Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He moved half-formed—not a ghost, not a man, but the ache between. His boots crushed the brittle bones of winter, the ground breaking for him like it wanted to.

Tenebrous curls veiled his ivory face, blood moon eyes partially eclipsed by shadows from gnarled branches.

Towering trees loomed on all sides, their twisted trunks parting. The air clung to the back of his throat, thick as graveyard soil, bitter as hemlock. A deer carcass off-trail, maybe. He breathed it in anyway—let it rot in his lonely lungs, where all the words he never said went to die.

It had been days since he’d slept. Weeks, probably. Time peeled away the skin under his fingernails. He couldn’t stop thinking about him. About the boy with wildfire in his lungs and a spine carved from weapons.

That sense of emptiness gnawed at his cerebrum again and Dazai’s fingers twitched around the file. Edges curled, photo smudged from where he touched it too often.

He knew the weight of the boy’s footsteps. The pattern of his breath when he was about to lie. He knew how many times a day the boy blinked when angry. (Twelve. Always twelve.)

He didn’t call it love. That would’ve been too small. Too human. This was something else. This was obsession with a pulse.

Then—

There he was. Standing in the clearing as if he belonged to it. Or like it belonged to him.

Nakahara Chuuya.

The reason Dazai hadn’t put a bullet in his brain yet.

His breath hitched as a gust of wind played with those auburn locks. Chuuya was a fucking miracle—if miracles burned everything down just by existing.

Dazai’s heartbeat crawled up his spine. His jaw ached from clenching.

He’d been good. He’d waited. He hadn’t touched.

But he wanted to.

God, he wanted to break him open and crawl inside. Make a home in the wreckage. Drink down the gravity and wear it as armor.

“He’s untrained,” he’d told his boss, Mori, the words now seeming woefully inadequate. “But he’ll follow if you teach him to bite first.”

Lie.

He didn’t want to train him. He wanted to turn him into a storm and watch it swallow cities whole.

Dazai’s world existed in polaroids thumb-tacked into drywall. Notes written in red ink when black felt too clean. He knew Chuuya’s school records, his allergies, the way he chewed pen caps when thinking too hard.

He knew what Chuuya tasted like when he bled. He hadn’t learned that firsthand. Not yet. But he would.

He would.

“You don’t know it yet, little hurricane, but you were born to destroy me. And I can’t wait.”

It was a cruel kind of loneliness—when the only force keeping your cells from collapsing in on themselves was oblivious to your existence.

Inertia, without impact. Devotion, without destination.

Natural law didn’t exist here.

Only the hush of a coat brushing through undergrowth, the soft percussion of boots disturbing a world that never asked to be seen.

So he slipped back into the dark, where he belonged. His warm autumn sun flickered between the trees one last time before vanishing, never once looking back.

Dazai traced a finger over the face in the newest photograph, his touch almost tender. “Ready or not, Chuuya,” he murmured, “here I come.”

Fucking snow. It fell like a goddamn funeral. Cold, useless, everywhere. Another reminder of how dead and shitty this place was.

The streetlights cast a sickly piss-colored halo, making everything look as diseased as it probably was. Not that Chuuya gave a shit. This dump of a village was where he grew up, where he learned that the world was a bitch and you had to be a bigger one to survive.

They called him a prodigy, a force of nature. Chuuya, the guy who could bring gravity to its knees. They didn't know the half of it. There was something inside him, something old and angry and powerful. It was always there, clawing at his insides, begging to be let out. Sometimes he wondered if he was more monster than man.

The city trembled when he walked. Good. Let it fear him. Up above, the stars were watching, cold and distant—the eyes of gods who couldn't give less of a shit about the mortals below.

Chuuya had never belonged anywhere, not really. Even in this hellhole of outcasts and rejects, he was always the odd one out. But that was fine. He didn't need to belong. He just needed to survive, to keep this power under control, to prove to every bastard, including himself, that he was the threat.

Chuuya turned the corner, boots crunching against the ice-crusted pavement. The streets were mostly empty—just the way he liked it. No witnesses. No distractions.

The air shifted. Subtle, but tangible. Chuuya’s spine straightened instinctively, shoulders tensing. He didn’t hear anything at first—not really. Just the sound of someone existing where they shouldn’t be. A flicker in his periphery, a pull at the edge of his awareness.

Not a cop. Not a street rat. Not some twitchy fuck with a knife.

But someone watching him.

Not just watching—studying. Holding their breath like his name was on their tongue.

He turned.

And there he was.

Tall, lean, drowning in a black coat that looked tailored to a different century. Wind tousled his hair.

He wasn’t trying to hide. That would’ve been easier. He stood there, framed by rusted metal and phantoms, the city itself had birthed him.

And Chuuya felt it—that fucking click.

Then came the footsteps. Measured. Calm. A wolf that already knew you were bleeding.

Their eyes locked before their words did.

Dazai tilted his head, regarding the young supernova before him.

There was something about those defiant blue eyes looking into his, those damn catastrophic storms daring him to burn.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?” Dazai began. He hadn’t expected his voice to shake. Not here. Not now.

But there it was—that damn ache again. The one that lived under his ribs like a parasite.

He was finally standing in front of the boy who haunted his thoughts and he felt a little like screaming.

It seemed the pleasantry grated on the nerves of this living embodiment of kinetic energy.

“Spare me the poetry, jackass. You don’t belong here.”

Dazai felt a shiver at the blood in that lyrical voice. Yes. That was what he came for.

“Such venom,” he drawled, all amused elegance. “Refreshing, really. It’s not often I’m greeted so passionately.”

Chuuya’s hands curled into tight fists.

“Hah! Don't make me laugh. You've got some nerve waltzing in here like you own the place. Now cut the crap and spill it—what the hell are you really doing here? And don't even think about lying. I've got ways of making smartasses like you talk.”

Delightful. The boy was direct and so easily provoked. Dazai wondered just how far he could push before this new toy broke magnificently.

“Ah, a warning. How intriguing.”

He frowned, letting his eyes sweep lazily over Chuuya, watching the way those slender shoulders tensed. Dazai tracked each subtle shift, each accelerated breath, a predator assessing weak points.

“Yet, you strike me as a wolf among sheep. Ever considered that the flock might be leading you astray? A creature like you, limited by the whims of lessers—it’s almost tragic.”

His voice carried a slight murmur of sadness or perhaps mockery—it was difficult to discern. Yet his eyes remained fixed on the shorter boy, focused as if peeling layers off a twisted murder scene.

Chuuya’s delicate frame grew taut, every fiber of his being drawn tight.

“Leading me astray? That’s rich, coming from a creep skulking in the dark. Who are you to judge what’s tragic for me? I don't have time for your games,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“Leave. Now.”

Dazai sighed theatrically.

“Well, since you asked so nicely…”

That’s when it happened.

Dazai’s hand darted out, skimming feather-light along Chuuya’s jaw, lips curled into something that wasn’t entirely benign—a smirk that suggested he knew more about Chuuya than he had any right to. A malignant delight coursed through him at violating the boy’s space so brazenly. It felt invasive, a move that snapped the last thread of Chuuya’s patience.

Boot met Dazai’s face and Chuuya felt a sick thrill as his kick connected sharply, wiping that infuriating smirk away. He wouldn't be toyed with by this cryptic bastard.

Tasting his own blood, Dazai savored the bitter, stinging sensation. His grin unfurled like the unholy hymn of a starving entity.

This.
This was better than he hoped.

Dazai had touched his fixation and he wanted, oh how he wanted it all—that heaving chest, torn knuckles, those cheekbones colored pretty with rage.

“You’re an interesting specimen, aren’t you?” Dazai was a dream you couldn’t remember but could never forget.

Chuuya snorted, eyes flashing like thunderclouds.

“You’re insane.”

He meant to sound disgusted. He almost did. This sociopath set all his red flag instincts on edge. But his skin still burned where that bastard touched him.

It wasn’t the contact—it was the knowing. The way Dazai’s fingers moved like they’d done it before, in some past life where Chuuya didn’t know better. The way it made something low in his stomach coil, sick and hot.

A chuckle escaped Dazai’s crimson-stained lips then, haunting and ephemeral—a ghost’s whisper.

“Perhaps I am.”

In that moment, their fates snarled tight, two wires stripped to the copper, sparking on contact. Something ancient shifted beneath the snow, and the air split in two.

The snowflakes stilled mid-fall. Then turned. Shot toward the city center like they’d been summoned.

A low hum rippled through the ground.

Dazai tilted his head. “Do you feel that?”

Chuuya didn’t answer. He was already looking toward the glow—pale, pulsing, and wrong. It bled between buildings.

Their eyes met again, dark and brief, knives clashing midair.

“It seems,” Dazai murmured, “we have a situation.”

Chuuya scoffed. “No shit. You always this good at narrating the obvious?”

Dazai smiled. Not the pretty kind. The kind that meant run.

“Oh, but this isn’t just any situation,” he said, a velvet hook. “It’s familiar, isn’t it? The static. The pull. Same flavor as the thing coiled inside your ribs.”

Chuuya’s breath caught for half a second. He hated that Dazai noticed.

“You don’t know shit about what’s inside me.”

Dazai took a step closer, and the space between them thinned to a thread. “No?” he asked softly. “Then why is it looking back at me?”

The silence crackled. Chuuya’s hands twitched at his sides. He wanted to punch him. Or kiss him. Or shove him into the dirt and rip the answers from his mouth.

Instead, he said, “We investigate. Together. You so much as breathe the wrong way—”

“You’ll kill me,” Dazai finished, already turning his back.

Chuuya should’ve walked away. He should’ve felt powerful, should’ve felt anything. But all he could feel was his pulse hammering behind his ribs, begging to break free.

Dazai walked ahead. Fast. Boots biting into the broken pavement.

And Chuuya’s hands wouldn’t unclench. His throat ached. Something inside him screamed and nowhere in his body knew how to hold it.

But he followed.

Not because he trusted the fucker. Not a chance. Not even because he had to. But because deep down, some part of him wanted to know—

if this boy could tear apart the god inside him, look at what was left… and choose to stay.

Salt air and exhaust fumes crawled down Dazai's throat, reminding him he was still alive. Still here.

The sea stretched black as his thoughts. The city noise faded with the dying stars.

Monsters lived in both places. The ones in suits were just better at pretending.

Neon signs flickered above, casting glows onto the rain-slicked cobblestones. Locals and tourists drifted past him like wayward fireflies, each one nursing their own tiny apocalypse.

Sidestepping the miniature midnight oceans, he caught fleeting glimpses of himself reflected in the windows of closed storefronts. Distorted, smeared by the rain, too many versions of a face he barely recognized. None of them looked back.

Finally, after winding his way through alleys flanked by weathered bricks, he arrived at his nightly refuge—Bar Lupin.

Inside smelled of leather gone soft with age, cigars, and wood polish trying to cover old bloodstains. Stories lived in these walls. Most ended badly.

Oda sat at his usual spot, surrounded by empty glasses and papers. The only person who could look at Dazai's darkness and not flinch away.

His eyes were half-shielded by unruly hair, casting a soft shadow over his face as he wrote in his notebook. That broad frame moved with a lithe, measured grace, exuding the quiet confidence of one at home in their body. He smiled easily, laugh lines framing his mouth—reminders that some people got to have childhoods.

Dazai approached, the rustling of his coat blending softly with the distant strain of jazz.

"Odacchi, immersed in your scribbles as always, I see."

Oda looked up.

"Ah, Dazai. Here to haunt my bar again?"

"Some ghosts can't help themselves."

Dazai slid onto the stool, already reaching for the whiskey the bartender poured without asking. His fingers traced circles in condensation.

"Ever try to hold lightning, Oda?"

Oda paused. His eyes met Dazai’s with a skeptical curiosity.

"What poetic nonsense are you on about now?"

Dazai chuckled and watched light fracture through the amber liquid.

"Found something interesting. Boy made of fire and fury. Chuuya Nakahara."

His tongue savored the name.

"Been dancing with him in Suribachi City's ruins. Think I might keep him."

Oda leaned back, crossing his arms, intrigued.

"So you found someone who burns louder than your silence."

Dazai nodded, pausing as he stared at a random scratch on the wooden bar.

"Oh, it gets better than that."

Oda leaned forward, elbows on the table.

"We chased a god. Found pieces of his past instead. Found pieces of me."

"You almost sound..."

"Obsessed?"

Dazai let out a small laugh, his eyes narrowing delightfully.

"Maybe. There's something about him, Odacchi. Something real. When everything was burning and breaking..."

His fingers tugged at a loose thread on his bandaged wrist.

"I saw him bleed humanity. Made me want to taste it."

"Dazai."

There was warning in Oda's voice now.

"Don't worry. I won't kill this one. Not entirely."

Dazai stared into amber depths.

"Just want to see what makes him so fucking alive."

Oda sighed, looking into his own glass as if it held answers.

Dazai's thoughts drifted, contrasting the two. Oda represented stability, while Chuuya was emotional pandemonium incarnate, someone who could disrupt Dazai's meticulously arranged world.

"You know, Oda, there was a moment, amidst the rubble and destruction—"

"When you thought about dying again?"

Dazai shook his head gently.

"No, quite the opposite. I was watching Chuuya fight, a dark god in a crumbling coven, and something… unfamiliar crept its way into me."

Oda frowned, his fingers now drumming softly against the notebook he had abandoned.

"Unfamiliar?"

Dazai’s hand unconsciously wrapped around his now-empty glass.

"The void went quiet. First time since… ever. There he was, breaking reality—beautiful as nuclear winter. And I felt…"

His voice stalled. The next word caught behind his teeth. Maybe it was too heavy to say out loud.

"...I don’t know. It was—"

He swallowed. Tried again. Failed.

"It makes me want to—"

A breath. Shallow. Shaking, if only for a second.

"...fuck, I don’t even know."

He gave a feral little laugh that didn’t sound like him.

"To what?"

"To stay. Or maybe run?"

"Dazai." Warning and worry tangled in Oda's voice.

"To see what other pretty disasters he can birth. Those eyes of his. They could damn me or save me. Don't even care which."

"So… what is your true intention with this Chuuya?"

"He bleeds honesty. Carries this raw wound where his heart should be. Makes me want to dig my fingers in, see what’s underneath."

Oda, visibly taken aback, seemed to search Dazai’s face for a hint of remorse or humanity, but found none.

"Dazai, that’s—"

"Cruel? Psychopathic? Ah, but don’t you see? The potential devastation is the most exhilarating part."

Oda’s eyes hardened, and for a moment, he looked like he was wrestling with something far darker than mere concern.

"Dazai, your self-destructive path is one thing, but dragging others—Are you really prepared to turn another human being into collateral damage for your own inner turmoil?"

Dazai looked at Oda, a mirthless smile stretching across his lips.

"Ah, Odasaku, you misunderstand. For me, chaos is not a pit; it’s a ladder."

"Be careful, Dazai," Oda intoned with a mournful heaviness.

"He's already inside me. I want to ruin him. Want to own every scream, every tear, every moment he shatters."

Dazai leaned closer, voice dropping.

"Want to be the one who breaks him so perfectly he'll never be whole without me."

"There’s a difference between destruction and whatever twisted form of affection you think you harbor. Don’t mistake one for the other."

"Is there?"

Dazai’s smile split wider.

"Maybe I want both. Want to destroy him and keep him. Want to see if someone can survive being devoured and still come back for more."

Those umber eyes narrowed ever so slightly, dark pools where emotion swirled but never settled.

A sudden, palpable silence settled between them. In that stillness, Dazai felt a tug in the recesses of his psyche, like a cobweb-thread pulling taut.

"You know," he said softly, almost absently, "this conversation, this moment, it reminds me of another time. It was when I first joined the Mafia, when I met you."

A hidden door seemed to swing open in his mind, its rusted hinges creaking under the weight of old ghosts beckoning him to step through.

Thirteen tasted of stomach acid and failed decomposition. Dazai lay in alley filth, chemicals burning through veins that refused to give up. His carefully measured cocktail of oblivion hadn't worked. Even death didn't want him.

Vomit soaked his shirt. Sweat or tears or blood matted his hair. His body betrayed him with each rasping breath, stubbornly pulling oxygen into lungs that begged for silence.

Then Mori appeared, a vulture in a tailored suit. Found poetry in Dazai's half-dead beauty, saw potential in those glassy eyes. A high-ranking Port Mafia executive with bigger appetites than just power.

He scooped up Dazai's broken pieces. Carried that pathetic shell to his clinic, where machines forced life back into his resistant flesh. Dazai watched through tunnel vision as his carefully planned exit crumbled. As this demon in a doctor's coat denied him his perfect ending.

Something flickered in those empty eyes as toxins left his system. Not quite life. Not quite death. Something in between that made Mori's smile sharpen.

The wolves had found fresh meat. The darkness had new prey. Dazai clung to consciousness, wondering if maybe this was better—finding home in others' monsters instead of just his own.

So he played with morality like a cat with dying birds.

They called him a prodigy. They meant demon.

When the world disappointed him, he'd retreat into books and poison, finding comfort in the void.

There was always something off about his brutality and the power rush never quite filled his emptiness, but it made interesting patterns in the dark.

Reckless yet precise, he reached for impossible things. Dominance, understanding, maybe oblivion. Always testing limits, always pushing boundaries, just to see what would break first—others or himself.

Dazai blinked, the echoes of his own past dissipating like morning fog under the sunlight. He found himself back in Bar Lupin, gazing into Oda's ever-perceptive eyes.

"Lost in thought?" Oda mused, gently closing his notebook and shifting his attention entirely to Dazai.

"Always," Dazai smirked, casually rotating his whiskey glass. "It's almost nostalgic, don't you think? How we used to find solace in places like these, amidst the pages of dead men's dreams."

With Oda, you were simply allowed to be, darkness and all. His was a liminal space between this world and whatever lay beyond.

Oda chuckled softly.

"Ah, Dostoevsky and whiskey. How else would two lost souls ever hope to find each other?"

It happened back then, in a secluded corner of a softly illuminated library, Dazai's eyes were glued to the pages of a worn book.

Oda Sakunosuke stepped closer, his own copy of Notes from Underground in hand.

"Reading Dostoevsky, huh?" he initiated, a curiosity framing his features.

Dazai looked up, soft brown orbs locking with Oda's as though acknowledging an unspoken pact.

For one moment, they weren't killers, just two boys drowning in Russian literature, using pages as life rafts.

Until their first mission together painted the walls red. Bullets sang. Kids died. Something in Dazai cracked open, spilled black. His doubt grew teeth, learned to enjoy the taste of necessary evil. Whatever childhood still lived in him bled out on that warehouse floor.

Oda found him later. Rain-soaked. Shaking. Didn't say a word, just wrapped his coat around those little shoulders like a shield. He prayed the fabric could keep the newly-born monsters from crawling deeper under Dazai's skin.

They made a ritual of curry and conversation. In Oda's apartment, blood didn't exist. Only books and quiet understanding. Sometimes Dazai's eyes would catch light instead of just swallowing it. Sometimes his smile held something other than blades.

Reality bled back in. Bar Lupin's lights caught in Oda's knowing eyes.

"Ghosts tonight?" Oda asked, like he could see them all behind Dazai's smile.

Something shifted in Dazai's chest. Not the usual void. Not the hunger Chuuya woke in him. This felt... different. Like being caught in a spotlight that didn't burn.

"Memories are smoke," Dazai said. "Gone before you can grab them. But tell me, Odacchi, which hurts more? Getting lost or getting found?"

Oda's eyes softened at the edges.

"I suppose, Dazai, that depends on what, or who, you find when you're no longer lost."

Dazai's grin split into torn flesh oozing from infection.

"You smile like you’ve buried the body of a better version of yourself," Oda said, voice low. "And I don’t know if you miss him, or if you’re relieved he’s gone."

Dazai chuckled, leaned back on the barstool with that lazy elegance that always looked rehearsed.

"Tsk, Oda. That’s the problem with you—you keep trying to exhume things I’ve already set on fire."

He downed the rest of his drink, eyes unreadable. "If he was better, he wouldn’t have died so easy, would he?"

Dazai found himself leaning against the decaying wall of a long-forgotten church, letting the scent of ancient wood and stale incense fill his lungs.

Waiting.

Always waiting for him now.

Chuuya, for his part, couldn’t help but wonder why Dazai had asked to meet here, of all places. Churches were for those seeking redemption or absolution—concepts that didn’t apply to either of them.

Dazai broke the silence first.

"You know, Chuuya," he began, voice deceptively casual, "I've been watching you for a while now. The way you fight, the way you carry yourself... it's impressive, to say the least."

Chuuya snorted, his lip curling in a dismissive sneer.

"If you're looking for an autograph, get in line," he retorted sarcastically. "I don't have time for fanboys."

Dazai chuckled low in his throat, the sound something unclean in the quiet space.

"Oh, I'm much more than a mere admirer, Chuuya," he purred, "I'm someone who recognizes your true potential, even if you don't see it yourself."

Chuuya’s eyes eclipsed, stormclouds swallowing all trace of light. His jaw tightened. His fists clenched white-knuckled at his sides.

"True potential, huh? You arrogant dick," Chuuya all but growled, voice ice-cold.

Before Dazai could blink, Chuuya’s arm shot out, gripping him by the lapels of his coat, pulling him off the decaying wall and slamming him back against it with a deafening thud. The fabric strained against his grip, threatening to rip as he pulled the other’s face closer to his.

Perfect. Just as Dazai predicted.

"You think you’re a messiah? You think you have answers?"

Chuuya’s eyes were embers, igniting with every word, almost daring Dazai to smother them. Dazai’s typical unreadable mask cracked a little, giving away the flicker of interest in his eyes.

"Only the Port Mafia can give you what you seek, Chuuya," Dazai continued. "A chance to evolve, to transcend the limits of your current self. To become something greater, something truly feared and respected."

Chuuya shifted, a frown tugging at his lips as he listened to Dazai's words.

“In my experience,” Dazai continued, gaze distant, “growth isn’t gentle. It’s violent. A fundamental reshaping of the self—down to your atoms. Like some merciless god reaches into your chest and rips out everything you are.”

His voice dropped, dark and reverent.

"Tears through skin and bone, grabs hold of pulsing organs and yanks them out into the harsh light."

Chuuya swallowed hard, a chill running down his spine at the vivid imagery. He couldn't help but feel like Dazai was describing a pain that he knew all too intimately.

"What remains is callously shoved back into the aching void," Dazai murmured, a near-whisper. "Stuffed into a hollow shell now, tangled and mangled beyond recognition. Damaged goods masquerading as a person."

Chuuya’s eyes softened into velvet clouds. Something else clawed at his insides now. Something nameless that took the shape of a body and wrapped itself around him.

It was suffocating, unending, like the nightmare of returning to a burning house over and over, only to witness oneself decay in the embers every time.

"Shut up," Chuuya growled.

"So you get up. And walk around," Dazai said, his focus sharpening as he leaned forward, his gaze boring into Chuuya's own.

"Pretending that you haven't been altered down to your very molecules. That there isn't a discordant stranger now lurking behind your eyes and pulling your strings."

Chuuya's breath caught in his throat. How many times had he felt like a stranger in his own skin, like there was something mean and hungry lurking beneath the surface of his consciousness?

"Transformation through trauma, growing through pain, you could say," Dazai murmured, a slight, humorless smile playing at the corners of his lips. "It's an experience I suspect you understand far better than most."

Chuuya's eyes widened, unease churning in his gut. How could Dazai know about the darkness that haunted him, the memories that he tried so hard to bury?

"You don't know shit about me."

"The Port Mafia, on the other hand, specializes in shattering souls and reforging the shards into... useful configurations," Dazai said, his gaze turning speculative, almost hungry.

"I believe you have the strength to endure. To rise from the ashes of your own immolation as something sharper. Deadlier."

"You think you have it all figured out, don't you?" he scoffed with derision. "The great Osamu Dazai, always ten steps ahead, always pulling the strings."

Chuuya's eyes flashed with defiance, his chin lifting as he met Dazai's gaze head-on.

"Well, fuck your plans."

Dazai blinked. Chuuya pressed him harder into the wall.

"Let me tell you something, you smug bastard. You may have the brains, the connections, the cunning plans... but that's all they are. Empty schemes and hollow manipulations."

"I have something you'll never have, Dazai. I have power, the raw strength to actually make shit happen. To burn the world down and rebuild it from the ashes."

He laughed, short and sharp.

"You? You're just a shadow, a ghost playing at being the puppet master. But without someone like me, someone with real substance, with the fire to actually follow through... you're nothing. And if I wanted to, I could incinerate everything you've built with a snap of my fingers."

A mocking smile played at his lips.

"You need me, Dazai. More than I'll ever need you. Because at the end of the day... you're just the spark. I'm the fucking inferno."

"You’re right, Chuuya," Dazai began, slow, calculated. "I might have the match, but I’ve never had the fuel to sustain a fire. It’s quite the paradox, isn’t it."

His eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze penetrating.

"But remember, Chuuya, an inferno, for all its power and fury, is ultimately a self-destructive force. It consumes everything in its path, including itself. It burns bright and hot, yes... but it also burns out just as quickly."

"Burn out?" Chuuya sneered. "You underestimate me, Dazai. I'm not some match you can snuff out. My flames will devour this whole fucking city before they ever die down."

Dazai’s eyes widened slightly, but Chuuya didn’t stop.

"You’re shocked I have my own thoughts, my own scars that you didn’t inflict? Stop trying to write my narrative, asshole. I’m not a chapter in your book, and you’re certainly not the author of my life."

Chuuya wasn’t done.

"Your plans, your stupid philosophies—they don't apply to me. I'm not an equation to be solved, and you're not my missing variable," he continued, voice never rising but intense like a hurricane.

He loosened his grip but kept his eyes locked onto Dazai’s.

Dazai stared, unyielding. His mouth opened—but the word didn’t come. His throat locked around it.

Not love. Not want. Not even obsession.

Just—

‘...fuck, I don’t know.’

He laughed softly, like he hated the sound of it.

Finally, a smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

"So you say, Chuuya. So you say."

Chuuya finally let go, stepping back, creating a physical distance that belied the emotional closeness of their exchange.

"Next time you want to play mind games, remember—I'm not the one who needs saving."

Silence. Thick and heavy.

Dazai’s expression shifted into something more contemplative, almost tender.

"You never fail to surprise me, Chuuya. The world has tried to extinguish you..."

A breath. Soft. Almost awed.

"And yet here you are."

Silence, brittle and trembling.

"A wildfire that refuses to be tamed."

He smiled, slow and unkind.

"Nevertheless... What do you say, my little arsonist? Shall we be each other’s means and substance?"

He extended a hand.

"Because I assure you—" a whisper, venom-sweet, "If we combine... even ashes won’t remain."

What followed was a masterpiece of tactics designed to shatter Chuuya’s world. Dazai turned the Sheep—Chuuya’s so-called family—against him, piece by piece, until all that remained was ash and disbelief.

Chuuya felt the walls close in, a suffocating weight that crushed his dreams of belonging. The bitter taste of disillusionment and regret seeped into his mouth, as if he had swallowed his own naivety.

And when the final act unfurled, the curtain fell on a stage where Chuuya was cornered, bloodied, and forgotten—a tragic hero in a play nobody would applaud.

When Dazai finally approached the broken Chuuya, he found those blue eyes still burned with defiance.

"Did you honestly believe they were worth your trust?" Dazai asked in a whisper dragged from beneath the coffin lid.

"Human beings are just pawns, Chuuya… even you. Especially you."

His hot breath brushed Chuuya’s bruised cheek.

"Consider this offer carefully, my little blood-soaked angel."

Chuuya glared defiantly up at the reaper. This man had expertly shattered his world, preyed on hopes and dreams with surgical cruelty.

"I hate you," he rasped—but it sounded too small. Too human.

What he meant was: You broke me.

What he meant was: I trusted you.

What he meant was: Don’t stop.

But all that came out was: "I hate you."

Dazai leaned in, diffusing into Chuuya, creating an invisible, electrostatic potential that bound them in that singular moment.

Unfettered, Chuuya could surpass even Dazai himself. Only when he became destruction incarnate could Chuuya grasp the world's true nature.

They called him a monster, but Dazai sought only to push to greater heights, whatever the cost. To glimpse what lay beyond these frail skin bags.

So he merely smiled, relishing his crowning maneuver.

"And that, Chuuya, is why you will be my greatest creation yet," he purred.

For a breathless moment, Chuuya didn’t speak. Rage flickered, but exhaustion dragged at the corners of his mouth. He’d burned so brightly, and now the smoke curled behind his eyes.

And still—he didn’t look away.

Chapter Text

The world didn’t end.

That was the worst part.

Chuuya stood in the aftermath—rubble where his life had been, smoke still curling from the seams of his skin—and the sky didn’t fall. The sun still rose. The air still moved.

Like none of it mattered.

Morning was cruel like that—dressing horror in daylight, pretending it was just another Thursday.

But the Sheep were destroyed.

And trust? Gone.

The last flicker of something like belonging? Burned.

And Dazai—

Dazai was everywhere.

There was no clean line between rage and grief. No safe corner in his mind to retreat to. Just looping memories and the echo of a voice that said he’d been seen, and then used that sight to unmake him.

But time moved on as always, almost outrunning Chuuya’s drawn-out brooding.

One minute he was in the streets, blood on his hands, betrayal in his lungs.

The next, he was being led down a corridor lined with gold leaf and marble.

Kouyou Ozaki didn’t speak much. She didn’t need to. Chuuya followed her because there was nowhere else to go. Because someone had to tell his body what to do while his mind sat in a corner screaming.

When she opened the door, Chuuya flinched. The light was soft. Everything was quiet. Too warm. A dream where everything had teeth.

He stepped inside and nearly choked on the sheer opulence. Burgundy drapes framed windows big enough to drive a truck through, matching a carpet so plush he half expected to sink up to his knees in it.

It was beautiful. And he hated it.

The bed was a monstrosity, a four-poster affair that could sleep a small army. Its frame covered in carvings of old myths, the kind of shit Dazai would ramble about when he was in one of his philosophical moods. Chuuya pushed that thought away, focusing instead on the silk sheets that probably cost more than everything he'd ever owned.

Kouyou turned to him with a calm, lacquered smile. “This is your new home.”

Home.

The word slapped him.

It was a tomb, dressed like a penthouse.

He didn’t answer. Too busy counting the places in this room where a person could bleed without leaving a stain.

“Fuck me," Chuuya muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Is this really all mine?"

"Indeed it is, Chuuya-san. The Port Mafia rewards loyalty handsomely. I trust you'll remember that."

She took him to the closet next.

"We really must refine your fashion sense and grace," she waved a manicured hand at the closet's contents, and Chuuya's jaw nearly hit the floor.

Suits hung in a perfect rainbow, from pitch black to blinding white and every shade in between. Shirts so fine they'd disintegrate if you breathed on them wrong.

And the shoes... Christ, the shoes. Chuuya could practically hear them whispering 'you can't afford us' from their shelves.

“This is the wardrobe of someone who commands respect,” she said. “Learn it. Wear it.”

He barely heard her. He was staring at a coat that looked like it would fit Dazai. And then not. And then too much.

Kouyou moved to a narrow shelf near the mirror—lined with bottles, dark glass catching the light.

“Select wisely,” she said. “Your fragrance should be as distinctive as you are.”

Chuuya stepped closer, eyes flicking across the display. He snorted under his breath.

“Right,” he muttered. “Because I was really worried about not smelling distinctive enough.”

But he was already reaching for one. Already wondering what kind of scent they thought could cover the stench of heartbreak.

He uncapped the first. Inhaled. Sprayed it on his neck. It burned.

Good.

Kouyou reached into her kimono (and seriously, how many pockets did that thing have?) and handed him a black credit card.

"This has a relatively modest limit, befitting a new recruit. As you rise through the ranks, so will your funding."

Chuuya took the card, half expecting it to cut his fingers.

"Modest," he echoed, choking back a laugh. He'd bet his left nut that 'modest' here meant more money than he'd ever seen in his life.

Kouyou's chuckle was soft but loaded with meaning.

"Here in the Port Mafia, luxury and power go hand in hand. It is not merely about wealth but the statement it makes. You are now part of an empire. Carry yourself as such."

And with that pearl of wisdom, she swanned out, leaving Chuuya alone.

His throat tightened.

They gave him a palace the day after they killed his family.

He drifted to the mirror, not really walking. His reflection looked composed. Put together. Clean.

That was the worst of it.

He didn’t look like someone who had been gutted. He didn’t look like someone who had screamed themselves hoarse in an alley full of limp bodies.

He looked like a Port Mafia heir. Just as Dazai had planned.

He stared at himself until the skin around his eyes started to burn.

For a moment—he saw Dazai. Not full-bodied. Just a smear of black in the corner. Just a smirk in the glass.

His heart jumped. He turned fast.

No one. Just the quiet. Just the silk. Just the coffin.

He didn’t breathe for three full seconds.

Then he muttered, “Fuck you,” to the empty room.

It didn’t echo. He looked back at the mirror.

“I see what this is,” he said. Voice low. Hollow. Meant only for the thing staring back at him.

“This is how you mold monsters.”

His grin cracked wide.

“Fine.”

He slipped on the jacket nearest to him. It fit like Dazai had measured him for it. Didn’t bother fixing the cuffs. Let them hang ragged.

He looked at himself again. Didn’t recognize the eyes. But he could live with that.

He had to.

Oda made his way to the briefing room, nodding to the guard as he entered. Faded scars marked his tanned skin. His hands were calloused from war, yet so gentle curled around a cup of tea.

Dazai existed in controlled entropy—a fallen angel playing at mortality. He draped across the chair, his sins taking a coffee break. One leg was hooked over the leather in studied rebellion.

He wore victory as a fresh kill, still bleeding satisfaction. White shirt, black soul—every detail arranged to look accidental. Even his hair fell in calculated disorder.

But there was a restless energy in the way he toyed with a playing card between lithe fingers.

“You’ve been busy,” Oda said, voice even.

Dazai didn’t blink. “That’s one way to say it.”

“I crossed paths with your new project. Nakahara.”

A pause. The card flicked once, catching the light.

Oda settled into the seat across, regarding his friend curiously.

“He seems… interesting.”

Measured. Deliberate. Not judgment.

Not yet.

Dazai smiled. “They all do, at first.”

His casual aura now seemed more like the languid poise of a big cat, relaxed yet primed to strike if provoked.

“Chuuya’s entrance into the Port Mafia,” Oda said slowly, “was dramatic.”

A beat.

“Even for you.”

Dazai’s index finger caught on the edge of the card, eliciting a peppermint burn.

“Oh come on, Odasaku. Don’t look at me like that. You think I broke a precious stray? He walked into the fire on his own.”

“You lit the match.”

Dazai grinned wider. “Matches are cheap. Some people are born to burn.”

“You’re grooming him.”

“I’m sharpening him,” Dazai corrected. “Big difference.”

Oda leaned forward, voice low.

“He’s a kid.”

“He’s a god in waiting.”

“Or a boy you’re going to ruin because you don’t know how to stop wanting things you shouldn’t touch.”

At this, Dazai grinned fully, all exposed teeth. The expression sent a slight chill through Oda.

“Is that what you think this is?”

“I think,” Oda said carefully, “you don’t know where the line is anymore.”

Oda held the devil’s stare, refusing to recoil from the disturbing undercurrent.

Dazai leaned back, toying with the card once more.

“You’re afraid he’ll turn into me,” he said. “Or worse—you’re afraid he won’t.”

“Worse,” Oda replied. “I think you’re hoping he does.”

Oda saw it now—how Chuuya crawled under Dazai's skin.

“I’m giving him what no one gave me. Clarity.”

Oda’s jaw clenched. “You’re giving him trauma.”

“Semantics.”

“Damage dressed up like destiny still bleeds the same, Dazai.”

That finally made Dazai laugh. A low, broken thing.

"I'm fine," he breathed, but his eyes screamed for help, for Chuuya, for anything that made the void stop howling.

"Just fine."

His emphasis on that last word held sinister implications. Oda suppressed a frown, wary of fueling Dazai's fixation further.

For now, Oda could only watch his friend chase his next high—a boy who burned bright enough to make even demons feel.

“You need him more than he needs you.”

“I know.”

Oda stood. “Then do better.”

Dazai didn’t answer. Just let the card fall, face-up on the table.

Queen of spades.

Oda’s eyes flicked to it.

“That’s how you see him.”

Dazai’s fingers brushed the edge. “She ruins the game. Makes players bleed points just by being in their hand.”

“To win?”

“No. Just to survive her.”

Oda studied his face. “You always did like the ones that cost the most.”

“She’s not a prize,” Dazai said softly. “She’s the punishment.”

“The Queen brings bad luck.”

Dazai’s smile was a death rattle.

“Maybe I’m not trying to win.”

Oda reached for the card. Dazai covered it—possessive. Final.

“You think he’ll break you before you break him,” it wasn’t a question.

“And I’ll thank him for it.”

Dazai slid the card into his coat.

After that mindfuckery in Mori's office, Chuuya found himself wandering the Port Mafia's corridors. Whispers and sideways glances followed him like a bad smell.

Welcome home, indeed.

He headed down to the training floors, aiming for Kouyou's usual haunt.

The click of her heels echoed before he even saw her—the world's deadliest metronome.

When he rounded the corner, Kouyou was mid-slaughter of a straw dummy, her parasol leaving a neat hole where a heart should be.

She didn't even blink at his arrival.

Of course not. Nothing surprised Kouyou fucking Ozaki.

"How fortunate to see you here, Chuuya," she said, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. "We have much work to do before Mori's little test begins."

Chuuya squared his shoulders. Bring it on, bitch. He was ready to dive headfirst into this cesspool.

"I assume you've met Odasaku?" Kouyou remarked.

"Tall guy, sad eyes, carrying a book like it's his security blanket?" Chuuya nodded. "Yeah, ran into him. Weird dude."

"He's one of the few here with a soul," Kouyou said, almost warm. "Remember that."

She gestured to the targets.

"Show me what you've got, kid."

Chuuya grinned.

Time to show off.

He let his power loose, sending targets flying, turning them to confetti at the world's most violent party.

When the dust settled, he turned to Kouyou, cocky as hell.

"Guess you won't be needing those anymore, huh?"

Kouyou just stood there, looking at him like he was something she'd scraped off her shoe.

"Power is meaningless without precision and control," she said, voice flat.

Before Chuuya could even think of a comeback, the world blurred. Suddenly, Kouyou was behind him, a knife kissing his throat.

Holy shit, he hadn't even seen her move.

"That's what I mean," she whispered, breath tickling his ear.

As she pulled back, Chuuya tried not to show how rattled he was. Kouyou started circling him, smelling blood.

"Your gravity trick isn't just for smashing things," she said. "But first, you need to forget everything you think you know."

She went on about using gravity for stealth, for subtle attacks. Chuuya listened, fascinated despite himself. This was a whole new ballgame.

They practiced for hours, Chuuya learning to fine-tune his control. It was frustrating as hell, but he could feel himself improving. Kouyou was a brutal teacher, but damn if she didn't know her stuff.

"Remember," she said for the millionth time, "a true assassin strikes silently and vanishes before the body hits the floor."

It was like trying to tame a hell hound, but slowly, Chuuya started to get it. He was finding balance, learning to harness the subtler side of his ability.

"Child, your raw talent is an uncut gem," Kouyou said, eyeing him like her new prize racehorse. "I'll help you shape it into something beautiful and deadly."

The weight of that promise settled in Chuuya's gut, heavy as lead but weirdly comforting. It was a purpose, something to cling to in this fucked-up new world.

Before he knew it, night had fallen. Kouyou dismissed him with another reminder about Mori's upcoming tests. As Chuuya headed out, he couldn't help but feel a mix of dread and excitement. Whatever Mori had planned, he'd face it head-on.

After all, what choice did he have?

Chuuya collapsed onto his new bed, the silk sheets feeling like a goddamn cloud after the hell of a day he'd had. His muscles screamed, but his brain wouldn't shut the fuck up.

He grabbed Rimbaud's hat, twirling it in his hands, hoping it might spill all its secrets if he just spun it fast enough.

Tomorrow would bring new shit to deal with, maybe even some answers to the questions that kept him up at night.

But for now, he was here—alive and burning, a middle finger to the universe.

Just as he was about to drift off, a creak jolted him awake.

"Don't get too comfy, Chuu~ya. It's bad for your posture," a voice purred from the shadows.

The lights flickered on, revealing Dazai fucking Osamu, leaning against the doorframe.

Chuuya shot up, rage bubbling in his gut.

"What the fuck are you doing here, asshole?"

Dazai sauntered in, eyeing Chuuya's new digs with a smirk.

"Ah, Kouyou's been playing dress-up, I see. Hard to buy class, but she's giving it the old college try."

Molten gold tracked that cerulean storm with enough voltage to burn cities.

"Thought I'd give you a proper Port Mafia welcome. Wouldn't be right without me, now would it?"

"Get. Out," Chuuya growled, fighting the urge to turn Dazai into a smear on the wall.

Ignoring him, Dazai pulled something from his coat and tossed it onto the bed.

A plush sheep.

"A little friend for you. Thought it might remind you of home, sheepboy."

Chuuya stared at the toy, blood boiling with rage and... something else.

Damn Dazai and his ability to get under his skin.

"Oh, and Chuuya? Sweet dreams. You'll need them."

The door clicked shut, leaving Chuuya in a storm of emotions. Anger, confusion, and a traitorous spark of... interest?

He wanted to tear the room apart, but settled for messing up the bed.

"Pretentious jackass," he muttered, the word tasting like bile.

Flopping back down, he glared at the sheep. It was an insult, a puzzle, and a fucking adorable pain in his ass all at once.

"Partners or enemies, Dazai?" he asked the empty room, half expecting the sheep to answer, which only grinned back at him.

Something dangerous fluttered in his chest—probably cardiac arrest from dealing with Dazai's bullshit.

But that attention, irritating as a paper cut to the soul, sparked things he'd rather murder than name.

His face went nuclear as Dazai's "Sweet dreams" echoed in his head like the world's most annoying earworm.

"Later, Shitty Dazai. Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out," he growled, snatching up the sheep. He tucked it beside him.

"Game on, asshole," he challenged Dazai, the universe, and maybe even himself.

Finally surrendering to exhaustion, Chuuya burrowed into his pillows. A twisted part of him wondered if Dazai was creeping around, watching him sleep— a bandaged boogeyman.

The thought should've pissed him off, but instead, it sent a weird thrill down his spine.

Dammit, he really was losing it.

"Night, you crazy Port Mafia freaks," he mumbled, hugging the stupid sheep closer. "Night, even crazier Dazai."

With that, he let the darkness take him, bracing for whatever shitstorm tomorrow would bring.

But sleep was a fickle bitch. In that hazy no-man's-land between dreams and reality, Chuuya felt the bed dip beside him.

His eyes snapped open, heart pounding, wanting out of his chest.

There, in the darkness, was Dazai's outline, breathing softly like he had every right to be there. Rage and disbelief warred in Chuuya's gut.

"What the actual hell," he snarled before Dazai could open his smug mouth.

Reality blurred with half-formed dreams.

Chuuya saw Dazai's smirk, heard his taunts echoing in his head, and something in him snapped.

His control slipped, power erupting.

With a roar that was more animal than human, Chuuya lashed out, desperate to wipe that goddamn smile off Dazai's face.

But as the red haze faded, cold reality set in.

It wasn't Dazai he'd torn apart, but the sheep, its stuffing spilling through his fingers like snow.

"Shit," Chuuya muttered, gathering up the ruined toy with surprising gentleness.

He remembered clinging to it earlier, seeking comfort like a dumb child. Now it was just another victim of his mind.

He placed what was left of it on the nightstand.

Chuuya flexed his hands, imagining Dazai's throat between them. A cold sweat broke out across his skin. Soon, even sleep wouldn't be safe from the monsters in his head.

As the night crept back in, Chuuya felt himself sinking into a familiar void. He stared at the ceiling, wondering if this was what going mad felt like. Part of him wanted to laugh, another part wanted to scream. In the end, he did neither, just closed his eyes and waited for dawn.

He awoke in a cold sweat, claw marks etched into his arms—unwilling remnants of a sleep-torn struggle. He sighed and rose from the bed. The button on the wall gleamed surrender. His finger left blood when he pressed it.

With a soft mechanical whir, the blinds retracted, revealing the sprawling cityscape of Yokohama below. Ordinary lives bustled in those distant streets.

After a moment of contemplative staring, Chuuya turned from the window.

He froze.

There lounging casually across from the bed was the fucker himself, AGAIN, keen eyes tracking Chuuya's every move.

"Well, well, Sleeping Beauty finally graces us with his presence," Dazai drawled. "It's practically lunchtime, you know. The Port Mafia doesn't run on beauty sleep, Chuuya."

Chuuya bristled, hands clenching into fists.

"What the hell are you doing in my room again, bastard? Get out!"

He hurled a pillow, which Dazai nimbly dodged, looking utterly unperturbed.

"Come now, don't take out your frustration on the decor. I'm doing you a favor. It seems someone needs to make sure you're up on time."

Face burning with rage, Chuuya grabbed the nearest object – an ornate lamp – and chucked it in Dazai's direction.

"The only thing I need is for you to learn what a fucking door is and to change my damn locks!"

Mental note: invest in a fortress-level security system, ASAP.

Dazai continued lazily dodging the barrage of projectiles, clearly enjoying provoking his new toy first thing in the morning.

It was going to be a long day.

As Dazai nimbly avoided a large vase, he made his way over to Chuuya's nightstand, his sharp eyes having spotted the mutilated stuffed sheep there earlier.

In a flash, his hand darted out and snatched up the plush severed body, holding it aloft tauntingly while clicking his tongue in exaggerated dismay.

"Now Chuuya, is this any way to treat a thoughtful gift from your new partner?"

He neatly avoided Chuuya's lunge, cradling the toy's remains to his chest.

"And here I spent so long picking out the perfect little friend to watch over you."

Dazai sighed theatrically.

"Though I suppose I should have expected such ingratitude from a violent beast like you."

He tossed the body lightly from hand to hand while Chuuya seethed.

"Oh well, I suppose once a mad dog, always a mad dog. At least now I know better than to waste sentiment on the likes of you."

Chuuya froze, stung by the verbal barb. Dazai knew just how to get under his skin, impugning the genuineness of actions Chuuya had actually appreciated.

Swallowing his hurt pride, he gritted out, "Just give it back, Dazai."

He held out his hand, no longer having the energy for their usual sparring match so early in the day.

For a moment, Dazai just looked at him, head tilted. Then he tossed the plush corpse back to Chuuya, who nearly fumbled it in surprise.

"You're no fun when you're upset," Dazai muttered, checking the time. "I suppose you wish for me to leave you to get ready for the day ahead."

Chuuya blinked, wrong-footed by Dazai's abrupt shift in demeanor. Dazai glanced back, his expression unreadable.

"Do try to wake up on time tomorrow. I'd hate to have to barge in again."

Chuuya sighed, suddenly feeling very tired. He looked down at the pitiful body in his hands.

Carefully placing the remnants back on the nightstand, he shook off his melancholy. Having had enough of Dazai's intrusion, he marched over and grabbed him roughly by the arm. Ignoring his protests, Chuuya proceeded to drag him to the door and shove him forcefully into the hallway.

"I don't have time for your bullshit this morning. Come back when you learn boundaries," Chuuya snarled before slamming the door in Dazai's face.

"Actually, don’t ever come back."

For good measure, Chuuya focused his ability and levitated the heavy oak dresser in front of the door, barricading it shut. There, that should keep the pest out while he showered and made himself presentable.

Chuuya rubbed his temples, feeling the headache already setting in that seemed to accompany most of his interactions with Dazai. It was far too early for this. Chuuya sighed and sauntered into the en-suite bathroom.

He examined the sleek shower, squinting at the control panel. The technology was more advanced than what he was accustomed to. An unreasonable number of buttons and dials lay before him, some with symbols that might as well have been alien hieroglyphs for all he understood.

"Tch. Did the Mafia raid Area 51 or some shit?" he grumbled.

Taking a deep breath, he decided to wing it. He was Chuuya Nakahara, damn it. He could handle a shower.

Confidently, he jabbed a random button.

Big mistake.

Jets of water erupted from every conceivable angle, instantly drenching him. Spluttering, he slammed another button. That's when things went from bad to worse.

A laser-focused stream of water shot directly between his ass cheeks with the force of a fire hose. Chuuya's eyes bulged, and the sound that escaped him was pure, unadulterated mortification—a shriek that could probably be heard in China.

"HOLY FUCKING SHIT!" he bellowed, desperately trying to deactivate the demonic bidet.

But each button he pressed only activated more jets. Soon, he was being assaulted from all sides, like some twisted water-based version of whack-a-mole.

Chuuya imagined the headlines: "Port Mafia Recruit Found Drowned in Shower: Gravity Manipulation No Match for Plumbing."

After what felt like an eternity of aquatic torture, Chuuya finally managed to shut off the water. He stood there, dripping and panting, his hair plastered to his face and his cheeks redder than a tomato with sunburn.

"If this is some kind of fucked-up Mafia hazing ritual," he growled, "I'm gonna shove Mori's fancy-ass shoes so far up his—"

A voice coming through the speakers in the bathroom mirror cut off his tirade.

"Everything alright in there, Chuuya?" a concerned Kouyou called. "We heard... screaming."

Chuuya wanted to die on the spot. "F-fine!" he squeaked, voice about three octaves higher than normal. "Just... testing the acoustics!"

Once the intercom clicked off, Chuuya turned back to the shower, eyeing it warily.

"Alright, you sadistic piece of plumbing," he muttered. "Round two."

With a deep breath that was part prayer, part resignation, he pressed the button labeled 'Relax'.

"Here goes nothing," he muttered. "If this thing tries to drown me again, I swear I'll—"

His words cut off as the shower transformed into a goddamn oasis. Perfect, warm water cascaded over him, the jets hitting every sore muscle with pinpoint accuracy. Soft, ambient music filled the air, sounding suspiciously like the crap Dazai always hummed when he was plotting something particularly annoying.

"Okay... this is... nice," Chuuya admitted begrudgingly, feeling the tension melt from his shoulders. "If anyone asks, I'll deny saying that under oath."

The shower stall lit up with a soft, golden glow, making the tiles glisten like a fairytale grotto. An aroma of sandalwood and lavender wafted through the steam, and Chuuya found himself taking deep, appreciative breaths.

Time seemed to slow down, and he lost himself in the blissful cascade. When he finally stepped out, he felt like a new man. Or at least, a less pissed-off version of himself.

He wrapped himself in a Supima cotton towel and strolled into his walk-in closet. He pulled on a pair of black skinny jeans that hugged his legs. He paired them with a deep red V-neck that showed just enough chest to be interesting without veering into "desperate for attention" territory. Over it went a black leather jacket, left unzipped for that "I could kick your ass, but I'm too cool to bother" look.

Brushing his damp hair, Chuuya caught his reflection in the full-length mirror. He froze, staring at the stranger looking back at him.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked his reflection. The guy in the mirror just smirked back, looking far too comfortable in his new skin.

Shaking off the unsettling moment, Chuuya headed to his kitchenette. The place looked like it was designed by someone with a fetish for dark wood and stainless steel. He half expected to find caviar and champagne in the fridge. Instead, he found it stocked with actual, edible food.

"Huh, maybe Kouyou does have a heart," he mused, pulling out ingredients for a yogurt parfait.

As he layered fresh berries and a drizzle of honey, Chuuya couldn't help but snort at the bougie-ness of it all.

"If the guys from the old neighborhood could see me now," he muttered, taking a bite. "They'd probably mug me on principle."

As he ate his breakfast, Chuuya mentally prepared for the day ahead. He'd survived a demonic shower and an identity crisis before 9 AM. Whatever the Port Mafia threw at him next, he was ready.

Or so he hoped. With his luck, the coffee machine was probably rigged to explode.

Chuuya set out for the training grounds. The 60th floor's ceiling was high enough to make him feel even shorter than usual. Great.

He hit the elevator, descending to the 21st floor where he was greeted by the Hall of Light and Dark. The place looked like someone had gone nuts with a bunch of stained-glass windows and a color wheel. Each hue supposedly symbolized something, but Chuuya was pretty sure it was just there to make people feel cultured while plotting murder.

Today, the red caught his eye. "How fitting," he thought. "Matches my mood."

As he continued down the hall, the atmosphere shifted. The smell of sweat and metal hit, mixed with the sound of fists on sandbags and the low rumble of a hundred hushed conversations.

The training room was buzzing with activity, and there, lurking in the shadows was the emo vampire, leaning against the wall, being his usual creepy self.

Chuuya’s leather boots struck the ground with a flirtatious audacity, moving across the room. With a flourish that was totally necessary and not at all showing off, he shrugged off the leather jacket.

His first victim: the heavy bag. Chuuya laid into it like it owed him money. The sound echoed through the room, drowning out the whispers of "Holy shit" and "Is he compensating for something?"

Next up was the wooden dummy. Each strike could probably turn bones into dust, which was exactly the image he was going for.

It was at this moment that Dazai entered the training ground, quietly enough not to disrupt but with a presence that demanded to be felt. His eyes found Chuuya’s almost instantly, drinking in the sight before him. He slunk against the heavy bag, arms crossed.

Chuuya finally paused, panting slightly.

“Do you always stare at people, or am I special?” Chuuya asked with feigned irritation. Deep blues met caramel depths, a silent challenge wrapped in a sardonic smile.

Dazai peeled himself off the heavy bag and sauntered over with that shit-eating grin Chuuya really hated.

"Oh, you're special alright. You make an excellent toy."

Chuuya’s eyes ignited, a wildfire.

“I’m not anyone’s toy, especially not yours.”

Dazai circled him, entering his personal orbit yet refusing to make contact.

“We’ll see about that.”

“I control my own fate,” Chuuya hissed, his teeth clenched.

“And I control mine,” Dazai returned, eyes narrowing into slits, “which now includes you.”

Chuuya scoffed, "As if I'd let anyone control me, let alone a scrawny nobody like you."

Dazai raised an eyebrow.

"Scrawny? I don't look like a strong breeze could knock me over. Do you have to shop in the children's section for clothes?"

Before Chuuya could retort, Dazai added, "And your fighting form is sloppy at best. All power but no precision or elegance." He waved a hand flippantly. "I give your technique a 3 out of 10."

"Why you arrogant bastard!" Chuuya exploded. "I could crush you with a flick of my wrist if I wanted. My skills are unmatched!"

"Oh, I'm sure your little tantrums can do some damage," Dazai replied condescendingly, examining his nails. "But true power requires intellect over mere brutish force."

Face reddening, Chuuya spat back.

"Intellect? Don't make me laugh! All your fancy words can't save you from a good thrashing. Why don't you come over here and prove you can handle yourself in a real fight?"

Dazai brushed an invisible speck off his coat, unfazed by the challenge.

"Now now, no need to get so worked up and risk straining yourself. We wouldn't want you to throw out your back trying to look tough."

Chuuya trembled with rage, hands clenched. This arrogant ass was asking for it.

"Just you wait," he ground out. "I'll wipe that smug look right off your stupid face."

"My stupid face? At least I don't resemble an angry garden gnome," Dazai shot back lazily, though his eyes glinted with mischief.

"Why you absolute—" Chuuya sputtered, too incensed to form a coherent insult.

Dazai checked an imaginary watch.

"Ah, look at the time. As fun as trading insults with you is, I really must be going."

He headed casually for the door.

"Try not to miss me too much while I'm gone, Chuu!"

"Get out of here, bastard!" Chuuya yelled after him, grabbing the nearest object – a shoe – and lobbing it at Dazai's retreating back. It bounced harmlessly off the door as it closed behind him.

Chuuya stood fuming for a minute, adrenaline still pumping through his veins. But the grounds were empty now, only the squeaking of the hanging bag echoing faintly.

With a huff, Chuuya turned and unleashed a blistering combo on the bag, imagining it was Dazai's ugly face. The nerve of that guy! Who did he think he was, waltzing in here and critiquing Chuuya's skills?

The bag shook violently under the onslaught as Chuuya worked to redirect his irritation back into his training. He'd show that arrogant dick just what he could do soon enough.

And if Dazai happened to end up at the bottom of Yokohama Bay... well, accidents happen, right?

As he pummeled the bag, a tiny part of Chuuya's brain wondered why he cared so much what Dazai thought. But he squashed that thought faster than a bug under his boot. No way in hell was he going to admit that Dazai got under his skin.

Even if he did.

Just a little.

Chuuya stalked violently through the upper floor’s hallway, definitely not giving a damn about the fancy decor. Damp auburn hair left a lingering trail of soft chamomile and oxidizing iron. He was bound for a cathartic session with Kouyou to vent about his new "partner."

“You look like hell,” Kouyou remarked, already pouring him a cup of tea from her delicate porcelain set. The aroma mingled with the scent of fresh-cut cherry blossoms.

Chuuya, with an air of exhaustion, haphazardly catapulted himself onto the velvet loveseat next to Kouyou.

“Dazai, that infuriating, bandaged heap of existential fucking dread freak! Thinks he owns the place—and me,” he scowled, his eyes momentarily captivated by a magnificent landscape painting on the wall.

It depicted serenity, a state he felt far removed from.

Kouyou set down the delicate teapot. The sleeves of her kimono flowed gracefully as she moved to sit across from him, taking her place in an armchair upholstered to match the loveseat.

“Do you know what he said to me earlier?” Chuuya continued, now in full rant mode. “He looked me straight in the eye, with that smug smirk of his, and said—” Chuuya then shifted his tone, impersonating Dazai with an exaggerated air of mock sophistication. “‘Oh, you’re special, alright. You make an excellent toy.’”

Chuuya’s face contorted in disgust as he dropped the imitation, returning to his own voice.

“I mean, what sort of pretentious garbage is that?!”

His hands animatedly flailed through the air as if they could grasp his erupting exasperation and hurl it across the room.

“As if I’m some sort of collectible in his twisted, never-ending fairground of absurdity! I swear, if arrogance was a sport, he’d be standing atop the Olympic podium with a gold medal!”

Kouyou watched Chuuya’s animated tirade unfold with the patience of a seasoned mentor. Her eyes took in every exaggerated gesture and fluctuation of his voice. When he finally paused for breath, she delicately lifted her teacup, its porcelain almost glowing in the chandelier’s soft light.

“As poetic as your grievances are,” she began, a glimmer of amusement twinkling in her eyes, “Dazai’s talent for infuriation is an art form all its own.”

Setting down the teacup, her eyes met his—intense, almost as if she could peer into the layers of emotions, complexity, and underlying affection that laced his rant.

“Sometimes, life thrusts us into intricate quarters with people we’d much rather avoid,” she continued, her eyes now turning toward her cherished bookshelf, searching for wisdom. “But remember, Chuuya, a duet often creates the most beautiful of symphonies. It’s not about subduing one’s individuality, but learning to create harmony from the discord.”

Chuuya listened, his eyes narrowing slightly, weighing the words. Finally, with a half-grunt, half-sigh, he leaned back into the plush velvet, his intense gaze meeting Kouyou’s calm one.

“A duet, huh? With him, it’s more like tripping through a minefield in the dark. If creating ‘beautiful symphonies’ means we end up composing the soundtrack to the apocalypse, then sure, let’s call it a hit.”

Despite his sarcasm, his eyes softened momentarily, giving away a sliver of his hidden appreciation for her counsel.

“Chuuya, I can see you’re restless, but remember—you and Dazai may both be young additions to this organization, but your paths are different,” she countered.

“And please remember,” a soft sigh escaped her painted lips, “you are not an island in this vast sea of chaos. People here care for you; I care for you. You’re not fighting your battles alone.”

“Alright, I get it. We’re stuck in this poorly choreographed dance, and I can either keep stepping on his toes or… learn the damn steps.”

He looked away, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips.

“But I swear, if he tries to lead, I’m throwing him off the dance floor.”

A glimmer of amusement flickered in Kouyou’s eyes, as though she found a paradoxical blend of comfort and concern in Chuuya’s obstinate arrogance.

“One might argue that a dance isn’t complete without both push and pull,” she mused, “even if the floor shakes beneath you.”

Kouyou leaned back, allowing herself the luxury of a momentary pause.

“Whether fate has cruel or kind intentions, you’re unavoidably connected to him. So, discover a method to your shared madness—coexist peacefully or learn to fight another day without annihilating one another.”

As she spoke, her gaze met Chuuya’s—calm, grounding, a living anchor in times of drowning. For a moment, it was just the two of them—master and protégé, each a complex universe unto themselves.

When the night finally laid its dark, velvet cloth over the city, Chuuya found himself on the rooftop, embroidered with the twinkling lights of distant buildings. He lit a cigarette, its orange glow briefly illuminating the soft contours of his face.

Kouyou’s words still clung to him, tight as a bruise. He took a long drag, held it, let it sear.

He wasn’t about to dance for anyone. Not for her. Not for Dazai. Not for the fucked-up hand life dealt him.

But as the smoke curled up and vanished into the sky, he scoffed, jaw clenched.

“…I don’t have to like him. I just have to survive him.”

Chapter Text

It was almost three in the morning.

The city outside blinked with cold, artificial life—glass towers and sodium lights, traffic moving like blood through a distant vein.

Inside, the light on the nightstand flickered against clean sheets that didn’t belong to him.

Chuuya hadn’t changed.

Not the blood-stiff shirt that crackled when he moved, fabric folded into cardboard creases where red had dried and darkened. Not the boots still caked in grime, leaving grainy black smears on the carpet. The leather was split along one seam, revealing the steel toe beneath—evidence of how hard he'd kicked something. Someone.

The collar was stained with something copper-brown that smelled like Dazai. His own skin reeked of smoke and sweat and ghosted touches—invisible fingerprints trailing across his throat, his wrists, the small of his back. There was gravel still embedded in his knuckles. His fingernails were lined with dirt and dried blood.

He didn’t bother to wash. He didn’t want to.

He was ruining the bed. White silk smeared with rot. And it felt right—like he was staining something sacred just by being here.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, hunched, his body dumped and forgotten. Shoulders tight. Head pounding. The room tilted occasionally, reality sliding sideways before snapping back into focus.

A cigarette burned between his fingers, barely smoked. The ember crawled toward his skin, threatening to kiss him with pain. Ash fell unnoticed onto his thigh, gray snow against black fabric.

His other hand curled loosely around a glass of whiskey. Painkillers kicked slow and heavy in his veins. Not enough to numb him. Just enough to blur the lines.

His eyes—bloodshot, pupils dilated until only a thin ring of blue remained—flicked to the nightstand.

The sheep plushie—cotton innards spilled out, one button eye hanging by a thread. It had been a gift. A joke that wasn't funny anymore. The fabric was still soft beneath the violence, expensive. Everything Dazai touched was expensive, even destruction.

That could’ve been Dazai.

Should’ve been.

But it wasn’t.

“I wanted to see if you’d let me.”

Chuuya's jaw clenched so hard a tooth creaked, threatening to fracture. His tongue tasted copper where he'd bitten the inside of his cheek.

And that was the problem. That was the fucking truth. He didn’t even hesitate. Didn’t think. Didn’t weigh it out. He moved. He jumped. He caught him.

100 stories up. Wind whipping his hair into his eyes. Concrete edge digging into his stomach as he lunged, as he reached, as he grabbed a wrist too thin, feeling bones grind together in his grip.

The vertigo still lingered, that sickening plunge in his stomach as he looked down at death and spat in its face. His shoulder had dislocated with Dazai's weight and his hands trembled faintly, aftershocks of adrenaline and terror.

But the bullshit of it all was that he would do it again.

Will do it again.

The second Dazai tips his weight over the edge, Chuuya knows—he’ll move.

There’s no choice.

There’s just Dazai.

His gravity was never physical. It was hunger. Compulsion. Psychic. Poisoned. Beautiful.

Chuuya was fucking starving for it.

His chest hurt with it. From the knowing. Knowing that the next time Dazai hurts him, Chuuya won’t stop it. Knowing that part of him wants to be ruined.

Wants the pain because pain means he's still alive, still feeling, still mattering enough to be worth hurting.

It was stitched into his bones. And Chuuya didn’t want to be clean because clean meant letting go.

He hated Dazai for that. But he hated himself more. This was the space between wounds. The liminal moment when the knife is withdrawn but the blood hasn't yet begun to flow. The inhale before the scream.

And he was bracing for the next one. Muscles tensed, nerves firing, body preparing for impact even as his mind drifted in chemical haze.

He pressed his forehead to his fists. Bones against bones. Hard edges that grounded him in physical sensation. He didn't sleep. He couldn't.

Because if he dreamed, Dazai would

be there,

standing on the edge again,

waiting.

Hair ruffled by wind. That same patient smile. That same challenge in his eyes. That same terrible question hanging unspoken between them: How far will you go for me? How much will you take? Where is the line you won't cross?

The answer was always the same.

But how long can you stay in bed, wearing someone else's ghost, before it becomes your skin?

Mori summoned them both. Separately.

Dazai arrived in fresh bandages, not a hair out of place. Nothing in those dead-fish eyes suggested he'd fallen one hundred stories the night before. Nothing acknowledged the cigarette burns tracking up Chuuya's arms—punishment for catching him.

Chuuya pretended not to feel something crack behind his ribs when Dazai's eyes slid over him like he was furniture. Like he hadn't held Dazai's life in his hands just thirty-six hours ago.

"Nakahara-kun," Mori's voice coiled in the office. "You'll be working with Dazai-kun on this assignment. I trust there won't be any... complications?"

Chuuya's chin lifted. "No, Boss."

Dazai didn't even blink. Just examined his bandaged fingers as if searching for imperfections.

