Chapter 1: Old Wounds, Fresh Blood
Chapter Text
🩸 The Blood Pact – A Forgotten Binding
“What is offered in blood, binds in soul. What is spoken with breath, echoes beyond death.”
— Excerpt from the Arcanum of Veins, Vol. II (Unverified)
🔹 Origin
Blood pacts—also known as soulbinds, vein-vows, or cord rites—were once practiced among gifted youth during periods of war and magical unrest.
They were considered the ultimate trust-bond between partners: a safeguard, a tether, a vow of return.
A promise you couldn’t break, even if you tried.
The practice fell into obscurity after a series of documented incidents involving emotional collapse, magical volatility, and irreversible entanglement.
But the old words still hold power.
If spoken in blood.
If meant.
🔹 Components of a True Pact
To form a soulbind, three elements are required:
1. Shared Blood — Given willingly, not taken.
• Cut into the dominant hand or forearm.
• Skin-to-skin contact is essential.
• Blood must mix while still warm.
2. Spoken Vow — Clear intent, mirrored focus.
• The phrasing shapes the bond.
• Examples from archived cases include:
“If I bleed, so will you.”
“Wherever I go, you follow.”
“I won’t die without you.”
3. Emotional Resonance — Heightened emotional state.
• Rage, grief, love, fear—it doesn’t matter.
• The stronger the feeling, the deeper the bind.
*Missing any of these components can result in failure—or distortion.*
🔹 Effects (Observed)
The following may develop as the bond deepens or reactivates:
- Emotional Echo: Intense emotions reverberate between the bound. Panic, rage, lust, grief—they bleed across the link, sometimes without warning.
- Physical Synchronization:
• Injuries may partially mirror (e.g., one breaks a rib, the other aches).
• Arousal and physical pleasure can be felt in tandem.
• Prolonged separation may cause sickness, fatigue, or magical instability. - Voice Resonance:
• Certain tones or phrases from a bonded partner can trigger calming or destabilizing effects.
• Words spoken during the pact often become emotionally charged or subconsciously anchored commands. - Sexual Feedback Loop:
• Arousal in one may ignite in the other.
• Physical intimacy rapidly strengthens the bond.
• Tease, denial, or climax can result in overwhelming feedback—sometimes enough to cause temporary blackouts or collapse.
🔹 Dangers
- Co-Dependency: Rapid emotional enmeshment, often involuntary.
- Overload Events: Intense physical or emotional feedback may trigger collapse, seizures, or spikes of wild magic.
- Possession Risk: Rare, but recorded cases describe one soul attempting to “merge” with the other, leading to psychosis or complete loss of identity.
- Imbalance: If one partner resists or suppresses emotion, the bond may strain or warp—resulting in decay, backlash, or involuntary fusion.
🔹 Severance (Unconfirmed)
The bond is considered permanent.
However, ancient texts reference three possible forms of dissolution:
1. Mutual Death.
Obvious. Final. Clean.
2. Mutual Release.
Both must willingly recite a counter-vow under emotional duress, share blood again, and renounce the pact.
Rarely works. Often leads to madness.
3. Bond Overload.
Sexual, emotional, or physical intensity pushed to extremes can cause the bond to collapse—or consume both parties entirely.
No known survivors.
“It was once said that to bind yourself to another is to be seen, raw and eternal.
The kind of magic that demands truth… always comes at a cost.”
— Anonymous, scribbled in the margins of a torn Grimoire page, 1912
The call came just after midnight.
Chūya had been seconds from hurling his phone across the room. His headache was already a hammering, dull roar behind his eyes, and the last thing he needed was another emergency.
Until he heard the name.
“Patient admitted unconscious. Unstable vitals. You’re listed as the emergency contact, Mr. Nakahara. We wouldn’t have reached out otherwise.”
The nurse’s voice was polite. Neutral.
Like she hadn’t just punched a hole through seven years of silence.
He almost didn’t go. Almost let it rot in the dark.
But the weight of the name on his chest felt unbearable—like an old scar splitting open just from hearing it aloud.
So he went.
The hospital was almost empty by the time he arrived.
Everything was too quiet, too sterile, the kind of place that seemed to dare you to feel anything.
Room 913, the nurse had said.
Chūya’s boots echoed down the corridor. He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until he reached the door.
Fingers paused on the handle.
His other hand curled into a fist at his side.
Seven years.
Seven years of avoiding that name like a curse.
Seven years since he'd last seen Dazai Osamu—really seen him, not just a file in the system, a whisper on the street, a brush of cursed history in someone else’s mouth.
And now he was here.
Waiting behind a hospital door like a ghost.
“You’re not here for him,” Chūya muttered to himself, jaw tight.
“You’re here because some idiot put your name on a damn form.”
He opened the door.
Dazai looked like hell.
Worse, actually.
Pale. Too pale. Shirt open at the collar. Gauze on his wrist.
Monitors blinked beside him in quiet, disjointed rhythm.
There was a slow IV drip in his arm, and a second one strapped tight to his chest, over his heart.
The room reeked of antiseptic. And blood.
The air shifted the moment Chūya stepped inside.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
The machines stuttered—just briefly—and then recalibrated, as if some invisible force had just settled into the room with a satisfied sigh.
Chūya frowned. Took a step forward.
Watched the heart monitor stabilize.
Beep.
Beep.
Even. Calm. Anchored.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he whispered.
Another step.
The numbers on the second monitor climbed—gently, slowly—as if they’d been waiting for him.
“He wasn’t stable when we brought him in.”
The nurse’s voice echoed back to him now.
“We couldn’t explain it. His vitals kept crashing… and then they just leveled out. We didn’t know why.”
But Chūya knew.
Not why.
Not how.
But what.
The bond.
That damn bond.
The one he hadn’t thought about in years. The one he’d assumed had died, or faded, or—
“—burned itself out when you disappeared, bastard,” Chūya murmured, now at the edge of the bed.
His pulse was suddenly too loud in his ears.
He hadn’t felt it. Not for years. No phantom pulls. No shared dreams. No flares of emotion that didn’t belong to him.
But now?
Now he was too aware of the tightness in his own chest.
Of the way Dazai’s breathing synced with his steps.
Of the quiet warmth trickling through his fingertips like a thread pulling tight.
Not enough to hurt.
Just enough to say still here.
Still bound.
Chūya clenched his jaw and turned to leave.
“Knew you’d come back.”
The voice was barely a rasp. Barely real.
But Chūya froze mid-step.
Slowly—furious, careful—he turned his head.
Dazai’s eyes were open. Slits of bruised hazel against the stark white of the room. His mouth curled into a faint, tired smirk.
Not dramatic. Not cocky.
Just… worn.
“You’re supposed to be unconscious,” Chūya hissed.
Dazai blinked lazily.
“You’re supposed to be gone.”
“I was.”
A beat passed.
Another.
Chūya stared at him like a wound. Like a curse that had crawled its way back to life just to ruin him again.
“What the hell did you do to yourself, Dazai?”
“Was trying to die.” A slow, painful breath. “Guess I got interrupted.”
“By what? The hospital staff? A failed attempt?” Chūya’s voice climbed. “Or was it your sick sense of fucking drama?”
Another monitor beeped faster.
Dazai winced, and—fuck.
Chūya felt it. Like a pinprick in his own ribs. A ghost of pain not his.
The bond was alive again.
Waking.
He sat down hard in the visitor chair, eyes on the monitor. Breathing through gritted teeth.
“We’ll fix this,” he muttered. “Whatever the hell this is—we’ll undo it. Sever it.”
“You can’t.” Dazai’s voice was low.
“You knew that, even then.”
Chūya stared at the wall.
“You knew it when you said the words.”
It had started like all their worst ideas did—
with Dazai looking at him like that.“You ever think about how easy it would be,” he’d said, boots hanging off the edge of the roof, “to make someone stay forever?”
Chūya had barely glanced at him. He was wiping blood off his knuckles with the sleeve of his coat, still buzzing from the mission, adrenaline crackling like static under his skin.
“You sayin’ you’re lonely, or just sick in the head?”
Dazai laughed. Not his usual mocking one. Softer. Distant.
“Maybe both.”
Silence stretched between them for a moment. A wind passed, sharp and cold. Chūya didn’t flinch.
He never did around Dazai.
“I found something,” Dazai said then, quiet and sharp like he was tossing a knife across the space between them.
“In the archives. Real old stuff. Blood magic. Binding. It links two people.”Chūya’s hand froze mid-wipe.
“What the hell are you on about now?”
“Just a thought experiment.”
A smirk ghosted across his lips.
“Unless you’re scared.”There it was. The bait. Dangled like always.
Chūya didn’t rise to it. Not at first.
He stood, walked to where Dazai sat, looked down at the half-open leather-bound journal in his lap. The page was yellowed, curling, ink barely legible—but there it was.
“Blood offered, breath spoken, bond sealed. One wound. One echo. One fate.”
“It’s a metaphor,” Chūya said flatly.
“It’s a ritual,” Dazai countered. “The kind that makes things stick.”
“You want to ‘stick’ to me, Dazai?” Chūya scoffed. “You that desperate for a leash?”
Dazai leaned back on his elbows, eyes glittering up at him.
“Who said I’d be the one wearing it?”
Chūya hated that his pulse reacted to that. Hated the chill that climbed down his spine—half instinct, half recognition.
“Fine,” he bit out. “You wanna play? Let’s play.”
They found a shard of broken glass in the gravel.
Didn’t even bother going inside for a blade.Chūya went first.
He held out his hand, eyes locked on Dazai’s, and cut a line across his palm.
Clean. Controlled.
He didn’t flinch.
Dazai followed suit.
Sloppier. Deeper than necessary.Their blood welled up fast, hot and vivid in the dying light.
Without a word, Dazai reached forward—and pressed their hands together.
Palm to palm.
Warm blood mixing, skin to skin, breath held between them like a prayer.
“Say it,” Dazai said.
“Say what?”
“Whatever comes to you.”
Chūya didn’t know where the words came from.
Didn’t know why his heart was thudding like a war drum, why his mouth moved without thought.
But he said them.
“If I bleed, so will you.”
“If I break,” Dazai whispered, “you break too.”
Their grips tightened. Blood slick. Burning.
“If you die,” Chūya said, the words catching, “then I go with you.”
A silence fell like ash.
And then—
a pulse.Not in his chest. Not in his veins.
Between them.
Like something unseen had just snapped taut and alive.
Like a string pulled through both their bones.Dazai swayed. Chūya gasped.
It wasn’t pain. Not exactly.
It was recognition.
“What the fuck—”
“It worked,” Dazai said, eyes wide. “It actually—”
Chūya shoved him back with his uninjured hand.
“You didn’t say it’d feel like—like that!”
“Would you have done it if I had?”
“No, you bastard!”
“Exactly.”
They never talked about it again.
Never mentioned the way their dreams synced for weeks.
Never acknowledged the moment Chūya stubbed his toe and Dazai hissed halfway across the compound.
Never spoke of the pull in their chests when one got too far away from the other.
It faded eventually.
The bond went quiet.
Until now.
Until tonight.
Until the thread pulled taut again.
Chapter 2: The Echo in the Silence
Summary:
The bond isn’t dormant anymore.
It pulses. It remembers. It wants.
As Chūya confronts Dazai in the stillness of a hospital room, something old and buried begins to flare—first as emotion, then as something far more dangerous.
Desire surges. Pain echoes. Shame builds.
And when Chūya begs him to stop, Dazai says something worse:
“Say the word—and I’ll swallow it whole.”
“I don’t know the word anymore.”
Chapter Text
Interlude
Dazai didn’t dream often anymore.
Not since the pacts had started unraveling. Not since the seals on his skin began to hum and fracture, trying—and failing—to contain the magic clawing its way loose.
But that night, he dreamed.
And in the dream, there was blood.
Warm. Sticky. Familiar.
Pressed into his hand.
Not poured. Not forced.
Given.
He felt Chūya before he saw him.
That was how he knew it was real.
Not a memory. Not a hallucination.
A presence. A weight. Like the bond exhaling after years of holding its breath.
“You came,” he murmured into the dark, though no one had spoken.
“You still burn.”
He tried to wake, but his body wouldn’t move.
Too much sedative. Too much damage.
So he let himself drift.
Let the dream deepen.
They were sixteen again.
The rooftop wind cut through him like blades.
Chūya’s hand was warm, slick in his own.“If I bleed, so will you.”
He hadn’t thought it would work. Not really.
Not even with the sigils and notes scribbled in the margins of forbidden texts.
Not even with the blood running hot down their arms.But then it did.
And something inside him recognized it.
A thread. A hook. A home.
Chūya had never known what it meant.
But Dazai had.
He’d spent weeks researching the ritual. He knew the risks, the symptoms, the aftermath.
He knew what would happen if the bond succeeded.
He knew what he was asking for when he’d smiled and said:“Who said I’d be the one wearing the leash?”
Because he had wanted it to work.
Because even back then, he’d needed something to keep him tethered.
To stop him from floating too far into nothing.To stop him from disappearing.
The moment Chūya stepped into that hospital room, the bond didn’t just stir—it screamed.
It gripped his ribs like breath, like knives, like something starved that had just been fed again.
He didn’t open his eyes right away.
He just felt.
Chūya’s rage.
His hesitation.
The heat crawling beneath his skin.
The ache behind his clenched teeth.
His instinct to run.
His inability to leave.
Still here, the bond seemed to whisper.
Still mine.
When Dazai finally forced his eyes open, it wasn’t just pain that greeted him.
It was Chūya’s scent, dulled but unmistakable.
The gravity of his presence.
And the echoing ache of seven years pulling themselves taut again.
“Knew you’d come back,” he murmured.
Not a taunt. Not a trick.
Just a truth.
Because the bond had felt him before Dazai did.
Because his soul had already started stitching itself back together the moment Chūya walked into the building.
He hated how quiet it was.
Even now—especially now—Chūya couldn’t stand the way Dazai just laid there, eyes half-lidded, breathing steady like nothing had changed. Like he hadn't nearly fucking died. Like he hadn’t dragged a ghost from the past into the sterile white present.
“You’re supposed to be unconscious,” Chūya snapped again, voice sharp enough to cut.
Dazai smiled faintly. The kind of smile that didn’t mean anything and somehow still made everything worse.
“But you’re here,” he said, quiet.
“So I’m not.”
The words shouldn’t have meant anything. But they sank in low, deep, dragging old memories behind them like rusted chains.
Chūya swallowed. It hurt more than it should have.
“You think that’s funny?”
“No.”
“You think it’s romantic?”
“Not really.”
Pause. Then, softer—
“I think it’s true.”
And fuck, it was. Because Chūya had felt it—the moment he stepped into the room. The bond hadn’t just stirred. It had gripped him by the ribs. Pulled taut like a thread strung from somewhere he’d tried to forget.
It was still there.
Still warm.
Still alive.
He stood up again, paced the width of the room, fists clenching and unclenching as if that might stop the static crawling under his skin. The burn in his palm was phantom—old scar, old vow—but it itched like a bruise newly struck.
“Why now?” he bit out.
“Why the hell is this happening now?”
“I don’t know,” Dazai said.
“Bullshit.”
“Maybe it never went away.”
“Don’t give me poetic crap, Dazai.”
“You felt it too. Don’t lie.”
That made Chūya stop. Turn. His breath came unevenly, heat rising at the back of his throat.
“It’s been seven years.”
Dazai nodded.
“And I still dream with your blood under my skin.”
Chūya didn’t speak.
He didn’t know how.
Because he could feel something shifting now—not just emotionally. Physically.
Like the bond had been waiting for that acknowledgment. That naming.
A warm pulse dragged low in his gut. Sharp pressure across his chest.
Then—it hit. A strange flicker of sensation at the base of his spine, high and hot and wrong.
He turned sharply, glare like fire.
“You’re feeling this too, aren’t you?”
Dazai looked up at him through his lashes. Didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.
His pupils were just slightly blown. His pulse fluttered faster on the monitor. His fingers twitched against the sheet like he was holding something back.
“Stop it,” Chūya hissed.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re feeling something. You’re thinking something—”
Dazai’s lips parted.
“You’re angry. That’s what I feel.”
“Bullshit.” Chūya backed away from the bed. “That’s not anger.”
It wasn’t. Not anymore.
He was flushed. Heart pounding. Heat blooming in all the wrong places. He felt like someone had pressed into his chest and whispered want directly into the blood pumping behind his ribs.
“This isn’t real,” he muttered.
“It’s feedback,” Dazai said, voice low. “The bond—it’s responding.”
“We severed it.”
“We never did.”
Chūya turned toward the wall, gripping the windowsill like a lifeline. The city lights blurred beyond the glass, nothing but smear and color and motionless sound.
His voice came out tight.
“Then we fix it.”
“Maybe it doesn’t want to be fixed.”
“I didn’t ask what it wants—”
“Maybe it wants us.”
It started slow.
A trickle of heat down his spine. A prickle at the base of his neck, like static from too-close electricity. His breath hitched before he realized why—
Because Dazai had exhaled.
And his body had responded.
It wasn’t magic the way he understood it. Not like Ability use or structured spellwork.
This was raw.
Unrefined.
Wild.
“Fuck,” Chūya breathed, gripping the edge of the windowsill so hard his knuckles went white.
“Stop it. Whatever you’re doing—stop.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Then the bond is.” His voice cracked, humiliated. “And I swear to god if you’re enjoying this—”
“I’m not,” Dazai said. But he was breathing harder now.
His voice had dropped. Not teasing. Not amused. Just… still.
Weighted.
“But I’m not fighting it either.”
That was worse.
Worse than mockery. Worse than manipulation.
Because Chūya could feel it too—that hum beneath the skin.
A low, soft ache that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with presence. With being seen in a way he hadn’t allowed in years.
And when Dazai spoke again—
“I remember what it felt like. That night. Your blood on mine.”
—Chūya gasped.
His knees nearly buckled.
He stumbled away from the window. Pacing. Burning. Skin hot with shame and something heavier.
His body wasn’t just responding.
It was syncing.
He could feel the shape of Dazai’s want. Not lust, not fully.
Just desire.
Desire aimed at him.
And the bond drank it in like wine.
“Don’t—”
His throat was dry.
“Don’t say shit like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not real, Dazai! It’s the bond. It’s just a leftover echo from—”
“You really believe that?”
Chūya turned sharply.
“You think I want this?! You think I want to feel your shitty breath on my skin every time you say something cryptic and self-destructive?!”
Dazai’s eyes met his.
And Chūya froze.
Because the look there wasn’t smug. Wasn’t clever.
It was empty.
“I think it’s the first time I’ve felt anything in weeks,” Dazai said. “Because you walked in that door.”
The silence after that was devastating.
Chūya didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Because the bond throbbed—hard—like a heartbeat between them.
And then, cruelly, quietly, it surged.
A sharp jolt. Not quite pain. Not quite pleasure.
His breath caught on a groan before he could bite it back.
His hands twitched.
The warmth had pooled lower now.
And Dazai—still in that hospital bed, still half-broken—was staring at him like he felt it too.
“Stop this,” Chūya whispered.
“Please.”
“Say the word,” Dazai said, voice barely audible,
“and I’ll pull back. I’ll bury it. I’ll swallow it whole.”
“I don’t know the word anymore.”
“Then let it burn.”
Chapter 3: Where the Bond Hungers
Summary:
The bond responds to proximity. That much is clear.
But when Dazai asks to touch him—just to test it—Chūya agrees against his better judgment.
The second their fingers meet, the truth ignites:
The bond is alive. The bond is hungry. And it doesn’t fade when the contact ends.
Worse, Dazai wasn’t just testing the magic.
He was testing whether he was still there—whether Chūya still felt him at all.
And he did.
He still does.
Chapter Text
He hadn’t meant to stay.
After the surge. After the way the bond had curled up under his ribs like an animal waking from hibernation.
After Dazai’s voice—low and broken and true—had hit him too deep.
Chūya should’ve left.
But he didn’t.
Because every time he stepped toward the door, something pulled.
Not a spell. Not a panic.
A thread.
Thin. Subtle. But anchored. As if the air between them had turned to silk, stretching but never snapping.
“Say the word,” Dazai had said.
“And I’ll bury it. I’ll swallow it whole.”
And Chūya—who’d spent seven years trying to sever a connection that refused to rot—
had whispered back,
“I don’t know the word anymore.”
He stood by the window now, arms folded tight, heartbeat too loud in his throat.
The feedback had stopped.
For now.
But the memory of it buzzed against his skin.
The sharp heat. The pull low in his spine.
The way Dazai’s eyes had shifted from hollow to hungry in less than a breath.
Like he wasn’t just reacting.
He was feeling it too.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s what scared Chūya most.
That it wasn’t one-sided.
That the bond hadn’t chosen only him.
That Dazai was caught in it, too.
Still bound.
Still... his.
“You should sleep,” Dazai said softly, from the bed.
“I’m not tired.”
“You look like hell.”
Chūya didn’t answer. His knuckles were white against the windowsill.
The city outside blurred under low clouds and neon haze.
“The bond’s not done,” he said finally.
“Not even close.”
“No.”
“Then we need to figure out what it wants.”
Dazai was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was strange.
“What if it doesn’t want anything?”
Chūya turned his head.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“What if it’s not broken?” Dazai said. “What if this is just... it?”
“Unstable?” Chūya snapped. “Painful? Dangerous?”
“Alive,” Dazai said.
“Alive.”
Chūya hated the way Dazai said it.
Like it was a comfort.
Like it wasn’t the worst thing it could possibly be.
Because if the bond was alive, then it had a will.
A hunger.
A pulse all its own.
And Chūya was starting to realize—it wasn’t going to stop.
Not just because he wanted it to.
Dazai shifted in the bed. Slowly. Carefully.
Still pale, still recovering, but far more lucid than he should’ve been for someone who’d nearly died twelve hours ago.
The bond was keeping him upright.
No—Chūya was.
And the longer he stayed in the room, the more stable Dazai became.
It wasn’t a metaphor.
It was fact.
“I want to try something,” Dazai said.
Chūya shot him a look.
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m asking.”
“I know that tone, and I know that look, and I know the last time I let you ‘try something’ I ended up vomiting cursed ink for three days straight—”
“Magic ink,” Dazai corrected, smiling faintly.
“Technically priceless.”
“Technically shut the fuck up.”
“Just—listen.” Dazai’s voice softened. “I think... I think the bond is responsive to proximity. To focus.”
“You think?”
“Let me touch you.”
Silence.
Chūya didn’t blink.
“No.”
“Not like that,” Dazai said. “I mean—just your hand. Just... to see.”
“See what?”
“If it spikes again. If the feedback’s triggered by contact or emotional charge.”
Chūya scoffed.
“Or if you just want an excuse to get your hands on me.”
“Chūya,” Dazai said, and this time his voice held no tease. No twist.
Just his name.
Low.
Honest.
And something in Chūya’s chest cracked.
“Fine,” he muttered, stalking forward. “One second. One touch. You pass out again, and I’m not calling the nurse.”
“Deal.”
Chūya reached for his wrist, ignoring the flinch in his own spine as the distance closed.
Their fingers brushed.
And the bond lit up like wildfire.
It wasn’t pain.
It was pressure.
A phantom heat searing up his forearm, across his chest, down, down—until he had to bite the inside of his cheek just to stay upright.
His hand twitched in Dazai’s grip.
Dazai’s lashes fluttered.
“Well,” he rasped. “That answers that.”
He ripped his hand away like it burned him.
Because it did.
Not the skin, not the surface—but something underneath.
Something threaded too deep to name.
He backed up, eyes wide, breathing hard—chest heaving like he’d just sprinted a mile uphill with a bullet in his gut.
“I said one second.”
“That was one,” Dazai said, voice quiet. “Maybe two.”
“Don’t joke,” Chūya snapped. “Don’t—don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you knew what would happen.”
Dazai didn’t answer. Which was an answer in itself.
Chūya’s hands were shaking.
He turned away before Dazai could see.
The heat hadn’t faded.
Even with the contact broken, it lingered.
A low, humming ache wrapped around his spine, pooling at the base of his throat and curling low.
It wasn’t lust.
Not just.
It was tension. Pressure. The phantom pull of a bond that didn’t want to let go.
Like a magnetic field—still charged, still hungry.
Still aimed at him.
“I needed to know,” Dazai said from the bed.
Chūya didn’t turn around.
“Know what?”
“If it was still you.”
“The bond?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Me.”
That made Chūya freeze.
Completely. Utterly.
Because of course Dazai wasn’t asking about the magic.
He was asking about himself.
About whether he was still real—or if whatever damage had cracked him open had already taken too much.
He was asking if Chūya still felt him.
If the bond still recognized him.
If there was anything left in there to tether to.
Chūya didn’t answer.
Because the answer was yes.
And that terrified him more than anything.
Chapter 4: Burn Where I Can’t Touch You
Summary:
Chūya manages to leave the hospital room.
He doesn’t make it far.The bond doesn’t just echo arousal—it shares it.
And when Dazai starts to dream, Chūya feels every wave of it crash against him like it’s his own.He tries to resist.
He tries to stay silent.
He tries not to give in.But when the bond snaps tight and pulls them into each other, there’s no escape from the shared release that follows—or the shame that settles after.
Chapter Text
He managed to leave.
Finally. After what felt like hours with Dazai breathing in and out like he didn’t know what he was doing—like he hadn’t just asked to touch him, hadn’t let the bond burn hot and stay burning even after he’d let go.
Chūya slammed the door shut and didn’t look back.
The hallway was cold. Dim. Empty.
He pressed his back to the wall just outside the room, heartbeat punching behind his ribs like it was trying to break out.
He needed space.
Air.
Distance.
The bond wasn’t supposed to follow him this far.
But it did.
At first it was just a pulse.
Soft. Quiet. Like a residual echo.
But then it thickened.
Got warmer. Heavier.
Centered low.
And before he could blink, he knew—
This wasn’t his.
His breath caught.
A flicker of heat curled down his spine, pooling just behind his hips—soft at first, then sharper. A hum of want. Not frantic. Not overwhelming.
Just...
hungry.
No. Fuck no.
He shoved off the wall and kept walking, boots echoing against tile like it might drown out the bond—but it didn’t.
He could feel Dazai again.
Not just alive.
Aroused.
He didn’t want to know.
Didn’t want to picture it.
Didn’t want to wonder whether Dazai was just restless, or if he was dreaming something dirty—some ghost-memory of Chūya's mouth, or his voice, or—
Fuck.
Chūya stumbled into the stairwell and gripped the rail hard enough to make the metal groan.
It wasn’t supposed to work like this.
The bond didn’t just send emotions—it echoed sensation.
And right now?
It was echoing heat.
Arousal.
Tension so thick it tasted like want.
He tried to block it out. Breathe past it.
It’s not yours. It’s not yours. It’s not—
But his fingers twitched toward his belt all the same.
The bond pulled low again, curling warm at the base of his spine, thrumming gently through his gut like a pulse—
Like something was building.
Like someone was getting off.
And Chūya could feel it.
“You fucking asshole,” he hissed into the air, palm pressed to the cold stairwell wall.
“You’re not even awake.”
That made it worse.
Because it meant Dazai wasn’t doing it on purpose.
This was instinct.
The bond responding to Dazai’s body, his fantasy, his desire—
—and dragging Chūya along with it.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Gritted his teeth.
And then—
A whisper. Not a voice. Not exactly.
Just a thought, too loud to be his.
"You’d sound so good like this..."
Chūya jerked away from the wall.
“Fuck off. Fuck. Off.”
But the bond didn’t care.
The bond was spilling over.
He bit down on the heel of his palm hard enough to leave marks.
Didn’t help.
The bond just pulsed again—hotter now. Thicker. Needier.
It wasn’t just pressure anymore.
It was friction.
The low, rhythmic drag of fingers.
The shift of hips.
The kind of heat that curled behind his navel and refused to fade.
“No—no no no—”
He doubled over slightly, sweat starting to gather at the back of his neck. He gripped the railing again—white-knuckled, desperate, and far too hard.
His thighs ached.
His breath caught.
And then—
It broke.
The wall between them shattered.
Suddenly, he wasn’t just feeling arousal.
He was feeling Dazai.
Not just the bond’s echo—his body.
The rise of his chest.
The tension in his abdomen.
The weight of his cock pressed to his palm, slow and lazy and fucking dreamy with half-conscious want—
“No—stop—STOP—”
Chūya gasped, one hand slamming into the wall to keep from dropping. His whole body lit up.
And Dazai—
Dazai moaned.
In real time.
From the hospital bed, down the hall, three floors up.
A soft, ragged, frustrated sound.
Not loud. Not sharp.
But real.
“Oh fuck,” Chūya whispered, staring down at his trembling hands.
“He’s awake.”
Chūya didn’t remember stumbling back into the hallway.
All he knew was the pressure wouldn’t stop.
He kept trying to breathe around it—this tight, burning, growing thing—but it curled inside his stomach like molten thread.
This isn’t mine, he kept thinking.
This isn’t me.
But his hips twitched. His breath caught.
And the bond just kept pulling.
Dazai was moving now.
Not fast.
Not frantic.
Just... slow. Deliberate. One hand under the sheet, fingers working in long, measured strokes like he wasn’t even aware someone else could feel it.
Except—he was.
Chūya knew he was.
Because with every sound Dazai made, Chūya’s body responded like a puppet on the same string.
A moan, and Chūya’s throat went dry.
A flex of his palm, and Chūya’s cock throbbed in his pants.
The bond didn’t echo anymore.
It mirrored.
He should’ve stopped it. Should’ve fought back.
Instead—he pressed his forehead to the cool tile wall and groaned.
His knees trembled.
His mouth opened on a curse that died halfway through.
His hand—
No.
His hand slipped past the waistband anyway.
Not for relief.
For balance.
That’s what he told himself.
That’s the lie he’ll take to the grave.
Dazai gasped.
Not loud. Not sharp.
But ragged.
Like he felt it too.
Like he felt Chūya’s fingers the same way Chūya felt his.
Their pulses synced.
Their lungs matched.
Their hands moved in time.
“You—fucking—”
Chūya choked on the words as heat spread down his thighs.
His back arched.
His mind blurred.
The bond tightened.
Just once.
Then snapped.
They came at the same time.
Divided by floors, not by feeling.
Hands wrapped around themselves.
Breath syncing through a bond that never stopped wanting.
But not alone.
Never alone.
And when it was over—
when his breath stuttered out of him like a warning—
when he sank down, legs too weak to hold him—
He felt it.
Dazai’s shame.
Raw. Unspoken.
Matched only by his own.
Chapter 5: What the Silence Holds
Summary:
Chūya should’ve walked out the second Dazai said his name like it meant something. But he didn’t.
The bond breathes between them—quiet, waiting, alive. And neither of them knows what to do with the way it still remembers what they never said.
Chapter Text
The silence didn’t come all at once.
It crept in, slow and heavy, like breath fogging glass.
Like a weight pressed to the chest that didn’t lift—but settled.
The bond had quieted.
No more arousal. No more phantom friction.
Just... heat. Low and humming.
A memory against his skin.
And Chūya hated it more than the burn.
He sat in the stairwell, back against cold cement, knuckles still red from bracing against the wall earlier.
His jeans stuck slightly to his thigh. He’d cleaned himself up, barely. Shaky hands, half-muttered curses. A paper towel from the bathroom and a face that wouldn’t meet his own reflection.
You came in your pants to Dazai’s fucking dream.
That’s what it was.
Not some mystical ritual reaction. Not just feedback.
It was Dazai.
Wanting.
Touching himself.
Whispering into a shared thread that ran straight down Chūya’s spine.
And Chūya had answered it.
Body-first. Shame-later.
The bond had gone quiet since.
Not gone. Not severed.
Just... breathing.
Not tugging. Not demanding.
But present.
Is he asleep again?
Awake?
Did he feel me too?
Chūya pressed the heel of his palm to one eye and breathed out slowly.
The memory of it wouldn’t stop.
Not the physical sensation—the emotional shape of it.
Dazai’s arousal hadn’t been sharp or cruel.
It had been lonely.
Almost soft.
That was the worst part.
He stood eventually. Boots scraping against the concrete, the stairwell light buzzing faint above him.
He didn’t know why he walked back toward Dazai’s room.
He didn’t know what he was going to say.
Maybe he’d punch him.
Maybe he’d lie.
Maybe he’d ask—
"Did you know it would happen?"
Or worse—
"Did you want me to feel it?"
He stopped in front of the door.
Didn’t touch the handle.
Didn’t knock.
Just... stood there.
The bond didn’t pull this time.
It didn’t have to.
He stepped inside.
Soft. Careful. Like if he moved too loudly, the bond would spark again.
Like if he said the wrong thing, they’d both remember it too clearly.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t sit.
Just leaned against the wall near the foot of the bed and stared at the monitor—heart rate steady, blood pressure low, oxygen fine.
Everything normal.
Except nothing felt normal.
The bond curled around his ankle like fog. Soft. Barely there.
But it was there.
Still warm.
Still waiting.
Dazai wasn’t sleeping.
Not quite.
He lay still, one arm slung over his eyes, body heavy with exhaustion but nowhere near unconscious.
His shirt stuck to his chest, damp with sweat.
His hand—
the one he’d used—
rested palm-down against the sheets like it hadn’t done anything at all.
“You’re back,” Dazai said finally, voice low and hoarse.
He didn’t move the arm from his eyes.
“Didn’t think you would be.”
“Didn’t plan to be,” Chūya muttered.
Another pause.
“Couldn’t stay away?”
“Couldn’t breathe.”
Silence.
Not tense.
Not gentle either.
Just... thick. Full of everything they weren’t naming.
Chūya’s hand flexed at his side.
He watched the way Dazai’s chest rose and fell.
He hated how familiar it felt.
How comfortable the quiet between them was—even when it was straining at the edges.
“You felt it,” Dazai said eventually. Quiet. Barely a question.
Chūya didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
The bond answered for him, curling tighter for just a breath—like it agreed.
Like it remembered, too.
“Wasn’t trying to...”
Dazai exhaled.
“It just happened.”
Chūya’s throat went dry.
“You always say that when you fuck things up.”
“So you admit it was fucked up.”
“You got off in a hospital bed and made me feel it, Dazai.”
He laughed—sharp and bitter.
“You think that’s not fucked up?”
Dazai was quiet.
Then—
“It was you.”
Chūya blinked.
“What?”
“It was you, in the dream.”
Dazai finally moved his arm. Looked at him.
Eyes bloodshot. Lips parted.
Honest in a way that made Chūya’s spine go rigid.
“I didn’t try to make you feel it.”
“But it was you. The whole time.”
“It was you.”
That shouldn’t have meant anything.
Should’ve been just another cheap line. Another way for Dazai to fuck with his head.
But it wasn’t.
It was bare.
Flat.
Unprotected.
And it landed like a stone in Chūya’s chest.
He should’ve lashed out.
Should’ve said fuck you and walked right back out the door.
But instead—
He looked at Dazai’s face.
The shadows under his eyes.
The exhaustion curled up in the corners of his mouth.
The blood-pact echo still glowing like coals beneath his ribs.
And he stayed.
“You don’t get to say that,” Chūya said, low.
“Not like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like it means something.”
Dazai’s eyes didn’t flinch.
“It does.”
“You don’t get to say that either.”
Another silence.
But this one buzzed.
Stretched.
The bond pulled, warm as breath on the back of his neck. Not arousal—not yet.
But proximity.
The promise of what it could be if they let it go again.
Chūya’s skin prickled.
Dazai looked up at him like he felt it too.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Chūya murmured.
“You came back.”
“I shouldn’t have.”
“But you did.”
The air between them rippled.
And then—
“Can I ask you something?” Dazai said.
Chūya braced for it.
The manipulation. The bait.
“Ask.”
“Do you ever think about what would’ve happened if we hadn’t said those words that night?”
Chūya stared at him.
Because fuck him.
Fuck him for asking.
Because of course he had.
Of course he still did.
But all he said was:
“No.”
A lie.
The bond tightened.
Chapter 6: Scars Under Glass
Summary:
When Chūya tries to walk out—just for a moment—Dazai’s vitals crash hard enough to set off every monitor in the hospital. The bond won’t tolerate distance, and neither will the ARC. With relocation forced upon them and Dr. Kida asking questions he’s not ready to answer, Chūya starts to realize this thing between them isn’t just unstable. It’s ancient. And it’s already too late to undo it.
Chapter Text
He wasn’t trying to abandon him.
Not really.
He’d just reached for the door.
Shoes on. Jaw tight. Hands cold with guilt and morning sweat.
Just for a breath of air. Just to breathe without breathing him in.
But the moment Chūya’s fingers grazed the handle—
Every monitor behind him screamed.
The whole room panicked, nurses and doctors alike.
“No—no no no—!”
“His vitals are crashing—!”
“Get him back! Get him back—”
Dazai’s body jerked. Arched.
An oxygen mask dropped from a panicked nurse’s hand.
IV bags swung wildly on the stand.
And all Chūya could hear—
the only thing in his skull louder than the alarms—
was the bond.
Tearing. Not snapping—just tearing.
Like something sacred was unraveling in his ribcage.
He ran back to the bed without thinking.
Gripped Dazai’s wrist in both hands.
“I’m here—I’m fucking here—”
“Dazai. Dazai— look at me—”
And the instant he said his name—
Low. Urgent. Unfiltered.
Dazai’s body stilled.
The screaming monitors didn’t stop.
But Dazai did.
He turned his face toward Chūya.
Eyes open.
“You softened your voice,” he whispered, too quiet to be heard by anyone else.
“You sounded like you still knew me.”
Chūya didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
Not while every part of the bond vibrated with need.
Not while a nurse dragged him back and a doctor ordered another sedative and the whole room spun with the realization:
He couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not without killing them both.
He sat in the corridor like he was waiting for a verdict.
Not for the first time.
Not the last.
Across from him, two nurses whispered with their backs turned.
Behind the door, Dazai was stable again. Breathing. Quiet.
Because Chūya had spoken to him.
Because something about his voice—his presence—was tethered too deep now to cut.
He could still feel it, faint and electric, buzzing under his skin like a warning.
“Nakahara-san?”
Chūya looked up.
The man standing over him wasn’t hospital staff.
Pressed charcoal suit. Slight trench to his brow. Clinical smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I’m Dr. Kida. From the ARC Liaison Division.”
Oh.
One of them.
ARC—the Arcana Regulation Commission.
The ones who showed up when things got too old or too wild to fit inside the clean white boxes of modern magic.
Not just bureaucrats.
Containment officers. Theoretical archivists. Magical coroners with clearance to lock down anything that smelled like forbidden history.
If ARC was involved—
It meant something had gone wrong at a fundamental level.
“I’d like a moment. Regarding the binding event that took place.”
“You mean the blood pact.”
Kida stiffened. Only slightly.
“We’re calling it a binding event for now, until the magical classification is confirmed.”
“Right,” Chūya muttered.
“Because bleeding into each other’s hands like idiots doesn’t count unless it fits the filing cabinet.”
Kida didn’t take the bait.
Instead, he motioned down the hall.
Not a request. A directive.
And Chūya—exhausted, frayed, vibrating with unspent fear—followed.
“Let me be clear,” Kida said once the door shut.
“We’re not entirely sure what kind of bond you’ve created.”
Chūya didn’t respond.
He was watching the coffee cup between his hands.
Imagining how many curses he could string around it if pushed.
“There are signs of arcana in the resonance,” Kida continued.
“That’s... not standard magic.”
“You say that like it’s radioactive.”
“Because it might be.”
Arcana.
The old word.
The raw kind of power.
Not taught in schools. Not sanctioned by circles or written in polite textbooks.
Something deeper. Wilder.
Magic before magic was domesticated.
“Thread-binding was outlawed in most regions three centuries ago,” Kida went on.
“It used to be ritualistic. Dangerous. Sometimes fatal. And this—” he gestured vaguely at Chūya’s chest, like the bond could be pointed at “—shows alarming proximity to the ancient structure.”
“We didn’t plan it,” Chūya snapped.
Kida only frowned.
“Intent doesn’t change the consequences.”
Silence.
Then:
“We want you relocated. ARC-controlled housing. Supervised.”
“For how long?”
“Until one of you dies, or the bond stabilizes.”
That broke something.
Chūya closed his eyes.
Exhaled.
And saw red.
But not blood.
Not this time.
Flashback
A cold floor.
A cut.
Dazai’s hand over his.
Heat—too much heat.
And Chūya’s voice, trembling and confused:“What the fuck did you just do—”
Present
“Fine,” Chūya said.
“Temporary relocation. ARC supervision. I’ll sign whatever you want.”
Kida nodded.
“Just until he’s stable,” the doctor said.
And Chūya, without looking up, murmured it again—
to himself.
To the thing curled in his chest like a waiting answer.
“Just until he’s stable.”
(It was already too late.)
Chapter 7: This Skin Remembers
Summary:
Relocated under ARC surveillance, Chūya and Dazai begin to feel the bond bleeding deeper—syncing breath, pulse, and want in ways neither of them can ignore. When Chūya wakes in the middle of the night with unfamiliar emotions curling in his chest, he reaches for relief—but it’s Dazai’s voice that nearly sends the bond spiraling again. They say nothing about it come morning. But their bodies remember.
Chapter Text
It wasn’t a home.
It wasn’t supposed to be.
The ARC relocation apartment was a box—
white walls, filtered air, calibrated light temperature, and furniture that looked like it had never been touched by anything as human as a fight or a fuck.
There were no windows that opened.
Every room had runes stitched into the seams of the drywall.
Inscribed, not drawn—threaded like veins under skin.
Security by containment.
Comfort by clinical standards.
“Keys,” the handler said, passing two identical fobs into Chūya’s palm.
“Emergency triggers on both. If one of you destabilizes again—press the side.”
“Define destabilize.”
“Significant magical or emotional spike.”
“So… breathing?”
The man didn’t smile.
“You’ll be monitored for two weeks. Minimum.”
“Of course we will.”
Dazai didn’t say a word during the whole handoff.
He just leaned on the doorframe of the bedroom he’d already claimed, eyes distant, like his body hadn’t fully returned from the hospital.
Chūya didn’t blame him.
Even now, with a roof and four walls and no alarms screaming in his ears—
he still felt off.
Wrong, maybe.
Like his limbs weren’t syncing right with the rest of the world.
They didn’t speak when the ARC escort left.
Not when Chūya stepped into the bathroom and saw his own reflection flicker—just once—as if something beneath the glass twitched.
Not when he passed Dazai in the hallway, too close, too fast, and the bond dragged sharp and electric across his ribs like a knife's breath.
And definitely not when he opened the fridge and saw it already stocked.
Same brand of juice he liked. Same damn yogurt.
They were planning to keep them here for a while.
It was after midnight by the time he finally shut the door to his assigned bedroom and lay down.
He didn't sleep.
Not right away.
Because even now—especially now—he could feel it:
The heartbeat that wasn't his.
The breath that shifted when his chest rose.
The phantom tug of a hunger that hadn’t come from his own stomach.
The bond was syncing.
Slowly. Invasively. Without consent.
And Chūya had no idea what the hell to do about it.
He was dreaming of being underwater.
Not drowning.
Just... still.
Pressure wrapped around his ribs. Warm, but wrong.
Like someone else's breath kept expanding in his lungs.
When he woke, he realized—
it was.
The air was too warm for the room.
His skin too sensitive.
And there was a tight, sharp pulse behind his navel that didn’t belong.
Not entirely.
He sat up slow, palms on the blanket, exhaling through his teeth.
His own thoughts were his.
He knew that.
But his feelings?
There was a thread curled in his chest—thick, heavy, and full of something that wasn’t his pain but ached like it was.
Loneliness.
Want.
Shame.
And something low and molten at the edges, like a whisper pressed between hips.
He swallowed.
Shifted.
His cock was hard—of course it was.
He hadn’t touched himself since this all started.
Not really.
Not with intent. Not with need.
Not since the bond. Not since blood.
And now?
Now he felt watched by something inside himself.
Something that knew how he liked to be touched.
How he breathed when he was close.
“This isn’t yours,” he muttered to the dark.
To the bond. To the air. To the part of Dazai that seemed to live inside his veins now.
He slid his hand beneath the waistband of his sweats anyway.
Slow.
Barely moving at first.
Breath steady.
Trying to ignore the tightness in his throat and the way his chest stuttered not at friction but at memory.
Dazai’s voice in the hospital.
Dazai’s mouth. The echo of his name.
You softened your voice. You still knew me.
Chūya bit down hard on his own knuckle.
Fucked into his fist with slow, careful drags.
Chased it like he was trying not to feel good, just to feel real.
And then—
“...Chūya.”
A whisper from the other room.
Fragile. Throaty.
Asleep. But dreaming of him.
Chūya froze.
The bond jerked.
Like static rolled through his spine.
Like a sigh in the dark tried to bridge the space between them and latch onto his pulse.
His orgasm hit too fast—pulled from him like the bond took it.
Like it wanted to know what it felt like when he broke.
He curled forward after.
Shaking.
Hand still pressed to his stomach like he could hold everything inside.
Dazai didn’t speak in the morning.
Neither did Chūya.
But the silence between them hummed.
Like sweat. Like breath. Like memory.
Chapter 8: Things We Never Buried
Summary:
They’ve avoided the truth for days, but when the argument finally erupts, it hits too deep—too fast. Chūya screams at Dazai, and the bond reacts violently, driving Dazai to the floor bleeding. The fallout is physical, emotional, and magical—and when ARC arrives, it’s clear: this isn’t just unstable. It’s forbidden. Somewhere between anger and collapse, Chūya starts to realize the wild arcana between them doesn’t want distance. And it certainly doesn’t want lies.
Chapter Text
It started with a glass.
Chūya didn’t mean to slam it down.
But the sound cracked like a gunshot.
“You’re not even trying,” he said.
Dazai didn’t look up from the book in his lap.
“Trying what?”
“To act like you care.”
“I do care.”
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
That was the fucking problem.
Dazai had always been good at being cold. Aloof. Smooth like oil over fire.
But this?
This wasn’t disinterest.
It was evasion.
Every second since they’d arrived, he’d been dancing around Chūya like the bond wasn’t flaring under their skin like a second pulse.
“I’m so sick of pretending this is normal.”
“It’s not.”
Still calm.
Still distant.
“But we don’t know what’ll happen if we dig too deep.”
That did it.
The heat in Chūya’s chest snapped—painful, fast, reckless.
“You already fucking dug, didn’t you?! Years ago! Before we even knew what this was—”
Dazai’s head finally snapped up.
“Don’t.”
“No—fuck you. You did this. You wanted this. You were always looking for something that would bind me to you.”
“That’s not—”
“You think I didn’t know? You think I didn’t see the way you were hunting down books on threadbinding and soulbinding and whatever cursed shit you could find behind sealed doors?”
“Chūya—”
“You wanted a bond, didn’t you?”
“I wanted to understand why we couldn’t stay away from each other.”
The bond surged.
Hard.
Chūya felt it snap like a livewire, rage igniting in his ribs like a blade turned inward.
And then—
Dazai’s eyes widened.
A sound left his mouth—not a word, just a choke.
He staggered backward.
Blood spilled from his nose.
“Dazai—?!”
But it wasn’t just his nose.
His ears. His mouth.
Small trickles at first, then more. His body convulsed as if every nerve was misfiring.
And Chūya—Chūya felt it.
His knees hit the floor before he could stop himself, arms already wrapping around a collapsing weight.
His stomach turned like someone had punched him from the inside out.
His chest ached.
His vision blurred.
Their bond wasn’t syncing.
It was collapsing in on itself.
“What the hell—what the hell did you do?!”
Chūya’s voice cracked.
He held him tighter.
Blood smeared on his palm. On his shoulder. Dazai was shaking in his arms.
Not from pain.
From fear.
“You were looking into wild arcana,” Chūya whispered.
“Even back then. You never stopped, did you?”
Flashback - Eight years earlier
An old storeroom.
Chūya had followed him, quiet as a shadow.
He’d known Dazai was up to something.
He just didn’t expect books.
Real ones. Leatherbound. Arcane. Sealed with sigils no one should’ve been able to break.
And Dazai—
Kneeling on the floor like a man in prayer.
Tracing his fingers over diagrams of hearts linked by blood threads.
Breathless.
Eyes alight like he was falling in love with an idea.
“You’re gonna get killed messing with that shit,” Chūya had said.
Dazai didn’t flinch.
Didn’t even look surprised.
“Maybe,” he’d said.
“But I want to know what we are.”
Back to Present
“Because you never really left,” Dazai whispered now, barely audible through blood and exhaustion.
His fingers curled in Chūya’s shirt.
His breath hitched.
Chūya closed his eyes.
Held him tighter.
And for once—didn’t pull away.
Dazai passed out in his arms.
Not fully unconscious.
But drained—like the bond had leached every current from his body in retaliation for what he’d said.
Or for what Chūya had.
He didn’t let go.
Not even when Dazai’s weight sagged and blood stained his sleeves and the edges of his vision prickled with warning signs his own system was taking too much.
Their bodies were still tethered. Every pulse fed back.
He wanted to scream. Or break something. Or run. But he just held on.
Because if he let go now—Dazai might not wake up.
The knock on the door came exactly eight minutes later.
Sharp. Authoritative. Not a question—an announcement.
“Open the door.”
Chūya didn’t move.
Didn’t even answer.
The voice came again.
“This is Dr. Kida. ARC monitoring registered an emotional spike and partial magical collapse.”
Chūya finally shouted back.
“He’s bleeding. On the floor.”
A beat.
Then the mechanical click of override clearance being used, and the door opened.
Dr. Kida stepped inside, followed by a woman in a different uniform—ARC med-ops division, judging by the warded case in her hand.
She didn’t speak to Chūya.
Didn’t need to.
Her eyes locked on Dazai. And then on the blood soaking through both of them.
Kida crouched nearby, but not close enough to touch.
“You felt it, didn’t you?”
Chūya glared at him.
“I caused it.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Chūya didn’t answer.
Because he had felt it.
Like his own organs wanted to rebel. Like he’d screamed with magic instead of breath.
“This is what happens when arcana bonds aren’t stabilized,” Kida said softly.
“He’s not stabilized because of me.”
“He’s not stabilized because this bond shouldn’t exist.”
That made Chūya’s stomach twist.
“Then fix it.”
“We don’t know how.”
He looked up slowly. The fluorescent lighting washed the hollows of his face in stark color.
“Arcana was never meant to be mapped. You bound yourselves with wild magic, Nakahara. The kind that predates structure. That doesn’t obey.”
“So what, we’re just supposed to ride it out?”
“You’re supposed to stay alive. And maybe—if you’re smart—stop screaming at each other before it tears you both apart.”
The med-tech gently helped Chūya ease Dazai onto a padded gurney.
He didn’t want to let go.
But he did.
Because Dazai’s body had finally gone slack.
Breathing again.
Color returning—barely.
“We’ll monitor from the other room tonight,” Kida said. “Don’t go far. If the feedback loop sparks again—”
“I’ll feel it.”
Kida looked at him long.
Then gave a small, measured nod.
“Yes. You will.”
Chapter 9: Shared Breath
Summary:
It begins with panic. One can’t breathe. The other feels like he’s drowning. But when Dazai presses chest to back, syncing their breath, the bond finds its rhythm again. What follows isn’t planned—it isn’t even spoken. Skin meets skin, instinct takes over, and the bond devours everything. It’s not a confession. Not forgiveness. But it’s the only way they can hold each other without coming undone.
Chapter Text
At first, he thought it was just a dream.
Weight on his chest. Like memory. Like regret.
Breath caught in his throat, too thick to swallow.
Then—
his ribs refused to expand.
Dazai sat up with a gasp that didn’t reach his lungs.
The room spun. His hands trembled. Not from pain, not exactly.
From absence.
Or maybe something worse.
Something like—
Suffocation.
Only, the air wasn’t the problem.
The lack of something was.
He stumbled to his feet.
Tripped on the discarded clothes at the end of the bed.
His skin felt fever-hot, soaked through, and—
Fuck.
The bond was surging again.
Not like earlier—when Chūya had screamed at him and the arcana inside them both had retaliated.
This wasn’t rage.
This was hunger.
Desperate. Clawing. Empty.
And the terrifying part?
It wasn’t his.
He found Chūya curled on the couch.
Or rather—
folded.
Like his own ribs had imploded.
Face buried in the crook of his arm, breath coming shallow, like each one cost something.
“Chūya.”
No answer.
“Chūya—wake up.”
Still nothing.
Dazai dropped to his knees in front of him.
Tried to touch his shoulder—and snatched his hand back.
The bond flared like a live wire under Chūya’s skin.
Dangerously raw.
That was when he realized—
Chūya couldn’t breathe because Dazai had stopped feeling.
Their magic was tangled. Starved. One was slipping, the other drowning.
And the only way to fix it—
was together.
He climbed onto the couch. No hesitation. No plan.
Just instinct.
Laid behind him.
Curved his chest into Chūya’s back.
Pressed a hand flat over his sternum—felt the jagged rhythm, the fight for air—and matched it.
Inhale. Hold.
Exhale. Slow.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Their bond thrummed between them like a living, pulsing thing.
And then, slowly—Chūya's body responded.
Not all at once.
But with a stutter of breath.
A catch in the throat.
A quiet, unspoken answer.
They stayed like that for minutes or hours. Dazai didn’t know.
Didn’t care.
At some point, his forehead pressed to Chūya’s nape.
Their hands met beneath the fabric of Chūya’s shirt. Tangled in cotton. And sweat. And memory.
And the magic—the arcana—that had never wanted them apart.
He knew he was awake because it hurt.
Not like pain. Not exactly.
More like pressure. Everywhere.
Like his skin wasn’t his.
Like his lungs were full of water.
Like something ancient had curled between his ribs and said: Now.
There was heat behind him.
Too close.
Too familiar.
A hand on his chest.
A palm at his stomach.
Breath at the back of his neck.
Dazai.
He should’ve pushed him off.
Should’ve said no or not like this or don’t.
But the bond didn’t care.
