Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dazai may have had a lot of weird things on this year’s bucket list, but a vampire compelling him to be physically unable to kill himself wasn't initially any of them.

Initially.

It was March—but not the kind of March when flowers were already blooming, trees were turning green again, and everything around screamed life and sweet, sickening happiness. No, it was the other kind of March—the one where winter refused to surrender to spring, where the sky stayed gray and hidden behind the ever present clouds, the air stayed cold and windy, and everything felt stuck in limbo he couldn’t quite escape.

Dazai was twenty, drunk, and without a purpose in life whatsoever. The last one probably for a long time before that, he just didn’t have the courage to admit it to himself. Or maybe he was just naive enough to keep thinking that he might still find one, a lie he’d been telling himself probably since he was old enough to form a thought in his head. Well, not that evening.

That evening came crashing down on him—he relapsed in his filthy bathroom, got drunk, and let the memories take the best of him. His apartment was cold—he hadn’t paid the heating bill in weeks—and the kitchen window, left open for god knows how long, did nothing but let the cold creep in, a cold that felt almost deserved as he sat slumped on the floor, shirt soaked through with a mix of whiskey and his own blood, unable to tell which had come first or if any even mattered anymore.

He couldn’t remember how he had even got out of his apartment. One second he felt like dying on this damn bathroom floor, right and there, and the next he found himself standing at the riverbank in that half-forgotten, secluded spot he used to visit sometimes when things got too unbearable. It was the kind of place that felt untouched by the city even though it lay right on its edge—calm during the day, interrupted only by the occasional passerby, at night completely quiet and very unlikely for anyone to stumble across. Maybe it was for the best he got there—at least he would spare his neighbours the stench of his rotting body, since he doubted anyone would even check on him in the following days.

He let his back slide against the brick wall as the river in front of him grew more and more blurry, his vision swimming, the dark sky and dark water slowly blending into one. So, that was it. He didn’t feel scared, or angry, or regretful. Just relieved. After prolonging this moment for so long, and finally, he could welcome death with open arms. He tried to force his eyes to stay open as long as he could—it was his last moments after all, looking at this forsaken world for a few minutes more wouldn’t hurt, none of it mattered anymore anyway—but at some point it felt physically impossible, and he let his vision go black behind his tired eyelids.

And then he felt it. Presence. No footsteps, no other sounds, not anything that felt solid, but he felt something. He felt like he was being watched .

Before his fuzzy mind could catch up, his body reacted instinctively, lungs gasping for air as he felt a cold, unforgiving hand close around his throat, lifting him slightly off the ground and pinning him harshly against the brick wall. His eyes cracked open just enough to catch a glimpse of the face before him, of the intense eyes burning through him, staring right into his soul.

And God, Dazai had never seen anything more beautiful in his whole life.

The stranger’s eyes were red, but not just any red—it wasn’t the ugly kind of red he had seen thousand of times in his own blood, dried on razors or stained bathroom tiles, more like a luminous crimson, glowing with something Dazai couldn’t quite name, something that pulsed with a strange, hypnotic rhythm. His face was adorned with a few freckles, barely visible in the night (honestly, Dazai had no idea how he even noticed them back then, given the state he was in) with strands of ginger hair, falling on the man’s pale cheekbones, the auburn colour softening the sharpness of his face.

And then his mouth—lips slightly parted, tinted with red, perfectly contrasting with the hue of his skin glowing in the moonlight. For a moment, Dazai caught a glimpse of teeth, no, fangs , sharp enough to draw blood with the faintest press, yet shaped with such elegance they looked like a sculptor’s finest work.

“You’re beautiful,” Dazai choked out, his voice even weaker than he’d expect it to be—and his expectations were already low enough.

The man’s grip on his throat seemed to lighten a little, his face even closer now, his other hand brushing the loose strands of brown hair that were falling on Dazai’s neck. His expression shifted subtly but unmistakably—from something that Dazai could describe only as blank numbness, as if the other was suppressing something too dangerous to let through, to a visible look of surprise and a flicker in the eye that Dazai couldn’t miss.

He suddenly let go of Dazai’s neck, and his body slid down the wall with no resistance, crumpling into the grass as a few involuntary coughs tore from his throat, harsh and ragged, splattering blood across the ground beneath him.

“You’re just one of those junkies,” the man above him scoffed, voice low and disdainful, the earlier flicker of emotion now buried beneath a veneer of cold detachment. “And you stink of alcohol.”

Dazai didn’t respond right away—he couldn’t. His throat burned raw, his lungs clawed for air with every shallow breath, and his chest trembled from the aftershocks of pain, though none of it felt entirely real. He stared up at the figure towering above him, eyes half-lidded, vision still swimming, and forced his mouth to move.

“Not really,” he said, barely audible.

“Bullshit,” the other replied flatly. “You’re drunk. And alcohol blood tastes awful.”

That was a deeply disturbing statement to make, but Dazai was too far gone to really process it at the moment.

“Is this heaven already?” he murmured, a sigh escaping him as his gaze remained fixed on the man's face.

“Excuse me?”

“Is this what angels look like?” What the fuck was he even saying at this point?

“I’m no angel!” The man snapped, and this time there was something else in his voice—something that almost sounded offended. “I—the name’s Chuuya.”

Chuuya. Dazai would probably repeat it just to test it on his tongue if his throat hadn’t suddenly ignited with pain, burning a hundred times worse than it had a second ago.

“Jesus,” he could barely hear Chuuya say, as he hardly registered him kneeling down beside him, lifting up his bleeding arms with his hands.

“You don’t—have—anywhere better to be?” Dazai choked out, between coughs, hissing at the sting of the cuts. “I’m just trying to kill myself in peace.”

“Kill yourself?” Chuuya scoffed. “That’s even more pathetic.”

“Pathetic,” Dazai repeated absentmindedly.

“Yes, pathetic.” Chuuya squeezed his arms tighter, and Dazai barely held himself from crying out. “Not everyone gets a chance at life, you know? And you’re just fucking throwing yours away.”

“I don’t give a fucking damn about everyone.” Dazai managed to croak, his words slightly slurred, focusing on forming sentences becoming harder with every passing second. He just wanted it to be over already.

But no. Even his suicide had to be brutally interrupted by some random guy, who apparently had nothing better to do than to disturb the best day of his pathetic life.

“Too bad,” Chuuya said, grabbing Dazai’s other arm.

Dazai cried out quietly, the sharp sting of his slashed wrists flaring painfully as Chuuya’s hand gripped him tightly, fingers pressing against the raw, bleeding wounds. It sent a wave of pain through his whole body, but in the haze of his fading consciousness, it almost felt like a reminder that he was still alive, even if it was just by a thread.

He watched as Chuuya brought his own wrist to his mouth, the fangs Dazai had admired earlier sinking into the pale skin with a sickening, almost satisfying crack. A few droplets of blood escaped, dripping down to stain Chuuya's wrist before he pulled it up to Dazai’s face.

“Drink,” he said in an almost commanding tone.

“What…?” Dazai whispered, his brain foggy, threatening to shut down at any moment.

Chuuya exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes before suddenly forcing his bleeding wrist right against Dazai’s mouth.

Dazai barely registered the warm, iron taste of blood as Chuuya pressed his wrist against his lips. It was perfect—like tea that wasn’t too hot but not too cold either, a taste unlike anything Dazai had ever known before, foreign, but comforting at the same time. His mouth moved instinctively, desperate, swallowing every drop he could get, the liquid intoxicating, addictive. For a moment, he felt like he wasn’t there anymore, like everything else faded away, leaving only him and this sweet, forbidden taste that flooded his senses. It was better than any drug, than any feeling, than anything he had ever tried in his life.

“Enough,” Chuuya’s voice snapped through his haze, and in an instant the intoxicating rush vanished as Chuuya withdrew his wrist. Dazai couldn’t help the low, frustrated sound that escaped him, his lips parting in silent protest.

He felt different. His vision returned to normal, he could see Chuuya’s face clearer now—he didn’t know the other could be even more beautiful like that—the moonlight no longer felt so harsh or blinding, but instead just softly glowing around. His body felt lighter, but not in the familiar, hazy way that came from drugs and alcohol—the weight of those substances seemed to have dissolved entirely, as if they'd never been there in the first place, no matter how unbelievable it seemed.

Dazai’s gaze dropped to his arms, and his eyes widened in disbelief. The wounds had vanished, leaving behind only faint, nearly imperceptible scars. There was some dried blood on his skin, but other than that, it was as if his relapse had never happened, like the entire attempt had been nothing more than a fever dream.

“What...?” Dazai murmured, his voice thick with confusion as his eyes met Chuuya’s, full of unanswered questions.

Chuuya’s gaze was different now. The crimson red that had burned so brightly in his eyes earlier was gone, replaced by a strange combination of brown and blue—two irises of different colors, heterochromia, if Dazai remembered the term correctly.

“Vampire blood heals,” Chuuya said, his tone flat and matter-of-fact, as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

Vampire? It almost made Dazai want to laugh. Vampires were just a myth, something out of cheap romance novels or bad fantasy movies. There was no way the man in front of him was one. And there should be absolutely no way for him to be sitting here, alive, without a single scratch, and all the wounds gone, not after everything. This had to be a hallucination, a delusion brought on by the loss of blood and alcohol. Maybe he was still dying and it was just his mind playing tricks on him.

But he didn’t feel like dying, not at all. Actually, quite the opposite—his whole body felt stronger and energized, as if he could stand up and run a marathon any moment.

“Damn you,” Chuuya said, sitting next to Dazai, their shoulders brushing as his head fell back on the brick wall. “I was going to have a good feed tonight, not be saving some suicidal maniac.”

Saving? No, no. Dazai didn’t want to be saved. He was here to finally die, finally end it all. And all his effort, all the courage that it took to get himself to this state turned out to be for absolutely nothing, as he stared at his perfectly healed arms.

“I didn’t quite ask you to save me.” he whispered, still fazed.

“Oh, shut up.” Chuuya scoffed, not even looking at him. “You don’t just get to throw your life away because you feel like it.”

“I didn’t just feel like it!” Dazai snapped. How dare this guy have the audacity to assume things about him when he didn’t know shit?

“Then what happened?” Chuuya asked, his voice holding a hint of curiosity. “We can have a therapy session if you want to, I’m going to erase your memory later anyway.”

“You’re going to what?” Dazai spat out.

“Don’t take it personally,” Chuuya muttered. “It’s a standard protocol. Can’t have a human going around remembering about seeing a vampire. Wouldn’t do any good for this ‘we don’t exist’ thing.”

“I wouldn’t be—I wouldn’t be running around and saying I saw a vampire if that’s what you think,” Dazai huffed. “No one would believe me anyway.”

“Still,” Chuuya said, his voice more serious now. “Better safe than sorry.”

“That’s not the point,” Dazai said, his tone now frustrated, pulling away from Chuuya to look at him. “You show up out of nowhere, shove your wrist in my face, feed me blood—vampire blood, apparently—and now you’re just going to hit me with some kind of mind wipe like it’s nothing?”

“You’re making such a big fucking deal out of it,” Chuuya said, finally tilting his head to look at Dazai. “I did not enjoy having my wrist sucked by some dirty addict. Let’s just forget it and move on.”

“That's violating my free will.” Dazai said firmly.

“Your free will sucks if it told you to drug yourself and bleed out by some shitty river.”

“I didn’t ask you to save me,” Dazai repeated firmly, turning fully toward him now, eyes sharp despite the weariness still clinging to the edges of his voice.

“I’ve seen a lot of people die,” Chuuya snapped, his voice louder now, hinted with something that resembled both resignation and anger. “Most of them don’t want to. You do, and that makes it worse.”

“Not everyone’s cut out for this world.”

“Fuck, I can’t stand listening to you!” Chuuya bit out, standing abruptly and towering over Dazai. “You’re human, you’re young, you have your whole life ahead of you. Do something with it instead fucking pitying yourself.”

“You think I haven’t heard that talk a million times already?” Dazai scoffed, looking up at him, trying and failing not to drown in the twin-colored depths of Chuuya’s eyes. “I try. I really do. And it doesn’t work. It never works.”

“Then try fucking harder!” Chuuya shouted, grabbing Dazai by the collar and yanking him to his feet with surprising strength.

Dazai stumbled upright, now face to face with him, and only then did he notice—he was taller. Not just by a little, but nearly a head. Yet somehow, Chuuya still felt like the one looming over him, radiating fury and fire in a way that mesmerized Dazai.

The wind stirred between them, lifting Chuuya’s copper curls and tossing them across his face, catching in his lashes and brushing against Dazai’s cheek—and god, really, Dazai had never seen anything more beautiful.

“I’ll do you a favour.” Chuuya said. “Even if you probably will not consider it as one.”

“What?” Dazai said quieter.

“What’s your name?”

He hadn’t introduced himself. Right.

“Dazai.”

“Look at me, Dazai.” Chuuya’s voice was steady, his gaze already locked onto him—and Dazai could swear the man hadn’t blinked once since this all started.

And then it happened—Chuuya’s pupils dilated, slowly and unnaturally, expanding until the color of his eyes seemed to vanish into darkness, and Dazai felt his own body seize up in response, averting his gaze seemed suddenly physically impossible to even consider. He tried, but his eyes wouldn’t let him, staying still, like he had no control over his own body anymore.

“That’s called compulsion.” Chuuya explained, his voice almost mocking. “Just a little vampire trick. Kinda useful, don’t you think?”

“Very,” Dazai muttered, his words barely audible, still unable to tear his gaze away. His mind screamed for him to look away, but his body couldn’t respond.

“Now,” Chuuya said. “This is the moment when I should erase your memory, and disappear. And everything would be over.”

He paused for a moment, staring at Dazai with such intensity, he wouldn’t be surprised if the vampire could read his mind.

“But then you’d just take a walk to a nearby bridge by tomorrow and jump off, wouldn’t you?”

“Impressive deduction skills,” Dazai said through gritted teeth.

“I don’t want to have you on my conscience,” Chuuya said firmly. “I’ve had enough people die because of me.”

