Chapter Text
SUMMER
The ocean air ruffles Dazai’s hair, obscuring his vision until he attempts to tuck part of it behind his ear. Water stretches out beneath him, reaching out to the horizon, dark waves choppy and spitting white foam. It’s quite beautiful. It certainly makes for a lovely, if a little sinister, final view. He only wishes he could see more stars; the light pollution obscures most of the night sky.
He inhales sharply, savoring the fresh but salty air around him, and takes another step closer to the edge. It’s a dizzying drop. Still hesitating for unknown reasons, he fiddles with the edge of the bandages at his wrists.
He’s still looking, he realizes, for a reason to stay. Other people are so intent on living—they must see something he can’t. With cold fingers, he pulls off the bandages covering his right eye, letting them flutter away in the wind. It takes some blinking to adjust, but everything still looks the same: beautiful, meaningless, dull.
A slight movement catches in his newly unveiled peripheral vision and he turns to look further up the road. The sound reaches him before he truly understands what he’s seeing—a low rumbling growing louder as a person seems to be barreling toward him at increasing speed down the hill.
They’re crouching low on a skateboard and—wait, they’re literally coming at him. The last thought Dazai has before this person collides with him is: Dying via skateboard collision is a really stupid way to die.
But his thoughts keep coming, as instead of getting pushed off the cliffside or crushed under—admittedly small—wheels, he’s knocked down and rolling down the road with someone on top of him. It’s a few moments before their bodies come to a stop, though he can hear the skateboard still going.
He finds himself looking up at a teenage boy, scraped up, but eyes bright.
”What did you do that for?” Dazai hisses.
”You looked like you were going to jump, asshole.” His voice is rough around the edges, a growl to Dazai’s hiss.
”Why couldn’t you mind your own business?” There’s dull pain in the back of his head from smacking against the ground, his palms are stinging, and his left knee aches.
”I wasn’t going to just watch you throw yourself off a cliff,” the boy says, an undeserved anger in his tone. What does he have to be angry about?
“Oh!” Dazai exclaims, pitching his voice higher and cheerier. “You want to be a hero, is that it?”
They’re close enough that Dazai can feel the boy’s heaving breaths and see the tremble in his arms, bracketed on either side of Dazai’s head. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but he thinks the boy has abnormally ginger hair.
“No, I…” Seeming to finally realize the position they’re in, his brow furrows and he moves to stand up. He recalibrates the hesitation in his words, going back to the earlier aggression: “I just didn’t want to spend the rest of my week thinking about some suicidal idiot who killed himself right in front of me.”
Dazai props himself up on his elbows, fixing a glare on this boy who has unequivocally ruined his night.
”Then go grab your glorified piece of plywood and find someone else to crash into and you won’t have to see me ever again.”
At that, the boy looks down the hill for his skateboard. It’s resting at the bottom, still in the middle of the empty road, but in one piece.
And then a strange thing happens in that brief moment of silence: Dazai’s breath catches and he’s overtaken by an intrusive thought that insists he doesn’t want this boy to leave so soon.
But to equal parts dismay and alien relief, the boy doesn’t run off for his board and instead looks back down at Dazai, shoving his hands into the pockets of his gray hoodie.
“No. You’ll still haunt me.”
“As if,” Dazai says haughtily. “If I were a ghost, I’d have far better haunting grounds than some kid I don’t even know.”
”Some kid,” he growls under his breath, looks Dazai up and down, and almost shouts: “We’re the same damn age!”
With a sigh, Dazai finally pulls his limbs back together and stands up.
”Well if you insist on ruining my night, then it seems it’s time to go.” And with that, Dazai walks away from this strange boy who’s weirdly and inconveniently invested in not letting a complete stranger die tonight. Of course, he’s walking down the hill. The same direction said boy will also be going. It’s simply the better way to get back to Mori’s house.
After a few paces, he hears footsteps follow behind him.
”How did you even get out here?” The irritated voice far too loud for the quiet night.
