Run Like a Sheep 𝜗𝜚

by GreeenGoblin

Summary:

Dazai crouched beside Chuuya and grabbed him hard but certain by the back of his red hair, dragging him face-first before twisting him around. With the tip of his finger he tilted Chuuya’s chin upward; in that mocking, honeyed tone he spoke, “Is the little sheep running away? And at this hour of the night? How sweet. You know, this honestly could’ve put me to sleep—if only we had a few fences on the property~"

In that instant, Chuuya’s pride consumed him: he spat in Dazai’s face.

Dazai didn’t blink; with his fingertip he wiped the spit away with irritating patience, almost delicacy.

 

SLAP!

 

Dazai’s hand struck Chuuya’s face hard. So they might have a little fun.

 

-

 

Aka. Chuuya was betrayed by The Sheep and the PM took Chuuya captive.

 

Notes:

Hİİİİ!! Yes, I’m back again with another long fanfiction!! I won’t drag this out too much, but here are the key points you need to know:
- Chuuya and Dazai first met during the canon Rimbaud mission when they were 15, and Dazai fell in love with Chuuya at first sight.
- Right after that, Chuuya was betrayed and stabbed by The Sheep. The gang sold him to the Port Mafia in exchange for their freedom and then left Yokohama.
- After Mori’s death, Dazai took over his position.
- The Port Mafia and DOA joined forces, and Chuuya was used for experiments with Arahabaki. This went on for almost three years.
- Kouyou and the Flags have been taking care of Chuuya for the past three years. Since he was 15, Kouyou has been doing her best to help him—making sure he bathes, eats, and supporting him whenever he’s too exhausted from the experiments. But Chuuya has been so depressed and drained that he barely even notices her efforts. Doc treats Chuuya after the experiments to ease his pain, gives him the proper medication, and, even though Chuuya is already eighteen now, still sees him as a little boy. Lippmann and Piano Man are usually by his side as his psychologist and therapist, and they’re basically the only reason he’s been able to keep his sanity. Albatross often takes Chuuya out into the mansion’s garden for walks and tries to protect him like an older brother figure. And Ice Man? He regularly plays cards with him.
- Chuuya is currently 18 years old but Dazai is 19 years old since he is a few months older than him.
TW /Subject, stockholm syndrome, rape, underage rape mention, captivity, violence. (My English is bad because it is not my native language.)

Chapter 1: ONE ; He had to obey.

The night had descended upon the vast grounds of the Port Mafia like a burial shroud. The grass was cold, damp, and the wind rattled the leaves, clashed the branches, as if eager to announce Chuuya’s escape to the entire city. His bare feet struck the earth as though tearing it with every step, stumbling now on the sharpness of a stone, now on the slipperiness of dew-drenched blades of grass. He rose again, his knees burning, but he did not stop. He couldn’t. To stop meant chains once more.

 

The thin, pale hospital gown clung to him in the wind like a flag ready to be torn apart. Its hem ended just below his knees, leaving his skin exposed to the cold; his body trembled, but not only from the night air. It was the tremor of muscles that had rotted between damp walls for three years, of a body sharpened thin by hunger, of joints aching with exhaustion. Once one of the strongest fighters in the world, his body now resembled nothing more than a shadow. Worn down, fragile, bones starkly visible, his shoulders resembled the delicate wings of a bird close to breaking.

 

His red hair, strands that once carried fire itself, had grown down to his shoulders. The curls he once wore with pride were now plastered to his face with sweat and wind. His lips were cracked and scabbed; half-healed marks that had bled again and again, a reminder of whose hands had inflicted the violence. His face was white as death; the pallor of stagnant blood and airless rooms. And the tears falling down his cheeks, spilling from blue eyes, ran like two bright rivers that disappeared across the freckles on his skin.

 

But here lay the real mistake: those eyes carried more than pain. In them flickered defiance, a stubborn spark, a fire that screamed he could not be destroyed. There was helplessness, fear, suffering, yes—but in every drop there was also resistance.

 

Every step felt ripped from his body. His breath escaped in short, ragged gasps, his chest aflame. Still, he ran. Running was his only hope. When his knees buckled and slammed against the ground, his palms slid over the grass and smeared with mud. In that instant he felt his heart pierced, but the survival scream of his mind shoved him back up. Even as his hands trembled, even as the muscles beneath his knees cried mutiny, he gathered himself and forced another step forward.

 

What echoed in his mind was not just the sound of footsteps. With every breath came Dazai’s shadow, came The Sheep’s betrayal. The chains of all those years now seared his lungs, burning the oxygen he drew in. His thoughts tangled: did he even remember what freedom felt like anymore? Or was it only the dream of it that he chased?

 

In the darkness of night, the wind plastered the thin fabric against his back, every ridge of his spine starkly visible. His skin shivered with cold, his teeth clattered against one another. And yet, at the corner of his lips was the faintest curve; a stubbornness contradicting his tears, a hunger for escape.

 

He was like a broken violin string. It still made sound, but every vibration hurt. Yet as long as the string had not snapped, the song would not end. Chuuya kept running, fleeing both the torture of the past and the uncertainty of the future with every step. His escape was nothing short of a miracle; that he could run at all in this state was merely a false strength, a counterfeit power given by instinct’s demand to survive. Because, in truth, that body should have collapsed long ago.

 

For three years he had been kept in the Port Mafia’s basements, in darkened rooms, and worst of all, on those cold laboratory tables. There, he had been chained down, needles stabbed into his arms, blood drawn from his veins again and again, only for unknown fluids to be forced back into them. Time after time, the divine power of Arahabaki within him was wrenched awake, then suppressed, then awakened again… a cycle that wore down his muscles, his nerves, even his very bones.

 

Arahabaki was a curse; never wholly his to command, never wholly in the grip of others. Dazai and the scientists under the Port Mafia’s orders worked to stabilize that power inside him. During those experiments, vibrations from heavy machines surged through his body, sharp pain etched itself into his brain, white lights exploded before his eyes. Even when he screamed, no one heard. Sometimes he blacked out, sometimes he remained unconscious for days, sometimes he awoke only to find himself in a cell with walls blindingly white.

 

All those experiments had torn Chuuya’s body apart. He could no longer wield his power at will. The strong Chuuya who once overturned gravity with nothing more than a glance now felt every vein burn if he so much as tried to move a single stone. His body betrayed him. His mind cried one thing, his muscles screamed another. That was why he had been unable to defend himself, why he had remained in chains for so long.

