drinking a bottle of sake with friends. When drunk, he often struck into lyrics or polemics, discussing the charm of death and the dullness of the world, and his interlocutor was a young security guard, not a beautiful waitress.
Osamu Dazai was a brilliant, windy, sociable, lonely and simply unbearable person. He charmed and unbalanced his surroundings.
That's how he was.
And now he's gone.
The door of the waiting room closed, the oblique strip of light disappeared and the rustle of voices died down. The room was plunged into darkness and silence. A haze of incense was spreading in the air. Deep shadows crept along the walls due to the dim light of the street lamps. Paper people surrounded a pair of coffins in the center of the room. And the smiles of the numerous painted faces seemed like a sinister grin, chilling to the point of trembling. No one would dare to stay in this room for the night.
A rustle broke the silence. The sound was dull, scratching, as if a mouse was crawling under the baseboard. But then the lid of one of the coffins trembled and long pale fingers appeared from a narrow crack. The pale hands of the dead man confidently pushed the lid, shifting it to the side and lowering it to the floor. The deceased groom got up and got out of his casket. There was no sound of footsteps, breathing and creaking floorboards. Only a mad vision of a resurrected dead man who approached the second coffin.
The long sleeves gathered in folds at the elbows as the arms covered with bandages rose up. Fingers tapped on the lid of the coffin very gently, almost playfully, and then the palms lay on the polished surface and pushed it aside. The fragile young man seemed petite and feminine. His red curls scattered over the yellow paper flowers at the head of his bed. Pale skin looked like expensive Chinese porcelain.
And scarlet sparks flashed in the black eyes. A smile touched the lips of the risen dead man. Cold fingers slid across the cheek of the second deceased and he, sensing someone else's attention, opened his eyes. The icy blue met the bloody amber.
"Death suits you, Chuuya."
Dazai almost purred. His smile widened, and his fingers reached for a yellow sheet painted with cinnabar. A Taoist talisman against evil. He looked as out of place on his red forehead as the price tag from a flea market on a museum exhibit. Licking his finger, Osamu smeared a couple of characters.
"How did you manage it?"
"I have no fucking idea."
Nakahara responded in his usual rude manner, regaining the ability to move. He was in no hurry to share the details of his death. Clasping his hands on his chest in a lock, the young man slowly played with his fingers, kneading his stiff joints.
"And you?"
"This is a secret," the brown-haired man stretched out his hand to the red curls, winding the curls on his fingers, but almost immediately received a blow on the back of his palm. "Oya-oya, you are so unfriendly, my wife."
"What did you say there?" Chuuya flashed an angry look in the dark. "Haven't you received a liver injury for a long time?"
"I'm afraid you won't scare my liver in its current state," Dazai spread his hands to the sides.
"I can quite pull it out," Nakahara smiled charmingly and terribly.
"Do you want a piece of me so badly? Are you really that crazy about me, wife?!"
"What are you saying?" Chuuya sat down.
"Because ..." Osamu stretched out mysteriously, folding his head on his wrists along the side of someone else's coffin. "We're married now."
"What do you mean?"
"In direct," Dazai squinted at the interlocutor with a slight squint. "It seems that my Chinese great-grandmother insisted on observing the traditions, and the minhun ceremony was performed over us."
"When it seems necessary to be baptized."
"I'm not a Christian."
"I'm an atheist."
There was a pause, during which the young people glared at each other. One was smiling, the other was serious. Both were united by the lack of breathing, palpitations, terrible bruises under the eyes and the lack of the need to blink. Although the latter still happened out of habit.
"Fuck," Nakahara groaned, covering his face with his hand. The long sleeve of his robe also slid down to his elbow. "Tell me you were joking."
"I'm afraid not," Dazai's smile became a little ironic.
"Ts, he's afraid," the hand slowly moved from the face down. "I have two questions. What the fuck? And why?"
"The tradition of posthumous marriages was once born in China, so that young people who did not find their soulmate during their lifetime could find her in the afterlife and be each other's hope and support.…"
"Fuck your lyrics, Dazai. Get to the point."
"How callous you are. But what about the share of romance?"
"Dazai."
"All right," Osamu raised his hands in a gesture of surrender and got to his feet. "All the same traditions do not allow the younger brother to marry before the older one. I'm, as you've noticed, a little dead. And my family is quite... conservative in this matter, you know."
"I don't want to understand anything," Chuuya snorted. "Okay, okay… What's that got to do with me? They could have found you some dead girl."
