Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dazai Osamu has seen a great many terrors in his lifetime. Despite his age, despite his tendency of being overcome with pessimism, he chuckles at the most insensitive of things. Whether it be the trails of smoke from trembling buildings, or the wounded souls traversing the land, he has not a note of seriousness toward any of it in his eye. In the search of fault, in the search of reason, man struggles to pick himself up amongst the remains of his former self. The sky is but a cage entrapping a bird who has escaped the cat’s mouth more times than the cat has tried to bite. In short, Dazai is a very contradictory person if you claw deep enough inside of him. Beyond layers and layers of punished skin, you will find a knife of conversations that will keep you up for the rest of eternity. Dazai knows exactly who he is and hates that man more than he hates any other. He is something that must be undone. That is his heinous desire. His one charity, his exception… A certain gravity-defying man who has tipped the glass.

“Ah, Chuuya Nakahara, fancy seeing you here. Are you not supposed to be erasing crime within crime, in your Mafia?” Dazai wiggles the toothpick between his teeth until it snaps. (it gets lodged in his gums)

“Dazai, why the hell are you at this parking lot? …You know I make my deals here, do you now? Bite your tongue, faggot.”

“Pretty hypocritical of you,” he mumbles frivolously as he rubs his sleeve against his bleeding gums.

Dazai finds it lovely to bear witness to Chuuya’s shockingly pathetic means of sustenance. He’d seen it in his Mafioso days, however, he assumed age would water the firecracker down. He pulls the broken toothpick end out and chucks it at Chuuya. “What the hell, Dazai! Get out of here, my supplier will arrive in a matter of minutes. If you want attention so badly, I suggest you get it from one of your colleagues.”

Dazai strides closer to Chuuya in response to this. A masquerade of selfish desire to come out on top. Dazai is a man of very dominant nature. He will never be beaten, not by the hands of such a slug, at least. “Perhaps you could share some with me? It would benefit the both of us, considering the fact that if you don’t, I will report your dubious endeavors to the authorities.” Twenty-two years old, has tried far harsher things than the smaller, yet still Dazai loves to puppeteer his former partner. Chuuya Nakahara stops; a deer in headlights, his hands glowing crimson as the vehicle approaches. “Just fucking hide behind my god damn motorcycle until he leaves, dickhead Dazai.”

“Well, that’s a new one. Alright then, cockhead Chuuya.”

Dazai skips over to the motorcycle with a raised brow. One hand caresses a tire, the other enters a pocket. Perhaps the switch is better left turned off. Does the evil one notice this? Yes. Does he mind? Not in the slightest. Toying with others is the sweetest taste for Dazai Osamu. As the dealer takes his leave, Chuuya turns around, and as if in a slow-motion slasher scene, his eyes widen and he drops his box to the ground. There lies his precious motorcycle, engulfed in flames, as the perpetrator sprints out of view, laughter sounding from the distance. First his car. Now his motorcycle. The redhead falls to his knees, as his mind fills with an array of memories. His friend had entrusted it to him. Chuuya was to take care of it as if it were his own kin.

Meanwhile, Dazai tosses his matches aside, preparing for Chuuya to come up with some sort of murder plan. If you asked him why he did such a thing to the motorcycle, his answer would make your head spin. He simply wants to cause chaos. He wants to be caught. Nobody would ever pay his presence a glance if it weren’t for his inconsistent nature. Provoking women is preferable to him, but regardless of this, Dazai doesn’t mind a male every now and again. Especially Chuuya. Comparable to that of an angered dog, the gravity manipulator manipulates more than just physical properties.

Chuuya has had something of a chokehold on Dazai for years. He isn’t sure if he would call it romantic feelings. It is like lighting a candle just to accidentally burn your fingers. The twist is that the person who ignited the flame is a masochist, and they burn their body as often as they can.

As he walks along the streetlight-infested sidewalk, he stumbles upon a rock beneath his feet. Curiosity always decides to kill the cat. He grabs the rock as he returns to his feet. The rock seems to be counterfeit. More notably, there is a small note taped to the bottom. Reading aloud, he raises a brow in interest.

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“Osamu Dazai, 22 years old, member of the Armed Detective Agency. An ability user that intrigues me in the most strenuous and unnerving way. Continues on and on about suicide, but never acts upon his circumventions. Has killed a great deal and ruined the lives of many more. You are a face among flat flesh. Find me and perhaps I will be able to find you. Creep inside if you dare. I know you enjoy a challenge.”

-Your watcher
------

Dazai bites his lip. Waves of heat course through his system. A challenger? All these awakened excitements are suppressed by the sheer desperation to meet this mountain. A blockade to his plans. Who might this one be? The writing style seems to be falsified. Perhaps a mockery of Dazai who never writes in his own signature style in letters either. For now, thoughts of Chuuya vanish in his conscience. Rather, the intensity of a surprise after years of flat-lined discoveries engulfs him. Forget the smears, Dazai. This is no traditional day.

The list of suspects consists of the following: a delusional individual who Dazai doesn’t know personally, Mori Ogai trying to pry reactions out of him, Fyodor Dostoevsky attempting to prove some sort of higher level of intelligence, a member of the agency trying to see if Dazai can truly display detective work, a family member of one of Dazai’s victims, or Chuuya trying to get a scare out of him.

Mori Ogai can be ruled out for now, as he is still recovering from the cannibalism incident. Despite his cruel and unforgiving nature, he only instigates necessary events that benefit the mafia. Dazai’s downfall is far on his list of needed actions for the Mafia to take. Next, Fyodor Dostoevsky can easily be ruled out. Dazai knows exactly what his chess mate is planning. He is too busy at work shelving out orders to the rats to focus on Dazai for the time being. As for the Decay, the clown one is brewing plans to end his fellow Decay of Angels member. The casino manager is completely focused on his casino and its customers. The undead king is still in a slumber, unable to carry out any of Fyodor’s commands at the moment. Finally, Kamui is too busy planning his own dictatorship to worry about Fyodor and his desires. Therefore, none of the Decay of Angels could be doing this for Fyodor either.

Following this, the agency wouldn’t possibly be ignorant enough to do this at such desperate times. Battles are still being fought. Ranpo Edogawa is the most likely of the agency to test Dazai, and even he knows better than to conduct such things as stalker games at such a time. Dazai decides, after some heavenly hellish deliberations, that the final two options are the most feasible. Someone is most likely trying to play with Dazai’s confidence and lead him into some sort of a trap as revenge for Dazai’s cruelty in the mafia. That, or Chuuya Nakahara had planted this using his gravity manipulation moments before Dazai stepped here. The largest question remains unanswered, however. How could someone possibly be sure that Dazai would come this way and read this note before someone else?

Dazai smirks darkly as he realizes it. This “watcher” is most likely observing him at this very moment. Perhaps they were following him, and they knew of Dazai’s confrontation with Chuuya, so they hurried along and put this on the path where they knew Dazai would have to walk. The sidewalk leading to his house.

“So you know where I live, do you?” Dazai chuckles darkly, as he tears the note off of the stone and shoves it into his pocket. Unable to conduct further deliberation, he hears a loud force of sound coming right in his direction. Before he can step aside, a body flies into his own, and Dazai’s back is slammed into the thick bark of a tall tree. Dirt flutters in the air, allowing itself into Dazai’s mouth alongside the blood that he is coughing up. His eyes open slowly despite feeling as though he is mouth-open under water. “Dazai! I’m going to fucking kill you!” Chuuya’s raspy, enraged voice pummels the trembling man’s head and renders him…annoyed. He lays on his back on the dirt, unable to move. Blood trickles down his chin and splatters on his bolo tie.

“How does it feel for something important of yours to be ruined? If that tie is even important to you anymore, that is. I know you stopped caring for me years ago despite how much I forfeited for you, Dazai. You just keep trying to take from me! Take my happiness! Take my possessions! What is next? Will you try to take my life?”

Dazai forgets Japanese for a moment, forgets who Chuuya is and where his filthy mouth has been. His skull pounds, his blood turns to magma, he tries to open his mouth and all that comes out are moans. “Ch…” He squints up at Chuuya. The redhead is straddling him, with his legs on either side of his body. Dazai remembers other times, form-fitted to what he still wants deep down despite never admitting it. Less bloody instances where they were in this same position. “Ah…what a horrible time for me to be recalling our past…”

Chuuya’s face reddens, with both anger and regret. The two of them are still. Chuuya’s fists hover above Dazai’s face. If people were to be passing by, they might believe time has stopped. Here before Chuuya is a man who always reaches into his psyche, into his heart, and mashes them into pieces. Again and again he is put under Dazai’s siren-like spell. “Fucking asshole. Why did you do that? You know that motorcycle was important to me…”

Silence ensues for a following minute. The sky darkens as rain clouds create a vice around the two of them. Shining down on them is the desire to embrace one last time as they once did, even amongst the fury.

“I saw you getting on with someone in an alleyway yesterday. Seems you moved on from me fairly fast, so I decided to repay the favor. A man makes his way past the gates of karma eventually, am I wrong, Chuuya?”

Chuuya’s arm retracts to his side, and he stares blankly at Dazai. “You left me years ago. Do you want me to never move on? What we had was just a young fling, I see that now. So are you regretting your actions? You are mad at yourself and you’re taking it out on me. You’ve always been selfish like that. Never fucking speak to me again you narcissistic chemical.” Dazai’s mouth is gaping wide. Chemical, he repeats in his blurred mind. Meanwhile, Chuuya stands up and brushes himself off nonchalantly. “I’m not giving you what you want. Physical pain to drown out the emotional pain, eh? Pretty fucking childish, Osamu. I don’t ever want to see your face again. Go find someone else to ruin.” Chuuya empties Dazai’s pockets as he speaks. He steals every dollar and then turns away, his cape obscuring him from view.

Chuuya storms off. Dazai is left alone in the dirt with a broken lip and a black eye. Rain pummels his face as if to amplify the gloom he has been left in. Well, this is an interesting turn of events. He reaches into his pocket once again and scans over the note that had been on the rock. If Chuuya doesn’t want to pursue these perilous games anymore, perhaps Dazai’s watcher will. Had the watcher been observing this pathetic display? Regardless of the answer, Dazai has a more pressing issue to attend to. After several minutes have passed, he wills himself to his feet and continues on the path to his house. Each drag of his feet along the cold, wet concrete makes his body seethe with discomfort. Upon arriving at his house, he notices that something is taped to the front door.

Without hesitation, he gently picks away at the tape until the note can be removed from the door.

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“Osamu Dazai, please do excuse my abysmal scribble. I had to focus on a profligate pace lest you catch sight of me. I had no inkling of your down-low maneuvers. Were you trembling from ache or from orgasm just now, I wonder? Not that it concerns me. I am simply enjoying unearthing this catastrophic symphony of yours. It does rouse concern within me that you are damaging your friend over such petty motivations. I just explored the interior of your house and confiscated a thing or two. Do not worry, however, as I only took trivial items as souvenirs for my first visitation. I hope you will clean your home better for me tomorrow. I’ll be coming often. I have already learned much about you. I do not plan to stop. If you would, take a walk around the town and you might just learn more about me, too.”

-Your watcher
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Dazai’s heart sinks in his chest. His breath becomes increasingly erratic as he reaches for the door knob. Ah, already unlocked. Stepping into the front room is like stepping into a casket. Dazai is six feet under. He instantly hurries along to the bathroom. The mirror reflects a particularly unruly sight. He washes his face impatiently, inhaling as the water stings against his many cuts. Shortly thereafter, he practically stumbles into his bedroom. Most people would assume that he had consumed one too many drinks if it weren’t for his present expression.

His eyes flick across the words on the note. The words melt into his brain and unlock a new goal; to uncover the identity of his stalker. They must be increasingly intelligent, that is a given. From the way they write, he would assume them to be female or nonbinary, since males these days usually do not use such complicated wording. Even narrowing this down, it only makes it more difficult, as his previous suspect list had been mostly that of males. He sighs, before grasping the other note and holding it up beside the new one.

“Who are you? Can you hear me now? I’m assuming you’ve already bugged my house, however, lucky for you I’m too tired to search right now. Good night, my watcher.” His voice is hoarse from the beating, but he hopes the watcher can make his words out anyways.

Throughout the night, Dazai’s pillow is soaked red in his sin, and he tosses and turns in agonizing restlessness. At one point, as dreams slowly and craftily approach him, he is returned to his teenage dilemmas. His pants grow stiff. He is none the wiser to this, too preoccupied with his watcher. “Ah, don’t watch me, it’s humiliating…” He means the opposite of what he says to the blank-faced god. Is the watcher’s ability dream manipulation? What is this unusual circumstance? He only has such dreams after blossoming amidst the aftereffects.

When morning approaches, and the sun knocks rudely along the windows, Dazai continues drifting further into the realm of reveries. It isn’t until an actual knock can be heard from the door that Dazai groggily wipes his eyes and sits up. As if in a corset of corkscrews, he pictures his early visitor to be Chuuya. Without hesitation, he pulls the covers over his head further. Moments later, however, it dawns on him. Could the watcher have already arranged a meeting? The covers seem to disintegrate from the speed of Dazai’s sprinting. He peers out of the window, and his expression darkens. A pair of eyes spot him from outside, and then a rock is thrown at the window. “Dazai! You’re late to work! Fukuzawa told me to make sure you aren’t dead, for Christ sakes! Get to work, now!”

Kunikida rattles the doorknob with a dog’s scowl. Dazai closes the blinds and slides along the wall until he is curled up with his knees beneath his face. “Go awayyy Kunikida-kuuuun…I’m sick, I need a day off.”

“Like hell you’re sick! You’ll be fired if you keep this up!” His ornery voice indicates that he has yet to have his daily dose of coffee. So, Dazai pulls his trump card… Unlocking the front door, and evading Kunikida’s attempts at grabbing him, he smirks widely.

“Kunikida, come on in! I’ve just brewed your favorite coffee. Take a seat, my favorite coworker~” Kunikida fumbles with his glasses for a good few seconds before inhaling sharply and stepping inside. Just as the blonde make his way into Dazai’s front room, Dazai runs out past him and slams the door in his face, chuckling and running as he listens to Kunikida’s squabbling from afar. All he ever does is run from unfavorable situations. Then again, what is he supposed to do? Go to work? There are obviously far more important matters…such as his secret admirer, or so he imagines them to be.

He hides behind a nearby tree and watches with a proud expression only comparable to that of ecstasy. Kunikida paces down the sidewalk past Dazai’s hiding spot spouting obscenities. Once the coast is clear, he takes a moment to decide the next course of action. His desperation to meet this “watcher” of his boils inside of his body and relaxes his muscles. Honey trickles along his limbs. So warm, in a lovely depravity, a haze of difference. Any difference, good or bad, is still new and enlightening. Dazai begins taking a walk, and he doesn’t know where his destination lies, other than within the hold of his observer. Why is he so enamored with this novel presence? It is surely abnormal to obsess over someone whose face has never been seen by the obsessed. Looks aren’t all that counts, this displays, because the nerve of this person to challenge Dazai is enough to break down his composition and make it melt into a heated puddle.

Each tree along the path is to be examined. No stone left unturned, literally. The hopes for a note envelope him, and time stretches further than he had anticipated. Was the letter simply a jest? Bait to lead Dazai on a wild goose chase? His watch surely hasn’t malfunctioned. Three hours have truly drizzled away and Dazai is in a city he has never been in before searching for something that wasn’t even guaranteed to be found. He has learned nothing of this stalker. Disappointments, as usual. He dials Chuuya, but he is led to voicemail, so he has no other choice but to leave a message. “Hey Chuuya, I know how guilty you must be for hurting me like that, so if you want to make it up to me, come pick me up? I need a ride.” He lists the name of the city and his surroundings next before going silent and expecting that Chuuya will respond.

He leans against a tree and wipes sweaty palms over an eye-bag infested face. After the first few minutes have passed, he plucks a blade of grass, spinning it between his fingertips. He loses hold of the grass, and it falls among the other blades. “Fall, fall down…”

He has been humming his suicide song for numerous minutes, and as much as he likes the song, it begins to grate on his nerves. He has been left with a final resort. “Kunikida? I need a hand…”

Kunikida takes about fifteen minutes to arrive at Dazai’s location. How pathetic he feels doesn’t compare to the tiredness. “I’ll work later tomorrow. Thanks for saving me~ Kunikida’s a knight in shining armor.” The blonde doesn’t seem to take the words as a compliment. “Just get in the car and shut up, you’ve been a particular thorn in my side lately. I had to work twice as hard to cover for you.” Dazai mocks a guilty face and takes a seat behind the fuming blonde’s car seat. “You can’t do…a double suicide, just by yourself~ Grab a friend…” Kunikida doesn’t seem to like the song. Dazai wonders why.

The ride back to Dazai’s house feels much longer than Dazai would desire it to feel. The windows are rolled down, and the wind threads itself throughout Dazai’s hair and whips it in his face. His face throbs, but that isn’t the only thing. Why would discomfort invoke such a response? Is the physical reaction some sort of escape from mental reaction? It does sound fairly immature, but Dazai isn’t the most mature man known to mankind. He doesn’t think of his watcher during the full duration of the car ride. To be fair, he is too exhausted to think of much of anything.

When Kunikida stops at Dazai’s house, his heart drops in his chest. Dazai is slumped over and frothing at the mouth on the seat behind him. No wonder Dazai had finally stopped blabbing on about suicide after a few minutes had passed. He pulls him out of the car and shoves two shaking fingers into his colleague's throat. Despite the horrid smell and presentation of the vomit, Dazai seems to almost immediately regain some color in his eyes. You see, this sudden change of events is the product of a secret that you aren’t expected to have unraveled. Dazai took a little something before the he’d went to sleep that night, which in turn created the strange string of dreams and the sudden burst of energy. Dazai, however, has no recollection of this.

Sometime later, Dazai’s eyes open and he is hit with a strong sense of warmth. He is wrapped in a blanket on the couch in his front room with Kunikida sitting across from him on the loveseat. “I guess you’ll need a babysitter from now on. Was that intentional?” Dazai smiles lopsidedly and feels no obligation to answer such questions. Perhaps the watcher was simply a figment of his trip. It oddly gives him some relief, as he had felt quite hurt that no more letters had been presented to him. This is all Chuuya’s fault, he decides, if what happened the other day was even real, that is. Was that a day ago? Or was it a year ago? He doesn’t seem to know, nor does he need to know. “Thanks for saving me, Kunikida-kun! You want that coffee that I had promised earlier, by chance?” Kunikida grits his teeth, and without warning, slams his fist into the coffee table in front of him. “Dazai! This isn’t a joke! You would have most likely overdosed if I hadn’t been there! You’re lucky I don’t contact the authorities and have you committed. I don’t expect you to come in to work tomorrow, but I am also afraid to leave you on your own. What were you thinking? Do you know how many people would suffer if you were to die? The agency needs you, regardless of your…antics.”

Kunikida’s words blur together and take the form of a demon. Dazai decides Kunikida is attacking him, somehow, just as anyone else who has ever said anything similar ends up doing. “You’re probably tired. I didn’t do it on purpose, you know. I won’t take anything by myself again. Why don’t you head home for the night, Kunikida-kun? And I don’t mind coming into work tomorrow, all though I am a bit out of my element.”

“Dazai, if you end up dead, Atsushi and the others won’t ever forgive you. And I do care for you too, so…just take care of yourself and get some rest? Oh, and drink some water before you go to sleep. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you all of this, since you probably already know, but still. Don’t die. You are an adult. I can’t make your decisions, but I can try to influence you to do what is right. Good night, and if anything goes wrong again, please call me, regardless of the time.” Kunikida swallows nervously and leaves Dazai’s house. Dazai lies on his side, the couch soft and forgiving, unlike everything else. The only things that will ever choose to comfort him in honesty are inanimate objects. Better than nothing, he supposes.

The remainder of the night is a rainy, dull one. It fits the situation rather well. Almost being taken by overdose isn’t a beautiful way to go. You only die once, after all. It must be a spectacle. Yes, Dazai at least deserves the apologetic, loving embrace of a memorable death. Being forgotten and dying brutally are the most depressing concepts Dazai could conjure up. Well, other than Oda Sakunosuke, addiction, and anticipation, that is. Though all three of those things are one in the same, he supposes. The moon shines through the blinds and it illuminates Dazai’s tragic form. He glances at his hands, the dried blood on them, and the contrasting, clean, white shirt that Kunikida must have changed him into. Dazai is no detective. He is no ally to others. He is not trying to change. He is no longer human.

Sleep claims him, and this time, he is dream-free, which for him is a blessing, since he has never had anything other than nightmares. When he awakens the following morning, the alarm has a use for once. He brushes his teeth for 5 minutes, brushes his hair thoroughly, washes his face so hard that his skin burns, washes off his bolo tie, adds a small amount of mascara to his eyelashes, and uses a lovely vanilla bottle of cologne. You would think he was preparing for a fancy date, with the amount of effort he had been pouring into his appearance.

He arrives early at the agency with a spring in his step. Dazai bursts through the door as though he is auditioning for Hamilton. “Good morning, my friends!! I missed you all on my day off~”

…

Dazai giggles awkwardly, as he realizes that he was the first to arrive at the agency. No one else is around to have heard his statement. Once he approaches his swivel chair, he notices that his computer is on. Had he left it on for such a long time? Obviously if that had been the case, the device would’ve just powered off automatically, and yet it is on, and the documents list is opened. There is a new file, one that he had no recollection of naming. He reads it out loud. “Creep inside, if you dare…”

Chapter Text

The day had been a hectic one, if you will. Dazai’s arms had shut down, his fingers hovered over the keys of his laptop as though time had been stopped, and his heart had raced hard like a bat had been swung to his chest. His watcher has called out to him once again. This time, through a new means of contact. The world spun in every direction at once, comparable to a tilt-a-whirl. He basically falls into his chair. With urgency he opens the file, his fingers quivering over the touchpad.

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“Osamu Dazai, my sincerest apologies for sending you on a merry chase. I have been quite busy as of late. I can already predict your reaction. Please for my sake and yours do not resort to jealousy over me being occupied with work. I will make time every day to write to you, though my letters might not always arrive when you expect them to. I’ve left a hint for you at the nearest café, so please do entertain my efforts and find it. Crucify these doubts of yours and take my hand. I assure you that it will not be something you regret. I see your hesitations. You are beautiful when you suffer. You are also beautiful when you have leads. I am your greatest nightmare. I am also your savior. Give in to your greed. I know you always do."

-Your watcher
------

Dazai swallows hard. What is this sensation? Has the room been engulfed in fire? He actually looks around, eyes as large as saucers. Just then, the door creaks open, and Dazai yelps as he stumbles out of his chair and hits the floor with a callous thud. “D-Dazai-san, are you ok?!” Atsushi rushes over with the instincts of a mother tiger protecting its kin.

“Oh, Atsushi-kun! You scared me there, knock next time, or I’ll die! Or, wait, actually don’t knock~” Atsushi sighs at this, but he is still thankful that Dazai is alright. Dazai means very much to him and he has always looked up to him ever since that day at the river. “You’re here earlier than usual. What’s the occasion? Huh, what is that file on your computer?”

Dazai jolts to his feet and closes the file. His eyes are the only blessed ones who can read the watcher’s words. “That’s something I have to send to a client. Don’t you worry your little tail about it! I’m here early so Kunikida doesn’t end up missing me~” Dazai places his hands confidently on his hips, to which Atsushi chuckles dryly and trots over to his own laptop. He reopens the file almost instantly, and the room glows, as if to illuminate the display before him. A secret society, just for he and his watcher. A world away from this one where he can face them head on. Time would last forever and Dazai would feel young always.

It is needless to say that Dazai doesn’t complete much of anything, if you aren’t counting decoding of the file. When Kunikida comes into the office, he looks terrible. His hair is disheveled, he has heavy eye-bags, and his tie is anything but straight. You would think that it was Kunikida trying to pull off a Dazai cosplay.

The other agency members who’ve already swiftly arrived are stifled in their work upon sight of him. “Kunikida? Are you alright? You seem rather restless. Perhaps you should get some rest on the sofa before you begin work?”

“No, I’m alright, thank you for your concern, Yosano. I just haven’t had my coffee yet.” Everyone chuckles save for Ranpo, who can see past the whole pitiable situation. The sun’s rays shine through the sheer curtains and paint Dazai in melancholic bliss. He is recognized. There is a soul out there who wants to send their heart out to him. Someone wants to peer beyond the surface and reach inside with all of their strength. It sounds almost laughable, when you consider how often people brush off his actions and move on to the next conversation. No one hears the cries behind the lies. It isn’t as if Dazai has longed for such a person all this time. Definitely not. Perhaps he is in denial, or maybe that is what he really believes. Either way, he admires his spectator for sacrificing their time to Dazai and his charade.

The file whispers to him. It whispers dirty machinations for him to pursue. You know how I make you feel. The sky could fall and still all of your focus would be on me. So just head to the bathroom. Dazai shakes his head subtly, frowning as though he is disagreeing with an actual sentient force. Has work ever dragged out quite this long? How can one work day feel like ten? Usually time isn’t of the utmost importance to him. Dazai is far too concerned with combating internal barriers to count the clock. But on this day he is facing something other than a barrier. He is facing an open door. He just has to step inside.

Dazai Osamu curses himself inwardly as he closes his laptop and staggers to the restroom. This must be some cosmic energy dragging him away from his brain and into a cold, calculating palm. The bathroom door mocks him as he clicks the lock. Why does everything always best him some way or another? No victories for the walking coffin. This is the final thing he has endured that he hadn’t before. He has been outwitted. This isn’t someone like Fyodor Dostoevsky or Oda Sakunosuke. This person isn’t an intellectual equal. This person far succeeds him in every way. This isn’t an endless cacophony of loss, however. Dazai feels renewed as though he has a grand purpose other than helping the agency and dying. They talk ignorantly in their letters on purpose so as to not be recognized through handwriting, that much he knows. Could that mean the watcher is someone he has watched himself? Is the watcher someone he is acquainted with?

The time comes when he must leave the bathroom. When he returns to the office and Tanizaki glances at him, his eyebrows furrow. “Your face is awfully red, Dazai. Are you feeling ok?” Dazai ruffles his colleague's hair playfully and skips to his seat. “I washed my face, but sorry if the redness on my cheeks looks unappealing!” Tanizaki shakes his head in worry, hoping to have not offended him. Dazai isn’t offended. He is exhausted, but that is beside the point. He actually does some work, his mind too euphoric and calmed to obsess over things at the moment. “Dazai, I was contacted for my mission but I have to leave work early to go help out a friend in need. Would you mind filling in for me, and maybe buy me some food while you’re at it?”

“Haha, I’ll do one of those two things for you, Kenji-kun. I haven’t done much of anything for the past two days though, so I might be a little rusty.” With that Dazai marches over to the coatrack and retrieves his coat. Kenji thanks him and Dazai smiles warmly in response as though he deserves the praise. The day is an extremely bright one, so much so that standing outside makes him feel like a snowman beneath the sun. Still, he drives to the location. Upon arrival, his happy mood stretches and distorts into a disturbed one. There are numerous numbered bags lined along a table. The police instantly recognize him as a detective, and they step aside with puzzled expressions. Dazai observes the contents of each bag carefully, and the sight makes his stomach turn. He hadn’t eaten all day, which doesn’t help the situation either. There is a mess of mangled body parts, obviously belonging to multiple people. This seems to be a particularly cruel case when compared to the usual. “Where is Ranpo-san when you need him? He must be pursuing quite the important case if he is too busy to assist with this one.”

The investigation is a long, rocky road. The body parts had been retrieved from a nearby dumpster, found by a homeless person who was dumpster-diving for meals. So much for their appetite. The victims had already been identified days ago, but the officers were completely stumped and so they turned to the Armed Detectives for help. Kazuma Utagawa, Miroku Ishige, Shokichi Saegusa, and Kurehito Umeki. Dazai almost immediately recognizes the names of these four. They were Mafioso’s and Mafiosi’s who had supposedly been killed in the Dragon’s head conflict years ago. So was that a farce? They obviously haven’t been dead for that long, kudos to appearance and DNA testing, as well as them being discovered only recently. Why four people from the Port Mafia? The most obvious answer would be that someone had a grudge on the Mafia’s victims for killing someone close to them. Then again, mysteries never usually turn out to align with the most obvious answer. Dazai decides that the best course of action is to look further into the victims’ backgrounds.

Kazuma had originally been an assassin, but after fighting a losing battle, he decided to become a Mafia subsidiary. He has a wife and children who were never made aware of his roles as an assassin and as a Mafioso. Kurehito was at one point a military police officer who had been kicked out for murdering his colleague. He had been a skilled front-runner in battle. Miroku had been a former sex worker who had presumably worked the job to afford her parents’ medical bills. She had terrible eyesight, but she could hear things extremely clearly, rendering her helpful for assisting her comrades to survive. Finally, Saegusa had succeeded his father in the Port Mafia, and that is all Dazai can find on him.

Two of the people in particular catch Dazai’s eye. First is Kazuma, who could have been targeted by someone who was aware of his past as an assassin and who was angered by it. Second is Miroku who might have been targeted by a partner of hers or a stalker who was so unhappy about her occupation that they decided to take her life. The other two seem less likely to have made enemies. There is one piece that doesn’t fit, however. Why would someone kill all four of them?

The killer’s identity remains shrouded in mystery. Dazai hadn’t befriended any of the victims during his time in the mafia, but he had run into them a few times. He remembers one interaction that is possible to have some connection to the case. Saegusa had one day approached Dazai and informed him that there was a suspicious looking individual that had been lurking around the Mafia headquarters at around midnight. At the time everyone disregarded the man’s worries, but perhaps there was some merit to them. Was this person connected to the case? Dazai had spent hours looking into the case, but for once his intellect had lead him almost nowhere. He decided that his mind was too clouded from his watcher’s existence to properly process information. When it is finally time for him to call it quits for the night, he is so tired he almost can’t move his body. Still, he trudges to his car and starts it. Just as he is about to start driving, he sees something on the windshield. He squints, but he cannot make out what it is from the front seat. After exiting his car and retrieving the item, he quickly realizes that it is a note. From the watcher. Oh! The watcher! Dazai feels his heart drop through earth’s core. He was supposed to visit the café and find something that had been left for him. He has betrayed his watcher. He panics, praying that they do not think Dazai has lost interest in their games. His eyes are wide and alert as he begins reading the letter.

------
Osamu Dazai, you have been hard at work today, I see. But you have found nothing. That isn’t like you at all. I hope I am not hindering your deduction abilities. My favorite thing about you is your intelligence, after all. You are so confused by this case that you seem to have forgotten entirely about what I previously spoke of. That café invitation wasn’t for a needless rendezvous, you know. Do you recall how I mentioned a hint? The hint wasn’t about me or my intentions. Did you really take me for such a selfish individual? You’re scarring me with this iridescent display of foolishness. Nonetheless, my interest in you will not fade so easily. I’ve been enjoying the petrichor lately because it makes me think of you. You are like a ghost, Dazai. Float on to the café if you please, but the hint might have been found by another soul already. Here I am hinting about hints. It has to do with your current conundrum. Look where you think I would plant something. I haven’t been ignorant to your growing obsession with me, you see.

-Your Watcher
------

Dazai feels his eyes burning with the implications, though he doesn’t have the time to sit idle and feel sorry for himself. The café closes in ten minutes, which leads to him speeding through lights and hitting the brakes every now and again to avoid crashing. He parks so quickly that the tires rest over the curb, but that matters so little to Dazai that he doesn’t even notice it. The doors scream in fear as Dazai bursts through them. Four minutes remain. He does this to himself. All of his suffering and risk-taking is self-chosen. Where would his watcher leave something for him? Dazai cannot break their trust again. They expect him to know them well enough that he’ll find where the hint is on his own. Surely his observer must recognize the skyscraper-high tension and pressure that radiates from the situation. Do they want him to writhe?

The barista stares with a confused, somewhat fearful expression as Dazai rummages around in the trash can, on the windowsills, beneath chairs and along shining countertops. “Um, sir? Can I help you? Are you trying to find something? I can help-“ “Ah, yes, I’m looking for my keys. I took a walk here earlier and obviously had my house keys on me. When I walked back home, they weren’t on me anymore. I think I left them here earlier and didn’t realize. Would you help me look for them, ma’am? I know there is hardly any time before the café closes, but I would really appreciate it…” The woman nods in both relief and agreement as she joins him in looking underneath tables and on top of chairs. Dazai races as though a bomb will go off if the hint isn’t uncovered. Five minutes pass by, and finally the woman awkwardly places a hand on Dazai’s trembling shoulder. “I am sorry sir, but I haven’t found anything other than some strange writing on the wall over there. I am going to need you to leave now, but if you give me your phone number I can contact you if I end up finding any keys tomorrow.” Dazai feels mountains of desperation rising within him. “Oh, it is alright, ma’am. I may have left them elsewhere, haha…Do you mind telling me what the writing on the wall says?”

The woman nods and leads him over to it. In what looks to be pen is the word “behind” written in small lettering near the door. Dazai places his hand on his forehead, his eyes lidded as he analyzes what it could mean. This is the hint? “I am sorry for staying past closing time. I will take my leave now, have a nice night, ma’am.” The woman waves goodbye to him as he dashes out of the café. Behind what? What is the watcher referring to? Dazai looks around in a daze, standing statue still outside of the café. He deduces that the hint must mean behind the scene of the crime. Does his watcher know the killer somehow? Are they the killer themselves? He approaches his car, but as soon as he does, he gets a strange sensation in his body, almost as if he shouldn’t leave… He whips around and stares at the café, when suddenly, he gasps and his feet move faster than they have in years. Behind the café! He unlocks his car and grabs a flashlight from the glovebox before dashing behind the building.

He shines the light along the brick wall, while also running his free hand along the bricks, feeling for something, anything that could turn out to be the hint. Tragedies sound in his ears as he approaches the end of the wall. He had pointed the light everywhere along the wall, yet nothing had appeared. He turns around, beat and ready to finally return to his car, when suddenly… he spots it. There taped to the fence behind the café is a book. Dazai almost falls to his knees at the sight. He found the hint.

He gently removes the tape from the book’s cover, careful not to damage any pages. He flips the book to the front. He uses the flashlight to read the title, and when he does, confusion overtakes him. “The very hungry caterpillar?...” Dazai flips through the book briefly, and the inside seems to be completely normal. He decides not to think too hard about it. He returns to his car with the book, the flashlight, and the weight that has been lifted from his shoulders. This time starting the car goes as planned, save for struggling to pull off of the curb. He plays Clair de Lune on the car ride home from his phone. After the day he has had, nothing is more pleasant than the calming melody flowing through his body. The stars in the sky seem to peer into Dazai’s psyche and hammer him with questions. “Why torture yourself like this for someone you most likely have never met? Why are you so obsessed with them? Are you lonely? Are you depressed? Pick yourself up already. Your ignorance will make us shine black if it continues.”

Pulling into the driveway, he nearly considers sleeping in the car. Laziness almost consumes him, but then he remembers the words of the one behind it all. He begrudgingly grabs the note from earlier, as well as his keys, and finally the book. Simply approaching his front porch sends shards of ache through his wobbly legs. The front door looks one million miles away, but still he approaches it and fits the key into the lock. After locking the door once again he flips the light on and places the things he is holding on the coffee table. Moments later, his heart jumps in his chest. Yes, you guessed it. A note lies face-up on the loveseat. Dazai scrambles over to it and begins to read. At this point he isn’t even all that alarmed by finding these letters anymore.

------
“Osamu Dazai, I am going to assume it was mission successful. I am proud of you for continuing on despite the small hand pointing at such a late hour. My apologies for coming off as hostile earlier. I only acted in such a way to encourage you to find the hint. You may not realize it right away, but eventually you’ll see that this book is key to solving the mystery. Have a nice sleep. I will meet you in the land of dreams. Ah, I almost forgot to mention this, but I wrote a song about you. I play the cello and I am usually never able to come up with heartfelt pieces. You, however, have changed that. The melody of your heart has guided me.”

-Your Watcher
------

Dazai’s tired eyes fill with tears. The day has been so long, and the comfort that his watcher brings him is just what he needed. Of course, Dazai isn’t excusing them. They are testing him. He definitely doesn’t mind a challenge, but he is just so tired and out of sorts as of late. He grabs the note and lies on his bed. The realm of sleep begs him to come inside, and so does his body. His body is screaming in desperation for Dazai to let it rest. He obliges, but not before rereading the note more times than any other. As his eyes slowly drift shut, his mind circles back to its usual suicidal desires. Something between a dream and a thought blurs in his mind and creates a new shade. Holding the watcher’s hands in his own as he lifts one bare foot over the edge of a building. The moon radiates aqua melancholy that seeps into their souls- the beautiful end that Dazai has desired for so long has finally arrived... They cup his cheek and kiss it only once, before the two of them fall off the edge in a synced symphony of sacred death.

The dream replays in multiple different scenarios. Next, the two of them are seated beside each other at a table full of extravagant foods in a large ballroom. The walls glimmer and shine, reflecting the pure and undying beauty of his observer. The two eat their final meal that they had previously put poison in together in ecstasy.

