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Chapter Text

Given a choice between the furtive and the flamboyant, Dazai chooses flamboyance, throwing open the doors marking the entrance to the Armed Detective Agency with a flourish of flared coat and fake grin. To be confronted by complete silence after such a display was not the entirely expected consequence of his actions, yet, now that he pauses to think about it, he was supposed to be here well over an hour ago for some very important and critical meeting Kunikida had scheduled (on very short notice he might add). He’d had every intention of appearing on-time, a spectacle which may actually have rendered Kunikida speechless, so rare an event would it have been. Yet, as always, life – or his decided lack of interest in its continuance, to be more precise – ever has it’s own ideas.

Heaving a sigh at the lack of appreciative (or perhaps exasperated) audience, Dazai peers around the suspiciously empty office, quickly contemplating and discarding the idea of messing with Kunikida’s laptop while the opportunity presents itself; he’s likely already in for a thorough tongue-lashing, and while strangulation isn’t at the bottom on the list of 100 ways to die, it is definitely not one of his preferred methods.

It is with decidedly less fervour that he sidles through the door into the room most often used to host Kunikida’s long-winded and frankly boring mission briefings, updates, debriefings and numerous other pointless and tedious tasks Dazai studiously avoids like the plague. To be met with none of the usual fanfare associated with his late arrival (read: Kunikida yelling at him; Kunikida throwing the nearest object at his head; Kunikida launching himself across the room at him. Really, Kunikida has some kind of obsession with violence against his person) and find himself instead being scrutinised by a sharp green gaze, partially hidden behind the glint of too-familiar lenses is somewhat disconcerting. Ranpo is uncharacteristically solemn as he regards Dazai with a stare that makes his stomach do a somewhat nauseating drop to rest somewhere in his shoes. It makes him more than a little glad that he’d neglected breakfast that morning.

“Aha, It’s bad then?” Dazai chirps, the words intended as a quip, but somehow they sound small when confronted by the empty space, which suddenly surrounds the two of them with an oppressive, looming atmosphere.

“You could say that.” Ranpo’s mouth is a thin line, his fingers playing absently with a marble, rolling the tiny ball between thumb and index finger before in finally settles in his palm to be clasped tight.

“Where is everyone?” It’s a ridiculous notion, but some small part of Dazai expects the entire staff of the Agency to suddenly leap out of the closet yelling ‘surprise’ or some such nonsense. Ranpo’s next words make him wish it would come true with every fibre of his being.

“What do you know about The Puppeteer?” Ranpo’s tone is almost flippant, his topic of conversation ever straight to the point, but those eyes are hard as steel and utterly focussed.

Dazai can practically feel the way his face drains of colour. “Please tell me you’re doing research for the sake of posterity.”

“I wish I could tell you I was. He’s been sighted in Yokohama.” comes the flat response, the marble clacking to the table as Ranpo’s hand slams down. “Which you would know if you’d shown up. Now I have to waste my precious time, explaining something for a second time when my talents could be put to better use elsewhere.” his voice is starting to pitch into a whine, which heralds a full-on impending tantrum, “So tell me what you know, without the usual bullshit if you please.”

Heaving a sigh, Dazai practically throws himself into a chair, tipping his body forward until his face is smashed against the cold tabletop. Today is not going to be a good day. I should have followed my first instinct and jumped when the opportunity presented itself. Allowing himself a moment of self-pity, Dazai huffs out one more morose breath before turning his head sideways so he can watch Ranpo watching him in turn. “The Puppeteer, real name Richard Kadrey, thirty-four years old. Presumed dead after a fire in San Francisco which was caused by his own Ability.” He recites dutifully, pausing for a moment before adding, “Clearly whoever passed on that knowledge was misinformed if he really has been sighted in Yokohama.”

“His Ability?” Ranpo prompts, the tapping of his fingernail against the frame of his glasses betraying the fact that he, apparently, is not appeased by Dazai’s display of knowledge (or lack thereof, at least from the perspective of the great detective) on the subject at hand.

“From what we know of his involvement in past affairs in other countries, he can ‘puppet’ other Ability users, activating their Ability at will and directing them in simple manoeuvres for a limited period of time. The conditions are met when he draws and ingests blood from his target, however, he can choose when that possession comes into effect.” Absently, Dazai wonders if this is how bugs under microscopes feel as green eyes bore into him unblinkingly. He shrugs, or somewhat approximates a shrug from his current position, “That’s all I’ve got.”

An exasperated clicking of Ranpo’s tongue is his only response for several seconds, until the detective finally relents, peering through his lenses and down his nose in that imperious self-aggrandising way which all of the Detective Agency employees are so familiar with. It’s almost enough to make him smile, had the subject matter not been so utterly disturbing.

The detective’s tone is almost bored, as if he’s reeling off facts from a particularly mind-numbing article, ticking off facts on his fingers as he speaks. “The Grand Dark can control up to five Ability users at once. The time-frame for which he can hold the possession decreases with each Ability added to his arsenal. With five Ability users activated at once the possession holds for seven minutes. With just one Ability he can hold it for twenty. Those held under possession have no control over their own actions, they cannot fight the commands and they cannot break free, hence ‘The Puppeteer’. He has honed his control since the San Francisco incident and can control the output intensity of combat-class Abilities under his power. He can draw blood from an intended target and essentially bottle it for future use, however, the target must be within line of sight for the possession to be successful.”

A momentary pause before Ranpo continues, a slight edge in his voice. “There is one flaw. Once The Grand Dark has been activated upon a target, it cannot be revoked until the time has run out and cognitive function is then regained by said target. Essentially he can’t switch off the possession in order to gain or activate another if he has already reached his capacity. Most importantly, he cannot activate his Ability twice upon the same person, there appears to be a refractory period before a person will succumb a second time, even should Kadrey have the necessary components.”

“Sounds like a fun time.” Dazai half-mumbles into the table.

“Indeed,” comes the dry retort. “Which is why a decision has been made.” Ranpo’s tone rings with a determination and finality that has the ex Port Mafia Executive’s instincts immediately on edge. In days gone by he’d be surreptitiously removing the safety from his gun. He’s not going like what comes next.

“And I assume I am about to discover that I am in some way involved in the consequences of this decision?” He pulls himself slowly upright in his chair, scrutinising Ranpo’s face to find only flat calculation staring back at him.

“Indeed,” Ranpo repeats, before pulling out a book from it’s innocuous hiding place beneath a pile of messy papers and sliding it towards Dazai, whose stomach is once again somewhere in the region of the floor. “For the majority of this mission, you will accompany the Port Mafia’s Nakahara Chuuya.” He taps the book’s cover, “Into here.”

“No.” Dazai’s tone is harsher than he had intended, the single word a whipcrack in the otherwise silent room.

Ranpo huffs with characteristic petulance and a roll of his eyes, “The decision has already been made and signed off by the President, your refusal or dislike of your orders are irrelevant. If you wanted to argue your case, you should have attended the meeting.” Being rebuked by Ranpo-san of all people is somewhat embarrassing, and Dazai’s mouth snaps shut with a grinding clash of teeth.

Taking a few seconds to push aside his initial shock at being discarded, and irritation at being expected to play...what basically amounts to Chuuya’s babysitter in one of Poe’s supposedly unsolvable mysteries, Dazai finally drags his customary mask back into place and fixes a half-smile on his face. “If I am being demoted to Port Mafia babysitter, I think I deserve to know why?”

Exasperation flickers across the detective’s face as he heaves a long-suffering sigh, as if Dazai were some child who just couldn’t grasp a concept without it being explained a hundred times in small words. “I’m only going to waste my time laying this out for you once. If you’d just take a moment to use your brain rather than your mouth, you’d have realised this already. We just discussed The Puppeteer’s Ability in detail, correct?”

“Correct,” Dazai drawls in a lazy fashion he knows is guaranteed to irritate Ranpo further.

“Excellent, I’m so glad you can recall that much at least. Now. Imagine for a moment, if you would, what would happen if this particular villain were to possess not only Nakahara-san’s Ability of Gravity Manipulation, but, let’s say, Arahabaki.”

Comprehension dawns immediately and Dazai’s mouth goes suddenly dry. “Is that even possible?” his voice is a hoarse whisper, as if to be overheard might make it true.

“We don’t know for sure. Nakahara-san’s...predicament...well, as far as we know, he is unique in the world as a ‘success’ of that experimental procedure. It’s possible that the force known as ‘Arahabaki’, in this case the uncontrolled form of Nakahara-san’s Ability would fail to accede control to The Grand Dark. However, based on the known fact that your own Ability can intercede between Arahabaki and its control over Nakahara-san, it is unwise to assume that the possession would fail.” Pausing for a moment to point at the book, the detective’s green eyes bore into Dazai’s own carefully blank stare once more. “So, I take it you now understand the stakes we’re playing with here?”

The power of Arahabaki, unleashed and under the control of a psychotic killer who lives for nothing more than to cause chaos and death amidst the ranks of the world’s Ability organisations...the amount of destruction it could cause to Yokohama was almost incomprehensible. “I can understand the necessity of removing Chuuya from the game board, but I still fail to understand why I need to be his minder.”

Ranpo is shaking his head incredulously and Dazai is beginning to wonder if perhaps he’s not entirely as clever as he believes himself to be, clearly he is falling behind in this conversation if Ranpo is looking at him like he’s particularly useless. “The release of Arahabaki within any civilian district is an extinction level calamity for any structural or living entity within a radius of five kilometres. If The Puppeteer does somehow take possession of Arahabaki’s destructive power, the only thing left on this planet that can stop it is…”

“Me?”

“Well done. You’re not as stupid as you look.” Dazai rolls his eyes as Ranpo gives a sarcastic clap of his hands, “And if The Puppeteer were to somehow make a puppet of you and possess your Ability before you could stop Arahabaki’s rampage across Yokohama? If he simply orders you to remain still for those seven minutes or more that you are potentially under his control and not put an end to it?”

Understanding blooms hot and painful in his head squeezing his heart and stealing his breath, a stab that makes his eyes widen in fear despite the ever-present mask, and the colour drain from his face. “Assuming that Kadrey’s Ability even has the slightest possibility of working: everyone dies. Chuuya dies.”

“Even assuming The Grand Dark has no effect on you, all Kadrey would need to do is take you out of the equation by more mundane means and...we lose.” Ranpo adds in succinctly. “Precisely.” His eyes flick to the book before returning to Dazai’s face, a wry smile on his lips. “So, we pack you and Nakahara-san off somewhere safe, thus avoiding a potential calamity which is highly likely to result in the removal of Yokohama from the face of Japan.” The detective’s face drops into a scowl a moment later, “Well, I say safe, that’s not quite correct.”

“What do you mean?” He eyes the title of the novel, printed in red, the colour of old blood ‘Visits of the Dead’ stares balefully up at him in ominous flowing script.

“It’s not his best work,” Ranpo mutters, “but it’s the best he could dig out from his library on such short notice that would serve our purposes and give us the time we need to complete the plan. It will have to do.”

“Ranpo-san, please explain.” Dazai’s head is beginning to hurt and he has the suspicious feeling that what he’s about to hear is only going to make it worse. Definitely should have embraced the bridge. Ah, hindsight, such a wonderfully useless thing.

“The world is fictional, set at the beginning of a plague running rampant through the population. Infection is spread in saliva or by transfer of blood from the infected to the victim. The parasite eats into the brain, eventually inhibiting everything that makes a human a human. No compassion, no emotion, no sense of family or humanity. The parasite has only one goal, to spread, and it controls the host body in such a manner as to increase the spread of the disease as efficiently as possible. Eventually the host body cannot continue to function and will die, however the parasite will continue to use the form left behind to spread and infect into other living hosts and repeat the cycle.”

Oh...oh no.

“You’re sending us into a zombie apocalypse,” Dazai can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. He takes a moment to dig his fingernails into his palms hard enough to hurt, just to check he isn’t having some absurd alcohol-induced dream. Apparently not...just his luck.

Ranpo’s face twists into a disgusted grimace, “I suppose you could put it like that. Although I’m sure Poe would be aghast to hear his work described that way, but essentially, yes, we’re sending you into a zombie apocalypse...with no Abilities.”

“Wonderful.” Dazai wonders absently how much blunt force trauma it would take to put him out of his misery here and now. “How long?” He catches Ranpo’s wince from the corner of his eye and breathes a frustrated exhale through clenched teeth. “How. Long?”

“By my calculation – which you can count on by the way, after all, I am the World’s Greatest Detective –” Ranpo obviously catches the murderous glint in Dazai’s eyes as he stutters to a halt and his next words are pitched almost too quietly for Dazai to catch, almost. “Two hundred and fifty five days…”

“Ranpo-san,” Dazai’s voice has dropped into dangerously quiet tones now, a chilling sound which has never been uttered in the halls of the Armed Detective Agency. “Excuse me but I think I must have misheard. You did not, in fact, just tell me that the Chibi and myself are about to be thrown into a zombie apocalypse where we are expected to survive not only the undead but each other for two hundred and fifty five days?! You must be mistaken.”

“I don’t make mistakes.” Ranpo snaps, eyes narrowed and feathers obviously ruffled in indignation, completely oblivious to any impending sense of danger. “Two hundred and fifty five days, Dazai, and that doesn’t include the first night. The program must be terminated twenty minutes before the sun sets.”

He’s not sure whether to laugh maniacally at the sheer absurdity of the situation or cry at the terribly poetic injustice of it all. He settles for heaving yet another sigh which feels like it could last an eternity. “How exactly do you expect me to survive more than a minute once we’re inside this fun-filled little world of yours? You do realise Chuuya is just as likely to murder first and ask questions later as he is to actually stop and listen to this plan of yours?”

“Don’t worry about that. The Director has the Port Mafia’s Boss well informed of the situation. He is in agreement and compliance with this decision, Nakahara-san will not disobey a direct order from his Boss, Mafia loyalties run too deep.”

Dazai can feel his face twist into some kind of expression he really doesn’t want to look too hard at right at this moment. Yes, Chuuya’s loyalty is deep. Too deep, as Ranpo succintly put it, at least as far as the Port Mafia is concerned. “This is assuming he doesn’t gut me before I can say a word in my own defence.”

“Nakahara-san will be instructed to comply and assist in this mission which will be a joint operation between the Agency and the Port Mafia. I have faith in your abilities of coercion; you won’t have any issues with Mr. Fancy Hat.”

Another heavy sigh escapes him and he wonders absently if it’s possible to asphyxiate oneself in such a manner. “You couldn’t at least find us a nice novel about living in a tropical paradise?”

“Not exactly Poe’s area of expertise. As I already said, this is the best his limited library could come up with at short notice. If he had a month or two I’m sure a tropical paradise murder mystery would have been well within his reach. Unfortunately we are rather short on time.” There is no hint of apology in Ranpo’s face, in fact, the detective seems to be rather enjoying Dazai’s current state of distress. “We needed a timeline that would give us the optimum chance of success. The Agency has every confidence in your ability to not die.”

Well, isn’t that reassuring, and entirely unflattering, considering Dazai’s numerous attempts to do just that.

“Can I assume that you’ve already worked out what our moves will be?” Ranpo’s voice is all hard, solemn business.

Running plans and possibilities through his head, Dazai’s frown becomes a grimace. “You’re going to feed him Abilities. Then essentially go for a distract-and-grab.” He rubs his chin for a moment, closing his eyes as the wheels in his head turn furiously. “Force him to take on the Abilities that we choose to allow him to capture, until he reaches his capacity, then force him to activate the possession on all of them at once. At that point we complete whatever this novel’s endgame is and –” He pauses, focussing on Ranpo, who’s green eyes are watching him impassively as he motions for Dazai to continue. “You know there’s a high risk to our own if you go through with this?”

“Everyone understands the stakes.” The detective sounds terribly weary, as if the weight of the world suddenly rested upon his largely oblivious shoulders. “We will get you and Nakahara-san to the point most suitable for a quick victory. The rest will be up to him, or it. You won’t have much time to appraise yourself of the situation,” a minute pause, “And he won’t have much time to get the job done.”

“Chuuya doesn’t need time,” Dazai interjects, and immediately regrets ever opening his mouth because ugh, was that pride in his voice? Ranpo’s head cocks to the side, a sliver of sharp green boring into Dazai’s head as if he could peel away the layers of skin and flesh with just a look, delving deep to see what makes him tick.

“You have a lot of faith in someone known to have caused multiple deaths with an Ability he cannot control. A Mafia Executive no less,” Ranpo says, flatly.

Dazai is already tired of being the subject of Ranpo’s interrogation. “You know that we worked together for years. I trained him well.” The urge to shift uncomfortably is almost overwhelming, but Dazai forces himself to stand unmoving, staring Ranpo down.

A grin that could only be described as chaotic evil, ticks the corners of Ranpo’s mouth up, even as he shakes his head, “No, I don’t think that’s it.”

Vainly, Dazai attempts to ignore Ranpo’s sudden desire to pick at things Dazai would rather not think about too hard, tries to get the conversation back on topic. “Kadrey will put our own in the line of fire before giving himself up.” Our own. He can already make a pretty accurate prediction on exactly who it will be. Who will be the ‘bait’ too tempting for the big fish to let pass.

“I am aware. We will endeavour to get you a clear line of sight to Kadrey. After that it will be up to your Mr. Fancy Hat,” pulling off his glasses, Ranpo rubs the lenses on his sleeve before stowing them carefully in his pocket.

Your Mr. Fancy Hat? Dazai struggles not to lift his eyebrows in question and instead makes the abrupt decision to ignore Ranpo’s purposeful inference of some kind of ongoing connection between himself and one Nakahara Chuuya beyond their outwardly intense animosity, knowing the detective to be r ather too concerned in affairs which are definitely none of his business, World’s Greatest Detective or not.

“Try and get Atsushi and Akutagawa in my reach. Taking them out of the equation will make things easier for Chuuya.” At Ranpo’s nod of understanding, Dazai pushes himself upright, coming face-to-face with the shorter detective. “What do I need to know?”

Ranpo digs around in another pocket for a few seconds before pulling out a crumpled piece of paper and handing it to him. “You need to memorise these co-ordinates, since nothing you have on your person will exist in the book. Don’t forget them. This is where you need to be on the last day. An hour before sunset on the fifth floor, lab 504. Hack the computer system and the next step will be obvious.”

Burning the co-ordinates into his memory, Dazai nods slowly, slightly nonplussed at the detective’s reticence to explain exactly what the conditions of completing the novel are. He’s given no chance to question this reluctance as Ranpo continues: “The parasite is transferred from the infected to a new host by saliva or blood entering the bloodstream. An infected individual who has not yet succumbed entirely to the parasite can still infect others. Deterioration and death of a newly infected host can vary from minutes if major arteries are involved, to days, even weeks if the entry site is small. Look out for black track lines in the veins on limbs or the side of the neck. Don’t get bitten and don’t leave any wounds open to the air. The parasite is not airborne, but an open wound in a non-sterile environment is a quick entry point should you come into contact with infected bodily fluids.”

The thought of any part of him coming into contact with undead bodily fluids is more than enough to make Dazai feel slightly ill (or perhaps that’s just his empty stomach), but again he’s given no chance to further contemplate this possible horror with the speed at which Ranpo is rattling off information.

There’s a glint of cold hardness in those normally kind green eyes, “Treat everyone as an enemy.” The lack of compassion shocks Dazai for a moment, until he sees the truth behind the detective’s warning. It’s a story, not an alternate reality, not a world they can ‘save’, there’s no reason to act the hero. “Yes the infected will come after you. But remember this novel is based on survival, and the living are just as likely to murder you for a scrap of food or a can of fuel. They are not your friends, nor are they your allies. Do not get involved in useless undertakings.” Dazai wonders wherever Ranpo could have gained the idea that he would give himself any more work than necessary, but the detective is continuing to spew facts like some humanoid encyclopedia of the apocalypse and he quickly discards the thought in an effort to process and retain knowledge that might actually prove to be important to his continued existence.

“The parasite thrives best in the dark and will congregate in large spaces with limited natural light, but that does not mean you can move around in daylight without care. Hosts related to the same original strain are likely to remain in close proximity, however they do not have the capacity for coordinated attack nor the ability to constructively communicate, they will simply come at you with overwhelming numbers.” The detective pauses for a thoughtful moment, eyes scanning the opposite wall as if some invisible writing only he can see is inscribed upon the white-washed plaster. “The parasite infects only humans and primates. The original host was a bonobo. Other species are unaffected.”

He is scrutinised intensely once more, Ranpo obviously assessing whether or not Dazai has actually been listening and, more importantly, absorbing the details. Seemingly satisfied, the detective lifts a finger to point dramatically at Dazai’s chest. “Your mission is to stay safe for two hundred and fifty five days and come out of this alive and on time. Do not put yourselves at risk.”

Considering their options for a moment, Dazai shoots Ranpo an insolent smirk. “Overland?”

The smile is returned as Ranpo shakes his head, holding a hand to his brow as if lamenting the stupidity of his co-worker. “Open water.”

“Again?” He pitches his voice to almost a whine. “Why is it always water?”

“I thought you found the prospect of drowning peaceful?” Ranpo’s laughing now, a small chuckle but Dazai will count it a victory.

“I thought the object here was to stay alive Ranpo-san?” Now both of them are grinning, the clouded atmosphere of the room lifting, if only for a few seconds of misguided mirth.

“I have utter faith in your ability to botch even the simplest death.” Ranpo says seriously.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, Ranpo-san.” Concern for his co-workers, his friends, his reasons for living drown the merriment abruptly, like ice-water on burnt skin. “Keep them all safe.” Even whispered into the space between them, his voice cracks with an emotion he refuses to put a name to.

Fear. It’s fear.

“With my Ultra-Deduction, we can’t possibly fail.” Even Ranpo’s supreme confidence appears to be failing him in this moment, voice wavering with unspoken unease. “Now, get out of here so I can get some actual important work done, rather than re-running a conversation you should already have heard! Poe is waiting in the coffee shop downstairs and Nakahara-san has been instructed to wait for an Agency member to meet him at the Wine Bar in the Red Brick Warehouse.”

Placate Chuuya with alcohol before telling him he’s a liability and needs to be removed from the game until the opportune moment. I’m not sure whether that’s genius or a disaster waiting to happen. A few seconds later, Dazai decides since it’s Ranpo that’s come up with the idea, it’s probably both.

Coming to the realisation that Ranpo is still studying him with some kind of expectation to affirm his understanding, Dazai dredges up a smile as fake as the light of life in his eyes, throwing up one hand in a sloppily salute. “Yes sir!”

Please. Keep them all safe.

~ ~ ~

They reach the familiar landmark of the Red Brick Warehouse far faster than Dazai would have liked (which, had he had a say in the matter, would have been never). The obnoxious yellow taxi with it’s taciturn middle-aged driver - toting sunglasses and a full suit that make him look more like an undercover bureaucrat (or a Mafia employee) than someone who drives cars that smell of spilled alcohol and stale cigarette smoke - had already been waiting for him and Poe on the street when they’d exited the Agency building and the driver hadn’t even batted an eyelid at Poe’s fluffy and rather obviously alive fur hat.

The ride had been made in utter silence, Dazai forced to watch Poe tangle his fingers together and fidget anxiously in his seat in a way that made his own nerves fray just slightly. It’s almost a relief when the taxi squeals to a halt, mounting the pavement and sending a few pedestrians scattering sideways with indignant squawks and curses.

Dazai throws himself out of the passenger door, leaving Poe to deal with the subject of payment and taking the few blessed minutes of peace away from the aura of apprehension and distress - which seems to pour from the enigmatic Poe in clouding, suffocating waves – to contemplate exactly how he’s going to go about his unenviable task.

Running through his ex-partner’s most likely reactions to essentially being blackmailed into a zombie apocalypse with his most hated enemy, Dazai mutters something entirely uncomplimentary about his co-workers’ characters before ultimately deciding that his approach to this monumental problem will ultimately depend on what kind of mood the tiny hatrack happens to be in when Dazai makes his appearance.

He’d make a bet on all-out rage, but with Chuuya that’s practically a given.

Hearing a throat being pointedly cleared behind him, Dazai almost jumps out of his skin, wondering when and, more importantly, how the small, drab man had somehow managed to sneak up on him and how long he’d been standing there, waiting for Dazai to do something other than stare at the wall of the Red Brick Warehouse wondering how on earth he was meant to survive two hundred and fifty five days stuck in a world infested with the undead, with only Chuuya for company.

He mutters a few more choice obscenities before grumbling a sigh and rolling his shoulders, glaring at the door and pretending all the while that he is absolutely not trying to steel his nerves.

“You’d better stay out of sight, behind the door or something. Chuuya still hasn’t forgiven you for the last time you threw him into one of your magical mystery tours. Trust me, you don’t want to be on the receiving end of his temper...or his foot.” Ruefully, Dazai wonders if he’s about to remake his acquaintance with said foot. He heaves another put-upon sigh.

Poe lets out a weak chuckle, wringing his hands nervously as the raccoon sitting on his shoulder stares at Dazai with a baleful expression, chittering angrily until the novelist reaches a hand up to smooth down the animals fur. “Don’t worry, Karl, we’ll be just fine as long as we stay here.” The animal settles, wrapping its striped tail around its owner’s neck, resembling nothing more than an odd fashion statement as Poe’s head turns to face Dazai once more. “You know what needs to be done?”

It’s odd, Dazai thinks, looking at another person and being unable to see their eyes. He can feel Poe watching him from beneath that mess of raven hair, yet he can see nothing. “I just have to get Chuuya to read something in this book, right? Then you snap your fingers or something and off we go to Wonderland.”

Poe’s expression (at least, what Dazai can make of it) twists into something like affront. “That’s Lewis Carroll’s area of expertise, certainly not mine.” Dazai makes a mental note not to make book-based jokes in the presence of this man in the future, lest he end up in some weird Lovecraftian horrorscape. Oh...wait...perhaps it’s too late for that now. Poe is muttering distractedly to himself, something about his great work not being appreciated and how could Ranpo-san extort their friendship in this way. Dazai coughs pointedly. The raccoon (who calls a raccoon Karl anyway) bares its teeth. “You just need to read a sentence from the book. Well, actually, either one of you can read it, but both of you need to be engaged with it for you to be transported together. Ranpo-san assures me that if Nakahara-san is the ultimate subject of my Ability, then your own troublesome nullification won’t come into effect as it’s not working on you directly.”

It’s an interesting concept, one that Dazai might pause to pick apart at any other time. No Longer Human doesn’t discriminate, consumes all others with nothing more than a touch, but the idea of Dazai himself not being the subject of Poe’s Ability and having him be more of an...unwilling passenger. Well, it makes a vague sort of sense.

“Right, right. I’ve got it, Mr. Storywriter. Let’s get this over with, hmm? Then you can go back to Ranpo-san with word of your success.” Poe’s face instantly brightens, leaving Dazai to wonder for just a moment exactly what the relationship is between the two detectives before pushing that odd thought from his mind completely.

“Wait a moment. There’s something I need to remind you of,” the quiet whisper is almost hesitant and Dazai turns his head to look back at the nervous Poe, whose fingers are stroking through the raccoon’s thick fur as if the repetitive motion is somehow soothing. “If one of you dies, but the other successfully fulfils the conditions to complete the novel, you will both survive.” Poe chews his lip for a moment before gathering his courage, “If both of you die before the conditions are met, there’s nothing I, or anyone else can do.”

“So if we both die in the novel...we’re dead on the outside too?” The thought leaves a sour, nauseous feeling roiling in his stomach. Poe’s silent nod has fear creeping up his throat like bile; an emotion nearly alien to Dazai.

“Wonderful. Thank you for the warning. I’ll try not to die.” Ah, such irony in words he never thought he’d speak.

He takes a slow breath once he’s out of Poe’s immediate vicinity, collecting together the pieces of himself to create the appearance of something whole. A grin on his face, book tucked carefully into one of the myriad voluminous pockets of his favourite coat, he strides into the bar, calling out in a mocking sing-song that’s sure to grab a certain redheaded Mafioso’s immediate attention.

“Chuu-ya~ what a surprise to see you here!”

He can see the way Chuuya’s entire body tenses from across the room; shoulders lifting, teeth grinding, eyes closing in immediate irritation as he freezes for a second before clearly letting out a frustrated sigh. Witnessing that single exhale, Dazai knows how he feels.

He waltzes past the only two other patrons of the bar, who have paused in their conversation to look between him and the short redhead - who looks like he’s been steadily working his way through a bottle of wine for the last half an hour - clearly wondering if a fight is about to break out. From the corner of his eye he can see them exchange hasty words, fingers grasping for coats as they rise to leave.

Well, the less onlookers the better.

He’s reached Chuuya’s table now, leaning his entire weight upon the polished surface as he tilts his head sideways to look the redhead in the face. “Aren’t you pleased to see an old friend~”

When he lets go of enough of his rage to force words through his teeth, Chuuya’s tone is resigned. “Why is it always you?”

Dazai pouts, sticking his bottom lip out petulantly as he steals Chuuya’s glass and swirls the dark red liquid around once, twice, before taking a sip and making a exaggerated show of his disgust. “Why, Chuuya, you don’t sound happy to see me at all. I am heartbroken.”

“I would be happy if I never had to see your face again, bastard. Now, tell me whatever it is that you’re here to tell me and then you can leave and I can finish my wine in peace. You’re spoiling the vintage.” He reaches out to take the glass from Dazai, who pulls back and drains the remainder in a few swallows, pretending to cough and gag for effect.

“I’m afraid that’s not quite how things are going to progress.” He can see Chuuya reaching for the knife at his hip and holds up the hand not currently occupied with the now-empty wineglass in a sign of placation. “Now, now, Little Mafia, no threat intended, there’s no need to be prickly. I’m sure the Boss has mentioned, we have bigger fish to fry at this moment in time.”

Chuuya shifts uncomfortably, eyeing the wineglass which is still out of his reach for only a second before he gives it up as lost and simply grabs the bottle, tipping it up to take a long swallow before pointing it accusingly at Dazai. “The Boss is keeping things to himself. The Executives haven’t really been told anything other than we have reached a temporary accommodation with the Agency due to a mutually destructive adversary. I assumed I was sent here to pick up intel.” The bottle is returned to the table, now carefully out of Dazai’s reach.

“You know what they say, Chuu-ya~? ‘To assume makes an ass out of u and me!’”

The redhead’s teeth bare in a snarl remarkably akin to the small angry raccoon lurking outside as he slams palms onto the table hard enough to make it creak in protest at the mistreatment. “I’m leaving.”

“Wait a minute!” Dazai knows he’s pushed his ex-partner as far as he can without causing Chuuya to actually rain violence down upon his person. “I do know what your part in this joint venture is.”

“Are you waiting for me to beat it out of you?” Chuuya’s foot taps on the floor, a sure sign that the redhead is fast running out of what little patience he possesses.

“Of course not, you know I don’t like pain,” Dazai huffs, balancing the glass on the edge of the table, and regarding Chuuya seriously. “Before I tell you, will you promise not to shoot the messenger?”

“Why do I feel like I’m getting the worst end of this bargain,” Dazai tilts his head, eyes narrowing a fraction and the redhead groans a long-suffering sigh. “Fine, fine, I wont murder you if I don’t like what I hear. Happy?”

“Ecstatic~” Dazai chirps, pulling the book from his coat and flipping it to the first page as he strides smoothly around the table to thrust the typed print in the Mafia Executive’s face, “If you just start here, you can see…” and he begins to read, praying silently that Poe is paying attention and he isn’t about to feel the ripping pain of being stabbed in the gut for what Chuuya will inevitably see as a betrayal.

“The bar is dark and dusty; shadows dance across the room as the light from the television casts its flickering glow to reflect against glasses gone grimy, their contents left forgotten by patrons –”

There’s a tug somewhere in the region of his navel, a sickening lurching sensation and then, absolute darkness.

Chapter Text

The bar is dark and dusty; shadows dance across the room as the light from the television casts its flickering glow to reflect against glasses gone grimy, their contents left forgotten by patrons who have already vacated with hurried steps and hushed whispers, left mute in mounting horror as endless text scrolls frantically across the screen.

The newsreader’s voice is the slightly shrill tone of someone who is trying to maintain a calm and collected mien whilst being completely overwhelmed by the subject matter they are being forced to disclose.

“Citizen’s are being urged to remain indoors. We repeat that the city is currently under mandatory curfew but a government spokesperson assures the public that there is no cause for immediate alarm…”

Rage, red and relentless, burns like fire through his blood; swamping the momentary confusion in a drowning wave of hot anger. Turning an immediate full circle to assess his new surroundings (know where your exits are, where the potential weapons are, where the enemies are), he can’t help but release the growl rising in his throat like some sort of crazed beast waits to break forth from his ribcage and rend and tear and decimate the perpetrator of his current situation.

“What. The Fuck.” Is what comes out of his mouth in a half-snarl, half-shout of somewhat intelligible noise. The inside of his head, on the other hand, is a silent yet continuous litany of ‘not again, not again, not again, please not again, for fuck’s sake NOT AGAIN!’

Dazai. That bastard is definitely to blame and like hell is Chuuya going to let him fuck off and escape like that shitty detective had done, dumping him in a world of psychotic killers without anything more than a sharp smile and snarky comment about his deductive abilities (or lack thereof). He reaches a hand to his hip, expecting to feel his palm hit the solid weight of his ever-present knife, only to be met with empty air.

Dazai notices and the asshole has the audacity to smile at him.

“Sorry Chuuya, I’m sure your personal effects will be returned in full working order once we get back to the other side. Although, I have to say, I’m a little disappointed it didn’t at least get rid of that ridiculous hat.”

No knife. Ah well, no matter, he has all the weapons he requires; it’s not like he needs a knife to kick the shit out of that useless bandaged bastard anyway. Instead he grabs the closest thing to hand – a chair – and brandishes it, intending to increase it’s weight and throw it full force at Dazai’s stupid smirking face. Nothing happens and he curses, of course there are no Abilities in this shitty make-believe world. Doing this the hard way then. He takes a menacing step forward into Dazai’s space, chair thrust out before him and knowing he probably looks insane and possibly a little ridiculous to anyone else in the near vicinity.

Dazai skips backwards a step, throwing up his arms, palms out in a placating manner, reading Chuuya’s intent as easily as he always had years ago, still does (infuriatingly) today. “Woah now, Little Mafia, hold on a second!” Another step back and the bastard is now firmly out of Chuuya’s immediate range, but not out of danger by any means. “Believe it or not, this was not my idea and I am just as much here against my will as you.”

He doesn’t believe it. Not for a second. This whole scenario stinks of some convoluted scheme the bastard would plot to blackmail Chuuya into doing something, or not doing something depending on his capricious moods. Still, against his own better judgement, he lowers the chair back to the floor, straddling it and sitting, arms wrapped around the back as he drops his chin to rest on it, keeping the hard slatted wood between himself and the asshole who is, as usual, the most likely architect of all his current problems. “What the fuck, Dazai?! This had better be fucking good.”

“What has Mori-sensei actually told you?” Typical bastard Dazai, totally avoids answering the question and instead asks one in return. So now it’s either a game of talking in circles for half an hour before Chuuya gets so pissed off he walks out, or –

“Like I said before you dragged us into this shithole, the Boss hasn’t disclosed much information at this point in time and I was under the impression that I was meeting someone from the Detective Agency to brief us. Apparently I was wrong and instead I’m the Detective Agency’s target instead.” He narrows his eyes, watching Dazai who is in turn watching him with that dead gaze, reminiscent of old-blood which gives away nothing.

Suddenly, the bastard is smiling and waving his hands once more, “Nothing like that Mr. Port-Mafia-Executive-saaan~” The fake tone of congeniality is nauseating and it’s all Chuuya can do to keep hold of his temper (a monumental achievement, considering). The mask drops almost as quickly as it had arisen, expression now almost devoid of life altogether. A chill runs up his spine, it’s an expression he is too familiar with, an expression from a lifetime ago. “Mori-sensei is keeping his cards close to his chest as always, I see. Though, I suspect had you known the particulars of this mission, even your sense of duty and loyalty might have been tested. Perhaps he’s afraid that one of these days you’re going to run out on him and join the enemy too.”

Chuuya is about to scoff or spit or snap or something when Dazai suddenly switches the topic of conversation once again. “Has he at least told you the reason for the Agency’s request for collaboration with the Port Mafia?”

“Some foreign Ability user who has caused problems in other territories and is likely to be a present and immediate threat to Yokohama’s security.” Chuuya is loathe to admit that he doesn’t actually know who exactly their adversary is. Never let on to that suicidal idiot that you know less than him, or he’ll use it to twist you to his own bidding. “I was simply told to cooperate with the Agency contact in the fulfilment of this mission.”

“And your idea of cooperation was to threaten me with a chair?” Dazai deadpans.

He’s not going to blush in embarrassment. Or stutter, damn it. Instead he glares, opens his mouth and practically hisses. “Hey, asshole, you don’t exactly have the best track record in cooperation yourself.”

“Okay, okay, let’s just agree that we are both equally to blame for this...unfortunate beginning to our collaborative efforts.” The tall idiot flaps a hand dismissively before heading across the short space to the bar, peering this way and that before pilfering a bottle of who-even-knows-what from beneath the counter along with two less-than-sparkling glasses, returning to present the newly acquired assets to Chuuya with a flourish. “I think we need a drink to accompany what might prove to be a...difficult conversation.”

Taking a glass, which he makes sure to inspect with obvious disdain, Chuuya allows Dazai to pour him a generous measure of clear liquid, which, upon closer deliberation, may actually be paint stripper. Oh well, being comatose seems somewhat preferable at this point when compared to the prospect of continuing this...whatever this is. A thrill of trepidation runs through him as he contemplates the untold reasons why Dazai would be offering him a drink before telling him anything. It doesn’t bode well.

“What do you know of The Puppeteer?”

Chuuya’s blood runs cold as Dazai begins to lay out the facts about their newest adversary. Honestly, where do these stupid shits come from, and why do they all decide that Yokohama is the place to make a name for themselves? Well, the second question has a slightly more obvious answer at least – Yokohama is bubbling putrid stew of Ability users, shady organisations, illegal transactions, and is practically infamous worldwide with Gifted associations, it makes sense that anyone wanting to become a ‘player’ in their world would come to test his or her mettle in the forge that is Yokohama.

He yanks himself out of his own head to listen to Dazai’s rundown on the Ability user known as The Puppeteer. Really, what a ridiculous nickname, if you’re going to be known by an alias at least make sure it’s something that doesn’t sound like a preschool kid thought it up. Though, he has to admit, the reality of the situation is disturbing at best. The Agency and the Mafia together are going to have a shitshow on their hands, and here he is, one Nakahara Chuuya, Port Mafia Executive, sidelined.

“So, you understand why we’re here, right?” Dazai is now leaning one elbow on the table, head resting in his palm, looking for all the world like a boneless lump of something that might once have been human. He looks tired, Chuuya realises, so tired that the fake air of manic exuberance has failed him, and there is worry lingering in the depths of those dark usually emotionless eyes.

He rolls the words around on his tongue, tasting something acrid and bitter before he spits them out into the open air. “I understand I’ve been condemned as a liability and a potential risk to be ‘taken care of’.” Chuuya takes a sip of his forgotten drink and winces as it burns a path of molten lava down his throat. “Ugh. Even the alcohol in this world is shit.” He takes another swallow out of pure spite before discarding the considerably emptier glass on the table in disgust.

“If Kadrey gets even a drop of your blood and can manipulate Arahabaki –”

“You think I’d let him get anywhere near that close?” He dismisses the idea instantly, his pride rearing up like a prized stallion. “Nobody can touch me.”

“My my! Getting a little cocky there Chuu-ya~” Dazai’s eyebrows raise as he wiggles his fingers before reaching across the space between them to poke Chuuya’s arm. All mirth drops suddenly away from him, like a snake shedding its skin. “And if he took Ane-san? If she came at you with Golden Demon’s sword raised and ready to remove your head from your shoulders? Could you really strike her down before a drop of your blood was spilled? Could you incapacitate her without a moment’s hesitation?”

Bile and burning alcohol creep up Chuuya’s throat at the images Dazai is planting in his head – blood and bone and broken bodies, a woman who is practically family, lying sprawled at his feet – he swallows hard. “Okay, asshole, I get the point.” His words are a choked whisper as he chews on his lower lip in frustration. “But even if I’m not part of that fight, they’re going to bleed, we might lose people…”

“Yes.” Dazai responds flatly, all hint of that previous flicker of emotion wiped clean. “But this is Ranpo-san’s plan, it will give us the greatest chance of success, with the fewest casualties.” The silence is almost deafening, thick with doubt and dread. “They’ll be okay. They’ve all been through worse. They will survive. Everyone will survive.”

Dazai sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

Chuuya doesn’t believe him, no matter how much faith he might have in the Organisation, in the Boss, in Kouyou-nee, even in the undisciplined Akutagawa, he cannot, will not put his faith in Dazai. Never again.

“So what, I’m stuck with you in one of the emo-guy’s murder mysteries for a couple of days then at some preordained moment we solve the puzzle, hop out of the book and destroy the enemy? I assume you already know the answer to whatever the question is to get us out of here?” He halts abruptly when Dazai’s expression flickers into something like apprehension, his eyes moving from Chuuya’s face to the half-empty bottle of Hell’s Fucking Inferno and back. A creeping feeling of dread crawls up Chuuya’s spine along with the premonition that the diarrhoea on top of the shit cake is yet to come.

“What aren’t you telling me, shitty Dazai?” voice pitched to a low growl, he watches as Dazai drains his glass in a few slow swallows, not a hint of discomfort showing. “Or do I need to use the chair?”

A huff of complaint issues from the taller man as he practically lays himself across the tabletop, mashing his face into his outstretched arms as he mumbles a response Chuuya can barely discern, muffled as it is by fabric, flesh and wood. “This isn’t exactly a murder mystery.”

“What do you mean, it’s not a murder mystery? I thought that was emo-guy’s speciality?” He peers around, eyes captured suddenly by the television still flickering in the background, its subject matter unnoticed until now. He cocks his head to listen to the faint drone of the newsreader, barely audible from across the empty expanse of bar.

“The inner city and all outer districts are now under quarantine and lockdown, entry to and from the area is now denied to all but the relevant authorities. All citizens must return to and remain in their homes until relief troops arrive to direct evacuation, anyone attempting to circumvent curfew or leave the city without relevant permits will be held under arrest for failing to comply. Residents are warned not to go outside or interact with others outside of their immediate household. An emergency helpline has been set up for anyone who thinks they may have come into contact with an infected individual. We have been informed that positive cases of infection are rising but isolated and that there is no cause for immediate alarm. The public is being urged to follow current government advice and we are assured that evacuation of the inner city will begin within the next forty-eight hours.”

“Please tell me I’m not hearing what I think I’m hearing,” he chokes out the denial while knowing with dread certainty exactly what kind of novel they’ve been thrown into.

“Welcome to the zombie apocalypse, Chuu-ya~” comes Dazai’s falsely enthusiastic sing-song.

Chuuya squeezes his eyes shut, fingers gripping the wooden back of the chair so hard he can feel his bones grinding, he counts to ten, slowly and when he feels no lessening of the tension ratcheting his spine tighter than a bowstring he starts again, first in French, then Russian, English and German before finally sighing out a breath.

Dazai is watching him, concern colouring usually lifeless eyes to the hue of blood. Always blood between them, spilled in crimson rivers in the wake of every step. Blood, blotting their history with a steadily spreading stain, unable to be scrubbed clean.

How much blood will be spilled in the coming days?

“Fantastic.” His voice sounds alien to his own ears, defeated and flat. “So exactly how long are we stuck here for?”

Another unintelligible mumble is, apparently, Dazai’s idea of a response, and the bastard definitely isn’t looking at him now, instead pouring another generous measure of Bottled Lava and tipping it down his throat as if it were nothing more than water.

“Want to try that again, with actual words this time?” Ah, exasperation, his constant companion and confidante wherever the bastard is concerned.

“Two hundred and fifty five days.”

Chuuya blinks, comprehension eluding him for a full five seconds before it hits with all the force of a large and incredibly sadistic freight train. He swallows hard, opening his mouth to say something, anything, before shaking his head as words fail him and the enormity of their situation sinks in with soul-crushing finality. Grabbing what remains of the alcohol, he forgoes the niceties of using a glass, instead putting the bottle to his lips and draining the contents, uncaring of the burning fire racing down to coat (and possibly disintegrate) his stomach. Death by liver failure sounds infinitely more welcoming than death by zombies.

Fucking zombies.

“Well, shit.” He allows himself a few seconds of internal panic, because honestly, it’s the fucking zombie apocalypse, he’s unarmed, disconnected from his Ability, and he deserves some time to freak out. Moment of insanity temporarily abated, Chuuya huffs out another long sigh, finally pulling his attention to the asshole who dumped them both into this mountain of shit; Dazai is watching him with head tilted in that infuriating manner that makes it look like he’s trying to dissect someone from the inside out. He licks his teeth, tasting the bitter remnants of alcohol before dredging up his courage and facing the inevitable, “So, I assume you at least have a plan to get us out of this hell hole? Do you even know where the fuck we are right now?”

Peering around the dingy bar, empty save for themselves, gloomy and dark and flickering ominously from the light of the television, which is still spouting an incessant drone of doom and dismay, Chuuya can see no immediate clues.

“Maybe in the story one of us owns this place?” Dazai shrugs ineloquently and Chuuya is seconds away from leaping out of his seat and strangling the bastard to death because really, who comes voluntarily into an apocalyptic world without at least some knowledge of where they’re going?!

Instead of snapping, he takes one more pointed look around the bar before scoffing, “In that case it’s definitely yours: dirty, dismal and the alcohol is low quality. If I owned a bar it wouldn’t be anything like this.”

“Dismal and low quality, eh?” The voice coming from the doorway behind the bar is low-pitched and loud enough to make both men jump to their feet, heads whipping around to see the newcomer; a portly middle-aged (if Chuuya was feeling particularly generous) man with a balding pate and small dark eyes holding a mean glint as one meaty hand grips tightly to a bat, slapping it into the opposite palm with a menacing thwack of wood upon skin.

“Already making friends I see, Chuuya.” Dazai rolls his eyes before moving around the table and throwing one arm companionably across Chuuya’s shoulders making him freeze instantly and almost throw the shithead forcibly across the room. He resists the urge through strength of will alone. “Please forgive my friend.” Dazai’s hand pushes on the back of his head, forcing him into a slight bow, “He tends to forget his manners when he’s had a drink! We do apologise!”

The man – obviously the actual owner of the establishment – grunts noncommittally, looking between the two of them and then finally to the empty bottle lying discarded on the table. “You plannin’ to skip out without payin’ for that?”

“Of course not, of course not!” Dazai beams, releasing his hold on Chuuya to pat around in his pockets, a hint of relief crossing his features as he finds and produces a wallet from one, rummaging around to pull out notes that look completely unfamiliar to anything either of them are used to. “We wouldn’t dream of leaving before paying our tab, isn’t that right, Chuuya?” He hands over what they both hope is a reasonable amount, slightly gratified to see the man’s small eyes widen with the light of greed. “Please, keep the change as a gesture of good faith!” Dazai’s fake smile is firmly in place now and Chuuya hates how well it seems to fit his face after years and years of deceit.

“Thank ye kindly.” The stranger responds, dropping the bat to the counter before turning to look at the television and scowling. “You lads obviously haven’t been payin’ attention eh? The city is under curfew and yeh’d better be goin’ before any of us gets into trouble. I don’t wanta be arrested for aiding rulebreakers at a time like this ye know?”

“We were just leaving.” Chuuya mumbles, grabbing the sleeve of Dazai’s coat, fully prepared to tow the taller man up the stairs before Bat Man decides to have any more bright ideas. Dazai allows himself to be pulled a few steps before putting a hand on Chuuya’s arm and planting his feet.

“Wait a moment.” He flashes a glance at Chuuya which is clearly warning him to silence before turning to face the barman who is still watching them with suspicion in his eyes, fingers wrapped protectively around the notes Dazai had just handed him. “We are from out of town on a matter of business, an unfortunate mistake in hindsight, as I’m sure you can imagine.” He gestures towards the TV and shrugs, “Tell us, where might a couple of clueless individuals go to find a place to stay?”

The man looks between the two for a few seconds, wariness and scepticism written clearly across his rotund face before staring once more at the notes in his had. Obviously deciding that they had paid enough for such a paltry amount of information, the man grins maliciously, gesturing to Chuuya as he grunts, “Well, I don’t think yer fancy friend there will like it much, but there’s a hotel about four blocks up from here, heading right out the front door. Two blocks and ye’ll pass a camping store on this side o’ the street, turn left and head up the road ‘nother two blocks and ye can’t miss it. Bright red sign called City Break. It ain’t much, but it’s cheap an’ they always have rooms. Per’aps ye’ll be lucky an’ outsiders will be evacuated first, eh? But don’t count on it.”

“Thank you for your help.” Dazai sketches a slight bow, Chuuya mimicking the movement without conviction before following the taller man up the narrow staircase onto a predictably run-down street.

The night air is chilled, yet heavy with that familiar lingering smog that only a city can produce. Yet the streets are totally devoid of life; no shuffling drunks, weaving their merry way home after one too many indulgences; no giggling women, dressed to the nines and freezing their asses off as they smoke on street corners; no shady deals being made amidst the shadows. The silence is deafening.

Something is nagging at him as Dazai’s eyes flick to the left, then to the right, sharp and clearly assessing their current level of threat. “Oi, bastard, why did you ask about hotels? Are we actually going to stay in some shitty dump in a zombie-infested city?”

Old-blood eyes come to rest on Chuuya, blinking once, twice, and he can almost hear in that irritating sardonic tone ‘Are you really as stupid as you look, Chuu-ya~’ without the need for any words to actually be spoken aloud. He huffs loudly, crossing his arms defensively, fiercely burying the urge to stomp his foot like a child.

“Of course we’re not staying in the city, has that hat become sentient in this world and rotted your brain?” A theatrical sigh and the bastard has the audacity to look pained, “If we’re lucky, we might have gained ourselves...ten minutes, before our good friend down there decides we might be worth more to him should we be turned over as suspicious individuals than we would should we be picked up and mention his wonderful hospitality later on.”

Gritting his teeth, Chuuya nods curtly, unable to find any immediate flaw in the bandage freak’s reasoning. “So we’re going left? We could hit a supermarket, take what we can and then get the fuck out of this city.”

With a tilt of his head, Dazai lets out a genuine burst of laughter that leaves Chuuya feeling confused and somewhat offended. “Chuuya, have you ever actually watched any zombie movies?” He’s still chuckling as Chuuya bristles, turning his head sharply to the side as a faint flush rises on his cheeks.

“N-no…” He admits his lack of intimate knowledge in the subject of apocalyptic media with a grumble, knowing that the asshole will only call him out as a liar if he pretends that he has. “I always thought the idea was stupid.” Chuuya stares at his own hands, encased as always in soft black leather, curling his fingers into fists. “If something like that ever happened in Yokohama, why would I worry? I’m strong enough to keep myself alive. I’m strong enough to keep whoever I want alive. You know what headquarters is like – even if you could break out and get past all of the security systems, that’s only because you have inside knowledge of how the Organisation works. No half-assed zombie is going to come knocking down our doors.”

Dazai laughs again, unfeigned and real, the years and the memories falling from him under Chuuya’s gaze as he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I suppose you’re right. A zombie apocalypse wouldn’t quite be up to our usual calibre of enemy, now that I think about it.” He shakes his head as if in disbelief. “What a strange world we live in where zombies no longer instill fear in the hearts of men. Well, since you are uneducated on the topic, Executive-san, let me give you the zombie movie lowdown. Supermarkets, malls and precincts are where the ill-informed go to die.”

Turning to the right, Dazai begins to stride down the street, leaving Chuuya to scramble to catch up. Stupid lanky bastard and his stupid long legs. Said lanky bastard is still talking, and despite not wanting to listen to a word Dazai says, learning as much as possible about zombie movie culture probably isn’t the worst idea he’s ever had.

“Firstly, the populace, upon learning of their impending doom, will kick into ‘survival mode’. Instinctively they will rush to the nearest store and try to grab as much as possible to hoard against the possibility of becoming besieged – at this point they still believe their home to be an impenetrable castle. As more and more people flock to these places, fights will break out and then the rioting will start. Everyone will become the ‘enemy’, everyone is out to take food from your family’s mouths. Then the bloodshed will turn to deaths.”

It makes a sick sort of sense now that the asshole has pointed it out, not that Chuuya will ever admit to such a thing, not even with his dying breath.

“Secondly, any place with a high footfall is a likely breeding ground for the parasite to spread. It would only take a couple of infected individuals to turn the place into a contaminated bloodbath. One bite is all it takes. Once an area has become overrun, it will be almost impossible to recover.”

The thought of it makes him feel a little nauseous. “Like a fox in a chicken coop.”

“A predictable analogy.” Chuuya can feel Dazai rolling his eyes without needing to actually see it for himself. “But correct nonetheless.” Chuuya decides sticking his finger up in a rude gesture is the most fitting response – it does nothing but earn him another slight chuckle as Dazai continues as if Chuuya hadn’t interrupted at all. “Lastly, with the city now effectively locked down, the usual deliveries and restocking will no longer take place. The shelves will quickly empty of anything useable, so those people who have not already stockpiled will become ever more desperate for the remaining scraps. They will become the most dangerous of all.”

Chuuya hums, imagination running away with him as he wonders how many people will spill blood over a packet of instant ramen, or a can of baked beans. The thought still doesn’t bring up a solution to the more immediate problem. “So, genius, after spouting all that crap, where is the best place to get food and supplies?”

Dazai turns his head to look at Chuuya without breaking stride, “You can’t figure it out for yourself? You’re the criminal here after all!”

“Shut up shitty Dazai! Just tell me, then you can be smug about it!”

Dazai holds a hand over his heart and gasps mockingly. “Ah, Chuu-ya~ I have missed your protestations of violence, Kunikida-kun just doesn’t compare. Very well, since you asked so nicely.”

“Tch!”

Dazai ignores Chuuya’s noise of irritation to continue,“Once we get out of the city, we’ll do a little common burglary to get what we need. It might take a little longer to clear houses should they have...unwelcome occupants...but it’s the safest route.”

Chuuya stops in his tracks and blinks, nonplussed. “We’re going to steal from other people? How boring and callous of you. I thought you left the Port Mafia to help people? Yet here you are, not even hours into a zombie apocalypse and already you’re talking about theft and murder.”

This time there is no laughter and the dark eyes are cold, calculating, cruel and completely devoid of empathy. “Our only objective here is to survive. By any means necessary. I have no desire to save fictitious individuals, Chuuya, you’re correct. I’m sorry if that fails to fit into whatever box you’ve decided to categorise me with, but let me tell you one simple thing: nothing and nobody else matters and I will kill anyone who stands in my path.”

It’s like stepping into a freezing sea on midwinter’s day and feeling the current trying to drag you to an icy death. This person, this is not the Dazai he knows now; the one full of fake smiles, lacklustre attitude and a desire to find something to live for all the while adamantly protesting a wish for death. No, this is staring into a reflection of the Dazai from years ago; the cold-hearted strategist who struck fear into the hearts of enemies and comrades alike, the merciless entity who would not blink at getting his hands bloody to attain his goals.

It’s enough of a shock to cause a falter in Chuuya’s steps as he swallows hard, staring down at the pavement beneath his feet as his mind recoils from memories he had tried unsuccessfully to bury.

Silence wraps around them like an oppressive cloak.

When Dazai breaks it, tone light and airy as if the previous conversation hadn’t happened, the tension snaps like brittle wire. “Our friend did let slip a certain piece of information that may actually be of use to us in our current predicament.”

“Hmm?” Chuuya can’t bring himself to speak just yet, doesn’t want to feel the ice piercing his veins once more.

“In his directions, he mentioned a camping store, remember? If we’re lucky, it won’t have been cleaned out yet and we can pick up some essentials there.” He stops suddenly, Chuuya almost walking into him from behind as his mind continues to pick apart the happenings of the last hour. “Ah, and here we are. This looks promising, the windows are intact at least.” They stand for a moment, assessing the outside of the building, before Dazai leads them around the corner into an alley, checking for cameras or nosy neighbours before inspecting the rear door.

“Too easy.” The bastard has the audacity to appear disappointed before he rounds on Chuuya, stepping into his personal space and reaching a hand towards his face. He’s about to bring his knee up into the asshole’s balls and bark at him to back the fuck off when Dazai makes a grabby motion in front of his eyes. “Let me steal a hair pin? I know you still keep them on you to stop your pretty hair getting all messed up in a fight.”

Chuuya can feel his mouth open, sputtering wordlessly for a moment, before he forces it shut with an audible click. Deciding instead to resolutely ignore the implication behind the comment, he grabs a clip from where it nestles, almost invisible amidst red strands, handing it over without a word.

A few seconds of silence pass before a thought crosses his mind and his eyes narrow, staring at the pin which has now been pulled out of shape and is in the process of being forced into the door’s locking mechanism. “Hey, how come this shitty book stole all of my knives, my keys, my phone and my wallet, yet I still have hair pins?”

“Hmm?” Comes the distracted hum as Dazai wiggles the pin in the lock for a moment grinning triumphantly as a sharp click announces his success. “Oh...I guess hair clips don’t match the conditions for being classed as either a personal item or a weapon. Although, when dealing with a murderous Chibi, you’d think there would be some kind of exception.” He offers the bent and mangled remains of the clip back to Chuuya, who raises a disdainful eyebrow, before taking it back stowing it in a pocket with a shrug. Pushing the door open with meticulous care, Dazai disappears into the dark, leaving Chuuya to follow in his wake.

They appear to have entered a stockroom of sorts, boxes piled precariously high surround them on all sides, looming and ominous in the shadows cast by the poor lighting of the street outside.

“Whoever closed up shop left in a hurry.” Dazai is inspecting a unit attached to the wall which appears to be a security system of some description. “They haven’t even armed the alarm.” With the press of a few buttons he has the entire system disabled and the security cameras switched off. “Too easy.”

“Are you disappointed?” Chuuya can’t help but ask, incredulity pitching his voice high.

“Maybe a little.” Dazai grins unapologetically, that dumb grin which never fails to make Chuuya want to strange him. “Come on, Chuuya, it’s the zombie apocalypse it’s supposed to be a test of courage and survival. But so far it seems rather tame.”

As if some vengeful God was listening to them, the lights outside suddenly flicker and die.

“For fuck’s sake. You just had to go and say it out loud.” Chuuya growls, shifting in a wary circle until some semblance of night vision restores sight to the sudden blackness.

A shuffling noise is followed almost immediately by the sound of a shoe meeting something solid. “Owwww!” Dazai whines piteously, “It wasn’t my fault! Find a torch or something!”

“What do you think I am, a cat? I can’t see in the dark either asshole!” Chuuya hisses in reply.

“Well, that was a remarkably good impression.” He can feel Dazai’s amusement practically vibrating through the air. “Maybe you should eat more carrots, Chibi~”

“Shut up, Dazai!”

The streetlights flare into life once more, casting a faint glow through high windows, barely enough to see their immediate surroundings, but still just bright enough to reduce the likelihood of either of them bringing a mountain of boxes down upon their heads with the slightest wrong move.

Creeping along the row until they reach the door into what must be the main shop, Dazai cracks the door an inch to ensure they are unwatched before throwing it wide open and stepping out, staring around in satisfaction. Chuuya trails behind him as he makes a beeline for a rack of torches situated by stroke of luck just a few feet from where they had exited.

Pulling apart the packaging, Dazai hands a small torch over, taking an identical one for himself, both of them clicking the small lights on and immediately off to check that they actually worked, lest they be plunged into darkness once more.

“Right. You start on this side, I’ll start on the other side and we’ll meet by the checkout when we’re done.”

Dazai moves as if to make off without another word and Chuuya grabs his wrist, yanking him backwards in annoyance. “Oi, bastard, what exactly am I supposed to be looking for?”

The taller man blinks owlishly at him, his face momentarily betraying confusion before he snickers, lifting a hand to cover his chuckles as Chuuya glares murderously at him. “Sorry, sorry~ I forgot you’re new to this!” He purses his lips thoughtfully before gesturing to the shelves. “Just pick up anything that might be useful!”

“Like. What?!” Chuuya hates many things, Dazai being first and foremost among said things, but high up his list is being made to feel like an idiot. Right now, he is both being subjected to the main focus of all of his pent up ire of the last fuck knows how many years, and, to add insult to injury, the asshole is looking at him like he’s the world’s biggest moron. Again.

Dazai, the absolute bastard, heaves a dramatic put-upon sigh, “Rucksacks, lightweight camping equipment, batteries, knives, axes, anything else that could conceivably be used as a weapon, I would say guns but I doubt this is that kind of establishment, ration packs, lighters, trail bars, a rope so I can remove myself from this world.”

“I’ll happily remove you from this world right now.” The Mafioso growls, stomping off to roam around the shelves.

~ ~ ~

Some unknowable time later, they’ve amassed quite a pile in front of the cashier desk which is nestled against the left wall of the building. Dazai has a map spread across the desk itself and has procured a pen from behind the counter, scribbling notes into the margins and drawing a ring around an area that, to Chuuya’s eyes looks like it should be empty wilderness to the north of the city.

The landmass depicted looks like nothing he recognises, and, coupled with the unfamiliar currency leads him to make certain assumptions about where the hell they are. Looking over Dazai’s shoulder he comments, “We’re not anywhere on the Earth as we know it, are we?”

“No, we appear to be in a fictitious country, mid-sized and surrounded on all sides by water. See here?” He points to a section of the map, “This is the city we’re in now.” He drags his finger a little way north to the circled area, “This is where we have to get to, in the end.” Sweeping down he taps the sea, what looks to be a hundred miles or so south of their city. “This is where we’re heading for now.”

“Why south? Why not north if that’s where we need to be?” Chuuya asks, confused.

“If we travel north we have to pass through another large city and a few outlying towns to get to the sea. It will make it harder to get back, even if the distance is shorter. The major road networks will quickly become impassable.” Dazai’s finger snakes along the major delineated highway as his mouth falls into a frown.

“But why do we need to get to the sea? Why don’t we just get to the place where we’re supposed to be and wait it out there?”

“Our best chance of survival is the sea.” Dazai seems reticent to explain further, and Chuuya is too tired to press for more, knowing that pulling information out of the bastard is like drawing blood from the proverbial stone. Folding the map, Dazai secures it carefully in one of his inner pockets, along with another smaller map of the city and its outlying districts before turning to their accrued pile of random crap – at least, it looks that way to Chuuya.

A bright flash of light belonging to neither the street lamps nor their own torches alerts the pair to a quickly approaching presence. Swearing quietly Chuuya ducks low behind a shelf as Dazai practically throws himself behind the counter. He prays fervently that their shitpile is obscured from view by both the shadows and the racks and shelves full of gear which appears mostly undisturbed. Straining his ears, he can hear muted sounds, but no words as torchlight flashes through the windows, sweeping from left to right in a slow arc, pausing for a few heart-pounding seconds on the centre of the shop floor before finally disappearing from view as whoever is outside apparently makes the decision to move on.

Chuuya breathes an audible sigh of relief, risking a look around the shelf to see the hastily retreating figures of what appear to be two men in matching clothes – too dark to make out under the dim yellow glow of the lights – whose torches swing back and forth, shining their bright white beams through windows and into alleys as they stride past with a purposeful air.

“Well, now we know that whatever we gave our good barman, it wasn’t enough to buy his continued silence.” Dazai remarks offhandedly, moving to sit cross-legged on the floor, dragging two large rucksacks to him and then beginning to split the items into two piles. “We’d better not stick around here for too long, once they find out nobody has checked in at the hotel, they might come prying a little more thoroughly.”

Chuuya grunts in agreement as he eyes the collection of knives, almost hearing the sharp steel calling to him. He’s loathe to admit it, but he feels almost naked without at least one blade attached somewhere upon his person. The Port Mafia’s best martial artist he may be, but knives are so versatile and can move even quicker through the air than he can on his best day. Well, almost.

Leaving Dazai to play Rucksack Tetris, Chuuya grabs a long hunting knife he’d discovered in a locked glass cabinet (which Chuuya had promptly smashed beyond repair without a hint of remorse) along with a vast array of other hunting weapons, drawing the blade from it’s sheath and testing the edge with his thumb. He’s satisfied to see a thin line of blood well up where the blade is now pressed into his skin and slides the blade home before strapping it deftly to his belt. The weight is familiar, almost comforting.

A couple of smaller knives – not intended for throwing but Chuuya judges them adequate enough to serve – are then secreted about his person, and he chooses a bone-handled blade, testing the weight and balance before eyeing his intended target.

“Oi, Dazai…” As the other man turns his head, Chuuya flips the knife so the blade is between his fingers before tossing it at Dazai’s stupid face. The bastard catches it without even blinking, of course, tilting his head in Chuuya’s direction as a lazy smirk lifts the corner of his mouth.

“Still with the inclination to murder, Chuu-ya~” He shakes his head as if scolding a small child and Chuuya indulges himself by huffing petulantly.

His eyes light up as they fall on a sleek, modern-looking recurve style hunting bow. Dazai chooses that moment to kill all of his dreams, following his gaze and shaking his head. “You’re not bringing that. It’s heavy and practically useless.”

“What do you mean, ‘useless’? I might not have seen any zombie movies, but I know in any survival movie, they always have bows and arrows and shoot down some majestic fucking stag or use it to decimate their enemies...or something.”

“And you’ve shot down a stag with a bow before, have you?” There’s that amusement again. Chuuya’s blood is practically boiling...but, now that he thinks about it.

“Of course not. But surely it can’t be that hard?!”

Dazai’s face is alight with something like mischief as a smirk tugs at his lips, the clear amusement lingering there instantly making Chuuya more determined to prove himself right, “If you can hit that stuffed bear head on the wall over there,” Dazai points to the massive head of a bear bigger than anything Chuuya has ever seen in his life (admittedly, his only point of reference is the zoo), mounted on the wall around twenty-five paces away, “I will admit that it could be an effective weapon and you can keep it...but you’ll be the one carrying it!”

“You’re on!” Quickly he stands, scrambling over to grab an arrow from the quiver tossed carelessly in the remaining pile. Moving into a measured stance, balancing his weight between both feet, he carefully places the arrow into the rest, nocking it to the string before beginning to draw. He’s seen this in plenty of movies, you have to pull the string back until it’s in line with your cheek, sight down the shaft at your target, and then loose between breaths. Easy.

He breathes in, holding the air in his lungs for a few seconds before exhaling slowly. As he comes to the last of his air there’s a pause, the world stops turning - even Dazai is holding his breath - a frozen tableau in time. He sights, waits, looses.

The arrow sails through the air, curving in an arc to punch into the wall at least six feet away from the target, biting through the thin plasterboard and disappearing into the darkness.

Dazai nearly explodes with laughter.

Chuuya thinks about getting angry for a split second before mirth overtakes him and he chuckles, quickly ending up in a fit of full blown laughter too. “Okay, I admit, perhaps I wont be killing any majestic stags with my supreme archery skills.” Dazai snorts and they both dissolve into laughing again, Chuuya dropping the bow carelessly to the floor before throwing himself down next to the taller man. “So what exactly are we going to be lugging around with us? Those things look like they weigh a tonne.”

“Mostly just basic stuff. Ration packs, hydration powders, trail bars, water purification tablets – stuff that will keep us alive, even if it doesn’t taste great. Then there’s a hammock, sleeping bag, tarpaulin, gas and a small stove and water canteen, plus matches, lighters, flint and steel. Hmm...rope, wire, torches and batteries, flares, GPS and a few other bits that might be useful.”

“You managed to fit all of that in there?” Chuuya gestures disbelievingly at the two identical-looking packs.

Dazai, the smug bastard just nods before pushing himself to his feet, extending a hand to Chuuya who takes it dubiously and is pulled upright in turn. “Well, we shouldn’t stay here too long, you never know who else might come snooping around in the dead of night.” Dark eyes scan the pile of weapons strewn across the floor before Dazai leans down to pick up three identical small knives, slipping them into an easily-accessible inner pocket of his coat, then grabbing two small hand axes, handing one to Chuuya and sticking the other through a loop in one of the rucksack’s shoulder straps. “Keep it close to hand.” The mirth is gone from his face now as he indicates the axe now sitting in Chuuya’s palm. “Knives are all well and good if you’re able to take an enemy by surprise, but an axe will do more damage in a shorter amount of time.”

“Isn’t that a pleasant thought,” Chuuya grumbles, shoving the axe through his belt on the opposite side to the knife and hefting the backpack to his shoulders. “Ugh, this thing weighs almost as much as I do.”

He’s never missed his Ability more than in the second that weight settles upon his back.

Chapter Text

Carefully they dump all of the items Dazai has decided are not useful enough to make it into their rudimentary survival kits back in the storeroom in a haphazard pile, out of immediate view of anyone looking in through the storefront. Opening the door onto the street beyond, Dazai flicks his gaze quickly from left to right – the night is eerily silent.

The door clicks shut behind them, locked once more to passersby, at least, Dazai thinks, until someone else comes along with a crowbar and a bit of ingenuity. Still, such is the story that will be repeated throughout this city, until the shelves lie bare, the windows smashed and everything of worth in this new and struggling world has been either stolen or consumed.

Chuuya is a step behind him as they begin to navigate the alleyways and back streets of the city, a silent, somewhat malevolent shadow at his back. Their footsteps make no sound upon the concrete, a habit born of years lived in darkness, where stealth or taking your enemies unaware could be the difference between a quick victory and a more protracted battle (death was never an option for them, after all, no matter how much one half of ‘Double Black’ might have yearned for it to be so). It seems an unnecessary precaution as nothing stirs from the darkness of the night; not even a curtain twitches to show that any of the apartments are occupied. It’s almost as if the city were already dead – a ghost town of sinister spirits.

Yet he can feel eyes. Eyes crawling over his skin. Watching. Watching.

“Oi, how much further until we’re out of this shithole?” Dazai is pulled from his head (where a thousand eyes are watching, waiting, willing him to fail so that they can feast on his remains like rotten carrion birds, fat from the corpses of the fallen) to Chuuya’s grounding murmur. Spinning on his heel to walk backwards, he stares at the short redhead who somehow always ends up by his side – for better or for worse it seems they cannot shake the association of Double Black even when they play for opposing teams – Chuuya, following like a faithful dog into the maw of the monster.

“We’re still just under a mile from the city limits, but I expect we’ll be seeing more activity soon. Roadblocks and checkpoints and probably a lot of people wanting to leave but being forced to stay.”

“Sounds like a shitshow,” Chuuya mutters, just loudly enough for Dazai to catch. “I assume you have a plan to actually get us out of the city and we’re not just walking into this blindly?”

“Aww Chuuya, such faith in my abilities, my heart is warmed!” He pauses mid-step as movement flickers from the shadows at the corner of his vision. It could just be trash rolling down the street in the breeze; it could be an animal out looking for scraps...but. “You’re not going to like it much though –”

He cuts his words off mid-sentence as a wet, rasping, death-rattle of breath sounds from the alleyway to their immediate left, that same direction he had seen the movement just seconds before. He backs up a pace, not needing to motion Chuuya to do the same; the redhead is already dropping the heavy pack from his shoulders to thud noisily to the ground as he draws the long-bladed knife from it’s sheath.

A hacking cough - thick with the liquid gurgle of phlegm or blood - is followed by the sound of dragging feet echoing from the darkness just beyond their vision. Slowly, slowly the wet breathing and scraping shuffle of feet move closer, closer.

A woman emerges from amidst the inky blackness beyond their field of vision, her hair - an indistinguishable dark shade in the poor light - is a dishevelled and tangled mess atop her head; clothes stained and unkempt; eyes like dark pits in her face, devoid of emotion. Mouth open, she gasps another breath, thick and wet and laboured.

“Hel… –”

A cough interrupts her speech and blood dribbles from her lips to run down her chin. Dazai can see the track lines of black veins standing out starkly malignant beneath the skin of her pale throat, flicks his gaze to her bare arms where those same damning lines run like the spindly branches of a great poisoned tree beneath a shell almost paper-thin.

“Help...me…” fingers reach out, grasping and clawing at the air. Next to him, Chuuya shifts uneasily, no doubt coming to the exact conclusion Dazai himself has already reached.

“We can’t do anything, can we?” resignation lies heavy in the redhead’s tone as blue eyes switch their focus to quickly glance at him before settling back on the struggling woman.

With a gurgling screech which sounds more animal than human, the woman falls, her knees cracking against the concrete before she pitches forward, her head striking the floor where she lies rigidly for a few seconds before her limbs begin to twitch in spasm; blood running from her mouth and nose to drip a steady stream, pooling on the concrete below.

“We can’t do anything,” Dazai agrees. “We should move on before something else comes out to play.” He turns to walk away and leave the grisly scene of the twitching woman behind them, until Chuuya reaches out to grab the back of his pack and yank him backwards.

“Shouldn’t we...I don’t know...finish the job properly or something? Make sure she doesn’t get back up all undead and bitey and shit?”

“Hmm? Well, I suppose killing her might give anyone nearby a few more hours...days?” He waves one flippant hand towards the body, which has gone from frenetic motion to eerily still, now lying prone and unmoving. “Go ahead.”

Chuuya’s face twists into a frown as he taps one foot in a display of indecision that Dazai is irritatingly familiar with. “What do I do?”

“Really, Chuuya? You don’t even know that much?” He heaves a theatrical sigh, gesturing to the woman once more, “You have to pierce the brain – the parasite controls the host body by taking over simple brain functions and overriding the central nervous system. Once the brain is damaged, the parasite can no longer control the host and dies.”

Knife gripped purposefully now, Dazai watches the Mafioso advance cautiously, tense and ready to back away at the slightest hint of movement. The body does not twitch, does not shift, does not stir, yet tension laces the air leaving the sharp tang of metal on his tongue. Blood continues to pool beneath stained red lips but not a breath escapes.

“Go through the eye socket,” he remarks, forcing an air of boredom all while watching with a kind of morbid fascination, “or the point just below the ear, behind the hinge of the jaw. Otherwise that knife is going to have to go through bone.”

He can see Chuuya’s teeth clench as he crouches over the body of the young woman, knife held, firm and unwavering above her right eye. Just as his hand begins to drop, dark eyes flare open wide, glassy and devoid of anything resembling life. Her features contort in an inhuman snarl of rage as Chuuya suddenly becomes the target of something no longer human.

Dazai feels his heart leap into his throat, choking the breath from him as he witnesses the scene in slow motion. Too far to be of any use to Chuuya, instead he’s about to watch the redhead die before they’ve even made it out of the city, bitten and infected in his very first encounter. It’s stupid, it’s ridiculous, it’s…

Chuuya’s knife plunges down, a growl just as inhuman as the creature beneath him issuing from between lips peeled back in a grimace. His aim is as precise as it always has been, the blade cleaving through the eye socket to stab deep into the brain before the corpse can even lift a hand.

One protracted jerk and the body slumps to stillness once more. Wide blue eyes and a reckless grin turn to him, and suddenly Dazai can breathe again. Chuuya’s own breathing is quick as he pulls himself upright, wiping the blade carefully clean upon the stained clothing of what was once a human, and quickly moving back to his own pack, spine straight with a tension that betrays his own sudden rush of adrenaline.

“One, nil, Dazai!” the tone is shaky, cut through with clearly false bravado.

Dazai can only shake his head and move off into the gloom, leaving the body lying cold and broken upon the street. He wonders, for a second, how many deaths will end up written on their souls here, in this world. It’s a thought he shrugs off quickly, they’re already dead, he assures himself, you can’t kill a person twice, it’s just stopping something else from using their body like an ill fitting suit.

The thought is more than disconcerting.

~ ~ ~

“You’re joking? You have got to be joking.” Chuuya stares at him in disgusted horror, shaking his head slowly in disbelief at what he’s just heard. Dazai raises one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug that he knows will only serve to irritate his short companion even further, but honestly, watching Chuuya’s facial expressions morph from shock to horror is too entertaining to pass up.

“Well, the way I see it, we have four options.” Dazai sighs, leaning his pack against the wall to take the weight from his aching shoulders; it feels like they’ve walked for days, when in reality it’s been no more than an hour or two since they left the shop. It wouldn’t be so bad, but most of that time they’ve spent dodging and hiding from other denizens of the city wandering the streets, or patrols of uniformed and armed men, scouring the streets for any poor soul who may have broken the curfew. More than once they had heard the distant echo of horrified screams, leaving them to wonder if the poor tortured soul had been discovered and apprehended by the patrols, or whether they’d had the misfortune of meeting something wholly more terrifying in the darkness of the night.

“We can either remain in the city, find someplace relatively easy to secure and hope that an evacuation is forthcoming.” Chuuya immediately scoffs at the suggestion and Dazai can’t help but agree with his quick assessment, an evacuation order isn’t likely to be given for days, perhaps weeks. “We can try to slip past a checkpoint and hope the guards are lax.” This seems like a logical idea, but Dazai knows that this early in the game, the guards are likely to be on high alert and far more inclined to shoot first and ask questions later.

Chuuya seems to be in agreement with this assessment as he shakes his head in the negative. “Too risky,” he murmurs quietly and Dazai nods in appreciation.

“We can try to get into one of the buildings around a checkpoint and utilise the rooftops to get clear of the patrol.” On the surface, this seems like a decent strategy, but it requires very specific conditions to accomplish.

A thoughtful expression crosses Chuuya’s face as he contemplates this for a full minute, chewing his lip absently. “That might work at some points in the city, but not here,” he gestures upwards, “The buildings around here are all different heights. We would need a decent run of similar-sized buildings without any unsurpassable gaps or large roads in-between to get us far enough away from the patrol that we won’t be spotted and chased down as soon as we come out on the other side. We could walk the entire city perimeter and still not find the perfect route.” He hesitates for a moment, before adding, “I would expect that’s a potential escape route whoever is in charge of this containment effort has already predicted and made contingency plans for.”

“I’m impressed, Chuu-ya~” Dazai laughs softly at Chuuya’s immediate bristling, the blue eyes narrowing in unspoken contempt. Holding out his hands to placate the small Mafioso, he adds, “No, really!” Chuuya’s only response is to click his tongue and glare.

“So, that leaves us with this.” Dazai sighs, gesturing to the manhole. “The sewers.” his nose wrinkles involuntarily at even the thought of what he’s suggesting, but he really can’t see any other choice. “I don’t want to do this any more than you do, just so you know, potentially wading through a river of effluence is actually not my idea of a good time.”

“I thought walking through sewers was just some stupid game myth?” Chuuya eyes the manhole cover sceptically, “Are you sure we’re not just going to get stuck and end up drowning in shit?”

Dazai shakes his head and raises his arms to indicate their surroundings, “That’s why I chose this area of the city specifically,” tapping the brickwork of his current leaning post, he explains, “This section of the city is old, you could see that from the maps and the way the streets and buildings are laid out. While the more modern parts of the city are likely to have up to date sewage systems and pipes, the older areas of the city are probably still reliant on the early sewage canals and drainage outlets that were dug in when the first buildings were raised. If I’m right, this street is one of the oldest, and the sewer network beneath us should run straight out into the river about half a mile away.”

“If you’re right,” comes the answering grumble.

“When are my predictions ever wrong?” he asks, watching Chuuya deflate with amused satisfaction, “That’s why I’m the brains and your the –” he stops and stares at the redhead wordlessly, smile dropping into a pensive frown.

“I’m the what, exactly?” Chuuya’s response is almost menacing in its ferocity as he stands there in the glow of the streetlight with his arms crossed defensively.

“Well, I was going to say I’m the brains and you’re the brawn, but then I remembered that actually, you’re tiny, Chi-bi~ and you probably weigh less than I do.” Dazai’s eyes crinkle as he genuinely smiles, listening to Chuuya sputter and puff up like an angry kitten.

“I can kick your ass with my eyes closed and my hands tied behind my back, shitty Dazai!” there’s murder flashing in those furious blue eyes and Dazai wonders exactly how far he would have to push the angry little Mafia Executive before he would actually act out the threats of bodily harm he continuously hurls at Dazai’s person.

“Hmm, yes, I suppose that is a good enough reason to make you the brawn. Are you happy? Now, stop complaining and help me lift this thing up. We need to be out of the city limits before dawn, and the longer we stand here whining about it, the less chance we have of actually getting out.” Chuuya shoots him a flat look, but doesn’t bother continuing their little sniping exchange with the snap and bark that Dazai was honestly expecting.

It takes some huffing, a lot of swearing and a great deal of strength before they finally manage to lever the manhole open; the old hinge finally giving in to pressure and persistence as the cover creaks and groans its way upright. The sound is like a foghorn in the dark silence of the night and it has both Dazai and Chuuya glancing around furtively to ensure they are not being observed. If anyone is taking notice, they’re not showing their faces.

The eyes...the eyes still rake their phantom crawl over every inch of him.

The stench now emanating from the open sewer is enough to make Chuuya gag beside him, and even Dazai wrinkles his nose in distaste at the thought of trudging through...whatever build up of shit, slime and refuse is currently flowing its merry way down those dark tunnels. He decides it’s probably best not to think about it too hard.

“There should be waterproof pants somewhere near the top of the packs,” Dazai mutters with a grimace, quickly opening his own pack and rummaging around until he finds what he’s looking for. “I suggest taking off your boots and tying them around your neck or they’re going to be ruined. At least socks can be thrown away.”

With that, he crouches down to untie and remove his own shoes, dragging the waterproof pants on over the top of the pair he already has on, pleased to find that these particular ones even have weird little sock-boots attached to the bottom to cover his legs and feet completely. Pulling himself upright, he’s confronted with Chuuya, whose own waterproof pants appear to be made from some kind of high-visibility material – lurid neon yellow in colour, with reflective strips running down both legs. He looks…

“You look ridiculous!” Dazai sniggers, trying in vain to hold back all out laughter. Chuuya shoots him an unimpressed look but stays resolutely silent as he reties his pack, knotting the laces of his boots together before hanging them around his neck. Dazai follows suit as his chuckles subside at the thought of what they’re about to do.

“Ugh. I can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” Chuuya grumbles aloud, practically voicing the thoughts in Dazai’s head.

“Yes, yes, you can sulk about it later. Let’s get moving.” Dazai eyes the hole, pausing to think for a moment before grabbing a shirt from his own pack and using his knife to slice it into two less-than-neat sections. “Tie this around your mouth and nose,” he instructs, handing one half to Chuuya and wrapping the other half across the lower portion of his own face. “It won’t do much, but it might give some scant protection against any noxious fumes down there.”

Chuuya’s face is fixed in a mask of abject disgust, but he complies with Dazai’s instructions, creating a makeshift bandana which, in all honesty will offer little defence if there are indeed toxic fumes down in those tunnels. Still, it makes Dazai feel a little better, even if it is just the placebo effect.

“I’ll go down first, then you can use the rope to lower the packs down to me and follow. Since you’re the stronger of the two of us, you’re going to have to try and close that lid behind us. Otherwise this sewer network will be crawling with uniforms and who knows what else come morning.”

Chuuya merely nods his acceptance, gesturing to the hole with one hand and bowing sarcastically, “By all means, after you.”

The manhole is by no means a large affair; big enough for a grown man to descend, sure, but fairly claustrophobic if he were to stop and think about it. The rungs leading down into the darkness are rusted and don’t feel particularly stable beneath his hands and feet. Still, he tests each one carefully before letting his full weight fall upon it and none of them give way to plunge him headlong into the darkness. Small mercies. The drop is some twenty feet, which feel more like two hundred, after which his feet hit a thin stone ledge, barely wide enough for him to stand on. Pressing his back to the crumbling, slime-wet wall, he peers upwards and can just make out a shadow in the mouth of the manhole.

“I’m down,” he calls up quietly, “Lower the packs slowly.”

A few minutes later, Dazai has both packs balanced somewhat precariously against the wall next to him and is watching the lumpy dark shape above wrestle with the stubborn manhole cover. Soft curses, pleas and protestations of violence filter down to him until, finally, with an ear-splitting shriek of grinding metal, the cover slams shut, swallowing them both in a darkness complete and all-encompassing.

Panic bites at the back of Dazai’s throat, heart beating wildly in his chest as he gasps out a breath that is almost painful. Reining in his thoughts, he digs his hand into his pocket, bringing out the tiny torch he had stashed there and clicking it once; a bright, cold-white light suddenly illuminating the darkness with a thin beam of welcome salvation against the shadow.

“Thank fuck for that!” he hears Chuuya mutter from above, his voice a little higher and more strained than usual; the redhead quickly navigating his way down the ladder to join Dazai on the ledge, glancing around with distaste.

The tunnel is around five feet in diameter, a thin ledge on each side providing a tiny walkway for those workers detailed to the upkeep of such places. Beneath them the stinking river of human waste meanders slowly on by, occasionally collecting into a large mass of something unmentionable that holds up the flow before breaking apart into smaller chunks and continuing on its course.

Even Chuuya has to crouch as they hold their packs in front of them and begin to make their slow way down the tunnel, each step carefully placed so as not to lose footing and slip into the hellish murk below. When they reach a point where the ledge has crumbled away into nothingness on both sides for a good ten feet if Dazai can judge, they stare at each other in horror at the sure knowledge that they are going to have to take the proverbial plunge into the horrific unknown.

“How deep is it?” Chuuya whispers softly, distress evident in his tone even as he tries to keep his voice from echoing in the confined yet endless space.

“From the shape of the tunnel, I’d judge no more than a foot. Probably less.”

“Wonderful,” comes the displeased sigh. “Well, after you.”

“Such a gentleman,” Dazai grumbles, the words lacking bite as he heaves a lacklustre sigh, immediately regretting the action as a fresh wave of nausea battles against the invading stink to crawl its way up his throat. Eyeing the almost sedate flow of human waste and garbage, he wrinkles his nose, grits his teeth and steps into the unknown.

His foot touches solid ground around a foot deep into the muck, as he had predicted. He thanks whatever counts for a god on this world for small mercies as the socked waterproof pants appear to be doing their job, keeping his skin from coming into contact with...whatever makes up the floating diseased cesspool he is currently standing in.

Ranpo-san, if you’re not dead already when I get out of here, I might consider rejoining the Mafia just so I can murder you…

A splash and quiet curse beside him indicates Chuuya has begrudgingly followed him, a bitten off yelp leaving the shorter man as he slips on something it’s probably better not to think too hard about and almost loses his balance.

“God fucking damn this shit!” the redhead hisses almost incoherently, making Dazai smile beneath his makeshift air filter. “Can we get moving, please? I feel fucking sick and the more I look down and see shit literally floating past me, the less I want to be here. Maybe we should’ve just taken our chances with the shitty zombies.”

Without replying to Chuuya’s grumbled monologue, Dazai tentatively lifts one foot from the muck and takes a step forward.

Progress is almost torturously slow. After successfully navigating their way through the River Of Shit and back onto the ledge, their relief is short-lived as only a little further down the tunnel, the wall appears to have given way completely, with no ledge in sight. Leaving them to climb down into the sewage and once more begin their trudging wade through the city’s unmentionable ablutions.

Chuuya’s soft litany of curses cuts off abruptly into silence as steadily growing noise emanates from somewhere above. Dazai immediately clicks the light off, plunging them both into total darkness, calf-deep in waste as they both freeze to listen intently.

“What –” Chuuya begins and Dazai shushes him with a noise.

Taking a step backwards he almost collides with the redhead’s pack, having slightly misjudged the distance between them. Turning slowly so the small sounds of their movements don’t carry, he leans in close to whisper next to Chuuya’s ear. “We must be getting close to the boundary now. There’s probably a checkpoint a little way on from here, and someone up there is causing a ruckus.”

“Or something.” Chuuya whispers back lowly.

“Or something.” Dazai agrees.

“What do we do now? We can’t move on without light.”

“We’re going to have to,” Dazai shifts his weight backwards, reaching out as far as he can until his fingertips brush against the wall on the left hand side of the tunnel. “Touch the wall with your left hand,” he instructs softly, hearing the quiet rustle of fabric as Chuuya obeys, “Now, we’re going to move forwards very slowly. Try not to disturb the water.”

With that they begin to move again, inch by agonising inch. Both of them carefully lifting and placing each foot in an attempt to remain as silent as possible. Even their breathing seems to echo around them as the darkness presses its black despair ever closer, until it feels like they’re pushing through an invisible barrier with every leaden step.

They can hear voices, filtering down from the drains set into the street above their heads. The shouts are loud and commanding, yet neither can discern individual words, only a tone of warning.

The sudden ear-splitting screaming halts them in their tracks.

Not just a single voice, Dazai can make out multiple individuals in the jarring sounds reflected from all sides in eerie concert. A cacophonous wail of dissonance, bleeding fear into something palpable.

“Dazai…” Chuuya whispers hoarsely from behind him and Dazai can practically hear the Mafioso’s fists clenching and teeth grinding amidst the din.

The first gunshot makes both of them jump. A faint splash echoing through the tunnel as their abrupt movements disturb the surface of the water and muck still flowing languidly alongside them. Dazai’s fingers twitch reflexively, reaching for something to grasp onto but finding only smooth, slime-covered stone.

More shots ring out and the panicked screaming only gets louder and more intense. A dull thud from above has Dazai looking up, and through the faint light filtering down through a grate he can see the distinctly unmistakable outline of a human head, lying there, unmoving. A splash of something lands on his face, wiping it away leaves a tacky residue on his hands that is horribly familiar, drags him unwillingly back to days long past, when his hands would be drenched a sticky red, forever dyed the unerring colour of blood. He grimaces then, shoving the memories back down in the deep coiling recesses of his soul, back behind the locked doors where they belong, to torment him only in his nightmares...or those times when his grip on reality isn’t quite complete.

The incessant screaming is white noise in his ears now. The steady drip-drop-drip of blood from the fallen person above to the pooling sewage below a tolling beat to their own discovery. He can hear more shots ringing out, more cries of agony and desperation, more sickening thuds as more bodies no doubt begin to litter the ground.

“Chuuya,” he whispers, curling his hand around the tiny light that will be their guiding star through this dark hell. “Run.”

He clicks the light on and despite being almost blinded after slogging through the darkness for what seems like an eternity, he begins to move instantly. Mindless of the noise now, he tries to run, crouched as he is and awkwardly hefting his pack in front of him, it’s more like a slow jog, but still it’s a good pace more than they had previously been managing.

Chuuya clings doggedly to his heels, his shorter stature giving him a slightly easier time as they splash and scramble with single-minded focus down the tunnel. The tiny light bounces from the walls casting disorientating flashes every time it meets the surface of the murky liquid, but the scant light guides the way, ever forward through the never-ending tunnel until the echoes of fear and death fade into wailing obscurity behind them.

Never has half a mile seemed to stretch so long. Dazai slows, gratefully scrambling back up onto the ledge and trying not to look at the bottom half of his pants, covered as there are in a gloopy thick sludge of some indistinct brown colour he doesn’t want to consider for too long lest what little content is left in his stomach decides to make a reappearance to join the collection of fetid smells.

He can practically feel Chuuya’s distaste, it emanates from the redhead in waves, the Mafioso visibly wincing every time he takes a step only to hear something squelch beneath his foot.

“Please tell me this nightmare is almost over,” he mutters, staring back the way they had come as if expecting an army to explode from the gloom behind them at any moment. Yet only an eerie silence follows in their wake.

“We must be close to the river now,” the consuming blackness and eternal tunnel has confounded his sense of distance and direction, but they must be close, have to be close. “Just a little further, we should find an intersection of some point.”

Long minutes later, the sound of steadily flowing water can be heard above the dripping, plopping, sloppy sounds of the sewage’s movement all around them. Just a few steps further and the ledge ends at the entrance to a smaller tunnel - the mouth a few feet off the floor of their own tunnel - leading off to the right. Peering down it, they can just make out the slightly lighter gloom of night.

“It’s an overflow culvert,” Dazai whispers unnecessarily, “If there’s an unusually high volume of waste coming through the pipes and it threatens to overload the sewage network, these culverts will start to drain off the excess into nearby water sources.”

“Delightful.” Chuuya’s deadpan voice responds, “Now get us the fuck out of here. I can feel the stink sinking into my skin.”

“Yes, yes, alright.” Dazai is about to step into the mouth of the culvert, thinks better of it and stands aside. “I think you’d better go first, Chibi, this tunnel is narrow but you’re so small it’s unlikely you’ll get stuck!”

An inarticulate growling noise is the only reply he receives as Chuuya shoves him bodily out of the way, almost causing him to lose his balance.

The tunnel is indeed so narrow that even Chuuya can no longer crouch, instead going to his hands and knees with a look of absolute disgust and a long stream of curses. “Wait here, shithead,” he snaps, leaving his pack and disappearing into the murk.

Moments later he is backing out, ass first and Dazai is trying very hard not to laugh aloud, knowing Chuuya will absolutely send him flying into the river of faeces behind them without thought or regret. He knows his face is betraying his amusement when Chuuya frowns at him, clicking his tongue in irritation before speaking.

“It’s about fifty feet long, wide enough that we shouldn’t have any problems getting through. But there’s a grate bolted in and blocking the mouth.” he reports dutifully.

Dazai blinks, nonplussed, “Can’t you get rid of it?”

“It’s rusted to fuck and the walls are ancient, it shouldn’t be that difficult to kick it out.” Chuuya replies, then hesitates before adding, “But it will make a noise.”

Dazai ponders silently for a moment, running through the mental map he had memorised before they decided upon this route. Eventually he shrugs, knowing they have no other choice. “You go in feet first, I’ll follow and push the packs between us. We’ll have to go in dark in case anyone is nearby. When we’re both in position, kick out the grating and come back into the tunnel, keep your knife handy.”

Chuuya nods in understanding and Dazai knows that if there is anyone around and they come to investigate the source of the noise, they will find Chuuya’s knife slitting their throat before they can sound any kind of alarm.

More growled curses precede Chuuya’s journey back down the tunnel, feet first in a weird crab-like backwards crawl that is really the most ungraceful movement Dazai has ever seen the redhead make. Perhaps he shouldn’t judge too prematurely, he considers, pursing his lips as he eyes the two large packs which he now somehow has to get through the narrow space alongside his own undeniably larger self. He ends up spitting some rather impressive curses of his own, shoving and heaving at the two packs which now appear to have gained ten tonnes each in extra weight and an obnoxious sentience which leads them to wedge themselves horizontally in the tight space and flat out refuse to budge.

Apparently Chuuya has no such compunctions against laughing at him; Dazai can hear the soft snickering breaths even if he can’t actually see the expression on Chuuya’s no-doubt smug face. Finally, after a particularly hard shove, practically shoulder-barging the stupid packs down the last few feet of the tunnel, he hears Chuuya yelp as one of the packs crashes into him from behind, the whoosh of air leaving his lungs giving Dazai a sense of guilty satisfaction as he hunkers down in tunnel and attempts to stretch out cramping legs.

“Ready?” Chuuya’s whispered question snaps him back to reality and in the scant light he can make out the reflected gleam of the blade now held steadily in the redhead’s hand as he manoeuvres himself into position.

Dazai draws his own blade, despite knowing he will be of little use this far down the tunnel with two bulky obstacles between himself and any scuffle.

“Do it.”

He can hear Chuuya’s long, slow intake of breath, counts out the seconds in his head as the Mafioso steels his body, calculates distance and aim. It happens in a fraction of a second: Chuuya’s foot flying out and connecting solidly close to the edge of the grating on the left side of the tunnel mouth. A loud clang of contact rings through the night, replaced with the shrieking protest of abused metal giving way to Chuuya’s overwhelming strength. Chuuya draws his foot back, striking out again immediately, this time connecting with the very centre of the grating, and with a ear-splitting screech the metal folds completely, ripping free of its fixing to soar out into the night, clattering its way down what must be the river bank until a loud splash announces its final sinking demise.

Dazai holds his breath. The noise was enough to wake the dead. Anyone within hearing distance would be shouting the alarm right now, running to investigate, calling in their comrades in case of attack.

A minute passes.

Two.

Their world is filled only with the soothing sound of running water, swirling and bubbling as it trundles it’s way ever onward towards the distant sea.

Beyond the water, all is as still as the silence of death.

Chuuya’s breath hissing through his teeth in a show of relief breaks the spell and suddenly they are both moving. Dragging themselves from the mouth of culvert and dropping the few feet to land in the river, relief washing over them as surely as the water washes away the muck and grime of the sewers.

Silently, Dazai hands Chuuya his pack, slinging his own securely across his back and wading across the riverbed, thankful that the water seems to be low at this time of year, barely passing his knees. He watches the redhead pause after shouldering his own burden, cupping his hands and dipping them into the clear water, splashing it up into his face and scrubbing vigorously before submerging his arms up to the elbows and attempting to scrub them clean with nothing but his own hands. Dazai can only sympathise with the compulsion to be clean after the heavy, oppressive stink they had just been subjected to; follows Chuuya’s lead to dip his own grimy hands into the cool water and attempt to clean himself up.

~ ~ ~

Two hours later and the city limits are miles behind them as they haul themselves through rolling countryside with nothing but the light of a torch and the scant light of the moon to guide them onwards.

Exhaustion dogs their steps now, each footfall heavier than the last, leaden with fatigue and running on nothing but fear and residual adrenaline. They have to stop soon, find a place to rest.

Dazai spots the looming shape of trees, rising up ahead like some monstrous beings of myth in the darkness and alters their course to head straight for what must be either a woodland bordering whatever farm they are now trespassing on, or some kind of small copse. Either way it looks more promising than the open farmland which leaves him feeling watched and exposed on all sides. Chuuya follows him wordlessly, his lack of complaint a testament to how much they’ve been through in the few short hours they’ve been part of this hellish world.

Trees thrust up from the ground like giants on every side, the wind rustling leaves which seem to whisper of their arrival as branches waver and boughs creak high overhead. Dazai pushes them onward, deeper into the treeline, away from any who might happen upon this tiny sanctuary. Eventually, tired to the very marrow of his bones, he stumbles to a stop in front of what looks like a huge gnarled oak, knotted and majestic even in the shadows of the night.

“This will do,” he dumps his pack on the detritus covered ground, the dull thud startling Chuuya who is now eyeing him with a dubious expression.

“What are we doing here?” fatigue is etched deep into the redhead’s voice, the blue of his eyes dulled with weariness.

“Sleeping,” Dazai replies simply, unclipping the lid of his pack and rummaging inside for a few moments, holding the torch between his teeth until he finds what he’s looking for. Turning, he gestures to Chuuya’s pack and the redhead drops it to the ground with a grateful groan, shoulders clicking audibly as he rolls them back and tilts his neck from side to side to loosen too-tight muscles.

“Sleeping?” his partner repeats, confused. “Here? On the ground?” Dazai lifts his head from where he was busy attempting to find the necessary gear in Chuuya’s pack and finds those too-blue eyes regarding him with scepticism, “Isn’t that dangerous?” he asks finally.

“Mmhm, it would be, if we were sleeping on the ground. But we’re not. We’re sleeping up there.” He points upwards and Chuuya’s gaze follows the indicated direction.

“Huh?” Chuuya stares at him like he’s grown an extra head and it’s green and covered in pustules. “We’re sleeping up there…? In a tree?” He shakes his head incredulously, “Do I look like some kind of damn monkey to you?”

Dazai rolls his eyes, tossing Chuuya the small bundle he had just successfully retrieved from the redhead’s pack. The redhead catches the bag with ease despite his tiredness, turning it over in his hands and squinting to read the printed label in the light cast from their single small torch.

“Hiking hammock…” he mumbles, and Dazai watches his mouth tip down into a frown as realisation hits him. “We’re putting these up there?” Chuuya’s voice rising a shocked octave would normally be enough to make him chuckle, or at least smile, but Dazai is well past the point of being able to dredge up any kind of emotion at all.

“Zombies can’t climb trees,” is all he can muster, “they don’t have fine motor control or adequate brain function. So we’re safer up there than we are on the ground.”

“Until one of us falls out and breaks both legs!” the redhead snaps back, fear flickering alongside the frustration in his tone.

“Ugh.” Dazai can’t bite back the noise of tired displeasure. Turning his back on Chuuya and pulling the contents of his own hammock from it’s tiny bag, retrieving a head torch from the side pocket of his pack and pulling it over his brow, not even pausing to think how ridiculous he must look. “Fine, you stay down here and get eaten. Don’t blame me when a opportunistic zombie decides to have a chew on your throat come morning.”

Without another word he slowly navigates his way up the tree, thankful that the oaken giant has been kind enough to provide easy hand and foot holds to get him to the thick branches more than twenty feet from the ground.

The hammock is remarkably simple to set up (a fact he is more than thankful for, considering his complete lack of wilderness camping knowledge or any kind of experience with anything more strenuous than a walk in the local perfectly cultivated parks): consisting of just one strap on either end of the main section wrapped and knotted securely around two thick branches and clipped to a carabiner to provide the strength needed to support a fully grown adult. Fully rigged, it still appears somewhat precarious, and Dazai is sure he’s going to look all kinds of ungainly trying to actually clamber into the thing, but he’s pretty certain it will at least support his weight. It even has built in mosquito netting to keep any nasty insects from making their home alongside him while he sleeps. In his weary delirium, it looks almost inviting.

Clambering down the trunk once more, he finds Chuuya in the same spot where he had left him, blinking wide-eyed at Dazai’s hastily constructed tree tent. Too tired to attempt to bully or manipulate the redhead, Dazai settles on ignoring him completely in favour of his pack, pulling out the lightweight sleeping bag, a bottle of water and a small protein bar before closing all of the pockets and stowing the pack carefully beneath a bush a short distance away. Out of sight of prying eyes and, hopefully, opportunistic animals.

Just as he’s about to ascend the tree to his new nest, Chuuya grabs his sleeve, yanking him back roughly. “No, wait!” there’s honest apprehension mixed with the tired irritation lacing his words, but those blue eyes are wide, almost pleading, “I – look, I’m sorry okay… I just – it’s been a long day...night...whatever. Can you just – help me?”

Chuuya doesn’t ask for help. Not from him. Not ever. Thus the simple plea is enough to make him pause, rather than brush the small Mafioso off in favour of his blankets and blessed sleep.

Casting one longing look at the hammock, which is beginning to look like a five star hotel in his mind, Dazai heaves out a sigh, takes Chuuya’s own hammock from his unresisting fingers and begins the climb all over again.

Chapter Text

Coming awake to the sound of birdsong and the shift of leaves in a gentle, almost warming breeze is relaxing for all of a few seconds.

Realising he is suspended halfway up a tree, staring into the green canopy above as the morning sun filters through the branches has all of his limbs freezing in shock, his heart hammering in his chest as if it’s trying to escape up his throat.

Calm down stupid.

He’s been sleeping here, in this hammock, floating in the air for literal hours. Quite peacefully too now that he pauses to think about it. Waking up and realising that he is, in fact, twenty feet in the air has no impact on the probability of him plummeting painfully to the earth.

He reasons this in his head, repeats it over and over, berating himself to calm down and slowly unclenching his fingers from their death grip on the inside of his sleeping bag. Forcing himself to take slow, steady, measured breaths, he stares at the mottled green-leafed canopy above his head, willing his body to let go of the tension and just enjoy the moment. It is, after all, morning: they’ve survived their first night of the zombie apocalypse; managed to get out of a city on lockdown by crawling through a disgusting sewer (honestly, the less remembered about that particular debacle the better); even managed to secure a safe place to rest. Laying it out like that, Chuuya thinks, they’ve actually done pretty well.

“Oi, Chibi~ are you awake yet?” Dazai’s most irritating sing-song tone filters up from somewhere below and Chuuya sighs at the unwelcome invasion upon his momentary peace.

Steeling himself against the inevitable wobble and shift of his treetop bed, he manages to undo the zips of his sleeping bag without too much difficulty, transferring his weight carefully as he sits up, pleased when the hammock only sways slightly but doesn’t tip him upside-down and throw him unceremoniously from it’s warm confines.

Confidence growing slightly, he leans his body cautiously, peering out over one side of the hammock to spot Dazai, sitting cross-legged on the woodland floor, with maps and various objects littering the ground around him and a small gas stove with a pot sitting precariously on its top a few feet away. He must have been utterly dead to the world for Dazai not only to have gotten up before him, but have made so much mess before Chuuya even reentered the land of the living.

The floor looks a long way down, now that he’s staring at it. Chuuya shifts uncomfortably, wondering how Dazai managed to get safely down without breaking an arm or leg, clumsy as the bastard can be. Seeing no easy way to avoid it, and not wanting to destroy the tatters of his dignity any further, he bites the bullet and yells down.

“Oi! Asshole! How the fuck do I get down from here?”

Amused laughter follows his question as Dazai presses his hand to his chest – right above his heart – in mock distress. “Oh, Chuuya! Is that any way to treat your saviour, after you begged so prettily for me to help you last night, this is how you treat me the morning after?” He shakes his head sadly, “I must confess, I am wounded. Wounded, Chuuya!”

Chuuya can feel the blush rising on his cheeks, forces it down and practically snarls, “Shut up, shitty Dazai! Tell me how to get down, or I’ll just drop and make sure I land on you!”

The laughter that reaches him this time is genuine, Dazai’s tone thoughtful, “Death by being squashed by a tiny hatrack? Hmmm...nope I think I’ll pass~” Just as Chuuya’s about to start yelling obscenities, Dazai opens his arms in a wide shrug, “Just, unzip the side from the netting, roll the whole thing sideways until it stars to tip upside-down and grab the edge. Then you can just drop to the nearest branch.”

Chuuya eyes the side of the hammock dubiously, not relishing the thought of flipping the entire thing upside-down. But Dazai must have gotten himself down somehow, and doesn’t appear to have dislocated any limbs in doing so. And, much as the bastard exists to wind Chuuya up, he doesn’t think Dazai would actually give him advice that would end with him being incapacitated.

Doesn’t think. You can never actually be certain with Dazai, after all.

Muttering a quick prayer to whatever gods hold sway over this thrice-damned world, Chuuya steels his nerves, carefully unzips the netting from the main section of the hammock and takes a single, deep breath.

His stomach lurches in a horribly nauseating manner as he’s unceremoniously flipped up and out of the suddenly wildly swaying hammock, dangling by his fingers which are clenched so tight his knuckles have gone white. A terribly undignified noise leaves his throat and he wonders, in that moment, if this is the kind of fear ‘normal’ people experience when confronted with heights; those individuals who cannot, with a mere thought, make themselves as light as a feather and float off into the skies without the worry of crashing back down to earth. He finds himself with an immediate newfound appreciation for those people who choose to scale cliffs as a hobby.

“You have to let go, you know?” Dazai’s nonchalant tone peters off into chuckles which the bastard makes absolutely no attempt to hide and, if Chuuya could spare the hand, or breath, he’d be giving Dazai what for right about now. Lucky for that asshole, Chuuya is rather occupied with the task of avoiding catastrophic injury. Risking a glance down, he’s relieved to see the fork of the tree less than two feet below his dangling feet, and, after one more slow breath, counting down from ten in his head to calm his frantic heartbeat, Chuuya relaxes his hold and drops, scrambling for footing for just a moment before his feet rest firmly on something blessedly solid once more.

Being on the ground has never felt so exhilarating, and he revels in the firm footing for a few seconds before realising the morning dew is seeping quickly through his socks. Grumbling a curse he stomps over to Dazai’s side and grabs the bastard’s coat from where it hangs on a branch, tossing it to the floor and folding himself in a cross-legged sit upon it.

“Hey!” Dazai squawks indignantly and that alone is enough to brighten Chuuya’s morning, “Is this the thanks I get for saving you from becoming a zombie’s midnight snack?”

“Did a horde of zombies pass through here last night, then?” he shoots back immediately.

“Well no, but –”

“No buts! So what you actually did was force me to sleep in a tree for absolutely no good reason!”

“There could have been zombies!” Dazai whines, sticking out his lower lip for effect, “You should be more grateful, Chuu-ya~ it’s better to be safe than sorry!”

“Hmmph.” Chuuya snorts, counting it an adequate response to the idiotic back-and-forth. Hell would freeze over before he thanked that shitty bandaged bastard for anything. “What exactly is all this mess?” he asks, switching the topic of conversation before Dazai can make a rejoinder.

“It’s not mess, Chuuya, it’s planning. Learn to read the room.”

“There is no room. In case you hadn’t noticed, we just spent the night sleeping in a tree…outside.”

“Gosh, you’re so pedantic in the morning,” Dazai mutters with a roll of his eyes. “Learn to read the floor then if being in the woods so offends you.” he gestures to the maps strewn across the ground, most held down with small rocks or branches to stop them being whisked off by the morning breeze. “These are all the maps we have of this land mass and more detailed maps of the local area. I’m trying to plan a route that will allow us to gather all of the necessities, then get us somewhere safe to weather out the coming months as risk-free as possible.” he sighs suddenly, all hint of mirth draining from his face as if it had never been there. “It’s going to be a long few days.” he laments with a theatrical groan.

Seconds later, the fake smile is back and Dazai is shooing him off with one lazy hand, “Go grab the cups from my pack will you, Chuuya? The collapsible ones in the second pocket down. Oh, and two of those oat bar things. The pot should be ready by now.”

Chuuya huffs automatically at being ordered around, but obediently pulls himself up to fetch the requested items, grimacing at the wetness now squishing between his toes. “What’s in the pot?” he asks, eyeing the black contents with dubious concern.

“Coffee,” Dazai replies distractedly, then looks up, red-brown eyes resting on Chuuya, “Well, that’s what the packet said anyway. Who can say whether it will actually taste like coffee as we know it?”

Pulling the pot off the stove and turning off the flame, Chuuya swirls the opaque black liquid with a few flicks of his wrist, lowering his head to sniff delicately at the substance. It smells like coffee at least; that’s a more promising start than the alcohol of this world, that’s for damn sure.

Splitting the liquid equally between the two cups, Chuuya returns to his seat upon Dazai’s coat, handing the bastard one of the cups and an unappetizing looking oat bar, branded in bright colours as if it could make the contents more appealing. “We don’t have any milk or sugar, so black will have to do.” Dazai raises his cup in a toast, “To surviving our first night.” he intones with all pomp and seriousness.

Chuuya can’t help but shake his head and smile, lifting his own cup in silent salute.

The liquid is sharp and bitter - and so fucking hot that it immediately burns his tongue and the back of his throat as he swallows the scalding mouthful reflexively – but it’s coffee, and while he’s normally a tea drinker, he needs that kick of caffeine right now. He hisses a curse at the fate of his poor abused tongue, grimaces at the acrid taste of the unsweetened drink, but almost immediately lifts it to his lips to blow across the surface and take another slow sip.

After a few minutes of sitting in some weird kind of silence which could almost be called companionable, Dazai sets his cup down in the dirt and begins humming a quiet tune to some melody only that idiot knows, a pen twirling between his fingers as he frowns down at the map spread closest to him. Chuuya watches quietly as the pen spins in time with the odd tune, until, finally, Dazai leans forward to draw a circle around several locations, linking them up with spidery lines.

The coffee has long cooled to a drinkable temperature before Dazai has finished what looks like unintelligible scrawls all over the map at his feet and several others he’d had Chuuya fetch and carry for him over the last half an hour. Finally, he gives a decisive nod and caps the pen, leaning back in what looks like an attempt to stretch aching muscles.

“So. What’s the plan?” Chuuya eventually asks, when it becomes clear that Dazai isn’t going to explain anything of his own volition (damn the bastard and his irritating habit of being unwilling to share information).

“Hmm?” Dazai blinks, focussing on Chuuya as if he’d forgotten his presence altogether. Picking up his mug and taking a sip of coffee, only to grimace at the now cold contents, he waves Chuuya over with a gesture, indicating the space beside him. Chuuya obliges, mostly out of curiosity.

“We are here. Or somewhere close to here at least.” Dazai explains, pointing at a small dot he had made on the map some time ago. “We’re a few miles out of the city limits, so we should be safe enough from patrols wanting to keep those in city inside and those outside of the city from trying to get in. The situation in the city can’t last more than a few days, either the infection will run riot upon the populace, or the people will run riot and overrun the quarantine by force of desperation...if they haven’t already.”

Chuuya has to agree with Dazai’s assessment of the situation, judging on what little they had seen the previous night, it was only a matter of time before the knife-edge balance of order came crashing down in a tidal wave of fear and despair.

He nods his understanding without making comment, waiting for Dazai to continue.

“We need to start collecting supplies, so while we would do best to avoid heavy population centers, we’re going to have to venture into some less-populated areas to find what we need,” Dazai taps his finger between a few of the circled areas, “These are the places I think we should scope out initially. Ideally we want to find places that have already been abandoned and avoid conflict.”

“You really think we’re going to be able to avoid coming into contact with people altogether?” Chuuya interrupts, the scepticism clear in his tone, “It’s a nice idea, but impracticable in the real world. Surely we need to prioritise time over the possibility we might get into a disagreement with the locals?”

“You’re not wrong,” Dazai sighs, “Now that the infection is in the city it will already be spreading exponentially, leaving us with little time to find a suitable safehouse. But, we have to consider the fact that not only are we the aliens here, we are also severely handicapped.”

“What do you mean?” Chuuya asks, confused.

“You more than me,” Dazai laughs at what must be a look of outrage on his face. “Don’t attack me just yet, Chibi, just listen. You’ve been in complete control of your Ability for years, certain aspects notwithstanding.” Chuuya can’t help but stiffen at mention of the shadow that haunts his life, his humanity, “You’re so attuned to it, I believe you use it unconsciously, so to not have its power at your fingertips must be like losing one of your senses.” Dazai’s words make a horrible sort of sense, he does feel like he’s missing a limb, like his body is weighed down by the fetters of this gravity he suddenly cannot control.

“You rely on it too much,” Dazai adds quietly, “you always have.”

Now that comment makes him narrow his eyes at the sanctimonious bastard, because really, who is he to talk? Waltzing into a fight between gods and demons with nothing more than a smile and a ‘take a break, Chuuya’. Still, the more he considers Dazai’s words, the more they ring with truth – he thinks nothing of lightening his shopping bags on the way home from the grocery store; lightening himself when he’s a little drunk and struggling to drag his own weight home from whatever bar he’s ended up in; creating craters for dramatic effect when greeting his enemies; keeping his hat firmly on his head when it’s blowing a gale outside. Okay, perhaps he does use his Ability a little too flippantly. Still, the comment rankles.

“Are you trying to say I’m a liability?” Chuuya can’t help but snap, slightly offended that Dazai would consider him to be anything less than deadly just because he can no longer manipulate gravity.

“Of course not. Don’t get your hat in a knot, Chibi, I’m just saying you’re short a few weapons in your arsenal.” Dazai waves off Chuuya’s anger, which only serves to make him even more irritated.

“Good, because I’ll have you know I could still kick your ass into next week without moving from this spot. Do I need to give you a demonstration to remind you just how far above your pitiful level I am?” Chuuya’s voice is a low, dangerous growl, he is more than ready to throw hands (or feet) to prove his point to the over-opinionated bastard.

Dazai’s unblinking gaze is flat, his reply entirely devoid of humour, of any emotion at all, “I have no doubt that your reputation is as well-earned as ever, Chuuya, I haven’t forgotten all those sparring sessions. But you have to realise that being able to break someone’s spine with one kick won’t help when you’re being shot at from fifty yards away, and you can no longer dodge bullets just by holding out your hand.”

Well, shit.

“Okay, you’ve made your point,” Chuuya grimaces, “When you put it like that we are woefully under-equipped to defend ourselves.” He shrugs then, allowing the mantle of worry to fall from his shoulders, “But when has that ever stopped us from doing what’s necessary to win?” He dredges up a grin and leans over Dazai’s shoulder to point at the circled areas of the map, “So come on, explain the plan.”

Dazai sighs, shakes his head and smiles in a manner which is almost fond, and almost has Chuuya smiling in return. “These areas are where I judge it most likely we’ll be able to find places that will yield the most useful items in the shortest period of time. As the infection progresses, we’re going to have a potentially harder job navigating the main highways, since that’s where people will flock when they begin to flee. So, for now we’re much better off taking the back roads and hitting these smaller communities.”

“Seems like a good bet,” Chuuya agrees easily. “So what now?”

“Well, first we have to pack up and make sure we leave no trace that we were here. Then we need to get out of this wilderness and find us a mode of transport more convenient that our own legs.” Chuuya hops to his feet, glad to finally have a solid direction, leaning down he offers Dazai his hand, rolling his eyes when the bastard looks at him like he’s grown a second head.

“Time to find a car?” He asks as Dazai takes the offered hand almost suspiciously and Chuuya yanks him to his feet with enough force to send him stumbling forward a step.

“Time to find a car,” Dazai echoes with a grin.

“Great, now, about the whole packing up part,” Chuuya points upwards to where his hammock is swaying gently in the breeze without his weight to keep it anchored. “You can fetch that. I’ve had enough of trees for one morning.”

With a theatrical groan and loud grumbling about how he’s being treated as a servant, Dazai nonetheless begins to scale the tree to dismantle Chuuya’s hammock, complaining loudly all the while. Chuuya sighs, wondering if perhaps he should just have braved another tree climb for the sake of his poor abused ears before he dutifully begins to fold up all of the scattered maps and bring their tiny camp into some semblance of restored order.

~ ~ ~

“So, what do you think?” Dazai asks, gesturing proudly at his latest ‘find’.

“It’s a rusted-to-fuck pile of shit,” Chuuya answers, unimpressed, “I’m not even sure it will start, and I bet it smells awful, look at it!” ‘It’ is the first vehicle that isn’t some gigantic kind of farm machinery they’ve come across. ‘It’ is silver, or rather, Chuuya is pretty sure it’s supposed to be silver under all the accumulated dirt and rust. Put quite frankly ‘it’ is something Chuuya would rather set on fire than be seen dead in. ‘It’ also looks suspiciously like it’s been abandoned out here in middle of fuck-knows-where, next to a half-collapsed building he assumes may once have been a barn and is now just a precarious pile of rotting wood and crumbling stone.

“Wow, Chuuya, you’ve turned into a real snob since you got a promotion.” Dazai shakes his head in what is clearly mock sorrow.

“Fuck off, shitty Dazai,” he responds instantly, giving the bastard the finger for good measure.

Dazai has the audacity to tut at him, “I see it still hasn’t cured you of your terrible manners and foul language though. Ane-san must be so disappointed after all of those lessons in diplomacy and etiquette.” Chuuya is about two seconds from launching himself at the insufferable asshole when Dazai does an abrupt about-turn, “I know it’s not up to your usual standards, Chibi, but it’s the only car we’ve seen, stealing a tractor isn’t going to be useful navigating these tiny back and beyond roads, and we’ve been walking for hours.”

Chuuya sighs, knowing the bastard is right, despite the irritating manner in which he decides to go about it. “Well, I suppose we’ve stolen worse,” he concedes finally.

“It will be just like old times!” Dazai grins and Chuuya can’t help but snort an inelegant laugh, “Do you remember when we used to steal the fleet cars and just drive around aimlessly until they ran out of gas?”

“I remember having to walk miles home in the fucking rain. I also remember you setting fire to one after we crashed it into a wall because you were bored and in one of your pyromaniac phases.” Chuuya does remember, the memories of flickering flame and the darkness lighting to embers in Dazai’s eyes as they toasted the Port Mafia with a bottle of sake they’d stolen from an Izakaya are a bright point in his memory before everything went to hell.

“I just wanted to watch the world burn.” Dazai agrees, his tone far lighter than the implication behind the somewhat sinister words. “Then Hirotsu-san showed up and we thought we were done for.” His smile is almost wistful.

“I think the old man aged ten years in ten seconds when he saw that wreck before he saw us,” Chuuya chuckles, “But he still covered for our drunk asses and made someone else take the blame. The Boss never did find out.”

“Oh I’m sure Mori-sensei knew,” Dazai’s smile turns to a frown, and Chuuya can’t help but sigh at the old, ugly animosity that always seems to surface between the Port Mafia’s Boss and his one-time protege. “He had an irritating way of always knowing.”

“That’s why he’s the Boss,” Chuuya shrugs, though it’s true that Dazai had always been kept under close scrutiny, even after being made an Executive, even after Dazai himself had rewritten the Mafia’s security protocols. His own ‘army’ had both feared and despised the strange boy suddenly given command over them and no matter how much Chuuya himself might have turned a blind eye, he had known even then that many of them were under the Boss’ subtle influence; that whispers were passed up the chain, always telling tales of the Port Mafia’s Demon Prodigy.

Dazai hums in distaste, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it’s washed away with the bland apathy Chuuya knows and detests so well. Abruptly it morphs into a somewhat evil grin as Dazai turns his attention back to the car, “Well, Little Mafia, this is more your line of work than mine, have at it!”

“Tch, actually, breaking and entering was always more your forte, bandage bastard,” he brushes past Dazai, walking once around the vehicle to inspect the rusted, beaten-up hunk of metal for any obvious entry point, finding none. Turning to Dazai he holds out one hand, raising an eyebrow and crooking his finger impatiently while the idiot blinks at him uncomprehending. “You kept the clip, right? I don’t want to waste another one.”

“You mean you don’t want to mess up your pretty hair, Chuu-ya~” Chuuya blinks, wondering if he heard right, before Dazai continues with a smirk, “Don’t worry, Chibi, I think that’s already a lost cause.”

He wants to be offended, honestly he does, it’s just, Dazai’s really not wrong – after being dumped in a zombie apocalypse, trudging through sewers, taking a dip in a river and sleeping in a tree, Chuuya is pretty sure his hair is beyond a ‘lost cause’. He has to mentally restrain himself from patting at it self-consciously, reigns in the need with the knowledge that if he does, Dazai will see and know that his comment hit home and then, then Chuuya will never hear the end of it.

“Just hand over the fucking pin,” he growls, snatching the small piece of metal from Dazai’s fingers when the bastard produces it from his pocket.

It takes a bit of jiggling and an annoying amount of concentration (especially when one irritating and complete bastard won’t stop sighing, whistling tunelessly and looking down a his non-existent watch), but eventually the door latch releases with a clunk and Chuuya tugs it open triumphantly.

He’s instantly hit with the smell of stale leather, damp and mould and his nose wrinkles in disgust, “Ugh, I told you it would stink,” he grumbles as he finds the catch to pop the hood.

The engine reveals no catastrophic defects to Chuuya’s unpractised eye – everything appears to be where it should be, nothing immediately obvious is missing, there’s even washer fluid in the reservoir. Now, the fuel situation may be another matter, but if they can get this heap of shit started…

“Oi, bastard, you have a screwdriver buried somewhere in these magical mystery sacks?”

“Not exactly…” Dazai mutters, already rummaging around in his own pack, and Chuuya is about ready to strangle him when he makes a noise of triumph and pulls something from one of the various compartments, “But we do have a couple of these Swiss Army Knife type things, they have a screwdriver attachment, that should work.”

“Hmm,” Chuuya takes the proffered item, turning it over in his hands thoughtfully, “I guess it works the same way?” Lifting one shoulder in a shrug, he pulls out the different attachments to inspect them, and, realising that Dazai is watching him with that creepy unblinking stare, turns to snap, “Go do something useful and fetch a brick.”

Dazai merely rolls his eyes, inferring that Chuuya is somehow being unreasonable, but wanders off in the direction of the ruined building to find a dislodged brick, returning obediently to drop to one knee and offer it to Chuuya as if presenting some object of treasure to a king.

Chuuya decides ignoring the dramatic display is more than enough of a response, snatching the brick from unresisting fingers and continuing his inspection of the car’s ignition.

“Chuu-yaa~” Dazai whines obnoxiously, sighing loudly after a few seconds when Chuuya doesn’t respond, “Chuu-yaaaa~” he knows from experience that ignoring the bastard now will just make him more annoying.

“What?” he snaps, his voice louder than he had intended.

“Oooh, touchy~” Dazai huffs, “I just wanted to know…are you going to actually start the car, or just glare at it and hope it gains its own sentience?” Chuuya turns to see Dazai smiling obnoxiously at him, and it’s tempting, oh so tempting, to throw the brick at his stupid face.

“Shut up asshole, I’m trying to concentrate! Do you want to walk for another four hours?”

“Not really.” Dazai sighs morosely, folding his legs beneath him to sit on the ground, propping his head in his palms. “Have you forgotten how to do this?”

There’s outrage coursing in his blood now, filling his face with a flush of red, “Of course not! But it’s not like I go around stealing old shit heaps every day, shitty Dazai. We’re in a different world remember, for all we know the car could fucking fly, or have anti-theft devices that explode.”

Dazai sits up expectantly, “You think so?”

“No, not really,” Chuuya grumbles, “But it could happen.”

Without another word he pulls the flathead tool from the Swiss Army Knife, carefully wedging it into the keyhole for the ignition. “Well, here goes nothing,” he mutters, biting his lip as he taps the brick against the casing, careful on the first hit and then progressively harder twice more until the screwdriver is stuck firmly in the keyhole. Judging it to be in around the right place, he offers up a quiet prayer to the gods of this shitty world, tossing the brick to the side (just missing Dazai’s shoulder, more’s the pity, the bastard hadn’t even had to dodge, he should try harder next time), gripping the casing he turns it experimentally. On the first click, the dashboard lights up, various symbols coming to life and then flickering back off as the car’s electrical systems come to life.

At least the battery isn’t flat.

It’s a promising start, one more click, another quiet plea and then a final turn and the engine stutters as it turns over, coughing for a second before roaring to sudden and noisy life.

Triumph is a hot rush of adrenaline through his system and he whirls around to grin at Dazai who is watching him with wry amusement. He makes a show of clapping sarcastically, “Good job, Little Mafia, I see your lessons were well learned!”

Chuuya laughs shortly, flipping the bastard off and climbing into the driver’s seat. “Chuck the shit in the back, asshole, and let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Yes sir!” Dazai chirps with a lazy mock salute.

~ ~ ~

They’ve been driving for what feels like days, but is, in all actuality, only a couple of hours. It’s tedious, not only because they’ve had to turn around twice upon finding their way blocked - driving down progressively narrower tracks that Chuuya wouldn’t even deign to call roads - but also due to the fact that the irritating suicidal idiot next to him won’t stop fiddling with the radio. The ceaseless noise of static intermingled with barely audible and mostly incomprehensible crackling voices is setting his nerves on edge and the steering wheel creaks ominously beneath his hands every time Dazai presses the buttons and the static fuzz waxes louder, buzzing through his skull like a thousand angry bees.

They’ve skirted around two villages now, pausing in their journey each time to watch from a vantage point as people hurriedly load up cars, cramming them with as many useless worldly possessions as they can fit; whilst others who seem just as determined to stay are steadfastly boarding up doors, windows and any other potential entry point to their homes. As they had turned down a twisting road to bypass the second such village, two shots had cut through the air with a crack like thunder, sending birds scattering in all directions. The faint sounds of screaming followed in their wake quickly drowned out by more shots.

Chuuya considers pulling over, turning the car around so they can at least go back and see what’s happening down there. He’s stopped before he can even voice the thought, Dazai’s hand reaching across the space between them to grip his arm. When Chuuya turns his head it is to see Dazai’s frown as he shakes his head resolutely, “Keep moving. There’s nothing we can do for them,” are his only words.

Chuuya is left to grind his teeth and grip the wheel as the static crackles once more, adding to the white noise playing loops in his head.

~ ~ ~

“Oi, it’s your turn to drive now.” Chuuya announces after another half hour of monotonous winding roads and incoherent voices throwing snatches of conversation across the airwaves.

“Why? I know you hate my driving.”

“Because if I have to listen to that noise for another minute I’m going to throw you into the path of the nearest zombie and fuck the consequences,” Chuuya almost snarls, slowing the car to a stop, “I’m tired.”

“It is getting late,” Dazai muses, peering out of the window at the endless expanse of blue sky above them. “Okay, fine, I’ll find us a place to camp tonight.”

“Camp?” Chuuya repeats, wondering if he heard right, “Can’t we just sleep in the car?”

“Too dangerous.” Dazai responds, flatly, sighing in an entirely put-upon manner, “A car is too easy to break into. Zombies could surround us in the dark before we’d even know about it. Or other people looking for easy pickings.”

Chuuya groans, knowing exactly what Dazai is going to say next. “We’re spending another night in a tree aren’t we?” If his voice is slightly whiny, he can’t bring himself to care.

“You seemed to sleep just fine last night,” Dazai replies with a half shrug. “It’s the safest option we have right now. We’ll find somewhere to hide the car, then head deep enough into the woods that we shouldn’t be found if anyone is wandering around. I was hoping today would be a little more productive...ahh but it can’t be helped.”

“Ugh,” Chuuya decides the noise of disgust is a perfectly adequate response to such unwelcome news, unclipping his seatbelt and clambering ungracefully through the gap between the driver and passenger chairs to throw himself across the backseat. It smells like mould and suspiciously like ammonia. “On second thoughts, maybe the tree is a better idea,” he mumbles, seeing Dazai lifting an eyebrow in the rearview mirror he makes an obscene gesture before grabbing his coat from the trunk and using it as a makeshift blanket.

“What are you waiting for, shitty Dazai? Get fucking moving,” he pauses for a moment, hearing a voice whisper faintly through the speakers.

“Infection rates in the city continue to rise by the hour. Looting and scenes of violence have been common in all districts,” there’s a hissing crackle before the voice returns, “authorities have given the military instructions to use deadly force to maintain the quarantined area. Reports are beginning to emerge that the East District barricade has been overrun.” another static buzzing, “city cannot maintain quarantine for long. Citizens are believed to now be massing at the North and West boundaries. Do not engage in close contact with people outside of your household. Repeat, do not engage in…” the radio cuts abruptly to silence, followed by the familiar noise of the signal being dropped.

“Turn that shit off, will you?” Chuuya mumbles, something like dread lodging itself between his ribs.

Dazai complies without a sound. Minutes, or perhaps hours later – honestly he’s lost all track of time – he’s jolted awake to the sound of soft singing. He wants to be irritated, wants to snap at the bastard to shut the hell up but can’t bring himself to do anything other than listen to the quiet words as his idiot ex-partner sings something born of melancholy and a yearning to end. It’s so terribly Dazai that for some reason, stuck in this hellish world, the familiarity comforts him, despite the morbid subject matter.

Dazai’s voice follows him, blanketing him in a strangely muted sense of a sorrow not his own as he drifts slowly into slumber.

~ ~ ~

Two days have passed now.

Two frustrating days of drawing lines on maps, circling villages and syphoning fuel from vehicles abandoned at the side of the road to keep their shit heap of a car running. Two days of watching, waiting, wandering in what seems like aimless circles.

Two days and their stores are still the same as when they had escaped the city, worse if you count the fact that they’ve already depleted their food supply. Despite passing numerous villages, Dazai had always moved them along after spending some indeterminate period of time watching the goings on. Movement seems more scarce now that it had when they had first started this Neverending Roadtrip From Hell; the villages they observe show fewer signs of life as people scuttle from one building to another, always anxiously twisting back and forth, jumping at shadows.

“Oi, Chuuya,” Dazai’s voice breaks into his thoughts, shaking him to bleary wakefulness from his nap in the backseat.

“Huh?” He mumbles sleepily.

“Trouble.” That one word is enough to pull him rather effectively from sleep to alertness. Heaving himself upright, Chuuya peers through the windscreen to see that they’ve apparently entered yet another village, only this time it appears Dazai has decided to drive straight through the damn thing. A short way in front, two cars parked across the road make it impassable, while just behind them an old man stands, levelling a shotgun in their direction.

“Why didn’t you go around?” Chuuya can’t help but grouse, letting out a put-upon a sigh and rolling the stiffness from his shoulders. Backseats of cars are not the best places for a comfortable snooze.

“There is no way around this village, only one road straight through.” Dazai’s shoulders lift in a shrug as he pulls the car to a halt. “You know what to do?”

“Haah? You’re seriously asking me that?”

Another one-armed shrug, “Don’t die, Chibi!” and the bastard climbs nonchalantly out of the car, circling out to the left with his hands in the air. “Is this how you greet all strangers?” he calls out to the man who is now pointing the gun in his direction, “I must say, it’s not the most friendly welcome.”

“Stay back!” the man shouts, his hands are steady as he levels the weapon in Dazai’s direction. Practised then, Chuuya thinks, perhaps he’s already killed others. That possibility makes the situation potentially more dangerous: a man who has already taken life is far less likely to hesitate after that first shot.

“Old man, we’re not here to cause trouble.” Chuuya pitches his voice slightly louder to cross the distance between them as he steps out of the car, circling to the right putting as much distance between himself and Dazai as possible, increasing the chances that at least one of them will be able to disable their adversary, hopefully before the other comes to harm. “Why don’t you put the antique down and talk?”

The mans head moves back and forth between Chuuya and Dazai, clearly trying to keep both of them in his line of sight. The gun, however, remains firmly levelled at Dazai and that’s enough to irritate Chuuya just a little – who the fuck does this old geezer think he is to decide Dazai is the greater threat of the two of them. Well, at least it leaves him free to make a move.

“I know why people like you come to places like this,” the man’s eyes are fixed on him, though the gun is still trained on Dazai’s now still form, “stealing and looting from those of us who will barely be able to feed ourselves.”

“People like us?” Chuuya is slightly affronted. Okay, so their car is a beat up pile of shit, and they’ve been wearing the same clothes for days, but he’s quite sure he doesn’t look like the level of vagabond this asshole is implying.

“Well, Chuuya, let’s be honest, you do look like a thug.” Dazai laughs, bringing the man’s attention back to him in an instant. Chuuya can use this momentary lapse in concentration.

He takes three quick steps forward before halting and letting his annoyance loose, “Hey, asshole, speak for yourself!” he barks pointing his finger at Dazai with what he hopes is an air of outrage. At the sharp movement, the man’s focus switches once again, eyes on Chuuya as Dazai slinks forwards a few paces until they’re level with each other, facing the man. Silently Dazai’s hand flashes through a series of signals that Chuuya reads from the corner of his eye.

“Chuuya, you’re wearing a tacky hat, a tacky jacket and filthy shoes...your hair looks like a rat’s nest and you have drool on your face. You definitely look like a vagrant thug!” Dazai cackles and the man’s attention once more focuses on him as he sways forwards as if he’s about to make a move. The gun comes up, cocked and loaded, the man’s whole demeanour changing in an instant at the perceived threat.

Chuuya throws himself into a dead run, clearing the remaining distance in a few strides and taking a flying leap over the hood of the closest car to slam feet-first into their attacker. They go down in a tangle of limbs, Chuuya grabbing the barrel of the gun to wrench it out of the man’s hands and toss it carelessly to the side, trusting Dazai to deal with it as he hops back to his feet and steps away, leaving the wheezing old man to blink dazedly up at him from watering blue eyes.

“Pops, we’re not here to steal from you,” Chuuya reiterates quietly, dusting loose gravel and dirt from his gloves, then offering a hand to the old man who glares warily at him before taking the offered assistance and allowing Chuuya to pull him to unsteady feet.

“Then why are you here?” the old man addresses him with suspicion, a glassy kind of fear lingering in his eyes though neither Chuuya nor Dazai have made any move of violence since disarming him. “We’ve seen your like already. A group came through yesterday, hollering and smashing everything they could get their filthy hands on, they took nearly everything we had. Killed poor Imarna and her husband for refusing them their last sack of rice. Now you turn up saying you mean us no harm? Bullshit.”

“Oi, pops, you’re the one who blocked the road and pulled a gun on us! All we wanted to do was drive on through,” Chuuya points out, exasperation colouring his tone to something more fractious and angry.

A hand lands on his shoulder and Chuuya twists to find Dazai shaking his head, a wordless command to let it go. Chuuya grits his teeth and lets out a whistled breath of exasperation as Dazai takes over the conversation.

Dazai leans heavily against his shoulder in some weird overt display of camaraderie as he smiles blithely at the old man, who appears to have deflated a little; he looks shorter, older by the second and wizened, with the weight of the world sitting heavy across old shoulders not quite strong enough to take the strain, “We’re not here to steal from anyone who only has what they can’t afford to lose.”

The man’s blue eyes narrow as he rubs his chin thoughtfully, “Can’t afford to lose, eh?”

Dazai’s head tilts, almost smacking into the side of Chuuya’s face, strands of brown hair tickling his cheek. Both of them can sense that the old man is teetering on the edge of giving them some information that might prove to be valuable. “I think we can reach some kind of accord, yes?” Dazai prompts quietly, flipping the gun so that he’s now grasping it by the barrel and offering it to the old man, handle first in a blatant display of trust.

The man hesitates for only a second before retrieving the gun and laying it carefully across the hood of the car, a clear indication that the hostilities are now firmly over. “You’re really not going to attack the people here?” he asks, puzzlement writ plain across the lines and crags of his face.

“You have our word. Right, Chuuya~” Chuuya only nods, tapping his foot impatiently on the floor and wishing Dazai would stop leaning the entirety of his lanky obnoxious self on his shoulder.

The man puts two fingers in his mouth and lets out a shrill whistle that makes Chuuya wince. Instantly doors along the street are thrown open, wide-eyed people emerging from their homes wielding kitchen knives, shovels, bats and all manner of household implements-turned-weapons. Chuuya tenses, automatically shifting his stance to something defensive, “Dazai…” he mutters under his breath as he counts their potential attackers.

“Wait,” Dazai whispers back, maintaining his outwardly casual and totally at ease appearance. Still leaning heavily against Chuuya’s shoulder, though the Mafioso can feel the tension in the way his body stiffens.

“Put the weapons away!” the old man calls, authority ringing in his tone, and though the approaching mass of villagers hesitate, it seems that this man’s words carry weight in the community, as they slowly lower their arms, thrusting knifes through belts or bringing bats to their shoulders. “These two young men and I have come to an understanding and I believe we may be able to benefit each other.” he points at a tall dark-haired man who bears a familial resemblance to the old man himself, “Son, keep a lookout here and make sure no-one else shows up, if they do, sound the signal.” he turns a slow circle, “Mak, Rafe, push these cars out of the way, bring their car through and get it out of sight. The rest of you, about your business, be prepared to come running if the alarm sounds, we cannot afford to be surprised again.”

“Oi! You!” Chuuya yells, grabbing the man indicated as ‘Rafe’ by the arm as he moves past, unsurprised when the man turns with a short kitchen knife in his hand. Chuuya rolls his eyes, gripping the idiot’s wrist and digging the knuckle of his thumb into the sensitive nerves until the blade clatters uselessly to the floor. “Don’t be stupid,” he growls softly before releasing the man and pointing to their car, “All I wanted to say was don’t pull the fucking screwdriver out of the ignition.”

“O-oh...right. Okay,” the man responds sheepishly, his face turning a deep red as he scrambles to retrieve his dropped weapon. “Sorry,” he mumbles before jogging to catch up with his companion.

“And don’t touch our shit!” Chuuya shouts after him for good measure.

He turns back to find both Dazai and the old man watching him; Dazai with a smile that is almost sickeningly fond and the stranger with something contemplative and possibly approving. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he tips his head back and glares down his nose at both of them, which – thinking about it – probably looks absurd considering they’re both taller than him.

“Let’s sit down and talk, shall we?” the old man beckons, turning his back on them both to walk down the street. Dazai raises his eyebrows but says nothing, the two of them following the stranger to a house about ten doors down from where the cars blocking the road are now being moved. “Please come in.”

~ ~ ~

The old man’s name is Tobias, and, it turns out, he’s lived in this house, on this street, for his entire life. He’s the oldest left alive in this tiny village, and since the world went to shit, has apparently been acting as their leader. Chuuya’s really not sure why he needed to know this, but old people love giving out their life stories after all, and during the zombie apocalypse is evidently no exception. Roughly half of the families had chosen to leave the village in the last days, fleeing in every direction in an attempt to get out of the country, or, failing that, burden themselves upon relatives far away from the source of the outbreak in the hope that the parasite will be contained and quarantined to this area alone. Chuuya remains silent on the subject, but even he can see that such hope is already lost.

He wonders as he listens to Tobias talk, whether those families who tried to escape actually made it out of the country. Surely thousands had flocked to the nearest airports and docks, far more than could realistically be accommodated for in the middle of a catastrophe. He wonders how many of them made into the skies, into the water. Surely there would be no tests, no checks this early into the outbreak? How many silent killers are already on their way around the world, the parasite raging through their blood, ready to proliferate on distant shores.

“Chuuya?” a hand waves annoyingly close to his face and Chuuya snaps himself out of his musings to find Dazai stood directly in front of him with his head cocked to one side like some kind of overlarge dog.

“Huh?” not his most intelligent response, but he’s bored, tired and kind of hungry for anything that’s not pressed oat bars.

“I asked if you would fetch the maps?” Dazai’s eyes are flat, his whole demeanour radiating irritation at Chuuya’s inappropriate spacing out in company.

He’s about to snap back and ask the bastard why he can’t go fetch them himself, because he’s not a dog to be fetching and carrying shit for his master. The fight goes out of him when he catches the minute shake of Dazai’s head, and okay, it’s probably not the best time to be starting an argument, especially if pops really is going to give them something useful.

Turning on his heel he walks from the house, almost colliding with the man he’d soundly put in his place earlier, who appears to be loitering right outside the front door.

“Take me to the car,” he orders bluntly, his no-nonsense tone carrying an expectation of being obeyed. The dark haired man scowls for a second before his body slumps and he nods shortly, beckoning Chuuya to follow him further down the street, turning a corner into a dead-end row of houses, where the car has been stowed out of sight of the main thoroughfare. Chuuya makes a show of inspecting the vehicle and its contents before grabbing the bundle of maps and slamming the door shut, marching off back down the street and leaving Rafe to follow meekly behind.

After a few seconds the man calls out, “Hey, look, I’m sorry I pulled a knife on you. I don’t trust you, but you don’t seem like those other guys either. Tobias told you what happened yesterday, didn’t he?”

Chuuya pauses and turns to face the young man, noting the dark circles of grief under his eyes and haggard appearance of a man with no will left to live. “He did,” he considers his words for a moment before continuing, “They were your family, right? The ones who were killed?” the man’s dark eyes widen and fill with tears, but he nods. “Yeah, I figured,” Chuuya sighs, “you people are going to have to get a more organised defence in order if you intend to stay here and defend this place...from the infected as well as the assholes out to take what they can get.”

“What do you mean?” Rafe asks, a naive confusion in his tone, “None of us here are soldiers or fighters, we’re just simple people, just trying to survive.”

“Right, and that’s fucking obvious, that’s what I’m saying,” Chuuya gestures to the main road, or, the single lane that constitutes a ‘main road’ around these parts, “this street is defensible, there’s only one way in and out, but you’re going to need more than one shitty roadblock to make a band of thieves out for whatever they can steal think twice about attacking you. You’ve got to make it look like this place is defended by people who know what the hell they’re doing, even if you haven’t got a fucking clue.”

“So how would you do it?” the young man questions, his eyes taking on a steely determined glint that was missing only minutes ago.

Chuuya grins, “Well, I don’t really know what the land surrounding this place is like, but you’re kind of on a hill, that gives you a good vantage point to see anything that’s coming and give a warning.” He points to the house at the furthest end of the street, “Get a platform built on the roof of that building, and another at the opposite end of the village. Have them manned every hour of the day. From up there you’ll be able to see a long way.”

Rafe nods thoughtfully and his receptiveness prompts Chuuya to continue, “The roadblock was a good idea, but realistically you’re going to need to start building walls and gates. Your parked cars won’t stop an infected from ripping your throat out in the night. If they come in numbers, you all need to get the fuck out unless you have walls to hide behind. Ten feet tall at the least, higher is better.”

“That’s...not something we can just magic out of thin air.”

“No, but there’s plenty of wood around here, it’s not something that’s beyond the realm of impossibility either,” Chuuya glares at the taller man, waving the bundle of maps around for emphasis, “this isn’t going to be over quickly. It’s already spreading like maggots on shit in the city and now that the quarantine has been broken it’s only a matter of time before this whole fucking country goes under. You’re far enough out from the city that it might take them a while to get here, but they will come, and if they don’t then it will be other groups who turn up looking to steal whatever you have. Don’t delude yourself into thinking you’re safe out here in the middle of ass end nowhere, you should have learned that already, or are two dead bodies not enough to make a point?”

“Alright,” Rafe’s voice is strained, tears now rolling down his face and Chuuya feels just the slightest twinge of regret over his harsh words, “alright, I understand what you’re saying.”

“Look, I get it. You don’t want to think about it, but you all made the decision to stay, now you’ve got to dig in and wait for the end. Whatever that may be.” It’s far from his most rousing speech, actually it’s a little bit morbid now that he thinks about it, but nonetheless true. In all likelihood, these people are just delaying the inevitable and will fall like the stag held at bay by a pack of wolves.

“Get a relay system going, have someone about two miles out at all four points of the compass. Have them build a fire with wood that will smoke when it’s lit. If a threat is spotted, they shouldn’t engage, just light the fire and fan the flames until the smoke rises, then flee back to the village, or some other safe area. You’re weak, so an early warning is going to be your best chance of survival.” His own mind is whirling now with plans and possibilities, any forewarning these people can give themselves to increase their chance of long-term survival in this brutal world. It’s stupid, he doesn’t owe these people anything, shouldn’t give a shit about whether they live or die out here. And yet.

“If you don’t have the resources to build a wall then get to building a shelter of some kind out in the woods and stock it with all the excess food you can spare. Once smoke is spotted, everyone should make their way to that shelter as best they can.” It’s not perfect, not by any means, but it’s a hell of a lot better than the hastily constructed mess they have going on right now.

Rafe is looking at him with newfound respect, respect he probably doesn’t deserve, “I...thank you...stranger –”

“Chuuya.”

Rafe nods, holding out his hand which Chuuya takes and they shake, “Thank you, Chuuya. Your advice is good and you’re right, we’re too weak and useless to defend this village as we are right now.”

“Hey, Chuuya, you’ve been gone for ages, were you playing hide-and-seek with the car and fall down a well or something?” Dazai’s irritatingly loud voice echoes down the street and Chuuya grumbles obscenities under his breath while Rafe looks on with a puzzled smile. The dark eyed young man jogs the rest of the way to the house, almost colliding with Dazai in his eagerness to push his way through the door, Chuuya shaking his head and following at a more sedate pace, pausing to shove the stack of maps hard into Dazai’s chest, sending the bastard stumbling backwards.

“Shut up, shitty Dazai,” he growls for good measure, stomping down the hallway to the room where they had been speaking with the old man, hearing Rafe’s raised voice as he pauses in front of the door.

“He had some really good ideas and advice, I really think we should listen to what they have to say, sir.”

“You gave him advice?” Chuuya nearly jumps out of his skin as Dazai’s voice murmurs almost directly in his ear.

“Back off, asshole!” He hisses in reply, turning and fully intending to shove the bastard bodily away from him, only to find Dazai already skipping back with a smile.

“Now, now, Chibi, no need to get violent~” the smile drops almost instantly, replaced with a look of pensive speculation, “What did you tell him to make him gush like that? It’s quite disgusting.”

“I told him they were weak and if they can’t build a wall around this place then their best chance is to come up with an early warning system and a way to evade any attacking force,” Chuuya shrugs nonchalantly, “They can’t defend this place with what they have now.”

“All very true. But I’m surprised you volunteered that information freely, Chuuya.” Dazai is examining him like he’s some kind of interesting experiment, a look he’s so familiar with from the Boss that the resemblance suddenly becomes uncanny. It sends a shiver down his spine.

“I don’t like seeing lives wasted needlessly, Dazai,” he snipes, with no real heat.

“Hmm? Yes I do recall Atsushi-kun mentioning something like that.” Well, having the Tiger Boy suddenly become part of the conversation wasn’t exactly what he was expecting.

“Eh?”

“Oh, you didn’t know? He saw you and your squad protecting Yokohama’s citizens and directing traffic to safe zones when Q’s curse was activated by the Guild.” Dazai’s smile is definitely fond now, almost enough to make him grit his teeth, “It’s one of the reasons he asked the President to consider an alliance with the Port Mafia during that whole mess.”

“Huh...I didn’t know,” Chuuya thinks back to that time, to the countless black body bags - zipped tight and sitting in ominous rows - containing the desecrated corpses of his people, so many of his people. He still hasn’t forgiven Dazai for not killing that fucking monstrosity when he had the chance, hasn’t forgiven himself for not taking it out of the bastard’s hands and fuck the Boss’ orders to bring him back alive. Still, it’s beyond irritating to know, “Ugh, so you’re telling me it was basically my own fault that the Boss sent me to assist in the reclamation of Q.”

“Funny, right?” Dazai chuckles, though there’s no real humour in the sound.

“Hilarious,” Chuuya replies, deadpan, rolling his eyes for good measure.

At that moment, the door swings open abruptly, the slightly stooped form of Tobias almost colliding with Chuuya as the old man steps across the threshold and immediately stops upon spotting Dazai and Chuuya. “Ah, there you two boys are. Rafe has been telling me some interesting things, ideas of yours I believe.”

That bright blue gaze is fixed on Chuuya now, wrinkled frown lines deepening as the old man stares at him as if trying to decipher some underlying motive, “your advice is well received and I thank you for it.” he says finally, turning a slow circle and beckoning them back into the living area. “Unroll those maps, let’s have a look at what you’ve got here.”

Chuuya watches as Dazai obeys without comment, spreading their various stolen maps across the large dining table, overlaying one atop the others and dragging his finger in a line across a tiny section, “This is you,” he moves his finger to indicate the circled areas he had drawn in various colours over the last few days, “and these are the places we’ve observed so far.” He looks the old man dead in the eyes, though the fake expression of friendliness remains painted across his face in a too-wide smile, “So, why don’t you tell us your secrets, Tobias. Tell us why you didn’t decide to have us killed the minute I put that gun back in your hands.”

Chapter Text

They’re at a sort of stand-off.

Clustered together around the table, with Dazai’s collection of maps spread across every available inch of space, the surprisingly canny old man stares between himself and Chuuya, indecision warring with something Dazai is almost convinced is resignation, swirling in eyes too-bright for that wrinkled old face.

Chuuya’s willingness to give advice on the village’s potential defence seems to have been the tipping point for Tobias as far as their credibility goes; his gaze lingers on the redheaded Mafioso for a few seconds longer, before a look of determination settles across furrowed brows and he nods. Grabbing a pen from a side table, he bends over the topmost map, pausing to get his bearings for a moment before tracing a finger - partially swollen with arthritis and age - down the road Dazai had indicated as the location of the village. Following the line he tracks a route not shown on the map and taps his finger decisively, marking the point with a red X.

“There’s a mansion just about here.” he explains, not taking his eyes from the map as he dots a faint line from the newly created mark to a road about five miles distant. “This likely isn’t accurate, the entrance is well concealed but it’s the best I can do without being there,” he taps a point on this road, “just past this bend, the gate is disguised as part of the hedgerow, but it’s there.”

“Why is it hidden?” Dazai asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

“The owner is something of an eccentric,” the old man shrugs. “Terribly rich of course. The entire place was built from the ground up less than ten years ago. It’s not on any map, has no postal address and nobody was allowed on the property unless they were working there. He never had no visitors or the like, preferred to stay secluded up there on his own when he was in residence. Sort of a retreat from the rest of the world I suppose. Never even had servants, just him and a veritable army of security, by himself in that massive empty place.”

Dazai nods, a famous eccentric millionaire wanting a private unmapped retreat was not outside the realms of possibility. Still, he’s a little suspicious, “If the owner is such a recluse, how do you know about it?” he keeps his voice politely interested, rather than accusing.

“I used to be involved in construction, have been my whole life, I was building houses before you were even born, boy. Once the place was built, my late wife used to work for the owner as a cleaner. Of course she was under a non-disclosure contract, but she told me stories of that mansion and it’s owner,” the blue eyes have turned sad and distant, though his lips tilt into a soft, almost wistful smile, “they were always a little too fantastical to be true. The guy had money to burn, that’s a fact. The grounds has it’s own helipad and aircraft shed – the owner had a pilot license but kept his own personal pilot on hand at all times, his only proper companion so Evira always said. He would arrive and disappear at the drop of a hat at all hours of the day and night. He never liked others around when he was there, so she’d be working and suddenly that pilot would appear and order her to leave before the ‘master’ came through.”

Tobias shrugs, “We haven’t heard nothing of him since my wife passed two years ago. He would never mix with the locals, but if he was even in residence when all of this began, he would certainly have left almost immediately, leaving the mansion empty.”

“Why haven’t you been there already?” the whole thing sounds too odd and too good to be true, and yet...if it is true, it’s far too good of an opportunity for them to pass up.

“It’s a long way out, there’s no guarantee that anything of use will have been left behind,” he halts for a moment, running a hand through thinning gray hair, “and to be honest, since those bandits showed up yesterday, we’re left with only one working car and few enough people able to defend the village if they decide to come back. The risk was too great.”

“So...what do you propose?” he can practically feel Chuuya’s eyes boring into his skull and flicks his wrist in a flippant manner, a silent request for the redhead to stay quiet while he conducts these negotiations.

“A joint expedition,” the old man replies immediately, his voice firm and resolved, “between you boys, myself and a few other villagers. Taking your vehicle and our one remaining truck. I will lead you to the mansion and you will get us access. Anything found will be split between us sixty-forty since we have the greater need.” His eyes narrow suddenly, becoming hard as weathered flint, “Then, you will go on your way and if you return you will either have something to barter with, or we’ll deal with you as we would any other impostor in a time of war.”

“Harsh, considering Chuuya here has just given you what I’m sure is an effective plan to keep your people and this village alive.” Dazai quirks an eyebrow but Tobias does nothing more than shake his head firmly.

“Necessary. My duty is to my own people, we have no way of knowing whether or not you boys will turn on us at the first opportunity.”

“Ah, then your best bet is to shoot us after all!” Dazai laughs without a hint of humour, “After all, what’s to stop us from divulging all of our newfound information to the next group of thugs we come across?”

The old man sighs loudly, “Nothing at all save your honour and whatever goodwill you might harbour after this expedition. I regret what I said out on the road, you are clearly different to that group we had dealings with yesterday. I admit, you boys do not seem the type to lower yourselves in that way.”

“Oh Tobias, if only you knew.” Dazai’s laughter this time is genuine and nothing short of manic. “Very well, we accept your proposal. I suggest we take him, since he’s heard everything we’ve just agreed,” Dazai points at Rafe who looks slightly startled at being singled out, trying to melt into the wall on the opposite side of the room, “If you would like my advice, I’d consider leaving your son in charge here, if he has a level head on his shoulders. It would be wise to leave these people with someone who is not afraid to take command.”

“Agreed,” the old man nods, tapping his finger on the newly marked section of map. “Rafe, you and your brother report here at seven tomorrow morning. Now, go and tell that old fool Vestre of these new plans in case something ill befalls us tomorrow, then get some sleep. It will be a long day.”

The young man tips into a slight bow of respect before hurrying from the room so fast he almost succeeds in tripping over his own feet in his haste. Dazai hears Chuuya snort quietly behind him and his face almost cracks from its returned mask of impassivity to show a smile.

“You two are welcome to share my home and table tonight. I will prepare a meal, poor fare though it may be, it is all we have,” he gestures to the threadbare couch, “please make yourselves at home.”

“Can’t be any worse than shitty oat bars, pops.” Dazai turns to see Chuuya’s face is a picture of distaste at the thought of their diet over the last few days and if he’s totally honest with himself, he’d be overjoyed to never see another oat bar in his life.

“Thank you for your hospitality.” Dazai adds, sinking into the worn yet still-plush seat and heaving a quiet sigh, preparing himself for an awkward evening of small talk. He knows the invitation was only made so that Tobias can keep an eye on them, make sure they aren’t sneaking around in places where they aren’t welcome. Suspicious old man: suspicious, but smart, Dazai approves, perhaps these people can survive more than a few days after all. He doesn’t hold a great deal of hope for their long term prospects, whatever Chuuya might have told them. Still, it could be worse, they could be facing another night of sleeping in the trees.

The ‘meal’ as it turns out, is better fare than either of them have become used to in these last miserable days – apparently egg on rice is a staple for the less financially sound in this world as well as in their own. It makes him nostalgic in the worst way, his mood souring into silence as he lets Chuuya take over the conversation, listening only to distract his own spiralling thoughts as the two discuss and discard possibilities to fortify and protect the village from future marauders. The redhead keeps shooting him surreptitious glances, as if waiting for him to interject himself into the conversation to shoot down all of the ideas and present his own master plan, if he were feeling a little more together perhaps he would have – making Chuuya look stupid is one of the highlights of his continued existence after all – but in truth, he really cannot fathom the point in helping fictitious families fight off forces that are almost certain to overrun them, one way or another. It’s just delaying the inevitable any way he looks at it.

Use them for their information, hopefully garnering themselves enough supplies to be self-sufficient for a while, then leave them to die in whatever way they deem fit. That’s about the sum of Dazai’s plan for these characters.

When Chuuya’s foot connects with his ankle under the table, Dazai’s pretty done with this whole charade. Shoots the redhead a distinctly unimpressed look, resting his elbow on the table and propping his chin in his hand. “I don’t think now is an appropriate time to be playing footsie, Chuuya, we’re in polite company after all.”

Chuuya blinks at him, confusion morphing to mortification followed quickly by anger as his mouth opens to no doubt spit a torrent of insults and denials back at Dazai, only to reconsider and snap shut a moment later. It’s interesting to watch the normally easy to rile redhead seethe silently, and not entirely expected, Chuuya was never one to hold back on his emotions or reign in his temper, not when it came to Dazai at least.

It’s only when Tobias clears his throat pointedly from across the table that Chuuya sways to his feet, the motion fluid and graceful as a dancer, despite the restrained violence in every tense muscle, despite the fact that the chair almost topples over at the force.

“Excuse my rudeness, pops, but it’s been a long day and tomorrow will be even longer. I think I’ll just fetch some things from the car and turn in for the night.” Chuuya sketches a perfunctory bow, before abruptly leaving the room not bothering to acknowledge Dazai with even a look. The front door closes behind his echoing footsteps with only slightly more force than necessary.

Minutes of silence pass. Dazai can feel Tobias’ old eyes watching him; the focus makes his skin crawl just a little, reminds him of another set of bright eyes, watching, seeing, waiting to dissect him body, mind and soul.

Finally the village elder speaks, “I don’t mean to cause offence, boy,” Dazai hates that phrase, doesn’t see the point in it when whatever comes after it is bound to cause offence whether meant or not. Tobias tips his head towards the hallway through which Chuuya had disappeared, “he looks at you like he hates you, but at the same time he looks at you like he’s terrified you’re going to disappear. What hold do you have on him to make him look like that?”

That catches Dazai’s attention. Sure, he knows Chuuya hates him, or does a pretty well-practised impression of hating him, but the rest? It’s kind of hard to swallow, feels like it might just choke him on the way down if he thinks about it too closely.

Now is not the time to think about the connotations of this new revelation. So, Dazai pushes it to the back of his mind, compartmentalising it with a thousand other closed off thoughts, memories, fractures in his psyche. It can be analysed later. Maybe.

He tilts his head in Tobias’ direction, wonders how the old man’s eyes could be sharp enough to see something Dazai himself had not noticed. Or perhaps he had noticed and just trained himself not to see. Same thing. Still, the old man is more observant than he appears to be, and that makes the whole ordeal of tomorrow that much more potentially dangerous.

“None,” he replies simply, “not any more.”

“You boys have history, eh?” Tobias shakes his head, “That much is clear at least.” He fixes Dazai with a suddenly icy stare, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening to crags as he frowns, “Let an old man give you a little advice. At times like these, keep your friends close.” Dazai raises an eyebrow incredulously, hadn’t the old man himself just said that Chuuya looks at Dazai like he hates him? “That boy might hate you for sure, but he was quick enough to throw himself into the path of a loaded gun for you. People like that...you should keep them close, or someone else will take them away.”

Dazai lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, “Our –” he pauses, because relationship seems to imply some underlying meaning that just isn’t there, not any more, “our connection...is complicated.” He allows himself a light chuckle, “Chuuya would happily threaten to kill me with one hand, hold a knife to my throat without hesitation; and in the next second will throw himself at an enemy with only me at his back.” He sighs, looking Tobias in the eye, “He’s something of a contradiction. But enough of that. Mark my words very carefully, my friend: I will kill you and everyone you love before I let you even think about trying to take him.”

The old man’s lined face cracks into a toothy smile as the sound of the door flying open to hit the opposite wall with a muted thud sounds in the background.

“Noted,” is Tobias’ last word on the subject before Chuuya appears, arms full of sleeping bags and the two threadbare blankets they’d managed to salvage from the back of the car.

Chuuya’s eyes flicker between them, his mouth thinning into an annoyed line when they rest on Dazai and there’s suspicion and irritation and something like hurt swimming in the blue. The room feels suddenly cold, as if an invisible wind had sucked all of the warmth from the space between them.

Tobias breaks the frigid silence with a dry cough. “I’m very sorry, boys, but I’m afraid I only have the one bed, and you will forgive an old man his inhospitality in giving up his small comforts. My old bones cannot take the rigours of sleeping on the floor – I’m not as young as I used to be.” He smiles at his own joke, looks between Dazai and Chuuya and shakes his head, “I think I have a few spare blankets upstairs, though, I’m sure you can make do.”

Chuuya has made himself something of a nest in short order, opening out his sleeping bag to lay it across the floor of the living area and piling blankets on top of the makeshift ‘mattress’. After gratefully taking up Tobias’ offer of a basin of stove-warmed water (apparently the electrics have been less than reliable these last days, but the gas supply is thus far holding) for a quick but no less welcome wash, he quickly strips down to just his undershirt and boxers and crawls under the blankets, facing away from Dazai who is still sitting on the couch staring at his own pile of blankets without really seeing them.

“Goodnight, Dazai,” comes the completely unexpected muffled mutter, snapping Dazai from his mind’s wanderings and firmly back to the present.

“Goodnight, Chibi.” Dazai whispers back, staring at the tufts of red hair and the back of Chuuya’s head. “Your advice was sound, and, I think, well-received,” he adds, sort of a peace offering, sort of a wish that they start off tomorrow morning on the same side.

“Mmm,” Chuuya’s reply is shaky, a little unsure. Dazai hears him sigh, watches him curl up tighter like some wounded animal. “Go wash,” comes the eventual murmur, “I can smell you from here.”

Apology accepted. Is what Dazai hears.

~ ~ ~

The next morning begins in a flurry of activity at a time Dazai does not even want to contemplate. Coffee, shared with Tobias from their own stores, and a half decent breakfast of boiled fish and rice does nothing to stop the copious yawns that Dazai just cannot seem to swallow down.

Chuuya appears barely more awake than himself. The redhead is always a little tetchy in the mornings; used to being awake long into the night and asleep during the early hours of the day, Chuuya’s whole demeanour is of someone who would rather be comfortably curled up in his blanket nest – even if said blanket nest was on the floor of a stranger’s house. They haven’t spoken more than a few words directly to each other, but at least Chuuya isn’t glaring at him or immediately threatening violence upon his person. He’ll take it as a win.

Just over an hour after being rudely awoken, with the sun just beginning to crest over the horizon in a dazzling display of gold and blue, the expedition party is ready to depart. Dazai and Chuuya in their beaten up ‘Shitheap’ as Chuuya had named it, and Tobias accompanied by Rafe and his brother, the slightly more burly and apparently equally dull Mak. They have fuel enough for maybe half a day, though the old man had assured them that it was more than enough to get them to their destination and far enough beyond to find other vehicles to syphon what they needed. Dazai will take him at his word, it’s not like these people have anything left to spare were they even to bother asking or they wouldn’t have given up this potential cache so willingly.

Chuuya takes the wheel, muttering something insulting about Dazai’s driving abilities, following the growling pickup truck which is, apparently, the village’s only remaining working vehicle, a vehicle they only have because someone else had been out in it trying to reach a stranded family member at the time the village had been raided. Dazai fiddles absently with the radio, aware that Chuuya is gritting his teeth every time the static blares. They both know that this is the only likely way that they have to find out what’s going on in the city, in the rest of the country, the rest of the world. But the signal is patchy at best, stations which would normally come through loud and clear giving back only a ringing silence, while others fade in and out with buzzing robotic snatches of voices which can rarely be made out.

“The quarantine on Orez city has broken this morning as scenes of chaos and mass shooting lead to a full military withdrawal…” the radio crackles for a moment, the voice distorting before abruptly snapping back, “Citizens previously outside the Orez quarantine zones have been ordered to barricade themselves into their homes. The public is urged not to interact with those outside of their household and to refrain from travel. All air and sea departures have been placed under quarantine this morning…” another round of static and Dazai can see Chuuya’s grip tightening on the steering wheel as the noise fills the car for long seconds. “We are hearing fragmented reports that the infection has now been confirmed in multiple countries around the world. The World Contagion and Disease Control Organisation has declared a state of emergency and has confirmed that there is currently no effective treatment for individuals who have been infected…” the voice fades out, replaced with the now-familiar hiss of white noise and after a few minutes of pressing buttons, Dazai gives up and turns the radio off with a sigh.

“This world’s really about to go to shit, huh?” Chuuya sounds tired, tilting his head to look at the redhead, he’s forced to admit – Chuuya looks tired. Dark circles line his eyes, his face pale and slightly drawn. Dazai’s certain he doesn’t look any better, in fact he’s probably in a worse state than the Mafioso, but they can’t keep on as they have been – rather than burning the candle at both ends, they’ve gone and set fire to the whole stick – they’re going to need to find somewhere safe to hole up and wait for the world to truly start to burn.

“It’s going to get a whole lot worse yet,” Dazai responds without humour.

“Well, thanks for that uplifting thought,” Chuuya grumbles, lifting one hand from the wheel to rub at his temple, “how much further do you think?”

Dazai glances down at the map spread across his lap, letting his eyes trace the route that Tobias had drawn out. “Not far, assuming that senile old man actually remembers where the entrance is.”

Chuuya laughs at that, shaking his head, “Pops is a lot of things, but I doubt senile is one of them.”

“You might be right about that. Wily old fox is probably more accurate,” Dazai can’t help but agree, Tobias is anything but senile, “be careful today, Chibi.”

“Why? You really think they’re a threat?”

“I just don’t understand why the old man would bother telling us about this place at all,” in truth, part of Dazai has been screaming at him that something is off from the moment they entered that village.

“You don’t believe what he said about not having enough resources spare to investigate the place?” Chuuya asks, his eyes glancing from the road, to Dazai and back again.

“It’s not that I don’t believe him,” Dazai starts, and then pauses, trying to put his finger on what exactly he’s feeling, “It’s clear enough that they lost almost everything in that raid. I’m just, not entirely certain our new friend was divulging everything he knew.” He sighs, “I think we should be prepared for unexpected trouble.” He doesn’t add in his suspicion that this entire expedition is a ‘scripted’ event, something they were bound to run into at some point during their foray into Poe’s apocalyptic literature, he doesn’t think Chuuya will appreciate the reminder, much as he might need it.

Chuuya clicks his tongue in irritation, “Well, isn’t that just the story of our fucking lives?”

Dazai can only agree.

Chuuya is just about to say something, when Dazai thinks he catches the sound of muted rumbling in the distance. He holds up one hand and Chuuya immediately falls silent, both of them straining to hear something over the suddenly thunderous noise of their own engine.

There’s nothing.

“Did you hear?” Dazai asks, turning to find Chuuya staring into the rearview mirror and paying almost no attention to where he’s actually going.

“I thought I saw something...just a flash, only for a second...but perhaps –”

“Perhaps we’re just imagining things?” Dazai mutters, completing the sentence for him only for Chuuya to shrug noncommittally. Neither of them are known for jumping at shadows, but in their current state of fatigue and stress: it’s entirely plausible.

“I think you’re right, we should be prepared for trouble.” Chuuya sighs, speeding up a little to catch up with the pickup, “Why can’t we just have it easy for once?”

Dazai can thoroughly appreciate the sentiment.

~ ~ ~

The gate is almost exactly where Tobias has said it would be. It is also perfectly camouflaged as a section of hedgerow, so much so that they could have driven past it a thousand times and still had no idea of its existence.

“Is it gated like this the whole way around?” Dazai asks, inspecting the frankly impressive eight foot tall shrubbery, carefully grown and cultivated around a solid ironwork frame.

“Something like that.” Tobias admits, sticking his hand through the branches to unlock some sort of mechanism which allows the entire section of hedge to just...swing open on hinges which aren’t even visible. It’s like seeing magic for the first time. “This is just the first gate. The main house has five miles of land in every direction and the entire property is gated.”

“Have you considered moving your people out here?” Dazai asks, curiosity getting the better of him, because just looking at this gate, he can tell that whatever is beyond here is going to be far more effective as a safe haven than any tiny country road.

Tobias shifts uncomfortably, his eyes darting back and forth between Dazai and Chuuya before he heaves out a sigh, “It’s one of the reasons we’re here, to be honest with you boys. I’m not sure how much the place has changed, but if it’s unoccupied, I may consider putting it to the rest of the village.”

“I wouldn’t give them a choice in the matter,” Dazai shrugs easily, “but that still doesn’t explain why you invited us along on this little adventure.” Now that they’re away from the village full of knife-and-various-other-implement-wielding extended family members, Dazai decides it’s time to be blunt.

“If this place is occupied, we’re not going to get a warm welcome,” the old man mutters.

“Ah, so we’re just expendable as canon fodder. Got it. I’m glad we’re finally seeing eye-to-eye.” Dazai knows his smile is mocking and somewhat sinister, can see it in the way Tobias’ blue eyes open just a fraction wider.

“I wont apologise for trying to keep my people safe,” Tobias’ voice is gruff, and true to his word not at all apologetic, “but you youngsters look like you’ve been through a few things, despite your age.” Dazai raises his eyebrow at that and Tobias shakes his head, “It’s in your eyes boy. Both of you have that hardness.”

Dazai exchanges a glance with Chuuya, the redhead lifting one shoulder in a shrug, effectively allowing Dazai to take the lead. “So, how about you tell us exactly what we might expect to be waiting for us up there, and then we’ll decide if we’re just going to turn around and leave you to your own devices.”