"And here it turns out to be interesting," Dazai fingered the glass beads of the rosary beads on his neck. "My relatives were sure that my tastes were specific. To be cut off by the sleeve, of course, is a shame, but the love of the family has overcome prejudice."
"What a fucking shit!" Nakahara waved his hands in annoyance. He would have exploded much earlier if he was alive. Obviously, death dulled emotions somewhat. Or has this body not yet recovered from rigor mortis? "It wasn't enough for me when you were alive, you damn mummy, so now death won't separate us either. Amazing! I've been fucking dreaming about this all my life."
"Really?" Sparks of fervent glee flashed in the blood amber of the brown—haired man's eyes. "Tell me it's romantic. Almost like a double suicide."
"Shut up!" Chuuya grinned and fangs flashed in the darkness.
"What a grumpy little wife I have…"
"I demand a divorce."
"But who will give it to you?" mimicking the red-haired interlocutor, the brown-haired man showed the young man his tongue.
"Now I'll get up and you'll lie down." Nakahara got up and, while trying to step out of the coffin, got tangled in his own legs. Osamu's outstretched hands saved him from falling face-first to the floor. "What the hell?"
"And this, baby Chu-Chu, is another Chinese tradition," picking up his spouse in his arms, Dazai pulled him out of the coffin and sat him on the side, kneeling down. "So that the deceased does not rise up and does not get out of the coffin or grave, his legs are also tied."
"Agrh!" Chuuya wanted to swear again, but instead he just tsked and turned away. Osamu seemed so caring as he untied the braid around his ankles. Nakahara would blush if he could. "It doesn't help much. And then what?"
"Mm?" The brown—haired man looked up at the redhead, and then straightened his back. "What exactly are you interested in?"
"Everything" Nakahara jumped down to the floor and now he himself looked up at the interlocutor. That's a long sleeper.
"According to tradition, after the minhun ceremony, the deceased bride and groom are buried together in the same coffin," Dazai thoughtfully rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. "But my relatives could arrange amateur performances here."
"It's all one big shitty amateur act," Chuuya snorted.
"I agree with you, so be it."
Osamu smiled condescendingly and stretched out his hand to the interlocutor. The fingers touched the openwork binding of the earring in the red-haired man's right ear, then slowly descended to the tassel. The brown-haired man leaned over and whispered in his ear.
"Death really suits you, Chuuya. You're handsome..."
Dazai pulled away before he received any response to his provocative words.
"I suppose there must be a funeral script somewhere here. Such things are planned as meticulously as weddings. Let's take a look around."
The response was a gnashing of teeth and an indecipherable grunt. Even so, Chuuya followed him. The corners of the dark-haired man's lips quivered in a self-satisfied smile while it was imperceptible.
Nakahara Chuuya had always been like this, as far as Osamu could remember, and they had known each other for years. Rude, grumpy, sarcastic, harsh. These character traits complemented the young man's handsome appearance like the thorns of an acacia branch.
Another of the young man's virtues was patience. It is frightening to imagine how often Chuuya's fists itched after another tricky tirade from Dazai, but he held back, his position obliged him. After all, the vast majority of their meetings took place within the walls of the tea house, where Nakahara was an employee and Osamu was a guest.
As the drinks grew stronger than tea at dusk, and the degrees fogged up his mind, the brown-haired man became a heavy talker. He spoke of the eternal, of the basest, of the terrible, and of the occult. And the beautiful girls, who usually kept Dazai company, were too impressionable or superstitious to maintain the tone of the conversation. They willingly gave up their place to Nakahara, leaving the men alone.
Chuuya was a good listener and his comments were sometimes so surprising that Osamu would flare up and start another argument or altercation. It was all meant to turn the red-haired guy into an angry demon. Getting Chuuya emotional was Dazai's favorite pastime. Chuuya himself regarded Osamu as his punishment and lamented every time about what transgressions the gods punished him for.
However, it was Nakahara who shouldered the heavy burden of another man's body if Dazai had too much to drink. He would escort the guest out of the establishment and give the man what he deserved on the street. Osamu's ribs and sides had more than once experienced the power of the young man's fists. Such small, deceptively fragile and sharp fists.
Despite his demonstrated irritation and antipathy, Chuuya always faithfully brought Dazai home, never once abandoning a drunken young man halfway. And he would leave as soon as he unloaded Osamu into the arms of the householders who had lost the eldest of the young masters.
Rude and grumpy Chuuya seemed to Dazai the most trustworthy person in his entourage. The silent and unobtrusive care of the grumpy young man was bribing. With his bright looks and equally bright temperament, Nakahara was like a living sun. How was it that it had sunk in the prime of his youth?
"So are you going to tell me?"
