Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chap 1: a Cold Welcome

fyodor dostoevsky’s reputation arrived two weeks before he did. rumors, like smoke through broken windows, crept into the corners of every hallway—cold, sharp things that stuck to the skin. someone said he set fire to a chemistry lab in st. petersburg. another claimed he hacked a grading system in three seconds flat and walked away without a trace. there were whispers about a dead student, about staircases and silence and an untouched body at the bottom. nobody knew what was true, but everyone agreed on one thing: fyodor was dangerous in the way quiet storms are. the kind you don’t see coming until the water’s over your head.

when he did appear, it wasn’t dramatic. no thunder. just a sharp gust of wind as the back door creaked open and a boy in all black walked into homeroom like he owned the place. his uniform was perfect—too perfect. his posture was straight, his expression unreadable, and his hands were covered in black gloves, despite the fact it was spring. the room went still. not because of fear, exactly. just unease. like everyone could feel the static humming beneath his skin.

“fyodor dostoevsky,” the teacher announced, looking almost nervous. “our new transfer student.”

he didn’t say anything. just gave a small nod, dark eyes flicking over the room like he was scanning it for weaknesses.

dazai osamu hated him instantly.

it wasn’t personal. he just had a policy of disliking anyone who took themselves that seriously. the kid looked like he hadn’t smiled since birth. and dazai couldn’t trust people who didn’t laugh—even if it was at something horrible. especially then. he watched fyodor take the empty desk near the window. not beside him, thankfully. still, too close for comfort.

this was going to be annoying.

dazai hadn’t meant to get arrested that morning, but things sort of happened to him when he was bored. like theft. or fire. or, apparently, attempted robbery of a fast food chain. the plan was simple: walk into mcdonald’s, slip behind the counter, steal one of those stupid plastic anime toys they were hoarding like gold, and leave. but he’d underestimated just how seriously capitalism took its mascots. apparently, “you can’t go behind the counter” actually meant you’d get tackled by a minimum-wage worker with a grudge and a fire extinguisher. he still had foam in his hair.

by the time he was dragged to the principal’s office, fingers bruised and ego singed, dazai had already mentally prepared his speech. something charming. something insane enough to make them send him home early. maybe he’d even cry. no one ever expected that. but when the door opened, and the principal let out an exhausted sigh, dazai’s dramatic plans fell apart—because he was there. sitting calmly in the corner like a villain in the final act of a detective movie. fyodor dostoevsky, arms folded, posture immaculate, face blank.

“what the hell is he doing here?” dazai snapped.

fyodor didn’t even blink. “i asked the same thing about you. then i remembered clowns are common in failing institutions.”

dazai’s mouth dropped open. “did you just—”

“you tried to steal a happy meal toy. i hacked the school’s attendance system and faked my grades. we are not the same.”

“oh, my apologies, your highness. i forgot you’re a serious criminal..” dazai threw himself into the chair opposite, arms crossed, legs sprawled obnoxiously wide. “tell me, dostoevsky, what’s it like having a superiority complex and no sense of humor?”

fyodor gave him a long, cool stare. “tolerable. what’s it like being loud, stupid, and irrelevant?”

the tension in the office was immediate, thick as smoke. the principal pinched the bridge of his nose and mumbled something about the reform club. community service. warnings. but neither boy heard him. they were locked in a silent, hateful war of glares. fyodor’s expression unreadable. dazai’s full of practiced mockery. they hated each other instantly, and perfectly, like puzzle pieces cut to fit just wrong.

after what felt like an hour, fyodor stood. “if we must work together,” he said slowly, voice like frost creeping along glass, “don’t talk to me unless absolutely necessary.”

dazai smiled too wide. “oh, i’m definitely going to talk to you now.”

their punishment wasn’t suspension. of course not. that would’ve been merciful. instead, principal yamada, who looked one coffee away from cardiac arrest, declared them the new heads of the “reform club.” it was a pathetic, forgotten extracurricular buried in the student handbook like a cursed artifact. originally made to "reintegrate troubled youth into school culture," it hadn’t had members in five years. dazai had laughed so hard when he read the club charter, he nearly choked. fyodor hadn’t laughed at all. he just muttered something in russian and looked like he was calculating the quickest way to commit arson undetected.

the following monday, they sat alone in a dusty classroom at lunch, surrounded by broken desks and faded motivational posters from 2004. there was a whiteboard that read “believe in yourself!” in smeared red marker, which made it look like a threat.

“this place smells like regret and expired soup,” dazai said, kicking his feet up on a desk. he’d drawn a mustache on the poster of a cartoon bee. “honestly, i’m impressed. i didn’t think this school could get worse, but here we are.”

fyodor didn’t respond. he was sitting by the window again, of course, flipping through a worn notebook, gloved fingers turning the pages like they were holy scripture.

“do you ever talk?” dazai asked, voice sweet and poisonous. “or are you just trying to achieve full vampire mystique before midterms?”

“i prefer not to waste my voice on meaningless chatter.”

“ouch. that’s almost poetic.”

fyodor snapped his notebook shut. “if i must suffer your presence in this club, at least pretend you have a brain.”

dazai gasped dramatically. “is that a challenge, dostoevsky? because i do have a brain. i just choose to use it for chaos and flirting.”

“you have the emotional maturity of a wet sock."

“and you dress like a 19th century ghost.”

they glared at each other. if hatred had a temperature, the room would've frozen solid.

still, the day dragged on. the teacher assigned to “oversee” the club had left within ten minutes, muttering something about needing a smoke break and never returned. so it was just the two of them. sitting. breathing. existing in mutual loathing.

and then, quietly, fyodor pulled something from his bag—a bag of stolen school keys.

“what is that?” dazai asked, narrowing his eyes.

“nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

dazai leaned in, grin spreading. “are you planning a crime?”

“no.”

"you are.”

fyodor stood slowly. “you can either come with me and shut up, or stay here and die of boredom. your choice.”

dazai blinked. then smirked. “dostoevsky, are you inviting me to commit a felony?”

“i’m inviting you to stop talking.”

and against all better judgment—maybe out of curiosity, or spite, or boredom—dazai followed.

it turned out the stolen keys unlocked a lot more than broom closets. the school basement, for example, which dazai hadn’t even known existed. fyodor led him through a maze of back hallways, silent as a shadow, until they reached a rusted door behind the old gym. there wasn’t even a knob—just a keyhole and a flickering exit sign that buzzed like it was trying to give them a seizure.

“you know,” dazai said, watching fyodor pick through the ring of keys, “if i didn’t already know you were a serial killer, this would definitely confirm it.”

fyodor glanced at him, deadpan. “you came willingly.”

“i thought we were breaking into the vending machine or something cool.”

“this is cool. shut up.”

the door creaked open. the air inside smelled like metal and mildew, heavy and still. dazai hesitated, just for a second—but fyodor had already vanished into the dark. with a dramatic sigh and a flip of his jacket collar, dazai followed.

the basement wasn’t just storage. it was some kind of maintenance labyrinth—half-lit, lined with filing cabinets, dusty lockers, and cardboard boxes marked “DO NOT OPEN.” which, of course, made dazai immediately want to open all of them.

“okay, dostoevsky, what’s the plan?” he asked. “steal school property? summon a demon? hide a body?”

fyodor didn’t answer. he stopped at one of the lockers, tested the lock, then pried it open with what looked like a stolen screwdriver. inside were dozens of confiscated student items: phones, hoodies, fake knives, vape pens, some kind of cursed-looking teddy bear. fyodor began sorting through it with surgical focus.

“oh my god,” dazai muttered. “we’re literally robbing the school’s lost and found.”

fyodor held up a sleek-looking burner phone. “untraceable. if you’re going to commit crimes, do it properly.”

dazai blinked, then laughed. laughed. not a fake one either—real, full, ridiculous laughter that echoed through the room like it was daring the walls to collapse.

“you’re actually serious,” he said. “you’re insane. i like that.”

fyodor looked up, annoyed. “i do not care if you like it.”

“but you brought me.”

“you followed.”

“touché.”

for a moment, silence returned. not the comfortable kind—sharp and twitchy, like a cat ready to pounce. dazai leaned against the locker across from him, twirling a confiscated switchblade in his fingers. fyodor ignored him. or tried to. it was hard not to notice dazai, always performing, always there. loud in the quiet. bright in the dark. annoyingly alive.

“hey,” dazai said suddenly. “did you really push that kid down the stairs?”

fyodor didn’t look up. “do you really want an answer?”

dazai’s smile faltered. just slightly. “maybe.”

fyodor clicked the locker shut. “then maybe i’ll tell you later.”

he walked past him, back toward the stairs, calm and cold and unreadable as ever. but for a second—just one—his shoulder brushed dazai’s as he passed. and dazai didn’t move.

Chapter Text

chap 2: brains, bruises, and bribes.

the next day, they were caught.

not by the school, not by security, not even by principal yamada, who still looked five minutes away from quitting via window dive. no, they were caught by her. tanizaki-sensei. the kind of teacher who drank too much red bull, had a legally questionable taser in her purse, and once tackled a freshman for skipping detention. her eyes were sharp. too sharp. the kind of sharp that knew trouble by its shoe size and smell.

“i see you two are bonding,” she said flatly, arms crossed in the doorway of the reform club. “how sweet. and by ‘bonding,’ i obviously mean loitering around the school like you’re planning a heist.”

dazai blinked up at her, sitting backwards on a chair with his usual gremlin grin. “sensei, you wound me. fyodor and i are simply exploring the wonders of student life.”

“we’re rehabilitating,” fyodor added dryly, flipping a page in his notebook. “it’s what you asked for, isn’t it?”

“rehabilitation doesn’t usually involve stolen burner phones and missing lockpicks.”

there was a pause. then dazai laughed, too loudly.

“okay, okay, you caught us,” he said, hands raised. “so what now? suspension? expulsion? public stoning?”

tanizaki sighed. “unfortunately for all of us, no. i talked to the principal. we don’t have the budget to get rid of you.”

fyodor raised an eyebrow. “so?”

“so,” she continued with a wicked little smile, “we’re giving you a job.”

dazai leaned forward. “oh no..”

“yes. congratulations, criminals. you’re now in charge of school announcements.”

fyodor visibly recoiled. “you can’t be serious.”

“oh, i’m dead serious.” she slapped two plastic id badges onto the desk like she was dealing tarot cards. “you will report to the a/v room every morning. you will behave. you will not steal anything. you will not commit arson. and if i catch wind of anything shady—anything—i swear to god, i will lock you both in this room with the marching band for a week.”

and just like that, she was gone..

silence again.

then dazai grinned. “hey, partner."

“don’t.”

“wanna write me some poetry for the morning broadcast? something romantic. maybe an ode to cafeteria mold.”

“i hope you fall down the stairs next.”

“ooh, callback to your origin story. spicy.”

fyodor closed his eyes. briefly. like he was meditating. or planning dazai’s murder. probably both.

the a/v room was a mess of tangled wires, broken microphones, and a terrifying cardboard cutout of the school mascot that dazai kept trying to kiss for bits. fyodor, of course, took one look at it all and nearly turned around. “this is beneath me,” he muttered, squatting beside the ancient control panel like it had personally offended him.

meanwhile, dazai had already taken the mic.

“GOOD MOOORNING, USELESS PEASANTS!” he yelled into it, causing a god-awful screech of feedback that could probably be heard from space. “this is your favorite criminal-slash-prisoner-slash-beautiful voice of the void, dazai osamu, here to remind you that school lunch is still radioactive and ms. yosano's cat still hates all of you.”

fyodor flinched. “you’re going to rupture the speaker system.”

“oh no, what a tragedy,” dazai said, wiggling his fingers like jazz hands. “then we won’t have to do this every morning!”

“you’re the one enjoying it.”

“true."

fyodor muttered something in russian under his breath and yanked the volume control down. “stick to the script.”

“there is no script.”

“there was. i wrote it. you just used it to make a paper airplane and tried to throw it into the fan.”

“can you blame me?” dazai asked, dramatically clutching his heart. “it was so… bland. so formal. so full of words like attendance compliance and exam deadlines. ugh.”

fyodor turned to face him. and dazai noticed it, just for a second—how he shifted awkwardly, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. how his eyes flicked toward the microphone, then away. how his mouth opened like he wanted to say something and then just… didn’t.

“hey,” dazai said, quieter now. “you nervous?”

fyodor blinked. “what?”

“you’ve never talked into a mic before, have you?”

“i don’t… perform.”

“well, too bad.” dazai shoved the mic toward him. “go on. say something. say ‘good morning, students.’”

“no.”

“say ‘the school is on fire.’”

“it’s not.”

“say ‘i like cats.’’

fyodor stared at him like he was diseased.

and dazai, of course, started singing. loud. off-key. horribly.

“fyodor likes caaatss~ he’s a secret softie~ he drinks sad people tea and talks like a victorian ghostie~”

“stop,” fyodor snapped, actually flustered, swatting the mic away like it was a wasp. “you’re embarrassing yourself.”

“i’m embarrassing you and you’re the only one that matters right now,” dazai said, delighted.

fyodor turned away, ears tinged slightly pink, hands busying themselves with cables that didn’t need organizing. “you’re insufferable.”

“and you’re cute when you panic.”

“i do not panic.”

“you stuttered.”

“i did not.”

dazai grinned. “oh, you’re fun.”

fyodor didn’t answer. but he did stare at the broken mic cable in his hand a little longer than necessary.

they did not, in fact, get through the morning announcements.

fyodor tried. he really did. he cleared his throat, adjusted the mic, and attempted the blandest “good morning, this is your—” before dazai launched into another song at full volume.

“FYODORS GOT A CRUSH ON THE PRINCIPAAAAAALLL!~” he wailed like a dying goose, clutching the mic and doing something that could only be described as interpretive dance. “HE LOOKS LIKE A BROOM BUT HES INTO THAATT~"

fyodor slammed the mute button so hard the entire soundboard flickered.

“what. is wrong with you.”

“i’m giving the people what they want.”

“no one asked for that.”

dazai flipped dramatically into the spinny chair, spinning it with one foot like he was a tortured artist in crisis. “you’re just mad because i have natural stage presence and you sound like a haunted audiobook.”

fyodor pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting of a headache that had taken root the moment dazai touched the mic. “you have no presence. you have volume. there’s a difference.”

“tell that to the girl who flashed me a heart from the hallway,” dazai said smugly. “you saw that, right? i’m beloved.”

fyodor’s expression was the emotional equivalent of a blank error screen. “i hate it here.”

“you say that like it’s my fault.”

“it is your fault.”

dazai grinned, spinning faster. “admit it. you’d be bored without me.”

fyodor opened his mouth. closed it. he didn’t admit it. but he did yank the mic cable out of the board, yanking too hard, and accidentally ripping the whole jack clean out.

the soundboard sparked. dazai screeched. the mascot cutout fell over.

“OH MY GOD?!” dazai yelled, shielding himself behind the chair like they were under attack. “FYODOR, YOU STARTED A WAR.

fyodor stared at the wire in his hand, somehow both horrified and resigned. “that… wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“NO SHIT, SHERLOCK?!”

there was a long pause. then, quietly, dazai said, “you broke the announcements system.”

“no one heard that song, at least.”

“i worked so hard on those lyrics.”

fyodor raised an eyebrow. “did you rhyme ‘principal’ with ‘visible’ on purpose?”

dazai looked proud. “i call it experimental rhyme technique.”

“it’s atrocious.”

“it’s called art, you soulless rat.”

fyodor sighed, walked over to the fallen mascot cutout, and picked it up like he wanted to throw it out the window. “we’re going to get detention.”

“oh, we’re way past detention,” dazai said, kicking back with his hands behind his head. “we’re probably gonna get exorcised. or made to clean bathrooms with toothbrushes. or sacrificed to the pta.”

fyodor glanced at him. “you’re… not scared?”

“terrified,” dazai said brightly. “but at least i’m having fun.”

fyodor didn’t answer. he sat down slowly, pulling his hoodie up over his head like he could disappear into it. it was the first time dazai saw him actually look… teenager-y. not some eerie cryptid. just a tired guy with a brain full of static and regret.

“you okay there, ghost boy?”

“shut up.”

“i can write you a new theme song to cheer you up.”

“no.”

“too late.”

dazai started humming again. fyodor threw a pencil at him.

they fixed the soundboard.

well, fyodor fixed the soundboard. with a fork he stole from the cafeteria and dazai holding a flashlight in his mouth like a dog. it was possibly the most pathetic repair job in the history of electronics—wires taped with gum, one dial permanently set to “slightly possessed,” and a speaker that now made a ghostly whoOoOop every time someone said “lunch.” but it worked, and that was enough for them.

barely.

“so,” dazai said, poking a live wire with a stick, “what do you think’ll happen if we accidentally broadcast again?”

“we’ll be banned from using technology,” fyodor muttered, chewing on the end of a pen like it personally offended him. “which wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

dazai grinned. “you say that, but i caught you humming my song earlier.”

“i was not."

“you so were! right after you unplugged the speaker with your teeth. you were humming the broom principal song.”

“that’s not what it’s called.”

“it is now.”

fyodor looked like he was seconds away from declaring war. “you’re hallucinating.”

dazai just laughed. “admit it. you’re warming up to me.”

“i’m fantasizing about turning you into a coat rack.”

“that’s basically a love confession.”

fyodor groaned and shoved his notebook over his face like he could suffocate the cringe. “can we please finish the announcements? i rewrote the entire thing in five-minute bullet points and included jokes this time.”

dazai perked up. “jokes? did the great fyodor finally develop a sense of humor?”

fyodor side-eyed him. “one of them involves the math teacher and her obsession with frogs.”

“i’m listening.”

“and another about your gpa being a cryptid.”

dazai laughed. “okay, now you’re just flirting.”

“i will throw you out the window.”

they were halfway through recording the new announcements—fyodor’s voice steady, low, just slightly sarcastic—when dazai leaned in, too close, and whispered into the mic, “attention students: fyodor’s hair is naturally this fluffy. i checked. with science.”

there was silence.

a lot of silence.

then fyodor calmly turned off the mic, swiveled in his chair, and threw a stapler at dazai’s head.

it missed.

Dazai screamed anyway and threw himself across the room like he’d been shot. “MY BRAIN! YOU BROKE MY BRAIN, YOU MONSTER!”

“You don’t have a brain.”

“YOU’RE JUST MAD BECAUSE I’M RIGHT.”

“YOU ARE NOT RIGHT—”

“FLUFFY HAIR CONFIRMED!”

“STOP TALKING—”

but the door was locked, the windows were soundproof, and tanizaki-sensei had left them unsupervised for way too long.

which meant by the time the final announcement went live, it was completely unscripted chaos.

“today’s lunch is whatever didn’t crawl away. good luck,” fyodor’s voice said in its usual deadpan.

“also! there’s a rat in the gym! don’t pet it. it has a name,” dazai added in the background, sounding way too cheerful. “his name is keith.”

“keith is not part of the student body.”

“keith has a better gpa than me.”

“keith has rabies.”

“and dreams.”

click.

...

broadcast over.

fyodor stared at the wall. “we’re going to jail.”

“correction,” dazai said, “we’re going viral.”

Chapter Text

chap 3: Of Glitter, Grudges, and Government-Issued Mops

there were exactly three things fyodor despised more than dazai:

1. sticky floors.

2. group projects.

3. the smell of microwaved tuna.

unfortunately, today, all three converged in the form of a school-wide media club “open house,” and he was trapped in a sweaty, linoleum hell with dazai osamu.

the classroom was full of freshmen, all buzzing around with wide eyes and cheap recorders, trying to impress the upperclassmen. fyodor, perched on a stool in the corner like a bored cryptid, was manning the “tech table,” which dazai had immediately renamed the “nerd zone” and decorated with googly eyes and glitter glue.

“people like glitter,” dazai had said, dumping an entire tube onto fyodor’s lap.

fyodor had not responded. he was mentally disassociating into the void.

“you look like a cursed art project,” dazai said now, grinning as he leaned over to smear some on fyodor’s cheek. “there. you’re ready for war.”

“i hate you.”

“that’s fair.”

their club sponsor, tanizaki-sensei, had given them explicit instructions to behave. which was hilarious in hindsight, because fyodor had already threatened to throw a monitor at a child, and dazai had started handing out fake “press badges” that said “certified chaos gremlin.”

the chaos, of course, peaked when a girl asked if she could try the announcement mic.

“absolutely,” dazai said, before fyodor could say anything responsible.

he didn’t even check the board first.

what followed was a god-awful screech—like a dying robot—and then static, followed by the schoolwide intercom clicking on.

dazai’s grin widened like a shark sensing blood.

“no,” fyodor said immediately.

“yes,” dazai replied, already pulling the mic toward himself.

“we are not—”

“good mooorning, my beautiful prisoners~,” dazai said sweetly into the intercom. “this is your captain of catastrophe, dazai osamu, here with your daily dose of lies and nonsense.”

fyodor stood up so fast his chair squealed. “turn. it. off.”

“too late!” dazai chirped. “today’s weather report: emotional. the cafeteria is serving trauma soup. and remember, if a teacher catches you in the hallway without a pass, simply cry. they hate confrontation.”

fyodor lunged.

dazai threw himself backward with the mic still in hand, knocking over a table and sending three freshmen running. “WELCOME TO THE MEDIA, MOTHERF—”

click.

fyodor yanked the power cord.

dead silence.

a moment passed. everyone stared.

“okay,” fyodor said flatly, voice deadpan as ever. “club’s over.”

dazai was still on the floor, cackling like a goblin. “you tackled me.”

“you deserved it.”

“i saw heaven.”

“you deserved it.”

tanizaki-sensei stormed in two minutes later with wild hair and the fury of someone who’d just had their class interrupted mid-exam. “WHAT DID YOU DO.”

“nothing,” they said in perfect unison.

she stared.

fyodor pointed at dazai.

dazai pointed at fyodor.

someone in the back whispered, “was that scripted?”

tanizaki took a deep breath. “you two are banned from the mic. again. i swear to god, if i hear one more ‘daily chaos report’ over the speakers—”

“it’s a public service,” dazai said helpfully.

“it’s a nightmare!”

“semantics.”

“you’re both on cleanup duty for a week.”

dazai gasped. “with him?!”

fyodor looked equally horrified. "huh?!"

tanizaki looked like she was about to commit a crime herself. “if i had the legal power, i’d marry you two out of spite and send you on a honeymoon to siberia.”

“romantic,” dazai said.

“cold,” fyodor muttered.

they were still bickering when the classroom emptied out, the glitter dried onto fyodor’s pants, and tanizaki slammed the door behind her.

and so began the week of forced labor.

their first task? organizing the a/v storage closet. alone. together.

“i’m not touching the wires,” dazai declared, flopping dramatically on the floor like a dying starfish. “they look sentient.”

“they are cables, dazai.”

“they’re judging me.”

fyodor ignored him and started untangling cords with surgical precision. it was almost hypnotic—the way his long fingers worked through the mess, quiet and efficient.

until—

“so,” dazai said casually, “what’d you do to get arrested that one time?”

fyodor froze.

his eyes flicked up slowly. “that’s not your business.”

“everything’s my business.”

“no, it’s not.”

“c’mon,” dazai said, rolling onto his stomach. “you tell me yours, i’ll tell you mine.”

“i don’t care about yours.”

“i accidentally robbed a pet store.”

there was a beat.

fyodor blinked. “…how do you ‘accidentally’ rob a pet store.”

“i thought it was a pharmacy. i stole three fish and a parrot.”

fyodor’s mouth twitched. “and the murder?”

dazai gave a crooked grin. “slipped on a banana peel. guy fell down the stairs. whoops.”

fyodor stared.

dazai winked.

fyodor looked back at the cords. “that’s stupid.”

“you’re stupid.”

“you’re insufferable.”

“you like me.”

“i fantasize about deleting you from existence.”

“awwww, how cute!~”

fyodor sighed and tugged at a knot. “fine. i poisoned someone’s tea once. but they were already on medication, so it was technically the pills that finished the job.”

dazai’s jaw dropped. “bro. that’s so dramatic.”

“you robbed a fish tank.”

“and i regret nothing.”

fyodor rolled his eyes. “we’re not bonding.”

“too late. we’re bonded.”

“stop talking.”

“you love it.”

fyodor didn’t respond. but he didn’t throw a cable at dazai either, which, in their weird little world, was basically a handshake.

by the end of the hour, the cords were organized, the glitter was still on fyodor’s pants, and dazai had duct-taped googly eyes to the monitor.

“name it,” he said, proud.

“no.”

“c’mon. give it a name. something spooky.”

fyodor thought for a moment.

“…igor.”

dazai beamed.

“see? you DO have a soul!”

fyodor stood, grabbed his bag, and deadpanned, “it’s rotting.”

the next day, cleanup duty began at 7:30 a.m.—a time both dazai and fyodor considered criminal.

“why are we here,” dazai groaned, draped across three chairs like a melting pancake.

“because you called the principal ‘our warden’ on the intercom,” fyodor muttered, unlocking the supply closet with a loud clack.

“details, details.”

the closet was a tiny concrete box full of broken chairs, a vacuum older than the school itself, and exactly one suspicious bucket labeled “do not open.” naturally, dazai opened it.

“is this… a rat?”

“put it down.”

“bro it’s MOVING—”

he dropped the bucket and bolted backwards into fyodor, knocking them both over in a tangle of limbs, dust, and pure rage.

“get OFF—”

“WHY IS IT FUZZY—”

fyodor shoved him off and stood up coughing, covered in some ancient gray fluff. dazai was still on the floor laughing like a maniac.

“i hate you so much.”

“you say that a lot. it’s losing impact.”

“no. you’re just losing brain cells.”

“joke’s on you—i never had any to begin with.”

fyodor sighed and grabbed a broom. dazai, clearly deciding this was the perfect opportunity to be unhelpful, began using his own broom as a microphone.

“this is dazai osamu, live from the janitor closet. we’re witnessing the slow deterioration of one fyodor dostoevsky. how do you feel, sir?”

fyodor looked at the ceiling. “like i’m being punished for war crimes i didn’t commit.”

“oh, so those weren’t real.”

“shut up.”

dazai snorted, then—out of nowhere—his tone dipped, just for a second.

“you ever think we’re gonna end up doing this forever?”

fyodor paused. “what, sweeping closets?”

“no. like... just. this. dumb shit. you and me. in trouble. always one step from getting expelled.”

there was a beat.

fyodor didn’t answer right away. the question lingered in the stale air, strangely heavy for a morning filled with fake rats and sarcasm.

“…i don’t plan that far ahead,” he said finally.

dazai smiled, soft and crooked. “same.”

then, because he couldn’t let the moment be serious for more than five seconds, he flung the dusty mop water at fyodor’s shoes.

“you’re disgusting.”

“and you’re soggy!”

“touch me again and i’ll commit a real crime.”

“promise?”

fyodor grabbed the mop handle. dazai screamed and ran.

"AAAAAAAAAAH-"

"COME HERE-"

Chapter Text

Chap 4: Shared Crimes and Other Group Activities.

it started with a fire drill.

as usual, it was dazai’s fault.

“well, technically it wasn’t a real fire,” he said, arms crossed smugly as the alarm blared behind them.

“you set paper towels on fire inside the chemistry lab,” fyodor deadpanned.

“i was conducting a highly important experiment in flammability!”

“you were roasting a marshmallow with a bunsen burner.”

“a man’s gotta eat.”

a crowd of students gathered outside in the heat, confused and sweaty. teachers barked orders, someone was crying near the bike racks, and dazai looked way too pleased with himself.

fyodor leaned against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“you’re going to get us expelled.”

“wouldn’t be the worst thing,” dazai replied, chewing a toothpick like it was a lollipop. “we could start a life of crime. again.”

“we already have a life of crime.”

“exactly! we’re ahead of the curve.”

fyodor rolled his eyes. the air smelled like burnt plastic and regret.

eventually, tanizaki-sensei stormed over, red-faced and furious.

“you two—nurse’s office. now. before i throw you into detention until graduation.”

they didn’t argue.

the nurse’s office was cold, sterile, and smelled vaguely like hand sanitizer and childhood trauma. dazai sat on the paper-covered cot, kicking his legs like a six-year-old.

fyodor sat across from him, arms folded, gaze fixed on the floor.

“you’ve got glitter in your hair,” dazai said casually.

“i know. it won’t come out.”

“i think it’s become part of your aura.”

“i will kill you with my mind.”

the nurse popped her head in, took one look at them, sighed, and tossed them both ice packs “just in case.” she didn’t ask what happened. she didn’t want to know.

once she left, the room fell into a weird, almost awkward silence.

dazai broke it with, “so what’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever stolen?”

fyodor blinked. “…a priest’s bicycle.”

there was a pause.

“that’s kind of iconic.”

fyodor shrugged. “i was thirteen. he left it unlocked.”

“where’d you go?”

“nowhere. i just pushed it into the river.”

“…why?”

“i didn’t like his sermons.”

dazai burst out laughing. “that’s so evil. i love it.”

fyodor almost smiled. almost.

“and you?”

dazai flopped dramatically onto his side. “hmm. probably that one time i faked a field trip permission slip so i could sneak into a museum.”

“that's not theft.”

“i stole napoleon’s hat.”

“…you’re lying.”

dazai grinned. “am i?”

there was another beat of silence.

then, because they couldn’t help it, they both started laughing—quiet, snickering, tired laughter that sounded suspiciously like friendship.

but fyodor cut it short with a sigh, voice soft.

“you’re gonna get us arrested one day.”

“you say that like it hasn’t already happened.”

“that was one time.”

“and it was fun. admit it.”

fyodor didn’t respond.

he just leaned back in the cold plastic chair, eyes half-lidded, letting the silence stretch again. but this time, it wasn’t awkward. it was something else. something almost… calm.

like a storm resting.

then—

“you hungry?” dazai asked.

fyodor raised an eyebrow. “i just watched you set fire to a snack.”

“exactly. i’m starving.”

they raided the vending machines like they were staging a heist. dazai tried to pick the lock. fyodor used a paperclip. in the end, they just shook it until three packets of instant ramen fell out.

“crime pays,” dazai declared, holding the ramen like a trophy.

“you’re a walking cautionary tale.”

they ended up sitting under the stairwell behind the gym, sharing warm vending machine ramen in silence.

it should’ve been gross. it kind of was. but it was also... comfortable.

like maybe, just maybe, this was a truce.

dazai slurped his noodles. “y’know, we’d make a good team.”

fyodor snorted. “god, no.”

“no seriously. you’re the brains. i’m the charm.”

“you’re a menace.”

“and you’re secretly into it.”

fyodor choked on his noodles.

“i hate you.”

dazai grinned. “sure you do.”

they didn’t speak again for a while.

not until dazai said, softer this time, “you ever think we’re both just really bad at being normal?”

fyodor didn’t look at him.

he didn’t need to.

“…yeah,” he said.

they stayed there until the sun started to shift through the gym windows, casting long shadows over the cracked tile floors. dazai was halfway through drawing a cartoon of tanizaki-sensei in fyodor’s notebook—complete with devil horns and a tiny flaming pitchfork—when he paused.

“hey.”

fyodor didn’t look up. “what.”

“you ever think about what you’d be doing if you weren’t here?”

fyodor kept his gaze on the page. the sketch was terrible. the proportions were all wrong. he didn’t correct it.

“…no,” he said after a second.

“liar,” dazai said, voice light but not teasing.

fyodor was quiet again.

then: “maybe i’d be in moscow. probably dead.”

“same, but in tokyo.”

dazai tossed the pen aside and leaned back until his head hit the wall.

“funny, isn’t it? we end up here instead. in some weird school. eating sad noodles.”

“you tried to set a marshmallow on fire in chemistry.” fyodor muttered.

“yeah, but for a second, it was beautiful.”

“you’re such an idiot.”

“you say that like it’s not the best part of me.”

fyodor turned his head just slightly. not to look at dazai, exactly—just in his direction. the kind of glance you pretend isn’t intentional. like catching a shadow move out of the corner of your eye.

“…why do you talk to me?”

the question was out before he could stop it. it sounded more vulnerable than he meant.

dazai blinked, caught off guard for once.

then he grinned. “because i know you want to be left alone. and that makes me want to bug you more.”

“you’re the worst.”

“i’m your worst,” dazai replied cheerfully, leaning a little too close.

fyodor didn’t flinch.

“…get out of my personal space.”

“nope.”

“you smell like artificial chicken powder.”

“and you smell like existential dread.”

there was a beat.

then they both burst into laughter again—this time louder, messier, like the weight of being who they were had slipped for just a second.

eventually, the bell rang.

they didn’t move.

“i’m gonna skip math,” dazai said.

fyodor hummed. “me too.”

“we’re so bad.”

“maybe we’re just honest.”

dazai tilted his head. “that’s kind of deep, for you.”

fyodor didn’t reply. he just stood, brushing noodle crumbs off his lap, and headed toward the hallway.

but before he turned the corner, he paused—just long enough to say, without looking back:

“you coming, or are you gonna sit there and rot?”

dazai grinned and hopped up, falling into step beside him.

and just like that, without really saying it, they walked into the next act of their chaos. together.

still enemies. still disasters.

but something was shifting.

something they weren’t ready to name yet.

not yet.

Chapter Text

Accidental Arson and Other Tuesday Activities. 

there were few things dazai was not willing to set on fire.

unfortunately, today, one of them was the ancient art classroom… but only because it still had good ventilation and the janitor’s wifi password written on the back wall.

“i swear to god,” fyodor hissed, stomping out the small fire dazai had conjured with a match, an old test paper, and a very concerning amount of hand sanitizer. “do you have a death wish?”

“several!” dazai beamed. “but this one was more of an artistic statement. arson as protest.”

“you tried to burn a grading rubric.”

“and it was a c+! have some standards.”

fyodor pressed two fingers to his temple and counted to ten in russian.

they were supposed to be helping reorganize the art supplies—another one of tanizaki-sensei’s punishments for “creating a hostile learning environment with your entire vibe.” the classroom was deserted except for them, paint fumes, and a suspicious sculpture that looked like it was made of real teeth.

dazai had immediately named it gregory.

“so,” dazai said, leaning against a paint-stained table. “did you do the history homework?”

fyodor didn’t even look up. “no.”

“cool. wanna forge it together and frame a sophomore?”

fyodor glanced over. “that’s… actually not a terrible idea.”

“SEE? this is growth!”

“you’re still banned from school printers.”

“i’ve discovered alternative methods,” dazai said cryptically, pulling a handheld label maker from his bag like it was a rare artifact. “witness: chaos.”

fyodor blinked. “is that… my name?”

on the side of the table, in all caps, someone had labeled PROPERTY OF FYODOR “MURDER MAN” DOSTOEVSKY.

fyodor slowly turned to him. “i will kill you.”

“again? that’s, like, the sixth time this week.”

“you make it too easy.”

“you make it too fun.”

there was a pause. the air between them hummed—still sharp, but not quite angry. not anymore. just something restless, like static before lightning.

dazai broke it by pulling open a drawer and gasping. “FOUND THE GOOD SHARPIES!!”

fyodor watched him like one might watch a raccoon learning to skateboard. horrified, but with morbid curiosity.

“hey,” dazai said after a while, uncapping a pen with a pop. “you still dreaming of poisoning people or whatever?”

fyodor tilted his head. “you still dreaming of dramatic exits?”

“always.”

“then yes.”

they sat like that for a while—passing markers back and forth, labeling things they didn’t own, inventing new club names like the association of academic menaces and sons of mild arson.

it was quiet.

not peaceful, exactly. but familiar.

comfortable, in the way a bomb might feel right before detonation.

by the time they’d sharpied mustaches on every art club poster, painted googly eyes on the plaster busts, and rearranged the clay sculptures into what could only be described as “modern emotional distress,” fyodor finally said it:

“you’re not as annoying when you’re quiet.”

dazai blinked at him, marker still uncapped. “… was that a compliment?”

fyodor stared him dead in the eye. “no.”

“it felt like one.”

“it wasn’t.”

dazai leaned in, grinning. “you care about me.”

“i will literally—”

“you care about me.”

“i’m legally planning your funeral.”