The final dream, however, is so nightmarish and unlike the others that Dazai awakens in a cold sweat from it. The watcher is playing their cello before Dazai, who is praying before them. The two of them are in a blank, white room with no doors or windows. Dazai is nude with chains around his neck and wrists, while the other is wearing a gorgeous Victorian-style white dress shirt and black dress pants. They are smiling subtly at Dazai, dancing the bow along the strings as though it is a butcher’s blade dicing flesh. And in fact, it is exactly that, as moments later, the watcher pulls a fine blade out from behind them and slits Dazai’s throat swiftly. The watcher survives; a deity whose sacrifice has disappointed them.

Dazai releases an eximious string of sobs, so strained that they almost sound like chuckling. His tears shine like moonlight resting on water. A bond forged in fire, betrayed by the one who ignited the alliance in the first place. Is that what is going to happen? Could his dream be predicting the future? What if the watcher has no interest in surviving with Dazai, nor dying with him? Perhaps…they will choose to survive and end his life, if he fails impress them.

He convulses with his hands plastered over his ringing ears for what seems to be hours on end. His eyes feel as though they are painted in bleach, yet still he continues to cry violently. Sunrise’s arrival sends shards of shame through him. Had he even gotten more than two hours of sleep? His aching form is curled up on his mattress. His mind is in complete disarray. That is when it dawns on him. Work!

He cranes his neck toward the clock on his wall, and the time encourages him to almost fly off of his bed in alarm. If an idea could be physical, the idea of fear would take the form of a noose. The noose tightens around his neck further with each passing second. Barging out of the front door, he rushes to his car, and is somewhat relieved to see that there are no new notes yet. He needs a break from his watcher. But then, he remembers the watchers’ words. “You may not realize it right away, but eventually you’ll see that this book is key to solving the mystery.” His heart swells with remembrance of the vicious case that he has yet to solve. Retrieving the book that had been left for him, he finally drives off, ignoring the slew of notifications on his phone. The traffic wrings his neck as well. It is surprising that his body hasn’t shut down from the amount of stress that has been forced upon it. The drive there is unruly, to say the least. He almost swerves into a tree, then almost into a dumpster, and almost an elderly man, too. Who gave him a license, again?

When he arrives at the parking lot, he yet again is swatted in the face with a surprise. The man who is supposed to be planning for Meursault, Fyodor Dostoevsky, is right outside the agency’s entrance, leaned against the brick wall with a knowing smile. His inky locks trace the pattern of the wind. He is in his usual getup; a long black coat with white fur lined along the shoulder area, tall mauve boots that accentuate his tall, intimidating stature, and his bow-adorned white button-up. Dazai approaches him, hands in his pockets in case he must resort to using the switchblade that he keeps on him at all times. “Demon Fyodor-kun? What brings you here? Are you already so sure of your victory that you can waste time like this?”

Fyodor slowly opens his eyes, looking directly into Dazai’s own. “I found it curious that you have been continuously failing to solve cases. When was the last time your name was attributed to anything profound, I wonder? I believe that something must be distracting you. That is truly a shame. I must have been mistaken when I took you for a formidable chess partner. This world and its gifted will burn to the ground.”

Dazai raises a brow, unsure of what Fyodor is getting at. Is his motive simply to discourage Dazai? Is Fyodor so self-important? It is people like Fyodor that bring him toward the edge of losing faith in humanity. But then he remembers his watcher, and he thinks that humanity is truly beautiful. “Fyodor, can you tell me where I am?”

The Russian tilts his head, reading too far into the intention of the question. Dazai smirks subtly, feeling proud of confusing him. Silence passes between the two for some time. Finally, Fyodor speaks up. “You are somewhere that you do not wish to frequent any longer. Something has a hold of you, and this is the first time that you can’t escape its grasp. You want to be where it matters most. Though, if you lose sight of your very being and become another, then you will never arrive at your destination.” The words are bricks to Dazai’s scalp. They reduce his brain to mush, because it makes him consider a horrible thought. Fyodor speaks in quite a similar way to his watcher. Dazai drowns the thought just as fast as it touches the water, as he knows it cannot be so. “That’s wrong, Fyodor-kun. I am at the Armed detective agency, my workplace, one of which you don’t belong. I suggest that you leave, because if you do not, you will die sooner than I had initially planned.”

Fyodor laughs darkly at these words, as though they are some sort of joke. “I am not here to have some sort of melodramatic standoff. The demise of seraphic souls for the survival of paroxysms born from inequalities is rampant in this world. I suppose I simply wanted to see your stance on it once more for myself …” With that eerie, incongruent tone, he flees from the scene, and Dazai watches with furrowed brows. Quickly, Dazai’s eyes drift up toward the cloudy sky. Has the watcher witnessed this display? What if they take some new interest in the other man over Dazai? He marches into the Agency with a look of knowing prey.

“Dazai! I was about to drive over to your house to check on you again! What the hell are you doing? Why were you late? And…why are you carrying a children’s book?” Kunikida’s expression is drained and confused, as to be expected. Dazai takes a seat in his chair, setting the book aside and folding his hands behind his head in a comedic mask. “I’m sorry if I scared you, Kunikida-kuuuun! But I had some stomach issues this morning, perhaps my breakfast had been undercooked… Anyways, am I still supposed to return to the station and pursue the case I’d been pursuing?” Kunikida shakes his head, and keeps his mouth shut. Kunikida is never quiet. Dazai decides something must be wrong. His deduction is right, as he slowly turns around in his seat and sees Fukuzawa hovering over him with a grave expression. “Dazai, if you have a moment, I need to speak with you alone.”

The detective swallows hard as he follows the president to his office. “Take a seat.” Dazai nods and sits before him with folded hands. “Is this about my being late and absent to work often lately? Fukuzawa, I am sorry, I swear to you I will prioritize my work and arrive on time every day following this one.”

The president places a pale hand beneath his chin, inhaling sharply. “I do wish you would show up when you are supposed to, but that isn’t why I brought you here. You are one of my most intelligent men. Your antics aside, you almost always know the results of a case almost instantly. You are an impressive individual, and I have no intention of holding your absences against you, considering your fragile mental state. Kunikida informed me of everything that happened two days prior. I was not aware that you would actually attempt what you always speak of.” Dazai gulps loudly, and his heart is enveloped in ice-cold shame. Fukuzawa is one that Dazai holds in very high regards. He didn’t want him of all people to know what he had tried. “You are suspended in pursuing any cases or coming into work for the following week. You must take time to work on yourself before you stride back in here after what happened. Ranpo has been sent to solve the case you were working on. I am very disappointed in you.”

Dazai feels as though the world is shattering around him. He feels like a grade-school child being punished for cheating on a test. He feels patronized and dishonorable. This is the biggest stain on his pride that he can possibly recall. “Boss…” Dazai is unable to do anything other than mutter the man’s name with a weak voice. Fukuzawa rises from his desk, and walks behind Dazai. He places a hand on his shoulder. “Kunikida told the others this morning as well, because if not, then they might not be able to prevent it if something is to happen. They cried, you know. Kenji, Kyouka, Tanizaki, Naomi, and Atsushi… The others were shocked. None of your colleagues mumbled a single word when they learned of it. Until you got here, not a sound was exchanged between anyone. Atsushi cried so hard he vomited, and has been in the bathroom ever since. Perhaps you should go apologize to everyone, and then check on Atsushi and apologize to him too before you make your leave.”

Dazai crumbles in his chair, digging his fingers into his hair as tears well in his eyes and gush down his cheeks like waterfalls. Fukuzawa closes his eyes once more, and he doesn’t lift his grounding hand from Dazai’s quaking shoulder. Dazai sobs so loudly that it can most likely be made out from beyond the closed door. He almost falls out of the chair from the ferocious movements of his shuddering body, but Fukuzawa catches him, and pulls him into an embrace. He hugs him. Dazai’s tensed fingers rest against Fukuzawa’s chest, as does his forehead. He cries all the harder, and Fukuzawa stays completely silent. “I’m sorry, so-…I’m so sorry, Fukuzawa-san…”

The president had never seen Dazai in such a state before. No one had, other than Chuuya Nakahara, but when Dazai thinks of him, his sobs turn into wails. A panic attack. He hadn’t tasted this sensation since his days in The Port Mafia. His knees feel as though they will buckle any second, but the support of Fukuzawa’s arms steadies him. “Dazai, everything is going to be alright.” The words are so simple, cliché almost, but they still have a profound effect on him. He tries his hardest to control his ragged breathing and trembling body.

Three minutes pass by of Dazai sniffling and focusing on breathing techniques that he used to have to use so often when he was younger. Fukuzawa didn’t seem to mind the wait for Dazai to collect himself. Dazai gets the notion that his kind, patient boss would wait as long as it took for him to return to his senses. When the room finally stops spinning and his mind finally stops closing in on itself, he takes a step back and stares at his feet, unable to look the president in the eye. “I will apologize to everyone and then I’ll go find Atsushi-kun. Thank you, president.” Fukuzawa nods, watching as Dazai exits the room with wheezing breaths.

Dazai’s legs feel as though boulders are tied to them as he walks through the office. As he passes the agency members, they all seem to look anywhere but at him. He stands still at the front of the room. His anxiety is heightened by the atmosphere, but for once he pushes his selfishness aside and clears his throat. Though, seeing everyone sitting there, he knows he can’t say how he really feels about it. So, he feigns a certain flavor of heartbreak and guilt to the best of his ability. He is guilty, sure, but only for burdening Fukuzawa. The others don’t matter. He’s also pretty conflicted about how to go about his clowning moving forward, now that his suicidal behavior is clearly more than a joke to his colleagues.

“May I have everyone’s attention for a moment?” Everyone who is in the room instantly turns to Dazai with troubled expressions. He scans the room, making brief contact with each detective. “This is to both my friends who are here now, and my friends out on missions as I speak. I should have said what I was feeling from the start, and what I was dealing with. Honestly, I have been tempted to be serious with you all about this for a long time. My habits are…unhealthy, to say the least. Every time I pick myself up I fall back down. What you all heard wasn’t the first of its kind. I’m weak. I didn’t want to burden you all by worrying you, but my actions were bound to lead me to this moment eventually. I tried to end my life two days ago, and Kunikida arrived just in time. I suppose after you all know this I shouldn’t joke about it, yet I don't choose to do that *or* act upon it, it is out of my control. I know you can’t trust me, and I don’t trust me either, but I cried when Fukuzawa told me how affected my friends were because of my choice…”

Dazai forces himself to tear up as he speaks, but then he suppresses the tears, as he realizes he is the last one who should be feeling unhappy at this moment. He did this to himself, and he has no right to cry now. He has cried enough, he decides. “I promise you all that this was the last time. Kenji-kun, you are always so full of sunshine, so seeing you so hurt by what I did makes me feel so mad at myself. You are just a kid. You shouldn’t have to witness someone who is supposed to be your role model almost c…commit suicide. I am so sorry… Yosano-sensei, you would always find a way to make me laugh and smile when I was at my worst, and I hope we can still laugh together despite what has come to light. You bring joy to any room you walk into, and now I have drowned light from said room. I am so sorry.”

He inhales, and decides its time for the tears to begin to fall just like that. Is it strange that his mood is already 100% improved, despite his acting? He really is a fool. “Tanizaki-kun, you and I have had each other’s back during so many hard situations, and you always bring such good ideas to the table. Not only that, you have always been so polite to me, and I was never polite in return. Now I’ve made you cry, so it is only fair that I shed tears too, for how I have made you and everyone else feel. I am so sorry. Naomi-chan, we used to hang out all of the time and listen to music together, and I must say I always enjoyed myself when you were around. You’re such a sweet girl who is full of surprises. I’ve hurt you and your brother, I know, and I have no way to make up for it, but I can promise that I won’t intentionally do it again. I am so sorry.”

Ranpo and Kyouka are out during missions, and he wishes he could just apologize to them now and get it over with, but he definitely will when he sees them next. When he turns to Kunikida, the final one in the room, his throat actually twists and his lip trembles. How is he even supposed to speak to him now? He obviously must will himself to do so, but how? His heart races in his chest as he searches for the right things to say.

“Kunikida-kun, I’ve annoyed you more times than I’ve made you smile, if that is even something I have done once. I should apologize for that in its own right. But did you know that I look up to you as though you are a father to me? Funny, considering the fact that we are the same age, don’t you think?... I have treated you terribly all this time for one reason. I am afraid of admitting that you are the man I want to be. I want to help others, I want to have a kind heart, I want to know how to act in times of need. But I don’t have any of that. You are exactly what I strive to be. You rarely make mistakes, and when you do, you always find a way to right them. You are amazing. And I am the biggest asshole on earth for how I treat you. However, I think my terrible character has already been made evident, so I suppose I don’t need to elaborate on it. You already have to deal with so much, and I have been nothing but a nuisance to you, rather than supporting you like I should. I view you as my dear friend, Kunikida, all though I don’t expect to be seen in the same way. I am so sorry…”

Over and over does he utter the phrase "I am so sorry" during each of his apologies, but every utterance of the phrase is meant for none of them other than the president.

Upon finishing his piece, he dashes out of the office, completely unphased by the efforts he has put into tricking everyone. Maybe the apologies were half sincere, but he really didn’t care much for any of his colleagues. His body and mind aren’t equipped to handle so much at once. He feels as though there is no one to turn to. He feels alone. Pretty ironic considering all of the emotions that his friends felt over him. Nightfall is much more beautiful, because he doesn’t have to deal with the onslaught of agony that emotions bring. But right now it is midday and he has one more person to find. The missile of feeling has dropped on him. He can’t stop it now. The least he can do is clean up the debris. He walks through the hallways that seem to be shrinking down on him. When Dazai stops in front of the restroom, he can physically feel a bead of sweat roll down his neck. Atsushi looks up to Dazai more than any of the other Agency members. Atsushi saved him from drowning all of that time ago, and even though Dazai thinks it might be better if he wouldn’t have, he is still decently grateful to him.

He musters enough courage to knock lightly on the door. “Atsushi-Kun? I’m coming in, ok?” He enters the bathroom, and sees the fourth stall nearest to the wall is shut and locked. Has Atsushi really been here ever since he found out about Dazai? Guilt racks him like a guillotine. He slowly walks over to Atsushi’s stall and stops in front of it. He can hear soft sobs coming from the other side of the door. “Atsushi, I am safe, listen to me, you don’t need to be scared anymore. I’m right here, so please come out and talk to me. I have a lot to apologize for, and it wouldn’t be right of me to give you a half-hearted apology now.” Atsushi sniffles, and the lock moves slightly, but then the stall’s lock stops. Is he hesitating? Perhaps he can’t face Dazai.

It isn’t surprising. Dazai wishes he could evaporate into stardust and never hurt anyone close to him again. Several minutes pass and Atsushi doesn’t make a sound, nor does he come out. Dazai places his hand on the stall’s lock and pulls gently. “Please-“ “Go away! I can’t-…I can’t talk to you right now, Dazai-san, I’m sorry…” Dazai backs away with a pained expression. Dazai considers his options. Should he apologize now even though Atsushi can’t even see his face, or should he wait until a time when Atsushi is ready to listen? He decides that the latter option is much preferable to the first, so he stumbles out of the bathroom, feeling completely and utterly defeated.

He leaves the office, although some of his colleagues try speaking with him. He is still holding the book, the book that the watcher gave him. Not even the watcher has left him any new notes so far. He is fading. If he were to scream, not a soul on earth would hear it. The trek to his car is one surrounded in internal rain. Dazai couldn’t decide whether his apologies were ones of honesty or not anymore. He definitely lied about one thing; suicide is actually something he now wants more than ever. And he also decides that he will carry it out and succeed this time when he gets home. It is terribly cruel to everyone, specifically to Atsushi, but he can’t do anything about that. He wanted to hold on too, which is the sad thing. He wanted to feel loved and love in return. Right now, he is experiencing exactly the opposite. Just when he is about to partake in what is supposed to be his final time driving a car, he sees it.

When he sees the note in the windshield, he almost tears it up. However, he is too weak. Too weak to do anything any more. He slowly reaches for it. “I wonder what you’ll think of me after you see tonight’s pathetic display. Where will the melody of my heart guide you then?” He laughs sadly to himself, as if the watcher could actually hear his possible goodbye to them. With some hesitation, he begins reading the note.

------
“Osamu Dazai, I am moved. You have tried so very hard to right your wrongs. Your allies are all in shambles over you. And I know you like the back of my hand. You’re planning on doing it anyways even after seeing all of the pain you have caused. Your determination is solidified. If you are truly giving up, I will at least help you solve one final case. I know deep down you want to fall as a hero, not a villain. Surrender yourself to the truth. You’ve known who the killer is all along. You simply do not want your view of them to be tarnished. But this killer wants you to be the one to call them out, not Edogawa Ranpo. Read the book I have given you. Read it over as many times as it takes. I guarantee you that you will be able to solve it. Once you do, if you hurry, you can call the police station and tell them the culprit. If this is truly goodbye, I suppose you will go down without ever knowing my identity, nor the killer's identity. Not that you would be particularly impressed if you found out anyways. However, if you do survive, please do not give up on me. Creep inside if you dare.”

-Your watcher
------

Chapter Text

Dazai’s drive home was normal, for once. He actually stopped at red lights and properly read road signs. He was so very tired and yet so very alert. His soul can’t be saved since it is doused in contradiction. Not even the watcher can handle him now. The case isn’t even important to him. Ranpo has obviously already cracked it by now, and frankly Dazai doesn’t deserve the gratification of solving anything else. This fantasy was finally coming to an end. Death was just minutes away, and that thought had overtaken his mind as he pulled into the driveway. He walked so slowly that he’d looked like the living dead. Book and note in one hand and keys in his other, he unlocks the door, and the moment he steps foot inside, he drops everything.

The inside of his house is completely trashed. Furniture had been torn apart, everything had been thrown out of the cupboards and off of the counter. Glass shards decorated the floor. The television had been bashed in. Paper scraps covered the carpet as far as the eye could see. And then he saw it- the jar of money that he usually kept on top of his fridge had been tipped over, and all of the money inside it had been ripped into bits. Dazai fell to his knees, glass shards penetrating his flesh.

Anger. Seething anger rocketed through his body. The watcher. What the hell is this feral display? His watcher? They tore his house up as an animal would? The terrible day had finally caught up to him, and so he barreled over and vomited onto the ground. More glass found its way into his skin, but that had been the least of his worries. On his hands and knees, trembling from the force of the vomit, something had snapped in his brain. He’d felt nothing but pure, inextinguishable rage. It is all the watcher's fault, he decides. They are nothing to him. A stain on the bottom of his shoe. Dazai should have never given them the time of day. Committing suicide in a destroyed house is the opposite of a beautiful way to go. Is that why his watcher had done this? To convince him not to die? He finally stands, vomit drying to his chin.

Dazai stormed through the rest of his house, and each scene was more chaotic than the last. Just as he had made it to the cluttered bathroom, he’d heard his phone ring. He sobs in frustration, but still he checks the caller ID. Unknown caller?... He answers. The voice on the line shocks him, so much so that he stumbles and falls onto his rear with a thud. “Dazai, I am the watcher. I never did want to have to resort to phone calls, but you have left me no choice. You have to listen to me. The note earlier was my doing, but this was not.”

There is a voice filter as the watcher speaks, but he believes that it is indeed them. His eyes widen and twitch in confusion and surprise. “I am not the one who has done this to your house. I know it is hard to believe, when you take into consideration the fact that I have invited myself in before. Here is my story. I trust that you will hear me out. I had been standing behind a tree near your house, waiting to see you arrive home. My expectations had been tilted on their head, however, as I saw someone walking up to your porch in an outfit of pure blackness. The man had grabbed a switchblade from his pocket, tore through the window screen, and swiftly entered. I approached your house, watching from the window in some semblance of shock as this mystery man bashed everything in as though you had killed his wife and children. He left back through the window soon after, but not before I hid behind a bush. I have no inkling as to why this man did this, but I didn’t need to know why. He won’t be doing this to anyone else. Go check the alleyway near the tailor shop just down the road, if you still do not believe my story. I have no intention of wronging you.”

Before Dazai can speak a single word, the watcher hangs up. Dazai’s hands tremble so fiercely that he drops his phone onto the ground. His mind burns with ache as he tries to process the load of information that has just been provided to him. The watcher spoke to him for the first time. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t hear their real voice. He didn’t need to. He could tell right away that they hadn’t told a single lie. He dashed out of his house with the desperation of a man on death row. He ran as fast as his throbbing legs could carry him, to the point where he could hardly inhale and exhale. Still, he continued on until he had arrived at the tailor shop. He ran a little further, and he saw the alleyway that the watcher must have mentioned.

Upon entering the alleyway, shivers almost immediately had their way with his entire body. The alleyway looked average, for the most part. The one thing that caught his attention was that the dumpster was overflowing. He approaches it with careful steps, and when he lifts the lid, he recognizes the smell immediately. He unties the trash bag with one hand and covers his nose with the other. His mind was too frayed to consider the fact that his fingerprints were now all over the trashbag. Inside is just what he had feared he would see. There is a bloodied body whose clothes indeed consist of all black color. When Dazai looks closer at the man’s face, his eyes widen. He recognized him as an ex-Mafioso. He must’ve targeted Dazai for some reason related to that. The watcher took this man’s life. Dazai quickly leaves the alleyway, making sure no one sees him so that he isn’t eventually brought up as a suspect. He ponders his findings as he begins walking back home. Why would the watcher go so far as to bloodying their hands? Is it simply because the man did this to Dazai? The thought that the watcher was possibly defensive of him like this is admittedly endearing.

Dazai is already back in the palm of the watcher’s hand. His initial hatred had been flipped on its side and turned into an interest stronger than it previously had been. The watcher must feel the same, if they watch Dazai in-person…When he returns home, suicide, anger, and guilt are all distant thoughts. Upon stepping inside, he sees the book on the ground. He kneels beside it and stares at the cover. This book is supposed to relate to the previous case. The watcher had left it for him. They said that the book would reveal the culprit if Dazai thought hard enough. The watcher took someone’s life today. It isn’t past them.

Dazai doesn’t bother cleaning up his house at first. He is still torn up from the glass, after all. In the bathroom Dazai endures the agonizing pain of cleaning and wrapping his skin in new bandages. Each movement feels fiery in its intense pain, but he has gone through much, much worse over the years. When he looks into the mirror, the ghastly sight invokes fright within him. He looks as though he has been run over by a pickup truck. He feels ashamed that the watcher has most likely seen him while he is in such a disheveled state.

He eventually returns to the front room, and he retrieves a notepad and a pen from his end table. With the determined flick of his wrist, he begins to write.

------
“My watcher, you were correct about everything. I have been facing away from the truth this whole time because I couldn’t determine your motivations. But after today's events, I fully understand the whole story. You killed those four, didn’t you? Perhaps they were conspiring against me. They all knew me, so it isn’t unbelievable that they would be fully aware of my past crimes. Were they plotting to take my life or hurt me in some way? What are you, some knight in shining armor? Color me indebted. I should’ve worshipped you all this time, but I was in denial that such a deity would grace my presence. I harbor nothing but interest toward you now. Man, I was so sure I would die tonight. Maybe that’s tomorrow's adventure. Either way, I have my connections. The police will believe any story I come up with. Pinning crimes on others isn’t an act that I am a stranger to. Hearing you speak to me on the other side of the phone today was a holy practice, to say the least. If only I could hear your true voice. Perhaps one day I will.”

-Osamu Dazai
------

He opens his front door and swiftly tapes the note to it. His heart races in his chest as he heads back into his house. Dazai almost immediately calls the police and reports his “deductions” about the case. Following this, he carefully evades the glass shards and makes his way to his broom and dustpan. He definitely has his work cut out for him. His face is relaxed, though, despite the insanity that has been the past few days. Even with a house that looks as though a tornado has swept through it, he doesn’t give in. First he focuses on the glass fragments. Dazai dances through the kitchen, finding a rhythm as he continuously collects and dumps the glass into his now-upright trash can.

The day whittles away, and soon enough the moon has risen in its ephemeral glory. Dazai is still cleaning, occasionally taking breaks to rest his tortured body or use the restroom. It doesn’t look like much progress has been made, but in reality, quite a bit has been cleaned up. The greatest shame about the whole event is that he has lost out on a couple hundred dollars, but cash is something he could rack up in the blink of an eye if necessary, so it won’t bring him to poverty or anything. Next, he gets down on his hands and knees, tiredly wiping up piles of mashed up food and spilt wine. For once Dazai has to do some physical labor. As dreadful as it would seem to be, he is actually quite enjoying himself. The hypnotizing, circular movements of wiping up the messes drags him away from his array of violent and unpleasant thoughts. He thinks the night would be even lovelier if he could speak to the watcher once more, but he knows that today was a special circumstance. His salvation comes in short-lived handfuls. Dazai will be patient. For them he would wait until earth’s last rotation.

He smells of blood and sweat, and the smell is only enhanced when he gets a pretty decently sized slash across his arm, courtesy of the jagged end of a smashed-in end table. It seems the universe loves to tell him things he doesn’t know lately. Such an instance occurs suddenly as three soft knocks play from the front door. His cleaning trance snaps in two as he sprints outside. The watcher. His note is gone, good, they must’ve seen it. But where are they? There isn’t a soul in sight. Is it truly possible to leave so swiftly? An ability’s use isn’t off the table, he decides. Whose speed can increase from their ability? Chuuya Nakahara, Atsushi Nakajima, Akutagawa Ryunosuke, Nikolai Gogol, Kenji Miyazawa, and many more…Yeah, far too many options to carve down. Or perhaps it is someone who can turn invisible. Tanizaki Junichiro and Jouno Saigiku come to mind, but they seem extremely unlikely.

Perhaps the watcher will always just be a wanderer, a ghost to dream of. But Dazai will not so easily forfeit. He can even entrap the slipperiest of apparitions. He returns inside his house, imagining the facial expressions that could be displayed on their face as they read his note. The house looks less like a tornado passed through it now and more like an animal did. An improvement, albeit an odd one. Dazai is left in exile from his own thoughts. All of the fault lies within him. All 138 totals of collusion to murder, 312 sums of extortion, and 625 counts of various fraudulent acts must be catching up to him in karmic dynamism.

Another hour passes by of vigorous scrubbing and repairing. Another hour of brainwashing from the divinity in human skin. When he drags a soaked rag across one of the infinite stains on his countertop, the watcher’s title forms devilishly in the suds. What sort of sorcery is that? Perhaps the chains of tiredness have finally latched themselves around his limbs. He isn’t so self-absorbed as to let that stop him. The sky is pitch black now, save for the countless shining stars lined beautifully along it. Dazai looks out the broken window at some point, and what he thinks of is the last thing you would expect. Chuuya Nakahara, manipulator of gravity and hearts. How has he been faring lately? It seems that ever since their confrontation Chuuya hasn’t boiled up any plans for further revenge. This mercy is too rare to be true. If Dazai didn’t know any better he would believe that the one who really did this to his house was Chuuya. The watcher mustn’t be wrong though. It isn’t a possibility, and Dazai feels spears of guilt impale him for thinking such things.

Dazai obviously can’t sleep in a house with shattered windows. Insects and rejects will allow themselves inside and eat Dazai alive. Thousands of bloodthirsty men would ready their pitchforks or steal the remainder of what hasn’t already been broken. He heads to his garage, flashlight in hand so he doesn’t bash his head open, though that wouldn’t be so bad if it were to happen. Once inside, he fingers the many boards, tools, and wooden planks until he finds something that is suitable to temporarily cover the window.

He stops at his many rolls of tape, and finds the most sturdy one. Duct taping the window screen is more strenuous than one would imagine. The still-bleeding gash on his arm smears red along the tape as he reaches high enough to cover the window. Dazai applies the tape over the area, and thankfully the hole isn’t too large. The perpetrator must have torn the window screen just enough to where he could squeeze his body through. Thanks, Mr. Corpse. Dazai’s house looks even trashier than ever before now: a dump to match the garbage who lives inside of it.

Ever desperate and greedy, he grabs his phone and dials a number that he knows like the back of his hand. When they pick up, Dazai’s eye brows raise in respect and surprise. “Hey, Chuuya. I need to stay at your place for the night. Sorry if I woke you up, but I have nowhere else to go.” Silence follows this for a few moments, and then the Mafioso groggily answers. “Dumbass Dazai needs my help, huh? I have to say your nerve is skyscraper-high to the point where I’m almost impressed. You never even apologized about my damn motorcycle. You knew that is was a gift entrusted to me from someone who is no longer with us, but you did what you did anyways. If you can somehow make up for what you’ve done to me within the next five minutes, maybe you’ll have some place to sleep tonight. Who knows.”

Dazai sighs, annoyed even though the other man’s resistance is fully deserved. Luckily Dazai has known Chuuya since they were just kids. He has done so many things with Chuuya, fought so many battles and made so many memories. Dazai is the puppeteer and his is the unwilling marionette. “I do believe you know exactly what I keep in my pockets. You’re not so stupid as to imagine I’m referring to my phone or a pack of tissues. I swear on your life that I’ll use it if you don’t allow me to come over. We’re old friends, am I wrong, Chuuya? It is indeed quite the complicated past that we’ve shared together. I know you’ll make the right choice, even if you don’t want to. Even if you want me dead with every fiber of your being.”

Chuuya almost instantly hangs up when Dazai finishes his piece. He can hear Chuuya slam the phone down right before he ends the call. The moon seems to shame him as he starts his car. The drive to his former partner’s house is as relaxing as it is gratifying. Chuuya has never once bested Dazai. He has never once resisted Dazai. He has always been a dog at Dazai’s feet. Dominance is one of his favorite feelings. People are the one thing Dazai has control of in life. Just a little way of getting exactly what he wants when he wants it and never being apprehended for it. Whether it be the many men who have fallen at the hand of Dazai’s lies, or the many women who have had their heart’s torn in two at Dazai’s inconsistency, or the world which would end at the snap of Dazai’s fingers.

Pulling into the driveway, he looks up and down at Chuuya’s house, smirking as he imagines it burning to the ground. He wouldn’t physically go that far, but a man can dream. The redhead is already waiting on the porch with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “You’re a fucking riot. More lives have been ruined by you than not. But fuck, seeing you still doesn’t fail to make the past seem like a miracle.” Dazai smiles with closed eyes as he passes Chuuya. When he plops down on the sofa, other times of being in very similar scenarios flow through his mind. Should he embrace it or should he run? Like shrapnel, Chuuya marches inside too and slams the door, locking it with shaking hands. Oh, he seems so dazed and broken by Dazai’s very presence. Meanwhile Dazai is as limp as a ragdoll, legs sprawled out over the arm of the sofa like he owns the place.

“It is 2:35 in the morning. Go to fucking sleep, asshole.” Dazai lazily faces the shorter man, before lifting his hand and motioning for him to come over. “Don’t be selfish, chibi. Give me some of that holy water you have there.” Chuuya knows exactly what the devil’s intentions are. It is written all over his smug face. Still, he hesitantly takes a seat on the edge of the couch where Dazai’s limbs aren’t in the way, but not before putting out his cigarette in the ashtray on the end table. The detective smiles in feigned innocence as he reaches for the half-empty bottle of vodka. “Pretty strong drink for such a small, frail little thing.” He wraps slender fingers around the neck of the vodka, which is also exactly where Chuuya’s fingers are. The redhead whips his hand away with a pained frown. “Cheers to us, my friend.”

Hours later, the two men are piled on top of each other, and piled on top of them is a drying mixture of Dazai and Chuuya’s vomit. The sun has only just begun to rise, and it would’ve blinded them both from the window if they weren’t passed out and dreaming of one another. Dazai’s dreams take turns displaying Chuuya and the watcher. How devious of him. But what can he say? The more the merrier. The sun isn’t the only one peering through the window. There is also a figure whose gloved, tensed hands press against the glass. A note is already writing itself. Moving aside, the person skillfully manipulates their fingers over the lock on the door. Moments later, the door opens with a deafening creak. They invite themself in just as Dazai had done.

Dazai is the first to awaken from his slumber. When he does, he instantly gags from the smell and sight of the vomit that is dried to his shirt. Definitely one of the worst hangovers he has had, he decides. Still, he wills himself to stand, though anxiety wracks him like a bullet to the brain. “Ohh, Chuuya, this is your fault for holding vodka around me. I bet you wanted this to happen, huh.” He slowly makes his way to the medicine cabinet in Chuuya’s cramped bathroom. Multiple sleep medicines greet him, as well as an impressive stash of Vicodin. “Chuuya…” He frowns subtly, despite finding the pain relievers that he had been looking for. Entering the kitchen is like traversing the entirety of Japan in just a few steps. He feels so thirsty, and the vertigo isn’t making it any better.

He fills a glass half-way with cold water and tiredly takes the medication with a small sip. Chuuya will probably react much less intensely than Dazai when he wakes up since he is much more used to such instances than Dazai is. When Dazai places the glass in the sink, his face twists with confusion as he sees a small, folded piece of paper sitting next to it. Perhaps it is wrong of him to read something most likely personal to the redhead, but when has he ever considered his feelings? He unfolds it and begins reading, although ignoring the pain in his head isn’t easy.

------
“Osamu Dazai, I have never felt so impressed and disappointed all at once. The tide has risen to its brightest potential. I am here to take you down and lift you up all the same. Even though I knew you would not display honesty regarding the case to those involved, it still rattled me to my very core when I read of the supposed culprit in the paper. You have even more to offer than I initially anticipated. Anomalies occurred once in a blue moon until I began writing to you. As I witnessed your nebulochaotic state, it occurred to me: you are a very ruined soul. I have never met anyone quite like you. However, as if to punish me for giving you a chance, you then confided in Chuuya Nakahara from the Port mafia when challenge faced you. My disappointment has not necessarily diminished my interest in you. In fact, I believe it heightened by tenfold. Please do not scare too badly by my next suggestion… I know you are not in the right mind to handle it, but here goes. I would like to meet with you in-person. When you are ready for further details, I will know, and I will write to you once more. I will creep inside, if you dare to allow me.”

-Your watcher
------

Dazai had been ineffably paralyzed. The note lay dormant in his hand. Even when he hears footsteps indicating that Chuuya has awakened, he continues staring at the note. Is the watcher covetous? It sounds ludicrous, but there are no other words for it. Aside from that, the watcher has already planned for a meeting with Dazai so soon? Had they really broken in whilst double black were sleeping and planted this here? “Oi, Dazai, what are you doing? This isn’t a five star resort. Lay down for a while longer if you must, but if not then get your ass back home. And change out of that shirt while you're at it, you look like a dirty bum.”

Dazai’s lips part as if to respond, but he is incapable of forming words. Chuuya slowly approaches him, some mimic of concern in his gesture as he places a hand on his shoulder. “Dazai. Don’t just stand there, answer me. Also, what are you holding? Let me see that.” Without warning, the redhead wrenches the note out of Dazai’s hand and starts to read it. In the blink of an eye, Dazai pushes him to the ground and slides the note aside on the cold floor. Chuuya blinks quickly, wide-eyed and muddled as can be. As usual, they both wore silence like a coat, as their current position is very familiar. Dazai is straddling Chuuya with both hands on either side of his head. He looks down at him, his eyes lidded from the heavy uneasiness that the vodka has induced. “Get off of me, if you didn’t want me to read whatever this is then you should’ve said so. I only saw the first two sentences, and I didn’t get what they meant anyways. Just get off,”

In spite of Chuuya’s rough tone, his cheeks are pink and his chest is heaving. Dazai feels fireproof around the other man, for the most part. However, right now, the flames are engulfing him and his flesh is melting away. He cannot possibly move. This feeling isn’t one he could ever hope to lose on his own. Whenever awkward situations such as this one happen, Chuuya is always the stronger one between them, as he can put out the fire no matter how high it has risen. The detective knows this, so he does not bother getting off. To his surprise, however, the shorter man can’t move a muscle. He simply lays there as though he has been rendered immobile from head to toe. Panic sinks in Dazai’s chest when the situation isn’t derailed like it usually is. Change is an immortal monster. Being unprepared to face uncertain situations is a poison of the most potent degree.

“Chuuya…” He stares desperately into his eyes. Please understand. Don’t just sit like a statue. Do something. Do something before the dam breaks. “Dazai, get off of me.” That is when he realizes it. Chuuya knows that he doesn’t want to leave first. That is precisely why he is going to make him do it. The debilitating air between them is more suffocating than a bag over the head ever could be. Dazai’s mind begins to drift. Is the watcher viewing this from the sidelines? Do they feel possessive of him? Do they know that what he harbors towards his former partner in crime is unrequited? If that were the case, how very shameful and embarrassing it would be. Then again, his life is never not embarrassing. He has been walking a tightrope in a storm over the world for as long as he can remember. The world is but one big, miserable anecdote. Every single day is more punishing than the last. Perhaps some people are born into the world just to take themselves out of it.

But, comforting like your favorite blanket on a freezing winter’s night, Chuuya sighs and finally sits up, gently nudging Dazai’s body aside. Even if his words are agonizing, his expression is so familiar, so nostalgic. “Fine. Make me leave over and over now, because you can’t face the fact that you were the one who left me first many years ago and have regretted it to this day.” Chuuya storms out of the kitchen; his tall boots seem as though they are trampling all over Dazai’s heart, or, whatever is left of it, anyways. Perhaps the analogy that Dazai had conjured up his mind hadn’t been so accurate after all. He stands up, though his legs would give just about anything to buckle beneath him. Dazai carefully folds the note that he had previously shoved aside and hides it in his pocket. He feels as though guilt is his collar. The watcher’s words are supposed to be for his eyes only. It seems impossible for the watcher to know that Chuuya Nakahara had seen a snippet of their psyche, but then again the watcher has a way of blowing even Dazai’s stone-cold and calculating mind. Soon enough he wills himself to return to the front room.