The old man finally speaks after a few moments of silence, “The second gate is about a mile out from the main manor. It has an electronic lock, multiple cameras which are installed on their own backup generator...and was manned permanently by armed personnel, whether the owner was in residence or not.”

And there it is. Dazai has to force himself not to roll his eyes, “Locks are no problem. If we’re lucky the guards will have skipped out on their responsibilities when the news broke, if we’re unlucky they’ll have taken up residence.”

“Unlucky is your middle name.” Chuuya grumbles beside him, his voice barely audible. It’s enough to make Dazai’s mask of indifference crack upon a small lift of his lips.

“So we’re potentially going to be out-manned and outgunned. Not looking great for you here, Tobias,” Dazai tilts his head, regarding the two young men who have thus far remained silent witnesses to the conversation, “how highly do you value their lives? Enough to go home empty handed if Chuuya and I skip out?”

“What do you want?” the old man suddenly looks like he’s aged twenty years in twenty seconds, a muscle in his jaw ticking visibly as he regards Dazai with cold, calculating eyes.

Chuuya interrupts then, cutting off any chance of Dazai negotiating on their behalf, “We want to call first dibs on whatever’s inside, pops. No argument.” Dazai purses his lips, but, feeling Tobias watching him he merely nods.

“Done.”

The old man seems somewhat startled when Chuuya regards him for a long moment before sticking out his hand, he stares at the outstretched arm for a long moment before shaking his head with a strangely soft smile and clasping Chuuya’s hand in his own.

Weirdly chivalrous moment over, Chuuya turns to him, with a grin on his face and excitement burning in too-blue eyes. “Well, let’s get this shit done!”

“Ugh,” Dazai responds immediately, injecting a put-upon whine into his voice, “why does Chuuya always give me more work.”

Chuuya just rolls his eyes and climbs back into the car.

They pull off of the track and into a small area of woodland a few hundred yards from the second gate, which they can just make out in the distance after creeping around a bend in the dirt road, hopefully far enough away that the noise of their engines hasn’t reached the ears of any potential enemy. There doesn’t appear to be any obvious signs of activity, but Dazai is more than happy to be cautious nonetheless.

Chuuya is already rummaging through their packs, pulling out an assortment of knives and tucking them into various easy-to-reach places upon his person. Dazai laments the fact that Tobias has apparently left his shotgun in the hands of his son, purporting that the safety of the village is more important than any of the lives that might end here and now. Still, they will make do with what they have, it’s not like Chuuya can’t handle a small army by himself, with or without his Ability, and Dazai’s aim is as good as it ever was.

“So, what’s the plan?” the redhead asks as he pushes a pile of weapons in Dazai’s direction, and really, Dazai should have expected it from Chuuya after all these years, but it’s still just a little irritating (and maybe just a little flattering) that his ex-partner automatically turns to him with the presumption that Dazai has a fully formed plan from the get-go.

He levels Chuuya with his most unimpressed expression, “Since you’re the one that struck a deal with the old man, shouldn’t I be asking you that question, Chibi~”

Chuuya blinks at him for a few seconds before narrowing his eyes, “Don’t call me that! And, since it’s your fault we’re here at all, I think it’s more than fair that you get to do all the boring strategy shit. It’s the only thing you’re good for.”

“Oh I’m wounded~” Dazai sing-songs back at him, holding a hand over his heart dramatically and fluttering his lashes. Now it’s Chuuya who’s giving him the most unimpressed look the redhead can muster.

“Fine, let’s just get this over with and storm the gates.” Chuuya shrugs, turning as if about to do just that. Dazai is slightly more than horrified at Chuuya’s total lack of self-preservation.

“Woah there, Chibi. That is definitely not what we’re going to do.”

“Oi I just told you not to call me that.” Chuuya growls, “If you’ve got a fucking plan then out with it!”

Dazai ignores the now fuming redhead to turn to Tobias and the two young men, who are standing at a distance, Tobias with a look of firm resolve and the two younger men with almost identical expressions of apprehension. “You should all stay here and wait in the car with the engine running,” Dazai tells them, knowing without needing to ask that they will only get in the way and possibly end up caught in any crossfire if they try to ‘help’. “One of us will come back for you when the gate is clear,” he pauses before adding, “if you hear shots, don’t come running, just wait. If you see anyone other than Chuuya or myself approaching, leave.”

“But –” Rafe begins to protest.

“No buts.” Chuuya interrupts, coming up beside Dazai and shaking his head, “this shithead is right. If there really are armed guards hanging around, if Dazai and I can’t take care of them then...no offence but you’ve got no chance.”

Rafe looks affronted for all of two seconds before he sighs heavily, turning to Tobias with a frown, “This doesn’t feel right to me,” he doesn’t sound angry, or defeated, just matter-of-fact, “sending these two in to do our dirty work for us. It ain’t right.”

Chuuya laughs then, and the sound makes Dazai turn to look. The redhead’s smile is pointed and genuine and he looks so carefree in that second that it takes Dazai by surprise. “Nothing in life is fair. Don’t worry, we don’t die easily.”

“Operation Shame and Toad.” Dazai is gratified when Chuuya turns to stare at him with astonishment, the redhead probably isn’t even aware of the way he cocks his hip and tilts his head with that look of disbelief on his face.

“Seriously? Again? You literally just said we weren’t just gonna walk right up to the fucking front gate.”

“We are not. Are you really going to argue with me?” The amusement almost rolls off his tongue and Chuuya continues to stare at him for a few more seconds before letting out a loud ‘tch’ and huffing in frustration. “I didn’t think so.” Dazai cocks his head to the left, “Head that way, two hundred metres, the tree line is thin, but you should have enough cover.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Chuuya waves offhandedly, already turning in the direction Dazai had indicated.

“Five minutes, Chibi!” Dazai calls out after him, and almost laughs as he sees Chuuya’s retreating back tense.

“What, do you want me to run?! Just hurry up, bastard,” the redhead throws back, “and don’t fucking die!”

“Aww, I didn’t know you cared~” Dazai simpers, watching Tobias and the two young men blinking at them in stunned confusion.

“I changed my mind! Go to hell!” Chuuya makes an obscene gesture, not bothering to look back as he disappears into the shadows beyond the trees.

Dazai does allow himself a chuckle then, lifting his shoulders in a shrug at Tobias’ wordless question.

~ ~ ~

The walk towards the gate feels like walking to his own gibbet. While that might have – at one time – been an entirely welcome concept to Dazai, right now it feels a lot like a bell is tolling out his doom somewhere with every measured step.

The closer he gets, the more he allows his steps to falter, purposefully turning around to look in every direction as if confused or searching for something unknown. A hundred metres from the sheet steel and honestly imposing looking gate he spots movement from the turret mounted on the left side of the wall – the glint of metal perhaps? It could be a security camera, training in on his movement, it could be the barrel of a gun, aiming at his head. It sends a thrill through him that has nothing to do with fear.

“Hello?” he calls out, cupping his hands around his mouth to make his voice as loud and distracting as possible, “Is anyone there?”

Still moving forwards and he’s now fifty metres from the gate. He can see three cameras pointed to the left, right and straight ahead, and in the turret a shadow is shifting. “Hello?” He calls out again, waving his arms in an exaggerated manner, satisfied when he sees all three cameras swivel to zero in on his approach. He very deliberately keeps himself from looking left. “Is someone there? Can you help me?”

“Stay where you are and keep your hands above your head!” A sharp voice rings out, “You are trespassing on private property!”

“I’m not armed!” Dazai lies loudly, now allowing fake panic to colour his tone as he continues to shuffle forwards, determined to get as close to the gate as he can without getting a bullet in his skull for the trouble.

“Stop right there. Or I will use deadly force.” The voice barks out.

“Oh, you will? Please make sure to hit a vital spot then~” Dazai yells back, dropping the confused act and allowing a smile that’s all teeth, continuing his measured steps forward. “I’d advise the head, or the heart. If your aim is good enough.”

There’s silence for a moment, before the voice calls out again, unsure and far less authoritative than before, “Do you want to die? I told you to stay still!”

“Oh, you have no idea.” Dazai laughs mirthlessly, a flash of movement to his left telling him that he only needs to stall for a few more seconds, “But unfortunately for you, not today.”

He drops flat to the floor, his eyes just catching Chuuya who takes a flying leap up the wall, barely missing the razor wire curling around the top before flinging himself upwards: a feat of agility Dazai wouldn’t have believed the redhead capable of had he not witnessed it before, and honestly he still hadn’t been sure Chuuya could pull it off without the assistance of For the Tainted Sorrow to manipulate his own gravity. It’s impressive, kind of awing to watch. A shot fires and Dazai rolls instinctively, the bullet piercing the ground where his torso had been a fraction of a second earlier. It seems the guy wasn’t all bluff, and was, in fact, prepared to shoot him, even murder him in cold blood. It’s almost enough to make him melancholy – chances missed and all that.

The sounds of struggle are over in seconds, and, after a quiet pause, the gates swing open almost soundlessly. The redhead appears from a set of stairs cut into the wall inside the gate, wiping his knife clean on a bit of cloth he’d probably just cut from the newly created corpse in the turret.

“Good job, Chibi!” Dazai chirps loudly, gratified to see Chuuya pause, his body stiffening like an angry cat in irritation.

“Don’t patronise me, shitty Dazai!” He yells, brandishing the now clean knife in Dazai’s direction.

“I wasn’t!” Dazai protests, though he kind of was, even if the acrobatic display had stolen his breath.

Chuuya regards him with thorough scepticism, even when Dazai holds both hands up in an effort to placate the short, angry Mafioso. “Tch, whatever. I’m going to fetch the others, you’d better take a look up there,” he indicates the turret with a nod of his head, “The cameras feed into that room, but I didn’t take the time to check whether there’s a secondary loop to the main house.”

“Either way we need to proceed as if whoever is in there is already aware that we’re coming.” Dazai’s brain runs quickly through the likely scenarios, “If there are more than a few holing up here, they’ll make it an all-out assault and try to overwhelm us with numbers,” he rubs the back of his neck thoughtfully, “but if it’s just one or two we might be in for a game of cat and mouse.”

It turns out, after picking his way delicately around the dead body on the floor - and promptly relieving said newly-created corpse of it’s gun and spare clips – that the camera feed does indeed have a secondary circuit back to the main house, as well as an intercom and what appears to be a early warning alarm system, which, luck would have it does not appear to have been triggered. Still, Dazai is almost certain that the dead man had probably radioed through a report of Dazai’s suspicious activity at the gates before confronting him. Considering the fact that no sign of backup had been immediately forthcoming, he makes an educated guess that they are not dealing with an army or any kind of large group here; likely just those few individuals who had been tasked with the duty of maintaining and securing the house before the world went to hell and who had then taken advantage of the resources already present in such a fortress rather than taking the risk of striking out alone.

So, that leaves somewhere between one and five potential adversaries, and if it was him in there, well…

The arrival of the two vehicles breaks him from his musings and he considers the equipment surrounding him for a few seconds before curling his fingers around the radio and pressing the button to transmit.

“Hello the manor! Can anyone hear me?” he pauses, but no answer is forthcoming, “I am terribly sorry to inform you that your gates have been breached. We mean you no harm, but if you threaten us we will respond in kind. We are giving you this opportunity to meet with us and negotiate, or flee, you will not be followed.”

Silence.

“If a single shot is fired, we will take it as a sign of hostility. I repeat, we mean you no harm, but we intend to enter this building, through force if necessary. Out.”

Honestly, he hadn’t expected an answer, but instilling doubt or fear is worth losing any potential element of surprise they might still have. A fearful adversary is a stupid adversary and a stupid adversary makes mistakes. With so few of them, and only himself and Chuuya with any actual combat experience, they need a stupid adversary.

“Now what, genius?” Chuuya calls, too loudly, slamming the door of the car so hard it sounds like a gunshot through the still air. Everything about Chuuya is too loud, and the prospect of a fight when they’ve spent the last however many days skulking and hiding and scheming has the redhead almost buoyant with anticipation. Dazai can understand, looking at it objectively, Chuuya is a doer – always on the move, always throwing himself headfirst into conflict, even after becoming an Executive, Chuuya prefers to be in the thick of things rather than pulling strings from the sidelines. It’s why his squad respects him – never afraid to put himself in the line of fire alongside his men. Not that the odds are ever equal, but the Mafia’s dogs don’t see it that way.

“Oi, are you ignoring me, bastard?!” Ah, the redhead is glaring up at him again, standing less than two feet away with his hands shoved in his pockets.

Dazai cocks his head deliberately, as if straining to hear something from a great distance, “Hmm? Oh, sorry, Chuuya is so tiny I couldn’t hear him yapping from all the way up here.”

The way Chuuya’s heel digs into the dirt is more than satisfying. Lamentably he doesn’t have time to wind the redhead up any further, the longer they give whoever is left up there to prepare, the more likely they are to face an organised attack.

He pitches his voice so that Tobias and the two young men can hear, “We’re going to get up there as fast as possible. Tobias, how many exits does this place have?”

Tobias looks thoughtful for a few moments, brows creasing as he obviously struggles to bring up the building’s layout in his mind, “Two...no, wait, three. The main entrance at the front of the house, the entrance leading out onto the gardens at the rear, and there’s a servant’s entrance on the west wing close to the garage. Well, I guess that’s four.”

He nods, hoping that Tobias’ apparently hazy memory is correct. “Okay, we’re going to drive up with as much speed and confidence as we can, no attempt at stealth or evasion. Chuuya, I’m leaving you to get these three into position to cover the exit points, then you and I will go in and find wherever it is they’ve decided to hole up.”

Chuuya’s brows knit as he regards Dazai doubtfully, “What makes you so sure they’re going to hole up?”

“I told them we were coming,” Dazai replies, waving a hand and smiling airily.

“Why?”

They really don’t have time for this, but Chuuya is stubborn and Dazai knows the redhead will not be moved until he has a satisfactory answer with which to assess the situation for himself. “We’ve already lost the element of surprise. Now, I’ve given them an ultimatum, they have very little time to agree on one of four options.”

Dazai begins to tick off his fingers one by one, “First, they can defend the main entrance with all of the manpower and weaponry they possess. A decent, if simple tactic against an enemy few in number, but exponentially more risky if the attacking force is greater in number than those defending. Second, they can attempt to negotiate and end the potential conflict without bloodshed. If they have a unquestioned leader, this option would be most beneficial to all parties, assuming there is some level of trust involved, however, if the leadership is split it’s unlikely that this course would be deemed acceptable. Third, they could flee. If there are only one or two in there, this would be the best option considering they have no idea how many of us there are or what weapons we possess – they can take the most valuable items and slip around us while we’re busy searching the building. However, I suspect there are more than one or two, and they are security trained and clearly have weapons, this place is defensible and if any of them are smart they will know it’s probably the best chance of survival they have. Which leaves option four…”

“Hole up in the most defensible room in the building and riddle anyone who comes looking with bullet holes before they have chance to fuck shit up.” Chuuya interjects, his voice a low, irritated grumble.

“Exactly!” Dazai makes a show of clapping his hands together once, watches Chuuya’s eyes narrow as the redhead glares at him. “Chuuya isn’t as stupid as he looks!”

“I get your reasoning and all…” Rafe interrupts their silent staring match, “but where are they going to hole up?”

Dazai continues looking at Chuuya, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, mirrored by the redhead who clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes as they speak in unison, “Basement.”

“Why the basement?” the younger man asks, nonplussed.

“In big ostentatious places like that,” Dazai gestures to the roof of the building which can just be made out in the distance over the tops of the well-pruned trees lining the gravel driveway, “most rooms have multiple exits, even bedrooms can lead out onto multiple corridors, bathrooms or interconnecting suites. The only place that’s pretty much guaranteed to only have one way in or out is the basement.”

“Huh, I guess you’re right.” Rafe looks suitably impressed and Dazai nods seriously.

“Of course, I’m always ri – ouch Chuuya!” he’s cut off mid-sentence as the redhead elbows him hard in the ribs.

“Enough with the egotistical bullshit, this strategy of yours relies on speed and not giving these idiots time to think and come up with a better plan, right?” Dazai rubs at his side, turning his best kicked puppy expression on the Mafioso – to which Chuuya merely rolls his eyes. “Hand over the gun, asshole, they’re gonna need it more than we do.”

“But Chuu-yaaa, you can’t expect me to confront a basement full of armed security guards without a gun!”

“I can and I do.” the redhead replies, flatly. “Besides, you’re not even thinking of going in all guns blazing, am I right?” Holding out one hand and tapping his foot irritably until Dazai sighs loudly, makes a show of shuffling his feet and then obediently drops the weapon into Chuuya’s waiting palm along with the clips he’d boosted from the body.

“Yes, yes, I hate it when Chibi actually uses his brain. Operation Winter Night it is,” he can’t help but huff petulantly, even as Chuuya scowls at him, “no argument this time?”

The half-growled “Tch!” is all Dazai needs to instantly put him in a better frame of mind.

“Now, Chuuya, be a good dog and take the kids for a walk. I’ll drop Tobias at the front, he seems like the best shot of the three.” he’s almost amused enough to chuckle when not only Chuuya, but the two young men clench their fists and glare at him. Unfortunately, Chuuya is the only one who snaps back. Predictable, boring.

“I am not your dog! Stop ordering me around!” he yells as he stomps off to the truck, switching places with Tobias who climbs into the passenger seat, shaking his head in bemusement as Dazai flings himself behind the wheel.

“You want to tell me he could do so much better than me, am I right?” Dazai turns a fox-sharp grin on the old man who suddenly guffaws with hoarse laughter.

“Oh, no, actually I think you’re well suited for each other.”

Well. That wasn’t exactly what he was expecting and now he’s left speechless and probably gaping at the old man (who is clearly suffering from some sort of degenerative mental condition common in the elderly because what) looking for all the world like the mackerel namesake Chuuya likes to taunt him with. He sputters wordlessly for a moment before deciding the ridiculousness of that statement does not require a response, instead throwing the car into gear and revelling in the squeal of the tires as it jumps forwards.

~ ~ ~

Ten minutes later sees the tiny form of Chuuya emerging from the side of the house, studying the windows as he moves cautiously towards Dazai. He’s not quite sure why the redhead is bothering with such wariness, considering Dazai himself is standing in plain and open view and hasn’t been viciously murdered yet. More’s the pity. His inner voice laments.

“Where’s the old geezer?” the redhead asks in lieu of a greeting, careful to keep his eyes forward and not go searching out Tobias, possibly giving his position away to anyone watching.

“I sent him a little way back up the drive, then told him to position himself in the shrubbery at your two.” Dazai responds boredly, tilting his head back to stare at the sky. “I don’t know why you’re so on edge, it’s not like they’re going to jump out on us here. If they were they would have done it already.” Chuuya’s response is to mumble something under his breath.

“Sorry, Chibi, I didn’t catch that from all the way up here.”

“Never fucking mind.” Chuuya growls back, stomping towards the doors and leaving Dazai to follow in his wake.

The redhead takes one quick look at what’s obviously supposed to be an impressively grand entranceway complete with a massive, ornate double door and makes a derisive noise. “Do you think they’ve trapped it on the other side?” he asks, leaning his body against a fake marble pillar and turning his head in Dazai’s direction.

Dazai stares at the door, contemplating the idea for barely a second before shaking his head, “I don’t think they’ll have had the time or the ingenuity.”

“Good for us,” Chuuya shrugs, tapping the toes of his boots on the floor as if warming up, a scene Dazai has witnessed so many times it’s almost second nature to take a wary step back as the redhead shoves his hands deep in his pockets and blows out a steady breath. “Let’s get this shit started!”

The door practically explodes inwards, splinters of wood flying in all directions as the lock plate clatters uselessly to the floor. Immediately Chuuya moves to the left, Dazai skipping to the right, both of them pressing themselves flat against the stone walls of the manor in case someone, or something is waiting for them on the other side.

Nothing.

One breath...two…

Still nothing.

Chuuya’s sigh is almost disappointed. “Well, that was an anticlimax.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure it will get more exciting and dangerous from here,” Dazai quips, his face maintaining its typical bland composure even as Chuuya grins ferally back at him.

“Let’s hope so.”

They make short, if cautious, work of inspecting the lower floor, quickly flitting through rooms to check for signs of life, or ambush, as Dazai guides them towards the servants’ quarters where Tobias had insisted that the stairs down to the basement level existed.

The silence is unsettling, in a house this large, Dazai can’t help but feel like he’s walking blindfolded into a maze of potential snares, every step is wary, every closed door inspected with meticulous care before being opened.

The lack of any forthcoming ambush is both welcome and a good indication that his prediction on the current occupants of this house going to ground was indeed, correct. Judging from the recently discarded cups on the kitchen counter and articles of clothing strewn carelessly across the backs of chairs in the dining hall, Dazai estimates there are another five individuals lurking about the place, so, while being outnumbered is never the best way to go into a fight, it’s nothing they can’t reasonably handle if they’re sensible.

Sensible, unfortunately, is not always a trademark of his fiery redheaded partner. Chuuya works best when he lives in the moment, fights best when given minimal direction and a whole lot of free reign to create whatever chaos he sees fit. Yes, back in times past, Chuuya would leave the strategy to him and follow orders to a point (with a constant stream of complaints of course) and is perfectly capable of taking directions and executing them flawlessly...but honestly, Dazai had never needed to give Chuuya much direction outside of pointing him in whatever direction he deemed most beneficial and leaving the rest up to the redhead’s own finely-honed instincts and intrinsic skill.

Still, the fact that Chuuya is somewhat lacking in his capacity at this present moment (a fact that at one time, Dazai would have been overjoyed to rub in Chuuya’s face and point out just how much of the redhead’s notoriety comes from his frankly overpowered Ability), it’s a little concerning and certainly something they are going to need to adjust for. Broaching that particular conversation is not something he’s entirely looking forward to.

The door leading to what Dazai hopes is the basement level is shut and appears to be locked from the inside. Signalling for silence from hereon in, Dazai approaches gingerly, pausing for a few moments to inspect the lock before pressing one ear against the wood and listening closely. He steadies his breathing; quiet, measured breaths so that they don’t distort any sounds, his own heartbeat sounding loud and weirdly out of place. After a motionless minute which feels like an hour, he holds up a single finger – one person has been left to guard what must be a stairwell beyond the door. Turning to Chuuya, his hands dance through a familiar set of patterns and Chuuya nods once before turning on his heel, disappearing back into the adjacent room and out of sight. He returns minutes later with two splintered wedges of wood he must have grabbed from the obliterated door back at the entrance.

Dazai stops the redhead in the somewhat narrow and dingy servants’ corridor, outlining his plan in low tones.

“We’re going to need to get through that door, incapacitate whoever is on the other side of it and make it to the second door before the alarm is raised and the rest decide to come out and play,” he murmurs softly, taking the two wedges from Chuuya and stowing them in an easily accessible pocket. “If I pick the lock, Chuuya will have to get in there and deal with the guard while I skip past and secure the other door.”

“You think you can get us in without the asshole on the other side noticing we’re breaking and entering?” Chuuya’s head cocks to the side, his scepticism plain across his face.

Dazai sticks out his bottom lip in a disgruntled moue of displeasure, “Chuu-ya, your lack of faith in my abilities is truly depressing,” he produces the same slightly bent hairpin he’d kept with him since their heist of the camping store what seems like a lifetime ago, holding it up as if it were a treasured possession, “I can get us into that stairwell with just this little pin in a matter of seconds! I guarantee it!”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Chuuya mutters, sounding unconvinced even as the tiniest flicker of a smile plays across his lips. “You’re not planning on killing the rest of them then? Just trapping them in the basement?”

“Oh. No. They’ll definitely need to be disposed of properly,” he knows his voice is cold and unconcerned at the prospect of murder, can tell Chuuya’s mood is souring by the flat look the redhead is now eyeing him with. “Don’t look at me like that, Chuuya, you know as well as I do that leaving potential enemies at our back is the height of stupidity. Even if we’re not sticking around here, you think these people will leave your new friends alone once they’ve run out of food and supplies here?”

Chuuya eyes narrow a fraction before he sighs, “So why the doorstops?”

“It gives us time to get something else together to even the odds and put the advantage in our favour,” Dazai shrugs, “We hole up the rats in their nest and stop them from potentially realising their grave error, trapping themselves down there and escaping and overrunning us outside.”

“And your great idea is?” the redhead prompts impatiently.

“Smoke.”

At that one word, Chuuya’s eyes flick back and forth between Dazai’s own, searching for something Dazai can’t fathom. He maintains that same careful blankness, cold and dispassionate, disconnected from the thought of others suffering from his actions because really, what are these people to him but random strangers – no, not even that – random fictional representations spawned from an author’s page. What does he care if they suffocate by his hand? Perhaps suffocation is the type of weightless, painless death he’s been searching for all these years...though, he can’t imagine fire searing the nerves and singing your lungs can be anything but painful. At least it’s relatively quick.

“I don’t like it,” the redhead rips him from his own musings with those few carefully spoken words.

“No, I’m sure you’d much rather run into a room full of potentially well-armed security guards when you’re only armed with a knife, because you decided the people using us for their own gains needed weapons more than we did.” Dazai snaps back, “Remember Chuuya, you’re not invincible here. All it takes is one well-aimed bullet and you being just a little slow.”

He can see Chuuya’s teeth clench hard at the mention of his ‘weakness’, his loss of the ‘card’ that has given him purpose and the drive to protect through all his years as a linchpin of Yokohama’s scaled, black underbelly and before, with the group of street kids who Dazai still considers with utter contempt. Chuuya’s fingers clench into fists at his sides as his whole body tenses and Dazai wonders if their cover is about to be blown, quite literally considering the scope of Chuuya strength even without his Ability. After an uncomfortable and unknowable stretch of time, blue eyes stop attempting to bore holes in Dazai’s head and instead turn their attention to Chuuya’s own hands, staring unblinkingly as the Mafioso uncurls them slowly and lets out a measured breath through his teeth.

“I’m not invincible anywhere, shitty Dazai, as you are well aware,” the redhead’s voice is all forced calm and carefully restrained violence, “I know I am not as useful as a piece on your game board right now, but do not mistake my willingness to follow your lead as subservience or weakness, bastard.”

“I never said you were weak, hatrack,” Dazai replies in the same flat tone, “but it’s something you need to be aware and conscious of at all times, or it will become a weakness and a liability.”

“You think I don’t feel it with every fucking step I take? Like I don’t –” when Chuuya cuts off his sentence midway, Dazai can only tilt his head curiously and pick apart the tangle of words that could have been about to spill from frustrated lips, he has no wish to prod further into that particular open wound right now...maybe later. Chuuya’s teeth bare in a wordless snarl, his foot tapping once, noiselessly, upon the carpeted floor before he nods in a sharp motion, “Understood.”

“Then let’s get this done.” Dazai sighs, quickly outlining his plan.

Chapter Text

Chuuya doesn’t like this.

He’s not a stranger to covert missions, though obviously he tends not to be the Boss’ first choice for such dealings – with a somewhat flashy Ability which isn’t exactly well-suited for quiet assassinations or espionage, his particular talents are often required elsewhere – still, he’s done his fair share over the years. Though he can understand the necessity of the situation at hand, smoking rats out of their hole sounds so...well it sounds very Dazai. Perhaps that’s why he’s feeling uneasy – this whole partnership thing isn’t exactly something he had planned on ever going back to: too much bad blood, and a lingering sense of betrayal on Chuuya’s part make it hard for him to reconcile the teenager who dragged him kicking and screaming under the thumb of the Port Mafia, then ditched him only to resurface like some kind of bad smell. A thin veneer of a smile and maybe Dazai is unrecognisable from the callous, calculating, manipulative bastard he used to be, but Chuuya can see beneath the cracks, knows that the black of the Mafia, the black of Dazai doesn’t wash away quite so easily.

Well, it’s not like he has a better idea. They can’t very well leave such a risky enemy at their backs, and despite the frankly irritating way Dazai had brought it up, he was correct in pointing out that Chuuya isn’t exactly operating at full capacity right now, and dying isn’t high on his list of priorities.

So, he trails Dazai back to the door leading to the basement, drags his hands out of his pockets, draws the long-bladed knife and positions himself a few feet away, shifting his feet into a stance that will give him a good launching point as soon as the door opens. This entire plan is reliant on both speed and stealth, one misstep could end in a firefight they have little chance of coming out of unscathed, especially when considering the fact that they will be stuck in a narrow corridor with only one point of escape and zero cover.

He takes a steadying breath, watches Dazai press his ear to the door once more, time seeming to pause for extended seconds until finally those long fingers move in quick patterns, a silent language only the two of them speak.

It makes him feel slightly slick, even as he translates the movements automatically.

One guard. Seated. Facing away. Eight feet from the door.

He’s slightly dubious as to how Dazai can tell the man isn’t facing them, but whatever, they’ll soon find out if the bastard is wrong. He flicks two fingers to his temple in a mocking salute, indicating his understanding and readiness to engage, Dazai tilting his head minutely before the bent hairpin flickers between his fingers and disappears into the lock. Dazai’s other hand, held next to his side begins the countdown.

Four.

Chuuya’s muscles tense, anticipation sending adrenaline to fire his nerves, leaving him twitching on the edge of movement.

Three.

Two.

The fingers not clutching his knife clench into a fist, shoulders squaring as his head lowers and Chuuya shifts his weight to his back foot, preparing to throw himself forwards.

One.

Just time for a quick breath, filling lungs with precious oxygen.

Zero.

The door swings open without a sound and Chuuya is moving before Dazai even has time to step to the side, ducking under the outstretched arm to fly forwards on silent feet, taking the stairs separating him from his target three at a time, he lands on the stair above the bulky form of his adversary just as the man is turning his head.

Too late.

The idiot doesn’t even have time to grab the gun he’d stupidly left on the step below where he had chosen to sit, doesn’t have time to shout a warning or make a sound before Chuuya’s blade has bitten deep into his throat, severing the jugular and sending arterial spray splattering up the walls on either side of the narrow staircase and pouring forth to drench the man’s front.

Dazai is already past him, stepping over the scene of growing carnage and moving effortlessly to the door at the bottom of the stairwell – a heavy looking metal contraption totally at odds with the unassuming wooden door above and throughout the rest of the house. He wonders exactly what they’re going to find down there when they do finally open the thing.

Chuuya watches silently as Dazai deftly wedges the pieces of wood securely into the doorframe, one slipping into the tiny crack at the bottom of the door, the other jammed into the side of the frame, effectively trapping the occupants inside should they attempt to exit. It’s not infallible, not in any sense of the word, Chuuya knows; with enough consistently applied force, or better, jerky manoeuvres to apply a short burst of pressure against the block in order to shove it a minute distance back with each thrust, the wedges will fail and the door will open far enough to allow their targets to escape. At this point they’re working against the clock until someone in there realises that the corridor outside is just a little too quiet.

Chuuya leads the way back up the stairs, pausing only to remove the gun and spare ammo from the corpse, and to pull the body into a parody of a sitting position, slumped slightly against the wall to make it seem like the man had dozed off on duty. It wont pass any kind of close inspection, but the gloom in the corridor may work in their favour if it comes to it.

Dazai closes the door behind him as he steps back into the light. Chuuya can see a key dangling absently from his fingers, which is promptly inserted into the lock, the bolt clicking home with a soft snick. Pocketing the key, Dazai motions for Chuuya to move back out into the hallway leading towards the kitchen, Chuuya obeys without protest, handing the gun off to Dazai as he goes.

Safely out of range of being overheard, Chuuya pauses to look down at his own bloodstained hands and grimaces, grumbling a noise of disgust and grabbing a discarded shirt thrown across the back of a chair, wiping off the worst and leaving red smears across pristine white cotton.

“What now?” he turns to Dazai, who is watching him with a mild amusement, one finger absently fiddling with the safety on the newly acquired handgun, flicking it on and off and on again probably without even realising what he’s doing. Guns have always looked at home in Dazai’s hands. The thought is odd, yet the picture, though familiar, is missing something.

Chuuya buries the useless thoughts in favour of levelling a look at his bastard ‘partner’ that must adequately display his impatience, because Dazai’s finger pauses on the safety and his eyes go suddenly flat, clearing of all emotion.

“I need containers, preferably metal, but plastic will do if that’s all that can be found. Buckets, or large pans, anything like that...and synthetic material, the less natural it is the better. Curtains are probably our best bet and easiest to locate.”

“There’s no other way?” Chuuya asks, already knowing the answer.

“Well, I could probably make some chloroform, I’m sure the servants quarters have acetone somewhere and plenty of bleach to clean a place this size, but what I can make here would probably be just about potent enough to kill a few cockroaches or mice...unfortunately our rats down there are considerably bigger, all it’s likely to do is make their throats itch and piss them off,” Dazai lifts one shoulder in a shrug, “unless Chuuya has any better ideas? Smoke inhalation is likely to render them unconscious in a matter of minutes, unless they can get through the door, in which case they’ll be meeting a bullet to the head rather than embracing an eternal sleep.”

Chuuya can only grimace, closing his eyes and heaving a sigh before turning on his heel, away from Dazai and that unnervingly piercing stare. “Fine. I’ll find the synthetic shit and meet you back here in five.”

“Don’t keep me waiting, Chuu-ya~” Dazai croons softly behind him and if Chuuya’s foot smacks a little harder on the polished wooden floor than it normally would, well, who’s to know?

~ ~ ~

A little more than seven minutes later finds Chuuya struggling to drag what must look like a comically large amount of fabric in the circle of his arms. The curtains and decorative hangings drape around his shoulders in the parody of a cape and spill from his grip despite his careful bundling to tangle around his legs, threatening to trip him with every cautious step.

“I thought I told you not to keep me waiting, Chibi?” Dazai whines from his position crouched in the middle of the kitchen floor, surrounded by all manner of seemingly random objects. When the bastard finally turns, his eyes widen momentarily in surprise and a snort of laughter puffs from quirked lips as Dazai pulls a hand to his mouth in an attempt to hide his mirth. “You look ridiculous.”

“Well, you would know, since that’s your natural state of being, bandage freak.” Chuuya spits back, dumping the armload onto the floor like so much dirty laundry.

“No need to be angry, it’s actually an improvement on your usual attire.” Dazai has the audacity to grin widely at him, and Chuuya wishes for the umpteenth time that day that he could just punch the glorified mummy in his smug face and get the fuck out of this absurd shitshow that has become his life.

“Haah?!” he half whispers and half screeches instead, unable to stop himself from rising to the obvious bait. “So says the asshole who thinks bandages and bolo ties are the height of fashion!”

Dazai’s grin widens even further, a smile full of teeth and fake humour. “So says the Chibi who wears a collar like a dog~” that bored tone dips suddenly into something dark as old-blood eyes flash red, “Ah, but I bet this little dog looks pretty when he begs for his master.”

He can feel his face flushing at the connotations behind Dazai’s words, suddenly finding himself unable to look the other man in the eye even as a drenching cold settles across his body, the rage guttering like a candle faced with a sudden gale.

Dazai must feel the rapid change in the mood, gone from their usual teasing spats to something chilled and uncomfortable in a split second as Chuuya feels him shift, the taller man abruptly standing right in front of him, one hand rising until fingers are pressing against the underside of his chin, coaxing him into lifting his head and staring uneasily into eyes that always see too much.

“Is there something you want to say?” the soft sincerity is almost a shock to Chuuya, who clenches his teeth reflexively – so hard that his jaw protests at the mistreatment. The normally blank, dead eyes are boring into his skull with an intensity that would be off-putting had it been literally anyone else. Chuuya has seen this look on Dazai before, though never directed at himself.

“No.” he croaks finally, forcing the single word from his throat.

“Hmm…” the admonishing hum, accompanied by Dazai shaking his head is enough to make Chuuya’s feet shift uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the floor, fixing resolutely on the mess of buckets and pans strewn everywhere.

“Can we just get this over with.” the words which wriggle from his throat sound eerily blank, more reminiscent of Dazai in bygone days than anything Chuuya would associate with himself.

He can feel Dazai’s stare like a lead weight pressing between his shoulders, a prickling sensation of danger threading through his nerves with every passing second. Finally, the connection severs and the former Executive grumbles something low under his breath before flipping into a fake tone of enthusiasm, “Start cutting those awful rags into strips, Chibi, we haven’t got all day you know!”

With a grumble he practically forces between his teeth - because it’s what’s expected of him, because to do nothing would attract notice, attention that he doesn’t want right now – he lowers himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged amidst the chaos to grab the closest swathe of fabric he’d ripped from their hangings in various rooms, pulling the material between his fingers until it gives way with a somewhat satisfying ripping noise.

It’s mindlessly therapeutic, tearing things to shreds with his own two hands. The process leaves him feeling weirdly disconnected from his own sense of self – pull the nearest section of fabric to him, grip it between his fingers, pull until it tears into neat strips, discard and repeat.

His whole body jerks when a hand grips his shoulder, the haze of thoughts clearing from his mind to bring him crashing back to the present. “Were you even listening?” his entire focus has zeroed in on that tiny point of contact, the fleeting sensation of warmth.

“Huh?” he mumbles intelligently, absently worrying at the torn threads of polyester with his thumb and forefinger.

“Focus, Chuuya.” Dazai’s long fingers appear in his field of vision, tugging the mangled strip of material from his own unresisting hands and adding it to the scattered mess surrounding them both. “I said that’s probably enough. You can stop now.”

“Oh.” He forces himself to blink, to breath, to focus. “Right.” Flicking his gaze to the current source of all of his problems, he can feel his own eyes widen as he glimpses a flash of concern in mirrored red-brown irises, quickly masked to that blank bottomless void he’s so horribly familiar with. Concern isn’t something he’s used to seeing on the faces of the people he works with...awe, yes...respect, yes, it comes with the title of Executive, cloaks him with an untouchable mantle...contempt, sure, he’s seen enough flickers of hatred in the eyes of those who feel they would be better suited to his position, the ones who believe he was only made an Executive by riding on the coattails of Soukoku’s infamy. He’s used to all of these things, but concern...no, there is no room for concern in the heart of an Organisation rooted deep in the darkness. Concern breeds attachment, and attachment makes you weak.

Detachedly, he watches Dazai soak some of the rags in what looks like cooking oil, using them to line the bottom of his chosen assortment of buckets and pots, adding balls of scrunched paper before dumping another load of dry rags on top. This process is repeated until six sizeable containers are filled with highly flammable materials and Dazai hums his satisfaction as he looks down upon his handiwork. Chuuya blinks, attempting to clear his thoughts and drag himself back to the present, absently realising that his foot has been tapping on the floor for the last who knows how long – a clear sign of his own agitation and a habit Dazai had painstakingly tried to break him of for years. He takes a certain amount of vindictive pleasure in cracking his boot down just a little bit harder as Dazai raises an eyebrow in his direction.

~ ~ ~

The door to the basement remains locked and eerily silent. Six rag-filled containers lined up haphazardly to the side as Dazai presses his ear to the wood one final time. Silence stretches once more into elastic infinity until, finally, the bastard straightens up with a terse nod, all flickers of false humour fleeing to be replaced with that smooth, blank, impenetrable wall.

A second later and the key is in the lock, twisting with a barely audible click.

Chuuya’s muscles tense, prepared for an attack that never comes.

The stairwell is empty save for the body, propped up in a lifeless parody of humanity as the bloodstains shine wicked, unmistakable crimson in the light flooding from the open portal above.

Dazai signals for silence from hereon out, a motion that has Chuuya rolling his eyes sarcastically, because really, does the bastard think so little of him that he would go out and blow their cover now? Well, who can guess how that idiot thinks. Chuuya certainly doesn’t know, and doesn’t want to know. The very thought of understanding Dazai sends a shiver up his spine.

Carefully the fire pots are placed – one on either side of the steel door, a further three set every three steps, leaving the final sitting as the last bastion on the inside of the wooden door leading to the rest of the house, far enough away to hopefully not set the entire wing alight.

Halfway up the staircase, Dazai pauses, unwinding a section of wire, taken from one of the untold pockets of his coat, quickly knotting one end to the railing and tying off the other end around the corpse’s neck as some grotesque version of a tripwire. Apparently satisfied, Dazai motions for Chuuya to follow him back to the bottom of the stairs, carefully removing the two wedged blocks before pulling two lighters from yet another cavernous pocket and handing one to Chuuya, followed a series of signals outlying the next stage of their plan.

Nodding his assent, Chuuya takes a long, steadying breath, stilling the slight tremor in his fingers and attempting to convince himself it’s merely the adrenaline at the prospect of a fight that causing this lingering apprehension. Finally, he’s crouching next to the first firepot on the right of the steel door, his eyes on the bastard who is staring back at him with cold calculation in dark, lightless eyes.

Three.

Two.

One.

The flame leaps into life, dancing and flickering madly as if feeling a bloodlust all of its own. He watches, mesmerised for just a moment before plunging his hand into the pot, canting the naked flame against the paper lining the bottom of the pot and pulling back sharply as it ignites with a hissing crackle.

Now time is of the essence.

They all but flee up the stairs, each of them lighting alternating fire pots as they go; carefully navigating their way over the tripwire until they’ve made it to the final step. The first two have well and truly caught now, roaring wild orange and red tongues of fire as they belch a thick, oily black smoke in billowing clouds. Both Chuuya and Dazai stop for a moment, watching the stairwell already filling with cloying, noxious fumes, before bending back to the task at hand; setting the two remaining pots alight and waiting to make sure that all six are burning before Dazai closes the door behind them with a whispered click.

Hurriedly they lock and wedge the door firmly closed with the two blocks of wood, using a tiny hammer Dazai produces from the gods only know where to drive the blocks home, effectively sealing their targets inside. To get out they would have to break the door to splinters, costing them precious time. Dazai stuffs an unshredded length of curtain in the tiny gap between the wood and the floor for good measure, sealing in the tiny curls of smoke which have already begun to leak out in unfurling wisps.

“Well, now we just wait.” Dazai murmurs, taking careful steps backwards whilst keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the door as if expecting a torrent of enemies to come bursting forth at any second, “and hope that the fires don’t burn themselves out through lack of oxygen.” Chuuya frowns and the bastard must catch the expression in the corner of his eye because he waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, even if they all go out, the fuel will continue to produce smoke as it smoulders. Obviously the smoke will rise and collect around the ceiling to begin with...by the time our friends down there notice it creeping under the door it will be too late for them.”

They retreat to the nearest corner in the corridor beyond the basement’s entrance, giving themselves some cover while simultaneously keeping their target within line of sight.

The passing of time seems interminable. Chuuya cannot tell if they’ve been waiting here seconds or minutes. Anticipation coursing through his veins like a drug, making him want to pace, to fight, to do something, anything other than standing around waiting for something to happen.

“Chibi I can feel you vibrating from here. Can you just relax?” Dazai’s focus never leaves the door, but the theatrical sigh is enough to set Chuuya’s teeth to grinding.

“Easy for you to say, suicidal bastard.” Chuuya hisses back, glad to have an outlet for his energy, even if it is just a verbal sparring match with that annoying asshole.

Any further attempt at conversation is cut off by the shrieking sound of metal being forced open, followed by the distinct hollow sound of frantic shouting.

“Ah, the heat from the fires closest to the door caused the metal to warp.” a sick satisfactions threads its way through Dazai’s words as the stolen handgun appears, held expertly in his grip as the safety clicks off.

A loud thudding crash and an accompanying holler of pain echoes down the corridor and Chuuya doesn’t need Dazai to tell him that whoever was at the forefront of those trying to escape the smoky inferno on the stairwell has just made an intimate acquaintance with Dazai’s little ‘surprise’.

“You’d think they’d be a bit more careful.” he mumbles, surprised when Dazai shakes his head dismissively.

“In situations like this, your mind turns against you, renders you into something like an animal where the only focus is to escape. It dulls the senses to anything other than the immediate need to run. Right now they are not thinking about traps or what might be waiting for them beyond that door. Their minds only see fire and freedom.”

Chuuya pushes down the urge to make a face of disgust, knowing that feeling far to well, the crushing weight of your own death looming and pressing in from every side – laughing in the hollow voice of destruction.

A loud thump of something heavy colliding with something solid, followed by the frantic rattling of the door handle signals that at least one of their targets has managed to successfully make it up the stairs. The door shaking slightly but otherwise remaining a solid barrier between those who are trapped below and life.

Chuuya can hear the muffled, unintelligible shouting, followed by a moment’s pause and then another loud thud against the door, followed by repeated rhythmic crashes as the door begins to groan and splinter in protest.

Dazai’s hand lifts to take careful aim.

Chuuya slides his knife free.

With every passing second the assaults on the door seem to stutter and become less frequent, moving from a steady pounding bass to something staccato and off-beat with long pauses punctuating each desperate attempt for freedom.

Finally, the door can take no more, giving way with a torturous cracking and splintering wail before caving forwards, half hanging from its hinges as thick black smoke billows outwards in a confounding, confuscating cloud, obscuring all movement in its wake.

A retching, hacking cough breaks the sudden stillness, followed by the sound of stumbling feet as a shadowed form it outlined in the hole left by the gaping door.

“Move, move, move!” screamed out between breathless wheezing, in the voice of a man far past panic and into the realm of hysteria.

Without waiting, Dazai adjusts his aim, pulls the trigger, fires.

The first body slumps to the floor, dead before he knew what hit him.

Two more shadows loom amidst the smoke. A bullet whistles past Chuuya’s head to bury itself in the wall meters away from either of them – a wild shot, without thought or finesse.

Dazai fires twice more, calmly and without apparent haste.

Their attackers don’t even have time to scream. Two more bodies hit the ground.

“Please --” a whimpering, terrified voice whispers through the smog-filled corridor, barely audible. “Please...we surrender. Don’t shoot!”

Dazai’s arm is unwavering as he cocks his head to the side, “How many of you are there?”

“Three...just three.” the voice replies instantly, “One unconscious, the other in a bad way.”

“More than I thought.” Dazai murmurs, just loud enough for Chuuya to hear before he raises his voice once more, “Throw all of your weapons out into the corridor and stay next to the door.”

Chuuya watches silently as a gun and three heavy looking batons are tossed out of the gloom. Sees the murky shapes of three individuals emerge from the stairwell, two seeming to drag a third between them, the limp form propped carefully against the wall before the other two pull themselves upright to face them with their hands held aloft.

Dazai’s head nods once, and Chuuya sighs under his breath at being treated like the bastard’s personal protection dog, clicking his tongue in annoyance but making no comment as he hears the whispered, “Expect trouble.”

Expect trouble...he always fucking does wherever Dazai is concerned.

He closes the distance between himself and their newly acquired prisoners quickly, striding into what feels like a solid wall of choking, blinding, smoke and for the briefest instant, panic sets in, frantic and clawing, his heart jackhammering between his ribs as his head screams at him to get out. He forces it down, tastes ash in his throat and feels pity for the people they had subjected to long minutes of horror down there in the dark.

He barely has time to react as a blade comes slashing towards his throat, a young man – clearly the one who had surrendered himself and his comrades only moments ago – coming at him with snarling hatred and burning red-rimmed eyes, alight with murderous intent. Cursing, Chuuya throws himself to the left, towards the splintered remnants of the door, feeling the sharp sting of steel as it grazes past his right shoulder. Ignoring the pain, he kicks out one leg, hooking his foot around the boy’s ankle, yanking it out from under him and sending him careening to the floor, what little breath he had exploding from his lungs.

“I really wish you hadn’t done that.” Chuuya sighs, trying not to inhale too much of the thick, clogging, poisonous air into his lungs as he kneels on the boy’s back, dragging his head back by a fistful of dark hair and slicing his blade through the now bared throat.

Beside him, two final damning shots ring out and the last two bodies crumple lifelessly to spread crimson stains across the floor.

It’s over.

~ ~ ~

They go through the house from top to bottom, ransacking rooms to accumulate a pile of what may be useful items and may in fact be a mountain of worthless shit...Chuuya hasn’t quite made up his mind which, yet.

True to their word, Tobias and the two young men – Rafe and Mak – had assisted with the creation of Shit Mountain, but had left Dazai and Chuuya to pick over their treasure trove of out-of-date ramen, canned vegetables and all manner of utensils, and take whatever they desired (Chuuya isn’t sure he desires any of it).

The most welcome sight had been the garage, set slightly underground with a ramp leading to the manor grounds, connected to the main house by an impressive fully glass-panelled wall, as if the entire level had been made as a homage to gaze upon the rather spectacular array of vehicles housed within. Chuuya is pretty sure he’d had stars in his eyes as he’d stepped into the garage with awe writ plainly across his face. Track cars, convertibles, and something resembling a stretch limo take pride of place, parked closest to the glass wall – obviously the owner’s favourites – but Chuuya’s gaze is immediately drawn to an entire wall of motorcycles, each mounted on its own stand and gleaming despite the only light coming from the scant illumination provided by the afternoon sun filtering down the ramp and through the various skylights. They are beautiful and he can’t help but run gloved hands across sleek bodywork, a hum of pleasure in his throat as he admires each perfect example of engineering in turn.

“Ahh, I think Chuuya has found heaven~” Dazai sing-songs, instantly souring his mood just a little.

“Fuck off, shitty Dazai, you’re ruining the moment.”

“I didn’t realise we were having a moment, Chuu-yaa~” Dazai simpers back. Chuuya throws an obscene gesture in the bastards direction and turns back to inspect the bikes more closely, ignoring Dazai’s constant commentary somewhere behind him.

“The keys are all here,” comes Dazai’s low murmur, right next to ear and far too fucking close. How does the bastard even do that? Managing to sneak up on him as if Chuuya was some normal member of the general public and not a trained Mafia Executive with what he thought were sharp instincts. He barely manages to stop his body from jerking backwards...doesn’t manage to stop his fingers from curling around the hilt of his knife. He can practically feel Dazai smirking beside him and throws an elbow into the asshole’s ribs, earning him a yelp and a piteous whine in response.

“Chuuya is so violent!”

“Don’t sneak up on me then, bastard!” Chuuya snaps back instantly.

“Ahh but if the hatrack wasn’t so busy panting after machinery, he would have heard me coming~”

Chuuya jabs his elbow out again, but Dazai anticipates the move and dances backwards, grinning gleefully.

“You can only bring one!” Chuuya tears his focus from the gleaming row of polished metal and gleaming fenders to shoot the bastard a confused look.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, unless you’ve perfected the art of Kage Bunshin no Jutsu in this world, there’s thankfully only one of you, Chibi,” Chuuya blinks, contemplating that for a moment before opening his mouth to say that they could just make several trips back here to take more of the bikes, but Dazai is holding his hand up and begins speaking again. “Besides that, there’s only one mount, so you’re just going to have to choose one.”

“Mount?” Chuuya repeats, confused.

“Mhmm.” Dazai hums, pulling a set of keys from his pocket and holding them aloft, pressing a button and smiling in satisfaction as the loud clunk of a locking mechanism disengaging echoes through the underground space, lights flashing on a vehicle tucked innocuously into the corner of the garage, looking mildly out of place amongst the expensive supercars.

Chuuya stares at the modest-looking RV for long seconds. It’s not exactly ugly...but it’s also not exactly what he imagined spending the next who-knows-how-many days driving around in…living in.

“We’re taking that?” he asks, turning back to Dazai to see if the asshole is messing with him, only to find Dazai nodding seriously.

“We are,” Dazai replies simply, none of his usual teasing manner on display. “Think about it logistically. We can fit a large amount of supplies in this thing, which means we’ll be able to travel to multiple places without the need for multiple trips. It will be handy when we need to start making preparations for our final journey. Not only that, but it’s big enough to ram other vehicles off the road if we absolutely have to.”

“It doesn’t look sturdy enough to ram other cars off the road to me.” Chuuya raises an eyebrow, regarding the RV sceptically.

“Well, if we’re forced to do something like that, I think the mechanical soundness will be the last thing on our minds,” there’s no hint of amusement in that flat tone, and Chuuya can almost see the thousand different scenarios Dazai must be working through in his mind in this moment.

Shaking his head dubiously, he shrugs, “Well, if this is what you think is best, you’re the zombie apocalypse expert,” he waves a hand and lets out a bark of laughter, “well, as close as we’re gonna get, gods help us.”

Dazai cracks a smile at that, shaking his head ruefully. “You can choose one bike, Chibi~ just one!”

“Do you take sadistic pleasure in giving me impossible choices?”

Dazai’s wide smile is more than answer enough.

~ ~ ~

The pile as much as they possibly can into the RVs interior – filling all of the cupboards, the tiny ‘garage’ area and even the shower cubicle with all manner of canned and packaged goods, blankets, bottled water and all manner of tools and utensils Dazai had deemed as being potentially useful and Chuuya had consequently designated ‘random crap’.

The bright red bike Chuuya had chosen - essentially for the sole reason that it had made Dazai’s face twist into something like horror when he had pointed it out – has been carefully removed from it’s place upon the wall, and tied securely to the rack on the rear of the RV, the keys stowed safely away.

The pick of the other vehicles, they decided, are being left for Tobias and the people of village, along with all of the weapons and ammunition they had removed from the previous occupants at Chuuya’s insistence and despite Dazai’s heated disagreement, which had almost resulted in blows between them reminiscent of a childish fistfight. In the end Dazai had relented only because there were hardly enough bullets to make a difference in any kind of fight and despite combing the manor they had been unable to find more. The only compromise had been the draining of the petrol tanks of the vehicles Tobias had decreed not useful (the supercars and the convertibles among them, much to Chuuya’s quiet heartbreak). The spare fuel carefully loaded onto the roof of the RV, hopefully as far removed as it is possible to be from any chance of blowing them both sky high.

He’s almost horrified when Dazai takes the remainder of the keys, laying them out on the concrete and smashing them methodically with a large hammer until they are bent and unrecognisable: plastic and metal components strewn across the floor in a sad array of what was once worth millions and is now reduced to so much scrap. Chuuya is convinced Dazai might have considered smashing up the cars themselves, had the bastard not seen the promise of murder in Chuuya’s eyes. Still, the Mafioso in him knows that Dazai has made the right choice, the smart choice, regardless of his own feelings on the destruction of such beauty; leaving anything useful that could potentially be used as a weapon against them in the future in a risk not worth taking.

And here they are, not even a week into this shitty end-of-the-world nightmare and already he has committed theft, arson, destruction of property and possessions, oh and murder. Same shit, different world.

~ ~ ~

With water cascading down his back, Chuuya feels just a little more human, stripping his skin of a frankly disgusting amount of dirt, grime, blood and he doesn’t even want to think about what else. They’d been pleasantly surprised to find the manor equipped with it’s own emergency generator, after finding the sporadic power cuts and frequent flickering of the lights over the hours that they’ve been here more than a little irritating. A hot shower had sounded just a little bit like paradise and Chuuya had flipped Dazai off at the first opportunity and taken over the master bedroom – throwing open closets and drawers until he’d found something that had a least a decent chance of fitting his accursed small frame. Sure, sweatpants aren’t exactly his usual attire, but it will do while he chucks his own stinking gear – now tossed in a heap in one corner of the enormous marble-effect bathroom - in the hottest wash they could withstand.

Clean and finally rid of any lingering smells left over from their stomp through city, sewer, wood and field (not to mention the new overwhelming reek of smoke from today’s little murder spree), Chuuya sighs happily, wrapping himself in the largest, fluffiest towel he could find and revelling in being properly alone for the first time in what feels like aeons. It’s nice to be alone with his thoughts, to sort through the mess of the last few days without feeling the prickling sensation of dark eyes trying to pick him apart.

“Chuu-yaa~ have you drowned in there?”

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Chuuya thinks, ignoring the bastard’s lilting voice in favour of rubbing a towel through his hair.

“Chibi? Seriously...did you fall through the gaps in the plughole?” the handle twists and Chuuya is infinitely grateful that he’d remembered to lock the damn door.

“Fuck off, bandages for brains!” he yells, voice echoing weirdly in the closed space. “I’m busy.”

“Drowning yourself?” Dazai asks, sounding somewhat hopeful, “Can I help? Better yet, can I join you?”

Chuuya sputters for a full ten seconds, feeling his face heat up and resolutely blaming it on the temperature of the water and the steam still filling the bathroom. “Do I look like a beautiful woman to you, asshole?!” it comes out as something of a shriek, high-pitched and Chuuya instantly wants to swallow it back down and pretend the words were never spoken.

“Ahh, one makes do with what’s available, Chuuya.” comes the completely serious reply, leaving Chuuya to blink at the door. “Joking! I’m joking of course~ I have no interest of dying with such an annoying Chibi!”

“Good!” Chuuya growls back instantly, “Because like hell would I ever want to die with you, bastard!”

~ ~ ~

Clean, clad in familiar clothes, soft and warm from the dyer and with a mug of hot coffee settled between his hands, Chuuya is ready to call the day a success. They had assisted Tobias, Rafe and Mak in loading up the old truck, and another far newer pickup with as much of the remaining provisions as they could fit – the five of them now seated around one of the smaller dining tables as the sun begins to sink below the horizon.

“So what’s next for you boys?” Tobias asks over the rim of his mug, and despite the seemingly friendly tone, Chuuya can see something calculating in those old eyes.

“We move on.” Dazai shrugs nonchalantly.

“You don’t want to take over this place and set up camp?” the old man presses and Chuuya suddenly regrets handing over all of the guns. Wonders for a second if they’re about to be murdered by this wily old man for the sake of his people. Honestly, he wouldn’t blame the guy for trying – it’s a sound move.

“While I agree, this would make a splendid fortress with a few changes...Chuuya and I couldn’t defend this place on our own. Even with seven people guarding this place, they were infiltrated and overcome by just the five of us.” Chuuya knows Dazai is being generous, since it was the two of them who had done the entirety of the actual dirty work. He watches Dazai lift one shoulder in an off-hand shrug, “We already have our sights set elsewhere, Tobias. Though you should highly consider moving your people down here. If you can get everyone out, you would have enough manpower and enough weapons to act as a deterrent to any but the largest groups that come out of these next few weeks alive. If you keep the perimeter as well hidden as it was when we got here, you might be able to survive, even thrive pretty well out here.”

“Hmm.” Tobias grunts, his voice gravelly and rough, “It’s a consideration.” he speaks carefully, but Chuuya knows that in the old man’s head, the decision has already been made, though he’s trying not to see Dazai and Chuuya as a potential threat.

“Don’t worry, pops, once we get out of here, you’ll never see us again.” Chuuya adds and Dazai levels him with an unimpressed expression.

“Look, Tobias, do you really think you would still be alive and breathing if I thought you were any kind of threat to us?” Dazai’s mask of congeniality slips away, leaving a hint of something dark and dangerous to glint coldly in red-tinged eyes. Chuuya can see the twitch in the old man’s fingers as he flinches minutely, knows it’s a movement they both have picked up on, instincts too finely honed to miss such details. “Don’t play with us. We have no intention of coming back here, or interacting with you or your people in any capacity.”

“When will you leave?” Tobias rumbles, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, yet still meeting Dazai’s cold stare.

After a heavy stilted pause, Dazai relents, dropping his eyes back to his own half-full mug, “First thing in the morning. This is one of the safest places we’ve found up to now, it will be good to sleep without concern.” implying that he does not consider Tobias or his companions to be worthy of causing concern. Chuuya almost wants to chuckle – that bastard and his mind games.

“Very well, then we shall take our leave.” the old man pushes back his chair, joints popping as he pulls himself to his feet. “Thank you for your assistance and cooperation.” he sticks out his hand, and Chuuya smiles, holding out his own to shake. A moment later, Dazai shakes his head and holds out his own hand to Tobias, the two men gripping wrists as some unspoken understanding passes between them to which Chuuya can only roll his eyes.

“I wish you luck on your travels, but something tells me you won’t need it.” his eyes flicker to the door, in the direction of a pile of corpses and a smoky corridor left to tell a grim tale.

“Good luck, pops.” Chuuya is genuinely fond of the gruff old man, feeling a sort of kinship with a man so dedicated to protecting his own, “Keep your people safe!” He turns to the two brothers, admonishing them with a finger, “Keep an eye on the old man!”

The last thing they hear from Tobias is a huffed chuckle as he and the two grinning young men head through the door without looking back.

~ ~ ~

“You don’t want to sleep in a real bed? After all the complaining?” Dazai affects a high falsetto, “Dazai-sama my back hurts! Dazai-sama this hammock is uncomfortable. Dazai-sama the back of the car smells funny. Dazai-sama I can’t sleep when I’m distracted by your amazing singing voice.” Chuuya blinks owlishly at the idiot feeling his face slowly heat up as it takes on the red sheen of rage, and Dazai has noticed because the smile on his face is almost eerily intense. “Here I find you an actual bed, a four-poster bed with silk hangings at that, and now you want to go sleep outside?”

Chuuya knows that Dazai expects him to start yelling at any moment, possibly even launch himself across the space between them to strangle the infuriating bastard. Instead Chuuya decides to do the complete opposite, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, carefully, before speaking in a completely calm tone. “You’re the once who keeps insisting that we need to be careful, that we shouldn’t make stupid decisions,” he grumbles, throwing his hands out and gesturing wildly around them, “of course I’d love to sleep in a bed. But if we found this place, even if we did have help, then someone else can also find it, right? And if they decide it’s worth starting a fight over…? It’s not worth the risk. Not even for a memory foam mattress and goose down pillows...” his voice takes on a wistful quality, and he’s a moment away from reconsidering.

He watches, slightly concerned, as a slow smile spreads across Dazai’s face, “Finally, you’re learning!” the complete asshole then has the nerve to clap his hands together, closing dark eyes and smiling broadly, “My little hatrack, all grown up and surviving the zombie apocalypse~ I’m so proud!”

“I’m not your anything, shitty Dazai,” Chuuya barks back immediately, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as his cheeks take on an embarrassed flush. “Let’s just get out of here. Before I tie you up and leave you for the next group of thieving murderers to find.”

Oh, but the thought is so tempting.

Dazai’s smile is full of teeth as he raises a hand to his forehead and feigns scandalised shock, “Now, now, Chuuya, don’t go airing your kinks in public~”

Chuuya’s face, if possible, goes an even darker shade of red and he quickly twists his face away from Dazai’s knowing, grinning, stupid expression and stares avidly at the ceiling. “Shut up and get in the fucking RV!”

“Chuuya~ I don’t think it’s that kind of vehicle!” Dazai sings back at him.

Chuuya’s attempt at patience practically explodes in his face.

“NOW!”

~ ~ ~

He comes awake violently to the smell of smoke in the air and almost knocks himself out on the roof of the RV, having taken the overcab with the idea of giving him some space away from the asshole who had just rudely interrupted his first decent sleep in days.

Dazai is hovering just next to his shoulder, obviously having just poked, prodded, perhaps punched him into wakefulness judging by the sharp ache in his muscle and honestly, it’s a little concerning how familiar he’s managed to become around the bastard in the course of just a few days to be able to sleep so deeply that the slightest movement doesn’t startle him awake with a knife in hand.

He’s upright within seconds (or as upright as one can be when coming awake in a space less than a metre tall), eyes wide as his brain attempts to catch up with his body, searching for whatever threat he needs to destroy. Dazai shakes his head, motions for silence and beckons Chuuya to follow.

Practically falling down the ladder to the floor, he grabs another knife to supplement the one pulled from underneath his pillow in the moment upon waking - feeling slightly more at ease now he has two whole weapons upon his person – and follows Dazai outside without uttering a word.

They move cautiously through the wood, careful to avoid any accidental snapping of branches, though no sounds of imminent danger or attack filter through the leafy undergrowth. Visibility isn’t great: not only do the trees obscure the early morning light, casting long dancing shadows across the ground, but the smoke hangs in a heavy pall across the land. Wherever the fire is, it’s big.

He already knows what it is, even before they reach the end of the little stretch of forest and can see far enough into the distance to make out the telltale flickering orange glow. The house must be lit up like a towering torch to be so visible from this distance. They’re a good two miles from the second gates, and even further from the house itself.

“What’s going on?” Chuuya breathes, turning to Dazai whose expression is uncharacteristically open and terribly grim.

“I heard them come through in the night,” Dazai murmurs back, not taking his eyes from the fire.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Chuuya frowns.

“There’s nothing we could do about it,” Dazai shrugs, “multiple vehicles came down the road. More than we could handle. We already took what we needed from the place.”

“Why torch it though?” It doesn’t make sense.

“To stop others from utilising it as a defensive position.” Dazai turns his back on the blaze and begins backtracking the way they had come, “I would guess that whoever this gang is, they have already fortified somewhere close by to hole up in. If they have, then this place is not only useless to them, but it’s a problem. Having a rival faction take up residence here would lessen their chances of surviving and coming out as ‘top dogs’ in the area significantly. The manor and the grounds here are secure, gated, difficult to locate if you don’t already know where it is and easily defended if you have the numbers. It’s a good choice for a base, as you explained to Tobias and the other two yesterday. They could have posed a threat if they moved the entire village out here.”

Chuuya pauses in his tracks, eyes going wide as his thoughts drift to the old man and his two younger companions, “You don’t think?”

The stiffness in Dazai’s back as he continues walking without a word is all the answer Chuuya needs.

Just before they reach the relative safety of the RV, Chuuya hears a noise in the distance, the distinct rumbling of an engine. Dazai’s head tilts fractionally for a second before he abruptly makes an about turn and moves quickly through the undergrowth blocking them from view of the road. Chuuya follows in silence.

As they get closer to the road itself, Dazai motions with a hand signal and Chuuya blinks at the muddy, leaf-strewn ground with distaste for a few seconds before sighing in resignation and dropping to the floor alongside the bastard. Together they crawl their way forwards the final few yards, ducking under the lower branches of a large thorny bush into its centre and risking cut palms to gently pull a few stray branches aside to give themselves a mostly unobscured view of the road beyond.

The first truck passes by less than half a minute later.

There are seven vehicles in all, three of them obviously the pickups left for Tobias’ return, a collection of what Chuuya judges to be poorly maintained bikes strapped to the flatbeds. He counts eleven, plus an old busted up car which definitely had not been part of the manor’s collection.

Twelve. The band consists of at least twelve individuals and at this point Chuuya has to admit that Dazai was right (as usual) in judging their involvement a waste of time and potentially highly dangerous. While this group clearly aren’t particularly smart, or well-organised, their actions so far indicate a level of violence that leave Chuuya feeling cold.

As the growling rumble of engines fade into the distance, a pit of dread yawns in his stomach, his mind refusing to contemplate what he already suspects – that things are about to get worse.

~ ~ ~

Just beyond the battered and twisted gates - clearly rammed from their clever hidden mechanisms to lie discarded upon the ground - they find the bodies of the brothers Rafe and Mak, slumped across the bonnet of their truck, throats cut and a grisly pool of blood painting a viscous, drying, macabre stain across rusted and pockmarked paint. The truck, of course, has been stripped of its contents, not a single useful item left within. The stolen truck is nowhere to be seen.

Chuuya eyes the scene with distaste, wondering what kind of people these thieving murders must be – to cause so much carnage and destruction in the space of a mere few hours. Sure, living through an apocalypse was bound to bring out the worst in certain individuals, but they are only days into the outbreak and already they have witnessed chaos, riots, bandits, bloodshed, arson and wholesale murder.

He tries to remind himself that they are living inside a work of fiction, that the events that seem real are actually scripted to some degree, the workings of what must, in all honesty, be a mind of twisted reality to have come up with such ‘characters’ as those they have just barely missed encountering. With every day they spend here, it seems more substantial, more real. Chuuya can’t help but wonder - as he regards the lifeless bodies of two young men who had done nothing outside of trying to protect their family, friends and way of life - whether events in their reality would play to the same tune as those they are watching unfold here and now.

The thought makes something unpleasant squirm in his guts.

There is no immediate sign as to the fate of Tobias. The old man’s body is not beside the fallen brothers, and, for a minute Chuuya allows himself to believe that maybe the wily bastard got out alive; perhaps he’s making his way determinedly back to his village and the people he feels are his duty to protect and lead right this moment.

The notion is dashed less than five minutes later.

The sound of a low, protracted moan filtering through the trees has the hair on the back of Chuuya’s neck standing on end. Instantly he’s alert, a knife leaping to his hand as if it had gained its own sentience and reacted to a perceived threat. It’s only been days, but that first encounter – the woman in the alleyway – had impressed upon him the very real danger that he and Dazai have been thrust into. Just one moment, just one lapse in concentration, just one bite and it’s all over; not just for them, but potentially for the very people - friends, subordinates, proteges, colleagues – that they are trying to protect. Individually the shambling, jerky undead don’t appear to pose that much of a threat to someone who is both physically able and aware...but a group of them? A situation where he might be faced with multiple enemies on all sides? Well, the prospects are more than a little dire.

Dazai is moving forwards with grim purpose telegraphed in every step, making no effort to hide the sound of his footfalls upon earth still damp with morning dew. At the sound of another hideous groan, the taller man’s head cocks slightly to the side as he judges the direction from which the noises are emanating and adjusts his trajectory to compensate.

The scene they arrive to is gruesome, and if Chuuya is honest with himself, that’s probably an understatement.

Two bodies lie sprawled upon the ground, neither of which are familiar, though their features appear to have been battered to nothing more than a bloody pulp, mangled and meaty and clearly victims of heavy, repeated blunt force trauma.

That’s not the worst of it. Not by far.

Chuuya is too busy staring at the corpses at his feet to notice first of all. A harsh rattle of breath followed almost immediately by a wheezing groan of pain, drags his heart to somewhere halfway up his throat as his head whips around to discern the source of the noise.

He sees it then.

The body.

Tobias, bound to a tree with a length of rope wrapped cruelly around his neck to restrict his airway just enough to make breathing difficult and laboured but not to asphyxiate the man completely, at least, not quickly.

Tobias, with his legs tied to the trunk, forcing him to stand on the balls of his feet, or fall and cut off his breath even further.

Tobias with his hands nailed to that same trunk, spread to either side of his body, the wounds still bleeding a sluggish crimson trail to feed the cracked bark in tiny rivulets.

Tobias, whose eyes have been blinded by the cruel slash of a blade, the once-blue orbs now dyed sightless and red.

Chuuya sucks in a breath. The old man’s breathing stops as his head twists towards the sound.

“You bastards finally come to finish me off? Scared I was going to take a few more of you out before you could finish the job?” A wet rattle and a hacking cough belie the fact that the old man is on the last of his strength.

“Pops, it’s us.” Chuuya manages to croak as Dazai nudges one of the bodies with his foot, rolling it over with a look of utter distaste.

“Chuuya?” the old man’s voice is barely more than a pained whisper as he struggles to drag air into his lungs.

“Yeah.” Chuuya affirms quietly, “Dazai’s here too. I’m gonna cut this rope around your neck, okay?” Tobias’ head shifts in an infinitesimal nod which Chuuya takes for assent as he shifts forwards quickly, running the edge of his blade up and under the first coil of rope to slice through it cleanly, quickly unwrapping the coils from around the old man’s neck before bending down to do the same to his feet.

“Oi, Dazai, I’m going to need help to get him down.” Dazai’s eyes are assessing as he moves to Chuuya’s side, no doubt weighing up the blood loss and the weak limbs and coming to the same conclusion Chuuya himself had already reached. The grimace which crosses his face speaks volumes. Chuuya cocks his head silently, biting his lip when Dazai simply shakes his head once in reply.

“Pops I need to remove the nails, it’s going to hurt like a bitch but you need to stay conscious. Can you do that?”

“I’ve been alive...for over seven decades...boy...you think I...can’t cope with a little pain?” Tobias is obviously trying to make light of the situation, that much is clear, but the hoarse, breathless quality and constant pauses in contrast to his usually calm tone makes a mockery of the attempt. “Just get it over with, boy.”

“Support his weight,” Chuuya mutters, gratified when Dazai doesn’t question him but simply wraps an arm around the old man’s waist. After inspecting the nails driven straight through Tobias’ palms into the trunk of the tree, he’s pretty sure they haven’t been driven too deeply into the bark, they shouldn’t be too difficult to remove if he can get a decent grip on the head. He pauses only to rip a strip of cloth from the shirt of the closest corpse.

“I’m going to wrap some cloth around the nail and pull it out as quickly as I can. Don’t move and don’t try to help.” Tobias’ nod is short and Chuuya can see the muscles in his jaw clench in anticipation of the pain. “Okay, I’m going to start...now.” He holds the piece of cloth over the head of the nail, using the material to give himself a better grip, Tobias’ hand twitches beneath his fingers and Chuuya takes a deep breath, “Three. Two. One.”

He yanks, hard.

The nail comes away cleanly, pulling through wood and flesh until it’s completely clear and the old man’s hand begins to pump a fresh wave of blood across his palm to drip steadily to the already stained floor. Tobias begins to slump forward but Dazai’s hold on his waist keeps him upright and those dark eyes are fixed on him, silently urging him to hurry.

Chuuya doesn’t overthink it. Repeats the action with the second nail and has to yank twice more before the damned thing comes loose and finally slips free of its bite through delicate bone and into dense bark. The old man lets out a low moan of pain as Dazai lowers him gently to the earth, propping his back against the tree before lifting the man’s hands above his head in an effort to stop the bleeding.

Two minutes later and Tobias’ hands are bound in filthy cloth which is slowly staining a vivid spreading crimson as blood continues to seep sluggishly from the open wounds. The old man’s breathing is ragged, each gasp for air seeming to present a greater struggle for an already abused throat.

Finally, after a protracted silence during which neither he, nor Dazai, could come up with anything suitably reassuring to say, Tobias manages to wheeze out, “Rafe...and...Mak?”

“They didn’t make it.” Chuuya murmurs softly, his own voice cracking on the words which seem to drive those nails straight into Tobias’ heart if the way the old man’s entire demeanour appears to lose the will to continue is any indication.

“They put up...one hell of a fight…” the old man shakes his head, tears leaking from sightless eyes to mix with tracks of blood and dirt, painting a canvas of pain and suffering across the wrinkled old face. “I tried...to distract the bastards...a few came after me...but the rest…” his voice trails off into silence.

“I’m sorry, pops.”

“It wasn’t...your fault...none of this...was your fault…” Tobias croaks, his head dropping as if the weight has become too much for his neck to sustain any longer, “the fault...is mine alone…” sobs begin to wrack the old body as Chuuya sinks to the floor on his other side, he and Dazai attempting to support the man’s weight between them as he breaks down utterly. “Now...everyone will –”

“No, don’t think that. They’re strong, they will survive. We can go back, help somehow?” Dazai is shaking his head, but Chuuya can’t look at the bastard right now, can only look at this small, pitiful old man, shaking with pain and grief; tortured almost to death and left to rot by people who are clearly less than human.

“You’re too kind, boy...too good...to an old man...who put you in danger...for his own gain.” Tobias’ arm lifts weakly, as if to pat Chuuya’s shoulder, but the effort is too much and after managing to move only a fraction the old man drops it with another groaning cry.

“What can we do?” Dazai asks softly, and honestly, the empathy in his tone is something entirely new to Chuuya, almost startling. He knows it’s probably all an act; that Dazai likely couldn’t care less if this old man lives or dies, whether his loved ones survive or are killed in an equally horrific manner. Still, the fact that Dazai would even put on an act for something like this is...new.

There’s a long pause, the only sound coming from the rustling of leaves and branches all around them and Tobias’ increasingly laboured breaths shuddering up from his throat, through parted lips. Finally, he answers, the whisper so quiet it’s barely audible, “There’s no hope...left for me...end it.” the last words are rushed, as if to utter them unto the world is a sin.

Dazai’s eyes show nothing more than blank resolve and a slight tightening at the corners when Chuuya turns to look at him in disbelief. “Okay, Tobias, we can do that. Is there anything else?”

“Don’t...leave the boys...back there…”

“We won’t.” It’s Chuuya who reassures the old man this time, reaching out to grasp his shoulder in a gentle grip, “We won’t.”

“Don’t go back...to the village,” more tears are flowing now, a steady stream of silent but horribly visible pain running rivulets across ravaged and torn skin, “before we left...they were told...if you returned alone...to shoot on sight.”

Dazai cracks a smile at this, his shoulders jerking once in a huffed yet otherwise silent laugh.

Tobias’ voice is fainter now, less substantial with every sentence, with every heavy shaking inhale. “Promise me...you won’t...I don’t know why you came...but you’re here...for something important...promise me...you won’t –”

“We won’t go back, pops. If that’s what you want.” Chuuya lets his gaze flicker from Tobias to Dazai, instantly noticing the muscles of his jaw clenched, whether in anger or some buried sadness Chuuya can’t even begin to fathom.

“Then...end it...please.”

Chuuya draws his knife, stares at the blade for a long moment, lost inside his own head until Dazai holds his hand out, palm upward. “Chuuya…” his voice is whisper-soft, almost fond and it breaks him a little, because despite the years apart, Dazai knows; he knows that Chuuya still hates taking lives needlessly, hates the necessity of a ‘mercy’ kill, even when such things are a kindness. He’s always hated staring down at body bags containing the corpses of his subordinates...of his friends.

He hands the knife over without a word, even though his mind is screaming at him for being weak and pathetic, unable to give an old man the final gift of a dignified death because of his own idiotic emotions.

Dazai doesn’t say another word, barely pauses for more than a few seconds before he swiftly draws the knife across the old man’s throat, applying enough steady pressure to sever the jugular in one clean cut. Blood bubbles in a crimson sheet, flooding like a tiny macabre waterfall down Tobias’ chest as the man jerks once before going still, slumping to the side as his life ebbs away on the crimson tide.

“Goodbye, Tobias.” Dazai murmurs softly, lowering the old man to the floor with more care than Chuuya expected from the once cold-blooded killer who had shot a dead man repeatedly simply for his own amusement.

“Later, pops.” Chuuya echoes the sentiment, reaching down to close the scarred and sightless eyes of an old man who had gambled his life and lost...everything.

~ ~ ~

A sombre, suffocating silence blankets the two of them as they leave the manor and its memories in flaming ruins behind them. The smoke can be seen for miles, a beacon to anyone happening to travel in this direction. It’s almost a given that others will flock like vultures, ready to pick over the bare scorched bones of the place once the fires have burned themselves out.

Chuuya’s mood is dark. Despite his promise to Tobias, he’d had every intention of returning to the village, sharing their hard-won spoils and their story – Dazai had forbidden it.

“The last wish of a dying man was that we not return there, Chuuya. You would violate his trust and his will?”

There had been scorn in Dazai’s voice then. Even so, Chuuya had seen past the facade, had known Dazai had no intention of returning to that place, no intention of putting either of them at any further risk. It irks him that the bastard holds no feelings towards the people of this world other than a cold apathy. That he keeps reminding Chuuya that they aren’t ‘real’ and that their own survival here is all that matters.

It goes against everything Chuuya holds sacred – his own ‘moral’ code. It would sound stupid, he’s sure, to anyone on the ‘outside’ – knowing him to be not only a Mafioso, but a Port Mafia Executive – sure, he’s taken out entire companies without pause, has ended more lives than he likes to admit, sometimes he’d even taken pleasure in the deaths. But that’s the trash of Yokohama; it’s his duty – his job as someone with power, a card to play – to protect the city, even as he himself becomes a part of its terrors, a story told to young children at night to scare them into their beds.

Be good, sleep tight, watch out for Arahabaki who stalks the night.

Walking away from people in need, people who have no idea what has transpired here, people who are probably waiting anxiously for the return of family members and friends. Leaving them there at the mercy of any who happen upon them...it feels a lot like leaving a flock of sheep to the tender mercies of a pack of rabid dogs.

Chuuya can’t help but feel like their inevitable deaths are on his hands.

“Where exactly are we going?” he finally twists in his seat after half an hour of staring listlessly out of the window at the rolling expanse of endless countryside stretching out before them.

Dazai is silent for so long that Chuuya is about to repeat the question (with rather a lot more exasperation), before he speaks, “We’re heading back to the city.”

“To the city –” Chuuya repeats, confused, “I thought the city was the worst place we could possibly be right now?”

“It is,” Dazai agrees easily, “but we’re not going into the city, just as close as we can. What we need right now is information and we can’t get that out here.”

“What kind of information are you talking about?” Chuuya isn’t ready to admit it out loud, but he’s a little confused, considering Dazai’s frankly overbearing determination to keep them both out of what he deems ‘trouble’ – heading into the source of the outbreak seems terribly counterintuitive.

“We need to know whether the main roads in and out are passable, or whether they’re already compromised. We need to know how far the outbreak has spread and whether there is any kind of perimeter around the city at this point.” Dazai sighs in a loud and put-upon manner, “Of course, it would be much easier if the stupid radio would work reliably, but following the typical timeline of a the zombie apocalypse trope, basic communications are the first things to go, along with electricity and everything else a city needs to function.”

“And after?” Chuuya asks, attempting to get back on track, because he’s honestly curious about where they’re actually going.

“We head for the coast.”

Well, that’s enlightening. Not.

“Care to elaborate?” Chuuya huffs in exasperation at the bastards complete reticence to tell him anything at all.

“Not yet,” Dazai answers, then transfers his attention from the road to Chuuya for a moment, holding up one hand in what is obviously supposed to be a placating gesture but which essentially has the exact opposite effect when coming from that irritating bastard.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to look stupid if it doesn’t work out the way I want it to.” Dazai laughs softly, rubbing his temple awkwardly, “If I don’t tell you, then you can’t be disappointed, right, Chibi?”

“Seriously?” Chuuya knows his eyes are wide, even as he grumbles out a reply, “You know I already think you’re stupid all the time, right?”

“Maybe, but you still think my plans never fail~” he sing-songs back and Chuuya’s hands curl into fists, but Dazai’s next words give him pause, “I don’t want to ruin that trust, Chuuya, it’s all we have left…”

Well, that was unexpected.

He’s lost for words, can only blink stupidly at the side of Dazai’s head as the stupid idiot keeps his focus trained firmly on the road ahead, deliberately ceasing to acknowledge Chuuya’s entire astonished existence.

Despite his intense curiosity and quite possibly against his better judgement, Chuuya decides to let the conversation lie...or at least, let Dazai’s words tie his thoughts into impossible knots as he attempts to pick out what could possibly lie underneath the underneath.

They’re still miles out from the city when they begin to see signs of life. At first it’s just the odd car abandoned at the side of the road, door thrown wide as if the previous occupants had exited in a hurry, but, as they move inexorably closer the number of vehicles begins to increase, to the point where it becomes difficult to manoeuvre the overlarge bulk of the RV through the narrow gaps.

Dazai carefully takes the RV off road, driving down a track that is little more than a dirt trail before carefully backing it (with Chuuya’s grudging assistance) behind a screen of bushes, completely sheltered from view of the road or any but the most curious of cross-country hikers. Unhitching the bike from the rear of the RV, Dazai motions for Chuuya to take the lead, mounting up behind him and wrapping his arms around Chuuya’s waist as they speed off once more on their journey towards ‘ground zero’.

Progress is much faster now that Chuuya can dodge and weave between haphazardly discarded vehicles; the maze of metal no real obstacle for the bike. But the people...well...they’re a different story.

He almost runs down the first person to leap into their path from behind a parked car, jerking the bike sideways with a protesting squeal of tires and missing a collision by barely a foot. He’s about to pull the bike to a stop and turn around when an angry scream cuts through the air; Dazai’s fingers tightening so hard they almost press bruises into his hips as the taller man leans forward to shout in his ear, “Don’t stop!”

It’s hard not to turn and look at the anguished face as Chuuya revs the engine and feels the bike roar to life beneath him, the machine almost leaping forwards as they flee.

He’s a lot more careful after that, hyper vigilant and wary of who or what might be lurking behind any number of suddenly ominous obstacles. Twice more as they move down the highway they are jumped; the first time by a young man drenched in something that looks suspiciously like blood, wielding a golf club which he swings wildly in their direction as they pass; the second time they narrowly miss being surround by a group of two men and three women, one clutching a baby to her chest as she attempts to run into their path while the others seem intent on throwing sticks and rocks in an effort to distract. Chuuya is more than glad to leave that particular little welcome party far, far behind them.

When they crest a small rise, Dazai pats his shoulder and tilts his head, indicating for Chuuya to pull over. A quick glance left and right is enough to convince Chuuya that there doesn’t appear to be any immediate danger, so he guides the bike to the side of the road, letting the engine idle rather than killing it completely, an old habit ingrained from years of needing a fast getaway from various scenes of devastation – most the results of his own work.

When Dazai pulls himself off the bike and begins to walk away, Chuuya pauses for a moment, watching him go before huffing an annoyed breath at Dazai’s tight-lipped refusal to explain literally anything ever, allowing himself a moment of irritation before swinging his leg over the chassis and following silently behind.

When he catches up, Dazai is standing on a tiny hillock just off the road, using one hand to shield his eyes as he looks out into the distance. Chuuya would think he was staring off into space, were it not for the sharp focus in the bastard’s eyes and the way his mouth has tightened into a thin line.

“What is it?” he finally asks, giving up on Dazai every willingly volunteering information as a lost cause.

Dazai startles a little, as if he hadn’t even registered Chuuya’s presence, heaving a breath before pointing further down the road and speaking in a soft, almost concerned voice. “At the bottom of the hill, in the shadow of the woods...can you see it?”

Chuuya squints, trying to see past the glaring light of the sun - hanging in the most obnoxious position in the sky – to what Dazai is pointing at. For almost a minute he’s not entirely sure what it is that Dazai wants him to see.

But then…

Movement.

Indistinct black shapes moving slowly amongst the trees, appearing to have no real purpose and yet collectively always shifting, always in motion.

“What is that?” He breathes, half to himself, half to Dazai.

“It’s them,” Dazai replies, and Chuuya can hear the tightness in his voice, “a gathering of the infected. It makes sense – Ranpo-san mentioned that they tend to band together and move in uncoordinated groups, and that the parasite has an affinity for dark places.”

“That’s…” Chuuya pauses, allowing his mind to come to terms with what his eyes are actually seeing laid out before him, “that’s a lot.”

A quick, inaccurate estimate and Chuuya is certain there are more than fifty of them lurking in the woods below, meandering shadows that move into view only to be thoroughly obscured by the trees only moments later. “How?” he whispers quietly, swallowing hard against the suddenly lump in his throat making it difficult to choke out words, “It’s only been a few days...how?”

“The parasite is finding new hosts and spreading fast.” Dazai’s tone has a strained quality that Chuuya isn’t used to hearing, all sense of false joviality wiped clean. “It will spread exponentially once it gets a hold, but – even I hadn’t expected it to move this far, this fast.”

“How much further to the city limits?” Chuuya isn’t sure he wants to know.

“Seven miles to the outer districts. Nine or ten to the area which was under quarantine, though, I think we can safely say that any attempt at controlling this is well past failed at this point.” Dazai’s eyes scan warily from side to side and Chuuya suddenly feels rather vulnerable and uneasy.

“You want to go further in?” He asks, trying to sound unconcerned; he figures he’s probably failing miserably but to be honest, the prospect of attempting to skirt past, or worse be forced to engage with that band down there fills him with something like fear.

Dazai shakes his head with a wry smile, “No, I’ve seen enough, it’s time for us to get out of here.”

“Thank fuck for that,” he can hear the relief in his own voice.

A sudden inhuman growl from the undergrowth is the only warning they get before the undead corpse is on them. It stumbles with halting, unbalanced steps from the bushes, the tattered remnants of clothes hanging from flesh slowly turning the mottled grey of meat going bad, veins running black tracks beneath translucent skin. It lunges at Dazai, who happens to be closest upon its trajectory; hands clawed, arms reaching and teeth clacking as the snarling rattle of breath gurgles from its throat in an almost animalistic display.

For a moment, Dazai stands frozen. Chuuya watches in impotent horror as the thing half jumps, half falls forwards, reaching, reaching, reaching, as its fingers - crusted with mud and trailing flaps of skin which have clearly been caught on brambles or other obstacles and left to hang in ragged strips of disgusting flesh – grasp for Dazai’s throat.

He isn’t moving. Why isn’t he moving.

“Dazai!” the panicked scream of his name ripped from Chuuya’s throat snaps Dazai out of whatever internal crisis he’s wrestling with, the tall yet somehow inherently agile bastard skipping backwards easily and removing himself from the creature’s reach as it makes some feral noise of rage before barrelling inexorably forwards once more, determined to sink blunt and crooked teeth into its targeted prey.

There’s a knife in Chuuya’s hand now, the long-bladed hunting knife which is fast becoming his most trusted companion in this fucking shithole of a world (Dazai be damned, he never could be trusted with anything). He tracks the path of the infected monstrosity, watching Dazai lead it backwards with short, sharp movements taking him out of the creature’s range every time it attempts to move in close. Chuuya shifts uneasily, there is no opening which will guarantee a killing blow, not with a blade like this at least, and not with an enemy who will only stay dead if the brain is pierced. No killing blow from afar, no, fighting these undead fuckers requires getting up close and entirely too personal.

In the next instant, Dazai is stepping in, bringing himself heart-stoppingly close to those clacking teeth and clawed fingers and Chuuya has to clench his own teeth and bite back a cry, his eyes going wide as he stands on the opposite side of the small hillock, completely useless and only able to watch.

The creature lurches forwards as Dazai steps within its range, as it does Dazai sidesteps quickly to the left, planting his foot against the corpse’s kneecap and shoving hard. The thing goes down in a tangle of limbs and rasping snarls. Before it can recover, Dazai is standing above it, his expression something blank and cold as he leans down to plunge the point of his own blade straight through the creature’s eye. A single full-body twitch shudders through its frame before it falls still, just a pile of slowly rotting meat once more.

Chuuya lets out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, dragging oxygen into his lungs with a gasp, feeling his fingers begin to tremble with the onrush of adrenaline and relief. It’s ridiculous really, now that he has time to pause and think about it, despite the surprise attack, Dazai was never really in danger, if there’s one thing the bastard does well it’s failing to die. When he thinks back, all those years, even when the light of hopelessness had burned cold and empty in Dazai’s eyes - the wish for an ending a visible, almost palpable miasma surrounding him in an impenetrable cloud - still his ex-partner always somehow managed to survive, managed to fail at bringing about his own demise. There was never really any question of Dazai being bested by an infected corpse held in thrall by a parasite barely able to operate its new human skin. Still, his heart had been in his throat. The thought annoys him.

“Oi, what the fuck was that?” he snaps irritably, pointing his blade at Dazai’s head for good measure.

“A...zombie?” Dazai answers, nonplussed and characteristically unfazed by the entire event.

“Not that, idiot, I meant what the fuck were you doing just standing there and staring at the thing?!” he’s almost shouting now, and Dazai’s pointed look back down the hill has him cursing under his breath but lowering his voice all the same, the last thing they need right now is a damned horde of the fuckers to come storming through. “If it had been any faster you’d have been its next meal!”

“But it wasn’t, and now it’s dead –” Dazai shrugs, “I don’t see the issue here, Chibi.”

Chuuya’s fists clench reflexively, the sudden overwhelming urge to chuck his knife at Dazai’s stupid fucking head is almost too much to bear. The only thing that stops him from doing just that is the knowledge that the asshole will either let the blade hit him, or he’ll just pluck it from the air as if it were a tennis ball. Neither of these outcomes are particularly likely to slake Chuuya’s sudden need for wrathful vengeance upon the bastard’s person. So, what’s the point?

Instead he grinds his boot into the dirt, wishing with every fibre of his being that he could use his Ability to make a crater right here right now, sure it’s one of his more dramatic impulses, but it tends to get the point across, even to that stupid bastard.

The tiny smile lifting the corners of Dazai’s mouth are enough to tell Chuuya that the insufferable shithead has already picked up on that particular tell, enough to guess at the thoughts running through his brain at that precise moment.

He makes a frankly valiant effort to reign in his temper. Fails pretty miserably and stabs the blade in Dazai’s direction, “Next time you pull shit like that, I’ll end you myself!”

“Aww, Chuuya, you’re so kind~” Chuuya hears the words float across the space between them as he turns on his heel and stomps off back towards the bike, his whole body tense with annoyance and a creeping, lingering fear.

Chapter Text

The journey down to the coast takes far longer than Dazai would have liked. When he had chosen the RV as their new method of transport, he had figured he was trading the upgrade in space at the cost of speed and manoeuvrability, but, in all honesty, he hadn’t quite factored in the sheer difficulty they would have finding a clear path to reach their destination.

On three separate occasions they had spent precious time, pushing abandoned cars off the road to create a gap large enough for the RV to get through without taking damage. Twice they had come up against obstacles that were beyond even the two of them; the first a massive truck, wedged firmly horizontal across the entire width of the road, the engine crushed beyond hope of ever starting again; the second a tanker, which appears to have jackknifed before rolling completely onto its side, whatever contents had been inside clearly labelled explosive and dangerous and not something Dazai had been comfortable inspecting any closer than he had to. On both of these instances they had been forced to turn the RV around and backtrack, attempting to find another (even more circuitous) route that would lead them to the sea.

Eventually, after encountering yet another blocked road after what feels like an endless drive, Dazai had relented to Chuuya’s request that they simply stow the RV somewhere safely away from prying eyes and take the bike to reconnoitre the surrounding area and map out a route accessible for their large, cumbersome, home-on-wheels. Despite his distaste for the whole motorcycle experience (it’s not that he hates Chuuya’s driving...but he hates Chuuya’s driving), Dazai had begrudgingly accepted that the idea was likely to get them to their final destination faster than continuing their current game of ‘see how many obstacles we can get around before we get ambushed for everything we have’.

Which is how he’s ended up here: sitting on the back of Chuuya’s Red Monstrosity with his arms wrapped lazily around the redhead’s waist, using his shoulder as a chin rest as he yawns obnoxiously loud in the Mafioso’s ear.

“Chuu-yaaaa~ I think you took a wrong turn about five miles back!” he pitches his voice low, tries for something raspy and seductive while saying such bland and innocuous things, just to mess with the redhead because he’s bored damn it. His chuckle when he feels Chuuya’s shoulder go rigid beneath him is just a little obnoxious. “I’m pretty sure the RV wont fit down here...not to mention, we’re heading away from the coast.” he murmurs, dropping another octave, and outright laughing when Chuuya’s fingers clench just a little tighter upon the handlebars.

“Oi, bastard! If you knew that, why did you wait until now to speak up?!” the redhead growls, skidding to a stop and turning his head.

Close...too close. Dazai is met with a vision of all-encompassing blue as Chuuya’s narrowed eyes glare at him and they’re almost nose-to-nose.

“Got something you wanna say, asshole?!” Chuuya’s eyes flicker back and forth between Dazai’s own, as if the redhead can’t decide where he wants to look.

“Mmm –” Dazai refuses to be the first to move, the first to break this little stare-off stalemate between them, digs his chin a little harder into Chuuya’s shoulder as he tilts he head to one side. “Yes actually! You need to turn around and take a left back at that last crossroad, the lane should be wide enough for the RV and we should only be a few miles away from the sea from there.”

“Haah?”

“Were you expecting something else, Chibi?” he murmurs, half-closing his eyes to peek through his lashes in a parody of coyness.

“Tch! From you?! Of course not!” the words are too loud and brash for the meagre space currently existing between them. Chuuya jerks his head around, revving the engine loudly and spinning the bike in a half circle before accelerating with an accompanying squeal of tires.

Dazai sighs loudly, the air puffing against Chuuya’s neck to bring out a pleasing array of goosebumps across the skin below the redhead’s ever-present choker.

Ahh, this is the worst. He thinks morosely, placating himself by humming an out-of-tune song he’d concocted himself about increasingly gruesome and painful suicide methods in the Mafioso’s ear and the world speeds past around them in an ever quickening blur – a sensation that leaves him feeling slightly nauseous.

~ ~ ~

“Chibi,” Dazai murmurs urgently in the redhead’s ear, the reactionary jerk causing the bike to wobble momentarily, and Dazai’s heart to leap unhelpfully into his throat, “kill the gas. Now.”

Chuuya practically slams the brakes on, the bike swerving sideways as he slides it into a somewhat graceful skid, coming to a halt in a few heart-stopping seconds. In those seconds, Dazai decides that death by motorcycle is not making it onto his list of pleasant ways to end one’s existence.

“You didn’t need to practically throw us off the thing.” he grumbles, gripping the back of the leather seat and using his arms to balance as he leans backwards, tilting his head to the sky and revelling in the feeling of being stationary.

“What the hell? I thought it was an emergency or we were about to get ambushed or something. You just said ‘kill the gas. Now’ in some serious voice!” Chuuya twists in front of him and Dazai can feel those blue eyes searching his face, “What exactly did you expect?”

“For you to come to a gentle halt like a normal, safety-conscious person, obviously.” He’s tired, exhausted actually from being subjected to such a horrendous mode of transport, and sincerely wishing he’d just let Chuuya have his way and map out a route by himself, despite his heavy misgivings about letting the stupid hatrack out of his sight.

“Oi, you’d better not throw up.” Chuuya growls and Dazai contemplates gagging and retching just to see the look on the redhead’s face, but in all honesty he’s not sure whether he actually is about to vomit.

“Ugh…” is all he manages as he heaves himself off the stupid Red Monstrosity, shooting it an unimpressed glare for good measure. Looking up to find amusement in Chuuya’s eyes is not satisfying, not satisfying at all.

“Leave that thing here. We need to go in on foot.” Control of his digestive system temporarily regained, Dazai makes it exactly one step.

“No.” The flat reply is enough to cause him to spin on his heel and stare at the redhead, who is leaning against the bike with a look that screams stubborn determination. Raising an eyebrow, Dazai opens his mouth to speak, but is summarily interrupted by the now angry Mafioso, “You think I’m just going to leave it here in plain view to be stolen by anyone chancing to wander past? Just because you have some kind of vendetta against it! Do you really want to walk all the way back to the RV because I’ll happily leave your irritating ass here!” Chuuya huffs disdainfully, “Not only that but it kind of makes it obvious that we’re sniffing around here. I thought we were all about not being seen right now?”

The absolute worst. A headache is threatening to blossom across the front of his skull, and Chuuya’s sharp yapping isn’t helping. The prospect of having to walk miles back to the RV, however…

“Fine, fine~ wheel the ridiculous thing along then and find someplace to hide it. Why you had to choose one that particularly violent colour I don’t know. You can see it from miles away.” Without waiting for a reply, he starts off down the road once more, the ocean spread out and welcoming before him and a line of buildings leading the way to their destination.

~ ~ ~

“A marina?” Chuuya asks, with far more surprise than Dazai feels is necessary, given that they’ve been following road signs to said marina for the last half an hour; travelling cautiously down streets full of squat little seaside cottages which appear to be suspiciously empty – boarded up windows and, probably, nailed shut doors is their only welcome – but Dazai suspects they are being watched, feels it in the prickling, cold sensation at the back of his neck. He knows that Chuuya feels the same in the way that the redhead carries himself, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jacket, every step taken with deliberate purpose as his eyes shift constantly from left to right, seeking out any hint of life, of movement within the shadows. “That’s your grand plan?”

“A marina.” Dazai parrots back, gesturing at the massive locked gates with a flourish. “Well done, Chibi, you can read.”

Chuuya ignores the comment in favour of peering into the deserted yard, the docks just visible between the large warehouse-like structures used for repairs and general maintenance. “We’re going to steal a boat?”

“No, Chuuya, I thought we’d just live in one of the repair yards for a few months and see how it goes.” Dazai deadpans.

“Shut up, Dazai!”

“Stop stating the obvious, Chuu-ya~”

He can hear Chuuya muttering curses under his breath, before knocking his knuckles against the iron, a dull clang echoing softly around them as he speaks, “But...the gates are huge, staying in the compound might not actually be the worst idea.”

“Until someone else has the same idea.” Dazai sighs, Chuuya’s complete lack of apocalyptic stereotypical scenarios is honestly beginning to get a little old.

Sidling over to the keypad set against one massive iron post and inspecting it quickly. “Too easy~” he murmurs quietly, almost to himself, “Poe-kun needs to work on challenging his audience a little better.”

“Don’t complain, bastard, easy is good. Easy will help us stay alive.” A second later and the redhead is hovering next to his shoulder, “are we going in?”

“Hmm? No. Not yet. It’s here and there are boats on the water, that’s enough for now. It’s going to start getting dark in a few hours, we need to find somewhere close but not too close where we can store the RV without it being discovered and getting caught out in the dark isn’t high on my list of priorities right now.”

“And we’re being watched.” Chuuya adds succinctly.

“And we’re being watched.” Dazai agrees, feels the eyes pricking at his skin even if he can’t see them. It sets his instincts blaring, a clarion call in his head that drums ceaselessly against the impending headache.

~ ~ ~

They’ve been waiting for three days.

Three days of sitting on the roof of one of the repair sheds, concealed from view of whoever is left lurking behind the windows in the streets beyond the marina, with nothing but each other and whatever random snacks they could scrounge from the RV for company. In all that time, they haven’t seen a single soul, though he knows that there are people out there, hiding behind locked doors and boarded windows, no doubt feeling safe in their flimsy fortresses. Still, he feels their eyes, their suspicion, their mistrust.

It’s a tedious business to say the least.

Every day Chuuya shuttles them on the relatively short journey from the wooded clearing they had settled on as a relatively safe place to leave the terribly conspicuous RV, to the outskirts of the village (really it’s more just a couple of intersecting streets consisting of rows of boring houses that look like they’ve been copied and pasted straight out of a magazine), from there they walk the short distance to the marina, using as much cover as possible until they reach the gates, which Dazai had cracked in less than thirty seconds on that first day.

They hadn’t expected to be met with the massive form of one terrifying, pointy-eared, snarling demon from the pits of hell. Yet they had come face-to-face with the hairy, slobbering creature from the eighth circle two minutes after entering the compound. Dazai absolutely refuses to admit that he had let out a rather ear-piercing and terribly unmanly shriek of terror and leapt behind Chuuya as the thing had come bounding towards them. He also resolutely refuses to admit that he’d been a little awed by the short redhead, who instead of joining him in justified terror, had squared his shoulders, held one hand in front of him, palm out and thundered, “STOP!” in the most commanding voice Dazai has ever heard. So commanding in fact that his own legs had obeyed the Mafioso rather than performing the actions that Dazai had commanded of them (which was to run as fast and as far as possible before the slavering hellhound decided he was dinner).

The demon spawn had stopped dead in it’s tracks, tongue lolling from its mouth as it displayed rows of gleaming white, bone-crushing fangs. And Chuuya, well, the redhead had calmly told the hellhound what a good boy it was and had proceeded to walk over and pat the stupid beast on its ridiculously large head while it slobbered all over his legs. Meanwhile, Dazai had attempted to recover his soul, which he’s pretty sure had exited his body the moment the dog had come barrelling around the corner with saliva dripping from it’s furled muzzle.

Needless to say, Chuuya had befriended the hound of the Baskervilles, bringing it beef jerky he’d dragged out from who knows where and sharing whatever mess of edible goods they’d managed to put together as some form of sustenance with the skinny beast every day since they’d started this stake out.

They’d found its owner not even an hour after beginning their search of the compound, pushing open the already unlatched door to what appeared from the outside to be a reception, or office. Two bodies were sprawled across the floor, their pooled blood long dried – one with a nasty looking gunshot wound to the stomach (a horrifyingly painful way to die, or so Dazai has been told), the other with the obvious lacerations caused by sharp fangs, tearing out a soft throat.

Chuuya had knelt next to the dog, patting him softly on the head and telling him he’d done a good job avenging his master, the dog’s tail thumping softly against the wall. Dazai had felt faintly sick at the thought of being anywhere near those teeth.

Dazai has still not made friends with the dog; sees it side-eyeing him with ears pinned back and a growl in its throat every time he moves in its presence. The distrust is mutual.

But it’s been three days…three days and they are no closer to their goal.

Every day they climb to the flat roof of one of the smaller sheds, using an array of crates and boxes stacked against the brickwork to hoist themselves up.

Every day they sit here for long hours, waiting for someone to show up. The dog running around below them, chasing seagulls and barking at things only it can see (Dazai is half convinced it can see into some other hellish realm).

“Surely there’s a safe in one of the offices somewhere down there? Can’t we just break in and steal some damn keys and get the hell out of here?” Chuuya had asked, halfway through the morning of the third day.

“We don’t know the waters, we have no clue where we’re going. We’re just as likely to hit a reef somewhere and drown as we are to actually survive.” Dazai had replied patiently. The conversation had stopped there, with the irritated clicking of Chuuya’s tongue as the redhead had walked away, citing a need for ‘fresh air’ which had made Dazai chuckle. He’s pretty sure Chuuya had just gone to play fetch with the damned dog.

“We’ll have to let him out...before we leave.” Chuuya murmurs, hoisting himself over the lip of the roof and leaning up against the wall a few feet from Dazai.

“Why?” he asks, boredly, completely uninterested in the fate of the stupid demon hound.

“Well, can we take him with us?” Chuuya asks pointedly, raising an eyebrow that says he’s fully aware of Dazai’s answer before it can even be uttered.

“Ugh...Definitely not,” he wrinkles his nose, knowing his face is a picture of distaste. “We don’t have supplies to waste on a monster like that. It’s a liability. Besides, where would it go to toilet?”

“That’s your argument?” Chuuya snorts a laugh, tries not to smile and fails utterly, “Where would it take a shit?” He shakes his head, “Just say it’s because you don’t like dogs, idiot.”

Dazai sniffs disdainfully, “It’s not that I don’t like dogs. I just don’t like demon beasts dragged up from the lower hells with a penchant for human flesh!” he waves a hand in the vague direction of the office still housing the two corpses, “You saw that man, his throat was torn out clean!”

“He hasn’t even touched you. Just admit it: you don’t like dogs.” Chuuya repeats flatly.

“Okay. I don’t like dogs. They’re clingy, smelly and annoying.” Dazai smirks as the next words flow neatly off his tongue, “Besides, I already have Chuuya!”

“Bastard!” the redhead jumps to his feet.

Dazai hears the rumble of a vehicle in the distance.

“Chuuya, shut up!”

“Excuse me?!” Chuuya almost screeches, loud enough to make Dazai wince.

“Someone’s coming, get down or you’ll blow our cover before we even start.” He tugs urgently on Chuuya’s wrist and - after a second of tilting his head in an attempt to pick up the barely-there hum of a car engine - the redhead drops to the floor of the roof, dipping back out of sight.

Sure enough, barely ten seconds later, a flashy black van rounds the corner, it’s engine a low purr disturbing the silence of the streets, though Dazai catches the slightest flicker of movement in an upstairs window finally confirming their suspicions of the presence of other souls in this seeming ghost town.

The van pulls up to the gates smoothly, the engine left to idle as a young blond man steps down from the cab, turning a full circle and glancing around with wary motions before his head and torso disappear back inside the vehicle, pulling out a moment later with a gun clasped firmly in one hand, finger already held against the trigger.

Quickly the stranger punches a code into the lock, the mechanism letting out a beep of acceptance before the bolt disengages and the man moves to swing the gates wide.

A loud bark answers the whine of metal hinges in need of oiling.

The dog comes hurtling around the corner, bounding forwards in little jumps, wagging its tail furiously in the odd kind of play style it affects when Chuuya grabs a stick for a game of tug or fetch. Upon realising that the visitor is in fact, a stranger, the dogs posture changes instantly as it’s pace slows to a distinctive stalk. The hackles along its neck and back rise as it’s lips peel back from long white fangs in a snarl.

Dazai can hear the bone-chilling growl rising from the demon hound’s throat as it creeps ever closer to the stranger, it’s movements that of a predator stalking prey. Any moment now and it will go for that deadly take down. One quick leap and those powerful jaws will clamp down on flesh and crunch through cartilage and bone.

“No –!” Chuuya’s whispered hiss of anguish forces Dazai to tear his eyes from the beast approaching the stranger and focus on the man himself. Settled in his hand, the gun is raised calmly, aimed directly at the monster’s head. There’s no hint of fear in the man, he stands calmly in the path of the hound.

The dog takes a flying leap, all fur and fang and ferocity.

In the next instant, the crack of gunfire echoes through the compound, three separate ringing shots.

The dog lands in a heap on the concrete, screaming in animal pain.

Chuuya’s whole body goes rigid with fury, Dazai knows that look, knows that Chuuya is about to throw caution to the wind and let his temper lose.

Below, the man steps up to the writhing mass of fur, still snapping and snarling as it struggles to rise to its feet, attempts in vain to reach its attacker and clamp its jaws around whatever body part it can connect with. There’s barely three feet between them when the fourth shot fires.

The dog whines out one last piteous breath before going still.

Dazai turns his head back to Chuuya in time to see the redhead about to launch himself to his feet. Acting on impulse, he throws himself sideways, practically caging the redhead against the low wall ringing their rooftop hideaway, pressing his entire weight across the Mafioso’s body in an attempt to pin him in place.

“Stop this idiocy, Chuuya,” he hisses his face mere inches from Chuuya’s as he crowds into the redhead’s space, “the dog is dead. There’s nothing you can do.”

“I can kill him.” the Mafioso growls, something cold and hard flashing in his eyes – the eyes of a killer.

He grabs Chuuya’s shoulders, digs his nails through layers of clothing hard enough to hurt and shakes the redhead roughly, “We need him alive and you need to get your head in the right place, not ruin everything for the sake of a fictional dog!”

Tension rockets up Chuuya’s spine in an instant and Dazai is half convinced he’s about to be thrown bodily off the roof. A few tense seconds later, the fight goes out of Chuuya just as quickly as the spark had been ignited, though the chilling rage still lights that blue gaze like ice upon becalmed waters. The redhead tilts his head back against the wall and screws his eyes shut, jaw clenching hard; Dazai knows from years gone by that Chuuya is counting in his head, an exercise they had learned together, something the redhead has had to execute far more frequently than Dazai has ever had to himself, borne out of necessity from Chuuya’s fiery temper and tendency to lash out at the things causing him pain. It’s a scene Dazai is too familiar with. He lets out a sigh, relaxing his grip on Chuuya’s shoulders, sliding one hand to rest at the back of the Mafioso’s neck, a silent apology of sorts.

Long seconds later, the redhead’s chin dips, his eyes flickering open to meet Dazai’s own, silent understanding passing between them in a way that doesn’t need words...never needed words. He stares into ocean blue forced to calm still water, bears witness to the piercing shards of Mafia black running dark through Chuuya’s very core. Dazai shifts his gaze and pulls back, moving his weight off of Chuuya’s legs and twisting to sit beside him.

Switching his attention back to the blond stranger, he settles in to observe.

~ ~ ~

“So what exactly are we gonna do?” Chuuya asks after a frankly tedious hour of watching their target shuffle various things from the van to one of the larger boats docked on the main section of the marina. He can still feel the simmering undercurrent of anger, can read it in Chuuya’s clipped speech, can see it every time Chuuya’s eyes fall upon the broken, still body of the dog. “Are we waiting for him to finish loading all that shit then hijacking the thing?”

Dazai shakes his head in mild exasperation, sure they’ve had this conversation already, “Do you know how to drive something like that?” he replies, gesturing at the boat, which is one of the bigger vessels docked at the marina, though still fairly dwarfed by more than a few of the massive luxury liners. Clearly they’ve landed a Big Fish.

“Well, no,” the redhead admits, “But I have piloted the Mafia’s speedboat, surely it can’t be that different?”

“You mean you stole the Boss’s speedboat and took it for a joyride thinking he wouldn’t notice...am I right?” Chuuya’s cheeks immediately flush red and Dazai can’t hold back his laughter, “Aha! I’m right!”

“Shut up!” Chuuya mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. Dazai is just glad the redhead has stopped looking like he’s a second away from jumping off the roof to strangle the stranger. “I didn’t damage it or anything! So why can’t we just throw this shithead off the dock and leave?”

“I can’t believe you stole the Boss’s boat! You, the Port Mafia’s most obedient dog!” Dazai may or may not wince internally at his terrible choice of words, knows Chuuya has noticed his mistake when the redhead goes unnaturally still.

A second passes. Two. Three. It begins to feel like a small eternity.

Finally Chuuya lets his temper slip through the cracks, hissing, “We did plenty of dumb shit like that when you were an Executive! And don’t call me a dog, you bandaged bastard!” the Mafioso is glaring now, hands digging firmly into his pockets, a clear indication that he’s ready to turn this into a fight.

Huffing one last quiet chuckle, Dazai raises his own hands, palm out in surrender to placate the angry redhead. “Alright, I’m sorry Chuu-ya~” Chuuya’s angry ‘tch’ is enough to let him know he’s forgiven his blunder, for now at least.

“The plan?”

“Oh. Right.” Dazai shrugs one shoulder, “That’s simple. We’re going to become stowaways.”

“Stowaways?” Chuuya repeats, rolling the word around his mouth like it’s a foreign and incomprehensible concept. “We’re just going to...hide?”

“Correct!”

“And then what?” Chuuya’s patience is clearly wearing thin. Not that he really had any to begin with, but Dazai can’t help it, his sole enjoyment on this earth (or...not earth as the case most definitely is) is the ability to irritate his short-tempered companion.

“Wellll...obviously, we wait until Millionaire-kun has arrived at whatever destination he has all planned out to weather the storm, the undead, and whatever the seasons around here do for weather. Once he’s done all of the difficult nautical rubbish for us, we pull off a mutiny and send our poor captain back to wherever he came from.”

“Huh.” Chuuya is looking at him with a decidedly dubious expression, it’s enough to make Dazai bristle, just a little.

“Is that scepticism I hear in your tone, Chuu-ya~?”

Chuuya shrugs, shifting uncomfortably as Dazai smooths any expression that might be betraying his irritation at his ex-partner’s reticence to fall in and do what he’s told without asking questions, the redhead meets his blank look with his own unimpressed mirror.

“I have no problem with your so-called ‘mutiny’, but I assume he’s not going to be terribly pleased that we’re stealing his boat, his supplies and his way out of this hellhole. What if he comes back?”

It’s a possibility. One that Dazai had considered, made contingencies for and discarded as inconsequential. “If he comes back then he’s stupider than he looks.”

The redhead’s exasperated huff tells him all he needs to know regarding Chuuya’s feelings on that answer. Well, if this plays out the way Dazai suspects, the young man won’t have the opportunity to go anywhere by the time all of this is done.

~ ~ ~

Half an hour later, while the newly dubbed ‘Millionare-kun’ has busied himself on the upper decks of the vessel - the boat now humming with life as the engines thrum quietly at rest - Dazai motions to Chuuya and with utmost care they abandon their rooftop outpost to sneak aboard, Dazai leading them down the short flight of stairs at the stern of the boat and into the tiny crew quarters. Even here at the drudges end, he can see the luxury; it’s built into the way the crew have their own socialising and entertainment area, though it’s not much more than an alcove in and of itself, it’s separate from the goings-on of the rich and powerful upstairs on the main deck.

“Keeping the lower-class servants where they belong,” he mutters darkly, waving Chuuya off when the redhead shoots him an enquiring look. “Looks like our Millionaire-kun is all set for a long voyage,” Dazai nods towards the small cabin rooms, set off to either side of the small communal area. The twin bunks on the left side are almost buried in a wild assortment of items, bottled water, packets of food and other consumables; the right side appears to be filled with enough fuel canisters and gas canisters to send them all to the moon should someone be idiotic enough to light a flame anywhere in the vicinity. Dazai decides that having them moved somewhere a little less dangerous will be a priority undertaking for another day.

“Let’s just hope we don’t experience any mechanical fires before we get wherever we’re going.”

“What?” Chuuya sticks his head out from his inspection of the tiny crew kitchen and bathroom area, eyebrow raised in question.

“Nothing, nothing!” Dazai herds him towards the bulkhead door at the back of the kitchen, indicating that Chuuya should do the honours. The redhead obeys, yanking the lever down and pulling the door open. Noise assaults their ears as they step through into the engine room, the entire space humming and seeming to vibrate with contained power as the two massive engines idle. Dazai watches Chuuya from the corner of his eye as the redhead stares around in obvious amazement and appreciation, his lips pursing around what is probably a low whistle – Chuuya always did have a love for fast, expensive things. He has to admit, the sheer size of the engines is rather impressive, though, considering the length of the yacht and what its weight must be, he wonders if the vessel really is that fast, or whether it is, in fact, just what it appears to be; a showy toy with all of the looks and none of the useful practicality.

When the Mafioso has finished ogling the equipment with wide eyes, he turns, finally noticing Dazai watching him. A faint blush tinges his cheeks pink at being caught looking like a starstruck child and he rolls his eyes in Dazai’s direction. “Are we actually safe here? Are you sure he’s not going to come down here to...I don’t know...flick switches or press buttons or whatever?”

“He won’t come down here unless there’s a problem.” Dazai waves off the question flippantly, “Men like him don’t dirty their own hands, they just turn up and expect their toys to work. So they can be played with for a while and then left for someone else to clean. I expect the only reason he can drive this thing on his own and doesn’t have a full crew on board right now is because he used it to meet up with his mistress or something equally sordid.”

“Perhaps he’s what stands for a Mafia crime lord in this world? This boat could have been used for all kinds of shady drug deals. He knew his way around a gun.” Chuuya adds, his previous embarrassment at being caught fanboying over big engines forgotten and turning to dark introspection as he appears to seriously contemplate the possibility. Dazai doesn’t want to admit that this is a possibility he’s considered. He forces himself to smile, hopes his sometimes too astute ex-partner doesn’t notice when the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Abruptly, the engines roar to wakefulness, the sound almost deafening after the unnatural silence that has pervaded over their lives since emerging from the city so many days previously. They both jerk reflexively, clapping hands over their ears and wincing simultaneously. Seconds later, the boat jolts into motion and Dazai allows a single satisfied smile to settle on his face. Finally, his original plan for this whole ridiculous expedition is in motion, finally they are underway and leaving the world to go to hell in their wake.

~ ~ ~

The voyage, it seems, is not to be a long one. Barely an hour has passed before the engines slow to a rumbling idle and the slightly nauseating rise and dip of the yacht as it presumably cuts through the waves lessens to a somewhat less nauseating rocking motion. Down here in the engine room, Dazai has no idea what in direction they’ve come, or how far or fast they have sailed. Still, if this is their final destination then it’s time to make their presence known.

“Ready, Chibi?” he asks, watching the redhead pull himself to his feet, closing the book he’d apparently stolen from one of the servants’ bunks – some trashy romance novel if Dazai had read the cover correctly. Dropping the book uncaringly to the floor, Chuuya stretches out what are probably aching muscles from being sat on the cold hard floor before nodding his assent. “Our clueless benefactor has a gun, remember, even if you can’t immediately see it, it’s likely he will keep it on or around his person.”

“Are you really lecturing me on how to take down an enemy right now? Do I look like one of your dumb useless proteges?” Chuuya asks, and Dazai can see the amusement and exasperation warring for dominance in the set of his mouth.

“Of course not, Executive-san, please forgive this poor Detective’s impudence in presuming to be helpful.”

Chuuya snorts a laugh at that, “You...helpful? That will be the day hell freezes over!”

“Chuuya, I’m offended~” he sing-songs back.

“Let’s go kick that dog-murdering bastard’s ass.” Chuuya’s shoulder square as he stalks past Dazai towards the door.

“Are you ever going to let that go? You knew the hell spawn for three days, and you’re acting like someone killed your best friend.”

“He was the best friend I had in this shitty world,” Chuuya grumbles, turning and staring Dazai straight in the eyes, “Oh, does that make you jealous?”

Dazai blinks, making a show of confusion, cocking his head to the side and frowning, “Not at all. I’m just sad that Chuuya is such bad company he has to resort to feeding strays to make friends.”

“Say’s the idiot who literally took home a stray tiger.” Chuuya retorts instantly with a roll of his eyes.

Dazai can’t help but laugh, “Touché, Petit Mafia, touche!” He gestures to the bulkhead door with the flourish of an actor about to begin their final dramatic scene. “Shall we?”

The lower deck is silent when they emerge from the servants’ quarters. Dazai takes the opportunity to glance quickly around, wanting to make sure that they have actually reached Millionaire-kun’s intended final destination and not just stopped off for a spot of fishing or lunch before continuing their voyage.

They appear to have anchored at the easternmost point of a small bay, cliffs rearing up hundreds of feet into the air, less than a quarter mile distant, the sharp rocks below promising a quick death to anyone stupid enough to attempt the jump. The bay itself gives way to a short, secluded stretch of sandy beach, which can just be seen around the point of the small cove of rocks they appear to be nestled in. Dazai guesses the beach itself is around half a mile away, but it looks like the tide is out judging by the faint waterline he can see on the cliffs to the west of the bay so his estimate is probably a little off. The bay itself is barely half a mile wide from cliff to towering cliff, the top of which appears to be packed with dense woodland, at least, what Dazai can see of it from this vantage point. A tiny, forgotten haven, apparently in the middle of nowhere.

“This looks promising.” he mumbles, mostly to himself but he knows Chuuya – standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him - is listening to every word. “The cliffs will block out any bad weather and shield us from winds coming from the east, and the narrowness of the bay will do a lot to protect the boat from major damage if storms come in from the west. The cliffs are high enough that it’s a death sentence for anyone trying to reach the boat from up there, and the beach is far enough away that you’d have to be a pretty confident swimmer to attempt the crossing, that and boat is pretty well hidden in these rocks, unless you chance upon it from above.”

“Then let’s get a move on and take the damn thing.” Chuuya mutters impatiently, his hip cocked out in that familiar way, which practically telegraphs his irritation.

“After you, Chibi~” Dazai sings quietly back at the redhead, holding his hand out to indicate the narrow stairs leading to the upper deck with a bow.

Chuuya clicks his tongue and moves off without a word, making his way unerringly to the upper control deck and the sound of off-tune humming. The redhead is stepping up behind their oblivious target before the stranger has even realised anyone is there.

Dazai clears his throat loudly, pulling up a wide smile as he speaks, “Thank you kindly, Millionaire-kun, for expertly navigating us to this safe harbour! Unfortunately your services are no longer required.”

Blond-hair flies in a halo around the man’s head as he whips around to face Dazai, eyes wide and panicked. “Wha – ...who the fuck are you? How did you get here? Who the fuck are you?!”

Up close, the man looks to be in his mid-twenties, clearly well-muscled, although it looks slightly like it’s starting to run to fat if the small paunch around his middle is any indicator. His dark brown eyes are wild, as they move frantically from Dazai to Chuuya and back, hands adorned with too many rings to be respectable clench and unclench on the armrests of the captain’s chair.

“Well...captain,” Dazai grins, indicating himself and Chuuya with a wave of his hand, “As you can see, this is a mutiny!” He pauses, reconsiders for a moment and then shakes his head as a thought occurs to him. “Actually, no. Mutiny isn’t the right term is it, since we were never a part of this vessel’s esteemed crew in the first place. Hmm?” he allows his entire face to light up with slightly insane glee as he comes to a realisation. Turning his gaze to Chuuya, he flashes a grin that is all teeth and barely contained excitement.

“Chuuya!”

“Oh for god’s sake.” the redhead rubs at his forehead as if a headache is beginning to bother him, the knife in his hand not dropping for an instant as he keeps one eye on their new captive.

“Chuu-ya~” Dazai sing-songs, wonders if there are actually stars visible in his eyes, wonders exactly what the redheaded Mafioso and the blond-haired millionaire are seeing when they look at him in this instant. “Chuuya, do you know what we are?”

“I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me.” Chuuya deadpans.

“It’s the zombie apocalypse and were pirates!” the last word is almost lost in a whooping laugh of insanity and he can just hear Chuuya’s noise of disgust in response to his amazing revelation.

“Now, Millionaire-kun, if you’ll just get up slowly, we’ll see about making you walk the plank!” he snickers at his own joke, is slightly disgruntled when Chuuya only rolls his eyes heavenward as if asking for strength.

“No! N-no, no! You can’t do this to me!” the man shrieks, “I have a family! A child! You can’t do this!” he looks close to breaking down, trembling with fear, anger and disbelief.

“Family, huh?” Chuuya turns to look at him, his head tilting minutely in question, Dazai lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, leaving the redhead to question their captive if he’s determined to be concerned about fictitious characters. “I don’t see any family here. Just you and a shitload of supplies you probably stole from some other poor family.” Dazai is mildly amused by the fact that Chuuya neglects to mention their own history of theft and larceny (and gruesome murder) during their short stint in this world.

“Of course they’re not here, you fucking idiot!” the man turns his full ire on Chuuya, terror making him bold, “Would you bring your family out to a place where people could be waiting around every fucking corner to take what’s yours?! This bay has shallow reefs, no larger ship could get in close enough to harm us, but the tender and the jetskis can make it to the shore just fine. My family are waiting safely at home for me to return and bring them out here so we can survive, together, for as long as it takes! I’ll steal and loot, and kill if I have to so that my wife, my child can live!” eyes wild with a glint of recklessness, their blond captive sends a beseeching look at Chuuya, who appears to be somewhat taken aback, “Wouldn’t you do the same? Aren’t you doing the same now? Just...just take what you want and leave!”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that, Millionaire-kun.” Dazai interjects smoothly, cutting off anything his stupidly empathetic partner might decide to spout after hearing this rich boy’s little sob story, even with the anger fresh in his blood over the damn dog.

The man lunges forward suddenly, making a wild grab at something under the control panel, pulling back with a triumphant expression and a loaded gun, which he smoothly cocks and points at Chuuya’s head. “Then you die here!” he gestures sharply, waving the muzzle up and down in Chuuya’s face, “Drop the knife.”

Chuuya seems to think about it for a moment, turning his gaze to Dazai for the instant long enough for him to nod minutely, the redhead drops the blade to clatter loudly on the deck, letting out a sigh of resignation and allowing a sliver of fear to worm its way into his expression as he holds his hands out in a show of peace.

“Now, I think a fitting end for you...what did you call yourselves? Pirates,” he spits the word venomously before laughing, “sadly I have to say, you might be the worst pirates in the history of the world.” he pauses a moment, as if losing his train of thought, “Yes, the end! A fitting end would be to make you walk the plank! Or rather, be dumped off it after I kill you...to make sure you don’t bring anyone else back here of course!” he giggles at his own supposed joke, the sound grating horribly in Dazai’s ears.

He’s really had enough of listening to this pompous rich kid, obviously swelled with a sense of his own superiority.

“I don’t think so,” he mutters blandly.

The man’s attention focuses on him instantly and Dazai can see some hint of darkness in there, a suggestion of a twisted individual who is used to causing others pain, who enjoys inflicting it. Well, he supposes the demise of the demon dog should have been enough to clue him in to that fact.

“What did you say?” his voice is suddenly infused with low menace, obviously believing himself to have the unquestioned upper hand in this situation.

Dazai can’t wait to dispel him of that particular illusion.

“Don’t you care about your friend?” the dark eyes are filled now with a manic sort of fever, unfocussed and desperate. “I’ll do it! I’ll pull the trigger!”

Dazai moves in exaggerated motions, knowing that misdirection is his best bet at moving into a position to counter the threat presented by the loaded firearm. He looks from Chuuya, to the blond-haired would-be murderer, allowing a look of incredulity to settle on his face.

“Oh, I care very much about my friends, but...” he shrugs, slips the small knife from his sleeve in the same movement, and tilts his head bemusedly, “Chuuya...are we friends?”

Chuuya - never concerned with throwing himself into harms way, content, always to do the physical work, put himself in the line of fire and let Dazai deal with the strategy – takes the cue and barks a sharp laugh, “Hell fucking no!” Honestly, he sometimes wonders if the redhead harbours a secret death wish of his own.

Dazai grins at the honest venom puncturing those words. The blond man is now staring between them in confused disbelief.

“Well, there you have it, Millionaire-kun,” Dazai shrugs once more, surreptitiously stepping closer.

“As Chuuya says, we are not friends, kill him if you like. Between us there is just a farewell with regret.”

An almost imperceptible dip of the head from the redhead shows he has caught Dazai’s underlying message. Dazai catches himself biting back a smile that, even after so many years, they can fall back into this strange pattern of working together as if time had not come to sweep them both in different directions. He can still say jump and his ex-partner will comply like the well-trained dog he so detests being likened to.

He counts down five seconds in his head. The timing has to be perfect or one of them could end up seriously injured, perhaps dead. Despite this, his mind is in a state of calm, the blade a comforting weight in his palm.

Chuuya drops, going to his knees on the deck as Dazai flicks his hand forward, no need to take time to draw back or aim at this point blank range, he has every faith in muscle memory bourne on the coat tails of years of training, years of beatings, years of expected perfection. The knife flies home hitting its intended target and burying itself deep into their would-be murderer’s hand. A gunshot rings out as the trigger is pulled reflexively, the man screaming in pain as the weapon falls uselessly to the floor.

The gun is in Chuuya’s hands a moment later, the redhead not pausing for a second as he rises in a smooth movement and presses the barrel firmly against blond hair, moving in close to snarl in the man’s face, “I really liked that dog.” the stranger’s face goes white with fear and as Dazai watches, he notices his knees start to buckle. A coward then.

“Take him outside, Chuuya,” Dazai gestures at the open door as the small Mafioso huffs in annoyance.

“What do I look like, your servant to order here, there and everywhere?” he grumbles but pushes the man forwards with a little more force than necessary, sending him stumbling up the stairs. “Up you go, asshole.”

Tears of pain and fear are coursing down ruddy cheeks now, mixing with snot and dripping to form a disgusting wet patch on the designer shirt as Chuuya shoves him into the open air. Every attempt to stop and turn is hampered by the redhead digging the muzzle of the gun into the back of the attacker’s head in a stark warning to keep moving. Still, he stutters and stammers and pleads.

“P-p-please! I...I didn’t m-mean it! H-honest! I-I-I w-would have let y-y-you go! I s-swear it!” He stares in horror at the blood dripping from his hand, the blade still buried between flesh and tendons. His face drains of colour until it’s almost white and he sways so wildly on his feet Dazai wonders if he’s about to vomit, or faint, maybe both? “I’m bleeding out!” he shrieks suddenly, eyes wide with terror, “Help me damn you!”

Dazai tilts his head to the side, blinking down at the hilt of the knife, protruding from ripped skin and torn flesh, “Bleeding out?” he chuckles mirthlessly, “From a scratch like that? It would take hours.” With a quick movement he grasps the hand at the wrist, bones grinding beneath his grip. “Let me take a better look.”

He yanks the blade out in one smooth motion, uncaring of any further damage he might cause their hapless captive. He knows his face is totally devoid of emotion as he watches the young man’s throat work on a silent scream before his knees buckle and he crashes to the deck, moaning piteously as he cradles his injured appendage. Inspecting the blade, he flicks his gaze to Chuuya, whose expression is now grim and collected: the hard-eyed Mafioso whose own hands have been drenched in blood countless times.

“Drag him to the rail, would you. We don’t want blood all over the floor, cutting throats is a messy business.”

“We could just shoot him,” Chuuya points out, gesturing with the gun.

“Why waste the bullet?” Dazai counters, ignoring the failed would-be murderer as he wails broken pleas and promises.

Chuuya shrugs, acknowledging the truth in Dazai’s words, bullets are likely to become more sought after than gold in the coming months, and they don’t need to waste one in dealing with scum like this. Hoisting the man by his arms, the small redhead hauls their captive to the edge of the deck and steps aside, gun still trained on his head, in case the would-be killer regains enough wits to struggle against his fate.

“We would have let you live, you know?” Dazai sighs, crouching in front of the beaten man and shaking his head, letting disgust crawl across his features. “You could have taken one of those ridiculous jetskis, gone back to your family and we would never have crossed paths again. You probably wouldn’t have lasted more than a few days out there of course, you don’t seem particularly bright after all. But you could have died in a less inconvenient manner.”

“Y-you...you can st-still...let me g-go! I w-won’t cause y-you any t-t-trouble! My family! My wife...my little girl! P-please, think of my little girl!” brown eyes wide and pleading, the man tries to crawl forwards, Dazai plants a foot on his chest and kicks him back to the floor.

“Perhaps you should have thought of her before you drew a gun on my partner. If you even have a family that is, and it wasn’t all just a ridiculous story to make this compassionate idiot pause for a second instead of doing his job.”

Chuuya shoots him a glare, but Dazai is truly bored now. Bored with this rich incompetent idiot who cannot even see that his life is already forfeit. Bored of the stuttering nasal voice, thick with phlegm and fear. Bored with the beseeching puppy-dog expression and wide-eyed terror. As if there was any kind of good will left in Dazai now. In one smooth movement, he grips a fistful of blond hair, forcing the man’s head back as he swipes the blade across his throat.

Eyes widen as the attacker’s mouth opens soundlessly, blood pouring from the wide gash to drench his front. The body gives a single shudder before the eyes turn glassy and the man slumps dead across the deck.

“Ugh. Do you have to be so messy?” Chuuya nudges the body with his foot, an expression of disdain twisting his face. “All that blood is going to soak into the wood.”

“Thank you for saving my life, Dazai-sama!” Dazai mimics a high falsetto, his features deadpan, “Why, of course you’re most welcome, Chibi~”

“Tch!” Dazai wonders if it’s possible for someone’s eyes to get stuck in the back of their head if they roll them too hard. “This whole mess is your fault in the first place, bastard. I should shoot you and send you to join this asshole!” Without ceremony, Chuuya drags the corpse until it’s half hanging over the railing before giving it a final shove, both of them watching as tumbles off the side, smacking grotesquely against the bars of the lower deck before it hits the water and sends up a small geyser in its wake, floating on the surface for mere moments before the waves swamp it and drag it to the depths where the decaying bones will rest for eternity on the ocean floor.

Without another word on the incident, they turn and make their way back down the stairs to the main deck, the spreading red stain forgotten.

~ ~ ~

Dazai immediately chooses the large master bedroom as his own, with its huge windows and tiny en-suite bathroom down a set of stairs at the back. He hums an impressed breath, before turning to Chuuya to stake his claim, “I call shotgun!”

He fully expects an argument from the redhead, possibly an all-out declaration of war from the Port Mafia Executive who has no doubt become used to a higher class standard of living since Dazai’s exodus left him the sole successor to Double Black’s infamous standard. Chuuya, however, simply flips him off with a muttered, “Whatever, shitty Dazai,” and then leaves him standing in the middle of the room whilst he disappears without another word, stalking down the corridor and second flight of stairs.

The lack of competition feels like an empty victory, even if the room is the epitome of luxury living.

When he finally gets bored of poking around the communal areas of the boat and gawking at the sheer amount of engineering crammed not only into the engine room but the entirety of the yacht itself, Dazai creeps carefully down to the lower deck to try and find his Mafioso, preferably without bringing Chuuya’s wrath down upon his own head.

Quietly trying the handle to the first door at the bottom of the stairs, Dazai pushes it open a crack, just enough so that he can peek in, hopefully unnoticed.

He needn’t have bothered with stealth, he quickly realises.

Chuuya is curled in the middle of the double bed, fully clothed save for his shoes, which he had apparently had the presence of mind to toe off and kick towards the door. He looks utterly content and peaceful in sleep, the lines of strain and worry smoothed away and no sign of the almost constant irritation at Dazai’s presence marring his face. His breathing is soft and deep, and even in the the dim light filtering from the window, Dazai can see the shadows under his eyes that betray the fatigue they’ve both been feeling since they arrived in this godforsaken world. Finally, finally they can rest without keeping one eye open, without straining to hear for sounds of life...or sounds of the undead massing outside of flimsy windows.

In this place of relative safety, Chuuya has finally given himself over to the lure of true rest.

Spying a blanket folded neatly across the top of the couch, Dazai sidles around the edge of the bed silently, grabbing the fleece-lined leopard-print monstrosity and shaking it out, settling it delicately over Chuuya’s sleeping form before quietly backing himself out of the room and closing the door.

Curiosity has him opening another door, set into a slight recess behind the stairs with another identical door opposite. Silently he regards the interior of the room, which is decorated in shades of pastel pink, a low cot bed taking up one corner. Toys lie neatly stacked in travel boxes which line the walls and a bookshelf holds a myriad of brightly coloured titles with large friendly letters adorning their covers. Above the bed, a large sticker of a cartoon fox seems to stare at him with accusing eyes and on the opposite wall a large framed photo of a happily smiling family has the ghosts stirring in his head. Quietly he shuts the door, swallowing hard against the sudden lump in his throat.

Get a grip. He chastises himself coldly, knowing it wont do any good to start regarding these fictitious characters as actual real people.

Do what you have to do.

It’s been a terribly arduous journey to get to this point, and, in his head and heart he knows that there will be many, many more trials and horrors to overcome, not the least considering what they are going to be jumping into should they survive the mess of this apocalyptic world and return to their own. But right here, right now, they can finally just rest.

~ ~ ~

After a week, he’s quickly discovering that living on a ninety-five foot long boat has issues of its own. Not only has Dazai had to get used to the unending infernal swaying of the thing as it rocks back and forth, even on the calmest of days, forcing him to overcome bouts of nausea that have Chuuya laughing his ass off every time he sees Dazai looking a bit green; but the communal areas - despite appearing to be the height of luxury and refinement – are actually pretty cramped. It leaves him feeling clammy and claustrophobic, like some kind of caged animal stuck behind four flimsy and yet impenetrable walls, with the sea biding its time, an ever-present force on all sides, beckoning him down, down, down into its depths with welcoming white-capped arms.

Added to this is the inescapable fact that he is not alone. Dazai is used to solitude, embraces it even. Yet here, on this ridiculously tiny vessel, stranded in the middle of nowhere, he is not only stuck with another human being, but this particular human being is short, angry, has terrible fashion sense and happens to hate his guts. Oh, and they have history.

Forced into the same space without the rigours of dealing with the undead (or the living) to occupy their attention, they needle and bait each other constantly (and perhaps Dazai is more often than not the perpetrator of said altercations, but let’s not look too deeply into that mess), often culminating in snapping arguments and insults followed by long silences as they give each other the proverbial cold shoulder. Sometimes, upon seeing Dazai’s mood shifting, Chuuya will stalk out of whatever area he’s currently frequenting and leave Dazai to his own devices (his own murky, swirling, clamouring of thoughts, plans and inadequacies, tumbling and twisting and tangling over and over and over again until the flashing aura of an impending migraine stab needles of pain to the point between his fatigued eyes).

The redhead’s favourite space to hole up, either after a particularly heated argument - or upon seeing Dazai in such a mood that a forced disagreement is imminent (really, he should probably be worried that Chuuya can read him so well after such a short time) – is down in the room opposite his own claimed territory on the lower deck, which, their millionaire benefactor had apparently converted into a tiny gym. Here, Dazai will find Chuuya hours later, either kicking the shit out of the punching bag bolted to the reinforced ceiling plate (once he had even pissed Chuuya off enough for the redhead to actually be punching the bag with his fists, and that display of cold fury had set Dazai’s blood to instant ice); or running effortlessly on the treadmill with an enviable easy loping stride, despite needing to compensate for the shifting movements of the boat beneath their feet.

At times like these, when the melancholy and prickling sense of guilt rises up to replace the apathy and the claustrophobic itching of his own skin, Dazai will pull himself morosely from whatever couch he has draped himself over and make two cups of tea, one filled with an obnoxious amount of sugar for himself, the other with just a hint of milk. He carries these to the lower deck, leaning against the doorframe for an indeterminate amount of time, until, sweat-soaked and breathing hard, Chuuya’s ire is spent and he will deign to acknowledge Dazai’s presence...Dazai’s peace offering.

No words pass between them. Dazai hands him one of the cups, turns on his heel and makes his way to the bow on the main deck, climbing up the short stairs to the massive secluded sun lounger, Chuuya trailing silently behind. Invariably they will sit in silence for a while, staring out at the horizon, then Chuuya will take a sip of his tea, make a face then huff out a quiet laugh or complaint about Dazai’s tea-making abilities. A sort of easy camaraderie will settle between them then, sometimes it last a few hours, sometimes they can even go a whole day without spitting fire and venom between them, but inevitably the cycle will repeat.

There’s comfort in the familiar, after all.

~ ~ ~

Sneaking out onto the top deck feels somewhat like a betrayal of trust, which would be ridiculous if he paused to think about it for a second. They’re stuck on this tiny yacht, practically forced into each other’s personal space, it’s not like they can avoid each other.

Still, it feels like a betrayal of some kind, perhaps because he’s definitely sneaking up the stairs, peeking around the corner before he slopes around it quietly and sinks to the floor, back against the small bar (complete with it’s own tiny fridge) as he watches Chuuya with focussed attention, wondering how long it will take for the Mafia Executive to notice his spying.

The redhead moves with the catlike confidence and fluid grace Dazai is so familiar with; shifting through exercise patterns without a single break in stride or concentration, despite the fact that the deck rolls gently with the waves beneath his feet. He faces off against invisible enemies with all the focus of a real fight, kicking and spinning, leaping and even, occasionally, pulling his hands out of his pockets to punch out at some unseen adversary - no doubt defeating a hundred constructs of his own imagination.

“Take a picture, it will last longer.” Chuuya doesn’t even break stride as he calls out, jumping to the deck’s railing and running one step, two, three before performing a perfect flip to land on his feet in front of Dazai.

“If I had a camera, I would record it –” He replies evenly, keeping every hint of teasing expression from his tone. He can see Chuuya’s face slowly turning red, eyes wide with incredulity. It’s hard not to snicker, “so I could show you all the sloppy mistakes you’re making, Chuu-ya~”

“Haah?!” Instantly the blue eyes switch from shock to irritation, narrowing to slits as Chuuya’s teeth bare in a wordless snarl. Dazai does allow himself a chuckle then, always so easy to rile up.

“Shitty Dazai!” the small Mafioso slides one foot backwards into a fighting stance, shoving both hands deep into his pockets in a pose so familiar it jolts Dazai back to the past for an instant; a young and angry gang leader who literally walked on air as he launched himself at Hirotsu within seconds of their meeting (he wont mention how said young and angry gang leader had just finished launching him across the street and threatened to kill him); a boy who refused to use his fists, handicapping himself in battle out of some misplaced sense of Dazai still doesn’t understand what; a boy who Dazai had toyed with and manipulated until he was as wrapped up in the puppet strings of the Port Mafia as Dazai himself had been.

Chuuya is grinning now, a sharp, feral smirk that lights his eyes as the breeze whips through his hair. “Spar with me then!” the words are a called as a challenge, “I’ll show you just how ‘sloppy’ I am, Dazai!”

Dangerous. Dazai’s head tells him. It’s dangerous to look at him this way. Something other than a begrudging partner – forced together by circumstance – something other than a useful piece to be shuffled around on his board.

“I accept, Chuu-ya~” Dazai’s traitorous mouth speaks without his permission.

“Then defend yourself!” is Chuuya’s only warning as he springs forwards.

He still looks like he’s walking on air. Is Dazai’s last thought before reflex and memory take over. He has known Chuuya for so long - fought at his side, fought at his back, sent him into battle alone, fought on the opposite side, always fighting, battling, ending – their movements sync without either of them needing to utter a word, a dance of two halves where one will press the attack as the other blocks or spins aside then the tide will shift and it begins again. So familiar, something given rise out of years, a complete understanding of the other’s patterns, habits and thought processes, a connection that cannot be broken even after more years apart than they ever spent together.

Unfortunately, of the two of them, he is the more unpractised at compensating for the lilting, rocking movements of the boat as it moves with the cresting swell of the waves. The motion causes the slightest stumble, with any opponent other than Chuuya it would have been almost imperceptible, but the redhead takes instant and complete advantage of his momentary unbalance.

He ends up flat on his back, staring up at the sky as Chuuya’s full weight settles on his hips, pinning him to the deck, despite his hands still remaining firmly in his pockets, as if to add insult to injury.

“You gonna take that back now, bastard?” his voice is almost a purr of satisfaction.

Dangerous.

“That was just a warm up,” his mouth betrays him again.

“Oh, you’re on!” Chuuya’s eyes light with savage glee as he jumps lightly to his feet, offering a hand to help Dazai stand.

Dazai can’t help but think that by taking that hand, he’s opening himself up to a world of trouble.

Dangerous.

In that moment, faced as he is with Chuuya’s confident grin, he can’t bring himself to care.

Chapter Text

Two weeks.

It’s only been two weeks and Chuuya is about ready to tear his hair out in frustration. Not only does the lack of space make him feel confined, leaving him running fuck knows how many miles on the treadmill just to exhaust his body enough to shut down and sleep at night; not only does the lack of actual food make his stomach twist unpleasantly every time he opens the cupboard to be faced with yet more packets of instant pasta and ramen (what he wouldn’t give for a nice steak, or even a damned fresh egg right now); not only has he been reduced to wearing the clothes of a dead man, ill-fitting and totally not his style, too long in the leg, too loose on the chest, to loud in colour; not only does he spend long hours impotently worrying over what those left on the outside are currently dealing with, oscillating between anger at being exiled to this stupid storybook and fear that either he and Dazai are going to end up dead and of no use whatsoever to those on the outside, or the people they’ve left behind will fail and there will be no one left to save when they make it back. No, not only does he have to deal with all of these things, but he’s stuck on this tiny yacht in the perpetual company of the most irritating bastard in the entirety of two worlds.

He’s come close to acting out his years-long fantasies of wrapping his fingers around Dazai’s throat and strangling his ex-partner more times than he’s willing to count over the last weeks. Maybe it’s been a little easier, now that he can kick the shit out of the asshole under the guise of ‘sparring’ every morning after summarily kicking said asshole out of bed first – honestly, Chuuya is pretty certain that Dazai wouldn’t even bother getting out of bed half of the time if not for Chuuya barging into his room and demanding that he get the fuck up and do something useful.

Add to this, the frankly massive amount of irritating ‘rules’ Dazai had outlined after that first night (the one where he had practically faceplanted onto the soft double bed in the lower floor’s guest suite, fully clothed and rendered himself dead to the world for the next twelve hours...he had woken up feeling stiff and slightly disgusting, wrapped in a huge, fluffy leopard-print blanket he hadn’t remembered grabbing before checking out of consciousness), sitting Chuuya down at the ridiculously large dining table as if attending a board meeting and proceeding to thrust a notebook under his nose. The rules make sense, he knows, considering they’re expecting this tiny vessel to be their home and sole source of safety for the foreseeable future, but that doesn’t make them any less tedious.

They don’t use the lights during the day, as long as there is some form of natural light, they make do. Together they had figured out how to switch everything over to the leisure battery, allowing the entirety of the yacht’s lighting and electrics to be used without sacrificing fuel to keep the engines idling permanently. Two tiny solar panels fixed to the roof of the wheelhouse provide an additional charge, thought not enough, it seems, to keep the battery running indefinitely. When the leisure battery runs out, they can charge it using the engines, and hopefully eek out whatever fuel supply they have.

Showers were a bone of contention between them. Dazai had said, matter-of-factly that water was going to be one of their biggest concerns, which, sure, he gets it. But he’s kind of fastidious about cleanliness and hygiene and being told that he can only shower twice a week for five minutes at a time had almost been enough to cause a physical fight (it’s not even long enough to wash his hair properly, let alone the rest of him). Dazai had pushed another piece of paper over to him silently when Chuuya had yelled in outrage and outright refused to comply. The numbers sketched in Dazai’s crooked handwriting are sobering to say the least – the yacht has less than a two thousand litre capacity for fresh water, something the bastard had scrounged from the brochure he had found lurking on one of the bookshelves. An efficient shower – according to Dazai - uses nine litres per minute (not to mention flushing the toilet or using the sink) and well, the maths just speaks for itself. Clean water is going to be a problem, and it’s not like they can just run the boat around the coast and find somewhere to take on more water.

It’s a problem they both agree to leave for another day (another argument).

Chuuya is passingly upset that there’s a giant hot tub on the top deck practically calling his name and Dazai has outright forbidden him to use it. A true travesty.

Drinking water is strictly limited to their supply of bottled water, in an effort to conserve the yacht’s fresh water tank as long as possible, which is fine right now because Millionaire-kun had conveniently left them with a rather large supply of said commodity, a small mountain in fact, piled in one of the servants’ cabins. Even so, Chuuya isn’t naive enough to believe that they’re out of danger on that count...two hundred and fifty five days (minus the fucking eternity they’ve already spent here) is a long time and a lot of water. Still, that’s another bridge to cross when they come to it.

They agree to prepare food and eat together, another concerted effort to minimise their use of electrical equipment. This had lead to some rather horrifying culinary ‘experiments’ the likes of which should never have seen the light of day and are not to be repeated under pain of death.

All non-essential electrical equipment is off-limits. No television, no sound system, no entertainment save for the books lined up in neat rows upon the bookshelves in various rooms (most of them terrible romance novels or murder mysteries – perhaps that says something about the author of their current predicament, Chuuya decides not to think too hard about the connotations of being able to read a book within a book, it makes his head hurt), oh and the board games Dazai had ferreted out from only the gods know where (Chuuya had flat out banned Monopoly after almost hurling his chair at the wall the first time they’d played, Dazai somehow miraculously ending up with hotels on a whole row of the gameboard, rendering Chuuya destitute in less than half an hour).

And now? Now it’s been two weeks and Chuuya is mind-numbingly bored and persistently getting into utterly pointless spats with his bastard ex-partner, who he suspects is goading him at every available opportunity just to have something to do. He’s full of pent up energy, his thoughts spinning useless circles with nothing to occupy his brain aside from the myriad of things that could be going wrong back in their own world while he stalls here uselessly, stuck on a boat in the middle of the fucking sea. It’s enough to have him pacing the decks at ass o clock in the morning, wondering if his repetitive steps will wear through the wood if he keeps it up for eight fucking months.

He’s going stir crazy.

He needs to get off this fucking boat. Do something. Anything.

~ ~ ~

He regards the lumpy form of what he assumes is Dazai, bundled in a burrito-roll of blankets with only the brown mop of unruly hair visible. Sighing in consternation - because honestly he’s not even sure how anyone can breathe wrapped up like that, let alone sleep – he grumbles a noise of displeasure under his breath before growling, “Oi, Dazai, wake up you lazy bastard.”

He’s reticent to actually shake Dazai awake, knowing that if someone did as much to him, his own instincts would bring him out of sleep with a knife in his hand faster than he could blink, knowing that those instincts don’t just go away when you stop existing in the underground world.

“Wake the fuck up!” he yells, moments later, knowing that the bastard is already awake and pretending to be asleep just to piss him off. Well, two can play that game.

“Uweh...the Petit Mafia is a sadist.” the sleepy, petulant whine is almost too quiet to be heard, though Dazai definitely meant for Chuuya to hear, he’s sure of that much. Chuuya kicks the side of the mattress for good measure. “Chuu-yaaaaa, it’s too earlyyyy, I don’t want to spar this morning. Let me sleeeeep.”

Chuuya lets an exasperated noise slip through his lips and kicks the mattress once more, “We’re not sparring, we’re leaving.”

This gets him two cracked red-brown eyes, narrowed and peeking over the edge of the duvet, “Wuh?” Dazai blinks rapidly, those sleep clouded eyes slowly coming into focus as Chuuya watches his thought processes reboot, probably running a mile a minute to catch up with the conversation. “Why are we leaving?”

“Because if I have to spend another day on this damned boat I’m going to murder you.” he replies flatly.

“Rude!” Dazai’s eyes widen in mock offence as he pulls himself into a sitting position, not bothering to cover his mouth as he yawns widely, “Chuuya isn’t exactly a ray of sunshine to be around either.”

“Exactly!” Chuuya sighs, throwing himself on the end of Dazai’s bed, leaning back on his elbows so he can tilt his head sideways to glare at the cause of all of his problems. “I don’t like sitting around doing fuck all, Dazai. I need to do something. So, either you get the fuck up and get dressed, or I leave without you. It’s your choice.”

Dazai makes a noise suspiciously like a put-upon whine, something deep in his throat and wholly pitiful. “Fine, fine. It’s not like I can leave Chibi to wander off on his own. You wouldn’t last more than a day out there!”

“I can take care of myself just fine.” Chuuya snaps back instantly, despite knowing full well that Dazai is baiting him again. “You have an hour, or I’m leaving without you, shitty Dazai.” Chuuya stalks out of the room without another word, knowing that despite his protestations to the contrary, Dazai feels just as trapped and imprisoned by their surroundings as Chuuya himself does.

~ ~ ~

“So where exactly were you planning on dragging us, Chuuya? Or did you just intend to go gallivanting around the countryside with no actual destination in mind?” Dazai needles as soon as he emerges into the shared living quarters less than half an hour later.

Chuuya looks up from his seat at the dining table, the maps he’d been studying spread across it’s surface. “We’re going to get my bike,” he replies in an equally antagonistic tone, tapping one finger to the circled area denoting the marina, “and the RV. We have to bring it back at some point, right?”

Dazai wanders over to stand at his back, leaning over Chuuya’s shoulder to study the map with a calculating expression.

“Mmm...I had hoped to leave it a little longer, but you’re probably right, it’s about time we retrieved it. We’ll be needing it after all and I’d hate to lose our hard won supplies to desperate bandits, or have it overrun by the undead before we can get to it.” Chuuya tips his head back to study the other man’s face, years of working in close quarters allowing him to read through more of that blank mask than most others.

“You’re worried?” he prods carefully and Dazai’s eyes flicker to him in momentary surprise.

“It’s been long enough that the infection rate will be uncontrollable,” Dazai admits slowly, “long enough that people will be desperate and won’t think twice about attacking anyone they view as a threat.” Chuuya nods because that all makes sense, Dazai continues, “But not long enough for the population centres to be completely empty. Those desperate people will see two lone travellers as a target to tempting to pass up.”

“So we avoid built up areas?” Chuuya shrugs, “What’s the problem?”

“Well, since we can travel through mostly forest and cross-country to get back to the marina, we shouldn’t have too much of a problem getting there. But...to get the RV back here,” he leans over Chuuya, one hand resting on his shoulder, the other stabbing a finger at a point on the map – their little secluded cove, “we have to pass through here.” He runs his finger along a road which seems to run north from the coast, winding through a number of small villages before dipping back towards the sea and settling on a spot which looks like it might be large enough to be called a ‘town’, though nothing on the scale of what they’re used to back home. “This place is most likely to cause us problems if any kind of organised group has made an attempt at fortification,” he sighs, breath ghosting across Chuuya’s neck and making his back straighten against the chair, almost imperceptibly, but he can feel Dazai’s fingers shift in response, “and there’s no way around that the RV can negotiate.” He finishes, tapping the map idly.

“We can run reconnaissance before we decide whether or not to take the RV through there.” Chuuya’s eyebrows dip as he frowns at the inked lines of the map, “It should be easy enough to get in and out with just the bike if you’re seriously worried about someone confronting us.” He pauses for a moment, catching Dazai’s eyes once again and searching those mahogany depths, “We have to go through eventually, right? If there is a group setting up base there, surely it makes more sense to do it before they have chance to get properly organised?”

“That’s one way of looking at it.” Dazai shrugs, “Another way is the longer we leave it, the more chance they have of being overrun by zombies or being absorbed by a larger and more violent group.”

“I’m not sure whether you’re putting that forward as being a better alternative or worse.” Chuuya frowns and Dazai cracks a lopsided smile.

“Neither do I, Chibi, neither do I!”

~ ~ ~

Chuuya grumbles a put-upon sigh as Dazai hands him a small rucksack – obviously marketed for children - in the most obnoxious shade of pink his eyes have ever had the misfortune to witness; glaring at the cartoon ponies cavorting gaily across the centre as if they are an affront to his whole being.

It had been with some dismay that they had realised, not ten minutes into their hurried gathering of essential items, that both of their stolen rucksacks full of appropriated gear had been carefully stowed away and left in the RV, with no time to retrieve them upon Millionare-kun’s arrival at the marina and their consequent successful infiltration onto the yacht. Thus they had been forced to rifle through the various rooms, coming up with only a black leather handbag not large enough to be of any practical use and this...eyesore.

They’d managed to at least cram it full of what Dazai considered to be ‘essentials’: enough food to last a few days if they ate sparingly; a large bottle of water and some disgusting looking hydration sachets that Chuuya is pretty sure will taste like ass; a compass and a tiny pair of binoculars Dazai had found in a cupboard; the most comprehensive map detailing the route they plan on taking; oh and enough knives to make a chef weep. The hand axe is threaded through Chuuya’s belt, in easy reach should they happen to come across something unpleasant; the gun Dazai had taken for himself on Chuuya’s insistence (he is the best martial artist in the Port Mafia, with or without his Ability, Dazai on the other hand...well he’s alright, and mostly back to the standard Chuuya would have expected of him when they were partners...but...well the gun is security and Dazai was always the better shot). Coupled with his new borrowed attire, Chuuya feels like a stranger in his own body.

The dark, clearly brand-named jeans cling to his legs but there had been an extra four inches (okay, five, it’s five) of material left dangling over his foot after he’d pulled them on and he’d been irritated and slightly mortified, enough to take a pair of scissors and chop viciously at the offending denim and now they’re hanging in thready ends that make him feel both vindicated and embarrassed. The humiliation doesn’t end there...apparently Millionaire-kun had a penchant for all things loud and obnoxious (really, Chuuya should have expected this upon first seeing the man’s ostentatious yacht), resulting in most of his wardrobe being filled with salmon pink, lemon yellow, tomato red and sky blue – none of which will be terribly good when attempting to camouflage oneself or blend in. He’d managed to dig out one plain black button down which practically swamps him, but, when faced with the alternatives...well. The sweaters and hoodies are a little more aesthetically pleasing, even though they drape from his small frame, it’s in that comfortable, warm, slip-slightly-off-the-shoulder way that makes him feel just a little more at home in his own skin; he’d never admit it, but he’s made a little collection of overlarge sweaters in one of the drawers in his room.

Dazai, the insufferable bastard, has been throwing teasing comments at him for days now, every time he’s forced to change clothes, forced by necessity to take scissors to whatever he’s managed to scrounge from the wardrobe, Dazai will give him a thorough once-over, the focused stare crawling over his skin and leaving a weird feeling twisting knots into his stomach. Then the asshole will have the audacity to chuckle (or burst into actual uncontrollable laughter...Chuuya had kicked him hard in the stomach in retaliation for that humiliating experience), once he’d even sucked in a breath while pre-emptively backing out of immediate range of Chuuya’s booted foot and recommended he tried Millionaire-kun’s wife’s wardrobe next time. He supposes he should be thankful that the suicide freak hadn’t told him to look in the kid’s damned wardrobe. It’s not like Chuuya hasn’t considered the option of women’s clothes, but the lack of functional pockets are fucking debilitating. Who the fuck designs women’s clothes and thinks it’s acceptable to give them pockets you can’t even stick your hand into...or worse, pretend pockets that are really just sewn up spaces where pockets should be?!

Which ends up with him here, in ragged-bottomed tight denim (and blessedly man-sized pockets), overlarge button down and the overcoat he had entered this cursed world in which he flatly refuses to swap out for anything – end of the world be damned.

Dazai’s eyes slide over him as he swings the backpack across one shoulder, slow and appraising, face devoid of emotion until he’s finished and lifting his gaze to Chuuya’s face, raising one eyebrow in a way that clues Chuuya into the fact that he’s going to hate whatever comes out of the bastard’s mouth in the next few seconds.

“Well, I guess you at least look the part of post-apocalyptic vagabond.” Dazai’s eyes crinkle with mirth, “All you need is a bit more dirt and blood...maybe a pack of flea-bitten dogs?”

“Why the fuck would I have a pack of dogs?! Is that something that happens often in zombie apocalypses…” he tries to sound irritated and not interested, knows he fails by the glee in Dazai’s face.

“You’re too soft and you have a habit of picking up strays?”

“Like you’re not one of those damn strays! Sniffing around whenever you’re hungry or bored –” he mutters venomously, mostly under his breath. “Oi, don’t change the subject, and don’t act like you look any better than I do right now, waste of bandages!” it’s a weak retort and he knows it, because honestly – much as he is loathe to even consider the possibility – Dazai does pull off Millionaire-kun’s wardrobe far better than Chuuya, and not just by virtue of the bastard having a less substantial height difference. The lighter colours just fit better and now he’s got an eyeful of Dazai’s stupid long legs in tailored black pants that look like they could have been made for him and a dark green dress shirt that, while loose, still gives the appearance of hanging artfully on his frame rather than looking like he’s drowning in it. Like hell if that isn’t the most disgusting thing Chuuya can contemplate right now. What’s worse...Chuuya knows that Dazai knows what Chuuya is thinking right now, just by the way the corners of his eyes crinkle a little more.

Dazai’s about to open his mouth and say something unforgivable, Chuuya knows that look, knows what it precludes and truthfully, he’s not sure he can deal with another round of humiliation without actually murdering (or at the very least severely maiming) the idiot. He cuts off whatever Dazai is about to say with a warning, “Oi, if you say another word I’m dumping you in the sea and leaving.”

Dazai’s head cocks to one side, studying him for a moment longer, apparently judging the sincerity of Chuuya’s threat, before rolling his eyes and biting his lower lip as if to physically prevent any sounds from emerging.

Chuuya tuts, mimicking Dazai’s eye roll, “Come on, asshole, let’s get out of here.”

~ ~ ~

“Chuuya!” Dazai calls from behind, as Chuuya hauls the small service boat ashore, uttering curses in several languages all the while as he feels seawater soaking into his clothes. Of course the useless bastard hadn’t bothered to actually help, stating that there was no point in both of them getting wet and this was Chuuya’s idea...Chuuya had just ripped off his shoes and socks and practically thrown himself overboard – the water sloshing just over his knees as they ramp up into the surf - rather than engage in yet another pointless round of verbal ping-pong which would inevitably end up with the exact same result.

“Chuu-yaaa…” Dazai whines and Chuuya is just a few feet from the shore now, almost close enough to taste his freedom.

“Chuuu-yaaaaaaaa~” the obnoxious elongation of his name makes him drag the small boat violently the last few steps onto the stand and whirl around.

“WHAT?!”

“I want to check out that cave before we head up the cliff.” Dazai murmurs as if he hadn’t just been whining Chuuya’s name like an overgrown toddler, lifting one arm lazily to point at a wide gash in the cliff face.

“Huh?” it’s so entirely unexpected, Chuuya can’t do much more than blink, stare down at the soaked lower half of his jeans (now probably ruined beyond any chance at redemption by seawater) and shrug, “Okay...sure.”

“Eh? Just like that?” he could swear Dazai’s tone dips into something almost disappointed at his lack of reaction, before the obnoxious idiot appears to shrug it off and begins striding confidently up the beach, “Well then, come along Chibi~” he crows, tipping his head back to grin at Chuuya, “Oh, we should bring the boat far enough away from the waterline that it will still be here when we get back. Ah...actually, maybe we should store it in the cave for now, in case anyone suspicious turns up while we’re gone!”

“By ‘we’ you mean me, right?”

He’s not sure why he’s even bothering to ask. Like that bastard is going to voluntarily do any kind of work, physical or otherwise.

“Ah, Chuuya does have some sense of reason behind all the stomping and yelling~” Dazai is at least ten paces ahead now, ignoring Chuuya in favour of scuffing his shoes in the sand and humming a noise of displeasure while muttering something inaudible, leaving Chuuya to struggle to get the small boat moving as it now seems to have decided to grow roots and anchor itself to the ground.

“Oi, this thing is heavy –” he almost grinds the words between his teeth, bare feet sinking into the wet sand and squishing grossly.

“Oh? Is Chuuya finally realising how difficult life is for normal people? You can’t handle a little manual labour without your Ability to back you up, is that what you’re saying, Pe-tit Ma-fi-a?” the way Dazai drawls out the nickname leaves a sour taste in Chuuya’s mouth as he growls inarticulate threats of violence and throws his full strength into the task at hand, gratified when the stupid boat begins to shift a little faster.

The cave suddenly looks a million miles away across a daunting expanse of sand.

~ ~ ~

“It’s empty.” Chuuya murmurs, his voice echoing through the empty cavern to mock him ten times over.

Dazai’s voice joins the chorus in poor imitation: “It’s empty. He says...of course it’s empty, hatrack, what were you expecting? A dragon’s hoard? This isn’t Lord of the Rings you know.” now the scornful cacophony is coming from all angles and Chuuya squeezes his eyes shut in annoyance.

“You mean The Hobbit, dumbass.” he hisses, pitched low and quiet enough to not reverberate around the space.

“Oh!” Dazai practically yells, the sound instantly increasing in volume until there might as well be five hundred Dazai’s surrounding him from all sides. Gods, what a terrifying concept. He’s suddenly glad that he doesn’t dream, the nightmares stemming from this moment would be almost guaranteed. Even Dazai winces, flinching back against the cave wall, his head twisting around wide-eyed, “you’re right~” he whispers.

“Eh?”

“It was The Hobbit.” Dazai nods emphatically and all Chuuya can muster is a look of supreme fatigue.

“Why are we here?” one eyebrow arched, he resists the stubborn urge to tap his booted foot impatiently on the rock beneath him, knowing that the resulting crack will echo like a gunshot.

“I just wanted to see how big it was and whether it’s dry inside.” Dazai lifts one shoulder in a half shrug as he turns a slow full circle, assessing their new surroundings with a critical eye. “The tide doesn’t reach in here, see?” he points to the walls, “they’re dry and there’s no visible water line, so even in really bad weather the water doesn’t get this far up the beach.”

Tilting his head back, Dazai peers upwards into the gloom, “Pass me the torch, Chuuya?”

Chuuya does as he’s asked with a sigh, tipping his own head back as the light clicks on, bathing the roof of the cavern in its stark white glow.

“Hmmm –” Dazai murmurs softly, the sound humming back to him sounding almost like the crooning of a terrifying number of bees.

“What?”

“It doesn’t look like there are any gaps in the roof.” Dazai replies distractedly, eyes still dancing across the rocky roof at least fifteen feet above their heads. “That’s good.”

Chuuya takes a deep breath, chewing back the angry retort that wants to bite its way out of his throat, counts backwards from ten...twice...and feels almost calm when he speaks again. “Dazai...why is that good?”

He’s suddenly met with the blinding white of torchlight in his face, hissing and sputtering in pain as myriad dancing spots instantly light up the entirety of his field of view causing him to screw his eyes shut and yelp out a curse which instantly screeches the wrath of a thousand angry Chuuyas back at him.

“Sorry, sorry~” the bastard doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest, but the torch is shut off abruptly, plunging them both into sudden gloom. “I was just thinking that this would be a good place to stash all of our supplies, rather than trying to fit everything on the boat, or trying to find a safehouse somewhere where it might be discovered and stolen. This cave is close enough to the boat that if anyone finds it, we’ve already been noticed. Plus, we’ll be able to store way more in here without worrying about it sinking to the bottom of the sea.”

Blinking his eyes clear of floating lights and shifting colours, Chuuya takes a moment to actually process what the bastard is talking about, nodding thoughtfully, “How much stuff do we actually need?”

Dazai’s next words leave an ominous feeling dragging the icy fingers of portention down his back.

“Eight months is a long time, Chuuya.”

~ ~ ~

It’s mid-morning before they finally manage to navigate to the top of the narrow trail leading up the cliff – wide enough for a car in some places yet horrifyingly precarious in places and outright death-defyingly dangerous in others. Standing on the cliff edge, they both turn to stare out to sea, barely able to spot the small bobbing dot of their floating prison from where it’s tucked carefully behind the pillars of stone rising from the ocean floor to thrust haphazardly into the sky.

Millionaire-kun really did think this through. Chuuya can’t help but be impressed with the level of planning such a voyage must have involved.

“There should be a track somewhere just through this section of trees.” Dazai’s bored tone cuts through his thoughts and he turns to find his irritating companion already striding towards the shadowed recesses of the trees standing silent and foreboding less than a stone’s throw from the cliff edge. Throwing a quick salute to the boat and an even quicker prayer to whoever might be listening that it’s still there and in one piece when they get back (he doesn’t dare put an if in that plea, lest to speak of uncertainty is to invoke failure) he trots after Dazai’s retreating back.

“Ah~ there it is!” comes the satisfied hum less than thirty seconds later, the sparse, windswept trees giving way to a dirt track pitted with holes and clearly left unused for some time. Chuuya judges that the RV will be able to get down here...just barely...but damn it’s going to be a bone-jarring ride and that’s without taking Dazai’s irresponsible driving into consideration.

“We’ll follow this as far as the road.” Dazai decides, his voice quiet enough that Chuuya thinks the bastard might just be talking to himself since he clearly doesn’t want or need Chuuya’s opinion on the matter. “That way we can make sure it’s passable and not have any nasty surprises waiting for us when we get back.” He’s already loping off with that long-legged stride, leaving Chuuya to scramble after him, foot skidding on loose stones loud enough that the bastard turns his head with a smile, “keep up, Chibi~ we’ve got a long way to go! Are you sure you can manage with those tiny legs?”

“Keep poking fun, asshole, we’ll see who’s fitter of the two of us. You might have longer legs but you’ve always had shit stamina!” Chuuya fires back with a condescending grin because he knows he’s right, he can outrun that lazy bastard any day.

~ ~ ~

“Chuu-yaaaaa...slow doooooown~” the pitiful whine makes him want to smile and grit his teeth in the same breath. Being proved right where Dazai is concerned is always a gratifying experience, one that happens rarely enough that he will treasure it for at least five minutes...but the obnoxious wailing is more than his Dazai-saturated existence can bear right now.

“Chuuu-yaaaaa~ I’m tiiiiiiired~” comes the even louder and more drawn out complaint, less than ten seconds later.

“Haah? What do you want me to do about it? It’s not my fault you’re a lazy sack of shit.” Chuuya shifts his weight until he’s walking backwards, watching Dazai drag one leaden foot in front of the other in a clearly exaggerated display of exhaustion.

“Carry meeeeeeee~” the pleading whine is this time accompanied by Dazai’s best approximation of ‘puppy dog eyes’, a look so absurd Chuuya doesn’t know whether to laugh or run in terror.

“Not a chance!” he yells back, startling slightly and almost tripping to fall on his ass as the volume of his voice sends a flock of birds shrieking into the air with raucous, angry cries of their own. Spinning on his heel he resolves to face forwards and not make things worse for himself by falling in the dirt at Dazai’s feet – he’s not sure he could withstand the shame.

The peace lasts less than a minute.

“Chuuuuu-yaaaaaaa~ I’m hungry!” filters through the space between them like the moaning of a wandering Yõkai.

“What are you, a child?! You ate half an hour ago!” Every call of his name feels like the proverbial straw being placed on the camel’s back. He wonders which one will be the cause of his mental breakdown.

