Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tattooed somewhere in the midst of Chuuya's mind was a map of the city. During his most restless nights, the ones that prickled under his skin and slithered down his back, he traced the map with his feet, walking through the cobblestone streets, memorizing the gaps in the walls with his fingertips.

That night was far from unique. He had woken around midnight, mind too loud and legs begging for motion. Before he quite realized it, before he shook off the final wisps of his turbulent sleep, he had set off, tracing the trail that went left at the butcher shop and past the yellow house.

The cool night air trailed over his skin, playing with the ends of his hair and soothing his thoughts. Settling him. Chuuya took a deep breath of the cool air, letting it flow through his system and ground him.

At the same time, the air brought with it renewed alertness, and Chuuya went forward with a brightened pace, tangling his hands into the climbing ivy hanging at the old mansions gate, and checking the wobbly cobblestone at the end of the lane.

Taking another breath, he set his hands back in his pockets, walking more contently and raking his eyes over that which the moon illuminated.

Near the edges of the town he walked through a path lined with trees, set ablaze with autumn colors in the day, and yet somehow calm in the night. Near their roots sat growing piles of leaves that occasionally jumped and danced in a circle in breaths of wind, settling only once the gust pulled away.

A thought occurred to Chuuya, that perhaps he was like these leaves, helpless to the whims of the night air, dancing gleefully upon command, settling contently until their next performance. He tried to dismiss it as silly, but the thought crawled unpleasantly up his spine, settling poisonously in the crook of his neck.

He quickened his pace, running his fingers along the irregular bark to free the thought from his head. After all, the main purpose of these walks lay, perhaps, in not thinking.

Before he had really taken note of it, he had found himself near the southern edge of the town, farther than his midnight walks usually took him, if only because, when he was this restless, he typically took himself in the opposite direction, through the town square, past the little shops where children would steal candy, and to a tall tree where he would often lie down and rest. He found the roots more comfortable than most would have expected.

Near this edge of the town, perhaps due to the late hour, a thin mist peaked around low fences and the sparse trees and shrubbery, perhaps the makings of the next morning's dew.

This far out the roads transition into gravel, grass crowding in on the sides.

Chuuya tested the ground, not out of any real fear for structural integrity but more out of unfamiliarness, while keeping his eyes trained on the low iron fence, snaking itself into a tight square, edges sharp and small spikes running along the top, deterring any nesting birds.

He walked around to the front entrance, any previous calmness replaced by a slithering unease. He knew, logically, that it was just the town's graveyard. At its most base level, it was probably one of the safest places for him to be at night, with no living inhabitants for him to disturb. Still, he knew that, at some level, a graveyard was a holy place, one that he felt he would get chased out of, should he desecrate it with his presence.

He shook himself, attempting to shed his thoughts. So what if most people thought he didn't belong in a place like that? He could hear the crickets chirping around him, see a small blade of grass peeking out from between the small rocks. They were nature, a part of the world, creatures that never had to ask permission or hide. Creatures that never could. They were all a part of the night, and, just for this moment, he was too.

Shining in the light of the moon, the smooth stone of the tombstones looked beautiful. Chuuya entered the graveyard.

The first thing he noticed was how still everything was, how the world seemed to hold its breath, as though it were not a graveyard but a serene lake. He walked slowly, afraid that moving too fast might shatter the illusion, hurtling a rock into the calm surface. It felt as though there was a muffled film over everything, cold and, though it seemed redundant to say, devoid of life. It felt like a rebellion to breathe. Chuuya did it anyway.

As he walked he admired the carved epigraphs and flower bouquets, some newly placed, some wilted with time. Were they someone's dedication of love, or just an appeal to the tradition of the dead?

Chuuya barely noticed the boy at first, his frame slumped and his back pressed against the face of a tombstone. He fit in too well with the surroundings, looking just as bleached of color and life in the moonlight as everything else. He was dressed in a dark suit, which, as Chuuya got closer, he realized was highlighted by the pale bandages wrapped around most of the boy’s exposed skin, going so far as to cover one of his eyes. Still, he appeared young. His one visible eye was closed, and if he was breathing, he was doing so shallowly enough not to appear from a distance.