Chuuya glances over at him from the safety of the sofa, his hair tousled and his eyebags ever-so-potent. It is similar to a person feeling comfortable enough to maintain their normal, messy appearance around their lover. But Chuuya Nakahara is no lover of his. Dazai silently sits beside him, staring everywhere but at the other man. He needs a break, to put it bluntly. A break from the noise and the negligence. The redhead may very well have been the crutch that he could use when his legs were weak, but Dazai’s past actions threw that chance far out of the window. The blame is something he has always tossed around to others, though in his darkest moments it always finds its way back to him and haunts him. Grind him down. Degrade him. That is the one thing he resorts to when his lungs are filled with dread and…loneliness.

“Chuuya, I don’t regret what I did. You were never enough. You never gave me an ounce of your time, did you? Everything was more important to you than I was. Fuck, working for your perfect, angelic boss Mori was your biggest goal, but who instigated your joining of the Port Mafia? You were never even thankful. I had every reason to leave.” As the final word leaves Dazai’s mouth, his eyes dart down at that burning, fiery red glow. Chuuya’s balled fists quake profusely. Upon the Tainted Sorrow’s glow is horrifically beautiful. “You were infatuated, obsessed…insane, Dazai! Why do you think you can never maintain any relationships? You are never normal! You want to own someone, and then throw them away when you get bored! I have done so much for you, and what have you done in return? Use my…my body, until I’m bleeding and clearly not enjoying myself, just so you can get off? Use my ability in battle and then ignore me, as though I’m just some extension of your own ability? Use my heart, and then leave when I needed you most? Fuck that! Get out of my house. You’ll have to combat your hangover elsewhere.”

Dazai digs his fingers into his pants. The smell of his puke-sullied shirt hits him harder than before. The sting of his many wounds makes him want to cry for help, when before he had hardly payed them any mind. The state of his house sinks in, and his body sinks with it. Dazai may very well have just ruined the very last true connection that he has. His genesis was one forged in flame. His current state is even hotter. He swallows his unhappiness down and heads wordlessly to the front door. “Goodbye, Chuuya.” He glimpses Chuuya reaching out as if he has already changed his mind about kicking Dazai out. Poor Chuuya.

Dazai meanders down the sidewalk like a bag in the wind. He doesn’t even feel sorrow any more. It is just pure emptiness. It is a feeling much harder to deal with than pain or anger, because there is no way to deal with it. Sitting in a blank room with your hands folded in your lap. That is what it is most comparable to. Nowhere to go, no one to confide in, no main goal or dream to pursue. Sure, Fyodor Dostoevsky and Dazai will be finding each other in prison soon enough, but Dazai already knows the end result; he will win eventually. After that his purpose will add up to a high sum of zero. He has absolutely no reason to keep on living. However, every time he tries to end it all, something always seems to get in the way. Perhaps he is still too fearful to do it because of his friends. Does he even have an ounce of regard for his friends? It sure doesn’t seem that way, but why else would he be sticking around?

The drive home is the most dismal and colorless one yet. The sky is gray and cloudy, he has no music playing on the radio, and hardly any people are outside. The world almost seems to be erasing itself. Or a more likely explanation is that he is erasing himself from it. The sky is bright and blue, but only to the rest of Yokohama. There is a lovely tune playing on the radio, but the ringing in his ears drowns it out. There are many people out and about, but they are all faceless entities to Dazai. When he pulls into his driveway, he suddenly thinks of his watcher. They feel that he isn’t ready to be written to at the moment. Even they have lost interest in him. Chuuya was right. He pushes everyone away, and when he does have someone by his side he still feels unsatisfied so he pursues another. It is an endless cycle. Dazai feels reborn. He has reached a new level, a new form, a new attitude toward life. Fyodor Dostoevsky comes to mind next. His philosophy in particular fills Dazai’s thoughts as he heads to the front door. Sinful and foolish. He wasn’t totally off the mark in wanting to purify such people. Sinful and foolish is exactly what Dazai has been all his life. He should be purged.

Surprise once again overtakes him as he steps into his house. It is spotless. There isn’t even a single speck of dust in sight. Some of his furniture has been repaired. His sofa’s many tears have been fixed right back together in the coordinating color. Two salvageable chairs have been duct-taped back together. Lying on the floor in the middle of the kitchen floor is an array of 100-dollar bills. The counters are shiny and spotless, along with the floor and walls. Items have been arranged where one might guess they would belong. He slowly walks from room to room, wondering if he is hallucinating from the intensity of his head ache. The toiletries in the bathroom have been neatly set up in an even more visually aesthetic way than they had been before the house was trashed. His bedroom had been tidied up as well; clothes were all hanging in his closet, color coded to top it off, and the carpet looked as good as new. His front room looked as though a house cleaner had made their way through it. His four-room house now looked like a luxury hotel, on the inside at least. Pretty impressive to turn such a dump into a nice place. And who could have done all this but them. But why?

The watcher had seemed frustrated with Dazai, judging from the most recent letter. They did mention wanting to meet Dazai face-to-face, but it can’t be true. Even Chuuya Nakahara, his easily governable pawn, has forsaken him. The watcher must have better things to do with their time than to squirm around in Dazai’s pit of quicksand. Yet they did all this for him. He returns to the kitchen and begins carefully counting the money that has been left. One hundred singular one-hundred-dollar bills. He doesn’t even need to count, he can assume by eyeing the array. He covers his mouth and gasps, absolutely petrified. In other words…ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars. What in God’s name is this? He counts it all anyways, scribbling down the math in his notepad, though even a grade school student would know right away the sum of 100 100’s. He recounts it when the number matches what he’d already deduced. Ten thousand dollars. Five thousand more than what he had originally kept handy.

The watcher has cleaned his house thoroughly and left him 10,000 dollars. As he is recounting, he stumbles upon a tiny piece of paper taped behind one of the bills. Dazai reads it aloud. “Replacing your window won’t be an issue now, hm?” Dazai’s chest fills with unnamable warmth. He can’t keep the money. He can’t take advantage of yet another person’s kindness. But this is the watcher we are talking about. How can he possibly refuse their offer? Perhaps he could return the money to them if they eventually meet, but even then he already knows they wouldn’t accept it. If they have this kind of money at their disposal for someone like Dazai, they must be very wealthy. Does he know anyone so wealthy as to throw around thousands other than members of the Guild or Fukuzawa? He slams his fist onto the floor. Discomfort trails through his arm and returns him to his senses.

Dazai makes a phone call right away. When he hangs up, his breath is faltering and shallow. His window will be replaced on the arranged date. He is using the watcher’s money. A new low has been achieved. He is using the giving nature of his god for his own benefit. His savior. Dazai has a newfound goal; earn that meeting with the watcher. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants. “Creep inside if you dare, my watcher…”

Chapter Text

The following day starts off quite lovely. Dazai is sitting cross-legged on his sofa with a cup of Earl Grey in his hands. Open on his lap is the children’s book that the watcher had gifted him. Not only does it hold nostalgic value, it also holds the key to Dazai’s heart. The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle. He now knows exactly what the insect in the title represents. The correspondence between the book and the case is so blatantly obvious. The only difference is that the caterpillar isn’t hungry, it is bloodthirsty. Dazai is its willing victim. His watcher can digest him from stem to sternum. Snap out of it, says the small voice of reason in the back of his mind. But he can’t stop now. He has reached the furthest depths of the ocean, extensive and eternal.

He sips his tea, his tongue tingling at the heat of it. “One Sunday morning the warm sun came up and – pop! - out of the egg came a tiny and very hungry caterpillar.” Dazai chuckles softly. Beautiful new life has been formed. The caterpillar is starting on its journey to become a striking butterfly. He wonders what he should do with this new birth of feeling and desire. He closes the book upon finishing it, and just as he is about to stand, his hand slips off his cup and the remaining tea drizzles along the book. Great. A lovely day. However, Dazai cannot let this get him down. The past few days have been torturous enough. As long as the watcher is not aware of Dazai’s careless treatment of his gift, everything will be alright. Dazai thinks of Atsushi, odd as it may be. He has yet to apologize to him. Ah, that is right. Today is the Agency’s day off, not just Dazai’s. This ignites a fine idea in the detective’s mind. He remains seated on the couch as he unlocks his phone pin and navigates his contacts. Would he be bothersome to his colleague to call him like this? Does he have plans? Hopefully not.

When the younger man picks up, Dazai feigns an optimistic voice. “Hiii Atsushi-kun! I just remembered that the Agency has a day off today~ Has your day been a good one so far?” Atsushi is silent for a moment, and Dazai begins to worry that he might not answer. “Ah, yeah, I’ve been enjoying my day off. Though Chuuya-san called me earlier. He said that Q from the Port Mafia needs to be babysat and that Chuuya has plans so he can’t watch them properly. So Q is with me at the park. I just bought them some ice-cream!” Atsushi seems to be doing everything in his power to avoid talking about the previous day. Dazai understands that. “Ooh, I see! Would you mind if I could come help you watch them? I’ve been so bored ever since the president suspended me from work.” Atsushi audibly gulps, and it of course directs slivers of guilt through Dazai’s chest. Suddenly Dazai hears the faint voice of Q through the phone.

“Sushi, is that bandaged guy coming? Hooray! He can buy me ice cream too!” Atsushi giggles awkwardly, and seems to pull the phone away from the young Mafioso. “Sorry about that, Dazai-san. Q seems to want you to come, and I of course would appreciate if you helped me watch them! They are a bit of a handful, haha…” Depression and bliss. What is the difference again? Atsushi makes it seem like the two are one in the same. He is far too innocent to open up about things that are hurting him. He is quite similar to the older detective in that sentiment. Dazai can sympathize. “Alright! Which park is it? I’ll meet you there as soon as I can~” Atsushi tells Dazai that it is the park closest to the agency, and exchanges goodbyes with Dazai before hanging up. Well, somehow he has ended up with plans to babysit a sadistic Mafioso child at the park with his colleague. A normal day for Dazai Osamu, well, compared to his usual adventures, anyways.

He makes his way to his room with a pep in his step. This is his chance to properly apologize to Atsushi. It will be emotional, and raw, and difficult, but it is a consequence that he must see through to the end. His closet is a nightmare. Clothes have always treated Dazai with scorn. Cool clothing is still hot when paired with his bandages. Meanwhile, warm clothing feels strange over the bandages. Nothing is particularly comfortable, but the one at fault only continues to worsen the problem. He settles for a pure black vest to put over a white, clingy button-down that has a lace jabot. His pants are black to match, and completing his outfit is a pair of umber loafers. One thing Dazai takes pride in is his sense of style. It’s a great way to combat the repulsive skin beneath all of the modest and classy clothing.

Next he heads to the counter in his kitchen where all of the watcher’s notes are stacked in a pretty pile. He wishes they could come along. He smothers the ignorant thought, but not before picturing them walking beside Dazai hand-in-hand on the calming nature trails of the park. Perhaps they mentioned a meeting with Dazai to make him crawl out of his skin with desire. He isn’t certain about that, but he does know that he needs some form of comfort in case this day’s battles are as harsh as the last. Dazai carefully folds the notes small enough to fit in his back pocket, but god he wishes he could put the notes beneath his skin instead where they could never get lost. He is ready to go now.

The park is a mile away, and as much as his body screams at him not to, he decides to walk there. Thin threads attach his limbs. His head is basically glued on by dollar-bought glue sticks. Dazai is on life support. People can see it on his face as he passes them. A tall woman with a cruel face whispers something to her daughter as she walks by his lifeless form. He attracts the worst kind of attention. Dazai’s fancy getup will never erase the cold aura about him. It doesn’t affect the detective like it used to, however. Now he knows that someone will give him the light of day. The watcher and their heavenly punishments. Are they watching right now? Any sane person would’ve severed the ties from the first glance upon giving Dazai a chance. What impossible patience…

The sun is brutal and consistently trying to melt his pupils. They are already dead and dull anyways, so what difference would it make? Arriving at the park is equivalent to arriving at hell’s gates. Atsushi’s face is almost as colorless as Dazai’s. Kyusaku Yumeno is sitting in the grass, pinching something in between their fingers. He soon realizes that the child is crushing insects and laughing as though it is the comedy show of a century. Almost as concerning as the things Dazai had done during his childhood.

“Hi Atsushi-kun!!! I’m delighted to see you today~” Atsushi quickly faces Dazai. His fists are balled over his lap in anxiety. It is reminiscent of something Dazai would do. Is he rubbing off on him? Dazai’s influence is the last thing anyone would want. It fills his veins with methamphetamine-like wonder. Ruining yet another life. Is it really that surprising at this point? “Ah, Dazai-san! You made It just in t-time. Kyusaku-kun keeps killing bugs and I can’t stop them…” …As if Dazai couldn’t tell. It seems Q has yet to realize the storm cloud’s presence. Should he have really come today? All he will do is suck the life out of them just like he does everyone else. He hesitantly approaches the curse-bearing child and kneels beside them.

“Dazai is here! Everyone applaud! Have you been enjoying yourself since you tried to hurt Dazai and his friends, hm?” They puff their cheeks and drag a stone over an ant. Not so pleasant of a reaction. But when has this little devil ever displayed any form of remorse? “Do you want to play a game? Why don’t you chase me and try to hurt me instead of the bugs?” That changes the whole situation. Q instantly tosses the stone aside and rises to their feet. “Sounds like fun~ Q will count to three! Better run~” Dazai is in for it now. That is the story of Dazai’s downfall.

Running as fast as his spindly legs can carry him, Dazai ducks behind trees and weaves between and around playground equipment as the frighteningly fast Mafioso runs after him. Oh, to be a kid again. They run in a rather comedic manner, as though Dazai is a sloth trying to escape a fierce jaguar. “Oh, hah, oh my! You’re so determined to catch me…Too bad it isn’t going to happen!” The chase is chaotic and extreme, perfect for Q’s thrill-seeking heart. Soon Atsushi is running after them too. Does he feel left out? He passes Kyusaku in a heartbeat and yells for Dazai to slow down. What could Atsushi be running from? He pieces it together with a sigh. Q whines at their fun being cut short, but Dazai knows that Q’s boredom is the smallest deal at the moment. Is the watcher chuckling at Dazai’s shortcomings from behind a tree somewhere? It isn’t very funny if so.

“Weretiger! What are you doing here with Dazai-san!? Why is Q with you? Why do you look like some big happy family?!” Akutagawa Ryunosuke springs toward the group using Rashomon, and he almost crashes into Atsushi in the process. Now this is a strange turn. Psychopaths surround poor Atsushi. This is going to be one hell of a babysitting experience. “Akutagawa! Dazai-san and I are babysitting Q, why are you here?” The mafia's dog and the tiger growl at each other as Dazai and Q watch with exhausted expressions. Even the child is worn out by new double black. It is actually painful to watch. It reminds him so much of his own banter with his ex-partner that he has to briefly look away. Is this how everyone else sees them? Strangle him now.

“Now, now you two…Is this any way to act around a child?” Sardonic of the Agency’s sharpest to say. Akutagawa closes his lips immediately and cautiously clears his throat. His obsession with pleasing him is more unsettling than endearing. “I’m sorry, Dazai-san! If you would not mind, perhaps I could help you babysit Yumeno-kun. I wasn’t informed that Chuuya-san was too busy to do so,” Atsushi furrows his eyebrows, obviously not wanting the Mafia’s hellhound asserting himself into their weird little babysitting duo. “Q, do you want Akutagawa-kun around too?” They nod enthusiastically, but their dark grin suggests that they only want him around so the list of people for them to torment may increase. This is suicide, and not the desirable kind. Moments later the ability user of death and destruction regrets his self-insertion as the three men dash away from the terrifying curse-bearer.

Oddly enough, the chase isn’t all that bothersome to Dazai after a while. He feels alive. He feels as though he has returned to adolescence. Is Dazai…having fun? It can’t be. But here he is, a goofy grin spread across his face as Akutagawa screams for Q to run after Atsushi instead of himself. The wind guides the four of them down the trail toward a tall hill. Awaiting them at the top of the hill are the blazing, spellbinding yellows, reds, and oranges of the sun in the bright blue sky. For once in the past few months Dazai is having trouble caring about anything other than the feeling of freedom. The feeling of rolling down the hill beside Q and wincing as the blades of glass irritate his carefree face. Meanwhile Atsushi is sitting cross-legged at the crest of the hill, whining as Akutagawa berates him about something or other. This feels…it feels like friendship. What a foreign feeling. More than colleagues, more than mentor and mentored, and more than babysitter and child. An unlikely group but one that seems to bring out the best in Dazai. This feels good.

“Bandages! Sushi! Skunk hair! I’m hungry and bored…Someone buy Q some food and you’ll be spared~”

Akutagawa looks around for a moment, wondering who “skunk hair” had been referring to. Atsushi giggles awkwardly and turns toward Kyusaku. “It is, ah, it is Atsushi, not Sushi…”

“Sushi! I want some Sushi!”

The three men collectively sigh, but deep down they all long for the innocence of childhood. None of them have crystal-clear paths. In fact, it is hard to determine who has suffered the most between them as they have all endured so much. Still, growing old and peering through the terror-painted lens is something that no one remembers fondly. “The nearest place to get sushi is at the mini-restaurant in the aquarium that is less than a mile from here. Do you like aquariums? When I was a kid I always wanted to go to one…” Atsushi’s tone darkens as he speaks, and Dazai can tell exactly why that is. Q jumps up and down, almost rolling down the hill accidentally this time. “I wanna go see the fish and turtles! And Akutagawa-san should pay!” “What?! Fool, why me?” Despite his protests, the quartet turn around and begin heading back to the park’s entrance.

Is the watcher here? It sends chills down his spine just thinking of them. If you are obsessed with someone, it should be because they make you feel good things. Why is that never the case with Dazai? It is as though he is attracted to violence and struggle. Why doesn’t he surround himself around this sort of company instead? Why had he imagined the watcher drowning him when he had taken a bath this morning? No longer Human really does live up to its title.

“Okay, we’re at the park entrance! Atsushi, you took Q-kun here in your car, right? Perhaps you could drive us to the aquarium then?” The societal outcast (credits to Chuuya) seems to have struck a nerve yet again by speaking to Atsushi. “Ah, of c-course! Although I am admittedly not the best driver, hehe…” Akutagawa pushes past him and scoffs. “I shall drive. I can’t let you endanger Dazai-san. Oh, and Q-kun as well.” Yet again the two begin pointlessly arguing over who should drive. “You’re both idiots. Let me drive us there!” Q joins the argument, stirring it up like the little instigator that Dazai had remembered them to be.

Dazai is cast out of the conversation, but he doesn’t seem to mind, because he senses a little something more than angst going on between Shin Soukoku…and he certainly doesn’t plan to interrupt it. Approaching the car is rewarding since it took walking through a minefield of arguments to get there. “Dazai-san, will you sit beside me in the front passenger seat?” “Huh?! How many times must I tell you that I am driving, not you, Weretiger!”

Dazai drags his hand down his face tiredly. Just when he is about to insist that he drive there himself, he notices it. A small note on the windshield is taped carefully so as to ensure that said note doesn’t get blown away. “Ooh, what is that? Is it a treasure map?! Let Q read it and keep all the treasure!” Dazai’s eyes widen and he quickly stands in front of them, stuffing the note into his pocket at lighting speed. The other three stare at him with muddled expressions. “Ah, my apologies, I left my shopping list here because I plan to buy some fresh bandages and some tasty snacks later!” Akutagawa is the only one who doesn’t seem stupid enough to appreciate Dazai’s explanation. Why would his shopping list be on Atsushi’s car? Still, no one questions Dazai. Regardless, it isn’t the contents of the note Akutagawa questions, but rather, why Dazai is always buying bandages and wearing them at all times. Dazai doesn’t seem to have an answer.

The four of them wordlessly enter the car, though Q seems disappointed that they won’t be becoming a millionaire after all thanks to some treasure. Atsushi finally gives in and allows Akutagawa to drive, but only because the bratty Mafioso had refused to get in the car otherwise. Dazai sits beside Akutagawa and fiddles with the radio, grinning widely. After briefly flipping through the albums that Atsushi had downloaded, he realizes something misfortunate. “Noooo! Why isn’t my favorite song on hereee?!” Q laughs at Dazai’s misfortune, while Akutagawa turns to him with a concerned expression. “Dazai-san, what song do you wish to hear? Tell me and I shall find it for you!” The detective purses his lips and awkwardly looks to the side. “…No thanks, Aku-kun, I’ll just sing it myself~”

Akutagawa is hardly able to begin driving as the nickname sends his brain into another dimension. “…Wash down a bunch of pills an’ wait for pending death, laying out on my couch…readiness stained on my breath!” The mood in the car shifts from comical to tense and dismal, for new double black, that is. Kyusaku seems to enjoy the song, waving their head to and fro to the tune. If Dazai were someone else, he would not like himself either. He would not like how he brings the mood down in every scenario. It isn’t like he is oblivious to how insensitive it is to sing such a song, especially around Atsushi after what Dazai had almost succeeded in doing. Nevertheless, what can he say? Dazai is having fun.

The car ride is deafeningly silent, save for Dazai’s enthusiastic, melodic voice. He sticks his head out the window and sings as loudly as he can muster. “I think it’s unfair, ‘s so unfair, in many different ways… I am still alive and living longer more!” In retrospection, at least Kyusaku is having fun. Babysitting isn’t so bad when the child in question is a sadistic chaos-loving animal who will cooperate so long as blood and guts are involved. Okay, pretty specific circumstance, but still. When Dazai is done singing the song, he inconspicuously pulls the watcher’s note out of his pocket and begins reading it in his flustered mind.

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“Osamu Dazai, I am genuinely engrossed in your display today. I do not regret creeping inside. Now...Creep inside of me if you dare, and perhaps you will enjoy yourself with me, as well. You are changing. Have you been reborn? You seem to have forgotten about me. I cannot blame you. Castles of which infinite amounts of effort were exhausted in their creation eventually fall out of relevancy and are remembered by naught but the all-knowing god above. Still, being cast aside to make way for such meaningless conjecture almost invokes emotions within me. I wonder what first you will be of mine subsequently. Prepare for the shock of a lifetime. I am growing increasingly tired of this foreplay. Our meeting is something even I am impatient for. See you soon.”

-Your watcher
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Shocked? Does the watcher really believe that Dazai is simply shocked? He is so many words at once that a dictionary would burst at the seams if it so much as tried to contain them. The top three contenders, however, must be animated, petrified, and aroused. Pretty funny that one of the shortest letters to date has had the most profound effect. Great, just as something begins to stiffen, Akutagawa has arrived at the aquarium and is already searching for a place to park. Just Dazai’s luck. He had a feeling he should wait until later to read the letter, but by now we’ve established how weak he is to his saintly observer. “We’re here! Let me reach into the tanks and tear the fishes' guts out and make some sushi!” Atsushi gasps in terror, obviously reconsidering whether it was a good idea to bring a child to an aquarium who was just killing insects left and right only around an hour ago.

Meanwhile, Dazai’s worried eyes dart to the side to meet Akutagawa’s confused ones. “Are you alright, Dazai-San? You seem tense…Would you like me to rub your back?” The detective shakes his head and smiles lopsidedly. “Nah, my brilliant mind was just wandering, that’s all~ Let’s go into the aquarium and have some sushi from the restaurant in there, I’m famished.” The four of them exit the car, and Dazai pulls his shirt down in some attempt to obscure his…admiration, for the watcher. Luckily the three others aren’t observant enough to notice. “Make Chirashi with the fishies, make Ebiten Maki with the shrimpies!~” Atsushi gasps once again at Q’s words, prepared to block the tanks in the aquarium with his life.

When they enter the aquarium, Kyusaku almost instantly runs off, and they would have gotten away if Akutagawa hadn’t gently used Rashomon on their leg to pull them back over to the trio, careful not to touch their arm. “We will enjoy the sushi without you if you run off one more time.” Q whines annoyingly but stays beside Akutagawa anyways. When Dazai awkwardly stumbles to the front desk to purchase tickets, Akutagawa suddenly dashes over to him and hands him his own money. “Ah, Dazai-san, I will pay, I insist! How much is it for three adults and one child, ma'am?” The woman at the desk tells him the price, and then before Dazai can protest, Akutagawa is already placing all $80.00 on the desk with speedy efforts. “We could’ve split it three ways, Akutagawa-kun, but if you insist, then do as you please.”

With that the four of them head toward the area to buy food. “Pretty ironic that an aquarium sells sushi,” Atsushi mumbles with raised eyebrows. “I am tired of hearing your voice and I’m sure Dazai-san is too! Shut your obnoxious mouth or Atsushi will be next on the menu.” Akutagawa and Atsushi stare at each other as though they are preparing to duel. “Akutagawa-kun, be nice. Atsushi-kun, just ignore it when he insults you.” Akutagawa forces a kind smile and shakes Atsushi’s hand, eyes glued to Dazai in desperation. Atsushi whimpers and pulls his hand away, to which Akutagawa realizes what he had done and stares at the floor. The detective orders sushi while the others stay tensely silent. As he reaches for his wallet to pay the server, Akutagawa unsurprisingly whips his own money out and hands it to the man instead.

Atsushi and Q are already seated at a booth near the back, and Akutagawa frowns when he sees that they are sitting on opposite ends. He wanted to sit by Dazai…Still he begrudgingly sits beside Q, and frowns subtly as Dazai sits beside Atsushi. They eat silently. The only time the four of them come off as a normal quartet is when no words are being spoken. Q finishes eating before the others, and following this they notice that Dazai has yet to take a bite. He is just pushing the food around with his utensils. “Are you going to eat that? Or are you going to give it to quotable Q?!”

Dazai pushes his bowl toward Q, who begins wolfing the food down mercilessly and without hesitation. How can you expect him to eat food when all he wants to do is devour the watcher until the next sunrise approaches? They plan to meet him soon… How soon…is soon? They are resentful yet again of Dazai paying mind to anyone other than them. Best of all, they are seemingly thrilled to reveal their identity to Dazai. Sweat trails down his neck at an alarming rate.

How is he supposed to walk around the aquarium for hours now? “Since you are all still eating, I think I will go use the restroom real quick, I’ll be back in a few.” Akutagawa mutters an “okay, Dazai-san,” but his mouth is too full of food for anyone to make his words out. The detective slides off of the booth and finds the nearest bathroom. Inside is a line of five stalls, and four of them are occupied. Perhaps it is his lucky day after all. He enters the final stall, making 100% sure it is locked, and immediately leans against the wall and sighs in relief. His body slides down along the wall as his legs are moments away from buckling beneath him. "I am growing increasingly tired of this foreplay. Our meeting is something even I am impatient for." The longer the words circle in his mind, the further the heat is stoked within his core. Dazai spends a good five minutes in the bathroom.

By the time he is finished tending to his internal wounds brought on by the watcher, he has just about forgotten his own name and affiliation. When these feelings one day collapse, as all decent ones do, what will he have left? He forgets how he had lived back when the watcher was not in his life. Was he really alive all this time or was he given birth to back when the first note was left? Such questions are far too much for him. He has to get his bearings before Akutagawa slithers Rashomon under Dazai’s stall and drags him out in worry. Toilet paper disappears from its roll as Dazai wipes it along the revolted floor, wiping up sinful secretions. Returning to the others is an easy task, now that things have been taken care of.

“He is back! I wonder if he took a massive poo?” Q chuckles, and Atsushi’s face contorts in disgust. “Yumeno-kun, we just finished e-eating…Please don’t say gross things…” Dazai cringingly stands near the table and slips his hands into his pockets for the fifty-thousandth time today. The group follows his lead as he begins heading toward the otter exhibit. The curse-bearer hopefully won’t make remarks about eating these guys, as the fish need a break from their torment. “What are these? Gofers? I wanna pet one with the razors in my sleeve!” It seems Q shouldn’t be around any animal whatsoever. Still, having their attention maintained this way is much easier than being chased around the block for hours to come. New double black seem to be fighting about something or other, and Dazai approaches them, listening in with exhaustion in his eye.

“This otter’s name is Chazuke! There’s no doubt about it!” “No, don’t be selfish, Weretiger! Its name is obviously Dazaku.” Are these two really arguing about who can name the otter in this exhibit? The day is definitely going to stretch out forever. Dazai’s mind wanders to the watcher once again. When he returns home, will there be a letter taped to the door with a time and place to meet? He fears that he might pass out in their presence if so. The biggest events in life are always the scariest. Whether it be romance, loss, buying a new home, securing a job, graduating from school, etc. there is always a factor of terror and unsureness involved...

But this fright is different. It is infinitely indisputable, perfectly unpredictable... It is more life or death than Russian Roulette with most chambers loaded, and that is because Dazai is guaranteed to mess something up. The watcher will be left with a bad taste in their mouth after seeing Dazai’s terrible figure and face up close. Or he will accidentally say the wrong thing and be thrown aside. With his luck both options will happen and the results will be worse than he imagines. At least the detective can actually kill himself once his final thing to live for has been stripped from him. The livestock is self-aware. It wants to become someone’s dinner.

His reverie shatters when he hears a loud yelp from his fellow detective. “Kyusaku-kun, you can’t break the tank! Stop hitting it!” Okay, how evil is this kid?! Where are their parents? Perhaps they are in a situation similar to Dazai’s at his age. Even so they should learn of other ways to cope with the impending doom that is their life. “Atsushi-kun, yelling at Q won’t stop them. They take their chances with the devil over the lord by will. Let me handle this.” Dazai walks toward the whining child with a soft expression. “Turn around, Q.”

Q backs away at first, however, their attention is swayed when Akutagawa taps their shoulder with Rashomon. When Kyusaku turns around, their eyes light up and they rip something out from between Rashomon’s jaws. “Gofer plushie! Thanks Akutagawa!” “Ah, that’s an otter, not a gofer,” Atsushi mumbles with a small chuckle. It seems the Mafia’s dog is softer than he lets on. He has gotten a large, $15.00 otter plushie for Q, and seems to have obtained it by stealing it using his ability from the next room over. He must’ve learned such habits from Dazai, who is the most experienced pick-pocketing genius you’ll ever meet.

“I’m tired of looking at gofers! Let’s go find the fish!” The drained men follow Q, all wondering how actual babysitters do their job. The aquarium is actually very impressive. It is a calming pursuit that is possibly even more enjoyable for Dazai than it is for Q. The fish swimming back and forth in slow circles and the cerulean water’s glow almost puts him in a trance. He isn’t even imagining being trapped in there with the fish, drowning before everyone. Alright, maybe he is imagining it, but not as much as he does when he is bathing.

“Hey, hey, guess what? The clownfish reminds me of bandage-bundle, The coffinfish reminds me of skunk hair, and the lumpsucker fish reminds me of tiger face. All befitting names!” Q has successfully insulted three people in one sentence. Gold fucking star. Putting that annoying comment aside, Shin Soukoku seem to be…getting along, if that is what you would call it. Though to be fair the only reason they aren’t quarreling their brains out is that they are quiet. Dazai is gently tracing his fingers along the acrylic tank. He wonders if the watcher’s body would feel as smooth as this. He imagines the watcher to be as hard as bricks in and out, despite the in and out both being impossible. Yet again, anything is possible when it comes to God. Do they like aquariums? Would they enjoy walking beside Dazai, pointing out the different gorgeous sea creatures, before softly telling Dazai that he is more majestic than they are? The final part is far-fetched. He wishes it weren’t.

“What’s that line over there? People are lined up by a sign for something called ‘escape the tank’.” Q motions to where they are talking about, and the three men direct their gaze toward it. “It’s an escape room, Q. That is where you are locked in a room and you try to escape before the time limit runs out, and if you do, you win. Does that sound like something that you might want to try? I could pay!” The little ability user dashes to the line, obviously interested in the escape room. Dazai follows, squinting so he can read the instructions plastered near the sign. “Each participant is lead to their respective padded rooms, and once they enter one of the rooms, they get locked inside by themselves. Once the timer begins, participants are blindfolded and must feel around for buttons that each unlock one of the door’s locks. If you can unlock the door before the time limit expires, you will win a sea creature plush toy of your choosing. Only ten dollars per participant. IF the time limit expires and you have yet to unlock the door, you lose and don’t win any prizes. Ages ten and up. Rules: you must leave your belongings with the staff, you must try to escape on your own, and most importantly, have fun!”

“This sounds dangerous…I would prefer if I could be in there with Dazai-san. But if Q really wants to do this, I will not resist.” Akutagawa seems uncomfortable with the rules. It does sound like a safety hazard, but the instructions say that the rooms are padded, a.k.a. soft. Dazai hadn’t envisioned his day to take such a direction. Blindfolded and searching for something? The detective shivers. He thinks of Chuuya. Sex with Chuuya. Well, great way of ruining his mood, pipsqueak in black. Still, the four of them decide that the escape room might be entertaining. The line isn’t all that long either which is a plus. Time flies by when you’re having “fun”, if fun counts as waiting in line with a mad gothic dog, a psychopathic thirteen-year-old sadist, and a blindfold-phobic teenager who is clinging to your arm. “Weretiger, why are you trembling like that? Also, let go of Dazai-san at once!” Atsushi ignores the other man, only clinging tighter to Dazai, hiding his frowning face in Dazai’s arm.

The older detective instantly knows why Atsushi’s demeanor has changed so suddenly. He must be remembering some not-so-pleasant memories from the past regarding blindfolds or locked rooms or both. If Dazai could pity someone Atsushi would be a top contender. So young and yet so scarred. Dazai thinks all four of them fit that description. When they are finally at the front of the line, Atsushi suddenly lets go of Dazai and scratches his head awkwardly. “I uh, I suddenly have a bit of a stomachache, perhaps I ate too much sushi. You don’t need to worry though, I just need to rest. You guys head in and do the escape room without me. I’ll wait over by the penguin exhibit.” Atsushi slips his clammy hands off of the taller male and quickly staggers away, his expression upset. Dazai learns the language of sympathy. It really does hurt. But he doesn’t want this odd pang of guilt to paint itself further along his marred canvas of a heart, so he’s doing this. Maybe the escape room will be just the escape he needs from the all-encompassing thoughts of the watcher.

Chapter Text

Infirmity is a feeling Dazai knows well, yet... He was never particularly susceptible to feeling bad for others. That is why it hits him extra hard to see his colleague and friend so pained. Dazai is even more disgruntled over the fact that he is only just now remembering that he has yet to apologize to Atsushi. Fucking monster. Nobody would be surprised if his bandages were hiding nasty scales or tentacles at this rate.

“Sushi is pretty boring anyways, so not much of a loss! C’mon, let's go in!” Q motions for Akutagawa and Dazai to follow them into the area where staff members are waiting. “Sir, you have read the rules, correct?” A young woman with blonde hair gently pushes her tousled locks behind her ear as she speaks to Dazai. It seems that the group will be parting ways now. “You behave yourself, child.” Kyusaku sticks their tongue out at Akutagawa as if his way of addressing them was wrong. “Yes, my lady, I am looking forward to the challenge~”

The blonde staff member reddens as Dazai follows her to the room he will be escaping from. “T-there will be an announcement when the escape timer has started. Please enjoy yourself.” The detective glances around the room, taking it in. He doesn’t see any buttons on the wall. He does, however, memorize where each piece of white paper is taped over them. Cheap.

Dazai places his hands on his hips as the woman shakily blindfolds him. Behind him, the faint sound of a pounding heart can be heard. Perhaps he could get her number later. He smirks to himself as he is left in the room alone, unable to see. The door creaks loudly, almost as loud as the timer announcement. Would it be challenging enough to give himself one minute to escape? He would bet on being able to do it, but as it stands, his luck is too low for such chances. Stepping forward, he instantly walks into the soft, puffy walls of the room. It is almost similar to a bounce house, minus the bouncy bit. His hands manipulate around the raised walls until he finds the first difference in texture.

He pulls the tape and paper out of the way, pressing his pointer finger against the button, smiling confidently as the first lock opens with a loud click. Seven seconds in: one of five buttons have been touched. At this rate, he might as well go ahead and set the record for fastest escape. The next button that he has recalled is across the room from the previous one. Finding his footing is admittedly a little tricky. His legs have been through hell and back these past few days, after all.

Dazai reaches around for a moment, disappointed when he cannot find the exact location of the button right away. Ah, it is up a little higher. He pushes the paper away, and as his palm touches the button, yet another lock opens. Two-fifths completed. Thirty seconds in. He wasted far too much time on the second one. When was the last time he lost to himself in a challenge? Regardless of whenever it was, he doesn’t want it to repeat today. The third one is quite a bit closer by. Precisely beside the door. He feels around, his determination solidifying as he finds it almost instantly. Three-fifths of the way done, thirty-seven seconds in. As much as the term is cheesy, a piece of cake is the best way to describe the situation.

The fourth button should be on the back wall of the room toward the top right corner. He stumbles over the bulbous floor, suddenly, his eyebrows furrowed at the loss of time. Still, he returns to his feet like The Flash and reaches up. Just as he presses the button, Dazai hears something other than the click of a lock. It sounds almost as if something has fallen on the floor near the other side of the room beside the wall. Is it some sort of fork in the challenge?

Is this actually going to be more complicated than it seems? He certainly does not mind a genuine trial. He makes his way over to the location of the sound before getting on his hands and knees, blindly feeling around for something. Other than airy material, he cannot feel anything of note. He suddenly sighs in realization. Was it just a sound effect to confuse him and slow his time down? Evil ass escape room staff. He returns to his feet, completely lost as to how much time he has been in the room now. Definitely over a minute. He lost the challenge against himself, as his pessimism had planned.