 

Now, running breathlessly, he knew this truth. If they caught him, he would never rise from those laboratory tables again. Escape was not just freedom—it was survival.

 

And just then, in the darkness, he saw a shadow. The silhouette of a person. Hope surged hot into his blood. His eyes lit up, tears streaming faster down to his chin. Despite his battered state, he quickened his pace, his feet screaming as though they might tear off, but he didn’t care. Even as his chest burned, he shouted, “Someone—Someone’s there, hey! HELP! PLEASE HELP—!” His voice cracked, his throat raw, but desperation drove him forward. “I’m here! The Mafia’s after me, please help—!” He raised his arms, running toward the shadow.

 

At last, he thought he would be saved.

 

But the shadow, without a word, slowly revealed its face.

 

In that instant, his heartbeat climbed to his throat. Because the man standing before him was the one who had held the key to his chains all those years. The one he thought he had escaped, but who had been there all along. Looking at Chuuya’s stunned face with a devilish smile carved into his own.

 

Osamu Dazai.

 

Chuuya’s steps halted. He couldn’t take another. Hope pierced straight through his chest like a blade and fell away. He spun around quickly; his heart leapt like a stone in his ribcage, and what he had thought was hope suddenly sprouted wings. A new direction—another chance at salvation—but on his very first step his foot caught, the world lurched, and he crashed onto his knees, crushing the grass beneath him. The sting in his knees couldn’t suppress the greater pain inside; his breath snagged in his throat like a burning scream.

 

The laughter behind him crept along his nape like a cold needle. Dazai’s laughter; sly, cutting, and undeniably amused. For an instant, Chuuya surrendered all his senses to that sound: the mockery laced within it, the sweet savor of rage plotted over years, and worst of all—the ease of a man toying with his prey.

 

Dazai emerged slowly from the shadows. The bandage over his right eye clung to him like a mask of performance; curls of brown hair tumbled across his forehead, each strand framing his contemplative yet perpetually dangerous bearing. His black suit traced his figure in a long, sharp silhouette—almost theatrically flawless. The bandages wrapped around his arms looked from afar like mere decoration, an odd accessory, but Chuuya knew better; behind those wrappings lay countless games of Dazai’s making. The silence radiating from the men standing fifty steps behind, waiting for his command, enclosed Dazai like a courtroom.

 

His hazel eyes fixed on Chuuya; eyes carrying as much threat as allure—glinting with flirtatious mockery while gleaming with a sharpness that could destroy. His face wore a friendly handsomeness, but his smile hid a knife’s edge. Unhurried, his steps calculated, he advanced toward Chuuya with the poise of a hunter.

 

Chuuya was still on the ground; with every breath the cold air of laboratories, the sting of needles, the bitter taste of foreign fluids injected into his veins echoed in his mind. His powers had been dulled in those dark rooms—his muscles betraying him like a broken machine, his nerves shrieking at every attempt. That was why he had fallen: not just because his body was spent, but because his courage was fraying. Yet his pride was not dead.

 

Dazai crouched beside Chuuya and grabbed him hard but certain by the back of his red hair, dragging him face-first before twisting him around. With the tip of his finger he tilted Chuuya’s chin upward; in that mocking, honeyed tone he spoke, “Is the little sheep running away? And at this hour of the night? How sweet. You know, this honestly could’ve put me to sleep—if only we had a few fences on the property~”

 

The words pierced like needles; and just like the sting of them, they brought back to Chuuya the years of torment, the merciless rituals of the laboratory. Dazai leaned in closer, his face so near, his breath a warm threat against Chuuya’s skin. The men standing in the background were restless as a held breath, their hands drifting toward their pockets, yet still they waited for orders.

 

Lightning flared in Chuuya’s eyes; the fire of all the humiliation, fear, and above all, rage that had piled within him burst forth at once. The pain in his knees, the sweat dripping from his brow—these were excuses, nothing more. The man before him was Dazai, and Dazai embodied everything.

 

In that instant, Chuuya’s pride consumed him: he spat in Dazai’s face.

 

Dazai didn’t blink; with his fingertip he wiped the spit away with irritating patience, almost delicacy. The curve of his lips rose higher, a playful cruelty, as though he considered Chuuya’s small act of defiance a compliment. “How sweet,” he murmured. “So brave. My little sheep must’ve forgotten his lessons.”

 

SLAP!

 

Dazai’s hand struck Chuuya’s face hard. His head whipped sideways with a sharp cry, the wound on his lip split open again, blood spilled from his nose, his cheek burned red. His body, so weak and malnourished, was fragile enough to be ruined by the smallest blow.

 

Chuuya struggled to draw breath; his chest burned, every muscle felt as though it were being forced to roar. Dazai seized his hair again, forcing their eyes to meet, his fingers tight in the strands, pain radiating through Chuuya’s body.

 

Mockingly, Dazai bent down, his voice nearly a whisper: “Even like this, you still manage to run… so that means you’ve still got power left, doesn’t it? What a sweet rebellion. Your energy never runs dry, Chibi.” His tone was sharp and silken; and within Chuuya stirred a flicker of satisfaction, laced with fury. But Dazai wasn’t finished. He rose slowly to his feet, slipped his hands into his pockets with a gesture both theatrical and cold, signaling to his men. “Take him to my study,” he ordered, his voice nothing but command. “Clearly, our Chuuya has plenty of energy tonight—then we can still wear him out.”

 

Chuuya’s lips bled as he stared down at the grass. His eyes never left Dazai; every glance was defiance. “Play with me?” he muttered, voice hoarse but firm. “What more could you possibly do to me? Do you think you own me? I’ve lived through worse—but I’ll never surrender to you.”

 

Dazai’s smile deepened, sweeter, sharper. “Ah,” he said, “Surrender? How romantic a phrase. Is little Chibi afraid of yielding to me? Now I’m intrigued~” He let his finger trace along Chuuya’s face, pressing just enough to sting; but the fire in Chuuya’s eyes didn’t waver. “Then come, my little sheep,” he murmured. “Show me your soul. Show me how much you can endure.”

 

So we might have a little fun.

 

—

 

The heavy, silent corridors of the Port Mafia echoed with the sound of Chuuya’s dragged footsteps. Two hulking men had him by the arms, hauling him forward until they reached the tall, dark wooden doors that finally swung open. Inside, the air was steeped in the scent of old libraries: books, papers, a faint trace of burnt tobacco, and the aged musk of leather.

