Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dazai sits on a bench in a park surrounded by children, teens, and nostalgic adults alike. He’s telling stories of a far past time, so long ago he can’t even remember.

Osamu Dazai is an old, grey-haired, yet handsome man. No one knows how old. He’s become a sort of legend outside of his town and inside, well, he’s not much better. It's only that everyone inside knows he’s real.

The man is knows by kids for his stories they still believe and by grandparents for stories they once did.

There’s speculation, of course, about how old he is and how he's still alive and if his stories are truly true. The lesson to stay out of the townspeoples’ gossip about him himself was learned years ago. He doesn't mind.

Abilities are more common now than when Dazai was young. Nearly 40% of people are born with some kind of power. Because of that most people assume it’s an ability that keeps Dazai alive. They are wrong. But he can, unfortunately, not die, and he doesn't want to give up why. He lets them be right.

“Mr. Dazai, are you sure your stories are real?” Dazais brought out of his thoughts by a boy speaking.
“You are kind of… old.”

Atsushi Nakajima is technically an adult by societal standards—19 years old sounds so little when you can’t remember a time when you didn’t exist, though, and Atushi will always look like a child to him.

“As real as you want them to be. Depends on who you’re talking to, really. Ask around.” Dazai shrugs and grins at the mix of laughter and annoyed groans from the group. Most of them have heard the same non-answer for years.

So he thinks it’s funny, sue him. It isn’t like he was lying. Everyone in town has their own thoughts on the validity of his tales.

A streetlight flicks on down the road and Dazai realizes that it’s later than he thought. He claps his hands to get everyone’s attention and tells the little ones to get going off home. Everyone else disperses after that, too.

Dazai’s knees creak and his lower back aches as he stands and starts walking. His past self’s destructive choices are to blame for that. He tries not to think about it too much.

Dazai lets out a long-suffering sigh as he pours himself a glass of whiskey after he gets back to his house. He welcomes the burn down his throat.

It helps him relax which helps him sleep which helps his anxiety in a never-ending chain of excuses. It’s the only thing he can be dependent on anymore, and it isn't like it can hurt him. He’ll be fine.

Dazai rationalizes this the same way he always has, by drinking even more and pretending it isn’t a problem.

He dreams of a time when everyone knew him by the name of Shūji Tsushima. In the morning he downs a glass, or two, or three, of wine when he wakes up. To remind him of Chuuya, to fuel the self-loathing, to keep him sane.

Chapter Text

Shūji walks around absentmindedly. Except that his mind is anything but absent, full of thoughts and whispers of those calling to him. Praying. He answers the ones he thinks are important, or the ones of those who have devoted his life to him.

His domain covers all sorts of things, though it can be mostly looped into the words trickery and revenge. It’s earned him a bad name from people outside of the faith he belongs to—though that’s common with a lot of the gods. They aren’t universally liked, especially when accompanied by myths.

Myths are just that, though: myths. Human made, meant to tell a story and warn against things but not to be taken as gospel. Many mistake that.

He puts some thought into how he’ll handle everything. A lot of people who follow him closely enough for him to put them high on the priority list have tough lives.

After all, it isn't a life of rainbows and daisies that leads people to follow the God of Vengeance.

Shūji circles trees in a forest with foliage tall enough to brush it with his fingers. The air smells of moss and petrichor, fog dampening its bite.

For now, Shūji wanders through the forest into a more populated, though still scarce area. To a temple of his, cracked on the steps, and old.

The Nakahara family has maintained it for generations, after the duty was passed onto one young woman over a hundred years ago. Hardly anyone outside the family goes to this specific temple anymore.

There are newer, prettier ones closer to the center of town for different gods. Shūji doesn't mind, he tells himself, and he can manage to believe it, too.

Tsunekechi Nakahara is sweeping up dust and leaves from the stone floor, an incense lit in the center.

It isn't a grand gesture, but it's appreciated. Tsunekechi doesn’t have much, and he still devotes his life to the care of this temple and the god it's designated to.

Shūji hovers around the temple, listens to the prayer muttered by Tsunekechi after he finishes sweeping, and makes sure the walk home treats him right.

Chapter Text

Chuuya is going to meet Dazai at his house. As a surprise, of course, because he’s bored and also probably has to force Dazai into restocking his kitchen again. It’s been a while since he’s done that, and the day the brown haired man learns how to take care of himself after… the event, is the day He’ll freezes over.

So, yes, Chuuya is walking out of a public bus and towards Dazai’s apartment, but it’s really just because the other man is an asshole. Not Chuuya’s fault he won’t care for himself properly.

Chuuya’s heels clack against the concrete with each step he takes, and eventually the sound shifts to gravel as he approaches the house.