The final button should be-…Dazai stands open-mouthed for a moment, as frustration spreads over his body like butter to bread; it takes over his entire being. He has forgotten where the fifth button is. Now the time limit makes more sense. What a cruel turn of events. The smartest course of action must be going from wall to wall, covering all edges and surfaces until the button unveils itself. The detective who doesn’t feel like much of a detective at all heads toward the wall by the door first. His digits and palms dance around the wall with the intent of covering every inch with their touch. He fingers the creases between the padded walls, wondering if the final button could be shaped differently than the previous four as a trick.

Dazai is not a clock, obviously, but he can sense that minutes are passing faster than he would like them to. Is he a clock? Does the twenty-two-year-old even know what he is anymore? Once he has searched the entirety of the wall, he moves on to the next one, although his hands are quite worn-out.

After about a minute of dragging his palms around the wall, he hears another strange sound. This time it is louder. It doesn’t necessarily sound like something has fallen, but more like something has shifted or settled. What could it be? The room hadn’t had anything other than walls, buttons, paper, and floor when he had seen it. Temptation to remove his blindfold rises exponentially, but a cheater is something he is not. It sounds closest to a person shifting in place. Could there be some sort of staff in the room with him secretly watching? That sounds like an invasion of privacy, even if their intentions weren’t bad. The only other thing he could imagine the sound to be is what he had imagined earlier, a sound effect. Would such a thing really sound again so soon though? He decides to ignore it and focus on finding the button.

The second wall deceives him just as the first had done. There doesn’t seem to be any sort of button or paper anywhere. Third wall it is. He approaches quickly, trying to be as thorough as possible with his movements. His arms soon begin to ache from having to reach in so many directions at once. Is this escape room meant to be enjoyable? It sure as hell does not seem like it. Dazai craves the night breeze. He wants to get out of here and find a sickeningly alluring letter from the watcher. Today has been a long day. Hopefully Q is at least having fun, because knowing Akutagawa’s anger issues he is probably punching the wall.

Dazai estimates that it has been around twenty minutes. He has just finished searching the third wall. Nothing. The button had better be on the fourth wall, because if it isn’t, the detective will face the biggest embarrassment of the century. His hands shake slightly as they feel around the wall. Moments later, he hears the strange sound once again. At this point, it is starting to get a little eerie. It sounded like someone had stepped forward. It was clearer than before. The sound could not have been anything else. “Hello? Is a staff member in here with me? You do know I never consented to that, right?” Silence ensues. Could Dazai really have imagined the sound so many times? As unlikely as it seems, the other answers are more dubious.

“Well if one of the staff is in here, a zero-star review will be left on the aquarium’s website if one can review it, because the instructions indicate that participants are all by themselves.” With that, Dazai turns back to the wall and reaches toward it. Then he hears a voice. “Your hearing must be quite keen if you noticed I was in here. For something inhuman, you are very in tune with your senses.” The voice immediately sends chills down Dazai’s spine. He recognizes it as a voice changer. It isn’t so unbelievable for an escape room worker to mask their voice for the sake of entertainment, but it sounds strangely familiar, as if he had heard it before. So a staff member has been in here the whole time. Dazai’s detective skills must not be so bad after all. “What are you doing in here? Making sure I don’t cheat or something?” Dazai crosses his arms, pondering whether he should remove his blindfold.

…Blindfolded. Alone in a room. Supposed to be alone. Someone with a feigned voice is in there with him. Dazai suddenly backs up against the wall cautiously. He has been in a million situations similar to this one. The person in the room with him most likely isn’t a staff member. They probably aren’t supposed to be in there at all. “Oh, that expression on your face… is it fright, by chance? Are you afraid, Dazai Osamu? I suppose you should be. You will be hurt if you remove your blindfold. In fact, it would benefit you to put your hands in the air.” Can this day get any more debilitating? This person must be someone he knows, considering they seem to know him. His arms are up as though he is the criminal in this situation. “Why target me in specific? Were you in here the whole time I was prancing around pawing for buttons? I’m ashamed of myself, truly.”

The person seems to hesitate to provide an answer; they are soundless for a moment. Then the unnerving sound happens once again, this time in multiple steps. Are they approaching him? The floor dips a little once the footsteps draw near enough.

“You needn’t shy away over this. I do not have time to shadow such meaningless questions. I know you, Osamu Dazai. You know me. So are you perhaps unable to face the fact that I am standing before you now? You must be disassociating. You do have a habit of doing that. Did you know that my wanderlust has always been a product of fear?”

The voice tapers off for a stretch of time, then it bleeds right back into clarity.

“Even I feel dread at times. I am most troubled by getting nothing accomplished. That is why things have been progressing so swiftly, though I suppose this is a little bit too much for you. The oblivion is an unidentified place, the void where you’ve settled down, where you plan to live forevermore. It doesn’t want you like you want it, though. You cannot stay afraid of that; you are adding trouble to my plate since yours is overflowing. You had fallen into a well where no everyday person could distinguish your screams. Yet your savior has finally arrived, and in appreciation, you cower in horror? I do believe you are the one who has been itching for a meeting. I am a bucket lowered for you to grab on to, and you are a stone eroding in the well water. That is not the relationship I want to have with you... I want something more, give me something more, I’ve needed it for a long time.”

Dazai’s back slides against the wall until he is on his knees. What direction is he facing? Anywhere but toward this monster. More footsteps, so horrifying and brash against the cloud-like flooring. Dazai’s body is freezing to the touch, yet still a hand covered by some material, presumably a glove, presses against the top of his head.

A few fingers snake around a bunch of tousled curls, nudges the head where they're attached to the side. Scalding breath melts the ice that is Dazai’s body in a matter of milliseconds. Another leathered palm rests on his cheek. Right in his ear are soft, Russian words, resounding like a cello’s hum. He wants to add his own voice to the composition, but his ragged breaths alone sound dangerously lewd, so words are off the table. “Я ценю, что ты склоняешься перед своим богом. However, I would like you to stand.” Dazai now wishes it had been a murderous psychopath in the room with him instead of…this.

“I was peering through the crease in your stall in the restroom earlier as you succumbed to temptation over me. While littering does not impress me, disgust was not something I experienced as I watched you. I want to watch you until the day I die. I want to be here to see you succeed and fail. You should know that the lord is celibate. You should also know that you are the one person who may one day change that. For now, though, I see that you are not ready. Perhaps I am not either, but I like to think I am...”

Dazai rises to his feet as though heaven herself is drawing him in. His mind goes completely blank. Crystal-clear tears ooze down his cheeks like poison to the mouth. Open as wide as you can, he tells himself, down every single drop of the contagion. Dazai feels naked but safe. He is the watcher’s greatest devotee. They are devoted to him in return. They are allies. This day is the reason his life hasn’t ended yet. Regardless of what direction this goes, he wants it to stay until the end of time.

“I’m sorry,” with those words he falls to his feet once again and cries as though his life depends on it. Does the watcher have a fond look on their face? Are they satisfied with this offering? A romance between the follower and the followed is as toxic as a diffuser of carbon monoxide. He wants to drown in it. The whole world has been left to him. What does the wreck do with it? Tilts it on its side and destroys it as fast as he can.

“I do not understand what you are apologizing to me for. I will kill you one day, I swear by my very divinity. However, that day is not soon to come. You have yet to wrong me,” he says, words breaking off into an affectionate chuckle.

“Do not kneel like a beggar at my feet. My time with you is running thin. I would have preferred to have a proper conversation with you; however, I saw this opportunity and I simply could not ignore it. You are blindfolded. I did not even need to cover my face. Ah, speaking of, as for my identity…It is unimportant, for now. It will come to light eventually. Two minutes remain. I will guide you to the final button. Please give me your hand this once, my precious disciple. Creep inside if you dare.”

Precious disciple? It appears the watcher is ignorant after all. Do they not know how much emotion that brings to Dazai’s already-ruined cognizance? He stands, somehow, and inches his hand the slightest bit forward, on the verge of something between an orgasm and a panic attack. The watcher’s hand spreads roots through Dazai’s own as they take it. Deities are truly merciless. The deity’s touch is even crueler. Why have they been keeping it to themselves for so long, when it feels like this? It must be because no one is worthy of it.

The longer Dazai dwells on the prospect, he realizes that he could’ve been graced with the man’s godly touch ages ago, but it was he himself who forbid the touch. He has been dodging God. He is a fool.

“Follow me, but please watch your step. We cannot risk your blindfold sliding down your face if you fall face-first, now can we.” The watcher gently tugs Dazai’s hand. The two of them kneel in the middle of the room. What room? Where are they? Are they standing at heaven’s gates, and Dazai is somehow being let inside? The watcher wraps their long fingers around Dazai’s. The two of them push the button together, fingers intertwined. Almost immediately, the holy séance is broken. Dazai reaches for the watcher, wincing when their presence moves away from him. “ W-wait! Come back, my divinity! What have I done to make you leave? I will make it right, so please come back! I can’t...”

The watcher does not respond. Dazai digs his nails into the padded floor, his whole body tensed with desperation and guilt. Has he angered the watcher somehow? Dazai cannot take it anymore. The victory announcement plays but Dazai does not hear it. He rips his blindfold off, racing around the room in a state of pure hysteria when the watcher is no longer there. Where had they gone? The door had only just now unlocked. How had they got in earlier? How had they left? He needs to follow them! His heart is so heavy that he fears it might fall through his chest. He cannot let that happen, he has yet to say goodbye to the watcher. His watcher is the moon’s reflection on the vast sea. Once he sees it, there is no looking away.

The worst part is that Dazai is at the mercy of someone who he has yet to see or identify. It is worrisome that he is so easily swayed by everything. When the staff step inside the room to see why Dazai has yet to come out, they rush to his aid as he is convulsing and gasping for air on the floor. His lungs feel as though they are collapsing. The world is visible in dark, muddled splotches.

This isn’t the first time he has had a non-epileptic seizure. Back in the Mafia they were something he would have to watch out for. His consciousness is waxing and waning. He sees different things at different points. Somewhere along the way he thinks he sees Akutagawa’s face twisted with despair above him. Next, he sees a strange, fuzzy, white ceiling and feels a hand gently squeezing his forearm.

When he finally wakes from the episode, he doesn’t have the slightest idea what has happened. He is assuredly in some sort of an ER. There is a vase with assorted flowers seated on a table alongside the bed that Dazai is laid out on. Beside him are a great many machines, but none of them seem to be for him, save for an IV cannula inside of his arm, burning numbly. He instantly removes the IV, biting his lip in the process. Dazai doesn’t like pain. The window’s curtains are parted, and the sun seems to have a staring contest with the light-headed detective. The scene is one that has played out before him numerous times. Hospitable beds are as familiar to him as his own. He isn’t called a suicidal maniac for nothing.

Still, what caused the hospital visit this time? Had he attempted something? If so, it is strange that he has no recollection of it. Unfulfilled questions are too much for him right now. He reaches over despite how exhausted his body feels and is about to press the nurse call button. Then, the thought occurs to him. Is he really in the mood to explain that he almost accidentally killed himself? It is such an awkward process. It would be better to leave the hospital before anyone realizes that Dazai has awakened. He braces himself on the edge of the bed and carefully tries to stand. Right as his feet hit the ground, he falls to the floor as a flood of memories races through him with such intensity that he thinks it misplaces his skull. Babysitting Q. Akutagawa and Atsushi. Aquarium. Escape room. The watcher. He covers his face with trembling hands.

How had he almost forgotten that he had held hands with the lord? He isn’t worthy of their time. Dazai decides that he must have passed out from overexertion and that is what brought him here. Is new double black waiting for him outside the door, or have they gone home? Akutagawa is most likely standing right outside the door with bloodshot eyes. He will be standing there a lot longer if that is the case.

Dazai eventually wills himself to stand. He is so fatigued. When he arrives home, the first thing he will do is sleep. Hibernation sounds like a better plan, actually. First, he must leave the hospital. He looks out the window, smirking at the implication. A room on the lowest floor? What kind of heaven is this? Furthermore, none of that terrible wire mesh is over the window. He can get out as long as he cuts the window screen. It seems he has been blessed by the watcher. Maybe they did not leave him out of anger. Perhaps they just wanted to leave before Dazai took his blindfold down. They have not given up on him. Thank God. Literally.

Dazai suddenly looks down, noticing that he is in a hospital gown. His clothing is folded neatly on a chair in the corner of the room. He hurries over to it and changes. Following this, he removes the switchblade from his pocket (in disbelief that it wasn’t confiscated) and proceeds to the window. Tearing into it brings such a strong sense of déjà vu. The last time he escaped from a hospital was when he was still in a partnership with-…No, do not think about it now. Those times will never return, and they don’t need to. Dazai has the watcher now. They are all that he needs.

He carefully manipulates his frail body through the opened window. The fresh, cool air splays his hair about and helps him remember how to breathe. That is too bad. He prefers having his breath taken away by the watcher to breathing. Still, he closes the window and dashes toward the nearest tree. Now he is the one hiding behind trees. Is the watcher’s influence rubbing off on him? Hopefully so.

“Remember when we met? I thought you were the only one in the world who could see me. But now I realize that you are as blind to me as can be, Chuuya. I hope you’re finding new happiness, because I finally am now, too.” His own words make him somewhat emotional. It isn’t fair to the watcher. All of Dazai’s emotions should be for their eyes only. Chuuya is a great barricade that Dazai knows he will never fully break down. And maybe he doesn’t need to. The Mafioso can remain a shattered fragment of what Dazai’s desires once were. There is always some comfort to be found in retrospection, in farewells. Throw his heart to the sky.

Dazai surveys his surroundings, instantly realizing that this hospital is the one nearest his house. He can arrive home in a matter of minutes. Everything would be perfect if only the watcher could come with him. Walking home is quite grueling, as you can probably imagine. If he doesn’t have a day to rest and slow down soon, he might die of something other than suicide. Fukuzawa suspended him from work for one reason and one alone: peace of the body and mind. As tacky as it sounds, that sounds like just what he needs right about now. When he arrives home, he should take a bath. He’d already had a shower the day prior, but relaxation is hard to acquire. Floating mindlessly in the water had always been a surefire way to unwind.

Leaves crunch beneath his feet. It sounds oddly alike to bones crunching. Are his bones being crushed? Ah, but it is nothing other than a trick of the mind. The fall winds are turning frostier, a sign of winter’s approach. The breeze reminds him of times without air. When he had tried to end his own life via asphyxiation. Ah, good times. Now he has no need to fantasize about such a thing anymore. How lovely it would be if the one to hold the bag over his head would be his very own god. However, Dazai has his doubts about whether the watcher would oblige. They are obviously no stranger to danger. Even if their kill count cannot possibly reach Dazai’s own, they are still impressive simply because they are the watcher. When the detective makes it out of the oblivion, he will likely be spared thanks to them. Scary and serene, walking side by side in a vicious tandem.

Arriving home has the relief that is brought when returning home from a vacation. Never has a house looked so on par with the pearly gates. Walking up the sidewalk feels drawn-out because overwhelming thoughts creep into Dazai’s mind. He met the watcher today. They touched him. They spoke with him. Their tone had been as beautiful as a symphony even when their voice had been obstructed. So what of their real voice? Perhaps it is a good thing that he has yet to hear it. If the sound travels through his core for even a moment, he fears it may explode. His god is the envy of the universe. No mythology or literature matters anymore. There is now confirmation of a deity existing. Dazai’s fingers had been intertwined with a God’s. His offering for his God is his soul. It isn’t much, but something transcends nothing.

Upon entering his house and locking the door behind him, a divine smell fills his nose and advises him to find the source. It smells like a fucking bakery. “Don’t tell me…” In the kitchen lies a bow-wrapped box with a small note slid inside the bow. This could only be the work of one holy individual. He rushes toward the gift and opens it, careful to remove the note lest it accidentally tears. Detached from the bothers of life. Understanding some things, not everything, and accepting it. Warmth filling cold crevices like the sun on an azure lake. Dazai fiddles with the collar of his shirt using unsteady fingers. There are six large donuts. Three with chocolate-flavored icing, three with strawberry flavor. Pink, white, and red sprinkles are lined along the donuts. The donuts are shaped like hearts. Did the watcher buy him donuts? Now this is the last possible thing he would expect.

How…sickeningly sweet, referring to both the donuts and the watcher. Dazai lifts the box in search of a price sticker. There is nothing of the sort in sight. Without hesitation, he begins reading the note.

------

“Osamu Dazai, apologies are not my forte. This is not due to egocentricity, I think. Rather I do not interact with those who deserve such clemencies. You, however, are an exception to this ideology. Had I known you would end up hospitalized over our meeting I would not have initiated it. You do not really care if my actions nearly kill you, do you? I do not care either. Regardless of this, a God has no true holiness if he ignores his wrongdoings. Can you feel me in this air? Are you shivering as you read this? Perhaps you should eat one of the donuts I prepared for you. I made them myself. My apologies if they are not up to par. I had to follow a recipe, as this is my first time preparing dessert. I also apologize, that I have overburdened you. Hopefully your results during hospitalization are not too worrisome. Sleep well.”

-Your watcher

------

Dazai is at a loss for words. The note flutters down onto the counter as he reaches up to cover his forehead with his palms. Staring at the ground for minutes on end has never been so entertaining. Despite how strongly the watcher is hiding behind feigned, sophisticated tongue, their display of compunction is...adorable. They took their time to make Dazai donuts as an apology for overwhelming him. Oh, lord, how is he supposed to live on? Soon enough, a genuine, soft smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. The worshipped has apologized to the worshipper.

An apology has never felt quite so good before. Yes, open up more. The impending doom of heartbreak had closed Dazai’s heart for the longest time. Unwelcomed sounds and touches had warped his view of humanity. No more friendships. Now look at him, working toward one day befriending the lord. The bath is a lovely place to pray, he decides, as he opens his lips and holds the donut between them. The venture to his bathroom is like walking through fields of daises under sapphire skies. This is his purpose.

Avoiding looking into the mirror, Dazai begins undressing both his bandages and clothing. The night can change to daytime so swiftly. He sees this now. This is where life becomes something more than terror. Even with his bare skin tingling from the cold room, the warmth overtaking his heart has no problem drowning it out. Dazai takes a bite of the donut, humming at the sweetness that caresses his tongue. He hadn’t even liked donuts before. Now they are his favorite dessert.

This is the product of the watcher’s first attempt at making them? It makes sense that God learns fast and succeeds faster. Dazai chews further into the donut, surprised at the jelly filling inside, while being careful not to let it fall out of his mouth as he starts the bath. He grabs vanilla body wash and pours some into the warm, flowing bath water. The smell is almost as good as the donut.

Dazai is the only person who can go from being miserable and hospitalized to enjoying an incredible donut in a calming bath in a matter of hours. Do you know what could improve the atmosphere further? Dazai quickly dashes to the kitchen and retrieves his phone before returning to the bath. He finds a classical music playlist and places his phone on the counter. Now this is heaven. The only downside is that God is not there to greet him at the pearly gates. Wait, what is he thinking? The watcher is someone he idolizes, not fantasizes about. He thinks this as he imagines the watcher’s naked body entangled with Dazai’s own in the rippling water.

Entering the water is even more euphoric than anticipated. His body seems to melt and meld with the water. He lies his head back against the back of the bathtub, simultaneously draping his arms around the edges. His head is just high enough above the water to avoid his donut being submerged. Dazai had not eaten all day. As much as he should savor his savior’s handiwork, his stomach is objecting irritatingly, and he is feeling far too tranquil to fight back. He penetrates the dessert with his teeth, his eyes lidded at the feeling of the jelly decorating his tongue. “Ah, my lord…” The sound of his own voice startles him to the point where he almost drops his donut. Shame swallows him whole even harder than he swallows the bite of his dessert.

The music surges significantly as if to intensify the awkward and indeterminate situation. How dare he think of the lord in such vile ways. Old habits never do die down, do they? Just a few years ago Dazai had been in the same bath with the same elation, the main difference being his object of worship, Chuuya Nakahara. Now his adoration is for the right one. This time the adored is also the adorer. Dazai’s interest is not one-sided.

Just as he is about to have eaten half of the donut, his phones rings loudly from the counter. Dazai jolts instinctively. Water splashes everywhere, and the donut flies into the air. Dazai reaches for it, and the event seems to transpire in slow motion like some sort of comedy skit. The donut hits the water hard, and said water dashes upwards and into Dazai’s shocked face. Dazai scrambles to retrieve the donut from the water. Rest in pieces to the watcher’s hard work. Great.

The detective has taken his God’s offering for granted. He was never fucking worthy of their kindness. The phone call better have disturbed him for good reason. Dazai’s body shivers and drips water all over the bathroom mat as he dries his hands before reaching for his phone. His face droops in frustration. Akutagawa? Really? Hadn’t Dazai blocked his number?

“Akutagawa-kun, you’ve just disturbed me from bathing. What is so important that you called me at this hour? Are you worried because I left the ER?” All that Dazai hears in response is choked breathing and-…are those sobs?... Oh no, what has the Port Mafia’s bloodhound done now?

“D-Dazai-san…” Akutagawa stops himself, seemingly ashamed for stuttering. That isn’t the part that he should be ashamed of, but hey, at least he is a little self-aware. “The discharge summary… You should have stayed,” Now Dazai’s attention is all on Akutagawa. Even Dazai who cares for himself about as much as he cares for an insect feels concern. “…Go on.”

“I had been asked many questions, and one of them was about your medical history in the past. I had told the doctors about your non-epileptic seizures…I do not want to be the one to inform you of this, but they were not NES. You have epilepsy, Dazai-san. You had not been passed out the whole time at the hospital. You were awake for a duration of your stay, but it seems you do not remember it. An electroencephalogram had been conducted. You need to contact your neurologist as soon as you can.” Dazai’s jaw drops to the floor. He has…epilepsy? Well, this is a…fascinating turn of events…”Creep inside if you dare, even if I die, my watcher.”

Chapter Text

The watcher’s seraphic existence justifies Dazai’s compulsion, doesn’t it? It isn’t all about what you see. A relationship such as theirs is more commonplace than one might come to conclude. Just as music fans dedicate fan pages to singers and television show fans write fanfiction about their favorite characters, Dazai is simply showing respect towards what he is compassionate about.

His way of doing so is simply a bit unorthodox in the regard that he reveres the watcher for the worst of reasons. Their cold treatment to others but kind treatment of Dazai is just what he has been missing all of this time. Someone to devote their kindness to Dazai if Dazai devotes his whole being to them in return. He will not let his hero die. That is why it is so difficult for him to move his pen over the paper.

It is the next morning following his discovery of his disease. Dazai had simply said “I appreciate the information, Akutagawa-kun,” and then hung up on him. The watcher deserves to know about this if they haven’t deduced it already. But how should he tell them? Dazai knows that they are not so insensitive as to look down on him over a condition that is out of his control. He also knows, however, that this will affect the watcher in somewhat of a negative way. They do want to know more about the detective, but is information such as this truly what they are seeking out? Even if it is not, Dazai must muster the courage to tell them.

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“My watcher, the donuts you made for me are out of this world. I appreciate them very much. As for the other aspect of your apology, do not blame yourself. You had not been the cause of my misfortune. My life has been turning in multiple different directions at once, and perhaps that is in part because of your presence in my life, but change is something that I fear no longer, thanks to you. Just as swiftly as things sour, they sweeten all the stronger so long as I continue on. I never want these interactions of ours to run dry. I cherish each of your letters. I read them all repeatedly each and every day. As surprising as it may be, it is almost as if I now know more about you than you know about me. I know that isn’t the case, but it is how I feel. Therefore, I thought that I couldn’t keep this from you, no matter what. Even gods cannot prevent curses being spread to those deserving of them. I have epilepsy. My seizures in the past were not non-epileptic. I’m supposed to go to a neurologist soon, but I do not think I want to. What do you think I should do?”

-Osamu Dazai

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Just as he had done before, he opens his front door and tapes the note beside the doorknob. Dazai is changing into something new. He is a new being emerged from the high that comes with passion. The watcher is changing him for the better. Even considering the bad things that come from the butterflies, this novel pair is sure to continue on until Dazai’s last breath, for if it doesn’t, Dazai will become hollow all over again. Disease stands no chance. The lord will protect him with their wisdom. Though, admittedly, the detective is suffering with longing. Nefariously falling is the ability to walk another step.

If the simplest of glove-covered touch has afflicted him so, what would happen if it went further? Dazai covers his mouth with the back of his fist. Snap out of it. This day needs to be a normal one. Only four days remain until he must return to the agency. Until Atsushi will get the apology that he so definitely deserves. One hundred days and nights seem to have passed in just the last week. This day is reserved for Osamu Dazai’s self-reflection and self-indulgence. Give himself the break that anyone other than him warrants.

The house resembles that of a cage, today. The roof looks as though it touches the sky. Dazai feels small. Willingly locking oneself in a cage. Humans do that day-to-day without an ounce of realization. Houses are just deluxe prison cells when you really think of it. Locked inside and without company, in Dazai’s case. When he enters his house, his heart deflates in his chest. Pictures the watcher’s divine figure sitting pretty at the dining table, forking whipped-cream adorned waffles, (courtesy of Dazai’s cooking), into their mouth.

There is just one dilemma when it comes to such a fantasy. The supposedly intelligent and crafty detective only knows how to whip up some instant-ramen and a side of sake. What in the hell should he do if provided with the chance to give offerings to his holy heart-crusher? Hand god themselves a bowl of off-brand cereal? The watcher doesn’t seem so cynical as to abandon their worshipper so easily, but come on now. That is when the productive plan for the day is made clear.

Step one, research ingredients needed for waffles, because God forbid Dazai know a single culinary procedure. Step two, fight the laziness and depression so he can actually go to the store and buy the needed ingredients. Step three, buy what is needed and steal a few other things along the way before returning to the cage. The final step is the trickiest. Make some waffles.

Dazai’s to-do-list for the day is one that even a teenager can follow flawlessly, quickly, and without meticulous planning. What a miserable, shameful life he lives. To be fair, it isn’t that Dazai does not know how to do basic human things out of laziness, but rather it is an effect of self-contempt. He retrieves his phone, disgracefully typing in “ingredients needed for waffles.” He screenshots it with a small sigh. Stranger’s faces are almost as daunting as Dazai’s own, which is quite impressive, but he cannot back out of this plan. Can he really call himself a man if he fails to make some fucking waffles? No, scratch that, can he even call himself a human?

There aren’t as many ingredients as he had anticipated. Running to the store will be speedy and his anxiety will vice him at a tolerable extent. As per usual, the detective’s limbs are like anchors on his motivation, heavy and protesting as he gathers his wallet, keys, coat, and phone. Dazai prays to his deity that today will go smoothly. No seizures, no surprises, no stalling. Please do not drive him crazy, if only for one day, universe. The answer boils down to war. Do not beg questions that ail you, people insist, but man craves vehemence like an addiction. Internal war, external war…everyone is fighting a war, to live. So why does Dazai live to face the concept of genocide, instead? The short end of the stick is tied to his neck like a noose.

He drifts to his car feeling even lighter than the star-like seeds descending from the moon of a dandelion’s final phase. Along the windshield is a note. The watcher. Had they written this note before Dazai wrote his own, or had they quickly done so after reading it? He places what he is holding on the hood of the car and scrambles to read the contents of what his God has left for him.

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“Osamu Dazai, as your ally, I do wish you the best of health. As my accomplice, you should know that I have some ailments of my own and I tend to them as I must. Do not be so ignorant as to deny yourself the God-given right of treatment. You are already quite familiar with such things, am I wrong? Were they forced upon you at some point? Is that where your hesitancy is derived from? We are isolated, you and I, in a realm of agony known to our eyes and ours alone. We share more than you could ever know. However pernicious of an effect that I seem to be casting upon you, my efforts will one day strike a chord within you. I will reach inside of you, teach you of my creation, elimination, and devastation, so long as you are in good enough health to hear me out. Take my words as you will. I believe you a fool if you ignore an urgent aspect of your life such as this. Creep inside if you dare to sacrifice your own desires for mine, if only once.”

-Your watcher

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Incandescence. Brighter than the glint of Dazai’s razors when they run along his skin, impactful as it is wounding, the watcher’s words seem to pull particularly hard at Dazai’s heartstrings. Hidden behind the wall of verses, behind the masquerade, is a demonstration of a person caring for another. The watcher does not necessarily prove themselves as a human who feels and knows, but they do, however, prove that they know what Dazai wants to hear. They do not seem to have any intentions of playing games that are rigged. They are giving Dazai the opportunity to be an equal.

The watcher is God. Dazai is an angel by their side. Is that how they view him? Something other than a walking time bomb? Something worth putting effort into saving? Not something…someone. A person. Not an object to taunt and discard of. Dazai’s prayers have been answered. Thank you, holy beholder.

This is no deleterious sex. This is a mental connection like no other. All of the other people in Dazai’s life are so shallowly associated to him, such blurs that flicker in and out as they pass him by. The watcher is the one risk with guaranteed merit. Dazai gently folds the letter and slides it into his pocket, the movement routine by this point. All right, to the store. Entering the car isn’t so much of a chore anymore. How heavenly of a being to turn a sour endeavor into a sweet one.

The store is quite close, so it does not take long to arrive there, despite the soft drizzle of rain that pitter-patters along Dazai’s car. Rain can be so cozy, so long as it introduces itself in moderation. The waffles had better turn out nice, because tomorrow will be yet another grueling day. Upon the brief influence of the watcher, Dazai is going to contact a neurologist. Fighting the urge to shrug off any semblance of self-care. Any fight is one worth enduring for the lord.

The shopping plaza is packed like bricks and mortar. Ah, a wonderful sign of how the simple trip to the store will not be so simple after all. Complete chaos ensues when terrible driver meets terrible parking lot. After almost backing into the trunk of a car, Dazai finally finds an open spot, one of which is furthest from the store’s entrance. He could use the walk…is what he would like to say, but his body screams otherwise.

Exiting the car is only endurable because the observer has graced him with their tongue and almost-tender treatment. “You can’t do, a double suicide, just by yourself…grab a friend…face the beauty of death, hand in hand…” The lord’s light is shining so heavily down on him. The darkness is no longer welcomed here.

When Dazai arrives at the entrance of the store, he sees something quite…unexpected. Chuuya Nakahara of the Port Mafia is leaned against the wall beside the automatic doors. Also beside him is Gin Akutagawa. Are they on some sort of a mission? Picking up supplies? Best not to get involved. Dazai stares at the ground and tries to pass by them undetected. “Hey, isn’t that Dazai? Has he followed us here, Chuuya?” The redhead’s neck twists in a similar fashion to an owl in the direction that Gin is pointing.

“For fucks sake, what is he doing here? I’m not shopping here if he’ll be here now! Let’s go to a different store,” Gin sighs at Chuuya’s child-like anger. She isn’t ignorant to double black’s past relations. What could have separated them in such a way? “Aww, come on, Chuuya. We probably won’t even see him again in there. It would be a waste to drive elsewhere…”

Dazai is already in the store, traipsing past crowds of people in an attempt to find the baking aisle. Why are stores laid out in such a complicated way? The detective is far too blinded by obsession to play I-Spy. Avalanches of anxiety are surrounding him. So many people, so many stares. His bandages peek out from beneath his sleeves and greet them without his consent. It brings intensely shameful wreckage. When he approaches the aisle he was looking for, to find it is void of people, it helps calm his heart, if only a little. Ah, he forgot to grab a cart. “I salute you, shit-for-brains.” Now he is talking to himself, what next?

Returning to the front entrance feeds into his hedonistic need for the watcher. Jumping hurdles is just what pleases them. Oh, how he desires to please them in any and every way possible. The people in the store are less terrifying, now. He pushes a cart to the aisle, cursing himself when he realizes he got the one with a bad wheel.

The idea of possessing some form of psychosis lately had never really crossed his mind. Now he wonders if he is the craziest man to walk the face of the earth. In the baking aisle is, yet again, Gin Akutagawa and Nakahara Chuuya. What are they doing in the one place that Dazai needs to be? When the Mafioso turns to him, his fists almost immediately flare up with crimson anger.

“I knew it! You’re following Gin and I. Why do you keep tormenting me?! What do you want from me, damned Dazai?!” Dazai cowers, deciding that awkwardly heading to a different aisle may be best. Just as he turns around to do so, however, a sudden force stronger than a pack of wild beasts sends him flying into shelves. The world seems to disintegrate for a moment.

All there is…is a cold, red light beckoning him to follow it. Is this it? Is hell claiming him? Has the watcher decided him unworthy to join them in heaven? If that is the case, death even by Chuuya might not be so agonizing. There is not a single thing to live for, if not for the watcher. When his eyes finally peel open, the first thing he sees is a hoard of strangers crowded around him as though he is a zoo’s finest exhibit. “…Got away! Check the cameras, whoever did this to the poor man shouldn’t get…” “…my god…” What are these voices? Where have Chuuya and Gin gone to now? Have they left? Has his life been spared?

He huffs sharply, his eyes darting down to his arms, which are splayed limply along his limbs. He instantly pieces together the situation. He’d been thrown into shelves full of glass jars. Glass shards litter his lap, one or two still stuck loosely in his wrists and forearms. His wrists, his wrists are bleeding. Blood oozes out of them like paint dribbling down a canvas. The extent of his injuries wouldn’t happen just from crashing into the glass jars.

Chuuya must’ve done something further to make him bleed. “….Sir! Can you hear me, sir?” A man presses a hand to Dazai’s pulse. Why can’t you be here, Dazai pleads to his lord as people try to support Dazai on their shoulders. It’s just a few cuts, no different from the usual. Now he is getting attention, which in this moment feels like his least favorite thing in the world.

He musters enough strength to break free from the strangers’ holds. Before anyone can question him further, he dashes toward the exit of the store, relieved that the police have yet to arrive. He should have known that he couldn’t handle a single normal thing. Crystals of snow are falling; they flutter gracefully down, down until they catch Dazai’s torn bandages, his wounds. It is exhilarating, limping toward his car breathlessly as people dash after him. It is funny that they think they are helping, by chasing him down as if he is some feral stray.

Snow in late fall, perhaps a premonition that everything that is ugly is always shadowed by something beautiful. There is another note on the windshield of his car. The watcher cannot go a day without writing to him. Wait until they hear about this one. They’ll be writing essays to Dazai following it. He flinches as he hurriedly picks out the glass shards that had pierced his flesh.

The snow seems to pick up along with his speed. He realizes, glancing down despite his head spinning like a top, that his pants are torn and slightly bloody as well. That explains why moving is somehow proving even harder than usual. Dazai has a life-or-death choice. Leave the note, and drive off, resulting in the note getting lost in the snowy winds. Or retrieve the note, and get caught by the store’s worried staff. He wheezes, the snow burning his face so thoroughly that tears prick at the corners of his dilated eyes. The watcher will have to rewrite to him.

Dazai almost tears the car door off in his desperation to get inside. “I’m fine! Leave me alone, I don’t…ah, I don’t want to hit any of you! That wouldn’t be a fun double suicide for me!” Dazai’s hands are slippery due to the sheer amount of blood dripping along them. The biggest shock of the day is when tears, icier than the snow, streak down his cheeks like icicles on clogged gutters.

“Wait! You are in no condition to drive! Sir-“ Dazai starts his car, albeit shakily, albeit he can hardly turn the key. His eyes are glazed with tears. Seeing is something that seems ultimately impossible. Dazai nonetheless pulls out of the parking lot, whimpering with twitching eyes at the sight of his blood-drenched clothing. “Oh, lord, oh, my savior, why must you hide yourself when you are needed m-most?”

Holding hands with them had been something Dazai had taken for granted. Their touch is the one thing that could inspire flames warm enough to soothe his frozen body. He is so tired. Should he drive off of the nearest bridge? The water surely couldn’t be any colder than he already is. Even death must be warmer than Dazai is now.

Dazai sees the note flutter away, the snowflakes curtaining it in their melancholic presence. Dazai cries vocally. He cries as though a loved one’s passing has been unveiled right before him. That analogy doesn’t really work with him, though, as he was never loved by his family, just looked after...sometimes. When the events of the day finally settle, when the detective has a moment to think, it dawns on him. The few he has once loved all hurt him in some way or another. What if that pattern continues? Especially after losing the watcher’s note…

Dazai’s eyes glimmer like the deepest twilights, as bronzed as pennies, glimmering as though all of the stars in the sky have been derived from said pupils. This feels worse than when he presses razorblades into his thighs, too. Not the physical distress, no, if anything it is a nice way to drown out the agony of his deteriorating mental state. Driving home is so dark and dismal that the detective questions whether he might actually be dead. Can apparitions drive vehicles? It’s like there is a room with a single strip of spikes on the ground, and he ends up trudging through the spikes every time, despite the other safe places. Does Dazai Osamu crave pain?

His house looks completely different from earlier. His house is the one place in the world that isn’t a cage. Why should he fight back? If not a soul on earth cares to fight for him…it seems rather pointless. Even the iciest of humans cannot shoulder everything on their own. Dazai must be liquid nitrogen, then. He is already slouched over his sofa, eyes seeming to trace the dribble of blood from somewhere far away.