 

The room was wide. A gleaming black leather chair sat in one corner, while at the center loomed a massive wooden desk. Its surface was cluttered with files, pens, and sealed envelopes. Dim light seeped through the thick curtains that half-covered the window, casting the space in a suffocating gloom. Without the slightest courtesy, the men threw Chuuya to the ground. The softness of grass and cold air was replaced by the unyielding wood floor. The impact ripped a groan from his already weary body.

 

Seated at his desk, Dazai did not immediately lift his eyes. He continued flipping through documents, scribbling notes with his pen. Then, as though nothing at all had happened moments before, he finally raised his head with deliberate calm. His hazel eyes locked on Chuuya. “Leave.” he said curtly. The men saluted, exited, and the door shut behind them. Chuuya and Dazai were alone.

 

Slowly, Dazai rose from his chair. The hem of his long coat swept the floor, his footsteps echoing against the wood. Behind him, the ticking of the analog clock only thickened the tension in the room. “Your first escape in three years… Honestly, I’m surprised. I wasn’t expecting that.” He slipped his hands into his pockets and chuckled lightly. “You never fail to surprise me~”

 

Chuuya dragged himself a few steps back along the floor. He knew exactly what was coming as Dazai’s footsteps drew nearer. Almost every week, whenever stress or anger overtook him, Dazai would step into Chuuya’s cell and break him—deliberately, with surgical precision.

 

“Don’t you have anything to say to me, hmm?” Dazai crouched before him, his hand brushing against Chuuya’s freckled cheek, stroking the red-haired boy. Every touch left Chuuya breathless, every touch seemed to rouse Dazai further.

 

“…I’m sorry.” Chuuya whispered, voice low and trembling as he turned his eyes away. He hated the humiliation, hated it with every fiber of his being. Once he had been the leader of The Sheep—and now, before him, was the nineteen-year-old he had once fought alongside when he was fifteen. He had never imagined The Sheep would betray him, handing him straight into the Port Mafia’s grip. “I’m sorry… don’t—don’t come closer—”

 

Dazai moved his hand down Chuuya's thighs. The redheaded boy was bare beneath his hospital gown, wearing no underwear. This had been for convenience during the experiments, and also part of Dazai's exaggerated affection. Dazai peeled away Chuuya’s loose gown and spread his legs, while simultaneously removing his own belt and unzipping himself.

 

Chuuya wanted to run, but he didn’t dare. A crowd of men lingered behind the door, and in this state, there was no escape.

 

Dazai leaned closer to Chuuya’s bare neck, leaving wet kisses along every line, tracing delicate marks of affection over his collarbones, slender shoulders, and chest. Chuuya let out soft, habitual whimpers as pleasure coursed faintly through him. His body reacted instinctively. Dazai pressed kisses to Chuuya’s thighs as well, nibbling and licking with a hungry urgency.

 

Without waiting for any invitation, he thrust himself forward, and Chuuya’s cries echoed through the room. Dazai had never been one for patience in these matters.

 

“You’re so tight again… we’ll need to practice, Chuuya~” Dazai said, gripping his hips firmly. As Chuuya wrapped his thin arms around Dazai’s neck, he lifted him into his lap, bodies pressed together.

 

"Ah~ Mmmmm~ Mhhm~" Chuuya buried his face in Dazai's shoulder and tried to ignore the tremors as he hugged him. It hurt so much, his brain was already mush, he didn't want any more pain today.

 

"Remember, my beautiful,” Dazai whispered into Chuuya's ear. "No cum until I say so."

 

"AGHH!!—" Chuuya hugged Dazai tighter, digging his nails into the big man's skin. His body couldn't take it; he might even bleed from the sudden thrust, it was so tight and hot. "I can't… I can't—"

 

"Shhhh…" Dazai kissed Chuuya's forehead and tears, then breathlessly kissed and bit his lips. It was a beautiful moment, filled with pleasure. "You can do it, my love… If you don't want another punishment."

 

—

 

His body ached, burning uncontrollably, his legs numb. Dazai had spent the entire night with him, and Chuuya hadn’t climaxed once. His breath caught, feeling as if he’d endured the torments of hell. Only after the act ended, with Dazai’s permission, had he been able to release.

 

Now he was in the bathtub. Dazai was right behind him, gently cleaning him as if he hadn’t just violated him. Chuuya’s eyes were vacant, a haze of sleeplessness, exhaustion, and pain blending together. His body was so weak his shoulders slumped, his head barely held up by his knees. He sat in the tub, pressing his knees to his chest, head bowed. His fragile, bony back faced Dazai.

 

“Learned your lesson, haven’t you?” Dazai spoke in a gentle tone as he washed Chuuya’s back, then pressed a kiss to the red-haired boy’s cheek. Chuuya flinched, but he didn’t care. “Don’t act like that, Chibiii~” Dazai moaned mockingly. “I had to do it, and you know you enjoy it as much as I do. For three years, you’ve never stopped wanting me. You’re in love with me, and I’m in love with you.” Dazai smiled. “I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you at fifteen. I didn’t know it would be this easy to have you. Luckily, your little sheep family didn’t betray you for long, huh?”

 

Chuuya said nothing; the reminder of betrayal stung. The friends he considered family, his brothers, had betrayed him. They’d handed him over to the Port Mafia, first trying to kill him before fleeing to save themselves. Chuuya had wished he’d died that day.

 

“But don’t worry, you’re with me now.” Dazai washed Chuuya’s back tenderly. He wrapped his arms around the boy he loved, inhaling Chuuya’s scent of strawberries and spring. “The scientists DOA brought have developed a new treatment that will allow us to control Arahabaki. Soon, I’ll free you from that terrible power and liberate you. Trust me, the only one who will ever control you is me.” Dazai pressed kisses into Chuuya’s wet hair, as if afraid the scent might vanish.

 

Chuuya said nothing again, neither accepting his fate nor giving Dazai a sharp retort. He just remained there, letting his empty, weary eyes wander over the bathroom wall. He had no one, utterly alone, without family, without anyone to save him.

 

There was only Dazai.

 

The only one who valued Chuuya was him.

 

The only person who knew Chuuya and wanted to protect him was him.

 

So what choice did Chuuya really have?

 

He had to obey.

Chapter 2: TWO ; Tainted Sorrow.

The cell was silent. So silent that Chuuya could hear his own breathing as if it belonged to someone else. His back was pressed against the cold stone floor; the thin, shapeless hospital gown that mocked his body was spread loosely around him. His hair was a mess, the shadow of its copper hue glinting faintly against the gray ground. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling—but he wasn’t really seeing anything. Empty, dull, lost… It was as if the ceiling was breathing with him, the only difference being that the ceiling was suffering far less than he was.

