Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Someday, when I come back to you,
Let me know how much you missed me.
Odyssey, moonshine voyage,
I believe I will see you again.
— Dear Prince

—   —   —   —   —
one
[until we’ll never meet again]

It’s logical, easy even.

Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Ability is something that can corrupt its owner, taking root in the heart of a susceptible person, existing as long as there’s perceived injustice in this world. Killing Dostoevsky himself is simply delaying the inevitable, which is Crime and Punishment latching onto a new host and jumpstarting the cycle of hatred and destruction anew.

It’s logical then, that the only way to combat it is to fuse it within a human who possesses the Ability to nullify another Ability. The nullification Ability belongs to only one human, unique and implausible enough to be considered a heretic amongst all known organizations of Ability Users. All studies and records state that forcing one human body to house more than one Ability will lead to the human’s death.

It’s logical then, to expect that this plan will be perfect and will lead to his death.

Dazai doesn’t explain the detailed logistics of the plan. He doesn’t need to. Ranpo’s expression is grim beside Fukuzawa’s stalwart stance.

“It’s the only way,” Ranpo somberly agrees in the wake of a tense moment. “It’s the only way to ensure that Crime and Punishment cannot continue its reign.”

Dazai attempts a smile to lighten the atmosphere. It doesn’t work, especially since he’s sliding a resignation letter across the table for Fukuzawa to accept. No Longer Human is always active and is therefore not governed by All Men Are Equal, but Dazai doesn’t want to risk a rebound of some sort lashing back to the Agency’s President should Crime and Punishment prove to be harder-than-expected to contain. Everything is done with logic and calculation in mind. There’s no room for error or unaccounted-for factors.

“Thank you for accepting me into the Armed Detective Agency,” Dazai says, bowing down at the waist, tastes the genuine gratefulness that he has for the President for allowing someone like him, dripping mafia-black tar with every footstep he takes, to join an organization meant to exist and shine under the light. For allowing someone like him a chance to feel just how different life could be, in a side that saves lives instead of severing them. For allowing someone like him to be with humans, who despite being predictable still, for a mind of his caliber, can only be predicted to do the right things, the good things. He’s always thought that it’s simply lip-service when he hears it from others, but there’s no regret or deception when he says, “It’s been an honor to have been a part of your organization.”

“Dazai-kun.” Fukuzawa’s gaze is firm, as is his stance, unyielding despite the encroaching terror chafing at the hearts of the residents of Yokohama, as rats run rampant on the streets, as the sun is swallowed up by a dome of misty darkness as Abilities clash against each other at all times of the day. “You are always welcome in the Agency. Do not forget that.”

But I’m going to die, Dazai doesn’t say.

He nods, once, before rising to his full height and sharply turning on his heel, going out of the President’s office.

It’s one of the last strongholds available in Yokohama.

There’s the underground tunnel network that has been so ‘generously’ donated by the Port Mafia for the government to use, in order to evacuate the city’s residents. Knowing Mori, it’s done alongside a cutthroat deal that will see Port Mafia revenues spiking in the next decade or so. Knowing those at the top of the government, they’d grit their teeth against long-term losses to support the safety of the citizens—and therefore, their continual support on their governance.

And there’s, of course, the Port Mafia Headquarters, standing tall like dark blades ready to pierce the desolate skies that are blanketed by black supersonic-jet envoys from the Order of the Clock Tower.

Despite it being an important meeting place for the city’s last lines of defense, the headquarters for the Armed Detective Agency is currently short-staffed.

So, Dazai safely makes his way out of the office, and out of the building, without running into his other work colleagues.

It’s all as planned.

He’s the one who came up with the patrol and staffing schedules, the surveillance methods. He doesn’t want to risk alerting Dostoevsky’s rats about the fact that he has a trump card inside his sleeve. His colleagues are mostly incapable of hiding their emotions, after all. They’ll feel distressed if they learn that he’s actually going to die. It will affect their actions. It will affect their psyche. They’ll want to look for other methods, never mind the fact that Dazai has spent years, since knowing of the Demon’s existence, trying to find another method. They’ll want him to think about this decision, even if Dazai has always expected this would happen, him taking his last breath while drowning, even if it will be drowning under the force of two Abilities colliding instead of the water’s waves.

No, he does not want to let them know.

He doesn’t want to give them an inkling of hope that they could have stopped him, that they could have done anything to avert this path, that they have done something wrong by not being able to do anything.

He’s not doing this for the sake of hurting others.

This is supposed to grant peace.

Peace to the world at large, peace to Yokohama, peace to him. Peace that he’s always sought: the embrace of death, after he’s done his share of good deeds, as OdaSaku had wanted.

Dazai weaves through alleyways, taking advantage of the cover provided by the dark clouds overhead. Streetlights flicker as the supply of electricity is being strangled by the invading rats. Every autumn breeze that blows past him is tinged with sea-salt, blood-rust and gunpowder-smoke.

Many streets ahead, there’s the steady thrum of bullet shells rattling against the pavement, Port Mafia’s various squads mobilized to help stem the incoming invasion, Mori and Dostoevsky whittling pawns against each other. As part of the cooperation with the Port Mafia, this commotion serves as smokescreen for Kunikida, Yosano, Kenji and Tanizaki leading a stealth attack against the government office where the Rats are broadcasting their demands while they keep several top officials hostage. Atsushi and Kyouka are meeting up with Akutagawa and the Black Lizard to remove the stronghold of the Rats on the power grid and broadcasting stations of Yokohama.

…They wouldn’t find Dostoevsky there.

No, Dostoevsky will not hide under the fanciest and strongest walls. He will be content to watch the proceedings from afar, a bored audience trying to string along the actors and chess pieces from the safety afforded of the unexpected choices. A healthy sense of dramatics, coupled with safeguards in place.

Dostoevsky will choose to observe the proceedings from the crumbling fortress of Mukurotoride, caged by its broken glass and misshapen stairs.

Dazai looks up at the moon climbing up the dark sky.

Soon, all this will end.

He lets his footsteps lead him to a well-worn path. He has his phone on his pocket, but he doesn’t use its flashlight function to help guide him. He knows this path well, able to navigate through the plots with ease. The stone slabs look dull and gray, almost despondent in the wake of the prospect of more people joining the people buried underneath. In sharp contrast are the tufts of bright scarlet flowers that line the grass walkways, seeming as if blood has been violently splashed all over the cemetery.

“Ah. It’s the season for it,” Dazai murmurs as he avoids crushing the red spider lilies with his feet.

OdaSaku’s grave is undisturbed, when he arrives. He doesn’t bring flowers whenever he visits; sometimes he brings a bottle of exorbitantly-priced whiskey, along with one shot glass. On times that he brings whiskey, he makes sure to always pour four-fingers worth, because he knows that the other would appreciate it. He usually drinks straight from the bottle, makes sure to leave imprints of his fingers and his lips, so that the person he stole the whiskey from would understand just who dared to thieve from his precious collection.

Dazai doesn’t have alcohol with him today.

He only has his resolve to do something that could save a lot of people.

He shrugs off his coat, color and style chosen in homage to his dearest friend. The cemetery is far enough from Mukurotoride or any of the battlegrounds that it’s not in dire risk of getting disturbed. Still, this isn’t a goodbye. It’s more of a, I’ll be back soon. Hopefully there’s some truth to the folklore about the dead being able to enjoy the food and drink offered to their graves. He quite likes those bottles of whiskey.

He folds his coat and lays it on top of the stone.

…Hmm. It looks kind of shabby, as an offering.

He carefully uproots some of the flowers growing in huge clusters nearby. Carefully, because they’re poisonous, and while Dazai is glad to embrace such things, he can’t die, at least not until a few hours from now.

There’s plentiful of red spider lilies in the area. It seems that whoever maintains this graveyard still follows the old practice of planting the poisonous flowers to deter wild animals and rats from feasting on the dead bodies.

“…Fufufu, isn’t it kind of fitting?” Dazai says to himself as he arranges a small bouquet of the flowers atop his folded coat. “OdaSaku, I’ll be going to exterminate a troublesome rat.”

…A side that saves people.

It’s been quite interesting.

Dazai rises to his full height again, this time, ready to make his way to Mukurotoride. He looks down on his hands, still with a number of the flowers.

…Ah. It seems that he’s uprooted too much of the flowers.

He hums as he walks away from the graveyard, seemingly uncaring about the fact that he’s walking to his death. Perhaps that’s why he’s able to be carefree. After all, he also is looking forward to waking up from this oxidizing dream. He is buoyed by a sense of calm, from the assurance that his plans will come to fruition soon.

It’s only because of that.

A whim.

A sudden spark of mischief.

He’s about to do something that will save a lot of people. He should be able to indulge himself in one last prank, right?

His head is filled with plans and calculations, so he doesn’t bother thinking too much about this. He tears off a strip of his bandages from his hands, wraps the used bandages around the leaf-less stalks of the flowers. He doesn’t bother making sure it looks anything but a random and careless plucking of street-side blooms. He tears off another strip of bandages and uses it to tie the haphazard bouquet against his phone.

He continues humming as he finds a fitting dumpster to leave the phone in.

The bandage covers part of the screen, but he’s able to type the message anyway.

[ ‘Chuuya. Before I die, there’s something I want to tell you. I—’ ]

“Hmm…” Dazai wonders if there’s a better message he can leave, something guaranteed to make a certain chibi pull at his hair in frustration. But there’s no more time, so Dazai leaves the message be. “And, sent~♪”

It’s logical.

He has confidence in his plans, but just in case— just in case there’s that tiny probability that Crime and Punishment can’t be erased this way, there’s the back-up of Chuuya simply erasing Dostoevsky and hopefully, someone in the future can think of a better plan.

Without him, Chuuya would be eaten alive by Corruption.

Dazai pauses—

Isn’t this just like doing a double-suicide with a chibi, then?

…No, that is too disgusting. Chuuya is busy being at the helm of operations, acting as a one-man army welcoming all of the incineration-type Ability Users being thrown at Yokohama’s airspace by the Order of the Clock Tower. He’s not the type to check his phone in the middle of an important mission. This is just an odd whim, but there’s no chance that his plan will require Chuuya’s intervention.

—and then he moves forward, making his way to the tower where he’s about to seal a demon.

—
—
—
—
—

Of course, he should have known that even the best-made plans are useless when there’s someone like Chuuya out there, who just won’t stop defying his expectations on times when it matters most.

 —   —   —   —   —
two
[set even the moon in flames]

It’s instinctual, easy even.

There’s no need for complicated calculations or plotting, as he lets the thrum of power flow from the well deep inside of him, traversing his veins until it spills out of his pores. Like this, it’s almost as if he is gravity itself, and therefore, everything that exists in this world, that are affected by gravitational forces, bow down to his control.

Insurmountable—
Indomitable—
Inescapable.

Right on the top floor of Port Mafia’s Headquarters, overlooking the expanse of Yokohama Bay, he stands as the first and last fortress against the siege of the Ability Users from the Continent, led by their Knight Commander, Agatha Christie.

For a brief moment, he puzzles over the fact that the enemies preferred to use airstrikes rather than naval attacks. He distinctly remembers reading about how the navy is the British Empire’s pride. That is to say, shouldn’t Agatha Christie pay homage to her country’s past by using ships…? Then again, travelling by sea is terribly slow compared to using the airspace.

…Or maybe this is all a decoy? And there are submarines ready to launch attacks too…?

Chuuya scrunches his nose. Subterfuge and manipulation aren’t his forte and never will be. Why won’t they just be straightforward in their attacks and then he can just as straightforwardly pummel them back next continent over? Ah… it’s annoying thinking about this. He’ll just be vigilant, keeping an eye out for possible attacks from the sea, while fending off the Ability-powered missiles that are being launched towards Yokohama like some piñata has been cracked open and they’re supposed to simply accept the indiscriminate shower of bombs.

“If your beef is with Ability Users,” Chuuya grunts in irritation, “then settle your accounts with Ability Users! What’s the point of getting others involved?!”

Of course, even as he’s letting out complaints, he doesn’t slack off. He’s not like a certain someone, after all. He controls the gravity of the missiles and sends them back to their sources, after pushing the black jets a great distance away, so that none of the debris end up on the city.

…Oh, wait. It will be bad if the burning planes end up on the sea, right?

Chuuya reconsiders it, then decides that he’ll just compress the bombs and the planes using gravity, then use gravity to absorb the impact of the explosion by wrapping it around the objects…? That should work, right…?

He thinks it should work.

It starts to feel like a routine after an hour. He’s pretty sure he can’t keep this high level of concentration and power up for an entire day, but there’s no such thing as running away. He’s been entrusted to do this job. He’s not so arrogant to think that nobody else can do this job, but he’s not so dew-eyed that he doesn’t understand his own strength. This kind of straightforward battle is the best for him. He knows that the Port Mafia is joining hands with the Agency and the remnants of the government that managed to escape from the siege on their headquarters. Stealth isn’t really his thing, so it’s best that the Black Lizard folks deal with that.

Everyone has a role they have to play. The organization—the majority—is the most important. An individual is nothing in the face of an entire organization, an entire city.

Boss runs the Port Mafia with that guiding principle.

It’s an instinctive comfort to Chuuya, who’s lived the early parts of his life having to split himself in many roles—the leader, the glue to the organization, the vanguard, the sword and shield. The human, the vessel, the god. The one most important in the eyes of the enemies, the one power that is coveted by everyone. The one who’s adrift, trying to find the meaning of his life—the one who has to deal with someone who’s trying to find the meaning of life in death.

The people in Port Mafia, in Yokohama, they’re strong.

They don’t need Chuuya to protect them, but it’s precisely because of that, that he wants to.

So, playing the role of the gatekeeper to Yokohama is something that he embraces.

So, he continues whittling down the planes and bombs dotting the dark skies overhead.

It goes on for hours.

The moon is starting to climb up the sky when he feels it.

It’s instinctual.

He always has his phones in his pocket, but he never checks them while he’s in the middle of an important mission. It’s an ingrained habit.

With Sheep, it’s because he’s the leader and the vanguard, and so all decisions press down on his shoulders; there’s no input from his fellow members, at least, there’s no input that he doesn’t end up experiencing for himself.

With Dazai, it’s because he’s either with Dazai already or whatever shitty thing Dazai has to say, it will be done via hacking into his communicator directly anyway, so there’s no point in picking up the phone.

After Dazai, it’s because he’s always careful to not start attacking without getting all the information he can, therefore-and-because additional pertinent information will not come anyway.

And yet, and yet—

It’s instinctual.

He’s sure he didn’t put his phone on vibrate, but he feels his entire body thrumming anyway, a sense of danger, of something not-quite-right permeating his bones.

Clicking his tongue, Chuuya raises a hand to make a sweeping brush over the air, shoving the attacking planes backwards, clearing the skies so that there’s only the pale glare of the moon looming overhead. Once he’s sure that there’s no incoming missile within the next minute, he takes his phone out and checks it.

And promptly regrets it.

[ ‘Chuuya. Before I die, there’s something I want to tell you. I—’ ]

“What the fucking hell?!” Chuuya screams into the phone. Given that it’s a text message, it doesn’t give him a reply. Which is probably for the best, because he has this sinking feeling that he’ll just be more irritated if this is a phone call. Chuuya grips his phone hard enough to dent the case. “What the hell are you up to?!”

It’s instinctual.

The feeling that this time, is unlike that one time when Dazai had uttered those same words. The feeling that this time, there won’t be Dazai yelling ‘Boo!’ while showing off some stupid magic trick. The feeling that this time, Dazai really will die if Chuuya doesn’t go to him.

Port Mafia Executive Nakahara Chuuya is here under orders to ensure that none of attacks from the Order of the Clock Tower land on Yokohama.

It’s easy.

The life of many versus the life of one.
The orders from his Boss versus the harassment from a shitty mackerel.
The future of an entire organization and city versus the present of one person from his past.

Any which way you cut it, it’s obvious what he should prioritize. It’s not even worth trying to think or rationalize it.

It’s easy.

It should be easy to decide.

There’s no physical evidence, no logical reason for it. The resilience of Dazai’s life force is worse than a cockroach’s, Chuuya half-fears that even a hydrogen bomb can’t kill Dazai. According to the agreement between the Port Mafia and the Armed Detective Agency, Dazai is supposed to be safe, an all-important tactician ensconced inside the Armed Detective Agency’s safehouse, alongside their great detective and their President.

It’s just instinct—but he still—

“I’m really going to fucking kill you,” Chuuya promises under his breath.

There’s no answer.

And then, there’s the telltale whistle of wind being sliced by jet engines propelling at maximum speeds, streaks of black standing out even amidst the cover of dark clouds.

Chuuya lifts his gaze so he can assess the situation. His insides thrum and vibrate, his gut turning and churning as though to eat his own insides. A fattened Ouroboros of worry prickling into his common sense, slithering into his bloodstream, knifing into the spaces in-between his ribs.

Right now, in this moment, more than being worried—
—he is simply Nakahara Chuuya, a pathetic being seized with fear.

It chafes at him. He needs to expel these stale and dismal airs of worry, needs them to leave this body of his.

And there’s only one way to do so.

Chuuya raises his hands once more, lets his instincts blend with experience, with thoughts, with calculations, weaves something that can account for the strong autumn breeze, for the gasoline inside the jets, for the weight of the planes and the missiles. Free-fall directed horizontally, and then on a parabolic arc, life of human and machine squeezed out and ground to dust.

“If you still want to fight,” Chuuya whispers as gravity launches forward and upward, radiates into a net that subsumes the laws of physics, latches onto the violators of Yokohama’s airspace, “then I’ll dance with you later.”

Vibrant red glow blooms on the sky, bleeds violently like the autumnal red spider lilies bursting into life, casts a bloody tint on the moon.

Chuuya doesn’t take the time to admire the scenery.

He quickly flies down the headquarters, tracing Dazai’s cellphone signal, already discarding certain locations from the list of possibilities as he waits for the tracer to complete its work. Dazai will not risk doing anything too near the Agency’s office, will not want to do anything to disturb the cemetery or the bar that he likes to visit. It’s unlikely that Dazai will saunter too-near the Port Mafia Headquarters; otherwise, Chuuya would have sensed him earlier.

…No, the mackerel bastard probably figured out where Dostoevsky is hiding.

And because he’s an idiot, he’d keep the knowledge to himself, because ‘only evil can combat evil’, because ‘only a demon can slay a demon’, because he’s a massive condescending asshole. He’d think himself so unique, that he’s the only one who can do the job of stopping Dostoevsky. He’d probably think something along the lines of being the one to stop him, by laying his life on the line, and if he succeeds, then he’s successful as a goody-goody-two-shoes, and if he’s not, then at least he’s dead. He’d think himself so unique, without thinking that because there’s only one of him in this world, it should mean that he should take care of his existence even more.

That because there’s only one of him in this world, losing him means—

Chuuya grits his teeth and resists the urge to punch the air.

Dazai is on his way to Dostoevsky, to death. He’s not able to predict Dostoevsky, so he’ll have to make do with trying to trace the mackerel bastard’s footsteps.

A ping.

Finally!

Chuuya checks the location and flies towards it, tipping the brim of his hat so that his conspicuous hair isn’t so obvious.

The possibility that he might be executed for disobeying a direct order, the possibility that this is a gamble that he’ll lose, the possibility that this is simply planted by the enemies in order to drag him away from his post—

They all fade away in the prospect of not being the one to kill Dazai personally, after all the trouble that he’s had to go through because of the other’s shitty machinations.

It feels like forever when he finally reaches a dumpster tucked in the mouth of an alley in-between a wine shop and a pharmacy.

“Of fucking course,” Chuuya gripes at the location, but he spots the phone easily anyway. It’s got a bunch of bright red flowers taped to it, after all. He floats it towards his hands, but doesn’t actually touch it directly, even though he’s wearing gloves. In case there’s a nerve agent there or something.

He takes two minutes inspecting the phone, but nothing that yields him Dazai’s next move.

It’s Dazai’s actual phone, not a typical burner one.

It’s unlocked when Chuuya finds it.

This is a phone that could probably fetch a billion yen in the underground market, if only because it must contain extensive blackmail material on several important figures. And it’s unlocked, which means that either Dazai doesn’t think that anyone could find it, or he thinks it doesn’t matter if it’s found.

The flowers haphazardly wrapped against the phone are red spider lilies. Something that Ane-san cultivates in her garden, for their usefulness in making poisons and their ornamental qualities. Poisonous flowers that are said to bring fire and death, that are said to connect this world to ‘the other side’. Flowers that bloom as sign of abandonment, as promise that two people will never meet again.

Chuuya’s fists shake.

That motherfucking asshole.

He’s underestimating him, isn’t he?

He thinks that Chuuya can’t drag him back this time, doesn’t he?

He thinks that he can escape the responsibility of paying Chuuya back tenfold for all the headaches he’s caused him over the years, is that it?

“You’re on,” Chuuya tells the phone.

On that day—when he’s been completely severed from the Sheep, when he’s realized that he’s been trapped in Dazai’s tune—he’s made a promise.

One day, I’ll shred you to pieces.

Dazai had called him a wild beast for it, something that he’s always loathed, but now, but now—

Something claws out from inside him.
Arahabaki waking up from its deep slumber.
Something that’s purely Chuuya in its intensity.

Memories, worries, promises—

Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter.

A place where they can never meet again.
A place where Chuuya’s woken up, abandoned once more.
A place where Snow White waited for a Prince that could have been abandoned him, but didn’t.

Chuuya opens his mouth and feels a howl rip out of his throat. Black and red flames, rage and despair descending. But he’s not here to cause a great destruction.

He’s awakened to one desire.

—He really, really, really wants to punch Dazai in the face.

 —   —   —   —   —
three
[a long way to say goodbye]

Dazai grits his teeth as his hands shake from the effort of holding onto the handle of the fruit knife, its blade embedded in Dostoevsky’s gut. In front of him, Dostoevsky mimics his actions, audaciously grinning at him. Perhaps as expected of two men whose minds follow the same mental leaps, the two of them end up like this: knives in their guts, scythes on their smirks, swords inside their brains.

There is no pity nor gentleness in Dazai’s actions, as he drives the blade deeper. Even with the knowledge that the human being named ‘Fyodor Dostoevsky’ used to exist as someone with pure intentions, corrupted only by a very dangerous Ability, it is not up to Dazai to decide upon things such as forgiveness.

No, he is here to stop Dostoevsky, through whatever means possible.

The physical blades that they’re using are not meant to be lethal.

Dazai shoves his shoulders forward, to grant him further leverage.

They are surrounded by cracked stained glass windows, the domed ceiling broken from the previous dragon’s rampage. Moonlight streams down and stains their skin with a sickly pallor exacerbated by blood loss.

Dazai pushes, their feet sliding across floors slicked by their blood. Pushes, until Dostoevsky’s back would be pressed against one of the windows, if one still existed in its spot. As it stands, there’s only the barest of foundations left. Pushes, until one hard shove is enough for Dostoevsky to tumble down.

Given that Dostoevsky’s other arm is hooked around Dazai’s waist, he’ll be brought along with him.

A stalemate with the two kings careening off the chessboard.

With its vessel’s life in danger, Crime and Punishment should want to transfer out. An oddly sentient Ability, there’s no guarantee that the current technologies that the government’s researchers possess will be able to hold onto it while keeping it sealed.