“oh? what’s the theme?”

“‘finally.’”

dazai cackled, dropping back in the broken chair he’d been half-balancing on. he almost fell, arms flailing, then caught himself on the desk like a smug cat. “you’re so fun when you’re mean.”

fyodor turned back to the supplies. “you should be studied.”

“i am! in the form of several active investigations.”

fyodor sighed, brushing glitter off a paint palette like it personally offended him. the late afternoon sun was streaming through the windows now, painting golden stripes across the mess they’d made.

it was almost pretty. if you ignored the burnt paper.

“i still think you did it,” dazai said suddenly, quieter this time.

fyodor didn’t look up. “did what.”

“the thing. the… tea thing.”

fyodor’s hand froze for a second on the brush handle.

dazai wasn’t smirking anymore. his voice was low, curious. not accusing. just… wondering.

“i don’t regret it,” fyodor said eventually.

“i didn’t say you should.”

there was a beat.

then dazai tossed a dried-up paintbrush at him. “bet it was dramatic.”

“it was tuesday.”

“even better.”

another pause. another silence. this one a little heavier.

dazai spoke again, voice weirdly thoughtful: “y’know, i think if we weren’t constantly ruining each other’s lives, we’d probably be good at this whole school thing.”

fyodor tilted his head. “we’re not failing.”

“we’re also not not on an informal fbi watchlist.”

“only you.”

“okay, first of all—”

the bell cut them off, sharp and shrill.

fyodor stood, dusting his coat off. “we’re late for last period.”

“perfect. i hate math anyway.”

they started packing up their chaos, scraping glitter off desks and stacking sharpies into increasingly unholy color orders.

as they left the room, dazai slung an arm around fyodor’s shoulder with a fake gasp. “aw, our first date! so romantic.”

fyodor shoved him off. “trip on the stairs.”

dazai wiggled his fingers. “catch me if i fall~”

“you’ll hit every step on the way down.”

“i’m gonna write poetry about you.”

“i’ll poison your pen.”

“hot.”

fyodor slammed the door shut behind them.

Chapter Text

 Chap 6: Pencils, Pyromania, and a Panic Drill

fyodor woke up to his cat knocking over a jar of pens and the distant sound of his ringtone, which he’d set to absolute silence because dazai kept prank calling him at 3 a.m. the text that followed, however, glowed like a curse from satan himself:

DAZAI: bring a lighter. for educational purposes.

he stared at it for a good minute before texting back:

FYODOR: absolutely not.

DAZAI: u are boring and afraid of learning.

DAZAI: the flames r metaphorical. probably.

fyodor put his phone down, got dressed, and brought the lighter anyway. he told himself it was so dazai wouldn’t steal one instead. or worse—build a flamethrower out of cafeteria supplies again.

by the time he got to school, dazai was already at their locker like a goblin who hadn’t slept, clutching a half-burnt textbook and wearing safety goggles. “science is an art, fyodor.”

“that’s history.”

“not anymore.”

fyodor walked past him. dazai followed like an enthusiastic plague.

they had math first period, which should’ve been boring—but dazai decided to set his mechanical pencil on fire. “it’s for a project,” he whispered, as if that made anything better.

“what project.”

“the one where we get banned from touching school property.”

fyodor didn’t even blink. he just snatched the lighter and stuck it in his bag. “you’re grounded.”

“you’re not my dad.”

“thank god.”

but the real chaos didn’t hit until third period, when the fire alarm went off for real.

at first, everyone groaned like it was a drill. but then someone yelled, “SMOKE!” and the whole hallway turned into a stampede.

fyodor and dazai got shoved toward the stairwell, dazai laughing like he was in a theme park.

“this is your fault,” fyodor muttered, clutching his backpack like a lifeline.

“technically, no. because i didn’t even light anything today.”

“that’s worse.”

“should we, like, run?”

fyodor looked around. students were screaming. a teacher was crying. someone had apparently broken their arm trying to vault over a water fountain.

“…fine,” he said. “let’s run.”

they bolted down the stairs, shoving through a crowd of freshmen like salmon swimming violently upstream. dazai tripped twice. fyodor grabbed his sleeve without thinking.

they hit the exit just as the fire trucks pulled in—and that’s when dazai turned to him, still panting, and said:

“best date ever.”

fyodor nearly pushed him back into the building.

the entire student body stood huddled on the field like confused pigeons, half of them in pajamas, one guy in a horse mask, and three freshmen sobbing into each other’s armpits. the air was full of smoke, gossip, and someone blasting tiktok audio from a backpack.

dazai plopped down onto the grass like it was a picnic. “so. what do you think exploded?”

“my patience,” fyodor muttered, standing beside him with arms crossed.

“i’m hoping for the chemistry lab. i left a beaker in the oven once.”

“you what?”

“it was cold.”

fyodor pinched the bridge of his nose. “you’re going to get us arrested again.”

“we? that’s so intimate of you.”

“shut up before i bury you under the bleachers.”

before dazai could make it worse (he was already inhaling for a comeback), tanizaki-sensei appeared out of the smoke like an angry cryptid, clipboard in hand and rage in her soul.

“you two,” she snapped. “were you anywhere near the library this morning?”

fyodor blinked. “no.”

dazai blinked. “what library?”

tanizaki squinted. “why do i feel like you’re lying?”

“probably because we are,” dazai said helpfully.

she stared at them for three long seconds before sighing and walking away, muttering something about switching to decaf and banning teenagers from existing.

the fire truck blared. a firefighter in full gear ran past them holding a smoldering toaster.

dazai gave a salute. “godspeed, brave warrior.”

fyodor sat down beside him finally, mostly because his legs hurt and he wanted to be at eye level for murder.

dazai was humming to himself. some stupid little song. fyodor recognized it from one of his cursed playlists—it was a mix of yodeling and dubstep.

“…do you ever shut up?”

“sometimes. when i’m unconscious.”

“tempting.”

they sat like that for a minute. just… existing. the kind of silence that wasn’t comfortable, but wasn’t hostile either. neutral, like a ceasefire in the middle of a war.

then dazai flopped sideways and landed with his head against fyodor’s knee.

fyodor stared at him like he was a bug.

“get off.”

“mm-mm.”

“you’re disgusting.”

“i’m comfy.”

“you’re going to get glitter in your hair.”

“i already do. from you, by the way.”

fyodor wanted to argue, but it was technically true. the glitter from last week’s chaos still hadn’t come out of his pants. or his bag. or his soul.

“i’m gonna set your backpack on fire,” he muttered.

“i’ll just wear it like a badge of honor.”

“you’re the worst person i’ve ever met.”

“yet here we are. sharing grass.”

fyodor leaned back on his hands, looking up at the smoke drifting into the sky. “why are you like this?”

dazai shrugged, head still on fyodor’s knee. “i dunno. easier to laugh than scream.”

fyodor paused. that hit somewhere weird in his chest.

“…that’s stupid.”

“yep.”

they didn’t talk for a while after that. the sun started peeking through the smoke, casting weird shadows across the field. a kid was eating an entire banana peel. someone was doing a tiktok dance beside the fire truck. the world felt surreal.

finally, fyodor broke the silence. “i hate drills.”

dazai snorted. “this one was kinda fun.”

“there was a fire.”

“maybe.”

“maybe?!”

dazai grinned up at him. “c’mon. we got out of class. i got to traumatize you. we bonded.”

fyodor did not dignify that with a response. but his hands weren’t clenched anymore.

eventually the principal came out, announced that the “fire” had been a burnt toaster in the teacher’s lounge (caused by someone trying to heat up a whole sandwich inside foil), and declared school would resume like nothing happened.

groans erupted from the field like a dying whale choir.

back inside, fyodor and dazai returned to their now half-scorched hallway. someone had written “chaos kings” on the whiteboard outside their homeroom. in glitter. with googly eyes.

dazai winked. “fan club.”

fyodor said nothing. but he didn’t erase it either.

Chapter Text

Chap 7: Blood on the Hallway, Glitter on the Floor.

the corridor smelled like burnt rubber and regret. the harsh buzz of the flickering fluorescent lights overhead seemed to echo every heartbeat pounding in fyodor’s chest. his knuckles were tight around the strap of his bag, nails digging into his palm as he stared down the mess at the far end of the hall.

a locker door had been smashed wide open, its twisted metal frame hanging off the hinges like a wounded animal’s ribcage. books, papers, and scattered school supplies littered the floor, but what caught fyodor’s eye was the dark, sticky puddle spreading beneath it—thick and red, like blood spilled carelessly on cracked linoleum.

the bell had rung minutes ago, but the halls were dead silent. no one wanted to be near this.

except dazai.

leaning against the lockers, his usual carefree grin was gone. instead, there was a strange tension in his posture, a darkness lurking behind his eyes. he flicked a stray strand of hair from his face and smiled a little too sharply when he saw fyodor.

“looks like a crime scene,” fyodor muttered, voice low enough to sound like a warning.

dazai shrugged, casually kicking a dented metal chair with his foot. “i was going to my locker, blah blah blah.. then, well… things happened.”

fyodor’s eyes narrowed. “things?”

dazai’s grin stretched wider, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “let’s just say i rubbed the wrong people the wrong way.”

the crimson puddle caught the light as dazai shifted his weight. fyodor swallowed hard. he hated the feeling creeping in his gut—the dread that things were about to spiral out of control again.

“you’re supposed to be in class,” fyodor said quietly.

dazai’s eyes locked onto his, a flicker of something raw and unfiltered passing through. “and yet, here i am.”

fyodor’s gaze dropped back to the puddle, heart racing. “what happened?”

“fight,” dazai said simply. “some senior didn’t like the way i made his little empire of lies look like a joke.”

fyodor clenched his jaw. “you started it.”

“maybe. but i finish things.”

before fyodor could respond, footsteps echoed sharply at the end of the hallway. a group of students appeared—faces grim, shoulders squared, eyes flashing with anticipation. the tension in the air thickened like fog.

fyodor’s breath caught. “looks like your chaos finally got some backup.”

dazai pushed off the lockers, standing tall and unafraid. “backup or not, i don’t back down.”

the leader of the group stepped forward—tall, scarred, and oozing menace. his scar ran from temple to jaw, a permanent reminder of battles fought and won. he sneered at dazai like a predator eyeing weak prey.

“thought you could hide behind your dumb jokes forever, osamu?”

dazai smirked. “i don’t hide.”

with no warning, the senior lunged.

the hallway exploded into chaos.

fists collided with flesh, lockers slammed, and shouts bounced off the walls like broken glass. fyodor tried to keep his head clear, to stay out of the mess, but when the senior shoved dazai hard into the lockers, something inside him snapped.

without thinking, fyodor’s hand darted out, grabbing a heavy metal rod from the wreckage of the smashed locker. he swung it hard, hearing the sickening crack as it connected with bone.

the hallway froze for a heartbeat.

then chaos roared back louder.

the group pulled back, shocked but angry. the leader glared at fyodor, teeth clenched. “you’re dead.”

dazai, rubbing his jaw, flashed a crooked grin. “looks like we’re even now.”

fyodor’s heart was pounding so hard he thought it might explode. the adrenaline clouded his senses, but underneath it all was a cold, burning fear. this wasn’t just another stupid prank gone wrong. this was real.

the group didn’t move away.

instead, the scarred senior lunged again, this time at fyodor.

fyodor barely had time to react, raising the rod in defense. the metal scraped against skin, sparks flying as they clashed.

“back off!” fyodor snapped, voice cracking.

dazai joined in, pushing another attacker into a wall with unexpected strength.

the fight wasn’t about winning anymore. it was survival.

suddenly, fyodor stumbled, the rod slipping from his grasp. he hit the floor hard, breath knocked out of him. the scarred senior loomed over, fist raised.

but then—

the rod clattered against the lockers with a metallic clang, skittering away like it wanted no part in what was about to go down.

fyodor staggered, heart pounding like a war drum. he barely had time to blink before the senior lunged again—face twisted in a snarl, spit flying from his mouth, rage burning behind bloodshot eyes. his fist cocked back, ready to shatter bone.

time slowed.

something sharp clicked in fyodor’s mind—cold, calculated.

his hand darted into his coat pocket.

and then—flash of silver. the blade was small. simple. unassuming. but clean. sharp. and fyodor moved like someone who’d done this before.

the senior didn’t see it coming. not until the steel buried itself in his chest.

a sick, wet sound followed. like a knife sinking into raw fruit. the senior’s momentum stopped mid-lunge, eyes going wide as his body spasmed. blood welled up instantly, staining his shirt in a deep red bloom, spreading like an oil spill over cheap cotton.

for a second, no one moved. no one breathed.

then the senior let out a rattling gasp—almost a whimper—and dropped to his knees, clutching at the knife still embedded in him. his mouth opened, like he wanted to scream, but it came out as a choked cough, red spilling down his chin.

dazai’s usual shit-eating grin was gone. wiped clean. he stared at fyodor like he didn’t know him. like he just met the real version of him for the first time.

the crowd backed off, footsteps echoing like thunder. someone whispered *“holy shit”* under their breath. another kid bolted down the hall.

fyodor stood over the bleeding boy, chest rising and falling with terrifying stillness. he didn’t flinch. didn’t blink. his fingers loosened, letting go of the knife's hilt, and the blade stayed lodged, trembling with the boy’s panicked breaths.

“if anyone touches me,” fyodor said, voice flat, dead calm, “they’ll leave with something worse.”

no one dared move.

dazai stepped forward—not toward the senior, but toward fyodor. slowly. testing the air between them. he tilted his head, dark eyes flicking between the blade and fyodor’s blank expression.

“…you’re insane,” he murmured, not with fear—almost with awe.

fyodor glanced at him. just barely. “you’re just realizing that now?”

down the hall, a teacher’s voice rang out—someone had finally gotten help. shouts echoed. footsteps grew louder.

dazai looked down at the bleeding kid, then back at fyodor, and smirked.

“looks like we’re both getting suspended.”

fyodor’s lips twitched. almost a smile. almost.

“worth it,” he muttered.

and then, they suddenly hear a loud whistle behind them—

“stop it!” it was tanizaki-sensei, bursting into the scene with fire in her eyes and a whistle in her mouth. “what the hell is going on here?!”

the students froze, chests heaving, eyes wild.

tanizaki’s glare swept over fyodor and dazai, both bruised and bloody but standing defiant.

“you two again…” she muttered. “you’re both suspended. immediately.”

dazai grinned, blood trickling from his lip. “guess we finally made history.”

fyodor just shook his head, chest burning, the taste of metal in his mouth.

as the crowd dispersed under tanizaki’s strict orders, fyodor helped dazai up.

neither said a word.

the glitter on fyodor’s pants from the media club felt suddenly meaningless, crushed beneath the weight of real blood and bruises.

Chapter Text

Chap 8: microwaved waffles and emotional crime

fyodor didn’t pack anything. no bag, no coat, not even his phone. just slid his window open like a thief in his own house, dropped silently into the backyard, and disappeared into the night.

his dad didn’t care. never asked where he was going, never told him to be home by a certain time. sometimes fyodor wondered if he’d notice if he never came back at all.

the street was quiet, painted with shadows and pale orange streetlight. his footsteps were soft, calculated. he didn’t walk fast, didn’t need to—he knew exactly where he was going. the apartment complex two blocks down. third floor. right-side balcony with the ripped screen door and plastic flamingo plant holder. dazai’s place.

and dazai was home alone. suspended too. parents off on some godforsaken cruise or whatever rich people did when their kid was breaking school intercoms and throwing mop water at enemies. fyodor hated how easy it was to be drawn back to him, like gravity but dumber.

he climbed the fire escape without thinking, like he’d done it a thousand times before. he hadn’t. not really. maybe once. maybe twice. okay—maybe more than he wanted to admit.

by the time he tapped on the window with one gloved knuckle, dazai was already opening it, hair messy, wearing an oversized hoodie that said “kiss me, i’m dead inside” in cracked red letters.

“took you long enough,” dazai muttered, stepping aside.

fyodor slid in without a word.

dazai shut the window behind him. “you bring snacks?”

“i’m not your delivery boy.”

“i’m literally feeding you.”

fyodor raised an eyebrow. “with what?”

dazai smirked. “microwave waffles.”

“…god help me.”

“too late. i sold your soul for syrup.”

fyodor flopped onto the couch, ignoring the mess. crushed soda cans, empty ramen cups, socks that didn’t match. the apartment felt like a teenager’s brain exploded in a contained space. somehow… it was comforting.

dazai tossed him a plate. two waffles. cold in the middle.

“thanks,” fyodor muttered.

they sat in silence for a bit, the kind that settled between two people who’d nearly committed multiple crimes together and just recently stabbed someone in the chest. dazai turned on the tv. something dumb. some rerun about people baking things under pressure.

“you ever think about that guy?” dazai asked after a moment, not looking at him.

fyodor didn’t answer.

“i do,” dazai went on, still staring at the screen. “the one in the hallway. you didn’t even blink.”

“he was going to kill you.”

“he was going to hurt me,” dazai corrected, voice low. “big difference between that and killing him first.”

fyodor didn’t flinch. “no difference to me.”

dazai looked at him then. really looked. his eyes weren’t playful for once. just... open. quiet.

“you scare me sometimes,” he said.

fyodor took another bite of the waffle. “good.”

“but you also make me feel like i’m not the only one going off the rails.”

fyodor swallowed. “you’re not.”

they sat like that for a while, not quite friends, not quite enemies, both broken in their own weird, sharp ways.

“you know,” dazai said eventually, his tone lighter, “if we ever did run away, we’d need cooler aliases.”

fyodor rolled his eyes. “we’re not running away.”

“humor me.”

“…fine. i’ll be ghost.”

“oooooh, edgy. i’ll be—wait. no. i’ll be ghost.”

“no.”

“then i’m chaos daddy.”

fyodor nearly choked. “never say that again.”

dazai grinned. “too late. it’s canon.”

fyodor smirked despite himself. “you’re an idiot.”

“you came here.”

“…yeah.”

they both fell quiet again. but it wasn’t awkward. it was something else. something settling in the space between them like dust in moonlight.

outside, the city breathed in streetlight and silence.

inside, two dumb boys sat shoulder-to-shoulder on a couch too small, in a world too loud, in a night that felt just a little too honest.

and for once, neither of them had to be anything but exactly what they were.

it was 2:13 a.m.

the waffles were gone. the tv was playing some late-night documentary about haunted cornfields. dazai was upside-down on the couch now, head hanging off the edge, long hair brushing the floor. fyodor was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, dissecting an old remote control with a butter knife.

“so,” dazai said, voice muffled by blood rushing to his brain, “what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

fyodor didn’t look up. “you keep asking me that.”

“and you keep dodging it.”

“no. i just don’t think you’d find it impressive.”

dazai twisted so he could see him properly. “try me.”

fyodor paused. something flickered in his eyes, something sharp and ancient and maybe just a little sad.

“i made someone fall in love with me,” he said. “then ruined them for sport.”

dazai blinked. “damn. that’s kind of hot.”

“psychopathic,” fyodor corrected.

“yeah. that too.”

silence.

then dazai rolled off the couch entirely and landed with a thud beside fyodor, stealing the screwdriver.

“your turn,” fyodor said, monotone.

“i convinced a guy to light his own car on fire to ‘prove a point.’”

fyodor looked at him. “what point?”

“i dunno. i forgot halfway through.”

fyodor snorted. actually snorted. like a real noise. dazai stared at him like he’d seen a ghost.

“was that a laugh? did you just—hey— fyo fyo. are you malfunctioning?”

fyodor shoved him with his foot. “i hope your haunted cornfield documentary swallows you whole.”

“that’d be kinda sexy.”

fyodor groaned and covered his face with one hand.

there was a long pause. then:

“you can crash here,” dazai said suddenly, like it was nothing. “if you want.”

fyodor blinked. “what?”

“dunno. just. you don’t look like you wanna go back. you can take my bed.”

“and you?”

dazai shrugged. “couch. or the floor. i’ve slept in worse places.”

fyodor didn’t say anything. he just stared at him. for once, dazai didn’t fill the space with jokes. he let the silence sit.

“…okay,” fyodor said at last, almost too quiet to hear.

dazai nodded, stood up, offered a hand. fyodor took it.

the bedroom was messy. wires. a lava lamp. a poster of edgar allan poe giving the middle finger.

dazai tossed him a pillow and a blanket. “let me know if the ghost under the bed tries to touch your toes. he’s chill, though. just lonely.”

fyodor didn’t reply. he just sat on the bed, looking around like he didn’t know what to do with the softness.

dazai watched him from the doorway for a moment. then said, “g’night, ghost.”

fyodor looked up. “…goodnight, chaos daddy.”

dazai nearly choked to death laughing. “YOU REMEMBERED—”

fyodor slammed the door in his face.

and smiled.

just a little.

"what an idiot.."

Chapter Text

Chap 9: Drunk Confessions and Kitchen Lights

he room was dark except for the soft glow of a neon sign that flickered “LIVE FREE OR DIE TRYING.” 
it reeked of alcohol, cigarette ash, and some kind of burnt instant noodles. a record of soft jazz crackled in the background—clearly on loop, clearly forgotten—and the floor was a minefield of half-kicked shoes, takeout containers, and suspiciously sticky spots fyodor chose not to investigate.

fyodor was finally asleep—curled up under dazai’s ratty blanket, breathing slow and even like he’d been drugged with peace itself.

but peace was a fragile thing around dazai osamu.

a bottle rattled somewhere in the kitchen. then another. and another.

dazai stumbled in, eyes bloodshot and wild, the scent of cheap whiskey trailing behind him like a bad joke.

“fyodor,” he slurred, collapsing onto the bed with a grin too wide for midnight.

fyodor opened one eye, then the other, groaning. “dazai, what the hell.”

“shhh,” dazai whispered dramatically, waving a finger like a magician. “i’m a romantic. i brought you... booze.”

fyodor’s eye twitched. “i don’t drink.”

“i know,” dazai said, like that was part of the charm. “but you look like you need a drink.”

fyodor tried to sit up, but dazai grabbed his arm, pulling him back down.

“you’re not going anywhere.”

the grin slipped off dazai’s face and he suddenly looked… softer? vulnerable?

“you’re like, really something, fyodor.”

“is this where you confess you’ve been stalking me?”

“pfft. no. i’m just saying.”

he reached out and poked fyodor’s cheek, fingers lingering longer than necessary.

fyodor yanked away. “stop.”

“come on,” dazai said, voice dropping an octave. “you can’t deny it. i’m your chaos, you’re my dark poetry.”

fyodor groaned. “that’s the worst pickup line i’ve ever heard.”

“really? i thought it was poetic disaster flirting.”

“oh god.”

dazai laughed, a little too loudly, and flopped back against the headboard.

“fine,” he said, “you win. i’ve got shitty pickup lineess...”

fyodor just shook his head and closed his eyes, hoping this was a nightmare he could wake up from.

but dazai kept talking.

“you’re the kind of person who’d burn a house down just to watch the ashes dance.”

“and you’re the kind of idiot who’d follow me into the fire.”

there was a pause. then, barely audible, dazai muttered, “maybe i already have.”

fyodor didn’t respond. but his hand twitched toward dazai’s.

the night dragged on, full of bad jokes, worse flirting, and the kind of silence that says more than words ever could.

dazai’s hand lingered just a little too close to fyodor’s. the room smelled like whiskey and regret.

"heeey..” dazai slurred, voice low, “you ever think about what it’d be like… if we weren’t always fighting?”

fyodor blinked, caught off guard. “what do you mean?”

dazai smirked, that crooked grin back, but softer this time. “like… what if i wasn’t the chaos and you weren’t the cold? what if we just… were?”

fyodor’s heart did this dumb little jump he refused to admit.

“you’re drunk.”

“and you’re adorable when you’re annoyed.”

before fyodor could say anything else, dazai leaned in, way too close, breath warm and reeking of liquor.

“don’t tell me you never thought about kissing me.”

fyodor froze. eyes wide. “dazai, no.”

dazai laughed quietly, “come onnnn~ just onceee~.”

then, totally ignoring fyodor’s protests, dazai pressed a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

fyodor’s face burned hotter than a lit cigarette.

“stop it,” he hissed, but there was no real anger in his voice.

dazai grinned, satisfied. “see? told you i’m good at this.”

fyodor muttered, “you’re a disaster.”

“and you love disasters.”

they stared at each other like two idiots, the room spinning around their awkward, messy feelings...

Chapter Text

Chap 10: A Sudden Change, Changes All.

dazai’s grin turned mischievous, eyes glinting with that wild, dangerous charm.

“you know,” he slurred, fingers inching toward fyodor’s collar, “this shirt looks way too tight on you. maybe it needs to come off.”

fyodor’s eyes shot open like, “osamu, what the hell?” 

“dazai, stop.”

but dazai ignored the protests, one hand fumbling clumsily at the top button, fingers trembling just a bit from the booze.

“relax, fyodor. it’s just me.”

the button popped off with a snap and hit the floor. fyodor froze, cheeks blazing hotter than a furnace.

“you’re insane.”

dazai shrugged, leaning closer, voice dropping to a teasing whisper.

“maybe, but you kinda like it.”

fyodor swallowed hard, heart racing. he wanted to shove dazai away, but instead…

“well, don’t get any ideas,” he muttered, voice barely steady.

dazai smirked, satisfied. “no promises.”

the room seemed to close in around them, a mix of tension, booze, and something way too electric to ignore.

“you’re way too tense,” dazai murmured, voice low, eyes glinting with that dangerous mischief he always had when up to no good..

fyodor’s heart slammed hard against his ribs. he swallowed the lump in his throat, voice shaky and clipped, “i hate you.”

a slow smile curved on dazai’s lips, cocky and teasing. “one word too many, ghost.” he leaned in just enough so his breath warmed the skin right where his fingers hovered. then, with deliberate slowness, he slid his hand under the hem of fyodor’s shirt, fingers cold against the heat of his skin. the button popped free, and dazai didn’t hesitate—he peeled back the fabric, revealing pale, tense skin that looked like it could shatter if touched too roughly.

fyodor’s breath hitched, muscles tensing so tight he thought he might snap in two. “dazai—”

“shh.” the single syllable was soft, but the weight behind it was heavy with intent. his fingers traced the outline of fyodor’s collarbone, feather-light but leaving fire in their wake. dazai’s other hand slid behind fyodor’s neck, pulling him closer with gentle insistence.

the shirt slipped further open, exposing more skin, and the air between them grew charged—electric, impossible to ignore. fyodor didn’t pull away, though every fiber of his being screamed at him to run, to hide. instead, his eyes fluttered shut, heart pounding deafeningly in his ears.

“you look… delicious,” dazai whispered, voice thick with something raw and unfiltered, thumb circling the hollow just beneath fyodor’s throat. the way his fingers moved was both a tease and a promise, like he was daring fyodor to let go, to cross the line neither had dared approach before..

fyodor’s voice was barely a whisper, cracked and vulnerable. “don’t—”

but dazai’s lips were already brushing against his, soft and slow at first, hesitant like he was afraid to break something fragile. the taste of whiskey mixed with warmth and something dangerous, something that set every nerve on fire.

their breaths mingled, shaky and uneven, until dazai deepened the kiss, hands roaming carefully but with purpose. fyodor’s body responded before his mind could catch up—tense muscles relaxing, fingers curling into dazai’s shirt as if to anchor himself.

when they finally pulled apart, both gasping for air, dazai’s grin was softer now, less mocking and more real.

“just once, fyooo… let me see you,” he murmured, voice almost tender.

fyodor opened his eyes slowly, heart still hammering but somewhere deep inside, a quiet surrender.

and then, the topic suddenly changes.

“ you’re sitting on my sacred nap throne,”

“you said i could stay in your room.”

“that was before i got whiskey. now everything is negotiable.”

dazai kicked off his shoes—one landing near the kitchen, the other flying dramatically and hitting the side of fyodor’s leg. fyodor gave him a blank stare. dazai just laughed and threw himself beside him, dragging his coat across fyodor’s lap and knocking a pillow to the ground.

“you smell like a crime scene,” fyodor muttered.

“you smell like taxes and emotional repression,” dazai shot back, laying his head on fyodor’s thigh like it was the most normal thing in the world.

fyodor looked down at him, unsure whether to shove him off or let the exhaustion win. “why did i agree to this?”

“because deep down, under your evil gremlin exterior, you like me,” dazai hummed.

“i tolerate you.”

“close enough.”

the wine bottle clunked as dazai rolled onto his back and held it above him like he was studying art. “do you ever wonder what it would be like if we weren’t... us?”

fyodor blinked. “define ‘us.’”

“insane. enemies. criminally attractive.”

fyodor’s lips twitched. “you think you’re attractive?”

“objectively,” dazai said, taking a victorious swig. “i have been called ‘insufferably charming.’ by myself. just now.”

fyodor snorted before he could stop himself. just a tiny one. but dazai noticed. his eyes sparkled. he shifted up, crawling dangerously close.

“oh my god,” fyodor said flatly. “are you about to flirt with me while wasted?”

“was i flirting before?”

“you kissed me.”

fyodor blinked once. twice.

dazai grinned, whiskey bottle abandoned as he leaned in and—without any finesse—pressed his lips to fyodor’s..

it was chaotic. clumsy. the kind of kiss that would never make it into a romance novel. teeth bumped. noses collided. dazai was clearly drunk and fyodor was clearly too tired to care. or maybe too curious to stop it.

fyodor didn’t push him away. not at first.

instead, he let the kiss drag, messy and hesitant, like they were both trying to figure out what the hell they were doing. dazai’s hand curled around the back of fyodor’s neck, warm and unsteady, while fyodor’s fingers dug into dazai’s sleeve without thinking.

“this is so stupid,” fyodor muttered against his lips.

“yup,” dazai said, not stopping.

“you’re drunk.”

“you’re tired.”

“we’re idiots.”

“and yet.”

and yet, they kept going, kissing like it was a joke that neither of them had the punchline for.

dazai tugged fyodor down with him, the futon groaning under the sudden weight shift. they landed in a tangle, fyodor half on top of him, elbow poking into the mattress, dazai’s hair in his mouth.

“get off,” fyodor muttered.

“make me.”

fyodor glared, wiped his mouth, and settled beside him instead. not too far. not too close. the silence after was thick. not uncomfortable—just... charged.

they fell into silence again. a better one. the jazz record looped back to the start.

“hey,” dazai whispered. “did you mean it?”

“mean what?”

“the kiss. you didn’t pull away.”

fyodor hesitated.

“i didn’t hate it,” he said finally.

dazai smiled like he’d just won a bet with the universe.

then immediately passed out.

right on fyodor’s arm. deadweight. snoring softly.

“you unbelievable, insufferable idiot,” fyodor muttered, shifting to get comfortable under the weight of one unconscious disaster.

he tried to push dazai off. failed.

he sighed and gave up. “fine. but if you drool on me, i’m killing you in your sleep.”

no response.

fyodor stared at the ceiling. his chest felt weird. tight. like maybe he was in trouble and didn’t know it yet.

sleep pulled at him like a tide.

and he let it.

Chapter Text

chap 11: unbuttoned truths.

the morning light crept in slowly through the thin, half-drawn curtains, its glow weak and washed-out, spilling across the mess of dazai’s room in long, lazy beams. the shadows stretched out like they were still asleep, draped over books, bottles, and clothes strewn with reckless abandon. fyodor blinked against it, his eyes adjusting to a world that smelled faintly of stale alcohol, musty fabric, and something gentler—like the mix of linen and dried sweat clinging to warm skin.

he was shirtless.

that much was obvious the second the cool air brushed over his skin. and it wasn’t just obvious—it was strange. unsettling. the bed was way too warm, the blankets wrapped tight around him like they’d been locked in a struggle overnight. his head ached, a dull pulse behind his eyes—maybe from lack of sleep, maybe from drinking too much, or maybe both. but the real kicker, the real question, was the extra weight pressed too close beside him.

dazai.

also shirtless. sprawled out like some half-dead cat in the middle of a sunbeam, one arm lazily thrown across his forehead, his wild hair catching every sliver of light like a makeshift halo. it didn’t suit him. nothing about dazai screamed “divine.” if anything, he looked like a fallen gremlin mid-recovery.

his hair was a disaster, wild and soft-looking, catching the light in ways that made him look almost innocent. like he wasn’t the same menace that had tackled fyodor down a flight of stairs three weeks ago.

fyodor’s mind scrambled, trying to claw through the haze for any sort of memory—anything that could explain this. but all he got was a murky feeling. a vague warmth, curled up somewhere underneath the usual irritation and noise. like something had happened. something that mattered, even if he didn’t know what it was.

fyodor stared at him for a long moment.

what the hell happened last night?

his brain shuffled through the blurry fragments of the evening like broken glass—there was yelling. laughter. someone spilled something on the carpet.

but beyond that?

nothing.

just a strange heat in his chest. a kind of closeness.

he reached out and nudged dazai with his elbow.

“hey. dazai.”

a low, grumbling groan. dazai’s hand flopped over his face like he was warding off a hangover demon.

“mmm… morning or..?”

“7:34. talk or i’m leaving,” fyodor muttered, trying to sound normal.

dazai peeked at him from under his arm, bleary and confused. “you look like death.”

“you look like a trash fire.”

“mmm. familiar territory.”

they both went quiet.

not the usual “we’re about to argue” quiet. but a fragile, uncertain kind. like the air between them had changed shape.

dazai finally sat up a little, propping himself on one elbow. the blanket slid off his torso and fyodor glanced away too fast, suddenly interested in the cracked ceiling paint.

“…so,” dazai started, voice hesitant. “did we… do anything?”

fyodor’s throat tightened.

“define anything.”

“you know.” dazai’s eyes didn’t quite meet his. “anything anything.”

fyodor narrowed his gaze. “i don’t think so.”

“you sound unsure.”

“do you remember?”

“…no,” dazai admitted, rubbing his face with both hands. “but it kinda… feels like something happened. not in a bad way. just…”

his voice trailed off.

fyodor didn’t answer.

neither of them moved to cover up. neither of them reached for distance. instead, they just… sat there. letting the silence settle in like dust.

it should’ve felt awkward. unbearable, even. but it didn’t. it felt heavy. like the kind of pause you only get when something big has shifted, and no one knows what to do with it yet.

“maybe we just passed out,” dazai mumbled. “and got… weirdly comfortable.”

“sure,” fyodor said. “comfortable.”

dazai glanced over at him, and for the first time in a long time, his expression wasn’t smug or annoying—it was just open. kind of tired. kind of vulnerable.

he reached over slowly, fingers brushing fyodor’s wrist like he wasn’t sure he was allowed. like he needed permission to be soft.

“you don’t hate me, right?”

fyodor looked at the spot where their skin touched. his voice was barely above a whisper.

“not right now.”

dazai’s laugh was hoarse and cracked, but genuine. “that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

they stayed like that—fingers half-tangled, eyes refusing to meet. not saying what they were thinking. not asking the questions that scared them.

instead, they talked about nothing.

argued over who stole the blanket. who finished the last of the ramen. who tripped on the way to the bed. they passed back and forth the leftover beer on the nightstand, flat and warm and gross, but neither seemed to care.

every now and then, fyodor caught himself looking.

at the way dazai’s mouth curved when he smiled—just slightly crooked, too big for his face.

at the fading bruises on his collarbone, half-hidden by the blanket.

at how still he was.

it was rare to see dazai like this. not performing. not laughing too loud or smirking too hard. just… being.

and fyodor didn’t want to admit it, but it made something in him ache.

because it was easy to hate the chaos. the jokes. the constant noise.

but this version of dazai—quiet, real, sitting too close and asking silent questions with his eyes—this version was dangerous.

and for once, dazai seemed to be doing the same.

watching fyodor like he was trying to memorize something.

like he was scared it might disappear.

what the hell are we doing, fyodor thought, but couldn’t say.

he shifted slightly, resting his head against the headboard. “i’m tired.”

it was about more than sleep, and dazai knew it.

“…me too,” dazai said softly. “but i don’t wanna move yet.”

fyodor looked over. dazai’s hair was falling into his eyes, the light catching in every strand. his expression was calm. strange.