And neither did the ache in his spine, or the tension coiled behind his teeth, or the way his hips shifted—slow, uncertain—backward into that heat.
He felt Dazai shudder.
Just once.
A full-body answer.
The hand on his chest slid lower.
Not rushed. Not greedy.
Almost careful—except the bond didn’t let it stay careful for long.
Because as soon as Chūya let his legs fall open just slightly—
Dazai exhaled.
Ragged.
Like he was trying to memorize the moment before he ruined it.
There were no kisses.
No words.
Just the slow push of his shirt riding up.
The sound of breathing that wasn’t steady anymore.
And then—
skin.
Chūya rolled, half-blind, his fist curling in Dazai’s collar.
They ended up pressed chest to chest on the cramped couch. Legs tangled. Hands searching.
Everything felt sharp.
Too raw.
Too close.
But when Dazai’s thigh slipped between his, and Chūya ground down with a stuttering gasp, the bond surged so hard it felt like an electric current behind his eyes.
Their clothes peeled away in pieces.
Not graceful. Not clean.
Not coordinated.
But it didn’t matter.
The second Dazai pressed in—just the blunt heat of him nudging at Chūya’s entrance, no preparation, no request—the bond burned white-hot.
And then it—
swallowed them whole.
Chūya clung to him.
Back arching. Teeth gritted.
It hurt, at first.
But it had to.
Because the bond didn’t ask. It took.
Demanded space.
Carved it out of skin and breath and rhythm.
And Dazai—
Dazai gave it.
Every inch.
Every shudder.
Every part of himself he’d once tried to bury.
Chūya’s arms locked around his neck.
Dazai buried his face in Chūya’s shoulder.
And they moved—
slowly
blindly
deeper
tighter
Until the line between breath and pain and heat blurred.
Until Chūya couldn’t tell where he ended and Dazai began.
Until the bond stopped aching—and started singing.
He didn’t pull out.
Didn’t even try.
The thought didn’t register—because nothing felt separate anymore. Not their bodies. Not their magic. Not their breath.
Chūya was still wrapped around him.
Thighs trembling.
Mouth against his collarbone.
One hand fisted in his hair like if he let go, he’d be dragged under again.
Dazai breathed.
Slow. Careful.
Chūya matched it.
Not by choice. Not consciously.
But because the bond was still syncing them.
Still feeding off what had just happened.
Still humming—like it was satisfied.
They hadn’t kissed.
Not once.
And they still hadn’t spoken.
But neither let go.
Dazai shifted slightly, just enough to ease the strain in his back.
Chūya flinched.
Only a little.
Just a ripple of aftershock—like his body hadn’t caught up with what they'd done.
Or what it meant.
What does it mean?
Dazai didn’t ask.
Because he didn’t have the answer.
Because it wasn’t just sex—not with the bond between them crackling like a live wire, still half-awake.
But it wasn’t a confession either.
It was something else.
Need.
Proximity.
Survival.
Maybe more.
Chūya’s fingers curled against his spine.
Still no words.
But his body was heavy and willing in his arms.
Breathing even.
Like—for the first time since all this began—he could finally sleep.
Dazai closed his eyes.
Didn’t let go.
Didn’t dare.
Because if he did, he wasn’t sure what the bond would do.
And because—
he didn’t want to.
Chapter 10: Echoes
Summary:
Morning brings no clarity—only noise. The bond has shifted: no longer wild, but constant. Intimate. Inescapable. A single word in Dazai’s voice short-circuits Chūya’s control, and the tether reacts like it’s always belonged. Clothes feel suffocating. Words fall short. And Chūya, despite everything, no longer pushes it away. Not because he forgives. But because something in him already knows—this was never going to let him go.
Notes:
Thank y'all for the feedback so far! It's deeply appreciated 🖤
I wanted to write a soulmate/red string of fate AU for a looong time, but not showing it like it's all perfect and nice, but with a "darker" twist to it.
I really enjoy writing it, so I'm glad readers enjoy it too.
Chapter Text
He woke up with too many hands on him.
Except—
there were none.
Just the sheets.
Just the heat of a body beside his.
Just the ghost of something inside him still.
And still—
he couldn’t breathe.
The bond was loud in the silence.
Not like last night. Not like the panic.
This was something else.
An echo.
Of everything they’d done. Of everything they hadn’t said.
Of every tiny place they’d touched—now pulsing, raw, alive.
Chūya shifted under the covers and hissed through his teeth.
His skin felt like it was shrinking.
Clothes were too much.
Words would be worse.
He couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t name it.
Because naming it might mean it mattered.
Dazai stirred behind him.
Didn’t touch him.
Didn’t move closer.
Didn’t say a word.
And that almost made it worse.
Because now—
now Chūya had to feel everything else instead.
The craving wasn’t physical.
Not entirely.
It was anchored somewhere deeper. In his gut. In his sternum. In the space behind his heart where he used to store silence.
Touch.
He needed it.
He didn’t want to need it.
But he did.
The bond buzzed under his skin like a second nervous system.
Like it was waiting.
For Dazai’s voice.
For another breath.
For something shared.
And when it didn’t get it—
it ached.
He rolled away from the warmth and sat up.
Sweat-damp shirt. Too tight.
Neckline choking.
He yanked it off in one motion and threw it across the room.
His heartbeat didn’t slow.
“Chūya.”
His name dropped into the silence like a match to oil.
Low. Controlled.
A little too careful.
A little too much command tucked into it.
The bond reacted instantly.
His spine snapped straight.
His jaw clenched.
His thighs pressed together—shame blooming before he even understood why.
What the fuck.
It wasn’t just his name.
It was the way he said it.
Low. Measured. Anchored in something that went deeper than sound—something that gripped the bond like a leash and tugged.
And Dazai—
Dazai didn’t even look like he meant to do it.
But his eyes flicked up when Chūya flinched.
They met.
And something in Dazai’s expression shifted—
Subtle. Cold. Curious.
Like he’d just found a string tied to Chūya’s spine and was wondering what might happen if he pulled.
“Chūya,” he said again—
softer, lower, sharper.
And this time, followed it with:
“Stay.”
Chūya's breath hitched.
His body froze.
And the bond—
the bond lit up.
Like it loved being told what to do.
Like it had always been waiting for someone to use that tone.
He stood so fast he nearly tripped over the edge of the bed.
“Don’t—”
His voice cracked. “Don’t say that again.”
It wasn’t a request.
And it wasn’t enough.
Because the echo of it lingered, twisting in his gut, coiling somewhere dark and dangerously warm.
Dazai blinked, then sat up—finally. One hand braced behind him, bare chest rising with a slow breath.
And he had the audacity to look amused.
“Was just a word.”
“Don’t.”
Chūya's throat felt raw. “You don’t get to test me like that.”
The silence that followed was thin, electric, taut as a wire.
But the bond… the bond had already memorized the sound of it.
And Chūya could feel it now—carving it into him.
Not just a reaction.
Not just a trigger.
A tether.
One Dazai hadn’t even meant to pull.
Or maybe—
maybe he had.
He didn’t eat.
Didn’t shower.
Didn’t even put a new shirt on.
Every time he tried to cover his skin, it felt like static—like the bond was still thrumming beneath the surface, too loud to ignore.
And Dazai?
Dazai didn’t say another word.
Not after that.
Not after the command settled into the air like a hot breath against glass.
Chūya paced the main room three times before sitting on the edge of the coffee table, head in his hands, trying to get the bond to shut up.
It didn’t.
Not entirely.
Not anymore.
It wasn’t like before.
Not like those first hours where the bond roared and rattled when he got too far, too cold, too angry.
Now it was quieter.
Tighter.
Less feral—but more possessive.
A current, not a surge.
A tether instead of a noose.
And somehow… that made it worse.
Because it meant permanence.
Because it wasn’t fighting him anymore.
Because it had already decided.
He rubbed his temples, jaw tight.
He didn’t feel like himself.
Or maybe he did—and that was the problem.
Because the self that sat here now—
shirtless, shaking, waiting for something he refused to name—
wasn’t the version of him that left Dazai seven years ago.
The bond pulsed again.
Subtle.
Like a hand on his shoulder.
Like breath on his neck.
Like Dazai, without Dazai.
And it calmed him.
Just a little.
Just enough to make him hate it more.
“You’re not resisting anymore.”
The voice came from the hallway.
Quiet. Knowing. Not even smug this time.
Dazai leaned against the doorframe like he hadn’t just upended everything last night. Or this morning. Or every day since Chūya stepped back into his life.
Chūya didn’t look up.
Didn’t move.
Just exhaled. Slow. Measured.
The bond matched it.
“No,” he muttered. “I’m not.”
And maybe that was the worst part of all.
Chapter 11: Feed The Thread
Summary:
Dazai opens a book he was warned never to touch—and finds what he feared most: the bond is a soulbind, one rooted in arcana older than any modern spell. Separation will kill them. Severing it may break them apart from the inside out. As symptoms worsen, Chūya starts sleeping beside him, wordlessly drawn closer by instinct. But when a nightmare seizes Chūya mid-sleep, it’s the bond that reacts first—and Dazai who has to hold them both together before it tears something loose.
Chapter Text
He wasn’t supposed to touch it.
Even before the bond, even before ARC, even before the pact that changed everything—he’d been warned:
“This one’s not stable,”
“You’re not cleared,”
“We only keep it for study—not for practice.”
They had locked it away in the Restricted Arcana Wing under three wards and a blood seal.
He broke two by accident.
The third, on purpose.
It had no title.
Just leather so old it cracked when his fingers passed over it. Smelled like dust and storm-wind. Like something that shouldn’t be awake anymore.
Inside:
-
Untranslated glyphs, but his mind itched when he looked at them
-
Diagrams of two figures bound at the heart, bleeding into each other
-
A sketch of a thread—thin, silver, frayed
He didn’t mean to open it tonight.
But the bond hadn’t settled since the voice-bound reaction incident that morning.
Chūya had gone quiet again.
And Dazai had felt it: the tension beneath his skin, the way their pulses didn’t align like before, the strange echo in his own chest every time Chūya turned away.
He needed answers.
Page 47:
A soulbind formed without full consent or understanding may devour its bearers instead of anchoring them.
Page 50:
Shared sensation often precedes shared instinct.
Shared instinct can distort identity.
When separation becomes impossible…
The script warped there. Smudged. Like something had burned through the page.
Dazai flipped further.
Not out of curiosity.
Out of need.
The bond was stronger now. Too strong. The moment he looked away, it flared—tugging him back.
Page 71:
Should one bearer perish, the other will experience sympathetic collapse.
Page 72:
Attempts to sever a soulbind may result in cognitive fragmentation, fatal backlash, or memory bleed.
He swallowed hard.
He hadn’t told Chūya any of this.
Hadn’t even tried.
Because some part of him—deep, low, ancient—already knew.
This wasn’t just blood.
This wasn’t just magic.
This wasn’t just them.
This was arcana.
And arcana, by nature, consumes.
He couldn’t sleep.
Hadn’t slept in two nights.
Not really.
The bed was too cold.
His chest too loud.
The bond—too fucking close to cracking open.
He didn’t knock.
Didn’t need to.
The door to Dazai’s room was already half open—like the bond had known he’d come.
“I’m not here to talk,” Chūya muttered, standing in the threshold. “I just—”
He cut himself off. “I can’t do this in separate rooms anymore.”
Dazai didn’t smirk.
Didn’t tease.
Just lifted the corner of the blanket. Quiet.
Wordless.
Like he’d been waiting.
Chūya stepped in.
The bond settled.
Not entirely.
But enough.
They didn’t touch.
Didn’t speak.
Just lay back to back, breathing in silence.
And yet—
somewhere between dusk and dawn, their pulses synced.
Not perfectly. But closer.
Their breath patterns fell in line. The tension at the base of Chūya’s spine slowly unwound.
And when Dazai shifted in his sleep—
for the first time in days—
it didn’t pull at the tether.
It wove into it.
It started with a flicker.
Barely anything—just a breath caught too short, a twitch in the hand between them, a sharp intake of air through clenched teeth.
Dazai almost didn’t notice.
Almost.
Then the bond screamed.
Not loud—not literal.
But raw.
Sharp.
A spike of pain straight through his sternum.
Chūya.
His body convulsed under the sheets—legs tangled, chest arching off the mattress, a strangled sound tearing from his throat like he was drowning again.
Dazai reacted on instinct.
He rolled over, grabbed Chūya’s wrist—too tight, maybe—and pressed in, close, close, chest to back, arm across his ribs like a cage.
“Breathe.”
The bond surged.
“Chūya. Breathe.”
It obeyed.
Chūya’s lungs snapped open with a gasp—violent, loud, panicked.
“You’re safe,” Dazai whispered against the curve of his shoulder.
“It’s me. You’re safe.”
He didn’t even realize he was rocking them gently until the mattress creaked beneath the motion.
Chūya didn’t speak.
Didn’t open his eyes.
But his fist curled in Dazai’s shirt.
And he didn’t let go.
Dazai could feel it now, clearer than ever:
the tether wasn’t just stabilizing.
It was entwining.
Thread by thread.
Pulse by pulse.
Memory by memory.
He held him tighter.
And this time, when the bond finally settled—
it did so inside his bones.
Chapter 12: Until It Devours Me
Summary:
The bond grows quieter—but no less suffocating. Chūya begins to question whether what he feels is even his own, or just a side effect of ancient arcana forcing them closer. When he finally confronts Dazai, the answer he gets is not the one he wants—and walking away proves to be more dangerous than either of them anticipated. The thread doesn’t just bind. It devours.
Chapter Text
He woke up in Dazai’s bed again.
Didn’t remember climbing into it.
Didn’t remember wanting to.
But the bond had tugged like a leash around his ribs—and he hadn’t fought it.
Now he lay there, fully awake, with Dazai’s breath warm against the nape of his neck.
Their legs tangled.
Their pulse identical.
And Chūya felt sick with how natural it all felt.
It wasn't supposed to.
Not like this.
Not when he couldn't tell where his instincts ended and the bond’s hunger began.
“You’re not resisting anymore.”
Dazai had said it days ago. Soft. Without malice.
And Chūya hadn’t answered.
Because the truth was—
he couldn’t tell if the bond was easing…
or if he was just giving up.
He tried to eat.
Didn’t get far.
His fork trembled halfway to his mouth, and his appetite dropped somewhere between the tremor in his wrist and the pulse beating behind his teeth.
Not his pulse.
Theirs.
The bond was too quiet today.
Not gone.
Not dulled.
Just quiet in a way that made him itch beneath his skin, like something was coiled and waiting. Like it wanted him to lean into it—to close the distance again.
“It’s not love,” he muttered to the empty room. “It’s chemistry. Arcana. Whatever the fuck this thing is.”
“It’s not you. It’s not me.”
And yet—
his hands still remembered the shape of Dazai’s back.
His chest still calmed when he heard his voice.
And his body still felt colder when they were apart.
Was it always like this?
Had he always felt like this? Or did the blood just make it easier to pretend?
He didn’t know anymore.
And that terrified him more than the bond ever had.
“You ever think,” Chūya said suddenly, “that maybe none of this is real?”
Dazai blinked once. Then again.
Didn’t answer.
“I mean it,” Chūya said, stepping closer. “All of this—”
He gestured between them.
The space. The silence. The thread.
“This thing between us—how do we know it’s not just the bond doing all the talking?”
Dazai tilted his head. Voice soft.
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it fucking matters,” Chūya snapped. “If I reach for you because the bond tells me to, not because I want to—what does that make it, huh?”
“Instinct.”
“Manipulation.”
Dazai’s expression shifted. Not anger. Not confusion.
Something older.
Something like hurt.
“You think I don’t ask myself the same thing?”
“You don’t act like it.”
“Because I’ve wanted you since long before this fucking bond ever woke up.”
Silence.
Too loud.
The rain hit the glass in soft staccato. Chūya’s breath dragged too deep. And that thread—the one he’d tried so hard not to feel—pulled tight like a garrote around his ribs.
“Then tell me,” he said finally, quieter now. “How do I know it’s not the bond making you say that?”
“You don’t.”
“Exactly.”
Dazai stood slowly.
“But I do.”
Dazai didn’t follow.
Didn’t plead.
Didn’t explain himself any further.
Just stood there—too calm. Too composed. Too quiet.
So Chūya turned.
“I need air.”
And walked out.
The bond snapped tight the moment the door shut behind him.
Not tugged. Not tugged like it had before.
Snapped.
Like a nerve pulled wrong.
Like a blood vessel bursting.
His knees buckled two steps down the hall.
His pulse stuttered, then roared.
His vision tunneled so fast he had to throw out a hand to the wall just to stay upright.
And deep in his chest—
pain. Not his. Not entirely.
Sharp. Rhythmic. Too familiar.
“Dazai,” he choked, already turning back.
By the time he pushed the door open again, the bastard was slumped to his knees, breathing shallow, clutching the front of his shirt like the air had been ripped from him mid-breath.
“You think it’s fake?” Dazai gasped, not looking up. “Then why does it feel like dying when you leave?”
Chapter 13: The Thread That Binds
Summary:
The bond breaks again. Or maybe it’s just them. When Chūya tries to take a breath alone, Dazai crashes—leaving them both exposed to the reality of what they’ve done. Dr. Kida returns with answers Chūya never wanted to hear. But the worst part isn’t that Dazai knew all along. It’s that he never told him. And now, the blood has begun to choose.
Chapter Text
“Dazai—”
His own name in Chūya’s voice was what grounded him. Or tried to.
But Dazai didn’t lift his head.
Didn’t respond.
His fingers were curled so tightly into the fabric of his shirt that his knuckles had gone white, jaw locked in a silent grimace.
The bond—
gods, the bond.
It was seething.
Not just pain now. Something worse. Something alive. It snapped and surged beneath Chūya’s skin like a thousand wrong memories trying to bleed into him all at once.
He dropped to his knees beside him.
“Oi. Look at me.”
“Look at me, Dazai.”
Still nothing.
So Chūya grabbed him. Both hands—fists in his shirt, pulling him forward, slamming his forehead against Dazai’s.
“You don’t get to pass out on me now. You hear me?”
The bond lashed through him so hard it almost knocked him over.
Dazai’s pain. Dazai’s panic. His lungs not working right. His chest caving under invisible weight.
“Shit—”
Chūya pressed harder, forcing their bodies flush, matching their breathing.
One inhale.
One exhale.
Forced sync.
The tether began to calm.
Not settle.
Just calm.
Dazai coughed once—then gasped in a ragged breath and finally blinked.
Chūya didn’t wait.
“You idiot,” he hissed, voice cracking. “I leave for ten fucking seconds and you crash? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Not me,” Dazai rasped, voice barely there.
“The thread…”
“Then control it.”
“Can’t. Not if you keep leaving.”
That did it.
Chūya flinched—visibly.
Because it felt like a threat.
But it wasn’t.
It was just the truth.
And that scared him worse.
“I wasn’t leaving you.”
His voice came out softer than intended. Like the truth didn’t know how to raise its voice.
“I just… I needed air. Space. To think.”
Dazai didn’t answer. Still dazed. Still clinging to consciousness, to oxygen, to him.
“You don’t get to collapse just because I walk away for a goddamn minute,” Chūya muttered, though it lacked bite.
“That’s not romantic. It’s—terrifying.”
He swallowed.
And for once, Dazai waited. Silent.
“I don’t think you’re lying,” Chūya said finally.
“About… how long you’ve felt what you feel. I believe you.”
“But?”
“But that doesn’t make this easier.”
“This,” he said, pressing a fist to his chest, “feels like I’m drowning half the time. Like the bond is breathing for me. Like I’m not allowed to feel anything unless you feel it first.”
His hand curled.
“So I needed air. To figure out what’s mine and what’s just—arcana.”
“I’m not blaming you,” he added, quickly, before Dazai could retreat behind that quiet guilt.
“I know this isn’t something you did. But you can’t just keep saying it’s real when you’re the one who can’t breathe when I take two steps away. Maybe it is real. Maybe it’s been real since we were kids. I don’t know. But the bond doesn’t care about any of that.”
Dazai finally looked up. Eyes glassy. Not with tears—he never made it easy like that—but with restraint.
And this time, he didn’t deflect.
Didn’t flirt.
Didn’t dodge.
“I know,” he whispered. “And I hate it, too.”
Chūya had barely gotten Dazai off the floor when the knock came.
Not urgent.
Not impatient.
But deliberate.
He tensed instantly—barefoot, still flushed from the bond’s backlash, one hand braced on Dazai’s spine.
“That’ll be Kida,” Dazai mumbled, face buried in the crook of his arm.
“Guess the ARC monitors lit up again.”
Chūya opened the door without a word.
Dr. Kida stepped inside like he didn’t need an invitation.
Coat still half-buttoned, hair damp from the rain. One glance at the bond-signature reader in his hand, and he clicked his tongue.
“You didn’t just ping,” he muttered. “You screamed. Both of you.”
“He collapsed,” Chūya offered flatly.
“Because you left?”
Chūya’s jaw tightened.
Dazai didn’t speak.
Kida’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the room—the displaced chair, the open balcony door, the tension still thick enough to touch.
Then, without looking up:
“Tell me again about this pact you made.”
Chūya blinked. “We already—”
“Tell me. Again.”
“I don’t know how to explain it.”
Chūya didn’t mean to sound defensive.
But the words came out hard-edged anyway.
“He asked, and I—”
He faltered.
Kida stared him down.
“You what?”
“I said yes.”
“Without knowing what kind of arcana you were invoking?”
“Without thinking it would even work,” Chūya snapped.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Not from the bond.
Not from Dazai.
But from the look Kida gave him.
Not anger.
Not disappointment.
Worse.
“You didn’t even ask why.”
“Because he’s Dazai,” Chūya bit out. “Because back then, when he said something mattered, I—”
His voice cracked.
He looked away.
“I just did it.”
“And did he explain what it was?”
“No.”
“But he knew.”
That landed like a blow to the chest.
Because of course he did. Of course he fucking knew.
“You created a tether using old arcana, Mr. Nakahara,” Kida said at last, tone lowering.
“Not just magic. Not a contract. Not a charm.”
“You bled into each other. You invoked it willingly. And you didn’t even ask what it would cost.”
Behind them, Dazai shifted.
And didn’t deny a word of it.
He hadn’t meant for Chūya to find out this way.
Not slammed between guilt and arcana, under a stranger’s microscope.
Not like this.
But maybe it was always going to unravel eventually.
Kida left with a clipped warning.
“If you don’t start stabilizing that bond deliberately, the tether will make the choice for you.
And it won’t be gentle.”
The door shut.
Silence. Then—
“You knew.”
Dazai didn’t look up.
“You knew,” Chūya repeated, lower. “Even back then. When we were kids.”
“I didn’t know it would work,” Dazai said quietly. “Not for sure. Not until it did.”
“But you thought it might.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“Because you would’ve said no.”
That cut deeper than anything Kida had said.
Chūya was breathing hard again—but not from anger. From something darker. Something that made Dazai finally lift his head.
“The kind of tether we made,” he said slowly, “was used centuries ago for things no one wanted to survive.”
“Starving bloodlines. Exiled magicians. People who needed to keep each other alive. Or suffer.”
He exhaled.
“It doesn’t stop when we sleep. It doesn’t stop when we run.”
“And you still did it?”
“Because I wanted you to live.”
A pause.
Then, softer:
“Because I couldn’t live without you.”
He didn’t leave.
Didn’t say another word.
Didn’t demand an apology or ask for more explanations.
Chūya just sat down at the foot of the bed—like gravity had finally caught up to him—and rested his forearms on his knees.
He didn’t face Dazai.
Didn’t reach for him.
But didn’t move away either.
Time passed. The light shifted. Somewhere, rain started again.
The bond stirred—soft now, no longer screaming.
It pulsed between them like a second heartbeat.
I’m still here, it seemed to say.
Not fixed.
Not safe.
But there.
And—for now—so was he.
Chapter 14: The Distance Between Need and Want
Summary:
The bond craves closeness, whether they want it or not. But what begins as quiet longing turns dangerous when a new ARC agent arrives—bringing not reassurance, but warning. A test is forced. And the result is clear: what binds them is no longer just a thread. It's a fuse.
Chapter Text
Chūya woke up craving touch.
Not sex. Not heat. Not even comfort, exactly.
Just contact.
Something warm and solid. A shoulder brushing his. A thigh beneath his hand. Skin. Spine. Breath.
Anything to remind him he had a body separate from the one curled beside him.
But he didn’t reach for it.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t even breathe too deeply, because the bond always noticed. It always stirred like a sleeping animal, scenting the shift in air between them.
He hated this.
Not because it hurt.
Not even because it felt good.
But because he couldn’t tell if the wanting was his.
Last night, he’d curled up near the bed and slept light. Not close. Not touching. Just… proximate.
Close enough to keep Dazai breathing.
Close enough that he didn’t wake up choking on nothing.
Close enough that the bond didn’t punish them.
But now—
Now it felt like being starved on purpose.
Like his own body was trying to betray him with the things it missed.
I don’t want this, Chūya told himself.
I just need it.
He couldn’t tell which was worse.
He stood beside the bed for too long.
Still dressed from the night before. Hair a mess. Mouth dry. Pulse ticking beneath his skin like a timer counting down.
Dazai was asleep. Or pretending to be. Curled on his side, fingers curled loosely at the hem of the blanket, spine arched like a question mark.
He looked… human.
Not haunted. Not cruel. Not someone who’d built a bond with blood and never warned him.
Just—
Just tired.
Chūya reached forward before he could stop himself.
Just his fingertips, hovering near the edge of Dazai’s wrist. Close enough to feel the heat.
And then—lightly, softly—he touched him.
The bond surged immediately.
A hum low in his gut. A flutter against his ribs.
Like breathing had just become easier. Like the space between them no longer mattered.
And then, just as quickly—he pulled back.
Ashamed.
Not real.
Not safe.
Don’t be stupid.
He kept his eyes shut the whole time.
He felt everything. Every hesitation. Every brush of warmth and guilt and retreat.
And he didn’t move.
Not because he didn’t want to. But because if he reached back, he wasn’t sure he’d stop.
The bond was hungry.
Not angry. Not violent. Just… longing.
It begged for proximity like it was built from it. Like it was born to devour the space between two people until it disappeared entirely.
And he wanted it to.
Not because it was good. Not because it was healthy.
But because he missed it. Missed Chūya.
And if this was all he had, he’d take it.
Even if it wasn’t real.
The knock came late.
Sharp. Impatient.
A different rhythm from Kida’s — this one held weight. Expectation. Power.
Chūya’s head snapped toward the door.
“I didn’t think we were due for another check-in.”
“We’re not,” Dazai said quietly. “Which means it’s someone higher.”
He was right.
The agent who entered wore no name badge. No visible rank.
Only a dark ARC coat and a pin shaped like a broken circle — ancient arcana sigil. Prohibition tier.
Their eyes swept the room like a blade.
“Which of you initiated the binding?” they asked flatly.
No greeting. No introduction.
“Because the kind of arcana used here was buried for a reason.”
“Which of you initiated the binding?”
The question hung in the air like a curse.
Chūya didn’t answer.
Neither did Dazai.
The agent didn’t seem surprised.
They stepped further into the room, gaze sweeping across the space—pausing, notably, on the subtle crack in the plaster wall near the headboard. The one that hadn’t been there the night before.
The agent spoke again.
“You may think ARC is just monitoring for stability. But let me be very clear: the nature of the bond you’ve formed is not protected. It is not sanctioned. And it is not without consequence.”
Dazai’s voice was low.
“We’re aware.”
The agent’s lips barely curved. It wasn’t a smile.
“You’re aware of the symptoms. Not the design.”
They turned toward Chūya now.
“You’re the one whose blood changed first.”
Not a question. A statement.
Chūya’s jaw twitched.
“And?”
“That makes you the anchor. You’ll feel the collapse first, too.”
That hit harder than it should have.
Anchor.
It made him sound like ballast. Like the weight keeping Dazai afloat. Or maybe the thing dragging them both under.
The agent continued, tone detached:
“Arcana predates modern magic by centuries. It wasn’t refined. It wasn’t filtered through consent circles or casting regulation. It was raw. Instinctual. Bound by blood, bone, and consequence.”
“What you’ve created is closer to a soul-forge than a bond.”
“And soul-forges are—”
“Forbidden,” Dazai interrupted.
The agent turned their gaze on him now.
“Forgotten, actually. Until you two made one wake up.”
Silence.
“Why are you here?” Chūya asked.
“To assess whether what’s forming between you is still salvageable.”
“You mean containable.”
“I mean preventable.”
A pause.
Then the agent spoke more softly:
“You may not realize this yet—but if the bond finalizes without regulation, it will no longer be a matter of choice. You will wake with each other’s thoughts. Each other’s memories. Each other’s pain.”
“And if one of you dies, the other won’t survive long enough to grieve.”
“Then what the fuck are we supposed to do?” Chūya snapped.
“Stay close,” the agent said. “Or sever it before it solidifies.”
But they both knew it was too late for that.
“We’ll run a containment check.”
The agent didn’t ask.
They turned slightly, retrieving a flat, hexagonal disc from a pouch beneath their coat. It shimmered when it caught the light—etched with curved runes and fractured lines, like something made from burned glass and ash.
Dazai shifted where he sat on the edge of the bed.
“That’s a diagnostic seal,” he said flatly. “You’re not just monitoring the bond. You’re going to provoke it.”
“Standard protocol,” the agent replied. “Especially with soul-ties. We need to verify whether either of you is susceptible to destabilization… or domination.”
“We didn’t agree to this,” Chūya muttered, low and sharp.
“You agreed to be monitored,” the agent countered. “This is part of that. If you’d prefer to be relocated to containment—”
“Just do it,” Dazai interrupted, eyes narrowed. “Let’s get it over with.”
The disc was activated with a single drop of blood.
Not from them—from the agent. That was the trigger.
It pulsed with pale blue light, the sigils crawling slowly across its surface like roots beneath skin.
At first, it was silent.
And then—
Chūya gasped.
The bond snapped tight in his chest, like a wire pulled taut.
Heat burst in his spine.
A flare of disorientation.
And a pulse—not from his own body, but from Dazai’s.
Fear.
Shame.
A flicker of I don’t want you to see this.
“Shit—” Chūya’s knees hit the floor.
His hand caught the edge of the nightstand to stop from falling completely.
“Stop it,” he hissed.
“Not yet,” the agent said.
Dazai doubled over seconds later.
Not from the same point of pain, but from the feedback.
The bond wasn’t just reacting—it was feeding. Looping.
One emotion sparking another.
One surge multiplying until it became something else.
Want. Need. Ache.
Chūya’s fingers twitched.
He felt Dazai’s arousal under his skin like a memory.
Felt the shame curl up in his throat.
And in return—
Dazai felt Chūya’s restraint snap.
“Enough!” Dazai snarled, snapping his hand out toward the seal.
The agent lifted it, almost lazily.
The light faded.
But the damage didn’t.
They were both panting.
Both trembling.
Still on their knees. Still not looking at each other.
But the bond?
The bond was singing.
High and fine and hungry.
The agent finally broke the silence.
“You’re not just tethered,” they said. “You’re threaded.”
“This isn’t a soulbond anymore. It’s a fusion point.”
“Do you understand what that means?”
Neither of them responded.
They understood.
Just not out loud.
The agent nodded once—more to themselves than to them—and stepped back toward the door.
“ARC will continue to monitor your vitals and proximity,” they said. “Further instability will trigger forced intervention.”
“If the bond reaches permanent synchronization, you will no longer be treated as individuals under regulation.”
Their eyes lingered on Chūya for a beat longer than necessary.
“I hope you’ve considered what that will mean—for your autonomy. For your identity. For your freedom.”
Then they left.
Silence returned like an avalanche.
But it didn’t feel empty.
It felt… bound.
Chapter 15: How Far Is Too Close
Summary:
Craving drowns clarity when Chūya finally gives in—not out of want, but out of need. The bond demands closeness, even when the heart isn't ready, and Dazai follows his lead without question. In the quiet that follows, neither of them is sure what they’ve just shared… or who it belongs to.
Notes:
Thank y'all so much for the support so far 🥹 I appreciate it so much and it means a lot, even though it also increases the pressure of not wanting to disappoint my lovely readers. I will keep doing my best and hope that you will enjoy where I take this story 🖤
I also updated the tags! Please be aware that there might be some dub-con... Like, it's not entirely certain Chūya really wants to sleep with Dazai or if it's solely the bond making him do it.
Chapter Text
The door clicked shut.
But the silence that followed wasn’t silence at all.
It was breathing.
Heartbeats.
The ragged sound of Dazai’s exhale.
The way Chūya’s own body ached just to hear it.
The bond hadn’t calmed.
It had coiled tighter.
Not flaring anymore—but burning low, like embers in his throat.
He couldn’t think straight.
Or rather—he could. But every thought got pushed sideways by sensation.
Across the room, Dazai was still on the floor, his shoulders slumped forward, hands braced on his knees like the agent had knocked the wind out of him.
Chūya could feel it.
That grief. That restraint. That thin edge of guilt.
You’re not just tethered. You’re threaded.
The agent’s words echoed behind his eyes.
Chūya wanted to pace.
Wanted to punch something.
Wanted to slam the windows open and breathe.
Instead—
He spoke.
“You knew.”
Dazai didn’t move. Didn’t look up.
But the bond rippled—guilt-stung, sharp-edged—and Chūya felt it.
Low in his chest. Behind his ribs.
“You knew exactly what we were doing that night. You knew what it could mean.”
Still no answer.
So Chūya pressed forward.
“I didn’t even believe it would work. I thought it was just one last stupid way to say goodbye—something reckless to feel like we weren’t completely broken.”
“But you—”
“You knew.”
Dazai finally looked up.
And the moment his eyes met Chūya’s—
The bond surged.
Not violently. Not like before.
But deep.
Unrelenting.
Like a low tide rising behind his knees, too slow to escape but too fast to ignore.
It crawled across his skin.
Creeped under his nails.
Coiled in his lungs like smoke.
He felt it again:
Want. Ache.
Not desire like before—not just lust.
But proximity. Closeness. Gravity.
“Say something,” Chūya snapped, too quiet.
Dazai blinked once. Then, softly:
“You’re right.”
Chūya hated how much relief bloomed behind his ribs.
“Then why didn’t you stop me?”
“Because I couldn’t,” Dazai said. “Because you were already walking away. And I would’ve done anything to keep you close.”
“Even this?”
“Especially this.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty.
It was crowded.
With breath, heat, fear.
And the desperate hum of something neither of them wanted to name.
Chūya folded his arms across his chest.
His voice was quieter now. But not gentler.
“I don’t know what’s mine anymore. Not my thoughts. Not my skin. Not even this fucking—” He gestured to the air between them. “—this craving.”
“And I hate that you’re not scared of that.”
“I am,” Dazai said, instantly.
“You don’t act like it.”
“Because I’ve always wanted you like this.”
Dazai’s voice was calm. But the bond?
The bond cracked.
There was longing in it.
Loneliness.
And something closer to pain than pleasure.
Chūya shook his head, took a step back.
“That’s not comforting.”
“I didn’t mean it to be.”
Another beat passed.
“Don’t make me the only one doubting this,” Chūya said. “I need you to be scared too. I need you to feel it.”
“I do,” Dazai said, rising slowly from the floor. “I just… don’t want to run from it.”
Their eyes met again.
The bond stirred.
A pulse.
A pull.
But this time, neither of them moved.
He wasn’t sure when the silence turned into something else.
Maybe when Dazai said he’d always wanted him.
Maybe when the ache in Chūya’s spine stopped feeling like rage and started feeling like hunger.
Or maybe it was just… the bond.
Reaching for contact.
Curling around his ribcage like a fist.
It hadn’t loosened since the agent left.
If anything—it had tightened.
His body wasn’t shaking from fury anymore.
It was trembling.
From restraint.
From proximity.
From the helpless knowledge that if Dazai moved any closer, he might not stop him.
I don’t even know what’s mine anymore.
He didn’t.
Not his anger. Not his instincts.
And certainly not this raw, dragging need.
It felt like being haunted.
By someone else’s longing.
By his own.
Dazai hadn’t said a word.
He stood there. Still. Quiet. Barefoot on the hardwood.
Hands loose at his sides like he knew Chūya was coming undone and didn’t dare move first.
And maybe that’s why Chūya did.
He crossed the room.
One breath.
Two.
Stopped just shy of Dazai’s chest.
Looked up.
“I need—”
“I need to shut it up.”
His voice cracked.
“I just want it to stop for a second.”
And then—
His hand slid around the back of Dazai’s neck, fingers curling into dark hair, and he pulled him down into a kiss that wasn’t a kiss.
Not sweet.
Not searching.
Not even lips on lips.
Just breath.
Mouth.
Need.
Dazai stiffened. But only for a moment.
Then his hands found Chūya’s waist. Not greedy. Not slow. Just… there.
Chūya pressed forward. Chest to chest.
The bond shuddered.
A low, keening pulse like the air itself had been waiting for them to touch.
He didn’t remember how they got to the bed.
Only the way his hands shook as he tugged Dazai’s shirt over his head.
Only the growl in his throat when Dazai tried to slow him down.
“Don’t,” Chūya snapped, breathless. “Don’t ask me if I’m sure. I’m not. I just—”
He couldn’t finish the sentence.
Because Dazai kissed him then.
Real this time.
Hard and open and hot.
And Chūya let himself drown in it.
Just for a moment.
Just long enough to forget.
Clothes hit the floor.
The mattress caught them both.
The bond… surged.
And Chūya was on top.
Straddling Dazai’s hips, grinding down against the hard line of him, panting into his mouth.
There was no ceremony. No seduction.
Just friction.
Sweat.
Teeth clacking when the kiss broke again.
“Fuck, Dazai—” he gasped. “It hurts.”
“I know,” Dazai whispered. “I know.”
And his voice—low, wrecked, barely held together—soothed it.
For a second.
He didn’t know when it happened—
When his breath hitched too hard to steady,
When Dazai’s fingers found the small of his back,
When the noise inside his chest gave way to heat.
But suddenly he was sinking.
Onto Dazai.
Into him.
Around him.
And Dazai let him.
Held his hips.
Whispered his name like an answer to a question Chūya hadn’t asked.
“Chūya.”
“You don’t have to fight me.”
But he was.
Every part of him—
Tensed, trembling, shivering with the effort of not just feeling good, but needing it.
He rocked down harder.
Desperate friction.
Rough rhythm.
His body answering the bond’s call before his brain could even catch up.
“It’s not—” he choked, forehead pressed to Dazai’s. “It’s not supposed to feel this good.”
“It’s not supposed to hurt this much either,” Dazai whispered.
There was no gentleness in how they moved.
But there was reverence.
Dazai kissed every inch of skin he could reach—
Throat.
Jaw.
Shoulder.
His voice gone hoarse from moaning into Chūya’s chest, from saying his name like it could bind them further.
“You don’t have to love me,” he murmured, lips at Chūya’s collarbone. “I don’t care if you don’t.”
“Shut up,” Chūya gasped. “Shut up, I swear to god—”
But he wasn’t angry.
Not really.
His hands were in Dazai’s hair.
His thighs trembling on either side of him.
His whole body crying out with each thrust—louder than words, louder than fear.
When he came—
It wasn’t with a scream.
Or a curse.
Or even a breathless moan.
It was with silence.
A stilling.
A gasp.
And a slow, unyielding collapse into Dazai’s chest as the bond finally—
quieted.
For the first time in days—
It stopped pulling.
He didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
He was still pulsing around Dazai, muscles twitching, heartbeat pounding in places that didn’t belong to just him anymore.
And he hated—
God, he hated—
That he wanted to stay there.
That his cheek against Dazai’s chest felt like home.
Dazai didn’t speak.
Just held him.
One hand in his hair.
One at the base of his spine.
The bond humming low, warm, soft.
Like it was finally sated.
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep.
But his body had gone limp—
Boneless with relief,
Tethered by exhaustion,
Wrapped in warmth he didn’t want to admit he needed.
And worse?
Dazai hadn’t let go.
Even now—
Chūya was sprawled half on top of him,
Leg tangled with his,
One hand still curled in that stupid hair.
Their bodies had cooled.
Their breaths synced.
The bond had settled into something low and purring, like a beast finally fed.
But the dread?
That was still crawling in his gut.
It wasn’t me.
It wasn’t me who wanted that.
It was the bond.
He wanted to move.
But the second he twitched—
Dazai’s hand tightened around his waist.
Not possessive.
Not restraining.
Just…
Present.
Real.
“You’re not a prisoner,” Dazai murmured, voice rough with sleep. “You don’t have to stay.”
The words made Chūya’s chest ache.
Not because they weren’t true—
But because he didn’t know if he wanted to stay.
If he wanted to leave.
If he was even capable of choosing anymore.
He shifted—just a little—so he wasn’t draped on Dazai but next to him.
Close enough to feel his skin.
Far enough to pretend he didn’t care.
“I’m only staying,” he muttered, eyes on the ceiling, “because if I don’t, I’ll wake up in the hallway again with the bond screaming in my fucking ears.”
“Sure,” Dazai said, voice low. “I believe you.”
Silence.
Then—
“But you held me back,” he added, barely audible.
“After. Didn’t let go.”
Chūya didn’t answer.
Because he hadn’t even noticed.
Chapter 16: The Thread That Tightens
Summary:
The morning after leaves Chūya spiraling—his body craving proximity while his mind rebels against the bond’s pull. Dazai, sensing the conflict, gives him space at a cost. But when Dr. Kida returns with questions and truths, Chūya learns the terrifying trigger behind their bond's awakening: Dazai’s near-death. And the devastating realization follows—if one of them dies, so does the other.
Chapter Text
Chūya woke to warmth pressed against his back.
The kind that wasn’t just body heat, but something else entirely—an echo. A resonance. Something deeper that still hummed under his skin, coiling low in his stomach like it hadn’t quite burned itself out the night before.
Dazai’s breath stirred the curve of his shoulder. Slow. Steady. Asleep, or pretending.
Chūya didn’t move.
He lay there instead, eyes fixed on the unfamiliar ceiling, muscles stiff with the weight of too many thoughts—none of them easy, and none of them quiet.
This wasn’t supposed to feel… like this. Not the knot in his throat. Not the ache behind his ribs. Not the way his body had moved so easily under Dazai’s hands last night—like the bond had taken over, bypassed all logic and reason, and simply decided this is what you need.
It had helped. It had calmed the chaos.
But it also left a bitter aftertaste: the fear that maybe none of it was real.
His breath hitched slightly. The moment it did, the warmth behind him shifted.
Dazai didn’t say anything. Didn’t reach for him. He just pushed the covers back, slow and careful, and stood up.
No tension. No sound. Just distance.
The bond twitched sharply in protest.
Chūya swallowed it down. He needed space. He’d convinced himself of that. Even if his whole body felt the absence of Dazai's presence like skin stripped of oxygen. It shouldn’t feel like this—like the emptiness itself had claws.
Across the room, Dazai stood with his back turned. He hadn’t looked at Chūya once, but his posture was telling. Shoulders tense. Movements too fluid. Like he was feeling something he didn’t want to name.
Chūya shifted to sit up.
The moment he did, something flickered across his chest—a wave of nausea, too sharp to be his own. He knew the difference by now.
Dazai said nothing. He crossed the hall in silence and disappeared into the bathroom.
The bond whined against it.
And still, Chūya stayed rooted to the bed, digging his nails into his thigh to resist the urge to follow—just to quiet the noise inside his ribs.
Chūya didn’t move until he heard the water shut off.
Even then, he just sat there—bare feet on cold floorboards, staring at nothing. Waiting for the bond to settle, for the sharp edge of nausea to dull back into silence.
It didn’t.
When the bathroom door opened, steam curled into the hallway. Dazai stepped out with damp hair and a towel slung over his shoulders, half-dressed and quiet.
Still, no words passed between them.
He walked toward the kitchen, grabbed a coat—too thin for the weather—and a black mask from the table. Chūya blinked.
“Are you going somewhere?” he asked, the question sharper than intended.
Dazai didn’t stop moving. “Just out,” he said softly, like it wasn’t worth explaining. “You’ll feel better if I’m not crowding you.”
That was the moment it hit him.
Not just the words—but the way they landed.
Dazai wasn’t running. He wasn’t punishing. He wasn’t even trying to guilt him.
He was leaving—for Chūya’s sake.
“But you—” Chūya started, frowning. “It affects you more.”
Dazai paused at the door. His fingers lingered on the frame, knuckles gone white.
“I know.”
Chūya stared at him, throat dry. “Then why—?”
“Because I can handle it,” Dazai murmured without looking back. “Even if it hurts.”
The bond flared then. Not violently—but deep. Weighted. A tug under Chūya’s ribs that ached with something more than instinct.
He didn’t stop him.
And Dazai didn’t ask to be stopped.
The door shut behind him a second later. The apartment stilled. And Chūya sat there—heart too loud, chest too full, spine too tight—with only the echo of warmth on the sheets to remind him that someone had tried—really tried—to give him space when he needed it.
Even if it meant suffering in silence.
The knock wasn’t loud.
Just two short taps. Measured. Professional. The kind that made Chūya grit his teeth out of instinct, already knowing who it had to be.
He didn’t bother fixing his hair. Or the shirt slipping off one shoulder. He just yanked the door open with a sigh and muttered, “Now’s not a great time, Doc.”
Dr. Kida didn’t flinch. He stood there in his long coat, glasses catching the hallway light, expression unreadable.
“Clearly,” he said. “But I’m not here for him. I came to check on you.”
Chūya blinked. “...Me?”
“You’ve barely responded to any of my reports. Your last update was vague at best, and your vitals—when you bother syncing your bracelet—are all over the place.” Kida stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. “And more importantly—why is your partner loitering outside the building looking like he’s about to pass out?”
Chūya’s spine stiffened. “You saw him?”
“On my way in. He’s not even trying to hide.” Kida set his case down on the table and folded his arms. “You want to explain, or should I call the on-site team?”
Chūya sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. “He’s... giving me space.”
Kida’s brow arched. “And the bond’s letting him?”
“Barely.”
He slumped into the nearest chair, shoulders tense. “It’s affecting him more than me. He’s pale, dizzy, probably half nauseous—”
“Then why let him leave?”
“Because he wanted to. Because he thought I needed it,” Chūya snapped, then looked away. “And maybe I did.”
Silence hung for a beat. Kida didn’t press. Just opened his case and pulled out a monitoring tablet, flicking through the readings.
Eventually, Chūya exhaled. Quiet. Measured.
“Can I ask you something?”
Kida didn’t look up. “You can ask. I might not answer.”
Chūya leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Why did it trigger then?”
Kida paused.
Chūya’s voice dropped. “The bond. The Arcana. It was dormant for years. I felt nothing. Not even a flicker.”
Kida’s eyes finally met his.
“But when he was brought into that hospital—closer to death than life—it just... snapped awake.”
Kida was quiet for a long time. Then, softly—
“Because the bond can’t survive a severing.”
Chūya stilled.
“The soulbind you forged wasn’t meant to lie dormant this long,” Kida continued. “You forced it into hibernation. Your distance, your severed connection... it held. Until one of you almost died.”
He tapped the screen once, then turned it to show an old pulse scan—spiked erratically, dipping dangerously low.
“This was Dazai’s heart rate the night he was brought in. If it had dropped just a few points further, we’d have lost him.”
Chūya’s mouth was dry. “But we didn’t.”
“No,” Kida said. “Because you felt it. You reacted. You came.”
A hollow throb echoed in Chūya’s chest. The bond pulsed faintly, like it remembered too.
“So it wasn’t a coincidence,” he said, almost to himself.
Kida shook his head. “The moment his soul hovered too close to the veil, the pact remembered its purpose. The Arcana you tapped into—wild and ancient—doesn’t believe in ‘endings.’ If one dies, the other does too.”
Silence again.
Then—quiet. Bitter.
“So if I hadn’t picked up that damn phone...”
“You’d both be dead.”
Chūya didn’t say anything when Kida left.
He just stood there, unmoving, long after the echo of the closing door had faded into silence. The bond simmered low in his chest, no longer chaotic—but heavy. Anchored.
Like it knew something he hadn’t dared to name.
Until now.
Because now he knew for sure.
That it wasn’t just about connection. Or closeness. Or some fucked-up, unresolved emotion tangled in ancient magic.
It was survival.
His and Dazai’s lives weren’t just linked. They were interlocked. Threaded so deeply into each other that even death refused to let them separate.
If he hadn’t answered the phone that night.
If he’d hesitated. Ignored it. Told the hospital he didn’t care—
He would have died in his sleep.
And Dazai had known.
Maybe not the exact moment it would snap back to life, but he'd known what they were doing when they made that pact. The risks. The weight. The meaning behind it.
Chūya hadn't even thought. He'd just done what Dazai asked, like always.
But Dazai…?
He stepped into his boots without thinking, grabbed his coat, and slammed the apartment door behind him.
The air outside bit at his cheeks. Wind curled around the hem of his jacket, and the sky overhead was darkening toward dusk.
He didn’t have to look far.
Dazai was still near the ARC compound’s perimeter—leaning against the corner of a lamppost like he’d meant to walk away and just... hadn’t. His coat was buttoned up wrong. His shoulders were slumped.
He looked like shit.
But when Chūya approached, Dazai’s head turned. Slowly. Eyes soft but tired.
"You shouldn't be out here," Chūya muttered.
“I could say the same to you.”
Chūya stopped just short of him. Not quite close enough to touch.
“I spoke to Kida.”
A flicker passed through Dazai’s eyes. But he didn’t speak.
“You knew,” Chūya said, voice quiet. “You fucking knew.”
Dazai didn’t deny it. He just watched him. Wind stirring his hair. Silence settling like dust.
And for once—Chūya didn’t shout. Didn’t push.
He just looked at him.
“Why would you do that?” he asked. “Why would you tie my life to yours without even telling me what it meant?”
Chūya’s voice stayed low. Raw, but no longer shaking.
Dazai’s gaze dropped. His breath fogged faintly in the air between them.
“I couldn’t have lived without you,” he murmured.
Not a metaphor.
Not a flourish.
Just the truth—unvarnished, selfish, real.
He hadn’t tied their lives together to save Chūya.
He’d done it to never lose him.
Even if it meant dragging them both down.
Chapter 17: What Was Left Unsaid
Summary:
A tense meeting with ARC confirms the restrictions placed on their freedom, and old wounds reopen as Chūya confronts Dazai about his selfish decision to forge a bond that binds their lives together. The truth cuts deeper than either of them expected—because it wasn’t just about magic or survival. It was about love. The bond flares violently in response to their conflict, forcing Chūya to retreat, and Dazai—surprisingly—gives him space. But the distance doesn’t quiet what still echoes between them.
Chapter Text
It had been long enough that Chūya stopped counting the days.
The ARC relocation apartment had become less of a temporary shelter and more of a strange purgatory—still sterile around the edges, but dulled by routine. They cooked. Ate. Read. Argued in small, tired ways. Sometimes they even laughed, though the sound always felt like it didn’t belong.
Dazai had healed.
The circles under his eyes hadn’t vanished, but the frailty was gone. He moved like himself again—fluid, deliberate. No more vertigo, no more blood on his pillow. The ARC agents had even stopped doing daily check-ins, slipping back into weekly visits, as if quietly admitting he’d pulled himself back from the brink.
Physically, at least.
Technically, he could leave.
And that thought twisted something strange in Chūya’s gut.
Because Dazai hadn’t tried.
He hadn’t made any moves toward the door, hadn’t once suggested that ARC had no right to hold him. He just… stayed. Sat in the same chair by the window every morning, nursing bitter tea and not looking at Chūya unless spoken to. Watched the streets below like they were moving in a world he no longer belonged to.
And Chūya felt it. That pull. That tether. The bond still thrummed beneath his skin like a wire too deep to untangle, always vibrating with Dazai’s presence—distant when they were apart, unbearably loud when they were close.
He hadn’t asked again why Dazai did it.
Not since that night.
Not since the soft-spoken confession that had nearly unraveled him.
But the question still lived inside him, quiet and constant.
And today, it finally demanded an answer.
They didn’t knock.
They never did.
The ARC agent entered like he belonged there, long coat still damp from the rain, boots echoing sharp against the tile. A second one followed—clipboard in hand, not even glancing up at the two men on the couch. Dazai didn’t rise. Chūya did, if only because standing made him feel marginally less trapped.
"You're both looking... functional," the first agent said, with the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Chūya crossed his arms. “We’ve been more than functional for weeks.”
That earned a glance. “You’ve stabilized. Somewhat. But that’s not the point of this visit.”
Dazai didn’t speak. He just watched, eyes half-lidded, legs crossed lazily like this was all a performance.
“We’re here to discuss your relocation status,” the clipboard agent added, finally flipping a page. “Specifically, your request to leave ARC housing.”
There it was.
Chūya’s shoulders tensed, just slightly.
“We’re not prisoners,” he said. “There’s no law that says we have to stay here.”
“Correct,” the agent replied. “But there is protocol. And you two—” He glanced meaningfully at Dazai. “—aren’t exactly the average case.”
Dazai smiled without warmth. “Flattered.”
The first agent stepped forward. “Let me be clear. This isn’t about your comfort. It’s about containment. What you’ve entered into isn’t a regulated bond under modern magical classifications. It’s something older. Unpredictable. We don’t know what it’ll do in the long term—or if your proximity is the only thing keeping it from unraveling.”
“We’re not asking to leave each other,” Chūya said, more defensive than he intended. “We’re asking to stop being monitored like fucking anomalies.”
“You are anomalies.”
Silence.
The word lingered, heavy between them.
Dazai finally spoke, voice soft. “You think we’re a threat.”
The clipboard agent didn’t answer right away.
Then, “We think you’re a liability.”
The door shut behind the agents with a finality that left the silence ringing.
Chūya stood there a moment longer, jaw tight, hands fisted at his sides. Dazai didn’t say anything—just stared down at his own fingers, flexing them slowly like trying to feel something slip between them.