"What?"
"How did you manage to die?"
"My heart couldn't take the joy of being told you weren't coming to get on my nerves anymore. I even drank a bottle of wine to celebrate," the redhead grinned. "Except the happiness was short-lived. Even after death I have to watch your nasty sly face!"
"Hoo-ooh," the brown-haired man stretched out, pushing one of the bureau drawers back into place. "It's a fresh story, but it's hard to believe."
"What's your point?" Nakahara took his eyes off the contents of the other drawer and cocked an eyebrow, glaring at his companion.
"Because, little Chu-Chu," Dazai met the young man's gaze. "That you can't lie."
"I didn't lie," Chuuya shrugged, letting the nickname pass his ears. "The wine, by the way, was delicious."
"And you can't take your eyes off me," Osamu's lips stretched into a disgustingly satisfied smile.
"Agrgh! Don't twist what I've told you in any way that suits you!" Nakahara growled and pushed the drawer into the grooves with force, causing the table to sway dangerously. But it was held up in time by the other man's hands. "I said "I have to". I have to! Do you hear me?"
"I don't see anyone forcing you," the contented man's speech became sing-songy.
"Jester!" grumbled the young man. "Quit your comedy and look for a funeral script. I'm tired of picking through last year's reports. There's nothing here at all!"
"You'd better thank me for picking the lock on the door," Dazai broached as he watched his spouse gustily pull another drawer out to slide it back into place immediately. "You were going to kick it open in the first place."
"Opening locks is a questionable skill for a young gentleman from a wealthy family. Don't you think?"
"What can I say?! I'm a multifaceted person, I have many talents."
"Yeah, you're also so modest," Chuuya rolled his eyes and took a step back, resting his hands at his sides. "Nothing. It's just bookkeeping and invoices. That's not where we're looking."
Now it was Dazai's turn to be lenient. However, the unconcealed sarcasm in his words about modesty did not embarrass the young man. He only responded with his sly smile.
Long fingers tapped muffledly on the reclining tabletop as the young man surveyed the room. A small office with a work area and a couple of visitor chairs. Along the walls were an abundance of filing cabinets filled with documents and other papers. A couple of plants and decorative figurines to give the gray box a lively look with hints of coziness. And yet it was somehow dull, impersonal.
A bloody amber lingered on a stack of papers on the desk. Closing the desk lid, Osamu took a step forward, sailing silently past the carved chairs. Holding up the long sleeves of his postmortem garment, the young man reached for the papers, poring over the scribbled sheets. His gaze flickered over the lines until satisfaction showed on his face. His own name flashed across the papers.
"I found it," murmured the dead man, drawing his companion's attention. But as he read it, the expression of contentment gave way to a concentrated seriousness and a frown. "It's a crappy case. Just as I thought, it's not without amateurism here, either."
"What is it?" Chuuya looked anxiously at the young man.
"After the farewell ceremony, our bodies will be cremated. The urn with the ashes will be placed on the family grave."
"Earlier you spoke of a common casket and grave," Nakahara looked up from the papers to Dazai's face.
"Yes, that is how it should be. According to tradition, after the minhun ritual, the dead were reburied together. One coffin, one grave. As a symbol of the marriage bed. No fire."
"Shit."
Pressing his lips into a thin line, Chuuya turned away and stared at the tabletop. Surely the polished wood could hold the answers to his questions or instructions on how to get out of his situation. Dazai set the papers aside, continuing to watch the young man in anticipation.
"Osamu, I don't want to," Chuuya spoke in a strangled whisper, slowly raising his head. The unexpected name calling made the moment truly intimate. "I don't want to burn alive. And don't you dare laugh at me! I haven't forgotten that I'm already dead."
"Shh! Take it easy, baby, I'll think of something," in a different situation, he would have really made a joke. But now Nakahara showed a different, unfamiliar side. The young man seemed fragile, anxious, and frightened, and evoked a desire to care and shelter from all the troubles of this world. The bloody amber eyes sparkled and the dark-haired man's smile became truly devilish. The plan matured in the shortest possible time and was as simple as possible. "Let things run their course and the coffin burns. Only without us."
"But the farewell ceremony..."
"I doubt my kin will leave our casket open," Dazai shrugged. "They'll probably cite the corpse's bad condition due to the heat, or think of a contagious disease that's got me down in no time."
"What makes you so sure of that?"
"Because, my wife, the minhun ceremony is an old tradition and not exactly legal today. Besides," he ran his fingers along his spouse's pale cheek, warding off another's anxiety with an unobtrusive, affectionate gesture. I didn't expect it from myself, and Nakahara even less so. "It's easier for my family to make up a tall tale for a closed coffin than to admit the fact of the rite and my preferences. At least that way they'll save face."