”I used my own two legs to do this funny thing called walking,” Dazai says.
”Okay…”
”If my charming hero is about to offer me a ride home on his skateboard, he should get his head checked out for a concussion.”
”I wasn’t going to offer—that’s not even possible,” he growls back. “And I’m not some damn hero.”
Dazai’s got a sharp response on his tongue, but it dissipates when he reaches the offending skateboard. Delicately, like it stinks of rotting flesh, he picks it up and peers at the underside of the board. Written across it in big, red letters is the word Arahabaki.
”Arahabaki,” he murmurs, mulling the word over in his mind. He remembers it from somewhere… a story passed around the playground, meant to scare foolish children.
The boy roughly grabs the board from him, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “What’s it to you?”
”What’s your name, anyway?” Dazai parries, filing his reaction away.
”Chuuya.”
Dazai tilts his head. “Chuuya.” He likes how the name feels on his tongue. He also can’t help the amusement at such an angry little boy having such an adorable name.
”And?” Chuuya demands.
”What?”
”Who are you?”
”Oh! Dazai.”
”Okay, Dazai,” he sneers the name and it prickles at Dazai’s skin like pop rocks on his tongue.
And they stand there, with only the sound of crashing waves in the background, as Dazai waits for Chuuya to say something else.
He still isn’t walking away.
Neither is Dazai, for that matter.
He looks cold, Dazai thinks. Just the worn gray hoodie, not-intentionally-ripped jeans, and, presumably, a t-shirt under there. His shoes are the nicest thing on him—canvas sneakers, of course—but even they have some wear. Scuffs on the edges. The wind ruffles his hair, blowing his bangs around his angry, star-bright eyes. Maybe they’re blue? They have a stormy quality similar to the waves behind him.
Dazai wants to keep him in a cage like a canary—chattering loudly in the corner, pretty to look at, something he could sink his teeth into.
The thought surprises him. And that tells him it’s time to leave.
But when was the last time he wanted something?
“Are you planning on chaperoning me home to make sure I don’t do something as silly as kill myself?” Dazai taunts, trying to ignore the part of him that wants Chuuya’s answer to be yes.
Chuuya scoffs, dropping his board to the ground and stepping on it.
”Don’t be a fucking idiot,” he says. About following Dazai home or his suicidal ideation, Dazai can’t tell.
Before he has time to properly respond, though, Chuuya’s kicking off and speeding away from him. He turns back to look, sharp eyes narrowed, and flips Dazai off.
***
Walking up to the edge, Chuuya balances his skateboard precariously against the lip of the skatepark pool, readying himself to tail drop: His foot, on the very end of the deck, holds it in place, with the back wheels backed against the wall, and the rest of the board sticking out at an angle, hanging in the air.
He takes a breath, then brings his other foot around to the end of the board, leans his weight onto it, and then he’s skating down into the pool. A rush of wind hits his face, toying with his hair as he crosses to the other side, up the steep slope and turns back towards where he started.
Bracing himself, he rides his momentum up the slightly-less-than vertical wall, and into the air above it. Twisting his body just so, he briefly grabs the side of his board between his heels and then he’s hurtling back down the slope, elated at pulling off a hard trick. There’s a few whoops from his friends, but he’s not paying attention. It feels like he’s flying as he skates around the walls of the pool before ending back up on the flat deck above.
His heart is pounding in the best way as he grins at his friends. Several of the younger Sheep members had been watching him as Shirase, Yuan, and the others skate the other pools. They look at him in awe, which feels a little weird, but is gratifying at the same time.
While he’s trying to explain how to do the trick to a very serious eleven-year-old, the loud clatter of boards against cement, followed by aggressive swearing, draws his attention across the park.
The Sheep kid—an eight-year-old girl who’s been practicing skating—is on the ground, staring up at a pissed off teenage boy. He’s cussing her out for apparently “getting in his way” and she’s halfway to tears with a skinned forearm.