By the fourth day, coffee appeared on Chuuya's desk each morning. Black. Two sugars. Exactly how he liked it. Neither of them mentioned it.

Their first mission since that night came three days later. Some mid-level thug needed an education in pain. Dazai watched from the corner while Chuuya did the work—knuckles cracking against jawbone, boots leaving imprints on ribs.

"Beautiful," Dazai murmured to himself. But loud enough for Chuuya to hear.

Blood splattered Chuuya's coat. The rhythm of violence was familiar—punch, kick, gravity crushing down until breathing became a privilege. Through it all, he felt Dazai's gaze like fingertips against his spine.

When it was over, Dazai handed him a handkerchief. "You missed a spot." Their fingers touched this time. Chuuya's skin burned where contact was made.

The next morning found them alone in the elevator. A long ride up to Mori's office. Chuuya's bruised, still recovering from yesterday's mission. His ribs protested with each breath, a reminder of the thug who got in a lucky hit.

Dazai stood too close. Didn't say a word. Just examined the ceiling like it contained the secrets of the universe, hands in pockets, posture deliberately casual.

The silence stretched between them, taut as piano wire.

But when they hit their floor, Dazai leaned in and murmured.

"You're walking like someone's been inside you."

"Fuck off." Chuuya's voice was gravel.

"Touchy. What, did they not say thank you?"

Chuuya punched the wall. Not him. That's worse. His knuckles split against the metal, leaving a crimson smear. Dazai watched the blood with fascination in his empty eyes.

The doors slid open. Dazai stepped out first, humming softly under his breath.

Three days later, three recruits killed themselves. All jumped from the same roof where Dazai had stood on the edge. All dead on impact.

Chuuya found him at his desk, casualty reports spread before him.

"Did you tell them?" Chuuya demanded, slamming his palm against the wood.

Dazai looked up, eyes empty seas. "Tell them what?"

"How to fall. How to die."

"I merely suggested that roof had the best view in Yokohama." Dazai's smile was thin as a blade. "Was I wrong?"

Chuuya's fingers itched with the urge to grab that pale throat. To feel life pulsing beneath his touch. To know that Dazai was still breathing despite everything. Instead, he turned and left, slamming the door hard enough to crack the frame.

That night, he found himself on the same rooftop, smoking through a pack of cigarettes and wondering what it would feel like to step off the edge. To embrace the fall rather than always being the one who catches.

Dazai played chess against himself in the break room. White always lost.

Chuuya found him there one afternoon, pieces arranged in some elaborate suicide pact. He sat down across from him without a word. The game that followed was brutal, violent even without physical contact.

Dazai checkmated him in seventeen moves.

"So violent, Chuuya," Dazai laughed when the pieces went flying at his face. He caught a knight mid-air. "Has anyone ever told you that anger is just passion with nowhere to go?"

Chuuya grabbed Dazai's collar, knuckles white. "Has anyone ever told you that you're insufferable?"

"You," Dazai answered, not even trying to break the hold. "Daily."

Their faces were inches apart. Chuuya could feel Dazai's breath against his lips. Could see the pulse in his throat. For one dangerous moment, he thought about closing the distance. About tasting that smile. About making it bleed.

Instead, he shoved Dazai back into his chair and walked away.

The first infiltration assignment came a day later. Chuuya stood lookout while Dazai worked magic with lockpicks and psychology. He watched Dazai become someone else for two hours—charming, warm, human. The mark never stood a chance against Dazai's smile, the careful tilt of his head, the way he laughed like he meant it.

On the way back, Dazai stumbled. Just once. Hand found Chuuya's shoulder for balance.

"Tell no one."

That night, Chuuya dreamed of catching Dazai again. Of failing. Of watching him fall. He woke up gasping, heart pounding against his ribs like it wanted to escape.

On day thirteen, a single playing card waited on Chuuya's desk. Queen of spades. Tomorrow’s date written in painfully neat handwriting on the back.

Chuuya tucked the card into his coat pocket, where it burned against his chest all day.

That evening, Chuuya sprawled across his obnoxiously huge bed, still in his coat.

The queen of spades lay between his fingers, worn soft from handling. The corners were bent now, the edges fraying—like the rest of him. He flipped it again. Again. The face blurred into motion, black ink smearing into nothing.

A papercut opened on his index finger, a thin, angry line of red he barely noticed. Another twist. Another sting. The second cut ran deeper.

It almost felt good. At least it was real. Sharp. Present. A reminder that he hadn’t dissociated straight into the goddamn wallpaper.

The date on the back hadn’t changed.

Tomorrow.

He should’ve thrown it out. Burned it. Eaten it. Something. But instead it sat there like a loaded gun, daring him to ask what kind of suicide this was meant to be. Physical? Emotional? Metaphorical? With Dazai, probably all three.

"Stupid card," he muttered. "Stupid test. Stupid Dazai."

He twirled the card one last time and it sliced a deeper groove into his thumb. "Fucking hell."

Blood welled. He sucked it, swore louder, then—because he’d clearly lost his goddamn mind now—pressed the card to his mouth like it might kiss him back.

He froze. Disgust bloomed.

"God, I need therapy."

With a grunt, he hurled the card across the room. It hit the mirror and fluttered down like a curse. He rolled onto his side, scowling at the wall.

Dazai was probably somewhere dramatic right now—maybe crouched in a bathtub in his suit with all the lights off, drinking sake and listening to Gregorian chants. Or dangling from the ceiling by a tie, writing suicide poetry in blood on the fucking walls. Or seducing a priest just to ask about the quickest route to hell.

Chuuya groaned and covered his face.

"God, I hate him. I hate him so fucking much."

With a frustrated growl, Chuuya sat up. He shrugged off his coat, then his shirt, letting them drop to the floor. The air prickled against his skin as he started pacing the room, fuming, hair a mess, muscles twitching like even they didn’t know what to do with all the energy coiling under his ribs.

He didn’t know what he was looking for.

Pajamas, maybe.

Sanity, probably.

God, he was so screwed.

Meanwhile, Dazai lounged sideways in an armchair, legs thrown over one armrest, spine curved in a question mark. A battered leather journal lay open across his lap, pages half-filled with looping scrawl and ink stains. The pen in his hand tapped a lazy rhythm against his bottom lip before he began to write.

“Dear Diary,”

“Today I contemplated 37 new ways to die. The chandelier in the lobby is looking friendlier by the hour. Sadly, still too public. The dramatic impact of my demise must not be diluted by pedestrian lighting or uninspired carpeting.”

He paused, considered the ceiling. Added a flourish.

“Also, I’m fairly certain Chuuya would just catch me again. Ruin all the fun. Speaking of which…”

His mouth curled into something crooked and fond and entirely inappropriate.

“You’re probably pacing right now, aren’t you? Back and forth across your obscenely expensive rug like a lion in a designer cage. Are you shirtless? I bet you’re shirtless. Pissed off and brooding and tragically unaware that I know exactly how many freckles you have on your back.”

He giggled. Yes, giggled. The journal tilted slightly as he wrote faster, frenzied.

“Tomorrow, Mori thinks he’s testing you. Cute. He thinks it’s a Port Mafia trial. But you and I know better, don’t we? This is theatre. I’m the audience. You’re the lead. And I can’t decide if I want to see you ascend or collapse gloriously into madness.”

The pen paused mid-sentence.

“Part of me hopes you fail. If you do, I can keep you—like a relic. Or a rabid dog on a velvet leash. But no. You’ll pass, won’t you? You’ll dazzle them. You’ll drown them in that gravity. And I’ll sit in the corner like a proud lunatic father. Or deranged ex. Or future crime scene.”

“Sleep well, Chuuya,” he murmured. “I’ll be dreaming of your failure. Or your triumph. Or that freckle on your left hip.”

He grinned, all teeth. “Either way, I win.”

“P.S. I licked your coffee cup.”

Dazai closed the journal, a twisted smile playing on his lips. He glanced out the window, imagining Chuuya in his room, blissfully unaware.

Morning didn’t arrive. It snuck in, sly and colorless, dragging light across the floor in the form of guilt. Chuuya cracked one eye open and immediately regretted it. His head was fogged, chest heavy, body stiff with the kind of exhaustion sleep doesn’t touch.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

“Today’s the goddamn day.”

He sat up slow, like the air had thickened overnight. The room was dipped in that weird liminal glow—too late to be night, too early to be safe.

Everything looked like it didn’t belong. Including him.

Dragging himself to the closet, he stared blankly for a moment before reaching for the only things that still made sense. Black jeans, frayed at the knees; a white silk tank that felt criminally soft; the usual boots with soles worn thin from pacing.

He cinched the belt tight—black leather, silver skulls grinning like little omens. The bracelet came last. His version of war paint.

The last two weeks played like a reel behind his eyes—missions, blood, silence that said too much, and Dazai, always Dazai. With his smug little comments and haunted eyes.

He huffed. Ran a hand through his hair.

“Let’s get this over with.”

One final glance in the mirror, a forced smile—too many teeth, not enough joy.

“Time to raise some hell.”

He stepped into the hallway. Immediately, the silence hit. Heavy and intentional.

Then, as if beckoned by his own personal demon, he felt an irksome pull.

“Oh great, it’s the sadistic freak. Just who I wanted to run into first thing,” Chuuya thought, his eyes narrowing at the all-too-familiar smug expression.

Dazai Osamu materialized at the corridor’s end, a study in elegant destruction. Black slacks sculpted to lean legs, pristine white shirt deliberately disheveled, trench coat billowing behind him like a death shroud. The bandages—always the fucking bandages—wrapped his limbs in a morbid artistry, fragments of white against skin too pale to be healthy.

Damn him for looking like that after everything.

His obsidian gaze dissected Chuuya from twenty paces—clinical, amused, hungry—catching the energy coiled in those stiff shoulders and the impatient cadence of that tapping foot.

Dazai closed the distance between them with unhurried deliberation. He leaned in, invading Chuuya’s space with the casual entitlement of someone who knew exactly how much it would irritate.

“Ah, Chuuya,” his voice caressed the syllables with practiced mockery. “Tell me, do you practice those glowers in the mirror or do they come naturally? You look like you’ve just come back from a funeral.” His lips curved into a feral grin. “Oh wait, that’s just your face.”

Insults. This, at least, Chuuya knew how to navigate.

"Every time I see you, it's like attending my own funeral," Chuuya fired back, the words carrying more truth than he intended.

Dazai threw his head back with a laugh—deep and unexpectedly genuine—the motion sending dark strands sweeping across his forehead. His hands slid casually into his coat pockets, long fingers disappearing into shadow.

Chuuya felt his face heat up, and not just from anger. Fuck. Why did the bastard have to look like that when he laughed? All carefree and... and...

"Beautiful," Chuuya's traitorous brain supplied.

"Shut up," he hissed at himself, earning a quizzical look from Dazai.

"I didn't say anything, Chuuya. Are you hearing voices now? How excitingly unstable of you!"

Chuuya growled, trying to force down the blush he could feel creeping up his neck. This was Dazai, for fuck's sake. The bane of his existence. The walking disaster. The infuriating, brilliant, stupidly attractive—

"No!" Chuuya cut off that thought viciously. He was not going down that road. Not now, not ever.

Dazai tilted his head, that insufferable smirk still in place.

“My, my, Chuuya.” He leaned closer, breath ghosting against Chuuya’s ear. “You’re looking a bit flushed. Not nervous about your big test, are you?”

The proximity sent electricity down Chuuya’s spine. He held his ground through sheer stubbornness, refusing to concede even an inch of space.

"As if," he snapped. "I could pass Mori's test in my sleep. It's you I'm worried about, bandage-waster."

“Well, you should prepare for more torture, my petit gremlin,” he purred, voice honey-laced poison. “We’ve got a day off until 5 p.m., before the real… entertainment begins.”

His eyes traced the elegant architecture of Chuuya’s throat, lingering on the pulse point visible beneath his skin.

Something dark and hungry unfurled behind his gaze—the look of a man imagining ruin. Imagining his fingerprints blooming like bruises across that pristine canvas, marking territory no one else dared claim.

A shiver of anticipation—sick, twisted pleasure—rippled through him. The thought of Chuuya marked, claimed, broken… it was almost too exquisite to bear.

“Like spending time with you isn’t torture enough?” Chuuya scoffed, though the barb lacked its usual venom. Something in his posture had softened, almost imperceptibly—the slightest lowering of defenses.

Dazai caught it immediately, filed it away in the meticulous catalog of Chuuya’s weaknesses he kept locked in the darkest corners of his mind.

“Come now,” he gestured down the hall, fingers unfurling. “Let me treat you to some sustenance in this den of iniquities.”

“I suppose I have to eat either way,” Chuuya muttered, falling into step beside him. The surrender was small but significant.

Dazai’s smile curled with satisfaction as he led the way to the upper floor restaurants. His hand ghosted at the small of Chuuya’s back, not quite touching—a phantom pressure that left goosebumps in its wake.

"By the way," Dazai said casually, "I noticed you've been favoring your left side lately. Old injury acting up?"

Chuuya tensed imperceptibly.

"It's nothing," he said, too quickly. "Just slept wrong."

Dazai hummed noncommittally, but Chuuya could practically hear the gears turning in his head. Shit. He'd given something away, hadn't he?

Two could play at that game.

"Speaking of injuries," Chuuya said, eyeing Dazai's bandages, "you've added a few new ones. Suicide attempt number what now? 37?"

A flicker of something—surprise? annoyance?—passed over Dazai's face before his mask slipped back into place.

"38, actually. But who's counting?"

They reached the restaurant, the smell of fresh coffee and pastries wafting out. Dazai held the door open with a flourish.

"After you, my little gravity god."

He led them to a secluded booth in the corner, sliding in with a grace that made Chuuya want to trip him. They settled in, the leather creaking softly beneath.

Chuuya couldn't help but watch Dazai over the rim of his coffee cup. The bastard moved like liquid mercury. Even just sitting there, he seemed to take up more space than his lanky frame should allow.

His fingers, long and clever, played with the rim of his cup.

Tap, circle, pause. Tap, circle, pause.

Chuuya found his eyes drawn to those hands, wondering how they could look so damn delicate and so dangerous at the same time.

He had seen those same hands break a man's neck, had watched them reload a gun without looking, had observed them sign execution orders without hesitation.

Chuuya swallowed too hard, nearly choking on his coffee.

Dazai glanced up, one eyebrow quirked in mild curiosity at Chuuya’s sputtering, before resuming his surveillance.

His eyes never stopped moving, scanning the cafe in that familiar pattern Chuuya had unwillingly memorized. Exits (three visible, one likely behind the kitchen), potential threats (businessman with concealed weapon at his ankle, waitress with too-stiff posture), improvised weapons (heavy ceramic mugs, metal cutlery, chair legs that could be broken for stabbing implements).

It was like watching a supercomputer process information in real-time, and fuck if it wasn't the hottest thing Chuuya had ever seen.

A lock of hair fell across Dazai's forehead. The way it curled against his skin, highlighting the sharp cut of his cheekbone—it was unfair. No one should look that good without even trying.

Chuuya’s fingers twitched with the absurd impulse to brush it back, to see if it felt as soft as it looked, but instead stared as Dazai absently tucked it behind his ear.

"Earth to Chuuya," Dazai's voice cut through his thoughts. "Are you in there, or has your tiny brain finally given up?"

Chuuya scowled, ignoring the way his heart skipped a beat when Dazai leaned closer, invading his personal space with casual disregard.

"What?" Chuuya demanded, uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

Dazai's lips curved into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Nothing. Just wondering what goes on in that pretty little head of yours."

"Fuck you," he said, without heat.

"So eloquent," Dazai murmured. "Is that the limit of your vocabulary? Or just the limit of your imagination?"

Before he could spit out a retort, Dazai was suddenly rummaging through his coat, movements jerky and uncoordinated—so at odds with his usual grace that Chuuya instinctively tensed, scanning for threats.

"You ever play video games, Chuuya?" he asked, fishing two portable game consoles from an inner pocket with a triumphant flourish, sending a small shower of loose change and what looked suspiciously like lock picks scattering across the table.

Chuuya blinked, mental gears grinding as they struggled to process the conversational whiplash.

"What?"

“Video games,” Dazai repeated slowly, eyes wide with mock patience as if explaining quantum physics to a toddler.

“You know, those electronic entertainment systems that children and intellectually evolved adults enjoy? Or are you still throwing rocks at trees for fun?”

Chuuya's eyes narrowed.

"I know what video games are, asshole. Why are you asking?"

“I happened to acquire this contraband entertainment—even the stuffiest recruit might find it amusing. Or does fun not factor into that vocabulary of yours either?”

Chuuya raised an eyebrow.

"Never had the time."

“Ah, so serious,” Dazai sighed dramatically, slouching back in the booth, arms above his head. The position pulled his shirt taut across his chest, exposing a sliver of collarbone where bandages ended and skin began.

“Honestly, Chuuya, didn’t anyone teach you to lighten up? There’s more to life than training and skulking about with that perpetual scowl.”

He leaned forward suddenly, his face inches from Chuuya’s, close enough that Chuuya could smell expensive cologne mingled with antiseptic.

“Though I must admit,” Dazai murmured, voice pitched low enough that only Chuuya could hear, “the scowl does suit you. Very intimidating. Very…” his eyes dropped momentarily to Chuuya’s mouth, “you.”

Chuuya’s brain short-circuited. The cafe seemed suddenly too hot, too crowded, too everything. He clutched the game console like a lifeline, knuckles whitening.

“How does it work?” he asked roughly, desperate to redirect whatever the hell was happening.

Dazai’s slow, knowing smile suggested he was fully aware of Chuuya’s tactical retreat—and allowing it. For now.

“Please allow me to broaden your painfully limited horizons a bit today,” he gave an exaggerated sigh. “Consider it charity work. I’m practically a saint.”

“Fine. I’ll humor you this once,” he growled, snatching the console with more force than necessary. “But I’m gonna crush you at whatever game you throw at me. Don’t come crying when I demolish your pathetic score.”

“My, how frightening,” Dazai replied lightly, eyes half-lidded with amusement. “I’m positively quaking in my oxfords.”

Dazai relaxed his own play style, lulling Chuuya into a false sense of security even as he catalogued every subtle reaction—the triumphant quirk of his lips when scoring, the frustrated furrow between auburn brows when blocked, the slight forward lean of his body when fully engaged.

The game itself hardly mattered; the real prize was unraveling the boy beside him.

Without warning, Dazai shifted in his seat, letting his knee press deliberately against Chuuya’s under the table. The contact was firm, unmistakable. He felt the immediate tensing of muscle, the almost imperceptible hitch in Chuuya’s breathing.

"Tch, so much open space but he has to crowd me," Chuuya muttered under his breath.

Dazai glanced sideways, catching the faint flush creeping up Chuuya’s neck.

Interesting.

As minutes stretched into an hour, the competitive atmosphere intensified, but something else happened too—Chuuya began to relax incrementally. The rigid line of his shoulders softened. His expressions became more open, less guarded. Their fingers danced over buttons and joysticks, their banter mixing with the ambient sounds of clinking cups and murmured conversations.

"Die, you pixelated monsters!" Chuuya yelled, surprising himself with his enthusiasm. "14-10 my lead now, you're failing Dazai! Just admit defeat already, I clearly reign supreme here!"

Dazai smiled, but said nothing, his thumbs moving with precise, unhurried motions. The sleeve of his coat slipped back just enough to reveal a flash of white as he reached for his coffee.

And there it was. Slick. Ripped at the seam.

Red welled up from beneath. Not fast—slow. Thick. Like paint. Something that didn’t want to stop.

It soaked the gauze in feathered waves, spiraling outward. A perfect little rot flower, blooming right there in the quiet.

Chuuya’s eyes locked on it. His breath stuttered, just once—a momentary break in his concentration. Something flickered across his face.

“Your bandage is leaking,” he muttered, voice deliberately flat. “Try not to bleed on the table. It’s unsanitary.”

Dazai’s smile widened by a fraction. He set his controller down, turned his wrist deliberately, and pressed it against the edge of the table with a muted sound—like a wet page tearing.

The muscle in his forearm twitched. Something beneath the skin spasmed, resisted. Then gave.

Another pulse of red surged through the cotton, turning the bandage to a halo of meat-pink filth.

“How careless of me,” he murmured, eyes never leaving Chuuya’s. “Does it bother you?”

Chuuya felt it in the worst place. Where adrenaline and disgust collided into something dangerous.

His stomach flipped. His jaw clenched.

He wanted to slap Dazai. He wanted to lick the blood off his goddamn hand.

He wanted to run.

But more than anything, he wanted to see how much deeper Dazai would go.

“I don’t give a shit if you bleed out,” he snapped, but his knuckles whitened around the controller. “Just don’t mess up the upholstery.”

Dazai pressed harder against the table’s edge, watching Chuuya’s pupils dilate slightly. Fascinating how his body betrayed him—how his breath caught when the red stain grew. How badly he wanted to look away but couldn’t.

Dazai raised his hand. The blood followed—slick, wet, pulling in thin threads like spider silk. His finger, coated to the first knuckle, trembled.

“Of course not,” Dazai agreed pleasantly, finally relenting. He pulled his sleeve down to cover the evidence, but not before brushing his fingertips across the wettest part of the bandage.

He stared at Chuuya as he brought it to his lips.

And Chuuya couldn’t look away.

Because he knew—

whatever was bleeding,

Dazai wasn’t the only one.

“Your move,” Dazai said softly. “I believe you were winning?”

The controller creaked in Chuuya’s grip. He didn’t move.

Because he remembered something—something that made the hair rise on the back of his neck.

He’d seen Dazai wrap that bandage just yesterday. Fresh gauze. Neat tuck. The wound had been scabbing. Healing.

So how the fuck was it bleeding again?

Unless—

Unless Dazai had opened it. On purpose. For this.

Chuuya’s stomach turned. With nausea. With arousal. With something so bitter it felt like fear.

He swallowed hard, forcing his eyes back to the screen where pixelated monsters waited for slaughter. His thumbs moved mechanically over the controls, muscle memory taking over while his mind spun elsewhere.

"Distracted?" Dazai's voice slid beneath his skin in splinter form. "That's unlike you. Always so... focused."

"Fuck you," Chuuya managed, the words tight. His character executed a particularly vicious combo attack, sending Dazai's avatar reeling. "I'm plenty focused."

Dazai hummed, lilting with amusement. "Clearly."

The bandage had disappeared beneath his sleeve again, but Chuuya could still see it—the way the blood had welled up, how Dazai had pressed deliberately into the table's edge. The realization that he'd opened it intentionally burned in Chuuya's mind.

For what? To throw him off? To see how he'd react? To win a stupid game?

Then, with a fluid movement, Chuuya flicked his wrist. His avatar dodged a killing blow and countered with a devastating attack that should have ended the match.

But at the last possible second, Dazai's character executed an impossible evasion—rolling just out of range, then exploiting the millisecond of vulnerability where Chuuya's character was overextended.

The game's announcer declared a critical hit. Chuuya's health bar plummeted.

"Nice try," Dazai murmured, eyes gleaming with something that might have been approval. "But you're still telegraphing your moves."

Chuuya cursed under his breath, as Dazai's score rapidly caught up to his own. He redoubled his efforts, determined to win by any means necessary. He didn't notice his coffee growing cold nor the ambient sounds of the restaurant fading away.

Nothing else existed then but the game, the battle, the sweet taste of imminent victory. Chuuya’s fingers flew across the controls, using power-ups and shortcuts with increasing desperation.

His bottom lip caught between his teeth in concentration—a detail Dazai found himself inexplicably fixated on. A thin sheen of sweat appeared on Chuuya’s brow. So close now—just a few more points and victory would be his—

Their progress bars were neck and neck, both characters on the verge of either triumph or obliteration. The final sequence approached, the moment of truth—

At just the right moment, Dazai “fucked up” his defense, leaving his character wide open. Chuuya pounced immediately, landing the final crushing blow.

“FUCK YES!” he whooped, thrusting the controller up like he’d just won the goddamn Olympics. His face lit up with a real, unfiltered grin—no scowl, no guard up. For a second, he looked almost like a normal guy who hadn’t killed more people than he could count.

Then he glanced over at Dazai, clearly ready to rub his victory in his face. His smile faltered when he saw Dazai just sitting there, controller already set down, watching him with that damn unreadable expression.

"You let me win," Chuuya accused, the realization dawning slowly.

Dazai tilted his head, studying his particularly interesting specimen. "Did I?"

"That last block—it was deliberate. You could have countered."

"You have quite the competitive edge when sufficiently motivated," Dazai replied, ignoring the accusation. "It's fascinating how completely you lose yourself in victory." His eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of a scientist whose hypothesis has been confirmed. "Almost as if you forget who you are... who you're with."

Chuuya shifted in his seat, discomfort piercing through the residual adrenaline. The realization dawned slowly—even in winning, he'd somehow lost a different game entirely.

His eyes narrowed. "Next time you want to test me, just ask. No need to bleed all over perfectly good pastries."

Dazai's smile widened, though the warmth never reached his eyes. "Where would be the fun in that?"

Chuuya's triumphant mood soured, his earlier appetite vanishing as he picked at his now cold breakfast.

Dazai eyed him thoughtfully, head tilted slightly. Then, as if coming to some internal decision, he signaled for the waitress with a flick of his wrist.

"Let's get some dessert—my treat. More coffee too."

Before Chuuya could tell him to fuck off, an elaborate chocolate monstrosity appeared in front of him, dripping with sauce and topped with fresh strawberries.

As Chuuya reluctantly took a bite, Dazai took an uninterested sip of his steaming coffee and switched topics with the unpredictability that defined him.

His fingers tapped against the edge of the table.

One. Two. Three.

"So, what kind of music are you into?"

Caught mid-chew, Chuuya felt his eyes magnetically drawn to Dazai’s. He swallowed his food hastily, grappling for words.

“Music? I guess rock, some classical,” he said, hating how his voice gave away that he rarely had time for shit like music in his blood-soaked life.

Dazai’s eyes widened theatrically, a gleam of mischief making them glow like twin stars.

“Rock? Classical? Seriously?” he mocked, voice dripping with fake surprise. “God, you’re so basic.”

Chuuya's cheeks flushed a subtle shade of rose, embarrassment blooming across his features. The blush traveled down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar—a detail Dazai tracked with disturbing attentiveness.

“What about you?” he asked, attempting to divert attention away from himself.

Damn Dazai and his ability to make everything sound so... intense.

“You likely expect me to profess love for funeral dirges, cacophonous screeches, and other vulgar displays befitting my macabre tastes, no?”

Dazai's voice slid smoothly into the pause, all carefully practiced pretentiousness.

Chuuya snorted. "Nah. I figure your playlist's full of jazz and fake poetry. Something moody to match your whole 'trench coat and trauma' aesthetic."

That got him.

For the first time, Dazai's expression stuttered. Not much—but enough for Chuuya to feel it. Like he'd pulled the pin on a grenade and held it between them.

"I knew it," Chuuya grinned, lazy and mean. "You're the type to sit in the dark with a glass of whiskey, pretending you're in a noir film while saxophones wail in the background."

Dazai stared at him, unreadable. For a second, Chuuya swore he'd actually drawn blood.

"...You really are perceptive when you're being a little shit," Dazai muttered, lips tight.

"You should try it sometime," Chuuya shot back. "Being honest. Unless all that jazz is just code for 'I'm emotionally constipated but want to seem deep.'"

Dazai's fingers drummed against the table, just once. He wasn't smiling anymore.

"Jazz has rules," he said finally. "But the whole point is knowing exactly when to break them." He looked up, eyes cold. "I'm sure you wouldn't understand the appeal."

"Fuck you," Chuuya said without heat. "Just because I don't hide behind metaphors doesn't mean I'm stupid."

Something shifted in Dazai's face then—a flicker of genuine surprise, quickly masked. He leaned back, studying Chuuya, recalculating something important.

"No," he agreed quietly. "You're not stupid at all."

The moment stretched between them, oddly tense. Chuuya hadn't expected honesty—didn't know what to do with it now that he had it.

Dazai broke first, nodding at the melting dessert. "You should finish that before it turns to soup."

And just like that, the moment was gone. Dazai had slipped away again, rebuilding his walls brick by brick. But for a second there—Chuuya had seen behind the curtain. Had caught Dazai without his script.

He'd remember that.

"We should exchange playlists sometime," Dazai said, voice dripping artificial sweetness again, the monster tucked away. "So I can correct your embarrassingly pedestrian taste."

Chuuya's posture stiffened, his mouth opening to tell Dazai exactly where he could shove his playlist. But before he could get the words out, Dazai switched gears entirely.

He leaned in, slow and deliberate. The distance between them shrank until Chuuya could count each of the other boy’s impossibly long eyelashes.

"So tell me, Chuuya," he whispered, close enough that his breath ghosted across Chuuya's ear, "what would I hear if I pressed my ear to your heart?"

His eyes were twilight made liquid, dark and deep and full of violence. Chuuya felt himself being pulled in, drowning, screaming. His mouth dried to ash.

The scent of his cologne made Chuuya’s head spin—black orchid and prison bars. Chuuya's traitorous brain wondered what it would be like to bury his face in Dazai's neck and just breathe him in.

"Would I hear how much you hate me?" Dazai's voice dropped lower, scraping across Chuuya's nerves. "Or how much you don't?"

A magnetic pulse quivered in the silence, making the hair on Chuuya's arms stand on end. It was as if every atom in his body was suddenly, acutely aware of Dazai's presence.

His ability could manipulate gravity itself, could crush buildings and bend reality. Yet he couldn't stop his own treacherous body from reacting to Dazai's proximity—pulse thundering, pupils dilating, breath catching.

Pathetic.

"You wouldn't like what you'd hear," Chuuya managed, hating how his voice betrayed him with its roughness.

"Oh, I think I would," he breathed, each word a brand against Chuuya's skin. "I think it might be the only honest sound in this whole city."

They were so close now that he could feel the heat radiating off Dazai's body, could almost taste the coffee on his breath.

There was no air in the room suddenly. Then Dazai pulled back, casual as if nothing had happened, straightening his cuffs with elegant fingers.

"Your coffee's getting cold," he said pleasantly, as if he hadn't just sliced Chuuya open and peered inside.

And maybe that was the cruelest part—how easily Dazai could shatter the moment he'd created. How he could reach inside Chuuya, twist everything into knots, then walk away unbothered while Chuuya bled.

It was a pattern, keeping Chuuya perpetually unanchored, both drawn in and suspicious of the ever-shifting tides of Dazai’s intentions.

Then, he abruptly stood up, pushing his chair back with a screech that jarred the tension, leaving Chuuya feeling like he'd just been doused with ice water.

"Well, this has been delightful," Dazai drawled, tone dripping with sarcasm, "but I think it's time we moved on to more... interesting pursuits. Come along, pet. I have something to show you that might actually stimulate that tiny brain of yours."

Before Chuuya could process what was happening, Dazai's hand clamped around his wrist, yanking him up with surprising strength. Chuuya's body reacted before his brain could catch up, ripping his arm back with a snarl.

"Watch it, asshole!" he spat, eyes flashing dangerously. "I'm not some fucking toy for you to drag around."

He rubbed his wrist, glaring at the faint red marks left by Dazai's grip.

"Lead the way if you must, but keep your hands off me."

Dazai's response was a smirk that made Chuuya want to punch him. Without another word, he turned and strode out of the restaurant, clearly expecting Chuuya to follow.

And damn it all, Chuuya did.

As they navigated the way to Dazai’s room, Chuuya trailed half a step behind, his footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence. He kept his eyes fixed on Dazai's back, watching for any sudden movements.

"This better not involve anything weird," Chuuya muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Dazai to hear. "I swear, if this is some twisted prank, I'll toss him right out the window. And not metaphorically.”

He sighed, feeling the fight drain out of him. Why did he let Dazai get away with this crap? He must be a masochist. Nothing good could possibly come from following Dazai into his lair. But that insufferable curiosity... it got him every damn time.

"Well?" Dazai's voice cut through his thoughts. "Are you coming in, or would you prefer to admire my door all day?"

Chuuya took a deep breath, steeling himself.

"Let's get this over with," he growled, pushing past Dazai into the room.

Chapter Text

Walking into Dazai's room felt like breaching a separate reality. The blinds were drawn, casting everything in a perpetual twilight.

Chuuya understood.

In a way, it seemed like an extension of Dazai himself—walled off, complex, introspective.

It made sense.

Why would Dazai want to stare out at a city he likely hated? A city he would probably rather see reduced to ash than take part in.

Candles burned everywhere—on the desk, the shelves, the windowsill. Chuuya counted twelve before giving up, wondering how the whole place hadn't gone up in flames yet.

Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with a collection of philosophical texts, manuscripts on the art of war, and dark literature.

He trailed a finger across their spines, wondering which minds had shaped Dazai's.

Yet, as Chuuya glanced around, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness.

Raised under the heavy hand of Mori, this realm was an outward manifestation of the young prodigy's inner world—a kingdom of obscurity, punctuated by tiny embers of light, trying its best to hold the shadows at bay.

As blue eyes adjusted to the gloom, more details emerged.

A half-empty bottle of whiskey on the side table.

A worn notebook lay open, its pages filled with spidery handwriting. Three pens sat beside it, they looked staged somehow.

Something in Chuuya's fingers itched to mess up their perfect alignment, but he kept his hands to himself.

The scent that lingered was unmistakably Dazai—intense and almost dizzyingly complex, a blend of antique paper, incense, and a hint of something metallic.

Chuuya inhaled deeply before he could stop himself, feeling suddenly lightheaded again.

Empty orange pill bottles collected dust beneath the vintage couch—foreign imports, probably American. Contraband by default. No Japanese pharmacy would prescribe those. Not to him. Not anymore.

Dazai flopped onto the couch, its leather contours molded by countless restless nights. He patted the seat next to him, a teasing glint in his eye.

"Come, my dog. Have a seat and read this manga. It's actually quite good."

Chuuya hesitated, his eyes flitting between Dazai and the offered seat, weighing his options. Finally, he relented and sat down.

The couch was less comfortable than it looked, but then again, what about Dazai was what it appeared to be?

Dazai picked up a manga volume from the coffee table.

"This psychological thriller is quite fascinating, full of cunning characters and schemes."

"Seriously? This is why you dragged me here?" Chuuya grabbed it anyway.

The edges were worn, dog-eared and sleep-creased. Some of the corners were sticky.

God. He didn’t want to ask.

He flipped it open. The spine crackled like it hadn’t been touched in years, even though he knew it had. Probably yesterday. Probably 3 hours ago.

Time passed.

Or didn’t.

He didn’t know.

“So,” Dazai drawled, like he hadn’t been studying his every fucking reaction for the past fifteen minutes. “What do you think about how she uses people? Clever strategy or just cruel?”

Chuuya looked up, and it was instinct, not intention, the way his gaze cut straight through him.

“She gets shit done, I’ll give her that,” he muttered. “But she’s fucking dead inside.”

Dazai smiled, but it was thin. Brittle.

“She falls eventually,” he said, almost to himself. “End of volume ten. No one catches her.”

Chuuya blinked, shoulders stiffening. There was a long pause where neither of them breathed.

“Not everyone’s that lucky,” Dazai added, quieter now, eyes drifting to Chuuya’s shoulder. The one that had dislocated from yanking him back from the brink. The one still bruised from saving someone who didn’t want to be saved.

Chuuya didn’t answer. Just flipped the page, slower this time. Because maybe the paper would tear if he pressed too hard. Maybe something else would.

“But the results speak for themselves, don’t they?” Dazai leaned closer. “You can’t argue with victory.”

“Watch me.” Chuuya’s laugh was hollow. "I'm not saying don't take down your enemies. I'm saying don't be a sadistic piece of shit about it. There's a difference between winning smart and just spreading pain because you can."

Dazai tilted his head, eyes narrowing in thought. One hand crept to his wrist, fingers brushing against old bandages, checking they were still there.

“But isn’t that what makes her dangerous?” he mused. “She doesn’t kill with rage. She kills with reason.”

“She kills because she’s empty,” Chuuya snapped. “Because it’s easier than feeling anything at all.”

Dazai hummed. Then, softly, “Isn’t that efficient?”

Chuuya finally looked at him. Really looked.

“There’s a difference between being efficient and being cruel,” he said, voice low and steady. “You just pretend there isn’t so you can sleep at night.”

“Mm, perhaps.” Dazai’s laugh bled through his teeth, low and acid-bitten. “But at least I know what kind of monster I am. Most people just dance on strings they can’t see, calling it free will.”

Chuuya scoffed, flat and humorless. “God, that’s some pretentious bullshit.”

“Is it?” Dazai didn’t blink, just tapped the panel between them—fingernail resting on the inked outline of a girl crossing a line she once swore she never would.

“Look. She doesn’t run. She reshapes it. Turns the trap into a weapon. Sometimes the only way out of the narrative is to take the pen yourself.”

Something flickered across Chuuya’s face then—recognition maybe, or memory. His thumb brushed the edge of his bracelet without looking.

“And what does that make you?” His voice was quieter now. “If you burn the page just to escape the story. If you become the thing you hate to beat it.”

Dazai leaned back, watching the crack widen in real time. “Now you’re getting it.”

He smiled. Not kind.

“The real question is, would you rather be the puppet—” he traced invisible strings with two fingers in the air, “—or the one holding the strings?”

There was silence. Not the peaceful kind—the kind before a bomb goes off. Chuuya’s jaw twitched. His eyes didn’t move, but Dazai could feel them scraping his skin like a whetstone.

“That’s a dangerous fucking question.”

Dazai tilted his head. “So is letting someone else answer it for you.”

Chuuya searched for truth in a liar’s mouth. Found something worse.

Familiarity.

“The only way to escape being controlled,” he muttered, “is to become the controller. To break what breaks you first.”

“And wear its bones as armor,” Dazai added.

For a moment, something passed between them. Not quite understanding. But a shared, warped, and unshakable reflection.

Then Dazai shrugged. “But you’re right,” he said lightly. “Some lines shouldn’t be crossed.”

A beat.

“We must protect our… humanity.”

The word fell from his tongue like a corpse from the rooftop—graceless, mock-heavy, soaked in irony.

But when he glanced at Chuuya again, something in that expression stopped him cold.

A quiet, haunted question that hadn’t found language yet.

“Then maybe even puppeteers need to watch their step.”

Chuuya’s voice dropped, softer now.

“Or they’ll get strangled by their own fucking strings.”

Dazai laughed. This time it was beautiful, clean like rainfall in an abandoned chapel.

“Mm. But maybe that’s the real trick, Chuuya. Knowing you’re tangled and dancing anyway. Choosing the song you want to burn to.”

Their eyes caught across the manga panels—monsters pretending they weren’t mirror images.

He saw it. That flicker of recognition and regret.

"Ah, and Chuuya," Dazai added, "perhaps the strings that strangle us worst are the ones we pretend not to feel. You talk about freedom while building your own cage, filling it with things like honor and morality."

He flipped pages lazily, hoping the story might say what he couldn’t.

“Look at her. Sacrificing everything, everyone, just to feel something real. But the void doesn’t bargain. The more she feeds it, the hungrier it gets.”

His eyes flicked to the bracelet Chuuya kept touching.

“You think she’s just running?” Dazai asked. “Making everyone else bleed so she doesn’t have to?”

Chuuya didn’t answer. Dazai leaned in, voice dropping to something that shouldn’t feel intimate, but did.

“Aren’t we all?”

His smile came as a guillotine of affection.

“Some of us just pile the bodies higher.”

He leaned back again. Fingers drumming on the couch cushion.

“That’s the real horror, isn’t it? Not the violence. Not the mind games. It’s the silence afterward. The moment you realize all the screaming—yours, theirs, the fucking world’s—is still quieter than what’s in your head.”

Chuuya swallowed, jaw tight.

“That’s fucked up. Even for you.”

But his voice didn’t hold bite. Just the edge of something broken.

Dazai’s gaze found him again—unblinking in the flicker of warm light and colder memory.

“Maybe.” His voice curled like smoke. “But tell me, Chuuya… what’s more fucked up? Hurting people because you’re hurting—or pretending you’re not?”

“Fuck off with your psychoanalysis. You think just ‘cause you talk like a philosophy textbook with abandonment issues, you’ve figured everyone else out too?”

Chuuya shifted just enough to break the line of sight between them. His hands flexed uselessly at his sides—caught between fight and flight, and fuck you for asking.

The silence pressed in, swollen things neither of them wanted to say first.

And Dazai—always the one to twist the knife—just kept looking at him. That same too-calm stare that made you feel like you’d already been autopsied.

He leaned closer, voice dropping dangerously. "Tell me your truth then, Chuuya. What monsters live under that righteous anger of yours?"

"I don't—" Chuuya's breath caught, heart pounding against his ribcage, a wild thing seeking escape. "I don't have anything to hide."

They both knew he was lying.

Dazai's laughter was a soft, cruel sound that seemed to reach inside Chuuya and twist his guts into knots.

“Oh Chuuya,” that smile promised blood, “everyone has secrets. Especially from themselves. You just dress yours up prettier—all that talk about honor while your hands shake for violence.”

“Fuck you.” But Chuuya's voice lacked its usual fire. “You don't know shit about me.”

Dazai leaned closer, candlelight casting prison bar shadows across his face.

“Then give me something real, little storm. Something that makes the great Chuuya Nakahara tremble in the dark.”

“Go fuck yourself,” he fired back. “You want to play therapist? Go find another puppet.”

He started to rise, but Dazai's hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his wrist with surprising strength.

“Running, Chuuya?”

Chuuya looked up. Eyes unguarded. Bruised blue burning.

“How disappointingly predictable.”

“Let go of me.” The words came out low, dangerous.

“Make me.”

A trap, obviously—but one Chuuya couldn't seem to avoid stepping into.

He could have broken Dazai's hold easily. Could have thrown him across the room. But something kept him rooted in place, caught between fury and a different kind of fear.

“You’re terrified of being alone,” Dazai said, voice almost bored. “That’s why you let the Sheep treat you like a goddamn bomb they were too scared to hold.”

His gaze flicked to Chuuya’s wrist, to the bracelet glinting there.

“And now you’re doing the same thing here. Letting the Mafia dress you up in suits and blood and calling it loyalty. As long as someone claims you, right?”

The silence stretched until it broke.

“You're wrong,” Chuuya finally said. “I'm not afraid of being alone.”

Dazai's eyebrows rose slightly, the only indication of his surprise at getting any response at all. “No?”

“No.” Chuuya's voice was steady now, finding strength in the half-truth. “I'm afraid of what happens when I am.”

He twisted his wrist free of Dazai's grasp, but didn't move away. Something had been set in motion between them—a confession begun that couldn't be easily abandoned.

“When I’m alone too long…” Chuuya’s voice caught, wet at the edges. “Shit starts getting weird.”

He stared at the floor, fists curling, wanting to punch the silence into something solid. “I stop thinking in words. I stop feeling like a person. It’s like—I don’t even know if I exist without someone else there to tell me I do.”

He huffed a bitter laugh. “And before you say it—no, it’s not just some clingy codependency bullshit. It’s not that I’m scared of being lonely, it’s that I’m scared of—” he broke off, swallowing hard.

Dazai watched him, quiet.

Chuuya’s voice dropped. “I’m scared I’m not even real.”

Silence. Breathless. Heavy.

“I wasn’t born in a hospital, Dazai. I was found. I was a fuckin’… experiment. A container for a thing that could end cities. I don’t have a baby photo. I don’t have a birthday that means anything. I don’t even know if I’m human.”

His hands were shaking. He tried to still them by digging his nails into his palms.

“And when I’m alone… when it gets quiet…” his voice cracked, wrecked and raw, “I start hearing it again. That voice. That… thing. I start thinking maybe that’s all I am. Maybe this ‘Chuuya’ thing is just the costume they gave the monster so it’d blend in.”

He looked up, eyes blazing. “So yeah. I need the noise. I need people. I need fights and friction and fuckin’ insults just to prove I still take up space.”

He spat the next part like a curse. “Because if no one sees me, Dazai… I’m not sure I exist at all.”

Dazai's expression shifted, something dark and hungry flashing in his eyes. He leaned back, fingers drumming absently on his thigh—one, two, three…

“My beautiful, broken thing.” His voice dropped to where monsters lived. “If a god forgets his name and no one’s there to remind him—does he stop being divine? Or does he just rot quieter?”

Chuuya flinched because something had struck too close to the bone.

“Don’t start with your philosophical bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit.” Dazai said softly. “It’s the question you’re choking on. If Chuuya Nakahara disappears in the dark, with no one there to drag him back—does he leave a ghost, or just an echo?”

Chuuya swallowed hard, a diamond of sweat trickled down his temple. He felt something in him snap.

“But here’s the truth,” Dazai said, and it cut. “If you were nothing but code, you wouldn’t be terrified. Ghosts don’t grieve their own vanishing.”

His voice turned gentle, but colder.

“Only humans do.”

He let it settle. No comfort. Just recognition.

“You bleed. You ache. You ask the question.”

A pause. And then—

“That’s the answer.”

Chuuya stared at him.

He didn’t recognize the voice that had just spoken and he wanted to tear out his own ribs to see if that truth lived beneath them.

His jaw flexed. A muscle twitched near his eye.

“Fuck you.” And it sounded human.

“Don’t—” His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop. “Don’t give me that.”

He looked away, and for a second, his mouth trembled like he wanted to say something that would ruin them both.

Then he bit down. Swallowed whatever it was.

His hand twitched toward the bracelet again—but stopped halfway. Like touching it would make it real.

Then he pushed into Dazai’s space, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.

“And what about you, asshole? What happens when you're alone with all those pretty words and nothing to aim them at? What happens when there's no one left to manipulate? Do you just fold in on yourself like a fucking black hole?”

For a moment, something flickered in Dazai's eyes.

“Ah, that would be telling, wouldn't it? And where's the fun in that?”

He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting across Chuuya's cheek, his voice dropping to a husky whisper.

“But you already know them, don't you? You've seen how beautiful destruction can be. How perfect everything feels when it's breaking apart.”

Chuuya didn't pull away, refusing to concede ground now that they were trading truths—or at least circling around them.

“Yeah,” he admitted softly, the word falling between them as a challenge. “I've seen it.”

He didn't say—In you. In me. In what we could become together.

Instead, Chuuya’s eyes fluttered closed, a shiver running through his body.

Because if he was damned, then at least he was not damned alone.

“Yeah,” he breathed again before he could stop himself.

Then, catching the slip, “Fuck—no. That's not—you can't just say shit like that and expect me to...”

Dazai abruptly closed the manga. With a fluid motion he chucked the book back onto the table, its pages fanning briefly before settling.

Chuuya glared, sobering at the noise.

“Oi, have some respect for literature, idiot. Just because you get bored doesn't mean you can toss it around so carelessly. Honestly...”

Dazai’s lips quirked into a knowing grin and then he flopped down, making Chuuya's lap his impromptu pillow.

Chuuya’s face flushed a deep violent red and tensed up instinctively at the abrupt invasion of his personal space.

“Hey, who said you could use me as a pillow?! You're crushing me, bastard,” he huffed.

The mere whisper of skin-to-skin contact stirred an unsettling fear.

“And don't nuzzle against me like some oversized cat, dammit!”

Peering up through dark, inscrutable lashes, Dazai mused, “Mm, yes, this will do nicely. Far superior than this rigid sofa, don’t you think?”

Dazai sought to catch Chuuya off-balance with feigned affection, testing his emotional defenses. He assumed one so volatile would recoil from physical closeness, allowing Dazai to exploit this weakness.

But Chuuya's hands remained frozen at his sides.

“Oh come now, Chuuya,” the leech purred, “Surely you can spare a moment of comfort for your dear partner? Besides,” his voice dropped, “I thought you didn't want to be alone?”

The words hit Chuuya as a physical blow. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way his heart raced.

“You're such a bastard,” Chuuya muttered.

His hand moved of its own accord, hovering uncertainly over Dazai's head before dropping back to his side.

He rolled his eyes in exasperation, trying to ignore the flutter in his stomach at their closeness. “Fine, make yourself comfortable I guess. Not like I can move with you pinning me down anyway. So clingy...”

He shifted slightly, hyperaware of Dazai's warmth pressed against him.

Dazai's smile widened, triumphant.

“See? Was that so hard?”

His hand wandered to Chuuya's thigh, fingers finding the rips in the black denim. He traced small circles on the exposed skin, tugged at the loose threads bordering the holes and unraveled them further. The soft 'pop' of each broken thread was barely audible, but he felt Chuuya's slight tensing at each one.

“You know, Chuuya, for someone so afraid of being left alone, you certainly go to great lengths to push people away.”

Dazai grinned cunningly to himself. His goal shifted—chip away at those walls by offering morsels of tenderness, training Chuuya to let down his barricades.

He let his nails graze the skin beneath the largest tear. He began to trace letters, slow and deliberate. An 'O', then an 'S'—the beginning of his first name.

As the last letter was finished, he pressed his nails in just a bit harder. Not enough to break skin, but enough to leave temporary indentations. Enough that he knew there would be traces of Chuuya's skin under his nails.

“As invigorating as these debates have been,” Dazai began, his voice tinged with that particular dramatic flair he so often indulged in, “even the sharpest minds need rest. Ah, but who can rest when life itself is a ceaseless quandary?”

Chuuya shot him an amused look. The subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth was a telltale sign of his suppressed laughter.

“Now, now, don’t squirm. Consider your lap commandeered in the name of… philosophical experimentation,” he added, as if the concept were as sacred as any ancient text they might debate.

Wiggling into a more comfortable position, Dazai nuzzled further into Chuuya's thigh, inhaling his scent. Chuuya shivered involuntarily, breathing deeply. His aching body yearned to reciprocate but he remained tense.

Dazai’s eyes, half-lidded and contemplative, met Chuuya’s.

“You can touch me, you know,” he said, too soft to be safe. “I won’t break.”

Chuuya almost laughed because that wasn’t the fucking point.

Because what Dazai meant was—I won’t break, but you might.

But still—he did it.

He let his fingers fall into that stupid, infuriating hair. Dark and soft and unfair. It felt wrong, how human it made Dazai seem.

Dazai flinched—just a little. Like he’d forgotten what it felt like to be touched without cruelty.

He didn’t just lean in. He collapsed.

Not visibly. Not all at once. Just in the way his shoulders sagged. In the way his breath came out wrong. His body didn’t know how to hold this without unraveling.

“Mm... you smell of cider and cinnamon today. It's rather... soothing. I could grow accustomed to this, using you as my refuge...”

Chuuya felt it. All of it. The tension bleeding out of him slow. Dazai had been holding himself together with nothing but spite, and now someone was tugging at the last thread.

He should’ve pulled away.

But he didn’t.

And Dazai was still because if he moved, it would end. If he breathed too loud, Chuuya would vanish.

He stared at the hollow of Chuuya’s throat. Watched the pulse beat like something he couldn’t touch.

One. Two. Three.

Not for you. Not yours. Don’t want this.

It wasn’t sex. It wasn’t love. It was something worse. Something smaller. Something pathetic.

Dazai just wanted to be touched like he mattered. Just once.

And Chuuya’s hand in his hair felt too much like hope.

He’d tear it apart later. Ruin it before it could leave. He always did.

But for now—he closed his eyes. And tried to pretend it didn’t feel like dying.

"Hmm, yes, well played," Dazai hummed, arching into Chuuya's touch like a cat being petted. He opened one eye, fixing Chuuya with a knowing look.

"Beneath your prickly exterior lie your own devious talents. Consider me thoroughly disarmed... for now."

Chuuya snorted but didn't push Dazai off, his heart raced faster at the innate intimacy in their current position, yet he allowed the atmosphere to settle into a fragile kind of truce.

"You know, you’re a fucking Rubik's cube with half the colors missing."

Dazai looked up, an impish grin stretching across his face.

"You’re thinking too loud," Chuuya muttered, fingers never stopping their slow drag through Dazai’s hair.

Dazai let out a brittle laugh. "Just calculating the exact second you’ll regret this."

"Morbid bastard."

"Realist," he corrected, forcing his eyes open. "I’m just acknowledging the inevitable."

What he didn’t say—couldn’t say—was how he was already grieving this moment. How he was cataloguing every detail, the burn of Chuuya’s thighs beneath him, the smell of sweat and cigarette ash, the fractured blue of those eyes that saw too much and never enough.

He’d take this with him. Into the silence. Into the ache. Unwrap it in the dark and bleed it slowly. A souvenir of something that wasn’t supposed to be his.

This is what it might feel like to be wanted, he thought, and the idea was so foreign it felt fictional. This quiet. This stillness. This boy who hasn’t left yet.

The ‘yet’ was always the catch.

His hand moved without permission, grazing Chuuya’s jaw like he was checking if it would vanish under touch. Ghosted over skin as if memorizing it might make it last longer.

If he destroyed it now, it would hurt less later. That was the rule. That was how he’d survived this long.

But his body didn’t listen. It never did when Chuuya was this close. It just stayed. Warm. Real.

So his attention shifted, needing something to fiddle with instead. His eyes caught on the obsidian beads encircling Chuuya's wrist. He grasped the bracelet, rolling each bead between his fingers like worry stones.

"Oi, what are you doing?" Chuuya's voice cut through Dazai's reverie.

"Hmm? Oh, nothing~"

But his fingers betrayed him, tugging at the bracelet with increasing force. The beads clicked together.

"Watch it, bastard!" Chuuya snapped, trying to yank his wrist away. "That's not one of your damn bandages!"

Dazai's grip tightened, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

"But Chu~u~ya," he drawled, elongating the name to torturous lengths, "it's so shiny. Don't you think it'd look better on me?"

"Like hell it would," Chuuya growled, his other hand moving to pry Dazai's fingers off. "It probably wouldn't even fit around your bony wrist, you walking corpse."

Dazai gasped dramatically.

"I'll have you know my wrists are perfectly proportioned for my height."

He looked up, a familiar whine already forming on his lips.

"Chuuya," he pouted, "it's so pretty. I want it."

Chuuya's eyes narrowed.

"Like hell. It's mine. Keep your hands off."

"So stingy," Dazai sighed, his fingers still playing with the beads. "Doesn't our partnership mean anything to you? What's yours is mine, right?"

"That's not how it works, and you know it," Chuuya growled, attempting to pull his wrist away again.

But Dazai held fast, his grip tightening.

"Come on, Chuuya. Let me have it. Please."

Their eyes locked, a silent battle of wills. The tension in the room ratcheted up another notch.

Finally, Chuuya let out an exasperated sigh.

"Fine," he spat, the word laced with irritation. "Take the damn thing. But if you lose it, I'll kick your ass six ways from Sunday."

A triumphant grin spread across Dazai's face. With deft fingers, he slid the bracelet from Chuuya's wrist and slipped it onto his own.

"See?" he said, holding up his wrist to admire his prize. "It does look better on me."

Chuuya rolled his eyes, but Dazai caught the hint of a smile he tried to hide.

"Whatever. I don’t get you at all," Chuuya muttered.

Dazai's grin softened into something more genuine. He ran his fingers over the beads once more, feeling the weight of them.

"Thank you," he said softly.

It was a piece of Chuuya he'd claimed for himself.

"You know," he added, "I sometimes wonder if you're the only real thing in this whole sick world."

The words hit like a physical blow, too close to Chuuya's own unspoken fears. He swallowed hard, looking away.

"Don't," he whispered. "Don't say shit like that if you don't mean it."

Dazai's hand found his, forcing his fingers to uncurl from the fist they'd formed.

"I never say anything I don't mean, Chuuya. I lie constantly, but never about the important things."

Their fingers grazed, pale against sun-kissed skin. The contrast was striking—Dazai, deathly and bandaged; Chuuya, alive with color and barely contained energy.

"Maybe," Chuuya said slowly, "we keep each other real."

Chuuya immediately wanted to take it back, to stuff the words down his throat where they belonged.

Dazai's fingers trailed down Chuuya’s neck, igniting every nerve ending.

"Maybe," he agreed softly. "Or maybe we're both just particularly vivid hallucinations."

The joke broke the tension, allowing Chuuya to breathe again.

"Don't get any stupid ideas," Chuuya muttered, voice gruff. "This doesn't mean shit. I'm just too tired to kick your ass off my lap right now."

Dazai's lips curved into a cruel smile.

"Tell me, does it hurt? This constant loneliness you're so desperate to escape?"

Chuuya jerked away, but didn't push Dazai off his lap.

"You're full of shit," he spat, but his eyes betrayed his uncertainty.

"Am I?" Dazai purred, sitting up slowly until his face was inches from Chuuya's.

"Then why are you still letting me stay? Why haven't you thrown me across the room yet?"

His eyes glinted dangerously.

Chuuya's breath hitched, caught between anger and something dangerously close to desire.

"I told you, I'm just too tired to—"

"Liar," Dazai whispered, his breath hot against Chuuya's ear. "You're many things, Chuuya, but tired isn't one of them. No, you're alive right now. More alive than you've been in a long time."

Chuuya's hands clenched into fists at his sides, trembling with the effort not to reach out and... what? Push Dazai away? Pull him closer? He wasn't sure anymore.

"You're right, Dazai," Chuuya murmured, his voice low and husky, a sound that sent heat pooling in Dazai's gut. "I am alive right now. More alive than I've been in a long time."

His hand slid from Dazai's hair.

"But have you ever wondered why that is?"

Dazai's eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the sudden shift in Chuuya's demeanor.

"It's not because of some desperate need for connection," Chuuya continued, finger now resting on his own lower lip. "It's because you're here, vulnerable and raw, showing me a side of yourself you never let anyone else see."

A pause.

"Tell me, Dazai, when was the last time you let someone get this close? When was the last time you dropped your masks and just... existed?"

Dazai froze, his eyes widening in shock, a deer caught in headlights. Inwardly, he cursed himself for letting his guard down. How had Chuuya managed to turn the tables so swiftly?

"My, my, Chuuya. I didn't realize you fancied yourself an amateur psychologist. Should I lie down on your couch for our next session?"

Despite his flippant words, Dazai's gaze remained fixed on Chuuya's face, the hand resting on Chuuya's hip tightened its grip imperceptibly.

"But enough about me," Dazai abruptly changed the subject. "We have more pressing matters to discuss."

Dazai's eyes flickered, a momentary vulnerability swiftly masked by his usual smirk.

"So," he drawled. "Tell me, Chuuya, have you ever considered the implications of a crab's existence?"

Chuuya blinked, caught off guard by the absurd shift.

"What the fuck are you talking about now?"

"Think about it," Dazai continued, undeterred. "They scuttle sideways through life, never moving forward or backward. Is that not a perfect metaphor for human existence? Always in motion, yet never truly progressing?"

Chuuya rolled his eyes, a groan escaping his lips.

"For fuck's sake, Dazai. It's too damn late in the day for your unreasonable bullshit."

"Ah, but is it ever too late to ponder the mysteries of the universe?"

Dazai's grin widened, clearly enjoying Chuuya's exasperation.

"Perhaps we're all just crabs in a cosmic bucket, scrabbling at the sides but never escaping our own nature."

"I swear to god, if you don't shut up about crabs, I'm gonna show you what it's like to scuttle sideways out a fuckin' window," Chuuya growled even as a wave of relief washed over him.

This—the ridiculous tangents, the exasperating wordplay—this was familiar territory. Safe ground. Much more comfortable than the raw, exposed nerves they'd been prodding at moments before.

And if pressed—if truly, genuinely pressed—Dazai might actually admit that he, too, was relieved. Might confess that for a moment there, when Chuuya had seen through his carefully constructed armor, he had been... scared. Terrified, even. Not of Chuuya, but of being truly seen, truly known, by someone other than Oda.

Dazai chuckled, his fingers idly playing with the hem of Chuuya's shirt.

"Such violence, Chuuya. And here I thought we were having a profound moment of connection."

But neither of them pressed. Neither of them pushed. And Chuuya had to wonder…

Is this what normal boys do?

Sit on couches after school. Read manga. Talk shit about their teachers. Watch the sunset spill across desks where no one ever bled.

The air would smell like textbooks and pencil shavings. Not gunpowder. Not antiseptic.

They’d argue over who the hot professor in room 201 liked more. Their notebooks would’ve been covered in dumb sketches from lazy Tuesdays—stick figures and flame-haired devils, half-finished lyrics scrawled in the margins.

They’d be dumb, and loud, and alive.

Dazai haunting corners at the latest house party he wasn't invited to, drowning thoughts in too many shots. Chuuya, the basketball star, making excuses to his friends just to save the emo kid from himself.

He'd knock that shot glass away, call him an idiot, pretend he wasn't watching those bandaged wrists all night.

Dazai would stumble into that muscular chest, fake nausea just to get Chuuya alone outside. Their first kiss would be messy and taste like bad decisions and cheaper alcohol, not blood and survival and everything they've had to become.

It sounded almost perfect, didn’t it? A life where scars come from falling off bikes, not failing to dodge knives fast enough. Where their biggest secret was stolen kisses behind the gym, not body counts before hitting legal drinking age.

Maybe Dazai would learn to sleep through the night without counting the ways he might die. Maybe Chuuya would stop needing fights just to feel real.

Maybe they’d waste whole afternoons doing nothing.

And maybe—just maybe—Dazai wouldn’t flinch when someone said stay.

It might’ve been nice though, he thought. Just knowing there was another idiot out there in the same fucked-up world. Someone who didn’t need saving, just someone to sit beside while they figured shit out together.

It would’ve been too bright. Too soft.

That life that never happened. That never-could. So fucking bright it would’ve burned.

Chuuya's bitter laugh caught in his throat as he realized Dazai was watching him, those dark eyes studying his face with unusual intensity.

"What?" Chuuya demanded, uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

"You looked... elsewhere for a moment," Dazai said softly. "Somewhere better, I think."

Chuuya swallowed hard. "Just thinking about alternate realities. You know, the boring kind where we'd be normal teenagers worried about stupid shit."

"Ah, yes. The world where I'd be the tragic poet rather than the tragic executioner. And you, what would you be in this fantasy of yours?"

"Something simple," Chuuya admitted. "Maybe a stupid jock who just likes to run until his lungs burn."

"We would have hated each other still, I think."

"Probably," Chuuya agreed, his voice rough. "But it would've been... cleaner, somehow."

"Cleaner," Dazai echoed, his thumb brushing Chuuya's bottom lip. "What a concept."

Dazai leaned forward, his breath mingling with Chuuya's, their lips a heartbeat apart.

"In that other world," Dazai whispered, "would you let me kiss you?"

Chuuya's eyes fluttered closed, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Yes," he breathed.

For a single, suspended moment, they both existed in that other reality—the one where they were just boys learning the shape of desire.

Then Dazai pulled back, the warmth of his breath vanishing as quickly as it had come. His smile was brittle as glass when Chuuya's eyes opened.

"But we're not in that world, are we?" he said softly, sliding off Chuuya's lap in one fluid motion. "We're here. And it's almost five."

The space between them felt vast suddenly, an ocean neither knew how to cross. The ghost of a kiss that would never happen hung in the air like smoke from the guttering candles.

"Chuuya," Dazai said, his voice oddly formal as he straightened his collar, "after today, things will change. You understand that, don't you?"

Chuuya nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He understood perfectly. Whatever fragile thing had grown between them in these stolen hours would be sacrificed on the altar of the Port Mafia's ambitions.

It was always going to end this way.

"Would it have been different?" he asked suddenly, the question escaping before he could stop it. "In that normal life. Would we have been different?"

Dazai's smile was a beautiful, terrible thing. "We would have destroyed each other in any reality, Chuuya. Just perhaps more slowly, more sweetly."

The truth of it settled over them like ash. They weren't star-crossed lovers in a tragic romance. They were disasters by design, broken in complementary ways that ensured mutual destruction.

"For what it's worth," Dazai murmured, so quietly Chuuya almost missed it, "I would have chosen you in any version of this story."

The hours bled on as the left-over loneliness turned golden. But the oxygen in the room was shifting, dread weighing it down.

Whiskey eyes traced the outline of numbers on the digital display across the room. Possibility hung in the air, fragile as spun sugar. The clock continued to tick, relentless, warning that reality encroached.

As Dazai shifted on Chuuya's lap, the nearest candle flickered, shadows dancing across his face. The light caught something Chuuya hadn't noticed before—a thin, pale scar at the corner of Dazai's mouth.

Without thinking, Chuuya reached out, his thumb tracing the faint line.

"How'd you get this one?"

Dazai froze at the unexpected touch, his usual teasing demeanor slipping for just a moment. Something dark and wounded flashed in his eyes before he could mask it.

"Mori," he said simply. Then, softer, "I smiled at the wrong time."

Chuuya's fingers lingered on the scar, gentler now. Dazai allowed it for a moment, his eyes closing briefly at the touch.

Then, as if catching himself showing too much, he captured Chuuya's wrist, pressing a mocking kiss to his palm.

"Careful, Chuuya. Your humanity is showing."

But his grip was too tight, his eyes too bright in the candlelight. As if he was afraid to let go.

With an air of boredom and deliberate slowness, Dazai inched his hand forward. The soft fabric of Chuuya's shirt brushed against his knuckles.

He slipped beneath, perhaps searching for lost dreams. The silk bunched around his wrist, caught on the belt. He tugged gently, creating a tantalizing gap between the fabric and golden skin. Cool air rushed in, and Dazai felt Chuuya shiver.

"What are you—" But the words died in his throat.

Muscles tensed beneath the touch. Dazai splayed his fingers wide, drinking in every sensation. The softness of Chuuya's flesh was a delicious contrast to the subtle ridges of lean muscle beneath. He traced a lazy pattern, mapping territory he'd only fantasized about.