No, the only solution is to fuse it into himself, the moment it jumps out.

“Dazai-kun.” Dostoevsky’s lips are chapped and roughened even more by the trickle of blood that spills past. “Do you fancy a tumble like Humpty Dumpty?”

“Fyodor-kun,” Dazai says sweetly, blood heavy on his tongue, grip on the blade’s handle twisting. “I’m pretty sure I look much better than a rotten egg.”

“Is that so?”

“That is so.”

“Fufufu.”

“Hahaha.”

“You will not succeed,” Dostoevsky then whispers, eyes glinting. “Not in your plans, not in your demise.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Dazai whispers back, as he drags the blade sideways, nicking the other’s intestines, worsening the wound. “Now, isn’t it about time for my punishment?”

Violet gaze turns violent, sparking like the amethysts that Shibusawa Tatsuhiko once fed to the flames, consciousness leaving Fyodor Dostoevsky as Crime and Punishment takes over its host.

Dazai grins.

He wraps his other arm around Dostoevsky’s back, shoves their bodies as close as possible to facilitate the transfer of Crime and Punishment to him. It doesn’t crystallize, because the Room of Draconia isn’t around to facilitate things, but Dazai feels it nevertheless, an ice-cold presence not unlike a sword that digs into the flesh of his body, the fullness of his mental faculties, the hollowness of his self. It’s like being bathed in subzero hail, sleets of unforgiving ice sluicing all over his skin, an ice that almost burns searing its mark into his ribs.

Dazai staggers back, drops his grip on Dostoevsky and lets the injured man crumple to the floor. There exists a possibility that the other man will bleed to death before any of the medical services can be alerted. There exists that possibility, but there exists a greater possibility that he will survive this, only to be hurled into another, bitterer hell that belongs to the survivors that have lost the war that they personally waged.

It’s a punishment fitting for his crime.

…Ah, it’s beginning.

Dazai clutches at his chest using his right hand, his left hand pressing against the blade that’s been lodged into his flesh, in an attempt to stem the blood flow. He continues backpedalling, the force of Crime and Punishment hurtling into his consciousness more effective than getting sucker-punched, it seems. The icy existence curiously curls around each knob of his spine, silkily slides against each curve of his ribs. It seeks the presence of No Longer Human, chases it as though it longs to form a point of singularity.

Faintly, Dazai wonders if he will end up transforming to a version of the dragon itself, this time.

His legs are heavy and lightweight simultaneously, as he keeps on sliding himself backwards, propelling himself to the other end of the room, also towards a window-less, wall-less portion of the tower. He feels his grin widening. No matter, it’s his victory. The only other question remaining is whether he’ll die from his body exploding like a miniature star, energy produced by two Abilities colliding collapsing in itself, or if he’ll die from the blood loss, or if he’ll die from a dizzying free-fall from the top of the tower.

Again, it is his victory no matter what.

He keeps his grin intact.

A cheerful, painless suicide.

If he can’t achieve painless with the options available to him, he’ll embrace the cheerfulness.

Power pounds against his chest from the inside.

…Ah.

They’ve met.

Dazai starts coughing up blood. Inside him, No Longer Human melds and resists Crime and Punishment, nullifies it and combines with it, a yin-and-yang push-and-pull.

It seems that he’ll end up being a singularity point instead.

Dazai closes his eyes, as he feels his life being leeched out of him to form a cocoon to house the two Abilities waging war against each other. They will continue until his life is snuffed out—which should also snuff out the destruction they will cause one another.

He keeps his mind as blank as he can.

There’s no use thinking about regrets or thinking over his life. He’s already had a lot of time to ponder about those things.

He’s—

He’s looking forward to finally achieving the quietness that he’s never been able to achieve as long as the cogs inside his mind whirred and whirred like a tireless clock.

He can wake up from this dream and sink down to an eternal slumber.

He can feel the gossamer threads holding his life together being plucked out slowly.

Now, it’s time to finally rest.

Now, he’s—

“—A GODDAMN PIECE OF SHIT!”

Unbidden, Dazai’s eyes fly open.

Oh, fuck no.

Chuuya is in front of him, a tiny, powerful fist raised in a punch. However, instead of punching Dazai’s face, Chuuya’s fist is pressed against the ball of energy over his chest, formed by the fusion and fission of the two Abilities.

…Typical Chuuya. He thinks everything can be solved with his punches and kicks.

“YOU’RE SO FUCKING SELFISH,” Chuuya continues snarling, bright red imprints of Arahabaki’s claws and runes starting to crawl all over his face, but he’s able to retain some semblance of coherence. Of course, given that he’s simply yelling into Dazai’s face, perhaps it’s too charitable to call him coherent. “YOU SAY SHIT ABOUT SAVING YOKOHAMA WHEN ALL YOU REALLY WANT IS JUST TO FLOUNCE OFF! LIKE A SHITTY MACKEREL FLOATING IN THE SKY!”

That doesn’t make sense, hatrack, Dazai wants to retort with a rueful shake of his head. But his body has already lost way too much of his life force, that it’s taking his all to simply keep his eyes and ears open so he can have this front-row seat to Chuuya losing his mind.

“You cannot die,” Chuuya then promises viciously, driving his fist harder against the ball of energy that’s leeching off Dazai’s life. “I will not let you.”

Dazai feels his eyes drifting shut, too heavy to keep them opened.

…Ah.

“I will make you eat the goddamn spider lilies,” Chuuya continues promising, “that will show you for sending me such flowers!”

Just for a little bit longer—
Just for a little while longer—
Just for a little moment more—

He kind of wants to hear the rest of Chuuya’s nonsensical promises.

But,
He’s already—

Chapter Text

—   —   —   —   —
four
[there is no heart without you]

Chuuya’s had so many plans on what to do and say upon finding Dazai.

But seeing the other man stagger away with a stab wound on his gut, one hand pressed against said wound and another clutching at his chest like how pearls are clutched by those princesses in Victorian-Era dramas that Ane-san has him watch—

It’s caused his brain to go offline.

And then he’s flying towards where Dazai is, one hand already stretched out to punch sense into the asshole, and then he’s witnessing a strange ball of energy seemingly float out of Dazai’s ribs, and it’s all instinctual, that it’s something that he needs to get the hell away from the shitty mackerel.

Unthinking, he opens his mouth to wake Dazai up from his trance.

“—A GODDAMN PIECE OF SHIT!”

Dazai’s eyes bug out, as though he genuinely isn’t expecting anyone to come for him, as though spending four years in the light still hasn’t thought him basic manners such as not leaving shitty bouquets in dumpsters. Also, that having comrades means that—unless he’s so dirt-poor he doesn’t even have funds for a basic cell plan so he can send SOS text messages—he can ask them for help instead of expecting to be abandoned.

It’s all basic manners, in Chuuya’s opinion.

Trust Dazai to not even know such basic shit, with his brain filled with all sorts of fantastical plans that are way too complicated and manipulative when they don’t need to be.

Dazai looks at him like he’s truly surprised and Chuuya feels his blood boil.

He punches at the energy ball harder, because it’s seriously screwing up his itinerary of punching Dazai in the face three times, at least. As soon as he can get rid of that strange energy source, he can deal with Dazai.

That doesn’t mean that he can’t yell at Dazai in the meantime though.

“You’re so fucking selfish,” Chuuya starts, because it needs to be said.

The energy ball seems to be sucking his energy as well, so he draws more power from inside him, from his own Ability, from the god slumbering inside him. He does not outright wake Arahabaki, but there’s a thread of promise that weaves underneath his consciousness: if this idiot mackerel dies, I will never use you again.

“You say shit about saving Yokohama,” Chuuya continues, feeling his blood whirring inside him, as Arahabaki’s fire starts to boil underneath his skin, “when all you really want is just to flounce off! Like a shitty mackerel floating in the sky!”

Dazai’s eyes are growing dim, dimmer than even his darkest days in the Port Mafia. Chuuya can read condescension there still, though; that fucker is probably thinking that he’s not making any sense.

More than having a safeguard for Arahabaki, more than being the safety measure for Q, more than being the tactician needed in case there’s another megalomaniac that comes after the world—

Dazai cannot die.

“You cannot die,” Chuuya promises.

The energy ball is pulsing against his fist, as though it’s greedy for more power. If it’s power it needs, then Chuuya will shove power right on it. With his own hands, he’s going to defeat this and beat Dazai up for causing him so much grief. And given how much headaches Dazai has caused him, even an entire lifetime will not be enough as payback. And so, death and Dazai are lovers that can never be united.

“I will not let you.”

Dazai cannot die.

Even if Dazai is closing his eyes again, looking wan and sagging backwards, he cannot die.

“I will make you eat the goddamn spider lilies,” Chuuya continues, because those flowers are poisonous enough to be painful and annoying, even to someone who’s experimented with a number of poisons already, “that will show you for sending me such flowers!”

The red spider lilies that symbolize death and abandonment, given to him as though he’s the type of person who’d leave someone to die.

It needles at him, like a dozen tiny claws scratching at his skin. That shitty Dazai, for even one fraction of a moment, thought that he’d be type to abandon him entirely.

Fucking irritating, that’s what it is.

Chuuya grits his teeth as he shoves his fist forward more forcibly, until the energy ball pulses even harder right back. It draws power from him, a greedy siphon, and Chuuya feels himself being dragged forward, drawn into the ball of energy that somehow feels so familiar.

…Ah.

It’s No Longer Human.

He has no physical evidence, but he knows it instinctively. After all, it’s an Ability that Chuuya is intimately familiar with.

Dazai’s touch brings with it such empty desolation, littered with phrases such as ‘I can’t even guess myself what it must be to live a life of a human being’ and ‘I must die, I must absolutely die right now’, curling like a fox’s tail around his neck, weaving like a manacle around his wrist. Despite the almost-fanatical obsession with death, Dazai’s touch brings with it an additional lease on life, subduing the roars of a vengeful god that can only devour everything in its wake, dousing the black and red flames with a blanket of ‘you’ve done well, Chuuya, you can now rest’.

Rest, something that’s foreign and all the more attractive for it, because being in the strongest sword and shield of Sheep meant that there is no respite for him. Offense and defense rolled into one, he’s always active, pulsing with the power that needs to keep his comrades safe from harm, that needs to uphold their defensive policy, that needs to fulfill his responsibility as someone who’s been dealt cards that nobody else possesses.

…Yes, No Longer Human is something that he knows the feeling of, quite well.

If Dazai’s Ability is pulled out of him—

Does that mean that he’s really going to die?

Chuuya’s eyes burn.

In fact, he feels his entire body burn.

If he’s the type to spend pointless amount of time pondering about things, maybe he’d try to analyze this, but for this moment, the entirety of his consciousness is just a stream of: he can’t die, he still hasn’t paid me back for messing up my coat that one time, he still hasn’t paid me back for the bottle of whiskey he stole, he can’t die, he can’t die, he can’t die, whatever it takes, he cannot—

As though latching onto his thoughts of ‘doing whatever it takes’, the ball of energy pulls him in further, until his fist is smacking against Dazai’s chest, where his heart would be.

Where his heart would be beating, if he’s still alive.

But now, there’s only a stillness, as though Dazai really is hollow inside, as though he doesn’t have a heart, as though he does possess a heart but it’s stopped beating already, as though he’s really dead.

Chuuya’s fist trembles, his hand unfolding in instinct, as if he can feel a faint heartbeat if he just widens his area of search, as if he can rip Dazai open and witness for himself that Dazai is really alive and is just playing magic tricks on him again by playing dead.

“You still haven’t said it,” Chuuya finds himself lodging his complaint against Dazai’s unmoving chest, the ball of energy expanding so that the two of them are swallowed inside it, the familiar waves of No Longer Human and the unpleasant sensation of something that can only be Dostoevsky’s Ability surrounding them. “Before you die, you’re supposed to tell me something, right?”

Dazai doesn’t reply.

“I guess I’ll have to torture it out of you,” Chuuya says, as he removes his gloves in quick motions.

The fact that they’re floating up in the air, the energy ball growing bigger and bigger as it starts to leech power from Chuuya as well, Chuuya doesn’t care for it. They’re being pulled over Yokohama Bay, as though to grant Dazai’s wishes to die by drowning.

“Whatever it takes,” Chuuya whispers, then closes his eyes as he calls to Arahabaki, calls for the god of destruction to destroy this ball of energy that’s eating Dazai’s life force, to crush it with so much energy that it can’t even think of trying to leech it away from Dazai.

A leap of faith.

There is no proof that this will work, no evidence that it’s possible to pull Dazai back from the brink of death, no certainty that whatever Chuuya has to offer is the solution for this situation.

And yet, Chuuya still—

He keeps his eyes closed as he leans his forehead against Dazai’s unmoving chest.

Like this, they can stay close, the great destruction that he provides and the all-encompassing nullification that Dazai has.
Like this, it’s as though there’s no beginning and there’s no ending between them.
Like this, he can endure this painful solitude.

O’ acquaintances, grantors of dark disgrace,
Do not wake me again!

—
—
—
—
—

There’s a sound of waves.

Waves lapping at the shore of his consciousness, tickling him to wakefulness, eroding at the slumber that he’s succumbed to.

‘I can’t even guess myself what it must be to live a life of a human being’ slips under his eyelids; ‘I must die, I must absolutely die right now’, stabs in-between his third and fifth rib.

‘—Chuuya’, slides into the space inside him that could only be his soul.

Chuuya’s eyes fly open, just in time to see the two of them split-seconds from hurtling towards the sudden crests of Yokohama Bay’s waves. There’s a concave depression carved on the waters, as though it’s tried to cushion the blow of a powerful bomb. A quick slide of his gaze to the side lets him witness the moon stained by two flares rising from the top of Port Mafia Headquarters: the first one, the red-hued emergency signal that’s been agreed-upon earlier; the second a lime-green flare signals mission success.

And then Chuuya’s focus is pulled back to where he’s crashing towards the sea.

This kind of velocity means that they’ve probably been caught in the explosion of the energy bomb.

Chuuya wraps his arm tighter around Dazai’s waist.

Damn it.

He’s expected Dazai’s life force to survive a hydrogen bomb. He’s not about to save Dazai from something as strong and deadly as a hydrogen bomb, only to lose him to explosive and relentless sea.

“You so owe me for this,” Chuuya gripes, as he takes a deep breath and plunges along the waters with the shitty mackerel.

—   —   —   —   —
five
[the untouched world]

…Noisy.

It’s very noisy.

Claws drawing messy circles against a chalkboard,
Tortured souls clamoring to be offered a spider’s thread of salvation,
Wooden clogs tick-tocking in an uneven gait as it traverses a cobblestone path lined with blooming red spider lilies.

A lopsided loop of the snake that devours its own tail, having neither beginning nor an ending,
A sinner’s pleas ignored by the gods that have abandoned their posts.
Abandonment, never to meet again.

Arahabaki is a being of great destruction, the god of fire, able to scorch the earth, the sea, the skies.

Right now, it seems that what it has destroyed is—

Dazai wrenches his eyes open and sees not the burning brimstone of hell that he’s expecting nor the misted-over shores of the purgatory. He sees a ceiling fan whirring overhead, its blades wobbling with the faintest signs of old age; beyond that, ceiling tiles that show damp spots from an uncooperative airconditioning system.

Letting his gaze drift around the room yields him many details. To the right: a half-open window, steel windowpanes carrying smudges of dust build-up, a wooden bookshelf with two dog-eared magazines that have lost their gloss. By the foot of the bed: a rolling metal table that has a tray of room-temperature lunch, an apple and a carton of milk. To the left: two doors, presumably leading to a bathroom and to the corridor. The walls are layered with peeling floral wallpaper, colors mostly faded to a dull pink and ashen white.

There’s an IV drip attached to the inside of his left elbow.

There’s all these details, but it doesn’t really answer his most pertinent question.

Dazai finally lets his gaze settle on the one sight that he’s been resolutely avoiding ever since he’s regained consciousness.

Inside a room filled with blunted edges and dulled colors, Chuuya’s red hair looks like a vibrant wildfire. Seemingly without care for proper posture and dignity, there Chuuya is, slumped over the right side of Dazai’s bed, mouth left unattractively half-open as though to invite someone to spit on him. The faint breeze from the window tangles with his locks on every snoring breath he takes, wrapping him in such a carefree dishevelment that it’s almost painful to witness.

Right now, Port Mafia Executive Nakahara Chuuya looks nothing like the fearsome mafioso he is known to be, nothing like the monstrous beast that Arahabaki’s corruption taints him to be.

Right now, he just looks like a drooling sheepdog.

Gingerly, Dazai tries to move his right hand, to pinch the fat on the other’s cheek to wake him up. There’s numbness radiating from his palm and wrist, speaking of days of disuse. He feels his eyebrows twitch. There’s apparently a shortage of pillows in whatever safehouse they’re in, because Chuuya dared to use his palm as a pillow, clutching at it as though it’s a lifeline that will lead him out of a maze.

Dazai would know. The one time they had a mission that involved them getting trapped inside a maze, Chuuya’s solution was to punch the walls, instead of attempting to figure out the proper path. Dazai had to congratulate himself for the forethought of tying the end of his bandage onto the chibikko’s wrist, so that they wouldn’t get separated, even when Dazai had fallen prey to the enemy’s ambush.

…Ah.

Right now, there are no bandages tying their hands together. It doesn’t make it easier to break the link between their limbs.

The connection between their hands is severed after seconds too long for his comfort, the numbness making his fingers feel like they’ve been made into a pincushion. By the time that he’s able to free his palm from the squishy stickiness of Chuuya’s cheek, he’s started to compare that microscopic face to a tasty, bite-sized manju, the threads of his thoughts arriving uncomfortably close to wondering if Chuuya’s filling will taste like chestnuts or red beans.

Aftermath of Corruption’s usage always strips Chuuya of that sharp air of untouchability, that props him up as something insurmountable, indomitable and inescapable. Carefree and unguarded, because the only time that Corruption recedes back into the tightly-guarded spaces of that petite frame is when the enemies have been decimated, when the mission is all wrapped up in a tiny bow of success.

…It also makes Chuuya look so stupid.

Unable to bear such a ridiculous sight anymore, Dazai then pokes at the swell of Chuuya’s left cheek, the one that’s left upturned to be kissed by the afternoon sunlight that manages to encroach on them.

“Nngh,” bubbles past a drool-slicked mouth, and Chuuya simply tries to burrow into the bunched-up blankets in his subconscious effort to wiggle away from the poking. Proving that he’s really more like an animal when it comes to instincts, Chuuya scrunches his nose in an ineffectual frown as he seems to have realized that he doesn’t have Dazai’s palm as a cushion anymore. Another groan escapes his mouth as he flops about using the entire top half of his body, as though he can only peacefully rest if he’s in possession of Dazai’s limbs in his grip.

…Really, a typical battle-maniac. That even in dreams, he still thinks of strangling Dazai.

“Really,” Dazai murmurs as he drums his fingertips against Chuuya’s forehead. “If you wanted to kill me so badly, you shouldn’t have interfered.”

It’s not something that he’s willing to classify as a miscalculation, because he’s sure that he’s accounted for everything. It’s not his fault that Chuuya likes to be contradictory, as though it’s his life’s mission to always cause Dazai grief.

…Not that Dazai spends a lot of time getting affected by a sheepdog.

But it extends far back to their first meeting, where Dazai’s dismissed him as a brat just like everyone else, a predictable being like everything else. A brat that’s somehow managed to get his hands on a card called the power of gravity. Someone who’s painfully normal, in the end, with the same normal views on life and death, with the same mundane perspectives as the gray mist of society that don masks over their dull faces.

But then—

Chuuya’s showed his true colors, blindingly dazzling that it hurts his eyes to look. He wears his heart on his sleeve, ready-made for a flock of sheep to gnaw at, ready-made for those who want to take a bite at his power to pluck and harvest it for themselves. A strange mix of being so painfully normal that he shrieks at predictable intervals, that he mashes the buttons on a game controller at the expected moments—and then he willingly cloaks himself in the filthy unshorn wool of the sheep, hides the howls of the beastly power inside of him and only unleashes it once a blue moon.

After spending so many years thinking about the meaning behind living, behind living a life as a human being, Dazai’s arrived at a conclusion that it’s not something for someone like him. Fittingly for the Ability that he possesses, he’s No Longer Human, and he wades through the masses of grayed-out humans milling around as they’re herded towards something that is considered ‘normal’ by society. He’s gone through so many years searching for a means to escape from this foggy and aimless dream, observing his surroundings as he goes, finds the cracks in their masks of normality and strives to crack them anew.

He’s spent so long standing just-outside the boundary of humanity. Mind so different from everyone else’s, pedigree so above everyone else’s, capabilities so much better than everyone else’s.

He’s spent so long being an outsider, that it rankles him, to see someone like Chuuya act so childish, so confident in his skin and in his power when he’s simply someone who has a little bit of strength in his kicks.

He’s spent so long being an outsider, that it shocks him, to see someone so naïve and so bratty like Chuuya, small and angry, foolish and impulsive, a typical teenager in all senses of the word—to see someone who looks and acts so normal be actually someone who’s way beyond the boundary of humanity. Where Dazai toes the line of humanity and inhumanity, Chuuya’s all but stomped on it, wearing a mundane mask while being the exemplification of something ‘from the other side’.

He’s spent so long being an outsider, that it repulses him, to see someone so otherworldly like Chuuya actually prefer to sink to the planes of humanity, to see someone so beastly and powerful try things such as being a human being and controlling his power. It terrifies him, because illogical things cannot be understood and things that cannot be understood cannot be controlled. Chuuya’s so silly and so stupid, choosing to hand Dazai the key to his caged power, I trust you, partner the lock that simply needs Dazai’s touch to be opened.

“You’re so stupid,” Dazai reiterates, because it needs to be said. He lets his fingertips draw away from Chuuya’s forehead as he starts to carefully move away. His stomach is starting to protest against emptiness, after all.

And it’s right then, when he’s cut off all physical contact with Chuuya, that it happens.

The faint whirring of the ceiling fan’s blades and the faint snores coming out from the sheepdog beside him—those sounds are drowned out by the sudden rushing of otherness, by the rough pounding of blood against his temples, by the unintelligible screaming inside his eyelids. Phantom punches rattle against his diaphragm, a snake of fire slithers while dripping acid into his gut. He folds into two, his forehead meeting his kneecaps as he doubles over in torment, his lips parting to let tortured gasps escape, heaving breaths wheezing past the squeeze of his ribs. He thinks he manages to bring his hands to his face, to his temples, to his hair, clawing against his scalp as though to tear out his very consciousness itself.

§▼よ、◎◆±な¦◢ ★の¡▼よ、
☆め● ◇≈◤⊙⊿┅ ■□▅ な┋┳

Distorted alien strings filter into his mind, as agony bubbles inside his throat, as threads of unrecognizable words choke his tongue with their desolate desperation.

Another shuddering exhale is hollowed out from his already-hollow insides, as though sludge is crawling up from his legs and threatening to spill from his eyes. He wrenches his eyes shut in an attempt to keep the pain at bay.

And it’s then that he feels it, phantom claws sinking into him.