Chuuya’s seen this guy before, but usually later in the evening when the younger kids have gone home or are sleepily sitting on the side, waiting for everyone else to tire out. They’ve never talked, but the guy’s clearly an asshole.
“Hey, asshole!” Chuuya shouts, stalking towards him. He puts himself in front of the girl, forcing the boy to take a step back, and glares at him. “Say one more thing to her and I’ll rip your head off.”
The derisive laugh he gets in response only fuels the anger heating his blood. His hands, tucked in his pockets, twitch. He breathes in, out.
Then the bully taunts, “You think a shrimp like you could even touch me?”
Ah, he shouldn’t have said that. Chuuya’s getting real sick of people commenting on his size.
“I’m only fifteen,” he grinds out, and adds, as he sweeps the guy's legs out from under him, “I’m still growing!”
If he wasn’t so pissed off, he might have laughed at the comically surprised look on the guy’s face. Instead, he rests his foot lightly on his groin.
“If you have a fucking problem with any of them,” he gestures at the rest of the Sheep, watching with smug faces, “Next time, I won’t hold back.” He presses down just enough to hurt, to make him squirm and stay on the ground, before removing his foot. Then with one last kick to the shin, he turns to the girl and helps her up.
She’s crying and blubbering. “Chuuya,” she wails, burying her face in his chest. He lets her stay there a moment, then puts his hands on her shoulders and gently moves her so he can see her face and injured arm.
“Does it hurt?”
She nods vigorously, showing him the nasty scrape.
“C’mon. I think Yuan has some bandaids.”
With a look over his shoulder, he notes that the bully’s friends are jeering at him for buckling so easily. Luckily, they don’t seem interested in starting a bigger fight. Chuuya is a little disappointed, but it’s for the best. He’d rather the young Sheep not end up in the middle of a brawl.
Unfortunately, no one has bandaids.
The girl’s bloody arm is clearly freaking her out, so he tells them all to stay put and jogs over to a nearby convenience store. Making sure to look as natural as possible, he slips large sized bandaids and a packet of cookies into his pockets; then he’s out and strolling down the sidewalk, back to the skatepark.
She brightens up for the cookies, tears drying on her cheeks. He sits next to her and hits her with an obligatory “Look where you’re goin’, kid.”
“I was,” she whines.
He snorts.
“Yeah, okay,” she says, talking to her shoes.
While waiting for one of the pools to open up, Chuuya does a few lazy laps around the park. After just a minute or two, Shirase starts tailing him around.
“What?” he calls back. No answer comes, so he grinds to a halt.
“I nicked a bottle of booze from those guys,” Shirase says quietly, grinning.
“Are you an idiot?” Chuuya’s so over this right now. “Don’t make problems you can’t deal with.”
“Aww c’mon. They were pissing themselves watching you.” Shirase wraps an arm around his shoulders and leans in to talk quietly. “They won’t try anything with you around, makin’ them fear for their dicks.”
“I am one person. There are five of them. Are you gonna fight ‘em?”
Shirase just shrugs. Chuuya elbows him in the ribs.
“Let’s ditch the kids, Chuuya,” he says, brazenly changing topics. “Yuan’s still over there.”
Chuuya considers it. It’s been a while since he hung out with just Shirase. It could be nice.
“Fine. Where you wanna go?”
They end up in a secreted away, scrubby little alleyway. There’s a staircase with a promising looking railing amidst the slightly overgrown grass and weeds. It’s a great spot—Chuuya’s never been here before. He runs up the stairs and then grinds down the railing, back to Shirase.
“You’re too fucking good, Chuuya,” Shirase says, a blatant mix of admiration and envy.
“Stop runnin’ after girls and practice,” Chuuya says with a laugh.
“I don’t think any amount of practice would get me that far.” He plops down on the steps and pulls a bottle out of his inner jacket pocket. “I’m serious. You have real talent. You could go pro.”
Chuuya rolls his eyes. “Oh fuck off.” He idly skates around the area at the base of the stairs. “I’m not even a person, remember?”