“Oh...you’re right~ ...Chuu-yaaaaaaa I need to pee!”

“Then go fucking –” a noise to his left makes him pause mid-retort, one hand flying instinctively to the axe at his hip while the other is held aloft in a signal for silence. Cocking his head he listens carefully to the suddenly strained silence of the forest around them before slowly backing further into the trees.

Dazai is beside him in an instant, all trace of tired whining forgotten, his eyes gone knife-sharp and focussed, scanning their surroundings. “What is it?” he barely breathes directly into Chuuya’s ear keeping the sound contained to the space between the two of them.

“It’s more...what it isn’t?” Chuuya whispers back, trying to shake the jittery feeling of adrenaline pulsing the need for fight or flight through his blood. “The birds have gone silent.”

“Birds?” Dazai asks, quizzically.

“Before, you could hear them making a racket in the trees. Now there’s nothing. Something is close enough to have caused alarm, and it’s not us.”

“How on earth do you know that?” Dazai’s tone isn’t exactly accusing him directly of lying, but there’s something in that undercurrent...scorn perhaps? It leaves Chuuya bristling.

“I might not be the Encyclopedia of the Zombie Apocalypse that you seem to think you are,” he starts, keeping his voice low, “but I was a street kid. I spent enough time hiding in parks from authorities and other assholes to know what pursuit sounds like.”

“The great Nakahara Chuuya, King of the Sheep, hid in parks and listened to birds?” the quiet scoff of laughter in his ear sends Chuuya’s stomach knotting into something tight and angry.

“If I had killed everyone who came after me, you think me or the Sheep would have lasted long? No matter what I could do? All you have to do is look at what happened when the Boss’ eye turned in my direction to see where that would have gone.” Chuuya hisses back, struggling to contain emotions he’s tried hard to bury in loyalty and family over the years. He can feel the tension radiating from Dazai at his side, despite knowing that not a hint of it is actually showing in his posture or expression. “Just take my word for it for once.”

“If you say so, Chuuya.” it’s not the wholehearted support he’d have liked, but then, when has Dazai ever offered him anything of the sort? He’ll take what he can get. An awkward silence seems to smother the immediate area, both of them locked in a sort of anticipatory stillness as long seconds slip idly by, punctuated only by their whisper-soft breaths and the sound of Chuuya’s heartbeat echoing obnoxiously in his own ears.

When Dazai’s head tilts sharply to one side, Chuuya knows he didn’t just imagine the cracking crunch of sticks and leaves being disturbed by the passage of something not native to their surroundings. His stance stiffens instinctively, feeling Dazai shift from his position just behind Chuuya’s shoulder to beside him in an instant.

The sounds grow steadily louder – whoever...or whatever it is heading towards them does so with absolutely no attempt to mask their presence – the noise abruptly shifting into the distinct pattern of multiple footfalls across ground littered with detritus and obstacles that clumsy human feet just cannot avoid.

“Oi...Dazai?” Chuuya murmurs, not daring to remove his focus from the direction the perpetrators of the noise appear to be approaching from.

“Take a wide circle right, I want to get a look from behind. How many?”

“Ten? Maybe more, it’s hard to say.” Chuuya frowns, already starting to shift in the direction Dazai had indicated, keeping his movements soft and smooth, each foot placed carefully on the ground so as to make as little noise as possible. It’s difficult: Chuuya is a product of high skylines and city streets, not forests. Sure he can pass through a building undetected; can sneak his way into high security areas without breaking a sweat...but this...the forested wilderness is an entirely different beast, filled with crackling leaves and grasping roots rising from the ground to attempt to trip him at every opportunity, it leaves him feeling loud and out-of-place.

They drift like ghosts through the trees (particularly solid and noisesome ghosts if Chuuya’s being honest with himself, but ghosts of some description all the same), avoiding the patches of sunlight flickering upon the forest floor lest someone be watching, sticking to the shadows and darkness they are so terribly familiar with, can blend into without pause. It’s slow going, every step carefully measured, every breath of sound the foretelling of discovery. Still, the stomping crash from the area now running parallel to their own retreat is enough to wake the dead.

Ah, but he really should stop tempting fate, because he knows that fate is a bitch who bites back.

The rasping stutter of growls torn from mutilated throats reaches a sudden crescendo, harsh rattling snarls ripped from lungs no longer needed to draw true breath to maintain their parody of life.

Chuuya doesn’t need to get any closer to know what haunts the dark of the forest this day.

Dazai must sense his reticence, before Chuuya even realises he’s slowed the bastard is at his shoulder, that low hum buzzing in his ear, “I’d like to get a little closer. The number might help us determine the general state of infection in this area.”

Chuuya huffs out a little growl of his own, not bothering to reply but continuing to stalk through the gloom beneath the heavy canopies and alter their course to bring them creeping carefully closer to the source of the noise.

The creatures (Chuuya cannot bring himself to look at these things wearing human skin and acting out a gross pretence of life as anything close to human) loom into view slightly ahead of them, packed close together and shambling on rigid, uncooperative limbs like a group of unfortunate drunks stumbling home after a long night – not quite cognizant or coordinated. As they watch, one such creature is entangled by the myriad roots jutting from the ground like sentient trip hazards, it’s foot (clad in dress shoes that ring oddly discordant in the current surroundings, despite the absurdity of the situation) twisting horribly to the side and sending it sprawling heavily to the floor. If the creature had indeed been human, Chuuya would have guessed at a badly sprained ankle at best, broken at worst, yet as he continues to watch the thing drags itself upright once more, continuing to walk upon the now weirdly twisted limb in a way that makes him feel slightly nauseous.

He counts twelve.

Six of them, at least, appear to be a single family...or, had been a family at one point, Chuuya thinks, for they certainly have no familial ties left to each other in death – no compassion, no expression, no desire to protect - that base impulse to stick together forced only through the connection of the original parasite strain to other infected host bodies, one part of an entangled, networked whole. They shuffle and stumble like a fractious wave, perpetual jerky motion that leaves his skin crawling with a feeling of wrongness that prickles goosebumps down his arms.

“Can we leave now?” he breathes out softly, hoping Dazai doesn’t pick up the slight pleading quality of his voice. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to that lurching almost convulsive movement, isn’t sure he ever wants to.

Dazai responds with a barely perceptible nod, witnessed only on the periphery of Chuuya’s vision, but enough for Chuuya to sigh out an audible sound of relief before attempting to melt back into the shadows and get as far away from these unnatural horrors as is physically possible in this increasingly fucked up world.

“Was that even useful in any way, because all I feel right now is gross.” Chuuya rounds on Dazai after ten minutes of strained silence, during which he’d been far too busy listening to (and being somewhat relieved by) the returning sounds of the forest to pay much attention to the bastard once more lagging behind him.

“Ehhh,” Dazai begins, then pauses for an interval long enough to make Chuuya to stop walking and turn around to make sure the idiot hasn’t disappeared entirely. What he finds instead is possibly even more disconcerting, the face he is greeted with is one made entirely of frustration and exhaustion, no trace of the usual mask of joking humour and pointed jibes that he’s become used to seeing painted across Dazai’s face like the most artfully applied concealer. “No. It wasn’t particularly helpful. Is that what you want to hear, Chuuya?”

“No.” Chuuya parrots back, crossing his arms over his chest because for some reason, Dazai displaying actual genuine emotion makes him feel exposed and out-of-place. He’s about to let the subject drop like a brick from a twenty story building, is about to turn around and leave his stupid companion to mope and overthink until his stupid so-called genius brain turns to mush, but Dazai chooses that precise moment to let out a heavy exhale, closing his eyes and tilting his head towards a sky that filters through in flashes of golden light and hints of brilliant blue amongst the endless shades of green.

“That whole family was likely to have been infected by just one individual. Say a person was infected and then proceeded to travel...the parasite eventually takes control of the host and then uses that body to infect all other individuals in that household.” he shrugs, “It’s possible that the whole group was the result of just one original infection. Exponential growth, you see?”

“Sure, but that still doesn’t tell us anything about the state of the world we’re about to walk blindly into.”

“Well, this whole trip was your idea, Chuu-ya~ are you saying you want to go back?” Dazai’s eyes find his, that dead blank stare a sure indication that the painted layers of Dazai’s personality have been firmly pulled back into place. Chuuya’s not sure whether to be relieved because he knows how to deal with this familiar version of Dazai, or annoyed that the bastard can drag on a different face every five fucking minutes and expect Chuuya not to notice when the cracks start to show.

“We can’t hide on that fucking boat for eight months, shitty Dazai. There’s not enough food, or water, and one of us will definitely end up dead.” He tries to crack a smile, though it’s probably more of a grimace, “So, an adventure in Zombie Land it is. Come on, we’ve still got miles to go.”

He can hear Dazai’s whining groan behind him as he starts once more on the long trek to their destination.

~ ~ ~

The rest of their journey is thankfully far less exciting, though it seems to last for a small eternity as they trudge slow miles through both dense and sparse areas of woodland, never more than a few hundred yards from the tiny track winding around the coast aside from when they take shortcuts across a few deceptively wide expanses of meadow. From these open wild spaces they occasionally glimpse houses or lonely farm buildings standing stark in the middle of nowhere. Chuuya wonders if there are people sitting in fearful despair behind those closed doors – hoping desperately for some unknown entity to come and rescue them from their inevitable fate.

They’ve been keeping close to the road for the last half an hour or so, always staying concealed within the shadows of the trees but unwilling to lose sight of the weirdly comforting reminder of normality now that they’re coming close to their goal. Chuuya estimates they’ve walked around eight miles, based on the maps they had paused to study at regular intervals and the rising noise of Dazai’s petulant and incessant complaining. In fact, the only time the bastard seemed to pause for breath was when the distinct rumbling of engines had cut through the white noise of the forest and Dazai’s own blabbering as a precursor to four large utility-type vehicles zooming past at a speed which was honestly dangerous. Chuuya had wondered, for an absurd moment, if they were being chased by the police or whatever currently served for law-enforcement on this hell planet, before dismissing the idea immediately – who’s got time to hand out tickets for speeding in a full-blown zombie apocalypse?

Still, he’d half expected to see the fiery demons of hell riding hot on their tails.

Only silence followed in their wake and after turning to Dazai who had merely shrugged boredly, Chuuya had written off the whole event as something weird but not outside the parameters considering the current state of things.

Well, it was at least verifiable proof that other humans were indeed still living and moving about in this area.

When they reach the street leading to the marina, the sense of returning to familiar surroundings is immediately replaced with a growing unease.

Every door is thrown wide – some hanging from their hinges, others missing entirely – on the lower floors, windows have been shattered and glass litters the street in a deadly crystalline layer, sparkling the threat of pain in the afternoon sun.

This time, the feeling of eyes watching them is entirely absent. The street clearly devoid of anything resembling human life.

“What happened here?” Chuuya breathes softly, taking in the scene of devastation with a practised eye.

“If I had to guess, I’d say it was a ‘you’re either with us or against us’ scenario,” Dazai replies with a shrug, though his eyes are dancing here and there as if trying to convince himself that they are truly alone and not about to become a major plot point in some kind of ‘join us or die’ chapter. Honestly, with the twitchy way Dazai is shifting beside him, Chuuya is half prepared for a yawning chasm to emerge in the centre of the street and spew out a fully-formed zombie horde into their midst.

“A raid?” he asks, trying to calm his own morbidly active imagination.

“Or a warning.” Dazai gestures to the closest house with one lazy movement of his arm, “none of these buildings are liveable now. Whoever did this was bent on systematically destroying any hope whoever was left here had of surviving. The most likely explanation is either that they wish to accumulate a large amount of stores for themselves, or they wish to recruit a large amount of people, whether by invitation or by force. But anyone coming through here will see this and know that someone out there has the power to pull this off. Regardless of the intent, it’s a declaration that this area is claimed.”

Chuuya nods towards the entrance to the marina. Even from where they stand, they can see the crumpled remnants of the gates lying discarded and clearly rammed from their posts by a large vehicle. On the berths themselves, not one boat remains seaworthy: sails have been torn from masts which are cracked beyond any state of easy repair; many of the larger vessels are listing sideways, clearly still afloat only because of the shallow water; some show evidence of fire damage, while others are merely blackened husks upon the waterline.

“What a waste.” Chuuya shakes his head, “It’s a good thing we got out of here when we did.”

“Is it a waste?” Dazai asks, causing Chuuya to whip his head around and stare at the idiot wondering if he’d somehow gotten a concussion on the journey. “Don’t look at me like that. Think about it...if you cannot take command of all of the assets harboured in a strategic location, what do you, as the leader of a fledgling organisation do?”

Chuuya blinks slowly, running the question through his mind until the answer clicks, and really, it’s kind of obvious now that he stops to think about it.

“You deny the enemy any potential advantage.”

“See, you’re not just a pretty face~” Dazai teases, grinning and leaning lazily back on his heels when Chuuya aims a savage kick at his head. His face goes from leering to serious in an instant as his eyes cut to the left once more, “Come on, it’s time we got out of here. This isn’t a safe place to linger.”

Chuuya can only agree.

~ ~ ~

Chuuya has to suppress an embarrassing squeal of delight at finding his bike in perfect condition exactly where he had stashed it on the day they’d finally left the marina behind them, trading land for sea in their bid for the perfect survival hideout. He’d never admit it, but he’d totally been worried that the bike would either have been discovered and stolen, or smashed beyond repair by some passing delinquent – the marina being case and point to that particular concern.

Even so, he can tell that Dazai has seen straight through his attempt at a stoic demeanour – the asshole rolling his eyes and making a disgusted face, to which Chuuya responds by sticking his tongue out childishly and tossing a rude gesture in the bastard’s general direction.

The face Dazai pulls when the realisation hits him that he will have to ride behind Chuuya once again to make their way to the place where the RV had been carefully hidden away, however, is utterly priceless (Chuuya is determined to treasure that look of dismay in his heart forever).

“You can always walk,” he points out, his smile all teeth, “it’s only a few more miles after all, I’m sure you’ll make it before dark.”

The look Dazai gives him is flat and devoid of emotion, but his aura screams murderous intent in a way that Chuuya can’t help but find amusing given the circumstances.

The ride back to the copse where they had hidden the RV is made in stiff and chilly silence, though Chuuya can’t really bring himself to care, having listened to Dazai’s nasal whining for the better part of an entire day, the deep throated thrum of the bike’s engine is music to his abused ears.

The RV appears to have been left untouched, save for the indent of footprints surrounding it on all sides that leave a chill running up Chuuya’s spine. For there to be the imprints of multiple shoes left in this manner, yet the RV remaining undamaged with nothing but errant sticks, leaves and dirt clinging to its surface...there can only be one explanation – the undead had made it this far, had come upon their little home-on-wheels and, finding nothing of immediate interest (Chuuya has no idea what sparks the interest of something already dead, but that’s a topic for another nightmare) had shambled on by. How many such wandering groups of corpses might be lingering in the area? It’s something he doesn’t particularly want to contemplate.

“Oi, Dazai, I think it’s time we left this shitty place far behind us.” he mumbles, feeling like his head needs to be attached on some kind of swivel with the amount he keeps scanning the nearby undergrowth, almost expecting grasping fingers and snapping teeth to fling themselves at him from every conceivable direction.

“That’s the most sensible thing you’ve said all day, Chibi.”

~ ~ ~

“We’re going to have to stop somewhere for the night.” Dazai breaks the news less than ten minutes into the drive, leaning boredly against the steering wheel as he navigates the narrow winding roads leading steadily away from the marina.

A sinking feeling immediately sends his stomach into a somersaulting flop somewhere down near his shoes. “Why?”

“The town.” Dazai replies, unhelpfully.

“What about it?” Chuuya can’t help but let the annoyance bleed into his tone once again, wonders if he’ll ever be able to open his mouth without that lilt of irritation blending his words into something harsh and snappish.

“We can’t investigate the place in the dark, Chuuya. The best time to sneak around would be in the early morning, when any potential guards will be less aware of their surroundings. Do I really need to explain the proper way to conduct a recon mission to a Mafia Executive? Have you been sitting behind a desk doing Mori’s paperwork for too long?”

“Oh shut up.” it’s a weak retort, but considering Dazai is right again and he’s exhausted even considering the amount of energy it would take to bite back right now, so it’s about all he can muster.

“Lucky for Chuuya, I already have somewhere in mind!” Dazai takes his eyes from the road to shoot Chuuya a dazzling and totally fake smile. “I spotted it when we were crossing a field earlier today. A lovely little farmhouse on top of a hill. It will give a good view of the surroundings, though, we’ll have to take turns at watch. I call first watch!” he yells the last, clearly intending to be as loud and obnoxious as possible (which is very loud and very obnoxious if you ask Chuuya), and Chuuya winces on reflex.

“Fine, fine.” he grumbles, kicking his feet up on the dash and leaning back in his seat, “If that’s what it takes to make you stop fucking talking. Now shut up and drive.”

Dazai, blessedly (perhaps Chuuya should be a little more suspicious, but right now he’s frankly too tired to give a shit), falls silent save for the quiet humming that has become Chuuya’s weirdly familiar lullaby.

~ ~ ~

The farmhouse is single storey and situated – as Dazai had said – on top of a somewhat lonely and desolate hillside. With one incredibly bumpy, rough-stone track leading to a large yard which appears to be completely devoid of any signs of life or occupation. No vehicles are parked in the long lean-to connected to the main house, nor are there any sat on the drive; no lights betray any kind of human presence behind the shuttered windows; no sense of watching eyes follow their arrival. It’s almost hauntingly still.

“Ta-da!”

Well...it was almost hauntingly still. Chuuya amends with a heavy sigh as he drags his weary body from the passenger seat and practically falls down the small step to the ground.

“What do you think?” Dazai presses, practically skipping down the step to drape himself across Chuuya’s shoulders in a way that makes him feel ten times heavier that he already is.

“I think I’m about to dump your ass on the floor if you don’t get off me!” Chuuya hisses, stepping forwards so the idiot loses his balance and has to flail momentarily to regain his footing.

“Chuuya is really in a bad mood this evening.” Dazai sighs theatrically, bouncing back up the step and into the RV with far too much energy. “I’m going to back this under that weird garage thing so it’s not so visible from...well, everywhere. Why don’t you take a look around, Chibi?”

A grunt is the only response Chuuya gives as he tries vainly to roll the ache from his shoulders as he straightens and begins a quick search of the perimeter.

Nothing.

There’s nothing here.

There’s nothing here and the front door is unlocked.

The creaking sway of heavy wood opening to reveal a yawning chasm of darkness...well...it sends a chill of suspicious dread racing up Chuuya’s spine.

“Did you find anything?” the low voice is so close to his ear it makes him yelp in shock, pivoting on one leg instinctively, the other raised and bent at hip height, ready to canon into the gut of his attacker.

Dazai hops a quick step backwards, out of range of Chuuya’s perfectly poised foot, a telltale grin splitting his face and crinkling his eyes into mirthful slits.

“One day you’re not gonna move fast enough and you’ll only have yourself to blame for your smashed ribs.” Chuuya growls, planting his foot back onto the concrete with a telling stomp that would have left a crater in its wake had he any say in the matter.

“You talk big for someone so short, Chibi~” Dazai hums back merrily, sashaying around Chuuya’s frozen form to peer into the darkness. “Delightful.”

“You would find a place that looks like it’s come straight out of a serial killer’s fantasy ‘delightful’.” Chuuya snarks back.

“I would have expected you to be a little more enthusiastic, Chuuya.” Dazai takes a step through the door, almost swallowed up immediately by the gloom.

“Why?”

“Didn’t you notice the big oil tank outside?” Dazai’s disembodied voice floats back and although Chuuya knows it’s ridiculous, he shifts back and forth on his feet for a moment, some baser instinct telling him to turn around and walk away. Squashing the desire he grumbles out a curse and follows the bastard into the shadowed hallway of the house.

“What about it?” he asks, resolutely refusing to allow his mind to play stupid childish games that will leave him expecting monsters to jump out from every corner.

Abruptly, light is shining in his face as Dazai’s torch flickers to life, casting a bright spotlight through the space between them and causing dots of colour to burst and dance in Chuuya vision as he’s almost blinded, again. “For fuck’s sake!”

“Ahaa, sorry!” Dazai simpers, yet again sounding nothing of the sort and if Chuuya could see straight he might aim another kick at the bastard’s dumb head, but the next words give him pause, “If this place runs on oil, it will have a storage tank for hot water. You can have a bath.”

The thought of soaking in an actual hot bath and washing his hair without worrying about using too much of their precious water supply is enough to leave him grinning with glee, “That is quite possibly the most beautiful thing you have ever said.”

“Gross, Chuuya.” Dazai does a convincing job of looking entirely nauseated while Chuuya merely rolls his eyes, feeling suddenly like not even Dazai could ruin his upturn in mood.

“Less talking, more making sure this place isn’t infested with zombies...or rats!” he says, brushing past Dazai to take the lead as they move further through the dark confines within. He’s marginally less confident about doing so when a scraping thud echoes from somewhere to his right, sounding far too close for comfort and resulting in Chuuya practically throwing his entire weight backwards to crash into Dazai behind him, sending them both sprawling to the floor in a tangled heap of limbs.

“Wow, Chuuya...those are some reflexes.” Dazai’s flat tone is muffled by Chuuya’s shoulder, which is practically shoved in the bastard’s mouth.

“You shouldn’t have been so close behind me!” Chuuya half whispers, half screeches, voice cracking an octave higher than normal as he attempts vainly to extricate himself from this mess of his own making.

“You’re supposed to be the cool, calm and collected Mafia Executive,” Dazai grumbles, removing his foot from where it rests perilously close to parts of Chuuya he absolutely does not want stomped on by a clumsy idiot, “yet here you are, jumping at creaky floorboards like a startled cat.”

A dull scrabbling of what can only be described as fingernails on wood snaps them both into immediate silence, staring wide-eyed at each other for a fraction of a second before their focus shifts instantly to the corridor now half-lit by the glow of the torch which had fallen from Dazai’s fingers in the confusion and half doused in shadows which seem to loom and dance the longer Chuuya stares at them.

“Maybe it’s just a cat.” Chuuya reasons without conviction, regaining his feet cautiously. A raspy growl emanates down the hallway, “A really large, angry cat…” he reiterates, hopefully.

Retrieving the dropped torch, Dazai crowds behind him once more, leaving Chuuya with the distinct impression that he’s currently being utilised as a human shield.

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time…

“Look!” the beam from the torch wiggles as Dazai uses the light to indicate what he’s trying to point out. “That room, it’s boarded up...from the outside.”

Curiosity wins out over apprehension and, after a bare moment’s hesitation, Chuuya is the first to stride forward (still carefully, still on silent feet, just in case something is lurking in that impenetrable darkness beyond the torch’s comforting glow) examining the door with a practised eye.

It is indeed boarded shut from the outside. Three separate planks of not insubstantial thickness nailed into the frame on both sides at top, middle and bottom, barring both entry from outside...and exit from within. He tugs on one experimentally, finding it fixed firmly in place.

A hand reaches past him, familiar and bandaged to the wrist, long fingers wrapping around the doorknob and twisting firmly: the door rattles slightly but does not budge. Locked as well as barred.

Something on the other side crashes into the wood with force; that ominous sound of scraping nails and rattling expulsion of air from corrupted lungs distorted by the barrier between themselves and whatever lies in wait beyond.

“It’s not a cat is it?” Chuuya asks dryly.

“Definitely not a cat.” Dazai affirms, his shoulders shifting as he huffs a single chuckle.

“Ugh. Let’s get this over with then.”

“What do you mean?” Dazai questions and Chuuya pauses in his inspection of the planks barring their entrance to glance back over his shoulder, finding a look of puzzlement blinking back at him. “Just leave it in there. It’s not like it can get out.”

“Nope. Not happening. It might not be able to get through this,” Chuuya waves a hand to indicate the door, “but who’s to say it wont just come crashing through the plasterboard? Or through the damned window? It clearly knows we’re here now –” he pauses as another heavy thud indicates another somewhat timely assault upon the door, “It’s not just going to give up and die. I don’t feel comfortable with the idea of just leaving a potential threat wandering around.”

“Chibi is such a pain~” Dazai sighs morosely, making small complaining noises for a few seconds before straightening up and offering the torch for Chuuya to take. “Fine, fine, have it your way. Wait here.”

“Oi, where are you going, bastard, you’d better not be trying to skip out on all the work!”

Dazai flips him off with a lazy hand before disappearing into the darkness, only to return a couple of minutes later, holding a claw hammer as if he were wielding a club.

Dazai’s muttered: “Since this is all your idea,” is all the warning Chuuya gets before the hammer is flipped in his direction, turning spinning circles in the air before he grasps it by the handle and levels the bastard with a glare.

“Watch where you’re throwing shit, asshole!” he growls, fully intending to chuck the hammer right back at the stupid bandage bastard’s head. Another dull thud of meat connecting with wood cuts off any thought of retaliation, focussing Chuuya’s mind back to the task at hand. “Hold the fucking torch, will you?”

He makes short work of the nails, buried deep through the wood and into the doorframe, hooking each one in turn and yanking the damn things out one by one until the planks clatter to the floor – the action almost always followed by an answering frenzied assault upon the door. Finally, three wooden boards lie discarded at Chuuya’s feet, and the suddenly flimsy door is the only barrier between themselves and the thing that lurks beyond.

He stands aside, irritatedly gesturing at Dazai until the other man slinks forward with a heavy air of resignation, once more producing the mangled hairclip that has become something of a Holy Relic from a trouser pocket and jamming it into the locking mechanism, bending his head to rest against the frame for barely two seconds before Chuuya hears the distinct click of the lock disengaging and Dazai is returning to his full height.

Pulling his knife from the makeshift sheath he’d managed to rig into his jacket, Chuuya waves Dazai off, “Don’t get in my way. I’ve got this.”

“Sure, sure, whatever you say, Chibi.” comes the bored response as he returns his focus to door.

He expects the attack, when it comes: the fumbling footsteps matched with the ferocity of something reacting purely on the drive to destroy; the rabid snarling not-quite-breathing rattle; the grasping groping of grimy fingers stained with old blood; the fetid sickly-sweet stench of disease and decay. He expects the attack, is ready with knife in hand, ready to plunge that steel blade into the brain of the once-living remnant of a human.

What he doesn’t expect is the second set of outstretched arms coming at him from the opposite side of the doorframe, reaching, reaching, wrapping claw-like fingers around his arm with a garbled gurgling growl even as his blade plunges home through the eye socket and straight into the brain of his first assailant.

He’s not fast enough. He knows it with every fibre of his being - even if he can wrench the knife free of his first victim, there’s no way he’ll be able to disable the second one in time. He hates that his first instinct is to grasp for control over the gravity he can no longer bend to his will; to force his assailant back or crush them into a pile of twitching broken bones at his feet. He’s not used to his enemies even getting close let alone grabbing him in this manner. Now he feels like he’s missing a limb, missing a vital part of himself in such a way that he no longer knows how to function and his thoughts come to a screaming halt. He can smell it’s putrid breath, the stink of something rotten invading his senses and shrinking everything to a pinprick of fear.

The certainty of death has never looked quite like this.

Always, his death had been painted in shades of red. In blood dripping from his mouth and nose. In a feral grin stretched wide across lips tainted with the taste of iron and salt. In the cracked, broken laughter of the damned. In losing his sense of self to the beast within as his consciousness slowly fades away.

Abruptly, he is shoved sideways, the iron grip on his arm almost causing him to lose his footing. A hand not his own appears in his field of view as if in slow motion, ramming a thin blade unerringly into the point just behind the ear, that tiny hole leaving the smallest access point to the brain. The undead nightmare collapses to the ground without a sound, it’s fingers still wrapped around Chuuya’s arm like a vice, dragging him down with it.

It takes long seconds to calm his racing heartbeat, to unclench his teeth, to suck in a long steady breath.

“Well, that was far more exciting than it needed to be.” Dazai’s blank voice is what finally snaps Chuuya from his moment of animal panic, like flicking a switch and rebooting his brain to the internal monologue of calm down, idiot.

He practically rips his arm free from the twisted grip of the corpse, dragging himself upright out of sheer stubborn will and turning on his heel to leave the room without a backward glance.

I need to be better than this.

~ ~ ~

Ahh, I think I’m in heaven.

Chuuya sighs happily, sinking further into the hot water and tipping his head back against the rim of the bath, luxuriating in the heat seeping into his bones and the scent of soap curling through the steam.

The candles cast a flickering glow through the none-too-shabby bathroom, illuminating just enough that he can see what he’s doing without struggling, but creating a certain soft-edged ambiance that leaves him feeling languid and at ease. There’s something about a dancing flame that just cannot be compared to the harsh electric light in which they live their day-to-day.

He feels clean, for the first time in...well certainly days...possibly weeks. He’d been truthfully horrified at the colour of the water after giving himself a cursory wash in the shower while the bath was running – clear spray turning brown and murky as it ran off his body in rivulets, sluicing of the dirt and blood and Chuuya doesn’t like to think about exactly what else is in that mix.

Still, he’s finally clean and feeling a little more human and infinitely more relaxed for the heat sinking into muscles worked far too tense after his near brush with death. Well, it’s better not to think about that – what’s done is done and he can only do better next time. Perhaps he should have just listened to Dazai and left the stupid zombie bastards locked in their little prison.

Ah, what he wouldn’t give for a glass of wine right now...or several now that he thinks about it. A bottle of Romanée Conti would take the edge off rather nicely, maybe even help him forget about the bastard waiting outside for a few minutes.

He drags out his little slice of paradise for as long as possible. Only when the water no longer steaming, instead begin to cool to a temperature that is no longer comfortable does he force himself regretfully upright, pulling the plug and watching the water drain away along with his good mood. Sighing he wraps himself in the largest, fluffiest towel his search of the cupboards could yield, drying off his body before dropping the now wet towel in a heap on the floor and grabbing another to begin working the excess water from his hair. He can’t help but notice the fingerprint bruises blotching a mottled ugly red across the skin of his arm, can’t help but think what might have happened had his clothes not protected him from coming into actual bodily contact with that...thing; it sends a shiver down his spine that has nothing to do with cold.

He doesn’t notice the tiny noise of the door opening behind him.

“Chuuya...you’re naked.”

It takes all of Chuuya’s determination not to screech or just start running. Instead his eyes fly up to meet Dazai’s eerily blank-faced stare from where the utter bastard is almost hanging around the doorframe, and it feels a little like being caught in a trap. He fights the urge to cover himself, knowing that it will only earn him a full on leer from the asshole who lives to make his life difficult. Instead he straightens, cocking one hip and in the flattest voice he can muster, drags his tongue from where it’s currently stuck to the roof of his mouth to respond, “That’s generally what people do when they bathe.”

Dazai doesn’t reply verbally, instead taking the time to drag his gaze suggestively from Chuuya’s eyes down...and down...and down…and Chuuya’s body doesn’t know whether to recoil or shiver and it’s quite possibly the weirdest sensation he’s ever been subjected to. Leaves him feeling naked in more ways than just his current state of undress.

“OI, WHY ARE YOU STILL STARING, ASSHOLE?!”

Dazai’s eyes find his face once more, and there’s a darkness swimming in them that Chuuya is sure is waiting to swallow him whole. “Perhaps I’m waiting for a show~” that voice is almost a purr, laced with amusement and something else, something Chuuya cannot tell whether it’s true or just another mask fitted to Dazai’s face for his own gratification.

Chuuya bares his teeth wordlessly, refusing to acknowledge the flush slashing across his cheeks and down his chest. Draping the towel across his shoulders he crosses to the toilet where he’d left his change of clothes, neatly folded, grabbing them in a grip hard enough to crush a man’s throat. He stalks past Dazai and out of the door without a word.

“Or maybe I just came to make sure you hadn’t drowned!” Dazai’s delighted lilt follows him down the corridor, “there are others who want to use the facilities too, Chibi, there’s no need to be rude~”

Chuuya wonders how he’s going to survive another seven months and more without killing that insufferable man.

~ ~ ~

The drag of smoke into his lungs is soothingly familiar, despite the fact that he rarely indulges in the habit he thought he’d broken years ago. Well...needs must.

The night air is surprisingly warm, caressing his skin with a feather-light breeze which in turn plays with his still-drying locks, tossing strands to blow in front of his face as he stares out across the expanse laid out below in sunset shades of fire and gold, ostensibly under the guise of ‘keeping watch’. Leaning against a support beam on the small porch, he blows out a cloud of smoke, twisting and dissipating in the air around him even as he breathes in another hit of the toxic chemicals.

“I thought you’d quit smoking, Chuuya?” speak of the devil. Dazai’s nose crinkles with distaste as he eyes the cigarette still held between Chuuya’s parted lips. It irks him that the bastard very deliberately descends two steps to put them at eye level.

He doesn’t let that particular annoyance show. Pulling the stick away he shrugs. “I did.”

“Mhmm…” one of Dazai’s eyebrows rise in pointed disbelief, making Chuuya huff out a stream of smoke in irritation.

“This isn’t smoking. This is me finding a way to relieve stress, which doesn’t involve murder.” Chuuya responds, keeping his tone deliberately even.

Dazai’s lips tick up into a lopsided smirk that spell trouble, “Oh? What are you so stressed about, hat rack?”

He takes another long drag, holding the concoction of vapours in his lungs and watching the small curls escape his lips to filter into the air. Finally he exhales, the resulting cloud turning the space between them momentarily hazy.

“You,” he says, simply.

“Wow, Chuuya’s not pulling his punches this evening!” Dazai practically sings at him, swaying forward to pluck the cigarette straight from Chuuya’s lips and inspecting the glowing end for a weirdly tense moment before bringing the filter to his own mouth and taking an experimental pull.

The sudden fit of coughing and spluttering is enough to cause Chuuya to bark out a short, surprised laugh, even though he knows it’s at least half an act on Dazai’s part.

“Suave...you should try using this method to seduce women. Perhaps you’d have more luck appealing to their pity.”

“Oh?” Dazai’s eyes are boring into his suddenly, with an intensity which feels strangely out of place. “You think I can’t?” He steps up, uncomfortably close now, tilting his head to one side and somehow managing to look coyly through dipped lashes. With the cigarette perched delicately between long fingers, he pulls it to his lips once more, staring unblinkingly at Chuuya with a weirdly serious expression as he drags in another lungful of smoke and nicotine, turning his head slightly to blow it back out in a slow breath while keeping his eyes unerringly locked on Chuuya; soulless deep brown, tinted red by the evening sun. “Do you want me to seduce you, Chuuya?”

The all-at-once absurd and yet strangely suggestive display is enough to make him lick his lips nervously, despite knowing that’s exactly the rise that bastard is looking for, no, probably expecting from him. “No!” the sound emerges as something like a panicked yelp and he can immediately feel the flush begin to take over his face, leaving him feeling hot, flustered and even more exposed than standing stark fucking naked in front of the bastard barely an hour ago.

Dazai’s laugh is loud and unfettered, and might have looked good on him, were he not laughing at Chuuya’s expense. As it is, there are tears in those almost-red eyes as the asshole has the audacity wrap one arm around his stomach, the other still cradling the cigarette, apparently forgotten. “My, my, Chuuya, your face is a picture!”

Chuuya takes the opportunity of Dazai’s laughter rendering him momentarily off-balance, raising his foot and planting it on Dazai’s chest, one quick movement sending the taller man stumbling down the stairs to land on his ass on the concrete of the driveway. The look of surprise on the bastard’s face is enough to make Chuuya crack a grin of his own.

“I like that look much better on you.” he purrs in response, “on the floor beneath my feet where you belong.” He ignores the momentary look of shock, followed almost immediately by a flicker of calculation in favour of tapping another cigarette from the packet, balancing it between his lips as he searches for the lighter. Patting each of his pockets in turn he comes up empty, only to cast his eyes back to Dazai who is casually twirling said lighter between his fingers with a grin.

“Smoking is bad for you, you know?” Dazai tuts as he bounces back to his feet and flicks the lighter until a tiny flame dances in the space between them, holding it under the end of the cigarette until it glows red.

“You are bad for me.” Chuuya huffs in reply.

Chapter Text

He can’t sleep.

Despite the exhaustion of being weary down to the very marrow of his bones, his thoughts refuse to stop turning circles; twisting deeper and darker with every passing minute. Time seems to have slowed, a vicious vindictive crawl through the never-ending mire which exists inside his own head - a consciousness turning on itself out of sheer repressed necessity until there is nothing left but endless, formless apathy.

It’s been over an hour and he’s still staring morosely at the weird textured ceiling of the RV.

It’s not unusual. It’s always during the quiet times that the fractures begin to show, the reins beginning to slip when there’s no-one left to pull up a facade for. He covers the yawning emptiness with plans and plots and possibilities, replaying them over and over again until he can almost convince himself that there is no void, that he can be whole and human and not broken inside.

His mind refuses to release its claws on his continued consciousness.

He knows if he lies here staring at nothing for much longer, the memories will start resurfacing – as they always do – sometimes the most innocuous and day-to-day things, sometimes the worst hours of his life played out in perfect clarity – it’s not something he’s particularly in the mood for right now.

Much as he longs for the sweet release of oblivion, Dazai heaves a disgruntled sigh and throws his legs from the side of the bed, his body feeling like it weighs ten times what it should; leaden and sluggish in a way that practically screams his fatigue. Ignoring his body’s protests, he pulls on his shoes, grabbing the blanket as an afterthought and wrapping it around his shoulders to trail down his back like a cape. Deciding that’s enough of an effort at cloaking himself from whatever night chills await him, he stumbles out of the RV and onto the concrete driveway, tipping his head back to stare at the cloudless sky, filled with alien stars and moon waxing three-quarters full to cast a dim glow across the land. He lets the scene clear his thoughts for a few seconds, taking a deep breath of the clean night air and wrapping the blanket a little more securely around his shoulders before dropping his head and peering around.

Chuuya isn’t on the porch where Dazai had expected to find him and where he had sat out most of his own watch, flicking idly through a dozen plans as he’d kept one eye on the surrounding countryside, occasionally working the stiffness from his limbs by taking a slow walk around the house on the pretext of checking for possible incursions from the rear. Of course he had neither seen nor heard anything during the long hours, yet still, standing watch in such a lonely place was a necessity they could not forgo – to become lax is to invite attack, and he who strikes first has the upper hand.

He wonders, for a moment, if Chuuya has decided for himself that standing watch in such an isolated position was a wasted effort, whether the redhead had decided to shirk his time on guard duty in favour of a few hours more sleep. He dismisses the notion almost immediately – Chuuya was never one to put aside his duty or responsibility after all.

It takes his overtaxed brain far too long to locate Chuuya – sitting on the roof with his back against the chimney stack, watching him with a look of guarded curiosity visible in the scant light the night bestows upon them. It’s as good a spot as any, Dazai supposes; from up there Chuuya no doubt has a wide view of every possible approach to the farmhouse, without ever needing to move.

Without a word, Dazai navigates his way around the farmhouse, pausing to tie the blanket around his neck before hopping up onto the railing surrounding the porch and using that to give himself the boost needed to reach the eaves of the roof. Scrambling for purchase, he’s aware - somewhere in the back of his mind – that he probably looks ridiculous, but thankfully, Chuuya doesn’t deign to comment on his ungainly movements as his shoes finally grip the tiles and he lies back, panting for a moment before rolling to his feet and making his way cautiously to Chuuya’s chosen perch.

Long minutes of silence drift like a spectral wall between them, until Chuuya finally let’s out a tired sigh and shifts slightly so that Dazai can sink down next to him, close enough that their shoulders are touching so that he can rest his back against the chimney – it’s surprisingly comfortable and he wiggles a little to find a position on the tiles where his ass won’t go numb within a few minutes.

“What are you doing here?” Chuuya finally breaks the stalemate, as Dazai had known he would – Chuuya can’t stand long, pressing silences, would much rather launch into a fight than have a wordless stand-off.

“I thought Chuuya could use some company,” he begins, turning to smile at the Mafioso, whose lips are turned down in an annoyed frown.

“If you’re here to annoy me, you could have just waited until morning.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Dazai interjects quietly, turning away to stare upwards once more, not really wanting to see the redhead’s reaction to his honesty, not entirely sure why he’d even considered honesty as an option.

A quiet hum is Chuuya’s only reply, another stilted silence stretching between them until Chuuya’s shoulder bumps against his, the contact jolting him out of his reverie to blink confusedly at the side of the Mafioso’s head.

“Well, if you’re not going to take the opportunity to sleep, why don’t you at least tell me what you think we’re going to be up against tomorrow?” Chuuya murmurs into the night, his voice soft and laced with an exhaustion Dazai can feel echoed in his own body.

“Ehhh? You expect me to work in this condition?” he pitches his voice to its most dramatic (if slightly quieter than normal) whine, dropping his head back against the chimney stack in feigned horror.

“Or I could just leave you here and go back to bed.” Chuuya yawns, entirely unfazed by Dazai’s mock tantrum, watching him tiredly from the corner of one eye without bothering to even turn his head in Dazai’s direction. “You might not be able to sleep, but I sure as hell could.”

“But Chuu-yaaa, it’s your watch, not mine!”

“And yet here you are.” Chuuya grumbles, shifting his weight to break the contact between them. Dazai presses obnoxiously closer in return; the vindictive part of him determined to push and annoy his ex-partner as far and as frequently as possible, while some other part of him just yearns for that point of contact, that reassurance that here – in this moment – he isn’t quite alone and at the mercy of his own mind.

“Astute as ever, Chibi, here I am indeed,” at this, he can practically feel Chuuya preparing to move away, his already short temper further affected by the constant pressure of the world they’ve been living in, the horrific reality of their situation, the uselessness he knows Chuuya has been trying to deal with from the very start – that sick sense of being discarded and labelled as some kind of liability, the ticking time bomb everyone is waiting on to explode, a throwback to an era they’d both thought behind them – of death, decimation and demons.

It’s not easy for either of them: to live in each other’s space; to exist in each other’s orbit; to trust after everything between them has lain twisted and broken for four years at Dazai’s own hand.

“Okay, okay,” he holds up a placating hand, “I really didn’t come up here to annoy you, you know? I just wanted a distraction.” Chuuya’s eyes are sharp now, studying his face with an intensity that makes Dazai want to flinch, to shutter his own eyes to keep the redhead from prying where he doesn’t belong. Truthfully, he doesn’t have the energy to maintain his own walls right now, can only concentrate on drawing in one steady breath after another and let Chuuya stare into the void.

“So talk.” Chuuya finally breaks eye contact, his face betraying his own sense of worry even as he tries to hide it – Dazai cannot fathom why the redhead would bother with the attempt, after all, he’s never been great at hiding anything from anyone, least of all Dazai – staring around under the pretence of checking for intruders, Dazai knows this is Chuuya’s way of leaving Dazai to decide where they go from here. He’s not sure whether to be glad or irritated at the Mafioso’s general regard for his state of mind.

“Fine, fine, Chuuya is always so demanding~” Dazai tries for lighthearted, probably fails miserably but he knows Chuuya will let the slip go without comment. “You’ve studied the map as well as I have, so you know the town isn’t large, but it’s definitely bigger than anything we’ve passed through outside of the city so far. My best guess is that the entire town won’t be properly fortified at this point...there hasn’t been enough time for something of that organisational magnitude outside of military encampments. If I was in charge of something like that, I would have fortifications built up around a key area of importance to begin with, then slowly expand the area of control over time when more resources can be secured, always keeping that inner ring intact until the next section is complete.”

Chuuya hums a note of agreement, low and quiet and Dazai would almost consider that perhaps the redhead isn’t even listening, except he knows Chuuya too well, can feel the weight of his attention even without those sharp eyes focussed on him.

“As for where...hmmm...I think it will be something like a warehouse district or marketplace – it makes sense to fortify an area that will provide resources for a number of people over a relatively long period and negate the need to travel far from the base during the early stages of the outbreak.” his own yawn cuts him off unexpectedly, the exhaustion of his body finally beginning to catch up with his mind. It takes him a moment to realise Chuuya is speaking, the redhead’s voice a low hum on the edge of conscious thought.

“If you think they’ve only had time to properly section off a central area, why are we wasting time scoping the place out? You don’t think we’ll just be able to slip past on one of the outer roads and head straight past without drawing attention?”

It takes him a long minute to parse the meaning behind Chuuya’s words, his brain protesting every demand on its already overloaded capacity. He must have some kind of faraway look on his face, because the next thing he registers is Chuuya regarding him with a weird sort of concern. “If it was me, I would have every entrance and exit to the town which could conceivably be used by vehicles blocked. It would stall any attack by another band, forcing them to attempt to navigate the area on foot. The smaller side roads would be blockaded to a point that makes them impassable, and one or two key routes would be blocked in a way that can be easily moved aside but also kept under guard day and night.”

Unable to keep from yawning again, Dazai can feel his eyes drooping, the fatigue no longer willing to be pushed aside and ignored. Without really thinking about the potential consequences, he drops his head onto Chuuya’s shoulder with a sigh, feeling the redhead tense and shift uneasily before returning to stillness. Dazai takes that as permission to wiggle closer, his eyelids suddenly feeling too heavy to hold up their own weight, slipping closed as he murmurs out his final thoughts, not entirely sure whether they are intelligible in the slightest.

“You have to remember, this is a work of fiction based on survival. Though when you think about it, it’s kind of more like an open-world game, where some events are scripted but mostly you just run around doing side quests and forgetting the existence of the main storyline...ah...but the point was...what was the point? Oh...right...story. There’s no feasible reason to having such a place without it being part of the wider ‘plot’, so it makes sense that we’re not going to get the easy pass of just being able to drive on through. You see?”

Chuuya’s shoulders jump once in a huffed chuckle that Dazai feels in some strangely abstract fashion as the darkness bares its teeth. He thinks he hears a faint, “Go to sleep, idiot.” before oblivion claims his thoughts for her own twisted playthings.

~ ~ ~

Waking up in the RV with a crick in his neck and the blanket wrapped around him is quite possibly one of the most disturbing and disorienting experiences of his life. He can’t remember consciously dragging himself off the roof and back to this bed; yet he also can’t conceive of any way that Chuuya (that tiny ridiculous hat rack) could have moved him, let alone gotten them both off the roof without either breaking Dazai’s neck or waking him up.

“Your face looks like you swallowed an egg.” comes a voice full of rolling amusement from the small table, where Chuuya sits with his hands wrapped carefully cradling a steaming mug.

Dazai ignores the absurd comment, as well as Chuuya’s widening smirk in favour of pushing himself up to a sitting position, leaning against the wall as he mentally runs through exactly what happened last night and coming up blank.

“How did I get here?”

“I carried you.” the matter of fact reply catches Dazai off guard, still sounding utterly implausible. Yet time is giving him no further recollection to extrapolate from.

“Like a blushing bride?” he teases, attempting to regain the upper hand.

“If we’re making comparisons, I’d say more like a corpse.” Chuuya shrugs nonchalantly, “I can hear you thinking from here. You practically fell asleep on top of me...totally dead to the world, I think you literally shut down. I could have thrown you from the roof and I doubt you’d have twitched.” Dazai narrows his eyes, but the lack of bruises and broken bones are testament to the fact that Chuuya did not, in fact, throw him from the roof.

“What time is it?” he asks, hoping to steer the conversation away from his apparent dip into the realm of comatose insensibility, maintaining a studiously blank expression even as Chuuya’s smirk shifts into something more of a grin, the Mafioso cocking his head and studying Dazai in turn for a moment longer before running his tongue along his teeth and shifting his gaze back to the contents of his mug.

“Around an hour before dawn I guess?”

It takes more energy than he can fathom just to sigh.

Another day…

~ ~ ~

The sun has already crested the horizon to paint the landscape in shadowed hues of pink and gold as they leave the relative safety of the farmhouse behind them. The beauty is wasted upon the two of them, ignored in favour of a quick hit of caffeine and the usual grumbling and sniping comments back and forth.

One perfunctory sweep of the place had revealed very little that might be of use to them on their travels – the most exciting of which had been a single gun, loaded with only two bullets, tucked in the back of a drawer in the room where they had encountered the undead the previous evening. The whole scenario had left Chuuya with a look of distaste when Dazai had casually pointed out that the gun had most likely been left so that the room’s occupants could end their own lives - if they so chose - before the parasite took control of their corpses. Apparently neither of the two former humans had possessed the courage to take the offered hand of death, and what may have been a ending filled with suffering for them leaves Dazai and Chuuya with their first proper weapon aside from Millionaire-kun’s legacy.

As he had been quick to point out at Chuuya’s scoffed “What use are two bullets going to be in a firefight?” two bullets are better than no bullets at all, and the presence of the gun is a deterrent in and of itself, even before it becomes necessary to pull the trigger. He hopes that they won’t need that deterrent today, but hopes and reality are decidedly different things.

For now, they’re back to navigating the twisting country roads which seem to be common in this world – sometimes barely wide enough for the RV to pass down without scratching against the hedgerows looming on either side. Well, he is back to navigating twisting country roads...how he became the designated driver of this boat-on-wheels he’s not entirely sure, yet here he is, turning sharp corners at a speed that would probably be considered dangerous, wondering how much faster he would need to go to make the whole thing tip over like some kind of beached whale. Meanwhile, Chuuya has somehow wedged himself into the passenger seat and appears to be taking what must be an entirely uncomfortable nap.

Dazai is sorely tempted to throw the massive vehicle around another corner just a little faster while screaming at the top of his lungs, just to see the reaction it would no doubt get from the redhead (probably panicked screeching followed almost immediately by actual bodily harm, possibly his untimely demise). Oddly it’s the quiet huff of breath and the look of contentment smoothing both lines and years from Chuuya’s face that stops him from his petty revenge. Well, that and the weird image his mind conjures of Chuuya actually bothering to cart him down from the roof so he could sleep without waking up in abject misery after contorting himself almost in half to drape his body against Chuuya’s side.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

The thought of Chuuya’s response to Dazai thinking of that particular proverb at that particular moment is enough to amuse him, allowing his lips to curl into a momentary smile before turning his attention to the more pressing matter at hand.

What exactly are they about to get themselves into now?

~ ~ ~

“Wake up, Chibi~” he leans in close, mouth almost touching Chuuya’s ear as he whispers the words softly, trying not to cackle. A startled elbow comes perilously close to hitting him squarely in the ribs as the Mafioso returns to consciousness with a full-body jerk and a garbled noise of confusion.

“Whu—?” is the barely intelligible response he gets as sleep-clouded blue eyes crack open, flying suddenly wide as the redhead is confronted with Dazai’s face inches from his own. The corresponding instinct to immediately put space between himself and a potential threat ends with Chuuya’s forehead hitting Dazai square between the eyes, causing him to yelp in dismayed pain and flop backwards into his own chair.

“Ow ow ow owwwww…”

Okay. Perhaps he should have seen that coming.

“Oi shut up asshole, it’s your own damn fault!” Chuuya growls back, his voice low and rough with sleep, it makes him sound somewhat menacing despite the wide yawn that fights its way from his mouth seconds later.

“But Chuu-yaaaa, I was just trying to be nice and wake you up gently, and you repay me with injuries!” he moans, rubbing at the spot and screwing his eyes shut, hoping his vision will stop flashing in such a nauseating manner if he just sits still.

“Serves you right.” Chuuya huffs, not sounding apologetic in the least, though, when Dazai finally squints his eyes open, it’s to find the redhead frowning at him worriedly. The expression is gone in an instant, replaced by the usual aura of irritation Chuuya carries around like a shield...when it comes to Dazai at least. “Where the fuck are we now?”

He prods gingerly at his face for a few moments - leaving Chuuya to grind his teeth - under the pretence of checking for broken bones, though, honestly, a little harder or a fraction lower and ‘sleeping beauty’ might actually have broken his nose.

“A little way out of town. The only place you can go from here is towards or away from the town, so there shouldn’t be anyone just wandering around, and it’s secluded enough that nobody from the town would be passing through routinely.” Dazai shrugs, “It’s close enough that we shouldn’t have any problems getting back here quickly if we need to make a hasty exit.”

“You’re expecting things to go that badly?” Chuuya asks, surprised.

“I always expect things to go badly,” he replies without the usual play at humour, “plan for the worst possible outcome and you can’t be surprised when it happens.”

“And people wonder why you’re a suicide maniac.” Chuuya shakes his head, standing and brushing the creases from his clothes. “We’re just going to get on the bike and fly around this place hoping nobody sees us?”

“Mhmm, that’s the general idea.”

“Doesn’t seem like a very well thought out plan.” the redhead points out as he throws his coat over his shoulders and heads for the door with Dazai following slowly behind, shaking his head to clear of the residual woozy feeling.

“We’re pretty much going in blind. It’s going to be a case of making decisions on the spot when we see exactly what we’re up against. I have an idea of how it will be, but we’re not going to know for sure until we get there.”

“I don’t like it.” Chuuya shoots him a look over one shoulder that clearly displays just what the redhead thinks of this strategy, Dazai can only muster the energy to wave a flippant hand, shooing the recalcitrant Mafioso towards his favourite toy.

“You don’t have to like it, Chuuya, you just have to deal with it.”

~ ~ ~

“Wow I’m actually impressed.” Dazai murmurs, crouched next to the redhead behind a screen of bushes within view of the main road passing through the very outskirts of town. He had theorised as much, but to see the scope of the place from this overlooking hill, well, impressed is definitely the word.

Laid out below them is the expected maze of streets, both winding and straight, interspersed with the usual roundabouts, intersections and rat-run cul-de-sacs one would expect of a town under constant pressure to develop and grow to match the needs of the population contained within. It’s by no means a large town – in fact, it’s probably barely large enough to be granted the title of town as he would consider such things – the houses look tiny and crammed together, looming one atop the other in persistent marching lines of impenetrable brick, broken only by the few green spaces and winding roads where the original foundations of the town must once have been laid. From here it looks somewhat akin to a warren, a place where one would expect to find people scurrying here and there on various tasks, moving to and fro with a purpose and sense of direction that only someone who has lived in such a place for a substantial amount of time could manage with the innate familiarity of their surroundings.

For the two of them...navigating this labyrinth of brick with potential enemies around every corner would be suicide.

That’s not the most impressive thing. Not by half.

From this distance it’s difficult to make out details, but he can see some kind of activity and definite evidence of fortification at a point just slightly to the east of the town’s centre – a space comprised of what looks to be a large warehouse-like structure, and its surrounding blocks of what must be residential housing. Ringing the area is a visible barricade of some description; whether it be wall or wood or steel he cannot tell from this range, but it’s there and clearly defended.

“That’s going to be a problem.” Chuuya’s voice cuts through his mental note-taking and he shifts his focus to the side, and then back down to the main ring road which Chuuya is pointing at with a look of resignation.

The ‘problem’ isn’t so much in the fact that the ring road has been barricaded with what looks like stolen and repurposed security fencing, a massive double-gate splitting two entrances with what is essentially a ‘killing ground’ between them. It isn’t even in the fact that there are clearly two - likely armed - guards on this section facing their direction. Dismissing the fact that there is likely to be a setup of the same complexity at the other end of town...there’s still one more problem. There’s no other way around.

Every entrance from the roads skirting the edges of the town – offshoots of the ring road which lead into the main through roads of the town itself, serving as its veins and arteries for local commerce and commuters alike – every entrance has been blocked.

“It’s very well thought-out,” Dazai muses, mostly to himself, though the tip of Chuuya’s head tells him the redhead is listening, “considering the amount of time since the initial quarantine, whoever has come out in charge around here has a good head for strategy. They’ve used every possible means to make this place impenetrable to both vehicles and the undead. It would put any attacking force at a disadvantage since they couldn’t get a large amount of people over the blocks in time for them to actually do any damage without the defenders being able to fend them off.”

He points towards one section of the town where it looks like some kind of work is still underway. “I’d guess they’re already working on a second ring of defence around that central point. That would make it three separate ‘walls’ that anyone approaching would have to make it through to get to the section which is actually being used as a base. But if you look, there’s a straight line of attack for the defenders to get from that area to this ring road. If someone were to break through that defence, they could have people swarming down here in minutes.”

Chuuya whistles a low note, “When it’s finished it will be a pain in the ass for anyone trying to get around here unnoticed.”

Dazai can only agree.

They sit in silence for long minutes, both taking stock of the enormity of the task before them, wondering if the risk is worth it for the sake of their supplies and the handy, if cumbersome, house-on-wheels. Dazai is loathe to part with such an asset without at least making some kind of attempt to find a way through this defence.

“Oi...what do you think that is, down there?” he’s once again jostled from his mind’s endless planning to Chuuya pointing to the east edge of the town.

“It just looks like a factory of some kind to me.” Dazai shrugs, dismissing it immediately as unimportant.

“But there are things moving down there.”

That peaks his interest, causing him to take a second look, squinting his eyes against the sun to fix on the huge building the redhead had pointed out: set slightly apart from the town itself, in the recess of a valley at the end of a long straight road, concealed from view of the townspeople by clearly cultivated lines of trees. It’s as if whoever had planned this place had made such a monstrous structure yet attempted to ensure it was as unobtrusive as possible...which usually means it provides a function which is unpleasant and not something good, hardworking people wish to see.

Things are indeed moving, though at such a distance he can’t really make out anything of what’s going on, just catch the comings and goings of tiny ant-like figures which indicate that, whatever this place is, it is being utilised in some fashion.

“Interesting~” he drawls, already considering and discarding a dozen possibilities and plans. In the end, there’s only one decision to be made. “I think we’d better go and investigate before we go any further.”

“Good. I was getting bored of sitting around doing nothing.” Chuuya mutters, hopping to his feet and kicking one leg over the back of the bike.

Dazai levels his most venomous expression at the Red Monstrosity – a look that has had men falling to their knees at his feet weeping.

The bike only seems to smirk back at him.

~ ~ ~

“Wire cutters...are you serious right now?!”

“Why wouldn’t I have something like this if we’re running around infiltrating enemy bases?” Dazai tilts his head mockingly, waving the wire cutters in front of the chain-link fence with Chuuya standing on the opposite side looking ready to throttle him. Actually he’s passingly glad there’s a barrier between them in this instant, considering.

When Chuuya speaks it’s a hissed snarl of words through gritted teeth, “You couldn’t have mentioned that before I climbed over?” Dazai can see the movement belying Chuuya clenching his fists, even though they sit deep in his pockets as he crouches perfectly balanced upon the ground. “It might have escaped your notice, but there’s barbed wire up there!”

“Don’t worry, I have every faith in your abilities, Chibi!” Dazai chirps back, closing his eyes and smiling wide, feeling Chuuya fume on the other side of the fence. “Besides, you didn’t exactly give me chance to say anything, you just sighed, muttered something crass and leapt up there without thinking – am I right?”

“Tch!” Dazai drops the smile and opens his eyes, the flat expression returning to his face as he comes face-to-face with Chuuya’s disgruntled acceptance of the fact that he had indeed just jumped over the fence without really thinking about the how or the why.

“Just hurry up and get over here, shitty Dazai!” the redhead mutters as he shifts to his feet in one graceful motion and turn his back on Dazai to scan their surroundings, the tension in his small frame visible.

The wire cutters make short work of the chain-link, cutting a hole large enough for both of them to fit through without too much difficulty if things go to hell, but small enough to be pulled back into place so as to not be immediately noticeable to anyone who happens to pass by. Not that security around here seems to be particularly tight...but...old habits and all that.

“Remember this section in case we have to make a quick escape.” he dusts the dirt from his clothes and stands at his full height, turning his attention to the Mafioso who is looking at him with murder in those blue eyes.

“Do I look like a rookie to you?!”

“No you look like a little kid who–” Dazai bites his tongue as Chuuya’s eyes narrow to slits and it’s the Mafia Executive who takes a step forward, Dazai reacting by throwing his hands up immediately in a gesture of peace, “Okay, okay, too far, I get it.”

He can see a muscle in the redhead’s jaw twitching as Chuuya struggles to rein in his temper, the fire in his eyes slowly guttering to something more like a simmer, telling Dazai that his hotheaded ex-partner has put his fury aside but not discarded it completely. It’s dangerous territory to let Chuuya go into a volatile situation hyped up and spoiling for a fight, but, well, it’s a beast of his own making.

“Come on, let’s see what this place is about. Whatever’s going on here, the people ‘guarding’ it definitely don’t have a clue what they’re doing. There’s no strategy to their patrols at all, and so many blind spots they might as well not have bothered. Either they’re supremely confident that nobody is going to come snooping around here...or…” he pauses as another possibility crosses his mind.

“Or?” Chuuya asks flatly, still obviously irritated, his inability to keep still practically telegraphing his emotions.

“Or whatever is in there is dangerous enough that they don’t need guards because no trespasser in their right mind would interfere.” Dazai finishes.

“Well, we’re not going to find out anything just standing here.” Chuuya grumbles, turning his back on Dazai to stalk off towards the rear of the factory.

The building is massive, short and squat at only around ten metres in height, with a huge single-storey floorspace which, from the outside, looks as if it is all one internal unit. Another smaller unit attached to the opposite side form the one they are approaching looks to have been originally intended as a large depot, probably used to transport whatever this factory’s end product might have been from point A to point B. A chimney rises from the rear westernmost corner, it’s blackened rim speaking of belching dark smoke into the atmosphere, though not a wisp stirs the air this day. The hulking, grey eyesore rears up before them with foreboding presence, and an air of wrongness that Dazai knows both of them can feel.

“Oi, there are windows up there.” Chuuya indicates with a tip of his chin to a row of clear narrow glass running along the entire length of the building; presumably to allow in some modicum of natural light and ventilation, though currently every single one is shut tight to the outside world.

“They’re too high up. There isn’t anything to grip to climb up and it doesn’t look like there’s a ledge either, it’s just one smooth wall.”

“Perhaps, but there is a convenient tree.” Chuuya’s face wavers from it’s stoic mien, cracking into a tiny grin for nothing more than a few seconds before it’s gone. Dazai’s attention shifts to the tree – it looks sturdy enough, there’s even a wide-looking branch leading almost straight up to the glass.

“Very convenient…” he sighs loudly, that ominous feeling of foreboding mounting with every step. “Almost as if it was written in.” the words aren’t even loud enough to be considered a whisper, but still Chuuya’s head snaps around and he can feel eyes boring into him as if to pluck the thought straight from his mind.

“Yeah. No shit.” is the Mafioso’s clipped response as his hands come clear of the pockets of his coat, shoulders shifting and fingers flexing in the confines of the habitual gloves.

~ ~ ~

“That’s…” Chuuya’s words trail off into nothingness as they crouch side by side, precariously balanced on the thankfully tough branch of the ‘convenient’ tree, hands pressed against the glass as they stare at the scene below them, shocked to incredulous silence.

“That’s...something,” the redhead whispers, his voice rough with disbelief.

“It really is.” Dazai can only agree.

“There must be hundreds down there.”

“It’s genius, if you think about it.” Dazai has to admit, he’s impressed by this town’s entire setup, they must have someone with a mind on par with Mori’s to have come up with a scheme as terrifyingly brilliant as this one appears to be in this moment.

Spread out below them - in a scene born to life straight out of a nightmare – are pens, clearly once used to house animals waiting for slaughter, but now...well, now they hold a rather different stripe of animal.

Fully one half of the penned sections are occupied by literal legions of the undead.

Bodies in various states of decay – from looking fresh and almost human, to the greyish-blue of meat slowly rotting from the inside out – shuffle in an uncoordinated mass. Their movements appear to be ceaseless, a tidal surge of shifting, jerky flesh that makes Dazai wonder whether rigor mortis would set into the corpses should they stop or be physically restrained for any extended length of time. Even through the walls of the building and the glass of the window, he can hear the death rattle echoing over and over and over, an unending white noise mixed with the raspy snarls and slithering shamble of hundred of pairs of feet as they drag and catch on uneven concrete.

The sheer number of them is enough to spark a prickle of fear down his spine.

That’s not the worst of it.

The other half of the penned sections house something far more horrifying.

The living.

People sit huddled in corners, entire families crouched in what looks to be filthy straw. Many of the captives look malnourished and close to death, those closer to the hordes of the undead unable to do much more than lie wherever they have fallen, limbs twitching in spasm as they near the final steps on the unceasing march, not unto death, but something entirely more terrifying. Towards the doors, some appear to be pacing the confines of their prisons, perhaps contemplating escape – like caged wolves who haven’t yet realised that their last days will be played out within these four walls. These must be people who have been infected more recently, Dazai supposes...or perhaps those who were lucky enough to not be infected via a direct route. Ah...perhaps lucky isn’t the word; for one as intimately familiar with methods of death as he is, a slow decline into madness, delirium and pain is not an end he would ever consider ‘beautiful’.

Regardless, Dazai doesn’t have to get closer to know that every single one of those captives is an unwilling host to the parasite – poisoning the bloodstream and rising in black-tracked veins until the body fails and the parasite can become one with the remaining flesh, a new puppet with which to play its eternal game of devour, dominate, destroy.

The sight slams home a reality that he’s pushed aside up to this moment. The next months are not going to be easy – if this is what the spread of the parasite can do over the span of just a few weeks in a small town like this...it’s beyond even his calculations.

He’s pulled from the unpleasant tracks his thoughts are careening down by Chuuya’s incredulous voice, the redhead unable to take his eyes from the abominations below.

“Genius? Don’t you mean insanity? You’d have to be some kind of sick fuck to do this to people.”

“But that’s the point isn’t it? Those things aren’t people any more...and the others, well, judging by the state of most of them, they’re not going to be people for very long either.” Dazai shrugs, catching Chuuya’s attention as the Mafioso stares at him intensely, the look screaming of turbulent violence simmering just beneath the surface. If they weren’t on such a narrow branch, Dazai might have taken a cautious step back at the force of it.

“You’re still looking at them as people,” he tries not to sound accusing, instead the words come out devoid of any emotion whatsoever, “look at it this way, Chibi...by removing all of the infected individuals from the town, they are creating a safe environment for those who have not come into contact with the parasite. These people cannot be saved, but, while it would be a kindness to kill them, to do so would probably incite anger among the people of the town, so they are brought here to live out their last days of misery away from the eyes of their families who can pretend that they are being cared for without any risk to themselves or those they love.”

He gestures to the pens, “Now, consider things from the point of view of a leader.” Chuuya’s mouth is a thin line now and Dazai knows he needs to tread carefully to avoid bringing up their somewhat troubled history, knows Chuuya still considers himself a failure when it came to leading an organisation. “Whoever is in charge must know that resources are going to become scarce in the coming weeks and months until the parasite has spread through enough of the population that those who cached supplies early are either taken by the parasite or killed off by rival groups. So, with numerous people under their care, why waste precious food and water on those who are essentially already dead?”

“But they’re not dead.” Chuuya practically bites out the words.

“No, you’re right, they’d be better off dead.” Dazai replies dispassionately. “But, putting that aside for a moment, there’s also a reason why the leader might have chosen not to just kill them outright, aside from the will of the people.”

“What?”

“There are hundreds of undead down there, right?” Dazai waits for Chuuya’s curt, exasperated nod before continuing, “So they literally have an unstoppable army they can unleash at any time against anyone who might choose to attack this place, either thinking to claim the place as their own, or raid it for supplies.”

“An army?” Chuuya’s eyes go suddenly wide with shock, “You’re saying they would just, let all of these rotting zombie fuckers loose to tear an enemy to shreds?”

“It’s one reason I can think of for keeping so many of them around when they could just fire up that incinerator and burn every corpse as soon as the parasite takes control of the host. There may even be a second facility on the other side of town housing another group like this, so that they can be defended from both sides.” Chuuya’s face is one of utter revulsion as he stares down at the shifting mass of bodies below. “If the town is attacked, just have someone open all of the pens before hopping back behind the barricades and let the corpses do the rest of the work for them. Once the fight is over, the undead will either disperse on their own, or could even be recaptured and restrained once more until they can be of use. Besides that, there’s never going to be a shortage of new...recruits...to fill the ranks.”

“That’s –” Chuuya starts, then cuts himself off with a shake of his head, swallowing hard, “That’s insane.”

“It’s been said before, there’s a fine line between genius and insanity.” Dazai shrugs, feeling a little nettled beneath his blank demeanour because if he stopped to consider the options, he’s pretty sure this is a route his own mind would have come up with as a sound strategy to secure a place like this. Insanity, Chuuya calls it...yet Dazai knows that the redhead’s own Boss would disagree.

“I think we’ve seen enough.” he shifts his weight and begins yet another laborious climb down yet another tree without waiting to see if Chuuya will follow, though when he reaches the ground the redhead is barely a few steps behind him, trailing like a shadow. “I’m beginning to get an idea of how we can do this.”

“Oh?”

“For now, let’s find the shortest route between this place and the outermost blockades of the town.”

He can feel Chuuya rolling his eyes behind his back almost as well as he can hear the click of Chuuya’s tongue and the way the redhead puts just a little more force into his steps.

~ ~ ~

“That’s your plan?”

They’re back at the RV, a mug of tea passed back and forth between them as Chuuya stares sceptically at Dazai’s hastily drawn diagrams.

“Mhm, I think it leaves us with the best chance of success.”

“It’s dangerous.” Chuuya muses, stabbing a finger at one particular diagram and making a face, “This is a choke point, if something goes wrong…”

“Any action we take is going to be dangerous. This way has the least chance of either of us ending up dead.” he’d like to point out that Chuuya hasn’t exactly put forward any plans of his own, but that would probably end up in an argument and they don’t have time to waste.

“What if they have a blockade outside of the checkpoint on the other side of town? What if they send people after us?” Chuuya’s fingers tap an irritated rhythm against the side of the mug, an unconscious betrayal of unease.

“It wouldn’t make sense for them to have blocks on the road past the checkpoint. This would be their quickest and most efficient method of escape should the town need to evacuate, it would defy the point if their exit point was impassable.” he plants his hands firmly on the table as Chuuya’s eyes lift from the diagrams to meet his own. “If they send people after us then we’ll deal with it. In the worst possible scenario we’ll lose the RV and go forward on the bike.”

“What about the people in the town?”

Dazai has to clench his teeth hard and force his expression to remain neutral. He still cannot understand the way Chuuya seems to regard these people, living in this make-believe world as actual real people, but it’s another argument he doesn’t have the energy to deal with right now. Chuuya’s determination to protect others, something he sees as his responsibility for whatever ridiculous reason, isn’t something that Dazai can break him of in an instant (hadn’t managed even over the course of years), much as he would love to disabuse the redhead of such an idealistic way of thinking.

“If they’re smart, they will hide behind their walls until the undead disperse of their own accord.” Dazai steals the mug from between Chuuya’s fingers, lifting one shoulder in a shrug, “It might even make them reluctant to employ the same methods in the future.” he adds, knowing that the bait will be enough to harden the redhead’s resolve.

“I know what you’re doing.” Chuuya replies, flatly. “I’ll follow your plan, but stop trying to manipulate me into doing shit just for the sake of it.”

Dazai can only nod mutely. They don’t have time for arguments after all.

~ ~ ~

Under the cover of gathering dusk, they slip back into the factory compound.

The bike is already stashed where they will need it; the pile of kindling, wood and oil left in an inconspicuous heap at a position near to the closest section of the town from the factory, ready and waiting for the opportune moment. It had been a small miracle that they hadn’t been spotted, but it’s one Dazai will gladly take. Now...all that’s left is…

He sighs heavily.

Chuuya’s form is a dark shadow, a formless mist flickering through patches of deeper black as if he belongs there. Dazai follows every step, every movement, every pause as the redhead makes his way unerringly to the small group of people huddled around what looks like a small gas space-heater. Muted chatter interspersed with occasional laughter reaches his ears, the group clearly more interested in socialising than actually guarding the facility – Dazai supposes they haven’t really had much cause to defend themselves from outside attack at this point. Still, the laxness is their biggest mistake and weakness no matter which way he looks at it. If they had tighter security, maybe he and Chuuya would have had a harder time infiltrating the factory. They’d have made it inside, he has no doubt of their abilities being on par with anyone existing in this stilted reality – they had been raised in the alleys of Yokohama after all, the night was their playground and the shadows were precious friends, they had never had cause to fear the dark.

These people, well, perhaps they would have cause to fear the dark by the time this night was through.

“Throw any weapons on the ground behind you and put your hands above your head.” Chuuya’s voice cuts above the chatter with a crack like thunder. All noise ceases as heads swivel to work out the direction of the sound, Dazai knows they can see nothing but the shadows of night creeping around their tiny oasis of light; they don’t see the swirl of Chuuya’s coat as it settles on his hips.

“Who’s there? Is someone playing a prank?”

“Makoto, is that you?”

“Stop messing around!”

The sudden unmistakable sound of the hammer being pulled back on a gun leaves silence in its wake until Chuuya’s voice rings out once more, “Throw your weapons aside and put your hands above your head and nobody will be harmed. Don’t make me repeat myself again.”

The clatter of metal moments later indicates that at least one member of the group has complied with Chuuya’s request, and Dazai can see two others shifting in uneasy fear, ready to break. One man has his head turned in the Mafioso’s direction, peering intently into the gloom.

“You’re just one man with a gun. We’re five. What exactly do you think you can do?” there’s an audible sneer in his voice and Dazai just hates these types – the ones who think numbers matter when you’re hopelessly outmatched. Blows out a sigh and slips from his own hiding place, holding something that could be mistaken for a pistol in what remains of the dim light of dusk but is actually just a flare gun. Still he can do a fair impression of a hammer sliding back, revels in the stiffening of the speaker’s back as he whips around to try and make out this new threat.

Dazai grins, something twisted and dark as he sees fear. “Oh, but you’re mistaken. You people are so useless you didn’t even see us coming.” he tuts scoldingly, “You’re surrounded, by the way, I suggest you put aside your weapons.”

Chuuya is behind the ringleader now, pressing the muzzle of the stolen handgun containing only two bullets (far to precious to waste on idiots like these...not that they need to know such things) to the man’s head. All bravado drops from him immediately.

“Do what they say,” he whispers, voice bleeding terror that infects the group faster than the parasite ever could, “now!”

A collection of meagre weapons (not a gun in sight, more’s the pity) are thrown to the ground immediately as five sets of hands are raised timidly into the air.

“Dazai.”

“Demanding…” Dazai mumbles, producing a packet of zip ties and sidling up behind his first victim. “Hands behind your back please!” he chirps in a mocking, sweet voice, amused when he notices a visible shiver run down the man’s spine as he complies.

In short order all five of the ‘guards’ are adequately restrained – Dazai doubts any of them have been taught techniques for escaping bonds like this, if he’s honest with himself they all look like office workers or company employees, not a fighter among them.

“Up.” Chuuya growls, gun still pointed at the leader’s head as Dazai fishes an impressive set of keys from the man’s pockets.

“Where are you taking us?” the man demands, now towering over Chuuya who has to angle the gun upwards in such a manner that Dazai can’t suppress a smirk.

“You’re going to spend some time with your friends in there.” Dazai smiles, indicating the factory and watching every face drain of colour in an instant. “Oh~ don’t worry, we’re not going to feed you to the corpses. We just need you out of the way for a little while.”

~ ~ ~

“You know what to do?” Dazai stares through the huge hole they had just finished cutting out of the fence-line, watching Chuuya’s shadowed form in the torchlight. He can just make out the eye roll he gets in return for his question, can hear the sharp click of Chuuya’s tongue.

“Of course.” is the redhead’s short reply.

“Then I’ll see you soon, Chibi~” he croons back, lifting a hand in a lazy wave as he delivers his parting shot. “Try not to get eaten!”

“You wish, shitty Dazai!” Chuuya yells after him, “Try not to set fire to yourself, bandage bastard!”

~ ~ ~

He’s never been good at waiting. Despite the amount of practice he’s had at it over the years, despite the ability to maintain a facade of outward calm. Being left to the mercy of time is not high on his list of priorities.

When left to his own devices, his mind spins circles like a dog chasing its own tail, throwing up problem after problem before presenting him with a ugly picture of the broken parts of him that he tries so hard to bury under practised smiles and morbid humour. When there’s no one to listen, no one to see, the thoughts become less of humour and more of that familiar overwhelming emptiness.

Crouched in the shadows with his back resting uncomfortably against the cold metal of a shipping container - expertly angled to wedge itself between buildings standing on opposite sides of one of the town’s entrance routes – Dazai tries to keep his thoughts focused on the mission at hand. Part of him is mentally calculating the amount of time required to make sure everything on his side of things goes without mistakes; part of him is considering the likelihood that this entire plan will collapse on itself the moment the sentries at the gate realise what’s happening; part of him is mildly concerned for Chuuya, a running rabbit to the jaws of an unleashed pack of mindless hounds, snarling for blood.

Focus. Why is that so hard?

It shouldn’t be hard, it’s never been hard to order people to dance to his tune, to send people to their deaths as if they were nothing more than carved wooden chess pieces scattered on his board to win his game, or die – the outcome never really mattered. Perhaps he’d gotten a little more attached to his colleagues at the Detective Agency; he’d actively worked to keep them alive, to keep his world just a little more beautiful, to run and run and run from the certainty that everything he comes to find importance in is destined to be lost.

Focus.

This isn’t the time to be swimming in the murky depths of his own head. He casts his eyes back to the pile of wood, soaked in oil and ready to be lit at the simple strike of a match; he mentally checks off the preparations he had made for the little ‘surprise’ he has planned; calculates the amount of time it will take to put everything in motion and then make it to the bike, carefully concealed ready for their getaway.

No more than three minutes to get from this location to the RV, driven as close to the checkpoint as they had dared.

It’s the best chance they have.

The only chance they have.

Torchlight flashes on the hill a few hundred meters from his position. Two short bursts, one longer, followed by three more short bursts.

The signal he’s been waiting for.

No more time for thinking, only for action.

Pulling himself upright, he’s at the wood pile in a few long strides, crouching over the oil soaked wood and drawing a box of matches from the pocket of his coat. Casting a prayer to anyone listening, he strikes a match, watching the flame flicker and dance in the breeze for a second before casting it onto the wood.

For a moment nothing happens, then, the fire meets the shreds of kindling, finds the oil and goes up with a whoosh and a small tongue of flame that’s almost blinding. Quickly Dazai places larger logs around the base of the fire, building it up in the hope that it will keep burning steadily, at least for a while. As the newly aroused flames crackle and spit, Dazai turns and walks to the left, just a little further away from the suffusing glow.

Now the real fun begins.

He can hear movement now. The drumbeat of many feet upon the ground and the faint whisper of rasping breath through clotted lungs hanging on the breeze.

Looking down, Dazai contemplates the makeshift fuse, running a practised eye over his own work critically, looking for any flaws and finding none.

“Da...zai…?” comes the familiar voice of Chuuya, spoken through panting breaths.

“Here, Chibi~” he calls back, seeing the familiar figure burst through the gloom.

“They’re not...far behind...we need...to move.” he can feel Chuuya’s presence at his back now: twitchy and restless.

“Why are you so out of breath? They’re slow, you should have been able to outmanoeuvre them easily.” Dazai ignores Chuuya’s impatience, inspecting the fuse once more before pulling out the matches unhurriedly.

“Yeah, well, they might be slow but they’re also stupid. A group of them started to cut off in that copse of trees, so I had to turn back and round them up. A couple of them didn’t want to play the game, so I dealt with them.”

That makes his mental processes pause, makes him turn to actually look at Chuuya. The sight is...something.

Backlit from the orange glow of the fire, bathed in both light and shadow, spattered with almost-black blood, gore, and it’s probably best not to contemplate what else, yet with eyes somehow alight, alive with that bright, feral flame, Chuuya is...beautiful.

Well, if Dazai is going to be completely honest with himself – which he very rarely is, but, well, zombie apocalypse, end of the world, possibly about to die at any moment, maybe he should give the honesty thing a go - Chuuya has always been beautiful; brash, loud and self-possessed in a way that belies itself in an elegance which is almost contradictory. Here, in this rabid place, unfettered by the chains humanity placed on him, unencumbered by the weight of his own demons – ever a heavier burden than his body could bear – here Dazai can see a tiny spark of joy despite the dark reality into which they’ve been thrown.

Freedom.

It’s a novel concept. Neither of them have ever been truly free, ever bound by the constraints of expectation, of loyalty, of obligation. Yet here...their only true responsibility is to stay alive. That in itself would be freeing for someone like Chuuya.

Freedom suits him.

Dazai’s throat feels weirdly dry.

“Oi, what are you staring at?” Chuuya snaps irritably, throwing Dazai’s attention back to the present with almost jarring force.

“On your two, Chuuya,” he replies impassively, something unacknowledged showing its teeth in a grin as the redhead whips around at his words, knife in hand faster than he can blink. Seconds later another corpse hits the floor at his feet.

“It’s going to get hot here pretty quick.” Chuuya grates out, his attention fixed on the now visible oncoming mass of writhing, stilted movement approaching like a slow but inexorable wave.

“Time to go, Chibi!” Dazai reaches out a hand to clasp Chuuya’s shoulder and drag him backwards, the fuse at his feet sparking merrily as it catches and burns, tiny and innocuous right now, but soon, well, soon they’re in for a show. “Think you can keep up?” he challenges as he releases his hold to push forwards in a loping trot, Chuuya dogging his heels with a string of obscenities and jabs at Dazai’s lack of stamina ringing in his ears.

The roar of the engine as it comes to life is music to his ears over the rising cacophony of snarls and wet breath he can hear congregating in a boiling mass behind them, outlined against the rising glow of the fire like a scene from nightmare come to chilling reality.

“How long do we have?” Chuuya mutters as he kicks the bike into gear, twisting hard on the throttle as the machine practically leaps forwards and Dazai has to throw his arms around Chuuya’s waist to stop himself from toppling off the back and into the dirt. He can feel Chuuya’s body jump in silent laughter, digs his fingers in hard enough to hurt in retaliation.

“About four minutes...probably,” he murmurs, directly into the redhead’s ear, making Chuuya jump again, this time for entirely different reasons, the bike swerving dangerously to the side.

“Probably?” Chuuya echoes back dubiously, “that’s all you’ve got?”

“Well, it’s not like I have any professional equipment to work with here.” Dazai complains, keeping his mouth next to Chuuya’s ear and grinning at the shiver he can feel working it’s way through the Mafioso’s small frame, despite how well he tries to hide it. “I did the best I could with the materials at hand.”

“It had better fucking work.” Chuuya winds the bike expertly through small lines of trees, darts across open expanses of ground, carving out his own off-road path in their haste. Dazai wonders how he can even see the obstacles in their way quickly enough to react to them at the speed with which they’re currently moving. He closes his eyes, wondering if it will make the experience any more bearable – it does not, only leaves him with the weird feeling of his stomach dropping out and his fingers curling even tighter into Chuuya’s jacket as they fly onwards.

They skid to a halt next to the RV two and a half minutes later. Dazai feels like ten years has been shaved off whatever life expectancy he might have had.

~ ~ ~

“If you have to shoot them, shoot them.” Dazai warns, taking in the dark look Chuuya levels at him and giving him only blankness in return.

“I know.” Chuuya replies shortly.

“If there are more than you can handle, don’t engage.” This earns him a click of Chuuya’s tongue.

“I know.” there’s bite in his words this time.

“Don’t put yourself at risk.”

“I know!” Chuuya practically snarls, shoving the gun Dazai had just handed over into his belt as he jumps neatly to the ground.

Suddenly all hell breaks loose as the sounds of multiple explosions rock the night. The sky lighting with blinding flashes of colour, raining sparks and ash in blossoming busts of beautiful pyrotechnic brilliance.

“So it was five minutes. My timing was a little off.” Dazai shrugs and Chuuya blinks at him for a moment before grinning. “That’s your cue, Chibi!”

Chuuya lifts one finger in an obscene gesture before he jogs off into the darkness.

Once more Dazai is left to wait.

Chapter Text

The fireworks are beautiful.

They scream their way into the gloomy pitch of the sky with a shriek of joy, explode with a bang that’s almost deafening, and it sounds like the middle of a war zone, almost feels as though it rocks the very ground beneath his feet. Flickering blooms of colour paint the darkness in splatters of red, gold, green and blue, the shimmering colours hanging there for no more than an instant before they begin their sad descent to earth and nothingness, only to be replaced by the next starburst of vivid glory.

He wishes he had time to just stand and watch. It’s been so long since he had the time to just stand on a rooftop and watch the heavens light up with the colours so often missing from his life in the shadows.

Ah, now his mind is starting to sound like Dazai - maudlin and melancholy. That thought alone is enough to wrinkle his nose in distaste and bring his attention back to the mission.

On silent feet he creeps to the first fence barring their way, separating him from the ‘killing ground’ beyond. Sticking to the dark pools of deeper night lingering at the side of a building, he peeks his head around the corner, assessing.

He can hear shouting, above the shrieking, crackling and booming of the fireworks. He knows he doesn’t have much time, that the distraction will last barely a few minutes before the fireworks are burnt to ashes and cinders and smoke on the wind. Still, the shouts are distant and that’s a good sign.

He marks a solitary figure on the tower - actually more of an open-air shed on stilts - overlooking the gate, with no others in sight and a clear view of a the road beyond.

It’s now or never.

His thumb slides across the hammer on the gun, stroking the smooth, cold metal of the muzzle before he huffs a quiet sigh, pulling his hands from his pockets. It would be easy to take the shot...but they only have two bullets, and the crack of gunfire is more than likely to pull the attention of others.

Resolute in his decision, he takes measure of the seven foot high, sturdy looking security fencing blocking his way. It’s barely worth his consideration.

One breath...two…

His feet are silent on the concrete as he run, picking up speed in five quick steps, the momentum enough to give him the lift he needs. Springing upwards he plants one foot on the wall of the building standing at a right angle to the fence (first mistake: never give attackers an angle to work with), using the leverage to throw himself higher. He clears the top of the fence, grabbing the bar on his descent to leave himself hanging in mid-air, his body making a dull thud as it hits the metal and rebounds (second mistake: line your walls with something sharp, if you don’t have razor wire, glass or nails will work equally well). He holds his breath for long seconds, hoping that the ongoing thunderous cracks have masked his passage. When no one calls out in alarm, he allows himself a smile as he drops the rest of the way to the floor.

“Who’s there?” a shaky voice rings out from above and Chuuya curses his shitty luck.

Making a split-second decision, he starts to run towards the tower, panting exaggeratedly as if he’d just run a significant distance, hunching over and gripping his knees in the pretence of wheezing. Pitching his voice to something strained and ragged he vaguely remembers the name one of the factory prisoners had spoken and shouts up, “Makoto says a horde got loose from one of the pens, they’re massing up at the east side of town! They’re trying to draw them away with all that noise. There’s a huge fire! You’d better get down there, they need help! I’ll take over here.”

Straightening, but keeping his head lowered, the hood of his jacket hiding his hair, Chuuya closes the distance between himself and the ladder leading up to the platform, putting on his best panicked air. Climbing swiftly, he manages to get his feet on the ledge, beginning to stand when the young man clearly conflicted about leaving his post suddenly jumps backwards.

When Chuuya raises his head it’s to the sight of a gun pointed at his head. Honestly, he’s getting tired of being threatened by people too weak to just shut up and pull the fucking trigger. “Who are you? I don’t recognise you. My watch duty doesn’t end for another four hours, and I know every person on this roster. I don’t know you.”

He lets his total unconcern for his current situation shine through his eyes, he’s moving even before he’s done grumbling, “Ah...fuck it.”

His right foot sweeps out, body twisting with the kick, connecting with the hand that holds the gun in an already shaky grip. The weapon clatters to the floor and Chuuya is on the astonished defender in an instant, his fist connecting with the side of the young man’s head with an audible crack. The man goes down like a sack of flour.

“Should have just taken the easy way out, kid.” Chuuya grumbles, tying his hands together even though he knows the man will be unconscious for some hours. Checking his pockets he comes away with a set of keys, two of them large and heavy, clearly belonging to the outer and inner gates, the third belonging to a vehicle of some description. Pressing the button experimentally he finds that it unlocks an old but serviceable looking truck parked up in the street beyond the second gate.

Just as that bastard predicted.

Turning to face the road, he grabs the torch from his pocket, flashing a series of signals into the darkness, waiting until he hears the familiar sound of an engine and realising that the night has become silent once again. The fireworks faded to nothing more than the crisp scent of gunpowder and ash upon the wind.

He takes the gun as an afterthought, checks the chamber to find six rounds loaded into the clip. Not the best, but he can’t complain.

Slipping back down the ladder, he shoves the key into the lock, the metallic grating giving way to a relieving click as the bolt comes clear and he throws his weight against the huge barrier, swinging it outwards and racing forwards across the clear ground to reach the inner gate. With that open in short order, he turns his attention to the truck, practically sprinting over to it, and wrenching the door almost off its hinges in his haste. Jamming the key into the ignition he twists it, the truck coming to life with two sputtered coughs before it snarls.

The lights of the RV are bright in his face as it rolls through the gates and comes to a halt a few yards down the road. Chuuya’s smile is savage as he trots back to the outermost gate, pulling it shut and locking it behind him before tossing two keys onto the pavement for someone to find later. As he walks past the RV it’s to find Dazai staring at him with judging curiosity. Chuuya can do nothing but shrug, feeling like he owes these people their safety somehow. At least this way the town will still be secure, on this side at least. Perhaps this will be enough to save them. Perhaps this will be enough for them to forgive what Chuuya is about to do.

“We’re running out of time, hatrack.”

“I know.” Chuuya repeats his earlier words quietly.

“What do you think?” Dazai asks, his voice equally soft, barely audible over the engine noise thrumming in his ears like a rolling drumbeat.

Chuuya casts his eyes back to the gate, assessing, “We should make it.” He hands over the gun he’d just stolen from the guard on the gate without another word. The unspoken agreement passes between them. They’ve come to far to go back now.

“If it starts to fail, get it off the road so we have a clear path through,” Chuuya can only nod, not wanting to jinx himself. “If you can, try to make it a mile or so out, pull off to the side, then block the road behind me.” Dazai pauses, clearly waiting for his response, Chuuya nods his understanding, not trusting himself to speak.

“I’ll see you on the other side, Chibi.”

“Don’t get left behind, asshole.” Chuuya breathes back.

Stepping back into the truck and taking a second to quickly disable the driver’s airbag (he has no wish to have that blow up his face, thank you), he centres his thoughts, fixing his attention forward. Gritting his teeth, he pulls the truck around, pointing the vehicle towards what they both assume to be the second set of gates and their last barrier to freedom.

He slams his foot on the gas.

The truck lurches into motion, slow and wallowing at first but steadily picking up speed as Chuuya keeps his foot pressed firmly to the floor. He needs the speed, needs the momentum and carrying force.

They’ve travelled almost a mile - blocked on their left side every step of the way by buildings, stone walls and tall barricades rearing up in an unbroken, impenetrable wall - when the road curves around a blind bend. Now, Chuuya can see it, just a couple of hundred yards further and exactly as Dazai had predicted, a second double set of gates, with an almost identical space between the two. Another well-positioned guard tower, with figures moving restlessly atop.

They might mistake the truck for one of their own...but the RV is a dead giveaway to their flight.

Chuuya keeps his foot flat on the accelerator. Hopes he’s not about to go out in a blaze of fire and glory.

Twenty yards from the gate and Chuuya’s resolve is as hard as the steel barrier looming up inescapably before him. His mind is a rolling mantra of please make it, please make it, please make it, his fingers clenched in a white-knuckled grip around the wheel. Ten yards and his eyes close involuntarily as death hovers just beyond his vision.

The noise of the impact is a clamouring grind of metal hitting metal, the gate, though sturdy, unable to stand up to the force of a vehicle ramming into it at full speed, hinges twisting and snapping as the whole panel rips free of its holdings to slam sideways and skid off into darkness.

There’s no time to pause, not a second to revel in surprise or victory. The second gate looms larger than life before him and his speed is now cut almost in half by the first collision. All he can do is keep his foot on the pedal and scream his defiance at the Shinigami waiting patiently in the passenger seat beside him.

He senses more than sees the barrel of a gun aimed in his direction – instincts honed from years of his back being a target for every enemy organisation of the Port Mafia the world over – it’s a feeling he’s familiar with, even blasé about, considering his overwhelming advantage over most of his so-called assassins, but here, in this world there is no reliance on his own power to stop bullets in their tracks. Cursing, Chuuya tries to make himself as small a target as possible, using his elbows to keep the truck pointed straight while curling his hands over his head and ducking behind the wheel in the same instant the crack of a gunshot rings out.

The windscreen explodes.

Glass falls in a glittering, deadly rain all around him, tiny shards slicing through the skin of his bare hands to embed themselves into his flesh. Chuuya has an instant to wish he’d kept his disgusting blood-drenched gloves on, rather than discarding them in the RV, worried that the slippery residue would hamper his grip; an instant to be absurdly grateful that the idiot behind the gun had aimed at his head instead of the tyres of his truck which might have sent him into an uncontrollable spin, pitching him at the gate sideways with far less momentum and ruining their chances of escape, certainly more effectively than a missed bullet in the brain.

A second later and this impact is more staggering than the first, punching the air from his lungs as the seatbelt locks and his body ricochets painfully between the back of the seat and the belt. Still, the gate buckles and fails against the onslaught of the truck, the hinges once again the weak point as they pop and crumple, the gate hanging limply before toppling to the side and he’s through. He can taste freedom on his tongue, or perhaps that’s the iron tang of blood.

Smoke is rising from the engine in blue-black sheets, but Chuuya pushes the tortured truck on, feeling the gradual loss of power with every limping yard. He knows the vehicle is likely to catch fire at any moment, forces down the fear of burning up in a fiery explosion aside and pushes on.

Just a little further.

His hands burn with every twitch of his fingers against the wheel, blood running in tiny conjoined rivulets down beneath the sleeves of his jacket in patterns that do nothing to dispel the image of Corruption embedded across his skin.

He can see the headlights of the RV in the rearview mirror, bearing down upon him the further they get away from the gate. He can also see a brilliant white light hanging in the air behind them – someone had set off a flare. If anyone in the town was watching, if not everyone had been called to assist with the undead massing at their walls, well, it could spell imminent trouble, though there is no sign of pursuit just yet.

Sensing the truck is on it’s last gasping breaths, he pulls over, waiting for Dazai to pass him before reversing the vehicle neatly until it’s situated across the width of the road, two trees sticking out from the hedgerow on either side providing further girth to the makeshift blockade. Anyone attempting to follow will have to stop and remove the obstruction before they’ll be able to come after them in anything larger than a motorcycle.

His back straightens in surprise as Dazai sweeps past him without a word, uncapping a canister and pouring gasoline onto the already smoking hood, pulling matches from his coat, he strikes one, tossing it lazily upon the trail of liquid, watching expressionlessly as the fire springs up almost instantly to engulf the engine in dancing flames which reflect red and burning in those void-filled eyes.

“Good work,” he hears the bastard mutter, and before he can bite out a retort, “let’s go.”

~ ~ ~

The nervous apprehension and jittery tension shivering down his spine don’t leave until they pull off the main roads and onto the narrow potholed dirt track that leads down to their cove, to safety.

The first time Dazai almost sends the RV toppling to its side after practically wrenching it off the road has Chuuya almost falling out of his seat, gripping the armrests to keep himself stable only to yelp in pain as the tiny glass shards bite deeper into his flesh; as if to cruelly remind him of their presence.

Killing the engine, presumably to lower any chance of their pursuers zeroing in on their location, Dazai regards him with that dark-eyed stare, cocking his head to the side as he takes in the trail of blood. “Chuuya…”

“Don’t worry, no zombie juice is in the cuts,” he growls the words through gritted teeth, had known from the second the blood welled up in those wounds that the very last thing he wants to do is move around too much, accidentally smear the blood of those abominations anywhere near a possible site for the parasite to enter. He’d been careful to keep his hands from coming into contact with his own clothing.

“It’s not safe to stay here for long.” Dazai hums, already moving into the back of the RV and rummaging around in the small bathroom, emerging with a first aid kit, rubbing alcohol and water. “We’d better get you cleaned up.”

Chuuya’s hands are sensitive at the best of times – a downside to wearing gloves or, failing that, having his hands shoved deep in his pockets almost permanently – but right now it feels like a thousand tiny needles are stabbing at his skin as Dazai digs a pair of tweezers indelicately into the small wounds, ripping out tiny pieces of glass with apparently little thought to Chuuya’s comfort. He’s left to hiss and spit curses as Dazai works, trying in vain to keep still and not rip his hands away from Dazai’s grip, his torture.

Finally, Dazai makes a small humming noise in his throat, turning Chuuya’s hands over and rubbing a thumb across his knuckles with something almost like gentleness. “I think that’s all of the glass.” murmured into the suddenly quiet space between them, “you’re lucky you managed to avoid getting your pretty face all cut up as well as your hands, Chibi.” Dazai’s hands cradle Chuuya’s own for a moment too long before he lets go, pulling away to grab a pan from the cupboard above the small sink and emptying half the water bottle into it along with enough salt to make him wince. Watching as the idiot dips a cloth into the clean water, Chuuya doesn’t protest when Dazai’s cold, wet fingers wrap around his left wrist, drawing his hand forwards again to dab the cloth delicately across the back of his hand, his wrist, his forearm, wiping away the bloody trails with quick, efficient strokes before trading his left for his right and repeating the process. The contact stings and soothes in equal measure, but Chuuya can’t quite form words past the lump sitting in his throat; he blanks out to the repetitive movements of cloth and fingers against his skin.

“This is going to sting.” Dazai’s warning snaps him back to focus the instant before sharp pain nips at his flesh, the characteristic biting burn of alcohol in fresh cuts. He sucks in a breath, ready to bite out a curse (or twenty) fingers curling tensely and only succeeding in making the burning sensation intensify so all that emerges from his mouth is a pained whine of air between clenched teeth.

Eventually the stinging tapers off into a slightly less painful dull ache and once again Chuuya finds Dazai rubbing his thumbs across Chuuya’s knuckles as the asshole regards his own handiwork. It’s a soothing sensation, something that smooths over the mangled, sensitive nerve endings with something like softness.

“Dazai –?” he regrets opening his mouth the moment the sound of that bastard names comes out in his own strangely tentative voice, breaking whatever peace had lain momentarily between them and replacing it with something awkward...tense.

Perfunctorily, Dazai wraps his hand in bandages, using his thumb to wind the gauze around and around, leaving his fingers free but the skin of his palms and the backs of his hands completely covered. Dazai’s eyes don’t meet his as he pulls away, dropping the pan with its water tinged pink with blood into the sink and tossing the first aid kit back into the bathroom. “If you see any signs of that tracking –”

“I won’t!” he interrupts, vehemently, not even wanting to think about such things.

“Chuuya…” Dazai sounds tired in that moment, bitten to the bone with exhaustion and worry bleeding into his tone in a way Chuuya has never heard it before.

“I won’t!” he repeats stubbornly, reaching out with one newly-bandaged hand to grip the front of Dazai’s shirt and haul him down until they’re at eye level despite the twinge of pain, “I promise you I won’t.”

He watches Dazai swallow, watches the way those dark eyes flicker between his own before skittering off to the side, mouth a thin line. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Chibi. If you see signs...you have to tell me.”

Heaving out a sigh, he lets go of the bastard’s shirt, slumping back into his own chair and closing his eyes, unwilling to consider such a future, but compelled to answer anyway.

“Okay...okay.”

“What did you do with the others, by the way?” Dazai swiftly steers the subject away from the now vivid image embedding itself in Chuuya’s mind - of tainted veins and yet another twisted form trying to take control of his body.

“Others?” Chuuya parrots, wondering what part of the conversation he was supposed to pick up telepathically this time.

“The infected people they were keeping in that factory,” Dazai’s attention is back on the console as he turns the key in the ignition and the RV grumbles to life, “Chibi is too soft to have left them there to die, I think.”

Chuuya huffs under his breath, because yes okay, the bastard is right, he’s just not that kind of cruel that he could walk past those half-starved and pathetic looking human beings and leave them to the mercy of people who wanted to use their corpses just as mercilessly as the fucking parasite in their blood. “I handed the keys over to one of the more lucid groups. Apparently they’d been picked up off the road by a group claiming to offer shelter and medicine, can you fucking believe it? These people have gone and rounded up humans like cattle!” he pauses, knowing that Dazai doesn’t actually give a shit about the people or their degradation, or their loss of humanity, had probably only asked to make some stupid point about him being reckless or idiotic or whatever.

The thought leaves a sour stone sinking in his gut.

“Anyway, I handed the keys over and told them to wait until the zombie bastards had cleared out, but after that their fate was up to them,” he shrugs, “I don’t know if they’ll have released the ones that are too far gone, or whether they’ll have put them out of their misery. Either way it’s in their own hands now.”

“You have no foresight, Chuuya.” Dazai tuts, a mocking sound, “so when a horde of newly rotting zombies turns up on our beach, we have you to thank for setting them free~”

Well, he kind of expected it.

“Whatever, shitty Dazai. They have a right to choose their own end just as much as anyone.”

At that, Dazai falls eerily silent.

~ ~ ~

It feels like the entire night has stretched long and infinite since they broke free of the town, yet in reality it’s been no more than a couple of hours and they’ve moved barely more than ten miles. Three more times Dazai had pulled the RV off the road, slipping into deserted yards and immediately killing the engine and all of the lights as the both strained to hear the approach of oncoming vehicles and pursuit.

Twice they had heard something flying down a road running parallel to their own, seen the telltale glow of headlights behind distant hedgerows. The last time, Dazai had been about to turn the key in the ignition when Chuuya had picked out a faint noise, grabbing his hand at the last second and wrenching it away with a hissed, “wait!”

Three motorcycles had zoomed past barely ten seconds later, clearly intent on speeding down the main road and thankfully not wanting to waste time checking every yard and farmhouse for signs of life or fugitives. In truth, Chuuya has no idea whether these people are even from the town – for all they know it could just be other travellers, but they had come from the same direction, and the risks of meeting even strangers on the road is too great.

They had sat there for another twenty minutes in heavy silence, until, finally, the telltale revs of multiple engines signalled the return of the three riders, racing back down the road in the opposite direction, apparently having decided to give up the chase.

Both he and Dazai had breathed a sigh of relief, their eyes meeting in the same moment as a small, slightly strained smile played across Chuuya’s lips, answered by the wry twist of Dazai’s own as the RV’s engine growled to life.

“Time to go home.” Dazai had said.

Now they’ve parked the hulking vehicle in as secluded a spot as they could safely back it into – a small clearing set barely twenty metres from the cliff edge, surrounded on three sides by trees and bushes, set back from the track leading to the cove. It’s not an ideal hiding place, but it’s the best they’ve got for now.

Chuuya is about ready to collapse. After running on a cocktail of adrenaline and willpower for what feels like a fucking age, his body is protesting it’s utter exhaustion. Really, he’d like nothing more than to crawl into that inviting bed just a few short steps away and sleep for a week.

Dazai is having none of it.

“Come on, Chibi, no time to stand around. Pack up some blankets and anything you actually need out of here.”

“Huh?” Chuuya mumbles intelligently, tipping his head in Dazai’s direction quizzically. “Why?”

“So we can go of course.” Dazai is already removing the contents of the packs they had practically lived out of when they first went on the run, tossing them haphazardly onto every available surface before throwing new things in with single-minded focus.

“Can’t we just sleep here?” Chuuya groans, any other words he might have added interrupted by a huge yawn.

Dazai’s head lifts then, fixing Chuuya with that familiar mackerel-eyed stare, a look that delves past his own outer shell and straight through to the terribly exhausted core of him. When the bastard speaks, he actually sounds apologetic, “Sorry, Chuuya, I know you’re at your limit, but it’s not safe to stay here.”

“You don’t seriously think those guys are going to find us all the way out here, do you?” Chuuya groans, refusing to be taken in by that remorseful half-smile, flopping into the chair and laying his upper body across the table in defeat, hands stinging with a painful throbbing heartbeat of their own.

“No, I’m not worried about people finding us here.” Dazai admits, sitting opposite and propping his elbows on the table, resting his chin in his hands and staring down at Chuuya. “It’s the undead I’m more concerned about, remember we came across that group of them in the woods two days ago?”

Chuuya hums a noncommittal sound in his throat which Dazai must take for assent.

“We don’t know how many others might have made it this far. Staying on the ground isn’t safe any more.” Chuuya hates the bastard’s stupid fucking logic right now; grumbles his frustration into the tabletop.

“Well, we can’t go back to the boat at night, we’ll end up crashing into rocks and drowning.”

“We can stay in the cave for the rest of the night. The parasite’s control of the host body makes it ungainly, so even if they get this far they shouldn’t be able to navigate the cliff paths to get down to the beach. We’ll be safe enough down there for tonight, and I can rig something across the entrance that will warn us if anything does come creeping around in the dark.

A drawn out: “Ughhhh…” of frustration and fatigue is all Chuuya can bring himself to utter as he drags himself upright and begins the arduous task of both inciting his brain to useful activity and deciding what out of their mountain of random shit he actually needs enough to bother carting down a cliff in the middle of the night.

“Fuck this shit.” He spits venomously under his breath.

Dazai laughs.

~ ~ ~

Picking your way down a cliff path in almost pitch black darkness – save for the scant light that two torches can bring – is about as fun as it sounds. The track is treacherous even in daylight, with narrow sections, followed by steep declines and, at one point, a yawning gap of around four feet where the path appears to have crumbled away to nothing but a ledge of barely a few inches in width, leaving only a chasm in its wake. Towards the bottom the track widens into something flatter and blessedly easier to navigate for two tired travellers with legs beginning to feel more like they are made of insubstantial jelly than flesh and bone.

When Chuuya’s feet sink into soft sand he has to stop for a moment to relish the contact with ironically not-solid (but at least flat and safe) ground. He tips his head back, staring at a sky dotted with stars and the dense grey of clouds scudding over the ocean and mouths a quickly whispered thank you to anything that might be listening.

“Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness.” Dazai’s voice chirps, far too close to his ear.

“Says the certifiably insane.” Chuuya replies, dully. Dazai snorts, patting his shoulder almost softly and leading the way to the yawning maw of darkness set into the cliff across the sand.

The walk seems like miles.

The stone floor of the cave looks uncomfortable and uninviting. Dazai has wandered off back to the cave mouth with an assortment of random shit that Chuuya had been too tired to ask about, and now he’s left here, staring at the rock and sand beneath his feet wondering if he’s going to be able to sleep at all.

Casting his eyes - and the torch – around as if some recess of his addled mind is hopeful that a bed will appear somewhere out of the gloom, he finally lands on the small boat they had used to come ashore. Well, it can’t be any more potentially back-breaking than the floor, right?

There’s not a great deal of room in the bottom of the boat, it’s meant to make small trips too and from the main yacht to deliver supplies or ferry passengers, it is certainly not meant for a fully grown adult to sleep in. Still, Chuuya pulls out his sleeping bag, spreading it across the bottom in a bid to hopefully cushion himself a little, hesitating for a moment before stealing Dazai’s and spreading it on top of his own. Grabbing every blanket they have, he proceeds to make a little nest, finally stripping out of his boots, socks and top layers of clothing - leaving him in only boxers and undershirt – the movements leaving him hissing sharply as he prods gingerly at the purple-red mess of a bruise being to paint itself from his right shoulder to his left hip, courtesy of the damned seatbelt. At least he had avoided cracked ribs.

That’s going to hurt in the morning. Grimacing at the now-dried bloodstains on his coat and pants he nonetheless fold them neatly and shoves them beneath his head as a makeshift pillow. It’s not like his skin is any cleaner than his clothes right now and he dreads to think what he looks like.

The thought is abstract, a floating minuscule concern that’s here and gone in the space of a few seconds. It’s not like there’s anything he can do about it right now and the pile of blankets is calling out to him in the siren song of sleep.

He hesitates for only a moment, wondering what that idiot Dazai is doing out there, before deciding he doesn’t care enough to warrant expending the energy he doesn’t currently possess to go and find out. Mind made up, he crawls into the space he’s created at the bottom of the tiny boat, curling himself up in the nest of blankets with an embarrassing noise of contentment, which immediately echoes back at him from the walls almost mockingly.

He thinks he hears Dazai’s voice, floating through the depths of his consciousness, some unknowable time later, but the words are lost to obscurity as the world fades out around him.

~ ~ ~

He wakes up curled in a tight ball, blanketed by pleasing warmth. It takes him longer than it should to come to the realisation that there’s another body wound tightly around him - pressed impossibly close against his back – an arm thrown across his waist fitting between his own arms, with long fingers pressed against his shoulder. The sudden awareness makes the touch burn, makes his eyes fly open wide in an instant and his breath catch in his throat.

Half of him wants to scramble upright and out of this awkward situation as fast as possible – to pretend it never happened.

Half of him wants to stretch out his legs and burrow further into the warmth emanating from the shared body heat between them and the cocoon of blankets shielding them from the morning air.

The conflict results in him freezing, muscles seizing with indecision as his heart jackhammers behind his ribs.

“Mmmn…” the sleepy, disgruntled noise from behind him puffs air against the back of his neck, prickling all the hairs to shivering sensitivity. “Relax, Chuuya.”

Dazai’s voice is low and rough with sleep, slurred around the edges as if he hasn’t quite reached full wakefulness.

“W-wha –?” it’s barely more than a stuttered exhalation of air, but it’s about all he can muster right now.

“You stole all of the blankets,” Dazai’s soft murmur is right next to his ear, “and you snore.”

Chuuya stiffens in affront, fully prepared to drag himself out of this warm comfortable cocoon and stalk off somewhere away from that insufferable man.

A thumb strokes softly across Chuuya’s collarbone, exposed by his undershirt which has, apparently, slipped to one side in the night. The pressure is strangely soothing, even though his mind is practically screaming that this it’s Dazai’s chest pressed against his back, Dazai’s legs tangled with his own, Dazai’s fingers tracing patterns on his skin. His body doesn’t seem to care, is decidedly more interested in proceeding on the journey to continued unconsciousness. Chuuya’s focus fractures with every exhaled breath against his neck, his world going soft and fading out of coherence.

“Go back to sleep, Chibi.” are the last words he hears, whispered against his skin.

When he cracks his eyes open for a second time, his mind struggling to swim through a soupy miasma to reach some form of wakefulness, it’s to find that he’s alone in the bottom of the small boat, draped in blankets and so comfortably warm that it takes a heroic effort on his part not to just languish there until someone forces him back to the rigours of being human.

Light streams in through the cave entrance, bathing half the space in an eerie half-light while leaving the rest to sit in perpetual gloom. As he sits up and stretches out slightly sore muscles, knotted from hours of being contorted into that curled up position, wincing as the bruise on his shoulder throbs painfully; echoed immediately by his hip and hands clamouring their own abuse. Pushing aside the bone-deep ache, he idly notices what appears to be tin cans, strung up in lines across the entrance – obviously the results of Dazai’s fiddling the night before.

“Admit it, right now you’re thinking how ingenious my little early warning system is.” Dazai’s voice is soft, whisper-quiet so as not to cause even a flicker of echo, yet still unexpected enough to make Chuuya’s head jerk around with a glare.

“Actually, I was thinking it would be pretty useless against any human intruder,” he hisses back, determinedly unimpressed.

“Well, yes, but the idea is to keep the zombies out, not people.” Dazai shrugs, his manner entirely too lighthearted for someone who spent the night using his rival-turned-enemy-turned-begrudging-partner-in-apocalypse as his own personal body pillow.

Chuuya side-eyes the idiot as Dazai rummages around in one of the packs, coming up with a bottle of water and a protein bar which he tosses casually in Chuuya’s direction, fumbled between his bandaged hands. “Sorry, but proper food is going to have to wait until we get back to the boat – we’re all out.”

Chuuya glares at the packet in distaste, even as his stomach gives an irritating gurgle of complaint. Thinking fuck it he unwraps the bar, taking a bite and chewing what amounts to a mouthful of cardboard - with about as much flavour – morosely.

“You’re getting crumbs in the blankets.” Dazai whines, the words pitched at just the right volume to bounce around the walls and whine the same jumbled phrase ten times over in an assault on Chuuya’s ears.

“Ugh. Let’s just get out of here,” he mumbles, twisting the cap on the bottle and vainly attempting to wash away the aftertaste of the protein bar before tossing it aside and forcing his stiff muscles to cooperate in dragging him upright. It’s only then that he remembers he’d taken his pants off and used them as a pillow and is now standing practically naked from the waist down...and Dazai is staring at him, again. He can’t help but notice the way those dark eyes drag down his body, can feel himself flush even as he attempts to pretend he hasn’t noticed...doesn’t care. Grabbing his pants, he turns his back on the bastard, spine ramming a little straighter as the eyes on his back feel like something palpable, shoves his legs smoothly into them and all but yanks them to his hips. Somehow, the scant barrier of cloth feels like a layer of armour, of protection from something he doesn’t quite want to understand.

He expects some kind of teasing sing-song joke, or laughter, or something. All he gets is silence, heavy with words unspoken.

~ ~ ~

The next three weeks are utterly exhausting in every sense of the word.

After making it back to the safety of the boat, they had agreed on a couple of days of respite, sore bodies and fatigued minds not able to focus on much of anything aside from the basics of eat, shower and sleep.

Barely a word had been spoken between them that day, after the unguarded comfort of waking up with someone else’s body pressed against his own, the consequent embarrassment, and the weirdly strung tension, there’s no crack in Dazai’s facade, no hint of what’s going on in that dumb head, and Chuuya is too tired to pick apart every tiny gesture, buries the entire incident to be dealt with another day.

Sleep had come easily, even though he had flopped out across his bed at some point halfway through the afternoon, he’d found himself waking to the stream of dawn light through his window, had felt both refreshed and terribly heavy.

He’d dragged Dazai out of bed, needing something to occupy his body and mind and deciding that the best way to do that was to have that asshole act as his convenient sparring partner and punching bag, to exercise the stiff tension from his muscles. The lazy bastard had protested every step of the way, whining, flailing and at one point making a over-dramatic attempt to throw himself off the upper deck into the sea. Chuuya had been half tempted to let him, only the foregone conclusion that it would make Dazai even more whiny and childish than he already was had prevented him from assisting the suicidal idiot in his bid to escape.

Dazai had gotten his revenge the very next day.

“We’re digging a trench!” Those four words, spoken over a breakfast of plain white rice, tolled their mutual doom.

“Huh?” Chuuya lifts his head from contemplating the inside of his teacup to meet Dazai’s amused smile.

“A trench, Chibi, you know, a big hole in the ground?” he reiterates slowly and Chuuya can’t help but to roll his eyes in annoyance.

“Yes, I know what a trench is, shitty Dazai, but why the fuck are we digging one?” he taps his fingers against the cup, the shrill ting of ceramic ringing out between them to fill the quiet.

“Weeeell...we’re going to be here for a while. We need to fortify the area around the RV, at least enough so that we don’t end up with a mass of undead waiting on our doorstep.” Dazai explains, with more patience than Chuuya is used to. It makes him suspicious.

“And you think digging a big hole is the best way to go about that?”

“Mmm, no, I think a twelve foot wall topped with spikes and machine guns would be a much better option, but since we’re running kind of short on bricks and we’re all out of machine guns, a trench is a more accessibly viable option.” Chuuya can only huff as Dazai shrugs expressionlessly.

A thought occurs to Chuuya then, an obvious flaw in Dazai’s plan. “What about the road? We can’t dig a hole through that, we don’t have anything that will take the RVs weight to get across it.”

“It will be a weak point,” Dazai agrees easily, “but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I have a few ideas that might work.”

Chuuya can only sigh at the prospect of spending the next who knows how long digging a fucking hole.

“Now, are you fit for duty, Chuu-ya~? Let me see your hands!” Chuuya sighs again, this time in exasperation as the idiot makes grabbing motions across the table. Dazai had insisted on inspecting and re-wrapping the bandages covering the quickly healing lacerations yesterday as well. Sure, the bastard had gone about it with an air of put-upon joviality, but both of them know what he’s looking for, both of them know their hearts are pounding a terrified erratic rhythm every time the cotton gauze falls away to reveal the skin beneath – they both search for black track lines in that sickening tree-root spread, fanning through his blood...a tainted corruption, not born of a God, yet still just as much a death sentence.

His skin is clear and unblemished aside from the tiny cuts and Chuuya almost thinks he heard a sigh of relief, isn’t sure whether it’s his own, or Dazai’s.

Perhaps it’s both.

~ ~ ~

He’s filthy, running with sweat and mud; he’s exhausted, his arms feel like he’s been bench pressing four hundred pounds for the last six days; he never wants to dig another fucking hole in his life, unless it’s Dazai’s fucking grave...he’d happily dig that right now.

Six days and it feels like they’ve barely gotten anywhere at all. Apparently digging a hole isn’t as easy as you think, especially when you’re forced to navigate around tree roots, bedrock and other irritatingly placed obstacles rather than just digging in a straight line from point A to point B. Six days and they’re still only two-thirds of the way done. Of course, it might be closer to completion if Dazai actually pulled his own weight, instead of skipping out on the hard work half the time on the excuse of running some errand or another; or complaining that he’s thirsty, hungry, needs to piss, heard something in the woods (okay so that time he’d come back with dark blood staining his shirt as well as the mud that seems to cling to them constantly, but still, mostly it’s just an excuse to leave Chuuya to take the brunt of the heavy lifting).

Two-thirds of the way done, and that’s just digging the hole. Dazai had huffily informed him that once they were done with the infernal, monotonous task of shovelling dirt and shoring up the inside of the trench into some kind of protective mound, their next job is sharpening stakes to stick in the bottom of their newly created death pit, oh, not to mention the shed they’re apparently building to better conceal the RV and offer it some protection from the elements.

The thought is enough to make Chuuya groan aloud, swiping a dirt-streaked hand across his forehead and no doubt leaving a disgusting smear in its wake. For what feels like the six hundredth time that hour, Chuuya wishes sourly that this shitty world hadn’t stripped him of his Ability – he’d have been finished with this fucking hole in five minutes, crushing dirt and rocks and roots to dust in milliseconds with a crack of his boot upon the ground. The daydream is both satisfying and immensely irritating in its impossibility. He feels like the dirt is slowly seeping into his veins, like he’ll never be free of the scent of wet earth and sweat-slicked skin.

“Oi, Dazai!”

“Do you even know how to control your volume, Chibi?” comes the dull reply. Hyprocrite.

“Shut up and listen asshole. Once we’re done here, you’re finding us someplace with a proper fucking shower. I don’t care about the damn risks, I am tired of smelling like mud.” He punctuates his words with a rainfall of dirt, flinging it in Dazai’s direction and revelling a little in the flat, unimpressed narrowing of eyes he gets in return.

“Fine, fine~” Dazai hums, as if Chuuya’s request is expected and entirely bothersome. “We need to start building supplies anyway. If running water will make you lose that sour expression, I suppose I can accommodate. Plus, I can smell Chuuya from here, it’s a wonder the zombies haven’t sniffed you out already.”

Dazai gets a faceful of wet mud for his moment of mirth. “Like you smell any better!”

He makes do with swimming in the sea (and yes, maybe he does spend the rest of the evening bitching at Dazai about how bad seawater is for his hair) and a quick rinse off under Dazai’s strict time limit back on the boat for another two days. Every muscle in his body is coiled tight and aching when the trench is finally complete, spanning around one hundred and fifty metres in a kind of snaking arc that reaches out from the cliff edge (or as close as they could safely get to it without causing some kind of landslide or hitting impenetrable bedrock, which actually isn’t all that close at all) to the dirt track, then curving back to the cliff on the opposite side. The RV is nestled safely in it’s clearing within the perimeter, and, after all of the back-breaking work, Chuuya is maybe just a little proud. Not to say that he thinks it’s anything more than a rough-dug hole in the ground, but fuck it, manual labour was never his thing.

Less than half an hour after tossing his shovel aside, flipping Dazai off and leaving him at the top of the cliff, he’s flat out on his back in the sand, the sun warm on his skin, absently watching the insubstantial fluff of clouds wisping overhead as he catalogues the myriad protests his muscles are screaming at him. He really could sleep for an entire week. Perhaps he’ll just close his eyes and take a nap in the sand.

“Did you fall from the cliff and die?” the obnoxious tone draws his brows together in a scowl. He ignores the question in favour of tilting his face towards the sun, the world behind his eyelids tinged red as the warmth caresses his cheeks.

A shoe kicks at his boot, the unexpectedness of the action making him jerk upright with a growl. “Can’t you just leave me alone for five fucking minutes?!”

“Mmmm, I could...but where’s the fun in that?” he can tell the bastard is smiling that wide, fake grin without needing to look. Huffs out an indignant noise and attempts to pat the sand out of his hair. Perhaps taking a nap here hadn’t been the smartest idea he’s ever had.

Abruptly a hand is shoved in front of his face, his eyes focusing on bandages wrapping delicate wrists, tinged brown with evidence of their labour. It takes him a moment to realise Dazai is offering his hand to pull him to his feet. It takes him a few more moments to deliberate on whether the bastard has done this out of some kind of compassion, or because he intends to drop Chuuya back on the floor as soon as he trusts his weight to the other man, just for his own amusement.

“I’m not going to bite you, Chuuya.” The suggestive lilt says otherwise, but Chuuya resigns himself to his fate, whatever that may be, extending his own hand to grasp Dazai’s and allowing the tall idiot to draw him smoothly to his feet. “See? Was that so hard?”

Chuuya doesn’t dignify him with a proper response, dropping Dazai hand as if his touch burned, turning on his heel and moving away. “I’m going to swim, I think there’s dirt under my dirt.”

Dazai’s laugh follows him as he strips down to his boxers and wades out into the surf. He tries to ignore the feeling of dark eyes watching his every move. It’s a sensation he’s starting to get used to...and isn’t that a worry in and of itself?

~ ~ ~

The two weeks proceeding the completion of the trench are busier than Chuuya would have liked. Dazai deciding on his own accord that it’s about time they ‘got to work’ and started seriously collecting supplies to last them the duration of this doomed enterprise. What followed had been days of driving endlessly around, backtracking to the villages and deserted houses they had mapped out what feels like a lifetime ago.

The overwhelming silence had been striking; welcome at first as it meant a decided lack of hostile, weapon-toting villagers threatening to blow their brains out over a packet of rice, yet as the days wore on with no sight or trace of other living humans the silence became a soundtrack all of its own – a sad and lonely existence in the absence of life.

The thoughts make him shiver. He wonders, often, where all the people had gone. It’s not like an entire population can disappear in the space of a few weeks. Sure, they’ve had a fair number of encounters with the undead, the frequency of said encounters increasing to something just short of alarming. Clearing out buildings has become the absolute bane of his life: kicking down doors only to come face to face with putrefying flesh and clacking teeth; the way his heart rate skyrockets even though he’s expecting the reaching fingers and rasping snarls; the nauseating feeling of an eyeball giving way to the point of a knife; a skull caved in by the force an axe; the tacky feeling of clotted blood between his fingers. The shuffling corpses are becoming part of the scenery at this point, ever-present but no real threat unless they come in numbers, or Chuuya is taken by surprise.

Still, it’s been slow going. Every building assessed before they make a decision on whether to enter or just leave it be – anything that looks like it’s been cleared out already isn’t worth their time, and, on a couple of occasions they had peered through windows only to find a floorspace teeming with a knotted mass of zombies, shambling listlessly to and fro in their stilted efforts to find a way to freedom. Each place they do decide to check out is done so meticulously from the ground up, with no room left unsearched and no zombie left ‘alive’ to bite another day. When they leave it’s always after making sure the buildings are as secure as possible, the door marked inconspicuously in the upper right corner of the frame with a symbol, lest they need to return.

Where did all the people go?

Could they really have made some kind of mass exodus out of the area? Had some kind of safe haven been erected while he and Dazai had been running around the countryside or flailing around at sea? It’s plausible, he supposes, if governments had gotten their fingers out of their asses in time, called in the military and begun an evacuation, it’s possible that a large group of survivors could be at some kind of facility. Perhaps even trying to develop a cure? Wasn’t that how the movies usually played out – one man had some kind of fucking magic blood that repelled zombies and suddenly humanity was saved? Or some shit like that.

He remembers beating the shit out of a thousand opponents in a ‘mystery novel’, bites his tongue until he can taste blood.

No, it’s never going to be that simple.

A few times, they had caught the sound of vehicles, hiding out of sight until the noise died away as if it had been nothing more than an imagined whisper upon the breeze. It makes him feel both anxious at the prospect of coming up against rival factions, all out to fight over the same scraps of meat, and yet on some level relieved that they are not the only forgotten remnants of the human race left to wander this abandoned land.

Ugh, those melancholic thoughts are starting to sound like Dazai again.

He cracks his eyes open to flick his gaze to the left, watching through his lashes as Dazai’s fingers tap out a beat on the steering wheel as he hums another soft tune under his breath. They’ve existed (not always peacefully) within each other’s space for over a month now and still Chuuya feels like he’s floundering in a dead and endless sea more often than not when trying the predict what that bastard’s next move will be, what face he will choose to slip on and show Chuuya with each new day, each passing hour. He shifts his feet from where they sit up on the dash and Dazai’s head turns to look for a moment before focussing back on the road.

“You’re fidgety today.” A statement rather than a question. It makes Chuuya bristle for a moment before he sighs and stares out of the window at nothing in particular.

“Where are all of the people?”

Dazai’s fingers stop drumming on the wheel, catching Chuuya’s attention enough that he notices Dazai’s grip tighten minutely.

“Ah. That.” He watches the corner of Dazai’s mouth lift in a fake smile as he cocks his head in Chuuya’s direction once more. “What are your conclusions, Executive-san?”

Chuuya hates the mocking tone in the bastard’s voice, it makes him grind his teeth and chew back the retort sitting on the tip of his tongue. “I was wondering if some kind of evacuation happened while you had us gallivanting around in the middle of ass end nowhere.”

“Not a bad assumption to draw.” Dazai allows with a nod that just looks patronising from whichever angle Chuuya looks at it. “It’s possible that camps of some kind have been set up away from major towns and cities to process and house survivors during the initial crisis. The military would almost certainly have been drafted in after the quarantine broke down, but whether such camps could have been constructed in time to make much of a difference – I’m not sure.” There’s a long stretch of silence, long enough that Chuuya is about to open his mouth to voice a question when Dazai speaks again. “There are other possibilities though.”

“Like what?” Chuuya can’t help the genuine interest bleeding into his voice.

“Well, when we first got out and started moving around, we saw a lot of people leaving, it’s likely that a large number of people headed east, since we’re further towards the west of this country’s landmass.”

“So you think a lot of them fled east and are just waiting it out, hoping it will blow over?” Chuuya asks, frowning.

“No, I think a lot of them are already dead.” Dazai replies, and the total apathy with which he delivers the statement sends a shiver down Chuuya’s spine.

“Why?” His curiosity has the better of him now, wanting to hear Dazai’s reasoning, wanting an answer to the oppressive silence.

“The towns and cities would have been overrun with an influx of refugees. Do you think they’ll have had time to formulate any kind of defence against the parasite, or any kind of processing for the people flooding in?” Another short pause lets the reality sink in before Dazai continues, “All of those people running...how many were already infected? All of those people crammed into one place...all it takes is one bite, Chuuya.”

“So?” his voice is a whisper, as if his head has already decided it doesn’t want to know the answer but there’s no stopping on the crushing path to realisation.

“So, I expect that the towns and cities that those people ran to, hoping to survive, became the very places where they died.” Dazai speaks the words without emotion, one shoulder lifting in a shrug, “Of course, it’s all speculation, but if I had to bet, I’d would say that the east is in an even worse state than we are here and now.”

Chuuya’s feet slide off the dashboard, hitting the floor with a dull thud as the horror of the scene Dazai has just neatly laid out before him plays out in his head. Masses upon masses of scared and displaced people - with only those possessions they could grab and shove into whatever vehicle or mode of transport in which they had chosen to flee – pushing on to what they believed to be safety. Packed like sardines in a can in cities suddenly flooded with far more than they can handle.

‘It’s just a scratch’ he can hear in his mind, ‘It will be fine in a few days’.

All it would take would be a few dozen individuals with the parasite raging in their bloodstream – creeping insidiously to corrupt every system – undetected but a sleeping killer nonetheless. A few dozen in the midst of such an overflowing of humanity…

The picture is too vivid; painted in shades of red blood and grey decay.

He doesn’t even notice when Dazai pulls the RV off the road and on to their little dirt track.

“There’s another possibility.” Dazai’s voice cracks the image in his head to shards and he’s entirely grateful for the interruption, relieved when it fades to something a little less sharp. When Chuuya makes no move to speak, Dazai continues, “We’ve seen evidence of groups and gangs emerging from the beginning, right?” Chuuya can only nod.

“It could be, that these gangs are taking it upon themselves to...ah...how can I put this? Cleanse their ‘territory’ of all threats.”

“What do you mean?”

Chuuya can see Dazai rolling his eyes at the need to explain himself, as if Chuuya should just be able to pick apart the meaning from his riddles and roundabout answers. The bastard has the audacity to huff out a little breath before he explains. “What I mean, Chuuya, is that they might have gone one step further than that delightful town we visited and decided to eradicate the living, as well as the infected and the undead.”

Chuuya is taken aback, blinking in shock for a moment and scanning Dazai’s face for signs of some sick joke at his expense. He finds only seriousness in those dark eyes, void of compassion, shock or any other emotion that any normal person might experience on coming out with such offensive ideas. “Why the fuck would they do that?”

“More people means less resources. Getting rid of people not part of your faction means you control more resources. More resources means you can live for a bit longer.” That Dazai can say such things with less concern than he might have discussing the weather makes Chuuya feel an irrational spike of anger, something he shoves violently back down because he knows it’s a front, knows that the bastard gets a kick out of getting a rise from him. “Not only that, but there’s also the shock factor to consider.”

Instead of asking, Chuuya levels the asshole with his darkest glare, daring him to carry on dancing circles with his words. Surprisingly, Dazai seems to think better of it. “Most people, when confronted with a situation like that would experience shock, horror, revulsion, and then that typical hero-complex need to do something about it. A plot device, you see?”

And he does see. In fact, he can totally see that menace of an author deliberately adding such moral dilemmas for his readers (or perhaps victims is the more truthful term) to engage with; facing their own sense of justice and humanity when presented with the impossible choice of allowing such a massacre to continue, or turning a blind eye in the name of their own selfish need to survive.

“Tch. That’s disgusting.”

“No, it’s fiction,” Dazai actually chuckles then, “and you’re finally beginning to see it.”

Dazai pulls up in front of their newly erected makeshift gate; a chimeric construction of heavy iron railings they’d managed to pry from the entrance to a school in one of the deserted villages they’d raided the week previous. The entire structure is wound with coils of barbed wire cut from farmer’s fields and held in place with four sets of heavy chains, winding around the two thick posts, made from a tree they’d cut down in the wood and shored up in the trench. It’s not the fortress, moat and drawbridge they’d prefer, but it will do its job in keeping the undead on the other side of their little haven – for a while at least.

Well, that’s the hope.

Chuuya is about to head out of the door to unlock and drag the gate aside when Dazai speaks again, his tone almost thoughtful. “Of course, it’s also possible that all of these scenarios are happening simultaneously, and they are, in fact, all part of a wider net.” His eyes are alight with a weird fervour, flickering red in the afternoon light dappling through the trees, it’s lends an eerie cast to his face.

Chuuya narrows his eyes, one hand resting on his hip and Dazai shoots him an impudent smile, tapping his chin thoughtfully to draw out the moment until Chuuya is seconds away from just walking out and forgetting the whole stupid conversation.

“Do you remember when I said this is kind of like being in an open-world game? Where you can be part of several different side quests at the same time, without technically following the main part of the story?” Chuuya can vaguely remember the echo of such a conversation, nodding hesitantly lest Dazai takes his silence as an invitation for some kind of lecture on game theory. “Well, likewise, most works of fiction don’t just have one designated plot point – there’s a main focus, something happens, the characters get side tracked, suddenly they’re on a quest for the holy grail but they’ve found the entrance to the demon realm and an army is planning to conquer the world.”

Well okay, that has absolutely nothing to do with zombies and the apocalypse, but Chuuya can see where this is going.

“Ranpo-san said that this wasn’t Poe’s best work. Poe writes mysteries, murder mysteries are his speciality as you know.” Chuuya shoots him a sour look for that remark and receives a smug smirk in return. “So while this may not be his area of expertise, you can be sure that there’s going to be unexpected plot-twists of some kind and devices that maybe a reader...participant...whatever we are right now...might not expect to find in a novel of this genre. Multiple plot-devices happening simultaneously to draw us off in random directions and misdirecting us away from where we’re supposed to be - where the final chapter actually is - would be the best way of drawing us further into this world, trapping us in what is essentially a side-quest that we can’t just quit out of and restart at our last save point.”

And that...that makes horrible, gut-wrenching sense. The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“So basically, what you’re saying is that we’re going to get fucked every which way we turn?” he grumbles.

“Well, it was never going to be simple, surviving in a zombie apocalypse for eight months...but a zombie apocalypse written by a man known for his labyrinthine plot twists?” Dazai laughs, “Yes, basically we are, as you so elegantly put it: ‘fucked every which way we turn’.” Chuuya watches as the laughter fades to something more contemplative, imagines he can see the gears spinning in that stupid brain.

“There is one upside to it all, though,” that unnatural red stare meets his own once more and Chuuya cants his head to the side to indicate his attention, “We already know where and when the end game happens, so we don’t need to bother with side quests or tracking down people for information. All we have to do is get to the right place at the right time.”

“All we have to do, huh?” Chuuya snorts a laugh that’s entirely inelegant. “A problem for another day?”

“A problem for another day.” Dazai echoes back.

~ ~ ~

They’ve collected a rather impressive amount of shit.

Having hauled the last of the supplies - collected on their their most recent ‘adventure’ - from the RV down to their beach-side cave, Chuuya is slightly impressed by the volume of items strewn across the rocky floor in small piles with no apparent organisation. Sure, it’s nowhere near enough for the two of them to survive another six odd months, but it’s a start.

What they have in food, water and miscellaneous crap, which Dazai had designated as ‘necessary’, they are sadly lacking in weapons. They have knives upon knives, which is all well and good, but what they really need is something a little more powerful, a little more long-range, a little less life-risking than getting up close and personal with every undead monstrosity they meet out on the road. What they need is guns. Well, grenades, or even some of Kajii’s fucking lemon bombs wouldn’t go amiss right now...but in short, guns.

“You’re thinking about weapons, am I right?”

Stupid perceptive bastard. He swears Dazai has some kind of secondary Ability that allows him to read minds sometimes. It’s uncanny, and irritating.

“Actually I was thinking how nice it would be to strangle you and toss your into the sea for the sharks.” he huffs without turning around.

“Mmm, that’s a lie, Chuuya, but I’m flattered I occupy such a grand space in that tiny head of yours.” Dazai’s chin comes to rest on his shoulder, instantly annoying in the way that the bastard has to deliberately bend down to even get to that level.

“Oi, get off, shitty Dazai.” Pulling a hand out of his pocket, he unceremoniously splays his fingers across the bastard’s face and shoves backwards, attempting to dislodge this new clingy leech. Instead of having the desired effect, Dazai’s tongue flicks out to lick a warm, wet stripe across the palm of his hand and Chuuya recoils, pulling his hand back with a yelp and leaping forward, the end result being Dazai stumbling forwards a step, arms pinwheeling until he regains his balance and both of them standing almost nose-to-nose and glaring.

“Y-you!” Chuuya almost shrieks, and the cave echoes shrilly, loud enough for both of them to clap their hands over their ears and wince. When the cacophony finally dies away, Chuuya grabs a handful of Dazai’s shirt, preventing the asshole’s imminent escape to safer ground (read: out of range of Chuuya’s foot) and hisses, “you licked me!”

“Your hand was over my mouth,” Dazai responds blithely, “what did you expect me to do?”

Chuuya blinks, opening his mouth only to find that both words and patience have failed him, snapping it shut a second later and grinding his teeth in exasperation. “I don’t know how to deal with you right now.” he finally murmurs, feeling both the physical and emotional exhaustion of the last weeks finally crashing over him, leaving him feeling weirdly listless and unanchored. “One minute you’re talking about thousands of people being chewed up by zombies without so much as a flicker of conscience, and the next you’re doing...whatever this is.” he makes a sharp, abortive gesture between them to indicate the lack of space before taking a step back. “What’s your goal here?”

Dazai’s eyes flick between his, assessing, calculating, always seeing too much and yet pushing on past Chuuya’s breaking point regardless, just because he can.

“Spar with me?” Dazai asks softly.

“Huh?” the abrupt about-turn is sudden, confusing and entirely Dazai. “I don’t want to, I’m tired, can we just go back to the yacht?”

“No. You’re going to spar with me, on the beach.” Dazai is sweeping past him then, heading purposefully to the mouth of the cave and leaving Chuuya with nothing to do but follow in his wake.

“Why are you doing this?” he grates out five minutes later, coat, shoes and socks discarded next to Dazai’s on a rock as he stretches out protesting muscles in familiar kata.

“You turn your mind off when you fight.” Dazai says simply and Chuuya has to bite back the angry retort that instantly surfaces to lie heavy on his tongue that he is not stupid and actually pause to think about it.

When he fights, the background of the world fades away – the constant hum of humanity and life lessening in the face of adrenaline and focus. It doesn’t disappear, but it’s somehow muted, as if he can only exist here, in this moment, and everything else is an abstract web of possibilities and futures he doesn’t need to concern himself with when victory over his adversary is the only thing that matters. Fighting is natural, easier than breathing. He doesn’t need to think about what he’s doing, just lets his body run on wild instinct and memory until he’s the last man standing. No, he doesn’t need to think to fight.

He can feel Dazai watching him, the bastard’s movements stalling, Chuuya doesn’t want to know what kind of look is on his ex-partner’s face right now: a mocking smile, calling out Chuuya’s stupidity; something softer and passingly fond, an expression he’s seen flicker across Dazai’s face in the moments when he thinks Chuuya’s not paying attention; the blank emotionless void, staring with the vague disinterest of someone considering how best to utilise a chess piece in the middle of a game. He’s not entirely sure which one he fears most.

“You know I’m right?”

He can only growl something inarticulate, unwilling to grant Dazai further access to parts of himself even he is barely aware exist.

“When you fight, it’s just you. That’s where you need to be right now...that’s where I need you to be right now.” Dazai’s last words are spoken in almost a whisper, and Chuuya’s head snaps up, trying to pick apart the underlying meaning only to be met with a blood red stare and silence.

He doesn’t want to think anymore. Licks dry salt-tinged lips and bares his teeth in something like a snarl.

“Then come at me.”

Chapter Text

Dazai is beginning to think that the entire universe is out to taunt him...or torture him...one of the two.

He’s not quite sure when it happened, but now that he’s noticed it, it seems to be happening all the time.

Torture comes in the form of Chuuya, wandering through the living quarters on his way to the kitchen with a towel wrapped precariously around his hips as he holds another in his hand - rubbing vigorously at still-wet hair which trails errant droplets of water in his wake – looking up to lock gazes with him across the room, as if he can feel Dazai’s eyes tracking his every step.

Torture comes in the shape of Chuuya, lounging on the couch in front of one of the panoramic windows on the main deck, legs hooked over the armrest as he reads a book - fingers bared to the warm air without the usual barrier of leather between the deceptively delicate digits and the world - turning pages languidly as the sunset casts a warm glow across his features and lighting red hair to flame. He can’t look away, not even when Chuuya’s eyes meet his as he peeks with curious bemusement over the top of his novel.

Torture disguises itself as Chuuya, lying flat out on the top deck, arms and legs spread as he pants heavily, face flushed with the exertion of battling innumerable imaginary enemies. Sweat glistening on bared skin as he allows himself to enjoy the sea breeze for just a few moments longer. At peace in his own body and mind.

Until Dazai opens his mouth that is.

“You’re getting old and slow, slug, I could see those moves coming from a mile away.”

In testament to how used to his goading the redhead has become, Chuuya doesn’t even open his eyes, merely raises a hand, directing an obscene gesture in Dazai’s vague direction.

There’s a frightening fondness, flickering through his thoughts these days, something foreign and unsettling that sits in his guts and stirs them to squirming life. A feeling he’s tried to shove into the black pit of emptiness, or bury under layers of meticulously cultivated apathy, or pick apart until it’s bare bones and tattered threads to be understood and discarded without further concern. Instead it rears its ugly head at the most inopportune moments, leaves him feeling a little adrift, a little breathless, a little defensive.

When his usual methods of internalisation fail to produce satisfactory results – leave him coming awake breathless with the phantom touch of fingers upon fever-hot skin, sweat-soaked and aching and trying desperately not to think of tangling his hands in red hair, of blue eyes reflecting a turbulent sea, of curling around a warm body and chasing the loneliness from his soul - he reverts to old habits. Old habits, which consist of pushing and prodding and antagonising until whatever has burrowed its way under his skin can be lanced like an infected wound and purged from the system when the ugly reality of human nature bares its fangs.

This isn’t the time for fondness and feelings. This isn’t the time to realise he has more than a passing interest in his short redheaded companion; more than an obligation to keep the redhead safe, to complete their mission; more than a mild fixation that can be blamed on the enforced solitude of this tiny world encompassing just the two of them. This isn’t the time to change the game, to blur the lines and risk breaking apart what little trust still exists between them, their tenuous truce born of bickering and a clear understanding of where they stand with each other.

Oh, but some fractured, desperate part of him is starting to want to.

He wants to push himself into Chuuya’s space, to see how close the redhead will let him get before pushing him away, to press Chuuya to that limit and then past it, just to watch the Mafioso snap, to bite with that all-too human compunction that causes a person to defend themselves from an oncoming threat, and make no mistake, Dazai knows he’s a threat. He wants to know what the redhead looks like as he’s coming apart; how beautifully wrecked Chuuya would look, exhausted and satiated in Dazai’s bed, with red hair splayed across Dazai’s pillow. He finds himself spacing out to thoughts of running his hands up Chuuya’s narrow waist, curling fingers beneath his chin, pressing kisses to his throat.

Oh, yes, he wants.

No matter how much he tries to drown the inconvenient surge of conflicting emotions whenever he and Chuuya are in the same vicinity, no matter how much he might crank up the crackling tension by picking ridiculous arguments with the redhead at every opportunity, in an effort to see that unsightly side of humanity, still, the thoughts bleed through unbidden, to flash fragments of half-remembered dreams through his head. These are only exacerbated by the ease with which Chuuya comports himself around Dazai – when they’re not fighting like cats and dogs – all expansive gestures and easy grace, small smiles and the brush of a hand across his shoulder.

He would almost say it was artful seduction if he wasn’t entirely sure that Chuuya is totally oblivious to his...inner turmoil.

Right now, watching Chuuya sit and arch his back into a stretch, linking his hands above his head and tilting back to meet Dazai’s eyes with a smile and a soft voice inviting him to spar...Dazai knows one fact with undeniable certainty.

The universe is definitely out to torture him, and, like an idiot, he falls for it every time.

~ ~ ~

Secretly observing the short redhead trying - and failing – to reach the glasses he had deliberately placed at the very back of the top shelf is highly amusing. Chuuya’s fingers stretch outwards, grasping towards the glass, which is just outside of his reach, no matter how much he tries to stand on the very tips of his toes. Dazai can practically feel the annoyance radiating from him.

He’s careful not to chuckle, not to make even the slightest noise as he sidles further into the tiny kitchen. Actually, it’s a testament to how hard Chuuya is trying to reach the glass that he hasn’t noticed Dazai’s approach already, stealthy or not, Port Mafia Executives aren’t known for their oblivious natures. After all, an unwary Executive is very likely to end up a dead Executive.

He’s directly behind Chuuya now, a few scant inches the only space between them. Reaching up, he simultaneously grabs the glass Chuuya’s hand is still stretching towards, and leans his head forward until his mouth is next to the redhead’s ear, close enough for wayward strands of red hair to tickle his cheek.

Pitching his voice to an amused whisper, he holds the glass steady above Chuuya’s reaching fingers, “We’re stuck here on this tiny boat, with the lowest ceilings known to man, and you still can’t reach the top shelf? That’s just sad, Chuu-ya~”

Chuuya’s entire body jolts and then freezes, spine going rigid with shock as his arms are slammed down blindly onto the counter to balance himself.

Dazai has barely a second to pull his head back and wonder if being punched in the face will be the price for his momentary mirth. A broken nose will be worth the priceless expression of surprise on the Mafioso’s face, he decides. As he’s contemplating stepping back and attempting to remove himself from Chuuya’s immediate range, he’s interrupted by the redhead twisting his head, back arching slightly so that he can look Dazai in the eye. There’s something unreadable in those blue depths, something that makes Dazai’s insides drop in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant. His fingers itch to run themselves down the bow of the redhead’s spine, to lay his palm flat in the small of Chuuya’s back. He keeps his face carefully blank as he waits to be damned to hell.

“Why would I need to reach top shelf when I have an obnoxiously tall servant to do it for me?” The redhead’s grin is sharp and knowing and his head tilts back even further, regarding Dazai almost upside-down. “Are you going to hand that over or what?”

It’s an unconscious movement that brings them together, Dazai stepping forwards until his chest hits Chuuya’s back and he’s crowding him against the counter, Chuuya’s head hitting his shoulder and those impossibly blue eyes gone wide at their suddenly intimate position.

“Your every whim is my command~”he tries to make it a joke, but the low, rough quality to his voice surprises even him. Dazai refuses to look away, rejects the flush of embarrassment that wants to crawl up his throat. Instead he sees the instant Chuuya’s pupils dilate; feels the short, sharp intake of breath; and then witnesses the exact moment when Chuuya brushes it all off as another of Dazai’s teasing jokes.

“Tch! I’m sure it is.”

Red hair brushes his neck, prickling the skin not encased in bandages to pinpoint awareness as Chuuya tosses his head in a derisive manner, tugging the glass from Dazai’s unresisting fingers and slipping out from the cage of Dazai’s body. He’s left feeling suddenly cold under an abrupt realisation.

Dazai isn’t so sure he’s joking anymore.

~ ~ ~

There’s no time to stop and take a break, no time to pause for breath in a world tearing itself apart piece by piece as humanity whittles down to its baser compulsions, to bare instinct and the desire to survive no matter what the cost.

Days slip through his fingers like water, like a countdown to an unknown ending.

Dazai has never liked unknowns. He prefers to pick over a problem, worry at the threads until they unravel into something that can be pushed around and reshaped to meet his own ends. Knowing the endpoint is of little use when he can’t accurately predict what’s going to happen in the next few weeks, let alone the next few months. Sure he can extrapolate certain things based on what they have observed so far, but there’s a gnawing feeling of unease that worms its way intrusively into his mind, carving out a hole there and gorging itself until it becomes something gross and distracting. This world, this novel, won’t necessarily follow the rules of logic and reason. In this construct of imagination, the only God is the author by whose threads they dangle.

Dazai cannot plan for every eventuality. Not with the limited information at his disposal, and he has never liked dancing to someone else's tune.

This had been a bad idea from the start.

They’d ventured a little further out than Dazai had been entirely comfortable with, though he had reasoned with himself that they did need to start scoping out which routes remained open and which would have to be written off, ready for when they would be forced to leave their little floating home behind them and truly venture out into the hellscape beyond their cove. They had skirted the small villages - which had, by this point, been mostly stripped bare - and headed down quaint coastal roads barely wide enough for the RVs bulky frame.

The outskirts of the small town to the west of their own base had appeared deserted at first. They had hidden the RV in a tumbledown barn, standing empty in the yard of an abandoned farm. Deciding to forgo taking the bike further into the town itself (such an arrival is bound to attract the notice of anything living or dead in the near vicinity), they had walked the short remaining distance, cautiously making their way down roads and side-streets heading towards the heart of the place. Everywhere they turn Dazai’s attention is drawn to doors hanging from their hinges and swaying back and forth in the wind as if they had minds of their own; to shop windows either smashed or boarded up tight; to rubbish, glass and all manner of useless household objects strewn and scattered across streets, left to the mercies of abandoned pets and wild animals roaming this place now that it has been left vacant of the usual hustle and bustle of humanity.

They barely find anything of practical use in the buildings they do take the time to search. A few expired tins of fruit and vegetables (Chuuya makes a face but Dazai stashes them in his pack anyway), a largely empty first-aid kit, a half consumed bag of rice, a couple of cans of mackerel that leave Chuuya smirking at him and Dazai returning his flattest and most unimpressed stare. Not even worth the time and effort that had been required to dispatch the buildings’ previous occupants.

They also find a warehouse full of dog food (Dazai would rather starve); pointedly ignore the dark, foreboding entrance to a large shopping mall, seeing the dark shapes of something moving in the gloom just beyond their sight and determined to avoid that rather obvious trap; peer through the windows of a supermarket whose shelves are stripped completely bare; hurry past a butchers where the smell of thoroughly rotten meat is so strong it’s almost a tangible force, it makes Chuuya gag and Dazai laugh. They pass by many buildings that look to be normal residential houses, whose windows and doors have been thoroughly boarded up, red paint daubed in haphazard lettering across the hasty prisons, every one reads ‘DEAD INSIDE’. These they leave undisturbed, Dazai deeming the risk too great for the sake of slaking curiosity.

The entire place had seemed totally devoid of actual human life right up to the moment they had walked around a corner only to be confronted by a small group of people stood in a rough defensive circle no more than a hundred yards away, vainly attempting to fight off a shambolic herd of the undead.

The battle is already lost. Dazai can tell after only a few seconds of watching and assessing the ongoing melee. The people are fighting valiantly, desperately, with every ounce of strength and every pitifully poor weapon at their disposal, but they were being steadily overwhelmed by the sheer number of attackers and the unwillingness of the undead to simply lie down and die. Fighting an opponent who still crawls towards you after you’ve severed both of their legs – jaws clacking and reaching for any uncorrupted flesh that comes withing their grasp – saps the will from leaden limbs and Dazai can see despair and horror and, as it comes down to these last moments, a quiet acceptance of their inevitable fate.

He can feel Chuuya tense beside him, can read the redhead’s intent to leap headlong into the fray without a thought for his own safety – like some kind of ingrained mechanism (or perhaps it’s a death wish even Chuuya himself doesn’t know that he harbours). Unceremoniously, he grabs the shorter man by the arm and hauls him bodily backwards, dragging them both into the shadow of a building before pressing the Mafioso roughly against the wall and holding him firm. It’s a hold Chuuya could break out of in an instant, and they both know it.

“Don’t be stupid, Chuuya.” He keeps his voice carefully flat, keeps his expression blank and neutral despite the blue flame of outrage he receives in turn.

A thin, reedy scream and a child’s high pitched terror break their staring contest, Chuuya gripping Dazai by the arm and throwing him sideways like he was never anything more than an annoying obstacle in the shorter man’s path.

“There are kids down there,” the redhead’s voice is a tortured growl; Dazai can see the conflict resolve itself into determination, he sighs a heavy breath, knowing that this is going to turn ugly fast.

He steps quickly in front of Chuuya, blocking his path and steeling himself for what he already knows is coming. There’s no need to predict the outcome of this particular battle. As such he utilises the only weapon that remains to him, his every word designed to dig into old wounds, “Yes, there are children down there and it’s already too late for them. Do not go out there, I forbid it.”

“You forbid it?!” Chuuya rounds on him in full-fledged fury, teeth bared, fists clenched and practically vibrating with rage. “You don’t own me, bastard. You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do.”

“And yet, I forbid it.” Dazai replies mildly, hands deep in the pockets of his coat, maintaining a perfectly relaxed facade which he knows will piss off his partner even further. Good, anything to keep Chuuya’s attention on him for a few more seconds and not on the closing moments of the bloody butchery behind them.

“Fuck you! I don’t care whether you forbid it or not. I’m fucking going!” the Mafioso reaches out, sweeps Dazai aside. He doesn’t protest, makes no move to obstruct Chuuya any further, letting himself be pushed roughly against the wall as the redhead strides past.

“Like I said, it’s already too late.” He says, quietly, as he watches Chuuya’s eyes fly wide, switches his attention to the sight of two tiny bodies lying helpless on the floor, surrounding by the ripped apart and partially mangled corpses of the rest of the group.

The remaining zombies are already beginning to shuffle off, losing interest in their prey once the draw of life no longer stirs within their veins.

Chuuya’s wrath is as bright as a shining sword as he throws himself into a dead run, the familiar long-bladed knife gripped in his left hand, the axe in his right.

He cuts a bloody swathe through the undead, making barely a sound as he delivers permanent gruesome death to every reanimated corpse still standing. Bodies hit the floor, one after the other in quick succession and abruptly there are no more enemies left for the redhead to take out his ire upon. Dazai watches him fall to his knees in the street, panting heavily and staring as if transfixed at the two small bodies laid out amidst a circle of carnage.

Slowly, Dazai walks towards the redhead, running words through his head and discarding them almost as quickly. There’s really no way to come out of this unscathed after all – knowing how Chuuya’s mind works doesn’t help. There’s no easy out here.

Instead, he steps up, staring blank-eyed at the corpses, and spits out the first words that come to him. “I told you not to be stupid.”

“Haah?” it’s more a growl than any articulation of actual words.

Exhaustion and exasperation war within him, colouring his tone to something like contempt, the carefully cultivated apathy breaking into something raw and heavy. “How many times are we going to have to go through this? They’re not real, Chuuya, they’re just constructs of this world, of this story, you can’t save them! We’re here to survive so that we can go back to our city, our reality, the people who are waiting for us! Who exactly is supposed to be the black-hearted Mafioso here?”

Chuuya turns to glare daggers at him, bright blue wavering behind a slight sheen, of sorrow, of frustration? Dazai can’t begin to imagine what goes through the redhead’s mind. It is anger, though, that cuts through his words, bitten off and sharper than broken glass, “You want to talk about the Mafia, about black hearts and murder? Well, how about this: no matter how far you run, or how much time passes, your blood will always be blacker than mine, Demon Prodigy Dazai.”

Well, he was waiting for Chuuya to snap…

Dazai feels like he’s been slapped hard across the face with a truth he’s spent years trying to run from. Ice in his veins as that long-ignored part of his mind whispers with purred satisfaction. He’s right, you were born to the black, drenched in it, stained with it. He turns away from Chuuya, teeth bared in an uncharacteristic animal snarl as his mask cracks, as he tries to push the voice back into its cage, ignoring the prick of venomous tortured honesty. It’s true, for all the years that Chuuya has been dipped in the underworld of the Mafia’s patented Black, all it has done is stain him a deeper red. Yes, he has seen Chuuya kill; seen him crush ribs and heart and lungs with a single kick; watched him destroy countless lives, drowning in blood and anger and vengeance. Yet he has seen Chuuya help old ladies with their shopping; seen him calmly direct traffic during the havoc caused by the Guild’s use of Q; watched him try to save children in a reality which does not exist. Chuuya is an inextinguishable flame amidst the darkness.

And yet.

“You can’t save them.” The words drop like small dead things, rotten and maggot-infested.

“I know that!” Chuuya explodes, he’s shaking now, with rage, with resentment, with regret.

The Mafioso’s eyes flick to the two tiny bodies: filthy, torn and covered in blood upon the street. They are still in death, yet soon, too soon they will begin to twitch and shiver and move again – a monstrous parody of life cloaked in human flesh. Teeth and fists clench tight for a moment before his lips move soundlessly and Dazai has to look away (‘I’m sorry’ were the words, and they leave a brand burning beneath his ribs). “It doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.” Chuuya’s voice is barely audible as he turns to walk away.

Dazai watches him go, sighing heavily before turning to the two tiny forms lying in a grotesque scene of macabre horror. The slightest twitch of a finger - the barest movement – belies the pretence of peaceful death and Dazai squares his shoulders, draws his knife, slams on the familiar image of apathy and moves to complete the gruesome task he knows Chuuya cannot.

He ensures the final rest of the fallen with quick, perfunctory skill. A short, sharp stab through the eye-socket is all it takes to give these people their ending, free of the plague of the parasite already eating through poisoned flesh. It fills him with a feeling close to envy.

The children, he leaves until last.

As he bends over the first body, eyelids already fluttering with the first paroxysms of repulsive reanimation, he hears Chuuya’s voice call out in anguish, “What are you doing? No wait! Stop!” He ignores the frantic cry, drives the blade deep and feels bone crush beneath his hand. A vileness settles in his gut as he moves on, the wretched body of the girl beginning to arch and jerk mindlessly. As his blade is about to touch her skin, huge, dead eyes of endless too-familiar blue fly wide, rimmed with unshed tears. The sight makes his breath catch in his throat. Then her teeth clack and a distinctly inhuman sound issues from bloodied lips as she makes ready to fly at him.

It’s over in less than a second, the body limp, fragile and doll-like, lying next to what Dazai assumes to have been her brother, in the middle of the pooling blood and entrails.

He closes his eyes, pulling himself slowly to his feet and is about to turn around when Chuuya grabs him roughly by the collar and hauls him stumbling forwards. “What did you do?” he all but screams in Dazai’s face, wild-eyed and outraged.

“I ended it for them,” Dazai responds dispassionately, “What, did you think it was better for them to get up with their guts trailing behind them and go on to bite more children, end more lives? For the sake of what? Your own inability to do what’s needed? They were already dead, Chuuya, let them stay that way and end with some dignity.”

Chuuya gestures sharply to the morbid scene before them, painted in pools of crimson, “Don’t give me that shit! You call this dignity?!” He barks a humourless sound, “Don’t make me laugh.”

“It’s better than what they would have become. Rotting meat puppets forced to stumble on until their flesh melted from their bones in its decay. Who knows how many humans they could have infected. Don’t be so short-sighted,” he shakes his head, “You seem to care about the people in this story, which is, to put it bluntly, absurd. Yet you can’t through your thick skull that dead is dead? A parasite in a human suit is not a child.”

“Don’t fucking lecture me,” the redhead shakes him roughly, rage showing in the white knuckles still gripping Dazai’s collar, “I know they were dead. I know what you did made fucking sense. But –”

“But what?” Dazai asks, his tone all carefully cultivated boredom.

Chuuya’s eyes are staring at the two small bodies, now completely still in eternal death. His fingers loosen and his hands fall to his sides, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he grinds his teeth. “But how can you just walk up to a kid and stick a dagger into their brain while making that face?”

He doesn’t allow Dazai time to formulate a response, turning to stomp down the road without bothering to look back.

Dazai stands rooted in place for long seconds, wondering if he just made a mistake.

~ ~ ~

They’re back at the RV after enduring the long trek beyond the outskirts of town in absolute silence and Chuuya still refuses to look at him. It’s beginning to grate on Dazai’s nerves. He’s used to the snap and bark, used to the explosive temper, used to everything but Chuuya’s silence.

“Is there something wrong with you?” Dazai finally asks flatly, pulling up his most bland expression when Chuuya’s head snaps towards him.

“Wrong with me?!” Chuuya almost growls back at him. Dazai simply continues to stare blankly at the angry redhead, figuring Chuuya will tell him what’s going on in his head eventually, all he has to do is wait it out.

“Can you fucking stop with the dead-fish expression, Mackerel,” Chuuya’s words sting just a little.

“What exactly do you want from me?” Dazai responds, deliberately keeping his tone wiped clean of any inflection.

“What do I fucking want from you?” the redhead repeats, barking out a laugh that sounds harsh and full of disbelief. “You left the Port Mafia four fucking years ago. Joined the Detective Agency,” Chuuya almost spits the words as if the very name offends him, “Four fucking years and you haven’t managed to learn the art of compassion, or even human emotion?”

The venom lacing those words hurts, not that Dazai will allow it to show on his face, instead he responds with this first retort that comes into his mind, the words like claws, hooked and aiming for the kill. “Well, you would know all about what it means to be human, wouldn’t you, Arahabaki’s vessel.”

Chuuya jerks back as if Dazai had physically struck him, and he immediately wishes he could take the words and burn them from existence, because this isn’t right; he knows too much, knows Chuuya’s past, all of his dark secrets and insecurities, the twisted fears he holds over his own humanity that Dazai has heard whispered – fragmented, haunted and shaky - in the dark over the course of years.

He knows exactly how to tear the redhead apart, piece by bloody piece. All he ever needed were a few well-aimed words.

He watches Chuuya’s face flit through a range of emotions - anger, hurt, rage, fear, doubt. Dazai feels slightly sick, wants to reach out and take Chuuya’s hand, apologise over and over for taking those haunting confessions - given to him in some kind of bizarre trust - and turning them into a weapon.

“I –” Chuuya’s voice is hoarse with something indefinable; a small and broken thing. You did that. You finally broke him. Part of Dazai murmurs to himself. “Fuck you…” the redhead all but whispers, pain and betrayal swimming in those blue eyes which right now are refusing to look at him once again. “I – I’m done. I can’t do this.”

His partner, his only grounding anchor in this world, turns without another word, grabbing the motorcycle’s keys from the cup holder on the passenger side and his pack from where he’d only just belted it in next to the tiny dining table.

As he unhooks the straps which keep the Red Monstrosity securely fastened to the rear of the RV, Dazai watches in mute silence, his mind racing through a thousand different scenarios, a thousand things he could say. None of them come close to good enough.

The bike’s engine roars to life and Dazai’s whole body startles at the sudden noise.

“Chuuya, wait!” He finally musters the will to call out.

Chuuya’s head doesn’t even turn in his direction when he speaks, voice barely audible above the idle growl of the bike, “We’re done here.”

The engine revs, but Dazai doesn’t hear it.

We’re done here.

The words ring in his ears as the bike (and its redheaded rider) disappears.

~ ~ ~

The drive back to the clifftop is the most miserable of Dazai’s life. Endless thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind, swirling and culminating in an unrelenting maelstrom of conflicting emotions that he rarely allows himself to feel. And amidst all of the tumultuous mess, one horrifying sentence, playing on endless repeat.

We’re done here.

Three hours he had waited on that road, eyes fixed ever on the horizon, hoping (pleading...praying) to see a flash of red speeding its way back to him, yet already knowing that it wouldn’t come.

We’re done here.

He parks the RV in it’s shelter with little to no care about hiding it from view of prying eyes. His entire demeanour lacklustre and hopeless as he hauls his pack down the cliff path and across the small beach, loading it onto the tender without a thought for its contents and casting one last look back to the cliffs, longing to see a familiar figure waiting there with an arrogant smile, or poisonous words...he’d even take Chuuya’s fists right now, if only the stupid redhead would just come back.

We’re done here.

His head is pounding - louder than the waves crashing distantly against the shore – a nauseating thudding beat through his brain by the time he’s stowed the tender back on the rear platform and dragged his pack through to the kitchen. He can’t face dealing with sorting through its contents right now, ignoring it in favour of gulping a large glass of water then staggering through to his bedroom and practically collapsing across the unmade sheets.

Oblivion welcomes him with a gaping maw, shining fangs, betrayed blue eyes and the unending loop of we’re done here.

In his dreams Chuuya dies a hundred different ways, each more horrific than the last. Dazai himself is present as an insubstantial thing, a shadow on the wall, forced to watch but not engage as Chuuya is pulled apart by rotting fingers and yellowed teeth again and again; as Chuuya is ripped from his bike by rough hands and faceless bodies that laugh as they paw uncaring through his possessions before putting a bullet through his skull; as Chuuya tries to save children whose guts are already spilling from their bodies only to be turned upon by the ones he’s trying so desperately to help; as Chuuya is chased through buildings, through forests, through streets, always falling, always dying without a sound. He never once calls Dazai’s name.

The one time Chuuya rises again, black-veined, blank-eyed and growling that unmistakable harsh, guttural rattle, Dazai startles awake and is instantly bolt upright, bile creeping up his throat as his leaden limbs try vainly to support his weight. Ultimately they fail and he almost crumples to the floor, sitting cross-legged and taking great swallows of air as his hands begin to shake.

He gives up on sleep altogether after that.

Pacing the deck fractiously as the sun begins to cast skittering rays of light across waves bathed to sudden brilliance in shades of moody orange and pink, Dazai doesn’t appreciate the beauty. His thoughts and his head turn with an almost pitiful compulsion to the cliffs. His body aches with the chill of the morning, head fuzzy with exhaustion and the dark thoughts and flashing images of dreams that slip through cracks yawning wider with each passing hour.

When his feet lead him unerringly to the tender he lets loose a bitter laugh, part strangled hatred, part rising madness. Without pausing for thought he’s launching the tiny boat, speeding towards land and an empty stretch of desolate beach which seems suddenly terrifying.

He spends a listless day wandering around in a half-daze, trying and failing to keep his mind occupied with a number of arbitrary tasks he’d set himself only to push each one aside minutes later as he startled at some noise only to stare fixedly into the distance and see nothing.

Always nothing.

Against his own better judgement, Dazai cannot face heading back to the yacht alone as the sun dips its rays once more into the water, dying in a blazing celebration of gold and fire that is unable to touch the creeping cold worming its way through Dazai’s soul. He dozes fitfully in the back of the RV, despite having lectured Chuuya multiple times on why it wasn’t a good idea and just how vulnerable the hunk of very thin metal and plastic fabrication really is, despite their flimsy attempt at fortifying the entrance to the cove.

He doesn’t care. Cannot contemplate pacing the deck alone for a single second.

This time all of his fractured dreams are of bite marks, bared teeth and slowly rotting meat stretched across decaying bone; blackened veins, dead eyes, spilled entrails and unholy snarling.

The second day on shore, Dazai forces himself to usefulness: climbing down to the cave on the cliff and spending long hours cataloguing their acquisitions so far. He splits the various inventories into different sections, each section becoming the foundations for future stash points. He makes intensive notes on what is still needed – the quantities split into bare minimum and comfortable levels. He tries not to let thoughts such as ‘What’s the point?’ and ‘What if there’s only one person using the stash points?’ intrude on on his deliberations – such thoughts just end up with him spiralling into black moods and the intense need to break something. It wouldn’t do to ruin all of the supplies they had managed to accumulate after all. There’s still a job to be done, no matter how much it might feel like the end of world right now.

The third night of Chuuya’s absence, Dazai abstains from sleep altogether. He drinks coffee wrapped in a blanket on the bed in the back of the RV and reads a book within a book forcing himself into an endless loop wondering how such things can even exist (it’s better than the other, darker places his mind wants to drag him to).

In a moment of weakness (or perhaps just debilitating weariness which can no longer be overcome) he succumbs to the open jaws of oblivion. It’s probably less than an hour, but in his dream it feels like a lifetime.

Blue eyes wide with fear.

Fingers pressed desperately against a wound that pumps out the remnants of life, sticky-red and inescapable.

Black track-lines standing stark beneath skin growing pale with the pallor of death.

A mouth too red, forming words that make no sound.

I trusted you, Dazai.

He wakes feeling like the air has been sucked from his lungs. Images flash with vivid colour across a mind not quite ready to relinquish the horror it had watched unfold. Breathing ragged and drenched in cold sweat, Dazai manages to throw the door open and scramble out before vomiting the meagre contents of his stomach onto the grass.

His head spins and the drums pound their unceasing beat through his skull even as he digs his fingers harshly into his temples.

It’s ridiculous, he thinks, to let nightmares of all things tear down his carefully built walls. If Chuuya is in trouble, what can he realistically do about it? Nothing. The stupid slug had chosen to run away of his own accord, hadn’t given Dazai the slightest clue as to where he was going, no methods of communication between them, only this one place, this one cove in all the world that feels like it belongs to them, now suffocating him on all sides. Dazai can do nothing but wait. And if Chuuya is dead? Then he’s on his own. Nothing really changes, it only ever needed one of them after all. He can complete this mission alone, get to the appointed place at the appointed time, end it all and afterwards he and Chuuya can go back to avoiding each other, hating each other, trading insults and death wishes when their worlds happen to collide, as they inevitably always do.

He doesn’t want it.

He doesn’t want it so vehemently that he rejects the very idea of Chuuya lying in a ditch somewhere out there (or worse, shambling along at the head of a moaning, monstrous horde). For all that he’s impetuous and controlled by emotion, Chuuya is not stupid, has never been stupid. Nobody makes it as an Executive in the Port Mafia without a certain level of cunning, guile, sharp instincts and a certain disregard for international law. Chuuya is smart, Chuuya is strong. For all that his zombie apocalypse knowledge is lacking, Dazai is practically certain that the redhead will find some method of survival.

Chuuya wont die.

The thought sounds weak and insubstantial even in his own head.

Chuuya wont die.

They will both survive this, and that means he will see Chuuya again before the end, even if it’s on the very last day when both of them will be forced to that one place in this world where all of this can finally cease to be.

Feeling slightly better, slightly more resolved, he climbs back into the RV, rinsing his mouth clean from the acidic taste of bile coating his tongue and busying himself making another cup of coffee, determined to sit and wait for the sun to come up and then do something that doesn’t involve moping.

Dark clouds roil on the horizon, thick, moody and foreboding with the promise of rain. The wind whips the sea into foaming whitecaps stretching as far as the eye can see until the waves crash relentlessly onto the shore. There is no golden dawn to be seen, only the descending darkness of the oncoming storm. Dazai feels weirdly like the weather is mirroring his mood as he climbs carefully down the cliff path, navigating his way back to the cave and their tiny treasure trove.

Today – he has decided – he will pack up one section, the one closest to being complete, and haul it back up to the RV. The stash points aren’t going to build themselves, and the sooner the task is started, the sooner it will be completed and the higher the chances of success when it comes time for all this to be over.

It’s after his second trip of dragging his filled pack (which he’s adamant weighs more than he does with the amount of stuff he’d managed to cram into the stupid thing) when the weather suddenly breaks. Harsh driving rain forces him to make a dash for the cave to take shelter. Water cascades across the entrance like a tiny waterfall, drenching him to the skin in an instant as he ducks in. His sodden shoes squelching with each forlorn step. Having calculated that the storm is likely to last hours before it blows over, Dazai - shivering from the cold bite of the wind – drags one of the piles of dry driftwood from the rear of the cave that he and Chuuya had stashed here after their first expedition for exactly this kind of purpose.

He’s never been so glad to have firelighters and matches, huddling close to the flickering blaze mere minutes later. It does nothing to fix the issue of his thoroughly saturated clothes, but at least its slightly warmer. Sighing loudly even though nobody can hear him, Dazai strips off his coat and shirt, laying them on a nearby rock in an attempt to dry them, his pants and socks joining the ensemble a moment later, leaving him in his boxers and a spectacularly soggy set of bandages. It’s absurd but he doesn’t feel like baring himself to the world completely, digging instead through the collection of assorted goods until he comes up with a blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders and returning to the fire – not yet warm and dry, but considerably more comfortable for the time being.