Burning itself into the insides of his eyelids is an image of a city at night. Yokohama. Underneath the pale moon, the tides rise and lick into the misted-over shores. Underneath the moonlight and beyond the glittering shores of Yokohama Bay, there’s the burning brimstone of hell on earth, black flames erupting over an entire island, beastly howls scorching the earth and obliterating the surroundings.

交際よ、汝陰鬱なる汚濁の許容よ、
更めてわれを目覚ますことなかれ

…Ah.

The lines have never left his lips, but he knows them, almost as intimately as he knows himself.

Chuuya’s I trust you, partner, is followed by this sequence, on worst case scenarios.

O’ acquaintances, grantors of dark disgrace,
Do not wake me again.

…For some reason that he’ll analyze deeper once his entire body isn’t being destroyed by beastly screams that rage inside him, he’s able to hear Arahabaki.

It’s such a disgusting joke that he almost laughs out of sheer absurdity.

But then, he hears it.

Rhythmic taps, that remind him of wooden clogs tick-tocking in an uneven gait as it traverses a cobblestone path lined with blooming red spider lilies.

And then, he feels it.

A hand too small, befitting a creature so tiny. A hand too strong and yet too gentle, even if the person who owns it is the one who wields the most violent force. Given their different organizations, it’s a very rare occurrence for them to be within such close proximity recently—but Dazai still remembers it clearly, in the same way that he still remembers every single twitch of those eyebrows, every single moment they’ve spent bickering during their missions. Sometimes, possessing such a powerful mind can be a hindrance.

Now, it helps him recognize Chuuya’s touch the split-second it falls on his back.

The burning hellscape inside his eyelids is doused with something that’s both cold and warm. Like raindrops after a long period of drought, like settling back to play games atop his futon after a long day of work, like discovering that they’re inside this safehouse that he’s purchased during his time as an Executive but hidden away from Port Mafia records. There’s the scent of woodlands and earthiness, of the moonlight layered over the calm oceans.

Dazai tilts his head to the left and opens his eyes.

Chuuya’s half-kneeling on the bed, his left hand making rubbing motions on his back, as his right hand follows the curve of his sweat-slicked forehead. Despite the blurriness of Dazai’s vision, he can easily read it: the genuine worry on his dog’s face, the deep furrow on the other’s eyebrow, the stormy emotion on the other’s eyes.

Dazai blinks to momentarily shield himself from such an intense sight.

When he reopens his eyes, Chuuya’s heart is still painted on his face, but it’s more manageable to look at now, because Dazai’s already prepared for the searing heat of that gaze. Still, he feels exposed, even worse than the fact that he’s wearing a paper-thin hospital gown barely held together by flimsy knots. It’s only now that he notices that he’s not embraced by bandages, the absence that he hasn’t felt since he could walk on his own feet. His heart pounds during that single moment of realization, but then he pushes down the feeling, because this is Chuuya. He’s just a sheepdog. He’s Dazai’s partner. He’s someone who’s seen all of his ugliness and hollowness, someone who’s looked at him and his wiles and called him a ‘shitty mackerel’.

He exhales.

The sound of his ragged breathing flicks a switch inside Chuuya, because the worry recedes and is replaced by something familiar: anger.

“What the hell is this?!” Chuuya demands with a too-familiar screech, loud and noisy and terribly alive. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, shitty Dazai!”

It really is so Chuuya, to demand an answer for everything with such an all-encompassing complaint. Dazai blinks and feels something warm inside him. Incandescent rage, with firefly-like flickers of something softer. Chuuya’s hand is still on his back, even though his other hand is already rubbing at a forehead as though merely breathing the same air as him is enough to entice a migraine.

“I don’t understand what you’re asking, chibi,” Dazai demurs. “Let me tell you this though,” he adds, but leaves it at that.

“What,” Chuuya grouses after a few moments of Dazai stringing him along.

“You have drool on your cheek,” Dazai then reveals, huffing laughter against his kneecaps when Chuuya starts sputtering while wildly rubbing his cheeks as though to destroy evidence.

It takes two minutes for Chuuya to realize, “You lied! I wasn’t drooling!”

“Nope, I have evidence,” Dazai parries, letting himself be lulled into the beats of their bickering as his mind works overdrive underneath. Everything is logical, everything is according to his plan. Death as he’s swallowed up by becoming the Singularity Point is within his calculations. Of course, he should have known that even the best-made plans are useless when there’s someone like Chuuya out there, who just won’t stop defying his expectations on times when it matters most.

…After all that effort to write Chuuya out of his script, after he’s gone out of his way to not even bother thinking about Chuuya as he makes his way to fulfill his plans.

It really is annoying, having to deal with such an unruly dog.

“Liar,” Chuuya accuses him again. “You don’t have a phone or a camera anywhere near you!”

“Mm, I’m smart enough to remember even the smallest details.”

“So you don’t have evidence!”

Dazai wonders how long will Chuuya keep on rubbing his back. It’s odd to bring it up, even odder to hesitate in bringing it up. Chuuya’s anchoring the two of them together, a gesture that reminds Dazai of Chuuya always being there to pull him back from the waiting arms of death.

…Oh.

Impossible, is his first thought.

But theirs is a world of Abilities, of gods and of humans who act like gods, of humans and of gods who act like humans. Of the fantastical and the extraordinary. Things start slotting into place inside his mind, explanations and conjectures weaving together to form a story.

Chuuya’s kneeling on the bed in such a way that he eclipses the afternoon light coming in from the window. That’s not enough to explain away the shadows underneath his eyes.

…There is only one explanation.

Dazai asks, “What do you see, when you let go of me?”

Chuuya blinks, seemingly taken aback by his question, but understanding easily forms a curtain over his expression. It’s kind of vexing, how easily Chuuya’s able to follow his multiple trains of thought. It’s the foothold of their partnership though, layered over the kind of trust that Dazai doesn’t know how not to want.

“…A vast darkness,” Chuuya ends up saying after a few moments of the two of them simply staring at each other. Blue eyes burn like starlight, brilliant and beautiful and beyond one’s reach. “Just a wide, empty space. Like I’m the only one in the entire universe. Like I’m surrounded by crushing loneliness.”

Given the conclusions that he’s arrived to, he’s already expecting something like that. Still, it feels unpleasant, to have it described in such stilted words. He’d rather swallow his own tongue than admit to the sting. So he lets out an airy, “Uwaaaa, so dramatic! Are you a chuuni? So embarrassing, uwaaaa…”

“You’re the embarrassing one!” Chuuya sputters and removes his hand on his back, as though to perform a live demonstration.

The distorted whispers return, but it’s muted, as is the body-wrenching pain. An explanation needles at Dazai’s consciousness, but it’s one of the rare times that he actually wishes that he isn’t so quick to draw conclusions. He comforts himself with the thought that this at least means that he can bypass a truly unnecessary amount of pain from doing a lot of trial-and-error.

It’s almost as though there’s a worm writhing underneath his skin. It carries with it a sticky sludge of disquiet concern, along with a wriggle of something that can be read as restrained violence.

He watches the interplay of emotions on Chuuya’s face, desire to throttle him warring with Chuuya’s default state of being a nosy busybody too used to being in the position of possessing power and carrying responsibility.

The whispers start to grow teeth, its confidence bolstered as seconds tick by.

If his guess is correct—and it always is, when it comes to him—then he’s somehow become tied to Chuuya. It’s a bit tacky to consider it as their souls binding, but it’s unbearably close. He gets the raw end of the deal, having to listen to the animalistic growls from Arahabaki not-quite-so-deep-asleep.

Really, it’s a wonder how the chibi manages to live his life if he has these phantom voices for company. It’s a wonder how he’s not driven insane from all the noise, all these whispered wishes clamoring for destruction. A lesser man would have succumbed to the seductive tendrils of destroy it, burn it, show them our power, especially since it’s not a mere delusion. Given how big Suribachi City’s crater is, even an unconscious flick of a finger is enough to decimate an entire zipcode.

It’d be so easy to simply hide himself away from humanity, abhorring the creatures that have tried to chain him down to utilize his power. It’d be so easy to simply destroy indiscriminately.

Apparently, even Chuuya’s inner strength is worthy of being called ‘the best’.

Chuuya’s eyes widen and he stumbles back, barely managing to right himself from dropping down unceremoniously on the chair that he’s pulled beside the bedside. A fierce blush burns on his cheeks, as he starts gaping like a particularly silly goldfish, hands flailing half in a chase for balance and half in… whatever a chibikko needs to do. Sounding strangled, Chuuya eventually sputters out a, “Y-Y-You, why are you suddenly…!”

Observing Chuuya’s flushed face brings with it a sudden deluge of intensity, like a giant, invisible wall is suddenly being kicked towards him and all he can do is be flattened by its appearance. Wonder and confusion, plus the littlest spark of something that he can’t quite decipher. Those same cocktail of emotions are now painted over on Chuuya’s face.

Oh.

He does a little test, keeps his lips on a firm line as he thinks about how he’s finally realized the reason for Chuuya’s certain characteristics. He’s too loud because he can’t hear himself over the voices, and the voices are loud enough that he can’t grow…

Irritation is added on the vein that pops on Chuuya’s temple, and on the weird burst of emotion that explodes on his chest.

…Oh.

Dazai straightens his back and grabs one of Chuuya’s wayward hands.

The whispers disappear entirely, as do the wall of emotion being punched into his chest.

…Oh, fuck no.

“Just what did you do, Chuuya?” Dazai’s fingers clutch at Chuuya’s bared ones, marveling at how spending years wearing gloves must have ensured that his skin remains soft and smooth. This, despite the fact that Chuuya regularly practices with hand-to-hand combat and several other things that should give him calluses. It’s almost like magic, if Dazai’s the sort to believe in such. Perhaps he should, actually, given that it’s nearly impossible to explain this bind they’re in, otherwise. “Did you actually do something, little fairy?”

The last that Dazai can remember is shutting his eyes to Chuuya’s nonsensical promises about forcing him to eat red spider lilies. He’s felt it, during that moment. The last strand of his life force slipping out of his body, siphoned into the Singularity Point born out of No Longer Human fusing with Crime and Punishment. He’s felt it, his heartbeat crawling to a stop, never to beat again.

His life has flashed then, before his eyes, a sepia-colored highlight reel of his experiences.

His parents abandoning him inside a place that has four walls and a roof and nothing else. Mori-san accepting him as a little apprentice with promises of having chemicals that can be mixed to form deadly drugs. Meeting a child that burns like wildfire underneath the light, while the soles of his feet are painted with the blood of the enemies he’s kicked to death. The missions upon missions in the Port Mafia as he chases after the meaning of his existence. Meeting OdaSaku and Ango and understanding friendship in a way beyond casual human observations. Realizing that there’s a way to coexist and admire someone who’s so different from him, outside of trying to ignore and crush him. Losing the friendship that he’s learned to make room for inside his hollow being. Finding a place that he actually wants to belong to, even as he’s still scrubbing off the bloodstains that stick so close to his skin.

And then, just as his breath fades—

That mission where Chuuya’s decided that the way to escape a labyrinth is to punch its walls.
That mission where Chuuya’s acted more reckless than usual, so they can return to Yokohama earlier than projected.
That mission where Chuuya’s lost a bet so by the end of it, he’s had to bow his neck and surrender it for Dazai to place a choker there.

Chuuya claiming that he’s come to see him on the Port Mafia’s torture room to harass him.
Chuuya telling him that he still trusts him, after all those years, after him turning traitor to the organization that he’s sworn loyalty to.
Chuuya defeating a Singularity Point made of at least 128 Abilities fused together, just so he can personally punch Dazai back to life.

—“You cannot die. I will not let you.”

Arahabaki is a being of great destruction, the god of fire, able to scorch the earth, the sea, the skies.

Right now, it seems that what it has destroyed is—even this world’s fabric of common sense and logic.

“Me?” Chuuya sounds disgruntled, even as he shifts his hand so that their fingers are intertwined more securely. He hops to the bed, crossing his legs and squeezing on the space near Dazai’s knees. “I’m the one who should be demanding an explanation!”

Dazai feels the back of his neck itch. Putting his conclusions into words is quite troublesome, but he supposes that since he’s dealing with a sheepdog here, it will be more efficient if he gives a briefing.

“Fusing Crime and Punishment with No Longer Human was the optimal way to deal with Dostoevsky’s threat once and for all,” Dazai starts, fixing his eyes a few inches on top of Chuuya’s head. The wallpaper is really old. It’s a surprise that the place doesn’t smell like mold, given that it’s been ages since he’s bought this. “Two opposing Abilities fusing together would have created a Singularity Point, just like with the dragon at Mukurotoride.”

Chuuya’s face is still filled with disgruntlement. Dazai sighs.

“Whatever you did during your interruption,” Dazai gestures with his free hand. “It’s somehow linked our… urgh, souls together. I could sense Arahabaki, along with your noisy emotions. And you… probably are the smartest you’ve ever been, since you’re now sharing my thoughts. Sadly, you can’t share my height, huh?”

Predictably, Chuuya screams, “Don’t bring my height into this!”

“We ended up forming a loop of sorts, so we’ll have to remain in close contact with each other so we’ll stop being bombarded by each other’s… thoughts.” Dazai lets out an aggrieved sigh. “Really! This is the worst! I’ll have to be in close proximity with a chibikko! And! If we’re connected, doesn’t this mean that it will automatically be a double suicide with a dog if I succeed?! The absolute worst!”

Chuuya’s staring at him, and Dazai resists the urge to squeeze Chuuya’s hand as hard as he could. He’d like to be able to crush those fingers, but he has a feeling that it will only backfire, because Chuuya’s physical attributes are all maxed out.

Dazai huffs as he makes another gesture. “Do you get it? Or should I explain using smaller words so your tiny dog brain can understand?”

That brings Chuuya out of his stupor. “…Shitty Dazai, that’s not what I asked!”

“…Eh? It’s not?”

“I know that already!” Chuuya exclaims, looking like he’s beleaguered just by listening to Dazai. “It’s obvious, after all!”

Dazai raises his free hand in a ‘stop’ gesture. “Ano ne, Chuuya, you’re not making sense. It’s impossible for you to have reasoned it out that quickly! You’re not good at riddles, after all!”

A click of tongue. “Riddles? Reasoning? There’s nothing to reason here!” A louder click of tongue. “It’s simple! That ball of energy was sucking out your life, so I just had to stop that by giving it mine!”

Dazai blinks owlishly at the strange creature in front of him. ‘Simple’…? “There’s nothing simple about that! You’re such a stupid chibikko!”

“You’re the one who overcomplicates things,” Chuuya accuses as he raises his middle finger and pokes Dazai’s forehead with it. “As expected of a fusion of Abilities that come from shitheads, the ball of energy was so fucking greedy! So I had to shove Arahabaki’s life force into it!”

…

…

…

It’s the first time he can ever remember being so speechless, he can feel that even his mind whirls to a stop. From the sheer idiocy, from the sheer stupidity, from the sheer audacity.

“I couldn’t let you fuck off and die just like that, could I?” Chuuya asks after a few moments of Dazai simply gaping in disbelief. “You still owe me a lot, I can’t just let you fulfill your dream of dying without me getting some payback!”

…

…

…

“…So you stopped me from dying? Because of… that?”

“That’s good enough of a reason,” Chuuya proclaims with a sneer.

“And you gambled to use Arahabaki?” Dazai is starting to get a headache. “If you used Arahabaki to seal that Singularity Point, can you still even use your Ability?”

Chuuya blinks and then, “Oh yeah, I couldn’t use gravity manipulation earlier.”

“…Stupid,” Dazai can only let out that word, because there really is nothing else to say.

Chuuya’s ruined his perfect plans for something so ridiculous as wanting to make Dazai pay him back for being played like a fiddle. As if he can ever get the upper hand on him! Chuuya’s effort is all for naught! And now, not only did Dazai’s perfect script get derailed, it’s also saddled them with an added headache of having to deal with a weird telepathic bond.

Urgh. It’s the worst day in ages.

“But that isn’t the point!” Chuuya recovers and pokes Dazai’s forehead again, hard enough to bruise. “You still haven’t explained it to me!”

“I beg to differ, I’ve explained plenty already, chibikko!”

“You’ve explained jack-shit!” Chuuya leans over and fists the lapels of the hospital gown, drags Dazai close to him. “Why the fuck did you not tell me?! Or your goody-goody two-shoes friends at the Agency?! Do you think I’m that big of an asshole like you, that I’d just let you die without a word?! And those stupid flowers! You think I’m the type of person who’d just abandon someone?! Even if they’re as shitty as you?!”

A pinprick.

A small inconvenience. Sharp, but only for the briefest of moments. Not enough to draw an absurd amount of blood. Just a whisper of pain.

Chuuya’s words, snarled right into his face, are just that: a pinprick.

And yet, he feels it all the same, a microscopic dent into the hollowness that makes up his insides. It makes his chest twinge, because he’s spent more than two decades encased in an armor of his bandages, of his mental walls. It’s not often that something is able to slither past his defenses, and so, even a tiny pinprick feels incomparably significant, that it hurts more than the still-healing stab wound on his gut and the ripped IV from his elbow.

Ah.

“…chibi, you’ve ripped off my IV.”

The anger inside impossibly blue eyes flares out for a moment, before sliding away, as Chuuya lets him go unceremoniously, before fussing over the torn IV.

Dazai doesn’t quite sigh in relief, but it’s close. He needs time to think about things and it’s very difficult with Chuuya demanding things from him that he doesn’t even know how to understand.

In the meantime, he contents himself with keeping quiet as he observes Chuuya acting like a dust-sized nurse, his curly reddish locks bouncing about as he flits around the room like a hummingbird.

Legend has it that bringing the beautiful and poisonous red spider lilies to one’s home is to invite fire and death into it.

Dazai closes his eyes.

Underneath his eyelids, he can see Chuuya burning everything in a sea of flames, until there’s nobody left but the two of them in the vastness of space, until Dazai has no choice but to face him head-on, stripped of any walls that he can shield himself with.

“…you truly are the god of fire, huh.”

Chapter Text

—   —   —   —   —
six
[our lives as an autumn poem]

Autumn is a season of change, of the transformation of greens into yellows and eventual browns, of a temporary death so one could come back to life.

…It’s also the season of chilly breezes that have no compunction ruining the pile of leaves that Chuuya’s painstakingly swept an entire afternoon for.

“Stop being so lazy and help me already, you shitty mackerel!”

Despite his words, Chuuya doesn’t really expect Dazai to help. Just like how great taste in hats is ingrained in his body, being a lazy bastard is tightly-wound within Dazai’s DNA.

Case in point, Dazai has the gall to yawn widely as he sways in the hammock installed on their backyard.

A hammock, by the way, that Chuuya’s installed for his own personal use. A hammock, that’s now five-days old and still hasn’t had the chance to be used by Chuuya. As it stands, hammock is being occupied by a lazy shithead snuggling into a thick fleece blanket, with his stupid head is laid atop a bamboo pillow that belongs to Chuuya. The OST of a particular game emanates from the phone in Dazai’s hands, coupled with faint pinging sounds.

“I’m busy burying Chuuya’s high score,” Dazai proclaims like it’s good enough of an excuse to skip over chores.

“You wish!” Chuuya scoffs as he gathers some rocks from the backyard so he can weigh down the pile of dead leaves. Gravity doesn’t respond to his call, even if he can still feel Arahabaki’s slumbering presence inside him. He’s never really realized just how convenient his Ability is, until he’s having trouble doing certain chores without the assistance from his power. One thing he never needs gravity for though is… “You cheating bastard, don’t you dare use some shitty hack!”

“There’s no need for me to cheat,” Dazai claims haughtily, like it’s absolutely beneath him to cheat. Chuuya knows better though – Dazai has zero scruples when it comes to using unsavory means just so he can rub things in Chuuya’s face. “I’m good enough to defeat a chibi that can’t even reach my ankles!”

Chuuya throws a rock towards Dazai’s ankles.

Dazai yelps, then whines like an oversized child. “Chibi is a muscle-for-brains as always! If I get a bruise, it’s up to you to carry me around, okay!”

“Lazy bastard,” Chuuya mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes in the face of Dazai’s noise. It’s not like he threw it all that hard, and it’s just a small rock. Urgh. He tells himself he’s just approaching Dazai so he can ‘refresh’ their connection, feed the strange bond that’s been formed between them, before it decides that Arahabaki’s enraged whispers need an additional audience.

Chuuya stomps towards where Dazai is swaying, and cradles the ankle that he hit, flicking the rock away. There isn’t a bruise, not even a hint of reddening. Really overdramatic.

Given that they’re in a safehouse that’s in a secluded area tucked away from most of Yokohama, getting supplies is quite difficult. That means that there’s not a lot of bandages that could be spared to make Dazai into a mummy on a daily basis; this means that Dazai has been upgraded from being a ‘bandaged waste of space’ to simply being a ‘waste of space’.

Chuuya pinches the skin there, ignoring Dazai’s bevy of complaints about him causing a disturbance in his game’s campaign. He’s glad to see that the sickly pale pallor that spoke of blood-loss has receded a lot, not that he’d say it out loud.

It’s been five days since Dazai’s woken up from his comatose condition, seven days since Chuuya’s sent them freefalling to Yokohama Bay.

Of the three phones that were in Chuuya’s possession that day, only Dazai’s had survived. The flowers taped at the back of it were mostly stripped of its petals, leaving only the thin stalks. As expected of a genius of Dazai’s caliber though, he’s apparently tinkered with his phone enough that it can outlast Chuuya’s official Port Mafia satellite phone.

In any case, it was hard work, swimming with Dazai in tow and not knowing if he’ll ever see land. He ended up on a vaguely familiar shoreline, near something that he dimly recognized as one of Dazai’s safehouses from when he was in the Port Mafia. Near Nojima Park, far south of Yokohama. Chuuya remembered the safehouse being tucked on an expanse of plains by the foot of a small mountain, with its views overlooking the sea. It was almost automatic, dragging Dazai with him as he inhaled seawater and exhaled exhaustion.

…Come to think of it, maybe he should have used that chance to snoop around Dazai’s phone, huh. Maybe checked if there’s anything he could use to tease the other. Maybe get a sneak-peek at some unflattering selfies? Not that Dazai’s the type who’d allow such photos to exist.

But at that time, Chuuya’s been so focused on trying to haul Dazai’s stupid ass to safety that he’s even unthinkingly surrendered one of his limitless black cards to the Agency’s doctor in exchange for her flying on a chopper driven by Hirotsu-san so she can check on Dazai’s condition.

That check-up was the first thing that clued them in to something strange at work. She noticed that Dazai was healing faster than usual—it rankled at Chuuya, that there was a ‘usual’, which meant that Dazai had been getting injured still, even if he was in a place far away from the darkness. And then, she pointed out that there was an odd tattoo on Dazai’s chest, something that was mirrored on Chuuya’s.

And then, it was decided that in the spirit of protecting Dazai and Chuuya from leftover sympathizers to Dostoevsky’s cause, they’d remain in this hideout. Underneath it is the implication that whatever strange power that’s at work between Dazai and Chuuya, they’d best solve it away from civilization, and therefore potential casualties.

…In any case, it all leads to this moment, to Chuuya suffering through the chores of making this bungalow, and its surrounding backyard, something akin to ‘livable’. After all, it’s one thing if it’s just a one-week mission. Chuuya can put up with dust and terrible interior decoration for a few days. But if it’s on an indefinite timeline…

Chuuya’s not about to agree to long-term living in an ugly house, damn it.