"I can't say I envy that kind of relationship," Chuuya felt a fraction of sympathy for Osamu, but diligently suppressed that impulse of feeling. "Somehow it all seems hypocritical."
"As it is," the brown-haired man withdrew his hand from his spouse's face. And so he lingered longer than he should have.
"Okay," the redhead stepped back, regaining control of his raging emotions. "But wouldn't a coffin without a body be too light? And where would we go in that case? I doubt a couple of dead men walking around in the daylight will go unnoticed."
"We won't have to," the smile graced the dead man's face again. "We'll put someone else's body in the coffin and hide ourselves in another casket and wait for us to be buried properly. We'll dig up the next night and we'll be free."
"Wait! Wait," Chuuya blinked a couple of times out of habit, staring at Osama. "So you're suggesting a game of thimbles with coffins and corpses?"
"Well... Pretty much, yeah."
"Stupid plan. You know how crazy that sounds, don't you?"
"And life after death doesn't bother you at all, I see," Dazai grinned ironically. Apparently death really does change things, dulls one's perception. I couldn't think of any other explanation for such a quiet conversation.
"Let's just solve a more pressing problem, shall we? I died once, and I don't want to die again. If you care what I think about it, we'll talk about it later," Nakahara measured the young man with a serious look, It was like - what the hell are you laughing at, you bastard?
"You say surprisingly sensible things, Chu-uya. I'm pleasantly surprised," the brown-haired man pretended not to catch the reproach in his interlocutor's gaze.
"Shut up and get busy," Chuuya pushed Dazai aside and walked around the table himself, examining the papers and pulling blank sheets and a fountain pen from the top drawer. "Pick us up a coffin, and I'll do the penmanship so the gravedigger can take us to the cemetery first thing in the morning and put us in the ground."
"You can write?" his eyes rounded, Osamu stared at Nakahara as if he had never seen him before in his life. He froze in a funny pose with his foot raised to step.
"Why are you so surprised?" Chuya didn't even look at him. The gaze of the living dead man slid over the lines of documents, parsing the peculiarities and structure of the alien handwriting, which was to be repeated. "I used to do the ledgers at the teahouse..."
"You can count, too?" Dazai continued to stare at the young man.
"I can read, write, count, and play the violin," his lips stretched themselves in a mocking smirk. The bad habits were contagious.
"I've heard that to hide a lie, it must be skillfully mixed with the truth," Osamu squinted.
"Okay, I confess," Chuuya sighed, cocking his nose and spreading his arms apart. "I lied about the violin."
"I'm still in shock."
"What do you mean?"
"You can write..."
"What do you take me for?" Chuuya slammed his hand on the table and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers, like he was starting to get a headache. He glared at him again. "Or did you think that because I was an orphan I didn't go to school?"
"Yes," he sounded quite sincere.
"Are you serious?" growled Nakahara. "God, Dazai, you're so fucking annoying."
"You're accusing me of something I haven't done yet!" Dazai pretended insulted innocence, theatrically clasping his hands to his chest.
"Shut up. Just shut up. Please," Chuuya collapsed in his chair and covered his face with his hands. His palms slowly slid down, folding in a prayerful gesture and covering his nose and mouth.
"How can I refuse you, my wife, when you ask so politely?" the brown-haired man's lips stretched into a smile. He could taste victory in this verbal altercation.
"How you piss me off..."
Dazai hurriedly retreated from the office, sensing danger in his sixth sense. Any longer and the angry redheaded midget would have thrown something heavy at him.
People say that the humpback grave will fix. Good thing that wasn't said about Chuuya. The young man was as funny and irascible as when he was alive. Yet Osamu had no answers to his questions. How Nakahara died was still a mystery. But he was determined to solve it: there was something important, interesting, and not entirely pleasant about it.
But Chuuya was right, and he should have dealt with the more pressing problem first, and left the questioning for later. Tempering his curiosity, Dazai hid his hands in the long sleeves of his death garment and slipped silently into the darkness toward the stairs, returning to the first floor of the funeral home.
Chuya continued to stare at the closing door for some time longer. At some point his shoulders trembled and he leaned back in his chair in a fit of silent laughter.
Dazai Osamu. Even though he was dead, he seemed more alive than ever and continued to get on Nakahara's nerves. But he had to be given his due. He diluted the atmosphere of tension with his buffoonish behavior, keeping Chuuya from breaking under the yoke of sudden problems.