Chuuya closed his eyes for a moment, as if considering his next move. Then he opened them again, and this time, his pupils were almost entirely dilated, the pitch black swallowing the colour of his irises. It was hypnotic and Dazai just wouldn’t look away, even if he physically could.

“You won’t try to kill yourself again. Even if your mind screams at you, you won’t be able to. Your body won’t cooperate. You won’t be able to hurt yourself or purposely let others hurt you. You won’t die as long as you desire death or unless I personally let you. And no other vampire will be able to compel you from now on. Just me.”

Dazai’s breath hitched, and his eyes widened in disbelief.

“No, you can’t—”

Then he felt it—something like a subtle shift somewhere inside him, he couldn’t pinpoint where the sensation started or ended, but it was there . And just as quickly as it happened, it went away, as if it already had sealed itself in him, became a part of him.

“What did you just do to me?” he asked, the words barely making it past his throat, more accusation than question.

“Saved you. You’ll probably hate me for it, but that’s what it was.”

“You took away my… control, my—” Dazai choked out, still not fully realizing what the fuck actually just happened.

“Your ability to destroy yourself?” Chuuya interrupted, his tone unflinching. “Yeah. I did.”

Dazai’s fists clenched at his sides, the movement instinctive, as a storm of emotions surged within him—rage, frustration, helplessness—all folding into one. This couldn’t be real. There was no way any of this was real—a fucking vampire standing right in front of him, this stupid compulsion things, the fact that he was on the verge of death and now he was standing here, perfectly fine and healed.

“You had no right.” he said through gritted teeth.

“Maybe,” Chuuya said, his voice flat. “At least you’ll be breathing to hate me for it.”

“You’re bluffing.”

With a sharp movement, Dazai snatched the first jagged pebble he saw, curling his fingers tightly around it. He brought it to his wrist in one swift, practiced motion—he’d done it countless times before, with kitchen knives, shards of broken glass, anything sharp enough to tear through skin. The motion had become second nature.

But this time, it didn’t work.

His hand froze, hovering just above the skin of his wrist. He willed it to move, to press down, to slash it like he’d done a thousand times before—but nothing happened. It was as if some invisible force had locked him in place, severing the link between intent and action. Panic bloomed in his chest, as he tried again, muscles straining, fingers twitching as he forced the pebble downward, but his hand refused to obey, trembling uselessly in the air. It was like some invisible force was blocking him, something from the inside or from the outside—he didn’t know.

“You—fucking bastard,” he choked out, still trying to push his hand down, to do something his mind screamed at him to do, but his body refused to obey.

Never before in his life did Dazai felt so fucking violated.

“Stop it. It won’t work.” Chuuya said, his voice still emotionless, like he didn’t just turn Dazai’s world upside down. “You can’t hurt yourself anymore. No blades. No heights. No pills. No slow starvation. Nothing. Your body won’t follow through, no matter how much your mind begs for it.”

Dazai dropped the pebble as if it had burned him, his hand falling limp at his side. “Undo it.”

“Maybe someday,” Chuuya replied. “When you don't want to do it willingly.”

“You think you’re some hero? Forcing someone to live, when they clearly don’t want to?” Dazai said, his voice growing louder, as he stared at Chuuya, his eyes burning. “People die everyday. Millions of people. One wouldn’t change a fucking thing. If anything, I would be fucking happier six feet under.”

“You’re a coward if you think that.”

“I stopped giving a fuck about that a long time ago.”

“Too bad,” Chuuya said, turning on his heel. “But now you have a lot of time to figure out what you want to do with life. Don’t waste it.”

Two years never felt so long in Dazai’s entire life.

Not when he got recruited into the Mafia, not the two years after Odasaku’s death he had spent in hiding, completely disappearing from the world. But this .

Nothing had changed. Really, if the idiot vampire had been so determined to keep him alive, couldn’t he have compelled some happiness into him too? Some reason to want to stay? Why was it only his ability to die that had been stripped away—why, then , when Dazai had finally been sure it was the one thing he truly wanted?

He still woke up every morning with the same thought he had for years now—let this be the day it ends. With hope that the day would pass as quickly as it could, counting minutes until he could go to sleep, wishing he could end it sooner himself. Only now, he couldn’t .

He tried every trick in the book. His mouth wouldn’t swallow pills—he gagged and spit them out involuntarily, no matter how much he tried to force them down. Alcohol burned his throat like a bitch—it still could somehow go down, sure, so he could drown his misery in that familiar feeling, but his body rejected any dose even close to lethal. Walking into the traffic always ended only in some frustrated yells and cars honking, as his legs would stop him, not letting him go any further past the curb.

Climbing to the edge of a rooftop was easy—but crossing that final step? His feet wouldn’t do it. He’d stand there for hours, trembling, screaming inside his own skull, but his body refused. He tried to drown himself in the lake once, but when it came time to submerge his head, his neck locked up, like some invisible hand held it in place. Even the razors that he had once greeted as old friends, now slipped uselessly from his fingers before he could press them to his skin.

It was maddening. It was frustrating. It was hell on earth.

His body simply refused. The compulsion—that fucking compulsion—was still there. Invisible shackles wrapped tight around his limbs, choking off every attempt at escape.

And every single day, for two years straight, Dazai hated Chuuya for it.

Hated Chuuya for what he did. Hated the memory of his stupid mismatched eyes, the fangs, the blood, the too-beautiful face that haunted Dazai more often than he liked to admit. Hated the fact that, after two years, he still remembered Chuuya’s voice clearly enough that it echoed in his head every time he tried to defy it.

You won’t try to kill yourself again. Your body won’t cooperate. Too bad.

Too fucking bad.

During the past two years, he hadn’t seen Chuuya once. Not a glimpse of those red hair, not even a feeling of his presence, not a face caught somewhere in the crowd. Nothing. If it weren’t for the curse—because that’s what Dazai had come to call it—that Chuuya had left burning in his veins, he might have started to believe the vampire had never existed at all.

He tried every distraction in the world. Parties, alcohol, sleeping around. Chuuya told him not to waste his time, to figure out what he wanted to do with his life—so Dazai made sure to do exactly the opposite.

It was petty, childish even. Trying to piss off a vampire who had probably forgotten him the second they parted—who, in all likelihood, never spared him another thought in his long, immortal life. It was even more frustrating to think how he was such a minor part of Chuuya’s life, while Chuuya decided to play such a big part in his. And without his consent.

On the other hand, Dazai found it ironic. Chuuya was the second person in his life who had told him to find a purpose, something to keep him going in life. He didn’t listen both times.

Odasaku was the first one to ask him this. Be on a good side, save people . Yeah, Dazai had failed him spectacularly.

He did try, it wasn’t that he didn’t. He left the Port Mafia, he stayed in hiding, while Ango was erasing his name from daylight, wiping clean the record of crimes that would’ve earned him a lifetime sentence if not a death penalty. Hell, he even looked for a goddamn job by himself once he was a free man on paper. He really thought that once he left the Mafia, once death stopped being an everyday sight, once he was no longer holding a gun or giving orders that would lead to killing thousands, it would get better. That one thing would lead to another. That maybe, eventually, he’d be okay. They didn’t. He didn’t.

Turned out it wasn’t just the environment. The environment had shaped him, sure—but he’d been rotten long before that. He had always blamed the Port Mafia for the way he turned out, but now, he had no one to blame but himself. It made it all even worse.

He wasn’t to be fixed, and he hated both Odasaku and Chuuya for thinking that he was. No, scratch that. He didn’t hate Odasaku. He missed him, every day, God, he missed him so fucking much. But Chuuya? Dazai could hate Chuuya just fine.

Sometimes he wondered if Chuuya ever thought about him. About that one night—just one evening, probably insignificant for someone like him that turned Dazai’s life upside down. If he ever regretted it. If he even remembered his name. Probably not—immortals had the luxury of forgetting such small things.

Dazai lit another cigarette, leaning back on the cold rooftop ledge of some nondescript apartment complex. The city buzzed far below, too alive, too noisy. He blew smoke into the air and watched it drift away with the wind—something he still couldn’t do. Drift away. Fade. Be done with it.

He let the cigarette burn down between his fingers, until the ember almost kissed his skin. But not quite. His hand flinched before it could.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, tossing the cigarette away.

Dazai stared at the empty space it left behind, his fingers twitching slightly with the phantom sting. The burn wouldn’t have even hurt that much, and definitely wouldn’t kill him. But his body wouldn’t let it happen. Just like always.

High places became a sort of comfort to him—it was quieter here, the view was nice, he had to admit that, and he knew he had no chance of falling, even if he wanted to. He tilted his head back, eyes scanning the sky. It was cloudy, not stars in sight, despite it being the middle of the night. Only reflective lights of the lamps and neons of the city below it.

He tried pushing himself off the edge—he always tried, just to check—but his body wouldn’t respond as if suddenly the nerves in his hands stopped cooperating with his brain. Nothing new at this point. He got used to it over two years.

Another night, another waste.

Dazai had regretted many nights out in his life, but never before had he wished so much that he’d just stayed home with a bottle of whiskey, than he did now—staring blankly past the woman sitting in front of him as she continued her never-ending monologue.

He’d spotted her a few nights ago—tipsy, barely walking on high-heels, wandering the city like she had nowhere to be and didn’t care either way. She was pretty in the way most women who caught his attention were—she’d laughed at something stupid he said, touched his arm a little too long, and before he could think better of it, he had her number saved in his phone under a name he couldn’t recall now. Nothing serious, nothing beyond the intention of momentary distraction.

And now, here he was, trapped in a dimly lit restaurant that definitely charged more for a meal than the average person made in eight hours. Sometimes, working as an executive for four years had its perks. Mostly in trauma and money.

“…and then she had the audacity to say it wasn’t her fault, like, can you believe that?”

“Unbelievable,” Dazai muttered, tone flat.

She didn’t notice his lack of enthusiasm—just kept going, words spilling one after another. At this point, he was nearly convinced he could stand up and walk out, and she’d keep talking to the empty seat like nothing had changed.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window beside their table. It almost shocked him to see that light, practiced smile still on his face—at this point it felt so much like a second nature he must have stopped realizing he was even wearing it. But his eyes were telling a different story—tired, not only from this evening, but from every evening before it, and the promise of every one after.

God, he needed a cigarette.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” he said smoothly, offering her a polite smile as he stood and pushed the chair neatly under the table.

She barely looked up, just waved him off with a casual, “Sure, I’ll be waiting.”

Have fun waiting then. He didn’t plan on coming back.

The hit of city cold air was a momentary relief, before he decided to replace it in his lungs with nicotine, inhaling the smoke with a sense of comfort it always brought. Smoke curled from his lips as he leaned against the wall of the building, head tipped toward the sky.

And suddenly, a shift, like something moved in the air. No sounds, no footsteps, just a quiet presence. He tilted his head left, gaze catching movement.

A woman—perhaps a few years older than him—tall and radiating confidence, walked toward him with calm, graceful steps. She wore a pale pink kimono, and her red hair was pinned neatly atop her head with golden ornaments that shimmered subtly in the streetlight. Dazai followed her with his gaze for a moment. And just as she was about to pass him—

Hiss. A sudden shift in the air. A hand on his neck. The sensation hit him all too familiarly, like a haunting echo of a certain night two years ago.

Her face, illuminated beneath the streetlamp, was pale—almost porcelain. Crimson eyes gleamed like garnets beneath long lashes, and her lips curled back just slightly to reveal a flash of white, wicked fangs. Dazai didn’t struggle. He didn’t even blink. He simply stared at her with a vaguely annoyed expression, then sighed.

“Really?” he muttered. “Two years without so much as a blood-sucker, and now you’re back again?”

The woman froze, her head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing. She pulled back just enough to look him properly in the face, her gaze moving from his neck to meet his eyes—and suddenly, the crimson faded to a softer pink, something less predatory, more human. What a weird thing to say, Dazai thought. Those creatures were anything but human.

“Excuse me?” she asked, her voice sharp yet somehow elegant.

“You’re a vampire. Not the first one I’ve met, trust me.” Dazai scoffed, involuntarily rolling his eyes.

“How—you’re not supposed to know that.” she hissed, her grip on his neck tightening.

“I would be… thrilled… to die by your hands.” Dazai choked out. “But maybe you could… do it some less painful way—”

A rough cough escaped his throat as she finally released him. He bent forward slightly, catching his breath, brushing a hand lazily against his neck. His cigarette fell somewhere on the cold stone of the street and he scoffed at the loss of it. It was his last one from this pack.

“Someone didn’t erase your memory.” she said, quieter now, a hint of disbelief slipping into her voice.

“As you can see.” Dazai smirked. “They didn’t bother.”

From her look, Dazai deduced it was anything but frequent to find a human with knowledge and memories of a vampire. Right, he remembered Chuuya saying that wiping memories was a ‘standard protocol’, yet, he left Dazai with them. Good—at least he remembered the face he had spent two years hating, more and more with every passing day.

“Who was it?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

She clearly did not appreciate that answer, because just as the words left his mouth, she shoved him back against the wall, her hand flat against his chest, pinning him to the building. She looked him right into eyes, before her irises dilated, and her tone changed to a more demanding, almost commanding one, as she asked again.

“Who was it?”

Dazai recognized it instantly—that subtle change in her voice, the way the words weren’t supposed to reach his ears, but his mind. It was the same thing Chuuya did—vampire compulsion.

But this time… he felt nothing. No sudden stiffness in his body, not sudden loss of control, the world didn’t disappear around her. It simply didn’t work .

“Wouldn’t you,” he repeated, accenting every word, “like to know.”

She had masked her shock well when he first revealed he knew what she was—even though Dazai caught the flicker of surprise in her eyes, but that was because he learned how to read people over the years—but now, disbelief was written all over her face.

“You’re not supposed to resist that.” 

That was true, he knew that. He wasn’t supposed to. And he didn’t when Chuuya tried it. So why now, when—

No other vampire will be able to compel you from now on. Just me.

Damn you, Chuuya. Really did think of everything.

“Unless you were compelled by someone else.” She added after a moment.

“You’re a smart one, aren’t you?” he muttered, unimpressed.

“That’s how you know about us.” She exhaled. “What did they do to you?”