He should probably get up and do something, but the fire is warm and crackling merrily, casting shadows to dance around the cave. Dazai finds himself lost staring into its depths, some small part of him wishing he could watch this whole world burn.

Minutes turn to hours until the sound of the incessant pounding rain finally peters out into a light drizzle, patches of sunshine lancing through the last of the clouds which scud quickly across the sky. Dazai is pulled from watching the patterns of flame as they leap and flicker and tremble by the lengthening of the shadows which are slowly creeping forth as if to encircle and drown him in darkness.

He would laugh if he weren’t so hollowed out – as if any darkness could truly drown him.

Still, there’s at least one more trip before all of the necessary items are safely on board the RV, and if he wants to do it while there’s still some daylight left he had probably better stop staring at nothing and get back to work.

His knees crack as he rises from his cross-legged sitting position upon the rocky ground, every joint protesting at being left to go stiff in the cold and damp. Dazai ignores the various aches that make themselves known and trudges wearily to the mouth of the cave to make sure the squall has truly blown out its fury.

He stops dead.

Standing on the beach - hair hanging in soaked rats tails to his shoulders, staring out to sea, is Chuuya.

A deluge of conflicting emotions threaten to engulf him as he looks at the half-drowned redhead. Shock, anger, hope, hysteria, annoyance - all clamour to the forefront of his exhausted, misfiring brain. But above all of them, blazing bright and exigent is relief.

“Chuuya!” he calls out without thinking. The blanket falls from nerveless fingers and in seconds he’s running a dead sprint across the sand, ignoring the sting of tiny stones and shells as they bite into the soles of his bare feet.

The redhead is staring wide-eyed at him, unmoving even when Dazai practically flings himself forward to wrap his arms around Chuuya’s neck and pull him close without thought.

Realisation hits him a moment later and he pulls away, just far enough so he can look down into those blue eyes – bright with life.

Alive. Chuuya is alive.

“You’re here,” he can’t help but whisper.

“I’m here,” Chuuya returns, his tone guarded and mouth a thin line.

“You’re here,” Dazai repeats, his fingers aching to reach out, to touch and reassure himself that this is real and not just another dream where he is shadow, insubstantial as a ghost, and about to watch Chuuya die over and over and over – “You came back…”

“Of course I came back, shitty Dazai,” Chuuya mumbles, a red flush settling across his cheeks, “I just – needed to get away.”

Dazai sucks in a deep breath, lets all attempts at maintaining a facade slip from his face and finally, finally, reaches out to grip Chuuya’s shoulders. Solid and real and alive. The words pour from him without conscious thought. “What I said was unforgivable,” he wills Chuuya to hear the honesty in his words, “I’m sorry, Chuuya. I said it to lash out, to make you hurt –”

Chuuya cuts him off with a shake of his head, “Let’s not talk about that right now. I’m not sure I can respond objectively...or forgive what you said.”

Dazai bites his tongue on everything left unspoken, at the chasm of destroyed trust now yawning between them – one push enough for the endless fall - pulls his hands from Chuuya’s shoulders to drop limply to his sides. He’s unsure, and that’s a new feeling when it comes to where he stands with Chuuya, they’ve been rivals, begrudging friends, something indefinable, bitter enemies, but never has Dazai not known exactly where he stood. It’s awkward, he feels suddenly unbalanced, lost at sea.

“Why are you standing outside in a storm, practically naked?”

Dazai could have predicted many courses for this conversation to go, but this, this was not one of them. He’s sure he looks sheepish under Chuuya’s bemused gaze as he rubs at the back of his neck. “Ah…I was moving stuff from the cave to the RV and misjudged how much time I had left before the storm hit. I got wet.”

“Huh.” Chuuya shakes his head, and, now that Dazai has chance to look at him, really actually look at him he notices the redhead’s own change in attire. The black jeans, though saturated with water, hug his legs like a second skin. The boots are the same, familiar, warm and comfortable, the very ones Chuuya had been wearing the day Dazai whisked him away from the bar that seems a million years distant and deposited them both in this hellscape. But the jacket, all black leather with silver buttons and zips, that’s definitely new, and fits the redhead’s small frame like it was made just for him.

He’s still taking in just how well these new clothes fit Chuuya, when his mouth decides to run off without his permission once again. “You ran away for three days to go shopping?!”

Chuuya frowns for a moment, clearly struggling to hold back some kind of retort that – if he was being honest – Dazai would much rather the redhead just spat out to clear the cloyingly thick air between them, finally he shakes his head and smiles, something all teeth and practically daring Dazai to push this into another fight. “It was a happy coincidence I stumbled upon a bike shop on my...travels. I’m tired of all that prissy salmon and lemon bullshit our millionaire benefactor left us with when he went for a swim with the fish.” He gestures to his own body, “I feel more like me.”

Dazai almost recoils at the underlying message beneath those words, ’I feel more like me after you made me feel like I wasn’t enough’. He swallows hard, nods once and looks away.

Some of his inner turmoil must show on his face as Chuuya seems to snap himself out of whatever dark thoughts were running through his own head to give Dazai an out. Rolling his eyes skyward, Chuuya spins and begins to walk away, pausing after a few steps to look over his shoulder with a withering expression. “Come on, bastard, before you freeze to death standing there in your fucking underwear.”

Dazai can’t help the broken laugh that spills from his mouth as he follows Chuuya back to the cave, placing his feet carefully, deliberately in every print Chuuya’s boots leave upon the sand, as if in an effort to convince his own mind that the redhead is actually here and not a figment of his deranged imagination.

Alive.

~ ~ ~

His clothes are still damp, and the blanket hasn’t fared much better after being dropped to the wet floor without any conscious thought or consideration. Dazai sighs loudly and resigns himself to the inevitable, pulling on his clothes as the last remnants of the fire flicker to smouldering ash.

Chuuya has remained silent since entering the cave, though his eyes never leave Dazai, and he can practically feel them burning holes through his skin. It’s a distinctly uncomfortable feeling, this barrier of unspoken hurt lying thick and impenetrable between them. Dazai has never felt so utterly adrift and apprehensive about breaking the tension. But then, he’s never particularly cared whether Chuuya snaps back at his barbs or scoffs, or throws something equally horrendous back at him in the form of harsh words, sometimes flying feet or fists, at his worst - a knife at Dazai’s throat. He will take it all over the suddenly terrifying possibility that Chuuya will walk out on him again.

His tongue feels like a brick in his mouth, heavy and unwilling to move, but it seems that Chuuya is determined not to break the ice this time.

He wavers for a moment between honesty (wanting to throw himself on Chuuya’s mercy, beg and plead with him never to walk away again) and joviality (force a smile, crack a joke, pretend there’s not a giant pink rhinoceros in the form of an angry redheaded Mafia Executive waiting to charge him down).

In the end he chooses the cowards way out.

“So, Chibi, what exactly have you been up to these past three days?” while I’ve been worried sick and dreaming of you lying somewhere in a pool of your own blood. He leaves those words unspoken, sticking like tar in his throat.

Chuuya hasn’t stopped watching him, those blue eyes always assessing, accusing, stripping him down to bone and brain with that look, with that hurt still lingering in ocean depths.

Dazai, for once, tries desperately not to drown.

Finally Chuuya frowns, sighs and lifts one shoulder in a slow, almost nonchalant shrug, “Oh, you know, nothing exciting,” he looks away, foot tapping on the floor to echo around the cave, drawing even Chuuya’s attention to the habit. He cracks a wry smile and places his boot back firmly on the ground. “Rode around aimlessly until I ran out of fuel and was left only with rage,” he grins sheepishly at the admission, “Anger doesn’t make a combustion engine work, so I had to push the damn bike until I could find an abandoned car with enough gas left in the tank to syphon.” Dazai knows the face he’s making is deeply unimpressed and Chuuya actually laughs, “I know, I know. I was a lot more careful after that. I found the shop, the zombie bastards found me, we had a bit of a runaround. I got a nice new wardrobe.”

Suddenly Dazai finds himself no longer caught in that deepwater gaze and Chuuya glances off to the side and scuffs his foot in the dirt.

“What aren’t you telling me?” he asks blithely, knowing already that whatever it is that Chuuya has thus far omitted from his Tales of Adventure, he’s not going to like it.

“Hn, why do I even think I can keep secrets from you, bandage bastard,” he huffs, though the words are slightly more irritated than unkind. “Well, I kind of stumbled upon a biker gang, if those things even exist in this shithole. They turned up at the shop as I was packing up.” Chuuya must catch Dazai’s almost panicked scanning of his body because he snorts and waves a hand dismissively, “Don’t worry, they didn’t do anything other than try to aggressively recruit me for their ‘squad’.”

“What happened?” Dazai thinks he can catch a slight hesitancy in the way Chuuya leans more of his weight on one side, but the redhead shifts under his gaze and even the barest trace of tension is gone. He wonders if he’s just being paranoid.

“I told them to fuck off.” Chuuya laughs and the sound makes Dazai stop trying to pick up any further nuance of injury and stare at Chuuya’s face, “They didn’t seem inclined to take my polite refusal as an answer, so when their ‘leader’ came at me with this stupid tiny switchblade I sent him flying into the nearest wall and got out of there before the grunts even registered what had happened,” he shrugs carelessly, “They tried to follow me for a bit but their bikes were shit.”

“Getting yourself into a situation like that was stupid and dangerous.” Dazai speaks without thinking again and immediately curses his own inability to remain silent whenever his stupid, reckless, irritating, ex-partner is involved, somehow unable to engage his supposedly genius brain to do this one simple thing.

Chuuya’s eyes fly up to meet his head on, narrowing dangerously.

“Are you saying I can’t take care of myself?”

He should stop, he really should pause to think about what he’s saying, but Chuuya has always had the uncanny ability to destroy his brain-to-mouth filter and common sensibilities utterly and completely and before he even registers what’s happening he’s barrelling on. “I’m saying you’re reckless and you don’t stop to think about the consequences of your actions, you just go in blindly trusting your instincts. There’s a reason I was always in charge, why Mori hesitated for so many years before you became an Executive.”

It’s something of an innate mechanism, an old need to push anyone and everyone away, prevent them from getting close. Not forming attachments. Not forming connections that Mori could use to manipulate him and twist him to obedience. Loneliness a familiar and protective barrier as much as it leaves him adrift and longing for something more.

Anger, despair, loneliness and bitter hurt colour his words, and Chuuya is looking at him with something cold and livid lurking in his eyes.

Suddenly there is ice in his blood and a voice whispering in his ear.

We’re done here.

He can see Chuuya preparing to turn, to walk right back out of this cave, their sanctuary. This time, he wont come back, Dazai knows in the very core of his being; if Chuuya leaves now, their partnership, whatever they have left of it, will be irreparable.

The thought stabs dread through him with a bite sharper than that of a hundred razor blades.

“Wait!” He shouts, the single word echoing from the walls to taunt him with his own fear-tinged tone - clear and frantic. “Chuuya...stay?” there’s panic, gnawing at guts gone liquid, panic he tries so hard to shove down deep into the darkness, far enough that he’s deceiving even himself.

Something must waver in his voice, betraying him, as a wry, knowing smile lifts the corner of Chuuya’s mouth and unreadable eyes flit back and forth to search Dazai’s face. “Of the two of us, you tend to be the one who always leaves. Isn’t it funny how things change?”

Well, he’s getting hit with a lot of truths he’d rather have left buried recently. Past decisions, past regrets, past mistakes, crawling out from every dark corner to take their turn in the light of day. He probably deserves it, honestly, it’s been a long time in coming. He doesn’t want to have this conversation right now, doesn’t want to open himself to more insidious doubts. He also, very assuredly does not want to point out the blatantly obvious in that Chuuya had, in fact, been the one to ride off into the proverbial sunset without looking back. That it’s not funny at all. Bringing that up definitely wouldn’t put him in the angry redhead’s good graces, despite the way the words sit heavy in his stomach.

Still he pulls open old scars with an ingrained need to defend himseld, gripping and twisting in the effort to drag up his shield, painted in blood once again; to protect himself from the creeping, overwhelming, unwanted feelings churning in his gut.

“You say I’m the one who always leaves. But let’s be honest here, Chuuya, when I walked out on the Port Mafia, were you not pleased to be finally out from under my shadow? After all, you did finally become an Executive when I wasn’t around to rain on your parade!”

The redhead’s expression drops, falling from dark building anger to sadness in a matter of heartbeats, not a hint of reflected humour or even ire to be seen. “Nobody ever makes it out from under your shadow, Dazai.” His words and his gaze are directed steadfastly towards the floor and in that instant, Dazai hates that even now his ex-partner cannot look him in the eye when recalling those days. “Every person you touch, everyone who sees your true self is tainted,” a quiet sigh, “It’s why you don’t let anyone close anymore, right? Instead you hide behind all of this –” Chuuya makes an expansive gesture, encompassing the entirely of Dazai’s body, “the fake smiles and the joking around. The pretence that you’re comfortable, happy.”

That almost accusatory blue gaze fixes on him once more. “It drops sometimes, you know? The facade you try so hard to keep up. They see it and pretend not to notice...the darkness still leaking through the cracks.” He laughs then and the sound is sharp and disparaging, “Then you snap and dig your fingers into old wounds until whoever got in too deep withdraws and walks away.”

Now it’s Dazai’s turn to look away, unable to meet Chuuya’s eyes, to see the sad reality of the choices he made, the person he was, the person he tried to become. “Ouch Chuu-ya~” One last attempt at brushing off the words that are eating into his core, drowning the wicked bite of reality with a flippant sing-song tone.

“You’re doing it now.” The clicking of Chuuya’s tongue is like a gunshot in the sudden quiet of the space yawning between them. “You don’t have to hide from me,” a self-deprecating laugh from the short redhead has Dazai’s head pulling up sharply, “after all, I’ve been living in your shadow for all these years.”

The weight of years of denial - a deception so deep Dazai had almost tricked himself into believing it, immersing himself wholly and completely in the lie of laughter and mock-insanity - comes crashing down on his soul. The life he had run from, chasing Odasaku’s dream of a better person: someone who saves people instead of ending them; someone who cares about the lives of strangers; someone who wants to live as a good person should. The people he had discarded along the way, broken, angry, dead...Akutagawa, the student who hated him; Odasaku, who died telling him to be better; Chuuya, the partner he had left without a word, to the Mafia’s tender mercies.

“Chuuya...I’m–”

Chuuya’s eyes flash as his arm shoots out to grab a fistful of Dazai’s still-damp shirt, dragging him closer until they’re almost nose-to-nose. “Don’t say it,” the redhead’s voice is a low, menacing hiss, “Don’t you dare say it.” Dazai can feel the tremor in those fine-boned fingers, “It doesn’t mean anything now.”

“What can I do?” There must be something in his tone that surprises the redhead, as Chuuya’s fingers release their grip on abused fabric and the shorter man takes a hurried step back, blue eyes wide with something like shock. Ahh...honesty. Yes, that would do it. He says nothing, simply watching his ex-partner who is now shifting awkwardly on his feet, fists clenching and unclenching on empty air.

The reply, when it comes, is a barely audible whisper.

“Stay…” the next words are almost too soft for Dazai to make out, but for all their quiet they still burn, “wait for me, like I waited for you.”

The defensive part of him wants to tell Chuuya that he’s not stupid enough to wait four years for anyone; the words sit like acid waiting to drip from his tongue and melt through the thin fibres holding them together. Instead, what comes out shocks even him.

“Every time I fell asleep, I dreamed of you dying,” Dazai whispers back.

It feels like a confession.

It probably is.

Chuuya’s eyes widen impossibly, searching Dazai’s face in a manner that makes him want to look away, because there’s no doubt the redhead is seeing far more than Dazai ever wanted him to know. Embarrassment colours his cheeks and Chuuya keeps on staring, Dazai held captive, desperate and yet unable to break that contact. Finally Chuuya’s face softens and he lets out a slow breath, biting his lip and cutting the connection that holds Dazai in thrall.

“We’re both fucking idiots,” the Mafioso huffs, and Dazai is so overwhelmingly glad that Chuuya isn’t asking horrifically probing questions about why Dazai dreaming of his ex-partner (current rival, and ultimate enemy) dying would bother him, that he simply snorts and tips his head in agreement.

Perhaps they are both fucking idiots after all.

Chapter Text

They’ve reached some form of weird, uneasy peace, punctuated by awkward silences and ghosting around each other in a manner that leaves Chuuya feeling more alone than he ever has in his life. Despite being constantly in Dazai’s presence – whether he wishes to be or not, a ninety-five foot long yacht is not the most ideal place for anyone seeking the solace of privacy - there’s a wall there, an opaque, looming, insurmountable barrier and he’s not even sure whether it’s Dazai or himself who put it there.

He’s not totally oblivious - much as certain individuals who shall hereby remain unnamed might loudly proclaim him otherwise – he can feel Dazai watching him with increasing frequency, with increasing focus; the bastard doesn’t even bother to pretend he’s doing anything other than watching when Chuuya catches those dark eyes fixed on him. There’s an intensity there, it leaves him with a lingering feeling of something burrowing under his skin, as if with just that look, Dazai is peeling away the layers of Chuuya’s skin and flesh, muscle and sinew until he’s nothing but the bare bones of something close to human, waiting to come undone. Neither of them talk about it. He knows that they’re both keeping secrets, both trying hard to act as if the dynamic between them isn’t shifting by infinitesimal degrees to something neither of them quite yet understand; something neither of them are ready to accept.

He tries to pick through the there-and-gone-again glimpses of something that linger in Dazai’s void-like eyes, but the darkness swallows them almost as quickly as they emerge, fading to nothingness as if they had never been. Sometimes he wonders if he simply imagined they were there at all, whether some small part of him isn’t just projecting his own ingrained desire to be needed upon the only other thing close to being human in his direct vicinity.

His room becomes a sort of sanctuary - or as much of one as can be had upon this tiny vessel, considering Dazai has absolutely no sense of propriety or personal space at the best of times, and when he’s in these fractious moods he is just as likely to barge into Chuuya’s room and fling himself across Chuuya’s bed as he is to curl up morosely under a pile of blankets like an overstuffed sushi roll in his own. Still, it’s the one small place he can call his own in this shithole reality and so it’s here Chuuya retreats to when he wants to be alone, sometimes feigning sleep when Dazai pokes his head around the door, despite both of them knowing that Chuuya isn’t actually asleep.

Right now he’s perched on one side of his bed, carefully unwinding the bandage from where it’s wrapped tightly around his thigh, grimacing at the spots of old blood darkening the dressing pad beneath and sucking a breath through his teeth before yanking it clear in one quick motion.

Under the dressing, a row of carefully placed stitches run in a neat line stretching no more than a few inches across his thigh. Running a finger down the puckered, still-healing skin, he winces at the sharp sting of pain which accompanies the touch, probing the flesh to check for any sign of heat or discharge to indicate an infection which could prove lethal in this world, where antibiotics are not just a Mafia clinician’s room away.

He hasn’t told Dazai about this. He can’t tell Dazai about this...can’t bear the thought of proving that bastard right again; definitely can’t face another lecture about being ill-prepared or overconfident or stupid. It had taken every shred of his tattered self-control not to walk straight back out of the cave in the face of Dazai’s disparaging disappointment upon his return to the cove, and like hell is he putting himself through that shit anymore, mission or no mission.

He’s been careful to hide it, withholding any sign of stiffness or pain from his gait, training as normal, even though the stitches pull tight, oozing droplets of fresh blood and threatening to split every time he lifts that leg to kick out at imaginary enemies. He hasn’t invited Dazai to spar for days – has seen the coalescing confusion in dark eyes when the bastard wanders up to the deck in the morning, yawning widely, only to find Chuuya already stretching out after completing his routines. He can’t risk Dazai catching on to any hint of strain in his movements, catching the way his leg doesn’t quite reach the correct height or spin out with the power he would usually employ. For his part, Dazai seems reticent to point out this change in their routine.

The wound itself had come from a lucky shot, from what he had guessed to be the second-in-command of the biker gang he had run into after raiding a store set off one of the west-running highways. Admittedly, he’d been a little careless, still stewing in a cloudy mix of anger, betrayal and hurt. He’d left his bike sat in full view at the front of the store, its shining red chassis enough to draw the attention of anyone who happened to pass by. He hadn’t been counting on encountering other humans all the way out in the middle of nowhere – they’ve very rarely seen evidence of anyone else on the roads in all the times they’ve been out scavenging for supplies. It had been a stupid mistake on his part, and he’d paid for it in blood.

The shot had been fired as he had kicked his own bike into full throttle after downing the gang’s leader - with one well-placed hit - to leave him sprawled in an unconscious heap upon the floor. Just one shot had been fired, but annoyingly it had found a mark – grazing Chuuya’s thigh, though luckily it missed burying itself fully in his flesh. Still, the wound had almost been enough to cause him to pass out from blood loss as he’d tried to shake his tail of furious biker lackeys in a high speed chase around the countryside.

Finally he’d managed to give them the slip, his own machine sleeker and faster and better maintained than anything those shitheads had possessed. He had parked up in a dilapidated barn, choked with weeds and with half of its rotten roof missing, miles from any kind of civilisation. There he had deemed it safe enough to practically tumble from bike, landing heavily on the floor with a bitten back scream of pain at the resulting jolt, which had almost dragged him from consciousness.

It had taken him five minutes to fumble through his pack, his fingers shaking from the delayed onset of shock, but he’d finally located the small medical kit Dazai had insisted they each keep on them at all times. Peeling the gloves from his hands and the blood soaked pants from his skin he had quickly used an entire bottle of water and a pitifully small alcohol wipe to sterilise his hands as well as he could considering the amount of dirt accumulated when living in the wild, thankfully the gloves provided a doubly welcome barrier of protection between his skin and the dirt, blood, zombie chunks and fuck knows what else he’d come into contact with recently. Chuuya had bitten his lip bloody as he’d pressed what he hoped were clean fingers into the wound, checking for any sign of shrapnel or foreign bodies left by the bullet, or scraps of material ripped from his clothes, all of which could cause the wound to fester – practically a death sentence out here.

He’d cleaned it meticulously, using half of another bottle of water, mixed with tiny sachets of salt to flush the gash until the blood - still oozing sluggishly - ran in diluted pink trails down his leg. Patting it dry with it a gauze swab, he’d cracked the lid on the tiny bottle of antiseptic, teeth sinking once more into his lip as the medicinal spray seared fresh fire on his nerves. He’d forgotten how much it hurt, getting shot. The thought had made him giggle hysterically, vision going black around the edges.

The first prick of a curved suture needle into skin is always the worst, always requires more pressure than you originally think it will, the pull of the thread through a hole that feels far too small, grating against abused nerves already lit to burning and torment, riding on a cocktail of shock and adrenaline. Stitching your own wounds is a messy business – sutures require finesse and a steady hand, neither of which is a likely quality for a person to possess if they have gotten themselves into a situation which requires the application of stitches in the first place. It’s a delicate trade-off between pushing the wound closed firmly enough to properly staunch the bleeding and seal the torn flesh and not pressing so hard that you lose consciousness; it’s a fine line between leaving the thread too loose so that the stitches are basically useless and the flesh takes longer to knit together and form adequate scar tissue; or pulling the thread too tight whereupon the stitches are likely to burst at the slightest hint of pressure.

Still, Chuuya has sewn up many wounds over the years – his own, Dazai’s, members of his squad who required emergency care out in the field before they could be transported back to base to be looked over by the sketchy underground physicians the Boss invariably has on the Port Mafia’s payroll (the kind who pull out bullets or shrapnel or glass, who sew up guts and organs and don’t ask questions in exchange for a large stack of bills). His fingers had shaken only slightly, more from the loss of blood than any hint of apprehension. The resulting stitches were small and neat: a row of black teeth clamped across torn flesh.

He’d just managed to dress and bandage the wound before he’d passed out, half-naked in the dirt.

He had woken up the next morning, clawing his way groggily from an exhausted sleep and fighting against the drag of unconsciousness, to the roiling, heavy-bellied black of storm clouds gathering in a foreboding mass overhead. He knows he’d been more lucky than he had any right to be: lucky the biker gang hadn’t had the sense to track him properly; lucky he had found this mouldy old barn stuck out like an oasis amidst the endless desert of lonely fields; lucky the undead hadn’t come across him in the night, bloodied, weakened and dead to the world.

Pulling on the figure-hugging black jeans – a pair freshly stolen from the store that had been the cause of all his troubles the previous day - had been an effort in self-torture. The denim had clung to his legs, pressing insistently against the bandage and fresh stitches in a way that reminded him forcefully of their presence with every minute shift in movement, but he’d endured worse before...so much worse.

He’d packed up as quickly as he could, not wanting to tempt the ire of fate or fangs of karma any more than he had already, straddling the bike with a wince and lifting his head to the sky as the first drops of rain had begun to fall. It had been long enough, his anger had cooled to a low simmer, still present (always present when it came to that shitty bastard) but no longer at an all-consuming murderous level he couldn’t handle, and by then...well he’d had a yearning for something familiar in this alien place, a need to be near another person (if Dazai can even be called such) and not have to wonder if they’re about to rip your guts from your body.

The wound is healing now...the flesh knitting together slowly but surely to form an ugly, puckered, red line as a testament to his adventure. Thankfully there is no sign of infection, no odd heat or discolouration outside of the expected. Lucky. He’d certainly been lucky that day, if the bullet had been aimed true, he could be lying dead at the side of the road somewhere, stripped of his measly possessions and left to rot like so much trash, leaving Dazai on his own to finish this mess of a mission without backup...completely alone.

The thought makes something like shameful guilt gnaw at his stomach. Quickly he cleans and dresses the wound once more, hiding it from the light of day underneath a layer of bandages and regret. Without thinking too hard about the why, he pulls on his pants and unlocks the door to his room, determined to find Dazai and end this stand-off silence, still sitting stubbornly between them.

~ ~ ~

This time it’s Chuuya who prepares the tea: lighting the single gas camp stove they have been using to try and conserve the yacht’s energy supplies; placing the kettle carefully atop the flames; setting cups and measuring sugar before pouring just as meticulously as he would were he serving Kouyou-nee’s finest and most delicate blends (despite the swill they have managed to procure being nothing like the calibre gracing Ane-san’s carefully prepared boxes).

This time it’s Chuuya who rummages in the kitchen cupboards, pulling aside packets and tins until he reaches his prize – a bag of small wrapped taiyaki filled with chocolate which he’d hidden away, knowing the time would come when he’d be grateful for the comforting hit of sugar-sweetness and bitterly poignant reminder of home. He figures now is as good a time as any.

This time it’s Chuuya who balances the tea and treat offering on a small tray and sets off to hunt Dazai down like some kind of hound; checking the living quarters, his room and the top deck before making his way around to the front of the boat and climbing the few narrow steps to the huge sun lounger.

Dazai is lying flat on his back, arms and legs outstretched like some kind of giant, lanky, morose starfish, his eyes staring blank and unblinking at the cloud-dotted sky. He doesn’t even seem to have noticed Chuuya’s arrival. Chuuya feels oddly like he’s intruding on some kind of private moment, hovering on the last step for an indecisive moment before dropping his foot in a deliberately loud fashion. Dazai doesn’t jerk upright, or startle, or yelp, he barely acknowledges Chuuya’s presence at all, save for the flick of his eyes as he glances down momentarily, expression flat and bored as he returns his attention back to the rolling wash of blue scattered with the occasional flurry of fluffy white above their heads.

Chuuya heaves an internal sigh, knows that Dazai choosing to ignore him is just another method the asshole uses to get under his skin. He wonders what it says about his mental state when he’s considering Dazai’s company and constant attempts to provoke a reaction from him as a not wholly unattractive alternative to being alone.

He takes the silence as an invitation to sit, disregarding the clear signal that Dazai wants to be left alone, because what Dazai wants and what Dazai needs are quite often contradictory concepts, no matter what that bastard might think. Placing the tray between them, he sinks down onto the cushioned floor, crossing his legs and leaning back on his arms.

He lets the silence sit, solemn and stifling, building to something he feels he could almost touch, if only he had the desire to reach out and try.

“Why are you here, Chuuya?” Dazai finally asks, not deigning to look at him as he speaks in that irritatingly flat intonation, which gives away absolutely nothing about what’s going on beneath the calm veneer.

“I made tea,” he replies, keeping his manner easy.

“Why are you here, Chuuya?” Dazai asks again and Chuuya is about to snap and ask him if he’s gone fucking deaf, but that shard of guilt is twisting in his gut and the healing wound on his leg chooses that moment to itch almost accusingly.

He sighs, picking up his teacup and inspecting the oddly satisfying geometric design printed on the outside before taking a sip of the cooling liquid and placing it carefully back on the tray.

Finally he tilts his head towards Dazai, the slight stiffening in the bastard’s countenance the only tiny indication that he feels the awkward tension just as much as Chuuya in that moment, though the other makes no move to meet his eyes, his focus drawn somewhere a million miles away.

Chuuya, as always, is the one to cross the bridge; to reach out his hand with honesty, though he expects no such consideration in return.

“I...wanted some company.” the words are small, almost lost to the whisper of breeze coming in across the bay, vulnerable and more than a little pathetic. “I’m tired of being alone.”

It feels like he’s confessing some kind of mortal weakness, even more so when Dazai pushes himself to his elbows and Chuuya is suddenly faced with the full force of his attention.

They stare at each other for what feels like a long time, but is probably only the passing of a few seconds in reality. It feels like Dazai is reading something written on his soul rather than whatever emotion is scrawled across his face in this instant.

“People like us are always alone, Chuuya, haven’t you realised that yet?” The words sound like brittle despair and untempered yearning wrapped up in an infinitely warring loop, one feeding the other and being devoured in infinite turn.

“People like us? Don’t put us together in the same category, asshole. We are nothing alike.” Well, that hadn’t exactly gone to plan. He huffs out a bitter sigh, reminding himself exactly why he’d come out here in the first place. “We’re together right now,” he points out quietly, busying his hands with the teacup.

Dazai’s face is impassive, a jarring contrast to the words of futile despair, uttered in a tone completely devoid of anything at all. “We might be together right now, or tomorrow, or the next day, but in the end we’re all alone...we live alone, we die alone, no matter how much we might want it to be otherwise.”

Chuuya refrains from bitterly pointing out that he is, in fact, never alone (at least, outside of this twisted and lonely reality, and isn’t that a sudden shock to the system, suddenly being truly alone in one’s body, with complete control over every facet of your own personality, your own fate, your own destruction), that out there, the beast lurks inside, stalking his every move. Will he die alone...maybe? Who knows if that vengeful god will follow him to the very ends of the earth, to devour his soul in the afterlife as it has every fucking day of his functioning memory? Who knows if there’s even an afterlife waiting for him – human or otherwise?

He shoves the thought vehemently aside...now is not the time to run endless, frustrating circles around the question of his own dubious humanity.

“You should stop thinking about dying and start thinking about the here and now,” he murmurs quietly - maybe a little hypocritical considering his own derailed thoughts, but that bastard doesn’t need to know that - taking a sip of the tea and resolutely refusing to meet the focus of those dark eyes. “I’m tired of being alone.”

The tension between them has become an almost solid, corporeal thing, he almost reaches out to press his palm against it, to attempt to convince himself that it’s real. This was a bad idea, trying to cajole Dazai into anything is always a bad idea. He shifts, intending to get up and write this whole mess off as an act of madness.

Dazai’s voice stops him in his tracks.

“We’re together right now –” Dazai repeats, his words small and uncertain in a way Chuuya is entirely unused to.

“We are,” he agrees softly. Turns to find Dazai watching him with a complicated expression that has anything further he might say sticking in his throat and dying in the shaky exhale of his breath.

“And that’s enough?” This time Chuuya barely catches the words at all, though he hears the echo of an unspoken ‘I’m enough?’ that Dazai will never utter.

He allows a small, almost sad smile to lift the corners of his mouth into something rueful and painfully honest.

“Right now, it’s enough.”

Dazai’s eyes skitter to the side, finally landing on the tray still sitting between them and the cooling tea. His back cracks audibly as he heaves himself into a sitting position, reaching for the second cup and pulling it to his lips to take a noisy slurping sip before his nose wrinkles in clearly feigned distaste.

“Chuuya this is awful. I can’t believe Ane-san didn’t train you better, you’d make a terrible geisha.” There’s a flicker of something in those dark eyes when Chuuya’s own narrowed gaze meets Dazai’s, a spark of something deeper than whichever fronted personality Dazai is choosing to paint upon his face today, a sliver of the life Chuuya wishes the bastard would just reach for and cling to instead of his tendency to chase headlong towards death and his so called perfect ending.

Not that he would ever utter such a thing out loud.

“Shut up and drink the fucking tea,” he grouses through a smile.

~ ~ ~

Sometimes the days are bright.

Even in the drudging monotony of their days there is a new undercurrent of contentment. They share a space – if the weather is kind they sit out on the top deck, staring into the endless expanse of water, empty and unbroken save for the shifting waves; when the clouds roll in and the wind rocks the boat this way and that, or the rain patters it’s unceasing tattoo upon whatever surface it can find, then they sit in the living quarters, lounging spreadeagled upon plush couches – and they talk. They never speak of old days, of old times, the bitter-tinged memories left to lie in locked boxes, carefully partitioned away. No, they never speak of old days, instead they tell stories of the years they’ve been apart, how their lives have changed, how old friendships have broken and new ones have formed. Chuuya is sure each of them is painting a picture in their mind, building an image of a life neither was part of.

It’s light and laughter and tales of adventure, daubed in colourful lies and lacking the blood, the pain, the death on his side, the loneliness, the memories, the sometimes reckless descent into self-destruction on Dazai’s. Unspoken yet understood just the same.

Some days are bright. He gets used to seeing Dazai smile, not that forced fake facade he puts on in front of other people, but something softer, thin and a little broken but still undeniably there.

Sometimes there is silence. Not the heavy, awkward silence born of mistrust or apprehension, no, it’s the silence of acceptance, of knowing someone so thoroughly (despite the secrets they both keep, buried and tucked safely away from even themselves) that there is no need for words. Hours at a time they remain in each other’s company, together and yet apart in some kind of silent, mutual orbit. Chuuya will read whatever trash had been left behind by the previous occupant, or the even more offensive trash Dazai had picked up on the road. Dazai will sit and stare at the ocean, eyes unfocussed as he thinks about...whatever suicidal idiots think about when trapped in their own heads, Chuuya sure as hell doesn’t have a clue. He’ll pause in his reading, lifting his gaze from the printed words to Dazai’s profile, and, as if shaking himself from a trance the dark-haired man will blink, turning those old-blood eyes to regard him with tilted head and an unspoken question.

Some days there is silence. He catches fleeting glimpses of something he cannot put a name to in the way Dazai looks at him, something that hides in shadow lest it be cast out as weakness. He tries not to look too hard. Isn’t sure whether he wants to see.

Some days there is darkness.

He will wake with sun, as has become his habit in this world as it never was in their own; pulling himself from sleep to wash and dress before heading to the top deck to stretch and work through exercise routines to keep himself in top shape. On these days, he knows what he will find before he even makes it to the top of the stairs: Dazai, standing by the short railing and leaning as far over as he can without toppling forwards; Dazai sitting with his back against the bulwark, twirling a blade between careless fingers; Dazai sitting on the top step, a gun in his hand, idly clicking the safety on...off...on...off.

Blank eyed and blank faced, as if there’s no part of a soul left within that vessel which hasn’t already been swallowed by the void he knows lurks within Dazai’s very bones, always threatening to engulf him completely.

Sometimes there is darkness. It seeps into the very air between them, Dazai’s darker, self-destructive nature coming to the fore in the form of those horribly familiar dead eyes and a lingering listlessness.

On these days, Chuuya abandons his usual routine, he brings Dazai tea, sweetened with way too much sugar. He sits beside him and presses his leg against Dazai’s, knowing that physical contact will ground him in the present, even if he doesn’t dare speak. He watches the sun rise with beautiful, stately majesty into the waiting sky and wonders who does this for Dazai on the outside? Who anchors him to reality when the dark impulses come to drown him in a black miasma that stains worse than blood?

Is there anyone Dazai lets this close?

He knows, with a certainty built upon a foundation of years - from forced partnership, forced trust, forced reliance – that no matter how far Dazai falls into his own head, he won’t act on those impulses. He won’t leave Chuuya alone in this place, won’t abandon his mission or those who are relying on the both of them to get out alive. No matter what that darkness might whisper in his ear.

He knows, and yet...each time he wakes and finds Dazai on the top deck, his heart beats painfully in his chest. A fear he will not allow himself to feel at any other time crawls up to clog his throat with something vile, choking the breath from his lungs. He squashes it all down mercilessly, burying it under the certainty that Dazai will not leave him.

Or will he? It wouldn’t be the first time after all...

He is always exhausted when those mornings are over. When the faintest tremor of light slowly rekindles in the blank, bottomless orbs; awareness returning with the press of Dazai’s leg against his own. A silent thank you that will never pass Dazai’s lips, never be acknowledged in the light of day, nor in the shadow of night.

He hears it loud and clear.

~ ~ ~

It’s on one of those dark days that Chuuya finds himself suddenly blinking open eyes he had closed only with the intention of resting them. Instead, it seems, exhaustion had overtaken him and he’d managed to fall asleep, pressed from shoulder to ankle against Dazai’s side, head resting on the taller man’s shoulder.

There’s a feeling of quiet peace in the air between them, discernible even before Chuuya can properly comprehend his current position. Dazai’s fingers are carding gently through his hair in an almost absent fashion, carefully teasing out the knots tangled by the salt-tinged morning breeze. Even though the deck beneath them is hard and cold, Dazai is warm and alive, the fingers in his hair are gentle and soothing and perhaps he’ll just pretend to be asleep and stay here just a few minutes longer.

“I know you’re awake,” Dazai’s voice is a low rumble, felt more than heard with Chuuya’s head still pressed against his shoulder, “you tensed up just now and your breathing pattern changed.”

“Mmh –” Chuuya decides the incoherent mumble is a more than adequate response, pressing sleepily closer to the warmth as his eyes slip closed once more. Dazai’s fingers pause in their work and he frowns. “Don’t stop.” When they don’t immediately resume he lets out a small sound of displeasure, “S’nice.”

The short chuckle from Dazai jolts him to a momentary awareness, the low noise suddenly close enough to make him blush. But the fingers are stroking obediently through his hair again in soft sweeps, pausing only to rub slow circles into his scalp and for once Chuuya is just going to let himself take this small comfort, embarrassment be damned. He hums contentedly, pressing once more into Dazai’s side as his thoughts drift pleasantly away.

He wakes some unknowable time later, curled into something soft and warm instead of the expected uncomfortable chill of the deck beneath his ass. He’s in a bed. Not his bed...the lingering scent of something medicinal mixed with the tang of citrus-sharp invades his senses, envelopes him in something comfortably familiar and strangely safe. He wonders - with more than a little trepidation and not for the first time - when he’d gotten so comfortable with that bastard’s presence that his body no longer sees fit to wake him when he’s being manhandled, tossed onto rumpled sheets and ensconced in blankets. Probably sometime between releasing Arahabaki and falling into unconsciousness, only to wake on the cold, hard ground with his face carefully cleaned of the blood and traces of battle and his clothes folded neatly in a pile beside him. Sure, Dazai hadn’t stayed, hadn’t taken him back to base as he’d promised, but it’s not like Chuuya had ever expected him to keep his word.

“Ah, the snoring beast has awakened~” the amused sing-song tone from his left is enough to make him muffle a groan into the pillow before rolling onto his back, twisting his head to blink blearily at Dazai – sat cross-legged next to him and flicking idly through the trashy romance novel Chuuya had finished last week - through one cracked eye.

“Shuddup your ruinin’ the mood.” he mumbles before yawning widely.

“Oh? Do we have a mood?” Dazai’s eyebrows wiggle suggestively and Chuuya’s mouth tilts into a frown.

“Ugh. I’m too tired to deal with your shit. Go away.”

“Go away? But, Chibi, you’re in my bed.” the bastard is all out leering now, leaning down until there’s barely more than a few inches between their faces and, still slightly scrambled from sleep, Chuuya can’t quite focus on anything other than those long lashes, shuttering that dark gaze.

“And whose fault is that?” he huffs, deciding that turning his head away, closing his eyes and ignoring the bastard is the best way to deal with the situation.

The sensation of being watched at close proximity makes his skin prickle and his shoulders tense.

Dazai’s voice, when it comes, is right next to his ear, close enough that he can feel the air used to propel every word. The bastard whispers as if telling Chuuya his deepest secrets, “Ah, well, I didn’t have the energy to carry you down all those stairs, Chibi, you might be small but you’re no lightweight.”

There’s a pause, long enough for Chuuya to wonder if Dazai is actually going to get up and leave him be. Really, he should know better.

“Besides,” the sudden drop into a barely-there purr, threads something strangely heated through his skin, paints a blush across his face before that unholy demon has even finished speaking, “you look good in my bed.”

With a huffed growl, he lifts his head, grabbing the pillow out from under him and turning to smack it full force into the bastards smug face, earning a yelp and indignant, unintelligible sputtering. Twisting to prop himself up on one elbow, he waits for Dazai to regain his bearings, tossing the pillow aside and arching one eyebrow in what he hopes is a confidently artful pose.

This time, he chooses to fight fire with fire.

“Oi, shitty Dazai, I look good anywhere.”

Dazai’s eyes go suddenly wide – something dark, deep and desperate winding the glimmer of black through familiar red-brown. For a moment, Chuuya almost thinks he understands...the rules of this little game they’re playing, this push and pull of attraction and repulsion. Dazai’s tongue runs across his lower lip, pulling it between his teeth, Chuuya watches the movement and tries to pick apart what’s going on underneath – he never could understand what went on in that stupid genius brain. Dazai, the incorrigible bastard, must catch on to what he’s doing because an instant later his face is wiped clean of any emotion whatsoever, leaving an eerie blank slate presided over by dead fathomless orbs of darkness.

He is not perturbed.

“Oh? Cat got your tongue?” he mimics Dazai’s earlier purr, his voice dipping to smoke and inky black amusement as he cants his head to the side and allows himself a small smirk.

“No, I thought I just heard my dog yapping~”

Chuuya smacks him with the pillow again, satisfied when the bastard topples backwards off the side of the bed to land on the floor with an ‘oof’ of expelled breath.

“Tch. Stupid bandage bastard. Go do something useful.” With that he drags the pillow from the opposite side of the bed to himself, flopping back down with a sigh.

“What are you doing?” Dazai’s whine is half annoyance and half confusion.

“Taking over your bed,” he replies, rolling until he’s in the middle of said bed, surrounded by a pool of blankets on all sides. “It’s comfortable.”

“It’s mine! You can’t have it!” Chuuya catches the pillow that comes flying at his face without even opening his eyes, wrenching it from Dazai’s grip and shoving it behind his head.

“Too late. You put me here, now you have to deal with the consequences.”

“Consequences?” Dazai hums, the drawn-out lilt of the word a flashing neon precursor to the fact that something abominable was about to come out of his mouth. “What exactly are the consequences of having Chuuya in my bed?”

“Hmmm? I wonder? That’s something you’ll have to find out for yourself.” Chuuya’s honestly not quite sure where this is coming from, certainly not his brain – his mouth appears to have gained sentience and decided to act of its own volition. He can’t help but think he’d probably regret this, whatever this is, if he was slightly more awake.

The bed chooses that moment to dip, and Chuuya opens shocked eyes to find Dazai’s face looming over him once more, eyes bright and head cocked and something strangely fond lingering at the corner of his mouth and far too close.

“Oh? Perhaps I’ll do just that, Chuu-yaa~”

He’s not exactly sure what he just gave his permission for, but something squirms in his gut and lodges somewhere in his throat, his breath coming short as he wonders abstractedly where this is going to lead.

Dazai throws himself down next to him, the mattress bouncing with the sudden impact, inadvertently (or perhaps purposefully, who fucking knows, nothing tends to be inadvertent where Dazai is concerned after all) pressed close to Chuuya’s side. He can feel his whole body stiffen in surprise before he forces it to go lax, grumbling out a low breath at the obnoxious attitude of this idiot.

“Now, what are you doing?”

“Watching Chuuya sleep made me sleepy. So I’m just going to nap here. This is my bed after all, Chuuya will just have to deal with the consequences since he chose to stay here.” He can practically hear the grin in Dazai’s voice without the need to turn his head and actually see it.

“Mmhmm…” Chuuya yawns, shuffling lazily until his side is more comfortably pressed against Dazai’s front, the blankets between them a welcome barrier against whatever this is. “I’m sure I’ll manage.” Another yawn and he knows he should get up and do something productive, but fuck it, he kind of wants the comfort of knowing Dazai is here and present and not somewhere a million miles away in the infinite space of his own head, drowning in a sea Chuuya never quite knew how to pull him out of.

Tentative fingers brush through his hair, the touch light and uncharacteristically unsure. Unconsciously he shifts his head until the press of those fingers is against his scalp. A rough, somewhat embarrassing noise hums up from his throat and he knows that they’re both using each other as a convenient outlet for the need to touch and be close with something familiar, but he can’t help but to push closer, silently asking for more.

Dazai has always been clingy with the people he actually allows to get close to him; though most consider him to be some kind of untouchable paragon. It doesn’t show in an obvious way, nothing is ever obvious with that bastard, but the brush of fingers against a shoulder, a pat on the head, ruffling the hair, glaring daggers at anyone else who has the audacity to get close...Chuuya knows it’s Dazai’s way of grounding himself, to remind himself of the people he continues to exist for when living for himself is never enough, to remind himself of what’s real and present and not just part of the endless machinations inside his own mind.

With Chuuya it’s always been something more. They had started out with violence, with Chuuya throwing Dazai around Suribachi city like a ragdoll – angry and intense and with nowhere to focus that violence save on the dogs of the Port Mafia. It had devolved from there into loathing and trying to stay as far away from that manipulative bastard as it was possible to get when one was working within the same organisation and said bastard had the uncanny ability to show up at the most inopportune moments, as if his sole remaining purpose in living was to harass Chuuya to the point where they would inevitably clash.

From there it had been ‘Do you trust me, Chuuya?’, whispered in dark places as they faced down enemies no two mere boys should ever have to endure, no matter the cards they had to play. Torture and torment and a trial by fire and raging black flame which lead to the mantle of ‘Soukoku’ falling upon two teenagers, a little less human and a little more broken with every new streak of blood daubed upon their hands. Then Dazai had draped himself over Chuuya like a cloak and he’d never been certain (still isn’t certain) if the bastard was trying to protect him or provoke him, overshadow him or cover him from the eyes that always watched. Dazai had been the ‘Demon Prodigy’: untouchable, feared and loathed in equal degrees and Chuuya, well, perhaps he’d been one of Dazai’s anchors in that storm – always ready to cut the asshole down with sharp words, always ready for a fight.

There were others, once, people who Dazai had allowed to glimpse the yawning empty chasm inside his chest...and, well…he’s seen the flowers that sit and wilt on Oda’s grave; has seen the shadow that haunts the headstones; has seen Sakaguchi Ango wheeled out of a hospital, bandaged in every conceivable way.

And Chuuya? Chuuya is used to being surrounded by people: an integral part of a larger whole. The Mafia is his family and his home and despite being an Executive, he’s generally liked as well as respected by his subordinates and his peers alike. He’s used to spending afternoons drinking tea with Kouyou-nee as they discuss the latest reports or she criticises his choice in fashion while dressing him up in pretty things she just happens to have on hand (of course, he indulges her at every opportunity, Ane-san has been his own anchor in the storm, back when he had cracked and oozed pain, panic and vitriol, drowned himself in wine while cursing a certain bastard’s name); he’s used to dragging half of the Black Lizard to various Mafia-owned bars, getting drunk on fine wine and throwing his arm around the closest person, usually while complaining loudly about Dazai; he’s used to being surrounded by the clamour and demands of Mafia life and this new world of silence...the lack of bodies milling through familiar hallways...it gets to him.

“Chuuya?” A whisper in his ear, drawing him from his own strangely churning thoughts.

The weirdly fond emotion is choking him, clawing at his insides with words he knows could not be taken back once spoken. Something he’s not quite ready to face looms large just behind closed eyelids, sits heavy on his tongue. He can’t speak, can’t open his mouth and risk letting those thoughts take shape to change the air between them, isn’t ready to let down those walls, to forgive. Instead he evens out his breathing, concentrates on the ghosting touch of fingers pressing against his scalp, rubbing tiny soothing circles that make him feel lightweight and content.

He hears a whispered “I’m glad –” as he drifts on the wave of unconsciousness and sinks beneath it’s outstretched arms.

~ ~ ~

He’s in the kitchen, busying himself with fixing tea and contemplating the contents of the cupboards in a bid to both plan out a meal which doesn’t involve some disgusting concoction of ingredients that should never be allowed to exist on the same plate, and to stop his mind from running twisting loops and tangled knots around thoughts that just won’t sink obediently into the oblivion where they no doubt belong.

He had never been that great at compartmentalising...that shit was always more Dazai’s forte. Chuuya prefers to deal with things more...directly (that bastard would say ‘loudly’).

Things are changing. That pressure upon their dynamic which is both unsettling and curiously intriguing in equal measures. He doesn’t know whether it’s for the better or for the worse, but considering their precarious position, pursuing these thoughts any further is the height of idiocy.

His brain, apparently, doesn’t give a shit.

So...tea. Making tea is soothing, there’s familiarity to every step, a purpose to every action and an order that’s familiar and so deeply ingrained it’s almost like a trance.

“Tea opens doors. Within the ceremony there is an expectation and form that brings pleasure to the participants. You can learn a lot about a person by observing that form. Learn well, boy.”

Kouyou-nee...he misses their conversations, misses her critical eye, her calm demeanour, her effortless beauty, and her ruthless slaying of the opposition when the situation calls for it. She would tell him he was being ridiculous, caught up in the story of emotions that don’t really exist in the harsh reality of the world they live in.

He kind of agrees.

“Chibi! Get out here!”

The abrupt shout makes him jump, the spoon clattering into the teacup and splashing the contents across the counter. Clicking his tongue in irritation, Chuuya scowls, stomping out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the top deck where he judges the intrusive yelling had come from. Sure enough he can see that unmistakable lanky form, standing on the edge of the deck, one arm thrown up to shield his eyes as he stares up into the sky.

“How many times to I have to tell you, don’t call me Chi –” he starts, grinding the words through clenched teeth as he advances on Dazai, only to be cut off mid sentence.

“Shush, Chibi, listen…” Chuuya is about stalk off in annoyance at being both interrupted and ignored, when the sound reaches his ears. He pauses, halfway through turning, cocking his head to the side to try and pick out the discordant noise amidst the gentle sounds of the waves lapping against the yacht and crashing against the nearby rock formations.

There.

A distinct humming roar.

Discarding his previous ire, he hurriedly steps up next to Dazai, using one hand to block out the sun from his eyes as he scans the patchwork sky, filled with drifting clouds. “Is that a plane?”

“A very loud one, apparently,” Dazai mutters distractedly, both of them falling silent. “There!” he stabs his finger out at the sky and Chuuya squints, following the line that his arm makes before he finally spots it.

Or rather, them.

“They’re fast,” he murmurs in surprise, counting five aircraft in a rough two-three formation as they tear their way through the skies, seeming to crash headlong into the marshmallow fluff of clouds only to reappear seconds later on the other side, comet trails of vapour streaming behind like a dragon’s tail. The roar of their combined engines grows louder with each passing second as the aircraft draw closer and closer, starting as small specks against the blue and grey backdrop and growing steadily larger until the distinct shape of wings can be picked out and they are moments away from zooming almost directly overhead.

“Those aren’t passenger planes.” Chuuya points out needlessly, though Dazai hums his agreement without making the expected snide remark. “Do you think they’re military?”

“It seems like a safe bet.” Dazai shifts a half circle, watching the formation of aircraft begin to disappear over the opposite horizon, Chuuya follows but instead of watching the planes, he studies Dazai’s face, thinks he sees a flicker of concern buried somewhere in the press of Dazai’s mouth.

“Do you think they’re bringing aid? To survivor camps maybe?” he ventures, listening to the roar shift back to a distant hum before vanishing altogether.

Dazai’s expression is dubious as he drops his hand to his chin and tilts his head in Chuuya’s direction as he contemplates.“It’s possible, but if they were bringing aid, wouldn’t you expect them to be in big, lumbering cargo planes that can hold a whole lot of supplies in just one unit, rather than fast, manoeuvrable fighters?”

Chuuya’s eyes widen at the implication behind his words. “Then, you think they’re here to attack?”

Dazai shrugs with a nonchalance that never fails to get on Chuuya’s nerves, as if what’s happening in the wider world is none of their concern, despite the fact that at some point they’re going to have to make it through that wider world to end this fucked up mission and go the fuck home.

“It makes sense considering the type of aircraft. If they belong to this country, it’s likely they’re planning to launch concentrated attacks on areas with a high density of of undead in an effort to slow down the rate of infection.”

Chuuya’s face twists into something full of disgust, “If that’s their plan it’s not very well thought out. Those undead fuckers don’t actually die unless you pierce the brain, right?” Dazai nods, “In fighters like that, way up in the sky, I’d assume they’re carrying a missile payload and not just indiscriminately raining down bullets, but even so, if they’re lucky they might incapacitate some zombies, collapse some buildings and crush them to death, but the odds of actually killing them all would effectively be zero. Not only that, but if there are any civilians left in the area...well, I doubt they’ve given any warning.”

“I doubt civilians are at the forefront of concern for whoever is in charge of this theatre.” Dazai’s smile is something small and wry as he shakes his head and collapses into one of the chairs on the deck. “Their thoughts are probably something along the lines that the longer this outbreak continues, the higher the concentration of undead in any population heavy centre. Once those population centres are overrun and there’s no longer a viable source of fresh host bodies for the parasite to consume, more of the undead will begin to spread out in an ever-expanding radius, looking for more humans to infect and continue the parasitic life cycle. As the density of undead rises across the country it will become harder and harder for whatever remains of the government to adequately supply the surviving population with what it needs to continue to function and exist as a governed society without turning to anarchy.” Dazai shrugs again and Chuuya huffs in annoyed amusement at the gesture.

“All of this is assuming that there is some kind of controlled encampment or compound of survivors still functioning under some maintained semblance of law and order. Of course, any remnant of the military could have simply gone rogue and taken it upon themselves to ‘rain fire and death down upon the enemy’.”

Chuuya rubs at the back of his neck, a creeping cold chilling his blood, “This is going to make moving around more difficult for us if those fuckers rip up all of the roads. That bastard author sure as hell had fun with this whole apocalyptic, world gone to shit thing, huh?”

That surprises a genuine laugh from the idiot, who covers his mouth and looks up through his lashes at Chuuya, who can’t help but shake his head and smile, something small and rueful.

“Well, they could just be bringing aid.” Dazai chirps merrily.

“And you don’t believe that for a second.” Chuuya grumbles in return.

He can see the knowing glint in that reddish gaze from a mile away. “Well, you’ve experienced Poe-kun’s tender mercies before, Chuu-yaa~ you should be more than familiar with his works by now.”

“Don’t fucking remind me.” he says, somewhat sourly. “Carry on talking like this and I might just give up and let one of the zombie bastards bite me.”

Dazai’s voice is uncharacteristically soft when he replies after a long moment of silence. “Finally seeing the world from my point of view, Chuuya?” Chuuya bites the inside of his mouth to stop himself from speaking as a lost, almost wistful look settles on Dazai’s face. “A double suicide with you might not be so bad after all.”

“What nonsense are you babbling about, idiot.” his voice is too soft for the harsh words, too quiet. He reaches out a hand to smack Dazai around the back of the head. “Like I’d ever agree to such a stupid thing.” Too fond, too familiar, too much.

Dazai’s eyes are staring into his soul, digging up secrets and scars and leaving a bloody furrow of something dark and hungry in their wake.

He sees its mirror image in crimson.

~ ~ ~

Throughout the following five days, they hear the distant droning overhead. Sometimes they step out onto the deck, casting their eyes to the heavens in an attempt to pick out the metallic glint of the sun glancing across a wing; sometimes they share a conflicted look across whatever space they happen to be frequenting at the time.

From the third day, they begin to catch the lingering scent of smoke upon the wind; faint enough to be almost unnoticeable at first, lost amidst the salt of the sea, but steadily polluting the air until it leaves a scratching itch at the back of Chuuya’s throat.

He can only imagine what the scale of destruction must be, for the smoke to have carried this far.

~ ~ ~

Standing in the shadows of the trees, he can smell only fresh earth and the scent of wood and greenery, cloaked from the pervasive smoke by a canopy of leaves and a carpet of detritus. He’d taken one of the jet ski’s for a spin - despite Dazai’s protests over the wasting of their fuel supplies - enjoying the freedom of the open ocean until its vast emptiness and the lack of anyone to share the experience with had left him feeling strangely hollow. So he’d dragged the jet ski out onto the sand and meandered his way up the cliff path, figuring he might as well do something useful and check on their barricade and the vehicles hidden within the protective ring.

Dazai would surely have berated him for coming onshore alone, but, in all honesty, being around that bastard these last few days has left him with a prickly feeling and more thoughts in his head than he can even begin to untangle and make sense of. It’s off-putting, makes him short-tempered and snappish and Chuuya can’t hide his emotions behind a stone wall, knows that Dazai can read him like a fucking book and know exactly where to stick the knife in to make everything ten times worse.

Which leads here.

He’s already dispatched a few wandering corpses. Two had managed to blunder straight into the trench, impaling themselves on the wicked spikes buried into the ground, unable to move or extricate themselves, yet still alive...flailing and growling grotesquely. The sight of intestines hanging in rotting stinking strings from an opened gut had made him glad that he’d skipped out on breakfast that morning.

A third had been lingering around the gate, pushing arms trailing peeled strips of skin through the wire-wrapped railings in a frantic effort to reach its prey, the source of it’s unceasing hunger. Chuuya had stomped off through the forest, using a plank of wood to cross the trench and come up on the creature silently from behind, digging his blade into the point behind the ear in one vicious motion, driving the thin, eight-inch steel blade into the brain and watching the corpse drop heavily to the floor.

He drags the body off the track and deeper into the woods, away from their camp, knowing that there’s a high possibility that one dead body is likely to draw more. The last thing they need is a horde at their gate.

The first impact comes out of nowhere, shocking enough to make him gasp as his body jerks reflexively, flinging him into the fight or flight response, and the ground seems to shake beneath his feet. The booming thud cracks like thunder and echoes through the trees, sending clouds of birds into startled, headlong flight.

Another blast comes quickly on the heels of the first, all hell seeming to descend as a barrage of echoing explosions follow consecutively, with bare seconds to pause between each following impact.

The world screams.

All is noise and the thudding jump of his heart in time with the erratic shuddering drumbeat of detonations.

Finally – some unknowable time later - silence resumes: not the silence of a forest at rest, but the complete and utter void of sound of a world shocked to mute panic and cowering in fear of the next strike.

Chuuya can taste something like fear on his tongue.

Before he’s even aware of what he’s doing, he’s moving, throwing his body into a ground-eating lope along the dirt track that will lead him to the road, feeling the slight pull of the stitches - still knitting healing flesh together - beneath his clothes.

He’s covered half a mile when the distant humming roar becomes evident above the returning sound of life in the woods, rising in volume with each passing second. The familiar sight of five aircraft in that two-three formation comes into view as they plow effortlessly through the clouds, cutting a jagged line across the sky with vapour trails hanging like forgotten streamers in their wake.

When he reaches the edge of the woods, coming to the end of the track leading to their cove - hauling aside the branches they’d gathered and arranged to make the entrance blend a little more subtly into the hedgerows on either side – he steps out onto the road and stops dead in his tracks.

Smoke rises in a towering black plume on the horizon, spreading like some kind of living wall, billowing outwards in a giant, ominous cloud to swallow up everything in its path.

Chuuya can already smell ash in the air, can taste something acrid settling at the back of his throat.

He stares, wide-eyed and motionless, watching the black miasma expand and swallow earth and sky alike, covering them in a blanket of shadow until it paints a wide swathe in shades of grey across his vision.

His mouth is dry. His eyes sting. He has no idea how long he’s been standing here in full-view of anyone who happens to be travelling down this road, but he can’t tear his attention away from the scene playing out before him, like something straight out of fiction. Well...perhaps that’s a poor choice of analogy.

He doesn’t hear the approach of another person. Doesn’t even register that he’s not alone until a hand brushes lightly against his back.

In an instant he has a knife pressed against their throat.

He stares into a pair of wide dark eyes, fathomless and fearless; thinks maybe he sees a hint of desperation and excitement seeping through the cracks but a second later there’s only something like forced humour. Dazai’s head tilts fractionally, pressing his skin closer to that silver steel bite.

“Shit –!” Chuuya snaps, hurriedly withdrawing the knife and staring at the thin line of blood that wells up along the line of Dazai’s throat, dribbling slowly down to soak a blooming red stain into the bandages beneath. “I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine.” Dazai cuts him off with a wave of his hand and a complicated look on his face that Chuuya can’t begin to understand. He watches Dazai press his thumb to the cut, wiping away the trickle of blood before examining it with a dispassionate gaze, his eyes shift focus to Chuuya before his tongue flicks out tentatively to lick up the crimson liquid with childlike curiosity.

Chuuya swallows reflexively. Isn’t quite sure why.

Realising he’s staring and feeling embarrassment begin to creep across his cheeks, he coughs, the motion making the back of his throat burn, turning his attention back to the still-rising tower of consuming, roiling, impenetrable smoke.

“How did you get here?” he finally breaks the silence.

“I saw you heading for the beach.” Dazai responds, as if this explains everything.

“That’s not an answer.” Chuuya grumbles.

“There are two jet skis,” Dazai reminds him, voice coloured with petty amusement, “I followed you to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid. Then I heard the bombs…” the mirth fades from his words as if it had never been, leaving only the echoing void which makes Chuuya shiver internally.

“It’s coming from the direction of the town we passed through.” Chuuya’s own tone is hesitant, like to give words to his fear will somehow make them real.

“Yes.” Dazai agrees heavily.

“But why? Why would they do such a thing?”

Chuuya watches Dazai’s face twist into something introspective as he considers the question. “They probably didn’t even know it was occupied. I expect whoever ordered these attacks merely targeted every town or city which previous had a population density over a certain threshold. It’s doubtful that any attempt was made to reach those places by land before the aerial attacks were sanctioned.”

“So they’re just...blindly throwing bombs around wherever they see fit?” Chuuya shakes his head in disbelief. “What kind of government pulls that shit?”

The thought of a particular government agent calling him in, mid-crisis, to essentially ask Chuuya to sacrifice his own life in exchange for his city suddenly crosses his mind, leaving a bitterly sour taste in his mouth. He’d read the reports in the aftermath, that a certain overseas organisation - closely linked with the British royal family - had dispatched an incineration Ability user to wipe Yokohama from the face of the earth had Ango’s desperate plan of throwing him to the dragon not paid off and bought the bastard next to him enough time to work whatever fucking magic tricks he’d hidden up his bandaged sleeves (or in his stupid mouth, as the case may be).

Yes, okay, he can see exactly what kind of government pulls this shit.

“A desperate one.” Dazai’s thoughts seem to echo his in that ominous reply.

Chapter Text

“Yes, yes, you win! I’m at your mercy, please dispose of me gently~” Dazai holds his hands flat against the deck on either side of his head, palms outward to show no sign of further hostility or attempt at subterfuge as he lets his body go lax.

The sound of Chuuya’s tongue clicking has his eyes crinkling and one corner of his mouth lifting in a lopsided, slightly wistful smile. “As if I would dirty my hands with such a thing,” Chuuya rumbles, his entire weight balanced over Dazai’s waist, thighs pressed in on either side as he looms larger than life and with far more presence than his tiny size betrays. One hand ghosts over Dazai’s throat, there’s not even an ounce of pressure there, but the threat, the thought of those fingers cutting off his air as Chuuya draws a blade across his jugular has him swallowing down the urge to press against the leather of Chuuya’s gloved fingers like it’s something sweet and addictive.

He’s a little distracted, he’ll admit – if only to himself - by the way Chuuya’s body shifts above him, tense and ready for some kind of counterattack; it wouldn’t be the first time, after all, that Dazai has admitted defeat only to try and flip the redhead across the deck as soon as his guard started to drop. It’s becoming a problem, lately, the way his eyes track Chuuya almost without conscious thought. It’s unwanted, unwise and unacceptable; the way his fingers itch to run untangle the knots from Chuuya’s hair; how he has to restrain himself from draping his arms across Chuuya’s shoulders and testing the boundaries of the Mafioso’s personal space at every available opportunity.

He tries to write it off. Tries to tell himself that it’s because he and Chuuya are the only two people here, that anyone else in their situation would be the same – seeking comfort from familiarity, he’s just ensuring Chuuya’s mental and emotional well-being. Well, when all is said and done, Chuuya’s mental and emotional well-being would probably be far better without Dazai, but that’s not the point. He tries to write it off...but it’s gotten to the point now where the distraction is becoming dangerous.

“Oi! Are you listening?” Chuuya shifts again, his fingers suddenly pressing against Dazai’s throat making him swallow reflexively against the increased pressure. He bites back the noise that wants to escape at the movement, not even sure where it’s coming from, but like hell is he giving Chuuya the satisfaction of seeing how far his walls have crumbled.

He pushes himself up to rest on his elbows, effectively trapping himself against Chuuya’s hand until the redhead rips it away as if burned by the touch of Dazai’s skin, eyes gone abruptly wide as Dazai brings their faces close.

“Sorry, Chibi, I didn’t catch that. I was busy contemplating the merits of death by strangulation,” he smiles something wide and toothy, watches Chuuya’s eyes narrow as his body pulls away, sitting back on his haunches and regarding Dazai with something like annoyed confusion.

“Stupid suicide maniac.” he mutters finally, tucking stray strands of hair behind his ear with a huff. “I said: I want to go back to the town.” There’s a defiance in the Mafioso’s tone, something decisive, like he’s expecting a fight. Dazai grins internally, though he doesn’t allow the expression to cross his face.

“Okay.”

“I know you’re going to say it’s a bad idea and we sho –” the redhead blinks, pausing mid-sentence as he parses what Dazai had just said, “wait...what?”

“Okay.” he repeats, disguising a chuckle as a huff of breath, though from the way Chuuya’s eyes narrow on him he suspects it wasn’t entirely successful.

“That’s it, ‘okay’? No ‘it’s too dangerous’ or ‘we can’t take pointless risks’?” The Mafioso’s head tilts as if he’s trying to pick Dazai apart piece by piece in an attempt to fathom what goes on beneath his outer state of bored apathy. “Why?”

“Let me up and I’ll explain. The floor is cold and you’re sitting on me.” It’s a lie, Chuuya is barely touching him at all, but the words are enough to make the redhead rock instantly to his feet with a flush settling across his face.

He heaves himself upright, making a show of dusting down his clothes and drawing out the moment while Chuuya’s foot begins tapping an irritated rhythm on the deck. Patting his hair in a vague attempt to prevent it from sticking out in all directions, he finally decides he’s made the redhead wait long enough and steps over to a chair, collapsing into it with a sigh. Chuuya regards him silently for a moment before tutting and lowering himself with slightly annoying and completely guileless grace onto the edge of the chair next to his.

“You’re right, of course, that heading to any of the targeted areas is risky, but it will give us some useful information on the scope of the damage the town and its surrounding area has suffered. We can use that to predict the state of the city without needing to travel all the way there just yet. The town might be risky, but trying to get to the city right now would be outright idiocy.” Dazai watches the light of determination spark in the redhead’s eyes and sighs internally, holding one hand up towards the Mafioso’s face to stall his words.

“Before you start, I’ll only agree to this if you agree to my terms.”

Chuuya’s mouth opens, no doubt to spit some kind of angry retort, before he thinks better of it and snaps it closed once more, chewing on his cheek for a moment before speaking in a tone he’s clearly struggling to keep neutral. “What terms?”

Dazai closes his fist, obnoxiously close to Chuuya’s face, raising one finger and watching the redhead almost go cross-eyed trying to focus on it. “Firstly – we’re going to observe only, we are not getting involved in whatever may or may not be happening in the town. No interacting with anyone or anything.” Seeing that Chuuya is about to interrupt again, he thrusts a second finger forward to join the first, “Secondly – we won’t be going into the town itself. We’ll take that dumb bike and head for the hills overlooking the town, under no circumstances will we be setting foot down there.” Raising a third finger to Chuuya’s irritating hiss of air through his teeth, he continues, “Lastly – if I decide at any time that it’s too dangerous to continue, you will turn around and bring us back here without complaining or trying to argue.”

“And I don’t get any say in this whatsoever?”

“Knowing your propensity to disregard danger, no, you don’t get any say, Chuu-yaa~” Dazai wiggles his fingers in front of the redhead’s nose, earning himself a growl and Chuuya’s hand reaching out to swat at his head. “Well? Do you agree to my terms?”

“Fine. If that’s how you’re gonna play. Fine, I’ll agree to your stupid terms.” Chuuya sighs and slumps back into the chair with decidedly less grace than he had shown only a few minutes before, and yet there’s still something terribly aesthetic about his form that leaves Dazai feeling put out and irrationally irritated. If it had been anyone other than Chuuya uttering those words, he’d have been suspicious, might even have called them out for a liar. Chuuya, though, Chuuya never could lie to him.

Well, not directly to his face anyway.

He eyes the Mafioso’s leg, the irritation growing and accompanied by a strange sense of guilt. Chuuya hasn’t told him...has been keeping it from him very deliberately...but he knows that beneath the fabric of his pants, a still-healing wound mars the redhead’s skin. He honestly can’t fathom why Chuuya has chosen not to reveal the injury, but the fact that he had is a source of niggling frustration to Dazai, who has almost brought it up more than once, yet, for some reason unknown to even himself, had chosen instead to protect this weird new balance they’ve somehow managed to achieve. Perhaps it’s part guilt over the fact that it was his own terrible, misplaced words that had forced Chuuya from his side in the first place; that it’s essentially his fault that the redhead was injured at all. Perhaps it’s part fear over the possibility that Chuuya could choose to walk out on him again, that he could find himself on the top deck with a gun in his hand and no will left inside himself to prevent him from pulling the trigger. Perhaps it’s because he’s done with trying to convince himself he feels nothing for his short redheaded companion other than what years of partnership and reliance have forced upon them.

It’s disturbing how quickly his thoughts turn to spinning useless circles when it comes to untangling the knot of squirming buried emotions that make up his relationship with Chuuya. Just the idea of dealing with such a thing is exhausting. Thus the entire problem gets shoved aside as something to be picked over in the dark hours of the morning, when he lies awake in a bed too large and stares at the ceiling as trivial unwanted thoughts dance dreamlike and tempting just beyond his reach.

When he looks up, it’s to find Chuuya watching him with a strange expression, one hand reaching to rub absently at the spot Dazai had been almost glaring at. Neither of them speak for a moment, the atmosphere gone suddenly tense as if with an anticipation both of them can’t quite grasp.

It’s Chuuya whose eyes slide to the side first. It’s Chuuya who breaks the tension with a strained murmur.

“When do we leave?”

~ ~ ~

“Holy shit.” Chuuya breathes from beside him, and truthfully, Dazai cannot think of a more apt expression for what lays before them.

They’re sitting on a hillside barely half a mile from the outer perimeter of the town – or at least...what used to be the outer perimeter of the town – staring out upon a scene of utter devastation.

Barely more than a few dozen buildings remain standing and somewhat intact, lonely and desolate amidst the rubble of their decimated neighbours. Some cling tenaciously to some semblance of cohesion, brickwork bowing outwards like an overstuffed cushion, as if an errant gust of wind might send the whole structure tumbling down to join the path of chaos strewn in every direction.

Craters pockmark the streets, as if some gigantic hand had reached down from the heavens to scoop up a fistful of earth and fling it aside; scattering asphalt and concrete, brick and mortar as if it were no more than dust.

Smoke still hangs in a pall across the entire area, cloying and clogging the back of his throat with the acrid taste of ash and he doesn’t even want to contemplate the idea that he’s probably breathing in the incinerated remains of both humans and zombies alike – though, at the end of the day they’re all corpses now regardless of their prior state of decay.

They had done a thorough job.

It looks like the aftermath of a war zone.

It looks like how he imagines the fallout of Corruption would be, if ever Chuuya were to take that narrow step forth from the cliff of humanity and into the claws of the God without Dazai being there to nullify that rage, that coursing need for destruction, that unbiased calamity.

It looks like one of his nightmares.

The thought makes him shiver.

“The factory is completely gone.” Chuuya’s small voice wrenches him from his own thoughts and he shifts his focus to the east of the town, where the factory they had infiltrated had stood but weeks before. Now there is only the broken twisted shell of steel girders, marking the skeletal remnants of the huge building that had dominated the space, folded fabricated steel walls scattered and half-buried in mud and torn up trees lying in radial smears across the landscape beyond.

Chuuya pulls his attention back once again as he shifts uneasily from his position seated upon the ground, apparently unable to keep still in the face of devastation. Dazai wonders if the redhead’s thoughts have strayed down the same dark paths as his own. The Mafioso’s eyes are just a little duller, a little lacking in that spark of wilful humanity Dazai so abhors (envies...covets) as he stares unblinkingly down at the scene below, a telltale tightness around the edges betraying the underlying tension.

“Do you see anything moving down there?”

He peers through the tiny pair of binoculars, squinting as the lenses blur and shift before coming into focus and bringing pieces of the town into sudden sharp clarity. He scans this way and that, still not able to pick out small details at this distance, but the perspective is close enough to pick out movement amidst the rubble. He studies the forms shifting through the shadows and wreckage, clumped together in bands of twos and threes, they move with a purpose and gait which betrays them.

“There are people in the town.” Dazai murmurs, keeping his attention on the figures as they pass like drifting ghosts among the debris. He spies a collection of vehicles parked up as close as the town as the are likely to be able to traverse safely, without risk of a punctured tyre or wrecked suspension and hums a low note of understanding. “My best guess is they’re collecting whatever they can find that is of use. Maybe searching for any survivors still trapped in all that mess. Though, it’s unlikely that there are any left living with the amount of time that’s passed since the strikes.”

He almost startles when Chuuya taps him on the shoulder, twisting to see the redhead making an impatient gesture at the binoculars, Dazai hands them over with a sigh, propping one arm on his crossed legs and leaning his chin on his palm as he watches Chuuya making his own assessments.

A sharp intake of breath, followed almost immediately by a muttered, “Oh fuck.” are enough to pull his back straighter, that slightly panicked tone not something he’s used to hearing from the redhead, not even under the stress of a mission gone bad.

“What is it?” he hedges, almost tentative, almost not wanting an answer.

Chuuya passes the binoculars back, his face pale as he gestures towards the factory, “Look past what’s left of the building and into the trees on the horizon.”

Dazai does as he’s directed, can’t keep the hiss of air from escaping between his teeth at what he sees.

Beyond the trees, a writhing mass shifts. At this distance, he cannot distinguish individual forms, sees only the collective ebb and flow of a body much larger than anything they have seen so far, save for within the confines of the factory itself.

There must be hundreds.

He wonders if it’s fear, crawling slow cracked ice up his spine.

“Do you think they’re all the ones we freed from the factory?” Chuuya’s voice is strained beside him. Whisper quiet, as if to raise his voice would be to incite the fury of the massing horde. Ridiculous as it might seem, Dazai can nonetheless appreciate the sentiment.

“Remnants of the factory, whatever humans weren’t able to escape from that –” he gestures at the crumbling, broken, shell of a town, “before the undead got in. The parasite isn’t picky, what does it care if a new host is missing an arm or a leg or two? As long as the brain is intact they can utilise the flesh left behind. The undead themselves are drawn to noise and to light, probably similar to an evolutionary mechanism allowing them to easily locate their prey since noise and light are both things humans are rather good at making. When the artillery was dropped here, we heard the blast impacts all the way down to the coast. The noise, plus the fires probably drew in every zombie for miles around, which ended up with them congregating into...that.”

“It’s…” Chuuya breaks off, shaking his head and clearing his throat, the sound dry and painful, “I still don’t understand why?”

“Fear.” Dazai replies without hesitation, eyes still trained on the ever-shifting mass cloaked under the shadows of the trees. “I suspect the only intention was to destroy what the people in charge consider to the be the hub points of infection. There would have been no consideration for what damage the strikes would cause to anything other than the undead. In their eyes, the end justifies the means, you see?” he drags his attention away from the horde to fix on Chuuya, who is staring blankly at the town with as if the information, coupled with the reality of what is now spread out before them is too much to accept. Dazai doesn’t hold back, Chuuya needs to understand the stakes their playing with, now more than ever, there is no more room for mistakes.

“No matter the cost in actual human lives, they must have believed that this approach would drastically reduce the numbers of infected to a point where they could possibly send in ground troops to begin cleanup of the areas in the aftermath. Perhaps this was their first shot at an endgame.”

“Well, if that’s the case, they fucked it up pretty well.” Chuuya cuts back, every part of him full of sharp edges and a dangerous aura. Dazai can understand the redhead’s utter contempt at the leaders of this ravaged land, after all, they know better than most what goes into keeping the peace of a city like Yokohama. The Port Mafia may be bloody-minded in its dealings more often than not, Chuuya may stain his hands red in the name of that black organisation, but in truth, the Port Mafia has its coils wrapped tightly around the throat of the Japan’s criminal underground. Ruthless efficiency and a deadly reputation enough to keep the peace on most occasions without need of displaying the real and present danger the Mafia can front should any choose to rival their supremacy. Chuuya, Dazai knows, is replacing the image of this burned out wreckage of a town with an imprint of his own beloved city, and in his eyes lies the rage of the lives buried and left forgotten under the rubble.

“Chuuya, it’s –”

“Just a story. I know.” Chuuya interrupts, letting a breath whistle through his teeth as he shifts to loosen tense muscles. “But it’s harder to rectify that in my own head when we’re actually sat here looking at that.” Dazai can only nod – even if he doesn’t fully understand such an emotional concept - as Chuuya’s arm sweeps out to encompass the town, the factory, the writhing mass of death among the darkness. “If the undead have gathered here like this, what you’re saying is that every other place those planes dropped their loads will have suffered similar consequences?”

Dazai nods again, slowly, turning the problem over in his mind and coming up with an inescapable conclusion. “It’s safe to predict that as the general outcome, yes.” He shrugs, tossing the binoculars back into the pack and grabbing a bottle of water, swilling a mouthful around his dry throat before spitting it onto the ground with distaste, wondering if he’ll ever be able to get the taste of ash out of his mouth. “The larger towns and the cities may have escaped total collapse, that depends on the volume of weaponry and type of warheads used in each location. The undead will mass in each location, regardless of how many may or may not have been wiped out by the impacts, any within a relative distance of the target area will head in that direction and, as we’ve already seen, when they come together they form some kind of loose, cohesively moving unit.”

There’s not enough information...honestly, he wishes he could go back in time and grill Ranpo and his pet author on exactly what they would be up against. Flying blind has never and will never be his preferred method of dealing with a threat and there’s just not enough to work with here, only vague mentions and the inferences and assumptions he’s made since their first fateful steps into this world. Still, strategy and planning are his area of expertise, and he can run with what they have, can continue to predict and attempt to keep them a few steps ahead of the game attempting to drag them deeper with every day they spend within these cursed pages.

“I would expect them to linger around those areas for a few days, maybe a week, spreading the parasite to any remnants of human life they come across and further swelling their numbers. Then those massed groups will begin to spread outwards again in the search of more prey, only this time the flood will be great enough to overwhelm most encampments that they come across, assuming that the majority of the larger fortified areas were part of that targeted assault.”

“So what you’re saying is, not only have they fucked over any survivors, they’ve also fucked over themselves.” Chuuya spits and Dazai tilts his head to look at him askance.

“With far less vulgar terminology,” he snickers as Chuuya immediately flips him off, “but yes, essentially what they’ve created is a massive unstoppable horde that will overrun almost anything in its path.”

“Well, this shit just gets better and better doesn’t it?” the redhead grumbles and Dazai can only offer a wry smile in agreement.

“I think we’ve seen enough.” Dazai sighs finally, casting his eyes one last time over the mess and destruction littered below, a giant game of dominoes played with buildings and lives. “Let’s get out of here.”

It’s a scene neither of them will forget in a hurry.

* * * *

The first warning comes in the form of an antsy restlessness, devoid of direction or reason.

He feels confined.

Like the flip of a switch, his world seems to shrink, crumpling in on itself like so much paper, tossed aside by an uncaring hand.

His room feels like a cell.

The boat feels like a prison.

The inside of his head feels like the walls are closing in – his thoughts too thick and too numerous to be contained within a space creeping tighter with every passing hour. A sick sense of emptiness washes through him, leaving him listless and exhausted, yet wandering like a malevolent spirit, unable to stop. To stop means confronting the things that live in dark places, waiting - always waiting - for times like these, times when his bones don’t seem to fit quite right in his body, when his personality doesn’t fit quite right in his head.

His skin feels foreign, the thoughts leaking from his squashed brain to seep poison into already corrupted flesh, the worming maggots of apathy and lack of control burrowing down until every inch of his body itches with it, makes him want to claw at it; to take a knife to his skin if only to distract himself with the feeling of pain, the illusion of control.

Usually he can hold it off, balance himself on the precipice like an acrobat upon a tightrope - carefully stepping just to one side of this cracked humanity - can drag out the hours until darkness and stare blindly into the night as his mind does what it will. Usually he can keep himself together, tugging on the frayed edges, keeping the seams from splitting to reveal the rotten amalgamation of a hundred, a thousand different endings – failed, discarded, useless. Usually he would wait for the solitude of the night; sitting out beneath the sky with only the clouds and stars and sea to witness his need to break himself to pieces over and over again, only to stitch himself back to together in ways that don’t quite fit, coming back to his own patchwork of awkward limbs and connective tissue to find another body pressed tightly against his side – a reassurance, a warmth, an echo of something left behind.

He can’t bear the thought right now. The very possibility of Chuuya finding him this way - before he’s had chance to process, to feed the restless ghosts, to stare into the void and watch it blink back with a thousand accusing eyes – makes the itch beneath his skin burn to something fiery and unbearable, fingers shaking again with the desire to tear into it, peel it from his body in layers just to feel something.

He wants desperately to be alone, to sit in a dingy silent space with nothing but sake in his throat and images of a beautiful death flickering in tinted sepia tones behind eyelids that can only bear to see the beauty in death (he wants to be perched on a stool in a familiar bar, poking his finger into a glass of whisky just to watch the ball of ice bob back and forth. He wants to lift his head at the sound of footsteps to see two familiar figures descending the stairs, murmuring in low voices before the sound of their shoes falls to silence as they regard him with eyes untinted by fear or loathing. He wants to bask in the mundane stories of a man whose life is a contradiction. He wants to run his fingers idly through the fur of a cat that looks like some kind of patchwork as time shifts around them, spinning them through the years until they come to a place far away from where their lives had ultimately lead. He wants...he wants...he wants...no, that part of him is dead).

He needs to get out of this prison, he decides. Needs to go somewhere less confining, less visible, more solid. If he can just be alone, to purge the torrent of black thoughts from his system, perhaps he can stave off the descent into a true crash...perhaps he can will himself back to some semblance of ‘normal’, continue to push on and do what’s needed...perhaps.

The walls are closing tighter: squeezing, restricting. They whisper, echo with calls of his name, with accusations, with pleas, with hatred. Ghosts digging fingers into crumbling mortar as the bricks shift closer and closer still.

Dazai waits until Chuuya disappears to shower, or nap, he really doesn’t care beyond the basic fact that the redhead is otherwise occupied and thus wont be there to witness or prevent him from making his escape.

He takes one of the jet skis, launching it into the water with nothing but himself and an assortment of whatever weapons were to hand. Damn but he detests these things, it’s like riding a motorbike but rather than relying on the solidity of land to carry you safely forwards you’re instead left bobbing wildly across the water, skimming on waves and thrashing above the ocean like some kind of paroxysmic fish. It twitches wildly on more than one occasion, Dazai gripping the handles so hard his knuckles have turned white with strain and it’s getting hard to feel his fingers – he spends the short trip wondering how long it would take him to drown, wondering if salt water burns any more than regular water when it replaces the oxygen in your lungs, wondering if maybe crashing headlong into a rock at speed would be a more immediate way to end.

His shoes, socks and halfway up his pants are waterlogged and sodden before he manages to drag the jet ski out of the surf and just far enough up the sand to discard behind a convenient stack of rocks that will conceal it from the view of anyone staring down at the cove from the cliffs – his mind still clinging resolutely to that last modicum of focus which screams the need to survive through tortured itching veins. When he turns to look back at the boat - picking it out from between the pillars of rock it lies ensconced between - he can see a figure standing, stark and lonely upon the deck. Chuuya’s red hair is a tiny banner in the breeze, a dot of vivid colour. He waits, watching that tiny figure for some unknowable time, considering whether Chuuya will follow him out here like a dog upon its master’s heels.

The redhead remains unmoving.

Dazai doesn’t know whether he should feel relieved or anguished...doesn’t have room between the pressing walls to fit either emotion, discards them both for the yawning void and numbness.

His feet are heavy upon the cliff path, leaden weights set to drag him down with every forced step. His thoughts flicker like an old movie, a flash of colour here, the dip of blackness there, a stuttered gasp, a fractured breath, a stain of crimson, we’re done here. It’s a miracle he doesn’t plunge to his death when his shoe dislodges a rock and sends it tumbling down, ricocheting him from his own head as it clatters down to meet its doom upon the sand. He treads with a little more caution after that. He can’t die here, no matter how much he might wish for it, yearn for it with every breath...even if he did die and left Chuuya here alone to complete their mission, it would only mean returning to reality to face the fact of his own existence.

Not to mention the consequences of yet another betrayal at his hands.

Perhaps Chuuya really would kick him to death if that scenario ever played out to its end.

The trees welcome him with the lulling murmur of leaves to drown out the clamour of ghosts, and the deepest of shadows to curl himself into in a bid to disappear. The canopy rises above him, tall and green; cloaking him from view of the heavens and whatever irascible creature sniffs and shrieks after the shreds of his sanity.

Running the wooden board across their ditch, he manages to stow it safely out of immediate sight before his mind begins to dance once more. He wanders aimlessly, winding through the trees without truly seeing anything before him, lost in memory, in useless rehashes of would have, could have, should have, until every step feels like he’s fighting against gravity’s own pull, like hands are writhing up from the earth to curl around his ankles and drag him down.

He ends up sitting with his back against a tree. Staring at everything and nothing. He’s not even sure how long he’s been out here in the wilderness, engaging in this dangerous folly. The thought wavers for a moment and dies, drowns amidst the roaring hollowness now beginning to engulf him, tossing him around on the precipice of the void.

The discordant noise breaking through his subconscious as something out-of-place is what drags him from the inside of his own head and back to the present. His limbs are stiff and unresponsive, his fingers cold and cramped as he attempts to use the trunk of the tree to steady himself as he stands. He must have been here a while, then...the shadows beneath the canopy are lengthening, though he can still see the sun in the sky through the gaps in their great boughs.

A wailing cry jerks his thoughts back on track. Quickly he shakes the numb fatigue from his muscles, clenching and unclenching his hands to encourage the blood to flow and stamping his feet as quietly as he can manage upon the dry earth. Finally feeling like he wont topple over as soon as he moves from the steadying support of the tree, he begins to move - wraithlike and silent – in the direction of the path leading to their little cove.

The ghosts thread fingers through his hair. Or perhaps it’s just the breeze…

* * * *

Nausea roils, sour and bubbling in his stomach, coating his throat with bile as he struggles not to retch. It’s pathetic, reacting this way, and yet, his heart and his mind are ever the conflicting beasts, tearing at each other over the tattered scraps of his psyche.

He can’t tear his eyes from the scene. Stands rooted to the spot like an inelegant statue, forced to witness the consequences of his own decisions play out before his eyes.

“Mother –?” the voice is a timid, querulous thing, high-pitched and pleading as only a child seeking out a parent’s comfort can be. Not that he would know, all his life he’d been a demon after all.

The child kneels in the dirt, covered in stains more telling than mud, dark hair lank and falling from the messy pigtails on either side of her head. Her dress is tattered and filthy, and some absurd part of Dazai fixates on the nonsensical idiocy of someone choosing to dress their child in clothing so unsuitable for the world as it descends into chaos and destruction.

“Mommy? Wake up!” her voice ascends in both pitch and volume as tiny dirt-covered fingers reach towards a sprawled form lying unnaturally still on the cold leaf-strewn ground. “We have to go and meet daddy now! You promised!”

Hiccuping breaths wrack the small form, as she grasps at a hand turning a sickly mottled blue. “It’s not time for sleeping, mommy, we’re almost there...remember?” her voice trails off as heaving gasps turn to loud heart-wrenching sobs, tears running muddied tracks down the girls face. “M-mommy...I-I’m scared…”

Dazai swallows painfully around a lump in his throat, teeth clenched and unable to look away. He can see the minute tremors beginning in limbs gone almost stiff and knows that time is fast slipping away. He’s about to do something terribly stupid, like announce his presence to the small form when something catches his focus and forces him to swallow down another sickening wave of nausea.

Black tracks of veins creep up the girl’s thin neck, are barely visible trailing up her arms, almost covered by the sheer amount of filth collected on otherwise pale skin.

Too late. Far, far too late.

He wants to turn and walk away, wants to leave the sobbing, inconsolable child and the twitching body of her mother to their fate worse than death. Yet the ghosts...they whisper in the dark confines of his mind...compel him to stay and watch this play out to its horrifying end.

You can’t save anyone.

The cracks he’s tried to gloss over with fake smiles and teasing jokes about his own yearning for the end yawn suddenly wide. The whispers becoming howls, gleeful and destructive, chipping the thin veneer with clawed and avid relish. He watches a tiny young girl reaching for the hand of her dead mother, but his mind twists and turns and shows him the perfectly recreated vision of a van filled with tiny faces, burning up like the sun.

They’re not real.

He’s not sure what exactly he’s referring to in his own broken head – the ghosts, or the child sprawled in the dirt not twenty paces distant. The fiction his own mind haunts him with every day, or the fiction he’s watching play out with his own blinkered dispassionate eyes.

An unholy snarling chases the ghosts into silence, his head blessedly free of their clamour and insistent blame; raking claws of guilt through his soul.

“Mommy? Mommy...you’re s-scaring me. M-mommy –” panic and fear and despair amalgamate in one tiny voice, barely intelligible through the wails and sobs that wrack her whole body.

The corpse has stopped its frenzied convulsions now, the rattling rasp of rage rising louder with every passing second as the parasite wearing a brand new human skin exerts control upon the strings of a nervous system still alien.

Dazai knows how this scene ends. His body and mind reject it violently, pushing him to act in an uncharacteristic manner based on his prior experience in this fabricated reality. Without conscious thought the gun is in his hand, the familiar weight grounding and instilling a sense of deceptive calm. His finger pulls back the hammer, the gun coming up to point unerringly at the tiny form who still hasn’t even registered his presence.

He hesitates, and this time the ghost speaks with Chuuya’s voice.

How can you just walk up to a kid and stick a dagger into their brain while making that face?

It’s not the same. It’s not. Still the whispers taunt him, rip at him with fangs and nails and whispered truths.

Four fucking years and you haven’t managed to learn the art of human emotion.

It’s not the same. The gun wavers in his hand.

With a snarling clack of jaws, the corpse of what Dazai knows was once a beautiful young woman rises jerkily from the ground, leaves and twigs sticking from her hair, her face twisted by untempered rage into something barely recognisable as human.

“MOMMY!” the child screams, the sound sending a chill through Dazai as his mind blanks.

The gun discharges with a thunderous finality. Once, twice.

Stillness reigns.

Two corpses lie motionless, one tiny form sprawled across the other as if in rest.

Dazai shuts his eyes against the lie of tenderness in those splayed limbs, shuts his eyes against the gnawing guilt, shuts his eyes against the reality of this unreality.

It’s not real. Becomes a mantra in his own fractured thoughts.

* * * *

He’s not sure how he got back to the boat. Remembers digging a shallow grave next to an old oak with the shovel they still keep in the RV for reasons neither he nor Chuuya ever voice aloud. Remembers dragging the bodies across the ground to lie them to rest together, the tree standing a silent vigil over their burial. Remembers how he’d had no words to offer them – only silence and the cacophony of of whirling thoughts squeezing tighter and tighter in his head. Remembers the clamouring in his head becoming raucous and uncontrollable, his tight control slipping along with his tenuous grip on the carefully moulded pieces of his personality, leaving behind a shell of apathy, blank eyed and black hearted as baited whispers rattle around the yawning empty chasm reminding him how truly pointless his existence is.

He finds himself in a jarringly bright room, the pastel pink of the walls pressing in on every side. The fox staring into his desolate soul with flat eyes that burn hated and blame.

His own gaze is fixed on the portrait of a happy vibrant family, a young, blond, clearly well-off man with his arm wrapped around the waist of a stunningly beautiful dark-haired woman whose smile is soft and warm, between them, a child of no more than three, dark hair plaited into perfect pigtails on either side of her head offers the camera a toothy grin, showing the carefree abandon that only the very young can pull off, before the weight of the world and reality begins to settle upon too-narrow shoulders.

It’s another voice that whispers in his mind, though. A voice far more familiar, far more damning. A voice that brings memories to swim into focus behind his eyelids. A voice that brings bile rising from his throat.

“Goodnight, Kosuke. Goodnight, Kasumi. Goodnight, Yu. Goodnight Shinji. Goodnight Sakura. Rest in peace.”

The knife in his hand is a familiar, comforting weight as he twirls it absently between his fingers. The ghosts are hungry and blood demands blood. He digs his thumb viciously into the point, the sting of pain bringing a sudden, sharp, shameful clarity to thoughts gone so far into darkness and brooding melancholy it’s hard to move under the weight of it. The bite of steel into flesh is a repellent reminder of his own weakness, his own desire for control, for an ending he can never quite grasp with his own two hands. It doesn’t yet break the skin, doesn’t begin to break the twisting tumultuous crescendo still threatening to drown him in black thoughts and blacker memories.

He presses a little harder, a scant second of blessed silence sluicing ice across already frozen veins, blood flowing sluggishly through the cracks left by the prying wraithlike fingers of his own doubt, his own inability to bring anything but suffering to the lives of those he subjects to his stubborn continuation, his failure.

Three sets of eyes behind a cold glass frame stare at him now, with gazes full of accusation and hatred. Three new ghosts to add to his tally, three more voices to damn him to the pits of his own personal hell.

“I’ll be off.” The ghost whispers.

Blood demands blood.

There is no true control but control over the manner in which to end one’s own life. Even in this, what should be a simple exertion of control, Dazai is a failure. A hundred times, a hundred ways and still something in him stubbornly clings to this shadow theatre of life.

His fingers are almost alien to him as the knife glitters and gleams like a welcoming friend, and he finds himself watching with abstract fascination as the foreign appendages grip the handle of the blade, trembling with something he cannot comprehend: fear, anticipation, something else? His mind visualises the scene with pleasing simplicity – the stinging slice of the blade through the paper barrier of skin; the coalescing patterns his blood will make as it mixes and trails and runs across scarred skin, an offering of life for any god or demon to take, to strip his soul from the confines of this tainted, unwanted body in return for the eternal blackness of death.

“Dazai!” a jarring voice that does not match the subsiding whispers of his ghosts snaps Dazai back to the present. Familiar and alive and furious, “What the fuck?!”

The knife is plucked from his unresisting fingers, a single damning bead of crimson welling from his thumb the only evidence of the pit he had almost thrown himself into willingly, wantonly, without thought or apology.

He sighs, can feel his body curling in on itself, still trembling with the need to fight or flee. The cloak of apathy thrown from his shoulders, his cracks and broken pieces wide and on display.

The clatter of the knife being thrown unceremoniously aside reminds him of gunshots, of bodies hitting the ground, of blood and shallow graves, of actions and consequences. It shudders through him, has him curling tighter, retreating in on himself in an attempt to hide, to rediscover that feeling of floating.

A body presses against his side, the point of contact warm, bleeding reality and focus into chasms of dark introspection and wholly, completely, unwelcome. He tries to shift away, to cling to the vestiges of his own frayed perception, only for arms to snake awkwardly around his waist, pulling him further back from the precipice, from the descent into something more than sanity.

“Come back,” the voice is quiet, barely more than a whisper, but it’s so heavy with emotions Dazai doesn’t have the strength to pick apart right now, it drags him inch by clawed inch from the darkness, from the cliff’s edge. The next words, barely more than breathed, almost stop his heart, “I need you here, not wherever in your fucking head you are right now. Here. With me. Come back.”

He gasps a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, black spots flickering and dancing across his vision as oxygen floods his lungs with bitter unrepentant life. He presses the heel of his hand hard into his eyes – flashes and bright starbursts spinning kaleidoscopes he could lose himself in, wants to lose himself in.

“Dazai!”

The weight of the world, the solid burden of living, crashes coherence into him with the force and subtlety of a ten tonne brick; smashing aside the carefully tangled threads of his safety net of emptiness and almost overwhelming him with the deluge of reliance, duty, expectation.

Heavy.

So heavy.

He wonders if this is how Chuuya feels under the crushing weight of his own Ability every day; with the knowledge of the power that lurks beneath skin and bone. And that fragmented thought, that sudden realisation that it’s Chuuya whose arms are wrapped around him - as if attempting to keep his broken pieces from scattering - a fine tremor of fear running through that normally powerful self-assured frame...fear for him...that’s what snaps him from whatever kind of breakdown they’re having today.

Guilt, it seems, is an even heavier weight to bear than reliance, duty and expectation combined.

“Get off me, slug, before you infect me with your terrible fashion sense,” is that his voice? That weird croaking rasp, filled with nothing but vast blankness and hollow echoes? Through his sudden exhaustion he’s mildly horrified that his mask has slipped so far.

The familiar shape of the body pressed against his stiffens and the tiny frightened creature inside bares its teeth in triumph, always that survival instinct reaction to push anyone away who might have glimpsed something they should never be permitted to see – something beneath the chips and scuffs of his polished shell. Uncovering all of his worst personality traits to throw bitter words that cut sharper and deeper than knives, leave holes and gaping wounds worse than any bullet, pull friendships and relationships past their breaking point until all that’s left is…

Nothing.

Just him and the void and the ever present yearning to jump off into that chasm and never learn how to fly.

And Chuuya...Chuuya has always seen too much of him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” the quiet murmur runs like a shockwave through bitten-down nerves, firing frayed fibres into frenzy and panic. The creature snarls, fangs dripping poison and vitriol, ready to bite again and again until whatever blood runs between them is tainted worse than black. Deeper still - in those parts of him he doesn’t like to admit exist at all – something else flickers. Something that whispers stay.

“Chuuya is too stupid to realise when he’s not wanted,” once final, valiant shove, digging into Chuuya’s own cracks, regurgitating old taunts, old hatreds. One final effort to bury this whole miserable evisceration of his mutilated shell masquerading as something human. It’s weak, pathetic, wobbly enough that even Chuuya (especially Chuuya) will see through it like the spiderweb cracked glass it is.

“That’s me,” comes the horribly effortless agreement that has his insides squirming like a knot of snakes. Too soft, too gentle; not enough bite, not enough scorn, not enough anger.

Terrifying, inviting warmth presses the offer of companionship heavy and uncomplicated against his side, and something in him gives way, crumbling any resistance to dust as he presses back, suddenly wanting nothing more than to crawl inside Chuuya’s skin and etch out a home for himself in flesh and bone not his own. To become another person and cast this broken parody of a human being aside. Walls ground to ash and masks mangled beyond repair, it’s all he can do to gather the scattered pieces of himself and build a tiny, forlorn dam against the sudden deluge of emotions threatening to prick tears at the corners of his eyes.

His breath wants to hitch, wants to get stuck somewhere in his throat and choke him with thoughts he can’t possibly swallow. He refuses to succumb, breathes out a steady controlled exhale, counts one, two, three, four, five. Time pauses as he holds for one, two, three, then sucks in a careful inhale – no tremors, no shuddering gasps, no painful sobs, just steady disciplined breaths.

Finally, finally he can open his eyes without the threat of emotion swimming and brimming and spilling forth like rivers of damnation. He stares at the soft carpeted floor beneath his feet, counts the individual threads in time with his steady inhale, one, two, three, four, five…

He can’t look at Chuuya, not yet. Can’t face seeing pity floating in blue depths, or worse understanding. Part of him still desperately wants to reach out and shove the redhead away while that quiet, smothered ember wants to cling to every last particle of warmth and comfort Chuuya has to offer, pull it from his bloodied beating heart and breathe it in like a drug.

The absence of sound is deafening; stretching seconds pass into minutes with neither of them making a move to split the air with the sound of their own voice. He’s not sure there’s anything left to say.

Beside him, the redhead shifts minutely, presses impossibly closer and heaves out a long sigh. “What happened?” it’s almost a relief when the silence is finally broken, the heavy air of expectation lifting it’s noxious weight just slightly. “I heard gunshots...are you hurt?”

That startles a strangled laugh from him, the movement jostling their shoulders, though neither of them makes any effort to use the opportunity and create distance. “No,” he croaks tiredly, “no, I’m not hurt.”

Silence descends once again, poignant and heavy, like the weight of Chuuya’s focus boring into the side of his head. He swallows - tongue feeling suddenly thick and foreign in his own desert-dry mouth – tries to speak, and he’s never been anything but glib, never had trouble finding pretty little words, finding excuses, finding stories (or lies) to cover up truths buried behind a maze of riddle and metaphor, but now, his wit and charm have both fled, both failed him in this moment of need. All that emerges is a half-stuttered breath.

He tilts his head back, staring up at the ceiling for long, blissfully blank seconds, before turning to face Chuuya, falling into endless blue, picking out the concern, the fear. He stares, unblinking, until he can pick out the flecks of darker blue and green, let’s himself drown and be swept away, pulled to the bottom wrapped in chains of cerulean and cobalt. He opens his mouth, tries again to form words upon an awkward tongue.

“I saw...them,” it comes out more of a whispered confession than the flat statement of fact he had intended it to be, needed it to be.

“Them?” Chuuya’s head tilts, and in any other situation Dazai realises he might find it comical, might liken the redhead to the dog he so detests being referred to as. As it is, he can muster no humour to hide behind.

He doesn’t verbalise a reply, instead tilting his own head silently to the side, his eyes sliding past Chuuya to fix on the framed photo sitting in pride of place upon the wall.

The eyes still judge.

“Oh –” the sharp intake of breath pulls his thoughts and his attention from the ghosts that damn him with every beat of his heart. Chuuya has gone ashen, teeth pulling at his lower lip as his body pushes even closer against Dazai’s side, seeking familiarity, a comfort that he cannot give.

“It’s not your fault,” Chuuya murmurs finally, though the words sound meaningless, false. The redhead’s lips purse, eyes closing in pained memory before they flash wide and Chuuya’s palms are suddenly cupping his face, forcing him to look. So close. Too close. Chuuya is a burning flame and Dazai feels like a split tinderbox, ready to ignite.

“They’re not real.” the honest determination written across Chuuya’s face surprises a harsh bark of laughter out of him, a sound both rough and terribly loud in the quiet of the room.

“You think I didn’t tell myself that as I shot a little girl in the head?”

Chuuya’s mouth twists into a satisfying grimace at his blunt reply.

“You did what you thought you had to do back then.” A thumb is running across his cheekbone, the feather-light touch in sharp, discordant contrast to the fatalistic speech, “We do what we have to do now.” He can hear Chuuya’s throat click as he swallows, knows that the words come in hard bitter shards, “In the end, that’s all there is to it. You said it yourself – we have to survive and that’s all that matters.” The redhead sucks in a sharp breath, plunging on, “these people aren’t real, nobody can save them, not me and not you.” He wonders, somewhere in the back of his mind, whether Chuuya believes what he’s saying, though he sees no hint of a lie in the Mafioso’s face, and Chuuya has always been something of an open book, not one to hide behind subtlety or to feed others pretty lies to get the response he requires. No, never the master manipulator – that was always Dazai’s role.

“That’s all there is to it.” Chuuya finishes, voice gone soft.

“Tell that to the ghosts.” Dazai mutters before he can bite the words back, unable to look away, unable to stop the tumultuous thoughts from tumbling through his cracks.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he tries to jerk away, is stopped by the firm pressure against his cheeks, “it doesn’t matter.”

“I found you digging a knife into your flesh, bastard. I know you’re a self-destructive idiot but obviously it matters.” Chuuya’s fingertips dig just a little deeper, he wishes the redhead would let loose enough to leave bruises, knows that he won’t.

Blood demands blood...but Chuuya will not give that to him.

“We carry them with us. Every single one leaves whispers in your blood, thoughts in your head,” he wonders if he sounds as deranged as he thinks he does in this instant, carries on regardless, “I know you carry them too, I’ve heard you whisper their names to the darkness when you think no-one can hear...I’ve heard you scream at the night.”

He watches Chuuya suck in a breath, lashes slipping to shutter out conflicted eyes, teeth clenching. All the while those fingers - fingers which he has seen break a man apart – remain gentle on his skin.

“Okay…” Chuuya’s voice is hoarse now, overcome with emotions Dazai cannot put names to, doesn’t want to put names to, “okay…” he repeats, the sound barely drifting across the space between them, “I hear you.”

“Do you?” Dazai snorts, though he knows he’s being cruel and obtuse just to try and gain some kind of upper hand in the situation, can’t help his own ingrained defence mechanisms. He’s looking straight at Chuuya now, knows that his face is entirely blank, the gears grinding and cranking and screeching to drag that fractured personality back together, to hide once more between the shifting layers of apathy and melancholy.

“Dazai –” Chuuya meets him, an eye for an eye, unafraid even in the shadowed grey of his emotionless front. Never afraid – not of him, not of anyone – Chuuya has enough emotion for both of them, it bleeds through the Mafioso’s skin to crawl and seep into Dazai’s pores, blending into his bloodstream to pump fatigued life and unwanted feeling around the empty vessel. “I hear you.”

Four years since he left the Mafia, and the time has done precisely nothing to fix the way Chuuya can get under his skin.

“I know.” he coughs out, as though the truth physically hurts him, perhaps it does, perhaps those simple words, with such a bottomless depth of meaning slice through something tender and forgotten, perhaps even now he’s bleeding out.

“Then talk to me,” Chuuya murmurs softly, as if to raise his voice now would be to break this tenuous understanding, this reaching of fingertips to wrap around something fragile and fluttering, like he’s some weak timid creature, ready to bolt under pressure. “Talk to me instead of –” he breaks off, shaking his head and gesturing silently to the knife, its mere presence screaming more about his slip-up than Dazai could ever articulate.

“I don’t know...I don’t understand why. The other two, I felt nothing when they died. So why?” he can’t even complete his own sentence, not that he really wants to bare his empty spaces to the scrutiny of a persistent hatrack, but he can’t help but feel it’s a different kind of pathetic. A different kind of broken.

He waits silently for judgement that doesn’t come.

“You never had a direct hand in their fate.” Chuuya shrugs, the motion bumping their shoulders together, pressing a reminder of that connection against Dazai’s touch-starved skin. “In your own head, you were giving them a dignified death, right?” Dazai can only nod, staring at Chuuya’s hand which has come to rest lightly on his knee, another point of contact, another place to ground himself. He hates his own weakness for leaning into that touch, for the way his mind slowly stops spinning and tangling and whispering, to focus on Chuuya’s words.

“The kids...before...they were already gone,” Chuuya’s tone is tightly controlled, carefully blank, “the girl?”

Dazai shakes his head wordlessly.

“She was infected though?” something softer winds around them now, Chuuya’s fingers moving haltingly back and forth in tiny barely-there motions against his knee. Distracting.

He nods again, doesn’t see the point in trying to articulate a more enlightening answer.

“And the mother?” Chuuya probes.

“Already gone. Just about to come back and take a chunk out of her own daughter.” he’s almost proud of his own flat intonation.

“And you didn’t want to watch that.” Dazai feels like he’s being led along like some kind of horse, shown the correct path to reach the desired goal. Still, something squirms unpleasantly in his gut at the thought of that snarling face sinking teeth into the neck of the very child who had once been the most precious thing in her world.

His stomach violently rejects the image and he presses a hand against it, his lips twisting to form the single word he wants to spit out violently. Instead it comes out cracked and low. “No.”

“The girl...she looked like her,” he whispers, the thought bubbling unbidden from somewhere buried deep, escaping from the weeping sore of a wound Dazai thought long buried.

“Who?” Chuuya asks softly, as if afraid to break the odd, quiet familiarity lingering between them, smoothing over their broken pieces.

His throat clicks as he swallows reflexively, tries to shape words but finds only silence and the weight of guilt pressing heavy on his tongue. He chokes a laugh, something brittle and devoid of mirth, hiccups a breath and tries again.

“One of Odasaku’s orphans –” this time the words almost get lodged in his throat. Chuuya’s eyes go suddenly wide as they glance at the family portrait and then rest back on the floor.

“Oh,” the Mafioso croaks after a long pause, the hand on Dazai’s knee stilling, the fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his pants. “Look, it’s okay. We all have hard lines, Dazai. I know you probably think that you don’t, that you’re some kind of special case, or broken...that nothing can touch you or whatever, but clearly you do. It’s not a bad thing, it’s just part of being human.” The redhead sighs softly, a conflicted noise as if he’s not entirely sure whether he wants to continue. Eventually blue eyes lift to meet his own, determined and serious,“You’re not the same person you were four years ago. Maybe you think you haven’t changed, and in most ways you’re still that same infuriating asshole, but in others...you’re different. It’s...good.”

He’s not sure why, but it’s those softly spoken words, paired with the steady honesty in Chuuya’s eyes that flood the beginnings of warmth back into his chilled veins.

Something must show in his face, he’s not entirely sure, doesn’t have a particularly good hold of his emotions right now to pull up the appropriate facade, but the next second Chuuya is elbowing him in the ribs, “That doesn’t mean I don’t still think you’re the most irritating bastard alive,” the redhead growls but there’s no real bite in his words, in fact, they sound sort of fond, “and it doesn’t mean I’m not gonna kill you someday!”

“Don’t make promises you’ll refuse to keep, Chibi.” Dazai huffs out a weak laugh that doesn’t wash away the terrible fragmented yearning in his words, but he needs Chuuya to take the bait, to play it off as a joke, needs to cloak himself in that transparent film of normality.

The redhead looks at him quietly for a moment, seeing, hearing far too much, but he lets the comment slide, instead elbowing him again - a little harder yet still painfully gentle – before knocking their knees together, “Come on, idiot.” Chuuya rolls to his feet in one smooth movement, pausing for a moment before turning to offer a hand to Dazai.

“Where are we going?” he can’t help but ask, staring at the proffered hand.

“To discover what amazing ramen and canned catastrophe the contents of the kitchen cupboards can produce for us to eat.” Chuuya grins and Dazai can’t help but offer a tiny smile and puffed ghost of a chuckle in return, hesitating only a moment before taking the hand – the hand that Chuuya always reaches out to him, despite his cracks, despite his broken promises, despite his betrayals, despite Dazai offering him nothing in return - and allowing Chuuya to pull him up from the floor.

His bones, his muscles, his head, all ache with fatigue, the fractures still yawning wide and open and oozing something worse than blood, but his soul...his soul feels just a little lighter.

“You’re not the same person you were four years ago. Maybe you think you haven’t changed, and in most ways you’re still that same infuriating asshole, but in others...you’re different. It’s...good.”

If Chuuya’s words, spoken in quiet honesty, are what being to break Dazai away from the need to break himself – neither of them mention it.

If, when Dazai forces himself back into that small, forlornly bright and lonely little room again the next day to find the wall empty - no eyes there to accuse him, no faces to bring forth the ghosts and their whispers – neither of them mention it.

If, the next time he goes ashore, climbing the cliff path and wandering through the woods, pausing to gaze at a great oak tree in whose branches is nestled a snapshot of a smiling family captured and contained within a wooden frame - garlanded with half-withered flowers and set with utmost care above recently moved earth – neither of them mention it.

Chapter Text

Finding Dazai...no...the cracked shell containing the scattered remnants of the masks Dazai shapes and moulds and twists to fit across his features in a phantom parody of something that might be considered functional...finding him in such a state had been like stepping over a chasm and being borne back ceaselessly into the past. Every step into that room – laced with heavy foreboding, so full of strangling weight, of clawing pressure, it had left him almost frozen upon the precipice - had stripped the air from his lungs, seizing them to something hard and intractable, no longer able to assimilate oxygen into his system, and sent his heart into a stuttered, terrified frenzy as it had attempted to squeeze itself through his ribs in a bid to escape the prison of his body.

He watches Dazai closely after that, doesn’t even try to pretend that’s not exactly what he’s doing.

The fucking idiot is fronting. Chuuya can tell by the clouded, empty void that lingers amidst the rust-brown, by the way Dazai will unconsciously dig his fingernail into his thumb, worrying at the clotted blood and forming scab until the tiny cut opens to spill fresh crimson beads over and over again. He knows he has his own tells, Dazai had tried to break him of them over the course of years after all (though he had never managed, Chuuya is all frenetic energy and the need to release it when something is bothering him and cutting back on those small movements that release his own frustrations often resulted in something entirely more explosive and violent), but he’s not sure whether Dazai even realises that, when he’s at his most vulnerable, he has these minute habits of his own.

He practically forces Dazai to thrash him at chess that evening (after practically forcing the bastard to eat – he’d even rifled through the cupboard contents to find a tin of canned crab in an attempt to bribe Dazai to eat the shitty ramen that was currently their staple diet) and fuck but he hates that game, never could be bothered with the intrinsic strategies and planning it required. Still, he suffers the humiliation with as much good grace as he can muster because the last thing he wants right now is to leave the asshole at the mercy of the inside of his own stupid head.

He knows that Dazai knows what he’s doing, doesn’t know whether the idiot is appreciative or irritated by the effort, yet he goes along with Chuuya’s demands for a rematch regardless. Best of three becomes best of five, then best of seven with Chuuya never having a hope in hell of emerging victorious from a single fucking game.

Eventually, with darkness cloaking everything aside from the table with it’s single light in shades of inky blue and black shadow, Dazai yawns widely, not bothering to hide his exhaustion. Honestly, Chuuya feels it echo down to his very bones, despite knowing without doubt that the fatigue of just being there for someone like Dazai can’t even begin to compare with what it must be like to live with that yawning chasm and intense desire for death day after fucking day. Yet he’s exhausted all the same.

“Go to bed, idiot,” he mumbles around a yawn, chasing on the heels of Dazai’s own, “I’ll clean up here.”

Dazai blinks at him for a moment, before humming a low note of agreement, “If you’re sure, Chibi.” he says, finally, eyes skittering off the side, staring at the door leading outside for barely a moment before he lifts his hand in a forced attempt at a nonchalant wave, “goodnight, then.”

Chuuya forces his breath to remain even as he packs the little pieces away, folding the chess board and shoving it back into its box with a little more force than necessary. He uses their single gas burner to heat a pan of seawater, on Dazai’s insistence at eking their water supply out as far as possible – it leaves their utensils with a grainy residue and tang of salt but after Dazai had suggested they use dirty shower water instead Chuuya had decided a little excess salt was the lesser of two evils. Once it’s hot but not boiling, he adds it to the sink with washing up liquid and begins to methodically clean all of their dirty plates, cups, bowls and cutlery from the day. The monotonous task is soothing, lets his brain calm slightly from it’s own frantic racing to something a little more steady, a little more pragmatic.

Chores complete, he heads down to his room, remaining only long enough to brush his teeth (using this morning’s gross foamy water saved in the sink while resolutely trying not to think about it, he should be used to this shit by now but he’s just not), strip out of the day’s clothes and pull on a horrendously large t-shirt and a pair of sleep pants that thankfully have a drawstring so they don’t immediately slip off his slender hips (despite the fact that they pool around his feet in a swathe) and grab the thick blanket and a pillow from his bed.

The boat is dark and silent as he drags a chair, as quietly as he can, from the living area to the corridor that leads to Dazai’s quarters. He’s not even sure why he’s doing this, aside from the need to assuage that tiny pool of dread which lingers, roiling and sour, in the pit of his stomach. Sighing, he drops into the chair, kicking his legs over one armrest and attempting to wedge himself into the corner in a manner that’s not going to leave him feeling like a folded pretzel after a few hours. Throwing the blanket across his shoulders and wrapping himself in the warmth of fleece-lined luxury as best he can, he allows himself to drift into a fitful doze.

He startles awake what must be an hour or two later, to Dazai leaning over the back of the chair with a bemused and slightly bewildered expression. Chuuya bites his lip, wondering what he should say...whether he should say anything at all – after all, it’s fucking obvious what he’s doing here, do they really need to say it out loud?

Dazai spares them the mutual embarrassment.

“I don’t need a guard dog hanging around outside my door.” the words are harsh, yet there’s something soft and terribly defeated in Dazai’s tone, the lingering feeling of a fractured smile lying buried underneath.

“I know –” he mumbles back helplessly, grasping for words that won’t come.

Dazai regards him silently for a moment, Chuuya meeting his eyes resolutely, because he is not ashamed of being concerned about his stupid ex-partner, not ashamed of lying here contorted in this fucking uncomfortable position like he’s on some kind of suicide watch (is that what this is?). He doesn’t know what Dazai sees, and yet, something in the atmosphere between them softens.

“If you’re that determined to follow me around like a dog, you might as well just come in.” Dazai tips his head sideways, indicating the still open door to his room, before pulling away and disappearing back into the shadowed confines beyond.

Chuuya hesitates for barely more than a few seconds before unfolding protesting legs, grabbing his blanket and pillow once again and following in the idiot’s wake.

The room is dark enough than he can barely make out the lumpy, formless shapes of the bed, the sofa and the desk. Belatedly he remembers that Dazai’s room has doors leading directly to the deck, so the bastard could have wandered off to fling himself from the top deck and drown without Chuuya ever realising. The thought leaves him momentarily cold until the realisation occurs that Dazai had, in fact, come out deliberately to check on him, and that, well that leaves something strange and oddly warm flooding him with emotions he can’t quite bring himself to pull apart.

As he picks his way carefully across the floor – expecting trip hazards in the form of Dazai’s discarded clothing to be littering the way – he feels the weight of Dazai’s consideration fixed on him once more. Reaching the sofa, he’s about to collapse and attempt to make himself comfortable when an arm grabs his own, abruptly changing the course of his trajectory and practically flinging him at the bed.

He’s ready to protest when Dazai’s strangely quiet voice permeates the darkness.

“How are you going to guard me from all the way over there, Chibi?” he can hear an uncertainty there that he has no doubt leaves Dazai feeling just as raw and open as he himself feels in this instant.

“Come to bed, idiot.” he grumbles into his pillow in lieu of an answer, even as he worms his way beneath the duvet, no longer able to conjure the ability to argue.

The mattress dips as Dazai crawls in on the other side, pressing suddenly close. “Oh? Should I be worried for my virtue, Chuu-yaa?” the voice at his ear is filled with an amusement that’s jarringly fake. Chuuya knows with sudden certainty that this is what the idiot needs right now, this sense of normal, teasing banter - Chuuya’s own willingness to accept the lie, to pretend that the delicate balance between them hasn’t shifted.

“Only if you’re planning to take it yourself, I’m fucking exhausted.” he lets Dazai crowd in close, their bodies touching from shoulder to ankle as they both lie on their backs, neither one with the courage to turn their heads and look at the other, to see the truth beneath the voiced lie.

“Go to sleep, Chuuya…”

Despite struggling to stay awake - determined to see that Dazai actually falls asleep before succumbing to his own fatigue – his world fades quickly to black.

~ ~ ~

He wakes to the light of morning, streaming steady, golden brilliance through the windows.

Alone.

A heart-stopping panic floods him with ice, breath lodged somewhere deep in uncooperative lungs.

The space next to him is cold and he goes from sleep-clouded fuzziness to bolt upright in seconds. Scrabbling at the duvet, he throws it aside, almost falling from the bed as gravity defies his initial attempt to stand. He practically skids across the floor, tripping over the excess material of his pants as one leg wraps around his foot and sends him tumbling into the door. He wrenches it open, stumbling forwards and almost colliding face-first with Dazai, who takes a hasty step backwards, two mugs holding steaming contents balanced in his hands and somehow managing not to slosh all over the sides with the sharp movement.

Chuuya feels like the phantom hands constricting his throat have suddenly been ripped away. Sucks in a breath and tries to calm his rapidly beating heart, to stop the surge of distressed adrenaline causing his fingers to shake where they are still wrapped around the door handle.

Dazai notices, of course, takes it all in with an impassive expression. Waits for Chuuya to lift his eyes from the floor, the fight or flight response still running like a fevered torrent through his blood.

“Chibi...I’m okay.” soft, maybe even forlorn.

“I know –” he manages to choke out. He uncurls his fingers from the door by force of will, pulling himself upright, pulling himself together.

“Back to bed, Chibi, I was bringing tea and everything~” the front makes an appearance again, putting a smile on Dazai’s face that looks wrong in the here and now.

“Okay…” whisper-soft and obedient because he doesn’t know what else to do, who else to be in this moment. Turning back to climb under the covers, resting his back against the pillows and watching Dazai place one of the mugs on the side table next to him before continuing to the other side to set his own mug down and sidle in next to him, crossing his stupid long legs so that his knee presses into Chuuya’s thigh.

“Chuuya?” hesitant in a way that bites at Chuuya’s nerves.

“Mmmh?” it’s all he can trust his voice to manage without betraying him.

A heavy sigh, Chuuya can almost feel the effort it costs Dazai to try and pull some kind of mask across his face. “I didn’t mean for you to find me like that. You weren’t supposed to see.” he looks up, sees a smile and hates it with every fibre of his being.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” it’s half-growled, almost accusing and instantly he feels like he’s stepped over a line he should not have crossed. Dazai’s eyes are flat, the smile still sits at the corners of his mouth but the expression is empty, devoid of true emotion.

“I should have covered it better. It won’t happen again.” the smile yawns wider, into something with teeth, as if Dazai is more than ready to sink fangs into his own wrist, to tear apart the fragile veins just to watch himself bleed and bleed and bleed. Chuuya can feel himself losing with every passing second.

“What the – no...that’s not –” he stops, bares his teeth in a wordless snarl and digs his fingers into his palms in a bid to wake the fuck up, “Why do you think I want you to cover it?”

Dazai’s eyes shutter, the smile dripping from his face to be replaced with something terribly empty. “People don’t want to hear about my wish to die. Even if it’s a joke.”

Chuuya’s whole body goes cold, knowing that this isn’t something Dazai is plucking from his own stupid head, no, it’s something that originated from somewhere, from someone else. “Who told you that?”

“Atsushi-kun.” Now there’s something sad and wistful lurking in the deepest shadows of half-lidded, dark eyes and honestly, that’s not what Chuuya had ever expected from the tiger kid.

“What exactly did Atsushi-kun say?” he tries not to growl the name of Dazai’s protege, really, he does.

“Ah, something like ‘please don’t say that. Not even as a joke.’” Dazai is staring out of the window now, to the expanse of ocean glistening in the morning sun just beyond the glass and Chuuya can feel the clammy, grasping fingers of that creeping melancholy reaching out to swamp them both.

Something like… they both know Dazai has a memory that could recite entire conversations word-for-word spanning the space of years. He’s horrified, appalled, not just at the meaning Dazai seems to have placed on the words, but because you don’t just say something like that to someone so obviously conflicted with their own state of living. He can forgive the kid, really, can even understand where it’s coming from; he knows how difficult it is to hear someone you have some kind of feelings towards (be they admiration, camaraderie, hatred) or look up to, tell you how much they want to cease existing in the world, and nothing that you can say or do will alter their perception. It leaves you feeling useless in the worst way, second guessing every action.

But…

“That’s not what I want from you.” he murmurs quietly, and, considering all he’s heard about the Weretiger in these last weeks (maybe he’s feeling a little magnanimous), all he’s read in the Mafia reports, “I don’t think that’s quite what he meant either.”

“Then what do you want, Chibi?” asked without Dazai even so much as turning his head in Chuuya’s direction. Though he knows the bastard’s attention is fully on him from the way his knee tenses beneath the covers.

“I want you to fucking talk to me!” he snarls, unable to keep his frustration contained any longer, the words come out in an almost unintelligible torrent, pouring forth, quiet and yet unstoppable. “I want you to talk to me because I don’t understand what’s going on in that damned head of yours, I can’t predict your every move and I can’t follow you around like a fucking shadow. I don’t care if we’re here, or back home...I don’t care if we’ve had a fight, I don’t care if you hate me, I don’t care if the Mafia and the Agency are in a full scale fucking war...you feel like that again, you talk to me.” he takes a breath, finds Dazai watching him with something like doubt and ploughs on regardless. “Even if you ‘cover it’ and hide away, push all that shit down...it’s not just gonna fuck off and leave is it?”

A non-verbal shake of the head is all he gets in response, but it will do to prove a point.

“Exactly. You can crawl off to your hole or wherever else you run off to hide, but eventually that shit’s going to overwhelm you...then you end up like that. Or worse, someone finds you drifting down a fucking river, or the tiger kid will barge into your room one day and find you with a rope around your neck again.”

Again. Again. Again. That single word rings in his head on repeat. Forces him to look down, to pick at the duvet with absent fingers.

Because it wouldn’t be the first time, not by a long shot.

“I want you to talk to me,” he repeats, his voice fading to something small and lost because he doesn’t know how else to get it through that idiot skull. No matter how much he might hate Dazai (and is it hate anymore? Was it ever hate or was it really just hurt – hurt at being betrayed, at being left behind like so much trash?), no matter how irritating the bastard can be, he selfishly wants the idiot to still be there – pushing and taunting and bickering – isn’t sure he could face the world with the same outlook if the news ever came of Dazai’s actually succeeding in one of his attempts. “Even if it doesn’t help –” because really, what can someone like him ever hope to do for a person who has already given up.

Dazai’s arm is suddenly pressing against his shoulder, causing him to startle and look up into serious eyes, the colour of old blood and lit with some untold emotion that swims between the empty void.

“Okay…”

Chuuya’s breath freezes somewhere halfway up his throat as he scans Dazai’s face, not quite believing. “Okay?” he stutters back.

“I’ll try.” Chuuya can hear the sincerity in those two simple words, despite Dazai’s propensity for lies, manipulation and misdirection, in those words there is truth. It’s all he can ask for right now.

Chuuya smiles then, something small and genuine as he reaches out to wrap his fingers around the mug of cooling tea left abandoned on the side table. Peering at Dazai over the rim and seeing his own sad smile mirrored on the idiot’s face, it feels like they’ve crossed some sort of barrier into the unknown. “Okay.” is all he can manage to whisper in return.

~ ~ ~

He’s still reluctant to let Dazai out of his sight for the next few days, his nerves frayed and jittery and he wants to believe that they’ve reached some kind of understanding, some kind of trust, but the past being what it is...well, it’s hard to dismiss.

Still, trust works both ways, he knows, still has some tattered remnants of faith that Dazai won’t leave him in this fucked up world, that his darker impulses might get the better of him, might make him want to hurt and bleed and cover himself in darkness and memories (and ghosts...doesn’t that thought just make him shudder) but in the end, it would be nothing more than a shadow of a true death. After all, Dazai would emerge on the correct side of reality (because like fuck is Chuuya failing this mission), only to be faced with his own continued existence once more and a shattered trust that even Chuuya doesn’t think could be repaired.

He retreats back to his own room to sleep, the night following their little heart-to-heart, deciding that taking up his vigil outside Dazai’s door would be a betrayal in it’s own right. He leaves Dazai to lick his wounds in private, a display of faith on his part that he knows the bandaged bastard has read and understood in the way that Dazai very deliberately loiters around the shared spaces of the yacht, rather than taking the opportunity to closet himself away in the face of Chuuya’s consideration.

In small increments that somehow feel like monumental steps, they fall back into that comfortable air of camaraderie, only now it seems to be charged with a barely-there and yet distractingly noticeable undercurrent. He feels like he’s waiting for something, but he doesn’t know what; like he needs to get somewhere faster, but he doesn’t know where. It skitters beneath his skin like a brewing storm. Often he finds himself glancing up from whatever task or recreational activity he’s currently busying himself with, only to find Dazai’s eyes already watching him from across the room – sharp and contemplative and picking him apart inch by slow inch. Then the bastard will cock his head to the side - like he can hear something just beyond Chuuya’s range – and smile in that infuriatingly mysterious way, like he’s figured out something Chuuya is yet to grasp.

It’s annoying.

It’s distracting.

He’s not sure he wants Dazai to stop looking.

~ ~ ~

“I think we need to make an attempt to reach the city.”

The words come out of nowhere and Chuuya is left blinking in surprise with a scooped portion of rice halfway to his open mouth.

“Huh?” is his terribly intelligent response.

Dazai pokes at his cheek with one of his chopsticks. “If you don’t close your mouth you’ll start catching flies, Chuu-yaa~” Chuuya snaps his mouth shut with a click. “That’s better, gaping fish is not a good look on you, Chibi.”

Chuuya is half tempted to shove his chopsticks down the bastard’s throat just to make him stop talking. Unfortunately before he can make his fantasy a reality, said bastard is speaking again.

“What was I saying before your ugliness derailed my thought process?” Chuuya has all of half a second to feel affronted before his emotions are thrown back into the rollercoaster of surprise, “Oh, right, the city. I think we need to start on finding and stocking safe-houses, and while we’re at it, see how close we can get to Orez.”

“After what we saw of the town...and what you said about hordes massing in the immediate areas surrounding any of the targeted centers, I’m curious as to why you suddenly think that’s a good idea?” he finally manages to get a word in edgeways, stamping down on his annoyance in favour of trying to work out if the idiot has finally lost his mind.

Dazai’s fingers drum absently on the tabletop, chopsticks discarded in his still half-full bowl as he thinks. Chuuya can’t help but watch those long fingers tap out their ceaseless beat, drawn to the steady rhythm of Dazai’s thoughts. He almost misses what the bastard actually says.

“We need to start mapping routes: finding out which roads are passable and which need to be written off – even though some of those routes might end up impassable further on down the line, it means we’ll have less leg work to do in the end.” Dazai contemplates his bowl of rice as if it holds the answers to the very secrets of the universe, his fingers still tap, tap, tap, an unconscious accompaniment to every word. “We need to see the state of the surrounding country, not to mention the city itself, we’re going to have to pass through or at least close to it at some point. We also need to consider the fact that we’re not going to be able to stay here like this indefinitely.”

“What do you mean?” Chuuya asks, lifting his eyes from Dazai’s fingers to study the face which is now studying him in turn.

“Considering the increase in rainfall in the past week, it’s safe to predict that whatever passes as summer here in this world is starting to come to an end. We’ve already had the summer storm –” well, the less said about that particular time, the better, Chuuya doesn’t want to think about the harsh words and the stark feeling of betrayal again any time soon. “It’s likely that the weather will begin to take a turn for the worse from here on out. We can’t make all of our plans assuming that this vessel will be able to withstand the brunt of whatever the winter conditions may be. We need alternatives and we need them fully stocked before we have to think about utilising them. Not to mention a safe route from here to our final destination.”

“We’re leaving the boat? After all the damn work we put in to get here?” Sure, what Dazai is saying makes sense, they do need contingency plans and eventually they will have to make their way to the lab, so being stuck out in the middle of the sea indefinitely wont do them any favours, but still…

“I hope we wont be forced to for a while yet,” Dazai’s shoulder lifts in a familiar lazy shrug, “but this yacht was never meant for sustained sea voyages. It’s a pleasure boat, intended to be taken out for a few days and then stored safely back in its berth on a calm harbour. We’re already running low on water, and I’m not convinced that we would survive any kind of extended turbulent weather. I intend for us to stay here as long as possible – it’s still the most defensible place we could possibly hope to find, but eventually we will be forced to ‘abandon ship’. I would rather do that on our terms, with all of our supplies safely distributed in other locations, than have everything sink to the bottom of the sea.”

“Right…” Chuuya sighs, because it makes sense, much as he’d have liked to just ride out the entire eight months right here, in the middle of the sea and far away from the grasping claws and clattering jaws of those zombie fuckers, it’s just not feasible. The idea of waking up one night to water crawling down his throat to choke the air from his lungs as their home is claimed by the ocean, to be dragged to a watery grave has goosebumps rising on his skin. “What about the zombie bastards? The nearer we get to the city, the more likely we are to run into them, right?”

Tap, tap, tap – one finger against Dazai’s chin, dark eyes staring into some unknowable place as he pauses to consider. “It’s been long enough that hopefully the larger masses are beginning to disband into smaller, more manageable hordes. At that point they should begin to disperse through the area. We’ll have to be cautious, of course, there’s no real way to predict their movements considering they don’t have the capacity for complex thought...it’s more like...a herd of cows traipsing around a field – one decides to wander off to graze in another area and the rest of the herd will follow.” Chuuya didn’t really need a lecture on herd mentality, or zombie mentality for that matter, he grumbles as such and the bastard only has the audacity to smile at him, poking a finger into Chuuya’s cheek and ignoring his murderous glare.

“Hopefully, it’s also soon enough after the raids and subsequent zombie infestation that we wont have to worry too much about any scavengers coming to pick over the remains trying to find anything useful.”

“Isn’t that exactly what we’ll be doing?” Chuuya asks blandly, earning himself another poke on the cheek, he swears if the bastard does it again he’ll bite his fucking fingers off. The amused glint in Dazai’s eyes makes him feel like the asshole is reading his mind, again.

“Well, yes...but as Ranpo-san says: all’s well that’s well for me!” Dazai throws out one hand in a dramatic pose that instantly reminds Chuuya of the strange, irritating, genius detective.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Dazai smirks, hand still outstretched, the other coming to rest on his chin in an iconic ‘brooding detective’ pose, “It means we leave the day after tomorrow, Chibi~ make sure you get some sleep, you’re starting to look like a panda.”

Chuuya clamps his mouth shut around the immediate who’s fucking fault do you think that is, bandage bastard which tries to crawl up his throat, instead letting out a soft grumbling, “You don’t look much better yourself, idiot.” which sounds far too affectionate compared his usual tone of irritation and now...now Dazai is regarding him with that weird look that makes him want to shutter his eyes so the bastard can’t see whatever it is that he picks out in the heart of Chuuya’s irises. The things Chuuya chooses to wilfully ignore.

He should probably just never open his mouth around the damn mackerel idiot again, that would solve all of his fucking problems.

~ ~ ~

It takes them almost the entirety of the next day to complete the inventory and sectioning of their ‘treasure hoard’ which Dazai had begun during Chuuya’s absence weeks previously. Neither of them cares to mention the circumstances that had led to Dazai actually doing something productive, instead choosing to skirt over that obvious trumped-wielding elephant in the room (or cave, if he’s feeling particularly pedantic) and work together to compile their additions since that time and add to the cached sections already in neat (or at least, as neat as that bastard gets) piles, scattered throughout the cave.

They add a few items to those already stored in the RV, add a few more notes to the ever-growing list of things they would like to procure before the situation outside gets truly dire and their movements are hampered; either by road conditions or the expanding territory of the legions of undead, not to mention the murdering scum that’s no doubt lurking about in the forgotten places of this fucked up country. They’ve yet to have a serious run-in with the locals, as Dazai keeps reminding him, but Chuuya knows that it’s bound to happen at some point, there’s no way they’re getting through this shitty novel without some kind of monstrous trap set by the damned author of all their fucking problems.

Really, Chuuya can’t consider one Edgar Allan Poe in any kind of charitable light when faced with another five months of living through a fucking zombie apocalypse.

“Chibi? You’re spacing out...are you going to stand there with dead bodies at your feet all evening?”

Chuuya blinks himself out of thoughts scattered to the four winds to a blood-drenched blade in his hand and three corpses crumpled in the dirt around him – the latest in the collection of zombies who had stumbled upon their little hideaway and become entangled in the barbed wire, or fallen upon the mercy of the staked trench.

His face falls into a frown when he notices the almost black blood flecking his gloves, he’ll have to clean them yet again, the constant bloodstains are no good for the leather. Wiping the blade mostly clean on the filthy shirt of what was once a older man – his left side mangled from shoulder to thigh and leather-skinned face half chewed away, a testament to a horrifying ending – he returns the knife to his belt, shooting an unimpressed look over his shoulder to where the bastard is slouching lazily against a tree, content to let Chuuya do the brunt of the work, as ever.

“Come and help get rid of these, useless waste of bandages.”

“Chuuya is such a slave driver!” comes the predictable whine, “I’m over here dying of hunger and he wants me to play packhorse and cart dead bodies here, there and everywhere!”

“If you don’t hurry the fuck up, I’ll make sure to add plenty of that spicy mustard to your rice again. I know how much you enjoyed it last time.” Chuuya grins at the look of utter disgust (and possibly slight nausea) painting itself across Dazai’s face.

“You wouldn’t!” a dramatic gasp, complete with wide eyes, open mouth and hand over heart.

“Do you really want to bet on that?” Chuuya is unmoved, totally unmoved, by the display.

Morosely, Dazai crosses the trench, dragging his feet every inch of the way, before glaring down at the closest corpse with displeasure.

“The things I do for you, Chuuya…”

Staring down at the partially dismembered remains of what were once human beings, Dazai’s stupid, flippant words shouldn’t make his heart do weird stuttered jumps within the cavity of his chest.

~ ~ ~

A slight tensing of the arms wrapped securely around his waist is the only warning he gets before Dazai’s chest presses suddenly close against his back, the bastard’s chin coming to rest lightly on his shoulder as he drawls next to Chuuya’s ear. He should be used to this particular brand of teasing (can it even be called that anymore? Chuuya wilfully ignores the implications of looking too deeply into Dazai’s behaviour, it’s just not worth the headache), Dazai pushing his way unabashedly into Chuuya’s space at every opportunity, his distaste for the bike spelled out in petty revenge tactics as the idiot apparently tries his best to cause an accident that will kill both of them. Of course, that bastard would just wave an airy hand while spouting bullshit about it being the only way to get Chuuya’s attention when he drives so recklessly. Chuuya has likewise given up on calling Dazai out on his shit.

“There, I think that’s it. Pull over, Chibi.” Even though he’s expecting it, the puff of words against his ear ripples tension down his spine, causes the hair on the back of his neck to prickle with awareness. He knows Dazai notices, knows that the asshole huffs another breath against the side of his neck just for the fucking hell of it.

Casting his irritation at Dazai’s lamentably predictable antics aside, Chuuya brings the bike to a sedate rolling stop, casting his eyes around the empty expanse of pastureland surrounding them in rolling waves of grass and weed-choked fields in confusion. “Why have we stopped?”

Judging from the distance they’ve travelled, he’d make a bet on them being maybe a third of the way between their own cove and the very outskirts of the city of Orez – it’s been hours, but most of the time has been spent running in maddening, futile circles, coming up against obstacle after obstacle forcing them to turn aside, backtrack and figure out an alternative route to push them ever closer to an accursed city which, apparently, does not wish to welcome them with ease.

“It’s perfect, don’t you think, Chuuya~”

He’s not sure what part of the conversation he missed (or rather, what part Dazai omitted just to be annoying) but he’s not sure what the idiot is wittering on about with such an odd, almost fervour in his tone. Twisting his body sideways, Chuuya glances over his shoulder, fully intending to snap at the bastard to just talk like a normal human being for once in his stupid life, only to find wide red-brown eyes fixed with almost childish excitement on…

No...no way.

“You cannot be serious?!” The structure (Chuuya supposes he can generously call it that), which Dazai is currently gazing at with hearts in his eyes is an honest to god water tower. Looming tall and imposing, the only man-made structure for what seems to be miles, in Chuuya’s opinion it’s more of a rusting blot on the quaint country landscape than something worthy of the look the asshole is currently giving it.

“But Chuu-yaa,” Dazai whines, clambering off the back of the bike and stabbing a finger at the tower, “it’s just the kind of place we need!”

“I’m going to need more convincing than that, shitty Dazai.” Chuuya replies flatly, leaning back in the seat and stretching out cramped leg muscles, “why exactly is a rusty tower full of water ‘perfect’?”

Dazai’s low snickers of amusement have his shoulders squaring defensively before the bastard can even utter a word, but the idiot only raises his hands placatingly as he attempts to stifle his mirth. “Well, for a start, it won’t be full of water. Actually, I expect it’s bone dry in there now.” Chuuya’s expression must betray his unasked question, because Dazai actually chooses to elaborate without Chuuya needing to bark at him (or threaten bodily harm) to explain. “The power’s been out for a long time, the pumps these towers use to bring water up through the pipes will have long since stopped working. Add to that the fact that whatever network this tower is connected to was probably bled dry by desperate people within the first few weeks of the outbreak. Without power the sewage processing plants won’t be working to filter the water system and while the reservoirs might have been able to supply a limited populace for some time, without a viable source of electricity to drive the pumps, the entire system is useless.”

Not for the first time, Chuuya wonders where Dazai has room in his stupid head to store all of this random, generally useless information. Still, he’s impressed by the knowledge and, despite trying not to show it, the smirk Dazai gives him tells him he’s failed miserably once again.

“So, tell me, Chibi, why do you think an empty water tower is useful to us?”

Chuuya narrows his eyes, searching the other man’s face for any hint of derision or the mocking humour common to Dazai pointing out Chuuya’s supposed stupidity – for once he sees nothing but sharp curiosity in those calculating eyes. “What is this, some kind of test?” he grumbles, but focuses his attention back on the tower regardless, assessing the structure with a critical eye.

“Well, it’s off the ground, so the zombie fuckers can’t get in,” he starts hesitantly, suddenly decides fuck it, hitches his leg over the bike, shoves his hands into his pockets and begins to stalk closer as he continues, “there’s only one way in and out – up that ladder, which has to be pulled down from the top. If it can be secured in some way then there’s not much chance of surprise company of the human variety. It’s fenced around the outside, although that’s not going to keep out anything determined. It’s in the middle of nowhere so the chances of someone just happening to wander past are small, and it has a decent view in all directions.”

Huh...it actually is kind of perfect.

There’s absolutely no way he is ever admitting that out loud. Ever.

The look of smug satisfaction dancing in the quirk of Dazai’s lips and the crinkling at the corners of his eyes says that he doesn’t need to because the bastard has already plucked the thought straight from his head, or perhaps his face.

Stupid bandage bastards and their stupid mind-reading abilities.

“Aww, I’m glad Chibi agrees~” the idiot sing-songs leaning one arm and what feels like the entirety of his weight against Chuuya’s shoulder, “so, let’s go and have a look inside our future home, shall we?”

That insufferable man makes it feel like their going to look around their first apartment or something.

Chuuya can feel the blush crawling across his cheeks. Stalks off towards the tower without another word and hears Dazai’s rolling chuckle following in his wake.

They climb the flimsy chain-link fence rather than cutting their way through, not wanting to damage the perimeter of what might become a safe location for them in the future, not wanting to disturb the abandoned look of the surroundings and make it seem like a place that’s worth snooping around to other potential passersby.

The lowest rung of the extension ladder is around nine feet from the ground, just high enough that Dazai – annoyingly tall and lanky bastard that he is – cannot quite reach it by jumping (if you ask Chuuya, he’d say the bastard wasn’t trying very hard). The way those dark eyes turn on him, eyeing him up and down for a second, is a precursor to what Chuuya already knows will be something irritating.

“If I give you a boost, do you think you’ll reach? Petit Mafia?” the nickname is almost purred and Chuuya can feel his hackles rise in indignation.

“Oi, be careful shitty Dazai, or I’ll use your stupid face instead.”

Dazai’s smile is something sharp, almost wicked, and Chuuya has a second to think that maybe he just played right into that asshole’s hands. “Oh? Is Chuuya offering to step on me? How lewd.”

He blinks wide eyes, sputtering for a moment in embarrassed denial before crashing his foot down hard on the ground and almost yelling with indignation. “The only lewd thing here is you, bastard! Get your mind out of the fucking gutter.”

“Ah, but with Chuuya here it’s just so hard~” Dazai has the audacity to bat his stupid long eyelashes in a bid at being coy.

Chuuya wonders if his face is currently the same shade of red as his hair. His entire body feels like it might combust on the spot if that bastard says another word.

And then…

And then Dazai is directly in front of him, bending slightly until they’re at mortifying eye level and forming a stirrup with interlocked fingers. There’s a smile on his lips as he murmurs softly, “Come on, Chibi, up you go.”

Chuuya huffs a noise of wordless, indignant complaint before he plants his left foot in Dazai’s waiting hands, uses the bastard’s shoulder for balance and with one coordinated move from both of them (practised a hundred times before, in a different lifetime), he is launched into the air.

It’s easy, really, to grab one of the rungs and allow his weight to drag the ladder down until his feet touch the floor once more and he can yank the screeching metal down to its furthest extent. Executing a perfect bow, he gestures to the idiot beside him with a flourish, “Since this was your idea, you can test just how sturdy this rusty piece of shit is.”

Dazai’s grin is full of teeth sharper than a shark’s maw, “If you wanted to stare at my ass, Chuuya, you could have just asked~”

Chuuya very resolutely does not stare at Dazai’s ass as he ascends the ladder - testing each rung with thorough, agonising, calculated slowness as he goes – okay, so maybe he does, a little, but only because that bastard planted the fucking idea in his head! Certainly not because those damn pants fit him just a little too well…

Well...okay then.

He’s somewhat relieved to find that the interior of the water tower (once they had finished wrestling with the damn hatch and it’s rusted wheel lever) is actually clean, sturdy and completely devoid of the thousands of gallons of water he’d honestly half expected to be confronted with upon dragging the recalcitrant hatch back on its groaning hinges.

Climbing down the ladder to the base of the tower itself feels like descending into the cavernous underbelly of some capsized sea creature, and yet, it feels weirdly safe – a tiny floating haven, left outside the chaos of the world.

Of course, he can’t let Dazai know that. Looks around until he can come up with some form of criticism. “It’s going to be freezing if we end up using this place in winter, all that metal on the outside.”

Dazai is staring around with the self-satisfied air of someone who knows that Chuuya’s protests are no more than a half-hearted, token attempt, the bastard doesn’t even bother to look Chuuya in the eye when he replies. “Actually, it shouldn’t be too bad. These things are pretty well-insulated so that the water inside doesn’t freeze in sub-zero temperatures and burst the pipes.”

“Hmm...”

“You’re still unconvinced?” those dark eyes seem even darker in the gloom – the only light coming from the hole made in the roof by the open hatch, a single patch of sunlight and warmth while everything else surrounding them tapers off into shadow.

Finally he relents, shakes his head in the negative and all but huffs, “No, I think it’s a good start.”

Dazai’s fingers trail across his back as the idiot makes his way back to the ladder, Chuuya can almost feel the smugness radiating from him to pollute the air. “Well, then, if we’re agreed, let’s go and fetch the RV, we can even give it a trial run tonight!”

That bastard sounds far too happy about spending the night sleeping in a metal box. Chuuya can only sigh, because honestly, it does sound better than sleeping in another damn tree.

~ ~ ~

He finds Dazai sitting on the roof of the water tower, staring out across the fields as the sun rises, heralding a new morning. The lightening sky is tinged in hues of pink and orange with softly dazzling golden undertones bleeding through the clouds behind him. Chuuya almost feels like he’s intruding on yet another moment he wasn’t meant to see – Dazai looks relaxed, his posture loose and his hair waving gently in the breeze.

It’s kind of beautiful.

“Staring is rude, Chuuya.” the other man’s voice is a low rumble, sleepy and scratchy in equal degrees, the kind of tone that makes Chuuya unconsciously run his tongue along his teeth.

The silence holds for a beat too long, Chuuya still caught up in the moment and not really thinking of anything beyond what lies right before his eyes. Finally he swallows, shifting from foot to foot as embarrassment colours his cheeks with a red stain of a shade that cannot entirely be blamed on the chill of morning. Instinctively he reaches for something defensive, rather than be caught in a moment of pensive reflection at the sight of that idiot and his stupid handsome profile. It’s just the sunrise, making everything look soft and pretty, that’s all. “Shitty Dazai, I was just checking to make sure you hadn’t thrown yourself from the roof and died.”

Is it too soon to say things like that? Even considering their usual bickering and somewhat blasé attitude to insulting each other at every opportunity? It probably is. He’s not used to having to reign in his bickering retorts around Dazai, not used to having to think before he opens his mouth. He’s always let fly with the full extent of his temper, secure in the knowledge that Dazai would give as good as he received. Now he feels like he’s tiptoeing across a patch of sheet ice, waiting for it to crack.

“Sorry –” he mumbles immediately, preparing to turn around. head back down into the belly of the beast and pretend he was never here, before he wedges his foot even further down his throat. “That was insensitive, I’ll just –”

“Chuuya…” he pauses mid-turn as Dazai leans back on his hands, tilting his head backwards until he’s regarding Chuuya almost upside-down. “Come sit with me?” the request is soft, almost hesitant, as if Dazai isn’t sure whether Chuuya will agree.

But Chuuya is drawn by that voice, by the sunlight playing between brown stands and lighting dark eyes to something close to the colour of blood, like the self-destructive moth to a wildfire.

He tries to keep a respectable distance between them, situating himself carefully on the edge of the tower a few feet from Dazai - dangling his legs out into the empty space beyond and trying not to imagine how it would feel to crash into the earth below if he were to fall – only for the idiot to cant his head to the side with something like consideration in too-bright eyes, assessing him for all of a few painful heartbeats before shuffling sideways until their shoulders touch and Chuuya can feel the scratch of bandages against his bare arms.

He blinks, resolutely not looking in the bastard’s direction, drowning in the sudden absence of noise, at the sudden proximity of what feels like danger, wrapped in a familiar skin.

“Chuuya,” Dazai begins, then halts, the words seeming to get stuck somewhere in his throat, and that’s a concept so entirely alien it has Chuuya whipping his head sideways in concern, only to be confronted by an expression that is weirdly fond. Dazai shakes his head, mouth twisting into something like exasperation before he speaks again, the words too quiet, too hesitant, too honest, “we’ve known each other for a long time.”

“Too fucking long.” Chuuya interjects automatically, then falls silent when Dazai quirks an eyebrow at him.

“Right, too long...too long for you to feel the need to do whatever that was just now.”

“Huh?”

“When have you ever felt the need to apologise to me, Chibi?” a sigh, and Chuuya can feel Dazai’s entire body move with it, the contact between them sending a shiver up his spine to linger in the tensing of his shoulders.

It’s a fair question. Chuuya doesn’t apologise. Not to Dazai. Not ever. Dazai is the traitor here, the betrayer, the bastard who left without a word, walked out of Chuuya’s life like he wasn’t the fucking reason Chuuya ever became embroiled in the Port Mafia in the first place, like he wasn’t the reason Chuuya was even alive, that he wasn’t Chuuya’s security, his only stupid talisman against the rage of a beast bent on ripping the world asunder. Like he wasn’t his fucking partner. No, Chuuya doesn’t apologise, not to that asshole.

Except…

Except things are different here. Freed from the chains of Corruption bound on his soul, from his immediate duty to the Mafia as an Executive, for the first time in their years of partnership...broken trust...loathing, for the first time they are on a more equal footing. Seeing Dazai, actually seeing the person he’s trying to become, despite being dyed in a black so deep it’s unfathomable, despite the emptiness Chuuya knows is still there on the inside - still eats at Dazai every day he continues to exist. It’s...different.

He’d meant the words he’d whispered in an effort to comfort the idiot, sat trembling on the floor of a child’s bedroom with a discarded knife and a blankness in his eyes that threw Chuuya back six years into the fucking past in an instant. Dazai is not the same person he was four years ago – the demons are still there, they burrow deep and their claws are hooked forever into his soul in the same way that Arahabaki is coiled around his own; the manipulative streak is still there, the willingness to use people as game-pieces without concern for the ‘greater good’, but Dazai was always good at compartmentalising, pushing any fleeting motion aside to consider the bare bones of the mission at hand...but there’s something softer there, something more open, despite the masks and the myriad facades, a glimpse at something small and scared, scarred and human.

He realises that Dazai is still watching him, wonders exactly how long he’s been sitting here staring at the bastard without actually seeing anything aside from the thoughts unravelling in his own head. He shifts awkwardly, breaking their contact for a moment and feeling his skin prickle at the invading cold. It feels wrong. He presses them back together, closer than before, wonders why it feels right then discards that train of thought like it might blow up in his face if he considers it for a second too long.

“It was a shitty thing to say.” he murmurs finally, determinedly maintaining eye contact, despite the fact that it makes his stomach drop in an entirely unpleasant way.

“It’s us,” Dazai shrugs, as if that explains every-fucking-thing. There’s the ghost of a smile on his face now, something teasing and yet warm, “you’re the tiny ball of rage and I’m the suicidal idiot who can’t die. Between us we might just make one whole person.”

Chuuya snorts out a laugh, the breath leaving his lungs to replace oxygen with something both painful and hopeful. “What a messed up pair we are.”

“I did consider throwing myself off the roof,” Dazai’s shoulder bumps against his, eyes crimson in the light of morning, dawn drawing around them in all of her gold-dipped glory, “but I thought Chuuya might miss me.”

“Like fuck am I letting you leave me in this shithole alone.” Chuuya kicks out one foot to catch Dazai’s shin and hopes the asshole next to him doesn’t catch the slight waver in his voice. He basks in the glow of another new day and the tentative smile of the idiot who is somehow still breathing by his side.

~ ~ ~

It takes them three days to even get close to the city.

Three fucking days.

It probably would have been quicker (no, it definitely would have been quicker) if Dazai hadn’t insisted on them bringing the RV, mostly as a means of carting back anything interesting that they might come across on their travels, but also because, as the bastard had so annoyingly pointed out, “We have to get it around the city at some point, better to know which roads are accessible now than have to do all the work again later.” which, okay he gets it, but it doesn’t make the task any less fucking frustrating.

Two more nights sleeping in damned trees because neither of them had wanted to go all the way back to the cove, only to have to backtrack down the exact same shitty roads they had wound their way through like some kind of impossible labyrinth already. The entire journey shouldn’t take more than a few hours, that’s the most frustrating part of this whole mess.

It would have been fine – he’s kind of gotten used to sleeping twenty feet in the air and not having a mental breakdown first thing in the morning when he finds himself staring at the sky and a knotwork of gently swaying greenery – but last night it had rained incessantly for over six hours. He hadn’t gotten wet, the hastily erected tarpaulin covers over their hammocks slash tents slash whatever the fuck they were had kept him surprisingly dry, but he hadn’t gotten any sleep either (try sleeping in a swaying cocoon twenty feet in the damn air with rain beating a steady, mind-numbing and yet thunderous tattoo above your head) and he’d already been in a somewhat sour mood before, but now it’s turned into something that’s about ready to explode, even though they can see the crumpled and twisted forms of buildings on the distant horizon.

The bridge, crossing a wide river at the basin of a valley...well, there isn’t a bridge any more.

He’s standing as close as he cares to get to the edge of the precipice yawning out before him, cracked and broken asphalt shot through with steel cables, spiking out into the abyss like fractured, gnarling, clawing fingers reaching for something they will never again grasp. Half-shattered and pitted pillars of concrete line up like sentinels, rising from the valley floor and swirling depths of the river below, reaching for the skies in a forlorn tribute to what once must have been a mildly impressive structure (the kind that people pass by every day and never really take notice of). Blasted stone, cracked rock and sheared chunks of asphalt litter the area, pockmarking the landscape with the ugly scars of the rage of humanity.

That’s not the worst of it.

On the other side of the abyss, amidst the littered debris, figures are moving. Listless and yet ceaseless, directionless and mindless, churning and massing and staggering and shuffling. One might almost mistake them for people, wandering through the broken remnants of life, searching for an escape, for freedom; and yet, the movements are jerky - unpolished, uncoordinated, unnatural, unnerving, wrong.

His spine is ramrod straight as he stares into the eyes of a death that does not end with the promise of eternal sleep. A feeling of hopeless despair washes over him like a wave, cold and dragging him down with a weight that threatens to drown him.

He smothers it with anger, with red hot rage at being faced with fucking twists and turns no matter what direction they run, until he’s functioning on nothing but a cocktail of adrenaline and fury with nothing and nowhere to direct his ire.

Grabbing a rock, he hurls it out into the air, watching it crash into the nearest concrete support pillar and burst into a hundred tiny fragments. He would scream his defiance out loud, but he’s not stupid, he doesn’t want to bring an opportunistic horde down on their heads. It’s risky enough standing out here in the open as it is, it had been risky enough opting to come out of the back country roads they’ve been sticking to and onto the highway in an attempt to find a more direct route.

Well, so much for that idea.

“Do you feel better after your little fit of pique, Petit Mafia?” Dazai’s amused voice comes from somewhere behind his shoulder, probably far enough away to be out of range of Chuuya’s foot. A calculated decision, no doubt.

“No.” he growls back, unable to keep the fine tremor of anger from his voice, “I’d feel better if we were on the other side of that fucking bridge without a hundred walking dead bodies trying to chew off our asses!”

“I don’t think your ass is quite what they’re looking for, Chibi~” the bastard is snickering quietly and when Chuuya turns to glower at him, Dazai has a hand over his mouth and his eyes are squinting with withheld laughter and Chuuya can do nothing but shake his head and grumble under his breath as the rage bleeds from him like so much water running under the ruins of that fucking bridge.

“When we get out of here, I’m going to break that damned author’s fingers so he can never write another book again.” When they get out of here. Definitely not if. Because his hopes of surviving this are not dropping by the second. Not. At. All.

“Shh, don’t say that, he might hear you and decide to throw Cthulhu in here just for kicks!” Dazai whisper-hisses, as if they’re somehow being watched from above. The thought makes him shudder. “But, when you break him...can I watch?” the dark curling undertone in those few murmured words is almost a desultory purr. A throwback to bygone days of blood and demons.

His throat is oddly dry, and he covers the heat suddenly rushing through his veins with a smirk, “No, you can damn well help.”

A smile curls across Dazai’s lips, holding shadow and memories and darkness, “Whatever you say, partner.”

Something catches Chuuya’s attention before his brain can formulate a response to that little display. A post, upon which is nailed wooden board, with something stuck hastily to the front, sitting conspicuously on the verge to the side of the highway. It’s new, or at least, it’s not old...it was placed here after the world went to hell, of that he’s certain.

Abruptly, he decides that abandoning the tension-loaded topic of conversation for something a little more...safe...is the expedient, the mature choice. What he reads on the sign makes his hand shoot out to trace the letters, as if to touch them is to confirm that they’re real.

“Safe Haven, huh?” breathed in his ear close enough to make him jerk reflexively, too engrossed in what’s in front of him to have noticed Dazai’s approach. “Well, it looks like you might have been right after all, Chibi.”

Chuuya frowns, twisting to look at Dazai’s face, to search out the scepticism, the hint of the lie. “Do you think this is real?”

“Who can say?” the bastard shrugs, a lazy lifting of one shoulder as he leans over Chuuya to touch the map and follow the lines marking the road to the supposed ‘Safe Haven’. “It could have been put here as part of a government effort to direct the fleeing masses towards temporary shelter and quarantine areas. Or it could just as easily have been put here by any random gang who had access to a printer before the grid went down, using the draw of ‘safety’ as a means to lure the gullible into some kind of trap or forced labour. It looks official enough, but anyone can draw up a map, put a few fancy looking stamps of office on it and stick it up on every highway out of the city.” Chuuya watches the idiot study the lines closely, probably attempting to commit the entire thing to memory. Stupid geniuses and their inability to see the obvious.

With one quick motion, Chuuya grabs the map and rips it forcefully from the board, pleased when it doesn’t just fall to tatters in his hands. “Might as well take this with us. Maybe it will come in useful.” He turns to shove it at Dazai’s chest, sending the taller man stumbling back a step in surprise.

A distant noise cuts short any further bickering, both of them halting in their tracks only for their eyes to meet for half a second before taking careful measure of their surroundings, scanning the length of the highway visible from their position for the source of the intrusion.

“We’ve stayed here too long.” Chuuya sighs, cursing their shitty luck under his breath.

“This would be a great place for an ambush, actually. There’s nowhere left to go. Put up a nice welcoming sign for people to read, drown them with the promise of hope, then drown them in the river down there after relieving them of all their belongings. Wonderful!” The way Dazai claps his hands in apparent glee has Chuuya clicking his tongue in disgust.

“Come on, idiot, let’s not join the drowned souls or bloated dead bodies any time soon,” he’s pretty sure being thrown off a cliff is not on either of their lists of preferred ways to die.

“Aw, Chuuya, you’re no fun~” Dazai’s face is a practised moue of disappointment as they use what cover they can (mostly chunks of concrete and blown up earth) to move across the highway and back to the bike parked up on the verge behind an abandoned car. The rumbling of engines is closer now, any second they’re going to appear on the horizon, and Chuuya doesn’t really want to know what happens next.

He barely waits for Dazai to swing his ridiculous leg over the back of the bike and clamber on behind him before he’s kicking the machine to life, revving the engine to a vibrating growl just as the first car appears in their view. The closest slip road off of this highway is still almost half a mile away, practically equidistant between themselves and the new arrivals.

“Fuck –” Chuuya spits out, gunning the throttle and feeling the bike leap forwards beneath him. “Hang on tight, bastard, and lean when I do, this is going to be close.”

There’s no time for words, no time to even think. There is only speed; shifting through gears as the bike snarls and devours the road beneath its tires like a ravenous beast. Faster and faster until it almost feels like flying. Fear and exaltation warring through his blood and his nerves and his thoughts until there’s nothing but faster, faster, faster drumming a steady mantra with every rapid beat of his heart.

Two hundred yards from the exit and now there are three cars, flanked by two motorcycles, purposefully blocking the entire width of the road and bearing down on them with frightening speed.

Dazai’s hands are fisted so tightly in his shirt, it’s a wonder the fabric hasn’t ripped under the strain; his back pressed so close to Chuuya he wonders if they will meld into one weird puddle of human goo if they crash headlong into the barrier looming up before them. The turn is sharp, it’s suicide to even attempt it at this speed, but they have no choice. It’s either make the turn or crash headlong into their oncoming pursuers.

He touches the brakes, nothing more than a feather-light press, any kind of heavy-handedness now will send them into an uncontrollable spin, or worse throw them off altogether. He hopes he timed this right, wishes (not for the first time) that they at least had helmets or some kind of protective gear. To fall here is to die.

They cannot die.

His entire world tilts sideways, the bike leaning into the bend and twitching dangerously as it rolls into a drifting skid, tires shrieking their torture as they struggle to maintain some kind of grip on the smooth surface beneath the scalded rubber. His knee almost touches the asphalt as the bike wobbles suddenly, threatening to toss both of its riders even as they continue to move. Chuuya’s breath is lodged somewhere behind his heart which has crawled up his throat and is now trying to eject itself from his oesophagus.

And then, they’re through the apex of the bend and the bike gives one last sideways twitch before straightening up and they’re flying on wings of metal and carbon fibre and this bike is a beauty, sharp and sleek and fast and Chuuya is full of vicious glee as he pushes it further, risking a look behind to see the cars falling away behind them as the pursuing bikes move into position to take up the chase.

Let them come. Chuuya will show them his dust.

“Chuuya!” Dazai’s voice is almost inaudible over the rushing of wind in his ears, “take the next left in about a mile, then immediate right and another left a half mile after that. We’ll lose them in the woods.”

Chuuya nods his understanding, knowing any reply will only get whipped away by the air. He settles in for the chase.

Chapter Text

His legs are wobbly, making him feel like a day old giraffe - still learning how to walk on limbs too spindly to carry its own weight. His head is spinning, all coherent thought forced out of his mind in favour of watching the world turn over and over and over in a dizzying whirl that makes him feel both nauseous and elated in the same instant. His fingers are cramped and aching after being curled in a grip more akin to rigor mortis than terror: it had taken Chuuya gently prising them from his shirt one-by-torturous-one for him to release the redhead’s waist. His heart is pounding a stricken erratic beat in his ears, through his blood, under his skin, everywhere all at once and louder with every passing second.

Perhaps it’s about to explode?

Chuuya is watching him pick his way carefully across the leaf and twig strewn ground with an ill-concealed amusement that makes him pout childishly, even as he navigates his way to the closest tree and sinks slowly to the floor with his back pressing flat against its sturdy trunk as if it might be his only anchor to this world.

Perhaps it is. Comes the dramatic thought. He punctuates it with a pitiful whine, narrowing his eyes in Chuuya’s direction to find the redhead now ignoring him completely in favour of wheeling his precious Monstrosity further away from potential view of the tiny road they had dipped into in a last ditch effort to outrun their dogged hunters.

Though the high-speed chase had lasted barely more than twenty death-defying, hair-raising, nauseating minutes (complete with s-bends, dirt tracks, sharp inclines and stomach-flipping drops steep enough to feature in any off-road loving lunatic’s wet dream; complimented by more than a few bullets whizzing past their heads and the low ominous growl of their pursuers dogging their heels) Dazai is adamant it might as well have been an eternity.

“Chuuya, I am suffering because of your abysmal driving and you’re too busy flirting with your bike to care~”

“Hah?! Abysmal driving?!” predictably, that has the Mafioso stomping out from behind a bush until he’s standing directly before Dazai, leaning over him and pointing a gloved finger close enough to his face to make him go cross-eyed. “My abysmal driving is the only reason your sorry ass is alive right now! Admit it, you enjoyed it a little.” he finds a bottle of water being dangled in front of his face and snatches it out of the air, gulping down a quarter of it in the hopes that it will settle his stomach.

“I thought I was going to die.” he says, and yes, there’s petulance there, but who can blame him? Chuuya is a maniac who should not be allowed near anything faster than a milk float (no, he’s not a hypocrite, he can drive perfectly well when it suits him, thank you very much...it just doesn’t suit him most of the time), certainly not anything so terrifyingly open on all sides, just begging death with every wild corner –

“Tch...cute.” Chuuya’s murmur is low enough that Dazai almost thinks he misheard.

Well, that was unexpected.

On both sides, apparently, judging by the way Chuuya’s face is rapidly turning a funny red colour, blue eyes shocked-wide and body frozen where it still leans over him.

For once, Dazai has no response waiting on the tip of his tongue. Wit and charm both have fled and failed him, leaving him blinking up at Chuuya in a somewhat dazed and likely idiotic fashion, with who-knows-what expression on his face.

They remain, in stilted tableau for uncountable seconds, stretching long and thick with sudden, stifling silence until, abruptly, Chuuya takes a step back, and another, before turning and beginning to walk away, after saying something like that. “Ch –”

“Nope. Nuh-uh. Not happening.” the redhead interrupts. Rude. Now he’s moving away with stiff, hurried steps, like escaping is going to make everything disappear.

“But, Chuu-yaaaa~” Dazai whines, trying to push himself to his feet to follow after the embarrassed Mafioso, because what life is worth living if he cannot shamelessly tease Chuuya (and ignore the weird flipping of his own stomach – it’s just the residual nausea, that’s it, he doesn’t find the flustered Mafia Executive adorable in his own right, no way)? Unfortunately his legs do not appear to be in a cooperative mood, leaving him slumped against the tree, watching Chuuya shake his head furiously and refuse to turn and actually look at him.

“Nope. Not doing doing this. I’m going over there, and we’re going to forget this entire conversation ever happened or so help me I’m going to murder you.” Chuuya’s voice sounds weak: a little lost; a little bewildered; a little like he’s surprised even himself. Dazai’s inner sadist – quickly recovering from it’s shock - dances with glee.

The redhead has disappeared from view now, shuffling back behind the bushes, probably to hyperventilate over that stupid bike. Oh, but that won’t stop him from reclaiming the upper hand.

“But Chuuya thinks I’m pretty~” he sing-songs loudly, almost in tune, “I’m not sure how familiar you are with confessions, Chibi, but you don’t call someone cute and then threaten to murder them. It gives off mixed signals!”

“Shut. Up. Dazai!” comes the equally loud bark.

He lifts his hand to cover his mouth, hiding the smile which curls around his lips entirely without his permission. His stomach seems to have bottomed out somewhere around his ribs, no longer trying to crawl up his throat. Risking falling flat on his face, he tries once more to force his legs into doing their job, finally regaining his feet and tiptoeing around the nearby trees until he can come up on the unsuspecting Mafioso from behind.

True to form, Chuuya is using the bike as a seat, his entire upper body draped across the frame, arms flopping listlessly over the handlebars with his head buried between them, dejected and lifeless like some kind of boneless, depressed fish.

Dazai wants to laugh, really he does, the sadistic creature gnawing at his throat wants to drag this in front of Chuuya’s face and torment him with it until the redhead is a second away from snapping – it’s an old game, a familiar game, a safe game.

And yet.

Something about the forlorn slug steals the breath from his lungs; replaces the blackened blood in his veins with arterial fire; leaves him feeling both weightless and incredibly heavy in the face of all of the useless thoughts about his stupid partner, the emotions that refuse to stay buried in the darkness, the ones he intended never to see the light of day.

Vulnerability and Chuuya are not concepts that meld willingly together under normal circumstances.

And yet.

Chuuya looks small, curled in on himself in a way that makes him seem less than the fiery, dangerous, sometimes arrogant Mafia Executive Dazai knows him to be. Here, laid out before him, is something a little bit softer, a little bit broken, a little bit human.

It’s those choking, useless, damning thoughts – the ones that have played in unconscious loops around his head for weeks now - that end up crawling from the pit, unbidden, whispered into the air like an offering.

“If it makes Chuuya feel any better, I think he’s pretty too…”

The drawing in of Chuuya’s shoulders and silence are his only reply.

~ ~ ~

The awkward air between them lasts all of ten minutes.