Then, finally:
“This is your fault.”
Dazai’s head lifted slightly. “Hm?”
Chūya turned to face him fully, anger barely restrained. “You kept pushing boundaries. Kept digging into arcana. Even when you knew—especially when you knew—it wasn’t meant to be touched.”
Dazai blinked, but didn’t flinch. “And yet you let me cut your hand open.”
Chūya’s voice dropped. “I didn’t know what it would mean.”
“No,” Dazai agreed softly. “But I did.”
It made it worse.
Chūya looked away, chest tight. “We’re stuck here because of you.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Dazai murmured. “We’re stuck here because I couldn’t let you go.”
Silence again.
But this time, it clawed.
Chūya walked past him toward the window, the city lights pressing through the fogged glass like distant ghosts. His reflection stared back at him, unreadable. But inside, everything was shifting. Warring.
The agents were gone. The walls were still the same. The bond between them hadn’t loosened, not even for a moment.
And it was restless again.
It pulsed against his chest like a second heartbeat. Every time Dazai breathed behind him, Chūya felt it—not just physically, but emotionally. That tether still hummed between them, whether he wanted it or not.
He didn’t speak for a long time.
Then—without turning around:
“Why did you do it, Dazai?”
The voice was quieter now. Not angry. Just exhausted. Hollow.
Dazai’s answer didn’t come immediately.
When it did, it came like smoke curling from a match, slow and warm and irrevocably final:
“Because I couldn’t watch you disappear.”
Evening hit slow and heavy.
Chūya didn’t remember eating. Didn’t remember the hours bleeding into one another. At some point, the lights dimmed automatically—some ARC-regulated timer they hadn’t bothered to override. The apartment fell quiet again, the kind of quiet that grated more than soothed.
He hated it here.
Hated how the walls watched. How the furniture sat too clean and unused. How everything inside it felt like a waiting room for a future neither of them were allowed to choose.
But what he hated most was the bond.
That constant thrum just under his skin.
Worse, when Dazai was gone, it itched.
It wasn't just silence anymore. It was absence. It was the slow unfurling ache that had grown sharper every hour Dazai stayed away, like a nerve left exposed to air.
Chūya gave up trying to sleep sometime after midnight.
He sat at the edge of the bed for too long. Elbows on knees. Head in his hands. The restlessness had nowhere to go—it made his legs jitter, his fingers tremble, his chest feel too tight for breath. He wasn’t even sure it was all his.
The bond kept flickering with distance.
And that distance was wrong.
He threw on a jacket.
Didn’t grab his phone.
Didn’t even bother with shoes—just stepped into the hallway sock-footed, cold floors grounding him better than logic ever could. He didn’t need to look far. He felt it. Knew exactly which corner of the street Dazai had slipped to. It was a tug just behind his ribs, steady and magnetic, cruel in its certainty.
He found him sitting beneath the overhang of the next building, arms loosely crossed, hair damp from fog, long coat drawn around himself like a shield.
Dazai didn’t look up immediately.
Only when Chūya’s shadow fell across his boots did he finally raise his head.
“I was going to come back,” he said quietly.
Chūya didn’t answer.
He stepped closer and sank down beside him.
The concrete bit through his knees.
But the bond? The bond eased.
Like it had been holding its breath.
He didn’t look at Dazai. Just stared forward, hands clenched in the fabric of his coat.
“You said,” Chūya murmured eventually, voice scraped raw, “you couldn’t watch me disappear.”
Dazai nodded, slow.
“But it wasn’t just that,” Chūya continued. “It was more. Wasn’t it.”
A pause. Then:
“Yes.”
The bond buzzed softly—more an echo of a heartbeat than sound.
Chūya tilted his head back against the wall, let the cold stone press into his spine.
And then, after a long pause:
“When you nearly died that day… what would’ve happened to me?”
Dazai froze.
The silence that followed was thick, trembling around the edges.
And then, just as quietly—
“You would’ve died too.”
Chūya closed his eyes.
Not surprised.
But hearing it hurt more than he’d expected.
When he opened them again, Dazai was finally turning to face him.
There was no apology in his expression. Just that same tired weight he always wore when the truth was heavier than the silence.
“You forged a bond that would kill us both.”
Chūya’s voice was sharp now. Not loud—but cutting, like the edge of a blade pressed just barely to skin.
Dazai didn’t flinch.
“Do you have any idea what that means?” Chūya stepped forward, breath catching. “That if one of us dies—just dies, for any reason—the other goes with him? You didn’t just tie us together, Dazai. You doomed us.”
His chest heaved. Rage and fear and disbelief tangled in his throat. He didn’t know which to feel first.
But Dazai…
Dazai only looked at him with that same unbearable calm, like he'd already lost the right to panic.
“I couldn’t let you die and live on without you.”
The words hung heavy.
Chūya stared.
“And that gave you the right to decide for me?” His voice cracked. “That if you died, I’d just go down with you? That I don’t even get to choose if I live?”
“I didn’t want you to die,” Dazai said, barely above a whisper.
“No, you just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t be alone.”
It hit Dazai like a slap.
Chūya saw it. The way his mouth twitched. The flicker of pain that darted through his eyes before he closed them.
And when he spoke again, it wasn’t defensive—it was desperate.
“I loved you.”
A breath.
“I still do. I always have. And I was too much of a coward to say it. I kept thinking I’d have more time. More chances. But we kept drifting and I—”
He stopped himself.
Swallowed hard.
Then:
“I didn’t know another way to stay connected to you.”
Chūya stared at him like he didn’t recognize the man in front of him.
“So you chained us together? With a bond that could kill us both?”
“I thought,” Dazai said, hoarsely, “that if you ever felt it—what I felt—then maybe… it wouldn’t be so selfish.”
The moment Dazai said it—“then maybe… it wouldn’t be so selfish”—
something inside Chūya snapped.
Or maybe it wasn’t inside him.
Maybe it was the bond.
Because all at once, the pressure in the room spiked.
A sickening, lurching heat climbed his spine like a vice. His vision swam. Every breath burned, too shallow, too fast—and he felt everything.
Dazai’s guilt. His ache. His relief that it was finally out in the open.
And worst of all—
The unrelenting need.
Not even physical—just the brutal, aching tether between them pulling tight like it was trying to fuse their ribs together.
Chūya staggered back, hand slamming against the wall for balance.
“No—fuck—not now—”
The bond lashed again, hard and fast, striking deep in his chest.
He gasped like something had struck him in the gut.
Dazai moved toward him—instinctive, panicked—but Chūya raised a hand to stop him.
“Don’t.”
His voice came out raw.
Dazai froze, trembling where he stood.
The energy between them cracked like lightning in a closed room. Static crawled over their skin. The floor trembled beneath their feet. It wasn’t just them anymore.
The arcana was listening.
“Is this what you wanted?” Chūya hissed through his teeth, voice shaking. “You wanted us tied together so tightly we can't even fight without the world catching fire?”
Dazai’s voice was choked. “I wanted you to stay.”
“And if I didn’t want you back?” Chūya’s laugh broke. “What then, Dazai? Were you going to live with that too?”
“I would’ve died either way.”
The bond shuddered at that—like it was reacting to the truth.
And Chūya felt it in his own body: the way his heart stuttered, the air punched from his lungs like a scream not yet voiced.
For a split second, his knees buckled.
Dazai lunged—
But before he could reach him, Chūya forced himself upright, breathing hard, sweat slicking his spine.
He shoved the bond down. Buried it. With sheer force of will.
And glared at Dazai with eyes like splintered glass.
“Next time,” he said, voice low, “just tell me you love me before you rewrite the rules of living and dying.”
He turned sharply, boots scuffing against the pavement, and walked back toward the building with a pace that said don’t follow.
The air inside the ARC relocation apartment felt colder when he stepped through the door. Not literally. Just… emptier. Like the bond, still buzzing like a live wire beneath his skin, had been yanked taut across distance again.
But Dazai didn’t come after him.
He stayed outside.
And that—
That confused the hell out of Chūya.
Because after everything—after the flare, the fight, the truth that left both their hearts bare—Dazai should have followed. Should’ve tried to smooth things over. Should’ve come knocking at the door with those guilt-heavy eyes and a half-apology on his tongue.
But he didn’t.
He was giving him space.
Even though the bond hurt for it. Even though Chūya could feel the echo of Dazai’s pulse stuttering, could taste the nausea curdling his gut like it was his own. Even though he was the one who’d forged this impossible, irreversible thing between them—
He stayed outside.
Chūya leaned back against the door once it clicked shut behind him. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and exhaled slow, the kind of breath that burned the lungs on the way out.
The room was quiet.
The bond was not.
It coiled beneath his skin like a stormcloud, agitated, unsettled, still vibrating with the sharp taste of anger and betrayal and something dangerously close to heartbreak. Not just his. Theirs.
Chūya slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, arms braced on bent knees, and muttered to no one:
“Fucking idiot.”
He didn’t mean Dazai.
Not entirely.
Chapter 18: The Pact Was Never Silent
Summary:
A flashback reveals the reason Dazai made Chūya take the blood pact—born of love, fear, and a selfish desperation not to lose him. In the present, the aftermath of their fight draws them back into fragile proximity, only to be interrupted by an ARC agent with unsettling news: the bond is stabilizing… but evolving. A resonance scan confirms the worst—if they drift too far apart, their bodies suffer. If they let it deepen, their identities may begin to blur. And though it’s not guaranteed, the possibility is real. Confronted with the truth at last, Chūya begins to understand the depth—and danger—of what was done to them.
Chapter Text
Interlude – Fragmented Pages from a Banned Arcana Treatise
Recovered from an unlisted section of the Arcanum Registry | Source: Unknown | Status: Restricted
The ancient ones knew: to tether soul to soul was to invite hunger—insatiable, blooming in the dark between hearts. In the era before regulation, blood was not just sacrifice; it was currency. A contract. A cage.
Soulbonds formed through arcana—true arcana—are irreversible. Even death does not always sever them. There are whispers of twin graves remaining untouched by time, bones fused, essence indistinguishable.
To love under such a bond is to forget where love ends and need begins. Desire folds into instinct. Instinct corrodes choice. What remains is a compulsion so complete it is mistaken for devotion.
When both parties enter willingly, the risk lessens—but is never null. When one party binds in fear of loss, and the other in ignorance... the imbalance festers.
Convergence is the final state. Their pulses will sync. Their pain will mirror. Their breath will come in unison. If not tempered early, identity blur begins. If not severed before that—should severance even be possible—one will fade should the other fall.
Arcana was never made for soft things like love.
Flashback – Years Before
They hadn’t been fighting. Not really.
But they hadn’t been close, either. Not the way they used to be.
Chūya was still around—still sharp-tongued and brimming with fire, still dragging Dazai out of bed for missions and yelling at him when he slacked off—but it wasn’t the same. Not quite. The silences between them were longer. Their rhythms out of sync.
People grow up. That’s what everyone said.
But Dazai didn’t want to grow apart.
Not from him.
He tried, in his own way, to keep them aligned. Little things, mostly. Tucking insults between compliments. Holding eye contact longer than necessary. Touching Chūya’s wrist when they passed. Leaning in just close enough to feel breath but not make it obvious.
Hints.
Signals.
Tests.
Once, he’d brushed a bit of hair behind Chūya’s ear and murmured, “You should wear it loose more often. You look good when you’re not trying so hard to be terrifying.”
Chūya had scoffed. Rolled his eyes. “Try that line on someone who cares, asshole.”
But he hadn’t pulled away.
He hadn’t looked angry.
Dazai had gone to bed that night with his heart knocking unevenly in his chest, like maybe—just maybe—it meant something.
But the next day, they’d barely spoken.
And the week after, Chūya had missed a meeting.
And two weeks later, Dazai found out he’d been on solo missions. Without telling him.
It wasn’t betrayal. It wasn’t abandonment.
It was just… distance.
Growing between them like fog.
And Dazai couldn’t breathe through it.
He’d known, even then, that he was losing something.
Something he didn’t know how to name.
Something he was too afraid to ask for.
So he did the only thing he could.
He found the old texts.
Traced whispers through back channels and shadowed tomes.
Found one mention, then another, then a ritual half-buried in ink and blood.
A binding. Not a curse. Not a contract.
A pact.
Blood for blood. Soul for soul.
Something so ancient it had no true school. No name in any modern registry.
Something wild and irreversible.
Something he shouldn’t have touched.
But he did.
Because he was selfish.
Because he was scared.
Because he couldn’t let Chūya slip through his fingers and vanish.
And maybe, if he bound their souls together…
Maybe Chūya would stay.
Even if it meant never knowing whether it was love—
—or instinct.
The key slid into the lock so quietly it barely clicked.
Dazai stepped through the door like a shadow, soft-footed and soaked in moonlight. His coat was still damp from the drizzle outside. His hair hung limp, curling faintly at the ends. He hadn’t bothered to dry it.
He didn’t bother to look for the lights, either. He didn’t need them. The layout of the apartment had been seared into his brain by now—walls, counters, doorframes, the exact number of steps to the couch where Chūya sometimes pretended to sleep.
But he paused in the entryway.
The silence wasn’t empty. It watched him.
Not the room.
The bond.
It was quiet, yes. But not dormant. It still stretched like a thread between his ribs, humming faintly, pulled taut. It didn’t pull him further in—but it waited. A heartbeat beneath the floorboards.
Dazai dropped his keys on the table, quietly. Slipped off his coat. Let it hang dripping on the chair.
He hesitated.
He hadn't followed Chūya earlier when he stormed back inside. Hadn’t tried to explain himself. Hadn’t said another word. Not because he didn’t want to—but because Chūya had looked at him like he didn’t know him anymore.
Maybe he didn’t.
Maybe he never had.
He’d risked everything.
Not just his own life.
Not just his own soul.
Chūya’s.
For a bond born half from love, half from fear—and completely from selfishness.
He stepped quietly into the living room.
The television was off. The couch empty. The kitchen dark.
But he could feel it: Chūya’s presence. Dim and flickering like a candle left burning in another room.
A pulse.
A warmth.
A thread.
Dazai didn’t approach.
He sat down in the far corner of the couch, out of sight of the hallway, and rested his head back against the cushion. Let the quiet take him.
He didn’t know if Chūya would come out.
Didn’t know if he would say anything if he did.
He just needed to be close enough to feel it again.
Not the bond.
Him.
Even if he never spoke love aloud again.
Even if he hated him for the rest of its life.
Dazai closed his eyes.
And stayed.
He hadn’t been asleep.
Not really.
Just lying there, staring at the ceiling like it might crack open and swallow him if he blinked wrong. The silence had gone from oppressive to unbearable hours ago, and still, the bond kept twitching in his chest like a wound that refused to close.
He’d thought it would settle.
After shouting. After space. After finally being alone again.
But it didn’t.
It itched. Pulled. Throbbed.
Not enough to send him to the floor the way it had that first night—but enough to keep him wired. Dizzy. Heavy in the head and too aware of every beat of his own heart.
And then—
Click.
It wasn’t loud. Just the door easing open. Soft. Hesitant.
But the bond snapped to attention—bright and sharp and utterly certain.
Dazai.
Chūya sat up without thinking.
He didn’t throw on a shirt. Didn’t bother with the lights. He just moved—barefoot, shirtless, quiet—down the short hallway like gravity itself had tilted toward the living room.
And when he saw him—
Slouched on the far end of the couch, coat damp, hair a mess, eyes closed like he hadn’t dared to sleep in days—
Chūya didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
The bond didn’t scream anymore. It whispered. Coiled softly. Urged—not demanded.
Just… please.
He crossed the room. Paused in front of the couch. Dazai didn’t stir.
But when Chūya sat—slowly, carefully—on the opposite end, Dazai’s lashes fluttered, and his hand twitched where it rested on his thigh.
Chūya didn’t touch him.
He just sat.
Close enough to feel the heat coming off him again. Close enough for the silence to turn warm instead of cold. Close enough for the bond to ease, like an animal settling after days of pacing.
He didn’t look at Dazai.
Didn’t apologize.
Didn’t say a word.
Just leaned back.
Exhaled.
And let the silence hold them, this time.
Not peace. Not yet.
But maybe…
Understanding.
Later that day, three knocks landed against the sealed front door.
Measured. Cold.
No bond-surge. No emotion. Just the sound of protocol arriving in pressed uniform.
Chūya’s spine tensed before his mind caught up.
Dazai stilled beside him like a live wire about to snap.
The next knock didn’t wait.
A soft mechanical hiss echoed through the lock mechanism—override key.
The door opened.
Agent Karasuma stepped in, dressed like a shadow in a charcoal ARC coat, the lines of his badge gleaming in the dim light. A thin case hung from his fingers, surgical in its simplicity.
“Evening,” he said, voice clipped and clean. “Apologies for the intrusion. I’ve been asked to reassess the status of your tether.”
Chūya let out something between a scoff and a bitter laugh.
“Bit late for that, don’t you think?”
Karasuma didn’t rise to it.
Just shut the door behind him and glanced around the apartment like it was a sealed lab.
Dazai hadn’t moved, but Chūya felt it—the subtle flare of pressure in the air, the way his body leaned, barely perceptible, closer. Like the bond was already reacting. Already bracing.
Karasuma placed the case on the table. Unlatched it.
“Dr. Kida’s report was… inconclusive,” he said, opening sleek compartments of machinery and glass-threaded runes. “Given the arcana at play, ARC protocol mandates a stability reassessment.”
“Of course it does,” Chūya muttered under his breath.
But something in his chest twisted.
Karasuma continued, tone flat.
“You’ve exhibited rapid tether formation, symptomatic bond surges, and nonverbal convergence indicators. That’s not stabilization. That’s acceleration.”
Chūya blinked. “Acceleration—?”
Karasuma didn’t pause. “The blood pact you performed appears to fall under an undocumented wild arcana subset. Old, pre-regulation. Possibly a root-thread construct.”
Dazai exhaled—just once, but sharp.
“Which means?” Chūya asked, quieter now.
Karasuma looked between them.
“It means,” he said, “you’re dealing with a living bond. One that reacts. Evolves. Protects itself. And if it’s already begun anchoring past the threshold—”
He powered up a resonance reader.
“—you may be past the point of safe reversal.”
The device hummed, cold and clinical.
Blue circuitry bled light into the room.
Dazai didn’t even flinch.
But Chūya—
For the first time, he felt it.
Not just the heat or the tug at his core.
Not just the nausea when Dazai drifted too far.
But the truth.
They weren’t just tied.
They were fusing.
And there might not be a way back.
“Hands,” Karasuma said, extending two calibration rings. “Right thumb.”
Dazai obeyed immediately.
Chūya hesitated.
Then, without breathing, slid the metal down.
The moment they aligned—
Light.
A filament of shimmering thread snapped into being between them, floating in the air like a spider’s silk spun from starlight.
Karasuma stepped back.
“Range calibration,” he said.
Ten steps.
Fifteen.
The thread strained. Dimmed. But held.
Chūya gasped—the pressure building behind his eyes like a migraine.
Dazai’s knuckles whitened on his knee, his breath going shallow.
“Symptoms?” Karasuma asked.
“Like chewing glass,” Chūya muttered.
Karasuma nodded.
“Fifteen-point-three meters,” he noted. “Physical resonance destabilizing. Neural entanglement confirmed. Bond appears reactive but symmetrically shared.”
He turned the monitor slowly.
“You're past latent formation. This isn’t just arcane cling. It’s embedding.”
Chūya’s throat dried out.
“And if it keeps embedding?”
Karasuma didn’t blink. “Eventually? You’ll lose the ability to distinguish where you end and the other begins. The tether will fill the gaps. Rewire your sense of self. Memory. Autonomy.”
“…And if we try to undo it?”
Another long beat.
Karasuma’s tone dropped.
“You’ll die.”
Silence.
Except for the hum.
Except for the bond, now singing under his skin like something that knew it had been spoken of.
Dazai looked pale. Not surprised.
But not smug either.
And that… hurt more than Chūya expected.
He knew.
He’d always known.
Karasuma powered down the scanner.
The thread vanished.
But the weight of it remained.
He handed them each a printed report—cool, clinical, already outdated the moment it was written—and turned back to the door.
“ARC will be in touch.”
The door closed. The sound echoed too long.
And in the silence that followed, Chūya didn’t feel angry.
Didn’t feel confused.
He just felt trapped in something he hadn’t agreed to—
—and tethered to the one person who had.
The door clicked shut.
Silence followed—thick, leaden.
Chūya didn’t move. Couldn’t.
He still felt the ring on his finger like a brand.
Not burning. Just there. Heavy.
Across from him, Dazai hadn’t shifted either. He sat statue-still, gaze fixed on nothing, shoulders slack in a way that didn’t read as relaxed—more like someone holding themselves together by unraveling slowly.
The scan report sat between them on the table, untouched. Its edges curled slightly from the heat of the reader.
It should’ve meant nothing.
Just words.
Just theory.
But it didn’t.
Because it felt true. Every word of it. In the back of Chūya’s skull. Behind his ribs. In the way the air changed when Dazai shifted too far away. In the way his own heartbeat sometimes echoed like a second one was bleeding through underneath it.
He hated how much it made sense now.
“I never meant for it to go this far.”
Dazai’s voice broke the silence—quiet. Measured. Raw around the edges.
Not a confession.
Not an apology.
Something in between.
Chūya turned toward him slowly. “But you still did it.”
Dazai looked up. His eyes weren’t defiant. Just tired. Tired in the way someone looks when they’ve already lost sleep over something too many nights in a row.
“I didn’t think it would take.”
“You hoped it would.” Chūya’s voice came sharp. “You gambled.”
Silence.
“You knew what it might become,” he added, almost like an afterthought. “And you didn’t tell me. You didn’t ask.”
Dazai flinched. But only a little.
“I didn’t think you’d say yes.”
“Damn right I wouldn’t have.”
The bond shivered—tightening around Chūya’s spine like it didn’t like hearing that.
Like it took offense on Dazai’s behalf.
He pushed it down.
“I didn’t do this to trap you,” Dazai said, finally. “I just—”
He hesitated. Swallowed.
“—I couldn’t imagine a future where you were gone and I was still here.”
The words hung like smoke. Dangerous. Honest.
“You mean you couldn’t handle that future.”
“I mean I loved you,” Dazai said—flatly, bitterly. “And I was selfish. I still am.”
Chūya’s breath caught. Not because of the word—loved—but because of how easily it slipped out, like something Dazai had been holding in for years.
And maybe he had.
“But I didn’t want to steal your life,” Dazai added, voice rougher now. “I just… I wanted to be part of it. No matter what it cost.”
Chūya looked down at his hands.
“You made that choice for both of us.”
“I know.”
More silence. This one worse.
The kind that hurt.
Eventually, Chūya breathed out through his nose. His voice—when it came—was quieter.
“They said we might lose our autonomy.”
Dazai nodded once.
“But not for sure.”
“No.”
Another pause.
“Do you think it’s already started?”
Dazai’s eyes lifted. Met his.
“No,” he said. “I think we’re still… us.”
And then—softly, like a thread fraying:
“But I also think the longer we lie to ourselves, the faster it’ll stop being true.”
Chapter 19: A Hunger the Silence Couldn’t Feed
Summary:
Tension builds within the walls of the ARC apartment as Chūya and Dazai go days without touching, both caught in a limbo of craving and restraint. With reintegration still pending and the bond quietly fraying at the edges, they teeter on the brink of giving in. When the silence becomes unbearable, a single question breaks the dam—and consent is finally given, soft and explicit. But even intimacy comes at a cost, as ARC’s conditions arrive in the form of a sealed letter: cohabitation, surveillance, and a reminder that autonomy is no longer theirs alone.
Chapter Text
They were still waiting.
ARC hadn’t given them a clear answer yet. The scan results had been forwarded, the reports acknowledged, the risk level marked “pending.” A decision was supposedly being reviewed by upper management, but days passed with no update. No clearance. No denial.
Just… silence.
Dazai didn’t ask. Chūya didn’t press. But the walls of the relocation apartment felt smaller by the hour.
They weren’t prisoners, not exactly. But they weren’t free either. There was still a monitor on the door. Still rings sealed in a drawer. Still reports filed on everything from their sleep rhythms to the fluctuation of their shared aura during stress spikes.
Still a bond between them neither of them dared test too far.
And still—they didn’t touch.
Not since the night Dazai came back.
Not since the fight.
Not since the scan showed how deep the tether went.
Chūya kept his distance deliberately.
It wasn’t punishment. It wasn’t avoidance, not really.
It was control.
Or it was meant to be.
But control had never felt so much like suffocation.
The bond didn’t settle. It simmered. It thrummed at the edge of his skin whenever Dazai was too quiet for too long. When he turned his head and saw him there—shoulders curled, hair shadowing his eyes, watching—it pulsed like it knew.
And it did know.
Dazai hadn’t made a single move. Hadn’t crossed a line. But his voice had changed again. That tone. That way of saying his name. Like each syllable carried weight. Like it landed in his chest and stirred up everything he was trying to bury.
It made Chūya restless.
Worse—hungry.
Not just for touch. Not even for sex. But for something only Dazai could offer: stillness. Relief. The quiet that came when the bond finally stopped clawing at his ribs and let him breathe.
But he didn’t want to need it.
He didn’t want to want it.
So he stayed on his end of the room. He kept to his side of the couch. He didn’t reach out—not even when he felt the coil of want curl too tight beneath his skin.
Until tonight.
The television flickered with late-night static—some foreign crime drama no one was watching. Chūya sat with his arms crossed, trying to focus on the screen, on the sound, anything that wasn’t the hum of tension building inside his body.
It was unbearable.
His foot tapped. His spine itched. The bond curled inside him like steam with nowhere to go.
And from across the room, Dazai stirred.
Just a shift—nothing more. But it drew Chūya’s eyes. And of course, Dazai was already watching him, always watching, those unreadable eyes catching every twitch in his jaw, every shallow breath, every time he bit the inside of his cheek.
Chūya looked away fast.
But not fast enough.
“Chūya,” Dazai said, voice low. Velvet and ash and heat.
The syllables landed hard—like they always did now. Direct line to the base of his spine, sparking something hot and unbearable in his chest.
He hated that he shivered.
He hated that the bond purred.
“I’m fine,” he snapped, too quickly.
“I didn’t ask,” Dazai murmured, still calm. Still careful.
He didn’t come closer. Just waited. Let the silence crackle.
It didn’t take long before Chūya turned his head again. His mouth opened to argue, to deflect, to lie—
But Dazai spoke first.
“Do you want me to touch you?”
The question cut the air like a knife.
Direct. Blunt. But not cruel.
Just honest.
Chūya swallowed hard. His heart thudded against his ribs.
“I…” His voice broke.
And Dazai didn’t move. Didn’t press. Just watched him quietly, like every moment balanced on the edge of a blade.
“You don’t have to,” Dazai said, soft. “Not unless you want it. Not unless you say it.”
Another pause.
And then—gentler:
“But if it hurts to keep going like this… I can help.”
His voice did something dangerous to Chūya’s balance.
Struck a chord that made the bond tremble.
“Say it,” Dazai whispered. Not a command. A coaxing.
Just enough weight to pull.
Chūya’s hands trembled. His breath shuddered out of him. His whole body ached with the effort of keeping himself still.
But then—
“…Yes.”
He didn’t look at him when he said it.
Didn’t have to.
The bond surged. Relief. Need. Permission. All twisted together, threading through every muscle like lightning under skin.
Dazai moved slowly, rising from his chair and crossing the room. Every step a storm front. Every movement felt like pressure in Chūya’s ribs.
He stopped in front of him.
Close enough to touch. Not doing it yet.
“Tell me again.”
“Dazai—”
“Say it, Chūya.”
That tone again.
Voice bound.
Like silk dragged across bruised skin. Like a leash fastened to something inside him. His breath hitched.
“…I want you to.”
Dazai knelt in front of him, hand rising—still not touching.
“Here?”
Chūya nodded.
“Now?”
His eyes fluttered shut. “Please.”
And that was all Dazai needed.
He reached out and laid his hand on Chūya’s thigh.
The effect was instant.
Chūya gasped—body jolting, not from surprise, but from relief. The bond groaned with satisfaction, sinking back into his chest like it had been waiting for this. Like touch was air. Like touch was truth.
Dazai leaned forward, mouth near his ear.
“Good.”
Just the word.
And Chūya moaned—quiet, shameful, low in his throat.
Everything inside him unraveled.
He didn’t kiss him.
Not at first.
Dazai simply waited—his palm warm and steady on Chūya’s thigh, breath skimming over his skin like it could quiet all the noise he hadn’t been able to drown on his own.
It was maddening.
And grounding.
And exactly what Chūya needed.
He let his legs fall open without thinking. Dazai didn’t push. Didn’t lunge. Just hovered, calm and deliberate, as if every move had to be weighed against whatever storm was still crackling in Chūya’s chest.
Then—
“You can touch me,” Chūya said, rough. His eyes stayed locked on Dazai’s, voice thick with hunger he didn’t dare name. “Please.”
Something flickered in Dazai’s gaze.
Not triumph. Not lust.
Something far more dangerous.
Something tender.
His hand moved—slow, reverent—sliding upward with a pressure that made Chūya’s breath catch in his throat.
“You’ve been holding this in for days,” Dazai murmured, his thumb brushing along the seam of Chūya’s pants. “No wonder it hurts.”
Chūya huffed, lips twitching.
“Touch me, not narrate it.”
Dazai smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Still mouthy when you’re desperate.”
“Fuck off.”
The moment Dazai cupped him, Chūya choked on whatever insult was coming next.
The bond flared hard—a pulse like lightning shooting from his chest to his spine. His hips jerked. His hands gripped the couch cushions so tight they creaked beneath his fingers.
And Dazai leaned in closer.
Not kissing.
Just speaking—right near his ear.
“Do you want me to take it slow?”
Chūya didn’t know how to answer.
He wanted everything. Wanted to burn. To feel. To get rid of the ache that had been eating him alive.
But he was still scared.
Still uncertain if this need was love or instinct or something darker that lived in the marrow of the bond.
So he said the only thing that felt honest:
“Don’t leave me like this again.”
Dazai stilled.
His breath hitched.
Then—quietly, like a promise wrapped in guilt:
“I won’t. Never again.”
He kissed him.
And Chūya broke.
It wasn’t a kiss—it was a claiming.
Their mouths met like they’d never kissed before. Like they might never get the chance again. Chūya’s legs curled around Dazai’s waist. His hands scrambled under fabric. Dazai’s fingers dragged over his ribs like he was trying to memorize every curve and scar.
The bond screamed between them.
Chūya couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. He didn’t even try to hold back the sounds that tore out of his throat as Dazai rutted against him, half-clothed and shaking.
“Off,” Chūya panted, voice ragged. “Clothes. Off.”
Dazai laughed, breathless.
“You’re greedy.”
“You waited days—that’s on you.”
They fumbled. Shirts were yanked. Pants shoved down. Skin on skin, hot and aching, the bond flaring brighter every time they touched. Dazai’s hands shook. Chūya’s heart felt too big for his chest.
And through it all, Dazai looked at him.
Like he meant every second.
“Say it again,” Dazai whispered, voice trembling with restraint.
Chūya swallowed hard. His hands clenched in the fabric beneath them. His eyes didn’t leave Dazai’s.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I want this.”
The bond howled.
When Dazai pushed in, Chūya arched off the couch.
The noise he made wasn’t human. It was want. It was relief. It was too much and not enough, all at once.
Dazai held him like he might disappear.
Kissed every inch of skin he could reach.
Bit down when Chūya gasped and begged for more.
And every time he said Chūya’s name, the bond shuddered. It sent heat down Chūya’s spine, wrapped itself around his lungs until he couldn’t tell where he ended and Dazai began.
They moved together—uncoordinated, raw, desperate.
But it was real.
The kind of real Chūya hadn’t let himself believe in.
He came first.
Hard. Loud. Shaking with the force of it.
Dazai followed moments later, buried deep, moaning against Chūya’s throat like it hurt to feel this much.
They collapsed together, breathless, wrapped around each other like the aftermath of a storm.
And still—Dazai didn’t let go.
Didn’t shift. Didn’t retreat.
Even after the bond began to settle, flickering into a quiet warmth under Chūya’s skin, he stayed right there.
“I meant what I said,” Dazai murmured, voice thick with something Chūya didn’t want to name. “I’ll never leave you like that again.”
Chūya didn’t answer.
But he didn’t push him away, either.
They didn’t say much after.
The bond had quieted, humming like low tide in their chests—still there, still vast, but no longer pressing hard against their ribs. No longer desperate.
Chūya lay with his cheek pressed to Dazai’s shoulder, one leg tangled between his, arm resting across his stomach. It was too warm. Too much. But he didn’t move.
Dazai didn’t move either.
He only breathed. Soft and steady. Like he was trying to match Chūya’s rhythm.
Chūya stared at the ceiling, letting the silence stretch. The room smelled like sweat and skin and something deeper now—like them. Like the bond had burned itself into the air.
He hated how much better he felt.
And he hated that he hated it.
Because this—this shouldn’t have fixed anything. It wasn’t a solution. It wasn’t a decision. But his muscles weren’t screaming anymore, and the gnawing restlessness had dulled, and Dazai’s warmth felt like something he wasn’t ready to live without.
Not again.
“Stop thinking so loud,” Dazai murmured.
His voice wasn’t teasing. It was quiet. Careful. Like the words had weight.
Chūya blinked. “Didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He felt Dazai’s fingers ghost along his arm, just once—barely there.
“You okay?”
Chūya hesitated.
Then nodded.
A lie, maybe. But not a dangerous one.
Dazai didn’t press.
Instead, he shifted just enough to press a kiss to Chūya’s hairline. Slow. Thoughtful. And real.
It settled something in Chūya’s chest.
Not the fear. Not the uncertainty. But him. The part of him that had been untethered for days, swinging between anger and need and confusion, finally had a place to rest.
He let his eyes close. Just for a moment.
And Dazai held him like he was afraid to let go.
It arrived in the late afternoon.
No knock. No agent at the door. Just a thin envelope slipped through the mail slot like a whisper. Pale grey. ARC-sealed. Stamped with the sigil that had started this whole nightmare.
Chūya picked it up without a word, turning it over in his hands once before slicing it open with a fingernail.
Dazai watched from the couch, legs folded beneath him, eyes steady but unreadable.
Inside: one folded page, crisp and formal. Inked in the precise, clinical language ARC always used to disguise its authority as protocol.
RE: Conditional Reintegration Approval
As of this notice, ARC has approved preliminary reintegration into the civilian sector under the following conditions:
1. Mandatory Cohabitation
Shared ARC-approved residence.
Minimum term: 6 months.
2. ARC-Regulated Workplace Placement
Assigned to the same organization/project.
ARC liaison embedded in workplace oversight.
3. Continuous Monitoring Protocol
Fitted biometric wristbands (non-dominant wrist).
Real-time data collection: vitals, bond resonance, emotional flux.
Proximity alerts active within a 20-meter radius.
4. Scheduled ARC Check-ins
Bi-weekly wellness evaluations.
Monthly resonance recalibrations.
Quarterly psychological assessments.
5. Arcana Interference Restrictions
All forms of magical interference, suppression, or ritual modulation of the bond are prohibited.
6. Provisional Status
Full autonomy review scheduled for: [DATE REDACTED].
Breach of terms will result in immediate recall.
ARC does not authorize requests for separation at this time.
The bottom was signed by a familiar hand—Agent Karasuma, as always. Ink so black it looked burned into the page.
Chūya read it once. Then again. His eyes paused on ARC does not authorize requests for separation at this time, fingers tightening just slightly at the edge.
He passed it silently to Dazai.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Dazai exhaled. Folded the letter again with slow, deliberate care. Set it on the table between them.
“…So this is our life now,” Chūya said, voice flat.
Dazai’s gaze flicked toward him, something unreadable in the soft arch of his brows. “For now.”
The words hovered.
Not forever.
But neither of them said that out loud.
The bond pulsed quietly beneath their skin. Steady. Unsettling.
And outside, somewhere far beyond the walls, the city kept moving—as if nothing had changed.
Chapter 20: Close Enough to Touch
Summary:
Released from ARC custody under strict conditions, Chūya insists they return to his apartment—desperate for normalcy. But nothing feels normal anymore. Surveillance bands, shared living quarters, and the bond’s persistent ache all strain his resolve. When proximity becomes unavoidable, Chūya offers Dazai the bedroom—reluctantly—setting the tone for a cohabitation neither of them are quite ready for. Bound souls, one bed, and a silence that presses closer with every breath.
Chapter Text
Chūya let out a sharp breath and tossed the letter onto the table.
“Fucking charming.”
Dazai didn’t smile. Just leaned forward, scanning the pages silently.
“They’re letting us out,” he murmured eventually.
Chūya stood. Restless. “They’re releasing us. That’s not the same as freedom.”
He paced once, twice, then grabbed his coat.
“I’m not staying in that ARC place a second longer than I have to. My apartment still exists—I’m going home.”
Dazai didn’t argue.
He never expected to choose where they’d go. Not now.
Chūya was already at the door, keys in hand. “You coming or what?”
“…Yeah.”
The apartment felt like a memory gone stale.
Dust settled on every surface. The air had a must to it—like something sealed too long.
Chūya stepped inside and immediately wrinkled his nose.
“Smells like a fucking tomb.”
Dazai lingered at the threshold.
He didn’t say it out loud, but the place smelled like Chūya.
Faint, but real. Real enough to twist something in his chest.
Chūya opened the windows with more force than necessary. “Bet everything in the fridge’s rotten. ARC better pay for that.”
A soft click behind them made both of them tense.
An ARC technician stood in the doorway—briefcase in hand, ID badge visible, eyes already sweeping the room.
“Apologies for the intrusion. I’m here to set up the monitoring equipment.”
Chūya stared. “You’re what?”
“Standard protocol. As per your conditional reintegration agreement.”
Dazai stepped aside, letting him pass. The tech was already pulling out a sleek wristband scanner and a small wall-mounted interface.
Chūya huffed, but didn’t fight it. Not now.
Not yet.
He was home. That had to be enough.
The fridge door opened with a squelch.
Then came the smell.
“Fuck,” Chūya gagged, slamming it shut again. “Fucking fuck. That’s feral.”
He ripped a towel off the counter and held it over his mouth, muttering curses as he yanked the fridge open again. Tupperware clung to the shelves like decaying artifacts. Something green and fuzzy blinked at him from the back.
“Unbelievable. I leave for a couple weeks and this place turns into a biohazard. ARC’s paying for this shit.”
He yanked out containers one by one and dumped them into the trash—grumbling the entire time. “My wine’s probably gone sour too. That was a 2013 bottle, Dazai. Do you even comprehend what that means?”
Behind him, Dazai leaned against the kitchen doorway, silent.
Watching.
There was something strangely grounding about it—like watching a storm flare on the horizon but knowing the lightning wasn’t going to strike. Not yet.
Chūya slammed the fridge shut. “All of it. Ruined. This entire place smells like a dead rat’s asshole. And I’m expected to just go on like nothing happened.”
“You’re home,” Dazai said softly.
Chūya threw the towel in the sink. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
A quiet beep pulled both their attention to the living room.
The ARC technician stood, brushing off his coat. “Monitoring interface installed. Wristband calibration complete.”
Chūya frowned. “You didn’t give us any wristbands.”
“They’re synced remotely to the ARC relay grid.” The man gestured toward the wall panel, now glowing faintly with sigil lines. “It registers bond surges, proximity stress, and vitals. No further action required on your part.”
“Fantastic,” Chūya muttered, folding his arms.
“If either of you experiences symptoms—pain, dissociation, emotional destabilization—contact ARC immediately.”
“We’ll send a fucking telegram,” he snapped.
The technician either didn’t hear the sarcasm or chose to ignore it. “We’ll return for your first on-site assessment within the week.”
With that, he bowed faintly, packed up his case, and left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
A silence followed.
Chūya wiped a hand over his face. “I need a shower.”
“I’ll unpack,” Dazai offered, already glancing at the bags ARC had delivered from the facility.
Chūya started toward the hallway—but paused.
There was a guest room. Always had been. It was just down the hall. Clean, neutral, untouched.
But Dazai didn’t move toward it.
Chūya hesitated. Then sighed.
“…You can use the bedroom.”
Dazai blinked. “I thought—”
“I said you can use the bedroom. Not that I want to have a heart-to-heart about it.”
He turned without another word, disappearing into the bathroom and locking the door behind him.
Dazai stood in the stillness, watching the hallway.
Then turned back toward the bedroom.
Quietly.
Carefully.
As if it might vanish if he touched it too soon.
The lights were off when Chūya stepped into the bedroom, towel around his neck, hair still damp from the shower. The air smelled faintly of steam and lavender soap—his, not Dazai’s—and for a moment, it grounded him.
Dazai sat on the far edge of the bed.
Not lying down. Not asleep. Just… sitting. Fully clothed. Barefoot.
He didn’t look up as Chūya entered. He didn’t have to.
The bond stirred the second their auras brushed.
Chūya flinched at the sensation. It wasn’t sharp, not quite—but expectant. Like something reaching for contact and recoiling when it didn’t find it.
He crossed to his side of the bed in silence. Didn’t brush past him. Didn’t let their shoulders touch. He moved like the distance mattered—like it was a thread he couldn’t afford to snap.
The bond twitched in protest.
He felt it low and tight in his chest, like a misfired breath. Like guilt.
Dazai still hadn’t moved.
So Chūya cleared his throat and muttered, “You should sleep.”
The only answer was the slow turn of Dazai’s head.
“Chūya,” he said—soft—and the bond lit beneath the surface of Chūya’s skin like a struck chord.
Goddamn voice.
It wasn’t even intentional, probably. Just the way he said it—low, careful, threaded with some ancient kind of ache. The syllables wrapped around him before he could brace for them.
He didn’t answer.
He sat down instead, stiff and angled toward the far wall. Like posture might make a difference. Like the space between them could hold the weight of everything unsaid.
But the bond tugged. Not hard. Not forceful. Just… persistent.
It wanted closeness.
And Chūya hated how much of him wanted it too.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
But after a long moment, the bed dipped softly behind him.
Dazai lay down—without a sound—careful not to touch. He stayed to his side, face turned toward the ceiling, limbs drawn in like someone waiting to be told they’d crossed a line.
And maybe they had.
Chūya stared at the opposite wall.
Minutes passed.
Then—
“…Don’t,” he said, throat tight. “Don’t say my name like that again.”
A pause.
“Like what?”
“Like you fucking mean it.”
The silence that followed wasn’t cold.
It was warm. Heavy. Laced with something painful and real.
“I do mean it,” Dazai said softly.
The bond didn’t flare this time. It simply breathed.
And Chūya, after a long, long time, let his eyes close.
He didn’t reach for Dazai.
But he didn’t pull away either.
And maybe—for tonight—that was enough.
Chapter 21: Bound Only If Offered
Summary:
After Dr. Kida’s visit and the quiet fallout of his revelations, Chūya and Dazai are left to process the implications of a bond that’s rapidly becoming permanent. Between ancient texts and arcane warnings, they begin to understand that the soulbind’s power doesn’t lie in domination—but in choice. When the conversation turns toward how intimacy might help stabilize them, it’s not control that’s asked for—but trust. And in a soft, breathless moment, Chūya offers it.
Chapter Text
Chūya woke slowly, still caught in the haze between dream and morning—warm, cocooned in softness, the light behind his eyelids soft and pale.
And pressed against something solid.
Breathing.
Alive.
His eyes opened.
Dazai.
His nose was nearly brushing Dazai’s collarbone, breath ghosting against the hollow of his throat. One arm was draped loosely across Dazai’s waist, the other curled near his own chest, fingers still tangled in the edge of Dazai’s shirt. Their legs—
God. Their legs.
Entwined. Fused from thigh to ankle like a puzzle the bond had solved in the dark.
Chūya went still.
His pulse spiked.
And still, he didn’t move—didn’t dare. Because suddenly, everything was loud.
The rhythm of Dazai’s heartbeat under his palm.
The heat bleeding off him in slow, steady waves.
The bond—low and humming—satisfied, like a predator purring after a long hunt.
He hadn’t meant to move. Hadn’t wanted to. But sometime in the night—somewhere in sleep—his body had made the decision for him.
Or maybe the bond had.
And now…
Now they were here.
Entwined. Close. Too close.
He exhaled slowly, trying to untangle his mind from his body.
It wasn’t desire. Not exactly. It was something older than that. Some deep, aching need for proximity. For tether. For home.
His fingers twitched against Dazai’s side.
And Dazai—
—spoke.
Soft. Barely a whisper.
“…Good morning.”
Chūya flinched at the sound.
Because of course the bastard was already awake.
“How long’ve you been up?” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep and irritation.
“A while,” Dazai replied, and to his credit, he didn’t move either. Didn’t make a joke. Didn’t smirk. Just… stayed still. Voice warm, careful. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
Chūya grunted, trying and failing to pull his arm back without disturbing the precarious peace.
But Dazai’s fingers closed around his wrist—lightly.
“Don’t,” he murmured. “You’ll make it worse.”
“…Worse?”
“The bond,” Dazai said, eyes still closed. “It’s… quiet. Right now.”
Chūya swallowed.
Because he felt it too.
That rare, delicate stillness in his chest—like something had finally settled. Like a knot undone.
And all it had taken was this.
One night. One mistake.
One truth too terrifying to speak aloud:
He didn’t want to let go.
The knock was soft—measured, not mechanical.
Not an ARC agent, then.
Chūya sat up from the couch where he’d relocated an hour earlier, tugging on a loose sweater. Dazai didn’t move from the kitchen, eyes flicking to the door but letting Chūya handle it.
When Chūya cracked it open, a familiar figure waited on the other side.
“Dr. Kida,” he said, surprised. “Didn’t expect you.”
The man offered a faint smile and stepped inside without fanfare, tucking a leather-bound folder under his arm and setting a flat case on the entry table.
“Consider this an unofficial visit,” Kida said. “Call it… preventative diplomacy.”
Dazai raised a brow from the kitchen. “Trouble already?”
“Not yet,” Kida replied evenly. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t prepare for it.”
He turned to Chūya and unlatched the small case with practiced precision.
Inside were two slender bands—less polished than the ARC issue calibration rings, these ones etched with older glyphs. They shimmered faintly, not from power, but from age.
“These are tracking rings,” Kida said, lifting one. “But not in the standard sense. They’re attuned to your bond's arcane resonance, not your location. If there’s a spike, they’ll notify me directly—before it hits central monitoring.”
Chūya stared at the ring. “You’re covering for us.”
Kida didn’t deny it. “I’m giving you time. That’s all I can offer.”
He handed one to each of them. “Wear them at night. Don’t take them off unless you’re both stable. They’ll give us an early warning if things start to degrade.”
Dazai slipped his on immediately, but Chūya hesitated—fingers tightening slightly around the band.
Kida noticed.
“I brought something else, too,” he said, setting the leather folder down on the table with a faint thump. “Historical literature on soulbonds. Pre-regulation arcana. Unredacted.”
Chūya blinked. “You’re serious.”
“There’s a reason ARC classifies most of this,” Kida said. “Because it doesn’t paint a clean picture.”
Dazai had already opened the first page.
Inside were annotated diagrams—sketches of binding rituals, early soul-pact circles, and something that made Chūya’s throat tighten.
Collars.
Leashes.
Symbols of subjugation, of ownership.
Kida’s voice was steady.
“In early arcane societies, soulbonds were often used not for love—but for control. Especially in regions where wild arcana ran untempered. Bonds were forged to keep powerful individuals tethered to handlers, to partners, to masters.”
He turned a page.
“Physical symbols helped stabilize the bond. Collars. Rope. Restriction. It gave the arcana visibility—a focus point. Especially in sexual or emotional contexts.”
Chūya’s stomach flipped.
“So what, bondage was a regulation tactic?”
“It was more than that,” Kida said. “It was reinforcement. In some cases, the only way to stop wild bonds from converging fully.”
Dazai, oddly silent, traced a fingertip along one of the diagrams—an ancient shibari pattern fused with arcane runes. The image was crude, but the tension beneath it was unmistakable.
Kida shut the folder slowly. “I’m not saying you have to use any of this. But the bond will escalate. It already has.”
Chūya glanced at Dazai—at the mark on his wrist where the old ring had flared. At the quiet restraint in his body.
“How important is intimacy?” Chūya asked, voice low.
Kida didn’t answer immediately.
Then—gently: “You’re sharing a soul. If you keep denying the body, the bond will find other ways to feed.”
The silence that followed was thick.
Chūya set the ring down on the table and walked to the window, arms crossed.
“…What happens if we don’t give it that?”
Kida looked at him—truly looked.
“You'll lose yourselves. Slowly. Quietly. Until there’s nothing left but the bond.”
Dr. Kida had gone.
The rings sat quietly on the counter.
And the ancient folder remained unopened again—its pages humming with arcane weight that neither of them had touched since.
Chūya leaned against the far edge of the window, arms crossed. He hadn’t moved in ten minutes.
Dazai sat opposite him on the floor, one leg drawn up, wrist propped on his knee. He didn’t say anything. Hadn’t said anything since Kida left.
The bond pulsed faintly between them.
Not in hunger, not in pain—but in awareness.
It didn’t need proximity anymore to make itself known.
“…So this is it, huh,” Chūya muttered finally, breaking the silence. “We're a living relic. Two idiots caught in the arcane equivalent of a fucking leash.”
The word hung there.
Sharp. Bitter.
But not entirely resentful.
Dazai’s voice was soft. “That’s not what it is.”
Chūya glanced over, brow raised.
“It’s not?” he challenged.
Dazai didn’t look away.
“No,” he said. “Not unless you want it to be.”
Silence again.
This time, more charged.
Chūya exhaled through his nose. “…It’s not about wanting it. You heard Kida. Eventually this bond will make us—what? Converge? Blur out? Lose everything we are?”
He pushed off the window, tension rising in his spine. “And what, tying each other up is the solution?”
Dazai didn’t move. But his voice dropped lower.
“It’s not about tying you up. It’s about giving it shape. Us giving it shape—before it takes that from us.”
Chūya stilled.
The bond surged lightly—subtle but noticeable.
He swallowed.
“And what if I don’t want it?” he asked, barely audible. “What if I’m scared of what it turns me into?”
Dazai’s gaze didn’t flinch.
“Then we don’t use it,” he said. “Not like that. Not for control.”
He stood slowly, crossing the space between them—but stopped just shy of touching. Only his voice reached across the last few inches.
“When the leash was used in the past,” he said, “it wasn’t just about ownership. Sometimes it was… consent. A way to choose who you gave power to. It meant, I trust you to hold me back when I can’t hold myself.”
The air between them throbbed.
“And if I asked you,” Dazai said, “not to leash me—but to let me wear it for you—would that feel like losing yourself?”
Chūya’s breath caught.
He hated how warm his chest went. Hated how the bond thrummed at that phrasing—soft, electric, reverent.
He closed his eyes.
“…You’re insane,” he said, but the words were barely more than breath.
“I am,” Dazai agreed.
“And you’re selfish.”
“Always.”
Chūya looked at him then—eyes flickering with conflict. With fire. With something raw and newly surfaced.
“…But if you ever try to take my choices again,” he said, voice thick, “I’ll find a way to break this bond. I don’t care if it kills me.”
Dazai’s smile was gentle. “Then I’ll never try.”
The bond didn’t pull this time.
It curled between them.
Settling.
Not demanding touch—but waiting for it.
And when Chūya’s hand finally reached out, fingers brushing Dazai’s wrist like a tether forming by choice—
—the bond shimmered.
Soft. Steady. And, for the first time, not hungry.
Just held.
Chapter 22: We Decide the Limits
Summary:
Sometimes surrender isn’t defeat—it’s choice. When the bond's hunger flares again, Chūya confronts the discomfort head-on, pushed by frustration, pulled by instinct, and steadied by Dazai’s care. What begins with hesitation unfolds into something more honest—tethered not by control, but trust. And for once, the bond quiets in the aftermath.
Chapter Text
It started with a message. Not from ARC this time, but from the outside world.
Chūya stood at the kitchen counter, half a mug of coffee going cold beside him, when his phone buzzed. He glanced down, expecting another check-in from Dr. Kida or a passive-aggressive scheduling notice from the ARC relay system.
But instead:
"Heard you were on some sort of leave. Let me know when you're back. We've been covering your shifts, but it's getting tight. — Y."
His boss.
Chūya stared at the message for a long moment, thumb hovering just above the screen. A knot twisted in his stomach, sharp and sour.
He hadn’t even realized how long it had been.
The world outside kept moving.
People kept working.
And here he was, stuck in a containment-approved apartment, tangled up in Dazai and the lingering consequences of something he hadn’t even understood when he agreed to it.
“Something wrong?”
Dazai’s voice cut in softly, not pushing—but already knowing. Of course he knew. The bond pulled tight between them like a nerve.
“My boss,” Chūya muttered. “They want to know when I’ll be back. ARC might’ve cleared things with them officially, but people still notice when someone drops off the face of the earth.”
Dazai nodded slowly. “You miss it.”
“What do you think?”
Another silence fell between them. This one shorter. Less sharp. More tired.
“It’s not fair,” Chūya added, voice lower. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t even know what the bond meant.”
Dazai leaned against the doorframe, hands tucked in his sleeves. His eyes were unreadable. Not blank. Just... tired. Careful.
“I know.”
Chūya turned away.
He didn’t want pity. He didn’t want comfort.
What he wanted was a way to feel normal again.
And that wasn’t coming back.
Later that evening, the book Dr. Kida had brought still lay on the coffee table, its spine cracked halfway through. The section was marked in the index:
"Arcane Convergence: Tethers, Trust, and Consensual Stability."
Chūya hadn’t touched it.
Dazai had.
He picked it up now, slowly. Turned a page. And without looking up:
“It says here that... some manifestations of the bond respond to symbols. Patterns of trust. Physical markers.”
“You mean kink shit.”
