Chapter Text
Day 0:
Breaking News: War Criminal Escapes Confinement
At what is to be believed at around six-thirty this morning, guards of the Japanese National Prison reported a missing inmate during their routine headcounts. Further investigation found that Russian war criminal Fyodor Dostoevsky was no longer in his cell, prompting a lockdown of the entire prison. However, authorities were unable to locate him within the facility and as such a nationwide manhunt has been declared with the police of all provinces keeping an eye out for this very dangerous man.
Dostoevsky, aged thirty-four, is known for his exploits during the Great War three years back between the Allied Forces (Japan, Germany and France) against England caused by the most serious breach of international spyware intelligence in history. Although he hails from Russia, Dostoevsky made himself useful as a hacker and soldier under the command of Agatha Christie, head of the British espionage department OCT (Order of the Clock Tower). During the war, it was discovered that he had violated fundamental rights and engaged in illegal human experimentation while on a military campaign in Japan, leading the Russian government to call for his arrest. Christie, perhaps disgusted with his behaviour, surrendered him willingly; he was then transferred into the hands of the Japanese, who imprisoned him. Two months later, the war ended.
Civilians are advised to look out for a young, slender man with pale skin, long black hair and purple eyes. If a potential suspect is spotted, call the police immediately and inform them of both your location and situation. Under no circumstances is confrontation advised; the best action to take is to just run away and allow the authorities to handle this criminal.
***
Fukuchi Ouchi hurried down the hall towards the Prime Minister’s office, the reports of the morning clutched in his hand. He had tried to call Natsume earlier as soon as he received the news of Dostoevsky’s escape, but the elderly man had not picked up. It was surprising, for he was normally up, awake and working before even sunrise.
Well, no matter. Perhaps he had merely forgotten to turn his phone off silent; or, knowing the absent-minded nature of the man, he had left the device sandwiched between stacks of papers where its ringing could not reach his ears.
He stopped in front of the office, nodding respectfully at the guards stationed outside before he lifted his knuckles to rap sharply on the door.
“Natsume-san?” he called. “I have news. It’s about Dostoevsky.”
There was no response. He tried again. “Natsume-san? Prime Minister?”
“He might not be in,” one of the guards told him helpfully. “I was here before dawn and no one has entered since.”
Fukuchi spared him a tight smile. “The Prime Minister has a bad habit of sleeping in his office, so that’s nothing unusual. May I enter and check on him?”
The guard shrugged and gestured with one white-gloved hand. “Be my guest.”
Fukuchi made a mental note to scold him later about being more cautious of letting just anyone get close to the Prime Minister, even if that person was the head of the Department of Special Intelligence. But he digressed.
The ornate oak doors made barely a sound as he pushed them open, creating a gap just wide enough for him to slip through. Blinking his eyes against the darkness, Fukuchi frowned. Natsume Soseki was an odd man, but keeping his personal workspace shrouded in shadow was not one of his quirky preferences.
He fumbled around for the light switch and flipped it up, bathing the room in fluorescence.
“Prime Minister,” he said, turning around, “you should not work in darkness. It’s bad for your eyes.”
The sight of an empty office chair greeted him, cushions of leather smooth from a night of not being sat upon. He felt his eyes narrow in confusion as he walked closer to the glaringly person-less desk. “Prime Minister?”
Without any further ado he reached for his phone again, punching in the first contact. The device rang into the silence, once, twice, thrice, before eventually going to voicemail.
“Hey,” said the automatic tone in the voice of Natsume Soseki, “you’ve reached the voicemail of the Prime Minister! Congratulations are in order, I suppose; not many people can get to this stage in life, after all. Please leave a message and I will get back to you as soon as I feasibly can.”
Fukuchi waited for the annoying words to stop and for the beep that signified a recording to start. “Natsume-san, where are you? With all due respect, it is already eight in the morning and you are expected to be here. There is urgent news that we must deal with about the escape of Fyodor Dostoevsky.”