Moments do not seem to pass by anymore. There doesn’t even seem to be a body left over. Just a floating, lost conscience among billions of bystanders. Dazai is the one inhuman human on planet earth. He is secluded. He is mocked. Not even the watcher lacks so wholly in humanity. Or at least, they sure seem more capable than Dazai. At some point, the detective manages to lift his body off of the couch. His cuts do not seem pleased. They tingle, and the pain seems to take root in his flesh, spreading thorns throughout it.

The toll becomes too much to pay. His legs buckle beneath him when he enters the kitchen, but not before catching a glimpse of the counter. There is a neat row of every ingredient Dazai had on his shopping list that had gotten lost somewhere along the way. Beside the ingredients is a large roll of bandages, some disinfectant wipes, and a folded note, the warmest of the tragedies. Idiosyncratically, thirst and fretfulness consume him. Dazai wants the watcher to dig their fingers into his wounds and fill said wounds with their blood. He wants to consume them, their very essence, and meld with their holy existence.

The gashes seem to close up with magical glitter and chimes of celebration. Rain clouds are blown away by the north wind. Dazai ascends to the heavens, and falls right back down when he recalls that he has yet to read this newly written note. He hoists himself up by grabbing the edge of the counter; otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to stand.

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“Osamu Dazai, Chuuya Nakahara has been taken care of.”

-Your Watcher

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Dazai drops the note to the ground. His lip twitches, and then his eyebrows, then his eyes, until everything is trembling and widening. The thing that expands the most is his chest. He wheezes for breath so loudly that it might be mistaken for sounds of intercourse. With every pace, he thinks it might be more and more plausible that he got some sort of speed boost power up. Dazai sprints back to the couch, putting pressure on his right leg when it pulses with the punching, breathtaking feeling that comes with being cut.

He fumbles for his phone, and when he notices a missed call from Chuuya, his stomach hollows out with abysmal adrenaline. Calling back is like walking off a cliff. It leads to voicemail, and Chuuya’s usual “if I don’t pick up, it means you aren’t worth my time, asshole,” sends shivers down his spine for the first time.

Is he bleeding out? Has he been killed? Can Dazai do anything now? He rushes to his medicine cabinet for some painkillers. Chuuya tears Dazai’s body up, and in return, the pathetic detective comes running after him like some malnourished magnet. Malnourished, hardly able to see ahead, vertigo taking its course, yet still diving into an onslaught of fire for his ex-partner. This is the first time Dazai truly doubts the watcher.

The first place he decides to check is the alleyway where the victims from the previous case had been dumped. If luck were to once stand beside him, Chuuya could be on a defibrillator in a hospital bed. That chance is lower than Dazai’s gritty frown as he limps tiredly in the direction of the alleyway. Snow situates itself in his hair. The cold weather mercifully numbs his soreness. His limbs feel torn, rearranged, molded into some silly putty. Putty for the watcher to manipulate as they see fit.

Fuck the waffle ingredients, fuck the bandages, fuck the wipes, and fuck the watcher. Dazai must save Chuuya. It spins like a broken record, scratching on his somehow-unscathed skull. He doesn’t harbor any sort of connection toward the Mafioso anymore. That is what he tells himself as hundreds of images flash before his eyes.

Chuuya Nakahara chasing after Dazai on a snowy winter’s afternoon, chucking tightly packed snowballs at him. The two men chuckling as they fall on top of each other, limbs entangled, radiating so much warmth that the snow melts in jealousy.

The smaller plucking at the strings of the guitar that his friend had gifted him. Dazai situating himself behind Chuuya, wrapping his fingers around Chuuya’s, guiding his hands over the proper strings.

Dazai screaming out playfully, while Chuuya cries in genuine fear as the rollercoaster drops from its peak. Them holding onto each other, feeling youthful and immortal on the intense ride.

If someone were to start playing some violin and piano composition, it would describe what Dazai is feeling perfectly. Melancholy, desire, regret, determination…It boils inside of him until tears are yet again bubbling down his face, shimmering as they are masked by the glistening snowflakes. Chuuya has always been too good for him. Dazai had been so enslaved by the watcher…he had forgotten about the first person who had cared for him. He had contempt for Chuuya when Chuuya wasn’t even the one who had ended things.

Dazai had only done so out of fear. He was overwhelmed. Love was so foreign, so terrifying in its depth, far too harmonically soul crushing for him to handle. Too young. Dazai is older now. He can handle it, so Chuuya cannot leave now, not when he has so much to say to him. The sudden change of heart is abrupt, but the whole day has been the exact same. The beating had been deserved. Dazai will take it one hundred times over if it means he can still reach him.

When he turns the corner of the alleyway, he instantly sees his past lover, (recognizing such a name makes the tears fall harder), sprawled out on the ground, the glow of corruption fading in and out along his face and arms. It is hard to discern blood from ability.

The knife is shallowly sticking out of his stomach. It seems the wound isn’t deep enough to kill…Still, who is the watcher? Who in this world could possibly physically outperform Dazai’s twin dark? “Chuuya! Can you hear me, Chuuya, are you still there?” Dazai kneels beside the bloodied redhead. His hand gently slides along his sweat-dampened forehead, and corruption fizzles away. “D…Dimwit Dazai, what the hell are you doing here? I just beat-…beat the shit out of you, earlier,” It seems Chuuya is going to survive, if he is able to maintain his usual attitude. Chuuya rolls on his side. He cannot even face Dazai, as if doing so would be even more excruciating than his current situation.

Admittedly, Dazai knew since reading the note that the watcher likely wouldn’t have killed Chuuya, but would’ve instead incapacitated him for his crimes. For them to go so easy on him with a single stab wound, though, instead of totally crippling him-...definitely not an event on Dazai’s agenda.

“Who did this to you? What did they look like? How did they sound? Do you recognize them? Please tell me anything you know.” Please is a word that seems to shake the smaller man. Had Dazai once said that word with anything other than sarcasm before? “The fucker who stabbed me was dressed in all black, he had a black mask on, and I couldn’t even see his hair. He didn’t speak a word either. Just came up and stabbed me while I was having a damn smoke,” Chuuya shakily points over at his cigarette stub as Dazai wraps his own jacket around Chuuya’s waist. …He? So, the watcher is a man, after all? Perhaps Chuuya could tell by his build. Dazai still sees the watcher as his God, but there are two disappointments.

The watcher is a man. The detective truly, stupidly had been hopeful for a woman or someone without a gender or some other identity, just not a man. Every time he builds a connection with a man, they end up dying, abusing him, or trying to kill him. The bigger deal, obviously, is that the watcher has just tried to take Dazai’s twin dark away from him.

Dazai ached for the watcher’s touch. For a while, that is all that was desired. Now, he aches for Chuuya’s touch, too. This is so very complicated. “Let’s get you to a hospital. You’ll owe me one after your little outburst in the store,” Dazai says with a tsk. The Mafioso scoffs, but it sounds more like a scratchy whine.

The two of them contribute to the dead-silence of the snowfall. Dazai supports Chuuya on his shoulder, pushing him back up when he stumbles. Both of them share wounds. They share trembling breaths, both internally agreeing not to admit how good it feels to, well, feel each other again. Dazai lies Chuuya down across the backseats of his car. “Now I’m gonna have chibi cooties in my car.” Lightening the mood is quite impossible in this scenario, Dazai quickly realizes.

His wounds itch furiously as he begins driving to the hospital. The silence is unnervingly calming. No music on the radio, no words being exchanged, rolled-up windows to barricade the sounds of other vehicles. “How’d you know that I had been stabbed? How did you find me?” The question simmers in a pot of secrecy that Dazai simply cannot share.

“I know you like to make everything about yourself, but I’ve been slashed up pretty good too simply for wanting to pick up some groceries. I’m not obligated to a single one of your questions, now, am I?” Evasions and dodging. Thoughts of complete defeat flutter about him, moths to flames. If he were to tell one person about the watcher’s existence, it would have to be Chuuya, right? Surely that day will never come. “I want us to undress in front of each other when we can leave this joint,” Dazai almost crashes his car for the tenth time in the past few weeks.

So, he hasn’t gotten over him, after all. Chuuya just might understand him after all. The way the redhead can pick him apart is different from how the watcher can. Of course, they are different people, after all. So why does Dazai alternate between imagining lying over the both of them in bed?

Ignoring questions must be about the only thing he is good at. “We’re parked a little far from the entrance. Do you think you can make it there with just my help?” “I’m not fucking crippled or anything! And you’re well aware I’ve been stabbed before, dick-beater Dazai!” That is no way to talk to someone who is helping you out... Then again, Chuuya was never an advocate for respecting those around him, especially not bandage-wrapped buffoons.

Off the wall as it may be, it is more sinister if anything. Not a fully unbelievable reconcile, but one that feels more like an enclosure than a freedom. Ah, that is not a good sign, is it? Dazai feels bound to Chuuya by the sturdiest of chains. It seems the only way to deal with such a thing is to surrender to it. Love and desire are more powerful than hatred and misunderstanding, if Dazai wants to take the office poster route. The sentiment feels heavier than a boulder to a spine. Contort into whatever little box the redhead has trapped you in, Dazai. Double black slowly but surely limp to the hospital’s entrance.

The petite flurries of snow tickle Dazai’s neck. It feels peculiarly warm, perhaps because it reminds him of the feel of a certain someone’s breath. Is the watcher all there really is in this world? Is he mad for turning him a blind eye? Well, it isn’t an injustice for Dazai to behave in such a way. If the clock were to tick, tick, tick away, until time was no longer a concept, what would become of the universe? To brief on that, what came first, the chicken or the egg, oh wise one? He will never know if he disposes of his God now. Maybe he does not need to know.

Chuuya’s blood paints the blue and white, tic-tac patterned floor a glorious shade of vermillion. The man at the front desk adjusts his glasses and calls for assistance, as though this is something he sees every day. In the blink of an eye, four men dash toward Chuuya, carrying a wheeled hospital bed. Dazai scoffs, completely ignored. Though perhaps it is better that they have yet to pay him any mind. He has come to despise the male existence.

Okay, maybe he is overreacting a little, but the watcher truly draws the most feral reactions out of him…Men only think of themselves. Dazai knows this. He has a penis, and God he wishes he did not, but case in point, he knows from experience. He begs for time, time to confirm whether the watcher is truly a man. Depending on the answer, there is still a chance for his God to be the one. Wait, why is he thinking of him when Chuuya is bleeding cats and dogs?!

When the detective is done spacing out, he realizes he is on one of the beds as well, being wheeled to some room as voices spin about like vegetables in soup. They are muddled, barely breaking the surface.

He has only been gashed up by some glass. Yes, the wounds are deep, yes, blood is drying on one of his favorite outfits, and yes, he needs stitches, but he much would’ve preferred simply waiting in a chair for the results on Chuuya to come out. When he tries to open his mouth, his lips tremble, and soon it sets in that his whole body is convulsive all over. Just fucking swell. Is this another one of his seizures? Come on, must this happen at such a time?

He can just barely feel his arms jolting in various directions, his torso stiff and somehow limp simultaneously. It is so embarrassing that people can see him like this. He must look like a flopping fish out of water. It is pretty bad when you look like a bigger idiot than Chuuya.

Lorazepam is something he is no stranger to. It dawns on his mind, that perhaps that is why he so rarely arranges meetings with women. Perhaps why he hates his groin as well. In fact, Dazai’s got some in his medicine cabinet somewhere among infinity others. This is making him out to be such a terrible person. That is not wrong. It’s true, yet it still manages to wound the rapidly beating heart. This must be what defeat feels like. Chuuya has defeated him, disease has defeated him, the watcher has defeated him, and most of all he has defeated himself. Salvation seems to exist on the other side of the universe.

A blur, whirling about like optical illusions. What a mural it is to lose control. Masterpieces are made from mistakes. Fifty shades of green and brown on a canvas, an evergreen tree, which is suddenly stained with a shade of sapphire. It makes the tree look all the more beautiful, as though the moonlight is cast upon it. This is not just an analogy, either.

Whilst drifting Dazai seems to recall a memory of his childhood. In class, his hand had slipped from his palette, and he’d smudged blue paint all over a painting that he had worked on for days. Except his hand hadn’t slipped. That was the first seizure. Freezing up, no control, no presence. The tree was no longer a tree. The human was no longer a human. Inject hope into his veins. It is the only way to continue forward.

When he returns to himself, he wishes the seizure had lasted forever. About a half an hour has passed. That is what his brain must wrap itself around as he glances indolently at the clock beside the door. His forehead aches as though two strong palms are pressing it. There is a feeling that could only be described as minty in his chest and face. Dazai feels like how toothpaste tastes. It is quite disconcerting for him to have made such a strange connection, he realizes.

The clock is ticking so loudly. Oh, what a treasure it would be if he could reach inside of it and break off those unbearable hands. Stop time. Have a moment’s peace, for one day in his miserable life. Of course, Dazai could easily benefit from the efforts of a time-altering ability user, but in this hospital, there isn’t a means to.

The window looks so far from the hospital bed. He would bet a million dollars that it is a longer stretch than the hospital’s halls themselves. If only it were beside his bed to jump from. He swallows hard and punches the nurse call button as though it has wronged him. When had Dazai been brought to this room? All he remembers is the strobing intensity of epileptic claws. Thoughts of Chuuya tickle his chest, too. The redhead is resilient, so he is obviously going to be alright. If everything is resolved, why is there an itch to die like never before? Must be the hospital blues, a term he coined growing up in the setting years and years back.

When Dazai sees his face, it feels as though the world is in the aftermath of some nuclear explosion. “Dazai! Let's get the hell out of here,” Chuuya dashes over to him, grabbing his hand and helping him to his feet. Best not to question things anymore. The only thought that crosses the detective’s mind is that Chuuya had predicted his desire to leave without further treatment. He has never done such a thing before. “You look like you’ve got a stick up your ass. Come on, you can handle a few cuts. You probably even feel good right now, eh crazy?”

Well, Chuuya’s mindreading isn’t exactly accurate. One accuracy is enough for now though. Dazai holds on tight to the other man’s hand as they peek into the hallway. Does Chuuya want to repay him for his assistance? Or does he genuinely care about what Dazai wants?

The two of them look like some sickly, rebellious, psychopathic couple as they dart down the hallways in their hospital gowns. In fact…that is exactly what they are. Dazai is too tired for this movie-like display. So much has happened. Now there are numerous nurses and staff chasing the duo down, extracting déjà vu from Dazai. The hospital’s front entrance is near. It seems they’d been held on the second floor. Chuuya has most definitely made a quick recovery. Is his body healed enough to endure fucking?

Oh, how animalistic he feels. Dazai wants to hold Chuuya down and ravage him in the backseat of his miraculously luxurious car. Taking time to live, giving in to the carnal desire to have control over a single thing in life. Both of their bodies are far too brutalized to handle such activities, but a man can dream. “Hurry it up, dumb-ass Dazai! Having to hoist your body along like this’ll reopen my wound!” Dazai laughs, his tone both weak and fond. “I’ve got wounds too, courtesy of some angry, tiny red dog!”

For a millisecond it seems like Chuuya’s lips part, alongside a small, quizzical glance he spots as Dazai peeks into the backseat where he’s driving. There must be some curiosity for who stabbed him and why, but Chuuya’s been in so many scuffles he’ll probably blow this one off. Dazai should blow the watcher off too.

Dazai’s eyes flick to the windshield. How selfish of him to have expected attention from the watcher when he has everything he needs right here. No note. Has the watcher moved on? Fair, since Dazai seems to have done the same. Nakahara Chuuya shall be his new mission. Dazai will not be the watched anymore. Dazai Osamu shall be the new watcher, and Chuuya his experiment. No need to creep inside.

Chapter Text

Aversion is a getaway, a resort, a retreat, Dazai’s safe haven. He can only visit said paradise in sporadic bouts, but when they do transpire, he transcends. Avoidance is such an inherently good sensation. Just lying there, staring haplessly at nothing in particular, and letting your conscience drift along an abandoned, lethal, self-made landscape. Dazai tends to dissociate quite frequently, though those who don’t touch upon their pent-up persecutions are oft the weakest. Is he weak?

Perhaps not physically, as he lies there in the back seat of his car, bandaged and drugged up with a confident smile on his face. But mentally, inside where all of the turmoil suddenly shows up like a bottled note washing upon a sandy shore, Dazai winces upon the smallest of pains. Disregard all the new and old torn flesh. A single failed joke, a single strange glance, a single mishap sends him spiraling out of control. So, is aversion really a getaway or is it a prison for him?

The only time this isn’t the case is when Chuuya Nakahara is shelving out insults. Dazai doesn’t feel as though he is alone at the very end of the universe. Attention. Sour as they may seem, Chuuya’s words have a certain passion and fondness laced somewhere deep within them where only Dazai’s eyes have roved. Even when Chuuya deigns to ignore his provocation he sees the flames contradicting blue eyes.

“Would you quit humming that damn suicidal bullshit song for one God damned minute! I’m trying to drive us to your place, but it’s fucking hard dealing with a stab wound, and bleeding ears!”

Dazai kicks the back of Chuuya’s car seat, snickering as he slams the breaks in retaliation. “How does literally no hospital ever condemn you for so much early leave?! Do you even pay the bills?” Dazai ignores this like you would the yapping of a chihuahua. Chuuya is, with all due respect, far too ignorant to comprehend Dazai’s evasion skills.

Chuuya pulls into the driveway, albeit he wishes the two of them would be staying at his own house instead. There are old bloodstains on the floor in Dazai’s bathroom, dried to the tiles, presumably because Dazai is too lazy to clean them. Or perhaps he wants to be pitied. Maybe he wants the reddish-brown smears to be frowned upon. Either way, they have an effect on the Mafioso. He’ll have to piss in the bushes if push comes to shove.

“Would you get your lazy ass out of the car? I don’t know what they put you on, but you’re acting like a sloth! I was stabbed, and even if it wasn’t that deep, it’s a hell of a lot worse than what happened to you!” “You only say that because you’re feeling guilty that I’m all torn up because of you, Chuuya.”

The two of them bicker rather childishly as they approach the front door of Dazai’s house. Dazai fumbles for his keys while jabbing Chuuya in the cheek with his free hand. Chuuya scoffs and clutches at his own bandaged torso.

When they enter the house, Dazai spots a note on the kitchen counter, and as if he’d rehearsed for this very moment, he hobbles over to it and mindlessly blabbers things such as “don’t read it Chuuya,” and “go sit on the couch.” The Mafioso raises a brow and complies, not because he is valuing Dazai’s request, but because he is just about ready to keel over in overexertion.

A sliver of doubt crawls into Dazai’s ribcage and rattles his heart. Throw it out. “No, no, I can’t throw it away!...” Why is Dazai still rendered breathless over the watcher? It can’t hurt to read it. No wild goose chases, do not pursue anything, just hear the watcher out.

------

“Osamu Dazai, something is the matter with you, and I am not referring to how you’ve changed by my hand. I could never have imagined that you would be displeased with my having protected you from that brute. His actions triggered an epileptic episode in you, and in return, you kiss the bottom of his shoes like some kind of lunatic? I must say it stings to be eclipsed by someone so completely and utterly two-dimensional. What has Chuuya Nakahara ever done for you other than spread his legs and wring your neck? Do you feel some sort of a connection to him? There is no such thing. After driving a blade into Chuuya Nakahara, yes, after arriving at my lodging… I had stared into a mirror, and got sick to my stomach at the sight of his blood drying beneath my nails. He is not even worthy of you looking his way. You are a man of infiltration and depth. He is a man of vexation and egocentrism. This is laughable.”

-Your Watcher

------

Dazai has more than a moving’s-worth to unpack. What is this? He steadies himself on the counter’s edge. Nausea bricks him in the face. So does arousal. Somehow, his manhood is pulsing in sudden, vice-like hardness, contributing to the ferociousness of his shaky breaths. Had all of the recent occurrences created some temporary memory loss?

Everything that is so very alluring about his watcher harmonically rains down on him. Acid rain, you might call it, because the watcher knows he is a siren to the sapped detective. It is such reckless beauty, the watcher’s existence, that is. Dazai casts aside his disappointment that the watcher is a male. That makes no difference.

One word and he disassembles Dazai’s insides. It drives Dazai to sit beside Chuuya on the couch and snake his hand along his thigh. “You do know I’m on meds too, right? I can’t even feel your hand. We can’t do this,” Oh, shut up, Chuuya. Dazai battles sleep like an armored knight. There is something he must do, first.

“We don’t have to feel. It isn’t about the physical experience. Just close your eyes and don’t forget our connection, Chuuya.” Did he just jab at the watcher, mentioning connection? What is he doing?

“You’re a fucking trip, bandage-bag. Do whatever you please then.”

Dazai’s grin is a Cheshire’s as he slides his hands under Chuuya’s hospital gown. Just as he brushes over his abs, Chuuya sits up and rubs a hand down his face, groaning. “We forgot to get our fucking clothes before we left the hospital. God fucking damn it.” Is Chuuya so two-dimensional that he is worried about a lost outfit? Ah, fuck, now Dazai’s jabbing at Chuuya using the watcher’s words. Again, what is he doing?...

Connection. Two-dimensional. Dazai’s eyes widen when he puts two and two together. Is his connection to the Mafioso two-dimensional? The watcher’s curse is long lasting and never ending. Lord have mercy. “Lie down, Chuuya, you’re so antsy. I know you’re as small as an ant, but still.”

The aforementioned “ant” slaps Dazai, yet still does as he says. “Oww! First, you throw me into a bunch of glass jars, nearly breaking my back, now you’re gonna slap me?! This calls for some revenge, hmm? You’d better keep your mouth shut and stay still or I’ll break your body, Chuuya. A knife inside you will be nothing compared to me,” Dazai says, somehow comically and darkly at the same time.

Chuuya opens his mouth, and he seems to search for what to say, but moments later, he closes it again. Good, seems he has enough brain cells to obey. Ants are hardy little creatures, after all. Dazai pushes Chuuya onto his back on the couch and drags his fingers through tangled, red hair. He searches azure eyes with his own, noting how Chuuya’s are ablaze with lust, alarm, hesitance, or a combination of the three.

“You’re so handsome when you’re under my thumb, my old friend. I think I’ll make a puddle of you tonight. Hehe.” The confidence of dominating someone is the greatest high. Fuck the anchor trying to pull him into the depths of slumber. This may very well be the only time when Chuuya will allow something like this. The vulnerability that comes with being blitzed is so…beddable. Dazai’s fingers trace along Chuuya’s sides, making him shiver.

How sublime the redhead’s body is as Dazai kneads his hands along it. “Ah, Dazai, don’t…” That’s right, Chuuya was stabbed in the midsection. There is an obvious question lurking about that the detective hadn’t even considered. Why had the watcher spared Chuuya? The wound was as shallow as could be.

Was this some kind of a scare? Was it some false bravado that he will protect Dazai? Dazai does not need protection. How lovely that there is such an affinity for graciousness in the first place. It still warms his heart. Dazai must come to a choice. Should he pursue the wolf or the sheep? Go get him, Casanova.

“Fine, if you want to be a sensitive little ant then so be it. I survived tons of wounds inches deeper than yours. Keep it together now, unless you want to make an embarrassment of yourself in front of me.”

“I would never get embarrassed over you, and I’m the least fucking sensitive guy you know, and you only survived a lot of that shit thanks to me!” Chuuya growls, despite his flushed cheeks and his air of desperation. He is undeniably desperate for him.

Dazai knows. However stronger the taller man had been coming on, the smaller is the one with a colossal upsurge. Best leave it unattended. A bullet for a bullet, or in their case, a sacrificed boner for a beating. Not all that equal of a punishment. Luckily Dazai is feeling a cleave of mercy.

He leans down and bites Chuuya’s nipple through his hospital gown, pulling at it with rows of teeth like its elastic. The soft protrusion grows flaming hot as Dazai spins his tongue over it, squeezing it between his lips. The material of the hospital gown doesn’t taste very good. “I wanna bite your asshole like this until I taste blood, Chuuya.”

The man mentioned is digging his bloodied nails into the couch. He’s reeling on a carousel in his mind, blown away by how abrasive and fucking erotic Dazai is being. Do injuries make Dazai more salacious…? Nothing goes unexplained in the name of science, for the most part...

The redhead sits up hastily, to which Dazai leans back with furrowed brows. “Chuuya, don’t tell me that was aggravating your wounds-“ Chuuya suddenly slaps Dazai’s crotch, eliciting an appalled gasp from him. The two of them still in silence for a moment. Dazai curves his fingers over his throbbing shaft, chest heaving. “Ahh, I see now, you want me to scramble your insides tonight, don’t you, my old friend?”

“Quit calling me that. We were never friends, and we never will be.”

Following this, Dazai pushes Chuuya against the sofa’s cushions with such force that it knocks the breath out of him. Just as Dazai has nearly torn the gown off him, the doorbell rings. Who could it be at such an hour? There is only one person that comes to mind. Disregarding this is nigh impossible.

“Fuck, just ignore it, Dazai.” Ignoring Chuuya instead, the detective stands up and slowly makes his way to the front door. When he looks through the window, he doesn’t see anyone. Is the watcher an invisible man or something?! That can’t be right, since Chuuya saw his body. Dazai should ask Chuuya more about the man’s figure and complexion.

First things first, the door. He opens it carefully as though he is standing on the ledge of a building. No note? Well, this is quite the surprise. Perhaps it hadn’t been the watcher after all, but some kid playing a prank. The watcher is a dead prince. He shows himself at the most inopportune of times. Returning to Chuuya reminds him of how devastatingly exhausted he is.

“Well, who was it?” Must the Mafioso question everything? “I don’t know, probably someone ding-dong-ditching me. It’s getting pretty late anyways. We shouldn’t continue this, Chuuya.” Dazai knows how unfair his sudden reluctance is. He is the one who had instigated this interaction. Even Dazai’s twin dark knows that not every human is a good one. This especially applies in his case.

“What, so you’re gonna light my fire only to put it out? Typical blockhead,” Chuuya’s expression isn’t one of dissatisfaction, though. They would have both regretted it if they had gone any further anyways. “I’m not really all that tired yet. Do you still have that guitar I gave you all those years ago? Probably not…” Dazai glances at the other man for a moment, before wordlessly traipsing to his bedroom. Chuuya cranes his neck in the direction that his ex-partner had went. There is no way. No way he hasn’t thrown it away.

Saucer-eyed and enduring waves of melancholy, Chuuya watches as Dazai returns with the sticker-infested guitar that he’d been gifted during his time in the mafia. “Oh, man, this thing has been laying in my closet forever. It’s all covered in dust. Help me wipe it off, Chuuya?”

The day somehow ends in peace. The two of them are sitting side by side in their dotted gowns, wiping away at the guitar, admiring how it shines. There is a spark sizzling in the air, more breathtaking than fireworks. Every time their eyes meet, they both turn away and lock their sight on the guitar.

Chuuya thinks Dazai’s honey-brown eyes glimmer more brightly than the guitar. Dazai thinks Chuuya’s ocean-azure eyes twinkle more beautifully than the night sky. It is obvious who feels more for the other. Dazai always attaches himself too tightly to things that allow him. Dazai gulps tensely when Chuuya faintly rests his cheek on his shoulder. This exchange is far too head-in-the-clouds mushy and gushy for the two of them to have enacted.

The spectral tease splays further as Chuuya’s fingers find their way beneath Dazai’s bottom. This is new. He had never touched him in that way before. It feels surprisingly good. That is more terrifying than anything is. Wisteria-adorned pathways on a warm summer evening would more properly suit the ambiance passing between them.

That is how it feels; a tranquil date with your lover where everything is right and falls into place. When the two of them have finished cleaning the guitar, Dazai leaves momentarily to throw the dirtied wipes away, and when he returns, Chuuya sits even closer beside him. “Do you know how to play?”

Shoot him into the sun. How disconcerting to admit not knowing something. It’s fun when the watcher throws him for a loop. Not when fucking Chuuya does. “I forgot,” as if he ever learned a single chord. Chuuya chuckles, and it sounds harsh, or more accurately, patronizing. Dazai scratches at his cheek uneasily. “So, all those hours I put into teaching you were put to waste? Lazy simpleton Dazai…”

Chuuya positions the instrument on his lap and slides the neck of it over his thigh. The crease of his elbow rests lax over the guitar’s body. Dazai must admit Chuuya looks like a renowned, sexy musician like that. “Doesn’t that thing put pressure against your wound? I know you’re doped up on painkillers, but…”

The redhead stares at him like he is insane. It once again creates a strange sense of unease. Dazai usually has more of an upper hand. “Dazai as much as I was turned on while you messed with my chest, it was only the idea and visual that got me going. I couldn’t feel a thing, like you were phasing through me.”

That’s fair. Dazai stands up, before laying himself out over Chuuya’s lap, making him have to readjust his hold on the guitar. Dazai’s head is propped somewhat uncomfortably over one arm of the couch, and his feet dangle off the other. “You’re so fucking lanky, like a streetlight.” “But I’m still sexy, right?” Chuuya nods bashfully. The two of them both want to smile, though neither of them can. It is too hazardous.

“Well, are you going to play for me, or what?” Chuuya shakes his head slightly. “You can’t lie down like that. Sit up, you’ll see what we’re going to do from there.” It is much too late for this. By the time he has hesitantly repositioned himself beside Chuuya, he has also realized what his intentions are.

The Mafioso grabs one of his hands and places it over the fretboard. “I’ll help you play. I know you’re too lazy to learn chords to save your life, so I’ll just guide your movements. This is one of my personal favorite songs for acoustic guitar.”

Chuuya wraps his fingers around Dazai’s. Doesn’t the stupid hat-rack know what reaction this is going to bring out? Or was that his devilish intention? “Here, you can’t reach properly like that. Sit on my lap-“ “Hell no!” The two of them argue back and forth for about a full minute.

Dazai somehow ends up sitting with his legs spread on Chuuya’s lap. It is somewhat awkward considering their size difference, but it is not uncomfortable. “God, you can never just do as I say without a shitty fight, huh? I know you’re all obsessed with being dominant, but this isn’t even sexual. You’re just sitting, and I’m just teaching.” Yeah right. You know it’s sexual. Why else would you have brought it up?

Dazai scoffs but allows Chuuya to manipulate his hand over the guitar’s fretboard once again. His gloveless hands have such a firm grip, regardless of their…smaller size. It draws beads of sweat along Dazai’s heated skin. “The song’s pretty popular lately. You probably don’t know it because you have the weirdest music taste of all time, but it’s genuinely fucking cool to play.” Is Chuuya so juvenile that he must swear in every other sentence?...

“I'll strum it myself while guiding your fingers over the frets, alright? All you need to do is let me control your movements.” Fuck, that sounds so wrong without context. Dazai sighs shakily. In response, the other man smirks. So he did mean it to sound that way. It is so sorrowful to think that Chuuya will probably never want to see Dazai’s face again by tomorrow.

Dazai is snapped back into reality when Chuuya’s fingers press into the back of his own, pressing on different strings or frets or whatever Chuuya had called them. A motivational yet obviously out of key tune sounds throughout the room, and the two of them are playing it so badly that is makes both men burst out in laughter.

“Damn it, this is-ah, way harder than I thought!” “It’s because you’re a bad teacher, short stack! I thought you could play the guitar.”

The “bad teacher” in question seems to take this as a challenge. He suddenly stops playing and pushes Dazai’s hands out of the way. “Keep your mouth shut for five seconds, or I’ll shut it for you, dimwit.” Yet again the words lace themselves through Dazai’s groin and cause the briefest shot of excitement- whether they are meant to or not he doesn’t know.

Chuuya allows Dazai, who is awkwardly turned away from the guitar, to lay his head against his shoulder. Mayday, mayday! Right as Chuuya strums the guitar, its vibrations tangle themselves in Dazai’s hips. “Feast your eyes and ears on my talent, dickface Dazai! Now I’m not going to play that other song. I’m going to play my own song. It’s about you, ya know.”

Surely, it will be the most offensive song on god’s gray earth. Should he prepare to cover his ears? He cannot really move. Dazai is too “stiff”.

Chuuya’s fingers seem to electrify the guitar; its sound booms throughout the whole room, whipping Dazai and his nasty interior. It isn’t submissive of him to admit that Chuuya is talented, right? A single compliment feels like too much. A single insult feels like too little. So why is he incapable of insulting him now?

The Mafioso who seems more like a famous guitarist clears his throat; a gruff sound lost within the guitar’s feral melody. It sounds like being tied to train tracks for your lover to find you. It’s gut wrenching and livid and inspiring all at once. It sounds like sex. It feels like it too, as Chuuya shifts his lap beneath Dazai, pressing his virginity over the gown.

Dazai has made love to more people than Chuuya in terms of penetrating, but he hasn’t been on the receiving end once. Dazai swears he doesn’t want to be. So what is this deadline building within him?

“Violate me, within your clutches, for-ever more…”

Dazai’s body stiffens at the sound of Chuuya’s harsh, bottomless, yet soothing voice, which melds extraordinarily with the guitar’s riff. Ok, this is about him…

“Your caverns confine me; part of me yearns for the toll…”

“...Ask me your questions; I won’t bat an eye,”

“I look to you for guidance; you cannot seem to surmise…”

“Castrate me only; yes, in a moment, you’ll have control,”

“For a man isn’t a man, if he goes and takes the fall…”

“Run from your sacrifice, push me up against its walls,”

“I look to you for bail, yet you look to shun my calls...”

“...God save me. Take him, away from me, please...”

“He’ll kill me, revive me; have me at his knees…”

“Someone change me; please make me, able to breathe,”

“Without his poisoned presence, let me be me…”

Chuuya’s chest is heaving as he approaches the end of his song, now just faintly strumming at the guitar, his eyes screwed up in absolute discomposure. He abruptly stands, propping Dazai’s guitar up against the left arm of the couch. “I’ve got to go get a drink, I’ll, uh, I’ll be right back.”

He hurtles to Dazai’s bathroom as if he has been lit on fire. What in the hell just happened? Is Dazai hallucinating from the Lorazepam? He leans over and rubs his hand over the neck of the guitar. The instrument is real. Is Chuuya really here, too? Or is this something Dazai’s mind has conjured up for some strange reason?

It’s not like the song was genius or profound. It was cheesy, typical Chuuya-levels of resentment. Dazai could write such a thing in his sleep, (he really does sound like as much of an ass as Chuuya’s song makes him out to be…) but what has shocked him is that Chuuya could ever hold any sort of sentiment.

Dazai had believed that the lyrics would be something along the lines of, “you are an asshole; you are a bastard, la, la, la…” There is clearly some twisted intention in the song to make the detective out to be some sort of a villain.

Is this meant to make him feel guilty? Pfft, senseless pipsqueak. The redhead was totally off the mark, yeah… Still, how disgustingly romantic that he put thought into something about Dazai. A song, no less. Is this Chuuya Nakahara the Mafioso or Chuuya Nakahara the doppelganger? Probably the latter, as the song sounded nothing like Chuuya.

Dazai grabs a soft, wooly blanket from beside one of the pillows on the sofa and drapes it over his body. Even after getting so accustomed to Lorazepam from his many not-so-prescribed medication-related journeys, he still isn’t fully used to the light drowsiness that it washes over him. He needs sleep. Fuck that, Chuuya seems to chime, as he returns from the bathroom.

“…I thought you were getting a drink? Did you sip from the faucet like a dog? I can’t say I’m surprised.” Chuuya rolls his eyes, and stands before the couch, telling Dazai to lift the blanket with his eyes. How can Dazai say no to those ultramarine eyes of his? He scoots further toward the back of the couch, allowing Chuuya to slot his small body beside him. “Thoughts on the song?”

Of course he’s going to ask such a thing, as if any answer in particular is accurate enough. “It was alright, for a dog’s barking, of course. Quite impressive that a chihuahua can sing!” “I thought I was an ant,” Chuuya mumbles in annoyance. “Ooh, yeah, you’re an ant-dog!” Dazai gets a slap for that one. Perhaps it was deserved. “I have a question.”

“If you have a question then say it, don’t inform me that you want to ask something.” Chuuya faces Dazai, their faces so close as they lie there that their noses are touching. “The man that stabbed you. Can you tell me more about him, like how tall he was and what his build is like?”

Chuuya shifts uncomfortably, pulling the blanket over himself and his twin dark. Neither of them is acknowledging the song or its significance further. Neither of them wants to. It was a mistake. A very depressing one at that.

“His build was really similar to yours, actually. I would guess he’s about six feet tall. He was definitely thin, though not as thin as you are. He had a black balaclava on. I didn’t see the bastard’s eye color because he had sunglasses over the exposed part of the mask. I don’t think he is from here, either. His hands- they almost looked like the moon; they were so pale, I’ve really never seen anything like them…”

The description sounds an alarm in Dazai’s head. The suspect list has narrowed down exponentially. The daunting faces, the most likely candidates to be the watcher…they make him sick to his stomach.

He swallows down the urge to vomit, because Chuuya doesn’t deserve to shoulder Dazai’s distress. Well, he does...but what kind of man casts his dilemmas on the weaker than himself?

“I wonder why that man targeted you? He obviously must have known you wouldn’t die, since he barely stabbed you. At first, I thought you had been stabbed somewhere lethal due to how much you were bleeding, but it turns out your vitals were avoided intentionally.”

The darkest skies pass over Dazai as he speaks. Please, God, don’t let the watcher be any of these horrible options. Let the watcher be a nice, pretty woman. Too bad the watcher seems to be the very opposite. “Strangely enough, the man had this…atmosphere, about him, even when I couldn’t see any of his features. I hadn’t sensed such malice from anyone in a long time. So, it’s bizarre that he went so easy on me…”

The taller man nods as if he is listening, and places his hand on Chuuya’s warm cheek. “We should sleep now,” Dazai whispers. “And all day tomorrow, too,” Chuuya adds with a sigh.