“I mean, anchors,” Dazai said, voice light but not mocking. “Call it what you want. They used to call it sacred signifiers. A visible gesture of surrender or safety. To calm the arcana down. To make it feel chosen.”
Chūya rolled his eyes. “Great. So now I’m supposed to kneel and beg you to fuck me until the voices in our blood shut up?”
Dazai didn’t flinch. He just flipped the page.
“No. But it says the bond reacts less violently when things are clearly defined. Offered, not demanded. When you choose it.”
He finally met Chūya’s eyes.
“I’m not asking for control. I’m asking if you want to try.”
The words settled like ash in the room. Soft. Heavy. Irrevocable.
And the bond, nestled between their ribs, woke at the sound of it.
The apartment was quiet, but not calm.
Chūya stood by the window, arms crossed, jaw tight. He hadn’t moved since the message had come through—just stared out at the city below like it might offer a better answer than the one thrumming in his chest.
Dazai said nothing from the kitchen, giving him space. But Chūya could feel him. Not through sight or sound—just the bond. Soft and warm and present, tugging at him like a thread stitched beneath the skin.
Too close to ignore.
Too gentle to blame.
The kettle clicked off behind him. Steam rose. Porcelain clinked. Still, Chūya didn’t turn.
“I didn’t mean for it to feel like a prison,” Dazai said eventually, voice low. “I just—”
“It’s not you,” Chūya cut in, too sharply. Then again, quieter. “It’s not just you.”
He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck, exhaling hard. “I know I agreed to this. The relocation. The monitoring. All of it. I just… forgot what it felt like to have a life that wasn’t built around you.”
The bond pulsed faintly.
Not guilt. Not sorrow.
Just… understanding.
“You can still have that,” Dazai said. “If you want it. This doesn’t have to define everything.”
“But it does, doesn’t it?” Chūya turned then, eyes tired. “Even if I go back to work. Even if I pretend everything’s normal. We’re still tethered. Still waking up in the same bed because if we don’t, I stop breathing and you collapse in the hallway.”
Dazai didn’t argue.
Instead, he picked something up from the table and crossed the room—slow, non-threatening, like approaching a wounded animal. He held the old book Kida had left behind: the one with the frayed leather cover and arcane-stamped pages that still smelled faintly of smoke and clove.
He offered it out.
Chūya hesitated. Then took it.
The pages fell open where it had been bookmarked.
A passage, circled faintly in pencil, read:
When trust is elusive, let ritual speak in its place.
Let the voice guide where the hand cannot reach.
Let command be given, and let the answer be freely spoken.
Below it:
A bond responds most clearly when boundaries are defined—and not feared.
Chūya stared at it for a long moment.
His throat moved, swallowing something tight and bitter.
Then, softly—like it surprised even him:
“…Is that why it works?”
Dazai tilted his head.
“When you talk like that,” Chūya added, not meeting his gaze. “When you use that voice. The bond listens. I listen.”
“It’s not just the voice,” Dazai said, gently. “It’s you. Letting it reach you.”
A beat.
“Would you let me try again?” he asked. “Just to ease it. Nothing more. No expectations.”
Chūya didn’t look up—but his shoulders dropped. Not defeated. Just tired of resisting something that clearly wasn’t going away.
“…Fine,” he murmured.
But when Dazai took a slow step closer, Chūya added—quiet but firm:
“If you’re gonna do it, do it right.”
Dazai’s eyes flickered. “Meaning?”
“Ask me,” Chūya said, jaw tense. “Like you did before.”
The bond stirred—expectant.
And Dazai obeyed, voice dropping into that velvet register that curled against Chūya’s spine like silk and smoke.
“Will you let me help you tonight?”
A pause.
Then:
“…Yeah,” Chūya said. “Yeah, okay.”
The bond relaxed.
And so did Chūya.
Later, the lights dimmed to dusk.
Chūya sat on the edge of the bed, half-undressed, muscles tight with anticipation he didn’t know how to name. His hands rested on his thighs. His eyes stayed on the floor. Not because he was ashamed—but because he wasn’t sure what expression would be safe to wear.
Dazai stood just a few paces away. Silent. Waiting.
He hadn’t touched Chūya once. Not since they stepped into the room.
“Do you want this?” he asked again—low and clear, a breath of velvet wrapped around command.
The bond stirred, warm and pliant. But Chūya’s answer came from himself.
“Yes.”
His voice cracked slightly—but the word held.
Dazai exhaled slowly. “Tell me what you want.”
Chūya swallowed.
“…Touch me,” he said. “Just… keep your voice low.”
Dazai stepped forward—still cautious, still reverent—and reached out, letting his fingers brush Chūya’s jaw. Light pressure. No force.
When Chūya didn’t flinch, he let his thumb trace along the edge of his throat. His hand settled gently around the back of his neck, steady and warm.
“Good,” Dazai murmured. “You’re doing so well.”
The bond flared. Pleasure rippled through it—not purely sexual, but deeply physical. Grounding. Affirming. Like every word Dazai spoke echoed down the tether with a velvet snap.
Chūya’s breath caught, eyes fluttering shut.
“You feel that?” Dazai asked, voice a shade deeper.
Chūya nodded. “Yeah.”
“Tell me if you want more.”
“…I want more.”
Hands skimmed lower. Shirt slipped off shoulders. No rush, no push—just ease, just presence.
When Dazai finally guided him down to the mattress, Chūya let him.
Because it wasn’t about dominance.
It wasn’t even about sex—not entirely.
It was about control.
About offering it. About reclaiming it.
About giving the bond what it needed without surrendering the self.
Dazai kissed his throat, slow and sure.
“I’ll stop any time,” he whispered. “Just say the word.”
But Chūya didn’t.
Because this time—he didn’t want him to.
They lay in silence for a long time after.
Not because there was nothing to say—
—but because the bond finally felt quiet.
Chūya was half-curled into Dazai’s chest, warm beneath the sheets. His breath had steadied. The sweat on his skin had begun to cool. Every inch of him felt… spent. Not used. Not pushed. But eased, like pressure released after days of tight-coiled tension.
Dazai didn’t speak until he felt Chūya shift—just slightly, a twitch of the fingers against his ribs.
“Are you alright?” he asked, voice low. “Tell me honestly.”
Chūya stayed quiet at first. Then gave a half-laugh—small, shaky, almost embarrassed.
“…I don’t know what the fuck that was,” he muttered, “but yeah. I think I’m okay.”
“You think?”
“I know,” Chūya corrected, rolling his eyes—but not moving away. “Just… surprised me, I guess.”
“Was anything too much?”
Chūya paused. Then shook his head. “No. You… kept checking in. That helped.”
Dazai didn’t answer right away. He just let his thumb trace idle circles into Chūya’s hip, breathing slow. Thoughtful.
“It wasn’t about control,” he said after a while. “Not in the way people usually mean it.”
Chūya made a soft, questioning sound.
Dazai’s eyes flicked toward the edge of the mattress. “It was about you letting go. Letting the bond ease up without letting it define you.”
“…Did it?”
“No,” Dazai said. “You defined it.”
That earned him a longer silence.
Then, almost grudgingly:
“You sound like a fucking therapist.”
“Don’t flatter me.”
Chūya snorted—and that was how Dazai knew he meant it. The tension wasn’t gone, but it was softer now. Less brittle. He could feel the bond purring faintly at the base of his spine, content enough to let them rest without pulling or flaring or twisting between them.
“…Thanks,” Chūya murmured.
“For what?”
“For not being an asshole about it.”
Dazai smiled against his hair. “I’m just saving it for tomorrow.”
“Dick.”
They both laughed—soft and tired—and eventually, Chūya let himself fall asleep like that.
Pressed close. No longer fighting it.
Chapter 23: Tethered in Silence
Summary:
In the quiet aftermath of their first night truly giving in to the bond, Chūya wakes to find the collar set aside and Dazai already up—neither of them speaking about what happened, but both feeling the weight of it. ARC’s written conditions remain on the kitchen counter, a cold reminder of how little control they have left. As Chūya hesitates to reach out to his old life, unsure whether he can return, Dazai gives him space—offering patience instead of pressure. But the bond, still pulsing beneath their skin, knows better: nothing about this is over.
Chapter Text
The quiet held, but it wasn’t peace.
Not really.
Not after what they’d done.
Chūya had woken first this time, a strange calm resting just under his skin. His body didn’t ache like before. His head wasn’t spinning. And the bond… the bond was silent. Not gone, not dormant—but sated. Humming low and distant, like a tide that had finally rolled back from the shore.
Dazai still slept, half-buried in Chūya’s pillow. Hair a mess, breathing soft.
Chūya didn’t know how long he sat there watching.
Long enough for the doubts to creep in.
It had worked. Again. They’d taken care of the bond, and it hadn’t broken him. But that didn’t mean it was normal. Didn’t mean he liked what it made him do. What it made him want.
He dressed in silence. No shared glances. No whispered comments. Just the sound of water running and the low shuffle of socks on tile.
By the time Dazai stirred, Chūya had already poured himself coffee—and was staring at his phone.
No notifications.
No calls.
No texts.
But the guilt was a slow twist in his stomach anyway.
“Something wrong?” Dazai asked, voice still sleep-rough.
Chūya didn’t look at him. “I need to call my boss.”
Dazai hesitated before nodding. “Want me to step out?”
Chūya shrugged. “Do whatever you want.”
But Dazai didn’t move.
He just sat there quietly as Chūya tapped in the number. The ringing tone felt too loud in the small apartment.
It took four rings for someone to answer.
“Shirakawa.”
“Hey. It’s me.”
A pause. Then a sharp intake of breath. “Chūya? Holy hell—where the fuck have you been?”
“I—” His mouth went dry. “It’s… complicated.”
“Complicated? You disappeared. ARC called and told us you were in containment. That’s it. No updates. No clearance. Do you have any idea how close I was to filing a missing person report?”
Chūya pressed his fingers to his forehead. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
Shirakawa exhaled harshly on the other end. “Is it true? What they said? About some arcane exposure? Some kind of binding?”
“…Yeah.”
“Shit.” Another pause. “Are you okay?”
Chūya closed his eyes. “I don’t know.”
A long silence stretched between them.
“You coming back?” Shirakawa finally asked, quieter this time. “You want me to keep the position open?”
“I—”
Chūya looked toward the window. Morning light spilled across the kitchen floor like a question he couldn’t answer.
“I don’t know if I can.”
And there it was.
He said it out loud, and it hit harder than he expected.
Not just because it was true.
But because he meant it.
The call ended.
Chūya didn’t move.
He sat there long after the line went dead, thumb hovering over the screen like he might call back. Say something different. Rewind time and undo the part where his voice had broken.
But it was done.
He’d said it.
And now it was real.
Behind him, Dazai didn’t speak. Didn’t try to console. He only stood, padded barefoot across the floor, and opened the cabinet where Kida’s bundle of materials still sat—half read, mostly ignored.
Until now.
Chūya finally turned, brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”
Dazai pulled something free from the folds of linen cloth. Leather. Smooth, dark. A loop coiled neatly in his hands.
Not just a leash.
The collar, too.
Chūya blinked, tension snapping into his spine. “Seriously?”
Dazai didn’t smile.
Didn’t joke.
Just walked over, slow and deliberate, and knelt before him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His voice—when it came—was barely a whisper.
“Will you let me ground you?”
The bond pulled tight behind his ribs.
Chūya’s breath caught.
The words—that voice—landed like a spell. Low and reverent, brushing against nerves already frayed to breaking. He didn’t even realize he was swaying forward until Dazai’s hand caught his thigh, thumb circling steady reassurance into muscle.
“It’s not about control,” Dazai said gently. “It’s about focus. You’re unraveling.”
“I’m not—”
But the denial rang hollow.
Because he was.
He hadn’t touched Dazai since waking. Hadn’t let himself lean into the bond. And now it felt like his skin didn’t fit.
“…You think that’ll fix it?”
“I think,” Dazai murmured, “you need something to hold on to.”
He let the collar uncoil between them.
No pressure. No command. Just the weight of choice.
And the bond—oh, the bond howled for it. Not out of need for domination. But clarity. Anchoring. A visible, physical marker. Something ancient in both purpose and power.
Chūya’s throat bobbed.
Then, slowly, he reached forward and took it from Dazai’s hands.
“…Just this once,” he muttered. “So I don’t punch you in the face for being right.”
A flicker of a smile passed through Dazai’s eyes, but his tone remained soft.
“Lean forward.”
And when the leather settled against his skin—
—the bond exhaled.
Like a tether slipping back into place.
Not control. Not ownership.
Just grounding.
And Chūya didn’t flinch.
He didn’t look away.
Because now he could breathe.
Later, when the light through the windows had cooled to gold and the air no longer crackled with the bond’s impatience, they sat on the floor.
Dazai leaned back against the couch, sleeves rolled up, collarbone bare beneath the loose neckline of his shirt. He looked… tired. But peaceful.
Chūya still wore the collar.
Not out of defiance.
Not even because of Dazai.
He wore it because he could—because the weight of it against his skin made the chaos quieter.
And because part of him wasn’t ready to take it off yet.
“Hey,” he said after a long silence, voice rough from disuse. “Do you ever—”
He hesitated.
Then: “Does the bond ever make you feel… safe?”
Dazai didn’t answer at first. Just tilted his head, eyes unreadable in the fading light.
Then—
“Only when I stop fighting it.”
Chūya frowned. “You fight it?”
Dazai’s mouth curled—wry. Tired. Honest.
“Not anymore. But I used to. For a long time. It scared me.” He turned his head, gaze trailing the edges of the ring still glowing faintly on Chūya’s thumb. “Not just the arcana. You. What I felt for you.”
Chūya’s breath stilled.
Dazai didn’t push.
He never did, not when it counted.
But he did reach forward, hand brushing gently over Chūya’s where it rested on his knee—just enough to let their skin touch. To let the bond soften and settle.
And in that quiet—
The collar hummed faintly with residual magic.
And Chūya closed his eyes.
Not to run from it.
But to let it in.
The collar was gone when Chūya woke.
Not discarded—just placed neatly on the nightstand, coiled like a whisper of something remembered but not spoken aloud. His fingers twitched toward it before pulling back.
Dazai was already up. The sound of the shower had stopped, but the bathroom door was still ajar, steam curling out in soft tendrils.
The apartment was too quiet.
Not uncomfortable, just… fragile. Like a pause between breaths.
Chūya sat up slowly. Every part of him felt strange—loose in his skin, like his body hadn’t quite caught up with itself. His thumb brushed the ring still on his hand, and the bond pulsed faintly, a heartbeat that wasn’t quite his own.
In the kitchen, he found Dazai nursing a lukewarm mug of tea, hair still damp, dark circles lingering under his eyes. He didn’t smile—but he didn’t look away either.
“…Morning,” Chūya said.
Dazai nodded. “It is.”
They stood in that silence for a moment longer than necessary—until Chūya, clearing his throat, reached for the envelope still pinned under the corner of the fruit bowl.
“The conditions,” he muttered. “ARC’s brilliant idea of letting us live again.”
Dazai arched a brow. “You sound like you’re already planning to break the rules.”
Chūya snorted. “Don’t tempt me.”
But the truth was: he was reading it again. Every word. Every condition. He still hadn’t called his boss back. Still hadn’t admitted what he now knew deep down—
That he might not be going back at all.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
And for the first time in days, Dazai didn’t press.
He just sipped his tea and let Chūya stare at the paper like it might rewrite itself.
Chapter 24: The Shape of Things to Come
Summary:
Chūya and Dazai attend their first ARC-mandated check-up and prepare for a meeting with Chūya’s boss. Shirakawa proves sharper than expected, picking up on the tension between them—and the unnatural weight of their bond. The encounter stirs doubts Chūya hasn’t voiced aloud until now. On the walk home, truths slip through cracks in their armor. Neither reaches for the other, but neither walks alone.
Chapter Text
Chapter 24 – Eyes on the Thread
ARC arrived right on time.
No knock this time. Just the mechanical beep of their override key, followed by the soft hiss of the door unlocking.
Chūya sat up straighter on the couch, spine stiff with instinctive defensiveness. Dazai barely moved, eyes half-lidded where he lounged with a book in one hand, the other resting on the backrest behind Chūya.
Three agents stepped in. Two were unfamiliar, dressed in regulation charcoal coats and standard-issue restraint cuffs clipped to their belts. The third was Karasuma.
He didn’t bother with pleasantries. Just nodded once and placed a small black case on the kitchen table.
“Bi-weekly scan,” he said.
“Already?” Chūya muttered.
Karasuma raised a brow. “Regulations. You knew this was coming.”
Dazai tilted his head. “We’ve been very good,” he said mildly. “No fighting. No fleeing. No further soul crimes.”
“We’ll be the judge of that,” one of the other agents said. Her tone was clipped. Cold.
Karasuma ignored her, opening the case and removing the now-familiar resonance monitor.
“Rings,” he said.
Chūya sighed but complied. The rings were passed over and slipped onto their thumbs. The filament thread between them flared, steady but bright.
Karasuma watched it carefully.
“Still holding.” He glanced at the monitor, then at the thread. “No anomalies in the last twelve days. Stabilized resonance. Minimal fluctuation.”
“Minimal,” Dazai echoed, amused. “Does that mean we get a gold star?”
Karasuma didn’t dignify that with an answer. He scanned the data, tapped a few notes into his slate, and finally clicked the case shut.
“You’ll be receiving a written report,” he said. “And further schedule details. For now, continue to limit your range and maintain proximity.”
Chūya nodded curtly.
Dazai just smiled.
The agents left as swiftly as they’d come. The door hissed shut behind them.
Chūya didn’t relax until the lock clicked back into place.
It took another two hours before Chūya reached for his phone.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then he dialed.
His boss picked up on the third ring.
“Nakahara?”
Chūya swallowed. “Yeah. It’s me.”
“Didn’t expect to hear from you.”
“Yeah,” Chūya said again, voice tighter this time. “Look—I’m not calling to explain everything. But I wanted to ask. If there’s any way I could come back.”
A beat. Then:
“That depends. Are you alone?”
Chūya exhaled slowly.
“No. And I won’t be for a while.”
Silence.
Then the sound of shuffling papers. A faint sigh.
“Bring your—acquaintance. I’ll see what we can do.”
Chūya blinked. “Seriously?”
“I didn’t say it would be easy,” his boss said. “But I’m not throwing away a good field officer without a conversation.”
The call ended with a time. A location.
And the slow, strange thud of hope returning to Chūya’s ribs.
“Alright,” Chūya muttered, crossing the living room with sharp, focused steps, “if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”
Dazai didn’t move from the armrest he was lounging against, still barefoot, a damp towel slung low across his hips.
“You’re taking this meeting like it’s a job interview,” he said mildly.
Chūya whirled around. “It is, jackass.”
“Except you already have the job.”
“And I’d like to keep it.”
The bond twitched softly between them—somewhere under Chūya’s ribs, like a pulled thread. He ignored it.
“You do remember what I do, right?” he asked, squinting at Dazai like he didn’t trust him not to answer with hitman or professional drinker.
Dazai blinked once. “Something with logistics?”
“Freelance security coordination,” Chūya snapped. “For private clients. High-profile ones. I’m on retainer for three different networks and two event companies. That means managing threats, coordinating bodyguards, and occasionally standing on red carpets in a suit while pretending I’m not carrying a firearm.”
“Sounds hot,” Dazai said with a smirk.
“Not the point,” Chūya growled, dragging a hand through his hair.
He grabbed a button-down off the back of a chair and shoved his arms through it.
“The point is: my boss already knows about the bond—ARC called him weeks ago. He knows I’m ‘medically restricted,’ he knows I’m paired, and he knows you’re the reason.”
A sharp flick of the collar.
“But he doesn’t know what it means. And he doesn’t need to.”
He leveled a finger at Dazai, firm and direct.
“So no comments about the voice thing, the rings, or—God forbid—the damn collar.”
Dazai’s smile was slow, indulgent. “So I can still say we sleep in the same bed?”
“Say it and I’ll kick your ribs in.”
Dazai held up both hands. “Alright, alright. I’ll behave.”
“I mean it, Dazai. No flirting, no teasing, and absolutely no getting handsy.”
“You wound me.”
“I swear, if you so much as purr at me in front of him—”
“I won’t.” Dazai’s voice dipped low. Soft. Controlled. Dangerous.
Chūya stopped mid-button.
The bond flared, not with heat, but with weight—like pressure behind his sternum, a command sinking into his spine. And Dazai hadn’t even said his name.
Chūya exhaled sharply and looked away.
“…Just don’t make me regret this.”
Dazai rose smoothly to his feet. Still half-wrapped in a towel, but suddenly more serious than he’d been all day.
“You won’t.”
And—for once—he sounded like he meant it.
The office hadn’t changed.
Same leather chairs that creaked when you leaned back too far. Same tall shelves packed with half-legal manuscripts and tightly organized project files. Same narrow windows that looked out over the southern end of the city, glazed with early autumn haze.
But Chūya felt different walking into it now.
Dazai followed half a step behind, unusually quiet. Dressed the part for once: black button-down, hair tied, coat left behind at Chūya’s insistence. His ring glinted faintly in the low light. The one ARC gave him. The one Chūya wore, too.
"Chūya," Shirakawa greeted, rising from his desk. "Good to see you on your feet again."
His tone was smooth, pleasant—just on the edge of casual.
"You too," Chūya replied, nodding. "Thanks for not firing me."
"Still might," Shirakawa said, lips twitching. His eyes flicked to Dazai.
"And this would be…?"
"Osamu Dazai." Dazai bowed slightly. "Chūya’s assigned bond partner. I’ve been briefed on ARC’s current restrictions."
Shirakawa’s expression didn’t falter, but something subtle shifted.
"Right," he said slowly. "The soulbind."
His gaze slid to Chūya, careful.
"You’re managing?"
"We’re adapting," Chūya said. He didn’t elaborate.
They sat. Shirakawa didn’t offer tea, which was unusual. His fingers tapped the desk once before folding neatly over a file.
"I’m going to be blunt with you, Chūya. ARC only gave us the high-level overview, and your medical leave is officially flagged as indefinite." A pause. "If you want to come back, I need to understand the parameters."
"You’ll get discretion," Chūya said. "Dazai’s trained. He won’t interfere."
"And what about control?"
Chūya’s jaw twitched.
"I know what I’m doing."
"That’s not the question."
Dazai didn’t move—but the bond stirred faintly, enough for Chūya to feel it. That flicker of defense again. Pressure at the back of his mind.
"He listens to me," Chūya said firmly. "And if he doesn’t, I’ll handle it."
Another pause. Shirakawa’s gaze moved between them.
"You seem… changed."
Chūya resisted the urge to look away.
"I’ve had to adapt."
"Haven’t we all," Shirakawa murmured. "Look. I’m not here to interrogate you. You’ve always handled your cases cleanly. You’re quick. Smart. Controlled. I trust that. But if you bring him into my office, I need to know he won’t compromise the integrity of what we do."
"He won’t," Chūya said.
This time, Shirakawa’s eyes settled on Dazai fully.
"Anything you want to add?"
Dazai’s voice was calm. Even.
"I’m not here to make things harder for Chūya. I understand the consequences if I did. I’m here because we don’t have a choice. But that doesn’t mean I don’t respect what he’s built for himself. I do."
Something in Shirakawa’s posture loosened.
"Hn."
He leaned back. Let out a breath through his nose.
"Fine. I’ll give it a trial period. Keep him on a short leash."
Chūya’s throat closed for half a second. He didn’t glance at Dazai.
But he felt the ripple down the bond.
Shirakawa didn’t notice.
"Report in person once a week. I’ll adjust your caseload to low-risk, short-term assignments until ARC clears you further. If I sense anything’s off—"
"You’ll pull me."
"Exactly."
They stood.
Shirakawa’s handshake was brief, but not cold.
As they turned to leave, he added, offhand:
"And Chūya—whatever this is between you two, just be careful. ARC’s good at tying knots. Not so good at untying them."
Chūya didn’t answer.
But Dazai looked back once before the door shut behind them.
They didn’t talk at first.
Not while leaving the building. Not while passing the clerk who barely looked up. Not even when they stepped out into the dusky light of late afternoon—when the city air hit like a wave, thick with exhaust and evening heat.
Chūya’s hands were in his pockets.
Dazai kept pace beside him.
“You did well,” Dazai said quietly, once they turned the first corner.
Chūya didn’t answer.
They crossed the street. A bus hissed past them, and the weight of Shirakawa’s words still clung to Chūya’s shoulders like smoke: You seem changed. Keep him on a short leash. Be careful.
It wasn’t wrong.
Not exactly.
But hearing it from someone else’s mouth felt different than thinking it alone.
“…You okay?” Dazai asked, a touch more tentative this time.
Chūya exhaled through his nose. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“Don’t start.”
A beat.
Dazai fell silent again.
They walked another block in near-silence before Chūya slowed—shoulders tight, mouth drawn into something that wasn’t quite a grimace.
“Why the fuck does everyone act like I’m going to break?”
Dazai tilted his head. “Maybe because you’re stretched thin. Not because you’re weak.”
Chūya scoffed. “Same difference.”
Another car passed. A woman pushing a stroller glanced at them as she walked by, her eyes snagging briefly on the rings at their thumbs, glowing faintly in the heat shimmer.
Chūya shoved his hand deeper into his pocket.
“He’s not wrong, you know,” he muttered. “About ARC. About the knot they’ve tied.”
“I know.”
“And you—”
“I know, Chūya.”
His voice cut through the air before he could leash it. Sharper than intended.
The bond flared—just a pulse, like a pulled thread—but Chūya flinched slightly, his breath catching.
Dazai’s expression twisted. “Shit. Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“Is it?”
Chūya stopped walking.
Turned to face him.
“You think I haven’t thought about it?” he asked, voice low, words clipped. “About what this means? What it might do to us?”
“I know you have,” Dazai said. “But I don’t think you’ve said it out loud.”
Chūya’s jaw clenched.
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t even know what the fuck it meant until weeks ago.”
“I know, Chūya.”
Another silence. This one sharper. Harder.
Chūya inhaled.
Held it.
“…But I’m trying,” he said finally, softer. “Even if I hate half of it. Even if it scares the shit out of me.”
And then quieter, like an admission that slipped past the edge of his pride:
“Even if I don’t know who I’ll be after.”
Dazai’s throat worked.
The bond shifted again—gentler this time. Subtle. Like a breath at the back of Chūya’s neck. Like fingers just brushing skin.
He didn’t reach for him.
But his voice—when it came—threaded through the bond like silk.
“You’ll still be you.”
Chūya’s eyes flicked up, startled by the subtle pressure in his chest—how the words stuck, lodged in his ribs like a catch in the hinge of a door.
“Don’t do that,” he murmured. “Don’t use your voice like that.”
Dazai’s mouth twitched, just slightly.
“You didn’t answer.”
“I didn’t say stop, either.”
They kept walking.
Neither of them reached for the other.
But they didn’t walk apart.
Chapter 25: Everything That Wasn't Ours
Summary:
A routine visit to Chūya’s workplace spirals when an old connection resurfaces—unearthing jealous tension, a volatile bond flare, and the realization that nothing from Chūya’s former life remains untouched. Dazai shoulders the guilt of a choice he can’t undo, while Chūya finally speaks the truth he’s been avoiding: that maybe, just maybe, his heart once belonged to Dazai—but now he doesn’t know if it ever truly can again.
Chapter Text
The morning started with a knock.
Not urgent. Not hostile. Just deliberate.
Chūya stiffened as he reached for the doorknob, already feeling the faint pull in his chest—Dazai behind him, the bond stretching like a rubber band across the hallway. A glance over his shoulder confirmed it: Dazai stood quietly, watching, coat unbuttoned, sleeves half-rolled. He hadn’t said a word all morning.
Maybe he felt it too.
Maybe he always did.
Chūya opened the door.
Standing there was a sharp-featured woman in ARC black, her eyes hidden behind tinted glasses, clipboard in hand.
“Good morning. Agent Naoi. I’m here for a field readiness verification.”
Chūya blinked. “For what?”
“Your recent return to public employment was flagged for evaluation,” she replied crisply, stepping past the threshold without waiting. “Standard protocol when it involves bonded individuals—especially those under active monitoring.”
Dazai didn’t react. Didn’t even move.
But the bond shifted. Tightened. A low hum beneath the ribs.
Agent Naoi paused in the center of the living room, scanning the space like it might try to lie to her. “I’ll need to assess your work environment today. Travel with you. Observe interaction dynamics.”
“You’re shadowing us?” Chūya scoffed. “I’m not a fucking lab rat.”
“You’re a liability,” she corrected, with the dead tone of someone reciting policy. “Until proven otherwise.”
The temperature in the room dropped—not literally, but the silence that followed made it feel colder. Dazai still hadn’t said anything. Still hadn’t moved. Just stood there with his arms loose at his sides, eyes unreadable.
Chūya turned to him then. “You okay with this?”
Dazai’s gaze flicked to the agent, then back to Chūya.
“I don’t think it matters if I am.”
And yet—he was closer now. Not enough to touch, but close enough for the bond to settle slightly, a soothing pulse threading through Chūya’s chest. Like Dazai was trying, even without saying it.
Naoi checked her device. “Departure in ten minutes.”
Chūya muttered a curse under his breath and went to grab his coat.
And just as he passed Dazai, he felt it—softly, but unmistakably:
A whisper at the base of his skull.
You’re trembling.
It wasn’t spoken aloud. Not really.
Just… sensed.
And it was true.
Even before they stepped out the door, the tension was already there—ticking under the surface like a fuse waiting for heat.
Chūya’s workplace hadn’t changed much.
Same narrow corridors, same stained concrete floors, same rows of paper-stacked desks crammed into open-plan hell. The same heavy air of everyone pretending to be a little more professional than they were.
Naoi trailed them with military precision. Quiet. Observing. Unrelenting.
Chūya did his best to ignore her.
He focused instead on the briefing binder handed to him by the front desk, flipping through data columns and partial mission outlines. Dazai stood nearby, scanning the space with passive disinterest. At least outwardly.
But the bond was too quiet.
And Chūya knew what that meant by now.
Not calm. Just… waiting.
The receptionist gave him a tight smile. “Shirakawa-san said you could use his office to review the files. He’s in a meeting for the next hour.”
Chūya nodded, already shifting his weight toward the hallway—until a familiar voice caught him off guard.
“Chūya?”
He turned—and there he was.
Renji.
Leaning against a column in the next alcove. Coffee cup in hand. Same easy grin, same warm tilt to his head. That damn lopsided smile that used to make Chūya’s stomach flutter in all the wrong ways back when things were simpler. When the bond didn’t exist.
“Didn’t expect to see you back so soon,” Renji said, pushing off the wall.
Chūya smiled—automatically. “Yeah. ARC’s giving me grief for it.”
Renji chuckled. “Some things never change.”
They stepped closer—only a little—but it was enough.
The air snapped.
There was no sound, no warning—just a whipcrack in Chūya’s chest, followed by a dizzy lurch of heat that slammed straight through his sternum.
Dazai’s presence spiked behind him—sudden and loud, like a warning flare in a battlefield.
The bond surged, hot and possessive, and for a moment, it was hard to breathe.
Chūya staggered.
Literally.
His hand gripped the edge of a nearby table.
“Whoa,” Renji said, catching his elbow. “You alright?”
And that—that—was a mistake.
The moment Renji touched him, the bond lashed.
Heat flooded Chūya’s vision. He reeled back instinctively, ripping his arm away, and—
Dazai was already at his side.
Not touching, not speaking—but there, so powerfully it felt like gravity had shifted toward him.
Naoi moved instantly, yanking out her scanner.
“Bond instability,” she clipped, already tapping the screen. “High spike—twenty percent above baseline. Physical symptoms manifesting. Emotional flare—originating from both parties.”
Chūya’s skin crawled.
Not from the spike—but from the realization blooming inside him:
It wasn’t just Dazai.
He had panicked, too.
Not because of Renji.
But because for the first time in a long time, he hadn’t felt anything. No flutter. No spark. Nothing.
The small, quiet crush he'd carried—gone.
Burned out like it had never been there.
And it terrified him.
Because he knew what that meant.
He couldn’t even lie to himself anymore.
Dazai was watching him—eyes like shadowed glass, still unreadable. But the bond pulsed at his side, distressed and strained, like it had tried to defend him without asking permission.
Renji, smart enough to feel the change in air, took a slow step back.
“…Sorry. I didn’t mean to—"
“It’s not you,” Chūya rasped.
It was him.
It was them.
And now, the bond wouldn’t stop shaking beneath his skin.
The moment Naoi confirmed they were stable enough not to warrant emergency containment, Chūya turned on his heel and marched down the hallway.
“Shirakawa’s office,” he muttered. “I need five fucking minutes.”
He didn’t wait for permission.
Didn’t ask if Dazai was following.
But he was. Of course he was.
The second the door clicked shut behind them, Chūya shoved the ARC-provided binder onto the desk hard enough to make it rattle.
The room smelled faintly of old ink and citrus cleaner. Neat rows of books lined the shelf behind the desk. A small succulent sat wilting by the window, sunlight struggling to reach it.
None of it mattered.
“What the fuck is happening to me?”
He didn’t look at Dazai.
Just braced both palms against the desk and stared at the wood grain like it held answers.
“We’re doing everything they said. Everything. The bond’s supposed to be calm now. You and I—” he swallowed, throat dry. “We’re fucking regularly. We’ve synced our breathing, synced our fucking goddamn schedules, I haven’t been more than fifteen meters away from you for three weeks straight—”
Dazai was silent.
“And yet,” Chūya hissed, finally turning, “it still feels like I’m disappearing.”
The words hit like a knife unsheathed.
Dazai flinched. Just barely. But enough.
Chūya stepped closer, chest rising and falling too fast, too tight.
“I didn’t even feel anything for Renji. And I used to. We never slept together or anything, but I… liked him. I was going to ask him out. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“I fucking was. And now—”
He gestured vaguely, sharply, to the space where Renji had stood.
“Now it’s like it was scrubbed out of me.”
His voice cracked. Just slightly.
Dazai didn’t move.
But the bond rippled.
Softly.
Regretfully.
“…It’s not supposed to erase you,” Dazai said, his voice too quiet, too calm. “It’s supposed to bind.”
“Well, then it’s doing a fucking shitty job.”
Chūya ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots.
“I agreed to the sex, Dazai. I get it. It helps. I agreed to live together. I even agreed to the fucking collar sometimes, because yes, it helps. But I didn’t agree to become a—reflection.”
His voice fell to a whisper.
“I didn’t agree to vanish.”
Dazai looked away.
The silence between them felt alive.
The bond, too, was there. Flickering with unrest—not hostile, not demanding—but aching. As if it wanted to reach across the space between them and fix something it didn’t understand.
Chūya folded into the office chair—spine bent, hands limp between his knees.
“…So tell me,” he muttered. “Why does it still feel like this?”
Dazai stayed standing for a long moment before he crouched in front of him. Not touching. Just close enough to share breath. Close enough for the bond to settle into a low hum again.
“Because I didn’t know what I was doing,” he said finally.
No excuses. No hedging.
Just that.
“I wanted you to stay. I wanted to never lose you. But I didn’t think about what it would cost.”
Chūya stared down at him, lips parted, breath catching—but he didn’t speak.
Dazai’s voice dropped further.
“I think part of it was selfish. I think part of me… maybe hoped you'd feel something for me if we were connected like this. And I was so scared of losing you, I didn’t care if it hurt.”
The bond trembled.
But this time, it wasn’t angry.
Just honest.
“Now I do care,” Dazai said. “More than anything.”
And that?
That terrified Chūya more than the flare had.
Chūya didn’t answer right away.
He leaned back in Shirakawa’s chair, legs sprawled out, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the ceiling like the fluorescent light might blind him into silence.
But then—
“…Maybe I liked you too much.”
The words came low.
Flat.
Like they’d been fermenting behind his ribs for years.
Dazai blinked.
Chūya didn’t look at him.
“Back then. When we were kids. Maybe I liked you more than I should’ve. That’s probably why I agreed to half the shit you dragged me into. Why I always listened. Why I said yes to the bond—”
He scoffed, voice cracking.
“Because it was you. And I was stupid enough to think that meant something.”
The air turned sharp. Unforgiving.
“I got over it. Or I thought I did,” Chūya muttered. “I left. I found a life. I found people. I found someone who actually made me feel… wanted.”
Dazai flinched.
Chūya looked at him now, and his eyes weren’t cruel—but they were aching.
“But then this thing—you—comes back and rips it all away. Like it was never mine to begin with.”
His voice was trembling, but steady.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever feel the same about you again. Not me. Not Chūya.”
He tapped his chest with two fingers.
“Because I don’t even know what’s me anymore, and what’s the bond.”
Silence.
Total.
Then—
“Maybe it’s trying to rewrite me. Maybe it already has. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel anything for Renji anymore, and maybe that’s why I feel too much when you so much as breathe the wrong way.”
Dazai’s hands had curled into fists in his lap.
But he didn’t argue.
Didn’t offer reassurance.
Not yet.
Chūya closed his eyes.
“Maybe… maybe I’ll fall for you again. Maybe I won’t. But I don’t want the bond to make that choice for me.”
There was no edge to it now.
Just exhaustion.
Just the weight of everything they’d never said—finally cracking open in the quiet.
Dazai shifted.
Not much. Just enough to sit up straighter, like the weight of Chūya’s words had real gravity to them—enough to press him down into the chair.
His mouth opened. Then closed again.
When he finally spoke, his voice was soft.
“…I know.”
It wasn’t defensive.
It wasn’t even sad.
It was just real.
“I knew what I was doing when I made the pact.”
A pause.
“I didn’t know what it would do to you. Not really. But I hoped.”
That word hung in the air like a sin.
“I hoped it would bring you back to me. Because I couldn’t stand the thought of you disappearing into a life where I didn’t exist.”
He looked at Chūya. Really looked.
“And I hated myself for that. Still do.”
The silence crackled again.
“But I don’t want you to fall for me because the bond says so.”
A breath. Shallow. Raw.
“I want you to fall for me because you do. Or don’t. That’s your right.”
He stood, slowly—like every step might shatter the moment between them.
“If you ever do, I want it to be real.”
And with that—
He turned away.
Quietly.
Ready to leave the office, to give Chūya air, to let the ache settle without splintering them even more.
Unless…
Unless Chūya stopped him.
Chapter 26: Knot the Thread, Burn the Ends
Summary:
The bond strains — then snaps.
When Chūya refuses to chase Dazai, the soulbind retaliates, leaving them both reeling. Still aching from their last fallout, they return to the apartment—tense, defensive, volatile. A flare at the office reveals more than jealousy: it uncovers the heartbreak of a past that was never given the chance to become love.
And when everything breaks loose—grief, fury, need—they take it out on each other the only way they know how.
With rope. With breath. With hands shaking and truths finally spoken.
But not even this release can promise absolution.
Notes:
Geez... This chapter gave me so much grief. I started over like four times to make it feel right. I really hope y'all will like it 🖤
Chapter Text
The silence that followed Dazai’s retreat was oppressive.
Chūya stood stiffly in Shirakawa’s office, the low hum of the city filtering through the high-rise windows behind him. The agent from ARC—Naoi—remained seated in one of the guest chairs, her legs crossed neatly, tablet in hand, watching him with a patience that felt almost weaponized.
He could feel the bond stretching.
Not breaking—ARC had seen to that with their damned 20-meter restriction—but it strained like a muscle pulled too far. His stomach twisted. Breath came shallower. The floor felt a little less stable beneath his boots.
Naoi looked up, eyes sharp but not unkind.
“You should go to him.”
Chūya scoffed. “I’m not a dog.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No?” He braced a hand against Shirakawa’s desk. “Because it sure sounds like you’re saying I can’t even stand here for five minutes without needing to be latched to him like a goddamn—”
“You’re in pain,” she said flatly. “And he is too.”
Chūya’s throat tightened.
Of course Dazai was hurting.
The further they pulled from each other, the more the bond rebelled—itching under the skin, clawing at the spine, filling the lungs with some invisible pressure. It didn’t matter who walked away first. They both suffered.
And still.
Chūya didn’t move.
Not because he didn’t care. Not even out of pride.
But because if he gave in now—if he chased after Dazai like the bond wanted—what did that say about his autonomy? About what was real and what wasn’t?
Renji entered the office quietly, dressed in his usual sharp slacks and rolled-up sleeves. His expression softened when he saw Chūya.
“You alright?” he asked, keeping his distance.
Chūya blinked. “Fine.”
“You don’t look it.”
Naoi said nothing. Just watched.
Chūya managed a dry laugh. “Guess I’ve had better days.”
Renji tilted his head, hesitating. “Is he the one you're bound to?”
Chūya nodded, not offering more.
Renji didn’t press. “I’m heading to the ops room. Shirakawa asked if you’d be joining the briefing.”
“Maybe later,” Chūya muttered.
Renji gave a soft nod and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
Naoi stood, finally. “You don’t have to chase him. But don’t lie to yourself either.”
She handed Chūya a small monitor—a wristband interface synced to ARC’s proximity tracking—and then stepped toward the door.
“Just don’t wait too long,” she added. “Even tethered souls can unravel.”
And then she was gone.
Chūya stared at the device in his hand. The pulse reading at the center flickered erratically—his own, mirrored by a second one just beneath.
Dazai’s.
Unsteady. Faint. But there.
Still there.
His grip tightened.
The hallway outside Shirakawa’s office was quieter now—daylight dimmed into the early stages of dusk, and most of the floor had emptied. The doors all closed. The overhead lights flickered softly, humming with low energy.
Chūya stepped out, pulse still unsettled from the lingering pull of the bond. His body ached in a way that wasn’t quite physical. A hollow buzz sat behind his ribs.
And then—
“Hey.”
He stopped.
Renji was leaned against the far wall, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other. Still in workwear, but his tie was loosened and his brow furrowed in something not unlike concern.
“Boss said you were still in there.” His voice was quiet. Not pressing, just present. “Told me to keep an eye out.”
Chūya stared for a second too long.
“I’m fine.”
Renji didn’t move. “You don’t look fine.”
“Well, that’s your opinion.”
“Yeah.” A slow exhale. “It is.”
The hallway stretched between them. Not empty, exactly—but lined with things unsaid.
Renji straightened, pushed off the wall. Took a few steps forward, careful not to crowd. “You don’t owe me anything. I just… wanted to say, I’m glad you’re okay.”
Chūya’s throat caught. His voice wasn’t sharp when he asked, “Did they tell you what happened?”
“Bits and pieces,” Renji admitted. “The binding. ARC containment. Something about soul convergence? Most of us don’t understand half of it.”
Silence again.
Then, softer: “It’s not the kind of thing I thought you’d ever end up involved in.”
Chūya let out a bitter breath. “Yeah. Me neither.”
Renji gave a small nod. “Is he still waiting?”
“…Yeah.”
“You gonna go?”
“I don’t know,” Chūya admitted, and for a moment—he didn’t sound like himself. “It hurts. But it hurts more when he’s gone.”
Renji’s gaze didn’t shift. “Then maybe that’s your answer.”
Chūya looked at him for a long time.
“I’m not who I used to be,” he said quietly.
Renji smiled—small, sad. “None of us are.”
He didn’t try to follow when Chūya turned to leave. Didn’t ask for more than what he was given. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, watching him go.
He didn’t get far.
ARC had made sure of that—twenty meters was the hard limit. Beyond that, the tether frayed like unraveling silk, tugging at his spine, blurring the edges of his vision.
But that wasn’t what stopped him.
It was Chūya’s heartbeat.
Or more precisely—the shift in it. The way it slowed, steadied. How it didn’t spike like it should’ve when the bond stretched. And how it didn’t soften either—not the way it had during the long nights in the ARC facility, when they lay too close and pretended not to need each other.
No.
It settled around someone else.
Dazai stood just outside the plaza behind the building, back against a concrete post, jaw clenched. His coat hung limp in the wind, collar low. He’d pressed the heel of his hand to his sternum once already—tried to quell the tightness building there—but it didn’t help.
Someone was with him.
And not just anyone.
He couldn’t feel Renji through the bond, not directly. But the bond reacted around him. It wrapped tighter in Dazai’s chest, bristled like a warning. Like instinct. Like something ancient and jealous and wild.
His breath fogged in the air.
He tilted his head back against the post, blinking up at the sky as if it might answer for any of this. The nausea didn’t come like it used to—ARC’s protocols had dulled that. But the ache… the ache was there.
And worse—so was the knowing.
There’d been something between them. He didn’t need words to confirm it. Chūya had already admitted to caring about someone else. Renji. The same someone who still stood too close when Chūya was unraveling.
Did he still care?
Or had the bond erased it?
That thought—the possibility of it—stung deeper than the distance.
Because if Chūya couldn’t tell where his feelings ended and the bond’s began…
Then maybe Dazai had truly ruined him.
He took a breath, long and hollow, fingers curled into fists in his coat pockets. Didn’t move. Didn’t turn around.
He waited.
Waited for the flare to pass.
Waited for the rhythm of Chūya’s breath to change again—so he’d know if he was coming.
Waited like a man on the edge of a ledge that he’d climbed onto himself.
He didn’t hear footsteps—
He felt them.
Not through the ground, not through sound—
Through the bond.
The moment Chūya made the decision to follow, the thread between them pulled taut again. Not with panic. Not with need.
With resolve.
And shame.
The air shifted before Chūya even rounded the corner, damp with the faint tremble of grief. Dazai didn’t lift his head.
Didn’t have to.
Chūya stopped a few paces away.
Neither of them spoke.
The silence wasn’t heavy—just stretched thin. Frayed at the edges, like a bandage about to peel off and take the scab with it.
When Dazai finally turned, the look on Chūya’s face hit harder than any words could have.
Not angry. Not even hurt.
Just tired.
Like someone carrying a weight they hadn’t chosen.
“…Let’s go,” Chūya said, voice low.
Not a truce. Not forgiveness. Just a thread to follow.
Dazai nodded once, and fell in step beside him.
They walked without touching, without speaking, without glancing sideways. The only sound was the wind through the narrowing streets and the soft echo of shared footsteps—familiar but no longer easy.
The door closed behind them with a soft click.
Dazai didn’t follow him past the hallway.
Chūya didn’t care.
Not tonight.
He shrugged off his coat, stepped out of his shoes, and made straight for the kitchen, where he poured himself a drink with shaking hands. The glass clicked too loud on the counter. He didn’t touch it after.
The silence between them wasn’t new.
But it used to be comfortable.
Now it scratched under his skin like grit.
He stared out the dark window, fists clenched against the marble edge.
The city beyond was blurred by rain and streetlight haze.
“You know what’s fucked?”
His voice came out flat. Low. Like something rotting beneath a frozen lake.
“It’s not that the bond flared. It’s not that I used to like Renji. It’s that I didn’t even feel it anymore.”
Dazai said nothing.
“Not even a spark. Just… nothing. And I—I used to—”
He cut himself off. Swallowed.
The ice in his glass cracked faintly.
“You know what that means, right?” he said. “If I don’t feel anything anymore for someone I used to care about, it means this bond is already… eating away at me.”
He turned.
Eyes bright with something brittle.
“And all your fucking rope and sex tricks and collar games aren’t fixing it, Dazai. I’m still losing pieces of myself.”
That was when Dazai finally stepped in from the hallway.
His coat was still on. Shoes too. But his eyes were darker than the room.
He didn’t look angry. He looked—wrecked.
“You think I don’t know that?” he said, voice tight. “You think I haven’t felt it every time something you used to love starts fading?”
“So you knew this would happen?” Chūya snapped. “And you still did it?”
A beat.
Then, softly—
“You were already drifting from me.”
Chūya’s breath caught.
He took one sharp step forward.
“So you tethered my soul just to keep me close? Are you insane?”
Dazai’s mouth twisted.
He didn’t flinch when Chūya jabbed a finger at his chest.
“We could’ve been something,” Chūya spat. “If you’d just fucking said something back then—if you’d just opened your mouth instead of bleeding into old books and binding me like some—some object—”
His voice cracked.
And he hated it. Hated that the grief hit harder than the rage.
“I was in love with you,” he said, quieter now. “Back then. Before any of this. Before we ever needed a name for it.”
He laughed, sharp and cruel and hopeless.
“And you took that away from me, too.”
Dazai’s hands stayed at his sides, but his shoulders trembled.
Something in the bond flinched—like a heartbeat skipping.
“I didn’t know how to ask,” he said.
Chūya stared at him.
“So you chose this instead? A blood pact that would kill us both if one of us dies? A bond that rewrites how I feel, what I want—who I am?”
Dazai still didn’t look away.
“I chose it,” he said, quietly, “because I couldn’t survive losing you.”
There was a beat of silence.
And then Chūya moved.
He crossed the distance between them in two strides, grabbed Dazai’s collar, and slammed him into the wall.
“You selfish, selfish bastard.”
The moment snapped like a tension wire.
Dazai surged forward—and Chūya didn’t stop him. Didn’t pull away when their mouths clashed. Didn’t resist when Dazai’s hand gripped the back of his neck like he could anchor him in place.
The bond surged with it—bright and burning—sparking against their ribs like static fire.
The air inside the apartment was thick with everything they hadn’t said.
Clothes trailed from the front door to the bedroom—coats, shirts, belts flung aside like none of it mattered. But it wasn’t rushed, not really. It was deliberate. Controlled. The way Dazai handled Chūya’s wrists, the way he pulled the collar from the drawer and held it for just a second longer than necessary before fastening it into place.
Click.
Snap.
Chūya’s breath stuttered. The bond trembled in response, like it knew what was coming—like it craved it.
"Still okay?" Dazai asked, voice low.
Chūya nodded. "Yeah."
But his hands were already clenched into fists. Not from fear. From need. From how badly his body wanted to burn it all out—the confusion, the grief, the betrayal still rotting at the edges of his pride.
“Then get on the bed,” Dazai said softly. “On your back.”
The leash clipped on with a quiet click—not tight, just enough to remind them both. Chūya obeyed, head turned to the side, chest rising in sharp, shallow breaths. Dazai followed him up onto the mattress, uncoiling the silken rope beside him, fingers already brushing over Chūya’s sternum—light, possessive, a ghost of the handprint he wanted to leave behind.
“I hate you sometimes,” Chūya muttered, barely audible. “For doing this to me. For taking the choice away.”
Dazai leaned in, pressing a kiss just under his collarbone. “I know.”
“And I loved you once. But then I moved on. Built something else. Someone else.”
Rope tightened around his wrists—slow, elegant. A pattern already etched into Dazai’s memory. “I know.”
“I don’t want to lose who I am.”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that,” Chūya snapped, hips shifting in defiance—already bound down but still resisting. “Even with the sex. Even with the—fuck—the leash, the rope. The bond still acts up. And I still—” His voice broke off, choking on the bitter heat of something he couldn’t name.
Dazai kissed his mouth this time, rougher. “Then let me make it stop—for now. Let me take it all.”
The moment the words left him, the bond surged—hard. Like it wanted him to take everything.
Dazai moved lower, licking a slow stripe along Chūya’s chest, teeth grazing the slope of a nipple before biting. Just enough to make Chūya hiss. Then again. Harder.
Rope creaked. Chūya’s thighs twitched, bound wrists twisting against silk.
“Bastard,” he gasped.
But Dazai was already between his legs, already licking into him like he’d been waiting his whole life. Tongue slow at first, dragging across the rim with obscene precision, then plunging deeper. His hands gripped Chūya’s hips, holding him open, grinding him down into the mattress when he squirmed too much.
The moans—soft, broken, real—tore from Chūya’s throat without mercy.
And Dazai listened to every one.
He moaned into it, eyes fluttering closed, mouth working faster now—deeper, hungrier—because he needed Chūya to break first. Not from pain. From surrender. From that bond-bound feeling of being claimed.
When Chūya’s legs started to shake, Dazai pulled back just enough to press two fingers in, slicked with spit. He curved them deliberately, brushing right over—
“F-fuck—Dazai—”
“Shh.” Dazai kissed the inside of Chūya’s thigh. “I’ve got you.”
He fucked him open slowly, then thoroughly, curling and stretching with that perfect rhythm that made Chūya forget how to breathe. And once the whimpers turned into snarled curses and bitten-down sobs, then Dazai unbuckled his belt. Then he slid in, slow and brutal, without breaking eye contact for even a second.
Chūya’s whole body arched.
The bond screamed.
His hands fisted again above his head—rope holding, collar tight against his throat, leash stretched taut between them—and Dazai bottomed out with a groan like it hurt.
“Fuck, Chūya—” he whispered, hips pressing deep.
“Just shut up and fuck me,” Chūya snapped. “If I’m losing myself, make it worth it.”
He didn’t need to ask twice.
Dazai didn’t pace himself.
He couldn’t.
Not with the way Chūya was trembling beneath him, bound and panting and staring at him like he wasn’t sure whether to hate him or cry or beg for more.
The room was all heat and sweat and friction, the creak of rope with every thrust, the slick glide of Dazai’s cock deep inside him over and over until Chūya was gasping for air and the bond was a livewire between their ribs.
“Dazai—”
His name cracked from Chūya’s throat like a prayer and a curse all at once.
“Say it again,” Dazai growled, leaning over him, the leash gripped tight in his fist. “Tell me you still feel me. Not the bond. Not the tether. Me.”
Chūya’s lips parted—then clamped shut.
Defiance. Always.
Even now.
Dazai snapped his hips forward, hard enough to knock the breath from Chūya’s lungs.
“Say it.”
And the bond howled. Like it wanted to tear straight through them both.
Chūya choked on the groan that followed, his head falling back, throat arched so beautifully Dazai couldn’t help but lick it, bite it, suck until bruises bloomed across the column of his neck like brands.
“I—fuck, Dazai—I don’t know—”
Dazai slowed. Just for a second. Just long enough to lean in, lips brushing his ear.
“Yes, you do.”
And then he did it.
He used it.
“Be good for me,” he whispered. “Let me feel it. Let me have you.”