Chuuya approached him slowly, not necessarily with the warriness that one would usually treat a possible dead body with, but instead with curiosity.

“You're not dead, are you?” He muttered softly, mostly to himself, as he bent down and gently shook the slumped figure’s shoulder.

At the touch, the boy opened his eye slowly, calmly, without the grogginess or surprise of someone woken from their sleep. He peered at Chuuya owlishly, and Chuuya, for his part, stared back.

At last, the boy broke the silence. “You're one of the feral children, aren't you? Chuuya, right?”

Chuuya bristled at his remark. Technically, he was right, Chuuya was one of the so-called ‘feral kids’, the ones without any parents to speak of, that raised themselves together on the streets of the town, but something about the way he said it made Chuuya want to bite back. He spoke coolly, not necessarily with disdain but with a great amount of indifference, the kind that wormed itself under Chuuya's skin.

“Yeah, and you're just laying in a graveyard like a piece of the scenery!” he snapped.

Perhaps, to another person, it would have been off-putting, but the boy just chuckled. “You growl just like a dog, like one of those chihuahuas,” he giggled some more at his own comparison “I’m Dazai, by the way”

Chuuya flushed a little, realizing that he had gotten so caught up in their little back and forth that he had forgotten to even get his conversation partner's name. He was saved from filling the silence, though, as the boy, Dazai, apparently, burst into another fit of giggles, perhaps more deliriously tired than Chuuya had originally thought.

“You're short,” Dazai finally got out, his former coolness fully melted away in favor of some childish giddiness.

“And how can you tell that from all the way down there, jackass?” Chuuya had, in fact, stood back up throughout the conversation, assuming his full, though far from impressive, height, whereas Dazai still lay slumped upon the tombstone.

“Because, see that mausoleum over there?” Chuuya turned to look, “From here, it's roughly 5 feet tall and, from my vantage point, you're practically the same height.” He snorted again at his pronouncement, this time more controlled. Obviously, he found himself very clever. Asshole.

“At least I'm not covered in stupid bandages.” Perhaps Chuuya was using the first thing he could think of, but in his defense, they were a strange choice.

“They make me look sophisticated.” Dazai grinned, brandishing his hand dramatically towards the bandages on his face.

“They make you look ridiculous.” Chuuya shot back.

Dazai squawked in indignation.

“It's not fair, you can see better from up there!” It's petulant and whiny, not even a clear statement of his request. Chuuya kneels down beside him anyway.

“You're a brat.” He mutters under his breath, because Chuuya may do one ridiculous thing for him, but he doesn't want Dazai getting used to it.

Dazai sticks out his tongue in response.

He turns sideways to look at Chuuya, then moves himself closer. The way Dazai looks him up and down reminds Chuuya unpleasantly of being examined, albeit by a childish prick with one owlish eye visible, and the other, likely also owlish, eye hidden.

Dazai moves one hand to cup the side of Chuuya's face, and raises the other as if to inspect Chuuya as a grandmother or some worrying church lady might. Then, in one fluid motion, he drops all pretense and flicks Chuuya directly on the forehead.

Chuuya is, for a second, completely stunned. Then, he regains himself and begins cursing Dazai, who, for his part, practically squeals in delight.

They spend the rest of the night like that, side by side, sometimes engaging in banter, sometimes falling into a comfortable silence, like two leaves, dancing in the wind.

— — —

Time, as it is wont to do, passes.

Things, as they so love to do, change.

Chuuya passes his 16th birthday in a bedroom with beige walls and white flooring, in some mini, semi-functional apartment in the backyard of an old house on the eastern side of town.

The two women who live in the house, the philanthropic sort, granted him the room, not so much as an attempt to adopt him, but more so just to house him. He doesn't hate it. The room is nice, and the house's inhabitants are kind, though aloof. It's nice, he supposes, to have his own space.

Not technically just his own, but Dazai refuses to acknowledge it as such.