“A little curse to keep me miserable for the rest of my life.” Dazai shrugged. “Nothing worth mentioning.”

The woman paused for a moment, studying him. It made him feel like a specimen under a microscope.

“I could help you with breaking it,” She said eventually.

Dazai let out a dry laugh. “Believe me, I’ve tried. There isn’t a loophole.”

“I’m not talking about loopholes,” She went on. “The compulsion stops working with the death of a vampire who casted it. You give me the name, I kill the one who broke the rules by not erasing a human’s memory, and you’re free.”

For the first time, Dazai’s interest piqued, as he contemplated the offer. Chuuya would be dealt with, killed, and he would be free—no more invisible leash, no more blockade. The vampires would likely forget all about him after and never bother him again—well, they obviously wouldn’t bother him again, since he would commit the second the compulsion stopped working.

“You want a name, yet you haven’t even given me yours,” Dazai said, deflecting. Anything to delay the answer.

“Kouyou.” she replied. “You are?”

“Dazai. Pleasure.”

“So what’s it gonna be, Dazai?”

He bit his lip, not enough to draw blood—his body wouldn’t let him do it even if he tried. It was a solution, handed to him on a silver platter. Just give her the name, and it will be over. She didn’t look like someone who would fail to finish the job.

But then again, he didn’t want Chuuya dead, not like that. He hadn’t spent two years waiting for him to show up, to undo his compulsion, to see how much affect his actions had on Dazai’s life just for it to end like this—with Chuuya dying somewhere far away, never realizing what he had done to Dazai, never seeing the full extent of the damage.

Dazai wanted to see him again, to tear Chuuya apart when they finally meet, he wanted to make him pay for trapping him in this miserable life. He wanted to see him take his last breath.

“I’ll pass,” he said finally, voice low and rough. “If anyone’s going to kill him… it’ll be me.”

“That’s laughable,” Kouyou scoffed. “You’re a weak human. They can twist your mind with a few words, from what you’ve said they already had. And you think you would be able to kill them?”

Dazai just smiled. There was something uneasy in that smile, the way his eyes suddenly went dark, as if all the light had momentarily left them, as if they were just an empty void only resembling life. It made Kouyou almost step back, but she collected herself in time.

“I’m not just anyone,” Dazai said, voice calm and razor-sharp. “I grew up in the Mafia. I know exactly what I’m capable of—and what I’m not.”

He tilted his head, that smile still lingering on his lips, his eyes still cold and lacking in any emotions that could be described as human.

“And I want to look him in the eye when I ruin his eternity.”

Chuuya tossed the towel from his head, letting it fall to the bathroom floor, before he walked to the kitchen counter, his damp hair clinging to his shoulders as he reached for a bottle of wine and poured himself a generous glass. Not to get drunk—no, nowadays his vampire body needed at least three bottles for him to even get tipsy, and drinking this much felt like too much of an effort—but just for the taste. Getting actually wasted was reserved for the nights when he was at his absolute worst.

He grabbed a blood bag from the freezer—one of many he and Kouyou had managed to swipe from a small-town hospital outside Yokohama—and poured just a few drops into the wine. Kouyou had invited him to join her earlier when she went out to feed, but he’d declined—it had been four nights since his last feeding from a living human, and he could usually go about six days before the hunger started gnawing at him, maybe five on bad weeks. After all those years, it still wasn’t something he enjoyed doing, so prolonging it as long as it was physically possible was a habit by now. He’d go with Kouyou next time, he told himself.

He took a sip of the wine, blood mixing smoothly into the dark liquid, making him almost let out a content sigh. He leaned back against the counter, his gaze falling on the living room in front of him. It was dimly lit, only by the city lights spilling through the windows, but he didn’t bother to turn on any lamps—actually he quite liked it, dark and quiet, peaceful. Nights like this were rare—usually he would go out, since it was the only time he could walk freely without burning alive. And if he wasn’t, Kouyou would be inside with him, her classical records turned up to full volume, the scent of her tea steeping filling the entire apartment

Not like Chuuya minded it, not in the world. He loved Kouyou like a sister—she was the one to find him when he was newly-turned, feral mess of bloodlust and confusion, half-mad from hunger and grief. She taught him everything—how to feed without killing, how to manage the hunger better, how to use vampiric powers, how to survive without turning into a monster in the process.

Speaking of the devil.

Chuuya didn’t even hear the door locking, he didn’t hear the footsteps but he felt her presence—maybe it was vampire senses, maybe a connection they had built over the years. He smiled to himself.

“Hi there,” he said after Kouyou almost appeared in front of him. “Wine?”

“I’ll need it,” she muttered, crossing the room toward the large wardrobe. She let her kimono slip from her shoulders, leaving her briefly in nothing but her underwear before pulling on something more casual.

Chuuya, fresh out of the shower himself, had only bothered with pants—his shirt long forgotten somewhere in a drawer. Neither of them really cared, after decades of living like family, modesty had long since stopped being a thing. They were never awkward around each other. And, well—the fact that both of them were raging homosexuals probably helped, too.

Kouyou tugged on a soft, oversized sweater, the sleeves falling past her wrists, before she crossed the room with practiced ease, plucking a wine glass from the shelf and holding it out. Chuuya filled it without a word, then leaned back against the counter, watching her settle into the armchair by the window. She tucked one leg beneath her and took a slow sip, her eyes closing for just a moment.

“Something ruined the night,” Chuuya noted, raising an eyebrow.

“Am I that obvious?”

“You didn’t put on your opera playlist the second you walked in. Gave you away.”

That earned a scoff from Kouyou, who lifted her glass and downed half of it in one long sip.

“Just some… complications.” Kouyou said under her breath. “I found a guy—nothing special, just the first person I saw alone tonight. I was about to feed, but he was… strange. He didn’t even flinch when he saw me—in full vampire form,” she emphasized. “He already knew about us. A human.”

Chuuya’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. A human knowing about vampires was more than just reckless—it was beyond violation of their code. It wasn’t a written rule, it’s not like vampires had any kind of leaders—at least not officially. But in practice, if any of the older vampires—meaning those over five hundred years, more or less—caught wind of someone exposing them without wiping the human’s memory, it was a death sentence.

In two hundred years of his life Chuuya had only broken that rule once—two years ago, that night by the riverbank. But that wasn’t something he liked to think about and definitely wasn’t something he wanted to talk about. He hadn’t even mentioned it to Kouyou, despite him usually telling her everything—still, the odds of Kouyou talking about that particular man were close to zero. Yokohama wasn’t a small town in any way, there were just no chances.

“And you’re sure he wasn’t just high or something?” Chuuya asked hesitantly. “Maybe he was just acting tough.”

“Do you think I'm stupid?” Kouyou shot back, her voice sharp, almost accusatory.

That shut Chuuya up immediately.

“Sorry,” she sighed after a moment, rubbing her temple. “No, he wasn’t high. He said he’d met a vampire before. And he knew about compulsion.”

“How? If his memories hadn’t been wiped—”

“Then someone must’ve used a different kind of compulsion on him,” she interrupted. “He didn’t give me the details, but reading between the lines… it sounds like whatever it was, it’s still in effect. And bothering him.”

“Did you fix it?” Chuuya asked. “Erased his memories?”

“That’s the thing,” Kouyou said. “I couldn’t. Whoever compelled him before, made sure no other vampire could undo it easily. Must have been personal.”

“So only a vampire who did it can take it back.” Chuuya said matter-of-factly. “Did he say who it was?”

“I tried to get it out of him, but he wouldn’t tell. And, like I said, he resisted my compulsion. I can only tell he had… strong negative feelings toward that vampire. Said they ‘gave him a little curse to keep him miserable for the rest of his life’ and that he—now, brace yourself for this—wanted them dead. Can you imagine? A human brave enough to even think of killing a vampire. Or dumb enough.”

Chuuya didn’t respond right away. He stared into his glass, watching the red swirl of wine and blood catch the light. A compulsion only one could undo. A ‘curse’ to keep him miserable for the rest of his life, something that was still tormenting him. Chuuya didn’t like how familiar it all sounded, not at all.

“How did he look?” he asked, voice quieter than before.

“Brown hair, not long, but I wouldn’t call it short either.” Kouyou said. “I’d say early twenties, about my height. And he had dark eyes. Black almost.”

If Chuuya had a living body, one with blood still pumping and warmth in his skin, he might have felt sick right then and there. Instead, he swallowed hard, the sound louder than he meant it to be, the question slipping out of his mouth before he could stop it.

“Did he say his name?”

“He did,” Kouyou said without thinking. “Dazai.”

Chuuya’s fingers went slack. The glass nearly slipped from his hand, and he caught only at the last second with a twitch of reflex.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” he muttered, too quickly, already reaching for the bottle to pour himself more wine. Anything to give him an excuse not to meet Kouyou’s eyes.

Kouyou didn’t seem to notice the shift. She leaned back, gaze fixed out the window, her tone growing more serious.

“The better question is,” she went on, “who was this vampire he met? If they’re just walking around revealing themselves to humans like it’s nothing… it could end in tragedy.”

Chuuya let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He couldn’t let himself spiral, not yet. Not in front of Kouyou.

“It’s just one person,” He said, trying to sound unimpressed. “No one would believe him anyway.”

“It always starts with one person,” Kouyou snapped back, her voice sharper now. “I’ve walked this world longer than you, Chuuya. I’ve seen vampires fall, tens, hundreds of them, because of one careless slip. And I’ve seen what it took to make humans forget again. It’s never easy.” She paused for a moment. “You’ve seen the consequences too.”

The glass in Chuuya’s hand trembled ever so slightly at the implied mention of the Flags. The first—and probably the last—people, aside from Kouyou, he had ever truly trusted. God, he had trusted them with his life. They were anything but perfect, but they were real. They were family. In two hundred years of existence, they were among the rare few who had ever managed to make Chuuya lower his guard.

“Yeah. I have.” Chuuya said quieter.

“Whoever this vampire was—whether they left that human’s memories intact on purpose or not—they need to be punished,” Kouyou said. “If we manage to find and kill them, their compulsion will break, and we’ll finally be able to erase the human’s memories.”

“Why not just kill him?” Chuuya asked, voice low, almost too casual. “Would save us the trouble of tracking down whoever did it.”

“If we don’t find the vampire responsible, there’s a good chance they’ll do it again,” Kouyou replied. “And next time, it might not be just one human who remembers.”

It wasn’t a lie—one human would become two, two would become ten, and then they’d have vampire hunters crawling up their backs again. At least that would be if Dazai decided to snitch. Chuuya had a good feeling he wouldn’t, but that would be an empty argument in this conversation—not mentioning giving himself away with it.

“I’ll help you find them,” Chuuya said at last, voice steady, as much as possible. “If they’re as reckless as you think, we can’t have them walking around.”

Kouyou nodded, then tilted her head slightly toward the window, lost in thought. Chuuya turned back to the counter, pretending to pour himself a fourth—fifth, maybe—glass of wine. In the reflection of the kitchen window, he caught a glimpse of his face, and it genuinely shocked him, how scared his eyes looked. If that had been his expression the entire conversation, Kouyou probably already had him figured out. God, he hoped she hadn’t.

Just one mistake. Just one life he wanted to save. Or did he? He wasn’t so sure all of a sudden. Maybe it wasn’t really about saving a life. Maybe he was just trying to convince himself that’s what it was—for the sake of his own peace of mind. Maybe it was exactly what Dazai had called it.

A curse.

“I’m thinking whether I should inform someone,” Kouyou brought him back to reality. “Like Mori,”

Chuuya’s breath stilled for a moment. “Are you sure? It’s not like the human’s doing any—”

“Any damage that we know of. These things always start small. And Mori… has his ways. If anyone can track down the vampire who did this, it’s him.”

Oh, Mori had his ways. Ways that usually involved, blood, death, and torture.

“No need to inform him yet. We’ve handled worse, haven't we?”

“You’re right. But if we won’t find anything for the next month, I’m telling him. I won’t risk another mess like that again.”

Like that. He knew exactly what she meant.

“I understand,” he said softly.

“I’m going to sleep,” Kouyou muttered, getting up from the armchair and setting her empty glass aside. “You coming?”

“No, not yet,” Chuuya shook his head. “I need a smoke.”

“There’s not even a full hour left until sunrise,” Kouyou said skeptically.

“That’s still a lot of time. I’ll be fine,” Chuuya promised, feeling like a kid asking to stay out just a little longer.

“I know you will,” Kouyou sighed, walking over to her bedroom door and resting a hand on the knob. “Goodnight. Don’t burn alive.”

“I’ll try,” Chuuya chuckled.

The door clicked shut behind Kouyou, and silence settled over the apartment once more. Chuuya slipped on a worn black jacket hanging by the door and, after making sure there was at least a half-full pack of cigarettes in the pocket, walked quietly onto the balcony. The air was warm, and the only sounds were the soft rustling of the wind and the distant echo of a passing car.

Glancing down to make sure the street below was empty, he hopped over the railing and landed soundlessly on his feet. One of the perks of being a vampire—he didn’t have to bother with stairs when he could simply defy gravity with his body.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t love Yokohama at night. Sure, he missed seeing the city in the daylight—filled with people going to work, hanging out with friends, rushing from one place to another. But there was a kind of charm to the nightlife—young people finally letting loose after a stressful day, drunkards yelling and laughing like they might die from the joy of it, the scent of cheap beer and cigarette smoke clinging to the air. The world felt looser then, like it was exhaling.

He walked down the street, movement quick and purposeful. He didn’t have much time—just before four in the morning, which meant the sun would start rising in less than an hour. Worst case, he’d have to crash at the witch’s place for the day.

Yosano wasn’t really his friend—she was more Kouyou’s, or whatever the hell their situationship was, that Chuuya never dared to ask. Still, he’d third-wheeled enough evenings with the two of them to catch a good vibe from her, and even met up a few times alone, sometimes by accident, sometimes with the excuse of trying out nineteenth-century wine brands he’d managed to snatch.