“me neither,” fyodor admitted.

they lay back down. the sheet caught between them, but it didn’t matter.

they didn’t touch. not really. not directly.

but the space between their shoulders was too small.

the way their knees brushed every so often was too frequent.

dazai’s fingers twitched again. like he wanted to reach out. or didn’t know how to stop.

and fyodor—fyodor closed his eyes and let it be.

they didn’t talk about it.

not the closeness.

not the missing time.

not the way fyodor’s chest felt weirdly light and heavy all at once.

and maybe that was okay.

maybe they weren’t ready. maybe the night they lost would stay lost. a mystery too tender to poke at just yet.

but this—this moment—was real.

them. together. not fighting. not posturing.

just… being.

and for now, that was enough.

whatever came next, they could face it later.

Chapter Text

chap 12: smoke and sugar.

dazai leaned against the balcony doorframe, one hand lazily tucked into the waistband of his jeans, the other holding a cigarette between his fingers. the smoke curled into the morning air, slow and silvery, carried by the breeze slipping in through the open glass. his shirt—barely buttoned—hung off his shoulders like a jacket, sleeves flapping a little in the wind. his chest was bare, marked faintly in places, though he didn’t notice or care.

inside, fyodor moved through the quiet kitchen, barefoot, hair a tangled mess, sleeves rolled up halfway. his own shirt was just as undone—draped over him like a cloak, collar slipping off one side. the coffee machine sputtered softly as he leaned forward against the counter, eyes half-lidded with sleep. he hadn’t spoken yet that morning, just grunted at dazai when he asked for sugar.

neither of them brought up the fact that they’d both slept with nothing but the shirts still hanging off their shoulders. neither asked why it didn’t feel weird to be like this. they just moved like it was normal. like they always had breakfast shirtless and lazy together.

fyodor stirred two mugs in silence, passing one to dazai without looking at him. dazai took it with a grunt of thanks, tapping ash into the tiny dish beside the windowsill.

“did you dream anything?” fyodor asked suddenly, voice low and scratchy.

dazai hummed around the cigarette. “not that i remember. just… woke up warm. comfortable. weird.”

“mm,” fyodor said, sipping his coffee.

outside, the city buzzed to life slowly. birds, cars, voices. the real world was waiting, but it could wait a little longer.

dazai took another drag and looked at fyodor. “hey.”

fyodor raised an eyebrow.

“you’re not bad at this.”

“at what?”

dazai waved his cigarette vaguely. “being human. being quiet. making coffee.”

fyodor blinked, then snorted softly. “high praise coming from you.”

“shut up,” dazai said, grinning. “before i start thinking i like you.”

“you already do.”

their eyes met for a second too long. fyodor’s lips twitched. dazai looked away, smoke trailing from his nose.

“anyway,” he said. “we should skip school even after the suspension.”

fyodor didn’t answer, just took another sip, letting the silence stretch.

the morning felt slow and strange, but not unpleasant. something was still hanging between them—something wordless, fuzzy, maybe forgotten—but neither of them questioned it.

they just stood there, smoking and sipping coffee, in the quiet hum of a house that, for now, felt like it belonged to no one but them.

the morning peace didn’t last.

ten minutes after the coffee, fyodor spilled half the pot trying to shoo dazai away from the stove, and dazai tried to light a cigarette with a matchstick he struck on fyodor’s forehead.

“this is what happens when you let gremlins near caffeine,” fyodor hissed, clutching a now-wet dish towel and glaring murderously.

“correction,” dazai said, cigarette hanging from his mouth like a lazy villain. “this is what happens when you don’t let me light my smoke on your soul.”

“you’re not even allowed near lighters,” fyodor muttered. “last time you set your shoelace on fire and screamed ‘freedom’.”

dazai smirked. “and i regret nothing.”

fyodor gave him a withering stare and shoved a half-burnt toast into his mouth just to shut him up. “eat. maybe it'll soak up the personality disorder.”

“yours or mine?”

“both.”

it was impressive how quickly they snapped back into chaos after a night of shared vulnerability and whatever-the-hell-happened-but-we-don’t-talk-about-it. fyodor was once again the world’s grumpiest victorian ghost with caffeine dependency, and dazai was a walking delinquent cartoon character.

fyodor poured himself another cup of coffee, turned his back, and immediately heard the sound of a lighter flick.

“no.” he spun. “what did i just say?”

“i’m being careful,” dazai said through a cloud of smoke, already halfway out the window like some kind of morally bankrupt chimney. “besides, you love the smell of regret in the morning.”

“i love silence. and you’re violating my human rights.”

“you’re russian. you don’t get those.”

“bold of you to assume i haven’t committed crimes against humanity just to get some peace.”

dazai snorted, finally hopping down from the windowsill and dramatically flinging himself onto the couch with his shirt still draped around him like a cloak. “you know,” he said, flicking ash into a teacup, “you should really get a better system for hiding your knives.”

fyodor froze.

“…you went through my drawer?”

“no, of course not,” dazai said sweetly. “i fell into it.”

fyodor pinched the bridge of his nose. “i should’ve left you passed out in your living room.”

“and miss this adorable bonding moment? tragic.”

“tragic is your fashion sense.”

“you’re literally wearing your shirt as a blanket, you haunted scarecrow.”

“i’m cold.”

“you’re emotionally repressed.”

“you’re loud.”

they glared at each other for a solid thirty seconds, until fyodor finally cracked a smile—just a tiny one, sharp and tired. dazai beamed like he’d won the lottery.

“i knew you liked me,” dazai said, tossing a cushion at him.

fyodor caught it and immediately chucked it back with accuracy. “i tolerate you. that’s the bar.”

“and yet,” dazai said smugly, sprawling on the couch like he owned it, “you made coffee for me. i let you crash at my place. you didn’t stab me today.”

“i’m regretting all of that now.”

“i bet you are, dowstoyevskeee...”

he mispronounced it on purpose. fyodor lunged.

they spent the next five minutes wrestling like deranged cats, knocking over the coffee table and sending cigarette ash everywhere. eventually they collapsed in a heap on the floor, breathless and messy, and somehow laughing like idiots.

for a moment, it felt less like survival and more like... something close to normal.

just two chaotic boys, doomed from the start, finding brief comfort in ruining each other’s lives.

and then—

“hey, fyodor.”

“what.”

“you trust me?”

“absolutely not.”

“good.”

the burn hit before the words registered. sharp. sudden. dazai pressed the lit end of the cigarette right to the side of fyodor’s neck—briefly, just long enough to make him hiss and jolt, a wild string of russian curses falling out of his mouth like gunfire.

“ЧТО ЗА ХЕРНЯ?! АЙ АЙ АЙ—”

dazai just sat back, smug as hell, watching the angry red welt bloom like a twisted flower.

“there,” he said, flicking the cigarette into the coffee mug like it was nothing. “Now you’ll remember me.”

fyodor lunged again, murder in his eyes, but dazai was already out the window laughing like a maniac, shirt fluttering like a cape.

“YOU ABSOLUTE PSYCHO!”

“I REGRET NOTHING!”

“I HOPE YOU FALL INTO TRAFFIC!”

“LOVE YOU TOO, FEDYUSHKAA~!”

and just like that, the chaos was back in full swing.

and deep down—burn mark and all—Fyodor couldn’t help the laugh that slipped past his lips..

Chapter Text

chap 13: an unexpected visitor

fyodor had half a cup of bitter coffee left and zero patience. dazai had zero coffee and zero common sense. a dangerous combination.

“did you seriously just burn me with a cigarette?” fyodor hissed, yanking his collar down to look at the scorched skin on his neck. “WHAT KIND OF PSYCHOPATH—”

“YOU STARTED IT,” dazai yelled from across the room, dramatically using his rolled-up shirt sleeves as makeshift gloves while holding a spoon like a weapon. “YOU STABBED A DUDE. A WHOLE DUDE.”

“HE SWUNG AT ME.”
“YOU STABBED HIM IN THE LUNG.”
“IT WAS CENTER MASS!”

“FYODOR,” dazai snapped, “THAT ISN’T A DEFENSE.”

fyodor flopped into the nearest chair with the grace of a disgruntled cat and stared at the ceiling like it owed him money. “whatever. he’s fine.”

“HE IS IN THE ICU.”
“...probably fine.”

there was a pause. then laughter.

not the soft kind. not the polite kind. the ugly kind. the wheezing, cackling, snorting kind that made fyodor choke on his coffee and dazai fall off the couch because he couldn’t breathe.

“we’re so fucking doomed,” dazai gasped, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
“this is a descent into madness,” fyodor agreed.
“we’re not even descending. we’re BASE JUMPING WITHOUT A PARACHUTE.”

fyodor threw a pencil at him. dazai retaliated by launching a sock. the sock hit fyodor in the face. and for a brief, glorious moment, fyodor made a sound that was a mix between a scream and a laugh and an existential crisis.

“WHY DO YOU EVEN HAVE SOCKS LITTERED AROUND THE HOUSE—”
“THIS IS MY TERRITORY.” dazai said, puffing his chest out like a bird.
fyodor narrowed his eyes. “...you’re not a cat.”

“i am a VERY AGGRESSIVE, EMOTIONALLY UNSTABLE CAT.”
“more like a raccoon.”
“YOU TAKE THAT BACK.”
“never.”

they stared at each other. then both burst out laughing again.

ten minutes later they were sitting on the floor like kindergartners, eating dry cereal from the box and listening to music on fyodor’s phone, which was propped up on a stack of stolen textbooks.

“so,” dazai said through a mouthful of cheerios, “what’s the plan?”

“plan?”
“yeah. y’know. about the fact we almost died, got suspended, maybe committed a felony or three—”
“four,” fyodor corrected, counting on his fingers. “if you include the arson.”
“...what arson?”

fyodor didn’t look up. “don’t worry about it.”

dazai blinked. then blinked again. “i have never wanted to worry more.”

“good,” fyodor replied sweetly.

dazai groaned and faceplanted into a pillow.

“we should lay low for a bit,” fyodor muttered.
“like... stay inside?”
“like... no more stabbings. no more chaos.”
dazai slowly lifted his face. “...how long do you think we can manage that?”

a pause.

“…three hours,” fyodor said.
“generous.”
“i was being optimistic.”

the doorbell rang.

both of them went dead silent.

they looked at each other.

“are you expecting someone?” fyodor whispered.
“no..?"

another ring.

fyodor tiptoed to the window and peeked through the blinds. he squinted.

“…it’s chuuya.”
“THE CHUUYA?? THE SHORT ANGRY ONE?”
“yes.”
“WHY IS HE HERE?”
“i don’t know.”
“DOES HE HAVE A GUN?”
“probably.”

dazai, wide-eyed: “I JUST SPILLED COFFEE ON THE FLOOR.”
“...dammit.”

they opened the door together, like some kind of tragic sitcom couple. chuuya stood on the porch with his hands on his hips and a face full of judgement.

“the fuck is wrong with you two,” he said, in lieu of a greeting.

“define wrong,” dazai said.
fyodor: “define you two.”

“YOU STABBED SOMEONE,” chuuya shouted, jabbing a finger at fyodor. “AND YOU,” he pointed to dazai, “SET A TRASHCAN ON FIRE.”

“IT WAS SYMBOLIC,” dazai said.
“IT HAD GASOLINE IN IT.”
“STILL SYMBOLIC.”

“you’re both insane,” chuuya muttered, rubbing his temples.

“look, chuuya,” fyodor said with mock seriousness, “we’re in a fragile, emotionally complex place right now. we can’t handle judgment.”

“go to hell.”
“already there,” dazai chirped.

twenty minutes later, chuuya left. probably to report them to someone.

dazai was back to laying on the couch, using fyodor’s laptop to search “can you be arrested for stabbing if no one dies.” fyodor had his head in the freezer.

not in like, a metaphorical sense. he literally opened the freezer and rested his face in it.

“this is fine,” dazai said cheerfully.
“define fine,” fyodor muttered into a frozen bag of peas.
“still breathing.”
“barely.”
“good enough.”

and then—

a silence.

they both sat up straight at the same time.

a beat.

fyodor narrowed his eyes. “...why do i feel like we’re forgetting something.”

dazai tilted his head. “something important.”

another beat.

then, like lightning, realization hit them both at once.

“THE PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE MEETING IS TOMORROW.”
“FUCK—”
“WE’RE SUPPOSED TO HAVE AN EXCUSE—”
“WE DON’T EVEN HAVE PANTS—”

they scrambled, chaos exploding in real time. dazai tripped over his own feet. fyodor ran into the coffee table. someone screamed. it might’ve been dazai. it might’ve been fyodor. it might’ve been a neighbor. who knows.

their plan?

they didn’t have one.

their outfit?

shirt-as-jacket. jeans from yesterday. coffee stains. cigarette breath. one of them still had a band-aid on from the fight.

their energy?

“LET’S COMMIT TO THE BIT.”
“WE ARE THE BIT.”
“WE ARE THE BIT AND THE BIT IS US.”
“WE ARE SO SCREWED.”

but hey.

at least they were in it together

Chapter Text

Chap 14: A Small.. Mistake.

fyodor did NOT sign up for this. he swore he didn’t. he was just tryna go to school and cause mild psychological warfare like a normal teenager, not babysit a chaos goblin with a cigarette in his mouth and a vendetta against anything resembling authority.

“i think we should rob a gas station,” dazai declared, lying upside down on fyodor’s couch, legs over the backrest, hair flopping toward the ground like he was defying gravity and logic all at once.

“no,” fyodor said, sipping his third cup of black coffee like it was the only thing tethering him to sanity. “no, absolutely not.”

“okay but hear me out—”

“still no.”

“okay okay okay—what if we don’t rob it. what if we borrow from it. indefinitely. without telling them.”

fyodor stared at him. long. silent. judging.

“that’s literally the definition of robbing, dazai.”

“semantics,” dazai shrugged, now rolling sideways and landing on the floor with a solid thud. he groaned dramatically. “ugh. gravity is so toxic.”

fyodor didn’t laugh. not really. but his lip twitched.

“you’re stupid.”

“YOU’RE stupid,” dazai shot back, poking his head up from behind the couch like a raccoon emerging from the shadows. “you don’t even have your shirt buttoned right. you look like a victorian ghost who’s been mugged.”

“and you look like you got into a fist fight with a traffic cone and lost.”

“THANK you.”

they glared at each other for a moment. the kind of glare that said i hate you but also if you left i’d die a little inside. the kind of glare that said we absolutely made out last night and possibly more and now we’re ignoring it because we’re emotionally repressed idiots.

they were both wearing their button-ups like makeshift jackets. dazai’s was inside out. neither of them cared. fashion was dead and their social lives were hanging on by a thread anyway.

“what even day is it,” fyodor muttered, checking his cracked phone screen. “monday? tuesday?”

“who knows. time’s fake. school’s fake. consequences are fake.”

“you’re fake.”

“your MOM’s fake.”

fyodor didn’t have a mom.

they both paused.

“...too soon?” dazai winced.

fyodor shrugged. “maybe. but i’ll allow it.”

the window was open, letting in warm air and distant traffic noise. it was too quiet. too peaceful. something was WRONG.

“soooo,” dazai began, crawling across the floor like a lazy feral cat, “we gonna talk about the fact that we’re apparently way too comfortable being shirtless around each other now? or we just... repressing that?”

fyodor didn’t blink. didn’t flinch. just looked at him. “repressing.”

“cool. just checking.”

and like the universe decided that wasn’t awkward enough, a knock echoed from the door. a single knock. followed by silence.

“another? are you expecting someone else?” dazai asked, standing up with all the grace of a collapsing umbrella.

“do i look like i have friends?” fyodor muttered.

“fair point.”

fyodor walked to the door and opened it a crack.

a dude. tall. sunburnt. sunglasses. pizza box in hand.

“delivery,” he said.

“we didn’t order pizza.”

“you sure? this is the address.”

fyodor looked at the name.

ordered by: osamu ‘live fast die funnier’ dazai

“DAZAI—”

“IT WAS A SAFETY PIZZA,” dazai yelled from the couch. “IN CASE WE GOT HUNGRY.”

fyodor grabbed the box anyway. “you’re paying for this.”

“with what money?”

“figure it out.”

they sat on the floor with the pizza box between them like some kind of makeshift peace treaty. dazai was already halfway through a slice, tomato sauce on his cheek. fyodor was picking off the olives one by one with surgical precision.

“this is the most domestic we’ve ever been,” dazai said with his mouth full.

“don’t remind me.”

they were quiet for a moment. chewing. thinking. ignoring the huge, buzzing cloud of WHAT THE FUCK DID WE DO LAST NIGHT floating between them.

“do you ever wonder,” dazai said slowly, “like, what we’d be like if we weren’t criminals?”

fyodor blinked. “like normal students?”

“yeah. like, if we actually went to class and did homework and gave a shit.”

fyodor snorted. “i’d probably still try to take over the world.”

“and i’d still be an asshole.”

they both laughed. actual laughter. not sarcastic or ironic or mean. just tired, honest laughter.

then dazai threw a slice of pizza at fyodor’s face.

“YOU ABSOLUTE—” fyodor shrieked, dodging, “—GOBLIN!”

“YOU SAID YOU DIDN’T WANT OLIVES!”

“THAT DOESN’T MEAN I WANT THEM PROJECTILED AT MY HEAD.”

soon they were full-on wrestling over the last breadstick. dazai’s foot hit the coffee table, knocking over an empty cup. fyodor elbowed him in the ribs. dazai bit him.

“BITING ISN’T A VALID FORM OF NEGOTIATION—”

“IT IS IF I WIN!”

it ended with them sprawled out on the floor, breathless and bruised and borderline hysterical.

fyodor, hair in his eyes, shirt hanging off one shoulder, whispered, “we’re going to hell.”

“road trip?” dazai offered.

and for a moment—just a moment—the chaos didn’t feel so heavy. it felt like a shared language. like something almost... safe.

they lay there. silent. the kind of silence that felt earned.

then dazai sat up, lit a cigarette with hands still trembling from laughter, and turned to fyodor with a completely straight face.

“wanna go set the principal’s mailbox on fire?”

fyodor groaned. “you need therapy.”

“no i need a partner in crime. and unfortunately, that’s you.”

“i hate you.”

“you love me.”

fyodor didn’t reply. he didn’t have to.

he was already standing up, brushing ash off his shirt, grabbing his lighter.

because yeah, the world was falling apart, and yeah, they were unhinged disaster teens with more trauma than sense—

but at least they had each other.

TIMESKIP

“so uh,” dazai said, cigarette hanging from his lips, “you ever commit federal crimes before breakfast?”

fyodor side-eyed him, hoodie pulled up over his hair like a reluctant cryptid. “define before breakfast.”

“like now.”
“…yes.”

they stood in front of the principal’s ugly-ass mailbox at the edge of his ugly-ass yard, holding a half-empty bottle of lighter fluid and a completely full bottle of absolutely terrible decision-making.

“should we leave a note?” dazai asked, holding a paper napkin and a sharpie.

“what would it say?”
“‘get a better personality.’”
“make it worse. something that’ll haunt him.”
“‘your wife calls me sir.’”
“perfect.”

fyodor poured the lighter fluid slowly, methodically, like he was painting the mona lisa of petty arson. dazai lit the cigarette in his mouth, used that to light the note, and dropped it inside like some dumbass ritual sacrifice.

WHOOSH.

the fire leapt up like it’d been waiting. red-orange flickering against the dark morning sky.

“OH SHIT—” dazai stumbled back, eyes wide, “IT’S ACTUALLY BURNING—”

“of course it is, you MORON, that’s what FIRE DOES—”

“worth it.”

and in the distance, sirens started.

they didn’t move.

they just laughed harder.

But then—

“wait,” dazai said slowly, squinting at the fire. “why is it getting bigger?”

“uh.” fyodor blinked. “i think the mailbox was connected to the porch?”

“…WHY WOULD A MAILBOX BE CONNECTED TO THE PORCH?!”

“I DONT KNOW, ASK THE ARCHITECT, NOT ME—”

the fire was no longer cute or symbolic. it was a full-blown, towering inferno now. flames curling up the side of the principal’s house, black smoke billowing into the sky like an omen from hell.

“is— is that a scream—?”

“THAT’S A SCREAM, FYODOR—”

they both went dead silent for one long, terrible second.

“…the principal was home,” fyodor whispered.

“YEAH. NO SHIT.”

“WE KILLED HIM.”

“NO WE DIDN’T,” dazai snapped, but it sounded fake. “WE—WE JUST COMMITTED ACCIDENTAL MANSLAUGHTER.”

“arson. and murder. two crimes for the price of one. how efficient of us.”

they looked at the flaming house. then at each other. then at the lighter in fyodor’s hand.

“we gotta run.”

“WE’RE ALREADY SUSPENDED, DAZAI—THERE’S NOWHERE LEFT TO RUN—”

“then we disappear. new names. new identities. you’re fernando. i’m clive.”

“CLIVE???”

“SHUT UP, FERNANDO, WE DON’T HAVE TIME—”

sirens got louder. the fire roared.

somewhere in the chaos, fyodor wheezed out, “we’re gonna go to jail. we’re gonna get so absolutely fucked by the legal system.”

“WE’RE SEVENTEEN,” dazai screeched. “THEY WON’T TRY US AS ADULTS—”

“they might when they find the corpse.”

dazaia soul left his body for a second. just a brief moment of spiritual detachment.

they both sprinted toward the forest line behind the neighborhood.

“do we at least feel bad?” dazai shouted as they ran.

“…a little.”

“okay. cool. just checking.”

they disappeared into the trees like the unholy gremlins they were, the burning house painting the sky in orange behind them.

Chapter Text

Chap 15: Community Service

the town made them do it. community service. after the incident (you know, the one with the fire. and the dead principal. oops), the school board decided that instead of juvie, they needed “structure,” “redemption,” and most importantly—public humiliation.

DAY ONE

“you’re holding the shovel wrong,” dazai said, already sweating under the sun. “you look like a victorian child about to drop dead from coal lung.”

fyodor didn’t even look up. “you are quite literally scooping trash with your bare hands.”

“i’m wearing gloves,” dazai grinned, waving his trash-covered fingers.

“you’re wearing one glove. on the wrong hand.”

“touché.”

they were dressed in neon orange vests, big white text screaming COMMUNITY SERVICE across their backs like a big public ‘L’. every time someone passed by, they’d get That Look. you know the one. pity, disgust, suspicion. one guy even gave them a thumbs up. fyodor flipped him off with a serene smile.

they were supposed to be picking up garbage outside the town library, but dazai got distracted by a beetle, and fyodor sat down next to the fountain to “contemplate the futility of society.” classic.

“what if,” dazai said suddenly, leaning over the edge of the fountain, “we released twenty frogs in the mayor’s office.”

“only twenty?”

“you’re right. fifty.”

they both sat in silence, nodding.

across the street, a group of old ladies stared. one whispered, “aren’t those the delinquents who burned down the principal’s house?”

“no,” fyodor said loudly. “we’re just really passionate about landscaping.”

“i stole a rake,” dazai added helpfully.

“put it back,” a voice growled behind them. it was the supervisor. sweaty. angry. on the verge of cardiac arrest.

“oh no,” dazai whispered.

“oh yes.”

fast-forward ten minutes and they were on bathroom duty. public bathroom duty. fyodor had a mop. dazai had trauma.

“how did someone manage to shit on the wall?” dazai cried, holding a bottle of bleach like it was holy water.

“this is worse than jail,” fyodor muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “i’d rather do time. solitary confinement. the chair, even.”

“you’d befriend the rats in solitary,” dazai said.

“they’d be more pleasant than you.”

they bickered. they complained. they made a game of spraying each other with disinfectant. the janitor passed by once, saw them fencing with mops, and simply walked away.

by the end of the day, they were drenched in sweat, bleach, and disappointment.

“so,” dazai said as they dragged themselves down the sidewalk, “same time tomorrow?”

“i’m burning this town to the ground.”

“again?”

fyodor stared at him. then burst out laughing—dry and tired, but real.

and as the sun set behind them, two delinquent idiots trudging home in mismatched gloves and fading sanity, they both knew one thing:

they were absolutely, undeniably, not reformed.

and they were fine with that.

DAY TWO

it started with yelling.

“YOU TWO! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?! WHY IS THERE A TRAIL OF TRASH BAGS LEADING INTO THE LIBRARY?! WHO TOLD YOU TO USE THE FIRE EXTINGUISHER ON A PIGEON?!”

fyodor calmly blinked. “it looked at me funny.”

“he called it a feathered op,” dazai added, way too cheerfully.

the supervisor—mr. thompkins, 59, angry, and shaped like a blood pressure spike—looked like his soul was trying to escape his body. red in the face. forehead vein dancing. he stomped over, gesturing wildly with a clipboard that had somehow caught on fire.

“how did you even SET A CLIPBOARD ON FIRE?!” he shrieked.

“solar energy,” fyodor said. “and rage.”

“i used a magnifying glass,” dazai offered, holding one up. “science, bitch.”

“YOU—YOU—!!”

then it happened.

mr. thompkins clutched his chest, face twisting, breath hitching like a dying car engine. he made a weird little “ghnk” sound. legs wobbled. eyes rolled back. and just like that—

THUD.

right on the pavement. flat as a pancake.

“OH SHIT,” dazai yelled.

“is he…?” fyodor tilted his head. “dead?”

“i think we just witnessed a real-life ragequit.”

a crowd formed in literal seconds. some gasped. someone screamed. one old man started praying.

“do we… do we call an ambulance?” dazai asked, suddenly realizing holy shit we might go to jail.

“he’s not bleeding,” fyodor muttered, poking the guy with his shoe. “but he’s definitely not breathing either.”

“do not poke the dead man with your shoe.”

“we’ve seen worse,” fyodor shrugged.

“we caused worse!”

eventually, the ambulance came. too late. cause of death: massive cardiac arrest triggered by idiotic teenage delinquents.

oops.

they weren’t arrested, somehow. but now they were stuck with a new supervisor. a woman named ms. o’dell. thirty-five. terrifying. wore sunglasses indoors and had murder in her eyes.

“you two,” she said, voice cold enough to kill crops, “will not step out of line. i don’t care if one of you dies. i’ll bury you myself and clock back in before lunch.”

“i like her,” fyodor whispered.

“i think i’m in love,” dazai whispered back.

they high-fived. got smacked in the head with a broom.

thus finished day two of community service. with one death, two threats, and zero regrets.

it was gonna be a long week.

DAY THREE

“okay,” ms. o’dell growled, hands on her hips. “today. you are repainting the walls of the daycare center. no fire. no pigeons. no dramatic fainting. and for the love of god, no deaths.”

“define death,” fyodor said.

ms. o’dell just stared.

“right. okay. got it,” dazai coughed, grabbing a roller. “painting walls. no casualties. easy.”

ten minutes in, they were already sword-fighting with the paint rollers.

"EN GARDE," dazai yelled, narrowly missing fyodor's face with a streak of bubblegum pink.

"you call that a thrust?" fyodor dodged, dipped, and retaliated with a swipe of neon green to dazai’s hoodie.

some poor toddler watching them clapped.

“make him bleed!!” the toddler screamed.

“WHAT?!” a teacher yelled from across the room.

“this is a place of learning and joy,” dazai whispered, using a roller like a microphone. “and we’re corrupting it beautifully.”

then the chaos really began.

fyodor, in his infinite wisdom, knocked over a full bucket of paint. bright yellow. it splashed. right onto a wall mural of a smiling sun.

now the sun looked like it pissed itself.

a kid cried.

another kid pointed at fyodor and said, “that man’s hair looks like sadness.”

“correct,” fyodor nodded solemnly.

dazai decided to sit down on the tiny reading chair, which snapped under his weight. crack! he went straight to the floor.

“you’re like 400 pounds,” fyodor said.

“rude.”

they were banished to the outside wall after that.

the toddlers waved at them through the windows like they were animals at a zoo.

"can we draw something?" dazai asked.

"if it's a dick, no."

"you knew i was gonna say dick."

"i know you," fyodor said, smiling way too softly.

they ended up drawing a clown with a knife instead. still technically art.

when ms. o’dell came out, she saw:

paint everywhere

a mural of a knife-wielding clown

a traumatized toddler clutching a bible

and fyodor drinking leftover paint water “as a bit”

she didn’t speak. just pulled out a stress ball, squeezed it once, and walked away.

“i think we broke her,” dazai said.

“good,” fyodor replied.

“wanna steal some crayons?”

“absolutely.”

DAY FOUR

today’s task: cleaning the school garden. sounds chill, but, they had to .

they get handed rakes and gloves, and dazai’s already eyeing the compost pile like it’s a treasure chest.

“bro, what if we put some of this in the vending machines?” dazai whispers, holding up a moldy apple.

“that’s disgusting and illegal,” fyodor says, but he’s smiling.

ten minutes later, dazai tries to rake a bush and gets stuck. literally.

“HEEELPP!” he yells, tangled in branches.

fyodor laughs but also helps, and somehow they end up smashing a birdhouse. the birds? not happy.

ms. o’dell storms over, yelling about responsibility and respect, and then the old guy from last time—the cardiac scare dude—is there again, glaring like they’re the reason his heart still races.

fyodor accidentally kicks a rock, it hits a sprinkler, and the water explodes everywhere.

dazai slips, lands in the mud, and starts laughing so hard he can’t get up.

ms. o’dell just facepalms.

then out of nowhere, the cardiac scare dude chokes on a bug.

panic. chaos.

fyodor and dazai freeze.

“are you okay??” fyodor blurts.

the dude waves it off, coughing like he’s trying to act tough but honestly dying inside.

“we need a medic!” someone shouts.

ms. o’dell yells, “not on my watch!”

turns out the dude’s fine, just dramatic.

afterward, dazai smirks, "hmmmm, we might actually survive this community service.”

fyodor just shakes his head.

“you say that now…”

DAY FIVE

it was day three of community service, and the chaos twins—fyodor and dazai—were ready to make someone’s life worse.

they rolled up five minutes late, obviously, shirts still being used as weird-ass makeshift jackets, cigarette smell trailing behind dazai like cheap cologne. the supervisor sighed the second he saw them.

“today,” he groaned, “you two will be assisting the academic excellence club.”

dazai blinked. “what the hell is that?”

“nerds,” fyodor translated, deadpan.

and he was right. standing nearby were four students with crisp uniforms, badges that said things like “eco-leader” and “science olympiad captain,” and expressions like they’d rather eat nails than hang out with fyodor and dazai.

a girl with way too many pins on her blazer stepped forward, already irritated. “you’re the delinquents?”

“i prefer hands-on chaos engineers,” dazai grinned.

fyodor tilted his head. “we’re here to learn about the—what was it—miracle of composting, yes?”

“this is going to be hell,” one of the nerds muttered.

half an hour in, and it was already spiraling.

the nerds tried to keep things structured. they explained soil types, water pH, and why the worms were important. they passed out little gloves and tiny rakes.

but dazai was trying to put worms in fyodor’s hoodie, and fyodor retaliated by spraying him with a hose.

the water nailed not just dazai but one of the nerds too—this pale dude with big glasses and a clipboard. he shrieked like a baby bird.

“my notes!!” he cried.

“natural selection,” fyodor muttered.

the nerd girl (her name was emily, apparently) was LIVID. “this is serious work! we’re here to save the planet!”

“cool,” dazai said. “then we should probably blow it up and start over.”

eventually, the nerds gave up on teaching.

they sat in tired silence while fyodor braided grass into some terrifying shape and dazai tried to catch ants with a cookie.

then dazai leaned back, looked at fyodor, and said, “wanna lock someone in the janitor’s closet?”

“god, yes,” fyodor whispered.

they “accidentally” spilled mulch in the hallway to lure the janitor out, then snuck around and slammed the door shut the moment he bent down.

click. locked.

dazai clapped. “teamwork!”

the nerds found them two minutes later. the one with the clipboard looked traumatized.

“WHAT DID YOU DO—?”

“community bonding,” dazai replied.

“team enrichment,” fyodor added.

but then… laughter.

it came from inside the janitor’s closet.

they froze.

a deep, wheezy laugh echoed from the other side of the door, followed by coughing.

“you kids,” the janitor wheezed. “this… this is the best prank anyone’s pulled in years.”

he sounded like he was about to keel over, but in a happy way?

fyodor and dazai just stared at each other.

“…did we just win?” dazai asked.

“no idea,” fyodor whispered. “i think we’ve created an ally.”

the nerds still hated them. but for the rest of the day, they stayed weirdly quiet, like they were reconsidering their entire moral alignment.

and when the janitor was finally let out, he gave dazai a fist bump and told fyodor he had “the eyes of someone who’s seen hell.”

“thank you,” fyodor replied sincerely.

as they walked home, dazai looked over, swinging his shirt over his shoulder.

“hey, fyo.”

“mm?”

“we’re kinda good at this.”

fyodor didn’t respond right away. then he smirked, slow and a little evil.

“good at making everyone else’s day worse?”

“exactly.”

they high-fived in the middle of the sidewalk, accidentally smacked someone with a rake, and ran for it.

chaotic. stupid. dangerous.

but—somehow—functioning.

DAY SIX

it was the final day. the very last of their week-long “you burned down the principal’s house” punishment.

the school’s staff were on edge. the students were betting actual cash on whether fyodor and dazai would get arrested before noon.

they showed up early for once—both wearing sunglasses indoors, still using their crumpled button-ups as half-assed jackets, and carrying energy drinks like weapons.

“final boss battle,” dazai muttered.

“let’s ruin it,” fyodor replied.

they were assigned to paint over graffiti in the back hallways. easy, boring stuff.

too boring.

“this one looks like a worm,” dazai said, pointing to a spray-painted scribble.

“that’s your signature,” fyodor deadpanned.

the paint fumes hit too fast. dazai got giddy. fyodor started quoting latin. they were both giggling by the time a teacher came to check on them.

“why does it say ‘death to the establishment’ in glitter marker?” she snapped.

“artistic expression,” dazai offered.

“historical accuracy,” fyodor added.

by lunch, they’d painted over exactly one square foot of wall.

they spent the rest of the time:

- drawing caricatures of the principal (with devil horns),

- sword-fighting with paint rollers,

 and convincing two freshman to graffiti the gym teacher’s car instead.

they got caught mid-duel—paint roller in each hand, shirts off this time, dazai standing on a chair screaming “I AM THE EMPEROR OF THIS HALLWAY.”

the vice principal walked in, looked at the scene, sighed so hard he almost collapsed, and just… walked back out.

“we won,” dazai whispered.

“we BROKE him,” fyodor agreed.

the final hour of community service?

they sat in the grass outside the school, eating popsicles stolen from the staff fridge, watching the chaos they left behind.

"think they'll remember us?" dazai asked, mouth blue from raspberry ice.

"they’ll never forget us," fyodor said proudly.

“your mouth’s blue,” fyodor muttered, eyeing dazai like he was witnessing a walking, talking war crime.

dazai, already halfway through his blue raspberry popsicle, grinned with sticky lips. “yours is red.”

fyodor wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, deadpan. “so?”

“so,” dazai said, leaning in just a bit, “if we kissed, we’d make purple.”

fyodor blinked once. twice. pure silence. even the birds seemed to stop and go, “what.”

he stared at dazai with genuine concern. “you are the reason natural selection is real.”

“and yet i survive. stunning, isn’t it?” dazai took another obnoxiously loud slurp from his popsicle, eyes glinting. “c’mon. just think about it. blue plus red equals—”

“NO.” fyodor stood up like he was about to exorcise a demon. “NO PURPLE. NO CHEMISTRY. NO POPSICLES. I’M LEAVING.”

“oh? so you have thought about it.”

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN ‘THOUGHT ABOUT IT’—”

“you just admitted it, fyodor~”

fyodor turned to the sky like he was praying for lightning to strike. “lord. smite him.”

dazai giggled. GIGGLED. “i know you wanna kiss me.”

“i wanna put your head in a blender.”

“so that’s a yes.”

fyodor threw his popsicle at dazai. dazai dodged it by millimeters, still laughing, and then licked it off the ground with no shame.

“i hope you get food poisoning,” fyodor whispered.