And the situation was both ridiculous and frightening. It was enough to grab his head and tear at his hair in a fit of insanity.
He exhaled noisily, more out of habit than necessity, and then looked down at his hands, fingers clenched and unclenched. The joints beneath the skin creaked and crunched, stiffened by rigor mortis. His fine motor skills came out unnaturally broken and angular, in spite of all the previous gesticulations during his conversation with Dazai.
With his lips pressed together, Chuuya glanced over the writing utensils. It seemed to him that his hands were no different now than those of some old woman whose joints had long been broken by arthritis. And Nakahara was to take a fountain pen with these hands and forge someone else's handwriting? A higher power certainly wanted to make fun of him.
Clasping his hands together and twisting his hands outward, Chuuya stretched. Fingers, shoulders, back - it all crunched. The sound seemed to echo off the walls of the office.
Disgusting. But at the same time there was a kind of lightness in his body. A phantom feeling of satisfaction when, after being in one position for so long, one manages to stretch. That must be a good sign.
Fingers gripped the dark shaft and the curved tip of the pen scribbled across the paper, leaving an ornate trail of ink behind it. He needs to stretch his hand. As expected, the first attempt at writing looked terrible. So did the second, then the third...
Unsuitable sheets crumpled and went into the bucket with a rustling noise. Let the master of the study not be attentive to trifles. The sixth page was smoothed out, the seventh was more and more like the original, and the eighth page looked as if it and the documents had been written by the hand of one person. Chuuya was pleased with himself.
As Nakahara was putting the finishing touches on the forged burial paper, the door hinges creaked quietly. Dazai silently stepped over the threshold and approached, standing behind the redheaded youth and peering over his shoulder at the paper. The bloody amber of his eyes sparkled with delight. Chuuya's abilities were indeed astonishing. Osamu took a quick glance at the lines and gave a satisfied chuckle.
His palm dropped to his shoulder as soon as the fountain pen was set aside. Nakahara turned around. The icy blue collided again with the bloody amber. Dazai squinted his eyes, causing his expression to become laughing and sly, like a fox's. Chuuya frowned in his usual manner and pursed his lips, expecting another trick. But the dark-haired man remained silent, merely nodded toward the door and beckoned after him.
Preparations in the hall for the dead man's farewell were completed. On a stand stood a single coffin, wider and more massive in appearance than those in which the reanimated dead lay individually.
The lid fit tightly over the box, hiding the contents. Yellowish sheets of talismans could be seen on the side, as if the Taoist had already performed a cleansing ritual on the dead, so that the bodies would not be disturbed by evil. Another of the traditions that Osamu's relatives so revered. And only the paper dolls along the walls were witnesses to the fact that this was all one big scam pulled by one of the rising dead.
"Who did you put inside?"
"Um, so... Walked to the morgue across the street and found the body of some shoulder-length workman there," shrugged the brown-haired man. "He was heavy enough to match the weight of the two of us."
"You were outside? In the morgue?" following Dazai across the room, Chuuya turned toward the coffin. "Won't they be looking for him?"
"Who cares?" retorted Osamu indifferently. "That won't be our problem anymore," the brown-haired man gave the frowning redhead a look and smiled. "You think too much, little Chu-Chu. There! There's our box."
The coffin chose looked more like a hairpin case, only very large. The polished dark wood had a reddish-brown hue and shone with a glossy sheen in the scant light from the street. The insides were upholstered with soft cloth, and the lid, decorated with carvings in the footboard and headboard, was covered with silver paint. Expensive and rich. Almost fancy. Chuuya stared at the corpse box for a couple of minutes, examining the polished surface, the carvings, the interior upholstery.
"Well, what are we standing around for? Climb up," Osamu shook him out of his stupor. He was already inside, stretching his arms toward Nakahara, waving his long sleeves in the air with bandages sticking out from under them, and inviting him into a hug.
"Are you serious?"
"More than. Or do you have a prejudice against luxury?"
"No, but..."
"Then get in, we don't have much time. It's getting light outside, by the way."
Abandoning the ceremonies, Dazai grabbed his companion by the shoulders and pulled him toward him. Chuuya shrieked in surprise, tumbling over the edge and falling onto the chest of the dark-haired man. The dead man's arms wrapped around the curve of his waist, pulling him closer to his body.
Nakahara was about to break free, to stand up and resent it properly, but the lid was already lowered from above. Osamu pulled it up with one hand, shutting himself and his spouse from the rest of the world in total darkness.
"Hands off," hissed Chuuya grumpily as the palms slid down his sides.