 

“I’m filthy.” he thought. The words echoed in his mind, bouncing off the barren walls before coming back to him. “I’m filthy. Something got inside me that can’t be scrubbed out. No matter how much I wash, no matter how much I peel my skin away, it won’t go away.”

 

He couldn’t even blink. If he closed his eyes, everything from moments ago would come rushing back, every detail he didn’t want. But keeping them open only let the painful emptiness crush him from above. There was no way out. He was trapped between the two. The cold spreading across his stomach was really coming from the inside. A hollow. As if all his organs had been ripped out, leaving behind only a huge, throbbing pit. His heart was still beating, but every pulse hurt. It hurt because he was alive, yet he feared the hell death might bring even more.

 

His lips didn’t move, but the words echoing in his head were as sharp and real as the cold air in the cell. At one point he tried to raise his hand, but he couldn’t. He didn’t even have the strength to twitch a finger. He just lay there, lifeless, like a statue that still somehow breathed.

 

There was a burning lump in his throat, but no tears came. Even his tears seemed to have given up on him. The storm raging inside him couldn’t break free. It was imprisoned. He was imprisoned. After a few seconds, the corner of his mouth twitched faintly. It wasn’t a smile. It was the silent sign of a collapse.

 

“Osamu…” he managed to murmur, his voice damaged. The roughness from forced oral sex had left him constantly gagging, and his throat hurt the most. “One day, I’ll kill you.”

 

His mind slowed down, bit by bit. On one side were the vile memories echoing in his head—the things done to his body, the hands burning against his skin, the voice trying to shatter his mind. On the other side, the part of him longing to sink into silence. The two fought, but Chuuya didn’t move.

 

The cell door creaked open with a heavy groan. The first thing to break the silence chained to the cold walls was the scrape of the metal bolt. The figure stepping inside slowed their steps—as if walking too fast might shatter Chuuya’s fragile stillness. In Kouyou’s hands was a tray; on it, a steaming bowl of simple soup, a piece of bread, and a glass of water. But in one corner of the tray sat a small, worn object: the little sheep plush she had given Chuuya years ago, the one that had been lost.

 

Before closing the door, Kouyou paused for a moment. Her breath trembled. Her eyes landed on Chuuya as she entered: lying there like a lifeless statue, swallowed by the thin hospital gown, crimson hair spilled across the stone floor. His eyes were still locked on the ceiling, as though he hadn’t even noticed anyone coming in.

 

Kouyou’s throat tightened. She knew. She knew what Dazai had done to him—every night, every day… the torture carved into his small body, his mind. And she had been powerless to stop it. Under the shadow of the late boss Mori, under Dazai’s control, in a place where her strength meant nothing, she had only been able to watch. The anger she felt toward herself hung as heavy as the air in that cell.

 

She set the tray down gently. Picked up the plush. Took a few steps and knelt beside Chuuya. “Chuuya…” she whispered softly, as though even his name might break if spoken too harshly.

 

No response.

 

She placed the plush by his side and slowly ran her trembling fingers through his hair. “Look, I found it. Do you remember? When you were fifteen… you used to carry it everywhere. It was lost, but I brought it back to you. I found it.”

 

I brought your childhood back to you.

 

Back when you were still innocent, you used to hold this little sheep tight.

 

Chuuya’s pupils trembled faintly. For the briefest moment, a spark flickered in the emptiness of his gaze fixed on the ceiling—then it died out. His lips moved ever so slightly. Nothing but a thin, ragged sound scraped from his throat.

 

Kouyou’s heart clenched. She closed her eyes. She wanted to hold him, to wrap him up in her arms, but she was afraid her touch would be too heavy—that Chuuya would shatter even more. So instead, she reached for the tray. She filled the spoon with soup and slowly brought it to his lips.

 

“You need to eat,” she said softly. “I know… you don’t want to. But if you don’t, it’ll get worse, you’ll hurt even more. Dazai has strict orders about this. If he finds out you didn’t eat, he’ll be furious.”

 

Chuuya didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on the ceiling. He didn’t react even when the warmth brushed against his lips. The spoon hovered there, waiting.

 

Kouyou didn’t give up. She leaned in closer. Tilted the spoon just slightly, letting a few drops of soup slip past his lips. His throat convulsed involuntarily, swallowing a small sip. But then the coughing came; the wounds in his throat still burned.

 

She quickly pulled the spoon back, reaching out for his back in alarm. “Okay… okay, I’m sorry. I’ll be slower, much slower…” she murmured, eyes full of worry as they traced the bruised, frail line of his collarbone and his throat.

 

Chuuya’s lips moved again. A barely audible whisper escaped, “It hurts…” His voice was weary, hoarse, desperate, as if he wanted to cry, to sob, but the pain wouldn’t let him.

 

Kouyou’s eyes filled with tears. She reached for his hands, trying to wrap hers around them, but Chuuya didn’t respond; his fingers were cold, unmoving, like the lifeless limbs of a broken doll.

 

“I wish I could’ve stopped it,” Kouyou whispered, mostly to herself. “I wish I could’ve protected you, Chuuya. I let him touch you… I’ll never forgive myself.”

 

She placed the little sheep plush against Chuuya’s chest, between his hands. He didn’t react, but his fingers twitched faintly against the softness—as if some reflex from years ago, some forgotten habit, had resurfaced without him realizing it.

 

When Kouyou noticed, the knot in her throat grew even tighter. She leaned down silently, resting her forehead against Chuuya’s hair. “I’m here,” she whispered, her voice laced with helpless but unwavering warmth. “No matter what… I’m here with you. No matter how broken you are, no matter how silent you are. I won’t leave you, Chuuya.”

 

The cell fell silent again. This time, the only sounds within it were Chuuya’s trembling breaths and the soft, fragile drip of Kouyou’s tears hitting the floor.

 

—

 

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the corridors of the Port Mafia. With a hard expression and a barely restrained fury simmering beneath the surface, Ice Man stormed toward Dazai’s grand office door, each step radiating the threat of someone about to explode. Right behind him trailed Lippmann and Piano Man, both trying to calm their dangerously enraged comrade. Members of The Flags gang, assassins and ability users whose alliance with the Port Mafia brought lucrative profits, they all carried the same weight of unease pressing down on them now.