“i hope we make purple.”

“i hate you.”

but his ears were red.

fyodor stomped ahead, fuming. “you are insufferable.”

“you’re blushing,” dazai sang, skipping behind him like a deranged fairy. “redder than your popsicle.”

fyodor whipped around. “its a sunburn.”

“uh huh. and i’m the tooth fairy.”

“you’re more like the plague.”

“sexy plague?”

“NO. DEADLY PLAGUE.”

they ended up in the shade of some crumbling wall near the park, their matching community service vests hanging off them like a joke. dazai sat cross-legged on a concrete block, grinning like a menace. fyodor stayed standing—mostly to look taller. he needed the moral high ground. literally.

but then dazai leaned back and asked, all casual, “so… no purple?”

fyodor clenched his jaw. “there will be no purple.”

dazai smirked. “but you’re still thinking about it.”

“i’m thinking about homicide.”

“sure, sure. but first, hypothetically, if we did kiss—”

fyodor lunged forward, grabbed dazai by the collar, and kissed him. no warning whatsoever.

their lips clashed—blue and red, cold from the popsicles, heated by everything else. dazai made a startled noise, then immediately leaned in, hands gripping fyodor’s waist like he’d been waiting all his life for this stupid, reckless decision.

the kiss was a mess. too much teeth. too much attitude. but it worked.

and when they finally broke apart, panting, dazai licked his lips and whispered, “tastes like purple.”

fyodor stared at him. “... i hate you.”

“you love me.”

“shut up.”

“you LOVE me.”

fyodor tried to walk away.

dazai followed, chanting, “PURPLE. PURPLE. PURPLE—”

“what in god’s name.”

they froze.

not a dramatic freeze. not a movie-scene freeze. a genuine, soul-leaving-the-body kind of freeze. because standing at the edge of the community center’s cracked pavement, framed by the blinding sunlight and the judgment of every ancestor who ever existed, was ms. hanamura.

ms. hanamura. the myth. the legend. the woman who once allegedly threw a biology textbook out the window because someone sneezed too loud. holding a clipboard, a half-eaten egg sandwich, and the kind of look that could incinerate dreams.

dazai was the first to blink. “oh shit.”

fyodor: “ah.”

ms. hanamura: “oh?” she mimicked, stepping forward like a goddamn executioner. “OH?”

there was silence.

then dazai, in the dumbest tone possible, decided to *smile*. “technically we’re on concrete, not oh.”

fyodor turned his entire body and *smacked him*.

“ow—okay—deserved—”

“do you think this is a game?” hanamura snapped, her voice dangerously calm. “you’re here to serve the community. not recreate a low-budget porno behind the tool shed!”

“low-budget??” dazai said, mildly offended. “i would at least say indie—”

“DAZAI.”

fyodor backed away slightly like “i do not claim this man.”

“i didn’t even have my tongue in his mouth yet!” dazai defended.

hanamura looked ready to unhinge her jaw and scream a banshee curse. instead, she pulled out a red pen and snapped it in half.

“you,” she growled. “have now EARNED an extra week. of community service. together.”

“together?” dazai said with stars in his eyes.

“TOGETHER,” hanamura barked.

fyodor buried his face in his hands. “i’m going to die. this is how i die.”

“death would be a mercy,” hanamura said dryly. “unlike me.”

she scribbled something so violently her clipboard cracked.

dazai leaned to fyodor and whispered, “if we run now we can catch a train to kyoto and start a new life.”

“i’m thinking about strangling you with your own shoelace.”

“romantic.”

ms. hanamura took a slow, menacing bite of her sandwich, never breaking eye contact.

“wall,” she said, pointing. “now.”

they shuffled toward the wall. dazai dragged his brush behind him like a sulking child. fyodor muttered curses in russian. hanamura stood guard like the world’s most bitter prison warden.

“was it worth it?” fyodor asked under his breath.

dazai grinned. “absolutely.”

and somehow—somehow—fyodor smiled too.

Chapter Text

chapter 16 — great escape, god complex, and two idiots with a death wish

“you realize we could just... leave,” dazai mumbled, twirling a piece of gravel between his fingers like it was a knife. he glanced over at fyodor, who was picking at a splinter on the edge of a busted rake, utterly disinterested.

fyodor blinked slowly. “leave? as in walk away?”

“no, as in disappear. vanish. fake our deaths. move to spain.” dazai grinned, teeth sharp. “but yes. walk away. that too.”

they were supposed to be cleaning graffiti off the back wall of the gym. mr. takahashi, who was already two cigarettes away from a breakdown, had wandered off yelling about someone stealing his lunch. it was, quite literally, the perfect crime.

“he’ll call the cops,” fyodor said, but he wasn’t saying no. he was already shifting on his feet.

“not if we disappear fast,” dazai whispered, grabbing fyodor’s arm. “let’s go. let’s fucking go. race you.”

and that was it.

they were gone.

the first twenty minutes were chaos. they sprinted across the field like escaped convicts, jumping over trash cans, laughing so hard fyodor almost tripped on a sprinkler head and ate dirt. dazai ran like he had nothing to lose, flailing, cackling, dragging fyodor behind him by the sleeve.

they were barely out of sight before fyodor’s legs wobbled beneath him.

“you good?” dazai asked, squinting at him under the too-bright sun.

“fine,” fyodor muttered, waving him off. but he wasn’t. his head buzzed like a tv left on static, his limbs heavy like they were dipped in syrup. he muttered a curse under his breath, fishing into his jacket pocket with shaking fingers.

dazai paused mid-step. “yo, you gonna pass out on me or what?”

“no,” fyodor snapped, but softer than usual. “i just—i need a second.”

he pulled out a crinkled piece of wax paper and unwrapped a single butterscotch candy, shoving it into his mouth. the sweet taste hit his tongue and he closed his eyes, breathing in slow. the world steadied just a little.

dazai blinked. “wait, are those grandma candies?”

“they’re for my blood sugar,” fyodor said flatly. “i’m anemic.”

dazai whistled low. “damn. so that’s why you look like a victorian child ghost half the time.”

“do you ever shut up?”

“nah, not when you’re turning pale in 4k.”

fyodor didn’t even bother replying, just kept walking now that the dizziness was fading. dazai caught up, grinning like an idiot.

“y’know,” dazai said, voice lilting, “you could’ve told me. i’d have brought a juice box or something.”

fyodor side-eyed him. “do i look like i drink out of juice boxes?”

“absolutely.”

they made their way down the road, shoes crunching over gravel. the air smelled like summer and rebellion. neither of them said anything for a while, but fyodor’s fingers brushed against his pocket again—just in case. one more candy waited in there. backup.

“hey,” dazai said, nudging him. “you’re not dying, right?”

fyodor sucked on the candy and muttered, “not yet.”

“cool. wouldn’t want to lose my favorite criminal sidekick.”

“i’m not your sidekick.”

“sure you aren’t.”

they both laughed, loud and wild as they broke into a jog down the street, the world tilting slightly off-axis—like it always did when they were together.

“YOU—YOU LOOK STUPID,” fyodor gasped between laughs, doubling over once they reached the edge of the neighborhood.

“and you look like a tax fraud,” dazai shot back. “god. why do you run like a haunted victorian orphan?”

“why do you run like you just shat yourself?”

they both laughed until they wheezed, collapsing onto someone’s front lawn.

they ended up at the corner store near fyodor’s place. dazai kicked open the freezer and grabbed a blue raspberry slushie. fyodor went red. like always. red cherry. “you’re basic,” dazai muttered.

fyodor gave him a look. “says the man drinking liquid windex.”

they sat under the bridge like trolls, feet swinging over the edge. slushies in hand. chaos in heart.

“hey,” dazai said slowly, leaning back on his hands. “you ever think about running away for real?”

fyodor stared at him. “not with you.”

“aww,” dazai fake-pouted. “you’d miss me too much.”

fyodor deadpanned. “i’d replace you with a cardboard cutout and be twice as productive.”

“rude.”

they slurped in silence for a second, watching traffic go by. some dude honked. dazai flipped him off.

“we’re gonna get expelled,” fyodor said suddenly.

dazai shrugged. “probably.”

“genuinely. community service, destruction of property, possible arson—”

“the mailbox thing was ACCIDENTAL.”

“you lit it on fire.”

“it was symbolic.”

“of what, dazai?!”

“our hatred for authority. obviously.”

fyodor sighed and took another sip. “you’re going to get us both killed.”

dazai leaned closer, eyes glinting. “nah. you’ll survive. you’re like a cockroach.”

fyodor blinked slowly. “i’m going to poison your slushie.”

“already drank half. sucks to suck.”

they laughed again, heads tilted back, the kind of laughter that only came from knowing you were one bad choice away from total disaster—and not caring.

they didn’t go home.

they ended up on a random rooftop, shirts tied around their shoulders like makeshift jackets, the city buzzing below.

fyodor lit a cigarette. dazai tried to steal it. they fought like pigeons. fyodor bit him. dazai shrieked.

“you’re unhinged,” fyodor muttered.

“takes one to know one,” dazai grinned, then sipped the rest of his slushie. “we really are the worst.”

fyodor didn’t deny it.

they just sat there, side by side, the sun dipping low behind the buildings, red and blue in their cups, purple on their tongues.

they stayed on that rooftop for a while, swapping the cigarette back and forth like it was contraband treasure. dazai took every chance to complain that fyodor hogged it. fyodor took every chance to remind dazai that he didn’t even like smoking.

"i like stealing shit from your hand," dazai replied, lips curled in a grin. "especially when you’re being a bitch."

"then maybe you should try taking the consequences too," fyodor muttered—and burned dazai’s sleeve a little.

“HEY. you absolute gremlin.”

“you said you like stealing.”

“THAT’S NOT A LICENSE FOR PYROMANIA, FYODOR.”

they scuffled again, kicking over the empty slushie cups. fyodor’s hands were shaking a little, just barely, from the nicotine and adrenaline and maybe the leftover anemia. he snuck another butterscotch candy in when dazai wasn’t looking. the familiar sweetness grounded him.

dazai noticed anyway. “you okay?”

fyodor raised an eyebrow. “not dead yet.”

“good. i’d hate to have to carry your skinny corpse down three flights of stairs.”

“shut up.”

dazai didn’t. of course not.

he started humming a dumb tune—something off-key and dramatic. fyodor pretended it didn’t make him smile.

they sat in silence again, backs pressed to the concrete, until dazai suddenly gasped.

“bro. BRO. i just had an idea.”

“oh god.”

“you know the park fountain? the one near the library?”

“yes?”

“we should jump in it.”

“dazai.”

“come on. it’s hot. we’re outlaws. let’s go full chaos gremlin.”

fyodor stared at him. “do you want pneumonia?”

“i want to FEEL something.”

fyodor sighed dramatically. “fine. but if i get sick, i’m coughing on your pillow.”

“deal.”

they did it. of course they did.

they ran barefoot through the grass and climbed over the chain fence like demons on a mission. dazai cannonballed into the fountain with a war cry. fyodor stepped in more carefully, shrieking when the cold water hit his calves.

they were soaked in seconds.

“THIS WAS A MISTAKE,” fyodor yelled.

“YOU LOOK LIKE A DROWNED RAT,” dazai howled, splashing him in the face.

they chased each other in circles until they were both out of breath and soaked to the bone. a squirrel judged them from a nearby tree. dazai flipped it off.

and that’s when the cops rolled by.

"shit—RUN!" dazai hissed.

they grabbed their shoes and bolted, slipping and giggling.

later, they crouched behind a bush two blocks away, water still dripping from their clothes. dazai’s hair looked like a sea urchin. fyodor was trembling slightly again, but he didn’t say anything. dazai noticed. pulled out the candy from fyodor’s pocket wordlessly and unwrapped one for him.

"you’re a menace," fyodor said, taking it anyway.

"and you're my favorite ghost boy."

“you think takahashi’s looking for us?” dazai asked, sprawled out on a random patch of sidewalk like he belonged to the street.

“either that or he’s filing our names under ‘students to haunt in hell,’” fyodor muttered.

they stayed there until the sky turned dark. didn’t talk about going home. didn’t talk about what the next day would bring.

just basked in the stupid freedom of it all.

and maybe, just maybe, neither of them had ever felt more alive.

Chapter Text

chap 17 — dorm sweet dorm 

returning to school after burning down part of the principal’s house was… shockingly underwhelming. no alarms. no detentions. just the usual faint smell of ash lingering in the hallways and a couple nervous stares. someone may or may not have whispered “arson twins” as they passed.

fyodor had a bandaid on his neck where dazai had “accidentally” burned him with a cigarette. dazai had a bruise shaped like fyodor’s elbow on his ribs. they looked like they’d gone to war and survived solely on spite and slushie syrup.

they were back.

"what if they actually try to punish us again?" fyodor asked, sliding into his desk like he wanted to melt into it.

"then we commit tax fraud and flee the country," dazai said, dead serious.

the bell rang. life moved on. chaos settled. for now.

by lunchtime, no cops. no yelling. the principal hadn’t returned. maybe the school just gave up. maybe they’d officially been labeled a lost cause.

“they’re scared of us now,” dazai said, kicking his legs up on the bench and stealing a fry. “we’re untouchable. we’ve become legends.”

“you’re an idiot,” fyodor replied, swatting his hand but not moving the tray away.

dazai smirked. “but your idiot.”

“delusional.”

“you’re smiling.”

“i’m plotting your murder.”

“cute.”

after school, dazai dragged fyodor down the hallway like a man on a mission.

“where are we going?” fyodor muttered, dragging his feet.

“you’ll see,” dazai chirped.

they ended up outside the dorm building.

dazai held up a shiny new key. “ta-daaa!”

fyodor blinked. “you’re joking.”

“nope. parents sent me money ‘cause they’re in greece or italy or whatever. i rented a dorm. guess who else is moving in?”

fyodor stared. “dazai.”

“what, you’d rather go home to the house where your dad forgets you exist?”

“…”

“exactly. congrats, roomie.”

“this is criminal.”

“so are we.”

the dorm was chaos. one microwave that sparked when you plugged it in. a mini fridge that groaned louder than dazai when he stubbed his toe. twin beds shoved too close together. a stained beanbag. two toothbrushes in a cracked cup. dazai had lava lamps. fyodor brought nothing.

“this looks like a frat house died here,” fyodor muttered.

“you love it,” dazai replied, already doing a handstand on the bed.

they put up a “do not knock unless you’re on fire” sign. got a noise complaint in the first 18 hours. started a list of banned activities (dazai wrote: ‘no summoning demons before 3am’ — fyodor added: ‘no more sock puppet death matches’).

fyodor tried to study. dazai played emo rock at full volume.

dazai left socks in the fridge. fyodor threw them out the window.

they had a chart for chores. they both ignored it.

it was loud. stupid. borderline unlivable.

it was also... nice.

dazai kept butterscotch candies in his bag. “backup for when you turn into a ghost,” he’d say.

fyodor started leaving coffee for dazai in the mornings, even if it was terrible and bitter. dazai drank it anyway.

they fought over blankets. dazai stole fyodor’s hoodies. fyodor punched him in the arm for leaving toothpaste in the sink. dazai built a pillow fort. fyodor knocked it down and then rebuilt it, better.

some nights, it was quiet.

fyodor would sit on the windowsill, knees to his chest, staring out at the campus lights.

dazai would lie on the bed upside down, talking nonsense.

“we live together now,” he said once.

fyodor nodded slowly. “yeah. we do.”

“we should get a goldfish.”

“you’d kill it.”

“we could name it ‘crime.’ or ‘baby.’ or like… ‘capitalism.’”

fyodor rolled his eyes. “you’re an idiot.”

“your idiot.”

fyodor didn’t argue.

one night, dazai wandered in at 2am, reeking of cheap energy drinks and bad decisions.

“fyooooodorrr,” he sang.

fyodor, half-asleep, cracked an eye open. “what.”

“we need to break into the chem lab and steal glow-in-the-dark paint.”

“no.”

“it’s for a good cause.”

“no.”

“what if i say please?”

fyodor groaned. “you’re lucky i tolerate you.”

“you love me,” dazai whispered, flopping onto his bed.

fyodor said nothing. dazai snored three minutes later.

somehow, it worked. the two of them, living in that room like it was their own weird universe.

fyodor didn’t flinch anymore when dazai grabbed his hand. dazai didn’t laugh when fyodor’s voice cracked from exhaustion. they had a rhythm.

two disasters orbiting each other.

two idiots with too many secrets and not enough survival instinct.

and for once—

for once, they were almost okay.

it was nearly 3am. their dorm buzzed with the faint hum of dazai’s lava lamp and the creaking of old pipes. the microwave had just sparked again—narrowly missing dazai’s left eyebrow.

“okay, maybe don’t microwave aluminum foil,” fyodor said flatly, not even looking up from his book.

“it was an experiment,” dazai muttered, fanning the smoke alarm with a hoodie. “for science.”

fyodor shut his book and sighed. “you set the toaster on fire yesterday.”

“you’re still breathing, aren’t you? clearly i’m doing something right.”

fyodor stood, snatched the half-burnt pop-tart from dazai’s hand, and tossed it into the sink.

“hey!” dazai cried. “that was my midnight snack!”

“you mean your mid-disaster,” fyodor snapped.

but then he pulled out a crumpled bag of chips from under his bed and tossed it at him. dazai caught it mid-air, grinning like an idiot.

“you care.”

“i pity your survival instincts.”

“same thing.”

they sat on the beanbag together, legs tangled, crumbs everywhere.

“you ever think about what we’d be doing if we weren’t, y’know… like this?” dazai asked suddenly.

fyodor glanced over. “like what?”

“criminals. disasters. freaks of nature.”

fyodor shrugged. “probably still being disasters. just quieter ones.”

“you’d be a terrifying accountant.”

“you’d still be annoying.”

“but i’d file your taxes.”

fyodor gave a ghost of a smile.

silence stretched between them—comfortable, lazy, laced with caffeine and sleep deprivation.

then dazai leaned his head on fyodor’s shoulder, soft and slow.

fyodor didn’t move.

he should’ve shoved him off. or made a snarky comment. or reminded him of personal space.

but instead—

he reached into dazai’s hoodie pocket and pulled out a single butterscotch.

dazai peeked up, smirking. “stealing from me now?”

“compensation for mental damages.”

he unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth, warm sugar melting on his tongue.

dazai let out a content sigh, voice barely a whisper. “this is kinda nice.”

fyodor tilted his head just enough to rest against dazai’s hair.

“yeah,” he murmured. “it is.”

and for one breathless moment, in the middle of their stupid little dorm with burn marks on the walls and broken rules taped to the fridge, everything felt like it might not completely fall apart.

the clock blinked 4:02 AM in angry red numbers. neither of them were asleep. again.

fyodor was curled up on his bed, hoodie pulled over his head like a gremlin. dazai was upside down in the beanbag chair, legs over the backrest, holding a half-empty can of monster like it was holy water.

“bro. listen. listen to me,” dazai said, voice too loud for the hour. “we should build a zipline. from our window. to the cafeteria.”

fyodor groaned into his sleeve. “you’re not even high.”

“nope. just genius.”

“you’re gonna die before graduation.”

“bold of you to assume i’ll make it that far.”

fyodor threw a pillow at him. it bounced off his head and landed in a pile of dirty laundry.

“ow. rude. i’m brainstorming.”

“you’re brainrotting.”

“potato, potahto.”

dazai suddenly shot upright. “wait. are we out of coffee?”

fyodor blinked. “i made a pot like… two hours ago.”

“yeah i drank that.”

fyodor sat up slowly, hoodie still over his head like a cryptid. “dazai.”

“don’t look at me like that. i NEEDED it. for reasons.”

“you drank all of it?”

“in my defense, it was bad.”

fyodor dragged himself to the mini-fridge. opened it. stared into the void. the only thing inside: one half-melted ice pack and a single expired yogurt.

“this dorm is cursed.”

“this life is cursed.”

fyodor turned around. “if i die from caffeine withdrawal, i’m haunting you.”

dazai grinned. “you already do.”

fyodor flipped him off and grabbed his coat.

“wait, where you going?” dazai called, scrambling after him like a puppy.

“to steal instant coffee from the staff lounge.”

“oh my god. you do love me.”

fyodor shoved his shoes on. “shut up and bring a flashlight.”

“team crime is back, baby!”

ten minutes later, they were crouched outside the teacher’s lounge door. dazai was trying to pick the lock with a paperclip. fyodor held the flashlight in his mouth like a feral cat.

“almost there…” dazai mumbled.

“if we get caught, i’m blaming you,” fyodor muttered around the flashlight.

“as you should.”

click.

the door creaked open. dazai looked victorious.

inside: a dusty coffeemaker, cabinets full of depressing decaf, and a half-eaten granola bar someone left behind in 2012.

“jackpot,” dazai whispered, grabbing the jar labeled DO NOT TOUCH in all caps.

fyodor pocketed three instant coffee packets like contraband.

“we’re such menaces,” dazai said proudly.

“you’re a menace. i’m a victim.”

“aw, poor little meow meow.”

“i will punch you.”

“kinky.”

they made it back to the dorm alive, buzzing with sugar, crime, and way too much caffeine. dazai made the worst coffee imaginable. fyodor drank it anyway.

at 4:43 AM, they sat in the window, sharing a scratchy blanket, legs tangled.

the coffee tasted like burnt regret. the night was quiet. the stars looked fake. everything was a mess.

and still—

fyodor leaned his head on dazai’s shoulder. dazai didn’t flinch.

“we’re disasters,” fyodor murmured.

“but we’re our disasters,” dazai replied.

and somehow, that was enough.

Chapter Text

chapter 18 — crash and burn, sweetheart

it started with silence.

not the regular kind—fyodor’s silence was usually cutting, calculated, sarcastic even without words.

but this one was heavy. slow. like the air had gotten too thick to breathe.

they were walking. just walking.

a lazy, aimless stroll back to the dorms after a day full of being mostly menace and partially myth. dazai was talking about something—probably crime, probably nonsense.

and fyodor?

he was lagging behind.

not saying anything. not making fun of dazai. not even sighing dramatically.

“bro,” dazai said, glancing over his shoulder, “you dying or just emo?”

no response.

fyodor’s steps faltered again.

"fyodor?”

his knees buckled like a puppet cut from its strings—and he hit the pavement hard.

hard—a sick crack of bone on concrete, arms limp, eyes fluttering back in his skull.

dazai froze.

then sprinted.

“FYO—HEY—NOPE. NO. YOU’RE NOT DOING THIS. DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE.”

he dropped to the ground beside him, panic rushing in like water in a sinking ship.

he tilted fyodor’s face up—pale, ice-cold, lips bluish, breath shallow.

“nonononono—” dazai checked his pockets. no candies. none.

“YOU FORGOT YOUR FUCKING CANDY? ARE YOU INSANE—ARE YOU TRYING TO DIE?”

nothing. not even a twitch.

dazai pressed his forehead against fyodor’s and cursed so loudly he scared a crow out of a tree.

there was no time. no plan. just one option.

he scooped fyodor up—limp, too light, head lolling into dazai’s shoulder—and ran.

like full sprint. like a man escaping hell itself. like adrenaline was gasoline and he’d just chugged a gallon.

“MOVE—OUTTA THE WAY—EMERGENCY—HE’S GONNA DIE—GET OUTTA THE DAMN ROAD—”

people stared. someone gasped. dazai did not care.

he kicked open the dorm building door with a knee, nearly tripped on the stairs, and screamed the whole way to their floor.

“UNCONSCIOUS ROOMMATE COMING THROUGH, I NEED SUGAR OR GOD RIGHT FUCKING NOW—”

they reached the room.

he fumbled the key. cursed. screamed again.

and finally got inside.

threw the door open. kicked it closed. dumped fyodor on the beanbag chair (because it was closer than the bed) and bolted to the kitchen.

NO candy.

NO juice.

NO soda.

just—

sugar cubes.

“i hate this. i hate this so much.”

he grabbed the half-empty box and sprinted back.

“OKAY. THIS IS GOING TO BE STUPID,” he muttered, tearing open a cube and forcing it between fyodor’s lips.

“chew. chew, idiot.”

fyodor did not chew.

“don’t die on me like this,” dazai hissed, popping another cube into his mouth. “not from anemia. not from lack of sugar. you are not going out like that. not when we’ve got crimes left to commit. not when i’ve got, like, five insults i haven’t used yet.”

fyodor made a sound.

a faint, broken breath.

then coughed. once. weakly.

“YES. YES. THAT’S RIGHT. THAT’S THE SOUND OF YOU NOT DYING.”

dazai shoved another sugar cube in.

fyodor choked gently.

his fingers twitched. eyes cracked open.

“…dazai?” he croaked, voice ragged.

“yeah. hi. you passed out. scared the living shit out of me. again.”

“…sugar cubes?”

“only thing we had,” dazai said, brushing hair out of his face without realizing. “if i ever catch you leaving the dorm without your candy again, i’m gonna duct tape them to your spine.”

fyodor blinked slowly. “thought i was dying.”

“you were.”

“and…you ran?”

“no, i casually skipped across campus carrying your dramatic ass like a fucking Disney prince,” dazai snapped. “yes, i ran. you think i was gonna let you eat pavement and fade out? hell no.”

fyodor went quiet.

he looked like hell. hair messy, face sickly, shirt rumpled from being carried like a sack of tragic potatoes.

dazai sighed and pulled the beanbag closer to the bed so he could collapse beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

“you’re not allowed to die,” he said softly. “i’m not kidding.”

fyodor tilted his head toward him, eyes glassy.

“you’re shaking,” he murmured.

“shut up.”

“you’re scared.”

“shut up.”

“you carried me…”

“yes. bridal style. through traffic. it was dramatic and beautiful.”

“you’re so stupid.”

“and you’re my stupid,”

dazai snapped. then blinked. realized. froze.

fyodor blinked back. slow. unreadable.

the room went quiet.

a sugar cube fell from fyodor’s hand, landing on the floor with a tiny plink.

dazai swallowed.

“…you’re sleeping in my bed tonight.”

“i already do,” fyodor muttered.

“no like—closer.”

“you’re insane.”

“maybe,” dazai mumbled, laying down properly next to him. “but at least i remember to bring sugar.”

fyodor chuckled weakly.

dazai stared at the ceiling, eyes wide, heart racing like it hadn’t caught up.

he nearly lost him. again.

and he hated how much that scared him.

but he didn’t say anything else.

he just stayed close.

listening to fyodor breathe.

counting every second he was still here.

dazai stared at him for a long time.

at the purple under his eyes. the pale of his skin. the soft tremble still in his fingers.

and then he leaned down, pulled a blanket over them both, and whispered:

“sleep, sugar vampire.”

TIMESKIP

fyodor fell asleep with his forehead brushing dazai’s shoulder.

like it was nothing.

like dazai hadn’t carried him through hell and sugar cubes and silent terror.

he was breathing steady now. chest rising and falling. the color slowly crawling back into his cheeks. fingers twitching in his sleep, like even unconscious he was still plotting something evil.

and dazai just lay there.

staring at the ceiling. mind spinning.

heart pounding.

because it hit him.

all at once.

he cares.

more than he should. more than he thought he could. more than what made sense.

and it sucked.

because fyodor was annoying. pretentious. cruel. smug. probably plotting dazai’s downfall with a secret notebook under his pillow.

but he was also—

fragile.

human.

cold hands gripping dazai’s jacket in sleep. bruises on his knees from collapsing. breath catching like he was still on the edge of that cliff.

and dazai had panicked.

he didn’t panic.

he never panicked.

but he’d sprinted through campus with fyodor in his arms like he was something precious. like he was afraid to lose him.

and now he was here.

under the same blanket. warm against dazai’s side.

and dazai couldn’t stop thinking about the way fyodor had whispered his name when he woke up. like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

like dazai meant something.

“…fuck,” dazai whispered.

his voice cracked.

he turned his head slightly, watching fyodor sleep.

eyes closed. mouth parted. a smear of sugar dust on his cheek.

he looked stupid.

he looked beautiful.

dazai buried his face in his arm, muffling a groan.

“i’m so screwed.”

he didn’t want to admit it.

but the truth was—

he was already falling.

hard.

and fast.

for the boy with sugar-sticky lips and sleep-heavy eyes and the bad habit of dying without permission.

Chapter Text

Chap 19- breathe. lie. survive.

fyodor forgets breakfast.

he forgets how long ago the sun rose. if it even did. the curtains are drawn, but light still seeps through the gaps, strips of it slicing the room into pieces like something out of a crime scene. the kind of light that doesn’t warm—it just exists. just like him.

fyodor sits in bed, knees curled up, arms looped around them like they’re the only thing holding him together. he doesn’t move. hasn’t for hours. maybe.

his eyes are dry.

his throat is dry.

his head is buzzing like a broken television—static, static, static.

it’s not new. it’s not unfamiliar. it’s not even frightening anymore.

he’s just so, so tired.

and not the kind that sleep fixes.

his phone buzzes twice. once. again.

he doesn’t check.

it’s dazai, probably. it’s always dazai.

cheerful, annoying, too-loud dazai, who walks into every room like it belongs to him and acts like everyone should be lucky he even glanced their way. who teases fyodor with a grin, calls him “church rat” and “dracula” and “my spooky little cryptid,” but still leaves coffee by his desk and gives him first pick of the vending machine candy.

dazai’s a contradiction fyodor’s never been able to solve.

and it’s infuriating.

and it’s comforting.

and it’s the worst thing in the world when the fog gets this thick, and dazai’s name feels like a prayer he’s too unclean to say out loud.

fyodor lowers his head to his knees.

his hair falls into his eyes.

the buzzing doesn’t stop.

he thinks about physics. he thinks about entropy. he thinks about all the ways the universe falls apart, over and over, in perfect silence.

everything ends.

everything collapses.

everything forgets.

he forgot to eat last night, too.

his stomach doesn’t even growl anymore. it’s learned better than to beg.

his body feels like it’s giving up slowly.

his limbs are numb.

his thoughts are slow.

his heart is beating, but it doesn’t mean anything.

he closes his eyes. pretends he’s dead. not in a dramatic way. not even in a hopeless way.

just in the way you’d pretend to be a rock in a river—cold and still and untouched by all the noise.

he wonders if dazai would notice.

probably not.

he didn’t notice the silence last week. didn’t notice when fyodor didn’t laugh at the stupid joke. didn’t notice when he spent the night in the shower, curled up on the tile, trying not to scream.

no one ever notices.

they think quiet means stable.

they think pale means poetic.

they think distance means mystery.

it doesn’t.

it means he’s falling apart.

it means he’s disappearing and no one cares enough to call it what it is.

he lays back down, blinking at the ceiling. his fingers curl tight in the sheets, white-knuckled. his nails dig half-moons into his palms. he wonders if dazai would care if he didn’t come back to class tomorrow.

probably.

for a week. maybe.

then he’d move on. find someone new to bother. someone who doesn’t *ruin* everything by existing.

fyodor presses the heel of his hand against his eyes.

his skin feels too tight. like it’s not his. like it’s choking him.

he wants to unzip it. step out. vanish.

a clean erasure.

he thinks of the blade in the drawer.

not for the first time. not for the last.

he hasn’t touched it in weeks.

he tells himself he won’t.

but the silence is so loud.

and the numbness is so deep.

and the world keeps going, and he’s not part of it, and he doesn’t know how to come back.

if he ever really left.

if he was ever really here.

his phone buzzes again.

he doesn’t look.

he closes his eyes.

lets the static devour him.

fyodor doesn’t move until the sun shifts.

it creeps lower on the wall, casting gold over the cluttered half of the room—the side that’s not his.

dazai’s side.

messy.

loud.

alive.

a hoodie hangs off the bedframe, half-falling. a notebook lies open on the floor, pages full of doodles and chaotic scribbles like “DO NOT TRUST THE MATH TEACHER” and “chuuya is short and will never win.” a crushed slushie cup leans against the trash can like it gave up halfway through existing.

there’s a sock draped over the lamp.

fyodor stares at it.

he doesn’t know if it’s dazai’s brand of chaos or a calculated form of camouflage. a way to make people think he doesn’t care, so they won’t look deeper.

it works.

he gets away with everything.

just like fyodor.

but fyodor’s mess is internal. his disasters wear long sleeves. they stay quiet. they bleed behind locked doors and stitched lips.

he shifts slightly in bed. his back aches. his arms are stiff. his stomach is a hollow drum.

he can’t stay like this.

not anymore.

not again.

he slips out of the blankets like he’s shedding a second skin. his bare feet hit the cold floor and he flinches. muscles scream in protest, but he ignores them. everything in him is tired.

and something else.

something cracking.

he walks across the room slowly, stepping around dazai’s belongings like they’re sacred, like touching them might curse him.

the bathroom door is cracked open.

he slips inside.

click.

locked.

the mirror greets him like an enemy.

he doesn’t look into it.

he can’t.

instead, he turns to the counter and opens the top drawer. there’s toothpaste, a stray band-aid, a dull razor.

and under all that—hidden beneath wrappers and half-forgotten hair ties—

the box.

he pulls it out with shaking hands.

it’s not dramatic. not ceremonial.

it’s routine.

he sits on the cold tile, hoodie pooling around him. the silence in here is worse than the room. worse than class. worse than anywhere else.

because this is where he’s real.

this is where the pretending stops.

he opens the box and pulls out the blade. it’s small. sharp. clean.

hasn’t been used in weeks.

his fingers tremble.

he doesn’t know if it’s fear or relief.

he rolls up his sleeve slowly.

his arm is pale. delicate.

like paper that’s been folded too many times.

he finds a spot higher up. one he hasn’t touched yet. one that won’t show.

his chest is tight.

he can’t breathe.

everything is spinning and spinning and nothing makes sense—

he presses the blade to his skin.

his hand steadies.

his thoughts slow.

his pulse throbs beneath the steel like it’s begging.

he drags it down, slow and deep.

the first cut isn’t enough.

he doesn’t flinch.

doesn’t cry.

just breathes. shallow. careful.

blood beads up, dark and thick.

it trails down his arm in silence.

warm. certain. real.

he cuts again.

and again.

and again.

until the pressure in his head fades.

until the noise stops.

until he feels the edge of himself—jagged and trembling—but there.

he wipes the blade. puts it down beside him like a finished sentence.

he presses the towel to his arm. it burns. he doesn’t react.

he closes his eyes.

and all he feels is control.

not healing. not catharsis.

just stillness.

like he’s stopped fighting gravity.

he sits there for minutes—hours—decades.

he doesn’t know.

the blood slows.

the towel is soaked.

he folds it neatly. like it matters.

his heart thuds slow and low in his chest. like it’s hesitant.

he feels cold.

not from blood loss. not yet.

just… empty.

the silence creeps back in, but this time it’s bearable. it wraps around him like a blanket. whispers that he’s done enough.

he believes it.

when doesn't he?

the hoodie is still on his bed.

it’s dazai’s. oversized, worn, sleeves a little frayed. some dumb band on the back—he doesn’t even know who. smells like cheap cologne, cherry slush, and dazai’s obnoxious shampoo. the kind that lingers too long and clings to everything.

it’s been there since this morning.

dazai dropped it onto fyodor’s blanket like it was a gift. like a crown. like a joke.

“for the resident vampire,” he said, ruffling fyodor’s hair with that smug little grin.

fyodor had only blinked at him. tired. unreadable.

and dazai had ruffled harder.