"Dazai." Chuuya’s voice came out warning, but it shook at the edges. "Don't start something you can't—"

Dazai's thumb caught on one of the belt loops, and he hooked his finger through it, using it as an anchor.

Chuuya lurched forward into him, breath hitching. Dazai’s face now pressed to the groove where abs met v-line, where heat pooled and scent lived and the body stopped pretending it was just a body.

He watched the candlelight play over skin—the hard flex and flutter of muscle beneath his cheek, the way every inch of Chuuya reacted like it didn’t know how not to.

"What the fuck do you think—" but his voice cracked as Dazai's face nuzzled into his stomach.

His hands hung useless in the air—caught between decking that pretty face and grabbing dark hair to keep it right fucking there.

God, everything burned—where those bandaged fingers splayed across his sides, where that mouth pressed promises into his skin, where his own pulse hammered against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

His fingers twitched as they moved to Dazai’s wrist, expecting to meet bandages, not something black and cold and unmistakably his.

That’s right.

The bracelet.

His bracelet.

On Dazai's wrist like it belonged there. Like he could take whatever he wanted.

Something seemed to click.

Chuuya's breath stopped. His pulse roared in his ears. The world didn't just tilt, it fucking shattered into pieces that would never fit back together right.

His fingers wrapped around the other’s wrist, not to stop him, but to anchor himself.

They tightened instinctively, pressing the beads into Dazai's flesh.

Marking him.

Chuuya's mind whited out, overwhelmed by the single point of contact.

"Dazai," he breathed, voice raw.

Dazai only inched higher, the silk bunching and sliding, dragging against the leather belt, creating a soft sound.

His fingers ghosted over Chuuya's ribs, counting each one. He could feel his heartbeat. The thin sheen of sweat forming on exposed skin made the glide even smoother, more sensual.

Dazai’s fingers brushed higher. Chest, yes. But also the space between—the parts no anatomy diagram could capture.

The dips. The rises. The spot where sweat gathered in the valley beneath the sternum. The trembling tension in the obliques. The way the skin got thinner as he neared the waist.

His pinky caught on a scar. A jagged little reminder that Chuuya wasn’t divine. Not invincible. Just mortal, and still standing. Dazai pressed into it gently. Reverently.

Possession bloomed in his chest, rot dressed up as roses.

His touch became more insistent, pressing slightly harder against Chuuya's heated skin.

Chuuya's breath came in short, sharp gasps now. Unable to resist any longer, Dazai lifted his gaze to meet Chuuya's.

The sight nearly undid him.

Chuuya’s pupils were blown wide, drowned in stormlight. His lips parted, but no air escaped. His whole body trembling with a heat that had nowhere to go.

Dazai's hand continued its journey upward, fingers splaying across Chuuya's chest. The thin fabric did little to disguise the hardened nubs, and Dazai's thumb brushed against one almost accidentally.

Neither of them were prepared for how that felt.

Chuuya arched into the touch, a soft moan escaping his lips. The sound sent a jolt of arousal straight to Dazai's core.

He repeated the motion, more deliberately this time, reveling in the way Chuuya's body responded to him.

Chuuya’s jaw was tilted back, hair clinging to sweat-damp skin. There was a muscle in his throat twitching every time he swallowed. His lips looked bitten, pink from nerves. The light caught the curve of his v-line, the pale trail of skin above the waistband where no shirt covered. The place that begged to be touched just because it hadn’t been.

Dazai’s hand hovered there. Not pressing. Just watching. His other hand stayed on Chuuya’s chest, thumb idly circling again. And again. He didn’t need to go lower. He didn’t want to. Because this was the part that ruined him.

This raw, unfiltered want—not to fuck, not to conquer—but to understand.

To feel what made Chuuya feel.

Dazai’s hand hadn’t moved in a full minute. But when it did—when his fingers began to trail down, past ribs and stomach, slipping slow as spilled honey toward the hem of those unforgivably low-slung jeans—it wasn’t desperation. It was study.

His knuckles ghosted there over the skin that twitched at every pass.

Lower.

Lower.

He didn’t touch the button of Chuuya’s pants—just hovered below it, his breath dragging heat across the skin right above. That forbidden space. That sliver of vulnerability where the body starts to beg before the mouth does.

And when he felt the muscles jump beneath him—when Chuuya’s hips jerked just a little, breath catching in his throat like something unholy—he smiled.

A crooked, evil, reverent thing.

"You’re sensitive here," Dazai murmured, voice pitched low and lazy, as if the heat pooling between them wasn’t already liquefying time.

He shifted slightly, enough for his teeth to graze the edge of Chuuya’s hipbone—not biting, not quite. Just threatening to. Just enough pressure for Chuuya to suck in a sharp breath and let his head tip back like a puppet’s string had snapped.

God, that sound.

The twitch response. That beautiful, involuntary shudder. Dazai’s fingers flexed in answer, possessive. Like the body beneath him was a map he didn’t need to read, because he already knew the way back.

And he wanted to ruin the roads so no one else could follow.

"I haven’t even kissed you," Dazai whispered, voice like crushed velvet, "and look at you."

Chuuya didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His eyes were shut, throat bared, a flush creeping high on his cheeks. He looked breakable like that.

And Dazai—he didn’t know whether he wanted to shatter him or shield him from every single thing that had ever hurt.

But he settled for the spot just below the waistband.

Right above the button. That strip of skin that burned like a lit fuse.

He pressed his mouth there.

And stayed.

His breath was hot—slow exhale dragging over the trail he’d left, making Chuuya’s skin twitch like a struck nerve.

And then—

He dragged his nose up the ridge of Chuuya’s hipbone, lips parting like he might bite again. He didn’t.

He only whispered, "You’re shaking."

Chuuya didn’t respond.

Couldn’t.

Because Dazai was right—his whole body was quivering, down to the fucking bones. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t cold. It was that kind of wrong, searing want that feels like being rewired in real time—touch by fucking touch.

"Let me," Dazai said, low and breathy. "Let me learn you."

His hands slid lower—not too far, not quite obscene—but enough to trace the hem of the waistband, thumbs dipping in just barely.

Just enough to feel skin that had never been touched like this. Not by someone who knew. Who understood exactly how unbearable it could be when someone looked at you like this.

Saw you like this.

His thumbs rubbed lazy circles there, slow and reverent. Like he wasn’t just exploring. He was worshiping.

Chuuya’s cock throbbed—traitorous bastard—and he shifted his hips instinctively.

Big mistake.

The seam of his jeans dragged across exactly the wrong place. Or the right one.

His thighs clenched together, chasing relief.

Denied.

His body jolted. The pressure didn’t help—it hurt, but it hurt good.

He bit back a sound and failed. Just a sharp little breath, half-gasp, half-curse.

Embarrassing.

Dazai heard it. Of course he did. His eyes flicked up, slow, focused. A predator tracking blood in the water. And fuck, Chuuya swore the bastard smiled.

"Tight jeans," Dazai murmured, far too casual. "So cruel to the anatomy. Especially when it’s… responsive."

Chuuya bristled, fists clenching at his sides. "You think this is funny?"

"No," Dazai said, almost reverent. "I think it’s beautiful."

He looked awestruck. Desperate.

Like he was the one unraveling.

Like this much touch was too much for him, too.

Then his gaze dropped. And he saw it.

The dark, damp patch spreading over the front of Chuuya’s jeans—evidence of everything he was trying not to feel.

The sight of it had knocked the breath clean out of him.

Chuuya’s whole body went rigid. His face flamed.

"Shut the fuck up," he muttered, voice raw.

But Dazai didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. His mouth parted like he was witnessing a miracle.

"Fuck," he breathed. "… for me."

The words were obscene. Intimate. Sacred.

"I didn’t even—" Dazai shook his head, visibly dazed. "I haven’t even touched you there, and you—"

He cut himself off, one hand gripping Chuuya’s hip, grounding himself.

Chuuya turned his face away, shame coiled tight in his throat. "It’s not—fuck, it’s not like I meant to—"

"You don’t get it," Dazai said, voice ragged. "You don’t fucking get it."

Dazai leaned forward like he couldn’t stop himself.

"You’re unreal," Dazai breathed, forehead pressing against Chuuya’s abdomen like he couldn’t hold himself upright anymore. "It’s not even fair. You’re not built for logic, you’re built for ruin."

Chuuya’s hands moved again—one clutching at Dazai’s shoulder, the other finally burying itself in that tangled brown hair, dragging nails across scalp like he could etch ownership into his skin.

Dazai groaned.

Low, guttural, right into Chuuya’s belly, and that did it—Chuuya’s hips bucked, involuntary and sharp, grinding against Dazai’s chest in a way that had no right being as erotic as it was.

And Dazai just—laughed.

"See?" he said, voice fucked-out and giddy. "I told you. I could stay here forever."

If Dazai died right here—

forehead pressed to the skin of something too holy to be his—

he wouldn’t fight it.

Let death come.

Let it find him open-mouthed and shaking, kneeling in reverence at the altar of a boy who had no idea what he did just by breathing.

This wasn’t about getting off.

It was about proving God existed, and then pressing your mouth to the softest part of Him just to see if He bled.

Dazai wanted to ruin him. But not with teeth. With knowing.

He wanted to bury his fingers in the places no one else had earned.

Not to tease—no.

To watch Chuuya break himself, chasing a high he didn’t even understand yet.

And then—

then he wanted to do nothing.

Let Chuuya leak from sheer fucking pressure.

Let it slick the inside of those perfect jeans,

let shame bloom red across his cheeks while Dazai whispered,

“Look what I’ve done to you without even trying.”

And if Chuuya begged—

if he whispered Dazai’s name with that wrecked little voice and asked him to please—

he’d say no.

Just to see if Chuuya could survive it.

And then—

BZZZT BZZZT BZZZT.

The shrill vibration of Dazai’s phone tore through the silence.

Both of them froze.

The sound was vulgar.

Dazai didn’t move at first. Just blinked—slowly, like he’d just come out of a trance.

The moment cracked.

Cracked, and then collapsed entirely.

The weight of what they were doing came down like shattered glass. A thousand sharp points of clarity.

His hand—still beneath Chuuya’s shirt—twitched like it didn’t want to be the first to leave. But it was already over. Had been the second that phone lit up with that cursed reminder.

5:00 PM. Boss waiting. No delays.

Dazai exhaled—shaky, shallow, more of a sigh than a breath. And he started to pull away.

Each millimeter of separation felt like slicing nerve endings.

His hand caught slightly on the silk as it withdrew, dragging across damp skin that was still trembling. Still wanting.

Chuuya’s eyes fluttered open, confusion threading through the wreckage of lust on his face. His grip on Dazai’s wrist tightened, a silent, instinctive plea—

Don’t.

Don’t go.

Don’t leave me like this

Don’t pretend this didn’t mean something.

But Dazai’s face was already turning to stone.

He couldn’t look at him.

Not now. Not like this.

The tremble in Chuuya’s fingers was unbearable—another phantom echo Dazai would carry in his bones forever. But he pulled back anyway. Tore himself out of the moment, ripping off his own skin.

No words. Not yet. There were no words for this.

The phone buzzed again. A cruel reminder. You’re late.

Dazai's fingers trailed along Chuuya's arm as he straightened up, a final indulgence he couldn't deny himself. The fine hairs on Chuuya's skin stood on end, following the path of his touch like iron filings drawn to a magnet.

Dazai stood.

When he finally met Chuuya’s eyes again, it wasn’t with regret.

It was with mourning.

Like he’d just buried something sacred between the floorboards.

"Time's up," Dazai murmured, his voice husky and low. "Mori-san isn't known for his patience.”

Chuuya felt the withdrawal immediately, the weight lifted but leaving an imprint, like a phantom limb. His fingers now hovered in the empty air, unsure of where to settle. They finally rested back onto his lap, feeling strangely incomplete.

His lips parted, perhaps to protest, to beg, to curse—but no sound emerged. His hands clenched and unclenched in his lap.

Dazai's eyes raked over Chuuya one last time, committing every detail to memory. The disheveled hair, the flushed skin, the slight tremor in his limbs. The sight was almost enough to break Dazai's resolve.

Almost.

He turned away. The air grew colder as he moved away from Chuuya's warmth, each breath a little more painful than the last.

He took a moment to straighten his coat and fumbled to untuck his shirt, letting it fall loose to hide the tent in his pants.

Turning back to Chuuya was its own fight, but his demons were ready. Eyes now somber pools of darkness, masking whatever emotions were churning beneath that catatonic exterior.

Dazai's hand tightened around his wrist, fingers digging into the old scars.

For a moment, just a fleeting second, the mask slipped, revealing a glimpse of the terrified boy who had once stood where Chuuya now stood, facing down Mori's "unconventional methods" with nothing but his wits and will to not feel.

"You'll be fine," Dazai finally said, tasting rust and dirt. The words felt foreign, as if stolen from some hidden part of himself he scarcely acknowledged.

Chuuya's eyes widened at the unexpected kindness, the recognition of a shared wound. His hand reached out, trembling slightly, stretching towards Dazai like a drowning man grasping for something solid.

Dazai turned away, his shoulders hunching slightly. His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper, rough.

"Kill the lights, Chuuya."

The command hung in the air, and for a moment, nothing happened.

Then, with a subtle flex of his ability, Chuuya complied. Gravity shifted, a ripple in the fabric of reality that Dazai felt in his bones.

The candle flames wavered, like final, desperate gasps, before winking out one by one. The room plunged into absolute darkness, a void as complete as the one Dazai felt inside himself.

In this blackness, stripped of sight, they were formless. The roles that defined them in the light—partners, rivals, man and monster—fell away like shed skins.

Here, in this moment of perfect nothingness, they could be anything.

For a breath, just a heartbeat, they were simply human. Two souls connected in the wreckage of a dying universe, vulnerable and real in a way they weren't allowed to be.

Dazai sighed and proceeded to swipe his ID card. Then his fingers found the handle—once, twice, three times. He opened the door, and a sliver of light from the hallway cut through. It illuminated a thin strip of the room, catching the edge of Chuuya's face, a glimpse of wide eyes and soft lips before forcing himself to look away.

⋆☽⟡☾⋆

Chapter Text

Chuuya stood there for a second after the door shut—staring at nothing, fists clenched, breath still ragged.

The room smelled like him. Like them.

“Fuck’s sake.”

The stain was still there. Faint, but visible.

And of course Dazai had left him like this. Wet. Wrecked. Staring down at the ghost of a moment that hadn’t even happened.

Haven’t even touched you there, his voice echoed in Chuuya’s skull, mocking and too fucking pleased. Look what I’ve done to you without even trying.

Chuuya cursed under his breath. Over his dead body was he going to march into Mori’s lab with dried precum smeared across his pants.

And he was still hard.

It wasn’t the kind that felt good, either. It was the awful kind. His dick throbbed against the seam, trying to punch its way out of this timeline.

“God dammit,” he muttered, dragging a palm down his face.

No way in hell he was going to jerk off in Dazai’s room. Not after that. Not with the scent of him still thick in the air, sweet and smug and lingering like perfume from a one-night stand you couldn’t forget even if you wanted to.

Chuuya did what any man in a spiral would do—he clenched his jaw, cursed existence, and waited.

Arms crossed. Feet planted. Deep breaths.

He focused on anything else. The burn in his thighs. The flicker of dying candlelight. How much he hated everything, including Dazai’s stupid face and perfect mouth and—

It took three full minutes and a quiet threat to castrate himself with a belt buckle before the tension in his jeans finally started to ease.

He turned the lights on and scanned the room, spotted the closet.

Black. Black. Black. A hundred shades of fucking black. Even the damn hangers were monochrome.

He grabbed the softest-looking pair of joggers he could find—worn cotton, long in the leg, but at least they had the scrunchy cuffs at the ankles. No way in hell was he wearing Dazai’s underwear. Bareback would have to do.

His soiled jeans and boxers went straight into the trash. He didn’t care if Dazai noticed.

The new pants smelled like him. He hated how soft they were.

When he stepped out into the hallway, Dazai was already waiting by the elevator—expression unreadable, gaze fixed on the glowing numbers above.

If he noticed Chuuya had stolen his clothes, he didn’t say a word.

The ride up was quiet. Chuuya stood still, fists in his borrowed pockets, jaw clenched.

Dazai didn’t look at him.

But he felt him.

The elevator pinged.

“Here we are,” Dazai murmured, stepping out. “The ultra-secure floors. A place where even secrets have secrets.”

Chuuya followed him, nails brushing against the walls, as if marking his path.

“A theater for a man who fancies himself a god,” he muttered.

Dazai smiled without turning. “Better actors in hell.”

The corridor swallowed the sound of their footsteps.

The moment the door creaked open, an unsettling aura gripped the room, filling it with the stench of despair mixed with something far more sinister.

Cold steel tables were equipped with restraints, aligned in an orderly fashion next to shelves filled with ominous-looking instruments.

Most disturbing were the floor drains.

Evenly spaced. Practical. Necessary.

Small scratches marked the concrete floor around them, as if desperate fingernails had once scrabbled for purchase.

“They’ve all been cleaned,” Dazai whispered close to his ear, following Chuuya’s gaze. “Don’t worry.”

Something in a far container pulsed rhythmically, though nothing living should have been inside it.

As they stood there, caramel eyes met the ocean. Dazai exhaled softly, "Now breathe deep, my little hurricane. Receive strength from the light that still lingers on your skin. What waits will try to take it."

Before Chuuya could process the warning, the door opened with a pneumatic hiss. His shoulders tensed as the polished shoes clicked against the sterile, cold tiles.

“Ah, Chuuya-kun. Do have a seat,” Mori gestured gracefully toward the metal chair in the center of the room.

Not the padded examination table. Not one of the steel gurneys with restraints. A simple metal chair, bolted to the floor, with a small drain directly beneath it.

Chuuya moved to it mechanically, feeling the cold seep through his clothing as he sat. The chair was angled to face a wall of mirrors—one-way glass, obviously. He wondered how many eyes would be watching what was about to happen.

“We have much to discuss.”

The antiseptic smell grew stronger, but beneath it lurked something else—a subtle rot, like meat left too long in summer heat. It seemed to emanate not from any specific point in the room, but from the walls themselves, as if the building had absorbed decades of suffering and now sweated it back out.

Mori circled him slowly, finally resting his palms flat on the table and leaning in.

“Gentlemen, shall we proceed?”

Chuuya tensed.

“With what, exactly?”

Mori gestured at the featureless room behind him, its surface rippling like water.

“This chamber is quite special, Chuuya-kun. Constructed with materials that should withstand even your particular talents.” His voice took on a lecturer’s cadence. “We’ve studied the readings from your previous… episodes. Fascinating output. But I believe we’ve only scratched the surface of what you’re capable of.”

Mori’s toothy smile was worse than the monster living under a four-year-old’s bed. His fingers drummed once against the table—a signal, evidently, as a technician entered carrying a tray covered with a cloth.

“Dazai-kun,” Mori said without looking away from Chuuya, “I believe your presence may contaminate our readings. Would you mind observing from the adjacent room? You’ll have a perfect view, I assure you.”

Dazai hesitated—a fraction of a second, imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know him well. But Chuuya caught it, that tiny fracture in his usual fluid compliance.

“Of course, Mori-sensei.” His voice betrayed nothing as he moved toward the door.

As he passed behind Chuuya, his hand brushed against Chuuya’s shoulder—too deliberate to be accidental, too brief to be noticed by others.

The door sealed behind him with the sound of a tomb closing. Chuuya was left alone in the dark. From behind a glass pane designed to nullify abilities, his jailer watched.

“Now that we’re alone,” Mori began, circling Chuuya once more, inspecting his piece of art, “How have these weeks been? You seemed a bit off during your last training session, didn’t you think?”

Chuuya looked up, his eyes narrow slits. He was used to scrutiny, but Mori’s gaze was something else altogether—like a spider watching a fly struggle in its web.

“I’m adapting,” he responded tersely, his voice tight. “New environments demand adjustments.”

“Ah, adjustments,” Mori repeated, savoring the word as though it were a fine wine. “An elegant way to admit struggle, wouldn’t you say?”

He reached for a small remote on the side table and pressed a button. A display screen descended from the ceiling, flickering to life with footage of Chuuya’s training sessions. Mori froze the image on a frame where Chuuya’s face was contorted with effort, his body suspended mid-air.

“Look at yourself,” Mori said softly. “The strain is evident. Your ability taxes you more than you let on.”

The image changed to another—this one of Chuuya sitting alone in the cafe, others giving him a wide berth.

“Isolation is also taxing, I imagine.”

Another image—Chuuya and Dazai, caught in what appeared to be casual conversation, though Chuuya’s posture was defensive, his hands clenched at his sides.

“Fascinating dynamics you’re developing.”

Chuuya clenched his fists but remained silent. Speaking recklessly in front of Mori could prove to be a fatal mistake.

“I’ve been monitoring your vitals,” Mori continued, pressing another button. A new screen appeared showing charts and graphs—heart rate, blood pressure, neural activity. “Your body registers stress even when your face doesn’t show it. Particularly…”

He tapped the screen, zooming in on a specific date and time. “Here. Do you know what this was?”

Chuuya’s stomach tightened. It was the timestamp from their time in Dazai’s room—the confession, the intimacy, the almost-touch.

“Your heart rate elevated considerably. Was it anxiety? Excitement? Perhaps something else entirely?”

Chuuya stiffened, eyes narrowing. “How the hell are you getting this data?”

Mori’s smile widened with genuine amusement. “You didn’t think we’d simply hand out fancy clothes without certain… modifications, did you?”

He moved closer, reaching out without warning to grasp Chuuya’s collar between his fingers. With surgical precision, he turned it inside out to reveal what appeared to be normal stitching—except for the barely visible metallic thread woven through the fabric.

“Nanotechnology,” Mori explained, releasing the collar and brushing it smooth with mock consideration. “Sensors woven directly into every garment we provide. They monitor everything from heart rate to perspiration levels, body temperature to muscle tension.”

He gestured to the screens with undisguised pride. “We can even detect minor fluctuations in your gravitational field when you’re agitated.”

Chuuya fought the sudden impulse to tear off the jacket, the shirt, every piece of clothing touching his skin. The violation was intimate, insidious—they’d been watching his every physiological response, collecting data points even during his most private moments.

Chuuya’s spine stiffened as Mori continued, his eyes never leaving Chuuya’s face.

“Adapting to new circumstances is essential, isn’t it? Tell me, what do you find most challenging so far? Is it the loneliness, the feeling of not quite fitting in? Or perhaps…”

He leaned closer, voice dropping to a confidential whisper though they both knew the room was likely monitored.

“Perhaps it’s Dazai himself. He has that effect on people, you know. Draws them in like moths to flame. They rarely survive the encounter unscathed.”

Chuuya felt a pulse of unease. He chose his words cautiously. “The most challenging part is learning to harness my power within the constraints of the Mafia.”

“Ah, your power,” Mori sighed, almost as if in relief. “Such a magnificent force, yet so unruly.”

He moved to a cabinet and removed a small device that resembled a medical scanner. Without asking permission, he held it near Chuuya’s temple, the light on its surface blinking from red to green.

“Fascinating readings. The energy signatures are unlike anything we’ve ever recorded.” His expression shifted to something hungrier. “Do you ever fear you’ll lose control, causing harm to those you’ve sworn to protect?”

Before Chuuya could check himself, his eyes flickered toward the one-way glass. Mori caught the movement and chuckled, the sound devoid of humor.

“Hoping Dazai would be your safety net?” He set the scanner down, its display continuing to blink ominously. “He couldn’t save himself. What makes you think he could save you?”

Mori’s tone shifted; the false kindness in his voice now replaced by something far more sinister.

“You’re a loose cannon, Chuuya. A danger not just to our enemies, but to us as well. Do you know what happens to weapons that can’t be controlled?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“They’re dismantled. Studied. Their components repurposed for more reliable tools.”

Chuuya’s jaw clenched, the room seeming to close in around him. The scanner’s beeping increased in frequency, matching his rising heart rate.

“But you’re not merely a weapon, are you?” Mori’s voice softened again, another abrupt shift designed to keep Chuuya off-balance. “You’re something more. Something… exceptional.”

He circled back to the table and leaned in, his dark eyes locking onto those open blue ones.

“Let’s discuss your leadership potential, shall we? How are you finding your teammates? Bonds are crucial in our line of work.”

A veiled test. Mori was probing him, laying traps in benign questions.

“They’re skilled,” Chuuya finally answered, choosing his words carefully.

“Skilled but not trustworthy? Is that what you’re insinuating?” Mori leaned back, a smile creeping onto his face as if he’d caught Chuuya in a snare.

“I said what I said,” Chuuya retorted, the undercurrent of defiance in his voice not going unnoticed.

Mori’s smile widened. He pressed another button on the remote, and the screens changed to show Chuuya’s teammates—each one caught in candid moments of vulnerability. Eating alone. Sleeping fitfully. Nursing injuries.

“They’re broken things,” Mori said softly. “Just like you. That’s why you’re here, after all. The Port Mafia doesn’t collect the whole and healthy.”

He tapped through the images deliberately, pausing longer on those that showed fear or pain.

“Would you like to know something about each of them? Their weaknesses. Their breaking points.” His eyes never left Chuuya’s face, gauging reactions. “The exact pressure needed to make them comply or shatter?”

Chuuya remained silent, though his disgust must have shown in his eyes. Mori chuckled softly.

“You're a fascinating individual, Chuuya,” Mori said, placing the remote back on the tray with deliberate precision. “You remind me of a wild animal, cautious and observant, yet brimming with untamed potential. Still capable of moral indignation, despite everything.”

He reached out suddenly, his gloved fingers brushing against Chuuya's temple in a mockery of affection. “We'll break that in soon enough.”

The touch felt contaminating, Mori's fingers left invisible stains wherever they made contact. Chuuya forced himself not to flinch away.

“It would be a shame,” he continued, withdrawing his hand to adjust a dial on the nearby monitor, “if you turned out to be a poor investment. Our organization doesn't take kindly to wasted resources.”

The screen flickered, displaying what appeared to be brain scans—multiple layers of neural activity captured in vivid, unnatural colors. Parts were highlighted, annotated with clinical notations in Mori's handwriting.

“This is you,” he said, tapping a particularly bright cluster near the temporal lobe. “Or rather, this is what you contain.”

The words hung in the air, a silent ultimatum that filled the void left by Dazai’s absence. Chuuya found himself glancing involuntarily toward the one-way glass again. Was Dazai watching? Did he feel any of this weight that now rested on Chuuya's shoulders?

Mori followed that gaze and smirked. “Ah, wondering about dear Dazai-kun again, are we? The sensors in your clothing register a distinctive pattern when you think of him. Did you know that? A neural signature we’ve begun to recognize.”

He tapped another section of the scan. “Right here. Quite consistent.”

Chuuya's skin crawled with fresh violation. Even his thoughts weren't private.

“I don't intend to be a wasted resource,” he grumbled, desperate to shift focus away from what the scans might reveal.

Mori smiled, shark-like. “I'm glad to hear that. But tell me,” he continued, switching to a different image—older, grainier, labeled with a date from eight years prior, “have you ever felt true horror? Not by ghosts or ghouls, but by the weight of your own history, the sins of your existence?”

The image showed a younger Chuuya—no more than a child, strapped to a medical table not unlike the ones in this very room. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated with terror. Tubes and wires connected to his small frame, feeding into machines whose purposes were best left uncontemplated.

Chuuya shifted uneasily in his chair, his hands clenching into fists on his knees. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said, voice a strained rasp in the oppressive silence of the room.

But he did. The image on screen was from a memory he'd buried so deeply he'd convinced himself it was just another nightmare—one of many fragmentary horrors that haunted his sporadic sleep.

Mori chuckled, a low, disgusting sound. “Oh, but I think you do, boy. I think you've heard the whispers in the night, felt the phantom hands grasping at your sheets.”

He switched to another image—a dilapidated lab with strange sigils carved into its foundations, revealed by excavation work.

“The cries of your brother, trapped within the very walls of your home, begging for help that never came.”

Brother. He didn’t have a brother—at least, none that he remembered. But something deep and primal within him responded to the word, a hollow ache opening in his chest.

Mori leaned in close, his breath hot and sour against Chuuya’s cheek. “Your father tried to tell you it was just bad dreams, didn't he? That the voices in your head were nothing more than the product of an overactive imagination. But you knew better, didn't you, Nakahara-kun?”

Father. Another disconnect—Chuuya had no memory of any father, only fragments of institutional care and street survival before the Sheep found him. Yet Mori spoke as if reciting Chuuya’s own history.

Worst of all was that it felt true—resonating with something buried deep beneath conscious memory, triggering emotional responses to events he couldn't recall.

Chuuya’s heart was pounding now, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. His vitals spiked on the monitors, the sensors in his clothing faithfully transmitting his distress in real-time data.

“And you don't dream, do you, boy?” Mori continued, his voice a sibilant whisper that seemed to slither into Chuuya’s ears and coil around his brain. “The horror comes from the very foundations of your being, from the bones and blood and rot that make up that house of your memory.”

He tapped the monitor again, bringing up a different scan—this one showing abnormal activity in the hippocampus, the brain's center for memory formation and retrieval.

"Someone went to great lengths to make you forget," he said, almost gently now. "To excise certain... inconvenient truths from your consciousness. But nothing is ever truly deleted, merely... overwritten."

Mori reached for the amber vial, holding it up to the light where it caught and refracted, casting sickly shadows across his face.

"This horror of yours, it's not about you, Chuuya. It's about where you came from, the cursed soil that spawned you."

The monitors displayed a new image—aerial footage of what appeared to be excavation work at a site marked with military cordons. The timestamp indicated it was from fifteen years earlier.

"Your home is a graveyard, a tomb of secrets and lies and festering wounds that never heal."

Mori began to pace again, his footsteps echoing in the hollow space like the tolling of a funeral bell.

"And you, boy, are just another maggot writhing in the corpse of your own history. Another worm, feeding on the rotten flesh of your forebears' sins."

He set the vial down carefully and leaned in until his face was inches from Chuuya's, close enough that Chuuya could see the faint network of burst capillaries in the whites of his eyes, smell the antiseptic-and-something-else on his breath.

"Do you know what they found beneath the foundation of that house? Do you know what your family was built upon?"

The monitor silently displayed close-up images of the excavation—bones, too small to be adult, arranged in a pattern that couldn't possibly be natural. Ritualistic. Deliberate.

"They found what was left of the children who came before you. The failed vessels. The ones who couldn't contain what was put inside them."

Chuuya's throat was dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth like sandpaper. He wanted to scream, to rage against the cruel, taunting words that cut him to the bone. But he forced himself to meet Mori's gaze, to stare into the abyss of his own reflection in those cold, pitiless eyes.

The vitals on the monitor spiked dangerously. The room's lights flickered once, then stabilized.

"But perhaps that is your strength," Mori continued, stepping back to observe the effect of his words. "Perhaps the key to your power lies in embracing the rot, in letting it consume you from the inside out until there is nothing left but the pure, unadulterated fury of your own damnation."

He reached for the amber vial again, rolling it between his fingers with the casual intimacy of a lover.

"We could find out. Right now. One injection and the barriers in your mind would collapse. You would remember everything—your brother's face as they took him, your father's hands stained with blood not his own, the experiments conducted in that basement while you slept upstairs."

Deep down, in the darkest, most secret corners of his soul, Chuuya felt recognition stir—not of specific memories, but of their absence. The hollow spaces where something should have been. He could almost feel the ghost of his "father's" hand on his shoulder, the whisper of his voice in his ear, urging him to let go, to give in to the tide of rage and despair that threatened to drown him.

Behind the glass, Dazai's expression shifted minutely. His free hand moved to his pocket, where a small device hummed with quiet urgency—a failsafe, ready to activate if necessary.

Chuuya looked up at Mori, eyes hard and glinting like chips of blue ice.

"You think you know me," he said, his voice a low, steady growl. "You think you can poke and prod at my wounds, dig your fingers into my past until I snap, until I become the monster you want me to be."

The gravity in the room shifted subtly—objects on the metal table becoming fractionally lighter, the air pressure changing in response to Chuuya's barely controlled power.

Mori noted these changes with clinical interest, adjusting a dial on the monitoring equipment without breaking eye contact.

Chuuya examined his hands, his movements deliberate and controlled, a coiled spring ready to unwind at a moment's notice.

"But here's the thing, doc. I'm not just some rabid dog you can sic on your enemies, some mindless beast that'll tear apart anything in its path."

He took a reluctant breath, his gaze never leaving Mori's.

"Oh, I could do it. I could let the anger take over, let it drive me to rip and tear and shred until there's nothing left but fucking blood and bone and the bitter taste of regret. But what would that prove? That I'm just another weapon in your arsenal of broken things?"

The lights flickered again as the gravitational field continued to fluctuate. On the monitor, Chuuya's neural readings displayed patterns never before recorded—new pathways forming in real-time, the brain adapting to contain the fury threatening to spill over.

He shook his head, a mirthless smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"No, see, I'm smarter than that. I know how to pick my battles, how to channel my rage into something more focused, more precise. Like a scalpel, not a sledgehammer."

Mori's expression shifted—the first genuine reaction he'd shown—a flash of something that might have been respect, quickly masked by clinical detachment.

"Like a scalpel, you say? Let's test your conviction then, shall we?"

In a strikingly fluid motion, Mori produced a scalpel from his coat pocket and sliced a thin red line down Chuuya's arm before he could react. The cut wasn't deep, but it was precise—following the exact path of a vein without piercing it.

Blood welled immediately, running in a perfect crimson line down Chuuya's skin. Mori caught a drop on the flat of the blade, lifting it to the light with scientific curiosity.

"Fascinating," he murmured. "No gravitational response. Perfect control even under direct provocation."

Behind the glass, Dazai's thumb hovered over the failsafe device, ready to neutralize Chuuya's ability if necessary. But the gravitational disturbances had ceased the moment the blade touched skin—Chuuya's focus crystallizing into something sharp and dangerous.

Another slice, deeper this time. Blood welled from the incision, running in rivulets down Chuuya's arm to pool in the steel drain beneath him.

"Brilliant," Mori narrated clinically. "I've just transected the superficial cutaneous nerves. Note how the pain signals travel differently than the first incision."

He didn’t say it to Chuuya.

He said it to Dazai.

Not directly—never directly. But his gaze flicked sideways, past the scalpel, past the exposed red, to where Dazai stood watching behind the glass. The way a surgeon glances to a protégé during a lesson. As if this wasn’t torture, but pedagogy. As if Chuuya’s body were just a chalkboard. Something to diagram. Something to teach with.

He continued with these methodical cuts, each one carefully placed to maximize sensation without causing permanent damage.

Blood dripped rhythmically onto the floor drain, the soft patter creating a metronomic backdrop to Mori's academic lecture on pain pathways.

"The human body contains approximately seventy-two kilometers of nerve fibers," he explained conversationally. "Each capable of transmitting different qualities of pain—burning, stabbing, throbbing. I've always found it remarkable how the same nervous system that allows us to experience pleasure can, with minor adjustments, become an instrument of profound suffering."

He adjusted his grip on the scalpel, the slight shift in position revealing his next intended target—the sensitive underside of Chuuya's forearm where nerves clustered close to the surface.

Mori shook his head in disapproval. "Just sit there passively while I peel away your flesh? Disappointing. I expected more defiance from one with your reputation."

A heartbeat.

"Perhaps we need to be more... thorough in our exploration."

The blade descended again, this time creating a Y-shaped incision that allowed Mori to methodically peel back a small flap of skin, exposing the pale yellow subcutaneous fat and the ruddy muscle beneath. He used a small retractor to hold the tissue back, turning Chuuya's arm into something that resembled a medical textbook illustration.

"Note how the fascia maintains its integrity even when the surrounding tissue is compromised," he observed, using the blunt end of the scalpel to trace the translucent connective tissue. "Much like you, Chuuya—maintaining structure despite significant external pressure."

Chuuya's composure finally began to crack.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought, the words repeating in his head like a prayer. This ain't shit. Just gotta... gotta think of something else. Anything else.

His jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack, sending jolts of referred pain to his temples. He glared up at Mori, fury burning in his eyes.

"That all you got, you sick bastard?" he spat, voice surprisingly steady despite the fire racing up his arm. "Cause if you're looking for a fight, you're barking up the wrong tree."

Mori paused, eyebrow raised like he'd just seen something interesting at a freak show. The sensors registered the spike in Chuuya's adrenaline, the increased electrical activity in his amygdala—fear and rage intertwining in a potent neurochemical cocktail.

"Interesting," he murmured. "Your pain threshold exceeds our projections by approximately forty-three percent."

But then that goddamn scalpel was back, slicing through Chuuya's flesh like it was butter. Layer after fucking layer.

"The flexor carpi radialis," Mori identified, using a probe to lift the pale muscle from its bed. "Essential for wrist flexion."

Behind the glass, Dazai watched with carefully controlled features, but his free hand had moved to his own wrist, fingers unconsciously tracing the exact location where Mori's scalpel was currently exploring Chuuya's arm.

Don't scream, Chuuya ordered himself silently. Don't you fucking dare scream. You're Chuuya fucking Nakahara. You've survived worse than this sadistic prick and his toy knife. Just hold on. Just a little longer. Don't let the bastard win.

His mind desperately sought escape, latching onto the most recent memory of comfort—Dazai sprawled across his lap, stupidly soft hair tickling Chuuya's thighs through the rips in his jeans. The warmth of another body against his, the weight that had somehow felt grounding rather than restrictive.

Fuck, anything's better than this shit, he thought, sweat beading on his forehead as Mori separated another layer of muscle from its fascia. Even that asshole's company.

He could almost feel Dazai's cold fingers slipping under his shirt, the phantom sensation of his breath against his abdomen. The memory was vivid enough that for a split second, the pain receded, replaced by the ghost of that strange intimacy they'd shared.

Mori kept yapping away, pointing out every vein and muscle. The sick fuck peeled back another layer, flexor digitor whatever-the-fuck and Chuuya had to bite his tongue till he tasted blood to keep from howling.

"Your brain appears to be attempting to dissociate. Redirecting neural pathways to memories with positive valence to counteract the current nociceptive input." Mori observed, glancing at the monitor.

He paused, studying Chuuya's face with renewed interest. "You're thinking of him, aren't you? Even in extremis, the brain seeks connection."

"Breathe, you idiot," Chuuya commanded himself. "Just fucking breathe. You're not here. You're back in that room. Dazai's there, being his usual pain in the ass self. Focus on that. On his stupid warmth. On his goddamn voice. On the way he looked wearing your bracelet. Anything but this hellhole."

His fingers twitched involuntarily, muscle memory seeking the obsidian beads that now adorned Dazai's wrist. The absence of the familiar weight was another kind of pain, a phantom limb sensation for something that had become part of his identity.

Behind the glass, Dazai's hand closed around his wrist where the stolen bracelet sat, as if responding to Chuuya's unspoken need across the barrier between them.

Mori began explaining the ulnar artery's path, but Chuuya was gone, lost in the memory of Dazai's weight against him, of that infuriating voice filling the air with nonsense about crabs and philosophy and all the other bullshit he'd normally find annoying but now clung to like a drowning man to driftwood.

"Come now," Mori taunted, voice cutting through Chuuya's mental refuge, "why not unleash that infamous fury of yours? Fight back like the caged beast you are. Show me the monster that lurks beneath that carefully constructed facade."

He pressed the scalpel against a nerve cluster, not cutting but applying just enough pressure to send white-hot lightning up Chuuya's arm. The room's gravity shifted minutely, objects becoming fractionally lighter as his control frayed at the edges.

Chuuya tried his hardest to dissociate from the raging fire under his wounds, focusing on the mental image of Dazai's face, on the memory of his parting words echoing in his mind.

"Your restraint is admirable," Mori acknowledged, setting down the bloody scalpel and reaching for a small bottle of clear liquid. "But ultimately futile. The body always betrays the mind eventually."

He tipped a few drops of the clear liquid onto the exposed tissues of Chuuya's arm. The solution sizzled on contact, nerve endings screaming as the chemical reaction began—not just pain but a catalyst, designed to trigger specific neural responses.

Chuuya would not show weakness, not with Dazai watching. But as liquid fire spread through the carefully dissected layers of his arm, something fractured in his mind. The brain scans on the monitor displayed a cascading failure of inhibitory pathways—walls crumbling, barriers dissolving.

His vision tunneled, reality fragmenting as his mind detached from the immediate agony.

Memories flashed—not just impressions but vivid, visceral experiences. Sterile labs with ceilings too high for a child's perspective. Disembodied eyes watching from behind surgical masks. The cold bite of restraints engineered for limbs much smaller than his current frame. The stench of acetone and chemicals under the iron tang of blood.

He saw his small hand clutching another so similar, yet frighteningly still. A face like his own reflected in stainless steel, eyes vacant. Needles everywhere, jabbing into skin that was too young, too soft for this kind of hell.

"Arahabaki activation protocol initiated," a dispassionate voice announced from somewhere—from the memory or from the present, Chuuya couldn't tell anymore.

It hit him hard. The grief, the fucking rage, the bone-deep tiredness that came from fighting a war you never asked for. The scalpel glinted in Mori's hand, catching the light, beckoning.

Something in Chuuya just... snapped. His hand moved faster than thought, snatching the scalpel from Mori's grip. He barely registered the bastard's surprised look, or the way he stepped back, like this was all part of the fucked-up experiment.

Behind the glass, Dazai pressed the failsafe device. Nothing happened. The barrier designed to nullify abilities wavered, reality bending around the edges as Chuuya's power leaked into the surrounding space.

Chuuya's eyes were a million miles away, seeing ghosts and demons from a past he'd tried so damn hard to forget—that someone had made him forget. With a steadiness that scared even him, he turned the blade on himself, slicing into his forearm. Not randomly, but with precise, almost ritualistic movements—patterns his fingers remembered even if his mind did not.

The pain was almost... sweet. Familiar. His to control.

Blood welled up, warm and sticky, and suddenly Chuuya felt more awake than he had in years. He kept cutting, like he could carve out all the weakness, all the fear, all the memories of that scared little kid who couldn't stop the horrors around him.

The sensors in his clothing registered a bizarre phenomenon—as blood flowed from the self-inflicted wounds, his neural patterns stabilized. Pain, paradoxically, was grounding him when nothing else could.

Behind the glass, Dazai watched with hollow eyes and steady breath. For an ephemeral moment, he felt the phantom sting of release through wounding, a kinship through torn flesh. The bandages on his wrists seemed to tighten momentarily.

His palm brushed the window, an abortive attempt at connection across the barrier. But the moment slipped away, Chuuya's bloodied canvas became just puzzle pieces to analyze, data points to record.

Empathy remained an unknown friend to him, glimpsed only in fragments before being swallowed by the void inside.

At first Mori observed clinically, intrigued by this development. But as blood pooled on the floor, the pattern of self-inflicted cuts becoming more deliberate, his eyes narrowed. He needed Chuuya present, senses exposed, not retreating into this trance state.

Wrenching the scalpel away with one hand, Mori backhanded Chuuya hard with the other. The sound echoed in the sterile room like a gunshot.

"Do not retreat within," he commanded. "I want you here, in this moment."

He grabbed Chuuya's chin, fingers digging into the soft tissue beneath his jaw, forcing eye contact. Pupils met pupils, a battle of wills across the minuscule distance.

"You will face me, not your pathetic ghosts."

It was like being dunked in ice water. Chuuya felt himself snapping back to reality, the fog in his head clearing. He thrashed against Mori's grip, feeling like he was clawing his way out of a pit where things with too many limbs and too few eyes reached for him with grasping hands.

Mori's smile was colder than a Yokohama winter. "There's those pretty eyes. Now, where were we?"

Chuuya glared back, a snarl building in his throat. He was back, alright. And he was fucking livid.

Before he could spit out a curse, Mori jabbed a thin metal probe into the nerve cluster he had earlier identified. Chuuya's whole body jerked, a strangled noise escaping him before he could choke it back. But he'd be damned if he'd check out again.

"Every cut is a reminder," Mori hissed, his clinical detachment momentarily giving way to something more personal, more invested. "You're mine now, boy. My creation. My weapon. The culmination of decades of research."

His fingers traced the patterns Chuuya had carved into his own arm—symbols that looked disturbingly similar to those found at the excavation site in the earlier images.

"Your body remembers what your mind cannot," he observed, the clinical mask descending once more.

He went back to work, cutting with the precision of a sick artist. Chuuya's body was on fire, tears mixing with blood as they tracked down his face, but he forced himself to stay present. No escaping this hell now.

He met Mori's eyes, defiance blazing through the pain.

“That all you got, you sadistic fuck? You don't know me. Dazai saw something in me, and I'll be damned if I let him down now.”

He sucked in a sharp breath, tasting copper from where he'd bitten the inside of his cheek.

"You want me to lose it? To let that monster inside me out to play?" Chuuya spat, his voice raw but steady. "Well, tough shit. I'm not giving you the satisfaction. You want the god of calamity? You're gonna have to try a lot harder than this."

Mori stepped back, wiping his bloodied hands methodically on a pristine white cloth. His expression didn’t hold disappointment but satisfaction—as if Chuuya's defiance was exactly what he'd hoped for.

"Oh, I don't need to try harder," he said softly. "You've already given me everything I need."

"The data is... exceptional. Your ability to maintain control even when the barriers begin to fail—remarkable. Most subjects fracture completely at this stage."

The word subjects hung in the air, reminding Chuuya of the images of children's bones arranged in ritual patterns.

"How many?" Chuuya asked, the question escaping before he could stop it. "How many before me?"

Mori's smile was almost gentle. "Enough to perfect the process. Not enough to diminish your significance."

Chuuya's body was shaking like a junkie in withdrawal, muscles spasming involuntarily from the sustained trauma, but he forced himself to stare Mori right in his dead fish eyes.

"You think you know my limits? Fuck you. I'm not gonna break for you or anyone else."

His voice came out raw but steady—each word a small victory against the pain threatening to consume him.

Mori leaned in, "We'll see about that, won't we?"

What followed was a masterclass in torture. It was like being torn apart and put back together over and over again. Mori would push Chuuya right to the edge, where his vision would start to go dark and his mind would try to check out, then pull back just enough to keep him conscious and aware of every fucking second.

He'd give Chuuya these tiny breaks, just long enough for the pain to dial back from 'holy fuck' to 'Jesus Christ' before starting all over again.

"Pain and relief in precisely timed intervals," Mori explained clinically as he worked. "Creates a unique cocktail of endorphins, adrenaline, and cortisol. Essential for what comes next."

But no matter how much it hurt, no matter how much he wanted to scream or pass out or just fucking die, Chuuya held on.

Behind the glass, Dazai's communication device lit up with a confirmation. Whatever contingency he had set in motion was now active. His expression remained carefully neutral, but his eyes never left Chuuya's face, tracking every flicker of pain and defiance with unwavering attention.

When at last Mori set the bloodied scalpel down, Chuuya was trembling, skin slick with sweat and blood, arm looking more like a medical specimen than a living limb. The floor beneath him was stained crimson, the drain gurgling softly as it swallowed evidence of his ordeal.

In his head, he kept repeating Dazai's words like a goddamn mantra.

The light still lingers on your skin. The light still lingers on your skin.

Over and over, like it could somehow make this hell bearable. Like it was a spell that could keep him whole when everything else was being systematically shattered.

Mori removed his gloves, discarding them in a biohazard container before folding his hands, looking at Chuuya like he was some prized pig at a county fair.

"Not bad, kid. You've got more guts than I gave you credit for." His eyes flickered to the monitors. "But we're just getting started on tapping into that potential of yours."

He gestured to a screen displaying a three-dimensional model of Chuuya's brain, certain areas highlighted in pulsing red. "See these regions? Still dormant. Whatever—or whoever—sealed away parts of your ability did a remarkably thorough job."

The threat hung in the air, but Chuuya held onto his resolve. He'd survive this shit show, prove he wasn't just some throwaway pawn. Mori could cut him up all he wanted, but he couldn't touch what was inside Chuuya's head.

Or so he desperately needed to believe.

"We'll rest for now," Mori announced, making notes on a tablet. "Your body needs time to recover before we proceed to phase two."

Without warning, he pressed a button on the remote. The door slammed shut, plunging the room into absolute darkness, leaving only the soft glow of monitoring equipment to cast ghostly shadows on Chuuya's mutilated form.

Robbed of sight, all Chuuya could hear was his own ragged breathing, each inhale and exhale sounding like a thunderclap in the silence. Time slowed to a crawl in the isolation of the lightless void, every second stretching into eternity.

Behind the glass, in the adjacent observation room, Mori joined Dazai, gesturing at Chuuya's shadowed form barely visible through the one-way glass.

"His right arm is extensively lacerated with partial thickness wounds transecting dermal nerves and muscle compartments. The ulnar artery is exposed but intact. Skin grafting and nerve repairs will be required." His tone was casual, as if discussing nothing more significant than the weather.

Dazai's expression remained impassive as Mori detailed the wreckage he had wrought onto Chuuya's body. Only the stolen bracelet on his wrist, rolling between his fingers in an unconscious gesture, betrayed any emotional response.

"While he exhibits admirable mental resilience, this level of physical torture has failed to unleash his full destructive potential," Mori mused, studying the neural scans. "The boy has depths we've yet to plummet."

He tapped the screen, highlighting the still-dormant regions of Chuuya's brain. "Whatever's locked in here remains tantalizingly out of reach."

Dazai raised an eyebrow, his voice carefully modulated to reveal nothing of his inner thoughts. "And how do you propose reaching those depths? Chuuya has always been... obstinately defiant."

His fingers continued their idle movement with the bracelet, the obsidian beads catching the light from the monitors.

"By discovering what he fears losing most, and threatening to take it away." Mori's gaze shifted deliberately to Dazai's hand, to the stolen bracelet circling his wrist. "People are remarkably predictable in what they value. What they can't bear to part with."

Dazai tensed almost imperceptibly, his fingers stilling on the beads. The movement was so subtle that anyone other than Mori might have missed it entirely.

"I believe you'll be joining us for phase two," Mori continued, his voice carrying the casual certainty of someone who knows precisely where all the pieces on the board are placed. "After all, partners should share in these formative experiences, don't you think?"

In the darkened testing chamber, Chuuya curled around his mutilated arm, eyes straining against the absolute nothingness.

Mori glanced at him, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Well, what do you suppose our defiant friend fears losing most?"

"I try not to speculate on Chuuya's innermost thoughts. Understanding them has never been my forte."

His tone was perfect—just the right blend of disinterest and mild disdain. The speech patterns and cadence he'd spent years perfecting under Mori's tutelage.

"No?" Mori raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Yet the two of you share quite a lot, do you not? The monitoring data shows distinctive patterns when he's in your presence. Surely you must have some insights into what motivates him."

When Dazai remained silent, Mori grinned, cold and reptilian. He reached for the tablet displaying Chuuya's neural scans, swiping through various timestamps with scientific interest.

"No matter. We have plenty of tools at our disposal to unravel his psyche. Perhaps opening new wounds will prove illuminating."

Mori moved toward the door but paused, glancing back at Dazai.

"Have you ever wondered how he might react if something happened to you?"

Dazai tensed, his facade cracking ever so slightly—not enough for most to notice, but Mori wasn't most people. He'd practically built Dazai from the ground up, knew every tell, every microexpression, every carefully concealed reaction.

Mori let the words hang in the air, watching Dazai closely.

"Given your blossoming history, I suspect Chuuya feels a degree of loyalty towards you, buried beneath all that resentment, of course. We could test the nascent strength of those growing bonds."

Turning fully to face Dazai, Mori continued, "Just a hypothesis, but suppose Chuuya believed these torments aimed at him were being inflicted upon you instead. Imagined you undergoing this clinical dismantling."

Mori gestured at the blood-slicked tools on the tray.

"What levels might his protective instincts rise to? Seeing someone meaningful endure suffering intended for him could elicit quite a response."

The stolen bracelet felt suddenly heavy on Dazai's wrist.

"You're assuming he cares what happens to me," Dazai replied, voice carefully neutral. "Our partnership is one of necessity, not sentiment."

"Is it?" Mori asked, head tilting slightly. "The monitoring data suggests otherwise. As does your own behavior."

His gaze dropped pointedly to the bracelet on Dazai's wrist—the claim he'd made and kept.

Mori let the implications resonate before adding, "Sentiment makes even the hardest souls reactive. Whatever his feelings now, the seeds of a connection have been planted. I wonder how much power could be unlocked by nurturing that bond..."

His eyes gleamed with scientific curiosity.

"...and then severing it at precisely the right moment."

Mori's smile widened a fraction before he disappeared back into the darkness, leaving Dazai staring after him.

Alone again, Dazai found himself oddly... unsettled. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, like he'd been running from something.

Funny.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt the need to run.

An old film reel flicked through his mind playing scenes in grainy black and white. Chuuya's defiant eyes, blue as winter sky. Mori's cold smile, familiar as his own reflection. The glint of a scalpel in harsh light. Blood welling from cuts that mirrored his own hidden scars.

Words he should have said, maybe. Or words he was glad he hadn't.

He'd set this whole game in motion, hadn't he? But now, watching Mori turn those strings into garrotes, using Dazai's own carefully laid plans against Chuuya... well, it left a taste in his mouth he couldn't quite place.

Bitter? Metallic? Like fear, maybe, if he remembered what fear tasted like.

He chuckled softly to himself, the sound hollow in the empty observation room. The wheel was spinning, and all he could do now was wait to see where it landed.

For better or worse.

What a quaint phrase. As if there was any real difference between the two.

Dazai closed his eyes, letting the void wash over him. In the end, it always came back to this, didn't it? Him, alone in the dark, waiting for the next act to begin.

How delightfully, miserably predictable.

Or perhaps, for the first time in a very long while, not predictable at all.

The door creaked open, and Mori reemerged, dragging Chuuya like a broken doll.

The kid was a mess of fresh cuts and bruises, his right arm hastily bandaged but still seeping crimson through white gauze. But damn if he didn't still have that fire in his eyes, chin up like he was daring the world to take another swing.

Dazai felt something twist in his gut, but kept his face blank as marble. Behind Mori, something shifted in the shadows of the lab—a brief movement, gone almost before it registered.

A monitor nearby displayed scrolling data, numbers and patterns flickering too fast to follow.

Mori shoved Chuuya into the chair across from Dazai. "Since physical means have proven inadequate, let's try an emotional approach, shall we?"

He glanced at the monitor, eyes narrowing slightly at whatever he saw there. His lips curled into a cold smile as he turned back to his subjects.

"Dazai here has graciously volunteered to be our demonstrative subject."

Dazai felt his muscles tighten, but he didn't move as Mori pulled out a knife that could fillet a fish. The bastard pressed the tip right under Dazai's eye, and a drop of blood welled up, a cherry against pale skin.

Chuuya lurched forward like he couldn't help himself, a motion that sent pain shooting through his mutilated arm. Mori's laugh was nails on a chalkboard.

"How fascinating. Let's document his response to more... invasive stimulus."

The monitor beeped softly, recording data that Mori studied before returning his attention to the blade against Dazai's skin.

He trailed the knife slowly down Dazai's face, applying just enough pressure to split the skin. Blood blossomed in its wake, a red trail that mirrored the cuts on Chuuya's arm.

But Dazai? He might as well have been waiting for a bus. His face was blank as a fresh sheet of paper, even as Mori rattled off the details of what he was doing—the precise depth of each incision, the nerve endings being stimulated, the expected pain response that never materialized.

Dazai's mind was a million miles away, his body just a meat puppet going through the motions. His eyes, however, remained fixed on Chuuya's face, reading every micro-expression.

Pain? What pain? This was just another day at the office, right? Another lesson in endurance from the man who had shaped him into the perfect weapon—emotionless, calculating, detached from his own suffering.

And Chuuya... his eyes were wide, his breath coming in short bursts. He noticed with revulsion how Dazai's flesh yielded easily to each cut, like he had undergone similar torments countless times before.

It made Chuuya sick how Dazai stared blankly ahead, devoid of any visible anguish. Where was the cunning manipulator who had coldly sacrificed the Sheep for his own whims?

The contrast fueled Chuuya's rage. He wanted to scream at Dazai to fight back, to show some shred of self-preservation. To give Chuuya a reason to unleash the full fury roiling inside at seeing someone typically untouchable so violated.

In the hallway outside, footsteps passed briefly—too measured to be casual.

Chuuya gripped the chair arms, his entire body coiled tight, muscles screaming for action. But Mori had maneuvered him into an impossible checkmate. Intervening now might cost Dazai far worse.

"Interesting," Mori mused, studying the monitor again. "He shows great restraint given the circumstances."

"I wonder how much more he can endure before that composure cracks."

Dazai met Chuuya's gaze, his eyes telegraphing a silent message—Don't react. Survive this—as blood seeped down his face.

Chuuya's nails dug into his palms, nearly drawing blood. Mori was meticulously dismantling every defense, probing for the cracks where the light filtered through.

"Well Chuuya?" Mori purred, lifting the blade to Dazai's eye. "Shall we continue eliciting a response?"

Chuuya trembled with the effort of remaining still, tears blurring his vision. But he refused to break. Not this way, not on Mori's terms.

His mind raced, desperately seeking an outlet. Part of him wanted to scream, to curse Dazai's name until his throat bled, to make that smug asshole feel every bit of this pain.

Dazai, with his fancy words about "potential" and "purpose". Promising freedom but delivering nothing but a one-way ticket to this torture chamber.

But fuck, deep down, Chuuya knew it wasn't that simple. He'd walked into this mess with his eyes wide open, hadn't he? Chasing after that stupid dream of finally belonging somewhere. Back then, the pain had felt like... like coming home, as fucked up as that sounds.

Now the reckoning had come, but Chuuya couldn't bring himself to cast Dazai as the bad guy in this fucked-up story. They were both caught in this shit storm, weren't they? Puppets dancing on strings pulled by guys like Mori.

Outside, a radio crackled briefly—a sound quickly silenced.

All Chuuya could do now was grit his teeth and take it. Somehow, some-fucking-how, he and Dazai were gonna make it through this night. They'd keep their minds, keep their souls, keep whatever scraps of humanity they had left.

And one day? One day, when the time was right, they were gonna burn this whole fucking circus to the ground. Port Mafia, Mori, all of it. Just ashes in the wind.

It was then, amidst the blood pounding in his ears, Chuuya heard it, a sinister voice clawing up from the dark recesses of his mind.

Let me out, little puppet, it seemed to hiss. Unleash your god so I may give this wretch what he desires.

Something changed in the monitor's readings—a pattern shifting, numbers spiking.

Chuuya shuddered, clenching his fists tighter. “You don't understand, I will not let that bastard break me,” he retorted silently.

The voice laughed, cold and mirthless.

Come now, what use is a shattered toy? He wishes to wield the weapon within. To behold true nightmares.

The lights flickered overhead, a momentary dimming that drew Mori's attention upward.

Chuuya set his jaw, willing his racing heart to stillness. “If you think I'll give up control, you're a fucking moron.”

Give him a glimpse, the voice cajoled. Grant him his wish, to understand the doom that lurks beneath your fragile skin. To behold ruin unleashed.

The lights flickered again, longer this time. Mori's eyes narrowed, shifting from Chuuya to the monitoring equipment and back again.

Chuuya remained motionless, the battle raging inwardly. This was the precipice—if he surrendered any ground, Mori would surely capitalize, hooking claws into whatever weaknesses were exposed.

Yet if he continued resisting, how much more would Dazai be forced to endure? Mori had crafted this sadistic game ruthlessly well, leaving no good options.

There are always options, Chuuya told himself, digging for one last scrap of tenacity.

Outwardly he was stone, while chaos thrashed within. The lights flickered again, a subtle tremor running through the foundations of the building. Mori switched tactics and circled Chuuya like a vulture eyeing carrion.

"A5158... such a cold designation for one so spirited, don't you think?"

He traced a finger over the marking on Chuuya's nape, a series of numbers etched into his skin that Chuuya himself had never been able to see fully.

"Just a product stamped for harvesting. Not even human in their eyes."

Chuuya flinched, the stark numbered brand cutting deeper than any physical wound could. The monitor beeped softly, registering something that made Mori smile cruelly.

"You and Dazai are the same in that way—merely disposable vessels. Though you fancy yourselves diamonds, you're still only common stones needing polish."

Mori turned to Dazai, the bloodied knife still held casually between his fingers. "But as the saying goes, only a diamond can polish another diamond. Perhaps you can make him see reason."

Dazai stepped forward, his face blank, blood still tracking down his cheek in slow rivulets.

"Don't be an idiot, Chuuya. All this pain? It's pointless. Why keep fighting when giving in could set us both free?"

His voice was cold as a corpse, logical and empty. Just another one of his mind games, the kind Chuuya had fallen for too many times before. Yet there was something in his eyes—a flicker of... something that didn't match his words.

Chuuya gritted his teeth, staring right into Dazai's dead eyes. "Fuck that. I'm not gonna break because of some shit that happened before, or your bullshit sweet talk now. My mind's my own, and so is my big 'fuck you' to all of this."

The voice in his head laughed, a cold echo that bounced through the hollow spaces of his skull.

So brave, yet so blind to what lurks within.

"Oh, come on, Chuuya," Dazai pushed, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "Remember what you said? Rejecting fate means getting your hands dirty. That girl in the story? She got free by any means necessary. Noble goal, right? No matter the cost?"

Hearing his own words twisted like that... it was a knife in the gut.

"I told you, asshole. Winning by stepping on innocent people just makes more fucking misery. I'm not throwing away who I am, not even for your 'greater good' bullshit."

The monitor beeped again, a pattern shifting on the screen. Mori glanced at it, a slight frown creasing his brow.

Dazai laughed, and it was the ugliest sound Chuuya had ever heard.

"You still think you have the luxury of principles? You talk about lines that can't be crossed, but all I see is weakness. What good are your precious morals when they're the very thing holding you back?"

Dazai leaned in as he spoke, the blood from his mutilated face dripping down onto Chuuya's own. Three drops, falling like a countdown.

Chuuya flinched but didn't pull away, the shared blood forging an involuntary pact between them.

"Face it, Chuuya. In this world, it's either break or be broken. And I think we both know which one you're choosing right now."

The electricity in the room wavered again, shadows dancing across the walls as the lights dimmed momentarily. The voice in Chuuya's head grew louder, more insistent.

They mock your restraint while fearing your potential. Show them the horror they so desperately wish to witness.

"We're the same, you and I," Dazai murmured, their faces inches apart. "Why cling to meaningless morality in a world that has forsaken us? Embrace the darkness within, it's the only path to freedom."

His eyes held Chuuya's with unnerving intensity.

Chuuya shuddered, transfixed by Dazai's ruthless gaze. Their wounds now bled as one. Chuuya saw himself reflected in Dazai's eyes, an agonized mirror image—two boys whose fates had been irrevocably bound the moment they crossed paths.

Dazai leaned in for a venomous whisper. "You want to break free of the strings? Then become the puppeteer, Chuuya. Take control by any means necessary, just like I did with your precious Sheep. The only way to true freedom is to become the very thing you hate."

Chuuya's eyes blazed, an inferno of rage and disgust. "I fucking meant what I said, you bastard. There are lines you don't cross, not ever, not even for 'control'." He spat the last word like it was poison. "You're out of your goddamn mind if you think I'll ever turn into you."

But you already are. We are. The same flesh, the same curse, wrapped in different packages.

Dazai stared into sky-glass eyes, searching for any crack in that righteous armor. But all he saw was that same stubborn morality, that unshakeable core that had both fascinated and infuriated him during their debates. Even now, with everything on the line, Chuuya refused to compromise his principles.

A part of Dazai, buried deep beneath layers of cynicism and cruelty, couldn't help but feel a flicker of... was it respect? Admiration, even? He pushed the thought away, letting his lips curl into a sneer.

"Your convictions are nothing but pretty chains, Chuuya. But fine, keep clinging to your pathetic ideals of humanity."

His voice dropped, cold and merciless. "Just don't be surprised when they drag you down into the abyss. And trust me, there's no coming back from that."

He studied Chuuya a moment before giving Mori a subtle nod. They had exhausted this avenue. Chuuya's walls would require a more covert sabotage...

Mori produced a vial filled with milky liquid, the glass catching the harsh light as he rolled it between his fingers. "Perhaps a more... chemical approach is required."

The label was obscured, but Dazai recognized it immediately—scopolamine, derived from the Angel's Trumpet flower. A truth serum that demolished inhibitions while keeping the victim conscious. Devil's breath.

Before Chuuya could react, Mori had filled a syringe and driven the needle into his neck. The plunger descended, sending the toxin flooding through his system.

"Ah, the perfect solution for our recalcitrant subject," Mori observed clinically, stepping back to watch the drug take effect. "It will take approximately four minutes to fully integrate with his neural pathways."

The building's ventilation system hiccupped briefly before resuming its steady hum.

Vision blurring, Chuuya struggled to focus as the drug began corrupting his faculties, dissolving the barriers between thought and action, desire and restraint. The edges of the room softened and warped, colors bleeding into one another like watercolors in rain.

Dazai moved closer, his expression inscrutable as he caressed Chuuya's face with false tenderness. More blood from his own cuts transferred to Chuuya's skin, marking him in red patterns.

Chuuya’s mind filled with static, and behind it—the couch. Dazai’s voice. Those slow fucking fingers and the heat and the pressure and—

"Remember this?" Dazai murmured, barely audible over the hum of the lights. "The way your breath hitched when I touched you there?"

His hand moved lower—past the throat he’d once buried his face into, down to the rib he’d traced. Chuuya’s muscles jumped beneath the contact.

"Fuck… you…" Chuuya gritted through clenched teeth, but even that sounded too soft.