He stopped in front of the old tenement building, its weathered bricks glowing faintly in the streetlight. Quietly, he pushed the door open and climbed the stairs to the first floor, this time choosing a more human approach to do that. He knocked three times, slow and deliberate, then stepped back to wait.

It took a few moments, but finally the door opened, revealing Yosano on the other side. She wore a robe lazily draped over her shoulders, arms crossed over her chest, eyes tired and slightly unfocused. Chuuya felt a flicker of guilt—he had clearly woken her.

“This better be important,” she muttered.

“It is, I promise.”

Without another word, she stepped back and gestured for him to come in.

“Is Kouyou with you?” Yosano asked, leaning out a little to see if anyone was following Chuuya.

“No, she’s home.”

“Huh. So, no head today.”

“Please, spare me this.” Chuuya grumbled.

At first glance, no one would suspect the apartment belonged to a witch. It didn’t stand out in any obvious way—just a simple living room and kitchen, furniture cluttered with random items like books, empty mugs, and a scarf tossed over a chair, but nothing one would question further. But the scent of herbs lingered in the air, and Chuuya was well aware of what was tucked away behind the closed cabinets—rare plants, protective stones, jars filled with god-knows-what, and candles in amounts that Chuuya probably wouldn’t have the strength to count.

“It’s almost sunrise,” Yosano said, glancing at the clock wall. “What’s this urgent?”

“I need to find someone.”

Yosano raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

Now, that was a tricky question. He couldn’t tell her the truth, at least not all of it. She would definitely share it with Kouyou, and he couldn’t let the vampire know he had gone out of his way to track this human down—not the same night she told him about it, not with such urgency. It would seem suspicious. It was suspicious. He barely managed to keep himself together while talking to her, barely held onto the act that this was just another threat they had to deal with, and not the living, breathing mistake Chuuya had buried two years ago and hoped never to see again.

If Kouyou found out, she would connect the dots. She wasn’t stupid, she was anything but stupid. She had lived twice as long as Chuuya, and she knew him better than anyone. He couldn’t let her find out, no matter how much it hurt to hide the truth from the person who had protected him so many times and always had cleaned the messes he made.

“A human. It’s… a long story.”

“Well, there’s a lot of humans walking on this earth,” Yosano said, walking to the kitchen counter. “Coffee or blood?”

“Neither. I’m not staying for too long,” Chuuya said, checking the time and glancing towards the window, where the sky was beginning to pale. Half an hour until sunrise.

“Suit yourself,” Yosano shrugged, as she started boiling the water for the tea for herself. “Anyway, I’m listening.”

“Kouyou ran into some guy tonight,” he began carefully. “She was just out for a feed, but he… he knew about vampires. She said he wasn’t scared, and he resisted compulsion. Which means some vampire must’ve compelled him in the past and left his memories intact. I want to find this human—to get a clue about who that vampire might be.”

“And why are you doing it, not Kouyou?”

“I just…” He exhaled, forcing his voice to steady. “I think I might know the vampire who did it.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not completely. Right? Yosano didn’t have to know he was talking about himself.

“Why not talk to them first then?”

“I need confirmation. Charging in blindly would be too dangerous.” Now, he was making things up.

“And what does Kouyou think of all this?”

“She…” he swallowed, pausing. “Doesn’t know I’m here.”

“That’s a first, you, keeping things from her.” Yosano poured some water into the cup, before adding some herbs Chuuya couldn’t name inside.

“I know.” Chuuya said, biting his lip. “But I need to handle this alone. Please.”

He could see hesitation in her eyes, and he couldn’t even blame her. His excuse sounded shitty even to his own ears.

“You owe me,” Yosano muttered, as she started to rifle through a drawer. She pulled out a single sheet of paper and unfolded it on the table, while Chuuya crossed the room and stood opposite her. It was a hand-drawn map of Yokohama, simple, but with every major street and buildings marked on the paper.

“Do you have anything that belonged to him?” Yosano prompted, tapping the paper.

Chuuya shook his head. “All I have is a name.”

“Of course,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “You always make a job harder than it needs to be.”

“Sorry for that,” he said with a faint, apologetic smile. “Dazai.”

“Dazai. Any idea where to start?”

He hesitated, fingers twitching slightly at his sides. “Try near the Tsurumi River,” he said finally.

Please, don’t let her ask how he knew it.

Yosano tapped her finger against the river’s edge on the map.

“That narrows it down a bit,” she said. “Not much, but it’s something.”

She drew a rough circle over the part of the map where the Tsurumi River curved closest to the residential blocks. Then she closed her eyes, muttering words Chuuya didn’t understand under her breath.

He had seen magic a few times in his life. Location spells and binding charms were the most common—they were easy and practical. But he was well aware that Yosano was capable of much more—she came from one of the oldest witch lineages in the country, magic was in her blood since the moment she was born. 

It had always fascinated Chuuya, how witch’s magic was so different from the powers of the vampires. Sure, sometimes the effects were similar—persuasion, protection, manipulation of the physical world—but the source was what truly set them apart. A witch’s magic was pure. It drew its strength from nature, from life, it rooted in balance. Vampires were different—they didn’t mold the world, they bent it to their will. Mind compulsion, supernatural agility and strength, heightened senses, it all came from one thing. Blood.

In some ways, they were like parasites. No matter how superior they might be to humans, they wouldn’t survive more than a few weeks without blood, all their powers—their immortality—depended on it. Their strength was tainted by the hurt and death they had inflicted on humanity over the centuries. And maybe that was why Chuuya felt a kind of resentment whenever Yosano cast a spell—it reminded him there was still power in the world that didn’t have to be taken at someone else’s expense. Power unlike his own.

Yosano’s fingers stilled. The room, already quiet, now seemed to silence even more, Chuuya was barely able to hear his own breath. The temperature changed a little, like the air in the room suddenly turned cold, and then, a small, glowing light appeared on the map.

“There.” Yosano said.

Chuuya stepped closer, eyes narrowing on the spot. He recognized the area. A stretch of residential buildings, some offices, typical suburbs area. Not far, maybe ten minutes away if he used vampiric speed.

“You’re not telling me everything,”

Chuuya met her gaze for a second, before dropping it. “Details don’t matter.”

She sighed, glancing out the window. The sky was bleeding pale pink along the edges of the horizon. “You’ve got, what, twenty minutes?”

“Seventeen,” Chuuya corrected without checking, already halfway to the door.

“You’ll owe me a bottle of that century-old red next time,” Yosano called after him.

“I’ll bring two,” he replied, pausing just long enough to glance over his shoulder. “Thanks, Yosano. Really.”

He quickly got outside the building, his boots hit the pavement softly, each step feeling heavier than the last as he moved through the thinning shadows of the city. The sky was bleeding into soft blue now, washing the streetlights in a weak gray glow. His skin was already starting to itch, but not painfully—at least not yet.

But that wasn’t what his mind was spiraling around. No, it was filled with one question—what the fuck was he even going to say?

Hey, sorry for forcing you to live. Sorry I stripped you of your choice because I’ve got a fucking savior complex and couldn’t watch another person die when I had the power to stop it. Sorry I didn’t even ask.

He scoffed to himself, shoving his hands deeper into his coat pockets as he picked up speed. Tsurumi River wasn’t far away now. Five minutes if he moved fast. Less, if he stopped hesitating with every damn step.

But then again, he couldn’t say he regretted what he’d done, not completely. He stood by his decision then, and he stood by it now—no life was lost, and every life was still worth saving. That belief hadn’t changed.

It pissed him off, people throwing their lives away, like it was worth nothing, like they hadn’t been handed something rare—a gift, the chance of breathing, taking oxygen to their lungs, waking up feeling warmth of their own skin, watching their body change, grow up, mature. It was a luxury he got stripped off, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t jealous—jealous of people, of the humanity he had lost.

Chuuya slowed as the Tsurumi River came into view, the pale light of approaching dawn turning the water into a sheet of silver. The buildings lining the street were exactly what he was looking for—he recognized the dull beige apartment complex before he even reached it.

He felt it before his eyes caught up. Maybe it was vampiric senses—heightened awareness, the pulse of life in the air—but it felt also like something else, like he could sense Dazai’s presence in a way that felt more like a… bond. Like a connection.  Maybe it was the compulsion still lingering—maybe that was what let him feel Dazai before he even saw him.

But there it was—the square balcony, smoke curling upward into the soft blue dawn. A single figure slouched in a metal chair, the glow of a cigarette blooming briefly in the bandaged hand.

Chuuya didn’t let himself think. One breath—then he pushed off the ground and launched upward in a blur of motion, landing silently on the edge of the balcony railing. The metal groaned faintly under his boots, as Dazai looked up at him, slightly flinching as their gazes locked.

Chapter Text

He hadn’t changed much. Maybe looked a little more worn down, a little sharper in the face. The bandages were still there, wrapped around his arms, peeking through the rolled sleeves of his coat, covering his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. His hair was a mess—maybe a bit longer, though Chuuya wasn’t sure if that was true or if he was just imagining it.

What hadn’t changed was the look in his eyes. That same hollow, bottomless black—the absence of anything resembling a will to live. The same look Chuuya had seen two years ago, unchanged.

He dropped silently from the railing onto the balcony floor. His boots landed with a soft thud on the concrete, his gaze fixed on Dazai—whose eyes had never once moved away from him. Honestly, Chuuya wasn’t even sure if he’d blinked.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Dazai said finally. His voice was calm, casual even—but underneath it, there was a subtle strain, Chuuya heard it. Dazai’s face on the other hand was a perfect mask—blank, giving away no emotion.

He didn’t respond right away. He didn’t have a good answer. Every thought that came to mind sounded worse than the last. He hadn’t planned this far ahead. Maybe he should have.

“I—” he began, hesitating. “I need your help.”

Of all the ways to start, it had to be the worst one.

Dazai raised an eyebrow. A scoff slipped from his lips, bitter and sharp. “Really? The audacity to ask me for help after you ruined my whole life.”

“I didn’t ruin it,” Chuuya said, jaw tight. “I saved it.”

“Sure,” Dazai laughed bitterly. “Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night?”

“You would die.”

“That was my intention.”

Chuuya inhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a moment. Arguing and riling Dazai up would only make things worse, and they were already complicated enough as they were. He forced himself to ignore the uncomfortable itch creeping along his uncovered forearm, up his neck, where the first hints of sunlight kissed his skin and spoke up.

“Just—listen to me,” he said, voice low but steady. “I only need a few minutes.”

“You didn’t listen to me back then,” Dazai shot back, crushing the cigarette into the ashtray beside him. “So trust me when I say, I couldn’t care less about what you have to say now.”

“I know I don’t deserve your time,” Chuuya said quietly. “And I know you hate me, you have every right to. But if you don’t listen to me, then we’re both fucked. And trust me, some vampires won’t offer you death. They’ll give you hours of torture, or worse.”

Dazai’s eyes stayed locked on him as he slowly rose from the chair, face unreadable. For a moment, he seemed to be weighing something in his mind, contemplating the offer, before he stepped past the chair toward the balcony door, resting one hand casually on the doorknob.

“Really,” Chuuya pleaded. “It’ll only be a—”

He cut off mid-sentence, a sharp hiss of pain slipping through his teeth. His back arched slightly, as if instinctively trying to curl away from something. The first rays of sunlight had crested over the rooftops behind him, bathing the edge of the balcony in golden light. The beams struck the back of his neck and his hands and his skin reddened instantly, faint blisters already beginning to rise where the light touched him.

“Shit—Let me in—please,” Chuuya choked out, his voice strained with pain. His hand instinctively moved to shield the vulnerable skin at the back of his neck. Burns had already spread across his fingers, knuckles, wrists, and were now beginning to blister on his face.

Something flicked behind Dazai’s dark eyes, but then he turned and pushed the door open, stepping inside without a word.

Chuuya moved to follow—but the moment he tried to cross the threshold, he slammed into something solid and invisible, like walking straight into a wall of glass. He stumbled back, blinking in confusion before realization hit him. Of course. He hadn’t been invited in, and vampire rules were unforgiving. He could barge into public places, sure—but a human’s home? Not without said human’s permission.

“Dazai,” he rasped. “You have to invite me in.”

For a moment, Dazai hesitated. He could have exactly what he’d dreamed of every night for the past two years—Chuuya’s death, slow and excruciating, right in front of his eyes. It was all he had wanted for so long—to watch the vampire burn. To see the creature who had taken his choice away suffer in return. To make Chuuya pay.

All the memories of the past two years filled his mind—all the times he would be standing on the edge of the rooftop, unable to take a step forward, all the time the pills or razors would slip from his fingers before he could even use them, all the times his body would betray him, no matter how loud his mind would be screaming. Nights when he would yell into the pillow, trying to drown his problems in alcohol that wouldn’t make it past his throat. It wasn’t peace. It was a prison.

And now he could end it all. One step back. One refusal. One second more in the sun, and Chuuya would be gone. And Dazai would be free.

But as he stood there, watching Chuuya burn, something twisted inside him. It wasn’t enough . No, it would be pretty fucking lame if Chuuya just turned to ash on his shitty little balcony. Dazai wanted more. He wanted to make Chuuya trust him. To make him feel something—guilt, hope, connection, anything. He wanted Chuuya to believe that maybe he could be forgiven right before Dazai drove the knife in.

“Please,” Chuuya’s voice was strained with pain.

Pathetic, Dazai thought. A powerful, immortal vampire, begging like a stray dog.

“Come in.”

The invisible wall shattered instantly and Chuuya stumbled forward, the momentary resistance of the barrier making him lose balance. He caught himself on the edge of the couch, panting slightly.

In the span of another second Chuuya was already in the very corner of Dazai’s modest living room, the darkest one probably. Dazai watched as the blisters on his face faded, red skin smoothed over, scabs forming and vanishing within seconds.

Annoying. And worth remembering.

“This wasn’t very spectacular,” Dazai muttered, hopping onto the kitchen counter and crossing one leg over the other.

Chuuya shot him a glare as he pushed off the wall, still a little unsteady. “Yeah, sorry the sun’s not exactly my favourite thing in the world,” he said dryly, making his way to the window and carefully tugging the curtain shut.

“I can see that,” Dazai said. “Watching you burn from a few little rays of sunlight was kinda pitiful, I have to admit.”