The telltale sound of unsteady footsteps dragged across uneven ground a warning that they are no longer alone within the calm embrace of the trees, no longer the only predators stalking amidst the wild of the land.

Honestly, the undead are becoming more of a nuisance than a serious threat to them these days. Dangerous en-masse without a doubt, but in twos and threes and lacking the element of surprise, they are easy enough to dispatch when you’ve had enough practice at delivering that quick, killing blow.

Neither he, nor Chuuya are keeping track of their kill count at this point – the number lost to bloodstained knives, cracked skulls and faceless characters.

Still, the presence of a threat is enough to clear the air between them, for now at least. Fractious thoughts, embarrassment and emotion pushed aside for the more immediate concern of survival, or rather, dealing with the nuisance.

Dazai hears more than sees Chuuya put himself back together – a long drawn out sigh of a breath with a few low curses intermingled for good measure, throwing off the tension and settling determination into the Mafioso’s bones. The redhead is up and moving away from the bike, two knives drawn and gripped tightly between fingers encased in their customary leather wrappings. Chuuya almost looks...grateful...for the excuse to move, to channel humiliation into violence in some kind of misguided effort to prove that his emotions are not going to interfere with his ability to do his job. Not that Dazai would ever be concerned about such a thing, Chuuya might feel too much, too deeply and too often, but it has never impacted his dedication to complete tasks to the best of his ability, to follow orders, even when they may not align with his own moral code.

The groaning of collapsed throats expelling air from seized lungs grows louder by the second, a sharp, building cacophony of sound when mixed with the passage of such unnatural, cumbersome and clumsy creatures, bulldozing their way through an obstacle course of nature’s finest trip hazards.

His eyes move automatically to Chuuya, who is watching him with a mix of apprehension and resignation written in too-plain view across his face. The redhead signs three, approaching in a group from the north-west, twenty metres and closing. Dazai nods, flicks through a quick set of instructions and begins putting distance between himself and the redhead without waiting for Chuuya’s confirmation of understanding; after so many years (too many years) there are no misunderstandings between them when it comes to tactics and strategy (feelings and emotions and long-held grudges, sure...they never could manage to truly understand one another, despite working in perfect synchronised harmony if the situation called for it, but when it comes to the minutia of being human and interpersonal relationships, well, that ship apparently sailed right on by when it came to the infamous ‘Double Black’).

They attack in perfect balance – it’s more like a dance between them than an actual fight, weapons raised, cat-quick movements and something predatory in their eyes. Within seconds two corpses drop, hitting the floor within milliseconds of each other. Together they turn on their final foe and the poor, mangled form of torn flesh and meat and rotten guts doesn’t even have time to clack its yellowed teeth in its permanently bared smile before it has a blade protruding from each of its eyeballs, collapsing to the floor with one last rasping rattle of death escaping the putrefied lungs.

Dazai expects to see that slightly wild grin that Chuuya sometimes wears when riding on adrenaline and instinct, turns to see something conflicted and confused wash any joy from the redheads face as he nudges the corpse with his boot and sighs loudly, pulling his blade out of the jelly-like substance of the eye and wiping the disgusting residue on the corpse’s equally disgusting pants.

So much for a distraction.

Dazai isn’t sure what to say, and that’s a new feeling when it comes to dealing with the hatrack. He always has something to say - be it an insult, a biting comment, a taunt, a scoff, or deliberate silence – he knows the exact point to which he can torment Chuuya without becoming the author of his own death on the bottom of Chuuya’s boot. But now...going back to bickering and insults just feels, wrong.

It’s all kinds of disconcerting to not know how to handle his short redheaded fireball. Leaves him pressing his mouth into a thin line and automatically wiping his face of all traces of emotion as he takes longer than necessary in retrieving his own knife; collecting his thoughts and carefully concealing them away.

“I think we should head back to the RV, grab a pack and try to make it to the city on the bike, just so we know it can be done. It’s still early, there’s plenty of daylight left to at least get a look at the outskirts if we can find a bridge across the river that isn’t totally destroyed. We can always come back later and cross off more routes as we go, but I’d like to see what state the actual city is in before we call off this expedition.” Every word feels like a knife, sinking into the thick, spongy tension, slicing through only to meet another layer even thicker than the last. It makes something prickle beneath his skin, makes him want to scratch at his wrists until old wounds bleed fresh blood.

Chuuya head pulls up sharply, assessing him silently for a few seconds, no doubt waiting for the taunting words that Dazai just can’t get his mouth to work around. There’s cotton beneath his tongue and rocks in his throat and that cloying tense fog still foaming in the air. He doesn’t have the words to fix this. Stuck at an impasse between feelings and the absurd reality of their situation cautioning him to not act. To push Chuuya away until they’re both curled in their respective corners, snapping and biting when the other gets a little too close for comfort.

Haven’t we done that already?

“Okay…” it’s tentative, quiet enough that Dazai isn’t entirely sure he heard it or just imagined it, though Chuuya’s face betrays him, as it always does – something like despondent acceptance settling there in the second before the redhead turns away, leaving Dazai standing among a pile of corpses wondering what he did wrong.

Again.

~ ~ ~

Just over an hour later, without the constant concern of finding roads suitably wide enough and clear of obstacles to bring the RV along behind them, they’re rolling warily into the city.

Or what’s left of it.

They’d come up against more than their fair share of roadblocks (fallen trees, broken down vehicles, seemingly random debris and even part of a road which appears to have been washed away completely in a flood – despite the fact that they’ve had hardly any rain since arriving in this world), though the bike is far easier to navigate around such hazards than their house-on-wheels and most of them had turned out to be passable. Chuuya has been exceptionally quiet, navigating them rather sedately down the narrow lanes and across the quaint little humpback bridge (definitely not suitable for the RV) to put them on the correct side of the river. Dazai’s stomach is surprisingly settled, though his mind is anything but; trying to piece together the odd reactions and sudden retreating reticence. It’s a dangerous position to be in, distracted by such mundane and inconsequential concerns when they are literally about to throw themselves from the frying pan into a potential inferno.

The last few miles have been eye-opening in more ways than one. From the highway they had seen the begins of the damage and decimation caused by the air raids: hardly a structure left standing intact; crumpled, twisted buildings lying in mountainous piles of rubble as far as the eye could see across the horizon; high rises blown apart and yet standing like teetering Jenga towers, appearing ready to fall at the slightest breath of wind; here and there a house or similarly squat building that appears to have avoided the brunt of the damage, standing oddly defiant amidst the chaos and total levelling of the surrounding areas.

Up close, winding their way around craters, blocks of blackened stone and actual gaping chasms splitting the road like huge open wounds, everything suddenly becomes more real, more solid, more daunting. Behind every pile of rubble, every half-collapsed wall, every half-standing building lies the possibility, the probability of danger.

They are no longer in the wilderness, here the dead roam in constant hunger, to pick off the living, while the living roam in constant hunger, to scavenge from the dead.

It would almost be poetic, were he and Chuuya not about to be caught up in the middle of this war of attrition between living and dead; were they not prime targets to be picked off as a zombie horde’s next meal, or an opportunistic scavenger pack’s next hit. It makes him feel like there are eyes upon them already – watching, waiting, wanting.

Chuuya navigates them carefully deeper into the crumbling chaos of collapsed and contorted buildings, weaving the bike skilfully through the streets, as Dazai keeps meticulous track of their surroundings. He’s pretty sure he saw a flash of something in an upstairs window, it could have been a reflection, or a trick of the light, but Dazai has been in this life for too long to believe in coincidence. Releasin one hand from Chuuya’s hip to tap a quick signal into his thigh has the redhead’s back stiffening as he nods a curt understanding, skirting around a particularly large hole in the road before veering off down a side-street in an attempt to remain out of sight of whoever may or may not have witnessed their passing.

Two more streets in and Chuuya brings the bike to a dead stop as he turns another corner, swearing under his breath as they are confronted by what looks to be an impenetrable wall of shifting bodies, massing and circling in aimless waves. There are, quite simply, too many of them to turn quietly around and back up the way they had come without notice. Heads have already turned in their direction, bared teeth and flapping lips wrapping around those growling, gurgling cries as they lurch forward with newfound purpose, disturbing the passage of others around them until the entire roiling mass of them are suddenly turning in their direction, as if some hive mind had pulled the strings of their puppet bodies and directed them in all one devastating wave of imminent putrid death.

Chuuya speeds them away from that encounter with rather more haste than finesse, narrowly avoiding sending them both tumbling into a yawning chasm, cracking across the road in a jagged gash of gouged asphalt, dirt and exposed pipes.

They make it down an alleyway, half-demolished buildings looming on either side, their cracked and blackened bricks barely clinging to stability. Pulling out at a crawl onto another street, lying almost parallel to the one they had just fled, but this one gives the impression of having been some kind of shopping district, judging by what remains of the storefronts lining both sides of the road.

It appears, on first view, that this section of the city had avoided the main barrage of bombardment. Some of the buildings are still standing defiant, with barely more than a few holes in the roof or their windows smashed to shards; others appear to be missing walls entirely, barely clinging to stability; more than a few are nothing more than piles of broken brick and timber frame, burying whatever had once been inside under tonnes of stone, concrete and earth.

He taps out another message on Chuuya’s thigh, waiting until they roll to a stop before hooking his chin over the redhead’s shoulder, smoothing his hands up Chuuya’s hips to his waist to balance himself as he murmurs quietly, “Leave the Monstrosity here; it’s too loud and conspicuous. We don’t want to draw attention to the fact that we’re sneaking around.” He doesn’t need to say who they’re trying to avoid attention from...the living, the dead, it’s all the same.

Dazai is fascinated when the whisper of his breath causes a shiver to run subtly up Chuuya’s spine, by the way his head tilts just fractionally to the side, baring just a little of line of his throat. It’s an unconscious movement, Dazai is sure, but still captivating in all the ways it shouldn’t be right now – faced with the prospect of a sudden and painful death lurking around every corner, he needs his mind to be focussed on what’s happening around him, not fixating on the minute, conflicting signals his annoying little hatrack is giving off at the most inopportune of moments.

He has to physically restrain himself from pressing his fingers into Chuuya’s waist, just to see what other reactions he can elicit from the fractious redhead. Instead he backs off completely, removing himself from the path of temptation, much as it irks him to do so, practically forcing his body backwards – no longer plastered against Chuuya’s back – before standing upright and awkwardly dismounting the bike (he still can’t get used to throwing his leg over the thing, feels a certain awe and jealousy watching Chuuya flow off the bike like his limbs are made of liquid, all efficient grace when compared to his own clumsy clambering).

Chuuya regards him with a dubious expression for a moment, before he scans their surroundings with a practised eye: doubtless taking in the areas of cover and assessing any potentially threatening points from which they might be ambushed. Finally he looks back to the bike, something like hesitation in his eyes before he nods his acceptance, “Give me a minute.” he gestures to a building holding up one side of the alley they’d just exited from, where two of its collapsed walls meet in a right-angle, looming around ten feet on either side and casting a wide shadow. Carefully wheeling the bike behind the wall facing out onto the road, he lifts the seat, dragging out a ragged tarpaulin sheet, stashed there for this exact purpose. Dazai leans against the wall, watching the redhead shake the sheet out before rolling it in the dirt, dust and debris littering the floor, coating it in a fine layer of muck and grime before tossing it over the bike, carefully layering a few scattered bricks and rocks along the bottom to make it appear as though the dirty sheet had just happened to land here and get snagged amongst the rubble and not like it conceals Chuuya’s most treasured possession beneath.

It’s probably unnecessary, to go to such lengths to conceal one bike when they haven’t yet seen irrefutable signs of humanity lingering in this section of the city, but even Dazai can admire Chuuya’s growing confidence and ingenuity in surviving in this apocalyptic world. Of course, he never had any doubts that the redhead would survive, Chuuya is nothing but a survivor after all, but he is oddly proud of how determined the Mafioso is to learn and to implement the skills he’s been taught, putting every facet of information to good use and offering his own suggestions and plans, presumably in an effort to take some of the weight from Dazai’s own shoulders.

It’s relieving...having a partner who has your back no matter the circumstances, a person who knows him to the depths of his soul and still refuses to turn away, no matter how many times Dazai has done the exact opposite.

Chuuya deserves better.

He always did.

~ ~ ~

They make short work of investigating what Dazai assumes was a non-central shopping district, from what little remains of the interiors of the majority of the buildings; most stripped of useful items, leaving only rubbish and things deemed unworthy of taking up the space needed to carry them away. They pass a number of boutique-style clothing shops: the naked mannequins marking their passage with eerie stillness as they flit quickly around the shelves; picking up and discarding dust-covered garments in quick succession. Chuuya stashes a pair of leather gloves into the pack they’d left propped up outside and Dazai manages to find a dirty but salvageable pack of thick socks which might be useful over the winter months. Nothing terribly exciting.

The pharmacy midway down the street has been ransacked almost bare: shelves hanging broken upon their displays, cleared of everything but the most obscure nose plugs, foot powders and other useless remedies for mundane grievances, not to mention the weirdly full row of condoms in various sizes, shapes and flavours. He does manage to find a few rolls of bandages, forgotten and dusty under a cabinet, and a bottle of antiseptic spray which might come in useful. When he turns to tell Chuuya of his discovery, he finds the redhead nowhere in sight, which is mildly concerning until he hears muttered cursing from the back room behind the counter. Following the sound, he finds Chuuya with a corpse discarded at his feet, oozing thick blood across the floor, wrestling with a locker which appears to have remained remarkably untouched, probably due to the fact that it had, at some point had half a wall fall on top of it, is most decidedly locked and would take a skilled thief or a big axe (and a lot of noise) to get into.

“Let me, Chibi.” Dazai hums as his hand lands on Chuuya’s shoulder to nudge him out of the way, pausing for a moment as he watches the redhead freeze before shifting sideways to let Dazai inspect the lock.

He has it open seconds later, the Holy Grail of Hairpins making its reappearance to save the day once again.

Oh. Jackpot. He can feel the smile curling his lips as he skims through the contents of the locker. Most of it is useless to them – insulin, epinephrine, fexofenadine, dexamethasone, asthma inhalers, warfarin – but he does find a couple of boxes of doxycycline and amoxicillin, a half-empty bottle of tramadol and a surprisingly full bottle of oramorph.

“Ah, such a painless way to die~” he makes exaggeratedly longing eyes at the oramorph, can feel Chuuya’s scowl biting into the side of his skull. Putting his hands up placatingly he smiles, a little sheepishly, “Don’t worry, Chuuya, I won’t be falling back into old habits any time soon.”

The doxycycline, amoxicillin and tramadol make it into their pack alongside the bandages, antiseptic spray and -for whatever reason – throat lozenges Chuuya had ferreted out from the Gods know where...the oramorph stays in the locker at Chuuya’s growled insistence that they, “don’t need that shit.”

Dazai finds it almost endearing when the redhead shoots him concerned glances when he thinks Dazai isn’t paying attention.

The pass by a couple more clothing shops, the buildings damaged beyond repair and decidedly dangerous judging by the partially collapsed roofs and piles of tumbledown and fire-blackened bricks. In the next two clothing shops, they come across a few wandering corpses, shuffling aimlessly between the shelves; slow and easily dispatched between the two of them - a mostly mindless exercise ending up with bloody rotting corpses lying at their feet, no more than a pile of stinking flesh that used to be human. The shops are a bust, with nothing really worth their time or the effort of carrying back to their cove, the space in their pack reserved for potentially more useful finds.

The sport and outdoor store looks – from the outside – to hold a little more potential than the seemingly endless array of apparel and accessory shops. The storefront is larger than the other places they’ve passed on this street so far, and the building appears to be sound, with only one large hole visible in the roof and the shattered windows lining the front facing the road as a testament to the barrage of deadly weaponry that had rained hell down upon the city not so long ago.

It’s as they begin to move cautiously through the aisles that Dazai notices the signs that they are not alone here. Cleverly concealed tripwires run intersecting patterns across the floor, the nylon heavy-duty fishing wire almost invisible even in the light streaming through the glassless windows accompanied by the bright beam of their torches. The wires are connected to all manner of things, pillars, shelves, display cabinets that will no doubt topple and cause a cacophony of noise to alert whoever has set this system up.

Snares lie carefully disguised in patches of gloom, the loops of steel cable waiting to bite into the ankle of anyone clumsy enough to step into their confines and definitely sharp enough to rip through skin and flesh like a hot knife through butter.

Everything has been shrewdly set up, not to necessarily cause pain or death to intruders, but to make enough noise that the likelihood of being able to get in and out without making a ruckus to literally wake the dead is next to impossible.

Unluckily for whomever designed this labyrinth of tricks, both he and Chuuya are no strangers to missions that require stealth, finesse and a clear head. It’s slow going, the careful placing of each foot, one torturous step at a time, but it’s not nearly enough to force them to turn back from their exploration.

With a silent signal to Chuuya, he leaves the redhead to investigate this lower floor, making a beeline for a cordoned off set of steps, a dirty ‘staff only’ sign affixed to the wall giving the impression that it probably leads to a break room, perhaps a staff bathroom. It’s unlikely there’s anything of use up there, but there could be a vending machine or something that hasn’t been completely stripped bare just yet. Of course, it could also be where the new ‘owner’ of this establishment is lurking.

He’s no more than halfway up the stairs when the door at the top creaks open, and Dazai comes face to face with a nightmare.

“Here now! Who are you to be a sneaking and a snooping around Old Jed’s place?”

‘Old Jed’, is a living corpse of a man, tall, stooping and skeletally thin, with barely more than a few wisps of almost translucent white hair decorating his bald, liver-spotted pate. Sunken dark eyes regard him with suspicion as the bent old man swings a lethal looking metal baseball bad with surprising deftness considering the fact he looks like he’s about to collapse and expire.

“I’m not here to cause trouble.” there’s a chance – small though it might be – that this man hasn’t realised there are two of them here.

The old man hacks and spits a glob of phlegm onto the floor, “Pah! That’s what they all say when they come sniffing around here trying to pilfer Old Jed’s things. Old Jed ain’t interested in joining your gang, or any other!”

“I’m not here to recruit you either.”

‘Old Jed’ continues on as if he hadn’t even registered another person speaking, “Old Jed’s doing just fine on his own, isn’t that right my darling, Geena?”

Dazai’s attention follows the old man’s gaze, barely able to contain his repulsion as he makes out what must be ‘Geena’ in the murky gloom beyond the doorway. The rotting corpse of an old woman – looking frailer and even more ancient than Old Jed – sits propped in a ratty armchair, her body slowly decomposing to reveal hints of white bone beneath paper-thin remnants of skin and flesh. Old blood mats her hair to one side of her face, an open, decaying wound betraying the manner of her death. Glassy, unseeing eyes stare outwards at everything and nothing as the dead woman’s jaw hangs open in a permanent snarl.

Dazai’s focus is back on the man in an instant, picking out what he had failed to notice before - distracted by the gloom, the smell of putrefaction in the air and the glint of the bat in Old Jed’s hands – a dirty gauze pad, taped clumsily over a wound leaking putrid, yellow fluid down the stranger’s scrawny arm. The spidery black tracking emanating from that entry point to corrupt blood, flesh and organs.

“I seen you roll in on that fancy looking motorcycle. I reckon you’re trying to earn your way into that big group that’s been terrorising the place. Well, you won’t be getting Old Jed, or Geena, or this place! This is Old Jed’s place I tell you! Trespassers ain’t welcome at Old Jed’s place. My darling, Geena, doesn’t like strangers.”

Old Jed’s eyes swing back and forth, clearly looking for something in the murky gloom beyond the stairs.. “Now, where’s that ginger boy you brought along with you? Why don’t you go ahead and call him out here for Old Jed to see. Your little brother, is it?” Dazai is about to refuse, about to back off down the stairs and leave, but the click of a hammer sliding home makes him reconsider, makes him wish he had his own gun in his hand so he could end this right now. They’ve gotten so used to dealing with the undead, where any untoward noise just brings another pack down on their heads, that he’s gotten used to just leaving the gun secreted in one of his inside pockets, safely out of the way. Unfortunately ‘safely out of the way’ also means very conspicuous movements should he go to reach for it now.

“Chibi~ get up here would you? I’m sure Mr. Jed means us no harm!” he calls loudly, knowing Chuuya is already watching them from below. “He’s my baby brother, yes, same mother, though we have different fathers,” he smiles lightheartedly, as if having conversations with crazy old men who talk to their dead, rotting wives is a daily occurrence, “well, as you can see, we only have each other now.”

He hears the moment Chuuya’s boots hit the stairs and moves one hand behind his back to sign a quick set of signals, hoping that the redhead is paying attention. He reaches out to brush his fingers across the dip of Chuuya’s back as the Mafioso passes him on the stairs, feels him tense beneath his hand in that delightful way that makes something twist in his gut, but the barely perceptible nod is enough to tell Dazai that Chuuya knows where this is going.

“Has your brother been teaching you how to ride that nice shiny bike you have hidden away out there? Old Jed was watching see, you have a lot to learn.” Dazai can’t help the tiny smirk that creeps onto his face, knowing that the hatrack will be entirely affronted by the comment, even if he’s taking pains not to show it.

He watches Chuuya ascend the stairs slowly, with deliberate hesitance layered in every step he takes away from Dazai and towards the old man, head lowered as if in meek obedience, allowing his hair to obscure his face.

“Well now, aren’t you a pretty one.” the old man croaks out a noise low in his throat that has Dazai’s hackles rising as dark sunken eyes regard Chuuya like a prime carcass for sale in a butcher’s store. “Perhaps you’d like to play with my little Bettsy? Bettsy sure would love some company, ain’t many kids for her to play with these days.” Old Jed’s eyes lower to Dazai, who has remained further down the stairs, appraising him for a moment before grinning to show two rows of broken, missing and rotten teeth. “You ought to consider selling him.”

Dazai has to smooth his expression to careful blankness, wiping all emotion and trace of his thoughts from his face lest his murderous intent betray him, as something dark and primal rears its ugly head to hiss mine into the very pit of his empty soul. “Oh, he’s pretty for sure, but what about me, makes you think I would consider selling a family member?”

Old Jed shrugs, the steel bat coming to rest on Chuuya’s shoulder and stopping the redhead in his tracks just two steps below the landing. “One less mouth to feed, you know? It’s hard enough trying to feed yourself these days. Besides, you could get a good amount for a pretty little boy like this. Shame he ain’t a girl, but those guys ain’t really picky. Perhaps I’ll be kind enough to take him off your hands, in exchange for your life, how does that sound? My Bettsy will play real nice with him.” the bat creeps along Chuuya’s shoulder to his neck, tapping under his chin in an effort to force his head back.

Dazai witnesses the point at which his partner snaps, letting go of his control and his temper to throw himself forwards, knife appearing as if out of thin air to slash a deep, jagged line across the old man’s throat before he can even level his weapon. Chuuya’s momentum carries him past the man and up the stairs as Old Jed lets out a gurgling noise of surprise, dropping both bat and gun to claw uselessly at the gash splitting his jugular. Desperately, his thin fingers scrabble to hold the wound closed, trying to stop his lifeblood from pouring forth to drench the steps in a slippery crimson pool.

“Cutting throats is so messy.” Chuuya grumbles as he watches the man in his death throes. Old Jed’s eyes go suddenly wide, training on Chuuya with a fervent sort of urgency as he struggles to force words past bloodied lips.

“Don’t….forget...to feed...Bettsy...she gets…angry...when she’s...hungr –” the words tail off into a bubbling death rattle as Old Jed’s blood continues to pump sluggish trails across his throat, trailing a steady drip, drop, drip to the stairs.

“Good job, baby brother~” Dazai coos, ascending the stairs and stepping over the body with a look of disdain, ruffling Chuuya’s hair in what he thinks might be an affectionate ‘brotherly’ manner.

“Urgh, don’t call me that, it’s disgusting, you’re making me feel ill.” Chuuya grouses back at him, nudging Old Jed’s shoulder with his boot until the body flops sideways and rolls down a few steps before coming to a halt. Swiftly, the redhead drives his knife into the man’s right eye, making sure the crazy old man stays dead. “Do we even want to know who or what ‘Bettsy’ is?”

“Hmm –?” Dazai hums, momentarily distracted by plucking the gun from the blood-covered stairs and checking the chamber, only to find it completely empty. Figures. “Geh, useless. Probably not, but let’s take a look anyway, maybe ‘Old Jed’ has something worthwhile up here.”

Chuuya is clearly trying to stop himself from retching as he pushes the door a fraction wider, peering this way and that before stepping into the room. It’s almost amusing - considering the fact that Chuuya deals with dead bodies, torture and all other manner of underworld dealings that often result in a surplus of blood, guts and generally malodorous situations – almost, because he can feel his own eyes wanting to tear up at the stink of decomposing flesh. “It reeks. How the fuck could he live like this?” Chuuya complains in as close to a whine as he can while using up as little breath as possible so as to delay the inevitable next intake of oxygen along with the stench of putrefaction.

“Love is blind?” Dazai shrugs, brushing past Chuuya to head for the single door towards the rear of the room - probably a staff toilet – considering his words before amending, “or...love causes you to lose your sense of smell?”

“You call this love?!” Chuuya scoffs and Dazai turns to see him making a disgusted gesture at the rotting pile of bones and skin.

“Sure. Love makes humans do things that others might call insane.”

“Like keeping the corpse of your half-rotten wife and talking as if she was still alive?” incredulity bleeds through the redhead’s choked tone, the words almost coughed from his throat.

“Indeed.” Love is madness. Love is possession. Love is owning someone so thoroughly they cannot escape. Love is dangerous. Love is a chain wrapped around your heart until it squeezes every last drop of blood from your veins and breath from your lungs. Yes, he can see how a human being could profess to love another so deeply that they would resort to this. He keeps those particular thoughts buried in the darkness where they belong, ignoring the weight of Chuuya’s eyes fixed on his back as he steps up to the door.

He’s not entirely sure what he expects to be behind the door when he reaches out to twist the knob, finding it unlocked; it could be a cat, or a dog, or a human, perhaps another dead family member, loved too much to be allowed dignity even in death.

The truth is only slightly more disturbing.

The room is dimly lit, the only light that which is filtering in through the small, grimy, dust-streaked windows lining the top of what he’d correctly assumed to be a small staff bathroom area. Tiny shafts of weak sunlight slant across the floor in streaks of brightness against a backdrop of gloom that swallows most of the room into monochrome shadow. It’s that dissonance between light and dark that distracts him initially, his eyes failing to focus on the lone figure in the furthest corner.

The body of a young girl is chained to a set of pipes connecting to the row of sinks on the far side of the room; heavy restraints wrapped cruelly around thin wrists and even thinner ankles, with barely a few feet of slack to allow for movement. She can’t be any more than six or seven years old, filthy and barefooted, her straw-blonde hair hanging like lank rats’ tails, obscuring her face, her dress showing the accumulation of days, if not weeks of dirt and grime, now a nondescript colour and tattered at the hem.

She responds to the noise of the door creaking on its hinges, head lifting to reveal glassy green eyes and an odd wire contraption covering her nose and protruding outwards from her jaw to function as what Dazai assumes is some kind of muzzle. Tiny teeth bare in a snarl, a high growling screech echoing through the confined space as the girl lunges forwards in a teeth-clacking, mindless frenzy, only to reach the end of her chains and jolt backwards, almost dislocating her own shoulders. Still she pulls, witless in the face of unending hunger, a howling rabid animal holding no hint of humanity save for the skin it chooses to inhabit.

A pair of tongs sits in the sink closest to the door, resting in a pile of meat chunks which Dazai can only guess to be human.

Love is a chain that leads to desperation, and here, here is the proof.

“What the fuck is wrong with these people?!” Chuuya practically snarls the words and Dazai had been so lost in his own head that the sudden proximity of the redhead is enough to make him startle, though he conceals his shock as he conceals every other thought that may wish to break out in that moment. “This shit is beyond fucked.” Dazai feels like his feet have sprouted roots, grounding him to the floor so solidly that he may never move again and he’s not even sure why. Perhaps it’s the girl, looking so inhuman - even while encased in such delicate skin - as to make even him feel slightly closer to his own blurred humanity in ways he hasn’t thought about for years. Perhaps it’s Chuuya, stalking past, brushing Dazai’s arm with his shoulder in a way that’s definitely not accidental – Chuuya is nothing if not intimately aware of what his body is doing at all times – that single reminder that he’s not alone enough to steal the breath from his lungs and replace it with something tight and aching as the Mafioso pulls a slender knife, whispers something that sounds like an apology before he grips the girl’s head in a gesture closer to an embrace than a restraint, driving the blade home through the point just behind the ear.

The girl drops like a stone, only Chuuya’s grip on her suddenly limp head preventing her from crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Instead, the redhead lowers her gently, propping the small body against the wall and murmuring something Dazai cannot make out before he turns and pushes Dazai bodily from the room with a muttered, “Let’s get the fuck out of this stinking hellhole.”

The roots of his feet are torn asunder, and suddenly he can stumble backwards out of the door and snap iron control back into uncooperative limbs. He doesn’t utter a word until they make it outside, pausing only to lift the bat from where it had rolled halfway down the stairwell, they can’t afford to be picky about potential weapons, and a bat will do just as well to cave in kneecaps or smash skulls as a hammer. He can practically feel the disgust and concern rolling from Chuuya in constricting waves, washing over his skin to prickle something gross and squirming against his senses.

Chuuya’s thoughts are almost loud enough to drown in.

Back out in the light of day, away from the creeping murk and fetid stench of corpses long-dead, Dazai finds it easier to drag up his walls, to present Chuuya with a smile dredged up from memory that had been years in moulding.

He knows his eyes are that of a dead man walking...and isn’t that a joke?

He ignores the redhead in favour of reassessing their surroundings, catching the movement of multiple bodies heading in their direction – the uneven lilt and sway betraying them as a mass of undead before he can even make out their features. “Looks like we have more company,” he remarks blithely, smile yawning wider, “how about we call it a day? If we get out of here now, we can make it back to the cove before dark.”

He turns to find Chuuya’s attention is no longer on him, but fixed on something lying on the cracked pavement outside the adjacent store. There’s something like excitement beginning to light that incandescent blue flame in the redhead’s eyes and when ocean blue rises to meet him, something in Dazai’s chest pulls painfully taut.

He shoves it down. Down, down, down. Dangerous, distracting, useless, unwanted.

“Look at this!” Chuuya uses his boot to scrape away the dust on what appears to be a sign, dirty gold lettering cracked and peeled, the edges blackened and burned partially away.

First Person Shooter

Beneath the lettering is a stylised depiction of a hand holding a rifle. It’s too good to be true. Something cold creeps up Dazai’s spine to sit between his shoulders. He eyes the oncoming mass of zombies, still some distance away but moving inexorably closer with every passing second. He takes a second to wonder whether these walking dead can scent out living potential host bodies for the parasite, tracking them by smell like a predatory animal would hunt it’s smaller, weaker prey.

The weight across his shoulders feels like the hanging scythe of the Shinigami.

The store is remarkably free from damage, the blasted out windows, shattered to tiny crunching shards beneath their feet the only visible sign that this building had been within the blast radius of any of the falling bombs. Perhaps it had just been lucky.

Dazai doesn’t believe in luck.

Dazai believes in the twisted mind of the individual responsible for landing them in this mess; he believes in plot points and side-quests and the never-ending struggle for survival that this work of fiction is built around.

It’s too good to be true. It’s equally too good of an opportunity to pass up.

With a silent nod to Chuuya, they both step through the empty window frames into the store.

Predictably, the shelves, walls and cabinets have been stripped almost completely bare. Not a single useful item remains on display. Only a shelf full of ear defenders and a rack of obnoxiously

pink tweed jackets are in immediate view. The till has been ripped from its counter, the lockbox beneath also having been forcefully removed at some point during the last weeks – whether before or after the raids Dazai cannot begin to guess.

A quick search of the storeroom at the back results in nothing of interest, only empty boxes and discarded cartridges lie scattered on the shelves and strewn across the floor. A single tripod with one bent leg and a scope whose glass has been shattered beyond all functionality sit in a heap in one corner, partially buried under yet more boxes. A container of blank rounds sits next to a single used smoke grenade and a shelf of boxes full of what looks like clay discs used for shooting practice.

Still, they were raised in the underworld of Yokohama, immersed in the smuggling of weapons, the dealing in stolen contraband and inventorying of armouries since they were little more than children. They know how these places work.

Chuuya is already inspecting the floor behind the wall-to-ceiling counter (surrounded with bulletproof glass and only accessible from behind what once would have been a locked door, but is now a gaping hole) when Dazai wanders out of the storeroom; running gloved fingers along what appears to be seamless concrete, murmuring a noise of triumph that sounds almost like a purr when his fingers dig into something imperceptible, pulling away a false panel to reveal the electronic lock beneath. A lock that, when cracked, will lead them to a safe room likely located in the store’s sealed basement, accessible only from this point. It’s a common feature in both weapon dealers and casinos in Yokohama, a necessary feature for anyone who doesn’t wish to be robbed of their most expensive items.

Dazai crouches down to inspect the lock over Chuuya’s shoulder, “It’s deadlocked.” he points out, apparently needlessly as Chuuya’s head whips round to level him with a glare.

“Obviously,” the Mafioso hisses, “the deadlock would have engaged as soon as the power went out, but with a battery I can get it functioning for long enough to crack it.”

Dazai is beginning to truly despise the sound of rattling breaths which punctuates the (un)timely arrival of the undead. The sounds of the scraping steps of a multitude of awkward feet an unsteady tattoo upon the ground.

He hears Chuuya curse rather creatively under his breath as he creeps through the door and back to the empty window frame to judge how much time they have before the shuffling corpses are upon them. The horde approaching is a large one, he can make out at least thirty individuals, though he knows there may be more lagging on the tail end of the main mass that can’t keep up with the pace of those at the head. He signs all of this to the redhead, who is watching him as he picks his way back across the floor, irritation clear in the tense lines of Chuuya’s body.

“We can slip out of the back door and use the side streets to avoid the main body of the horde. Double back for the pack and then get the hell out of here.” Chuuya sighs, his shoulders hunching in both annoyance and defeat.

Dazai’s mind is whirring, running through escape plans and attack plans simultaneously. He’s not quite ready to give up yet. They need what this underground treasure trove could potentially cough up. They just have to get into it…

“How long do you need?” he casts his eyes back to the street, can see shifting shambling bodies in various states of decomposition shuffling closer with every passing second, knows it’s only a matter of time before they start clawing through the empty frames.

“Five minutes? I don’t fucking know! What does it matter, I’d need longer than we have.” the Mafioso grinds out the reply, frustration ringing clear in his voice and the way he leans forwards, inspecting the mechanism with a glare.

“Five minutes –” Dazai hums low in his throat, patting his pockets and running a mental checklist of the weapons he has on hand while mapping a strategic route in his head, “you’re sure?”

Chuuya’s narrow-eyed glare is now fixed firmly on him, “Yes, I’m sure! But –”

Dazai raises a hand to cut the redhead off, whatever Chuuya was about to say dying in his throat. “Okay. Get to work then, Chibi, I’ll see you in five minutes in the storage room.” With that he turns on his heel, coat flaring in a pleasingly dramatic fashion behind him as he makes for the door, miraculously still whole amidst the otherwise crumbling facade.

“Wait, what –?” Chuuya’s incredulous whisper barely bridges the rapidly growing space between them. “You can’t be thinking of going out there. Are you seriously that eager to die?!”

“Just focus on getting the job done, Chibi. My battle strategies are never wrong, remember?” He lifts a hand in a jaunty wave, projecting a confidence he’s not sure he actually feels at this particular moment in time.

“I’ll tell that to your fucking corpse!” are the last words he hears before he throws himself out of the door, risking the precious fraction of a second to slam it shut before taking off down the street as fast as he can with what feels like the hordes or hell chasing him down.

“Come and get me, rot-for-brains~~” he yells, full-throated and with maybe a fraction of hysteria as he cackles. Taking the calculated risk of tripping over some unseen obstacle or crater in the road, he slows, twisting around to run backwards a few steps so that he can check behind him.

The horde is following in his wake.

At least thirty of the undead are coming after him, some bunched together in a tight pack, whilst others straggle out behind, their jerky movements hampered either by injury or their general state of decay. His throat is suddenly dry, faced with the consequences of what basically amounts to suicide if these creatures catch up with him – though not in any way he’d ever intended for his ending to be.

He has no intention of dying here.

Hopping back to facing forwards, he concentrates on keeping his breathing deep and even; dragging air into his lungs so that he can keep ahead of the pack. Running was never a favourite hobby of his – Chuuya has teased him about his stamina so many times, but honestly, when compared to that Chibi he has far more wind resistance, not to mention the fact that he has to drag the entirety of his own weight around and he’s sure Chuuya cheats half of the time – but these creatures are slow and unbalanced, only really a risk when they mass in numbers, or encircle their intended prey.

Two figures lumber from a intersection street no more than forty yards ahead and Dazai curses under his breath as they twist their heads in his direction, arms stretching forward in that horrible, familiar manner as if just waiting to embrace him and welcome him into the arms of the fallen.

They’ve come here for weapons, for ammunition, but there’s no choice left to him now; to slow down and confront these two new horrors hands-on would cost him precious time, would inevitably allow the horde to catch up and begin tearing into his body chunk by bloody chunk.

Two zombies...three bullets loaded into the chamber of the handgun that is now held tightly in his grip. He’ll have to aim and fire while moving, unable to spare the seconds it will take to pause, aim and shoot. No matter, his proficiency with a gun has always been better than his hand-to-hand combat skills, unlike his short Mafia’s-Best-Martial-Artist partner. The gun feels like an extension of his body as he raises it to eye level, times the shot with the loping gait he’s adopted to keep the undead behind him from snapping at his ankles.

The crack of gunfire echoes from the remnants of the surrounding buildings.

One down.

Immediately he shifts his aim, takes another two strides forwards, shifts again to compensate and pulls the trigger.

Another thunderous crack, but his opponent hasn’t gone down, the bullet lodged in the corpse’s lower jaw instead of flying true. Dazai could almost laugh at the beautifully poetic idiocy of it all.

He has to slow now, lest he barrel straight into the oncoming corpse. Sucking in a quick breath before the gun is cocked one final time.

Crack.

This time his aim is on point, the bullet piercing the skull right between the eyes, dropping the corpse to the floor in an instant.

The snarling behind him is suddenly loud in his ears. Some small part of him whispers that this is it, this is where his part in this story ends – that he’s about to die in this ridiculous manner, being chased by a horde for the sake of a few bullets.

He throws himself sideways just in time to avoid a swipe from a bloodied, dirt-crusted hand; tucks his head forward and rolls, coming up on his feet with knife in hand.

It’s only one. A front-runner it seems, maybe a little fresher off the zombie production line, a little more able-bodied. The face of what must have once been a beautiful woman looks back at him through a ragged curtain of blonde hair, with eyes filmed over and devoid of both life and humanity. The tattered remnants of her red dress flutter around her knees, the strap of one shoulder torn to reveal the tracking black of corrupted veins spidering outwards from the putrid blackened flesh of a bite mark sunk deep into a delicate neck

“Ah, but in another life I would have been happy to die with you~” he sings, holding the blade flat against his chest for a moment, “unfortunately I already have a demanding redhead to take care of, so I will have to decline your offer of double suicide!” skipping forward, he uses the corpse’s own momentum to drive the blade home through one clouded eye and into the brain. The body of the woman jerks once before becoming a dead weight, almost dragging him down with it as he tries to maintain his grip on the knife. Vainly he tries to yank the blade free from where it seems to have become lodged in the woman’s skull but it’s wedged fast and he’s out of time. Deciding he’ll come back later to retrieve it, he jumps nimbly to his feet, taking one quick look at the approaching mass of shifting bodies before taking off down the street at a dead run.

The rattling sound of his death at a hundred hands follows in his wake.

His lungs are burning as he puts on a burst of speed and darts around a corner onto a wider road he knows leads out of what was once a more built-up and apparently industrial area of the city, edged on the far side with trees. It’s a risk, he knows, more zombies could be lurking in the shadows, but he’s tired of this game of cat and mouse and he needs to get back to Chuuya before any more surprise hordes can decide to stampede their way into town.

He clears the road in a few bounds, has put a little distance between himself and the oncoming wave of undead still shambling determinedly after their elusive prey. Winding through the trees he’s finally far enough ahead of the pack that he can drag himself up into the branches and observe as the horde floods down the road and through the trees like breakers upon the sand.

It’s been more than the promised five minutes already and he’s beginning to lose patience as the corpses just keep on coming, the leaders already disappearing from view as the final stragglers pass his position, giving him what he fervently hopes is a clear path back to the shop.

He pauses in his headlong flight only long enough to check around the corner and make sure nothing is waiting to jump out at him before throwing caution to the wind and ordering his legs to obey as he urges himself on, faster, faster, faster.

When he forces his way through the back door it’s to find the point of Chuuya’s knife at his throat, barely a mistimed swallow away from biting into flesh. Instead of panic, he only finds relief in the fact that Chuuya is safe. Tries not to let that particular emotion paint itself across his face.

“Did you get in?” he asks, forcing his tone and body to calm and he reaches up to push the knife away, gratified when Chuuya sucks in a breath heavy with obvious concern and tucks the blade back into his belt, crossing the small storage room to indicate a pile of boxes and two small bags made of what looks like expensive leather, sitting on an otherwise empty stack of shelves.

“Of course I did. I –” the words cut off abruptly, dousing the room in silence as the redhead takes a step back.

Oh. Dazai knows what’s coming.

“You stupid asshole!” Chuuya’s voice is shaking with barely contained rage as he rounds once more on Dazai, eyes flashing with murderous intent as his fists clench unconsciously. “I thought you were going to die! What the fuck were you thinking?!”

When Dazai opens his mouth to answer, Chuuya cuts him off with a snarl, “No, don’t fucking answer that! Clearly you weren’t thinking at all!”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?” He points out, grinning obnoxiously. “Obviously it worked.”

“That’s just dumb fucking luck, not down to any skill of yours!” Dazai is pretty sure Chuuya would be shouting, were it not for their precarious position and the distinct possibility that more of their undead adversaries could potentially be lurking around every corner. Instead, the redhead whisper-hisses his outrage and in all honestly, Dazai is trying hard not to laugh.

“Do you think this is funny?” Chuuya’s teeth are bared as he advances, three quick strides putting him close enough to curl his fingers into the fabric of Dazai’s shirt and physically force him to walk backwards. His back hits the opposite wall, breath expelling from his lungs in a quick whoosh of air. “What part of this is amusing to you, Dazai? The part where you get yourself killed? Or the part where you get both of us killed, plus everyone on the outside?”

“Neither of us is dead…” he cannot help but point out the obvious, regardless of the fact that he knows it will do nothing to cool Chuuya’s increasing ire.

“That’s not the point!” Chuuya may be shorter than him, but he uses his formidable strength to yank on Dazai’s shirt, dragging him to bend forwards until they are almost nose to nose. “You had no way of knowing how many of them were out there, or that they would follow you, or that you could outrun them! What even went through your idiotic fucking brain to make you think that was a good idea?”

Chuuya’s breath is warm across his face and, at this distance, he can see flecks of darker blue and the sparking anger in Chuuya’s eyes, the small frown lines at the corners. Something in Dazai’s depths squirms uncomfortably and he can’t help but break their eye contact to stare at the scant space between them.

This is not the time...but he’s running on adrenaline and instinct and maybe a tiny bit of euphoria at seeing Chuuya alive, at making it back alive and it’s entirely too much effort to hide what he hasn’t yet come to grips with himself, especially considering the almost palpable tension that’s been surrounding them since...that little incident this morning.

Chuuya notices. His face flushes, hot and red. Fingers letting go abruptly of their death grip upon abused fabric, the redhead jerks and pulls back immediately, an attempt to put distance between them.

The thing that lurks in that dark empty pit stirs, impatient and hungry.

Without waiting to consider the implications, Dazai reacts, wrapping his fingers around Chuuya’s arm and practically spinning him around to reverse their positions. Now it’s Chuuya’s back hitting the wall, eyes wide as his breath leaves him in a rush.

Dazai doesn’t stop to think, merely presses forwards, one hand reaching to grip Chuuya’s chin and tilt his head up, even as his body crowds forwards in turn.

He doesn’t stop to think about how reckless and entirely stupid this is. Instead he dips his own head until they are sharing every stuttered exhale. He searches for something in that shocked-wide gaze, denial, permission, he isn’t really sure. Finds whatever it is in the way Chuuya’s lashes dip.

When their lips meet, it isn’t tender; no gentle caress or feather-light teasing brush. When their lips meet it is to the clashing of teeth and harsh pants as they both find their breath; it’s a battle of wills; an outpouring of years of pent up frustration which neither had ever voiced. When their lips meet, the apocalyptic world around them ceases to be of importance.

Chuuya growls into the kiss, the sound emerging from his mouth to be swallowed by Dazai’s. Dazai breaks the contact to bite Chuuya’s lower lip hard in retaliation, earning a low curse from the redhead as his whole body flinches in shock at the sharp sting of pain.

The darkness bares its teeth in primal satisfaction.

It’s a fight - it’s always a fight between them – an unspoken contest played out through biting kisses and clawed fingers curling into clothed skin, each holding fiercely to the yearning sounds trying to force their way to the surface, neither willing to break the stalemate or the spell. It’s Chuuya who relents first – it always is in this testing of wills – a habit forced from years of expectation laid upon too-narrow shoulders; the expectation to acquiesce to Dazai’s whims; the expectation to follow where he leads; the expectation to destroy their enemies; the expectation to obey.

Dazai can feel the exact moment when Chuuya gives in and surrenders control; watches his eyes close fully as the tension falls from his body, which practically sinks into the wall at his back. Chuuya’s hands drop to his sides as Dazai’s own hands simultaneously reach to cradle either side of the redhead’s jaw, brushing thumbs along sharp cheekbones even as he presses relentlessly forwards.

This kiss is something different, something frighteningly close to tender and hot enough to burn Dazai from the inside out, replacing the emptiness with something scandalously close to affection. He takes his time, now that Chuuya is quiet and unresisting beneath him, pressing fleeting kisses to the corners of Chuuya’s lips before licking an insistent stripe across the seam, seeking permission to go further. He can feel Chuuya worry his lower lip with his teeth in a moment of indecision, waiting patiently until the decision is made and the redhead opens to meet him with a sigh.

Tongues meet tentatively, an old dance to a new tune and this time it’s Dazai who can no longer reel in the the hum of satisfaction which practically vibrates itself up his throat. He can feel Chuuya smiling into the kiss and decides he’s past caring about being careful, about holding up his mask, about holding down his emotions. In this instant the whole world could burn around them and he would still be right here, with his lips pressed against Chuuya’s, and his fingers slowly burying themselves in soft red hair.

It’s only when they part reluctantly - Dazai breaking away to trail a slow path from the corner of Chuuya’s mouth to the hinge of his jaw – that awareness seems to shock Chuuya back into some semblance of embarrassed sensibility. The redhead’s back straightens abruptly as he attempts to pull away, stopped by Dazai’s own body.

“Dazai –” the words are cut off on a hitched breath as Dazai chooses that moment to nip a warning into the soft flesh of Chuuya’s throat, not yet ready to return and face the reality of their situation. He presses his tongue against the pulse point, a weird sense of relief flooding him at the sensation of the erratic beat of life right there beneath Chuuya’s skin. He can feel that beat sink into his very bones.

“Dazai…” Chuuya begins again, his voice low and rough with something that sends a thrill through Dazai. His name in that voice...it’s something he could get used to.

Dangerous. It’s not the first time he’s had that thought. He’s too far gone to care. Bites the skin which had moments ago been under his tongue, hard enough to leave a mark.

“Dazai!”

Oh. Now his name moaned between clenched teeth is definitely something he wants to hear again. Preferably immediately. It does something to him that has the darkness howling in savage glee. He wants to hear it a thousand times...then a thousand times more.

“We can’t do this.”

Ice runs cold and creeping through his veins. Dazai jerks backwards instantly, pulling away to put space between them. He wants to look away, cannot bear to see the rejection he knows is coming. He wants to look away so desperately it’s almost painful, but he can’t.

Chuuya is a different kind of breathtaking in this moment, an image Dazai wants to take and burn into his mind forever, if this is all he can have. The red hair is mussed and slightly dishevelled from Dazai’s fingers; shirt rumpled and creased; a faint red mark blooms across the pale expanse of throat, just beneath the jawline. Chuuya’s eyes are nearly black, pupils dilated so far they have almost swallowed every hint of that vivid blue he knows so well; slightly glazed and yet filled with something unfathomable.

He cannot look away. Takes another step backwards and swallows hard, the instinctive urge to turn and run gnawing at his insides like a million tiny teeth, ripping into the soft parts of himself which had dared to surface, dared to exist.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Chuuya pulls himself away from the wall, stands straight and tall and beautifully wrecked.

“Like what?” Dazai feels horribly exposed, like every buried secret has been exhumed, written across his skin in indelible flowing script for Chuuya to read like some lurid book, painted across his face – a picture of demons and a myriad of insecurities never allowed to see the light of day.

“Like I’ve just told you to fuck off and die.”

“You’ve told me to fuck off and die a hundred times, Chuu-ya~,” he tries to force a laugh, fails, “What’s so different now?”

Chuuya doesn’t answer him, except to make a noise of growling irritation as he moves purposefully forwards, crowding himself into Dazai’s space even as his hand reaches out to grasp the back of Dazai’s neck, forcing his head down until they are staring eye-to-eye once more. Chuuya’s eyes flicker back and forth between Dazai’s own deceptively steady gaze, the look intense and searching until eventually he sighs, lashes dipping until they shutter off the intrusive, all-encompassing blue. Dazai can feel the other’s breath on his face, can count the tiny freckles on the bridge of Chuuya’s nose. Everything ceases to matter when Chuuya’s lips capture his once more, a sensation far too fleeting to be satisfying as Chuuya pulls back before Dazai can even gather his wits enough to respond.

“Shitty Dazai.” the words are breathed against his lips, felt as much as heard. “I didn’t mean we can’t do this at all.” that faint blush is evident across Chuuya’s cheeks once more and Dazai’s hands itch to sweep across red-tinted skin, to feel it warm under his fingertips. “I meant that we can’t do this right now.”

“Oh.” Dazai’s brain blanks.

“Oh?” Chuuya’s eyes flash open, brows raised in comical incredulity as he studies Dazai’s face. “That’s all you have to say? Oh?!”

Dazai shrugs helplessly, finally reaching up to press his fingers against that telling streak of red creeping across pale cheeks, following the path with his thumbs before finally tucking an errant strand of red hair behind Chuuya’s ear.

“Oh.” he affirms with another shrug.

Chuuya huffs in exasperation, the small smile playing across his lips betraying his underlying amusement. “Come on, idiot. Grab some of this shit. Let’s get back to where we left the pack and get the hell out of here before those undead fuckers come back.”

“Mmm.” Dazai shoves some boxes of ammunition into the various pockets of his coat, stashing the two leather pouches in his inside pockets as he watches Chuuya struggle to fit anything into the pockets of the jacket that wraps tightly around his body.

“If I’d known it was this easy to shut you up, my life would have been so much easier.” Chuuya’s quiet chuckles fill the room and Dazai can feel something jump beneath his ribcage.

Biting his lip to hide a smile softer than it has any right to be, Dazai follows the redhead obediently from the room, his mind a blur of soft lips, feather touches and vivid blue.

They almost die as soon as they step outside.

Caught up in his own head, Dazai doesn’t even stop Chuuya to pause and listen before opening the door leading back onto the street. Instead he is left to watch in horror as the door bangs back onto its hinges and Chuuya practically falls into the arms of two shambling undead, who, apparently had been in the process of shuffling on past to do whatever undead parasitic creatures do when they’re not ripping chunks of flesh from living humans.

Another rounds the corner, glassy eyes fixing on Dazai as it rasps in gurgling delight, flailing skinny rotting arms and flings itself at him. Suddenly Dazai is forced to take his eyes off Chuuya and face his own imminent mortality in the grotesque shape of another decaying human as he scrambles for a weapon.

Where the fuck is my knife? Oh...right...the previous flight, he had flung his knife into the eye socket of one of his pursuers, downing the creature in front to slow down those behind it. He hadn’t retrieved the weapon. Which leaves him with...a gun with no loaded bullets and one tiny blade. Wonderful.

He’s suddenly glad for all of those awkward and painful sparring sessions with Chuuya. Even though the Mafia Executive had thrashed him soundly more often than not, it had at least rehoned those skills he hasn’t really had cause to use all that much in recent years. Now, his body is lean, balanced and agile. Sure, Chuuya can still put him on his ass if he’s not concentrating fully on the redhead’s every move, but these ungainly undead horrors who move with jerky unpractised motions, he can deal with this, even with the stupid tiny blade. He lets his coat fall from his shoulders to the floor, not wanting to be weighed down.

As the creature draws closer, Dazai kicks out, catching it’s elbow with his booted foot. A satisfying crack as the thing stumbles backwards tells him that his aim was true. Another rasping shriek and the creature lurches forwards, Dazai brings his other leg crashing down on its other arm, and with another sickening crunch, both limbs now hang uselessly by its side.

With the danger of being grabbed and borne down to the ground now lessened, Dazai gets in close, avoiding the frantically clacking jaws to wrap fingers around the parchment thin skin of the creature’s throat, forcing it back until it hits the wall then pulling his other arm back with knife held high, plunging it through an eye socket and straight into the brain.

The thing that was once a young man falls to the floor in a lifeless heap of stretched skin and jutting bones.

He turns - heart lodged uncomfortably in his throat – to see Chuuya standing over two corpses, looking almost feral, hands drenched in blood and teeth bared in a sharp smile as he leans over to pull his axe from the head of an old woman, what’s left of her stringy white hair matted with black blood, half of her face now an unrecognisable pulp. The other body is similarly mutilated, and Dazai can’t find it within himself to be anything but glad.

“Guess you didn’t manage to run all of them off,” the comment is flippant, as if they don’t have three dead people lying at their feet. “These must have been stragglers. We’d better be more careful.” He wipes the thick sticky blood from the gleaming metal of his axe onto the filthy shirt of one of the corpses, pausing to stick it back in his belt before wiping his gloved hands in a similar fashion.

“Time to get out of here before the rest show up and we’re in real trouble.”

Dazai can only agree.

~ ~ ~

The ride back from the city to the small wood where they had hidden the RV upon their escape from their pursuers – which now seems like a lifetime ago rather than a mere few hours - is both uncomfortable and exhilarating: Dazai now consciously aware of exactly how close he is to Chuuya. Pressed together on the back of the motorcycle with Dazai’s arms wrapped securely around Chuuya’s waist suddenly feels like something obscene; his chest flush against Chuuya’s back, his thighs pressed against Chuuya’s hips. Every bump along the pockmarked and winding backroads makes him jolt uncomfortably and eventually he gives in to the temptation to rest his head on Chuuya’s shoulder and close his eyes to the rest of the world, the pack weighing heavy upon his back as he tries to think about anything other than the way Chuuya’s smaller body fits against his own.

Dangerous.

They make it without incident, the motorcycle’s speed and agility at manoeuvring them through tight spaces the RV would have no chance of passing, a small yet welcome blessing. The RV is exactly as they had left it, and the surrounding woods appear to be miraculously empty of the both the wandering undead and the marauding living. Dazai is glad, he’s not sure his current mental capacity could deal with any more unexpected developments.

The journey from the city limits to their clifftop hideaway is made in slightly awkward silence; the air thick with unspoken words, unspoken questions, unspoken insecurities...yet neither he nor Chuuya have the courage to pull the first brick from that impossibly high wall suddenly looming between them. Eventually, Chuuya kicks his feet up to rest on the dash, slumping in his chair and falling into a fitful doze, not even bothering to string together his usual complaints over the way Dazai throws the RV around corners with no respect for the vehicle’s size, or its occupants.

Dazai bites his tongue, grips the steering wheel a little tighter, throws the RV around the corners just a little bit faster. Perhaps it’s nerves...perhaps it’s spite. He doesn’t consider it too closely.

There’s a feeling of palpable relief when he finally backs the large vehicle carefully into the hidden makeshift shed, checking with almost paranoid wariness, to ensure that no other signs of life are visible on dirt track leading to their little fortification the woods surrounding their hideaway garage. Chuuya makes short work of removing the steering wheel and securing it to the back of the pack, something he has taken to doing recently after they had seen cars left on the road in a similar state - it’s not really much of a deterrent to determined thieves, but it’s quick, easy and renders the vehicle itself almost useless.

Chuuya pauses for a moment, to pat the chassis of the bike, secured in its mount on the rear of the RV, and Dazai has to roll his eyes once again at the fondness the redhead displays for the machine, he always did have a preference for anything loud and brash, particularly if it was also some lurid and obnoxious colour. This bike, it’s Chuuya personified.

“Would you like me to leave you and the bike alone for a few minutes?” Dazai asks tartly.

Chuuya turns to stare at him for a moment, head tilted like he’s trying to figure something out, then a slow smile forms on his lips, “Why, are you jealous?”

Without thinking, Dazai covers the distance in two short steps, gripping Chuuya’s chin and forcing his head up. He watches blue eyes widen, Chuuya’s throat bobbing as he swallows hard, faint red flushing across his cheeks.

“Not at all.” he half whispers, half growls as he brings their mouths together roughly, a thrill running through him as Chuuya opens to him without hesitation, a groan of surprise and satisfaction in the Mafioso’s throat.

Dazai doesn’t let the moment last - is quietly afraid of how far he might push if he lets this go on - disengages as roughly as he had initiated the contact, shoving the redhead backwards, his grin full of teeth as Chuuya stumbles with a curse.

“Come along, Chuu-ya~ we don’t have all day,” he sing-songs as he waltzes carelessly into the late evening sunshine, listening gleefully to the obscenities flung venomously at his back.

~ ~ ~

By the time they finally make it back to the boat, hauling the heavy packs aboard before stowing the tender safely back into its storage compartment, the sun is beginning to sink steadily towards the horizon. Dazai quietly trails behind Chuuya as the redhead lugs their spoils to the kitchen, dumping the entire contents of the pack out onto the floor before picking through the various items and beginning to organise them tediously.

Dazai is too full of nervous energy to help with the task, his entire concentration taken up with the need to school his features into something bland and expressionless. He watches Chuuya scoop up tins to balance them haphazardly in the cupboards, can see the irritation growing in the way the Mafioso grinds his teeth or clenches his fists every time he bends to grab the next item.

Eventually he snaps.

“Are you going to do something useful, or just stand there and stare while I do all the work?” hands on his hips and eyes narrowed as he glowers. Dazai’s fingers twitch, aching with the need to smooth out the lines of weary annoyance from Chuuya’s skin.

Instead he shakes his head mutely. Wincing internally at the disgruntled ‘tch’ this earns him, he quickly bends down to grab an armful of assorted weaponry they had looted to add to their small (but growing) arsenal kept aboard ship. Hurrying from the room before he says something utterly ridiculous and likely to earn himself a punch to the face.

When he returns after safely stowing the various knives, bullets and what he now knows to be a pair of absolutely horrendous semi-automatic pistols (whose entire surface are bedecked in tiny glittering jewels, sparkling in an eye-watering rainbow whenever they catch the light and clearly made to cater for someone with more money than braincells) carefully alongside the other equipment, similarly divesting himself of everything but the small blade he keeps on his person at all times (best not to mention the handgun in the top drawer next to his bed), he finds Chuuya standing in the centre of the now immaculately tidy and organised kitchen space, those blue eyes coming to rest on Dazai immediately as he steps through the doorway.

That inescapable desire to devour flickers through his body like a spark about to ignite, making his fingers tense with the need to do...something.

“Dazai –” Chuuya starts, determination casting a steely glint to his eyes, but Dazai absolutely does not want to hear about why this is a bad idea. He practically stalks the smaller redhead across the room, unable to keep his hands to himself as he grips Chuuya’s hips, walks him backwards until he hits the counter and Dazai is crowding into his space. Staring, staring into the blue and seeing that same expression...acceptance? Permission? Apprehension?

Whatever it is, Dazai sees no hint of rejection, forges ahead. Leaning down to capture those taunting lips with his own, his hands sliding from Chuuya’s hips to his back, pulling him closer, closer, closer, until Chuuya must be able to feel the way his heart is trying to beat its way free from his ribcage.

Chuuya whines something and it might be annoyance but Dazai has lost his grip on conscious thought, frees himself to instinct and need – taking what he wants from the redhead beneath him and glorying in the feel of Chuuya under his hands, the scent of Chuuya in the air, the taste of Chuuya on his tongue.

Without warning, his world tilts and he finds himself flailing as he falls, landing unceremoniously on his ass upon the floor. Chuuya stands over him now, eyes blazing lust mixed with confusion and a healthy dose of anger.

“What was that for?” Dazai can’t help it, he actually pouts. Feeling more than a little unbalanced at the abrupt shift in positions.

“We have to stop and talk about this.” Chuuya’s voice is flat, yet holds a strained quality that clues Dazai in to the fact that the redhead is trying very hard to hold himself back.

Dazai, being Dazai, has to prod at the wound, “What is there to talk about, Chuu-ya~”

“What exactly do you want from this, Dazai?” Chuuya snaps back, eyes searching his face. Dazai knows he will see only the patently blank facade.

He cocks his head, doing his best to adopt an empty expression, despite the roiling simmer of the blood singing through his veins, “Does it matter?”

“I deserve to know where I stand,” the redhead replies, equally flat.

Dazai is suddenly afraid that Chuuya will walk away, will leave him like this without another word if he doesn’t tell at least some part of the truth. The thought is unbearable. Enough to make him stutter out a confession. “I want…” he pauses, weighing his words, not even sure himself what he actually wants other than… “I want everything. Anything. Whatever you will give me. I want all of it.”

Chuuya clicks his tongue again, displeasure colouring his tone, “Don’t bullshit me, Dazai.” Once the floodgates have opened, the words leave the redhead in a rush. “What happens when all this is over? When we leave this little fantasy and return to the real world, you know, the one where you betrayed the Port Mafia and work for the enemy?”

“…” Dazai can only open and close his mouth wordlessly.

“What, the Demon Prodigy doesn’t have an answer?” the redhead scoffs, turning his back on Dazai and staring out of the window as the last rays of the sun glow orange and red, setting fire to the water beyond. Dazai hates that moniker, it hangs like a curse above his head.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Chuuya. I can’t tell you everything will work out. I can’t see the future,” suddenly he’s tired, down to his very bones, tired and overburdened and afraid of losing this one good thing before he’s even really grasped what it is.

Chuuya rounds on him with a snarl, looming over Dazai who can’t find it in himself to drag his ass up off the floor to put them on a more level playing field. “I don’t want to know the future, shitty Dazai! I want to know what you want, how you feel for once in my fucking life! I want to know where this goes! Is this a one-time thing? You’re gonna use me and discard me when you get bored, leave me behind like you always do? When we go back are you going to pretend none of this happened? Go back to spitting insults in the street while I save your ass from fuck knows what time and time again? Expect me to trust you when you walk away like it’s fucking easy every damn time?!”

He can see that the floodgates of Chuuya’s insecurities, kept carefully dammed and walled away, have crumbled to pieces in the face of this...whatever this is. It’s both fascinating and concerning. Dazai’s mouth opens, intending to speak up and defend himself, but Chuuya cuts him off with a sharp hand movement, “You want to use me? To make me part of your arsenal? Because that’s all I’ve ever been to anyone, right? A useful tool. King of the Sheep, Arahabaki, Double Black, A5158...are you going to fuck me and then try to add me to your little collection of pieces? So, I’ll ask again: what do you want, Dazai?”

Those impossibly blue eyes are fixed on him, glaring and accusatory, but focussed on Dazai and him alone. He hauls himself to his feet then, and they are within each others orbit once more – Chuuya never needed to manipulate gravity to capture Dazai’s attention after all; they have always circled each other in a push-and-pull dance of attraction and repulsion.

The darkness inside flexes it’s claws, hooked deep into his soul, and the words which should have stayed buried, pour forth, coloured with frustration, fear and a horrible yawning chasm of yearning. “You want to know how I feel? What I want?” A pause for ragged breath, choking down air against the lump rising in his throat, constricting his windpipe even as the truths drop like hand grenades, potentially just as liable to explode in his own face. “Fine. I feel like I’m lost in a storm. I feel like I want to run but in every direction I turn there you are, taunting me with something I know is dangerous, something entirely stupid considering the situation we’re in right now, but I can’t help it.”

He won’t look away, won’t take his eyes from Chuuya who is now blinking at him with uncertainty. Well, maybe he should have considered that Dazai might actually answer him, might tell him more than he ever wanted to know. Dazai takes evil satisfaction in the shock flickering in that answering stormy blue. “I know this is a bad idea, and yet still...I want to own you like I should have all those years ago. I want to mark every part of you until my name is written into your blood. I want to tell Mori to go fuck himself if he thinks he can take you away from me. The Agency too if it comes to it.”

Ah...perhaps that was a bit too much? Chuuya always did manage to pull out the worst of him.

Chuuya opens his mouth, makes a face and closes it again, swallowing hard before worrying his lower lip with his teeth for long seconds. Finally he shakes his head, takes a breath – Dazai wonders what damning fury is about to burst forth.

“Oh.” the soft murmur is almost lost in the space between them.

“Oh?” Now it’s Dazai who is left to blink in confusion, because, well, oh, really isn’t an answer to anything now, is it?

Chuuya’s hand lifts to rub the back of his neck in an awkward, somewhat sheepish manner, embarrassment flushing his cheeks crimson. He grumbles out a sigh, shrugging his shoulders before adding,“Well, it’s a lot.” He doesn’t even sound defensive, just bewildered and, apparently, out of his depth.

“You asked,” Dazai responds awkwardly, maybe a little smug satisfaction buried in there, since Chuuya had asked.

Long seconds pass, blue and crimson remaining fixed as each attempts to read something from behind shuttered gazes. Chuuya’s foot begins tapping in that distracted manner, betraying something other than the calm and carefully blank exterior the Mafioso is currently fronting. The urge to shift uncomfortably after exposing himself in such an intimate way is almost too strong for Dazai to ignore.

“Okay.” The rough husk of Chuuya’s voice on that one word is close to making Dazai jump, the hair on his arms rising.

“Okay?” He repeats uncertainly, momentarily unable to parse the simple meaning behind that single word of acceptance. When it does finally hit him, it punches the breath from his lungs, forcing him to take a stuttered, somewhat choked gasp before he can force the words from where they’re lodged behind his teeth. “You mean?”

Chuuya rolls his eyes heavenward, the blush slowly creeping down his neck. “I mean okay,” he’s staring at Dazai now, licks his bottom lip before pulling it between his teeth in a moment of indecision before elucidating, “To all of it.”

“Oh…” Dazai breathes, the word barely more than a shocked whisper of disbelief. Chuuya’s eyebrow quirks upwards and he can almost hear the unspoken ‘really?’ in that look, but… “Oh…” there’s fire in his blood; burning, scalding, cleansing. He can feel the faint tremor in his fingers as he reaches out, so slowly, so carefully, so tentatively; part of him wondering if this is some kind of trick, some kind of trap, or worse, some kind of dream. It wouldn’t be the first.

Don’t let me wake up.

This is stupid. It’s reckless. It’s all of the things he told himself he absolutely would not do, should not do when they are here for a reason, when they have a mission bigger than both of them. This is not the time to be tangling himself event further into knots with Chuuya; knots that could draw them tighter and more bound together than they ever have been before; knots that could break them apart more thoroughly than Dazai had ever managed. He should stop this before it goes too far.

“Chuuya –” he whispers, this is not the time...it’s not...he –

“Come here, Dazai,” Chuuya speaks in a voice that is all smoke and promise.

Dazai obeys without thought.

Chapter Text

This is stupid. It’s reckless. It’s too fast and too much and too soon. Ane-san would say he was acting impulsively; the animal part of him too quick to succumb to the intensity of the situation. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s made bad decisions in the heat of the moment. Sure most of them had happened when he’d been drunk off his ass, ending with him waking up in a stranger’s bed with his mouth tasting like regret and right now he’s completely sober.

But…

There’s a clogging, cloying air to the room, a tension that’s been hanging over them like a cloud for days, weeks even. A string connected between them, pulling tighter and tighter and tighter until now, it’s ready to snap, to wind around their necks and choke them, to toss them headfirst into foolishness and folly. It’s a hundred gentle touches that dance goosebumps across his flesh in their wake. It’s a thousand soft-eyed looks that leave him feeling seen to his very soul. It’s being pressed against a filthy wall in the face of death with Dazai’s lips tracing his skin.

It’s stupid. It’s reckless. It’s too fast and too much and too soon.

But…

Dazai’s fingers tremble almost imperceptibly as they stroke almost reverently under his jaw, thumbs reaching to caress cheekbones he knows are tinged red with lingering embarrassment at the strange moment of honesty which had just passed between them. Dazai’s hands thread their way into his hair, pressing against his scalp in a way that makes him feel almost boneless. Chuuya’s eyes close of their own accord, satisfaction making itself known in the quiet groan which issues unbidden from his throat.

It’s stupid. It’s reckless. It’s too fast and too much and too soon.

But...when has he ever backed down from a challenge?

With that hesitation put aside, he has barely an instant to register what’s happening before Dazai is on him, their bodies colliding with enough force to send Chuuya stumbling back a step to regain his momentary loss of balance. He blinks, stares into eyes that have descended to the colour of blood, close, so close, and there’s a flame there, a spark of life he hasn’t witnessed before, mixed with lust and bearing the frantic edge of what could be madness. Chuuya swallows hard, something molten hot and wanting suddenly lodged in the back of his throat.

“Chuuya –” Dazai whispers and Chuuya can feel the breath against his face, soft with promise. He’s seeking permission, without words, Chuuya knows, grants it with the slightest nod of his head.

This time the kiss is unhurried, languid and slow-burning, messy and oh so hot. It builds and grows, the wet slide as Dazai licks across the seam of his lips, as Chuuya opens and their tongues tangle in a dance that has the heat rising between them with every passing frantic heartbeat.

A quiet, almost wounded noise escapes his throat, to be caught by Dazai and passed back to him in the form of a low rumbling groan that spikes his heart-rate further. Chuuya gasps, pulling his head back as Dazai’s hands trail from his hair to the nape of his neck, pausing to grip for a second, pushing their foreheads together in a gesture that seems instantly more intimate than having his tongue in Dazai’s mouth. Then the fingers continue inexorably downward, stroking his spine in one long smooth caress until the hands come to rest on his ass, pausing for only a moment before Chuuya is hoisted off the floor – a startled yelp of surprise earning him a low chuckle as he wraps his legs around the bastard’s waist in an automatic effort to stop himself from tipping backwards – and Dazai hauls him to the nearest counter, sitting him on the edge even as he presses into the space left between Chuuya’s spread legs.

Sitting like this, they are almost of an equal height, something Chuuya takes instant advantage of as he crosses his ankles behind Dazai’s back and yanks him closer still, lamenting the terrible amount of layers the bandaged bastard has to tote around everywhere for barely a second before grabbing two fistfuls of dark hair and crashing their mouths back together. This time it’s him pressing his tongue against the seam of Dazai’s lips, demanding and insistent; him smiling in satisfaction as Dazai lets him in without hesitation. Tugging on the locks between his fingers experimentally earns him a broken moan of pleasure that he can almost taste.

Dazai’s fingers dig into his clothed thighs in retaliation, almost hard enough to bruise and Chuuya has to pull back to suck in a sharp breath. Dazai reclaims control, taking the presented opportunity to lick a stripe up the column of Chuuya’s throat from the snug leather of the choker - sitting against his skin in that comfortably familiar way – to his chin; following the path with his teeth, alternating sharp nips with barely-there kisses until Chuuya’s spine is taut, his fingers – still buried in Dazai’s hair – pulling hard enough to hurt.

His head tips back further, baring his neck to the fangs of the proverbial wolf. Dazai does not disappoint, pauses a moment in his ministrations before he chooses a point just under the hinge of Chuuya’s jaw. Sets teeth and lips and tongue to work; pulling the flesh between his lips and worrying at it until Chuuya can feel the mark bloom like a brand upon his skin.

The noise that escapes him is loud enough to make him blush and Dazai chuckles, the sound vibrating through Chuuya and forcing another stuttered breath to end on a sharp whine. He thinks he should be embarrassed, but can’t find it in himself to care.

Dazai’s skilful fingers tug his shirt from his pants, slipping underneath to trace a path across his waist and the tight muscles of his stomach. Chuuya can feel the familiar scratch of the bandages at Dazai’s wrists as the cotton brushes against heated, oversensitive skin. It is at once overwhelming and not enough.

The teeth are suddenly back at his throat, worrying and scraping at damaged skin and it hurts, sets Chuuya’s own teeth on edge but it’s good and he’s pressing forwards, forwards, pulling Dazai into him. He can feel Dazai’s erection pressing a hard line against his inner thigh, can feel his own cock jump in response. Those long deft fingers slip downwards, teasing the strip of skin above his belt.

Chuuya’s whole body freezes.

While he would be content – perhaps – to let Dazai have his way and fuck him right here on the counter at any other time. Right now he wants something else, something more. There’s still that voice of doubt whispering in his head, spitting its cursed poison, telling him that Dazai will walk away once he gets what he wants, and Chuuya, he’s not strong enough to face that kind of betrayal, not now, not again. He wont be treated like some common wanton whore, to be fucked against the first convenient surface. Even as the thought crosses Chuuya’s mind, heat races through his body at the scenes his mind helpfully provides: Dazai laying him across the counter, chasing him onto the high surface and stripping each layer from sweat-soaked skin; Dazai lifting him bodily to press him against the wall and take him hurriedly while gasping curses and praise; Dazai tumbling them both onto the too-small couch, impatient as he strips Chuuya of his clothes and his dignity.

He’s panting now, eyes glazed over as the images race through his mind while Dazai’s tongue laves against the freshly formed bruise on his neck and he shudders with pleasure. Fingers slip beneath his belt and Chuuya snaps himself out of his daydream as that inner voice whispers a single word, tumbling out into the space between them without thought.

“Stop.”

Dazai’s hands are instantly backing off, leaving Chuuya feeling a shock of cold as he blinks dazedly. Dazai’s blood-red eyes have turned almost black in the fading light, head tilted in silent question. Chuuya takes a moment to just breathe, letting his head fall forwards until it’s resting against Dazai’s shoulder, hair falling in a curtain around him, blocking him from that piercing stare.

Dazai tries to move back, is stopped by Chuuya’s legs, still gripping him tightly. Chuuya shakes his head in frantic refusal, a low noise of displeasure leaving him involuntarily as he struggles to press himself closer.

“Not here,” he manages to whisper the words, sounding small and pathetic in his own ears, the cloak of confidence torn from his shoulders. “I want –” he stutters to a halt, what does he want...he’s not even sure at this point, can’t think of anything past his own lust-clouded desires. “I... don’t –” he growls, angry at his own inability to think clearly. “I want –”

A gentle hand snakes between them to grip his chin, applying calm but firm pressure until Chuuya pulls his head away from its resting place against Dazai’s shoulder and straightens. They’re eye-to-eye now, and Chuuya swallows hard against the simmering desire, catching like a flame in that unfathomable red. His lips part but no sound emerges. Dazai must read his frustration, because those fingers are suddenly moving to stroke his jaw and press insistently against the mottled bruised skin beneath.

“What do you want, Chuuya?” the low purr of Dazai’s voice makes him swallow again against the clog of emotion choking him.

“I..I want – ” he whispers, closing his eyes and drawing up his courage, like fuck is he going to back down now. “I want you to take me to bed.” his voice is stronger now, the smoky rumble giving it a sensual quality that almost makes him blush and stutter all over again. “I want you to take me apart.”

He hears Dazai’s breath catch in his throat, feels his fingers press harder against the newly formed bruise – a brand across his skin - hard enough to send a sting of pain racing up Chuuya’s spine, electric pleasure coursing lower. A slow smile steals across his face, because Dazai losing control is something both beautiful and terrifying. Leaning forward, his next words are practically a purr, whispered directly into Dazai’s ear “Take me apart, Dazai.”

~ ~ ~

He’s not sure why he’s surprised when Dazai leads him to the room he had claimed as his own. Perhaps he’s so used to the bastard invading Chuuya’s own personal space with complete disregard for how Chuuya himself might feel about it, but following Dazai into this place feels strangely like he’s been admitted to some inner sanctum. It’s stupid, he’s been in here before, usually to kick Dazai out of bed when he’s in one of his melancholy moods and refusing to do anything other than imitate a large and supremely irritating potato. He’s slept in here before, with Dazai on more than one occasion for fuck’s sake. Still, this feel different, like he’s being invited to see something that other people aren’t allowed to view.

He hovers in the doorway uncertainly for all of a second or two, until Dazai grabs his sleeve and yanks him unceremoniously across the threshold, slamming the door shut with far more force than necessary and then proceeding to press Chuuya against it with the entirety of his own body weight. Chuuya has the abrupt premonition that he’s going to be spending a lot of time being pushed forcefully against hard surfaces in the near future, but, well, they never did do things by halves and he can’t say he’s particularly against the idea.

“Having second thoughts, Chuu-ya~?” Chuuya hates that the familiarly teasing sing-song tone doesn’t match the sudden flatness of Dazai’s eyes as they watch him unblinkingly.

Chuuya lets a grin spread across his face then, aware that it’s something dark and feral. With a quick twist he removes Dazai’s grip on his arm, switching their positions in an instant and now Dazai’s back is against the door and he is the one stepping in close.

“Not at all,” he growls, pressing a knee between Dazai’s slightly parted legs.

Dazai’s head all but cracks against the door as he tosses it back with a gasp. Chuuya watches from under half-lidded lashes as Dazai’s mouth opens soundlessly and his hips buck involuntarily, seeking more friction.

Yes, that loss of control is something he could get used to.

Chuuya removes the pressure instantly, replacing it with the careful feather-light brush of his hand, fingers dancing up Dazai’s thigh to circle around one hip, finally coming to rest atop Dazai’s clothed cock. Dazai’s breathing hitches and Chuuya watches him swallow down whatever noise had been about to make its bid for freedom. Tracing nimble fingers absently along the outline of Dazai’s erection, Chuuya lifts his free hand to Dazai’s face, cupping his cheek in a gesture almost out-of-place in its tenderness.

“Look at me,” it’s a command, not a request and something in Dazai responds instantly, blood red almost drowned once again in vacuous black as Chuuya is caught once more in that stare.

“Good,” he murmurs softly, pulling away and taking a slow step back. “Now, don’t move. Just stand there and watch.”

The lack of space is awkward, and really, you’d think a multi-million dollar yacht would have plenty of space and it just doesn’t, but Chuuya will work with what he’s given. Slowly he pulls the tie from his hair, the remainder of his red locks cascading in a messy tumble past his shoulders which he has to shake out of his face.

He keeps every movement deliberately loose and languid as he sheds each layer of clothing, shucking the jacket which hangs off his shoulders to fall to the floor and dragging the oversized hoodie over his head to similarly discard it. He flicks his attention back up to Dazai, who is watching him with such an intense focus, it’s almost enough to make him blush. He stares back - an open challenge, daring Dazai silently to look away – as he picks apart the buttons of his shirt, one-by-torturous-one. Perhaps he should feel some modicum of embarrassment, stripping like this in front of someone who, barely a few months ago, he would have considered his most irritating rival at best, his most obnoxious enemy at worst. And yet...sure he can feel a flush rising across his chest, but it has absolutely nothing to do with embarrassment, and everything to do with anticipation.

Chuuya has never been ashamed of his body (just don’t mention his height, or obvious lack thereof), he’s totally aware of how he looks, how a change in his step can have people either ignoring his entire existence or turning to stare in admiration as he passes by. It’s an appreciation of self-image that Kouyou-nee - the ever-patient teacher she was – drilled into him time and time again.

‘How people see you is determined by how you see yourself. Act like you own the world, lad, and the world will come to heel.’

As the shirt slips from his body to crumple to the ground, he catches the tensing of Dazai’s fingers in his peripheral vision and his teeth bare in a sharp grin. He tips his chin back as far as he can without breaking their eye contact, exposing throat and torso to that devouring gaze. Watches Dazai’s eyes break from his to travel hungrily over the expanse of unveiled skin, tracing the hard muscle and lean lines of his body.

Something within Chuuya is infinitely pleased with the attention, with the black desire lacing that appreciative stare. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants, turning a slow lazy circle before licking his lips and allowing a low chuckle to escape.

“Like what you see?” he teases, surprised at his own desire-roughened tone.

“Mmmh—” is Dazai’s unintelligible response, hands twitching to reach forwards.

Chuuya is not done being in control of this just yet, is enjoying the experience of having Dazai at his mercy just a little too much. Shaking his head he takes another half step back and firmly out of reach.

“Ah-ah. I told you to watch,” the sultry purr is replaced with a hum of satisfaction, working it’s way up his throat as Dazai’s hands fall obediently back to his sides, a flash of something too momentary to discern crossing his face.

Chuuya takes a quick breath, gathering the tattered remains of his own control as he brings slightly shaking fingers to his belt buckle, pausing a moment before dropping the hand lower to press against his own neglected erection through his pants. Involuntarily his head tosses back, eyes squeezing shut as a sharp sound slips unbidden between his teeth, answered and echoed from across the room.

It takes him a moment to remember where he is, under the caressing pressure of his own hand, to recall what exactly he was doing before he got caught up in the sensations of want and need and more. Running his tongue along his lower lip he blinks once, twice, is captured once again by the all-consuming desire reflected at him in Dazai’s almost-black eyes.

Oh.

Something breaks in Chuuya then, some part of him that had been holding back, set free to howl its hunger; it drowns the voice whispering doubts and fears with a creature wholly more primal. His pants and socks join the assortment of clothing already littering the floor with none of the fine-tuned finesse of his earlier actions, yet still there is a wild sort of elegance there, he knows, has been told many times before that he moves like a courtesan – thank Kouyou-nee, her impeccable training and endless grace – even through the most innocuous of motions.

Now he’s left clad in only his boxers and his returning self-confidence, standing in the middle of the master suite of a seven million dollar yacht with Dazai, fully clothed and staring at him with a predator’s devouring gaze.

Like gravity, Chuuya is drawn in.

Takes a step forwards.

Another.

He’s within touching distance now, can see Dazai’s shoulders tense and his fingers twitch.

“Chuuya—” coiling smoke and whisky smooth. “Can I touch you?”

The need settles warmly in his gut, but Chuuya shakes his head wordlessly, errant strands of hair falling forward to brush across his shoulders. A bone-deep sense of satisfaction washes through him as Dazai’s movements cease altogether.

One final half-step and he’s pressed firmly against Dazai’s front, breathing hot and stuttered against the bandages covering the skin of his neck. He allows himself a moment to just feel; the scratch of fabric against his chest, the sharp-quick jolts of Dazai’s breath as it escapes his lungs, the hard line pressed against Chuuya’s hip. He pushes himself up onto his toes to mouth and nip at the hinge of Dazai’s jaw, a thrill running through him as the other man jerks involuntarily beneath him.

“Don’t move,” he whispers against skin. Pulls back far enough to put an inch of space between them. “Don’t touch. Can you do that?” All he gets in answer is a jerky nod.

Almost instantly, Chuuya realises that this isn’t exactly going to work. “Okay, why the fuck do you insist on wearing so many layers?” he grumbles, plucking irritably at the sleeve of Dazai’s long coat, which is layered on top of a shorter jacket, beneath which is a buttoned shirt.

“We’re in the middle of the ocean in late Autumn and I feel the cold?” comes the deadpan response.

“Too many fucking layers.” Chuuya reiterates petulantly, tilting his head and fixing Dazai with a half-lidded look. “Take this off?” he tugs once more at the sleeve, “take both of them off.”

“I thought you were doing the work here, Chibi?” Dazai shrugs the heavy overcoat off his shoulders, tossing it in the direction of the couch before unbuttoning the jacket and sending it flying to join its brethren. Taking Chuuya off-guard, he leans forwards to press the barest whisper of a kiss against his ear, “Is that better?”

Chuuya shivers at the ghost of breath against his skin, pushes his hands against Dazai’s shoulders to shove him bodily back against the door.

“Okay, okay!” the asshole has the audacity to grin, the expression sharp and unapologetic, “Mercy, Little Mafia, I’ll be good.”

“You’d better!” is all Chuuya can manage to choke out. His hands reach out of their own volition, tracing slowly down the line of buttons, taking a moment to gauge whether Dazai would be terribly upset if he just...let his impatience run away with him and ripped the stupid thing down the centre.

Decision made he doesn’t give Dazai time to protest, twisting his fingers into the fabric at either side of the collar and yanking them in opposite directions with his entire strength.

The sound of ripping fabric is satisfying loud.

Buttons fly in all directions and Chuuya can practically feel Dazai’s surprised exhale. Casting his gaze over his handiwork, he frowns.

“You have got to be kidding me!” because of fucking course there’s another t-shirt beneath.

Dazai’s laughter rings out, filling the room with mirthful chuckles as the utter bastard lifts one hand to cover his mouth, eyes crinkling shut as his whole body shakes.

“Dazaiiii—” he’s not too proud to whine, but he’s also not above playing dirty, so, he presses forwards again, grabbing Dazai’s hips and pulling their lower bodies together. Dazai’s chuckles break off into a groan, all traces of mirth in his voice replaced with sudden scorching heat.

“Off.” Chuuya murmurs, gratified when Dazai makes no comment but simply grabs the hem of the t-shirt and forces it up and over his head, hair fluffing up and falling in random directions.

Now there is bare skin beneath Chuuya’s fingers as he strokes a path up waist and ribs, watches Dazai suck in a strained breath, stomach muscles tensing in anticipation.

He fingers the edge of the bandages, which wind themselves around Dazai’s upper chest, around and around to cover his shoulders, neck and running the entire length of his arms. He knows what lies beneath, scars both old and new, painting a picture in blemished skin of Dazai’s many failed attempts at finding the perfect end. The scars which are Dazai’s burden, and his shame, but not for the reason that most people think; no, Dazai isn’t ashamed of his attempts at death, only in his continued state of living.

He lifts his eyes to Dazai’s face once more, locking blue with crimson as he traces gentle fingers in a half circle around the taller man’s neck, feeling Dazai swallow beneath his touch and knowing that he is tracing the path of mottled discoloured skin, the legacy of what seems a lifetime ago, the shadow of a knotted rope in the darkness.

Dazai shakes his head, lowers his lashes to break their eye contact, and Chuuya understands. He wont push Dazai in this. Not right now at least. He steals the opportunity to brush one last delicate stroke across bandaged skin, pausing at one covered collarbone to tap out a silent message, I hear you, no words are needed.

Allowing his hands to drop back to Dazai’s hips, he lowers his head to press a fleeting kiss to one of Dazai’s nipples, following it quickly with the flat of his tongue. He feels Dazai jerk beneath him, breath stuttering on a gasp then halting altogether. He peeks up through his lashes to watch Dazai bite his own lip in an effort to stay quiescent under Chuuya’s hands and mouth. Chuuya smiles against bare skin and scrapes his teeth against the sensitive spot, earning a choked off grunt. When he bites down harder on the abused flesh, he’s rewarded with a yelp and a curse, followed immediately by a disappointed whine of protest when Chuuya pulls back to admire his own work.

Dazai’s fists are clenched, nails biting into his palms and the need to touch written in the taut lines of straining muscles. His eyes are closed, head tipped back and breath coming in short pants as he visibly attempts to hang onto the vestiges of his own control. Gone is the false veneer of calm apathy, gone is the teasing wit and fake smile. Dazai looks, Chuuya thinks, more than a little wrecked.

Satisfaction curls through him in a low, pleasant thrum. He focuses his attention on Dazai’s other nipple, trailing soft fingertips in a circular motion before pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. Another sharp inhale and a whispered curse are his reward and Chuuya can’t help letting a wide grin of pleasure settle across his mouth.

When he drags the belt clear of Dazai’s pants, he feels the weight of that gaze watching him once more. When he pops the button and drags the zipper down he hears the accompanying hitch In Dazai’s breath. When he sinks to his knees as he pulls Dazai’s pants down his legs he sees Dazai’s entire body tense in delicious anticipation, caught on the edge of lust and insensibility. Tapping each leg in a silent request for Dazai to lift his foot, Chuuya quickly casts the offending article of clothing to join the accumulated pile strewn across the floor leaving him in only his boxers. He curls his fingers around Dazai’s calves, running his hands lightly up the newly revealed expanse of skin until he reaches the the final barrier between them.

When he flicks his eyes up, he’s not sure what, exactly, he was expecting, but almost-black eyes staring intently down at him and an expression of shocked wonder was not it. He immediately shutters his own gaze, peering up through his lashes in what feels like a ridiculous attempt at being coy. He can literally feel the blush rising to his cheeks at the absurdity of it.

“Chuuya – you…”

He doesn’t give Dazai the opportunity to speak any further, embarrassment forcing him to act. He shifts forwards - the movement only slightly jerky – and presses his mouth against the still-clothed shape of Dazai’s erection, then licks a slow stripe from base to tip, his tongue caressing skin-warmed fabric.

Dazai’s hips jerk sharply of their own accord and Chuuya smirks, shaking his head. “You’re going to have to keep still if you want this to go any further.” He murmurs, face flaming even darker with each uttered word.

A whispered, “Chuuya…” is all he gets in response, though the bastard obediently pushes his body back against the door.

“Better,” Chuuya hums, hooking his fingers into the waistband of Dazai’s boxers and tugging them down before he can second-guess himself. Suddenly confronted with the reality of the bastard’s cock practically hitting him in the face, Chuuya’s mind goes momentarily blank, he blinks slowly, biting his lower lip until Dazai shifts minutely, causing said cock to bounce slightly in place, snapping Chuuya’s brain back into focus. When he averts his eyes from the bared erection it’s to find Dazai watching him with a half-bemused, half-amused expression, a crooked smile lifting one corner of his mouth.

“Were you expecting something else down there, Chibi?” he asks innocently and Chuuya can do nothing but sputter wordlessly, unable to come up with a reply. “Have you even done this before?”

“Of course I have!” Chuuya announces, far too loudly and emphatically for the tiny space. He’s sure as hell not going to tell the bastard that he can count the number of times he has on one hand and on every single one of those occasions he had been a little bit (okay a lot) drunk and the entire experience had been a bit gross and sloppy and it honestly wasn’t all that great. Dazai tilts his head questioningly (Chuuya always has the horrible plummeting feeling that the asshole can read minds when he does that) - though the slight narrowing of at the corners of his eyes looks weirdly like some dark kind of jealousy, which is absurd – reaches out a long-fingered hand to rub across Chuuya’s cheek with something like affection.

“You don’t have to, you know?” that low, smoky quality to Dazai’s voice does things to Chuuya’s insides that he doesn’t want to admit. Makes his fingers itch to touch and claim. Makes his body ache in ways that are wholly unfamiliar.

“I want to,” he breathes huskily, feels Dazai’s own fingers twitch where they still press, feather-light against his face. He runs his tongue across his lower lip and watches Dazai’s focus flicker down to follow its path. Confidence returns to him in that second.

The first movements are tentative, Chuuya feeling almost shy, a little overwhelmed as he presses his tongue against the head of Dazai’s cock, spreading saliva to mix with the fluid leaking from the tip; kisses a sloppy path down to the base before tracing the vein on the underside back up with the barest pressure of his lips.

The cut off sounds from above him are what stokes the fire of his determination. Taking a breath, he wraps his lips around just the head, laving his tongue further down the shaft and giving the barest hint of suction. An abortive movement of Dazai’s hips is all the encouragement he needs, though he grumbles a note of warning against the sensitive flesh still encased by his lips and presses his hands to Dazai’s thighs in an effort to stop the bastard from inadvertently choking him with his dick.

Slowly he takes more of the length into his mouth, bobbing his head and allowing it to nearly slip away before taking Dazai deeper, revelling in the quiet moans he earns in return. Hollowing his cheeks he sucks, pressing his tongue against the vein he can feel throbbing to the beat of Dazai’s heart.

“Fuck, Chuuya…” fingers wind into his hair and Chuuya almost expects Dazai to pull sharply in an effort to ground himself, but the touch is gentle, brushing through tangled red strands in a soothing almost rhythmic manner.

“Chuuya?” Dazai’s voice is barely more than a strained whisper, a slight tremor in that single sigh of his name.

“Hmm?” Chuuya hums, not pulling away, knowing that the vibration of the sound will hammer more sensation into Dazai’s already overtaxed nerves. He hears Dazai’s sharp inhale above him and his lips curve into a smile, stretched though they are.

“Look at me,” his own words thrown back at him...and it’s not a request. There’s a note of command there that Chuuya struggles not to obey, it sends a thrill through his blood which already feels like it’s on fire. Instead he resolutely closes his eyes, taking Dazai further into his throat until he can feel tears beginning to form on his lashes as his lungs struggle to get enough air.

Dazai whines then, hips bucking beneath Chuuya’s hands – not a full scale thrust but enough to make his throat close and force him to pull back. He allows his teeth to scrape lightly across the skin of Dazai’s cock in warning, which only earns him another aborted movement of Dazai’s hips and a low groan of, “Fuck…”

Chuuya hums again, pulling back to press his tongue against the head of Dazai’s cock.

“Chuuya...look at me?”

It’s the wavering uncertainty that makes Chuuya pause, makes him lift his eyes and be captured completely by that all-consuming crimson stare. He’s distantly aware of the fact that he most probably looks like the wanton whore he’d told himself he wasn’t just a short while before – kneeling on the floor with a cock in his mouth, his own erection hanging heavy and neglected between his legs, tears clinging to his lashes while lust shines in his eyes, and drool pools at the corners of his lips. He wants desperately to look away, to shut himself away from the heat building in his core, and yet...and yet he cannot drag his gaze away now that he’s caught in Dazai’s orbit.

He swallows almost reflexively, still captivated by the rings of crimson almost drowned in unending black which stare at him with focussed, covetous want. There’s something in Dazai’s expression that speaks of a dark possessive nature - it should leave Chuuya feeling cold.

It only makes him burn hotter.

Slowly he hollows his cheeks once more, pulling Dazai further into his mouth while maintaining that unblinking eye contact. Half of him wants to squirm in embarrassment at the lewd display, the other half wants to take this further – see which of them will break first. Bobbing his head a couple of times, he increases the pressure until he can feel Dazai’s thighs shake beneath his fingers with the effort of restraining himself. Chuuya lets his mouth tip up in a smile, watches Dazai’s eyes widen and the blood-red ring of iris almost disappear completely.

Pulling his mouth from Dazai’s cock, he gives the entire length one final caress with the flat of his tongue, tasting the salty liquid weeping from the tip. Determinedly maintaining eye-contact, he licks his lips slowly and lets out a hum of pleasure.

“I thought you were going to take me apart?” he finally murmurs, when it seems Dazai is prepared to just continue to stare wordlessly at him for eternity. His voice is throaty, rough and raw, it sounds strange to his own ears. “At the moment it seems like I’m doing a better job of taking you apart, Dazai.”

He expects Dazai to push back immediately, to press himself between Chuuya’s lips and prevent him from speaking altogether. He doesn’t expect Dazai’s fingers to wind further into his hair and yank him forcefully to his feet; doesn’t expect the bruising kiss that steals the air from his lungs, the growl that passes from Dazai’s lips into his own waiting mouth; doesn’t expect Dazai’s hands to grasp his hips and walk him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed and send him sprawling down upon it with an unbecoming squeak of surprise.

“Up.” Dazai orders, swatting at Chuuya’s thigh with enough force to cause the area to sting momentarily. He shifts obediently up the length of the bed until he’s practically draped across the centre of it. Dazai is following him almost immediately, crawling up the length of Chuuya’s body until his knees rest on either side of Chuuya’s hips, hovering just short of settling his weight across Chuuya’s legs.

“Oh, but you do look good beneath me, Little Mafia.” Dazai murmurs, that same possessive glint glowing like coals in eyes gone dark. Chuuya can feel his body flush under that gaze, even as his cock twitches in appreciation, or anticipation. Maybe both. Definitely both.

“Ane-san was right, you know?” Leaning forward, Dazai nips at his collarbones, putting his teeth once more to the mark beneath Chuuya’s jaw, the pleasure-pain sting spiking fire through his nerves as his hips buck up involuntarily, Dazai’s weight preventing him from getting any satisfaction. Dazai’s lips move to the skin just below his ear, the whispered breath enough to make him shiver with need. “So pretty.”

“Don’t bring up Kouyou-nee when we’re –” his voice breaks on an embarrassingly loud whine as teeth pinch his earlobe.

“When we’re what, Chuu-ya?” Dazai pulls back to smile at him, the expression almost daring him to respond.

Chuuya has never been one to back down from a challenge, wraps his legs around the backs of Dazai’s calves and rolls them over, revelling in the flash of surprise on the bastards face.

Sat astride Dazai’s hips, with Dazai’s cock suddenly pressed firm and hard against the crack of his ass, Chuuya refuses to blush, presses back and closer still until Dazai’s eyes are hazy and he’s unconsciously biting his lip in that way that tells Chuuya he’s trying to keep whatever sound wants to come out contained. “Nobody else’s name should be in your mouth when we’re about to fuck.” with that he rocks back fully, Dazai’s erection sliding between his cheeks and Dazai groans in frustration, attempting to move but prevented from doing so by Chuuya’s restraining hands, now pushing firmly on his chest.

“Well?” Chuuya asks as Dazai blinks at him uncomprehending for a few seconds until his brain catches up to process the course of the conversation.

“Alright – alright. Chuuya – please.”

His name in that desperate whisper-rough voice sends a flash of potent heat through his body. He allows himself one more roll of his hips, pressing back and tossing his head at the sensation, before collapsing sideways to fall across the bed like a puppet with strings cut, a broken doll. Shifting his head to the side, he stares at Dazai, who, for a moment, has gone still, “What are you waiting for, bastard? Do your fucking worst.”

The grin that Chuuya gets in return for his surrender, is something sharp-edged, dark and wild. Immediately Dazai’s body is blanketing his own and Dazai’s teeth are at his throat, nipping a stinging path down and down and down, barely pausing for breath. Chuuya finds it hard to orient himself amidst the onslaught, digs clawed fingers into rumpled sheets and feels his muscles tense involuntarily at every brush of lips against his heated skin.

Down and down and down. Dazai’s hands follow in the wake of his clever mouth - for once put to good use in something other than talking endless circles – brushing barely-there caresses across paths his lips neglect. They trace the silvery lines of old scars, pausing for a moment to brush a line across one particularly nasty scar which left its mark upon his soul as well as his body. The scar of betrayal at the hands of the kids he had once vowed to protect. Dazai’s thumb presses an indent into the skin just to the left of his navel where the jagged line begins, dragging it across his side before tasting the scar with his tongue pressed hard against the place where the knife had pierced his flesh, but broken his heart.

He bites his lip but the low sound escapes anyway, shuddering through him in something close to longing. It’s practically Dazai’s fault that the scar even exists upon his body; a permanent reminder of his failure as a leader.

“Haah –” his breath stutters in sharp pants, barely able to form words as Dazai’s tongue continues to lap steady strokes across that same oddly sensitive spot. “More –” if he’d been any more coherent, he might have been mortified at the pleading whine which now makes itself known. Good thing coherency flew out of the window some time ago to be replaced by a creature who knows only of want and need and now.

“So demanding, Chuuya,” whispered words against damp skin. Dazai’s teeth graze across the silvered mark and Chuuya’s back arches involuntarily, unsure whether he’s trying to pull away or push himself closer, held on the edge of too much and not enough.

Moving to his hip on that same side, Dazai nips and sucks and laves his tongue across the skin just above his hipbone, hard enough that Chuuya knows he’s deliberately leaving his mark. Possessive bastard. Chuuya’s hips try to buck, but the weight of Dazai over him prevents him from throwing the bastard off (well, he could if he tried, he knows that, objectively, but that’s not the point here). He can practically feel the smile pressed against his skin.

“This one is new.” The ghost of fingers across his thigh almost overshadows the hurt lacing through that soft tone. “I was waiting for you to tell me, but you never did.”

“I –” his words are cut off as Dazai’s hand wraps around his thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to draw a grunt of discomfort from him.

“I don’t like it when you keep secrets from me, Chuuya.” Teeth sink into the flesh just below the still-reddened line of newly healed skin and Chuuya’s whole body jolts as he shudders and struggles to free himself from the torture of Dazai’s mouth.

“I-I’m...sorry –” he breathes the words like a plea for mercy and he’s panting now, the sound loud in his own ears as Dazai shifts back up the length of his body, leaning down to take Chuuya’s mouth, licking across his lips demandingly until Chuuya opens to him, allowing Dazai to coax his tongue into a wet dance. Vaguely he can sense Dazai’s full attention is not on the task at hand, can hear rummaging but can’t spare the attention required to form a coherent thought as Dazai sucks his bottom lip and presses tiny kisses against the corner of his mouth.

When something wet and shockingly cold hits first his stomach and then drizzles slowly down his cock, Chuuya jerks and yelps in surprise, eyes flying wide only to land on Dazai’s shit-eating grin.

“What the –!” he’s cut off mid-sentence as Dazai’s long fingers wrap around his erection, smearing the cold liquid up and down the shaft in languorously slow strokes. Chuuya swallows a whine, wills his voice not to wobble as he attempts valiantly to string a sentence together.

“What...the fuck...was tha-haah-that?!” Ah...close enough.

“It’s lube, Chibi, relax,” that rolling smoky amusement coils through Dazai’s words even as Chuuya tenses further, his heart threatening to pound its way out of his chest as he pants raggedly, biting his lip savagely to try to contain the pathetic sounds which try to escape with every smooth glide of those long fingers on his cock.

“Where did you...get...lube?” he’s asking mostly to distract himself from the sensation, to try and make it last. He knows Dazai knows; knows the bastard is humouring him when he replies.

“Oh, I’ve had it for ages,” the smirk turns to something evil, Dazai leaning over to whisper in his ear as if confessing a secret, “There’s only so many times a person can be expected to watch you strut around half-naked after a shower without jerking off to the image. It’s had some good use these past weeks.”

A groan escapes past his lips, hips pressing up, seeking more friction, more heat, more everything and Dazai’s answering chuckle is a thing of shadow, “Oh? Does the thought of me jerking off thinking of you make you hot, Chuuya? You’re body is begging like a bitch in heat.”

“Sh-shut up!” he whines, turning his head to capture the bastards stupid lips and stop him from spouting more bullshit just to make Chuuya blush like some fucking virgin schoolgirl. Dazai’s fingers quicken their pace and he can feel heat pooling in his gut, roiling and threatening to bubble over.

He wrenches his mouth away on a gasp, reaches out to grip Dazai’s hair and yank, earning a pained huff and Dazai’s hand wrapped around him squeezes tighter in retaliation.

“Dazai –” it’s half a growl, half a groan, desperate and fighting to keep control.

“Hmm?” Dazai’s head has lowered to lick slow strokes across the bruise standing stark and proud upon his neck, the caress both soothing and stinging in equal measure.

“Stop...fucking…teasing!” he manages to bite out, the words sounding like more of an entreaty than he had intended.

Dazai’s fingers still in their movement before his hand leaves Chuuya’s cock completely. He almost resorts to pleading at the sudden loss of stimulation, bites back on the words through an effort of will.

“Teasing?” Dazai repeats, as if testing the word on his tongue. “Is that what I’m doing?” Chuuya jolts at Dazai’s erection slides against his own, this new sensation sending a shockwave of pleasure up his spine. His head tips back, unconsciously baring more of his throat to Dazai’s attention, a fact which the bastard takes instant and complete advantage of, biting kisses and probably fresh bruises across unmarked skin.

It’s not enough. Not enough friction. Not enough pressure. Not enough heat. Not enough.

“Please –!” the word falls from his lips without thought. “Please…” repeated in a whisper as his back arches and his hips press forward, seeking more, more, more...something anything.

“Since you beg so beautifully.” Dazai’s voice is low and dark and right next to his ear.

Fingers brush across his balls, trailing a wet line down over his perineum to pause just before his ass.

“Chuuya?” There’s a question in the way Dazai whispers his name. Chuuya’s breath is caught somewhere behind his ribs, his mind an incoherent mess of need.

“Please –” he manages to stutter that single damning word just one more time. Hopes that Dazai will understand the implied permission – to take whatever he wants, Chuuya no longer cares, wants only to slake the thirst of his own desire.

When one finger rubs slow circles across his entrance with just enough pressure that he can feel it but not enough to actually breech him, he pulls his lower lip between his teeth and bites down hard on the frustrated noise that wants to rumble from his chest. His thighs strain to spread wider without any conscious thought, muscles stretched tight with anticipation as his stuttered exhales sound loud to his own ears, almost drowning the rapid pounding of his heart. Still Dazai makes no move to hurry, rubbing lazy soft strokes against Chuuya’s most private place as if content to just wind him tighter and tighter until he snaps.

Chuuya’s closer to his breaking point than he’d like to admit. Head tossed back against the sheets, nails biting hard enough into his palms that they’re beginning to sting, lungs protesting against the sudden lack of air. He’s almost ready to say fuck it to the whole thing, pin Dazai to the bed and take matters into his own hands.

When the finger slips past the ring of muscle to the first knuckle, it comes as a shock, Chuuya’s body so fixated on that slow intoxicating glide against his rim that the sudden penetration has his spine arching back and a surprised hitching hiss pressing between his teeth.

“You’re going to need to relax, Chibi.” Dazai’s voice is strangely breathless, and, when Chuuya regains enough semblance of self to crack his eyes open, he can see the strain in Dazai’s face, the effort of will it’s taking for him to hold back. It sparks something molten through Chuuya’s core, his back bending just a fraction more before he forces his muscles to loosen, falling completely lax against the mattress as that long finger sinks deeper into his body, pulling out fractionally before thrusting back in, a little further on each careful stroke.

A low groan escapes him and Chuuya quickly brings a hand to cover his mouth, trying to stop any other embarrassing noises from emerging. Instantly Dazai’s finger stills and another hand is prying his own away from his face.

“I want to hear you,” it’s almost growled, dark and desirous, demanding and consuming. In an instant it seems like Dazai is everywhere, crowding around him, against him, inside him and it’s all a bit too much, too fast, too overwhelming. The press of that foreign digit suddenly deeper, crooking and stroking and probing and abruptly brushing against that spot that makes him jerk is enough to force him into a gasping pitchy whimper and Dazai’s smile is something sinful.

“Better,” he croons softly and Chuuya can feel his cheeks heating up under that intense stare, “but I want to hear you scream.”

A second finger presses in, sliding to join the first and there’s just a hint of stretch and discomfort before Dazai is pressing unerringly against that spot again and it’s all Chuuya can do not to thrash mindlessly against the sheets, lost in the sensation. “Fuck –”

“That’s the general idea.” whisky and smoke and wholly possessive. Chuuya’s body shudders, his eyes cracking open just to watch Dazai watching his own fingers, pumping slick and obscene, scissoring wide and leaving Chuuya feeling boneless and owned.

“M-more –” he manages to stutter between gasps, fighting the urge to writhe, to whine, to impale himself further on Dazai’s fingers in a bid to increase the pressure, to slake the sudden need to be filled, to chase down his own release.

Dazai’s head dips, the sharp sting of pain drawing a yelp from Chuuya as teeth bite into the sensitive spot on the inside of his thigh. “So demanding,” murmured against his skin, drawing another shudder through his frame. Those decidedly evil fingers twist and press hard once more at the same time Dazai’s teeth nip over that same bruised place and this time Chuuya actually does scream – back bowing, head thrown back so far if he was coherent he might be worried about snapping his own neck, his hands twisted in the sheets.

“So good.” Dazai purrs softly as he licks a soothing stripe across abused flesh and Chuuya is left feeling empty and weirdly devastated when Dazai’s fingers pull out completely. He’s only left to contemplate that for a few seconds, not hearing the click of the bottle or the slightly undignified noise as cold liquid hits heated skin. Abruptly there are three fingers pressing back into him and it burns just a little, his body trying to tense against the intrusion even as he tries to force himself to relax.

Dazai must notice the way his teeth clench because a moment later the burn is replaced with a wave of drowning pleasure as Dazai’s mouth lowers on the head of his neglected erection, tongue pressing hard against his slit in a way that’s so intense he can feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes even as he moans his approval in an unintelligible string of noise.

He feels more than hears Dazai’s chuckle, the vibrations humming pleasantly through his cock and he has to use all of his willpower to not push his hips up and just fuck Dazai’s throat. Instead he shakes and whimpers and lets out soft pleas with every broken, shuddering exhale. Nonsensical strings of encouragement and obscenities becoming his own personal mantra as his body finally relaxes into something like liquid goo and pleasure sparks and bites at every nerve, always chasing that release, which hovers tantalisingly, maddeningly out of reach.

Finally, finally, Dazai’s lips and fingers withdraw, leaving Chuuya vacillating somewhere between relief and frustration – his body both pliant and loose, gaping and begging to be filled, whilst also being strung and wound and coiled so tight he feels like he might explode if Dazai doesn’t give him what he needs right now.

Long seconds pass, enough that Chuuya comes down from his pleasant high and opens his eyes, half-lidded as he’s met with what most people would consider a mildly disconcerting blood-red stare.

The hand not covered in lube runs lightly down his side and Chuuya’s breath hitches. It’s stupid – that touches like this while Dazai is looking at him like that feel more intimate than when the bastard was three fingers deep in his ass.

“Beautiful.”

That single word has his eyes flying wide as he swallows hard. He shakes his head, feeling his cheeks blush red, “You already have me spread out underneath you. You don’t have to whisper pretty words, I’m not a some vapid woman you’re trying to seduce into a double suicide.”

“No, you’re not a woman. But you are beautiful.” Dazai’s eyes are dark and everything about him is brimming with possessive promise, “If you could see yourself right now.” He shakes his head. “You make me want to mark you so thoroughly that no one would ever dare to touch you again.”

It shouldn’t make him shiver with anticipation, this jealously covetous side of Dazai he has always known lingers beneath the surface. It shouldn’t make his lashes flutter and his heart trip over. It shouldn’t...but it does.

“Then stop talking about it and do it!” he snarls in desperation, lets out a yelp when Dazai’s fingers dig into the meat of his thigh, yanking his leg sideways and putting him on full, open display even as the fingers of Dazai’s other hand spread lube in quick perfunctory strokes down the length of his own cock. Chuuya swallows hard, licks his lips and trails his eyes up to find a hungry red stare ready to devour him whole.

When Dazai braces himself over Chuuya, one hand on his cock to press just the barest hint of the tip against Chuuya’s hole, he struggles to force his body to relax once more, tries to melt into the mattress and not tense up with anticipation. He sees the question in Dazai’s face, lets his eyes slip shut as he whispers, “Don’t you dare keep me waiting.”

As Dazai pushes forwards, Chuuya lets his legs splay wider, letting out a slow, steady breath as the head of Dazai’s cock breeches him in an unhurried, inexorable press. He’s not sure which of them groans, everything is mixed up in a wave of heat and pressure and the need for more. Dazai is so slow in his movements, so careful, pushing forwards in tiny fractions only to pull back until Chuuya thinks he’s going to withdraw completely, only to begin the torturous press forwards and further into Chuuya’s waiting, wanting, desperate body once more. He almost can’t stand it, this deliberate, unrushed glide, creeping closer to completion in increments that only heighten the feeling of pressure, of being slowly filled.

Not enough.

A low keening noise bubbles from him as he crosses his legs behind Dazai’s back and pulls the other man forwards and into him. The sharp movement making both of them hiss as Chuuya’s body tries to bend itself in two, his muscles clamping down involuntarily at the sudden intrusion which in turn is enough to make Dazai’s hips stutter forwards, slamming him even deeper.

“Fuck—” there’s not a coherent thought left in his head. His mind turned to something base and animal, concerned only with the concept of need. He bites his lip unconsciously, the sting of pain bringing momentary clarity as both of them fall still, the sound of their laboured breaths the only noise aside from the ever-present quiet lapping of waves.

“Dazai…” he unclenches his fingers from where they are tangled in the sheets to thread them into soft brown hair, just beginning to stick to the sweat on Dazai’s forehead. He tugs lightly, earning an aborted movement of Dazai’s hips but no other indication that the bastard is even listening. “Dazaiii…” he shifts impatiently, trying to force himself down, “move!”

From there it builds, a swirling flood suddenly becomes an inescapable tidal wave threatening to drown them both. Dazai pulls back, hesitating for only a split-second before sheathing himself to the hilt and Chuuya is left with all the air in his lungs attempting to leave him a rush. Breathless and with all thoughts scattering from his head as Dazai sets a slow pace, the push and pull and building heat becoming the focus of a world constricted to this single point. Dazai’s panting breath is loud in his ear and he can hear his own aborted half-whined, half-growled exhales merging with every torturous thrust.

Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.

“Beautiful,” Dazai repeats, traces the word across his cheek with his lips, whispered into his skin like a secret. It snaps him back from something almost mindless, his nose wrinkling at the empty flattery as he unwinds one hand from it’s grip upon brown hair, intending to throw his arm across his face in an attempt to push the bastard away and hide the blush, crawling scorching heat across his cheeks.

Dazai’s head turns to the side and teeth nip at his fingers in warning as long fingers intertwine with his own, pressing their now joined hands back onto the sheets beside Chuuya’s head. All the while the bastard continues with the agonisingly slow rhythm of his hips, pushing himself deeper and deeper still only to draw away almost completely.

“You don’t believe me?” he can barely scramble enough coherency together to make out what Dazai is saying, curses the asshole for being able to carry a conversation when it’s all Chuuya can do to hold onto the tattered remnants of himself, his entire body ready to fly apart at any moment. “Should I drag you down the stairs right now, Chuuya?” Dazai tone drops into that dark, rolling purr and Chuuya’s insides clench, his cock twitching against his stomach. “Should I spread you out in front of those full-length mirrors and force you to watch yourself come apart as I take you? Would you believe me then?”

He can’t form a response around the groan that’s lodged in his throat, forcing its way out as a broken, needy sound; as his mind conjures lewd images of Dazai doing just that. He shakes his head frantically, unsure whether he’s trying to physically dislodge the efforts of his imagination, or whether he’s refusing Dazai’s offer. Right now, he just wants more; wants to chase this feeling until he’s teetering on the cliff’s edge; wants to throw himself into the void, to know whether it will cradle him or wreck him in its aftermath. He digs his heels into Dazai’s back, pulling him forwards insistently, a silent plea he knows the bastard will hear, though whether or not the sadistic fuck will act on it is another matter entirely.

“Look at me, beautiful.” If this is going to become a habit, Chuuya’s pretty sure his face is never going to recover. His eyes are cracking open at the command regardless, staring up through hooded lashes, slightly dazed, to find something like reverence written across Dazai’s face, the open display of emotion sending something foreign lancing through his chest to steal his breath. “There, was that so hard?” the asshole has the audacity to punctuate his words by acquiescing to Chuuya’s demands and quickening the pace, hips shifting in tiny circular motions that make his cock drag against Chuuya’s insides, leaving him feeling like molten tongues of flame are licking just beneath his skin.

“Dazai –” his tongue trips over the simple iteration of the bastard’s name.

“I know.” Chuuya isn’t sure what Dazai knows, isn’t even sure what he’s asking for other than more, more, more, something to satisfy the sudden insatiable desire ratcheting his spine to something taught and ready to snap.

Dazai’s thrusts turn rough and deep, stroking against his prostate on every pass and making Chuuya jerk and clench, his toes curling as he tries to use what little leverage he has to shove his hips back every time Dazai pushes forwards. The pressure in his core is building, bubbling, threatening to boil over with every second that slips by. It’s still not enough.

Dazai relinquishes his grip on Chuuya’s hand, though he knows better than try and move it again, despite wanting nothing more than to wrap his fingers around his aching erection and jerk himself to completion. The softest brush of fingertips skate down his side, the scratch of the bandages at Dazai’s wrist providing a jarring contrast that zeroes his fractured focus to that one point. The touch is barely there, more the ghost of warmth pressing against his ribs, flitting across his waist, hovering above his hipbone.

When that same hand wraps around his cock, thumb smearing the fluid leaking from his tip across the head and down his shaft, his whole body goes still and tense. Distantly he can feel Dazai’s breath exhaled in a long stream against his neck, can hear the muffled drawn-out groan as his own body tightens around Dazai’s cock.

“Chuu-ya –!” whined against his mouth as Dazai’s tongue licks into him.

He bites at Dazai’s lips, twists his mouth away only so he can hiss, “Fuck me!” in the bastard’s ear.

Dazai does, pulling himself a little more upright, the slight change in angle making Chuuya’s vision fill with bright lights every time the bastard pushes forwards, his hand pumping Chuuya’s cock in time with his own movements until Chuuya is hurtling towards the edge of the abyss, a whine lingering on his lips with every fragmented breath he sucks into oxygen-starved lungs.

“I’m close.” he somehow manages to wrap his tongue around the words, even as his brain fills with static fuzz, pleasure sinking into every nerve as he feels himself about to fall apart.

Dazai pulls out.

Chuuya can’t help the snarl that rips from his throat at being suddenly denied his peak. The noise of displeasure quickly cuts off into a gasp as Dazai’s erection slots against his own, as Dazai’s fingers wrap around them both, pressing them together and squeezing with a delicious friction that amps his body straight back to the precipice.

“Why?!” he manages to grit out, followed almost immediately by “Don’t you dare fucking stop!” as Dazai’s movements stutter and threaten to still.

“While I’d love to make you mine, inside and out, I didn’t think you’d want to deal with the aftermath.” Chuuya can’t bite back the noise that spills from him at the filthy picture Dazai’s words conjure. “Am I wrong?”

Chuuya doesn’t know, couldn’t even begin to answer right now. Only… “I need more – Dazai –”

“Shhh, I’ve got you.”

Two fingers press into him without warning, leaving Chuuya choking on air as they rub unerringly against his prostate, a continuous, unrelenting pressure that leaves him shaking, hanging on the edge of the void waiting for gravity to drag him down.

“Let go, Chuuya.”

He does.

His world is brilliant, blinding light, his body a bundle of pulsing nerves and an ecstasy he can taste on his tongue. He feels Dazai’s lips against his throat as he follows Chuuya, chasing completion and oblivion both. Their cocks pulse together, still wrapped in Dazai’s tight grip, covering Chuuya’s stomach and torso in a mess of their combined fluids. Finally, the taller idiot pulls his hand away and collapses on top of him, pressing their bodies together and smearing the fruits of their labour across his own skin.

It should be gross. It is gross. Dazai’s arms tug him sideways until his head is tucked under the bastard’s chin, his body curling automatically closer, as if they could crawl into each other’s skin, merge together to become one almost-human being. He feels Dazai hum contentedly into his hair, lets himself bask in the warmth of the other man, the comfort of touch almost as intimate as the sex and the liquid stretch of his muscles.

They should clean up. Dried bodily fluids are not something he particularly wants to have to deal with later. He can feel his eyes drifting shut even as the thought floats vaguely through his head.

Just a few more minutes. Is his last thought before sleep claims him, curled in the protective circle of Dazai’s arms.

* * * *

The days remain somewhat the same...maybe with a little less arguing and a little more sexual tension. Dazai’s eyes still track Chuuya wherever he goes; he’s gotten used to the feeling, perhaps even preens under the attention, just a little.

The days remain somewhat the same...they still have a mission after all, and the zombie apocalypse waits for no man. There are still roads to map, houses to raid, cities to avoid and an endless flood of walking corpses to kill.

The days remain somewhat the same...they eat, they plan, they drive, they steal. Living in this twisted, desolate reality is slowly becoming Chuuya’s normality. The absence of Arahabaki stirring in his blood, in his soul, leaves him with a sense of freedom he doesn’t want to get too comfortable with. Yet he feels indescribably lighter without the persistent, pressing, power of a God pulsing beneath his skin.

The days remain somewhat the same, but the nights...the nights are for them. Well, the nights, and sometimes the morning...occasionally the middle of the day. The flipside of Dazai’s eyes always fixing on him – simultaneously drowning him and burning him in that red stare - is the spark of heat it sends through his body, betrayed in the way he lifts his head, the way he carries himself when he knows Dazai is watching. It’s not his fault if that bastard takes this display as an invitation to pounce on him at every available opportunity. Pressing Chuuya into the wall to steal his breath with filthy kisses until he’s gasping, hard and wanting; bending Chuuya over the dining table, in full view of the empty ocean, mapping his skin with reverent caresses until he begs for something more; spreading Chuuya out in front of that damned mirror as fingers wrap around his chin in a demanding grip, forcing him to watch himself shake apart as Dazai whispers beautiful over and over again in his ear, dark, hungry eyes meeting his own blown pupils in the glass as he falls further, deeper, faster.

It’s not that much of a shock to him, now that they’ve finally acknowledged this thing between them - the gravitational pull, each of them warily orbiting the other, afraid to come too close for the fear of a collision that could break apart the very core of them – Chuuya’s life has been wrapped up in Dazai for years, his feelings a tangled knot of hatred, irritation, trust and reliance. It’s not a surprise that when they finally fall, they fall hard, fighting every step of the way.

And so the days slip past, the sand in the hourglass slowly trickling away.

~ ~ ~

Waking up alone in Dazai’s bed isn’t immediately concerning. Despite how much time the idiot spends in here, wrapped in blankets like a giant burrito, he knows Dazai struggles to sleep, rarely gets more than a few hours of actual rest – putting aside those times where his stupid partner has run himself to such exhaustion that his brain totally shuts down and Chuuya can literally carry him off a roof without him stirring. He knows insomnia is another of Dazai’s long-time ghosts.

He’s warm, sleepy and content, tempted to just allow himself to drift back into unconsciousness, unwilling to leave the comfort for the cool chill of the night air. Instead he yawns, allowing himself a moment to stretch before throwing back the covers and pulling his body upright.

He knows where Dazai will be. He makes his way steadily to the top deck, climbing the stairs silently and stepping out into the cold night to see the familiar silhouetted form, wrapped in a blanket, standing by the railing and gazing upwards. Chuuya joins him, uttering no words to break the spell of silence upon them, choosing instead to stand quietly next to the taller man, staring up into the blackness of the sky in turn.

“I like the stars,” Dazai speaks, directing his thoughts to the dark expanse and the words are soft, wistful and honest in a way that Chuuya is not familiar with.

“Why?” He hates that the question sounds harsh, “I mean, yeah, they’re beautiful, but why?”

Dazai doesn’t look at him his gaze still fixed on the sky. Minutes pass and Chuuya wonders if Dazai didn’t hear him, or is simply ignoring the question. When he does finally speak, his voice cutting through the silence is enough to make Chuuya startle in surprise.

“You can’t see the stars like this in Yokohama, too much light pollution, you only see the brightest but there are still so many. Here, you can just look up and see the vastness laid out before you, and know that everything you’re seeing is still just a tiny part of the universe.” He pauses for a moment, thoughtful, “Although, the stars here are different, no familiar constellations...somehow a little less real. They still remind me how small I am.”

Chuuya is a little nonplussed, “And that’s...comforting?” he twists his head to look at Dazai in the gloom of night, noting the tiny smile, “Most people hate the idea of considering their own insignificance.”

“It’s comforting,” Dazai agrees easily and it’s odd, hearing Dazai talk like this; straightforward and without the usual twists and turns and underlying conversation that Chuuya has never quite managed to become fluent in. “I can look up there and think, compared to those billions of stars out there, to the universe as a whole, what does it matter if I mess up? What does it matter if tomorrow I was gone? What does it matter if I die today?”

Chuuya shivers, a chill running down his spine to sink ice into his bones.

He’s not sure whether it’s the wind or the imprint Dazai’s words leave upon the air.

“It matters,” he whispers, barely more than a breath. Wrapping his arms around himself, he squeezes his eyes shut, blocking out the view of Dazai staring longingly at the stars; still chasing that final oblivion, if only in his own mind.

Warmth envelops Chuuya suddenly, a weight settling around his shoulders. Dazai has shifted behind him, wrapping the blanket around them both and tugging Chuuya back against his chest. He can feel the sigh of air that escapes Dazai’s lungs, thinks for a moment about turning around to embrace the stupid idiot but doesn’t want to face the truth that might be hidden in those dark eyes, lit by the passion of obsession - the truth that nothing will ever be enough to chase that dark, deep-rooted desire for death from Dazai’s soul.

Still, tonight is a night for truth, apparently. Chuuya cannot swallow down the words that choke his throat, that twist his voice into something tight and hurting.

“It matters,” he murmurs once more, voice and mind failing him for a moment before the invisible hands clenching his windpipe release and the words pour forth in an unstoppable torrent. “I know for some reason you think you’re expendable, that nobody would care if you left or disappeared or died, that nobody would remember you or mourn. But you’re wrong. I told you before, that no one makes it out from under your shadow...do you remember that? It was harsh, but no less true. You leave marks on people, Dazai, you get under their skin and make a home there, whether they wish it or not. You change people. If you died today, if we never made it out of this stupid story, what do you think would happen...on the outside?”

He pauses, wondering if Dazai will spark an argument between them, just to change the subject. Instead there is only silence at his back and the almost imperceptible tensing of the muscles in his arms, betraying a tension Chuuya knows will not be evident on Dazai’s face.

Chuuya answers for him, “People we love would die. I’m sure they would win in the end, they’re resourceful and strong, but some of them would die in the attempt. How do you think Tiger Boy would feel? You saved him, right? More than once if the intelligence reports are correct. You took him from the streets and gave him a purpose, a family. Kouyou-nee still has a soft spot for you, even if she wont admit it...even the Boss hasn’t ordered your capture recently. And Akutagawa, the so-called ‘mad dog’ you left behind, does what he does to try and win your approval, even just a second glance. They don’t want to come out from your shadow, Dazai, they want to walk beside you in that darkness, even as you dye their souls grey.”

“And you?” Dazai’s voice is distant, drained, devoid of emotion and life.

“I think my own view is a little biased, considering what would happen to me if I were ever pushed far enough to release it without you. My life has been in your hands for years.” He’s playing the avoidance card, knows it’s a weak ploy even before he has finished speaking.

A short huff of breath against the back of his neck is all he needs to know Dazai has seen easily through his charade. “That’s not what I was asking.”

“I –” He pauses, lifting his head to gaze once more at the stars, a twinkling blanket of vast infinity stretching out in all directions. Suddenly he sees the appeal of being small and insignificant. Not a Mafia Executive with the weight of an organisation upon his shoulders. Not a combat Ability user, the vessel of a destructive power greater than his own body can endure. Just a minuscule fragment of the universe, playing out his fate in the blink of an eye until his form becomes dust and part of the greater whole once more. “It would matter to me,” he says finally, unable to find the words to express himself, and unsure whether he wants to.

Dazai’s lips find his neck then, trailing a soft, lingering path up to his jaw and leaving goosebumps in their wake. Chuuya can do nothing but swallow hard against the lump which has formed in his throat, tipping his head further back to give Dazai more space, more skin, more everything. He can only hesitate to consider whether he has just exposed his throat to the jaws of something far more dangerous than a wolf.

If you died today...I might follow you. Well, maybe not here, today...people depending on them and everything, but on another day, in another world, if Dazai came to him with that question on his lips and that emptiness in his eyes...

It’s a thought he’d rather not explore any further.

It’s a thought that scares him.

It’s a thought which makes his blood run cold and burn hotter in equal degrees. His breath stutters on something like a whine as Dazai’s teeth graze his jaw and then there’s a whisper in his ear, echoing his thoughts in that uncanny way, “I won’t leave you behind again.”

Staring into the gaping maw of eternity, disguised as beauty above them, Chuuya shivers once more, sighs without thinking, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

They stay like that, cocooned in shared warmth and a silence that has become heavy with a depth of understanding that neither of them appears willing to voice aloud. Together they stare up into the heavens, searching for a hint of familiarity that appears not to exist.

Eventually the cold reaches out with its icy grip and Chuuya finds himself repressing shudders, teeth clenched shut lest they betray him with their chattering, even as he unconsciously attempts to press himself closer to Dazai’s heat at his back. A breathy chuckle at his ear causes a tremble to ripple through him, shoulders tensing as the hair on his neck rises.

“Come on, I think that’s enough stargazing and existential crises for one night,” the cheerfulness in Dazai’s words is forced, but Chuuya can appreciate the gesture nonetheless. “Let’s get you back to bed before you turn into an icicle. What possessed you to come up here without getting dressed, or at least putting shoes on?” Dazai stares pointedly at Chuuya’s feet, which he had taken the time to put socks on, thank you very much, but still, he’s not sure whether he can currently feel his toes and having the bastard be right is just insufferable.

“I woke up and you were gone,” he mumbles petulantly, after allowing Dazai to wrap the blanket around his shoulders and usher him down the stairs. He feels Dazai hesitate behind him, steps faltering for a second. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, with none of the false humour or misleading remarks Chuuya is so used to.

“I am sorry if I worried you.”

Chuuya turns, leaning against the wall to shoot Dazai a mock glare, “Mmm...you’d better make it up to me, shitty Dazai!”

Momentary surprise flickers in his eyes before Dazai huffs out a laugh, the corner of his mouth lifting in a not-quite smile. “Of course. What did you have in mind?”

Chuuya pretends to think about it for all of a moment,“Well, for starters you can be my personal hot water bottle. I’m fucking freezing!”

Curled up minutes later, under a pile of duvets and blankets, with Dazai’s body wrapped around him from behind, pressing firmly against him from shoulder to ankle - a hand trailing firm sweeping strokes down his side that make him want to either arch into the caresses like a cat or go completely boneless - Chuuya decides that perhaps stupid-o-clock existential crises that have him questioning his entire future are worth it, for moments like these.

Chapter Text

If Dazai had thought watching Chuuya was distracting, well, being with Chuuya is a whole other level of dangerously diverting.

Honestly, he feels a little ridiculous, a little like he’s reverted back to being a teenager with a crush, which is even more ridiculous because he’s had more than his share of sexual encounters (Chuuya hadn’t been joking when he’d called him an ‘enemy of women’ as they’d retrieved the limp form of Q from the clutches of The Guild), and he knows he is not – and had never been - Chuuya’s first anything, which makes something snarling and selfish settle in his stomach but it’s not like he can change history.

His head feels like a whirling mass of imbalanced chemicals, firing off to distract his thoughts at the most inopportune times. Instead of planning out their next moves, attempting to extrapolate and predict every possible detail to get them out of this hellhole alive and in one piece, he finds his entire attention directed at Chuuya, his thoughts grinding to an infuriating halt and devolving into something entirely more carnal and far less useful to their current situation.

Chuuya, for his part, pretends not to notice the frequency with which Dazai feels compelled to simply drape himself over his redhead like a heavy, arguably sentient blanket. He acquiesces without complaint, to Dazai’s sudden need to touch, an effort to sate the overwhelming desire to keep this new thing close in case it tries to flutter between his grasping fingers and leave him suddenly, unbearably alone in the pit of his own emptiness again. Chuuya has never really been shy with his affections, though he has always kept that thin barrier of gloves between his own skin and the touches he leaves behind on others – a friendly arm across the shoulder, a pat on the back, a drunken lean as he stumbles out of a bar after a particularly hard drinking session – but for Dazai, this sudden longing for contact is something that conflicts with his very nature, that cultivated need to not form attachments; born of living under the mercy of a mentor to whom any emotional bond is just another point of leverage, another prospective piece, used to push and punish him to obedience.

This lack of focus, while being a novel experience, is also dangerous. It leaves him feeling like the ground is shifting beneath his feet, ready to rear up and drag him under at the tiniest misstep (or perhaps that’s just the ever-present rolling of the waves beneath the boat, sometimes it’s hard to tell). To lose sight of things here is to offer your throat to the jaws of death (or marauding zombies, but really, what’s the difference), and though Dazai is intimately familiar with the experience of flirting with death, right now his only task is to keep both himself and Chuuya firmly within the land of the living.

Now that he allows himself to look, without the effort of trying to delude himself into thinking of Chuuya as nothing more than his begrudging companion, it’s sometimes difficult to take his eyes off his redhead. Chuuya is captivating in way that only becomes more apparent the longer Dazai stalks his every move with trained eyes and a desire to get closer and closer still, which he tries unsuccessfully to ignore. Chuuya has always been easy grace and extraordinary power contained within a tiny deceptively delicate looking frame (it’s one of the things that drew him to the redhead from the first moment they met, one of the reasons he decided there and then to make Chuuya his), but now...now Dazai can pick out the minute sway of his hips as his body moves unconsciously to compensate with the perpetual movement of the boat beneath his feet; now he can focus on the way Chuuya drags his lower lip between his teeth, worrying at the flesh when he’s lost in his own thoughts; now he knows what it feels like to have that lip between his own teeth, the shudders it sends through Chuuya’s body - pressed against his - when he bites down with just enough pressure to toe the edge of pleasure and pain; now he knows the expression of hesitant desire that settles across Chuuya’s flushed cheeks when he pulls those black gloves from delightfully sensitive hands, finger by finger, how they tremble slightly when he curls his tongue across each one in turn, the tiny sounds Chuuya tries to swallow when Dazai licks across his palm.

Yes, if he thought watching Chuuya before was distracting, being with Chuuya, having him within Dazai’s immediate reach, knowing that Chuuya will let him watch, let him touch, let him taste...it’s downright dangerous.

Thus, coming to the conclusion that it’s almost impossible to get anything done with Chuuya there and being the oblivious, torturous, tempter he is, Dazai decides to send the redhead off to shore under the guise of packing up and moving a new section of supplies so that he can get something done.

The Mafioso shoots him a suspicious look when Dazai suggests that he go ashore alone, but he doesn’t argue, probably wanting the freedom of the ocean and to feel solid ground beneath his feet just as much as Dazai has a sudden itching need to be alone, to refocus his spiralling thought patterns onto what’s truly important right now. Some perverted part of his brain, of course, snarks back with the idea that running his fingers across every inch of skin, mapping Chuuya with eyes and hands and tongue is truly important...the thought leaves him huffing an irritated sigh even as a prickle of heat spreads through his blood. Chuuya’s head tilts questioningly to one side and that same incessant, irrational, irritating part of him wants to press his lips against the small frown lines between the redhead’s eyebrows. He buries the feeling, instead making an insistent shooing motion.

“Don’t worry, Chibi, I’m just thinking of all the work I can get done without you around~”

Chuuya’s frown twists into something like affront, “Excuse me?! Are you trying to say I’m useless?” Ah, but it’s kind of adorable. He can’t stop the automatic motion of his hand, reaching out to press his thumb against the corner of Chuuya’s downturned lips.

“No, Chuuya, I’m trying to say you’re distracting.” he watches in amusement as Chuuya’s eyes widen almost comically, as if hearing such things coming from Dazai’s own mouth are shocking in the extreme. It’s no surprise, really, that Chuuya would still be hesitant over his words, his actions: he’d spent years using the redhead’s emotional responses to further his own goals, manipulating Chuuya to follow his plans sometimes without even bothering to tell his so-called partner what part of the game they were playing. It’s no surprise that Chuuya sometimes still regards him with just a flicker of suspicion, even though he’s already given Dazai his life, his heart, his soul, his trust - handed them over without consideration for what Dazai could do to destroy such fragile things. Still sometimes he shoots Dazai that look, as if he can’t quite believe that Dazai would ever consider offering him his own shrivelled, beating core in return.

“Right –” the redhead mumbles dubiously, his eyes still flickering between Dazai’s own, as if searching for the answer to all the questions of the universe within his own dark depths. Clearly no divine revelation is forthcoming, Dazai only ever betrays what he wants his opponent to witness after all and Chuuya gives up with a shake of his head. “I’ll be off then…”

“Be careful out there, hatrack~” Dazai sings, though there’s tension layered beneath that forced joviality, always the worming worry that something is bound to go wrong if he lets Chuuya out of his sight for more than a second. “Don’t go running of on some crusade because you heard a dog barking or some such nonsense!”

“It’s just shifting a load of heavy shit from the cave to the cliffs, what could go wrong?” the redhead shrugs nonchalantly, adjusting the pack on his back and swinging his leg over the jet ski’s seat.

“Ugh. Don’t jinx it, Chibi. You of all people should know that when you say something like that, something inevitably goes wrong. There could be a horde of zombies at our gates, or a band of brigands just waiting to pounce, or a pack of rabid animals looking for an easy meal.”

The look Chuuya gives him is utterly unimpressed, “Do I look like an easy meal to you, shitty Dazai?”

Well, far be it from Dazai to reject such a perfect opportunity. “Mmm, well you’re small and kind of bony. I suppose the muscle might make it a bit chewy. Perhaps the animals will think you’re not worth the trouble?” he lets his smirk turn into a full on leer, sizing the redhead up, “Ah, but still, you do look delicious~”

“Shut up, idiot!” the way Chuuya’s face flushes, the way his hand lifts to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck, the way his eyes skitter to the floor before tentatively lifting to blink at Dazai, half-obscured by the hair falling messily across his face, all of these thing culminate in Dazai forgetting to breathe.

“Distracting –” he whines without actually meaning to say it out loud, but the truth is staring him in the face nonetheless. He’s half tempted to put off the abysmally long list of things left forgotten over the last days, half tempted to ignore them all in favour of wrapping himself around Chuuya, breathing in his air, existing in his space even as he wants to crawl beneath the redhead’s skin.

Chuuya’s soft scoff halts him mid-movement, already willing to discard his plans in favour of acting on impulse and idiocy, already reaching out a tentative hand as if to tug the redhead back into his grasping, greedy grip. “Alright, I get it! I’m going. Make sure you do something useful while I’m gone, bastard, if I find you’ve been lazing around like a damned fish the entire time I’ll kick your ass!”

“Ah, but being kicked to death by the Chibi still isn’t my preferred way to die, even if you are beautiful, Chuu-ya~” the click of Chuuya’s tongue accompanied by the sudden roar of the jet ski coming to life drown out whatever Dazai might have added onto that thought, maybe you’d consider engaging in a double suicide with me instead? Except, for once, the thoughts of embracing his perfect blissful ending are the furthest they’ve ever been from the forefront of his fractious mind. Isn’t that a shock he’s not particularly willing to consider the consequences of right now?

As Chuuya becomes a shrinking spot upon the horizon - the jet ski jumping joyously through the waves as if ecstatic to be released from the tether of the boat to embrace the open sea – Dazai finally pieces together the cracked cogs of his conscious mind and resolves to get to work. This newfound effort at acquiring a work-ethic...Kunikida-kun should be proud!

~ ~ ~

Of course, there’s another slightly more ulterior motive for getting Chuuya off the yacht and leaving Dazai without worry of being under his redhead’s watchful eye. There’s something he’s been wanting to try, an idea that had come to him after considering their ongoing concerns over water. They’ve made concerted efforts to conserve as much as possible, but he knows how prickly his redhead can be about cleanliness – how he hates feeling like the dirt is ingrained in his skin, how the stink of the undead permeates their clothes with a rotting, fetid and foul odour after any encounter, how he patiently picks the tangles and knots from his hair. Even though Chuuya doesn’t often complain outright, he knows that the Mafioso is reminded of his time on the streets, of running and hiding like rats in the sewers, of the stench and the sickness and the constant struggle and striving simply to survive.

They’ve taken certain precautions: the limited showers and strict time constraints, reusing water whenever they can, being carefully conservative over things they would normally take for granted – something as simple as flushing the toilet consumes around five litres of their quickly dwindling supply (it had been an argument they’d had early on – Chuuya insisting that flushing the toilet was a hygienic necessity, while Dazai had patiently laid out the numbers on a notepad, explaining how many toilet flushes and how many showers they could eke out of the yacht’s limited fresh water tank before they’re running on empty – Chuuya had been horrified, had begrudgingly agreed that perhaps ‘pissing over the side of the boat’ wasn’t such a disgusting concept after all). He had even rigged up a system to collect rainwater in various receptacles, using what little he could find of use to channel the water as it hits the roof, to run down and collect at a few specific points. Rainwater, collected before it has chance to pool on a contaminated surface, after all, is free of any of the impurities they are likely to find in large (or even small) bodies of water – running or not – on land. He dreads to think what the waterways of the wider world are contaminated with at this stage...far more than human waste and excrement without a doubt.

Still, even if Chuuya has come to begrudging terms with their situation, even if he mostly adheres to their agreed-upon rules, even if he does occasionally spend a few minutes longer in the shower than the allocated five minutes (then emerges looking slightly guilty but nonetheless satisfied), Dazai knows that his redhead’s basic need for fastidiousness, intrinsically linked to that shadowed, unhealthy childhood (or lack thereof) is not assuaged by the concessions they make.

His idea, however, requires time and rather a lot of manpower, for which Chuuya would have been incredibly useful, being the unrivalled element of strength in their partnership, and yet, some part of Dazai wants to give his redhead this one thing, unasked for and without help. An offering to the only person who has never asked more of Dazai than what he offers up himself – something not even Odasaku had managed to compete with. Despite his friend’s selflessly made request, Oda’s dying legacy had left wounds on more than just Dazai himself; scarred souls and the memory of a betrayal that will always drive that hint of lingering hurt between Dazai and the partner he left behind to sink or swim in the darkness alone.

A thought for another time. A thought left buried under careful layers. A thought that could shatter their fragile newfound balance to pieces should he utter it just a little to loudly in the darkness of the night.

As he works on this somewhat boring and terribly exhausting task, his mind spins and whirrs without the provocative shape of Chuuya to derail his thought processes every ten seconds and then devolve into turning useless circles where he can write an entire ode to the blue of Chuuya’s eyes or a sonnet to the ghost of Chuuya’s fingers laid like a brand upon his skin.

These thoughts he collects and carefully packs away, allowing them to fill those dark spaces with a new and flickering warmth.

Ridiculous indeed. This whole mess leaves him wondering if he’d finally cracked, that day on the shore when he’d put a bullet into a little girl’s brain: a girl who’d reminded him of bygone days; of a man whose very existence within the ranks of the Port Mafia had been a paradox; of the deceptive ease with which he’d manage to exist within the Mafia himself, carving out his own space in the looks of wide-eyed fear, in his own general sense of apathy to the misfortune or demise of others.

How the mighty have fallen. That even the once feared Demon Prodigy can fall prey to something as ridiculous as feelings.

Ridiculous indeed.

He keeps his mind firmly focussed on the matters at hand, discarding plan after plan, working through the limitations of their own lack of knowledge to come up with viable strategies and failsafes all designed to give them the best chance of success, of them both reaching the end alive and whole. Of course, they’ve spent the better part of a month already discussing possible paths to that effect; it just needs a little finer tuning, with every new excursion they stumble across another another potential disaster, the potential routes between the cove they’ve turned into their home and the lab where this nightmare comes to end appears to be shrinking every time they attempt the search for a new path. Lines crossed off in every direction leaving them both frustrated and irritable.

Now he has to consider the rising insecurities, the possibility that he no longer has the surety or conviction that the fractured pieces of himself could make it by himself. Despite the front of bravado and confidence he can throw around his shoulders like the Mafia black cloak he had once donned as Mori’s welcome gift to the ranks of his minions - a dark rook to Mori’s king on that ever-shifting gameboard of peace and politics - he wonders if he’d truly be able to face moving out into this world alone without Chuuya’s solid presence to guard his back, to shield him from the vast emptiness which tugs the very ground from his feet, waiting for the misstep that will end with him falling into that endless inescapable chasm.

He doesn’t plan on either of them having to take a single step towards that ending alone. Well, that’s not entirely true, he has plans, of course he has plans...he would just prefer not to have to utilise them. So, it boils down, ultimately, to predicting all possibilities and creating contingencies for said possibilities, it’s a migraine-inducing concept, yet here he is.

Six hours later, he’s nursing a low-level headache, his arms are aching and his brain feels like it’s producing a constant static fuzz in place of actual fully-formed thoughts. The sight of Chuuya’s jet ski, skimming across waves tinted purple and red in the dying embers of the sun is a welcome relief.

Quickly, he tidies away anything that might give Chuuya a clue as to what he’s spent the last six hours doing, a strange childish glee injecting a little energy into leaden limbs at the thought of being able to surprise his redhead in a way that hopefully (for once) won’t end up with yelling or Chuuya’s foot careening towards his face.

He’s waiting on the stern platform when Chuuya cuts the engine alongside the yacht, taking the offered tow rope and securing the craft before offering the shorter man his hand to tug him onto the deck. He’s about to throw all semblance of regained propriety out of the window and drag Chuuya into his embrace when he notices the telltale crimson stains indicating that the redhead’s day hadn’t been as simple and riskless as they both might have hoped. He pauses, taking his time to inspect every blood-spattered inch of the Mafioso, before dropping Chuuya’s hand and tilting his head to one side.

“What happened?”

Chuuya, predictably, clicks his tongue in irritation, “Nothing terribly exciting,” he grumbles, picking at a dried, flaking patch of blood on his coat, “just a bit of cleanup. There seem to be more of those rotten fuckers wandering around out there than usual. First there were the poor dipshits that end up stuck in the pit to deal with. Then the noise of me clattering around up there drew them in I guess.” He shrugs idly, the totally lack of concern leaving Dazai feeling a weird sense of relief, despite being relatively confident in Chuuya’s ability to handle himself perfectly well against anything less than a small army of the undead, he hadn’t realised the anxiety that had been tightening around his chest up until seeing Chuuya safe and whole and within his immediate reach once more had released a knot of tension, leaving him feeling emotionally as well as physically exhausted.

The silence carries a beat too long, now Chuuya is looking at him strangely and something of his thoughts must have slipped through his cracks to flit across his face, because those blue eyes are suddenly soft with unspoken understanding.

It’s a discomforting concept, to have someone look through your masks - the very pillars and supports that have been keeping you standing for so many years – to have them bear witness to that part of you that you keep hidden, even from yourself, until it seems like maybe it was just a fractured dream, something half-remembered and faded to obscurity. Even if it’s Chuuya, Dazai still hates the thought of being truly seen.

Dragging a smirk to paint itself widely across his mouth, he reclaims control of the conversation. “Oi, Chibi, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Chuuya is still watching him with that whisper-soft expression, though he purses his lips and plays along anyway, thrusting out a hand to jab a gloved finger towards Dazai’s chest, stopping barely a hairsbreadth short of actually poking him. “Hmm, you’re not gonna tell me you’ve blown up another one of my cars are you?”

“That was one time!” Dazai can’t help the genuine laugh that bubbles up his throat at the honest outrage in Chuuya’s tone. The hatrack never had forgiven him his little ‘parting gift’.

“You tried to blow it up with me inside it!” Chuuya barks as he tosses the mostly empty pack uncaringly into the living quarters.

“An accident!” he chirps in reply, holding up his hands in supplication, “An honest mistake! I would never deliberately blow up my Chibi! Besides, it’s not like explosions can hurt you any more than bullets.”

“That’s not the point!” Chuuya actually does jab him in the chest this time, hard enough for Dazai to double over wheezing as the air whooshes from his lungs. Really, he should have seen that coming, had seen that coming...but Chuuya’s refreshingly honest display of raw emotion has always fascinated him, always made him push the Mafioso just a little farther than is safe...for either of them.

“...so what’s the surprise?” Chuuya asks once Dazai has regained his breath, rubbing a hand over his chest and pouting exaggeratedly at the redhead before breaking out into another wide smile, excitement causing his steps to bounce and Chuuya to eye him with a mounting suspicion that just makes the whole situation hilarious.

“Oh, come with me!” he skitters off the deck towards the stairs, feeling the intense weight of Chuuya’s stare, boring into him from behind, as if the redhead could pluck the thoughts from the back of his head.

When he leads them out onto the top deck, slowing down to lean against the bar and make an expansive gesture to the space beyond, he sees Chuuya’s mouth twist into a frown, watches his eyes scan the chairs and then move off to the horizon beyond the boat before turning his attention back to Dazai’s outstretched arm.

“I swear on your life, if you’re fucking with me, Mackerel –” his voice tapers off into nothing as he finally notices backlights lit on the hot tub which has been left forlornly empty since their maiden voyage out of the marina. Now, tantalisingly clear blue water fills the tub to what Dazai will insist is an impressive level - considering he’s the one who spent an eternity lugging what feels like half an ocean’s worth of water up a flight of stairs – ripples swirling gently on the surface as the machine heats it to a comfortably warm temperature. “…” Chuuya’s choked-off swallow is audible and Dazai is already half celebrating his triumph for having made Chuuya speechless.

He feigns disappointment as he steps forward, exaggeratedly switching his attention from the filled tub, to Chuuya and back again. “What? You don’t like it?”

Chuuya’s mouth opens, then snaps shut abruptly before he can make a sound, a long pause following the movement before he finally sucks in a breath and Dazai can see the smile fighting to break out across his face, can follow the hint of a blush across high cheekbones. “I thought you said we couldn’t use this thing because we have to conserve water?”

He nods sagely, rubbing his chin for effect, though he can feel the quirk of his lips fighting to betray him. “I did say that. But this isn’t water. Well, it is water, but it’s not water you can drink.”

“Huh?” Chuuya isn’t even paying attention to him anymore, his focus entirely fixated on the siren’s call of warm water.

He claps his hands with glee, throwing out his arms to gesture to the ocean pressing on on them from all sides. “It’s salt water! I filled it with salt water.”

Chuuya’s head tips slightly to the side, studying the hot tub with a little more trepidation, though the light of fervent desire darkens his eyes to a blue as potent as the ocean depths themselves, a colour Dazai could drown in, were he feeling more poetic.

“Is that safe?”

Dazai shrugs, honestly he’s not sure how healthy it will be for the tub itself, but he’s fairly certain the thing won’t blow up with them inside it. “Well, I guess it might ruin the components so the thing never turns on again. But why do we care? It might be a seven million dollar yacht, but we didn’t pay for it, so who gives a shit?”

This dubious recommendation appears to be all the encouragement Chuuya needs as he tugs off one glove to stick his hand tentatively into the water, proceeding to make a noise that Dazai considers wholly obscene, the end result being his entire body running suddenly hot despite the cool of the evening air playing across the deck.

“Don’t get too excited, Chibi, go shower all that gross zombie juice off before you get in my nice clean water.” Dazai laughs at Chuuya’s grumbling huff of reply, the redhead staring longingly at the heated water before flicking his gaze to his own arms, no doubt noting again the dried blood and errant streaks of dirt.

“You’re right, I feel disgusting,” the Mafioso grimaces in distaste before turning on his heel without another word and disappearing down the corridor.

By the time Dazai hears quiet footsteps making their way up the stairs less than ten minutes later, he has prepared one of the ridiculous floating trays, which have sat unused behind the bar for however many months they’ve been aboard. Hiding it beneath the counter, he steps out onto the companionway in time to be greeted by an eyeful of half-naked Chuuya, a towel wrapped around his hips which leaves nothing to the imagination; his hair lies flattened to his skull, dripping long rivulets of water down the exposed expanse of chest and back. It’s enough to steal the air from Dazai’s lungs, enough that he has to tear his eyes from Chuuya before his own blush gives him away.

A sharp intake of breath, coupled with the small splash of disturbed water, has Dazai’s head whipping up and to the side in time to see the towel drop to floor and giving him a rather spectacular view of Chuuya’s naked ass before he slides into the water. The low, pleased groan that slips from between the redhead’s lips as he sinks down far enough that only his head is visible sends Dazai’s blood rushing south, his brain stalling to a halt at the pleasure contained within that tiny sound. Chuuya’s head tips slowly back until it rests against the side of the tub and he sighs in utter contentment.

“Ugh. I think I’m in heaven.”

Dazai can utterly appreciate the sentiment.

Sidling closer, Dazai takes a moment to blink stupidly at the control panel for a few seconds, before reaching out to press a button, the sudden bubbling whirr telling him he’s found the right one. “Not quite.” he chuckles as Chuuya pulls himself straight in surprise when the jets of water begin to stream their merry way to the surface, creating small bubbles which shimmer and gleam in a rainbow of colours reflected from the LED lights twinkling just underneath the water.

He can’t resist stroking a hand across Chuuya’s bare shoulders, following the caress with a slow drag of fingers along the visible bumps of the redhead’s spine until it meets the waterline, watching his back arch in pleasure at the touch, eyes closing as he practically purrs beneath Dazai’s wandering hand.

Dazai swallows, his throat dry. He can’t look away, can’t help but to think about all that skin beneath his hands, of Chuuya writhing and making pretty noises in the throes of his pleasure.

He pulls away as if burned. Turning to retrieve the neglected tray from behind the bar and presenting the contents to Chuuya with a flourish he hopes is flamboyant enough to hide the lust burning under his skin.

Chuuya’s focus immediately zeroes in on the dark red contents of the pair of glasses, his eyes lighting with joy, “Is that –?”

“It’s wine. Or at least, what passes for wine in this country.” Dazai is pretty sure Poe-kun isn’t a connoisseur of fine wine or spirits, based on their previous experiences with alcohol in this world. “I found it in the manor ages ago, hid it for a special occasion.”

Chuuya blinks then, turns his attention to Dazai, full of heat and knowing, “Are you trying to get me drunk so you can have your way with me?”

He taps his chin thoughtfully before letting his smile twist into something dark and desultory, “Hmm...maybe? Would you be adverse to the idea?”

“No...no I don’t think I would.” Chuuya’s answering grin is something just short of savage, a bright and wilful thing, wide and full of teeth. Dazai’s pulse spikes higher and he knows the expression on his own face is nothing short of hunger. “Care to join me?”

The sultry tone is Dazai’s undoing, the blue of Chuuya’s eyes beneath his lashes watching him with deliberate focus, leaving him feeling hot and exposed. He leans down, slowly, so slowly, to press teeth against the hinge of Chuuya’s jaw, nipping sharp want into soft skin. He feels as much as hears the low rumbling groan his attention elicits and Dazai is gone, lost to lust and the beat of life beneath his tongue.

Quickly, and with very little thought to appearances, he divests himself of clothing, leaving each consecutive article to drop carelessly to the deck, forgotten where it falls. Naked but for that one final layer - that one final defence - he pauses for a moment, fingers the familiar bindings of cotton and fibre, winding, covering, wrapping him in one last painfully obvious shield against prying eyes and judgemental gazes. Picking apart the knot tucked neatly beneath one wrist, he unwinds the first loops of bandage from his skin, allow it to pool on the deck in slowly accumulating yards of messily stacked cloth. Repeating the action on his other arm, Dazai stops when he reaches his shoulders, tracing his fingers in a line around his neck, noticing for the first time the slight tremor in them, something cold and pitiful. He’s not ready to bear this failure to the open sky right now, even if it is only Chuuya who’s there to see.

When he finally drags himself out of his own thoughts, it is to lift his head and find Chuuya’s half-lidded blue eyes gazing at him. The feeling of being watched, of being seen, makes him want to clench his fists, bite his lip, shift his weight, anything to get the attention away from the exposed skin, every inch and every scored scar screaming a story of failure; failure to die; failure to achieve the final end; failure to survive in a manner befitting the legacy left to him; failure to live.

Instead he clamps down mercilessly on every one of those primal instincts shrieking at him to escape, walk away, cover this misstep with layers of smiles and humour.

Instead he stands, bared all the way down to his soul, and stares right back as the last defence unravels from his neck.

“Get in here idiot,” Chuuya’s husky rumble breaks the silence between them, narrows the yawning chasm of dark thoughts and memories to something less vast, less able to swallow him whole. He takes a jerky step forwards, out of the shadow of his own destruction, left in a pile of littered bandages at his feet. “And bring that ridiculous tray.”

Dazai obeys, grateful for the deflection of conversation onto something else, anything else, grateful for the knowing look that his sharp-eyed redhead gives him, the unspoken ‘I know what you’re thinking and I’m giving you an out.’

~ ~ ~

For a while they sit in quiet companionship, content to soak up the warmth of the water and watch the last rays of the sun shine through the gathering clouds to reflect upon the water until all is turned to the inky blue of twilight and the first stars begin to dot the sky; tiny pinpricks of light in the never-ending infinity. They sip red wine, which has the disturbing colour and texture of blood, though Chuuya doesn’t seem to mind, a sigh leaving his lips as he swirls the liquid around in the glass, savouring it one slow sip at a time, though he does have a scathing comment as to the quality of the vintage (of course he does, because he’s become an entitled brat these last years - thanks to the Port Mafia Executive’s pay packet - even if he flatly refuses to admit it), if the noises he makes are any indication, it can’t be that bad.

Eventually twilight slips into true night, leaving them in darkness save for the tub’s illumination. The water bubbles and swirls in eddying currents, seeping warmth into every inch of submerged skin, leaving Dazai feeling both energised and exhausted, languid and lively. Chuuya’s head is tipped back against the rim of the tub, arms spread on either side for balance as the now-empty wineglass teeters precariously on the edge. Dazai considers getting up to refill it, but the water is pleasingly warm and the night air carries a chill that heralds the end of warmth and the coming of something colder and more bitter.

Chuuya’s eyes are closed, though Dazai knows his redhead isn’t asleep, just relaxed and content in a way neither of them has been for weeks now (perhaps months, perhaps since the very night they blundered into this mess), it’s a heady sight – enough to make the space in his chest turn over and the tiny voice at his core flutter in its cage with the need to reach out and touch, to grasp Chuuya to him and hang on for dear life. All those feelings he’d buried, forced down and cast aside, the ingrained fear of building attachments, of relying on something, on someone who was just bound to leave, to die, something else for him to lose just when he’s gotten comfortable with needing it at all... all of those insecurities come roaring and rearing up from the pit to bite him in the ass.

As if sensing Dazai’s downturn in mood, Chuuya huffs out a sigh, pulling himself straight and directing a look at Dazai that speaks volumes. “I can hear you thinking from here.” his redhead grumbles, sounding remarkably like an annoyed dog who has just been disturbed from a nap. “What’s the matter?”

“Your glass is empty.” Dazai deflects immediately, automatically

“Mmm, but that’s not what’s bothering you, is it?” Chuuya shoots him an unimpressed glare.

Dazai’s tongue is a dry useless lump in his mouth, his fingers twitch on the surface of the water, drawing Chuuya’s attention to the ripples that spread out from that simple, aborted movement. “Chuuya –” he manages to whisper.

Chuuya’s moving then, slipping through the water and crossing the small space between them in an instant. Dazai’s words stick in his throat, suffocate and die upon his tongue as Chuuya straddles his legs, crawling forwards until his knees are balanced precariously on the small seat, on each side of Dazai’s hips. Slowly, carefully, he lets his body fall back, until Dazai’s lap is suddenly full of a wet, naked and clearly slightly embarrassed redhead.

“Is this okay?” Chuuya asks, soft, almost hesitant.

Dazai swallows hard, can’t force sound past the stone closing off his airways. Instead he skates his hands down Chuuya’s sides, trailing wet fingers across heated skin until they land on the smaller man’s hips, pressing his thumbs across the shadow of bone.

Chuuya sighs in contentment, shifting into the touch.

He stares at his own scarred arms, the skin littered with silvery lines telling the story of his forlorn and morbid existence. Those scarred appendages touching something so beautiful...he feels like he’s defiling something precious, tainting it with the darkness that leaks from his soul, from his bones, from his very skin. His fingers tense involuntarily.

Above him, Chuuya hums a quiet noise, dips his head until it’s tucked under Dazai’s chin, whispering into skin usually covered with layers of bandages, shields, barriers, walls against the outside world. Here, with this one person, his walls have crumbled to dust.

“Stop fucking thinking.”

A line of open-mouthed kisses are pressed against the discoloured marks ringing his throat. Chuuya’s lips moving with meaningful purpose, tracing the path of Dazai’s failure as if it is something to be revered rather than condemned.

“Chuuya…” he’s never heard his own voice sound so utterly broken, so waveringly unsure, not even when Chuuya had confronted him in a little girl’s bedroom with a knife in his hand.

“Shh,” the redhead admonishes into his skin, sending a stream of cold again against sensitive flesh, “just...be quiet for a minute.”

He bites back the urge to make a joking reply, to lighten the mood from this sudden heady, heavy atmosphere, to bring things back to teasing and bickering and comfortable familiarity. Instead he quietens in Chuuya’s hold, tipping his head back against the lip of the tub, exposing his throat to the redhead above him and trusting that Chuuya won’t tear into the soft and vulnerable parts of him, with tooth, or claw, or word. He rubs slow circles across Chuuya’s hips, keeping his touch light, keeping his mind grounded lest he shatter into shards too numerous to ever put back together into some twisted semblance of humanity.

“You’re an idiot.” pressed against his jaw as Chuuya’s hands trail water up his chest until they rest on his shoulders, thumbs sweeping a wet line across his collarbones. “I can’t believe you sent me away on the pretext of doing work, just for this…”

“Oh, but I did work, Chuuya, I –” he’s cut off by Chuuya’s teeth pressing into his jaw at the same time as Chuuya’s fingers press insistently against his lips.

“Shut up and let me say thank you, shitty Dazai.”

Then, Chuuya’s lips are replacing his fingers pressing a kiss that’s barely there against the corner of his mouth, Chuuya’s body pressing closer as Dazai’s hands move automatically from his hips to his back, dragging the smaller man forwards until Chuuya almost unbalances, wobbling precariously and huffing a grumble against Dazai’s lips.

“Idiot.”

It sends a shiver down his spine.

He forgets everything but the shape of Chuuya’s body beneath his hands as they kiss lazily, neither of them willing to escalate things past the languid touches just yet, each content to draw out the slow burn between them, to push and to pull, give and take and revel in the simple truth of their existence.

The first raindrops fall without their notice.

It’s only when the steady patter becomes a sudden deluge of freezing, pelting droplets that they break apart, Chuuya leaning back and glaring at the sky as if he could command the heavens to cease their irritating interruption.

Dazai can’t help but chuckle, turning his face to the rain and feeling the cold touch prickle awareness across his skin, goosebumps flaring down his arms.

They’re both laughing by the time they drag themselves out of the tub, shivering at the sudden shock of cold and dripping water to run in tiny rivers over the deck, barely pausing to grab their empty glasses before skidding under the glass roof covering the main section of the upper deck and wrapping themselves in towels.

Dazai throws himself upon the long sofa, uncaring of the damp patch his body will no doubt leave imprinted upon the fabric, grabbing a blanket he’d laid out over the top earlier and holding it out to Chuuya in invitation. Chuuya rubs a towel vigorously through his still damp hair, dropping it to the deck before tilting his head in consideration for a moment. Slowly he stalks across to the bar, grabbing the half-empty bottle of wine and tossing it almost carelessly onto the table before crawling into Dazai’s lap without hesitation.

Covering both of them with the blanket, he blinks up at his redhead, looming over him with something like hunger roaring through those blue eyes, sparking them brighter even in the dim light. It reminds him of words Chuuya had thrown in his face what seems like a lifetime ago, that first fateful meeting after four years apart. The recollection makes him smirk.

“This is a great view. It rivals even a masterpiece worth ten billion.” he mimics Chuuya’s tone and pitch from that day, remembering the steel glint and the self-confident smile his poor misguided redhead had affected back then, ah, but their reunion had been entertaining.

The blush that paints itself across Chuuya’s cheeks is totally worth the possibility of impending violence.

“Oi, that’s my line, asshole!”

Chuuya might as well have telegraphed the lazy punch he aims at Dazai’s shoulder, and Dazai would have let it connect, but he has other plans for his flustered little redhead right now. Instead he catches the fist, drawing Chuuya’s hand to his lips and pressing kisses across his knuckles, watching as the redhead bites his lip, eyes slipping shut and mouth parting on a quiet sigh.

He times his attack well, waiting until Chuuya’s body relaxes under his touch before he pounces, pushing himself up and forcing the smaller man back at the same time until he’s got his little Mafioso sprawled underneath him, blinking in wide-eyed shock.

“Ah, but I like this view even better.” he purrs, pleased when Chuuya makes no move to push him off. On the contrary, Chuuya’s hands find his waist as he looms over him, pressing into the spaces between his ribs as if Chuuya could sink his fingers into the very heart of him, skating up until those same fingers twine through his hair, pulling him down until they’re breathing each other’s air.

The sight of Chuuya’s choker - a line of darkness bound tightly around his redhead’s pretty neck and the only thing said redhead is currently wearing - sends his thoughts careening sideways, itching to slip his fingers beneath that band and pull, just to see what beautiful noises he can wrangle from his partner.

His mouth runs off without permission from his head, even as he lets his head dip down, leaving whispering kisses against Chuuya’s chin and throat as he goes.

“Why do you keep this on all the time?” he murmurs, acting on instinct alone as he puts the leather between his teeth and pulls gently. He feels Chuuya swallow reflexively, chin tipping back as if he’s trying desperately to resist the pull.

“A reminder,” comes the breathy reply.

“Oh?” Dazai hums and tugs harder, eliciting a choked off whine from the redhead.

“A reminder never to lose control,” Chuuya explains, his voice gone soft, almost distant. “When I go into a fight, or...other things, it’s tight, there’s a constant pressure there – it’s...restricting. Feeling it there, biting into my throat is a reminder that I am not an animal, a reminder not to lose control.”

Dazai pulls away, tilting his head as if it will help him work out the puzzle laid before his eyes. “A collared creature, hmm?”

“Perhaps.” the Mafioso agrees with a sigh.

“Ah, but who holds the leash?” he asks, slipping a finger beneath the leather and applying pressure until Chuuya can do nothing but obey his command to bare his throat.

“Sometimes I wonder.” Chuuya’s barely-breathed words are enough to give Dazai pause for all their flat honesty. The blue eyes are no longer watching him, fixed instead on some faraway point that Dazai cannot see. There’s a sadness swirling in there, a sort of resigned confusion that sets Dazai’s teeth on edge, like a part of Chuuya’s vibrancy has suddenly chipped away like so much paint.

With deft fingers, Dazai picks apart the buckle, pulling the collar clear to regard the faint red marks ringing his redhead’s neck, the ghost of restraint, of control. Control he’d very much like to break to shards and scatter to the winds, if only to light the flame behind those blue eyes once more. He drops the strip of leather carelessly onto the table, leaving it to come to rest next to the forgotten bottle of wine.

“You don’t need this with me,” he whispers, pressing soft kisses against marked skin. “Not here. Not now,” the flat of his tongue presses against Chuuya’s bared throat and the redhead has ceased to breathe entirely.

“Your Ability can’t hurt me.” Dazai knows he’s hit the mark when Chuuya freezes, languid limbs gone rigid with shock. Dazai continues, kissing a slow lingering path as if he hasn’t noticed the flash of wide-eyed panic, “Not here, not in the real world either.”

He lifts one hand now, cupping Chuuya’s face and gently tipping it down until he can stare into Chuuya’s eyes, eyes which dart back and forth in an attempt to escape his scrutiny, deny the truth of his words. “You don’t need control here, Chuuya. Here you can let yourself be free.”

Chuuya comes to him then, pushing upward, eyes focussed and blazing for all of a second before lips meet his in something that can barely be called a kiss, something more frantic and immediate, more an outpouring of years of repressed emotion, of finely balanced control.

Dazai smiles into the kiss, takes all of that sudden chaotic energy and pushes right back, crowding into Chuuya’s space as if he could somehow crawl inside the very marrow of his bones and carve out a home in a body not fraught with failure.

Tomorrow, he knows, their freedom will be bound in invisible chains once more. The collar will sit neatly around his redhead’s pretty neck; the bandages will wind sinuously around his own skin. But tonight...tonight they are free.

~ ~ ~

They take their freedom in stuttered gasps, whispered and echoed a hundred times to the night sky above.

They take their freedom in slow caresses across skin branded with the scars collected through years of duty, devotion and debt; through years of failure, frustration and fear.

They take their freedom with breathless pleas, broken moans and choked off cries, voices joined in a song of harmonised pleasure to which only the stars and the rain bear witness.

They take their freedom in gentle touches, Dazai’s lips grazing Chuuya’s throat as the redhead’s tongue presses against the veins in his wrist, both seeking the silent reassurance of life beneath heat-flushed flesh.

They take their freedom, each willingly binding it to the other until they are wrapped and tangled and knotted so thoroughly it’s hard to tell where one ends and another begins, connected in lust and need and something neither of them is willing to put into words lest to draw attention to it is to doom it to the fettered chains of captivity once again.

They take their freedom, but only for tonight, for tomorrow obligation and duty will wrap far more securely around their throats than the bandages or the collar ever could.

~ ~ ~

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” he asks petulantly, propping his chin on Chuuya’s shoulder as they sit astride the Red Monstrosity, staring up at what Dazai had thought would be an absolutely perfect addition to their growing collection of stash points.

“I mean no, shitty Dazai, have you gone deaf?!” Chuuya growls back, attempting to push Dazai’s face away to no avail, Dazai simply pressing forwards and closer until he’s draped across Chuuya in every way possible in that moment. “There’s not a chance in all of the eight hells of you getting me up there.”

‘There’ is a beautiful, bright yellow, crane, sitting in the middle of an abandoned building site, a majestic tower of steel rising determinedly towards the sky as if in defiance of the collapsed and half-completed structures surrounding it on all sides. It’s perfect, even without climbing to the top of the structure, Dazai can imagine the view, imagine the feeling of the wind in his hair, imagine the deadly drop to the ground below…

“You were fine with the cave halfway up a cliff, Chibi, so why are you so opposed to this?”

“It’s completely unnecessary!” Chuuya insists loudly, gesturing at the crane in exasperation, “Not only is it completely out in the open, where anyone with eyes could see us if they happened to glance in the right direction, it’s totally exposed to the elements, who’s to say it wont come crashing down tomorrow, the ground doesn’t exactly look stable.” he sputters for a minute, foot tapping that irritated beat upon the floor before he adds, in an attempt to sound offhand, “Plus, the cabin is fucking tiny. How do you expect to fit both of us and our supplies in such a tiny space?”

Suddenly, Dazai understands. He pulls himself to his feet, leaning over the small redhead until he can see his face, watch his expression change when he teases, “Ah, so you’re afraid of heights?”

Chuuya’s eyes widen to shocked denial in an instant, hands clenching on the handles of the bike as he shakes his head vehemently in the negative, “I am not afraid of heights, bastard, what even gave you that idea?!”