But then, with Dazai being the laziest person in the entire planet, it also means that the past five days is mostly spent with Dazai bemoaning his injuries and milking it for whatever it’s worth, while Chuuya’s the one who’s stuck trying to air out the rooms.

“…Chibi, I’m hungry,” Dazai pipes up after a few moments. There’s a shit-eating grin on his face, the look of someone who’d willingly bully someone to feeding his sorry ass. “Why are you spacing out while touching my feet? You can’t grow tall even if you rub it, you know?”

Chuuya’s eyebrow twitches as punches the other’s calf.

It’s just been five days but it already feels like his stress levels have aged him by fifty years.

—
—
—
—
—

Dinner that night is some roasted rabbit, the traps that Chuuya’s laid out around the perimeter of their backyard yielding him some small game.

Staying here cooped up in a safehouse comes with the unspoken guarantee that the Port Mafia and Armed Detective Agency will spare a few agents to help guard them from a distance, despite the epic clusterfuck left behind by Dostoevsky’s plans needing 1000% of their attention.

That said, Chuuya’s wary to depend so much on it. Not because he doesn’t trust their capabilities. Not only because the Rats have a long-proven knack for infiltration.

Dazai’s injury is still sore, even if the person himself acts with the usual level of nuisance. With him not having his gravity manipulation—anymore? in the meantime?—it’s going to be difficult to suddenly fly back should the safehouse be attacked while he’s out getting them food or other supplies. With Dazai’s pathetic level of physical combat skills, it just is more trouble than its worth, so Chuuya supposes he can wait until Dazai’s better until he can scout the nearby mountain.

“A sheepdog has caught a rabbit,” Dazai murmurs as he examines the meat on his plate. “Aren’t you cruel against your fellow tiny animal?”

“Keep that up and I’ll send you to the bottom of the ocean with your fellow fish,” Chuuya retorts as he passes Dazai the saltshaker, not waiting for the other man to ask for it.

Pausing briefly, Dazai blinks at him at that, before letting their fingers brush together as he takes it and sprinkles an unholy amount of it over the roast.

Chuuya clicks his tongue at the display of truly terrible taste, but doesn’t bother complaining about Dazai’s tastebuds. It’s been like this since they were in the mafia, Dazai’s love affair with ajinomoto, that Chuuya’s half-convinced that Dazai’s eventual corpse will not need a drop of formaldehyde to preserve him for a funeral, because his body is too saturated with preservatives already.

And then, the thought of Dazai as a corpse has him clicking his tongue again, his grip on his chopsticks tightening enough that they creak in protest, even without gravity lending him additional strength.

Dazai stretches out a leg under the table and nudges his foot. “Aren’t you tired of always being so angry, chibikko? That’s why you’d never grow, you know?”

He sucks in a breath as he’s reminded that on top of Dazai having excellent skills when it comes to reading body language, their souls are bound together so the other can sense the hot knife of anger that stabs into him whenever he thinks of Dazai sinking into death’s embrace. He kicks back against Dazai’s foot, light enough that it won’t end up accidentally toppling off their dining table, a small wooden thing with wobbly legs.

…As expected of a safehouse chosen by Dazai, it’s cloaked with an aura of dreariness, like Dazai’s chosen it just for the sake of having something that has four walls and a roof, not minding things such as livability and comfort. Actually, Chuuya doubts if Dazai even recognizes this place.

Dazai’s memory is possibly enough to rival a supercomputer’s—given his propensity of not letting go of even the smallest of things so he can tease Chuuya with them even years into the future—but Dazai’s also prone into cataloguing things based on their usefulness, so him not even bothering to try to remember this place is well within his personality.

This place is not listed in Dazai’s dossier, not in his expense reports. Chuuya’s only discovered this place after Dazai’s gone AWOL. Not that Boss Mori mobilized the Executives to chase after Dazai. It’s out of Chuuya’s own volition, because he’s not about to pass on an opportunity to beat Dazai up on a one-on-one fight the moment he’s not part of the mafia anymore—which means that he wouldn’t be disobeying orders about ‘behaving properly’ and ‘being nice to his partner’.

…Back then, Chuuya’s has approached this bungalow, alone and accompanied only by a sense of abject alienation, like he’s arrived at a place that reeks of apathy, like he’s all alone in a sea of darkness.

It’s brought him such a strange feeling that he’s decided then and there that he’s going to make this place a dumping place of odd knickknacks, that he’s going to pay for its bills so it won’t rot into itself entirely, and that he’s going to check on this place every the anniversary of Dazai’s betrayal and celebrate with a nice vintage wine while he sits on the garden and enjoys the view of the mountains, the plains and the seas.

Back then, Chuuya’s never expected that he’d be occupying this place alongside Dazai.

Dazai nudges his foot again, raising an eyebrow at him suddenly falling into a pensive silence. Chuuya kicks back, mildly relieved that their skin maintained contact as he reminisced, because he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know what kind of emotion would make its way to Dazai, especially since even he himself is at a loss.

“Don’t bring my height into this,” Chuuya ends up growling.

Dazai looks satisfied at that, drawing his foot back to settle on top of his own slippers. “Aside from the chibikko’s height and tacky sense in hats, is there anything else to him?”

“At least I’m not a suicidal asshole with a stinking fish ass!”

“Ah, is that so?” Dazai asks with a hum, followed by an obscene smacking sound as he chews his salt-infested roast rabbit. “And you’ve sniffed my ass, hmm? Such a dog, really.”

Chuuya lets their usual round of insults and banter flow, his heart squeezing against some phantom sensation the entire while.

—
—
—
—
—

Autumn brings with it considerable amount of rainfall still, even if most of the recent typhoons avoid making landfall in the Kanto region. That means that the next couple of days are spent with the two of them holed up inside the bungalow, making do with canned goods and attempting to coax the heating unit into not being so temperamental.

The already-spotty cell reception is exacerbated by the rolling thunderstorms. The last message that they’ve received on Dazai’s phone is from Hirotsu-san, telling them that a group has splintered off from the House of the Dead, fanatical in their devotion to take up the flag that Dostoevsky has been rallying his troops under. An unspoken ‘it’s too dangerous here for a couple of injured people, so stay put’.

Without gravity manipulation, Chuuya has to drag a couple of chairs under him to form a stable base, as he tries to reach for the airconditioning system.

“Ah, why don’t we have popcorn for this?” Dazai asks rhetorically as he sits cross-legged on the bed. Proving that he’s a piece of shit through and through, despite being the taller one between the two of them, Dazai doesn’t even bother trying to lend him a hand in his endeavors. Instead, he’s content on using up his phone’s charge by videoing his struggles to reach the vents and try to fix it so it stops sputtering wet air every thirty minutes. “Oh, chibikko, if only you were five centimeters taller…”

“Oh, shitty Dazai, if only you weren’t such an asshole,” Chuuya gripes as he stands on his tiptoes and prays to all the deities he knows that the chair that he’s standing on wouldn’t suddenly wobble—or more importantly, that Dazai wouldn’t do something that will cause him to topple down like a sabotaged Jenga puzzle. “Stop just watching and help me!”

“Are you sure?” Dazai’s tone is dripping with doubt; since that they’re currently not within touching distance, Chuuya can readily feel the waves of mischief and mirth radiating from the shitty mackerel. “Are you sure you want me to help you?”

Chuuya harrumphs, “I wouldn’t ask otherwise!”

And maybe he shouldn’t have, because the next thing he knows, Dazai’s hands are on both sides of his hips, an attempt to steady him on top of the chair that he’s using as a temporary stepladder.

…Given that being picky about clothes isn’t in their priorities, and that most of the clothes that have been stashed here are fit for Dazai’s size, since this is Dazai’s safehouse to begin with—the shirts that Chuuya’s been stuck with are all rather oversized. Despite the fact that it should theoretically mean that he should have more surface area covered by clothes, it actually makes Chuuya more exposed, since the bagginess leaves too much space for Dazai to slip his stupid hands inside, touching his skin directly with icy fingers, thereby jolting him and making him lose balance.

Chuuya kicks out and flails, but it’s already a lost cause, resulting in him losing his footing and his sanity in the process. He drops the screwdriver from his grip and he cascades backwards, drawing a shriek from his throat and a grunt from Dazai.

It’s just a split-second.

There’s a loud thud as the two of them crash against the wooden floor of the single bedroom of the bungalow.

“Ow, you’re such a heavy chibi,” comes Dazai’s immediate complaint, “What kind of rabbits have you been eating?”

Chuuya sits up quickly, avoiding placing too much pressure on the healing wound on Dazai’s gut. “You idiot! Did you hit your head?!”

“You really are very heavy,” Dazai continues. “It’s probably a sign that you have too much muscles.”

“What if you get concussed?!” With that yell, Chuuya bulldozes past the nonsense from Dazai’s mouth and moves to inspect the back of his head, fingers weaving through brown hair sticking up like a bird’s nest. He finds that the back of Dazai’s head is warm against his thighs, despite the cool weather. Thankfully, aside from Dazai’s swollen ego, it seems that his head doesn’t have any bumps or swelling. He unceremoniously shoves Dazai’s head off his lap once he’s sure it’s okay, moving to half-kneel beside his torso, flitting quickly to lift Dazai’s shirt up so he can check if the gut wound has reopened. Only once he’s satisfied with the check does he deign to scold the bastard’s actions. “What the hell were you thinking?!”

Dazai blinks at him, looking dazed. Voice low and gravelly, “I was thinking that you are quite ticklish, hmm.”

“You are a dumbass,” Chuuya responds sincerely. Dazai’s a genius when it comes to complicated strategies, sure, but he’s also the biggest and most ridiculous idiot that Chuuya’s ever known. “You’re lucky I didn’t land on your wound!”

Another blink. Slightly pink-cheeked, Dazai simpers and suddenly pitches his voice high, “Aw, is Chuuya worried about me?”

Half-kneeling beside Dazai’s prone form on cold, uninsulated wooden floors, Chuuya can see the other trying to goad him into irritation.

It’s nothing new, since it’s Dazai’s usual mode of operation. Especially if he’s faced with something in the vicinity of human decency. Not even when encountering something so sweetly soft as tenderness—Dazai’s always flinched against the possibility of genuine care, coming from him. As though the absence of vehement violence from Chuuya’s actions is more hurtful than getting burned alive, as though he expects Chuuya’s actions to be a blade hiding under silk.

It’s—almost unfair. Chuuya’s seen him with his two drinking buddies, so he knows that Dazai is capable of not being a complete asshole, even if only in short bursts. That Dazai can’t seem to accept the tiniest measure of kindness, of something as basic as decency and civility, when it’s coming from him, is something that burns an unpleasant trail of acid in his gut.

“Of course I’m worried,” Chuuya opts for frankness, this time.

He’s never liked the thought of lies, but his interactions with Dazai over the near-decade that they’ve known each other have made him grow wary of revealing too much of himself to the other, knowing Dazai’s propensity of gathering information and making use of them in the most damnable of ways. Right now though, it’s just the two of them. And if his hunch about the permanence of the bond that has been forged between them is correct, then it’s going to be the two of them for the rest of their lives, however short or long that may be.

They’re two complete opposites, and as such, there might never be a time when they’d ever meet and merge completely. But like this, they’re two parallel lines that will accompany each other to go on forever.

Dazai’s eyes are huge as they stare up at him, unblinking.

There’s something electric in the air, something that feels like seconds away from sparking off and catching fire. With his knees pressed against Dazai’s ribs, there should be no way that he can sense Dazai’s soul. But Chuuya can feel something else, a thread that cannot be snapped, pulling him in with a force that almost seems like the gravity that he’s lost control over.

Lightning crackles outside.

Ceiling lights flicker, before going out entirely.

…Ah. So that’s the electricity that he’s sensed.

Darkness shrouds the room, but Chuuya can still see the glow of Dazai’s eyes as they remain trained on him, as though the sudden blackout is inconsequential. Silver streaks of light spark against the windows in intervals, occasionally providing some light. Chuuya can feel lightning on his fingertips. It’s with an electrified jolt that he suddenly springs to his feet, overcome by an urge to open some distance between them.

“Because you’d be more insufferable if your wound reopens!” Hasty words leave his mouth, almost on autopilot. He avoids looking at Dazai’s form, flat on the floor. “J-Just stay put there and I’ll go find candles, shitty Dazai!”

It’s not quite running away, but it feels terribly close.

Chuuya’s heartbeat refuses to settle back down, a beastly something that’s different from Arahabaki awakening inside his ribs.

—
—
—
—
—

Avoiding the only bedroom in the house, Chuuya dawdles by the open plan living area until he can’t put it off anymore. It’s nearly eleven in the evening according to the cuckoo clock mounted on the wall closest to the dining table.

The clock is old enough that there are only faint dying shrieks coming out from the one-winged bird—something that he’s picked up from one of his missions to Nagoya. He remembers it clearly—well, perhaps not the mission that’s just one of the many out-of-town missions blurring into each other, during the first year of his freedom from being considered as soukoku’s half.

…Not that he’s ever really managed to free himself from it, because it’s something that has marked him so thoroughly, that the word ‘双黒’ is already nestled deep within his bones, sinking him further into the sensation.

Of being considered as a pair with someone,
Of being connected to someone real, to something tangible in this world,
Of being anchored into humanity so that he won’t be swept away into the ‘other side’ where gods roam.

Remembers it clearly: walking back from a successful mission, one hand on his phone as he types out a text message to the extraction team so they can provide him transportation. Remembers it: free hand itching for a cigarette, but the steady downpour has drenched the pack that he brought along with him. Remembers it: the cold mist of the air he breathes into his lungs as he ambles along the dimly-lit sidewalks of Nagoya’s underbelly, the tiredness of non-stop missions soaking into him faster than the raindrops plastering his hair against his face.

It’s when he sees it, the broken clock that chirps futilely as it rests on top of a dumpster. Two odd cries in the middle of the night.

It’s on a whim that he picks it up.

双黒.
—a pair of darkness.
soukoku.

At that point in time, Chuuya has swallowed that partnership and left it to fester inside of him. At that point in time, they’re not a pair of anything anymore, and Dazai has left to find the meaning of life someplace that’s illuminated instead of being buried underground. It’s only common sense, after all, if one is trying to find something, one should do it with the aid of light. There’s no point in searching for something while flailing around uselessly in the dark.

And so, at that point in time, soukoku is no more.

There’s only Nakahara Chuuya, Port Mafia Executive. He’s become soukoku instead, him and Arahabaki inside of him, twice the density of darkness, a black hole in itself. A god and a human, a mortal vessel and an immortal force, two opposite entities that are fused together in a singular point, the only successful fruit of the experiment to chain the gods to the world of humans.

Still—

It’s not as though his connection with Dazai has been severed, at least, not completely.

No, like this, it’s just been replaced with something else.

Beyond things such as light and darkness, what connects them now is—

—A poke.

Chuuya blinks.

Again, Dazai pokes him on his cheek, squishing his face in the process. Back in the Port Mafia, Dazai’s haunted the hallways with his all-black regalia. Now, wearing a loose white shirt and even looser gray pants, he looks like a particularly ethereal ghost.

“I know I did say that you’re probably the smartest you’ll ever be now…” Dazai’s eyes are bright even though the only light that filters in through the windows are from the occasional bursts of lightning. “But thinking isn’t your forte, you know? Brooding doesn’t suit a sheepdog like you.”

Annoyed, Chuuya can only retort and try to swat the offending finger away. “I’m not brooding!”

“Well whatever it is you’re doing, stop it,” Dazai says snootily, avoiding the swipes of his hand and simply poking the other cheek, as though having one’s face poked should be granted to both cheeks, an equal opportunity kind of madness.

“Don’t order me around!”

Dazai’s complaint is delivered with a pout. “Your attempts at thinking is hurting my brain!”

“Tough luck then,” comes with a sneer. “Why the hell are you here?!”

“I’ve come to fetch you for bedtime,” maintaining the snootiness, Dazai makes an offhand gesture with his free hand towards the cuckoo clock. “You’re already so short, aren’t you afraid you’d shrink if you don’t get enough sleep?”

“There’s no way I’d shrink?!”

“Oh, I don’t think you should chance it.” Dazai shakes his head. “If you shrink even more then I might just end up stepping on you?”

Of course, as Dazai says those words, he actually moves closer and steps on Chuuya’s feet. In retaliation, Chuuya angles a light punch towards Dazai’s right shoulder. Lightly, because it’s more trouble than it’s worth to accidentally punch Dazai through the opposing wall; Chuuya’s not looking forward to adding another home improvement project to his list.

…But then…

“Are you here because you couldn’t sleep because of Arahabaki?” Chuuya raises an eyebrow. “You, who can sleep through a goddamn bomb exploding meters away?”

“I’m here to fetch a dog for his bedtime,” Dazai insists, taking him by the elbow and steering him out of the living area and towards the short corridor that leads to the bedroom and its adjoining bathroom. “See, I’m even doing something like this out of the pure goodness of my heart!”

“The only pure thing about you is your pure shittiness,” Chuuya points out snidely, even as he lets the point of contact between their skin wash over him. The strange lonely hollowness leeches out of him—ah, so the pensive mood from earlier is due to Dazai’s solitude affecting him.

He nearly trips over his own legs as he’s faced with that realization. He’s only saved from the embarrassment by virtue of years of honed instinct and extensive balance training. Dazai only lets out a questioning hum at his near-stumble, one hand still hooked over his elbow.

“I’m now, what do you call it? A goody-goody two-shoes,” Dazai teases.

“That what you’re calling it now?” Chuuya asks, chuckling slightly. “I thought you’re now what they call ‘unemployed’.”

Dazai pauses, his grip on his elbow tightening. He tilts his face sideways, fixing Chuuya with a probing stare. Chuuya meets it, arching his eyebrow higher. Eyelids falling to a half-mast, Dazai murmurs, “…Chibikko’s been gossiping, huh?”

Even without the bond between their souls, Chuuya isn’t stupid enough to not sense the odd tension on Dazai’s expression.

The two of them arrive to a halt by the doorway leading to the bedroom, Dazai’s hand faintly trembling against his arm, the back of Chuuya’s neck tingling as they stare each other down.

Electricity is still out, everything mostly blanketed in darkness. The corridor’s walls are bare, covered in peeling wallpaper that doesn’t match with the one inside the room—actually, the entire bungalow seems to have been decorated without any sense of unity, all mismatched furniture and paint. Dazai is seemingly unbothered by it, but over the past couple of weeks, Chuuya’s felt the other’s spikes of something that can only be called discontent at some of the décor, at the unreliable nature of the airconditioning system outfitted on the bungalow, at the creaking cupboards at the kitchen pantry. Of course, given that Dazai is Dazai, he freely runs his mouth to say a lot of inconsequential things, but keeps silent on things that he actually has a modicum of investment on.

To put it simply, it drives Chuuya nuts.

Just like now, where Dazai is obviously unhappy about something, but is too much of a chickenshit to actually say something about it.

Like, Chuuya’s not a stranger to getting his weakness exposed and then betrayed for it, but that’s not good enough of a reason to just, what, give up on things entirely! It really makes him so irritated!

“That lady doctor from the Agency’s the one who told me,” Chuuya says while tugging his arm out of Dazai’s hold. Dazai sways along with him, not letting his limb go. “I didn’t snoop around your phone or anything like it! I’d probably burn my eyes at the shit that you’ve stored there!”

A beat, as Dazai continues to stare and observe Chuuya under the scarce lighting. And then, “Ah. Yosano-sensei, huh.”

“Whatever it is you’re thinking, stop it,” Chuuya copies Dazai’s words from their earlier conversation. “She probably felt it prudent to warn me that you’d be a giant mooch.”

Dazai blinks. “Mm, thanks for calling me a ‘giant’, chibi.”

“It’s supposed to be an insult, dipshit.”

“Does the mafia have so much money that they can afford paying you even when you’re out here, playing house with me?”

“Oh, wouldn’t you know all about that?” Chuuya takes the lead in entering the bedroom, as soon as he’s felt the tension recede from Dazai’s form. The grip around his elbow slackens, fingertips catching against his skin, before falling away entirely.

Beyond the windows, there’s still the drumbeat of rain and the occasional lightning strikes. The airconditioning system is still not fixed—which means that they’re bound to endure an entire night of coldness. Chuuya’s not a stranger to harsh conditions, but he’s heard that the cold doesn’t do any favors to deep stab wounds…

He approaches the lone bed, a single, Western-style that’s seemingly repurposed from an infirmary bed. Below its left side, lies the thin futon that Chuuya’s been using over the past couple of weeks. He’s eschewed settling on the living room couch, citing unbearable lumpiness, but it’s really more because of security reasons. Without gravity manipulation, it’s going to be harder for Chuuya to immediately come to Dazai’s rescue should he suddenly be kidnapped by the remnants of Dostoevsky’s organization in the middle of the night. Better to eliminate possible problems before they can even arise—in the simplest of ways, by simply sleeping near Dazai.

…In any case, there are two blankest folded atop the futon, blankets that Chuuya picks up and settles by the foot of the single bed that he’s inadvertently reserved for Dazai’s use.

“…What are you doing?”

“You’re blind now?” Chuuya clicks his tongue. “I’m not simply ‘playing house’, as you put it. No housemate of mine is going to die of hypothermia, got it?”

Dazai breathes in sharply, the sound stark in the scant space separating them. He’s leaning against the now-closed bedroom door, an oddly vulnerable presence compared to his usual. Like this, he really does look like an ethereal ghost that’s about to slip past Chuuya’s fingers.

“You’re the one who’s going to become an ice cube,” Dazai points out after several moments of the two of them simply staring at each other.

Chuuya rolls his eyes, “I’m not that weak. I’ll survive one cold night.”

“…You would, wouldn’t you?”

That’s the end of their conversation for the evening.

Or at least, it should have been.

Quarter of an hour later finds Chuuya tucking himself into his futon, the cold of the wooden floors seeping past the mattress, and the cold of the autumn rainstorm bearing down on the folding duvet. That’s not the surprising part.

No, the surprising part comes with the long arm that slithers down from the raised bed beside him, fingers hanging right above Chuuya’s nose. Chuuya resolves to ignore it, but as all things related to Dazai, he’s just too attuned to the other’s presence that he only lasts three minutes. Of course, that can be probably attributed to the fact that Dazai spider-walks his fingers all over Chuuya’s face, stabbing against his eyes and plugging his nostrils.

“What the hell?!” Chuuya sputters out eventually when Dazai tries to pluck an eyelash off using his fingers. “I’m gonna fucking bite your hand off, damn it!”

“Uwa, just like a dog,” Dazai moans sleepily, “uwa, uwa, chibikko is such a dog, uwa~”

“Quit your ‘uwa’-ing, asswipe! I’m trying to sleep!”

“It’s so cold,” a plaintive note creeps into Dazai’s words, “how is it that my sheepdog has a lot of energy despite the cold? Even though he’s so short…”

A shrieked “My height has nothing to do with it?!” escapes Chuuya.

“Oh!” Whiplash-quick, Dazai recovers. “So you do admit that you’re my sheepdog!”

Blood pulsing on his temples, Chuuya rubs his forehead and sighs, “Just go to sleep.”

“Arahabaki’s making a racket inside my head,” Dazai says neutrally. “Complains about the cold.”