He paused, unsure of what else to say but feeling eerily as if he had forgotten something. Eventually, frustrated by the words that did not come, he saved the voicemail and just hung up.
He stalked out of the office and headed straight down the stairs, tapping in numbers on his phone as he did so.
Fukuzawa Yukichi, one of his oldest friends, picked up on the second ring.
“Hello Ouchi, how are you?” the man asked.
“Is Natsume-san with you?” Fukuchi questioned immediately, without bothering about the warm greetings they would normally exchange.
“No, he’s not. Is something wrong?”
“I’m not sure yet. But he’s not in his office at a precarious time like this, with Dostoevsky’s escape and everything, and plus he’s ignoring my calls. You know it’s quite out of character for him to do that.”
Yukichi hummed in agreement. “True, but let us not panic yet. He most likely has a legitimate reason for being absent. Give it some time.”
“And how long before this indeed becomes a need to panic?”
“A few more hours, perhaps. Then we shall see. Have faith, I’m sure things will be resolved soon enough.”
Fukichi breathed in, trying to dislodge the feeling of discontent that had settled in his stomach. “Right. Could you look for him and update me if you find anything?”
“Of course, old friend,” Fukuchii said soothingly, no doubt sensing the unrest that had creeped into his voice. “You can rely on me.”
“I know,” Fukichi said, and then hung up.
As much as he would like to believe his friend and trust in the intentions of his Prime Minister and former mentor, he could not shake the fear beginning to fester in his chest. Natsume was frenetically fickle, yes, but he had always behaved with the best interest of Japan at heart. And he must know disappearing without a word would not be in anyone’s best interest.
Pursing his lips, Fukuchi sank down onto the couch in his own office and decided that he ought to make a few more calls.
***
Day 1 - 21st May, 2021:
The sword was a welcome weight in Chuuya’s hands, the blade flashing in the light of the training center.
“Be careful, Chuuya,” the instructor said, placing warm hands upon his where he gripped the hilt of the blade. “I know you’re one of our most skilled martial artists, but everyone makes mistakes.”
He nodded, offering her a soft smile. “Of course, sensei.”
Then he strode onto the tatami mats and inhaled deeply, allowing air to flow into his lungs before he positioned the sword out in front of him and ran through motions that were more like instinct to him. Even as he felt sweat drip down his back from the strain, the soothing, repetitive actions lifted an unseen weight off his shoulders. With the pressure of school bearing down upon him daily, he’d forgotten how good it felt to do something so familiar.
He stopped when he heard his name called, sheathing the sword carefully and turning around.
“Oh Shirase,” he said cheerfully, walking up to the other boy. “What are you doing here?”
“The real question is what are you doing here? There’s about half-an-hour until class, so you should already be changed by now.”
Chuuya pursed his lips; in his state of concentration, he’d completely forgotten about the time.
“You’re right,” he said, placing the sword back onto the shelf and following Shirase out of the building. “Thank you for coming to get me. I would have completely forgotten otherwise.”
“It’s no problem,” Shirase said cheekily. “If you’d been late, who could have helped me with my physics homework? But now that you’re here, I don’t need to worry anymore.”
Laughing, Chuuya slapped him on the back. “One of these days, you’ll need to figure out how to do it by yourself.”
“That can wait until it becomes a life or death situation,” his friend said. “That’s the only time when I’ll feel any motivation to understanding whatever the fuck differentiation is.”
“You'll regret that in a year’s time when the college exams are on,” Chuuya warned.
“Key word: a year’s time. Until then… Well, I intend to be as carefree as possible until I can’t anymore.”
“There’s probably some wisdom in that,” he admitted, flicking hair out of his face as they returned to the dorms of Yokohama International School. “I honestly wish that could be my life policy.”