He’s not sure how people go about their lives, getting jobs and whatnot, but he’s pretty sure it requires having things like a birth certificate or records of some kind.
Shirase shrugs. “You could be anonymous.”
Chuuya scoffs. “You can’t be an anonymous pro skater. That’s impossible. What am I gonna do? Skate with a paper bag on my head?” He turns back to Shirase, shaking his head.
“‘m just sayin’, those guys make a lot of money.” Shirase takes another drink and then holds the bottle out to Chuuya.
It feels cruel, making Chuuya consider a successful future he could never have. He takes two swigs, just to drown out the thought.
“Maybe we could get someone to forge you stuff.”
“Learn how to do it yourself, asshat,” Chuuya says, snickering as he sits down next to Shirase. It’s a narrow staircase, so their shoulders are touching. He rests his feet on his skateboard, rolling it back and forth, picturing what sort of life that would be like.
Competitions with cheering crowds, magazine spreads, professional photographers filming his best tricks. He could proverbially write his name in stone by putting himself on film. He could have his own apartment, not have to couch hop between his friends’ places. He could finally get himself some new clothes—something cool. Fuck, brands would probably give him free shit.
“Chuuya.”
The murmur brings him out of his daydream and he turns to look at his friend.
“Hmm?”
And then before he knows it, Shirase is kissing him. Lips on lips. Chuuya goes still, not fully understanding what’s happening. It only lasts a moment.
Chuuya’s not sure how to react, so he just blurts out the first thing on his mind: “I thought you and Yuan were—I dunno.”
Shirase shakes his head. “I don’t think Yuan is into me. And I thought I was being obvious about what I feel for you,” he laughs, sheepishly.
“Oh.”
Chuuya scrubs through his memories of the last few months, reexamining their interactions. He can… kinda see it, in hindsight. Not 20/20, though.
He shuffles his feet, pushes his hands further into his pockets.
“So?”
Right, he needs to give Shirase something.
“Sorry, I just wasn’t expectin’ it.”
Chuuya offers a smile, hoping it conveys… something.
“C’mon, Chuuya, I know you like me, too,” Shirase says, and he leans in to kiss Chuuya again.
Does he? This is news to Chuuya.
He’s never thought much about this sort of stuff. Some part of him knows that’s weird and sets him apart from other teenagers. But he knows he doesn’t want to ruin their friendship by acting rashly, so he gives in to the kiss.
Shirase puts his hand on Chuuya’s thigh, trying to get closer.
Isn’t he supposed to feel some sort of sparks? Isn’t he supposed to lose himself in the momentous occasion of finally kissing his crush? His body is supposed to take the reins or something, right?
Chuuya has never felt more present in his head as he tries to figure out what to do with his lips. It feels so mechanical. Not at all natural.
When Shirase tries to put his fingers in Chuuya’s hair, Chuuya pulls back with a start, hitting his head on the railing behind him.
“Sorry, I just…” he mumbles. “Too fast, I guess.”
Shirase looks puzzled. “I’ve been waiting a long time to kiss you, y’know? I thought we could…” he trails off and gestures vaguely between them.
Make out? Give each other hand jobs? God, he didn’t think they were going to get down on the dirty cement and have sex, right?
Something like panic begins to flare in Chuuya and he stands up quickly. “Another time, okay? I’m still hurtin’ from some falls earlier.”
He really hadn’t wiped out that much today, but it feels like a plausible excuse.
“Yeah,” Shirase says, clearly disappointed. “You comin’ to Yuan’s tonight?”
Chuuya bobs his head in a nod. “Later. I was gonna do something first.”
He doesn’t want to go back to Yuan’s mom’s apartment where he’ll be stuck in the same room as Shirase unless he locks himself in the bathroom and sleeps in the tub. No, he’ll stay out, wait till he’s sure Shirase is asleep.
He just needs some air.