Chuuya pauses in rubbing his forehead. He blinks up at the ceiling, too dark to see anything clearly as the lightning has simmered down. Aside from the sound of his breathing, his hyperawareness of Dazai’s, there’s the rhythmic pounding of the raindrops against the roof over their heads.

Still, even with all that noise, Chuuya’s able to hear Dazai’s underlying message loud and clear.

After all, Arahabaki is a being of fire. Things such as autumnal rainstorms is not even worth mentioning—they’re merely paltry attempts at dousing the black flames. No, there’s no way that Arahabaki is feeling the effects of the cold.

And so, this must be Dazai being typical Dazai.

Too chickenshit to be upfront about his own desires, even if they’re something as harmless as asking for Chuuya to help him by sharing body heat.

…Really, Dazai is such a…

Chuuya closes his eyes briefly, lets out a sigh that sounds intimately close to being filled with fondness. He gingerly stands up, swatting Dazai’s offending hand away, before crawling atop the bed while avoiding kneeing Dazai on his left gut. The right side is fair game though, and Chuuya not-so-accidentally digs his elbow there as he makes himself as comfortable as possible, given that Dazai’s all thin, sprawling limbs.

“Stupid single bed,” Chuuya gripes after two minutes of failing to find a position that won’t end up with him rolling off the bed.

“It should be just fine,” Dazai fires back. “There’s only one person here, after all. Oh, and one tiny bug.”

“I’m gonna kick you off this bed. I really will.”

Despite his words, Chuuya carefully rearranges his limbs so that his head is resting more securely over the crook of Dazai’s neck. This way, if Dazai makes too much of a fuss, he can just bite the other’s throat off and end his misery. Chuuya feels Dazai tilting sideways, so that they’re side-by-side in an attempt to conserve the meager space they have. Because he’s such a cold-blooded snake, Dazai’s limbs are practically freezing.

In sharp contrast to the way that Chuuya’s always been rather warm, mostly impervious to winters. Probably thanks to being a vessel to Arahabaki. So, his limbs are warmer than most people. So, it only makes sense that he can share his body heat, right?

…It’s only because he’s not willing to cuddle with an ice cube.

Chuuya shuffles closer, so that not even a sheet of paper can be lodged between their bodies. He lets his right arm curve over Dazai’s waist, lets his ungloved hand splay out over Dazai’s back, a burning star radiating warmth in the middle of the vast plains. He feels Dazai mimicking his actions, feels Dazai’s hand slowly be warmed by their temperatures meeting each other at a halfway point. He intertwines their legs, even if it tickles a bit, Dazai having coarser leg hair compared to him.

With how close he is to Dazai, he can feel every rattling breath that Dazai takes, every pound of heartbeat, every train of thought that flies from the other’s busy mind.

Despite it being far from comfortable, at least compared to the king-sized bouncy mattress that he has on his penthouse suite, Chuuya feels himself rapidly falling asleep, something that could even called peace permeating following him even until his dreams.

The last coherent thought Chuuya has is that he hopes tomorrow is sunny, so he can visit the nearest town together with Dazai, so they can choose furniture for their house, furnish it with décor that Dazai won’t disdain, and maybe, even get some flower seeds for their garden.

Chapter Text

—   —   —   —   —
seven
[the god of fire]

…Noisy.

It’s very noisy.

Blades of an aged ceiling fan wobbling as they whir unsteadily overhead,
Birds chirping outside as they clamor for the earthworms that rise from the wet ground,
Boisterous clanging against the bathroom sink, forming the beat accompaniment to an energetic voice belting out a made-up song that feels terribly familiar.

Instead of the grating sound of claws against a chalkboard,
Instead of the torturous pleas of souls pushing against each other to reach salvation,
Instead of the clockwork certainty of death beckoning to him from the other side, as he traverses a path lined with red spider lilies—

It’s very noisy.

He’s never woken up more peacefully in his entire life.

Arahabaki is a being of great destruction, the god of fire, able to scorch the earth, the sea, the skies.

Right now, it seems that what it has destroyed is—

Dazai opens his eyes and sees sunshine clawing past the bedroom window, splashing into the peeling wallpaper, spilling into the wooden floors. Power’s returned sometime over the night and the airconditioner is set to a comfortable room temperature. By his side, there’s an indentation against the thin mattress, the bunched up blankets marking the spot that Chuuya’s vacated in favor of performing a private concert in the bathroom, the sound of it akin to birdsong. He pats the space and finds it still warm. His arms feel strange, almost empty in a way that’s starkly dissimilar to the gaping emptiness that he’s always felt in his soul.

Right now, he actually feels buoyant.

Like he’s absorbed the gravity manipulation from Chuuya, like he’s gained phantom wings, like he can fly.

It’s so very weird.

It’s so very weird, in a way that he’s not sure how to take.

He rolls out of bed, because this strange feeling must be due to the chibikko, somehow.

Chuuya’s always claimed that he’s got a lot of problems due to Dazai, but has he ever thought how much he’s inconveniencing Dazai, just by existing? It’s very irritating trying to fit him into his plans, after all. Chuuya’s the most powerful weapon in his arsenal, one of the most predictable too. And yet, Chuuya’s also prone to outbursts that suddenly remind Dazai that he’s got one foot securely on ‘the other side’, that he’s a vessel to a god, that he’s not a mere star but instead a supernova and a black hole in one.

…In short, the shortstack is annoying.

Dazai nods to himself at that conclusion, hissing slightly at the cool temperature of the wooden floors as he meets it with bare feet. His slippers are nowhere to be found. Ah, Chuuya must have stolen his pair. Of course, Dazai’s already predicted that, which is why last night, he’s preemptively hidden Chuuya’s slippers under his mattress, an advanced payback.

He tiptoes on his way to the bathroom, where Chuuya’s continuing to sing his own composition, Japanese smattered with English and French words every other line. The door is slightly ajar, so Dazai toes it open, intent on poking a squishy cheek so he can get rid of the strange floating feeling ballooning inside his chest.

So that’s how he ends up walking into Chuuya crooning into his toothbrush in front of the bathroom sink and mirror, while wearing only his boxers, the oversized shirt nowhere to be seen.

...

…

…

He swallows hard.

This is hardly the first or even the fifteenth time that he’s seen Chuuya in various stages of undress. Part of being partnered together in various life or death situations comes with a lot of injuries, and therefore shared spaces as they attempt first aid on each other. That’s not even counting the number of times they’ve had to share a hotel room. That’s definitely not counting the number of times Dazai has deliberately sneaked in on Chuuya’s room in preparation for some prank, usually under the cover of nighttime and with it, Chuuya’s propensity to sleep in thin, skimpy clothing during the sweltering summers.

So, no, he’s not surprised about seeing Chuuya half-naked in front of him. Even if Chuuya looks sillier than usual, with toothpaste smudged on the side of his mouth and sleep-lines crisscrossed on his forehead.

What attracts his gaze is the red scar on Chuuya’s chest, right above his heart.

It’s as big as a fist. Bright red like a burst of blood, like it’s a result of a phantom hand reaching in and plucking Chuuya’s heart out—it’s a tattoo of a red spider lily in full bloom. A beautifully cruel mark that mars the otherwise mostly-unblemished skin, because Chuuya’s gravity wall is able to repel most attacks, while the ones that manage to find their mark heal quickly.

“Oh, you’re finally awake,” Chuuya greets him cheerfully, blushing under the bathroom lights, but soldiering on in an attempt to breeze past any teasing from Dazai regarding his impromptu concert. “Go on and take a shower, so we can go to town after breakfast.”

Dazai’s mouth is dry, so he has to clear his throat and lick his lips, before, “Why, Chuuyahua, are you learning how to ask your owner to take you on a walk?”

Usually, that kind of teasing is a surefire way to distract Chuuya, but he seems cheery enough to not be bothered by those light insults. Chuuya only rolls his eyes and wags his toothbrush at him. “I’ll be nice and let you choose the living room décor, okay?”

Dazai almost stutters out a, “But, decorating a house means—”, but he’s able to swallow his words back to his stomach. He reminds himself that Chuuya is an idiot who watches too much television in the name of doing research as to how to be a relatively normal human being. He’s probably seen too many home renovation shows and is wanting to apply the things he’s seen to real life. It doesn’t mean that he’s actually going to stay here, far away from the expensive wine shops and far away from his precious Port Mafia.

Anything I would never want to lose is always lost.
It is a given that everything that is worth wanting will be lost the moment I obtain it.
There’s nothing worth pursuing at the cost of prolonging the suffering.

This is Chuuya wanting to play house during his surprise vacation time. This isn’t Chuuya setting out to subvert Dazai’s expectations of what a house would be. This isn’t Chuuya telling him that a house can be beyond a mere four walls and a roof and nothing more.

He can’t get sucked into this inescapable black hole.

He breathes in. And out. He unclenches the hands he’s inadvertently ended up curling into fists.

Once he’s sure his breathing is even, Dazai offers a light, “Then I want 24-karat gold everything.”

But really, he should have known that Chuuya’s prone to messing up his plans, like a really unruly dog. Chuuya looks bewildered, one arm reaching back to idly scratch his back, as he says, “But you hate gold.”

Dazai blinks, about to instinctively retort, “gold is the best”, just to contradict Chuuya. But then, he realizes that he actually quite hates gold. It’s not something that he’s wasted time trying to think about, but it’s apparently something that Chuuya’s picked up on.

How very strange.

His chest feels tight, like there’s something inside that’s about to burst. Perhaps he’s allergic to the thought of Chuuya knowing more than he’s allowed him to, even if it’s for something inconsequential as his preferences in décor.

“I want the most expensive ones then,” Dazai amends his statement, delighting in Chuuya rolling his eyes again as a response. With how much Chuuya rolls his eyes, it wouldn’t be surprising if his eyeballs simply roll out of his skull. Dazai follows up his cheeky request with a, “I’m feeling too lazy to go out, though. Can’t you just order things online?”

“And what, leave a trail for our enemies to follow?”

“Going out to town will also attract attention.”

“I already checked with Hirotsu-san,” Chuuya reveals, sounding inordinately smug as he shows off that he’s capable of a semblance of foresight. “There are shops that we can go to where there’s no CCTV or anything. And they can spare some guys from Minamoto’s squad for additional eyes.”

“Uwaaa, Chuuya really wants to be taken out on a walk, huh.”

“Go take a shower already,” Chuuya repeats, eyes burning bright blue.

Dazai’s interested in what Chuuya’s so excited to buy. Still, it’s always more fun to try and needle at Chuuya’s short-like-his-height patience, so he whines, “But I don’t waaaant to moooove~~~ If Chuuya wants to shop around, he can do it himself~~~”

Another roll of eyes, and then Chuuya’s smacking his hand over his chest. Aggrieved, he then says, “I cannot leave you here alone, dumbass.”

…Ah.

So that’s it.

The balloon inside his chest deflates rapidly, the buoyant feeling disappearing.

Mirroring the red spider lily imprinted above Chuuya’s heart, there’s a tattoo on his chest as well. Dark green with blue veins, dark enough that it looks black on certain angles—there’s a cluster of stalky leaves over his heart. The leaves of the spider lily.

Together, the tattoos on their chests would form one complete plant.

It’s a reminder, that right now, their lives and their souls are split into two.

…Of course, that’s the only reason why Chuuya’s acting gentler than usual. He’s always been very vocal about his hatred for Dazai. Nearly ten years. Chuuya’s hated him for nearly ten years and it’s illogical to expect it to suddenly change, simply because he’s gone ahead and ended up linking their souls.

Chuuya’s always called him a ‘vagabond’ and a ‘suicide maniac’—he’s probably expecting that he’d try to catch up on trying new suicide methods should they be separated for a day. It’s not an unreasonable expectation, so Dazai doesn’t begrudge him for it.

It’s not unreasonable, and yet, something hurts, a lot.

Something that feels like he’s—

“—a piece of shit!”

…

…

…

“…Ah. You punched me,” Dazai says, in broken wonder. Chuuya doesn’t have gravity manipulation on his side anymore, but he doesn’t need such things when it comes to physical combat. He’s always been the strongest martial artist in the whole of Port Mafia, and that’s with him providing the handicap of not using his Ability during sparring sessions. Still, Chuuya’s movements just now are lightning-fast, not leaving room for him to dodge.

“Damn right I did!” Chuuya grouses, looking very aggrieved. “You were thinking a lot of bullshit, weren’t you?!”

It should be easy. Weaving words and schemes together to form a web of manipulation is one of his greatest strengths. Managing a situation to his advantage is part of his hallmark as the demon prodigy. It should be easy, but looking at Chuuya now, practically spitting fire into him, both hands fisting his collar to drag his face close enough that their foreheads could knock against each other…

Dazai can’t find the words to say the things he plans to say, much less figure out the things that he really wants.

Instead, all that manages to squeeze past his throat is a faint, “Worried, chibi?”

“Of course, I’m worried, you shitty mackerel!” Chuuya shakes him by his collar, like he’s merely an oversized limp ragdoll. “I can’t just leave you alone!”

That’s right. Of course, Chuuya’s worried that he’ll end up trying to test the ceiling fan’s blades. Of course, Chuuya’s worried that he’ll end up doing something that could rebound to him and Arahabaki. Of course—

“I don’t have my Ability now,” Chuuya continues, oblivious to the bewilderment that surely must be radiating from him, to the way that he’s dismantling the worldviews that Dazai has gathered from his observations of humans, of life and death. “So! If you’re left here and Dostoevsky’s minions come for you, then I can’t—”

Here, Chuuya cuts himself off, but he doesn’t sever their eye contact, looking up at him with such vibrantly blue eyes, the azure of the skies on a cloudless day, the sapphire of the calm, unfettered oceans. Chuuya’s hands are on both sides of his neck, bunching up his shirt as the two of them breathe into each other, the closest they’ve ever been outside mist-covered cities, outside dark-shrouded rooms.

“Didn’t you want to shred me to pieces?” Dazai echoes Chuuya’s words from that day.

That day, when he’s shown up to the spot where he’s predicted Chuuya would land, a metamorphosed Icarus with wings burned not by the sun or the god of fire, but by the sheep that envied his strength to fly. That day, when he’s witnessed Chuuya make an expression that’s the closest he’s ever had to a being from ‘the other side’, to a wild beast with eyes the color of hellfire. That day, when he’s felt that he can achieve any sort of victory as long as he has Chuuya by his side as his dog.

Of course, many things have changed over the years.

Dazai just didn’t expect that Chuuya’s promise from that day would be one of those things that are capable of changing.

Chuuya’s grip slackens a bit from his collar. Hushed voice that feels impossibly loud in this space that’s simultaneously too tight and too distant: “…I still want to kill you, just so you know.”

“Then—”

“It won’t do if someone else does it.” Chuuya’s stubborn determination sets his words ablaze, making Dazai feel like he’s going to be burned by the god of fire. “I can’t let anyone else kill you.”

Dazai swallows, but his throat still feels dry, the ball of fire in front of him burning everything around of him. His tongue feels heavy inside his mouth as he whispers, “You don’t make any sense, Chuuya.”

Chuuya’s fists around his collar trembles briefly, before letting him go. Chuuya takes a half-step back; Dazai sways on his feet, seemingly pulled into the other’s orbit. With an expression that looks half-embarrassed, Chuuya says, “I’m still getting used to not having gravity manipulation.”

Dazai’s breath catches on his throat, as he waits for Chuuya’s next words.

“…So, while I still don’t have the full power to protect the things I care for…” Chuuya trails off, visibly wrestling with the words that he needs to get out of his system. Typical Chuuya, really, opening his mouth even before he’s suitably composed himself. A kind of single-mindedness that Dazai has avoided allowing himself to envy or admire. “…What I mean is, I don’t have the power to cross great distances right now, so I can’t just, what, run to you if you need me to rescue you. Like a shitty Snow White!”

Sporting a blush made more luminous by the fact that his eyes are also looking vibrantly blue, Chuuya attempts an authoritative tone when he’s so obviously flustered. “…So, if you’re beside me, then it wouldn’t matter if I can’t run to you! That’s why! Do you get it, shitty Dazai?!”

…Ah, as always, Chuuya acts so silly and nonsensical. Ridiculous in all senses of the word. An anti-thesis to being an anomaly, on being a god on earth, on being Arahabaki. A vessel to a catastrophic being shouldn’t be this stupid, but here Chuuya is in front of him, incredibly flushed and terribly small, glaring up at Dazai while demanding that his words be heeded.

Doesn’t Chuuya know?

People only want Dazai tethered whenever they want him to do something for them, when it’s for the sake of ulterior motives.

Dazai’s parents chained him to them under the same family register, under the name ‘Tsushima Shuuji’, parading his unique Ability to interested organizations and then leaving him in a too-empty house that had paper-thin walls and an even thinner mattress and a too-low roof. And then, once they’ve pulled a too-large target on their backs, they’ve given him a puzzle to solve, a simple labyrinth to get out of: to take a step out of the flimsy cage and face society on his own, when all he’s ever known is the taste of shadows and death.

Mori-san lured him in with promise of chemical poisons, in order to entrap him into working for an organization he does not despise nor does he care for.

His friendship with OdaSaku and Ango did not involve getting tethered into the bar, their drinking sessions more of a result of schedules coinciding rather than any of them deliberately arranging things ahead of time. His employment at the Armed Detective Agency did not involve any of them forcing him to remain there.

…Still, a good amount of the humans that Dazai has ever known all exist with masks over their faces, masks over their motives that need to be scrutinized and broken, just so he can understand them and place a tiny bit of trust in them, all while leaving himself with the possibility that they’d eventually become lost to him.

Almost unbidden, Dazai finds himself raising his hands, palms curved over the lines of Chuuya’s jaw, the jut of his cheekbones.

A tiny burning star, right there in front of his eyes.

Chuuya may not have ‘For the Tainted Sorrow’ active, may not have the power to manipulate gravity right now, but he still has it in abundance, pulling him in and collapsing every single barrier that Dazai has built over the years. Chuuya’s wish to tie them together is so simple in its selfishness and so selfish in its simplicity and Dazai can’t find it in himself to escape.

—you can’t escape gravity, no matter where you go and what you do.

“…What are you doing?” Chuuya asks him in confusion, when Dazai doesn’t do anything aside from breathe deeply, while keeping his hands splayed over his cheeks.

I’m trying to peel off your face to see if it’s simply a façade, Dazai doesn’t say. His cheek throbs from the pain of being punched from earlier, but it pales in comparison to the strange ache that bubbles inside his gut.

“It’s cold,” Dazai says instead. He even sneezes right at Chuuya’s face for extra authenticity. “I’m just using your blushing face as a heater for my hands.”

Chuuya sputters denials, but Dazai simply laughs at him, focusing on the warmth that seeps underneath his skin.

—
—
—
—
—

In just a blink of an eye, it’s time for them to write New Year’s postcards, Chuuya apparently gung-ho enough about this tradition even in the era of emails and instant messages.

“I heard it’s tradition,” Chuuya insists as he brings him along to the only stationery store within a thirty-minute walking distance. Chuuya then adds, “I’ll cook a lot of crab for dinner if you stop whining.”

“Well. If Chuuya puts it that way…” Dazai promises while crossing his fingers behind his back.

Today’s weather forecast promises little to no snowfall, which bodes well for the huge dinner that they’re hosting later this evening. Chuuya’s long, exhaustive list of home improvements does not include extending the bungalow to make room for a grander dining room. Primarily because it’s just the two of them in that house most of the time, anyway. Their backyard is mostly cleaned up, complete with fences that Dazai has been roped into helping set-up, and it’s going to be where their guests will be.

…In his opinion, Mori-san can go and sit on a cactus, maybe two cities away, but Chuuya’s promised compensation in the form of a month’s worth of meals worthy of five-star restaurants, so…

“Don’t poison anyone later, okay?” Chuuya tells him as the two of them start their stroll towards town. Despite being technically part of Yokohama, this area is sparsely populated, filled with more trees than houses and more animals than people. As such, they can openly bicker about Yokohama’s underworld without attracting attention from neighbors.

Mock-aghast, “Chuuya, I will never let myself be caught!”

“It’s not a matter of being caught or not!”

“It’s not?”

“It isn’t!”

Chuuya tries to swipe his legs off with a sideways-kick, but it’s done slowly and predictably, that it’s easy for him to avoid. Dazai ends up going in front of his dog, walking backwards on a path that he’s come to memorize over the past three months that they’ve been doing their daily walks.

After all, Dostoevsky is already awake and in the government’s clutches. Reports say that he’s been very instrumental in hunting down the remaining members of his organization, but Dazai can’t find it in him to care so much if it’s done as willingly as they’re all made to believe.

…Ah. Maybe he can send him a New Year’s postcard.

After all, the postcard tradition is meant to tell others whom they did not often meet that they were alive and well.

Nothing would drive in his victory sweeter than telling Dostoevsky that he’s alive and being fattened up by a chibi who’s proving to be much better as a chef than at play-acting as a heartless mafioso.

He grins to himself. Writing postcards is kind of a pain, but imagining the thorough defeat on Dostoevsky’s face upon receiving a postcard from him…

“Oi. You’re thinking of something shitty, aren’t you?” Chuuya looks unimpressed as he interrupts his daydreaming. “I’m telling you, it’s already bad enough that we’ll have that jinko around with Akutagawa! You don’t need to meddle and make things worse!”

“Fufufu, Chuuya, why must you think the worst of me?”

“Because you’re literally the worst,” comes the very flat-toned answer.

Dazai raises a hand over his heart, faking a fainting spell. “Oh, whatever will I do? My honor is being besmirched!”

“Honor?! You?!” Chuuya ends up guffawing hard enough that he’s practically folded in half, clutching at his stomach, tears on his eyes. “That’s the funniest shit I’ve heard all year!”

“Uwaa, I’m hearing some barking sounds, but I can’t even see anything!”

Chuuya says helpfully, “Try using your eyes?”

Dazai blinks comically-wide eyes, “Uwaa, I see a tiny, tiny cockroach that I want to crush!”

“You bastard—!”

Chuuya ends up chasing him all the way to town, the two of them trading insults the entire time.

—
—
—
—
—

There’s a small mountain of offerings—housewarming gifts from the folks from the Agency, non-monetary bribe from the government so that they’ll keep quiet about the entire debacle about Dostoevsky’s war and the role of top government officials, some means to show off wealth from the Port Mafia—by the spot on the end of the corridor that has been repurposed by Chuuya as a walk-in closet.

Thankfully, said closet has remained mostly devoid of an entire parade of tacky hats. Most of the clothes inside are the ones that Dazai had bought a long, long time ago, when he’s first bought this place as a safehouse that nobody would think to link to him.

…Really, it’s a wonder that Chuuya’s nose has been able to sniff this out as something belonging to him. As expected of a dog, his sense of smell is really leaps and bounds ahead of a human’s…

Most of their dinner guests are carpooling together, and nearly all of them have left an hour ago, because the roads can get rather slippery late at night. Ango’s literally drawn the short end of the stick by getting stuck with driving Mori-san and Fukuzawa-san together. Dazai definitely does not want to know if the two will provide the same drop-off address for Ango, even if the gossip potential is very high. Hirotsu-san has the next least-enviable job, which is driving back a car that has both Akutagawa and Atsushi in it—though, Dazai’s pretty sure that Hirotsu-san’s gone through worse experiences.