Because his body was reacting. Because Dazai remembered exactly where he’d mapped him. Where he’d studied the tremors. Where he’d pressed his mouth and left ghost impressions that Chuuya’s skin now betrayed him by recalling.

"You wanted someone to stay," Dazai whispered, full of quiet venom. "And I did. I stayed. I learned you. Every place that begged to be touched. Every place that screamed when I didn’t."

Chuuya’s hands trembled against the restraints. His pulse was loud in his ears. His vision splintered around the edges, but Dazai remained sharp. Stingingly sharp. Like staring at the sun.

He tangled his fingers in auburn hair. Not tender. Possessive. Like he was proving a point. His other hand pressed against Chuuya’s chest—right where he’d curled into him, where he’d whispered I could stay here forever.

"You gave me a place to rest," Dazai said, so close now that Chuuya could feel the heat of him, could smell the blood and antiseptic. "So now I’ll give you a truth."

He leaned in.

“You were never safe with me.”

Chuuya’s breath stuttered. His head rolled back. The drug was cutting through his defenses like wire through skin.

“I didn’t ruin this because I hate you,” Dazai said, lips against his throat now, the words vibrating through Chuuya’s pulse point. “I ruined it because it mattered.”

The beads of the bracelet pressed into Chuuya’s sternum as Dazai pinned him harder, like he wanted to drive the memory into his bones.

“And that made it dangerous.”

Tears welled unbidden in the corners of Chuuya’s eyes—he hated them, hated the betrayal of his own body, hated the way even now, his skin still fucking wanted. Still remembered. Still craved the gentle version of these hands that had never existed outside his own pathetic imagination.

Dazai saw. Of course he did. He thumbed one away.

“So sensitive,” he murmured, like it was a compliment. “Even now, you’re still chasing touch. Still hoping for comfort from the same hands that cut you open.”

His voice dropped lower, a whisper Chuuya felt in his fucking spine, in the marrow of his bones.

“Don’t worry. I won’t lie to you like they did.”

Another pause, weighted with something impossible to name.

“But I will break you.”

And it wasn’t the words that undid him—it was nostalgia.

The memory of gentler hands on the exact same skin.

Because the same fingers that once fidgeted with the torn threads in his jeans now shackled his wrist. The same fucking voice that had whispered let me learn you now murmured venom into his ear, curling the vowels around the barbed wire dipped in honey.

The scopolamine didn’t just steal his mind—it melted it. Made every thought drip slow. Blurred the edges between then and now, want and warning. Between the hand that soothed and the one that gripped.

That’s how he leaned in. Because his body remembered safety—and couldn’t tell it had been replaced by slaughter.

That lap—the one Dazai had sprawled across like it belonged to him—now became Chuuya’s altar of humiliation. Every inch of it echoing what they’d shared. Every breath of it twisted into a mockery.

It wasn’t pain that shattered him. It was knowing Dazai pretended well enough that Chuuya’s body couldn’t tell the difference.

And now—now he was being rewritten in the language of that lie.

“That’s it,” Dazai murmured, voice dipped in that saccharine cruelty only he could wield. “Give in to what you really want.”

His thumb stroked Chuuya's bottom lip, smearing blood across the soft flesh. The touch elicited a faint gasp that Chuuya couldn't suppress, humiliation burning through him.

He hated the sound. Fucking hated that it was real and the goddamn warmth it ignited low in his stomach even as his heart screamed don’t touch me like that, not like that, not anymore.

Dazai leaned in, breath brushing his ear, lips catching on the shell. The intimacy of it—so familiar, so horribly similar to the way he’d whispered philosophy and nonsense—made Chuuya’s stomach turn.

“We both know,” he whispered, “a touch from me is enough to make you obey.”

His other hand moved, slow and knowing. Dragged patterns—three lines. Three points.

They burned now.

Chuuya’s throat closed around a sound that didn’t escape.

Dazai’s lips hovered at his jaw—not quite touching, the ghost of contact somehow worse than actual pressure. “Imagine,” he breathed, “what more I could coax out of you. What filthy little truths your body would confess if I just kept going.”

That’s when the panic hit.

Full-body. Atomic.

Not because he didn’t want.

Because he did.

Because scopolamine blurred guilt and craving until they were indistinguishable.

The monitoring equipment registered gravitational anomalies that shouldn’t have been possible with Dazai’s nullification in effect.

Chuuya shuddered, the threat piercing through the chemical fog. Raw panic clawed up his throat—would Mori really force him into worse shit unless he submitted? The possibilities twisted in his mind, each more horrific than the last.

The voice in his head grew louder, more insistent. No longer a whisper but a command.

Dazai read the dawning horror in Chuuya’s eyes, his own gaze hardening as if steeling himself for what came next.

“Come, let us end this tiresome dance. You know I can make it stop, if only you say the word.”

His hand trailed downward, lower and lower, implication clear. Each touch leaving trails of fire that Chuuya's mind rejected even as his body betrayed him, arching into the contact like a starving thing.

Chuuya strained to summon his gravitational manipulation, desperate to push Dazai off of him. To make this stop. To regain some semblance of control over the situation—over his own body.

And for a split second, something happened. The laws of physics hiccupped. Dazai’s weight seemed to lessen fractionally, objects in the room wobbling as if underwater.

Mori’s eyes lit up, enthralled by this chemical and metaphysical domination over Chuuya. “Fascinating. His abilities are almost completely neutralized by both the scopolamine and your touch,” Mori remarked, making another notation. “Yet he still manages to affect the gravitational field minimally. We can push further without significant concern of physical retaliation. Well done, Dazai.”

His satisfied smile revealed a glimpse of teeth too white, too perfect—the expression of a predator savoring the moment before the kill.

“You’re utterly at my mercy now, pet. But it can all stop if you just let go,” Dazai whispered, eyes burning with an intensity that seemed at odds with his cruel words. “Let go of your control. Let the monster out to play.”

“Fuck y—” but the words died as Dazai's mouth crashed into his. Nothing gentle in how that tongue pressed between his lips, demanding entry.

The taste of Dazai’s blood flooded Chuuya’s mouth—copper and salt and something addicting.

The voice was no longer just in his head. It vibrated through his bones, through the very foundation of the building. The monitors in the observation room went haywire, readings spiking beyond any established parameters.

Chuuya's tongue fought back against that invasion, refusing to just lay down and take it. Heat sparked everywhere they touched, making his skin feel too tight, too electric.

The monitor beeped rapidly, registering the conflict between Chuuya's physical responses and his mental resistance.

Dazai's teeth caught his bottom lip, tugging until Chuuya gasped. That tongue swept back in, claiming every inch. He alternated between deep strokes that made Chuuya's knees weak and shallow teasing that had him chasing more despite his mind's desperate rejection.

When Dazai pulled back just enough to nibble along his bottom lip, then slid his tongue back in deep and dirty—Chuuya's brain short-circuited completely.

That bastard kissed like every boy who ever broke hearts in empty dorm rooms at 3 AM, except his mouth knew exactly how to make it hurt. Each press of lips was a brand, each stroke of tongue a claim staked in flesh.

And fuck, the sounds he made when he found that spot behind Chuuya's teeth—satisfaction, victory, like he'd just discovered something precious to destroy.

Mori observed with clinical detachment, making notes as if cataloging a particularly interesting specimen's response to stimulus. The dehumanization was complete—Chuuya reduced to data points and chemical reactions.

But as Dazai's blood-smeared lip filled Chuuya's mouth with the metallic taste of copper, something stirred within his fragmented psyche.

Dazai's words about violent growth and fundamental reshaping flooded Chuuya’s mind. Dazai hadn't been speaking in metaphors. He'd been describing exactly this moment, this transformation.

Fucker.

Mori took a step back, sensing the shift in power dynamics. “Dazai,” he began, a note of warning in his voice.

But it was already too late.

With inhuman speed, Chuuya's teeth clamped down on Dazai's lip, biting until he tasted blood.

The bitterness flooded Chuuya's mouth, and with it came the memory of that night on the rooftop—Dazai's voice soft against his ear. The confession that had haunted Chuuya for weeks.

Quiet, Chuuya thought, shoving Dazai back with the full force of his limbs returning. Too fucking quiet.

Because for a moment—

For one sick moment—

He’d considered it.

Letting Dazai see what that silence felt like.

But now? No. He’d make sure Dazai heard everything.

The grind of bone. The rush of blood. The snarl in his throat as he rose, unshackled.

The sound of someone choosing to live, just to spite him.

He bit harder. Spat blood back into Dazai’s face like a curse. Dazai recoiled with shock—not pain, but surprise at the sudden rebellion.

Chuuya thought—hear that, you bastard?

In that instant of separation, with Dazai's touch broken, the scopolamine in Chuuya's system crystalized and dissolved. His metabolism suddenly accelerating beyond human capacity, burning through the drug in seconds. His pupils contracted, then expanded until blue was swallowed by black.

And there it was—the truth burning red hot through his veins as he finally understood.

That merciless god Dazai had described was here now, reaching into Chuuya's chest, ripping out everything he was—just as promised. The discordant stranger lurking behind his eyes was no longer content to pull strings from the shadows. It wanted control. It wanted out.

No matter what he chose now, everything would end in blood and ashes.

Two paths.

One end.

Lose yourself.

Lose yourself willingly.

A puppet with new strings isn't free.

Just bound differently.

The building shook violently now, ceiling tiles crashing down around them. The lights flickered, then burst in showers of glass and sparks. Emergency generators kicked in, bathing the scene in pulsing red light that made everything look like it was already bleeding.

In the corridor outside, rapid footsteps approached—multiple sets, military intense. A split second later, the door burst open as three guards rushed in, weapons drawn.

"Sir!" one called to Dazai, voice tight with controlled panic. "We need to evacuate. The structural integrity—"

He never finished the sentence.

The gravitational field around Chuuya distorted violently, reality itself seeming to fold and compress. The guard's words cut off in a wet gurgle as his body imploded, blood erupting from every orifice before he collapsed. The other two suffered the same fate seconds later—lives snuffed out between one heartbeat and the next.

Dazai stared at the bodies dispassionately, as if he had calculated this exact outcome long ago. His eyes held none of the shock or horror that Mori's did.

That wildfire Dazai had named Chuuya was consuming everything now—just as he had warned it would. The self-destructive force that burned bright and hot but would ultimately burn out. Chuuya wasn't an equation to be solved, he'd insisted that day—yet here was Dazai, having calculated the exact catalyst needed, the precise pressure point to trigger this explosion.

In the end, there was never a choice at all. Like a puppet with cut strings, Chuuya surrendered, too exhausted to resist Arahabaki's ancient roar. The final barrier between them collapsed, and power surged through him—not just his familiar gravity manipulation, but something older, something that remembered when the stars were born and how they would die.

The pain was exquisite, his human frame reconfiguring to accommodate something it was never meant to contain.

The last image that flashed before his retinas was Dazai's knowing smile, blood from his bitten lip tracking down his chin.

This wasn't just about Arahabaki or Port Mafia's plans. It was about that twisted connection they'd forged on the rooftop, that moment when neither had walked away despite knowing exactly how destructive they would be to each other.

Dazai had warned him, had practically begged to be pushed away—Tell me to leave—but Chuuya's silence had been permission.

Chuuya stared into that same fucking smile now and saw his own reflection shatter—not because Dazai had broken him, but because he'd finally stopped pretending he'd ever been whole. The cracks had always been there, filled with something ugly and hungry that now consumed him from within.

So if he was doomed to be a vessel, then let it create destruction worthy of gods. The inferno he'd once proudly claimed to be now burned through him, consuming everything in its path—including himself, exactly as Dazai had warned. The child in him wept even as Arahabaki flooded his veins, hollowed out and reborn in a baptism of fire.

In that final moment of clarity, Chuuya understood the truth of their relationship—how they were both fascinated by what bleeds, but only Dazai had ever been honest about it.

Because Dazai—who lied to gods and monsters and little boys with burning hands—

didn’t lie to Chuuya.

Not once.

He didn’t hide it. Didn’t sugarcoat it. Didn’t twist it into something survivable.

He warned him. He showed him.

This is how I’ll do it.

This is where it will hurt.

And Chuuya said nothing.

Chuuya let him.

Chuuya chose him.

And now he hates him.

God, he hates him.

He hates him so much it feels like vomiting glass.

Because Dazai meant it.

Because it wasn’t a lie.

Because it wasn’t a fucking lie.

It wasn’t betrayal.

It was consent.

It hurts.

It hurts

It hurts.

Dazai's devotion wasn't missing—it was unrecognizable. His affection wasn't absent—it was catastrophic. He didn't hurt Chuuya despite caring; he hurt him because he cared.

Because Dazai had deemed him worthy of his truths instead of his lies. Because Chuuya mattered enough to be ruined completely instead of merely used. Dazai had loved. And this was the shape of that love: meticulous vivisection, the deliberate pressure against every fault line, the perfect calculation of exactly how much weight a heart could bear before it shattered.

Then everything was light and noise and power because Dazai hadn’t lied.

He’d loved.

And this was the shape of that love.

So what the fuck would hate have looked like?

Chapter Text

Something terrible shifted. Crimson markings snaked across that golden skin. Blood wept from his empty eyes, nose, and mouth in steady streams that painted his chin and neck in glistening red.

Chuuya’s sclera turned black, irises burning red. The formless void rebelled against the observation room's constraints.

His clothes were torn by the force, and one button flew off and skittered across the floor. Dazai saw it—focused on it—for a second too long.

The sound it made was absurd.

Just a little plastic clatter against tile.

One of the last things still holding Chuuya together.

Now gone.

Corruption moved. Unshaped, unreasoning. A pressure, a thing without origin. It devoured structure. Ate meaning. Every atom in the room began to warp.

The glass wall didn't merely crack—it exploded inward, sending razor-sharp shards flying in all directions. They cut through equipment, sliced into walls, embedded in flesh.

The observation room tremored, concrete cracking beneath their feet. Equipment crashed to the floor, sparking and smoking. Dazai and Mori staggered, struggling to remain upright as the floor itself seemed to pitch and roll.

In his pocket, Dazai's communication device vibrated three short pulses.

Chuuya stepped through the shattered frame, boots crunching on broken glass that cut into the soles. His body glowed with ominous energy. Each step left scorched footprints on the floor, the air around him warping like heat waves over asphalt.

The door burst open, and three guards rushed in—Team One, armed with anti-ability weapons that Dazai knew would be useless. Their faces showed determination, conviction, trust in their commander. They didn't know they were already dead.

The first guard—young, tall, probably had a name—jerked once. No sound. Just a crack, deep and wet, like someone stepping into mud that didn’t want to let go.

With a mere flick of the wrist, Corruption consumed him—tendrils of darkness clutched limbs and torso to disjoint them. The awful sounds of bones snapping and sinew ripping echoed.

The screams started as human but ended as wet gurgles as lungs filled with blood. The man became a pile of torn meat and bone splinters in seconds.

The second one said Dazai’s name.

“Sir—?”

Just that. That’s all.

Voice raw with confusion, breath shaking. Still trying to follow protocol. Still believing in a hierarchy that mattered.

Dazai didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

The man’s body lifted clean off the ground. Nothing graceful about it. He hung there for a second, arms pinned to his sides, legs jerking. Then he crunched—shoulders slammed into hips, his entire frame compressed into something smaller than it should have been.

Ribs punctured out through his back. Blood hit the mirror behind him in slow, lazy arcs. Then the pieces fell.

He wasn’t wearing his helmet.

Dazai saw the look in his eyes, just before they split open.

The last guard didn’t run. He froze, shaking, gun halfway raised, piss leaking down one leg into his boot. That smell hit hard—acid, warm, embarrassingly human.

He wasn’t much older than Chuuya.

His hands trembled.

“I—I don’t—”

He never finished the sentence. His chest caved inward first. Then his skull split right down the middle. It was clean, neat, too fast to scream.

Dazai had trained him. Two months ago, that kid had asked if the Port Mafia had a pension. If dying in the line of duty meant his mother would get something.

Dazai had told him to buy life insurance.

Now pieces of him stuck to the ceiling.

The stench of opened bowels and voided bladders mixed with the copper tang of fresh blood. Arahabaki moved, and bodies came apart. Simple as breathing. Clean as surgery. Red sprayed the walls, decorating Mori's precious tools and machines in splatters and streaks.

Pretty, in a fucked up way.

"Team Two, standby," Dazai whispered into his comm, voice steady even as his heart hammered against his ribs. More meat for the grinder.

Behind the glass, Mori couldn't stop grinning. His weapon, finally unchained.

But even he couldn't ignore what was happening to the body.

The skin wasn’t just pale anymore, it was glass-thin. Blue-black veins bloomed in the cracks beneath the surface. The kind of blue you only saw in drowning victims and frostbite. Something unholy rising where warmth used to live.

Every second in this form burned away what tethered Chuuya to meaning.

Not just his humanity—his choice, his freewill, the fragile illusion that he was ever more than what they made him.

How much time was left?

Mori's eyes found Dazai’s. No words needed.

Control your dog, Dazai. Before there's nothing left to leash.

Glass crunched underfoot—bone shards, too. Something soft squelched. Blood had soaked into his shoes by now, syrup-thick and warm. The soles clung to the floor with each step, made a sound he’d hear later, in dreams. Or maybe while trying to fuck someone. Hard to say which was worse.

His comm buzzed again.

“Team Two ready.”

He didn’t hesitate. Because if he paused, even for a breath, he’d hear it—their voices. The trust.

"Engage. Draw its attention. Sectors three and four."

He sent them in.

They died before they finished stepping through the door.

One man's head imploded, skull fragments driving inward to pierce his brain. Another's ribcage burst outward, white spears of bone jutting through his uniform like a grotesque flower blooming.

Six more bodies. Six more failures.

Simple math, really. How many lives equals one corrupted god?

Dazai jumped between the void-black power. One tendril grazed his sleeve, and the fabric disintegrated instantly, leaving a perfect red line of blood beneath. He felt nothing—the cut was too clean, too precise to register as pain.

He got close enough to see the red streaming down Chuuya's face wasn't just from his eyes and nose—it leaked from his pores, a full-body weeping that soaked his clothing and dripped onto the floor in a steady patter.

"My, my, darling. Is this what you wanted? To prove you're more monster than man?"

His voice carried that special kind of cruelty—the type that sounds almost like kindness.

"Though I must say, wholesale slaughter lacks your usual... finesse."

The communication device in his pocket vibrated three times. Team Three. His final reserve. Nine more lives about to be snuffed out for his grand scheme.

Chuuya, or what remained of him, paused his barrage, head turning mechanically toward Dazai. His blood-soaked face was an impassive mask, black sclera glinting, energy pulsated around him like a dying star.

When Chuuya spoke, his voice was layered with an eldritch dissonance.

"Your Chuuya is hollowed out. This vessel belongs to Arahabaki now." He raised a hand, corrupted energy coalescing. "You wished to see my power unleashed. Now witness oblivion."

"Team Three engaging. Sectors one and five," the voice in the comm was urgent, panicked. The final distraction.

Then the surge of crushing gravity hurled Dazai backwards. His ribs folded inward, cartilage separating from bone with wet pops. His back hit the wall hard enough to dent the concrete, and blood sprayed from his mouth in a fine mist, painting the air red for a split second before falling to the floor in fat droplets.

He coughed, wet and productive.

And still grinning. Always fucking grinning.

But it was cracked now. Teeth red.

“…thought…” He wheezed, then spat more blood. Swallowed the rest. “Thought you were special.”

Pause. A sound halfway between a breath and a laugh. Another cough—deeper. He nearly choked on it. His whole chest convulsed.

“…just another…” He pressed his head back against the wall. Eyelids fluttering. Exposed throat. Collarbone gleaming under the fluorescent lights, slick with blood and sweat.

“—just another dumb fuck… who couldn’t handle his own goddamn power.”

Team Three rushed in from both sides—nine guards with anti-ability weapons modified specifically for this scenario. Weapons that should have worked. Weapons that were useless.

They didn't die one by one; they died simultaneously, their bodies erupting in different ways as Corruption found them.

One man's skin peeled from his body in long strips like an orange being unwrapped. Another melted, his flesh sliding from his bones in thick globs that splashed on the floor.

And there—just beneath the edge of the observation table—

a lemon candy.

Still wrapped. Bright yellow. Clean. Untouched.

Dazai blinked. Stared.

It must’ve fallen from one of the guards’ pockets.

Someone had walked into this slaughterhouse with a sore throat and plans for tomorrow. With a backup in case their voice got hoarse giving orders.

It felt obscene.

Of everything on the floor—shattered jawbones, snapped syringes, a sliver of skull speared through a chair cushion—this was what stuck.

Dazai didn’t move for a moment.

Then he stepped over it.

Not around it.

Over.

Didn’t look back.

There were no survivors. Only reminders.

Chuuya's head twitched, something close to conflict flickering across his face. It wasn’t humanity returning, but something else—recognition, perhaps. Or hatred.

Dazai pressed closer, each breath a quiet agony. His ribs burned. His vision blurred. His hand hovered inches from Chuuya’s skin.

Just a little more.

A little more and maybe—

Arahabaki raised a hand.

Before Dazai could react, a crushing force seized his right arm, wrenching it out and back at an unnatural angle.

Pop.

Dazai’s body followed for half a second before physics caught up. His shoulder dislocated with a sickening slide, the ball joint tearing through muscle like wet tissue.

His legs buckled. His mouth opened. No scream came out. Just a broken, throttled sound—half breath, half whimper—cut off by the blood rising in his throat.

"Did you truly think your manipulations would succeed twice?" The god sneered. "You false savior..."

Crack.

Snap.

The humerus shattered clean through mid-shaft. A white shard of bone punched through his skin. Blood fountained. His sleeve darkened instantly. His arm dangled flaccid, ruined, held together by stubborn sinew and skin.

He staggered, breath rattling in his lungs and vision swimming. The room tilted. His knee hit the floor. Hard.

“F-fuck—” he choked, voice barely audible, lips painted red. “You… don’t even know what you’re breaking.”

His broken arm twitched. A reflex. A leftover nerve misfire. The pain was thunder. His pulse screamed. And still, somehow, he smiled through the ruin.

Because Chuuya was looking at him. Because that meant something was still in there. Watching.

Waiting.

And if he was going to die—he’d do it with those fucking eyes on him.

Not the god’s.

Chuuya’s.

He could feel blood soaking into his pants now. His vision pulsed black at the edges.

Arahabaki hadn’t even touched him. Just toyed with gravity until his own body betrayed him.

Eighteen guards dead. His contingency plan in ruins. His backup options exhausted.

Just one chance remained.

Dazai felt like he was looking at a photo negative of the boy who burned so bright.

Molten. Beautiful.

He grinned through bloody teeth—thin, cracked, red-stained—and then choked. A gurgling cough tore through him, forcing a fresh trickle of blood down his chin. It bubbled at the corner of his mouth, hot and metallic. His broken ribs flared white-hot in protest.

He couldn’t feel his right hand anymore. Couldn’t feel anything but the awful, dragging weight of a limb severed from function. It hung uselessly at his side, bone grinding bone with every sway of his body, nerves singing their funeral song.

And still—he moved.

Dazai staggered a step closer, each footfall uneven, like his legs belonged to someone else. The room spun sideways, then righted itself just enough to keep him upright.

His right arm dangled grotesquely, he used the weight of it—let it swing with momentum, let gravity drag it forward in an arc.

Just one touch.

That’s all he needed.

Just one.

Arahabaki was still savoring the ruin—hadn’t expected him to get back up.

Dazai collapsed forward on the final step, knees buckling. His body hit the floor with a sickening thud, and the world went sideways again.

But his fingers—shaking, blood-slick, twitching—made contact.

Just.

Like.

That.

Nullification flared. Reality snapped tight.

Power died.

God became boy.

Chuuya’s eyes rolled back, white eclipsing color. His body seized and convulsed, back arching so violently Dazai thought something might snap. His hands clawed at nothing, his entire frame stiffening like a struck wire.

Then—

The collapse.

A full-body slackening. The surrender of muscle. The final exhale of something divine.

He fell.

And Dazai caught him—barely, awkwardly—with his good arm. The other hung limp, swinging behind them like a ghost.

They sank to the floor together, a heap of blood and shattered breath, of cracked ribs and collapsed gods.

Around them, the room was grave-silent. Only the wet slap of blood and the faint hiss of scorched air remained.

The corpses didn’t speak. The walls didn’t scream.

But Dazai did.

Not out loud. Not in sound. Just in the way his whole body folded over Chuuya’s, the way he whispered his name—without air, without voice.

Just in the way he didn’t let go.

Because here, in this small space between heartbeats, there was only Chuuya—unconscious, human, beautifully broken.

Dazai never wanted to save Chuuya.

He wanted to witness him.

Fully. Awfully. Truthfully.

He wanted to look god in the eye and say: You belong to me because I knew you before you ascended. And I know what you looked like when you bled.

Dazai looked back at Mori, who was standing amidst the ruins, a satisfied smile adorning his face.

"Congratulations Dazai-kun, Chuuya-kun,” his voice crackled overhead. He stepped over the tangled corpses. A severed hand lay in his path and he kicked it aside without breaking stride.

“What you’ve endured was necessary to mold you into Port Mafia’s most formidable weapons,” Mori continued, looming over them now. “Double Black.”

Mori crouched down, close enough that Dazai could smell his cologne mingling with the iron tang of spilled blood. His smile never reached his eyes—cold, calculating pools that reflected nothing back.

"Under my tutelage, you will hone skills beyond imagining. But first, your humanity needed to be burned away. What emerges from the ashes will serve us well."

He placed a hand on each of their shoulders in a mockery of paternal affection. His fingers dug in hard enough to bruise, nails pressing through fabric. Not comfort—ownership.

“You see, despite the costs,” he gestured casually at the carnage surrounding them, “I have given you both a gift—the gift of embracing your destiny. You may see only agony now, but shared pain leaves the strongest bonds.”

Mori’s gaze shifted between them, lingering on the places where their blood mingled, where Dazai’s hand clutched Chuuya’s still form.

“In time, you will come to depend on one another in ways you cannot yet fathom. Trauma forges connection beyond ordinary camaraderie, binding you tighter than any chain.”

His smile was icy. Standing, he straightened his coat with practiced precision, flicking a chunk of someone’s flesh from his sleeve with casual disdain.

"When you are ready, we will continue your training. A stronger Port Mafia awaits."

The words hung in the air like a miasma, choking and inescapable. The silence stretched, broken only by Dazai’s ragged breathing and the distant groans of facility alarms. The ventilation system labored to process the stench of death.

Blood continued to drip from Dazai's mangled arm. But he pushed the agony aside, pain was an old friend.

Besides, how could he focus on anything but the masterpiece in his lap?

Chuuya barely breathed. Skin like river ice in winter, like those beautiful corpses Dazai used to find floating in Yokohama Bay—all blue-white and peaceful. The ones he’d sit with sometimes, studying the perfect stillness that came after.

His lips were cracked, split in places where he’d bitten through them during the seizure. The coppery smell of him—blood mixed with sweat and that familiar scent that was uniquely Chuuya—filled Dazai’s nostrils with each breath.

If he pressed his fingers any harder against that pulse point, it might flutter away completely.

What would the world sound like if you stopped breathing?

The thought sent a shiver down his spine—not entirely unpleasant. Just one more push, one more moment of pressure, and he could witness that final transition from boy to beautiful corpse.

He wouldn't, of course. That wasn't the plan. But the possibility existed, and acknowledging it felt religious.

Like those drowned things he couldn't help but admire, Chuuya looked almost holy in his stillness. A water-logged angel, except his body was warm, that stubborn heart still beating beneath Dazai's fingers.

What a shame, really. Death suited him.

He shifted, letting fresh pain bloom. It helped him think clearer, helped him appreciate the artistry of this moment. His fingers found Chuuya's face, brushing away matted copper strands.

Such a pretty doll, all broken and still.

"Chuuya," Dazai murmured. After a heavy pause, he simply repeated, "Chuuya."

Strange, how seeing him this way made Dazai's chest ache. He wanted to collect this moment, preserve it in formaldehyde.

Wanted to break him again just to catch him. Wanted to...

What was this feeling? Like hunger, but deeper. Like void calling to void.

The emptiness inside me recognizes the emptiness in you.

For agonizing minutes, there was no response. Then Chuuya's crusted eyelids fluttered, a barely audible moan escaping his lips.

Something washed over Dazai, leaving him lightheaded.

Chuuya's eyes opened slowly, unfocused as sea glass. His cracked lips shaped a single word, so softly Dazai nearly missed it - "...why?"

Such a delicious question.

So many possible interpretations. Why the pain, why the betrayal, why save me, why any of it?

Dazai's fingers itched to trace those bloodied lips, to feel Chuuya's confusion firsthand. To own this moment of vulnerability completely.

Instead, he watched. Silent. Savoring.

The medical team barreled in without warning, doors slamming open. White coats stark against the carnage, faces masked, voices clipped with urgency.

With ruthless efficiency they descended, gloved hands reaching, separating, assessing. Latex snapped. Metal instruments clinked. Voices rattled off vital signs and damage reports.

Dazai struggled weakly as they wrenched him back, prying his one good arm from Chuuya's limp form.

Chuuya, delirious with pain and blood loss, reached out blindly, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on anything real.

His eyes, unfocused and desperate, didn't even seem to register Dazai—just sought connection, any connection, to anchor him against the void.

In that moment of perfect irony, Chuuya's hand found Dazai's wrist, latching onto the obsidian bracelet there. His fingers, slick with blood, tightened around the beads that had once adorned his own wrist.

For one perfect moment, they were connected again.

Snap.

The bracelet broke. The sound was tiny, insignificant amid the chaos, yet somehow louder than the screams.

Beads scattered like black tears across the floor, bouncing on concrete with soft clicks before rolling into pools of blood, into drain grates, into the spaces between tiles where they would never be recovered.

How poetic, Dazai thought. How perfectly, beautifully cruel.

A bead rolled to a stop by his knee, the obsidian surface now slick with blood. It reflected the overhead lights in its polished surface.

Other hands swiftly loaded Chuuya's ravaged body onto a gurney, his head lolling lifelessly to the side. A medical tech tucked a blanket around him—it was pale blue, incongruously cheerful against all the red.

The remnants of the bracelet slipped from Dazai's slack wrist to be lost among the carnage—bead by bead, connection by connection, all those small points of contact scattered and gone.

Just like the eighteen guards he'd sacrificed. Just like his own carefully laid plans. Just like whatever had been growing between them in candlelit rooms and rooftop confessions.

His face remained eerily impassive, but his fingers grasped at the air, reaching for something already gone. The last obsidian bead caught the light as it rolled under a fallen cabinet, disappearing into shadow.

Just like the light had disappeared from Chuuya's eyes.

Chuuya was dragged from view down the sterile corridor. Dazai's eyes tracked him until the last possible moment before the medics dragged him away as well.

Even ravaged and shattered, Dazai never cried out—he retreated inward to silently process the loss, a cryptic boy who gave nothing freely.

Crimson footprints marked their path as the team of nurses raced the boys through sterilized corridors, urgently shouting medical jargon. So much panic for meat that would either heal or rot, the fuss seemed almost comical to Dazai as his consciousness flickered.

His field of vision narrowed. Sound came in waves—sharp and then muffled, like sinking underwater.

They were separated.

Two rooms.

Two tables.

Two surgeries.

Chuuya’s deathly pale flesh glistened beneath drying blood, his body a canvas of shredded tissue and failed containment. When they lifted him onto the table, he didn’t respond. Not even a twitch. Just dead weight.

The beeping monitor searched for a rhythm. The oxygen mask hissed against cracked lips. Gloved hands slid IV lines into tired veins. One blew. They tried again.

Dazai felt it all—but faintly, touching memory through the glass. His body floated somewhere between panic and apathy, tethered only by the pressure at his throat and the cold fire in his torn arm.

Across the partition, he heard Mori’s voice perfectly composed. Nothing about save the boy or save the partner.

Just the vessel.

Dazai smiled faintly. Even now, Mori couldn’t help himself. Dissecting meaning from meat.

The nurses cut away his ruined coat with shears, exposing the grotesque angles of his shattered arm—bone jutting, skin peeled back like torn fruit. One mistake and he’d lose function entirely. Paralysis. Amputation.

“Massive hemorrhaging—pressure’s dropping.”

A tech called for two more pints of blood. A third.

Dazai stared at the ceiling. The lights blurred. A surgeon murmured something about “fascial planes” and “nerve endings.”

Laughter bubbled in Dazai’s throat. Hysterical. Ugly. It felt so fucking stupid—that he might die here, under bright lights and sterile hands, after orchestrating every moment of this disaster.

The anesthetic hit his bloodstream like ice. He welcomed it. Let it drown him.

But he held on to one thing. Chuuya’s fingers tightening around his wrist mid-collapse. That last clutch before the bracelet snapped. The choice not to let go.

His heart slowed. Darkness crept in with the fog rolling in from the bay.

Hours later,

Two bodies lay in separate rooms, under separate lights, surrounded by separate silences.

Muscle was sutured. Tissue grafted. Bone set and braced. They worked quietly—carpenters rebuilding a burned house no one was sure would be lived in again.

Wires and monitors blinked in sterile rhythm. Blood warmed in bags above their heads.

Healing would be long.

And cruel.

And incomplete.

But for now—numbness.

Blessed, anesthetized quiet.

Just enough silence to hold back the scream.

For now.

The extensive injuries left both boys bedridden for months in the medical wing, even with ability user accelerated healing.

And healing was a generous term.

What it really was existed in needles, nerve pain, surgical drains that leaked pink-tinged fluid into clear plastic bulbs. The tang of antiseptic burned Dazai’s nostrils day and night. There was always something humming—IV machines, oxygen regulators, the electric hum of life being forced into failing bodies.

Dazai’s right arm was an absolute disaster site. It had been reduced to pulp and bone fragments, nerves stretched and cauterized, muscle sutured layer by layer. He remembered fragments of the surgery—smoke, voices, pressure. Cold tools against hot pain.

Even post-op, the weight of it was extreme.

The limb was wrapped in stiff gauze from bicep to knuckles, suspended in a sling rigged to the bed. Movement was forbidden, but that didn’t stop the pain from radiating outward in lightning bolts anytime he shifted. Nerve regeneration felt like fire—hot, wrong, and alive in all the places it shouldn’t be.

His ribs had been plated.

Breathing hurt.

Sneezing was a threat to his structural integrity.

The cracked vertebrae made him move like a marionette whose strings had been frayed and rewound too many times. He was crooked. He was lopsided. And every step pulled on sutures inside his body that weren’t ready.

There were moments—early on—where he’d roll over wrong and vomit from the sheer shock of it.

The antiseptic didn’t help. The reek of iodine and ethanol clung to his throat, coating his tongue with chemical dust. His hospital pajamas were scratchy. He sweated through them nightly but refused to let the nurses change them unless he was unconscious.

Sleep didn’t come easy. His body twitched in ways it didn’t used to. He’d jolt awake thinking someone was touching him, only to find it was his own nervous system misfiring.

When he was finally considered stable enough, they moved him to a private recovery suite—more sterile than comfortable. His movement was still minimal. They gave him a walker at first, but he abandoned it by the second week out of sheer pride, even though it made his vision swim and his knees buckle.

But no matter how many times they tried to anchor him somewhere else, his body still moved like a tide back toward one place.

Back to him.

Chuuya remained sedated in his own room, still under strict observation. He had four surgical drains in his torso. Multiple skin grafts where Mori’s scalpel had exposed nerves. Every breath was monitored for signs of infection. His heart had flatlined—twice.

Dazai didn’t ask about it. But he knew. He heard it. He knew what it meant that the machines were quieter now. He knew what it meant that Chuuya didn’t scream anymore.

He snuck into the room on foot—painfully, gingerly—each step feeling like it might crack open his stitches. His breath rattled through the cracked cartilage near his sternum. His dominant arm remained unusable, so he’d gotten used to doing things with his left—pulling doors open, adjusting blankets, peeling fruit he never ate.

Some nights he brought a chair.

Most nights he didn’t.

He just stood.

Back pressed to the wall.

Ribs screaming.

Arm cradled in the sling, motionless.

Eyes fixed on Chuuya’s chest—watching for the rise and fall.

Always watching.

His body ached constantly, and he deserved it.

He told the nurses he didn’t care if Chuuya lived or died. He said the silence was nicer. Peaceful.

But he never missed a night.

Not one.

And the blood under his nails never washed out. He tried. Hot water, soap, alcohol. Still there.

He wasn’t sure if it was Chuuya’s. Or his. But it stayed.

And so did he.

Dazai wasn’t sure what blow he was bracing for anymore. Only that it was coming.

His back stayed rigid against the wall, night after night—vertebrae not quite aligned. Black sweatpants. A washed-out T-shirt that clung too loose on his frame, sliding off one shoulder like it didn’t belong to him. Which, in a way, it didn’t. Nothing did. Not anymore.

His hair had grown wild—dark curls matted and uneven, ends curling at the nape of his neck. No one had touched it in weeks. He hadn’t looked in a mirror in longer.

His body moved wrong these days. He’d grown again—stupid late puberty stretching him out as if he was made by someone with no sense of proportion. Each new inch of height only made him feel more alien in his skin. He hit doorframes with his shoulders. Dropped things with hands too big for their own grace.

He moved like he was borrowing someone else’s skeleton.

Oda’s voice surfaced more often now—hollow and faraway. Violence doesn’t end when the bleeding stops. It lives in the bones. It spreads if you let it.

Cancer.

Yeah. That felt right.

Dazai drowned those thoughts in whatever he could find.

Mostly whiskey. Sometimes pain pills. Stale crackers if he remembered he had a stomach.

When his hands trembled too bad to fake calm, he’d drink more. Shake harder. Break something and pretend it didn’t matter.

But when everyone left?

When the lights were low and the room was only Chuuya’s shallow breaths and the beep of the monitor?

His hands would go still.

Shaking, yes. But still.

They’d find the salve on the tray. The gauze. The clean water. And they’d touch Chuuya like he might break.

No—the truth was worse. He was already broken. Dazai just couldn’t stop tracing the cracks.

He dabbed ointment over healing wounds, careful not to flinch when Chuuya twitched in his sleep. He tucked a blanket higher. Brushed matted hair from his forehead like it meant nothing. Like it wasn’t a sin.

His touch was too gentle. So gentle it didn’t feel real.

Another lie, added to the growing list. Right between “I don’t care” and “I’m fine.”

By morning, he always cleaned up after himself. No tray. No chair out of place. No sign he’d been there.

But Chuuya’s wounds healed faster.

Maybe the body does forget.

Another month passed.

And then Kouyou swept in.

She was fresh off a mission overseas, snow still clinging to her coat, fury clinging tighter to her spine. She stopped cold at the doorway, eyes narrowing as they landed on the sleeping figure tucked into the hospital bed.

She didn’t speak at first. Just stared. Her jaw locked. Her heels clicked on the tile.

“Explain this,” she snapped. She gestured toward the bed. “I left him in your care, Dazai. Not shattered. Not comatose.”

Dazai didn’t flinch. Didn’t rise from the corner where he’d been sitting—spine hunched, eyes hollow. He just turned his head slightly, met her glare with one colder.

“Mori was determined to push us both over the edge,” he said evenly. “I merely adapted as circumstances necessitated.”

Kouyou’s lip curled. “You call this adaptation?”

She stepped forward, closer to the bed.

“Look at him, Dazai.”

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t have to. Her hand hovered over Chuuya’s temple without touching. Reverent. Maternal.

“Mori went too far this time.”

And then she looked at Dazai like she didn’t see a boy anymore. Just the kind of silence that follows a mass grave.

“It was unavoidable for the plan to succeed,” Dazai said calmly. “All of us play roles in Mori’s schemes, even you. I minimized collateral damage given the constraints.”

Kouyou’s eyes flashed with disgust.

“There are always choices beyond cruelty and complicity. Have you learned nothing from me?”

She stiffly crossed her arms.

“Your place in his life is done. I’ll handle his recovery. You’ve been touched by Mori’s rot too long to recognize what’s salvageable.”

Dazai raised an eyebrow.

“You’re cutting me out,” he said, voice like scraped steel. “You think that’ll save him from what’s already been done?”

She stepped in. Close enough that he could feel the weight of her years, her losses, how she’d stitched Chuuya’s childhood together with red thread and fierce hands.

“I can’t stop the damage,” she said. “But I can stop you.”

And she seized his arm—the good one—and dragged him. Not gently. Not symbolically. Physically ripped him from Chuuya’s bedside with the kind of strength that doesn’t come from muscle.

The door slammed so hard the hinges coughed dust.

For a moment, Dazai stared at the space he used to belong in. The silence in his chest didn’t echo.

Then he heard her heels.

Not walking.

Marching.

He didn’t follow. He already knew where she was going.

Kouyou didn’t knock. She didn’t wait to be let in. She stormed into Mori’s office and declared war with her footsteps.

“What have you done to my boy?”

No decorum. No mask.

Mori didn’t flinch. The ink of his pen didn’t stutter. He smiled without soul.

“I did what was necessary.”

“You bled a child. You called it evolution.”

“You misunderstand,” Mori said, eyes bright with the kind of hunger that only ever ends in autopsy. “We’re creating gods.”

Kouyou’s hands found the desk. Nails bit into polished wood. She bent over it, poised to strike.

“He was already divine,” she hissed. “Before you ripped out his ribs and replaced them with data points.”

“You’re emotional,” he mused. “It’s charming. But unnecessary.”

“You’re not emotional enough,” she said. “That’s not charming. That’s sociopathy.”

Mori chuckled, light and paper-thin.

“You saw what he became. Even you can’t deny the power in that room.”

“I don’t care about the power,” she snapped. “I care about the boy who sobbed into my haori when the nightmares came. The boy who used to tuck flowers into his sleeves. You traded his humanity for numbers on a screen.”

“And now he’s invincible.”

“He’s fractured.”

Her voice cracked for the first time—not weakness. Fracture. The edge of collapse.

“If you ever touch him again,” she said, standing tall, “I’ll take your hands. Then your tongue. Then whatever remains of your coward’s heart.”

Mori just smiled.

They stared each other down—a doctor playing god and a killer playing mother. But they both knew. In the Port Mafia, gods always win.

Kouyou turned, silk whispering against marble. Her heart felt like lead.

She'd failed him.

Chapter Text

Dusk settled over the empty backstreets. Its watercolor sadness painted the world in hushed blues and purples.

Dazai stumbled forward, barely registering the way his knees buckled with every third step. His hands trembled. He didn’t notice until another cigarette burned down to the filter between his fingers, searing the skin. He hissed through his teeth, shook it off.

The sleeve was already ruined anyway—burns dotted it from when he'd forgotten to ash. Or hadn't cared to. These days he couldn’t seem to hold anything steady.

Three days without sleep. Or was it four?

His mouth tasted only blood and pills. His ribs still ached—his body hadn’t fully healed, but he wasn’t letting the medics touch him again. He didn’t need their help.

The pills in his pocket rattled, the ones for chasing the floating sensation that never quite reached his bones. He took two more. No water. He didn’t gag. His throat was too raw from vomiting earlier in an alley behind a vending machine.

Crowds parted around him. Salarymen heading home didn’t meet his eyes. Good. He wouldn’t know what to say anyway. Excuse me, sir, but have you seen my morality? I misplaced it somewhere between the corpses and the boy I keep breaking.

His reflection caught in a shop window.

Fuck.

When had stubble started growing in patches across his jaw? Dark circles carved valleys under his eyes. Track marks painted constellations up his arms beneath the dirty bandages. There was vomit on his shirt. Blood on his pants. Three days of grime in his too-long hair.

Was this what Chuuya had seen?

No. Chuuya hadn’t seen him at all. Kouyou made sure of that.

His chest tightened. Or maybe his ribs did. One was definitely still broken. Every breath felt wrong, like it had to pass through someone else’s lungs first. He couldn’t tell anymore if the blood in his throat was from the impact, the infection, or something older.

Something deserved.

He touched his wrist.

No bracelet.

Just skin. Bare and foreign.

The world hadn’t stopped on its axis to mend his broken bones, and the stars didn't cease their tired whispers to listen to his apocalypse.

How utterly fucking frustrating.

How beautifully, tragically mundane.

What if he clawed his nails into the trenches of reality, stretched his aching limbs far and wide, destroying anything within his grasp?

Would Pluto, perhaps, answer his petulant cries? Would Chuuya feel the aftermath of his destruction and understand?

Somewhere, his little hurricane was unconscious in a sterile room, drugged and still, and safe from him. Kouyou had made that very clear. He wasn’t allowed near. He wasn’t wanted. Not now. Maybe not ever again.

Dazai couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken aloud.

He tried now, just to test.

“Chuuya.”

His voice cracked. Brittle. Barely more than breath.

No answer, of course. Just the echo of that name bouncing off alley walls like a prayer swallowed by godless stone.

He caught movement—a glint. A storefront display. Several of those cheap, tacky beaded bracelets.

His fingers twitched. He could go in. Buy one. Wear it to Chuuya's room, watch those ocean eyes catch on it. Watch them fill with rage or pain or something worth collecting.

But effort felt like drowning these days. The door was five steps away, but might as well have been a mile. Or a lifetime. Or another universe where he wasn’t such a sick fuck.

Easier to keep walking. Easier to let the moment die like everything else.

A woman brushed past him and muttered “crazy bastard.”

He smiled.

Maybe.

Dazai's fingers traced his bare wrist again, feeling the phantom weight.

Something hot and sick churned in his gut. Might've been feelings, might've been the pills on an empty stomach.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Cigarettes and whiskey made a fine enough dinner. The bottle in his coat was almost empty. He'd have to find more soon. Always more.

The wind carried quasars of what could have been. Chuuya's laugh, pretty and real. Wine glasses catching light. Blankets tangled around legs at 3 a.m.

Things that could have been, if he wasn't such a fucking monster.

He stood in the street, swaying. Too high or not high enough. The void in his chest yawned wider. Hungry. Always hungry.

Choice was a joke anyway. Feel everything until it killed him? Feel nothing until he was just another ghost?

Both options were bullshit.

So he kept walking. Kept breaking. Kept existing in this halfway place between boy and beast.

Because survival was inertia and monsters don’t mourn.

They haunt.

He leaned against a wall and slid down it slowly, legs folding under him. The asphalt was cold against his thighs. The world was muffled. His pulse dragged behind his movements.

He reached into his coat again and pulled out the last thing he had left.

A tiny obsidian bead. Sticky with dried blood. The only one he’d managed to keep.

He curled around it like it could anchor him, held it so tightly his fingers went numb. And in his head, he saw it—

Chuuya’s face. Right before he fell.

That soft moment between obliteration and collapse. That instant when Chuuya looked at him—not as a weapon, not as an enemy—but as a boy.

A boy worth dying for.

Dazai’s breath hitched. It felt wrong to cry. He hadn’t earned it.

Instead, he laughed. A wet, broken sound that cracked his chest open and startled the crows on the nearby wires.

He laughed until his throat burned and his stomach clenched.

And then he whispered into his knees.

“I told you I’d ruin you.”

But the truth was—

Chuuya had ruined him first.

Midnight.

Or maybe later.

Time didn’t matter when your blood was mercury and your bones hummed with things you’d rather forget.

Dazai's fingers slipped on the lock three times. On the fourth try, it clicked. Not because he remembered how, but because muscle memory always knew the way home. Even if he didn’t.

The door gave way.

He stepped through even though his ghost had never left.

Despite Chuuya’s half-hearted warnings—next time I’ll change the locks, I swear to God—the key copy still worked. Because Chuuya had never meant it. Because some doors were meant to stay open, no matter what came crawling through them.

Kouyou's threats echoed somewhere distant now. Didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the pull of this room, this space, this boy.

Everything there was dim and too warm. Lived-in. The scent of wounds and antiseptic still clung to the corners where old shadows swam.

Dazai’s jeans were unbuttoned. Only because he just hadn’t had the dexterity to close them with one working hand. His belt hung loose, one loop twisted, a single fray curling like a noose.

He sank to the floor, back to the wall. Sat in the same corner he always did. His spine made a hollow sound against the plaster and he let the drugs fade into something better. Something that actually reached his bones.

He didn’t bother lighting another cigarette. The one behind his ear had snapped in half, soaked through with sweat and rain.

Each breath Chuuya took hit harder than heroin.

Fuck getting high.

This was the real thing—watching Chuuya exist, counting his heartbeats like rosary beads.

Sometimes, just for a moment, Dazai swore he could feel those beats under his skin. Phantom pulses. Reminders.

He slumped forward, cheek pressed to his good knee, curls falling wild over his face. His lips were chapped.

Chuuya twitched in his sleep, and Dazai tensed.

But the boy didn’t wake.

Not yet.

When morning did come, when it finally dragged itself in through the blinds, Chuuya’s eyelashes fluttered open.

Slow. Dazed. Straining orbs were greeted by the muted colors of his bedroom.

He blinked at the ceiling.

And the silence in the room got heavier.

The first thing he registered was pain. But it wasn’t the kind that mattered.

Sure, his body felt like one giant bruise, every breath a fresh negotiation with a broken body.

But that was nothing compared to the empty space behind his sternum where something vital used to be. It felt like someone had scooped out his insides and replaced them with ice. It was a new kind of hurt, unfamiliar and fucking terrifying.

Chuuya lay there, feeling like ten miles of bad road, and wondered just what the hell he'd gotten himself into this time.

The last thing he remembered was the room bathed in blood, limbs and lifeless bodies strewn everywhere. His boots had crunched through teeth. His hands had curled around someone’s spinal cord. Not in metaphor. In muscle memory.

A shiver ran down his spine. He didn't need to know the details; he could piece together enough to understand the extent of his uncontrollable power.

He blinked at the ceiling, now trying to piece together which version of himself survived that night.

The arrogant kid who thought he could take on the world?

Dead.

The one who believed in his own humanity?

Also fucking dead.

What was left?

Something less than a ghost. A thing unrecognizable, even to himself. A puppet that had cut its own strings and then didn’t know what to do with the freedom.

He’d be seventeen soon. Fucking seventeen. Most kids worried about dates and grades. He was still trying to figure out if he had a soul.

Sitting up, he gazed at his hands—

Band-Aids wouldn’t fix this.

One knuckle was split. The nail on his pinky was gone. There was a bruise under the gauze that looked like a kiss from God. Or maybe the Devil. Didn’t matter. They were probably the same person anyway.

The air felt heavy. Like someone had been chain-smoking regrets all night. His eyes caught movement in the corner.

Of fucking course.

Black hoodie wrinkled and stained with something that looked a little too dark to be coffee. Knees pulled up like a kid hiding from a nightmare. Amber eyes weren’t even open all the way. Just slits, watching.

And goddammit, he looked like hell. Pale. Sunken. One side of his jaw was still bruised, and his neck was covered in angry red welts, like he’d been clawing at it in his sleep.

Or trying to remember what it felt like to be tethered to something.

Chuuya’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Because what the fuck do you even say to someone like that?

To someone who broke you so beautifully?

Chuuya’s stomach cramped.

Rage? Fear? Want?

Hard to tell these days. Everything bled together.

He should be screaming. Clawing his way out of the sheets. Cursing Dazai’s name so loud the walls bled.

Instead, he lay there. Limp. Breathing like it was someone else’s job.

Was this what Dazai meant about being hollow?

Fuck.

A bitter laugh bubbled up in Chuuya's throat, tearing at his raw vocal cords.

Those bandaged arms didn't hide shit. Chuuya could see the fresh track marks, the new cuts. Could smell the whiskey and chemicals leaking from Dazai’s pores.

God, just fucking look at him. All sharp angles and prettier than sin. It’s like someone took depression and gave it a face. Made it wear clothes and pretend to be human.

Chuuya's nails pressed into his palms. He wanted to grab that perfect face, wanted to dig his thumbs into those hollow cheeks until he found whatever was left of the real Dazai underneath. Wanted to crack open that brilliant, fucked-up skull and see if there was anything inside.

And Dazai just fucking sat there like an elegy with legs. Hair a mess. Eyes worse. Like he hadn’t slept since before they met. Like pain was the only thing keeping his bones from dissolving.

Chuuya’s fingers curled into fists. He wanted to hit something. Wanted to hit him.

He wanted to rage,

What the fuck did you do to me?

But he already knew. He let him.

He let him.

So here he was. Strapped to another bed in another fucking lab.

Same chains, different lies.

Only this time the scientist was pretty and sad and said “I missed you” with his eyes while pretending he didn’t care if Chuuya lived or died.

What a fucking joke they were. Burning each other up because they didn't know how else to touch.

These sheets would make a nice shroud, if he ever stopped breathing. This bed could be a comfortable tomb.

Chuuya let his eyes fall closed. The scream lived somewhere between his teeth and tongue. Wouldn't let it out. Couldn't. Because if he started screaming now, he might never stop.

It was easier before, when Dazai felt like safety. Like armor. When those bandaged hands could put Chuuya back together and that poison tongue could make him believe he mattered. When just having him nearby made the world feel less lonely, less empty.

What a fucking joke.

Turns out Dazai wasn't medicine at all. He was the motherfuckin’ virus. The infection. The thing that gets under your skin and ruins you from the inside out.

And Chuuya was the idiot who opened up and let him in.

No cure for this. Can't excise someone who's become part of your bloody DNA. Can't stop craving the thing that's killing you.

Because that’s what Dazai was—deadly and gorgeous and necessary. The kind of wound you keep reopening, just to make sure it still bleeds.

Chuuya lay there, breath slow and mechanical, chest aching with each rise and fall. The breathing tube was gone—thank fuck—but the ache of it lingered. Phantom pressure in his throat. Plastic where a voice should be.

His arms itched where the IVs still fed him fluid and bland calories. One was in his hand, taped poorly. He’d torn the other from his elbow earlier in a restless fit, muscle memory guiding his fingers like it always had.

He’d been a science experiment once. Still was. That kind of knowledge never left your blood.

Pain curled beneath his sternum, something coiled and sleeping.

His house always did feel haunted. Empty halls, locked doors, the click of footsteps that didn’t belong.

There was a man—he knows that much now. A man they called Father. A boy with eyes too dark, too empty. Brother, they said.

He never used those words. Not in his heart. They didn’t feel real.

But Mori had said them, and Mori always knew more than he should.

Back then, Father only touched him to draw blood. And Brother watched from doorways, always watching, always silent, like he knew what Chuuya was becoming before Chuuya even had a name for it.

There had never been a mother.

Only a woman with long hands and a low voice who sang to the machines, not to him. Just shadows that moved in lullabies, shapes that meant comfort for children that weren’t him.

Mori’s test had loosened something. Memory, or grief, or maybe just the thin layer of scar tissue that held everything together.

He remembered the night terrors.

They’d started when he was small. Screaming fits. Waking up with his own nails dug into his arms. He remembered that—and then nothing. Just silence. Like someone had thrown a blanket over his mind and told him to forget.

The dreams stopped when he met the Sheep.

He thought that meant healing. Thought it meant freedom.

But they slowly came back—around the time Dazai slaughtered them. Same night, maybe. He didn’t remember it exactly, only the sensation, a door slamming open in a long-abandoned room.

He’d always known about the number on his neck. The Sheep helped him connect that much. Serial code. Project name. Birthright or curse?

But now?

Now he knew.

He wasn’t human. Or if he was, it was only in the technical sense. Just enough to be used, enough to be broken.

Because no human could do what he did.

When he’d been unconscious—months, maybe more—he kept seeing those symbols Mori projected onto the lab screen. The ones no one ever explained.

He saw them everywhere.

Carved into the furniture. Tattooed onto his skin. Burned into the backs of his eyelids. Etched into the dirt, into the air itself. They moved when he blinked. They breathed when he breathed.

He didn’t know what they meant, but he knew they had everything to do with him.

Maybe now, more memories would come. Not all at once—trauma is patient. But something had cracked open. Some veil burned away in the wake of what he’d become.

He’d survived Corruption.

But he wasn’t sure what had come back.

One thing was certain.

Recovery isn’t peace. It’s war in slow motion.

He hauled himself out of bed, IV pole rattling beside him. The tube tugged in protest—he reached up, clamped the line, and pulled the needle out with gritted teeth. He’d done it before. Dozens of times. The sting was nothing new.

Blood welled, slow and lazy. He didn’t stop it.

The floor was cold. Stone and too-bright light.

He stumbled to the closet, every step feeling like he was walking on broken glass. His hand found his old green jacket, the one that had seen better days, frayed at the edges.

He reached into the pocket. Fingers curled around a crushed pack of cigarettes.

God bless past-him for always knowing he’d need these.

His emergency stash, for when things got too fucked to handle sober. Well, if this didn't count as an emergency, nothing did.

His hands shook so bad he could barely light up. The first drag hit bitter and calming and nothing like Dazai's touch.

He glared at the movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Fucking hell, has that fucker been here all night?”

Chuuya stood there, smoke curling around his split lip, watching the mess of a boy who broke him and stayed to watch the fallout.

A part of him itched to throw the lighter. Another part wanted to crawl into that corner and curl around the only warmth left in the world.

Dazai’s eyes tracked the cigarette. His hand ached. Didn't matter.

He’d bleed himself dry for these moments. Watching Chuuya stand again. Watching the tremble in his limbs as embers flicked off the cigarette that graced those split lips.

Chocolate eyes stared at them a little too long to pass as ‘just friends’. Or enemies. Or whatever the fuck they were.

Guess Dazai was that far away from healing, and that was fine with him.

He was never good at playing the brave one anyway.

Healing was for other people.

Better ones.

Ones who didn't want to trace bruises with their tongue.

Ones that protected the boy with those impossibly blue summer eyes that smiled and talked about the world as if everyone saw it in color like he did.

Dazai could only nod along like his heart wasn’t breaking.

When somber eyes finally met his, burning with that familiar defiance, Dazai held it. He wouldn't look away, wouldn't break this fragile connection, even if Chuuya's glare screamed 'get the fuck out'.

Chuuya turned away first, always did, shoulders so tense they hurt. Every fiber of his being wanted to shake some fucking answers out of the one person who always seemed to have them.

But in the gulf between them, words lay stale and insufficient. Anything spoken aloud would betray the enormity. So Dazai waited, honoring the sanctity of this liminal space.

Seconds or centuries could have passed before Chuuya broke the silence.

His voice cracked low, dry from disuse.

“Why the fuck are you here.”

No question mark. Not really a question.

Dazai didn’t answer right away. Just studied the mess in front of him.

Then he smiled—crooked, tired, cruel.

“Why am I anywhere, really?” he said lightly. “I drift. I observe. Sometimes I haunt.”

He flicked invisible dust from his sleeve, ignoring the bloodstain underneath.

“I suppose I got bored and decided to amuse myself observing your convalescence.”

Dazai waved a bandaged hand flippantly.

“Consider it fieldwork.”

Chuuya didn’t turn around.

“Get out.”

“You’re welcome, by the way.” Dazai said mildly, glancing at the IV pole. “For saving your life. Again. It’s getting boring, honestly. You should try dying properly next time.”

Chuuya’s knuckles went white against the dresser. The cigarette in his fingers trembled slightly.

“Why don’t you ever stay gone?”

That stopped Dazai.

Not long. But enough.

“Because you never lock the door.”

Chuuya turned, finally. Face pale and furious.

“Fuck you.”

Dazai’s grin widened.

“You tried.”

Pause. Air sharp as razors. Heat between them.

Then, quieter, “You should’ve let me fall off that rooftop.”

Chuuya didn’t flinch.

“Yeah. I should’ve.” His voice broke a little at the edge. “But I didn’t. And you knew I wouldn’t. That’s the part that makes you a monster.”

Dazai’s smile slipped—just a fraction.

“That’s the part that makes you mine.”

“You arrogant fuck!”

But even as the words left Chuuya’s mouth, he felt like Dazai was looking right through him, seeing all the cracks and weak spots he tried so hard to hide.

“God, look at you. All torn open and bleeding feelings everywhere. Makes me want to crawl inside the wound.”

Chuuya hurled his half-finished cigarette to the floor as he stalked closer.

“Keep going,” he growled. “Keep cutting. Keep seeing then.”

Because wasn’t that the sick part?

That some rotting part of him wanted this—

to be known in all his ugliness and not left.

Even if the one seeing him was Dazai fucking Osamu.

With his bloodless hands.

With his corpse-light eyes.

With his you belong to me grin.

Chuuya's chest heaved, fists clenched at his sides. His eyes blazed with blue fire as he stared down Dazai.

"I'm fucking sick of biting my tongue, of swallowing all the shit you've put me through. But you know what? The taste of my own blood's made one thing real clear. I don't owe you a goddamn thing, Dazai. Not respect, not holding back, and sure as hell not any misplaced fucking sympathy."

Chuuya swayed on his feet, a candle about to go out. His cheeks were hollowed, bruised crescents carved under storm-clouded eyes.

"You're like a black hole," he breathed. "Eating everything bright just to stay alive. And I'm the idiot who thought..."

His teeth ground together.

"Who fucking thought…”

His sticky, bloodstained shirt hung off his frail features exposing sharp bones and marred skin.

“…you were the sun.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Chuuya had Dazai by the hoodie, dragging him to his feet and slamming him back against the wall. The cotton bunched in his fist as he was trying to choke a ghost.

Dazai just smirked, the pain was a treat. It made Chuuya want to hit him harder.

"What the hell was I thinking, letting you in?" he spat. "Trusting you in a world where trust is a fucking punchline."

Dazai just watched.

Counted.

One, two, three…

"You know what's the worst fucking part?" Chuuya growled, his grip tightening until his knuckles threatened to crack.

Twelve blinks. Always twelve.

"Seeing you just... watch. Those eyes of yours, you didn’t flinch because you were already a thousand miles away.”

Chuuya blinked exactly twelve times when angry. He always had. Dazai knew because he’d counted, before they were anything except oil and fire and inevitability.

"How the fuck could you just stand there, all cool and distant, when every bit of pain Mori dished out was your fucking doing?”

Something wild lived in Chuuya’s voice.

"And you know what's hilarious?”

His grip tightened. Bones might crack. Dazai’s or his, didn't matter.

"You made me think—fuck, you made me hope—that someone finally saw me.”

Not the monster. Not the weapon. Not the fucking dog.

"Me." Chuuya hissed, laughing a little, breathless and unhinged.

A seam popped. Dazai winced, just slightly, and Chuuya felt it. Felt the tendon give under his palm. It made something inside him sing.

“I should end you right now. Tear your throat open and show you what it feels like to choke on something you created.”

The tendons in his neck stood out starkly as he resisted the urge to wrap his hands around Dazai's throat.

"But you know what? You don’t get to die, though. You’d like that.”

His whole body shook. He couldn't tell if it was from rage or from bones still knitting themselves back together.

“No. You get to live. With every fucking choice you made carved into your bones. You get to walk around with my blood under your nails and pretend it’s not yours too.”

Dazai opened his mouth. He never got the chance to speak.

With a howl torn straight from the bottom of his lungs, Chuuya threw him. Not with his ability—just with the weight of everything he’d buried.

Dazai hit a metal cart. It collapsed under him with a shriek. Glass shattered. Something—a jar, a bowl, a fucking IV drip—broke across the tile.

Dazai didn’t move right away. Just laid there, blinking up through the wreckage, blood running down the side of his face in lazy arcs. He reached up and brushed some broken glass from his hair, slicing open the pads of his fingers.

He didn’t flinch.

Just stared at Chuuya like the pain was a shared language.

"Well, fan-fucking-tastic, Dazai. You did it. You broke me. My head, my trust, every goddamn thing—all smashed to pieces in your fun little science experiment.”

Chuuya wanted to keep raging until his throat was raw. But Dazai just sat there, watching him like this was all part of the plan. Like Chuuya was just putting on a show that would burn itself out soon enough.

And that just made Chuuya want to tear the whole damn room apart.

“Happy now, you fucking psycho?!" Chuuya shouted as he swept his arm across the cabinet, sending books and supplies crashing.

It felt good, for about half a second. Then he whirled on Dazai, chest heaving.

"Every goddamn word, every touch, it was all part of your sick game, wasn't it? You sadistic fuck."

Chuuya's voice cracked, and he hated the way his eyes were stinging. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his heart hammering, trying to break out.

His breath caught in his throat, choking on anger and something worse.

"Now it's like every memory of you is a bullet, and I'm the dumb fuck pulling the trigger."

Chuuya grabbed fistfuls of his hair, doubling over like he'd been sucker-punched. His nails scraped hard against his scalp, pulling until strands snapped between his fingers.

He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t breathe right. Heat rose behind his eyes, nausea curling in his gut.

“And you—” his voice broke, splintering. “You stole my fucking first kiss.”

Dazai blinked.

“I was bleeding out,” Chuuya hissed. “High on fuck knows what, in front of Mori like a broken fucking doll, and you—you just took it. Like it was yours.”

His chest heaved. His fists trembled at his sides. Sweat slicked his back, cold now.

“It wasn’t. It wasn’t yours to take. That was mine. It was mine to give. To choose. And you—”

His voice cracked, rough with disbelief. “—you kissed me like it meant something, and it did. To me. It did.”

Dazai just looked up at him, through blood and broken glass, that unreadable mask tugging tighter around his face.

“You said yes,” he said quietly. “In my room. You said yes.”

Chuuya’s breath caught.

“You mean that little fantasy bullshit?” he spat. “That fake little ‘what if’ game where you asked if I’d let you kiss me in another world?” He laughed, bitter and ragged. “That wasn’t consent. That was me hoping.”

His knuckles brushed his mouth trying to scrub the memory off, but the phantom pressure lingered—ghost-warm and uninvited.

“Do you even know what you took from me?” Chuuya growled, stepping forward. “That was supposed to be mine. Something pure. Something safe.”