He smirked to himself, barely noticeably, as Chuuya’s fist tightened slightly—clearly trying not to rise to the bait.

“I’m not here to argue with you.”

“Then what are you here for?”

Dazai would be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little curious. Okay, scratch that—he was very fucking curious. Two years of silence was a long time, especially when every single day since had felt like dying from the act of simply existing—and yet not being able to.

“You ran into a vampire last night,” Chuuya said quieter. “Kouyou.”

“Maybe I did,” Dazai shrugged. “Charming lady, really. Though I didn’t realize gossip in the vampire community spread that fast.”

“I happen to fucking live with her, so yeah, it did.” Chuuya scoffed. “She found out you know about vampires and that you couldn’t be compelled to forget.”

“Well, obviously she did,” Dazai said. “And she seemed kind of freaked out about it.”

“She was, because it's against our laws,” Chuuya paused for a moment, running a hand through his hair. “It's considered a violation of protocol, not to erase a human’s memories.”

“Huh. So, what you did back then is considered illegal, and now you’re in trouble, because someone found out.” Dazai leaned back on the counter, hands bracing the edge as he tilted his head. “I wonder, whose fault is that.”

“I’m serious. If Kouyou reports to older vampires that someone didn’t erase your memories and they connect the dots to get me—” Chuuya paused. “I’m done for.”

“The vampire has a little secret.” Dazai chuckled. “Cute.”

Chuuya looked like he was two seconds from punching him in the face.

“And that’s why you came here? After two years of silence?” Dazai asked, this time his voice more serious, accusing almost. “To protect your own ass?”

His voice didn't crack at the end, but he felt like it was close to. After all, he was still in shock—just a few hours ago he had never expected to see Chuuya ever again in his lifetime, and now there he was, in his living room, looking like a beaten dog, asking him for help. Dazai had imagined their reunion many times, but never like this.

Sometimes he imagined Chuuya showing up in the shadowy corner of whatever nightclub he was currently wasting time in. Sometimes in a dark alley, stepping out of nowhere as Dazai’s cigarette smoke cleared. Coming back out of guilt, after realization that wherever he thought ‘saving’ was, he had gotten it all wrong.

But this? This was just pathetic. Chuuya wasn't here because he felt guilty. He wasn't here because he'd spent sleepless days thinking about what he'd done to Dazai. He was here because he was scared for his own skin, and Dazai was just a loose end that needed tying up.

The realization should have made Dazai angrier. Should have made the rage that had been simmering in his chest for two years explode, should have made him snap. Instead, it only made him feel hollow, leaving him strangely empty. Because if there was something he’d learned anything in the past ten minutes, it was that it wasn’t him that mattered. Only his usefulness did.

But underneath the bitter resignation, something else was stirring. A cold, calculating part of his mind that had been shaped from the moment he had set his foot in the Mafia was already working, already planning. Chuuya needed something from him. Chuuya was vulnerable, scared, desperate enough to come crawling back after all this time.

That meant Dazai had leverage. Real leverage he could work with.

“Yes. No,” Chuuya bit his lip. “If you help me, I’ll lift the compulsion,” Chuuya’s eyes locked on him. “You’ll be free.”

Dazai blinked, the words not registering for a moment. Just like that? Just like that, after making it very clear that Chuuya resented people like Dazai—people who tried to take their own lives purposely—he would just lift it?

On one hand, Dazai could see the main factor behind the offer—desperation. On the other, he didn’t believe for a second that Chuuya would actually follow through. What proof did he have? What guarantee? What was to stop Chuuya from taking what he needed and conveniently ‘forgetting’ his end of the deal?

But there was one way to be sure of lifting the compulsion. One thing Kouyou had let slip the day before, probably without realizing the weight of it. Simply killing the vampire who casted it.

He could pretend to agree to the deal. He could play Chuuya’s game, do whatever he would be asked to. Wait for the right moment, then stab him in the back. And this—

This might be the perfect opportunity to get closer to doing exactly that.

“You actually would?” Dazai asked cautiously, the smallest hint of faked hope in his voice.

“I would still hate to do this,” Chuuya said. “I’m not sorry for what I did back then, and I still stand by what I’ve said. It’s just the only thing I have to offer. Figured money wouldn’t interest you enough.”

“And how would I even be supposed to help you?”

“Cover some things up.” Chuuya said. “Say a few lies here and there. Kouyou will definitely look for you again—probably even tonight, once the sun goes down. We need to mislead her. Make her think it was another vampire. Someone who isn’t me.”

“You expect me to lie to a, what, five hundred year old vampire?”

“You did yesterday, didn’t you?”

That stopped Dazai for a second.

“You could have said my name, when she asked you about the vampire,” Chuuya said quieter. “But you didn’t.”

“Don’t think it’s because I give a damn about you,” Dazai snapped. “I just figured if you died out there somewhere, I’d be stuck with this stupid compulsion forever.”

Of course, he was well aware he wouldn’t be. But Chuuya didn’t need to know that.

“Right, you would.” Chuuya agreed a little too quickly. “So, you need me, whether you like it or not.”

Oh, Chuuya, if only you knew how bad you are at lying.

“You really are desperate,” Dazai said with a quiet laugh.

“Just do this one thing,” Chuuya said, voice flat. “Say the right things when she finds you. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Something still doesn’t add up,” Dazai murmured. “Kouyou’s compulsion didn’t work on me, but yours does, you made sure of that. You could walk right in here today, erase my memories—hell, even leave the whole ‘can’t-kill-yourself’ thing—and be done with it. Why don’t you?”

“It would be suspicious,” Chuuya said. “There’s someone who knows I’ve been here. If you suddenly forgot everything, it would lead straight back to me.”

“You’ve got a real talent for dragging people into your messes.”

“Shut up,” Chuuya sighed. “And I… I don’t want to mess with your head anymore. If you were still compelled not to off yourself but couldn’t remember why, you’d be even more pitiful than you already are. And that’s a low fucking bar.”

“Wow. I didn’t get the honor of you not messing with my head two years ago,” Dazai said bitterly.

“Stop being bitchy about it,” Chuuya muttered, rolling his eyes. “I still don’t regret it.”

“Really? Even with your life at stake because of the one suicidal maniac you decided to heroically save?”

“Yeah. Even with that.”

The silence stretched long between them, but it wasn’t peaceful. It was brittle—like the space between them might shatter with one wrong word.

Dazai watched Chuuya, whose gaze remained fixed on the floor. There was something about him Dazai couldn’t quite name—something that made it impossible to look away. It wasn’t a clearly positive or negative feeling. It was more like... mesmerization. After all, he had mistaken Chuuya for an angel the first time they met.

His eyes lingered on Chuuya’s face as the other man’s brows drew together in a tight furrow, clearly deep in thought. Every few seconds, Chuuya would bite his lower lip, the smallest gesture betraying the storm in his head. How utterly human of him.

Dazai had always been observant. It was a half-natural, half-aquired skill, and it already told him one thing about Chuuya—that even now, even when he was here for nothing but self-preservation, he was still clinging to some idea of morality. Still trying to do things the ‘right’ way. He could have compelled Dazai into obedience, but he didn’t. Because Chuuya was visibly longing for goodness, for some clean, textbook version of it—as if it could redeem him for whatever dark things he had done in the past. Dazai was almost sure there had been a lot. No one who hadn’t done something regretful in their life would value forgiveness that much.

That was Chuuya’s weakness. Dazai could work with that.

He could give Chuuya what he wanted. Forgiveness. Trust. A sense of absolution. He could lie, pretend, play the part perfectly—after all, Chuuya had been an open book the moment he stepped through the balcony door. And then one day, Dazai would take it all back. He’d twist the knife so deep Chuuya wouldn’t even see it coming. Because Dazai didn’t believe in forgiveness.

And he sure as hell didn’t believe in angels.

“How do I know you'll keep your word?” Dazai asked after a moment. “About lifting the compulsion.”

“You don’t.” Chuuya shrugged. “Unfortunately, this is the part where you have to trust me.”

Trust. Laughable, really. No, not now, now in ten years, not in another lifetime. But, Chuuya said it so casually, that Dazai almost believed it was possible.

Almost. But that was fine—Dazai didn’t need to believe him. He just needed Chuuya to think that he did.

“If that’s my only option, guess I’ll have to take it.” He said softly.

Chuuya just gave a small nod—like he knew it wasn’t trust, not really, but maybe something close enough to pass. Whatever it was, it had to do for now.

“I need to stay here until dawn.”

Not even a ‘ can I stay here?’ —just a flat statement. Typical. The vampire was definitely allowing himself too much. With a lazy smile, Dazai turned and walked to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and twisted the cap off. Let him stay. Let him think this was a truce. Let him feel safe. Let him trust, little by little—before Dazai had the fun of watching him break.

“Sure. Wouldn’t want you burning alive too soon.”

Dazai leaned against the counter, taking a slow sip of water as he watched Chuuya move through the apartment—he had strangely and quickly made himself at home, already grabbing a worn-out blanket to drape over himself. Still, there was a kind of tension to his movements, as if he was hyper-alert at all times. Well, Dazai wouldn’t blame him if he was.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Chuuya muttered. “Wake me up when the sun goes down.”

“Sleep? Really?” Dazai mocked. “What, not afraid I’ll kill you in your sleep?”

“You wouldn’t know how,” Chuuya shrugged. “And I’d hear you coming long before you got close enough to try.”

So, that implied he couldn’t kill a vampire with anything. Dazai had already suspected as much—it would’ve been embarrassingly easy if he’d be able to kill a vampire with a kitchen knife. He needed to get it out of Chuuya eventually, but not tonight. He could be patient a little longer.

“Come on, you haven’t seen my beautiful face in two years and now you’re just going to ignore me?” Dazai scoffed. “Besides, you still haven’t told me what exactly I should tell Kouyou.”

Chuuya was silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the ceiling. That was a good question. The crime of not erasing a human’s memory wasn’t taken lightly in the vampire world, even interacting with humans beyond feeding was forbidden. Once the elders were informed, it wouldn’t just be a quiet reprimand. They would search for the vampire Dazai described, and if found guilty, the punishment would almost certainly be death.

And Chuuya didn’t like this idea one bit.

“Wait,” Dazai let out a laugh. “Don’t tell me you actually care what happens to some random vampire who gets caught in the crossfire.”

“Of course I do,” Chuuya’s jaw clenched. “Sorry for not wanting to send a death sentence on some random fucking person.”

“Jesus. You really do have a saviour complex,” Dazai said, shaking his head. “Or you’re just that much of a hypocrite.”

“I’m not a damn hypocrite.”

“Then what’s your grand plan?” Dazai asked, voice laced with sarcasm. “I thought the whole idea was to pin the blame on someone else so they don’t trace it back to you.”

Chuuya bit his lip. Right, that was the plan. He couldn’t think of any other way, not when Kouyou already knew there was a vampire involved, and it wasn’t like he could possibly erase her knowledge of Dazai’s situation.

But pinning it on some random vampire who had nothing to do with it—Chuuya just couldn’t bring himself to do that. That wouldn’t be survival, that would be cowardice. He wasn’t going to throw someone under the bus just to save himself.

Unless… there was someone who deserved it. Someone who had haunted Chuuya’s nightmares for decades. Someone who had thrown away lives without a second thought just to save his own skin. Someone with the blood of Chuuya’s friends on his hands.

“Listen carefully to me now,” Chuuya said firmly, his voice low but steady. “First of all, change the location. Don’t mention the riverbank. Say it happened outside some dirty bar or something.”

Dazai raised an eyebrow but stayed silent as Chuuya continued.

“Say it was a man. He fed on you, compelled to be under his control only, but forgot to wipe your memories. About your height. Blonde, longer hair, dark brown eyes. Wearing a light coat, maybe a hat. And give him a French accent.”

“That sounds oddly specific.” Dazai smirked. “So, who is he?”

“No one.” Chuuya said. “I’m just making up things that wouldn’t likely match anyone.”

Yeah, sure. Chuuya was terrible at lying—so transparent it was almost laughable. The slight shift in his tone, the way his gaze flicked away for just a second too long—it was like the universe itself was making it easy for Dazai.

“You have someone in mind. Spill it, who is it?”

Chuuya shot him a sharp glare. “It’s none of your business.”

“Oh, so you are admitting there’s someone specific.”

If looks could kill, Dazai would already be dead on the floor.

“Fine,” Chuuya rolled his eyes. “There’s someone specific, who… had done things in the past. If the elders go after him instead of me, well… two birds, one stone.”

“How ruthlessly practical of you,” Dazai said, genuinely impressed despite himself. “And here I thought you were all about that moral high ground.”

“I am,” Chuuya said through gritted teeth. “He deserves it. Trust me on that.”

“Trust,” Dazai drawled. “You really like throwing this word around, don’t you?”

Chuuya’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, and for a moment Dazai wondered if he’d finally pushed too far. But instead of exploding, Chuuya just exhaled slowly, like he was forcing himself to stay calm.

“Look, do you want your freedom or not?” Chuuya asked flatly. “Because there is literally no reason to make this difficult for any of us. You give Kouyou the description I just gave you, convince her it was this other vampire, and I lift the compulsion. Simple as that.”

Simple. Right. Nothing about this was simple, and they both knew it. But Dazai found himself nodding anyway, mentally filing away every detail of Chuuya’s obvious personal vendetta for later use.

“And what happens after?” Dazai asked, tilting his head with false curiosity. “Once this mystery vampire is dealt with?”

Something flickered across Chuuya’s face—too quick for Dazai to identify, but it was there.

“Then you get what you wanted two years ago,” Chuuya said quietly. “And I won't stop you.”

The silence stretched for a moment, the unsaid ‘you can finally kill yourself’ hanging between them. Dazai felt something twist in his chest. It should have been relief. For some reason, it wasn’t.

“How generous of you,” he said, keeping his voice light. “Giving me permission to die. I'm touched, really.”

“Shut up,” Chuuya muttered. “Just... can we get through this first? One crisis at a time?”

“Sure,” Dazai said finally. “But I want details about this vampire we’re framing here.”