 

The door to Dazai’s office slammed open. Inside, Dazai sat at ease, slowly lifting his head. That familiar, careless smile curved his lips. “Ice Man,” he greeted calmly, as if welcoming an old friend. “What brings you here? Let me guess—you want the weekend off—”

 

Before he could finish, Ice Man lunged. Grabbing him by the collar, he slammed Dazai into the wall. The metallic crash rattled the room. Even with the back of his head hitting the wall, Dazai’s grin didn’t falter. He knew exactly what was setting the older man off.

 

Lippmann jumped in immediately, trying to pull Ice Man back. “Ice, calm down! DON’T—” His voice cracked with desperation. He knew all too well how much his friend cared about that red-haired boy. Every time Ice Man looked at Chuuya, he saw his own dead son reflected back at him. Watching Chuuya endure constant assault and abuse since the day he joined the Mafia had been eating away at him.

 

From the other side, Piano Man grabbed Ice Man too, trying to restrain him. “This isn’t the time—get a hold of yourself!” As leader of The Flags, Piano Man was usually the most level-headed among them, but even he felt his anger boiling over at the thought of what Chuuya had been forced to endure. Still, he didn’t want to blow things wide open and risk shattering their alliance with the Port Mafia.

 

Ice Man’s eyes burned like fire. It was as if Lippmann’s hands had touched flames instead of ice; he had to pull back. Even with Piano Man using all his strength, Ice Man’s rage outweighed everything else. He had heard about the boy being punished after trying to escape—that alone had been enough to make him uneasy. But when he’d stood at the door of the cell and seen Chuuya lying helpless on the ground, clutching that little plush sheep, his body trembling as if he wanted to sob but couldn’t even muster the strength to cry—something in Ice Man’s chest had snapped.

 

Dazai tilted his head and laughed. “So dramatic, Ice-san. Is this really worth getting so worked up over? Besides, you’re much more fun when you’re angry.” He leaned forward slightly, closing the distance between them, mocking him like a child playing with a toy. “You wanna kill me, huh? Really? Then do it—come on, come on, come on—”

 

Ice Man’s fist slammed into the wall right beside Dazai’s head, the blow cracking the stone inches from his ear. “You call this fun?!” he roared, his voice tearing at his own throat. “I saw what you did to him! You really thought we’d stay silent through all of this?! What the hell did that boy ever do to you?! FOR GOD’S SAKE!”

 

Dazai stared back with icy eyes, though the smirk never left his lips. “Why do you even care?” he said lightly, mocking still, shoulders lifting in a lazy shrug even with Ice Man’s hands gripping his collar. He slipped his own hands into his pockets casually. “What, are you jealous or something? Aww, Ice-san, you’re so protective~”

 

Ice Man’s face twisted with rage and disgust. Lippmann tried again to step in, but Ice Man shoved him back with one sweep of his arm. “He’s a human being, dammit!” he bellowed. His fist crashed into Dazai’s shoulder this time, shaking dust from the crumbling wall. “You’ve been breaking him since he was fifteen—throwing him into experiments, chaining him up… you stole his childhood! You bastard!”

 

He stopped for a breath, chest heaving, eyes glistening but not crying—the fury itself was burning the tears away. “You’re just a kid yourself, Dazai!” he spat, his voice shaking. “You’re still young, still at the start of your damn life! Why… why would you do this to him?! How can you look at him and not lose your humanity?!”

 

Dazai’s grin stretched wider. There was no blood on his face, no trace of pain—only a devilish delight. “So that’s how you see it…” he murmured. “But you’re far too sentimental, Ice-san. Humanity, this thing you keep clinging to… to me, it’s just a game. Like life itself. We all live only to die, so why not gamble with it a little?”

 

At last, Lippmann and Piano Man managed to drag Ice Man back by both arms, though he still fought against their grip, teeth gritted, eyes locked on Dazai like he wanted to tear him apart.

 

Dazai smoothed the wrinkles on his collar with maddening calm. “Ah, thank goodness—this was a new shirt. Anyway, I do hope someday you’ll understand what I mean, Ice-san. After all, you lost your family, didn’t you? Surely you know what life is like—so fragile, so simple. We can vanish in an instant… so why not savor every moment, inside and out?” He let out a small, mocking laugh.

 

Through clenched teeth, Ice Man growled, “YOU BASTARD—!”

 

“My, my! Everyone keeps calling me a bastard today,” Dazai drawled, smirking like he was playing Russian roulette with his own life. “Can’t we come up with something better? ‘Dazai-kun’? ‘Marvelous Dazai’? ‘Boss Dazai’? Now those have a nice ring to them, don’t you think?”

 

Sweat ran down Lippmann’s brow as he tightened his grip on Ice Man, jaw locked tight. Piano Man held the other arm with all his strength, but even so, Ice Man kept lunging forward, never tearing his gaze from Dazai. The mention of his dead family—his wife, his child—had sent him over the edge.

 

“Ice! That’s enough!” Lippmann shouted, his voice cracking with tension. “If you kill him, they’ll kill all of us! Think about yourself, think about us, for God’s sake—”

 

“Let go!” Ice Man snapped, his voice raw with rage, eyes bloodshot. He shoved Piano and Lippmann’s arms off him, straightened his collar, and stood his ground. “I was brought into this mafia to take out the top dogs in the chain of command. I’ve been an assassin for twenty years. But I’ll never stand by and watch an eighteen-year-old boy get raped.”

 

Dazai smoothed out his collar as if the tension flooding the room was a fine wine he intended to savor. That wide, false smile stretched across his lips. “My, my… how heroic. You really care about Chuuya that much, do you?” His head tilted slightly, eyes glinting like ice. “But tell me this, Ice Man—did you protect him? That boy… where do you think he was all those years? Before I took him in, he was rotting in labs. Under Professor N’s walls, he endured things far worse than anything I’ve ever done.”

 

Those words sliced through Ice Man like a blade. His rage flared hotter, his steps dragging him forward again. Lippmann and Piano Man were nearly torn off their feet trying to hold him back.

 

“Because of you!” Ice Man roared. “Because of your filthy cruelty, that kid lives like he’s already dead every damn day! One day—” His breath hitched, throat burning, but he forced the words out, broken and raw, “One day if he dies, what will you do?!”

 

For the first time, Dazai’s eyes darkened. “He won’t.” His voice was hard, calm, absolute. “Not while he’s under my protection. I know his limits better than anyone, I know his tolerance for pain. He’s not some porcelain doll like you think.” He stepped closer, gaze sharp as a blade. “He can hate me, he can complain all he wants—but deep down, he needs me. Without me, he’d be even more vulnerable, even more alone. I’m the only one who truly understands him. The only one who truly loves him.”