“you’re welcome, sunshine.”

then left, whistling. just like that.

the dorm feels different without him.

not better. not worse. just—emptier.

fyodor sits cross-legged on the mattress, hoodie pooled in his lap like a memory. the sleeves are too long. the cuffs stained faintly with what might be pen ink or old ramen sauce. it smells like warmth.

he presses his face into it without thinking. inhales.

fuck.

he hates this.

hates how dazai’s presence lingers even when he’s not here. hates how the silence rings louder because there’s no voice filling it. no annoying commentary. no clicking of dazai’s tongue. no badly hummed tune from the bathroom.

the worst part is how much he notices the absence.

how much it hurts.

he hasn’t said anything. never will.

but fyodor misses dazai in ways that aren't normal.

not platonic. not innocent.

something deeper. something poisonous.

like missing sunlight you know will burn your skin.

dazai touches everything like it belongs to him.

he doesn’t just exist—he fills rooms. invades thoughts. takes up so much space in fyodor’s mind that it’s hard to tell where dazai ends and he begins anymore.

and fyodor hates that, too.

how dazai crept in without asking. how he made fyodor care.

he shouldn’t care.

caring is dangerous. it’s messy. it’s how you end up hurt.

but dazai makes him forget that. makes him want things he shouldn’t. makes him believe—just for a second—that someone might stay.

and god, fyodor wants him to stay.

wants him to see the things he hides. the days he doesn’t speak. the way his fingers shake when he thinks too hard. the cracks beneath his skin, wide enough to fall through.

but dazai never looks long enough.

never really sees.

he thinks fyodor’s just dramatic. that the eye bags and silence and late-night pacing are all part of the aesthetic. another piece of the mystery puzzle.

and fyodor plays along. because it’s easier.

it’s easier to be the enigma than the mess.

he hugs the hoodie closer. lets the fabric swallow him.

if he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend dazai’s still here. lounging on the other bed. socks mismatched. rambling about how “midterms are a capitalist invention” or “ghosts are just emotionally constipated people who died loud.”

sometimes, fyodor laughs at that shit.

most times, he doesn’t.

but he listens. always.

and now he’s listening to the silence, and it sounds like grief.

it’s not like dazai went far. probably just in the rec room. or downstairs. maybe buying more snacks to stash under his bed like a goblin.

but still.

fyodor’s chest aches with the weight of missing.

he doesn’t know why today is worse.

why the hoodie feels heavier.

why dazai’s absence feels like a blade instead of a break.

maybe it’s because fyodor doesn’t know how to ask for company.

doesn’t know how to say,

“please sit with me.”

“please talk.”

“please don’t leave me alone in my head today.”

so he says nothing. always nothing.

and dazai doesn’t notice.

not when fyodor disappears into the bathroom for hours.

not when he doesn’t eat.

not when his voice drops to a whisper and his hands go cold.

dazai assumes he’s brooding.

mysterious.

cool.

he doesn’t know fyodor’s falling apart.

and fyodor’s too good at keeping it that way.

he lies back down, dazai’s hoodie still clutched like a lifeline.

it’s not warm enough.

it doesn’t fill the space dazai leaves behind.

but it’s all he has.

and tonight, that has to be enough.

the drawer opens with a soft creak.
quiet. guilty. practiced.

it’s not dramatic. it’s not loud. it’s just… methodical.
like opening a textbook.
like brushing teeth.
like routine.

his fingers shake a little when they touch the blade.
not from fear.
not from hesitation.
just from existence.

he told himself he wouldn’t.

he always tells himself he wouldn’t.

and yet—here he is.
knees pulled up, drawer wide open, blade nestled between socks like a secret he’s never outgrown.

it’s clean. always clean. he makes sure of that.
the shine of it glints against the dim light peeking in through the curtains.
the world is dusky outside—almost night.
dazai still isn’t back.

he doesn’t even realize how hard he’s breathing.

like his lungs finally remembered they exist. like every inhale scratches against the inside of his ribs.
like oxygen isn’t enough anymore.

he drags the hoodie off slowly.

dazai’s hoodie.

it falls beside him like a ghost.

he doesn’t look at it.

his arms are thin. pale.
the skin has that cold, glassy look.
untouched canvas.
but not for long.

he presses the blade down.

not deep.
not yet.
just enough to feel it.
enough to wake up.

his skin splits in silence.

one.
a line of red blooms. almost beautiful.
two.
a drop pools and slips sideways, disappearing into the dip of his elbow.
three.
he exhales. a little too hard.
four.
his hands are shaking now.

he watches the blood trickle like it belongs to someone else.
like he’s a witness. not a participant.
his vision goes fuzzy around the edges.

the burn is sweet.
sharp.
real.

he bites his lip and doesn't cry.

he never cries.

not over this.

this isn’t sadness.
it’s math.
it’s control.
it’s one pain overpowering another.

he closes his eyes.

wonders if dazai would even notice.

if he came back right now, would he see the blood?
would he care?

would he kneel down, frantic, calling fyodor’s name with that panic in his voice that he hides under jokes?

or would he sigh? call him stupid? walk away?

fyodor doesn’t know.

and it kills him.

he wants to be wanted.

wants dazai to grab his wrists and kiss his palms and scream at him for being reckless.

wants proof that someone gives a damn.

but he’s alone.

he always is.

the room’s too quiet.
even his thoughts are muffled now.

he cuts again.

deeper.

the blood’s thicker. it rolls slow down his arm, thick and warm.

he watches it pool on the floor and thinks about dazai’s stupid slushie. the blue one. how it dripped down his chin last week and how fyodor almost reached out to wipe it, but didn’t.

the red looks like that. like syrup. like candy.
not sweet. never sweet.
but it reminds him of dazai anyway.

he presses the blade down again.

this one hurts.

he flinches.

his breath catches.

good.
good.

he needs to feel something.
anything.

his head’s pounding.
he’s dizzy.
he doesn’t stop.

his knees curl tighter. his body folds in on itself. the blade slips from his hand, landing on the floor with a soft clatter, speckled red.

he stares at it like it betrayed him.

his whole arm is smeared with blood now.

the sting is setting in. it’s raw.
like windburn.
like shame.

he wants to scream.
he wants dazai.
he wants to go back.

he presses his forehead to his knees.

and he shakes.

knock knock.

fyodor freezes.

his hand tightens on the edge of the sink, blood blooming through the paper towel like a guilty secret. the blade’s hidden behind the tissue box. his hoodie sleeve is still rolled up. the door’s locked, but his breath still catches like dazai could see through wood and lies.

“fyooo~~dor,” comes the voice, too bright for how dim the hallway always feels. “you in there? you didn’t answer your phone, so i got \*worried~~\*.”

his chest caves in.

he knew he should’ve replied.

he knew dazai would check.

he just didn’t think he’d do it this fast.

another knock. three short taps. like a rhythm dazai made up just for him. some dumb habit from some dumb day they were laughing too loud in the cafeteria, heads too close, fingers brushing accidentally over plastic trays and pudding cups.

“hey,” dazai says, quieter now. “you okay?”

fyodor swallows. his throat feels like broken glass.

okay.

what a stupid word.

he doesn’t respond.

he wraps his arm tighter in the towel, presses it down hard. the cut burns. deep ones always do. he didn’t go shallow this time. he didn’t want to.

he leans his head against the cabinet and closes his eyes.

breathe. lie. survive.

“‘cause like,” dazai’s voice goes on, a little more casual—trying not to sound worried, which means he is—“you didn’t touch your ramen last night, and it’s still sitting on the desk, and also you haven’t insulted me all morning. kinda tragic. i missed my daily slander.”

fyodor’s lips twitch, but it’s not a smile. more like muscle memory of pretending.

“i’m in here,” he finally says, voice hoarse.

“obviously.” dazai leans against the door. “are you sick?”

“no.”

“are you crying in the shower again?”

“no.”

“hiding from your sins?”

silence.

“…that one’s a yes, huh?”

fyodor grips the sink tighter. his palm slips on the blood-slick towel. he needs to clean it. hide it. move. something.

but dazai is *right there*.

he can’t make a sound.

one clatter, one drop, and dazai’ll hear it all.

“can you open the door?” dazai asks. too soft. too kind.

fyodor hates it. it makes his teeth ache.

“no.”

“why?”

“i’m busy.”

“busy bleeding out?” dazai jokes.

fyodor flinches so hard the razor slips off the counter and hits the tile with a *sharp clink.*

silence.

pure, thick, suffocating silence.

“…what was that?” dazai says.

fyodor doesn’t answer.

can’t.

his pulse spikes. the cut on his arm reopens. blood drips down his wrist and dots the floor.

“fyodor,” dazai says. voice low now. serious. like a switch flipped.

he *knows*. he doesn’t. he *knows*.

“open the door.”

fyodor shakes his head, even though dazai can’t see it.

“open the door,” dazai repeats, knocking harder now. “or i’m gonna—i’m gonna kick it down.”

“no, you’re not.”

“watch me.”

“dazai.”

quiet. sharp. begging.

don’t.

not yet.

not now.

his voice trembles despite everything he does to stop it. it’s not loud, but dazai goes still.

“fyodor,” he says again, this time like it hurts. like he’s scared. “what are you doing in there?”

fyodor opens his mouth.

closes it.

the blood keeps dripping.

his knees shake.

the mirror finally looks at him and he looks back and he doesn’t recognize the thing in it.

he’s pale.

eyes dark.

mouth tight.

red lines just barely peeking out from the towel.

a crime scene in motion.

he leans over the sink, rinses the blood fast, scrubs too hard. the cuts sting, but he doesn’t stop until the water runs pink then clear.

the towel he hides in the laundry basket.

the blade—back in the box. shoved behind shampoo.

he washes his hands three times.

his skin looks raw.

something shifts in the air.

fyodor feels it before he hears it—like tension pulled too tight, like a bowstring, like silence before the scream.

outside the door, dazai’s pacing.

he hasn’t left.

he won’t.

“fyodor,” dazai calls again, voice strained now. all the playful air is gone, stripped bare. “i’m serious. open the fucking door.”

fyodor’s on the floor again. hoodie pulled back over his arms, but the cuts are still bleeding. he didn’t wrap them right. he was too shaky.

there’s blood on his pants now.

on the floor.

the counter.

his palm.

he hears the creak of wood as dazai shifts his weight.

then—

BANG.

fyodor flinches.

“fyodor. open. the. door.”

“go away.”

“i’m not leaving you like this!”

“there’s nothing—” fyodor’s voice cracks—“nothing to see.”

“then let me see it anyway,” dazai snaps.

BANG.

fyodor looks at the lock. it’s old. cheap. dorm-issue. it rattles with each slam.

dazai’s breathing hard. every sound makes fyodor want to crawl inside himself and disappear.

“i’m going to count to five,” dazai growls. “and if you don’t unlock it, i’m breaking it. and i will. i’m not bluffing this time. i know you, fyodor. i know when you’re lying.”

fyodor doesn’t respond.

he clutches his arm. the cuts sting. they ache. they burn.

“one,” dazai says.

fyodor’s throat tightens.

“two.”

he can hear dazai’s fingers curl into fists.

“three.”

he wants him to stop.

“four—”

CRACK.

the door bursts open.

fyodor doesn’t even have time to scream.

the wood splinters. dazai stumbles in, breathing hard, pupils blown wide with panic.

“what the hell—” dazai’s eyes land on him and freeze. “—oh my god.”

fyodor turns away. he tries to cover his arm. tries to stand. tries to hide.

but it’s too late.

dazai sees it.

the blood. the stains. the shaking.

his expression crumples like wet paper.

“you—” he rushes forward. “no no no—fuck—”

“don’t touch me.”

“i’m not trying to hurt you!” dazai kneels beside him, voice cracking. “why didn’t you—why didn’t you tell me?!”

fyodor shakes his head. “you weren’t supposed to see.”

“are you—” dazai’s hands hover like he’s afraid fyodor might shatter—“how deep are they? do i need to call—should we—”

“no hospitals.”

quiet. final.

his whole body’s trembling.

dazai’s eyes are glassy. “you’re bleeding all over the floor, and you’re telling me no hospitals?”

fyodor nods. he won’t cry. he refuses.

dazai swears under his breath. pulls off his sweatshirt. rips it in half with shaky fingers.

he presses one half to fyodor’s arm, gentle but firm.

fyodor hisses.

“i’m sorry,” dazai mutters. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i just—fuck, i didn’t think—I didn’t know it was this bad—”

fyodor sways. dazai catches him.

“you should’ve stayed out,” fyodor whispers.

“i couldn’t.”

“why not?”

“because it’s you,” dazai says, barely above a whisper.

fyodor closes his eyes.

he feels sick.

numb.

scared.

seen.

he hates it.

and yet,

he loves it.

dazai wraps his other hand around fyodor’s cold fingers. doesn’t let go.

not even when fyodor tries to pull away.

gotcha, brodie—dazai stays solid, no tears, just that quiet, heavy weight in his voice and movements. here’s the edit:

fyodor doesn’t mean to cry.

he never does.

he sits there on the cold tile floor, dazai kneeling beside him, pressing gauze to his ruined skin like it matters, like he matters, and something inside him finally just—breaks.

not soft.

not slow.

violent.
cracked-glass and choked sobs.
his breath hitches once—then again—then it all comes pouring out.

tears, blood, everything.

“i didn’t mean to—” he gasps, voice too high—childlike, scared—“i just wanted it to stop hurting for five seconds, dazai, i didn’t—I didn’t—”

“hey, hey—” dazai fumbles with the first aid kit. it’s open now, spilling antiseptic and bandages like a clumsy apology. “shh, it’s okay—just breathe, alright? you’re okay now—”

“i’m not!” fyodor yells. Voice cracking. “i’m not okay! i’m never okay! i can’t sleep, i can’t think, i can’t feel anything except when it hurts, and i don’t know what’s wrong with me—”

“nothing’s wrong with you,” dazai says, voice steady, firm, like a rock in a storm.

“don’t lie to me!” fyodor shouts, shoving at him with his good arm. dazai doesn’t move. just stays there, unshaken—solid.

“i’m not lying.” his voice is low, sharp. “i’m here. i’m not going anywhere.”

fyodor shakes his head. “you don’t understand.”

“then tell me.”

“it’s like—” fyodor gulps, clawing at his scalp—“like there’s this thing in my chest, always screaming, always scratching, and i can’t shut it up. the only time it stops is when i—when i—”

he glances down at his arm. at the soaked gauze. at dazai’s hands, still shaking, still gentle.

he can’t finish the sentence.

he doesn’t have to.

dazai grabs the antiseptic.

fyodor jerks back.

“it’s gonna sting,” dazai warns, voice steady but soft. “but i gotta clean it. you’re not getting an infection on my watch.”

fyodor bites his tongue. nods once.

the antiseptic burns.

fyodor hisses sharp when the antiseptic hits, about to scream through the sting, but dazai’s hand suddenly presses over his mouth—firm, steady, unyielding.

it’s not rough, just… deliberate.

fyodor’s eyes widen, blinking fast against the burn, heart hammering, but dazai’s palm is warm. grounding.

his fingers press lightly against fyodor’s cheek, thumb brushing just beneath his eye, steadying him like a silent command—hold still.

fyodor’s mind scrambles, caught between the fire on his skin and the weight of dazai’s hand muffling his breath, forcing him to slow down.

the pain in his wrist blurs out, replaced by the raw intimacy of that quiet, steady pressure.

his breath hitches, muffled against dazai’s palm.

in.

out.

in.

out.

dazai’s eyes don’t leave his, calm but fierce.

“breathe,” dazai mouths silently.

fyodor obeys.

when the sting fades a little, dazai slowly pulls his hand away.

“good,” dazai says low, steady.

fyodor swallows hard, the burn still pulsing, but the sharpness inside him dulls just enough.

“breathe through it. come on. in, out. in, out.”

fyodor obeys. barely.

once the worst of it’s done, dazai starts bandaging him. carefully. quietly. like it’s a ritual. like it means something.

fyodor watches his face.

no tears. no cracks. just that solid, unbreakable calm.

dazai’s hands move slow, steady, precise.

when he’s done, he tucks everything away. the bloodied towel into a bag. the gauze into the trash. the first aid kit back under the sink.

then he turns.

“do you want to lie down?”

fyodor shakes his head.

“do you want me to leave?”

another shake.

“…do you want me to stay?”

a tiny nod.

dazai sits beside him.

doesn’t touch. doesn’t push.

just sits.

like he’s anchoring him to the world.

like he’s not scared of the monster that lives behind fyodor’s ribs.

they stay like that for a long time.

silent.

raw.

real.

he cleaned the cuts with shaking hands.

wrapped fyodor’s arms in bandages.

he didn’t ask questions.

he just stayed.

he dragged a beanbag into the bathroom and sat next to fyodor all night.

they didn’t speak.

they didn’t sleep.

but when the sun started bleeding into the sky, fyodor finally whispered, “i’m sorry.”

dazai didn’t say “it’s okay.” because it wasn’t.

but he said, “you’re safe now.”

and that was enough.

later, dazai made hot chocolate. burnt it. fyodor drank it anyway.

they sat on the windowsill.

their knees touched.

no one spoke about the blood.

but dazai held fyodor’s hand.

and didn’t let go.

they didn’t go to class that day.

they stayed in their dumb, broken dorm room.

and they existed.

together.

quietly.

barely.

but it was enough.

for now.

Chapter Text

chapter 20 — things that don’t feel like drowning

they fell asleep like that.
on the floor.
in silence.

morning came slow.
sunlight dragged itself across the mess of their dorm like it didn’t wanna wake them.

fyodor stirred first—then winced, realizing he’d passed out on dazai’s shoulder.
his head hurt.
his arms ached.
his chest felt heavy in that annoying, i’m alive kind of way.

dazai blinked awake next to him, hair a disaster, hoodie inside out.
“you good?” he asked, voice hoarse.

fyodor nodded slowly.
then lied. “yeah.”

dazai didn’t buy it.
but he didn’t push.
he just stood, stretched, and said, “you’re not going anywhere today.”

“i have class.”

“not anymore.”

fyodor frowned. “you can’t just—”

“boom,” dazai cut in, tossing a blanket over his head. “kidnapped. tragic. now sit down and let me feed you sugar.”

fyodor peeked from under the blanket. “what.”

“coffee. toast. sugar cubes. maybe soup if i’m feeling maternal.”
dazai was already moving to the kitchen area, throwing things around with the grace of a gremlin.

fyodor tried to argue.
really.
but his body still felt like cotton.
like wet fabric on a cold day.

he sank onto the couch.

dazai returned with a mug and a handful of sugar cubes in a bowl.
“you didn’t eat yesterday,” he said quietly.

fyodor looked away.
“i wasn’t hungry.”

“not the point,” dazai replied, shoving a cube toward him.

fyodor squinted at it. “am i a horse.”

“a very dramatic, underfed horse, yeah.”

fyodor took it.
chewed slowly.
grimaced.

“gross.”

“you’re welcome.”

dazai sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
they didn’t talk much after that.

just sipped lukewarm coffee, split toast, and let the radio hum static in the background.

the rest of the day was quiet.

no class.
no chaos.
just the two of them, floating around the dorm like ghosts trying to relearn being human.

fyodor napped twice.
dazai watched movies and drew nonsense doodles on fyodor’s wrist in pen while he slept.

“that’s a cursed cat,” fyodor mumbled when he woke up to find it.

“it’s you,” dazai grinned.

fyodor didn’t erase it.
just pulled his sleeve over it and hid his smile behind a yawn.

that night, the dorm lights were dim.
fyodor was in bed, blanket tucked under his chin.
dazai sat beside him, legs crossed on the mattress, just watching the ceiling like it owed him money.

“you scared me,” he said suddenly.
soft. like a secret.

fyodor blinked.

“last night,” dazai added. “when i saw the blood. i—”

“don’t,” fyodor said. not cruel. just tired.

dazai nodded.
didn’t finish the sentence.
just laid down next to him.

quiet.

“i’m trying,” fyodor whispered.

dazai turned toward him.
eyes soft, half-lidded. “i know.”

a pause.
then: “me too.”

they didn’t hold hands.
didn’t say anything else.

but they didn’t need to.

the room felt full for once.

not with noise.
not with chaos.
but something real.

something like warmth.
something like care.
something like—

...hope.

fyodor didn’t sleep much.

even after dazai had gone quiet, breath steady beside him, blanket half-kicked off—fyodor just laid there.
staring at the ceiling.

his arms still stung under the bandages.
his chest still buzzed with that wrong feeling.
but he was warm.

and dazai was there.
close enough to touch.

he turned his head just a bit.
watched dazai’s lashes twitch in his sleep.
the soft curve of his mouth, finally not running.
his hand, open on the bed like he’d been reaching out and forgot to finish the motion.

fyodor swallowed.

his throat hurt.
probably from crying.
maybe from holding it in.

you scared me.

those words hadn’t left his mind.
kept echoing.
quiet and loud all at once.

no one said stuff like that to him.
no one ever looked at him like that, either.
like he was something worth protecting.

he wasn’t used to it.
he didn’t know what to do with it.

he reached out—barely.
his fingers hovered, inches from dazai’s.
then stopped.
then pulled back.

coward.

he tucked his hand under the blanket and turned over, back to dazai.
eyes wide open in the dark.

by morning, dazai was already up.
dancing (badly) in the kitchen to some trashy pop song.

“you’re alive!” he beamed when fyodor shuffled in, looking like a corpse.

“unfortunately.”

“incorrect. today’s a good day.”
dazai threw him a granola bar and a juice box. “look, breakfast!”

“you’re treating me like a toddler.”

“well, you do throw tantrums.”

fyodor sat down.
opened the juice box.
didn’t argue.

dazai watched him for a moment.
then said, not joking: “do you wanna go outside today? just… walk. air. sun. those things people touch.”

fyodor blinked. “like. together?”

“nah, i was gonna drag the beanbag along for company.”

“…i guess.”

they walked in silence at first.
the wind was cold, but not brutal.
the sky was pale.

dazai kicked leaves.
fyodor shoved his hands deep in his sleeves and kept his head low.

at some point, dazai bumped into him on purpose.

“you’re brooding.”

“i always brood.”

“yeah but now it’s, like, emo brooding.”

“i hate you.”

“no you don’t.”

fyodor didn’t reply.

dazai grinned.
stopped.
and tugged him to sit by the fountain near the library.

they sat close.
thighs brushing.
quiet between them again.

until dazai finally muttered, “i meant it, y’know.”

fyodor looked at him.

“what i said. about you scaring me.”
dazai rubbed the back of his neck. “i’m not—i’m not good at this stuff, okay? i joke ‘cause it’s easier, but when i saw the blood i just—i thought—”
he stopped. bit his lip.

fyodor stared.

“i didn’t want to lose you,” dazai said, eyes not meeting his. “not like that.”

something in fyodor cracked.
soft.
slow.
like the ice on the edge of the fountain.

“i’m trying,” he whispered again.

“i know.” dazai leaned in a little, voice quieter. “so am i.”

fyodor let his shoulder fall against dazai’s.

no jokes.
no dramatic one-liners.
just the weight of his body, resting, trusting.

and for once, dazai didn’t flinch.
he just stayed.
still.
real.

they walked home slower.
closer.

that night, when they fell asleep—
it was under the same blanket.
no questions asked.
no arms pulled away.

and somewhere between exhaustion and something softer—
fyodor whispered,

“you don’t have to fix me.”

dazai, half-asleep, murmured,

“i’m not trying to.
i just wanna stay.”

fyodor didn’t reply.
but his fingers tangled with dazai’s in the dark.
and he didn’t let go.

the dorm was dark.

the moon slipped in through the window, painting dazai’s desk in silver. the noise complaint flyer was still taped to the wall. fyodor’s hoodie was hanging off the back of a chair like a ghost.

the beanbag looked like it’d been used in a crime scene.

fyodor couldn’t sleep.

again.

his arms still itched beneath the gauze. his stomach felt heavy, like it had swallowed rocks.

but he didn’t feel like crying.

not now.

he felt...

blank.

he turned over.

dazai was still asleep.

barely.

he twitched sometimes.

muttered things under his breath.

fyodor stared at him.

at the way dazai’s fingers were curled loosely under his cheek, like he was holding a secret in his sleep.

he breathed in slow.

then sat up.

quiet.

feet to the floor.

he moved toward the window. opened it.

cold air hit his face like a slap.

but he welcomed it.

his body still ached. not from the cuts, but from whatever storm had settled in his chest and refused to leave.

he pulled his knees to his chest and sat in the window like that, shivering in boxers and an oversized shirt.

behind him, the bed creaked.

“fyo?” dazai’s voice, slurred, soft.

he didn’t turn.

“you okay?”

“no.”

a pause.

then dazai sat up, blanket around his shoulders like a makeshift cloak. he dragged it with him, stumbled over a sock on the floor, and flopped down beside fyodor on the windowsill, wrapping the blanket over them both.

fyodor didn’t speak.

neither did dazai, for a while.

just sat there with him.

the cold bit. the wind howled. fyodor leaned into it anyway.

“couldn’t sleep,” he mumbled eventually.

“yeah.” dazai tilted his head back, eyes half-lidded. “me neither.”

fyodor glanced sideways. “you were snoring.”

“yeah, but like... emotionally, i was awake.”

“that’s not a thing.”

“shut up, yes it is.”

they sat in silence again.

then, quietly—

“you ever feel like... if you let go for even one second, you’ll just fall apart completely?”

fyodor’s hands clenched a little tighter around his knees.

he didn’t nod.

but he didn’t deny it either.

dazai’s voice dropped lower. “like if one person sees the cracks, really sees them… you’ll be too real. and too real is too much.”

fyodor swallowed.

his eyes stung again.

dazai turned his head slowly. looked right at him.

“but i already saw.”

fyodor flinched.

“and you’re not too much,” dazai said. “you’re just… human.”

fyodor almost laughed. it came out more like a breath.

then a whisper—“you say that like it’s a good thing.”

“it can be.”

dazai leaned his head on fyodor’s shoulder.

“especially if you let someone help carry the weight.”

fyodor closed his eyes.

leaned back into him.

just a little.

the blanket slipped off their shoulders.

neither of them cared.

later—

still on the windowsill, half-asleep—

dazai murmured, “if we survive high school, i’m stealing you.”

fyodor blinked. “stealing me?”

“yeah. like. you’re mine now. dibs.”

“…you can’t call dibs on people.”

“i just did.”

fyodor rolled his eyes, but his mouth betrayed him—curving, soft and small.

“whatever,” he whispered.

and didn’t stop dazai from reaching out, lacing their fingers again under the moonlight.

the dorm clock blinked 3:06am in bright, annoying red.

fyodor stared at it like it owed him money.

dazai shifted beside him, tangled in his own blanket, barely breathing.

asleep.

again.

for now.

but fyodor couldn’t sleep. not after everything.

not after earlier.

he needed to do something.

anything.

so he got up.

quiet.

slid on dazais hoodie.

shoved open the dorm window.

the cold bit. again.

he liked it.

he was halfway out when he heard it—

“where are you going?”

dazais voice. rough. sleepy. accusing.

“out,” fyodor whispered.

dazai sat up, hair a mess. “you’re sneaking off to smoke.”

“...maybe.”

“take me with you.”

fyodor blinked. “you look half-dead.”

“perfect time to light something on fire.”

dazai smirked. held out a hand.

fyodor took it without hesitation.

they ended up on the roof.

dorm building. cracked tiles. rusty ladder.

a blanket stolen from the beanbag.

dazai lit the cigarette with shaking fingers. passed it to fyodor.

fyodor took it like he’d done it a thousand times.

inhaled slow.

held it.

exhaled into the stars.

“this is disgusting,” he muttered.

“you’re welcome,” dazai replied, stealing it back.

they passed it between them.

no music. no chaos.

just wind. breath. and smoke curling into the moonlight like secrets.

“what’re we even doing?” fyodor asked.

“right now? freezing and committing a minor dorm violation.”

“no, i mean… this. us.”

dazai froze.

then: “dunno. but i like it.”

fyodor looked over at him, face unreadable.

eyes dark. cigarette glowing between his fingers.

“you like me?”

dazai snorted. “obviously. you’re hot and emotionally unstable. it’s my type.”

fyodor rolled his eyes.

but didn’t pass the cigarette back.

“you like me,” he repeated, quieter.

“you say that like it’s a death sentence.”

“maybe it is.”

“then let’s die slow,” dazai said, grinning. “we’ve got time.”

fyodor handed the smoke back. leaned his head on dazai’s shoulder.

“fine. but if i get lung cancer, i’m blaming you.”

“we’ll share it.”

“you’re an idiot.”

“your idiot.”

fyodor exhaled smoke like a sigh.

“don’t get used to this.”

“too late.”

they stayed until the sky started to pink at the edges.

empty lighter. frozen fingers. ash on their clothes.

they smelled like bad decisions and burnt paper.

but something felt a little lighter.

just a little.

Chapter Text

chap 21: "firestarter fallout."

the cigarette burned low between dazai’s fingers, ash crumbling like snow. the dorm window was cracked open, letting in a breeze that smelled like cheap grass and tomorrow’s mistakes.

fyodor leaned against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest, eyes half-lidded. the edge of his hoodie sleeve was frayed where he’d picked it apart with anxious fingers. his hair was a mess. his face was pale. dazai could still see the faint red where he’d bandaged his arm earlier.

“you’re not gonna say anything?” dazai asked, quietly.

fyodor looked at him.

“about what.”

“about earlier. about—” dazai waved the cigarette vaguely. “the fact that you let me wrap you up like a burrito and didn’t even insult me once.”

fyodor blinked slow. “i was tired.”

“mhmm. or maybe,” dazai said, taking a drag, “you secretly care about me.”

“delusion,” fyodor muttered.

but his voice was softer now. not biting. and dazai didn’t miss the way his hand twitched slightly, like he was considering reaching out.

there was something weird in the air. thick. weighty. like they were standing on the edge of a cliff and pretending they couldn’t see the drop.

“you ever think about... stuff?” dazai asked.

fyodor gave him the flattest stare in existence.

“i mean like... if we weren’t like this,” dazai said, gesturing between them. “if we were boring. normal. had stupid lives. jobs. cats.”

fyodor sighed. “you’d still commit crimes.”

“okay but like—domestic crimes.”

“you’d get arrested for tax evasion because you didn’t file anything for five years.”

“romantic,” dazai grinned.

fyodor almost smiled.

almost.

the quiet that settled after that was comfortable. it shouldn’t have been. not after the blood. not after the shivering, the shaking, the way dazai had wrapped his arms around a boy who didn’t even know how to ask for help.

but it was. somehow.

then—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

they both froze.

a knock. no—pounding—on the door.

fyodor went still like a deer in headlights. dazai stubbed the cigarette out in the coffee cup and stood fast.

another knock.

“open up,” a voice snapped. “school admin.”

fyodor’s breath caught. dazai grabbed his arm. “don’t.”

“they know,” fyodor whispered.

“no they don’t. stay calm.”

“they know—”

“hey,” dazai hissed, grabbing both his shoulders. “it’s fine. i’ll handle it.”

fyodor’s hands were cold. dazai could feel the tremble running through them like static.

a third knock. louder.

fyodor looked like he was gonna bolt.

“you trust me?” dazai said suddenly.

fyodor blinked.

“…what?”

“i said—do you trust me?”

silence. the dorm felt like a ticking bomb.

“…unfortunately,” fyodor whispered.

dazai grinned. not his usual smug thing. something real.

“then go hide.”

“what—”

“hide, fyo. let me lie us out of this. it’s what i’m good at.”

fyodor hesitated—then disappeared into the bathroom, silent as a ghost.

dazai cracked his knuckles. rolled his neck. and opened the door with the brightest, most innocent smile he could fake.

“hi!” he chirped. “did you know it’s a crime to knock that aggressively past curfew?”

outside — dazai vs school admin (the gremlin route)

“you again,” muttered the admin, arms crossed like she hadn’t signed up for any of this.

dazai beamed. “miss tanaka! love the glasses, are those new?”

“cut the crap. we received a report of suspicious activity from your room.”

“define suspicious.”

“late-night noises. cigarette smoke. possible vandalism.”

“that could’ve been anyone, miss. this is a lawless building. do you know someone had a raccoon in their laundry basket last week?”

“step aside.”

dazai blocked the doorway. “i would love to, but fyodor’s asleep and, y’know, he bites when woken up. rabid. real problem.”

“step aside, dazai.”

his smile faltered.

just for a second.

“we’ve done nothing wrong,” he said, lower now. “we’re just... loud. sorry.”

tanaka stared at him, suspicious. “then you won’t mind if I take a quick look.”

dazai hesitated. just for a fraction.

and let her in.

inside — fyodor, bathroom floor, unraveling

the tiles were cold under his bare legs.

fyodor sat with his back against the tub, fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, breath shallow.

he could hear everything. the knock. the voices. dazai lying through his damn teeth like it was breathing.

his heart wouldn’t slow down.

his arm still stung where he’d carved into it earlier, thin lines hidden under gauze. the bandage itched, like it wanted him to remember.

he squeezed his eyes shut. whispered to himself.

“you’re fine. you’re fine. it’s just an admin. not your father. not the police. it’s fine.”

but the air felt like drowning.

like the kind of tight, awful drowning where your lungs burn and your brain starts making up reasons to give up.

he clutched the sleeve of his hoodie tighter.

“you’re not weak,” he muttered. “you’re not—”

the voices outside got louder.

footsteps.

they’re coming in.

fyodor’s chest clenched. panic surged like lightning. his body screamed run but there was nowhere to go.

his breathing picked up—ragged. sharp. spiraling fast.

until—

knock knock.

but this time it was dazai.

“hey,” dazai called, voice weirdly soft. muffled. “she left. said we ‘better not be summoning demons’ again.”

fyodor didn’t answer.

the door creaked open just a crack. dazai peeked in.

he saw fyodor curled on the floor like a glitch in the system.

and his face dropped.

“shit,” he whispered, slipping inside and shutting the door behind him.

he didn’t say anything for a moment. just crouched next to him, gently tugging the hoodie sleeve loose.

fyodor’s hands were shaking.

“you okay?” dazai asked.

“does it look like i’m okay,” fyodor snapped, but it came out cracked. brittle.

dazai reached out. didn’t touch—hovered. “can i?”

fyodor nodded once.

dazai sat next to him. slow. careful. like he was afraid to scare him worse.

then, without warning, he leaned back against the tub too, shoulder brushing fyodor’s.

“...i told her i was the one smoking,” he said.

fyodor blinked. “you... weren’t?”

“nah. that was your sad little attempt earlier, remember?”

fyodor huffed. “asshole.”

“your asshole.”

fyodor groaned. buried his face in his knees.

dazai grinned. “you wanna stay on the floor forever or... should we build a pillow fort and pretend nothing happened?”

“tempting.”

“you can throw socks at me.”

“even more tempting.”

dazai’s voice dropped a bit. “you scared me.”

fyodor didn’t answer.

“…but i’m glad you didn’t shut me out,” dazai said. “even if you almost passed out, yelled at me, and tried to die in the bathroom.”

fyodor tilted his head. just enough to look at him. “you’re the worst.”

“yeah,” dazai said, leaning his head on fyodor’s shoulder, barely a touch. “but i’m your worst.”

the bathroom floor wasn’t made for comfort.

but neither of them moved.

dazai’s head still rested against fyodor’s shoulder, warm and heavy. fyodor sat rigid for a while, not sure if he should shove him off or lean in harder. he settled for doing neither.

it was quiet.

still.

too still.

“you ever think about dying?” dazai murmured.

fyodor blinked. “you’re asking me?”

dazai chuckled, barely. “fair.”

another pause.

“i think about it all the time,” he continued, almost dreamy. “not in a sad way. just like—what if i wasn’t here? what if i vanished, right now. would anything really change?”

fyodor turned his head slowly. dazai wasn’t smiling.

“you make a lot of noise,” fyodor said.

dazai glanced up at him.

“people would notice. i’d notice.”

dazai’s brows rose. “...would you miss me?”

fyodor scoffed. “god no. i’d finally get silence.”

dazai smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “liar.”

fyodor sighed, leaning his head back against the tub. “...i’d miss your stupid socks.”

“my socks?”

“they’re always mismatched. it’s pathetic.”

“it’s fashion.”

“it’s tragic.”

they both fell quiet again.

dazai shifted a little. “do you… ever think about living?”

fyodor stared at the ceiling.

“…sometimes. in between the dying.”

“what does it look like?”

fyodor was quiet for a long time.

“…a bookstore. maybe. in a quiet town. rainy. cats everywhere.”

“oh my god,” dazai whispered. “you are a grandma.”

fyodor elbowed him. “shut up.”

“no no, keep going,” dazai said, grinning now. “i want to hear more of this domestic fantasy.”

“you’re not in it.”