“You go here on a scholarship, my genius friend. There’s no way that could ever be your life policy. But me… Straight C’s, dumb and lazy Shirase—”
“Don’t describe yourself like that,” Chuuya snapped, cutting him off.
“Ah, but you assume I have a problem with being described like that,” Shirase countered with a smile. “Trust me, I don’t care at all. People like me are the ones who’ll be having the most fun anyway, while geniuses like you rot in your bedrooms hunched over equations and formulas that you’ll never end up using.”
He let out a yelp as Chuuya shoved him playfully into the wall. “Ouch! You’re stronger than you look.”
“You literally just saw me practicing with a sword,” Chuuya said, unimpressed. “How could you expect anything less?”
“I suppose so,” Shirase muttered as they walked up the stairs and approached Chuuya’s shared dormitory. Shirase made to twist the doorknob, but then abruptly jerked his hand away.
“Are you okay?”
“You do it,” the other boy said, a nervous edge coming into his voice. “Judging by these shoes, it looks like the Demon Prodigy’s in.”
“Who’s the— oh, you mean shitty Dazai?” Chuuya wrinkled his nose. “I don’t understand why you guys all call him that. It’s much too cool of a nickname for someone as annoying as him.”
“Because he’s a Demon,” Shirase emphasised. “He’s always wrapped in bandages like he’s hiding runes or some shit—”
“—he wears those because he’s got sensitive skin; do you think you’ve been reading too much—”
“—he’s always whispering about suicide—”
“—are you really surprised? He specialises in humanities—”
“—and he never talks to anyone, except for you I guess.”
“Very much against my will,” Chuuya hissed.
“And he’s a prodigy,” Shirase continued, “because he answers more questions than even you—”
“—untrue, that’s—”
“—since his transfer here at the start of the year, his average mark in pop quizzes is higher than yours—”
“—who the fuck told you that—”
“—and for the first time literally ever, his name is ahead of yours in the bets to who’s going to place first in midterms.”
That gave Chuuya pause. “What?!”
“So yeah, now you can see why everyone calls him the Demon Prodigy right?” Shirase said, ignoring Chuuya’s outburst.
“Hold up, can we go back to how people think he’ll score higher than me in midterms? Because that’s just ridiculous, it would never happen; I’d rather—”
The door behind them swung open and they both whirled around in surprise, Shirase letting out an embarrassing squeak and ducking behind Chuuya as Dazai Osamu spared both of them an amused look.
“Why hello Chuuya and Chuuya’s friend,” he said cheerfully. “What are you two doing standing out here, gossiping like old wives?”
“We are not,” Chuuya spat, storming past him and into the room. “Shirase, I’ll meet you in class, okay? I need to change and pack my books.”
“Sure,” the boy said and then promptly left as fast as he could. Dazai flashed his retreating silhouette a look of unrestrained derision, before following Chuuya and slamming the door shut behind him.
“Why do you always look at him like that?” Chuuya asked, watching with some curiosity as the faux debonair slid off Dazai like a cloak.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to peel the flesh off his bones.”
“Chuuya should stop worrying about that and start worrying about how I’m on track to rank first in midterms,” Dazai said cheekily.
“Fuck you,” Chuuya retorted, tearing off his gym shirt to slip his arms into his school blouse. Dazai averted his eyes to the naked flesh, as he always did; Chuuya was never sure why he was so particular about that, but it was one of those topics that they had silently and mutually agreed not to question each other on.
“You should wash your hair,” Dazai remarked. “It probably stinks from how long you were in that gym for.”
“There’s not enough time for that and you know it.” He did up his tie skillfully and started throwing things haphazardly into his school bag, keeping one eye on Dazai as the other boy sank onto his bed on the right side of the dormitory.
“For someone who’s here on a scholarship, you sure are disorganised,” he said mildly.
Chuuya whipped around, throwing a pen at him which Dazai easily ducked. “How the hell do you know that?”