***
Dazai knows he’s the smartest person he’s ever had the displeasure of knowing, but he still finds himself puzzled over the view before him. He may not be particularly versed in physics, but he is pretty sure that the laws of the universe aren’t supposed to work like that.
When Chuuya jumps, the board jumps with him. He glides across the concrete like a comet through the night sky, blazing hair bright against their dull surroundings. The low rumble from the wheels of his skateboard is the only sound breaking through the quiet night. It turns into a weirdly satisfying scrape when Chuuya grinds against a rail or edge, then clatters when the wheels hit cement again. The melody of it is inexplicably soothing.
Chuuya is the only spark of movement and life in the empty gray night and Dazai can’t look away. He’s mesmerized.
And here—here’s where Dazai is truly in awe: Chuuya speeds toward a steep slope and briefly skates through the air, twisting his body as his momentum and gravity bring the board with him. The silent gap between the sound of the wheels rolling and then hitting the ground perfectly coincides with Dazai’s held breath. But without missing a beat, Chuuya’s zipping toward the other side. He rides the skateboard up the wall and does a neat little jump to land back on flat ground, then continues around the park, doing little jumps and tricks off the ramps and rails.
Dazai idly kicks his feet through the air from his perch above the skatepark. He wouldn’t admit that he’s waiting for Chuuya to notice him—that’s ridiculous—but he is getting impatient.
“Hey, Chuuya~” he calls it out in a sing-song voice.
To Dazai’s annoyance, the smooth skating sound doesn’t falter, but Chuuya does glance up. It’s too dark to see his reaction, but he changes course and comes towards Dazai.
In a pretentious and unfair display of talent, Chuuya jumps over the fence—skateboard still underfoot—and lands on the other side to skate up to Dazai.
“So you’re still alive, huh?” Chuuya says by way of greeting. And normally Dazai cringes away from people addressing his suicidal ideation—they always turn it into a Thing—but Chuuya makes it sound as normal as remarking on his choice of sweater.
Dazai sighs dramatically, putting his whole body into the production, and says, “Regrettably.”
“What are you doing here then?”
Chuuya leaves one foot on his board, slightly rolling it back and forth, and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear before shoving his hands into his hoodie’s pockets.
Dazai waits to answer, tapping on his chin just to annoy him, before finally saying, “Arahabaki.”
”Hah?” There’s that unreadable emotion again.
Dazai gestures to the skateboard. “It’s on your board.”
“Yeah, I know it is.”
“I looked it up.” Dazai had spent a long time at the library, trying to find information on what he’d only ever heard as a playground myth. Of course it’s possible that Chuuya wrote it on there just as a reference to the story, but something in his eyes, his body language, tells Dazai that isn’t the whole truth.
”And?” Chuuya asks. He’s quieter, looking away from Dazai and out to the park beyond them.
”A god of destruction,” he says it like it’s a secret, like saying the name will bring Arahabaki’s terror unto them. “A beast of flames and calamity. And you’ve confined it to… your skateboard.”
Chuuya glares down at him.
”It’s a nickname.”
”For?”
”Me.”
”Wow, Chuuya, for someone so tiny you sure have a big opinion of yourself!”
Clearly, Dazai made a miscalculation here, because he suddenly finds himself knocked to the ground with a throbbing face and Chuuya kneeling over him with one hand at his collar and the other poised to strike again.
”Say that again,” he growls.
“I said,” Dazai says it like he’s talking to a child (no one has ever said he’s had a good sense of self-preservation, or any sense of self-preservation for that matter), “you have an overinflated ego if you’re comparing yourself to a god of destruction.”
Chuuya forgoes the punch, instead standing up to better kick Dazai in the ribs. And yet, if he didn’t know any better, he’d think Chuuya is going easy on him.
So for the second time in their short acquaintance, Dazai finds himself lying on the ground, propped on his elbows, looking up at Chuuya. His heart is racing. He doesn’t want to be hit again, but he also wants Chuuya to come close again, to make him feel something like alive.