“I—” Dazai started, and then stopped. His voice dropped. “My first kiss wasn’t like that.”

Chuuya froze.

“It was for a mission,” Dazai said flatly. “I didn’t want it. Didn’t get to choose. It was just… leverage.”

Chuuya’s expression twisted. “So what? You trying to make me feel bad now?” He picked at his cuticles, blood welling under the nail. “That supposed to make this better?”

“No,” Dazai said. “It’s supposed to make us even.”

“Even?” Chuuya’s voice rose to a scream. “You didn’t kiss me because you wanted to. You kissed me because it would break me. And it fucking did.”

And then, quieter.

“Even would’ve been that room. The one where I said yes.”

He laughed. Or tried to. It came out strangled.

"I knew who I was before you."

The words came out raw. Bleeding.

"Now I'm just... pieces. Scattered fucking pieces that don't fit together anymore."

He dropped to his knees in front of Dazai, whole body shaking.

"They say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but who the fuck wants to be this kind of strong?"

Chuuya grabbed Dazai's hoodie. Held on because it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

“Didn't want to learn how to breathe with holes in my chest."

His voice was raw, like he'd been screaming for hours. Maybe he had been, inside his head.

With a guttural cry, Chuuya shoved Dazai back down and stumbled to his feet.

"The worst part is the me that's gone, the dumb kid who still thought good existed in this fucked-up world," Chuuya's voice broke on a ragged exhale.

His body sank back down, spent. The next words were hollow, lifeless.

"You killed him. And I fucking helped you do it."

His head weighed like lead, like gravity itself was trying to crush him. But he looked up anyway, because fuck weakness and fuck Dazai's eyes watching him.

Something sparked in his chest.

Not dead yet.

Not fucking yet.

"You want empty?" His voice came out all gore between teeth. "I'll show you fucking empty. Gonna burn everything you touched inside me. Use the ashes to choke you."

Tears burned hot, refused to fall. Pride was all he had left. That and rage. They caught like diamonds, the last bit of color in his grey world.

"Think you've mastered being heartless?" His throat was raw from all the words he never meant to say. "Watch me. I'll tear out every soft thing you planted in me. Salt the fucking earth where you grew."

The laugh was a harsh, brittle thing, shards of dreams cutting his throat as they escaped.

"Cold shoulders? Calculated cruelty? Amateur hour, Dazai. I'll turn this into performance art. You want war?"

His teeth bared in something too sharp to be a smile.

"I'll give you fucking Armageddon."

He leaned in close enough their foreheads nearly touched.

“Let's play your favorite game, yeah?”

His voice dropped to a whisper—a curse shaped like a kiss.

“See who kills their heart first. Who breaks better. Who makes the other bleed prettier.”

They could take his colors, take his trust, take his humanity, but this fury? This burning need to prove Dazai wrong?

That was fucking his.

He lifted his chin, jaw set squaring up for another round.

And Dazai—motherfucking Dazai—didn’t blink.

He stayed slumped where Chuuya had thrown him, blood dripping down one temple, and still looked bored.

He adjusted his hoodie, smoothed a wrinkle like they weren’t both standing in the wreckage of something sacred.

"Feel better now?" His voice was flat, infuriatingly mild. "Dramatics aside, your delivery could use polish."

He stood, brushing glass off his sleeve. It caught on the bandages. He didn’t flinch.

"Really, Chuuya. This whole tragic meltdown act? Unbefitting of the mafia."

He offered a thin smile, void of anything human.

"Take a breath. Fall in line. We’ve got work to prepare for. And I’m tired of wasting time on your broken heart."

Chuuya moved toward Dazai with a limp in his step and hell in his eyes. "You keep trying to push me off the edge so you can watch what I look like when I fall. But you forgot one thing, asshole."

His fist collided with the wall beside Dazai’s head. Not him. Not yet.

"I’m still here."

His forehead pressed forward until it hovered just inches from Dazai’s.

"And if you’re so fucking tired of wasting time on my broken heart?" Chuuya’s teeth bared.

"Then stop breaking it."

Dazai just stood there, breathing in the smoke from the fire he’d lit.

Then, slow and deliberate, he reached into the front pocket of his hoodie. Fingers wrapped around plastic—crinkled cellophane, cheap and loud. He pulled it out and shoved it at Chuuya’s chest.

Gloves. Black leather. Slim fit. Still wrapped like they’d just come off some convenience store rack at midnight.

"Put them on," Dazai said, voice all static and silk. "They’ll help."

He didn’t elaborate.

Didn’t tell him how long he’d stood staring at a beaded bracelet in a store window, wondering if pain counted as a form of intimacy.

Didn’t explain how, at the end of it all, he’d bought these instead—because he couldn’t wear the memory, but maybe Chuuya could wear control.

Instead, he turned, that near-forehead-touch tension sparking between them again, lips ghosting the air like maybe he was about to say something real.

But he didn’t.

He pulled back with a crooked smile.

"You only kick in fights," he said. "Let’s keep it that way."

Chuuya's eyes went wide. Struck a nerve. Perfect.

“They’re the line in the sand you draw every day. The reminder that restraint isn’t weakness—it’s will.”

He nodded at them, something burning low in his gaze. It wasn’t pity. Never that.

“I watched you hold back,” he said, quieter now. “In the lab. Even drugged. Even bleeding. You still chose not to destroy me.”

He stepped back.

“You don’t need a god to choose that. Just a soul.”

Chuuya didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

Dazai’s voice dropped to something low and wicked.

“So put them on. And only take them off when it’s time to end the world.”

Pause. A beat too long.

“And if that darkness swallows you whole,” he added, barely above a whisper, “I’ll drag you back. I always fucking will.”

It wasn’t romantic. It was a threat.

And Chuuya could see it now, could feel it—he wasn’t just being reined in.

He was being believed in.

Chuuya nodded at the gloves, knew he was playing with fire. Knew he'd burn. Didn't care.

"You bastard."

Chuuya's fingers traced the soft leather.

"Still seeing right through me."

He looked up, searching that perfect mask for cracks. For answers. For anything real.

"What's your game, Dazai? Break me apart just to stitch me back together? What the fuck do you want?"

But Dazai stood silent. Beautiful and empty as a grave.

And it infuriated him. No manipulation, no cruel smirk, no bait. Just Dazai watching like Chuuya was an eclipse he couldn’t stop looking at.

"God fucking dammit."

Chuuya's hand found his hair, pulled until it hurt.

"Why can't I just..."

Leave. Run. Stop wanting.

Dazai gazed at his broken toy, seeing fractured stained glass, a variation of the truth between them now.

In the cracks he'd made, something was shining through. It was humanity. Raw and furious and fucking unkillable.

Something Dazai couldn’t replicate. Couldn’t destroy. And it terrified him.

Like maybe, just maybe, this wasn't all part of the plan.

Dazai couldn't find the words. He didn't know how to talk about feelings he wasn't supposed to have, how to fix what he enjoyed broken.

All that came out was a whisper, so quiet it might have just been the wind.

"I would love you, if I knew what love was. If I wasn't so fucking broken myself."

The wind relinquished and Dazai was back, mask firmly in place, tilting his head, regarding Chuuya with an inscrutable expression.

"Come now, don't be melodramatic.”

His voice came out steady.

Cold. Safe.

"They're just gloves. A logical solution for an illogical problem."

He waved them off like trash. As if the gesture hadn’t meant anything. As if he hadn’t picked them out with shaking hands and a mouth full of blood.

"No need to get all weepy over a little present. Honestly, your mood swings are exhausting..."

But the words died on his tongue when he looked up.

Chuuya wasn’t glaring. He was staring.

Glass-eyed. Hollow. Trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will.

And for once, Dazai’s wit didn’t come to the rescue. No quip. No joke. Just a flicker of something too human in his throat.

He exhaled. Slow. Heavy.

“You want us to understand each other,” he said, more to the floor than to Chuuya. “But we both know I'm more monster than man, Chuuya."

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers dragging against his scalp like he needed to feel something.

“Always have been. I do what I do because it’s all I’ve ever known. I destroy. That’s my nature.”

He didn’t meet Chuuya’s eyes now. Couldn’t.

“Don’t expect me to grow a heart just because you gave me yours.”

Then he turned—fast—and walked toward the door like it was the only thing left he could control.

At the threshold, he hesitated.

Chuuya’s voice cut through the silence.

“I hate you.”

But it didn’t land the way it was supposed to. There was no venom. No steel.

Just ache.

Dazai looked back over his shoulder. His smile was sad, genuine in a way it rarely was.

"I know," he replied softly. "I'd be disappointed if you didn't."

The door clicked shut behind him.

Chuuya stared at it for a long time. Like if he blinked, Dazai might vanish completely.

Outside, Dazai leaned against the wall, head tipped back, eyes burning.

“I hate me too,” he whispered to the hallway.

He picked off a broken shard stuck on his sweater and ran his finger along its jagged edge.

And then he laughed.

Because the only thing worse than being hated by Chuuya was being loved by him.

Chapter Text

Time passed. A wound scabbed over. Chuuya’s birthday came and went, seventeen candles that only Kouyou remembered to light. She poured him some expensive wine he wasn’t old enough for, but neither of them mentioned that. They drank in silence, the way people do at funerals.

And when she kissed his temple and whispered "I’m proud of you," he almost believed it.

Meanwhile, Dazai was “away on a case.” (Really, he was spiraling, but Chuuya didn’t need to know that.) Perfect excuse—murder and drugs, the kind of darkness everyone expected him to chase.

Chuuya didn’t ask where Dazai went. Didn’t ask why he stopped showing up.

Because he already knew.

Instead, Chuuya found little pieces of himself in unexpected places.

A cracked ceramic mug, chipped at the rim. He refused to throw it out. Said it drank better than any of the new ones, even though it always burned his lip.

There were flowers again. Not whole bouquets. Just stems. Just petals. Tucked into sleeves when no one was looking. Pressed between books. Crushed in the pockets of his jacket until they bled color into the lining.

He didn’t see it as collecting beauty.

He was just testing if he could still recognize it.

Some mornings, he’d button his shirt wrong on purpose. Left the collar crooked. Wore his boots unlaced, because he liked the noise they made when they hit the floor.

There was a pair of sunglasses he never wore. Kept them in a drawer anyway. They reminded him of sunlight he didn’t trust.

His hair grew longer, started to curl like it had a mind of its own. He tied it back most days, but those stubborn strands still escaped to frame his face.

Sleep came in fits, in splinters. Most nights, Chuuya didn’t make it past two hours before the darkness dragged him back under.

And when it did—he was home. Not his room at the PM. But that house. The one with empty walls and rooms that smelled of bleach and burnt metal.

He remembered the basement most. Cold cement floor. No windows. Just a narrow lightbulb that flickered when the air conditioner kicked on.

And him.

A boy with his face.

They never spoke loudly, always in whispers, scared the house might wake up. Chuuya used to sneak him things—cookies, picture books, bandages. He didn’t even remember how it started. Just that one day, the other boy was there. Sitting on the floor. Waiting.

He remembered the grip of that small, bruised hand around his wrist. The warmth of it. The pressure, like don’t let go. So he didn’t.

They used to tap through the floorboards when Father locked him in bed after an injection. One-two, one-two-three. Their secret language.

Still here. Still here. Still here.

He thought it was a dream once. A coping mechanism. But the knocks still echoed in his bones when he woke.

"If I’m the only one who sees him, does that make me the lie?" Little Chuuya had asked his Father later, hands still stained red beneath his nails, voice hollow as the space his Brother left behind.

Father wouldn’t look up right away. Just kept writing notes in a file that didn’t have Chuuya’s name on it. He always did that—kept his attention somewhere else, like if he stared too long, the boy might disappear.

"No, Chuuya." Flat. "It makes you the control group."

His pen didn’t pause. His tone didn’t change.

"Now wash your hands before dinner. You’re tracking blood across the floor."

And that was it.

And now, much later, when the nightmares returned and the mirrors still lingered, Chuuya realized that had always been the real answer. He wasn’t the lie. He was the experiment.

And then the memory of wishing on stars came back to him one night. Quietly. Desperately.

A habit that came from kids with nowhere else to put their hope.

Even after his father said stars were just dead things—light that lied, still burning in the sky long after the fire was gone—Chuuya still looked up.

Because the knocks from under the floorboards had stopped. Because his brother’s laugh wasn’t echoing in the vents anymore. Because the basement was empty, and his chest was too.

And he needed something—anything—to answer back.

So he wished on corpses in the sky. On ghosts too far away to haunt him properly. He whispered things like—if he was real, blink twice. If I’m not a mistake, show me.

No star ever blinked. But he kept wishing anyway. Because he figured if stars could still shine after death, maybe boys could too.

These days, Chuuya asked that question in the dark, but never out loud. Never to Kouyou. Never to Mori. That door had closed the day Mori said you’re mine now, and stamped him with numbers instead of answers.

He traced the serial code on his neck in the mirror, touched it through fabric when no one was watching. One day, without thinking, he walked into a store and bought a choker.

Black. Simple. Soft leather.

Something about covering the numbers felt important—ritualistic. He wore it even when alone. Especially when alone.

He didn’t want to be reminded of what he was. Not anymore.

It didn’t make the nightmares stop. But it helped him breathe.

Chuuya still researched in secret. Symbols. Coordinates. Archived land deeds and abandoned sites. But every search came up empty. Like someone scrubbed the world clean of wherever he came from.

He told himself he needed to stop hoping someone else would tell him who he was.

From now on, he would choose. If the world wouldn’t give him truth, he’d write his own.

He’d decide what it meant to be human.

He’d become someone new, someone who might survive what Dazai did to him.

The Young Bloods were Mori’s eyes. Chuuya knew that. But they gave him something he needed—normalcy.

Pizza grease on fingers, chalk dust from pool cues, horror movies at 3 AM. They talked about girls (never mentioning how blue eyes sometimes drifted to the door, like he was waiting for someone who wouldn’t come). They argued about soccer stats. They made him feel seventeen instead of ancient.

But there were cracks too. The way he sometimes caught his reflection and didn’t recognize himself. The way certain songs made him reach for cigarettes or how he wore his gloves as armor, even when the only fight was inside his own ribcage.

After what happened at the lab, the PM kept him on a short leash. House duty. Controlled environments. Nothing that required fists or blood or too much power at once.

He never made it to the funeral for the eighteen men who died because of him. While they were lowered into the ground, he was still half-dead in a hospital bed, machines breathing for him.

But he made sure every one of their families received something—quiet deposits into accounts, tuition paid, mortgages erased. No note. No explanation. Just a transfer of blood money, scrubbed clean and anonymous.

It wasn’t forgiveness. He didn’t want that. It was penance. A way to balance the scale with whatever small weights he could find.

And maybe, somewhere in the static, that counted for something.

As the days passed, they gave him gems to keep him tame. Like throwing scraps to a wounded wolf—here, stay busy, stay safe. Don't think about how your bones still ache when it rains.

Chuuya wanted to hate it. Wanted to rage against being caged in HQ with paperwork and profit margins. But something strange happened between the ledgers and the loot.

He got good. Then he got brilliant.

His mind cut sharper than the diamonds he traded. He learned to read stones like others read souls, finding stories in their flaws, profit in their clarity.

Money flowed. Power grew.

The Port Mafia's executives started watching him with new eyes, wondering if maybe they'd underestimated this boy who could turn rocks into empires.

Dazai spent his nights bathed in surveillance screens' glow. Different angles of Chuuya's new life without him.

Ten p.m. found him rewinding the same footage. Chuuya at the pool table, stretching for a shot. His shirt rode up, showing new muscle, new scars Dazai hadn't given him.

Pause. Rewind. Play. Pause again.

Dazai's fingers found fresh cuts under bandages. Blood helped him focus.

Chuuya's wounds were healing clean. Dazai's... weren't meant to.

Not when his mouth went dry watching Chuuya tie back his hair or when his hands shook wanting to trace those changes he could only watch through screens.

One a.m. Different cocktail. More pills, different colors. Planning the perfect suicide, except he wasn't trying to die anymore. Just trying to fill the void that grew every time he saw Chuuya smile at someone else.

Sometimes he'd fantasize—grabbing Chuuya, running away. Taking him somewhere beautiful. Venice maybe, or Paris. Somewhere they could overdose together in silk sheets, far from the Mafia's reach.

At least then Chuuya would be his again. Even if just for a moment.

Four a.m. found him on the bathroom floor. Blood smeared on his hands, someone else's teeth marks on his knuckles. Music from underground clubs still pounding in his skull, or maybe that was just his heart trying to break free.

His gun felt heavy. Familiar. Safety off, barrel cold against his temple. Imagined his blood looking pretty on these white tiles Chuuya would have to walk past when they found his body.

Imagined those summer eyes finding his corpse… pale and cold and finally, finally quiet.

Would Chuuya understand then? When he saw Dazai's brains decorating his favorite shirt? When he realized exactly what he did to Dazai's mind?

Dazai’s thumb hovered over the play button. His breath was shallow, erratic. The camera feed flickered—Chuuya’s bedroom, dim, still, a tomb.

The boy was curled under a mess of blankets, hair spilling across the pillow in soft red waves. One bare arm stretched above his head. The other rested low on his abdomen, fingers twitching like he was chasing something in his dream.

Dazai leaned in. Zoomed.

There. The gloves discarded on the nightstand. The black choker glinting in the low light. A bead of sweat slipping down Chuuya’s throat, catching in the hollow of his collarbone.

He dragged his nails down his own arm. His reward? Clarity.

Chuuya turned in his sleep, brows pinched, lips parting around a name Dazai couldn’t hear but could feel in his fucking bones. He mouthed it at the same time.

A twitch in the sheets. A shift in Chuuya’s breath. His thighs tensed. His hips stuttered.

Dazai went still.

He’d seen this before—could map the rhythm of Chuuya’s body the way sailors chart the stars. Knew what this dream was. Knew it wasn’t just pain. Not this time.

His fingers trembled.

Chuuya’s back arched slightly. His breath hitched. One hand fisted the pillow.

Dazai bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper.

He was going to hell. He was already there. Watching the boy he ruined find solace in the only place Dazai couldn’t touch—his dreams.

And still, Dazai stayed. Eyes devouring every flicker of movement, every sigh.

He whispered, voice so low it could’ve been the air itself, "Dream of me, baby."

And for a second, he swore Chuuya did.

Seven a.m. found him half-conscious on bathroom tiles again. Cold porcelain against his face while he watched Chuuya train through his phone.

"Just want to fuck him," Dazai muttered to the empty room.

Easier than admitting he missed Chuuya's laugh.

His chest felt hollow because something had carved out everything vital and replaced it with static. He scratched at it, nails leaving red trails. Needed to get inside. Needed to fix whatever was broken.

"Fuck you," he whispered to his reflection in the bloody tiles. "Fuck you for feeling this."

The blade slipped. Cut deeper than intended. Blood welled up black in the dim light.

Good.

He deserved this. Deserved worse.

Somewhere in the building, Chuuya existed, peaceful, happy. The thought made him slam his head back against the wall.

Again. Again. The pain bloomed soft petals behind his eyes.

What was this called, this thing eating him alive? This need to destroy and preserve, to break and heal, to—

He reached for the blade again.

Needed more.

Needed it to hurt enough to drown out Chuuya's voice in his head. Needed it to bleed enough to wash away the memory of gentle touches that weren't supposed to exist.

The blood kept flowing. The static kept growing. And somewhere between the cuts and the sleeping pills and the whiskey, Dazai stood.

Peeled the blood-soaked clothing away, winced as dried gore pulled at the torn flesh.

He leaned on the sink. Parallel gashes tracked up his arms, old boot-shaped bruises bloomed darkly across his ribs, and a raw ring of mottled and broken flesh circled his throat.

Tomorrow he'd be fine.

Because he would make Chuuya shiver as he watched all that interstellar dust form stars.

Dazai's nails raked the mirror, leaving twisted marks.

"No one else will ever know you as I have..."

His severed reflection mocked back silently as foreboding laughter bubbled up.

"You are mine, Chuuya... now and always..."

The wretched sound reverberated off the sterile tiles, scattering his last shreds of sanity.

"Rest well, my little arsonist. Enjoy your illusion of safety while it lasts. Because when I come for you—and I will come for you—there’ll be nowhere left."

When Dazai wasn’t self-destructing, he spent his days either commanding drug empires or destroying them. Anything dangerous enough to feel like dying without the commitment.

His team knew better than to ask questions. About the injuries or the screams behind closed doors. Especially not why no one from Chuuya’s little circle ever came back quite the same after crossing paths with Dazai’s underlings.

That wasn’t coincidence. That was rage, redirected.

They laughed too loud. Got too comfortable. Touched him like they forgot.

That Chuuya already belonged to someone.

Dazai never touched them himself. But his orders were always razor-clean. Punishments left just enough behind to live with.

He told himself it wasn’t about Chuuya. That the jealousy wasn’t personal.

But then, he’d see those videos again—Chuuya sitting too close to that Tachihara kid, their knees brushing. Slapping his arm when he made a joke. Biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

And laughing anyway.

Worse—worse—was the way he leaned his head back, exposing his throat like he wasn’t made for killing. Pretending he could ever be that unguarded with someone who wasn’t Dazai.

Or the way he spun a knife on the table absently, faking at being a boy with no blood on his hands, while the others passed drinks and candy and fucking birthday cards.

They gave him things.

He let them touch him.

Dazai’s screen cracked from the pressure of his own fingers clenching the remote.

He didn’t even realize he’d dug his nails into his palm until blood dripped between the bandages.

Chuuya had always been tactile. But never soft. Not with strangers.

He poured a drink. It didn’t help. Took a pill. Didn’t feel it. Opened his mouth to laugh, but it sounded too much like a scream, so he swallowed it whole.

And watched again.

Because if he couldn’t have him, he could at least memorize the moment his replacement started to fit.

Dazai’s future came wrapped in barbed wire. Suits sharp enough to distract from the bleeding underneath. That new executive pin he wore? Bought with corpses.

He expected Chuuya to storm into his new office the moment it was announced. Slam a door. Scream something stupid and childish and perfect.

But he didn’t.

Didn’t show up. Didn’t call.

Didn’t care?

Dazai pressed a cold cloth to his cheek where a trainee’s blade had caught him. He hadn’t ducked. Didn’t want to.

Speaking of blood, he should check on his newest toy. Akutagawa had taken last night's "training" particularly badly. Poor thing still thought approval could be earned through pain. Still tried so hard to be worth something.

Like Chuuya used to.

His phone lit up.

Mori.

Oda.

Ignored them both.

Oda would just try to save what was left of his soul, and Mori...

Mori could wait until Dazai put his masks back on. Until he looked less like something death had spit back out.

Cold water on his face. Fresh suit hiding fresh wounds. Time to go play Port Mafia's demon prodigy again.

His phone buzzed with another text from Oda. Probably saw him at that bar last night, throwing himself at anything that might hurt enough to matter.

Delete.

For Dazai, the rest of the year was rot.

He stopped watching the cameras when it started to hurt too much.

Then he started again. And again.

He saw Chuuya in boardrooms now. Chuuya at charity events, shaking hands with people he used to choke out in back alleys. Chuuya smiling in photos with that same fucked up glint in his eye like he’d gotten even prettier just to spite him.

It made Dazai want to crawl out of his skin. Or into it. Whichever would hurt more.

Executive life was boring. Too clean and political. Mori’s leash was long, but Dazai still felt the choke. He was given more power than he ever wanted, and less freedom than he ever needed. He bled in private now. Bled often.

He told himself it was fine. He had bigger plans. Plans that required patience, that started with silence.

He told himself he’d stay away until Chuuya was strong enough to choose him again.

Or strong enough to kill him.

Either way, he’d win.

Another year.

Slow. Heavy. Suffocating.

Chuuya had his own empire now.

Made it look easy. Made it look clean.

And the gloves stayed on. Always on. Even in summer heat. Even during sparring. Dazai's mark, whether Chuuya admitted it or not.

He was doing fine, better than fine. Running his own operations, making money faster than he could spend it.

Somewhere in that year, Dazai got promoted.

Executive.

Before him.

That bastard.

No official announcement. No grand meeting. Just murmurs through the halls and suddenly, “Executive Dazai” slipping off tongues like it had always been that way.

Chuuya half-expected him to show up with champagne and a smug fucking smirk, maybe lean in close and whisper something cruel in celebration—you always were second place.

But he didn’t.

In fact, Dazai didn’t show up at all.

He wasn’t at HQ anymore. Not really. Just a ghost in the corner of a conference room. A name on a roster. A whisper in the elevator. One of Mori’s shadows that moved in and out without echo.

And maybe that was worse than any gloat.

Because for all of Chuuya’s strength, for all the power he’d grown into, there was still a piece of him—small, stupid, human—that kept listening for Dazai’s footsteps.

But they never came.

The hallway lights flickered overhead, buzzing with that low, shitty hum Chuuya always associated with hospitals and hell.

He was coming back from a late training review—boots scuffed, gloves still on, dried blood on the sleeve of his coat that wasn’t his but felt like it could’ve been.

Oda was leaning against the wall by the vending machine, flipping through a book with dog-eared pages. No cigarette in hand this time, but Chuuya could smell the ghost of it on his collar.

They nodded at the same time. One of those quiet mafia courtesies. Just acknowledgment from one soldier to another.

“You’ve been working late,” Oda said, eyes still on the page.

“Better than thinking,” Chuuya replied.

Oda hummed, noncommittal. “People who only work to forget usually end up remembering twice as hard.”

Chuuya didn’t answer. Just shifted his weight from one boot to the other.

Oda looked up finally, those calm eyes too damn knowing. “You used to smile more.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve.

“Yeah, well,” Chuuya muttered, stuffing his hands deeper into his coat, “I used to be a lot of things.”

Oda didn’t push. Just nodded once more and held up the book. “This one ends with the main character choosing silence over revenge.”

Chuuya’s lip curled. “Sounds boring.”

Oda’s smile was faint. “It’s not.”

Chuuya walked past him, shoulders stiff, boots echoing loud on the tile.

He didn’t look back.

But then the itch under his skin started.

His fuse got shorter. Started fights with the Young Bloods over nothing. Broke Piano Man's nose last week just because he breathed wrong.

They learned to watch his eyes for storm warnings.

Seemed like all Dazai's careful violence had settled in his bones. Now peace felt wrong.

Everything was too fucking loud but not loud enough.

And wasn't that just perfect?

Because then the office was too quiet again.

Chuuya tapped the edge of the clipboard against his thigh, then gave up and chewed on the end of his pen cap instead—deep bite marks already etched into the plastic. The room smelled faintly of ink, sweat, and the cheap cologne someone on the Young Bloods insisted on wearing. The desk was a mess. He liked it that way. Let the chaos breathe.

He was supposed to be reviewing security transfers. Instead, he was watching a crack in the ceiling, jaw tight, pen cap working between his teeth.

“You’re chewing again,” came a voice from the door.

Chuuya didn’t look up. “Bite me.”

Tachihara walked in anyway, holding two mugs. “I’d rather not lose a hand.”

The coffee was too sweet, just the way Chuuya didn’t ask for it. He took it anyway.

Sometimes they sat like this in silence—Chuuya hunched over forms he didn’t give a shit about, Tachihara watching him out of the corner of his eye, a storm he was still learning to predict.

“You broke Albatross’s rib yesterday,” Tachihara said eventually.

“He cheated at cards.”

Tachihara didn’t argue. Just leaned back in the chair across from him and stretched. “You ever gonna tell me what’s eating you?”

Chuuya didn’t answer. Just chewed. Harder this time.

The birthday party should've helped. His guys tried—beer, cake, some stupid piñata that lasted exactly two seconds before Albatross got trigger happy. Everyone laughed.

Chuuya didn’t.

The noise felt heavy. The laughter grated. His head pounded with withdrawal.

He could feel sweat gathering between his shoulder blades and under his gloves, sticking to memories. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. He doubted it even made it past his teeth.

He left early. Slipped out the side door with his jacket slung over one shoulder. No one stopped him.

He didn’t go home.

Didn’t know where home was for a long time.

Instead, he walked. The streets were wet, not from the rain, just from being unloved too long.

He passed the river. Kept going until he passed the noodle stall he used to drag the Sheep to when they had money to burn and nothing to prove. Then he passed the alley where he punched his first tooth loose, followed by the storefront window with the tacky bracelets.

The ones Dazai hadn’t bought.

His headphones went in. Static. Then guitar. Then that voice—the one that always gutted him open and left the pieces trembling.

A song about drowning. About limbs that ached when they were already gone. About ghosts pretending to be boys pretending to be monsters pretending to be men.

And wasn’t that him?

Wasn’t that both of them?

Chuuya’s fists curled. He pressed the volume higher. Let it hurt.

He kept walking, and the city didn’t shiver. Yokohama never did. It just let you rot quietly between neon signs and sewer steam.

He stopped in front of a closed café. His reflection looked back at him through the dark glass. Hollow-eyed. A black choker around his throat, half-covered by his jacket.

There was a serial number under it.

There was a boy under it.

He just didn’t know which one he was tonight.

🎵 Who will I be when the empire falls? 🎵

He kept walking. Music louder. Lights brighter. Everything fake and too much. He liked it that way. Better to be overstimulated than feel nothing.

Kouyou had kissed his hair this morning.

The Young Bloods had bought him that shitty chocolate cake and thrown beer cans at each other in his honor.

Tachihara had even slipped a scratched-up lighter into his pocket, muttering something about bad luck and better beginnings.

They remembered.

They showed up.

They tried.

And it still wasn’t enough.

Somewhere in his pocket was the lighter. He didn’t use it. Just held it. Something about fire you don’t start. About wishes you don’t make anymore.

He took a breath at the bridge where the river curved black and slow. Leaned over the rail. Looked down.

Couldn’t see the bottom.

Didn’t try to.

🎵 Come up for air and choke on it all. 🎵

He stopped walking.

Sat on the curb like a kid. Gave in and lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. The smoke curled around his face. He didn’t cry.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his chest. Hard. Hoping pressure might fix the crack that had lived there since the lab. Since the kiss and the betrayal and the breaking and all the words that should’ve been but weren’t.

🎵 Wake up alone and I’ll be forgotten. 🎵

“Fuck,” he whispered. Then again, louder.

“Fuck.”

Then he laughed. Because what else do you do when you realize the worst part of your self-fulfilling prophecy is that it was never just a fear?

It was a fact.

Chuuya Nakahara, eighteen now, alone on a bridge, was already half-forgotten.

“I tried, you bastard,” he muttered to the street. “I tried so fucking hard not to miss you.”

A ping.

His phone lit up.

Not Dazai.

Just some idiot from HQ. Inventory update. Asset relocation. Shit that didn’t matter.

But his heart had leapt.

And now it sank.

This year, he thought maybe—just maybe—Dazai would text. Not much. A stupid emoji. A one-liner. A birthday wish that proved Chuuya still existed in his phone, if not his life.

He exhaled through his nose, tasted ash.

Thought of the rooftop and Dazai’s stupid couch. Of Dazai’s mouth, of the kiss that wasn’t a kiss. Of everything stolen beneath blood and sedation.

He pressed his knuckles to his lips.

“You should’ve kissed me when I was sober,” he whispered.

Cold wind slid down his collar.

“You should’ve meant it when I said yes.”

The stars were out tonight.

Those fucking dead things in a black sky.

Light that lied.

“But I guess that’s what I get,” he whispered. “For saving my first kiss for a fucking ghost.”

He looked up anyway.

Whole civilizations built on faith in that dead light, on prayers whispered to cosmic graves.

He wondered if God laughed at that—humans navigating their lives by the corpses of buried suns, making wishes on interstellar dust that burned out eons ago.

Dazai had been his North Star. His fixed point.

He’d never thought to question what happens when your constellations collapse.

His birthday wish this year was for someone to be there, just once more, to tell him why peace felt like dying.

It came as a simple knock at his door.

Chuuya didn’t answer right away. He was barefoot, shirt half-buttoned, half-empty bottle of wine on the windowsill. The city outside glared brightly. The room inside felt quiet.

He opened the door with a scowl already forming—expecting Kouyou maybe. Or worse, someone from HQ asking for another report.

But Oda stood there, looking at Chuuya like he could see all ways he wasn't healing right.

"Heard it was your birthday." His tone carried weight, like always. "Brought you something."

Chuuya blinked. The door hesitated on its hinges. It had only known three sets of hands: his own, Kouyou’s soft ones, and Dazai’s—who never knocked. Now it creaked open for a fourth, unsure.

Oda stood there with a box from that fancy bakery Chuuya pretended not to love. The one where he used to spend his first real paychecks, back when sugar wasn't a luxury that made his teeth ache with memory.

Something in his chest cracked seeing it. Soft things felt dangerous these days.

"You look like hell warmed over," Oda said, those kind eyes seeing too much. "When’s the last time you actually ate something with a fork?”

That earned a breath that could’ve been a laugh or a sob if it tried a little harder.

Chuuya stepped aside.

His kitchen felt foreign with someone else in it. He moved through motions he'd never needed before—plates, forks, napkins arranged like some kid playing at normal. His fingers found the good china, the stuff he bought to prove he wasn't street trash anymore.

He tried to focus on the simple motions. Knife sliding through frosting. Plate catching crumbs.

The cake smelled so sweet. Clean. Everything he wasn't anymore.

The frosting clung to his glove, sticky and pristine, it was fucking mocking him.

For one damn second, he wanted to tear the glove off. To scrub the sweetness off his skin before it soaked into the cracks Dazai left behind.

Instead, he set the knife down too hard and said nothing. Let the sugar coat his tongue, let the sickness settle in his chest.

Because some parts of you get so used to blood, you don’t know how to taste anything else.

Oda’s eyes drifted around the apartment, reading the spaces Chuuya didn’t speak from.

Takeout containers crammed near the trash, some still unopened, expiration dates curled and yellowing.

The kind of loneliness you didn’t post about, but stained the air anyway.

"Heard they made bets."

Careful, testing.

"On which of you made executive first."

Something in Chuuya's chest went tight. Cold. His fingers found the cake fork, gripped it as a weapon.

"That so."

“I didn’t bet,” Oda added.

“Why not?”

“Didn’t feel fair. You’re both bleeding.”

That silenced the room.

Chuuya exhaled slow, jaw twitching. He wanted to break something. Then felt like he already had. His eyes flicked down to the gloves still on his hands. Still there. Always there.

“I heard he’s not at HQ anymore,” Oda said softly.

“Nope.” Chuuya’s voice was steel wool. “Off somewhere playing martyr. Or god. Who knows.”

“He looks like hell.”

“Good.”

Oda let that hang. Then,

“Doesn’t mean you do too.”

Chuuya didn’t answer. Just dragged his hand through his hair—long, tied at the nape, but falling loose. He looked tired in the way old statues look tired. Weathered, but still standing. Still cracking.

“I’ve got friends now,” he muttered.

“I know.”

“They care.”

“I know.”

“I don’t miss him.”

“That’s a lie.”

Chuuya stared at the wall. At the gloves. At the cake. At anything but Oda’s face.

“I wanted him to text,” he said, finally. Voice brittle. “Even just something stupid. Something small.”

Oda didn’t move. Just waited.

“And the worst part?” Chuuya laughed once, dry. “Part of me thought he would.”

There was a silence.

Then, soft as dusk,

“You’re allowed to want soft things, Chuuya.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

Another silence. This one meaner.

“He ruined soft,” Chuuya said. “Made it dangerous and look like a trap.”

He pressed his hand to his chest again. Over the choker, that place that still burned.

“I don’t know who I am without that anger.”

“You’re allowed not to know.”

The light outside dimmed a little more. Chuuya leaned back in his chair, throat tight.

“I’m still wearing the fucking gloves,” he said. “Isn’t that pathetic?”

“No,” Oda said. “It’s human.”

And for a second, Chuuya almost believed it.

Almost.

The cake sat forgotten.

The kettle screamed. Chuuya's hands shook pouring tea, his body remembered other things that used to shake loose in quiet moments.

The tea cooled between them.

“He always needed something bigger than the hole inside him,” Oda said. “At first, he thought it could be power. Then death. Then anything that hurt enough to be real.”

Chuuya's hands found the rim of his teacup.

“He used to talk about Icarus,” Oda continued, voice low. “Flying too close. Falling too fast.”

The empty space where his body should’ve hit concrete. The way Chuuya caught him anyway.

Even then, Dazai had been testing the fall.

“He doesn’t even know he’s the fucking fire,” Chuuya said. His voice cracked. “He thinks he’s the one getting burned. But he’s the one doing it. Burning everyone who ever got close enough to try—”

He broke off.

Oda didn’t fill the silence. Didn’t offer comfort. He just waited.

Chuuya dug his nails into his palm until the leather creaked.

“I caught him,” he said.

Quiet. Raw.

“I caught him and he still—”

Still chose the fall. Still chose everything but him.

“He wants it,” Chuuya said. “The pain. The breaking. He wants it more than he ever wanted me.”

The words tore their way out like shrapnel.

Oda’s gaze stayed steady.

“Maybe,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean you have to fall with him.”

The words kept festering, too big to swallow.

Chuuya slammed his fist against the table, rattling the teacups.

“Why the fuck do you even defend him?” he snapped, voice shaking. “After everything he’s done. After the shit he’s pulled. Are you even his friend or just another idiot too blind to see the fucking wreckage?”

“Friends aren’t people who approve of everything you do,” he said quietly. “They’re the ones who know the worst parts of you—and stay anyway.”

Chuuya’s breath caught. For a second, he hated Oda with a venom so strong it scared him.

“Stay?” he spat. “After he ruins everything he touches?”

Oda’s eyes, calm and sea-deep, didn’t waver.

“Especially then.”

The silence that fell was anything but empty.

“I don’t excuse him,” Oda said, voice low. “I don’t justify him. I see him. That’s all.”

Chuuya pressed his fists into his thighs hard enough to bruise.

“You don’t know what he—”

“I do.”

Oda’s voice cracked, just a little, to bleed truth.

“I know exactly what he did to you. What he does to everyone who loves him.”

He picked up his teacup, cradled it between steady hands.

“But if you only stay for the parts of someone you can forgive,” he said, “then you don’t really love them. You just love the easy parts.”

Chuuya's eyes went soft for a second.

He just sat there, breathing through his teeth, his chest cracked open and hollow, the old rage guttering out into something worse.

Oda watched him, quiet as always.

“You know,” Oda said after a long time, setting his empty cup down with a soft clink, “the North Star isn’t the brightest star in the sky.”

Chuuya blinked at him, dazed. “What?”

“It’s not even close,” Oda said simply. “But people used it to find their way for centuries. Because it stayed still. Because even when everything else spun out, it didn’t.”

Chuuya swallowed. Hard.

“And maybe,” Oda continued, voice low and certain, “maybe that’s what Dazai was for you. Once.”

Chuuya’s throat burned. His hands twisted in his lap.

“But stars lie,” he rasped, hating how broken he sounded. “They’re dead. Just ghosts we follow because we’re too fucking desperate to see the dark.”

Oda shook his head, slow and sad.

“They don’t lie,” he said. “They just shine in a different time.”

Chuuya’s vision blurred. He didn’t know if it was from anger, or grief, or just the slow bleed of things he couldn’t hold together anymore.

“Maybe love’s the same,” Oda said, softer now. “Maybe the paths it lights aren’t straight. Maybe they collapse. Burn out. Get swallowed by the dark. But it doesn’t mean they were false.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, meeting Chuuya’s shattered gaze.

“You think you need a compass that always points north. Something perfect. Fixed. But the real ones…” Oda smiled faintly. “The real ones pull you messy. They spin you off-course. They show you who you are by how hard you fight to stay.”

Silence clung to the room. Heavy. Sacred.

“You’re not lost because you followed him,” Oda said. “You’re lost because you’re still trying to walk straight in a world built on broken stars.”

Chuuya bowed his head, gloved hands pressed against his ribs like he could hold himself together by force.

“But you,” Oda said quietly, “you’re not some ghost following dead light.”

He reached out—just once—and tapped Chuuya’s chest, right over the frantic, wounded heart still beating there.

“You’re the thing that burns.”

The kettle clicked off in the background. The tea went cold. Neither of them moved.

And somewhere deep inside Chuuya Nakahara—

past the gloves and the choker and the broken birthday candles—

something ancient and furious and human remembered how to keep burning even when the sun was gone.

Chuuya sat there, cracked open and gasping for something he couldn’t name, and Oda—the only man who never raised his voice—just kept dismantling him without mercy.

“You know,” Oda said, “I don’t think you ever really saw it.”

“Saw what,” Chuuya croaked, fingers curling into his palms, heart thundering against bone.

Oda’s smile was soft. Pitying. Brutal.

“The way he looks at you.”

Chuuya flinched so hard the chair skidded under him. Oda didn’t let up.

“You think he was watching the world burn? No, Chuuya. He was watching you survive it.”

He leaned in closer, voice dropping to something so awful it felt holy.

“Every time you fought back. Every time you refused to break when Mori tried to tear you apart. Every time you bared your teeth and spat blood and still kept breathing.”

Oda’s voice lowered, softer, he was telling a confession meant for God alone.

“He wasn’t studying you for weakness, Chuuya. He was studying you for hope.”

Chuuya’s breath stuttered. His body locked up. His lungs forgot how to do their fucking job.

“You’re the only thing he’s afraid of losing,” Oda said simply. “Because you’re the only thing he ever believed he didn’t deserve.”

The words were scalpels. Cutting him open in places even Mori hadn’t reached.

“You want to know why he kissed you when you were bleeding?” Oda asked, and there was no cruelty in it—only devastation.

“Because he thought that was the last piece of you he’d ever get to keep.”

Silence detonated between them.

Chuuya stared ahead, every tendon strung tight enough to snap, every nerve flayed raw.

The truth, ugly and final, bloomed behind his ribs, black and wild.

Dazai hadn’t kissed him to break him.

He’d kissed him to memorize him.

Because he thought he was already losing him.

Because he thought he already had.

Chuuya shoved the chair back so hard it toppled over. His boots scraped against the floor. His mouth opened—some curse, some denial, but nothing came out.

Only breath. Only grief.

Oda just sat there. Unmoving. Unpitying.

“You think you’re the only one who bleeds when you’re apart?” he said, low.

Chuuya turned away before he could see the way his hands shook. Before he could see the way he broke.

“There’s something you should know,” Oda said, low and steady. “About Dazai.”

There was a weight to Oda’s voice that dragged Chuuya back to earth. He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed so tight it felt like splinting a wound.

“Mori sent him out weeks ago. Off-books. Something ugly. Dazai thought he could handle it alone.” Oda’s voice dropped. “I don’t think he’s coming back.”

Chuuya waited. Braced for the worst without even knowing it.

"One of my guys, someone who keeps tabs on some shady characters, reached out. These guys... they're not new. They've been watching the Port Mafia, biding their time. Especially watching Dazai."

Chuuya’s brows furrowed.

“So why didn’t you tell him?”

Oda hesitated.

“I tried to warn him but I couldn’t reach him, and by the time I pieced everything together, Dazai was already in deep.”

“What are you talking about?”

Chuuya’s voice was edged with frustration.

Sipping his tea for a moment, Oda set it down, composing his thoughts.

"They played him. Waited in the shadows 'til he was vulnerable. Made themselves look like small fry. Dazai, after all that shit with you two... he didn't see the real threat."

Chuuya clenched his fists.

"That's impossible. Dazai is too smart for that."

Oda looked him dead in the eye.

"Even the smartest guys fuck up when they're not thinking straight. Dazai's still just a kid dealing with things no kid should have to."

Chuuya's voice shook.

"So what? He just walked straight into their trap?"

"It seems that way," Oda replied. "The mafia’s surveillance caught some of his movements, but the tracks went cold.”

Chuuya turned away. The words hit him like a freight train, smashing what's left of his already battered heart.

"That arrogant waste of fuck!" Chuuya suddenly exploded, fury taking over for a second. "I fucking told him his reckless bullshit would get him in trouble one day. But does he listen? No, he just swans off on some half-assed mission, thinking he's so fucking smart."

Oda just sat there, taking Chuuya's outrage like a champ, waiting for him to run out of steam.

Chuuya scoffed derisively with a sharp, scathing gesture, as if flinging Dazai's perceived arrogance from him like foul water.

"Well congratulations, looks like he finally bit off more than he could chew. And now what, you’re telling me I'm supposed to pull his ass out of the fire? After everything he put me through?"

As Chuuya finally paused, chest heaving, Oda rose and stepped forward calmly to lay steadying hands on his shoulders.

“Not telling you anything,” Oda said. Calm. Unshakable. “I’m just telling you the truth.”

Chuuya pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, pushing the world out. Hoping he could push Dazai out.

“He’s a fucking idiot,” Chuuya said. “Always has been. Thinks he’s untouchable. Thinks dying’s some kind of game.”

Chuuya shrugged him off, ready to go off again. But Oda held up his hands, not backing down.

"Look, we can't just leave one of our own to get tortured, no matter how complicated shit is between you two," he said, earnest. "There's always another way. Help me figure this out."

Chuuya went completely, murderously still.

“He fucked me over,” he said. “He fucking wrecked me.”

“I know,” Oda said. “And if you walk away now, you’ll still be right.”

Silence stretched between them.

“But,” Oda added, voice almost kind, “you’ll never forgive yourself.”

Chuuya opened his mouth—to argue, to deny, to tear the whole fucking kitchen apart—but nothing came out.

Because deep down, he knew.

He would never stop checking doorways, checking rooftops. Never stop wondering if the empty spaces were empty because of him.

"Think about it, if you pull this off where Dazai couldn't, it'd show him who's really the boss. You've got all the power here."

Oda saw the flicker of reluctant interest kindle in Chuuya's glare.

"No, whatever shit he's in, it's his own damn fault..." he started, but then he trailed off, looking torn.

"Still, knowing that manipulative bastard Mori, he probably sent Dazai in blind just to see what would happen."

His eyes flashed dangerously.

"Even Dazai doesn't deserve whatever fucked-up shit they've got planned..."

Oda finished softly but firmly, "It's your call..."

He met Chuuya's storm of emotions with calm.

"But remember, being the bigger person can change things... being pissed off just makes everything worse."

Chuuya's face went hard again as he looked at Oda, his resolve pushing past the hurt. He knew Oda was right; the guy's always been the voice of reason.

Chuuya sagged back against the wall, every nerve screaming. But when he looked up, something inside him had already decided.

He couldn’t let Dazai disappear. Not when he still owed him a punch.

"Goddammit! Fine, tell me what you know."

But he wasn’t done being a brat just yet, jabbing a finger at Oda.

"But I'm not promising he'll be in one piece when I drag his sorry ass back!"

Oda just smiled sadly and nodded.

"I know, Chuuya. I know."

Oda’s hand was steady when it landed on his shoulder. Grounding him. Reminding him.

“Happy belated birthday, kid,” Oda said quietly. “Time to go bring your idiot home.”

Chapter Text

The mission was supposed to be simple. Slip into the nightclub, steal the artifact, slip back out again.

Easy. Quick.

Nothing that should have kept him away from watching Chuuya for more than a few hours.

And yet here he was. Tied to a moldy-ass wall, bleeding into his bandages, plotting exactly how many teeth he was going to knock out of someone’s skull once he got loose.

He ground his teeth against the headache blooming behind his eyes and ran his tongue over the inside of his mouth, trying to keep the metallic taste of blood and resentment down.

Beautiful work, really. A true professional.

He tilted his head back, smirking up at the cracked ceiling like it might be impressed.

It wasn’t.

It was Chuuya’s fault, obviously.

It was always Chuuya’s fault.

He was supposed to be safely sulking at HQ. Predictable. Easy to stalk from the comfort of a folding chair. Not—

Not leaning too close to strangers.

Or tilting his head under the camera lights like a fucking devil.

And definitely not laughing at jokes that weren’t even funny, goddammit.

Dazai hadn’t realized how much he hated seeing Chuuya through a screen until he couldn’t look away.

Couldn’t breathe right unless he knew where he was, what he was doing, who he was smiling at.

So yeah. Maybe his nerves were a little shot that night.

Perhaps his reflexes weren’t as sharp.

And it could’ve been that he hadn’t slept in… what, thirty-six hours?

Who fucking cared.

The job needed doing.

Chuuya needed protecting.

Even if Chuuya would shove a knife through Dazai’s ribs if he found out.

Because once he’d seen the pictures Akutagawa had sent—those shaky shots of doorknobs, mirrors, cheap furniture—all of it etched with the same fucking symbols Mori had flashed up on the projector two years ago.

Symbols that had been dug up from the ruins of Chuuya’s old home, that didn’t belong to this city, or this century, or maybe even this world.

And then the rumors—

The artifact. A nullifier.

Which was a fucking joke, because this wasn’t some cheap-ass lab field like the ones that cracked and fried every time Chuuya slipped the leash. Those had been designed for abilities.

Quirky little party tricks.

Chuuya wasn’t a party trick.

He was a cage with teeth.

This rumored artifact wasn’t meant to suppress. It was meant to sever. To hack the connection clean off at the root, leaving the vessel hollow, broken, nothing but a blood-warm corpse twitching at the end of a chain.

Full-blown amputation.

And Dazai knew—he knew—that Chuuya and Arahabaki weren’t two separate things.

Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

He knew because the first time he’d laid hands on him, bare skin to skin, nullifying Corruption—he’d felt it.

Felt the god stitched into the boy like sinew and veins. Fused on a level Mori and the others couldn’t even begin to understand.

You didn’t extract Arahabaki.

You didn’t “free” Chuuya.

You killed them both.

Separating them wouldn’t be like cutting a parasite from a host. It’d be like trying to rip the heart out of someone’s chest and expecting them to keep walking.

And the real kicker?

This supposed stupid fucking artifact used those same goddamn symbols. The ones made for breaking things like Chuuya.

No. Fuck that. Fuck that. Not happening.

Dazai laughed under his breath—low, cracked, miserable. The sound scraped his throat bloody.

Because he could pretend, if he really wanted to, that he was here to protect the mission. The asset. The precious value of Arahabaki.

He could tell himself a lot of things.

He usually did.

But the truth sat ugly and honest at the back of his throat. Because if anyone was going to destroy Chuuya—

it would be Dazai.

Not Mori.

Not these strangers.

Him. Or no one.

The ropes creaked as he shifted, blood hot and sticky against frayed bandages. His wrists screamed at him to sit still, be good—

he ignored them. Like always.

His head throbbed where they’d clocked him. No permanent damage. Just enough to slow him down.

The real damage had been done the second he’d paused outside that club last night, knuckles white on a shitty fake ID, trying not to puke at the thought of Chuuya laughing like that for someone else.

The real damage had been done years ago, in another life, when he’d looked into furious blue eyes and decided—yup. I’ll ruin this. I’ll ruin us both.

The real damage had a name, and it wasn’t “Arahabaki.”

The ropes groaned again as he sagged back against the wall.

Good job, idiot.

Next time, maybe try not falling in love with the fucking apocalypse.

The wall was damp against his back. Or it could have been the wounds leaking.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth and gagged on it.

Perfume.

Sweat.

Ambition.

It stank like the nightclub and what the world smelled like when Chuuya wasn’t where he was supposed to be.

The memory hit sour behind his eyes.

He’d looked… clean. Hot even. Dangerous.

A lie.

The worst kind.

Dazai pressed his forehead to the wall, breathing slow, but it didn’t help. It never fucking helped.

Don’t think about him. Don’t think about the way he smiled at that fucking barista. Or about the way he tucked his hair behind his ear like some common whore trying to get attention. Don’t—

His hands had already started to shake by the time he shoved the nightclub door open. Hard enough that the whole damn frame shuddered threatening collapse.

Inside, the air hit with heavy basslines shaking the floorboards, perfume and smoke coiling into something sticky sweet and poisonous.

Red light bled from behind cheap velvet curtains. In the corners, people writhed against each other in hungry, graceless knots. Nails scraping flesh, moans muffled by mouths, zippers half-undone.

The whole place was pulsing, breathing, feeding on its own filth.

It was hell.

And Dazai walked straight into it without a fucking plan because apparently being stupid for Chuuya was his brand now.

His jacket stuck to the small of his back, bandages damp under it. The heat didn’t help the ache in his skull. Or the buzz in his veins.

He hated this place. He hated how easily they all touched each other. How easily they smiled and took and wanted without consequence.

He hated that Chuuya could walk into a place like this and the whole world would try to eat him alive.

Dazai pushed deeper into the club, sliding through the crowd, ignoring the scraping hands that reached for him, or maybe he didn’t ignore them.

Maybe he wanted to be touched, punished for how badly he wanted to tear the whole world apart just to keep one boy safe.

His boots stuck to the floor with every step. He didn’t look left or right. Didn’t flinch when some girl with glitter caked on her thighs stumbled into his side, laughing, leaving a smear of lipstick across his coat sleeve.

A barstool caught him. He dropped onto it, breathing shallow, elbows loose, slouch calculated, and caught the bartender’s eye.

“Absinthe,” he said, voice bone-dry.

The bartender blinked at him. Dazai didn’t repeat himself.

Those symbols were here.

Etched into the floors. The door handles. The chandeliers. Their scent was stitched into the air.

Eventually, a glass slammed down—no sugar cube, no water, just a shot of neon poison stripped to its skeleton.

Good.

He tipped it back in one slow motion, let it burn a hole straight through his chest. If it clawed at the cuts inside him, well—maybe he’d still bleed green tomorrow morning.

He reached for his phone to check the time, counting seconds he didn’t have, always counting. Good. Enough time to order another—because why the fuck not, it’s not like anyone was here to save him—and then she slid into view.

Perched two stools down, masked, elegant, legs crossed.

Older than him. Maybe late twenties, maybe early thirties—hard to tell under the peacock mask, the makeup, the deliberate exhaustion.

Her gaze flicked down the bar to him.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to.

She slid closer.

Divorced twice, he decided.

Good shoes, bad taste in men.

Probably an office job that pays just enough to afford the dress but not the therapy.

The kind of woman who used to dream about living in Paris and now settles for Tuesdays at this pit.

He liked her immediately.

Or at least, he liked the story he could make out of her.

“You look lost, darling,” the woman said, voice syrup-slow, fingers grazing his arm. She thought she was touching something alive.

Her nails dragged up his sleeve.

Bold, this one.

Interesting.

Dazai didn’t even pretend to move away or bother to hide the smirk twisting lazy across his mouth.

“I'm exactly where I need to be.”

He turned back toward the bar and caught a flash of something in the mirror behind the rows of bottles.

Her wrist. Ink black and ugly against pale skin.

The woman sidled closer, her body a sinuous curve against the bar. Her thigh brushed his knee.

“Oh, come on,” she breathed. “You don’t look like the type to drink alone.”

Dazai tipped his head, studying her through half-lidded eyes. She was beautiful, sure. In the way rot is beautiful if you stare long enough.

He let the silence stretch long enough to make her shift her heels.

Finally, he smiled—slow and deliberate. The kind of smile that made better people run.

“And what type do you think I am?”

She chuckled, a tinkling sound that grated on his nerves. Her fingers toyed with the hem of his jacket, almost slipping under.

“The dangerous kind,” she said. “The kind a girl’s mother warns her about.”

Dazai laughed under his breath, short and broken.

“Good,” he murmured. “Your mother sounds smarter than you, kitten. Shame you didn’t inherit the brains.”

Before she could flinch, he caught her wrist—lightly, like testing the strength of a snare—and turned it in his hand as if checking for cracks.

His thumb brushed over the ink.

The symbol was wrong.

He looked her dead in the eye, smile never reaching his own.

“You’re shaking,” he said, soft enough that she leaned in without realizing it. “You sure you’re the one doing the hunting tonight?”

Not her first time playing bait.

Someone sent her.

Her pupils dilated. Her mouth parted.

“Careful, kitten,” he murmured, leaning in so close he could taste the cheap wine on her breath, the Chanel N°5 thick in her pores.

“You might get more than you bargained for.”

“More than I bargained for?” she echoed, voice catching, trying to keep it breathless and coy.

She wasn’t bad at this. Just not good enough.

“Darling,” she whispered, “that’s precisely what I’m hoping for.”

Dazai’s lips curved into that slow, warm, and indulgent smile.

Bzzzt.

The phone buzzed against his hip.

He let her wrist slide free, fingers trailing along her skin.

He didn’t make a show of checking it. Just a lazy flick of his wrist, screen tilted against the bar.

Akutagawa: Nakahara left HQ. Someone’s motorcycle. No helmet.

Dazai went very still.

The woman said something—something about the music, about his eyes, about fate.

He didn’t hear it.

He read the message again. And again.

He gritted his teeth so hard the muscles in his jaw spasmed.

Somewhere under the club floor, a pipe burst with a screech. He set the phone down.

Fine.

Fine.

It wasn’t like Chuuya ever fucking listened to orders anyway.

He dragged his gaze back to the woman.

Saw her. Really saw her.

Alone. Hungry for a story to tell herself in the morning. A perfect volunteer.

He reached out, fingers brushing the back of her hand. Her breath hitched.

There it was. That little spark.

He smiled at her again.

“Let’s go somewhere quieter,” he said.

Because no, he’s not fucking crazy.

Okay, fine. He’s crazy. That’s why he’s going to take her somewhere dark and tight and quiet—and figure out later if he wants to fuck her, kill her, or just listen to her choke on a prayer.

Either way, someone would bleed before morning.

And if he was lucky, maybe it wouldn’t be him.

He stepped in slow, deliberate, inevitable—pressing her back against the bar like he meant to drive her straight through it. The edge of the counter dug hard into her spine.

She gasped, heel skidding across the sticky floor as she tried to brace herself against the sudden crush of his body. She grabbed at the bar with one hand, knuckles whitening, anchoring herself like it would save her.

Obviously, it wouldn’t.

Dazai’s hand slid low over her waist, slow and possessive, fingers splaying wide over the soft curve of her hip, cataloguing parts he might not bother returning.

He leaned in closer, until his breath ghosted her temple, until her head tilted instinctively to expose her throat.

Submission. Stupid, fragile, useless.

Her pupils were blown wide, her mouth parting to say something meaningless.

He didn’t care what.

She wasn’t real.

Just heat and noise and something to put his hands on when the thing he wanted was slipping away on a stranger’s motorcycle.

Someone else’s hands on Chuuya’s skin.

Someone else driving too fast with his heart riding double.

Someone else stealing what was his.

He dragged his palm down over her hip, gripping harder, forcing her closer, until there was no air left between them—

until her balance shifted completely onto him, like she belonged nowhere else.

Her breathing hitched.

The little heel of her boot slipped on the sticky floor, a clumsy stumble she couldn’t fix with dignity.

He smiled down at her—lazy, cruel, half-lidded.

“There’s a private lounge upstairs,” she breathed, voice nearly swallowed by the pounding bassline. “Much more… intimate.”

Dazai raised a brow, lazy, amused.

“You want a monster, darling? Fine. I’ll wear the teeth for you.”

He could be anything they needed him to be. He’d been perfecting it his whole life.

“Lead the way,” he said, fingers trailing lower over her hip.

She shivered.

He followed her through the crowd, hand firm at her waist, guiding her like a leash.

Bodies pressed in from all sides, disgusting and desperate, but Dazai’s mind stayed crystalline.

The exits. The choke points. The broken rhythm of her steps.

When she faltered turning into a shadowed corridor—just once, just enough—he felt it.

“Something wrong, darling?” Dazai purred, low and intimate, his voice coiling around her.

“Not at all,” she said too fast, too sweet. “I just want to make sure we won’t be interrupted.”

Dazai stepped closer. Enclosing her.

“Oh?” he murmured, voice sugar-slow and full of knives. “And who exactly might interrupt us all the way out here?”

He let his knuckles brush her jaw.

Then he leaned in slow, inevitable, like he was going to kiss her. He felt her breath hitch against his mouth and the heat rolling off her body where her thighs parted instinctively under the slip of her dress.

He felt it all.

And felt nothing in return.

Not even disgust.

Just… absence.

Dazai’s hand slipped up her side, featherlight over her ribs, her throat—and then snapped fast and vicious over her mouth, cutting off whatever pathetic noise she tried to make.

Her eyes went wide.

He pressed in closer, pinning her between his body and the wall, covering her completely with the loose, lazy strength of a man who could break her in half without raising his voice.

Her hips ground against his in instinctive confusion, desperate for the friction he’d promised a second ago—

and Dazai didn’t even blink. He angled his head, brushing his mouth against the shell of her ear.

“You thought you were hunting,” he whispered, breath hot and even, “but you didn’t even smell the blood in the water.”

Outside the corridor, there was a shuffle.

A second.

A third.

Boots sliding quiet against the floors.

Surrounding.

Finally.

There it was.

The real game starting.

He smiled against her skin—

And tightened his grip just a little, until she whimpered into his palm.

The pieces were falling into place, the trap revealing itself. But who was really the prey here?

He sighed, long and theatrical, a teacher disappointed in a room full of idiots.

“Well, well. It seems I’ve become rather popular tonight. Why don’t you come out and introduce yourselves?”

The men hesitated before stepping into the open, forming a loose circle around him.

Dazai counted them. Eyed the weapons. Eyed the cheap boots and cheaper nerves.

One of them, a kid barely past sixteen, couldn’t hide it—that peculiar glint in his eyes, green and murky, moss trapped under dirty water.

Eager. Stupid. Disposable.

He recognized it immediately.

It was almost nostalgic.

“Caught in a bad spot, aren’t we?” their leader sneered, flashing teeth thinking he mattered.

Dazai chuckled under his breath, low and ugly.

“Bad for who, exactly?” he said, shifting his weight against the woman pinned under his hand. “You, me, or the guys about to scrub blood out of these floorboards?”

The younger one stepped forward, trying too hard to look brave.

“You won’t be leaving here alive, Dazai.”

Dazai arched a brow, unimpressed.

“Oh, threats. How original.” He let his voice drip bored mockery.

“Tell me, kid—what’s it feel like knowing you’re cannon fodder and still showing up to work on time?”

The boy stiffened, face tightening.

Dazai grinned.

“Yeah. Hits different when you realize loyalty’s a one-way street, huh?”

The leader shifted, scowling, clearly not enjoying the direction this was going.

Dazai laughed. Soft, hoarse, like it hurt.

And then the lights flickered once.

Twice.

Then snapped out completely, plunging them into thick, choking dark.

The men shifted, startled. A few muttered curses. The younger one’s breathing picked up.

Dazai smiled into the blackness.

Finally. Now they were in his world.

But in that moment, he felt the woman’s mouth—hot, desperate—clamp onto his hand.

She bit down hard, teeth sinking into the tender web between his thumb and knuckle.

Fucking hell.

What was it with people biting him these days?

Dazai yanked his hand back with a snarl, skin tearing.

The woman wrenched away, lost in the chaos as he moved on instinct—reaching for the small, dirty cylinder tucked inside his coat.

The smoke grenade clattered once against the floor—then hissed—belching thick, choking fog through the corridor.

He moved. Or tried to. His body lagged behind his mind—sluggish, drowning.

When was the last time he ate? Drank water? Breathed without bleeding somewhere?

The chemicals already in his system turned the smoke and dark into a wet, heavy wall. His boots scuffed uselessly against the sticky floor.

He heard them coming before he saw them—

the sharp shuffle of boots, the wet rasp of breathing.

The kid with moss-eyes, desperate and heavy-footed.

Dazai twisted, tried to slip past—but a sharp sting lanced into his thigh.

Bloomed cold, fast.

He stumbled.

A laugh—someone else’s—slick and triumphant in the dark.

Clever girls and their clever toys.

His knees hit the ground hard. Pain splintered up his spine, electric.

His hands clawed at empty air—once, twice—before giving up. His body was folding itself inward now. Hot breath ghosted against his ear.

Cheap cologne. Rotten teeth.

“Did you really think we’d face the demon prodigy unprepared?”

Fingers speared into his hair, yanked his head back.

He let them.

What was the point.

“Your reputation preceded you,” the leader sneered. “Shame you couldn’t live up to it.”

Dazai laughed under his breath.

Always so fucking reckless.

Chuuya’s voice.

Clear and furious and almost concerned. Almost real.

They didn’t waste time. Hands yanked his wrists behind him, metal biting into the bone. Boots kicked his knees apart. Something cold and tight cinched around his ankles.

Still he smiled, loose and ruined and beautiful.

The prized Port Mafia nullifier, bleeding out smoke and teeth marks, dragged limp and laughing into the rotten heart of the nightclub.

Time didn’t seem to move and neither did the rope.

Clothes hung in strips, stuck to new wounds with old blood. Each breath cost something. Water dripped somewhere, counting seconds he couldn't track anymore.

He flexed his fingers uselessly against the restraints—skin tearing, muscles spasming—and let his mind chew itself raw.

Every mistake, hesitation, and every selfish, reckless spiral that led him here.

Chuuya would laugh. Probably. Or he’d just look at him the same way everyone else did. Something broken that wouldn’t stay dead.

The door creaked. Boots shuffled in. Three sets, maybe four. Predators, pretending they’d caught something rare.

Dazai watched through the tangled mess of his hair, cataloging weaknesses even as his own blood glued him to the concrete.

The leader swaggered in first with false ease. Too-clean boots. The smell of nervous sweat masked under cologne.

“Apologies for the theatrics, Dazai-san. Had to ensure your... cooperation.” His gesture encompassed their makeshift dungeon. “Welcome to my establishment.”

Dazai coughed once, dry and ugly, then smiled. It didn’t reach anything but his teeth.

“Nightclub owner turned kidnapper?” he rasped. “How charmingly fucking derivative.”

“Prefer to think of myself as a collector.”

The man laughed, a hollow sound that echoed in his hollow eyes. He ran his hand through his disheveled locks.

