Chapter Text
When he woke, he was alone.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
Didn’t open his eyes.
The bond wasn’t pulling.
It wasn’t quiet, either.
It just… was.
A slow, low presence beneath his ribs.
Neither warm nor cold.
Just aware.
Chūya sat up.
No hangover. No bruises. No kisses lingering like heat.
Just his own body.
His own breath.
And the dull ache of space where Dazai should’ve been.
Chūya dressed slowly.
No rush.
No urgency.
Just the weight of unsaid things curling around his collar like a leash.
He didn’t go to the bathroom.
Didn’t wait.
He just left the bedroom, walked past the silent kitchen, and stopped short—
The front door was open.
Not wide.
Just enough to say someone’s gone.
And in the space between breath and reaction, the bond twinged.
A flicker.
Not pain. Not panic.
But like…
loss.
Chūya didn’t panic.
Not at first.
He checked the hallway.
Empty.
Checked his phone.
No messages.
Checked the time—
08:16.
He stood there a moment longer, hand hovering near the frame, like something in his body was trying to stretch—
Then it snapped.
Not the bond.
Not quite.
But a sudden, sharp throb under his sternum.
A flicker of something across the back of his neck.
Like a touch he didn’t feel.
Like a whisper without sound.
He opened the ARC channel.
Where is he.
The response took twenty seconds.
Still within parameters.
No flare. No surge. No need for intervention.
He called again.
This time, he didn’t wait for words.
"Where is he."
"Dazai left the building approximately twenty-five minutes ago."
"Without telling anyone?"
A pause.
"No distress signal has been triggered."
Chūya’s hand curled against the doorframe.
"I don’t care about the signal."
Silence.
"He’s approaching the 500-meter limit."
And that—
that hit.
Because suddenly the bond twisted—
like a leash going taut just before it chokes.
Not panic.
Not pull.
But the sharp, gnawing ache of something that doesn’t want to break—
—but might.
Chūya didn’t bother locking the door behind him.
Didn’t check for keys, phone, coat.
The bond was twitching under his skin like a pulled wire,
and the air outside the apartment was too cold for how hard his pulse was pounding.
He made it halfway down the block before the sensation shifted.
Not pain.
Not distance.
But the sharp, unsettling feeling of being watched.
He stopped walking.
Looked once, sharp—
and saw him.
Not Dazai.
Someone else.
Older.
Broad-shouldered.
Wearing a black scarf tucked into a worn wool coat.
No visible badge.
No ARC tag.
Just a folded folder under one arm—and a calm, unreadable expression.
The man raised one hand.
Not in threat.
Not in warning.
Just a gesture that said peace.
Chūya didn’t relax.
“You lost?” he said flatly.
The man’s mouth ticked at the corner.
“Looking for Nakahara Chūya.”
“You found him.”
“Good. Then I won’t waste your time.”
He stepped closer, slow.
“Kida sent me.”
“You’re ARC?”
“No,” the man said simply. “Not anymore.”
A beat.
“I’m the reason he knows what a soulbond looks like after thirty years.”
That stopped Chūya cold.
The man extended the folder.
“I’m here because he’s worried you’re walking the same path we did.”
Chūya stared.
Not because he didn’t know who the man was—
—but because he did.
Kida had mentioned him in passing.
Once. Maybe twice.
Never by name, but always in the same breath as we, or back then, or before we stabilized it.
He looked exactly like the kind of man who would ground someone like Kida.
Older. Steady.
The kind of presence that didn’t press down, but held firm.
“You’re the partner,” Chūya said. Not a question.
The man nodded.
“Kazuki,” he offered.
“You’ve got some fucking timing.”
Kazuki gave a small smile. No apology in it.
“It’s not timing. It’s trajectory. Kida knew this day would come eventually.”
He held out the folder.
“You’re not the first person to think your feelings aren’t your own.”
Chūya didn’t take it right away.
Didn’t move at all, actually.
The bond had gone quiet again.
Not dormant.
Just… watching.
“You here to give me a lecture?” he muttered.
“No,” Kazuki said simply. “I’m here to show you what it looks like when you stop fighting the thread—and start choosing it instead.”
A pause.
“Because that’s what it becomes, eventually. Not a trap. Not a leash. A choice.”
Chūya exhaled hard through his nose.
His hands were still clenched. His shoulders too tight.
But something in his chest had shifted.
Not melted, not warmed.
Just… cracked open a little.
Enough to let something in.
Chūya stared.
Not because he didn’t know who the man was—
—but because he did.
Kida had mentioned him in passing.
Once. Maybe twice.
Never by name, but always in the same breath as we, or back then, or before we stabilized it.
He looked exactly like the kind of man who would ground someone like Kida.
Older. Steady.
The kind of presence that didn’t press down, but held firm.
“You’re the partner,” Chūya said. Not a question.
The man nodded.
“Kazuki,” he offered.
“You’ve got some fucking timing.”
Kazuki gave a small smile. No apology in it.
“It’s not timing. It’s trajectory. Kida knew this day would come eventually.”
He held out the folder.
“You’re not the first person to think your feelings aren’t your own.”
Chūya didn’t take it right away.
Didn’t move at all, actually.
The bond had gone quiet again.
Not dormant.
Just… watching.
“You here to give me a lecture?” he muttered.
“No,” Kazuki said simply. “I’m here to show you what it looks like when you stop fighting the thread—and start choosing it instead.”
A pause.
“Because that’s what it becomes, eventually. Not a trap. Not a leash. A choice.”
Chūya exhaled hard through his nose.
His hands were still clenched. His shoulders too tight.
But something in his chest had shifted.
Not melted, not warmed.
Just… cracked open a little.
Enough to let something in.
Kazuki didn’t sit.
Didn’t pace either.
He stood near the window with his arms crossed, watching the early light bleed in through the blinds—quiet, still, like he’d done this before. Like he knew how much silence someone needed before it stopped being a wall and started being a hand.
Chūya sat on the arm of the couch, folder unopened beside him.
“So,” he muttered, “you came all this way just to tell me to stop being a coward?”
Kazuki turned his head slightly.
“No,” he said. “You’ve never been a coward. You’ve fought harder than most ever would.”
He stepped away from the window. His voice stayed low—measured. Familiar, somehow.
“You’re not afraid of the bond, Chūya. Not anymore.”
A pause.
“You’re afraid of what it’s showing you. What it’s making impossible to ignore.”
Chūya’s throat worked.
He didn’t answer.
Kazuki let it settle. No pressure. Just a shared truth, left in the open.
“The bond didn’t make you fall for him,” he said. “It just made it harder to pretend you hadn’t already started.”
That landed.
And this time, Chūya didn’t flinch.
Didn’t deny it.
Just sat there with his jaw tight and his eyes somewhere between the window and the door, like if he looked too long in either direction, something might crack open again.
Kazuki reached for the folder.
Set it gently on the coffee table.
“You don’t have to decide everything right now. Hell—Kida and I nearly tore each other apart for the first ten years.”
Chūya arched an eyebrow.
Kazuki smiled.
“I didn’t say it was healthy.”
A beat.
“But it was real.”
And then he turned to leave.
No lecture. No warning. No promises.
Just a quiet nod—and a final parting line, spoken without force:
“You’re still you, Chūya. Even when you’re his.”