"Where am I going to put them?" pretended Dazai in wonder as he wrapped his arms around the miniature body. "By the way, since we're alone and in such an intimate setting," Chuya from above visibly tensed, listening to him speak and Osamu stretched his lips in a smirk. "How about a consummation of marriage, my wifey?"
"Wha... What? You're fucking kidding me!" the aggression in the redhead's hissing became considerably greater. The young man twitched, trying to twist and punch his interlocutor in some way, but the space around him was extremely limited. "Now you get up and get out of here!"
"You're so mean, Chuuya," Dazai whined resentfully, as Nakahara, for want of a better idea, smacked him with his chin with the top of his head. "Where am I going to go then?"
"That won't be my problem anymore, you slouching dog!"
"Shh," the playful whimper changed to a serious tone and Dazai's palm came down on the redhead's back of his head, pulling the young man close to him. "I heard a noise."
Chuuya pressed his forehead against the brown-haired man's shoulder and froze, listening. There were indeed muffled rustles outside, like distant footsteps. The floorboards creaked, and someone cursed, stumbling over the threshold. The funeral home that had died out the previous evening was filling up again with lively commotion.
What if they'd made a mistake somewhere? What if someone looked in the coffin? What if the gravediggers didn't notice the prepared document?
Doubts overwhelmed Nakahara. He hooked his fingers into the fabric of the garment on Osamu's chest without himself noticing, until a large palm slid along his spine. Dazai still had one arm around his waist, holding him close. His other hand stroked the redhead's back soothingly, dispelling the tension that had built up.
The caress was light, completely unobtrusive, and it worked. Chuuya relaxed a little, but continued to flinch as the noise outside grew closer and louder. Dazai held firmly, foiling any attempt to twitch. His fingers dug into the soft copper curls, massaging the back of his head. For a moment, cold lips pressed against his temple and whispered silently:
/"Try to sleep."/
Nakahara only smiled ironically at this suggestion. Do the dead sleep at all, or don't they?
The coffin shudders as it is lifted and carried somewhere, placed. Probably loaded onto a hearse, because the noise of the room is replaced by the creak of wheels and a measured jolt. They are on their way, to the cemetery.
In his struggle with excitement, Chuuya rested his nose against his husband's neck. His palms rested on Osamu's chest, where his fingers ran over the glass beads of a rosary. Over this monotonous activity the ride passed almost imperceptibly, and here again their corpse box shook, sinking into a grave prepared for burial.
The red-haired young man shudders as the first lump of earth tossed from the shovel hits the lid of the casket. It's scary to be buried alive. Chuuya chuckled nervously; he was really laughing at himself, for he was already dead. But Dazai's touch dispelled the strange thoughts again-the pads of his fingers slid weightlessly along his cheek, then along the edge of his jaw and under his chin, where the touch felt more like a tickle.
"Dazai..."
"Mm?"
"What are we?"
"You're finally asking the right questions, wifey," Osamu whispered cooingly in response to a quiet whisper from above. "Do you want to hear a bedtime story?
"You're the one who suggested I sleep," hissed Chuuya quietly as much as possible. "So take care of me, hubby."
"Oya?" Dazai rounded his eyes in surprise. His heart in his chest suddenly fluttered at how venomously and syllabically Chuuya muttered the last word. "I think we have become Jiangshi."
"Ha? Who's that?" even in the whisper, one could hear the young man's habitual arrogance. Nakahara remained Nakahara, even if he was anxious.
"A type of undead in Chinese folklore. My great-grandmother told me about them as a child and something I read in books not too long ago," Dazai began to twirl the red curls around his fingers. "A Chinese bouncing vampire, or more specifically, a reanimated dead man who feeds on the energy of the living. Walks around under the cover of night, and in the light of day hides in a coffin or in places where sunlight does not penetrate. Described the same way throughout, as a stiff body in Qing dynasty garb, moving about in leaps and bounds, arms outstretched forward. Why the Qing Dynasty, I wonder? Maybe that was the most popular story at the time?"
"Are you asking me? I'm not into demonic and occult stuff."
"It's a thought out loud, little Chu-Chu. Just thinking out loud..."
Lumps of earth kept falling from above. Chuuya shuddered every time he heard that rumble. Sensing his trembling, Osamu soothingly stroked the young man on the back. His movements were light, monotonous, almost lulling.
"And my interest was not in the occult at all, but in mythology in general. Thematic literature of this genre can be quite interesting. But fiction is still rooted in old folk legends," the brown-haired man's speech flowed quietly and smoothly, like a gentle lullaby.