Voice-bound command. Quiet. Anchored in breath and thread and ancient arcana.
And Chūya shattered.
Body tightening, heels digging into the sheets, wrists straining against the rope as his spine arched like he’d been struck by lightning. The bond roared, snapping taut in a way it hadn’t in days. It didn’t just flare—it claimed.
Pleasure hit him like a landslide. His release spilled between them without a single stroke to his cock, untouched, uncontrolled, undeniably real.
“Shit,” Dazai hissed, eyes wide—because he felt it. Every flicker. Every tremor. It jolted up his spine like an electric current and dragged him right into his own orgasm—hard, fast, brutal—hips jerking, teeth clenched as he spilled inside Chūya with a strangled moan.
They collapsed into each other—still bound, still shaking, still breathing each other’s air like they’d forgotten how to breathe anything else.
Silence followed.
Heavy. Raw. Almost unbearable.
Chūya blinked up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling with shaky rhythm, the collar still tight around his throat, the leash now slack in Dazai’s hand.
“…You shouldn’t be able to do that,” he rasped. “Not to me.”
Dazai looked down at him.
Voice soft. “But it worked.”
Chūya flinched.
Because it had.
Because for a moment—one fractured, unbearable moment—it hadn’t been about the bond. It hadn’t even been about grief or anger or betrayal.
It had been them.
Just them.
And that terrified him more than anything.
Chapter 27: Not the Bond. Not the Magic. Just You.
Summary:
Chūya wakes with bruises on his hips and Dazai still asleep behind him—but this time, the bond is quiet. No flares. No instincts. No pressure. And that’s what scares him the most.
It wasn’t the magic that made him beg. It was him.
A message from Renji reminds him of everything he’s no longer running from—and when he tries to leave, it’s not the bond that stops him.
Chapter Text
The apartment smelled like sleep and sex and sweat—warm and quiet in the way only a lived-in space could be.
Morning filtered in through the half-closed blinds, brushing over bare skin and tousled sheets. The kind of morning where you’d normally get up and make coffee. Water the stupid plant. Pretend you had a life that hadn’t gone entirely off the rails.
Chūya didn’t move.
He lay on his side, facing the edge of the mattress, one hand tucked under his cheek. Every inch of him ached. The red marks on his wrists were still raw from the ropes. His hips were sore, his throat scraped faintly hoarse from the night before—and Dazai—
God.
Dazai was still behind him.
Breathing slow and deep. One hand curled in the sheets near Chūya’s thigh, the other pressed between their bodies like he’d fallen asleep trying to reach him again. That stupid scarred hand.
No bond pull. No arcana flare. No soul-maddening instinct.
Just Dazai.
And that was the worst part.
Chūya stared at the far wall. Listened to the rhythmic breath behind him. The quiet hum of the radiator. His own heartbeat trying not to drown him.
Because he couldn’t lie to himself this time.
It hadn’t been the blood pact that made him fall apart.
Hadn’t been the soulbind or the curse or the tether that made him beg.
Last night, it had been him.
He was the one who asked for Dazai. The one who let himself be touched, worshipped, destroyed. Who climbed into Dazai’s lap and told him not to stop. Who arched into his palm and whispered his name like it meant something.
He had wanted him.
Not the bond. Not the magic. Not some half-forgotten trauma-fueled craving stitched into his nervous system.
Just Dazai.
And now he didn’t know how to live with that.
He shifted slightly on the mattress, careful not to wake him. The ache between his legs dragged a ghost of sensation up his spine—flashes of the leash, the collar, the way Dazai’s voice had gone low and feral when he came—
You’re mine. Let me ruin you. Let me keep you this time.
Chūya squeezed his eyes shut.
That wasn’t the bond either.
The floor was cold under his feet.
Chūya moved like he wasn’t sure he still lived there—half-robotic, blinking slowly as he passed the mirror in the hallway, saw the red collar mark on his throat, and looked away.
He needed coffee. Or a cigarette. Or maybe to lie down on the floor and let the ceiling swallow him whole.
The kettle hissed in the background as he leaned against the kitchen counter. Bare chest. Loose sweatpants. Marks all over his hips that Dazai hadn’t left with malice—but with reverence.
He should’ve hated them.
Should’ve wiped them off his skin like shame. Burned the sheets. Washed his hands. Done something to feel like he had a body again.
But instead—
Instead, he scrolled through his phone. Trying to find an anchor. Something normal. Something that wouldn’t feel like falling into someone else’s life.
And there it was.
A message from Renji. Sent at 6:41am.
hope everything's alright. sorry again if yesterday stirred things up. if you ever wanna talk, you know where to find me.
Chūya stared at the screen for a long time.
It wasn’t the message itself that did it. It was the absence in his chest. The lack of reaction. No warmth, no pull, no ache.
Renji used to be comfort. Used to be safe.
And now?
Now, all Chūya could feel was the faint, shifting thread behind his ribs—Dazai’s bond settling back into place like a palm pressed softly between his shoulder blades. No pressure. No sharp yank.
Just… there.
Breathing.
Alive.
Asking.
He almost dropped the phone.
The weight of it—all of it—made his knees weak.
Because the bond wasn’t forcing him back anymore. Wasn’t dragging him into Dazai’s orbit like a tide too strong to fight.
It was waiting.
It knew what he’d done. How far he’d gone. How freely he’d offered himself up—and it wasn’t demanding anything now. It was just...
...reminding him.
Reminding him who he’d wanted last night.
Who he still wanted.
Even when there was no magic left to blame.
He got as far as the door.
Keys in hand. Jacket already shrugged over his shoulders. Phone in his pocket, shoes halfway on.
No bond flare.
No choking pressure.
No sudden lurch behind his ribs.
Just quiet.
And that made it worse.
The silence felt like permission. Like Dazai was finally letting go. Like the soulbind—after all this time—was done dragging him back.
And still.
Still, he hesitated.
His hand closed around the doorknob. Cold metal under warm fingers. The hallway outside as empty and anonymous as ever.
And yet—
“Tell me it’s not the bond,” Dazai had whispered last night, his mouth brushing Chūya’s ear, his fingers tightening in the ropes he'd tied. “Tell me you want this even if it’s just me.”
Chūya had gasped something back—he couldn’t remember what. Maybe he hadn’t answered at all.
But he had stayed.
Even with the leash tugging, the collar snug at his throat, and Dazai fucking him like he was trying to replace every memory of pain in his body with him—Chūya had stayed. Moaned for him. Clung to him. Fucked him back like his life depended on it.
“You don’t have to love me.”
“Then shut up,” Chūya had growled. “And fuck me like you do.”
The doorknob slipped slightly under his palm.
He wasn’t being pulled back now. Wasn’t being forced. The bond was dormant—quiet, watchful. Still there, but... soft.
Waiting.
Like it knew something Chūya didn’t.
Like it trusted him to choose.
And wasn’t that the sickest part?
That it hadn’t been the bond making him stay, all those times he thought it had.
It was him.
It had always been him.
Chūya let go of the door. The keys clinked against the wall as he slid them back into the tray by the entryway. His back hit the wood a second later, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat.
He didn’t go far. Just stood there, hand fisted in his jacket pocket, shaking quietly while the sun filtered in across the floor.
The worst part wasn’t that he wanted Dazai.
It was that he still could.
The sound of the bedroom door creaked soft as breath.
Chūya didn’t look up.
He didn’t need to.
He felt it first—like gravity shifting in the room. The air thickening. That hum behind his sternum pulling taut again, not painfully, just enough to remind him:
You’re not alone.
Bare feet padded over the wooden floor.
Then silence.
Dazai didn’t speak. Just stood there, maybe ten feet away, somewhere near the hallway’s mouth—half in shadow, half haloed in gold from the rising sun behind him. Chūya still didn’t turn around.
His hand gripped the edge of the entryway table. White-knuckled. Unsteady.
“You were going to leave,” Dazai said.
It wasn’t a question.
Chūya’s jaw ticked.
“I didn’t.”
“No. You didn’t.”
Quiet again.
The worst kind of quiet—the kind that came after someone already knew. That eerie stillness before a faultline gives.
Chūya swallowed hard, throat tight. His voice, when it came, was rough.
“I got a message.”
Dazai didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
Chūya shifted his stance. Loosened his grip on the table edge like it had betrayed him.
“It wasn’t him,” he said after a beat. “Last night. It wasn’t… instinct. Or the bond. It was me.”
The words fell between them like glass.
Dazai still didn’t move. But something changed in the air—sharp, heated, silent like a blade being drawn without fanfare.
“Then say it,” Dazai said.
Chūya turned, finally.
Eyes rimmed red from sleeplessness. Shirtless. Half-dressed. A leash ring still faintly pressed into his throat.
The look Dazai gave him was unreadable. Hair mussed from sleep. Shoulders bare under an open button-down he hadn’t bothered to close. Collarbone bruised. Lips still parted like he hadn’t stopped breathing Chūya in.
“Say what?” Chūya bit back.
“That you wanted me.”
The heat in his stomach twisted. Tightened. Anger or shame or arousal—he couldn’t tell anymore.
“I did,” Chūya snapped. “Isn’t that fucked enough for you?”
Dazai’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I think it’s the first honest thing you’ve said to me since the hospital.”
A beat.
“Is that what you want? Honesty?” Chūya hissed. “Fine. I didn’t think about the bond. I didn’t think about anything except you. And I let you do it—tie me up, fuck me, use me—because I wanted it. Because I can’t fucking stop.”
Dazai’s pupils dilated—slow, dangerous, hungry.
And when he took a single step forward, the bond flared—
Not hard. Not sharp.
But deep.
Low and resonant like a pulse pressed to the inside of Chūya’s throat. A slow, breathless ripple of I’m here. I’m listening. I won’t stop you.
Dazai said nothing.
He just kept walking.
The tension snapped somewhere between breath and motion.
Dazai crossed the space between them in three strides—slow, like he didn’t want to spook him. But his eyes were anything but careful. They were starved.
Chūya didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just watched Dazai come closer, chest rising like he might stop this—might lash out, or shove him away—
But then Dazai’s hand cupped his cheek.
And everything went still.
Not a word. Not a whisper.
Just that hand—warm, calloused, reverent. Just his thumb brushing over the side of Chūya’s mouth like he was trying to memorize him.
Then—
“You still want me?”
That voice—hoarse, fragile, nothing like last night’s growl.
Chūya blinked. Couldn’t breathe.
But he nodded.
And that was all it took.
Dazai kissed him—mouth crashing into his with no finesse, no seduction. Just need. Just tongue and teeth and hands fisting in fabric, dragging Chūya back into him like he could never get close enough.
Clothes hit the floor in pieces.
They didn’t make it to the bedroom. Didn’t need to.
Chūya’s spine slammed into the wall beside the kitchen counter, legs parting as Dazai sank to his knees. Hands skimming his hips, lips already bruising the inside of his thighs.
No leash. No ropes. No dominance games.
Just—
“I want to taste you this time,” Dazai murmured against his skin, voice breaking. “Not because you’re mine. Not because you let me. Just because I need to.”
Chūya bit back a groan—head tilted, fist curling in Dazai’s hair. “Then fucking do it.”
And Dazai did.
He mouthed over Chūya’s cock like it was worship. Like it was the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence. Tongue slow, pressure perfect, no teasing—just filth and gratitude and hunger all tangled together in the wet heat of his mouth.
Chūya gasped, shoulders banging the wall. “Fuck—shit—Dazai—”
But Dazai didn’t let up.
Didn’t stop until Chūya was fucking into his mouth, moaning raw and bitten, one leg lifted to brace against the counter, his fingers shaking where they gripped Dazai’s jaw.
And then he came—hard, breathless, teeth bared in a silent cry, and Dazai swallowed it all without flinching.
He pulled back slow.
Eyes glazed, mouth shining.
And for a second, he just looked up at Chūya. Quiet. Adoring. Broken open.
“I’m not asking for forever,” he whispered. “But let me have this.”
Chūya dropped to his knees, dragged Dazai down with him, and kissed him like he meant it.
The tile was cold beneath their knees. Clothes scattered across the floor like battlefield debris. The sun creeping higher through half-shut blinds, painting lines across bare skin.
Chūya kissed him hard—no teeth, no biting. Just heat. Tongue tangled, hands in Dazai’s hair, pulling him close like he couldn’t bear a single inch of space between them.
Dazai let him. Let himself be kissed, touched, wanted.
But when he tried to speak—tried to murmur something like you don’t have to—Chūya shut him up with a palm to the chest and a low growl against his lips.
“Lie back.”
Dazai obeyed.
Flat on the cool kitchen tile. Chest heaving, pupils blown wide. One arm folded behind his head, the other twitching like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch.
And then Chūya straddled his thighs—slow, deliberate, palms dragging over Dazai’s ribs, up the spread of his chest.
He bent low, mouth tracing the hollow of his throat. Down to his sternum. Across his ribs. No words, no smirk—just worship.
His voice, when it came, was quiet.
“You always take. Always push. Always twist your hands in me until I forget my own goddamn name.”
Dazai tried to answer, but Chūya dragged his tongue across one nipple and swallowed the sound that followed.
“Not this time.”
He moved lower.
Let his lips find the sharp ridges of Dazai’s hips. The faint lines of old scars. The trail of hair leading down—
And then he took him.
All the way.
No teasing. No warm-up. Just one breathless slide of lips and throat and heat as he swallowed Dazai whole.
Dazai choked on his own gasp, head thumping back against the tile. “Chūya—!”
But he couldn’t stop him.
Wouldn’t dare.
Not with the way Chūya was moving—confident, precise, ravenous. Not with the heat in his eyes when he looked up through messy strands of copper hair and moaned around him.
Dazai’s fingers found his hair anyway. Tangled. Trembled.
The only word he could say was his name. Over and over, like a prayer. Like a curse.
Chūya. Chūya. Chūya—
He came hard, hips jerking, back arching off the floor—and Chūya took every drop.
Swallowed him whole, like vengeance. Like proof.
Then pulled off slow. Licked his lips. Breathed deep.
And when he looked at Dazai again, there was no fury in his gaze.
Just something wrecked. Something real.
“I didn’t do that because of the bond,” he said.
Dazai blinked up at him—sweat-drenched, shaking.
“I know.”
The kitchen was quiet again.
No words. No movement.
Just the hum of the radiator. The hush of morning pressing soft against the windows. The last low sigh of a bond that had gone still—like it understood this moment was sacred.
Chūya lay half-curled on the floor, cheek pressed to Dazai’s shoulder, the rise and fall of his chest steady under one palm. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
Dazai’s fingers rested loosely in his hair.
And for once, they weren’t trying to hold anything together. Weren’t clinging or claiming. Just... touching.
Existing.
They’d sweat through what was left of their anger. Fucked through the edge of something cruel and sharp and nameless.
And now there was nothing left but skin.
Warmth.
And the soft, unbearable truth that neither of them wanted to run anymore.
Chūya swallowed, throat dry. “We can’t stay like this.”
“I know,” Dazai whispered.
He didn’t say but I want to.
He didn’t need to.
Chūya felt it in the thread still tethered to him—quiet now, no longer dragging or choking or demanding. Just waiting. Watching. Steady as breath.
Maybe that was the most terrifying thing of all.
That he could still leave.
That he could stay.
Dazai shifted slightly, not to pull him closer—just to adjust. One arm folded under his head, the other resting across Chūya’s spine. His voice was low. Almost afraid.
“Will you be here when I wake up?”
Chūya didn’t answer right away.
He closed his eyes.
Let the silence stretch long enough to mean something.
Then—
“…Yeah.”
Dazai’s exhale was almost silent.
But Chūya felt it in his ribs like a promise.
Chapter 28: Things That Don’t Let Go
Summary:
The morning after quiets the bond—but not for long.
ARC sends a new agent with cold news: the tether isn’t fading. It’s deepening. Reinforcing itself through emotional feedback and proximity. There’s no going back.
Chūya reels at the idea of losing himself. Of becoming something else—of not knowing whether he wants Dazai or the bond does.
But when the voice-command slips again and the bond does nothing to drag him close, Dazai says the one thing Chūya needs to hear:
“I want you to choose.”
And for the first time, Chūya does.
Chapter Text
The room was white.
Not soft-white, not warm-white—just antiseptic, ghost-lit, the kind of white that made you feel like your skin didn’t belong to you.
Chūya sat on the edge of the exam table, arms crossed, shirt wrinkled from where Dazai had yanked it off the floor and tossed it at him that morning. Dazai himself lounged beside him, half-draped in one of ARC’s thin thermal blankets, the corner tucked carelessly behind his hip like modesty was optional.
The agent didn’t so much as blink at the sight of him.
Tall, gaunt, with grey at his temples and a digital notepad in hand, the man had introduced himself as Dr. Senda, and hadn’t said a single unnecessary word since.
He tapped once on the glass. Read. Scanned again.
Then:
“The bond is strengthening.”
No preamble. No good morning. Just that.
Chūya blinked. “...What?”
Dr. Senda didn’t look up.
“Thread resonance between you has increased exponentially since your last scan. Your shared frequency is now operating at a level typically only seen in artificially induced soul-melds—pre-cataclysm arcana, specifically.”
Dazai’s brow ticked up. “That’s supposed to mean something to us?”
Dr. Senda scrolled. “It means you’ve passed beyond the stage of physical tethering. The thread is now reinforcing itself through emotional feedback.”
Silence.
Chūya’s stomach turned.
“I thought—” He cleared his throat. “It felt quieter. Less... aggressive.”
Dr. Senda nodded, but not in agreement. More like correction.
“That is typical for this stage. Once the bond stabilizes beyond forced anchoring, it no longer needs to yank. Instead, it coaxes. Encourages reinforcement through perceived autonomy. That’s the mechanism of emotional loop strengthening.”
Chūya stared.
“You’re saying it’s tricking us.”
“Not tricking,” Dr. Senda corrected. “It’s evolving. Wild arcana structures are not sentient, but they are reactive. They adapt. And this one appears to be syncing to your emotional rhythms with increasing precision.”
Dazai leaned back against the wall, expression unreadable.
“And what—” he gestured lazily, “—is the consequence of that?”
Another flick of the stylus.
“None. Yet.”
Another silence.
Dr. Senda continued:
“You are already past the window for safe dissociation. The bond cannot be reversed. However, current scans do not suggest imminent identity erosion or autonomous override. You are—how should I put this—functionally stable, for now.”
That for now landed like a blade between Chūya’s ribs.
He clenched his jaw. “So what, then? We just sit here and wait for it to eat us alive?”
Dr. Senda finally looked up.
Eyes cold. Clinical. Fascinated, even.
“We observe. That’s what you’re here for.”
Chūya laughed.
Sharp. Bitter. Not amused in the slightest.
“Observe,” he echoed, fingers flexing against the edge of the exam table. “Right. Because we’re fucking science projects now.”
Dr. Senda turned back to his data. “You always were.”
The words landed hard.
Not cruelly—but with that matter-of-fact detachment only ARC personnel seemed capable of. Like they didn’t see people, just patterns. Threads. Outcomes.
Dazai said nothing.
He hadn’t moved since the announcement. Just sat there, one long leg bent, elbow resting on his knee, eyes fixed on a crack in the tile like it might open and swallow them both.
Chūya’s pulse pounded in his ears.
“So what—what happens next?” he snapped. “Do we just wait for more symptoms? Start counting how often I fuck him until the bond eats me alive?”
Dr. Senda didn’t flinch.
“If you’d like a symptom list, we can provide one.”
“Oh, please do,” Dazai muttered, tone low.
The agent tapped his stylus once more, then read aloud—like he was listing side effects off a bottle of medication.
“We expect a continuation of current tether reinforcement: increased pull when separated, sustained comfort when in close proximity. New symptoms may include emotional echoing, tactile ghosting, involuntary mirroring, and—if proximity remains high—REM entanglement.”
Chūya blinked. “The fuck does that mean?”
Dr. Senda elaborated without emotion.
“You may begin to feel each other’s emotional states at a mild, subconscious level. Phantom touch phenomena—‘tactile ghosting’—may also appear. If one of you receives physical contact, the other may experience a faint echo.”
Dazai exhaled slowly. “Kinky.”
Dr. Senda ignored him.
“Mirroring behaviors may occur. Posture, hand placement, tone shifts. Typically brief. In most cases, these resolve with conscious divergence. The final symptom—REM entanglement—refers to shared dreamspace. Early signs include recurring, inexplicably similar dreams. Lucid overlap is possible.”
Chūya stared.
“That’s—That’s not normal.”
“Correct,” Dr. Senda said flatly. “That’s arcana.”
The bond stirred faintly—like a breath against the back of his neck.
Still no pressure.
Still no pull.
Just presence.
Like it was listening.
Dazai finally looked up. His voice was low. Dangerous.
“What happens when the dreams don’t stop?”
Dr. Senda tapped his tablet off.
“Then you’ll stop being individuals and start being something else.”
Chūya slammed the door harder than he meant to.
The frame rattled. His keys clattered into the tray. His jacket hit the floor where he dropped it without thinking.
He paced. Back and forth across the living room, boots still on, every muscle in his body wired tight. His apartment still smelled faintly of Dazai from the night before, and that only made it worse.
“‘Stop being individuals,’” he spat. “Like it’s a fucking weather forecast. Like it’s nothing.”
Behind him, Dazai shut the door with a click. No rush. No sound beyond the creak of wood. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just leaned against the wall and watched him.
The silence pressed heavier than the ARC agent’s words ever had.
Chūya scrubbed a hand over his face. “They don’t even care what happens. Just another fucked-up arcana experiment to them. As long as we don’t drop dead on the floor, it’s all data. All numbers. Doesn’t matter if I—if we—”
He cut himself off. Jaw tight. Throat burning.
The bond stirred faintly. Not pulling. Not tightening. Just a low hum, soft and steady. Almost coaxing. Like it wanted him to breathe.
Dazai’s voice came finally, low and too calm.
“Why does it scare you so much?”
Chūya froze mid-step. Turned, eyes flashing.
“You didn’t hear him?” he snapped. “He said we’re already past the point of breaking it. That it’s stronger now. That if it keeps going, we won’t even—” His voice cracked. “—won’t even know where I end and you start.”
Dazai tilted his head, unreadable. “Maybe that’s not the worst thing.”
The words landed like a fist to the chest.
Chūya stared at him, breath stuttering. “You can’t be serious.”
Dazai’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “What if I am?”
The bond thrummed between them—low, resonant, waiting.
Chūya wanted to scream. Wanted to throw him out. Wanted to grab him by the collar and demand he stop smiling like that, stop wanting this when Chūya was drowning in it.
But his hands only shook at his sides. His heart raced like it already knew the answer.
“You don’t get it,” Chūya whispered. “You never get it.”
Dazai’s brows knit. “Then tell me.”
Chūya’s fists clenched.
But the words wouldn’t come.
Because how could he say it?
How could he explain that he was terrified of losing himself—of waking up one day and not knowing whether the bond wanted Dazai or he did? That sometimes he couldn’t tell the difference between being loved and being possessed?
And that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t afraid of merging because he hated Dazai.
But because he didn’t.
Not anymore.
His breath hitched.
And that’s when it happened.
Dazai said quietly—soft, low, the way he only ever spoke when he forgot to put the mask back on:
“Come here.”
And Chūya moved.
Without thinking. Without blinking. Without question.
His feet carried him across the room before his brain caught up. He stood in front of Dazai like he’d been summoned—and he had.
The bond pulsed.
Slow. Warm. A little too pleased.
Chūya’s eyes widened. His chest heaved.
“Shit—” he staggered back a step, breathing hard. “You voice-bound me again—!”
“No,” Dazai said, sharp now. “I didn’t mean to.”
“But you did.”
“I know.”
And then—softer—he reached out. Not to touch. Just to steady.
“Chūya. Look at me.”
He didn’t want to.
But he did.
Dazai’s voice was low. Controlled. No velvet now. No filth. Just steady gravity.
“I’m not going to pretend this isn’t fucked up. I’m not going to tell you it’s fine, or that I don’t want this bond when I do. But I’m not here to drag you under.”
Chūya swallowed.
“I know you’re scared. I know what it felt like. But I’m listening. And if you want to talk to Kida again—fine. If you want to tear through every banned book on wild soul-melds, I’ll help you.”
Chūya blinked.
Dazai stepped forward, slow.
“We’ll find the answers. Even if ARC doesn’t want us to. Even if they think it’s too late.”
Another breath.
“I want you, Chūya. But I want you to choose.”
The silence stretched.
Dazai’s words still hung in the air—heavy, solemn, real. Nothing about them was manipulative. Nothing about the bond pulled him forward.
And that was what made it unbearable.
Because it meant this was the moment.
No excuses. No instincts. No magic.
Just choice.
Chūya’s hands shook where they hung at his sides.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
And when the words still wouldn’t come—when he couldn’t spit out a single clever insult or broken piece of grief—
He just stepped forward.
One slow, shuddering step. And then another. Until he was close enough that his forehead could rest against Dazai’s chest.
Not a kiss. Not a plea. Not a fight.
Just contact.
He stood there, breathing hard, fists balled in Dazai’s shirt like he was clinging to the edge of the earth.
Dazai didn’t say anything.
Didn’t move. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t twist the moment into something filthy or sarcastic.
He just wrapped his arms around him—quiet and sure—and pulled him close.
Held him like he had all the time in the world.
Chūya’s breath hitched once. Then again.
And then he exhaled. Slow. Shaking. Like the storm had passed through him and left only wreckage behind.
“I’m tired of fighting,” he whispered. “I just don’t wanna disappear.”
Dazai’s hand slid up the back of his neck. Gentle.
“You won’t.”
And this time, the bond didn’t hum in agreement.
It just listened.
Chapter 29: The More You Touch It, The More It Grows
Summary:
Chūya meets with Dr. Kida, hoping for answers about the soulbind’s evolution. What he learns instead shakes him.
And just when he thinks he’s gaining control, the bond reminds him who’s really in charge.
Notes:
I hope y'all still enjoy this story 🖤
Chapter Text
The Arcana Doctrine, Fragmented
“In all soulbinds, there are three stages: ignition, entanglement, and compounding. The first is the flare—the surge that ties life to life. The second is the threading: a resonance forming between the two signatures. And the third... is when the bond begins to feed itself.”
“Arcana isn’t like modern magic. It doesn’t use rules—it uses instinct. Soulbinds weren’t cast. They were bled. Sworn. Cried into existence. Most ended in ruin. Some in fusion. Fewer still in anything that could be called love.”
“To love someone in spite of a soulbind is rare. To love them because of it is dangerous. But to love them while knowing it may never have been yours to begin with—that’s what breaks people.”
The café was quiet.
Tucked into a narrow street two blocks from ARC’s main building, it smelled like ground cinnamon and wood smoke—sweet, unassuming. The kind of place no one would look for soulbind fallout.
Chūya sat at a corner table, half-watching the street. One hand curled around his cup. The other resting flat on the table, fingers still for once.
And most importantly—no pain.
The bond was quiet.
Not gone. But... manageable.
Just a faint tug, deep in his chest. Not sharp. Not dangerous. Just there.
He wasn’t sure if it was Dazai missing him, or just the thread reminding him he could still turn back.
But he didn’t.
Dr. Kida arrived three minutes late, trench coat half-unbuttoned, glasses fogged slightly at the edges. He greeted him with a brief nod and no small talk, then sat across from him and opened a folder he’d definitely not been cleared to bring.
No tablet. No recording device. Just paper. Old-school. Untraceable.
“You said you wanted theory,” he said quietly. “Not procedure.”
Chūya nodded.
Kida’s eyes were sharp behind the lenses. “So let’s talk wild arcana.”
Ten minutes in, and Chūya was leaning forward.
Not because he was in pain—but because what he was saying made too much sense.
“Soulbinds don’t just react to proximity,” he said, voice low. “They react to meaning. To choice. The more willingly you engage—the more emotionally open you are—the stronger the feedback loop becomes. Especially if you're engaging with trust dynamics.”
Chūya blinked. “You mean like—”
“Leash. Collar. Rope. Surrender. Command phrases,” he said flatly. “All of it. These aren’t just symbols. In wild arcana, intent is structure. You may not be casting a spell, but you are shaping it.”
His stomach turned.
“We thought it was safer to stop denying it,” he muttered. “I thought—if I didn’t fight it, maybe it’d settle.”
“It won’t,” Kida said. “That’s not how compounding works. The bond isn’t calming because it’s going dormant. It’s calming because it’s being fed.”
Chūya gritted his teeth.
“And if we stop feeding it?”
Kida hesitated.
“That depends,” he said. “Do you want to keep him?”
He didn’t answer.
But his hand tightened around the cup.
And then it hit.
Not a hum.
Not a pull.
Pain.
White-hot and immediate, like someone had driven a spike through his sternum and twisted. Chūya gasped and doubled over, breath shattering in his throat.
“Chūya—!” Kida stood so fast his chair scraped the stone. “What is it?”
He didn’t need to answer. The bond screamed it for him.
Dazai.
The pain wasn’t his.
But it felt like it. Burning in his side. Radiating across his ribs. Vision blurred, mouth dry—
Something had happened.
He staggered to his feet, knocking the chair over. Didn’t wait for her. Didn’t look back.
“Go,” Kida snapped, already pulling out her phone. “I’ll deal with ARC. I’ll tell them it was a sensor malfunction.”
He didn’t hear the rest.
He was already running.
The world blurred around him.
Chūya barely remembered pushing through the café doors. Didn’t remember how many traffic lights he ran, or who he almost shouldered into the street. His whole body screamed, not with pain—not his pain—but with that echo, that borrowed agony still crawling up his ribs.
Every breath was fire.
Dazai. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong—
And the bond pulsed again—violent, frenzied, alive under his skin. Not a pull. A drag. Like it was clawing its way home through his lungs.
By the time he reached his apartment, his fingers were shaking too hard to fit the key in the lock.
He kicked the door open instead.
“Dazai—!”
Silence.
His eyes scanned the room in half a second—walls intact. Furniture in place. No broken glass. No blood.
And then—
Voices. Low. Sharp.
Coming from the living room.
Chūya rounded the corner like a blade ready to strike.
And froze.
Dazai was standing by the window. Shirt rumpled, collarbone bare. Hands in his pockets. Face unreadable.
Sitting across from him on the edge of the coffee table—
Renji.
Speaking.
And not just that—angry.
“—so you’re telling me,” Renji was saying, low and seething, “you didn’t plan it. You didn’t mean to bind him. But now that it’s done, you’re just going to keep him like a fucking pet?”
Dazai didn’t flinch.
“I never said I didn’t mean to,” he replied calmly.
And that’s when Renji noticed him.
His mouth snapped shut. “Chūya—”
But Chūya didn’t look at him.
His eyes were locked on Dazai.
Chest heaving. Knuckles white. Skin flushed from running. The bond still sparking, electric and wrong in his chest.
“You’re not hurt.”
Chūya’s voice cracked—part accusation, part disbelief.
Dazai blinked, slowly. “No. I’m not.”
“You didn’t flare the bond?”
A pause. A flicker of confusion.
“What?”
“You didn’t feel it?!”
Dazai straightened, eyes sharpening. “Chūya, I didn’t do anything—”
“You didn’t feel me choke on your pain?” Chūya stepped forward, breath catching. “Didn’t feel it tear through me like a fucking knife halfway across the city?!”
Renji stared at them both now, wide-eyed. “Wait—what do you mean pain?”
“I thought you were dying,” Chūya snapped. “I thought the bond was reacting to your body going into shock—your heart stopping—something.”
Dazai shook his head, slowly. “No. I was just... talking.”
“With him,” Chūya said, glaring toward Renji.
And then it hit.
Cold. Sharp. Coiled under his skin like a wire pulled too tight.
“…The bond did it.”
Dazai stilled.
Chūya’s voice dropped. “It flared. Not because of injury. Not because of danger. Because it sensed something.”
He met Dazai’s eyes.
“It felt him. His intent. His proximity. And it panicked.”
Dazai was quiet. “You think the bond—”
“—wanted me back here.”
Renji looked between them, jaw clenched. “So it can do that? Just… call you like a leash when it feels like it?”
“I don’t know,” Chūya said, frustrated. “But it did.”
Renji exhaled sharply. “And you’re okay with that?”
“No,” Chūya shot back. “I’m not. But I’m also not stupid enough to pretend this is just about choice anymore.”
Renji’s voice dropped. “Then what is it about?”
Chūya looked at Dazai.
Looked at the hollow in his throat. The way his shoulders held a new kind of tension.
“It’s about how far this thing will go,” he said. “And whether or not it still thinks I belong to it.”
Renji crossed his arms.
“You said it yourself,” he muttered. “It wanted you back here. Like it owns you.”
Chūya didn’t flinch. But he didn’t answer either.
And that silence seemed to hit Renji harder than anything else.
He scoffed—looked down at the floor, then back up at Dazai. “You didn’t even tell him what it was before it started binding him, did you?”
Dazai’s jaw tightened.
“That’s what I thought.” Renji exhaled, slow and bitter. “Jesus, Chūya. You always said you hated being dragged into things without choosing. That people like him—” he gestured at Dazai, “—treated you like a tool.”
Chūya’s voice came quiet. “It’s not that simple anymore.”
“Isn’t it?”
Renji’s eyes burned—not just angry, but hurt. And not just for Chūya, either.
“It started with blood, didn’t it?” he asked. “When you were kids. A cut, a pact—something you didn’t understand.”
Chūya swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
“And now look at you.”
Dazai shifted behind him, silent but steady—like he knew better than to interrupt.
Renji took a step back, toward the door.
“I don’t trust him,” he said quietly. “Not with you. Not with your soul.”
Chūya’s breath caught.
And Renji added, soft enough that it almost didn’t carry:
“You deserved to be wanted without magic forcing it.”
Then he turned and left—shoulders tight, jaw clenched, quietly closing the front door behind him.
Chūya didn’t speak for a long time.
He was still standing where he’d landed—just inside the door, boots muddy, fingertips numb.
Dazai was across the room.
Not close enough to touch.
But the bond still buzzed faintly in his ribs—like it was trying to act innocent. Like it hadn’t just lied to him.
He finally exhaled.
“So now we know,” he said softly.
Dazai tilted his head.
“Know what?”
“That it’s learning.”
Dazai’s mouth twitched. “That it’s... jealous?”
Chūya didn’t smile.
“No,” he said. “That it’s watching us. Not just reacting. Not just echoing. Anticipating.”
Dazai’s gaze dropped.
“I didn’t feel the flare.”
“I know.”
He took a step forward. Not toward Dazai—just toward the middle of the room. Hands loose at his sides.
“I thought it only hurt when we resisted it. When we tried to break free.” His throat tightened. “But it hurts now when we don’t.”
Dazai didn’t answer.
Chūya’s voice dropped.
“And you want to keep it.”
The silence that followed was too heavy for denial.
But too fragile for yes.
They didn’t speak after that.
Dazai stayed by the window.
Chūya stayed in the middle of the room.
The bond pulsed quietly between them—docile again. Sated. Like it hadn’t just dragged him across the city on a lie.
Eventually, Chūya pulled out his phone. Scrolled past missed calls. Ignored a new message from ARC. Found Kida’s number.
His thumbs hovered over the screen.
Then typed:
what happens when the bond wants things we don’t?
He stared at it for a long time before hitting send.
Chapter 30: Thread Hunger
Summary:
The bond doesn’t hurt.
But it isn’t quiet, either.
Chūya can feel it humming—satisfied, but already wanting more.
Dr. Kida’s warning is clear: if they don’t find a way to feed it on their own terms, it may start taking without asking.
Chapter Text
On Compounding: Notes Recovered from the Arcana Vault, Author Unknown
“In the earliest stage, the bond is blind. It flares, it anchors, it screams.
In the second, it learns to mirror—desire, emotion, proximity. It teaches both hosts to reach for what the other provides.”
“But the third stage—Compounding—is different.”
“It is not reaction. It is evolution.”
“At this point, the soulbind has accrued enough emotional architecture to support autonomous intent. It no longer waits to be fed. It hungers. It adapts.”
“Compounded threads exhibit the following phenomena:”
– Voluntary activation (one host experiences symptoms without direct trigger)
– Preemptive tethering (the bond acts before harm occurs)
– Dream implantation / sensory displacement
– Emotional priority override (bond may enforce what it deems ‘necessary’ for survival of the structure, not the individual)
“At this point, the hosts are often still alive—but it is no longer clear if they are entirely themselves.”
The apartment was too quiet.
The kind of quiet that didn’t feel like rest.
Just waiting.
Chūya sat on the edge of the couch, legs pulled up, arms wrapped around his knees. The city lights bled dimly through the window—gold and sickly, casting soft shadows across the floor. His phone sat beside him. Silent. No reply from Kida. No new messages from ARC.
Dazai hadn’t said a word since Renji left.
He was still in the bedroom, door ajar, light off.
Chūya didn’t ask if he was sleeping.
He couldn’t sleep himself. Not after what happened.
Not after that.
He stared down at the fabric of the couch, eyes unfocused. The bond wasn’t flaring now. Wasn’t buzzing or pulling. It just sat there in his chest—like a full stomach after something sweet and rotten.
Fed.
That was the word Kida had used.
It doesn’t need to pull when it’s being fed.
Chūya exhaled, slow and shaky.
Because the worst part wasn’t the pain.
It wasn’t even the lie.
It was that he’d run. Again.
The second the bond screamed, he’d obeyed.
Didn’t ask. Didn’t question. Just obeyed.
Even now, the memory of Dazai’s voice—come here—shivered across his skin like phantom pressure.
He’d moved that night without thinking.
And again today.
He didn’t know how many more times he could do that before it stopped being a decision.
His eyes burned. He rubbed them hard and curled tighter into himself.
The bond didn’t press.
Didn’t punish.
Didn’t soothe.
Just stayed.
Like it knew.
Like it was waiting.
Dazai lay still.
Not asleep. Not really even resting. Just... still.
The sheets were too cold. The bond too quiet. The silence too loud to be anything but deliberate.
He’d felt it when the apartment door opened.
Felt it when Chūya didn’t come in.
Didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even pretend to belong in the same room.
And the bond—
The bond didn’t push.
Didn’t soothe or pulse or beg them closer.
It just existed.
Present.
But satisfied.
Like it had already gotten what it wanted.
Dazai swallowed hard. Let his arm fall over his eyes.
He hadn’t flared it. He hadn’t pulled Chūya home.
But the bond had.
All on its own.
That scared him more than he was willing to admit.
Because if even Chūya couldn’t tell the difference anymore—
If even he had come running like he couldn’t help it—
Then maybe the scariest part wasn’t losing him.
Maybe it was being right.
That the bond didn’t care what they wanted.
It only cared that they stayed.
The morning crept in slow, grey, and silent.
No birdsong. No traffic yet. Just the low hum of the city beyond the window and the quiet shuffling of Chūya’s bare feet across cold tile.
He hadn’t slept.
He didn’t think Dazai had either.
They hadn’t spoken when the sun came up.
Just passed each other in the hallway—Chūya heading toward the kitchen, Dazai into the bathroom—without a word.
Not tension, exactly.
Just distance.
Willing, heavy, careful distance.
Chūya stood at the counter, mug clutched in both hands, eyes fixed on nothing.
The bond was… not quiet.
But not loud, either.
It had presence now. Weight.
Like someone standing in the room with their back to you. Not watching—but aware.
Waiting.
He felt it in his chest—not pain, not even pressure. Just… need.
Not his.
His fingers tightened on the ceramic.
The warmth didn’t help.
The bond was still satisfied—but there was a new hum under it now. A slow pulse.
Not sharp enough to call discomfort.
But unmistakable.
It wanted.
He didn’t know what.
But it wanted.
Dazai appeared in the doorway a few minutes later.
His hair was damp. His shirt buttoned wrong. He looked like hell—but not in the dramatic, calculated way he sometimes weaponized.
Just tired. Raw.
He didn’t speak right away. Just leaned against the doorframe and watched him.
Chūya didn’t look up.
“You feel it too,” he said quietly.
Dazai’s silence confirmed it.
The hum between them didn’t spike. Didn’t pull them closer.
But it thrummed now, soft and deliberate.
Feed me.
Chūya exhaled. “It’s not enough anymore.”
Dazai nodded, once. “No.”
Dazai stepped farther into the room.
Not fast. Not apologetic. Just... slow. Careful.
He didn’t come close. Didn’t reach out.
But Chūya still felt it.
That almost-pressure. The sense that if he turned just slightly—if their eyes met for too long—everything would tip.
Like the bond had already coiled in anticipation.
Like it wanted them closer and was just waiting for someone to make the first move.
But neither of them did.
Chūya sipped his coffee. It tasted burnt.
Dazai rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe it’s not hunger.”
“What, then?”
Dazai shrugged, eyes down. “Pattern. Reinforcement. Maybe it’s just... learning to expect more.”
Chūya didn’t reply.
Because that was worse.
Not hunger. Not need.
Expectation.
The bond had been fed. With trust. With pain. With sex. With surrender.
And now it remembered.
Now it wanted again.
The silence broke with a buzz.
Chūya’s phone lit up on the counter.
Dr. Kida.
He read the message once.
Then again.
You need to find out what it wants. Before it starts taking without asking.
Chūya didn’t speak right away.
He read the message again, thumb hovering over the screen. The words sat there, stark and final.
Before it starts taking without asking.
The phrasing made something cold bloom behind his ribs.
And maybe it was because Dazai was standing there in the doorway, quiet and not pretending anymore—
Maybe it was because the bond was thrumming softly behind his breastbone, steady and expectant—
Maybe it was because this time, there was no fight left in him.
But he turned the phone around.
Held it out.
Dazai crossed the distance without hesitation.
Their fingers didn’t brush. They were careful not to let them.
He took the phone.
Read the message once.
Then again.
And his expression didn’t change.
Didn’t twist. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t flinch.
Just went still.
Like the words had confirmed something he’d been afraid to name.
He handed the phone back.
“It’s already started, hasn’t it?”
Chūya looked at him. “You tell me.”
Neither of them moved.
The bond pulsed once, low and quiet.
But neither of them answered it.
The silence stretched between them again.
Longer this time.
But not empty.
It was aware.
Not just the bond—but Chūya. Dazai.
Two men standing at the edge of something that had already begun.
Chūya set the phone down. Stepped away from the counter. Turned toward him fully now.
“I want to try something,” he said quietly.
Dazai’s brow ticked up. He didn’t speak.
“Something controlled,” Chūya clarified. “Not instinct. Not reaction. Just… us. Choosing it.”
Dazai’s eyes searched his face.
“You mean feeding it.”
Chūya didn’t blink. “I mean giving it what it wants before it tries to take it.”
A long pause.
Dazai’s voice came low. “And if that doesn’t stop it?”
Chūya’s jaw tightened.
“Then we find out what will.”
Chapter 31: Let It Know We Meant It
Summary:
To regain control, Chūya and Dazai make a choice: feed the bond on their own terms.
No flares. No pain. Just slow intention—ropes tied gently, touch given freely, control offered instead of taken.
And for once, the bond doesn’t pull.
It settles.
Chapter Text
Chūya didn’t rush.
That was the point.
He moved through the apartment like it was a quiet morning—not like they were planning to stand in front of something ancient and still unnamed.
He lit a candle. Pulled the curtains. Cleared the floor of the bedroom with steady, efficient hands. Took off his shirt.
Dazai watched from the doorway, hands in his pockets, eyes calm but alert.
“You sure you want to start with rope?” he asked.
Chūya shrugged. “It listens to symbols, doesn’t it?”
Dazai nodded.
“Then let’s speak its language.”
He said it without drama. Without heat.
But Dazai’s chest pulled tight anyway.
Because this time, Chūya wasn’t doing it because he had to.
He was doing it because he chose to.
And that might’ve been the most dangerous thing yet.
The ropes were soft.
Chūya had chosen them himself—black jute, broken in over time.
They smelled faintly of cedar and friction.
They didn’t creak. They breathed.
Dazai’s fingers moved with practiced care, looping once around Chūya’s wrist, then again—slow, methodical, always letting the tension settle before pulling tighter.
Chūya sat still on the bedroom floor, back straight, palms resting on his thighs.
He didn’t close his eyes.
Didn’t drop his head.
He watched.
Not with suspicion. Not with fear.
Just… focus.
Like he needed to see it this time.
Every knot. Every twist.
Every moment of restraint he gave willingly.
Dazai’s voice was low.
“Let me know if it’s too tight.”
“It’s not.”
Another loop. A slow slide down his forearm, then a clean pull across his chest—binding elbow to elbow behind his back.
The ropes weren’t elaborate.
No pattern.
No show.
Just pressure. Contact. Intent.
Dazai finished the last knot, then sat back on his heels.
Chūya didn’t move.
He didn’t have to.
The bond didn’t pull.
Didn’t flare.
But it was there—watching.
Listening.
And—for the first time in days—it didn’t feel hungry.
Just full.
Like it recognized the offering.
And accepted it.
Dazai exhaled slowly.
“You okay?”
Chūya nodded.
And then, almost too soft to hear:
“This time… I know who I am.”
Dazai’s hand brushed his knee.
“Then so does it.”
Dazai didn’t rush.
He stayed kneeling in front of Chūya, fingers resting lightly against the knots—like asking permission without words.
Chūya gave a single nod.
And Dazai began.
The rope unraveled slowly under his hands, loop by loop.
Each slide sent the faintest friction burn against Chūya’s skin—warm, whispering. Intimate.
And every place the rope left behind, Dazai touched.
Not urgently.
Not hungrily.
Just reverently.
His fingertips traced along the marks with a quiet kind of awe.
Like the bond wasn’t the only thing being fed.
“Still okay?” he murmured.
Chūya hummed, low in his throat. “Yeah. Just—don’t stop.”
He didn’t.
He worked his way down Chūya’s arms, hands warm, movements slow.
Not erotic.
But not innocent.
Chūya’s breath deepened, lashes low, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the untangling.
When the last coil fell free, Dazai didn’t move back.
He leaned forward instead—palms gentle against Chūya’s thighs, mouth brushing over the curve of his shoulder where the rope had bitten in deepest.
“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he whispered.
Chūya didn’t look at him.
But he leaned in. Rested his forehead against Dazai’s collarbone.
And let himself be held.
The bond didn’t purr. Didn’t flare.
But it settled.
Like it could sleep, finally.
Like it trusted them now.
They stayed there for a while.
No more rope. No more pressure.
Just breath. Skin. The weight of silence that didn’t hurt anymore.
Dazai’s hand traced a slow circle against the middle of Chūya’s back—lazy, soothing, almost distracted. Like he wasn’t even thinking about it.
Like he just didn’t want to stop touching him.
Chūya had gone quiet again. Not distant. Just tired.
But not the kind of tired that meant defeat.
The kind that came after surviving something.
After taking something back.
Dazai let the silence stretch, not daring to fill it.
And then, soft—like it mattered more than anything else—
“…What do you want next?”
Not what should we do.
Not what does it need.
Just—
You.
What do you want?
Chūya didn’t answer.
But he didn’t pull away.
Chapter 32: Tell Me Who I Am When You’re Not Looking
Summary:
The bond is quiet now. But that’s what scares Chūya most.
So he tests it—takes himself out into the city alone, no flare, no pain.
Until something slips.
Not a thread.
A memory.
And it’s not his.
Chapter Text
Chūya woke before the light hit the blinds.
No pressure in his chest. No dull ache under his ribs. No phantom tug on the base of his spine.
The bond was quiet.
It should’ve been a relief.
Instead, it felt like standing in the middle of an empty stage with no one left in the audience.
He sat up slowly. Swung his legs over the side of the bed. The air was still cool from the night before, and the apartment—quiet.
Not heavy.
Just... quiet.
He moved through it carefully. Like something might shift if he stepped wrong.
No pull.
No hum.
No echo of pain.
Just his own breath. His own footsteps. His own heartbeat.
And that was the problem.
For days—weeks—the bond had been louder than him.
It had screamed. It had burned. It had dragged him back from cafés and Renji and whatever scraps of autonomy he thought he still had.
And now it was asleep.
Now it was gone.
And all that was left was the question he didn’t know how to answer:
Who am I, when I’m not trying to run from it?
He stood in the kitchen, coffee half-made, sunlight bleeding across the floor.
He looked at his hands.
The rope marks were gone.
But something else lingered.
Something quieter.
Like the bond didn’t need to shout anymore.
Like it had learned that whispering was enough.
The knock on the door wasn’t loud.
Just two soft taps, spaced like protocol.
Chūya looked up from the sink.
The water kept running.
Dazai stepped into the hallway already half-dressed—button-up, coat folded over his arm, phone tucked into the inside pocket. His hair still damp from the shower. Not styled.
He looked like he didn’t want to be seen by anyone but Chūya.
Chūya dried his hands. Didn’t ask who it was.
“ARC?”
Dazai nodded. “Routine. Just data syncs. Shouldn’t be long.”
Chūya nodded back. “Okay.”
There wasn’t much else to say.
Dazai hesitated at the door. Turned back once. His eyes caught on Chūya like he might say something else—but didn’t.
Instead, he stepped close.
Lifted a hand.
Brushed his knuckles along the side of Chūya’s face—gentle, brief.
Then leaned in and pressed a kiss to his temple. Soft. Unhurried.
It wasn’t about goodbye.
It wasn’t about the bond.
It was him.
“I’ll text when I’m out,” he murmured.
“‘kay.”
Dazai left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And—
Nothing.
No flare.
No pull.
No sick twist of thread behind Chūya’s sternum.
He stood there alone in the kitchen, mug half-empty, lips still cold from Dazai’s kiss.
And the bond didn’t do a damn thing.
The streets were half-asleep.
Chūya walked without direction—shoulders squared, collar flipped high, one hand shoved in his coat pocket like a weapon.
Not angry. Not afraid.
Just... curious.
He passed four blocks.
Then five.
No tension. No nausea. No heat under his ribs.
It’s fine, he thought.
It’s asleep. It got what it wanted. I’m not being punished for breathing anymore.
Six blocks.
The wind picked up. Cold.
He passed a storefront he didn’t recognize. A cracked window. A flickering neon sign shaped like an eye.
And then—
The world tilted.
Not all at once.
Not violently.
Just—wrong.
Like the sidewalk dropped an inch too far beneath his step.
Like a breath got caught halfway in.
Like the sky dimmed even though the sun was still out.
And then—
A memory.
Not his.
Flashes. Blurred.
Something wet.
A pair of hands holding a lighter.
Laughter.
Dazai’s voice, younger, breathless, whispering “Don’t look at me like that—”
And pain. Not sharp—aching.
Chūya staggered. One foot hit the curb hard. His palm went out to steady himself against a wall.
But the moment passed.
The memory faded.
The street came back into focus.
And the bond—
Was still quiet.
Still didn’t pull.
But something inside him shifted.
Like a thread had unraveled in the background.
Like the bond wasn’t reaching for his body this time.
But his mind.
Dazai was already back when Chūya got in.
He was sitting on the couch, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair dry now, bent over something that looked like a case file—half ARC stamp, half scribbled notes. He looked up the second the door opened.
Chūya didn’t say anything.
He just kicked his boots off, hung his coat, and stood there for a second—shoulders rising with a breath that didn’t quite steady him.
Dazai set the file down.
“You went out.”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
Chūya stepped farther into the apartment.
“Thought I was.”
Dazai waited.
Chūya crossed the room slowly. Dropped down onto the armrest, not the cushion. Close, but not too close.
“I walked about ten blocks.”
“Still no flare?”
Chūya shook his head. “Not like before.”
A beat.
“Then what?”
Chūya looked at him.
And said, quiet and flat:
“It gave me one of your memories.”
Dazai froze.
The air in the room tightened—but the bond didn’t stir.
Chūya went on.
“I don’t think it meant to. But it bled through. And it wasn’t... recent. You were younger. Laughing. There was fire. I don’t know. I just—”
He exhaled sharply. “I felt it. Like I was there.”
Dazai didn’t speak.
Chūya didn’t look at him.
“I thought I was testing it,” he said. “But maybe it was testing me.”
Finally, Dazai said quietly:
“That’s compounding.”
Chūya swallowed. “Kida warned me.”
They sat in silence for a long moment.
Then Dazai reached out—just enough to rest his hand against Chūya’s wrist.
Not to hold him.
Just to remind him: I’m here. I heard you.
And this time, Chūya didn’t pull away.
Chapter 33: Blood Memory
Summary:
The bond falls silent — but not in surrender. In its quiet, Chūya finds something far more invasive than pain: a memory that doesn’t belong to him. As the first signs of compounding emerge, he confronts Dazai about everything the bond was never supposed to be. But the deeper the silence grows, the more it threatens to take something vital with it. And this time, it doesn’t want his body.
It wants him.
Chapter Text
Chūya didn’t sleep.
Not really.
He lay down. Closed his eyes. Let the minutes crawl into hours. But the memory clung to him like smoke — sweet and sour and scorched at the edges, the kind that gets under your fingernails and into your clothes.
He still smelled it.
Not in the air — in himself.
Burnt dust. Lighter fluid. Something sour on the back of his tongue.
He shifted beneath the covers, kicked one leg out, then another. His body didn’t feel like his own.
Not sore. Not even tired.
Just—used.
Like something had been inside him.
Something that left no bruises but peeled back a layer anyway.
The room was dark. Still. Quiet.
But the quiet didn’t feel peaceful anymore.
It felt like the moment before the needle pricks.
Or the way ARC agents go silent just before they close the door.
He sat up.
Swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
The floorboards were cold. Not cold enough.
He stood. Walked.
Avoided the mirror in the hallway.
Stood by the sink and turned on the tap. Watched the water run. Held his hand under it, then yanked it back like it might sting.
It didn’t.
Of course it didn’t.
He wasn’t burning. He wasn’t dying.
The bond wasn’t screaming.
But he still couldn’t hear himself.
The morning light was pale, bruised by cloud cover. It didn’t warm the apartment.
Chūya stood by the window, one shoulder against the frame, a blanket pulled around him like armor. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t changed. He hadn’t spoken.