Dazai reaches over to the lamp on the end table, which is the only light that is on, and he turns it off, comforted by the darkness that envelopes them. The two drowsy males have completely forgotten about the knocking on the door from earlier. Perhaps they should have remembered it.

“Have terrible dreams, dick-weed Dazai.”

“Have the worst possible dreams, Cocksucker Chuuya.”

Chuuya snuggles into Dazai’s warm chest, his curly hair tickling the exposed skin above the collar of his hospital gown. It seems that the detective has been reduced to a fifth of a man. That might not be so bad. Locking arms around the smaller is worth it. “Your song actually made me think. Take that as you will,” Dazai’s lips brush over Chuuya’s forehead as he speaks. This elicits a shiver from him.

The first to fall asleep is the detective, as expected. It is unreasonable how much handsomer Dazai becomes when his eyes close, when that unbearable emptiness fades away. Chuuya tilts his chin slightly and kisses his cheek. It’s so soft, discounting the scars there. What are those from? Are they a product of the same nightmare that the others are?

It is not as if Chuuya doesn’t know who the culprit is. It never really bothered him that Dazai did such a thing to himself. It makes Dazai moan, makes his head tilt back, when they happen.

There are quite a few instances in which the redhead has watched Dazai do it too. He has sometimes engaged in self-indulgence whilst spectating. It does sound devilish of him, but hey, the inflictor enjoys it.

“Chuuya, do you like watching my blood spill? Do you want to try? Too bad, I won’t let you~” The tangiest tease in the world, he is. Chuuya has even watched something of his own spill during Dazai’s performances. Wind it up, watch in suspense as it twirls about, then watch in awe as it shovels over and pops out.

He suspects that Dazai doesn’t like the arctic, scorching sensation that rages with each slit, but rather, he likes the meaning behind it. To be deprived of sensation, only for it to strike like lighting, is the crux of the show.

Dazai has never once asked Chuuya to do it himself. When he offers, the apprehensive man shakes his head in the notion that he is pusillanimous. Not fearful of the sensation, no, that is the easy part. Dazai is afraid of letting another exert power over him.

That is when it dawns on Chuuya: does his ex-partner only like men because it gives a higher rush to dominate them? Is it because they are taller mountains to conquer? It must make him feel immortal. Even when women are above Dazai, urging his hands behind his back, whispering hauntingly powerful flirtations, they are still enduring what is expected. Dazai hates such social standards.

He feels like a woman when he makes love to a woman. He needs to be in control. Yes, it does feel physically better to make love to a woman. That is what the detective had told Chuuya. Chuuya wouldn’t know; he has never done so himself.

He says it feels physically better: warmer, wetter, more proper. Penetrating a man, however, is so much rougher. It feels so wrong, so disgusting, the thought of penetrating such an area... but it is also twice the thrill. Hearing the usually-gruff male voice deteriorate into an obedient, whiny one. Proving that Dazai is the superior of the two, if only in the bedroom.

Such an atmosphere is the only one in which Dazai licks lips of temptation and milks mercy out of men. Otherwise, he is regarded as pitiable. Submission threatens to kill Dazai. That is why even when Chuuya expresses his desire to try switching roles, the other meekly dodges the implication.

Should the Mafioso try to convince him, tomorrow, if he doesn’t end up leaving so soon? Sure, it may come off as sacrilegious to Dazai, but the thought of such a thing…Chuuya’s body tenses against Dazai’s, and he sighs loudly. His eyes drift closed, faintly conjuring up visuals of Dazai beneath him, not just being a submissive top anymore, but rather being a submissive bottom for a change. How beautiful.

Dazai dreams of a hall of mirrors. He is screaming, his fingers are twisted in his hair. He is running as fast as he can, making blind turns, avoiding the mirrors at all costs as though they wish to consume him. “My watcher, please-…Chuuya, someone, get me out of here!” Dazai pounds at the mirrors until the shards penetrate his knuckles, causing him to shriek in misery.

Just then, a mirror shatters into hundreds of pieces a little further down the hall. He wills himself to stand, dragging a bloodied palm along the mirrors as he limps in the direction of the sound. Someone has made a sacrifice. Someone has peered past the mirror, into the body of the one who stands before it.

When Dazai finally finds himself in front of the empty slot where the mirror previously was, the biggest shock occurs. Rather than the watcher, rather than Chuuya, Fyodor Dostoevsky of the rats in the house of the dead is standing before him, extending his hand curiously.

Awakening from the dream can only be compared to awakening with a blade sticking out of your side. Dazai groans, instinctively trying to roll over, though Chuuya’s body prohibits him from such a movement. What in the lord’s name had prompted such a devastating nightmare?

Dreams are usually culminations of internal strife and uncertainties. This was so bizarre; however, that even Dazai Osamu cannot understand its meaning. Does he understand? Deep down, he knows that maybe he just doesn’t want to fathom the dream’s perilous insinuation. No, Dazai thinks nothing of the sort.

He sits up, gently nudging Chuuya’s legs out of the way. Chuuya is drooling on Dazai’s pillow. God, he really is a dog, huh? Scoffing, the fatigued detective stands, though it is a strenuous task in and of itself. The kitchen is just a few pathetic paces away. Why, then, does it look like the space from Earth to Neptune? The events of yesterday are too swampy and separated; Dazai can only pick apart the basics.

Chuuya threw him into shelves of glass jars, Chuuya was stabbed (although not very deeply at all), Chuuya sang a fucking song about Dazai, and Chuuya and Dazai almost made love.

It makes him frown in annoyance. Too much Chuuya. Even hanging around him for a second is draining beyond words. Dazai rubs his wrists and enters the kitchen. Something immediately feels amiss. The window curtains are opened, curtains of which had definitely not been open the night prior to this morning.

Dazai had already had his window fixed, somewhere along the way, but it is so trivial compared to the rest of the events that have occurred as of late. He has taken showers, done taxes, and eaten the occasional meal. When he does these normal things, however, he is so far away from himself that he usually forgets soon after. How fucking depressing can one man get?

Never mind that. There is a bigger issue at hand. Dazai’s eyes dart over to the cabinet where his nearest gun is stored, behind a large tray of pills and other medications. He cautiously grabs the loaded pistol. Upon approaching the window, it is revealed that the front door is also unlocked. Hadn’t Dazai locked it last night? Yes, even when spaced out, Dazai is never not on the ball. “Hey, Chuuya? Wake up,” he calls out, sure that the redhead must’ve awakened to the sound of his voice. The watcher’s memory is not one that is present in the swarming mind. No, keep it out at all costs.

The note on the window that he finds laughs in his face. Of course it’s the watcher. Put two and two together, you denial-infested freak. Why would the watcher put the note here this time? Does this note hold golden significance? Chuuya enters the kitchen, yawning dramatically and picking at the corner of his eye.

“Why the hell did you- gh...have to wake me up?! I was sleeping like a fucking baby.” “I just wanted to wake Chuuya~” The mentioned man marches up to Dazai and pinches his cheek. Dazai ignores this, tracing a finger along the edge of the tape that holds the note to the window. “What’s that paper? Why are you holding a gun? Don’t kill yourself while I’m here. I’ll be a suspect.”

Chuuya reaches for the note, to which Dazai removes it from the window and holds it as high as he can. The smaller man stands on his toes, biting his lip in defeat, unable to reach. “Fucking asshole!” The watcher is starting to seem like a lost lover. Dazai never felt that way toward him, obviously. Bad description. Still, he begins sorrowfully reading the note while Chuuya heads towards the bathroom.

------

“Osamu Dazai, I have had an epiphany. How ethereal of an experience you subjected me to last night. I had a front row seat to your venereal conquest. I see you now for what you are; a lonely, lonely man, grasping at whatever vines validate him, even knowing full well they are poisonous. As I have once and will once again make clear, like opulent, tangy Château Tamagne, your very existence is so despicable that it serenades any and all who decide to give it a taste. Unfortunately, your venture into the past has blinded you of who you have become. I have not a glimmer of interest or affiliation in your carnal escapades with *him*. Still, you mustn’t allow yourself to be drowned and damned of all else. I hope you do not take me as someone intending to cloud your judgement. Chuuya Nakahara has implanted within you a heartfelt smile. Bless your youthful tensions. Have you a clue as to who I might be? Your facial expressions yesterday indicate as much. Continue crossing names off, my dreamer. Do not surrender; please, creep inside, if you dare.”

-Your Watcher

------

Why now of all times must the most heart-wrenching record reach him? Dazai considers one line, and then the next, his mind revolving harsher than helicopter blades and ocean waves. He is right. He is completely and utterly correct; Dazai is lonely. He is so lonely.

If tears were to fall, Dazai would be overcome with indignity, so he clenches his teeth, slowly placing his pistol on the counter so he has a hand to press beneath his eye. Please, the watcher had said to him. Don’t give up on me, he might have said, had he not valued forced formalities so.

My dreamer? What in the heavens is that supposed to entail? Why is the very notion so dreadful? After the dream Dazai had last night, he never wants to be given such a title again.

Dazai can stay by Chuuya’s side, faintly romantically. The watcher can watch Dazai from behind, wholly compulsively. When had there ever been a limit to how many connections may be formed? Dazai has been so very oblivious.

The watcher has been so very temperate: hardly injuring Chuuya, hardly surpassing Dazai, and hardly regarding himself. Still, how had the watcher seen this display in the first place? Had he been standing outside the window?...

That is when the idiom “every cloud has a silver lining” truly comes to fruition. Dazai glances down at the windowsill, and just barely peeking out from beyond drawn curtains is a wax-sealed envelope.

He gasps softly and takes it into his hand. An envelope, from the watcher? What could be inside? Something akin to excitement trickles through Dazai’s bloodstream as he grabs a blade from his knife block and inches it beneath the seal. The envelope pops open and reveals what seems to be some sort of an invitation card, addressed to both Dazai, and Chuuya. Now this, is an interesting development.

Has the time finally arrived for Dazai to meet the object of his compulsion?

Chapter Text

------

Invitation for The Masquerade Ball event

Saturday, November 11th, starting at ten o’clock at night

Located in Queen’s square, Yokohama at Minato Mirai Hall

Dress code: Formal dress

Nakahara Chuuya and Dazai Osamu,

Your company would be utmost appreciated

Rsvp to ********** if you have any inquiries

-Your Watcher

------

Dazai reads over the invitation in bewilderment. A masquerade ball? The watcher has invited double black to a ball? How very rare, to get such an opportunity. He has never been to one of those before. If you study the invitation, it becomes evident that the watcher must be one of the organizers of this event. What a comfy discomfort zone indeed. No matter how thrilling or terrifying the ball may turn out to be, Dazai would like to go.

The watcher will be there. Surely among the crowd, right? Hiding in plain sight with only a feathered mask over his face. This is most definitely a tease. The one thing that doesn’t seem to add up, however, is the idea that the watcher has invited Chuuya as well. Is it completely juvenile of Dazai to frown faintly when he decides that his God gives no impression of jealousy? Perhaps.

A ballroom doesn’t seem to resemble Chuuya’s style. That is no issue; Dazai could manipulate even the strongest of minds into following his structures. Why a ball in particular, though? Sure, it is a surefire way to observe Dazai with Chuuya without being recognized, but such an atmosphere is so…chintzy, for a god, that is.

Blood-bathing is not by any means something one should accustom themselves too. Armageddon, conversely, equals arousal, in Dazai’s case. There is another odd factor: why did the watcher send the invitation just two days before the event? How under-the-table.

One hypnotic to the next, Chuuya waltzes back into the kitchen shirtless with his hair tied in a messy bun. Bandages are wrapped over his stitched-up wound, and his abs peek out temptingly just beneath them. Oh, God, clobber this awful timing! “Hey, Dazai! I was gone for like five minutes and you’re still staring at that paper like a lunatic.” Ahead of the game, the taller man contorts his way around the accusations.

“You’re drop-dead dick-down-able, Chuuya. Did you wake up this morning just to unabashedly flaunt your body at me and pretend yourself so oblivious?” He speaks with a radiant chuckle. The mentioned man bites his lip, and surprisingly, nods. “I see. I’ll fill your raunchy Résumé on one condition. Read out this invitation and consider joining me.”

Chuuya raises a brow and takes the envelope from Dazai. Moments later, he pushes the envelope back into Dazai’s waiting hand, shaking his head. “I’m fucking sick and tired of how much confusion there is whenever you’re around! For starters, who is ‘The watcher’, and secondly, how do they know my name?” A sigh is passed between them, from the detective’s end, no doubt. So much for know-it-all chibi. Raising hell, Dazai smirks sharply and traces a finger along Chuuya’s collarbone. Chuuya shivers in response.

“Don’t sweat the details. The organizer of this masquerade ball is a friend of mine. You’re supposed to bring a plus-one along with you, and you are-…I guess you were the easiest candidate.”

No questions asked about the man’s scarce hesitance, Chuuya pushes his chest against Dazai’s hand scandalously. “I’ll consider it. Let’s eat breakfast before you eat me.” They nod in agreement.

The remarkable laziness of the breakfast that is served almost triggers laughter. Dazai approaches the cupboards and retrieves a clipped bag of corn flakes, two pairs of utensils, and the needed Tupperware. “What the hell?” “Hm? You don’t like this cereal? How picky.” The pain in Chuuya’s ass isn’t the orgasmic kind. It is the “don’t let that good-for-nothing idiot inside!” pain. But we both know he will anyways.

Dazai places his handful of items on the kitchen table and lethargically stalks over to the fridge. “Ooh, looks like I’m out of milk since a certain puny punk ruined my last shopping trip. Ever tried vodka in cereal?” Screw Dazai and his quick-witted vexations. The two of them sit across from one another, each pouring cereal into chipped bowls and vodka into...unfit glasses.

“Aren’t you a detective? You can’t be this try-before-you-talk. Ah, I know, it’s because you spend a fortune on a drink and a dollar on your dinner.” “Don’t talk with your mouth open, it’s rude,” Dazai scolds, whilst crunching on a mouthful of cereal. He remembers when he’d wanted to make fancy waffles for his watcher. No wonder he called Dazai “my dreamer”.

They drink about three shots-worth over the span of an hour, mostly only prodding at and ignoring the breakfast cereal until a rumble from Chuuya’s stomach erupts and reminds them of what they’re here in the kitchen for.

“I thought you were going to fuck me. Why are you swirling your spoon around in your cereal? Ah, what the hell, why are you pouring vodka in there?!” “You ask so many questions; you’re turning me off. Just eat your cereal already, you don’t wanna be emaciated at the ball. How will you fit into your dress?” Chuuya savagely spits his mouthful of vodka onto the tablecloth. “Dress?! If anyone’s going to wear a dress, it will be you, simpleton Dazai. I’ve never even worn a dress! Didn’t Mori have you wear them when we were younger?...”

Dazai shovels a spoonful of vodka-soaked cereal into his mouth as Chuuya watches in horror. “Is it…is it good?” “Not bad, not good. My cereal is all wet and mushy though…” “Don’t be stupid! Cereal gets wet with milk too.” Moments later, the redhead pours some of the drink into his bowl and spoons the mixture into his mouth, like a parrot taking after its owner.

Abjuring from the idea almost instantly, he rolls his tongue out of his mouth, scraping the cereal goop back into the bowl. “Ugh, I don’t like corn flakes.”

Pitfalls are prized possessions for a duo of depressing resistance. This is made clear by the foul exhibition of the morning. When the two of them finish their “meal”, Dazai scoots lower into his chair until the back of his head settles against the middle of it. He feels around with his socked feet beneath the tabletop until he feels the lump of Chuuya’s crossed legs. Digging his heel into Chuuya’s crotch, he glances upwards, desperate for a reaction, a response to his electric movements. “Took you long enough, bastard.”

The receiver spreads his legs, relaxing his body as Dazai continues circling between them. “A deal’s a deal.” “Oh, don’t act like you don’t want the same exact thing.” Chuuya isn’t wrong. Sex satisfies the sinful need that lies within a man. He wonders how often the watcher thinks about sex. He wishes the watcher were a woman. A woman. Dazai should be doing this to a woman.

His foot suddenly slips off of Chuuya’s lap; his toes bang against the chair, eliciting a harsh groan. “Are you so drunk that you’ve lost coordination in your feet? That seems unlikely, given your tolerance. Do you even have any icepacks to use on your toes?”

Chuuya stands with some sympathy, shocked at the fact that his wound only dully pulses. Had he even been lightly stabbed, or was it just a large slash across his stomach disguised as something more? It sure feels like the latter. He opens Dazai’s freezer, eyes tightening oddly at how empty it is. Does Dazai even eat meat? What about the crab that he loves so much? Too hazy to question anything further, Chuuya grabs an icepack and waves it at Dazai. “Hallelujah, bandage waste has got some icepacks. I’m not sitting in that stiff-ass chair for another second. Let’s return to the couch.”

Dazai soundlessly rises from his chair and follows the other man to the couch, waddling on his heels deliberately. “Sit next to me, here, let’s fix your foot before we…” Trailing off is very unlike him. It does not make the slightest difference that Dazai is in discomfort. Not at all, of course. When the two of them are seated beside each other, Chuuya narrows his eyes at Dazai’s foot. There is a faint red stain on his sock. He carefully clasps his ankle, before inching the sock off, confused at the flinches that this persuades.

“Oh, fuck, your toenail got broken. Looks nasty. You must’ve hit your toes pretty good.” The words seem to echo throughout the room in depressing solitude. Why isn’t the other speaking? Had it hurt so badly? Or is there some other offender?

He reaches onto the nearby coffee table and grabs a few tissues from their box. Dabbing at the blood feels peculiar. Dazai should be making some snarky remark right about now. As if on a cursed cue, Dazai looks into his eyes and inhales in preparation. “I could see myself marrying you. You aren’t a woman, you aren’t right, but I could see it. I can't...have sex with you as a lust buddy or whatever when I don’t view our friendship so loosely.”

This vodka must have done a number on Dazai. Maybe he shouldn’t drink in the morning; he has always struck Chuuya as a nighthawk after all. “If you’re just going to drunkenly ramble about nonsense then keep your mouth shut, I prefer the peace and quiet,” he says colorlessly. Dazai gazes at his bloody pinky toe, or maybe at Chuuya’s fingers as he wipes up the last of the blood. The darkest drink could never prevent partiality. The dumbest dog could never dissect that reality.

The Mafioso places an icepack on top of Dazai’s bare foot. Following this, he deviously slots himself between Dazai’s legs. “I think I need a little something to take my mind off of that cheap liquor of yours.” His hands bunch over Dazai’s clothed manhood. Kneading fingers into it is quite nostalgic. The past is the hardest to part with. So, when it has some chance of returning, it hits twice as hard. “What did I just tell you, pipsqueak? I’m not in the mood. My foot is aching, in case you couldn’t tell.”

Chuuya props himself up, feeling defeated when he realizes that the other man is in fact as soft as can be. Really? After all of their interactions thus far? It bruises a little more than he would willingly admit. “Would you please wait? I know you have hangovers basically every day, and it is old hat for you, but really- would you give me a minute?”

Chuuya resituates himself beside Dazai and crosses his arms undecidedly. “You were the one who called me drop dead dick-down-able, whatever that means. Point is, if you aren’t in the mood, don’t force yourself to be or act like you are.”

Dazai wages war on his body as he unsteadily stands. “You’re a plague, Chuuya. Care to join me in the shower?” What kind of mixed signals are those?! What a massacre. Both men already know the answer to the question. Undressing in the bathroom is spectacularly hurricane-like. A hurricane of shame. “What will it take to get you up? I don’t have all day. I have work in three hours, dipshit.”

He punctuates his annoyance by seizing Dazai by the hips and pushing his crotch against his own. “What won’t it take to get you up? I could be held at gunpoint, (by my own hands, no doubt,) and you would still be tugging away at yourself, wouldn’t you be. The tangy smell of my blood is wafting about, yet here you are, perusing my cock like you can’t live without it. Very convenient for you, trying to...to manipulate me when I’m in pain.”

The two naked men, (not counting Dazai’s bandages), glance at the ground in startlingly unintentional coordination. If all that Chuuya desires is sex, he can have it. Dazai would be better off showing up at the ball by himself, it seems. He snappishly slams Chuuya against the wall near the towel rack so harshly that Chuuya crumbles to the floor. They’ll have to shower later. The Mafioso lies convulsing on his stomach. Dazai digs his fingers into the back of his neck, grinding his face into the floor. Dying to start the game. Dying to end it as well. Whatever relationship the men have, it is a very roundabout one. Indecisiveness is all that is left.

“F-ah, fuck…” Chuuya arches his back, groaning when Dazai’s length nestles firmly over his backside. The feeling is such a dull, resounding heat. Neither of them can be brought to orgasm after their most recent interaction, can they? The question decides to answer itself. The detective’s body heat disappears rather abruptly. Chuuya glances behind him while on all fours.

What now? The detective must plan to inch away for all of eternity. “Oh, lord…” The words are panicked, and hearing them triggers anxiety in Chuuya as well. “What! Why did you stop, is something the matter?” His words are a tipsy slur, coming out in any way but how he wants them to.

“Listen, Chuuya, I need to drive you back to your place right now. Do not yap on and on. I am serious, you need to leave.” How evil. It seems Dazai has yet to keep a single promise over the course of twenty-two years. Oh, how the punishing darkness embraces the house and crushes it in its grasp. Traipse around at a ballroom like a couple of dilettantes, and for what? Cheesy romances that have no place in double black’s agenda. Deflection is the only key to the only lock. There aren’t further explanations.

“…Are you fucking kidding me? Good! I don’t want to spend another wretched second with you regardless! Don’t drive me back; I will walk. Here’s why: you’ll tangle your hand in my hair and drop your pants, only to pull them up right after. You don’t have the slightest damn idea of what you want! You’ve always been that way, and I fucking hate it. Torturing me must be what you want out of this, huh? Well fuck you!”

Chuuya’s face is enveloped in a shadow as he stumbles out of the bathroom. His dramatic display is ignored in full. There is a horrific sight in the corner of the muted-yellow ceiling. There is a tiny box taped there, looking down at Dazai. Except that it is no box. A camera, taped casually, right where you can see perfectly the contents of the shower. The watcher has gone to such lengths that Dazai is folding over, vomiting onto the already blood-stained bathroom rug. Divine as the initial thought of being interesting enough to be observed was, this is clearly fucking unreasonable. “My…my watcher…” It must have a recording function, it must! Dazai ignores his flame-infused throat and stands below the camera and stares directly into its lens.

“I’m losing it here! What had been heavenly only days ago is now more jarring than Chuuya’s beatings. What have you done? How long have you watched? Oh, God!” Dazai digs his fingers so vehemently into his hair that his nails scrape his scalp. Why does it suddenly feel like the biggest indignity to have sexually trailed Chuuya? The watcher shouldn’t care, he wouldn’t, but Dazai’s brain ruses him into believing as much. This holy fantasy is now an unholy failure.

No amount of kneeling and praying would ever achieve redemption. Dazai is awfully mindless. So much so, that his usual second-to-none mantras and mentalities disintegrate like fallen buildings. He stands with frozen limbs, oblivious to his dick, which seems to wave ludicrously at the camera. Front row seat to more than one can unravel. Conversations, cuttings, calculations. Micturition, malnutrition, melancholy. Sex, soul-searching, soaring… Sex! Sex! Dazai retches as though ghost peppers lace his tongue. His hands move at almost comedic, cartoon-reminiscent speeds, one over his crotch, one over his lower back.

Rush, hurry, do something! He decides that the most rational course of action is to dress himself, so he warily inches the hospital gown over his body, as temporary coverage. Trying to compose himself before further humiliation, he clears his throat and stands tall.

“My watcher, I must reconsider coming to your ball. I have failed one hundred times over trying to worship anyone other than you. That is the truth. Is it so wrong, then, for me to express my discontent? You know I would keel over at the sight of your face, but not every high horse is one you must ride. Discontent… No, that’s the wrong word. You have made me feel distress for the first time. Not the kind I seek out, either. Where else have you bugged my house?... I’d might as well banish you from my life, switch the roles, play God.”

Immediately wishing that the insult could be retracted, he chews his lip between two rows of teeth, plucking away the skin there instinctually. His head throbs with ache. He hates talking to the watcher in such a childish manner, but alcohol’s bite diffuses both Dazai’s physical AND internal function.

With the convoluted farewell, Dazai uses his height to his advantage and tears the camera and tape from the ceiling corner. Before he ends his breathing, he should give the watcher a chance to redeem himself. Wait, redeem himself? Dazai’s stomach hollows out and fills back in with subzero, frostbit hesitance. Has the watcher done something wrong? No, no, it was no injustice.

The fault lies with Dazai, somehow. He grits his teeth and leaves the bathroom. Be careful, the watcher is still watching. With Dazai’s usual bad break situations, there are probably fifty more cameras laced throughout the house. Beneath the ruin is a single, glimmering diamond. Chuuya is surprisingly still in the house. He is sitting blank-faced on the couch with the guitar from last night propped over his lap.

“Chuuya, I could use your help, before you leave.”

Dazai approaches him with his palm open, illuminating the presence of the camera. Chuuya actually understands the situation for once. “Holy shit, someone bugged your house?” “I won’t ever break another promise to you, if you can find and break every camera for me.” This short reconcile eases the tension between the duo, at least. Let us make a bet on how fast Dazai fails to live up to his word.

Chuuya’s hands are set ablaze with the fierce ruby-red illumination of For the Tainted Sorrow. An immortal tune seems to sound as he slashes the camera into bits. There is nothing they cannot do, so long as they are together. The rare instances that they can get along aren’t the only time they complement each other well. If that were the case, they would prove victorious in not a single melee.

The house is completely silent, save for the mute thud of feet against hard flooring. Dazai ignores the shooting pain that crawls up his toe with each step. “Ah, Dazai! Above that painting!” Chuuya reaches in the direction of the second camera and watches as the red rays bring it toward him. “These are fucking tiny! Do you have any idea who did this? I’m sure you do. Want me to obliterate ‘em?”

Dazai shakes his head slowly, his eyes roaming over every crevice of the living room. Penitence feels like a past transgression when he really thinks about it. The watcher had to have been watching him for purposes other than humiliating him. If Dazai peers beyond his fears, he might realize that the watcher may have had no intention of embarrassing him at all. If their positions were swapped, Dazai would’ve probably hidden even more cameras.

Arbitrary as his emotions can be, right now, they are blooming into pure-blue hyacinths of awareness. Chastising himself sternly, he finally accepts the defiance of his internalized-homophobia sciences. The man hadn’t placed the cameras for any other reason than one; he wants to look at Dazai, not just at his unrobed body, but to learn about his day-to-day life in general. He must have seen it, his bare skin, the despair projecting from it…and he must have been fascinated by it. Dazai’s cheeks flush with such penetrating heat that he takes a step back, shakily.

Chuuya seems to be in a spontaneous mood to protect Dazai. How horribly timed! “Hey, why are you standing around when some creep is probably watching us as we speak,” and as if Chuuya’s own words sink into himself, his eyes expand, and he scowls brutally. “Hey, prick, why the hell have you bugged his house? Some kinda grudge or something? How I pity you. Whatever you’re planning isn’t going to work. Though I don’t care about what happens to Dazai, nor do I care about how it affects him, you should know that he has never lost to anyone other than himself.”

Cones of sun spread over Dazai from beyond the window, amplifying his somber and baffled demeanor. Chuuya resumes his search for cameras, and Dazai watches like a ghost from the side as the impetuous man throws camera after camera against the wall.

This continues on for quite some time. Hammered and in perspiration, Chuuya stomps from room to room, cursing here and there for Dazai to give him a hand. The resistant detective sits cross-legged on the floor now, tracing the hardwood with long nails. He slots his thumbnail between a groove of the hardwood and presses it as hard as he can inside.

Blood soon collects under the now-chipped fingernail. “Chuuya, come in here!” With a bewilderingly sorry bout of haste, the gravity manipulator dashes into the room, cradling cameras in his hands like they are his children, and he is their abusive father. “What, did you find something else?”

“Just quit busting the cameras. Come over here and kiss me. Maybe if we put on a little show for the guy who bugged my home, he’ll quit watching in disgust. Hehe.”

Chuuya drops the cameras, eyes fleetingly flicking down at the pile of them, before looking back at Dazai with a soft spark. Chuuya paces forward like there are flames beneath his feet. Vicariously, Dazai’s eyes glow, the glint in his eye being whiter than white.

The two of them grab each other by the cheeks, curling their fingers somewhat beneath the other’s chins as their lips press together. There is thorough muteness in the room, suddenly, save for the fugitive click of teeth against teeth, lip against lip, and tongue against tongue. Only love could hurt like this. But Chuuya isn’t the one who is hurting him. Dazai trembles, passionately pushing his thumbs into the skin below Chuuya’s face. All the while, he internally calls out, “Oh, my savior,” “My watcher, I’m in heaven.”

Dazai ribbons his arm down until his fingers settle on Chuuya’s bare thigh. “You’re still naked. Your hospital gown is in the bathroom. You really did not intend to leave earlier, did you? How queer that you are being recorded, and yet you flaunt your physique like some tart. Just admit Mori made you try on those same dresses I had to. I saw you in them over and over through the gap in the door.”

With these words, Dazai worms a finger between Chuuya’s ass cheeks. He circles it against the taut slit, punitively tongue-in-cheek. Chuuya lowers his face to Dazai’s chest, hitting it with his forehead intentionally. “I mean, by now if someone were still observing after this display, I’d be labeled the fool of the century for believing otherwise. Hurry the fuck up.”

Dazai closes his eyes and brings two fingers to his mouth. The digits splay out over his tongue, and he lathers as much saliva onto them as he can. Chuuya stares down at Dazai’s crotch, where the hospital gown parts just enough for him to see it. “Try to hold your breath. I’ve got quite the headache, and your screechy moans won’t do me any good.” With this, the fingers dig against the skin of Chuuya’s entrance with such savagery that it draws a bead of blood. Dazai stares at the ceiling, and then turns to the couch, then to the window. Chuuya’s cursed face, however, still spins record-like in his sight, so he decides that closing his eyes is the one true remedy.

Dazai pushes his pointer finger past Chuuya’s rim, turning it like a key to a lock in hopes of loosening him as swiftly as possible. Chuuya’s back straightens, and he sighs roughly against Dazai’s collarbone. Liquid lust boils over within Dazai Osamu. Images of his watcher dampen his face with sweat and his cock with precum as he begins mercilessly working his finger in and out of the repelling entrance.

He presses his digit every which way, rubbing the doughy, wet interior of his ex-partner with such a passion that you would think the two were genuinely lovers. That cannot be the case, though. The watcher is his one and only. Dazai allows the droplets of pre-cum to spill from him, allows his length the much-needed relief of pressure when Chuuya wordlessly reaches down for it.

He imagines those gloved hands that he had only days ago had the fortune of holding. The fateful day at the aquarium in which he had knelt before God himself and been offered the forgiveness of the final button.

Dazai is far noisier than Chuuya is; he is hitching and groaning as he drives his hips up into Chuuya’s grasp. He fingers him harder, as if he will die if he doesn’t. His finger devours the pliant walls, surveying every ridge and bump inside, pushing against them, moaning when Chuuya wheezes.

Is the watcher viewing this lecherous performance from one of the many hidden cameras? Is he enjoying himself, or is he hurting? Anything but indifference, Dazai decides, which in turn splits his control, makes him slam another finger in beside the first, pushing Chuuya on his back when he finally whines lustfully. Dazai’s movements become frantic, the harder he thinks of his deity.

Subduing god himself, pleasing him, putting him under and being awarded the role of “angel” in recompense. Dazai’s rock-solid lust hardens even further beneath Chuuya’s fingers, until he is cumming in a stupor. He doesn’t stop fingering Chuuya though, instead, he forces a third fingers inside of him, while digging his teeth into his neck ravenously.

“Dazai! Fuck, I’m getting so close, why don’t you go deeper? My ass isn’t going to suck you in like a black fucking hole, stop being so careful!” Chuuya’s mood-fraying words almost reach him, but he fights it and envisions the watcher beneath him, heaving in submission, legs eagle-spread for Dazai and Dazai only. What level of prosperity that the watcher proposes…Is Dazai really worthy of such accommodations?

It is utterly self-seeking of him to accept such adversities as valuables. There isn’t a lick of care regarding this matter, though. Leave him the stars and he shall jar them. If gratitude is present, what more should be given...?

The Mafioso orgasms, finally, hiding his face in his hands and panting tensely. The moment disappears into the void as soon as it had begun. Dazai stands up, vivid jadedness lathering itself over his skin. Symmetry is evident; Chuuya just as quickly stands and darts toward Dazai’s bedroom to put the guitar in its rightful place as though he was not just restrained on the floor by the biggest idiot to beg his subservience.

Ascension is always reversed in one way or another. Dazai wonders why literature and broadcasting doesn’t cover such qualms more often. It’s really a pandemic. The terrorism prancing freely over the room far succeeds that of the watcher himself. Dazai is destroying everything around him for his own gain. Everyone must believe so. Especially Chuuya, who is nothing more than a plaything. Dazai also wonders why Chuuya is sometimes like a God to him, and sometimes like a servant.

Eternal light showers Dazai upon the next thought; if the watcher were truly seeing this, he must see in Dazai’s eyes that he hadn’t thought of the man he had been fingering the whole time... Saint-like, no, a true holy being, not confined by ethics nor grievances. Dazai Osamu wants to be his vessel. Please drive him out of this hellish melancholia. This newfound ambition of his is electrocuting all internal tissues and burning them in ichor.

Chuuya returns wearing a white cardigan which is adorned with three timber-tinted buttons lining the middle. The sleeves are about twice the length of Chuuya’s arms, and yet it is still tight on him, due to how muscular his arms are in comparison to Dazai’s. “Oh? I indeed took you for a self-inviter, but this is quite over-the-top. You look like a child, and that’s making me feel creepy since I just finger-fucked you. Won’t you put that hospital gown back on?”

‘”No. Won’t you drive me home? Though my wound feels more like a light incision, and fuck, maybe it is; I was quite doped out even when I woke up, it surely isn’t a good idea for me to tango around in this state. Plus my ass hurts, so there’s that.”

“No. Won’t you walk home? And try not to walk around town…they’re going to be looking for their escapee patients at that dastardly joint.”

Chuuya storms out of the house and slams the door so crudely behind him that a framed painting falls from the wall and shatters into pieces. “Hat rack is always making mayhem. Mayday, mayday! At least I have...you, to rescue me from him.”

Dazai locks the front door, and upon doing so, immediately notices a camera peeking out from atop the coat rack. He waves sweetly and turns his back to it. The following fifteen minutes are so unremarkable compared to the usual that the detective almost longs for the pandemonium. He fetches a broom and dustpan, circling about the rooms, cleaning up the camera guts left and right. How long is his ongoing psychotic break going to last? Until the epilepsy takes him for good?

Sick thoughts. Nauseating, outsider fantasies twinkle, vaster than galaxies. Dazai wouldn’t frown upon burning of molly housing. He could care less about those people. People who were so disconnected from his reality, only blurs on the television screen and prickles in hateful conversations he overheard.

That is what his past self had deducted. Now it seems that is right where he belongs. Pinstripes torn more easily than paper, ties loosened faster than a snap of a finger, jawlines kissed more swiftly than taking a breath…Cocks crammed so hard together that their respective shapes warp.

Dazai and the watcher are destined for such a setting, but it should be their own secret paradise, no other haters or lovers allowed. Why is it impossible for him to just label himself as bisexual and move on? It’s not like Chuuya hasn’t been in on these tendencies with him for years.

His own thoughts- his taboo, society-bending imaginings, they shock him so vehemently that he steps forefoot-first into a piece of glass. The painting hadn’t even been one he’d enjoyed looking at. Definitely not worth the excruciating yet telling gash that opens up.

He falls back on his behind, hands frozen mid-air, save for excessive twitching. “G-god damn it!” After the initial pain is only ghosting him, he wills himself to lift his foot and pluck the culprit out of his foot. Blood globs build along his sole, simultaneously painting the floor in undesired carmine. He is going to get himself killed yet, which wouldn’t be so ruthless, if it weren’t for the watcher’s vital being.

The conflicted detective tends to his wound rather sourly. This game must be rigged; what other explanation could there be? The watcher is the game master, the mastermind, ruling over everything in their favor. The narrative omits some stench of unfairness, emphasis on narrative. Illegitimate as the watcher’s words may or may not be, they certainly reach Dazai and manhandle his sanity. What a cruel object of worship he is. Dazai selfishly wishes his own body was worshipped in tandem, and that he wasn't sustaining gash after gash for his special one.

Moments later, he is examining the depth of his wound, and then he is fumbling for a towel, pressing it there with tortured breaths. This must be Chuuya’s fault. The Mafioso is merely a distraction to Dazai’s limited aspirations. The towel reddens so quickly that he needs to retrieve another. The comic relief, surely, must be overturned by plot necessities, eventually.

Like some magical doctor, the doorbell rings, and Dazai decides it could only be him. He hops on one foot like a child in a potato sack race. Blood drizzles along the floor in troublesome zigzags…though Dazai isn’t aware of this. He unlocks the door, frowning after a full thirty seconds of searching rewards him with nothing. Had the sound been some conjuring of desperation?