Dazai lives in an old one-story house in a small town, probably too big for him alone but not that unreasonable. It has two bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen and a sitting room. He supposes that other rooms come— came in handy when having people stay over.

Still, Chuuya can imagine it feeling eerily quiet at times, but whatever, wasn’t his choice.

Chuuya doesn’t even bother to knock when he steps in, which is why he sees Dazai immediately. Sitting on his couch, a few empty bottles sitting on the table beside it. There’s no telling how long they’ve been there, and Dazai is definitely buzzed by his only reaction to Chuuya storming in like he owns the place being a childish face, but he can’t have drank all of that.

Dazai has a problem, Chuuya knows that—hell, everyone knows—but even Dazai wouldn’t be able to drink three whole bottles of cheap whiskey and stay as put together as he is. Put together is a stretch, actually.

He’s in loose fitting jeans a hoodie. His hair is I bridged and greasy, and Chuuya would place money on it being at least five days since his last shower. More since he’s brushed his teeth, probably.

Regardless, Chuuya sets his bag down on the table in the kitchen that’s connected to the living room Dazai is in and scans the place. Not too much of a mess, which is good. But it also means Dazai can’t have been feeding himself much. He never does the dishes anymore without being told unless he has none left, at which point he just washes the ones he needs and leaves the others to rot. Like an immature college student, not a man that’s lived in his own for who knows how long, Chuuya thinks with a tinge of annoyance and also concern.

This grown ass man should be able to care for himself better than he does, even now. Even as depressed as he is. He was never this bad before.

“Get up, Dazai.” Chuuya starts, feeling like a mom of a proper man-child. “Throw those away, shower. I’m gonna see how dire the food situation is.” Chuuya snorts, motioning for Dazai to throw away the garbage—bottles and wrappers—on the table beside his spot.

Dazai grumbles, standing up and leaning against the arm of the couch as he collects the trash into his hands. He throws it away on his way to the bathroom, doing as told despite the sour look on his face.

When he’s disappeared into the bathroom, Chuuya starts his look around the kitchen. He hasn’t been by in a while, at least two weeks what with work Monday through Saturday and the general exhaustion of life. Taking care of his friend just feels… daunting. Not quite bothersome, but somewhere close.

He pushes those thoughts down, not willing to face the growing resentment. He’s needed, is all. It’s fine.

The one plus has been his coworkers slash friends, but he hasn’t been able to meet with them outside of work either. He was at Dazai’s two weekend previous, as has become the norm these past few months, and his most recent day off he just couldn’t stand to meet anyone. He spent that day doing laundry and cleaning his apartment.

Normally going out with his friends would be his go to, maybe even energize him, but he had barely even been able to get himself out of bed.

As Chuuya is looking through Dazai’s pantry, he takes note of things he already has and what he’ll have to put on the list.

There’s still canned green beans he forced Dazai to buy at least a month ago untouched, macaroni and spaghetti noodles, tomato sauce, canned soup, peanut butter, and half a loaf of bread in the pantry.

Chuuya locates a small notebook and pen after some searching and starts to note everything Dazai will need to buy down. He goes through the fridge and does the same thing.

He isn’t sure if he’s going to go with to buy these this time or just send Dazai on his way and go back home.

If he goes with then he won’t need to worry about Dazai just sneaking back home without buying anything—he did that once, just once, but it has now made its way onto the potential chaos list—or not getting the things on the list.

Dazai is an adult, and he really should be able to go get his own groceries and clean his own house and feed and bathe himself. Too bad Dazai has no self preservation instincts and the will to live of a tired, half deflated helium balloon. Chuuya is entirely sure Dazai would just neglect himself to death if he was allowed to.

All that to say, Chuuya feels responsible. He met Dazai maybe a year and a half ago, and they grew close quick. Not super close, not so close Chuuya would have volunteered to care for him like he was an angsty teenager. Too bad Chuuya drew the shit end of the stick.

Oda Sakunosuke and Dazai Osamu were friends, nearly family. The trust that ran between them was deep, unlike anything Dazai had with anyone else. They spent weekends together, drinking and eating food, talking and watching movies, playing and ranting.

Chuuya only met Oda a few times, but every time he did the man was genuinely kind. Gruff, blunt, and a little air-headed, but good.

Then Oda died, and Dazai was left in shambles. He ghosted Chuuya for two weeks until he busted down the door. He drank more booze than water. He couldn’t care less about his health. He was an utter husk of his usual self.

Chuuya took on the role of, for lack of a better word, caregiver. His visits have been slowing down as his irritation with Dazai grew these past few weeks, but for a solid three months he doted upon Dazai like a hurt animal.

Worst part is that Dazai doesn’t even seem grateful. Maybe he isn’t, maybe he just wants to be left alone to die alongside his friend. Well, tough luck, because Chuuya doesn’t plan on letting that happen. Even as he runs himself dry.