“I already told you, tall, blond hair—”

“No, no,” Dazai cut him off. “What did he do to you that you hate him so much? Did he kill someone dear to you? Might as well share your tragic backstory. I’ll be dead in, what, a few days? I’ll take your secrets to my grave. Literally.”

Chuuya’s fists clenched so tightly at his sides that Dazai could see the knuckles going white.

“You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?” he said through gritted teeth.

“One of my many qualities.” Dazai smirked. “Spill it.”

Chuuya’s eyes flicked up to meet his, hard and sharp. “I’m not telling you my fucking life story.”

“But if I’m supposed to lie convincingly, I need to sell it,” Dazai replied smoothly. “Details would help. Unless you’d prefer to watch me fumble through some half-assed story and let Kouyou see right through it.”

“The story is supposed to be about a five minutes long meeting outside a dirty bar two years ago,” Chuuya snapped. “You don’t need to know the guy’s life story just to describe his fucking haircut.”

“Awh, maybe,” Dazai said. “Or I can just tell Kouyou it was you.”

Maybe manipulation wasn’t the best way to gain someone's trust, but it was a means to it—with  manipulation he could get Chuuya to open up, with opening up Chuuya would get a fake illusion of closure. Just a little pressure and false comfort, and it should be enough for Chuuya to let Dazai in.

Then, when it mattered most, Dazai would tear that illusion apart. After all, what were angels for, if not to fall?

“My brother.”

This time, Dazai had to admit he didn’t expect that. It’s not every day someone speaks about their own family with such… disdain.

“Not by blood, I mean… kind of. It's hard to explain.” Chuuya muttered. “We were turned by the same vampire, that's it.”

“So brothers by vampire… father, mother?”

“That's a really weird way to put it, but kinda.”

“And what happened?” Dazai pushed.

Chuuya took a deep breath, shifting slightly on the couch. His eyes drifted to a blank spot on the wall, unfocused, like he was staring through it.

“Humans were hunting vampires in the region we were staying at. He cut a deal, he sold us out,” Chuuya bit his lip. “Gave them the names for safe passage out. Said it was ‘strategic’—that only the weak ones would get caught, so the rest of us could survive.”

“Let me guess,” Dazai said. “You were one of the weak ones?”

“No,” Chuuya said. “But my friends were. At least in his fucked-up opinion.”

“Why didn’t you kill him back then?” Dazai asked. “If you still want him dead after all those years—”

“Because I fucking couldn’t!” Chuuya snapped. “I lost five of my friends in one night, he was still older and stronger than me and—fuck.”

Chuuya’s voice cracked at the end, as he took a deep breath, tilting his head slightly, as if trying to hide the vulnerability written all over his face. But for a flicking second Dazai saw the look in his eyes. It wasn’t anger, it wasn't fear. It was something he had seen in his own eyes in the mirror way too many times—grief. That feeling of shame for surviving when others didn’t.

And for a second—just a second—he felt something uncomfortably close to sympathy. But it went away just as quickly as it came.

“What, no smart comment?” Chuuya scoffed at him after a few moments of silence.

Dazai just shrugged, taking a sip of his water. “Nope.” he said. “I know how it feels, and I know there are no words that would make you feel better anyway.”

Chuuya didn’t reply—he just looked up at Dazai, their gazes locking for a long, quiet moment. Dazai held his breath—there was so much in Chuuya’s eyes, so much emotion, so much history, light and darkness mixing together in a way that shouldn’t have made sense, but somehow did. It was beautiful. Painfully, achingly beautiful.

Chuuya looked away first, pulling the blanket tighter around himself and leaning back into the couch—probably not even out of a need to get comfortable, but just to do something, anything. Dazai figured he must’ve felt strange—stuck for the next twelve hours in a stranger’s apartment, unable to leave, and most of all, just fucking awkward . Because the truth was, they still didn’t know each other. Sure, they’d had more impact on each other’s lives than either of them would probably like to—but beyond that?

They didn’t know each other. All they knew were extremes. They’d seen each other on the edge of dying, but didn’t even know the kinds of things people learned naturally, with time and care. They didn’t know each other’s favourite colours, what drinks they liked, what music they listened to. They’d struck a life-or-death deal—depending on which of them you asked—but didn’t even know each other’s ages.

“Want anything to drink?” Dazai asked, almost laughing at how stupid it sounded. “I’m not offering blood, though.”

“I know,” Chuuya shot him a look. “What do you have, then?”

Dazai hopped off the counter and opened a shelf above it.

“Tea, coffee, water, and some old whiskey.”

Chuuya tilted his head to see. There was one battered box of tea bags that looked like it had been through a war, a can of instant coffee with the label half-torn off, and five identical bottles of whiskey lined up like soldiers.

“Really, the only thing that could make you more pathetic is if you were a raging alcoholic.”

“Oh, give me some credit, it’s not what it looks like,” Dazai said, picking up one of the bottles, which definitely did not confirm his statement.

“Right,” Chuuya said skeptically.

“I actually quit,” Dazai continued, pouring two glasses—one full, one only halfway. “Two years ago. Thanks to you.”

“To me?”

“Mhm. Your stupid compulsion made alcohol literally burn my throat. So now it's only on special occasions. And I can’t drink more than half a glass or I’ll throw up.”

Unfortunately, he was speaking from experience.

“Damn, that—” Chuuya let out a short laugh. “I didn’t expect it to work that extremely.”

“It’s not funny,” Dazai scoffed, handing Chuuya the full glass and sitting on the other side of the couch. “At least I can still smoke. If I couldn’t, I would’ve found you very quickly after the whole thing.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Chuuya said, his gaze landing on the trash can in the corner, filled with empty cigarette packs. “You smoke inside?”

“Not really.” Dazai said. “A balcony is there for a reason.”

Chuuya just huffed in an answer.

“What?” Dazai asked. “Addicted much?”

“I just need some usual smell to cover me.” Chuuya said. “If Kouyou catches me smelling like a fucking vanilla candle and laundry detergent she’ll know I was at someone’s place.”

“You could just say you had a thing with a guy.”

Dazai wanted to laugh out loud at the sudden pink tint that appeared on Chuuya’s cheeks. Like it wasn’t obvious he wasn’t straight the second someone got a good look at him—the weird ass haircut, he mostly smudged red eyeliner over his eyelid, the brow piercing. Really, Dazai wasn't born yesterday.

“Yeah, totally,” Chuuya said dryly. “To get killed even quicker.” 

“Killed for a one night stand?”

“We are not supposed to interact with humans beyond feeding.”

“The vampire laws are really no fun.” Dazai muttered.

“Well, I wasn’t the one to make them.”

“So, have you broken the rule before me?”

“You can say that.” Chuuya shrugged. “It’s not really that strict as it might sound. It’s not like you’re gonna get killed for going to the human’s bar and talking to someone all night, as long as you don’t reveal yourself or erase their memories. We’re just not allowed to form deeper connections, relationships with humans.”

“Huh,” Dazai hummed. “And if you accidentally do?”

“Then you have to erase their memories and… walk away. Or,” Chuuya hesitated for a moment. “Turn them.”

“Oh.”

“I’m not a fan of either option.” Chuuya said.

“So, have you ever turned anyone?”

Chuuya shook his head.

“No one?”

“No one. Never had the courage to.” Chuuya said. “Young vampires are… feral. And they kind of become your responsibility after you turn them. Besides, it’s not something you do on a whim. It’s literally turning someone’s life upside down, it’s literally kil—”

Chuuya cut off mid-sentence, but one syllable was enough for Dazai to catch on.

“Killing someone? How?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Chuuya retorted, his voice wary all of a sudden.

“I thought giving someone immortality was the opposite of death.”

“Immortality isn’t given, it’s—” Chuuya sighed. “The whole process of turning is about dying.”

Dazai’s brows furrowed as he watched Chuuya, whose gaze was fixed on something nonexistent on the floor. He had to admit—he’d never thought much about how turning someone into a vampire actually worked. Sure, there were the usual myths—the vampire bite, drinking their blood, whatever. But those were probably just that—myths. Now he had a real, actual vampire in front of him, with answers only a few pressing questions away.

“So what, you have to die to turn?” Dazai prompted.

“Yeah,” Chuuya nodded. “You have to die with vampire blood in your system.”

How poetic. Vampire blood flowing through a human’s veins, only to corrupt it into something darker, colder, hungrier.

Wait.

If there was one thing Dazai would never be able to forget about that night two years ago, it was the taste. The taste of Chuuya’s blood when he forced his wrist to Dazai’s mouth to heal him. The warmth of it, overwhelming, the instant and terrifying craving for more.

And if Chuuya gave him his blood back then—

“You gave me yours,” Dazai said, his voice rising slightly, tinged with panic. “Back then, at the river—you—”

“Chill out,” Chuuya let out a dry laugh. “It leaves your system after twenty-four hours, more or less. You’re not gonna turn if you die, trust me.”

What a relief. Bigger than Dazai would like to admit.

“Good. Human life is already too long, let alone immortality.”

“And you can’t even live through the first one.”

“Not going to deny it.”

Dazai reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He took one for himself, then offered another to Chuuya without a word. He accepted it, letting it hang loosely from his lips as he watched Dazai lit his own.

The flame flickered between them as Dazai exhaled a stream of smoke into the air, before pulling closer, and without a word of question lighting up the cigarette hanging from Chuuya’s lips. His eyes widened a little—his reactions were so damn human, really, Dazai would never get tired of those—as Dazai never once broke eye contact, not even for a second.

Chuuya exhaled slowly, the tip of his cigarette glowing faintly in the low light. He leaned back again, but his movements were just a little stiffer now, like he was hyper-aware of the space between them. Or the lack of it.

“Cheers,” Dazai said, raising his glass with a lazy smirk.

Chuuya only just remembered he was holding one too, his fingers were curling around it so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. He loosened his grip slightly, then raised the glass half-heartedly.

“To what?” he asked.

“Who knows. Dazai smiled. “Who cares.”

“Right. Definitely not you,” Chuuya scoffed, taking a slow drag of his cigarette.

“To us.”

Before Chuuya could protest, Dazai clinked their glasses together and took a sip. Chuuya just rolled his eyes and knocked back half the glass in one go.

A moment hadn’t passed before Dazai started coughing into his sleeve, grimacing as he staggered back to the counter. He grabbed the water bottle and took a few desperate sips.

“Don’t you fucking dare laugh, I said it’s because of you.” he scoffed.

“I would never.” Chuuya smirked, holding back a laugh.

“It feels like literal acid, I swear,” Dazai groaned.

“Sounds like a you problem.”

“ You are my problem.”

Chuuya snorted behind his cigarette, his eyes trailing Dazai as he slumped back onto the couch.

“So why’d you even drink it if you knew that would happen?”

“I told you,” Dazai said, meeting his gaze. “It’s for special occasions. And I’d say a vampire who ruined my life sitting on my couch asking me for favours qualifies.”

“Stop saying I ruined your life.” Chuuya said, his voice a bit sharper. “You were already miserable before.”

“And you decided to force me to keep being miserable for the next several decades. Thank you very much.”

“At least you’re fucking breathing.”

“That’s the thing you don’t understand not—not all of us are focused on survival,” Dazai said, his voice raising a little. “Some of us aren’t living. We’re existing. And we’re fucking tired.”

“So what?” Chuuya scoffed. “I should have just watched you die?”

“Yeah,” Dazai said quieter. “Exactly what you should have done.”

“You’re—frustrating,” Chuuya snapped, teeth clenched. “Some aren’t fucking given a chance to live.” 

“That’s a really fucking stupid argument.” Dazai scoffed. “If someone doesn't like oranges and wants to throw one away, does it mean they can’t because there is someone else out there who likes oranges and doesn’t have one?”

“Are we really comparing life to oranges?”

“You get the point.”

Chuuya was quiet for a long moment. Then he raised his glass again with a quiet sigh.

“Cheers,” he said. “for you making it this far even if you really fucking hate oranges.”

Chapter Text

Kouyou was pulled from sleep with a sharp buzz at her side, her senses dragging themselves back like molasses as the daylight filtered faintly through the blackout curtains—the darkest she could find—but even that thin glow was enough to irritate her. She didn’t even need to check the caller ID—there was one person who’d have the audacity to disturb her during daylight hours.

“Yes, babe?” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep, a yawn following close behind.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” came Yosano’s voice, far too chipper for this hour. “Sleep well?”

“Until you brutally decided to wake me up, yes,” Kouyou mumbled. “What time is it?”

“Two in the afternoon.”

“Goddamn middle of the day,” Kouyou grumbled, already reaching for her robe. “This better be important.”

“I don’t know yet, might be, or might be just paranoia,” Yosano scoffed. “Could you check if Chuuya’s home?”

That woke her up a little more. Kouyou blinked, her brain rewinding to the early morning hours—it was about an hour until sunrise when Chuuya said he was just going for a smoke, which usually didn’t take him more than ten, fifteen minutes at best. He wasn’t going feeding or anything, there was nothing that could go wrong from a single cigarette break.

“Why wouldn’t he be?” she asked, already tossing the blanket aside and getting to her feet, tightening the robe around her waist.

“No reason,” Yosano said a bit too quickly. “He just stopped by for a tea this morning and it was already too close to dawn. I’m just wondering if he made it back in time and didn’t get stuck in some old apartment block’s staircase until the sun goes down.”

“He stopped by your place? Just like that?”

There was a brief silence on the other side, and it told Kouyou enough. It definitely wasn’t about trying a new flavour of tea.

“Yeah,” Yosano finally said, her tone casual. “Chuuya sometimes drops in unannounced when he’s restless, you know how he is.”

Kouyou muttered under her breath, pulling open his bedroom door and finding it just as empty as she’d feared. His bed was made. The window was locked. No coat. No shoes by the door. “He’s not here.”

“Fuck,” Yosano muttered.

“When did he leave your place?”

“About twenty minutes before sunrise.”

Kouyou bit her lip. This wasn’t like Chuuya. It was nothing like him. Not like Chuuya, who always insisted on heading home a full hour before dawn. Chuuya, who triple-checked every curtain before lying down for the day. Chuuya, who had an app on his phone to track sunrise and sundown to the second—one Kouyou had mocked him for more times than she could count.