The only ones left are Kouyou, Yosano, Ranpo and Poe. Ranpo, because he’s still recovering on the living room couch from gorging on too many handmade sweets. Poe and Yosano, because they’re the ones responsible for getting Ranpo back home safe and sound.

…Though Dazai has a feeling that Yosano’s also staying back because she’s built some sort of rapport with Kouyou…

In any case, Dazai lazes around and bypasses the small pile of dishes on the kitchen sink. Kyouka, Atsushi and Gin have joined forces to bully Akutagawa to using Rashomon to help with the clean-up earlier, so it’s not like there’s a lot of chores left behind.

Not having a lot of things to do just gives him a lot more time to brood over things. It’s such an odd dinner, in that it didn’t feel all that odd to be surrounded by people both from the side of the light and the underbelly of Yokohama, that it didn’t feel strange to have people who are so different, mix together without someone getting hurt.

He finds himself walking around the house, wallpapers all changed into a color that doesn’t hurt his eyes to look at, half of the furniture built by Chuuya while he tries to distract him, the other half a fruit of their bickering over shopping catalogs.

More than a mere collection of walls and a roof, it’s a mix of their choices and preferences.

—nothing is purely white, just as nothing is completely black.

Perhaps, like this, is how to live a life as a human being.

Dazai finds himself stopping underneath the broken cuckoo clock, the only thing remaining in this house that hasn’t been rebuilt or refurnished one way or another.

I want to see Chuuya, flares inside him, unreasonable but persistent all the same. Chuuya’s just out talking with Kouyou on the backyard. It’s not like he can’t see Chuuya soon.

Still, he feels dizzy as he ducks away from Yosano’s teasing gaze and Ranpo’s knowing one. He keeps his footsteps light as he goes out the porch and approaches the spot near the hammock, the area that Chuuya’s reserved for his flower garden. Since it’s the height of winter, none of the flowers that he’s planted—chrysanthemums, cosmos, red spider lilies—are blooming, making Chuuya’s form stand out against the pale, frosted background. The moon hangs on the horizon, providing the backdrop for Chuuya’s visage.

Light snow has started to fall, but Chuuya and Kouyou don’t seem to notice, as they continue to talk.

“—not going back, Chuuya-kun?”

Quickly, Dazai hides himself behind one of the pillars as he eavesdrops.

That’s right, with Dostoevsky’s threat gone and with Dazai’s wound healed over completely, there’s not a lot of reasons for Chuuya to remain here, far away from his wine shops and from his penthouse suite filled with his tacky hats. Far away from being a Port Mafia Executive, where he has enough clout and respect that it’s not surprising if he’ll become the next Boss once Mori-san finally steps down.

Someone with power should fulfill their responsibility to use his power to protect others.

That’s been Chuuya’s principle while he’s been tied up with the Sheep, a king atop a throne made of wax that’s unable to withstand the flames from the god of fire, melting under the burning gazes of greed and jealousy from the flock of sheep that he’s protected all his life. Right now, Chuuya may not have an Ability, may not have the greatest capability for catastrophic violence, but he’s still very powerful, strong enough to protect Yokohama as the guardians of the night and underworld.

The bond between them has grown to be more manageable recently, very rarely bombarding him with alien-like mantras and visions of great destruction from Arahabaki. With Dostoevsky’s threat gone from this world, there’s bound to be less life-threatening situations for the both of them, so Chuuya going back to the Port Mafia shouldn’t affect their bond too much.

…Chuuya leaving, huh.

It’s logical, but it’s not easy to swallow.

Chuuya’s voice is light as he responds with a, “…Ane-san, we just finished the plans for extending the house and adding a guest bedroom.”

A beat.

Floored, Dazai nearly ends up exposing his eavesdropping upon hearing those words.

That means—

Kouyou regains her composure after a few moments. “…‘we’, huh?”

“This house is as much as that shitty mackerel’s as it is mine.”

“I did a little digging,” Kouyou sounds slightly apologetic. “This house is registered under ‘Tsushima Shuuji’. Will you be changing the registration information?”

“We haven’t talked about that,” Chuuya says with a shrug. “But I’ll probably have to move some of my things out of the suite.”

Kouyou’s expression is sharper than her blades, under the moonlight. “Just some of your things?”

“I’d rather not have to go to a hotel if we need to visit you in the city,” Chuuya replies with another shrug. In contrast to Kouyou’s sharp countenance, he looks soft enough to blend with the nature on the background, the moonlight casting an almost luminescent glow over him. “…So, Ane-san, you don’t have to hold my position as an Executive.”

“We’re already reserving Dazai-kun’s,” Kouyou says dismissively. “One more seat doesn’t matter.”

Chuuya chuckles. “Is that so?”

Dazai remains there, but his ears are filled with cotton, filled with the sound of his pounding heartbeat, filled with something that he can’t explain. He doesn’t manage to hear everything else that the two Port Mafia Executives are talking about.

All he can focus on is looking at Chuuya, the full moon behind him providing him a pale halo.

Right at that moment, all he can think of is that—
—the moon is especially beautiful tonight.

—
—
—
—
—

April brings with much warmer weather, along with the promise of teasing Chuuya about yet another year of which he doesn’t grow a single centimeter taller.

“One more year~♪” Dazai singsongs as he kneels on the mattress, the rolling metal table filled with intentionally-botched breakfast by the foot of the bed. “One more year of you being stuck as a chibikko~~~♪”

Chuuya sighs deeply as soon as he’s woken up by the racket that Dazai’s causing. “What kind of curse are you giving me this time?!”

“I don’t think you should blame me for your pitiful height,” Dazai says with a grin as he moves to pinch both of Chuuya’s cheeks, rendering his early morning yelling unintelligible. “Now, go and eat the breakfast I made for you~!”

Another sigh. “Let me amend my last will first, if you’re planning to kill me today.”

“How rude! I didn’t add a lot of poison in it!”

“You shouldn’t be adding any poison to begin with!”

Chuuya slaps his hands away from his face. How rude, really. Because the house only has one bedroom—the newly-built guestroom doesn’t count—and said bedroom only has so much space, the two of them are sharing a king-sized bed. And sharing a bed with Chuuya over the past couple of months has brought with it a lot of bruises, because Chuuya tends to flail around while asleep.

But does Dazai complain about them? Yes, he does, very often and very loudly. And how does Chuuya repay him? By complaining about getting a poisoned birthday breakfast? His chibikko is so very rude.

“You’re thinking shitty things again, aren’t you?”

“I’m thinking about you,” Dazai says breezily. “Ah! That means you admit you’re shitty!”

“Urghhhhhh…”

“Now, don’t be like that! I have a present for you, after all!”

Chuuya looks terrified. “Oh my god, I’m really going to die today, aren’t I?”

“You should be honored,” Dazai plows on, ignoring the look of horror on the chibi’s face. “There’s nobody alive who can claim that they’ve received a gift from yours truly!”

“Because they all died!”

Dazai wags a finger in front of Chuuya’s nose. “Now, now, there’s no evidence backing such slanderous accusations~”

“Urghhhhh…”

“You get to ask me to do one thing today,” Dazai proclaims, smirking down at Chuuya. “Of course, I’m not doing any chores, anything that can make me sweat, anything that I don’t feel like doing, anything that I veto.”

A roll of eyes. “Basically, you being your usual lazyass self.”

Dazai has an actual gift stashed, but he’s still strategizing how to give it to Chuuya for maximum impact. It doesn’t help that he’s starting to second-guess himself if it’s something that he’s actually willing to give, given how it would mean. He’s always called Chuuya a silly dog, but he’s also a very intuitive one, even without the bond between them. If it’s Chuuya, he’d definitely be able to read into the gift, perhaps deeper than he’s prepared for.

…But, he can think more about that later.

For now… “By the way, there’s a time limit to your gift! It will expire in ten seconds!”

“What the hell?!”

“Nine, eight, seven…”

“You’re such an asshole,” Chuuya complains as he tries to shove Dazai off the bed.

“Four, three, two…”

“Urgh, fine, help me cut my hair!”

“One, eh...” Dazai blinks. “Why did you say it before the gift expired?”

“Summer is coming soon and my hair is getting too long.” Chuuya finally sits up, and slaps his chest. His hair is the longest it’s ever been, close enough to touch the middle of his back. “If you shave off my hair, I’m gonna gut you, got it?”

…It’s such a strange thing to request for. Dazai feels giddiness flooding his veins.

“Ne, chibi, I won’t promise that I’ll do better than last time…”

The first and last time Dazai’s ever had to cut Chuuya’s hair is during the aftermath of that labyrinth mission. Chuuya’s lost the bet during that mission, and his punishment is having to permanently wear a choker of Dazai’s choosing. A choker that he’s still wearing now.

Back then, Chuuya’s hair was long enough to cover his nape. Dazai didn’t want Chuuya to cheat by using his hair to cover the choker from everyone’s view, so he also added a stipulation that he’d style Chuuya’s hair so that he couldn’t use it as a veil to hide his neck and nape.

“…It’s fine,” Chuuya says with a roll of his eyes. “I already expect you to botch it.”

“Ah, reverse psychology? That won’t work on me, fufufu.”

“No, I’m just telling you my expectations.”

Dazai chuckles and tries to pinch Chuuya again so he can get rid of the strange thrum of nervous energy in his system. “Then, we’ll do it after breakfast!”

Breakfast is surprisingly peaceful, even as Chuuya mock-gags on every bite of the toast. It’s not actually poisoned; Dazai is banking on placebo effect so Chuuya will do all the hard work and give himself a stomachache on his birthday.

Once they’re done eating, the two of them situate themselves on the bathroom, Dazai pulling Chuuya to sit inside the bathtub, while he props himself on the lip of the tub.

“Aren’t you supposed to wet my hair first?” Chuuya asks in askance once Dazai starts to comb through his hair using his fingers.

“Tsk, tsk, dear customer, you’ve only asked for the haircut.” Dazai doesn’t think that it needs to be wetted. It’s soft and smooth enough, without much tangles, even though he’s such a wild sleeper. “If you wanted the shampoo service, you should have specified it on your order!”

“I’m regretting this already,” Chuuya says, though he bows his head down slightly, as Dazai makes himself more comfortable, sitting with both of his legs on either side of Chuuya. It’s a tight fit, but it’s times like these that it helps that Chuuya is such a petite person.

Dazai tugs at the asymmetrically long hair strand. “No complaints are accepted for the free Dazai Special.”

Chuuya grumbles, but doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t let out any protests with Dazai reaches forward and unclasps the choker, bares the pale strip of skin to his gaze.

…Really. Chuuya is such an idiot. Even when Dazai’s not around to keep track of him wearing a choker permanently, he still continues to honor their bet. It results in a very pale line of skin—with an odd indentation in the middle.

Right there, in the middle of Chuuya’s nape, is a raised scar. The spot where the microchip from the government that tagged him as A5158 used to be embedded. It’s been removed, but the scar remains.

Before the tattoo of red spider lilies over his heart, it’s been the only mark on Chuuya’s skin for so long.

Dazai traces it with his fingertips, feels the hitched breath that Chuuya takes.

He remembers it—back then, wanting to collar Chuuya to show him and everyone else just who holds his leash. Wanting to cover this proof that Chuuya’s been marked by someone else. Wanting to establish some sense of ownership, some sense of triumph over everyone else who thought they could obtain Chuuya for themselves, despite knowing that he could never get away with tattooing his name or even ‘双黒’ over his nape. Wanting to shear off the wool that Chuuya’s cloaked himself with in order to pretend to be amongst the sheep when he’s really made of a wolf’s fangs. Wanting to cut Chuuya away from reminders of his experience at being a king with his power and kindness taken advantage of.

Right now—

He has Chuuya right in his hands.

Not Arahabaki, not the Port Mafia, none of them can take him away from him. Not anymore.

Dazai exhales, then starts slowly trimming Chuuya’s hair. It’s addicting, this kind of trust that Chuuya places on Dazai, and he’s never really learned how not to want it, and at this point in his life, it’s probably something he’ll never be able to do.

And maybe, maybe, that’s just fine.

It doesn’t take long until he’s blowing off the fine hairs that have clung to the back of Chuuya’s oversized shirt. Something that Chuuya’s continued to wear when it’s just the two of them inside the house, even when the walk-in closet is already filled to bursting with Chuuya’s tacky clothes.

Dazai closes his eyes briefly to steady himself, before, “Stay put, chibi. I have to get something.”

“You’re not putting bubblegum on my hair,” Chuuya warns, but does as he’s told.

Dazai’s heart pounds hard against his ribs, and he hastens to get the gift that he’s hidden away in the guestroom. By the time he returns to the bathroom, Chuuya still hasn’t moved, keeping his position with his head bowed down slightly, eyes closed and looking so serene that he almost looks like a painting come to life.

With his gut coiling in on itself, Dazai’s footsteps tick-tock against the bathroom tiles in his approach.

In his hands lies the cuckoo clock that’s been on their dining room for the past few months. It’s been broken for so long, a one-winged bird with an off-tune call, yet it still manages to do its job and tell the time. It’s been broken for so long—and now Dazai’s fixed it.

He’s unable to restore it to how it looked like years ago.

He remembers it.

Back then: staying under the radar while Ango works hard in futile atonement by clearing his records of his wrongdoings as the Port Mafia’s youngest Executive in history. Back then: getting wind of news that Chuuya’s been burying himself under non-stop missions that take him all over the world, as though he’s avoiding setting foot in Yokohama. Back then: going to Nagoya on a whim, after calculating the time and place that Chuuya will be at.

Back then: buying a cuckoo clock from one of the souvenir shops in the train station. Back then: thinking that Chuuya would look at the gift and probably think that Dazai is calling him a nagging, annoying tiny bird who regularly lets out noisy chirping. Back then: thinking of being soukoku and what it means.

双黒.
—‘黒’ to mean ‘darkness’.
—‘双’ to mean ‘pair’, derived from the expression ‘of having two birds in one hand’.

Even if back then, it’s only Chuuya walking alone under the rain without using an umbrella, surrounded by the mist and the dim moonlight. Even if back then, the sight of Chuuya being surrounded by so much melancholy has caused his chest to hurt so much that he’s discarded the idea of making an appearance in front of the other, not when he himself still has one leg deeply entrenched in the darkness. Even if back then, he’s ended up throwing the cuckoo clock away, and he’s ended up on the first train back to Yokohama without managing to alert Chuuya of his presence.

He’s never wanted to be chained to something, to someone.

But, back then and even until now, the two of them will always be soukoku.

And he’s grown to like it—

Being considered as a pair with someone,
Being connected to someone real, to something tangible in this world,
Being anchored into humanity even if he’s considered an outcast in many senses of the word.

He may be unable to restore it to how it looked like years ago, but he personally thinks this looks much better now, with two birds instead of one.

“…Oi, I’m falling asleep here,” Chuuya complains, while dutifully keeping his eyes closed, sensing that Dazai wants to surprise him. “What the hell are you preparing, shitty Dazai?”

Dazai ends up laughing despite his apprehension, despite the niggling worry that Chuuya will look at this gift and only see the solitude from that time. “Chuuya, even if you sleep more, it’s not like you’re going to get any taller, you know?”

“Stop cursing me! Akutagawa just sent me some multivitamins that could help boost one’s height!”

“Wow, you’re really desperate, huh,” Dazai teases as he makes brisk strides to approach the tub. He sits on the lip of the tub again, but this time, he’s facing Chuuya directly. “If you’re getting vitamins from super-healthy Akutagawa-kun… really, you’re hopeless.”

Chuuya’s mouth twists. “The moment I end up being taller than you, I won’t have mercy on you!”

“That will never happen in a thousand years,” Dazai says flatly. “If you end up taller than me… Fufufu, I can’t even think of such a scenario.”

“Urghhhhh.”

“Okay, you can open your eyes, chibi. I think we can hang this on top of our bed, ne?”

“If this is some prank—” Chuuya pauses as he registers the clock presented in front of him. He starts blinking rapidly, as though he’s having a hard time processing the sight. Then, he looks up at Dazai, all wide-eyed wonder. “Y-You, you, you—”

That reaction.

The realization that Chuuya doesn’t dislike it brings a wave of relief that Dazai can’t quite contain. He feels himself smiling, lopsided and without a hint of guile. He takes Chuuya’s trembling hands and places the fixed clock on his palms with careful gentleness. Chuuya’s hands—and entire body, actually—are shaking so badly that Dazai has to steady his hold on the gift by cupping his palms over his hands. It won’t do if he ends up dropping the clock and breaking it after his painstaking work, after all.

Chuuya’s still stuck with mostly wordless spluttering, so Dazai widens his smile as he teases, “Oh, how pitiful. Twenty-four years old and still stuck with such limited vocabulary.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Chuuya’s voice pitches high, like air has been squeezed out of his lungs.

Dazai nods in satisfaction. Fixing antique clocks is surprisingly difficult, but he shouldn’t have doubted his genius, really. “I really am one-of-a-kind, huh?”

“You were there! In Nagoya!” Chuuya continues, focusing on the wrong thing, as always. “And you just watched me get drenched in the rain! You didn’t even offer me an umbrella! You’re such a piece of shit!”

Dazai blinks, then his smile grows wider, unbidden.

Right now, with their hands folded over each other, enclosing his tiny gift, he can’t use the bond to sense the emotions coming from Chuuya.

However…

Judging from Chuuya’s furious blush and the obvious amazement in his eyes, it’s safe to assume that he likes the gift and that he’s agreeing with Dazai’s unspoken request for the both of them to move on from the four years of separation that they’ve had.

Right now, they’re complete as soukoku, the pair of birds back in one hand.

…And then, Dazai hides a chortle under a cough. Of course, Chuuya’s all happy right now. But Dazai’s looking forward to tomorrow morning, when Chuuya’s woken up at four in the morning by the mechanical birds that he’s reprogrammed to chirp ‘chibi, chibi’ instead of the usual cuckoo’s call.

…Oh.

Maybe like this, with him starting to look forward to so many things, maybe it’s actually a good thing that he’s failed in all of his suicide attempts leading to today.

Maybe, just maybe, he’s ended up absorbing Chuuya’s strength, that he’s able to be the littlest bit stronger, that he can hope for happiness without expecting it to be ripped away from him.

For now, though—

“Okay, you have to thank me for such an amazing gift by cooking a nice lunch!”

“I’ll shove you to a boiling pot! Also, that’s not how gifts work!” Chuuya yells, but it doesn’t really mean much, since they both know what the other means anyway.

—
—
—
—
—

“I’m back,” Chuuya greets a gravestone perched on a cliff overlooking the expanse of Yokohama Bay.

Beside him, Dazai corrects him with a, “We’re back.”

“I’m back, and a shitty mackerel has tagged along,” Chuuya amends as he sweeps off some wayward dry leaves away from the grave using the back of his hands.

“Randou-san, you might be wondering why the chibi hasn’t grown any, despite it being years,” Dazai kneels beside Chuuya and lays down his offerings, some lopsidedly-knitted gloves that he’s been making over the past two weeks. The quality is rather abysmal, but he consoles himself with the fact that Chuuya’s own attempts at knitting aren’t any better. “Actually, I’m wondering too. Maybe he’s actually a tiny fairy, like Thumbelina?”

“Shut it, bastard,” Chuuya says, but without any great heat. Their elbows knock together as they clean Randou-san’s grave, the same way that they did to OdaSaku’s grave earlier today.

Autumnal Equinox Day is a public holiday usually reserved for visiting graves of one’s ancestors, but Dazai has no desire to approach the graveyard that’s the placeholder for his parents’ bodies, while Chuuya pretty much only has the folks at the Port Mafia and Randou-san who could be considered as his elders.

…Dazai’s been doing preliminary research about Arahabaki’s shrines, but there’s no rush in visiting them. Chuuya seems content with the life that he has at the moment—making a veritable forest out of their backyard, mastering different cuisines, working remotely to inspect the Port Mafia’s finances and oversee their training plans—and Dazai finds himself being intimately close with that kind of contentment too.

They spend an hour sitting there together, the autumn breeze curling around them, tinged with sea-salt and the scent of the autumnal flowers in full bloom.

“We’ll be back,” Chuuya tells Randou-san’s grave just before they leave.

Dazai closes his eyes briefly, before bowing down again. “Next time we come here, Chuuya’s going to carry me because this is so far away from the main road, Randou-san!”

“Lazyass bastard!”

“Chibi hatrack.”

“Insufferable asshole!”

“Slimy slug.”

“How am I a slug?!”

“Let’s see, you’re small and squishy and drools a lot?”

“Squishy?! Y-You’re the one who’s squishy!” Chuuya accuses hotly, reaching down to pinch off the pudge that’s been developing around his waist. “You’re the one who keeps on asking for another serving!”

A year ago and it’s unthinkable that he’s going to enjoy eating so much that he’d want to eat more meals compared to drinking alcohol or trying out poisons. Now, he’s actually growing fat. It’s so surreal.

Dazai reaches up and retaliates by pinching Chuuya’s cheek. “Squishy chibi.”

“Urghhhhhh.”

The two of them continue bickering, even until they meet up with Atsushi, Akutagawa, Gin and Kyouka. They’re there ostensibly to babysit and provide damage control, because a shrine visit is not supposed to come along with bloodshed, a very real possibility with both Atsushi and Akutagawa there.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it’s Chuuya who ends up being the noisiest of the bunch, and it’s Chuuya who gets them uncomfortably close to getting asked to leave by the weary monk.

Today’s public holiday is a Thursday, so Chuuya sends the four younger ones off with promises to treat them to a full dinner on the next weekend holiday. Dazai makes a lot of uncharitable comments about Chuuya acting like a mother when all his children are taller than him; Dazai gets summarily ignored by everyone, even Akutagawa, because it’s Chuuya who sends the younger ones off with their hands filled with hefty bags of souvenirs.

It’s late afternoon by the time they’re back home, sunset already painting the skies with deep oranges and pinks.

“I’ll be in the garden,” Chuuya tells him in passing, squeezing his arm briefly as he goes past him. Dazai huffs, before acquiescing to the unspoken request that he start to steam some leftovers for dinner.

It’s fairly quiet, until Dazai hears five chirps of ‘chibi’ emanate from their bedroom. The sound brings a smile to his face, because he’s really a genius for thinking of such an idea. It never fails to wake Chuuya up to a grumbling state at four o’clock, guaranteeing Dazai entertainment first thing in the morning—that is, before he snuggles back to the covers and goes back to sleep after sufficiently teasing Chuuya.

“Chibi, your clock is calling for you~” Dazai calls out, but there’s no response from Chuuya.

Contrary to before, Dazai’s thought doesn’t immediately jump to the possibility of danger. Not that Chuuya’s the type to be kidnapped—if nothing else, he’d probably make any prospective kidnappers rethink their life choices the moment they make an attempt. No, right now, his thought is all about how Chuuya’s probably busy trying to take selfies with his garden, as he’s filled the garden with autumnal flowers, most of which should be in full bloom around this time of the year.

…Ah.

Come to think of it, today should be exactly one year since he’s sent that text message to Chuuya, right?

Chuuya. Before I die, there’s something I want to tell you. I—

Right now, Dazai can’t even remember the last time he’s seriously considered ending his life. It’s all buried under a blur of annoying Chuuya, annoying Chuuya into cooking for him, annoying Chuuya into doing his share of the chores for him—basically, his daily life has been filled with such mundane but fun things.