“ouch.”

fyodor paused. “maybe you are. but you’d have to stop leaving your socks in the fridge.”

“absolutely not. that’s part of the charm.”

they both snorted.

then, without thinking, dazai reached up and brushed a piece of hair from fyodor’s face.

soft.

absentminded.

intimate.

fyodor blinked at him, stunned.

“sorry,” dazai muttered, looking away quickly. “habit.”

fyodor’s voice was quiet. “since when is touching me a habit?”

“since i started realizing i wanted to,” dazai said, too fast, then froze. “i mean—”

fyodor raised a brow.

dazai stared at the floor like it personally offended him. “forget it.”

“you’re in love with me,” fyodor deadpanned.

“SHUT UP.”

fyodor smiled.

like, actually smiled.

dazai shoved his face into his hoodie. “i hate you.”

“mm. you love me.”

“not yet.”

“…but soon?”

“shut up, fyodor.”

fyodor laughed.

and dazai, even through the exhaustion and chaos and bathroom floor ache—

thought it might be his favorite sound.

eventually, the cold tiles got to them.

“my spine is disintegrating,” dazai mumbled, still faceplanted on fyodor’s shoulder.

fyodor shoved him off. “then go to bed, idiot.”

they shuffled back into the room like ghosts. the clock blinked 3:41AM. the dorm was dead quiet. the moonlight cut across the floor like a spotlight—making everything feel too real.

fyodor climbed into bed without a word. dazai paused halfway through taking off his hoodie, looking at him with this dumb, tired expression. like he wanted to say something. like he wanted to ask to stay.

“…don’t be weird about it,” fyodor muttered, not looking up. “just get in.”

dazai didn’t hesitate.

he crawled into fyodor’s bed and immediately stole half the blanket. “thanks, roomie.”

fyodor smacked his face with a pillow.

they lay there.

way too close.

not touching—but the space between them buzzed like static. dazai’s hand twitched once. fyodor’s breathing was too loud. dazai turned his head to look at him and whispered, “you’re not gonna stab me in my sleep, right?”

“no promises.”

“cool.”

pause.

“…can i ask you something?” dazai said.

fyodor sighed, eyes closed. “what.”

“if i had candy in my pocket today… would you have still passed out? or did you just wanna collapse in my arms like some tragic victorian lady.”

fyodor opened one eye. “i hope you fall off the bed.”

“that’s a yes.”

“i hope you hit your head.”

“romantic.”

fyodor turned on his side, back to dazai. “…you’re annoying.”

dazai rolled onto his side too. close enough that their knees bumped.

“you let me stay,” he whispered.

fyodor didn’t answer.

but he didn’t move away, either.

they fell asleep like that.

not tangled. not cuddled. just two stupid, sleep-deprived idiots on one tiny mattress, breathing in sync and dreaming about bookstores and mismatched socks.

Chapter Text

Chap 22: paranoia, slushies & secrets

fyodor woke up alone.

the dorm was silent. the other bed empty. blanket crumpled like dazai had evaporated into thin air. his heart dropped.

he sat up slow. blinked. checked the time. 10:37AM.

weird.

no dumb emo music. no smell of burnt toast. no “good morning, sunshine, i committed a felony!” voice.

he got up, shaky, and padded into the kitchenette.

nothing.

bathroom?

also empty.

his chest felt wrong.

then—knock knock knock.

three short taps.

he opened the door and saw a brown envelope on the floor. no name. no address. just a red ink stamp that looked like a corrupted school crest.

he picked it up.

inside?

a photo.

of him and dazai. last night. asleep. on the same bed. timestamped. grainy. obviously taken through the window.

there was also a note.

blocky letters. no handwriting.

“DOES THE SCHOOL KNOW ABOUT YOUR LITTLE ARRANGEMENT?”

fyodor’s stomach dropped.

he looked up fast—heart pounding—and saw dazai jogging up the hall with two slushies and a grin.

“brooo i got the red kind this time—” he stopped when he saw fyodor’s face. “hey. what’s wrong?”

fyodor held up the photo.

the smile vanished from dazai’s face like someone hit delete.

“…oh,” dazai said.

they stood there. in the hallway. alone, but not alone.

and someone out there was watching.

dazai yanked fyodor back into the dorm and locked the door.

“who the hell took this?” he hissed, holding the photo up to the light like it'd give him answers.

fyodor didn’t respond. he was frozen. staring at the window. like he could see the lens, hidden in the shadows.

“was it a teacher?” dazai muttered. “student? some creep? what the fuck.”

fyodor finally blinked. slow. “i’m going to kill someone.”

“murder’s not off the table,” dazai said, serious as death, slushies forgotten on the floor.

they ripped the room apart. checked the windows. the vents. dazai even unscrewed the smoke detector.

nothing.

no camera. no wires. just paranoia clinging to their ribs like smoke.

“they said ‘little arrangement,’” fyodor said softly. “they think we’re…”

“dating,” dazai finished. voice flat.

they stood in silence for too long.

then dazai said, “is that a bad thing?”

fyodor’s eyes snapped to him. wide. glassy. like dazai had said something holy and cursed in the same breath.

“…no,” fyodor whispered.

a beat passed.

dazai grinned, tired and crooked. “good.”

but even with the smile, his hands were shaking when he picked up the note again.

“we gotta find out who’s watching us,” he muttered. “and we gotta do it fast.”

fyodor nodded.

outside, someone walked by the door. laughing.

inside, two boys stood too close, clutching secrets like knives and trying not to bleed.

and under the bed—

unseen—

something clicked.

a tiny red light blinked twice.

recording.

dazai was spiraling.

he had flipped the rug, unscrewed the lamp, even opened fyodor’s textbook like maybe the spy was hiding in algebra.

“this is fine,” he muttered, “this is so fine, we’re being watched like reality tv contestants but it’s totally fine—”

fyodor climbed into his lap.

like actually climbed. no warning. no explanation. just sat down, curled up like a sleepy cat, and conked out mid-spiral.

“fyodor,” dazai whispered, stiff as a corpse, “we are being watched through a camera hidden somewhere in this room and you’re using me like a human mattress.”

no response.

fyodor nuzzled into his hoodie and snoozed.

dazai looked down at the pale boy on his lap. saw the faint purplish bruise under his eye. the way his hands twitched from too many sleepless nights. the bandaid still wrapped around his wrist from two days ago.

dazai’s panic tripped over itself and turned into a full-blown meltdown.

"they know where we sleep," he hissed to no one. "they know we live here. what if they’re watching right now. what if they’re hearing me—HELLO? ENEMY? IF YOU’RE HEARING THIS, YOU’RE A CREEP—"

fyodor mumbled in his sleep.

“…’m not your enemy…”

dazai shut up. blinked. looked down again.

his chest ached in that stupid, dangerous way.

“of course you’re not,” he said, quieter. “you’re just my… problem.”

fyodor drooled a little on his sleeve.

dazai sighed and melted into the wall. his heart was doing cartwheels, and his legs were numb.

outside, the sun dipped low.

inside, the camera stayed on.

watching.

but for a moment—just a small, fragile moment—dazai didn’t care.

he closed his eyes. and let fyodor rest.

until—

knock knock knock.

dazai didn’t move.

neither did fyodor. still passed out. still in his lap.

“open up, room inspection,” a voice called from the hall.

panic. instant, pure panic.

dazai's eyes snapped open. “you gotta be kidding me—”

fyodor snored. snored.

“shitshitshit—”

the doorknob jiggled.

dazai gently, gently tried to slide fyodor off.

nope. fyodor clung harder. like a koala in his sleep.

“open the door or we’re coming in.”

dazai slapped a hand over fyodor’s mouth. “if you make a sound, i’m feeding you to the dorm rats.”

fyodor, still unconscious: soft noise.

dazai got up like he was carrying a bomb, fyodor slumped against him like dead weight. he staggered to the closet and shoved them both inside.

click. door locked.

slam. their dorm door opened.

he heard footsteps. voices.

“weird smell in here,” someone muttered. “like cheap cologne and microwave popcorn.”

“i’m telling you there’s something up with this room. the noise complaints. the burnt curtains. the weird… vibe.”

dazai held fyodor tight, heart slamming. fyodor drooped against his chest, fingers curled into dazai’s hoodie.

they were squished between a coat and a broken lava lamp.

“maybe they’re hiding something,” the voice said.

“like what?”

silence.

“...love letters.”

what.

“love notes. from one roommate to the other. forbidden crushes. dramatic tension.”

“you need to get off wattpad.”

“i’m just saying.”

the door closed.

they were gone.

dazai didn’t move.

fyodor shifted, barely waking. “...are we in a closet?”

“yeah.”

“...why are we in a closet.”

“because i like you and also room inspection.”

fyodor blinked. “you what.”

dazai smiled. too fast. “nothing. go back to sleep.”

fyodor narrowed his eyes.

but he didn’t push it. just laid his head back down.

“your heart’s going really fast,” he murmured.

“just closet things,” dazai whispered.

they didn’t come out of the closet. literally.

fyodor stayed curled up against dazai, half-asleep again, while dazai stared at the faint red light blinking from between a shoe box and a half-empty can of monster.

the camera.

dazai squinted. leaned forward. bonked his head on the shelf. “ow.”

“what now,” fyodor mumbled into his chest.

“found the camera,” dazai whispered.

fyodor cracked one eye open. “...can i throw it out the window.”

“tempting.” dazai’s grin turned feral. “but i wanna leave a message.”

fyodor raised an eyebrow. “you’re deranged.”

“and you’re in my lap, which means i win.”

he reached into his hoodie pocket, pulled out a black sharpie. why he had that in his pocket, unknown.

he grabbed a piece of cardboard from the floor, scribbled:
“NICE TRY. STOP BEING CREEPY. XOXO, THE ARSON TWINS.”

fyodor added underneath it in smaller, scribbly print:
“also fuck you.”

they both signed it.

dazai held it up in front of the lens. “say cheese.”

blink.

red light gone.

the camera shut off.

somewhere, someone watching probably rage-quit.

later that night, after returning from their stupid victorious mission, dazai threw himself onto the beanbag. “we are actual legends.”

fyodor rolled his eyes, laying on the bed upside down. “we’re freaks with trust issues and a vendetta against authority.”

“legends,” dazai repeated.

fyodor tossed a pillow at his face.

they both laughed.

and in the weird quiet that followed—dazai looked over. fyodor had his eyes closed again.

his chest rising slow.

hand still loosely holding the sharpie.

a nap? maybe.

or maybe fyodor just trusted him enough to fall asleep, even after the chaos.

dazai’s face got weirdly warm.

he ignored it. grabbed another pillow.

and laid down next to him.

“goodnight, partner in crime,” he whispered.

fyodor didn’t reply.

but he was smiling.

Chapter Text

chapter 23 — bite marks & bloody threats

returning to school again after fighting god and surviving another weird episode in their lives wasn’t new.

but the whispers were louder.

“didn’t they get locked in a closet?”
“someone said they got caught making out—”
“wait wasn’t there blood??”

dazai spun in a circle in the hallway like a ballerina on crack. “thank you for the rumors! we’ll be selling t-shirts soon!”

fyodor yanked his hood over his head. “i will actually bite someone if they keep staring.”

“i mean. you’ve bitten me before.”

fyodor side-eyed him. “you deserved it.”

“kinda hot tho.”

“you’re insufferable.”

they made it to class. eventually. sat next to each other. as always.

some girl stared at fyodor’s arm. he tilted his head slightly.

“is that a bite mark?” she whispered.

“yes,” dazai said, without hesitation. “it’s mine.”

the girl made a noise. left.

fyodor choked on his iced coffee. “you’re gonna get me killed.”

“you love it.” dazai winked.

fyodor did not deny it.

after school, they found a note shoved in fyodor’s locker.
plain paper. messy handwriting.

“we see you. we’re not done.”

fyodor stared at it for a moment. then calmly folded it and put it in his pocket.

“you good?” dazai asked.

“yep.”

“you’re lying.”

“yep.”

“wanna go make threats and light something on fire?”

“...yep.”

but first—
they walked home.
got slushies again.
blue and red.

purple. always.

“if someone’s still watching us,” fyodor said, sipping slowly, “they’re about to regret it.”

“do we kill them or traumatize them?” dazai asked.

“both.”

back at the dorm, dazai found a new camera. hidden. behind their lava lamp.

he smashed it with a textbook.

fyodor applauded softly.

they sat in silence for a while.

then dazai whispered: “do you think it’s him?”

fyodor’s hands stilled.

“…yeah,” he said.

“your old classmate.”

“he was supposed to be dead.”

“so were we,” dazai replied, “and yet. here we are. threatening ghost stalkers.”

fyodor closed his eyes. leaned back against the wall.

“…i’m scared, dazai.”

dazai looked over. blinked.

soft voice. real voice.

he reached out. squeezed fyodor’s sleeve.

“then we’ll be scared together.”

the next morning was weird.

like, off.

the hallway light flickered when they stepped out. their dorm door creaked even though it never did. someone had drawn a smiley face on fyodor’s locker in red ink—same shade as the soda he liked. same weird little nose and all.

and written under it, tiny:
"still watching. miss u :3"

fyodor stared.

dazai stared harder.

“we’re gonna kill someone,” dazai said cheerfully. “just not sure who yet.”

“that’s comforting,” fyodor muttered, rubbing the marker off with his sleeve. his hands were shaking.

dazai didn’t miss it.

he grabbed fyodor’s wrist and dragged him to class. didn’t let go until second period. even then, he made sure they sat next to each other. they passed notes the entire time.

dazai: ur old classmate’s a freak
fyodor: tell me something i don’t know
dazai: i think they were in the hallway last night
fyodor: how do u know
dazai: i put tape on the door. it was broken this morning.

fyodor stared at the note for a long time.
then he crumpled it up.

dazai didn’t push. not yet.

lunch was silent.
they sat outside under the bleachers, drinking warm cherry sodas. too quiet. wind smelled like cigarettes and gym sweat. dazai watched fyodor mess with his can tab over and over.

“you good?”

fyodor didn’t answer.

“hey. fedya.”

“don’t call me that.”

“okay, sweetheart.”

“dazai.”

“okay okay damn.” dazai took a sip. then added, “you’re shaking.”

fyodor looked at his hands. tried to stop. failed.

“…i didn’t think they were alive,” he said finally. “i saw the body. the funeral. the empty desk.”

“creepy bitch faked their own death?”

fyodor laughed. it was so wrong. not funny at all.

“they carved a heart into my desk,” he said. “in eighth grade. with their nails.”

dazai gagged. “romantic.”

“obsessive.”

“…do you think they’re watching us now?”

fyodor paused.

then looked up at the bleachers.

eyes narrowed.

“yeah,” he said. “probably.”

that night, they didn’t sleep.

they set up traps. string on the door. bells on the window. dazai stole a knife from the cafeteria and named it “stabitha.” fyodor found an old polaroid camera and started taking pictures of the hallway every hour.

just in case.

dazai was pretending it was a game. like home alone, but gayer. but every time fyodor looked away, dazai would check the locks. again. and again. and again.

at 2:48am, someone knocked on their door.
just once.
then silence.

2:42 AM

the sun wasn’t up yet. the world was blue and blurry. dazai had dozed off, neck bent awkwardly against the wall. fyodor was still awake. blinking. eyes dry. camera in his lap.

3:01 AM

they slipped out of the dorm quietly. sun nowhere in sight. everything pale and cold and hushed.

they didn’t notice the new note until they were already leaving.
taped to the back of their door.

written in red ink again, but this time sloppier.
rushed. almost frantic.

“why are you running from me? i missed you. i missed us. don’t you remember what we had?”

        “you were mine.”

dazai read it.
tore it off the door.
and spat on it.

“sick bastard,” he muttered.

fyodor just looked tired.

not scared.
not anymore.

just done.

he whispered, “let’s go.”

and they disappeared into the morning light.

4:12 AM

the dorm room was silent, save for the ticking of the wall clock. dazai had fallen asleep sitting up, mouth half-open, breathing slow. his hoodie was pulled over his face, but not enough to block out the faint glow of fyodor’s bedside lamp.

fyodor hadn’t blinked in minutes.

his knees were pulled to his chest, camera in hand, but his mind was somewhere else—floating in the static between now and before.
he didn’t know what he was looking for anymore.
a face?
a pattern?

he’d taken a photo every hour. the hallway. always the hallway. something about it gnawed at him. long. dark. cold.

he loaded another film sheet. clicked the shutter. flash. whirr.
the camera spat out a picture.

he shook it absently, eyes still locked on the crack of light under the door.
they hadn’t heard anything tonight. no knocks. no paper slips.
nothing.
which made it worse.

he glanced down. checked the photo.
hallway. empty.

click. another.
click. again.

he flipped through the last few.
first three—normal.
fourth—
he stopped.

there.
at the very end of the hallway. barely visible in the darkness.
a figure.

tall. rigid. facing the camera.

fyodor stared at it.
no face. not really. the film couldn’t catch the details. just two black dots for eyes. like ink smudges.
watching him.

he felt his stomach twist.
his throat tightened with a sudden, wordless panic.

he reached over and shook dazai.

“wake up. now.”

dazai groaned. “bruh it’s not even five yet—”

“look.”

fyodor shoved the polaroid at him.

dazai blinked. once. twice.
then his whole body tensed. like something in his instincts finally screamed danger.

“what the actual—” he snatched the rest of the photos, flipped through.
blank. blank.
then—not blank.

“that’s not you fucking with me, right?” dazai said, voice low.
fyodor’s face stayed emotionless. “why would i fake this?”

dazai rubbed his face hard. “they’re getting closer.”

fyodor didn’t reply. he already knew that. he’d known it since the moment he woke up feeling watched two nights ago.

“we need to leave,” he said. “before they get inside.”

they started packing fast. dazai grabbed a baseball bat from under his bed—fyodor had a knife tucked in his boot. neither of them said much.

it was the quiet kind of scared.
the “i-don’t-want-to-make-a-sound-in-case-they-hear-us” scared.

“where are we even gonna go?” dazai asked, stuffing essentials into a backpack—money, water bottles, a lighter, slushie straws for some reason.

fyodor looked at him.
then down at his coat pocket.
it was already heavy with butterscotch candies. he added three more, just in case.

“…anywhere but here,” he muttered.

5:03 AM

they stopped by the stairwell. dazai glanced at the hallway one last time before heading down—

“bro. look.”

fyodor followed his gaze.
there, taped to the inside of the stairwell wall—
another note.

“you forgot me again.”
“i watched you sleep. you looked peaceful. like before.”
“but you’re not the same, are you?”

written in red. slanted. messy.

dazai crumpled it in one hand.

“what the fuck does that even mean, ‘like before’? we don’t even know this creep—”

fyodor was already walking. he didn’t want to think about it.
but the words wouldn’t leave his head.

like before.

before what?
before the accident?
before the fire?

before they found each other?

his memory didn’t reach that far back.

6:01 AM

they slipped out the back door of the dorm. sky pale, air sharp. cold like early winter breath.

the streets were dead silent. just empty roads and dim streetlights. dazai pulled his hoodie tighter. fyodor walked like a ghost, footsteps soundless.

as they turned a corner, dazai glanced up.

there, in the window of their dorm building.
top floor.
a figure stood, watching.

no movement.
no face.

just black.

just there.

“don’t look,” fyodor said. “just keep walking.”

dazai swallowed hard and obeyed.

he wanted to make a joke.
say something about horror movies or ghosts or Scooby Doo.

but all he could think was—

they're real.

and they’re already inside.

9:13 PM

“you sure about this?” dazai asked, eyes ringed with insomnia, caffeine, and pure rage.

fyodor nodded slowly, gaze empty as he slid a small blade into his boot. “we’re not prey.”

“nah, bro, we’re psychos with a death wish,” dazai muttered, stuffing a taser into his hoodie pocket. “big difference.”

they stood in the middle of the school’s abandoned old science wing. long since sealed off, no cameras, no lights. only dust, broken chairs, and the faint smell of decay.

perfect.

they’d left a trail. polaroids. red thread. notes scribbled in fyodor’s handwriting. things only that person would understand.

bait.

a mix of “i miss you too” and “come find me.”

fyodor hated how easy it was to write those things. hated how familiar it felt.

but he wanted them to come.

“they’ll show,” he said. “they never could resist attention.”

“sounds like you,” dazai said with a weak grin. “wonder you’re not in love.”

“you talk too much.”

“yeah, and you repress too much, sooo.”

10:46 PM

they were hidden behind a broken desk. fyodor’s hand hovered over the switch that would lock the doors. dazai had a bat. flashlight off. breathing shallow.

silence.

then—

footsteps. slow. careful.

a shadow passed the doorway.

dazai tensed. fyodor held his breath.

the figure stepped into the room.

they were wearing his old school uniform.

that was fyodor’s first thought.

the second was—

that’s my face.

distorted. stretched. but—

black wig. pale foundation. eye makeup smeared into hollow shapes. a mockery. a shrine.

fyodor's stomach dropped.

“you remembered,” the figure whispered, voice high and shaky.
“i missed you.”

they stepped forward.

fyodor hit the switch.

BANG.
doors slammed shut. a mechanical lock clicked into place. no exit.

dazai stood. “gotcha, bitch.”

the figure didn’t flinch. they tilted their head, grinning.

“you wanna hurt me again?” they said. “like before?”

fyodor stepped into the light.

“i never knew you,” he said, voice low.

the figure twitched. “you did. you do. i was you.”

“you were a shadow,” fyodor spat. “and shadows disappear.”

they lunged.

dazai moved fast—bat swung, missed by inches.
the stalker tackled fyodor to the ground. nails dug into his shoulder. he screamed—

but then—

zap.

dazai had them with the taser.

they spasmed. collapsed. twitching.

“bro,” dazai panted, “i am NEVER sleeping again.”

fyodor sat up, trembling. blood on his shirt. his pocket rustled—he pulled out a butterscotch candy with shaking fingers, shoved it into his mouth.

“tie them up,” he whispered. “don’t let them wake up.”

11:58 PM

the figure lay bound, twitching slightly. dazai sat cross-legged nearby, bat across his lap.

fyodor stared at the ceiling.

“you think they’ll ever stop?”

“nah,” dazai said. “but we’ll always be better at playing insane.”

fyodor smirked, eyes hollow.

“i know.”

Chapter Text

chapter 24: haunt me harder, coward.

the thing under the bed was not human.

they realized that real fast when dazai kicked the shoebox and it hissed. not like a person—like a busted speaker full of static and hate.

“what the—”
the thing moved.

fyodor dove back like a cat launched off a sink. dazai froze. eyes wide. heartbeat nuclear.

it slid out.

not crawling. not slithering. just glitching. like a video file skipping frames. like it didn't belong.

dark.

long.

no face.

no limbs.

just a mass of wrong.

fyodor breathed, “it’s not real. it can’t be real—”

“then why’s it STARING AT US LIKE THAT—” dazai yanked fyodor back by the hoodie as the thing twitched closer.

click.

the closet light flickered.

the red light on the camera blinked back to life.

recording.

“oh my god it’s controlling the camera,” dazai whispered. “it’s been in here the whole time. IT WASN’T WATCHING US—IT WAS THE CAMERA.”

the creature jittered forward. a burst of pixels trailed behind it. fyodor’s hands curled into fists.

“we’re killing it,” he said.

“with what?” dazai whisper-screamed. “you got holy water in your backpack? a gun? emotional trauma???”

fyodor didn’t answer.

instead, he grabbed dazai’s lighter off the shelf. the one with the flame decal. dazai blinked.

“you said you bought this to light fireworks.”

“i lied,” fyodor said coldly. “i bought it for murder.”

“okay that’s hot but also TERRIFYING—”

they tag-teamed.

dazai threw the old monster can at it—distraction.

fyodor lunged.

flick.

FWUMP.

the closet lit up in orange-blue fire.

the thing screeched like static being ripped open. sparks flew. the camera melted, wiring snapping and curling like a dying snake.

“DIE, BITCH,” dazai screamed, feral and unhinged.

the smell of plastic and fear filled the room. fyodor stomped the thing down. dazai grabbed a coat hanger and stabbed it like a sword.

the camera exploded in sparks.

the light went out.

so did the creature.

just—gone.

no ashes. no body. just an empty, burnt patch of floor.

quiet.

smoke curled like ghosts in the air.

the boys stood there, breathing hard. soot on their cheeks. dazai’s arm burned. fyodor’s hands shaking.

“we just murdered a glitch demon,” dazai whispered.

“i need a nap,” fyodor muttered.

silence.

then—

“...wait, was that thing the stalker?” dazai asked.

“maybe. or it was just working for them.”

they looked at each other.

same thought.

same realization.

“this isn’t over,” dazai said.

fyodor nodded.

then he collapsed into dazai’s side like a dying star. dazai caught him with a grunt.

“okay yeah we need slushies and band-aids,” dazai mumbled.

“and therapy,” fyodor whispered.

“same difference.”

they limped to the kitchen. still bleeding. still shaking.

but they’d fought something no one else even knew existed.

and they’d won.

for now.

the room's still smokey.

they’re bruised. burned. kinda traumatized. but the thing’s gone.

…except.

fyodor sits down. staring at the blackened patch on the floor.

dazai’s raiding the fridge for juice boxes like nothing happened.

and then—

the mirror in the hallway creaks.

not shatters. not breaks. just… creaks.

like someone's leaning against it.

”you missed me.”

fyodor's eyes snap up.

a voice.

from the mirror.

from nowhere.

from nikolai.

but it can’t be. he’s dead. he’s been dead.

his body was found. his funeral happened. fyodor went. he cried.

and yet—

the mirror flickers.

and there he is.

smiling.

burned. cracked. glitched out like a memory that shouldn't exist.

his voice is wrong. like it’s passing through five radios at once.

"did you really think it’d be that easy, fedya?"

dazai doesn’t hear it. he’s still humming in the kitchen.

just fyodor.

just him and the ghost of the boy he tried to forget.

and suddenly the thing under the bed wasn’t a random glitch-demon at all.

it was nikolai.

or what’s left of him.

possessed.

twisted.

obsessed.

fyodor didn’t move.

the mirror glitched again.

nikolai’s reflection didn’t follow logic—he leaned out of it. like the glass was water. like the world didn’t matter anymore.

“you look awful,” nikolai said cheerfully, head tilted. “burn marks really don’t suit you, y’know.”

fyodor’s throat clenched.

his heart was doing backflips in his ribs. not the good kind.

the bad kind.

“…you’re dead,” he said quietly.

“mm-hmm!” nikolai nodded, way too happy. “i’m also bored. and cold. and i missed you so much, i decided to crawl out of hell just to say hi~”

his voice cracked on hi.

fyodor flinched.

dazai laughed in the other room. probably found pudding or something equally chaotic. “found snacks! you want the pink thing or the probably-poison one?”

no answer.

fyodor couldn’t speak.

his mouth was dry. his fingers shook.

“you left me,” nikolai said, softly now. “you abandoned me.”

“you killed yourself,” fyodor snapped.

nikolai giggled. “you say that like it wasn’t your fault.”

mirror-crack.

not a metaphor. an actual sound. a thin line split the glass from top to bottom. fyodor stepped back.

“what do you want,” he whispered.

nikolai smiled.

but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“you.”

and then dazai opened the door.

“hey, i got you the pink—”
pause.
silence.
mirror empty.
nikolai gone.

“bro…? you okay? you look like you saw a ghost.”

fyodor didn’t answer.

just stared at the mirror.

it was normal again.

no cracks. no glitches. no smile that didn’t belong.

“...fedya?”

fyodor blinked. finally looked at him.

“…i think i did.”

NEXT DAY

they didn’t talk about the ghost.

not the glitchy mirror, not the whispering hallways, not the fact that fyodor looked like he got body-snatched by existential dread.

instead—

“you picked cherry again?” dazai said, sipping his blue raspberry slush like it was fine wine. “you’re a coward.”

fyodor side-eyed him, dragging his feet down the sidewalk. “at least it doesn’t taste like battery acid and poor decisions.”

“wow. bold words from a guy who literally fainted into a bush last week.”

“i was anemic, you hydrogen bomb of a person.”

“and dramatic about it. honestly, if you were gonna collapse, you could’ve done it in style.”

fyodor took a long slurp of his slushie.

then said, “next time i’ll die more aesthetically for you.”

dazai snorted. “that’s the spirit.”

they passed a pigeon. the pigeon looked like it had seen too much. it hopped away.

“what do you think happens when ghosts realize they’re boring?” fyodor asked suddenly, eyes squinted behind his straw.

dazai blinked. “uh… they start a podcast?”

“sounds like something you’d do.”

“you listen to my podcast.”

“i regret every second of it.”

“…you’re subscribed.”

“shut up.”

their slushies slurped in chaotic harmony.

the sky was pink. weirdly soft. there was probably a fire somewhere. didn’t matter. dazai shoved a chip in fyodor’s mouth mid-walk and laughed when he choked.

normal. annoying. perfect.

nothing haunted here.

except maybe them.

Chapter Text

chap 25: Small Cruelties in Cherry Flavor

they ended up back on the dorm roof.

as usual.

“if we die from falling, it’s your fault,” fyodor muttered, settling against the ledge like he hadn’t just banished a ghost 24 hours ago.

“if we die, i’m haunting you first,” dazai replied, sipping loud.

fyodor blinked. “how would you haunt me if we’re both dead.”

“easy. i’d annoy your ghost. forever.”

“you already do that.”

they sat in silence. slushies slowly melting. shoes scuffed. legs dangling.

fyodor said, “do you think ghosts get tired of unfinished business?”

“bro,” dazai said, “i’m tired of unfinished business and i’m still alive.”

fyodor laughed. actual, soft little laugh. the kind that crept up and made dazai’s chest feel way too warm.

he stared at his cup like it held answers.

then said, “i’m glad you didn’t get possessed or anything.”

fyodor raised an eyebrow. “you’d miss me that much?”

“nah,” dazai said. “i just didn’t want to deal with your haunted corpse.”

“…touching.”

“i try.”

they leaned back against the rooftop wall. breeze in their hair. quiet all around.

then dazai reached into his hoodie pocket, pulled out a single butterscotch candy, and shoved it into fyodor’s hand.

“you forgot one this morning,” he mumbled.

fyodor stared.

then took it.

“…thanks.”

“don’t die.”

“i won’t. mostly out of spite.”

“atta boy.”

they stayed on the roof until the sky turned pink.

fyodor had his knees pulled up, sipping slowly like he was afraid the red cherry would disappear if he blinked too long. dazai was sprawled out like roadkill, blue tongue stained and eyes half-lidded.

“so,” dazai said, “how’s it feel knowing we survived being haunted and emotionally vulnerable in the same week.”

fyodor didn’t even flinch. just said, “i’m gonna push you off this roof.”

“bold of you to assume i wouldn’t pull you down with me.”

“you’d do it too,” fyodor muttered.

“100%.”

another quiet moment. dazai stretched like a cat, back arching, hoodie riding up. fyodor looked away, face neutral, ears definitely not pink.

“you ever think,” dazai started, “maybe we’re cursed?”

“like, in a supernatural way?”

“nah. more like… life just hates us specifically.”

fyodor took a long slushie sip. “we kinda deserve it.”

“true,” dazai said, finger-gunning at him.

they stared at the clouds for a while. lazy shapes shifting overhead like nothing terrifying had happened. like they hadn’t just found out their dorm was rigged with cameras, or that a literal ghost was trying to possess their souls, or that feelings were… happening.

“i still think the ghost was a metaphor,” dazai said suddenly.

fyodor side-eyed. “for what.”

“repressed trauma. bad vibes. internalized self-loathing. take your pick.”

“you’ve been reading my diary.”

“YOU HAVE A DIARY???”

fyodor said nothing.

dazai gasped. “i knew it. i knew you were the brooding type.”

“shut up,” fyodor grumbled.

“do you write poetry in it.”

“dazai.”

“do you write about me in it.”

fyodor looked at him, expression flat as a dead battery. “i’m writing about killing you in it. does that count.”

“romantic,” dazai whispered.

fyodor whacked him with his empty slushie cup.

dazai wheezed.

they fell into that weird almost-laughing silence again. the kind where the air feels light but your chest is too full. fyodor’s eyes drifted shut, chin tucked into his knees.

he looked tired.

like he’d been running from something for too long.

dazai tossed his cup aside and leaned back on his elbows, squinting up at the sky.

“hey,” he said.

“what.”

“if we were in a horror movie, i’d live. obviously.”

fyodor cracked an eye open. “you’d be the first to die.”

“no way. i’m the comic relief. audience loves me.”

“you’re the reason people get haunted.”

“i bring  flaaaavor to the trauma~”

fyodor groaned and dropped his head onto dazai’s shoulder.

dazai went very still.

“…what’s this,” he said, barely breathing.

“a mercy nap,” fyodor mumbled. “so you shut up.”

“bro you’re literally using me as a pillow again—”

“accept your fate.”

“ugh.”

but dazai didn’t push him off.

he leaned his head against fyodor’s.

just for a second.

just until the sky turned violet.

they didn’t move.

not for a while.

fyodor had his head on dazai’s shoulder like it was normal. like they didn’t usually threaten to kill each other before homeroom.

dazai’s voice was soft when he broke the silence.
“you ever think about what it’d be like if we weren’t freaks?”

fyodor snorted. “you mean… normal?”

“yeah. like… i dunno. grades above average. family dinners. no near-death experiences in the past twenty-four hours.”

fyodor didn’t answer for a bit.
then:
“i don’t think people like us get to be normal.”

“why not?”

“because we break things.”

“accidentally?”

fyodor shrugged.
“emotionally.”

dazai let that sit. sky bleeding purple and gold. the wind tugging at their hoodies like it wanted them gone, like the rooftop had held enough secrets for one day.

“you don’t break things,” dazai said eventually.

fyodor turned his head. “…what?”

“i mean. you try. you act like you do. but you fix stuff too. like when you stitched my jacket after that time i got tackled—”

“you ripped it jumping the fence.”

“semantics. my point is… i think you’re a fixer. under all the murder threats and weird existential monologues.”

fyodor blinked. he looked like he didn’t know how to take that. like someone handed him a live bird and said “here. it loves you now.”

“…you’re a moron,” he mumbled, face hidden in dazai’s shoulder.

“awww, bro,” dazai said, smug as hell. “you’re blushing.”

“you’ll be blushing when i set your stupid hair on fire.”

“wow. romantic and violent.”

fyodor groaned. “why do you always ruin things.”

“it’s a gift.”

they sat there until the stars showed up. quiet laughter trailing off. words unspoken buzzing in the air between them, too loud to say, too soft to ignore.

finally dazai stood up, brushing himself off. “c’mon, bro. let’s go get slushies. i want my tongue blue again.”

fyodor sighed dramatically. “this is the dumbest tradition.”

“nope. this is sacred. blue for me, red for you, like the unholy truce we never talk about.”

“or a blood pact.”

“even better.”

they climbed down like raccoons on a mission. dazai almost fell twice. fyodor threatened to let him. they argued about the best slushie flavors the whole walk to the 24/7 store.

dazai got blue raspberry, obviously.

fyodor stared at the machine a little too long before choosing red cherry again. his hands were still shaking a bit, barely noticeable — unless you were dazai, who noticed everything.

dazai didn’t say anything about it.

instead, he bumped fyodor’s shoulder with his own.

“hey,” he said. “you didn’t die. congrats.”

“you sound disappointed.”

“nah. if anyone’s gonna kill you, it’s gonna be me.”

“how touching.”

“i’m full of love and crime.”

they sat on the curb outside the store, streetlamp buzzing above them. everything was quiet again. the kind of quiet that felt earned.

“do you think he’s really gone?” dazai asked suddenly. “nikolai.”

fyodor’s eyes were unreadable.

“…i think,” he said slowly, “that ghosts only leave when they’re forgotten.”

“and you haven’t.”

fyodor shook his head.

dazai looked down at his slushie.

“do you want to?” he asked.

fyodor didn’t answer.

the night stretched on. cold and still. two broken boys sipping neon sugar water in silence, pretending that maybe—just maybe—everything could go back to normal.