“He should’ve made it back in twenty minutes,” she said quietly. “Unless he was going somewhere else?”

“I—I don’t think so. Where would he even go?”

There was a subtle strain in Yosano’s voice, one Kouyou noted but didn’t press on. She was probably just worried. Chuuya was her friend too, after all.

“No idea.” Kouyou murmured, leaning her back over the counter in the kitchen. “I’ll try calling him.”

“Okay. Let me know if you find anything.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Yosano said, before the call dropped off with a soft beep.

Kouyou stood still for a moment, phone in hand, staring down at the black screen. The silence in the apartment felt heavy now, and the feeling of unease in her whole body wasn’t helping.

She scrolled through her contacts until she found Chuuya’s name and hit call.

It scared Chuuya, how easy it was to talk to Dazai.

Too easy to sit on that worn-out couch, cigarette between his fingers, the never-ending conversation jumping from topic to topic, broken only by the burst of laughter from time to time. Each time Dazai would say something stupid and a laugh would sneak up from Chuuya’s throat before he could stop it, he would mentally scold himself—he wasn’t supposed to react like this. But Dazai made it exceptionally difficult to remember.

Chuuya hated how easy it was to be here, in the crumpy apartment, on the uncomfortable couch, with nothing entertaining but Dazai’s presence. He hated that his own mind decided that this one thing was enough.

As the topic of the whole intrigue finally died down—after rehearsing the story so many times they were both physically tired of it—they just… started talking. About everything—trivial things like that one ATM down the street that’d been broken for god knows how long, their favourite spots in the city that tourists never cared to visit, the best night music bars with dirty bathrooms and a broken neon signs, and the time a stray cat somehow jumped into Dazai’s lap on a park bench.

Chuuya wasn’t used to this. Sad as it was to admit, he wasn’t used to talking to people like that. Sure, he wouldn’t mind exchanging a few words with some humans in the club or in some bar, but there was always this nagging thought in the back of his mind— you’re not supposed to. Even if he genuinely got along with someone, it would only hurt more in the end, when he’d have to wipe their memories or vanish without a word of explanation. Humans were for feeding and fleeting distraction, not for forming a real relationship with.

But Dazai was different. Their situation was already fucked up enough—Chuuya doubted he could make it any worse, especially not by simply talking, since he was already stuck here against his will. The alcohol wasn’t helping either, slowly loosening his tongue as he found himself halfway through a second bottle of whiskey, claiming Dazai “wouldn’t need it anyway.” Maybe he had a higher alcohol tolerance—perk of being a vampire—but even that had its limits.

The truth was, he couldn’t remember the last time he clicked with someone so quickly. Not that he had many chances to. Statistically speaking, vampires were a rare species—it wasn’t like he could just meet someone decent of their kind by going for a walk after sunset. He used to have The Flags, of course, and he missed them so much it fucking physically hurt, but that was a whole different story, one he didn’t like to think about much these days. He had Kouyou, of course—but then again, he had known her for over two hundred years. She was family at this point, and they’d probably already talked through every possible topic in the world and a few more. Then there were people like Tachihara or Gin—vampires he’d met a few decades ago and crossed paths with now and then. It was always a good day when that happened. They would go out for drinks, catch up, trade stories—but then they would part ways again, for months, sometimes years.

It was terrifying, how easily the conversation flowed. How Dazai didn’t pry, but somehow still managed to dig too deep without even trying. Like he wasn’t tearing down Chuuya’s walls, but rather somehow walking around them. It made Chuuya feel something he hadn’t felt in years—stranegly human.

He shouldn’t have been comfortable here. He should’ve been counting the hours until sundown, pacing the room like a caged animal, which he should feel like. He definitely shouldn’t be smoking his tenth cigarette, listening to Dazai’s half assed story about some government spy—probably seventy percent lie, but whatever—and laughing so hard it made his ribs ache.

“And how the hell would you even get into that mess?”

Dazai just smirked lazily. “Well, I once had a job you’d never guess in a million years.”

“Government?”

“No.”

“Detective?”

“No,” Dazai laughed, shaking his head.

“Huh. That would suit you, actually,” Chuuya said.

“What, being a detective?” Dazai raised a brow.

Chuuya shrugged, flicking ash off his cigarette. “Yeah. You’ve got that annoying attitude. Always acting like you know something no one else does.”

“That’s because I do know things no one else does,” Dazai said with a grin. “I’m a genius, after all.”

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that. Genius with a death wish.”

“Hey, those two things can overlap perfectly fine.”

“Whatever,” Chuuya muttered, rolling his eyes. “So, what was it? This mysterious job of yours?”

“I’m not telling you, I said you have to guess it.”

Before Chuuya could respond, he flinched suddenly as the ringtone of his phone filled the room. He grabbed it from his pocket, looking at the screen.

“It’s Kouyou,” he said, voice dropping. “Be quiet. I’m serious.”

Dazai raised his hands in mock surrender and mouthed ‘ I’m quiet’.

“Hello?” Chuuya asked as calmly as he could manage, putting the call on speaker without even thinking about it.

“Where the fuck are you?” Kouyou’s voice was loud enough that it wouldn’t require the call to be on speaker for Dazai to hear her. “It’s the middle of the day and—”

“Calm down,” Chuuya cut in, already feeling like a scolded teenager. “I’m fine. Just didn’t make it before sunrise.”

“You always make it back at least an hour before sunrise.”

“Well, I got a bit… distracted.”

“Yosano told me you were at her place. Really? A tea with her was so important you couldn’t get back in time? Where even are you now?”

Oh, just at this one suicidal human’s place you were worrying your ass off yesterday, who just happened to be the very consequence of a few spectacularly bad decisions I made two years ago, and who I definitely should not be laughing with over a bottle of whiskey while you’re losing sleep trying to catch a vampire who may or may not be in fact me.

“At a friend’s house,” he blurted before his brain could come up with something better.

“Since when do you have friends I don’t know about?”

Ouch. That one hit—about as hard as Chuuya’s fist to Dazai’s arm when the bastard snorted trying to stifle a laugh.

“Okay, okay, I’m not at a friend’s,” Chuuya sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “I compelled some poor human on his way to work to let me in. I’m holed up in a shitty apartment until sundown. Happy?”

That was at least partly true.

“Let’s say so,” Kouyou muttered, but her voice had calmed. “You could’ve at least texted me.”

“I figured you’d be asleep, and I’d be back before you noticed.” Chuuya said, his voice a little apologetic.

“Whatever. Just don’t do it again.”

“Yeah. Of course. See you in the evening?”

“Mm. Love you.”

“Love you too. Sorry for scaring you.”

Chuuya ended the call with a quiet sigh, setting the phone face-down on the table. Dazai just stared at him—those black, piercing eyes feeling like they were looking straight through him—and for the first time in hours, it made Chuuya feel genuinely uneasy.

“What?” Chuuya finally asked.

“Nothing,” Dazai shrugged. “I’m just processing you calling me a friend.”

“I was lying .” Chuuya said defensively.

Dazai couldn’t miss the immediate pang of guilt that sparkled faintly in Chuuya’s eyes as the words left his mouth. He’d already figured out Kouyou was important to Chuuya—sister, mother figure, he didn’t know, but if only lying to her was enough to clearly put Chuuya in a bad mood, he must have valued her a lot. If he’d lost her trust, it would break him. The aces were practically collecting themselves up Dazai’s sleeves without him even trying.

“You don’t seem very thrilled about it.”

“Because I’m not,” Chuuya huffed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t like lying to… to my family.”

“Oh?” Dazai tilted his head. “So the mysterious, evil brother isn’t the only one?”

“Kouyou is not family by blood,” Chuuya muttered, shifting on the couch. His head slumped back, resting against the top cushion as he stared at the ceiling. “She’s family by choice.”

“Must be nice having someone like that.”

Chuuya didn’t respond right away, only looked in Dazai’s direction again, his eyes for once not betraying much—just quietly observing.

“It is.” he said simply after a moment.

“So,” Dazai said, dragging the word out as he leaned forward again, elbows on his knees. “What made her family then?”

“It’s a long story,” Chuuya shrugged. “But to keep it short, she found me after I was turned. I was… confused, angry, call it whatever. She took care of me, showed me how to… live again.”

“She didn’t turn you?”

“No,” Chuuya shook his head.

“Then who did?”

“That’s not your fucking buisness.” Chuuya snapped.

Touchy subject , Dazai thought. Noted.

“Alright,” he said mildly. “Not my business.”

It was a lie, of course. He was going to get it out of Chuuya eventually. But he knew better than to push now—especially when Chuuya was stuck here, and time was, for once, on Dazai’s side. No need to force a door open when it was already starting to creak.

Chuuya exhaled quietly and picked up his phone again. Dazai watched as his fingers danced across the screen, tapping an app marked with a small sun icon.

“Four hours left,” Chuuya muttered under his breath.

“What, bored already?”

“Yeah. I am,” Chuuya replied flatly. Then, without warning, he shoved the phone into Dazai’s hands. “Type in your number. Might be useful later.”

Dazai blinked, a smug grin already spreading across his lips. “My, my. There are more subtle ways to ask a guy for his number.”

“Don’t make it weird,” Chuuya said. “Have you told Kouyou your name yesterday?”

“Well, yeah?” Dazai replied, a bit confused.

“I meant, your first name.”

Dazai paused, mentally rewinding the night before, then shook his head. “Didn’t come up.”

“Good,” Chuuya said. “Then what is it?”

“There are also more subtle ways to ask someone to be on the first name basis.”

“Dazai, for fuck’s sake.”

“It’s Osamu.”

“Osamu.”

Dazai’s fingers that were hovering above the phone’s keyboard froze for a moment, as he parted his lips slightly, caught off guard by the ease with which Chuuya said his name. It wasn’t something he heard often—even from his own mouth it sounded weird, almost unnatural. The only people who ever used it were his parents—when they’d still mattered—and his former boss, usually when he screwed up one time in a hundred. Most people didn’t even know it. He always introduced himself as Dazai, full stop. Nothing more.

It was always just Dazai . Then it became Demon Prodigy —a title that trailed him like a shadow through the bloodstained corridors of the Port Mafia. It was built on gore, violence, and what his former boss used to call “his true nature and potential.” It almost sounded like the name of a weapon—which wouldn’t be far off. That’s all he’d ever been—a weapon.

Dazai was the genius. Dazai was the one they feared. Dazai was the youngest executive in Port Mafia history. Osamu was different. Osamu was the six-year-old who still clung to his mother’s skirts, no matter how cruelly she treated him. Osamu was the one who held razors in his hands inside a dark, rusted shipping container at fourteen. Osamu was the one who couldn’t sleep for a week after Oda died. Osamu was, essentially, a useless little shit.

Dazai hated Osamu with all his heart. Osamu hated Dazai just as much.

But when Chuuya called him that, he wasn’t sure if he hated it, or if he wanted to hear it again, even a million times.

He cleared his throat, looking down at the phone still resting in his hand. His fingers resumed moving, typing in the number without another word. When he handed the phone back, he caught a glimpse of what Chuuya was typing into the contact name—something starting with an ‘o’ in lowercase.

“There,” Chuuya muttered. “I’ll send you something when Kouyou leaves the house to find you again.”

“Like a secret code?” Dazai laughed.

“Something like that.”

“We should have an emoji.”

Chuuya gave him a flat look. “An emoji.”

“Yeah. Like a signal. You send me, I don’t know—” Dazai leaned back, tapping his chin, “—a vampire bat and—”

“I’m not sending you a fucking vampire bat.”

“No fun,” Dazai said. “Then can it at least be that one face with heart eyes.”

Chuuya really, really didn’t have energy to argue further on this one.

“Fine,” Chuuya said. “If you really want the last thing you see before a five-hundred-year-old vampire tears into you to be a heart-eyes emoji, be my guest.”

“I’ll treasure it,” Dazai smirked. “Frame the screenshot and everything.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “Don’t you even think about it.”

He slipped his phone back into his pocket, only to glance over and find Dazai now completely absorbed in scratching the label off the empty whiskey bottle.

“We need to go over your story again. What you’re supposed to say—word for word,” Chuuya said.

“Back to the boring part,” Dazai muttered. “I remember it.”

“Then let’s hear it.”

“Middle of the night. Outside some bar. I was attacked by a man about my height, long blond hair, wore a hat, and had a weird French accent. He fed on me, compelled me to follow only his commands, and for some reason didn’t erase my memories.”

Chuuya raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t expecting Dazai to recite it back so perfectly after hearing it just once. The words slipped so naturally out of his lips, it felt almost like lying could be the second language to him. Chuuya didn’t exclude that option.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “That’s… good.”

“Oh, one more thing,” Dazai added, far too casually. “I might’ve mentioned the compulsion to Kouyou. The ‘don’t-kill-yourself’ one.”

The colour drained from Chuuya’s face in the span of a second as he stared at Dazai with eyes wide open.

“You what ?”

“I didn’t spell it out,” Dazai said, waving a hand like that made it better. “I just said the vampire left me with a little curse to live with.”

Fuck . Kouyou had said something about that—about the human mentioning a compulsion that still seemed active. Chuuya completely forgot about it.

“You couldn’t have mentioned it earlier?” Chuuya said through gritted teeth, fists clenching on his knees.

“Slipped my mind.”

To say this complicated things would’ve been a monumental understatement. The kind of compulsion Chuuya had put on Dazai was nothing like anything Verlaine would do. Verlaine didn’t mind leaving hundreds of dead bodies on the way to his goal. He didn’t mind the deaths of innocents, if it was a means to an end. A compulsion to stay alive? It was too… merciful. He wouldn’t have wasted energy on helping some suicidal drunk by a river. Not unless it benefited him—and this wouldn’t.

“Don’t bring it up again,” Chuuya snapped. “If Kouyou asks, just lie. Improvise. I don’t give a shit. Make something up.”

Dazai grinned. “You sound like you have no idea what to do.”

“I’m not a fucking genius.”