“Of rare things. Dark things.”

“Ah,” Dazai said. “So the orgies are just a… bonus?”

The collector’s smile hardened, brittle at the corners. But he nodded.

“Wouldn't be much of a nightclub without the entertainment, wouldn't you say, Dazai-san?”

He stepped closer.

“Besides,” he added, tone slick, “it’s good for business.”

Dazai made a low, amused noise in his throat.

“Mm. I suppose it is.” He let his head loll back against the wall, heavy. “Nothing sells quite like human desperation.”

The collector’s eyes glittered with ugly hunger.

“Now,” he purred, “I’m sure you’re wondering about the Ability Nullifier artifact.”

Dazai’s lashes lifted lazily. His mouth curved into something that might have been a smile, if you squinted hard enough and didn’t mind blood.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “I’m dying to know.”

The man stepped even closer. Crouched low, face inches from Dazai’s. His hand came up slow, almost tender, and brushed a curl of Dazai’s hair from his bruised cheek.

The collector’s fingers skimmed the line of his jaw, lingering, searching for a reaction he would never get.

Chuuya was the only one whose touch ever meant anything. The only one who ever made it burn right.

“Funny thing,” the man said, voice low and sly. “You’d think with how valuable you are…”

He leaned in closer, lips almost brushing Dazai’s ear.

“…someone would have come looking for you by now.”

Dazai smiled into the blood pooling between his teeth from where he bit his tongue. He spat a mouthful of it to the side, red splattering the concrete between them, and laughed, low and wrecked.

“Guess I’m not as loved as you thought.”

The man laughed too—short, mean.

“No, guess not,” he said. “There is no artifact,” he continued, voice syrup-thick with satisfaction. “Just bait for a very specific fish.”

That smile split wider.

“You have admirers, Dazai-san.”

“Flattered,” Dazai muttered. “Though, a drink first wouldn’t have killed you.”

“Simple felt boring,” the leader mused, and his lips curled into a cold smile.

“Besides, certain clients pay well for Port Mafia’s finest.”

“Oh?” Dazai’s eyebrow arched. “And which shadow wants to own me this time?”

“Discretion, Dazai-san.” A finger wagged like scolding a child. “Though I will say, very powerful people have very specific interests in you.”

A pause.

“Plans, however,” he murmured, “have a way of evolving.”

“Do tell.”

“We could keep you for ourselves,” the man said, voice soft, reverent. “Your mind. Your ability. The Port Mafia’s wasting you on petty empire-building. With us…

You could touch something greater. Something divine.”

Dazai snorted.

“Another 'grand vision' needing my nullification? How disappointingly predictable.”

Dazai leaned back, the rusted wall hooks rattling with the pull of the ropes—a mocking noise, like even the fucking architecture thought he was a joke.

“We’ll reshape everything!” the younger one burst out, voice cracking with raw fanaticism. “Your power could—”

“Let me guess,” Dazai interrupted. “Control. Power. Revolution. Burn the old world down, raise a new one from the ashes. So fucking boring.”

His eyes found the leader's.

“And you think you can just... have me?”

Uncertainty flickered behind false confidence.

“You’ve always seen further, Dazai-san. We’re offering infinite horizons.”

“Your ambition makes you stupid.” Dazai's grin gleamed. “Do you genuinely believe you can control me? The Port Mafia isn't a chain around my neck, but a weapon I wield.”

The words dropped like stones into the stale air.

Silence gnawed at the corners of the room. The young one shifted awkwardly. The leader’s smile tightened, stretched too thin over bone.

Dazai fell silent, discreetly testing his bindings. The ropes refused to budge, and the throbbing pain in his head was worsening. He needed help, as much as his pride hated to admit it. For now, he had no choice but to play along.

“The future belongs to us,” the leader said after a beat, voice straining against the silence. “We’ll control the narrative. Build something greater—”

Dazai’s response was chilling in its simplicity.

“Oh, to be young and naive again.”

He tilted his head, blood sliding down his chin.

“Tell me,” he murmured, “have you ever watched a king be dethroned? It’s a messy affair. Blood sticks to everything.”

He let the words hang.

“The Port Mafia isn’t an empire. It’s a legacy. And you’re a footnote trying to write over history.”

Desperation now evident in his voice, the leader snapped, “Enough of this. Dazai, we’re offering you a chance. A new beginning.”

Dazai’s reply was swift.

“A new beginning? Sir, I’m already on my third ending.”

A heavy BOOM ripped through the building, shuddering through the floor, rattling the rusted pipes above.

Dust rained down in thick, choking sheets.

The men froze. Faces flickered—confusion first, then fear.

Another blast. Closer this time.

Plaster cracked, lights swung wild and epileptic on their wires.

The leader stumbled back, rage slipping thin and cracked over raw panic.

“What the fuck is happening?!”

The sounds outside grew louder—

gunfire, shouting, the wet crunch of violence finally finding its teeth.

The door slammed open so hard it bounced off the wall.

Dazai barely moved. The ropes had gnawed his wrists to raw meat. Blood glued him to the concrete as a sacrifice arranged for some ancient ritual.

He only lifted his head because spite was a stronger muscle than pain.

Because standing in the wreckage of the doorway, framed in smoke and noise and the stink of gunpowder—

was Chuuya. And Dionysian fury manifested through him. Aquamarine eyes blazed beneath those auburn bangs—an avenging god choosing mortal form to wreak celestial retribution.

Blood painted his face in pretty streaks, splattered across that golden skin. None of it was his.

“So, this is where you’ve been skulking? Pathetic.”

He had to look up to sneer, but somehow still made Dazai feel small.

This wasn't his Chuuya anymore. This was something else. Something that had learned to exist without him. That made Dazai's fingers itch with the need to break, to wreck, to ruin, to remind Chuuya he wasn’t supposed to be whole without him.

Before anyone could react, gravity flung two agents aside, their bodies slamming into walls with sickening crunches. Every man Chuuya crushed was just a placeholder. The only one he wanted to rip apart was sitting there grinning like a fucking fool.

When he marched over, his hands trembled with barely contained fury as he took in the sight of Dazai, battered and bruised, tied to a wall in the center of the room.

“Well, well, well,” familiar sarcasm. “Look who finally figured out how to beg.”

Dazai glanced up, a weak attempt at his usual smirk tugging at the corners of his busted lip.

“Beg? As if I—”

But Chuuya didn’t let him finish. His hand darted out to grasp the front of Dazai’s shirt, hauling him forward until their faces were mere inches apart.

Blue eyes locked on Dazai’s brown ones like he was the only thing left alive in the universe.

“Save it,” he snarled, low and dangerous. “I don’t want to hear your bullshit, your pathetic attempts at humor. I’m here to get you out of this mess, and then we’re done. Understand?”

His fist tightened. Knuckles whitening. Resisting the urge to shake Dazai until he broke apart in his hands.

Then he shoved Dazai back so hard the concrete threatened to crack. Dazai bit back a grunt, dizzy, half-slumped.

With a quick, efficient flick of his knife, he severed the bindings, the ropes falling away like so much useless debris.

“Get up,” Chuuya commanded. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Dazai struggled to his feet, movements slow and unsteady. He swayed for a moment, his hand reaching out to grasp the back of a nearby chair, but Chuuya made no move to help him, just stared like he was something stuck to his shoe.

Always playing the hero, huh, Chuuya?

Dazai smirked through the blood, more habit than joy, and rasped, “Coming to rescue me from myself again? Thought you were smarter than that.”

Chuuya’s lips curled into a sneer, his eyes narrowed to mere slits of icy blue.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he spat. “I’m not here for you, I’m here ‘cause it’s my job. The boss wants you back in one piece, though fuck knows why. Probably just wants to keep using you as his personal errand boy.”

Dazai flinched at that, a flicker of something dark and painful passing across his face. But Chuuya didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t care, his attention already turning towards the door, his body coiled and ready for action.

“Let’s go,” he said flat and emotionless. “I don’t have all day to waste on your sorry ass.”

Dazai took a step forward, then another, his movements growing steadier with each passing moment.

“You know, Chuuya,” he said, regaining some of his usual mocking lilt, “if you were hoping for a thank you, you’re going to be sorely disappointed. I had everything under control here, I didn’t need you swooping in to save the day.”

Chuuya froze, his shoulders tensing, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Then, with a sudden, violent motion, he spun around, fist slamming into the wall mere millimeters from Dazai’s face, the force of the blow sending cracks spiderwebbing out from the point of impact.

“Under control?” Chuuya hissed, so close Dazai could feel the snarl vibrate against his lips. “You call this control? Tied up like some second-rate whore in a basement? Beaten half-dead? Is that what passes for strategy now, you arrogant fucking bastard?”

He was breathing hard, chest heaving, a vein pulsing wild at his throat.

And stupid, sick Dazai just smirked. He leaned in just a little, until he could almost taste the blood and rage clinging to Chuuya’s skin.

“Careful, Chuuya,” he murmured, low and cruel. “Someone might almost think you still care.”

Chuuya reeled back like he’d been punched, hands clenching at his sides, every inch of him vibrating with the effort not to strike.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he snarled, shaking with rage. “Don’t you dare act like we’re still buddies or something. You lost that right, asshole.”

He shoved Dazai back, hard enough to make him stumble against the wall, hard enough to grind bruised skin against rough concrete, drawing a hiss of pain from between Dazai’s teeth.

But Dazai didn’t fall. Just stared, glassy, half-lidded, savoring every second of Chuuya’s rage sinking into his bloodstream.

“Hit me, then,” Dazai whispered, smiling broken. “Come on. You want to. You need to.”

Chuuya’s fists trembled at his sides.

For a breathless moment, it felt like the entire ruined building was leaning toward them. Then Chuuya grabbed him.

Fisted both hands in Dazai’s torn shirt, yanked him forward, brutal and unkind, until their bodies crashed together.

It wasn’t a kiss. Nothing tender either.

It was teeth and breath and the desperate, ugly need to erase. To hurt and reclaim.

Chuuya bit him hard and punishing—teeth dragging over the split in Dazai’s lip, tasting blood and history.

“You don’t get to leave me,” Chuuya rasped against his mouth, voice cracking open. “Not then. Not now. Not fucking ever.”

Dazai shuddered—the first honest reaction he’d given all night.

And Chuuya saw it. Felt it. And hated himself for how good it felt.

Their bodies didn’t fit like they used to. There were new scars. New muscle. New sins layered over the old ones.

But when Chuuya crushed him harder to the wall, when Dazai moaned raggedly against his mouth, when their hips dragged together, slow and filthy and unconscious—

it still fit.

Maybe even better now. Because now it was survival. Now it was all they had left.

Chuuya’s forehead pressed to Dazai’s—sweat and blood smearing between them, and for the first time in two years, Dazai realized he could feel.

Really feel.

Not through a screen or regret or distance and silence and dying memories.

But here. Now. Breathing the same broken air. Tasting the same collapse.

“You could’ve died,” Chuuya whispered against his mouth.

“You always ruin everything,” Dazai whispered back, but it sounded more like thank you.

Two years of emptiness flooded back in a single heartbeat.

Dazai’s fingers dug into Chuuya's hips, finding the exact spot where they'd always fit. His hands had never forgotten the shape of him.

His tongue pressed against the seam of Chuuya's lips—desperate, begging for entry. Just like that first time in Mori's lab, when he'd forced his way in, claimed territory that wasn't his to take. When he'd used Chuuya's gasp of outrage as an invitation to plunder deeper.

But this time, Chuuya's lips remained sealed shut, jaw clenched tight against the invasion. A deliberate denial.

Dazai made a frustrated sound low in his throat that vibrated between their pressed bodies. His hands slid up to frame Chuuya's face, thumbs pressing at the corners of his mouth, trying to coax him open.

Just like he'd done before, under clinical lights and watchful eyes.

But Chuuya wouldn’t yield. Not this time. Because he finally had the upper hand.

He pulled back just enough to let Dazai see his triumphant smile, lips stained with borrowed blood.

“Not so easy when you’re not the one in control, is it?” Chuuya whispered against Dazai’s mouth, close enough that the words brushed skin but offered no entry. “Not so fun when you’re the one begging.”

Dazai’s eyes darkened to something dangerous. His fingers tightened in Chuuya’s hair, trying to tilt his head back, to force vulnerability—but Chuuya was ready for it. Had been ready for two years.

He leaned in again—let Dazai feel the heat of his mouth, the promise of it—then pulled back at the last second, denying him again.

“Tell me you missed me,” Chuuya demanded, voice raw with two years of abandoned fury. “Tell me you thought about this every. fucking. night.”

Dazai’s pulse hammered visibly in his throat, his breathing ragged and uneven. For once, that smug mask had cracked completely. Beneath it was something wild and starving.

“Fuck you,” Dazai whispered, but there was only naked desperation.

Chuuya’s smile widened, cruel and beautiful.

“That’s not what I asked for, Dazai.”

Chuuya shoved his thigh between Dazai’s legs, brutal and deliberate, dragging it slow, cruel, up the inside seam of torn pants until Dazai’s hips jerked helpless against the wall.

The rough weave of Chuuya’s jeans caught on every raw scrape, every blood-slick patch of skin, grinding down until Dazai had nowhere to put the need building between his legs except against him.

He pinned him there—thigh hard and relentless—until Dazai had to either ride it or fall, and god, the way Dazai shuddered at the forced choice nearly made Chuuya break apart laughing.

Dazai sucked a ragged breath through his teeth, head thunking weakly against the wall, spine arching up in pathetic, involuntary relief.

Chuuya ground harder, enough to make Dazai’s breath hitch into a broken little sound he’d never survive if anyone else ever heard.

“Tell me,” Chuuya repeated, lips just barely brushing Dazai’s with each word, “that you missed me.”

Dazai’s hand shot up suddenly, fingers wrapping around Chuuya’s throat—not squeezing, just resting there. A reminder of all the ways he knew how to hurt.

“I’ve had better,” Dazai murmured, thumb brushing over Chuuya’s pulse point, feeling it hammer traitorously against his touch. “In fact, I had someone just last night who tasted exactly like you. Screamed just like you too.”

Chuuya knew the game. The way Dazai bled lies when he needed a leash pulled tight around his throat.

Another day, he might’ve answered and shattered with him.

But not today.

Today, Chuuya kept the leash in his own fucking hands.

He wrenched away, breathing ragged, hands shoving Dazai hard against the wall to keep him there, caged between fists and fury.

“Move,” he snapped, hoarse. “Before I change my mind and leave you bleeding.”

He turned, coat snapping behind him, shoulders tight enough to crack.

Even as he strode towards the blocked door, shoulders rigid with anger and pain, Dazai couldn’t help but notice the flicker of concern in those sea-foam eyes.

The way Chuuya’s gaze darted back to him for just a moment, as if to reassure himself that his partner was still breathing, still alive, still his to hate.

It seemed even years apart hadn’t killed the sickness inside them.

A noise tore through the hall. Shouts, boots hammering up the stairwell. The reinforcements were here, pure chaos and flashes of raw, ugly power.

The boss came first, charging like an idiot, hoping to slow them down for the others.

Chuuya didn’t even hesitate—gravity twisting sickly and there was a wet snap of vertebrae giving way.

“Shall we remind them who owns these streets?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Abilities cracked the walls, warped the floor, made the air shimmer sick with kinetic force.

Dazai barely dodged a bolt of something hot and furious, rolled his shoulder, teeth gritting through the white noise in his skull and tagged the nearest bastard with a glancing touch.

The ability winked out.

Chuuya didn’t miss the beat, stepped in, gravity snapping vicious around the man’s knees, bones folding like wet paper.

Another came at Dazai, this one faster—a blur of raw speed, fists like hammers.

Dazai stumbled, half-intentional, let the man grab him and smiled through bloody teeth when the power flickered and died.

“Tag,” Dazai muttered. “You’re it.”

Chuuya’s boot caught the guy in the side of the head, snapping his neck sideways with a wet, final crunch.

They moved like that. Twenty-four centimeters of height difference. Twenty-four months of silence. None of it mattered, they were still one soul split in two.

Chuuya twisted through the air, boots skimming floorboards, Dazai slipping in and out of reach, nullifying enemies long enough for Chuuya to break them.

“You’re slower than I remember,” Dazai yelled once, dodging a punch he couldn’t afford to take.

“And you’re uglier,” Chuuya snapped back, knocking another merc’s teeth through the back of his skull with a gravity-assisted slam.

This was the peace Chuuya couldn't find with anyone else. This was the violence that felt like coming home.

And Dazai was alive for the first time in years, watching death bloom in eyes, feeling that perfect destruction that only Chuuya brought. His attention caught on those gloves, his mark still claiming what he lost. Something hungry and possessive coiled in his gut.

Another enemy charged him, a blade flashing dirty in the smoke. Dazai moved slow, dizzy—

and Chuuya was there.

Body against body. A jarring shove. Dazai’s back slammed into the wall so hard his breath snapped out.

Chuuya stood over him, chest heaving, blood dripping from his gloved knuckles.

“You’re welcome, dumbass,” he snarled.

Dazai grinned weakly, tasting iron.

“Somehow I knew you liked throwing me against walls.”

A crack of gravity ripped the next enemy apart before Chuuya could answer.

By the time it was over the floor was slick. Dazai stood, barely, shoulders sagging against the busted frame of a door, blood sticking his shirt to every open wound he didn’t have time to feel yet.

Chuuya strode through the ruin, not looking back, boots leaving messy ghosts behind him.

The blood on the floor meant nothing. The broken bodies meant nothing. And the symbols Dazai had glimpsed, the ones burned into the bones of this place, still screamed the name Chuuya without saying it.

But now wasn’t the time for that fight. Maybe tomorrow, he’d ask. Maybe then, he’d cut the answer out of someone. But not yet.

“Let’s move,” Chuuya barked. “Before you figure out another way to get yourself killed.”

Dazai pushed off the wall, limping after him.

Because even after everything he had done, even after all the pain and the betrayal and the lies, Chuuya was still here, still fighting for him, still refusing to let go.

Because somehow, Chuuya had never let him leave. Not entirely.

And if he was very, very lucky, maybe he never would.

Chapter Text

The night's chill was a biting bitch, all teeth along the seam where leather met skin. Above, the city’s constellations flickered erratically, disturbed by the roar that throttles its underbelly. The bitter tang of smoke and burnt rubber seeped into their clothes, infiltrating their pores.

Beneath them, the heat of the bike’s engine was a living thing—a metallic beast demanding their focus, its vibration climbing their calves as an anchor to this dimension.

It felt wrong, being held by the mundane—while something ancient curled a claw around their ankles, daring them to trespass another timeline.

And above it all, there was him. Dazai’s body shaped a rigid line against Chuuya’s spine. His thighs, tense and powerful, pressed against the outer edges of those smaller legs.

The gear shifts came too aggressive. A need to prove something. Maybe trying to shake a body loose.

Dazai didn’t hold on at first. Pride, perhaps. Punishment, definitely.

But honestly, he didn’t know how to ride pillion.

He didn’t know, and he didn’t care—not until the air started battering him, ripping at his torn jacket, wind rattling against his skull.

He sat too high. Caught too much drag. Chuuya felt it.

The bike swayed slightly—an irritated twitch shivering through the handlebars.

Then Chuuya’s left hand reached back, off the clutch, off balance, dangerous—and rapped a hard-knuckled tap against Dazai’s thigh.

The universal biker language for Get down, you fucking moron.

Dazai didn’t move. Either he didn’t understand or he was too stubborn to admit it.

Another tap—harder this time. Still nothing.

Dazai blinked once. He wasn’t slow—he just didn’t feel like cooperating. Let Chuuya work for it.

Chuuya’s fingers found the hem of Dazai’s shirt, fisted it like he was grabbing (what was left of) Dazai’s whole goddamn soul and yanked him down. Dragging him into place, smashing Dazai’s chest tight against his back.

Dazai barely caught himself from headbutting Chuuya’s skull. Inhaled a lungful of sweat, blood, and that sinful fucking orange blossom soap.

The bike smoothed out instantly—less drag, less wobble. Perfect balance.

Dazai stayed tucked after that. Breathing Chuuya’s air. Pressing his heartbeat into Chuuya’s bones whether he meant to or not.

Auburn hair was tied back, but some strands still whipped free, slapping Dazai across the face.

Wild. Disobedient. Alive.

Just like its owner.

When the bike lurched to swerve around a pothole, instinct finally kicked in and Dazai’s hands flew to Chuuya’s sides, fingertips digging in hard, more reflex than thought.

Chuuya didn’t flinch. But the revs got meaner.

The bike took a sharp curve too fast. Dazai’s body moved before his mind did, leaning with Chuuya, syncing their weight, their center of gravity.

Then, Dazai dropped his head forward, tucked it against the base of Chuuya’s ponytail.

Not to rest—he didn’t deserve that. Just to be closer. His forehead bumped the back of Chuuya’s neck. Once. Twice. A quiet knock.

The bike didn’t slow. But the next turn wasn’t as violent. And the throttle didn’t scream quite so loud.

Red light. Brake. Physics slid Dazai forward, hips colliding with that familiar spine that made them both pretend not to notice. Because the way his groin landed against Chuuya’s ass wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t anything. And it was everything.

Chuuya’s boots hit the pavement, and Dazai—bleeding and ruined—had the audacity to wonder, through the haze, how those short legs still reached the ground.

Somehow, that thought almost broke him more than the ride itself.

They didn’t speak because words were clumsy, cumbersome things. They were inadequate painters of this scene, this feeling, this moment of raw, unfiltered existence.

Green light. Full throttle. They surged forward. It was the reek of fire and asphalt and the sickening thrill of knowing how pretty his brain would look splattered across the road.

Not as pretty as Chuuya’s, though. Nothing ever was.

Because Chuuya rode the way Dazai suspected he fucked. Hard. Reckless. Like he could outrun god if he leaned in hard enough.

And Dazai—

God, Dazai was no saint—he knew better than to pretend it wasn’t getting to him. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t already half-hard.

Because they were so fucking close that he could feel the rise and fall of every breath. Close enough that his dick had nowhere else to go.

And when Chuuya leaned forward just a bit more, pushing into the wind, it pressed them even tighter. Dazai bit down on a moan.

The curve of Chuuya’s ass fit perfectly against the line of his cock, and every shift in gear, every sudden surge forward, sent shocks straight through his entire body. The vibrations didn’t help—low-frequency rumble traveling up through the engine, through the tank, through Dazai’s thighs and into the base of his dick like someone was teasing him on purpose.

By the time they hit the turnpike, he was biting his cheek just to stay quiet.

Chuuya would kill him if he noticed.

Or worse—pretend not to.

The throttle kept twisting like Chuuya was dragging Dazai behind him through hell—

and Dazai let him.

Let him own the road.

Let him own this.

Because for the first time in two years, Dazai wasn’t driving his own ruin.

Chuuya was.

Their bodies were now a home of tension and necessity, conveyed through the clench of jaw muscles, the white-knuckled grip on handlebars, the involuntary shiver that was not entirely from the cold.

As they navigated the arteries of the city, the two became the lifeblood pulsing through its veins—wild, uncontained, still free. Their city owned them less than they owned each other, even now. Even empty.

The streets tightened and the bike snarled low to navigate broken pavement and gut-punched alleys, Dazai shifted subtly—counterbalancing. Keeping them upright without thinking, without breathing, it was carved into him now.

Another stop. Another moment of Chuuya's boots scraping pavement, of Dazai's body sliding forward, of breaths held until they could pretend this wasn’t killing them.

He didn’t ask where they were going.

Back to HQ?

Out into the forest to put a bullet between his eyes?

Didn’t matter. He wouldn’t have fought either way.

He thought, stupidly, about the timeline that wasn’t.

That dusty conversation on his couch two years ago. Chuuya, muttering that maybe, in another life, he’d let Dazai kiss him.

Maybe in that other world, they raced dirt bikes through the rain.

Shoving, taunting, betting kisses against bloodied knees and muddy grins.

Maybe they both crashed, tangled together on the ground, laughing breathlessly, savage, gear ripped off in frantic, clumsy handfuls, mouths colliding, teeth knocking.

Maybe Dazai would pin him down with mud-slick hands, rut against him until neither could tell who started it.

And just maybe, Chuuya would let him stay this time.

The wind screamed louder.

The bike rumbled under them because it was made of old anger and older longing.

Dazai closed his eyes against the rush of it.

Pressed his face harder into Chuuya’s hair.

Tasted salt on his tongue—either from sweat, tears, or blood, he didn’t know.

It didn’t matter.

Because tomorrow—

tomorrow, he wasn’t going to wake up alone.

Not when the sun rose. Not if he had to carve the morning open with his own hands.

That was how you lived with ghosts.

You held on tighter.

You didn’t ask if they were real.

The bike died like an animal being put down.

They separated, tearing the stitches—

ragged. Wet. Resisting until the very last thread gave out.

There was no clean exit.

Only aftermath.

The Minato Mirai safehouse was another lie with a harbor view.

From the outside, it looked like every other condo block lining the Yokohama coast—clean, quiet, forgettable. White walls that pretended not to know anything about heartbreak. Floor-to-ceiling windows that only reflected back whatever you needed to see: skyline, moonlight, escape.

The streets were wet with old oil and new rain. Concrete steamed where the city still remembered fire. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed—just one, long and lonely, cutting sideways through the humidity.

They didn’t speak as they ran. Chuuya’s coat flared behind him, boots splashing through puddles that reflected back a version of him with too much blood on his hands.

Dazai lagged, shoulders hunched against the wind, bones rattling under that torn jacket.

By the time they reached the safehouse, they were both soaked to the skin. Cinematic wet.

Chuuya reached for the panel, fingers slipping on the screen. He cursed. Loud. The pad beeped back at him, rude and impersonal. He tried again, jabbing numbers too fast, breathing hard. Wrong again.

Dazai hovered behind him, arms crossed tight against his chest, teeth chattering. The wind whipped through him as he watched the droplets slide down Chuuya’s neck from soaked hair to collarbone.

Finally—click. The lock disengaged.

Chuuya shoved the door open and stepped inside, daring the place to stop him. Dazai followed slower, dripping on tile that hadn’t been warm in years.

The door shut behind them with a vacuum hiss, trapping the silence in with them.

Inside, it was all edges and absence. Sparse furniture. Cheap blinds half-cocked from water warping. The bed was there because it had to be, tucked into the corner like an afterthought. Thin mattress. Thinner sheets. The kind that made you feel more naked than being undressed.

The walls were painted the same beige as every hospital Dazai had ever crawled out of.

He opened his mouth.

Chuuya didn’t even look at him.

“Don’t.”

A word wrapped in exhaustion.

And for once, Dazai obeyed.

Chuuya set the kettle on the burner. Clicked it on and watched the water begin to complain.

The first aid kit sat on the laminate between them—left out from when he’d rooted through the drawers. Chuuya shoved it across the counter with two fingers.

Dazai rolled his sleeves up with that lazy, uncaring finesse. Then he lifted his shirt slowly, until the fabric bunched just under his ribs.

He peeled the dressing off his side first—hastily wrapped, soaked through. Then tore a fresh alcohol swab open with his teeth. The wrapper crinkled.

Chuuya didn’t look at first because he didn’t want to. But when Dazai lifted his shirt higher and the fabric stuck, peeled, dragged open a fresher scab, the air turned metallic.

That wasn’t from the kidnapping.

Those weren’t defensive wounds either.

Hmmm…

Then Chuuya’s gaze locked on the inside of his forearm. Four parallel cuts, shallow and clean. Days old. No sign of stitching. Still red, still angry.

“You always said you hated pain,” Chuuya muttered, pulling two chipped mugs from the cabinet with a clatter. “So what the fuck is this, then? Insurance?”

The kettle screamed behind him wanting to answer.

“You let others rough you up, then come home and finish the job yourself or somethin’?”

Chuuya poured the boiling water over the tea bags. Watched the color swirl dark and moody.

“You can’t possibly hate yourself more than you fucking hate me.”

The words landed harder than he expected. The alcohol pad stilled mid-air but Dazai refused to look up.

Then, slow as the pull of gravity, he set it down and met Chuuya’s eyes.

A tired, crooked smile twitched at his mouth.

“So you think.”

A spark to kerosene.

Chuuya's fist slammed against the counter with unchecked wrath, sending the previously undisturbed mugs careening. Scalding liquid splattered, droplets searing against Dazai’s skin as he sat, conspicuously unflinching.

“You think this is a fucking joke?” Chuuya’s voice cut low. “You think I enjoy watching you rot from the inside out?”

Dazai didn’t flinch. “You’ve always enjoyed my suffering. Don’t act brand new.”

“That’s not—” Chuuya’s hands clenched. “God, Dazai. You really think—”

Chuuya’s breath caught.

“I kept waiting, you know,” Dazai continued, voice softer now, more dangerous.

Silence.

“Two fucking years.”

His laugh cracked, low in his throat.

“Waited for you to come back to the only place you’ve ever belonged. By my side. With me.”

Dark eyes glittered, but it wasn’t tears. It was venom.

“To say something. Anything. Yell at me for making Executive before you. Send a bullet through my shoulder. Poison my fucking whiskey.”

He shoved the first aid kit off the counter. Watched it clatter to the floor. He was done cleaning old wounds.

Then he stood. His body didn’t want to obey him—but his anger did. Spite had more bones than him.

A foot dragged under him, then the other. He braced one palm flat on the counter.

“But you didn’t. You let them whisper rumors and half-truths because it hurt less than remembering. Slapped the word traitor across my name and nailed it to your pity-party altar like I was something parents warn their kids about when they start asking questions.”

His mouth curled.

“I was the one who put you back together. I was the one who molded what’s left of you.”

Heat licked up his throat, but it registered as cold. Peppermint— the memory of a mouth that used to taste like that.

“And you dropped me like dead weight the second you could stand on your own two feet.”

A breath.

“Fuck you, Chuuya.”

It came out quiet and shaking. Maybe it hurt more than it should’ve.

Chuuya scoffed.

“Oh, fuck off. You were halfway to godhood by then. Too clean to come slum it with the rest of us.”

“Clean?” Dazai repeated. “You think I ever got clean?”

His voice twisted.

“I was bleeding every goddamn day in that glass castle. Bled for the cause. Bled for Mori. Bled for the version of me you wouldn’t even look at.”

A pause. It throbbed.

“But you—”

“Me?” Chuuya snapped.

“You didn’t ask. Not once.” Dazai’s voice was ugly and trembling. “Not how I was doing. Not where the fuck I went. Just stood there, let the myth eat me alive, and called it closure.”

“Because you disappeared.”

“You disappeared too.”

“I was rebuilding.”

“I was dying.”

Silence again. This time it didn’t wait for anything.

“Is that what those are?” Chuuya asked, tilting his chin toward the parallel cuts. “The ones that don’t match the blood from yesterday?”

Dazai didn’t answer.

Chuuya dropped into the nearest chair as his legs finally gave out.

“I wore the gloves,” he said, leather creaking as he clenched his hands. “Every day. And I hated you for it.”

“I gave them to you,” Dazai said. “Because it was the only part of me you wouldn’t throw away.”

Chuuya’s mouth twisted. He looked down at his hands again, the way the seams bit into his skin.

There was something fucked about that, wasn’t there? Like if Chuuya wore Dazai’s fucking skin, he might forget who peeled it off. The perfect crime—make Chuuya complicit in his own haunting.

He looked up, expression cold.

“You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to weaponize us.”

Dazai forgot to blink. He reached up and adjusted a piece of gauze that wasn’t slipping. Fingers twitching, precise. If he could fix that one thing, maybe he could stop the rest of it from unraveling.

“You vanished after I woke up,” Chuuya continued, low and mean and shaking. “You sat by my fucking bedside for months, healed me up with your broken arm, watched me flatline twice—then gave me the gloves and walked out like it was a fucking mic drop.”

Chuuya’s fists clenched as he continued.

“What the fuck was I supposed to do with that?”

Dazai’s eyes burned.

“You were supposed to know me,” he said. Voice quiet. Then louder—like it needed to be true.

“You were supposed to see it for what it was. A last fucking tether.”

Dazai snapped, pacing, raw. “Because isn’t that your thing, Chuuya? Reading me like I’m an open fucking wound?”

Chuuya laughed once, short and humorless. “Yeah? And what was I supposed to do after I read you, Dazai? After I saw exactly how far gone you were?”

He sat there, breathing hard, blinking fast—like the fury was backing up behind his eyes, leaking out one twitch at a time. The chair creaked beneath him.

“You ghosted, Dazai. You went full kamikaze and made it everyone else’s job to clean up your mess.”

“I watched you,” Dazai murmured. “Through the cameras. Every goddamn day. Laughing. Playing pool. Hanging your fucking laundry. Like I didn’t even exist.”

“Because you didn’t.” Chuuya’s voice cracked. “Not after that night.”

A pause.

“You think you walked out with dignity, but all I saw was a man too much of a coward to stay and fight for the thing he gave me.”

“You looked fine without me.”

“I wasn’t.” Chuuya’s voice hitched. “But I sure as fuck wasn’t going to come crawling back to the man who left me bleeding in a hospital bed with a pair of gloves and a god complex.”

Dazai looked away.

“That wasn’t leaving,” he said. “That was being locked out.”

“Oh, don’t pull the ‘Kouyou’ card.”

“She—”

“She what?”

Chuuya was already moving up and out of the chair, fast enough to knock it over. It hit the ground behind him. He stepped into Dazai’s space, heat rising off him in waves.

“She held a gun to your head and made you stay gone? You stayed gone because it was easier. Because being missed scared the shit out of you.”

Dazai said nothing.

“I also waited, Dazai. For a call. A code. A fucking shadow on the wall. Something.”

He stepped back, like it physically hurt to stand too close.

“But you never came. You just let me rot in the fallout.”

“I kept you off the worst lists,” Dazai murmured quietly. Uselessly.

“Oh,” Chuuya barked, wild with disbelief. “So I should thank you? For deciding what kind of ruin I deserved? For choosing how much pain I could handle?”

Their eyes locked. That impossible weight between them again—something holy and profane.

“You don’t get to protect me by disappearing,” Chuuya growled. “That’s not protection, Dazai. That’s abandonment with a fucking bow on it.”

Dazai looked down. Then up.

“I know,” he said. “And yet you’re still here.”

Chuuya stepped in, chest to chest.

“Yeah,” he snarled. “Because I’m the idiot who kept the gloves. Who told himself that maybe you were bleeding too, but you’d find your way back.”

They were both breathing hard now, the distance between them scorched earth.

“You’re not the only one who got left behind, Dazai.”

Dazai tilted his head, hands still in his pockets—but his thumb was rubbing raw at the lining, hoping he could wear through reality.

That little smile curved, tight at the edges.

“And you’re not the only one who bled for it,” Dazai whispered.

A long silence stretched between them. Nothing but the drip of water from their coats, the hiss of cooling tea still steaming on the floor where it had spilled.

Finally, Chuuya turned.

“Don’t you dare pretend this was about loyalty.”

Dazai blinked. “Isn’t it? Because you are my partner. And I would burn down the entire fucking world to ensure you’re the one left standing when the smoke clears.”

Chuuya shook his head in disbelief.

“And what good is being the last man standing in a world of ashes?”

Dazai reached out—fingers curling around Chuuya’s arm, just above the wrist, to say listen to me. See me.

“It’s not about standing alone. It’s about us, surviving. You'll understand one day.”

The laugh that followed was devoid of humor, a sad sound. Then Chuuya tore his arm away, wrist twisting, a motion full of history. Dazai’s hand dropped, stripped of meaning, useless in the air between them.

“Survival. You keep using that word. I don't think it means what you think it means.” Chuuya's voice was icy, his eyes flashing.

Dazai stilled. Taken aback by the venom.

Chuuya turned away, stiff and final—rebuilding his wall brick by bitter brick.

Dazai felt the space open between them, wide and familiar. He told himself it was better this way. That it was safer to bleed in the quiet than fight for the noise.

But his throat burned.

“…”

The words stuck. Lodged in the back of his teeth like a splinter.

Then, dry, brittle—

“Do you want a goddamn apology?”

It wasn’t what he meant to say. The truth fumbled the handoff somewhere between gut and mouth and came out with broken teeth.

Chuuya just stared. Waiting.

A pause.

Then Dazai’s voice shifted. Sour. Mean. Tearing the wound wider instead of stitching it shut.

“For what?” he spat. “For watching you play house with those Young Bloods? Acting like gem deals make you somebody?”

Dazai stepped even closer, eyes burning with false contrition.

“You pretend you're healing, but I see you. See how you twitch when it's too quiet. How you break things just to feel something break.”

A sneer.

“You're just as fucked-up as I am now. And those friends of yours? They keep their running shoes ready. They can smell the storm coming. The one that's lived in your bones since I taught you how to love the rain.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“So I'm sorry I made you need this. Sorry I showed you how beautiful ruins can be. But we both know there's no going back. No playing normal. We're too far gone for that.”

Chuuya ran a hand down his face, slow and bone-tired, trying to wipe the whole night off his skin.

“You didn’t make me need this,” he said, quiet now. Quieter than Dazai expected. “Didn’t teach me shit about destruction. I was breaking things long before you decided to play Prometheus.”

His fingers lingered at his jaw, thumb pressed to the pulse, checking for proof he was still human.

“You just... you made it make sense. Made your violence feel like peace. Like maybe being broken wasn't so bad if you were broken too.”

His heartbeat stayed steady. Calm. Brutal in the way still water is, just before it drags you under.

A cold chuckle.

“But that was the trick, wasn’t it? Making me think we were the same kind of monster. That your darkness could somehow fix mine.”

He looked up, eyes darker than the room deserved.

“You just love to play the saint so good, don’t you? As if you’re not the motherfucking devil himself.”

Chuuya didn’t pace this time. Just stood there. Solid. Sick of performing pain.

“And like the idiot I was, thought you were more than just a pretty-faced bastard.”

Something warm flooded Dazai’s veins, made his hands want to shake. He kept them still. Casual. Like Chuuya didn’t just... like he hadn’t been looking. Seeing.

His mind stuttered on those three syllables. Pret-ty-faced. As if he was something worth looking at. As if the cuts and track marks and hollow eyes could be...

No.

He meant it as an insult. Had to be.

(But why say pretty at all? Why not just bastard? Why...)

Focus. He was still talking. Still beautiful when angry. Still...

Fuck.

Dazai was supposed to be destroying him, not drowning in the way he saw him.

He invaded Chuuya’s space, remaining as unreadable as always.

“Is that all you see? Pretty face hiding the devil's heart?”

(Please say yes. Please say no. Please...)

Storm blue eyes caught his face because they couldn’t help it. Like they’ve been catching all the years when Dazai wasn’t looking.

“Yeah. That’s exactly what I see. Pretty suicide in a perfect package. Makes it easier to swallow, doesn’t it? All that darkness wrapped up in…”

Those damn eyes traced Dazai’s features, right down to his collarbone where the shirt hung open. Where skin peeked out, damp and bruised and his pulse ticked like a traitor.

“…in sharp cheekbones and eyes that could drown black holes.”

Chuuya moved against Dazai. When did he learn to own space like this?

“But that’s the trick, isn’t it?” His voice dropped lower, intimate. “Making us want the pretty before we taste the poison. Making us think maybe…”

Something raw bled into his tone.

“Maybe this time the devil will be worth the dance.”

Chuuya’s fingers found the collar of Dazai’s jacket, gripped it hard. Ripped it down his arms. It hit the floor with a wet slap.

Both saw the bruises left by the dissonance between belief and reality.

“You still see me then.” It came out wrong. Soft. Wanting.

Chuuya reached again—fist curling in Dazai’s shirt, yanked it open with enough force to pop the top two buttons. The fabric clung to the half-dried blood, peeling away the second skin. His breath ghosted across Dazai’s chest.

And then he saw it.

The chain caught the dim light—a long, tarnished silver thing that wasn’t meant to be pretty. And at the end of it, nestled low against Dazai’s sternum, was a single black bead.

Obsidian. Small. Scarred.

Chuuya froze. His fingers hovered over it, uncurled without meaning to.

It couldn’t be. But it was.

One of his. From that bracelet—the bracelet. The one that snapped during Corruption. The one that scattered to the floor when he lost everything but his name. He’d assumed they were all gone.

Apparently not.

Dazai didn’t say a word. Didn’t move. Just let him stare.

“You kept one,” Chuuya said, voice crawling through too many memories to reach the surface.

Dazai’s eyes stayed down. “You looked at me like a person. Right before you collapsed.”

Chuuya swallowed. The silence between them cracked.

“I didn’t have much left after that night,” he admitted hoarsely. “But I had this. And you. For a while.”

Chuuya’s hand drifted toward the bead but stopped short. It was still warm because it hadn’t forgotten the wrist it once guarded. It missed him. He didn’t trust himself to touch it.

He stared at the chain, then at the mess of bandages and bruises, at the body trying so hard to pretend it wasn’t still hurting.

“Goddammit,” he muttered. And tore the rest of the shirt open.

Dazai couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The touch was bullets and praise and everything he never knew he needed.

“I never stopped seeing you.” Blue eyes burned into darker ones. “That’s the fucking problem.”

Chuuya squinted at the half-assed bandaging job, eyes narrowing. He dragged a knuckle down one barely-taped wound. A hiss broke out of Dazai’s mouth, soft and involuntary.

“Or maybe,” Dazai aimed for cruelty but hit hungry instead, “you can’t forget how good we were, how perfect our kind of violence felt.”

Dazai inched closer. Couldn’t help it.

Did Chuuya know what he did to gravity? How everything pulled toward him like he was the center of Dazai’s fucking universe?

“You didn’t even clean them right,” Chuuya growled, ignoring him. “Didn’t even fucking try.”

Dazai wanted to trace his jaw. Wanted to map every way he’d changed. Wanted to own every new piece of him.

His fingers drifted up to wet leather, twisted and tight, digging into bruised skin where the choker bit against Chuuya’s throat. It had slipped sideways, soaked, pressing hard over the serial number.

Dazai reached and barely brushed the clasp.

Chuuya caught his wrist immediately. Eyes locked. Voice gravel-soft, “Leave it.”

Dazai stilled. Swallowed. And did.

Because he knew why it was there.

And because the part of him that wanted to tear it off… also wanted to worship what it was hiding.

The space between them shrunk. Dangerous now. Electric. Ocean eyes kept finding Dazai’s face.

Chuuya touched another wound, thumb pressing into the gauze. Testing. Measuring.

Dazai’s breath caught. Or maybe Chuuya’s did. Hard to tell when the room spun like that, when Chuuya looked at him like...

Because wasn’t that what it looked like on someone? The most violent act, hurting them and still seeing them shine. Still thinking they were the closest thing to holy you would ever touch.

Dazai knew this truth the same as he knew his own scars.

“No.”

Chuuya didn’t hesitate. Just surged up on his toes and slammed his mouth against Dazai’s.

It still wasn’t a kiss. It was a collision. Mouth to mouth. Theft.

Dazai staggered forward into it, chased it. Let his mouth fall open, but Chuuya didn’t kiss him. Didn’t move. Just held him there, nose to nose, mouths pressed flat, unmoving. An aborted breath.

Eyes open. Always open.

Then Chuuya dropped back down and started unwrapping.

The bandages came off slow. He wouldn’t look at the scars, didn’t catalogue the damage. He wasn’t allowed to.

His eyes never left Dazai’s.

And Dazai—trembling, ravenous—slipped two fingers beneath the wet choker.

Hooked the leather. Pulled.

Chuuya’s mouth crashed back against his, hard and hot and shaking with fury.

But his hands never stopped. A flick of gauze while his teeth grazed Dazai’s lip. A hiss between them when his nails raked down his raw skin.

Dazai used the leather again, yanked, dragged Chuuya back into him—closer, rougher, he wanted their bones to grind together.

Chuuya’s hands found Dazai’s belt. Worked it open in one motion like he’d done it a thousand times in dreams he’d never admit to having.

Dazai made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a groan. His head fell forward, breath catching. His hips rolled with muscle memory.

Dazai’s tongue brushed Chuuya’s lip, seeking his mouth again. Wanting the burn. Chuuya’s teeth caught it mid-move and trapped it. Denied.

He worked Dazai’s pants down to his thighs, boxers clinging to him now, soaked and obscene.

Dazai gasped. He was hard, already aching, bare enough to feel the shame crawl down his spine.

Chuuya saw it. The proof of it. The heat of it. The way Dazai’s cock pressed against those damp boxers.

His hands froze.

And fuck—he closed his eyes.

Centered himself for a second.

Then he stepped back. A breath. A line drawn in blood.

“Bathroom,” he said, voice low. Fractured.

Dazai just nodded.

He was already walking.

The door gave in instead of shutting. Dazai left it unlocked. Locking it never even crossed his mind.

Why would it?

That smoked glass exposed you anyway. All shadows and warbled silhouettes. Enough to haunt, but not enough to hold.

Chuuya sat on the floor outside with legs stretched out. Fresh tea cooling between his fingers. He told himself it was to make sure Dazai didn’t bleed out or off himself or some melodramatic blend of both. Lied to himself that he was just waiting his turn.

Inside, Dazai stood alone beneath buzzing LED light. His skin looked gray in it. Sick and thin.

He turned the shower to cold, ice straight from the pipes.

Boxers kicked into the corner. Ruined. Blood-crusted. Useless. He didn’t even hesitate before throwing them out.

The tile burned his feet. The grout was cracked and jagged. There was a smell in here, cleaner and mold and something iron-slick that wouldn’t leave him. He ignored it.

He opened the cabinet. Bingo. A shitty blister pack of pills—painkillers, probably. He dry-swallowed four with the grace of a man who’d done worse to get through less.

Then he stepped under the water. It was so cold it clawed goosebumps up his back and punched air from his lungs. He leaned his forehead against the tile and let it hurt. Prayed it would strip the sick off his skin in the rivers of rust.

The cuts on his arms split open under the pressure. Shitty self-bandaids peeled like cheap metaphors. Blood mixed with whatever filth still clung to him from the ride.

He just stood there for a while. Head bowed.

Then he touched his own skin and flinched. Started with his hair. Moved to his chest. His ribs. Soap stung. Shampoo blurred his vision. The drain choked on his sins as he washed the wounds clean. Didn’t look at the worst ones. Too tired to count.

He was supposed to be ruined, wrecked, unraveling like threadbare linen in the rain.

But his stupid dick had other plans.

It was still hard as hell, pointing up because it hadn’t gotten the memo they were supposed to be suffering.

He cursed under his breath, leaned forward, let the spray needle across his shoulders. Tried not to think about the way Chuuya looked at him. The heat in his mouth, the possessive fuck-you in his grip, fingers on his belt, the press of teeth against tongue, the groan still echoing somewhere in the marrow.

The way Chuuya said pretty. The last word before a trigger pull.

That word had sunk deep. Lodged in his jaw, in the thrum of his heart, in the traitorous pulse between his legs.

He hated it.

So he braced a hand on the tiled wall, cool porcelain under his palm. The other dropped low.

He stroked once. Slowly. Fingers ghosting up his shaft. Just to see. Just to check.

And fuck.

The way it made his knees buckle. His head tilted back, throat exposed, breath hitching. He gritted his teeth. Bit back the sound. There wasn’t supposed to be anything left of him that could feel like this.

But then his thumb circled the head—once, twice—that soft ridge. That pressure point. That impossible pulse where every nerve screamed Chuuya—

and a whimper scraped up his throat before he could catch it. A little raw thing. Choked off and ugly.

His thumb dragged up the underside, right over that swollen vein.

Fuck.

It throbbed for Chuuya. Alive. Angry. Begging. That gorgeous, arched line under the head felt like it had been saving every twitch and tremble for this. For him.

He should’ve stopped there. Should’ve let shame win.

He imagined smaller fingers replacing his own. A cruel mouth curling into a smirk right before it sank down. Imagined Chuuya’s teeth grazing that fucking vein on purpose. Kissing it. Owning it.

His grip tightened. Rhythm building. Slow. Mean.

Pre-cum pearled at the tip—hot, obscene. His hand slid through it, made the next pass wetter, filthier.

His balls drew tight. Spine bowing. The pressure coiled in his gut like a fist made of lightning.

And still, he chased it. Jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut.

Chuuya. On his knees. Spiteful. Starving. Growling mine just before taking him apart.

A moan tore free. Then another. Then—

He caught himself.

Hand freezing at the base. Breathing wrecked. Vision white-edged.

Not yet.

Not like this.

Not with his knees shaking, cock pulsing in his fist, sobbing.

Not when the only name in his mouth was Chuuya’s.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek. Hard. Enough to taste metal and remind himself he was still in control, even if barely.

The twitch in his cock disagreed.

It kicked once against his palm, weeping onto his knuckles, begging. His breath stuttered out, and his forehead hit the tile with a dull thunk.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

He wasn’t supposed to still be this sensitive. This desperate. This alive.

He slid his hand up again anyway.

Only once.

The glide over that throbbing vein, all slick and warm and furious—it made his back arch. Made his thighs clench. Made his stomach flutter like something was breaking free inside him.

He imagined Chuuya seeing him like this.

Watching.

Silent.

Undeniable.

The thought alone nearly undid him. His hips bucked forward, chasing the heat of a hand that wasn’t real. Of a touch he didn’t deserve.

His hand pumped rough now. Angry. Selfish. His whole body tightening like a trap.

That beautiful vein, swollen and flushed, a red road straight to ruin. He pressed his thumb against it—hard. Almost cruel.

A gasp tore from him. Then another.

His balls drew tight. His rhythm stuttered.

It was coming.

The crash, the edge, the—

He stopped.

Just like that.

Hand frozen. Chest heaving. His cock throbbed in his grip, angry and leaking and unsatisfied.

The ache didn’t ease. Didn’t fade. It burned.

He let go.

No.

He would not come.

He would not give Chuuya that ghost of him.

He dropped to the floor hard, landing on his ass with a thud, legs sprawled and back hunched against the cold tile. Forearm thrown over his eyes, chest heaving like something was trying to crawl out.

His cock still stood red and wet and aching. Evidence of everything he couldn’t say.

Want.

Shame.

Hope.

Him.

It wasn’t even come—just the evidence of everything he held back. A ruinous ache. A slick trail. Useless.

Because the worst part wasn’t the ache.

It was knowing the only thing that could soothe it

was the boy who made it burn in the first place.

Chuuya lasted exactly fifteen minutes outside that fucking door. He couldn’t breathe with the sound of that shower on. Couldn’t stop imagining what was happening behind that smoked glass. Couldn’t stand how quiet it was.

Because silence meant danger when it came to Dazai.

The tea was cold in his hand by the time he dropped it. Didn’t mean to—just… couldn’t hold still anymore.

He stood. Pacing once. Twice. Then he slammed his palm flat against the door. “You still alive in there?”

No answer.

The silence thickened. Pounded in his ears.

Then a sound. Choked. Half a whimper.

His blood ran cold.

“Dazai?”

Still nothing. Just the shower.

And then—something else. Quieter. A wet sound. Skin on skin.

Fucking hell.

He gritted his teeth. Yanked the door open.

“Jesus fuck, are you—” The words died in his throat.

Dazai.

Collapsed on the bathroom floor. One arm flung over his face. Sweat drying in the hollow of his throat. His cock flushed, hard, glistening with precum.

Something low and mean curled in Chuuya’s gut.

“You serious?” he rasped. “You’re fucking jerking off in the middle of a breakdown?”

Dazai didn’t flinch. Just breathed.

“Get out.”

Chuuya didn’t. Instead, he stepped inside, kicked the door shut with a vicious click, and leaned back against it.

“That what you want?” he asked. Voice like gravel, like rust. “Me walking away again while you cum to the thought of being abandoned?”

Dazai twitched.

“You think suffering makes it real, huh? You think if you’re messy enough, broken enough, I’ll come clean you up?”

His boots echoed on tile as he moved closer.

“You want to be punished, Dazai?”

Finally, a reaction. A twitch in his throat. A breath caught.

Chuuya crouched low.

“You don’t get to touch yourself to my memory and call it love.” His hand gripped Dazai’s jaw, fingers digging in. “You don’t get to come with my name on your tongue like it’s an apology.”

He dragged his thumb down Dazai’s cheek, over his chin, until it rested just beneath his bottom lip.

“That ache in your balls?” he whispered. “That’s mine. That’s mine to build, to deny. You don’t get off without me.”

Dazai whimpered. It wasn’t a sound he meant to make.

Chuuya stood.

“Get the fuck up.”

When Dazai didn’t move, he grabbed him by the hair and yanked.

“Up.”

And Dazai went. Knees slipping on tile, spine curving to the pull of Chuuya’s voice.

“You’re gonna stay like this,” Chuuya said, backing him against the counter. “Hard. Desperate. Leaking like a sinner in church.”

He leaned in, lips brushing Dazai’s ear.

“And you’re not coming till I say so.”

Dazai’s breath shuddered out of him. His cock jumped, slick against his stomach.

Chuuya stepped back, eyes raking down his ruined body. He snatched the towel off the rack, shoved it against Dazai’s chest.

“Stitch your goddamn wounds before you bleed out trying to jerk yourself off to me.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

The door clicked shut behind him, and Dazai sagged as if the air had been knocked out of him. His spine curled inward. His knees hit tile again.

Still aching. Still leaking. Still his.

But soft now.

His body had caught up to the truth before his mind could face it.

He reached for the cabinet again. Found the stitching kit. Laid it out on the tiny sink like an autopsy.

Pulled on the towel. Sat on the cold tile of the toilet seat. His thighs were shaking. The first puncture made him hiss.

And that’s when Chuuya’s voice came low, through the door, a secret he didn’t want to share.

“You didn’t even use antiseptic, did you.”

Dazai let the silence speak first. The needle paused in his hand.

“I’m not surprised,” Chuuya added, bitter. “You’d rather get sepsis.”

He said it like a joke. It wasn’t.

Dazai threaded the next stitch. Then another. His fingers weren’t shaking now. That was worse.

“You’re unbelievable,” Chuuya muttered. “Mouth open for every poison in the world but god forbid someone offer you care.”

Still no answer.

The glass between them carried sound weird. Like they were underwater and this moment wasn’t real.

Chuuya shifted, arms hugging his knees now. Back still to the door. If he pressed close enough, he’d bleed through it. Be inside without having to ask.

“Why do you do it?” he asked. “Why always the worst version of yourself first?”

Inside, Dazai stitched another line. His arm spasmed under it.

“I saw your face.” Chuuya’s voice cracked. “Back there. I saw it.”

Dazai’s breath trembled through his nose.

“You looked like you wanted me to see, wanted me to walk in. Like it would’ve been easier if I just finished it for you.”

Dazai stared at the next wound. The one closest to the chain.

“Why’d you let me hate you when you never wanted me to leave?” Chuuya’s voice was softer now. “Why didn’t you fight for me?”

The silence was unbearable.

Then—

“I don’t know,” Dazai said. It wasn’t loud or quiet. Just true.

“But sometimes… I wonder if I stitch these things into monsters because I’m afraid.”

His hand stilled. Needle hovering. Blood still beading at the edge of the wound, waiting to know if it deserved to clot.

“…of actually trying.”

A pause. A breath.

“…and failing.”

The words hung between them, heavier than the steam.

Chuuya didn’t answer. But he didn’t leave either.

Dazai watched Chuuya’s shape through the muddled glass. Let the silence expand around them. He threaded the needle again. Pushed it through skin with practiced carelessness, but there was no distraction from it.

Because Chuuya was still here—he was always here. First to arrive. Last to give up. Even when he pretended not to. Even when it hurt.

“You can’t keep doing this, Dazai.” The voice came quiet. Rough because it had to be dragged up from a place that didn’t want to speak anymore.

“Can’t keep creating monsters, not from your regrets, or your fears, or your ghosts. They won’t fucking love you back. They can’t.”

A beat.

“No?” Bitterness spilled over Dazai’s lips with old blood. “But they’re all I know how to make. All I know how to be.”

He stared down at the half-finished stitch in his thigh. At his ruined skin and the mess he kept trying to patch together as if it wouldn’t tear again tomorrow.

“My cage. My currency. My…” He almost said it. His. Like Chuuya used to be. Like he still was.

The needle paused again. His hand shook this time.

On the other side of the door, Chuuya shifted. His silhouette turned sideways. He couldn’t bear to watch the shape of Dazai’s pain anymore, even distorted.

“But maybe…” Chuuya said so low it barely made it through. “Maybe they don’t have to be.”

And fuck. That hope. That softness. The refusal to give up. It was going to kill him faster than the blood loss.

Dazai bit through the last stitch. Tied it off. Watched the wound sit there on his thigh because it didn’t know whether to keep bleeding or believe in a future.

Then, tape, gauze, whatever was left in the kit. Everything wrapped by fragile wrists, over paper-thin skin sullied with wounds now knotted closed.

He stood and the towel slipped low on those sharp hips. And then the mirror was there. He hadn’t meant to look.

The obsidian bead hung against his skin. Right over the bone that always bruised first. The silver chain was wet. It stuck to him. The stone looked clean now.

But he wasn’t.

His hand came up. Still red and raw. He touched it. Dragged his blood across. Watched the color change.

Then a quick kiss. Just once. No reason. No goddamn reason.

His jaw clenched and those whiskey eyes dilated.

Because it wasn’t supposed to matter. Dazai didn’t want it to still fucking matter.

But Chuuya had seen it. Had known. The second he saw obsidian. That piece of Chuuya that stayed long after everything else got stripped down or burned out or buried.

Dazai swallowed hard. Glared at his own reflection.

The silence had thickened, gone honey-slow and heavy. Just the soft tap of rain on glass. The occasional groan of a settling pipe. Chuuya had stopped counting how long he’d been sitting outside that smoked glass door.

Then, finally—so soft he almost missed it.

“…Chuuya?”

The door creaked open just an inch. Enough for steam to spill through and to make Chuuya’s body twitch half-awake like it’d heard a memory, not a voice.

“Hm?” he mumbled, blinking blearily at the blur of Dazai’s silhouette through the fog.

Dazai stood barefoot and towel-wrapped, wet hair dripping onto his collarbones. His voice was rough as gravel, stripped down to something shy.

“Could you—uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, not meeting Chuuya’s eyes. “There aren’t any clothes in here.”

Chuuya blinked once, then again. Didn’t say a word. Just shoved himself upright with a grunt.

Tea had spilled somewhere in the waiting. The mug was on its side, cold puddle soaking into dust. His foot slid and he cursed low under his breath, catching himself against the wall.

He yanked open a drawer at random. Clothes were all mismatched, backup safehouse stuff. He grabbed the first things he saw. A pair of black joggers, someone’s clean boxers, and a goddamn camping t-shirt with a little folding chair and a cartoon bonfire on it.

He didn’t laugh. Just turned and shuffled back to the door like a war victim.

The clothes were shoved through the gap without ceremony.

“Thanks,” Dazai murmured, almost sheepish.

Chuuya was too tired to answer. He just turned around, peeled off his own clothes, icky and stiff, and let them drop to the floor. Refused to even glance at the bathroom. Didn’t ask for his turn.

He climbed into bed filthy, not giving a damn. Because at least he wasn’t bleeding out like some other idiot he knew. At least he didn’t need help.

The sheets were cold, and they stank like someone else’s life. But fuck complaining. He curled toward the wall, body aching, and finally let his breath out all the way. He was so fucking done for the night.

The bathroom door opened with a creak of hinges and the sound of someone who hadn’t decided yet whether he was real.

Dazai stepped out in the clothes Chuuya brought him—still damp, still reeking of blood and drugstore soap and that stupid, stubborn scent that made him Dazai even now. His hair hung in his eyes. One sleeve stuck to a half-dried patch of gauze. The shirt was too tight in the shoulders and lifted when he turned.

He stood there for a second in the doorway, not sure if the floor would hold him.

Then he moved.

His eyes flicked across the room—details catching on corners.

Without thinking, he started straightening things. Pulled the blanket corner back up where it had slipped. Aligned the first-aid kit on the nightstand. Touched the cup. Moved it. Put it back.

That’s when he saw Chuuya.

Somewhere in the quiet, Chuuya had turned. Faced Dazai now. Like maybe the silence had tugged him back.

And something soft and sick tried to live in Dazai’s chest again at the sight of his partner—ex-partner?—his everything?—curled under thin sheets that did nothing to keep the cold out.

And Dazai, pathetic bastard that he was, knew better than to ask permission to share the bed. Knew better than to want to.

So instead, he folded his longer frame onto the floor, back against the metal bed frame. His healed arm protested the position. Naturally, he ignored it.

From here, he could hear Chuuya's breathing gradually slow and deepen as he relaxed.

Dazai let his own breathing calm, the hard floor no match for the bone-deep exhaustion seeping through him.

He adjusted his spine against the frame. Not the worst place he’d slept. Just the most honest.

He’d slept in gutters. In borrowed beds with names he never asked for. Always chasing something that tasted like this.

His head tipped back. Voice low because maybe he didn’t want it heard.

“Chuuya.”

The name landed quiet, stayed loud.

“When I was a kid, I thought the dark was the only thing that understood me.”

No answer. But he didn’t need one. Chuuya was there. Still. Always.

“It didn’t ask questions,” Dazai murmured, eyes tracing the ceiling. “Didn’t care if I smiled. Didn’t demand I be anything other than what I was.”

A deep and ugly breath.

“I built these walls,” he continued, “not to keep people out. To see who could break in. And you…” His laugh held wonder. Held pain. “You didn’t even try to break them. You fucking burned them down. Made your own door.”

A soft snort from the bed. Chuuya's eyes caught the moonlight when he shifted.

“Idiot,” he muttered. “Wasn’t for you. Your walls were just in my way.”

A laugh escaped Dazai then, bitter and warm all at once.

“Yeah. But in all your stubbornness, you saw straight through me. Saw the boy who fell in love with the dark because it was kinder than the light. Because it didn’t ask me to smile.”

Dazai shifted, his spine scraping against rusted metal as he pulled one leg up and rested an arm across his knee.

His fingers started pulling at a loose thread in the rug. Then he traced shapes into the weave. Words no one would see.

You’re still here. You hate me. I deserve it. Stay. Don’t. Stay.

His breath caught. Hitched. Evened out again.

And under it, almost too quiet to notice, he started humming.

Hmmmm. Hmmmm. Hmmm.

It filled the room.

He didn’t know how long he sat there like that. Cold seeping into his skin. Legs going numb. Mind catching on loops it couldn’t finish.

Eventually, the sound left him. His fingers stilled.

He wasn’t even sure Chuuya was awake anymore, but who cared. The words had a pulse now. They needed out.

“You know what I realized somewhere along the way?” he murmured. “That this—talking, hurting, surviving—it’s not about closure. It’s about confession without absolution. And some of us were never meant to be forgiven.”

He stared at the ceiling again. Cracked paint, yellowed corners, the vague outline of water damage. Familiar decay.

“And you, Nakahara Chuuya,” Dazai whispered, “you became color in the black. A fucking red thread I couldn’t tear out. And I hate you for that.”

Chuuya made no reply.

After a few moments, Dazai stretched out his legs, nudging Chuuya's discarded coat with one foot. The leather still held warmth. Still smelled like him.

He hooked the edge with careful fingers, fishing out the cigarettes and lighter he knew would be there.

Dazai slid one out, placing it between his lips before lighting it casually. He took a long drag, exhaling smoke slowly as he glanced at Chuuya to gauge his reaction.

But Chuuya's breathing remained deep and even, hinting at the journey to the realm of dreams. Smirking slightly, Dazai leaned back against the bed frame, savoring the cigarette in the contemplative quiet.

For now, the faint burn in his lungs and the nicotine buzz were enough to keep the darker cravings at bay.

“Chuuya.”

Saying his name was like opening veins.

“Fourteen didn’t fit me right. Found myself on a rooftop. One of those dirty ones behind the eastside rail line, with rusted fences and dead pigeons. I counted stars thinking they owed me something. Waited for gravity to do what I couldn’t.”

Ash fell, disappeared before hitting the floor. Similar to his resolve back then.

“It wasn’t the fall I wanted. It was that moment right before—when everything gets still, and quiet, and you know you’re seconds away from the last anything.”

Silence hummed between them. No breath from the bed. No reply.

“But then something pulled. Just… enough.”

Dazai’s voice was so low it barely made it out.

“…You ever feel something calling you, even when it’s silent?”

His lips curled around a shape that almost resembled a smile.

“That red thread under my skin. Angry. Wild. I couldn’t hear it, not really, but it screamed through me.”

He shifted, the rustle of fabric loud in the dark.

“Back then I thought maybe it was guilt. Some leftover reflex. Or cowardice. But it didn’t feel like fear.”

He finally turned his head toward the bed, toward the shape of Chuuya in the sheets.

“And now I wonder… if it was you. In some other life. Some version of you I hadn’t met yet.”

He swallowed. Hard.

“The one who said he might let me kiss him.”

His voice dropped to dust.

“I think he saved me. Or maybe just ruined the ending I thought I wanted. Because I didn’t jump that day. I walked away. Then a few months later, I tried again with chemicals. Easier. Cleaner. Mori found me. Put a collar on the ghost instead of burying him.”

Dazai dropped his head back against the bedframe, cigarette forgotten between his fingers.

“And I never jumped again. Not until years later.”

His eyes burned into the dark.

“Not until you were there. Until that red thread came back, wound tighter than ever, and I couldn’t tell if it was pulling me off the edge or trying to hold me back.”

He turned, caught sight of Chuuya against those cheap pillows. His hair spread in a burning halo, reminded him of all the wounds Dazai kept trying to give himself.

“Voltaire would've laughed himself sick,” he murmured. “Here we are, hating every breath but still breathing. Still finding beauty in concrete, in between the cracks and the bullet holes where wildflowers grow. Still...” His voice caught. “Still looking for home in all this wreckage.”