“Don’t talk about shit you know nothing about,” Chuuya says, and then he’s leaving. Already.
Of course Dazai has managed to piss him off enough to make him leave. He can’t seem to find any balance in talking to Chuuya; anything less than antagonizing him will mean wading into waters that Dazai wants nothing to do with. Less of a drowning experience and more of… a sauna? Warm and content and happy? No, couldn’t be.
Dazai sits up to watch him, heart still fluttering in his chest, nose possibly bleeding.
“Who calls you that?” He asks, raising his voice.
Chuuya pauses, and Dazai thinks that despite his aggressive reaction, Chuuya wants to talk about this. No, not want. Needs. But he’s fighting it, not sure who to trust. It only intrigues Dazai further.
“When I was younger.” He’s quieter again, not wanting others to overhear, despite them being the only two people in sight. “I don’t remember much, but they kept calling me that. Arahabaki.”
“They?”
Chuuya shrugs. “The adults.”
“Your parents?”
”Maybe.”
Answers. Chuuya wants answers.
He can work with that.
“So they never told you what it was.”
Chuuya stiffens, and, surprisingly, admits: “No.”
Dazai considers that for a moment, mind running through ideas of what this strange nickname could mean.
”Well! Aren’t most children vessels for destruction? That’s hardly unique.” He stands up and dusts himself off, trying not to wince.
Chuuya narrows his eyes, wary.
“I guess,” he offers. A non-answer.
“Baki, baka…” He can’t help the devilish grin. “Arahabaka. Maybe they were just calling you stupid with extra steps.”
The impulsive aggression apparently gone, Chuuya just rolls his eyes and flips him off as he leaves. “Fuck off, baka.”
Dazai probably shouldn’t be grinning at the similarity to their last goodbye. He probably shouldn’t feel warmer because of it. But, well, he’s never reacted properly to other people before. Why start now?
***
It’s late by the time Chuuya ends up in front of Yuan’s apartment. He tries to be quiet as he makes his way to their front door, finding the spare key buried in the soil of a plant pot, and unlocks the door to step inside. He sets his board by the door, next to two others, and slips his shoes off to creep further inside.
Shirase is snoring on the couch, limbs sprawled and half falling off. The bedroom door down the hall is closed, but Chuuya finds a pillow and blanket set out for him in the living room. It only takes a few minutes to brush his teeth, splash water on his face, spread the blanket out on the floor next to the couch, and crawl under it.
It’s too quiet.
Thoughts flit through Chuuya’s mind, unwilling to let him rest.
A kiss he feels like he should have enjoyed more. Someone—his friend—wants him. He should be giddy over that; he mostly just feels confused and a little uncomfortable. He doesn’t want Shirase to do that again, but it feels like the wrong reaction. Maybe he just doesn’t know he has a crush.
Shirase’s arm is hovering not far from his face. He’s supposed to want to touch it, right? Any normal teenager would be making out on the couch by now, right? Some of the other members of the Sheep are dating each other and they’re younger than him.
He rolls over, closes his eyes, yearns for sleep, but is met with images of a figure standing at the edge of a cliff, stepping toward the sea. In an instant, the figure, the person, the boy is falling through the air, coat fluttering out behind him as he drops. He can almost hear the sound of his body hitting the waves and rocks and he thinks he would have screamed—Chuuya opens his eyes and stares at the popcorn ceiling above him.
But then he just thinks of the boy, alive and unhappy about it, grinning with empty eyes. Lonely.
He only allows himself a moment of sadness for Dazai, before thinking, He’s so fucking annoying, no wonder he’s lonely.
It doesn’t make him feel better.
He digs through Shirase’s jeans, left unceremoniously on the floor, to find their scratched up iPod and pulls the headphones on over his ears. The music drowns out his own voice in his head, the name Arahabaki on a stranger’s lips, but does nothing to rid his mind of those reddish brown eyes—hollow and haunting.
Jokes on him, apparently; for all his “heroics,” he’s being haunted anyway.