 

Ice man’s brows furrowed in anger, he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This was horrifying. “If anything happens to him, no one will be able to stop me, you know that.”

 

Dazai laughed. But it wasn’t cheerful or friendly. It was cold, mocking, almost melodic. “I know. That’s why I keep you around. You’re an excellent assassin, when the time comes you can kill me however you want. But shall I tell you a secret, Ice-san?” He leaned closer, close enough to feel Ice man’s breath. “You’re not angry at me, you’re angry at yourself. Because you know… you couldn’t save that child years ago either.”

 

No, this time he wasn’t talking about Chuuya.

 

“Oh! Did I say something wrong?” Dazai placed a hand on his chest with feigned innocence. “There’s guilt all over your face, like you’d kill yourself before killing me~”

 

At that moment, Iceman’s face twisted. His fist rose again, but Lippmann held him back with all his strength. “Ice, don’t! Dazai is still just a kid! He’s only nineteen, our boss, and you have to respect him—”

 

Dazai leaned back with delight, watching their desperation. “Ah, now this is the real scene… I can smell every emotion, so dense, so overwhelming. How very human.” His eyes narrowed slyly. “And my favorite of all… the scent of raw anger~”

 

The door to the room suddenly burst open. Standing at the threshold were Dazai’s men, dressed in black suits, wearing sunglasses, armed. The entire room froze.

 

Dazai slowly spread his arms wide, as if taking a bow in the middle of a stage. “Ah, just in time!!” he said. “I suppose our little play ends here for now.”

 

Ice man was still trembling, his eyes locked on Dazai. Lippmann and Piano Man used the last of their strength to pull him back. But through clenched teeth, Ice man whispered one last time, “This isn’t over, Dazai. I swear… it’s not over.”

 

Dazai calmly scratched the back of his neck, an indifferent glimmer in his eyes. “Ah, sweet threats… that’s what keeps people alive. Farewell, Ice-san~”

 

As Lippmann and Piano Man guided Ice man toward the door, Dazai suddenly called out again, as if remembering something.

 

“Oh! By the way…” The corner of Dazai’s mouth curled slightly. “Since Chuuya’s legs are injured, he won’t be taking part in the experiments for two weeks, so let Doc know. I won’t be needing him for a while.” Dazai waved his hand dismissively. He knew Doc cared about Chuuya and wanted to see the boy. But Dazai didn’t want Chuuya to have contact with any of them.

 

“What?” Lippmann’s voice rang with concern. “At the very least he should check on him, you said his legs were injured!—” His tone was filled with worry, his heart aching for Chuuya.

 

“Oh, no need for that. My personal doctors have taken proper care of him.” Dazai narrowed his eyes with smug satisfaction, glancing from Lippmann to Ice man. “And don’t worry, the little sheep’s legs are just fine~”

 

And the room was swallowed by dark laughter.

Notes:

I wasn’t sure how to write the characters from The Flags, so I’m sorry if it’s terrible!! English isn’t my first language, so I’m trying to improve myself in things that require a foreign language. I’m a recent graduate and currently doing an internship in copywriting at an agency, but still, my writing sometimes ends up full of mistakes! So I apologize in advance!!❤︎₊𖥔 ℓo͟v͟ꫀ ყoυ ! ۪ ׄ໑୧ ׅ𖥔ׄ

Chapter 3: THREE ; After the torture.

Chuuya was lying on the disturbing iron frame of his dark cell, covered with nothing but a thin blanket. One hand clutched tightly at the thigh of his hospital gown, trying not to feel the discomfort of being without underwear in his most private area; the other part of him loathed his own body and wished for death. He had convinced himself he had nothing left to lose—no family, no pride, no strength, not even a body of his own that deserved to live… After all, the body he was in wasn’t even his. He was nothing more than a filthy clone.

 

At that moment, the iron door of the cell creaked open. The rasp of rusty hinges echoed in Chuuya’s ears, the only sound breaking the suffocating silence of the narrow room. His eyes, long adjusted to the darkness, narrowed at the dim light seeping through the gap. Normally, during mealtimes, it was either one of the ordinary Port Mafia grunts or Kouyou who appeared, silently shoving a rusty tray inside before closing the door without a word. What those trays carried was never truly food: stale bread, colorless soup remnants, sometimes rice thinned down with water… Never any meat, never any eggs or milk. Everything was chosen with meticulous cruelty—to wear down his muscles and willpower. Enough to keep him alive, but never enough to make him strong. Because while the Port Mafia found his abilities worth exploiting, they had no intention of letting his body recover.

 

That was why, when his eyes caught the tray held by the figure entering through the door, Chuuya’s heart clenched in sudden shock. The steam rising from roasted meat spread into the cell, the heavy, salty aroma of long-forgotten protein reaching all the way to his throat. For years his meals had been bland and tasteless; now, the smell teasing his senses felt almost mocking in the way it stirred his hunger.

 

But the greater shock was the man carrying the tray.

 

Dazai.

 

The same languid steps, the same sly curl tugging at the corner of his lips… He looked as if he were visiting a friend’s home, not stepping into a damp, stifling prison cell. His chin tilted ever so slightly upward, eyes locking onto Chuuya with their usual half-drowsy expression. Even his mere presence shifted the air in the room, making the damp weight of the cell’s walls feel all the more suffocating.

 

“Chuuya, Chuuya…~” Dazai murmured, his voice smooth as silk yet carrying a hidden thorn. “You haven’t had a single bite in two days. Why put yourself through this? Who benefits from starving this pretty little body?”

 

Speaking as if he were gently scolding, he set the tray down at the edge of the bed. He made sure to place the fork right at the front, where Chuuya couldn’t possibly miss it. Then he pulled up the wheeled stool and sat down beside the bed.

 

And, as always, came that touch. Dazai’s long, slender fingers slid into Chuuya’s filthy, matted orange hair. He stroked it as though tender, but every motion carried a possessive, provoking weight. “I see you’re still stubborn. After all these years, you still can’t give up being my amusement,” he said with a soft laugh. “You break so easily—just like a whore~”

 

As drained and exhausted as he was, Chuuya couldn’t tear his eyes away from the fork on the tray. That thin piece of metal looked like the very first chance handed to him within these four walls. With a single move, he could drive it into his own neck, end this humiliation once and for all. He had nothing left to lose.