LEZZZGOOOOO BROOOOO X3 THIS ONE’S GOT THE MUSHY. IT’S GOT THE CRINGE. IT’S GOT FYODOR NEARLY SHORT-CIRCUITING FROM FEELINGS 😭💀 enjoy part 8 of chapter 24, where dazai gets too close and fyodor’s brain just. combusts.

they were walking home.

slushies in hand. dazai was already halfway done with his and had a blue tongue. he kept sticking it out at fyodor and making obnoxious “BLEH” noises.

“you look like a smurf with rabies,” fyodor deadpanned.

“that’s what i was going for actually,” dazai grinned, then fake-tripped into fyodor’s side.

fyodor didn’t shove him off. weird.

they kept walking.

the streetlights flickered a bit and dazai suddenly asked, “hey, do you think we’re gonna die young?”

fyodor blinked. “what.”

“just like—statistically. with our habits. and life choices. and trauma levels.”

fyodor rolled his eyes. “only if you drag me down with you.”

“awww, you’d die with me?”

“i take it back.”

dazai laughed, but it faded too quickly. his eyes got that faraway look. like he was somewhere else again.

“…i think i’d hate it if you died,” he mumbled, half to himself.

fyodor nearly choked on his slushie.

“what.”

“just sayin’. you’re like… my favorite weirdo. even when you’re insufferable.”

fyodor froze. literally froze mid-step like someone unplugged him.

“…you’re being weird.”

“that’s rich coming from you.”

fyodor didn’t reply.

they stopped near the edge of the school fence, lit by the moonlight and some busted yellow streetlamp. dazai turned toward him, looking way too sincere for someone in a hoodie with slushie stains on his sleeve.

“i mean it,” he said, voice lower now. “you’re kinda... important. to me.”

fyodor’s breath hitched.

he wasn’t good at this part. the soft part. the being cared about part.

his heart was making horrible thudding noises. he could feel the heat crawling up his neck and jaw and—ugh.

“you’re just saying that because i didn’t die,” he muttered, eyes on the ground.

“nope. i’ve been thinking it since before you almost collapsed like a victorian maiden.”

“i will set you on fire.”

“and yet. you’re still here. with me. walking home.”

fyodor wanted to say something cutting. sarcastic. anything to kill the vulnerable little monster chewing at his ribcage.

but instead he just mumbled:

“…you’re important too, idiot.”

dazai blinked.

“wait what’d you say?”

“NOTHING.”

“OH MY GOD. DID YOU—did you just say something NICE???”

“IT WASN’T NICE. IT WAS A CURSE.”

“noooo you LIKE ME. you ACTUALLY—”

fyodor turned bright red. “SHUT UP OR I’LL SHOVE THIS SLUSHIE DOWN YOUR SHIRT.”

“do it. i dare you. i’m already cold and emotionally unstable.”

BROOOOO XDDDD FYODOR’S ENTERING HIS VILLAIN ARC WITH A TWISTY STRAW LMAOOOO OKAY HERE’S PART 9 OF CHAPTER 24 LET'S GET PETTY

“you’re blushing,” dazai grinned, still glowing like he’d just witnessed a miracle.

fyodor narrowed his eyes. “i hope your slushie gives you brain freeze so intense you see god.”

“already happened. he said you’re in love with me.”

without breaking eye contact, fyodor raised his red cherry slushie.

he sipped it.

slowly.

ominously.

the straw made a horrible slurp noise and dazai flinched.

“uh… why are you drinking like a cartoon villain—”

“hold this,” fyodor said, handing his violin case to dazai.

“uh—okay?”

fyodor inspected his now half-empty slushie cup, tilted his head... and then casually yanked dazai’s hoodie back and POURED THE REST DOWN HIS HOOD.

cold red syrup flooded down dazai’s spine.

“AAAHHHH—FYODOR WHAT THE FUCK?!”

“revenge,” fyodor said coolly, as dazai squirmed like a wet cat.

“YOU—YOU PSYCHO. I’M GONNA FREEZE TO DEATH. MY SPINE IS STICKY. I’M GONNA GET HYPOTHERMIA.”

“good. maybe you’ll shut up for once.”

dazai dropped the violin case (gently), peeled off his hoodie like it was soaked in acid, and stood there in his t-shirt, glaring.

“i liked that hoodie,” he muttered.

“i liked my sanity. we don’t always get what we want.”

“…okay. you know what? it’s ON.”

“what’s on?”

“WAR. PREPARE TO DIE.”

fyodor sighed. “oh please.”

“NO ONE TOUCHES MY HOODIE AND LIVES.”

“then you’ve been dead since tuesday.”

“YOU LITTLE—”

cue dazai chasing fyodor down the street, fyodor sprinting with his slushie cup now turned into a makeshift weapon, and both of them howling like banshees under the moonlight.

neighbors peeked out of windows.

a raccoon ran for its life.

someone shouted “STOP RUNNING YOU LITTLE SHITS!” from a second floor.

they were chaos incarnate.

Chapter Text

chap 26: spilled sugar & unspoken feelings

the sky was stupidly blue. like, offensively blue. dazai hated it.
too sunny. too loud. too alive.

“why are we out here,” he groaned, dragging his feet on the sidewalk like a six-year-old on leash.

“because,” fyodor said, sipping his slushie with all the elegance of a vampire at a blood bank, “i wanted to leave the dorm before you set something on fire again.”

“that was one time. and technically it was a toaster.”

“technically, you microwaved a spoon.”

“semantics,” dazai muttered.

fyodor didn’t respond. he just kept walking, black hoodie flapping like a goth cape, cherry slushie in hand and murder in his stride.

dazai watched the little smirk pulling at his lips after every sip. he narrowed his eyes.

“...you enjoying that a little too much.”

“mm. red cherry. my favorite.” sip. pause. look. “jealous?”

“pfft. of frozen blood with extra blood sugar? no thanks.”

fyodor raised an eyebrow. “you say that, but—”

SLORP.

“—you haven’t stopped looking at mine for five minutes.”

“it’s literally the color of crime scenes.”

fyodor shrugged. “how pleasurable.”

dazai looked personally attacked. “bro, you’re insane.”

“and you’re thirsty,” fyodor said. then—real casual, real evil—he held the slushie out. “want a sip?”

dazai blinked. suspicious. “...why are you being nice.”

“i’m not. just offering charity to the flavorless.”

dazai snatched the cup. “bitch.”

he took a sip. paused. eyes widened a little. “…okay. it is good.”

fyodor smiled like a cat about to knock a glass off the table.

and then.
then.

he grabbed the cup back—
and poured the rest of the slushie straight down dazai’s hoodie.

red waterfall. cherry revenge.
dazai screamed like he’d been stabbed.

“WHAT THE—YOU ACTUAL DEMON—”

“refreshing?” fyodor asked, deadpan.

dazai stood there, dripping red dye and betrayal.

“this means war,” he whispered. “this means blood.”

fyodor tilted his head. “cherry blood?”

dazai lunged.

they sprinted through the street like maniacs—dodging cars, throwing insults, dazai grabbing a slushie of his own to avenge himself.

“YOU’RE GONNA REGRET BEING BORN WITH HANDS,” dazai yelled.

“AND YOU’RE GONNA REGRET DRINKING MY SLUSHIE,” fyodor shouted back.

they were chaos incarnate. giggling, yelling, tossing red and blue sugar ice at each other until their hands were sticky and clothes were stained and the world felt small and stupid and safe again.

they collapsed in a park bench after. dazai soaked. fyodor breathless.

“truce?” dazai wheezed.

fyodor reached over. stuck a cherry ice cube to dazai’s cheek.

“never.”

dazai smiled.

his hoodie was soaked. his chest was warm.

so was fyodor’s shoulder, when he leaned on it.

just a little.

the park was kinda dead.
just grass, trees, and the aftermath of their sugar war.

dazai’s hoodie squelched when he moved. “i’m gonna get hypothermia and die. and it’ll be your fault.”

“you say that like it’s a threat,” fyodor replied, biting the tip of a red ice cube before flicking it into the bushes.

“heartless,” dazai huffed.

fyodor leaned back, legs stretched out, arms over the bench like he owned the place. “you look like a clown who got caught in the rain.”

“you look like a victorian ghost who got addicted to tumblr.”

“thank you.”

“not a compliment.”

pause.

then laughter—quiet, raw. real.

dazai blinked at him.
“you’re laughing.”

“mm.”

“like, real laughing.”

fyodor gave him a look. “i laugh.”

“no, you smirk and then say something creepy. this is new.”

fyodor looked at him, eyes crinkled. for once, he didn’t say anything back.

the silence between them felt full, not empty.
like something was happening, but neither of them wanted to be the one to point it out.

dazai slowly leaned back again, hands behind his head.

“…what now?” he asked.

fyodor sighed. “we go home, wash the syrup off, and pray the dorm matron doesn’t smell red 40 on our souls.”

“nah,” dazai said, head lolling to the side. “not ready to go back.”

fyodor raised an eyebrow. “oh?”

“it’s nice here. just us. no... you know. monsters. ghosts. drama.”

“nikolai.”

“don’t say his name like he’s voldemort.”

fyodor glanced away, but his fingers tensed.
“he’s gone.”

“yeah,” dazai said. “but not really.”

another quiet settled.
not heavy. just... honest.

“you still think about him?”

fyodor didn’t answer right away.

“he used to pull shit like this,” fyodor murmured. “dump water down my back. hide my cello strings. call me ‘feather-dustor.’”

“that one’s actually good.”

fyodor smiled, sad and crooked. “i know.”

dazai reached over, fingers brushing fyodor’s sleeve.

just a touch.

“you don’t have to be okay,” he said. “but you’re not alone either. not anymore.”

fyodor didn’t pull away.
his fingers curled slightly around dazai’s.

“...you’re sticky,” he muttered.

“so are you.”

they sat like that.

slushies gone. sugar melting in the sun.

two idiots on a bench, sharing ghosts and warmth and something dangerously close to comfort.

they eventually got up.

mostly 'cause dazai complained about ants crawling into his hoodie.

fyodor had zero sympathy.

“you poured it on yourself, technically,” he said, sipping the last of his red cherry slush like he hadn't caused 90% of the chaos.

“YOU poured it down my back!!”

“semantics.”

they walked aimlessly, just kicking at gravel and tossing empty cups into trash cans. no plans, no rush.

dazai glanced over, squinting. “you still have syrup in your hair.”

fyodor deadpanned. “so do you.”

“mine’s a fashion statement.”

“yours is a cry for help.”

“and you love it,” dazai grinned.

fyodor didn’t respond. but he did nudge dazai’s arm with his own. barely. softly.

and dazai went quiet.

not in a bad way. just that still kind of quiet, the kind where everything feels... safe.
like the world was finally done throwing punches.

“hey,” dazai mumbled, voice lower. “you okay? like... really okay?”

fyodor hesitated.

then nodded. “...better than i’ve been.”

and that was enough.

they ended up sprawled under a tree, dazai with his hoodie half-off, hair a sticky mess, and fyodor curled up with his coat over his lap like some kind of weird vampire picnic.

“if anyone sees us like this,” dazai said, “they’ll think we eloped.”

“who says we didn’t?” fyodor teased, lips twitching. “run off into the sunset. bonded by slush and crime.”

“we’d last two days.”

“too generous.”

a breeze passed. dazai blinked slowly, eyes heavy from sugar and peace.

“hey,” he whispered.

“what?”

“don’t die or anything.”

fyodor’s breath hitched.

“…you either.”

their hands brushed again. no grabbing. no holding.
just enough to know they were there.

and for now?

that was all either of them needed.

the walk back was quiet, but not in a weird way. their steps matched, like muscle memory. dazai had slushie stains on his hoodie, and fyodor looked smug about it.

“i’m never letting you hold a drink again,” dazai muttered, shaking out his hood. it sloshed.

“should’ve dodged faster,” fyodor said, sipping the last of his red slushie with a violent straw slurp. “you move like an old man.”

“say that again and i’ll leave you in a ditch.”

“oh how scary.”

they passed a busted stop sign, the same one dazai spray-painted a sad smiley face on two months ago. memories stuck to it like gum under desks.

“you think we’re gonna wake up and it’ll all be back? like…normal?” dazai asked, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

fyodor didn’t answer right away. “i think this is our normal now.”

that made dazai go quiet again, but not for long.

“cool. as long as you stop being weirdly hot when you're covered in dirt and trauma.”

“you have terrible taste.”

“and you have terrible fashion.”

“this is vintage.”

“that’s moldy.”

by the time they hit the dorm gates, the sky was deep blue and the stars were flickering on like shy lightbulbs.

dazai looked up, then at fyodor.

“you gonna pass out on the stairs again or...?”

fyodor stepped forward, brushing dazai’s shoulder as he passed. “only if you catch me.”

“damn. mushy and dramatic.”

“learned from the best.”

Chapter Text

chap 27: The Cello Speaks, and Your Stare Does, too.

the dorm was quieter than usual.

maybe it was the exhaustion. maybe it was the ghost stuff catching up to them. maybe it was just... peace.

dazai was passed out on his bed, one sock on, one sock tragically lost to the void. his hair was a mess and there was a red slushie-stain ghosting the edge of his jaw.

fyodor sat by the window.

the cello rested against his shoulder like it belonged there—like it missed him.

his fingers moved without thinking, bow gliding slow and soft, coaxing out a melody that sounded like bruises healing. like breath after a panic. like something tender in a world full of glass.

he played for himself.

but he knew dazai would hear it, even in sleep.

a low, aching note hummed through the room. then another. then a string of them that curled around the light and made it flicker.

dazai shifted on the bed, half-conscious. "is this... the soundtrack to my dreams, or are you being dramatic again?"

fyodor didn’t stop playing.

“go back to sleep,” he said, voice barely louder than the music.

dazai turned his head toward him, watching through lidded eyes. “…you play like you’re bleeding.”

fyodor paused. “maybe i am.”

and then he kept playing.

the cello didn’t cry. it confessed.

dazai’s eyelids fluttered open to the soft, haunting sound of fyodor’s cello cutting through the silence like a whisper in a dark room. the notes weren’t perfect — but they didn’t have to be. they were messy, raw, just like fyodor himself. dazai liked that.

he shifted, careful not to disturb the fragile moment, but his curiosity got the better of him. “you’re hogging all the good notes,” he said with a lazy grin, reaching out and plucking a random string, making a sharp, sour twang that made fyodor flinch.

“dazai!” fyodor snapped, eyes darting up from the bow as if dazai had just insulted his entire existence. “please don’t break my cello. it’s not a toy.”

“i’m just making sure you know what you’re doing,” dazai teased, inching closer, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. “besides, maybe i’m better than you at this whole music thing.”

“yeah, right,” fyodor scoffed, eyes narrowing. “you wouldn’t know a cello from a guitar. and you definitely don’t know how to play either.”

“maybe not,” dazai admitted with a mock bow, “but i’m excellent at breaking things. including you, if you’re not careful.”

fyodor’s fingers stilled on the bow, his breath hitching just a little. the usual banter felt different now — softer, more electric. “if you wanted me to stop playing, you could’ve just said so.”

“and miss this?” dazai said quietly, his voice dropping to something almost serious as he crawled closer, laying his head on fyodor’s knee. “you think i don’t notice how you get when you play? how the world seems to pause?”

fyodor swallowed hard, the weight of those words settling between them like a fragile secret. he looked down at dazai’s calm face, something unspoken passing between them in the dim light.

“i didn’t want to stop,” fyodor whispered, almost afraid to break the spell.

dazai smiled, eyes closing as he let himself sink into the moment. “then don’t. but promise me one thing.”

“what?”

“promise you won’t disappear into your music forever. i’m right here.”

fyodor’s lips twitched into a small, genuine smile — the first dazai had seen in a while. “promise.”

the cello sat silent for a moment, the quiet between them louder than any note. and in that quiet, dazai felt something shift — like maybe, just maybe, they were starting to understand each other better than ever before.

fyodor didn’t usually play while people were around. he hated being watched, hated eyes on him like they were trying to figure him out through the music. like they could listen hard enough and decode the mess inside his head.

but dazai wasn’t watching. he was just... there. half-asleep and drooling on his pillow probably, but warm and real in the same room. and that made it okay.

the music swelled, heavier now—low notes dragging like footsteps in snow, like thoughts you can’t shake. his fingers trembled once, but he kept going.

he thought of nikolai. of ghosts. of the way silence sometimes screamed louder than sound.
he thought of blue raspberry slushies and a red-stained hoodie and dazai smiling like he knew something.

“you suck at hiding when you’re sad,” dazai mumbled suddenly, breaking the moment like a pebble cracking glass.

fyodor flinched. “i’m not—”

“you are,” dazai cut in, voice thick with sleep but sharp as always. he sat up slowly, rubbing his face with one hand. “you play like the cello did something horrible to you.”

fyodor side-eyed him. “perhaps it did.”

dazai dragged himself to the floor, back against the edge of the bed, legs stretched out. “you’re being dramatic again.”

“and you’re being insufferable again,” fyodor muttered, lowering the bow for a second. he tilted the instrument forward, watching dazai with a look caught between fondness and threat.

dazai grinned. “aw, that almost sounded affectionate.”

fyodor didn’t answer.

he raised the bow again, and this time, he played something slower. gentler. not quite happy, but softer. like apology with no words. like tired peace.

dazai stared at the ceiling, letting the music wash over him.

they didn’t talk again for a while.

the night pressed quiet around them, and fyodor played.

the bow rested in fyodor's hand like it belonged there. he didn’t speak for a long time, just let the silence stretch around him as he stared at the cello. dazai didn’t rush him—just sat nearby on the rug, fiddling with the corner of his hoodie, eyes flicking up every so often like he was memorizing the way the shadows curled around fyodor’s figure.

fyodor finally began to play again—not loud or impressive, not even a real song. it was scattered notes, soft and searching, like he was talking to himself through the strings. it sounded a bit like longing. like regret. like a memory dazai wasn’t sure he was supposed to hear.

"you sound sad," dazai mumbled, voice small.

fyodor paused. "...maybe i am."

the next note he played was sharp, jarring—then he sighed and let the bow drop into his lap.

“it’s like… the music used to say things i couldn’t,” he muttered, not looking at dazai. “but lately, it just echoes.”

“you’re really dramatic, you know that?” dazai said, grinning a little. “like, painfully russian and poetic.”

fyodor gave him a deadpan look. “i’m literally russian.”

“yeah, and a pain,” dazai added, standing up and walking over. “but not bad.”

fyodor blinked up at him. “not bad?”

“i mean, for someone who’s clinically allergic to feelings, you play them pretty damn well.”

fyodor rolled his eyes but didn’t fight the tiny smile tugging at his lips. “you’re such a menace.”

“yeah, but i’m your menace,” dazai said before he could stop himself.

silence.

fyodor blinked slowly. “you’re not mine.”

“not yet,” dazai replied, sitting beside him again, voice suddenly soft. “but you let me stay, don’t you?”

fyodor didn’t answer. he didn’t have to.

instead, he picked up the bow again, lowered his head, and played—not sad this time, but calm. warm. like maybe, just for tonight, he didn’t mind dazai being there.

and dazai leaned his head back against the couch, eyes half-lidded, letting the sound fill the space between them. maybe he’d never admit it out loud, but this? this was better than any chaos they’d caused together.

this was peace. their kind of peace.

“i’m bored,” dazai announced, sprawled upside-down on fyodor’s bed, legs kicked up on the wall like he was trying to summon god through restlessness. “playin the cello was hot and all but i need chaos.”

fyodor, who was currently half-asleep against the headboard with his hair in a messy braid, cracked one eye open. “you’re chaos incarnate. must you need more?”

“yes,” dazai said dramatically. “i crave adrenaline. speed. violence.”

“…we are not committing arson again.”

“then let me drive.”

fyodor blinked. “you don’t even have a license.”

“and yet,” dazai smirked, already hopping off the bed. “i know where your car keys are.”

“it’s not my car. it’s the school’s staff vehicle we hijacked last semester—”

“EXACTLY,” dazai grinned like a man possessed. “the thrill of illegal joyriding. come on, fedya, live a little.”

fyodor groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “i swear to god if we die, i’m haunting you.”

“deal,” dazai grinned, grabbing fyodor’s wrist and yanking him up. “c’mon. let’s make poor decisions in public.”

twenty minutes later, they were flying down the empty streets in the beat-up staff car, slushie cups in the cupholders and windows rolled all the way down. the wind tangled fyodor’s hair until he looked half-wild, and dazai was laughing so loud it echoed off the buildings.

“this is—THIS IS STUPID—” fyodor shouted over the music blasting from the radio. “YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO USE THE SIGNAL—”

“signals are for cowards!!” dazai yelled, swerving just a little too hard as they took a left turn. “i’m a visionary!!”

“YOU’RE GONNA GET US KILLED—”

“better than being bored!”

fyodor rolled his eyes but didn’t stop him. not when dazai looked like that—alive, wild, stupid, golden in the streetlights.

"next stop?" dazai shouted.

"hell," fyodor muttered.

"perfect. take the scenic route."

and then..

sirens.

"uh-oh,” dazai muttered, squinting at the rearview mirror.

“what do you mean ‘uh-oh’?” fyodor snapped, clutching the dashboard like a church grandma. “that’s not a noise you make while DRIVING A STOLEN CAR.”

“blue and red lights,” dazai said with a grin that could be classified as a war crime. “we’re about to get famous.”

“pull over,” fyodor hissed.

“NO.”

“PULL OVER.”

“FYODOR WE’RE IN TOO DEEP—”

“DAZAI THIS ISN’T A BONNIE AND CLYDE ROLEPLAY—”

and then dazai floored it. the engine screamed. fyodor screamed louder. someone’s shoe ended up on the dashboard. they zoomed down side streets, whipped around corners, blew through two stop signs and a pedestrian crosswalk that had a very concerned old man waving a baguette.

“WE’RE GONNA DIE—”

“AT LEAST WE’LL DIE TOGETHER—”

“SHUT UP.”

somehow—some godforsaken, miracle-level somehow—they lost the cop car. dazai skidded into a random back road, turned off the headlights, and parked behind a dumpster behind a 7-Eleven. silence. only their heavy breathing and the distant sound of a cat knocking over trash cans.

fyodor looked at dazai.

dazai looked at fyodor.

they both burst out laughing.

“we’re menaces,” fyodor wheezed, wiping his face with his sleeve.

“we’re ICONS,” dazai corrected, pulling a stolen 7-Eleven lollipop out of his pocket and sticking it in his mouth.

“your chaos is contagious.”

“and your suffering is adorable.”

fyodor snorted. “never say that again.”

“say what? adorable?” dazai grinned, leaning closer.

“i will pour another slushie down your shirt.”

“joke’s on you,” dazai whispered, eyes gleaming. “i’d like it.”

Chapter Text

chap 28: between static silence and soda pop confessions

“you smell like chlorine and shame,” fyodor muttered.

“aw, you noticed,” dazai grinned, elbowing him in the ribs. “wanna bottle it and sell it?”

“god no.”

they were still lying on the poolside, wrapped in that wrinkly-ass emergency blanket, hair drying into even worse shapes than before. dazai’s looked like a drowned raccoon. fyodor’s stuck to his forehead like wet noodles. neither of them cared.

“i’m hungry,” dazai suddenly declared, sitting up so fast the blanket nearly slipped off.

“again? we just committed a minor felony.”

“and crime burns calories. logic, idiot.”

fyodor sighed like a single father of five and stood up. “fine. but you’re buying.”

“with your wallet.”

“...fair.”

they ended up at some weird all-night food truck in the middle of nowhere, ordering greasy fries, sodas, and something called a “hot dog smoothie” just because dazai dared fyodor to.

he took one sip. spat it out. chucked it at the trash can and missed.

“disgusting,” he said, wiping his mouth.

“L,” dazai cackled. “get better tastebuds.”

fyodor retaliated by throwing a handful of fries at dazai’s face.

“HEY—”

“eat them off the pavement like the rat you are.”

“you wound me,” dazai said, stuffing one in his mouth anyway. “mmm, floor fries. vintage.”

they sat cross-legged on the sidewalk, late-night fog rolling around them like they were ghosts in a city that forgot them. the streetlamp buzzed. a dog barked in the distance. everything was just a little bit broken. just a little bit magical.

fyodor looked over. dazai had fry salt on his cheek.

he reached up and wiped it off without thinking.

“...thanks,” dazai muttered, way too quiet.

fyodor nodded, pretending not to hear the way his own heart tripped.

BACK IN THE CAR

the playlist dazai picked was getting worse with each song. something about "coconut mall" followed by a k-drama ballad was giving fyodor an actual headache.

"you don't get taste, do you?" fyodor muttered, leaning his head against the window dramatically.

"i have elite taste," dazai said, tossing a fry into his mouth like he was in a romcom. "you just have trauma."

fyodor side-eyed him, unimpressed. "your playlist makes me want to speed into the ocean."

"and yet, you’re still listening. kinda sus of you, fyodork."

"stop calling me that—"

"fyodork."

"i will literally commit murder—"

"awww :3 you’re learning from me."

they ended up pulling into some random gas station because dazai "sensed destiny" there. which apparently meant destiny was a claw machine he lost $3 to.

"this is the dumbest thing you've ever dragged me into."

"you say that every day. it only makes me stronger."

fyodor rolled his eyes and leaned on the slushie machine. "you gonna cry because you couldn’t get the pink plushie?"

"i’m gonna cry because my best friend is a vampire with no heart," dazai pouted, grabbing a blue raspberry slushie like a child denied dessert.

"correction," fyodor said, taking cherry, "i do have a heart. i just hate you."

"cute," dazai smirked. "i’ll write that on our wedding invites."

“how do people drive without crashing into, like, everything?” dazai mutters, clutching the steering wheel like it owes him money.

“probably with a license,” fyodor says dryly from the passenger seat, sipping a soda he definitely did not pay for.

they’re parked (sort of) outside a convenience store, the car slightly slanted because dazai tried to park diagonally. it’s their third time “borrowing” a teacher’s car. this one had floral seat covers. it’s cursed.

“you know,” dazai says, turning the keys like he’s starting a spaceship, “we could totally road trip. ditch school. become famous. fake our deaths. you’d be a mysterious ghost cellist with a dark past.”

fyodor hums. “cellist is retired. now i just haunt gas stations.”

“sexy,” dazai grins. “i’d haunt diners. make people spill ketchup for the drama.”

“you already do that,” fyodor deadpans.

they drive aimlessly, arguing over which radio station sucks the most. fyodor insists every single one is a crime against his ears. dazai turns up the bubblegum pop just to be annoying.

at a red light, dazai randomly screams, “ROAD TRIP RITUAL!!” and throws sour candy at fyodor’s face. one sticks to his cheek.

“if you touch me again, i’ll eject myself from this vehicle.”

“you’ll die.”

“worth it.”

they end up back at the dorm parking lot, somehow without a single scratch on the car. fyodor looks disturbed by this miracle.

“i think,” he says slowly, “you’re cursed. not in the haunted way. in the you function on nonsense and adrenaline way.”

dazai opens the door, leans out dramatically. “and yet. you choose to ride with me.”

fyodor glares. “only because you locked the doors.”

“it’s called bonding,” dazai chirps.

“it’s called kidnapping.”

they walk back to their dorm in silence for a second.

“i stole the cupholder,” fyodor admits suddenly.

“DUDE—”

“it had a cool flower design. you’re the driver. you get the felony.”

“you’re so lucky you’re pretty,” dazai mutters, unlocking the door.

fyodor smirks. “that’s not luck, darling. that’s genetics.”

back in the dorms, they lay down on their beds. they’re both too tired to be productive but too awake to shut up.

"i think if you were an animal, you'd be a rat," dazai says, tossing a pen cap in fyodor’s direction.

fyodor blinks at the ceiling. “and you’d be roadkill.”

“that’s rude,” dazai grins, rolling onto his stomach now, chin in his palm. “but accurate. poetic. sexy, even.”

fyodor groans. “do you ever shut up?”

“not when you’re around,” dazai chirps, batting his lashes in the most annoying way possible.

fyodor shoves a pillow at him without looking. dazai screams like he’s being murdered and falls off the chair with a dramatic THUNK.

“oh nooo~ i’ve fallen… and i need a kiss to survive~!”

fyodor turns his head slowly, deadpan. “…do you want me to smother you.”

“only if you buy me dinner first,” dazai hums, rolling himself into a blanket burrito. “mmm, suffocation but make it romantic.”

fyodor exhales through his nose. “you’re disgusting.”

“you’re smiling.”

“no i’m not.”

“YES YOU—OH MY GOD YOU TOTALLY ARE—”

fyodor hurls another pillow. dazai dodges, barely, and throws a slipper back. it hits fyodor in the knee.

“ow.”

“good.”

they go quiet. just the hum of the little desk fan and the occasional honk from outside. fyodor closes his eyes.

“we’re so weird,” dazai murmurs, voice softer now.

“mm.”

“but i think… i’d be weirder without you.”

fyodor snorts. “you’d be in jail without me.”

“i’d be in jail with you. let’s not lie to ourselves.”

a pause. fyodor opens one eye. “you’d drag me into the stupidest crime imaginable.”

“you’d help anyway.”

“only to clean up your mess.”

they both laugh.

quiet again.

it’s warm. their limbs ache from running, from laughing too hard, from living too much in too short a span. but it’s good. safe.

finally, dazai whispers, “do you think things can stay like this?”

fyodor doesn’t answer right away. his eyes wander up to the ceiling again. then over to dazai, whose eyes are half-lidded now, lazy and content.

“no,” fyodor says. “but i want them to.”

and dazai, smiling like he’s already dreaming, just says: “me too.”

eventually they got back home. dazai collapsed on the couch like a corpse, still half-damp. fyodor kicked off his shoes and sat on his legs.

“can’t sleep?” dazai asked, muffled by a throw pillow.

“can’t think,” fyodor replied. “too much noise.”

“me or your brain?”

“both.”

“valid.”

they fell into silence. just the hum of the fridge. the tick of the wall clock. two insomniac dumbasses marinating in their feelings.

dazai rolled over and looked at him. “you know, we’re not really normal.”

“you think?”

“but… you’re still my favorite person.”

fyodor blinked. didn’t speak.

just nodded once, so slow it could’ve been a glitch.

Chapter Text

Chap 29: Cold Hands

the day started with fire drills and ended with a crime.

technically, they weren’t supposed to be out. something about “stay indoors after curfew” and “don’t climb the roof, we’re watching you.”

but dazai had a key he shouldn’t have, and fyodor had zero self-preservation.

“you know we could get suspended,” fyodor said as they scaled the emergency stairwell.

“worth it,” dazai grinned, hoodie up, flashlight between his teeth like some kinda cryptid. “besides, you love danger.”

“i love silence. you just happen to come with noise.”

“you love me,” dazai teased.

“no.”

“yes.”

“shut up.”

they made it to the rooftop. the sky was smeared with stars, and there was a weird peace in the air. like nothing was watching for once.

they sat on the ledge. shared a bag of sour gummy worms. didn’t say much.

dazai kicked his legs off the side. “y’ever think we’re just two weirdos wasting time?”

fyodor leaned back, arms folded behind his head. “i think we’re two weirdos refusing to die. that’s something.”

“damn. that’s hot.”

fyodor snorted.

“like actually. poetic and terrifying. your brand.”

dazai threw a gummy worm at his face. fyodor dodged.

they talked about dumb things after that—ghost videos, cursed vending machines, the time dazai tried to microwave a fork.

then dazai went quiet.

“…do you ever think we’re being followed again?”

fyodor didn’t answer right away. wind tugged at his hair. he looked at the city.

“sometimes,” he said. “but i think if they were watching… they wouldn’t like what they saw.”

“you mean us being unhinged little freaks?”

“us being alive,” fyodor corrected. soft.

dazai didn’t say anything. just bumped his shoulder lightly against fyodor’s.

“kinda nice, up here,” he said.

fyodor hummed. “you’ll ruin it if you start monologuing again.”

“you wound me,” dazai said, hand on his chest like he was in a soap opera.

fyodor shoved him. dazai nearly fell. screamed. laughed.

they stayed up there way too long. didn’t care.

for once, the night didn’t feel like it was waiting to collapse.

and even when the wind got cold—

they didn’t come down.

fyodor didn’t say he was cold. he just pulled his sleeves over his hands and curled tighter into himself like a sad little moth.

dazai noticed anyway.

“yo,” he said, peeking over with a gummy worm hanging out his mouth. “you freezing?”

fyodor didn’t answer.

his nose was pink. fingers twitchy. eyes all heavy-lidded and slow like he was gonna pass out on the roof or ascend to heaven.

dazai blinked.

then, very dramatically, he pulled off his hoodie. “here.”

fyodor stared at him. “…you’ll die.”

“worth it. take it.”

fyodor didn’t move.

“bro,” dazai said. “you’re literally vibrating. put it on or i’m making you wear two hoodies just to spite you.”

“you don’t have a second hoodie.”

“yet.”

fyodor rolled his eyes. then—hesitantly—grabbed the hoodie and pulled it on.

it was warm. smelled like old cinnamon gum and chaos.

“do i look stupid,” he muttered.

dazai grinned. “no stupider than usual.”

“…thank you.”

“WHOA.” dazai fell back dramatically. “DID FYODOR JUST SAY THANK YOU. IS THIS AN APOCALYPSE.”

“i take it back.”

“too late. burned into my memory.”

fyodor tugged the hoodie hood over his head and glared at him. “you talk too much.”

“you love it.”

“no.”

“yes.”

fyodor didn’t respond.

instead, he curled his hands into the sleeves. and leaned against dazai’s shoulder like it was the most casual thing in the world.

dazai stopped breathing for like. 3 seconds.

“…you okay?” he whispered.

fyodor didn’t answer for a while.

“just tired,” he said eventually.

and dazai… didn’t ruin it.

just tilted his head. let fyodor rest.

sky above. city below. rooftop quiet.

fyodor’s hands stayed cold.

but dazai’s arm stayed there anyway.

they didn’t talk for a long time.

fyodor half-asleep, dazai fully pretending he wasn’t enjoying it.

it was weird.

not like the usual kind of weird, with fire alarms and stolen skateboards and grocery store bans.
this was the quiet kind. the almost-comfortable kind.
like a break between disasters.

“hey,” dazai whispered, finally. “you ever think we’ll graduate?”

fyodor didn’t open his eyes. “no.”

“cool. same.”

a gust of wind blew across the rooftop.

fyodor shivered slightly. pulled the hoodie tighter.

dazai, noticing, leaned in the tiniest bit. not enough to make a thing of it. just… enough.

“y’know,” dazai said after another stretch of quiet, “you should nap more often. you’re tolerable like this.”

fyodor cracked one eye open. “so are you.”

“rude.”

“truth.”

they both grinned. just a little.

then it was quiet again.

clouds drifted overhead. the air smelled like rain and concrete and cheap laundry detergent from someone’s open window below.

“hey,” dazai said again, softer this time. “if you ever need another hoodie, just ask.”

fyodor didn’t respond.

but he tugged the sleeves down again.

and dazai swore he saw the tiniest smile.

they left the rooftop slow, like they didn’t want to break the bubble of quiet.

the sky grumbled softly—clouds threatening rain, but not quite ready to drop.

fyodor tugged his hoodie tighter, still feeling cold.

dazai noticed, pulled his jacket off without a word, and shrugged it on fyodor’s shoulders.

“hey,” dazai said, smirking, “don’t get used to this. i’m not your personal heater.”

“too late,” fyodor muttered, head barely peeking out from the oversized jacket.

they walked out into the street, dodging puddles and trying not to splash each other.

“you know,” dazai started, grinning like he was about to drop a classic, “if you were a puddle, i’d jump right in.”

fyodor snorted. “gross, dazai. puddles are dirty.”

“not if it’s raining on the inside,” dazai shot back, eyebrows raised.

fyodor rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

they kept walking, side by side, the kind of silence that felt like a shared secret.

dazai suddenly stopped, pointing at a small stray cat crouched under a bush.

“hey, that’s a perfect target for your cat obsession.”

fyodor crouched too, whispering, “shh, don’t scare it.”

the cat blinked up at them, unimpressed.