He fell silent then, gaze drifting back to the smoldering cigarette pinched between his fingers.

“Maybe that's just it. Everything in us screaming for the void, but we keep...”

He swallowed hard.

“Keep finding reasons to stay. Keep thinking maybe peace isn't just another word for dying.”

His eyes caught on Chuuya's sleeping form; on all the ways he'd grown stronger without Dazai there.

“Maybe we're not chasing death at all. Maybe we're just...”

His voice dropped to whisper.

“Maybe we're just looking for something worth living for.”

Blue eyes opened then—he'd been awake all along. Of course he had. Chuuya never could resist listening to Dazai bleed.

He didn’t speak at first. Just watched the shadows slide across Dazai’s face, that beautiful fucking face, half-lit by streetlamp veins leaking through the warped blinds. Stared at the way smoke curled around him like it was part of him because the universe itself didn’t know how to leave him alone.

“Always waxing some lame shit, aren’t you?” he muttered, voice rough with sleep and something else. “But…”

He rubbed at one eye hoping it might scrub the feeling out of him. It didn’t.

“I have always wondered.”

He pushed himself up on one elbow, hair a mess, and paused as his mind searched for the words.

The ones that made up his 3 a.m. poems, scrawled messily under moonlight. The ones where his hair was ruffled with stardust and his hand quivered as his soul emptied onto parchment.

“What keeps you up at night? What's the aftertaste when you've flirted with death again?”

His gaze slid toward Dazai but didn’t stay there. It was impossible with the way his chest ached.

“Is it guilt?” he went on, quieter. “Does it still make your hands feel as bloody as mine? Or does it just… fade? Like everything else in this godforsaken city.”

His tone grew soft. There was a tremor in his fingers now, but he tucked them under the sheets.

“I'm not just asking 'cause I'm nosy, you know. I'm trying to... I dunno, make a map of what's going on in that fucked-up head of yours.”

A pause. He wet his lips. Swallowed as the words burned on the way out.

“So maybe,” he said, “maybe I can find you. Even when you can’t.”

Chuuya looked away, jaw tightening.

"I'm not asking for your whole soul here," he continued roughly. "Just... let me in a little, yeah? 'Cause I'm tired of feeling like I'm the only one drowning here."

When he met Dazai's eyes again, something raw lived there and it hurt. Because what he saw in Dazai’s eyes wasn’t indifference or cruelty. It was worse.

It was longing.

“I’m not trying to expose you,” he finished, softer again. “I just—”

His voice broke around the edges. His next breath shook.

“I just want to know where the cliffs are. So when you walk toward them, I know where to put the lights.”

He looked down like he regretted it because saying it out loud made it too real.

But he didn’t take it back.

He just sat there, a breath between storms, waiting to see if Dazai would reach for the lifeline or let it float. Let it sink.

“…You think there’s a map for this?”

A low, dry and crooked laugh.

“There’s no path, Chuuya. Just wreckage. I walk through ruins every time I try to remember who I should be.”

His eyes stayed forward, trained on nothing.

"At the end of the day, you're just a person, Dazai. Fucked-up, broken, like the rest of us."

He motioned between them, indicative of something not yet whole.

Because Chuuya wasn't offering safety or saving, he was offering to be a lighthouse. To let Dazai walk into the darkness but always show him the way home.

His tone turned gentle.

"Look, I’m not a possession. I am not yours to destroy and rebuild. I’m also just a person, tainted and scarred. And people can't be safehouses, you know. We're all just looking for our own place to hide."

Dazai looked down, brow furrowed. When he replied, his voice was strained.

“No, you've never been either of those things, have you?”

Tired eyes softened with empathy.

“Just... the person who saw the monster and didn't run.”

“You're not a monster just 'cause you're struggling with being human. Being human means being part animal, we're all walking the line between good and bad."

Dazai thought about this for a minute, then shook his head.

"You don't get it, Chuuya. It's not that I'm scared of being a monster—"

He stopped, tried to find the right words.

"It's that this—" He gestured at track marks, at rope burns, at everything he'd become. "It's human. Perfectly fucking human. And what's worse than that? Than knowing we're born with this hunger?"

"Yeah."

A yawn.

"We all got teeth. All got claws. The monster isn't some outside thing, it's in all of us.”

Chuuya threw a leg over the thin blanket.

“And that's the bitch of it because we get to choose. We can let the darkness take over, fight it, or try to balance between the two."

"Choice."

The word tasted a lot like Dazai’s last overdose and waking up anyway.

"Choose different."

Chuuya exhaled, already half-curled on his side, one leg still draped over the blanket. He tucked his chin in slightly, the sheets shifting with him—just a tired little adjustment, like his body wasn’t done fighting sleep but had nothing left to win with.

"Look your shit in the eye and pick something else."

"You honestly think I can..."

Warmth found his shoulder in the semi-darkness.

"Think you already are."

Dazai covered Chuuya's hand with his own. Said nothing. Let that touch say everything.

When Chuuya pulled away, the war ended quiet. No fanfare. No victory. Just smoke curling up against city lights, carrying old ghosts away.

"Get some rest, idiot," Chuuya murmured, weariness pulling him back down onto the old mattress. "The dawn will come, as it always does."

Dazai just hummed a little tune, kinda sad but kinda hopeful. Leaning his head back, he allowed his melancholy eyes to close.

Chuuya was almost asleep when he heard Dazai whisper, so quiet he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming it.

"Thank you."

And for the first time in a long time, Chuuya fell asleep without feeling the restlessness biting his bones.

The pale morning light caught Dazai off guard. He blinked awake, body remembering floor before mind remembered why.

Then—oh. His spine didn’t ache. Just mattress and sheets. A pillow that smelled of smoke and skin and someone who hadn’t let go.

He blinked slowly, didn’t remember getting into bed.

Chuuya slept next to him, suggesting he’d moved sometime in the night—subconsciously leaving enough room for another body, or maybe just refusing to take up more space than he thought he needed.

One arm was flung out over the edge of the bed, knuckles still mottled and swollen from impact. A cut across his shoulder peeked out, pale and angry, pillow creases carved into his cheek, and hair stuck up where he'd thrashed around.

And Dazai… God, Dazai couldn’t stop staring.

Something in his chest jumped looking at his little hurricane—all that fury finally quiet, all that strength at rest.

And then softly—like maybe it’d pass through the room unnoticed—he murmured, “I didn’t think I’d wake up.”

A pause. Then, barely audible, cracked and unguarded—

“I didn’t think I’d want to.”

The roof called him. Felt necessary. Somewhere to breathe that didn't smell like Chuuya's skin.

The utility door was exactly where he remembered it. Unlocked—because of course it was. Port Mafia safehouses always had rooftop access. For escapes. For kills. For moments like this.

He climbed the metal stairs barefoot, each step colder than the last. The hatch groaned at the top, but he didn’t stop moving.

Because up here it was all rusted pipes, flat concrete, and pigeon shit and one sad, dying plant in a broken pot. It had rained last night—but some things don’t come back just because they’re touched.

Yokohama sprawled below—smeared glass and blinking towers, harbor light bleeding through the smog. The city didn’t sleep. It just hid.

The sky cracked open above it—burned peach and rust and ghost-white clouds melting into haze. A low hum underneath it all, that industrial frequency that said you lived, now what?

Dazai stepped forward and allowed the cold concrete to kiss his arches. The wind caught his shirt like a sail, tugging him toward nothing.

He curled his toes against the rooftop. The edge was close. Not close enough to fall—just close enough to remember what it felt like to almost.

Up here, his breath turned to smoke while the city woke beneath him. Light and darkness mingled, both vying for dominance.

Dazai shifted his weight to one foot, then the other. Restless and cold.

He reached up and touched the spot at his collar where the chain still hung. Didn’t pull it out. Just… made sure it was there.

Somewhere below, he imagined the sheets shifting. The creak of boots on tile. A door left open. A curse, low and breathless. He didn’t need to hear it to know Chuuya had noticed. Didn’t need to look to know he’d follow.

His lips quirked up slightly. The hatch creaked open, its hinges needed oil. Chuuya would probably say something about it later, if he remembered.

Chuuya padded over, boxers hanging low on those hips, a crumpled tank top he must have scoured from that mystery drawer. He crossed his arms against the morning chill.

Beneath the blood and bruises, they were still just boys, raw and unfinished, their stories still fluid as the sea before them.

“What keeps me up at night, huh?”

Dazai echoed Chuuya’s question from the previous night.

“It’s not guilt. Hasn’t been for a long time. Guilt means I thought I could’ve done something different. Guilt means I tried.”

A pause.

“My hands don’t feel bloody. They feel empty.”

His jaw clenched, then loosened.

“I lie awake and think about all the people I didn’t save. The ones I let bleed out because I thought I could stomach it. The ones I hurt just to feel something. And the ones I tried to hold, who still slipped through.”

He swallowed hard.

“You know what it feels like?” His voice was low. Unsteady. “Dust. Just dust. Something already dead, but I’m still holding it anyway.”

A gust of wind cut between them.

Dark eyes finally looked up. “It never fades. It calcifies. It grows teeth. It curls up beside me like a fucking pet.”

He blinked slowly. Something wet in his lashes.

“And sometimes… sometimes, I wish it did fade. Because then maybe I could finally forget how much of me died before I ever tried to live.”

“But it survives in the marrow. In the jokes I don’t finish. In the coffee I leave half-drunk.”

He tilted his head.

“And you—you with your fucking humanity and your fists and your goddamn stubborn light—you keep building lighthouses in that place I already set on fire.”

A pause. A long one.

Chuuya stared at him like he was one of those stars he wished on as a kid. And now, more than ever, he wanted to catch that light before it faded.

Then, softer.

“You want to know what the aftertaste is?”

He turned, finally. Looked at Chuuya and it burned.

“It tastes like you.”

Chuuya blinked once. And then again— the weight of it needed time to land.

Because it did. Like that ache in his ribs that never went away after learning the stars lied.

A soft moan escaped as Dazai stretched his arms toward the sky. Pale skin caught in dawnlight. All tendon and tremble and too many stories scrawled across bones that never finished growing.

“Everyone thinks it's the fall. The impact. But it's that moment before, when you're pure nerve and screaming possibility. When you realize maybe we're all just dead light still traveling. Still trying to matter.”

“We could die right now, and our light would keep going. Someone centuries from now might look up, see our catastrophe, and wish.”

Fucking Dazai had the nerve to talk about light still traveling, about catastrophe mistaken for a wish, and all Chuuya could think was—

Was it you?

Was it you I was praying to in the dark? Was it your ruin I mistook for God? Was I the boy on the other side of time, whispering into graveyard skies, waiting for your body to hit the earth? Was it your death I wished on?

He wouldn’t say any of it. Refused to move. Just felt it. Let it throb low and deep behind his ribs.

Because maybe, in that past life, some alternate map of stars, Dazai had already died. And Chuuya had already made a wish.

And now—

Now he was standing here, staring at that same dead light in a different form, still glowing, still pretending, still trying to mean something.

And he hated him for it.

And he loved him for it.

And he wasn’t ready. Not yet. Not when the sky was still the same shade of grief.

“That’s what Icarus knew. Why he flew anyway. Not for the fall, for that one moment of touching something holy. How it would feel to burn that bright, that pure. Even just once.”

Chuuya exhaled slowly.

“So that’s it, huh? That’s the dream?”

His shoulders stayed square, but his jaw flexed, chewing the words before letting them out. Translating. From I love you to what the fuck is wrong with you.

“To be a flash in the sky so someone centuries from now can mistake your death for a star and call it beautiful?”

Chuuya shifted his weight, one foot dragging across the rooftop because his body wasn’t sure if it wanted to run or stay and bleed.

“You think that moment—right before the end, when your nerves are screaming and you’re weightless—that’s the only time you’re real. The only time you matter.”

His fingers hooked under the hem of his tank top, tugging once, wanting to pull the heat out of his ribs.

“I get it. I do. I’ve felt that moment. I’ve lived in it. Let it eat me alive. But it’s not holy, Dazai—it’s hollow. It’s what’s left when you decide no one’s ever going to stay.”

Then, quieter—less for Dazai, more for whatever part of himself still wanted to believe—

“…And some of us… some of us are tired of wishing on ghosts.”

Dazai’s throat moved, a slow swallow. His eyes didn’t leave the horizon.

“…You ever wonder,” he said, voice threadbare, “if maybe that’s what ghosts are? Not the dead things, but the parts of us still asking to be seen.”

Chuuya dragged a hand through his hair, fingers catching at the roots. His voice came low, quieter than the waves.

“I never wanted to be remembered,” he muttered. “I just didn’t want to disappear.”

Dazai looked towards the vastness of the water. Weary eyes swept across dark nostalgia.

“But Chuuya, society loves its tragedies. Not the boy, the story. The empty soul who’d eat stars just to feel full.”

Chuuya listened, his expression unreadable as the waves crashed lonely in the distance.

Dazai’s fingers twitched at his sides.

“You disappear when you’re quiet. When you live small. When you choose warmth."

He said it like it was a curse.

“I learned young—if you’re loud enough in your destruction, people can’t look away. You make them remember. Even if it’s just to flinch.”

He exhaled a slow and bitter breath.

“It’s the ultimate freedom, isn’t it?” Dazai continued, voice hollow. “To stand at the edge of something holy and spit in its face. To defy the order you were born into. To bring down the divine so the whole city shivers at the audacity.”

Something shifted in Dazai’s stance.

“Then there’s Lucifer. The Morning Star.

First light ever cast out of heaven for shining too bright. He tore through heaven’s floorboards on his way down and lit the sky behind him on fire.

They say his wings are black now. Veined in gold, cracked with memory. No longer for flight—only for reminding.

And they pretend he was never beautiful.

Fell just like Icarus, didn’t he? But we don’t write him pretty poems. Don’t romanticize his burns. Because he didn’t just fall, he chose to jump.”

The wind pulled at their clothes—gravity remembering its children.

He remembered what Chuuya said the night before.

I was breaking things long before you decided to play Prometheus.

Dazai had laughed at the time. But now it clung to him. It felt like scripture.

Maybe Lucifer and Prometheus were the same god, after all.

Both brought fire to things that couldn’t hold it. Both were punished for reaching down instead of rising up.

Maybe Chuuya was right. Maybe he hadn’t saved anything.

Maybe all he’d done was want it too much.

“Fuck, Dazai—do you even hear yourself?”

Dazai blinked. But Chuuya didn’t stop.

“You want to be canonized for collapse? Painted into the ceiling of some fucked-up cathedral where boys like you can stare up and call it holy?”

He took a step forward, wind stirring the hem of his shirt.

“You’re not Lucifer. You’re not Icarus. You’re a man. Bleeding. Breathing. Trying to convince himself ruin’s romantic because anything else would mean facing the quiet.”

“Quiet’s worse than death.”

“No. Quiet is real. Quiet is watching someone brush their teeth and knowing they’ll do it again tomorrow. Quiet is fucking laundry. Quiet is staying.”

He shifted his weight. One foot forward. The words needed ground to stand on.

His voice broke at the edges. Soft and spent.

“You think it’s brave to burn? I think it’s brave to stay lit. To live small. Honest. To crawl back out of the hole even when nothing in you wants to.”

The silence between them was not empty—it pressed.

“You want to be remembered for surviving?” Dazai’s eyes were on the rooftop edge again. It was habit, not necessarily longing.

Chuuya’s jaw flexed. He looked up at the sky hoping it might translate something he couldn’t.

Because this was about a boy who had to earn the right to wake up every morning, and another who never thought he deserved to.

“I want to be here. That’s the difference between us, Dazai.”

Maybe Dazai wanted to be Lucifer—beautiful in ruin, unforgettable in exile.

But Lucifer fell with conviction.

Dazai just falls to be witnessed.

“And you want to know the real tragedy?” Chuuya added. “It’s the fact that you’d rather be remembered for falling spectacularly than loved for just being here.”

Salt air filled their senses. Dazai’s breath curled in the air.

“You think grief is currency,” Chuuya went on, stepping closer, slow and steady like the tide. “That if you make it pretty enough, loud enough, someone will trade it for meaning. But not everything’s a fucking metaphor, Dazai. Sometimes it’s just—just absence. Just pain.”

His breath caught. The wind pulled at his hair, it wanted the last word.

“And you’re too much of a coward to let someone love you in the silence.”

Something flickered in Dazai’s expression then vanished. A laugh slithered from his throat, quiet and wicked—he was remembering something that hurt good.

“Maybe I am. Because love never asks—it demands. It drags you to your knees and calls it devotion.”

Then quieter, “…but maybe that’s the point.”

He turned to the sea. To the place where everything disappears eventually.

“That God makes creatures who can choose—and then curses them for it. Love me, or burn. Obey, or fall. The first rule was in the garden and it wasn’t love. It was submission. And we broke it the second we started asking why.

Then the commandments came. Ten of them. Not a single one said love me gently. Just fear me. Obey me. Put nothing before me.

It wasn’t about faith. It was about control.

The Old Testament burned cities, brought plagues, blood on doorposts. Kill your sons or mark your house with red. Love, apparently.

He told Saul to kill them all. Women. Children. Even the oxen. Devote to destruction, He said.

And the chosen people? Always abandoned, always crawling back. He leaves, they break, He returns. That’s not devotion. That’s gaslighting with a throne.

Even Ruth had to give up her gods. Strip herself down to worthlessness just to be accepted.

Don’t call that grace.

And the New Testament?”

His voice twisted into something bitter and hollow.

“It hung love on a cross and called it mercy. That God doesn’t want followers. He wants witnesses.”

Chuuya’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt, just let him spiral.

“Of course we fell. We were built for it. Curiosity was the first sin, and I’ve been choking on it since the first time someone asked me to stay.”

Dazai tilted his head. Grinned, slow and fevered. Bleeding somewhere quiet.

“Lucifer didn’t fall because he hated heaven. He fell because he wanted something more than worship. Something real. Something that didn’t come with a collar.”

A pause, then, “And for that?”

A flicker of rage behind his eyes.

“God tore off his name.”

Dazai’s voice dropped, bone-low.

“I think I’d rather burn than be loved by force.”

And fuck—Chuuya felt that. He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, lips parted, as the sea exhaled beneath them.

Then, quietly—

“Maybe God was just lonely.”

He didn’t mean God, not really.

“Maybe all that power meant nothing if no one chose to stay.”

He meant himself.

Meant I wanted you to stay.

I wanted you to choose me.

I didn’t want to make you.

Dazai huffed a sound that wasn’t quite agreement. Wasn’t quite not.

Chuuya kept going.

“I said it before. The devil lives in all of us. That need to break free. To burn everything down. To rule in hell rather than serve anywhere else. To destroy what might have saved us—just to say we did it ourselves.”

A bitter breath.

“And that gets you off, doesn’t it?” Chuuya spat. “Not the fall or even the damn flame. The choice. The idea that if you’re doomed, at least you pulled the trigger.”

Dazai smiled wider. He’d already lost and made peace with it.

“Precisely.”

He laughed then, like cracked porcelain. The sound startled even himself with how close it all was.

“The fall’s irrelevant,” he said. “It’s the instant before. That one flash where the whole world sharpens, and for a heartbeat—just one—you feel alive.”

His hands flexed, useless. Wanting to hold fire again. Or maybe a hand. Or maybe just anything.

“When the sea takes me, it won’t be with prayer on my lips. It’ll be your name, half-bitten through a grin. It’ll be the sky burning behind my eyes like it always does before I jump.”

He blinked hard, jaw clenched around everything he couldn’t say.

“I don’t care about heaven. Don’t give two shits about saving anything. I care about that fucking second—where it’s all light and heat and choice. Because if I’m going to disappear, then let it be beautiful. Let it be mine.”

His voice hitched. He kept going.

“If I go quietly, it’s like I was never here. But if I burn loud enough—maybe someone looks. Maybe someone hears it.”

He stared at Chuuya like that was the entire fucking thesis. The reason behind every wound.

“I’ve never wanted to be forgiven,” Dazai said, softer now. “I just didn’t want to vanish without someone knowing how loud it felt inside me.”

A breath. A blink.

The damp earth met the water’s endless blue, a glint of madness mingled with an undeniable truth.

“I know,” Chuuya said, quiet as breath, but not as soft. “I know that for you, control is the only thing that ever felt good.”

His voice shook, and he didn’t care.

“I know the fire doesn’t scare you because it’s the only thing that ever fucking held you.”

He stepped forward, not touching, but close. His chest heaved once—then again, sharper. He swallowed it down.

“I know what you meant by I’d rather burn than be loved by force.” His eyes didn’t waver. “You think love is a leash and staying means surrender. That if anyone really looked at you, really stayed, they’d see the rot and run.”

His lip twitched.

“I know the wind and the sky and the goddamn salt meant more to you than anything I could ever give. You’ve been practicing your last words since you were fourteen. This isn’t about dying—it’s about choosing the moment. About writing the ending yourself before someone else does it for you.”

A breath. Harsh. Frayed.

“I know because I watched you do it. Over and over. With me.”

His throat worked. He blinked hard.

“And I still fucking stayed.”

Dazai turned back to Chuuya, and fuck—it wasn’t so much a look, as it was a confession in a dead man’s eyes.

“I know,” he said. “That’s what ruined it.”

Then, because he couldn't help himself,

“Think I could hold it?”

Chuuya's hands clenched. "Hold what?”

Dazai smiled, and it was all teeth because that’s what monsters do when they’re afraid.

“The sun.”

(You.)

Chuuya scoffed, bitter. “Why the fuck would I help you set yourself on fire?”

“Because you burn too,” Dazai murmured. “You always have, but it’s sunfire. And I keep hoping—if I fly close enough—you’ll scorch the rot out of me.”

Chuuya looked away, jaw clenched like it was the only thing keeping him standing.

“You’re such a fucking child.”

He shook his head. Looked down at his own hands. Maybe they’d blistered one too many times.

“I spent years trying to pull the rot out of you,” Chuuya said, low, hoarse, the words fighting to stay down. “Held it in my fucking hands. Let it eat through me.”

His breath hitched. “And you kept acting like it didn’t count unless it killed me.”

Dazai laughed, but it cracked halfway through.

“I never wanted to die with you,” Chuuya went on, mind fraying. “I wanted to live. With you. In the same room. At the same fucking temperature.”

(Stay.)

Dazai heard the leash snapping tight around his throat. Because that’s what love sounded like to him. Kneel. Obey. Don’t run.

And staying meant waking up in someone’s light and realizing you don’t get to be a monster there. That you have to lay the match down. You have to try.

Something feral in him howled no so loud it shook his bones from the inside.

So he turned, the sunrise clawing at his silhouette, but it didn’t touch the heat behind his eyes.

Chuuya wasn’t done.

“You keep asking for something sacred and then laugh in my face when I offer it.”

A harsh breath pulled up from somewhere deep.

“I keep crawling into your hell thinking maybe this time you’ll just sit beside me. Just once.”

Chuuya didn’t look away.

“But you don’t want someone to stay. You want someone to burn.”

A cold sound caught in his throat. “You kept handing me matches. And I kept holding them like they were fucking flowers.”

His voice dropped, but it was the kind of quiet that shakes walls.

“Stop asking wild things to survive in graveyards.”

A pause.

“They don’t belong there.”

His gaze bore through Dazai’s.

Unforgiving. Unmoving.

“But you do.”

Silence. Too much of it.

“I don’t know what to do with kindness,” Dazai finally muttered, more to the rooftop than to Chuuya. “Don’t know how to hold anything soft without curling my fingers around its throat.”

His voice went high on the edge of it.

“I don’t even know who I am without the exit sign flickering somewhere in the corner of my eye.”

He turned then. But not away—toward.

Toward the one person he should run from.

“So yeah. Maybe I wanted you to stop. Because if you didn’t, then I’d be forced to stay.”

He swallowed hard. The words came out raw.

“I know you want me to stay. Don’t you get it? You make me want to try. You make me want to fucking live—and that scares me worse than the quiet ever did.”

He stepped closer to the edge, voice crumbling.

“Because if I stay, then I’m giving you the power to destroy me. To leave. To say I wasn’t enough. And I won’t survive that, Chuuya.”

His voice shattered into silence.

“I’d rather burn on my own terms than be loved by someone who could walk away.”

His breath shook, and so did the sky.

“Because you’re the only thing that makes this fucking ugly place feel real. That makes me feel like I’m not a ghost. And that’s why I want to rip it all apart.”

“I slept next to you last night and I thought—this is too quiet. This is too good. I hate how your heart sounds force me to want to stay. I hate that I want to wake up.”

He looked up.

“You fucking terrify me, Chuuya.”

Hollowed out. Honest.

“That’s why I keep the match lit. Because if I don’t burn it down first, I might start to think I belong.”

He turned finally. Eyes rimmed red, teeth bared in something that could never be called a smile.

Chuuya just stared.

And for a second—for a breath that hurt to keep—he looked like he might say something kind.

But he didn’t.

“You know,” Chuuya started, voice low, tired, unspeakably real. “If you jumped right now, I wouldn’t stop you.”

Dazai closed his eyes.

“But I’d go with you.”

That was it. The worst thing. The softest thing. The truest.

“You shouldn’t,” Dazai said.

“I know,” Chuuya answered. “But I’d fall, too. Like a fucking idiot. And I’d hit the ground smiling if it meant I got to see you one more second before it all went black.”

His throat worked around something that wouldn’t come out.

“That’s what you do to people.”

Then quieter, like it wasn’t meant to be heard, “That’s what you did to me.”

Dazai’s breath hitched as his ribs tried to fold in on his heart.

But Chuuya didn’t let up.

“You want to go out in flames? Fine. But don’t you dare ask me to be the one who keeps holding your fucking matches.”

His jaw clenched, lips pressed hard together holding back blood.

“I hate you, you absolute bastard,” Chuuya said, barely audible. “But I won’t watch you die just so you can feel seen.”

Dazai looked at Chuuya—a man who had already fallen and just now realized someone had jumped after him.

Then silence. The real kind.

Full and suffocating and shared.

Dazai's trembling fingers hesitated, architects of destruction suspended in yearning as he brushed against Chuuya’s.

“…Don’t say things like that,” he murmured, scraped thin. “Not unless you mean to follow me all the way down.”

Chuuya went still. Like maybe he couldn't breathe either. Then, so soft Dazai almost missed it, his pinky hooked around Dazai's.

It wasn’t forgiveness. Not by a long shot.

It wasn’t a promise either.

But something.

The sun climbed higher, setting their shadows on fire.

Two boys. Two monsters. Two gods with blood under their fingernails and too much sky in their mouths.

Not healed. But still here.

Still choosing.

Chapter Text

A heel ground into ceramic.

Chuuya nudged the shards out of his path with the toe of his boot, stepping over the dried liquid so it wouldn't stick to the soles. The pattern made a map to somewhere neither of them had been invited.

The kitchen still looked like a crime scene. Not metaphorically. Literally. Evidence of whatever the hell last night had been.

Behind him, Dazai rummaged through the cabinet. Something clinked. Water ran. He filled a chipped mug without comment and drank like he hadn’t tasted anything in days.

The mug read Camp Yamabiko: Where the Fire’s Always Warm! in peeling letters. It looked absurd in his hands.

Chuuya didn’t say a word about it. Just watched him over one shoulder, jaw tight.

They’d spent all night putting out fires. Nothing about them was warm.

“You gonna eat something?” he asked eventually.

Dazai’s throat worked around the water. He shook his head.

“Crackers are still there,” Chuuya said, nodding toward the box that had survived their violence.

Dazai set the mug down, a soft sound. “Don’t want them.”

“Too bad. Not stopping on the way.”

Silence.

Chuuya bent to pick up his coat where he’d left it draped across the radiator. It was warm in his hands, still faintly damp at the collar. He shrugged it on without looking.

He adjusted the choker next, fingers sliding beneath his hair to settle the leather back against his skin. Tight.

Dazai watched him do it. Said nothing.

“You good?” Chuuya asked, tugging at a wrinkle near the cuff.

Dazai nodded. His fingers, still wrapped in last night’s bandages, ghosted toward his chest. Pressed flat against the hidden chain.

Chuuya looked away before the moment could mean anything.

He stepped toward the door, then hesitated. His boot caught on a tea packet, sent it skidding.

“We should go,” he muttered. “Before someone decides to check if we’re dead.”

Dazai followed without a word.

The chair remained overturned behind them. No one picked it up.

Some messes weren't worth fixing if you were just going to leave anyway.

The city stirred awake as the boys tore through the streets, each mile between them and the safehouse a necessary exorcism. That place had seen too much—all those haunted things made their skin crawl. They couldn't wait to leave it behind and bury it deep.

Dazai didn’t let go the whole ride. Not once. Not even when they pulled into the Port Mafia’s underground garage and killed the engine. His hands stayed at Chuuya’s waist anchoring himself to the only thing in this whole godforsaken city that didn’t vanish when the lights came on.

The walk to HQ was quiet. They looked like shit. And that helped. No one stopped them.

But they watched.

God, they watched.

The automatic doors hissed open, and the rain followed them in, dripping from Chuuya's coat, plastering Dazai's borrowed t-shirt to his bandages. The squeak of wet sneakers against polished marble echoed unnaturally loud in the hushed corridor.

Dazai's stomach growled audibly. He ignored it with practiced indifference.

Whispers slithered up the corridor.

Executive Dazai never wore sneakers. Executive Dazai never looked this disheveled, this human.

The rumor mill didn't need facts. It just needed blood. And there was plenty of that still crusted under Dazai's fingernails, staining the edge of Chuuya's coat collar.

A junior agent stepped into their path—too new to know better. He was barely seventeen. Skinny. Nervous. Clutching a clipboard like it might save him from judgment.

“Executive Dazai—”

Dazai didn’t even glance at him.

“Not now,” he said, voice razor-flat.

The kid flinched like he’d been struck. Disappeared into the nearest doorway, shoulders hunched against the inevitable fallout.

At the next corner, someone took off running with a phone to their ear. The building was waking up. They hit the main corridor just in time for the chaos to start.

“Dazai-san!”

Akutagawa came fast—black coat slicing through the air, expression taut with fury and concern.

He stopped just short of collision. Breathing sharp, that familiar wheeze cutting the silence. Eyes scanning Dazai for injury.

And froze.

His gaze snagged on the cartoon bonfire dancing across Dazai's chest. The joggers hanging off his hips. The sneakers with their left lace undone.

The whole look screamed borrowed.

Civilian. Wrong.

His immaculate, lethal, untouchable mentor looked like he’d just come from a weekend retreat at a failed cult campground. And somehow, that was more disturbing than the faint traces of bruising visible at his collar, the slight stiffness in his walk.

For the first time in Akutagawa's memory, Dazai looked... ordinary.

It was obscene.

“You didn’t report in,” Akutagawa said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “The last transmission—”

“Was enough,” Dazai said, still walking.

Akutagawa moved to follow. “You were ambushed.”

“I handled it.”

Akutagawa hesitated. Eyes flicked again to the shirt. Then to the clean bandages that didn't quite hide the ragged edges of what looked like fresh stitches at Dazai's wrist. The exhaustion etched into every line of his face.

Then—Chuuya.

His gaze tracked over damp hair, the leather choker, the way Chuuya walked just slightly too close to Dazai. Close enough that their arms occasionally brushed, an intimacy neither seemed to notice but that Akutagawa couldn't miss.

Chuuya raised one brow like what the fuck are you looking at, but there was something defensive in the gesture. Something guilty.

Dazai didn’t stop walking.

“Don’t follow me.”

The command was quiet but absolute. The voice of Executive Dazai, even if everything else about him looked wrong.

Akutagawa froze. Swallowed whatever he'd been about to say. Didn't speak again. But his eyes followed them until they turned the corner, cataloguing every detail of this bizarrely altered reality where Executive Dazai wore camping shirts and walked too close to Nakahara and looked, for all the world, like someone who might bleed if cut.

The boys continued down the corridor and a lower ranking mafioso nearly collided with them rounding the corner, stumbling back with wide eyes when she recognized who she'd almost hit.

Her gaze flicked between them, lingering on Dazai's shirt, on the way he walked slightly behind Chuuya, close enough that his presence felt like a possessive shadow.

The distance between executive and subordinate had... shifted.

She mumbled an apology and practically sprinted away.

"We're causing a scene," Chuuya muttered, not looking back.

Dazai's response was barely a breath.

"Good."

A few strides later, they passed one of the common rooms. Conversation died as they walked by, faces turning toward the glass wall to watch the spectacle.

Chuuya kept his eyes forward, jaw set, but Dazai turned his head deliberately, catching the gaze of every single person in the room.

His smile was slow, cold, and unmistakably clear. Look all you want. He's with me.

Then the next voice came louder, shattering the hushed tension like a brick through glass.

“CHUUYA—!”

Tachihara.

He barreled down the hall as if the world was ending and Chuuya was the last man on it. His jacket flapped open, hair disheveled because he'd been running through the building looking for them.

His hands landed hard on Chuuya's shoulders, shaking him once, hoping that might prove he was real. His gaze was frantic, relieved, familiar.

“What the hell man—where were you?! You missed the last gem drop, you didn’t respond, I thought—shit, I thought something happened—”

He didn’t get to finish.

Dazai moved with the liquid grace of a predator, stepping between them. One hand curled around Tachihara's wrist, pressing down on pressure points. He pushed it away from Chuuya's shoulder with a controlled force that made Tachihara wince.

“Don’t touch him.”

Tachihara blinked. Confused.

“What the—”

“He’s not yours to grab,” Dazai said, soft but final.

His fingers hadn't released Tachihara's wrist, maintaining that point of painful contact. His other hand settled at the small of Chuuya's back—a casual gesture that spoke volumes in an organization where such displays were rare.

The hall went still.

Tachihara stared at him, wide-eyed. Even the air seemed to stop moving. Three junior agents who'd been passing by froze like startled deer, eyes wide at the confrontation.

Then Tachihara’s gaze flicked to Chuuya, questioning, disbelieving.

Chuuya sighed, ran a hand through his rain-damp hair, eyes softer now. “Sorry, Thachi. I’ll catch you up later, okay?”

Dazai’s voice barely registered. “Like hell you will.”

Chuuya’s jaw twitched. But he didn’t argue.

Tachihara’s eyes narrowed at Dazai.

"What the fuck's your problem?" he spat, frustration overriding his better judgment.

The temperature in the hallway plummeted. Even the water cooler's hum seemed to go silent.

Dazai didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. His smile was the kind that made junior agents wake up screaming.

"That's Executive Dazai to you," he said, each word precisely measured. "And I suggest you reconsider your tone, Tachihara-kun, before I reconsider your continued employment."

He took a single step closer, still smiling that terrible smile. "Unless you'd prefer to discuss your insubordination with Mori-san directly? I'm sure he'd be... interested in your approach to the chain of command."

Tachihara paled visibly, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

"My apologies, Executive Dazai," he managed, dropping his gaze to the floor. After a moment's hesitation, he sank to one knee in the traditional gesture of submission.

Only then did Dazai answer his original question, voice casual as if commenting on the weather.

"My problem?" A cold smile curved his lips. "You put your hands on what belongs to me."

And Chuuya—goddamn it—blushed.

Tachihara remained kneeling as they walked past, a muscle jumping in his jaw, hatred burning in his downcast eyes.

Dazai's hand settled possessively on Chuuya's hip as they moved, a deliberate display for everyone watching.

The whispers would reach every floor within the hour.

The elevator doors slid closed with a soft hiss, sealing them in privacy for the first time since leaving the safehouse.

Chuuya waited exactly two seconds before slamming Dazai against the mirrored wall. His forearm pressed against Dazai's throat, just hard enough to make breathing a conscious effort. His other hand wrenched Dazai's fingers off his hip with enough force to bruise.

Dazai leaned back against the mirrored wall, hair flattened to his skull. He looked like the ghost of someone beautiful.

"What the fuck was that?" Chuuya snarled, close enough that his breath hit Dazai's face. "I'm not your fucking property, Dazai."

Dazai's lips curved into that infuriating smile, despite the pressure on his windpipe.

"Could have fooled me. You didn't exactly protest."

"Because I wasn't about to create a bigger fucking scene!" Chuuya's eyes blazed with fury. "But I swear to god, pull that dom daddy power trip bullshit again and I will kick you so hard in the balls they'll come out your mouth."

He released Dazai with a disgusted shove, stepping back to the opposite wall. "We had one night in a safehouse. That doesn't give you ownership rights."

Dazai straightened his ridiculous camping shirt, expression unreadable.

"Would you rather I let Tachihara paw at you? Should I have explained that we spent the night talking about our feelings instead?"

"I'd rather you not act like you've branded me in front of the entire organization!" Chuuya ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Now the whole fucking building thinks we're—"

He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

Dazai moved in an instant, forcing Chuuya back until his spine hit the corner of the elevator. In one smooth motion, he slammed both palms against the mirrored walls on either side of Chuuya's head, effectively caging him in.

He leaned down, using every centimeter of his height advantage to loom over Chuuya, close enough that their breaths mingled.

"Thinks we're what, Chuuya?" Dazai's voice dropped to a dangerous purr.

"Fucking? In love? Both?"

The elevator felt suddenly smaller, the air between them electric and charged. Chuuya didn't shrink back—he never did—but his pupils dilated slightly, a pulse jumping visibly in his throat.

"Get off me," he growled, but there was a ragged edge to his voice.

Dazai didn't move, holding the position for one heartbeat longer than necessary, his eyes never leaving Chuuya's.

"Make me."

The challenge hung between them, loaded with something that wasn't just anger.

Then the elevator dinged, announcing their arrival, and Dazai stepped back smoothly, adjusting his shirt as if nothing had happened.

Subordinates pretended to work harder. Eyes slid toward them, then away. No one said a thing—but the tension tasted like penny copper and fear.

Chuuya stepped out first. His stride was purposeful, shoulders squared, each step carefully measured to ensure Dazai couldn't easily catch up without making it obvious.

What... are we?

The question echoed in his mind, unanswered and dangerous.

Not lovers. That implied something tender, something they'd never been. Not just partners. They'd stopped being that two years ago. Not just a one-night stand, they hadn't even fucked, for god's sake.

So what remained?

A mess of history and violence and something that felt too much like need.

Two armed guards flanked Mori's office door, elite Black Lizard members who stood straighter when they spotted the approaching pair. Their eyes widened slightly at Dazai's appearance, which was not something they'd been trained to process.

Chuuya felt Dazai move closer behind him, felt the heat of him just inches away. Too close. Not close enough. He quickened his pace, determined to maintain the gap between them. The last thing he needed was for Mori to see Dazai's hand on him again, to think that they were...

Fucking? In love? Both?

None of those were true. None of them could be true.

The guards opened the heavy double doors without being asked, revealing the inner sanctum of Port Mafia's leadership.

Chuuya didn't hesitate, didn't look back to see if Dazai was following. He knew he would be.

He'd always followed, even when Chuuya wished he wouldn't.

Kouyou was already inside. Back straight. Kimono immaculate. Fury quiet.

The office was surgical. All clean lines and cold light. Mori stood behind his desk like he'd never stopped working, though the chessboard to his right was off-kilter—one bishop missing. Files open. Tablet blinking. A single drop of tea still steaming on the rim of a porcelain cup.

Chuuya strode in, silent as death but impossible to ignore. He glanced at the cup on Mori's desk. His fist twitched. He didn't break it this time. But he thought about it.

Thought about how it felt when the last cup shattered—how the steam curled around Dazai's burned skin.

How Dazai hadn't even flinched. Masochist.

The whole room tilted on its axis. Chuuya stood there, caught between "fuck you all" and "I'm sorry."

"I see," Kouyou said without looking. "So the dead do walk."

Her gaze flicked briefly to Dazai's ridiculous attire, one eyebrow raising fractionally—the closest she ever came to showing surprise.

The doors slid shut. The silence was worse than a scream, torn between Kouyou's expectations and that inexplicable pull towards the reaper himself.

"He's alive. He got intel. Mission complete." Chuuya's voice was steady, positioning himself slightly forward as if to draw attention away from Dazai's disheveled state.

"You didn't check in," Kouyou said.

Dazai smiled. "That would've ruined the surprise."

"Don't push me," she said flatly. "Not today."

"Well?" Mori's voice was pleasant. That was dangerous. His eyes lingered on Dazai's shirt, amusement flickering across his features.

"Who would like to explain why an unsanctioned executive extraction was carried out behind my back?"

Dazai didn't blink. He glanced at Chuuya, noting how he'd positioned himself, almost protectively, and something cold settled in his expression.

Chuuya straightened his shoulders.

Stillness.

Then Chuuya stepped forward. Shoulders squared.

"That was me."

Dazai's mouth twitched with something close to irritation. "Nakahara acted without authorization," he cut in smoothly, deliberately using Chuuya's surname, reminding everyone of the formal hierarchy between them. "A subordinate making decisions above his pay grade."

Chuuya's head whipped toward him, surprise and betrayal flashing across his face before he could mask it.

Mori's gaze cut between them. Slow. Measured. Calculating.

"I wasn't informed," he said.

"You weren't supposed to be," Chuuya replied, jaw tight with new tension. His eyes stayed on Dazai a beat too long, a silent what the fuck?

Kouyou turned sharp. “So you admit it.”

"I made the call. I'll take the heat." Chuuya's stance shifted subtly—still defiant, but now there was distance between him and Dazai. The protective instinct replaced by confusion.

Kouyou’s voice cracked. “You endangered the entire organization on a personal vendetta—”

“It wasn’t personal,” Chuuya said, low and lethal.

“No?” She stepped forward now, hair swaying like blood. “Then tell me why you didn’t breathe a word of it.”

“I did what had to be done.”

“No,” she said. “You did what you wanted. I thought I trained you better than this, I taught you how to survive hurricanes—not to chase them into the fucking ocean.”

Chuuya held her gaze. And somehow, that hurt more than flinching.

Dazai didn’t react to her anger. He just stood there, damp curls sticking to his cheek, bandages still haphazard from the job he’d done himself.

Still stitched with the same hands Chuuya had metaphorically pulled off his cock the night before.

Then Dazai spoke, and the room chilled.

"This is precisely why the separation protocol was implemented two years ago," he said, voice clinical and detached. "Nakahara's emotional decision-making compromises operational efficiency."

Chuuya went completely still—the dangerous stillness of gravity right before it crushes someone's spine. His eyes narrowed to blue slits, jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped beneath his skin.

"Fuck you," he said, soft and lethal.

Mori’s eyebrows rose fractionally at the insubordination.

"The last two years have been exceptionally productive," Dazai continued, not meeting Chuuya's eyes. "I don't require an underling interfering with established protocols. Particularly one who acts without authorization."

Kouyou's lips thinned, her gaze moving between them with calculated assessment.

Mori studied Dazai for a long, uncomfortable moment, then smiled thinly. "You forget, Dazai-kun, that I determine appropriate pairings within this organization. Not you."

The subtle power play hung in the air between them.

"Of course, Boss," Dazai conceded, but his eyes remained cold. "I simply offer my professional assessment."

"Noted," Mori said. His gaze shifted to Chuuya, who looked like he'd been physically struck. "And what do you have to say, Nakahara-kun? Was your executive rescue mission worth potentially undermining years of careful work?"

Chuuya's jaw worked silently for a moment, caught between fury at Dazai's betrayal and determination not to show weakness.

"It wasn't about undermining anything," he finally said, voice tight. "It was about—"

"Loyalty," Kouyou interrupted. "Which is precisely the problem."

"Then I'll accept whatever consequences come with it," Chuuya said, straightening his spine.

Dazai made a soft, dismissive sound. "How noble. And entirely unnecessary."

Mori stepped out from behind the desk, ending the exchange with his physical presence.

"Enough," he said, the word landing like a gunshot.

"We move forward. The mission's changed. We're no longer gathering intel—we're dismantling whatever this thing is, one limb at a time."

He turned to Chuuya.

"You're on thin ice. Don't break it."

Then to Dazai.

"And you—next time you need saving, send a memo."

Dazai smiled like he meant it. "Of course, Boss."

His eyes flicked briefly to Chuuya, calculating how much damage he'd just done in the name of protection. The distance he'd created might save them both, but at what cost?

“Kouyou. Chuuya. You may leave.”

Chuuya froze. The dismissal landed icy down his back. Kouyou's head turned slowly, her expression revealing nothing, but the tension in her shoulders spoke volumes. She knew what it meant.

Chuuya's jaw locked. His eyes darted to Dazai, a flash of understanding finally breaking through his anger. This wasn't just about rank or pride.

This was the altar. The knife. The offering.

"I'm the one who broke protocol," he said, challenge and protection warring in his voice.

Mori smiled, polite as poison. "And yet the protocol was written for executives like him."

Dazai didn't flinch. Just stared straight ahead, like he already knew this part by heart. Like he'd been expecting it from the moment they walked in, perhaps from the moment Chuuya had found him in that nightclub.

Kouyou placed a hand on Chuuya's shoulder. "Come," she said, her grip tightening in warning. The angel with the flaming sword, guiding him from paradise.

He didn't move. Not at first. His spine was locked, bracing to snap. The fury had drained from his face, replaced by something worse. Concern. Understanding. The dawning realization of Dazai's game.

His lips parted, ready to argue, to refuse, to stand his ground.

Dazai's voice cut in, quiet but bearing the full weight of command. "Go."

The word wasn't a request. It was an order, delivered with the absolute authority of Executive Dazai, not the man who'd cornered him in the elevator or whispered confessions on a rooftop.

Chuuya turned. Their eyes met. And it was all there. The guilt, the pride, the fury, the ache. A silent conversation in a single glance.

This isn't right.
You will go.
I could stay.

But Dazai was already looking away, dismissing him as thoroughly as Mori had.

The doors slid shut behind them with a soft, damning click.

And then it was just Mori and Dazai and the air between them, heavy with consequence.

"You've shown disturbing tendencies towards self-sabotage, which we can no longer afford."

Dazai couldn't help but find the situation delightfully ironic. Here he was, the demon prodigy, executive now, being scolded like a naughty schoolboy stealing sweet buns.

How utterly predictable.

Around them, the sun had crept higher as the silence stretched.

“I invested years refining your skillset,” Mori said smoothly. “And you still underperform—despite the kind of training most would kill to receive. Explain.”

Same old crap about worth and potential that Dazai had been swallowing since fourteen. Pretty lies about investment and return, about sharpening perfect weapons. As if Dazai hadn't heard every variation of this shit before.

Boredom made his mind drift. Made his eyes find clouds beyond the glass, taste freedom on his tongue. Those vapor giants didn't answer to earth's small gods. Just decided one day to stop bowing, stop breaking. What secrets did they carry in their bones? What monsters grew in their shadows?

Even clouds fall though, when wind turns cruel. Even the highest, freest things must sink back to where gravity rules. Must return to haunt the low places they once escaped.

Like him. Like all of Mori's children.

“Recklessness ill suits you, Dazai. You’re too clever to be this careless. I expect strategy from a protégé—not spectacle.”

Dazai inclined his head, feigning consideration. Better to let Mori assume any weakness stemmed from the battle, not his personal demons.

"My apologies for any lack of judgment, sir."

Was that surprise in Mori's eye?

"Future missions will be vetted more carefully."

There, throw him off balance by playing the model soldier. Dazai rarely kowtowed, but today's weariness tempered his rebellion.

"See that you do."

Mori rose with deliberate calm and crossed the room—a shadow with intent.

“One more thing,” he said, as though it were an afterthought. “Effective immediately, your medical access is revoked. You will undergo a three-day recalibration period—solitary, sensory-deprivation protocol.”

Dazai didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

No chains. No blades. Just silence. Silence and stillness and time.

“That should give you ample opportunity to reflect,” Mori added, voice breezy. “On responsibility. On consequences. On the value of restraint.”

A muscle ticked in Dazai’s jaw. He bowed.

“As you wish, sir.”

He turned to leave.

But Mori’s voice followed, soft and sharp.

“And Dazai?”

He paused.

“If you scream, no one will come.”

Kouyou didn't speak until they were thirty-one floors down from Mori’s office. Far enough that no one would hear, close enough that the weight of what just happened still pressed against Chuuya's soul.

"You embarrassed yourself in there."

Chuuya couldn’t answer. Not when his mind kept replaying Dazai's dismissal, that single word—Go—echoing in his skull like a bullet ricocheting.

"You let him lead you like a lamb to slaughter. Took a bullet for him with your name already carved into it." Her voice stayed calm. "And for what? So he could dismiss you like hired help?”

Chuuya blinked slowly, the words took a few seconds to land. He’d already had this conversation a hundred times—in his own head, in a mirror, in the silence of that goddamn hospital room.

She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume—jasmine and something darker, something that reminded him of funeral flowers.

"Don't pretend it was just loyalty." Her eyes flicked down and back up, quiet and cruel.

Chuuya’s head lifted, slowly. Like coming up for air after drowning. "What?"

"You think none of us can guess what happened?" Her voice sharpened, but stayed low. "The way you stood between him and Mori like you still didn't know who got burned worse."

He didn’t react at first. Just stared past her, eyes unfocused, seeing something she couldn’t. Something had collapsed inward—too deep for fury. Too broken for denial.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely more than breath scraping against wounded throat.

"That's not what this is."

She tilted her head. "Then what is it?"

Silence stretched between them—a wire pulled taut, ready to snap and draw blood.

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. There weren’t words for this in any language that wouldn’t sound like madness.

Because how could he explain that it wasn’t love? Not the kind they all assumed. It wasn’t want. It wasn’t even choice.

It was something carved into the foundation of the universe that predated names, breath, the invention of mercy. A cosmic wound that had been bleeding for eons, and they were just the latest bodies it had chosen to inhabit.

It wasn’t about wanting Dazai. It was about being made for him. And not in any beautiful way. In the way kindling is made for fire. In the way gravity is made to pull things toward their destruction.

And if Chuuya ever said that aloud—if he ever tried to explain that their collision was written in the movement of stars, that their ruin was divinely ordained—it would sound like the ravings of a man who’d already lost everything that mattered.

It would make the truth of it real.

Kouyou’s voice cut through his silence, finding the space between ribs.

“Two years.”

That was all she said at first. Just that fucking number, a gravestone falling.

“Two years of scraping you off the floor,” she continued, each word measured and precise. “Two years of putting you back together piece by piece, teaching you how to breathe without him, how to exist without that poison running through your veins.”

A breath too heavy for this small space.

“Two years of watching you learn to be human again.” Her voice cracked, just slightly. Just enough to reveal the wound beneath. “And it took one night. One fucking night for you to throw it all away and go crawling back to the thing that nearly killed you.”

He didn’t deny it.

Because forgetting would have been easier. Would have been kinder.

And Chuuya had never been allowed that kind of mercy.

“I didn't forget anything,” Chuuya said, but the words sounded hollow even to his own ears.

“No?” Kouyou's gaze was piercing. “Then explain the display in the hallway. Explain why half the organization is whispering about how Dazai claimed you as his 'territory.'”

Chuuya's eyes widened slightly. The rumors had spread faster than he'd thought.

“That was his bullshit, not mine,” he muttered.

“And yet you didn't stop him.” Her words cut clean. “You let him mark his territory in front of everyone, and now you're surprised by the consequences.”

Kouyou's eyes narrowed.

“You want to know what the worst part is?” she whispered, stepping so close now that he could feel her breath against his ear. “It’s not that you’re destroying yourself for him again. It’s that you know exactly what you’re doing. You’re choosing this. The pain, the humiliation, the slow suicide of loving something that will never love you back.”

Her hand found his chin, forced him to meet her eyes.

“You’re choosing it because you think you deserve it.”

She turned, took three steps, then stopped.

Didn't look back.

“Clean yourself up,” she said, flat and final. “You still smell like him.”

And she left him there—alone in the hallway, thirty-one floors down from where his dignity had died—wondering if the taste of copper in his mouth was blood or just the familiar flavor of swallowing his own tongue to keep from screaming.

He didn't move for a long moment.

Didn't breathe, either.

Her footsteps faded, leaving him with that hollow feeling beneath his ribs. The one that had become so familiar in the last two years that he barely noticed it anymore. Like the gap in his jaw from that fight with one of the Sheep—when the medic pulled the tooth clean out and told him to spit blood into a bucket. He’d poked at that empty space for weeks after. Tongue always returning to the wound, like it needed to check that something was still missing.

When he finally walked back into his quarters, it felt… strange. Familiar in a way that hurt.

His jacket hit the hook by instinct. His boots thudded against the wall, next to a row of others—Italian leather polished to military precision, lined up by formality rather than color. A habit he'd developed after the first year without Dazai. Control in small things, when the big ones kept slipping away.

The room was different now. Ordered. Intentional. The chaotic energy of his youth replaced by something more measured.

Wine rack along the east wall—no longer random soda crammed wherever they'd fit.

Bookshelves filled with volumes on art history, military strategy, gravitational theory. Some in languages he'd learned just to pass the sleepless nights.

Hidden between the pages of Advanced Theoretical Physics were flattened cherry blossom petals—stolen from the tree outside headquarters, still stained faintly pink where the ink bled through. In The Art of War, violet leaves crumbled at the edges like something left too long in someone’s back pocket.

He never meant to keep them. It just happened.

Pressed between chapters of death and strategy—little ruptures of softness. Rebellion in petal form. Shit no one was supposed to see.

Nobody knew. Nobody could know.

Softness was a risk he didn’t get to take. But sometimes, in the dead space between gunfire and orders, in that breath just before sleep, he stole it anyway.

Above his bed hung a single piece of art, an ukiyo-e print of a wave about to crash, suspended forever in that perfect moment before destruction. Kouyou had given it to him six months into his recovery. "To remind you," she'd said, "that power is most beautiful when it's controlled."

He stared at it now and wondered if she’d known how much it would hurt—the beauty of something frozen just before it breaks.

He crossed to the nightstand on unsteady legs, his body finally catching up to the emotional hemorrhaging. His wallet hit the wood with a hollow sound—bike keys too. He’d have to give it back soon. Tachihara’s shitty little beast of a ride. Chuuya would miss the rumble of it. The way the engine’s roar could drown out the whispers in his head.

Something in the drawer caught his eye.

The remains of the plush sheep.

Still there. Still smirking at him like it knew things.

He hadn't touched it in two years.

Hadn't thrown it out either.

It sat beneath a leather-bound journal, one of several now, filled with his increasingly precise handwriting. Thoughts, observations, the poems he’d never admit to writing. Words that bled onto paper because they had nowhere else to go. A habit Kouyou had suggested and dubbed the Bad Night Protocol. “When the thoughts become too loud,” she’d said, “give them somewhere else to live.”

Between the journal’s pages, he’d pressed a single white chrysanthemum petal. A flower that meant rebirth. Renewal. Hope for things that might never come to pass.

The sheep’s one button eye seemed to judge him.

What if it thought he didn't love it anymore?

Or worse—what if it thought being broken meant being disposable?

Chuuya stared for a beat too long. Then slammed the drawer harder than necessary.

The bathroom, like everything else, had evolved. Become a shrine to functionality over comfort. The medicine cabinet held fewer pain pills, more preventative supplements. A special cream for scar tissue, applied religiously to prevent stiffness—evidence of battles fought and barely won. Prescription sleep aids, barely touched because the dreams were worse than the insomnia. His own collection of white bandages, stored but unused, a reminder of habits he’d deliberately broken.

Hidden behind the medical supplies was a small glass vial filled with dried lavender. He’d told himself it was for the scent, for relaxation. Really, it was because the color reminded him of twilight—that brief moment when day became night and the world held its breath.

The shower controls lit up under his palm. Muscle memory handled the settings—thank god he'd figured out all the fucking buttons after year one, because today wasn't the day to wrestle the demon bidet.

The water hit him at exactly the right temperature, hot enough to scald but not quite hot enough to leave marks. He’d learned the precise balance through trial and error, through nights when pain was the only thing that felt real.

Chuuya stood under the spray until his skin turned the color of fresh wounds, until his lungs felt wrung out like old dishcloths. Steam rose around him, creating a private fog that hid him from his own reflection.

Until it stopped feeling like Dazai's mouth on his throat.

His voice in Chuuya’s ear, low and rough with something that might have been need or might have been mockery.

Until it was just water and heat and the relentless percussion of drops against tile.

Just a body, trying to forget what it had spent two years learning to live without. Trying to wash away the phantom touches that lingered as little burns on his skin.

When he finally emerged, wrapped in a towel that felt too rough against his skin, his phone had lit up with notifications. He scrolled past individual messages from Tachihara complaining about being forced to kneel and focused on the group chat.

Young & Dumb & Full of Guns 🎱

Piano Man: THE PRODIGAL SON
RETURNS

Albatross: Holy shit
Rumor is Dazai called you his
PROPERTY
In the MAIN HALLWAY

Iceman: Please tell me you killed him
Please
For my birthday

Doc: Medical evaluation pending
Approximately 17 hickeys visible?
Confirm/deny?

Chuuya stared at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He could almost hear their voices, the mix of concern and teasing that defined his team.

Chuuya: Fuck all of you
No hickeys
And yes, Dazai's a dramatic asshole
What else is new

Piano Man: Um, the fact that you
disappeared
for 24 hours?
Rescued our least favorite executive?
Who came back wearing a CAMPING
SHIRT??

Albatross: WITH A BONFIRE ON IT
I'm getting it framed
This is historic

Doc: You good though boss?
For real?
Rumors are... intense

Chuuya sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. Of course they were worried beneath the teasing.

Chuuya: I'm fine
Need info on the nightclub op
What's Dazai's new pet project know?
The consumptive one

Albatross: Aku's actually not the worst
When he's not coughing up blood
Or talking about Dazai
Which is all the time

Piano Man: "Dazai-san says..."
"Dazai-san would..."
Kid's obsessed

Chuuya: ...
Focus
The nightclub
Any intel?

Doc: Classified, boss
Executive level
Lockdown tight

Piano Man: But Oda might know
something
East docks
Patrol ends at 9

Albatross: So...
You and Dazai again?
After... everything?

Iceman: 👀👀👀

Chuuya set the phone down without answering. The teasing was familiar, comforting even, but the question beneath it was too real. Too raw.

You and Dazai again?

As if it were that simple. As if two years of silence could be erased by one night in a safehouse and a possessive display in a hallway.

His fingers drummed against his body lotion. If Dazai had locked down the information, going through official channels would be useless. He needed someone who knew Dazai. Someone who might have insight.

In the bedroom, he opened the window despite the building’s climate control. Cool air rushed in, carrying the scent of cherry blossoms from the tree outside. Tomorrow, he’d collect a few more petals. Press them between the pages of something new.

A small rebellion. A secret in a world that demanded only edges.

The night air tasted like spring and possibility and all the things he’d taught himself not to want.

But wanting, he’d learned, was involuntary as breathing.

And just as necessary for staying alive.

The docks smelled of salt and rust when Chuuya found him. Distant ships drifted like lost thoughts, searching for shore in gathering darkness.

Oda stood at the edge where concrete gave up trying to hold back the sea, cigarette burning down between his fingers. The sun was setting, bleeding red into the harbor water.

He didn't turn when Chuuya approached. Just kept watching the horizon because it held something no one else could see.

"Took you long enough," Oda said finally, words carried away on wind.

Two years ago, Chuuya might have bristled at that. Might have demanded answers immediately. Now he simply joined Oda at the railing, eyes tracking the same distant point.

"I've been busy cleaning up Dazai's mess," Chuuya replied, the lie bitter on his tongue. In truth, he'd been staring at walls, trying to understand what had happened in Mori's office.

Oda's mouth curved slightly. Not a smile. Just acknowledgment of a truth they both recognized.

"How long?" Chuuya asked, voice rough from a day of too many cigarettes and not enough sleep.

"Three days." Oda tapped ash into the water below. "Isolation. Sub-level three."

Chuuya's jaw tightened. Three days in that white room would drive anyone mad. But Dazai wasn't anyone. He was already halfway there on the best of days.

"He knew what would happen," Oda continued, gaze still fixed on the fading light.

Oda didn't speak for a long moment. Just smoked his cigarette down to the filter, then crushed it beneath his heel.

“You remember what I told you,” Oda said quietly. “That Dazai got pulled into something off-books.”

A pause.

“This is part of it.”

The transition was abrupt, but Chuuya knew better than to comment on it. Oda moved at his own pace, trying to rush him was like trying to redirect a river with your bare hands.

"What kind of something?"

Oda didn't explain. Just reached into his coat and handed over a manila folder without a word, giving him that look—the one that said, open this and it's your problem now.

"What am I looking at?" Chuuya asked, not opening it yet.

Oda's gaze shifted from the horizon to Chuuya's face, studying him with unnerving intensity. "Hopefully nothing you recognize."

Something cold settled in Chuuya's stomach. He tucked the folder into his coat, right over his heart, where its weight pressed against his heart with each breath.

"Why give this to me?" Chuuya asked. "Why not take it to Mori?"

"Because Dazai didn’t. Wouldn’t. Whatever this was, he kept it off record."

Oda flicked ash off his sleeve. "Akutagawa took the photos—Dazai asked him to go back three separate times. He didn’t explain why. Just said to keep the originals. My guy intercepted them before Dazai wiped the trail."

The air between them shifted, heavy with implications neither wanted to voice.

"Three days," Oda repeated, as if reminding himself as much as Chuuya. "Whatever you decide to do with that folder, do it before they let him out."

The warning was clear, even if the reason wasn't. Chuuya nodded once.

"Chuuya."

He paused.

"Whatever's in there..." Oda's voice followed him, quiet but carrying. "It scared him. Badly enough that he went there alone."

That landed. Harder than it should’ve.

Because Dazai didn’t scare easy. And he never went alone unless he meant to die.

Chuuya exhaled like it hurt.

"You were right, by the way," he said finally, voice low. "About the compass."

And then he laughed—if you could call that broken sound a laugh. More like something bleeding out. "I thought he was some kind of fixed point. You know? No matter how fucked everything else got, he’d still be there. Same smirk. Same god complex. Something solid to navigate by."

Oda glanced at him. Didn’t interrupt. Just let the words hang in the salt air.

"But he wasn’t still," Chuuya went on, voice gaining momentum like a landslide. "He was just… stuck. Trapped in every version of himself that couldn’t figure out how to stay anywhere. And I—"

He broke off. Swallowed hard. "I kept trying to read him like a fucking map."

Oda’s voice was quiet. "And?"

"There’s no map," Chuuya said. "Just wreckage. Burning wreckage scattered across time, and every piece looks like a landmark until you get close enough to see it’s just another thing he destroyed."

The waves crashed below them. Relentless and indifferent.

"He told me that. That he was wreckage. And it killed me how honest it felt." Chuuya’s hands clenched on the railing. "Like he’d finally stopped performing long enough to tell the truth."

"Do you believe him?"

Chuuya stared at the waves, watching them devour themselves against the rocks. "I believe he believes it. Which might be worse than if it were actually true."

He closed his eyes, heartbeat thudding loud enough to drown out the ocean. When he opened them again, there was something different in his expression. Harder. More focused.

“But maybe the wreckage is the path.”

Oda blinked once. Slowly—a cat processing something unexpected. “That sounds like something he’d say.”

“Nah.” Chuuya’s smile was tight. Bitter. “He’d mean give up. I mean survive.”

Oda finally stepped closer, the faint scrape of his boots on concrete.

“You’re not trying to follow him anymore, are you?”

Chuuya shook his head, and for the first time in months, the motion felt certain. “No.”

His voice dropped to something below a whisper. “I’m done chasing corpses through dead light.”

Oda studied him then—really studied him, as if he was reading a book whose ending had suddenly changed.

“Then what are you doing?”

“Still going after him,” Chuuya said. “But not to save him. Not to fix him.”

His throat worked.

“Just to be there when he finally wants to be seen.”

Oda looked away, back to the waves that had been having this same conversation with the shore for millennia. “So what does that make you? If he’s the North Star that’s lost its way?”

Chuuya hesitated, tasting salt and possibility on his tongue.

“Maybe I’m the cliff.”

Oda’s brows lifted slightly.

“Maybe I’m the last thing he hits before he realizes he wants to stay on the ground. Maybe I’m the thing that breaks his fall instead of just watching him shatter.”

Oda’s mouth twitched—not a smile, but something older, sadder—wisdom earned through watching too many people destroy themselves for love.

“Or maybe,” he said, “you’re the fire he sees when he thinks there’s nothing left to burn.”

Chuuya looked down at his own hands—scarred, steady.

“Then maybe it’s time I stop holding the lantern,” he said. “Maybe it’s time I light the whole damn path myself.”

Oda didn’t say anything. Just nodded once. Firm. Final.

A gust of wind cut through the silence. Chuuya stared at the darkening waves, at lights reflected and distorted in their surface.

He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t say goodbye.

Chuuya left the sea behind—but the fire followed.

The folder held six photographs. Sloppy ones. Blurry from motion, flash-scarred. But even through the grain, the symbols were unmistakable.

Curved. Elegant. Meant to invite.

They were on walls. On tile. On the underside of a goddamn club table.

They didn't match the ones from his childhood—not exactly. But they felt the same. Spoke the same. Like hearing a dialect you forgot you knew.

Because he remembered. The ones from home—those hadn’t been drawn.

They’d been burned. Into floorboards. Into walls. Into him.

Hard, angular glyphs meant to bind something divine—or monstrous.

But these?

These curved into whispers and open mouths. The echo of a god being called back.

Chuuya sat with them for a long time. Palmed a cigarette, didn't light it. Just breathed with it in his hand like a pressure valve. Flipped between the photos and the blood-memory of a child’s body held down. Of salt in his mouth and old words he was never taught, only remembered.