 

Dazai acted as if he hadn’t noticed where Chuuya’s gaze lingered, but the smile tugging at his lips deepened. “If you won’t eat, at least breathe in the smell,” he whispered. “Because who knows when you’ll ever see a feast like this again.”

 

In that instant, Chuuya’s muscles tensed on instinct. He suddenly lunged, hand shooting toward the fork. The rusty bedframe shrieked under the motion, filling the cell. The second his fingers brushed the cold metal, the weight of years of suppressed rage and despair propelled him forward, driving him at Dazai with all his strength. He was trying to plunge the fork straight into his throat—

 

But Dazai… Dazai, as always, was ready.

 

Time itself seemed to slow mockingly in his eyes. Chuuya’s desperate attack unfolded as if in slow motion. With nothing more than a flick of his wrist, Dazai caught his arm and twisted it back. The fork clattered to the ground, the sharp metallic ring echoing through the cell. Chuuya found himself thrown back onto the bed.

 

Dazai let out a delighted laugh. “Ah, this is why I never get tired of you,” he said, leaning in as if to whisper into his hair. “The more you struggle, the more beautiful you become. Poor little sheep, still believing he could ever be a wolf…”

 

And as his fingers threaded once more through Chuuya’s hair, the dark amusement in his eyes never wavered for even a second. He yanked back the crimson strands, baring Chuuya’s throat, and couldn’t resist his teeth. Dazai, as always, was like a ravenous beast catching the scent of real flesh. “Well then, Chibi… if you still have room, I’ll fill your belly with something far tastier~”

 

“Ihh!” Chuuya writhed on the bed, weak wrists straining against Dazai’s grip. His voice trembled, his whimpers intensifying as Dazai slowly released his wrists, only to remain an immovable weight pressing him down, hands sliding beneath the thin fabric of his hospital gown. “Ihhnnn! Don’t! Mmhhh—“ Chuuya’s cries deepened, breaking into muffled sobs. His voice was raw with pain. With frail hands he pushed at Dazai’s face, his chest, but his eyes were too blurred with tears to even see. “Go… please—”

 

But Chuuya couldn’t even finish his plea before Dazai’s lips silenced him.

 

—

 

The soles of Atsushi’s boots echoed against the marble floor of the Port Mafia building. With every step, the hem of his coat dragged as if weighed down by blood, leaving behind pale crimson traces. The white hair falling over his shoulders mingled with the spatters across his face, giving him an even wilder look. But there wasn’t the slightest sign of regret or disgust on Atsushi’s face; on the contrary, as he wiped the blood from his skin, the mocking curl at the corner of his lips only deepened.

 

He was Dazai’s younger stepbrother, raised in his shadow and at his side. Twisted lessons, games, manipulations… He had been kneaded like clay in Dazai’s hands. There was no trace left of childhood innocence; in its place stood a young man who wielded his cunning slyly, demanded everything with spoiled arrogance, and usually got it. At eighteen, his frame was slight and short—at 170 cm, he seemed small enough to be lost in someone else’s shadow. But the manic gleam in his eyes, coupled with the ruthlessness instilled in him by Dazai’s tutelage, made that small body far too threatening to be ignored.

 

For the past six months he had been on assignment, slaughtering countless people at the side of his right hand, Kyōka Izumi, and racking up achievement after achievement. As he moved through the corridors of the building, the only thing on his mind was the missions still waiting for him. Dazai’s office was a place he particularly disliked entering, yet he loved provoking and irritating him. After a lifetime of being treated harshly by his older stepbrother, Atsushi felt no mercy in return.

 

Just as he reached the door, it creaked open. The figure stepping out made Atsushi pause for a moment.

 

Akutagawa.

 

With his tall, slender yet strong frame of 180 cm, he looked like a shadow wrapped in his ever-present black coat. Black hair fell across his forehead, his sharp features made harsher by the dim light. At twenty years old, he was Dazai’s dog, his most loyal right hand. His thin yet powerful body was as precise and disciplined as the will that defined him. Even his silence radiated authority.

 

When Akutagawa turned his gaze to Atsushi, there was no scorn or anger in his eyes. Only empty, cold indifference. “Dazai-san isn’t here,” he said, short and to the point. His voice carried neither mercy nor warmth. He and Atsushi had despised each other since they were about eight. Yet Atsushi, sly as a snake, enjoyed this indifference and hatred from Akutagawa. It was almost madness.

 

Atsushi curled his lips and rolled his eyes. “Oh, really? And here I was, hoping to have some fun,” he said in a mocking tone. Then, suddenly quickening his steps, he closed the distance between them. “And what about you? What are you doing here, handsome?”

 

His words were brazen and mocking, like a prostitute selling himself. With his slight frame, he stepped closer and tilted his head up; his shorter height forced him to look upward to meet Akutagawa’s broad shoulders. Next to Akutagawa’s 180 cm frame, Atsushi’s 170 cm looked all the smaller, more fragile. In a sudden, childishly insistent move, he tried to throw his arms around Akutagawa’s long neck. His palms slipped clumsily against the thick fabric of the man’s black coat.

 

“You know,” Atsushi whispered, that manic gleam flashing in his eyes, “Nii-san always tells me you’re loyal. So serious, so reliable… but I’m more fun. Don’t you think so too?”

 

Not the slightest flicker crossed Akutagawa’s face. No anger, no embarrassment. As if Atsushi’s presence were no more bothersome than a fly resting on his shoulder. He simply shifted away, half-lidded eyes calm, leaving Atsushi’s arms hanging awkwardly in the air.

 

The corridor was silent. The thick stone walls of the Port Mafia seemed to have swallowed all outside noise. Only the iron scent wafting from the heavy bloodstains on Atsushi’s coat lingered in the air. The young man pushed back his sleeves and scraped at the dried red crust along his cuff with a careless finger, then wiped his hand on his pants. He had spilled so much blood that the stains clinging to him no longer looked like marks of victory—only the traces of daily routine.

 

He looked at Akutagawa, who was about to leave the corridor. Rolling his eyes, he folded his arms across his chest. “So where is Nii-san, anyway?” he asked, his tone careless, as if it didn’t matter at all. But inside, a poisonous curiosity had begun to stir. Learning something new about Dazai meant discovering new ways to drive him mad—and Atsushi always enjoyed that. “I’m sure you know where he is, loyal dog.”