The memory hadn’t faded, either.
It was still pressed against the backs of his eyes — Dazai's voice, younger, raw with laughter. Something burning. A hand gripping his wrist too tight.
His own body hadn’t been there.
But his mind had.
The couch creaked.
Dazai had risen early — made coffee, left a cup on the table closest to Chūya. It hadn’t been touched. He didn’t push it.
Now, Dazai moved carefully. Sat across from him. Didn’t speak for a moment. Then—
“You haven’t said anything.”
Chūya’s voice came low. Frayed.
“I didn’t ask for that.”
Dazai stilled.
“I know.”
“Did you give it to me?”
“No.”
The word was immediate. Too immediate. It clung to the air.
Chūya turned toward him, one eye shadowed by the curl of his hair. “But you knew it could happen.”
Dazai’s silence was answer enough.
“You let me go out alone,” Chūya said, “knowing the bond might show me something that wasn’t mine. That I wouldn’t know what to do with.”
“I didn’t know it would be this soon.”
Chūya scoffed. “That’s not the same thing.”
Dazai leaned forward. His elbows rested on his knees, fingers clasped like he was holding himself together. “I thought we had time.”
“Time before what?” Chūya asked. “Before it rewrites my head? Before it decides which parts of me to keep?”
His voice didn’t rise, but it cut sharper than any shout.
Dazai didn’t flinch. But his gaze dropped.
“Don’t say it like it’s some theoretical glitch,” Chūya said. “It’s me. It’s in me. And you knew.”
Dazai’s reply came quiet:
“It’s called compounding.”
The word landed like a second slap.
Chūya didn’t move, but the bond twitched faintly — a pulse, more pressure than pain. Like something shifting its weight just beneath his skin.
The silence that followed wasn’t peace.
It was pressure.
Not in the bond. Not in the room.
In him.
Chūya stood.
Slow. Controlled.
He unwrapped the blanket from his shoulders and dropped it over the back of the chair, like he was shedding something heavier than wool.
Then he turned, and—
“You knew.”
Dazai blinked. “Chūya—”
“You knew. From the beginning.”
“I didn’t know how fast—”
“But you knew it would happen. You knew that if we stayed close, if I stopped resisting, it would start breaking down walls I didn’t give it permission to touch.”
Dazai opened his mouth. Closed it again.
And Chūya—
Didn’t yell.
Didn’t throw anything.
Didn’t threaten to walk.
He just looked at him.
Dead center.
And said, flat:
“So this was your plan, huh?”
Dazai’s expression cracked. “What—”
“Let the bond do the work. Let it make me need you. Let it fill my head with your memories. Let it crawl so deep into me that I couldn’t tell where you ended, and I started—”
“That’s not—”
“—so that when I finally broke, you could say, ‘See? It wasn’t me. It was the bond.’”
Dazai flinched.
And for the first time since the hospital, Chūya saw fear on his face — not for himself, but of himself. Like he didn’t know what Chūya would do next.
Chūya’s hands were fists now. But not shaking.
He wasn’t trembling.
He was cold.
Like something inside had gone still.
“Do you even know how fucked up that is?” he asked. “How cruel?”
Dazai rose slowly. “That was never—”
“Then what was it?”
His voice didn’t break. It burned.
“What the hell was I supposed to believe, Osamu?”
Dazai’s answer came in a breath. A confession.
“I thought you’d forgive me if you felt what I felt.”
The room stilled.
Not quiet.
Not calm.
Held.
Like the air had teeth.
Chūya’s lungs slowed. His heartbeat echoed in his ears — but not alone.
There was another rhythm now.
Thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum.
Not a second heartbeat.
A second presence.
It pressed low behind his sternum, curled like steam beneath the skin. Not sharp. Not hot.
But aware.
Dazai inhaled like he felt it too. His shoulders drew tight. His eyes met Chūya’s — wide now, clear.
The bond flared.
Not violently.
Just enough to prove it was listening.
Like a warning tap to the glass between them.
Chūya froze.
His breath hitched — and the bond responded, curling tighter in the space between pulse and thought.
It didn’t hurt.
But it threatened.
Dazai stepped forward, slowly.
His hand lifted. Not to touch — just to steady the air.
“Don’t push it.”
The words came low.
Careful.
Measured.
Chūya didn’t answer.
His mind reeled — not from pain, but from violation.
The bond had held back for weeks.
It had let him believe he’d won some autonomy back.
And now—?
Now it was purring in his blood.
Like it liked the fight.
Like it wanted more.
Chūya didn’t speak.
He sat back down, slowly, as if too fast a movement might wake something worse.
The pulse under his skin stayed steady — but it wasn’t his.
He could feel it, now.
Not just the bond, but Dazai.
The emotion bleeding through. The guilt. The longing. The ache beneath it all.
Like the bond was a funnel now, and he didn’t get a choice about what poured in.
He rubbed his wrist.
The skin looked normal.
But it didn’t feel like his anymore.
Dazai watched him, every inch of him taut with restraint.
He didn’t move closer.
Didn’t offer comfort.
Didn’t try to twist his words into something gentler.
Instead, he said — soft, tired:
“I want you to be mine, Chūya.”
Chūya’s head tilted up.
Not shocked. Just still.
Dazai’s voice didn’t shake, but it hurt.
“I always have. But I didn’t want it like this.”
Chūya’s reply came slow.
“You want me to be yours so bad you let the bond crawl into my head.”
Silence.
“Even if it kills what I was.”
Dazai’s throat moved, but no words came.
Then—quietly, roughly—
“I want you. Not a memory of you. Not a version the bond reshapes.”
Another beat of silence.
Then Chūya looked at him.
Eyes dry. Voice flat.
“Then help me kill it before it kills us.”
Chapter 34: Split-Thread
Summary:
The bond is quiet, but only because it's watching.
When Dazai leaves for another "routine" ARC check-up, Chūya is left alone — not just with the silence, but with a presence curling beneath it. Dr. Kida appears unannounced, offering truths Chūya didn't ask for: about compounding, about emotional response, about the possibility that this bond could work. But if it can… then why does that make it feel even more like a trap?
Chapter Text
The silence didn’t lift.
Even when the bond dulled again, even when Dazai brewed a second pot of coffee and passed Chūya his mug without a word — nothing lifted.
Chūya barely looked at him.
Not in anger. Not even contempt.
Just… frost.
A dull, dispassionate kind of cold. Like something inside him had gone numb and didn’t feel like thawing.
He drank the coffee. Ate two bites of toast. Kept his answers short. Nodded instead of speaking.
And Dazai—
Didn’t push.
Didn’t ask if they were okay.
Didn’t try to smooth the edges with a joke, or a kiss, or that quiet kind of touch he always defaulted to when things got too heavy.
He just… hovered. Watched. Waited.
Which somehow made it worse.
“ARC wants me this morning,” he said around nine.
“Routine?”
Dazai nodded. “Vitals. Arcana levels. Just the usual sync.”
Chūya didn’t say Have fun.
Didn’t say Be careful.
Didn’t say Don’t let them touch you.
He just nodded. Kept wiping the sink with a dishcloth he’d already wrung dry.
The door closed softly.
And the bond—
Reacted.
It didn’t pull.
It twitched.
Like a muscle spasm at the base of his spine. Quick. Irritated.
A flicker of static behind his ribs.
Chūya froze.
The air hadn’t shifted.
Dazai was already halfway across the district by now.
But the bond was still coiled.
Still listening.
Still angry.
He sat down on the couch and stared at nothing for ten full minutes.
Then he stood again. Paced once. Picked up a sweater. Dropped it.
Something wasn’t right.
It wasn’t just the bond.
It was Dazai.
The way he’d left too fast. The way he hadn’t looked back. The faint tremor beneath his calm.
Chūya pulled out his phone.
Thumb hovered over the screen.
No new messages.
No location shared.
No check-in.
He didn’t text.
Didn’t call.
He just turned the phone over on the coffee table.
And flinched hard when someone knocked.
The knock wasn’t rushed.
Just firm.
Authoritative.
Not Dazai.
Not a neighbor.
Not ARC protocol, either.
Chūya stood, hand ghosting toward the nearest cursed implement. Didn’t pick it up. Didn’t need to.
The bond didn’t pulse in warning.
But it didn’t relax, either.
He opened the door with his shoulders squared.
And there stood—
“Dr. Kida.”
The man offered a tight nod.
Not unkind. Not warm.
Wearing a long coat over what looked like hospital scrubs, a messenger bag slung crosswise, rain still clinging to his sleeves.
“Knew you wouldn’t answer if I called,” Kida said simply. “So I didn’t.”
Chūya didn’t move. “Dazai’s not here.”
“I know.”
Chūya stared at him for a beat longer.
Then stepped aside.
Kida entered like someone used to stepping over thresholds no one offered. He set his bag on the table, unwound his scarf with quiet care, and took in the room in one slow sweep — like he was looking through it.
“You felt it shift again,” he said.
Chūya didn’t answer.
“You’re colder,” Kida added. “The bond doesn’t like that.”
Chūya folded his arms. “Is it supposed to?”
“No,” Kida said. “But it will respond. That’s how these things escalate.”
He turned, met Chūya’s eyes.
“And the way you’re feeling right now? That sense that it’s coiled up, waiting? That’s not your imagination.”
Chūya’s jaw tightened.
“I’d like to check your field,” Kida said calmly. “With your permission.”
“I’m not a lab rat.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
Silence stretched.
Then Chūya nodded.
Barely.
Kida stepped closer.
No instruments.
No glowing glyphs.
Just two fingers pressed lightly to Chūya’s wrist.
Chūya flinched.
Not from the contact — but from the response.
The bond didn’t like it.
Not because it hurt.
Because it was jealous.
Kida’s expression didn’t change. But something in his brow softened.
“You’re not imagining it,” he said again, quieter now. “It’s responding emotionally. Not just biologically.”
“Like a parasite,” Chūya muttered.
“Like a partner,” Kida corrected. “An untrained one.”
Chūya looked away.
“Did you know,” Kida added, “that bonds formed without choice often resist healing at first? But they can be coaxed into balance.”
He let that hang.
“Not always,” Kida went on. “But… sometimes.”
Chūya didn’t reply.
Kida stepped back.
And said — very carefully:
“You asked me once if any of this had ever worked. If anyone ever made it out.”
Chūya’s breath caught.
“I did.”
Kida's eyes met his. Flat. Clear.
“My bond’s been active for thirty-two years. And I still wake up beside the man I chose.”
Chūya stood still.
Not tense. Not ready to run.
Just… suspended.
Like his body hadn’t caught up with what his ears had heard.
Thirty-two years.
A living bond. A functional one. A soul-pair who made it through without breaking.
It should’ve offered something like hope.
Instead, it landed like a stone in the gut.
Because it meant this wasn’t some cursed anomaly.
It could work.
If it was mutual.
If it was chosen.
And that was the part that hollowed him.
Kida didn’t rush.
Didn’t preach. Didn’t offer reassurance.
He just stood with him in the quiet, like a man who knew how much silence could weigh.
Chūya finally spoke.
“…Was it like this?”
Kida’s expression flickered. “No. Not like this.”
Chūya looked away. “Then why even bring it up?”
“Because it didn’t start perfect. Or fair. We had different levels of power. Different expectations. Different ideas of what it meant.”
A pause. “And one of us ran. Hard. For years.”
Chūya swallowed.
“And?”
Kida gave a thin, tired smile.
“He came back.”
Another pause.
Chūya’s voice was thin. Frayed.
“And what if I don’t want it to work?”
Kida tilted his head. “You mean the bond?”
“I mean him.”
Kida didn’t answer at first.
He just moved to the table, picked up his scarf, slung his bag over his shoulder.
Then, as he reached the door, he looked back once more.
“Then don’t let the bond convince you otherwise.”
The door shut softly behind him.
Chūya didn’t move for a while.
Just stood in the middle of the apartment, still tasting the weight of Kida’s words.
Then don’t let the bond convince you otherwise.
Easy to say.
Hard to remember when it already knew the shape of his thoughts before he did.
Hard to forget that the last thing it gave him was a memory.
Not pain.
Not control.
Not a pull.
A gift.
A manipulation.
He sat down on the couch again, slower this time.
Picked up his phone.
No new messages.
Nothing from Dazai.
No status update. No location shared.
He unlocked the screen anyway. Opened their thread.
Thumb hovered.
Typed:
You knew it would get into my head.
Deleted it.
Typed:
What else haven’t you told me?
Deleted that, too.
Tried again:
I don’t know who I am when I’m not angry at you.
That one stayed longer.
His thumb hovered over the send button.
But in the end, he locked the screen.
Set the phone down face-down again.
And this time, the bond didn’t twitch.
It just watched.
Chapter 35: The Echo Protocol
Summary:
Dazai returns from ARC changed — not visibly, but in all the ways that matter. The bond is muffled. Dazai is distant. And Chūya, once again, is left in the dark about what ARC really wants. But when the truth comes out — about Dazai’s past, about the protocol that wasn’t meant for Chūya at all — the damage runs deeper than silence.
Still, the bond hasn’t given up on them.
And maybe… neither have they.
Chapter Text
It was almost noon when the lock turned.
Not the loud click Chūya expected. Not even the soft shuffle of a distracted Dazai juggling his coat and keys.
Just—
A small sound.
A controlled one.
The kind people make when they don’t want anyone to know they came in at all.
Chūya sat up straighter.
He hadn’t moved from the couch since Kida left.
The bond didn’t flare. Didn’t tug.
But the air shifted.
And when Dazai stepped into view—
Something was wrong.
Not visibly.
His coat was still buttoned neatly. His steps unhurried. His face unreadable.
But too unreadable.
Like the mask had settled too flush against the skin. Like the man underneath had gone quiet.
“Hey,” Dazai said softly.
Chūya didn’t answer.
Dazai slipped off his coat. Hung it carefully. Avoided eye contact.
Chūya watched every movement.
“You were gone a while.”
“Yeah,” Dazai said. “Took longer than usual.”
No explanation.
No smile.
No arcana residue — not even the usual faint hum that clung to his skin after a scan.
Nothing.
Just Dazai.
Muted.
Blank.
And the bond?
Quiet.
Too quiet.
Like someone had thrown a soundproof veil over it.
Like the thread had been… pinched shut.
Chūya frowned.
“You’re not—”
“I’m fine.”
It came too fast.
Too clipped.
And just like that, the frost returned.
Not from Chūya this time.
From him.
They didn’t speak for nearly ten minutes.
Dazai didn’t sit.
Didn’t pace.
He just stood by the entryway, undoing the buttons on his cuffs like he had nowhere to be and no reason to stay.
Chūya stayed on the couch.
Watched.
Listened.
Waited for the bond to do something — pulse, ache, hum, anything to acknowledge Dazai’s return.
But it didn’t.
It wasn’t just dull. It was dampened.
Like a wet cloth over an open flame.
Like someone had intervened.
“Did they touch the bond?” Chūya asked finally.
Dazai looked up, slow.
“What?”
“At ARC. Did they—try something?”
“No.”
His voice was calm.
Flat.
Lying.
Chūya stood.
Slowly.
Measured.
The air didn’t shift, but he did.
“Bullshit.”
Dazai blinked.
“You come back blank-faced and limp in the thread and think I won’t notice?”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Then tell me what they did.”
“I told you,” Dazai said, too evenly, “it was routine.”
“You don’t look routine.”
“I’m just tired.”
“And the bond?”
No answer.
“Did they mute it?”
Still no answer.
Chūya stepped forward once. Twice.
“You let them in again, didn’t you.”
Dazai’s jaw tightened — only for a fraction of a second, but it was enough.
Chūya exhaled sharply. Laughed — not humor, not joy. Just disbelief.
“You don’t get to talk to me about trust,” he said, “if you’re still letting them fuck with your field like this.”
“It’s for your protection.”
Chūya flinched.
And the bond—
Nothing.
Still muffled.
Still strangled.
Still not his.
Chūya didn’t speak right away.
He just stared at Dazai.
And Dazai—
Didn’t meet his eyes.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t explain.
Didn’t deny it.
So Chūya did the only thing he could do:
He pressed.
“What did they run?” he asked.
Still no answer.
“What was the name of the scan?”
Dazai’s throat worked. But his mouth stayed shut.
“Don’t play dumb, Osamu. I know they tag every procedure.”
More silence.
Then Chūya’s voice dropped.
“I’ll find out anyway.”
Dazai exhaled through his nose.
Not defiant.
Just… resigned.
“They called it an Echo Protocol.”
Chūya froze.
Echo.
It wasn’t a medical term.
It wasn’t even standard containment.
He’d never heard it used during his own ARC evaluations.
“...What does that mean?”
Dazai said nothing.
Chūya stepped forward. “What does it do?”
Still nothing.
The bond crackled faintly.
Not alive — just friction.
Like something struggling to reach him through cotton.
Chūya gritted his teeth.
“What did they do to me through you?”
Dazai’s voice came soft. Almost too soft to hear.
“It’s not about you.”
That stopped him cold.
Dazai looked up — just once — and something in his eyes wasn’t present.
“You weren’t the one they needed to monitor.”
Chūya didn’t speak.
He couldn’t.
Because something in him had just—
Slipped.
Not torn. Not shattered.
Just… given up its grip.
“You weren’t the one they needed to monitor.”
The words rattled around in his chest like loose glass. Sharp on the inside. Invisible from the outside.
He blinked once. Slowly.
“You mean to tell me,” he said, “that I’ve been walking around half-possessed by a soulbond I didn’t ask for—dragged into nightmares, overwritten by memories, unable to breathe without choking on your fucking arcana—”
He took a step back.
“—and they weren’t even looking at me?”
Dazai looked away.
Chūya let out a soft, almost soundless laugh.
“And you let them.”
“That’s not—”
“You let them.”
The words landed like snowfall on ice.
No heat. Just pressure.
“You walked into their hands, and you let them take whatever they wanted from you, because what—what, Dazai? You thought you could handle it? That they’d give you something useful in return?”
“They’re already watching me,” Dazai said. “This just lets me see what they’re really interested in.”
“Is that what this is now? Strategy?”
Chūya’s voice cracked — not loud. Just enough to prove it was real.
“Is that what I am?”
“No,” Dazai said. “You’re—”
“I’m not yours,” Chūya said, almost gently. “You need to stop thinking that means I’m safe.”
The words hit harder than a scream.
And the bond?
Didn’t even flinch.
It just watched.
Like something waiting for both of them to collapse.
Dazai didn’t answer.
Not right away.
Not after that.
The words hung between them like smoke from a fire neither of them remembered starting.
You need to stop thinking that means I’m safe.
Chūya didn’t take it back.
Didn’t soften.
Didn’t step forward.
He just stood still — one hand at his side, fingers curling and uncurling in slow, futile rhythms.
Trying to feel his own body again.
Trying to feel anything through the bond.
Dazai finally spoke.
Quiet. Flat. But not cold.
“It’s not what they did to the bond that scared me.”
Chūya didn’t turn.
“It’s what they didn’t find.”
That made Chūya pause.
Dazai exhaled. Sat — finally — on the edge of the armchair, like his knees had given out.
“They were looking for residual markers,” he said. “Trace arcana patterns. Old weapon codes. Anything left from the last time I—”
He stopped.
Corrected.
“From before I left ARC.”
Chūya’s breath caught.
Dazai didn’t look at him.
“They didn’t find them,” he said. “Not all of them.”
Another pause.
“That means either they’re gone — or buried deeper than they can reach.”
And that, somehow, was worse.
Because if ARC couldn’t find it…
That meant the bond might have.
“They’re scared of me,” Dazai said. “Not because of what I’m doing now. But because of what I might’ve let in back then.”
His voice wasn’t proud. Wasn’t bitter.
Just tired.
Like a man walking barefoot over glass he laid himself.
Chūya turned — slowly — and looked at him.
“I didn’t know you ever worked for them.”
Dazai didn’t look up.
“I know.”
The quiet wasn’t sharp anymore.
It wasn’t suffocating.
Just still.
Like the space between thunder and its echo.
Chūya stood frozen in it. Not angry now — not entirely.
Just… raw.
He looked at Dazai — really looked — and for the first time, saw something fraying at the edges. Not regret. Not guilt.
Something older than both.
Loneliness.
The kind that starts in the marrow and never leaves.
“I don’t know how to help you,” Chūya said.
The words weren’t an accusation.
They were a wound.
Dazai’s shoulders drew in tighter.
“You don’t have to.”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
That made Dazai glance up.
And something shifted.
Not between them — in them.
The bond stirred.
Soft.
Finally.
A warm pulse — faint as a breath — wound low beneath Chūya’s ribs.
Not pushy. Not overwhelming.
Just… present.
Like a hand held out in the dark.
Chūya sucked in a breath.
It didn’t hurt.
It ached.
Because this — this was what it could’ve felt like all along.
This was what it meant to stop fighting for control and start listening instead.
His fingers twitched.
And Dazai — maybe feeling it too, maybe just guessing — stood slowly.
Not too close.
Not trying to fix anything.
Just… there.
And the bond hummed again.
Gentle. Sad. Real.
Not a command.
Not a chain.
Just a thread.
Still tangled. Still frayed.
But held between them.
Waiting.
Chapter 36: Let the Thread Speak
Summary:
The bond doesn't demand anything tonight. It listens. It settles. And for the first time, Chūya allows it to show him what it was always trying to be — not a chain, but a thread. A tether. Something shared.
But the past still lingers. And when Dazai asks the question that’s haunted them both, Chūya tells him the truth: they could’ve had a chance.
Now, he’s not sure if what he feels is real.
But he stays anyway.
Chapter Text
They didn’t touch.
Not right away.
They just stood — Dazai by the window, Chūya near the coffee table, the soft hum of the city leaking through the glass like distant, muffled breath.
And underneath it all — for the first time in what felt like weeks — the bond pulsed softly.
No spikes. No static. No hunger.
Just rhythm.
Like it was waiting for them to catch up.
Dazai was the first to move.
Slow. Unassuming. Careful not to close the space too fast.
He didn’t speak.
Just stepped within reach.
Not close enough to force anything.
Close enough to be heard.
Chūya turned toward him.
Eyes tired. Jaw set. Shoulders still tense — but no longer locked.
He wasn’t bracing for a fight.
He was bracing for… whatever came next.
The bond exhaled.
That’s what it felt like — a breath between them.
Warm.
Real.
And his.
Chūya reached out, slow, and placed his palm lightly over Dazai’s chest.
Not to feel his heartbeat.
To feel the thread.
It met him there — not inside Dazai, but between them.
Shared.
Not invasive.
Not erasing.
Just… present.
Dazai didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t flinch.
And that, more than anything, told Chūya this was safe.
Not perfect.
Not healed.
But safe.
Chūya didn’t know when his hand stopped resting and started feeling. One moment, his palm was flat against Dazai’s chest—neutral, distant, safe. The next, he was leaning into the warmth of it, tilting his head slightly, and letting his own breathing sync with the slow rise and fall beneath his fingers. Not because the bond demanded it. Because it offered.
And for once, neither of them fought.
Dazai let his eyes fall shut. His arms stayed at his sides, loose, as if the weight of every protocol and every lie had drained from his bones and left him hollow—but still standing. Still reachable. Still willing.
It wasn’t much.
But it was the closest thing to peace they’d felt in days.
The bond didn’t hum. It settled—not beneath the skin, but deeper, threading between them like a silent tether, alive only because they were allowing it to be. It didn’t try to speak in images or memories this time. No flashes. No shared pain.
Just presence.
Chūya exhaled through his nose. “This is what it’s supposed to feel like,” he murmured. Not a question. Not quite awe, either. Just… understanding.
Dazai nodded once. “I think so.”
Chūya looked up at him. “Then why does it always hurt?”
Dazai’s lips parted—ready to answer. But whatever excuse had been waiting behind his teeth fell away.
“I didn’t trust it,” he said instead. “Not the bond. Not myself. Not… us.”
His voice cracked at the end. Barely. But it did.
Chūya didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The bond said it for him—unfolding like a pulse of warmth between their chests, then curling low beneath his ribs. Not possessive. Not urgent.
Just there.
Dazai swallowed hard. “Can I—”
“Not yet.”
It wasn’t cruel. It was honest.
“I know,” Dazai said softly.
And the bond stayed quiet. Waiting. Patient.
They didn’t stay in each other’s space for long. Just long enough for the bond to soften, for the air between them to warm, for that terrible silence to stop feeling like punishment.
Chūya stepped back eventually, slow and steady, and Dazai let him. No resistance. No plea. Just quiet understanding.
They were both exhausted.
But the quiet, for once, wasn’t weighted down by distrust. It felt like the residue of a storm — the kind that leaves behind silence only because it took everything else with it.
Chūya poured himself a glass of water and leaned against the kitchen counter. He didn’t speak. Neither did Dazai.
But the bond — the thread — pulsed gently in his chest, not demanding, not oppressive. Just alive.
And curious.
That was the strange part.
It felt curious. Like it had been leaning against the inside of his skin this whole time, waiting. As if it had been trying to speak, not just control. As if it had been waiting for permission.
He set the glass down.
Then, without speaking, without touching Dazai, without focusing on any particular thought, Chūya addressed it.
He didn’t know what he was doing. Not really.
He just... opened a part of himself. Loosened his jaw. Let the fear slip a little from his spine. Let the bond see him.
And suddenly—
Warmth.
Nothing specific. No visions. No voices.
Just a feeling — like someone placing a hand at the back of his neck. Protective. Familiar.
His breath caught.
Dazai glanced up.
But Chūya didn’t speak.
He just stood still, eyes unfocused, letting the thread settle over him like cloth in water. It didn’t rush. It didn’t tear. It didn’t take.
It simply shared.
He could feel it now — not just what it had taken from him. But what it had always been offering.
A tether. Not a leash.
And beneath it—
Dazai.
Not filtered. Not amplified. Just... there.
Emotion unspoken. But real.
Chūya’s eyes burned, but he didn’t let the tears fall.
Not yet.
They didn’t speak for the rest of the hour.
There was no need.
The bond did not overwhelm them. It didn’t flash images or hurl memories through their skulls like it had during compounding. There was no pain. No lurching. Just a gradual, steady hum — like a song played under the skin, just loud enough to be felt but never fully heard.
Chūya sat on the arm of the couch, elbows resting loosely on his knees, and let his head dip forward. His whole body was loose in a way it hadn’t been in days. The exhaustion was still there, but it wasn’t crushing. The tension in his chest had eased. The aching under his ribs had faded.
The thread had not gone dormant.
It had gone quiet — because it was listening.
And every so often, Chūya would offer it something small. A memory. A feeling. Not by force, not intentionally — just… gently.
A flicker of sunlight in his childhood backyard. The taste of cheap sake on a night he’d never admit was good. The sting of gravel under his palms after a fight. The warmth of a coat placed over his shoulders once, without a word.
Nothing grand. Just pieces.
And the bond — or maybe Dazai — responded in kind.
Not with answers.
With understanding.
A shape in the back of his mind. A quiet murmur that never took full form. The gentle push of a breath beside his own.
He couldn’t separate them now — where the bond ended and Dazai began.
But somehow, that didn’t feel threatening anymore.
It felt shared.
Like sitting back-to-back with someone after a long walk through a storm.
He looked up once, just to check.
Dazai hadn’t moved. Still seated across the room, hands resting loosely in his lap, eyes closed, like he was breathing with the bond rather than through it.
Chūya watched him for a moment longer.
Then lowered his gaze again.
Not in retreat.
Just… peace.
It was Dazai who spoke first.
Not because the bond told him to.
Because he needed to.
His voice was low. Careful. The kind of tone used for late-night confessions, or for breaking something delicate on purpose.
“I didn’t think you’d ever let it in.”
Chūya didn’t lift his head, but his fingers curled slightly against his knee.
“I didn’t think it wanted me,” he murmured. “Not really. Just… what was left of me once it took what it needed.”
Dazai opened his eyes.
It was still hard to look at Chūya sometimes — not because he didn’t want to. But because every time he did, he remembered that he had loved him. Long before the bond.
Before the blood pact.
Before either of them knew what they were doing.
“I never meant for it to be like this,” he said.
Chūya’s mouth tugged into a wry half-smile. “Yeah. You’ve said that before.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
A pause.
Dazai’s voice was quieter than it had been all day.
“Do you ever think about it?” he asked.
Chūya didn’t look up. “About what?”
“What would’ve happened if I’d just… told you.”
A long pause.
“Back then,” Dazai said, “when it could’ve mattered. If I’d said how I felt. If I hadn’t made the pact.”
Chūya’s throat worked around silence. He closed his eyes.
“We could’ve had a chance,” he said softly.
And then, after a breath:
“But now… I don’t know what I feel. Not really. I want to think it’s real. But I can’t tell where the bond ends and I begin.”
The warmth that had been blooming in his chest flickered — not out, but dim.
“So maybe we missed it,” Chūya finished. “Or maybe we just have to start over.”
Dazai didn’t respond.
He just nodded.
And this time, the bond didn’t reach for either of them.
It waited.
They didn’t speak again that night.
No one reached for absolution. No one offered promises. The bond stayed present — gentle but reserved — like it understood that even connection could be too much, too soon.
And still, neither of them left the room.
Chūya sat curled at the far end of the couch, one leg tucked beneath him, the other foot flat on the floor. He sipped his water slowly, hands steady now. The dizziness was gone.
The bond didn’t push.
It simply existed.
Dazai had drifted to the floor at some point, back against the side of the couch, eyes half-lidded, hands open in his lap.
They didn’t face each other.
They didn’t touch.
But they didn’t pull away, either.
Chūya wasn’t sure when the fear finally stopped. Not the fear of the bond — that had dulled earlier — but the fear of himself. Of his own body not being his own. Of feeling something and not knowing if it was real.
Right now, it felt real enough.
Quiet was still dangerous. Still sacred. Still something he wasn’t sure how to navigate with Dazai anymore. But for now, they weren’t trying to fill it.
They were just sharing it.
And the thread stayed woven.
Not tense.
Not fraying.
Just there.
Unspoken. Unbroken.
Waiting to be used, if — or when — they were ready.
Chapter 37: We’re Not Alone
Summary:
The bond is calm, but the world around them isn’t.
Chūya can feel the shift the moment he returns to work — in the way people speak when they think he can’t hear, in the way Renji watches him too closely, and in the quiet concern behind Misaki’s voice. They’re not just seeing the bond anymore.
They’re seeing him differently.
And when a message arrives under ARC’s highest clearance hours after midnight, Dazai realizes something too late:
ARC was never just watching him.
Notes:
I changed the formatting a bit... in case y'all don't like it, please let me know 🖤
Chapter Text
The next morning, the air in the apartment held a strange stillness — not the charged silence of conflict, but the kind that settles after something fragile has been left out overnight, intact but not untouched.
Chūya woke first.
He didn’t move right away. Just lay still, staring at the faint stripes of light on the ceiling, his body warm beneath the covers, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other curled across his chest.
The bond was quiet.
Not gone — never gone — but soft. Sleeping. Or pretending to.
He let it be.
Dazai was on the floor, still half-slouched against the side of the couch, legs stretched out, hair falling across his eyes. His breathing was even, face slack with exhaustion. No shields. No charm. Just... Dazai.
Chūya watched him for a long moment.
Then finally stood, padded barefoot to the kitchen, and started the coffee.
He didn’t make enough noise to wake him.
They didn’t speak much that morning. A few words. A glance. The ghost of a smile that didn’t quite settle. But something had changed. Not healed. Not reversed. But shifted.
They were closer.
Even when they didn’t touch, the bond rested easier. Less friction. Less heat.
And that was enough — for now.
By the time Chūya walked into HQ, the usual buzz of mid-morning activity was in full swing — elevator chimes, distant footsteps, someone on the phone near the breakroom.
But the moment he stepped off the elevator, something changed.
A pause too long in a conversation.
Eyes that tracked him a little too openly.
Someone muttering lower than usual, then falling silent when he passed.
He chalked it up to nerves. Overthinking.
Until, three steps past the hallway junction, he caught the edge of a voice behind him:
“Back on his feet already?”
Another answered — softer, but edged with something that wasn’t quite admiration:
“Figures. Some people don’t stay broken for long.”
A beat.
Then a third voice — lower, tired:
“Or they just get better at hiding it.”
He didn’t stop.
Didn’t confront.
But his jaw clenched.
They didn’t know anything. Not really.
They didn’t know about the flare-ups. The hospitals. The nights spent half out of his own skin. They didn’t know who he’d nearly lost. Or who he might be losing now.
Still — they sensed it.
The shift. The edge in his step that hadn’t been there a week ago. The way the air around him didn’t feel fragile anymore, just tightly wound.
And even if they didn’t know what they were seeing…
They were seeing something.
Chūya didn’t confront the voices. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t fire back.
He just kept walking.
Past the break room. Down the hall. Toward the private offices that made up the arcana response division — where paperwork disguised power, and everything smelled like someone else’s coffee and mild distrust.
But he knew the silence had weight behind it.
Not guilt.
Observation.
People were watching him again.
And this time, they didn’t look afraid.
They looked like they knew something he didn’t.
He didn’t realize how fast his footsteps had gotten until someone caught up to him near the stairwell.
“Still walking like a storm cloud, huh?”
Chūya stopped.
Turned.
Renji stood there — same uniform, slightly looser around the collar, a pen still tucked behind his ear like he hadn’t realized it was there. His tone was casual. His eyes weren’t.
Chūya exhaled through his nose. “Not in the mood.”
“Didn’t ask if you were.” Renji fell into step beside him, not quite blocking the path, but not giving space either. “You hear it too?”
Chūya didn’t answer.
Renji clicked his tongue. “Yeah. Thought so. Word’s moving fast.”
“Let it.”
“Doesn’t bother you?”
Chūya finally stopped at the second floor landing. “It always bothered me. I just got used to being hated.”
Renji gave a humorless smile. “They don’t hate you now. That’s the part that’s strange.”
There was a long pause.
Chūya didn’t look at him. “Say what you came to say.”
Renji leaned against the railing, folding his arms. “I came to say I’m worried.”
“About what?”
“You.”
Chūya’s laugh was short. “That’s new.”
Renji didn’t flinch. “You’ve changed. I’m not saying it’s bad. Just fast.”
“Yeah?” Chūya’s voice dropped. “Or maybe you’re just slow to catch up.”
“That bond—”
“—is mine to deal with.”
Renji looked away. “And what about him?”
Chūya’s jaw tensed.
Renji’s voice softened. “You used to fight harder when someone tried to claim you.”
Chūya said nothing.
Didn’t need to.
The bond stayed still in his chest — but tight.
Listening.
The rest of the day blurred.
Routine assignments. A few check-ins. Half-hearted attempts at pretending everything was normal.
Chūya went through the motions with the same tight focus he used during missions — not out of purpose, but out of self-preservation.
If he let his thoughts wander, he’d start listening for the bond again.
If he listened for the bond, he’d start thinking about Dazai.
And if he thought about Dazai, he’d remember everything he said last night.
Everything he didn’t.
When he stepped into the HQ office just past four, he thought the lights had already been dimmed for closing — until he noticed someone still at her desk.
“Long day?” Misaki asked, not looking up from her monitor.
Her voice was light, almost teasing. But the way she asked it was new — like she already knew the answer.
“Always,” Chūya said.
He didn’t move to leave.
Didn’t sit, either.
She glanced up. And whatever she saw on his face made her reach to close the screen without finishing whatever she was working on.
“Come here,” she said gently.
He hesitated.
But she didn’t press.
Just leaned back in her chair and waited.
So he stepped closer.
Didn’t sit — just leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed loosely.
Misaki looked at him for a moment. Not scanning. Not interrogating. Just... seeing.
“You’re breathing softer,” she said.
Chūya blinked. “What?”
“You are. Last week it was clipped. Tension in your throat. Pulse in your neck. I couldn’t look at you without flinching.”
He huffed. “Thanks.”
She smiled — but not for humor. “It’s better now. You’re not relaxed, but… something’s different.”
Chūya didn’t answer.
She paused.
Then added, carefully, “He’s back, isn’t he?”
The question didn’t surprise him.
The way she asked it did.
Not with judgment. Not suspicion. Just knowledge. And maybe a hint of concern.
He didn’t deny it.
She nodded slowly. “It’s not my business. I just… noticed.”
Another pause.
Then, softer:
“You look like someone who stopped fighting something.”
He didn’t respond.
Couldn’t.
Misaki looked down, fiddled with her pen, then looked back up again.
“You don’t have to tell me anything. But I think—”
She hesitated.
“I think whatever this is… it’s starting to shape you.”
Chūya’s fingers tightened slightly over his elbow.
Not in anger.
Just in recognition.
And the bond pulsed gently in his chest.
Not disturbed.
Not demanding.
But seen.
The message arrived after midnight.
Not through a bonded alert.
Not through the emergency channel.
Just a clean, cold, professional directive.
ARC clearance seal embedded in the subject line.
No sender name. Just the usual rotating ID string and a location header tagged from Central.
Dazai was the one who opened it.
Chūya had already fallen asleep — finally, deeply — in the bedroom. One arm flung across the pillow, one leg tangled in the blanket. The bond was calm. Not dim. Not flaring. Just quiet.
Dazai read the message once.
Then again.
The words were simple. Short.
[Echo Protocol: Phase Two scheduled. Subject ID: OB-001. Location access: Granted.]
He stared at the screen for a long time.
Not moving.
Not breathing.
He didn’t need the file index to know who Subject OB-001 was.
They hadn’t meant him.
They meant Chūya.
Chapter 38: Phase Two
Summary:
Dazai feels the shift before it’s spoken. And when a new ARC directive arrives, it’s clear: whatever trust they’ve built, it’s not enough. Phase Two begins.
Chapter Text
The message was still on Dazai’s screen when Chūya walked in from the shower.
Hair damp, towel slung around his neck, shirt wrinkled from being pulled on too fast — like his body was moving faster than his mind could keep up.
“Did Kida call?” he asked, toweling off the ends of his hair. “He said he’d follow up on the vitals this week.”
Dazai didn’t answer.
He hadn’t moved.
Chūya paused. Looked at him properly.
The way Dazai sat was too still. Back straight, eyes locked on the monitor. Not reading. Not typing.
Just staring.
“…Osamu?”
That made him blink.
Once.
Twice.
Then he finally looked up.
And Chūya immediately knew something was wrong.
“What is it?”
Dazai turned the screen toward him without a word.
Chūya crossed the room in two strides and froze the second he saw the header.
ECHO PROTOCOL: PHASE TWO INITIATED.
Subject ID: OB-001.
He didn’t need to ask what that meant.
The designation was new. But he recognized the format.
Subject. Not partner. Not operative. Not patient.
Subject.
The clearance was red-level. Authorization stamped by three department heads — and one he didn’t recognize. The message didn’t say what the next step was.
Just that they had access.
Location access: GRANTED.
Field deployment: CLEARED.
Observation status: ELEVATED.
His mouth felt dry.
“So this is what?” he asked, voice rough. “The part where they stop pretending I’m still a person?”
Dazai looked away.
“They’ve officially flagged the bond as active arcana,” he said quietly. “Which means they don’t need consent to monitor it anymore. Not yours. Not mine.”
Chūya swallowed hard.
“They were watching you before,” he said. “That was the whole point of Echo.”
Dazai nodded once. “They’re watching you now.”
Chūya sat down without realizing he had moved. The information hadn’t changed, but now that he was seeing it from eye level — now that it had his name on it — it felt different. Sharper. Like glass pressed to skin.
He stared at the words again. Observation status: Elevated. Field deployment: Cleared.
“Cleared for what?” he asked, finally.
Dazai’s hesitation was brief, but not brief enough.
“Dazai.”
“They’re watching for behavioral changes,” he said. “Field response time. Arcana signature variation. Physical deviation during stress exposure. You know—”
“The kind of metrics they use on unstable entities.”
Dazai nodded once.
Chūya leaned back, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. His pulse was still steady, but the rest of him wasn’t.
“They didn’t even talk to me,” he said.
“They didn’t have to.”
“I’m not bonded to ARC.”
“No,” Dazai said. “But you’re bonded to me.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was surgical. Clean. Too sharp to hold for long.
Chūya lowered his hands. “So what does this mean? Surveillance? Bloodwork? What?”
Dazai didn’t answer.
And that told him everything.
“What did they do?”
“They haven’t done anything yet,” Dazai said, which wasn’t a lie. Not exactly.
Chūya stood again. Slower this time. “Then what did they ask for?”
Dazai exhaled. Not defeated. Just tired. Like a man too used to reading between the lines.
“They don’t need to ask. They’ve already installed trackers into the relocation site. They’ve had your arcana frequency mapped since the hospital. Phase Two just means they can start pulling data without clearing it with Kida. Or you.”
“So I’m leashed,” Chūya said. “Without anyone touching me.”
Dazai met his eyes. “They won’t act unless something triggers containment protocol.”
“And what’s that?”
A beat.
Then—
“Loss of control.”
He didn’t say anything after that.
Just stood still, facing Dazai, the file still open behind him — details blurring into a single clear truth: he wasn’t being helped anymore.
He was being managed.
Dazai watched him with the kind of expression that should’ve read as guarded, but didn’t. Not quite. There was guilt in it, yes, but also something worse — acceptance. Like this was inevitable.
Chūya looked away before that could sink in too deep. He picked up the towel he’d abandoned earlier and draped it over the back of a chair, slowly, methodically, like if he kept his hands busy, his thoughts wouldn’t catch up.
“They knew the bond was stabilizing,” he said at last. “And they waited until it got quiet to make the move.”
Dazai nodded. “They were never worried about the flare-ups. That was manageable.”
“But this—”
“This is threat potential.”
Chūya’s throat went dry.
“They think I’m becoming something they can’t control.”
Dazai didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Chūya sat again, this time carefully, like the ground beneath him might shift if he breathed too hard. The bond hadn’t stirred. It wasn’t afraid. But it was tense — aware.
He tapped the edge of the desk, thinking.
“Kida’s been distant,” he said.
Dazai’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Less contact. No casual calls. Just reports and timestamps. Even when I asked him about long-term planning—he dodged.”
“Do you think they got to him?”
“No,” Chūya said. “I think he’s buying time.”
“For us?”
“For me. For this.”
He pressed a hand lightly to his sternum.
The bond responded — just a flicker, like a pulse from deep underwater.
“He knows containment protocol. And he knows I’m not far from triggering it, even if I’m stable now.”
Dazai’s voice was quieter. “Because you’re bonded. And bonded subjects, once flagged... don’t get hearings. They get tested.”
“And tested means monitored. Isolated.”
“Sometimes neutralized.”
The word sat heavy between them.
But it wasn’t the bond that recoiled.
It was Chūya.
The apartment didn’t feel different.
Not visually.
Not in scent or sound.
But once you knew ARC had access to your arcana frequency at all hours — it changed the way you moved.
Chūya didn’t slam doors. Didn’t raise his voice.
Didn’t let himself think about what was being logged, or how.
Instead, he turned the burner on and made eggs. Simple. Familiar. No dramatics. Just a morning that didn’t belong to anyone else.
Dazai leaned in the doorway, watching with a quiet kind of attentiveness — like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to speak yet.
“You gonna stand there all day?” Chūya asked, flicking a bit of egg white off the spatula. “Or are you gonna make yourself useful and toast the bread?”
Dazai blinked. “That… sounded like domestic partnership.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not.” Dazai moved into the kitchen and grabbed the loaf. “I’m letting myself be nourished by your touch.”
Chūya rolled his eyes so hard it nearly undid the peace that had settled in his chest. “Keep talking and I’ll nourish your face into the wall.”
“I think you’ve missed me.”
“I think you’ve mistaken heat exhaustion for affection.”
Dazai smirked but didn’t push further.
And the bond, quiet as ever, pulsed once in soft amusement — not pressure, not heat. Just shared rhythm.
For a few minutes, it almost felt like things had leveled out.
Like the surveillance hadn’t gotten inside their walls.
Like the world outside was still out there, and this — the kitchen, the egg smell, the near-constant threat of blunt force trauma to Dazai’s head — was theirs.
The toast popped up. Dazai caught it.
Chūya flipped the last egg.
The bond stretched gently in his chest like something exhaling.
And for the first time in a long time, ARC wasn’t the loudest thing in the room.
They didn’t sit at the table.
Dazai perched on the counter, barefoot, chewing toast like a crow hoarding something shiny. Chūya ate straight from the pan with chopsticks, shoulders finally relaxed, hair still damp from a quick rinse.
It was quiet.
Not the dangerous kind.
Just the kind that felt earned.
Even the bond had softened — more sensation than thread, more presence than pull.
For the first time in weeks, Chūya didn’t feel the need to brace for something.
So of course that’s when someone knocked.
Not urgent. Not pounding.
Just three short raps against the door — measured, almost polite.
Chūya froze.
Dazai was already off the counter.
He moved to the edge of the wall near the hallway and tilted his head. Not listening for footsteps — listening for arcana.
None.
No build-up. No static. No suppression field.
Whoever was on the other side wasn’t broadcasting.
Chūya set the pan down.
He didn’t ask who it was. Didn’t need to.
Whoever it was, they didn’t belong.
And if they did?
They wouldn’t knock.
He stepped toward the door, gaze flicking toward the security glyph mounted just under the handle. Still intact. Still sealed.
He waited.
Another knock. This one slower.
Dazai met his eyes.
And for the first time in days, neither of them said a word.
They didn’t need to.
Because whoever was on the other side of that door?
Wasn't there to help.
Chapter 39: Knock, Knock
Summary:
ARC begins Phase Two.
Dazai and Chūya weather the arrival of Agent Moriya, a man who doesn’t need threats to leave bruises. But the damage isn’t loud — it’s internal. After Moriya departs, the bond frays under the weight of Chūya’s uncertainty. Kida intervenes with a stabilizer and a reminder: not all bonds are devouring. Some were chosen. Some survived.
Chapter Text
The knock came again. Not urgent. Not repeated. Just deliberate — three steady taps, evenly spaced.
Chūya stood in front of the door and didn’t move for a full ten seconds. Then he reached for the lock, paused just before it clicked open, and glanced back at Dazai.
Dazai gave a single nod.
The door opened.
And standing there was a man in a gray ARC-issued coat. Mid-thirties, maybe older. Neatly pressed uniform. Short, dark hair parted precisely. A small tablet tucked under one arm, eyes unreadable behind circular wire-rimmed glasses.
Everything about him said: you’ve already agreed to this.
He gave a crisp, shallow nod. “Good morning. Agent Moriya, ARC Oversight Division.”
Chūya didn’t move from the threshold. “We weren’t informed of a scheduled visit.”
“You weren’t supposed to be,” Moriya said evenly. “It’s a compliance pulse, not a containment check. No threat indicators on file. Just observation.”
He said it like it was nothing.
Like observation wasn’t the first step in pre-authorization for detainment.
Chūya didn’t open the door wider. “Kida didn’t mention anything.”
“I’m not operating under Dr. Kida’s division.”
And just like that, the tone shifted.
Dazai appeared behind Chūya, barefoot but poised. He didn’t speak.
Moriya noted him — just a glance, not disrespectful, not deferential. “May I come in?”
“State your purpose,” Chūya said, arms crossed.
“Thread resonance analysis,” Moriya answered. “We’re flagging known soulbonds for latent phase stabilization patterns. Just a few questions. Arcana sweep. Twenty minutes at most.”
“Flagging them for what?” Dazai asked, voice flat.
Moriya looked at him — unblinking. “Resilience. Or the lack thereof.”
Chūya’s jaw twitched.
The bond stayed calm. But it didn’t like this.
Chūya stepped aside. Not because he wanted to.
Because the alternative would’ve been noted.
Moriya entered like a man entering his own apartment. He didn’t touch anything — not even the rug. He walked in, opened his tablet, and glanced around without raising his head.
“Your binding was catalyzed under life-threatening conditions,” he said.
Neither of them answered.
“That makes stabilization more difficult to track. Proximity bias, fear encoding, mirrored trauma loops—very tricky.”
He turned to Chūya.
“You’ve felt increased clarity recently, haven’t you?”
Chūya didn’t respond.
“It’s common. In fact, most subjects report that when the bond quiets down—”
He made a gesture like flicking dust from his coat.
“—they start mistaking that quiet for autonomy.”
Chūya stared.
Dazai’s presence behind him sharpened, protective.
Moriya smiled. Not cruel — just sure of himself.
“The more peace you feel,” he said, “the more likely it is that your feelings are no longer your own.”
Moriya didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
Every word was an incision.
He gestured toward the kitchen, not to sit — just to lean, comfortably, like he was used to observing people in their own homes.
“Mr. Nakahara,” he said, tablet glowing pale in one hand. “Have you experienced any dreams not originating from your own memory?”
Chūya’s shoulders stiffened. “What kind of question is that?”
“Just answer, please.”
Chūya didn’t look at Dazai. “Maybe.”
Moriya tapped the screen once. “Do you know if your partner was awake during these instances?”
“Why does that matter?”
“Because dreamstate cross-pollination only occurs when one participant remains conscious. If the subject—”
“—is emotionally compromised,” Dazai cut in, “you get bleed.”
Moriya inclined his head, as if grading a student. “Exactly.”
He looked at Dazai for the first time in minutes. “You were trained to recognize soulbind echo phenomena, weren’t you?”
“Trained,” Dazai said, “and then warned not to cause one.”
Moriya’s gaze didn’t shift. “And yet here you are.”
Chūya stepped in. “You’re not here to assign blame.”
“I’m not,” Moriya agreed. “But I am here to evaluate your capacity for separation.”
He turned the screen toward Chūya. A chart flickered across it — jagged lines, arcana pulse data, timestamps. Chūya’s name was at the top. Dazai’s beneath.
“You’ve been out of proximity range six times since relocation began,” Moriya said. “During each instance, your vitals destabilized. Once to critical. Twice to near-critical.”
He tapped again. A side graph appeared — smaller, overlaid with behavioral notes. Elevated aggression. Insomnia. Increased sexual activity.
Chūya’s jaw clenched. “What the hell does that have to do with—”
“Response patterns,” Moriya said, still calm. “The bond isn’t weakening. It’s rewriting. Most tethers do this. Emotional dependencies, compulsions, hyperfixation. Even desire. You’ll start to mistake resonance for love.”
Chūya didn’t answer.
Because for half a second — just one — he thought: What if he’s right?
But Dazai was already stepping forward.
“Stop.”
Moriya looked at him without surprise.
“You’ve made your point,” Dazai said. His voice wasn’t loud. But there was a warning in it. A promise. “Leave.”
Moriya tilted his head.
Then turned the tablet back toward himself and tapped twice.
“I’ll log compliance,” he said. “No escalation needed.”
He moved toward the door at the same calm pace he’d entered.
But just before he stepped through, he paused. Looked back at Chūya.
And said—
“You know, most pairs never last long enough to be studied. The old bindings don’t follow protocol — they follow instinct. And instinct doesn’t care what you want. The records we have are fragmented at best — but one thing’s always clear:
The bond doesn’t ask. It decides.”
Then he left.
The door clicked shut.
And the silence left behind wasn’t peace.
It was tension held at the throat.
The door clicked shut behind Moriya.
Dazai didn’t move.
Chūya stood in the middle of the room, jaw tight, arms crossed, staring at the floor like the grain of the wood might offer answers. He wasn’t trembling. Wasn’t fuming. But there was something in his stillness — brittle, like glass cooled too fast.
Dazai turned away first.
Walked back into the kitchen.
Turned on the sink.
The water hit porcelain. Rushed. Too loud in the quiet.
“You didn’t have to step in,” Chūya said.
“I know.”
“You looked like you wanted to throw him out a window.”
“I did.”
Chūya turned.
“He said I’m mistaking resonance for love.”
Dazai’s hand on the faucet stilled.
“He’s wrong,” he said.
Chūya watched him. Carefully. “You sound sure.”
“I am.”
“That I love you?”
Dazai didn’t answer.
Not at first.
Then—
“No,” he said. “That I love you. And I did long before there was any bond to confuse it.”
The silence snapped back in like a whip crack.
Chūya didn’t blink. “Then why the hell didn’t you say anything back then?”
Dazai looked at him, finally. Really looked at him.
And said, quieter:
“Because I thought it would scare you.”
Chūya’s chest rose. Fell. “You were right.”
Dazai smiled, just barely. “Still am.”
Chūya walked to the edge of the counter. Rested his hands there. Not close enough to touch.
“I don’t know what I feel yet,” he said. “Not for sure. Not always. Sometimes I think I’m getting there, and then someone like Moriya shows up and makes me feel like I’m drowning in someone else’s story.”
Dazai swallowed. “I get it.”
“No,” Chūya said. “I don’t think you do.”
Dazai waited.
Chūya’s voice dropped low — not angry, but hollow. “You made this choice for both of us. You got what you wanted. And now I have to spend every day wondering if the feelings I’m growing into were mine to begin with.”
Dazai didn’t flinch.
But the bond did.
Just a throb. A flicker. Like it knew the distance between them had grown again.
“Do you regret it?” Dazai asked, barely audible.
“I don’t know yet,” Chūya said.
And the truth of it rang sharp through the room.
Dr. Kida didn’t knock.
He didn’t have to.
The apartment's front door clicked open with an override key—one Chūya had signed off on under ARC protocol months ago, back when things were still raw and medical, not political.
He stepped in quietly.
Shoes off. Bag left by the wall. A soft exhale when he spotted the state of the kitchen — two untouched mugs, a faucet not properly shut off. Water pooling into the sink’s metal throat.
It wasn’t mess.
It was aftermath.
“Chūya?” he called gently.
No response.
But he didn’t expect one.
He walked through the stillness like someone entering a burned house long after the flames were gone.
He found Chūya on the balcony.
Arms braced against the railing, eyes distant. City lights casting sharp lines across his face.
“Rough visit?” Kida asked softly.
Chūya didn’t glance back. “Was that a fucking test?”
“No,” Kida said honestly. “That was ARC trying to remind you they’re watching.”
Chūya’s jaw clenched.