“Should I not?” Dazai asked, looking genuinely surprised. “It’s one of the first things I heard when I transferred him; that’s Nakahara Chuuya, with the red hair and blue eyes. He was raised in France and goes to this school on a scholarship. Hey chibi, it’s been weeks since I first arrived but I’ve never heard you speak French!”
“Ferme ta gueule, espèce de maquereau visqueux,” he said, mostly just to shut him up.
“What does that mean?” the other boy said excitedly. “What does that mean?”
“It means ‘shut the fuck up, you slimy mackerel’. Come on, we have to leave.”
Dazai stretched, groaning loudly, but acquiesced, dragging his feet as the two of them made their way to class. They were one of the last few to slip in. Chuuya took his usual seat near the front between Shirase and Yuan, while Dazai plopped down in the one directly behind him where it was easy to blow spitballs into Chuuya’s hair and nudge him constantly with his foot.
“Do you want me to take a look at that homework now, before the teacher comes?” Chuuya offered Shirase.
“Oh, thank you so much!” he replied, pulling the required papers out of his bag. I’ve been really struggling with this question, I was wondering if you could help?”
Chuuya examined it carefully, before nodding. “See, you made a mistake here with the rate of acceleration. You should’ve used the chain rule instead of expanding out the function, it’s easy to make mistakes by doing that.”
“Okay, sorry, can you just do it for me?” Shirase pleaded. “I really have no clue what you’re talking about.”
“The chain rule, silly!” Dazai piped up from behind them, leaning his chin on his hands as he stared Shirase down. “We learnt this not so long back. Even your useless brain should not have forgotten so quickly.”
“Stop insulting my friends, Mackerel,” Chuuya threatened, reaching over to smack Dazai sharply on the head.
“Oh Slug, you wound me,” Dazai said dramatically, slumping into a fainting position.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, turning back to Shirase. “It’s okay, physics and the calculus that comes with it is pretty difficult to understand. I’ll show you how to do this question, but you should try to do the rest by yourself.”
“But Chuuya, you’re the genius here,” Shirase whined, pouting unashamedly and staring up at him with wide eyes.
“Fine,” Chuuya said and reached for the stack of papers. “You better hope I get all this done before it's time for math class.”
“You are so generous!” his friend shouted, throwing his arms around Chuuya while he wriggled uncomfortably in their bony embrace.
“Much too generous,” Dazai complained. “Make him do his own work. He’s rich, yes, but all the money in the world isn’t going to let him bring you along like the dog you are when it's time for his university entrance tests.”
“Don’t call me a dog,” Chuuya seethed, his pen working furiously through the questions as he tried to ignore the sharp kicks Dazai routinely sent his way.
“But chibi, that’s what you are! Running around, doing errands for those two like a dog.”
If he had continued on then perhaps Chuuya would’ve hit him, but fortune was on Dazai’s side today since the teacher entered right as Chuuya began to draw back his fist. He dropped it instantly, to Dazai’s unrepentant snickers, and stood up with the rest of the class to greet their teacher.
***
Dazai got to his feet as the bell for recess rang and hurried out of the classroom, heading almost instinctively for the secluded bathroom stationed on the roof of their school’s building for second-years like Chuuya and himself.
It was a single unisex cubicle tucked away at the far right corner of the rectangular rooftop, hidden by the long plants someone had decided to place up there. He made sure it was unoccupied first before pushing the door open and stumbling inside, placing his palms flat against the sink as he stared at his own reflection in the mirror.
He inhaled deeply, then exhaled again.
It was ridiculous, this feeling of paralysis that was slowly but surely spreading over his body. The math content today had been difficult but not undoable; with a few more sleepless nights, he was certain to grasp it sooner or later. And yet the numbers, which he recalled had blurred in front of his eyes in a way numbers didn’t usually do, swirled around his brain like malevolent spirits, haunting his next steps.
Perhaps he should set aside his pride and ask Chuuya for help, since the other boy seemed to perfectly understand what was going on.