The porch seems to scream “no!” when Dazai glances down at it. The sun’s rays grow to be more blinding the further you look away from it. There, lying casually atop the concrete, is a magnificent vase containing a large assortment of colored flowers. Prepossessing carnations, colossal dahlias, and enchanting zinnias pop out from the vase’s top, manifesting a rainbow of affection. Might as well dig him his grave and prepare his coffin, if he is even worthy of such things.

“Creep inside if you dare…” He whispers to himself, cheeks a deep red.

Dazai lowers himself and gently fingers the wavy blue engravings of the vase, his eyes glistening with awe and veneration. “My watcher…” This is a romantic gesture. He’d believed himself to be correct, if only about one thing; the watcher must follow the standard way of loving someone. Bride and groom, breeders, Mr. and Mrs.… Dazai views himself to mostly be aligned with such criteria. (His mind directs anything with Chuuya to the fact that Chuuya looks “feminine”).

He’d believed that they didn’t truly desire to romance him, but to experiment with him and remain a good friend.

Still, flowers in a vase on the man’s porch…to the man of whom you’ve invited to a ball?... Panic blooms in every limb. The quick retraction of hands from the vase does not mean that he is considering what this means to imply. It isn’t possible or just. Is God gay? Is Dazai gay?

Dizzying illusions sprout nausea in the pit of the man’s stomach, which then travel to his throat with a heaviness almost comparable to the nausea from the vodka ventures of earlier. Okay, perhaps the feeling is solely from the vodka. Fucked one minute, fine the next. The story of his life. Ungodly good. God forgives him.

Dazai doubles over and vomits for the second time, which is wretchedly an act that has grown commonplace for him. The clear sludge splatters across the vase, first, and then all over his blood-stained hospital gown. He looks like a dead man walking, or, ah, a dead man keeled over in a pile of his own purge. Is this any way to be treating such delicate gifts from the watcher? Cascading along the ground is blood from the gaping wound in his foot, which only then allows itself to truly settle.

Never has he wanted to be disemboweled inside of a vat of piranhas so badly. Too specific of a thought for the current predicament… The semi-incorporeal character coughs at the bitter taste, before wiping his mouth and reaching for the small, yet noticeably wordy note that is loosely taped to the flower vase. I don’t like pain. I don’t like pain. To this thought, he says, “turn off your brain!”

------

“Osamu Dazai, how luckless your days may be! You needn’t consider the granular fiascos, however, but rather, the esoteric craft that enamors you so. Focus on me. To substantiate my motivations, I have built the foundation to a perpendicular yet sidelong crossroads. Might you wonder where such destinies detonate? Ha-ha! Do you believe I was romancing you? My dialect is not so reckless, to my knowledge...What I feel for you is so much more than that. Your days are greeting you with sadism… but is there not some other salutation? One, per say, such as...you mustn’t bring Chuuya Nakahara along to the ball as a dance partner after all, as such a person has already been selected for you? These flowers are compensation for sparing some of my cameras, which I had believed you would do. Still, it is…endearing, so, I will cease surveillance until I feel that it is necessary. Incidentally, I have yet to see your unclothed form, if that is concerning you. I glanced away when such opportunities arose. Must I ask forever…who do you think I am? When the time is right, and you and I are together in the flesh, I will rove my eyes across, sink my fingers into, and devour your naked body regardless of your say. What can I say? You’ve dared to creep past heaven’s gates, and once you have, there is no turning back. You...turn me into someone different. You make me less godly, and playing God is dull work anyways. Let’s transcend heaven together.”

-Your Watcher

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Chapter Text

Dazai has a *need* to win. Ventriloquism and notoriety are one in the same, in most circumstances. Sadly. As an example, Dazai’s military stance arising from bed is nothing short of insincere. Sincerities aren’t mercies, either, so shall he fucking take himself apart to escape his mental break?

Sacred as most morning routines tend to play out for him…thinking outside the box is fit once and a while when he manages to get out of bed with a clear head.

He is already surveying the internet for the nearest flower shop, (such things have never been bought for or by him, discounting the watcher) and to his surprise, an old workmate of his seems to work there. Someone who taught him quite a bit back when he spent his days roaming around and repeating to underclassman what his upperclassmen hollered at him. She was assuredly the classy type, someone who would be able to assist with exactly what Dazai desired.

Kouyou Ozaki, huh? Ever since she started frequenting the agency, Yosano completely seduced her. Where she used to base her days around stitching up new and old wounds, she found a woman who could patch her up in return.

Dazai thought it was sweet, really. His already thin grin wore thinner when thoughts of all his old colleagues contaminated his mind. A stream of light trickled from his eyes, surely heaven’s contents spilling from them. Tears don’t…fit his theme, now that he is in cahoots with his watcher to this degree. He has cried enough for him.

Wiping away at that wetness, he presses firmly on the small button on the side of his phone until he’s sure that he has broken it. Turning it back on to make sure it isn’t broken, he chucks (gently places) his OCD (phone) on his bed.

He must make it to the florist. His societal apprehension shouldn’t be too rampant if he already knows the store's owner, right?... Being inept at making some waffles for his watcher is one thing. Perhaps it is excusable, if you squint very hard. Not everyone sits there salivating over the likes on their fifth-daily post of what they ate that day, right?

Dazai isn’t like that. He shivers when he recognizes that he is much shoddier than that. His photo gallery on his phone is littered with documentations of his many…self-indulgent, self-inflicted pain episodes. Would he get likes if he posted such things? Shaking his head at the notion and getting out of bed, he approaches his closet.

The day before the ball and Dazai has no idea what to wear, no idea whether Chuuya is coming with him yet, and not the slightest idea how to get to the location. Should the cheesy bouquet really be his top priority? Oh god, Dazai is a prime proof of why some people might not believe in human evolution.

All he does is digress! Sleep was something he definitely hadn’t got enough of, as he spent hours just researching the different types of flowers and their meanings. Even though the detective absolutely isn’t the type to believe in horoscopes and zodiacs and things of that vein, picking the wrong flowers for the right watcher is reviving two birds with one stone; the watcher will hate Dazai, AND the flowers.

Rubbing his temples in bitterness, he throws on a white button-down and tops it with a black leather jacket. Just as he adjusts it so it looks appealing on him, however, he recalls that he used to wear it often when he was still with Chuuya. Taking the clothing off with a rosy face, he throws a navy vest on over a gray turtleneck. Next, the pants. The worst part.

By the time the man has gotten his clothes on, the clock comes to life and gossips that it’s already been twenty minutes. The sky is blushing sailor pink through the window, rubbing acids in Dazai’s eyes.

Latching onto the doorknob for dear life, he pulls at it as though some ghoulish creature has sealed him in. He feels so different, today. Is Dazai Osamu still Dazai Osamu?

A day and a half before he’ll be on his way to the ball slumped over in the car, getting a morning glory because it’s the fucking watcher he will have the blessing of seeing. It doesn’t matter how things came to be. What matters is that the watched should be to the florist and back by now. Dazai stands in a vast forest, looking to see the foliage. Though no such things are there…

The watcher lives in a Monet that Dazai just can’t step into.

Before he knows it, he is in the kitchen. The kitchen is far more miked up than it was the day prior. They aren’t even out of sight anymore. It’s almost like the watcher wants Dazai to continuously think about how he isn’t eating his breakfast by his lonesome.

Breakfast only, as that is the only meal the detective eats in a day, most days. What does the observer think of that? Is it sexy? No no, no boners for one day please.

Enough. Dazai grabs his keys, his pocketknife, his wallet, and his will to live, before heading to the front door. Could there be any notes outside? Surely so, the onlooker wouldn’t leave the looked at on such a cliffhanger, would he? Who the fuck is Dazai Osamu kidding. He gives him too much credit, with all due respect.

He is going to the florist, you know, but afterwards, guess where else? The suit shop! That’s going to be such a catastrophe, though, that he is drowning in illusion until that time comes. Driving doesn’t feel like that much of a problem anymore, thankfully. Though thousands of people are probably checking license plates in hopes of finding Dazai’s so they can follow him home, sever his head, and cook it, that’s nothing to him.

He’d do it to himself too if he weren’t so weak. Dazai is so caught up in his head that he has already forgotten to check for a note from his watcher.

Driving with one hand, Dazai begins dialing Chuuya despite the watcher’s plea not to. Coming alone to the ball would be such an embarrassment. He doesn’t need that right now. When, to the detective’s surprise, the Mafioso picks up, he ends up sighing because all Chuuya does is breathe into the phone like a serial killer. Fitting, considering his profession.

“Hey Chuuya, you possessed or something? Talk to me, don’t you remember that there’s a ball for us to attend tomorrow? Though I’m admittedly not as put together as usual myself, haha.” He almost runs a red light as he speaks, so that might be in part why he is wording things so strangely. It takes more seconds than Dazai has to spare for Chuuya to respond.

“You know, I’d love to give into your little fantasies and carry you princess-style into the ballroom, and chase after you when you lose your glass shoe, but it isn’t happening. And what the fuck happened to you? Did fucking me yesterday fry what little brains you had left? You sound like I do when I haven’t had my daily fill of murdering bitches,” Chuuya says scruffily, clearly in a strange mood himself.

Dazai almost hits a mother of two’s car when he face-palms with the hand that wasn’t occupied with holding his phone. Nearly running a red light again, he drops his phone right next to his feet which are prancing along the breaks as though the ball is already occurring. “What the fuck was that loud thud?”

Dazai ignores him, focused on getting over. When he is in the right lane, a man screams out the window from the car behind Dazai’s. “Fucking idiot, do you even have a license?! I bet you’re a woman driving, that’s the best fucking explanation.” Clearing his throat, Dazai rolls the window down.

“Yes, I’m a star-crossed woman who needs her husband to drive for her. My apologies,” he shouts in his manliest voice. It's safe to say Chuuya has a grasp of what the racket was now.

Dazai’s cheeks are brushed with rose quartz-pink when Chuuya’s bleary chuckles sound from the phone on the floor near the brakes. Of course the Mafioso hasn’t hung up yet. Ever since that fateful, fading day that they met, the only laughs the men shared were ones of needling.

That is precisely why Dazai’s chest goes numb from heat and chill simultaneously. “I don’t remember the last time I’ve heard you laugh in such a heartfelt way, Chuuya.”

When the flower shop comes into view, any clouds in the sky are inhaled by the sun, a premonition, perhaps, of how this first visit to a store will play out. Parking in the mostly vacant lot, he grabs his phone and whispers to it. “Chuuya? Why the long face? I know you’re pondering on the other end. Feeling homesick? I have just the remedy for reveries. Come with me to the ball, the ball, don’t you see?”

Dazai is feeling rhetorical, more so than usual. Who can say whether that is a good thing or a bad thing? Only the watcher. Suddenly, Dazai is in the clutches of guiltiness. It oozes from him, darker than tar, drizzling like quicksand.

In spite of his supposed delight about the nearing ball, thoughts of the watcher aren’t frequenting his mind as much. He isn’t going there for Chuuya. Is he going there for Chuuya?... For the watcher? Or for himself, perhaps…

Hanging up the phone after hearing no response from his ex-colleague, he walks with pretzel sticks for legs to the revoltingly attractive entrance of the store. There are multiple green bottle crates with pots of flowers and buds arranged along them. It appeared like a place of fairytale, one like he used to dream up while sprawled out on the interior of his humble abode of a shipping container.

Walking closer to the doors, a grimace forms on his face. They looked to be Wooden French-style doors, with various papers littering them. They didn’t match the aesthetic of the rest of the building. Hopefully the inside will be more pleasantly composed. Everything should go perfect today from hereon out.

Dazai’s expectations were met in tenfold. Numerous brown crates were spread about the store. On top of them were, as you can probably surmise, groupings of flowers in vases. They were so beautiful, especially the multicolor bunches. The one…less than pleasurable thing about the shop was the overpowering brew of different scents.

Dazai had never been to a florist before. If he needed flowers for some of his gags and stunts pulled in the past he never put in that effort of getting them himself. He looked around like a child in a candy store. “Is that…Dazai? Dazai Osamu? At his local florist? Now that’s a surprise, haha.” Kouyou’s melodic voice rang in the detective’s direction, effectively breaking him out of his stupor. He turned to her, hands in his pockets.

“Ah, if it isn’t Kouyou-neesan. You work here of all places? You’ve always been a woman of elegance, elegance as in gracefully slitting a man’s throat. Now you’re sweatered up in a loyal little shop in a lovely little plaza. And here I thought I was vagrant,” he ranted briskly.

The older woman snickered as Dazai approached the front counter. Eyeing the tall, tulip-shaped pencil holder which Kouyou had instead filled with suckers, he slipped his fingers into the container and picked out a butterscotch-flavored one.

“You know, the rare few times that I took you and Chuuya out for dinner after a long day’s work, and I asked if either of you wanted a candy from the jar on the counter, you would shake your head in silence while Chuuya grabbed three or four of them. I can’t believe how big you’ve gotten; how much you’ve changed.”

Dazai propped his elbow against the counter and his cheek against his hand. “You must have many good stories to tell, though I’m afraid I came because I really need a bouquet of flowers. I initially wanted a mix of different flowers; however I feel peculiarly attracted to carnations. In specific, I would like some reds, yellows, and whites, though mostly reds, if you can manage.”

Kouyou looked past Dazai, relieved that her only other customer is still hobbling about the store. It seems she has time to attend to his needs.

“I see. These are for a lover of yours, then? Perhaps, is it...Chuuya Nakahara?” Her words apparently don’t pair well with Dazai’s already-frantic mindset. Who *are* the flowers for? Of course, it would be preferable to give the gift to the watcher, their intended recipient. However, if the detective heads to the ball with a bouquet of flowers, and proceeds to tell his plus-one that they aren’t for him, his plus-one might head home. How puzzling.

“Kouyou-neesan, could I ask for your advice? What if…there are two people I could choose from. Two options, I mean.”

Clearing her throat, Kouyou leans back against the wall with a knowing smile. “Aren’t you the all-knowing boy that I remember? You know how to answer every question you could ever ask. Sometimes we don’t know how to phrase these answers, or how to face the fact that we have these qualms, or most notably, how to handle the consequences of them. We’ve all faced the fear of choosing. One or the other. But what if I told you that there is a third option?”

Dazai stares at the floor in confusion. Kouyou notices this and continues on.

“I had to choose between so much, sacrifice so much. I loved my father so very much, but I love Yosano too. It was my father or Yosano, and while I loved them both equally, Yosano was the person who made me want to turn it around, to improve. My life would be quite different if I had let go of her and had been with a man of my father’s choosing. Maybe life would’ve been better if I’d picked that option, or maybe it could have been a living hell.” For a moment, there is a stretch of introspective silence before she finishes her wistful words.

“All I know now is that seeing Yosano’s smile as I hold her, hearing her groggy voice in the morning when I wake her for breakfast, feeling her warmth when she puts her head on my shoulder…its everything I’ve ever wanted. My father still writes to me, and he is beginning to accept our relationship. I gave it time, and with time, he grew more and more regretful. I regretted things too. I shouldn’t have cut my father out completely just because he couldn’t understand my love. Choosing one thing over another doesn’t mean the other thing is erased. You just need to come to a compromise.”

Dazai nods wordlessly, looking Kouyou in the eyes. “I think, it’s time that I let him go. Chuuya, I mean. The issue is, he and I are most likely going to a ball together tomorrow, as a couple.” Kouyou winces at this, scratching her head in contemplation.

“Ah, I apologize for derailing our conversation so heavily. May I see the carnations,” Dazai mumbles. Suddenly, a stout woman approaches the counter, raising her voice.

“Excuse me, not to be rude, but I need a bouquet for my date in half an hour.” Kouyou smiles nervously at the woman. “Of course, my coworker will be with you in just a moment. Let me go get her and tell her that lunch break is over, haha…”

Dazai swallows hard, standing there awkwardly beside the impatient customer. When Kouyou returns, a tall, blonde woman walks beside her. “How may I help you ma’am?” The duo heads to the array of roses. Meanwhile, Kouyou motions for Dazai to follow her.

“Don’t be sorry, Dazai. The carnations are here.” She stops in front of a circle of crates with beautiful, color-coded carnations in vases. “Would twelve stems suffice? We could do four of each color that you wanted.” Dazai nods at Kouyou, to which she begins collecting the flowers. “You want them in cellophane and floral paper, not a vase, right?” Dazai feels like a child, with all of these questions. Still, he takes a deep breath and answers.

“Yes, I think red floral paper would be nice. What do you think, would the red floral paper clash with the carnations?” Kouyou considers this briefly. “I think you have a good eye for color, actually. Wait here a moment and I’ll be back with your bouquet.”

Dazai crosses his arms over his chest and looks out the colossal window beside him. Does he really have the guts to let Chuuya free for good? Of course not. But a man can make-believe. Plus, Kouyou is a bit too motherly for Dazai’s own good. Despair vices him so roughly that he is sure it breaks his spine. But then he stands tall when Kouyou comes into view once again.

“So, is this to your liking?” Kouyou hums, carrying the bouquet like it is the Nobel prize. Dazai’s mouth hangs open, and then closes, then opens again. “It looks incredible. You really are amazing at this, despite not working here for that long. I’ll tip you more than the flowers themselves cost, Kouyou-neesan. How much are they?”

Dazai pulls out his wallet, wondering why Kouyou isn’t standing at the counter. Grinning warmly, Kouyou takes Dazai’s wallet and slides it back into his pocket. Then she hands him the bouquet of carnations. “It’s the mafia discount. Buy none, get one free.”

Dazai takes a step back in surprise. “Kouyou, I might swindle evil men who deserve it, but I’m not taking this beautiful bouquet for free. I’ll give you at least fifty-“

“It's my lunch break, so I’m afraid we’ll have to catch up some other time. It was a pleasure speaking with you again, Dazai~” She sings, before turning her back and approaching the staff room. Dazai staggered after Kouyou in dismay, but she slammed the door in his face.

“Kouyou!” Dazai tries to warn, knocking at the door. “I’ll leave two hundred on the counter if you don’t come back out here.”

Regardless of his efforts to coax her out, she disregarded him. Dazai exhaled in defeat and faced the exit of the florist. He would have to treat her to a dinner some other time, to pay her back for being so unusually generous. Placing his hand on the doorknob, Dazai stepped outside.

This was one of the first successful outings in weeks. That is a plus, at least. The sun glares down at the detective, caressing him since no one else will. When he narrows his eyes at the giant star, his chest fills up with warmth. He sunbathes there, leaned against the exterior of the florist. Breathless and perverted, he chews his nails nervously and runs away from there. Is he sick? Is it too much to ask for the beautiful sun to end his life?

When he gets to the car, he clutches tightly at his chest upon the sight of what lies on the windshield for him. A note, from none other than God himself? How unexpected, for crying out loud! The delusion-ridden detective’s hands tremor like never before. The bouquet falls to the ground.

He looks down at it, and then at his shaking hands. They move in waves before him. Back and forth they glide, as do his legs. He falls beside the bouquet (by some insane stroke of luck) as his body spasms violently. The sky flickers between complimentary and secondary colors. Then the cage turns to the tertiaries.

Just as the episode begins, it stops, if not more abruptly so. When Dazai regains his senses, at least somewhat, it dawns on him that the phenomenon was nothing other than a seizure.

Interestingly, he can’t recall what he was feeling during said seizure. All he knows is that something went wrong, and he has epilepsy. Put two and two together. He braces himself on the hood of the car, rising to his feet. Infinite perplexity embraced him, and hey, if something other than the sun would love him, then score.

How could anyone forget a gorgeous, free, once-in-a-lifetime bouquet of flowers that they’d just bought? Dazai almost does this.

He glances around first, wondering if any people witnessed him in such a compromising state and whether an ambulance would pull up for the thousandth time this month. Moments passed. It seemed that he had evaded detection, somehow. He’d glanced at the ground to dust off his pants, and the bouquet jump-scared him.

Of course, he went out to buy flowers for his watcher! How terrifying to forget something, no, to be in complete denial that such a thing had occurred, and then to see proof of it right at your feet.

Picking up the flowers, he tried hard to remember how he obtained them, whilst entering his car. Moments later, he decides that it doesn’t matter. Just your average shopping trip, except shopping for Dazai is traveling across the earth for you and I. His knees stung from the fall, but that was about all. Driving won’t be any more of a hassle than it usually is.

What was next, again? Pressing his fingers to his chin in thought, the memory of his to-do-list surfaces in his mind. Dazai opens the glove box and unfolds the small note that he’d written to himself. Little does he know, a note of substantially higher value blew away while he was having a seizure. It’s better he doesn’t know, it seems.

“I see, suit-shopping, hmm? Fucking great,” he mutters to himself drowsily, though one good thing is that the store is only about a mile off from the florist. Upon checking his phone, a notification saying “7+ texts” is shown in bright white letters.

All from Chuuya Nakahara. That’s yet another relief, it seems the Mafioso will go to the ball with him after all. He never doubted that for a moment’s time, but still.

Dazai gently placed his phone and the flower bouquet on the passenger seat, carefully draping a blanket over them to dissuade robbers who may lurk nearby. “Can you drive after a seizure,” he says to the voice search function on his phone, while already driving one-handed.

“It is generally decided that you may drive after at least one year being seizure-free.” Dazai clicks his tongue, driving so quickly that he almost passes the store. Different websites always say different shit, so that isn’t sending chills down his spine like most things do. The parking lot is ghastly in its openness. He aims for the spot nearest the store.

The shopping mall is noticeably of the rundown variety; bags float through the air like tumbleweeds; empty shopping carts fill parking spaces. Putting aside the miserable area, the little menswear shop seems decent enough, according to reviews online.

Dazai takes the strangers’ words for it. A little bell sounds when Dazai pushes the door open, and it fucking startles him. Face flushed, he wordlessly makes his way into the store. “Welcome sir, what are you looking for?”

A man who looks to be about forty years of age approaches Dazai. When he takes a step forward, Dazai takes a step back. Oh no. Light stubble garnishes his chin. His eyes were a profounder brown than Dazai’s, coffee-colored and deep. He was extremely tall, even hovering over Dazai, who usually felt like a sore thumb compared to the other shorter people around him. Finally, his fluffy hair was reddish-brown, a bit shorter than Dazai’s.

The man sulked in uncertainty at his customer's behavior. “Are you…alright? Do you need help?” Shaking his head immediately after the man whose name is apparently Tenshi (kudos to his nametag) speaks, Dazai smiles shakily. “Ah, no I’m ah-, alright. Tenshi, is it? That’s quite the, unique name. Sorry, I’ve had a long…a long day.” Holy shit, curl up and die right now just curl up and-

“Ahaha, that’s alright. You should see me when my day goes worse than the usual. Customers are just about ready to keel over and head home without a suit when I’m feeling extra pissy.”

Dazai chortles awkwardly while the taller man grins lopsidedly. So, are you wondering why this man has Dazai frozen and unmoving? He looks almost identical to an old…friend, of Dazai’s. Like Sakunosuke Oda. The only difference being, he looks like a slightly more matured version of Oda. Oh, the need to tear up when he imagines that Oda might have looked like this, were he still alive.

Tucking his hair behind his ear, Dazai tries to formulate intelligible words. Why is it so hard to speak? Surely this stranger doesn’t have such a chokehold on Dazai so soon. “So, Tenshi, I am here as I need a suit quite badly. I need it by tomorrow, haha.” The man crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, Mr. Last Minute here is cutting right to the chase. You look rather rough though, which is a shame, because behind the eyebags and smudged mascara, you’re probably quite the pretty thing.”

Light itself could never compete with the speed of which Dazai’s heart pounds within his chest. “You look like you could use saving. From an angel. From me, Tenshi, get it? Pfft.” Dazai nods, lost in the man’s spell. “Hey Rokuro? I need to take a break, think you can handle the customers for now?”

After Tenshi yells this to his coworker, the two warped men exchange consent wordlessly and head to the back of the store. Locking the bathroom door, he slams Dazai against the wall. “You’re a fucking predator, Tenshi. Of course a faggot like you would wait for your prey at a store like this,” Dazai slurs breathlessly, while the man cages him against the wall.

“Me, a faggot? But, I’m an angel…” he coos, eyes locked on Dazai’s. So much for Kouyou’s speech. The rabbit is often physically capable of escaping the wolf; however, it lacks the cognitive function to use its speed to the best of its ability.

The rabbit deigns to become tomorrow’s fertilizer. “Angels are walking pride flags. You’re smart, right Tenshi? That’s why I’m a devil.” He’s a devil for everyone else, and an angel for the watcher, but still. Dazai shamelessly stares at Tenshi’s lips. “You, a devil? Oh god, you must be younger than I anticipated. What are you, eighteen?”

Dazai knees Tenshi’s crotch, then wraps his arms around his waist in recompense. “Jesus, Tenshi, how did you get into heaven? Even I’m not twisted like that, and I live in the deepest caverns of hell. I’m twenty-two.”

Tenshi’s following laughs are laughs of both pain, and delight. Dazai trails his finger along the man's chest, pursing his lips upon a certain realization. “Your coworkers are wearing suits, like they’re supposed to. Meanwhile, here you are, bare-chested beneath a black button down like you’re dressed for a porno. Do you do this every day? Is this some kinda undercover hookup joint or-“

Dazai moans lazily when the man presses his clothed erection to Dazai’s. He trails one hand from beside Dazai’s head, down his neck, then back up to his mouth, effectively shushing him.

“My coworkers all have a wife and kids. This is my secret and mine alone.” Dazai sneers up at him, biting his hand with some force. “And you don’t? I’m observant, old man. I saw the picture of you and a kind, gentle looking woman taped up on the bulletin board at the front of the store. Both of you with a hand on your son’s shoulders. How sweet.”

Tenshi’s smile fades, suddenly, and his body tenses up. His face darkens, startling Dazai into silence.

“Oh, you’re asking for me to fuck you to shreds now. Until that smug grin is wiped off of your pathetic, foul face. I’ll make sure to scramble you from inside out, tear you all up, and then you can go and add to whatever’s beneath those bandages of yours later. Fucking slut,” he spits cruelly, warningly to the wide-eyed man before him.

Dazai swallows hard, blinking a few times, unable to respond or even move. Tenshi towers over him, straightening to his full height. Without any notice, he roughly grabs Dazai, turning him around until his face is against the wall and his back is against Tenshi’s chest. The movement knocks the air out of Dazai.

“I’ve never been on the receiving end before,” Dazai whispers, before it's too late. Tenshi brings a hand to his own mouth in shock. His erection twinges hotly within the confines of his jeans. “...You’re fucking kidding me. That means, I’ll get to ruin you, you’ll remember this forever, you’ll see my face and gasp for breath in fear of your next lover.” He says, though it seems he’d meant these words to be inside his head only.

Tenshi wastes no time in collecting Dazai’s hands above his head against the wall. The detective squirms at the uncomfortable sensation, still too dazed to process what is happening.

He hasn’t been restrained like this in God knows how long. And when he was held down, it was never in a sexual way. Oddly enough, being held down at gunpoint is less terrifying than what Tenshi is doing.

“Wait, Tenshi, I think maybe we shouldn’t-“ his words are cut off by his own wincing when the man wrestles Dazai’s pants down to his knees. He grits his teeth, staring fearfully at the wall in front of him. All he sees is the yellow-squared wall, feeling completely alien to what Tenshi will do next.

“Open your disgusting mouth one more time and I’ll shove my dick so far down your throat that you’ll puke. But if you get puke on me, I’ll beat the ever-living shit out of you, and whatever event that calls for a suit that you’re going to will be ruined for you.”

Does Tenshi even know Dazai’s name? Does Tenshi know that Dazai is a human being? Is Dazai a human being? No, so maybe this is exactly what he deserves. Chuuya and the watcher are too good for him, he decides, as Tenshi latches his teeth into the side of his neck.

Tenshi makes sure to grind at the skin until he tastes salt against his tongue. He smiles crookedly against Dazai’s bitten neck. “Ah, Ten-“ Dazai lets out a pitiful whimper, which is so loud that it shocks him back into reality. The teeth disappear.

Sharp nails dig into the skin of Dazai’s chin when Tenshi jerks his head toward him. He looks Dazai in the eyes, expression wild and unreadable.

“You little fucking bitch! I said to shut the fuck up!” He slaps Dazai with such force that tears build up in his inflamed eyes. “Tenshi, stop, okay, agh, just stop! I’ll have you a-arrested,” Dazai whines in regret. He squirms violently within the man’s grasp, trying to lever himself away.

“Alright fine. I guess you wanna choke on my cock after all, you’re just too shy to tell me. You’re talking so I’ll give in and fuck your throat. Well, you greedy little whore, I’ll give you exactly what you want.”

Dazai’s voice goes hoarse from the panicked mumbling. Tenshi grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him to his knees on the ground. “If you’re good for me, I’ll give you a discount on your little suit when we’re through. Now, open wide for me, princess.” He hastily unbuttons his jeans, unsurprisingly pulling his cock out.

Dazai is a mess on the floor, his pants now down to his ankles. Luckily his boxers are still on, but they won’t be for long, if he doesn’t find a way out of this.

He pushes it against Dazai’s face, and immediately inhales shakily, as Dazai’s skin is already wet between the sweat and drool. With a heavy, heavy heart, the brunet parts his lips. “Perfect, you’re finally treating this angel with respect.” Just as he directs it against Dazai’s trembling mouth, however, and that hot breath is overpowered by a hot tongue, a sudden stroke of luck occurs.

The lights go out. Dazai bites down in surprise reflexively, causing Tenshi to stumble backwards and shriek. Dazai hurries to his feet, holding his pants up with one hand and gripping the doorknob for his life with the other.

Tenshi screams in anger, yelling something between “Fucking bitch!” and “My fucking dick!” while feeling around in the stall for Dazai, however the detective is already out of the bathroom.

It seems the bathroom wasn’t the only thing that went dark. The whole store is pitch black, and Dazai can hear employees reassuring worried customers. Suddenly, a loud voice sounds throughout the building, silencing everyone within it. “Customers and employees, please don’t panic! I am Kazuragi Tomoharu, owner of the store. Everyone is safe, an unexpected power outage has occurred though, so please remain calm while we are troubleshooting the issue.”

The store is dead silent for a moment, until a screaming Tenshi comes staggering out of the bathroom. “The man with the *huff* brown hair and brown eyes that c-came in here earlier! I didn’t catch his name, but he manipulated me, and I let my g-guard down. He is trying to steal our suits while the power is out, stop him!”

After moments pass and nobody moves, Tenshi uses the light from his phone to see around the store. Turning it around the room in circles, he stops when he sees Dazai. “I’ll…I’ll catch the culprit myself!” He says boldly, rolling up his sleeves and marching towards Dazai. The employees and customers stay dead silent and still within the pitch-black store.

Without a sense of direction, leaving the store is nigh impossible. The detective considers his options. When approached by a predator, the runner will be mauled and the still will survive. He stands his ground. Tenshi picks up his speed until he is running towards Dazai.

Just as he nears him, however, time stops. Dazai’s eyes widen a fraction, and then a fraction more, and then he is so completely enveloped in shock that he forgets how to breathe.

A small object bursts through the glass windows of the store, followed by another, directed straight towards Tenshi. Two large bullets pass through Tenshi like scissors to paper. Dazai immediately yells out, “everyone get down!” in preparation for an onslaught of bullets.

A minute passes, and no more shots are fired. Then another minute passes, and then five more pass. Tenshi hadn’t even screamed; he’d been killed instantly. His eyeballs were rolled to the back of his head. His body looked like it had been through war, viscera pooling on the floor around him.

Just then, the power came back on. The sound of devices turning back on filled the room. Everyone who had been kneeling with their head down on the floor seemed to sense that the danger was through, though that’s a bold assumption for anyone to make here.

Dazai turns his head slowly, slow…until he is facing the shattered windows.

The sight waiting for him changes him, forever. Like a snow valley. Hills covered top to bottom with fluffy, pure white snow. Snowflakes falling down, not stopping until winter’s afterspring is through. The longest moments happen in the shortest amount of time. A new childhood memory resurfaces in Dazai’s broken mind.

He’d been dumpster diving, only eight years old, with a semi-friend he’d made a few months back. He and his friend would meet up every day, same time, same place, and smile warmly to each other while collecting their dinner. They never once spoke to one another, but it was a pact made to never be broken. One day, this pact broke, however, and Dazai chose to starve over dumpster diving.

Still, he continued visiting the dumpster, wanted to make sure his friend hadn’t given up.

His friend had stopped coming for their usual get-together a day and a half ago. Dazai had feared the worst for the girl. When he’d entered the alleyway, a horrendous stench greeted him. He found the girl’s remains in the dumpster. On one of the trash bags, a paper, light brown one mind you, was blood splattered across it. This blood was unusual, however. Spelled in bright red blood was the words “Love you Shuji”.

It turned out that she knew a lot more about Dazai than he’d realized. That’s because Dazai’s father, Gen'emon Tsushima, had disposed of her over a fight that wasn’t hers. Her mother had broken a deal with Gen’emon, and that wouldn’t fly.

Ever since, Dazai has taken on a new name: Dazai Osamu. He is no longer affiliated with his father. Gen’emon could get away with giving Dazai no affection or roof to live under, but killing Dazai’s friend had been the last straw.

It is most unquestionably due to that crooked experience that Dazai is so bewildered by what waits before him. Panting and gasping in a pattern, he clutches at his chest. Painted in dripping blood along the window is an array of characters. Some corrupted dreams were crumbled today, and some hopeful dreams were ignited today. The words “Love you Osamu.”

“Love you Osamu.” Dazai mutters in wonderment, once, twice, so many times in a row that the words break and turn into crazed laughter. God doesn’t let angels do as they please. No, in heaven, you abide by his rules. God made Dazai, so he is the only one allowed to break him. The screams of customers and employees are white noise thrumming in his ears. The figures of people fading while they dash out of the store may as well be invisible.

“Oh my God, oh my God! I’m going to die,” a scruffy man yelps, curling up in a ball on the floor. Dazai follows in the man's footsteps. He rocks back in forth, moaning lustfully.

Tenshi was the devil, and Dazai is the real angel. Yes, he’ll abandon all sin or embrace all sin for his God, whatever he desires from him, that’s what he’ll do. He is loved. He’s loved! Hallelujah! How it breaks a man to be loved.

Once sirens sound from somewhere in the distance, Dazai realizes that it is time to go. With a blank face, he walks up to the wall containing various black suits. Dragging his fingers along them one by one, pushing one aside when he deems it unfit, he suddenly finds exactly what he’d envisioned in his head.

The suit overcoat is coal black with gorgeous golden strips going up and down along the sleeve and shoulder areas. Shiny buttons line the front of the overcoat, golden brown and regal. The middle piece is a chocolate brown vest. Finally, a basic yet iconic white button down comes in the set.

Dazai yanks the set that is his size from the rack and heaps it over his shoulder. Pacing through the store to the exit, he raises his free hand and presses the blood smeared words. When he pulls his hand away, the visual of Tenshi’s blood makes him cackle in reverence. For the watcher, obviously. The man who had replaced Dazai’s petrified past with fresh future. He leaves the store just before the cops and ambulances pile up.

“Oh, my heart, it aches…I cannot stand another second not knowing your face.” He whispers in despair to himself even as he is hanging the suit up in the backseat of his car.

This time, Dazai will keep his name. He will cherish it, for the watcher cherishes it too. The only person in the entirety of the universe to appreciate its significance to him. Just as he is about to start driving, a blessing pokes out at him from the safety of the windshield. This time he manages to grab it without fail to follow.

He grabs it with the hand that isn’t bloodied, just as he’d done with the suit.

------

“Osamu Dazai, my deepest apologies for not coming to your aid sooner. Is it blatant sadism if I intentionally postponed my having saved you to see how you would react to your predicament? My deepest apologies if it is. I’m so sorry that you’ve fallen so hard from grace. Do not tell me that you have forgotten who you live for. I would never let a savage like that sodomize you, since machinations of that vein are too angelic for a devil like you. At least, that is what you seem to accept as true from your sober drunken chat with the disgraceful Tenshi Nomura. That is untrue, though. If God...if I sodomized you, it would be your God-given right, so that *could* be an exception for you... Returning to why I have written to you once more despite our meeting tomorrow, I am once again asking you not to bring Chuuya Nakahara as a plus one to the ball. Can you not reimburse me for my having assisted you today, if only a diminutive amount? I swear by the lord's name that your death will be art, if you’ll paint me a little something first.”

-Your Watcher

------

Dazai wondered if the watcher could be a poet to speak with in person, considering how chaotically he composes his notes. It is true that the messiest writers can also have the cleanest words. He turns his head to the side and chuckles joyfully.

He has a beautiful bouquet of flowers, a free suit for his big day, and a potential paramour to cling to so he doesn’t feel like the cattle that he is. Everything is going unbelievably smoothly. Still...the watcher seems insanely averse to Dazai dragging Chuuya along, so he’ll have to ruminate on the idea more. Only one seizure, one sexual delinquent, and one mental breakdown today.

At least the breakdown is over now, he thinks to himself whilst hugging himself and drooling over the note.

Starting his car in ecstasy, he is just about to pull out of the parking lot, when a thought stops him dead in his tracks. Dazai's expulsion from work is over. He hasn’t returned to work in almost a week. At any rate, at least he now knows what role he plays here; he plays the role of the devil for the watcher, not the role of an angel. Can God really love the devil? Is that how this narrative will play out? Will God sodomize the devil? Will God make the Devil his?