Dazai leaves the kitchen so he can fetch Chuuya from their flower garden.

And really, it’s so typical of Chuuya to make him forget things.

Because, Dazai knows it, that the flowers that Chuuya’s been painstakingly cultivating for nearly a year are in full bloom.

He knows it, but he’s still arrested by the sight of the flower garden nearly exploding in scarlet. He usually steers clear of this side of the house because he hates being roped into helping water the garden, but right now—

There Chuuya is, standing in front of his flowerbed, surrounded by red chrysanthemums, red cosmos and red spider lilies in full bloom. There’s so much red that it almost looks like Chuuya’s bathed in blood, his reddish locks spilled over until the middle of his back, like curled flames licking into his form.

Dazai’s feet are rooted on the wraparound porch, as he finds himself staring breathlessly at the sight.

Chuuya’s too small, too petite, that it feels like if he just takes one step forward, he’ll be swallowed up by the flames. Chuuya’s favored the red spider lilies, ordering them in abundance, ostensibly because they’re useful in keeping pests away from gardens due to their poisonous nature. Chuuya’s promised to make him eat those flowers, but as with a lot of Chuuya’s promises of bodily harm towards his person, it’s never really come to fruition.

Legend has it: that bringing red spider lilies to one’s home is to invite fire and death upon one’s house.

Legend has it: that the red spider lilies are born from two guardians who have fallen in love at first sight, but are punished by god to never meet again, separating them into the flower and the leaves that never appear at the same time—the leaves only sprouting once the flowers have withered and the flowers only blooming once the leaves fall away.

Legend has it: that the red spider lilies are flowers from ‘the other side’—a symbol of abandonment, a promise that two people will never meet again.

Right now, Chuuya stands in front of him, the god of fire surrounded by the flame-like flowers.

Dazai feels a phantom ache throb inside him.

Chuuya senses it, all too clearly, because he turns around, an odd expression on his face.

Everything is awash in red—
—and it’s only Chuuya’s eyes that are a brilliant blue.

Of the sapphire seas, of the highest heavens.

The god of fire, housed in a vessel that has the inner strength to withstand the calls for destruction, in a vessel that has the deepest well of unfettered resolution. Chuuya’s prone to doling out threats that he never goes through with, but he also always keeps his most important of promises.

Chuuya tilts his head as he peers up at him, their surroundings quiet enough that his question is relayed clearly despite the softness of his voice and the distance between them. “What’s up with your stupid face?”

Dazai swallows hard, before, “Did you know? Bringing red spider lilies to one’s home is to invite fire and death to it.”

Chuuya blinks. And then, “Ah. The flower symbolism?”

“Yes. Is this perhaps a message from you?” Dazai opts for an offhanded tone, and hopes that he manages to give off a casual air, instead of wretched desperation. “Fire, death and abandonment, hmm?”

A frown climbs on Chuuya’s expression just as the moon starts to climb up the sky, the dark pinks and indigos curling into the shadows of nighttime. He’s probably recalling what he’s surely researched about the flower’s meaning, after receiving clumps of it from Dazai a year ago.

“It doesn’t matter,” Chuuya declares. He doesn’t break eye-contact, as he continues, “It doesn’t matter if these flowers mean sad things, such as abandonment and never meeting again.”

Dazai opens his mouth, to make a retort, just to be contrary, but Chuuya beats him to it.

“I like the flowers because they look nice, like small fireworks.” Chuuya gives him a warning glare about the ‘small’ bit, before he adds, “The meaning doesn’t matter – because it’s what we make of it that counts.”

“Chuuya, you—”

“Plus! It doesn’t matter if it means never meeting again!” Chuuya starts to sport a blush that rivals the red of the flowers surrounding him, as the resolute calm fades and gives way to his sputtering denials whenever he’s feeling embarrassed by his own words. “We’d just have to make sure that we’d never be apart, right? That way, we won’t have to worry about having to meet again!”

“…Oh.”

It’s such a simplistic logic, as expected of someone as simple-minded as Chuuya.

It’s so simple, and yet—

The feeling of being considered as a pair with someone.
The feeling of being connected to someone tangible in this world.
The feeling of being anchored to an entity that is perhaps more of an outlier compared to him.

The feeling of being so different from Chuuya, that he’s genuinely interested in trying to catalogue everything about him.

The feeling of being so secure with the fact that he doesn’t have to continuously try to read past the expression Chuuya’s face to discern his motives, given that he wears his heart on his sleeve.

The feeling of being so certain that no matter what happens, there’s someone out there who can literally move mountains and oceans, someone out there who’d willingly gamble his life in order to save him.

Right now, all of these feelings are welling up inside him.

…Ah.

OdaSaku—I’m glad you’re wrong.

There it is, a myriad of emotions that’s filling the hollowness inside of him, the hollowness that he’s resigned himself to thinking that it can never be filled.

He’s lived his entire life trying to find the meaning to his existence.

Protecting Yokohama.
Trying his best to be on the side that saves people.

Perhaps, even before those—finding that one spark that provides the brilliance of life.

And maybe, maybe—

Chuuya’s frowning at him now, looking worried. Chuuya’s approaching him, moonshine and red spider lilies mixing together in the background to form a sea of red and silver. Chuuya’s touching his arm with genuine worry, as he asks, “Oi. What’s going on? Are you okay?”

Maybe he’s—
—he’s born to the world with No Longer Human hanging over him as a dark scepter.
—two months before he’s born, the future vessel to the god of calamity has descended on earth.

Because Chuuya’s existence needs him.
Because he needs Chuuya’s existence.

Perhaps—

“—I was born to meet you.”

“Huh?” Chuuya blinks up at him. “I don’t think I heard that right?”

…

…

…

“I said I was born to meet you so I can give you headaches,” Dazai amends, backtracking both from the strange disconnect between his mind and his mouth. He starts to backpedal away from Chuuya as well, mind trying to weave an explanation for his odd words—words that he’s never meant to leave his lips.

Chuuya’s expression changes—and then changes some more as he sniffs the air.

“Shitty Dazai. Did you leave the stove on when you went to gawk at me?”

Dazai blinks as he tries to wear a trite expression on top of his face. “…Oops?”

“Was that why you started talking about fire and death?! Were you planning to burn our home down?! Fuck!”

Chuuya shoves him aside, running for the kitchen where the burning smell is coming from. And then, a litany of curses echoes all around the house and Dazai can only laugh as Chuuya tries to futilely salvage their smoking dinner.

“I’m making you eat these lumps of charcoal, you ass!”

Dazai laughs off the empty threat, staying outside for a minute more.

The fire-like flowers remain, almost ethereal under the moonlight.

He raises a hand to his chest—
—touches the space above his heart.

And smiles.

Maybe it isn’t so bad, being human instead of an untouchable demon prodigy. Human enough to have the bad taste to fall in love with a hatrack. Human enough to fear happiness, yet long for it all the more.

Chapter Text

—   —   —   —   —
eight
[odyssey, moonshine voyage]

‘Chibi, chibi, chibi, chibi, chibi—’

Chuuya twitches awake upon hearing the damned chirping of the clock above their bed. It’s unreal, how he still can’t manage to tune the irritating sound out, even if he’s been hearing it for years.

He wrenches his eyes open and sees only faint scatterings of light awash on the walls. It’s still very early. Just-after sunrise, and he’s already awake. Just like the day before, the week before, the month before, the year before. He tries to wiggle out of Dazai’s octopus hold, all while ensuring he digs his elbows and his knees to every body part he can catch. It never works to teach Dazai a lesson, but it’s satisfying to see the blooming pink on the other’s skin whenever he hits him for his audacity to wake him up so early.

…Actually, it’s even more unreal how he’s always thwarted. Each night, before they go to sleep, Chuuya always adjusts the clock so that it won’t chirp at a godforsaken hour, but each morning, he’s woken up way too early for his liking.

Come to think of it, perhaps the most extraordinary thing here is that he still hasn’t succumbed to the urge to bash Dazai’s head against the clock so he can end his misery.

“Chibiiiii,” Dazai whines when Chuuya knees him on the gut. “Five more minutes…”

Chuuya makes a face, but does settle back down in Dazai’s warm embrace, because it is fairly cool for late April, and not even the newly-installed heated floors can rival the toasty temperature under the blankets…

…He wakes up again after thirty minutes; this time, none of Dazai’s whining stops him from getting out of bed. He resettles the mountains of blankets on top of Dazai though, because he’s not completely heartless. He makes sure that the blankets are wrapped securely around Dazai, like a giant fishy sushi roll, because hearing a loud thud from Dazai literally rolling out of bed later is bound to get him to a fantastic mood.

Chuuya makes his way to the adjoining bathroom so he can wash his face, but is stopped on his tracks, as always, by the sight of a post-it note. It’s pasted way below the door itself, where Dazai’s somehow installed a tiny dog door without his knowledge.

He twitches in irritation, but picks up the note anyway.

Chuuya, make sure you use the doggie door, okay?

As always, he crumples the note in his fist, and aims it towards Dazai’s forehead. The blanket sushi roll lets out a plaintive moan, but otherwise doesn’t move.

Chuuya’s next stop is to start the coffee maker, the aroma of roasting beans accompanying him as he takes out the yoga mat so he can do his morning meditation and exercises on the garden. The spring air is crisp, mellifluous bird song completing the relaxing ambiance of the early morning surrounded by the backdrop of the mountains, the plains and the seas beyond their backyard.

As he ambles towards the porch, he smothers a yawn and wonders what kind of shenanigans he should prepare himself for today. The two of them slept later than usual last night as they tried to defeat the high score of the Akutagawa siblings on the ‘cooperation mode’ of a new fighting game developed by Katai and sold by Fitzgerald’s newest venture on the gaming industry. They’ve gone really close to defeating those two, but Chuuya always sabotages them so they lose at the last second, because it’s entertaining to see Dazai’s expression when he’s losing against his protégé.

…In any case, aside from random post-it notes that are laid on places that Chuuya goes through during his morning routine, Dazai usually leaves some other things for him to find, like a miniature treasure hunt.

Some days, those things hint as to what Dazai wants to do for the day, like dog-eared magazines left open on certain pages. Other times, it’s shopping lists that wouldn’t make sense to anyone but the two of them.

(There’s this one time when Atsushi had stayed the night, and he’d ended up seeing one such list; he’d declared that the two of them are weirdoes who communicate with a weird alien language.)

Sometimes, Dazai leaves out code for him to decipher, just to get his blood boiling at the crack of dawn. He can’t forget that one time when Dazai left him a post-it with ‘54 34 45 42 15 11 14 34 22’, something that took him an hour to decipher, and then five seconds after that to drag Dazai out of bed to punch him for leaving him with ‘you’re a dog’ so early in the morning.

And then, there’d be times when he’d wake up to his phone’s inbox containing a notification from Dazai saying ‘555 246 555’ and he ends up slapping Dazai awake for daring to send him a text message complaining about how ‘he’s starving to death’.

Given it’s Dazai, waking up to finding booby-trapped trinkets is common enough that he tends to not do anything beyond sighing deeply once he encounters them. Retaliation is fairly easy, after all; all he has to do is to make sure that Dazai’s breakfast isn’t seasoned at all. That, or serve him a breakfast of only miso soup. The shitty mackerel has been living fairly spoiled with great food, so it’s the best sort of punishment for him.

…And then of course, the occasional… gifts, that Chuuya takes about five minutes to try to wrap his mind around. Flowers, mostly, pressed between his planner’s pages, or taped around his phone.

Today, Chuuya unfurls the yoga mat over the wooden porch and finds a cluster of blue forget-me-nots tucked inside.

Because of Dazai’s questionable taste in leaving him flowers in the mornings, Chuuya’s more-or-less resigned himself to memorizing a book on flower language.

Today is different.

The meaning of forget-me-nots—‘true love, memories’—isn’t the first thing that springs to his mind. No, far from it. Today, he looks at the cluster of the tiny blue flowers and one memory breaks into his consciousness, crystal clear as though it happened only yesterday.

That mission where he’s decided that the quickest way to escape a labyrinth is to punch its walls.
That mission where he’s acted more reckless than usual, just so they can return to Yokohama earlier than projected.
That mission where he’s ended up owning up to losing a bet, which ended up with him allowing Dazai to place a choker around his neck.

He remembers it very well.

The moment where he’s felt genuine fear. The moment where he’s simply Nakahara Chuuya, purely him and purely his tainted sorrow, coursing through his veins. The moment where he’s overcome by a sense of dread that speaks of hoping for nothing and wishing for nothing—aside from being able to take Dazai away from that place. The moment where he’s been pathetically rooted on the spot, seized with paralyzing fear.

He remembers it still.

A mission for soukoku to investigate an elusive mafia group that supposedly has murky ties with the Russian Mafiya. A mission that’s devolved into a thorough extermination, because the mafia group has Ability Users that can threaten the existence of the Port Mafia. A mission where there’s a powerful Ability User who can summon a labyrinth and entrap Ability Users inside them.

A mission where Dazai’s stabbed with a poisoned blade from the get-go, effectively taking him out.
A mission where Dazai’s targeted so efficiently, that it’s almost as if he’s known by the enemy.
A mission where Dazai’s estranged parents are part of the enemy group.

Dazai’s parents—
—One of them, with the Ability to raise an inescapable labyrinth.
—The other, with the Ability to erase one’s memories.

Dazai’s parents have trapped them in a maze filled with blue forget-me-nots, easily ignoring the fact that they’ve caused damage to their abandoned son.

He remembers it well: holding on to the bleeding and unconscious Dazai. While he listens, in muted horror, to the two targets in front of him. While he listens to the two enemies extend their offer to ‘help him’, by erasing his memories of his acquaintanceship with Dazai. While he listens to those two monsters, who consider ‘his experience of knowing a heretical demon who’s no longer human’ to be something that needs to be erased instead of cherished.

He—doesn’t remember it as well, but he knows that he’s ended up solving the labyrinth by destroying the entirety of the area, burying the instigators of Dazai’s horrid past along with thousands of forget-me-nots. He’s ended up burying them under the force of gravity, even though information still somehow got out to their ally in the shadows, the Russian Mafiya and its backer, The Rats in the House of the Dead.

He doesn’t remember much about the aftermath, though he knows that he’d been brought back to his senses after his eyes catch on the sight of the end of Dazai’s bandage looped around his wrist. Afterwards, Dazai’s had a field day teasing him for not even bothering to solve the maze in a more intellectual manner.

Come to think of it, is Dazai aware of his actions…?

He doesn’t regret it, not one bit, because he knows that Dazai has excised them from his mind already. It’s better this way, that he’s the one who killed them, because it would have been one more thing that cannot be completely expunged from Dazai’s hands.

No, like this—

“—Chuuya, your coffee is ready~♪”

He blinks, upon hearing Dazai’s sleep-roughened voice call out to him from inside their home.

And then he blinks again, because he sees his entire body wrapped up in a familiar red flare, the glow of his gravity manipulation manifesting, as though it’s been awakened from deep inside him, by the mere thought of harm befalling Dazai.

It’s more than fine. It doesn’t change anything, for him. It just means that right now, he has the full arsenal of his power, so he can continue to protect that which that he cares for.

…Oh.

Air is suddenly rushing into his lungs, making him dizzy.

The sound of meandering footsteps, and then a soft, “Chuuya?”

Chuuya turns to look at Dazai, eyes wide as he takes in the sight of the messy bird’s nest atop the other’s head, the sleep-lines on the other’s cheek, the sleepy yawn escaping the other’s mouth.

…That which that he cares for, huh.

—
—
—
—
—

Despite the atypical way his morning has unfolded, the rest of the day is fairly routine for the two of them.

With bellies filled with breakfast, the two of them set out to their respective corners at home.

Chuuya usually spends his morning tending to the garden, which is now home not only to flowers, but also various fruit trees and vegetables. What has started out as a small hobby—(a means to find vegetables that Dazai will willingly eat, as well as ply Akutagawa with his favorite figs so he’ll visit them more often and not fight with Atsushi so much when the two of them are together)—has become a full-blown project. Over the past few months, Chuuya’s been using their harvest to experiment on fruit jams that Dazai sells at an exorbitant price over their online shop.

…Well, Chuuya calls it an ‘online shop’, but their customers are mostly their colleagues from work who continuously beg him for discounts, once they’re sure Dazai isn’t within earshot. After all, Dazai’s outrageous prices are enough to buy three kidneys in the black market. Apparently, anyone who wants to have a taste of his cooking must be willing to sacrifice their life, or something to that effect.

Every day, Chuuya smacks Dazai for being such an annoying beanpole.

Dazai usually spends this time lazing about and procrastinating on his share of the chores. On times when the Detective Agency encounters the more baffling cases (and Ranpo is out on ‘city exploration trips’ with Poe, and therefore cannot be disturbed), Dazai acts as their consultant, showing off his genius by solving cases even though he’s not on the actual scene.

Every day, Chuuya smacks Dazai for acting like such an irritating peacock.

After cooking lunch together—to various degrees of success, depending on what kind of ‘excitement’ Dazai’s interested in—Chuuya settles himself on the nook that he’s furnished on the living area, so he can do his remote work as Port Mafia’s Executive. Given how peaceful things have been recently, it’s mostly just checking and approving paperwork for the rest of the afternoon.

On times when the weather is especially great, Chuuya does his work while seated on the porch, while Dazai alternates between writing various short stories and napping on the hammock that he’s commandeered from Chuuya. But then, like a lazy cat, Dazai always eventually slinks to where Chuuya’s seated, making a nuisance of himself as he bullies Chuuya to allowing him to rest his head on his lap.

Today’s one such usual afternoon for them.

Chuuya stretches when he hears the doorbell ring and the postman call out a, “Nakahara-san, package for you!”

“Go and make yourself useful,” he shoos Dazai away from his lap, and shoves him towards the kitchen.

Dazai mumbles his usual bout of complaints at being put to work, but he does start washing the rice by the time Chuuya’s signing for the package.

Chuuya leans against the front door as he examines the package from Prof Glasses.

It’s not heavy. A book?

The timing is…

Well, tomorrow is his 30^th birthday, so this might be an advance gift?

He opens the package—and he’s glad that he’s leaning on the door, because the sight of the contents makes him feel faint.

Paperwork.

He’s been given paperwork for his birthday gift.

Top-secret paperwork, about Arahabaki and the Singularity phenomenon.

Prof Glasses really needs a much better social life, if he thinks that this is the best birthday gift he can give.

According to the first page of the dossier, Fyodor Dostoevsky has apparently agreed to divulge his knowledge about the Singularity, as well as offer his conjecture about the soul bond that has formed between him and Dazai.

Chuuya takes in a deep breath.

Exhales.

He doesn’t turn the page.

He’s—

He thinks he’s known it, understood it, even back then.

The reason why his gravity manipulation disappeared, even when Arahabaki is still inside of him. The reason why a connection has been opened up between their souls.

Back then, Dazai had tried to fuse two opposing Abilities together, in order to negate Crime and Punishment. But two opposing Abilities being fused together creates a point of Singularity, just like what happened with the dragon. But unlike what happened with the dragon, there are no other Abilities for the Singularity point to consume, so it had ended up trying to consume Dazai’s life.

And then, Chuuya had promised to do whatever it takes to stop that Singularity from consuming Dazai.

Gravity that exceeds the laws of physics, exceeds human comprehension: infinite gravity gives rise to a black hole. And it is said that in the center of that black hole, lies a Singularity of its own.

Back then, he didn’t know if he’d succeed, in combating a Singularity with a Singularity of his own.

A leap of faith.

He didn’t have any logic governing him at that moment, he knew he didn’t have any rational justification for his actions.

Just—

—the thought of Dazai ceasing to exist, dying in such a lonely place on top of a crumbling fortress with only a demon and an Ability named after the one thing that he embraces and yet fears the most…
—the thought of Dazai becoming no longer human and being reduced to ashes that will be blown away to a place that Chuuya cannot follow…

—just that, and only just that, is enough.

Arahabaki has allowed him to draw power from him, so he can swallow that Singularity into his own body instead, so it can stop hurting Dazai.

The two types of Singularity intertwining, so that there is no Dazai’s or Chuuya’s, only the combination of the two.

And so—

Arahabaki is a being of great destruction, the god of fire, able to scorch the earth, the sea, the skies.

Back then, it seems that what it has destroyed is—a force beyond human comprehension, dragging Singularity away from the planes of humanity and into ‘the other side’ where it can’t harm anyone.

And more than that, what Arahabaki has destroyed—
—is the barrier between the two of them.

Before Arahabaki has been written down on history books as the god of calamity, Arahabaki is, first and foremost, the god of defiance, of strength, of stability.

The defiance of the fate of the world.
The strength to protect those that which is most important.
The stability to connect two lonely souls that are existing as parallel lines alongside each other.

Arahabaki has destroyed the barrier between the two of them—
—so that they can finally be honest about the things that they’ve both always wanted.

Wanting to be connected to someone.
Wanting to be each other’s anchor.
Wanting to mark each other.

Wanting to be.

Chuuya sighs as he looks up at the afternoon sky.

“…Really. I didn’t think expect that you’d want to be a matchmaker,” he murmurs to himself, and feels his insides grow warm with contentment.

The god inside of him has helped him out a lot.

Now’s the time for him to do his part.

Chuuya’s not that much of an impulsive idiot now, though. He thinks that it’s impossible for Dazai to not have known of his feelings, so the fact that Dazai has kept quiet about it for years has to count for something.

So, he waits, because he knows that Dazai may deny it to hell and back, but he’s the type to appreciate symbolic gestures.

And so, he challenges Dazai to game after game, until it’s nearly midnight.

Seated cross-legged in front of Dazai on the bed that they’ve been sharing over the past few years, Chuuya then declares their gaming over for the night when it’s a handful of minutes before the 29^th.

“Fufufu, chibi, finally had enough of getting defeated by yours truly?” Dazai asks with eyes that manage to glitter even under the relative darkness. He looks a bit tense, which Chuuya thinks is enough of a punishment for the mackerel bastard for taking so long and not even bothering to do the non-cowardly thing and confess first.

“You wish!” Chuuya slaps Dazai’s bony knees as he rolls his eyes.

Dazai hums, before, “So?”

“So what?”

“What did Chuuya want to talk about, that he has to wait until midnight to do so?”

The intensity of Dazai’s stare is almost enough to burn his insides. As such, it manages to make his face flush red, even though he’s spent an entire evening already anticipating this conversation.

“I just wanted to collect my birthday gift early,” Chuuya says seriously, makes sure to let his hands rest on both of Dazai’s knees, instead of succumbing to the urge to cross them over his chest.

Dazai blinks, before grinning at him. “Chuuya, aren’t you too old for presents? One would think that as a fully-grown man… ah, my apologies, you haven’t grown at all, ne?”

“Bastard!”

Chuuya makes a move to punch the left side of Dazai’s face, something that Dazai dodges by tilting his body to the right, like always.

And he’s ready for it.

Chuuya sways along with him, reaches out with his left hand, so that he’s placing his palm over the curve of Dazai’s cheek. He then lowers the trajectory of his right fist, so that he’s punching the space over Dazai’s heart.