“They sent a desk man with a scalpels-for-teeth personality,” he muttered. “Didn’t even bring a containment case.”
“You wouldn’t have passed it if they had,” Kida said. “You’re still running too hot. But you’re not melting down, either. That counts for something.”
Chūya didn’t answer.
Kida leaned next to him, close but not crowding.
The night air curled cold around them.
And then Kida said, quiet:
“When it started for me… I didn’t sleep for four nights straight. Couldn’t tell where I ended and he began.”
Chūya didn’t look at him — but his grip on the railing shifted, just slightly.
“I know,” he said. “You told me that already.”
Kida nodded. “But I didn’t tell you the rest.”
“That it doesn’t stay like that forever?”
“That it can be love, even after all the fear,” Kida murmured. “Even after the questions. The silence. The fights. You learn to separate the noise from the truth. And if you're lucky—if you both choose to—you keep choosing each other, even when the bond isn't pulling.”
Chūya’s voice was low. “It still pulls.”
“Of course it does. It’s supposed to.”
He paused. Then softer:
“But it doesn't drag you anymore. You’re walking.”
Chūya looked away.
Kida didn’t push.
“I know you’re scared it’s not really love,” Kida said softly. “But here’s the truth: if the bond was mimicking your emotions, it would’ve given you peace already. Comfort. Relief. Not this—”
He gestured to Chūya’s pale knuckles.
“Not this hunger.”
Chūya’s voice was tight. “So what do I do?”
“You stop treating it like a mistake,” Kida said. “Start treating it like a mirror.”
He reached into his coat. Pulled something small from the inside pocket — a glass pendant, silver-threaded, about the size of a coin.
“This is a stabilizer. Worn on the skin, usually over the sternum. It doesn’t block the bond — it just centers it.”
Chūya stared.
“I’m not saying you need it now,” Kida said, holding it out. “But keep it. For when the bond gets louder than your own voice.”
Chūya took it slowly.
Then looked up. “Does Dazai know?”
Kida shook his head.
“Not yet,” he said. “But I suspect he will soon.”
Chapter 40: The Want Is Mine
Summary:
When Chūya initiates, it’s not the bond that drives him — it’s choice. Need. A quiet ache that no longer feels like something foreign. For once, they don’t fight the thread between them. They simply let it lie still. And in the hush that follows pleasure, the bond doesn’t flare. It settles.
Watches.
And whispers, just once:
This is yours.
Chapter Text
The silence that followed Kida’s visit wasn’t cold anymore.
It was warm.
Heavy.
Almost domestic.
Dazai didn’t press.
He cooked quietly that evening, bare feet on the tile, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He didn't hum. Didn't ask what Chūya was thinking. Just handed him a plate when it was done, then sat on the other end of the couch and flipped on the news like they did this every night.
And for a few minutes, Chūya let himself pretend they did.
The food was warm. The bond was… warm. Not pulling. Not whispering. Just there.
Still.
Listening.
Maybe even settled.
Chūya didn’t look at Dazai.
Didn’t have to.
He could feel him.
Not through the bond—
Not the flare or the thread or the panic.
Just his presence.
The way Dazai shifted his weight when something on the screen pissed him off.
The slow curl of his finger against his own wrist.
The absent way he adjusted his collar, like it was tighter than it was.
None of it was new.
But it was different now.
Because Chūya noticed.
Not because the bond told him to.
Because he wanted to.
And that—
That scared him more than anything Moriya had said.
He finished half his plate before setting it down on the table. Leaned back against the couch and let his eyes drift to the side.
Dazai was watching the screen.
Chūya was watching him.
His pulse flickered.
There was no logical reason to speak.
No plan.
No arcana surge.
No emotional crash.
But his mouth moved anyway.
“Did you mean it?”
Dazai didn’t look away from the TV. “Mean what?”
“That you loved me. Back then. Before any of this.”
That pulled Dazai’s attention.
Not sharply.
Not with surprise.
Just quietly. Like a thread pulled taut.
“Yes,” he said.
No hesitation.
“Since when?”
Dazai tilted his head slightly, considering.
“Since before I knew what to call it.”
“That long?”
“That long.”
Chūya’s throat felt too small.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Dazai’s eyes dropped to his hands.
“Because I didn’t think I deserved to.”
Chūya didn’t say anything.
Didn’t move for a moment.
The only sound was the news anchor’s voice murmuring something meaningless in the background. Traffic stats. Politics. Static.
Then Chūya leaned forward.
Turned off the TV.
The apartment went quiet.
Not heavy.
Not tense.
Just quiet.
Dazai didn’t look at him right away. Maybe thought the moment had passed. Maybe hoped it had.
But it hadn’t.
Chūya shifted on the couch. Let one leg tuck under him. Let his body turn — not away, not sideways — toward Dazai.
And when Dazai finally met his eyes—
Chūya kissed him.
It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t sudden.
But it was deliberate.
The kind of kiss you think about for days before giving in to it.
The kind you lean into even when your heart stutters like it’s trying to run.
Dazai stilled.
Only for a second.
Then his hand came up — slow, like he didn’t want to break the moment — and cupped Chūya’s jaw.
But Chūya pulled back first.
Breath shallow. Lips parted.
“This isn’t the bond,” he said. “I’m not hungry because it wants something.
I want it.”
Dazai didn’t answer with words.
His hands did.
He touched Chūya like he was something offered, not owed. Like a wish finally spoken aloud.
Thumb to cheekbone. Palm to sternum. Mouth brushing gently, then firmly, against Chūya’s again.
The kiss deepened—
But not with desperation.
With recognition.
Like the ache had always been there. Like the bond was just the echo of something older.
Chūya’s hands found the hem of Dazai’s shirt. Tugged it up. Not urgently—just with intention.
Dazai let him.
Every inch of skin revealed made Chūya's chest tighter. Not because of lust.
Because of knowing.
Every freckle. Every line. Every quiet breath that Dazai held back like it might betray too much.
Chūya didn’t stop.
Didn’t ask for permission.
Didn’t need to.
Because this time, the bond didn’t push him.
Didn’t pull him.
Didn’t burn or whisper or want.
It just listened.
And for the first time in weeks, Chūya didn’t feel watched.
He felt understood.
He mouthed along Dazai’s throat.
Dragged his nails lightly down his chest.
Watched Dazai’s lashes flutter when he slid into his lap, one knee on either side, their clothes still between them but their breaths shared.
“Tell me you want me,” Chūya whispered.
“I always have,” Dazai answered, voice raw.
Dazai’s hands slid under Chūya’s shirt like he was opening something sacred.
He pushed the fabric up slowly, fingertips brushing ribs, then stomach, then chest—dragging heat in their wake.
Chūya shivered, but didn’t stop him. He let the shirt be pulled over his head, let his spine curve slightly forward, close enough for Dazai to breathe against his collarbone.
And Dazai did—
A breath that caught on skin.
Stayed there.
Mouth barely open, warm.
Then—
Teeth.
A scrape. A nip.
Chūya gasped. Not from pain.
From recognition.
From memory.
From this, being his choice.
He shifted closer, rolling his hips with maddening control against Dazai’s lap, feeling the drag of denim against denim, friction with no relief. His lips found Dazai’s again—sloppier now, parted and needing.
“More,” he whispered.
Dazai didn’t ask how.
He just gave.
Hands on Chūya’s thighs now, squeezing, guiding, grounding. One slid to his lower back, pressed him down, and Chūya followed the pressure like gravity.
Their bodies aligned with familiarity.
But their rhythm was new.
Less like a crash—
More like a slow draw of silk across skin.
Clothes were undone in fragments. Chūya's belt first, then Dazai’s, then the stretch and hiss of zippers and the heat of skin under cotton. Dazai stroked along the line of Chūya’s spine like he was learning it all over again.
And maybe he was.
Because this wasn’t about the bond.
This was about them.
Chūya groaned when Dazai’s palm dragged over him, fingers curling just enough to tease but not enough to satisfy.
He bit Dazai’s shoulder.
Left a mark.
Ground down harder.
“Stop teasing.”
“You say that like you don’t like it.”
“I like you,” Chūya snapped, breathless. “Now shut up and touch me.”
Dazai did.
The first stroke was slow. Hot. Deliberate.
The second—
A curl of his wrist. A twist of his fingers. Enough to make Chūya’s hips twitch forward and his breath stutter against Dazai’s cheek.
The third—
Chūya moaned for it.
Low. Real. Need curling up and spilling out of his throat.
Dazai kissed the sound from his mouth.
They moved together like instinct. Like memory. Like worship.
And when Chūya finally reached between them, grabbed Dazai’s cock with no ceremony and matched him stroke for stroke, Dazai choked on his own breath.
“Fuck—”
“Yeah,” Chūya said, eyes blown wide, voice hoarse. “That’s the idea.”
They came together—hands messy, bodies close, breaths shared.
No bond flaring.
No thread yanking.
Just want.
Just them.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty.
It breathed.
Not loud. Not demanding.
Just steady. Like something ancient curling up to rest beneath their skin.
The bond didn’t flare.
Didn’t ache.
Didn’t murmur.
But Chūya could feel it — subtle as a pulse in the throat.
Not pushing.
Not pulling.
Just thrumming. Like it approved.
Dazai lay beneath him, chest still rising fast, lips swollen from too many kisses neither of them tried to make clean. His hand was still on Chūya’s waist, thumb moving in lazy circles.
And Chūya didn’t move.
Didn’t want to.
The air was thick with the scent of them — sweat, come, breath. But it wasn’t suffocating.
It was safe.
His head dropped to Dazai’s shoulder. He let his lips rest against skin.
Just a touch.
Just being.
“It’s different,” he murmured. “This time.”
“Yeah,” Dazai said, voice rough but soft.
“It didn’t feel like it was taking something from me.”
“Because it wasn’t.”
Dazai didn’t say more.
Didn’t have to.
Because the bond agreed. It stirred inside them, gentle and steady, as if to say:
You did this yourselves.
I’m only watching.
And for once, that didn’t feel invasive.
It felt like truth.
Chūya exhaled.
The tension in his spine eased. His eyelids dropped.
And the bond?
It curled around them like a second blanket — warm, unspoken, and quiet.
When sleep came, it was soft.
And for the first time in too long…
Neither of them had a nightmare.
Chapter 41: Touchpoint
Summary:
For the first time, nothing is stolen. Nothing is taken.
What happens between them isn’t demanded by the bond—it’s chosen. Quiet touches. Shared sleep. A morning without armor. It doesn’t mean they’re whole. It doesn’t mean the danger has passed.
But something’s different.
And whatever they are now, there’s no going back.
Chapter Text
Chūya woke to warmth.
Real warmth.
Not arcana-thread heat.
Not adrenaline.
Not the ache of magic slipping under his ribs.
Just—
Dazai.
His arm slung across Chūya’s waist.
Their legs tangled, bare skin on bare skin.
The faint drag of a slow inhale against the back of his neck.
And the bond—
Not gone.
Not even truly quiet.
Just soft.
Like it had melted into the space between them, no longer separate, no longer loud—just part of the way they fit.
Chūya didn’t move.
He stared at the ceiling for a long time. Let himself feel the weight of the room. The blanket curled low over his hips. The pulse of another heartbeat beneath his spine. The way his own chest rose and fell just a half-second out of sync with Dazai’s—
But not enough to matter.
They were close.
They had always been close.
But this?
This was different.
Because Chūya wasn’t scared of it.
Not this morning.
Not after that.
He rolled slightly onto his side. Not all the way—just enough to glance back.
Dazai was still asleep.
His hair was a mess. His mouth faintly parted. His brows furrowed like even in sleep, something was pressing down on him—responsibility, regret, maybe just the weight of being loved the wrong way for too long.
Chūya studied him.
Slowly.
Without resentment.
Without fear.
His fingers drifted to Dazai’s wrist, where the pulse thudded slow and steady beneath the skin.
And without even meaning to, Chūya whispered—so quiet it barely touched the air:
“I could’ve loved you sooner.”
The bond stirred.
Not with force.
Just a tremor — like a candle flickering in a room with no breeze.
Dazai shifted slightly.
Didn’t wake.
But his hand tightened around Chūya’s waist.
And Chūya didn’t pull away.
Dazai woke with a breath caught in his throat.
Not pain.
Not panic.
Just—
The weight of now.
The weight of closeness.
Chūya was still there.
Not curled away. Not armored in sarcasm or silence. Just... warm. Bare. Breathing beside him like it didn’t feel dangerous.
Dazai didn’t move at first.
He let the moment sit.
Let his eyes stay half-closed, lips parted against the pillowcase, one hand still curved around Chūya’s waist like his body hadn’t quite registered it was morning.
The bond was present.
Low. Resting. Not tugging, not guiding.
But listening.
And it was so calm that it made Dazai's throat ache.
He blinked once. Twice.
And whispered:
“You stayed.”
Chūya didn’t look at him.
But he didn’t pull away either.
“You didn’t run.”
“Didn’t want to,” Chūya said, voice soft.
Silence settled again—
but not heavy.
Just real.
Just the kind that fills a room when nothing has to be defended anymore.
Dazai’s thumb traced a line along Chūya’s side. The smallest touch. Barely there.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
Chūya let out a breath that almost became a laugh.
“Sore. Calm.
…Like I might want to do it again.”
Dazai’s smile cracked through slow and genuine.
“Later, maybe,” he said.
Another pause.
“You didn’t feel pushed?”
“No,” Chūya murmured. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”
He finally looked at Dazai then — eyes clear, mouth set, jaw loose from sleep and something softer than trust.
“I touched you because I wanted to.”
Dazai’s breath caught.
The bond pulsed once — like a thread tightening around both of their chests — then relaxed again.
As if even it had been holding its breath.
“It’s not always going to be like this,” Dazai said, quiet.
“I know.”
“We’ll fight.”
“Already do.”
“The bond will hurt sometimes.”
“You hurt more,” Chūya said. “And I’m still here.”
Dazai closed his eyes.
Because fuck—that felt like a promise.
And when he opened them again, Chūya was still there.
Still looking at him like maybe—maybe—he wasn’t just the mistake that changed everything.
They stayed in bed longer than they should’ve.
Not tangled.
Not desperate.
Just there—bodies brushing in the small, unthinking ways that didn’t used to exist between them.
Chūya let himself fall asleep again for a bit. Dazai didn’t move when he did. Just watched the curve of his spine, the steady rise and fall, the way a faint line creased between his brows even in sleep—like he was bracing against something that never came.
And the bond?
Still quiet.
Still warm.
Still with them, not between them.
When Chūya stirred the second time, he didn’t open his eyes right away. Just shifted into the pillow, yawned softly, and muttered:
“Your elbow’s in my ribs.”
“It’s cuddling, Chūya.”
“It’s bruising.”
Dazai laughed. It was small, real. And maybe for the first time, it didn’t feel like a weapon.
“Want breakfast?”
Chūya hummed. Rolled onto his back.
“Only if you’re making it.”
“What if I burn it?”
“Then we have toast and call it gourmet.”
Another pause. Then softer:
“You don’t have to overdo it, y’know.”
Dazai looked at him. Open. Unsure.
“Overdo what?”
“This. Trying to fix everything in a day.”
Chūya’s voice was gentler than he meant it to be. But that was okay.
Because Dazai needed gentle.
And Chūya—
Chūya was starting to understand that maybe he did too.
“We’re not fixed,” he said. “And we won’t be for a while. But I woke up this morning, and I didn’t want to fight. That’s enough.”
Dazai nodded.
The silence after was easy. Companionable.
They got up. They dressed slowly, moving around each other like people who had learned each other's rhythms without meaning to. There was brushing teeth in the same mirror. Shared water. A bump of shoulders in the hallway.
No declarations.
No labels.
But the bond purred through all of it.
Quiet and steady.
And when Dazai slid the coffee mug toward Chūya across the kitchen table, their fingers brushed—and neither of them pulled away.
They just looked at each other.
And understood:
There was no going back.
Chapter 42: Mirrored Instinct
Summary:
The bond no longer waits to be noticed—it moves first. When a sudden attack reveals just how far Chūya and Dazai’s synchronization has evolved, ARC intervenes. But it's not the distance or danger that unnerves them—it's how natural it feels to fight as one. And as the arcana stirs, ancient and aware, the choice to prove themselves may no longer be theirs to make.
Chapter Text
It started with a phone call.
Not one that rang.
One that buzzed — soft, deliberate. No ringtone. Just the vibration of Dazai’s phone against the glass top of the coffee table, where he’d forgotten it the night before.
Chūya was still in the hallway, towel draped around his shoulders, hair wet from the shower. He wasn’t hurrying. For once, the morning didn’t feel like war.
But Dazai’s eyes had already gone cold.
Not wide.
Not panicked.
Just… calculating. The way they used to when things were going sideways and he didn’t want anyone else to know.
He picked up the phone.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
Chūya heard it anyway—the shift.
Like a fuse had lit somewhere.
Like something had just been set in motion.
“Another check-in?” Chūya asked, drying his neck.
“No,” Dazai murmured. “Not ARC.
Not officially.”
He set the phone down without ending the call.
Muted it. Turned it face-down.
The bond stirred.
Subtle.
A faint pull at Chūya’s chest, not painful—just restless.
“You’re not gonna explain that?” Chūya asked.
Dazai sighed. Pressed his knuckles against his mouth.
“I think,” he said slowly, “we’re being watched again. But not from the outside this time.”
“The bond?”
“No.
The arcana.”
That word made the air different. Like something ancient had just leaned a little closer.
Chūya felt it too.
A pulse behind his sternum.
Not fear.
Not yet.
But weight.
Like memory.
Like residue.
“It’s waking up,” Dazai said quietly.
“The soulbind?”
“No. The thing inside it. The part that predates us.”
He looked at Chūya like it hurt to say it.
“The part that wants to survive.”
The file came through encrypted.
Not ARC’s standard.
Older. Cleaner. Hand-coded.
Dazai opened it while Chūya stood behind him, towel now tossed aside, fingers braced on the back of the couch like he already knew whatever was coming would split him open.
“From Kida?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“So he has been digging.”
Dazai didn’t answer. His mouth was too tight for words.
The text opened on-screen:
Photos of brittle parchment. Symbols neither of them could read. Ink faded to bone-brown over weathered scrollwork.
But layered between them—
Kida’s notes.
Translations.
Fragments of meaning stitched together with cautious precision.
Chūya leaned in.
“Is that…?”
“A ledger,” Dazai said. “Of bonded pairs.”
“From when?”
“Before ARC.”
That chilled the air more than anything else.
Because before ARC meant before records.
Before containment laws.
Before soulbinds were deemed unstable.
The translated lines were uneven, patchworked between illegible stains and crumbling edges. But what was there sent the bond whispering like wind between ribs.
“When aligned in will, the bonded function as one mind in two bodies.”
“Reflex. Arcana. Action — all amplified in proximity.”
“Disturbance in one echoes in the other.”
“To sever the thread is to break the soul.”
Chūya stared.
“You think this is what we’re heading toward?”
“No,” Dazai said. “I think we’re already there.”
The bond pulsed again.
Not hot.
Not painful.
Just… loud.
And beneath it—
Chūya could feel it:
The edge of something deeper.
Something that knew him.
Something that had been sleeping with its mouth shut and its eyes open for a very, very long time.
“What happens if we push further?” he asked.
Dazai didn’t answer right away.
But then—
“We stop being two people.”
And for the first time, neither of them flinched at that.
They just sat there.
Breathing.
Together.
It happened the next day.
Small, at first.
Dazai reached for a glass, and Chūya moved to open the cupboard—without looking.
Their hands missed each other by half a second.
But the motion was the same.
Reflex.
Later, it was the way they turned at the same sound.
Blinked at the same flicker of shadow outside the window.
Breathed in sync when neither of them was speaking.
And when Chūya dropped a pen—Dazai caught it mid-fall, without seeing it.
He froze.
Chūya stared.
The bond purred.
Not as a warning.
But as if it had approved.
“That wasn’t you,” Chūya said slowly. “That wasn’t even me.”
“That was—us,” Dazai said.
The word felt wrong and right at the same time.
There was no heat behind it. No hunger. No arcane pressure.
Just the echo of something shared.
Something that watched, even in stillness.
“It’s not taking from us,” Chūya murmured. “It’s… copying us.”
“No,” Dazai said. “It’s mirroring. Adapting. Learning.”
They looked at each other across the kitchen—no tension, no fear.
Just the quiet certainty that whatever was happening wasn’t finished.
And maybe never would be.
Because they weren’t just sharing space anymore.
They were sharing motion.
Reaction.
Edge.
And deep inside the bond, something older than magic sighed awake.
It wasn’t planned.
Just a walk—
nothing official.
No mission.
No shadow trailing them down the alley.
Just air. Just quiet. Just normal.
Until it wasn’t.
The man came out of nowhere.
Didn’t even look like a threat at first—
Too casual. Too clean.
But his hand twitched wrong.
Chūya saw the blade first.
Dazai moved second.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t need to.
Because the bond moved first.
Chūya sidestepped before the knife flashed.
Dazai’s palm caught the wrist.
The attacker twisted—
and both of them reacted like one thing.
Chūya’s knee came up—hard, fast, perfect angle.
Dazai shoved the shoulder just enough to make it land.
It wasn’t choreographed.
It wasn’t instinct.
It was mirrored action.
Two bodies.
One thread.
The man hit the pavement hard—winded, knife skittering into the gutter.
Dazai didn’t even glance at Chūya.
He already knew where he was.
“That wasn’t training,” Chūya said under his breath.
“That wasn’t us.”
“No,” Dazai replied, voice low. “It was what we are together.”
The attacker groaned, trying to push up.
Chūya stepped on his wrist—just enough pressure to pin, not break.
“He wasn’t after us,” he said. “Wrong target. Wrong time.”
“Just a test,” Dazai muttered. “Someone sent him to see.”
“See what?”
“If we’re in sync yet.”
And they were.
Too much.
Too fast.
The bond hummed in the aftermath—proud.
Not triumphant. Not gloating.
Just... satisfied.
Like it had proven something.
And neither of them said it aloud,
but they both knew:
If it had been a real fight—
They wouldn’t have needed words.
Or warnings.
Or distance.
They would’ve ended it together.
They didn’t speak much after the incident.
Not on the way home.
Not when Chūya finally peeled off his jacket, dropped it over the couch, and slumped into the kitchen chair like he needed something heavier than silence to process what just happened.
But the bond was alive.
Thrumming between them.
Still hot from contact. Still listening.
And when the knock came—
They both knew.
It wasn’t polite.
It wasn’t urgent.
Just three even raps, spaced with military precision.
Dazai opened the door.
And there she was.
Agent Naoi.
Tall. Trim coat. Gloves still on.
No greeting. No smile.
“You’ve been seen,” she said flatly. “By more than us.”
Chūya stood without thinking.
“Define ‘seen.’”
“ARC surveillance caught footage from the alley. So did a private drone. Civilian-owned. We got to it first.”
“And if you hadn’t?” Dazai asked.
Naoi didn’t blink.
“You’d be classified under Level Red instead of Yellow. Immediate detainment.”
The room tightened.
The bond didn’t flare, but it prickled—like an animal bristling just before it bares its teeth.
“You’re not just soulbound,” Naoi continued. “You’re amplified.”
“And that’s a threat?” Chūya snapped.
“It’s a variable. ARC doesn’t like variables.”
Silence.
She stepped in farther, eyes flicking between them.
“Dr. Kida has requested we delay any escalation,” she said. “He believes you can still be reasoned with. That your bond is… manageable.”
Dazai’s mouth curled, just a little.
“We’ve always been manageable.”
Naoi tilted her head.
“Not anymore.”
She handed Dazai a thin envelope—black seal, ARC-stamped.
“Read it. Sign it. It grants permission for a monitored test run of your combat synchronization.”
Chūya raised a brow.
“A sparring match.”
“More than that,” she replied. “Proof of control.”
“And if we don’t prove it?”
Naoi looked him dead in the eye.
“Then someone else gets to decide what to do with you.”
She left without waiting for an answer.
The door shut behind her.
And the bond…?
It didn’t panic.
It didn’t scream.
It leaned forward.
Like it had been waiting
for this exact moment
to show what it was capable of.
Chapter 43: Bleed Pattern
Summary:
They were told not to give ARC a show.
They didn’t.
They gave the bond one.Threaded breath. Mirrored instinct. Hands that struck as one and stopped as one.
This wasn’t just training. It was an evolution.
And even if they walked off the mat together,
someone else—
saw too much.
Chapter Text
The room they gave them wasn’t ARC-standard.
Too old. Too quiet.
The walls were lined with enchantments that buzzed just under the skin, barely perceptible unless you were keyed in—which both of them were, now.
Dr. Kida stood at the edge of the training mat, arms folded, clipboard untouched at his side.
“They want a show,” he said. “Don’t give them one.”
“Then what do we give them?” Chūya asked, cracking his knuckles.
“Control,” Kida answered. “Not just power. They’re watching to see if the bond is the one moving your limbs.”
Dazai glanced at the walls—subtle glyphs pulsing like a heartbeat.
“These runes. Observation, or suppression?”
“Both.”
Chūya’s eyes narrowed.
“You think they’ll try to interfere?”
“I think,” Kida said quietly, “they’re hoping for just enough instability to justify taking you in.”
He handed Chūya a black band—thin leather, no tag, no sigil. Identical to the one Dazai had looped around his wrist earlier that morning.
“Wear it. It’ll ground the bond.”
“Collars,” Chūya muttered.
“Symbols,” Kida corrected. “Voluntary ones. They don’t suppress the connection—they frame it. That distinction may save you.”
Chūya slid it on.
The bond shimmered.
Not dimmed—just… contained.
Like breath held in the ribs, waiting.
“You’re ready for this?” Kida asked.
Neither answered.
But they stepped onto the mat at the same time.
Faced each other.
And the bond…
Woke up.
They didn’t speak.
Didn’t count down.
Didn’t nod.
Didn’t signal.
They just moved.
Chūya led the first strike—
A sharp step in, heel pivot, feint to the left, fist already arcing high.
Dazai blocked—barely.
Not because he couldn’t read it—
But because the bond let it through.
Let it skim his shoulder like a warning.
And then—
they were in it.
Not a brawl.
Not a clash of strength.
But a test of precision.
Dazai’s counter was clean—low sweep, twist through his core, hand outstretched before Chūya even pivoted.
But Chūya met it.
Palmed it.
Redirected it like he’d known it was coming before it even started.
The thread between them burned.
But not like fire.
Like tension in a bowstring pulled taut.
Reflexes sharpened.
Timing narrowed.
Breath synced.
It wasn’t just sparring.
It was a mirror.
One body learning the other, echoing without delay.
“You're not holding back,” Dazai muttered as Chūya ducked under his arm.
“You wanted proof,” Chūya snapped, grinning—eyes alight, feral.
He feinted low again—
Dazai dropped to meet him—
But the bond twisted—
And Chūya felt it:
A flicker of thought.
Not his.
Dazai’s next move.
Chūya responded before it happened.
Moved to counter it before Dazai's muscle even fired.
Dazai flinched, just slightly.
“That was my thought.”
“Yeah,” Chūya breathed. “And I heard it.”
They broke apart—
And the room hummed.
Dr. Kida’s voice crackled from the outer ring:
“Your vitals are elevated. But still stable. The bond is syncing.”
They circled again.
More cautious now.
Not from fear.
From curiosity.
Because now they both knew:
This wasn’t just about speed.
Or strength.
It was about depth.
How far could they go?
How far could the bond reach?
They were matching too fast.
Moves that should’ve clashed just… slid.
Blows that should’ve landed twisted off-course at the last second.
And every time one of them struck—
the other was already there.
Not blocking.
Not dodging.
Just—already moving.
Like they were two hands on the same body.
It should’ve been exhilarating.
It was.
But it was also—
Too much.
“Something’s off,” Chūya said, panting, sweat slipping down his temple.
Dazai paused, breathing sharp and even.
“No—you’re off.”
Because Chūya’s pupils were blown.
And his stance had changed.
Not aggressive.
Not combative.
But—open. Loose. Almost inviting.
And the bond—
It liked that.
It responded not with a flare—
but with a slow, crawling heat that settled in the spine.
Chūya staggered a step.
His fingers clenched reflexively, not into fists—
but into the front of Dazai’s shirt.
“What the fuck is it doing—?”
“Pulling,” Dazai said, hoarse.
“No. Not pulling. It’s—”
He cut himself off.
Because suddenly—
It wasn’t about fighting.
Not anymore.
It was about closeness.
The thread between them twisted in a new direction.
Not violent. Not dangerous.
But wanting.
Raw. Coiling. Warm.
Dazai’s hand shot out—grabbing Chūya’s wrist before he could fully lose his balance.
Chūya looked up.
And for half a second—
They didn’t see each other.
They saw the bond.
Not between them—
As them.
Threaded in the veins.
Etched into every breath.
Alive. Awake. Waiting.
And if they didn’t stop now—
“We need to ground it,” Dazai said, low. Urgent.
“You mean—end it?”
“No. I mean—touch me. Before it does it for us.”
Chūya didn’t hesitate.
His hand slid to the back of Dazai’s neck, fingers anchoring. Their foreheads touched. Breath shared. Skin to skin.
And the bond—
Shuddered.
But didn’t break.
It calmed.
Like it had gotten what it wanted.
A contact point.
An anchor.
A choice.
The room cooled.
The glyphs on the wall dimmed.
Vital monitors leveled back into normal range.
Chūya dropped onto the mat, back damp, breath steadying.
Dazai crouched beside him—knees loose, shoulders relaxed, lips parted like he wasn’t sure if he should speak first.
He didn’t.
Because Kida did.
“That was… more than we expected.”
Chūya tilted his head back. “Yeah, no shit.”
Kida stepped onto the mat slowly, not like someone approaching danger—but like a scholar tiptoeing into a temple.
He didn’t look impressed.
He looked moved.
“You know what that was?” he asked, eyes flicking between them.
Dazai didn’t answer. Chūya stayed silent.
Kida exhaled.
“That was shared arcana. Reflexes enhanced. Awareness shared. A single decision made through two bodies.”
He crouched down, closer now. His voice lowered.
“Most soulbonds don’t reach that level. Not without complete surrender.”
“So what, we’re special?” Chūya muttered, rolling his eyes.
“No,” Kida said gently. “You’re in danger.”
That shut them up.
“This kind of syncing?” he went on. “It terrifies ARC. They fear power they don’t understand. Especially power that doesn’t come from sanctioned channels.”
“So what do we do?” Dazai asked.
Kida’s gaze sharpened.
“You prove them wrong. You show them that you can control it. Guide it. Be more than just its hosts.”
He stood again, hands sliding into his coat.
“They’re not the only ones watching anymore.”
“Who else?” Chūya asked, frowning.
Kida paused.
“Let’s just say… there are people who’ve seen what this bond can do, once. A long time ago. And they’re wondering if history’s repeating itself.”
He didn’t elaborate.
Just nodded once, sharply, and turned to go.
As he stepped through the door, he muttered:
“Write it down. Everything. Every change, every shift, every echo. The more you understand it, the less control it has over you.”
He left.
And Dazai sat back on his heels, brushing a hand through sweat-damp hair.
“So,” he said, eyes sliding to Chūya. “You still wanna hit me?”
Chūya grunted.
“Yeah. But not for the spar.”
“Oh?”
“For making me like it.”
Chapter 44: Spell Of Equals
Summary:
Their spar spirals into something else—
raw, mirrored, overwhelming.
The bond doesn't force it.
It just feels.
And afterward, it’s quiet.
Not gone.
Just sated.
Chapter Text
They barely spoke the rest of the day.
Not out of anger.
Not out of silence.
Just… residue.
The kind that settles in the spine after something ancient has stirred.
Dazai showered first, but stayed quiet—towel slung low on his hips, hair wet, eyes unfocused.
Chūya sprawled on the couch with a throw blanket and a headache, sipping lukewarm tea that didn’t help.
“We moved the same,” he murmured once, mostly to himself.
Dazai didn’t reply.
But he didn’t need to.
The bond throbbed faintly in agreement—
a ripple of remembered rhythm.
Later, as night fell, Kida sent a message:
Don’t go outside tonight.
No reason.
No further warning.
Just six words that wrapped around Chūya’s gut like wire.
The knock came anyway.
Late.
Three taps.
Too sharp for a neighbor.
Too intentional for a friend.
Dazai rose first.
Didn’t open the door—just stood behind it.
“Who is it?”
A beat.
“Agent Moriya. ARC Liaison.”
Chūya straightened from the kitchen. “Fuck.”
Dazai gave him a glance. “He’s early.”
“He wasn’t supposed to come at all.”
Moriya stepped in like he already knew the layout.
Sharp suit. Slate-gray coat. Steel-trimmed clipboard.
His voice was smooth in the same way glass is—cold, hard, and liable to cut you if you pressed too hard.
“Just a routine check-in,” he said mildly, eyes drifting between them like he was mapping weaknesses.
“We’ve had three of those this month,” Dazai replied, tone pleasant but laced with steel.
“Consider this one more of an… audit.”
Chūya didn’t like him.
Not just because of the intrusion.
But because the bond didn’t like him either.
It curled under his skin, quiet but tense—
like a held breath.
Like an animal scenting a trap.
“You displayed elevated synchronization during your last assessment,” Moriya said, turning a page on his clipboard.
“If by that you mean we beat the shit out of each other without dying, then yeah,” Chūya snapped.
Moriya smiled without showing teeth.
“Some at ARC see it as progress. Others see it as… precursors.”
“To what?” Dazai asked.
Moriya didn’t answer.
He just said, softly:
“You’re not the first pair to hit this level of sync.”
And for the first time that evening—
Chūya went still.
Because that—
That wasn’t on any of the public record.
The air in the apartment pulled tight—
not with the bond.
Not even with fear.
But with recognition.
Dazai stepped forward slowly, hands in his pockets, casual as ever.
But his voice?
Sharp enough to gut.
“You’re talking about Case 417-B.”
Moriya blinked.
Then smiled, thin and knowing.
“So you’ve read the unredacted files.”
“You know I have,” Dazai said, tone even.
“And you know what that bond became.”
The room tilted.
Not literally—
but emotionally.
Like the gravity of the conversation shifted to a dangerous axis.
Chūya frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Dazai didn’t look at him.
Moriya did.
“417-B. A soulbind formed over fifty years ago—before ARC standardized the current arcana protocols. They weren’t sanctioned. They weren’t stable. And when the bond reached full sync—”
“They burned down an entire containment zone,” Dazai said flatly.
Chūya froze.
“Both hosts died,” Moriya finished. “But not before rewriting a quarter of ARC’s regulation handbook.”
Silence.
The kind that stretches between two cliffs before one of them collapses.
“So what?” Chūya snapped. “You think we’re them?”
Moriya’s expression didn’t change.
“We think you could be.”
Dazai let out a slow, sharp breath.
“That’s why you’re here.”
Moriya gave a fractional nod.
“To observe. To record. And, if necessary—intervene.”
The word hung like a loaded gun.
Chūya stepped forward, chest tight, jaw locked.
But Dazai raised a hand.
Not to stop him—
but to ground him.
“And if we don’t spiral?” he asked. “If we don’t burn anything down?”
Moriya tilted his head.
“Then you’ll be the first.”
Moriya left with no incident.
No threats.
No accusations.
Just—
A signature.
A scan.
And a final, loaded line:
“Next assessment is unscheduled.”
Which meant:
They could come anytime.
The door shut.
The lock clicked.
And Dazai exhaled like he’d just finished holding back a weapon.
Chūya didn’t speak at first.
He leaned back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes sharp but unfocused.
“Case 417-B,” he said finally. “You didn’t tell me.”
“It wouldn’t have helped.”
“That’s not the point.”
Dazai looked over, face unreadable.
“Do you think we’re like them?”
“No,” Dazai said immediately.
Too quickly.
Chūya raised an eyebrow.
“You’re lying.”
Dazai didn’t deny it.
He just turned, paced once, then said—
“I think we could be worse.”
The silence that followed was deep.
Not hurtful—
but heavy.
“Then why stay?” Chūya asked, voice quieter.
“Because I’d rather choose this,” Dazai replied, finally looking up. “Even if it kills me.”
Later, Chūya stood alone in the bathroom, staring at his reflection.
No bond flaring.
No pressure in his chest.
Just—
A dull, almost aching awareness.
Like someone had whispered something important
and he hadn’t written it down fast enough.
His own words from earlier looped back.
“You think we’re them?”
And even if he hadn’t said it aloud,
he already knew the answer:
“We’re not them.
But ARC doesn’t care.
So we’ll have to prove it—
Every damn day.”
They didn’t say it out loud.
Didn’t plan it.
Didn’t schedule it with ARC.
They just moved the coffee table.
Rolled out the floor mats.
Pulled back the curtains so the moonlight could bare them.
“You sure?” Dazai asked, hands bare, shirt gone, eyes dark.
“I need to know,” Chūya said.
They started with spells.
With training stances.
With deliberate strikes and counterstrikes.
With the illusion of control.
But the second Chūya’s arcana flared—old, raw, and gravitational—
Dazai met it with a force that wasn’t modern.
And the bond throbbed.
Not subtly.
Not softly.
Like a drumbeat between their ribs, syncing them.
When they clashed again, the echo hit hard.
Chūya caught Dazai’s wrist—
and felt fingers digging into his own.
Dazai shoved him back—
and stumbled from the pressure that he felt hit his chest.
They stopped.
Breathed.
And the air twisted between them—like a wire pulled taut.
“You feel that?” Chūya asked, his voice wrecked already.
Dazai nodded once. “Yeah. Fuck.”
And then Chūya moved first.
No more spells.
No more sparring.
Just bodies colliding—
bare skin, friction, fever.
Dazai kissed him like he was falling apart.
Bit his bottom lip and licked the blood away.
Chūya shoved him hard to the mat—straddled him—grabbed his wrists and ground down.
And Dazai gasped.
But so did Chūya.
Because when Dazai’s cock strained up against his thigh—
he felt it from both sides.
The ache of need and the thrill of pressure.
It was too much.
It wasn’t enough.
“Touch me,” Dazai groaned, already breathless.
“Already fucking doing it,” Chūya snapped—fingers dragging down his chest, nails scraping his ribs.
And it burned—sweet, fast, helpless.
Their mouths crashed again—hot, teeth and spit—and Dazai’s legs wrapped tight around Chūya’s hips.
“More,” Dazai hissed. “Harder—”
Chūya grabbed both their cocks—
palms slick with sweat and spit—
and started stroking fast.
And it hit like lightning.
Because for every stroke—
Chūya felt Dazai’s cock twitch in his hand.
And Dazai felt Chūya’s pulse in his own skin.
“Oh—oh fuck—Chūya—!”
“I know,” Chūya panted. “I feel it too—fuck, I feel you—”
Dazai was moaning shamelessly now—
lips parted, cheeks flushed, hips jerking up into his grip.
And Chūya?
Could barely breathe.
Could barely tell where he ended and Dazai began.
One body.
One pulse.
One desperate climb.
“You’re gonna come,” Chūya whispered, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to Dazai’s.
“You too,” Dazai choked. “You’re gonna—fuck—Chūya—please—”
And they did.
Together.
Backs arching.
Spines seizing.
Names sobbed against each other’s throats.
It was like falling—
but being caught.
Over and over again.
They didn’t move right away.
Chūya lay draped over Dazai’s chest, sweaty and boneless, cheek resting in the curve of his shoulder.
Their skin stuck together in places, still trembling with phantom echoes.
And the bond?
Warm.
Not pulsing.
Not flaring.
Just—there.
A soft glow beneath the skin.
“That was—” Dazai started.
“Yeah,” Chūya murmured, too tired to lift his head. “It was.”
Neither said what it was.
But both knew they’d never felt anything like it.
Like their nerves were tuned to the same string.
Like coming apart meant getting stitched together.
Dazai’s hand found the back of Chūya’s neck.
Cradled it gently.
Thumb brushed slow, lazy circles over his pulse point.
“The loop,” he said, voice low. “It didn’t hurt.”
Chūya closed his eyes.
“No. It didn’t.”
They lay like that for a long time.
Sweat drying.
Breath syncing again, but this time out of calm—not crisis.
The room had cooled, but the heat between them stayed.
Eventually, Dazai spoke again.
“Do you think it’ll always be like that?”
“What, the sex?” Chūya huffed softly. “Hope so.”
Dazai laughed—quiet, surprised.
But Chūya lifted his head just a little, eyes darker now.
Less playful.
“You mean the bond.”
“Yeah.”
Chūya looked at him for a long moment.
Then lay back down, forehead resting against his collarbone.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
And that was the first time he’d said that without flinching.
Chapter 45: Hunger Without Teeth
Summary:
ARC comes knocking, and the truth Dazai never told finally steps into the light.
But silence cuts deeper than betrayal—and the bond begins to ache with it.
Chapter Text
Morning came without incident.
Chūya was the first to wake.
Still on the floor.
Still pressed against warm skin.
Still sore in ways that made his legs twitch and his breath catch when he shifted.
Dazai’s arm was slung low across his back.
Possessive. Heavy.
But not in a way that felt trapping.
Not this time.
The bond was quiet again.
But not numb.
It felt... watchful.
Resting.
As if curled beside them instead of inside them.
Chūya stared at the ceiling for a long time before speaking.
“You awake?”
A murmur against his temple.
“Wasn’t asleep.”
Chūya huffed. “Figures.”
“Didn’t wanna miss it if you started talking to yourself.”
He rolled his eyes. Didn’t move.
Dazai shifted only slightly—tugging him closer. Pressing their bodies flush again, lazily.
“You okay?”
The question was soft. Real.
And Chūya didn’t have to think long.
“Yeah,” he said. “Surprisingly.”
They lay there in the hush that followed.
Not quite ready to face the day.
But not afraid of it, either.
And that, for once—was new.
They had just made it to the kitchen—barefoot, still bruised, Dazai in one of Chūya’s shirts—when the knock came.
Not loud.
Not aggressive.
But sharp.
Measured.
A pattern they recognized now.
ARC.
Dazai stiffened first.
Chūya cursed under his breath, already grabbing his shirt off the chair, tugging it on with one arm while checking the wards with the other.
“They’re early.”
“They’re unscheduled,” Dazai muttered, eyes already narrowed. “Moriya said next checkup was indefinite.”
Chūya didn’t need to say it out loud.
That meant this wasn’t a checkup.
Dazai moved to the door but didn’t open it.
Instead, he spoke low—barely audible.
“Identify.”
A pause.
Then, a new voice—not Moriya.
“Agent Ueno. Routine containment verification.”
Chūya gave Dazai a look.
“Containment?”
“Bullshit,” Dazai said, already stepping back. “They’re checking something.”
“Us?”
“Maybe just me.”
Chūya’s spine went cold.
“You're not going alone.”
“Didn’t plan to.”
He opened the door.
And standing there was a woman Chūya didn’t know—
dark suit, no smile, clipboard tucked beneath her arm like a weapon.
She didn’t look at Dazai first.
She looked at him.
And said—
“Nakahara. I’d like to speak to you privately.”
Chūya didn’t flinch.
Didn’t move aside either.
He stayed squarely between Dazai and the door, eyes locked on the woman’s face like she was a blade he might have to catch mid-air.
“If you’ve got something to say,” he said evenly, “you can say it in front of both of us.”
Agent Ueno didn’t blink.
“This concerns an ongoing inconsistency in Osamu Dazai’s containment markers. The discrepancy predates your bond.”
Dazai, behind him, exhaled.
Not loud.
But tight. Controlled. The kind of breath that meant he knew exactly what she was talking about.
Chūya turned his head slightly.
“What does she mean?”
Dazai didn’t answer.
Ueno did.
“For years, ARC has maintained surveillance threads on all former agents with sensitive arcana clearance. Dazai’s signal was tagged as static post-retirement.”
Chūya narrowed his eyes. “And?”
“Static signals don’t evolve. But his did. Just once.”
She tilted her head.
“The night your soulbind activated.”
Silence.
Deep, lurching silence.
“You didn’t tell them,” Chūya said quietly, staring at Dazai.
Dazai didn’t look away.
Didn’t deny it.
Didn’t defend it.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t.”
Chūya didn’t move for a long time.
The silence was a wall—thick, breathless.
Ueno didn’t push.
Dazai didn’t flinch.
And somewhere inside Chūya’s chest, the bond stirred.
Not violently.
Not afraid.
But like it was bracing.
“They knew,” he said finally. “You made the pact when we were kids. And they knew—when it turned into a soulbond.”
Dazai’s voice was quiet. “They didn’t know about the pact.”
“But they knew after.”
He nodded.
“They just didn’t say anything. Not directly.”
Chūya’s jaw clenched.
“So they watched you walk out. Pretended you were cut loose. And all the while, they still had you leashed.”
Dazai didn’t answer.
Because he didn’t have to.
Ueno stepped forward—not invading, not threatening, but still too close.
“Dazai’s clearance was never formally revoked,” she said. “It was… suspended. Which means the contract technically still holds.”
Chūya’s hands curled at his sides.
“What contract.”
“The one that permits ARC to recall him if his arcana signature changes without explanation.”
She turned her eyes to Dazai.
“We let you keep your freedom.”
A pause.
“You never had full autonomy.”
And then to Chūya—
“And neither do you now.”
Chūya didn’t speak for a long time.
The air tasted stale.
Like papers that should’ve burned.
Like blood that never dried.
Ueno was already retreating—one foot back toward the corridor, formal and efficient, like she’d only stopped by to drop off a bill no one wanted to pay.
“We’ll be in touch,” she said.
Dazai didn’t respond.
And Chūya?
Didn’t look at her again.
He waited.
Waited for the door to shut.
Waited for her footsteps to fade.
Waited for the rhythm of Dazai’s breath to change again—so he’d know if he was lying.
Waited like a man on the edge of a ledge that he’d climbed onto himself.
Then, finally—
“What exactly did you do for them?”
No inflection.
No heat.
Just the question.
Clean. Precise.
And cutting.
Dazai’s throat moved.
His eyes didn’t.
“What I had to.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’m giving right now.”
Chūya didn’t explode.
Didn’t curse.
Didn’t storm out.
He just stood there—still, seething.
Like the answer was bleeding through his skin.
“You said this bond was mine too,” he said quietly. “So stop treating me like I’m not part of whatever it cost.”
Dazai looked at him then.
Tired. Older.
And still hiding something.
“You are,” he said.
“That’s why I’m not telling you.”
Neither of them spoke for the rest of the morning.
Chūya left the room.
Closed the door gently.
Didn’t slam it.
Didn’t need to.
The quiet was a sharper blade than anger.
Dazai stayed seated.
Hands folded.
Head bowed.
The bond didn't scream.
It throbbed.
A quiet ache behind Chūya’s ribs.
A dull twist behind Dazai’s eyes.
It didn’t pull.
Didn’t demand.
It just suffered.
And neither of them did anything to ease it.
They didn’t eat.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t reach across the couch, or the wall, or the yawning pit between what they were and what they still might become.
By the time the sun began to dip low through the windows,
Chūya was sitting on the floor by his bed, arms around his knees,
jaw clenched tight against a question he didn’t want answered.
And somewhere—beneath everything else—
he still felt it:
That hum of something ancient.
Something alive.
Not cruel.
Not kind.
Just watching.
And waiting.
Chapter 46: Quiet Does Not Mean Safe
Summary:
With the bond no longer pulling him, Chūya finds himself haunted by the silence instead. When Kazuki—Kida’s soulbonded partner—arrives with answers, Chūya is forced to confront the truth: the bond didn’t make him love Dazai. It just stripped away his ability to lie about it.
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.”
Chapter 47: Somewhere, You Were Waiting
Summary:
Guided not by pain but by a quiet thread of knowing, Chūya finds Dazai—and chooses him. The bond doesn’t force them closer. It only reflects the truth: they’ve both stopped running. What follows is raw, mirrored, and more intimate than either of them were ready for.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It started as a hum.
Not the kind that scorched him or curled like fire in his gut.
Not even the ache beneath his ribs that used to yank him back like a leash.
This was... softer.
Like a note held in the distance, too quiet to hear, but impossible not to feel.
Chūya stood at the door long after Kazuki left, fingers loose around the handle, tension bleeding down his back like water. The apartment was too still. Too warm. Like the silence itself was pressing against his skin.
He closed his eyes.
Tried not to reach for it.
But the bond pulsed—once, twice.
Not in warning. Not in hunger.
Just... there.
A thread, humming low in the dark. Waiting to be followed.
The streets were too bright.
Too loud.
But the bond?
Still quiet.
Still sure.
Chūya didn’t look at a map. Didn’t check his phone. He just walked. Hands in his coat pockets, collar flipped up like armor, each step more certain than the last.
It wasn’t like before.
There was no panic. No heat. No pain dragging him forward.
But the further he walked, the steadier the pull became.
It felt like—
Like someone had left a light on in a window just for him.
Not desperate.
Welcoming.
He found him by the river.
Dazai sat on the low railing, legs dangling over the edge, his coat hanging open like he hadn’t noticed the cold. His phone was beside him, dark. His head tilted down, watching the water flow slow and steady beneath the bridge.
He didn’t turn when Chūya approached.
But he didn’t need to.
Chūya didn’t speak right away.
He just walked to the railing, leaned against the metal a few feet away, and stared out across the current—like they were just two strangers passing time under the same sky.
The wind caught Dazai’s hair. His voice was low when he finally said:
“I thought you might come.”
Chūya exhaled slowly.
Let his pulse settle.
“The bond led me.”
“Yeah.” Dazai nodded faintly. “It would.”
Another beat.
Chūya let the silence stretch between them—then cut through it.
“I’m not here because of the bond.”
Dazai glanced at him.
“No?”
Chūya’s eyes were steady.
“I’m here because I want to be.”
Dazai didn’t answer.
Not with words.
Not right away.
He looked back at the river. The silence wrapped around them again—but this time, it didn’t feel like distance. It felt like something being decided.
Like Dazai was weighing whether he could believe it.
Chūya turned to face him fully. Leaned one arm on the railing.
“I know you think leaving made things easier.”
He kept his tone low, calm. Almost tired.
“But all it did was make the silence louder.”
Dazai’s breath caught—just enough for Chūya to hear it.
He didn’t lift his head.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” he said. “I thought if I left space, you could finally figure out if it was really you deciding anything. Not the bond. Not me.”
Chūya stared at him.
“You left without saying anything.”
“Because I knew I wouldn’t leave if I tried to say it.”
Their eyes finally met.
And for a moment, it was like everything stopped.
Not because the bond twisted or surged.
But because it didn’t.
Because it was steady.
Present.
Holding the space open between them.
Chūya stepped closer.
The bridge hummed beneath their feet. A tram rumbled past overhead. But none of it mattered.
He came to stand directly in front of Dazai, reached out slowly, and pressed his palm flat over Dazai’s chest.
“You’re still here,” he said.
“And I’m still breathing. And the bond hasn’t shattered either of us.”
Dazai looked up at him.
There was a tremor in his hands—but he didn’t flinch when Chūya touched him.
Didn’t pull away.
His voice came out rough:
“Are you really here for me, Chūya?”
Chūya’s fingers curled lightly into the front of Dazai’s shirt.
His answer wasn’t loud.
But it didn’t need to be.
“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”
The kiss started soft.
Not a crash.
Not a claim.
Just Dazai leaning in like he’d been waiting for permission.
And Chūya meeting him like he didn’t need it anymore.
Their mouths brushed—hesitant at first, lips barely parted. A sigh caught between them. Then another. And then they gave in.
Dazai’s hand slid up the back of Chūya’s neck, tugging gently, coaxing him closer.
The bond pulsed—not harsh, not sharp—just a ripple through their chests.
Like it was watching.
Approving.
Chūya pushed forward, arms slipping around Dazai’s waist as he stepped between his knees. The kiss deepened. Grew heavier. Hungrier.
Their breaths mingled. Their bodies pressed close.
And for the first time since everything had begun—
It felt like they were choosing it.
Each other.
Not because they had to.
But because they could.
They didn’t rush.
Even with their hands brushing—fingers catching, knuckles bumping—as they walked side by side.
Even with the bond coiling warm between their ribs like a second heartbeat.
Even with Chūya’s skin still tingling where Dazai had kissed him.
There was no need to hurry.
They knew.
Knew what was coming.
Knew it wouldn’t snap or vanish if they took the long way home.
Dazai kept glancing at him. Not like he was afraid Chūya would vanish—
But like he was memorizing the way the streetlight curved against his cheek.
Chūya pretended not to notice.
But his hand found Dazai’s anyway.
And didn’t let go.
The apartment was quiet when they stepped inside. Dim. Familiar.
Chūya toed off his boots. Shrugged off his coat. The bond stirred beneath his skin, not in warning—but in welcome.
It didn’t tug.
It opened.
Like it knew he was walking into this on his own.
Dazai’s voice was low as he stepped up behind him.
“You’re sure?”
Chūya turned.
His answer was simple.
“I don’t want silence anymore.”
He took Dazai’s wrist—gently. Pulled his hand up to his chest. Pressed his own over it.
“I want this.”
They kissed again in the dark.
But this time, it wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t careful.
It was need.
Chūya pushed him back into the wall by the kitchen, mouth dragging over his jaw, his throat. Dazai’s breath hitched—caught—then spilled out in a low moan when Chūya bit just beneath his ear.
The bond lit behind their ribs like a storm cloud.
Mirrored.
Chūya didn’t just feel Dazai’s hands in his hair.
He felt his own hands through Dazai.
Felt the scrape of his mouth as Dazai felt it.
Felt how much Dazai ached.
And—
God.
Dazai could feel how Chūya wanted him, too.
“I need—”
Dazai’s voice broke as Chūya dragged him toward the bedroom.
“I know,” Chūya breathed.
“I know.”
The bedroom door barely shut behind them before Chūya was on him again.
Mouth to mouth, chest to chest, breath tangled like they’d never learned how to breathe apart.
And the bond—
God, the bond—it wasn’t just awake.
It was mirroring.