Dazai’s a lot like a stray cat, Chuuya's found, in that he can be lured into a place for some time, but imply that he's anything more than a visitor or try to talk him into staying, and he flees.

At least he always comes back, eventually.

The room is decorated sparsely, with a mirror in one corner, a small closet in another, and three photographs taped plainly to the wall.

The first is of some other ‘feral children’, people Chuuya doesn't quite like thinking about, but can't bring himself to erase. So, the photo stays.

The second is of him and Dazai. They're at the fair, holding cotton candy and two stuffed animals. The stuffed animals were won at some carnival games, in a competition to see who could win the worst animal and compare the other to it. Chuuya got a mackerel for Dazai. Dazai got Chuuya a slug.

So, there was another decoration for the room, the plushes stood at the edge of the bed.

In the photo, Dazai is biting Chuuya's cotton candy, and Chuuya, having just noticed, is furious and looks ready to hit Dazai (which he did, seconds later). Technically, they had taken a ‘nicer’ photo beforehand, where Chuuya was grinning at the camera, but they both chose this one. It felt more like them than anything polished ever would.

The third photo is different. It's the only one Dazai put up, a picture of a man and a beige jacket and a dark shirt. Chuuya doesn't know who it is, though he asked once or twice. Dazai always evaded the question, with the vague dismissal that it was “someone important”, and Chuuya didn't want to press the subject. Whenever he found Dazai at the graveyard, however, he was always in the same place, and Chuuya figured that may have something to do with it.

— — —

It happens one night.

Chuuya is sitting on the bed, legs crossed and back against the wall. Dazai is lying on the other side of the bed, face towards the ceiling.

Perhaps it was out of curiosity, the kind spurred by staring at a photo of a man you don't know for months on end, perhaps a certain observantess. Chuuya had considered many possible identities for the man. He seemed older than Dazai, perhaps a brother?

Chuuya leaned over Dazai and began running his fingers through Dazai’s hair, in search of some pretense. Then, he began gently running his fingers over Dazai's face, copying the brow furrows and laugh lines accentuated in the photo. He's not quite sure what he's searching for in the moment, perhaps some familial resemblance, perhaps recognition.

He finds the second.

Halfway through, Dazai jolts up, horrible clarity dawning on his face.

He's gone before morning, this time for a month.

He comes back.

He always comes back, eventually.

— — —

Chuuya's lungs burn and his legs ache.

Somewhere, in the midst of his mind, he knows the route he's following, but he lets his muscle memory guide him. It's much easier not to panic when he can rely on something beyond his conscious mind.

It's night, but it's hard to tell from the illuminated sky, painted red by the flickering flames below.

Somewhere, he hears someone in the town faintly screaming “Fire!” Much less faint is the scent of smoke, settling itself into his very skin.

Chuuya's lungs burn and his legs ache, slowing down isn't an option, because there are flames engulfing the town and they'd be happy to take him with them.

In the inner pocket of his jacket, he has three photos tucked away safely.

He runs as far as he can, as fast as his feet will take him. He ends up at the entrance to the cemetery, and he's barely surprised.

Somewhere, from between the tombstones, a voice calls to him, “Duck lower! You're not short enough to avoid the smoke!”

If he had enough breath left, he'd hold it over Dazai's head, that he'd said something so close to calling Chuuya tall. Maybe he will, in the future. At the present moment, he crouches and crawls toward his voice.

He finds Dazai sprawled on the ground, next to his usual grave. It's a little jarring, not to see him slumped against it.

“Join me!” Dazai giggles.

Chuuya finds enough air to spit out, “Are you crazy?! What about the fire?”

Dazai, to his credit, gets the slightest bit more serious at this, although to nowhere near the level one would typically afford a life-threatening situation.

“Look, consider your options. There's not much to burn around here, and the fire is moving fast. I'd say you have the same chance of escaping whether you run or stay.”

Chuuya considered. He considered Dazai's words. He considered his tired legs. He considered his smoke-filled lungs. He considered the weight of the photographs in his pocket.

He laid down.

Like two leaves in the wind, without even thinking about it, they interlace their fingers.