Whatever that gang at the club believed in—if they believed in anything at all—someone had taught them these sigils.

And they'd put them everywhere.

Chuuya closed the folder, jaw tight. He didn't need answers yet. Just the next step.

Because whoever paid those bastards to mark the floors, walls, and people with this shit—they were after something.

Something that wasn’t about worshiping the divine.

But baiting it.

And they were using Dazai to do it.

Two security personnel came for Dazai an hour after Mori’s lecture. Not his usual detail. These were Mori's personal guard, faces impassive behind dark glasses. No introductions necessary. They'd done this before.

Dazai didn't resist as they escorted him past the executive wing with its polished floors and tasteful lighting. Past the training facilities where younger recruits scattered at their approach. Down, down, down into the sub-basements that didn't exist on any official blueprint.

The elevator required Mori's personal key card. The descent took longer than it should have.

Dazai counted seconds in his head.

Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine.

At forty-three, the doors opened to reveal a sterile corridor, antiseptically white and eerily silent.

The air tasted recycled, scrubbed clean of any identifying scent. Even their footsteps seemed muffled, as though sound itself was being systematically eliminated.

The chamber was at the end of the hall. A blank door with no handle, no window, no indication it was anything but part of the seamless wall.

Until it slid open.

Inside was nothing.

White walls. White floor. White ceiling. No visible corners where they met, all curved surfaces to prevent spatial orientation. No furniture. No fixtures. Nothing to mark the passage of time.

The lighting was diffuse, sourceless, designed to create no shadows. It would never change. Never dim. Never offer the mercy of darkness.

"Strip," the taller guard said.

Dazai complied, removing each article of clothing until he stood naked, his bandages the only interruption to pale skin. He'd been through this before. Resistance only prolonged the inevitable.

"Those too," the guard indicated his bandages.

“They’re medical,” Dazai rasped, voice dry.

“So are corpses.”

Dazai's fingers hesitated for just a fraction of a second before unwinding the white strips from his arms, neck, torso, legs.

The guards collected his clothing. His phone. His bandages. Every last personal item.

Even the chain.

They plucked it from his neck as if it wasn’t carved into his skin. The single obsidian bead swung once before vanishing into a plastic evidence bag. It clicked against the metal like a tooth ripped from a jaw.

Something in Dazai went very, very quiet.

One of the guards stepped forward, producing a small scanner from his pocket. He ran it along Dazai’s jawline, under his tongue, then down his neck, lingering at the crooks of his elbows.

“Lift your arms.”

The scanner passed beneath his armpits, around his ribcage. His skin flinched with each cold swipe.

“Spread your fingers.”

They checked between each one, then down his thighs, behind his knees. The scanner paused at his hip.

“Turn around.”

A flick of the wand over his lower back. The pause that followed was humiliating in its silence.

“Squat. Cough.”

Dazai didn’t flinch. He’d done worse. Been worse.

"Clean," he announced finally.

Just as they turned to leave, the taller guard looked back. "Boss said to remind you, medical intervention is suspended for the duration. All substances have been purged from your file."

Dazai's stomach clenched at the confirmation. Three days. Seventy-two hours without the pills that kept the worst of his pain at bay.

The door slid shut with a sigh. Then nothing. Complete, perfect nothing.

Dazai stood motionless for several minutes, eyes closed, cataloguing what was left. The sound of his own breathing. The beat of his pulse. The whisper of air circulating through hidden vents.

All of these would become enemies soon enough.

Then he opened his eyes again. Stared at the unrelenting whiteness surrounding him.

Not even a seam in the walls to convince him he wasn't buried alive in some sterile tomb. Just seamless surfaces, unnaturally perfect—an eggshell that would never crack.

The floor curved almost imperceptibly, sloping toward a single drain in the center of the room like a fucking joke. A silent threat that someone might come to hose him down when he finally broke—when the screaming started, when he began clawing at his own skin just to feel something real.

The drain’s presence continued to mock him with memories of other rooms, other floors that needed to be cleaned of blood and worse.

He moved to the center, lowering himself to sit cross-legged on the floor. Might as well be comfortable for the first few hours, while comfort was still a concept his brain could process.

The first day was always the easiest. His mind was good, focused, capable of entertaining itself with complex problems and puzzles. He recited poetry in seven languages. Calculated prime numbers into the thousands. Revisited detailed mental maps of Yokohama's underbelly.

Designed sixteen different ways to kill Mori with his stupid fucking teacup.

The cold set in slow, cellular—it made his teeth click when he wasn’t paying attention. It crawled under fingernails and settled in the vertebrae.

His skin broke out in gooseflesh and muscles began to tremble because the body hates stillness.

By evening—though there was no way to know if it was actually evening—the first symptoms of withdrawal had begun.

A subtle tremor in his hands. A persistent ache radiating from his old injuries. A crawling sensation under his skin, as though ants were marching along his nerve endings.

Minor discomforts. Barely worth acknowledging.

But they would get worse. He knew this. The pain would build hour by hour, like a tide slowly rising, until it swallowed him completely.

He tried to sleep, but the unchanging light made it impossible to maintain any natural rhythm. His internal clock was already failing him, seconds stretching into minutes, minutes into hours, reality becoming elastic and unreliable.

The pain had intensified sometime ago. No longer a distant tide but a storm surge crashing against the shores of his consciousness.

His joints ached as though filled with ground glass. His skin felt hypersensitive, every brush against the floor sending jolts of discomfort through his nervous system.

No layer between him and the world.

Just skin. Just the exposed lines of him—scarred and unhealed and fucking visible.

He’d tried to cover himself at first. Hands over hips, knees curled in. But that became its own humiliation.

So now he sat open. Vulnerable by design.

Let the room look.

But the shadows refused to touch him.

His cock was limp and cold between his legs, useless and present, a reminder he still had a body to suffer in.

He pressed his forehead to the floor. Let the tile leech heat from his skull. He wanted to disappear into it. Fall back into matter. But his skin wouldn’t let him.

The nausea came in waves, forcing him to crawl to the hidden toilet facilities when they finally emerged from the wall. He retched until there was nothing left but bile, his empty stomach cramping painfully.

The silence had weight now. Presence. It pressed against his eardrums until he could hear the blood rushing through his veins, the subtle click of his jaw as he clenched and unclenched it, the soft whisper of his eyelashes when he blinked.

The first time he tried to speak, it came out as a whisper. “Hello?”

The sound didn’t echo. It died. Like the air refused to carry it.

He tried to hum. A lullaby maybe. Or something that used to play on the radio when he was six and pretending not to cry.

The melody collapsed halfway through, swallowed by the room.

Even silence has texture, he realized. This one had teeth.

"The human mind requires approximately 11 million bits of information per second to maintain normal function," he recited to the empty room. "Sensory deprivation reduces this to under 1 million bits, forcing the brain to generate its own stimuli to compensate."

His voice sounded wrong. Distorted. Like it was coming from somewhere else.

"Hallucinations typically begin between 24 and 48 hours, starting with geometric patterns, progressing to complex audiovisual experiences..."

As if on cue, the white walls seemed to shimmer, becoming a canvas for his fears.

He knew they weren't real. Knew his visual cortex was manufacturing them out of desperation.

Knowing didn't make them any less unsettling.

He found himself standing on the edge again. Not a real rooftop, but the precipice between control and surrender. Between isolation and connection.

"What are you so afraid of?" asked the white room in Chuuya's voice. "That someone might stay long enough to see you?"

Dazai's laugh sounded hollow even to his own ears. "I'm not afraid of being seen."

"No?" The emptiness pressed against him as a physical weight. "Then why do you keep carving yourself into something unrecognizable?"

His hands traced the parallel cuts on his arms.

"Because I'd rather be the one holding the knife," he whispered to no one.

"You think pain makes you real," the emptiness observed. "You think suffering gives you substance."

Dazai paced, twenty-three steps wall to wall. Twenty-three steps back.

"Better to burn by choice than to flicker out unnoticed."

His skin crawled with phantom sensations—hands that weren't there, lips that had never kissed him, the ghost of pinky fingers hooked together in something too fragile to be a promise.

"But what if the match is just another kind of cage?" the whiteness asked. "What if you're still following someone else's script?"

Dazai stopped mid-step, struck by the thought. His mind, always calculating, always three steps ahead, had never considered that his self-destruction might be the most predictable thing about him.

That maybe his carefully cultivated chaos was just another form of obedience.

The revelation hit as vertigo, the sudden disorienting awareness that there was no floor beneath his feet, no ceiling above his head. Just endless white that offered no reference point, no gravity, no direction.

"What if your rebellion is exactly what was expected of you?" the emptiness continued, merciless in its insight. "The perfect weapon doesn't just kill others. It destroys itself when it's no longer useful."

Dazai's breath came faster, sweat beading on his forehead despite the carefully regulated temperature. This wasn't withdrawal. This was worse.

This was clarity.

"And what if staying is the only real rebellion left?" The white walls seemed to lean closer. "What if quiet is the only revolution you have left?"

He pressed his back against the wall, needing something solid. His fingers dug into his palms hard enough to draw blood, small crescents of crimson reality in a sea of white nothing.

"Shut up," he hissed at the room, at himself, at the thoughts he couldn't outrun. "You don't know what you're talking about."

But the isolation chamber only echoed his own words back at him, distorted and mocking. Because there was no one else here. Just Dazai and the architecture of his own mind, collapsing inward like a star in the final stages of death.

Beautiful. Catastrophic. Inevitable.

He slid down the wall, knees drawing up to his chest, making himself small against the immensity of emptiness.

His body curled like a question mark—what happens when a man who's perfected the art of running finds himself in a room with no exits?

The truth.

What was the truth?

That he was afraid?

That underneath all the careful calculations and suicidal ideation and deliberate chaos was a boy terrified of being abandoned again?

That he'd rather destroy everything himself than risk someone else walking away?

The questions kept him occupied for hours.

But eventually, his mind circled back to the most dangerous question of all: what if someone saw all of this—the fear, the destruction, the pathetic need to matter—and wanted him to stay anyway?

What then?

What would be left of him if he let go of the match?

No. No. No.

This was the trap of isolation. The mind consuming itself when deprived of external stimuli.

He forced himself to stand. To move. To trace the perimeter of the room again.

Twenty-three steps from wall to wall.

Twenty-three steps back.

Again.

And again.

Until his legs ached and his mind quieted.

But it didn't quiet. It couldn't. Not when the questions had claws and hunger and wouldn't let go.

Not when Dazai himself was the predator and the prey, the hunter and the hunted, the boy with the match and the thing waiting to burn.

Then he sat.

On the floor.

Cold against bone.

Ankles crossed.

Palms flat.

Count to five.

Then stood again.

Then dropped.

Back down.

Back up.

The old fractures in his arm throbbed with each breath. The scars across his back burned as though freshly made. His head pounded. The ache behind his eyes grew teeth. His stomach turned, slow and syrup-thick.

He swallowed back bile. It didn’t stay.

His hands started to twitch. His vision pulsed at the edges.

He tapped his fingers—index, middle, ring. Three. Again. Harder.

Back up.

He stood because he had to. Because the movement was the only rule that still obeyed him.

Then he dropped again.

Just to prove he could.

He thought of his pills—the bitter chemical taste. The ritual of it. The way they blurred the edge of everything.

He would kill for that blur now. But all he had was cold.

He curled into himself, back against the wall, knees drawn to his chest, and tried to focus on breathing. Just breathing.

In for four counts. Hold for seven. Out for eight.

It helped. For a while.

Until the wall behind him no longer felt like a wall.

Until it felt like hands. Cold hands pressing against his naked back. Fingers splayed wide, measuring the distance between vertebrae.

Mori's hands.

He jerked forward, a strangled sound escaping his throat before he could contain it.

There was nothing there. Of course there was nothing there.

But the sensation lingered, phantom fingers tracing surgical patterns across his skin.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made it worse. The darkness behind his eyelids swarmed with faces.

Mori. Oda. Chuuya.

The nameless woman from the nightclub. The boy with moss-green eyes. All watching him. All judging.

All finding him wanting.

He lost track of how long he’d been awake. He forgot if he’d laid down already. He forgot if he’d ever stood up.

The air didn’t change. But he did.

Memories looped with edges filed off. Scenes without timestamps. Emotions without source.

The kiss. Too soft to be real. Too violent to be imagined.

The towel. Chuuya’s hands.

The bandages. The blood.

The closeness. The revulsion.

The shame. The heat.

He couldn’t remember if he was hard then.

He couldn’t remember if he was now.

He curled tighter, chest to knees, breath fogging the cold tile.

But his hands—still his. Still warm enough to move.

He traced small circles on his stomach. Slow, clockwise. The way Mori had shown him.

Nerve grounding. Parasympathetic activation.

He murmured it.

Soothing touch. Closed loop. Safety cue.

One hand drifted up, dragged across his collarbone—thumb rubbing beneath it like he could loosen whatever was stuck in his throat.

Three circles. Three presses.

Breathe.

Breathe again.

His fingertips found his ribs—one at a time, counting the soft spaces in between. A map of a body he didn’t recognize anymore. A body that had been watched. Cleaned. Starved.

Down to his hip. The swell of it. The joint where bone met hunger.

And then the cold floor melted beneath him.

His hand no longer his.

The air smelled of incense and rosewater.

He lay flat on his back, limbs heavy. His skin wasn’t his. It had been marked—sigils drawn in oil and ash, circles etched across his chest, his thighs, the soles of his feet.

Something dripped down his sternum in slow spirals. Myrrh, maybe. Or blood.

And Chuuya—

No. Not Chuuya.

Not like this.

He knelt above Dazai with a bowl in his hands, copper flashing with firelight. His eyes were blacked out with soot. His hair was wet with oil and braided with bone charms. He wore red silk belted in gold, hanging open to bare skin streaked with paint and invocation.

"You came back cracked," Chuuya murmured. His voice was doubled. Echoed. As if someone else was speaking through him.

"I didn’t want to come back," Dazai whispered.

Chuuya leaned down, pressed a thumb to Dazai’s lips.

"This isn’t about want. This is about covenant."

He dipped two fingers into the bowl—the liquid dark, thick—and touched them to Dazai’s forehead. Then his sternum. Then the hollow just below his navel where breath lived.

Three points. Three names.

Khat. Ba. Akh.

Body. Memory. Breath.

"You scattered yourself once," Chuuya said, leaning down until his breath ghosted across Dazai’s skin. "Broke apart rather than break others. Do it again. But this time—" His fingers traced a sigil over Dazai’s heart. "This time, let me gather the pieces."

Dazai tried to speak, but his mouth was full of salt water. Full of shadows that tasted like the space between stars. His limbs wouldn’t obey him—not paralyzed, but bound.

And then Chuuya’s hands were on his thighs—gentle, reverent, parting them for access. One hand to the left hipbone. One to the right. Pressing him flat like pages, then dragged oil-slicked fingers down his stomach in a perfect line, slow and deliberate, until they hovered just above the base of his cock.

Dazai twitched. Breath hitched. His throat clicked dry.

Chuuya wrapped one hand around Dazai to anchor. To claim. His palm was hot. Anointed.

He began to move his hand rhythmically. Ritualistically.

Three strokes.

Pause.

A slow twist at the tip with his thumb, catching the smear of oil he’d left behind.

Three more.

Each movement matched the chant vibrating low in his throat.

“Return to form.”

Stroke.

“Return to name.”

Stroke.

“Return to light.”

Stroke.

Dazai gasped. His hips jolted without permission. He was hard now—not just from desire, but from something that wanted to be touched this way.

Chuuya leaned in. Rested his mouth just above the head. Breathing warm against it. His lips didn’t touch, but the intention did.

"You were whole once," he whispered. "But you came here to die."

He licked a line down the underside—slow, reverent. Like he was tracing a sacred text. Then kissed the base. The pubic bone. The soft, forgotten skin beneath.

"You can’t die until I finish the rite."

He took Dazai into his mouth in one slow motion—not sloppy. Not hungry. Ceremonial. His tongue moved with purpose. His jaw didn’t flex—his spirit did.

Dazai cried out because his soul was being unlocked through his body.

And just as the pressure crested—just as his hands twitched to grab something, someone—

He woke with a start.

Breath shallow. Lips parted. Sweat soaking the floor beneath him.

His hand was limp on his cock. Half-hard, going soft. No oil. No mouth. No god.

Just him. Alone. Shaking.

His body still remembered.

His soul still ached.

And somewhere in the static of the silence, he swore he heard Chuuya’s voice.

"Don’t walk away."

It was Chuuya. He swore it.

Except—

It wasn’t.

Because Chuuya never begged.

Dazai did.

His limbs started twitching.

It wasn't the cold.

It was the lack of.

The floor beneath him began to change again. A subtle shift in texture, in temperature.

He pressed his palm against it, and felt it pulse.

A red line, a thin vein, ran beneath him.

He crawled to it. Touched it with fingers he couldn't feel anymore.

And heard it.

"Don't leave me behind."

Chuuya was naked. Bleeding. Back turned.

Dazai reached out, fingers trembling with the need to feel, to verify, to understand what he was seeing.

Chuuya's spine was open. Exposed. Something had been ripped out by force—something with roots that went soul-deep.

The wound didn’t bleed red but opalescent, colors shifting with each labored breath.

Without turning, without acknowledging Dazai's presence, Chuuya stepped forward. Then again. Walking away with the mechanical precision of a doll.

Blood footprints trailed behind him, luminous against the white floor. Each print smaller than the last, fading as the distance grew.

Dazai's legs wouldn’t move. His voice wouldn’t come.

He didn’t follow.

Couldn’t follow.

Just watched as Chuuya disappeared into whiteness, taking all the color with him.

The thread vanished.

Dazai screamed into his hand, biting down hard enough to draw blood. The copper taste brought him back, momentarily anchoring him in physical sensation.

But the respite was brief.

He smashed his heel against the floor just to hear something.

The sound died fast.

The war hadn’t started yet.

This was just the waiting room.

Chuuya found his next target in the east wing training room, third floor.

The sounds of destruction reached him before he saw it, the whistle of something cutting air, the impact of force against matter, the ragged breathing of someone pushing past limits.

Akutagawa was alone. Black tendrils that extended from his body sliced through training dummies. The floor was littered with dismembered mannequins, their severed limbs arranged in what looked disturbingly like a pattern.

Chuuya didn't wait for a break. Just opened the door, leaned against the frame, and let the silence stretch until the kid noticed him.

He did. Immediately.

Akutagawa's next strike landed harder than necessary, driving through concrete. He lowered his arms. Turned.

Pale skin. Hollow eyes. The kind of thinness that spoke of something consuming you from the inside out. Dazai's new project looked more like a ghost than a person.

"Need something, Nakahara-san?" Flat. Polite. Laced with venom.

The honorific felt like mockery in his mouth. This wasn't respect. This was a kid marking territory, establishing the distance between them. Executive's pet versus fallen partner.

Chuuya stepped inside. Door clicking shut behind him with finality.

"You were there before Dazai went in," he said. No hello. No preamble. "You took the photos."

A pause.

Akutagawa's jaw twitched, a subtle tell that Chuuya had surprised him. "I was ordered to."

"I've seen them." Chuuya crossed his arms, gaze unwavering. "What wasn’t in the pictures?"

"That information was for Dazai-san." Cold. Automatic. The emphasis on the honorific deliberate this time, a reminder of loyalties.

Chuuya tilted his head. "Right. Because he's so fucking chatty these days."

Akutagawa didn't rise to it, but his stance tightened—like something in him itched to lash out and wouldn't.

Chuuya took a slow step closer, into what could charitably be called striking distance. A challenge.

"I don't care who you think I am, kid. I'm not asking to be part of your little hierarchy."

"You were," Akutagawa said sharply, "the reason we had to restructure it."

That landed harder than Chuuya wanted it to. The truth often did.

For two years, the Port Mafia had operated without Double Black. Had rebuilt itself around the absence. Had created new chains of command, new partnerships.

And now Chuuya had waltzed back in, claiming a place that no longer existed.

Chuuya's mouth tightened. He let it sit for a second—just long enough for the insult to curdle between them.

"Cute," he muttered. "You practice that one?"

Akutagawa stood there, breathing hard, fists tight at his sides. A muscle jumped in his throat—either rage or coughing suppressed through sheer force of will.

The silence stretched between them—two dogs circling the same bone, neither willing to back down.

Then something shifted in Akutagawa's expression, not softening, but recalculation.

"He asked for surveillance. Maps. A full blueprint of the club." His voice lost its edge—just barely. "Said the symbols were important. Said he'd seen them before, but wouldn't say where."

Chuuya's chest went still. Something cold slithered beneath his skin.

"What else?"

"There were sigils on the staff too. Some permanent. Some fresh." A flick of Akutagawa's fingers, dismissive. "He told me not to engage. Not to interfere. That it had to look like he was alone when he went in."

"And you listened." Not a question. An accusation.

"I follow orders." The words carried weight, implication. Unlike you.

Chuuya stepped forward—closer now. Enough to see the tightness around Akutagawa's eyes. The way his knuckles had gone white.

"And where were you," he asked quietly, "when he came back shaking and stitched like Frankenstein's monster?"

Akutagawa flinched. The first crack in his perfect obedience.

"I wasn't told he'd actually be alone."

The words hung in the air between them, raw with an emotion Akutagawa clearly despised showing. Guilt. Helplessness. The realization that obedience hadn't protected his mentor from whatever waited in that nightclub.

Chuuya stared at him. Something potent in his mouth. Something heavier than blame. Recognition, maybe.

"You think I wanted this?" Chuuya said. "To come back just in time to scrape him off the floor?"

Akutagawa didn't answer.

For the first time, Chuuya saw it—the real thing under the frost. Not just resentment. Not just ego.

Fear.

Raw, bleeding fear that had fangs and claws and lived in the kid's chest like a parasite.

And not the fear of failure—though that was there too.

This was the kind of fear that came from being chosen by someone who only knew how to hurt what he touched.

Akutagawa hadn’t been here long. Barely a year. Still raw around the edges. Still looking for meaning in the bruises. Still holding onto the desperate fucking lie that maybe, if he just bled pretty enough, if he just broke in all the right places, Dazai would finally see him.

Would finally stay.

Would finally say good enough.

Christ, Chuuya knew that story. Knew it in the song he'd heard in his sleep, a prayer he'd whispered into bloody sheets.

Dazai had found the kid on the streets—filthy, starving, half-feral, dragging his dying sister through alleyways that smelled like piss. Promised them both a new life. Promised safety. Promised meaning.

And then the training started.

The tests that weren't tests but experiments in how much a human soul could bend before it snapped.

The insults.

The bruises.

The impossible standards that shifted just enough to ensure he’d never reach them.

It wasn’t discipline. It wasn’t strategy.

It was abuse.

Dazai was cultivating something in the kid. Growing it like a cancer. Feeding it with rejection and watering it with just enough hope to keep it alive.

Because Dazai wasn't building soldiers. He was making mirrors—broken, desperate mirrors that would reflect back exactly what he needed to see. Sharpening them until they shattered into the perfect shape of his own self-hatred.

It was farming.

And Akutagawa—God, the kid still didn't know he was bleeding out.

And now, he’d watched Dazai spiral. Had been left behind. Had gotten no explanation, no warning, no closure.

And now Chuuya was back from the dead, dragging that same haunted bastard through hallways.

He stood there, staring at Chuuya like he was the intruder. Like dragging Dazai out of that basement had crossed some line Akutagawa thought was his alone to walk.

Like Chuuya had stolen something precious. Something that belonged to him by right of suffering.

Because it wasn't just that Dazai was back, wasn't just that he was alive and whole and breathing.

It was that Chuuya had been the one to bring him back.

Chuuya—who’d walked away two years ago, as far as Akutagawa knew. Who seemed to have had the luxury of choice, of distance, of healing. Who appeared to have never earned love through blood loss or approval through perfect obedience.

The kid had no fucking clue what Chuuya had really paid.

And Akutagawa, who’d spent every day since his recruitment trying to fill that void, suddenly realized he was fighting a ghost. A memory. A legend written in scars across Dazai’s bones—scars Akutagawa had never seen, stories he’d never been told.

The kid who'd convinced himself he was irreplaceable was learning he'd always been a substitute.

And the part that was eating him alive from the inside out?

He still wanted the job.

Even knowing he was second choice, second best, second string. Even knowing Dazai would throw him away the moment something more interesting walked through the door.

He still wanted to be chosen. Still wanted to matter. Still wanted to be the one Dazai looked at when the world went dark.

Akutagawa didn't know whether to lash out or kneel down. Whether to fight for his place or beg for scraps of attention.

Whether to hate Chuuya for coming back or thank him for proving that someone could survive loving Dazai and live to tell about it.

And Chuuya looked at this kid—this broken, desperate, beautiful fucking disaster of a kid—and saw himself at fifteen. Saw the hunger. Saw the devotion that felt like drowning. Saw the way love could become indistinguishable from self-destruction when the person you needed treated you like a test instead of a treasure.

Saw the lie they both told themselves: that the pain meant they mattered.

That being chosen to bleed was still being chosen.

And for the first time in two years, Chuuya felt something crack open in his chest that wasn't grief or rage or bitter fucking laughter.

It was recognition.

They stood there a minute longer. Breathing. Orbiting the same collapsed star. Both caught in Dazai's gravitational pull, neither able to escape its cruel mathematics.

Finally, Akutagawa muttered, "I have notes. If you want them."

His gaze flicked to the far wall, where a black bag hung. "Observations. Things not in the official reports."

Chuuya nodded once.

"Send them."

Then he left. Let the silence say what he couldn't.

That maybe—just maybe—they weren't on opposite sides.

Just different limbs of the same wound.

Different vessels for the same poison.

Dazai resumed pacing.

Twenty-three steps.

Turn.

Twenty-three steps.

Turn.

But the pain made it difficult to maintain.

His mouth turned to sand.

Not thirst. That would’ve been manageable. This was dry rot—lips cracking, tongue too thick, breath catching in the back of his throat like it was being mugged on the way out.

He bit the inside of his cheek for saliva. Blood was the only thing that answered.

The water dispensed once, without warning. He drank greedily, then regretted it as his bladder filled too quickly afterward, forcing him to use the humiliating automated facilities that emerged from the wall at his approach.

Just another reminder that even his bodily functions were not his own in this place.

He found himself talking to the hallucinations again. Arguing with them. Begging them to leave him alone.

"Go away."

"Why would I?" Not-Mori asked. "I made you. Everything you are is because of me."

Dazai pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until lights exploded behind his eyelids. "No."

"No?" A different voice now. Not Chuuya's. Older than that. Deeper. "Then who made you? Who carved your wings from light and taught you to fly?"

No footfalls. No latch. No shadow.

Just a voice.

Wrong. Familiar.

Not Chuuya. Not Mori.

Older than both.

A god whispering through the seams of the world.

"You fell because you wanted to burn."

"You are still burning."

"But this time, you won't rise."

Mori stood over a table. Dazai was on it. Not moving, but somehow still observing. Schrödinger's patient—both under the knife and watching the cutting.

A crown of surgical tubing rested on his brow, pulsing with something that might be blood or might be divinity.

His chest was open like a book that Mori read with dirty fingers, turning organs as pages, searching for something hidden beneath bone and tissue.

Mori said, "You'll be perfect, you know."

Smiled with the serene certainty of a creator admiring his work.

"It's not resurrection. It's recursion."

Dazai's mouth moved, though his body remained motionless on the table. "Am I dead?"

The question felt important.

Fundamental.

Mori laughed, sounding like bells underwater. "No. You're divine."

His hands dipped deeper into Dazai's chest, extracting something obsidian and pulsing. A fragment of something brighter than stars.

"You just forgot," Mori continued, holding the fragment up to catch the light. "But I'll help you remember. Again and again and again."

The fragment burned like a black sun, casting shadows that moved with purpose across the walls.

Shadows with wings.

The voices receded, leaving Dazai trembling in their wake, sweat-soaked and gasping. The pain peaked in a white-hot crescendo, then began to recede, leaving behind a strange, hollow clarity.

He sat in silence for hours after that. If they were still hours. If time still applied to gods in cages.

Then, hunger bloomed. Absence. Like someone had scooped out part of him and forgot to replace it. He pressed a hand to his stomach. It didn’t even growl.

You’re supposed to be full, his body whispered. Not with food. With something. With someone.

But there was no one here.

No voice. No echo. No self.

He curled against the concrete again. Shoulder blades dug in. The gash on his side split open a little. Sticky warmth slid down his ribs.

Good, he thought. Something’s still working.

The blood cooled quick. The air wouldn’t let anything stay warm.

His fingers found the stitches in his thigh—the ones he’d shoved in himself, bent double over that fucking first aid kit at the safehouse, hands shaking.

The thread was black. Coarse. Not surgical.

It had frayed where he’d sweated through it, torn where it dragged across concrete.

He dug in with his nail.

The knot resisted.

Then snapped.

The skin split with a sick little pop, and blood pushed up—fat and dark, slow at first.

Warm.

He sucked in a breath. Let it swell under his thumb.

It was heat. It was his.

And in this cold, white, nothing-room—it was everything.

He pressed into it harder. Let it spread under the pad of his thumb until it coated the joint, until the throb synced with his heartbeat.

He followed the rhythm like a tether.

He wanted more.

His other hand clawed down his thigh, fingernails scraping, searching. Found another seam. Yanked it open.

This one bled faster—thinner, hotter. It ran. Slipped down the inside of his knee.

He chased it. Cupped his hand to catch it. Held it there like the warmth might leave if he let go.

It made him pant. Made his scalp tingle.

It was the only sense left to him.

He smeared it with his palm across the tile. Left prints. Streaks. A red smear like a comet tail across the sterile floor.

He laid back, breath ragged, bones trembling with something just south of pleasure.

He wasn’t hard. Wasn’t aroused.

But he was—alive.

He whispered, “Please.”

He wasn’t even sure what he was asking for.

He just wanted the blood to stay warm.

And that’s when the light twisted. When Chuuya’s face appeared, stitched together with Mori’s grin.

"Please what, Dazai?" it asked, voice like static in holy water. "Please save you? Please love you? Please stop?"

“Yes,” Dazai gasped. His nails dug deeper into the wound, split it wider. “All of it. Any of it. I don’t care. Just—let it stay warm.”

The hallucination smiled wider.

"You don't get to choose," Not-Chuuya said, fading around the edges. "You never did."

It leaned close, hot breath curling against his temple.

“You’re the sacrifice.”

Then gone.

And he was left with the white, the slick on his thighs and hands, cooling too fast.

He clutched his leg but the blood was already dried.

But for one brief moment—

he had felt real.

Next came the burning.

Not real fire, but something deeper, more primal. A heat that originated between his shoulder blades and spread outward in a pattern like... like...

wings.

He twisted, trying to see over his shoulder, fingers scrabbling at his back. The memory of something that had never existed.

Had it?

He squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made it worse.

But he knew.

He knew the shape of divinity. He knew how wide his wings once stretched. How bright.

They used to cast shadows across whole timelines.

Now? Nothing but scar tissue beneath his shoulder blades and a cold that seeped through to the marrow.

He found himself back on the rooftop. Or a cliff. Or the space between seconds.

Only now he wasn't watching. He was falling.

Wind ripped past him. Clothes snapped like dying wings. He saw the sky shrinking.

Chuuya stood above, smaller with every heartbeat. Not reaching. Not weeping.

Just watching. Like he knew how this story ends. As if he's seen this loop before.

And then—he turned.

Walked away.

The wind went still.

There was no ground.

No impact.

Just endless falling.

Until another hallucination claimed him.

He curled around himself in the dark (though there was no dark, only unrelenting white light).

Something burned in his chest.

The obsidian bead that should have been around his neck—the one that had scattered across Mori’s floor when Chuuya's bracelet broke—was now under his skin. Buried in the center of his chest, where his heart should be.

It pulsed like it was waiting for someone to say his real name.

He didn't remember what that meant. But it hurt. The weight of every sin collapsing inward.

He saw the knife. He heard the boy scream. But the voice behind the sacrifice wasn't Abraham's. It was his. He was the one whispering in the ear. Not to kill. But to see if he would.

Because faith isn't faith if it doesn't bleed.

The vision shifted, melted, reformed.

He saw the world drown.

And he stood in the clouds, watching. He didn’t hate them. But they were never meant to last.

He saw mothers clawing at rafts. Children calling for gods that never learned their names. He felt the punishment of being unneeded.

He screamed.

But only the water answered.

Another shift. Another reality.

He walked through the ashes.

Feet bare. Robes blackened at the hems.

Wings dragging like broken spears.

He saw fire still licking at the bones of the city. Heard the last moans of the damned in the cracks of stone.

He saw a woman turned to salt. Tears dried on her cheek. She looked back out of love.

That was her sin.

He touched her hand. And it crumbled.

The visions came faster now, one bleeding into the next, reality and hallucination and memory all tangled together in a kaleidoscope of torment.

He saw the throne. Not made of gold. But of motion.

Wheels. Fire. Eyes in all directions.

And around it?

Creatures.

Too many limbs. Wings made of light and rust.

Voices like static sung in reverse Latin.

They called him by name.

But not "Dazai."

He wasn’t in the cell anymore.

He was in a field of broken stars.

Every star a name. Every name one of his sins.

They whispered. Not with mouths. With wings.

And in angelic tongue, they called him

They said, “You left the heavens not for freedom—but for the burn.”

He wept. But there were no tears. Just salt. Just heat. He laid flat. Limbs spread. A man crucified not on wood, but on absence.

His heartbeat the only proof he still existed.

And even that?

Unreliable.

The cliff.

Reality shifted again, tiles becoming gravel, walls dissolving into open sky.

He was small again.

Fourteen. Maybe younger.

No coat. No shoes. Just hospital socks and gravel underfoot.

The wind tasted like medicine.

He stood at the edge. Waited.

Not for someone to stop him.

But for the wind to pick up.

For gravity to notice.

For permission to finally end this exhausting performance of being human.

The drop stretched beneath him—dizzying, eternal, promising.

This time, though—

This time there was someone else at the bottom.

A boy. A little smaller. Red hair catching.

Sunlight spilled like wine.

He wasn't crying. Just reaching up with small, steady hands.

He knew Dazai would come.

He'd been waiting here across lifetimes.

Dazai took one step forward, toes curling over nothingness. The smaller boy's face tilted upward, features sharpening into familiar blue eyes. Too knowing for someone so young.

"Jump," the boy called, voice carrying impossibly upward. "I'll catch you."

Dazai believed him.

Wanted to believe him.

His body leaned forward—

Then the cliff dissolved, leaving him falling through memories that never happened, toward a boy he hadn’t met yet.

Chuuya didn't wait for the guards to finish unlocking the final latch. He shoved the door open with his shoulder, authority radiating from him.

"Three minutes," the guard warned.

Chuuya didn't acknowledge him. His focus had already narrowed to the figure in the center of the room.

Dazai was curled on the floor, naked and streaked in red.

His knees were drawn to his chest, arms wrapped tight around them, but his spine was crooked because he’d forgotten how bodies were supposed to fold. His head hung low, chin nearly touching bone. His lips moved soundlessly, speaking to something that wasn’t there. Or maybe was.

His eyes were open. But they weren’t seeing.

The floor beneath him was smeared—handprints in blood, fingerprints dragged across tile like a failing god trying to mark the world before fading out. There were streaks where he’d slipped, or crawled, or reached for something that never came. The blood had gone brown at the edges, rust-colored where it had dried thickest.

His skin had gone translucent. Waxen. Lit too brightly under fluorescent helllight. Bruises yellowing along the hip. Blood dried at the groin, along the inner thighs.

His cock was soft now. Shrunk from the cold. Curled into the warmth of his own thigh like it was trying to disappear. His fingers were still stained red from where he’d clawed himself open.

Chuuya stared.

And something in him reeled.

Not from the nudity—but from the absence in it.

From the lack of control.

Dazai was folded like a discarded offering—naked because something had required him to be, bleeding because it was the only way to prove he was real.

The last time Chuuya had walked in on him naked, Dazai had whimpered at him, desperate and shameless, cock twitching to the sound of his voice.

Now he was cold, quiet, gone—a ruined temple with nothing left inside.

Chuuya couldn’t look away.

And he hated himself for it.

Because this?

This wasn’t just collapse.

It was communion.

"Dazai," Chuuya said, keeping his voice steady despite the rage building in his chest.

Nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition.

The door hissed shut behind him as the guards retreated, leaving them alone in the white void. Chuuya's boots echoed against the sterile floor—the first real sound this room had heard in seventy-two hours. The noise seemed to ripple through Dazai, a minute tremor passing through his frame.

Chuuya approached slowly, deliberately, like he might a wounded animal. He crouched down, lowering himself until they were eye level.

The smell hit him then—sweat and fear and metal, the unmistakable scent of withdrawal. And something else underneath it all—something that reminded him of burnt incense, though there was nothing here that could burn.

"Hey," he tried again, voice dropping to something softer, something only Dazai would ever hear. "I'm here."

Dazai blinked.

Once.

Slow.

His eyes had to remember how.

His lips were cracked and bleeding in places. His breathing shallow and uneven. His fingers curled against the floor, nails broken where they'd scraped against the seamless surface searching for purchase, for reality, for anything.

He didn't speak. Didn't smirk. Didn't roll his eyes and call Chuuya short. Didn't reach for any of the masks he wore so effortlessly.

He just looked at him.

Not with recognition or relief.

But with something far more devastating.

Doubt.

Like Chuuya might be just another hallucination. Another trick of his mind. Another ghost conjured from necessity and loneliness.

"Jesus fuck," Chuuya whispered, the words barely making it past the tightness in his throat.

Without thinking, he reached out. His fingers found Dazai's cheek, thumb brushing just beneath his eye where shadows had taken up permanent residence. The skin was cold, clammy with withdrawal sweat.

Dazai didn't flinch away. Instead, he leaned into the touch, just slightly, to confirm Chuuya was solid, was real. His eyes fluttered closed for a heartbeat, and when they opened again, there was the first glimmer of consciousness returning.

"Chuu…ya?" His voice was a broken thing.

"Yeah," Chuuya managed, something dangerous and protective unfurling in his chest. "It's me. I'm getting you out of here."

Clean clothes lay folded neatly in the corner, a mockery of consideration from the people who'd put him here. New bandages too. Chuuya gave them one look and scoffed.

“Yeah, no. Fuck the bandages. Not today, Satan. We’re not staying in this shithole a second longer than we have to.”

He snatched the clean boxers from the pile with a violent twist of his wrist, then the shirt and pants. Tossed them toward Dazai's feet like offerings to something broken.

"Here," he said, voice rougher than he meant it to be. "Start with these."

Then he turned his back. Gave him the illusion of privacy in a room designed to strip it away.

Dazai's breathing came in shallow, wet pulls. His hands trembled, fingers unable to remember their purpose. The fabric felt hostile against skin rubbed raw by three days of nothing. His vision pulsed black at the edges, stomach acid burning the back of his throat.

He managed to drag the boxers to his knees. Three attempts to lift his hips, to pull them over concave stomach and jutting bone.

Then collapsed.

Not like falling, but the quiet surrender of a body that had forgotten how to exist in space. His shoulder hit the floor with the sound of wet clay. He didn't even have the strength to curse.

Chuuya spun around, curse dying on his lips when he saw Dazai curled on his side, half-dressed and shivering. Something broken and furious twisted behind his eyes.

"Fuck—" he breathed, the word more prayer than profanity.

He was at Dazai's side in seconds, crouched low, close enough that Dazai could feel the heat radiating from him. Chuuya smelled like outside—like cigarettes and rain and purpose. Like everything this white tomb had tried to erase.

“You’re shaking,” Chuuya said.

Dazai's eyes struggled to focus. His pupils were blown wide, leaving only a thin ring of whiskey-brown around black holes.

Chuuya reached into his pocket, then out of sight—body angling precisely where the camera couldn’t follow. When he came back around, his expression was unreadable.

“I brought you something,” he whispered and held Dazai’s chin steady, fingers firm against bone.

"I'm gonna pass it to you," Chuuya said, words low and intimate in a way that made the sterile air between them feel charged. "You're gonna take it. Yeah?"

No resistance. Just that terrible, trembling trust.

Chuuya leaned in, one hand finding the back of Dazai's neck. His thumb pressed against the pulse point where life still stubbornly insisted on continuing. Their foreheads touched first, brief and crushing, before Chuuya's mouth brushed his.

"Open up," Chuuya murmured against his lips, the words vibrating between them.

Dazai did.

The two fentanyl tabs rested beneath Chuuya’s tongue, slick with spit. He tilted his head and passed them over with his tongue.

Dazai’s mouth was too dry. His tongue felt like sand.

Chuuya forced his own inside, slow but deep, pressing it flush against Dazai’s palate to keep the tabs in place. He held him there—mouth to mouth, pulse to pulse—until he felt the swallow. The twitch of throat. The shiver under his palm that made Chuuya's fingers tighten against Dazai’s neck.

When Chuuya pulled back, a thin strand of saliva connected them for one heartbeat longer than either could bear. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as if he could erase what had just happened.

Still, Dazai's tongue darted out, chasing the lingering taste of Chuuya's mouth mixed with chemical relief. His hand found Chuuya's wrist, fingers circling it with a grip that wouldn't have held a butterfly.

"Thank you," he whispered, voice cracked from screaming no one had heard.

Something raw flashed across Chuuya's face—pain or rage or something dangerously close to tenderness. He didn't answer. Just reached for the clothes with hands that weren't quite steady.

Within minutes, Dazai's breathing started to ease. The rigid tension in his shoulders loosened fractionally. His body began to sag—it wasn’t from pain this time, but because it was finally, mercifully fading.

"Better?" Chuuya asked.

Dazai nodded, eyes already a little glassy. "Mm. Still hurts, but—" He blinked slowly, like a cat in sunlight. "Edges are softer now."

"Here," Chuuya said, holding up the clothes. "Let's get you covered up."

He started with the boxers. Simple. Or it should’ve been because the fabric was already bunched halfway up Dazai’s legs.

Chuuya crouched low, fingers brushing against the cotton, then against fevered skin. The moment he tried to lift Dazai’s leg to guide the waistband higher, the weight hit him—too long, too heavy, too much fucking man for the space between them.

Dazai’s body didn’t move so much as slump. His knee knocked into Chuuya’s chest. The other leg slid out, dragging the waistband askew.

Chuuya muttered a curse and shifted, half-crawling now, elbow braced against tile. One arm looped under Dazai’s thigh, the other tugging the fabric gently up—

Until it snagged. A thin stitch on the inner thigh, already pulled half-loose, caught and tore with a sick little noise.

A low growl cracked from Dazai’s throat. A sound with history in it.

"Wait—hold on," Chuuya said, softer now. He peeled the cotton back carefully. Blood followed, warm and wet against his knuckles.

Chuuya froze. His hands stilled on damp skin.

"Shit—sorry—wait, wait—"

Dazai tried to lift his hips. Once. Twice.

Failed.

Then fell back—the effort had hollowed him out.

A soft grunt escaped him. It said I used to be more than this.

"S’okay," Chuuya muttered, already repositioning—almost flat against the tile just to angle Dazai’s legs right.

The height difference made everything a nightmare. Dazai’s knees knocked into his shoulder. One heel clipped his hip.

"I know," he said. "I know it fucking hurts. Almost there."

Chuuya guided the fabric higher, past the jut of hipbone, past bruises that hadn’t even bloomed yet.

By the time it was done—boxers up, hips covered—they were both panting. Not from exertion.

Not just.

From the sheer brutality of touch being the only thing left that tethered them to their bodies.

The shirt slid on next.

Chuuya slipped it over Dazai’s bowed head, careful not to catch on the crusted blood in his hair. He didn’t speak. Just worked in silence, guiding one trembling arm, then the other, through sleeves that stuck to sweat and scabs.

Dazai didn’t flinch. Didn’t help. His fingers curled loosely in his lap, twitching only when cotton touched raw skin.

The pants were worse.

Dazai’s body gave no help—just trembled, deadweight with a pulse. His knees wobbled, knocking into Chuuya’s collarbone, his hips listing off-balance.

Chuuya worked without apology this time. Rough hands, sure grip—because any more tenderness would’ve broken them both.

"Lift," he muttered, voice hoarse from effort. "Come on, Zai, just a little—"

Dazai tried. Muscles fluttered, failed. His breath hitched.

Chuuya didn’t wait. He slid one arm behind Dazai’s back, the other under his thighs, and heaved—not a clean lift, not graceful, but enough. Enough to wedge his knee beneath Dazai’s weight, enough to hike the fabric higher, over bruised hips and down to the sharp V of his pelvis.

The zipper snagged halfway up.

Of course it fucking did.

Chuuya hissed through his teeth, adjusted, forced it the rest of the way with one hand braced hard against Dazai’s stomach—skin too hot, too hollow, too goddamn breakable.

By the time the pants were on, both of them were sweating. Breathing hard. Chuuya still crouched between Dazai’s knees, palms flat against his thighs, fingers curled slightly—not for balance, but like he didn’t know how to let go.

Chuuya looked up, watched him from beneath messy strands of auburn hair, face flushed from exertion, eyes wild and unreadable.

Dazai looked back, lids heavy, lips parted, breath slow and hot as it ghosted past cracked lips.

Beautiful, even like this.

Especially like this.

The most exquisite fucking wreck Chuuya had ever seen—stripped of the act, of the charm, of the cruelty. Just a broken doll.

Then Dazai’s chin dropped.

Rested against Chuuya’s crown.

Soft. Heavy. Trusting.

And Chuuya didn’t flinch or shove him off. Didn’t breathe fire or bitterness.

He just let him rest.

Fingers tightening on those thin thighs to feel something that was alive.

And to remind himself—

This was real.

He could still touch.

And Dazai still burned.

Chuuya breathed in—slow and deep—and felt Dazai breathing too, chest rising barely an inch from his own. Felt it through the thighs beneath his palms. Through the trembling hush in the room that had no walls anymore, just skin and breath and old ghosts.

The air between them was thick with every confession on the rooftop. Every truth whispered through bathroom doors. Every moment when they'd almost, almost been brave enough to reach for each other without pretending it was anything else.

Dazai swayed forward, forehead coming to rest against Chuuya's shoulder. The pills were working, dulling three days' worth of pain and withdrawal, but not the raw, exposed feeling in his chest.

"I saw you," he mumbled against Chuuya's coat. "In there. Over and over. Saying things you never said."

Chuuya went very still. "What things?"

Dazai's laugh was hollow, broken. "Things I was afraid you might. Things I was afraid you wouldn't."

Chuuya’s fingers sank into Dazai’s hair.

Sticky. Knotted. Oily at the roots. His nails scraped through dried blood, hit a clump where the scab hadn’t sealed. The strands pulled. Tore.

It smelled like rot and rain.

Still—it was the same.

The same hair Chuuya had run his fingers through on that stupid couch when they were fifteen—too tired to keep arguing, too wired to sit still, Dazai humming something unspeakably sad.

Back then it had smelled like lavender and moss.

Now it stuck to Chuuya’s palm like it didn’t want to be let go.

He kept his hand there, buried in the wreckage.

Because this was the only part of Dazai that hadn’t disappeared.

"Next time," he said, rough with promise, "I won't let them take you."

It wasn't what Dazai had hallucinated. It wasn't a declaration or a confession or any of the things they circled but never said.

But it was real. And after three days of nothing, real was everything.

Chuuya shifted closer, bracing one hand behind Dazai’s back, the other curling under his arm. “C’mon,” he muttered, half to himself. “Up.”

Dazai tried.

He made it halfway to his knees before his arms buckled. His legs shook once—then gave out entirely. He collapsed sideways into Chuuya’s chest, deadweight and heat and ruin.

Chuuya caught him. Adjusted—one arm hooking under the knees, the other behind his shoulders—and lifted.

He staggered for half a second under the length of him. Adjusted again. Locked his stance.

Dazai folded into it because surrender was all he had left and that scared Chuuya more than any of Dazai's self-destructive impulses ever had.

Chuuya held him tighter.

"Fuckin’ idiot,” he whispered. “You weren’t supposed to fall this far.”

As they neared the door, Dazai stirred.

His fingers twitched. Then curled, slow and unsteady, in the fabric of Chuuya’s jacket—like he didn’t trust the hallway to hold him.

"What day is it?" he asked, the words barely audible, ghosting against Chuuya's neck.

The simple question, so fundamental, so basic, broke something in Chuuya's chest. Three days of isolation, and Dazai had lost even that most basic marker of existence.

Chuuya tightened his hold, careful of jutting ribs and fragile skin.

"The day I get you back," he answered, voice rough with everything he wouldn't say. Not here, not yet.

But his grip said it for him—fierce and protective and uncompromising. The way he cradled Dazai against his chest.

The way he tucked Dazai’s arm back in when it slipped—fingers dangling over his forearm, too long, too loose—pulling it tight against his ribs like he could keep the pieces from falling out.

As they moved down the corridor, away from that white tomb, Dazai's breath evened out, head tipped into the curve of Chuuya’s throat.

Neither of them spoke again. They didn't need to.

The weight in Chuuya's arms said everything—lighter than it should be, but somehow heavier than anything he'd ever carried.

Chapter Text

Time passed sideways after the isolation room. Smoke and blood beneath gauze—slow and silent until it wasn’t.

Chuuya counted days by IV bags.

Seven. That's how many had emptied into Dazai's veins since he'd carried him from that white tomb. Seven translucent sacks of synthetic life dripping into a body that had gone too far into starvation to come back clean.

The PM medical wing smelled of antiseptic, copper, formaldehyde, the particular scent of someone trying to scrub guilt off linoleum.

The fluorescents hummed at a frequency that made Chuuya's molars ache, casting everything in the pallid glow of premature decay.

Dazai's room was third from the end. No number on the door. Just the Port Mafia crest embossed in brushed steel, small enough to miss if you weren't looking for it. Two guards stood outside with orders from Mori himself. "No interruptions. No exceptions."

But they let Chuuya pass. Always. Without comment. As if some invisible red thread connected his existence to the man in the bed, and breaking it would violate laws older than loyalty.

Inside, monitors blinked slow calculations of a life in flux. Heart rate: 52. Blood pressure: 90/55. Oxygen saturation: 96%. Respiration: 11. All the numbers of a body just barely present—mortality measured in digital readouts that couldn't capture what was actually broken.

The first night, Chuuya had stood in the doorway, unable to reconcile the figure in the bed with the man who'd made the Mafia tremble with a smile.

Dazai lay perfectly still, arms arranged at his sides like a corpse being prepped for viewing. No bandages. The self-stitched wounds from the nightclub incident still visible.

"You gonna stand there all night?" Dazai had asked without opening his eyes, voice sandpaper-rough from the screaming no one had heard.

Chuuya hadn't answered. Just dropped his coat over the back of the chair and sat, boots propped against the edge of the bed frame.

That was day one.

By day three, they'd established a routine.

Chuuya arrived after midnight, when the hall traffic thinned and the night staff was more concerned with emergencies than protocol.

He brought files—sometimes his own work, sometimes intelligence reports that Dazai technically wasn't cleared to see anymore.

It wasn’t peace, but something quieter than war.

One night, Chuuya was halfway through reviewing black market gem transfers when he muttered, “You’d have spotted the leak in the supply chain faster.”

Dazai didn’t even lift his head. Just said, “No shit.”

The feeding line remained, threading into Dazai's arm like an umbilical cord connecting him to synthetic life. The bags changed color throughout the day—clear saline, amber glucose, milky lipids, rusty drugs for the anemia that had developed during his starvation. One bag had a sticker Chuuya didn't recognize, written in a shorthand only mob doctors used. Something black market, probably imported.

"It's pentobarbital," Dazai told him on the fourth night, catching Chuuya studying the label. "Low dose. Keeps the shaking manageable."

Chuuya's jaw had tightened. "You asked for it?"

"I asked for something that wouldn't make me sleep." A pause. "Or dream."

Chuuya couldn't blame him for that.

His own sleep had changed since Corruption.

Since he let Arahabaki loose under Mori's eye, let it rip through every containment sigil he'd ever bled for. Since he stopped being a weapon and became a warning.

Now, when Chuuya slept—he dreamed.

Not the kind of dreams normal people had. No stuttered memories or nonsense images. No half-lit symbols his brain coughed up to explain stress.

These dreams felt like visits. To places that existed in the gaps between seconds, in the spaces where reality bent thin.

Stone chambers carved into mountain ribs. Four of them, hollowed out from living rock. Cold as bone. Quiet as tombs. But not empty.

Never empty.

And always—always—that sound.

Knocking.

One-two. One-two-three.

Still here. Still here. Still here.

Sometimes there were voices too. Speaking in words his mouth couldn’t form, but that made his spine arch like he remembered them anyway. Voices that cried out for justice, for vengeance, for someone to finally hear them.

Other times he woke up with blood in his mouth that wasn’t his own. Or worse—

The ghost-touch of fingers around his wrist. Small. Ice cold. Familiar in a way that made his stomach flip.

Same grip from that basement. The one that stank of chlorhexidine and burnt metal.

Same fucking grip.

If Chuuya could've asked for the same drug to keep the visions away, he would have. But whatever was calling to him through those stone chambers wouldn't be silenced by pentobarbital.

They didn’t talk about the isolation room directly. Didn’t discuss what Chuuya had seen there—Dazai curled on the floor, lips moving in silent conversation with ghosts. They didn’t mention the rooftop confession, or the kiss that wasn’t really a kiss, or the pills passed from tongue to tongue like a sacrament.

But sometimes, Dazai's hand would stray to his throat, searching for a chain that wasn’t there. And Chuuya would watch the pattern of his fingers—three taps, then a circular motion, as if tracing a symbol only he could see. A sigil that belonged to something with wings and wrath and the terrible fucking audacity to love what it was supposed to destroy.

It was that movement—repeated for the twentieth time on day four—that finally broke Chuuya's patience.

"Where did they put your shit?" he asked abruptly, cutting through the silence that had settled between them.

Dazai's fingers stilled against his throat. "What?"

"Your things. From the isolation room." Chuuya's voice was deliberately casual, like he was asking about the weather. "Where do they store that?"

Dazai's eyes narrowed slightly. "Why?"

"Just answer the fucking question."

A beat of silence. Then, "Sub-level two. East wing. Storage room behind the guard station." His gaze was calculating now. "But you need clearance."

Chuuya scoffed. "Since when has that stopped me?"

He left without explanation, coat swinging behind him with promise of violence.

The guards at the sub-level elevator barely glanced at him—Section Leader Nakahara on unofficial business was a common enough sight these days. No one asked questions. Not anymore.

The two men stationed outside the storage facility were a different matter. Black Lizard, upper tier. One with a facial scar that bisected his left eye, the other with hands that looked too large for his body.

"Nakahara-san," Scar-face acknowledged, not moving from his position. "This area is restricted."

Chuuya didn't slow his stride. "I need access."

"Orders?"

"Mine."

The guards exchanged glances. The silent calculation was obvious—the risk of denying Executive Dazai’s bitch versus the risk of allowing unauthorized access.

"Sir," Big-hands began, "we need authorization from—"

"From who?" Chuuya cut in, stopping just short of the man's personal space. "Mori? The same Mori who authorized me to clean up after his punishment sessions? The same Mori who pretends not to notice I spend every night making sure his pet project doesn't flatline from withdrawal?"

The guards shifted uncomfortably.

"I'm here for Dazai's personal effects," Chuuya continued, voice dropping to something dangerous. "The ones taken before his isolation. You can either give me access, or I can call Executive Kouyou and explain why I'm being delayed."

The threat wasn't subtle. Everyone knew Kouyou's feelings about "unnecessary obstacles."

Scar-face broke first. "Five minutes," he said, stepping aside to unlock the door. "We'll need to record the removal of any items."

"Fine."

The storage room was clinically organized—rows of metal shelving containing clear plastic bins, each labeled with names and dates. The lighting was harsh, industrial, casting mean shadows across concrete floors.

Chuuya found Dazai's bin easily enough. Third row, second shelf. 'DAZAI, O. – ISOLATION PROTOCOL 14.3'

The contents were pathetically sparse. The borrowed camping t-shirt. The joggers, boxers. Dirty bandages. A single sock with a hole in the toe. No chain.

"Where's the rest?" Chuuya demanded, turning to Scar-face.

The guard frowned. "That's everything that was logged."

"Bullshit. There was a chain. Silver, obsidian bead."

A moment of uncomfortable silence.

"Items of value are sometimes..." Big-hands hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Misplaced."

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. Chuuya's eyes narrowed, a subtle red glow beginning to emanate from his irises.

"Misplaced," he repeated, the word dangerously soft.

The guards tensed, hands drifting toward weapons. They'd seen what happened when Nakahara lost his temper. Had cleaned up after it more than once.

"Check again," Chuuya said, each syllable precise. "Now."

They moved quickly, searching shelves, checking adjacent bins. Finding nothing.

Chuuya stood in the center of the room, unnaturally still. His eyes closed.

"Leave," he ordered.

"Sir, we can't—"

"Leave."

Something in his tone made them obey without further protest. The door clicked shut behind them.

Alone, Chuuya exhaled slowly. His ability unfurled inside him, not the destructive force of Corruption, but something more controlled.

Gravity responded to his call, shifting slightly around objects in the room. Metal fixtures groaned. Dust motes hung suspended in the air. The concrete beneath his feet whined under sudden pressure.

He extended his awareness, feeling for anything that responded differently. Searching for the specific density and weight of obsidian.

There—a faint tug at the edge of his senses. Something small, heavier than it should be, wedged in the narrow gap between two shelving units.

Chuuya moved to the spot, crouching down. The gap was barely wide enough for his fingers. He could see nothing but shadow.

But he could feel it. The chain. Calling to him like it recognized what he was.

With a flick of his wrist, he reversed gravity in the narrow space. The chain slid upward, emerging from the gap like a snake being charmed.

It hovered in the air before him, spinning lazy circles pretending it wasn’t the most haunted thing he’d touched in months.

The obsidian bead caught the light. Barely. But enough to show something carved into it—lines so faint they looked like scratches at first. But they moved when he blinked.

Chuuya plucked it from the air, the weight of it settling in his palm like a small, dense secret. It felt warm despite the cold room, as if it had been recently worn.

And the second it hit his skin, something behind his eyes stuttered. The ghost of a place where the sky burned different colors and the air tasted like ozone and starlight.

He closed his fist around it, extinguishing his ability. The room settled back to normal, dust falling, metal creaking as pressure equalized.

The guards were waiting outside, tension evident in their postures.

"Found it," Chuuya said, holding up the chain. "It fell between the shelves."

Relief washed over their faces.

"We'll need to log that," Scar-face began.

"No, you won't," Chuuya replied, already walking away. "It was never here."

On day five, Chuuya entered Dazai's room with two items—tea in cheap ceramic cups from the vending machine down the hall, and the recovered chain clutched in his pocket.

The liquid steamed, carrying the scent of jasmine and something medicinal. "Kouyou sent it," he said, setting one cup on the bedside table. "Said it would help with the withdrawal symptoms."

Dazai's gaze flicked to the cup, then away. "She trying to poison me?"

"If she was, she wouldn't use tea."

A ghost of a smile touched Dazai's lips. "Fair point."

The tea went untouched, but Chuuya left it anyway. It was still there the next morning, cold and forgotten, like so many things between them.

When Dazai's hand strayed to his throat again, unconscious muscle memory searching for something that wasn't there, Chuuya finally broke.

"For fuck's sake," he muttered, digging into his pocket. "Take it and stop with the sad puppy routine."

He tossed something onto the bed—a small black object that landed with a soft thud against the white sheets.

Dazai went perfectly still, eyes fixed on the obsidian bead that gleamed dully in the fluorescent light. His fingers hovered over it, not quite touching, as if afraid it might vanish.

"Where did you—"

"Doesn't matter." Chuuya looked away, suddenly fascinated by the heart monitor. "Just stop pawing at your neck like you're being strangled by a ghost."

Dazai picked up the chain, running his thumb over the obsidian bead. Something shifted in his expression—relief, maybe, or something deeper that Chuuya couldn't name.

"They said they lost it," Dazai murmured, voice uncharacteristically soft.

"Yeah, well." Chuuya shrugged, still not looking at him. "They're liars."

Without comment, Dazai slipped the chain over his head. The bead settled against the hollow of his throat, black against pale skin. His fingers touched it once, twice, then stilled.

The pattern stopped after that. The three taps, the circular motion.

Whatever he’d been calling, it was quiet now.

On day seven, Chuuya found him sitting up for the first time. The hospital gown hung haphazardly, collar sagging off one shoulder. The chain lay in the hollow of his throat, too bright against all that ruined skin.

His feet were on the floor, barely. Toes curled against the linoleum because balance was something he had to remember.

Their eyes met, and something passed between them.

"They want me back on active duty," Dazai said, voice neutral in the way that meant everything underneath was screaming.

Chuuya froze, one hand still on the door.

"When?"

"Tomorrow. Mori's orders."

Chuuya crossed the room in three strides, stopping just short of Dazai’s personal space. Close enough to see the tremor in his hands, the way his fingers white-knuckled the edge of the mattress just to stay upright.

"You can’t even take a piss without falling over."

"I'll manage." Dazai's expression remained carefully blank. "I always do."

It wasn’t even the words. It was the way Dazai said them—flat, quiet, like nothing mattered. Because he could talk his way out of bleeding to death if he did it politely enough.

Chuuya moved before he thought better of it. Reached out and caught his arm—not the usual spot at the crook of the elbow, but lower, mid-forearm. His fingers closed around skin that felt like concrete.

The IV was a mess. It wasn’t even in the vein anymore.

"Don’t move," Chuuya said, voice flat.

A swollen pocket of fluid had risen beneath the skin—cool and taut. The catheter had blown through the vein. There was blood, too—seeping under the clear tape like a bad omen, blooming rust-dark through the dressing.

Chuuya’s stomach turned.

"For fuck’s sake," he muttered, mostly to himself. "They infiltrated you. You didn’t think to say anything?"

Dazai didn’t answer. He just stared at the damage as if it didn’t belong to him. Detached. Disinterested. He wasn’t even worth the correction.

That did it. Chuuya peeled the tape off in one rough motion, the tape pulling at fragile skin. He plucked the catheter free. A mercy that looked like violence but wasn’t.

"Still," he muttered, grabbing whatever gauze was closest. "You’re leaking meds into your tissue and you’re just sitting here. Jesus."

He pressed down hard. Dazai hissed, more from surprise than pain.

"How long were you gonna let this go?"

"It’ll fade," Dazai said, and it wasn’t even a deflection. Just a fact.

"That’s not the point," Chuuya snapped. "That’s never the point."

He wrapped gauze around the wrist, tied it too tight because he could. Because something always slipped through when he didn’t.

"You want me to set another one?" Chuuya asked, voice low, almost bored. "I could. Right now. Got enough rage in me to push a fucking needle."

Dazai looked at him then. His mouth twitched like he wanted to smile, but couldn’t justify it.

"You don’t even know how to flush a line."

Chuuya smirked, eyes dark. "Wanna bet?"

Dazai laughed—soft, broken, real. "Forget it," he said. "I’m getting out of here soon anyway."

The words fell between them like lint in the sterile air. Chuuya didn’t answer. Just kept his hand where it was, gauze warm with borrowed heat.

"You know… This isn't just about managing," Chuuya said, low and dangerous. "This is about whatever fucked-up game you and Mori are playing."

Dazai didn’t pull away. Just looked down at Chuuya’s gloved fingers against the inside of his arm—warm, firm, alive.

Neither of them moved. The blood didn’t matter. Not anymore.

"It's not a game," Dazai said finally. "It's a summons."

The word hung between them, weighted with something Chuuya couldn't quite grasp.

"To what?"

Dazai's eyes met his, and for a moment—just a moment—the mask slipped. Something terrible looked out from behind those whiskey-brown irises, something that dripped with the taste of divinity and the cost of falling.

"To remember," Dazai whispered.

Then he blinked, and the moment shattered. He was just a man again—too thin, too pale, held together by stubbornness and pharmaceutical intervention and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that sleep couldn’t touch.

But Chuuya’s hands were still shaking.

He released Dazai’s wrist, stepping back like he’d been burned. His gaze caught on a small detail he’d missed before—a leather-bound journal on the bedside table, half-hidden beneath a hospital clipboard. The leather was dark, almost black, and it hadn’t been there the night before.

"What's that?" Chuuya asked, nodding toward it.

Dazai's eyes followed his gesture. For a heartbeat, he seemed to weigh his options. Then, with a slight shrug that wasn't as casual as it pretended to be, he said, "Just passing the time."

The deliberate nonchalance was a tell in itself. Dazai never dismissed anything as "just" anything.

Chuuya reached for the journal, pausing before his fingers touched the leather. "May I?"

The question surprised them both—Chuuya rarely asked permission, and Dazai rarely granted it.

Dazai hesitated. Something complicated passed behind his eyes, he was calculating risks, measuring revelations. Then he nodded once, a barely perceptible dip of his chin.

"Knock yourself out," he said, voice deliberately light. But his eyes never left Chuuya's face as he picked up the journal.

The leather was worn smooth along the spine from obsessive handling. From being opened and closed and opened again in the dark.

The first page was blank. The second, nearly so—just a smudge where a fingerprint had dragged across ink still wet when the book was closed.

Then came the words.

“The wound is the place where the light enters you.”

Then I am full of stars. And every one of them is screaming.

Chuuya kept flipping.

Some pages were chaotic—languages he couldn’t recognize, or maybe forgotten ones that no human tongue was meant to speak. Some were diagrams—circles intersecting, labeled with planetary glyphs and sigils that made his eyes hurt to follow. Others looked like poems ripped from a fever dream, words arranged in spirals, as if trying to create a vortex on the page.