But wouldn’t that make him just like Chuuya’s friends, who in his mind were more similar to leeches than people? They fed off Chuuya’s brilliance like starving paupers, draining his energy and confining his intelligence to equations that he could already solve, could probably have solved even as just a toddler.
Breathe, he reminded himself, taking a shuddering, half-painful breath. It’s just one math lesson. You need to calm down. It’s natural not to understand anything at first.
“Yo, Demon,” someone called from outside, pounding their fists against the locked door. “You in there? Open up!”
Dazai flinched, knowing there was only one person this could be. If he had been a luckier man then perhaps it would’ve been Chuuya; but given his general misfortune, it was undoubtedly Tamazaki, the school’s resident dickhead.
The door shook once more with the force of the older boy’s fists, and Dazai sighed and relented. He would need to find a new hiding spot.
“Ah, there you are,” Tamazaki sneered, hooking a finger around his collar to drag him outside.
“I would say the same but that would make it sound as if I’m looking for you,” Dazai said, plastering a large, shit-eating grin all over his face. “And, as you probably know by now, no one would ever choose to look for a rotten asshole like you.”
Tamazaki growled under his breath and threw him onto the floor, Dazai wincing but refusing to make a sound as the bare concrete met his flesh.
“Aren’t you bored of this by now?” he taunted, staggering to his feet. “Not very manly of you to continue coming after someone a year younger. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”
“Shut your mouth, Demon,” Tamazaki hissed, grabbing Dazai’s shirt and hoisting him up so that they were almost nose-to-nose. “What did you say to my girlfriend that made her break up with me?”
“Nothing,” he said truthfully. Most likely that the girl had decided she could do better but was too terrified to admit her true reasons to Tamazaki’s face, so she’d decided to blame the new and weird transfer student that was nicknamed a Demon.
Tamazaki flung him against the railing and he teetered precariously against the edge, able to glance down and see the bustling of the street below them. A vicious kick to his ribs sent shocks of pain vibrating down his body as Tamazaki knelt down so that they were at eye level.
“Tell me the truth,” the boy hissed. “You had to have done something .”
“I did nothing.” Dazai examined his bleeding fingers with an ease he didn’t feel. “Just accept that you’re not the desirable womaniser you think you are.”
His jaw jerked to the side as Tamazaki backhanded him across the cheek savagely, the bandages wrapping half of his face doing nothing to absorb the impact (not that he’d thought they would, of course; that was not the reason why he wore them).
“I hate people like you,” Tamazaki seethed, wiping his hand on his pants. “So smart, thinking you know everything, lurking in the corners and meddling in other people’s affairs.”
“If that’s who you dislike, you should go after Chuuya! He fits that bill perfectly!” Dazai said helpfully.
“Chuuya? Nakahara Chuuya? Fuck no! Do you think I have a death wish? He’d kill me.”
“I hope he does,” Dazai muttered, and earned a punch to his shoulder for that comment. “I hope you both kill each other. Slugs like the two of you don’t deserve to live.”
“Don’t insult Nakahara-kun!” Tamazaki roared, and Dazai curled himself into a ball and tried to think about literally anything else except for the blows raining down upon him.
Eventually, Tamazaki got bored and left, and Dazai was alone once more. He tried to push himself to his feet but found that his strength had deserted him, leaving his limbs weak and useless. He watched as the sky above clouded over and the first drops of water hit his face, and he wondered if suicide by pneumonia was a peaceful way to go.
***
Chuuya was out on the indoor basketball courts, dominating the rest of the competition (per usual) when the sirens began to ring. The students immediately started to scream, scrambling to get away from whatever threat was approaching.
“Warning,” the automatic voice intoned. “An intruder has appeared on campus. Please go to your classrooms and await further instructions.”
There was a hot spike of panic in Chuuya’s chest but he pushed it down, allowing one of the teachers to herd him away from the court and back into the school. An intruder? What did this mean?