Every swipe of Chūya’s tongue over Dazai’s lip—
he felt it again, from the inside,
in the way Dazai’s chest rose sharply, in the sharp noise he swallowed back—
“Fucking hell,” Chūya gasped, dragging him closer.
“You feel everything, don’t you?”
Dazai nodded, voice gone wrecked.
“So do you.”
It wasn’t just touch. It was echo.
The slip of fingers beneath fabric burned twice—first on Chūya’s skin, and then again in Dazai’s gasp.
Buttons gave out under impatient hands. Clothes hit the floor. Skin met skin.
And the feedback loop tightened.
Dazai’s mouth dragged down his throat, biting, licking, worshipping—and Chūya felt it both where it happened and again in Dazai’s pulse, his want, the way his hands clenched like he couldn’t stand how good it felt.
Chūya moaned—
and the sound made Dazai shudder, hips grinding up, cock already hard and leaking.
“You’re—fuck, you’re already there, aren’t you?”
Dazai gave a broken laugh, dizzy with heat.
“You’re driving me there—”
Chūya shoved him back onto the bed.
Followed.
Straddled.
Every time his hips rocked down, he felt the pressure wrap through Dazai's spine—
and in his own, as if the friction doubled.
Every time Dazai sucked a bruise into Chūya’s ribs,
Chūya gasped—because the ache wasn’t just physical—
It was shared.
Folded.
Mirrored.
Like his own mouth had done it.
Like he had bitten himself.
“I can't tell where you end anymore,” Chūya whispered, leaning down to kiss his throat.
“That’s the fucking point,” Dazai breathed, hands clawing at his waist.
They lined up—skin slick, cocks dragging against each other—and both of them moaned, sharp and open, as the bond surged between them like a pulse.
Pleasure crashed through one, only to echo through the other.
And back again.
And again.
Chūya braced one hand beside Dazai’s head, the other curling around both their lengths, stroking hard, fast, together—
“Let go for me,” he whispered.
Dazai came with a shout, hips jerking, back arching—
and Chūya came with him, their climaxes crashing together like tide and undertow, shuddering, breathless, undone.
They didn’t speak for a long time.
Only breathed.
Only lay there, skin to skin, bond humming warm and quiet through their ribs.
Chūya’s head fell against Dazai’s chest.
Dazai stroked his back once. Then again.
“It’s never felt this clear before,” Dazai said softly.
“Like you were inside my skin.”
Chūya didn’t lift his head.
Just curled his fingers against Dazai’s chest.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “This time, it didn’t just take. We gave.”
The room smelled like heat. Skin. Something old and wild curling quiet beneath their ribs.
The bond had stopped echoing so loud—but it hadn’t vanished.
It stayed.
Soft. Present.
Like a hand resting at the center of Chūya’s chest.
Dazai hadn’t said anything since.
Neither had Chūya.
They didn’t need to.
Their bodies still buzzed with the aftershock—like lightning had struck them both and carved a shared line down the middle.
Chūya shifted just enough to glance up.
“You okay?”
Dazai nodded.
“You?”
Chūya nodded back.
Then slowly, deliberately, pulled the sheet up over both of them.
Dazai’s arm tightened around his waist.
“We should sleep.”
“Yeah.”
But neither of them moved.
Not yet.
The bond pulsed faintly—just once.
Not to demand. Not to flare.
Just to say I’m still here.
Chūya closed his eyes.
And didn’t pull away.
Notes:
Just a heads-up: There will be more smut from here on out 😌
Chapter 48: Ecoes In The Fold
Summary:
After a visit from Dr. Kida and his soulbonded partner, Chūya and Dazai are offered long-buried arcana records that reveal the truth about what bonded pairs used to be — warriors, unified in both magic and mind. The bond remains quiet, but present, as they choose to learn from it rather than fear it. And for the first time, they begin to ask what they might become together.
Chapter Text
The knock wasn’t urgent.
It came midmorning, soft and measured—three short taps. Enough to make Chūya pause where he stood in the kitchen, fingers loose around the edge of his mug.
Dazai glanced up from the couch.
Not tense. But alert.
The bond stirred faintly. Not in warning—just awareness.
Chūya opened the door.
Dr. Kida stood on the other side, coat unbuttoned, scarf slung low around his neck. The wind had touched his hair.
Beside him stood a man in his early fifties, dressed plainly in dark jeans and a navy button-up, sleeves pushed to the elbows like he didn’t mind being cold.
Kazuki.
Chūya recognized him instantly—not from photos, but from memory. The hallway. Two chapters ago. The quiet exchange of glances where too much had passed without words.
This time, Kazuki offered a small smile. Not wide. Not formal.
“Morning. Hope we’re not interrupting.”
Chūya stepped aside to let them in.
Kida nodded a quiet thanks as he passed, eyes already scanning the apartment. Not suspicious—just habit.
Dazai had stood up. Not warily. But with the quiet tension of someone expecting a conversation he wasn’t ready for.
Kazuki’s eyes flicked to him briefly. Then to Chūya again.
“Would it be alright if we split the room a bit?” he asked. “I think Dr. Kida has something he wants to say to your partner.”
Chūya blinked once. Then nodded slowly.
“Yeah. Fine.”
Kazuki motioned gently toward the balcony.
“Walk with me?”
Outside, the breeze smelled like concrete and the dying tail of summer.
Kazuki didn’t speak at first.
Neither did Chūya.
They leaned on opposite ends of the rail—space between them deliberate, respectful.
“You already know, don’t you?” Kazuki asked after a moment. “That I’m bonded to Kida.”
Chūya gave a short nod.
“He told me. And I guessed, back when we ran into each other.”
“Right. You’re sharp.”
A pause.
Kazuki looked out over the city. His hands were tucked in his jacket pockets.
“I agreed to it,” he said. “That’s what people forget. I chose it. I loved him. Still do.”
He glanced sideways.
“But the moment it settled? When the bond actually took hold? I thought I’d made the worst mistake of my life.”
Chūya’s stomach twisted—not from the words, but from how familiar they felt.
Kazuki smiled, small and bitter.
“It doesn’t matter how much you love someone. How well you know them. A bond like that—when it hits—it rewires everything you thought was yours.”
He turned to face Chūya more directly.
“And it doesn’t ask for permission again. Not once it’s in place.”
Chūya looked down at his hands.
“So what’d you do?”
“I ran,” Kazuki said simply. “Tried to block him out. Pushed until the bond retaliated. Thought if I stayed quiet long enough, it would fade.”
He sighed.
“It didn’t. But something else happened. It stopped screaming. Like it realized I wasn’t going anywhere, but I needed to go at my own pace.”
Chūya swallowed.
The wind tugged at his coat hem.
“You still felt like yourself?”
Kazuki smiled again—this time softer.
“Eventually. But not the same self. That’s the part no one tells you.”
Kazuki leaned his elbows against the railing, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the skyline.
“The bond doesn’t replace you,” he said quietly. “That’s the lie people believe. That you lose who you are.”
He glanced at Chūya.
“But it does change how you hear yourself. Makes everything louder, sharper. Especially feelings you’ve been ignoring.”
Chūya’s jaw worked as he looked away, the weight of those words catching under his ribs.
“Sometimes I think I don’t even know what’s mine anymore,” he muttered. “Where I end and it starts.”
Kazuki gave a soft, understanding hum.
“You ever sit in total silence, Chūya, and suddenly realize you can hear the electricity in the walls? The hum of the fridge? The traffic outside even when the windows are shut?”
Chūya frowned faintly. “Yeah. And?”
Kazuki tapped the railing lightly.
“The bond’s like that. It amplifies everything. Feelings you’d buried, instincts you ignored. It’s not that those things weren’t yours—it’s just that now you can’t unhear them.”
Chūya let out a slow breath.
“And the things I feel for Dazai?”
Kazuki didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to comfort or correct.
Just nodded once.
“They were already there, weren’t they?”
“Maybe,” Chūya said. “I don’t know.”
“But you’re asking,” Kazuki said. “That’s what matters.”
He smiled faintly, less bitter this time.
“It took me months to stop asking. And when I did, I realized I was still me. I just wasn’t alone anymore. Even when we fought. Even when we stopped speaking.”
Chūya swallowed hard. The wind felt sharper now, but not cruel.
Kazuki’s voice softened again.
“The bond doesn’t give you answers. But it doesn’t lie, either. It echoes the truth you’re not ready to say.”
A long pause.
“So if you’re scared, good. That means you still have something to lose.”
Chūya’s hands tightened on the railing. He didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
Kazuki didn’t push.
He just stood beside him, silent, warm, steady.
Kida sat on the edge of the couch, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded loosely in his lap.
Dazai leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, sleeves rolled. He looked… neutral. Or maybe just tired.
“You knew it might work,” Kida said softly. “The blood pact. Even back then.”
Dazai didn’t answer.
“And yet you’ve been terrified ever since it did.”
Still no response.
Kida let the silence breathe for a moment. Then:
“I assume you never told him.”
Dazai’s jaw shifted.
“He wouldn’t have believed me,” he said at last. “Back then, he didn’t… see me like that.”
“And now?”
A beat.
“Now he doesn’t know if what he sees is real.”
Kida exhaled quietly through his nose. He leaned forward slightly.
“You’ve been chasing ghosts, Dazai. One of them is your past. One is your fear. And one… is the version of him you kept frozen in your mind. The one who never had a choice.”
Dazai’s gaze flicked to the side.
Kida went on, voice low, steady.
“But Chūya isn’t frozen anymore. He’s terrified, yes—but he’s thinking. Choosing. Fighting.”
He looked Dazai dead-on.
“The only one still running is you.”
Dazai’s expression didn’t change, but something in his shoulders dropped.
“I thought I could protect him,” he murmured.
“By doing what? Controlling the damage? Pretending you didn’t care that much?”
Kida’s voice softened—not accusing. Just… sad.
“You made a choice out of desperation, Dazai. I understand that. I even believe your heart was in the right place. But if you want him to trust you again, you have to stop protecting him from your honesty.”
A silence settled. He let it sit.
Then, more gently:
“The bond’s not the enemy here. But lying to yourself might be.”
Dazai didn’t look up right away. When he did, his voice was quiet:
“What if it’s too late?”
Kida shook his head.
“He’s still here.”
“For now.”
“Then make it count.”
The kettle had long since gone cold on the counter.
Kida stood near the window, a small satchel in his hand. Worn leather, buckled closed, the corners smoothed with age. Dazai watched him with quiet curiosity. Chūya sat cross-legged on the couch, hair still damp from the shower he’d taken to shake off the tension of earlier.
“I’ve been meaning to give you this,” Kida said, offering the satchel toward them. “But I wanted to wait until you were… ready.”
Chūya arched a brow. “What is it?”
“Translations,” Kida replied. “Scrolls, ledgers, fragments—collected over years, some even smuggled from the old Academy archives. Most of them about soulbonds.”
Dazai didn’t move, but his attention sharpened visibly.
Kida set the satchel down on the table.
“Bonded pairs weren’t always hidden. Once, they were revered. Paired not just romantically, but tactically. In battle, they moved as one. Perception, reflexes, instincts—all enhanced through the arcana.”
He glanced between them.
“I think… your bond is beginning to show signs of that. Not just magical alignment, but physical coordination. Tactical instinct. Mutual reaction time.”
Chūya looked down at the satchel, fingers brushing the strap.
“Why would ARC bury this?”
Kida’s smile was thin.
“Because they can’t control it. Ancient arcana doesn’t follow modern regulation. A soulbond isn’t just a connection—it’s a wildcard. And that terrifies people who write policy.”
Dazai finally spoke, low and even:
“And you? Doesn’t it terrify you?”
Kida shook his head slowly.
“It did. Until I learned how to listen to it.”
A quiet beat passed.
Then, softer—
“It’s not a curse. It’s not even unnatural. But it is ancient. And it requires something most people aren’t willing to give.”
Chūya looked up. “Which is?”
“Trust,” Kida said. “Not just in each other. But in yourself.”
He stepped back, picked up his coat, and let the silence settle before saying—
“You don’t have to read them tonight. But when you’re ready…”
He nodded at the satchel.
“There’s more strength in that bond than ARC wants you to believe.”
The apartment was silent after Kida and Kazuki left.
The satchel sat between them on the low table, casting a soft shadow in the warm light of the overhead lamp. Neither of them had touched it yet.
Dazai leaned forward first. Unbuckled the clasp. Let the flap fall open with a creak of worn leather.
Inside: scrolls carefully rolled and tied with fabric cords, loose pages of translation notes, and a single bound ledger — handwritten in a looping, old-style script. All marked with Kida’s precise annotations.
Chūya reached for one of the scrolls. Held it for a moment without unrolling it.
“You believe it?” he asked quietly.
Dazai tilted his head.
“That the bond could make us stronger?”
Chūya nodded.
“That it already is.”
For once, Dazai didn’t answer with a clever line. He just looked at him — like he saw every crack, every doubt, every moment Chūya had fought tooth and nail to stay himself — and still thought the truth was simple.
“Yes.”
Chūya exhaled slowly. Turned the scroll in his hands.
“Then we better start learning how to use it.”
Dazai leaned back, his shoulder brushing Chūya’s.
“And not just in bed?”
Chūya rolled his eyes, but didn’t move away.
“Idiot.”
But the word lacked venom. It sounded almost like a habit. A familiar tether between them.
The satchel stayed open.
The bond stayed quiet — not pushing, not pulling. Just present.
Like it was listening, too.
Chapter 49: Burn With Me, Not For Me
Summary:
In the wake of a night where he chooses the bond without fear, Chūya wakes changed. For the first time, peace settles over them—no fire, no fracture, just rhythm. But stillness won’t last. When Chūya requests to return to field duty, ARC takes notice—and moves to keep him under watch.
Chapter Text
The apartment was still dark when Chūya stirred.
No alarm. No bond flare. Just a hum under his skin — subtle, steady — like something waiting.
He blinked slowly in the low light, eyes adjusting to the soft outline of Dazai standing by the window.
Shirtless. Barefoot. Hair a little damp from a rinse. Arms folded as he looked out into the quiet city.
Not tense. Not restless.
Just... awake.
Chūya sat up, letting the blanket slip down to his waist. His body felt warmed already, like he’d been moving in his dreams. Like something inside him had trained all night without him.
“You’re up early,” he murmured.
Dazai turned, one brow lifting. “So are you.”
A pause.
Then Chūya swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
“Let’s go again.”
No explanation. No teasing.
Dazai didn’t ask what again meant.
He just nodded.
They cleared the space in the living room with practiced ease.
Cushions moved, furniture edged out, curtains drawn for privacy. The floor was hardwood, cold underfoot. Chūya stretched in silence. Dazai rolled his wrists.
No words between them — but the bond pulsed in the background like a second heartbeat.
Not pulling.
Just present.
As if watching.
Chūya was the first to strike.
Fast. Sharp. Low spin and sweep.
Dazai blocked easily, but his grin flickered — and when he lunged back, it wasn’t playful. It was measured.
Strike, deflect, turn.
Palm to palm. Shoulder to shoulder. Their feet barely scuffed the floor.
And somewhere in the middle of a feint and a counter, it happened:
Chūya moved forward — and felt Dazai’s weight shift behind him before it happened.
Dazai twisted into a dodge — and felt Chūya’s foot slide under his own.
They moved like a mirrored current.
No tells. No commands. No conscious effort.
Their timing folded into one rhythm, seamless and impossible to fake.
It wasn’t just teamwork.
It was instinct.
Breath caught in Chūya’s throat — but it wasn’t his breath.
It was Dazai’s.
Somewhere in the bond, something opened.
Not overwhelming. Not electric. Just felt.
The brush of Dazai’s palm was warm against his forearm — but it sparked in Chūya’s spine like he’d been touched twice: once by Dazai, and once by himself.
Like his body knew what Dazai felt when he touched him.
“...You feel that?” Chūya asked, breathless.
Dazai didn’t stop moving.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s syncing.”
“No,” Chūya said, ducking a strike, his heart hammering. “It’s echoing.”
High above — quiet, distant, and unannounced — a surveillance feed blinked to life.
No sound.
Just the glowing outlines of two heat signatures moving like twin flares across a confined space.
Too close. Too in sync.
Too quiet.
ARC watched.
And waited.
They circled again.
Neither had spoken in over a minute, but their bodies moved like they had. Like the bond whispered instructions straight into muscle and reflex.
Chūya feinted high and struck low. Dazai stepped into it instead of dodging, their torsos brushing.
“You’re not holding back,” Dazai murmured.
“Neither are you.”
Their fingers grazed.
The sensation crawled up Chūya’s spine like a live wire — and he knew, instantly, that Dazai had felt it too. Because his breath caught, a half-second too late, and his pupils were blown wide.
They broke apart — only to crash back together.
Dazai hooked a foot behind Chūya’s calf. Chūya twisted midair, landed hard, used the recoil to launch himself back.
Strike.
Block.
Grab.
Twist—
Chūya ended up pinned, breathless, elbow hooked behind his back with Dazai’s chest pressed to his spine.
But the moment held — like a wire pulled taut.
Not frozen from caution.
Frozen from heat.
“Let go,” Chūya rasped.
But Dazai didn’t move.
Because something had changed.
Chūya could feel the tension in Dazai’s fingers — not just physically, but through the bond. The sharp stab of restraint. The rush of want. The warning ache in his own hips that wasn’t his.
“...Dazai,” Chūya said again, quieter this time.
“I felt you want it,” Dazai murmured. “Before you even moved.”
Chūya’s breath hitched.
Because yes.
He had.
He’d wanted this heat, this pressure, this edge of something forbidden and inevitable.
And the bond had followed — not pushed.
Just echoed.
He turned under Dazai’s grip. Their chests bumped. Their forearms braced.
And for a moment, they didn’t move.
“Tell me to stop,” Dazai whispered.
“Don’t you dare.”
Outside, somewhere in a data stream buried in ARC’s surveillance system, a red flag pulsed once.
Marked as “increased risk of arcana synchronization.”
No agent acknowledged it.
Not yet.
Back in the apartment, Chūya kissed him.
Hard. Desperate. Heat-laced and reckless.
Because this wasn’t the bond forcing his hand.
It was the first time he realized—
He wanted it anyway.
The kiss didn’t stay chaste for long.
It tilted, cracked, opened wide — teeth grazing lips, hands fisting in cotton and skin. Chūya’s back met the floor again, but this time it was on purpose. Pulled. Flattened. Arched.
Dazai followed him down like gravity. Like instinct.
And the bond—
Didn’t seize.
Didn’t pull.
It hummed.
Like it recognized that Chūya wanted this.
Not because of thread or tether.
Not because Dazai had touched him.
Not because the bond echoed anything.
Because he did.
He let it in.
For the first time consciously, he welcomed the shimmer of awareness pooling in his chest. Let it weave into his breath, his bloodstream, his heat. Let it match Dazai’s want with his own.
It made everything sharper.
Not louder.
Not overwhelming.
Just—more.
More real. More intimate. More his.
Dazai kissed down his neck like he couldn’t tell where the line between them ended. Chūya let him. Hands tangled in Dazai’s shirt. Clothes half-off, skin flushed, and when Dazai groaned—Chūya felt it in his own chest.
Like he’d made the sound himself.
When their hips met, it sparked twice.
Once between them, sweat-damp and aching.
And again, inside—where the bond threaded heat straight through to the spine.
“Fuck,” Chūya gasped. “It’s—this is…”
He couldn’t finish.
Dazai bit his lip. Not hard—hungry. He rocked forward.
“I know.”
Because he did.
The same way Chūya could feel the stutter of Dazai’s breath, the way his back arched too soon, the way his hands shook when he touched Chūya’s waist.
He was inside it now.
Inside the bond.
Inside Dazai.
And Dazai was inside him in every possible way.
They moved like a circuit.
Friction and fire, mouths open, hands desperate. Every slick push of skin-on-skin ricocheted twice through Chūya’s nerves — once from touch, and once from feeling Dazai feel it.
It should’ve been too much.
Instead, it grounded him.
Like the bond had stopped being a cage.
And started being a mirror.
“Don’t stop,” Chūya choked out.
“Never,” Dazai rasped. “Never, Chūya—”
The name came out rough, reverent. It echoed inside Chūya like a firecracker, and—
He came first.
Too fast, too hard, too much—but he felt it twice. Like he came and was made to come at the same time.
Dazai followed a heartbeat later with a stuttered curse, spine bowed tight, clinging like he might break apart.
They collapsed. Tangled. Gasping.
Silence stretched between them—but the bond didn’t quiet.
It throbbed. Soft. Like a second heartbeat. Like praise.
“You didn’t hold back,” Dazai whispered after a moment.
Chūya’s breath shivered.
“No.”
Then, after a pause—
“...Didn’t want to.”
The light came early.
Golden, soft, like it didn’t want to wake them.
Chūya was already awake anyway.
His head rested on Dazai’s shoulder, his legs tangled with long limbs and twisted sheets. One hand rested over Dazai’s chest—where the bond pulsed gently beneath his palm, no longer clawing or screaming.
It didn’t feel like a leash.
It felt like rhythm.
Chūya closed his eyes again for a moment. Let it soothe instead of scorch.
This… I can live with this.
Not the sex—not just that.
The balance.
The peace.
When he rolled out of bed, Dazai stirred but didn’t wake.
Chūya stood. Showered. Dressed in silence. Drank lukewarm coffee from the pot and stepped onto the balcony barefoot—just long enough to feel the wind and know it didn’t hurt anymore.
He checked his messages.
No ARC pings.
No emergency field requests.
But one from Shirakawa sat unread.
Chūya opened it.
Back in town? Got a minute? HQ’s still short-staffed.
Let me know.
Chūya stared for a long second.
Then opened a new message.
I want back in. Not oversight. Not desk duty. Full deployment.
We can talk terms later.
He didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t second-guess.
When he stepped back inside, Dazai was sitting up in bed, rubbing at his eyes with one hand, the other still warm from where Chūya had lain.
“Morning,” he mumbled.
“Morning.”
Dazai blinked at him. “You’re… calm.”
“I am.”
“The bond’s—quiet.”
“It’s not quiet,” Chūya corrected, slipping into his jacket. “It’s present.”
He slung his scarf around his neck.
Caught Dazai’s gaze in the mirror as he tugged it snug.
“It’s me.”
Dazai didn’t smile.
But something in him settled.
“Where are you going?”
“HQ.”
A beat.
“You’re reactivating?”
Chūya nodded once.
“They need me.”
Another beat.
“And I need to move.”
Chapter 50: Hold Me Like A Promise
Summary:
Misaki insists on celebrating Chūya’s last day of desk duty with after-work drinks, teasing him gently about Dazai. But while Chūya unwinds, Dazai is left simmering—tangled in need, jealousy, and the slow-burn ache of bond hunger. When Chūya returns, still flushed and laughing, Dazai doesn’t ask questions—he just reaches for the rope. And Chūya? Chūya lets him.
Chapter Text
"You sure you’re ready for this?" Shirakawa asked, arms crossed, one brow raised.
Chūya stood across from him, posture straight, chin high.
"I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t."
Shirakawa gave a slow nod. Then tapped his tablet screen.
"ARC approved it," he said. "With conditions."
Chūya's jaw tensed. "Of course."
"Effective immediately, all your assignments will be ARC-monitored. Full field access, yes—but only under oversight. They’ll send a handler. Observer status."
Chūya didn’t flinch.
He expected it. He hated it. But he expected it.
"Fine," he said. "I’ll take it."
Shirakawa leaned back in his chair, watching him.
"You don’t like it."
"No. But I like being benched even less."
A pause. Then Shirakawa offered something resembling respect.
"Just—don’t give them a reason to tighten the leash."
"Wow, look who’s back and reckless again," Misaki teased from her desk as Chūya passed by. "Did the paperwork finally bore you to death? Or was it the lack of death threats?"
Chūya snorted. "Guess I missed the adrenaline rush."
Misaki swiveled in her chair to face him properly. "Or maybe you just missed being in the field so your mystery boyfriend could bandage you up again."
He rolled his eyes. "Don’t start."
"Too late. The entire office noticed you stopped being a walking thundercloud ever since Tall, Dark, and Disastrous showed up."
Chūya side-eyed her with a smirk. "He’s not *that* tall."
"Sure, keep telling yourself that."
But her voice was kind. Warm. Familiar.
And when he lingered by her desk just a moment longer, she looked up and added, softer:
"Seriously, though. Glad to see you moving forward. Even if ARC’s breathing down your neck. You seem... steadier."
He didn’t say thank you.
But he dipped his head once, and Misaki caught it.
Chūya had already packed his things by the time the digital clock on the wall blinked over to six. Another day of sorting dull mission reports, flagging typo-ridden dossiers, and pretending not to overhear the snide remarks that floated down from the other desks. Not that anyone said much to his face.
No one really knew what to say to him these days.
Except Misaki.
“You’re getting out early?” she asked, propping herself in the doorway with a binder tucked under one arm and a lollipop between her teeth.
Chūya glanced up from his desk and gave a grunt of acknowledgment. “Shirakawa signed off on the transfer. I start field duty again next week.”
Misaki's grin stretched wide. “Well, fuck. That’s worth a drink, isn’t it?”
He blinked. “What?”
“A drink,” she repeated, strolling in to perch on the edge of his desk like she owned the place. “You know—liquid celebration. Come on, Nakahara. One beer won’t kill you. Or are you gonna break your own record for the most boring Friday of the month?”
Chūya huffed a laugh through his nose. “I thought you didn’t drink with coworkers.”
“I don’t,” she said, grinning. “You’re not a coworker. You’re a cryptid who appears every few weeks and haunts the break room in a trench coat. You don’t count.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re a menace.”
“I’m also buying.”
“…Fine. One drink.”
Misaki's eyes sparkled. “That’s the spirit.”
On the way to the bar, Chūya slipped his phone from his coat pocket.
[Chūya]: Misaki roped me into a drink. I’ll be back a bit later, alright?
Dazai’s reply came quickly—too quickly.
[Dazai]: …Okay.
[Dazai]: Have fun. Tell her she’s evil.
[Chūya]: She knows.
[Dazai]: You’ll tell me if she makes fun of my hair again, right?
[Dazai]: I can take it. Just need to be emotionally prepared.
[Chūya]: She didn’t say anything about your hair. Yet.
There was a pause.
[Dazai]: Come home to me soon.
That one made Chūya pause, thumb hovering. The tone of it sat soft in his chest. A need—not sharp, not panicked, but close.
[Chūya]: ‘course.
He slid his phone away again. Didn’t notice the way the air around him seemed to hum once more, soft and warm—like a thread winding just a little tighter under his skin.
The place Misaki picked was tucked into a side street two blocks from HQ—a small, softly lit pub with cracked leather seats, an old jukebox humming in the corner, and bottles arranged like trophies behind the bar. It was warm in a way most places weren’t these days.
“You know,” Misaki said, sliding his drink across the table with a smirk, “for someone who acts like an old man in a twenty-something’s body, you’re not actually that bad of company.”
Chūya snorted. “I’m honored.”
She raised her glass. “To office freedom. And the end of your paperwork-induced misery.”
Chūya clinked his glass against hers and took a sip. The whiskey was decent—cheap, but clean. “To going back to almost getting killed. Cheers.”
They both laughed.
For a little while, the conversation meandered. They talked about stupid coworkers, Shirakawa’s eternal glare, the mission load these days. And then—
“So,” Misaki said, elbow on the table, chin propped in her palm, “how’s your cryptic, too-handsome houseguest?”
Chūya nearly choked. “What?”
“You know who I mean.” She raised an eyebrow. “The one with the walking corpse complexion and the long stares whenever you’re not looking.”
“…You’ve never even met him.”
She grinned. “Doesn’t mean I haven’t heard things. You’re less grumpy since he started showing up again. And occasionally distracted. Which is saying something, coming from you.”
He rolled his eyes and drained the rest of his glass. “I’m not distracted.”
“Mmhmm.”
“I’m not.”
“Sure.”
“Misaki—”
“You’re blushing, Chūya.”
He was not. (He definitely was.)
The key barely clicked in the lock before Dazai opened the door.
He didn’t say anything.
Just looked.
His eyes dropped to Chūya’s coat. His flushed cheeks. His unsteady gait—not drunk, but soft around the edges.
“Hey,” Chūya said, peeling off the coat and hanging it by the door. “Sorry. Lost track of time.”
Dazai nodded once. “No problem.”
But it was. Chūya could feel it.
There was a low tension running under Dazai’s skin. Something restless. His sleeves were rolled up like he hadn’t sat still all evening, and the bond—subtle though it was—pressed warm and taut just under Chūya’s ribs.
“…You okay?” Chūya asked, toeing off his boots.
Dazai didn’t answer immediately.
Then:
“Come here.”
It wasn’t rough. Wasn’t demanding. But it didn’t ask.
Chūya crossed the room without protest.
Dazai reached out, his hand brushing the side of Chūya’s neck—fingertips tracing the edge of his jaw, then sliding down, pausing just where his collarbone dipped.
“You smell like her,” he said quietly. “Like cigarette smoke and bar whiskey.”
Chūya blinked. “Didn’t know you were the jealous type.”
“I’m not.”
A pause.
“Not really.”
His hand curled just a little tighter.
“But I spent all night wanting to need you less. And the bond just kept—tightening. Like it knew you were too far.”
Chūya’s breath hitched. The pressure between them shifted.
“You’re being dramatic,” he muttered.
“I’m being honest.”
Another beat.
Dazai leaned closer.
“Let me tie you up.”
Chūya stilled.
“…Now?”
“Now.”
He didn’t say because I missed you.
He didn’t say because I want you to remember it’s me you come home to.
He didn’t say because the bond hums when you let me hold you still.
But he didn’t have to.
Chūya’s answer came quiet. Low.
“…Yeah.”
By the time Dazai tugged the bedroom door shut behind them, Chūya’s pulse had already started to thrum low in his ears.
It wasn’t the whiskey.
It was the way Dazai looked at him—like Chūya had gone too far, stayed away too long, been touched by something not him.
He sat on the edge of the bed when Dazai guided him there. Let himself be eased out of his shirt. Let Dazai kneel behind him, sleeves rolled high, careful hands unwinding a length of silk-cotton rope from a drawer.
“You’ve been practicing,” Chūya murmured, watching the lines of movement in the mirror across the room.
Dazai gave a faint hum. “Had a model to prepare for.”
The first loop went snug over Chūya’s shoulders, pressed down across his chest with the care of someone painting brushstrokes on skin. He didn’t pull too tight—just enough to remind him that this was surrender. Chosen, not stolen.
Cross-wrap. Turn. Knot. Turn.
Dazai moved with unhurried grace, like he needed this to be ritual. And Chūya—Chūya let him. Let him gather him up like a prayer. Let the heat simmer.
The bond stirred once.
It didn’t flare or grab.
It just settled—like it liked this.
“I missed you tonight,” Dazai said, voice low and close to his ear. “More than I should’ve.”
Chūya swallowed. “I was gone two hours.”
“Long enough.”
He tied the final knot at the base of Chūya’s spine and grazed his knuckles down the small of his back. “Lie down for me.”
Chūya did.
Breath shallow. Limbs humming.
Rope pressing firm over skin, holding—not restricting. His arms stayed folded beneath him, torso cinched in an intricate harness that made every drag of Dazai’s palm feel deliberate.
He wasn’t helpless.
But he was held.
And something about that made the bond pulse like a second heartbeat.
Dazai leaned down and pressed his mouth to the base of Chūya’s throat. “I want you to remember this,” he murmured. “That no matter how far you go…”
His teeth scraped lightly over his collarbone.
“…you still belong to me.”
Chūya exhaled a shaky breath. “Fuck.”
It wasn’t just the rope.
It wasn’t just Dazai.
It was the way the bond arched beneath his skin—pleased, almost purring, feeding back the warmth of Dazai’s touch and echoing it with a surge of yes, this, more.
By the time Dazai had him moaning into the pillow, hips trembling, cock dripping from the friction of slow grind and careful precision—Chūya couldn’t tell where his body ended and Dazai’s began.
He was suspended in it—heat, tension, bond, rope.
Everything knotted just right.
When he came, it was with Dazai’s name on his lips and Dazai’s mouth against his shoulder, whispering:
“You feel that? That’s mine.”
The world came back in pieces.
Heat first.
Then breath.
Then Dazai’s weight half-slumped over his back, heartbeat syncing slow with his own like a metronome softened by dusk.
The rope didn’t chafe.
Didn’t cut.
It held—and when Dazai started to untie it, Chūya made a small sound of protest.
Dazai stilled.
“You want to stay like this?” he asked softly, voice a rasp against the curve of Chūya’s neck.
“Just a little longer.”
He felt Dazai’s smile, warm and unspoken. The press of lips to the edge of his shoulder. The hush of fingers brushing sweat-damp hair from his cheek.
The bond wasn’t pulling anymore.
It was thrumming—a golden, pulsing echo low in his chest, like a fire that didn’t burn. Like it was sated.
Like it had been fed not by force or frenzy, but by choice.
Chūya turned his face into the pillow, caught between dazed and lucid, and murmured, “You always get like that when you’re jealous?”
Dazai huffed a laugh. “Maybe.”
Chūya opened one eye. “You gonna pout every time I go for drinks with someone else?”
“No,” Dazai said. “But I might do this every time you come back.”
Another lazy knot undone. Rope trailing down his side, still warm from his body.
“You were tipsy,” Dazai added, quieter now. “Didn’t want to push.”
“You didn’t.”
Silence stretched.
Then Chūya said, softer still:
“You reminded me.”
Dazai didn’t ask what he meant. Didn’t need to.
He just curled in beside him, untangling the last loop from Chūya’s chest before drawing the blankets over both of them. His arm slipped under Chūya’s neck. His hand found Chūya’s fingers and didn’t let go.
“You’re not gonna get bored while I’m out there?” Chūya murmured, eyes already slipping shut.
“Probably.”
“You’ll deal?”
Dazai smiled against his temple. “You’ll come back.”
And for the first time in what felt like years, Chūya didn’t feel the bond stir in warning.
Just agreement.
Soft. Steady. Real.
Chapter 51: Strike-Safe Radius
Summary:
A mission meant to test Chūya’s control turns into a crucible for his bond with Dazai. When ancient arcana stirs and the factory becomes a trap, it’s not ARC protocol that keeps him grounded—it’s the soulbond. But survival comes at a cost, and ARC is watching more closely than ever.
Chapter Text
The factory had been condemned for a decade. Concrete cracked like bone under pressure, metal catwalks rusted through, and the air stank of old fire and arcana rot.
“Why here?” Chūya muttered.
“Seclusion,” Renji replied. “And nostalgia. This was their base of operations once. He’s probably hoping we’ll underestimate him.”
Chūya didn’t answer. The bond was already humming. Not loud—but alert.
He could feel Dazai.
Not close enough to touch.
But close.
Lurking somewhere just outside ARC’s approved radius. Not involved. Not interfering. Not officially.
Just waiting.
And the bond… knew.
::If anything happens, I’ll come.::
The words weren’t spoken. Not even whispered. But Chūya felt them. Not like pressure. Not like demand. Just… promise.
He exhaled slowly and adjusted his gloves. Renji was a step ahead, checking their perimeter sigils with a flick of his wrist. The ARC-issued monitoring charm buzzed faintly at Chūya’s side, tethered to a distant observer whose name he hadn’t bothered to memorize.
They were watching him. Recording him.
Evaluating.
As if the last ten years of combat work meant nothing now that a thread lived in his soul.
A whisper of movement cut through the stillness.
Then silence.
Both men froze.
Renji tilted his head.
Chūya lowered his stance.
“Did you feel that?” Renji asked quietly.
“Yeah,” Chūya replied. “But not with my senses.”
The bond pulled again—forward this time. As if something just beyond the rusted archway wanted him to notice it first.
He stepped through.
Old rebar. Broken tile. Dust hanging like fog.
And then—something shifted.
Not a sound. Not a light.
Just a break in space, like the factory had inhaled around them.
“Trap,” Renji said. “Runes just flipped.”
Chūya turned on instinct.
Too late.
The hallway behind them shuddered—and the door slammed shut. Seals flared—red, pulsing, ancient.
Wrong. Too old.
ARC tech didn’t shine like that.
Neither did modern arcana.
“Fuck,” Chūya hissed. “This place is rigged.”
“And now we’re the bait.”
Something dropped from the ceiling—fast, heavy, armed.
And the arcana inside Chūya woke up.
It wasn’t rage.
It wasn’t fear.
It was protection.
A force older than pain. Older than strategy.
It peeled through his chest like lightning behind glass.
He moved—but he wasn’t the one moving.
The bond screamed at Dazai—
—and across the city, something answered.
It hit like blunt force trauma to the chest.
Dazai staggered.
One foot back—hand braced against the brick wall of the alley behind the ARC perimeter zone, breath torn from him like the bond had just taken hold of his ribs and squeezed.
Not pulled.
Not coaxed.
Yanked.
::Come.::
The word wasn’t a word. It was sensation. Direction. Desperation.
It ripped through the tether between them like a flare over open ocean.
Dazai didn’t need the coordinates.
Didn’t need the map.
Didn’t even need his phone.
He moved.
Coat snapping behind him, feet already bleeding through the edges of containment sigils he wasn’t cleared to cross. He’d known this was a risk. Had said as much to Kida. Had even promised not to interfere unless the bond broke protocol first.
But it wasn’t breaking.
It was burning.
A sear in the weave. A twist in the thread. Like something under Chūya’s skin had started screaming—and the only voice that could reach him was Dazai’s.
He sprinted down the side street, pulse aligning not with adrenaline, but with someone else’s panic. Not his. Not really.
The bond kept pace with his heartbeat.
Kept driving him forward.
And somewhere inside that pull was Chūya.
Not in pain.
Not yet.
But held under by something massive.
Something that sounded like his arcana—
—but felt like an echo from before names existed.
Dazai pushed harder.
Vaulted the barricade. Ignored the ARC charm buzzing madly in his pocket.
You shouldn’t be here.
Too late.
He was already running.
Already within range.
Already following the thread like it was survival itself.
The bond didn’t just lead—
It dragged.
And Dazai went willingly.
Because something had gone wrong.
And he was the only one who could pull Chūya back.
He didn’t remember hitting the floor.
One second, he was upright—ward glyphs sparking under his boots, the next, the whole damn factory had tilted.
Not outward.
Not down.
In.
Like the air had gone too thick to stand in.
Like his own arcana had grown claws.
Chūya’s breath stuttered.
His palms scraped concrete—skin shearing raw as the sigils bit back. His vision smeared violet-black, light curling into itself like it was being sucked through a keyhole he didn’t remember opening.
:: Not again— ::
The thought didn’t finish.
Because then the ancient arcana rose.
Not slowly. Not mercifully.
It howled through his chest like a second heartbeat breaking through the walls of his ribs—too loud, too old, too hungry.
“Fuck—”
Chūya clawed for balance. For his own footing. For the edges of his own self.
But the energy had no interest in names or anchors. It didn’t ask.
It took.
Heat bloomed across his skin. Gravity collapsed in on itself. Every ward in the room flared red-hot before shattering, soundless, like broken glass crushed under pressure.
His mouth opened—maybe to scream, maybe to curse—but no air made it past his throat.
He couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t see—
And in the middle of it all, the bond shivered.
Held.
Waited.
Then—
:: Now. ::
It was Dazai’s voice that tore through the dark.
Not near, not loud—
But deep.
Threaded through the blood-beat in Chūya’s ears. Not commanding. Not pleading.
Just there—
Syllables shaped like safety.
:: You’re not alone. ::
The surge reeled back.
Chūya gasped—half-inhale, half-keening. His knees buckled. The weight of his own arcana was crushing him from the inside, pressing down on his spine like it wanted him to fold.
But the voice stayed.
Didn’t fade. Didn’t waver.
:: Come back. Breathe with me. ::
The bond flared again—but this time, not with wildness.
With echo.
Dazai’s breath—steady, real, alive—brushed the edge of Chūya’s senses like wind passing between joined palms.
:: In. ::
Chūya’s chest jerked.
:: Out. ::
His fingers curled against the concrete. Skin split. Blood beaded.
But he breathed.
And the arcana—
—the thing inside him—
—paused.
Not out of obedience.
Not out of fear.
But recognition.
Because that voice—
It belongs to us.
:: You’re mine, :: Dazai whispered, somewhere far awaqy and far too close.
:: Come back to me, Chūya. ::
And for the first time since the flare began—
—he could.
The flare broke with a crack.
Not loud.
Not violent.
Just… final.
Like a fault line clicking shut.
And then there was Dazai—
real, breathless, kneeling—
—his hand wrapping tight around Chūya’s wrist, eyes wild with worry, the bond searing-hot where it linked them together like a vein opened wide.
“I’m here,” Dazai whispered, low and hoarse. “You’re alright—Chūya, look at me.”
Chūya did.
Because for the first time since the flare hit, he could.
He wasn’t sure how long it had been. Seconds? Minutes? The air still pulsed with residual heat, walls laced in fracture-lines that hadn’t been there before. Sigils glowed faintly under the grime—burned out, repelled.
The building felt gutted.
And so did he.
But Dazai—
Dazai was real, anchoring him.
Holding his gaze like it mattered more than escape, more than protocol, more than anything.
Behind them, a voice spat: “What the fuck was that.”
Renji.
Chūya didn’t flinch, but Dazai stood—slowly, deliberately—and turned toward him.
“That,” Dazai said, “was a soulbond keeping someone alive.”
Renji scoffed. “Looked more like a leash.”
Chūya’s fingers twitched.
Dazai’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t lash out—not verbally, not magically. He just stepped back into Chūya’s space, crouched beside him again, and pressed their foreheads together.
“Breathe with me,” he murmured. “One more time.”
And Chūya—gutted, frayed, still tingling with magic that wasn’t just his anymore—
breathed.
Not because the bond demanded it.
Not because the arcana surged.
But because it was Dazai.
And because he wanted to.
They didn’t speak as they made their way back through the shattered corridors.
Chūya walked under his own power, barely—but Dazai didn’t let him drift more than a step away. One hand at his back. One eye always on the walls. The bond quieted with every footfall, not limp but… watching. Sated.
Renji followed at a distance, too proud to ask questions. Too wary to look away.
The factory stank of scorched sigils and arcana smoke. Of damp cement and chemical rot. But under it all, something else lingered—
Old arcana.
Ancient.
Still humming in the bricks, like it had marked the place. Left a signature.
And Chūya was still radiating it.
Only when they reached the cracked threshold did Dazai pause, hand lifting just slightly before Chūya stepped through. A silent check.
Chūya nodded.
Outside, the light was dimming, wind slicing through the weeds that had overtaken the parking lot. An ARC vehicle idled across the gravel, black windows gleaming like teeth.
Naoi was waiting.
She didn’t look surprised to see them.
Didn’t look relieved either.
Just… calculated.
“You burned three wards,” she said coolly. “And melted the fourth.”
Chūya lifted his chin, shoulders tight.
“He set the traps. I sprung them. I’m still standing.”
Naoi’s gaze flicked to Dazai.
“He was off-grid.”
“Still kept me alive,” Chūya bit back.
Silence.
Then Renji stepped forward, arms folded. “The bond stabilized him. Not the ARC restrictions. Not your containment plan. The bond.”
Naoi’s brow twitched—but she didn’t argue.
Instead, she turned to Dazai.
“Can you guarantee it won’t escalate?”
“No,” he said simply. “But I can guarantee he won’t face it alone.”
For a moment, no one moved.
The wind picked up. The bond stirred.
And Naoi… nodded.
“Report to HQ in two days,” she said. “Dr. Kida wants a full debrief. Both of you.”
Then she turned, stepped into the vehicle, and was gone.
Chūya exhaled.
The weight of the mission lingered in his chest—not pain, not fear. But pressure. Like something had changed. Like the arcana had chosen something.
And when Dazai reached for his hand this time, Chūya didn’t hesitate.
Chapter 52: Choose Me Like This
Summary:
Chūya returns from the field changed—closer to the bond, closer to Dazai. What starts as a quiet reunion unravels into something hotter, hungrier, deeper. The leash is more than a symbol now. And so is the way he chooses to stay.
Chapter Text
The apartment was quiet when they got back.
Not silent—because silence was dead air, no breath, no pulse—and the bond had neither of those right now. It was humming.
Low, steady, almost… purring.
Chūya peeled off his coat first. Tossed it over the chair like he didn’t trust himself to hang it properly. His boots followed, kicked loose with a touch too much force. He still hadn’t said anything.
But Dazai had felt the flare.
Felt it like heat under skin, like a howl without sound. Even now, hours later, the remnants of it curled in the corners of the room. Not dangerous—just raw. Waiting.
“Here,” Dazai murmured, handing him a glass of water.
Chūya took it with both hands. Sipped. Didn’t look up.
And Dazai didn’t ask. Not yet.
Instead, he moved quietly around the apartment, setting out a blanket, adjusting the lighting, placing one of Chūya’s favorite records on the turntable—but not playing it yet. He left it waiting.
The bond tracked every motion like it was watching for tremors. Reading tension off breath, posture, blinking rate. It didn’t push. Just shadowed him.
And Chūya, for once, didn’t fight that.
He finally sank into the couch, shoulders still high, jaw tight—but present. And when Dazai sat beside him, not touching, just near enough to offer, something eased.
The bond softened.
“Still feel it?” Dazai asked quietly.
Chūya exhaled. The breath shook.
“Not like before. But yeah.”
A pause.
“I think… it wanted to keep me alive. That’s why it—reacted.”
Dazai nodded.
“It did more than react.”
“I know.”
A long moment passed, just the sound of shared breath.
Then—
“I wasn’t scared,” Chūya admitted. “Not really. Not for me.”
That hit like a slow burn.
“Then what?” Dazai asked.
Chūya looked at him now, finally.
“For you. For what it would’ve done to you if I hadn’t come back out of it fast enough.”
Dazai reached for his hand—slow, open-palmed, nothing forceful. Just offering.
And Chūya took it.
Their fingers laced, and the bond pulsed warm between them, not as arcana—just as presence.
“I don’t care what it does to me,” Dazai said softly. “As long as it doesn’t take you.”
Chūya didn’t answer. Just leaned his head back against the cushion, eyes closed.
But the bond curled like a ribbon around both of them—breathing, syncing, softening.
And slowly…
Chūya shifted closer.
“Do you feel it?” he asked after a long silence.
“The bond?”
“No. Me. Right now.”
Dazai turned toward him, gaze searching.
“I feel everything.”
Chūya’s lips twitched, like maybe that answer was too much—but his body didn’t lie.
He leaned in further. Breath slowed. Fingers still linked.
And from the bond—like a ripple through warm water—came the quiet press of heat. Not a push. Not a demand.
Just… interest.
And under it, desire.
Chūya swallowed.
“Don’t do anything yet,” he whispered.
“I won’t,” Dazai said.
But the bond already knew.
He didn’t need to.
Because Chūya would.
Chūya was the one to stand first.
Didn’t speak. Didn’t tug Dazai along by the hand. Just walked slowly toward the bedroom with the kind of silence that meant something’s coming.
Dazai didn’t follow immediately. He gave it a beat—one long inhale, one heartbeat drawn in tight—and then moved after him.
The door was ajar. Light low.
Chūya stood at the far side of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt slowly. Methodically. Every movement deliberate. His boots were already off, socks peeled and crumpled in a corner. His hands paused only once—when they reached the thin silver ring at his throat.
Dazai’s breath caught.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
Chūya’s voice was level. Not breathy. Not tender. Just certain.
“I’m not doing this because of the bond,” he added. “I’m doing this because I want you to remind me what’s mine. What’s ours.”
Then he reached for the drawer.
Dazai didn’t move, not even as Chūya pulled out the length of soft black rope—already pre-tied in a loop, their preferred way when things were calm enough to plan. Next came the collar. Sleek. Soft leather. Worn only sometimes, never demanded.
Tonight… Chūya picked it up like it was armor.
“Put it on me?”
Dazai crossed the room in three steps. Didn’t rush. Didn’t speak.
He just took the collar from Chūya’s hand—thumb grazing the inside like he was checking for thorns—and leaned in close.
The click of the buckle echoed like punctuation.
And the bond bloomed.
Nothing overwhelming. No arcane flare.
Just a press of awareness. Like it had been waiting for this exact kind of closeness. Not a submission—but a surrender.
“You good?” Dazai asked, lips near Chūya’s ear.
“I’m ready.”
It was all the permission he needed.
They didn’t rush. Didn’t tear anything.
Dazai laid him down like he was precious. Kissed up his neck. Licked the skin just under the collar. Whispered things that weren’t just praise—but promises.
And Chūya—gods, Chūya let him.
Let himself feel.
Let himself lean in.
The rope came next—binding wrists above the head, loose enough to shift if he needed. But snug enough to hold him steady.
And the leash?
Clipped in place with a soft sound. Not yanked. Just held.
Dazai wrapped it once around his hand, then leaned down so they were nose to nose.
“You’re perfect like this,” he murmured. “Not because you’re bound—but because you chose to be.”
Chūya’s breath hitched.
And the bond thrummed.
Then—
Dazai’s hips pressed down, and Chūya arched, voice catching in the back of his throat.
And—
There.
The bond surged, not as arcana but sensation.
Chūya felt Dazai’s breath as if it were his own. Felt the drag of hands down his waist and also the heat of his own skin under them. Felt lips on his throat and the hunger behind them—not his, but also yes, his.
Two bodies.
One pulse.
One fire curling low, shared and mirrored.
“You feel it?” Dazai whispered, voice tight.
Chūya couldn’t even nod.
He just moaned.
And the bond answered—
Not with words.
But with heat. With rhythm. With need.
And when Dazai finally sank into him—slow, deep, deliberate—
They both felt everything.
Twice.
Chūya gasped, but it wasn’t just from the stretch—it was from the rush. A pulse that rippled through his spine and bounced back into him again like an echo.
The bond didn’t just amplify.
It looped.
A phantom imprint of every thrust, every exhale, every thought—shared between them. He felt Dazai inside him in the most literal sense—but also felt the tightness around himself through Dazai’s skin, his nerves, his mind.
It was maddening. Addictive.
His head fell back, exposing the line of his throat, collar snug at the base. The leash tugged faintly as Dazai braced a hand beside his shoulder, fingers tightening in the ropes.
“You’re shaking,” Dazai murmured, breath hot against his ear.
“So are you,” Chūya rasped, voice wrecked and barely his.
Because it wasn’t just Dazai’s pace—slow but brutal, intentional—that was wrecking him. It was the bond. Every second of it. His senses couldn’t tell what belonged to who anymore. His thighs trembled from the stretch and weight, but so did Dazai’s. His cock throbbed untouched against his belly, but the pulse of Dazai’s matched it.
Every sound, every gasp, every scrape of teeth—shared.
“Fuck—” Dazai whispered, voice cracking as he rocked deeper.
Chūya’s breath stuttered. His fingers twitched in the ropes. “I can’t—can’t tell if that’s you or—”
“Us.” Dazai cut him off, voice ragged. “It’s us, baby.”
Chūya whimpered. Let the bond devour him.
And gods, it did.
It surged with each thrust, each stroke, turning the rhythm into something primal. Synchronizing more than just their breath—syncing need. Pressure. Release.
And Chūya felt it building from both sides—
Felt Dazai’s orgasm coiling hot and close in his gut, and his own mirroring it.
It was too much.
It was not enough.
He bucked up. Dazai caught his mouth in a messy, needy kiss and swallowed the sound he made—wet and desperate and perfectly in sync.
The moment crashed down on them like lightning.
No countdown. No warning.
Chūya came with a choked cry—and Dazai groaned into his mouth, hips grinding deep as he spilled with him.
And the bond?
The bond shuddered.
Then settled.
Soft. Full. Pleased.
Like it had been fed.
Chūya collapsed into the mattress, bound, breathless, and shaking. Dazai leaned over him—sweat-soaked, leash still wound around his wrist, forehead resting against Chūya’s shoulder.
“Hey,” Dazai whispered, voice hoarse. “Still with me?”
Chūya laughed—wrecked and warm and so fucking gone.
“Barely,” he said. “But I think… I like this.”
Dazai smiled against his skin.
And the leash—still clipped—gave one final tug.
Not possessive.
Just close.
Just home.
The air was thick with the weight of them—sweat, heat, the soft rasp of breath in sync.
Dazai eased back with a murmur, careful not to jostle Chūya as he reached up and untied the knots, fingers slow, reverent. The ropes loosened with a gentle pull, sliding free from flushed wrists.
“You okay?” he asked again, quieter this time.
Chūya nodded without opening his eyes. “M’fine. Just… boneless.”
Dazai huffed a breath, amused. “You earned it.”
The leash was still clipped.
Neither of them moved to undo it.
Instead, Dazai leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of Chūya’s mouth—soft, nothing filthy in it. Just contact. Just grounding.
“You didn’t panic this time,” Dazai murmured.
“I didn’t need to,” Chūya said, voice low. “You were there.”
They lay in silence for a while, tangled in the aftermath. Dazai’s hand found Chūya’s, thumb brushing over the faint rope marks as if trying to memorize them. The bond stayed quiet, but present—no longer overwhelming, just pulsing beneath the skin like a second heartbeat. Content.
Eventually, Dazai reached for a damp cloth from the bedside, wiped them both down with a gentleness that made Chūya’s chest ache. There was no teasing. No smug remarks.
Just warmth.
Devotion, in quiet touches.
When he was done, Dazai pulled the blankets over them and settled close, nose brushing Chūya’s temple. The collar shifted softly with the movement, the leash still trailing from his wrist like an unspoken promise.
“You know,” Dazai whispered, “you’re getting really good at letting go.”
Chūya didn’t answer for a long moment.
But then he turned into the space between them and mumbled—
“I’m not letting go. I’m choosing you.”
And fuck, if that didn’t hit harder than any orgasm.
Dazai’s throat moved.
He didn’t speak.
Just pulled him closer.
Just held him, while the bond curled between them like a warm, sleeping animal.
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