Dazai shrugs, struggling to hike his leg over the seat for a second before stumbling backwards, grumbling softly under his breath before stretching arms cramped and tired from hours of stop-start riding around the countryside and decimated outskirts of Orez city in their attempt to find their next likely place to set up a cache. He can feel Chuuya’s annoyance mounting with every second that passes without his response. Finally he turns to stare at the crane, leaving Chuuya to flounder in his embarrassment as he speaks, “It’s a perfectly natural fear,” he starts, hears Chuuya splutter indignantly behind him but carries on regardless, “You’re so used to being able to manipulate objects which allow you to literally float on air, you’ve probably never experienced what it’s like to fall. Why would you ever fear the sky when you can dance like a feather on the breeze? But now...now you’ve lost that safety net. If you fall there’s no floating back up, no catching yourself before you hit the ground. So, being afraid is natural.”

“I told you, shitty Dazai, I am not afraid!” his redhead insists, and it’s the expected foolhardy response, Chuuya never did admit to fearing anything, no, he was a one-man army and the world should fear him, what use had he for fear?

“Oh? Then prove it, Chibi. Come and join me at the top~” he chirps out the words as a challenge, not waiting for Chuuya’s response as he wanders slowly towards the base of the tower, casting his eyes up the labyrinth of ladders leading to the lonely heights above.

With a smile, he begins the climb.

He knows Chuuya will follow, despite his fear, no, to spite his fear, he will come.

It’s an arduous ascent, and, halfway up, Dazai has come to the conclusion that actually, he agrees with his redhead’s assessment that such a place is totally unnecessary and far more trouble than it’s worth. Not that he’ll ever admit to thinking so out loud – let Chuuya think his own apprehension and fear are the reasons that Dazai will capitulate to his request that they not turn this hunk of metal into a cache, it is, after all, the perfect excuse to absolve him of the need to admit he was mistaken (not wrong).

Still, when he finally ascends the last section of ladder, bypassing the tiny operator’s cabin and stepping out onto the jib, he has to admit, the apparent sudden lack of solid bones and coordination in his legs are worth it for the view of the destroyed and deserted city spread out below.

The drop calls to him, even now, even knowing it’s a only a false death, a fleeting vision of an ending that awaits him. Still, it’s a breathless whisper, soft and promising, a siren song to the damned. Instead of listening, he lifts his head to the breeze, feeling it card the phantom touch of fingers through his hair. It feels nothing like Chuuya – just the ghost of a touch, insecure and fleeting, not the deliberate, sure press and push and pull of his redhead, the kind of touch that draws him in without guile, that draws out of him a sigh.

Successfully distracted from the temptation of the earth spread and beckoning beneath his feet, he turns his attention to the abandoned city.

Well, mostly abandoned, he can presume some nests of rats still scuttle around the debris - picking through the rubble for every measly scrap, perhaps hiding out in the sewers or tunnels running deep underneath the city - that there are still a fair number of ‘Old Jed’s’ unwilling to let go of whatever it is that they cling stubbornly onto, as if holding on to their pasts can save them from the cruelty of fate.

As if the very existence of the thought, dancing around his mind, is the catalyst needed to set of a chain reaction of events, he spots something on the far horizon that sparks his interest. The glint of metal in the sun. An ominous, broken black line, twisting like a snake on a weaving course towards the city itself.

Something in his gut tells him that circumstances for those left in the city are about to take a turn for the worse.

The snaking convoy works itself ever closer to the city boundaries, a slow and yet inexorable creep forwards. Dazai pulls the small pair of binoculars from one of his pockets (a decidedly useful item, he has to admit, Millionaire-kun had left his vessel well-prepared for their arrival), lifts them to his eyes, and...the world holds it’s breath.

Or maybe that was just him.

He’s not sure how long he sits there, completely uncaring of the fact that he’s fifty metres off the ground with nothing but a few inches of steel beneath himself and the empty air – really, heights have never been an issue for Dazai save for the constant, compulsive itch of needing to throw himself into the void. Right now, his attention isn’t on the ground beneath his dangling feet, instead it is entirely captured by the scene playing out like something from an ants’ nest below – black specks marching in thin lines, forward, forward, forward – right up until the second he’s startled from the single-minded focus he’s worked himself into, jerking badly, flailing for a moment and almost dropping the binoculars as Chuuya’s only slightly shaky hand brushes against his shoulder.

“Are you thinking of pushing me off?” he can’t help but smile, somewhat wistful.

“Don’t tempt me, asshole.”

The redhead shifts carefully, in infinitesimal degrees, until he finally seats himself next to Dazai, knees brought up underneath his chin. He looks tiny in that instant, the quick-sharp breaths and a slight tightening around his eyes are the only outward indication of his discomfort, though Dazai can feel it practically radiating from him nonetheless. Red hair shifts in the wind, wavering like a banner, picked up and tossed hither and yon, a bright point against the backdrop of the sky. Unconsciously, Chuuya wraps his arms around himself as if he might fly to pieces to be scattered upon that same capricious wind, cast off into the abyss.

It’s a beautiful sight, almost enough to make him forget what’s happening below.

“What is that?” Chuuya’s eyes are narrowed, Dazai watches as he picks out the movement, the hulking shapes amidst the mess of wanton human destruction already laid to waste beneath them.

“See for yourself.” he replies, handing over the binoculars, tilting his head to one side in challenge as Chuuya blinks at him then down at the dizzying drop before growling out something that sounds like a string of curses as he uncurls his arms from around his knees, gingerly altering his weight until his legs dangle off the side of the jib into the empty air beyond. Taking the binoculars, he flatly ignores Dazai in favour of the scurrying activity, slowly beginning to spread out into a recognisable pattern.

Chuuya’s breath sucks noisily through his teeth and Dazai watches realisation take its shape upon the lines of Chuuya’s body, drawing him shocked and tense. “Oh, damn...is that really –?”

“Tanks equipped with flamethrowers? Yes.” Dazai interrupts, watching the black specks converge upon the central area of the city, spreading out into an even formation covering all directions.

“How did they get those through all that mess down there? We had no chance with the RV, so how the fuck did they manage?” Chuuya ponders aloud.

“Look at the head of each section,” Dazai urges, “The lead vehicles all have plough or scoop attachments, they just bulldozed their way through whatever debris or rubble was in the way.” Despite their massive size and weight, tanks are highly manoeuvrable vehicles, able to traverse over obstacles that would stop a normal road car dead in its tracks. The weight of these machines is easily enough to combat even the larger barricades of rubble, shoving everything aside with deadly power.

“If they had this type of capability all along, why the fuck didn’t they send all this into the field when the outbreak first happened? They could have prevented all this shit from ever properly starting.” the Mafioso gestures with the binoculars, turning to Dazai, “Why do this now?”

Removing the binoculars from Chuuya’s unresisting fingers, he once more turns to regard the preparations slowly coming to a close before the main event unfolds. The tanks are now covering all routes leading from the centre of the city outwards, a larger plough-type vehicle leading each of the smaller squads, and the plan of attack here is now painfully obvious. He shrugs one shoulder, attempting to piece together the possibilities as he continues to watch the ants prepare to rain fire and fury and raging death upon the city and any poor soul left skulking behind its crumbled walls.

“Well, the most obvious answer is because it suits the story’s progression for it to happen here, at this point, thereby confronting the reader – or in this case, participants...us – with another threat and another unexpected twist which they will have to overcome.” Chuuya’s ‘tch’ of utter exasperation is something he can wholeheartedly agree with.

“Damn that emo guy to hell!” his redhead snarls impotently, Dazai can’t help but smile at the sentiment.

“In terms of reality, were we not part of a work of fiction, I would hazard a guess that those in charge did not have this capability when the outbreak first started to truly take hold. In the panic that ensued, it’s likely that all high-ranking personnel, figures central to the government and running of the country were evacuated as quickly as possible. In the general mess of things, it’s unlikely that any contingency plan would have existed for such a state of emergency, so there would have been no smooth line of command between those in charge and those with the actual equipment to do something about the situation.”

The tanks have started to move, the lead vehicles in each squad beginning a steady roll out from the central square of the city, clearing a path for those following a short distance behind. Each squad consists of only four vehicles – the ‘plough’ or blockade breaker, followed by a unit of two tanks equipped with massive flamethrowers and one more conventional barrel gun tank bringing up the rear.

In his momentary distraction, Chuuya picks up where he left off. “So what you’re saying is that the officers in the military were probably moved to the same ‘safe’ location as the government and other important people, leaving the military bases themselves to be overrun by the infected, just like everywhere else?”

“Right...and once that happened, clearing those areas would take time and careful planning. Not to mention the uproar the citizens would have caused, had the cities been decimated in this manner during those early days, it’s probable that such an action would have resulted in the people turning against their own leaders, even if it could have stopped the spread of the parasite.” he pauses for a moment watching the smaller caterpillar-like units begin to spread out like an ugly black starburst, like the roots of a tree spreading beneath the earth, like the blackened veins beneath the skin of an infected host.

“It’s likely they went for the air bases first, since aerial attacks have no chance of being overrun by the undead, or hampered by survivor groups. That’s why we saw the air raids quite a long time before these ground troops.” The first gout of flame spurts like a dragon’s breath from the muzzle of one of the tanks, roaring through the space in a flickering tongue of orange and yellow until it hits the closest building – or rather, the remnants of what was once a building. Instantly anything flammable catches light, burning up in an explosion of brilliance and growing quickly out of all control. Once the first fires begin to spread, Dazai knows it will be a race against time for the vehicles to navigate the labyrinth of city streets - setting light indiscriminately to everything within reach - without going down with the burning city themselves.

“What a waste of fuel.” Chuuya laments softly. “What’s the point of doing this now?”

“Attempt to eradicate the parasite.” Dazai replies, simply, “The fire will bring the infected in all over again. They are stupid: with no pain receptors and lacking the fear response of humans, they will blunder into the flames, attracted to the light and the noise. Raising the city will be like a purge – of both the undead and any remaining survivor groups still hanging around.”

Chuuya hums a noise low in his throat and Dazai pulls his focus from the show below to find the redhead drawing agitated circles in the air with one foot, a sure sign that he’s thinking about something that irritates him. “Then, they’ll repeat this process with every other city that was targeted by the air attacks before?”

Dazai nods his agreement with that assessment, suddenly thoughtful as a dozen different possibilities run through his head, picked up and discarded in a matter of seconds until he comes to a slightly worrying conclusion... “It’s likely. If they have enough fuel supplies, they may even expand from there and begin hunting down those areas where hordes have gathered and fire the surrounding areas completely, like setting a breaker against a wildfire.”

Chuuya turns to him then, something complicated passing across his face, “Well, you always did want to watch the world burn.”

Chapter Text

Everywhere is flame and ruin.

The fatigued stiffness in his limbs at having followed Dazai up this fucking crane just to prove that he could (he’s not afraid damn it, the fifty metre drop below his dangling legs does not concern him in the slightest) is long forgotten in the face of the madness they are witnessing take place, spread out before them like a play in a theatre. Tiny matchbox models marching their way through the city, spreading great tongues of fire as they proceed through the streets, the blooming flowers of flame expanding outwards like an exploding sun and leaving nought but burning chaos in their wake.

They trade the single pair of binoculars between them, sitting in silence like world-weary spirits, watching over the demise of civilisation at the very hands of humanity. On one street, it seems a wandering horde has held up proceedings; corpses burning and flailing and skittering on regardless of the fire that melts flesh and consumes bone. The tanks roll over the bodies like so much chaff, leaving bloody smears in their wake. Yet in their haste to destroy the enemy, one tank has misfired, setting its neighbour aflame and stranding the one bringing up the rear – unable to move around the stricken vehicle. He can see the tiny stick figures of men jumping to the ground and braving the encroaching inferno and flaming remnants of human corpses in an attempt to make it to their comrades.

Everywhere is fire and madness.

On another street - in a section of the city relatively close to their own position - a firefight appears to have broken out between the squadron leading the assault and a ragged band of locals. The faint sounds of gunfire echo like distant pops upon the wind as Chuuya trains his sight upon the unfolding mayhem. The clearly desperate group of survivors storm the rear tank in a broken wave, clambering up the tracks to swarm across the hull and onto the turret, disappearing into the bowels of the machine. Seconds later three bodies are tossed from the hatch to the ground below and a deafening boom splits the air as the gun fires upon the proceeding vehicles, the shell hitting home in an explosion of screeching, warping metal as the beleaguered tank stops in its tracks. It’s neighbour turns ponderously and, whomever had fired the initial charge obviously has no clue how to reload the barrel as no further round is forthcoming. A burst of flame pours forth from the unimpeded tank, engulfing the attacker and warping the metal tracks and rubber wheels, heating them to stress-fracturing temperatures in a matter of seconds. The wheels buckle, the tank now just another useless obstacle in the road. A soldier emerging from the defending vehicle, tosses something at the still open hatch of the floundering attacker, which Chuuya recognises must have been a grenade of some kind as seconds later an explosion sounds along with the shriek of metal twisting beyond recognition.

Everywhere is smoke and destruction.

Chuuya shakes his head in disgust, what a pointless exercise in futility. Why bother attempting to take something you have no idea how to actually use? Sure, having a tank in a zombie apocalypse sounds like tactical brilliance, but the mechanics of actually driving and controlling such a vehicle (not to mention the massive consumption of fuel, even the most efficient of those things make maybe one mile to the gallon). Once you’ve run out of fuel and run out of shells you’re left with a big, cumbersome metal box, which actually doesn’t have all that much room inside to fit people in comfortably.

“It would have been smarter if they’d just stolen the soldiers’ guns and made a run for it.” Dazai remarks from beside him, and Chuuya is struck with that eerie feeling that the bastard can read his mind – not for the first time.

“It would have been smarter if they hadn’t gone up against armed military units at all.” Chuuya replies flatly, and Dazai hums agreement, gesturing for Chuuya to hand over the binoculars.

He sits quietly as Dazai switches his focus from one group to another, the firing of the city slowly beginning to march towards its ultimate culmination. Smoke rises in obfuscating clouds from the conflagration; black and thick and heavy, choking the city with a dense smog that will linger for days to come. All is aflame – red and orange and flickering, bright and angry, hungry to consume anything within its path of rage and leaving nothing but ash and ruin behind to tell a tale of what once was.

“I think we’ve seen enough.” Dazai hums eventually, tearing his eyes from the closing moments to regard Chuuya with an unfathomable expression. Chuuya can practically see the cogs spinning in that stupid genius head, no doubt grinding their way through any number of scenarios that might end up getting between them and their goal, which – of fucking course – lies on the opposite side of this flattened, burning expanse.

“I would have liked to go and investigate the remains of that tank,” Dazai sighs, something put-upon and exhausted, “who knows what those soldiers could have stashed away in there.”

“It’s too dangerous.” Chuuya interrupts, and honestly, he’s not sure when he became the voice of reason in this stupid apocalypse. The words sound foreign in his mouth, even as he works them free, yet he pushes on regardless. “The fires are too hot and too unpredictable, we could end up getting cut off with no way out.”

“I know, Chibi,” the asshole has the audacity to lift one eyebrow at him even as he sighs morosely, “burning alive is one death wish I have never entertained.” He looks down, the units now beginning to skirt the city and reform into that same snaking black line on the far side. “Having said that, if we hang around up here much longer, we might be caught up in the aftermath anyway.”

Chuuya gestures to the main tower of the crane, trying not to let the hint of trepidation show at the prospect of having to clamber all the way back down to solid ground. “After you.”

“You don’t want to go first, Chuuya?” Dazai’s face is an irritating, all-knowing smirk that Chuuya would quite like to just punch into oblivion.

“If you slip and fall, I have no intention of going down with your clumsy ass on top of me.” he retorts, not really considering the implications of his words until that bastard’s smile ticks up into something wider.

“Oh~ are you sure, Chuu-ya~ I have it on good authority that my ass is quite spectacular from the top, actually!” he cackles then, the sound weirdly carefree considering the carnage and chaos laid beneath their feet. Without any indication of self-preservation instinct, the idiot practically hops over Chuuya’s legs, landing almost gracefully on the other side and proceeding down the jib, pausing as he reaches the ladder to look over his shoulder and shoot a knowing wink in Chuuya’s speechless direction.

Chuuya spends the entirety of the climb back down to ground level wondering who exactly has gotten to see Dazai in that position. He’s not a possessive person (okay, maybe he is a little territorial, but who can blame him, it’s not like he’d ever had that much to call his when he was young, he takes pride in what he has now), he knows that Dazai has had numerous partners, and it’s not like he hasn’t taken a fair number of people to share his own bed...but the very thought of Dazai spread out for someone else, well, it curls something hot and unpleasant down his spine.

Oh...he’s in trouble.

~ ~ ~

“We could follow them? Find out where they’re coming from, whether there really are survivor camps out there?” Chuuya suggests as he inspects the tracks left by the tanks as they had exited the city. It wouldn’t be difficult to catch up with them, the vehicles themselves are slow, ponderous creatures and travelling on roads pockmarked with the wounds of the earlier raids, they will be picking their path carefully.

“Mmmm, no I don’t think so.” Dazai replies slowly, his own attention fixed on the ever expanding plumes of smoke, the small fires that are beginning to spring up now, coaxed into life by the irrepressible heat, already within their immediate line of sight.

“Why not?” Chuuya’s not intending to argue with the idiot, really he’s not, he’s just genuinely curious.

Dazai’s head tips to the side, assessing Chuuya for a moment before he lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Well, consider that they might not even be heading back to wherever they originally came from. They could simply be moving from target to target in an all-out assault. If they have supply lines or depots already set up, there wouldn’t be any near for them to travel back and forth and waste essential resources on pointless journeys.”

Chuuya hums a noise in the back of his throat, because, yes, that makes sense, it would be the smart thing to do assuming there are multiple areas to be targeted. But… “That’s not the only reason, is it?”

A smile curls Dazai’s lips then, the taller man bridging the distance between them until he can lift one hand, brushing a thumb across Chuuya’s cheekbone in a way that makes all the thoughts in the head grind to a halt. “Should I be worried, that you’re starting to read me so well, Little Mafia?”

Chuuya’s eyes close at the slightly rueful and yet somehow pleased rumble, and it’s absurd that they’re here, in this moment, surrounded by fire and ash and smoke and ruin, and all his traitorous body wants to do is melt into that touch. “I could always call your bullshit, shitty Dazai,” he growls half-heartedly, “someone had to.”

Dazai’s chuckle is whisper-soft, wistful and barely there, though Chuuya catches it all the same. When Dazai’s fingers slide into his hair – pulled into a loose ponytail to keep it out of his face – his eyes open to see no trace of the previous laughter, instead it’s replaced by something far more solemn. “We don’t need to know whether the survivor camps exist or where they are. I don’t intend for us to have any interaction with them. Assuming they do exist, interacting with them - even insofar as confirming their existence - will doubtlessly cause some kind of plot device to trigger and we do not need to become entangled in anything more than what we’ve already inadvertently set into motion by our own actions. Every chain of events we set off leaves us in a more dangerous position.”

Chuuya sighs, shifting forwards until his head is pressed against Dazai’s chest, tucked under the obnoxiously tall bastard’s chin, breathing in the overwhelming scent of clinging smoke and the tang of metal, underlaid with just a hint of that familiar citrus bite and something darker, potently Dazai. “Still just the two of us against the world, huh?”

The fingers in his hair tense, curling and winding tighter, though that is the only outward sign of Dazai’s shift in mood. He sounds almost melancholy when he speaks, Chuuya feeling every vibration of the softly spoken words humming through his chest in time with the beating of his heart. “That’s how it was always meant to be, Chuuya.”

Perhaps, once, that would have been true. If only either one of them had realised it sooner.

Yet still, the shadow of Soukoku snaps at their heels.

~ ~ ~

It’s strange, how quickly a person can settle into a life so completely different from anything they’ve known before. Yet, in this world, Chuuya feels weirdly solid, where he’d expected it to be something like a ludicrous dream. Sure, the last time he’d been in one of that shitty author’s nightmares, the world itself had been solid enough (there had been earth beneath his feet, a sun in the sky, people to fight), the multitude of murderous characters had looked real enough, their blood had felt warm enough, running down his knuckles...quite realistic and yet still, the premise had been so vastly wild, so improbable, that at no time was he ever in danger of mistaking fiction for reality.

This place...it’s different. The longer they spend here, immersed in its similar-yet-not reality, the more real it feels: the vast ocean beneath their boat and beyond the horizon; the miles of untracked wilderness spreading in every conceivable direction; the devolved survivors of humanity, slinking through the shells of towns, to scavenge and fight over scraps; the slow yet unstoppable progression of the apocalypse, marching on ceaselessly and engulfing the shattered remains of civilisation as it breathes its last panicked gasps.

Sure, sometimes they come across things that send a sharp reminder that all is not as it seems, a hint of something which doesn’t quite align with what his brain expects: perfectly straight rows of houses, with no exit roads, alleyways or escape routes; convenient foliage in an otherwise built up area, just tall enough to look through a window if you’re brave enough to scale it, or perfectly placed to avoid an oncoming zombie horde if you’re quick enough to climb; the number of roads which have been blocked beyond all hope of passing is, quite frankly, absurd.

And yet, amidst all of that, he’s found some kind of equilibrium. Some kind of peace.

Equilibrium...peace...in an apocalypse. What does that say about the life Chuuya has thus far lived in his own - admittedly warped - reality? He doesn’t want to think about it too much, because, while he misses being able to move a car with just a brush of fingers against steel (that would be fucking fantastic right about now, try moving a heap of shit with four flat tires with just the power of your own body and a lanky, useless, bandage bastard), a world without Abilities...a world without it, well, it’s actually kind of nice.

When he’s feeling particularly introspective (which thankfully isn’t often, that’s the idiot’s modus operandi after all), he wonders what his life might have amounted to had he not been the possessor of such a card, if he had been just slightly more human. Never a ‘King’, nor a leader, just another face in the crowd. Would he still have grown up on the streets, running like a pack of rats in the sewers? Would he still have become part of The Sheep...met Dazai, been betrayed over and over and over again? Would he have ever gotten involved with the Port Mafia at all?

Violence begets violence and he has known nothing but bloodshed, brutality and betrayal for all his short years in this life. Even when he considers the concept, it’s hard to imagine a life lived in light, out of the shadows, away from the criminal underworld. The idea is almost alien. His name has been known for years, in various forms by various agencies, but known just the same.

To become just another face in the crowd? Some part of him rejects it.

Still he can enjoy his time here, bask in the quiescent balance between heart and mind and soul, the reliance on his own strength, his own body, his own power – not something borrowed from the claws of a calamity made corporeal, waiting for him to stumble, to relinquish that fine thread of control.

The choker still sits as a tight reminder around his neck.

He should have known better, should have realised that the moment he found peace, found routine, it would be ripped away. He is Mafia after all: the blood of a thousand enemies stain his soul. He doesn’t deserve peace.

~ ~ ~

The small, strangely placed, out-of-town business park, flanked on one side by what must be a recent housing development appears to have escaped the notice of both the air raids and the firestorm, for now at least.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Chuuya asks, coming to the end of his patience as Dazai taps his thigh for what feels like the millionth time to signal he wants to stop the excruciatingly slow crawl yet again - he’s pretty sure they could have fucking walked here faster than this. “We’ve inspected plenty of houses now, can’t you just pick one and be done with it?!”

Dazai’s fingers squeeze a little tighter and Chuuya tries to ignore the spike of heat in his blood that the touch causes, knowing the bastard is probably doing it just to cause a reaction. The same way that the taller man suddenly crowds against him, leaning forwards to murmur softly next to his ear, “An intact perimeter, a decent view of the surrounding area, no sign of other occupants and…” he pauses, clearly for dramatic effect and Chuuya rolls his eyes and huffs in irritation.

“And what?” he hates the fact that his own voice comes out a little breathy, that the hair on the back of his neck is prickling as Dazai’s soft exhales fan across his skin.

“An unconverted attic space.” Dazai practically whispers the words into the side of his throat and Chuuya is left blinking stupidly for a moment because how can such inane words leave him feeling breathless and overwhelmed. It’s stupid. So fucking stupid.

“…What?” he croaks, his thoughts successfully scattered to the four winds as teeth nip his jaw in admonishment.

When Dazai slips off the back of the bike it leaves Chuuya feeling annoyed and slightly chilled, with the cold wind now pressing into the space left behind, running icy fingers up his back and chasing that residual warmth into a distant memory. He shivers, shaking off the strange sensation and kicking the stand out before climbing off the bike himself to round on the bastard, who is eyeing him with ill-concealed amusement.

“An attic space, Chuu-ya~” he cants his head to one side, “do try to keep up.”

“Maybe if you explained for once in your life rather than all the enigmatic bullshit!” he practically growls the words as he pushes himself into Dazai’s space and instantly hates the fact that he has to look up to level the bastard with a glare. It doesn’t stop him from winding his fingers through dark hair and yanking the idiot down to his level.

He hears the moment when Dazai’s breathing halts, watches dark eyes blink once, twice in shock which quickly morphs into something darker and almost anticipatory. He presses forwards, further, closer, until their lips just barely brush.

“Wanna try that again, asshole?” he murmurs, never breaking eye contact even as he shoves the taller man away, licking his lower lip and almost grinning with satisfaction as that possessive gaze follows every movement.

When Dazai steps forwards reaching out a hand as if to pull Chuuya back to him, he moves smoothly backwards, shaking his head. The action leaves Dazai pouting at him, hand still extended into empty air and Chuuya might have felt something other than gratification (perhaps even a little sorry) if he didn’t know this was just another one of his ex-partner’s many ploys in his games of manipulation – of which Chuuya has always been one of his more frequent and favoured targets.

“So mean, Chuuya,” Dazai practically whines, and Chuuya can see the way he allows his shoulders to slump a little in feigned dejection, “how do you expect me to function when faced with this.”

“With what exactly?” Chuuya raises an eyebrow, knows he shouldn’t fall into the trap of playing these little games of back and forth, but he can’t help it; sometimes it just feels like he’s stepped back in time.

“All of this!” the bastard has the cheek to widen his eyes in an attempt at looking pathetic as his outstretched arm sweeps an arc indicating Chuuya’s entire body. “You, out here, with me...looking like that!”

Chuuya gives him a flatly unimpressed look, crossing his arms, “Really, that’s all you’ve got?”

Dazai clutches at his chest as if mortally wounded. “Hey, I’ve been sat on the back of that monstrosity for the last however many hours, touching you but not actually touching you and then you tease me! How can you expect me to explain anything adequately after being put through such torture?”

He’s not going to laugh, he’s not damn it. He can feel the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth even as he clicks his tongue in embarrassed exasperation. He’s sure that his smirk, when it appears, is wicked, “Don’t dish it if you can’t take it, Osamu.”

Chuuya is pretty sure he can hear Dazai swallow dryly, is almost unprepared for the speed at which the bastard moves; almost leaping forwards as if the laws of gravity don’t apply to him and honestly that’s kind of irritating right now, considering...but then Dazai has hold of his hips and he feels suddenly grounded.

“Oh?” that rolling, dark hum, coupled with the thumbs currently pressing into his hip bones sends a shiver down his spine, ratcheting already taut muscles to something so rigid he feels like he might snap under the slightest pressure. “Playing dirty now are we?” he’s yanked closer, almost stumbling, suddenly confronted with the fact that he’s pressed against Dazai’s chest and the bastard has the impudent notion to prop his chin on the top of Chuuya’s head and pull him closer still.

It’s Chuuya’s turn to swallow reflexively, a small noise making its way up his dry throat as his hands fly automatically to Dazai’s waist, fingers clutching fabric as Dazai’s thumbs begin to rub maddening circles and part of him wishes the frustrating barrier of clothing would just fucking disappear. And well, that escalated fast.

Dazai’s nose brushes his ear, his lips pressing softly against the corner of his eye, and Chuuya’s feeling pretty pliant under those wandering hands. “We’re looking for an attic space –”

Wait...What?

“I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice, now that we’ve been here a while, Chibi, but zombies can’t climb, they have issues with stairs, so an attic accessed by a ladder is pretty much guaranteed to be a zombie-free zone. We’ll only have to worry about other people, and if we’re careful that shouldn’t be an issue either.”

“Huh?” Chuuya is pretty sure he was supposed to be paying attention, but in his defence, Dazai’s fingers are practically kneading his ass through his pants and it’s distracting okay?

Dazai’s chuckle is felt more than heard, the sound vibrating through him as lips trail down his neck, teeth scraping against his choker. Any practical thoughts vanish like smoke in the wind as he tips his head back without thinking, feels the curl of Dazai’s smile against his skin. Then the bastard’s mouth is back at his ear, “Don’t start something you can’t finish, Chuu-ya~”

For a split second Chuuya very much wants to punch the smile from the bastard’s stupid face, because now he’s not only irritated, but hot and bothered and entirely unsatisfied with the present proceedings. Then the fact occurs to him, that whilst Dazai has been using Chuuya’s first name since the day they first fucking met, as a way to belittle him, to mock him, to dismiss him as unimportant...then, later out of habit, some lingering sense of connection – Chuuya can’t even begin to pick apart the bastard’s reasons for doing the things he does – but, well, the same can’t be said for him. Chuuya very rarely uses Dazai’s given name (can’t actually remember the last time he did, the last few moments notwithstanding), has seen the effect it has on him. And, well, if they’re playing dirty.

He pulls himself up onto his toes, hating the fact that he fucking has to, to be anywhere close to eye level with the lanky, suicidal freak who just happened to grow even taller in the four stupid years since their partnership...rivalry...whatever it was...went up in flaming ruins. He pauses for long seconds, just holding that dark gaze, revelling just a little in having the whole of Dazai’s attention, zombie apocalypse and psychotic murderer cults be damned. When he lets himself speak, it’s with sin and promise dripping from every murmured syllable.

“Oh, I assure you, Osamu, I can finish,” he purrs Dazai’s name, drawing it out with his tongue and watching Dazai’s eyes widen at the clear intent in his words. He lets his hands dip down, running up under Dazai’s shirt to press into the spaces between his ribs, dragging blunt nails across sensitive skin. Dazai’s own hands are pulling him even closer, as if he’d love nothing more than to drag Chuuya into his very skin and they’re touching from chest to thigh, pressed together in a way that both pleases him and makes him lose his breath, his coherence and any sense of decorum.

Except…

Except now he has a point to prove.

He lets his lips ghost above Dazai’s, the whisper of a kiss, more imagined than felt; barely there and gone in a fleeting fraction of a second. His fingers trace delicate patterns across the dip and rise of rib and waist, the movement of breath beneath his palms short and sharp and so so satisfying. When he angles his hips forward, feeling the answering of his own lust pressed against him, he knows he’s won, watches eyes spark red as if lit with a dark, all-consuming flame.

“Now, what were you saying about attics?” He pulls away as he speaks, his own voice over-rough and dipping into something dangerously like regret. The empty air rushing to fill the space between them feels frigid compared to the sudden loss of heat and contact. Still, the discomfort might have been worth it, if only for the look on Dazai’s face.

“Chuuyaaaa you’re so mean!”

Chuuya’s laughter rolls from him in a smoky wave, full and genuine and maybe he regrets teasing Dazai, just a little, since now they’re both going to be suffering the effects, but the idiot is watching him with something like awe and it makes the dull prospect of breaking into houses, dispatching zombies, climbing ladders and inspecting attics just a little more bearable.

~ ~ ~

When the first shot comes, neither of them is prepared.

They’re three houses deep into this little adventure and so far have turned up little of any practical use. A few battered tins, a coat that’s far too big for either of them, but thick and fur-lined and potentially useful (even if it does smell a little suspect), and a small carton of long-life milk is about the peak of their scavenging for today. It’s a little concerning, how supplies are becoming steadily more scarce, dwindling along with the number of buildings suitable for habitation, now that the towns, the city and even some smaller villages have been put to the torch.

He suspects that the majority of items worth carrying off have already been picked over by people much like themselves; whether they are part of a larger group, or attempting to survive in twos and threes, flitting like ghosts between those places still left standing, trying to keep one step ahead of the military and the firestorm that comes in its wake. Not that Chuuya believes the military, or the government, or whoever is potentially ordering this purging intends on the wholesale murder of the general populace, but trust between the people and the politicians is always a tenuous relationship at best, ever balancing on the knife-point of lies and silver-tongued promises. The people of this country - those still hiding out amidst the decimation of what was once their homes, the ones who haven’t sought shelter or service – they have been betrayed by the very people who should have protected them, and now, all they have left to rely on is the kill or be killed mentality of a survivor.

Survivors have no room for decency, for morality, for compassion.

When the first shot comes, neither of them is prepared.

There’s an itchy feeling crawling beneath his skin, a prickling at the back of his neck that shifts his movements instinctively into something quick and precise, he is used to being the predator and this creeping sensation of being observed doesn’t fit with the image he has built himself upon. Being watched isn’t something new, he’s intimately familiar with the lingering caress of eyes across those parts of himself he bares for the world to see. Sometimes it leaves a residual thrill running through his veins, sometimes it freezes like ice through his blood, curdling in his gut, very rarely does it feel like a threat, coursing through his heart like a frantic bird, bursting into flight at the cry of a hawk.

He writes it off as a state of jittery tension, a byproduct of the constant state of exhaustion they are driving themselves to, the forced over-alertness of body and mind day after endless day. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s jumped at shadows – good instincts he may have, but even he isn’t infallible.

When the first shot comes, neither of them is prepared.

It comes from above; a crack like thunder in the split second before the asphalt just before Dazai’s feet explodes in a shower of black shards.

“Dazai!” Chuuya’s moving before his brain even finishes processing what’s happening, his body lunging forwards to ram into Dazai’s side, unbalancing the taller man and sending him in a jagged sideways stumble as another shot rings out, hitting the place where Dazai had been just a fraction of a second before.

There’s no time to think, no time to plan, no time to do anything but grab Dazai’s wrist in one hand as he draws his own gun from his belt. Cocking the hammer he aims the pistol blindly in the direction he judges the gunfire to have originated from, pulling the trigger once, twice, thrice as he drags them both backwards, eyes searching for cover even as he falls into the familiar pattern of dodge and twist and weave, making their retreat as erratic as possible to prevent their hidden gunman from getting any kind of easy target.

“Two o clock, seventy-three degrees. Window.” comes Dazai’s clipped voice as Chuuya continues to drag him back along the street towards where they’d left the bike. Chuuya hums an affirmative, lifts the pistol and twists his body. He doesn’t bother pausing to take the time to breathe and aim, doesn’t want to give their attacker any time to retaliate, instead he trusts to Dazai’s judgement, fires off another two shots and continues to move.

Another bullet ricochets from the wall to their left, on a completely different trajectory line than that of their initial adversary and Chuuya spits out curses as chunks of brick - small and hard enough to act as tiny bullets themselves – hit his torso and leave stinging brands of pain to sink into his flesh. Two more shots follow, neither finding their mark but both coming from opposite directions.

They’re surrounded.

“Fuck!” Chuuya hisses, positioning himself in front of Dazai, out of instinct, out of habit...he’d been that idiot’s human shield for the gods know how many years; conditioned to it like the dog Dazai so loved to liken him to at every opportunity, back in those days. Chuuya, the unconquerable sword and shield, nothing more than an inanimate object of power to be used with Dazai as his wielder. Instincts...habits like that...they’re hard to break, even when Chuuya knows he no longer has the power of For the Tainted Sorrow lingering at his fingertips to stop bullets in their tracks.

Dazai grumbles something that sounds suspiciously offensive, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and hauling him backwards into an alleyway. Pressed against the wall with the pack digging mercilessly into his shoulders, Chuuya pauses to catch his breath, checking the chamber of his gun (only five rounds left), and daring a quick assessment of their surroundings before squaring his shoulders in resignation, “This is a dead end.”

“Yes. That’s why they set up the ambush to force us in this direction.” Dazai’s eyes lift, scanning the buildings on either side before his mouth tips into a smile, “Ah, but apparently they didn’t scout out their plan too well.” He gestures almost imperiously to a door set into a narrow alcove a few feet further into the gloom. “If you would, Chibi?”

Dazai calmly removes his own gun from his inside pocket, flicking the safety on and off idly as he takes up position close to the mouth of the alley, preparing to offer covering fire if necessary. Chuuya finds it a little odd that the group (whoever they are) haven’t continued to pepper them with bullets in the hopes that one of them will find their mark.

“They’re being careful, they must be as hard up for ammunition as we are. Herding us into this alley so that we can be picked off more easily.” the bastard apparently plucks the thought right out of his head in that disgustingly eerie way of his.

“Fucking creepy mind reader.” Chuuya grumbles, examining the door for a few short seconds before deciding that subtlety is not currently in their best interests.

One well-placed kick has the door slamming back on its hinges with a loud bang as the locking mechanism shatters under the force of Chuuya’s booted foot. His grin is something savage as he turns to find Dazai’s focus still fixed on the street beyond their alley.

“Clear the room and find something to bar the door behind us. I’ll run cover.” the asshole calls cheerily back to him without shifting his attention. Chuuya flips him off silently but shifts immediately into motion.

The room beyond the door is vast and cast into forlorn shadow, the small windows lining the outer wall all covered by blackout blinds. Chuuya drops the pack to one side and fishes the torch from it’s side pocket, clicking it on before putting it between his teeth to leave both of his hands free should he be confronted by yet another enemy. The room appears empty, save for another door at the opposite end, rows upon rows of chairs, and, a large desk situated in front of what looks like a massive projector screen. A meeting room perhaps? Or a lecture hall? Either way, there’s no sign of anything, living or dead, that might prove to be a problem to their continued existence in this fucked up reality.

He drags the desk to the door, wishing – not for the first time, probably not for the last – that his stupid Ability worked in this stupid world. Damn but right now he’d even consider putting up with the ever-shifting weight of Arahabaki bearing down upon his flesh, his bones, his soul if he could just be wrapped in the warmth and protection of For the Tainted Sorrow once more.

He lets out a shrill, lilting whistle, poised behind the desk as Dazai skids through the door, slamming it shut behind him to the sound of a suddenly desperate spray of bullets flying in the space behind him. Chuuya shoves his weight and his strength against the desk, jamming it firmly against the door and beginning to pile those chairs not bolted firmly to the floor haphazardly on top and around the structure, creating a precariously balanced work of art that’s almost guaranteed to cause injury to whoever happens to be unlucky enough to get through his blockade.

Still, they don’t have much time.

“So are we going to find some defensible position to fight from?” he prods, grabbing the forgotten pack and following Dazai, who is already making his way across the floor, “or did you have something else in mind?”

“I have no intention of engaging in useless, dangerous confrontations when we have nothing to gain, Chuuya.” comes the smug reply, almost enough to make him grind his teeth in annoyance, “We’re heading for the roof.”

“Ugh, you can’t be serious?!” Chuuya snaps back, instantly picking up on Dazai’s ‘plan’.

The bastard only smiles blithely at him. “You’ve always loved the pretty picture you make, leaping from building to building like some kind of vengeful antihero, Chuuya, you can’t deny it~ don’t tell me you’re scared?”

It’s true, no matter how embarrassing it might be to admit it, and he never will in front of that bastard - not with his dying breath – he has always appreciated the joy and the beauty of the world from the top of a building, being able to throw himself from a ledge only to float gently down to safety, or run across the roofs like the kinds of ninjas you only read about in manga. Imagining the people down below - swarming about their lives like the industrious little ants they are - turning their heads up to the sky to see his silhouette passing across the moon.

So he’s a bit of a romantic and he enjoys the aesthetic it presents. Who cares?

Now...now he can only imagine one misstep or misplaced foot leading to him plummeting to his death. Of the two of them, Dazai is the only one who willingly hangs himself over a ledge and yearns for the drop, for the fall, for the end. Chuuya only ever wanted to fly.

“I’m not scared.” he snarls out anyway, the rejection of any kind of weakness automatic, ingrained.

“Then there’s no problem?” Dazai hums in reply, inspecting the door leading further into the building and finding it locked. Instead of breaking it down, Chuuya is left to tap his foot impatiently, directing the thin beam of the torch downwards as the idiot picks the mechanism into releasing its grip upon the frame in mere seconds.

As Dazai pulls the door open just a crack, they both hold their breaths.

Only the all-consuming darkness greets them, an impenetrable wall of black, within which all the horrors of the universe could conceal themselves utterly and completely.

Chuuya flashes the light of the torch through the gap, it’s pitiful beam striving to encompass a space too large for the weak rays to properly illuminate.

From the darkness, shadows of pitch loom, spurred suddenly to motion by the presence of light and the heartbeat of living souls. From the darkness the wet-rattle rasp of blood-choked lungs drawing useless air into a snarl of sound. From the darkness the creatures of nightmare, made from the dead skin and flesh and bones of corrupted humanity, pour forth in a shambling wave.

“Back!” Chuuya hisses, dropping the pack once more and throwing the door wide as he blocks Dazai with his body.

“How many?” Dazai asks, his tone laced more with boredom than with concern.

“Ten? Twelve maybe...it’s hard to tell in the dark.” Chuuya shrugs, drawing back but keeping the torch trained on the only entrance to the room. “If we draw them all in here, give them a run around the room and then slip out, we can lock the door behind us and give our friends out in the alley something to think about when they make it through the door.”

The dull thud of something colliding with the door leading to the alley punctuates his words like a bad omen.

“How very calculating of you, Chuuya. I thought you didn’t like murdering innocent civilians?” from what little he can see of Dazai’s features in the semi-darkness of the room, he can still hear the wry smile in his voice.

“They’re hardly innocent when they threw the first punch,” he responds flatly, “you should know, better than most, that anyone who messes with me gets hit back a hundred times harder.”

There’s a distinct huff of a chuckle as Dazai replies, “Very well, Executive-san~ we shall carry out your barbaric and ruthless plan!”

“Better get the fuck out of the way then, or you’re gonna end up as zombie food in about five seconds.” he catches a glimpse of Dazai sticking his tongue out as the idiot pulls his own torch from his coat, and slips away from the door like mist – too thin and transparent to ever be caught by such greedy and grasping fingers.

The only light comes from the bouncing glare of the two torches, casting flickering strobe lights to dance confusing shadows across the walls as they run in confounding circles, both taking up positions at opposite ends of the wide room to give themselves space to move without fear of getting in each other’s way. The only sound comes from the obnoxious clamour of the undead, clattering and clanging, crawling and moaning, incessantly loud, jerky motion, full of erratic movement and poor coordination. The only thoughts in his head are the ones concentrated on his own survival, with Dazai at the periphery of his mind, a buzzing static fuzz that won’t leave him alone – running on that familiar spiked adrenaline and the rush of danger, the thrill of the chase that he cannot let himself become lost in.

They weave in and out of the rows of chairs, making use of the obstacles the room has so generously seen fit to provide for them, slowing the reaching, rotting, restless hands that claw and curl and creep; always straining, always yearning, always desperate to dig into human flesh, to abate that driving hunger that forces putrid flesh to rise and contort into unwilling movement again and again. The gross pretence of life beneath moulding, rancid flesh, the glassy stare from eyes long lost to the light of vitality, the animal noises of rage and famine ripped from collapsed airways – all of it makes him shudder, makes his face twist into a snarl as he bares his own teeth in return: a challenge, a warning, a promise.

The dance of evasion goes on for minutes that stretch into aeons as more of the damnable creatures shuffle and thrust and barge their way through the door to join their brethren in a straggling pathetic line. He feels like the pied piper of corpses and laughs at the absurd concept, the sound ringing in the empty space like a tolling bell to the death of his own limited patience.

Dazai’s whistle rings out across the space between them, and if Chuuya hadn’t been a little less occupied with vaulting over rows of chairs, he’d have yelled at the bastard for whistling him to his side like some kind of sheepdog. Balancing on the back of one chair to skip gracefully to the next, he quickly leaves the undead floundering in the maze of rows behind him, scrabbling and clawing their way uselessly forwards in an attempt to bulldoze their way mindlessly through the obstructions keeping them from their prey.

They make it through the door without much difficulty, the animated corpses still flailing jerkily in an aborted attempt to reach them even as the door slams shut, sealing them in the room: a lovely welcome gift for their pursuers to deal with.

He leaves Dazai to fiddle with the lock, trusting that the idiot is more than able to deal with anything that might make an attempt at a bid for freedom. Casting a quick glance this way and that, he comes to the conclusion that they are, indeed, in a hallway of some kind, with various doors leading to other sections of the building and what looks to be a stairwell at the far end. The corridor is blessedly empty of any more undead denizens, filled with nothing but dust-flecked gloom and the lingering sickly-sweet stench of decay. Confident that they’re unlikely to be ambushed – at least for now – he pauses for long enough to rip two wooden picture frames from the wall, some kind of pastel sunset scenes streaked across in bold purples and oranges which might actually be pretty were it not for the bloodstains smearing the glass and seeping into the wood. Taking these back to where Dazai is still fiddling with the door, he drops them unceremoniously to the floor, revelling in the slight jerk the asshole gives as the glass shatters on impact. Using the heel of his boot, Chuuya wedges the frames into the gap between the base of the door and the floor, driving the wood into a space too tight for it to fit comfortably and creating a makeshift wedge and sealing the door shut.

“Locking a door is so much more tedious than picking it.” Dazai sighs morosely, even as the mechanism re-engages with a click and he pulls out the mangled hairpin, stowing it carefully back in his pocket and patting the fabric affectionately. “All clear?”

“From what I can tell.” Chuuya shrugs, “I’m not exactly eager to go snooping around to find more of those zombie fuckers unless we have to.” Dazai nods in quiet agreement as he heads for the stairs, Chuuya following in his wake. He wonders - as they begin to ascend - whether he’s just condemned their adversaries to a terrible, protracted un-death, shoves the thoughts away with an audible click of his tongue, it’s useless to think about such things, they fired first, they deserve everything they get. There’s no room for sentimentality here. Only self-preservation.

He wonders if that ‘survivor mentality’ is beginning to get to him. Would he feel the same, if it was real people down there? Just normal, ordinary citizens forced to live through such horror, fighting to validate their own existence? Would he, Port Mafia Executive - creature of shadow and night and might - turn into such a soulless demon were this harrowing tale to play out in his own beloved city? He likes think that his own sense of moral compass (skewed though it may invariably be), duty and loyalty would remain intact, that he would at least try to maintain order in the city, in the way that only the Mafia can under such circumstances.

Still...there are doubts.

“Chibi needs to stop thinking so loudly,” Dazai whines suddenly, loud enough to derail Chuuya’s thoughts and jump him back to the present almost literally, “it’s giving me a headache.”

“Well, your whining is giving me a headache, bastard, so I guess we’re even.” Chuuya grumbles back, though he’s maybe just a little grateful for the interruption to his spiralling thoughts, he must be spending too much time with only Dazai for company, to become so morbidly introspective over something so simple as taking out the trash.

The building is only four floors high. On the landing of the third floor, in the small space between one flight of stairs and the next, they find three sad and lonely vending machines, obviously used by whatever staff this building employed and its clients, a way to extort money from starving individuals in exchange for that hit of sugar or caffeine when finally breaking free from a monotonous meeting.

The coffee machine is a bust, nothing in there is going to be worth the precious seconds required to open the damn thing up, even if the temptation of caffeine is singing a siren song through his blood. The other two machines are more promising – the first is one of the old-style glass-fronted units, displaying a somewhat forlorn selection of snacks that still make Chuuya’s mouth water; the second a drink dispenser, whose contents are hidden behind the once-bright plastic exterior.

With quick efficiency, Chuuya pries the drink dispensing unit open using the head of his axe, slamming through the locking mechanisms until the refrigeration unit swings wide, revealing nothing more than a few lonely cans, a couple of juice cartons and a handful of bottles of water. Still, something is better than nothing, Chuuya’s not going to complain when supplies are becoming more scarce by the day. Next to him, the crashing tinkle of shattering glass belies Dazai’s actions in gaining access to the second unit. They barely pause to look at what they’re taking, shoving everything into their single pack as best they can before Chuuya hauls it over his shoulder once more (the stupid thing weighs a tonne) and they’re sprinting up the final flights of stairs which lead them out onto the roof.

He steps out onto a wide, flat expanse, completely exposed to the elements, devoid of anything save for a few lawn chairs and scattered with the ends of cigarettes; obviously it was once used as an escape by staff wanting to take a sneaky break. The buildings on both sides boast identical flat roofs, the structures themselves an exact mirror image of the one they are currently standing on, probably down to the last brick.

Dazai is already inspecting the edge. Chuuya tries to inject calm confidence into his steps, though he can already feel his nerves sparking to life to bite the first hits of jittery adrenaline back into tense limbs.

“It’s only eight feet or so, Chibi, you can make that blindfolded with your legs tied together.” Dazai doesn’t even turn his head to look at him as he speaks, still measuring the distance with a practised, calculating eye. Chuuya hates that the bastards thinks he needs to hear some kind of fucking reassurance, like he doesn’t already know he can make the jump without falling to his fucking death. Try explaining that to his suddenly racing heart.

Chuuya is still resolutely refusing to look down when something flies past him and he jumps backwards reflexively, only to watch Dazai sailing with some weird lanky grace across the gap, landing with perfect ease on the opposite side. Spinning on his heel with all the flamboyance of a ballet dancer performing a perfect pirouette, the asshole has the gall to flash him a wide smile.

“Toss the pack over first, at least then if you fall and break your neck it wont be in vain~” he sing-songs cruelly.

That goading, mocking, irritating tone is all Chuuya needs to push him forwards. He throws the cumbersome pack at Dazai’s head, spitting curses as the bastard catches it by the shoulder straps with an airy laugh. Then he’s moving, backing up careful, measured paces until he judges the distance adequate. Pushing his body into a dead run, he keeps his feet, his mind, his eyes forward, hits the edge and flies.

A, “Ha!” of slightly delirious joy is ripped from his throat as he soars through the air like some overlarge bird, coat flaring behind him in a manner so familiar it makes his heart squeeze when he reflexively tries and fails to reach out to For the Tainted Sorrow, no longer singing through his soul to offer him freedom from the shackles the ground chains around the ankles of humanity. No, he is as much as slave to gravity as any man now. Still, he floats as if it has no hold upon him, not now, in this split-second moment.

His feet hit the ground and toss him back to reality with a resounding thud. He stumbles, caught off guard for a moment by the unexpected weight of his own body, arms thrown out for balance even as he staggers to collapse against Dazai’s chest.

Thin, bandaged arms wrap around his waist.

Dazai’s voice purrs in his ear, “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it? In fact, you looked quite beautiful without all of the angry yelling and chunks of rock which usually accompanies you flying through the air, hatrack.” Chuuya stamps on his foot in retaliation.

Dazai makes him jump across three more fucking buildings before he’s satisfied that they’ve created enough distance between themselves and their pursuers.

Chuuya curses him silently all the way down to ground level. Shoves his knife through the eye socket of an unfortunate corpse lingering in the lobby with far more force than necessary. The skull cracks underneath the pressure, spewing congealed blood and brain matter to the plush carpeted floor. Chuuya’s lip curls in distaste.

Of their pursuers, there is no sign.

Chuuya tries to bury the twinge of guilt that nips at his thoughts.

~ ~ ~

It takes far too long – in Chuuya’s estimation – for Dazai to find a building that meets his frankly ridiculous specifications. In the end, it’s a farmhouse which he declares adequate for their purposes, set out in the middle of nowhere, deserted and desolate yet strangely quaint in a sort of tumbledown way which takes the idiot’s fancy, and, by luck or design, boasts both a basement and an attic.

By the time they’ve cleared their newest safe house of stinking, half-rotten, still-living corpses; barricaded all of the entry and exit points save for the front door and one window (which now looks like it’s barricaded but is actually just cleverly hinged, making a useful escape point should they be attacked with overwhelming numbers – not likely, but not impossible either) in such a way that there doesn’t appear to be anything amiss from the outside, just the usual blinds shuttering the rooms beyond from view; hauled all of the necessary shit from the RV, up two flights of stairs and a ladder into the loft space to pack it neatly on the far side, hopefully out of sight and the possibility of discovery from anyone else trying to pick through the bare bones of what this stricken world has left to offer...by the time all that is done, the day is almost over, the sun beginning its final descent upon the horizon.

Time is running away with them. It hasn’t escaped his notice that the days are getting shorter, the nights beginning to wax long and endless. There’s a chill settling in the air now, a cold that creeps into his bones, sapping his strength to leave him exhausted and irritable under multiple layers of clothing. They are over halfway into this nightmare now, but the long, warm, easy days...those are fading rather quickly to memory.

“We’d better head back if we want to get back to the boat before dark,” that idiot has apparently taken up mind reading as a hobby again, “unless you want to spend another night sleeping in the cave, Chibi?” the suggestive smirk betrays Dazai’s next words before he even utters them, “Not that I’d be totally adverse to waking up with a Chuuya pillow, but it wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep.”

“Oi, you already use me as a pillow every night, damn clingy octopus bastard,” Chuuya grumbles back, already checking the locks on the door to the house, giving the place a quick once-over to make sure it still looks as suitably abandoned as it had when they’d first arrived and scuffing the remnants of their footprints from the dirt. It’s true, even though the idiot barely sleeps more than a few hours, when he does succumb to the normal human requirement for rest he inevitably ends up spread out and tangled up in Chuuya in ways he can’t even fathom, and, when Dazai has him wrapped up in arms and legs and body – so close it’s hard to tell where one of them ends and the other begins – it’s almost impossible to escape. Not that Chuuya ever really tries all that hard – he doesn’t actually want to wake Dazai when the idiot is asleep after all.

“Ah, but Chuuya, you make the best little spoon! You’re so small,” Chuuya is about to snap at the bastard for making height jokes, but Dazai’s voice dips to something low and pleasing, “you fit perfectly beneath me.”

Chuuya hides the blush that flares across his face by turning with an inarticulate grumble of feigned irritation and walking away. He’s not doing this again.

~ ~ ~

“Chuuya!” the sharpness of Dazai’s voice cuts into his consciousness, throwing him to wakefulness so fast it’s a little disorienting. He’s bolt upright with a knife in his hand before his eyes have fully opened.

What he finds is...nothing.

Just Dazai, leaning over the steering column, the RV stopped in the middle of one of the few passable backroads which lead in the general direction of their cove, though he cannot perceive any immediate threat. Rubbing a hand across his face, he gives up on squinting out of the window and turns to the idiot beside him instead, managing to grunt out a, “What?” without sounding like he’s still half-asleep.

“Over there, look!” Dazai waves one hand to indicate some vague direction to the left and, try as he might, Chuuya cannot pick anything out-of-place in the evening’s golden shades.

“It’s a field,” he huffs, not in the mood for Dazai’s guessing games right now, he just wants to get back to the boat and wrap himself in a blanket on the sofa, “we’ve passed by a thousand of them before.”

“You’re not looking, Chuu-yaaaa~” the asshole has the audacity to chirp at him.

“Then tell me what I’m supposed to be seeing, shitty Dazai, because all I see is a field full of fucking weeds!”

Dazai’s eyes, when they turn to him, are full of something that looks weirdly like excitement. “They’re not weeds, Chibi, they’re potatoes!”

Chuuya blinks, wondering if perhaps he’d been bitten by something poisonous earlier in the day and now he’s experiencing some weird kind of hallucination. “Potatoes?” he repeats dumbly, looking from Dazai to the overgrown field and back again, “Potatoes…” he says again, flatly, “how could you possibly know that?”

Dazai’s eyes go flat, as if he’s remembering something harrowing. “Trust me, Chuuya, spend two months working in an office with Kenji-kun and you’ll know more about cows and potatoes than you ever wanted to.”

“Straw-hat kid?” Chuuya hums as Dazai nods, recalling the youngster who’d been so enamoured by his Ability in the tunnels what seems like an age ago. The boy had been naive and wholly out of place, even compared to the other oddballs of the Detective Agency. “I don’t think I want to know anything about cows or potatoes.”

Dazai heaves an entirely fake put-upon sigh, “Exactly.” he brightens immediately, gesturing once more to the field, “however, right now, that knowledge is serving us well.”

“Hah?”

“You don’t want to eat something other than plain rice or ramen for a change, Chibi? Mashed potatoes, boiled potatoes, stewed potatoes…chips?” Dazai is already out of his chair, practically flying to the bathroom as Chuuya stares after him incredulously.

“Are you seriously quoting Lord of the Rings at me right now? Badly I might add.” he fights to keep the smile on his face from filtering into his voice.

A loudly gasped,“Oh Chuuya, you wound me,” is Dazai’s dramatic response as he reemerges from the bathroom, triumphantly brandishing a bucket.

Chuuya can only shake his head, wondering what his life has become...that he...the gravity manipulator Nakahara Chuuya, should be about to stand around in a field, close to dusk, digging weed-choked potatoes out of the ground.

If only the Port Mafia’s enemies could see it’s most feared Executive right now. If only Ane-san could see him right now (she would be horrified – by the dirt on his clothes, the tangles in his hair, not to mention the traitor whose bed he’s sharing every night). The thought makes him bark out a laugh, which in turn causes Dazai to look at him strangely.

He waves the other off with one flippant hand. “Bring the shovel, idiot. If these are a poisonous, I’m going to kill you.”

Dazai blinks slowly at him, “Exactly how many poisonous potato varieties do you think there are?” the asshole mutters sarcastically as he practically bounces through a gap in the hedge and out into the field.

Chuuya flips him off behind his back – not for the first time today - hears Dazai snort and knows that the bastard knows what he’s doing, despite not even looking in his direction. “You’re the potato expert, you tell me.”

~ ~ ~

It’s almost completely dark by the time they make it back to the yacht, the pillars of craggy, weather-worn stone looming out of the water like rough-hewn guardians, barely visible in the descending gloom of night. They almost crash headlong into one as a particularly violent wave tosses their small tender sideways as it crests a swell, throwing it off course and missing the huge rock by a matter of inches.

The weather has definitely been taking a turn for the worse lately. The thought of abandoning their little floating home, the safety of the ocean vast and empty on all sides, cocooning them in their own little world, secure and mostly unbothered by the collapse of the world around them...it’s worrying. The thought gnaws at his brain, taking root in the dark recesses and growing like a weed, grafting a faint sense of dread upon his bones every time the two of them leave their little cove to hunt for more supplies, more safe houses, more routes to lead them closer to their goal.

He always has the creeping feeling that one day they’re going to return here and the yacht wont be waiting for them, silent and welcome, bobbing gently upon the waves.

For now, sitting in the living quarters with a plate full of freshly mashed potatoes and the canned mackerel he had pulled out of the cupboard (much to Dazai’s everlasting disgust), he lets the illusion of safety wrap around them like comfort of a warm blanket, warding off winter’s coming chill. It’s deceptively easy, at times like these - with Dazai beside him chatting animatedly about who even knows what, their legs pressed firmly together beneath the table, despite the fact that the thing is large enough to seat ten people – so easy to delude himself into thinking that their time here will be as endless as the tides.

Chapter Text

When he saunters into Chuuya’s bathroom to find his redhead perched on the toilet seat with a pair of kitchen scissors in one hand and a mirror in the other, Dazai’s first thought is that perhaps he’s finally dipped out of sanity altogether.

“Chibi? What are you doing?” he asks hesitantly as Chuuya looks up at the intrusion. His redhead frowns, brandishing the scissors and gesturing towards his own head.

“Cutting my hair, idiot, what does it look like?”

“Why on earth would you want to do that?” the words are out of his mouth before he even has time to think about what he’s saying. He wonders if his face looks as horrified as he feels in this instant, his well-polished masks seem to have given up the proverbial ghost around Chuuya, as if they have gained their own sentience and made an executive decision that keeping themselves in place is no longer worthwhile. Considering the undeniable fact that the small, annoying, determined hatrack can seemingly punch through them at will and leave him attempting to pick up the scattered pieces, he can’t say he disagrees.

“It’s getting long –” Chuuya begins, dragging a portion of his hair over one shoulder to make a point, the strands curling around his neck in creeping tendrils to fall artfully down his upper chest. “It gets in the way, it’s a pain in the ass to keep clean, it takes ages to dry, it gets knotted and tangled as soon as I set foot outside.”

“No.” he takes a step forwards, further into the tight confines of the small cabin bathroom on the bottom deck, close enough to whip out a hand and snatch the scissors from Chuuya’s surprised and thus unrelenting fingers.

The Mafioso blinks at him in bemused confusion. “Oi, what are you doing? What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I’m not letting you butcher your hair, Chibi~” he sing-songs, holding the scissors above his head as a now irate Chuuya attempts to swipe them back without success.

The tiny redhead rears back in affront at Dazai’s words, eyes narrowed and mouth open until he finally shrieks, “Butcher?! What do you mean, butcher! I’m quite capable of cutting my own hair, bastard, I’ve done it before!”

As always, Chuuya presents him with far too easy a target to pass up. “Ah, so that’s why Chuuya’s hair is always uneven. Hm, I guess you are too short to look into the mirror properly.” Well, that explains a lot, though Dazai happens to know that Chuuya often frequents the most expensive salon in Yokohama for a cut and blow dry, paying a disgustingly exorbitant price for what amounts to tidying up a few split ends.

“Take that back asshole! It’s fashion, not that you would know anything about that even if it hit you in the fucking face, vagabond. Lots of people compliment my hair!” Chuuya’s fingers are running absently through the long strands now, curling a lock around his finger when it gets snagged in a knot and eyeing it with irritation.

“That’s because it’s red and exotic and pretty, not because of the awful styling job, Chuu-ya!” he chirps, expecting his redhead to fire something loud and rude back at him. Instead Chuuya’s face falls. Dazai’s heart absolutely does not fall with it.

“Do you really not like it?” the Mafioso pulls a chunk up to eye level, frowning at it with a look of such dejection, Dazai almost trips over his words.

“Now, now, Chibi...I didn’t say that.” because it’s true – even if he can only admit it to himself – he’s always coveted Chuuya’s hair, a flame incandescent upon his head, almost as loud as his fiery personality, it fits him a little too well, garners him a little too much attention. Cutting it off...that would be a travesty. “I like it like this though.” he blurts out without really thinking.

Chuuya’s blinks at him silently, a slow dip of long lashes, blocking out that vivid blue before they peek at him once more, tiny sapphires amidst a curl of red flame. Ah, he really has taken the jump from sanity’s cliff, waxing poetic in his own stupid skull.

Chuuya’s soft question jolts him back to reality. “Why? It’s annoying.”

Seizing the opportunity to continue teasing Chuuya with both hands, he lets a smile lift his lips, let’s his voice drop to something almost conspiratorial, “Hmmm – maybe it’s because you purr like a cat when I run my fingers through it? Or maybe it’s because you make such beautiful noises when I do this –” stepping into Chuuya’s space, he brushes the loose hair back, smoothing his hand down the length of it before curling his fingers into a tight grip and yanking hard. The sound that bubbles from Chuuya’s throat is part yelp, part hum, part whine and wholly satisfying. “Yes, I think that might be why.”

Blue eyes narrow as Chuuya clicks his tongue and tries to pull back, which only makes Dazai grip harder, tugging more insistently until the redhead is forced to tilt his head back, to unwillingly bare his throat.

Unfortunately he hadn’t been paying close enough attention, evidenced by the fact that Chuuya’s hand sweeps out suddenly to grab the scissors from his grip, grinning even when Dazai retaliates by yanking Chuuya’s head back further. It’s a wonder he doesn’t get a pair of scissors to the gut for his troubles. Small mercies.

Still, he’s lost the upper hand and is left with only a few meagre bargaining chips at his disposal. Loosening his grip, he presses his fingers against Chuuya’s scalp in the way he knows makes his redhead melt. “I’ll give you some of my shower time?” he begins, hopefully.

He can see calculating interest spark momentarily in those ocean depths before it flickers out and Chuuya shakes his head resolutely, “I’m not sleeping with someone who stinks of zombie guts and blood.”

“I’ll wash it for you?” he strokes through the waves of sun-streaked flame, in a gesture almost tender.

“You just want to share the shower, and then neither of us will be clean and the whole endeavour will be a waste of time and water.” Ah, it hurts, but it’s true.

Dazai pouts, dredges up his best kicked-puppy expression and pulls his hand from Chuuya’s head entirely, instead clasping them together in some kind of faux-pious entreaty. “Chuuya, please?”

Chuuya’s expression catches somewhere halfway between amusement and exasperation, twists into something both fond and irritated in equal measures, “You like it long that much, huh?”

Dazai can sacrifice a little of his dignity for the sake of Chuuya’s hair, so he nods with all the solemnity he can muster.

“Ugh, fine, you win, bastard. It’s not like I was going to chop it all off anyway.” Chuuya lets out a grumpy huff even as a smile fights to lift the corners of his mouth. His redhead brandishes the scissors menacingly, the snick-clack as they dance in front of his face a rather ominous accompaniment to the Mafioso’s next words.

“You’re not gonna talk me out of at least tidying it up though. I am fucking tired of looking at all of these fucked up ends. I’d happily murder someone for some decent conditioner.”

Dazai can’t help the snort that pushes its way out, even as he tries to cover his mouth with his hand to prevent its escape, “Chuuya, you’re such a snob.”

The smaller man rounds on him instantly, the scissors dangerously close to poking Dazai on the nose as they’re waved within perilous centimetres of his face. “Don’t you dare say another word, shitty Dazai.” He can feel Chuuya’s eyes crawling across his skin, assessing and instantly dreads what he’s about to hear. “You should let me tidy that mop on your head up too. It’s a wonder you can see anything at all, you’re starting to look like that fucking author who dumped us in here...or perhaps a fluffy spaniel.” his obnoxious redhead smirks and Dazai isn’t sure whether he’s more offended at being likened to the quiet, stuffy author who apparently creates hellscapes for fun, or a damn scruffy mutt.

With a dramatically loud sigh, Dazai resigns himself to his fate.

Three hours later - while Dazai is unquestionably pleased with his reclaimed ability to see without the need to flick his hair out of his eyes every five seconds - every pair of scissors on the yacht have been secreted away from their cupboards, drawers and hooks, stashed safely in a place where Chuuya can neither reach, nor will ever think to look.

Perhaps when they get out of this accursed book, he can convince his Chibi to grow his hair out?

~ ~ ~

They’ve finally made it past the city, though it had taken an irritatingly long time - and more detours than even Dazai had predicted - to make it here. They’ve driven so far outside of their initial mapped route that the area around them is almost on the edge of the more detailed maps they have. The inescapable reality that they’re now going to be forced to spend more time, more fuel, more precious resources, navigating their way back in the correct direction, in an attempt to reach their final destination...well, even thinking about it is exhausting.

Being constantly on edge, constantly alert, constantly turning circles in his already beleaguered mind has Dazai feeling drained even on his better days. There’s a constant low-level headache drumming at the edge of his consciousness; shoved viciously aside to be dealt with later, later, always later, because right now he needs to be awake, aware, ahead of the game.

The city might be behind them, but Dazai is all too aware of what might be lurking in the days ahead.

Their expeditions into the wilderness beyond the sanctity of their cove are becoming longer with every mile they fight so desperately to achieve. Every step fills him with a sense of danger, a sense of dread heavier than the one before. He can almost hear the clock running a countdown somewhere above their heads, ticking down the seconds to their inevitable doom.

Paranoia. It’s an old friend he cannot banish simply with strategies and predictions. It dogs his every waking moment, it haunts his every fractured dream.

The first occasion Dazai’s instincts prickle to wariness is when they pass a small junction on their right and he thinks that maybe he saw a flash of a colour that doesn’t belong, off in the ditch at the side of the road. He doesn’t call Chuuya’s attention to it; they’ve had enough near-miss encounters with both the desperate dregs of society and the infestation of walking corpses, they’ve learned that slowing just creates more of an opportunity, makes them more of a target. Every time he checks the mirrors he sees no sign of pursuit, wondering absently if it was just a scrap of cloth blown by the breeze, or his paranoia playing tricks.

Still, the uneasy feeling lingers.

When they round a sharp bend as the road meanders its way through a patch of woodland, to be confronted by a fallen tree suspiciously blocking their path, Dazai finds himself wishing he’d paid slightly more attention to that cautious paranoia.

The tree is large, branches sticking out in all directions as the trunk lies firmly across the entirety of the road. On either side, deep ditches makes a fast escape into the surrounding woodland an effort in wishful futility.

“Shit,” he hears Chuuya mutter under his breath as the redhead slows the bike to a crawl both of them waiting for the inevitable - Dazai silent and unmoving behind the small redhead save for the slight tightening of his arms around Chuuya’s waist.

Finally Chuuya brings the bike to a complete halt, a short distance from the tree, planting one foot on the ground with a heavy sigh.

“There’s no point making a run back down the road,” Dazai comments, keeping his tone quiet and carefully blank, “they’ll have units covering behind if they have an ounce of sense.”

“Don’t tell me what I already know, asshole.” Chuuya hisses in reply, tucking a few stray strands of hair behind his ear and killing the engine. “I thought I saw something back at that last junction, but –” he shrugs, kicking the stand out and swinging his leg over the seat, stretching his arms over his head and making a display of looking dismayed. Dazai allows his gaze to wander without making it obvious that he’s taking stock of their surroundings, planning possible points of attack and escape as he slides from the back of the bike, slowly making his way to Chuuya’s side.

Three men emerge from the ditch, two on their left – one wielding a baseball bat, the other with his fingers wrapped around the handle of a gun not yet drawn (his first rookie mistake) - the other on their right, a knife held menacingly between meaty fingers. From the undergrowth within the fallen tree, Dazai catches the telltale flash of metal and surmises that a fourth attacker lies concealed within the branches, his weapon already trained on them. Four against two aren’t the worst odds for them, but the possibility of backup arriving at any moment is a nagging worry at the back of his mind. Still, better to deal with the enemies in front of you before being overly concerned about what might come after.

“Well, well, well!” the large man coming in from the right is the one who speaks, his voice menacing in its joviality. All three of their would-be assailants are large rough-looking men who look like they’ve seen better days, and yet, to survive out here one must have a certain wily cunning; or a powerful benefactor. Judging from the method of this particular shakedown, Dazai assesses that the intelligence of the group before them is of no great threat. “What do we have here lads?”

“What we have is nothing of value.” Dazai interjects the large man’s speech, watching small dark eyes narrow in on him with malicious annoyance at being interrupted. He keeps his voice carefully devoid of emotion, moving to take a step in front of Chuuya under the guise of protecting his smaller companion knowing that the less of a threat he can make the redhead appear to be, the more of an advantage it brings. “As you can see, we carry no supplies and have nothing worth your time. So how about you let us turn around and leave without any trouble?”

“Oh, but I beg to differ!” The brutish man is practically leering now, a wide grin on his face as he looks the pair of them up and down and oh...Dazai can make an accurate prediction on what is about to happen next. “We’ll be taking that pretty little bike you see,” Brute laughs, his grin turning salacious as his piggy eyes fix on Chuuya, “and I think we’ll be taking that pretty little girlfriend of yours too!”

He can practically feel Chuuya rolling his eyes, hears the huffed little growl emanating from behind him as Chuuya’s hand presses against the small of his back, indicating that the redhead is fully prepared to take it from here and requesting Dazai’s silence. Dazai cants his head to the side in mute acquiescence, feigning confusion as he widens his eyes and stares exaggeratedly from Brute to Chuuya.

It never ceases to surprise him, how people can allow their eyes to deceive them in such a laughable fashion. That anyone could look at Chuuya and see something delicate and feminine; that they could so stare in such blinkered fashion and notice only the thin waist, the curve of hip and thigh, the long red hair; that they can stand there with Chuuya in full view and not see the lean, whipcord muscle of a fighter shifting beneath a deceptively petite frame, the confidence of restrained power in every movement, the truly, dangerously beautiful form of a man.

The eyes of the stupid see only what they want to see.

“How about it sweetheart?” the large man almost purrs, a sickening sound that has the darkness chained to Dazai’s soul clawing to rip the man’s head from his shoulders for daring to insinuate that he can take what’s his. “We’ll treat a pretty thing like you real good. You don’t need a scrawny scrap like that to take care of you, you need a real man.”

Part of Dazai is wholly offended at being referred to as a ‘scrawny scrap’, though in fairness compared to Mr. Genetically Mutated Muscles over there perhaps it’s not the most unfair comparison, the other part of him is struggling not to laugh or let his mask drop into something amused rather than terrified.

“Oh?” Chuuya steps out from behind Dazai, his voice pitched high as his head tilts to one side, wisps of red hair falling into his face where they have come loose from the high ponytail he’s taken to styling it in to keep it out of his way. “You think I’m pretty?”

“Come with us and we’ll show you just how pretty you are, baby.”

Chuuya makes a show of pursing his lips, blinking wide blue eyes to good effect from Brute across to his companions and finally landing back on Dazai, looking him up and down with a very genuine expression of disdain. Slowly he turns and begins to walk away from Dazai, whose insides are attempting to force their way out and drag Chuuya back to his side where he belongs. The redhead’s hips sway alluringly as he moves, all catlike finesse and sinuous, hypnotising grace and Dazai’s mouth is suddenly dry.

“You think you can take better care of me than Osamu-kun?” Chuuya hums as he reaches the man Dazai has now decided shall be hereby named Brute’s side, running one gloved hand down a thick, muscled arm. Something almost scalding runs through him at the sound of his name rolling off Chuuya’s tongue in that voice. Mercilessly he squashes it down, eyes fixed on his partner’s fingers – four of them, thumb tucked in, the hand by his side forming a quick gesture, there-and-gone – unnoticed by their assailants but read and understood by Dazai as he slowly moves his own hand to the concealed gun at his hip. With all eyes now on Chuuya, his job in the next few seconds is simple: kill the fourth man.

Quickly he shifts his attention to the boughs of the fallen tree, searching out that glint of metal hidden amongst the shifting orange of dead leaves. Sure enough, the concealed assassin has not changed position, though the muzzle of the gun is now directed squarely at Chuuya, Dazai relegated as something less immediately threatening due to proximity. A mistake this assassin will not have the chance to learn from.

“Chuuya-chan!” He calls out, letting dismay colour his tone with a pathetic whine, just to cement himself as weak and not worthy of attention, “What are you saying? You can’t leave me!”

“Shut up squirt!” The thickset man snarls, brandishing the knife in Dazai’s direction with a laugh, “Unless you want me to gut you in front of your girl?” The knife disappears into the man’s filthy shirt as his attention turns back to the redhead, massive hands coming to rest on Chuuya’s waist in a way that could only be called covetous. As Dazai switches his focus back to the face he can now see poised between the branches, from the corner of his eye he watches Chuuya’s posture change the moment Brute’s hands come into contact with his person; his whole body tenses and if the man had any sense whatsoever, he would feel the killing intent radiating from the redhead in waves.

Dazai can tell from the roughness in Brute’s voice that the man is leering as he speaks, “Oh, we’ll take extra good care of you, baby, and have some fun along the way, eh?” Apparently the massive bear of a man is just as stupid as he looks.

“Then, I think I need a demonstration.” Chuuya replies sweetly, his voice light even as he drives his elbow hard into the larger man’s stomach twice in quick succession, doubling Brute over instantly as he retches and gasps.

Dazai doesn’t have time to watch what happens next, withdrawing the gun from his side and lining it up level with his eye, cocking the hammer and pulling the trigger in one smooth motion. The shot cracks, loud and jarring through the air and, a second later, the body of the fourth man tumbles from the tree, a bullet neatly through his skull – falling without any sound other than the sickening crunch of breaking bone as he hits the pockmarked asphalt with a dull thud.

When he turns his attention back to Chuuya, it’s to see the small redhead with his boot pressed against the hulking man’s chest, the body beneath still hacking and wheezing as Chuuya smoothly draws his attackers own knife and crouches over his predator-turned-prey with a smile on his face as he runs the blade along the Brute’s thigh, resting it just below his balls.

The large man stills instantly.

“If you think your friend there is a good enough shot that he can kill me before I castrate you, go ahead. You’ll be dead either way, whether you bleed out from your balls or my partner over there shoots you, makes no difference to me, sweetheart.” Oh but his redhead is a sight to behold like this: full of cocky confidence even with that high pitched, feminine lilt. “Dazai, do something useful and divest these pigs of their weapons.”

“Right away, darling~” Dazai chuckles as Chuuya clicks his tongue in irritation, though his focus never wavers from the man under him for even an instant. Quickly, Dazai strides over to the two would-be assailants now turned unwilling observers to the scene unfolding before them, any plans they might have laid now tossed to the wayside in the face of their supposed ‘leader’ laid flat out by a tiny yet apparently fierce red-haired ‘woman’ they’d assumed would be easy pickings. Removing the bat and handgun from limp fingers, promptly turning the gun upon it’s previous owner. “Please do try to run, shooting at moving targets is far more entertaining for me,” he speaks with a practised flat, cold tone which – he’s been told – sends shivers down the spines of most men, letting a smile that isn’t quite sane settle on his face. The slightly leaner, balding man, now confronted with the loaded barrel of his own weapon stumbles backwards a step and for a moment Dazai wonders if the idiot will actually try to run like a frightened rabbit sprinting from the jaws of a hungry fox.

He’s almost disappointed when the man’s legs collapse from under him, sending him sprawling to his ass on the road, where he sits looking dazed.

Dazai switches his attention back to his redhead, the slightly manic smile quickly replaced by a frown without conscious thought as he witnesses Chuuya swing one leg across Brute’s body so that the small Mafioso’s thighs are stretched wide, straddling the man’s wide expanse of hips. He watches Chuuya press himself against the massive man, the darkness clawing at his throat with jaws spread wide in a possessive snarl of mine even as his redhead leans down, mouth almost caressing the Brute’s ear as he whispers something only the two of them might hear.

In an instant the atmosphere changes, that massive brutish form going suddenly, rigidly still. For a few tense seconds, Dazai thinks Chuuya is about to be thrown forcibly from his position atop the other man, suspects that the only thing stopping that suspicion from becoming a reality is the point of the blade in Chuuya’s hand digging into sensitive flesh. When Chuuya pulls back, maintaining eye contact in the form of a truly unimpressed stare, time seems to pause, a tense stalemate occurring between the two combatants without even the slightest move by either to break first.

Finally the massive man growls something unintelligible, rough and angry as he nods once in acceptance of whatever ultimatum Chuuya must have delivered. With fluid grace, Chuuya moves to his feet, cocking his head in Dazai’s direction in unspoken communication. Obediently Dazai brings the gun to bear in Brute’s direction, more than happy to obey should Chuuya ask him to pull the trigger.

“Come, lads. We’re leavin’,” Brute snarls, staring at Chuuya as he hawks and spits a disgusting glob of phlegm to the road at the redhead’s feet, “ain’t nothing here worth our time.” At his companions incredulous looks he almost barks, his voice echoing through the trees, “Get movin’!”

The nervous balding man and his companion all but scramble to their feet, beating a hasty retreat towards the fallen tree, pulling themselves through the myriad branches and no doubt gaining scratches and bruises in their mindless need for haste.

Brute follows behind more slowly, pausing to lean down next to the fourth man, fingers gripping the barrel of the gun, obviously intent on reclaiming the weapon until the clicking of Chuuya’s tongue makes him freeze. “Leave that where it is. It no longer belongs to you,” the redhead drawls almost lazily, his voice low and quiet, pitched to carry just far enough to be heard.

“If I ever see you again, you’re dead meat.” Brute growls, a parting gesture which would have been more threatening had he not just been thoroughly beaten by a man probably less than half his own bulk.

“Oooh scary~” Dazai sing-songs, no doubt adding insult to injury, “kindly take your threats elsewhere, Chuuya and I have important matters to be getting along with and you’ve already wasted far too much of our time.”

The large man snarls impotently, almost throwing his massive frame at the gripping, grasping branches of the tree, disappearing into the brown and gold, wilting wall of foliage with the crack and snap of a person thoroughly out of place in the wilderness.

They both watch the trees for the next few minutes, listening to the muted sounds of shouting, muffled and distorted by the surrounding guardians of the forest and finally hearing the rumbling of engines before, eventually, silence reigns once again.

Dazai’s focus is drawn back to Chuuya like a moth to the flame it knows will be the ultimate cause of it’s own demise. He watches with something like covetous jealousy as the Mafioso attempts to allow the visible tension to roll from him like a skin he can shed when the mood suits. His shoulders loosen, his posture falling into something almost deceptively relaxed, though those blue eyes still jump unerringly from one thing to the next, sharp with intent, always seeking the next threat.

“Oi, Chibi, stop staring into space and help me with this.” Dazai speaks far too loudly for their proximity and the blanket of silence that has all but draped itself across the scene, intending to snap Chuuya out of whatever heightened state his mind is currently running in, despite the outwardly lax appearance. He knows he’s successful when he hears Chuuya’s annoyed huff, when those keen eyes shift to fix on him. Dazai gestures to the body still lying on the ground, “we need to move this.”

“Why?” Dazai doesn’t like the blankness in Chuuya’s tone. Chuuya wears his emotions like a shield, upfront and on full display...this emptiness speaks of a conflicted exhaustion which goes more than skin deep.

“Others will be coming,” Dazai responds matter-of-factly, “I expect those four were the main force, either meant to dispossess us of our valuables and get rid of us, or hold us here until backup arrived.” He shrugs noncommittally, “our best course now is to hide the body, get far enough into the trees that we won’t be observed by whoever is following and wait for them to leave.”

“We could just kill them.” Chuuya grumbles, but moves to his side and unceremoniously grabs the body of the assassin by the arms, leaving Dazai to deal with the legs.

“Toss him in the ditch, if we cover him with a few branches I don’t think they’ll notice, they won’t be looking for bodies.” Chuuya nods but remains strangely silent as they drag the dead man across the road, heaving once before letting the body tumble into the ditch. Dazai leaves Chuuya to deal with camouflaging the corpse as best he can, while he inspects the area where the body had fallen to make sure no glaringly obvious bloodstains can be seen. They’re in luck, the bullet must have gotten lodged somewhere in the man’s skull, the lack of exit wound means that the blood spotting the ground is minimal, hardly visible unless someone was truly examining the area closely.

Satisfied he wanders back to his partner’s side, bumping his shoulder against Chuuya’s as the Mafioso turns to regard him. “Time to go, Chibi,” he murmurs softly, climbing down into the ditch and grimacing as muddy water sloshes over his boots. “Chuck the bike down here, we can’t leave it, it’s too conspicuous to conceal.”

“I’m not leaving it in a ditch, bastard.” Chuuya hisses immediately, running a hand protectively over the Red Monstrosity’s fuel tank.

Dazai rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, “Okay, okay, just get it down here and then we can work out the logistics of getting it back out!”

With some (a lot) of bickering back and forth, finally the bike is out of the ditch and honestly, Dazai is a little relieved that some of the hiss and spit and familiar vitriol is back, Chuuya responding to his taunts with predictable annoyance and just the right amount of snap. It’s a relief, and yet still Dazai can sense something lurking behind Chuuya’s eyes, something slimy and dank creeping across his thoughts and, being Chuuya, unable not to be written in plain view across his face.

They stumble just far enough into the wood that their presence should, hopefully, go unnoticed; the bike wheeled very carefully behind a screen of bushes and thick undergrowth removing it entirely from view of anyone on the road.

The silence that engulfs them as they wait is almost palpable enough to make Dazai itch.

Finally he breaks the stillness with the first question that insinuates itself into his runaway mouth, “What did you say to Brute to make him leave with his tail tucked between his legs so thoroughly, Chibi? I’m dying to know.”

Chuuya’s brows knit in confusion as he glances up, “Brute…?”

Dazai shrugs exaggeratedly, “Well, we weren’t exactly focussed on making polite introductions, Chuu-ya, or reaching first name terms, it seemed as good a name as any.”

Chuuya huffs a half-hearted laugh, the sound dying on his lips as his eyes suddenly gain a faraway glaze, “I told him that unless he wanted his companions to know that he’d just propositioned a guy, he should get up and walk away while his dick was still attached.” he shrugs with a nonchalance that Dazai knows instantly his redhead doesn’t feel. “He seemed like the kind of asshole who’d be bothered by something like that, you know?”

“That’s why you pressed up against him?” he hums, the spike of jealousy he flatly refuses to admit to subsiding just a little, “and why he suddenly looked like someone had shit in his shoe.”

“Mmm—” Chuuya’s expression morphs into one of thorough distaste. “Do you know what the most horrifying part of that was?”

Ahh, here now they get to the crux of whatever Chuuya’s problem is.

“Do tell.”

Chuuya’s nose wrinkles in abhorrence, “Even through his disgust, I could feel him getting hard. I think he considered changing his mind.”

Dazai isn’t sure how to rectify the situation, his mind drawing a great big and frankly frustrating blank, failing him utterly when he needs it the most. In the end he falls back on humour, lifting a hand to gesture at Chuuya, who’s eyebrows raise in confusion, “Well, I mean, look at you, princess, how can you not expect strangers question their sexuality when they see you?”

Chuuya’s eyes flare wide, his mouth opening, then snapping shut audibly. Dazai watches him struggle for words, his face flickering through a range of emotions before finally settling on a wry smile, he points one finger at Dazai, clearly intending to imply a threat, “Call me that again and your balls will join that shithead’s as a necklace as I garrote you with them!”

“Scary, Chuu-ya~” Dazai simpers, allowing his eyes to widen impossibly large and staring at Chuuya imploringly, “you know I’m right though, I mean, you are pretty.” he pauses for a gratifying second to watch the Mafioso blush before adding, “And a bit of a drama queen, sorry, drama princess.”

This time Chuuya actually punches him, fist landing square on his shoulder, making Dazai yelp and rub the spot morosely. Chuuya laughs then, something genuine and familiar and it sends a comforting warmth through Dazai just to hear, it even makes it worth the pain of Chuuya’s punches.

“You know, it was kind of hot,watching you put on a show back there, Chibi,” Dazai would curse his continual lack of brain-to-mouth filter (which conveniently...or inconveniently, seems to only rear its ugly head around Chuuya) if he had any mental capacity remaining to him, alas, his entire thought process has ground to a distressing halt, now confronted by his redhead’s shocked incredulity.

Chuuya blinks once, twice before shaking his head with a sneer, “You would think that, you damn suicidal womanizer.”

Dazai might have deserved that particular rejoinder, but still, it stings just a little, that Chuuya would think him so insincere – not that he’s done anything to refute the idea other people have of him as a horrendous flirt, it’s only ever a means to the end after all. It also makes him all the more determined to make his redhead blush. “Mmm, no, well yes, but you misunderstand me, Chuu-ya, it was hot because it was you, not because I was imagining a woman.”

“...shut up, shitty Dazai.” predictably, Chuuya’s eyes lower, one foot scuffing absently in the dirt and Dazai knows he’s won the game only he knew they were playing.

“Oh? Are you embarrassed?” He takes two measured steps forwards, a hunter stalking his prey, confident and cunning. Now he has Chuuya pressed up against the trunk of a rather impressive tree, the smaller man still watching him defiantly despite the tiny hint of red splashed prettily across his cheeks. “Would you like me to prove it to you, Chuuya? A demonstration perhaps?” He purrs, pressing his body along the full length of Chuuya’s own, rubbing up against the redhead’s hip.

Chuuya’s breath hitches, his eyes shuttering as he hums a low noise in his throat. Dazai expects to be shoved away, possibly punched, definitely barked at...he does not expect the quiet, almost sultry, “Perhaps I would.”

Oh…oh. Well, he did make the challenge, and far be it from Dazai to not indulge his flustered little redhead a little.

* * * *

He doesn’t ask Chuuya if he’s sure, doesn’t ask permission before pressing his palm firmly against Chuuya’s pants, dragging his hand slowly down and watching, mesmerised as Chuuya’s head whips back so fast it almost cracks against the tree, a low, needy sound dripping from parted lips.

“Fuck – warn me before you do tha–” Dazai cuts off anything further Chuuya might have said, covering the redhead’s mouth with his own as he moves his other hand to thread through tied red locks, grabbing a fistful and pulling sharply, forcing Chuuya to gasp in pained pleasure so he can slip his tongue between Chuuya’s lips, the wet slide of them together forcing a pleased hum from his own throat.

He makes quick work of Chuuya’s belt, thumbing the button of those damnably tight jeans open one-handed and yanking the fly down with an accompanying hissed whine from his partner at the friction. He pulls the skin-hugging denim down just far enough that he can slip his hand fully into Chuuya’s boxers without hindrance and the shock of Dazai’s cold fingers wrapping around hot, already partially hard flesh has Chuuya whining and squirming, clearly unsure whether he wants to push forwards for the spike of pleasure or pull away from the creeping chill.

Dazai doesn’t pause or give his redhead chance to adjust, pressing his thumb into the slit and dragging the fluid already leaking from the tip down Chuuya’s shaft to make the harsh movements just a little smoother. A lilting bitten-off whine is his reward as Chuuya’s legs shift further apart, hampered and restricted by his own ridiculous dress sense as the denim constricts further in a way that has to be slightly painful. Dazai drinks in every aborted movement with avid eyes; watching the way Chuuya eyelids flicker, pressing closed only to crack into slits, fly wide and then clamp shut once more; watching Chuuya’s tongue run across his lower lip as if preparing to speak, only to sink his teeth in moments later, hard enough to hurt; watching Chuuya’s fingers dig into the bark at his back, curling and scrabbling for purchase in what appears to be a futile attempt to ground himself. It’s validation at its most base – sends thrills of rabid, triumphant electricity racing up his spine, curling a frenetic energy into fingers which unconsciously pick up the pace against their previously languid strokes.

He’s so captivated by the scene playing out in front of him, around him, under him, he almost misses the unmistakable sound of tyres on asphalt, an engine’s reverberating growl as it moves steadily closer. His fingers clench a little when his overtaxed, overwhelmed, overstimulated brain finally registers and categorises the noise as a potential threat. Chuuya’s breath hiccups in his throat, a cut-off whimper of too-much-too-fast-not-enough escaping between his lips, though he seems to remain amusingly oblivious to this newly approaching danger.

“Shhh, Chuuya~” Dazai hushes, soothes the pressure of his hand with a lingering slow glide. He leans forward and down, presses his mouth against the smaller man’s ear and feels him shudder as he whispers, “you have to be quiet if you don’t want them to hear you.”

“Wha – what do you mean?” Chuuya’s whole body shakes with minute tremors, shakes with the effort of having to keep his own body upright.

“Our friends have arrived. Can’t you hear?” Dazai murmurs against skin he knows is sensitive, feels Chuuya’s pulse spike beneath his lips. Chuuya’s panting breaths are loud to his own ears, he can only imagine they must be drowning out every other sound in Chuuya’s admittedly occupied head.

Dazai can feel the exact moment when understanding hits Chuuya; his whole body going rigid with it, even as Dazai’s fingers continue to press pleasured strokes across burning skin. “S-stop!” the redhead hisses, even as his body pushes forwards begging for more and betraying the insincerity of the word stuttering from Chuuya’s lips.

“Why?” he asks simply, pulling back to stare into Chuuya’s face, into blue eyes which have almost dissolved into black, glazed and hungry.

“Because someone will hear us –!” The words are almost a breathless whine.

“Then you should work on controlling your voice, Chuu-ya~” Dazai trills back, twisting his wrist on a downward stroke and wringing a delicious strangled yelp from his redhead. “Are you sure you want me to stop?”

“Fuck – yes – no...I don’t...fuck.” He watches Chuuya struggle to swallow around a moan, teeth clenched and lips bitten red. He takes pity, leaning down to capture his redhead in a kiss that’s almost filthy; wet and sloppy and a pouring of wants and words that neither can articulate. He feels Chuuya feed the moan between his lips, devours it whole and smiles something wicked as he pulls away.

Those blue eyes are wide now, the blended colour of bottomless ocean in the blackest of night, deep enough to drown in and Dazai would throw himself in those depths willingly if only to keep Chuuya looking at him like that; like his whole world is zeroed in on this one moment, the centre of the universe revolving right here and now, held down by the gravity of their own locked gaze. This time it’s Dazai’s turn to chew off a half-formed whine, a whisper of want and weakness that he shoves savagely back down his throat to choke on later.

“Dazai –” he’s spellbound by the sound of his name on Chuuya’s tongue, whisper-soft and fuzzy around the edges.

His fingers tighten and quicken their pace. Vaguely he hears the slamming of a car door, hears raised voices calling out unfamiliar names. Pushes the intrusive cacophony of sound aside to focus on the hitching stertorous breaths that signal Chuuya’s slow unravelling, the shedding of inhibitions as one of Chuuya’s hands wind into his hair, twisting and pulling in mindless motions.

“So close...please –” the words are too loud for the space between them, broken and rough and brimming with need and any sense of self Chuuya had retained up until now scatters with a stuttered groan.

Too loud. Too much. Chuuya never could keep a lid on his emotions. Always too raucous, too strong, too bright. A storm, ever twisting, ever building, ever threatening to become overwhelming in its intensity, always with the propensity to become a hurricane.

Without thinking he presses two fingers against his redhead’s lips, intending for it to be a gesture of silence, but not entirely surprised when Chuuya opens his mouth to wrap said lips around the offered digits, pulling them into that warm, wet cavern and curling his tongue in a sinfully delightful manner. Dazai’s own breath gets stuck somewhere behind his ribs, fighting to contain noises of his own. His pace increases in retaliation, wrist twisting on every downward stroke, thumb pressing against the throbbing vein or swiping with just a little too much pressure across the head of Chuuya’s cock, slick and slippery with dripping pearls of fluid, easing the frantic glide.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs when he can finally suck in a lungful of air, because it’s true: Chuuya is beautiful, in this moment – head thrown back in pleasure and with every line of his body telegraphing barely-contained lust – and in every other moment, from the mundane to the murderous.

“I hate seeing anyone else’s hands on you.” Ah, now he’s stumbling into the dangerous territory of his own fragmented soul, yearning for something that is his and only his. He knows the very idea of it is ludicrous; Chuuya is his own person, loud and full to the brim with colours to rich to be dyed in Dazai’s shades of grey; a member of an enemy organisation, one he betrayed no less; and as laughably far from being Dazai’s to have and to hold as it is possible to be.

And yet.

“Mine.” he whispers into the skin of Chuuya’s throat, follows the declaration with his teeth, isn’t even sure where the word came from – some depraved part of his soul desperate to articulate his deepest and darkest desires, to whisper them to the light of day like some deplorable hallowed curse.

When he pulls back, Chuuya’s eyes are wide with shock, biting down desperately on Dazai’s fingers as release pours over him in a frantic, pulsing rush. Dazai drinks in the vision, bathes in it like a man waiting to drown in the sea of his own undoing.

A keening half-muffled scream vibrates against the pads of Dazai’s fingers, gratifyingly too loud, echoing around them like a declaration. Even Chuuya, half delirious in the aftermath of his pleasure seems to realise his mistake, seconds too late as his body stiffens as much as it can in its pliant boneless state.

“Chuuya…” his voice sounds wrecked and discordant in his own ears, out of place when it’s Chuuya whose thighs are shaking with the effort of holding his own weight. Whatever he was going to say is cut off when a wholly unwelcome voice intrudes on their illusion of solitude.

* * * *

“Hey, did you hear something?” the obnoxiously loud drawl has all lustful thoughts scattering like dandelion seeds on a spring breeze.

“Eh?” comes the grunted response, sounding closer than Dazai would like, though he judges that neither of their new arrivals have stepped foot off the road. “It sounded like some noisy bird shrieking to me. The animals around here are all fucking noisy things! Sends a man mad it does.”

“Didn’t sound like no bird I ever heard before.” the first man grumbles, over-loud and brashly insistent.

“What are you, some kinda weirdo twitcher?” the second man taunts, his laughter a raucous howling and Dazai spares time to think that this oaf has no business complaining about the ‘noise’ of the local wildlife while defacing the tranquil land with such abhorrent clamouring. “What d’you know about birds? Fuck all I say!”

“I’m just saying it didn’t sound like any bird I’ve heard of!” the first man almost shouts. “It sounded more like –” the voice cuts off for a moment, in what Dazai suspects is embarrassment, before it starts up again, this time with a far more surly, “whatever. Let’s just get out of here. Masso’s clearly fucked off without us to try and hog all the credit again. If he gets back before us with the goods, the Commander will have our guts on a stick!”

“And we gotta go the long way ‘round because of this shit.” the second man almost snarls. “Come on then, stop yappin’ and get in the damned car. All that waiting around for fuck all.”

They both stand, silent and still, listening to the muffled sounds of footsteps, the out-of-rhythm slamming of two car door and the rumbling cough of an engine sparking to life. Minutes later, the sounds have faded once more to the quiet noise of shifting branches and quavering leaves in the canopies above and the quiet chirping of…

A smile curves Dazai’s lips at the sound and he turns his attention to Chuuya, who is watching him with a somewhat resigned expression, like he already knows what Dazai is about to say.

“Come on little bird, let’s get out of here.” Dazai almost croons, running his thumb along one sharp cheekbone.

Chuuya’s face shifts through a myriad of flickering emotions before landing on something fondly exasperated. “Fuck off, Mackerel,” he grumbles, with no real bite in his tone, though he turns his head to nip a warning into the pad of Dazai’s thumb. “The next time you come up with some shitty nickname, just be warned that you’re gonna end up on your ass for the trouble.”

“Yes, yes, whatever you say, princess.”

Dazai thinks he probably deserves it when he ends up lying flat on his back barely a second later, the leaden weight of Chuuya sitting firmly on his chest.

~ ~ ~

“Oi, Dazai!” Chuuya’s voice is barely the breath of a whisper upon the wind as he crouches behind a bush, eyes wide.

“What –” Dazai starts, but is cut off by the his small partner frantically signalling him to be quiet and then gesturing him forwards. He takes a moment to cock his head, listening for whatever sounds Chuuya might have picked up on in the relative quiet of the woods. They’re barely more than a few hundred yards from the RV, travelling the last section on foot, having discarded the bike a little way down the road. After encountering the undead one too many times, lingering around the RV and drawn unerringly to the growl of the bike...it had resulted in a close call just a few days back as a particularly stealthy zombie had lurched out from the blind side of the RV as Chuuya had been securing the bike back into its rack. It could have resulted in something catastrophic had the redhead’s quick instincts and quicker reflexes not kicked in, drowning out any sense of fear as he flew immediately for the kill.

Dazai had cursed himself for an idiot; he should have known better, should have predicted this, prevented this. In hindsight, everything is crystal clear after all.

They’re more careful now.

Parsing nothing from their surroundings that would indicate immediate danger, Dazai sidles up next to Chuuya, keeping his movements slow and as noiseless as it is possible to be in a woodland filled with the snapping twigs and crackling leaves of autumn, tumbled from branches shaking loose of their now shabby, summer splendour to crisp and rot upon the earth below their majestic boles. Crouching next to his redhead, Dazai peers through the branches now mostly obscuring his view, attempting to see what’s got the Mafioso looking so weirdly excited.

“Look!” Chuuya whispers, almost aggressively despite there being nothing more than a ghost of sound.

“What am I looking at, Chibi? All I see are trees and leaves, you’ll have to be a little more specific.” he sighs, honestly he’s tired and not at all in the mood for a game of eye-spy. He just wants to get back to the boat and drag Chuuya to bed so he can check out of reality wrapped around his Chibi for a few blessed hours until his overactive brain whirrs back to some semblance of cognitive function and harries him awake to face another day.

Chuuya glances at him and his smile slips into a frown as he searches Dazai’s face. The hatrack is too observant for his own good sometimes, Dazai can feel him skirting straight past those walls, the painted-on half smile and the teasing humour, can feel those blue eyes delving into the very heart of him, pulling forth the fatigue and the fragile stability to lay him bare. He watches Chuuya’s mouth twist into something like determination, flashing steel through the crystal-sapphire and Dazai knows that Chuuya is likely to manhandle him to bed as soon as they reach safety. Not that he’ll be the one complaining.

He’s snapped out of his fantasy of sleep by Chuuya’s arm, which shoots out perilously close to his face, pointing to a patch of dappled shade amidst the clouded, failing afternoon light. He follows the line the redhead is indicating, squinting past the headache beginning to gnaw at the space between his eyes to focus on the gloom. In the slightly denser undergrowth, he thinks he sees a shadow move, nothing more than a twitch before it freezes and melts back into nothing.

For long minutes they squat in statuesque silence, all attention fixed on the brush no more than thirty feet from their position. Just when Dazai is beginning to feel his legs cramp under the strain of fatigue and cold, the cloaking gloom parts and something moves cautiously into the light.

The deer’s ears flick back and forth, swivelling sideways as it paws the ground as if in skittish contemplation. It’s antlered head bears six tines – a young buck not yet at his prime, but canny enough to have avoided becoming a predators next meal thus far. It’s a beautiful creature, large dark eyes, glossy coat, long elegant neck, a proud prince of the pines. It’s head turns, bearing a regal cast as it regards the bushes where Chuuya and Dazai crouch with the wary caution of a animal used to bolting at the slightest disturbance.

Chuuya flicks his fingers to get Dazai’s attention and begins to sign rather than risk speaking aloud and startling the stag.

I bet you wish you’d let me pick up that bow now?

There’s a wry grin on his face as he finishes, a tilt to his head that speaks louder than if Chuuya had yelled directly in his ear.

Dazai turns an incredulous look on his redhead, blinking rapidly and wondering if he’d somehow misread Chuuya’s signs, perhaps he’d gotten distracted by those gloved fingers dancing through the patterns they had devised themselves all those years ago – still remembered by both of them like it was nothing more than yesterday.

What do you mean? He signs back quickly, watches Chuuya’s fingers flash into motion once more.

Well, doesn’t a bit of freshly cooked venison sound great right now?

It’s hard to hold his laughter in now. He wonders if Chuuya is suffering even more with the effects of constant exhaustion than he is himself.

Chibi are you really that stupid?

His redhead doesn’t need to sign anything for Dazai to read the “Haah?!” the Chibi telegraphs with every affronted line of his body. Dazai’s breath puffs out as he wraps his arms around his sides, struggling for long moments to contain the mirth.

You have a gun.

Chuuya blinks back at him for a second before his face flushes bright red with mortification. Of course, his redhead tries to hide his embarrassment behind his hands, but his face is quickly turning as dark as his hair. Dazai’s smile is obnoxiously wide, fights to take over his entire face even as he taps at Chuuya’s shoulder, silently requesting his attention. After another moment of trying to compose himself, the Mafioso heaves a soundless sigh and drops his hands to reveal his still-rosy cheeks.

Aim for the point just behind and below the shoulder. He signs quickly. If the shot is clean it will pierce the lungs. Then cut its throat.

Chuuya’s head cants to the side as he considers for a moment, eyes flicking between Dazai and the deer as if he’s unsure whether he actually wants to kill such a majestic creature. Silly Chibi and his propensity to get attached to anything cute and fluffy.

Apparently the prospect of actual meat - not processed or out of a can - ultimately overrides the redhead’s love of nature. Dazai watches Chuuya slide the handgun from the strap he had fashioned to sit over one shoulder and wrap around his hip, slowly the gun is raised, Chuuya’s feet shifting as he moves from a crouch to a standing position in slow increments. The deer tenses but does not flee, ears twitching warily as its head lifts from the grass to twist this way and that as if it knows danger is present but not from which direction the attack will come.

Chuuya hands are unwaveringly steady as he lines up the shot, peering down the barrel with single-minded focus. The click of the hammer is loud against the contrasting quiet blanketing the trees – a moment frozen in endless time.

The shot rings out a second later, as the deer’s muscles bunch to force it into a leaping canter.

The bullet hits home, puncturing the space behind the shoulder with faultless accuracy. The deer moves as if to bolt, manages nothing more than a jerky half-step before its legs collapse beneath it and send it sinking with an ethereal grace to the ground. As Chuuya steps out from the bushes, those large dark eyes watch his approach. There is no fear there, no terror of death, only animal acceptance, the glassy-eyed shock that such creatures fall into in the moments before that final killing blow lands.

The great head drops slowly to the floor as collapsed lungs struggle to take their last heaving breaths. Chuuya ends the animal’s suffering with a murmured prayer of thanks and the quick slitting of its throat.

Dazai pulls himself upright, ignoring the protesting twinge in his knees at being forced into such a position, wandering over to Chuuya and the now still animal and bending to run his hand curiously along the creatures flank. The fur is more bristly than soft, the body still warm with the remembrance of life, though the heart no longer beats beneath the creature’s skin.

“What now?” Chuuya asks, turning to him with a air of expectancy Dazai definitely hadn’t been anticipating.

“What now?” Dazai repeats, slightly baffled.

“What do we do with this now it’s dead, dumbass? Do you know how to butcher a fucking deer, because I sure as hell don’t!” Chuuya gestures at the stag with the hand still holding the bloodstained knife he had used to end the creature’s life. Dazai blinks, his attention captivated by the crimson stain slowly soaking into the earth, the flow a sluggish trail, dripping to the spreading puddle beneath the animal’s head only to be swallowed greedily by the ground to feed the life teeming in the soil below – a never-ending circle of death and rebirth.

“Why do you think I would know anything about butchering animals, Chuuya?” he’s honestly perplexed and yet Chuuya is giving him a disbelieving stare, intense enough to make him frown, “Do I look like some kind of boy scout or wilderness explorer?”

“You’re supposed to be the expert here!” Chuuya spits out the word like a curse, “How the fuck do you know how to kill the damn thing, yet not have the faintest fucking idea what to do with it afterwards?!”

Dazai shrugs one shoulder, “I saw a picture in a book.” he says, simply, knowing the irritated redhead will only get more annoyed at his lack of further explanation. Predictably Chuuya’s face has morphed into an impressive scowl.

“Useless bandage bastard.” he huffs, tapping his knife against the stag’s sleek hide as he considers the dead animal with something like guilt. “We can’t just leave it here to rot…”

“Well, since apparently neither of us knows the first thing about gutting it, we could just take the back legs off? That should be easy enough and there are no entrails to deal with so it will be less likely that we end up poisoning the meat.”

Chuuya looks at him dubiously, knife still tap, tap, tapping absently on the deer’s side before he makes up his mind and shrugs, “I guess it’s better than nothing.”

“Great! Well, since you’re the one that murdered the poor beast, I’ll just leave you to deal with that, Chibi~” he begins to back away, only to be met with the full force of his redhead’s glare, enough to halt him in his retreating tracks.

“And what, exactly, will you be doing?” the growl might have been menacing, had Dazai been anyone else. Unfortunately for Chuuya, Dazai can’t find it anything more frightening than the snapping of a tiny Chihuahua.

Smiling he puts his hands up, “Keeping watch of course! It wouldn’t do for you to become a zombie’s next meal while you’re getting to grips with our next meal!” he grins at his own quip and is met with the redhead’s stone-faced stare. “Chuuya, haven’t you ever heard the saying ‘too many cooks spoil the broth’? If we both try to do the same thing it’ll just end up ruined. I trust your impressive knife skills not to mess up!” it’s a double-edged sword, Chuuya will either preen at Dazai’s acknowledgement of his superior knife skills (and Dazai will be the first one to admit, Chuuya can be very handy with a blade), or he will call him out on being a manipulative asshole.

The narrow-eyed sliver of blue he’s greeted with upon his proclamation speaks more than a thousand words, though Chuuya does not utter a single one as he huffs out something that might be a sigh, possibly a growl, possibly a promise of retribution. Nonetheless the redhead turns, contemplating the carcass of the deer for a few long seconds before sliding his knife beneath the skin to begin to part it from the flesh beneath.

It’s a fascinating process to watch. Dazai is equal parts engrossed and disturbed with the efficiency Chuuya shows in skinning the poor animal – the hide parting neatly to peel away from the meat with barely more than a few scraping motions from Chuuya’s blade to sever the lines of connective tissue holding it all together. In short order one hind leg is laid bare to the hock, the strips of skin hanging loose. Chuuya’s brows are furrowed as he digs his bloodstained, ungloved fingers into the joint just below the hock, feeling for something before running his knife in a circular motion around the bone. Holding the bottom section of the leg over his knee, he seems to pull in a steadying breath before cracking the bone with a somewhat sickening snap. In seconds the bottom section is discarded on the floor and those blue eyes are meeting his own as Chuuya gestures him over.

“Stop being a squeamish bastard and get over here.”

Dazai is offended that Chuuya would dare to insinuate that he’s in any way affected by the butchery taking place in front of him. “Squeamish? Chuuya, do you not remember who was always called down to the basement when a prisoner refused to talk? Is your memory so bad you can’t recall the times I peeled the skin from a person’s body while they screamed out all of their secrets?”

“I remember just fine.” Chuuya grunts, and those oceanic eyes aren’t looking at him any more, have dulled in remembrance to the colour of contaminated cobalt, conflicted and uneasy.

“I remember too, Chibi.” Dazai murmurs, lowly, not quite sure where he’s going with this because, yes, he does remember. He remembers the overwhelming tang of blood and the acrid stench of urine; he remembers the ragged breaths and the agonised screams; he remembers the resistance of steel scraping against bone; he remembers feeling nothing at all as he broke fingers and lives with consummate ease.

And now? Now he can think back on those times with practised apathy – his past self, his lack of moral code...all of that never really changed when he put aside the black and stepped out into the world of light and colour. His soul is still that tainted everlasting grey. What does that make him?

Thrown into turmoil by a dead deer...he must truly have reached the limits of fatigue. Without uttering a word he slinks over to kneel next to Chuuya, pressing his shoulder against the redhead’s own tense counterpart and waiting until the redhead turns to regard him with something dark and quietly sad softening the corners of his eyes. Dazai swallows, presses his silent apology into that point of contact, knows that his unspoken words are accepted in the way Chuuya’s body relaxes, in the tiny sigh that leaves his lips.

It’s another thing that lies buried in the mess of history between them. Another tangled knot cast aside to be picked apart another day, another place, another time.

The crack and crash of disturbed undergrowth behind them derails his thought process into considering the more immediate. Both he and Chuuya are turning to seek out the source of the noise in an instant.

The ragged half-rotten corpse half-lurches, half-stumbles through the thorn-covered thicket, uncaring of the lacerations left upon hanging skin turned blue-black and mottled in slow decay. Its lips have totally receded, leaving the black of gum and the yellow of broken teeth on full, snarling display. It’s a wretched thing that reeks of death and desperation, hands clawed and extended in its undying hunger, the endless need to rip into fresh, tender flesh.

For a second he wonders if the scent of the blood is what drew the creature here. He discards the notion a moment later: the parasite, after all, cannot proliferate in the flesh of animals, it would be a useless and wasteful function for the undead to be drawn to such things when they have no need of sustenance, no drive to consume outside of the spread of the parasite itself. No, it must have been the sound of the gun discharging that drew the miserable creature here.

His hand finds the back of Chuuya’s neck, his thumb running along the column of the redhead’s throat in silent reassurance before he drops the contact and stands.

He makes quick work of the pile of skin and bones - staggering with blind hunger in a relentless drive forwards – it’s becoming second nature now, more reflex than conscious thought in the way he slams his knife through the creature’s eye socket, not needing to watch the thing fall to the earth in a tangle of limbs to know that it’s dead.

Without a word he returns to Chuuya, holds the leg of the deer in the position the redhead shows him, watches as the blade carves through meat and scrapes against bone.

His thoughts are a million miles away...and years into the past.

Chapter Text

Time seems to be passing with a sense of urgency now; lingering above their heads in a pall, the silent ticking of a clock (or perhaps a time-bomb, sometimes it feels entirely more explosive), counting down the seconds with the insentience of inevitability.

Autumn had brought with it an incessant drizzle, which while useful for replenishing their depleted drinking-water reserves - through Dazai’s clever utilisation of basically whatever was to hand at the time – left Chuuya’s mood as damp and brooding as the forlorn grey of the skies. Now, those melancholy skies whisper with a crueller, biting wind, a creeping, callous cold that promises the frozen fingers of winter are beginning to take a grip upon the land.

Their cove – this little home they have carved out for themselves upon the water – is becoming less of a safe haven with every passing day. Twice in the last week Chuuya has found himself starting awake with a jerk to the rolling and bucking of the yacht being tossed back and forth upon the churning, roiling anger of the waves. Twice he has woken to an empty bed, braving the night’s fogged chill and the unstable footing to find Dazai haunting the deck like a wandering ghost, the distance in those dark eyes speaking of more thoughts in his head than any one man – demon prodigy or not – should have to deal with alone.

They don’t speak, even as Dazai’s eyes cut to him, filled with something between emptiness and fevered intensity. Instead Chuuya plants himself in Dazai’s path, forcing the lanky bastard to come to halt or crash into him – an immovable object colliding with an unstoppable force, thus it has always been and always will be between them – wraps his arms around the idiot’s thin waist in a loose hold, pressing his face against Dazai’s shirt and listening to the steady, reassuring thud of the heart still beating beneath his ribs.

There they stay, in silent stillness, in broken solitude, in unspoken companionship, until Chuuya can feel the tension slowly drain from Dazai’s stiff posture, until long arms wind around him in turn, until Dazai pulls him close and props his chin upon Chuuya’s head. He would huff out a complaint, but in those moments all he can find within him is gladness; relief that they’re still here, that Dazai’s dark spaces lead him only to pacing and staring out into the storm-tossed sea as he digs through the confines of his own mind and not straight to the blade of a knife and the payment of blood.

The coming of winter and the building frequency of the storms herald the approach of problems far more immediate than either of them would like to admit. Over the last week they’ve been steadily removing the majority of supplies from the yacht - anything surplus to their immediate requirements – shifting them to the cave on the beach and from there distributing everything between their building number of stash points. The main bulk of supplies not sorted into the precise piles - the designated items required for a minimum one-week stay at any given safe house without needing to collect anything more – and distributed already to their agreed upon places, are kept in the hillside cave they had found almost by accident some time ago. The cave itself is well-hidden but not a particularly welcoming shelter, certainly not somewhere Chuuya would prefer to stay for any length of time in the middle of winter. Rather than utilise it as a safe house, they had opted to turn it into a base of operations similar to their treasure trove upon the beach, a cautious safeguard against the unpredictability of the future. While any of the safe houses could potentially be found and stripped of their contents, after a little work further concealing the cave’s entrance, the likelihood of anyone coming across it by chance are negligible.

The finality of that move, the underlying knowledge that they will soon be abandoning the little boat that had somehow managed to keep them safe in the midst of chaos and catastrophe, had become something more like a home than simply a convenient place to rest...it pulls at Chuuya’s chest, leaves him feeling both sad at the impending loss of their one true sanctuary and apprehensive about the unknowns still left to face.

Time marches on, unheeding of the lives which bend and bow beneath its yoke.

~ ~ ~

Smoke curls in a steady stream towards the heavens, barely visible as a slightly darker smudge against the backdrop of grey, mantling the skies in morose shades of monotone, stripped of both colour and life. It hangs there, ominous, beckoning them forwards into the stretched maw of shadow. It grows with every passing minute, with every crawling meter, becoming a blot upon the horizon, a beacon to anyone with eyes to see.

Dazai’s fingers tap absently against the wheel. Every time Chuuya shifts his focus from the growing plume to the idiot in the driver’s seat, it’s to see the same sharp and yet pensive expression – the one that tells him Dazai is a hundred miles deep in his own head, sifting through the endless possibilities as the wheels shift and grind. Really, with Dazai’s attention caught up as it is between driving and whatever the fuck goes on in that stupid genius brain, it’s a wonder they haven’t ended up in a ditch.

He heaves a sigh, feels his own body winding taut and tense with restless energy as his eyes fix once more upon the horizon, watching, wondering, what’s waiting out there for them this time?

He can’t muster the will to be anything but tired. Tired of this fruitless wandering. Tired of taking one step forward and six steps back. Tired of this game...novel...whatever.

“Oi, Dazai…” it’s as much to break the suddenly oppressive silence as it is to say anything actually constructive. He’s surprised when Dazai blinks, his vision clearing as his eyes flick to Chuuya, something keenly intense pushing it’s way through the glassy surface to spark darkness to something the colour of old blood. The RV slows steadily to a roll before finally coming to a stop in the middle of the road. “It’s coming from the direction we’re heading in, right?” he asks, despite already knowing the answer.

“It looks that way.” Dazai hums in agreement, leaning back in his chair though he doesn’t kill the engine.

“You think it’s the military again?” Chuuya prods, not particularly in the mood to have to pull every scrap of possibility from Dazai’s stubborn skull.

All he gets in response in a languid shrug as Dazai’s attention is once more captured by the smoke. Silence hangs heavy for a few beats before the asshole has the audacity to sigh, as if he’s the one being put out by the stretching quiet, “It could be…or it could be the work of some other band, a dispute or rivalry? Who knows? Whatever it is, we either take a long diversion to avoid it completely, or we need a better idea of the scale of it before we risk blundering into what might be a full-scale conflict.”

Chuuya can only agree, but, honestly he was looking forward to getting back to the cove tonight, to sleeping in an actual bed, to having a fucking shower which doesn’t involve a pathetic stream of water pissing on him and maybe lazing around in the hot tub if it isn’t too cold. With every passing second it seems more like a dream, a fantasy never to be fulfilled.

Unless…

“Hey, Dazai?” he kicks one foot out to tap Dazai’s knee, waits until those dark eyes are zeroed on him once more.

“Hmm?” the man hums, tilting his head in silent question as he searches Chuuya’s face in that way which makes him feel like Dazai is sifting through the thoughts in his head without him uttering a single word.

“Let me take the bike and scout ahead alone.” he already knows what Dazai will say, even before the asshole shakes his head.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Chuuya. It –” Chuuya absolutely doesn’t want to hear all the reasons why it’s not a good idea, not when the idiot hasn’t even listened to what he has to say. He interrupts, loudly.

“No, wait, hear me out at least.” he waits for Dazai to stop rolling his eyes and give a begrudging signal to continue before letting a smile curl his lips – getting the bastard to actually pay attention is half the battle after all. “If I travel alone I can get out there much faster than if I’ve got your lanky ass to worry about. I can be there and back in no time...in and out, no fuss. While I’m doing that, you can carry on driving this stupid boat-on-wheels down the planned route, just take it a little slower. I’ll catch up, then we can decide if we need to take a diversion.”

“It’s dangerous to go out alone.” Dazai points out, though he sounds as tired as Chuuya feels.

“Not as dangerous as it would be to drive this thing in there without any clue of what we’re dealing with. I mean, we can find somewhere to hide the RV if you’re that desperate to get chased at high-speed by a fucking mob again. We both remember how well that turned out last time.”

“I seem to remember you calling my near death experience ‘cute’.” Dazai grins.

“Fuck off.” Chuuya grumbles in the general direction of the floor, though the words hold no heat, no, that’s all gone straight to his face, which consequently feels like it’s about to burn with remembered embarrassment.

There’s a short huff of laughter from the bastard, but when Chuuya lifts his head it’s to see Dazai tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling, his eyes going blank for a moment before slipping shut completely. Chuuya opens his mouth, about to interrupt the asshole’s sudden reverie, but thinks better of it at the last second, worrying his lower lip between his teeth ad he tries – and fails – to stop his foot from tapping an impatient rhythm upon the floor.

He wonders how many calculations are currently shifting through Dazai’s head, wonders just how that stupid genius brain manages to balance out all of the thoughts in that ridiculous mind without breaking. It’s then he remembers, with ice-cold clarity, that actually, Dazai is just as human as anyone else: he does break, and when those thoughts crack, they go down hard.

He finds himself studying the tense line of Dazai’s shoulders, the slight crease in his brow. Though Dazai pulls a cloak over his emotions as easily as breathing, keeping all the appearance of languid lazy and unruffled, Chuuya knows from those tiny tells that Dazai is just as exhausted as he is, if not more. Damn, at least Chuuya can fall into bed and get a decent night’s sleep. Half the time Dazai is kept awake by the machinations of his own mind. The thought makes his spine ache and he pushes himself upright in his chair, stretching it out and wincing as it lets out a slightly concerning crack.

When they get out of here, Chuuya’s taking some time off. Fuck anyone who says otherwise.

When he ticks his head to the side, it’s to find Dazai watching him with that same pensive expression he had been giving to the road long minutes ago.

“What?” he means to growl, but his voice comes out as more of a tired huff.

“If I let you go –” Chuuya opens his mouth to speak but Dazai cuts him off with a look, “If I let you go, it’s on the condition that you go there, get an idea of what’s causing the smoke and come straight back. No detours, no stopping, no trying to solve things on your own – no matter how easy it looks. You go, you come back, that’s it.”

“Are you worried about me, Mackerel?” he scoffs lightly, only to be silenced at the dark look he gets in return.

“Yes, Chibi, I’m worried about you running off on your own because I know you too well. You’re reckless, overconfident and prone to leaping off a cliff before thinking things through. You’re smart, but you can also be so stupid sometimes, and I remember just how well it turned out for you last time.” Dazai’s gaze shifts pointedly to his leg, to the scar beneath his pants that is a lingering reminder of his brush with disaster. Chuuya bristles indignantly, even as his leg shifts under the scrutiny.

“Oi, that’s low.” he mutters quietly because this isn’t a conversation he particularly wanted to have right now, not when they’re both tired and irritable and looking for reasons to pick fights and argue like they’re fifteen and on their first mission all over again.

“I just...need you to understand.” Dazai deflates as if all of the willpower has left his body alongside the air. Suddenly he’s standing, pushing himself into Chuuya’s space as his fingers dance up Chuuya’s leg, thumb running slowly across the patch of denim that hides the scar beneath, “Please understand.”

In those two words he hears the fear, the worry, the bone-deep weariness. He hears Dazai second-guessing himself in a way that the bastard never does. He hears the weight, the burden that they’re trying to share which sits like a stone upon their souls: dragging them forward, dragging them on, dragging them down.

“I hear you.” he whispers, one hand rising of it’s own volition to cup Dazai’s cheek in his palm. The taller man leans into the touch like a lifeline, those dark, bottomless eyes never leaving his own. “I promise I’ll be careful.” Chuuya smiles what he hopes is something reassuring, though it feels a little strained, even to him, “I’ll be there and back so quick, you’ll barely notice I was gone.”

“Hmmm…” Dazai sounds unconvinced but he turns his head to kiss Chuuya’s wrist in a display so tender it catches him off-guard, before pulling away with a sigh. “I’ll stay here for ten minutes, then continue on our projected route at a slow speed. Take the flare gun. If you get into any trouble, use it. I’ll find you.”

“But what if you need it?” they only have one flare gun and leaving Dazai without the ability to call him back should he run into difficulties leaves Chuuya feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

“You’re far more likely get yourself into a mess than I am, Chibi. We’re not negotiating here.” Chuuya knows that look in his eye, knows there’s absolutely no point in arguing with the bastard when he’s like that, so he capitulates – like he always does – with a curt nod.

As the bike roars to life beneath him, the steady growl of the engine cutting through the silence as he and Dazai regard each other, speaking goodbyes without words, Chuuya can’t help but feel a sense of dread, falling to squirm in the pit of his stomach like a burrowing worm.

~ ~ ~

Something is wrong.

He’s followed the trail of smoke all the way to what must be almost its origin but he can see no signs of a town, village or anything else he would deem worthy of notice by the military in their purging exercise.

Something isn’t right.

The closer he gets, the thicker the smoke becomes; narrowing his visibility and collecting at the back of his throat making him cough as his eyes sting. Still there is no sign of the towering inferno or conjoined mass of smaller fires he had expected to see, no sign or sound of tanks rolling down the roads leaving decimation in their wake, no sign of anyone at all. No, there is only smoke, filtering through the trees, climbing up towards the skies, lying in a fog to blanket the ground. Smoke everywhere, threatening to swallow him whole.

Something is definitely wrong.

He bends low over the chassis of the bike as he comes up to the point where he believes the smoke is originating from, instincts screaming at him that everything here is wrong, wrong, wrong. A single shot splits the air, the bullet missing by a mile thanks to the smoke, which is as detrimental to his attacker as it is to Chuuya himself. He hits the brakes and swerves as the bike comes to a stop, turning the machine in a perfect one-eighty to face back the way he’d come. Dazai’s instructions still ring in his ears. “You go, you come back, that’s it.”

Fuck.

There’s no time to think, no time to reason, no time for Dazai and his shitty strategies. There’s only instinct and danger and something in him screaming to nullify the threat. In a second he’s launched himself off the bike and away, tracking the trajectory of the bullet back to its source.

He stalks through the swirling smoke on silent feet. Hears panicked breathing from his left and the fight is over before it had chance to begin. He has a knife to the attacker’s throat in less time than it takes for the slender, dark-haired woman to draw back the hammer on the pistol.

“Drop it.”

The woman does as she’s told instantly, her whole body trembling with fear as he presses against her back, keeping her from pulling away and running. Perhaps she thinks putting on such a show will convince him to release her?

Stupid.

“How many others?” he hisses pressing the knife with just enough pressure to dig it into the soft flesh of the woman’s throat.

She squeaks in terror, words spilling alongside tears and sobs in a near unintelligible stream. “None! None! I swear! It’s just me! I’m just supposed to keep the fires burning to lure people in. Please! Don’t kill me!” It’s a lie, clearly, though there seems to be no indication of immediate danger, no shouted panicked questions, only the harsh gasping breaths of his terror-stricken captive.

Lure people in? Chuuya’s mouth goes suddenly dry, his heart hammering against his ribs as he picks apart the meaning behind the terrified woman’s words. This is a trap. Smoke set to lure anyone travelling the roads along certain routes in order to avoid what they will undoubtedly think is just another military operation. The main force is elsewhere, just waiting for unsuspecting victims to fall into their lap.

That sick sense of dread fills him once more, a cavernous unease that shreds his nerves and self-control. The ambush isn’t planned to end here...and that means.

Dazai is in danger. Dazai is in danger and Chuuya had left him alone – despite his partner’s misgivings - for the sake of getting home just a little bit faster.

His fingers clench around the handle of the knife. The blade bites deep through skin and flesh, artery and vein. The unknown, unimportant woman is dead in an instant. Chuuya is moving before the body has time to hit the floor.

Fuck anyone else who might be in the vicinity. There’s no time to deal with vermin.

~ ~ ~

He flies back down the roads - taking bends at dangerous speeds in a bid to go faster, faster, faster - the very picture of reckless and overconfident which Dazai had berated him for not half an hour previous. Fuck, but he’ll take all the harsh words and criticism the bastard has to throw at him…Just let him be safe. He’ll even take Dazai laughing and poking fun at him for panicking…Just let him be safe.

The dread – the coiling knot of worms sitting like squirming lead in his stomach – only grows with every mile, with every empty expanse of asphalt that stretches out before him. There’s no sign of Dazai, no sign of the RV. Their paths should have intersected by now, even if his idiot partner had waited longer than the agreed upon ten minutes, he should be seeing the familiar shape of their home-on-wheels on the horizon, but there’s nothing.

He almost drives past the point at which he’d left Dazai, he’s going so fast and he’s so stuck in his own head, drowning in doubt and dread and distress. The bike protests his rough handling, tyres shrieking as he skids to a stop, balancing on one leg as he stares wildly around – as if Dazai and the fucking RV are going to magically appear out of thin air.

Get a fucking grip. He growls to himself, fingers tightening upon the handlebars until his bones hurt. He needs to think rationally, needs to calm the fuck down and work out what he’s going to do now. Gritting his teeth, he closes his eyes, counts to the beat of ten and then exhales a slow breath. No point getting worked up. Emotion is the enemy of reason, that bastard would say. Damn it! When I find you I’m going to kill you myself, shitty Dazai! Now...think!

If Dazai has been ambushed, there would have to be more than one or two attackers to make him surrender – a group then, with the fires as a lure and decoy. The RV is not going to outrun anything and would be completely useless in a chase, so, it’s likely Dazai was surrounded by multiple vehicles and forced to come to a stop. Whoever this survivor group are, they’re unlikely to want to leave such a prize behind, which means they’ve taken the RV and all of its supplies with them...it’s too large to travel down the narrow country lanes which wind in and out of this area, which means that without the carefully collected knowledge that he and Dazai possess, the directions they could have taken are limited.

There’s still time.

Chuuya quickly draws a mental map of the surrounding area, thankful that both he and Dazai had spent long hours studying the terrain, entry and exit points of the settlements and, most importantly right now, the road networks.

The highway. They must be making for the highway.

If he takes the back roads, he’ll be able to make up some of the lost time. Wrapping determination around him in the hollow place where For the Tainted Sorrow usually sits, he allows himself one more moment of panic, of fear, before he pushes aside in favour of fury, that anyone would dare touch what’s his. Kicking the bike into gear, he bares his teeth in a wordless snarl, leaving a trail of dust to linger in his wake.

As he passes a junction on his left, he catches a glint of silver in his peripheral vision and rolls the bike to a stop once more. Checking quickly, that there is no sign of life or ambush awaiting him, he jumps from the back of the bike to dart across the road and inspect the flash of metal that had succeeded in catching his eye.

A knife.

It’s not just any knife, he recognises the blade immediately as the small, deceivingly harmless looking weapon that Dazai has a habit of keeping in the inner pocket which lies closest to his heart. He’d once turned that irritating, blank-eyed smile upon Chuuya and chirped about the blade being sure to pierce his heart and allow him a quick death if he were to fall on it in just the right way. “You see, it’s tiny and deadly, just like you, Chibi~” Chuuya had scoffed and smacked him across the back of the head, Dazai had flashed a smile far more genuine than the one before and mouthed some disgusting platitude about Chuuya being a heartbreaker. Chuuya had threatened to stab him with the fucking knife.

The memory brings with it a sigh and a soft smile as he bends to pick up the tiny blade, his fist clenching around the handle until it bites into his palm. He pockets the knife, turning back to the bike to take up the chase once more.

At least now he’s sure his instincts were correct. He knows which direction they’re heading in.

~ ~ ~

He cuts the bike’s engine when he comes across the two vehicles, parked horizontally across the highway, a clear blockade against any who might approach on anything larger than Chuuya’s own bike. If he had to guess, he would bet on the RV being somewhere a little further down the highway, with another blockade cutting off any chance of escape in the opposite direction. Not that this crude attempt at a barrier worries him in the slightest.

He has the door to the first vehicle open in a matter of minutes, jamming Dazai’s tiny blade into the locking mechanism and brute forcing the thing apart with a snarl. Disengaging the brake, he allows the car to shift into a ponderous roll, assisted by the slight natural gradient of the highway. He doesn’t bother watching to see where the vehicle will end up – in the ditch or crashed into the central reservation, as long as it’s out of his fucking way he doesn’t give a shit. The second car is quick to meet the same fate as it’s brethren, gathering speed as it rolls on its merry way and leaving the highway – and their route to freedom – clear once more.

He passes the first signs of trouble a few hundred yards further down the road. In the shadows, ambling figures shuffle between patches of gloom and darkness. Initially it’s just one or two wandering corpses, decayed almost past the point of remaining upright, dragging themselves forlornly across the uneven ground, moaning and swaying and staggering as they go. But the trickle soon shifts to a flood and Chuuya can feel the gaze of a hundred glassy eyes, tracking him as a pack of hounds might scent a fox, fixating on this new prey and reaching to grasp with bony fingers and snapping jaws even as he flies past.

He’s forced to roll the bike to a stop again as he crests a small hill not a hundred yards from the slightly less decomposed forerunners of the massing horde, sensing that he’s nearing a point which could have been set up as an ambush and the loud roar of the motorcycle’s engine is more than likely to betray his presence to anyone who might be waiting. Still he’s loathe to leave it out here in the open, suspecting that once he’s found and rescued his idiot partner, they’ll be forced to make a rather hasty retreat to avoid being hunted down and executed by this group, or torn apart by the horde snapping at his heels.

Smoke lingers above the treeline a short distance away. Not the thick, black, smog of the fires used to lure him away from Dazai in the first place, no, this is the off-white smoke of a campfire. He’s honing in on his target.

He abandons the bike as he reaches the summit of the hill, crouching low and creeping forwards until he can get an idea of what’s waiting further down the highway. What he sees is puzzling – the RV has been pulled to the side of the road, yet apparently the conquering marauders hadn’t thought it necessary to conceal the large vehicle at all, or seen fit to set any visible guards. It stands proudly for all to view, out in the open and totally without protection, leaving Chuuya to wonder whether these people are truly idiots, or whether they have such overwhelming numbers that they no longer need to worry about their own safety or the possibility of being attacked by another band themselves.

For his sake he hopes it’s the former. While he doesn’t have a problem with killing as many of these irritating fuckers as he needs to, he’s not stupid enough to think he’s on top of his game right now.

Emotion is the enemy of reason indeed.

Retrieving the bike, he shifts into a loping run, allowing the machine to pick up its own momentum and pull him along with it as it hits the gradient. Barely a few minutes later, he’s skidding to a halt next to the RV, kicking the stand out on the bike and leaving it in the shadow of the larger vehicle as he inspects the outside, careful to keep one eye on the surrounding woodland in case some concealed presence should decide to make themselves known.

Nobody emerges from the trees, nobody calls out a warning, no shots are fired, no hell rains down upon him. He’s utterly disgusted to find the door the RV left unlocked, even more so to find the keys have been left in the ignition, as if the vehicle had just been discarded in favour of completely ransacking the interior.

Not a single cupboard has been spared the total, thoughtless, decimation. Doors hang open; half of the shelves have been laid completely bare of anything that can be eaten immediately; the small stash of alcohol is, of course, missing, and only a few lonely water bottles lie discarded on their sides alongside scattered and broken packets of rice spilling their contents upon every available surface. Not even the bathroom has escaped the plundering – half a dozen rolls of bandages lie littered upon the floor, but the tiny compartment concealed behind the sink is intact, containing the most valuable parts of their first aid kid along with the stash of medicines they keep on hand for emergencies. Their pack sits open and upturned upon the small table, the food rations pilfered but the tools they have picked up upon their journey, the very things have saved their lives time and time again, sit in a forgotten pile. This apparent lack of a thorough and methodical search is further testament to the idea of this group being disorganised and sloppy.

He can’t be anything but grateful for their stupidity. Can’t be anything but grateful to not find Dazai’s cooling body soaking a bloody stain into the passenger seat.

He takes a moment to pocket the keys - not wanting to give any of his enemies the chance to make off with the vehicle – and secure his bike back into its rack, judging the risk of it potentially being stolen as acceptable collateral, knowing that they’re unlikely to have much of a lead on any pursuers if they’re forced to flee. With one more cursory check for any sign that he’s been discovered (of which there is none), he stalks into the trees, heading for the line of smoke which betrays where his enemy lies.

There’s murder in his eyes, rage in his heart, determination winding its way through his blood to curl the fingers of one hand around the hilt of his long-bladed knife, the other gripping the haft of his axe. Yes, there’s murder in his eyes, and woe betide anyone who stands between him and what’s his.

~ ~ ~

When he finally comes across two sentries – drinking and laughing without a care for what might be lurking out of sight - he doesn’t kill them outright.

The shadows are his friends. He was, after all, raised in darkness; born from it, steeped in it until his own soul became as black as the night he lives in. He is silence and stealth, a spirit, a silhouette, there-and-gone amidst the gloom. A harbinger of death on noiseless feet.

They don’t see him coming. Don’t even know what’s happening until they lie screaming their agony upon the ground; writhing and wailing and weeping as the scent of blood tinges the air with a sharp metallic tang.

In an instant there is uproar. Chaos incarnate in the form of confused yells and shouts of alarm, mingling with the screams of dying men to create a cacophony of sound which will only seal their fate.

Death shambles ever closer.

Chuuya skirts around the edge of the camp. Any leader with half a brain will have posted more than two measly sentries. The frantic state of disarray is to his advantage, anyone on duty right now will have switched their attention from their surroundings to the source of the panicked pandemonium, obscured by the screen of trees and lingering smoke from the fires.

In short order he takes down another man and a woman on the eastern outskirt of the camp, coming upon them from behind, slashing his knife across the arteries in the back of the lower leg of his first victim, sending the woman tumbling to the floor with a cry loud enough to wake any dead not already walking as bright arterial blood gushes from the wound, flooding across the hands she presses with futile desperation against the gaping laceration to pool on the ground beneath her. He doesn’t pause to watch, instead spinning a quick half circle to hammer the head of the axe into her companion’s kneecap, half severing the limb. The man drops like a stone, unconscious.

“Demon!” the woman shrieks like a banshee through her tears and terror, eyes of vivid green swimming in a too-pale face. “You’re not human! You demon!”

Chuuya regards her without a shred of sympathy, allowing an expression of disdain to twist his lips into something cruel; there’s no room for compassion here, no time for remorse, no reason for guilt. He looks her up and down and sees nothing but a pitiful creature, entirely lost to greed and depravity, he stares into the face of hypocrisy and sneers, “Perhaps not, but I’m more human than any of you pathetic shits.”

He leaves her screaming hate and bloody murder at his back.

Death claws ever nearer.

He finds and incapacitates two more pairs of sentries, set unimaginatively at the south and west sides of the camp. None of them give him any trouble, all of them are left alive to add to the furore and distract the other members of this band from realising his actual goal, all save one, who had turned on him by chance in the last moment, as he’d crept from the shadows formed by the bare-branched canopies of the looming trees – his throat had been summarily cut. Let them believe they are being attacked on multiple fronts by an armed group. It’s makes his job infinitely easier – no one looks for the lone man when they’re expecting to see an army.

Now the messy work begins.

He picks them off, one by one. A throat cut here, an axe to the skull there, a knife to the heart, a blade through the eye. Efficient killing. Mindless murder. Some he leaves writhing in torment upon the ground, adding their screeching sonnets to the discordance filling the air with the howling beat of pain.

Shots are fired. Obscenities screeched. None connect. He doesn’t need For the Tainted Sorrow here, doesn’t need Arahabaki’s endless rage to deal with scum like this. The only weapons he requires are his knife and his body – it’s still more than they deserve.

Death staggers just out of sight.

When there are no more adversaries left standing on the peripherals of the disorderly camp, he stalks into the heart of the enemy.

When his eyes come to rest on a famliar broad, brutish figure, Chuuya’s lips curl into a silent snarl as his blood roars. He is a slave to the call of vengeance now, uncaring of anything but the enemy in front of him.

Chuuya is behind the bearlike man in a flash, knife poised delicately across a throat that bobs with terror.

“Masso, I believe,” he purrs, satisfaction coiling dark and pleasant through scorched veins when the brute stiffens in both alarm and recognition. “How unpleasant that I should find you here. For you at least.”

The blade presses harder, nicking the skin and allowing a tiny trickle of blood to flow into the man’s collar as a rasping noise of animal fear croaks from his throat. “You –” he’s clearly trying to be intimidating, but his voice cracks and falls flat, “the bitch from the road.”

“Oh, I’m flattered I left such an impression on you.” he taps the flat of the blade against Masso’s skin thoughtfully, watching the massive form jerk and twitch with every motion. “Do you remember, the last time we met you promised I was dead meat if you ever saw me again?” a low chuckle whispers from him, dark and cracked and maybe slightly unhinged. “Well, I’m going to repay the favour. Unluckily for you, I don’t break my promises.”

He pauses a moment, waits for the man to start stammering pleas, or threats, or scream for help. The brute does nothing, frozen in fear and barely breathing, but Chuuya can smell the stink of urine as the brute loses control of his bladder and he clicks his tongue in disgust.

“I should cut your balls off and watch while you bleed out right here. Unfortunately I have a bandaged idiot to find, so I just don’t have time.” He swipes the blade across the fat neck, slicing through flesh and biting into the jugular to send a crimson spray pouring forth.

“Send my regards to your friends.”

The body drops to the floor.

Death surrounds on every side.

~ ~ ~

Chuuya circles the fire, keeping his distance, knowing Dazai’s captor is now on high alert. He can see the man’s eyes darting nervously in all directions, finger twitching on the trigger of the handgun held in a white-knuckled death grip.

“Kurga? Masso? What the fuck is going on?!” his shout is lost amidst the frantic milling madness of the camp. Chuuya’s grin is grim, there’s no help coming for this trash, he’s already dead.

Pointedly not looking in the direction of the fire, Chuuya hefts the rock he had picked up moments ago, testing it’s weight and the fit of it in his hand. This could go one of two ways, but the Mafioso isn’t pausing too long to think about that. They’re almost out of time. Either the man will rush blindly around the fire and into Chuuya’s waiting knifepoint; or he will come to terms instantly with the knowledge that he is about to die, and will shoot Dazai first. The second would take a man of more self-awareness and intellect than he’s certain this collection of garbage have between them. If any of them had a shred of intelligence, the man before them would already be dead.

He hurls the rock, not needing to watch as it hits the earth exactly where he had intended it to with a loud thud. His eyes are trained on Dazai’s captor now, observing passively as the dark-haired man jerks around, his hand coming up wildly as he stares into the fire, blinding himself with the bright flickering flames. He points the gun blindly into the perpetual gloom of the undergrowth, pulls the trigger without aiming, the crack of the gunshot echoing through the trees. Then he moves, sprinting around the fire with a scream of fear and fury.

In the murk of the shadows, out of sight of the man who had just gazed into the flames, Chuuya waits, a dark form of looming death. The kidnapper passes him without a glance, shaking fingers attempting to pull back the hammer of the gun. Too late. Chuuya thinks with satisfaction, pouncing from his hiding place with the grace and quickness of a hunting cat. His bloodied blade is deep between the man’s ribs before he can do more than utter a single gurgling cry, sinking to the floor, a pile of so much refuse.

Unceremoniously, he thrusts the point of the blade into the space behind the ear, pulling it clear and wiping the knife mostly clean on the dead man’s filthy shirt and with quick steps makes his way around the fire to where Dazai is tied and gagged against the tree. Now that he can get a better look, he can see the right side of Dazai’s face is swollen, a cut across his cheek still oozing sticky blood and his breathing appears to be pained, sharp and wheezing.

“You look like shit,” is the first thing to come out of Chuuya’s mouth as he leans down to slice apart the bindings on Dazai’s wrists and ankles, then cutting the rope securing his waist to the trunk of the tree. Lastly he pulls the gag clear, slightly amused, slightly horrified at the state of the cloth which had obviously been a hasty afterthought. Dazai makes a disgusted face, wiggling his jaw from side to side and wincing.

Hauling himself to his feet, a pained hiss he clearly hadn’t meant to let out pushes through his clenched teeth. Wrapping one arm around his side he half stumbles a few steps before grabbing the can of beer his captor had been enjoying before his ultimate demise. Dazai eyes it dubiously, “Much as I don’t want to put anything in my mouth that’s been anywhere near that slob…” he sighs, pouring the liquid into his mouth and swishing it around for a moment before spitting to the ground, now tinged red with blood.

“What did you do with them?” Dazai asks, turning back to Chuuya, the Mafioso can see the tight lines of pain around his partner’s mouth, eyes a little too bright, reflecting the firelight.

“I killed them.” he responds without remorse. “They were scum.”

When Dazai cocks his head, raising his eyebrows to indicate the still wailing screams coming from every side and harmonising in a painful crescendo, Chuuya shrugs and amends, “I killed most of them. A few I just hamstringed or caused enough damage that they won’t be moving anywhere fast, they drew the others in. These people are disorganised, Dazai, how did they even survive this long if this is how they live?”

“This is just a squad. Part of a much larger organisation, if that idiot is to be believed.” Dazai’s voice is forcibly flat, his expression purposefully blank, Chuuya knows it’s an ingrained defence, an unconscious desire to mask any injuries he might have been feeling from his captors. Dazai has always had that effortless way of pissing others off enough to want to hurt him and see that mask crack.

“I suspect they just stopped here to...enjoy the prime pickings from their haul. I doubt they would have stayed more than a few hours before heading back to report to whoever their true ‘Boss’ is.”

Chuuya shrugs, shifting from foot to foot, unable to keep still as the residual burning anger and need to fight itches beneath his skin. “Huh. Well, there won’t be anyone going back to report anything now.”

The pitch of the screaming ringing and echoing around the camp suddenly changes to something terror-stricken and frantic. Chuuya’s head comes up instantly, he curses softly and turns his eyes back to Dazai, “Tch, I thought we’d have a little longer. That’s our cue to move.” He scans Dazai’s body, frowning, “Can you move?”

“Of course I can move,” Dazai scoffs, waving a hand airily. Chuuya notices he doesn’t move the other arm from where it’s wrapped around his waist and gives the insufferable bastard a narrow-eyed look. “Okay, so I might have a minor concussion where they smacked me across the back of the head when I started causing too much trouble. Possibly a cracked rib or two.” He smiles, the expression is disconcerting. “They didn’t really like the answers I gave to their little questioning game you see?”

A one-armed shrug and Dazai continues, “Don’t worry your little head, Chibi, I can walk. But why the hurry?”

“There’s a horde coming. I figured it would take them longer than this to get here, but I guess splitting heads wasn’t as quick as I thought,” he moves forward, intending to assist Dazai back to the RV but is stopped by Dazai’s raised hand.

“We need to loot the bodies.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Chuuya snaps back, rounding on the taller man, “Did your brain leak out of your skull when they hit you, shithead?! Did you not just hear me say there’s a horde coming this way! You can barely move as it is!”

“They looted the RV and took almost everything. The food and the alcohol isn’t a great loss, but some of them have guns, Chuuya,” Dazai’s voice is still flat, completely emotionless and it spikes Chuuya’s ire just as it always has. “We need as many as we can get.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Chuuya spits, knowing that the bastard is right, they do need more guns, have pitifully few bullets and a mission ever hanging over their heads. “Alright, alright. But you are not going anywhere except back to the fucking RV do you hear me?!”

Dazai rolls his eyes, dredges up a grin from who-knows-what end of his sanity. “Yes mother,” he all but chirps. “The guy you just butchered has a handgun, obviously since he tried and failed to shoot you, probably didn’t see you because you’re so short.” Chuuya knows he’s talking to get around the pain, lets the insult slide without much more than an irritated click of his tongue. “Did you see a man, around six feet tall, grey hair and beard, kind of looks like a yeti?” He considers for a moment, then nods. “He has some kind of ancient looking shotgun, not terribly useful but beggars can’t be choosers. Check his pockets for spare rounds.”

“Help me! Someone! For God’s sake help me! Anyone!” The sound is piercing, cutting through Dazai’s conversational tone with harsh, high-pitched dissonance. There’s a shrieking cry of abject terror, “NO! No please! No! HELP ME! Noooo –” the sound cuts off abruptly as a single shot rings out.

“Well, I guess that would be Screamer. He was ‘in charge’ of this little murderous band. He has...had a semi-automatic pistol. Keeps spare ammo in his pack, I’ll grab that,” at Chuuya’s narrowed eyes he adds, “Don’t worry, it’s on the way.”

A semi-automatic would be a good addition to their arsenal, there’s no doubt about that, but the prospect of actually acquiring said pistol makes Chuuya swear softly under his breath. “This whole camp is going to be crawling in a few minutes, the head of that pack are likely already here and the main body wont be far behind. Get moving, shitty Dazai and I’ll get your fucking guns.”

Dazai hesitates for a moment, pain, exhaustion and a hint of worry suddenly visible on a face which had – until moments ago – been carefully blank. “Don’t put yourself at risk.”

“Yeah, yeah, now fuck off,” it’s Chuuya’s turn to roll his eyes, masking his own concern by flipping Dazai a two-fingered salute before turning on his heel and stomping back to the man whose throat he had cut just minutes before.

One badly maintained handgun and exactly seven rounds are his ‘spoils’. Not worth the effort. Chuuya thinks, slipping back between the trees and into the gloom beyond.

He keeps his footsteps light, placing his boots down carefully so as to make as little noise as possible on the leaf-carpeted ground. The relative lull of silence after the disharmonious racket of shouts and screaming is punctuated now by the gurgling rattle and raspy snarls of the undead, rather closer in proximity than Chuuya would have preferred. In his head he repeats a steady stream of obscenities and insulting remarks that he would rather like to hurl at the bandage bastard’s face right about now, but outwardly he just hurries his steps, determined to get this suicidal madness over with as fast as possible.

~ ~ ~

Entrails spill in looping pools that appear almost artistic, were it not for the fact that he’s looking at the decimated remains of what was once a human; staring at the exposed gleam of bone and spreading crimson stain completing the macabre portrait. Ribs have been cracked apart like so many brittle twigs, yawning wide to bare the cavity of the chest, heart and lungs no more than lumpy shreds of flesh within that cavernous space. The rest of the body is smeared upon the ground in chunks and patterns of blood – not an inch of skin remains unmarked by the jaws and clawing fingers of the undead, hanging in tattered flesh-speckled strips, slowly dripping the last remnants of blood to soak the earth with the essence of life.

The undead linger around the eviscerated carcasses of their prey, their frenzy abated to something more sedate as the lack of uncorrupted life sends them back to their languorous wanderings. He can see the gun still gripped in the man Dazai had dubbed as ‘Screamer’s’ hand, the limb almost completely severed at the shoulder, hanging on by a few resilient threads of muscle and fibrous tissue. It’s the height of reckless abandon to even consider wading through the throng of walking corpses for the sake of one semi-automatic pistol...but...Dazai says they need guns.

They do need guns, they’re fast running out of time to accumulate such things, and the increasing numbers of undead paired with the decreasing number of survivors and buildings left upright enough which haven’t already been picked clean down to their bare walls and rafters isn’t helping their plight. Dazai says they need guns and Chuuya’s head is still drowning in guilt, in that voice that whispers that this whole mess is his fault, if he hadn’t suggested they split up just for the sake of getting home a little faster. If he had just stayed...none of this would have happened.

It’s absurd, even if he had stayed, if they had been ambushed together, what could they have done against such numbers? Instead of one captive, the attackers would have had two. Sure together they might have killed a few of them before being overwhelmed, but without the element of surprise, they would have had little hope of coming out victorious. Yes, the guilt is absurd, but that doesn’t quell the voice muttering it’s insidious accusations.

He needs a diversion.

Staring at the ground comes up blank – nothing useful there, only a carpet of leaves and sticks, not even a decently sized rock for him to toss. He pats his pockets, feels a strange lumpy shape in one and frowns, sticking his hand in and pulling out the flare gun Dazai had pressed upon him in that fateful parting moment.

Perfect.

Chuuya quickly checks the chamber, finding the gun loaded, takes a moment to do one final assessment of his surroundings before picking out a pile of what looks to be somewhat dry leaves around thirty metres from his current position. Flares aren’t exactly the most accurate of projectiles, designed to be shot straight up into the air, and affected as they are by drag and the direction of the wind. Still, he lines up the shot, mouths a quick prayer and pulls the trigger.

The hissing pop of the release is loud in his ears and quickly he’s moving away from his position -concealed behind a clump of bushes – in case the closest zombies decide to investigate the source of the noise rather than the flare itself.

It was a lucky shot. The flare lands in the leaf litter, sputtering brilliant red and spitting almost violently. The leaves ignite, adding to the bright display and immediately catching the attention of the undead which are aimlessly meandering in the clearing.

He keeps to the cover as much as he can, sidling around until the distance between himself and his target is the shortest it’s likely to be without him presenting himself as an opportunistic meal. Taking a breath, Chuuya dashes forwards.

He makes a grab for the gun, trying to pull it from fingers clenched vice-tight and unrelenting. Snarling with wordless frustration he grabs the axe from his belt, brings it crashing down on the strips of flesh holding the arm to the shoulder and severs the limb completely.

He’s a little disgusted by the fact that he’s now holding a human arm, but the thought is a fleeting concern, gone in an instant when he rises, only to come face-to-face with grinning, clacking jaws and putrid breath. He almost slips on the slimy mass of intestines as he launches his body instinctively backwards, out of range of those teeth and gnarled bony fingers. It takes less than a second to assess his immediate surroundings, noting the position of the zombies closest to him and dismissing all of them as non-threats aside from the individual currently lurching towards his face. There’s no time to pull back the axe, no time to draw his knife. Instead, without thought, he brings the severed arm to bear, cocking the weapon and pressing his own finger against the disturbingly cold, clammy and rigid counterpart which is still settled over the trigger, praying that there are rounds loaded into the chamber.

The shot explodes from the muzzle and shatters the silence, striking the creature dead in the centre of its forehead, half of its head disintegrating in an instant to spray blood and brain and bone from the back of its skull. The corpse reels backwards and collapses to the ground.

Chuuya doesn’t wait around for the rest of its brethren to zero in on him.

Ripping the gun from the rigid limb, he tosses the arm aside – just another piece of dead meat left to rot upon the dirt.

He runs.

~ ~ ~

He can hear the faint moans and muted noises of the undead clamouring about in the trees behind him as he sprints for the relative safety of the RV, aware that it’s only a matter of time before they come crashing through the undergrowth in a unstoppable wave of sluggish death. The items he has picked up along the way are becoming more cumbersome with every hasty step and even the roots of the trees seem to be writhing from the ground in an effort to send him sprawling. His heartbeat is a steady pounding in his ears, more comforting than annoying right now – as if his own body is reminding him that he’s still alive, still fighting, still running.

He’s relieved to hear the familiar chug of the RV’s engine filtering through the trees as he practically flies through the last of the undergrowth, making a quick leap across the low barrier separating the wilderness from the road. Throwing himself up the step and into the small living space with a relief that leaves his fingers trembling slightly with the sudden absence of the adrenaline-fuelled rush that has kept him going since returning to Dazai’s disappearance.

Chuuya throws the collection of items - including the two guns he’d managed to get his hands on – haphazardly onto the bed above the cab, stalking forwards to level Dazai with what he intends to be an impressive glare, but is probably filled with concern rather than irritation in this moment. The asshole looks too-pale, face drawn and eyes slightly glazed – whether from the concussion or from pain Chuuya can’t tell and knows Dazai wouldn’t answer him honestly if he asked.

“Move over, idiot, you’re in no condition to be driving right now,” he huffs, offering Dazai his hand and helping the taller man to stand and shuffle forwards before practically collapsing into the passenger seat.

“Seatbelt.” Chuuya grates out, picking up Dazai’s answering wince immediately. “I don’t care if it hurts, we need to get out of here and the last thing I need is you passing out and falling off the damned chair. Seatbelt. Now.”

“Alright, alright.” Dazai mumbles, pulling the belt over his shoulder obediently, “I think Chuuya just likes causing me pain.” it’s an obvious attempt at humour, which falls woefully flat in the face of Dazai gritting his teeth and letting out a hiss despite obviously trying to swallow the sound.

Chuuya can’t quite keep his rage tamped down as he throws the RV into gear and rams his foot down on the accelerator, disappointed when the stupid thing moves off sedately down the road rather than with the tyre-squealing shriek of burning rubber Chuuya’s mood demands right now. Anger runs hot through his veins as his focus shifts from the road in front, to Dazai taking short stuttered breaths in the passenger seat, his eyes dulled to a rusted brown, focussed on something far beyond what Chuuya can see.

He’s glad those bastards are dead, would happily stake them out for the fucking zombies to feast on their still-living bodies if he had the chance.

“Chibi, your murderous aura is making me uncomfortable.” Dazai tries to laugh and ends up coughing out a pained gasp instead. The fire in Chuuya’s blood spikes white hot. “What are you thinking, Little Mafia?”

The nickname makes him crack a dangerous smile, something full of teeth and intent. His blood has never run quite the same shade of black as Dazai’s, but that doesn’t mean that he can’t be just as ruthless, doesn’t make him any less vicious when it comes to taking care of business, or protecting what’s his.

“I’m thinking that these fuckers have run around thinking they’ve got the biggest dicks for far too long,” his voice is mostly a snarl, “Their base is between us and our goal, right?”

“Right.” Dazai agrees blandly.

Chuuya’s fingers curl around the wheel, his grip so tight that his nails leave indents in the rubber grip, “I think it’s time we exterminated this nest of rats.”

“What do you have in mind, Executive-san?” there’s a barely audible breath of amusement in there, enough to make Chuuya relax, just slightly, back into the chair.

“I’m going to burn their fucking base down around their ears.” he growls, allowing the tamped down rage to seep into his tone, colour it with dark intent. He feels Dazai’s eyes fix on him, that pinpoint focus suddenly sharp. The bastard knows how much Chuuya abhors using fire as a weapon, the decimation of Suribachi city at the claws of Arahabaki’s black flame leaves fire as a constant reminder of that destructive force melded to him, body, heart and soul. But these fuckers, they deserve to burn.

Dazai wheezes out a pained laugh, more gasping breath than any actual sound, “I think I’m going to need a few days before we go storming any enemy bases, Chibi.”

Chuuya flicks his gaze sideways for a moment, frowning, because now he’s wondering, “Why did they leave you alive anyway? Why not just shoot you, cut your throat or whatever and take the RV? It would have been the obvious choice.”

Dazai lifts one shoulder in a shrug, wincing, and clearly regretting the action in the moment before his face wipes clean once more, burying that trace of hurt, “Apparently tales of our little scuffles on the road made it back to the big Boss of this group. If either of us were found, orders are to bring us in alive. At least, that’s what my lovely new foul-smelling friend told me just before he messed up my pretty face.”

“Huh.” Chuuya scoffs automatically, even if the bastard knows he’s right, it doesn’t do to stroke his ego and inflate it any larger than it already is. “Seems like a lot of effort for two troublemakers.”

“Perhaps they intended to offer me an executive position in their merry band of cutthroats and murderers?” When Chuuya rolls his eyes in the idiot’s direction it’s to see that Dazai’s smile is pained but still has that familiar lilt of wry amusement. “It wouldn’t be the first time either of us has been headhunted by an organisation after all.”

The memory of Chuuya being ‘headhunted’ into the Port Mafia - by that shitty Mackerel’s manipulative hands no less - is still a prickly subject between them, liable to set Chuuya off like a mistimed grenade, right now it only serves to sour his mood further. “Don’t remind me.” he huffs and Dazai hiccups a laugh that sounds painful. Serves the bastard right.

“Of course, it’s far more likely that they suspected us either of being part of a larger group – one that could post a threat to whatever stranglehold they have around here; or they believe that we have caches hidden which might be to their benefit. Either way, I’m sure making the acquaintance of their Boss wouldn’t have been a pleasant experience held over tea and cake.” The statement is made with airy affectation and amusement, but the connotations lying beneath are chilling. So close, they were so close to losing each other.

The thought of being left alone in this world runs cold fire down his spine.

“They’re going to wish the order had been to shoot us on sight.”

~ ~ ~

He’s kind of concerned about how exactly he’s going to get Dazai down that damn cliff path to the beach. When he switches his focus from the road ahead to the idiot in the passenger seat he can see, even in those few scant seconds, that Dazai is in pain. His breathing is steady and even, but shallow and one arm is still wrapped protectively around his chest, probably unconsciously. The whole picture has Chuuya gritting his teeth all over again.

His head is all over the place; anger, guilt and worry chasing each other into a tangled mess which makes it difficult to concentrate. He’s so lost in his own thoughts that Dazai has to point out their turnings because Chuuya isn’t paying attention to the road or how far they’ve travelled.

It turns out he needn’t have worried about the cliff path.

It’s clear something is wrong when they turn off the road and onto the track that leads to the cliff: the branches, which had been pulled across the entrance upon their departure, have been pulled aside and dumped on one side of the track, leaving the way clearly visible to any who happen to pass by.

He brings the RV to a stop and rubs one hand across his face wearily before shooting a look at Dazai, who’s eyes are clear and sharp, despite the pain.

“I think we have unexpected company, Chibi~” Chuuya can hear the attempt at humour fall woefully short, as Dazai ends the sentence on a hitched breath.

“You mean unwelcome company. Some use you’re gonna be in a fight right now.” Chuuya grumbles, though he can hear the worry clear in his own tone as he drags himself out of his seat and retrieves the odd assortment of weapons still stashed in the RV. Dazai might be worse than useless for close combat right now, but at least he’s a decent shot.

“I have a feeling we wont need those.” Dazai hums softly, though he refuses to expand on that thought, even when Chuuya shoots him a sharp look, simply shrugging and gesturing to the track. “Shall we go and take a look?”

The gate has been thrown wide and Chuuya is irritated to see two of the undead shuffling aimlessly between the trees within the compound. He’s half tempted to run them over, but thinks better of it, instead choosing to hop out of the door down to the ground and deal with the irritating fuckers the old fashioned way – just him and his long-bladed knife. Quick, efficient and effective, if a little messy.

There’s a car pulled up near the edge of the cliff – a beat up looking four-wheel drive which may once have been some off-red colour, but is now almost completely brown with dirt and flaking rust.

No signs of life stir within the compound. Not a whisper or careful footfall of the car’s former occupants, and that makes something in his gut twist with that sourly familiar feeling of dread. Dazai appears beside him, face pale and fingers clenched around the grip of his pistol.

“What are you doing, idiot? You should have let me check everything was safe before painting a fucking target on your back!” he hisses, though concern makes him wrap one of Dazai’s arms around his shoulders while Chuuya wraps his own arm gently around Dazai’s waist, careful to avoid those ribs, so the bastard can lean on him for support.

“I’m touched, Chuu-ya!” Dazai hums, almost breathless.

“Touched in the damn head!” Chuuya retorts immediately.

“Ouch, Chuuya. Don’t make me laugh, it hurts!” The idiot whines, a tiny light of mirth breaking through the clouded, pain-filled darkness of Dazai’s eyes. “Come on, Chibi, be a good dog and lead us to the cliff, I think we’ll find our guests down there.”

~ ~ ~

The dull grey of late afternoon stretches out, an endless patchwork before them, merging with the deeper grey-blue of the ocean, capped white with the rolling waves as they beat steadily upon the shore in their attempt to pound the very earth into submission.

The sight that lies before them...Chuuya can hardly believe his eyes.

He doesn’t want to believe what he’s seeing, played out before them like a nightmare born to life.

The yacht is no longer anchored between the jutting pillars of rock, the silent sentinels which had kept them sheltered and protected from the worst that the elements had dared to throw at them these last months.

The yacht...their home...their safe haven...is sinking.

Broken pieces of wood and carbon fiber lie scattered upon the water, tossed to and fro by the dip and swell of the waves, which seem to play with the fragments like a child might throw a ball, crashing in from all sides until each piece is swallowed and dragged down. The cracked and sundered bow of the boat points almost proudly perpendicular to the sky, bobbing gamely upon the water as if trying to cling to the last moments of its life atop the sea rather than succumb to sinking to its grave beneath the murky, grasping depths.

“Look.” Dazai murmurs, removing the hand wrapped protectively around his ribs to point at a spot just slightly closer to the shore than the field of floating debris. Chuuya stares at the water, seeing nothing but the white-capped swell and shift of waves for a long moment before his eyes pick out the tiny shapes.

People, he assumes. Four of them, though one of the specks keeps slipping from his field of view, disappearing beneath the waves only to resurface seconds later, falling further and further behind the other three who appear to be attempting to make their way back to shore.

He feels something nudge against his chest, looks down to find Dazai offering the binoculars he keeps stashed in one of those bottomless pockets wordlessly. Lifting them to his eyes, he watches the scene unfold.

Two of the four seem to be holding their own against the pounding of the sea, striking for shore with powerful strokes which cut through the waves and shake off the grip of the undertow beneath their feet. The third is beginning to lag behind, arms no longer clearing the water on each stroke, movements becoming sluggish, less coordinated and more of a frantic flailing the longer Chuuya watches.

When he attempts to locate the fourth person, he finds nothing but the deadly expanse of ocean, the endless shifting blue. The sea has claimed another victim, filling lungs with burning water when there is no breath left to take, dragging a limp and exhausted form down and down and down, until blue becomes darker than black, until eyes see no more, until the bubbles still and another body comes to rest on the sand, to appease the angry ocean Gods with an offer of life and flesh and soul.

The straggling third person is truly struggling now, kicking and thrashing wildly, clearly trapped in the midst of the iron grip of panic. The head dips fully beneath the water, breaking the surface long seconds later only to be submerged once again by the crashing swell of the concurrent wave. Twice more the head reappears, only to flounder and thrash and sink. When another wave crashes down with unmerciful force, engulfing the stricken form one more, it does not rise to the surface again.

Another offering made and accepted.

The two survivors of the wreck are dragging themselves slowly out of the surf, clawing their way up the beach with slow determination that screams exhaustion and desperation. A vindictive, angry part of Chuuya wishes they had drowned along with their comrades, for daring to try and take away their home, to steal it from him and Dazai as they had stolen it from Millionaire-kun what seems like a lifetime of bad decisions ago.

“They must have hit rocks just below the surface as they tried to sail out of the cove.” Slicing the silence between them, the words make him start, his fingers curling automatically tighter around the binoculars. Dazai’s monotone hum is shot through with a horrendous breathless wheezing that the idiot is clearly trying to hide. For all of his apparent unconcern at the loss of their safety net, when Chuuya tears his eyes away from the view behind the binoculars to scrutinise the idiot’s face, he can see the dull exhaustion, fed by pain, lingering in the dark planes of Dazai’s face.

“That’s some shit fucking luck.” he manages to push the response through his teeth, though there’s no humour behind the words, just an echo of that same tired acceptance he can see in staring at him through Dazai’s eyes.

“Millionaire-kun chose this cove well. Not only has it mostly sheltered us from the worst of the weather, but it’s almost impossible to navigate without knowing the waters, he knew the chances of being ambushed here were small, and that no attacker would be able to safely get the boat through those narrow channels without experience or local knowledge.”

“Yeah, well, it didn’t stop those fuckers smashing it to shit, did it?” Chuuya huffs, watching the two figures laid out upon the sand, clearly at the last of their strength.

“Bloody pirates.” Dazai murmurs, deadpan, and Chuuya can’t help but bark out a disbelieving laugh.

“Really? You’re going there?” he shakes his head in disbelief, but can’t help the tiny smile from lifting his lips, finding his own expression mirrored on his idiot partner’s face.

“If it makes you smile, Chibi~” The expression is gone as swiftly as it arrived as he watches Dazai turn back to the scene below, eyes fixed on the distant figures bathed in the golden light of evening sun, cascading in shafts through gaps in the gathering clouds. It might be beautiful, if their home wasn’t scattered in tiny broken pieces across the ocean, sunlight glinting off the shattered remains of their shelter which had kept them safe against the raging storm of reality wrought upon this shitty world.

“We can’t stay here.” He lets Dazai’s words sink into his bones, settling like a lead weight, cold and filled with the trepidation of the unknown laid out before them in shadow and mist. He doesn’t reply, not for long minutes, though he knows that Dazai knows that he heard him. He doesn’t want to accept the finality of leaving this cove, he doesn’t want to accept that they’ve been cast adrift, he doesn’t want to accept that they’re about to become entrenched in whatever this shitty novel decides to throw at them next.

He’s tired. Just fucking tired. The final months are beginning to look like an eternity. An eternity of cramped spaces, rotting corpses and a distinct lack of running water.

Ugh.

“Chuuya –?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he hands the binoculars back to the idiot beside him, watching Dazai whisk them away to vanish back into one of those myriad black holes he calls pockets. Unwinding his arm from around Dazai’s waist, he pauses for a moment to assess whether the bastard can actually stand upright on his own two feet, before shrugging out from beneath Dazai’s arm still draped casually across his shoulder. At the silent question he allows a grin formed from anger to surface, he probably looks a little crazed, but who the fuck cares. “Give me a minute, I’m going to make sure there’s no chance of those assholes trying to follow us, the last thing we need is another confrontation with the locals with you in this sorry state.”

Dazai fixes him with an unimpressed, dead-eyed stare, swaying slightly where he stands but somehow managing to maintain his balance. It’s good enough for Chuuya, who walks quickly away from the idiot and towards the beat up old car.

The fuckers who had wrecked their boat hadn’t even bothered to lock the piece of shit. The door opens with only the protest of old hinges, and Chuuya doesn’t need keys for what he’s about to do.

Releasing the parking break he turns the wheel to full lock, leaning his weight into the door pillar and baring his teeth in a wordless snarl as he strains to push the considerable bulk of the four-wheel-drive into motion. Inch by ponderous inch it begins to move.

“Move you wallowing bitch!” he growls, boots beginning to slip on mud softened by recent rainfall, muscles in his arms cording under the strain. Again he’s left to lament the absence of his Ability, the unforgiving grasp of gravity shifting under his skin ready to answer his call. The rage simmering in his blood gives him strength, gives him focus, gives him reason. The noise that claws its way from his throat takes him back to when he was fifteen and furious – launching himself through windows just to prove Dazai wrong, just to win a stupid bet, no, it was never about the bet...the noise, it’s the remembered insanity of Arahabaki, the empty space still weighing on his soul, ever-present, even in its silence.

The car begins to roll forward, gathering speed with each renewed effort, with every heave and shove and then, Chuuya is stumbling as the vehicle hits the slight downward slope and jolts onward, leaving him to throw out his arms in an effort to remain standing.

He watches with triumph and a sense of dark satisfaction as the car careens off the side of the cliff, flying out into empty air and giving the illusion of hanging in the sky for a fraction of a second before it plummets down and down and down; hitting rocks jutting out of the cliff’s face on its way and sending a deadly tumbling rain of rocks to pelt the beach below.

It meets the sand with a crash that echoes around the cove; a lump of wrenched, warped and wrecked metal, nothing more than a useless carcass - strewn across the beach in a twisted mirror of the remains of their boat upon the water. Chuuya half wishes there were a dozen more trucks that he could send careening off the cliff, it might just be enough to quell the burning wrath curling his fingers into fists, skittering down his spine to settle in shifting feet, overriding the exhaustion with something hot and red.

He knows the fire wont last for long.

“Now it’s time to go.” he mumbles softly, returning to wrap his arm around Dazai’s waist once more, helping the idiot clamber back into the relative safety of the RV and listening to Dazai’s breathing cut short on a bitten-off whine as he slumps back into his seat.

It’s going to be the first of many a long night.

~ ~ ~

He shakes Dazai gently awake after backing the cumbersome vehicle down the woodland track they had scouted out previously. It’s a short walk from their first safe house – the water tower they had sat and watched the sunrise on a lifetime ago – but adequate to conceal the bulky form of the RV from anyone who might happen to pass by. They had decided, some time ago, that the necessity of having a quick getaway should they need it was worth the slightly increased risk of discovery. Not to mention the RV holds many amenities which the majority of their safehouses are sorely lacking – running water (as long as they can find suitable sources to replenish the tank) and a functioning toilet being foremost among them.

Dazai’s eyes screw shut before they crack open to reveal a sliver of darkness, weary and dulled with hurt and fatigue.