“Hey, Chuuya! Chuuya wait up!” Yuan shouted, running to attach herself to his arm. “What’s going on?”
“An intruder, apparently,” he said, forcing his voice to be calm. “We’re going to return to our classrooms. Have you seen Shirase?”
“Right here,” the grey-haired boy said as he squeezed his way to Chuuya’s unoccupied side. He let out a sigh of relief.
“Shirase, Yuan, Chuuya, there you are,” their homeroom teacher, Myazawa Ara, said as they made their way to their seats. “Is everyone here?”
Chuuya scanned the rows of their classmates, catching sight of their terrified expressions. His chin dipped in a nod, yes they’re all here, before he noticed an empty desk.
Dazai? he had a moment to wonder, before his thoughts were cut off by the sound of the alarms.
“Students, please make your way to your classrooms immediately .” The announcement being made was no longer in the voice of a robot, but instead that of the principal being broadcasted live to the school. “This is a situation of the utmost severity. Teachers, please barricade your classrooms and check your phones for more information.”
Right on cue, Myazawa-sensei’s phone buzzed with an alert and Chuuya glanced down at it before she had the chance to shield it from him. The only thing he saw was a name, and yet his spine stiffened with fear.
Fyodor Dostoevsky.
He had read an article just yesterday of the man’s escape from prison a week ago. Why was his name being sent to the teacher? Surely that could only mean…
“Hey!” he shouted, pushing the information to the back of his mind and deciding to focus on the problem at present; namely, the mackerel’s worrying absence. “Have any of you guys seen Dazai? He’s not here right now.”
“I think I saw him going onto the roof,” one of the girls said.
Hot panic seized Chuuya’s lungs. You could not hear announcements on the roof.
Immediately, as was often the case with him, he was moving before his brain had a moment to catch up. Yuan tried to pull him back but he shook her off easily, ignoring the cries to halt from his teacher as he ran down the corridor and bolted up the stairs that led to the roof.
He pushed open the rusty door and was promptly assaulted by bucketfuls of pouring rain. The roof was not a place he went to often, so he carefully took note of his surroundings. It was a flat rectangle of cement, with what appeared to be a bathroom tucked in one corner, benches in the other, and the center taken up by a large maintenance office.
“Dazai?” he yelled into the storm. “Shitty Dazai, where are you?”
“Here,” a weak voice came off to his right. Chuuya squinted, shielding his eyes from the droplets, and saw a small lump laying motionless close to the bathroom.
Hurrying over, he dropped down beside Dazai’s prone form.
“What the fuck?” he said, unable to keep the anger out of his voice as he regarded the bruises scattered all over Dazai’s face and the way he was cradling bloody hands to his chest. “What happened? Who the hell managed to kill you before you did?”
“Get me out of this rain first,” Dazai whined petulantly. “I’ve decided that death by pneumonia is deeply unpleasant after all.”
Chuuya wanted to press Dazai for more answers, but he had to admit the other boy was right. At this rate he would catch an awful fever, and then he’d have to deal with the Mackerel’s sniffling in their shared dorm for weeks.
“Alright,” he said, hooking one arm under Dazai’s legs and bringing the other to support his back as he lugged both of them underneath the thankfully large awnings lining the maintenance shed. The dim light hanging on the wall lit up Dazai’s pallid features, Chuuya stopping to carefully put him down and lean him against the wall.
“Ouch,” Dazai said, his light tone not matching the pain that shone clearly in his eyes.
“So tell me, who do I need to beat up?” Chuuya said, placing both hands on Dazai’s shoulders.
“Oh I didn’t know Chuuya was that protective over me!” Dazai crowed.
“Shut up, I’m not. But I hate people who are excessively violent without a reason.”
“A reason? How do you even know there wasn’t a reason?” the other boy said sharply. “Maybe I did something to deserve all this.” He gestured vaguely to himself.