"Jiangshi appear in different ways. It can be a spirit-possessed corpse or a body deliberately lifted from the grave by a sorcerer. It has been described that a corpse could rise due to a lack of observance of burial traditions, if lightning struck it, or even more absurdly, when a pregnant black cat jumps over the coffin. These superstitions sound ridiculous! Heh... Sometimes the soul refuses to leave the body because of premature death, suicide, or because of pent-up resentment. Then the corpse also turns into a jiangshi."
"Suicide, huh?" Chuuya's voice sounded so quiet you could barely make it out. He was already falling asleep. "Suitable for you, suicidal mummy..."
Dazai only smiled at this remark as he continued to stroke the young man. His body finally relaxed and consciousness fell into a dreamless sleep, leaving the brown-haired man awake to his own thoughts.
The clods of earth muffled on the dear coffin did not seem to disturb Osamu at all. He covered his eyes. The darkness beneath his eyelids was no different from that of the coffin. What was the point of keeping his eyes open?
Lifting a corpse from the grave requires proper motivation. Such a statement sounded convincing enough as the young man engaged in an internal dialogue with himself. Yes, Dazai fit the terms. He had tried to end his life more than once, as evidenced by the numerous scars covering his body.
But not a single wound or cut could take his life. It was as if he had been born with his shirt on. It was a mockery of fate, no different. Osamu also contemplated a paired suicide. Maybe the God of Death would take him in hand if the young man died with some pretty girl? But not a single girl agreed. And young men...
Dazai once said he didn't like men. Apparently not convincing enough, since he was considered a cutoff sleeve anyway. Nakahara was the only one who stood out as an exception. Bright in appearance, prickly in character.
When he was sober, Dazai was tempted to piss the redhead off, but when he was drunk, he could pour any nonsense into his ears and piss him off even more. He was almost always beaten, once he was out on the street. But Osamu thought it was worth it.
And now, scrolling through all those moments, the brown-haired man was surprised to note that the thought of suicide had never once visited him in Chuuya's company. Yes, he mentioned it, but never once was he serious. Nakahara breathed life and energy for the two of them.
/"Someone like you doesn't look suicidal. So how did you die and who hurt you so badly, shorty?"/
The longer Dazai thought about it, the more he frowned. No matter how he looked at it, Chuuya had no motivation. Osamu just couldn't find it, no matter how much he looked. And the young man remained silent on the circumstances of his death, and it was disturbing.
The noise from outside had died down. Obviously, the gravediggers had done their job. Taking advantage of the moment and his partner's unconsciousness, Osamu studied someone else's body with his hands.
Chuuya's figure was beautiful: a supple and strong frame, strong arms and legs, a smooth curve of the waist. It was smooth, not feminine graceful. He really is an exception.
Long fingers furtively slipped under his clothes, stroking his sides. The young man had time to count the other man's ribs when, going lower, he noticed something unusual. The skin on the left side is uneven and torn, the mark is small and fresh and feels damp.
When he tried to feel the area better, his fingers dipped inside the tear. Taking his hand away from the other man's body, Dazai brought his palm to his lips, smeared his fingers with his tongue, and frowned harder. Blood. There is a wound, but it heals quickly, for Chuuya is no longer human.
His teeth gritted as Osamu clenched his jaws. He was angry and hugged the red-haired young man tighter, pulling him against him. /Wounded. Killed. Who dared?/ Anger flared in Dazai's soul like embers blown by the wind.
He did not like his own discovery, and his desire for an interrogation only took root, becoming a primary concern. As soon as this uncooperative little guy woke up. His little guy.
In a possessive impulse, Dazai poked his nose into the reddish curls, inhaling someone else's scent. Chuuya didn't smell like death. The scent of fragrant tea, sweet baked goods, and incense smoke remained on his hair. It's like he's alive. Like alive...
/Killed. Killed! Killed!!!/
Dazai was very angry and didn't notice the passage of time.
"Dazai... Hey, Dazai. Osamu!" Chuuya's voice and the touch of his fingers on his cheek brought the man back to reality.
"What?" Dazai fluttered his eyelashes in surprise in the darkness. It seemed as if he had just closed his eyes. Had he not noticed he had fallen asleep?
"Something's going on."
There were rhythmic rustling noises coming from above. A shovel was being wielded, ripping a fresh grave layer by layer. Voices were heard. Scraps of phrase echoed through the sensitive ears of the undead, breaking up into discrete words. The strangers were discussing what treasures they might find on a body packed in such an expensive coffin. It was as if an ancient treasure had been found.