“bet it’s got better things to do than deal with us,” dazai said.

“like not dying alone on the street?”

“see? you care more than you say.”

fyodor just smiled, hiding it in his collar.

a soft rain started, and dazai held out his jacket.

“c’mon, rain buddy.”

fyodor shuffled under, closer than usual.

“you’re annoying,” he whispered.

“and you’re adorable,” dazai said, voice low.

no one said anything after that.

just the rain, the street, and two boys walking home with jackets too big and hearts too full.

they made it back. the quiet hum of the building wrapping around them like a worn blanket.

fyodor’s steps slowed the second they hit the dorm hallway.

his body was heavy — like every part of him was begging for sleep.

“i’m… not gonna make it to my bed,” he muttered, voice barely there.

dazai glanced over, eyes soft but amused.

“then don’t.”

before fyodor could protest, dazai gently grabbed his arm, guiding him towards his own room.

the moment fyodor’s head hit dazai’s pillow, his exhaustion broke free.

no ceremony, no second thoughts — just surrender.

dazai shifted, making room, wrapping an arm around fyodor’s trembling frame.

“you’re heavier than you look,” he joked quietly.

fyodor mumbled something incomprehensible but pressed closer, like he finally found the place he could breathe.

their breaths synced, slow and uneven.

dazai’s fingers traced lazy patterns down fyodor’s back, grounding both of them.

“just stay,” dazai whispered, voice low.

“don’t have a choice,” fyodor grinned sleepily.

cuddles tangled like vines, warm and stubborn.

outside, the world kept spinning.

inside, time slowed, wrapped around two bodies refusing to let go.

and for once, nothing else mattered.

Chapter Text

chapter 30:  if looks could kiss, maybe they would.

first period was hell.

not because of the math test (which dazai didn’t study for), or the weird cough the substitute teacher had, or even the fire alarm randomly going off for 3 minutes.

no.

it was hell because dazai sat next to fyodor and couldn’t stop looking at his stupid hands.

they weren’t doing anything special. just holding a pen. scribbling math numbers like a haunted little scholar. but dazai’s brain short-circuited every time he saw fyodor adjust his sleeve or push his hair back.

like. get a grip, dazai told himself. you’ve committed arson with this guy, not fallen in love.

and then fyodor yawned. like a cat. stretched out, hoodie riding up a little, hair falling into his eyes.

and dazai actually dropped his pencil.

clatter.

“you good?” fyodor asked, eyebrow raised.

“no,” dazai said instantly.

the substitute stared at him.

he gave them a thumbs up.

second period was worse.

they got called to the office “for a talk,” aka the school still kinda suspected they were behind the burned curtains incident two weeks ago. which, fair.

“walk with me, partner in crime,” dazai said, nudging fyodor.

fyodor rolled his eyes but walked next to him anyway, arms crossed. “stop calling me that.”

“you love it.”

“i tolerate it.”

but their shoulders bumped. and neither of them moved away.

the hallway was quiet. lockers all closed. sunlight spilling in through the windows.

dazai glanced sideways. fyodor’s face was soft in the light, paler than usual. tired, maybe.

and then—fyodor looked at him. like, really looked at him.

and dazai forgot how to exist for a second.

they stood outside the office door.

“you’re staring,” fyodor said, voice quiet.

“you’re pretty,” dazai said, without thinking.

fyodor blinked. his ears turned pink.

“…idiot,” he mumbled.

but he didn’t look away.

they spent lunch in their usual spot—the weird corner near the vending machines no one liked.

“why does your sandwich smell like regret,” fyodor asked, nose wrinkled.

“because it’s tuna,” dazai said proudly.

“you’re disgusting.”

“you like me.”

“shut up.”

fyodor was sipping from a bottle of water, legs folded up on the bench like a gremlin. his sleeves were pulled over his hands.

dazai watched him chew on the straw.

his heart did something stupid.

“hey,” he said suddenly. “do you—”

“hm?”

“never mind.”

fyodor stared at him.

“you were gonna say something.”

“nope.”

“say it.”

dazai sighed. flopped back dramatically.

“i was gonna ask if you think about us. like. us-us.” he said into the air.

fyodor was silent.

then—

“…sometimes.”

dazai sat up fast. “really?”

fyodor didn’t meet his eyes. just kept fidgeting with the bottle cap.

“you’re annoying,” he said softly. “but i don’t… hate it.”

dazai’s heart punched his ribs like a boxer.

“you’re annoying too,” he said, grinning. “but i think about you all the time.”

fyodor’s ears turned red again.

“go choke on your tuna sandwich,” he muttered.

but he was smiling.

end of the day. the hallway was loud again. lockers slamming, people yelling, footsteps everywhere.

dazai and fyodor lingered by theirs, both pretending they weren’t stalling.

“so uh,” dazai said, trying to sound casual. “same time tomorrow?”

“for what?”

“existing near each other with weird tension and no slushies.”

fyodor snorted. “sure.”

they stood there for a second. neither moving.

and then dazai reached out—like he was gonna ruffle fyodor’s hair or something—but stopped halfway.

fyodor looked up at him. quiet.

dazai’s hand dropped.

“…im gonna get a few things from the supermarket,” he said, voice kinda small.

“ill see you, then.”

but they kept looking back at each other, even as they walked away.

like something was changing.

slow.

but definitely real.

“you’re back,” fyodor said, monotone, without looking up.

dazai kicked the door shut with his foot, arms full of a grocery bag and a stupid grin. “aww, missed me already?”

“no.”

“liar.”

fyodor kept typing. dazai watched him for a second. the laptop screen was filled with math homework. ew.

“you didn’t touch the tea i made you,” dazai said, poking the cup on the desk. lukewarm.

“you were gone,” fyodor replied. “i didn’t trust it.”

“offended.” dazai flopped onto his bed. “deeply.”

fyodor glanced over. dazai had changed into a loose hoodie and sweats. soft. messy-haired. grocery bag tossed beside him, half-open, revealing some random snacks, juice boxes, and two lollipops.

“got you candy,” dazai added casually, pointing.

fyodor blinked. “…why.”

“your blood sugar dips when you skip lunch. and you always skip lunch when the cafeteria’s serving mystery meat, which they were.”

fyodor stared. dazai was fiddling with a juice box straw like he hadn’t just recited his medical schedule from memory.

“…thanks,” he muttered.

“you’re welcome, cryptid.” dazai passed the lollipops over. cherry and butterscotch.

fyodor picked the cherry one and shoved it in his mouth immediately.

“you gonna sleep in your weird vampire trench coat again?” dazai asked, flopped sideways on the bed like a dead fish.

“you sleep in a t-shirt with the word ‘menace’ on it.”

“because i am one.”

they locked eyes. something buzzed under fyodor’s skin. warm. dangerous.

“…you’re more tolerable when you’re quiet,” fyodor said.

“you’re more tolerable when you’re not dying from anemia,” dazai shot back.

pause.

“i didn’t mean that mean,” he added.

“i didn’t take it mean,” fyodor said. then, after a second: “but next time, just say you’re worried.”

dazai looked like someone hit him in the face with a pillow. metaphorically.

“…fine,” he muttered. “maybe i worry. a little. shut up.”

fyodor smiled around the lollipop stick.

outside, someone yelled about a broken vending machine.

inside, dazai rubbed the back of his neck. his fingers were twitchy. eyes a little too soft.

“…hey, fyo?”

“what.”

“do you think we’re weird?”

fyodor raised an eyebrow. “objectively.”

“like. weird for liking being around each other.”

fyodor blinked slow. “…we like that?”

dazai turned scarlet. “I—I mean, like, hypothetically—”

“you’re the worst liar i’ve ever met,” fyodor said.

dazai groaned into a pillow. “i hate you.”

“i like you too,” fyodor replied, deadpan.

dazai’s brain blue-screened.

Chapter Text

chapter 31: accidentally in like

fyodor was on the roof again. the stale air of the stairwell had given way to a biting wind, but he preferred it. it felt cleaner, somehow, than the manufactured air inside the school. he always went there: when the fluorescent lights of the hallways seemed to amplify every shout and scrape, when the weight of expectation pressed down on him like a physical burden, when everything below felt heavy with obligation and everything above looked like it might just swallow him whole, offering an escape.

dazai found him there, surprise surprise. fyodor wasn’t even sure why it wasn’t a surprise anymore. maybe he’d started subconsciously expecting the bandaged menace.

back pressed against the cold chainlink fence, knees drawn up defensively, inky hair pulled half-back in one of those stupid little claw clips he’d definitely stolen from yuzu's locker (he’d returned it later, of course – he wasn’t that much of a thief). the sky was gray in that soft, muted way, like a watercolor painting left out in the rain. the wind, a persistent whisper, kept pulling at the frayed edge of fyodor’s coat, as if it wanted to unravel him, strand by strand, and carry him away. he let it.

“yo,” dazai called, stepping over the low ledge with a casual disregard for gravity that always made fyodor’s stomach clench. “skipping class, mr. goody-two-shoes? scandalous.”

fyodor didn’t even glance up. he could picture dazai perfectly in his mind’s eye: the perpetually amused glint in his dark eyes, the artfully disheveled hair, the way he always seemed to be teetering on the edge of some self-destructive impulse. “i finished the worksheet already,” he replied, his voice flat.

“nerd.”

“criminal.”

“valid.” dazai’s tone was light, but there was something else there, too. a flicker of something… knowing? fyodor pushed it away.

dazai dropped down beside him, landing with a soft thud that resonated through the metal of the roof. he was closer than he needed to be, fyodor noted. silence hung between them for a beat – not heavy with tension, not awkward with unspoken feelings. just… there. settled and comfortable, like a shared secret, a truce formed in the middle of a battlefield only they inhabited. dazai didn’t fidget as much as he usually did, and fyodor didn’t feel quite so made-of-knives, the edges of his composure softened ever so slightly.

the wind rustled the fence, a metallic sigh. it tugged at dazai’s sleeves, teasing loose threads. it ruffled fyodor's bangs, sending a stray strand tickling across his cheek. neither of them moved. the sounds of the city, usually a chaotic symphony of horns and sirens, were muted up here. it was almost peaceful.

“you left your hoodie in my bed this morning,” fyodor muttered eventually, eyes still fixed on the bleak horizon. he could practically feel dazai's smug amusement radiating off him. it was annoying. he didn't want to be vulnerable.

“oh?” dazai smirked, sharp and lazy, the expression radiating a dangerous kind of charm despite himself. “my bed, huh? getting possessive, fyodor?”

fyodor rolled his eyes, the gesture more reflexive than annoyed. “shut up.” he felt his cheeks burn. he hated how easily dazai could fluster him.

“you cuddled me, loser.” dazai’s voice was teasing.

“you were warm.” it was a pathetic excuse, and he knew it.

“you snuggled.” dazai emphasized the word with a playful nudge of his shoulder.

“i’ll push you off the roof.” the threat was hollow, and they both knew it. he would never. even if the thought crossed his mind, which it didn't, he wouldn't be able to bring himself to do it.

“romantic,” dazai said, all teeth and mischief. beneath the surface, fyodor saw a flicker of something else in his eyes – something that made his own heart ache.

fyodor looked at him. not annoyed, not even sarcastic. just… soft. dry. amused, almost fondly. “you’re the worst.”

“i know,” dazai sighed dramatically, leaning his head back against the fence with a wider grin. "but hey, you like me anyway." he said it with such certainty, such infuriating confidence, that fyodor wanted to argue. but he couldn’t.

“mm.”

pause. the silence stretched, filled only with the wind and the unspoken words that hung heavy between them.

“…wait,” dazai blinked in surprise, his head snapping back up. “did you just—did you just agree with me??” the surprise in his voice was almost comical.

fyodor blinked too. deadpan. "i said mm. could mean anything. i could just be appreciating the ambient noise."

“fyo—”

“shhh.”

“listen to what?” dazai asked, genuinely confused this time.

fyodor leaned his head back against the fence, eyes fluttering shut. "the wind. it sounds like your stupid laughter." the words were out before he could stop them, a slip of the tongue revealing far too much. he immediately regretted it.

“…what.” dazai’s voice was soft, almost reverent.

fyodor blinked open one eye, then shrugged as casually as he could manage, as if he hadn’t just said the most ridiculous, poetic shit ever. "just observing. the way the air vibrates, the cadence of it... it's reminiscent."

dazai stared at him. like really stared. not with his usual mocking amusement, but with an intensity that made fyodor’s breath catch in his throat. he felt exposed, vulnerable under that gaze. “you like me.” it wasn't a question. it was a statement of fact, a declaration he couldn't deny.

fyodor didn’t answer. didn’t deny it. just smirked, slow and crooked, a fleeting expression that betrayed a vulnerability he kept carefully hidden. then, he looked away, as if the sun was suddenly too bright, as if acknowledging the truth was too painful.

and dazai’s heart??? yeah. it did the thing. the dumb, fluttery, oh-no-he’s-so-beautiful-when-he-smirks thing that made him want to simultaneously run away and pull fyodor closer. he was a mess.

later, in the crowded hallway, the air thick with the scent of teenage angst and cheap perfume, dazai nudged him playfully. “i think you’re dangerous.”

fyodor didn’t blink, his expression unchanging. "you’re the one who breaks vending machines for fun."

“you don’t have to expose me like that. it’s a victimless crime.”

“you were caught on cctv. the security guard knows your name.”

“listen.”

“no.”

they sat next to each other in biology. not because they had assigned seats. not because they were working on a project together. but because dazai, in a blatant display of disruptive behavior, dragged his chair across the tiled floor with the world’s most obnoxious screech, loud as hell, plopped down right next to fyodor, and declared, “you’re the only one who gets my jokes.”

fyodor didn’t even look up from his textbook. "i don't."

“exactly. you suffer, and that brings me joy. it's a symbiotic relationship."

he got a crumpled paper ball to the face for that.

he smiled anyway, a genuine, unguarded smile that surprised even him.

the teacher, mr. ito, was droning on about neurochemistry, his voice a monotone hum in the background. dazai wasn’t listening. of course, he wasn’t. he was too busy watching fyodor scribble notes in his thin, precise, almost unnervingly neat handwriting. it was like following a map to the inside of his brilliant, twisted mind.

tiny drawings adorned the corners of the page. roses, their thorns meticulously detailed. barbed wire, sharp and unforgiving. little rats, scuttling across the page as if trying to escape. maybe a raven, perched ominously on a branch. probably dazai, lurking in the shadows, waiting to stir up trouble.

dazai leaned in closer, real close, his chin nearly resting on fyodor’s shoulder. he could smell the faint scent of ink and old paper clinging to him.

“you draw me a lot,” he whispered, his breath ghosting against fyodor’s ear.

fyodor didn’t look up, his pen still moving across the page. "i draw things that annoy me. it's a form of pest control."

“you’re obsessed,” dazai grinned, clearly pleased with himself. "just say it."

“say what?” fyodor’s voice was deliberately blank.

“say you like me.” the words hung in the air, a challenge, a dare.

fyodor paused, his pen suspended above the page. he didn’t even blink, his expression unreadable.

then, in the calmest, flattest voice he could muster: “i’d rather be run over by mr. ito’s prius.”

“you’re dodging the question.” dazai’s grin didn’t waver.

“i’m dodging you.”

and dazai, annoying menace that he was, leaned even closer, his lips brushing the shell of fyodor’s ear. he could feel the heat radiating from him, a dangerous, intoxicating warmth.

“what if i say i like you first, huh?” he breathed, his voice a low, seductive murmur. “what then?”

fyodor’s pen froze, the ink bleeding slightly into the paper. his hand twitched, betraying a flicker of nerves. he slowly turned to look dazai in the eyes, his gaze intense, searching. he could see the vulnerability hidden beneath the bravado, the genuine question lurking beneath the surface.

“don’t.” the word was soft, almost a plea.

“why not?” dazai’s voice was barely a whisper.

fyodor’s voice was softer now, almost like it cracked. “because i’ll believe you. i want to, and that's the problem.” he swallowed hard, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “and i’m not ready for that. not yet.."

…yeah. that shut dazai up. for once in his goddamn life, he didn’t have a comeback. just sat there blinking at fyodor, his usual confidence shattered, like he was suddenly made of glass, fragile and easily broken. like something in him ached with a longing he couldn’t articulate.

he reached out, his hand trembling slightly. gently brushed a stray strand of hair behind fyodor’s ear, a tender gesture that belied his usual recklessness.

“fine,” he whispered, his voice raw. “i won’t say it. not yet. but just so you know, someday i will.”

fyodor nodded. barely. he couldn’t meet dazai’s eyes. the intensity of his gaze was too much to bear.

then—a whisper so quiet he almost missed it. “…thank you.”

their hands brushed under the desk, a fleeting, accidental contact that sent an electric shock through fyodor’s veins. not on purpose. but neither of them moved their hands away.

they were doomed. they were walking, stumbling blindly towards something they didn’t understand, something that threatened to consume them both. they just didn’t know what kind of doom it was yet.

not love. not yet. but something close, something dangerous, something that felt like a slow, agonizing burn.

accidentally, impossibly, stupidly close.

and dazai? he was already falling, tumbling headfirst into a world he swore he’d never enter. quietly, chaotically, with a morbid grin. just a little more every time fyodor looked at him like he mattered, like dazai was more than just a game, a puzzle to be solved, a fleeting amusement. like he was something worth caring about.

Chapter Text

chapter 32: a body unlike others

the dorm room’s quiet, window cracked open just enough for the breeze to shuffle the edge of a homework packet on dazai’s desk. it smells faintly like laundry detergent and cheap instant noodles. dazai’s keys jingle as he twists the knob, steps inside—

“i got the snacks, you little bat gremlin—”
his voice cuts off.

fyodor’s standing by the closet, shirt already tossed onto the bed, slender fingers pulling up a fresh pair of boxers. pale, bony, a little bruised in places—thin shoulders, sharp collarbones, his hair a mess from sleep or maybe frustration. and—

daizai freezes. eyes catch more than he means to. it’s not just the slimness or the tired curve of fyodor’s back. it's the way he has both—his cock and something else. was it.. a vagina? it was something dazai doesn’t understand for half a second. then he does. and his breath catches like he’s been slapped.

fyodor doesn’t notice at first. or maybe he does and doesn’t care. he finishes dressing, calmly, like nothing’s wrong.
but his voice is tight when he finally speaks.

“…you could’ve knocked.”

“i thought you were still in the shower,” dazai says too quickly, dropping the bag on the desk with a loud crinkle. he turns around, then back again. “i—sorry. seriously.”

fyodor doesn’t answer right away. he pulls a hoodie over his head, face shadowed in the thick cotton.

“…you’re staring.”

“i’m not.” dazai’s voice dips, softer now. “or, okay, i was. but not like… like that. i didn’t mean to.”

silence again.

fyodor sits on the edge of the bed. the edge of everything, really.

“you gonna ask?”

“no,” dazai replies. honest. raw. he steps closer, careful, like fyodor might shatter if he moves too fast. “unless you want me to.”

fyodor’s lashes lower. his fingers tug at a loose thread on the blanket.

“…i was born this way. always been like this.”

“okay.”

“you’re not disgusted?”

daizai snorts, but it’s quiet. kind. “bro, i’m best friends with someone who eats glue and tried to marry a vending machine last year. you think you can scare me?”

fyodor actually laughs. barely. it’s this weak, breathy exhale that sounds like thank you if you listen hard enough.

dazai sits beside him, shoulder to shoulder. doesn’t touch him, not yet, but close enough for the silence to feel warmer.

“you’re still you,” dazai says, eyes on the window. “sharp, annoying, way too smart for your own good. doesn’t matter what you’ve got between your legs.”

fyodor hums, almost a whisper. “that’s the first time someone said it like that.”

“get used to it,” dazai grins. “you’re stuck with me, remember?”

fyodor stands to go brush his hair or maybe disappear into the void. dazai doesn’t let him.

“WAIT—WAITWAITWAIT—”
before fyodor can take a step, dazai throws himself at him like a human-sized octopus. arms wrapped around his waist, head buried in his shoulder. he’s like velcro.

“IM SOOOOORRYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!” dazai wails. loudly. dramatically. like a toddler that dropped their ice cream.

fyodor blinks. stiff as hell. “you didn’t even do anything wrong—”

“EXACTLY!!! THAT’S WHY I’M SORRY!!!!”

“…that doesn’t make sense.”

“SHUT UP I’M APOLOGIZING!!” dazai clutches him tighter, groaning like he’s being tortured by his own guilt. “i saw your privates without permission and i feel like a CREEP. i deserve jail. you should hit me with your cello bow.”

“you are so dumb,” fyodor mutters, but the corners of his mouth twitch. just a little. he's trying not to smile.

“you’re not mad??”

“i wasn’t. now i am.”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO—”

fyodor sighs deeply, then wraps one arm around dazai’s head like a tired parent comforting a whiny kitten. his hand rests there, in dazai’s fluffy brown hair. gentle.

“…you’re forgiven,” he says, dry but soft. “stop howling.”

dazai mumbles into his hoodie. “thank yew…”

fyodor lets out a faint chuckle. “idiot.”

“ur idiot,” dazai grumbles back.

and he keeps clinging. like a koala. until fyodor has to drag both of them to the bed, dazai still latched on like a barnacle, legs tangled, eyes shut. they're a mess.

but it’s quiet again. safe. soft.

and for once, neither of them wants to let go.

the morning light cuts through the blinds, striping fyodor’s pale face in gold. dazai’s still wrapped around him like a starfish, refusing to move.

“get off,” fyodor says, voice muffled.

“no,” dazai grunts, cheek squished against his back. “you’re warm. like a space heater. but meaner.”

“you’re heavy.”

“i’m emotionally heavy.”

“you’re physically heavy. get off.”

dazai sighs, dramatic as hell, and finally rolls off him like a lazy cat. but the second he flops on the mattress, he grins and pokes fyodor’s side.

“soooo,” he says, dragging the word out like a threat. “you wanna talk about the... um... triple-hole situation or do i pretend that didn’t happen.”

fyodor stares at him. hard. “i will pour bleach in your cereal.”

“i’ll drink it. lovingly.”

fyodor throws a pillow at him.

“NO WAIT—DON’T CHANGE THE SUBJECT,” dazai laughs, shielding himself. “i just—look, i really don’t care what your body’s like. i mean, i care in a good way. like, it’s you. and you’re you. so it’s cool. and if anyone says anything i’ll beat them up and spit in their shoes.”

fyodor blinks, caught off-guard. “…you’d defend me?”

“DUH.” dazai shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “i’m nosy and rude but i’m not evil. you’re like, my favorite cryptid.”

“…thank you. i think.”

they stare at each other for a moment too long. then dazai glances at the mini fridge.

“…you still got juice boxes?”

fyodor rolls his eyes. “only if you don’t bring up my anatomy again.”

“DEAL.”

and they both reach for the fridge at the same time, arguing over apple vs grape.

just two weird kids, being weird. like always.

only now, a little closer.

the juice boxes are retrieved. apple for fyodor. grape for dazai. they sit on the floor with their backs against the bed, legs stretched out, sun in their eyes and silence in the room.

it’s calm.

like the storm’s already passed.

“so,” dazai says, straw in his mouth, voice slightly high from the grape juice. “what do you usually do on saturdays? besides be mysterious and play the cello like a victorian ghost.”

fyodor side-eyes him. “normally? read. maybe poison my enemies.”

“cute,” dazai snorts. “i usually sleep in, ruin someone's life, or buy candy i don’t need. like these.” he pulls out a pack of sour strips from the hoodie he abandoned on the floor. “wanna rot your teeth with me?”

fyodor takes one. chews slowly. “this is revolting.”

“you’re revolting,” dazai shoots back, but he’s grinning.

fyodor flicks his forehead. “idiot.”

dazai rubs the spot, fake-pouting. “you can’t bully me. i’m emotionally fragile after seeing you naked.”

fyodor freezes mid-sip. “you’re impossible.”

“and you have three holes,” dazai says, trying not to laugh.

fyodor immediately launches a slipper at him.

“IM SORRYYYYYY!!!” dazai screeches, diving behind the beanbag chair like they’re at war. “I RESPECT YOUR GENITALS I SWEAR!!!”

“YOU DO NOT NEED TO SAY THAT OUT LOUD,” fyodor yells, but he’s laughing, actually laughing, biting back a grin so wide it cracks through his usual cold.

after the chaos, they end up tangled again on the bed. not in a sexual way. not even in a romantic way yet.

just limbs crossed, heads close, warmth shared.

dazai’s fingers brush fyodor’s wrist. “you know… i think you’re really brave.”

fyodor’s lashes flutter. “what?”

“being you. existing the way you do. it’s hard. but you’re doing it anyway.”

fyodor’s throat feels tight for a second.

he doesn’t say thank you.

he just… lets himself stay close.

lets dazai’s hand rest there.

silent. soft. steady.

Chapter Text

Chap 33: Pancake Flips

the morning light hit like a slap.

“get it off,” fyodor mumbled, voice barely coherent, face shoved into the pillow like it personally offended him. his hair was a damn mess. poofy, flattened on one side, falling in soft tangles over his eyes. he looked… manageable. tragically mortal.

dazai stood above him holding a sock. “bro. this is my sock. you’re literally sleeping in my sock.”

“you put it on me, you tyrant,” came fyodor’s groggy hiss. “your fashion sense is an attack on basic decency.”

dazai flopped down beside him with a dramatic groan. “we have no school today and you’re already insulting my taste. can’t we go five minutes without psychological warfare?”

fyodor peeled open one eye. “only if you make coffee.”

“ugh. that’s real love. fine.” dazai got up and tripped over fyodor’s cello case with a loud THUNK. “WHO PUT THIS HERE.”

“gravity. god. me. pick one.”

ten minutes later, the dorm kitchen smelled like burnt toast and betrayal.

fyodor padded in, drowning in one of dazai’s hoodies (he claimed it was ‘laundry accident’ but dazai knew he chose it). he looked sleepy and evil. like a cat that just woke up from a nightmare and was deciding whether or not to kill you.

he squinted at dazai. “you call this coffee?”

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” dazai muttered, handing him the least cursed mug. “drink it before I change my mind.”

fyodor sipped. made a face. “it’s horrible. it’s perfect.”

they ended up back on the couch, blanket over both of them like they weren’t 17-year-old disasters with trust issues. dazai had his legs thrown across fyodor’s lap, like always. fyodor was poking his shin with a pencil eraser, muttering something about ‘nerve endings’ and ‘accidental homicide’.

“you ever think we’re basically married?” dazai asked.

fyodor didn’t look up. “no. because if we were married, you’d be dead.”

“so you have thought about it.”

fyodor turned to glare at him. dazai just grinned, smug.

outside, the world kept going. but inside this weird, chaotic little dorm room, time kinda stopped. there were two toothbrushes by the sink. one messy bed always used, one mostly untouched. and the comfort of knowing—no matter what the day threw at them—they’d still end up right here. insults, warmth, and all.

they stumble into the tiny dorm kitchen again, this time with the wild idea of making breakfast. dazai's like “we’ll make pancakes,” but half the stuff in the fridge looks like it’s from a science experiment gone wrong.

fyodor’s already poking at a carton of milk suspiciously. “this smells like betrayal.”

“bro, that’s just expired,” dazai laughs. “trust me, it’s the secret ingredient.”

they try mixing batter, and dazai drops flour everywhere like a broken snow machine. fyodor snorts, trying not to laugh, but ends up coughing on a cloud of white dust.

pancakes? nah. it’s a mess. but dazai somehow managed to get a couple on the pan, slightly burnt, mostly lopsided.

fyodor watches dazai fumble with the pancakes, trying not to laugh too hard. then, after a beat, he clears his throat.

“i do know how to cook,” he says, voice cool, but eyes sharp.

dazai stops mid-flip, wide-eyed. “wait—whaaat? why didn’t you say anything before?”

fyodor shrugs, “didn’t want you pestering me to cook all the time. some things are better left a mystery.”

and dazai's still staring at fyodor like he’s seen a damn ghost. “no. you’re lying. you’re a fraud. a menace. a traitor. you’ve been hiding this?? from me???”

“yes,” fyodor says simply, flipping another pancake like a menace. it lands perfectly on the plate like it was born to be there. “and i’d do it again.”

dazai grins, “man, you’re messing with me, huh? fine, chef fyodor, show me how it’s done.”

fyodor smirks, grabs the spatula, and suddenly the kitchen’s a whole new level of smooth moves. pancakes come out perfect, golden, and flipping like he was doing this for years.

“i trusted you!” dazai groans dramatically, clutching his heart and slumping against the fridge like he’s in a telenovela. “i suffered through my own burnt toast. my undercooked eggs. i fed you soggy cereal and you just took it?!”

fyodor glances at him, calm as hell. “i saw it as a social experiment.”

dazai’s jaw drops. “you BASTARD.”

fyodor lifts the plate of pancakes and glides past him like some graceful breakfast god. “sit down. i’m not letting you burn anything else today.”

dazai flops into a chair, pouty and half-offended but mostly in awe. “you’re insane. secret culinary mastermind. how’d you even learn?”

“books. boredom. starvation,” fyodor deadpans, then slides a perfectly plated stack to him, adding butter like a damn pro. “and necessity.”

dazai takes one bite and lets out the most exaggerated groan known to mankind. “bro. bro. this is illegal. you’ve been depriving me of THIS?? this divine cuisine??”

“you’re dramatic,” fyodor says, sipping his tea.

“i’m in love,” dazai mumbles through a mouthful.

fyodor glances at him with one raised brow, fork paused mid-air.

“with the pancakes,” dazai adds quickly, then grins. “unless you wanna cook for me forever. then maybe i’ll reconsider.”

“no,” fyodor says flatly, but he’s already slicing another pancake and pushing half onto dazai’s plate.

they eat like that for a while, insults and syrup flying between them like it’s just another saturday morning in their little chaotic dorm-life marriage. like it's always been this easy, this soft, this warm.

and dazai thinks—maybe he is in love. just not only with the pancakes.

they finish the pancakes, and dazai’s got syrup on his cheek and crumbs in his hoodie pocket for some reason. fyodor just stares at the mess across the table like he’s considering murder.

“you eat like a raccoon,” he mutters, standing up to clean.

“and you cook like someone’s hot european housewife,” dazai fires back, licking syrup off his thumb and watching fyodor like he’s trying not to blush.

“i am not your housewife.”

“sure. keep tellin’ yourself that,” dazai says, stretching obnoxiously and letting his shirt ride up juuust enough to show off his stomach. “hey—wanna clean up while i go lounge around uselessly and look pretty?”

fyodor doesn’t even look up. “no.”

“too late,” dazai singsongs, already flopping onto the couch like a lazy cat. “this is capitalism. i’ve chosen sloth.”

fyodor sighs. dramatic. betrayed. but when he’s finished rinsing the dishes and wiping down the counter like the hidden domestic god he is, he still brings dazai a glass of juice.

“you’re unbelievable,” he says, handing it over.

“mm. and hydrated,” dazai grins, sipping it like it’s wine. “god, living with you is the best worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

fyodor sits down beside him. they don’t talk for a bit. the dorm is quiet, the morning sun slanting in through the window and warming the cheap floorboards. dazai stretches again, this time resting his head on fyodor’s shoulder without warning.

“…you’re warm,” he mumbles.

fyodor stiffens. “get off.”

“nope,” dazai says, eyes already fluttering shut. “you’re my pillow now.”

fyodor could shove him off. he should. but he doesn’t.

“…idiot,” he mutters instead.

and lets him stay.

the dorm’s small kitchen feels colder than usual, the late spring breeze slipping through a cracked window. fyodor’s sitting at the table, wrapped in a thin hoodie, fingers wrapped ’round a chipped mug of lukewarm tea. the steam barely rises, but the warmth feels nice against his naturally cold skin. his breath comes out in soft puffs, like little clouds trapped inside the room.

dazai’s pacing nearby, restless, throwing sideways glances at the clock every few seconds. “you sure you don’t wanna warm up? you look like you’re gonna freeze into a statue, bro.” he teases, but there’s real concern hiding in his eyes.

fyodor shrugs, voice low, “i’m always cold, it’s just how my body works. no big deal.”

dazai plops down on the chair next to him, leaning in close, “that’s such a lame excuse. i think you’re just too stubborn to admit you want some heat.”

fyodor snorts softly, “like i’d admit that to you.”

a silence falls between them, but it’s not uncomfortable. it’s the kind of quiet that only comes with knowing someone’s been through enough weird shit together to not feel weird doing nothing.

dazai leans over, fingers brushing fyodor’s hand, and he smirks, “you know what would warm you up real good?”

fyodor raises an eyebrow but doesn’t pull away.

“me. being all up in your personal space, stealing your body heat.” dazai grins like a kid daring him.

fyodor sighs but his lips twitch into a small smile, the cold not quite so biting anymore.

“fine, but if you start complaining about how cold you are, you’re on your own.”

dazai chuckles, wrapping an arm around fyodor’s shoulders and pulling him closer. fyodor leans into the touch, and for once, he doesn’t feel the cold at all.

the dorm creaks softly around them, the world outside a lazy blur of quiet and sun. they’re just two messed-up kids wrapped in their own chaotic bubble, slow-burning, messy, and weirdly perfect.

Chapter Text

Chap 34: I Care Far Too Much

the school day starts too normal. too bright. the sun is fake-smiling.

dazai’s running late again, and fyodor walks the halls alone, hoodie pulled low, black hair shadowing his eyes. he’s always been quiet, always had that strange stillness like winter in his bones.

it happened too fast for fyodor to react.

he was on his way to the science building, slow and tired, hoodie sleeves stretched past his fingertips, dragging slightly over cold hands. it was one of those days where the world already felt too loud, and the sky was too bright.

he didn't notice the group of boys until they stepped out in front of him.

"yo. you deaf or something?"

he blinked up, brows furrowing slightly. he recognized one of them—third-year, always loitering near the back exit.

fyodor didn't speak. that was his mistake.

“what’s with the long hair?” the taller one jeered. “and the way you walk? what are you even trying to be?”

there was laughter. it grated in his ears.

"you some kinda tranny or just a messed up freak?"

fyodor's chest tightened, but he didn't flinch. he just turned like he was about to walk away.

that was when they grabbed him.

he was shoved back against the wall hard enough that the edge of a locker scraped his shoulder. then a punch—jaw. another to the ribs. he staggered but didn't cry out, didn't scream. he'd grown up with silence. he wore it like a shield.

his hoodie was yanked half off, and someone hissed, "fuckin' disgusting," before kicking his shin out.

his knees buckled.

when it was over, the hallway was empty again. except for him, crumpled on the floor.

he stayed there. breathing shallow. knuckles scraped from when he’d tried to brace his fall.

blood dripped from the side of his mouth.

“fyodor?!”

his head barely turned at the voice. it sounded faraway.

but then dazai was there—running, wide-eyed, panic in every step. he dropped to his knees beside him so fast it made a thud.

"fyo—hey, hey, what—what the hell happened?"

fyodor looked at him and tried to sit up.

daizai gently pressed his hand to his chest. "don't. it's okay, i'm here, okay? you're okay."

fyodor whispered, "it's not that bad..."

“you’re bleeding, you idiot—” dazai choked on the words, trying to laugh but it broke halfway.

he looked like he wanted to cry.

"did they say anything to you?"

fyodor paused. looked away.

"...said i looked like a trans person."

dazai stared. his jaw clenched. “what the fuck.”

he pulled fyodor into his arms, warm and steady, holding him close like he could transfer his heartbeat into him. “you’re perfect. just the way you are. anyone who says otherwise is a waste of oxygen.”

fyodor’s shoulders shook. not crying, but not not-crying.

dazai helped him up. slowly. let him lean on him all the way back to the dorm.

at home, it was quiet. dazai sat him down on the bed and got the first-aid kit without saying much.

he cleaned every cut like he was afraid fyodor might vanish if he pressed too hard.

“you’re not disgusting,” he muttered, dabbing a bruise with a cotton pad. “you’re just… softer. prettier than them. so they’re scared.”

fyodor didn't respond. he just sat there, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen and raw.