Chapter Text

It is the next day. Dazai is lying on his tummy on his futon, kicking his feet back and forth and propping his chin up with a hand. The other hand has no affiliation with anything; it lays slack against his side. A fuzzy mauve blanket drapes over him. He looks like a feline huddled up under there, with just his face peeking out. His phone lies outside of the blanketed mound, where he can just manage to see it.

“Lobotomy procedure near me.”

It doesn’t shock him in the slightest that others have searched the same thing up. What an insignia of monkey business. Dazai can perform such things on himself, no fee included. Perhaps it would be better to have a professional do it though. The detective would take advantage of the situation and insert the leucotome into his medulla.

Groaning miserably, he takes his hand from his chin and swats the phone toward the opposite direction. He hasn’t considered returning to the agency or contacting any of his colleagues, since he already knows that Fukuzawa wouldn’t fire someone as valuable as himself unless he’d committed some major atrocity against him or his men.

Still, after making one mistake after another, who can blame the man for not wanting to continue the cycle and traumatize his colleagues? Visuals of Tenshi’s mutilated body have been circling his mind, race-like in their acidity. That actually might not be correct…it's more like images of Oda’s body haunting him. Tenshi had a similar face but an opposite heart.

Still, the two look like they could be distant relatives and God did that hammer Dazai to his very core.

Perhaps his coworkers are simply trying to give him space where he needs it? Though he surely isn’t so useless to them that they would just ignore his longing to end it all, is he? You would think that Kunikida would be up his ass spewing things left and right at him via call by now. Dazai rolls over to his side, whining when it ruins the comfortable position that the blanket was at.

Cold air wafts through a gap between the blanket and the floor. The sound of Dazai’s deepest fears is silence. He feels more fearful now than when Tenshi was going to overcome him. Today is the day of the infamous ball.

Dazai has a stunning suit, a gorgeous bouquet ready, and a divinity to meet there. Quite ironic. Now that everything he could need is in his hands, he is too cowardly to follow through. After thorough deliberation, he decided that the watcher would have to take someone else’s hand or no hand. Even when the sound of gentle knocking vibrates against the front door, he simply pulls the covers further over his head.

After a moment, the knocking seems to go away. Whether it was Kunikida, Chuuya, the watcher, or even the police, they can go take a dive. He knows that he is in a phase at the moment and obsession will overtake him again soon enough, but for now, let him have this.

He rises like a phoenix beneath the blanket, and it dramatically slides off of him, however, when someone begins pounding at the door as though they’ll be killed if they aren’t let inside. Huffing in pure fatigue, he trudges in the direction of the front door like a man to the frontlines. It sounds like a warzone outside, to boot. Every second is accompanied by fifty frantic knocks.

Just as he stands before the door, he grabs a gun and hides it behind his back with a readied hand. The pounding has stopped, escalating the situation to a new level of eerie. He unlocks the door, biting the bullet.

Standing before him is nothing but the view of the neighbor's house across the street. Not a person to be seen. He steps outside, surveying the area. Upon closer inspection, there’s something there after all. A note taped on the door, he finds out, after turning around. For fucks sake, Dazai can’t let himself be swayed so easily. Moments later, he has dropped his gun on the porch and is holding the note in his hands. A woman walking her dog stares at Dazai from the safety of the sidewalk in disbelief. He ignores this.

------

“Osamu Dazai, do you have preferences regarding how I refer to you? I must have been misgendering you all this time, what a femme fatale you are~ I am frothing at the mouth for your arrival to the ball, my cheeks pink. You’re such a coy one. You know giving flowers is my job, pretty lady. You’re supposed to sit there and wallow in their scent. Take a gander at her hair-raising beauty, my men. My soon-to-be bride awaits me! Though if you insist on inverted chivalry, then by all means, visit me by your own tactics. Though I had horse and buggy prepared and everything. It’s a shame, really. ...Rest assured, now the teasing is over. You are such an unpredictable man, and that is far more alluring to me than what I just described. So, I thought I would pepper in some unpredictable...’jokes’ of my own. You purchased flowers at your own behest, overcoming your fear of shopping facilities just for me. That sentiment stirs me far greater than the carnations do, but they look quite nice in their own right. I ‘ve never felt for a woman the way I feel for you.”

-Your Watcher

------

Dazai bursts out in hysterical laughter, and then his face goes flat, his eyes lidded. His watcher is already drinking himself silly and Dazai has yet to arrive at the show.

“Ugh, I hate impatient people. He has the patience of a child.” That isn’t the truth, and you know it isn’t, lovebird. Dazai simply hates the watcher.

He despises how quickly he gallops back into his house to dress himself in his suit. The knightly code is a scam, to be frank. The watcher, the pyramid scheme’s ringmaster. Dazai, the dimwitted devotee. It’s nostalgic, triggering trap after trap without learning from the previous trap’s telling's.

Minutes pass, and Dazai is just about ready to tear his pretty suit to shreds. His looks destroy the purpose of the clothing. Dazai adjusts his tie, tucks his hair behind his ears, applies a bit more eyeliner. The assembly line goes one step forward, three steps back; his tie is still crooked, strands of hair keep falling in his face, and he smudges his eyeliner.

Even zygotes could comprehend the fact that the watcher isn’t after Dazai’s appearance. Yet the ‘detective’ is groaning in self-loathing. Or is he perhaps directing his fury at himself when it should be at the wretched mirror?

Finally, after ten minutes have passed, Dazai looks…presentable. His looks can kill, as in petrify someone more violently than Medusa. The watcher must be a blind man.

When he exits the bathroom, he has another mini manic episode, as he fears with his entire being that he might forget something. Karmic sounds tempt him from the front room. His phone chimes, the ringtone siren-like in its ability to distract him. Dazai walks with labored steps to the source of his destruction.

“Chuuya, are you jealous that I’m going to see the watcher? Well guess what, he insulted me today! Can you believe it? I’ve been emasculated, though I didn’t cling to manliness as a concept to begin with. He may as well call me mackerel next, wear a Chuuya cosplay and everything.” Only then, after speaking to himself, does he answer the call.

“Slug? I told you I didn’t want to embarrass myself by taking you to the ball and I’d rather be the only one without a partner than have people think I’m attracted to you- *inhale* because you’re shameful to be seen around with that tacky hat and ludicrous haircut and don’t get me started on your horrendous personality- *pant* so why the hell are you calling me?”

Dazai’s chest rises and falls heavily with every breath he just barely manages to regain. There’s some hesitation on Chuuya’s end, and then he scowls, as though he’d lagged before processing Dazai’s words.

“Fucking jackass! I hope you didn’t take too long thinking up that vain nonsense, because guess who IS going to that ball? I am! I’m going with Akutagawa, because that tiger kid apparently got together with some redhead girl and Aku’s fucking balling and it’s- *huff* it’s getting on my nerves so I told him I’d make him feel wanted for the night if he would just shut the fuck up-“

Dazai’s loud guffaws interrupt Chuuya’s copycat rant. He clutches his stomach with his free hand, bending over from the force of his laughter. After wiping at tears and praising his waterproof eyeliner, he finally succeeds at speaking.

“You’re telling me you’re taking Akutagawa as your date to the ball that you were only invited to attend if you went as *MY* date? Don’t tell me you’re actually attracted to him, that’s rich! Hehe, the mad dog couple~”

Maybe the watcher slipped some of whatever he took into Dazai’s breakfast because Dazai is engulfed in newborn energy.

“Actually, simpleton Dazai, we were BOTH invited to the ball. And do you think I would care if I weren’t? I’d crash it either way! And is that possessiveness I sense? Mad that you aren’t the only choice I have? Poor baby.” Low, low blow, Chuuya. And not the kind that Dazai likes from him.

“Woah woah, get off your high horse. I fuck whoever I want and so do you. It’s just, the visual of you and Akutagawa- it’s remarkably funny. Anyways, I don’t care for your safety, that’s obvious, but I’d advise you not to go against my friend’s wishes. He doesn’t just host events; he can do a whole lot more than that. Watch your back. I hope I don’t see you there, bye-“

“Wait! Don’t fucking hang up, I still need the directions and time for the ball. I don’t have photographic fucking memory, imbecile.”

Dazai is humiliated to realize that he himself, does in fact have such things memorized. He explains all the details to Chuuya, who is still unbelievably rude to him, by the way.

“He didn’t even thank me! The pipsqueak might just get smushed if he tries to dance at the ball.” Dazai is glad that Chuuya hung up after getting the information, because he doesn’t want him ruining his special day. Lord, is Dazai referring to the ball as his special day’? When he hardly remembers the date of his own birthday?

Casting the abrasive indignity aside, he retrieves the last thing he needs for the occasion; the bouquet. Is it really November eleventh? Dazai could swear summer had just begun. Shivering, he approaches the front door. It is 6:47 PM, and that unsettles Dazai, who had planned to leave at 6:45.

The watcher must be rolling in his grave (by grave, Dazai means the sea of blank-faced NPCS at the masquerade ball). When he leaves the house, he sees a projectile fall from the sky, sent from mother nature herself, as even she hates him, despite being his creator.

Evading the projectile by an inch or so, he cranes his neck downwards to see what almost hit him. Ah yes, bird shit. The first of many obstacles Dazai must surpass on his quest to meet his treasure.

Obstacle two hits and doesn’t miss. Dazai punches the steering wheel when his car seems to fail to start.

The catch is, the car started just moments before he’d decided to punch the steering wheel, and he hadn’t realized, and so he’d accidentally honked, effectively jump scaring himself. He hits his head on the roof of the car. “Fuck!”

Since when is this a comedy? Since never, Dazai agrees, taking it upon himself to avoid such foolish mistakes for the rest of the day. While he doesn’t live extremely far from Queen’s square, he is typically late to anything and everything, and this is the one thing that cannot be part of said things. Obstacle three, the most common; traffic extravaganza.

People crowd every inch of sidewalk, and likewise, cars crowd every inch of road. The worst part is, Dazai has somewhere to go before he arrives at Minato Mirai Hall. By somewhere, he means two places.

Firstly, he must (begrudgingly) get some more food than a bowl of cereal in his system, because his stomach’s noises might just overpower that of the music at the ball. It’s been growling nonstop, and it doesn’t help when you’re anxious on said empty stomach.

Dazai certainly isn’t the type to eat out, but he’d been too preoccupied with other things to eat earlier in the day.

After some consideration, he’d settled for Daidaiya, a decent restaurant near the ball’s building. From what he recollected, the view from the windows of the restaurant is gorgeous depending on where you sit. That doesn’t matter, what matters is that the detective has something to eat.

It takes a hot minute longer than it should to navigate to Daidaiya, as Dazai had anticipated. A particular part of him had dreaded the worst; rain, storm, heck, maybe a tornado to sweep away the watcher now that they’re getting so close to meeting face-to-face.

Though the sky was, in reality, a nice shade of Aegean blue, setting the tone for a beautiful night. Nature is oftentimes the only thing that he values in this day and age. Well, everything is connected to (a part of) nature in some way, and such thoughts muddle Dazai’s mind, make him rethink his ideals. The watcher transcends nature.

The only type of drive he likes is just this one; a starry blue sky and a growing, new mind. Now if only an obstacle four won’t invite itself into his special day and close him right back up.

“Please, divine intervention, intervene with me and don’t let Chuuya and Akutagawa sit there waiting for me at Daidaiya, don’t let the watcher get too wasted and forget me, don’t let me lose sight of who I am tonight,” he whines to himself with a comedic exaggeration.

No, Dazai is in a new positivity phase. He won’t go over every possible negative scenario. He won’t go over every possible negative scenario he won’t go over every possible negative scenario he won’t go over every possible negativescenariohewon’t-

Dazai gasps scruffily, as though he’d been on the brink of drowning. He’d completely spaced out while driving, and miraculously, he’d arrived at Daidaiya. Few parking spots were open. Miraculously yet again is the fact that the available spot he finally finds is the one closest to the restaurant’s entrance.

Blinking repeatedly to get the awe out of his eyes, he eases his car into the spot and parks it with a wide smile. Is this a premonition of a perfect night with his watcher, or is it foreshadowing failure for the night?

Either way, Dazai doesn’t feel completely and utterly repulsed when he sees his reflection on the car window. Ignoring how his height is more like Chuuya’s in his reflection, his hair seems to have stayed in place like how he had hoped. His tie is straight, and his makeup isn’t running down his cheeks, which is also a plus!

This morale boost is just what he needed. As you can most likely surmise, his anxiety spikes whenever he must act civilized in civilization. It’s like zoo animals watching humans from within their glass confines.

Familiar as sounds of laughter and excitement are, they are also alien and deafening. Dazai feels mocked, when people point and laugh, despite purposefully telling jokes and making a fool of himself. Does he not want people to find his comedy funny? Then why does he tell his jokes?

The interior of the restaurant is, in every sense of the word, befitting of the aesthetic Dazai was hoping for. Not too excessive, yet modern and cyber in its blues and golds. Through the windows, customers have a direct view of the dizzying, gigantic Minato Mirai hustle and bustle.

The polychromatic, presently blue-lit Ferris wheel turns hypnotically, and lucky for Dazai, the waitress directed him to a seat where he could see it perfectly. Night life was multicolor. Where crimson lights lined rooftops, yellows blinded you from the torsos of buildings, and the sparkling cerulean bay most notably showed central Yokohama’s charm.

Dazai briefly fantasized about jumping off of the tallest building to add to the various stunning public arts and attractions. No, his ruby blood would disrupt the strikingly mirrored blues and purples splayed over the water.

Dazai isn’t exactly the most artistic person in Yokohama. He is, however, the most selfish. So perhaps he would be willing to scar the trembling waters, give them front row tickets for his demise.

People from oversees often consider stopping at Minato Mirai when visiting Yokohama. It seems they do so for good reason. Dazai is already seated in his booth, eyes glazed over. “I’ll give you a moment to decide what you might like to order,” she’d (whose name read ‘Ame’) said gently, and Dazai wondered if he should invite her to ride with him on the Ferris wheel.

Would the ride operator kill everyone including Dazai and Ame if he payed him down to his last dime? No, that’s a lawsuit waiting to happen, so the operator would lose more money than he made. That is, unless he managed to flee Yokohama with the cash and start a new life, be a failure in Dazai’s stead.

Ame was uniform; like a block world. Stacked aimlessly here and there with nothing to hide. Just bundles of nerves that are more like lines of code. People like Ame weren’t exactly Dazai’s favorite, but she is what he would deserve.

He bets she would be the type to say she lost her appetite if you mentioned insects or bacteria while she was eating. He chuckles sourly to himself, picking up the provided chopsticks and twirling them offensively. When Ame walks back in his direction, Dazai slouches further in his booth, lids his eyes and grins lightly.

She seems to notice his indifferent manners, and she doesn’t seem to appreciate them all that much. How much is she payed an hour at this place, 780 yen or something? And she must deal with people like Dazai to boot.

“So, have you decided on what you would like to eat today?” Dazai’s gaze flickers down towards Ame’s skirt for a fleeting moment, and he looks back up at her when he knows she has caught his drift. Ame clears her throat and giggles uncomfortably. “Are you…alright sir?” The detective is somewhat agitated at how coquettish she is acting. The waitress’s patience is running thin. “Ah, yes, my apologies. Do you have any recommendations? I trust your judgement, as I’m the indecisive type, at least when it comes to dining.”

Ame seems to narrow her eyes a little. “Shrimp tempura with tentsuyu, if you like it. I’ve tasted the majority of our dishes, and it is one of the best, in my opinion.” The restaurant feels less like a restaurant and more like dense woods. Dazai is bare-footed, yet dashing through said forests.

Surely he has time for an extra…stop, before he heads to the next destination. “Is your lunchbreak soon, Bella donna? I’m regretfully busy later, so-“

“If you don’t order some food and leave me alone, I’ll have you removed from the restaurant.” Dazai’s whole body turns icy at the very idea that he just got rejected. He was…rejected? Since when did anyone ever have the nerve to reject Dazai Osamu? Ordinarily, people are panting for him at every turn.

The waitress in cafe Uzumaki had been one of the few people in his life who wouldn’t fall for him, but Dazai would bet his bottom dollar that if he got to know her tastes a bit better, he could convince her fine and well.

The longer he considers this, the more likely is it that he is on an ego high thanks to affection from Chuuya and the watcher crowding him these days.

“Oh, come on, beautiful, I have something I just know you’d like to swallow, even if you aren’t hungry. Too nervous to have a taste? That's a real shame; I would’ve tasted you in retu-” His voice cancels out. His ears are plugged. Dazai is underwater, and Ame is on land. The Ferris wheel spins clockwise before him when he is kicked out of the restaurant, presumably by Ame’s lover or boss.

Well, that was a bust. Perhaps Dazai had been possessed by Tenshi’s spirit. Still coming for him (literally AND metaphorically) from the afterlife, hm? Regardless, Dazai now has pent up heat and a knotted-up stomach. Worse still is the fact that he’ll have to go to the ball on an empty stomach.

Although he’ll no doubt have access to various mouthwatering appetizers and meals upon arrival at the hall, he might just be too- well, too starved to eat them. When he gets to a certain module of hunger, he can’t help but encourage the pangs, let them fester.

Insult to injury, Dazai finds something ghastly within his car which he’d drunkenly (soberly) stumbled over to. Inside is Satan’s muse, otherwise known as the cellphone.

Four missed calls. Chuuya Nakahara 4x speed. His name clangs in Dazai’s hollow skull, the force unsolicited and unforeseen. Call it a fucking day, Chuuya.

The Mafioso picks up within a matter of seconds when Dazai gloomily calls him back. “Yo, bastard Dazai! This place is fucking packed to the brim! I can’t fucking breathe in here, so how in the hell can you?” Dazai stretches out in the car, carelessly propping his shoes against the steering wheel. The position reminds him of the time when he tried to end his breathing via oil bucket, and Atsushi nearly fainted at the sight.

Anyways, he is privy to the gravity of the event already. Who does Chuuya take him for after all these years? “You’re already at the ball? You aren’t exactly an early bird, more like a late Chihuahua. I still need about an hour to…collect myself, before I arrive. So what are you calling me like a lunatic for? I thought I’ve already expressed to you that I want no involvement with you tonight.”

Chuuya moaned in irritation, and Dazai thinks his animosity is justified, just this once. It would be a different story if Chuuya had invited Dazai to an event like this, only to cancel and tell him how much of an embarrassment he is. To put it lightly, he might go and buy Chuuya a new motorcycle just to burn it before his eyes, if that happened.

Revenge is best served cold, an immature truth indeed.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, this ball shit seems more important to me than it does to you at this point. And I’m not calling you just to say hi, bird brain. Apparently, Akutagawa saw something weird going on earlier. This masked dude who I assume to be one of the event organizers or some shit- he uh, how do I put this…” The mafioso trails off, his tone peculiarly stern.

Dazai’s ears perk up at the mention of this elusive ‘masked dude’. Could he be?... Swallowing hard, he presses the other man for more information. “What? Cat got your tongue? Chibi?”

“Shut the fuck up, I know you can’t be serious for five fucking seconds, but this is freaky, and it isn’t even about me! So, Akutagawa had to use the bathroom a while after we got here. It was like navigating a maze just to get to the restrooms, according to Aku. When he was in the stall, this guy came in the bathroom. He went in the stall right next to his while there were like, ten other stalls available. The fucking weirdo was in there for a minute, and then after flushing the toilet, he knocked on Akutagawa’s stall!”

Pausing for a croaky breath, Chuuya can be heard raking his fingers through his ginger locks on the other end.

“Now, this is the creepy part. When Aku opened the door, nobody was there, but he was curious or had a gut feeling I guess, and he peeked into the stall the guy had come out of. And get this, they left him a note. It was addressed to him and everything. It said, ‘You mustn't ruin Dazai Osamu’s night, lest you lose your head earlier than planned’. It was worded like a Victorian vampire author wrote it! Do you know anything about it?”

Dazai blinked lethargically. He admittedly hadn’t processed a single word of Chuuya’s essay. “How does that pertain to a masked man?” The words float about, bounce back at him. Finally, the mafioso answers.

“We don’t know for certain if the guy I’m talking about is the one who wrote the note, but this dude in a white and blue masquerade mask keeps looking over at us, I swear! I think this dude is seriously trouble, and if he tries anything, he is fucking toast!”

Running his hand down his face in reluctance, he decides to simply hang up and ignore any calls he might get. There frankly isn’t enough time to be dealing with Chuuya’s shenanigans. Chuuya is probably shoulders-deep in alcohol right about now, so let him have his moment without Dazai.

Alright. One more place to go before his life flashes before his eyes. In Queen’s Tower, among the many stores, is a fashion and jewelry shop of which Dazai hasn’t been before. He only knows of it due to extensive research. He would’ve liked buying the watcher some jewelry from somewhere special, but he’s on a time crunch. Surely they’ll have something worthy there.

Tiffany and Co., was it? In specific, Dazai wants to buy the watcher a ring. Blah blah blah, even evil masterminds have a right to love. It’s relatively easy to navigate to the floor with the store on it. While Daidaiya was quite crowded, not too many people seem to be out shopping. Arriving just a few paces before the store, he takes a seat on a nearby bench. You didn’t think Dazai Osamu was about to pay thousands for a ring, did you? Oh, pity the fool.

He takes his phone out and readies himself to dial a certain number. Astonishingly enough, Chuuya hasn’t called him yet. Perhaps he drowned himself in wine. Hopefully nobody knows CPR there if so. None other than Nikolai Gogol picks up when Dazai calls.

“…Gogol, are you here yet?” The clown snickers in reply, and it sounds like he’s in two places at once. It’s then that Dazai feels a hand on his shoulder, and if he didn’t know any better, he would’ve jolted in fright. “It’s quiz time! How did the allll mighty Dazai not realize that the ringmaster himself, Nikolai, was here in the flesh, not in the phone?!”

Dazai looks up at Nikolai who leans over him from behind the bench. He smiles lopsidedly. “Why, you’re just so talented in the art of clownery that I couldn’t figure out the secret behind your trick. Bravo!” He claps slowly.

The two men are quite similar in more ways than they realize. They both put up a comedic smokescreen to cover their real outlook, they feign sadism when in reality they are masochism specialists, they are both in love with a Russian child-killing sociopathic terrorist, and the best part, is that they are both in denial about all the listed things.

“So, lemme get this straight! You want the clown to sit out for most of the show?! How is that fair?!” Nikolai whines, and Dazai rises from his seat on the bench with a satisfied expression.

“Well, you make your debut at the best part. I’ll reinform you of the plan for good measure, though I don’t doubt your skills. You’re to sit on this very bench while I enter the jewelry store. After I decide on what I would like, I’ll walk out and tell you what I’ve chosen. Then we head into the restaurant beside the jewelry store and use their bathroom simultaneously. There, we’ll stand in the same stall together. Finally, you use your ability to grab the jewelry I picked out from the case and teleport it back to us. You give it to me, and I pocket it. That’s when I fulfill my end of the bargain. Understand?”

Nikolai places a finger on his chin, humming dramatically. “This is a rural mission, and I’m all about city life! Where's the flare?” The clown suddenly grabs Dazai’s hand, spinning him at about the speed that a Gravitron would.

Clutching his stomach when Nikolai lets go, Dazai realizes that they are already in the bathroom. The theatrics appeared to have proven worthwhile. At first glance, the way the plan is carrying out makes it seem like a self-indulgent prank that doesn’t uphold any deal’s end. However, it’s Nikolai’s bubbly tone and glimmering eyes that tell a different story.

The clown looms over Dazai in the stall. There is hardly enough room for the both of them in the cramped space. Glancing down, Dazai notices that Nikolai’s fists are balled.

“Alright Dazai, pick a hand! A surprise awaits you, if you choose correctly~” Dazai tilts his head, straightening to his full height so he doesn’t feel quite as small. “Hmm, are you telling me you snatched up some striking jewelry that will fit my expectations like a dream within a matter of seconds? You’re the ringmaster for a reason, then. No wonder Fyodor Dostoevsky chose you for his upcoming plan. Unless, there are some ulterior motives behind his liking to you…”

Dazai quips, as though Nikolai is the only one immersed in limerence. Dazai slowly reaches down and traces the outline of his knuckles over Nikolai’s gloves. He shivers in response, his smile growing increasingly sly. The shorter man lingers on the left knuckles, lightly putting pressure against them. His fingers act as spiders over the leather gloves.

“My, I never thought detectives were so crass? Is it just you, hmm!? You’re a jester just like me, but don’t worry, my acts are better~” Nikolai slowly lifts his fingers, undoing the left fist. Awaiting Dazai on the clown’s palm is a breathtaking Sixteen stone ring. With diamonds and sapphire lining its front, it seemed to light up the otherwise-dim bathroom. When Dazai reaches for the ring, he doesn’t describe it in words. Instead, he slowly slides it into his pocket, while Nikolai hums in anticipation.

“Ah, let me tell you a quick story. I end up fucking fifty percent of the people I come in contact with. When I’d went out to eat earlier, the waitress looked at me with big doe eyes, blushing when I’d came onto her. And then-...get this! She had me thrown out of the restaurant when I offered to satiate her urges. I’m sure you’ve got some emotional and physical holes that need filling, so, may I? ‘cuz I feel humiliated, Nikolai.”

Nikolai cringed at Dazai’s words, but pulled him into a desperate kiss nonetheless. Just as things were heating up, however, Dazai’s phone buzzed, a wordless plea like a caged dove before star-crossed lovers.

The two men separated clumsily. Someone entered the bathroom and occupied the stall next door, and with him came a feral grunt. HD1 was as close as Setagaya, or at least, that’s what the punishing scent from the stall beside them directed the circus clowns to characteristically think.

Dazai manipulated his phone out of his pocket with balmy fingers. Just a missed spam call. This was the second time today he got cock-blocked. Hopefully it was the universe trying to save him for the watcher and the watcher alone.

Nikolai prodded Dazai’s shoulder, understandably offended by how seriously Dazai was taking his phone. “What’s this? Open your eyes, Fedya hates technology for a reason, mannn…” Sliding his phone back into his pocket, Dazai crosses his arms and awaits Nikolai’s mystic trick. “Abra-cadabra! shazaam, booyakasha! All hail Nikolai Gogol and his natural air freshener!”

Yellow ember-like particles suddenly opened up beneath the grunting man’s stall nearby, the flame-like colors snaking about to reveal a hypnotically iridescent portal. The man and his gastrointestinal distress were teleported elsewhere, but his stall was not. Dazai clasped a hand over his mouth, falling into Nikolai in hysteria. Nikolai's in-tandem laughter was maniacal and villain-like.

“There, now he’s probs shitting over on the jewelry shop counters! A little reimbursement from the comedian criminals~”

The portal closes, the light blinding enough to wake even those lost in hypersomnia. A great ruckus seems to have broken out in the jewelry shop, and pigs must fly if Nikolai and Dazai aren’t going to go see for themselves. Nikolai kicks the stall door trapping himself and Dazai within, expecting it to fly open, and when it doesn’t, he blushes and opens it the right way.

It wasn’t common for a clown to feel embarrassed, considering the nature of a prankster’s purpose. There was simply this aura about Dazai that whittled down even the primogenital trees to mere chess pieces. “That was a splendid show. If I had a dime to spare, I would spare it on you. This just so happens to be mine and the watcher’s night, so you’re an unlucky duckling. This bathroom reeks, lets skedaddle.”

The way Dazai was speaking was so atypical that even Nikolai who has hardly spent an hour total around him could sense the irregularity.

“Aww shucks, are you trying to talk like me so I’ll like you? Don’t worry, coworkers like us have no place getting all buddy-buddy anyways. I’m just living freely, for a moment, y’know? I’m also trapped forever. By Fedya, in fact.” Both men frown sympathetically at Nikolai’s words, and both men hold each other's hands as they dash out of the bathroom.

It was true that such relations were unexpected and frankly, narcissistic of both of them. So similar, yet worlds away- no, universes away in personality.

That’s how Dazai and Nikolai view one another, and that’s alright. Upon exiting the bathroom, they learned that crowds of shapeshifters otherwise known as human beings filled every bit of space, making it nigh impossible to get out of the mall in one piece.

That didn’t matter profoundly in the here and now though, as the shared realization that Nikolai and Dazai should not hookup wasn’t a punch winding enough to break their resolve to glimpse the scene in the jewelry store. As Nikolai gleefully dragged Dazai left and right in the vicinity of the shop where all hell had broken loose, the brunet clumsily navigated the pocket of his dress pants, tugging it up to afford another gaze at the illustrious Sixteen stone ring.

Eventually Nikolai and Dazai both pressed their bodies to the storefront, peering around the edge at the consequences of their reckless actions. And my, what a sight it was; a grown man sobbing fearfully, explaining the absurd phenomena that transpired while he was in the bathroom of the restaurant over to disgruntled employees.

All the while, he had pulled his pants up but not before leaving a mess on the marble floor. Guilt initially begged to wring Dazai’s bandaged neck, but perhaps his bandages were a force sturdy enough to dispel such an emotion? Or maybe he was too busy relishing in Nikolai’s surprisingly delicious company.

“...Well, Nikolai, I’m afraid I have places to be, but I will admit that I now see exactly why Fyodor deemed you worthy of being his right-hand-man. He has some awesome friends. You, Sigma, Bram, Fukuchi...” At Dazai’s kidding words, Nikolai pales, fixing the white eye which is uncovered by his trusty card on the lanky man before him.

His body contorts into a defensive, guarding pose; one where he veils much of his body with his cape, shielding all but his face. “...How do you know that? What kind of black magic...Fukuchi and Dos-kun have no relations.”

Not deterred by Nikolai’s clear suspicion of the extent of his knowledge and how he acquired such truths, Dazai smirks furtively and brings their souring interaction to a timely close. “...It isn’t black magic. It’s basic deduction. Not so hard to pinpoint angels who have fallen from their place in the sky. Your clipped wings...yours are the darkest of you five, dyed deeply in red. I feel genuinely sad for you, since birds are supposed to fly in clear skies and yet your skies are caged.”

Just as Dazai turns in a flash, he feels his pants shifting, and that pocket which he’d been fiddling with earlier opens wide to make way for a certain sapphire ring to ascend up and levitate before his face. Instantly regretting his decision to provoke the clown, he jumps and tries to reach the ring which The Overcoat dangles cruelly just too high.

“You’re right, you’re right, I’m trapped, it’s miserable...but that surprised look on your face is nice, so I’ll forgive you for reminding me, haha!” It is evident by both Nikolai’s fidgety mannerisms and the antsy tone in his voice that Dazai hit a nerve, but by some run of luck the ring falls right back into Dazai’s upturned, waiting palms, and he hurriedly returns it to the safety of his pocket.

Only sparing a single sympathetic glance at the man behind him, the detective begins making his way past the many individuals in the mall and finds himself at the entrance of it before long. It is alarming to think that there is nowhere else to venture to now other than to Minato Mirai Hall itself, where Dazai will once again meet with the watcher in-person.

The thought causes Dazai to hurriedly reach out to brace a sweaty hand on the exit doors of the mall, trying to remain on the ball since the little trip to the Jewlery store with Nikolai was only a sneak peak of the excitement to come.

Finally hobbling out of the joint, he can feel his nerves being calmed, if only a little by the jarring bite of brisk cold air that late fall doles out, and he breaths it in, enjoying the shiver that courses through his lithe frame. Okay, no more seizures, no more rapists, no more pain.

Tonight will be beautiful, he internally chants, while trying to remember where exactly he parked amidst all the hubbub. After mistaking one-too-many cars with his own, he finally remembers that he’d found a cozy, seemingly memorable spot right in front of the fucking store, but alas, the watcher burns away the residuals of any thoughts other than himself from Dazai’s scrambled mind.

Dazai foolishly allows desire to guide him to the windshield, where he peers at it in the event that some last-minute note has been left behind, though it wouldn’t make a dash of sense for there to be one now.

Surveying complete, the detective lets out a breathy sigh he hadn’t known he’d been holding, and fits his fingers around the car door handle, pulling it until the door swings open. Of course he decides to look before he leaps. Once seated in his car, he double checks the safety of the Sixteen Stone Ring, the condition of the bouquet, and finally, after gripping the inner rear-view mirror, he skittishly adjusts the collar of his suit and pulls his overcoat up just a bit further.

Everything is in check. The only thing that could use some revision is Dazai’s brain, but he can’t adjust or polish that before the ball, unless he learns the steps for a successful lobotomy in a second’s notice.

Dazai yelps and hisses at his phone when the screen lights up beside him and scares his daylights out. Chuuya, Chuuya, venomous fucking Chuuya. While it is highly improbable that he wholeheartedly means the sentiment, he sincerely wishes that Chuuya will suddenly be wooed like a princess by Akutagawa and take his eyes off his ex-partner for good.

Scrambling to fit the phone into his grasp, the fed-up brunet dials the redhead’s number and is barraged with a slew of words the moment the other male picks up. “...Dazai! Where the- *hic* where the hell are y-you? Akutagawa-...he’s driving me crazy, you *need* to come help me, he spilled wine all over my suit and now everyone ‘s looking at me like I’m an idiot!” ...He can’t be serious.

Rather than giving in and allowing his judgement to be misguided by the chihuahua's barking like he usually does, he mans up and firmly says to his slammed frenemy, “...I’ll be there soon, as in less than five minutes. Why don’t you start heading toward the front of the building so I can find you easily? Also, where is Akutagawa right now? Is he with you?” After a bout of sniveling from the man on the phone, Dazai finally hears that rough, muffled voice, though his words would be better classified as mumbling than talking.

“F...Fuck, he’s coming back! I don’t-...don’t want him to k-know that I’m angry with him, he’ll just embarrass me further. I’m making a run for it, for the front of the-” Beep. With a resigned sigh, Dazai hangs up the call, fisting the phone over onto the seat beside the bouquet of flowers. Though he can sort of hear Chuuya’s outraged ranting playing in his imagination, until he starts the car and the mechanical whir drowns it out.

Of all sounds, the watcher’s godly serenade is what reigns supreme, lulling Dazai into auto-driving even though the watcher clearly isn’t literally playing a melody for his devotee. To Osamu Dazai, the very notion of such a divine existence is music to his ears.

Running a red light here and there, Dazai focuses his attention on the road, maneuvering around cars without regard for them in hopes that he’ll arrive at the grand hall as quickly as possible. As the large building comes into view, Dazai’s heart thuds rapidly within his chest, to a point where he has to clutch at it and closes his eyes when he’s safe enough to pause at a light.

The light is a blinding crimson, which reminds of Chuuya’s Corruption and corrupts the brunet’s fragmented mind further. How is he allowing mundane trivialities such as traffic lights and Chuuya to take precedence in his bank of thoughts when all he inputted into there willingly is the watcher? If only there were some capability to withdraw everything out of there so the divine one could have the space he deserved.

Tonight, as it happens, will be Dazai and the watcher’s night, nobody else’s. They will likely invade one another’s personal space, and then every little detail of the ballroom will be vanquished lickety-split. Whether the detective is definitively worthy of movie romance is up for debate, but regardless of that, as he feels a warm, fuzzy feeling in his gut, he decides this ache for the other male runs too deep to deny the much-needed relief of such a thing.

Those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, they say, so just fucking let the man off the hook if he allows himself a single mercy. That crooked smile bends and twists until it is reminiscent of something off a horror mascot, referencing the sheer pleasure that Dazai endures at the notion that he won’t back down from the night of ecstasy to come. But God, if he doesn’t take his tremulous hands off from his face and glue them to the steering wheel, the only place he’ll be going to is the local police having caused some big accident.

After all, only now has reality struck in the form of several cars behind his honking for him to go at the green.

Heeding their call, he finally continues the drive toward his destination, one which appears more luxurious the closer he arrives toward it. Ignoring the lilt in his confident high which occurs when the tires of his car touch the start of Minato Mirai Hall’s packed parking lot, he cranes his neck to and fro, attempting to find somewhere decently close enough to the entrance. Since Akutagawa and Chuuya are roaming the shindig, there is bound to be turmoil, and it wouldn't be a brow-raiser if some catastrophes were to ensue as a by-product of their making.

...Not a deviation in numbers or letters, the same striking, deliberate shade of cobalt, the same rolled-down windows. A certain car is enough for Dazai to stop his own in the middle of the parking lot, gawking at the sight that just drove a blade into his ribcage.

One night, a windy, bespangled one during the Cannibalism incident, Fyodor Dostoevsky, the forefront of the Decay of Angels in Dazai’s perceiving, had drove by Dazai’s house, while Dazai stood with furrowed brows on his porch. Scouting something out, perhaps cruising by to intimidate, gone after making fleeting eye contact.

He’d been in the strangest car-...it was a shiny, cobalt blue, had a recognizable license plate that Dazai memorized, the car having slowed just enough for him to stumble across his lawn and make a mental note of it. Since that time, the License plate has been a plate at the back of his mind, the bigger dish in there being the watcher’s confounding existence.

It read, in those jarring, spaced-out black letters, “W4TCH M3”. And right now, in this moment where the rustling wind and the chatting eventgoers and the whir of the heat in his car are all put on the backburner, his ears ring as the license plate on the cobalt blue car in front of him reads the same.

Fyodor Dostoevsky’s empty car is parked right there in the lot, showing itself off.

The watcher, whether he is him or not, clearly planned this out, has led Dazai to believe, before the event has even begun, that Fyodor Dostoevsky is the enigma he’d been so desperate to please and follow all this time.