“Y’know, Mackerel, I do think you’re the bane of my existence most of the time,” Chuuya said conversationally as he sat down beside Dazai, an arm-length away. “We’ve spent literally every waking moment with each other since you transferred here at the start of the year. We take the same classes, we live in the same dorm, they put us on the same teams during academic competitions because of our brains and sports competitions because my talents will balance out your lack thereof. So I know what you’re likely and unlikely to do, and I can tell that you’d never antagonise someone who could hurt you this much. Unless they came to you first, in which case your stupid mouth will be the death of you.”
The ghost of a smile flitted over Dazai’s face. “You’re smarter than you look.”
Chuuya almost smiled back, but then he stilled. The surprise of finding Dazai beaten up had caused him to nearly forget the real purpose as to why he came up here.
“You probably didn’t hear, but there’s an intruder in our school,” he said abruptly.
Dazai took a moment to process. “What?”
“An intruder. A person who goes into some place unannounced,” Chuuya enunciated.
“Yes, I know what an intruder is,” Dazai said, waving him off.
“Based on what I saw on Myazawa-sensei’s phone, it might be… Fyodor Dostoevsky,” Chuuya explained, hardly daring to say the name out loud.
“The war criminal?” Dazai yelped.
Chuuya slapped a hand over his mouth and made a shushing gesture. “Not so loud. I don’t think anyone can hear us over the storm, but it’s best to be careful. We shouldn’t go back to the classroom, because what if he’s prowling around there? We should stay up here until this whole thing blows over.”
“I agree,” Dazai said. “Or at least we need to wait until we can see the police arrive.”
“For once, you’re concerned about your own life,” Chuuya remarked, almost teasingly. “I’d thought, given how badly you want to die, that you would have dashed straight down there the moment you heard a criminal was in the building.”
Scoffing, Dazai shot him a look of incredulity. “Two months of being roommates and Chuuya still hasn’t learnt that I don’t want a painful death? Dostoevsky-san would probably slice me open for his experiments while keeping me alive.”
“You’re already sliced open,” Chuuya said, scooting closer as Dazai looked away.
“I’m fine,” he mumbled.
Chuuya touched two fingers to Dazai’s swollen and bleeding face. “You’re not. I wish I had tissues or something, I’m sorry—”
“Why are you apologising, chibi?” Dazai asked blankly. “Did you punch me?”
“No, it’s just— oh fuck, I can’t deal with this,” he huffed, taking off his blazer and draping it around Dazai. “Here, you’ve been marinating in this rain like the slug you are for much longer than I have. At this rate, the chill’s going to kill you before Dostoevsky ever gets his chance.”
“You’re awfully composed right now,” Dazai observed. “Given that it’s you, I would’ve expected perhaps a bit more rage and panic.”
A scowl wrought its way onto his lips. “I don’t always just think with my muscles, dumbass. You know just as well as I do that it would be suicide to panic in a situation like this.”
Dazai hummed. “You’re right. But did you say suicide? Do you really think panicking now will secure me a sweet death?”
“It was a figure of speech,” Chuuya ground out. “You should’ve known that since you spend half your time buried in books.”
“Books are much nicer than people,” Dazai yawned, dropping his head against Chuuya’s shoulder. The sudden weight was startling and he had half a mind to shove the other boy off, but eventually decided against it. Dazai’s entire frame was drooping with exhaustion yet he was simultaneously tense from pain. Chuuya still disliked him, he probably would forever, but not so much that he would begrudge him this little bit of comfort.
***
Shirase watched Chuuya leave with a mixture of confusion and trepidation. He couldn’t fathom why the other boy would chase after someone he’d voraciously complained about multiple times, while at the same time leaving his real friends behind.
“Shirase?” Yuan whimpered, tugging at his sleeve. “What are we going to do?”