Dazai’s eyes are wide as the two of them fall sideways to the mattress in a tangle of limbs, instinctively curving towards each other like they’re forming a closed loop with their bodies, enclosing the scant distance that makes them into two people that share one soul.

With an almost innocent wonder, Dazai says, “…My gift this year is the same as always. You get to ask me to do one thing. Of course, I will veto things that I do not want to do. Including chores, and—”

“—Stay with me and never leave.” Chuuya cuts in, because he already knows what he wants. He’s always believed that the things one wants must be taken with one’s own hands, but this is something that cannot be achieved with just his strength alone. He lets his palm rest against Dazai’s heartbeat, just like that moment when he’s promised to do whatever it takes to ensure that Dazai continues to live—continues to live with him. “That’s my wish.”

Dazai looks struck by lightning, an adorably stupid expression on his face.

A sight that’s a masterpiece worth more than a billion.

Chuuya feels himself grinning, just as he feels his body being pulled by a strong current of affection, of gravitation, of something that’s always been there all throughout their lives.

Just as their foreheads knock together, Chuuya whispers, “If you want to veto the request because you don’t want to do it—”

“You’re so fucking stupid if you think I’m going to do that, Chuuya,” is what Dazai tells him, before finally bridging the gap between their mouths with a kiss.

Both of them are trembling as they trade tokens of physical affection, and there is no moment more perfect.

…At least, until the clock strikes twelve and chimes twelve ‘chibi’s in succession.

Chuuya pulls away slightly, both of them shaking and laughing at the sudden interruption.

“Chuuya,” Dazai says after taking a few minutes to calm down. “Before we sleep, I have something I have to tell you.”

“Mm?”

“I love…” Dazai trails off, fluttering his eyelashes coyly even as he maintains eye-contact. “…how you never seem to grow each year, huh, you hopeless chibi?”

Chuuya’s eyebrow twitches. He then attempts to rain punches on Dazai’s chest, as he yells, “Stop cursing me, you shitty mackerel!”

Dazai embraces him close so that his hands are trapped between their chests, folds their bodies close together so that it’s difficult to discern where one begins and ends. And then, he embraces him even tighter, so that Chuuya’s nose is tucked against his neck.

Chuuya can feel Dazai breathing against his hair.

“Even if you’re too small to be seen… even if you’re a tiny microorganism…” Dazai whispers, soft like heartfelt secrets, “In a world filled with billions of humans, I’m glad I met you.”

Chuuya’s smiling even as he tries to summon irritation to his words. “That confession could do with a lot less insults, asshole.”

“I could write an entire lifetime’s worth of books talking about how ridiculous and not godlike you are,” Dazai murmurs against his ear, “but I’d rather experience an entire lifetime with you.”

…Oh.

Chuuya’s smile grows wider, as he presses a kiss against Dazai’s pulse. “Sounds better, but I’m going to be pissed if I find out that you plagiarized it from somewhere.”

Moonlight streams into their room from the window. Surrounded by Dazai’s heartbeat and the warmth of the life that they’ve forged together, it feels like he’s come home after the end of a long journey.

It’s a moment that he’ll always remember, for the rest of their intertwined lives.

—   —   —   —   —
epilogue
[dear prince]

“What the fuck is taking you so long?” Chuuya calls out as he kicks the bathroom door in impatience. “Your unfortunate face is already permanent, no amount of moisturizer is going to save it!”

Dazai continues to pout at his reflection on the mirror as he tries to smooth out the teeny-tiny wrinkle on his forehead. “I don’t want to hear it from someone who has an entire bathroom shelf dedicated to wine-flavored lotions!”

“You keep your filthy hands away from those! They’re a gift from Ane-san!”

“Why are you so mean to me?” Dazai asks, dragging his feet towards the doorway so he can slump pathetically over Chuuya’s shoulders. “I can’t believe that I already have wrinkles, I’m becoming a geezer like Mori-san, I hate this…”

“You’ve already got the personality of a dirty old man,” Chuuya points out mercilessly, though his hands automatically come up so he can run his fingers over Dazai’s scalp in an effort to calm his overdramatic ass down. “Your body’s just keeping up with the program.”

It’s hardly even a wrinkle, and it’s most likely from where Dazai’s fallen asleep with his forehead against his phone’s case, but it’s kind of fun, teasing Dazai over it. It’s also sobering, in a way, because Chuuya’s sure that neither of them have expected living together by the age of 35—actually, Chuuya’s very sure that Dazai’s never let himself imagine being alive at 35, all those years ago.

“Thirty-five and already wrinkly,” Chuuya adds, pinching Dazai’s ears when Dazai starts to nibble at his jaw. “Stop trying to eat me, we’re already running late!”

“We can be fashionably late,” comes the very irresponsible suggestion. “Since I’m the guest of honor, after all.”

A chuckle. “You and honor in the same sentence is going to get you struck by lightning, you know? For blatant lies.”

“I am very honorable,” Dazai insists, though he starts to straighten back up, his left hand routinely reaching out to clasp Chuuya’s right. “See, I’ll even admit that I was the one who finished off the chestnut manju you made last week.”

“You said it was Kyouka-chan who ate it! I believed you, damn it!”

“See, isn’t it nice that I’m honorable enough to admit my wrongdoings?”

Chuuya pulls at his hair in frustration with the hand not linked with Dazai’s. “Don’t do any wrongdoings to begin with, urghhhhh.”

With Dazai’s wrinkle crisis averted, the two of them manage to finally make their way to their car.

Amongst their circle of friends, it’s touted as a Car of Legend, given that it’s been funded directly out of Dazai’s royalty checks from the short stories that he’s managed to publish. The car that’s proof that Dazai actually has money (despite acting like a useless hobo) and is actually willing to spend it (despite being such a miserly cheapskate). Dazai has claimed that it’s his remuneration for blowing up Chuuya’s car back then, but has added a stipulation that it must be painted the same hot pink as Chuuya’s bike.

…Well. Joke’s on him, because Chuuya actually likes the color, much to the horrified despair of their friends. Chuuya’s already learned not to be offended that none of them want to carpool using this car.

In any case, it means that they can make their trip to the city proper without having to use public transport. Which is good for the rest of Yokohama, really, because the two of them have a tendency to get distracted with each other as long as they’re within touching distance. Which is basically all of the time. It’s already caused multiple interventions regarding PDA. It’s come to the point that Hirotsu-san’s default expression upon seeing them is to sigh deeply while closing his eyes as he prays for strength.

So, it’s with Chuuya on the driver’s seat and Dazai lazily playing with his phone beside him, as they make their way to the Sky Restaurant reserved for Dazai’s 35^th birthday celebration.

There’s some light traffic, so Chuuya’s already sort of expecting Dazai to pipe up with his usual nonsense, due to boredom.

Right on cue: “Chibikko, let’s play a game!”

“Let us not.”

On most people, that would be the end of it, but since Dazai is Dazai, he simply pushes through with a, “Let’s ask the party guests on who they think is the better half of soukoku!”

Chuuya raises an eyebrow as he side-eyes his partner. Dazai, for his part, simply beams with totally undeserved confidence.

“…You know what, you’re on.” Chuuya doesn’t think that there could be so many idiots in the world, so he’s bound to win this one by a landslide. Especially since the party guests are a mix of people from the Port Mafia and the Agency—and more importantly, because the party guests have actual eyes. “What do I get when I win?”

“Ano ne, Chuuya,” comes along with a very childish pout, “why do you think you’ll win? You’re too short to win this one, you know?”

Years of experience with dealing with a bastard ensures that Chuuya doesn’t end up slamming the brakes or slamming Dazai’s head against the dashboard for his insolent words. “My height has nothing to do with this?!”

“Oh, trust me, it has a lot to do with it! How can they choose you when they can’t even see you, hmm?”

“I’m going to fucking strangle you the moment we step out of this car!”

Dazai juts out his bottom lip. “Boo, why not do it now?”

“Because I don’t want to get arrested for public indecency!” Chuuya can still remember the one time they’ve cut it really close. He can never forget the disappointed look Ane-san gave him when she learned about it. He can also never forget the despair on Prof Glasses’ face when he’s been asked by Dazai to help him clear that encounter off their public records. It’s the face of the man regretting to have ever known someone as annoying as Dazai Osamu.

“Oh, you mean the fun kind of strangling!”

“There is no fun kind!”

“You’re so boring, boo, this is why you’re so short, boooo.”

“So?!” Chuuya wrestles their conversation back on track. “What do I get when I win?”

“Chuuya, you already have the best thing ever in this world, you know?” Dazai has the gall to act so disappointed, even shaking his head as though he’s terribly saddened by what is happening. “How can you be so greedy and still want something when you win our little game?”

“Pffft, the best thing ever, huh?” Chuuya chuckles, before clearing his throat. “You’re right, I do have it already. Whatever should I do without my beloved Petrus?”

The exasperated puff of breath that escapes Dazai adds fuel to Chuuya’s chuckles.

“Hmph! Because you’re being mean to your darling, once I win, I’ll make you wear the most embarrassing dog collar! And you’ll have to wear it for the rest of your chibi life!”

Chuuya’s mouth twitches. “What the fuck is a chibi life?”

“How would I know?” Dazai blinks owlishly. “Shouldn’t you be the expert on that?”

“You bastard!”

“So? Do you agree to the terms of the bet?”

Chuuya gives a one-armed shrug. He’s very confident he’ll win this one.

As previously stated, the guests in the party have eyes. Most importantly, they actually know Dazai. So, they’d never be so stupid as to choose a gremlin mackerel disguised as an idiot (who happens to look good in suits) over him.

He’s sure to get all of the Port Mafia’s votes, except maybe Akutagawa (and by extension, the ever-loyal Higuchi).

The folks at the Agency have been practically begging him to never let Dazai set foot in their office more than twice a year because he tends to leave the office booby-trapped whenever he visits. He’s sure to get most of their votes too, except maybe Kunikida (who probably has ‘vote for Dazai always’ written down on his notebook… by shitty Dazai himself) and Atsushi (who’d choose whoever Akutagawa votes for, as though it will help him score a date with the other man; has he never learned from Higuchi about what not to do to successfully woo Akutagawa?).

“Get ready to lose and cry then, shitty Dazai,” Chuuya says, as he reaches the underground parking of the restaurant they’ve reserved. “I’ll be sure to win this one.”

Four hours later, and he’s deflated like a popped balloon.

“…I…lost…”

Chuuya’s blinking at his hands, feeling hollowed out. Betrayed by everyone he knows, by everyone he’s trusted. Is this… the feeling of abandonment? Has he been forsaken by fate? Does he need to block every single one of his friends? Does he need to make them pay up three kidneys’ worth for the jams they’ve been getting for free from him?

“Fufufu, Chuuuuuuuya,” Dazai elongates his name as he claps his hands in victory. “It’s a promise, right? You’ll wear the most embarrassing dog collar for the rest of your life, right?”

Chuuya’s blankly looking at Dazai’s stupid grinning face. “How did you do it, you demon? How did you manage to make Ane-san abandon me?”

Dazai wags a finger at him, one hand on his hips. “Tut-tut-tut, what are you accusing me of, chibi?”

“I can’t believe this…”

He’s been so confident and sure of his win too!

“Fufufu, it’s your weakness, Chuuya~♪” Dazai pulls him up by his hands, away from his defeated slump on his chair. “You’re too strong and charming so you think you’ll win such a contest easily~♪”

All around them, are the sounds of laughter, chopsticks against plates, glasses clinking together, people fighting over the karaoke machine. None of the other guests are paying attention to them.

A scoff, “Charming?”

“Uh-huh.” Dazai then pulls him towards the restaurant’s balcony, their hands intertwined. “Since you’re the dearest Prince Charming, ne?”

Despite the shock from being friends with people who have somehow been manipulated by a stinky mackerel, Chuuya feels a smile forming on his face. “Fitting for a shitty Snow White.”

The entire floor of the Sky Restaurant has been rented for their party’s private use for the entire night, so there isn’t anyone else on the open-air balcony, by the time they reach there. Overlooking Yokohama’s port area, the bay and Minato Mirai, it has the best vantage view of Yokohama’s glittering skyline. Above them, the moon glows bright on the clear nighttime sky, making everything look a little bit more luminescent.

Chuuya’s eyes catch on the pots of red flowers arranged all around the balcony. Since he’s been on this restaurant previously on Port Mafia business, he’s pretty sure that he’s never seen red spider lilies be a part of their balcony display.

Which means—

“…Why did you bring me here, shitty Dazai?”

Dazai’s smiling in satisfaction, as he tugs Chuuya closer to the balcony’s edge. It’s not yet the season for the red spider lilies, so Dazai must have spent a lot of money and effort to make this possible. Chuuya feels like his heart is suddenly on his throat, seeing the glint on Dazai’s eye, the glint that means unspeakable, inescapable trouble for his enemies.

“Ah. Are you excited, Chuuya?”

“…Ha? The hell are you talking about?”

Standing toe-to-toe, it’s easy to catch all of the microexpressions on Dazai’s face.

He looks happy.

It’s quite infectious, really.

And then, of course, Dazai ruins it, by saying, “I just wanted to give you your new dog collar, so you can start wearing it immediately!”

…

…

…

Chuuya lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Of course, that’s why.”

Dazai beams. “Glad you understand! Come on, close your eyes already~~~♪”

Chuuya sighs again, but closes his eyes as requested and bows his head lightly, resting his forehead against the dizzying pace of Dazai’s heartbeat. Figures that the shitty mackerel has prepared for this. He’s going to figure out what the hell did he bribe everyone with, for them to agree to thwart Chuuya today. Maybe it’s because they feel sorry for Dazai because it’s his birthday? How could they be so naïve?

There’s a soft rustling sound, but Chuuya doesn’t feel Dazai’s hands around his neck.

In fact, because he isn’t wearing gloves today—since he’s been cutting down on hiding his hands since living together with Dazai—he’s able to feel something cool sliding over his ring finger.

Something like a—

“—Open your eyes, Chuuya.”

Chuuya opens his eyes slowly, as he lifts his forehead away from Dazai’s chest, so he can look at the ring on his hand, and then on Dazai’s face.

A plain black ring, though he’s willing to bet his entire life that it’s probably made up of some obscure metal, probably something unearthed from the blown-up remains of the experiment facility in Suribachi City. He can feel some indentations on the inside of the ring.

Chuuya’s more focused on meeting Dazai’s eyes though. Right now, Dazai’s face is eclipsing the moon, until everything that Chuuya can see is just the awestruck look on that face, the sparkle of his eyes, the lopsided smile on his lips. Dazai being surrounded by so much white is an absolute cheatcode, and Chuuya can only smile back helplessly at him.

“…I thought you wanted to give me a dog collar,” Chuuya says eventually, as he collapses back against Dazai, this time keeping his arms wrapped the other’s waist. He feels Dazai mirroring his actions, even if those hands are a little bit naughtier, dipping dangerously low on his back. Chuuya tilts his neck back slightly so he can still meet Dazai’s eyes as he continues, “This doesn’t come with the leash that dog collars do.”

Dazai’s smile widens. “So you finally admit to being my dog! It only took you twenty years!”

Twenty years.

They’ve known each other for twenty years.

They’re about to spend life together for twenty more, and another twenty more, and another twenty more years.

“That isn’t the point!” Chuuya grouses, pinching the meat on Dazai’s waist. “Urghhh, you’re so annoying as always.”

Dazai’s eyes sparkle even more. “Mm, I’ll stay close to you and never leave, right?”

Chuuya feels his face burn at his words being thrown back at him. “Urgh, that’s my line, why are you stealing my line?! Think of your own cheesy line, damn it!”

“I’m not worried if ever I get separated from you,” Dazai says with a smile that glows more beautifully than the moonlight surrounding them. “I believe I will see you again.”

…Oh.

Laughter is dragged out of him, and he makes a futile attempt to smother it against Dazai’s kiss.

Once he pulls away, Chuuya says, “Sounds nice, but I’m going to be pissed if I find out that you plagiarized that line from somewhere.”

Dazai joins his laughter, before saying, “Did you know, Chuuya? About The Odyssey?”

“Hmm?”

Dazai’s voice is terribly soft as he summarizes: “It’s a story about a man who journeys for twenty years, encountering all sorts of trouble along the way, all while trying to find his way home.”

“…Oh.”

“He’s left a wife back home, you see. So he’s extra motivated to return, especially since his wife is very charming and very good at cooking meals.” Dazai winks at him as he says this, slowly swaying them side-to-side along the cadence of his words.

“…Right…”

“Once he returns home, he finds that his wife remained dutifully faithful to him for those twenty years!”

“…I see…”

Chuuya feels himself blushing hotly, but since he’s known Dazai for twenty years, he doesn’t dare hope too much—

“But! Most importantly!” Dazai then exclaims, squeezing his waist. “Is that the man also owned a dog! Who also waited for him for those twenty years! And once Odysseus arrived home, the dog saw his master, and then died on the spot! How pitiful!”

Chuuya’s eyebrow twitches and he tries to pound his fists against Dazai’s back in annoyance. “I knew it, you asshole! I’m not a dog, damn it!”

“Fufufu, what are you saying? You’re my wife!” Dazai teases with a shameless grin. “Who also happens to be a dog!”

“I’m gonna throw you off this goddamn building, you shitty mackerel!”

Those words are traded in-between kisses, the two of them bathed in moonlight and surrounded by the flowers that have come to mean the meeting point between their lives.

They continue kissing—at least until Atsushi yells for them, after he’s lost the rock-paper-scissors as to who will fetch the two of them so the party guests can finally witness the entertainment that has been promised to them by Dazai: grilling the couple about their engagement ring.

“Let’s go back inside, dear prince.”
“Shut it, shitty Snow White.”

It’s logical.
It’s instinctual.

It hasn’t always been easy, but—
—in a universe filled with so many stars, with gods in their realms and with humans aplenty…

At the end of their voyage, two unique existences find their home in each other, and vow to accompany each other forever.

Today is just the first step to the rest of their joint lives.

—   —   —   —   —
end: moonshine voyage
[i believe i will see you again]

very self-indulgent reference list/notes! ♥

• flower language
+ forget-me-nots ⇆ ‘true love’, ‘memories’ ⇆ also called “mouse’s ears”, because of the shape of the petals
+ red chrysanthemum ⇆ ‘i love you’
+ cosmos ⇆ ‘harmony’, ‘the joys love and life can bring’
+ red spider lily (JP: higanbana, ‘flower of the other side’) ⇆ ‘never to meet again’, ‘abandonment’, ‘lost memory’

• red spider lily

+ usually grows in clusters, planted usually around rice paddies and cemeteries, because they’re poisonous and therefore keeps pests (e.g. rats) away
+ legend has it that red spider lilies will bloom on the path you take when you’re about to meet with someone you can never see again
+ legend has it that bringing red spider lilies home will invite fire and death to your house;
+ legend has it that god assigned Manju to be the guardian of the flowers, while Saka as the guardian of the leaves. Manju and Saka decided to meet and fell in love at first sight. God punished them for abandoning their duties by making sure that they could never meet again. ⇆ a red spider lily’s flowers bloom once its leaves fall, the flowers wither once the leaves grow

• from canon

+ the song that plays as Dazai gets stabbed in Dead Apple is ‘Mein Prinz’ (German for ‘Dear Prince’) ⇆  the lyrics go: ‘Dich zu seh'n mein einz'ger Trost’ (“to see you is my only consolation”), and when he “dies”, the song’s final line calls for the prince to “Help!”
+ according to the ADA briefing in Dead Apple, there were at least 128 confirmed Ability Suicides prior to Shibusawa going to Yokohama
+ “no matter where you go, you can’t escape gravity” ⇆ Chuuya’s catchphrase in 15
+ “someday I’ll rip you to shreds” ⇆ Chuuya’s promise when Dazai picks him up after Sheep betrays him
+ Rimbaud described Arahabaki as a being ‘from the higan’ (‘the other side’), as a beast of black flames with an inhuman voice and eyes like purgatorial flames
+ “Chuuya, before I die, there’s something I have to tell you” ⇆ CH31/EP21
+ “soukoku as a pair of parallel lines that never intersect, but go on together forever” © NewType interview
+ Chuuya’s character song, Darkness My Sorrow, describes Dazai as ‘that guy who sees eye-to-eye with Kierkegaard’

• based on IRL authors/works

+ “the moon is beautiful tonight” ⇆ “I love you” © IRL Natsume Souseki
+ ‘Leap of faith’ + ‘Love does not seek its own, for there are no mine and yours in love.’ + ‘Love is a change, the most remarkable of all, but the most desirable-in fact we say in a very good sense that someone who is gripped by love is changed or becomes changed.’ © Søren Kierkegaard

+ ‘O expectations, stale and dismal airs, leave, leave this body of mine!’ + ‘交際よ、汝陰鬱なる汚濁の許容よ、更めてわれを目覚ますことなかれ’ (O’ acquaintances, grantors of dark disgrace, Do not wake me again!) © Sheep Song
+ ‘For the tainted sorrow is when one hopes for nothing and wishes for nothing / For the tainted sorrow is when one is pathetic, seized with fear’ © For the Tainted Sorrow
+ ‘you look like a mackerel floating in the sky’ is what IRL Chuuya said to IRL Dazai… yeah idk either
+ Autumn Poem © Nakahara Chuuya; it’s reportedly Chuuya’s favorite amongst his poems
+ ‘I can’t even guess myself what it must be to live a life of a human being’ + ‘I must die, I must absolutely die right now’ + ‘For someone like myself in whom the ability to trust others is so cracked and broken, that I am forever trying to read the expression on people’s faces’ + ‘If I ever meet someone society designated as an ‘outcast’, I invariably feel affection for him’ + ‘The weak fear happiness itself. Sometimes they’re even wounded by happiness itself.’ + ‘I am convinced that human life is filled with people who seem unaware that they are deceiving one another’ © No Longer Human

• myths
+ Arahabaki Legend;
+ The Odyssey;
+ Icarus;
+ Labyrinth;

• other Japanese puns/kanji meanings

+ manju = traditional Japanese confection
+ Tsushima Shuuji ⇆  津島修治 ⇆ 津 (tsu) for ‘port’ +島 (shima) for ‘island’ + 修 (shu) for ‘discipline’ / ‘conducting oneself well’ + 治 (ji) for ‘govern’.
+ Nakahara Chuuya ⇆ 中原 中也 ⇆中 (naka) for ‘middle’ + 原 (hara) for ‘plains’
+ and so, combining their surnames – they end up living in fictional version of south Yokohama (near Nojima Park) where it’s both near the shore/port and the plains.
+ “will you cook miso soup for me every day?” ⇆ traditional Japanese marriage proposal

• others

+ overly simplified, but stars are born from very strong gravity in space! (stars dying also depends on gravitational forces)
+ at the center of black holes lies a ‘singularity point’, and chuuya’s ability is said to be able to create black holes, right, so…
+ ‘54 34 45 42 15 11 14 34 22’ ⇆ ‘you’re a dog’ based on Polybius square
+ Chinese chat codes: 555 ⇆ ‘wuwuwu’ (aka: crying sounds); 246 ⇆ ‘starving to death’
+ "tick-tock steps on cobblestone path" is supposed to be a play on the fact that cobblestone paths in Japan are usually found in those preserved, historical places (basically, places that symbolize the past), while the tick-tock is for the element of time passing by ♥