"We have company, my wife," Dazai grinned in the darkness, curling his red curls affectionately around his fingers. "A couple of marauders are rushing to say hello on the housewarming. Be ready."
The blows of the shovel grew louder and the brown-haired man withdrew his hands, letting the redhead out of his grasp. Someone was already fumbling with their palms over the lid of the coffin, shaking earth and sand off the wood. Greedy fingers raked up the lid of the casket, and the cold night air slid in. Perfect. One need not fear the light.
As soon as the casket was open enough, the dead man's cold hands gripped the living intruder's wrist. The marauder, who turned out to be an unassuming middle-aged man, howled frightenedly and tried to break free. Cutting off the noise, Dazai slipped out from under Chuuya and clutched at the other man's throat with his other hand. The grave robber's accomplice, who remained on top, gave a run for his life.
"Chuuya, don't let him go," growled Osamu.
And Chuuya sprinted upward, climbing out of the grave in one leap. He fully lived up to the title of jiangshi. Time seemed to slow down and Dazai even admired him. Nakahara seemed like a graceful predator, not a reanimated dead man whose body was broken by rigor mortis.
The young man disappeared over the edge of the grave and the brown-haired man returned his attention to trapped guest. The marauder in his hands was whiter than chalk, trembling with fear and drenched in cold sweat. The dead man's fingers on the stranger's throat slowly clenched. Osamu drank him in, greedily drawing in the energy of another's life, like a drowning man groping for air with his mouth.
Drop by drop, sip by sip. And the victim rapidly withered, fainting in the hungry ghoul's grip. And Dazai could feel the life flowing through his body again, the warmth in his chest, and the hot blood flowing through his veins again. A pleasant feeling of fullness, almost euphoria, and lightness overwhelmed him.
Osamu emptied his victim - the man's body dried up, darkened and wrinkled like a raisin. With a flick of his hand, the brown-haired man flung the leather-clad skeleton away to the bottom of the grave, and emerged on the surface.
In the clear sky, the perfectly round moon glowed white, illuminating the cemetery with its cold light. Crickets lurked in the grass, a slight damp haze crept across the ground. There was not a soul around, and it was so quiet.
It didn't take long for Osamu to find Chuuya. Nakahara had caught up with his prey quickly, and was now standing nearby, towering over his desiccated body.
He examined his hands: clenched and unclenched his hands, twisted his wrists, flexed and unclenched his elbows, moved his shoulders... and then he threw his head back and laughed. He no longer felt broken, and his rigor mortis joints no longer creaked. The young man felt alive.
"Chuuya," Dazai stepped closer, calling out to the redhead, and froze.
"Yes?" Nakahara turned around. His eyes glistened, his lips stretched into a smile, and a lively blush bloomed on his pale cheeks. The stroppy runt looked relaxed and happy.
"How handsome you are..." exhaled Osamu in awe, no longer the master of his own tongue. "Frighteningly handsome..."
His arms wrapped around the curve of his waist, body pressed against body, and his lips collided in a kiss. Chuuya did not resist; on the contrary, he was responsive and compliant. The redheaded young man threw his arms around the stately brown-haired man's shoulders, wrapped his arms around his neck, pulled him lower to him, and then he himself got on his toes.
He captured Dazai's bottom lip with his sharp teeth and grinned playfully, then kissed the man again. Osamu smirked himself, hugging Nakahara tighter, and felt a quiet snort on his lips. Chuuya's lips were soft, nice to crumple them with his own, to nibble on them, and then lick the marks of his own teeth afterwards. He wanted to kiss those lips again and again, and he didn't want to stop at all.
Their mouths open and their tongues meet, intertwining with each other. Little hands slip over Dazai's cheeks and fingers burrow into his soft hair, clutching dark chocolate-colored strands in their grasp.
Chuuya groaned muffled as Osamu's palms slid down his back along the curve of his spine. Those raking hands squeezed him so greedily and possessively, making him feel like someone insanely important. Such touches were seductive.
Such intimacy, which before had seemed something crazy, impossible and unattainable, now turned out to be something simple and natural. It was the excitement, the adrenaline after the first hunt, and the blissful feeling of fullness after the meal. All these feelings caused such a sweet blurring of the mind and drove them toward each other. But so be it. If kissing those lips feels so good, then might as well die once for that pleasure. To die...
"Tell me, Chuuya," whispered Dazai, smacking his lips one last time.
"Tell you what?" Nakahara's voice sounded hoarse and so intimate wanted to kiss him again.
"Who did this to you?" Osamu pressed his forehead against Chuuya's, the bloody amber of his eyes colliding with the blue icicles. "Tell me, who killed you?"