“Both of you will be staying here, of course,” Myazawa-sensei spoke up sternly, having evidently overheard their conversation. “You will not dare follow Nakahara-kun out there.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” Shirase muttered, leading Yuan to a chair next to him and settling her down.
“Good,” the teacher said. She tilted her head up to look out the window with a forlorn gaze. “Those two are on their own now. I have to protect the rest of you.”
Motionless, Shirase spectated the teacher with some admiration as she dragged desks, chairs and even a bookcase against the door, while lowering the curtains to all the windows.
“Stand in the far corner, where I can see you,” she ordered. Shirase and the rest of his classmates filed there instantly, standing with their backs to the wall as they watched their teacher pile more objects before the door.
Suddenly, he heard one of his classmates cry out in surprise. The vent above their heads had dropped open of its own accord; but what had caused the shriek was the thing that had come crawling out of it. A bug, of sorts, that resembled a millipede with possibly twice as many legs.
The students yelped and scrambled away.
“Quick, someone kill it!” Shirase said. “I don’t want to have to wait out a lockdown with a worm!”
“You kill it!” someone snapped.
“Hell no, do I look like a brave bug-killer to you? I can’t even look my mother in the eye most of the time,” he retorted to a smattering of chuckles.
“I’ll do it,” a girl named Akira said, stepping forward with her foot raised menacingly.
Just as she was about to bring her shoe down upon the bug, it unexpectedly ran towards her with astonishing speed. The girl screamed in horror as it crawled up her leg and bit into soft skin, before disappearing into flesh.
“What the fuck!” Yuan screeched as Akira began yelling loudly and clawing at the spot where the worm had vanished.
“Be quiet!” Myazawa-sensei demanded, hurrying over. She dropped to her knees and examined the girl, who had now collapsed in a heap upon the floor, probably due to fright. “We’ll take you to a doctor as soon as this ordeal is over.”
“I can feel it within me,” Akira gasped, her eyes bloodshot and bulging. “It’s— please, someone get it out!”
With an audible crack her back arched upwards as crimson veins began crawling up her face. A moment later her skin turned ashen grey, blood from an unknown source dripping down the corner of her mouth. She stared up at her horror-struck classmates with glassy, unseeing eyes, and bared her fangs.
Then, she sprinted towards them.
Shirase let out a shriek of alarm and dragged Yuan backwards with him as Akira sank her teeth into the nearest classmate, Sato, pressing in so deep that even from a distance he could see blood begin to well up.
“What the fuck!” Sato shouted, wrenching himself from her grip. Shirase had just seconds to process the way his friend’s skin began to split and the red staining his teeth, before Akira lunged for Myazawa-sensei.
“Oh no, no, no,” he said, stepping backwards. While he was by no means the smartest in his class, it only took a person of average intellect to decipher what was occurring at this very moment; if you were at all connected with pop culture, you would realise what this was.
Zombies.
He must’ve said as much out loud because the rest of his classmates turned to face him, their expressions ranging from confused to terrified. One of them opened his mouth to speak, but he didn’t get a chance.
Sato rose from where he had been lying on the floor, clutching his wound, and immediately turned to attack someone else. The classroom dissolved into panic after that.
The whole mess was a blur. All he knew was that his grip had tightened on Yuan’s wrist, and that adrenaline had lent him some sort of superhuman strength that allowed him to push aside the desks and chairs blockading the door while Akira, Sato and Myazawa-sensei turned their sights to the rest of his classmates. As soon as the hallway came into sight he barrelled towards it, dragging Yuan behind him as all thoughts in his mind turned to getting out as quickly as possible.
For a brief moment he considered trying to warn Chuuya, but dismissed the notion as soon as he thought of it. This was a zombie apocalypse. He would be lucky if he could even save himself.
And besides, if anyone could survive this, it would be the occasionally-katana-wielding Chuuya and his demonic prodigy boyfriend.
The same could definitely not be said for himself and Yuan; so best that they run as quickly as their legs could carry them.