“Hey…” Chuuya whispers quietly, threading his bare fingers through Dazai’s knotted hair and smoothing a thumb across his brow. “You’re going to be in even more pain tomorrow if you sleep here.” He pulls away, leaving Dazai some small modicum of privacy to pull up whatever walls the idiot deems necessary in this moment and busying himself rummaging through the tiny bathroom to pull out two fresh rolls of bandages and finding the small hidden stash of painkillers, grabbing a bottle of water from one of the cupboards as he returns to the cabin.

Shaking out two tablets he presses them into Dazai’s hand along with the water, watching the other man swallow them without pause. That done, Chuuya offers a hand to help Dazai to his feet. “Come sit on the bed and let me look at those ribs.”

Dazai’s immediate response to Chuuya’s concern is to make a face, “I’m fi –”

Chuuya is done with this self-deprecating bullshit, interrupts by poking the bastard on the nose, effectively cutting off his words, “Don’t sit there and lie to my face, shitty Dazai, you are not fine. Get on the fucking bed before I throw you on it.”

“So violent, Chibi, but I really don’t think I’m up for such games tonight.” the attempt to hide behind humour is something Chuuya is so familiar with, it rings warning bells in his head. Instead of capitulating to Dazai’s need to retain control, he pushes. Like fuck is he letting the idiot compromise his own health for the sake of his stupid pride.

“Bed. Osamu. Now.”

~ ~ ~

Once the sticky congealing blood has been cleaned from the split on Dazai’s cheek, the wound doesn’t look half as bad as it had appeared. It’s already beginning to scab over and Chuuya is content to leave it be for now. The sizeable lump on the back of his head is a little concerning, but the fact that the bastard had woken up and not fallen into a coma in the passenger seat is a good sign. His pupils react as they should to both low and bright light, dilating and contracting in equal measure, which should be enough to indicate that the idiots brain is just fine, though it might have been sloshed around a little inside his thick skull.

The ribs are bruised and not cracked or broken, as far as he can tell at least. He’s seen more than his fair share of injuries out in the field, being a combat-class Ability user, he’s often on the front lines, often present for the aftermath of the bloodshed and turf wars that are the Mafia’s every day. Skating his hands carefully down Dazai’s side they determine that no one point is causing more severe pain than anywhere else. It’s a good sign, fractured or broken ribs are a bitch to heal and come with the added risk of a shard puncturing a lung, or pneumonia. He’s hopeful that his idiot partner has at least avoided that worst case scenario.

He’s aware that recent medical advice dictates that you not bind rib injuries, that deep breathing lowers the risk of pneumonia, but he carefully winds the bandages around Dazai’s torso regardless. He’s cautious not to bind the ribs too tightly, but the support will help with the pain, at least until the painkillers take hold. He’ll remove the binding as soon as he has Dazai safe and comfortable in the tower.

Which leaves him with another problem.

Heaving a sigh he rubs a hand across his face, pushing weariness aside by force of will.

“You’re sleeping here tonight.” he announces, crawling up the bed to arrange the pillows so that Dazai can rest in a semi-upright position which will make breathing a little easier.

“It’s too dangerous for us to sleep on the ground, Chuuya.” He can see Dazai’s eyes drooping as he speaks, fighting off sleep with every slow blink.

“I won’t be sleeping.” Chuuya replies, moving to flick the kettle on and dump a disgusting amount of instant coffee granules into a travel flask. “I’ll take watch on the roof. In the morning we’ll work out how to get you up that fucking ladder, but for now, you need to rest and not exacerbate those injuries.”

“Chuuya, I –”

“No, we’re not arguing about this. You’re sleeping, I’m on watch. End of discussion.” he moves his hand in a sharp, abortive motion to dictate his point and watches Dazai’s shoulders curl in on themselves, as if this is all his fault, as if somehow he should have predicted this, should have prevented this. It makes Chuuya’s heart hurt. “Hey…I can hear you thinking. Stop it. This isn’t your fault.” Dazai’s eyes go wide and he knows he’s hit the mark. “It’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault.”

“But I should have–”

“Dazai please, just listen for once in your damn life.” he can’t look at the other man right now, doesn’t want to see the defeat or the insecurity bared plain for him to see. “Nobody expects you to be right all the time. You’re not some kind of supercomputer, you’re human; flesh and blood and bone and brain. Sure you might be a fucking stupid genius with a bigger brain than anyone else I know, but that doesn’t make you infallible...and that’s okay.” he sighs, lifts his head, sees something like shock quickly buried beneath a thin veneer of forced apathy, “We’re partners, together we win, together we lose, together we fall...right?”

“Chuuya –” choked emotion and something bare and vulnerable is laced in that single intonation of his name. “Come here…” barely whispered but Chuuya hears it like the tolling of a bell, beckoning him to his own death. He goes, because what else can he do, when called with such reverence.

When Dazai’s hands cup his cheeks and draw him forwards, Chuuya comes willingly. When Dazai’s lips brush against his, soft and adoring, Chuuya presses back, just as gentle, just as devoted. When Dazai pulls back to look into his eyes, Chuuya doesn’t shut him out, can’t shut him out, is wrapped so thoroughly in Dazai’s tangled web he’s not sure how to escape, never wants to escape.

“Get some rest, Osamu, I’ll be outside.”

Dazai’s only answer is to shift backwards in small increments until his back rests against the pillows. He’s asleep before Chuuya has finished making the coffee.

Chapter Text

Dazai comes awake in an instant, to pitch black dark and the air stuck in his windpipe feeling like grasping fingers choking him. His head throbs and pulses a myriad starburst of colour across his vision with every beat of his heart. He doesn’t cry out, doesn’t make a sound. Another habit formed from years in the Mafia, formed under Mori’s thumb and sharp eye – don’t let your captors know you’re awake, use the time to assess your surroundings, the more information you have, the easier it will be to predict your enemies’ next moves. He focuses on slowing his heart rate; he’s no longer in the camp, no longer a captive; he’s safe and Chuuya is outside...no matter what his mind might be telling him in the wake of a fading dream.

He’d expected the ambush from the moment he’d seen the smoke on the horizon, though he hadn’t told Chuuya – won’t tell Chuuya that he had thrown them both into the path of danger without the redhead’s knowledge or consent. It had been a calculated risk, better that one of them be taken - leaving the other at least decent odds at being able to stage a rescue - than for both of them to be captured and have to deal with an unknown situation, going in blind and unprepared. It had been fifty-fifty, whether the smoke was being used as a lure or a deterrent, but in hindsight he probably should have kept the flare gun and not insisted upon Chuuya taking it with the bike...not that it would have been any real use.

They’d come upon him in a standard pincer formation: six vehicles (containing two-dozen rough looking thugs that would put even Yokohama’s grimiest gangs to shame) blocking him in a triangle manoeuvre on a crossroads not half a mile from where he had pulled up to wait out the allotted time before following Chuuya. He could have rammed through the blockade, but that would have lead them straight to Chuuya; it not as if the RV had any chance of outrunning even one, let alone six cars.

So, he’d given himself up without a struggle, allowed his temporary jailers to tie him up (sloppily he might add) and throw him into the bench seat next to the small table. He had sat in serene silence as the imbeciles jeered at him, hadn’t even twitched at the familiar sight of Brute from their altercation days before, lumbering up the step and filling the small space with his presence as well as his stench. The bearlike man had leaned into his face and honked out a laugh.

“You ain’t so tough now, eh? Without that pretty little bitch of yours, you’re nothing. Where is the little slut, gone and left you for someone more worthwhile, eh?”

Dazai had smiled without humour, blanked his expression to something almost dead and looked the man straight in the face as he’d spoken with a bored monotone, “You really should just kill me.”

Brute had snorted at that, his arm whipping out to crack his fist into Dazai’s chest. He hadn’t winced, hadn’t even blinked, even when pain seared through him with his next breath.

“Oi, Masso, don’t damage ‘im too much!”

“I ain’t going to.” Brute...Masso (Dazai prefers Brute, it suits this animal far better)… had growled, his attention still fixed on Dazai, “You ain’t got the luxury of dyin’ easy.” A wide smile had split his face, betraying rows of yellowed, chipped teeth, “Commander wants t’see you. Orders are to bring you in alive, you and your little whore.” Well, that had been the most useful piece of information he’d received from the encounter.

Dazai had been left with a rat-faced man with dark, lank hair and a woman who might have been pretty under all of the dirt. The RV had been turned, almost backing into a ditch before Rat-Face got control of the wheel and cursed a stream of profanities even his Chibi would have been proud of. As the vehicle had lumbered off back in the direction from which they’d come, Dazai had busied himself freeing his wrists from their bindings – an easy feat for someone as invested in the art of knots as himself.

He had stolen a quick glance into the cab, finding Rat-Face and Dirt-Girl already arguing about what they would eat first. Surreptitiously he had cracked the window above the table, waited for Rat-Face to swing the RV precariously around a corner that would put them on a road straight towards the highway and tossed his favourite small knife out onto the verge before sitting quietly back down.

Stopping on the highway had been their fatal mistake, though Dazai had seen it coming a mile off: a group low-down in the hierarchy of whatever community they were part of, taking a prize like the RV would probably end up with none of them receiving any of the spoils. So, they had stopped to take advantage of whatever they could ransack from the inside...and ransack they had – Dazai had winced internally at the mess two-dozen ravaging hyenas could make in their scavenging frenzy.

He had been led into the woods under the guard of Rat-Face and Dirt-girl, surrounded by the rest of the band and doing his best to surreptitiously memorise the ones who had useful weapons before he had been tied around the base of a tree as the group has split off into various duties, ordered around by a man who yelled every word like a drill sergeant on a parade ground. This time a little more attention had been paid to the tightness of the bonds, sure, he could have escaped with a little time and a little rope burn for the trouble, but what was the point? He’d be running outnumbered and weaponless and besides, Chuuya was probably already on his way.

He had stayed quiet, watching the group’s leader throw his pack to the ground, spilling spare clips for a semi-automatic pistol to the ground before pulling out a pack of cigarettes with a sound of pleased triumph (Chuuya would be pissed, that was his last pack and he had been treasuring every last drag of smoke and chemicals he could pull into his lungs when the stress got too much). Shoving the contents haphazardly back into the bag, the man had wandered off through the trees, screaming orders with all the decibels of an air horn once more.

Dirt-Girl had wandered off once the fire was crackling merrily, returning minutes later with two cans of beer that had been stashed in the cubby hole under the bed in the RV, mouth full with strips of jerky. Rat-Face had guzzled half the can in a matter of seconds, smacking his lips in a truly nauseating manner before turning to Dazai as if only now remembering his existence. He could practically see the lightbulb of stupidity flash on between the idiot’s eyes.

“Oi, you.” the lank-haired man had lashed a kick at him, catching his thigh though the blow was mistimed and barely registered. He’d had worse...much worse.

Dazai had tipped his chin down, indicating himself before batting his eyelashes coyly, “Me?”

“Before the Commander gets hold of you and makes you sing, why not tell us where you keep your shit? It’ll make it easier on you.”

Dazai has never been good at ignoring such an easy opportunity to bait someone to anger, just to watch them explode, he hadn’t been able to resist blinking with exaggerated incredulity, “You want my shit? Well, if you’re that desperate I’ll tell you.” he had grinned at the look of calculated greed on that ratlike face. “It’s in the toilet of course ~”

This time it had been the man’s bony fist that had struck out, connecting with his cheekbone and splitting the skin, sending Dazai’s head cracking against the tree at his back.

His consciousness had faded into black.

He can’t have been out long, no more than a few minutes at a guess, but all around him had been uproar. Screams filled the air. Ah, here was his faithful dog, come to sink his deadly fangs into their enemies.

Chuuya had come down on the camp like a vengeful God, or perhaps – in the eyes of his prey – a demon from the very pits of hell. Shrieks and piteous wails, drowned out by pleas for help and the groans of the dying had fast surrounded them in a jarring clamour of sound. After long minutes with no one making an appearance to give orders or relay the situations, Rat-Face had screamed at Dirt-Girl to, “Find out what the fuck is going on out there!” as he’d forcibly pushed the woman towards the trees and incessant bawling racket. To her credit she had stood firm in her refusal, but had sprinted off in terror when Rat-Face had pulled out a handgun and threatened to shoot her on the spot.

“I told you, you should have killed me.” Dazai had murmured sweetly, earning a disgusting filth-covered rag being shoved in his mouth for his impudence.

Chuuya in the midst of a fight has always been a sight to behold, something you cannot tear your eyes from, not even for a second. But from the moment Dazai had spotted a shadow stalking through the trees, he had been transfixed in awe.

His head still pulses painfully, like someone is repeatedly hitting him with a blunt object from behind, but his vision is adjusting to the darkness, no longer splitting into fractal bursts of colour with every tiny movement. Turning to the side he finds a water bottle sitting on the shelf next to the bed and, shaking his head at Chuuya’s determined attempt at being a mother-hen, he cracks the lid and takes a few slow sips, feeling the pounding subside just barely.

Sighing, he leans back into the pile of pillows and falls back into a sleep thankfully devoid of dreams.

~ ~ ~

Dazai wakes up for the second time, groggy and aching, with the world spinning on its lazy, off-kilter axis, to the sight of Chuuya sitting in the doorway and staring out into the world beyond, almost completely cocooned in a blanket with a mug of something – steaming invitingly in the frigid morning air - wrapped carefully between his fingers.

His redhead looks tired.

No, Chuuya looks more than tired. Exhausted. Depleted. Ready to drop.

Something in Dazai’s chest gives a painful twinge at the forlorn picture. He blames it on his ribs, on the concussion, on anything other than sickly fondness. He’s always been good at lying, even to himself.

As if sensing Dazai’s shift into wakefulness, Chuuya’s head turns, face pale and slightly haggard with the added strain of pulling a full night’s watch, those normally vibrant blue eyes are dulled, dark circles deepening them with shadow. Still, Chuuya dredges up a wry smile, lifting his cup in salute before taking a gulp of whatever poison is currently keeping him awake if not alert.

“How are you feeling?” the Mafioso asks around a yawn, picking himself up off the step, ignoring the blanket which pools to the floor at his feet.

“Half dead?” Dazai tries, feeling the sad truth of his words with every minuscule movement, with every stabbing breath.

“Mmm, that’s an improvement on usual then.” Chuuya mumbles, though the humour is sorely lacking.

Dazai finds himself presented with another cup - containing what he hopes is tea, or even coffee, and doesn’t taste like the brown watery sludge it has every appearance of being - and two small white pills. He cocks at eyebrow at Chuuya, “Are you trying to drug me into insensibility rather than putting up with my stellar company?”

“Yes.” the redhead replies simply, shaking the pills in his hand under Dazai’s nose. “I suggest you take them now so they can start working, you’re gonna need them.”

He takes the cup, sniffing it gingerly – it doesn’t have the pungent aroma of coffee, so he guesses it’s tea after all – then eyeing the tablets warily. “Why is that?”

“Well, I don’t think dragging your sorry ass up that damn ladder is going to be a fun experience for you any way you look at it, painkillers or not, but I’m beat, so one way or another you’re going up.” Chuuya sighs, rubbing at his eyes with his now freed hand.

“Just kill me now and be done with it, Chibi, do you have to torture me as well?” Dazai whines, though he plucks the tablets from his redhead’s palm and tosses them in his mouth, swallowing them down with a mouthful of sweet tea that’s barely lukewarm.

“Yeah, you know how much I love seeing you suffer.” Chuuya mutters, rolling his shoulders and wincing. “You should probably take a shit before we go too.” he remarks offhandedly and completely out of understandable context, making Dazai splutter and almost spray the tea in his mouth all over his own lap. He chokes and coughs, his eyes tearing up as Chuuya actually snorts out a laugh.

“What?!” he finally manages to wheeze out between coughing, wincing at the pain now searing across his chest. Frankly, he deserves an award for not slopping the entire contents of the cup across the bed.

His redhead shrugs, an almost nonchalant gesture, as if he hadn’t just attempted to murder Dazai with the untimely aspiration of hot, dried leaf water. What an embarrassing way that would be to finally go. “Well, it’s easy enough to piss in a pot or a bottle or whatever.” Chuuya’s nose wrinkles with distaste and Dazai tries not to find his murderous redhead adorable in that moment (the attempt mostly fails). “But taking a shit…well, if you decide to shit in a pot anywhere in my vicinity I’ll make you fucking eat it.”

“Kinky.” Dazai can’t help it, the word is out of his mouth before his brain has regained the capacity to reign it back in.

This time it’s Chuuya spluttering on his own spit. Revenge is sweet.

~ ~ ~

“C’mon –” Chuuya gestures him forwards as he drags the ladder all the way down until it comes to rest against the uneven earth at the base of the tower. He pretends to fiddle with the padlock for a moment longer, making sure that it’s wrapped securely around the narrow gate set into the fence securing the tower from previously unwanted visitors. The air in his lungs is too shallow, too fleeting, leaving him feeling a little dizzy at the lack of oxygen, but taking large breaths right now is likely to have him doubling over with pain. He knows that a physician would recommend exactly that, encouraging long, steady breaths will greatly lessen the risk of pneumonia in patients suffering from cracked or broken ribs.

He makes a face, curling his fingers into the chain-link until his nails bite into his palms, the sting both grounding and overwhelming, allowing the jagged sharpness in his chest to abate and fade into background noise for just an instant.

He’s not sure he can actually make it up the stupid ladder. Sure he can block out the pain, it’s something he’s been doing for years after all. He can push it aside until it’s of no more conscious concern than the dull beat of his heart. That’s not the issue. No...the issue is that he feels like a newborn lamb who hasn’t quite found his feet.

Concussion? Probably. He hadn’t exactly told Chuuya about the dizziness when he moves or stands too quickly; hasn’t mentioned the throbbing pulse beating like a hammer at the back of his skull, but, well, his coordination is shot. It’s difficult enough to take deliberate, measured steps with both feet firmly on the ground.

“Oi, stop procrastinating and let’s get this over with, Mackerel. It’s going to be shit whether you stand there for five minutes or five hours.” he hates that Chuuya is right; hates that he needed Chuuya to call him out on his dithering at all.

When he turns around, Chuuya is...crouching...and looking back over his shoulder with an air of impatience. Dazai blinks his confusion.

Sometimes he thinks Chuuya might be telepathic, because the Mafioso tilts his head for a moment as if listening to something outside of Dazai’s hearing range and then lets out a familiar ‘tch’ that clearly indicates he thinks Dazai is being purposefully dense. “You and I both know you’re not getting up there by yourself,” his redhead parrots the thought circling lazily around his fragmented thoughts, “get on, I’ll carry you.”

Dazai’s dubiousness must show on his face because Chuuya is scowling in an instant, huffing out an irritated, “What?”

“How are you going to carry me up that? You’re so –”

“If you say short, or tiny or any other joke about my height I’m leaving you here and the fucking zombies can have you for breakfast.” his redhead hisses with righteous indignation, jabbing a finger in his direction, “In case you’ve forgotten, I carried your dead-weight, sleeping ass down off a roof and put you to bed without you even cracking a fucking eyelid. You might be a lanky asshole but you barely weigh a thing, so what makes you think I can’t get you up a damn ladder huh?”

Well, the Chibi does have a point.

Magnanimously, Dazai resigns himself to his fate.

“Be gentle with me ~” he lilts, batting his eyelashes coquettishly and earning himself an exasperated eye roll for his troubles.

He feels ridiculous, clambering onto Chuuya’s back like some oversized koala, wrapping his arms around the redhead’s neck and performing some weird half-jump, half-hop until Chuuya is giving him a piggyback as if he were a five year old and not a fully grown adult. His feet almost scrape against the floor. He very deliberately decides not to comment on it, entirely certain that Chuuya would toss his ass to the dirt if he even dared to breathe a word, bruised ribs or not.

He’s still doubtful that Chuuya will be able to lift his weight, right up until the moment Chuuya straightens his back, rising smoothly as if Dazai wasn’t even there. He can feel the redhead’s shoulders moving beneath him, can feel muscles tensing where he’s plastered against Chuuya’s back.

“I’m going up now. Try to hold your breath, it might make it less painful.” Dazai presses his face into Chuuya neck, nodding as he obediently sucks in a breath as the redhead’s delicate, exposed fingers wrap around the first rung.

Dazai is a little in awe.

Not only is Chuuya managing to climb the ladder with Dazai’s weight draped across his back, the redhead has the audacity to make it look effortless. Though he places each foot with meticulous care - ensuring his footing is stable before he adjusts their combined weight and shifts them further up the ladder – in less than ten seconds they are clambering over the edge and onto the roof of the tower, Dazai unwinding himself from his redhead almost begrudgingly and dragging oxygen painfully into his lungs.

Chuuya stretches his arms towards the sky, linking his fingers and rolling his whole body into the motion, standing on tiptoes for a moment before going lax and peering over his shoulder to meet Dazai’s intent stare.

“You good?” comes the quiet question, Chuuya’s eyes scanning him for signs of pain, soft and concerned and Dazai definitely doesn’t deserve to be treated with such care. Feels something uncomfortable squirm somewhere close to his bones at being seen in such a condition. Weakness should never be displayed to anyone – not your co-workers, not your friends, not even your partner. Showing weakness to the ever-circling sharks is the quickest way to paint a target in blood upon your own back, and a target on your back is just one more way the Boss can twist the knife deeper, pull at those exposed tendons until you’re caught in a web of you own making, unable to cut yourself free, unable to even end it all.

He slams his walls up in automatic defence – the familiar apathy settling across his face and wiping it clear of emotion as he tilts his head with feigned boredom. “I’m fine, Chibi.”

Chuuya, instead of taking him for his word, smashes through his flimsy shield with nothing more than a derisive noise and a roll of his eyes, “You really think you can fool me with that look? After everything?”

“I –” he pushes out and then falters uncharacteristically, unused to being called out, even by Chuuya, perhaps especially by Chuuya, the redhead, after all, has always allowed Dazai just a little too much leeway. Despite his snap and bark, despite their constant bickering, Chuuya has always known when to back off and when to push, both to placate Dazai and to bring out that ugly side of him that bites with poisoned fangs, has always been a little too adept at reading his moods. He stares at a point somewhere over the top of Chuuya’s head, huffs out a sigh and shakes his head.

Chuuya hums a low noise, the only acknowledgement he seems to be willing to give at this moment, though his foot is tapping with tired agitation on the roof of the tower, the sound a dull ringing of metal that permeates Dazai’s thoughts and scatters them to the brisk breeze curling through the morning air.

Without speaking anything further than a string of curse words - each one spat more furiously than the last until he’s pouring a litany in four languages, all of it obscene – he wrestles with the hatch until the recalcitrant hinges give way, groaning out their protest. He hops down the ladder, landing with a echoing thud and Dazai allows himself one last minute to collect his scrambling thoughts, to stare at the darkening grey of a sky promising more rain, before he steps cautiously to the open hole leading into the gloom.

“Can you get yourself down?” Chuuya asks, peering up at him, blue eyes almost luminous even in the scant light. “The opening is too narrow for me to carry your fat ass through.”

Dazai’s laugh is more a puff of air escaping without his permission than an actual sound, “Just a minute ago you were calling me a lanky lightweight, but now all of a sudden you’re complaining about my fat ass?”

The look Chuuya gives him is decidedly unimpressed, but it’s the way that endless blue is cut off by drooping eyelashes that cause Dazai to take pity on his redhead. “I can get down.” he wishes he was as confident about that as he sounds.

“Just go slow. I’ll catch your fat ass if you fall.” he can practically hear Chuuya’s lazy smirk, without needing to look and actually see it on his Chibi’s face.

“My hero.” he mutters sourly, concentrating on keeping his breathing slow and steady, automatically wrapping one arm around his chest to protect his ribs as he steps down the first rung.

It’s not as bad as it could have been. He pauses on every rung, letting out his breath and pulling in another before descending to the next, the lack of movement in his lungs making the jarring motions a little less painful. It’s stupid, he thinks, he’s been injured before, many times much worse than this and he hadn’t flinched. Had let Chuuya stitch him up without betraying a single emotion. Hell, he’s done worse than this to himself, when the demands for blood drown his every waking moment, the cacophony of noise in his head swallowing the tiny voice of conscience, which whispers Odasaku’s dying words in the dark.

It’s ridiculous, but every breath hurts and he’s never been a fan of pain, even when he’s chasing it like an addiction.

Four years have made him weak. Dragged out all those painful parts of him and put them on full display. Pathetic.

It takes him a full ten seconds to realise that he’s made it to the bottom of the ladder and is now standing on the floor of the tower, staring at nothing, with Chuuya’s presence eerily silent behind him. He finds himself wishing that the redhead would reach out, would offer that comfort of touch that Dazai is becoming strangely used to.

A hand brushes his arm, lingering for a moment before dropping away as Chuuya steps up beside him, knocking their shoulders together before carefully leaning his entire weight against Dazai’s side. He might snark and complain if it wasn’t for the warmth seeping in to cold bones and silencing the whispering jibes of his own deplorable self through that point of contact.

“C’mon,” Chuuya murmurs after a few seconds, though his forehead drops onto Dazai’s shoulder as if he doesn’t intend to move at all, “gotta take those bandages off.”

“I can do that myself, Chibi.” Dazai reaches over to flick Chuuya’s cheek, earning himself a grumpy huff in response.

“No.” Chuuya presses out against his coat.

“No?” Dazai repeats, staring down at the top of Chuuya’s head.

“Wanna check everything’s okay.” Chuuya continues to mumble into his shoulder, “know you won’t tell me if it hurts.”

Dazai is more than a little taken aback at this honesty and lack of filter, probably brought on by Chuuya’s exhaustion. Unable to stop himself, he gives into the impulse to thread his fingers through Chuuya’s hair, smoothing his thumb along Chuuya’s neck and listening to the soft sigh it brings him in return. “Okay, Chibi. Okay.”

If Chuuya can toss such guileless honesty into the air without so much as a blink, then the least Dazai could do is submit to his little redhead’s wishes.

Pathetic.

Chuuya’s fingers are gentle as they unwind the thin layers of bandages wrapping Dazai’s chest; gentle as they skate across his skin, checking for any signs of breakage that they might have missed last night; gentle as they press against Dazai’s jaw, tilting his head so Chuuya can inspect the cut beneath his eye.

He doesn’t deserve it, that gentle touch, those featherlight fingers and their delicate, careful probing. This whole wretched scenario is his fault, the injuries might as well be self-inflicted. His failure. His inability to draw the correct conclusion. His ineptitude is what has brought them to this.

His fingers clench at his sides, shoulders drawing tense as Chuuya’s fingers still upon his face. He wants them to dig into his flesh, to extract payment for his failure, to bite and claw until the sense of guilt is drowned in an offering made of blood.

“I can hear you thinking stupid, pointless things again, you know,” Chuuya mutters, tapping the side of Dazai’s head for emphasis, “so just stop it.”

He feels the cold rush back in to claim him as the gentle touch withdraws altogether, as Chuuya steps away on heavy feet, pulling himself up the ladder until he can reach the top of the hatch, tugging it down until it clangs shut, the only light now coming through the tiny window set on one side of the tower, close to the roof (presumably used to check the water level without the need to open the hatch). Chuuya then moves to their supplies, dragging the duvet, blankets and lumpy sofa cushions they had stolen from some forgotten house during one of their supply runs and tossing them in a haphazard pile in the middle of the floor.

He watches the redhead strip himself methodically of his layers, sees the small grimace of distaste at the dirt and grime before Chuuya pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, both comically overlarge. He watches Chuuya arrange the cushions and blankets until he’s created something like a nest, throwing the duvet over the top and eyeing it critically. He watches his redhead sink down on the makeshift bed with a heavy sigh, curling into a loose ball on one side and dragging the duvet over himself until only his eyes and a mess of unruly hair are visible.

With a tiny smile, Dazai pulls his eyes from Chuuya and wanders over to the piled supplies, carefully lowering himself into a sitting position and scrambling to find the small solar-powered camping lantern, clicking it on triumphantly and suffusing the immediate area in a soft yellow glow.

“D’zai?” His name emerges from Chuuya’s mouth half-slurred with impending sleep.

He pauses in his rummaging through the crates - stacked and neatly organised in one corner of the tower – in an attempt to find something to eat, turning to Chuuya. “Mmm?”

“C’n you just…” the redhead’s voice trails off awkwardly, though he reaches out to pat the space beside him as he looks away, what Dazai can see of his expression wavering between embarrassment and something a little lost.

He hesitates, even though every part of him wants to just give in and curl up next to Chuuya, “Chibi, you’re tired, you need to sleep.”

“I know...and I will...I just –” Chuuya’s words halt again, those dull blue eyes skittering up to fix on his face only drop once more. Dazai watches the bob of his throat as his redhead swallows, shakes his head, and the voice that whispers out is hardly more than a breath.

“I just need t’know that ‘m not alone.”

And Dazai might be heartless, soulless, the demon everyone speaks of in hushed voices and sidelong glances. He might be all of those things, but right now he is powerless to refuse a tiny redhead, looking at him with tired, forlorn resignation.

He doesn’t say anything as he drags himself unsteadily to his feet, ignoring the protesting ache his ribs give him in return for the jerky movement. Toeing off his shoes and tossing his coat on top of the stacked crates, uncaring of where it falls, he steps over Chuuya’s legs, almost unbalancing as his foot hits the uneven surface of the cushions they’ve collected to serve as a makeshift bed. With slightly more care, he lowers himself down, until he can stretch out across the cushions, lying on his back and turning his head in Chuuya’s direction. His redhead is studiously avoiding looking at him, curled away from him, defensive after his display of open honesty.

“You’re not alone, Chuuya.” he murmurs quietly into the space between them, not daring to reach out. “You’re not alone.” Chuuya doesn’t move, doesn’t twitch, Dazai wonders if he’s already asleep, but the slight hesitation in his breathing belies the fact that his redhead is awake. “You made it in time.” he whispers, and something sticks in his throat, heavy and yet not unwanted, “I never had any doubt that you would.”

The breath Chuuya lets out beside him is something like a sob, clogged with choked back emotion. “I thought I was too late. I –”

Guilt winds around him, tight and constricting. Something in Dazai’s chest hurts, it’s a different kind of ache – unsought and unfamiliar. “I know, but you weren’t.”

“I could’ve been,” is Chuuya’s quiet reply.

Dazai itches to touch him, to wrap his redhead’s small body in his own and keep him there. “Come here, Chuuya.” he has to give Chuuya the choice right now, has to let the redhead decide whether to come to him on his own.

Chuuya doesn’t hesitate, twisting beneath the duvet until Dazai can see those blue eyes, almost lambently vivid in the dimness of their surroundings. Dazai reaches out an arm in silent offering and, with uncharacteristic hesitance, Chuuya lowers his head to Dazai’s shoulder with a quiet, “S’this okay? It doesn’t hurt?”

“It’s fine, Chuuya.” His redhead stares at him for long seconds before deciding to take him at his word, lashes dipping almost unconsciously as Chuuya fights off a yawn.

“M’glad you’re here.” Chuuya murmurs, already half gone.

“You’re not alone, Chuuya.” Dazai presses the words into the top of his head, whispering them like a secret into soft red strands.

~ ~ ~

He watches as sleep claims Chuuya. It doesn’t take him in a gentle drift to unconsciousness, no, it opens its jaws and swallows him whole in an instant.

He watches Chuuya sleep for a long time, coaxing the smaller man back onto his side, though his arm remains trapped and slowly going numb under Chuuya’s weight. He remains curled protectively around his redhead as he props himself up on one elbow, ignoring the twinge of pain he gets in return for exacerbating the injury to his ribs.

Chuuya looks small. The Mafia Executive’s personality has always been too large to fit into that tiny frame – loud and fractious, expansive and so alive – but asleep, curled up as he is and without that personality bleeding from every pore...Chuuya looks small, and young. So young. Without expectation hanging its leaden weight across his shoulders – a mantle just a physical as the coat Chuuya wears as he stalks the hall of the Mafia’s headquarters – the lines of worry are smoothed from his face, his lashes spread across his cheeks and hair falling in a messy halo around his head, he looks young, too young to be as entrenched as he is in the underworld society Dazai had dragged him into without thought for what it would to do to Chuuya over the course of years.

He hadn’t planned on living for years back then, after all. In truth, he had been captivated by Chuuya from the first moment they had met, his younger, despairing self wanting to capture that flame and cage it for himself. An obsessive need to bring Chuuya and his destructive power to heel and keep him for his own. Yes, even back then he had wanted to possess that fiery, bright thing, to try and meld some of that warmth onto bones already cold and dead as the grave he could never manage to find.

Now...now he wants to possess Chuuya in a wholly different way.

The prospect, the possibility of losing this thing he’s grasped onto with both hands, settles something sharp and cold in his chest.

Everything worth wanting is lost the moment I obtain it.

In the end, he wraps himself completely in Chuuya, warm and present and alive, unwilling to let his redhead go. As the first drops of rain being to fall, beating a steady, soothing patter upon the roof of the tower, he drifts into an uneasy sleep and dreams of a bar, a shirt sleeve slipping through his frantic, outstretched fingers, and days long past.

~ ~ ~

Watching Chuuya stalking around with a dangerous, almost palpable aura is a stark reminder of the fact that his hatrack is not just a pretty face. Not that Dazai had ever forgotten, but well, you know, such things become almost tediously mundane when you’ve got the option to stare at that pretty face and ignore the roiling anger, the power that lingers and simmers beneath the surface.

He might be going a bit stir crazy.

Well, they both might be going a bit stir crazy.

Dazai isn’t the most easygoing of patients, a fact he is fully aware of yet totally unable (possibly unwilling) to rectify. He hates being forced to stillness; hates being stuck in this stupid tin box with nothing but metal walls and the crack of dull light filtering through the lonely window to look at. He fancies that it’s rather like being in a prison – perpetual boredom, no privacy, terrible food and a rather irritable guard dog more liable to bite first and ask questions later.

Indeed, Chuuya only lets him leave the tower to use the bathroom and take a quick and terribly unsatisfying shower with what little water the RV has left in its depleted tanks. Other than that, he’s left with nothing but those same four walls and the inside of his own head.

The inside of his own head has never been a fun place to be.

Left to vacillate between introspection and examining every single decision he’s ever made which in turn has lead him to this sad and sorry state of continued existence, could anyone really blame him for turning back to the safety net of old habits – seeing how far he can push his favourite dog until Chuuya turns around and bites him?

The annoying thing is, Chuuya doesn’t. He refuses to rise to Dazai’s baiting; paces around the tower like some kind of caged beast until Dazai’s skull still rings with the disturbing echo of Chuuya’s footsteps even hours later. No, when Dazai pokes and prods and goads in an effort to get some kind of reaction out of his redhead – snap, bark, bite, it’s all the same to him – all he gets are the endless blue depths of Chuuya’s eyes, dark with a kind of knowing acceptance that forces Dazai to look away, and a click of Chuuya’s tongue as he moves to prepare tea.

As if tea is the answer to everything wrong with Dazai’s head, his body, his perpetual continuation.

When he tells Chuuya this, the redhead only shrugs, offers a wry smile and says: “Perhaps not, but it does take that look off your face...and Ane-san’s lessons don’t disappear just for the sake of the apocalypse.”

“What look?” Dazai can’t help but ask, even as he schools his expression into something carefully blank, watching Chuuya’s mouth pull into a frown.

“The one where you’re a million miles away, turning over rocks to try and find a nest of hornets you can poke with a stick.” Well, that might just be the most accurate representation of his head that he’s ever heard. Still, the uncanny knack Chuuya has of insinuating himself between the layers of Dazai’s defences is troublesome. He’s a little rattled.

“Stop looking at me like that.” Chuuya grumbles, heaping sugar into one cup and passing it off to Dazai from behind the safety of his hair, curling around his face in long, loose tendrils.

“Like what?” he asks, taking the proffered cup and capturing Chuuya’s hand in his own when the smaller man tries to pull away. Setting the cup carefully to one side he yanks on the wrist now encased in his grip, forcing Chuuya off-balance and sending him tumbling forwards, catching himself just before he crashes in to Dazai’s chest. Now their faces are only inches apart and Chuuya looks like he’s halfway between annoyed and amused, biting his lower lip in a way that makes Dazai’s mouth dry. “Like what, Chuu-ya~” he purrs, rolling Chuuya’s name across his tongue, tasting every syllable.

“Like I’ve done something unexpected.” his redhead growls out around a huff.

Red hair tumbles across Chuuya’s shoulders like a curtain, a beautiful flaming waterfall that Dazai cannot resist sliding his fingers through, watching Chuuya’s eyes close like a cat basking in attention before he tugs sharply and is met with angry infinite blue once more. Blue to fall through, blue to drown in, blue to douse the flames, yes, he would be quite happy to die in such a shade.

Something of his fractured thoughts must show on his face, for at that moment the blue narrows into slivers, chips of sapphire ice to bore through his skull, to pull out his soul, to expose his secrets.

“Well, you know what they say about old dogs learning new tricks!” Dazai chirps, happy to force the conversation away from himself and with the added bonus of irritating Chuuya thrown into the bargain, how could he walk away from such an easy snare?

Chuuya’s face is so close now, Dazai is almost cross-eyed trying to focus. Chuuya’s mouth twists in a snarl, every breath between them shared like a secret, like a promise. Then teeth dig into his lower lip, harsh and painful enough to make him yelp and he feels more than sees the smile Chuuya gives him in return. “I’m not old shithead.”

Before Dazai can do anything other than smirk - intending to take full advantage of the fact that Chuuya hasn’t vehemently negated the fact that he is, indeed, Dazai’s dog - his redhead nips him again, short and sharp, a stark warning, “If you say anything about dogs right now…” but Dazai’s mind has drawn a total, concerning blank, grinding to an abrupt halt as Chuuya licks across mouth, light and teasing, drawing back before Dazai has regained enough mental capacity to chase him, to pull him down, to devour him whole.

He watches, only slightly dazedly, as Chuuya sits back on his haunches, hovering over Dazai’s legs without putting any weight on them, ever conscious of aggravating his injuries. Dazai wishes he would stop tiptoeing around, would reach down and crack his ribs apart to drag out his torturous, traitorous heart. The thought sparks and fizzles and drowns into nothing as Chuuya rakes his hair back out of his eyes, tossing it over his shoulder, the sickly rays from the window casting him half in light and half in shadow. An ethereal creature of twilight.

“Distracting –” Dazai half-mumbles, half-whines, not really intending for the thought to drip from his head to emerge from his traitorous mouth.

“That’s the idea.”

~ ~ ~

When stalking laps around the tower becomes unbearable, Chuuya disappears for hours on end. It leaves Dazai feeling anxious and ill-tempered, unable to concentrate on the books Chuuya had brought him as an offering from some spiderwebbed corner of the RV, or on revising and refining their plans, their next steps, their path through this apocalyptic hellhole and beyond...the afterwards that he knows Chuuya is avoiding thinking about, because surviving this, getting out on the other side, that’s not even half of what they actually have to accomplish.

With nothing but time - and an absence of short redheads to annoy – Dazai wonders what’s happening on ‘the outside’. Of course, everything will be going according to Ranpo’s plan, he has no doubt whatsoever in the detective’s ability to stare into the heart of the enemy and pull their plans, their goals, their dreams from their heads before they’ve even realised it themselves. Still, he hasn’t forgiven Ranpo’s decision to stick Chuuya and himself in this wretched place, labelling them as a liability to both of their organisations and deeming it more prudent to simply remove them from the board, only to toss them back into the heart of chaos and expect the legendary Double Black to pull off another impossible victory.

The thought leaves him harbouring a familiar listlessness, a sinking sense of his own mediocrity, that even his co-workers don’t feel that his presence is necessary when dealing with such a foe.

It’s not like he ever truly belonged anywhere. Stepping from one place to another but never quite fitting, always the odd one out, the broken child, the murderers accomplice, the demon prodigy, the traitor, the suicide maniac.

The morose thoughts drag him down like oozing slimy mud, blanketing him in something cold and inescapable.

When Chuuya comes back, there are flecks of fresh blood mixed with the almost black viscous blood of the undead spotting his coat.

“Trouble?” he asks blandly and Chuuya’s eyes widen.

“How did you know?” there’s suspicion in his tone, as if he somehow suspects Dazai of climbing down from the tower to surreptitiously follow him on his ridiculous wanderings. Dazai makes no reply other than to gesture at the telling stains.

Chuuya clicks his tongue in dismay, “Damn it. I like this coat, it’s warm.” The Mafioso had, begrudgingly, cast aside his leather jacket as the cold had set in, choosing instead to practically bury himself in the fur-lined black parka, taken from the shop floor of Old Jed’s trap-laden graveyard. It does look warm...it’s also far too big and almost swamps Chuuya entirely, but Dazai has to admit, it makes him look kind of cute, like a kid wearing his dad’s clothes. “Just a couple of vagrants snooping around. Ready to drop from the looks of them. Guess they thought a lone stranger was easy pickings.” he shrugs. “They were wrong. Of course, they squealed like pigs as they died, brought a few wandering rotten fuckers in. The RV is secure though, no sign of anyone else on the road.” He tosses something black and filthy with muck and dried on blood at Dazai, who narrowly avoids getting hit in the face, “Here, I thought it might come in useful.”

A watch? Well, now that he thinks about it, having an accurate measure of time might be useful, especially if Chuuya is planning an infiltration into enemy territory. Chuuya is dangling a second even more disgusting strip of leather between his fingers and Dazai can’t help but curl his lip in displeasure at the very thought of where those things might have been.

“I think that’s the worst gift I’ve ever received, Chibi,” he offers, blandly, “and that includes Elise-chan once forcing me to visit a dog cafe with her because she’d heard I’d wanted to go there for ages.” Dazai’s pretty sure it had been Chuuya himself who had let that little lie slip around Elise, and he’s slightly disappointed when his redhead doesn’t even crack a smile.

Dazai watches Chuuya shift his weight back and forth, knowing that his redhead has more to say, something he obviously thinks Dazai either isn’t going to like, or isn’t going to agree to. So, instead of asking, he fixes the Mafioso with a dead-eyed stare and waits for Chuuya to break.

“I need to make a run to the hill.” Chuuya finally spits out, one foot beginning to tap absently on the floor.

“What for?” The hill is where the majority of their scavenged items have been stashed, moved from the cove and relocated as they had branched out and around the city, a more convenient location for them to travel back and forth to when something was required. That Chuuya wants to travel there can mean only one thing.

“The base is my lead. We agreed.” Chuuya regards him with a flat stare, almost challenging were it not for that nervous tap tap tap.

“Yes.” Dazai acknowledges easily, because yes, he had told Chuuya that he would follow whatever harebrained scheme came out of his redhead to satisfy his need for vengeance. Whether out of lingering guilt or actual consideration of Chuuya’s abilities as a tactician he doesn’t examine too closely. It’s enough to say that he’s comfortable giving Chuuya the lead, that he’s fairly convinced Chuuya wont do anything that will end up with one or both of them dead.

Chuuya, at least, seems placated, his foot stilling as he cocks his hip in a way that throws Dazai back in time, the memory bringing a fleeting smile to his face despite his dour turn of thoughts. “Good. Well, I need stuff.”

“Stuff?” Dazai repeats, unimpressed.

“Stuff.” Chuuya confirms with a smirk, clearly withholding his information deliberately, whether to try and get a rise out of him, or for some other nefarious purpose, Dazai really doesn’t have the energy to decipher.

“Okay. We can head out tomorrow.” Dazai lifts one shoulder in a shrug and moves to set a pot of water on the small camping stove.

“We?” Chuuya repeats, nonplussed.

“You can’t think I’m going to let you go gallivanting off around the countryside on your own again?” he asks, meaning it to come out as a lighthearted joke but watching Chuuya’s face fall instantly, dropping into something strained and slightly guilty. Dazai is left with the abrupt realisation that Chuuya has been feeling just as much at fault as he himself has over their little incident - despite his grandiose speech about failing together, and Dazai not being to blame - his redhead has taken that guilt upon his shoulders once again, is carrying its weight like an atlas stone above his head.

We really are both idiots.

“It’s too soon for you to be gallivanting off around the countryside.” Chuuya replies, his eyes fixed somewhere on the floor. “You need to rest.”

Three days he’s been stuck in this prison with the four walls of the tower and his own head closing in around him, and like hell is he going to remain trapped here any longer. “I’ve been sat around for three days, Chibi,” it’s harsher than he intended, ringing out and bouncing from the walls, loud enough to make Chuuya flinch, “a little movement isn’t going to kill me.” he adds, his tone softening. “Don’t leave me alone.” the last is a quiet sigh, an echo of Chuuya’s own insecurities, and he hadn’t intended to let something so honestly vulnerable slip, but the words cannot be snatched from the air and swallowed back down now.

Chuuya’s head snaps up at that, eyes boring into his own as if the redhead could pull unspoken truths from him with just that look. Perhaps he can. Whatever he sees in Dazai’s own dark eyes, it leaves him shifting and heaving a sigh. “Okay.” It’s hesitant, clouded with concern, but Dazai will take it for what it is – namely, a capitulation to his demands. “I guess we can take the RV. It’ll be more comfortable and I can fit more shit in it. It’s worth being a little more conspicuous.” A finger jabs out in his direction, Chuuya suddenly pulling on a cloak of determined confidence, “But you are not going up the hill. You can stay behind and keep watch.” Dazai opens his mouth but his redhead shakes his head, vehemently cutting him off before he can utter a word, “No, you can pout all you want, but I’m not dragging your sorry, whining ass down a mountain because you’re too tired and sore to walk.”

Dazai puts his hands up with a chuckle, “Alright, Executive-san. I’ll do as I’m told. As long as Chuuya brings back some snacks~”

“Damn right you will!” Chuuya growls, a sound entirely without menace and altogether too fond.

~ ~ ~

Sitting on the roof of the RV is almost as boring as being stuck in the stupid tower. Sure, there are trees and birds, and he can pick of weird lumpy animal shapes in the ominously darkening clouds scudding overhead, but he’s never really been one for nature and truth be told, he’s kind of sick of the whole concept of outdoors after spending so many months staring at more fields, woods and hills than he ever had in the entirety of his twenty-two years of existence. Plus it’s cold out here; frost had laid a white crystalline sheet upon the ground that morning, his breath fogging the air as he had climbed laboriously down the damned ladder with Chuuya watching his every move, determined to seek out any sign of weakness in an attempt to forbid Dazai accompanying him on this little jaunt.

He hadn’t found any, because Dazai hadn’t let him see.

Ahh, but what he wouldn’t give for his own cramped dorm room, a few bottles of sake and take out from that one place in town that does fancy crab dishes he can never actually afford. All wrapped up in a blanket on his futon with The Complete Suicide to entertain his boredom.

He sighs loudly, burying his nose in the crimson scarf wrapped around his neck, which smells rather dubiously like mould, twirling a pen between his fingers as he thinks.

That’s all he’s been doing lately. Thinking. Turning useless loops and coming up with the same infuriating blanks. Attacking the problem from another angle, only to end up blindsided and back at square one. He’s done nothing but sleep and think for three days and still exhaustion winds its way along his limbs whenever he stops for more than a moment. Even the thoughts in his head feel leaden, heavy and threatening.

It’s a combination of the lingering effects of concussion, the veil of hazy apathy brought on by the painkillers and the constant fatigue one feels after months of expecting danger around every corner. Living life by the second isn’t healthy and his mind and body are feeling the toll.

He entertains himself by doodling in his notebook rather than writing out plans as had been his initial intention. This book, it’s a contingency in and of itself, a hundred different scenarios and how they might best be dealt with; a safeguard for Chuuya in case he should fall, a countermeasure against him not making it to the grand finale. He hasn’t let his redhead see the contents of the book, knows that Chuuya would snap and grumble and insist that if one of them has to die in the name of this mission then it would be him. He knows Chuuya’s propensity to throw himself headlong into danger is instinct – the way he automatically uses his body as both a shield and a weapon, always quick to place himself in the line of fire, to take a bullet for him.

But Chuuya isn’t bulletproof anymore, and Dazai, well, he’s not sure he can make it on his own.

He watches the little black speck that is Chuuya making his way down the treacherous, rocky paths which lead from the base of the hill to the hidden cave two-thirds of the way up to the summit; really, they can barely be considered paths at all, more goat trails, winding and deceptive and slippery. Sure the cave is so well-hidden it’s almost impossible to see with the exception of one particular angle – the only reason they had managed to find it in the first place, and now concealed against even that possibility – but dragging all of their surplus supplies not allotted to their various safe houses had been an effort in patience Dazai never wants to repeat again, not to mention the aches and stiffness in muscles he never even knew he possessed.

It’s Chuuya’s third trip back down from the cave, and he hopes it will be his last. How much ‘stuff’ can two people really need to raid one enemy base? He’s cold and there’s a hitch in his breath that he absolutely will not allow to show in front of his redhead, and he’s kind of tired of nature and birds and clouds at this point. His page is covered in tiny drawings, and he’s a little perturbed to note that most of them are of a certain Petit Mafia in some form or another – actually he’s kind of fond of the little dog, complete with hat, collar and Chuuya’s favourite coat, though he knows Chuuya would probably threaten to strangle him if he ever laid eyes on it. The thought makes him smile, maybe he’ll fold it up and slip it into one of Chuuya’s pocket and see how long it takes his redhead to notice…

~ ~ ~

Leaning forward, he rests his elbow on his crossed legs, propping his chin on his palm as Chuuya blinks up at him. “Chuuya, beautiful?”

“Mmm?” Chuuya hums an automatic response before his brain apparently catches up with Dazai’s words and Dazai is treated to a front row seat of the Mafioso’s face promptly attempting to outmatch his hair in shades of red. Dazai finds it quite entertaining that Chuuya will blush so prettily at such an innocuous term of endearment, yet has apparently become immune to Dazai whispering filthy things in his ear in an attempt to get exactly this reaction. Such contradiction. He resolves to tell Chuuya how beautiful he is more regularly: if this is what he gets in return, it’s more than worth it.

“Beautiful…” he repeats, the word curled around a smile far too soft to be anywhere close to the appropriate amount of teasing.

Chuuya clicks his tongue, turns impossibly redder and hides his face in his hood.

“Please tell me you’re finished?” he pitches his voice to it’s most irritating whine.

“Actually, I have one more run to make,” his redhead sounds almost apologetic, “I wish I didn’t, it’s going to be a fucking nightmare.”

“What more do you need? You’ve already brought half of the cave’s contents down the hill.” Dazai asks, curious as to what would possibly cause Chuuya to make such a resigned face.

“Fuel.” is the one word reply that instantly explains the expression. Ah...yes...Dazai can vividly recall the hours of backbreaking effort (mostly on Chuuya’s part) it had taken to get their excess supply of fuel safely up to the cave. It’s a day he’d actually rather forget, definitely not worthy of a repeat performance.

“But we have fuel?” He gestures to the canisters strapped securely to the roof behind him.

“I’m not sure how much it will take,” Chuuya sighs, “better to have too much than to be caught short.”

“You’re actually planning to burn the place down?” Dazai tilts his head, watching Chuuya’s minute reactions, the second of hesitancy as he considers the question, the twist of his mouth as he bites his lip and tastes the concept on his tongue. While Dazai has never been afraid of watching the world burn, he knows that for Chuuya, fire holds an entirely different meaning, a set of memories locked behind iron bars and tangled up in the consciousness of something more than human. For Chuuya to choose fire as his weapon...it’s a step into that darkness, that part of him which yearns for chaos and blood.

When Chuuya looks up, Dazai can see the conflict in his eyes, the strain, the restlessness, the unstable desire to destroy and defeat his enemies.

“I’ll be back soon.” Is what his little redhead eventually mutters, sidestepping the question.

Once, Dazai would have continued poking and prodding and probing until Chuuya cracked, spilled out his innermost thoughts in a messy tirade until there the truth lay between them like a tattered and broken banner with no peace to be had. Once he would have taunted and goaded and aimed for Chuuya’s weak points, pulled the redheads insecurities out and aired them like dirty laundry for all to see.

Now, now he hums a low note, a noise deep in his throat, watching Chuuya’s eyes widen fractionally when he realises that Dazai isn’t going to pick him apart and demand answers, then leaning even further forwards, he pouts exaggeratedly and sighs loudly, “But, Chuuya, I’m bored, it’s boring here!”

Chuuya puffs out a soft laugh and Dazai will consider it a victory. “Well, yeah, I told you it would be. What did you expect?” It’s true, he’s entirely certain that the only reason Chuuya had even assented to let him come along was because the chances of meeting anything out here in the wilderness were almost zero.

“I don’t know…” he wails piteously, gesturing to the trees surrounding them on all side, “less trees and clouds and birdsong? Maybe a horde of zombies or a few despicable humans come to lay claim to our castle? Poe-kun is shirking on his duties as an author letting us play around like this without any consequences, don’t you think?”

Blue eyes widen as Chuuya shifts, almost in panic, staring around as if expecting the rotten author to materialise a mass of zombies out of thin air, or perhaps a giant meteor to hang ominously in the sky, threatening to crash into this forsaken planet and put everyone out of their misery.

Dazai can’t help but glance up, just a little relieved to see the sky painted in the same shades of darkening stormy grey that they’ve been swathed in all day. No portentous backlight of red to imply the second coming of the apocalypse, no one-winged angel carrying the head of Jenova.

“I think you should keep those thoughts to yourself.” Chuuya stage-whispers back at him, though there’s a smile on his face as he adjusts the hood of his coat, shivering slightly as the cold slides its thin obtrusive fingers through his hair. “I’ll be back soon.”

Dazai huffs noisily and resigns himself to another tedious period of waiting, turning back to his notebook and folding it to a new page, beginning the process of outlining another cascade of chibi dogs across the crisp white paper.

~ ~ ~

Watching Chuuya move lazily through a set of stretches, standing perfectly poised on the roof of the tower, with the weak morning sunlight limning him in gold and setting his profile to soft gentle highlights is a sight Dazai could get used to waking up to. Chuuya’s back, bending to a perfect arch as he reaches for the floor; the line of his shoulders as he stretches his arms above his head; the shapes his body makes as he shifts from one pose to another, each artful display of form more effortlessly graceful than the last.

Dazai is transfixed and the slow, knowing tilt of Chuuya’s head in his direction is enough to tell him he’s been noticed.

Ten days have passed since their little mishap on the road before Chuuya decides he’s fit enough for them to begin the first stage of their new operation. Being forced to prove he was fit enough had been completely unnecessary as far as he was concerned. Sparring with Chuuya is always an interesting experience, but to have his obnoxious little redhead deliberately aiming for his sore spots with irritatingly pinpoint tenacity - lashing kicks at his ribs with a feral glint in his eyes, forcing Dazai on the defensive and putting him through his footwork like he would a new recruit to his squad – well, that was just uncalled for, even if Chuuya had pulled his foot back at the last moment, refusing to allow the blow to actually connect, just taunting Dazai with the fact that he could have.

Never once had the obnoxious little brat even bothered removing his hands from his pockets, and that’s just the final nail in Dazai’s sad little coffin.

It’s definitely a little galling. He knows Chuuya’s moves, his patterns, the way he breathes before he launches an attack, the tiniest tells in his redhead’s body which anybody who didn’t know him quite the way that Dazai does would never have a chance to pick up on. He knows all of these things, yet still, knowing his partner to the very marrow of his bones, and being able to stand up to the force and speed of Chuuya’s booted, balanced and brutal foot are two very different things.

He should probably just be glad that he can still mostly hold his own against the Mafia’s top martial artist, take that as a win, but, well, they’ve always been competitive to the point of the reckless abandonment of common sense. That competitiveness had driven Dazai into taunting his little redhead, laughing and joking that if Chuuya got any slower he really would turn into a slug.

That, in turn, had ended up with Chuuya putting him flat on his back on the floor in less than five seconds, the air whooshing out of his lungs in a painful wheezing stream, the Mafioso’s unimpressed face looming over him.

In hindsight, it hadn’t been his best strategy.

And he had risen valiantly to the challenge, had pulled in a somewhat painful breath, batted his eyelashes coquettishly and looked Chuuya straight in the face as he had murmured, “Chuuya, if you wanted me beneath you, then you could have just asked.”

Chuuya had merely rolled his eyes, offered Dazai a hand to help him up from the ground and declared: “If you’re well enough to use that mouth to trap back at me, I suppose you’re well enough for boring stake-outs and sleeping in trees.”

On second thoughts, perhaps he should have strung out his injuries a little longer.

But the song of vengeance still beats it’s heavy bass in Chuuya’s blood, and the Mafioso will not be satisfied until that debt is paid.

~ ~ ~

“You’re sure it’s here?” Chuuya asks him for what feels like the six hundredth time in the last half an hour. Honestly, if he hadn’t known the hatrack was practically vibrating with barely contained tension and the need to do something more involved than skulking through miles of frozen countryside in an effort to remain unseen by anyone who might pose a potential threat or call an alarm at any hint of their presence, he might have been slightly more annoyed.

After shifting their base of operations to the attic of the farmhouse – the place Dazai believes is closest to the enemy encampment – they had abandoned the cumbersome, noticeable RV and taken the Red Monstrosity as close to where Dazai calculated the base to be as was prudent, considering the likelihood that this place would have patrols and squads leaving and arriving on a random basis, unpredictable until Dazai has had time to study their movements and get a feel for the mind behind this operation. They’ve only seen the ragged ends of this group so far, but he has a feeling that the main core of this particular gang may be a little more of a challenge than the thugs and vagabonds they’ve met on their travels to this point.

So far they’ve been met only by the listless, wandering undead, filtering through the trees in dregs, many decayed beyond recognition, limbs bitten with frost, turning their skin to a putrid black. These, they had chosen to avoid, rather than dispatch, unwilling to leave any kind of trail which might lead others to realise their proximity to the community Chuuya is determined to send up in flames. They are slow, sluggish, even compared to their usual shambling, incautious gait and Dazai wonders if the freezing chill of winter is slowly seizing the rotten flesh to a rigidity that even the parasite cannot overcome. Since the creatures are not living in any sense of the word, they produce no natural body heat save for that caused by the friction of movement. With no heart to pump warm blood through arteries and capillaries, will these undead nightmares eventually succumb to the creeping ice of winter and cease to retain the ability to move at all?

It’s an interesting theory.

“Oi, are you listening, shitty Dazai.” Chuuya grumbles from beside him, kicking a sodden mass of leaves in his direction.

Dazai sidesteps and shakes his head, “Chibi, I stopped listening after the fourth time you asked me that question. The answer is still the same: I’m as sure as I can be that this is where that group have claimed their territory.”

“Then why haven’t we seen anyone?” Chuuya gestures to the seemingly empty expanse of trees and bushes and the odd patches of grass not yet wilted and defeated by the frost.

As if some vengeful God had heard him and decided to answer his summons, the rumble of multiple engines greets their ears. Dazai shoots an unimpressed look of flat annoyance at his impatient partner and mutters under his breath, “Are you happy now, Petit Mafia? You’re terrible timing jinxes us once again.”

Chuuya only grins that feral, fox-like, sharp-toothed smile that makes Dazai’s breath catch in his throat.

Dangerous. He thinks. Not for the first time he wonders if it’s Chuuya’s intimidating aura he’s considering, or the swooping feeling that smile leaves in his stomach.

~ ~ ~

Stake outs are boring.

Hours of tediously watching the comings and goings of others. Meticulously mapping and memorising the routines, the patrols, the weak points. Hours spent perched in trees with a pair of binoculars trained to his eyes for such an extended period it almost makes him dizzy when he finally pulls them from his face and has to adjust to normal vision and perspective once more. Hours of mind-numbing dullness, watching the guards at the gate alternate between watchfulness and the inevitable banter arising from the blasé boredom of a community which does not consider itself to be under threat of imminent attack. Hour of shifting positions, skirting around the encampment to dissect it from every angle, to find the areas least covered by patrols, the easiest ways in and out.

He has to admit, he’s suitably impressed by what he’s witnessed so far.

The base is, as Dazai had predicted, a military encampment and what looks to be a barracks used to house recruits during training exercises. The compound itself boasts a double fence around the entire area, chain link and razor wire which promises a painful experience for anyone attempting an up-and-over approach. What they can see of the barracks - from the outside - are around twenty identical wood and fabricated structures, long and single-storey, likely housing the usual cramped bunks and close quarters. The encampment also boasts two large warehouses, likely intended to house vehicles or other supplies; a number of smaller wood and brick buildings, probably administrative and officers’ quarters; a helipad and a large expanse of open land which appears to be in the process of being cultivated.

It’s not the fences and the gates and the buildings which impress Dazai. No, those are just the convenient, inanimate objects that allow this group the barest security with which to thrive. His admiration stems from a totally different source.

It’s in the organisation and clear evidence of a hierarchy run on the basis of fear to keep any recalcitrant members in line that keep him cautious, wary and alert at all times.

It’s in the changing patterns of the patrols - both inside the compound and out into the surrounding area - sent out at specific times both day and night, but never following the exact same route as the previous duty shift. The technique they have devised gives all the appearance of randomness until Dazai has observed the group closely for five days and finally distinguished a clear system, tested his hypothesis and been oddly pleased to discover his predictions running true to form.

It’s in the shifting, snarling, seething mass of bodies which used to be human beings, now effectively acting as guard dogs; each one tethered by a rope around its neck, which serves as would a leash upon a rabid dog, restricting the corpse to a range of movement around six feet in either direction between the inner and outer fence; an army of undead, many cloaked in the tattered regalia of soldiers, restless and relentless in their final duty.

It’s in the multiple squads which leave the compound every other day, a mass of obnoxious, rumbling engines, which boast the biggest collection of vehicles and people they have seen in one place since those first fateful days. A smaller, more nimble unit mounted on motorbikes a lot like Chuuya’s weave in and out of the heavier, hulking trucks before peeling away and scattering in all directions, obviously scouts, sent out to scope the next area of conquest. The rest move off down the road like a horde all of their own, a mass of metal and machinery staking claim to the surroundings with a mechanical roar and the stench of exhaust fumes. Splitting up at an intersection and spreading like a parasite across the countryside.

He convinces Chuuya to surreptitiously follow one such squad on the morning of their sixth day. Citing that the more they understand about the movements and mindset of their enemy, the easier it will be to bring them down. Chuuya can find no argument against his logic, agreeing begrudgingly and covering his precious Monstrosity in a thin layer of mud and grime in an attempt to camouflage the flashy machine before setting off in cautious pursuit. The noise of the bike’s engine is drowned out by the sheer number of vehicles stampeding like a herd of rowdy elephants down the road. Their passage remains unnoticed.

The way these people work is ingenious. Dazai comes to this conclusion fairly quickly as they watch the unfolding scene, lying flat on a rooftop on the very edge of the block which appears to be this squad’s targeted area for the day. It’s not until later that Dazai notices the markers on the roadside in all four corners of the block – a splash of red paint in an odd looping symbol marking the boundaries of the scouted area.

It’s already become apparent, over their five days watching this group, that all are not equal in the eyes of the leadership. There is a clear and evident delineation between those who are considered leaders, the members of the core group itself, and those who are considered as nothing more than slaves; workers to do the bidding of the stronger, more useful few. The workers are divided and sent out on these gathering missions – for that is what they appear to be, mass scavenging operations taking place over a wide area, stripping every building of any available resource until the entire place is bare picked-over bones – unarmed and yet they vastly outnumber the guards and full-fledged gang members detailed to keep them in line. It’s a risky business, and yet the manner in which those in charge ensure obedience, ensure that none of the workers dare to consider making a break for it, well, some small part of Dazai - the part which had thrived and occasionally revelled in the Mafia - that approves.

Every younger, fitter, more able-bodied person has been shackled to someone weaker than themselves, making escape an effort in futility. For how can someone fit and strong choose to run when chained, not to a cumbersome object, or to a guard, but to a grandma, barely able to walk a few steps without tottering or tripping.

The guards not occupied with ordering and protecting the groups of workers spread out to cover the block. They move with the practised ease of men and women accustomed to working in this manner, stationing themselves at strategic entrance and exit points, with a relay system easily able to keep up with the demands of bringing in reinforcements should a wandering group of zombies be sighted. Any approaching threat is dealt with swiftly and efficiently.

These people, they are killers all.

The workers seem resigned to their fate for they appear to make no complaints; disappearing inside buildings - weaponless and defenceless - to emerge with whatever their scrawny arms can carry. Even from this distance they look tired, haunted, despondent to the point of apathy, broken in to this new way of life with no fight nor will of their own. Dazai wonders idly, how long it took them to break….how many have thrown themselves to the jaws of death, just to escape this new horror of life.

As the afternoon light begins to fade from the dreary sky, the shadows yawning and stretching to swallow up great swathes of the street, a call is raised and the workers begin to trickle forth from the buildings like a procession of ants, recalled to the nest.

When two limp bodies are deposited on the street, mangled beyond recognition, no alarm is raised. No tears are shed. Indeed, instead of being disposed of or simply left to rot, the bodies are loaded onto a truck equipped with what looks like some kind of animal cage rigged into the cargo bed.

Fresh meat for the fence, and, no doubt, a reminder to the rest - of what awaits them outside of the compound’s safety.

Despite the continual presence of the undead, the day had ended without a single shot fired.

Yes, Dazai is begrudgingly impressed.

Chuuya does not share his sentiments, in fact, he finds the entire practice abhorrent and says so with a snarl.

~ ~ ~

“It’s funny…” Dazai muses, slightly bored now that he’s able to predict his enemy’s movements and has already worked out four different plans of attack.

“What’s funny?” Chuuya murmurs from beside him, taking a break from his restless wandering of the compound’s borders to sit and chew unenthusiastically on a stale protein bar.

“Have you noticed? A lot of the corpses they’re using in their little perimeter show here are soldiers. I suppose they infected them on purpose when they took over the base, that makes sense, no, more, it’s smart.” Dazai can see it in his mind’s eye. A gang of thugs, hardened by life on the road, moving from place to place to keep ahead of the storm, only to come stumbling upon this place like a pack of lean wolves. Finding it occupied by only raw recruits and the barest few low-ranked officers left to keep them in line, to keep them from running. An easy takeover. All they would need to do is round up a small horde of undead, break through the gate and unleash hell. The zombies would practically do the work for them. “At least one person here is more intelligent than most of the idiots we’ve encountered in this world so far.”

Chuuya huffs out an exasperated breath, even as he watches Dazai intently, “So? What’s your point?”

Ah, his point. He looks back to the fence line, to the few small bodies interspersed with the larger, the ones that look so glaringly out of place. “The ones that aren’t soldiers...a lot of them are kids.”

Chuuya’s expression instantly darkens, a small thundercloud ready to erupt and rain hell upon him. “That’s not funny, Dazai.” he brandishes the remains of the protein bar like a threat and Dazai can’t help but to hold his hands up in surrender.

“Alright, bad choice of words, but you understand my meaning...where did they come from?”

Chuuya sighs, turning his own attention to the compound, no doubt searching for those same tiny figures with anger and sadness fighting in his eyes, turning the blue to something sharp and conflicted. “I’m sure you have your suspicions.” his redhead breathes out finally.

Dazai hums a noncommittal reply. Yes, he has his suspicions, but they are nothing Chuuya needs to hear right now. Whether they are correct or not, it won’t affect how this will play out in the end.

~ ~ ~

Nine tediously mundane days have passed before Chuuya is satisfied that they have enough information to begin planning the infiltration and, ultimately, annihilation of the compound and its unsavoury denizens. Honestly, Dazai is pretty confident he had enough information on day six to successfully run through and implement at least three different plans, but he’d promised Chuuya that he’d follow the redhead’s lead and so he keeps his mouth shut and does what his little hatrack commands.

Right now, that involves watching Chuuya seated on the floor of a bedroom of one of their safehouses, surrounded by what looks like a disorganised chaos of papers, hand-sketched maps and scrawled notes. A half-finished mug of coffee lies discarded on Chuuya’s left as he grips a single piece of paper, frowning down at it in deep thought all the while holding it so close to his face Dazai wonders how the Mafioso can even read whatever is written there. His redhead doesn’t even acknowledge Dazai’s presence when he steps carefully into the room, tiptoeing around the various, discarded scraps of paper until he’s close enough to reach out and bury his fingers in Chuuya’s messily tied hair.

Chuuya’s eyes close momentarily at the contact, tension seeping from his shoulders and the frown shifting to a wince as his redhead no doubt becomes aware of muscles gone stiff from his hours of sitting up here, surrounded by devastation of his own making.

He pulls away just long enough to shove some of the closest papers and maps aside with his foot, nudging them into a loose collection before dropping down next to Chuuya, so close that their knees jostle and knock together as he moves. Instantly, Chuuya shifts, leaning into his side with a weary sigh, the unspoken exhaustion lying like a smothering blanket upon heavy limbs.

Dazai hums a disapproving note, sorely tempted to order his ridiculous redhead to bed, to rest and refresh his clearly overwhelmed mind. He would do it, were it not for the undeniable fact that Chuuya would flat out refuse, out of malice as much as his own sense of duty.

Instead, he offers Chuuya the only things he can – his comfort, and his mind.

“So, Chibi, do you have a plan in mind?” he fishes, curling his hand back into tangled red locks just so he can hear Chuuya’s bitten off sigh as he presses fingers against his redhead’s scalp.

“Don’t tell me, you have several?” Chuuya hums back, with only a tiny hint of annoyance.

“This is your mission, Chuuya.” he knows how cagey Chuuya can be about his responsibility, how his redhead would never willingly ask for help, would rather die kicking and screaming than admit his own defeat. He won’t ask for Dazai’s assistance in this, that much is certain.

But...his redhead does love to surprise him, often Dazai thinks it’s out of sheer spite.

“Humour me.” When he turns his head, it’s to find Chuuya’s eyes closed, though the frown still mars his features. Dazai suspects that Chuuya already has the workings of his own scheme drawn up somewhere in the tiny head, but if this is what Chuuya needs to cement his own ideas, then Dazai will give it to him.

“Well, the immediately obvious method of gaining entry to the compound would be to attempt to insinuate ourselves into the ranks of workers, then take the place down from the inside.” he begins, only to feel Chuuya shaking his head in dismissal.

“I considered that, but they are already aware of our existence from the previous encounters. They already have our descriptions.”

“Mmhm,” Dazai hums his agreement, quietly pleased that his little redhead had refuted his idea so quickly, despite his apparent fatigue. Dazai may have been the strategist behind Soukoku for their years of partnership, but Chuuya has never been stupid. “You’re right. They probably already have my description, and you’re much too flashy to blend into a crowd~”

“Oi, what’s that supposed to mean?!” Chuuya pulls back to eye him with displeasure writ plain across his face.

“Only that you’re unforgettable, beautiful.” he purrs the last word just to get a reaction and is instantly rewarded with that pretty red he enjoys so much, splashing colour across pale cheeks.

Chuuya’s shoulder knocks against his arm in admonishment, “Stop trying to derail the conversation, shitty Dazai.” he rumbles, though there’s a certain degree of exasperated fondness in that rough tone.

“Yes, yes, back to the matter at hand, Chuuya is all work and no play as usual~” Dazai chirps, earning only an eye roll and click of the tongue for his troubles. “We could attempt to liberate one of the workers from an excursion, to get more accurate information on the interior workings of the community and its leadership. Then make an attempt to utilise that person as a messenger to reach any others who are unhappy with the state of affairs. If a large enough group would be amenable to providing inside assistance it would significantly lessen the risk to ourselves.”

Chuuya sighs heavily, shaking his head again. “Their absence would be discovered too quickly. We wouldn’t have enough time to get them out from under the noses of the guards gain the information we require and then somehow slip them back in without notice. If they were caught and interrogated our entire cover is blown, they’ll be waiting for us and we’ll have nowhere to go.”

A wide smile fights it’s way past Dazai’s pensive facade to split his face as he nods his agreement to Chuuya’s deduction. They could pull the plan off, he’s sure of it, but the risk versus the potential reward are finely balanced.

“We could try to gather a large enough horde to use as a distraction. If we can get them into the compound it would cause chaos. I suspect that’s how they originally took over this base to begin with.”

“If that’s the case then they will definitely have contingencies in place for an attack of the same kind.” Dazai agrees with his redhead’s assessment, though he makes no move to voice such. After a short pause Chuuya hums thoughtfully, “Regardless, they seem to do a pretty decent job of keeping the surrounding areas clear of large hordes. We’ve barely come across more than one or two stragglers since we’ve been here, and some days we’ve spent more time avoiding patrols than we have scouting that damn place.”

Still absently running his fingers through Chuuya’s hair – the motion is soothing to them both, the physical touch a reminder that they’re not alone, that they don’t need to do this alone – Dazai shrugs, the jerky movement dislodging Chuuya and making his redhead grumble something impolite under his breath. “Well, then you have exhausted all of my ill-conceived plans, Executive-san.”

Chuuya laughs dryly at that, the sound cracking through the silence as Chuuya’s shoulder bumps against his, “Liar.”

Dazai chuckles, and if it comes out a little dark, a little arrogant, well, Chuuya chooses not to point it out. He tilts his head, lowering it until he can whisper directly into his redhead’s ear, feeling the minute shiver which follows in the wake of his words. “Come now, Little Mafia, are you going to tell me your plan or do I have to coax it out of you?”

And well, Chuuya has never been one to back down from a challenge, certainly not where Dazai was concerned. He watches the Mafioso lean back and look up, those swirling sapphire seas meeting his own darkly intent stare, equally matched in force and determination. When Chuuya runs his tongue across his lower lip, pulling it between his teeth as if in contemplation, Dazai can’t but follow the movement, and perhaps he’s lost this game already. “How exactly do you plan on doing that?” Chuuya’s amusement rolls through his tone, drags our the syllables into an undertone completely contrary to the current conversation.

Dazai matches him breath for breath, “Oh, I have my ways.”

In the end, it takes both of them to come up with a viable plan which meets Chuuya’s objectives.

They always had worked better together than apart. It’s a shame it took him all these years to come to that realisation.

Chapter Text

Before the dawning of the twelfth day they strike.

Throughout the previous day, the preparations have been made. Long, vexing hours of waiting for the gaps in patrols, of moving various things as close to the fence line as is feasible without attracting notice. Hidden in the scant brush, beneath the littered leaves, a treasure trove worthy of being called a small armoury awaits.

Late afternoon and evening had been spent napping in their attic hideaway; forcing bodies already on high alert into an uneasy kind of rest. It’s a skill: something learned and ingrained into anyone used to being called up on missions at any time of the day or night, expected to go from dead sleep to awake and fully in command of your faculties in an instant; or face losing lives of those depending on your leadership as a consequence. It’s a lesson learned early in the Port Mafia – when the opportunity to sleep arises, you grab it with both hands.

It’s Dazai who wakes him, trailing fingers down his side in a way that has Chuuya coming awake with a sigh, shifting back into the touch until it disappears altogether, only to begin running gently through his hair. Kisses pressed against his jaw, running down the side of his neck until Dazai’s breath tickles his collarbone, makes him want to forget tonight altogether and just...lean back in infinitesimal degrees until he’s wrapped in Dazai’s arms, sinking into that familiar, frightening sense of peace which has somehow begun to linger between the two of them in these cold, dark spaces.

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty,” Dazai purrs, silk-smooth and sweet in his ear, “the night is young and bloody murder awaits~”

Snorting a soft sound, he tilts his head back, allowing Dazai better access to his throat, something his partner takes instant advantage of, sucking wet kisses in a messy trail until he reaches the line of Chuuya’s choker, still sat snug against his skin. The noise of displeasure is felt as much as heard. Dazai’s teeth press into the point just above where the leather begins, biting his own brand above that mark of Chuuya’s control, the collar that hides an infinitely more permanent reminder that ownership of this body has not always been his. Dazai leaves a claim of ownership all his own.

Chuuya doesn’t think to stop him.

It takes longer than it should for them to rise, languishing in their own private space for long minutes, shutting out everything that exists in the world below the rafters. Still reality has the irritating habit of rearing its ugly head.

He’s eating a light meal - just a half bowl of rice with a little of the remaining dried venison, softened in boiling water and shredded – when Dazai sidles up behind him, threading his hands into Chuuya’s hair once again. Chuuya is beginning to suspect that Dazai has some sort of obsession with the current length of his hair, spilling down past his shoulders in a way that’s quite frankly annoying, and yet he puts up with it for the sake of his idiot partner’s rather impressive attempt at puppy eyes whenever he mentions taking scissors to it (and maybe, just a little because he loves the feeling of those long fingers untangling the knots, running through the waves like he’s touching the most precious and expensive silk, pressing against Chuuya’s scalp until all the thoughts in his head have melted into nothing).

He tilts his head back, until he can see the glint of red-brown eyes staring back at him, and Dazai looks strangely thoughtful, his fingers stilling as he cocks his head, his attention shifting to Chuuya’s hair with a focus that’s almost concerning.

“Chuuya…” his name falling from Dazai’s tongue in that smoky roll dries up any reply he might have made, so he merely hums to let the conniving bastard know that he’s listening. “Let me braid your hair?”

“Haah?” That was...not what he was expecting. “Why?”

“In some ancient cultures, it is believed that warriors allowed their hair to grow as a way to signify their strength and prowess in battle. If a battle was lost then their hair was cut and kept as a trophy by the victor, forcing the vanquished to show their shame and their loss to all they met. Those warriors braided their hair before a fight, so that it wouldn’t hinder them in the heat of battle.” When he looks up, it’s to find Dazai smiling with something like wistfulness in his eyes.

“You think we’re going to lose and someone’s going to cut my hair off for a trophy? I think they’re more likely to take both of our heads and put them on sticks at their gates, don’t you?”

Dazai’s nose wrinkles, his mouth forming a pout as he yanks on a fistful of Chuuya’s hair, “Chuu-yaa~ you know that’s not why. Will you let me braid it or not?”

“I –” Chuuya pauses, looks at the honest question in Dazai’s eyes, the flicker of something too deep and too well hidden for him to pick apart. He swallows and nods, voicing his raspy acquiescence in a single, breathy, “yes.”

He allows himself to revel in the feeling of Dazai’s hands in his hair, his eyes closing at the contact, and it’s still a little strange, a little disconcerting when he doesn’t feel that rush of No Longer Human leeching For The Tainted Sorrow from his bones with every brush of skin. There’s just the slightly cold sensation of fingers against his scalp, no abrupt severing of the link between himself and his Ability, himself and the restless God. He tries to keep still as Dazai carefully sections off chunks, slowly beginning to wind them into an intricate pattern of braids, starting off on either side of his head before coming together to weave down his back and become one single interwoven plait.

“When did you learn how to do this?” Chuuya murmurs as Dazai slips the band over the end of the tail and wraps it four times to keep the finished braid from immediately unravelling.

“Kyouka-chan wanted some help when she was experimenting.” Dazai replies softly, moving to stand to Chuuya’s side as he shrugs.

“And she came to you rather than literally anyone else in the Dumbass Detective Agency?”

“I’ll have you know, I’m very good with my hands!” Dazai’s offence is almost well-acted enough to be realistic, were it not for the slight smirk lifting the corner of his lips. The expression fades into something thoughtful as he continues, “Kyouka-chan is still just a kid. A kid who has seen and experienced far too much in a short time to not be a little bit broken inside. We understand each other to some degree, having both left the ‘darkness’ to try and live in the light. We tried all sorts of styles, but this was one of her favourites.” Chuuya’s almost surprised to hear Dazai speak of his co-workers this way. He remembers Kyouka-chan as a quiet, reserved girl under Ane-san’s command, she had always done her best to protect the child, though in the Mafia that innocence is stripped away quickly and without mercy, and to be useless is to be dead.

Suddenly Dazai is giving him a fox’s grin, and Chuuya’s thoughts stutter to a halt, knowing that something heinous is about to emerge from that trickster’s mouth. “I remember when Elise-chan used to bully you into indulging her hair and make-up sessions! Chuuya always did look cute all dressed up as Princess Leia, or whichever heroine was Elise-chan’s favourite that day.”

Chuuya can feel the embarrassment rising to his cheeks as he remembers the many many times he had been dragged around by Elise, forced into this outfit or that hairstyle on the whims of an Ability with the mind and stubborn determination of a ten year old spoilt brat. “You’re lucky she never got her hands on you, shitty Dazai!”

“Ah, luck has nothing to do with it~” Dazai wiggles his fingers obnoxiously in Chuuya’s face, “Just one touch and dear little Elise-chan is nothing but a twinkle in the Boss’ eye.

“Can you not bring that up when I’ve just eaten.” Chuuya makes a sour face, only to be answered by Dazai’s genuine laughter.

“Ah, but Chuuya, this look suits you.” A careful hand smooths down over the newly woven braids, the touch barely there. Dazai’s head lowers until his mouth is at Chuuya’s ear, his breath whispering words of damnation, “You look beautiful like this. You should see yourself.”

For once, Chuuya doesn’t protest.

~ ~ ~

Under the cover of darkness, Chuuya moves like a wraith, a soundless shadow, surely devoid of form or substance.

In the hours before sunrise, a torpid eternity settles like fog over those remaining wearily awake, mere seconds seeming to stretch into endless hours of bleak nothingness, eyes which were once watchful and alert slowly drooping with every passing moment of inactivity. That lingering sense of security, built upon the assumption that a tall fence and an intimidating reputation, the lax inattentiveness to their duty will ultimately be their undoing.

Chuuya has memorised the shift patterns Dazai had spent long days tracking and calculating; can see a map of the compound – what they know of it – in his mind; knows exactly where each stationed patrol will be and those places where he cannot linger too long.

Getting in is easy enough.

He can feel Dazai’s presence a little way behind him, even though he cannot pick out the familiar shape in the darkness. It’s comforting - a silent, watchful reassurance that he is not alone.

They stop just a few meters from the place where their equipment is stashed, pausing behind a bush to watch the fence looming up out of the darkness before them. While the forest beyond the compound is illuminated only by the sporadic light of the moon as it peeks its pale face between a blanket of clouds, the compound itself is awash with the dull orange glow of many fires, kept burning throughout the night. Spaced at around one hundred and sixty paces apart by Dazai’s estimation, over forty of them throw the perimeter of the camp into flickering patches of light and shadow. cast by the dancing flames.

Chuuya curses their luck that tonight has thus far proven to be dry. Though, even on the night when the rain had beat a ceaseless tattoo upon the earth, the fires had been tended to with something close to religious fanaticism, fed dry wood to keep them alight and covered with thin metal sheets on poles to protect them from the ravages of rainfall.

The eerie glow casts a dim light around the entire outer limits of the compound, forcing any intruder to betray themselves due to lack of any significant cover. He has to admit, he agrees with Dazai’s assessment of the organisation of this crew, some of their security measures are ingenious. Still, it’s nothing they can’t handle...a little well applied knowledge and the whole thing unravels like a thread.

His eyes are on Dazai as the idiot checks his watch, eyes closing in contemplation for a moment before he turns and Chuuya is caught in that almost-red stare. Risking no sound, which could carry to their enemy, Dazai flicks his fingers and begins to sign.

We have twenty minutes before the next patrol will route past this section. You know what to do?

Chuuya rolls his eyes in response but nods his assent regardless.

We don’t know the exact layout of the inner buildings, be careful, one wrong move and you could end up being captured, or killed. If anything looks suspicious, get out. Dazai continues and Chuuya refrains from huffing out an exasperated sigh, knowing that the idiot is only showing concern in his own stilted way.

I know. He replies, his fingers moving through motions that are too-familiar, despite it being years since they’ve worked in any capacity that requires such a language. Just do your part and let me worry about mine.

But it’s my job to worry about Chuuya! He can literally see the exclamation mark, can hear the pouting whine of Dazai’s voice though the air around them remains silent and still.

Rolling his eyes at Dazai’s ability to accurately portray childlike behaviour even in sign, he still can’t help but to add, Stay safe, bastard.

Stay alive, Little Mafia.

It’s sentimental, and he curses his own pathetic desires even as he does it, but he can’t help but to shift forwards, pressing their foreheads together and winding one gloved hand into Dazai’s hair, anchoring them in place as he lets his actions speak all of the words his mouth could never utter. He knows Dazai hears him when those dark eyes widen and then slip shut as Dazai inhales a sharp breath.

It’s a goodbye without words.

He rises and moves off without a sound.

~ ~ ~

In short order four of the fence zombies are nothing but unmoving heaps of bone and rotting flesh upon the ground.

Dazai cuts an entry point through the first fence, a hole just large enough for them to squeeze through (or rather, for Dazai to squeeze through, for Chuuya’s smaller body it’s a task accomplished with comparative ease), and after struggling to lift the dead, putrefying bodies, they use the rope tethers to tie them to the fence – an attempt to make them look like they’re still alive and performing their duties. It won’t stand up to any intense scrutiny, but to a group of half-asleep guards, more intent on their beds than studiously checking the health of the corpses they are using as glorified guard dogs, it should hold.

As Chuuya finishes tying off the last corpse, he turns to see Dazai watching him with an unreadable expression. After a silent stand off, his hands move one last time.

I’ll bring everything through and leave it in the agreed upon place. Chuuya nods his understanding, it about to turn and leave but Dazai’s hand around his wrist drags him to a stop.

Come back to me. Are the words his idiot partner won’t utter, but will spell out with elegant fingers.

Don’t get soft on me, idiot. He signs back, earning a flat look. Pressing his fingers momentarily against Dazai’s jaw, he pulls them away to say, I always come back to you. It’s an overly emotional response he wouldn’t be seen dead speaking aloud.

The tiny, soft smile Dazai gives him in return is worth the embarrassment.

~ ~ ~

He runs a quick check of the barracks, slipping past two patrols with ease and almost crashing headlong into a third as he sprints around a corner to find a group of four rounding another barely fifty feet away. Only his quick reflexes and the convenient overhang of a building casting a deeper shadow in its recesses saving him from detection at the last possible moment.

He pauses for a second to stare at a cage, set in the centre of the collection of buildings which don’t appear to house people, wondering why such a thing is sitting there in plain view before dismissing it as unimportant and continuing on.

Once he’s fairly certain he has a decent idea of the layout he checks his watch and jogs back towards the edge of the compound where they had broken in, following silently on the heels of the same patrol he’d almost run into, which sweeps past as the four individuals talk and laugh amongst themselves, far more engaged in their conversation than actually maintaining a check on the perimeter. It makes Chuuya shake his head in disgust, if these were his subordinates, some form of discipline would be forthcoming for this gross laxity in duty and awareness.

Well, they are not his subordinates, and they will pay for their mistakes with their lives tonight.

Reaching the edge of the last building – more a forgotten tumbledown tool-shed of some kind than an actual useful structure – he waits in the shadows until the voices have faded out into silence before peeking around the broken, wonky door to find four canisters of fuel neatly lined up, alongside a small pile of rags and various fire inducing instruments. The semi-automatic pistol, taken from the dead leader of the last squad they had run into sits in the corner, stacked upon two spare clips, with a rifle and six spare rounds leaning against the wall. Chuuya shakes his head, squashing the urge to click his tongue, they’d agreed that Dazai would be the one to carry the semi-automatic weapon, being the better shot of the two of them. Still, there’s no use leaving it behind out of spite.

He stows the weapon on his makeshift harness, beside the handgun he had taken for himself. Slinging the rifle strap over his shoulder and picking up the first two canisters of fuel. It’s heavy, the weight dragging at his arms and once more leaving him wishing that the familiar presence of For the Tainted Sorrow was still winding through his blood. Well, if such was the case he would have no need of fuel, no need of any strategy beyond ‘pulverize the enemy’ and make them fear gravity more than they fear the undead fuckers massing around their flimsy walls. Breathing a soft sigh, he pushes such flights of fancy from his mind, scans the open space between the shack and the closest buildings with a practised eye, and moves off into the semi-darkness.

~ ~ ~

He soaks the rag in gasoline, leaving it in a crumpled heap, set against one corner of the building before proceeding to walk a line around the half wood, half prefabricated structure, leaving a trail of gasoline along the walls in his wake. The smell this close is unmistakable, but he hopes he can get this show rolling before those inside even notice that something is wrong.

When all of the barracks buildings have been similarly doused in flammable liquids, he turns his attention to the other structures on the site, deftly avoiding the returning first patrol as he sneaks around to peer through a window and find some kind of administrative office. There’s no sign of anyone inside and his supply of fuel is beginning to run low, so he leaves to inspect the next structure, and the next, finding them all similarly in use as either storage rooms or with tables and documents strewn everywhere as if some group had been recently called away from a meeting to deal with some emergency. Perhaps this group is just so confident in their supremacy, they see no point in hiding their maps and documentation, perhaps there is just no need for stealth or secrecy when you’re the biggest, baddest bitches on the continent? Chuuya disagrees with this assessment...there’s always a bigger, badder bitch somewhere out there...and this group is about to learn that the hard way.

The final three structures are large, squat, almost warehouse-like buildings; two of them locked, housing the many vehicles he and Dazai have been watching enter and leave the compound on various tasks almost every day; the third stands with its doors thrown wide, a single guard leaning boredly against the wall, humming an off-tune melody as he stares almost vacantly ahead, a small fire illuminating the space just outside the building and casting a tiny pool of light inside. He can just make out the shadows of bodies, huddled together in an effort to withstand the cold and knows he’s found his target.

Chuuya draws the long-bladed knife from his belt, melts into the shadows behind one corner of the structure and bends to pick up a stone, rolling it in his palm to test the weight before tossing it in a high arc, watching as it hits the earth with a dull thud, bounces and rolls away.

“Who’s there?” the guard startles and jerks upright, his body already turning to the source of the noise, fingers curling around the grip of the gun tucked into his pants.

Chuuya is already moving, slinking around the side of the warehouse and coming up behind the unsuspecting man who is still peering into the darkness, no doubt expecting a comrade to call out a greeting.

What he gets is Chuuya’s hand wrapping around his mouth as he drags the man backwards through the door, the man struggling and kicking but unable to prevent Chuuya from pulling him around the corner and out of sight of anyone who might choose to approach. He deftly slices his blade across the thick throat, parting skin and flesh and artery in one quick swipe, leaving the guard bleeding out on the floor with the life draining quickly from his veins and from his eyes until he’s left staring sightlessly towards the skies.

When he turns it’s to find wide, horrified eyes staring at him, a collection of scrawny looking people, both young and old, all watching him with silent fear. A woman opens her mouth to scream and Chuuya shakes his head frantically, pressing a finger against his lips in a plea for her to keep silent. The man next to her grips her shoulder until she switches her focus to him, Chuuya watches him shake his head and whisper something in her ear and the woman snaps her mouth shut with an audible click.

He takes a moment to check outside, making sure there’s no sign of an early patrol; though this part of the compound had not been visible from their vantage points, Dazai had extrapolated the most likely patrol routes and schedules from the data and what information they could put together of the layout of the compound itself. Seeing no sign that his scuffle has been noticed, he ducks back inside and makes his way through the rows of silently staring people until he stands in the middle of the building, with all eyes on him.

There must be at least a hundred people in here, probably closer to one hundred and fifty, maybe even more, but he doesn’t have time to count. Instead he addresses them all when he speaks in a quiet whisper.

“I’m not here to hurt you, I promise I will not harm any of you,” he begins, only to be interrupted by a man in the closest row whose face - Chuuya uncharitably decides - resembles a weasel.

“You just killed Berlio right in front of us, why should we believe the words of a murderer?” even his voice is furtive and leaves a slimy feeling crawling down Chuuya’s spine.

“Because I’m the one who can give you your freedom?” Chuuya shrugs nonchalantly. “Of course, if you’d prefer to take your chances staying here then I’ll be on my way –” he makes as if to move, and is stopped instantly by another, far more commanding female voice.

“Wait!” the tone is imperious despite the quiet, the weight of that single word telling Chuuya this woman is used to being obeyed. “Why are you here?”

“I’m here to put an end to whoever leads this fucked up community.” He doesn’t elaborate, there’s no point. He can already hear the mutterings of whispered conversations and surprise amongst the people.

“Alone?” the woman inquires, the scorn heavy in her voice.

“I’m not alone,” he picks his words carefully, knowing that to let on that there are only two ‘aggressors’ here - taking on an army of almost a hundred hardened survivors - will make his chances of convincing these people that his plan is sound much more unlikely.

“Hmmm…” the woman hums, dubiously, even in the dim light cast by the fire, he can see her old eyes, set in a wrinkled face, assessing every inch of him. “Then why have you come here? Why come to us?”

“To give you a choice,” Chuuya turns a slow circle, trying to meet the eyes of as many of these broken people as possible in an attempt to make them feel seen, feel understood, feel some kind of camaraderie.

“And what choice would that be?” another voice pipes up, and Chuuya cannot pinpoint the speaker but the question is to be expected.

“It’s about to get pretty hot around here,” he smiles, letting a hint of his own murderous anger leak through the facade of calm geniality, and watching as those closest to him lean back in instinctual fear. “I could use a little help, if any of you are willing.”

“What would you have us do?” the older woman squints at him, frowning. “As you can see, we are chained up like animals and barely strong enough to fulfil our duties. We will not throw ourselves upon the Commander’s men to die just because some boy comes in here toting a dead body like a trophy and asks us to.”

Chuuya barely contains a snort at being called ‘boy’, but he holds the woman’s stubborn gaze as he replies, “I’m not asking anyone to die. On the contrary, I’m giving you all the chance to live, to be free of all this.” he gestures to the ropes that keep them tied to the supporting beams and each other, tied through the chains winding around their ankles – padlocked crudely in place - and looping around the room.

“Then free us.” the old woman challenges, her chin lifted in haughty defiance. Chuuya shrugs, pulling the knife from his belt once more and watching those closest do their best to shift away, their eyes fixed upon the blade. With deliberate slowness, he takes hold of the rope closest to him, curling it over the blade and slicing through the thick strands as if they were no more than paper. The severed ends fall to the floor with an audible thud. Pulling a second knife from the inside of his coat, he flips it, catching it by the blade and offering the hilt to the nearest person – a young woman whose arms are wrapped around her body as if trying to protect herself and make herself seem smaller in the same breath.

“Take it,” he motions with the blade, “cut the others loose.”

She doesn’t say a word as she reaches out with shaking fingers to grasp the hilt of the knife. Chuuya has a second to wonder if she will turn and attempt to plunge the sharp metal straight into his chest in her terror, but she merely crouches and begins sawing at the closest rope, tears leaking from her dark eyes to stream in dirty rivulets down her face.

“I don’t have much time, another patrol will be due shortly.” Chuuya taps his foot absently on the floor, taps the flat of his blade against his own shoulder as he speaks. “First, I need information.” he rounds on the old woman, who seems to be the de facto leader of this sorry group. “Where does the Boss keep his quarters, and where does he keep his information?” The second question he already knows the answer to – it’s a test of honesty, to see whether these people can be trusted in any worthwhile capacity.

The woman remains silent for a stretch of time long enough to leave an oppressive feeling of awkwardness hanging in the air, as if every single body within the warehouse is holding their breath, waiting to see which of them will break first. Finally her eyes meet his and she mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “Kids!” under her breath before she nods once, making her way slowly to the open doors and beckoning him to follow.

“The Commander sleeps in B-three. All of the important documents are kept in the administration building at the centre of the barracks.” she points a swollen finger in the direction of the long buildings clustered together at the north-facing end of the compound. “The Inner Circle are housed in C block: one, two and three. The square buildings that used to be officer’s quarters. The rest of the barracks belong to the lower squads. The guard room is the long building near the front gate, it’s where the patrols change shifts on each round.”

“The Commander sleeps alone?” Chuuya asks, and is unprepared for the look of disgust the old woman gives him.

“Just him and whichever of the girls he’s chosen to warm his bed for the night.” she almost spits the words, Chuuya watches her hands clench in a way that must be painful for old joints.

“I understand.” He does. He understands all too well and it leaves a sour sickening swirling to settle in his stomach. Turning to the rest of the group, now freed from their bonds and standing in a loose half-circle behind him, he raises his voice so it can be heard by all within the warehouse, “Do any of you know how to shoot?”

The men and women begin to shuffle and mutter amongst themselves as the old woman turns on him with anger in her eyes, “We won’t be doing your dirty work for you!”

“I’m not asking you to.” Chuuya’s getting slightly irritated at her interruptions, though he does his best to keep his emotions in check and his face somewhat friendly. “I want two people who are skilled enough to at least have some chance at hitting a moving target who can defend the rest of you and stop any of the assholes who escape the barracks from getting into the sheds that contain the vehicles and supplies. In addition I need twenty able-bodied men or women who aren’t going to have trouble running the distance between here and the barracks. I can torch this entire place by myself but it will be more effective if the buildings go up simultaneously before an alarm can be raised. I’m not asking anyone to fight.”

A man steps out from the crowd, scratching idly at a scraggly black beard, shot through with premature grey, though his face looks no older than mid-thirties. “I’m a decent shot.” he offers without fanfare.

Chuuya nods shortly, “Rifle or pistol?”

The man rubs his chin, thoughtfully and Chuuya can appreciate his consideration when he says: “I can hit a target with a pistol, best give the rifle to someone with less experience.” Chuuya nods, handing over the gun and what little ammunition they’ve managed to scrounge during their time here. It’s less than twenty bullets.

“Make them count.” The man only gives him a grim look in reply.

“I’ve shot a rifle before. I used to hunt with my pa.” A young woman steps forward with a look of grim determination on her face, “I want to help, I want those bastards to pay for what they did to us.” Chuuya can see the haunted look of abuse and degradation in her dull gray eyes.

He hands the rifle and spare rounds over without a word.

Slowly men and women begin shuffling forwards, tentative at first but becoming increasingly bold as more of their comrades offer their assistance. Finally Chuuya has his ‘army’ of twenty, plus a few extras willing to escort those who have volunteered to start the fires and attempt to protect them from any rogue elements which may present themselves. Chuuya hands off his axe and an assortment of knives to the makeshift bodyguards; keeping only the long-bladed hunting knife and the comforting weight of the semi-automatic tucked carefully away in his harness. To the others he gives lighters, matches, and every fire-inducing object he and Dazai had managed to root out of their supply caches.

“Leave the Commander to me.” he orders, dark intent coiling the snap of the Mafia Executive through his tone. Turning to the old woman, he beckons wordlessly for her to follow before striding out into the darkness and around the side of the warehouse. A row of bins stands next to wall, stinking of rotting refuse and Chuuya doesn’t even want to contemplate what else. “Get everyone onto the roof. It’s going to get messy down here very quickly, so make them stay as low as possible, you don’t want to be hit by stray bullets. Have all of them pick up a handful of stones before they go – the bigger the better. Don’t let anyone except your own get on this roof, and don’t let a single person get into those warehouses. Throw whatever you have, just keep them away. Do you understand?”

Iron will and steely determination glints in those old eyes as they regard him with something like newly awakened fervour, as if he might somehow be their saviour. “I understand. What’s your name, young man?”

“Chuuya.” he replies, bowing slightly out of habit even as the grey-haired woman looks at him in confusion.

“My name is Emilia.” she says as she holds out her hand for Chuuya to shake; her grip is firm, despite the swelling of arthritis beginning to take hold in her joints. “Keep my people safe, Chuuya, they are in your hands.”

“I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

~ ~ ~

The stage is set.

He and his ragged band have very little time to play with. He’s lingered too long here already and another patrol could be just around the corner.

Climbing onto the roof of the warehouse formerly occupied by the workers, he scans the area, seeing no immediate sign of movement, though he can just make out a squad of four sauntering along the eastern edge of the fence line, just a few yards from the gate and another emerging from the small copse of trees on the west side. The night remains silent and still, no shrill sound of alarm, not even a murmur from those hunkered down upon the roof.

“Don’t come down until the area is secure. Defend this place with your lives, because your lives will be on the line if we lose.”

Emilia makes a face of displeasure, though she nods her agreement curtly. Chuuya stands, pulling a plastic tube from his pocket and cracking it, watching as it begins to glow with a neon yellow light. When the glow stick is fully illuminated he tosses it into the air three times and waits.

Half a minute later he spots a flicker of answering green to the left of the compound’s massive gates. Two high arcs answering his call. Relief settles in his bones, stealing a sharp smile across his face.

The stage is set and Dazai is already at work.

“What was that?” Emilia appears at his elbow, frowning out into the darkness, her old eyes squinting almost shut.

“Backup.” he replies, already moving to clamber off the roof and hop down to the ground.

In less than two minutes he has his troops organised, split into smaller sections and being sent on their way with strict instructions, each with a white rag tied around the right arm to distinguish themselves from the enemy. Some of them will be lost in the madness he is about to unleash, he is almost certain of it, had warned them as such when he had explained his plan. Yet they remained resolute, determined to help free those left behind from the tyranny of this Commander and his crew.

He watches as the bodies of the men and women are swallowed by shadows as they slink into the night, angels of death borne on the shrouding wings of darkness.

It’s time to end this.

He lingers outside the Commander’s door for three minutes to allow everyone to get into position, the lack of alarm belying their success in remaining so far unseen. Taking a deep breath, he pulls the glow stick from his pocket, twirling it between his fingers and allowing himself a moment to offer a quick prayer to fortune before tossing the neon yellow tube as high as he can into the sky.

He doesn’t watch it fall. Instead Chuuya’s eyes are fixed on the closest buildings, his breath sticking somewhere in his lungs, trying to choke him with apprehension until he sees the bright orange tongues of flame begin to lick up and reach tentatively towards the heavens.

He doesn’t bother with stealth as he approaches the Commander’s door, lifting his leg he slams his foot into the flimsy wood with enough force to send it flying from its hinges to catapult across the room beyond, landing with a loud crash in the middle of the floor. He doesn’t pause in the doorway, crouching low and running straight into the room, cutting left and dropping into an instinctive roll as a spray of bullets hit the doorframe and embed themselves into the wall. He doesn’t hesitate or look for cover, coming up still moving and sprinted a jagged path across the floor, veering left and right in an attempt to confuse his opponent as shots continue to ring out, biting into wood and sending splinters flying in all directions.

He flips the fallen door up with his foot, grabbing it with both hands and hardly breaking stride as he brings it above his head and hurls it in the direction of the room’s single occupant, catching the man in the torso and sending him to the ground. Chuuya pounces even as another shot rings out.

Searing fire just below his left shoulder rips a howling snarl from his throat even as he bears down on the body of the man lying half-stunned beneath the remnants of the now shattered door. His foot cracks against the man’s skull leaving him to go limp as the gun drops from lifeless fingers. Chuuya kicks him against for good measure, the movement sending a fresh bolt of pain through his arm. The blood is already beginning to seep through his shirt, trickling down his arm to drip from his fingertips.

Not good.

There’s no time left to waste here.

A choked off gasp of terror from the corner has him whirling around. A girl, no more than sixteen or seventeen by the look of her, sits naked on the floor, her arms wrapped around a body curled in on itself. Even in the darkness he can see that her eyes are wide with fear, that her body trembles with every breath she takes. Bile rises in his throat at the thought of what this girl, no more than a child has likely been forced into.

“It’s okay.” he speaks through gritted teeth, moving his arm gingerly to assess his range of motion – not great, but he’ll get by. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m only here for this scumbag.” He nudges the unconscious man with his foot. “Hurry and dress yourself in something, you need to get out of here before the real fight starts.” Pulling off his coat and hissing as it comes away sticky with blood, he tosses the garment in the girl’s direction, gratified to see her drag it to her immediately and pull it over her shoulders.

“Y-you’re hurt.” she whispers, slowly getting to her feet and creeping cautiously towards him, as if afraid he might turn and lunge at her at any second.

“It’s nothing –” he dismisses immediately but she shakes her head.

“W-wait here. The C-commander keeps a medkit in the back room.” He watches her scurry off without another word before turning back to the still-unconscious Commander.

It’s not the easiest task to try and restrain someone with only one arm fully operational, but he manages somehow to tie the man with a length of rope he’d taken from the slave’s quarters, knotting it firmly around both wrists and ankles before securing it to the closest bunk, using another length to tie a noose around the short man’s neck and secure that to the bunk on the opposite side. The disgusting excuse for humanity will be unable to move to untie his arms without cutting off his own air. It’s crude but it will hold.

As he digs the torch from his pocket, setting it on the room’s single desk and letting the tiny light flood the room with shadows, the girl reappears, green box in one hand and a water bottle clasped tightly in the other as she makes her way over to him with a mix of apprehension and determination weighing her steps. He eyes her warily as she edges cautiously over to him and stares with wide, imploring eyes. “Let me see?”

“There’s no time.” he begins to protest, he can hear yells and screams echoing through the compound, needs to get eyes on what’s going on out there, and Dazai will be bringing in ‘reinforcements’ at any moment. Reinforcements he absolutely does not want to stick around to deal with.

“You’ll black out if you don’t at least stop the bleeding.” she replies, reaching out a tentative hand to wrap her fingers around his uninjured arm.

She’s right. “I...okay –” He grits his teeth as he pulls off his hoodie and his shirt, baring his upper body to the freezing air and immediately beginning to shiver, probably from shock as much as from the sudden cold. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Not really.” the girl admits, her face pale as she stares at the blood welling from the laceration to spill and slither like spindly crimson snakes down his arm.

He inspects it by eye, relieved to find that the cut appears to be clean, and while it’s bleeding like fuck, the bullet hadn’t hit an artery. “It’s just a graze, the bullet didn’t lodge. Just, douse it in water, pack it with gauze and wrap it as tight as you can, that will do until later.”

She nods, worrying her lower lip between her teeth as she sets to work. Chuuya has to grit his teeth as water pours across the open wound - flooding fresh agony through shredded nerves – clenching his jaw so hard he can hear the bones creak. The girl is quick, efficient, though her eyes are still wide with shock, her face pale at the sight of Chuuya’s blood or whatever she’s been subjected to in the hours leading up to this point. In minutes the wound is wrapped, it’s clumsy and unpractised but it will do, it will get him through what he has to do next. He throws his shirt and hoodie back on, bracing himself against the cold bite of winter’s breath against his clammy skin.

“See you in a little while Commander,” he practically spits the title as he grabs the fallen assault rifle from the floor, checking the drawers in the desk to find a single spare magazine and retrieving his torch before stalking towards the hole in the wall, “If you don’t fall prey to something worse than me.” The girl follows meekly behind.

Outside he can hear the cries of those trapped within the burning buildings of the barracks, can hear others shouting orders and attempting to mass some kind of counterattack against those workers who had disobeyed Chuuya’s instructions to return to the warehouse immediately upon completing their tasks. He curses under his breath, grabbing the closest man by the collar he hurls him against the wall, ducking out of range of a wild swipe from the knife held tightly in a white-knuckled grip.

“Why the fuck didn’t you go back to the warehouse?” he begins, then growls out a curse because there’s no time to stand around berating idiots for not acting like soldiers. “Never mind. Just, take the girl and get the fuck out of here.”

The yelling abruptly changes in pitch, become something more frantic and edging on hysteria and now he knows he’s out of time. “Go!” he shouts, not waiting to see if he’s obeyed, they’re on their own now and he has more important things to worry about.

The burning buildings are like beacons in the blackness - a bright enticing lure impossible to ignore for the ranks of the undead - as the sky slowly begins to lighten from the all-consuming dark of night to the twilight blue of the small hours, that endless stretch of time before dawn bleeds her colours into the heavens.

In the distance he can see the lumpy shapes betraying the forerunners of the undead, shifting in a slow wave of movement, arms outstretched in gluttonous eternal hunger as they are drawn unerringly towards the flames and the clamour of humanity.

Shots ring out somewhere behind him and Chuuya is moving before he even stops to consider what the consequences of throwing himself into the path of danger yet again might end up being. He’s never been one to shy away from a fight, whether he’d been the one to start it or not, it always ended with him and like hell is this going to be any different.

Rounding a corner he comes upon a struggle, four of his ragged recruits surrounded by six others, all of them badly burned, two pointing guns and the others holding bats, knives and a particularly wicked looking axe that looks like it’s more suited to chopping down the world’s largest tree than splitting heads. On the floor at the ringleaders feet a body lies still, clearly already dead. The four freed workers are putting up a brave show of resistance, the gangly youngster in front brandishing a single knife, arms spread in an attempt at protecting those behind him who wield only what they’ve picked up along the way – sticks and bricks and nothing that has a chance of stopping a bullet.

Chuuya has less than a second to review the situation before coming to a decision. Skidding to a stop he checks the safety on the rifle before bringing the butt to rest against his uninjured shoulder.

“Get down!” he yells, staring down the barrel as the startled group turn to face him as one. Recognition in the eyes of the leader of the small band of workers leads him to drop to the ground almost instantly, dragging the woman behind down after him as the remaining two scramble to follow. The six attackers look shellshocked for a moment before they too, begin to move.

Not one of them drops.

Their mistake.

Chuuya opens fire without another word, the rifle doing most of the work as the semi-automatic weapon shoots round after round in quick succession. He barely even needs to aim, the spray of bullets burying themselves in the bodies of his enemies without discrimination.

Two shots ring out in retaliation, taking chunks out of the building he’s using for what scant cover it can offer, raining him with a shower of splinters but going wildly off their mark.

They don’t have chance to get off another shot. In the next seconds, four of the six are writhing in agony on the floor, the other two dragged down by the four workers who set upon them like wild animals, beating them into insensibility with fists and pieces of wood. The gangly blond youth pulls the gun from his former captor’s hand and turns it upon him, pressing the muzzle against his skull and firing without hesitation. Chuuya’s respect for these people grows as the six former members of this band of degenerate trash are dispatched and left to stain the ground with their blood.

Swiftly he disengages the spent magazine, tossing it to the ground before reloading, pulling the charging handle and feeling the bolt slam home. Sliding the safety back on, he lowers the weapon to his side and regards his four recruits, who are staring at him with newfound respect. “Get back to the warehouse. This whole area is going to be crawling with corpses in a few minutes. I’m going to round up any other strays still hanging around.”

“Let us help you!” the blond replies, eagerness and the fever-bright intensity of the first kill flashing in his blue eyes.

Chuuya shakes his head, forcing back a wince as his upper arm reminds him of the wound still leaking blood to soak the bandages beneath his shirt.“You can help me by staying out of my way. Take the guns, protect the rest of your people. It’s going to be a difficult enough clean up job, without adding to the ranks of the undead before all this is over. Now go!”

“But –” the youth begins.

Chuuya cuts him off, he doesn’t have time to listen to this shit. “Don’t argue with me. These people don’t have weapons, they are relying on you to get them to safety, are you going to abandon them because you’ve had a taste of blood? Would that make you any better than the scum lying in the dirt over there?”

The young man holds his gaze for a moment, before his head drops, one foot kicking at the ground before his eyes raise once more and he gives a single curt nod. “I understand.”

“Good, then go.” Chuuya walks off into the smoke-filled shadows without looking back to see if they’ve obeyed. Their lives are in their own hands now.

He passes more bodies, some of his own volunteers, and some the thugs of the enemy. He stops at every one, pausing for only enough time to divest them of their weapons and ram his blade into their brain, ensuring that they will not get up and start walking once more, joining the ranks of the undead about to wash over this encampment like a tsunami of death.

From the ongoing conflagration of the barracks, slowing charring to bare bones and ash, no sound emerges. The screams of the agonised and dying have tapered off into an eerie silence, the silence of ghosts and the sudden absence of life.

He shoves three more stragglers in the direction of the warehouse and uses a handgun he’d plucked from a corpse to put a bullet into the heads of two more terror-stricken and raging thugs – peeling, blistered skin and wet, bloody coughs betraying them as survivors of the fires. After a cursory sweep of the barracks area, he turns to lope back towards the warehouse in a half-staggering trot.

The blood loss is going to his head.

He takes out four of the undead in the short stretch between the barracks and the warehouse. Coming close to crashing into one as he turns a corner to find the thing staggering into his path. He shoots them with cold efficiency, keeping as far out of range as he can. With an open wound still bleeding a sluggish trail down his arm, he dares not risk getting up close and personal with these fuckers.

A bullet almost taking him in the leg as he rounds the corner has him reaching the limits of his patience. “Oi, don’t just shoot blindly you stupid fuck!” he practically snarls, dropping the rifle to his side and glaring up at the offending idiot – a middle-aged man with an apparently itchy trigger finger, he practically cowers on the roof as Chuuya clicks his tongue in annoyance before turning his attention elsewhere, picking the grim face of Emilia out of the crowd of bodies huddled on the roof.

“Is everyone here?”

“Everyone who’s going to be.” she replies shortly. “We have injured.”

“That will have to wait. Do what you can, but keep them there, and if you see anyone who isn’t me approaching this section, shoot them.” he pauses for a moment before amending, “Unless it’s a lanky bastard covered in bandages. Just throw a couple of rocks at him and ask the shithead what took him so long.” He grins something savage, “Don’t come down unless you want to join the wandering corpses.”

She nods her understanding and he’s about to turn and leave when someone calls down, “We’re coming to help you!” Looking back, it’s the gangly blond from earlier, bravado and determination set on his face. He’s already scrambling down from the roof to land with a crash on top of the bins and Chuuya has neither the time nor the will to hold an argument with the kid so he just shrugs.

“Stay out of my way. If you get shot or one of those undead fuckers takes a chunk out of you, it’s not my problem.”

“Sure thing, boss.” the blond flashes him a grin and waves two others to join them – another young mousy-haired boy and a redheaded woman, slightly older than the other two, thought not by much, with eyes that hold that same darkness he had witnessed in the girl taken from the Commander’s quarters. All three look positively eager for a fight, holding their stolen guns with conviction but no finesse and Chuuya can’t help but to think that these youths - barely more than children - are treating this entirely too much like a game and not the life-or-death experience that it might turn out to be.

As Chuuya moves them off in the direction of the gate, he instructs them quickly on how to load, cock, aim and fire the guns, hoping that the impromptu lesson will at least mean that they won’t accidentally shoot themselves or their comrades rather than the enemy.

They’re less than fifty paces from the gate when a shadow materialises from the gloom. All three of his companions have their guns pointed before Chuuya can say a word.

“Mercy, please, I have no wish to die today~” comes Dazai’s annoyingly chipper lilt as the bastard himself continues to walk as if he’s not being stared at down the barrel of three deadly weapons.

“Dazai…” he breathes out something that definitely isn’t a sigh of relief before motioning to the other three, “Don’t worry, it’s just my idiot partner.”

A dramatic gasp and Dazai’s hand presses against his own chest, “Chuuya I’m offended!”

“How wonderful for you.” he deadpans, finding Dazai suddenly in front of him, appraising him with knowing eyes.

“You’re injured.” A statement, not a question.

“It’s fine.” Chuuya waves him off, turning back in the direction of the barracks and squinting into the blue-black murk and the glow of fire and sizzling embers.

Dazai hums something that sounds dubious and Chuuya is in no mood to argue right now. There’s a lightness in his head which threatens to overtake him with every movement, a feeling of the strength leeching slowly from his limbs which he tries to force his way through, screwing his eyes shut until his vision is full of flashing lights and broken images, blinking them open only to see movement in the darkness.

“The Commander?” Dazai’s voice snaps him back to the present like a slap to the face.

“Alive. Or he was when I left him tied up in his quarters.” Chuuya can feel his lips twist in automatic disgust, “That guy’s a real piece of fucking work.”

“We can deal with him later. We’re about to have company…” Dazai murmurs dryly.

“Shoot anything that moves.” Chuuya instructs his companions, who all stand resolutely ready, shuffling apart to give each other room. “Don’t bother firing until they’re less than fifteen paces away, you don’t have the skill to hit anything beyond that. Aim for the head and if something gets too close, get out of the damn way!”

A chorus of, “Yes boss!” has Chuuya rolling his eyes and Dazai snickering and mouthing the words back at him exaggeratedly. He smacks the semi-automatic pistol into Dazai’s chest in retaliation.

“You were supposed to keep this, idiot.” he grumbles as Dazai accepts the gun and spare clips without protest. Hefting the rifle back to his shoulder he finds himself wincing involuntarily as he brings his injured arm up to steady the weapon, a slight shake in the movement telling him he won’t be able to keep this up for long. No matter.

“How much ammo?” Dazai murmurs quietly from beside him as the three youths shift uneasily, watching the slow advance of the undead.

“Just one magazine,” he replies in an equally low voice, “how many did you set loose?”

“Fifty four.” It’s an odd number that has Chuuya turning to stare at him questioningly. Dazai merely shrugs, “I had intended to release sixty, but other matters arose and had to be dealt with.”

“Want to stop speaking in tongues and just spit it out?” he’s really not in the mood for Dazai and his circles.

“An unlucky patrol came by and interrupted my work.” Dazai smiles and the expression is something devoid of mirth, “I had to open up the second perimeter line a little faster than anticipated.”

“Nobody got out?” The zombies are closing in now, thirty paces from their position. Dazai, meanwhile is ignoring them completely in favour of shooting Chuuya a look of betrayed hurt.

“What do you take me for, Chuuya? Some half-witless subordinate?”

There’s no time to dredge up an appropriately snarky response.

The world goes to hell in the form of half-rotting reanimated corpses and the drowning crack of gunfire.

His companions do their best, but none of them are sharpshooters, hell, none of them are even remotely familiar with firing a weapon, that much is clear from the first shot when all three jump at the sound of the discharge and only one of the bullets actually connects with a target, burying itself into a corpse’s leg and causing it to stumble before dragging the now useless limb across the dirt behind it.

Dazai shoots with cold efficiency, his aim is as precise as it always has been; the gun brought up, levelled and fired with not even a pause for breath. He doesn’t hesitate in picking his targets, not even when the decomposing forms of children emerge from the lightening gloom to stagger towards them with tiny arms outstretched as if in entreaty, snarls warping their faces into something grossly and inherently wrong. He can hear the sharp intake of breath from the other three when the small bodies drop lifeless and limp as dolls to the ground.

Thirty six corpses litter the floor before the steady stream of undead ceases and they are forced to return to the barracks to hunt down the remaining few. The broken body of the mousy-haired boy had fallen at their feet in the midst of dealing with the walking corpses; the victim of an enraged remnant of the Commander’s crew, who had staggered from the wreckage of the barracks oozing blood from a myriad of bites. The look in his eyes had been one of shining insanity, the burning rage of a dying soul determined to drag as many others along on the ride to hell as he could get his hands on. The boy hadn’t moved quick enough, had stared with wide-eyed terror at the living breathing human coming at him with murderous intent in every lurching step. It had only taken one blow to cave in his skull.

The blonde had shot the attacker in the head with a wild yell of pure hatred.

The area surrounding the barracks reeks of gasoline, smoke, blood, death and decay. The silent redheaded woman turns abruptly as her eyes settle upon the body of a child - half-spoiled entrails spilling from a wide slash in its stomach - retching and vomiting as the little body twitches and jerks, dragging itself towards them with growls of incoherent alien rage as the slimy remains of intestines drag through the dirt. Dazai stands over the pitiful form, a single shot suffusing stillness into twisted limbs.

The only living being they encounter – if it can even be called that – is a woman whose body is a mass of bloody flesh, being torn into by three zombies as she lies upon the ground. She spasms uncontrollably with every rip and tear of teeth and blunt fingers dipping and clawing into the soft flesh of her abdomen, pulling strings of fibrous tissue and chunks of meat like dissecting a carcass. Her eyes are wide and glassy, bloodied lips parted and yet she is past the point of screaming out her agony, has reached a state of placid acceptance, waiting and pleading for her inevitable death and an end to her tortured final moments. Even when faced with an enemy, someone who has no doubt committed atrocities of her own whilst living through these hellish days, Chuuya can’t help but feel the tug of pity, the terrible certainty that nobody deserves to die such a protracted and excruciating death. Sure, he’s been part of torture and interrogation procedures – anyone reaching a certain level is expected to be at least somewhat proficient in such things, but even though the procedures themselves can last hours, even days under a skilled hand, the end is almost always quick and clean.

He shoots a look at Dazai, finds the idiot already watching him with something dark flickering just out of reach. A short nod passes between them and Chuuya switches the rifle for a handgun, levelling it at the supine form of the woman who hasn’t even registered their presence. A single shot and the deed is done, the body jumping once before going limp. Three more shots ring out from the semi-automatic in Dazai’s hand, the three corpses collapsing to sprawl over the body that had become their feast. Behind him he can hear retching once again.

These kids, they’re not made for war.

~ ~ ~

When they reach the warehouse, Dazai immediately begins to work his own kind of chaos. Taking command with the heavy aura of one used to being obeyed – that same aura Chuuya had seen him cloak himself in countless times, that same aura which had garnered him the fear of his subordinates in the Port Mafia.

Chuuya’s strength is beginning to fail him. He’s honestly not sure how much longer he can remain upright and there are still ten wandering zombies yet to be accounted for.

He pulls himself out of his own woozy, disjointed thoughts long enough to register Dazai barking orders while the people still gathered on the roof stare at him with trepidation and no small amount of fear.

“Get down here. Who’s in charge?” Dazai drawls, cocking his head imperiously as Emilia steps forward and waving a hand to indicate the compound, “There are still a few zombies wandering around, send a force out to dispatch them.” the people begin muttering among themselves as Emilia clambers down from the roof, the sound rising in volume until Dazai whistles loudly enough to make Chuuya’s ears hurt. All eyes swivel back to him. “Two of you need to get to the Commander’s quarters and make sure he doesn’t escape, we’ll deal with him later.” A short pause and Dazai’s eyes flick to Emilia, then to Chuuya and finally back to the roof, assessing and making plans in an instant. “Fetch any clean blankets and sheets that you have and get the injured into the shed. Start a fire and boil water, make sure it’s clean water. Bring me any medical supplies you have.”

“Are you a doctor?” Emilia interrupts, her eyes narrowed. Chuuya watches Dazai’s face scrunch into something that adequately displays his distaste for all things medical.

“No. But I have enough experience with field medicine to patch most things up.” Well, it’s not a lie, he and Dazai had always put each back together after missions, with stitches, with bickering words, or occasionally wordless comfort - preferring to lick their wounds in private rather than subject themselves to the tender bedside manner of the physicians on the Port Mafia’s payroll, or under the knife of the Boss himself. Hell, he’s seen Dazai dig bullets out of his subordinates flesh with nothing more than a knife, a lighter, some fishing wire and his own fingers before sending them back onto the battlefield once more. Of course he’s also seen the exact look Dazai’s eyes take on when he deems a person’s life beneath his worth to save, has seen the blank apathy settle there as he puts a gun to one of his own and pulls the trigger with less hesitation than he would show when taking out the trash.

“A soldier?” Emilia presses, hands on her hips as she blocks Dazai’s path with her own rail-thin body, though she does turn momentarily to snap at the rest of the people still gathered around, “Start getting everyone down and inside.”

When she turns back to them expectantly, Dazai gives her an enigmatic smile, “Not exactly.”

She gives the bastard a dubious look in return and Chuuya has to give her credit for she isn’t cowed under the weight of Dazai’s stare, doesn’t flinch or take a step back. That fact alone gives her more spine than most of the members of the Port Mafia: even today Dazai’s name is only uttered as a whisper in the hallways, as if to speak it aloud is to call down attention from the fabled former Demon Prodigy himself. The thought makes him chuckle and Dazai turns to blink at him with a shadow of concern in his tired eyes.

“Chibi? Are you delirious?”

“No,” Dazai’s hand presses against his forehead before Chuuya has chance to say anything more, “stop it. I don’t have a fever! A little lightheaded maybe, but I’m fine.” At Dazai’s raised eyebrow he clicks his tongue in irritation. “I was just thinking you’ve finally met your match, and it’s an old woman. No offence ma’am.” he bows slightly in her direction.

Emilia shakes her head with mock sternness wrinkling her face, “Youngsters these days have no respect for their betters. I’ll have you know I’m not old!” The remark at least seems to have broken the tension as the old woman waves over a few people who have followed her lead and murmurs instructions in a low voice. “It will be as you say.” She directs the words towards Dazai, Chuuya’s eyes moving from one to the other, surprised to see a mutual respect growing between the two. “Please do what you can for them.”

The idiot gives her a curt nod and then turns that sharp, assessing gaze on him, sweeping up and down before sighing, “You’re way past your limit, Chibi. You wont be of any use to me.” The words sting, even in their truthfulness and Dazai must pick up on his flash of hurt because his eyes and his voice soften. “Go and sit down before you drop; you’ve lost a fair amount of blood, judging by your colour. The wound isn’t life-threatening, is it?”

Chuuya shakes his head with a grimace, “It’s just a glancing shot, I was unlucky,” he pauses and admits, “or lucky, if you look at it from the other side. Clean exit, deep enough to hurt like a bitch, but I’m not going to drop dead on you yet.” He tries to smile in reassurance, though it probably looks more like a twisting of lips and the baring of teeth.

Dazai, thankfully (and despite Chuuya’s recent track record of hiding wounds) takes his words at face value and doesn’t immediately demand that Chuuya strip so he can see for himself. “Good. Go and rest, I’ll come and patch you back together when I’m done here.”

“What happened to ‘they’re just characters in a story’?” He can’t help the jab at Dazai’s sudden apparent concern.

“They also happen to rather vastly outnumber us right now, and with an injured Chibi we’re not about to get very far by picking fights we can’t win.”

Huh...stupid Demon bastards always with an answer to everything.

“Are you going to go and sit down, or am I going to have to catch you when you swoon into my arms, hatrack?”

“I do not ‘swoon’, asshole.” Chuuya spins on his heel, only for his head to swim and his legs to wobble in a rather threatening manner. Ah, perhaps he really did overdo it. Flipping the bastard off, he wills himself to walk without a stumble in his step, grabbing a blanket from the pile being carried past by a wide-eyed woman and making his way carefully over to one corner of the warehouse, leaning his back against the wall and allowing himself to sink down to the floor.

The world fades out around him before he even has chance to wrap the blanket around his shoulders.

~ ~ ~

Chuuya jolts to awareness to Dazai’s, “Wake up, beautiful.” whispered directly into his ear. He might have considered smacking the bastard were it not for the fact that Dazai has crouched down next to his injured side; no doubt a purposeful strategy on his part to avoid Chuuya’s retaliation. He can feel his cheeks heating, flushing colour into his doubtlessly pale complexion, even as he turns to glare and finds Dazai’s face far too close and smiling something too gentle to belong in the space between them.

“Don’t glower at me so scarily, Chibi~” Dazai pokes at his red cheek and grins wider, “I would have left you to sleep while I stitched you up, but I didn’t think you’d appreciate me cutting off your clothes,” a dramatic pause, “and I don’t want to deal with a bitchy hatrack all day.”

“Damn right.” Chuuya mumbles without conviction, rubbing at his eyes and tilting his head back to stare at the roof, still half-asleep. The warehouse is drenched in early morning light, winter’s chill creeping through every crack and crevice to wind its icy grip across the earth, though as he looks out of the door on the opposite side of the room he notices that the clouds look ominously heavy, almost as if…

“Earth to Chibi?” Dazai tapping the side of his head brings him back to the moment, “are you in there?”

“Let’s just get this over with.”

Removing his hoodie is both an awkward and painful experience, eventually requiring Dazai’s assistance to drag the thing over his head as he grits his teeth and tries not to hiss his displeasure. Perhaps he should have let the bastard cut the damn thing off after all.

Slicing off the hasty bandage and peeling the blood soaked mess away from a wound just beginning to clot leaves him sucking air through his teeth and curling his nails to dig into his palms; the sharp bite giving him another point of pain to focus on and attempt to drown out the newly awakened throbbing in his arm. He watches as Dazai eyes the laceration critically, wiping away the fresh trickle of blood before it can track another crimson trail to follow the dried and flaking paths of those which have preceded it.

“Assault rifle?” Dazai asks, not taking his eyes from the wound.

Chuuya hums an affirmative as Dazai dips a wad of gauze into a bowl and begins cleaning the torn flesh. It stings like fuck on contact, so Chuuya assumes he’s using salt water in a effort to prevent infection.

“You were lucky. Another inch and it would have shattered the bone and likely clipped an artery.” The idiot is careful to the point of tenderness as he completes his task, finally washing the residue of dried blood from Chuuya’s arm and patting it dry before producing a suture kit with a flourish alongside a small bottle that makes Chuuya’s heart sink. “And you’re lucky I packed this in with the supplies, I’ve already exhausted the stocks they have here.”

Chuuya doesn’t feel lucky as Dazai swipes iodine over the wound, the contact feeling like someone is pressing a burning brand against his skin covered in tiny pricking thorns. He doesn’t feel lucky as Dazai flushes the laceration with yet more water before drying it once again. He definitely doesn’t feel lucky as the curved needle pierces his skin. On the contrary he feels distinctly unlucky as he’s subjected to that familiar and yet slightly nauseating sensation of thread being pulled through flesh as Dazai knits him back together – a patchwork doll of scars, which each tell their own story of failure.

He must space out again because when he looks back it’s to find Dazai holding his elbow in a loose grip as he winds a fresh set of bandages around the neat row of stitches. Once it’s tied off and tucked safely away underneath his hoodie, they look at one another without speaking, a long moment of silent communication, of reassurance that they’re both still here, both mostly still whole.

They’re interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat a few paces away. Both of them turn in the same instant, Chuuya realising that the girl in front of them is the same one he’d found in the Commander’s quarters. A girl who now looks like she’s wavering between speaking and bolting.

Taking pity on the poor kid, Chuuya saves her the embarrassment of being the one to speak first. “Are you okay?”

She smiles shyly, the expression making her look even younger as she nods, taking a step closer, “I’m fine.” Chuuya doubts it’s the truth, he can practically see the trauma and the darkness swimming in her eyes, maybe she’ll be able to hold it back for now, while she’s still in a state of shock, but eventually it will reach out to attempt to drown her spirit. He’s seen it too many times. “Thank you, for saving me.”

Chuuya grins and shakes his head, “I think it should be me thanking you, don’t you?” he gestures to his arm, “Perhaps you should consider a future in field medicine?”

She giggles, blushing slightly. Chuuya can feel Dazai’s irritation like a physical force.

“I think I’ve seen enough blood to last a lifetime.” she admits quietly, something lost and forlorn tearing through the smile as if it had never been there. Seeming to collect herself, she offers him the mug clasped in one of her hands. “Here, you’ve been asleep for a while, I thought you might be thirsty.” Dazai practically bristles beside him as Chuuya takes the proffered mug and in the next second she holds out his coat. “Thank you, for lending me this.”

“Don’t worry about it.” he offers her another smile and she pauses, rocking back on her feet as if struggling to find something to say.

Finally she asks, “Is there anything else I can get for you –?” she leaves a deliberate gap, obviously in the hope that he’ll give her his name.

“Call me Chuuya.”

“My name is Bethel, it’s nice to meet you Chuu –”

“We don’t need anything. Thank you, you may leave us now.” Dazai interrupts flatly and when Chuuya twists his head he’s greeted with a dark-eyed stare he knows only too well.

The girl stammers out something unintelligible, turning and almost fleeing from the warehouse. Chuuya huffs a sigh of annoyance before swatting the idiot on the back of his stupid head. “Jealous much? Stop scaring children, was that really necessary?”

Dazai promptly steals the mug from his hands and drains half of the contents, probably out of spite. “Awful.” he remarks as he hands it back, allowing Chuuya to take a sip, and honestly, it is awful but it’s warm and it’s caffeinated and he needs it like he needs air to breathe. “She’s hardly a child, Chibi, and she was clearly flirting with you!”

“She was not flirting with me!” Chuuya whisper-hisses in outrage, horrified by the very thought.

“Chuuya is oblivious as always.” Dazai remarks sourly, giving him that look which telegraphs exactly how stupid the bastard thinks he is.

“I pulled that child out of the Commander’s quarters last night. Probably after she’d been raped or abused in some manner.” Dazai’s eyes cut towards the open door of the warehouse before returning to Chuuya’s face, “She can’t be more than sixteen years old. What do you think that does to a person?” He sighs, shifting so he can lean his head against Dazai’s arm without jostling the new stitches. “She probably feels some weird sense of debt, just because I was in the right place at the right time. You don’t have to stake your claim on me.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Liar.” Chuuya murmurs around a yawn.

“Sleep for a bit,” Dazai’s arm sneaks around his waist, squeezes lightly before disentangling himself and pulling away, “I’ll take care of things here.”

“Mmm…” he’s about to protest, about to reiterate that he is fine, but another yawn cuts him off and the look Dazai is levelling at him says that the bastard knows exactly what he’s about to say and will brook no argument on the subject. “Fine, I guess a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.”

A few more minutes turns out to be well over an hour.

When he drifts back to the land of the living it’s to find himself greeted with silence and an almost empty warehouse, save for those either too injured to move or those still sleeping after last night. It’s suspiciously quiet.

He’s glad no one is around to see him when he staggers a little getting to his feet, using the wall for support until his legs cooperate and his head stops making him feel like the ground is spinning slow circles beneath his feet. Exhaustion and blood loss are never a good combination.

Folding the blanket and tossing his coat around his shoulders like a cloak, he steps out into the grey light of day, blinking against the light assaulting his eyes and slowly taking note of the piled mounds of bodies, leaning against the remnants of fire-blackened buildings still belching a steady stream of smoke into the air. Cocking his head to one side, he hears voices emanating from the next building over. Following the noise to its source, he finds Dazai, standing in front of a small group of people who appear to have been picking over the veritable treasure trove of supplies.

He sidles up to the gathering, noticing Dazai’s eyes shift in his direction momentarily before continuing with whatever conversation he’d been in the middle of.

“Why didn’t you try to escape? If you were treated so badly, there are enough of you, why didn’t you just leave?” Dazai doesn’t look puzzled or accusatory, he doesn’t look anything at all in this moment, that forced blankness is settled across his face like a wall. The mask Chuuya has gotten so used to no longer seeing upon the bastard’s stupid face is back in full force, it makes it all the more jarring to see it here and now. Dazai doesn’t look puzzled or accusatory, no, instead he looks as dead as one of the corpses which still lie scattered and broken upon the ground outside.

“You think none of us tried?” a young man rounds on Dazai with such fury in his blazing green eyes that Chuuya steps quickly between them, more than ready to put a stop to any potential fight before it starts. Attention broken from Dazai, the man’s gaze flicks to Chuuya and he deflates suddenly, all fight flowing out of him like so much hot air. “None of us are in the best physical condition, as you can see. We were given enough food to keep us useful, to keep us working. Anyone who got sick was culled, we’re not worth the medicine or food to keep us alive when we outlive our usefulness you see? Even if we did escape, what’s out there? With no supplies and nowhere safe from those rotters what chance do we have?” he shrugs, “Still, some of us tried.”

“What happened?” Chuuya asks, quietly, not entirely sure he wants to hear the answer but unable to be anything less than fascinated nonetheless.

“When Regin over there made a break for it –” the blond man gestures to an older dark-haired and bearded man, hanging towards the back of the group, “they caught him before he made it more than a mile out.” the blond smiles but there is no humour to be seen in the expression, “The Commander must have been in a forgiving mood, he only ordered them to take an eye. ‘He’s a good worker, strong. It would be a shame to kill him. An eye for an eye.’ is what he said, ‘as long as he has his arms and legs he can work, he doesn’t need two eyes.’” The young man’s face twists into a sneer, “They took his eye out and sent him back out to cut wood the next day.”

Well, while it’s somewhat horrific, it’s not like Chuuya hasn’t witnessed such things for himself, he’s no innocent civilian living out their sheltered lives behind four walls. No, he’s more than familiar with the darker side of humanity and this, this is far from the worst he has seen, far from the worst he has participated in.

Apparently, the blond isn’t finished.

“Nathan wasn’t so lucky.” The man’s hands are clenched into fists, held stiffly at his sides as his eyes stare into some far-off place. “The Commander was in a bad mood that day. Beat one of the girls so badly she died, and that put him into a rage. Nathan stuck one of the guards that afternoon with a piece of rusty metal he’d dug up the day before when the guy got a bit too handsy with one of the girls. Bled like a pig he did, but didn’t die, more’s the pity. Nathan ran for it, but they caught him real quick. The Commander cut off his foot with a saw himself. When he was done, they left the wound open, so it would bleed, you know?” the blond’s cheeks are pale now, and many of the other former slaves have turned their faces away, feet shuffling and hands wringing in distress. The blond shakes his head, bringing one hand to cover his mouth, “I...can’t –”

“They brought us all to stand at the gate to watch.” a haggard, older woman pushes her way forward, grey hair floating in wispy waves, tugged and teased by the wind as the small crowd parts before her. She wraps her arm around the young man’s shoulders, “It’s okay, Perri, go and sit down.” The blond does as he’s told without protest, his feet scuffing against the ground listlessly as others surround him to lead him slightly further away, Chuuya watches him sink to the floor, eyes wide and blank.

“They pulled us away from our duties and made us gather at the gate,” She continues, her voice soft and filled with bitter regret, “they dragged Nathan about a hundred paces outside of the compound and dumped him in the grass. Then they cut one of the older rotters free from the fence line and dragged it out too. They made us watch as they took bets on how far he would crawl before the rotter got him. They...made us watch as that thing followed the scent of blood and ripped him to pieces. It’s a sight none of us who saw it will forget: the way he crawled, and the sound of his screams every time he moved.”

Chuuya feels slightly sick, the image wrapping itself around his mind becoming a little too vivid, a little too real. He may, for a second, have felt just a slight twinge of regret, watching the flames lick up the building, listening to the screams of men and women as their clothes caught fire and their skin blackened. He might have felt a little wretched as he’d watched those who’d manage to escape the inferno being set upon by those lives they had taken and ended, twisted and warped to their own use. But now…

Those fuckers deserved to burn a thousand times.

Now there is no regret left in him.

“So you see, kind sirs, after bearing witness to the cruelty of the Commander, and the willingness of his people to engage in such acts, even to find pleasure in it. After that we stopped looking for escape, because the life we lead in here, while hard and thankless and terrible, is better than what would have welcomed us had we dared to take even a single step towards freedom.” the older woman finishes, her head bowed low enough that only the slight tremble in her voice gives away her sorrow, her bitter sadness at the lives fate had dealt these people. “Until the two of you showed up.”

“And the kids?” Dazai asks, motioning with one hand to the line of small corpses visible from the doorway, laid carefully upon the ground and set apart from the pile of burnt, half-consumed and half-rotten remains of things that might once have been considered human.

The old woman’s harrowed eyes fill with tears as they are drawn in the direction Dazai indicates, her hand lifting to her mouth as she chokes off a wet sob. The tears spill, running down her dirt and soot-streaked face to leave tracks before they fall to the ground.

For a long minute, nobody speaks.

Finally she sniffs, wiping her hands across her face and steeling her expression into something broken and yet strangely determined to see this through to the end. “They used the children as leverage, to ensure our cooperation. The children were useless to them, you see, just more hungry mouths to feed and even the oldest among them not fit for anything but the lightest work. So they used them as hostages instead.”

Chuuya’s teeth are clenched so hard his jaw is beginning to hurt. He doesn’t want to hear any more, and yet, to walk away doesn’t make what’s happened here any less real. Ignoring it won’t make it a lie. He forces himself to listen, to meet the old woman’s eyes and see the pain swimming in the tear-stricken depths.

“Every time someone did something that wasn’t to the Commander’s liking, every time someone committed anything that could be considered a slight, they’d take a child. Do you know what it’s like, to listen to a baby being separated from its family, to hear a mother’s pleas or watch a father be beaten to the floor trying to protect his family?” Tears spill forth again and many of the other released workers...no...slaves, they were slaves, are crying now, heaving silent sobs or outright wailing as others do their best to offer comfort. “I wish I didn’t hear those sounds every time I fall asleep, I wish I didn’t see their little faces, dead and grey in my waking hours. But it happened too often, every supposed infraction more petty than the last. In the end it was just an excuse. They would have one of the fence rotters infect the poor lamb and then leave them to die. The Commander liked to make a show of it. You saw the cage in the middle of the square?”

Chuuya can only nod, not trusting himself to speak.

“They’d lock the child in there after the bite, leave them exposed day and night. We weren’t permitted to go near, not even to give them food, or water. The made us listen to them cry and scream and beg for help. Most of them died from dehydration...the first child to be taken that I remember, was Leera’s little boy, not much more than a toddler. Sweet little lad. They took the youngest first, you know, the older ones are more likely to be useful, but a toddler…” the woman shakes her head, mouth a thin line. “Well, Leera was so distraught after listening to her baby cry out for his mama for two days, that she went mad with grief. Tackled a guard and took his knife, ran all the way across the compound and put that poor little boy out of his misery. His own mother. After that, she turned the knife upon herself.”

Chuuya wishes he could raise all of those fuckers from the dead, just to kill them a thousand times over.

“Once they died, and then...well...you know. Anyway, then they got added to the fence, as a reminder to us all. Work harder or the children will pay the price. But no matter how hard we worked, those poor lambs died anyway. We can’t forgive ourselves for that.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Chuuya growls, his voice coming out rather more menacing than comforting, judging by the way the woman’s dark eyes fly up to meet his as she takes an automatic step back. “Those fuckers murdered your children, not you.”

“We should have worked harder. Protected them –” the woman trails off, a sob wracking her body. “We should have done something.” she whispers through great gasping breaths.

There’s nothing Chuuya can say to that, no words of comfort or reassurance he can offer, because he agrees with her – they should have done something, even if it meant sacrificing themselves to the last man, they should have done something to protect those kids. He can’t imagine standing there meekly, letting some disgusting fuck infect children deliberately, watching them starve to death in a cage like some kind of rabid animal. No, he would have died killing as many of those depraved assholes as he could get his bare hands on.

“Take a break, Chuuya.” Those familiar words muttered next to his ear drag him back to the present to find himself almost shaking with repressed rage. Dazai’s hand trails across his back, brushes fingertips across his wrist in a loose hold, a parody of that same grip he takes to leech the wrath of Arahabaki from Chuuya’s blood, the stain of Corruption from his skin. “It’s fiction, it’s over, and you need to calm down.”

When Dazai is the one to step in front of Chuuya, physically interposing himself between Chuuya and the frightened group of survivors, he can only see the action for what it is; it’s not - as it might first appear - Dazai shielding the survivors, no, it’s Dazai shielding him. Shielding him from view, shielding him from the judgement of others, shielding him from his own stupid emotions. He accepts it without comment, needing that solid wall of Dazai’s body to give himself space to breathe, to suck in a hard breath and feel his chest ache with it, to let it flow back out and drain the anger from his mind. He screws his eyes shut, wrestling with the need to curl in on himself and hide, placates that itch by pulling the fur-lined hood of his parka over his head and curling his fingers into the closest thing, which just happens to be the back of Dazai’s coat, bunching the fabric as a way to ground himself. He presses his forehead between Dazai’s shoulders, breathes in the scent of metal and blood and gunpowder and feels his thoughts slowly clear of the thick fog, left by fury and exhaustion.

The moment of clarity bleeds unexpectedly into memories left buried.

He tries to push away the images, imprinted stubbornly in front of his eyes – the kids of Suribachi city, the ones who sat on street corners, eyes dulled with the pain of constant hunger. The gangs which frequently ventured into the Sheep’s territory to prey upon those unfortunate souls. Those kids...he would see them one day, only for them to have vanished without a trace the next. Wretched victims of the organ trade, the traffickers, the rotten roots of a city gone bad.

Sometimes bodies had ended up in the sewers, stiff and bloated, wedged between the walls; young lives tossed away like garbage, used up and consumed. Abandoned and let down by the very people who should have protected them.

Just like here.

He remembers hunting them down, the disgusting dregs of humanity who had thought themselves hunters, preying on the weak and vulnerable as a way to keep their own bellies and pockets lined. They learned quickly that they were nothing but pond scum - bottom feeders - in the teeth of a predator.

The cracking of their bones, their last gasping breaths, their bodies floating in the harbour, they had never haunted him.

But the children had.

He curls his fingers tighter, feels the stress of the fabric threatening to tear. A low hum emanates from Dazai, Chuuya can feel it through his forehead still resting against the taller man’s back. A hand appears abruptly in his vision, prying Chuuya’s fingers from their death grip on Dazai’s coat and instead intertwining them with his own.

Warm. Alive. The contact is grounding, the slight squeeze a physical reminder of the words Dazai cannot speak right now.

You’re not alone, Chuuya.

Slowly, reality bleeds back with the sound of Dazai’s voice, scattering the wisps of memory back to that dark place in his soul. The children he carries with him.

Ghosts.

~ ~ ~

When the ringing in his own head subsides and his focus returns to the present, it’s to find that Emilia has appeared and shooed off the gathering crowd, apparently having delegated tasks to those just hanging around as there is a healthy bustle going on all around them. She stands in front of Dazai, cutting a stern and imposing figure despite her age and appearance of fragility.

He keeps their fingers interlinked as he steps out from Dazai’s shadow, moving to his side and standing as close as he can get without pressing completely into Dazai’s space. Emilia’s eyes flick between them and then down to their joined hands before something like understanding settles on her wrinkled face. Beside him, Dazai makes no sign that he’s taken note of her scrutiny, but Chuuya feels the hand in his grip tense slightly.

“Where do you plan on going from here?” Dazai asks and Chuuya is just as curious to hear Emilia’s reply.

The older woman sniffs, lifting her nose into the air as if considering whether or not the two of them are worth her time or consideration – a power play. When neither of them make a move to continue the conversation or alter the line of questioning, she sighs, something conflicted lingering in the sound. “Some of the people who have been here since the beginning were having a discussion about just staying here.”

Dazai shakes his head immediately. “No. That’s not a good idea.”

“I thought you said you weren’t interested in taking over here?” Emilia’s eyes narrow and Chuuya can see her assessing Dazai just as his idiot partner assesses the old woman in turn. Like two cocks about to fight. The image is enough to make him crack a smile.

“We’re not.” Dazai responds, his tone all carefully constructed boredom and feigned indifference to the old woman’s words. “But take my advice, or don’t.”

Emilia’s look is that of a person who has just sucked on a sour lemon and found it not to their taste. She waves a hand, and though the gesture is almost dismissive, Chuuya can see that there’s interest in her eyes. “Speak it. Your choices appear to have been sound so far.”

“You saw how easy it was for Chuuya and I to get in here and take out this place’s defences.” Chuuya sees Emilia opening her mouth to argue the point, but Dazai continues swiftly, he has to applaud the bastard’s ability to just steamroller over anyone and everyone in an effort to get his point across, it might even be amusing had he not used the exact same method on Chuuya a hundred times before.

“Sure, we had your help and we’re grateful for your assistance, but the outcome would have been the same either way. For all his vices and mistakes, the Commander was a smart man.” Dazai offers Emilia a wry smile, “Forgive me, but I believe you have neither his conviction nor his cruelty. You would not be able to defend this compound if it came under attack – and it will come under attack. The only reason it hasn’t up to now is because the Commander has absorbed all of the smaller groups and effectively subdued the area.”

Emilia is now levelling them both with an unimpressed glare. “I understand your reasoning, but that leaves us no closer to a solution. So what is your suggestion?”

He watches Dazai pull a crumpled piece of paper from a pocket of his coat and unfold it before handing it over. He smiles inwardly, his fingers twitching in Dazai’s grip as he works out the sneaky bastard’s intentions behind pointing them this way.

“Here.” Dazai taps the map.

“Safe Haven. I’ve heard of these places. I was among those groups first captured and brought here by the Commander, but some of the others were trying to get to one of these camps before they were caught.” She hums, almost to herself, one finger absently tracing the letters at the top of the page. “One of the Inner Circle squads claimed to have broken out of one of the facilities, they told us the place was like an internment camp and the citizens were treated worse than the rats they slept with. So say there’s a quarantine of two weeks where those survivors who are being ‘processed’ are separated and kept in total isolation from the rest of the community, subjected to daily strip searches and thorough examinations to check for infection.”

Dazai shrugs, an exaggerated gesture, “It’s a sensible precaution to stop a catastrophic outbreak in the community.”

Chuuya can see where this is going, it will turn into a debate of endless circles, arguments and counter-arguments. He interrupts before the cycle can begin, throwing his weight behind Dazai’s words of persuasion. “I can’t imagine the type of thugs the Commander kept close would adjust very well to the Government’s manner of discipline and order. Once that freedom of violence and taking what you want from those weaker than yourself has been fostered, it’s a hard thing to break and go back to a civilised way of living.” He turns his head to find Dazai regarding him with a single raised eyebrow and a wry smile.

“Is that why you two aren’t there?” Chuuya’s attention is immediately back on the woman, who looks between the two of them with the shrewd intelligence of wisdom gathered over years, it makes him feel caught, small and seen.

“Something like that.” he mumbles awkwardly, lifting a hand to scratch the back of his head and getting his fingers snagged in the braids he’d almost forgotten about. “Dazai’s assessment is correct, though, your best chance is in numbers, and those camps will have numbers. They will treat you better than you were treated here, simply out of fear of revolt.”

Dazai takes over the conversation smoothly, his way of twisting words and manipulating people far more subtle than Chuuya’s own brand of blunt honesty, though he doubts this woman will be swayed by pretty words and persuasion alone. “They are in a tenuous position right now. Desperate to maintain some semblance of order, determined to keep themselves protected at all costs and they cannot do that without manpower and the willing participation of the masses.”

Chuuya stops listening, content to let the idiot deal with the delicate dance that is politics, instead zoning out to the feel of Dazai’s thumb caressing his wrist.

It’s going to be a long day.

Chapter Text

It’s been a long day.

It’s been a long day and the sun hasn’t even reached its zenith.

Not that it’s even visible, concealed and jealously coveted by the thick layers of foreboding cloud, covering the sky in a dark and baleful sweep of grey.

It’s been a long day and their tenuous grip over the leadership of this motley band of suddenly directionless individuals is close to snapping like an overstretched thread. Every tread is made on the lightest of feet, every step a calculated risk against the knowledge that they are outnumbered and relying on the good will of people who have all but had their dignity stripped from them in these last months.

Divvying up the cache of supplies, weapons, fuel and a few luxuries - collected, horded and mostly enjoyed exclusively by the Commander and his chosen few – had been an effort in restraint and tactful manipulation on Dazai’s part. Using Chuuya’s leverage as the ‘people’s saviour’ to gain them concessions and the opportunity to pick through the arsenal and take the guns and ammunition among other things that they so sorely need. Of course, the community had been ‘graciously’ left the lion’s share of the weapons as a show of good faith and under the impression that they were of greater numbers and would need such an armoury with which to protect themselves upon the road. It had been some small modicum of relief, to find that none of the company present in the supply shed at the time had harboured the remotest clue about weapons and their value, leaving Dazai to quickly pick out and spirit away those which may end up being of most use, and those which have ample ammunition in storage that they can continue to be of use. A gun you cannot fire is just an expensive projectile after all.

He should be glad of small mercies. In truth, picking over the food supplies, arguing over the contents of a huge water container - which had most likely served as a water source for the soldiers during tactical exercises - and replenishing their fuel reserves...all of this had just resulted in yet another headache building at the back of his skull. It makes him wish Chuuya had just burned the entire base down around them, slaves and all.

He had expected Chuuya to jump in to defend the wretches now left behind in the aftermath of the camp’s decimation, but his redhead has remained almost silent since the little incident in the supply shed. He’s used to Chuuya’s noise, Chuuya’s opposition, Chuuya’s presence...he is not used to Chuuya’s silence. There’s an itch of worry in his mind.

Dazai heaves out a sigh as he drags Chuuya along with him on yet another of the endless, meaningless tasks they apparently have to complete before they can put this ridiculous chapter behind them, before they can retreat from this forsaken place and return to being just the two of them, against all the world if that’s what it takes.

~ ~ ~

Dazai pulls on his mask of practised boredom, cloaks himself in the familiar, even comforting layers of apathy as they step through the open doorway into the Commander’s realm, or, more aptly, his prison. The two of them together make a glorious contradiction, Dazai with the blank emptiness of the void, accompanied by Chuuya’s roiling aura of wrath and murderous intent.

Honestly, he’d been expecting someone a little more imposing. Bearing the self-aggrandised title of ‘Commander’, he’d at least thought the man leading this group of thugs, criminals and murderers would be...well, a little taller. He opens his mouth to say as such, looks at Chuuya and decides that holding his tongue on that particular sore spot might be for the best, because right now, Chuuya looks like he might put his foot through the wall (or the Commander’s head) at the slightest provocation. The man in front of him is a disappointment in all aspects: short (though he still has a couple of inches on the Mafia Executive and that should be a more than adequate justification for size not equating to power); lean and wiry (more in the life-bitten way of a stray dog than in the toned, deliberate way of a fighter); boasting a receding hairline of black, speckled with the salt and pepper of premature grey; and with a pair of cracked glasses which have slipped halfway down his nose (probably courtesy of Chuuya giving him a blow hard enough to rattle his brain against his skull earlier).

The man looks more clown than commander.

But there’s sly intelligence swimming in the liquid brown eyes beneath those broken lenses, something crafty and calculating and cold. That avid gaze...it reminds him of someone.

His shoulders tense, the reaction defensive and involuntary. The Commander’s mouth cracks like a seam to display a wide smile.

“I have to admit, you caught me by surprise. Using my own people and defences against me, very clever.” The man shifts minutely, grimacing as even that tiny movement leads the rope to chafe around his neck. “How about you untie me and we talk like civilised people?”

Chuuya – ever the one to choose emotion over reason - spits his fury before Dazai can even open his mouth. “Your people? The ones you treated like cattle and threw away like used rags? How about I just shoot you in the fucking head, it’s more than you deserve you disgusting piece of shi –”

“You should put a leash on your dog before it bites.” the Commander interrupts, his eyes flashing something like disgust as his lip curls in a sneer. “Don’t speak of what you don’t understand.” If Chuuya was angry before, now the Mafioso is absolutely livid, taking a heavy, threatening step forward before even stopping to think. Dazai knows that if his redhead gets hold of the man right now, there won’t be anything left of him to interrogate.

He throws an arm out, “Now, now, Chuuya…it wouldn’t do to be impolite~” Chuuya stops dead in his tracks, eyes cutting to Dazai and reading his intentions in an instant, “let this sad, delusional man have his say.” He moves to untie the rope from the man’s thin neck, the ring of angry, reddened skin a testament to his hours spent forced into an unyielding position upon the floor, his hands he leaves firmly secured to the bunk.

“Delusional you say?” the Commander scoffs, “This new order could have been the start of something great. The weak exist to serve the strong and I made this place strong. I was a benevolent leader, they were fed, they had shelter and clean water.”

“You’re wrong.” Chuuya’s growl is a low, dangerous rumble of sound. Had they been back in their own reality, Dazai knows that radial cracks would be rippling from beneath his redhead’s feet as he struggled to retain a grip on both his temper and the God calling for destruction. As it is, Chuuya’s aura would be enough to cow all but the most foolhardy of men. “You are a poor excuse for a leader, no matter how fucking smart you might be.”

“So short-sighted,” the Commander sighs, “but this one, he understands.” tipping his head in Dazai’s direction, he’s left feeling pinned under than cold reptilian gaze once more. “He understands what it takes to survive, to rule out here.” A sly smirk, “That’s why I had them bring you in. Ah, but I underestimated just how difficult it would be to bring you down.”

“Thinking you could bring us in on your terms at all was your mistake.” Dazai slams up his walls again, throws out the words with careful blandness.

“Perhaps, perhaps.” the Commander agrees, tilting his head thoughtfully. “But I needed people like you. Having an army is all well and good, but you cannot win a war with only foot soldiers, you need generals, you need minds! Not a bunch of canon fodder only fit to follow orders with no ability to think for themselves.”

“What war is it, that you were planning on winning?” Dazai asks, allowing a careful measure of curiosity to bleed into his tone. Beside him, Chuuya has gone stiff, with affront or with repulsion Dazai doesn’t have the luxury of finding out. “You seemed to be doing just fine against the zombie legion without the need to risk yourself attempting to bring in unwilling outsiders.”

“The rotters are the least of our worries.” the man’s lip has curled once more, baring his teeth in something like a snarl. “It’s the damned military always sniffing on our trail. Rounding up whoever they can find and carting them off to those ‘Safe Havens’,” he spits the words like a curse, “trying to put the country back under their thumb. Calling it a humanitarian rescue effort. Don’t take no for a fucking answer. We had scouts run into one of our scavenger squads a little less than a month ago, just outside of a town less than twenty miles from here. They started off promising my crew safe passage to one of their camps, but when they tried to force the issue my men took them as hostages and brought them back here. They were killed of course, but not before we got every scrap of useful information out of them. War’s coming, or so they say.”

Mean, dark eyes light with something almost fanatical as the man’s sharp stare cuts from Dazai to Chuuya and back again. “When word was first brought back of the two of you, my first thought was that you were more of the military’s agents come sniffing around, but the way you moved didn’t seem quite the same. Oh, you’re soldiers of some kind, for sure, but not of any governed military, am I right?”

Both Dazai and Chuuya remain silent, and Commander shrugs his shoulders as if it is of no consequence. “From the intelligence we gathered from your encounters on the road, either one of you would have been a formidable asset to my plans...but both of you together…”

“We would never have willingly joined you.” Chuuya hisses from beside him and Dazai can tell by the tenseness in his partner’s body that Chuuya is still a coiled spring, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation.

The Commander’s sneer morphs into an all out leer. “I never said it had to be willingly. As you see, we have ways of ensuring cooperation. Hmm but I think you’re wrong, I think your partner here sees things my way. Isn’t that so?”

“While I might have a certain...appreciation...for some facets of your ingenuity, I’m afraid I would still have to respectfully decline.” Dazai waves offhandedly, his bored demeanour clearly succeeding in aggravating his adversary.

The man tuts, shaking his head as if in disappointment. “You would side with these useless things? They would have died without my people and the protection of this camp. Starved or infected, either way they wouldn’t have made it. I saved them.”

“You used them!” Chuuya isn’t shouting, isn’t venting his ire in volume, no, his voice has gone to that deadly low tone, the one that drips promises of bloodshed with every unspoken word, betraying the cold Mafioso killer that lurks in his depths. “You worked them until they dropped and then you got rid of them when they were no longer useful. You murdered their children to keep them scared and obedient. You didn’t save anyone, you were a curse upon them.”

The man’s eyes are alight with fevered fervour, focussed on Dazai and ignoring the fuming redhead completely as he stares, unblinking and imploring. “You don’t understand! I was a king!” the conviction in his words, the total belief in his own right to superiority is nauseating to see in a creature so clearly clever and yet deluded into his own sense of superiority – intoxicated on his own sense of genius. Something unhinged lingers in the shadows of the man’s irises and, for a moment, Dazai feels like he’s looking into a distorted mirror, a fractured glimpse of a lesser version of himself, of the Demon he could have become. “You could be kings! Let me go, help me rebuild. We can rule this country together!”

The desperation has Dazai smiling, something savage as he waves the suggestion off with a single airy gesture. “But you see, Commander, Chuuya here has been a king before – a much better one than you I might add – but he didn’t enjoy his tenure very much.” Chuuya shoots him a sour look at the reminder of his own demise as a so-called ‘king’ - a title he had always point-blank refused to acknowledge, refused to have thrust upon him as responsibility for the Sheep had been shoved upon his too-young shoulders – though his posture has shifted into something a little less liable to explode at any impending second. Dazai’s eyes linger on the redhead’s face as he continues to speak, “Do you know the problem with kings, Commander? There’s always someone plotting to overthrow them.” He lets his smile widen into something more fitting the gaping maw of a shark, ready to tear into flesh and rip out soft insides. “As for me, well, I’m afraid I’m a bit of a loner.”

The Commander’s poor facade of friendliness cracks into something entirely more ugly. When he speaks, it’s almost a scream. “You’re insane! You can’t hope to survive this without an army!”

Dazai sidesteps, putting himself firmly into Chuuya’s space, into Chuuya’s orbit, that pull stronger than the gravity Chuuya can no longer control, curling an arm around his redhead’s waist in a manner that’s entirely devoid of emotion, all flaunted possession and ownership. “The only army I need is him, and the only one he obeys is me. In any case, your so-called army didn’t seem to change your fate either.”

The Commander looks between the two of them and hawks, spitting on the floor in disgust as he sneers. “You’re both crazy! What can you hope to achieve with just two of you?”

“More than you could ever imagine.” Dazai replies flatly.

In that moment, the Commander, this self-proclaimed ‘king’ seems to come to the realisation that he truly has lost everything – his followers, his base, his dreams and, ultimately, his life – now in the hands of the very people he had attempted to manipulate to his side. “What are you going to do with me?”

Untangling himself from Chuuya, who is now watching him with interest, Dazai pulls a coin out of his pocket, flips it in the air and levels the Commander with an evil grin. “Heads...you live, tails...you die.”

“Really? You’re going with Two-Face, at a time like this?” From beside him, Chuuya snorts inelegantly, jabbing him painfully in the ribs with an elbow and causing the coin to clatter to the floor, rolling in a perfect circle as all eyes are trained upon it.

When it falls, it’s tails that faces towards the sky.

With a mocking bark of a laugh, Dazai draws the semi-automatic pistol from the inside of his coat, cocking the weapon and taking the four steps forward so he can press the cold muzzle against the Commander’s temple.

“Bang!” he shouts the single word at top volume, allowing himself a callous chuckle when the dark-haired man jerks reflexively, eyes going wide. “Just kidding~” Dazai sing-songs, turning on his heel to walk back to Chuuya’s side as the redhead rolls his eyes, unable to contain his smirk, Dazai answers the Chibi’s mirth with a grin and another flippant wave of his hand, as if the man now sitting in stunned silence upon the floor is no longer of any consequence. “We’ll leave the fate of a king up to his adoring subjects. It’s only fitting, don’t you think?”

The outcome will be the same either way.

The people will always look for someone to blame, for someone to shoulder their guilt, for someone to assuage their own weakness.

The Commander’s death warrant has already been signed.

In the end, it’s a fitting execution. Some might call it poetic justice...Dazai would simply call it payment-in-kind.

The short, unimpressive figure is led out of his quarters, tied, hobbled and blindfolded, stumbling on every other step as his bare feet scuff upon the frozen ground, half-naked and shuddering with cold. The group of survivors lead their former ‘King’ to the gate amidst his raving cries which slowly taper off into a stuttered fear-driven pleading which Dazai finds abhorrent and has Chuuya curling his lip in loathing. At the gate, four children have been cut from the perimeter fence, their ropes secured to the gate as they shuffle and snarl, blinking unseeing eyes and curling tiny fingers into claws. Some of the survivors look upon the scene with tears running down their faces, others stand resolutely to the side, grim-faced and implacable.

When the blindfold is removed from the Commander’s eyes, realisation of his fate hits him in an instant. Fear, rejection and horror cause a cry of primal panic to rip from his throat as his legs fail him, leaving him sprawling on the dirt as he stares wide-eyed at the tiny bodies.

“No…no...nonono!” The word pours in a constant stream, until it’s a buzzing background noise as the men holding the ropes yank the Commander forcibly to his feet and drag him forwards. With a shove he’s sent careening into the half-decomposed bodies of the children who set upon him with rattling, snarling fury; tiny teeth sinking into whatever exposed flesh they can reach, gnarled, frozen fingers digging into soft yielding meat.

The crowd stands in silence. Not a whisper nor a murmur breaks their frozen stillness.

After several grisly minutes, the mangled, bleeding body of the man who had proclaimed himself a king is dragged through the dirt and out from under the frenzied feeding of four tiny forms. His breath comes in great heaving sobs, his right eye is a bloody, jellified mess on the side of his face and blood oozes from the puncture wounds of myriad bites.

As he’s led to the cage in the centre of the barracks, tied to bars and locked in without mercy, not a single person speaks.

Some might call it senseless murder. Dazai has never understood such a thing.

~ ~ ~

“What’s next?” Chuuya asks, and Dazai looks up to find him checking the straps securing the Red Monstrosity to the inside wall of the truck.

“How are you feeling?” he deflects deftly, though Chuuya only flashes him a flat look that screams he knows exactly what Dazai is doing.

They stare at each other for a few moments before Chuuya sighs, “I’ll live.”

“Well that’s comforting.” he grumbles and Chuuya’s half-smile is the Mafioso’s only reply. “Can you ride?” He ticks his head in the direction of the bike, pleased when his redhead actually pauses to consider his reply rather than immediately spitting out an affirmative built on pride rather than the realistic assessment of the limits of his own body. He watches closely as Chuuya twists his arm, rolling his shoulder and flexing his fingers, grimacing slightly at the restricted range of movement available to him before the risk of tearing the new stitches.

“I think so,” Chuuya admits, finally, with a half shrug to accompany the less-than-firm reassurance. “It’s not like I haven’t been carting your lanky ass around for months already, I think I can compensate.”

Dazai nods thoughtfully, more than aware that Chuuya will push himself to his own death before he will admit defeat. Still, he’s pretty confident that if his little redhead says he can manage then he will. “I want to take the truck a little further out from here, just in case we find ourselves with a tail, or these people decide to come back here after all. We are not in defensible shape right now, despite the weapons.”

Chuuya only nods and gestures for him to continue.

Dazai rubs his chin, eyes cataloguing the equipment, supplies and weaponry they’ve liberated as a result of this mission – he has to admit, it’s a decent haul. “I intend to cut the rest of the undead from the fence line and seal this place behind us to make it less of a tempting target for anyone else who happens to pass by. It will take them a while to find the gaps in the inner fence, but once they do this camp will turn into a convincing enough death trap. We’ll leave the truck somewhere a few miles out and head back for the RV.”

Chuuya’s head cocks to the side as if he can hear the gears grinding in Dazai’s head. “And after that?”

“We can’t take any more risks while you have an open wound. We’ll spend one more night at the farmhouse, and then…” He considers Chuuya in silence for a moment, sees the instant where Chuuya’s own dancing mind catches up with his, as something like relief sparks embers behind the exhaustion.

“The lake house?” he can tell Chuuya is trying (and failing) to hide the hopefulness in his tone.

“The lake house.” he agrees, instantly greeted by Chuuya’s bright, relieved smile, the one that momentarily shifts the fatigue from his eyes and shows Dazai a glimpse of that bright, excited blue: a shade unmatched anywhere in two worlds.

“Thank the fucking Gods, I’m tired of attics.” Chuuya grumbles, though the smile stays. Dazai can only agree.

The lake house had been a purely accidental discovery on their part. A tiny, enticing blob of blue on a map swathed in the green of wilderness and the grey of town and cityscapes. They had headed there merely out of idle interest, had almost given up on it altogether upon finding a distinct lack of roads or even a track level enough for the bike to navigate. In the end curiosity had won through and they had parked the RV behind a screen of brambles – hardy enough to weather out the winter storms – and walked the mile to the lake’s edge.

What they had found had been worth every trip and slip and stumble on the loose scree.

The lake alone had been a beautiful sight, set amidst the picturesque landscape of forest and fell, the water blue and inviting despite the dawning winter draping her dreary cloak across the land, welcoming in its feeling of total isolation from the rest of the world.

When they’d spied the cabin - barely visible from the shore when reaching the lake from the track - set on a tiny island in the middle of the water, well, Dazai could have sworn he’d seen stars in Chuuya’s eyes from the moment he laid eyes on it.

The lake itself isn’t huge, barely two miles upon walking its perimeter. Chuuya had been all but ready to risk a dip into the freezing waters in a bid to reach the cabin when they had come across the tiny motorised boat, almost hidden on its own private mooring, shrouded in reeds.

Chuuya hadn’t even attempted to cajole him into crossing the lake – his little redhead had merely jumped down into the craft, stared at Dazai with a look that screamed stubborn determination and cocked his head in silent question.

Dazai couldn’t have refused him, even if he’d wanted to.

The cabin is jauntily perched atop a steep, rocky incline - a tiny castle with its huge moat - only accessible from the long wooden jetty. It’s not a sprawling mansion of a building by any means, clearly just an off-grid getaway for someone with more money than they know what to do with.

What’s most impressive is the inside.

Not only does it boast an underground water storage tank - collecting and harvesting rainwater from the roof which is used to supply the cabin with running water - but also a toilet, which utilises waste water from the lake itself so as not to deplete the supply from the freshwater tank, and a diesel powered generator which keeps everything operational without access to mains electricity or gas.

The best part is, arguably, the mezzanine.

Accessed by means of paddle stairs – truly one of the most evil and confounding inventions known to modern man – the mezzanine itself spreads out across two thirds of the main floor. With its large bed, cosy chairs and panoramic windows looking out across the lake, it’s perfect protection from any wandering undead who may have decided a walk across the bottom of the lake was an intriguing idea, as well as being the most inviting sleeping accommodations of any of their amassed safe houses (not a difficult accolade to achieve considering the majority of their safe houses are attic spaces with nothing more than old floorboards and a lumpy amalgamation of mismatched, stolen sofa cushions).

He’s quite sure Chuuya would have demanded that they spend their entire remaining time in the cabin from the very moment they had set foot inside it, had his redhead not been quite as smart as he is. As it is, he’d only grumbled and complained out of form but ultimately capitulated to Dazai’s reminder that their best chance at safety lay in not spending too much time in any one place.

Still, right now they need somewhere off the beaten track, quiet and unlikely to be stumbled upon by anyone still roaming the wilderness out of chance. Chuuya needs to recover, they both need to replenish depleted energy reserves and get ready for that final push, that final step into unknown territory before they reach the end.

An end which is creeping ever closer, slowly dragging its claws along his spine in an ever-present reminder that the worst is yet to come.

~ ~ ~

Chuuya dozes fitfully in the seat next to him as the base rolls out of view behind them. The last vehicles - packed with Emilia’s people and anything and everything which could be stripped and carried off from the compound - had disappeared from sight in the opposite direction barely ten minutes ago. Dazai had chosen to linger behind on pretext of checking the security of the gate to ensure that they were not about to be followed. The massive convoy will be a beacon to anyone and everyone with eyes to see. Their troubles have only just begun.

The truck is just as cumbersome a vehicle to navigate down the irritatingly narrow roads this fairytale country appears to favour as the RV is. However, unlike the RV, this truck – designed to cart supplies and troops across all manner of terrain – is decidedly not built with the comfort of its passengers in mind. With every bump and pothole in the road, the cab rocks from side to side, in a manner which almost reminds him of being at sea and leaves him feeling a little bit nauseous. With every corner taken a little too haphazardly, the truck groans and leans in its protest until Dazai is quite sure it’s about to throw both him and Chuuya out of their seats, or worse just tip over entirely. After he swears he feels the wheels along one side lift from the asphalt altogether, he decides to take things a little slower, glaring at the wheel as if it had personally offended him.