 

Ignoring the white-haired boy’s spoiled arrogance, Akutagawa turned his face aside. When his lips moved, his voice was cold as stone. “You might not know this, but lately, Dazai-san hasn’t been able to stay away from the Arahabaki boy’s cell.”

 

The words echoed in the air. The gleam in Atsushi’s eyes shifted at once. First, a mocking smirk curled across his lips. Then, lifting his brows slightly, he turned back to Akutagawa. “Hmm? What do you mean…?” he asked slyly, his voice dripping with the curiosity of a cat that had just found a new toy.

 

Akutagawa narrowed his eyes, but this time he didn’t remain silent. “So you really haven’t heard while you were away. Dazai-san is personally involved with the progress of the Arahabaki project. His power, his body… he’s become indispensable to him.”

 

Atsushi burst into laughter, his narrow shoulders shaking. “Arahabaki, huh? You mean that pitiful little experiment kid? What was his name… Chuuya?” A sneer tugged at the corner of his mouth. “My God. I never thought Nii-san would get so attached to a toy.”

 

Then he stepped closer. Drawing up beside Akutagawa, he didn’t take his eyes off his face. His voice dropped into an even more sinister whisper. “So… my dear brother goes in and out of his room, spending nights with him, is that it? Ah, that’s very interesting.”

 

Akutagawa gave a slight shrug. “I don’t know what he does. I can only tell you he often goes down to the cell, and sometimes he brings that boy up to his office.”

 

Atsushi’s face nearly lit up. With a childish, mocking delight, he clapped his hands together. “Aaaah, so it’s really true then. Nii-san has fallen for a slave, huh?!” For some reason, that thought amused him.

 

He spread his arms wide and tried to throw himself around Akutagawa’s neck. This time he was bolder, rising up on his toes to grasp at the tall man’s shoulders. Tilting his head back, he tried to meet his eyes. “Ryuu, Ryuu~” he purred like a cat. “Just imagine, if there’s someone Dazai-san is this attached to… maybe uncovering his secret would be so much fun. What do you say? Should we go pay that little ‘test subject’ a visit together?”

 

Akutagawa’s eyes flashed for an instant, but it wasn’t anger; it was a cold warning. His hands closed around Atsushi’s wrists, and with ease he pushed the weaker body back. “Don’t.”

 

But Atsushi only laughed. Even as he was shoved away, his grin didn’t fade. Tilting his head, he bared his teeth. “Oh my, really? If even you’re protecting him, then something big must have happened. If I remember right, the last time I saw that boy he was screaming in the lab—he seemed insignificant. Though, I’ve never actually met him face to face, have I?”

 

Akutagawa drew a long breath, as if reining in his patience. “If you try to use this against Dazai-san…” he said, leaving the sentence unfinished. His eyes gleamed with a dark shadow; there was no need to speak the rest.

 

Yet Atsushi didn’t seem the least bit frightened by the threat. He tilted his head, smiling, his voice softening into a whisper: “Ah, Ryuu. I love those loyal eyes of yours. But remember… loyalty is sometimes the sweetest weakness.”

 

Then he turned away, flicking the hem of his coat as he walked off with heavy steps. But the glint in his eyes betrayed that new games were already taking shape in his mind.

 

—

 

Right after the torture, Chuuya seemed to fall into an endless sleep. Maybe his body had simply forced itself to shut down after going so long without rest, spending all that time only thinking. His sleep wasn’t peaceful; his muscles still trembled, unconscious murmurs slipped from his lips. Yet at last, his eyelids had closed. In his arms, clutched tightly against his chest like a child, was an old plush sheep, and his breathing slowly began to settle into a heavy rhythm. That tiny toy seemed to be the only bond still tethering Chuuya to this world.

 

For a while, the only sound in the cell was the steady rise and fall of his breath. Until the door opened again. The creak of metal instantly put Chuuya on edge. His half-asleep body jerked, arms tightening around the stuffed sheep. Forcing his eyelids apart, he braced himself to fight. It was his usual reflex: if the door opened, it meant either a new round of torture, or Dazai’s dark shadow looming over him.

 

But this time, the one who entered was different.

 

Albatross.

 

The young mafioso paused at the doorway. In the dim light, his eyes froze for a moment at the sight before him. Chuuya’s body had grown thin, the shadows under his eyes were bruised purple, his lips cracked and dry. But more than anything, the helpless way he clung to that tiny plush toy made Albatross’s chest tighten. He tried to hide the unease rising inside him, but the shadow on his face betrayed him.

 

Silently, he closed the door and took a few steps into the cell. He didn’t know what to say. Dazai’s orders were clear—no one could oppose his methods. And yet, the old memories inside Albatross refused to quiet down. Once upon a time, they had been something like friends; Chuuya’s laughter from their childhood games still rang in his ears. Albatross had always seen himself as Chuuya’s big brother. A big brother who couldn’t protect him, and who never managed to give him a real chance at a proper life.

 

Chuuya half-opened his eyelids. Fear lingered in his eyes, but when he saw who was standing before him, he relaxed a little. He didn’t say anything yet.

 

Albatross quietly crouched down and pulled a set of jacks from the small bag at his side. The stones clinked in his palm. He sat beside the bed and let them fall onto the floor. “Do you remember?” he murmured softly. “You always picked them up faster than me. I could never keep up with how quick your hands were.”

 

Chuuya didn’t answer. Maybe from the weight of sleep, maybe because he no longer had the strength to speak. His eyes only drifted, slowly, toward the stones.

 

Albatross picked one up and rolled it between his fingers, then began to arrange the game. “I don’t think it’ll be a problem if I play a little, right? Not with you… but for you.” he whispered to himself, keeping his voice near a hush. He tossed the stones and began to gather them one by one. The cell filled not with Dazai’s laughter, but with the soft clatter of stones striking the ground.

 

Chuuya closed his eyes again. That sound brought back a memory from long ago: a sunny afternoon, the same stones in their hands, laughter in the air, playful teasing even after losing… He knew those days would never return. But at least, in the darkness of sleep, he could see them again.

 

Albatross tilted his head, looking at Chuuya. Even in sleep, a bitter line curved at the corner of his mouth. Biting his lip against the guilt swelling inside, Albatross gathered the stones into his palm once more and kept playing. In that moment, it was all he could do: stay by Chuuya’s side, even if he couldn’t change anything.

 

There was no need to say how hard it was. Pain seeps in even while you’re just waiting. Like a tragic and comical piece of art at once. A painting where it doesn’t matter what’s on the canvas.

Notes:

Thank you for reading𐔌՞. .՞𐦯