In the end he doesn’t take the truck too far. It’s a risk, driving down these unknown roads with no real idea of where they’re going or what they might possibly encounter on the way. Dazai is counting on the lingering reputation of the Commander and the likelihood that the roads in every direction leading to and from the military compound will have been carefully cleared and rigidly patrolled in order to maintain security and an ease of manoeuvrability should they have come under attack from a large force. Any population centres within a certain radius of the base have almost certainly been stripped bare by the Commander’s expeditions – of both supplies and survivors – judging by the extensive maps Dazai had ‘rescued’ from the administration building. He had magnanimously handed over the ones that would assist Emilia and her band in getting to the closest government facility, while jealously guarding those maps which hold any hint of what they might be about to come up against in the next weeks.

Unfortunately the information had been sparse. It seems the Commander has been focussing his efforts on those settlements within a calculated limit of Orez city, expanding his area of control by venturing east, south and west, yet barely having any useful intelligence on what they should expect travelling further north. It makes sense, when looking at the maps: the area north of Orez city is mostly hilly wilderness, with nothing more than long stretches of farmland interspersed with roads, which appear to wind through a couple of small villages and one inconsequential looking town by the name of Evlewt. After that it should be a straight run all the way up to the facility – a point which shows as absolutely nothing at all on any of the maps which have come into their possession over the months. Suspicious but not unexpected; secret government facilities working on even more secret research projects which could (and apparently did) endanger the entire population are unlikely to be splattered in bright colours across any map.

He’s covered barely more than ten miles (of twisting, snaking, stomach-knotting roads) before deciding that he’s tempted the fangs of fate quite far enough for one day, slowing to a crawl as they pass through a small wood, bare-branched trees hanging overhead scraping their spindly wooden fingers against the roof of the cab. Finally picking out a gap in the trees which appears large enough for his purposes, Dazai carefully backs the terribly large vehicle far enough into the sparse undergrowth that it will – with any luck – be concealed from anyone who just happens to travel down this road (as long as they are not stopping to scour every inch of the surrounding countryside). It’s a chance they’ll have to take, considering the risk of moving further into the unknown is likely to have much larger consequences should they run into trouble.

He lets his redhead continue to sleep as he sorts through the back of the truck. Taking his time picking through the stash of new weapons and carefully loading the greater majority into a cargo box before heaving the whole lot outside and sighing in annoyance as he returns for a shovel.

Dazai carefully marks the tree next to which he digs a hole large enough for the box; the ground is hard with frost and he almost gives up twice when the shovel hits small rocks but finally it’s done and he can slide the treasure chest of weaponry inside, covering it with a few planks of wood and dusting the top with enough loose soil, mud and leaves that it’s decently camouflaged when he steps away. At least if the truck is uncovered and ransacked, their newly acquired armoury will – with any luck - remain safe from thieving hands.

He shakes Chuuya awake gently, unsurprised when the Mafioso comes to with a jerk and a sharp intake of breath, one hand flying to the hilt of his knife before the stitches pull and he winces, finally pausing in his automatic reactions for long enough to realise where he is. His redhead looks pale, the dark circles under his eyes pronounced as exhaustion has no doubt compounded upon the blood loss to sap Chuuya of the strength and vitality he carries around like a weapon.

“Where are we?” Chuuya yawns, reaching to run a hand through his hair as if to tame the messy strands, only to end up with his fingers entangled in braids beginning to come loose. He frowns slightly and Dazai can’t help but find the expression amusing.

“No idea!” he chirps brightly, to be met with Chuuya’s half-formed scowl, “Far enough away from the base that hopefully nobody will come snooping. I’m fairly certain we haven’t been followed at least.”

“If that group have any sense, they’ll be long gone by now.” Chuuya mumbles around another yawn. Dazai can only agree with that particular assessment, though he harbours doubts over whether Emilia will be able to keep a grip on her people long enough to get them anywhere close to safety without the entire group falling apart. “Do you think they’ll run into trouble?”

Trust his Chibi to be busy worrying about others – fictional characters in a made-up world no less – when they have more than enough to worry about themselves. “Almost certainly,” he replies nonchalantly, “but there’s nothing to be done about that.”

Chuuya grumbles something inaudible in response, rubbing a hand across his face before reaching for the water bottle in the centre console and taking a few quick gulps. Dazai assesses his redhead silently, noticing the slightly absent look in Chuuya’s tired eyes, the slightest tremor in the hand that grips the bottle, the way Chuuya’s foot taps a distracted beat upon the floor.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” he asks, immediately confronted by Chuuya’s scowl, now returned full force.

“Is there another choice?” It’s a loaded question.

“Not really…” Dazai admits. It’s far too cold to be camping outside, their hammock tents left behind in the RV and the back of the truck offering no insulation against the elements; they’re far too tired to stay here and have one of them keep watch while the other sleeps, the position precarious at best. No, the ideal...the only real option, is to get back to the farmhouse and the relative safety it offers.

“Then I’ll fucking manage.” his redhead growls out, opening the door to the cab and jumping down to the ground with almost practised grace. He doesn’t look at Dazai as he disappears from sight around the back of the truck.

As they shove a few more things into their single pack, not a word passes between them, the atmosphere something thick and tense, as if Chuuya is waiting for him to lash out with sharp words or berate him for being reckless. Honestly, Dazai would feel more comfortable falling back into that pattern of bickering back-and-forth than this sticky, thick silence, but Chuuya doesn’t deserve his vitriol, his blame or his senseless goading right now – it won’t make either of them feel any better.

Instead, without really thinking about it at all, he reaches out, resting his hand on the back of Chuuya’s head for a second before ruffling his hair, messing up the braids even more and leaving wispy flyaway strands to fall into Chuuya’s face. Chuuya turns to him, blinking his confusion with wide, questioning eyes and Dazai can’t help but to bring his hand forward again, brushing the stray locks of red behind the Mafioso’s ear, his thumb lingering on Chuuya’s cheek. The skin feels cold beneath his touch.

“Chuuya –” he begins but is stopped by Chuuya’s gloved fingers pressing against his mouth.

“I’ll manage.” his redhead repeats, quiet but firm. Dazai searches his face, finds nothing but that familiar set of determination and stubborn will.

All he can do is nod.

When the bike is unloaded and the pack is full, the truck as well-hidden as they can make it - given the circumstances and poor pickings of anything that could be considered useful camouflage - they’re about to set off when the first fat white flakes of snow begin to fall. They drift lazily in the air, silent and sparkling, falling to the ground where they settle, only to be joined by more. The two of them watch in silent wonder as the sprinkle turns into small flurries over the course of a few minutes, snowflakes landing on their clothes and hair until Dazai turns to look at Chuuya to find his redhead watching him in turn, something soft and sad flickering in his expression. Dazai doesn’t need words to understand. This...it feels like a moment lost in time – a glimpse of something in a past they never had, in those countless universes they’ll never get to experience. Chuuya’s hand reaches for his, their fingers tangling, and Dazai instinctively tugs his little redhead closer, determined to hold on to him, to keep him in this moment, to imprint it upon his memory lest they never have the opportunity again.

He’s not sure how long they stand there, with the snow falling around them, blanketing the ground in a layer of glistening white as the sky quickly deepens its skirts in shades of darkening grey.

~ ~ ~

He can feel Chuuya’s body shaking with repressed shudders where he’s pressed up against the redhead’s back. Whether it’s from the cold seeping through his parka and into his skin, or whether it’s from something entirely more serious, Dazai can’t quite tell.

The last few miles, Chuuya’s attention has been wavering from the road, his fingers going lax for a few seconds at a time before he snaps back to awareness and jerks the handlebars back on track, keeping them steady once more only to lapse into a distracted state a minute later.

Dazai taps out a rhythm on his redhead’s waist, an attempt to capture Chuuya’s focus and force him into the present. He feels Chuuya start beneath his hands, body going rigid for a moment before he relaxes just slightly, hands wrapping more firmly around the handlebars though it does nothing to abate the shudders periodically wracking his frame. He wants to snap at his idiot redhead to pull over before he kills them both, but he knows, logically, if he stops them now, they’ll never make it.

When they roll into the farmhouse it’s not a minute too soon. Chuuya practically falls off the bike as soon as he cuts the engine, stumbling and crashing to his knees in the snow-strewn yard. Dazai is off the bike a heartbeat later, crouching in front of the smaller man in an effort to see his face. Chuuya’s head drops and Dazai has to grip his chin and force him to lift it so he can take in the faraway look in those slightly glazed eyes, the sheen of sweat across his too-pale face. Holding his hand to Chuuya’s forehead he knows what he’s going to find before he even comes into contact with his redhead’s skin.

Chuuya is burning up.

“Damn it Chibi!” he huffs, almost amused when Chuuya turns sad, slightly vacant eyes to him and reaches out to walk gloved fingers up the side of his face.

“Why’re you angry?” his redhead mumbles, looking down and frowning, “Why’m I on the ground? It’s cold.”

There’s no use trying to explain to a fevered Chibi that he in fact is the one responsible for his current predicament. It will no doubt only earn him more confusion and denials and what Dazai really needs right now is to get Chuuya out of the cold and into dry clothes and a pile of blankets before this gets any worse than it already is.

“Come on hatrack, up you get.” he coaxes Chuuya to his feet, wrapping one arm around his redhead’s waist and draping Chuuya’s uninjured arm across his shoulders to help him balance. He practically drags the half-stumbling Mafioso into the farmhouse and up the stairs, bullying him into climbing the ladder up to the attic.

“Tired…” Chuuya huffs around a yawn as Dazai locates the lantern and lets its warm yellow glow suffuse the dark loft space. Chuuya’s eyes blink confusion and weariness back at him in the form of dull, drooping blue, “Oi, shitty Dazai? Why’re we here? Can I sleep now?”

“In a few minutes, Chibi, you need to warm up first.” He begins to manhandle Chuuya out of his clothes to sleepy, half-hearted protests, helping his redhead into his makeshift pyjamas of hoodie and sweatpants before bundling him into three blankets and pushing him down onto their makeshift bed. “How do you feel?”

“Cold...hot...sleepy.” Chuuya murmurs back, the words soft and slurred. Dazai shakes his head exasperatedly at the mixed signals, hoping that this fever is merely the result of the cold Chuuya had subjected himself to and the sustained fatigue of the past weeks lowering his immune response, rather than an infection brought on by the bullet wound in his arm.

Or something worse.

When he’s certain Chuuya isn’t about to either burn up completely, catapulting his core temperature to dangerous levels, or crash and start suffering from hypothermia, he allows his redhead to lie down upon the pile of cushions – grumbling his irritation at being treated like a child all the while. It’s inadvisable to leave Chuuya like this, he knows, but certain things need to be taken care of before they are safe and in the clear here. He needs to fetch a few very specific supplies from the RV, he needs to get the bike safely out of sight, needs to make an attempt at covering their tracks, though the snow still falling in thick curtains should do an adequate job of that without requiring his interference.

“Chuuya, I need to make sure everything is secure. Are you –” he begins but Chuuya cuts him off immediately, eyes cracking open to reveal irritation.

“I’m fine, shitty Dazai. I’m not about to drop dead. Go do whatever it is you need to do.” There’s no arguing with his redhead when he’s in this kind of mood; questioning his judgement will just lead to them snapping insults at each other and Chuuya resolutely insisting that he’s fine.

“Yes, Chibi, I know, you’ve been shot and you have a fever but you’re fine.” Dazai huffs, his expression deadpan. “Very well, I will be back soon. Try not to die on me~”

He leaves Chuuya fuming on the pile of cushions as he trudges back down the ladder and through the house.

Standing outside amidst the drifting snowflakes, Dazai spends long minutes just staring at the Red Monstrosity, wondering if he could actually ride the ridiculous thing out to the RV and save himself some time. Deciding that the machine would be far more likely to toss him into a ditch somewhere out of sheer malicious spite, and that putting so much as a single new scratch on the paintwork is likely to incur his redhead’s wrath, he sighs heavily and resigns himself to wheeling the stupid contraption up the road and out to the barn where the RV is currently hidden, away from prying eyes.

The trip takes far too long. The motorcycle is heavy and deliberately recalcitrant despite its supposed lack of sentience - swerving unpredictably to one side or another when all Dazai wants it to do is move in a straight line. By the time he’s reached the barn, stowed the bike carefully beneath a dust sheet - hidden behind a row of empty wooden pallets - grabbed a few things from the RV, trudged wearily back through the frozen field and down the road to the farmhouse, almost an hour has passed.

~ ~ ~

When he climbs back up into the attic, it’s to find Chuuya shivering with the blankets pooled uselessly around his legs, blinking at him with dazed confusion and more than a little suspicion.

Something is wrong. There’s no light there, no reassurance...it sets off alarm bells in Dazai’s head.

“D’zai?” Chuuya’s voice is cracked and hoarse, “Where am I? Why’re you here?” Glazed blue eyes narrow on him as Chuuya’s body tenses as if for a fight, despite the constant shivering. “You shouldn’t be here. The Boss has an order out for your det...deta…” Chuuya pauses, his nose wrinkling in annoyance and Dazai has to suppress a smile as his redhead struggles to get words out of an apparently fever-fogged brain, “capture.” he finally grinds out, grumbling under his breath.

It’s abundantly clear, in those first few seconds that Chuuya’s not really lucid, and that fact alone makes him dangerous, even in a physically weakened state. If his head is stuck somewhere in a time when Dazai was considered a traitor to the Mafia – a real and very dangerous threat to Mori’s supremacy in the underworld – his little Mafioso is bound to be suspicious of finding himself in an unknown place in only Dazai’s company. He paints a bright smile on his face, an old expression - one which usually fits with ease upon his features, yet doesn’t feel quite right anymore, not when he’s around Chuuya – fake and taunting and all of those things he’s been trying so hard to put aside.

“I heard the Chibi was sick! What kind of owner would I be to let my dog suffer?” he sing-songs obnoxiously.

Chuuya’s teeth bare in a silent snarl. “Tch! How can you stand there and say that when you are always the cause of my suffering, bastard?!”

It hurts, even if Chuuya’s words are nothing less than the truth. He can’t blame the redhead for lashing out, it’s really been a long time in coming.

“Ah, did the petit mafia miss me that much? I’m flattered~” it feels odd...almost like he’s the one who has stepped back in time, to be baiting Chuuya this way, trying to maintain a status-quo which no longer exists between them, but here, in this moment has become a necessary pretence at distance, the reminder of a betrayal he had tried to bury.

“Drop dead, asshole!” The Mafioso spits venomously, looking like he might just launch off the cushions and attempt to throttle him.

“I’d love to~ but I don’t think you’re in any shape to fulfil that wish right now. So how about you get under those blankets before you turn into a tiny Chibi ice-cube, take these,” he rattles the pill bottle in his hand – acetaminophen he had spirited away from the medical supplies Emilia had uncovered back at the compound, predicting that an outcome like this was more than likely, given the state Chuuya had been in by the end of the night’s work. “Go to sleep and maybe you can try again later?”

“Why am I so heavy?” Chuuya asks suddenly, and it’s such a jarring segue from the current conversation that it take Dazai a few embarrassingly long seconds to extrapolate meaning from his redhead’s strange words. He’s talking about For the Tainted Sorrow, of course the loss of his Ability would be one of the first things Chuuya would notice.

“Ah. You got hit by an experimental dart, which causes temporary dampening of Abilities.” Dazai lies smoothly, praying that Chuuya wont dig to deep in his barely-functioning state, “That’s why you came here, don’t you remember? It’s probably also why you’re feeling sick...your body is trying to fight off the effects.”

“Huh? Why haven’t I heard of this before? Boss wouldn’t have kept something like that from me.” Chuuya’s eyes narrow on him once again, both bright and glassy with fever. It’s a miracle he can even carry a conversation, but his Chibi is nothing if not stubbornly tenacious.

“You did know. You were sent to investigate.” Dazai embellishes on his tale, “Silly Chibi, that hat has finally eaten your brain. Now, take these and sleep, you’ll feel better when you wake up.”

Chuuya ignores him, “So this dart, it’s kind of like you in bullet form? How disgusting.”

His redhead eyes the pills Dazai patiently taps out onto his hand with even greater suspicion, probably wondering why Dazai hasn’t continued their usual bickering dialogue. “How do I know you’re not trying to poison me?”

Dazai scoffs, an entirely automatic reaction to such an absurd notion. “Chuu-ya~ of all the ways I could kill you, why on earth would I choose something as mundane and boring as poison?” he smiles, something wide and toothy, “Besides that, why would I copy what someone else has already tried, and tragically failed at once before I might add.”

“Bastard!” Chuuya growls and Dazai holds up a hand, waving it airily.

“Honestly, Chuuya, if I was going to kill you, have a little faith that it would be a much more appealing death than simply poisoning you.” he drags his eyes down Chuuya’s body suggestively, and even under the fever’s influence he can see his redhead’s shoulders lift and his cheeks colour with heat. Interesting. “I’ve always thought you’d look rather beautiful drowning.”

As soon as the words take form he can taste something like sour foreboding in his mouth, but he covers the instant abhorrence with a smile. Just like old times.

Chuuya clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes so hard Dazai is mildly concerned that they might get stuck in the back of his head, but he swipes the pills from Dazai’s hand anyway, tossing them down his throat and chasing them with a long swallow of water which leaves Dazai’s mouth feeling dry. “If that was supposed to be comforting, it wasn’t.” Chuuya grouses, though his body seems to have lost that undercurrent of tension, eyelashes drooping as he clearly struggles to fight off drowsiness. Dazai can see the exact second when Chuuya finally gives in to his body’s demands, sinking down onto the cushions and weakly attempting to drag the blankets over himself. Dazai shuffles over, trying not to feel like he’s been catapulted into history when his redhead watches him with something like trepidation; a look which belongs in years past and not in the here and now, not after everything they’ve been through. He tugs the thick blankets over Chuuya, trying not to feel morose as he cocoons the smaller man in warmth and reaches out his hand to press the back of it against the wary Mafioso’s clammy forehead.

It’s scorching, but not hot enough to be dangerous. Hopefully the drugs will work their magic...hopefully it’s just an overload of exhaustion and chill...hopefully his Chuuya will be back when the redhead wakes up.

Speaking of…

“Are you actually going to sleep, or are you just going to stare at me like some creepy horror movie doll, Chibi...or should that be ‘Chucky’? Do I need to confiscate all of your knives? Should I be concerned about you murdering me in my sleep?”

Chuuya snorts inelegantly, though his lips curl into the tiniest smile – Dazai will take it as a win. “You should always be concerned about me murdering you in your sleep, bastard.” there’s no bite in the words, none of that hissing fury he’s expecting, just something a little tired, a little sad. It makes his heart stutter strangely in his chest. Chuuya says no more, pulling the blankets up over his head until only the unruly mess of what’s left of the braids are peeking from the top. In a few minutes, the sound of soft, even snores are enough to tell Dazai that his redhead has finally given in to an exhausted sleep.

~ ~ ~

He keeps a close watch on Chuuya for the next few hours, folding a cold, wet cloth and placing it across Chuuya’s forehead in an attempt to leech the heat away from sweat-slicked skin. He watches Chuuya’s chest rise and fall, watches his breathing shift from shallow pants to long exhales, watches his eyelids flicker as he shifts from sleep to something just the other side of awake, watches him shiver and shake pitifully until Dazai finally gives in and slips beneath the blankets next to his redhead, gathering the small body into his arms and pressing himself against the length of Chuuya’s spine.

Finally the shivering stops.

The muttered words and broken conversations are worse.

He’s in the middle of a fitful doze when Chuuya’s hoarse voice startles him to awareness – rough and low and pained.

“Why did you leave?” the question has him awake in a split second, his body tensing where it’s curled against Chuuya’s, which is giving off heat like a radiator. He’s about to open his mouth, about to ask his redhead what he means when he’s right here, but Chuuya speaks again, the words whisper-quiet, almost lost to the cushions and blankets, soft with addled sleep. “It’s all just another no-good scheme of yours, isn’t it? One that you’ve conveniently left me out of the loop of. Blowing up my fucking car was a bit much, even for you, shitty Dazai! You’ll come back when it’s over...whatever it is.”

Chuuya’s voice trails into nothingness, his breathing evening out once more as Dazai stares into the half-light still cast by the lantern, a sinking feeling leaving the weight of bricks to clatter in his guts. He wants to pull away, wants to leave Chuuya and those creeping memories and crawl into a corner to be alone with his own head. As soon as he shifts with the intention to do just that, the redhead lets out a low, wounded noise, pushing back until their bodies are aligned once more. Only then does Chuuya settle back into the grip of pyretic sleep.

~ ~ ~

“You really did it huh?” Chuuya’s soft hum filters from within the blankets and Dazai’s head snaps up from where he’s bent over their small stove, stirring a pan of ramen and broth. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, it’s not like you ever told me your plans. You really were a shitty partner, I hope you know that. People think you’re dead...that you finally succeeded with your shitty suicide schemes, but I know better. You’re like a cockroach, and those fuckers never die.” There’s a long pause, long enough that Dazai almost thinks Chuuya has fallen back into fractious sleep, but Chuuya’s body heaves suddenly with an almost silent sob.

“I fucking hate you! You turned my own friends against me, forced me into the Mafia through your fucked up plotting, tormented me for years and fucking enjoyed it,” another broken sound cuts through the redhead’s halting, one-sided conversation and some part of Dazai longs to go over there, to wrap this sad and betrayed version of Chuuya in his arms and never let go. But it will do no good: the past is the past...he can neither change it, or expect Chuuya to forgive him for it. Another part of him - a part still stuck just as firmly in the past - wants to laugh, wants to tell Chuuya that he was only ever a distraction, a fascinating object that he tried to break over and over again, one of those intricate toys you want to crack open just to see how it worked.

“You saved me from It...every time. Even when I told you I hated you – when I was sure you hated me, you came anyway. You comforted me, gave me a choice, it never really was a choice though was it, bastard? You confused me. I still don’t know how to fucking feel. But you left me – you really just fucked off and left me, damn traitorous asshole!”

There’s another stretched period of quiet, with only Chuuya’s slightly laboured breathing to break the silence. Eventually, when Dazai can almost breathe again, Chuuya’s fractured, bitter chuckle cracks the peaceful facade like a hammer upon thin glass. “Do you know what the worst thing is? I can’t even hate you as much as I want to, as much as you deserve! I’ve watched that emptiness swallow you for years. That cloak of the ‘Demon Prodigy’ you wrapped yourself in was eating you alive, making you even worse than than the shithead you always were. I can’t even hate you, bastard, what do you think of that? I’m sure you’d call it pathetic.”

There’s a growl that sounds rather too much like Corruption’s unhinged fury, it leaves the hair on Dazai’s arms standing on end. “Don’t you dare fucking die out there, Mackerel bastard, because one day I’ll be coming to take your head. I’ll pay you back ten times over, shitty Dazai. I swear it.”

Ah. The whole, sad, full circle. What a terribly depressing pair they make. Two sides of one irrevocably scratched and tarnished coin, with no one to blame but himself.

A long sigh, a stream of unintelligible sounds and in minutes Chuuya is asleep once more. When he cautiously moves over to refresh the cloth on Chuuya’s brow and check his temperature – still hot but no longer burning – he can’t help but to brush the damp strands of Chuuya’s hair away from his face, letting his fingers trail across Chuuya’s cheek. “I’m sorry.” he murmurs, eyes closed and unable to stop the useless confession, the words he can never offer to Chuuya when he’s awake and aware, the words that would never be accepted, even if he did.

He swears he hears a quiet, “I know.” but when his eyes fly open to land on Chuuya’s face it’s to find his redhead perfectly still; calm and serene, with not even a flutter of eyelashes to betray the pretence of sleep.

Chuuya wakes twice more through the night, each time a little more lucid than the last.

There are no more murmured, broken words to dredge up memories of their messy history. Dazai takes it as a blessing, coaxes Chuuya into drinking tiny sips of water and spoonfuls of lukewarm broth, alongside another dose of tablets in an effort to further reduce the fever. He checks Chuuya’s wound after restraining a struggling Chibi, cutting the bandages away deftly to reveal the skin beneath. He’s pleased – and a little relieved – to find that although the flesh is red and angry in the way that all fresh wounds are, there is none of the telltale discolouration or smell to indicate any kind of infection.

The third time Chuuya wakes, it’s with a return of full clarity and that familiar blue spark. “What happened?” his redhead demands and immediately makes a face of displeasure, “It smells of sickness in here.”

“Chibi decided that getting shot wasn’t enough for him, so he went and added a fever to the mix in an attempt to die on me!” Dazai clutches at his own chest dramatically and Chuuya rolls his eyes predictably in response.

“Idiot Dazai, I’m fine.”

“Thanks to my exemplary nursing skills!” Dazai agrees enthusiastically.

“I don’t remember much past being on the road.” Chuuya admits and Dazai isn’t sure whether he’s glad that Chuuya doesn’t recall his slew of harsh honesty, which had given Dazai a glimpse into Chuuya’s thoughts of his betrayal, or whether he’s disappointed that such a confession will ultimately remain unspoken between them – buried under years of hurt and left to lie and rot.

“You almost killed us both and destroyed that Red Monstrosity of yours as well.” The look Chuuya gives him is one of such unmitigated horror that it leaves Dazai laughing into his hand. “Don’t worry, Chibi, we all got here in one piece.”

“And after?” His redhead prods, “How long was I out?”

“The night, a whole day, and almost another night on top. You were a very unruly patient.” He’s unwilling to say more and Chuuya knows it, shooting him an unimpressed look but not questioning him further.

He can hear Chuuya’s bones crack and creak as he moves, the redhead wincing as his muscles likely protest at the sudden activity after so long a period of forced rest. “Ugh. I feel about ninety.” he grumbles, stretching his arms with tentative caution above his head and pulling back immediately once the line of stitches make themselves known. “Fuck.”

~ ~ ~

From an upstairs bedroom, they watch the black of night give way to the everlasting monotone wash of another grey day, while below winter spreads her coat of pristine white upon the ground with dazzling brilliance.

Dazai cooks rice as Chuuya attempts to clean himself up using what little amenities the farmhouse has to offer. Well, actually he almost manages to burn rice until Chuuya appears - as if the abused rice had made some kind of telepathic cry for help - and takes over with a growl of annoyance, adding powdered egg (which makes the entire room smell like something died in it) and canned tuna (which makes the entire room smell like a shoal of fish farted and then died in it). Plating it into two bowls, Chuuya hands him one wordlessly and they eat in silence (it tastes better than it smells). It might have been awkward, were it not for Chuuya’s attempt to practically crawl into his skin – sitting as close he can until they’re pressed together from shoulder to hip, their arms jostling every time either one of them moves to take a bite.

Dazai takes it for what it is – an act of wordless camaraderie – Chuuya both seeking his presence, whilst offering the solidity of his own. It still feels strange, still feels new, this odd co-dependency that exists between the two of them, the quiet need to be close to another person, to soak in the silent companionship without need for words to sully the space and muddy a line already blurred beyond mortal comprehension. The more he fixates on it, the more it makes Dazai want to push away. That self-destructive side urging him to retreat to a corner and show his fangs, to drip poisoned words until Chuuya realises the magnitude of his own mistake and they can both draw that strangling line in the sand between them again. Familiar. Safe.

He dare not delve too deeply into the workings of his own mind, cannot bring himself to shift through these feelings and emotions which leave him both breathless and on edge, and sinking into warm familiarity in the same second – he’s apprehensive (not scared...definitely not scared) of the conclusions he might draw.

He leaves Chuuya spread out across the bed like a giant (yet ironically tiny) starfish, climbing once more up the ladder and into the attic to begin packing up the supplies left over from their stay here – there’s not much left, most of it having already been relocated to the RV before they had taken down the Commander’s forces, knowing that this safe house would likely become obsolete in the aftermath. He’s in the middle of attempting to fit too many things into their one small pack - in a meticulous and concentrated effort to not have to walk the distance from the farmhouse to the barn more than once – when Chuuya’s voice filters up from below with some urgency.

“Oi, Dazai, get down here. We’ve got company.”

He scrambles down the ladder, missing the last two steps and almost landing in an ungainly heap upon the floor, were it not for Chuuya’s hand reaching out to steady him in the last second.

“How many?” he asks, even as he moves towards the window, dropping the pack to rest against the nearest wall before crouching down to sit beneath the sill, moving with cautious, careful slowness until he can peer over the lip and down into the yard below.

“Seven. Two vehicles.” Chuuya murmurs, quickly coming up next to Dazai and sitting with his back to the wall. “I think they’re from the base.”

“Are you sure?” he questions, unable to see anyone slinking around the house.

“No, but I’m pretty certain I recognised at least one of them. Face like a weasel.”

Said weasel-faced man makes a sudden appearance around the side of the building and Dazai nods his own sharp agreement, picking out the oddly sharp features in his mind and matching them with his memories of that night. “You’re right. It stands to reason that if one of them is from the base then all of them are. Your little friend must not have been as in control as she seemed.”

“It’s not that simple to just take command of over a hundred people without that leash of fear to drag them to heel.” Chuuya shrugs, and Dazai knows that his redhead wouldn’t even consider blaming Emilia for any fractures among the group of survivors any more than he would think to blame the people themselves for choosing to make their own way through this living hell.

“What do you want to do?” He supposes he owes Chuuya the choice, in light of the fact that his redhead had been very adamant about allowing these people (these fictional entities) their freedom in the first instance. Really, he’d happily shoot them all and be done with it, though the disturbance that would cause is more than likely to bring anyone – or anything – in the vicinity down on their heads. The problem with the apocalypse it that every noise is akin to an earthquake, announcing your presence to the world at large.

“They don’t know we’re here.” Chuuya muses, tipping his head back against the wall and sighing as he stares blankly at the ceiling, apparently lost in thought. “Is there a way to get us out of here without giving them the time to discover us? They might not be hostile, but it’s unlikely that they’d pass up an opportunity to gain more supplies either, if they’ve truly cut themselves from the group, there’s no loyalty left to them now. They’re not gonna feel indebted to us, that’s for sure.”

Dazai scans the yard with a practised eye. The snow had been falling steadily throughout the previous day, the powder light and airy – the kind that muffles sound if you move with care. There are no visible signs of their habitation: no footprints in the yard, no tire tracks to betray Dazai’s moving of the bike, not a board out of place. It’s in their favour. Below them, an extension to the ground floor of the farmhouse stretches out from the original wall. There’s a six foot drop to the roof of the extension itself, and a further seven or so feet from the roof to the yard, an easy distance for the two of them and an escape route their potential adversaries are unlikely to consider.

The tracks that they’ll leave behind though? That’s another matter.

The sounds of quiet murmuring filters up from somewhere below, the seven individuals obviously arguing amongst themselves as to who will take the lead and possibly end up face-to-face with death as soon as they step foot through the door. It makes Dazai shake his head, these people are soft, their mettle mostly untested in this apocalyptic fire, because in reality, the Commander had been right in his protestations...despite their lack of freedom and being forced into servitude, despite their frequent losses, these people had been protected from the worst of what the world had to offer. Now, without that absolute order, they are floundering; unsure and prone to making mistakes.

“When they break in, they will pour through in a rush.” Dazai whispers, turning his head so his mouth is almost at Chuuya’s ear. “They’re not used to this manner of living, they’re not used to not having a perimeter of guards watching over them, they wont even consider the possibility of attack or ambush from behind. They’ll come in as quickly as possible thinking that they can overwhelm whatever might be waiting for them with numbers.”

Chuuya’s head tilts slightly to the side as if considering Dazai’s words, though he makes no move to agree or disagree.

“Once they’re in, we’ll jump down onto the first floor roof, then onto the yard, head for the east corner, there’s a gap in the hedge, we can go straight across the field. Make it quick, Chibi, there’s no way we can cover our tracks and if they chance to look out of the window while they’re searching the place we’ll be clearly visible.” Straightforward. Boring. There’s no need for elaborate plans when dealing with such small and useless pawns.

“You think they’ll follow?” Chuuya’s words are almost drowned out by the sudden crack of splitting wood as someone below clearly takes the initiative and begins breaking through the door and wooden slats barring entry to the building.

“Not if they know what’s good for them.” Dazai replies, darkness curling through his tone.

~ ~ ~

Standing on the roof of the first floor, Chuuya gives him no more than a second to check his balance before practically hurling the pack at him, the heavy canvas hitting him full force and sending him staggering backwards as the air leaves his lungs. He can feel Chuuya grinning at him from the window. Sighing huffily he lies the pack on the floor with a lot more exaggerated care than Chuuya had shown in launching the damn thing, turning to roll his eyes at Chuuya, thoroughly unimpressed.

Chuuya isn’t looking at him. No. At this precise second Dazai is treated to the (rather distracting) view of Chuuya’s ass hanging out of the window as he shuffles carefully backwards, sliding out over the sill until he’s dangling above the short drop, his entire body-weight held aloft by one arm. He hangs there for a moment, long enough for Dazai to appreciate the view, the strength both innate and cultivated in Chuuya’s lean yet muscular body allowing him to hold such a pose and make it look entirely effortless.

In the next second Chuuya is beside him, waving a hand in front of Dazai’s face and staring at him half in amusement and half in concern.

“Oh...there you are Chibi. You’re so tiny I must have missed you~” Dazai lilts as Chuuya scoffs indignantly.

They quickly make their way to the ground.

Squeezing through the gap in the hedgerow - after pausing for a few precious seconds to carefully remove the string of tin cans rigged up to provide a warning in case of intruders – they sprint across the open expanse of field in a direct line for the barn. It’s instinct to crouch low, to avoid detection despite the fact that their dark forms will be instantly picked out against the backdrop of endless white. Still, there is no loud cry of alarm from behind them, nothing to indicate that they’ve been observed in their flight.

Chuuya is predictably in front as they skid into the relative safety of the barn, though Dazai can’t help but notice that his redhead is a little breathless. Chuuya looks pale as he leans against the wall, panting, clearly still feeling the aftereffects of blood loss and the fever he’s barely burned out of his system. All of this he assesses in the blink of an eye, Chuuya is not in fighting shape, no matter how much he might claim that he is. The object here is to escape without a tail, not engage.

“I’ll deal with the Monstrosity, Chibi. Fetch the nail blocks, we’ll leave them a little warning as a surprise.” The nail blocks are another of Dazai’s ingenious (if he does say so himself) ideas, designed to cut off, delay, or in this case damage their adversaries. Two wide, stable planks of wood, with nails of varying sizes driven the entire way through, creating a deadly, tire-shredding surface, practically guaranteed to rip punctures in any vehicle unfortunate enough to drive over them.

Chuuya grunts an affirmative, disappearing inside the RV to drag them out from the space beneath the bed. When his redhead returns, it’s to lean against the side of the RV and watch him tie off the securing straps with silent, sharp-eyed judgement before speaking.

“They’re not going to be enough to stop both cars.”

“No,” he agrees easily, “but it will force them to pause and reconsider. Assuming they have a brain between them. If they lose one vehicle so early on, they should be more hesitant about putting the other at risk.” He gestures to the door, and the farmhouse beyond the field, “We came here because it’s isolated. But to be stranded here, without a working vehicle and with nothing for miles around, in the middle of winter? It’s a death sentence.”

Shrugging, he checks the straps one final time before heading for the RV, with Chuuya trailing a step behind. “We don’t need to stop them. We only need to scare them into stopping themselves.”

Chuuya hums a noncommittal noise as Dazai kicks the engine to life. “Oi…” his redhead suddenly pipes up, his tone curiously nervous. Dazai twists to find Chuuya’s eyes fixed on the snow. “The roads are going to be shitty with no regular traffic to keep them clear –”

“So?” he prods, amused.

Chuuya’s teeth bare are he snarls, “So, don’t drive like a fucking suicidal maniac and kill us both! Shitty Mackerel, you knew what I meant.”

“I’m offended Chuuya doesn’t enjoy my driving~ I’m perfectly safe! I have a licence and everything!”

Chuuya clicks his tongue in dismissal, “Bastard, any licence you have is definitely forged!”

Dazai laughs as he pulls the RV out of the barn, about to refute Chuuya’s claim when his redhead interrupts. “Looks like we’ve been spotted.”

Indeed. As he manoeuvres the hulking vehicle through the gate and out onto the road, he can see the small outline of a person, standing atop the roof from which he and Chuuya had jumped. In the next second, the figure disappears, and Dazai knows that in moments, the chase will be on.

The tires’ grip on the slick snow is weak at best, the heavy weight of the RV likely to send the vehicle into an uncontrollable skid if he pushes it too hard. The need for caution has him gritting his teeth against the desire to snarl at the steering wheel as the RV wallows down the road. He takes it barely a hundred yards before slowing to a halt.

“Chuuya –”

“I got it.” the redhead murmurs, slipping from his seat and hurriedly flinging the door open before grabbing the two lengths of wood and hopping to the road below. Dazai watches in the side mirrors as Chuuya carefully places the nail blocks down into the snow coating the road in a layer of fluffy white, only their own tire tracks marring the unbroken surface as Chuuya steps carefully in those same tracks to avoid catching the suspicion of those who may be following behind. Meticulously scooping handfuls of snow to disguise the deadly nail-studded planks from view, Chuuya is quickly finished with his task and wastes no time hopping back inside.

As Dazai rams his foot on the accelerator, concerned for a moment as the tires spin uselessly before finding traction on the asphalt beneath the snow, he sees two cars come loom up in the mirrors. He keeps half of his attention on the road in front, and half behind as he pulls steadily away. Beside him, he can feel Chuuya’s tension, knows that the Mafioso’s eyes are also fixed on the mirror, watching every yard of distance closed between themselves and those in pursuit.

When the lead car hits the nail boards dead on, there’s a loud bang and the screeching wrench of metal as one of the planks gets caught in the tire and rams up into the underbelly of the car. The vehicle spins wildly as the driver loses control, the punctures and the snow-laden road sending the car into a spin until the rear end slams into the hedge on the opposite side of the road, bringing it to a stop.

They don’t have the luxury of pausing in their flight to watch the aftermath. Dazai smiles grimly to himself as he pushes the RV forwards and hopes that these people make the right choice. Next to him, Chuuya is busy checking the clips on their guns.

Thankfully - despite the knot of apprehension forming in his gut telling him that those idiots might just be stupid enough to try and chase them down heedless of the reminder that Dazai and Chuuya are not the sort of people to be messed with - there is no further sign that they are being tracked. Even when Chuuya insists that they pull up at an intersection, hiding themselves in the freezing undergrowth and leaving the RV in full view on the road for a full thirty minutes with the expectation of being ambushed, nothing appears.

They both breathe a sigh of relief, even as their teeth chatter with the cold.

The rest of the journey to the lake house is almost peaceful as the snow begins to fall once more, in earnest.

~ ~ ~

He wakes to the faint light of morning, reaching timid fingers through the crack in the curtains to play across red hair. Chuuya is curled against him, back pressed against Dazai’s legs, their legs tangled hopelessly as they always are - as if they gain sentience in sleep and attempt to merge and become one being.

It’s warm here, buried in the thick duvet and swamped by the comfort of the huge mattress on the mezzanine of the lake house. Despite the bite of winter laying a carpet of crackling frost upon the snow-blanketed ground outside, despite the thin patches of ice beginning to spread across the still surface of the lake, melting away to nothing through the day only to form again in the cold of the night, despite this he is warm, contentedly wrapped around his redhead as if the chilled earth outside is of no consequence.

He shifts, almost unconsciously, following the urge to move closer and closer still, the sleep-swamped part of him wishing he could just sink into the marrow of Chuuya’s bones, fill his own endless hollows with Chuuya’s vibrant, overflowing life. Chuuya’s hair tickles his nose and he finds himself inhaling the scent of the redhead’s current favoured shampoo – something strawberry with a hint of vanilla – closing his eyes and just revelling in the feeling of another body, pressed against his own.

Tentatively he creeps a hand beneath the hoodie Chuuya has taken to wearing to bed – so overly large on his tiny frame that the hem falls to mid-thigh, and coloured a mint-green so washed out that it clashes with his hair, yet somehow he manages to pull it off – stroking down Chuuya’s flank with a gentle brush of fingers. He can feel the moment his redhead stirs to wakefulness, skin shifting and shivering beneath Dazai’s palm as he leaves a trail of goosebumps in his wake.

“D’zai –?” comes the sleepy mumble, Chuuya’s voice rough and low and doing pleasant things to Dazai’s insides.

“Good morning, Chuuya.” Dazai purrs, low and breathless in his redhead’s ear as he continues the slow, languid strokes, skating his fingers up Chuuya’s ribs, only to drag his palm down, slightly more firmly, until he can curl his hand around the smaller man’s hip, pressing lightly into bone.

“Time’s’it?” Chuuya slurs around a yawn, stretching his legs out slightly before pushing back into Dazai like an over-affectionate house cat.

The unconscious act fills him with the drumming beat of mine, mine, mine, the need to sink his fingers harder until the physical marks of Dazai’s possession are pressed into Chuuya’s skin.

“No idea.” he murmurs back, dragging back the last of his sanity, lightening his touch to tracing idle circles on Chuuya’s waist and earning a low hum of sleepy contentment in return. “Go back to sleep, Chibi.”

“Mmmm –” his redhead rumbles softly, trying to disentangle their legs without much success until he huffs an irritated sigh and Dazai – obligingly - assists.

He’s abruptly confronted with an armful of sleepy, apparently affectionate Chuuya as the redhead rolls over, tucking his head beneath Dazai’s chin and pressing soft kisses against his chest, one leg now slung over Dazai’s hip as Chuuya winds arms around him and drags them as close as physically possible.

Dazai freezes for a moment, his head lost somewhere in the last few seconds, stalled and unable to restart, because here, in this instant, he’s maybe just a little bit in love. In love with the way Chuuya’s body fits against his own. In love with the way Chuuya holds on to him like he never wants to let go, like he’s afraid Dazai will disappear (again) if he does. In love with the way Chuuya’s kisses burn like indelible brands across his collarbone.

And that...that’s not right.

It’s not how this was supposed to go. Yes, Chuuya is beautiful, in a way that makes Dazai want to possess him, own him, bite into tender arteries just to watch him bleed and paint pictures in crimson glory, watch those blue sapphires go dull as the last thing they ever see is Dazai’s face. Chuuya is beautiful, in a way that makes Dazai want to take a gun and shoot any person who dares to lay hands on him, eyes on him, even glance in his direction. Chuuya is beautiful, in a way that makes Dazai want to write his name across Chuuya’s skin, his bones, his soul, to coat him in a stain that will never wash away. It was always supposed to be him, using up Chuuya’s bright star until all that was left of the Mafioso was a broken husk with no will of its own – the perfect pawn. But caring for Chuuya, outside of his usefulness, outside of what he can offer to Dazai – his strength, his trust, his body, his blood – loving Chuuya? That was never a part of the plan. He’s not...he shouldn’t be capable of such a weak and pathetic thing.

A puffed noise of displeasure against his skin and Chuuya’s finger poking him in the side of his head: a clear ‘I can hear you thinking’ without need for words, drags him back to reality. Without conscious consent, some part of him sinks into the comfort, he finds himself floating on that gentle current, wrapped in Chuuya’s arms, in Chuuya’s affection, in Chuuya’s acceptance of who, of what he is.

And it’s not right. But in the same breath it is. It’s too much and too close and Dazai has never been comfortable with being seen...so why is Chuuya always the exception to his rules? Why can they circle each other like wary dogs, snapping and biting only to lick each other’s wounds, only to curl up together as if they are each other’s only peace?

That distracted part of him allows his hand to slip beneath the skin-warmed cotton of Chuuya’s hoodie once more, caressing the length of Chuuya’s spine in one long stroke and revelling in the hummed satisfaction vibrating from his redhead’s throat and across his own skin.

As they wrap around each other, two inevitable halves of a slightly broken whole, two forces exerting both equal and opposite reactions yet somehow destined always to collide; some tiny, often ignored part of Dazai creeps out of the dark void which winds it’s way through his body, his life, his essence. That stunted, forgotten, too-close-to-human part of him makes its own tentative peace with the terrifying realisation that he never wants to let go.

It settles him into that feeling of warmth, letting it seep into the empty spaces carved out inside his chest. He listens to the sound of Chuuya’s quiet breathing, feels the whisper of Chuuya’s exhaled breath upon his skin. He watches the single shaft of light shift across the planes of Chuuya’s face, caressing his cheekbones and lighting his hair to burnished copper. He falls asleep to the synchronised beat of their hearts and dares, for once, to wish for something other than death.

~ ~ ~

When he wakes up for the second time that morning, his redhead is nowhere to be seen.

He languishes in the huge bed and pile of comforters for a few long minutes before huffing out a sigh. It just isn’t the same level of indulgent comfort without an annoying, clingy, sleepy Chibi to wrap himself around.

Shuffling into his clothes, he almost falls to his death upon wrestling the paddle stairs, cursing under his breath as his toe hits the wood at an odd angle and immediately begins to throb painfully. In the living area, there is also a distinct absence of short, angry redheads, and, upon poking his head around the door to the bathroom, Chuuya is decidedly missing from there as well.

Frowning, he finishes his morning routine quickly, brushing his teeth and silently marvelling (as he has every morning since their arrival) over the fact that they’re six months deep into a zombie apocalypse and somehow this lake house has actual fresh running water (an abundance of it in fact, as the snow slowly melts from the roof to replenish the tank). It’s a luxury they both appreciate.

Personal hygiene (and pressing bladder functions) taken care of, he sets off once more in relentless pursuit of his Chibi, opening the door into a rush of frigid morning air and deftly skipping through the traps he’d honestly perhaps had a little too much fun in contriving, which lie all around the decking that surrounds the cabin as a sort of balcony. Really, the walkway is covered in almost as many tripwires and loosened planks as Old Jed’s shop floor. The thought makes him grimace at the memory.

Reaching the downward slope of the jetty, he stops dead, because there is his missing redhead, and Chuuya, well, he’s a sight.

His redhead sits, legs dangling from the jetty with a fishing rod gripped in his hands, the tip pointing lazily towards the water as Chuuya stares out at the still surface – whether daydreaming or with intense focus, Dazai is too far away to tell. Chuuya’s bright hair is a single flare of colour amidst the muted grey-blue water and the backdrop of white-upon-white of the surrounding landscape. Swirling across the lake, a thick mist rises, obscuring everything into soft, muted ethereality, and in the middle of it all sits Chuuya – so unmistakably alive.

It steals his breath.

When he starts forward it’s an almost automatic reaction, his fingers itching to take hold of the only hint of colour in this dull, lifeless world and pull it to him, covet it and keep it for himself. The lure is so strong that he almost forgets to jump over the cleverly disguised hole, his feet teetering on the edge and threatening to plunge him down into the icy depths of the water below.

It’s that sharp movement which finally catches Chuuya’s attention.

Blue eyes turn on him and he loses his grip on coherent thought once again. Succumbing to the quiet whisper of mine which tries to crawl its way unconsciously up his throat.

“What are you doing out here?” Chuuya asks, kicking his legs out over the water restlessly as he leans back to look Dazai in the eye.

“I wondered where you’d gone.” He mumbles sleepily, his brain still not quite processing at its usual speed, lagging behind to leave a loosened tongue.

Chuuya eyes him critically for a moment before offering a light shrug, “You were actually asleep for once. I didn’t want to wake you.”

A ridiculous warmth runs through him, hearing those words, chasing the chill of the morning from his skin. “And so, you decided to try catching us a fresh breakfast?” he gestures to the fishing rod clasped between Chuuya’s hands in an effort to shift the redhead’s attention from the blush suffusing his cheeks. It’s a delight to see the colour bloom in answer across Chuuya’s face, now that the pallor of sickness has been cleansed from his skin.

“Something like that.” Chuuya grumbles, staring at the pole with a look of distaste, “The stuff was there so I thought why the hell not. Can’t be that difficult, right?”

“And?” Dazai prods mercilessly, though he can see the fruit of Chuuya’s labour clear as day, or the lack thereof.

“And it’s fucking boring as shit!” the redhead grouses, practically sneering at the rod now, “How the hell can people sit there for hours doing this?”

Dazai struggles to hold back a chuckle at his tiny partner’s apparent outrage over the sport of fishing. “It’s supposed to be relaxing, Chibi, sitting and watching the water, forgetting about the stress of life. It is mostly old men who take it up as a hobby to get away from nagging wives though. Is that what I am to you, Chuuya?” he bats his eyelashes and pouts exaggeratedly, earning Chuuya’s derisive snort in response.

“Damn straight!”

Dazai claps a hand over his heart dramatically, staggering as if wounded, rewarded instantly with his redhead’s exasperated eye-roll. “How long have you been out here?” Honestly he wouldn’t have bet on Chuuya having the patience to sit out here in the cold, lure of a fresh fish breakfast or not.

“…” his redhead mumbles something completely unintelligible, directed at the jetty’s wooden planks.

“I didn’t catch that Chibi~” Dazai sing-songs, making sure to pitch his volume to something obnoxiously loud.

“Fifteen minutes!” Chuuya snaps back, defensive, and now Dazai truly cannot hold back his laughter, doubling over to clutch at his stomach as tears spring to his eyes. Chuuya watches, unimpressed, until he wrestles the bout of hysterics under control.

“I don’t think fishing is going to be a good hobby for you, Little Mafia. Perhaps something a little more energetic?” he tips a wink in Chuuya’s direction, watches something spark in those eyes, an ocean more beautiful than the lake beneath their feet could ever hope to rival.

“Is that an invitation?” his redhead is already winding the reel, pulling the line clear of the water and clicking his tongue in annoyance as he tosses the entire thing to the jetty without a care for where it lands.

“It’s anything you want it to be, beautiful.” he doesn’t miss the way Chuuya colours prettily at the nickname. Watches as the flustered Mafioso attempts to duck his head to hide the returning blush.

Grumbling something under his breath which, knowing Chuuya, is probably either offensive or an insult, the redhead pulls himself to his feet, stretching out with a wince and indicating the small boat moored at the jetty’s edge. “Let’s get going then.”

Dazai frowns. He had expected to be dragged in the opposite direction, back to the their bedroom, or the couch if they couldn’t be bothered to navigate those damned stairs, but this, this is unexpected. Unfortunately, ‘unexpected’ makes him blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “I didn’t know Chuuya had a thing for exhibitionism! Have I awakened a monster?”

Chuuya stares at him in wide-eyed confusion for all of three seconds, before realisation strikes and his eyes narrow into something dangerous, a hand snaps out, almost jabbing Dazai in the chest as Chuuya’s face takes on that delightful shade of beetroot once more. “I meant sparring! Get your mind out of the gutter, pervert!”

“Ahh, you have no idea what you’re asking, Chuu-ya~” he allows some of the tightly chained desire to slip through, lowering his voice to something husky, sharpening his smile to something that could cut. “Hmm, but I suppose I win either way.”

Chuuya’s head tilts as he clicks his tongue, the blush still prominent across his cheeks, “How do you figure that?”

Dazai’s leer cracks wider, teeth itching to bite into his redhead’s skin, “Well, sparring or sex, I still end up with Chuuya on top of me!”

“One involves significantly more bruises.” Chuuya retorts almost instantly, one eyebrow raised even as he fights off a smile.

“Oh? I’m not so sure.” It’s true, while sparring sessions with Chuuya often leave him feeling more like a punching bag than an actual partner – bruised and aching in places he didn’t even know existed – sex with Chuuya can sometimes end up with one or both of them looking like they got into a fight with a rabid animal. Not that either of them mind (despite the complaining which inevitably follows). “Besides, I like it when Chuuya leaves marks.”

“Fucking masochist.”

Dazai’s nose wrinkles with instant distaste at being called such a thing. “Wrong, Chibi! I still don’t like pain.”

Chuuya’s smile is no longer fighting to take over his face, his expression falling to something troubled as those blue eyes bore into him and draw out the secrets locked in those dark places. “Yet you chase it down like you need it to breathe.”

“Only with you, mon petit mafia.” it comes out a little too soft, a little too serious to be waved off as a joke behind a benign smile and Chuuya is looking at him with surprise. After this morning’s self-imposed revelation, his mind feels decidedly too fragile to handle this conversation any further. He might end up saying something regrettable, something he can’t take back, something stuck at the back of his throat and the space behind his ribs.

So, he deflects. “Hmmm, perhaps sparring isn’t a good idea after all, Chibi, you’re supposed to be resting after all~”

Chuuya growls something indecipherable that sounds suspiciously like ‘I’m fucking tired of resting!’ and Dazai feels entirely vindicated for his days of whining and goading when it had been him being forced to inactivity. His redhead is suddenly grinning at him with cocky, almost arrogant confidence, “Don’t flatter yourself, shitty Dazai. I don’t need my hands to wipe the floor with you!” Dazai watches with amusement as Chuuya shoves his hands deep into his pockets, leaning forwards with an expression that can only be called suggestive. “Besides, you’re the one trying to drag me back to bed, and don’t bothering telling me you had resting in that perverted head of yours!”

It’s true, resting had been the last thing on Dazai’s mind, is still the last thing on his mind with Chuuya looking at him like that.

The clawing need to possess the beautiful thing before him is twisting through his blood once more, to own Chuuya in every sense of the word. That howling beast crouches in the darkness and snarls, waiting for the opportunity to sink talons into flesh, to own and destroy. He swallows, pushes down the spike of desire, drags up a cocky demeanour to match Chuuya’s own. “Are you stalling for time, Chibi? Worried I’m going to win?”

Chuuya regards him with an oddly knowing glint in his eye before he shakes his head, gesturing once more to the small motorised boat which will speed them to land and the promise of a wider field in which to play, “You wish!”

Predictably, Dazai does end up flat on his back with Chuuya spread out on top of him, smirking in his triumph. If Dazai had engineered the entire match to have it end this way, well, he’ll never admit it, so it never happened.

If they exchange breathless kisses – the frozen air fogging between them with every stolen moment – Dazai’s ass slowly going numb against the chill of the ground and Chuuya’s warmth pressed against his chest providing a pleasant contrast to the unending cold...if they stay there, caught up in each other as snowflakes gently settle around them, well, there’s no one here to see.

Every touch feels like drowning.

Every kiss feels like falling.

Chapter Text

The trek from the lakeside to the copse where the vehicles are hidden is more of a slippery scramble while trying desperately not to fall on his ass. Unfortunately it seems to be an impossible endeavour as both of them end up sliding and crashing to the ground on multiple occasions. It stops being amusing after the third time; the landing might be relatively soft thanks to the thick carpet of snow, but Chuuya definitely has enough bruises that he knows he’s going to be sore later.

On the left side of the track, the snow has piled into huge drifts, the light powder tossed and moulded by fierce and bitterly cold winter winds into impressive banks, which loom well over six feet tall at their peak. The day carries a chill typical of the season, but that bite of subzero isn’t quite there.

They navigate their way carefully forwards, having learned rather quickly that the footing beneath the deceptively smooth surface of snow is even more treacherous now that they can’t see exactly what they’re putting their feet into – Chuuya’s pretty sure he’s at risk of breaking an ankle with every halted step. It’s slow going, and the ominous, muffled whumpf of falling snow in the distance is enough to tell Chuuya that the drifts aren’t as stable as they appear.

As if the very thought is a catalyst to impending disaster, there’s a soft noise to his immediate left. It’s the only warning he has before the drift towering over him collapses, sending a cascade of loosened snow down onto the track, covering Chuuya’s legs up to his thighs in freezing, wet powder.

That’s not the most horrifying part.

Immediately Chuuya is confronted with gnarled, grasping, grisly hands, outstretched and clawing, reaching desperately, impotently; he’s confronted with with bared yellow teeth, lips rotten and peeled back in an eternal snarl, tongues swollen and rigid in gaping cavernous mouths; he’s confronted with glassy, dead, unseeing eyes, unblinking and yet fixed on him all the same; he’s confronted with the blue-black mottling of dead flesh, frozen in its state of putrefaction. Yelping he scrambles backwards, tripping in his haste to get away and ending up in a sprawled heap, pressed up with his back against Dazai’s legs, almost hyperventilating as his heart sounds like it’s exploding in his ears.

There are six of them, all posed in dynamic fashion – reaching, wide-eyed and open-mouthed – all frozen solid and unmoving, stuck in almost comical tableau. Now that his heart is beginning to stutter back to a rhythm somewhat close to normal, he can finally sigh out the breath that’s lodged halfway up his throat, sucking in a lungful of crisp, biting air only to hiss out a strained, “What the fuck?!”

Behind him, he can hear Dazai trying (and failing) to muffle his laughter and that, well, now he’s seeing red.

“Oi, bastard, don’t you fucking dare laugh at me!” Okay, he sounds a little hysterical and his hands are definitely trembling a little with the instant hit of adrenaline upon coming face to face with a living...well, unliving, nightmare, but who can blame him? He pulls himself up dusting snow from his legs and already feeling the chill creeping through the fabric of his pants, but he dismisses it in favour of rounding on Dazai, all but ready to punch the asshole into next week.

“You –!” he growls, but Dazai only lifts a hand to stop him from starting a hissing tirade of insults. He glares at the bastard as Dazai makes a feeble attempt to reign in his mirth, only succeeding in shaking uncontrollably, wrapping both arms around his waist as tears stick to his eyelashes and his breath comes in a sob.

“I’m…sorry – Chuuya. I –“ he dissolves into laughter again and, honestly, the sight of Dazai unable to control his own laughter is rare enough that Chuuya can’t even bring himself to be that mad about it. Finally Dazai dies down into chuckles, sucking in painful breaths and whining as he does. Chuuya just stands and rolls his eyes, fighting to keep the smile from his own face. “I’m sorry!” Dazai repeats again, “I wasn’t laughing at you!”

“Really? You have the nerve to say that to my face? Shitty Dazai!”

“Really! I just –” Dazai breathes deeply, lowers his voice to a cracked whisper and almost doesn’t make it through his next sentence. “They just popped out of the snow! Like daisies!”

And Chuuya can only stare at the idiot, wide-eyed for a second before bursting into his own fit of uncontrollable laughter. Now both of them are just staring at each other and giggling, like Chuuya hadn’t just seen his entire fucking life flashing before his eyes.

He wonders if they’ve both finally cracked. If this is the fast-track on the road to insanity.

“When we get home…” he wheezes, having to pause to drag in air as his ribs ache with the strain, “We’re fucking confiscating every Disney movie that emo-guy owns.” He pauses, then thinks of something entirely more appealing. “Actually, no...we’ll just burn every fucking book that guy has ever written.”

“I think Ranpo-san might have objections to that idea, Chibi~” Dazai is watching him with fond amusement, and it makes him flip his hair back dramatically, a smile biting its way across his face: something sharp and confident.

“Yeah? Well, bring it, I can take him!”

“Hmmm...past experience says otherwise, hatrack! If I remember correctly, the whole reason you’ve been trapped in Poe-kuns novels twice now, is due to Ranpo-san’s direct involvement.” Dazai’s words leave a sour taste in Chuuya’s mouth, enough to make the smile drop from his face and replace it with something more like a snarl.

“That asshole is too clever for his own good! It will bite him in the ass one day.”

“I’m sure it will.” Dazai agrees willingly, “But I don’t think it will be your tiny fangs that get to dig in, Chuu-ya~”

“Whatever.” Chuuya huffs, throwing a look over his shoulder to the mottled blue and faintly nauseating statues. “Well, I don’t think we’re going to be following these icicle fuckers to any Holy City.” A thought suddenly hits him, “Do you think all of them have frozen like this?”

He watches Dazai shake his head, a pensive frown twisting his lips downward as he no doubt runs through information and resulting conclusions in his mind. Finally, those almost-red eyes rise to meet his once more, “No, I don’t think all of them will have ended up like this. It’s likely that they have at least some immunity to the cold. I would expect them to band together under the influence of the parasite in an effort to maintain some kind of collective body heat. Considering these corpses are effectively dead, their hearts are no longer pumping warm blood around the body, so the only heat that they produce will be from friction and movement, essentially they have to keep moving and move in a close collective to maintain their functionality. I would expect them to be drawn to sources of heat, or places where the temperature is naturally higher.”

“Built up areas.” Chuuya mumbles, thinking out loud and Dazai nods at him with surprise evident on his face.

“Yes, that’s what I was about to say. There will probably be larger, more closely-grouped hordes in the towns and cities than those we’ve encountered before because they naturally tend to be a few degrees warmer.”

Chuuya sighs heavily, gesturing behind him with one hand, “So these guys were just a fluke? A freak of nature?” Dazai nods and he feels his heart sink at the implications behind Dazai’s words – he’s seen the maps, he knows where their road will take them next. “Here I was, hoping that for once we’d have an easy ride.”

“After everything this book has thrown at us so far, did you really think the end would be so easy?” Dazai’s attention is lost once more to something only he can see, the smile faded into nothingness. Chuuya is heartily tired of seeing that exact look on Dazai’s face, so, doing the first thing that comes to mind, he kicks the bastard in the shin.

It’s not a hard kick, in fact it has barely any force behind it whatsoever, more of a tap than an actual kick, but it’s enough for Dazai to lose his footing and stumble forward with a yip of pain, only managing to catch himself by grasping Chuuya’s shoulders. “Get your head out of your ass, Mackerel.” he smirks at the petulant look the tall idiot is sending him. “If you stand there all day looking lost, those things might just thaw out and give you an easy end after all.”

Dazai makes a face, not releasing Chuuya’s shoulders but instead stepping forward and further into his space. “Death by zombies is not the beautiful pain-free suicide I had in mind, Chuu-ya~” the asshole whines, directly into his ear, his voice lowering to something persuasive, “But if you would perhaps consider –”

Chuuya doesn’t give him chance to finish that sentence, clicking his tongue in annoyance and pulling free of Dazai’s grip. “Go beg someone else to die with you, asshole, I’m not interested!”

“But Chuuya! I don’t want to die with anyone else!” Dazai whines piteously at him.

That joking declaration shouldn’t make his heart jump.

~ ~ ~

It’s a slow slog across rough terrain for the last quarter of a mile, after agreeing that it would be best to not leave a terribly obvious trail of footprints from the road all the way to their little lake house hideaway. Scrambling through leaf litter, tripping over roots and testing each step carefully before shifting weight from one foot to the next is an effort requiring patience that Chuuya honestly doesn’t really have. When they finally reach the small layby - set behind a tall evergreen hedgerow at the side of one of the winding country lanes that they have become far too familiar with navigating in these last months - Chuuya is cold, slightly damp from his run-in with the snowdrift and trying to bite back an irritation that wants to snap through his teeth in the form of harsh words and curses.

After a cursory check that the vehicles have been left undisturbed (no footprints mark the passage of anything human, either living or dead), they ensure that both are still in running order, turning the engines over and allowing both the appropriated military truck and the RV to run idle for a few minutes just to stop the parts from seizing due to disuse and the freezing temperatures.

They fill two packs with food rations and those essentials that they’re running low on in the cabin, leaving them leaning against the wall of the truck as they clamber onto its roof in an effort to view the road and assess the conditions. It doesn’t look good. Snow covers the asphalt in a glistening surface of unbroken white; at least a foot deep at the shallowest, though even just looking as far as the eye can see, Chuuya can pick out a deep drift, piled up on the sweeping bend barely a hundred yards further on. It’s not overly surprising, after witnessing the towering banks and drifts along the track, but it leaves a stone rolling uncomfortably in his stomach.

It’s not just dangerous, it’s impassable.

Even if the truck could make it through the first drift, there’s no guarantee that a bigger, more compacted build up of snow might not be hiding just around the corner. Though the snow looks soft and powdery, beautiful and elegant, beneath it the threat of black ice lingers like the invisible arms of death, daring anyone foolhardy enough to risk venturing out in such conditions to risk her embrace while promising a cold and painful end.

They retrace their steps back to the lake house with a feeling of trepidation.

Time is running out.

~ ~ ~

Two weeks have passed since their first night in the lake house before midwinter has eased her tenacious grip on the landscape enough that they risk journeying out. While they both needed the rest, the break from the relentless machinations of this world - intent on either killing them outright or driving them to an exhaustion so deep it risks a crack in sanity – they’ve both become too aware of the ticking clock counting down the days, the hours, the minutes, the seconds, to fully relax.

More than once, Chuuya has woken in the dead of night to find himself alone on the mezzanine, wrapped tightly and carefully in blankets while the other side of the bed lies cold. Each time he ventures out into the frozen darkness and finds Dazai sitting on the end of the jetty, staring out blindly into the night with the depths of the void and a terrible uncertainty yawning wide in his eyes. Each time he waits patiently for Dazai to notice his presence before draping his smaller body over the idiot’s and demanding that he gets back inside before both of them freeze their balls off. Each time he wraps himself around this idiot he’s inexplicably tied himself to; murmurs soothing nonsense into the soft space between them and cards his fingers gently through Dazai’s hair until he’s sure the other man has finally given in to his body’s desperate cry for sleep.

Only once does Dazai wake him deliberately, the shaky press of fingers down his spine speaks a thousand words that his partner would never utter aloud. Chuuya lets him chase whatever swirling darkness has taken root in his mind. Offers his body as a willing distraction, for Dazai to do with as he pleases, stretched out and pliant beneath hands that caress him with something akin to reverence.

There are no words spoken between them – except those of consent - only the reassurance of touch, pushing the insistence of reality - of life - upon Dazai through the connection of skin, the grounding force of breaths stuttered and shared, the echoing beat of a heart in his ear, under his palm, beneath his mouth. Chuuya gives him everything – body, blood and soul. What he gets in return, is the slow spark of life returning to bleak, empty eyes.

He silently hopes it’s enough: enough to get them through this; enough to make it out on the other side.

Now that they’re venturing out on the road once more - alternating between scouting the route ahead on the bike and bringing the RV and the truck in convoy behind them when they find roads that are somewhat passable – there’s a lingering sense of urgency to their actions. It’s like an invisible cloud is swelling overhead, and even though they know it’s coming, neither of them can predict quite when the storm will break.

Two days pass without encountering anything of consequence save for the usual frustration of impassable obstructions and the odd stubborn remnants of snowdrifts - leaving them with no options but to backtrack their route over and over again - which seem clearly intentional in the way that they push them towards those places which they had hoped to avoid.

It’s not coincidence, or luck - Chuuya is certain no such thing as ‘luck’ exists in this forsaken shithole – that leaves the two tiny villages (more hamlets than actual communities) completely devoid of life. Nothing stirs in the streets, no curtains twitch, no footprints are left in the patches of snow lingering here and there, the signs of passage in the dirt are all old and misshapen by the passing of time. It’s not luck...Chuuya is sure the book is trying to lure them into a false sense of security, a feeling of triumph and premature celebration before it throws them headlong into the final chapters of this ceaseless insanity.

Every night when they return to the welcoming familiarity of the lake house, weighed down with heavy-footed fatigued, the sense of impending catastrophe grows stronger. Now, on the third day, with the RV and the truck abandoned a good fifty miles from the lake house (hidden separately on consideration that having one of them discovered and ransacked for their supplies is better than losing both), they’re about to hit the outskirts of the final town, that last looming obstacle before the end goal is well and truly within their sights.

The thought of it fills the pit of his stomach with an omen of dread. He hates the feeling of uselessness which accompanies it, the undeniable knowledge that they’re walking into a trap, that they know they’re walking into a trap, and yet they can do absolutely nothing but let it trigger. There is no clever side-stepping, no genius strategy to avoid conflict; just the unshakeable trust, the quiet confidence that whatever it is which awaits them, it will be no match for the two of them together.

Double Black once more against the world.

It’s barely mid-afternoon when they trek back to the lake house for what will be the final time. Chuuya will be loathe to leave the little luxury their tiny hideaway offers, but he knows they’ve already lingered here too long, can see the antsy apprehension building in his idiot partner with every passing day – that pressing need to reach the final stretch with time enough to formulate a strategy with safeguards and backups and the highest guarantee of success. Watching Dazai shift agitatedly around the small space leaves him feeling a little guilty, though he’s not even sure the oblivious asshole even knows he’s doing it. Chuuya is well aware that the reason they’ve delayed their departure for so long is because of him: his recuperation from the bullet wound, from the fever, from the crushing exhaustion. He feels at ease here, maybe even a little at home, like he can pretend the world outside isn’t waiting to chew them up and spit them out at the first opportunity and maybe, just maybe they can exist here, the two of them together without care.

It’s an idiotic fantasy. Perhaps part of him isn’t ready to go back to the real world, to face whatever comes after.

He’s napping in a nest of cosy warmth - made of the duvet and countless blankets - limbs spread out haphazardly across the middle of the bed when he hears the soft footsteps and muted cursing which signals Dazai’s ungraceful ascent of the paddle stairs. Really, he cannot grasp how, even after more than two weeks, the idiot still can’t manage to climb a simple set of stairs without somehow injuring himself. The grumbled huff makes him bite back a smile as he feigns sleep, not quite willing to give up his comfortable reverie just yet.

He senses more than hears Dazai shifting closer, forces his body to remain relaxed and his eyes tightly shut. The prickling awareness spreads through him like an electric current, threatening his muscles to tense.

When Dazai’s hand brushes his cheek, pushing his messy hair away from his face, it almost makes him jump. He feels a little ridiculous, playing this childish game, but he bites back the urge to swallow regardless.

He can feel Dazai’s breath against his ear now, so close he imagines those lips are almost touching his skin.

“Wake up lo – Little Mafia~”

If Chuuya had been asleep he would have missed it. That tiny, innocuous stutter which makes his heart jump in his chest, threatens to cut his breath to nothing in an instant. But he’s not asleep. He wonders if his own head is playing tricks on him, letting him think he heard that quiet slip-up when in reality there is only Dazai and his usual sing-song tone. No...it wasn’t a figment of his imagination, brought on by his own desire – he can still feel Dazai’s soft exhales caressing the shell of his ear.

His heart is pounding so hard it’s a wonder Dazai can’t fucking hear it, see it attempting to hammer its way out of the confines of his chest and offer itself up on a platter for Dazai to do with as he pleases.

Chuuya’s not stupid, he knew the mess he was getting himself into from the moment he crawled into Dazai’s bed. Knew that he would end up tangled in that bastard’s web as well as his sheets, wrapped up and unable to escape...not that he ever wanted to escape. He knew from the beginning that if he gave Dazai an inch, that asshole would take a mile and Chuuya, well, he falls like he lives: fast and hard and without apology.

He set himself up for failure from the very start.

Not that he had ever planned on letting the bastard know exactly how he felt. The larger part of him is still certain that Dazai is treating this all as a game, that Chuuya is just what he always has been to that capricious bastard: an interesting diversion to be toyed with until he gets bored. He’s always held himself back from the edge, refusing to throw himself into that final drop for fear of being left behind again, betrayed again, broken again. Still, he’s not sure he’s really succeeded in stopping himself from that disastrous fall.

But this? It’s so wildly out of his comfort zone he can’t even begin to process it. That Dazai would ever concede to something so basely human as affection, as love? That in any world he could feel anything other than passing curiosity and some stilted sense of ownership over Chuuya? It’s outside of the parameters Chuuya has been comfortably floating in and now he feels suddenly bereft, hopelessly adrift with no idea how to process or react to this sudden slip, to this sudden indication that Dazai could possibly feel something other than the damned fateful connection that’s kept them drawn to each other, pulled by each other’s spinning orbit for so many years. Whether they were rivals, partners, enemies, always that thread of destiny hung heavy between them, a tie that neither of them had wanted, now suddenly he can feel it like a physical entity; pulling taut, dragging them together in ways that Chuuya hadn’t even considered possible.

He’s let the silence sit for too long. Awareness slams into him like a physical force, throwing all of his muscles into rigidity as his traitor heart gives up on its hammering and instead opts to try and crawl up his throat, choking him of words and air. He knows that Dazai knows he’s awake, knows the asshole is waiting for him to huff or grumble or growl his displeasure at being ‘woken’, yet the only noise he can force through clogged airways is a high-pitched whine.

“Chuuya –?” that low voice is like molten honey, coating Chuuya’s insides in a warmth which makes him want to squirm. “I know you’re awake.” Amusements rolls off that tongue like smoke and still Chuuya cannot unlock his limbs, cannot bring himself to move even an inch.

“Hmmm…” he manages to hum, cracked and raw and wanting...he doesn’t even know what, but he wants. All of it. Everything Dazai will give him. More.

Light kisses trail across his jaw like fire and Chuuya is baring his throat without conscious consent, some small part of him begging to be marked, to be owned, because that at least is something familiar, something he knows, something he understands.

A sharp nip just above the line of his choker leaves him gasping, dragging in air like he’s run a marathon and oxygen has never tasted so sweet.

“Chibi, if you don’t stop pretending to be asleep, I’ll run all of that hot water in the bath down the drain.” That teasing, sure tone is back, but Chuuya is still stuck somewhere in the last moments, feeling like the world has suddenly tilted on its axis and left him one small movement from hitting the ground hard.

Dazai is clearly waiting for him to answer, and Chuuya honestly feels more than a little ridiculous. He’s not some teenager experiencing his first crush. Damn it. “Huh?” He manages, intelligently.

“Wow Chuuya, you’re out of it. Do you have a fever again?” A warm hand presses against his forehead and he feels like he’s being branded, like Dazai is absorbing the thoughts right out of his skull. Not that it would help the bastard because his mind is a magnificent mess. “I mention hot water and there’s not even a stir from sleeping beauty here. What have you done with my Chibi?”

“Fuck off.” he grumbles halfheartedly, finally cracking his eyes open find Dazai’s face hovering inches above his own.

“Oh my! Such gratitude. It must be my Chibi after all~” Dazai calling him his isn’t anything new. The man is a possessive bastard when it comes down to it; he’s always been Dazai’s dog, Dazai’s hatrack, Dazai’s Chibi, Dazai’s Chuuya. But right now it’s doing funny things to Chuuya’s head. Right now it makes him want to drag Dazai down, it makes him want to stutter out a confession of his own. Self preservation be damned – he just wants.

“That’s it! I’m pulling the plug!” Dazai chuckles, poking a finger into Chuuya’s cheek, “Chuuya clearly doesn’t appreciate my efforts.” Suddenly his space is empty as Dazai moves away. He catches the infuriating man by the wrist before he can dance out of reach.

“Don’t you dare!” He manages to growl huskily, unable to convince himself to do anything other than yank Dazai down. It clearly takes the idiot by surprise as he ends up with a lapful of Dazai, sprawled over him in all that long-limbed inelegance.

“Don’t you dare…” he repeats, somewhat nonsensically, cupping Dazai’s face in his palms and dragging him into a kiss that’s more teeth and desperation than anything else.

“Chuuya?” That rough whisper of his name is enough to tell Chuuya that Dazai’s composure is cracking. “The...bath?”

Ah, yes, now that he stops to consider it, being surrounded by hot water does sound sinfully tempting right now; almost as tempting as stripping Dazai from those clothes and biting his way across those collarbones.

Well. Nobody said he had to choose.

~ ~ ~

It hadn’t taken much persuasion to cajole Dazai into joining him, in fact, he suspects the bastard had counted on it. A flash of leg and a dip of eyelashes as he feigned a shyness they both know isn’t part of Chuuya’s nature and the idiot had come perilously close to tripping over himself.

The tub is almost as absurdly large as the bed; so out of proportion with the rest of the tiny cabin it makes Chuuya wonder whether this place wasn’t used to host orgies in another life.

Sitting with his back resting against Dazai’s chest, the taller man’s legs caging him in on both sides and hands trailing wet lines across his chest, Chuuya doesn’t wonder for too long.

He leans his head back against Dazai’s shoulder, humming out an appreciative noise when Dazai’s tongue laps at his neck, catching the stray water droplets and beads of sweat on his skin. On a shelf just within reach, two glasses sit filled with...well Chuuya can’t bring himself to call it wine...but it will do. Steam rises in curls all around them: the heat of the water mixing with the drastically cooler air of the cabin to create a facade of misty obscurity.

“You’re quiet.” Dazai murmurs, effectively shattering the comfortable silence they had ensconced themselves in.

“I’m just– I was enjoying the atmosphere.” he sighs, idly drawing the kanji of his name on Dazai’s knee.

“Is that your subtle display of ownership, Little Mafia?” The innocuous nickname – one Dazai has used a thousand times – makes him swallow, even as Dazai’s chuckles reverberate through Chuuya’s own body. When he doesn’t respond with the expected rejoinder, Dazai’s hands stop their wandering. “Is something wrong?”

“No...I just –” he sighs again, not sure how to articulate his thoughts into words, not even sure it’s a good idea. “I could get used to this.”

Instead of laughing, or calling him a workaholic, or making some other kind of joke out of his admission, Dazai’s lips press against his shoulder and the other man hums, the sound falling into silence.

“I think I could as well.”

Not only is the truth in those words a shock, but there’s a sadness laced through them, one that sounds so regretful and soul-deep, he finds his head turning automatically.

Dazai’s eyes are closed, his lips remain ghosting over Chuuya’s skin.

Yes. he could get used to this.

~ ~ ~

“This is so fucked up!” Chuuya whispers, horrified as he peeks around what scant protection the decimated corner of the building they’re currently hiding behind offers to stare at the impregnable wall of undead massing in the street beyond. His stomach turns at the sight.

It’s the third such horde they’ve come across and they’ve barely reached the centre of town. All of them together create a shifting, perpetual sea of bodies in various states of decay, shuffling in slow, hypnotic circles – a ceaseless, aimless need for movement, driven by the parasitic entity which push these puppet corpses to motion. Chuuya hadn’t doubted Dazai when he’d predicted this very outcome days earlier, but to see it in reality, well it sends a shiver down his spine which has nothing to do with the cold.

Beside him, Dazai sighs, holding a map of the town and it’s surrounding road networks up against the wall and circling yet another area in red. They’ve been attempting to find a safe route through this deadly maze for hours now and from what they’ve observed, although the hordes are large, they don’t appear to be migrating in any discernible direction. Sure, there are some stragglers hanging around in the streets, which seem to unerringly make their way to the closest horde (whether there is some kind of sense, or connection, or hive mind that draws them together Chuuya has no idea, but they definitely appear to exhibit some sense of directional awareness of where those hordes lie), but the larger masses of bodies simply shift and sway and contain themselves within one area. Perhaps the parasite is able to determine the areas of the town which naturally collect the most heat? Perhaps it is leading the host bodies to those places where they are most likely to survive the cruel claws of winter. Chuuya doesn’t know, and honestly, he doesn’t much care past the point that the undead being in this precise location makes their quick passage through the town that much more difficult.

If it was just him, Dazai and the bike, they would be through and gone by now, but the supplies...getting the RV and the truck through the town in one piece already seems like an effort in futility.

There’s no guarantee that they’ll be able to make it back once they’ve broken through. The knot which grows by the minute in Chuuya’s gut is telling him that they’re only going to get one shot at this. As for what awaits them on the other side...well, that’s anyone’s guess.

If there’s one good thing about this fucked up mess, it’s that this small town at least seems to have been spared the brunt of the military’s early airstrikes. Some streets have clearly been hit worse than others, and the closer they manage to get towards the centre, the more frequently they see signs that some form of attack was launched, though the scale is nowhere near what they witnessed in Orez. When Chuuya mentions this offhandedly, as he rolls the bike to a halt, pausing at yet another intersection to check what’s ahead, Dazai’s expression turns thoughtful and he nods almost absently.

“I might be wrong but I suspect that’s because this of this town’s proximity to the facility where the parasite was first discovered. Anyone wanting to get to that site is pretty much forced to traverse this town, so throwing it into chaos and a mountain of rubble isn’t in anyone’s best interest. We have to assume that the government do intend to do something with the facility at some point, if they haven’t already made a move.”

Those words, spoken without care or inflection leave Chuuya feeling like ice has been poured down the back of his neck, leaving a cold which has nothing to do with the frigid wind. They can’t face down a whole damn military incursion, no matter how well-equipped or arrogant they might be.

He quickly decides to leave the future for future Chuuya to worry about, right now, the present is presenting more than enough problems of its own.

The straggling undead are proving to be more of an irritating hindrance than an actual threat, forcing them to stop far more often than either of them would like, to dispatch lone corpses which seem intent upon dragging their half-frozen forms to block their path. As the hours slip by, the blade of Chuuya’s knife becomes steadily more slick and stained with almost-black blood, his grumbling tirade of curses becomes an almost constant stream, and the red sections on Dazai’s map spread into a worrying blot of colour.

Finally they find what they’ve been looking for – a gap in the seemingly never-ending wall of zombies. It’s small, narrowed down to a few roads, liable to close at any time, and thus forces them into making a quick and rash decision: they will move one of the vehicles out first and then backtrack for the other. They’ve learned a few things on the road, and while travelling in convoy might look like the safer option, they also risk losing both vehicles and the entirety of their precious supplies if things were to take a turn for the worse. While the risk of running into trouble by taking the town in two runs is arguably higher, the risk of losing everything they’ve worked for up to now is the more potentially catastrophic of the two.

Still, they’ll be moving out into the unknown, with no idea what’s ahead of them and no time to scout further afield. It feels like a trap. This whole stupid town feels like a massive set up...but they both know that at this point – there’s no avoiding it. All they can do is spring whatever is waiting for them and hope that they can make it out alive.

~ ~ ~

They’d had a minor argument over whether it was more prudent to bring the truck or the RV through first. While the truck holds the greater portion of their weaponry, water and fuel stores due to its larger, less cluttered interior; the RV functions as a fully equipped, mobile base, with both water and more importantly, heat. Chuuya has no desire to end up like one of those damn ice-cube zombies. Dazai had won that argument, and it’s not like Chuuya really disagrees with his reasoning, but driving away had felt like a betrayal and a goodbye.

They had managed to get the truck safely out of town - without running into trouble of either the human or the corpse variety - and onto an inconsequential side-street, which, according to Dazai’s map lead only to a small industrial estate surrounded by fields and small patches of scrubland, as far away from the main road as they could get without having to cross the damn thing. Somehow Dazai had managed to squeeze the truck behind a giant hedgerow, at the very back of the industrial warehouses, concealed from view by the fronds of evergreen and the looming trees knotted with brambles and brown withered ferns. It’s not the best hiding place, but it’s all they can come up with right now.

Chuuya can’t help the growing uneasy feeling that this is all going a little too well, that they’ve managed a little too easily.

Now he’s zipping down the empty streets they’d marked out as a safe route as fast as he can push it without the bike threatening to throw them both off. Dazai’s hands are clamped around his waist in a death grip, the idiot’s face is pressed tight into his shoulder and Chuuya can occasionally hear him whining piteously about being tortured when he takes the corners a little too fast.

He can’t help it, his instincts are screaming at him – a blaring buzzing siren that something isn’t right, that something colossally bad is about to happen. The thing is, when his instincts go off like that...well, they’re rarely ever wrong.

They both hear it at the same time.

It starts off as a low, vibrating rumble, barely audible over the thrum of the bike’s engine. It quickly turns into a dull, unmistakable roar. Dazai’s grip tightens on his waist, tapping out the signal for an immediate stop even as Chuuya wraps his fingers around the brake.

As soon as he twists in his seat to look at Dazai, his fears are confirmed: they’re fucked.

“We’re about to have front row seats to one of emo-guy’s stage plays, huh?” he grumbles sourly in an attempt to lighten the mood and is rewarded with Dazai’s lips quirking into a wry smile.

“Something like that.” Chuuya watches Dazai scramble off the bike, head cocked and judging the distance of the oncoming rumble. “Let’s hope we can avoid landing ourselves a starring role.”

Dazai’s eyes roam around restlessly, blank and vacuous without really noticing anything, and Chuuya’s fingers itch to reach out, but he doesn’t dare interrupt whatever plans are currently brewing, whirling and forming in that genius brain. Instead he climbs off the bike and waits - with uncharacteristic patience - for Dazai’s eyes to clear. When they finally do, that unnerving dark gaze is suddenly fixed upon the bike. Chuuya knows instantly that he’s not going to like what comes next.

“Can you do something to this that will make it undriveable? Something that can be fixed again in a hurry?” Chuuya looks from the bike to Dazai dubiously.

“I’m not a mechanic, Dazai.”

Dazai’s eyebrows raise, disappearing into his hairline in a way that makes Chuuya scowl. “Obviously, but you’ve been driving deathtraps like this for years, surely you know something about them?”

He huffs his exasperation because plenty of people drive fucking cars and don’t know a single thing other than how to operate the damn pedals, why the fuck should he be any different? “I’m not a wheelman either! I –” a memory surfaces then, of times long past. Of sitting in a workshop with his feet kicked up on a stack of tyres, inhaling the smell of oil and rubber, grease and cigarettes. Of laughing and joking with a group of friends who no longer exist as anything more than ghosts inside his head.

He remembers a conversation, recalls Albatross fiddling around with one of the bikes, playing with a screwdriver before coming away with the entire gear lever between his fingers seconds later.

“There’s been some issues recently with thieves trying to steal imported beauties like this.” He’d run his fingers almost lovingly across the sleek, shiny surface of the chassis before tossing the metal contraption into the air without a care in the world. Always so blasé, so at ease with the world around him. “We started off just pulling a couple spark plugs from the engines, but they wised up pretty quick. So now we gotta remove the shifters from all of the bikes here and wheel lock them to the floor, just to stop them going walkabout in the night.” a lazy shrug, “You’d think the threat of biting the curb would be enough of a deterrent, right? But these idiots are desperate for a hit of quick cash. Enough to go up against the Mafia I guess. I’m sure Boss will have them dealt with when things quiet down.”

It had resulted in a lesson on how to remove spark plugs, batteries and gear levers from bikes, ending with Chuuya’s fingers covered in grease and the ever-jovial Albatross elbowing him in the ribs so hard, Chuuya had winced, then almost decked the idiot in the face. “You should remember this, Chuuya-kun, you never know...it might come in useful one day!”

“The gear lever.” Chuuya mutters quietly, “I remember.”

“What?” Dazai’s eyes are on him, sharp, calculating, though he doesn’t seem to have picked up on Chuuya’s lapse down memory lane. He’s more than a little relieved.

“If you have a screwdriver buried in Doraemon’s pouch back there, I can take off the gear lever. Without that, even if someone can start the bike, they won’t be able to move it.” Dazai is already arm deep into the pack, rummaging around until he comes up with a screwdriver, tossing it at Chuuya without warning.

“Good. Do it quickly. Then get it hidden, we don’t have much time.”

Shoving the memories aside, Chuuya kneels down on the asphalt and gets to work. The smell of road-warmed rubber and oil leaves a bittersweet taste on his tongue.

~ ~ ~

“THIS AREA IS NOW UNDER MILITARY JURISDICTION. ALL LIVING PERSONS ARE ORDERED TO EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY AND PRESENT THEMSELVES TO THE NEAREST PATROL WHERE THEY WILL BE PROCESSED. THIS AREA WILL BE PURGED IN ONE HOUR.” The volume of the loudspeakers, ringing out from every direction, all slightly off-timed, leave a jarring note lingering in Chuuya’s ears which makes his head hurt.

They’re almost in the centre of the town at this point, dipping in and out of the spaces between buildings, dodging tanks and armoured vehicles - with massive metal plates strapped to the side of them like enormous shields - followed by an endless stream of foot soldiers running a methodical search through every single building at each frustrating turn.

They’re everywhere. It’s like someone has poked a stick into an ants’ nest just to see rows upon rows of tiny black forms run an angry, coordinated attack, boiling out of every tiny hole until the ground is covered in moving bodies and there’s no path to a quick escape. He knows Dazai’s plan is to effectively move inside the lines, to get to a place already scoured and left behind where they can hole up and essentially just wait it out.

It’s a risk. It has them running in what feels like circles, trying to slip through the rapidly shrinking gaps in the never-ending rush of troops.

Every damn move is a risk.

Chuuya’s getting tired of this cat and mouse game.

“You don’t think they’re going to fire this whole place to the ground?” Chuuya had asked as they’d crouched behind a wall, watching yet another squad of soldiers march in close formation down the opposite street, more and more bodies filing out of the buildings on either side to join in ranks until there’s a veritable sea of humanity forcing its way through.

“I don’t think that’s the objective here.” Dazai had replied, tense and alert, motioning Chuuya with one curt hand gesture as he sprinted from one scant area of cover to the next – always dodging out of sight with barely a breath to spare. “I think they mean to keep this place passable, it’s basically a choke point for anyone wishing to access the facility. If they want to get up there then they’re pretty much guaranteed to pass through here, unless they’re taking a huge detour from the west, where it seems the government already have a pretty decent hold; if the Commander’s intelligence is to be believed.”

Another quick dash had put them where they are now, at the entrance to a large square, with roads splitting off in five directions, lined with the mostly intact remains of what must have been the town’s shopping district. Dazai pauses for a moment, scanning quickly left and right but there’s no sign of any patrols moving out on any of the roads they can see from here, and the wailing of the loudspeakers are fainter: echoing and muted. The idiot slumps down against the wall and sighs heavily before continuing where he left off. “If that’s the case then this entire exercise is about rounding up any people who might be lingering here, so that they can’t hinder the movement of troops and supplies during any future excursion, and to exterminate the hordes while they’re sluggish and congregated into such large groups. Once they’re done, they’ll block the roads leading into the town from the south, leaving only that west transit route open, but the town will stay intact in case they need to move troops through it at a later time.”

“Messing up the roads and taking chunks out of the buildings will make it difficult if they’re planning for a long game.” Chuuya nods. It makes sense, though why they’re doing this right now doesn’t make the slightest bit of sense in any terms other than to cause them – the prize fucking guinea pigs of this entire fucked up story – unanticipated problems. He curses the day that damn author got involved with the Detective Agency.

“Right.” Dazai agrees. “So they won’t fire the buildings, but they will search them meticulously before they pull off whatever it is they are planning. Now we’re behind the line, we just need to find an inconspicuous space and hole up for an hour or two until it’s over.”

~ ~ ~

They’re making their way cautiously across the intersection and out onto the plaza itself when they see the bodies, concealed behind two vehicles which were obviously involved in a collision and have been long-since abandoned. Three men lie in a pool of sticky blood, two undead joining the scene to add the stench of rotten flesh to the pervading smell of bowels which have opened in death. They stop only long enough to divest the men quickly of their weapons and are about to step around the mess of blood and torn flesh when Chuuya watches the chest of one man rise and fall suddenly in an obviously painful breath. The body spasms, heaving for an instant before dropping back to the ground, unconscious.

It’s a split second decision on Chuuya’s part, to drag the man away from the scene of carnage, hauling him towards the modestly tall building in the central square Dazai had indicated moments before. When the asshole merely raises an eyebrow at him in question but doesn’t deign to lend him any assistance whatsoever, Chuuya shrugs, “He might have something useful to say when he wakes up.”

Instead of refuting Chuuya’s claim, he eyes the man’s hand which is steadily dripping blood from the bite wound on his palm, now mangled, boasting a missing chunk of flesh and one finger torn almost clean off. Black track lines area already creeping beneath his uniform sleeve. “He’s not going to last long.”

“He doesn’t need to.”

~ ~ ~

They pry open the seized elevator doors after wrestling with the damn things for almost five minutes and finding they’ve been wedged shut, from the inside. The shaft is pitch black, a gaping mouth waiting to swallow them in darkness. It fills Chuuya with a sense of trepidation and when Dazai laughs at him, he’s tempted to kick the bastard through the gap and watch him plummet to his death. When he tells the asshole as much, Dazai just laughs harder.

He’s not exactly sure how he manages to get the dead-weight body of a man far larger than him down to the basement level of what was once a department store, but once Dazai ties the limp body to his back – making lewd and frankly horrifying jokes about Chuuya’s supposed necrophilia kink the entire time - somehow he manages. He heaves the body to the floor with a snarl and rounds on Dazai, only to find the idiot already with his hands raised placatingly and a good six feet away, like he knew Chuuya would try to bite him as soon his hands were free. He rolls his eyes for good measure and gestures for Dazai to give him a torch, which the other man does, tossing it over almost reluctantly as if he’s slightly worried Chuuya might just launch it at his head.

The thought crosses Chuuya’s mind.

Shining the thin beam in a full circle, it’s clear that this basement was – as expected – some kind of storeroom for excess stock. What’s surprising are the signs of recent habitation: sleeping bags and discarded tins litter the floor amongst a flimsy barricade of shelves. What must have happened to the previous occupants becomes all too immediately obvious as a gurgling rasp fills the silence and halting movement bends the shadows dancing at the edge of the torchlight. Leaving half of his attention on the slowly shuffling corpse – hindered as it is by the maze of fallen shelves – he shifts his eyes to Dazai, watching his hands flick through a sharp set of signs before tipping his head in acknowledgement.

He moves noiselessly to the right as Dazai is swallowed by the shadows on the left, only the beam of light moving steadily away giving any indication of his presence.

The needn’t have bothered. After a quick search, it’s evident that the single woman – her black-veined but not totally putrid body now lying dead at Dazai’s feet - had been had been alone at her time of death, though the amount of rubbish, various nests of blankets and scattered clothes indicates that there were probably others living here at some point. Perhaps they’ve already gone with the military willingly. Chuuya is just about to ask his idiot partner for the thoughts he absolutely won’t bother to offer freely, when a small cough followed by a shuddering moan of pain comes from the direction of the elevator.

He can feel Dazai’s amused gaze on him, despite not being able to see his expression. It’s a heavy, though not entirely unwelcome weight, pinning him down. Sometimes he doesn’t mind being caught, but right now it feels more like a curse.

“Looks like our tag-along has woken up.” Dazai murmurs, brushing against Chuuya’s shoulder as he passes. “No rest for the wicked, Chibi.”

“I must be so fucking wicked.” He mutters acerbically, only to have Dazai’s low chuckle echo mockingly back to him.

“Well, you are Mafia after all~”

Chuuya clicks his tongue in annoyance, but there’s really nothing he can say to refute that. Nothing that wouldn’t dig into old wounds at least, and now is not the time to open that particular vial of poison.

The man’s grey eyes are bright in his agony, and as Dazai sends the torch beam across him to bathe him in its glaring white light, he stares at his ruined hand in utter horror.

“We can give you something for the pain.” Chuuya begins, cutting what he knows will be a protest from Dazai with a single gesture. Dazai huffs something doubtlessly impolite under his breath but obediently sticks his hand into one of the pack’s side pouches to pull out a bottle of pills, carefully tapping two out into his palm. The asshole then proceeds to hand them off to the soldier without so much as offering him water, shooting Chuuya a petty smile that leaves him rolling his eyes. The soldier doesn’t seem to care, tossing the pills into his mouth before pulling a canteen from his hip and taking a heavy swallow.

Chuuya wonders if it’s really just water in there, or something much harder. The solder gives him a brusque nod of thanks but makes no move to initiate conversation.

“Your name?” Chuuya asks pointedly, seating himself cross-legged on the floor a good eight feet from their ‘prisoner’, not trusting enough to get within range.

The soldier watches him warily for a moment, as if weighing the cost of his answer before shrugging. “Fortey. Corporal Lloyd Fortey, Third Infantry Division. And you two?”

Chuuya shakes his head, “That doesn’t matter.”

“Figures.” The man lets out a pained grunt.

“How about you tell us what the plan is here, Corporal?” Dazai cuts in and the soldier’s eyes dart quickly between them.

“You’d be best to give yourselves over before time runs out.” the solder says finally, taking another swig from the canteen.

“Don’t try and feed us that enigmatic bullshit, Corporal.” Chuuya can’t help the bite in his tone, fed up of being lead around in the dark. “Tell us what you know, or don’t. You’re done for either way.”

“I’m done for either way.” the soldier agrees mildly, and Chuuya has to admit his respect grows at the man’s apparent acceptance of his own death. “Being as that’s the case, why would I tell you anything?”

“Well, we can make your death easy. We can even make sure your corpse won’t get back up and start wandering around. Or –” Chuuya pauses, lapsing into deliberate silence to allow the soldier’s mind to begin filling in the gaps and unspoken words for himself.

“Or?” the soldier parrots, uneasily.

“Or we can make however many days, or weeks you have left seem like an endless eternity of suffering.” Chuuya sighs. “I’d really rather not, but we’re kind of at a disadvantage here, Corporal.”

“I’ve been told that starving to death is a particularly degrading way to die.” Dazai comments offhandedly. Chuuya watches the soldier’s face pale in visible degrees. “But left in the pitch black...terrifying don’t you think?” Chuuya can’t help but notice that Dazai doesn’t sound terrified in the slightest, on the contrary, that familiar brand of apathy blankets his every word. “Towards the end you lose all function over your body. With your muscles literally being consumed to keep your organs functioning, your rational mind starts to malfunction. Perhaps you’ll even fancy taking a bite out of that corpse over there before the parasite has chance to subvert you. Wouldn’t that be sickeningly poetic?”

“Okay.” the soldier croaks out, and now he looks a little green around the edges, like he might pass out or vomit if Dazai carries on with his particularly vivid description. “Okay. I’ll talk, just, promise me you won’t go back on your word, you’ll give me a clean end.”

“Oh, we’re not monsters, Corporal.” Dazai smiles and the expression does nothing but make him seem just a little more inhuman.

“Oi, shithead, stop that. He’s agreed already.” Chuuya growls tiredly and watches the expression melt from Dazai’s face as if it had never existed, covered with blank detachment once more. He ignores the idiot in favour of getting this over with as quickly as possible. “Start talking.”

The soldier nods, swallows and begins to talk. “Our orders were simple: clear the town of all survivors and bring them back for processing; then move all of the Turned we could find into one central location, blocking them off from the rest of the town.”

“We were there when the military took down Orez.” Dazai steps up behind Chuuya, close enough that his spine straightens at the proximity, close enough that the bastard leans down and puts his hands on Chuuya’s shoulders, tipping his weight forwards. “We’ve passed through other places that you people have gotten to first. You don’t have the same equipment here, nor the same firepower. This isn’t the same as then. So why the sudden change in tactics?”

The soldier stays silent for a long minute, swallowing another mouthful of whatever is in his canteen before staring down at the wound still sluggishly oozing blood on his palm. “I’m just a Corporal, I’m not privy to the information the higher-ups get, but rumour among the rank and file is that a war’s coming. Stupid don’t you think? At a time like this, when the whole world’s going to shit, some jumped up prick thinks they can use the situation to their advantage and invade rather than offer aid or sorting out the mess in their own backyards.” grey eyes lift to regard Chuuya with something flat and angry, “I don’t know if I believe it, but troops and supplies have been moving north for weeks now. We weren’t told the strategic value this town holds, but for whatever reason they don’t want to risk losing access north from Orez.”

“So your orders were only to clear the place out, not destroy it.” Dazai nods, his expression morphing into something slightly smug - it’s in line with that bastard’s earlier predictions after all.

“Clear it out and hold it.” the soldier nods. Chuuya tips his head back to share a glance with Dazai because hold it means that the military presence is here to stay and that is more than likely to cause them problems.

“Why the sudden drive to force all of the people into the safe zones? What’s the goal there?” Chuuya asks, it’s something he’s been curious about for a while, because the methods this government are using, the strong-arming of every individual they come across – it’s suspicious.

The man shrugs one shoulder, “They’re spinning it as an ongoing rescue mission,” his lips twist into a frown, “but I don’t know if that’s the whole truth. Our orders are to remove anyone we find and bring them to Safe Haven, if they object we are to take them by force. Perhaps they really believe they’re saving people, but if you ask me, I think it has more to do with starving the parasite of fresh bodies. Once the Turned reach a certain stage of decomposition they lose most of their mobility and become less of a risk. If we can effectively starve their supply of new bodies, the Turned will rot away to nothing within a year or so. The higher-ups might not care about the casualties, but they do care about the effect a long-term war against the Turned will have on the country. The longer it goes on, the more risk there is of rebellion, right? If there’s one thing a government is scared of, it’s losing all their power.”

“An interesting concept.” Dazai hums, from above him, fingers biting into Chuuya’s shoulders hard enough to make him shift in discomfort. Instantly the pressure releases and Dazai gives an apologetic squeeze. “Though the more people they cram into these ‘Safe Havens’ the more likely it is to create a wave of unrest. You’re smarter than you look, Corporal.”

“Thanks, I think?” the man replies sourly.

“Oh, it was a compliment.” Chuuya’s pretty sure it wasn’t. “Now, you mentioned that the goal here is to move all of the...you call them ‘Turned’ –?” the man nods and Dazai shrugs, “Odd choice of terminology. Very well, your orders are to move all of the Turned to a single location and barricade them in. Are they to be exterminated?”

Chuuya has a feeling Dazai already knows the answer to his own question, nonetheless his own stomach sinks when the soldier shakes his head, grim-faced. “No, orders are to barricade them in but keep them alive. They were to be used as a ‘deterrent’.”

“A deterrent for what I wonder.” Dazai mutters lowly, though when Chuuya tips his head back once again, that fake smile is still firmly in place and the idiot’s walls are most definitely up. “And where exactly were the Turned to be contained?”

The soldier sighs, “They were to be driven to the five-point intersection at the centre of town.”

Oh. Oh no.

“Dazai –” he hisses, but Dazai’s fingers dig into his shoulders again, warning him to silence.

“And then?” Dazai presses as Chuuya curls his own fingers hard around his knees, because suddenly he notices the muted, vibrating roar of the heavy armoured vehicles echoing down the elevator shaft – a noise his brain had apparently decided to filter out until now.

“The intersections will be barricaded off, sealing the Turned within that block. I’m only guessing here, but I assume if an incursion were to take place, the barricade on one road could be removed and the entire horde could be forced down into on section of the city in a concentrated attack.” The soldier’s suddenly sharp gaze moves once again between Chuuya and Dazai and understanding dawns on his face. “Ah, that’s where we are right now, isn’t it?”

“Corporal Fortey, you are indeed smarter than you look.” Dazai murmurs before Chuuya can nod, neither confirming nor denying the man’s suspicions. “After the Turned have been contained, what were the orders? Will the town remain under occupation?”

The soldier shakes his head, a contemplative frown creasing his forehead which makes him look far older than his obviously middling years. “No, the root road to the south was to be blocked and a squad will be detailed there to run messages between lines, but there’s no occupation order on the town. We were to retreat back to the western supply line, the northern root road.”

Dazai hums a distracted noise as Chuuya’s heart drops to somewhere near his boots, because if what this man has said is correct, well, the RV is now firmly behind enemy lines. There’s no hope of retrieving it.

Grey eyes fix on Chuuya and the soldier’s entire countenance becomes one of sombre acceptance. “Looks like you two are just as done for as me.”

“Ah, don’t write us off just yet.” Dazai’s tone is all light joviality, entirely convincing if not for the dead blank slate of his eyes. “We’re quite resourceful you know.”

The soldier chuckles dryly, “I can see that.” his eyes cast down to his ruined hand once again and the smile drops from his face as he lets out a long, whistling exhale. “There’s nothing else I can tell you. I’ve outlived my usefulness. Now, will you make good on your word?” his eyes are on Chuuya again, as if the man has picked him out as the more likely candidate to honour their agreement. A good judge of character as well as smart.

“You’re not going to ask us to take you back up there and leave you for your friends?” Chuuya asks, slightly surprised

The soldier shakes his head sadly, “If you were forced to choose between being executed by your own comrades – men and women you’ve eaten with and laughed with, fought with and cried with - or by strangers, which would you choose?”

Chuuya blinks slowly, rolling the question around in his head before understanding hits and suddenly he feels a sense of kinship with this soldier, a selfless man who will seemingly offer up his own life here and now rather than force his friends to be the ones to pull the trigger in an effort to grant himself a few more miserable hours. “I understand.”

“I thought you would.” the soldier replies, his eyes too-knowing. They’re the eyes of a person who has been forced to pull the trigger on a friend. Chuuya knows them all too well. He swallows hard, forcing the rasp in his throat back down as he cants his head up to stare at Dazai, who is watching him with an unreadable expression.

“We can just shoot him, right? Cutting his throat doesn’t seem right.”

“Feeling chivalrous, Chuuya?” Dazai shakes his head and Chuuya can only grit his teeth against a snarl of annoyance because any hint of compassion has guttered out to be replaced with that impenetrable wall of apathy that Dazai chooses to armour himself in. “The walls should absorb the sound if that what you’re worried about...and with all the noise out there, we could probably use a bazooka and nobody would notice, Chibi.”

Chuuya pulls his gun from its harness, nodding absently, “Right. Good.” He turns his attention back to the soldier, whose eyes are fixed unblinkingly on the weapon.

“Any last words?” Chuuya asks softly, checking the clip and flicking the safety off.

“My family is already gone. Just make it quick.” the solider pulls off his hat, revealing a head of short-cropped black hair – setting it down carefully upon the floor - and tugs down his neck-guard, taking one last gulp from his canteen and wincing a little as he pushes himself into a more upright position.

Chuuya nods, there’s no point in further words. Pulling himself to his feet he takes one quick look at Dazai who cocks his head to one side, clearly asking if Chuuya wants him to take care of things here. He shakes his head, he has enough blood already on his hands, what’s one more name to add to the list? Pressing the muzzle against the soldier’s head he takes one steady breath before pulling the trigger.

The single shot rings loud through the basement, echoing from the walls and bouncing back as the Corporal’s body slumps to the side, yet another corpse in this world ruled by the dead.

~ ~ ~

The rumbling has ceased and an eerie quiet pervades over the basement as Chuuya watches the spreading stain of blood surround the dead soldier’s head where it lies upon the concrete floor.

“What are we going to do?” he blurts out when the absence of sound becomes an oppressive heavy thing, something he cannot stand for another second. “If he was right then –”

“First we need to determine if he was right.” Dazai interrupts gesturing to the elevator shaft with one hand. “I think it’s time we go and take a look outside, don’t you?”

The climb up the emergency access ladder feels like an eternity, despite the fact that Chuuya is no longer carrying the added weight of a body upon his back. When he finally reaches the gap in the doors leading to the ground floor level of the store, he has to pause for a moment just to breathe. If he’s honest with himself, he already knows what they’re about to find waiting for them outside. His instincts have been shrieking their discontent from the moment the soldier had mentioned the intersection.

Sure enough, as he and Dazai edge their way carefully between shelves stripped bare, towards the glass-fronted wall of the shop which leads out onto the square, Chuuya’s mouth goes dry.

They’re everywhere.

It’s like a moving wall of bodies. A carpet of rotten, wasted, mottled-grey corpses of all shapes and sizes wandering in jarring, twitching movements, circling lethargically and yet incessantly, without pause or consideration.

There are hundreds just in the section of the main plaza they can see, possibly over a thousand.

There’s no escape.

Set slightly back from every intersecting road leading to the central square itself, tall, smooth metal barriers loom in a forbidding, impenetrable wall. The same shield-like sheets they had seen strapped to the exterior of the tanks and armoured vehicles, which had come rolling through the city hours earlier. He had supposed they were poor attempts at armour, but now he realises his mistake, it was just a convenient way to transport such large and heavy barricades through the town.

Whoever is pulling the strings behind these companies is smart, Chuuya notes, as he assesses the barrier with a practised eye. They’ve used the natural defence of the surrounding buildings to maximum effect, the storefronts lining the streets continue in an unbroken chain - save for those on the central square itself – providing an easy way for them to block the thoroughfares without needing an excessively long section of the barricading metal which would render it less sturdy and more easily broken through under the weight and pressure of continuous assault by a large horde.

From the windows on three sides of the store, it’s clear that the barricades cover an entire block on every side of the central plaza, containing all five intersections. As the dead soldier had said, it would be laughably simple for the military to open up one section, using the mobile barricades to drive the whole horde in whichever direction they chose, either to contain them, or set them loose upon an enemy.

Heartless bastards, using the corpses of their citizens as a weapon.

Their situation seems more hopeless the longer Chuuya spends staring out of the window.

This building, set in the central square and an structure entirely to itself, has no direct neighbours, nothing of similar height they could use to travel across the rooftops to safety.

No. There’s no neat and easy way out. No avoiding the inevitable.

They are truly trapped, a tiny lone island amidst a vast shifting sea of undead.

~ ~ ~

Dazai has been silent for too long and a premonitory feeling is crawling up Chuuya’s spine the longer the silence sits and stretches.

“You have a plan brewing in that stupid head of yours, don’t you?”

Dazai jerks at the sound of his voice and while it’s not unusual for the bastard to become lost in his own thoughts, it is unusual for him to not notice someone else’s close proximity. That idiot has always had a preternatural sense for danger after all. The way Dazai’s eyes blink at him, looking a little resigned – it’s concerning.

“...Yes.” Dazai murmurs finally and those dark eyes are locked on his own now, unblinking, fathomless and beckoning him into the void.

Chuuya huffs out a long sigh, stitching the threads of his patience together long enough to utter, “I’m not going to like it, am I?”

Instead of answering, Dazai hums a noncommittal sound and with that single noise, Chuuya knows he’s not going like whatever rotten scheme that idiot is piecing together in that stupid genius head.

~ ~ ~

“No. No fucking way!” Chuuya storms, whisper-hissing his vehement rejection – which is equal parts fury and fear – as Dazai watches him with a calm patience that’s quite frankly infuriating.

“Chuuya –” Even the asshole’s tone is placating, soft and even and Chuuya hates it, hates him in this moment.

“No! You cannot be serious!?” his own voice has a snarling edge, bitter and afraid and desperate and he doesn’t even care that the emotions are practically leaking out of him, sticky-thick and coating them both in an almost palpable, suffocating blanket of denial.

“Can you think of a better idea, Chuuya?” It’s too soft, too resigned, and in that moment Chuuya wants nothing more than to punch the bastard because this isn’t fair, this isn’t how they operate. Dazai doesn’t put himself in danger and leave Chuuya to just watch him go...except…

Except a black tower and a rat and a fucking dragon come to mind. A vague memory of Dazai’s fingers brushing his cheek in the middle of a damn singularity and “Did you use Corruption because you believed in me?” and oh...maybe he does.

“There isn’t any other way, Chibi. Do you trust me?” Still so mild, it makes him shiver, makes him stare into those rust-brown, serious eyes.

“You know that I do.” Chuuya croaks helplessly, because what else can he say?

“Then trust that I can do this.” it’s coaxing, almost pleading.

He grits his teeth against the ‘I can’t’ that tries desperately to escape, knowing his doubts will do neither of them any good. Still, he can’t quite choke them all down. “How do you even know this will work?”

“I don’t.” Dazai admits easily, as if he isn’t proposing to walk out to his almost-certain death. “I’m making an educated guess on how these things distinguish the living from the dead based on observation.” How can the bastard be so utterly calm? When Chuuya’s fingers are clenched into fists so hard he can feel his bones creak. “Their method of hunting appears to be based on auditory and scent processing and to a lesser extent, visual perception of a target. On those assumptions, if I can effectively disguise my scent, hold my breath and significantly decrease my heartbeat, I should be able to make it through without detection.”

“Should.” Chuuya repeats pointedly, because they really have no idea how these creatures work, or what operates those minds which appear almost hive-like.

“Should.” Dazai agrees, as if it’s of no consequence whatsoever, as if one wrong move won’t end with the idiot being ripped to literal pieces. “Once I’m over, I can create enough of a commotion to draw the majority of the horde to me, while you skip over the closer blockade. You’ll have to take the pack, I don’t want to draw attention for something stupid like the wrong outline, but you’re fast, you’ll be fine.” As if Chuuya is concerned about himself in this moment.

“I don’t fucking like it.” he growls, hitting his fist against his own knee in frustration.

“I don’t like it much either, Chibi, but your objection is noted.” Dazai’s hand shifts to cover his, fingers stroking across Chuuya’s gloves.

“There really isn’t another way?” His voice sounds small and he hates it, hates everything.

“No.” Suddenly Dazai is pressing a notebook into his hands and Chuuya is horrified.

“No!” He knows what this book is, even if he’s never seen a single word written upon the pages. Dazai’s contingency plans; not the ones they’ve made together, no, the ones Dazai has made in the case of his death. “I won’t!”

“Chuuya…” Dazai’s fingers around the book are white and Chuuya knows exactly how much this is costing him: to admit that his plan might fail. “I have every intention of getting out of this alive. Do you believe me?” Chuuya can only nod, not trusting his voice. “Then I need you to take this.”

Defeated, he reaches out. When his own fingers wrap around the book’s cover, he almost expects it to burn. It doesn’t, but it feels like the weight of a life resting in his hands.

~ ~ ~

“You look ridiculous.” Chuuya huffs as his fingers move in familiar patterns, speaking completely different words.

Don’t you dare leave me here alone, Mackerel bastard.

“Just admit you have a thing for a man in uniform, Chuu-ya~” Dazai is decked in the tactical uniform of the dead soldier at Chuuya’s insistence. The assault vest, helmet, arm, neck and leg guards will offer at least a scant measure of protection, though they both know that if Dazai is dragged down he has no chance. Chuuya has to admit, the lanky bastard might have had a point under different circumstances.

I’ll be fine, Chibi.

“You wish! Ugh...and the stench is worse!” It’s nauseatingly true. Chuuya cannot get the smell out of his nose. He’s been exposed to the stink of corpses more times than he can count, but the sensation of pushing your hands into the disintegrating body of a human to pull up the sludgy loops of entrails, just to wipe that disgusting mess all over your partner? Well, it’s a sight and smell he’ll never forget. His gloves lie in ruined testament to the procedure, left at the bottom of the elevator shaft beyond hope of salvage. Still his hands feel filthy.

You’d better come back to me shithead, or I’ll hunt you down.

“Does that mean I don’t get a good luck kiss?” Dazai pouts and Chuuya would almost feel bad, were it not for the thought of getting that shit in his mouth making him feel physically sick.

I’ll always come back for you, Chuuya.

It’s an almost perfect role-reversal and Chuuya’s not sure how to handle the sentiment coming from Dazai. All he can do is close his eyes, grit his teeth and nod.

~ ~ ~

It’s a different form of helplessness, sitting with his back to the wall, watching through the glass as Dazai begins his agonisingly slow shuffle into the waiting jaws of death, closing in on all sides to envelope him in a rotten mass. Chuuya can barely drag in a breath around the lump of his heart: stuck somewhere halfway up his throat in an attempt to crawl it’s way to freedom. He cannot tear his eyes away from the scene, for fear that even a single blink will lose Dazai to the horde.

It’s a different form of helplessness, his fingernails bite into his palms and he can feel the tremor run all the way up his arm. The book is clutched tightly in his other hand, he hasn’t been able to let it go, hasn’t been able to pack it away, this one piece of Dazai he can hold onto. He’d opened it, as Dazai had made his final preparations, walking a slow circuit around the ground floor of the store, counting steps as he took up a jerky, shambling movement as close an imitation to the undead as he could make it, timing his steps, his breaths, the very beats of his stupid fucking heart.

Chuuya, if you’re reading this, it means I didn’t make it. I’m sorry I broke our promise –

Chuuya had slammed the book shut, unable to read further.

It’s a different form of helplessness, and it leaves him feeling impotent and useless. The undead are beginning to surround Dazai now, and even though the bastard is tall, the sheer number of bodies pressing and moving and stumbling through the street beyond the window makes it difficult to keep track. It’s only the helmet that’s somewhat easy to pick out amongst the crowd, and even that isn’t unique, a fair few soldiers have already joined the ranks of wandering corpses it would seem. Chuuya finds himself holding his breath when any shambling rotting form comes too close to Dazai, his whole body tensing in anticipation of that lunge, of those clawing hands reaching out to grab and tear and rend.

But they don’t.

Dazai slips through their ranks like a shadow, a chameleon shifting its skin to blend with its surroundings until it becomes nothing more than another leaf swaying in the breeze. Never quite going against the natural flow of the horde – ever shifting and circling in those odd mesmeric waves – he is nonetheless managing to move unerringly towards his target. Dazai’s a third of the way across the distance already, still surrounded by an alarming knot of bodies which, thankfully, appear to be taking no more notice of him than they do of their other neighbours. No faces turn towards him, no bony fingers reach out to take a grip, no clamour or commotion sets off a ripple within the mass.

When Dazai is halfway across what seems like an entire endless expanse - but is, in fact, probably only around two hundred metres – Chuuya’s heart begins to stop it’s frantic staccato beat and drop back into the cage of his ribs. Perhaps he was concerned over nothing? Perhaps he should have more faith that his idiot partner knows what he’s doing, his strategies have never exactly failed them in the past after all. He takes deep, steadying breaths as he runs his finger across the cover of the book - cursing the day Dazai started writing the stupid thing - before he tucks it carefully – so carefully – inside the pack. He hauls it up onto his shoulders, feeling the weight settle and adjusting the straps so that it fits snugly, but with enough give that he can throw the whole thing off his shoulders and cast it aside if necessary.

He keeps one eye on Dazai as he checks his weapons one last time, the handle of the long-bladed knife offering comforting familiarity, the gun in its harness offering a last resort.

Dazai has less than fifty metres to go now.

Twenty.

Ten.

Things go wrong as soon as Dazai’s pace changes, switching from that stilted, jerky, uneven gait, to long-legged loping strides as he attempts to gather enough momentum to make the jump. Chuuya watches in frozen, impotent dread as the trajectory of the horde changes instantaneously, shifting from their listless wandering to something focussed and intent. Bodies turn and arms begin to stretch, the rasp of a thousand rattling snarls echo across the streets.

Chuuya can’t even stay to watch, this is his only chance, he has to move, has to trust. It takes every ounce of willpower he possesses to force himself away from the window.

Chuuya slips out of a fire escape and into the street beyond, pressing his back to the wall as his focus shifts from the few still oblivious undead - not part of the main mass’ sudden convergence upon the other side of the plaza – to the opposite street, where he can just about make out the form of Dazai, scrabbling up the side of the smooth metal barrier. He has to move, right now, but his feet feel rooted to the ground and he can’t look away, watches one of Dazai’s arms slip in its grip and his body slide downwards as he clings on with one hand. He can barely make out what’s happening but still he’s transfixed in helpless, wide-eyed realisation, as the first undead to catch up with Dazai’s flight reach and stretch and grab and jerk, threatening to dislodge Dazai completely.

He cannot help the cry that rips from his throat. “DAZAI!”

He recognises his idiotic mistake instantly, because now every corpse in the vicinity is turning to train their sights on him.

“Fuck.” he mutters under his breath, unable to stop himself from taking one last look – just in time to see Dazai heave himself up onto the barrier - before he’s off in a flat-out sprint. There’s no reason for stealth now, not a second to waste on fear or worry, no time to calculate or plan ahead. There’s only the crack of his boots on the asphalt, his instincts guiding him and the driving need to be faster.

He can hear Dazai’s ringing shouts in his ears, almost drowned out by the unearthly rattle of collapsed lungs and constricted airways.

He doesn’t have as great of a distance to cross as Dazai, even though he’d argued that Dazai’s path was the more dangerous, the idiot had insisted that Chuuya would be the one at greater risk. He’s grateful for that insistence now as his eyes catch the movement of the corpses closest to the barrier moving in a line to intercept. He doesn’t have time to incapacitate them, he doesn’t even have time to draw his gun and shoot them. If he slows, even for a second, they’ll be on him from every side. He makes a split second decision, throwing himself into a roll in the space between two advancing corpses and hoping he has enough momentum to carry him and the pack forwards. He comes to his feet stumbling a little, the pack threatening to overbalance him, but far enough outside of the range of undead fingers to regain his footing and launch forwards once again.

Ten metres.

He loosens the straps on the pack.

Seven metres. He drags it off his shoulders, allowing his own forward motion to put force behind his swing, sending the thing sailing through the air and up over the barrier.

Five metres. He pushes for more speed without the pack weighing him down he almost feels like he’s flying, like For the Tainted Sorrow has wrapped itself around his frame once more to lend him invisible wings.

Two metres. He leaps up the wall adjacent to the barrier, using the rough brickwork to catapult himself upwards in one quick step, letting his hands grip the edge of the barrier as he tucks his legs beneath him, sailing over the top and letting his arms break the fall, hanging from the barrier for a second before dropping to the floor.

He doesn’t stop to catch his breath. Barely remembers to grab the pack before he’s off again, darting through the streets as panic crawls across his skin, settles in his stomach, flickers through his nerves. The twisting roads and dead-end spaces between buildings feel like a labyrinth that’s shifting and changing, blocking his path with every step he takes but he doesn’t slow, runs like a hound on a scent while his head howls and fills with visions of a mangled body, torn and bloodied and gone.

When he rounds a corner to see a lone figure standing in the middle of the deserted street not twenty metres away - with messy brown hair plastered to his forehead while a helmet lies discarded on the ground, stripping slowly out of a uniform covered in the slimy half-dried entrails of rotten flesh - Chuuya stops dead.

“Dazai –” he whispers, his voice cracking as he tries and fails to take a breath. “Osamu…”

Dazai tosses the jacket and pants to the ground as his dark eyes sweep hurriedly up and down Chuuya’s body. “Chuuya…”

Chuuya drops the pack, uncaring of where it lands as he begins to run again, eating up the steps between himself and Dazai until he’s close enough that he can throw himself at the stupid bastard. When their bodies collide the force is enough to send Dazai stumbling back a step, flailing to regain his balance with a yelp even as Chuuya curls his arms around Dazai’s waist and clings to the man as if the idiot is his only anchor in this world (he just might be).

“Chuuya?” He feels Dazai’s fingers stroke tentatively through his hair and burrows his face against Dazai’s chest.

He’s almost scared to ask, but he has to, he needs to know. “Did they...did they?” he can’t even finish the sentence, stuttering on the words only to shake his head and clench his teeth to bite back the overwhelmed tears threatening to break free. It’s stupid and ridiculous and pathetic. So fucking weak and he can’t stop, can’t bring himself to let go.

“No, Chibi, no.” Dazai is murmuring softly, one hand in his hair, the other stroking soothingly down his back. “They got the leg guard, that’s all. I’m fine. I promise. I’m fine.”

“Osamu – I…” he doesn’t even know what he wants to say in that moment. His head spinning with conflicting feelings – fear, panic, relief, anger – all warring for supremacy in a mind too amped up to deal with a single thought process. “Don’t you fucking dare ever pull something like that again.”

Dazai doesn’t reply, other than to tighten his hold on Chuuya and whisper soft reassurances in his ear.

By slow degrees he accepts the realisation that they’re both still here, that they’re both okay.

He might be shaking like a leaf on a cocktail of residual adrenaline and anxiety, he might be both physically and emotionally exhausted, he might still be trying to force the image of dark glassy eyes from his head, but they’re here and they’re alive and right now that’s all that matters.

Chapter Text

They creep through the eerily deserted streets like ghosts, drifting close enough to the edges of the town to see the newly erected barricades, blocking the main routes through and around the area. The armed presence is heavy, both in equipment and manpower; the Corporal had obviously downplayed the military’s determination to control anything coming into or out of the centre of Evlewt. Dazai knows without needing further confirmation, that anything beyond that line is lost to them now.

He can see that loss reflected in the mirror of blue eyes as Chuuya sits with his back against a wall, staring straight ahead.

Half of their supplies, gone in an instant. More than half if he considers what little was left in the cave on the lonely hill far behind them now, though Dazai had written those off as soon as they’d put Emilia’s company at their backs – the risk of running into a starved pack of recently ‘rescued’ slaves not worth the reward of the cave’s dwindling inventory. It’s not a catastrophic loss; they’ve always made sure to have far more than they actually needed to survive, planning for exactly this eventuality. Leaving the RV behind is slightly more galling, it offers a far more comfortable living situation than the back of a truck, but they’re close enough to their goal now that living wild for a few days is the least of their problems. The land is still gripped in the dying throes of winter, and heat might become their most pressing problem, but the rest...well, they can rough it for a while. They have food, water and weapons, they’ll survive.

The barricades themselves are interesting contraptions, when they find a section that’s far enough away from the closest military units to get near enough to make a quick inspection. The large sheets of metal are smooth, around three metres square and thick enough that he judges only armour piercing shells would manage to get through. They are bolted to the walls of buildings with heavy duty brackets on the inward facing side, with long weighted struts wedged into place between the metal sheets and the asphalt providing a secondary counterbalance against any pressure originating from the outside. The only glaring weakness to the design are the thick metal chains which link the barricade sheets together in the centre, passing through large holes in the metal and fastened together with intimidatingly large padlocks. Dazai can understand the break in an otherwise effective containment plan – they need an easy way to open the barricade should they need to move things in or out quickly and welding the entire structure to the floor would forfeit any chance of fast, simple manoeuvring.

Easy. Efficient. Effective.

Could they get through? Probably. Could they get through without making enough noise to alert an entire squad of soldiers? No. He grumbles a disappointed noise, he hadn’t held out much hope – or any hope really – but still, the loss irritates him. He feels like he’s been outsmarted in a game he didn’t even know he was playing. It’s a new feeling.

There’s no use dwelling on it. They have other, more pressing issues to attend to.

“Come on, Chibi, what’s done is done. Let’s get out of here and find that damn Monstrosity of yours.” Chuuya has been oddly quiet. Even now, his redhead says nothing, only turns away and nods, the tension across his shoulders a dragging, almost visible line. The Mafioso sticks to Dazai’s shadow with every step, like a dog treading on his heels.

~ ~ ~

Getting back to the bike is easy now that they no longer have to worry about running into the swarms of soldiers or the nests of the undead. It’s almost peaceful, walking out in the open without fear of attack or ambush, through the lonely streets - devoid of life and sound – winding their way back to the tiny shed at the back of a residential building where Chuuya had hidden the bike under a dust sheet.

The door of the shed is hanging from its hinges as they approach, the dust sheet has been ripped from the bike and discarded on the floor, though at first glance the vehicle appears not to have been tampered with.

Chuuya is beside it in an instant, checking over the bodywork with all the focus of a concerned parent. Dazai can only roll his eyes in fond exasperation over his redhead’s ridiculous affinity for ugly, dangerous machines.

Dazai watches Chuuya’s hands work nimbly to reattach the gear lever to the bike, forgetting that he should probably keep his attention on their surroundings - on the off chance that a patrol has been sent back into the town - instead of staring at those delicate fingers which hide a deceptive strength he knows all too well. He almost jumps out of his skin (he’s so involved in committing to memory the way Chuuya’s fingers curl around the metal) when his redhead snaps irritably at him, “Are you going to stand there all day or pass the fucking screwdriver, idiot?”

Within a few minutes, the shifter is firmly screwed back into place and they both stand with baited breath as Chuuya turns the key in the ignition. It’s a relief when he hits the start button and the engine growls to life, even Dazai can’t say he’s unhappy – losing one vehicle today is quite enough of a hindrance to their plans.

The trip back through the town to the industrial estate on the outskirts is almost sedate. Nothing moves in the deserted streets, even the breeze has died down to the barest whisper, leaving just the two of them as the epicentre of life and sound in the stretching silence. Dazai worries, for an absurd minute, that the purr of the bike’s engine will be heard all the way on the other side of town, that a squad of angry soldiers is about to descend on their heads at any moment. It’s ludicrous, he knows even without thinking, that the troops stationed to guard the southern end of town will be making enough of a disturbance of their own, that the noise of a single bike will never carry across such a distance. But the mind does what it wants, and right now Dazai’s thoughts are a whirling, shrieking mess of what ifs and worst-case scenarios, all clamouring to be heard.

Finding the truck exactly as they had left it and clearly undisturbed, alleviates a large portion of his worries, settles the uneasy cacophony in his head to something more manageable. As he stumbles off the back of the bike, always glad to have solid ground beneath his feet, he turns to find Chuuya still oddly quiet, wrapped up and consumed in his own little world.

Chuuya’s silence, when it falls, is always a source of concern. Like all the life has been sucked out of the immediate area, colouring Dazai’s world back to moody indistinguishable grey.

He wants that spark, that snap, that spirit, so much that the absence of it aches.

“Stop staring into space, hatrack, watching you attempt to think is exhausting.” he expects to get a rise out of his redhead at that comment, but there’s no reaction whatsoever. He changes tack, “Let’s get something to eat and warm up, then you can make yourself a blanket fort in the back before you turn into a tiny ice sculpture. I’ll take first watch and wake you in four hours.” Dazai is surprised when Chuuya resolutely shakes his head. “No?”

Looking into Chuuya’s face, he can see the answer to his question without Chuuya needing to utter a single syllable.

I don’t want to be alone right now.

He remembers the nights – so many nights they blur together in an timeless, indistinguishable loop – when Chuuya had found him sitting alone, even when that loneliness was the worst place for him, when it was whispering failure into his ears, when it was chewing through his thoughts and memories to show him everything he’s lost, everything there still is to lose. There was Chuuya, offering no useless platitudes or pity, just his larger-than-life presence, his comfort, bleeding humanity through Dazai’s cracks.

Now, Chuuya has cracks of his own and Dazai, well, he doesn’t know how to fill them when all he has is emptiness, when the only thing he bleeds is darkness and apathy with no trace of humanity to be found. He doesn’t know how to fill Chuuya’s cracks, but for some reason he wants to try.

“Okay, Chibi.” It’s simple to agree to Chuuya’s silent request, it’s not like he doesn’t want to keep his redhead as close as possible right now. He’d quite happily glue himself to Chuuya’s side if he could, and...that’s a sickeningly embarrassing about-turn that he should probably stop to consider further, but…

“Huh?” Bottomless ocean blue blinks confusion back at him and Dazai finds his hand lifting automatically, pausing to hang in the air between them.

“I hear you, Chuuya.” he hums, not closing the distance.

Chuuya’s focus flickers between Dazai’s hand and his face and his eyes widen almost impossibly as red stains his cheeks. “I – I know.”

He’s not sure whether it’s him or Chuuya who moves first, but when his hand is cupping Chuuya’s cheek and his arm is wrapped around his redhead’s waist, drawing him closer, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that he shouldn’t feel this way, that this is a recipe for disaster, that it’s only going to cause him problems and everything worth wanting is lost the moment I obtain it. He shoves the entire mess aside, because right now he doesn’t care.

Chuuya dubiously leaves him to take care of finding them sustenance while he fiddles around with a tarpaulin sheet, trying – while cursing loudly enough to turn the air blue – to create some kind of makeshift shelter on the roof of the truck. Eventually, Dazai emerges from the back to find an odd sort of half-tent, rigged up by attaching a rope line between two trees equidistant from the vehicle, and hanging the tarpaulin across it, using the front and rear of the truck itself to anchor the flapping sheet with the help of more rope. And now, somehow, there’s a perfectly functional, if haphazard looking kind of sloping roof, which will just maybe save them from the worst of the wind.

They eat cup ramen on the roof of the truck as the blue-grey of evening sinks into the ink of night. The skies are clear, dotted with stars and a three-quarter waxing moon to light the area with its soft ethereal glow. The temperature begins to drop off sharply. Buried under so many layers of clothing - Dazai is pretty confident even bullets from an assault rifle wouldn’t penetrate - and swathed in blankets, Dazai feels warmth sink into his bones, despite the frigid air sending puffs of mist to rise with every exhaled breath.

With Chuuya nestled comfortably against his side, Dazai can feel the tension shed itself from his body to be replaced by a tentative, fleeting contentment. They’re not out of the danger zone yet – tomorrow is sure to bring them another set of problems, another roll of the dice with death. But they’re here, and they’re alive – unhurt even – and that’s something he hadn’t been sure of when he’d stepped out into the zombie horde.

He doesn’t want to consider the reckless stupidity of his actions right now.

As if Chuuya is reading his thoughts, a sleepy, “Oi, bastard…” pulls his attention back to his redhead, who is...glaring at him?

Abruptly, something small and hard is shoved against his chest with enough force to wind him had it not been for the layers. “I never want to see this fucking thing again! Do you understand?”

Ah. The notebook. Dazai thumbs the corner, feeling the hard cover dig into his skin. He sighs, attempting to give Chuuya a crooked smile, which clearly falls flat as his redhead continues to glower. “I understand, but I don’t think I can promise you that, Chuuya.” Now Chuuya looks pained and Dazai has to ask, “Did you read it?”

Chuuya blinks up at him and there’s a light behind his eyes that’s full of sorrow, and Dazai comes to the entirely unexpected realisation that he never wants to be the reason for that expression on Chuuya’s face. “I– tried…I couldn’t –”

He tucks the notebook carefully away, secreting it safely back in the inside pocket of his long coat, out of sight and hopefully – at least for now – out of mind. Pulling Chuuya to him, he wraps the redhead in his embrace, pleased when Chuuya offers no resistance to being manhandled, instead choosing to curl closer and tuck his head beneath Dazai’s chin with a heavy sigh.

Absently, his hand dips under the blankets and creeps beneath the layers of Chuuya’s clothes until he brushes against his redhead’s waist, unaware that he craved the contact of skin until he feels the last of the residual tension fall from him at that simple touch. He traces idle patterns until he hears Chuuya yawn, shifting them around to his redhead’s sleepy protests until he’s sitting cross-legged with Chuuya’s head in his lap. The Mafioso curls up like a cat, one hand resting lazily on Dazai’s thigh as he practically drowns in blankets, warm despite the snap of winter’s chill in the air. Dazai tugs his own blankets around his shoulders, allowing himself an indulgent moment of stroking his fingers through long, tangled red strands, losing and finding himself over and over in the familiar motion.

He doesn’t stop, even when Chuuya’s breathing evens out in sleep. He doesn’t stop, even when his fingers begin to go numb with cold. He doesn’t stop, even when his broken thoughts tell him this is all a bad idea, that he’s only going to ruin them both.

~ ~ ~

When he wakes, it’s a gentle drift back to consciousness that makes him wonder momentarily what it was that disturbed his sleep. The answer to his fuzzy confusion becomes quickly apparent when the sound of a soft voice filters through his muddy not-quite-functioning thoughts.

Singing.

Chuuya is singing a soft melody, the words wrapping around him to wind through his thoughts, twisting and melancholic even though Dazai hasn’t quite regained his grip on reality enough to understand them.

It makes his lungs feel like they haven’t quite got enough air. It makes his heart do something weird in his chest.

Chuuya must notice the minute shift in the atmosphere; his voice fading into a sigh. And that sudden absence of sound...that’s more painful than the sorrowful lullaby.

“Chuuya…” he whispers, not exactly sure what he wants to say, just that the silence is too heavy.

“I’m sorry I woke you.” His redhead’s voice sounds far away, still stuck somewhere in the sentiment of the song.

“Don’t stop –” his mouth utters without his permission, the words open and raw and vulnerable in a way Dazai knows is dangerous. It leaks too much of that empty void, yearning to be filled.

“Huh?” Chuuya’s response is barely a huff of breath; coloured with surprise and tinted with embarrassment. “I –”

Apparently Dazai’s brain is taking its time to reboot and they’re going for cringing honesty this morning. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard you sing, Chuuya.” It’s true, back in his Port Mafia days, Chuuya’s voice had always floated down the long corridors when the Mafioso thought nobody was listening. Dazai never stopped listening. Always it would be whatever trashy song on the radio had caught Chuuya’s attention, whatever suited his mood – angry rock, upbeat pop, sad ballads – the young redhead had never been picky.

Dazai, lost in himself and unable to understand or endure Chuuya’s constant outpouring of humanity and emotions - bleeding colour into his familiar grey world - had utilised his favourite defence. He had picked Chuuya apart piece by piece, digging his claws into the redhead’s insecurities and making mocking fun of his partner at every opportunity. He distinctly remembers one particular occasion when he’d switched the presentations during a mission briefing and had treated everyone to a mini concert he dubbed “Chibi Live”. Chuuya had been so mortified and livid he’d put his foot through the projector screen and the wall behind it before storming out.

After that, Chuuya’s voice was no longer heard in the Port Mafia’s corridors. After that, the passageways always seemed colder, darker, like they’d lost something – a splash of colour, or life.

“Hmmm…” There’s an unamused lilt in that hum which tells Dazai that Chuuya is probably recalling those same days in a completely different light. He suddenly kind of hates himself a little more, for being the reason Chuuya stopped singing, for tearing down that dazzling confidence to meet his own destructive ends.

He swallows past the acid in his mouth.

“Chuuya...don’t stop?” He doesn’t know why it sounds like more of a question when it slips past his lips, but Chuuya is staring at him hard, searching his face. What it is his redhead is looking for, he cannot begin to fathom, but whatever it is, Chuuya must find it somewhere in the shadow of his eyes.

He watches as Chuuya turns his face away, tipping his head back towards the morning light filtering beneath their shelter, which shines like crystals in half-lidded blue. He watches the dust of red settle across Chuuya’s cheeks, and he can’t help but think that his partner looks beautiful in that weak glow, something too bright and too human for this world, for Dazai’s greedy, tainted hands. He watches, with rapt attention, the bob of black around a delicate throat as Chuuya sighs, takes a steady breath, and begins to sing, halting and soft at first but gaining in confidence as he loses himself to the pull of wistful words and sombre melodies.

As if Dazai could possibly look away.

If that doesn’t say something about his fractured, frenzied state of mind, well, walking into a zombie horde with nothing but a dead soldier’s tactical gear just might.

Perhaps love isn’t the chain of desperate insanity he always seen it to be. Perhaps it’s the sound of Chuuya’s voice on a winter morning.

He feels like he’s falling, flailing, failing, and he’s not quite sure he’ll hit the ground running this time.

~ ~ ~

When they venture out, they go on foot. Dazai doesn’t really need to predict what’s waiting for them ahead, and truthfully, he’s becoming a little concerned that giving voice to his suspicions will magically result in them coming true, plot devices be damned. Remaining unnoticed and inconspicuous for as long as possible is their best hope of getting out of this unscathed – or only slightly bloodied, since he’s treading on the path of honesty here, he’s really not convinced that they can take on an entire military outfit without at least a bloody nose for their troubles. So, the bike and the truck get left in the secluded little space behind the industrial warehouses, concealed by scrubland and hedgerows, away from prying eyes and long noses, and once again they find themselves hiking cross-country through small copses of trees, skirting large thickets of thorns and trying to remain out of sight of the roads.

They don’t encounter a single soul – living or dead – until they get close to the northern bypass road.

Really, he’d hoped, for once, that he was wrong.

“Shit…” Chuuya whispers from beside him, and that’s, well, it’s putting it mildly.

“They’re dug in here like they mean to stay.” The Mafioso murmurs, eyes roving across the scene playing out before them, and Dazai can’t refute him because that’s exactly how it looks.

Low steel barriers line the road on both sides, lopsided and giving the appearance that they have been hastily concreted into the ground. They’re not tall - standing likely no more than two feet - and from a distance they barely look intimidating, but he knows it’s more than enough to stop any vehicle dead in its tracks, which consequently makes travel through the surrounding farm and woodland in a bid to find an easier crossing point impossible.

Vehicles sit in lines, blocking the entire width of the road, spaced in intervals of around a hundred yards if Dazai had to guess. So neat in their formations, it’s reminiscent of soldiers on a parade ground, with each adjacent vehicle parked facing the opposite direction to its neighbour, six abreast across the stretch. Dazai knows the purpose in these rows isn’t to look organised and intimidating – it’s to give each unit the optimum manoeuvrability. There would be no jostling for position or inadvertent traffic jams in this formation, just a smooth, efficient counter to an attack coming from any direction.

It’s smart. Planned and precise.

Soldiers stand guard every fifty yards, at ease but watchful as they face outwards, never moving from their posts nor becoming distracted by the machinations of the units around them. These are no rookie survivors attempting to hold a base with a single strategically minded leader, no, they are trained men and women, hardened in an apocalyptic war and, bitten and bloodied and haunted around the eyes.

They creep through the trees, backtracking deeper into cover before making their way slowly down the line, assessing the true extent of what they’re up against, and, it’s not good. There’s no break in the formation, no stretch of the road that seems a little less guarded, or a little more lax. There’s a full blown camp strung out along the left side of the road, around a mile from where they’d first started their observations. Shelters extend out in dark camo-green from trucks exactly like their own; soldiers sit in small groups, relaxed and engaged in idle conversation; a larger standalone structure, obviously a mess tent, fills the air with the aroma of what must be some kind of stew. It all indicates a level of organisation and tactical expertise that they have been fortunate enough not to come up against, until now. Even here - where the atmosphere is slightly more relaxed - there’s a sharp edge of awareness and expectation filling the air. It doesn’t escape Dazai’s notice that the soldiers all keep their weapons close to hand.

It doesn’t bode well. A sinking hole yawns in his stomach as his mind worries at the problem with teeth blunted by fatigue and apprehension. What if he isn’t enough to get them through this? What if they fail? He’s not a miracle worker he can’t defeat an entire army, not even with Chuuya at his side.

They end up walking over a mile in both directions, desperately looking for a chink in the armour, for any hint of a way through that won’t end up with them either captured and carted off to one of the safe zones or lying dead on the floor with a bullet through the head.

They find nothing to assuage Dazai’s fears. The line stretches on, repeating the same formations as far as the eye can see.

There are a few bends in the road, where line of sight between the soldiers at post is just slightly obscured, and that’s being generous but it wouldn’t be outside of the realm of possibility to slip through and use the cover of the vehicles. It would take stealth and a fair deal of luck, but it’s achievable. It would mean losing everything. Leaving everything behind.

Can they take that risk?

There are no other way-stations between here and their final destination. No towns, no scattered villages, nowhere to scavenge and potentially restock lost supplies. Not to mention the weapons: they’ve spent six months accumulating a small armoury in preparation for this last push; in anticipation of a fight, expectation of a grand finale. He knows this isn’t going to be the end of it, even if they manage to sneak past an entire military encampment, whatever is waiting for them at the facility isn’t going to be throwing them a welcome party with open arms and a friendly smile (no, all too likely it will be clawed fingers and a feral snarl). It’s not a mission they can even hope to succeed in without food, without equipment, without weapons. Not to mention, the idea of leaving a massive group of armed soldiers at their backs with nothing to escape on but their own two feet should whomever is in command decide it’s time to storm the facility (because honestly, with everything this world has thrown at them so far, it’s not too farfetched as a possibility, at this point it could even be considered probable)...it’s not worth thinking about.

It doesn’t leave them with many options.

Dazai’s mind turns to bleak introspection as they begin the tedious task of trekking through the undergrowth back towards the industrial district. He can feel Chuuya’s eyes on his back, can sense the redhead trying to gauge his mood by the way he carries himself and the minute tells he knows Chuuya can read like a book (a source of unending frustration as a man who prides himself on his perfect appearance at lazy apathy), but he’s not ready to unravel his dire thoughts in front of Chuuya just yet, not until his written off every option.

Chuuya stays blessedly silent, yet his presence is almost obnoxiously loud in Dazai’s peripheries, looming larger than life in Dazai’s shadow with a thousand unspoken words.

When they’re back at the truck, sitting on the roof with steaming cups of what might generously be called coffee, Chuuya finally broaches the subject, hands curled around his mug as he blows across the surface of the liquid, sending steam to scatter in all directions. “Are you going to tell me what you’re thinking?”

Dazai doesn’t know if he can. Doesn’t know if he can find the words to say that maybe he can’t do this, maybe this is one step too far. Something at the back of his mind is whispering again, failure, you were never anything more than a failure, and Dazai, well, he can’t block those voices out forever.

“Oi.” Chuuya’s exasperated grumble cuts through his thoughts, sending the doubts fleeing into silence and when he raises his head it’s to fall into that familiar still-water gaze. “Stop trying to do everything by yourself, idiot. We’re in this together, right?”

It’s weird, how his chest feels inexplicably lighter just hearing those words. Together. He’s not alone in this and no matter what blood and betrayal lies between them, Chuuya has always been his partner, always had his back, always been able to keep up, to push him when he needed to be pushed, to talk him down when he needed to focus, to drag him away when he needed to be saved.

“Yeah.” He murmurs finally, and somehow a smile has fought its way onto his face, a soft and quiet thing but from the look of surprise he gets from his redhead - still blinking at him over the rim of his mug - it’s noticeable. “We are.”

That loud, lonely part of him aches to reach out and touch Chuuya in that moment, it doesn’t even matter where, just to soak up that sense of contact, that anchor the redhead gives without thought, that Dazai didn’t even realise he needed so badly. He loves and he hates it in equal measure. His fingers twitch, but he curls them tighter around his own cup, because giving in now, that would be a display of weakness, a level of pathetic admittance to his own stilted humanity that he can’t consider baring to the world right now. Because they’re still in the game, and all of the other players are running leagues ahead.

Chuuya, however, doesn’t seem to give a shit about the other players, or tomorrow, or anything past what’s happening in the here and now. He’s a little surprised – though he probably shouldn’t be – when his redhead shifts, carefully shuffling around until Dazai feels the warm weight of the Mafioso pressed against his side and it’s becoming too familiar, too much like something he could come to rely on. That doesn’t stop Chuuya tilting his head up to grace him with the slightest smile, and just that is enough to take Dazai’s breath and make his brain stop running momentarily. “So talk, genius.”

He’s not sure he can remember how to form words at this point.

“Sometimes it hurts to look at you.”

Oh...he said that out loud.

Chuuya practically chokes on his coffee, coughing and spluttering as he struggles to breathe, eyes watering as he gasps. It’s amusing, right up until his redhead practically shrieks, “Haah?!” and Dazai remembers that he actually said that out loud and well, he’s never been embarrassed about telling Chuuya he’s pretty (in fact it’s usually the redhead who gets flustered), but right now it feels like a little too much, a little too out of place, a little too honest.

He’s not entirely convinced that if he opens his mouth again, something entirely inappropriate wont come out, but he does it anyway. “Well, I mean, look at you.” Yeah, something like that.

“…” Chuuya stares, sputtering wordlessly for a few seconds and turning redder by the moment until he quite accurately resembles a tomato. When the redhead finally speaks, it’s with a whispering hiss of something that sounds close to exasperation laced with a heavy dose of sarcasm, “Sure. Covered in road dirt, wearing three day old clothes, I might as well be a panda for the size of the bags under my eyes, and I’m pretty certain there’s still blood under my fingernails. I’m sure I look amazing.” All Dazai hears is the doubt, and it frustrates him that his ridiculous redhead doesn’t even understand just how easily he can get heads to turn. Well, no, that’s not entirely true, he knows Chuuya was taught how to get heads to turn, and that’s exactly why he doesn’t put any weight on the ‘pretty words’ people mouth at him – empty promises are a precursor to covetous hands, hands that only want to defile a beautiful thing and have no interest in keeping it once it’s dirty.

He’s not entirely sure he can say anything else without either causing Chuuya to spontaneously combust from embarrassment, or revert to his old ways of getting Dazai to shut up, which involves using his boot first and asking questions later. So he chooses not to say anything, instead hooking his finger beneath his redhead’s chin, tilting Chuuya’s head back until they’re staring at each other and Dazai can dip his own head down and kiss the infuriating man.

He expects Chuuya to pull away and snap at him, possibly bite him. He doesn’t expect Chuuya to carefully set the coffee aside, climb into his lap and dig fingers into his hair, yanking him down almost hard enough to hurt. He doesn’t expect Chuuya to let out a soft hum against his lips before dragging him into a kiss that’s slow and easy and shuts down all thoughts in Dazai’s head that don’t have anything to do with the redhead in his lap drowning all of his senses. He doesn’t expect Chuuya to deepen the kiss, pressing against him and doing sinful things with his tongue, right up until the moment Dazai’s arms lift to wrap around his redhead’s waist and bring him closer still. He doesn’t expect Chuuya’s hands to slip from his hair and capture his own wrists in an iron grip as the shorter man pulls away, head cocking to one side as a frown crosses his face.

“Did you do that to distract me?” Dazai blinks slowly, clearing his head of the confused haze and not quite understanding what his redhead is talking about, until he recalls blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

He shrugs, “I don’t know, Chibi, did you do that to distract me?”

Chuuya’s smile is coy as his eyelashes dip, a terrible attempt at innocence, Dazai thinks, though he has to admit it’s an impressive method of seduction. “Maybe I did. Now, will you talk to me?”

“It’s kind of hard to concentrate when you’re using me as a cushion, Chibi.” He tries for bland, but somehow it comes out a little bit breathless and far too whiny.

“Hmm...I can see the issue.” Chuuya agrees, though, rather than getting off, his obnoxious redhead just makes himself more comfortable, knees settling around Dazai’s hips as Chuuya’s arms loop around his neck, “You’re saying you don’t want a distraction?”

“Chuu-ya!” with his hands now freed from Chuuya’s grip, they seem to move with a will of their own, fingers splayed across Chuuya’s hips and waist as his thumbs rub small circles across the jut of bone. “You’re a walking distraction.” he grumbles, half-hearted because really, he’s not going to complain about Chuuya’s chosen method of coercion, but the subject matter, well, it’s not exactly a mood enhancer.

Chuuya’s finger tapping insistently at the side of his head is enough to make him smile despite himself, huffing out a sigh, “I know.” He answers Chuuya’s unspoken but clear ‘you’re thinking too much’. “I just, don’t really know what’s best for us here.”

His redhead’s face is a picture of unmasked shock at this admission, and really, Dazai shouldn’t be surprised to see this reaction; he doesn’t betray his doubts, not to Chuuya, not to anyone, doubt is a weakness and he is the strategic genius whose plans never fail. Admitting – even to Chuuya, the single soul who probably understands him best – that he’s unsure of anything doesn’t come naturally, opening up his weakness for someone else to exploit, it’s unsightly, it leaves something acidic to settle in his gut.

Chuuya doesn’t make a joke of it, doesn’t fill him full of sharp words or scoff as he might once have, instead he murmurs, “Explain it to me. It might help.” and Dazai doesn’t know whether to thank him or kiss him or listen to that dark pit urging him to pull away, to slam his walls back up before Chuuya can get any closer, can burrow any deeper under his skin.

It’s like fighting with a shadow, wrestling with a ghost – painted in Mafia black, dead-eyed and swathed in bandages - trying to bury that voice.

Still, he tries. Takes a steadying breath and lays his insecurity at Chuuya’s feet.

“We have to make a choice, between losing everything but taking the greatest chance of both of us surviving, or risking everything to try and keep an escape route open in case we need it. Either way we’re going to have to leave behind most of what we have.”

He watches Chuuya take his lower lip between his teeth, worrying at it for a few seconds before nodding, “Lay it out, we’ll decide together.” and with just those words, Dazai feels lighter, as if the weight hanging heavy across his shoulders has suddenly been lifted, just slightly. Together...it’s a new concept, he’s never seen fit to rely on others when making plans – with the possible exception of Ranpo...the detective often unravels Dazai’s plans before he’s fully formulated them himself – but here, with Chuuya, it doesn’t seem as terrible an option as it might once have.

“The safest option, the one where both of us should survive, is to create a diversion, then slip through the lines where the road snakes just before the crossroads. The soldiers standing guard don’t quite have perfect line of sight between watch posts; as long as that doesn’t change, it shouldn’t be too difficult to slip through, use the closest vehicle line as cover and then lose ourselves in the trees on the other side.” Chuuya’s nose wrinkles with disapproval, and Dazai can understand why, it’s not like he particularly likes either of these strategies himself.

“That would mean losing the truck…and the bike. Not to mention most of our supplies.”

He nods, “We would only be able to take what we could fit into the two packs. The rest would have to be buried or hidden in the hope that we can sneak back behind the line at some point to retrieve it.”

“There’s no guarantee we’ll be able to do that, right?” Dazai can only bring himself to nod. “Hmm...and the other option?”

He sighs, tilting his head back to stare at the sky, the second option, the more dangerous of the two, he can’t say he likes it. Not at all. “It’s more risky. For you anyway.” He pauses for a long breath - gathering his thoughts – long enough that Chuuya shifts impatiently. “The junction further west from where we need to be was slightly less heavily manned than the ones to to the east – my guess is that they haven’t expanded much further west yet and are focussing their efforts here for now until they either have enough manpower to continue fortifying further out, or they’re digging in where they are and waiting for whatever foreign invader is supposedly coming this way, spreading out too thinly would lower their chances of success if it came down to a fight.”

“That’s fascinating, but you’re stalling.” Dazai blinks down at his short redhead in surprise, because it’s true and he hadn’t even realised it himself. Chuuya’s smile is sharp, as if he already knows he’s caught Dazai like a deer in headlights.

“The diversion tactic would still be the same, and I’d still have to sneak past the soldiers on foot...but you could take advantage of the patrol manning the barriers’ momentary distraction to slip the bike through the gap. It’d have to be fast, you’d need to get through both barriers before they knew what hit them, then get out of there as quickly as possible. They’ll definitely give chase, but we haven’t seen any vehicles faster than a four-by-four, so you should be able to outrun them.”

“There’s something else.” Chuuya’s eyes narrow and Dazai’s fingers curl into the Mafioso’s coat reflexively.

“You’d have to make them believe that you’re heading North, we need them to concentrate any search in that direction and to leave the facility well alone.”

He watches Chuuya’s face turn thoughtful as he nods slowly, “You’re saying I’d have to stay in their sights for a while and then leave them in my dust.”

He nods, almost reluctantly. “Right, but being in their sight also puts you at risk of being in the path of their bullets.”

“That’s nothing new.” Chuuya shrugs, and it’s exasperating for Dazai, knowing that his redhead sees absolutely nothing wrong with throwing himself into dangerous situations with high chances of injury. Yet he’s supposedly the one with the death wish?

He chooses to ignore the comment, instead levelling Chuuya with a look made of cut glass, “Once you manage to lose them, you’ll have to split off into the trees and cut across to the road leading to the facility, and you’ll have to push the damn Monstrosity because it’s too loud, it will draw them down on you like a pack of wolves.”

“But we’d have the bike, so if things end up going to shit at the facility, we have the option of a quick escape, right?” Dazai nods reluctantly, “Seems like an easy choice to me.” Chuuya shrugs, apparently unconcerned at risking his own life on Dazai’s whim yet again. It shouldn’t surprise him, he practically made Chuuya that way after all, but somehow the thought rankles.

“Isn’t there a third option?” Chuuya ponders after the silence has settled heavily in the small space between them.

Dazai tilts his head in question, “If you have another suggestion, I’m all ears, Chibi.”

“Can we convince the soldiers on the gate that we’re part of a squad on some kind of mission?” The idea had crossed Dazai’s mind, and been discarded just as quickly.

He shakes his head, “It’s too risky. We don’t know the command structure here, we have no uniforms, no identification, no paperwork, no viable reason to be travelling north alone when the entire army is here. They’d either see through it immediately, or take us as spies attempting to infiltrate.” Chuuya’s face dips into a frown as he considers this and Dazai fights the urge to trace the line of Chuuya’s downturned mouth with his fingertips.

“If that won’t work, what about pulling off the same trick we used in that first town? Toss all of the supplies in the back, drive it out to the junction on the east side and just ram through the barriers. Then get as far away as we can.” Dazai shakes his head again, and this time Chuuya huffs out a short, “Why not?”

“Without a diversion to detract the soldiers’ attention, there will be too many of them to make ramming effective. They’ll hear us coming from half a mile off. All it takes is one vehicle to block the path and we’re done. Even if we did manage get through, they’d catch up quickly. There wouldn’t be enough time to decamp, even if we could preempt them. We need to disappear so that they can’t follow us and so that they don’t guess at our real destination.”

Chuuya falls into pensive thought, chewing on his lower lip as his eyes flutter shut. Dazai is certain if his redhead was standing right now he’d be hearing that familiar tap, tap, tap of the Mafioso’s boot upon the roof of the truck. He’s about to open his mouth to say something when Chuuya’s eyes snap open, turning sharp-edged in an instant, the arms still hanging on Dazai’s shoulders going rigid. “The diversion...you don’t mean –”

Chuuya doesn’t need to finish the sentence, they both know exactly what Dazai means.

~ ~ ~

He tries to ignore the niggling sense of doubt crawling beneath his skin as he checks off his mental list one last time.

After another cold night huddled on the roof of the truck - trading ideas, then kisses and finally watch shifts - they had spent a second day retracing the steps of the previous to make sure everything was planned with painstaking precision and care. They’ve only got one shot at this after all, and to make a mistake with such high stakes, well, it’s likely to end up with one of them lying dead on the floor. It’s still not favourable odds, as far as Dazai can predict they’ve got maybe a fifty-fifty chance of getting through this, if he’s generous, but he’s run through the alternatives so many times and hasn’t been able to come up with anything that might give them a better edge. Perhaps if he had weeks, or even days he’d manage something more complex, probably grander in scale, but he can hear every second as the clock hands continue on their inexorable countdown towards the finish and if they mess up here, at the end, it’s more than just their own lives on the line.

It’s odd, thinking about ‘the outside’ now. He’s spent so long trapped in this world with only the hatrack for company that the outside world is beginning to feel more and more like an abstract concept – no matter how many times he’s snapped at Chuuya to remind him that this is a novel, that the people are just characters, even for him, it’s beginning to feel a little too real.

His mind is dancing again. Too many paths and possibilities to pull apart, and the future feels like a massive black miasma hanging just overhead, waiting for the opportunity to rain blood and failure upon his head. It takes an almost monumental effort to drag his thoughts back on track.

The supplies they hadn’t been able to strategically fit into the two packs, the tiny compartment beneath the seat of the Monstrosity, or strapped to their own bodies have been hidden and marked on Dazai’s map in the – admittedly unlikely – hope that they might at some point be able to retrieve them. Excess food, water and fuel have been discarded in favour of bringing along as much of their weaponry as possible, along with the bare minium of things they require to actually survive. They’ll need to scavenge, or pull off another miraculous hunting expedition, but Dazai isn’t terribly concerned about going hungry.

The truck has been pulled up onto the road leading to the junction, far enough away that it’s out of earshot, but close enough that his planned distraction is likely to bring an entire army of soldiers down upon him in very short order. Everything is in place and he’s quietly confident that he can pull off that little stunt without too much difficulty.

Chuuya is already in position - just inside the tree line around a quarter of a mile from the junction itself - waiting for Dazai’s signal. Parting ways had left a sickening lurch in his stomach, though he’d attempted to play it off with a smile that had made Chuuya click his tongue and berate him for being an idiot. It’s not that he doesn’t think Chuuya can’t handle the task – his redhead is more than equipped for this kind of hotheaded high speed dash, he’ll probably even revel in it like the stupid reckless Chibi he is. But every time they’ve parted like this, it’s ended up with one of them being hurt and he knows their luck cannot hold much longer.

The look on Chuuya’s face when he’d forced the notebook back into his redhead’s hands had made him feel like he was betraying his partner all over again. Chuuya had taken the book without a word, but Dazai had felt the fine tremor in his hands, hadn’t quite known whether it was fear or anger, hadn’t quite been brave enough to ask.

He already has his own route mapped out in his mind. Once the diversion is set, it’s a short march through scrubby brush and a thick wooded copse to make it to the bend where he’d first planned to cross, as long as he isn’t followed, his concern for his own safety is far overshadowed by his concern for Chuuya, because it’s the redhead who will have a veritable swarm of angry soldiers on his tail.

Now he’s left spinning his thoughts into tangled knots, a whirling, pulsing mass of actions and reactions, possibilities and probabilities – a thousand different scenarios with every one more gruesome than the last. Vacant eyes watch the minutes slowly tick down as the cloudy skies begin to shift into that murky dusk which messes with a person’s vision – not quite day and not quite night, that time between makes the smallest light seem to glow brighter than the sun and the shadows to stretch to endless nothingness. It’s something they will use to their advantage.

Finally it’s time.

The truck’s engine roars to life, deafening as it shatters the quiet. Dazai wastes no time, throwing it into drive and slamming his foot on the accelerator, annoyed when the stupid thing merely sounds like it’s dying as it moves off at a sedate trundle down the worn asphalt. No tyre squeal, no dramatic flair. What a boring end.

When he comes to a small rise he lines the vehicle up on its planned trajectory carefully, taking the extra few seconds to adjust the wheel and compensate for the slight angle of the road before he applies the parking brake and jumps quickly out. There’s a chance the soldiers on duty have already picked out the noise of the engine and everything now has to be timed perfectly for them to pull this off.

The smell of gasoline hits him as soon as he jumps down from the cab, making him feel slightly lightheaded and more than a little nauseous. The bed has been stacked with the driest grass, twigs and flammable materials they could find, all of it soaked in fuel, the whole truck now effectively a metal oven just waiting to go up in flames.

Dazai strikes the match.

He tosses half a dozen tiny embers into the midst of the combustibles and fuel mix, pausing only long enough to ensure that the materials begin to catch light before sprinting back to the cab, leaning over the seat to wedge a piece of wood between the seat and the accelerator, forcing the pedal down and disengages the brake. He takes a few hasty, hopping steps back as the truck immediately begins to lurch forwards, slowly at first but picking up speed with every passing second. It’s quickly careening down the small incline, still gathering speed as it hurtles on. It’s a shame he couldn’t find a way of getting it all the way to the barrier, it would have caused enough unmitigated chaos that they could have perhaps moved an entire army across the road without notice. Unfortunately such a stunt would require getting within visual range before setting the thing on fire, not to mention the noise such a large vehicle makes. It’s a shame but they’ll work with what they have.

If the crash as the truck hits a large tree is deafening, then the explosion that follows is blinding. But Dazai is already moving through the trees, working with what little light remains to navigate, unwilling to draw attention to himself with a torch: his night vision is decent, and he hasn’t ruined his acuity by staring into the flames.

He can already hear faint activity, knows that all heads will be turned in the direction of the explosion. Whether these people are trained or not, when something unexpected happens, your first instinct is to turn and look at what’s causing the commotion to assess what threat it poses to you as an individual. At the end of the day, life serves to preserve itself, and that instinct – as he has found to his displeasure, many times over – is insurmountable.

That primal need to survive is almost impossible to override, and here, in these times, it’s been sharpened to a knife’s point, always ready to react.

All he can do now is play out his part and hope that Chuuya can succeed in his.

Crouching in the thinning tree line at the apex of the bend in the road Dazai had marked earlier, he takes a moment to scan the surroundings. The area is already abuzz with a flurry of frantic activity as soldiers shout and scurry from their tents, calling questions as others bark orders. Already a unit is crossing the roadside barrier and spreading out into the wood in the direction of the massive plume of smoke black against the orange glow of flames - brightly visible in the otherwise dim murk. The soldier stationed closest to where Dazai lurks in the shadows has his head turned away, calling out to the man on his left. Dazai has no time to hesitate, no time to think, only to react, to take the chance that is offered in that moment. He steps out of the minimal cover the shadows provide, crouching as low as he can without the pack strapped to his back completely affecting his balance, moving quickly he hops the low barrier on noiseless feet and darts across the asphalt to take cover behind the closest vehicle.

Pausing to catch his breath and assess the situation ahead, he peeks his head around the front of the car, picking out the soldiers still engaged in a shouted conversation, apparently none the wiser to his infiltration of their line. It’s as he’s cautiously checking the positions of the soldiers posted on the opposite side of the road that the second explosion rocks the very air, belching a fresh tongue of flame and smoke skywards.

Good. That means the fire in the bed of the truck has reached the canisters of gas piled at the centre. It had been a risk, he hadn’t been entirely convinced the whole thing wasn’t just going to go up in a huge conflagration the moment the vehicle collided with the tree, but he’d attempted to pack a few more slow-burning materials around that little powder keg in the hopes that it would function exactly as it has. If they’re lucky it will have caused enough injuries to keep the soldiers at the site busy for a little while longer, and prompt them to call reinforcements, further spreading the already thinned line.

Immediately a new wave of shouting and screamed orders streams in a cacophony of noise from every direction. Some of the soldiers are already sprinting into the woods, while others make for the closest vehicle, likely anticipating an attack, and while this had been within Dazai’s expectations, it puts him in a bit of a dangerous spot. As boots crack heavily upon the asphalt, Dazai flits between the empty vehicles, moving from one shadow to the next, pausing only long enough to check that no cry of alarm has been raised before continuing on down the line. When he reaches the sixth and final vehicle, he glances down the road, picks out the posted guards and prepares to make a sprint for the barrier when he hears the distinct roar of a familiar engine and he knows…

Chuuya has made his move.

The whine of the bike gets louder and louder and within seconds a flash of red appears beyond the barricade – a steel bar raised around four feet from the ground, spanning the entire width of the road, with four-by-fours parked on either side of the entrance. Dazai had hoped that the bar would have been raised in time for Chuuya’s arrival, that vehicles would have been sent out to investigate the explosions and resulting fires, but they had a contingency plan if that wasn’t the case.

Dazai should be over the barrier and safely concealed within the opposite tree line by now. He shouldn’t be hanging back behind the poor cover of the last vehicle in the line, holding his breath as something behind his ribs jumps into his throat.

He’s come to terms with finding Chuuya distracting, even mesmerising at times. It’s been that way for as long as he can remember, from the first time he’d seen the redhead fight. No, before then, when he’d had a boot pressed into his chest and Chuuya’s blue eyes practically glowing as they’d glared down at him from above. He’s used to that particular brand of fascination the Mafioso manages to evoke from him. But this...this is something else.

He can barely make out anything other than a flash of gaudy red from the bike’s bodywork and the bright white of the headlight, barely lighting the ground in front of it. Still, he watches, as if in slow motion as Chuuya shifts the bike into a drifting skid, the entire thing leaning sideways and so close to the floor that Dazai is expecting it to topple and crash at any moment.

It doesn’t. It glides, like something straight out of a damn movie and perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised, he’s seen Chuuya pull these kinds of stunts before, but it’s different: he’d always attributed the redhead’s fine control to his Ability and not just natural talent rising from a complete grasp of his own sense of balance and inertia. The tires screech an agonised wail but the bike is already under the bar and levelling out, the front end wobbling for a terrifying second before straightening out with another roar as Chuuya kicks the machine into full throttle yet again, sending it screaming for the second identical barrier on the other side of the road. It’s a straight run, there’s no time for anyone to react save for a single - apparently slightly more cognizant - soldier to level his gun in Chuuya’s direction and fire off a single round. The bullet ricochets harmlessly from the asphalt a good four feet from the rear of the bike.

Dazai’s lungs begging for air are ignored in favour of watching the bike lean once again, skidding across the tarmac with a shriek of rubber. He thinks he can hear Chuuya’s laughter ringing out and it makes his chest twinge painfully, leaving him gasping and jittery as the motorcycle rights itself once more under the Mafioso’s expert hand and lets out a snarl of challenge as it shoots off into the night.

Men and women immediately scramble for the closest vehicles as others busy themselves heaving the bar out of the way of the road, leaving the way clear for the first line of pursuers to give chase.

For a few terrifying seconds, he actually considers scrapping the entire meticulously conceived plan and throwing caution to the proverbial wind. All of these cars have keys sat in their ignitions; another time-saving measure to give them a few seconds advantage over anyone staging an assault. No fumbling for keys, no designated drivers, just a swift run for the nearest vehicle and a whole host of units can be on the move within seconds of an alarm being sounded. As is becoming immediately obvious the longer he hesitates. All he’d have to do is jump into the car on his right and head straight for the barrier. The junction is in such uproar, any soldiers left standing post aren’t likely to look too closely or question those leaving to give chase to the intruder in their own vehicles. He could follow Chuuya, maybe hinder the pursuit and stop them from getting close.

It’s a frightening lapse of foresight and judgement on his part, even though he discards the idea in seconds as one born of stupidity rather than reason. That it occurred to him at all, that the concept even had a chance to take seed in his brain is a dangerous concern, one which tells him the tumbling twist of emotions he works so hard to repress, to extinguish, are too deeply rooted in his connection with Chuuya. The Mafioso has always managed to bring out the worst of him: the parts he’s managed to wall off, even from himself, behind that inhumanly cold brand of apathy.

Changing the game now that the pieces are set in motion upon the board will only end in disaster. If he’s not exposed and caught at the barrier, he’s just as likely to be caught under the draw of Chuuya’s blade across his throat in the darkness, a victim to Chuuya’s lethal instincts.

Decision made, his limbs coil with tension as he prepares once more to take a shot in the dark, a stride out into the unknown.

Amidst the chaos, nobody takes notice of the lingering shadow, slipping silently across the barrier and into the darkness beyond.

~ ~ ~

He treads cautiously alongside the road, keeping to the grass verge and expecting at any moment to hear the sound of vehicles rolling up behind him. Surely a patrol will be dispatched in this direction, to make sure nobody has slipped through the gaps during the break in their defences. Unless of course, even the soldiers have no idea what lies further up this track. It’s possible that they’ve been told to defend the road without any knowledge of what they’re actually protecting – Dazai wouldn’t put it past the people in positions of power to keep something like this concealed against the threat of a possible coup. Or worse, the weaponization of whatever answers the facility might hold.

Whatever the truth may be, Dazai neither sees nor hears any sign of pursuit, though he refuses to relax his guard – soldiers aren’t the only things that might be lurking in these woods, and if there are no regular patrols in this direction then the chances of running into adversaries of the undead variety are irrefutably higher. The skies are suspiciously clear once again, as if the novel has retracted its claws and granted them just this one measure of luck, the light from the moon just bright enough to see frost beginning to form upon the grass and allowing him to pick his way through the gloom without the need to rely on torchlight, which would give his position away in an instant if anything did happen to be hunting this night.

He reaches the rendezvous point they’d agreed upon within an hour: a sharp bend in the road, which has now narrowed to barely more than a single-lane track with various passing points, choked and overgrown with the remnants of weeds. It’s a little under three miles from the road serving as the army’s supply line and a further ten miles from what he believes to be the edge of the facility. There’s no sign of his redhead, no relieved smile or blue eyes bright with victory waiting to greet him or asking what took him so long. There is only silence.

He doesn’t immediately begin to worry. Chuuya’s task is to draw attention away from their actual destination, to make the pursuing soldiers believe that they’re heading north, perhaps to the coast with intelligence for the so-called invasion force. If the soldiers truly believe that they are infiltrators into this country they will track Chuuya with dogged determination, which makes the Mafioso’s mission even more vital (even more dangerous, a tiny voice reminds him).

But...the minutes slip past and still, there is only silence.

Clouds begin to wisp across the sky, obscuring the moon and dipping everything into inky black relief. As the night draws in around him and the temperature begins to drop further, he barely notices. He cannot bring himself to move a single inch, a single muscle. As it steadily drowns everything into a darkness he no longer feels at home in, he strains to hear footfalls, to hear a familiar cursing, to hear the rumble of a bike’s engine.

But there is only silence and the beckoning void of his own despair.