“Good thing you’re talking to one.” Dazai leaned back with that irritatingly smug expression. “Relax. I’ll talk my way out of anything. Promise.”

Chuuya leaned back into the couch with an audible sigh, running a hand through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut. The silence settled between them for a moment.

“Do you regret it now?”

Chuuya looked up to him, their gazes locking. There it was again—the black void that seemed to consume Dazai’s eyes in whole.

“You already asked.”

“Yeah, but I’m waiting for a moment that this situation finally stresses the shit out of you enough so you’ll admit you do regret saving me that night.”

“I don’t regret it,” Chuuya said firmly.

There was no hesitation, no second guessing. Just a simple, unshakable statement.

Dazai let out a breath, rolling his eyes. A few hours of chatting and he had almost forgotten how insufferable Chuuya’s hero complex was. Almost.

He hated the way those words sounded—like Chuuya thought what he did was some kind of mercy. Like Dazai should be grateful, when all it had been for him for the past two years was a prison sentence, waking up each day with a body that refused to die, a mind that refused to quiet down, always reminding him of one thing—he wasn’t alive because he was actually trying. He was alive just because Chuuya said so. And that infuriated him more than anything else.

“No one would have blamed you if you let me die back then,” Dazai said quietly, after a moment.

“I’d blame myself,” Chuuya muttered. Not loud, but not so quiet that Dazai could pretend he didn’t hear.

Of course. It always had to be about him . This was never about Dazai’s pain, or his choice. He was just a convenient excuse, a way for Chuuya to believe he was still redeemable. That whatever sins were in his past could be balanced out by saving someone, even if they didn’t want to be saved. Dazai wasn’t a person in that moment, he was a damn redemption arc, a fucking band-aid for someone else’s guilt.

“Sure you would,” Dazai said quieter.

Chuuya didn’t respond, just leaned back again and rested his head against the couch cushion, staring up at the ceiling like maybe the answers were written there.

“Three more hours,” he said looking at his watch.

“That means nine have already passed. How time flies.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “It does when someone annoys the shit out of you.”

“Ouch.”

The vampire’s gaze landed on Dazai again, noticing—really noticing this time—the visible bags under his eyes, the way his eyelids drooped more often than not, the way his skin seemed almost as pale as Chuuya’s, or maybe it was a case of his dark hair and eyes contrasting with it.

“Have you even slept tonight?” Chuuya asked skeptically.

“You found me smoking on the balcony at five in the morning. I think that answers your question.”

“Right,” Chuuya muttered. “What, insomnia?”

“Yeah, it’s a bitch,” Dazai shrugged. “And your wonderful compulsion won’t let me take more than two sleeping pills daily, which, let’s say, doesn’t really work.”

“So the last time you slept properly was…?”

“Define ‘properly’”

Chuuya scoffed. “You should try sleeping now,” he said. “I need you to have a clear and rested mind while you’re talking to Kouyou.”

“Cute that you think I can just decide to sleep,” Dazai gave a tired little laugh. “What do you want me to do, count sheep?”

Chuuya didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed a worn blanket draped over a chair and tossed it to Dazai.

“Just lie still,” Chuuya said. “Even if you don’t sleep. Rest.”

Dazai looked at him for a moment with something unrecognizable—half confusion, half like his brain was working overtime trying to process the words, like it wasn’t familiar to hear anything like that. It took a moment, and for Chuuya to pretend to be interested in something on his phone, but finally Dazai wrapped the blanket around himself and rested his head back against the couch. His eyes fell shut, even though it probably wasn’t anything close to sleep. His breathing wasn’t nice and steady, his fingers were twitching, his whole body language screamed that he was still alert. He didn’t look peaceful—he looked like someone pretending to be unconscious in the middle of a war zone.

Chuuya could have physically forced him to live, but he wasn’t capable of fixing whatever was unraveling in Dazai’s mind—erasing all the pain life had thrown at him over the years, all the memories he wasn’t even aware of. He couldn’t save Dazai, he could only keep pretending to himself he had, while in reality it was just a fragile illusion, a bandage wrapped over an open wound.

And he was painfully close to admitting it.

Chuuya left the apartment right as the sun dipped below the horizon. He didn’t bother saying anything—not a word, not a goodbye, not when the reunion would likely come sooner than he could get Dazai out of his head. He just pretended not to want to wake Dazai (who, Chuuya knew damn well, hadn’t actually slept a second) and slipped out through the balcony, landing smoothly on the street below.

He barely had time to shut the door behind him before Kouyou was already standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed.

“Finally,” she said, her voice sharp.

“Sorry for the scare,” he mumbled, hanging his coat by the door.

“You better be,” Kouyou scoffed. “You were gone for twelve hours without a word.”

“I told you I had to hole up until the sun went down.”

“Which is—”

“Beyond reckless, I know,” Chuuya sighed, flopping on the couch, running a hand through his hair.

He had realized it just now, but hunger was slowly gnawing at him. It had been five days since he fed and he could usually last six at best before the lack of blood would start messing with his head, body, basically everything. He got so invested in the whole Dazai thing, he had almost forgotten about his most basic need.

“Where are you going?” he asked, watching as Kouyou moved around the room, gathering her things and slipping them into her small bag.

“Where do you think?” she sighed. “This whole situation with the human I mentioned yesterday is still out of control. I need to ask him a few more things, see if he can tell me anything useful about that vampire.”

“Right.” Chuuya muttered. “Why don’t I go with you?”

He blurted the words out faster before he could think—but honestly, it wasn’t that bad of an idea. If anything, it would give him the chance to control the conversation, or at the very least witness how well Kouyou bought into Dazai’s made-up story. That was, of course, if Dazai even followed through with what he’d promised.

“Why would you?” Kouyou raised an eyebrow.

Chuuya shrugged, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. “I’m just curious, that’s all. And I have to go feed anyway.”

“Fine,” Kouyou said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “If you need some time, we can leave in—”

“I don’t,” Chuuya cut her off, standing up from the couch and grabbing Kouyou’s coat before tossing it to her. “We can go now.”

Kouyou didn’t question him—just draped the coat around her shoulders and gestured for him to follow as they left the apartment, locking it with a soft click before stepping out into the cold air.

Fifteen minutes later, Chuuya tried keeping his eyes anywhere but on Yosano as she performed the locating spell—on the very same person he’d asked her to track before, though this time at Kouyou’s request. Still, he could feel the witch’s gaze piercing through him, but luckily for him she chose not to comment, instead choosing to stay focused on her conversation with Kouyou, while he lingered in the corner of the room, occasionally adding a quick remark here or there. His fingers hovered over the screen of his phone for a moment, then tapped out the heart-eyes emoji and sent it to the contact saved under the name ‘Osamu’.

They didn’t speak much on the way to Dazai’s place. Chuuya walked a few steps behind, hands shoved into his pockets, trying to focus on the upcoming conversation rather than the pounding hearts of every human they passed, but the scent and warmth radiating from them was getting more and more impossible to ignore. Get your shit together , he thought to himself.

His mind was brought back to reality when they turned the corner onto the familiar street, his eyes immediately flicking up to the apartment balcony. It was empty, meaning Dazai was probably inside. Smart move—for him of course.

Chuuya followed Kouyou through the dirty staircase, stopping in front of the door with the golden ‘54’ on it.

“It’s here?” Chuuya asked, even though he knew the answer too damn well.

“I think so, yeah,” Kouyou replied.

She knocked three times, then stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest as they waited. Chuuya could hear his own undead heart pounding, the sound almost ringing in his ears.

The door creaked open to reveal Dazai, barefoot, still wrapped in the same blanket Chuuya had tossed at him earlier, his hair a mess, sticking out in every direction. His gaze landed on Kouyou first, and he gave her a lazy smile—then his eyes met Chuuya’s. He didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t need to. His expression, the hollow flatness in his eyes, said more than words ever could.

“You again,” Dazai said to Kouyou, though his gaze never once left Chuuya. “You brought company this time. How nice.”

Kouyou gave him a once-over, eyes cool and unreadable. “I did. I hope we’re not interrupting.”

“There’s nothing important to interrupt.” Dazai shrugged. “Unless rewatching the same series for the fifth time counts as important, then—”

“I’m not here for chit-chat,” Kouyou cut in.

“It would be bold of me to assume you are,” Dazai said with a dry laugh. “Come in, milady.”

Kouyou walked into the apartment, hesitantly—as it could be expected a vampire was invited into a new household—while Chuuya followed, stepping across the threshold right behind her. Kouyou’s eyes flicked toward him for a split second, before she turned to Dazai again.

The apartment looked exactly as it had a few hours ago—same worn-out couch, same stained carpet, same low, irritating hum from the overworked refrigerator—and the same half-empty bottles of whiskey scattered across the floor, the ones Chuuya had downed earlier without thinking. But now, standing here again with Kouyou just a few steps away, a pang of guilt clawed at his chest, the reality of lying to the most important person in his whole damn life feeling heavier with each passing second. He really needed to get better at keeping his emotions in check.

“So,” Dazai said, drawing the word out as he crossed his arms loosely over his chest, “what can I help you with today?”

Kouyou didn’t smile back. “About what you said yesterday, the vampire who didn’t erase your memory. I’d like you to repeat your story for me, in full.”

Dazai's gaze flicked toward Chuuya, just for a second, but enough for Chuuya to catch the spark in his eyes—something too close to amusement and warning at the very same time. But when he looked back at Kouyou, his expression settled into something far more convincing—just tired enough to seem sincere, just casual enough to seem reliable.

“Maybe if you introduce me to your friend here,” Dazai said, lips curling into a smirk that practically begged for a fist to the face.

Chuuya resisted the urge—barely—and forced out a name before his temper got the better of him.

“Chuuya,” he said, trying to keep his voice from wavering.

Kouyou’s gaze was still fixed on Dazai, with the kind of scrutiny that made Chuuya’s skin crawl—she wasn’t the type to overlook things, not even the subtle ones, and he could almost feel her cataloging every word, every twitch, every pause between sentences, trying to put together pieces of puzzles, not aware that the missing one was standing right beside her.

“The story’s not very spectacular, so don’t get your hopes up,” Dazai said with a shrug, leaning against the window frame. “I was drunk, stumbling out of some bar I barely remember, and then someone just shoved me against a wall and… all I remember after that was a sharp pain in my neck. Everything kind of went numb after a moment.”

It was perfect. Dazai’s tone was smooth, his words slipping out effortlessly—not too quick, not too slow—just right for someone casually recalling something that had actually happened. If Chuuya hadn’t known better, he might’ve believed it himself.

“I didn’t see his face clearly when he pulled away, but he was about my height, blonde, and I’m pretty sure he was wearing some ridiculous hat,” Dazai continued. “Oh, and he had a French accent. Awful, if you ask me.”

Kouyou’s eyes snapped to Chuuya, sharp and sudden. He looked up at her, schooling his features into something that resembled confusion, forcing his voice into something that wasn’t cracking under the weight of every word.

“No, it couldn’t be him,” he said, hating how easy the lie sounded coming from his mouth.

“Did he say his name?” Kouyou asked, turning back to Dazai, her tone clipped.

“Nope,” Dazai replied simply, with another shrug. “That’s all I’ve got for you.”

“No, it’s not.” Kouyou replied sharply. “You can’t be compelled. For some reason he did not erase your memories, but he must have done something to you.”

“Oh, he did.” Dazai said, running a hand through his hand. “I mentioned it, remember?”

“‘Little curse to keep me miserable for the rest of my life’” Kouyou quoted effortlessly. “Care to elaborate?”

Chuuya felt the room tighten around him. This was the most risky part—one they didn’t discuss, one when he could rely on nothing other than Dazai’s improvisation and skill of bullshitting his way out of things. He could just hope it would be enough.

“I might or might not have made a stupid comment,” Dazai muttered, feigning annoyance sounding more than honest. “He said he’d kill me and I said that I’d thank him if he did. And something like ‘finally’, I don’t remember in detail. You see I’m just not a big fan of life itself.”

“Yes, I can see.” Kouyou said, looking around at the mess of the room.

“Touché.” Dazai chuckled under his breath. “So the vampire bastard compelled me to be unable to kill myself. Or even hurt myself. Ever.”

As to confirm his words, Dazai reached for a kitchen knife, before placing it down to his wrist—well, almost. The blade hovered mere millimeters above his skin, as if an invisible barrier kept them apart.

“That’s just cruel, even for him.” Kouyou muttered.

That made Chuuya stop for a moment, and before he could think, he blurted out:

“You think that’s cruel?”

Kouyou looked at him, a silent question in her eyes.

“I just don’t think making a human keep breathing is the cruelest trick a vampire can play,” Chuuya muttered, voice low now, eyes cast somewhere near the floor.

“It’s taking away one’s ability to make choices. It’s controlling them.” Kouyou said matter-of-factly. “I’d say that’s pretty cruel.”

It took all of Chuuya's willpower not to give anything away, not to bite his lip from just the habit of it, to keep his expression blank. Was what he did really that cruel? Was he really the only one who couldn’t see the viciousness of his act? Was saving someone from death really perceived as something wrong here?

He couldn’t save his friends back then and the guilt of it was eating him alive to this day. Now, he actually had saved someone—only to start feeling like he had chained them to something even worse. 

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Kouyou’s voice brought him back to reality.

“Verlaine?” Chuuya asked quietly. Keep the act up.

“He fits the description a little too well,” Kouyou nodded. “But… What would he be doing back in Yokohama? He knows damn well he’s not welcome here. And he has no reason to come back.”

“You don’t know that,” Chuuya said. “A hundred years is a long time. Maybe something happened to bring him back.”

“What could have?” Kouyou scoffed. “It doesn’t add up, not at all. And this compulsion? It’s nothing like him. He’d just wipe their memory with a sentence or just leave the human to bleed out. Not this. He wouldn’t bother.”

Dazai was quiet now, leaning against the wall with his arms loosely crossed, watching the exchange like it was some TV drama that had nothing to do with him.

“It’s not like he’s the most predictable person on this planet,” Chuuya scoffed. “He had done irrational things before, hadn’t he?”

“In his whole life he had only done things that benefited him. This,” Kouyou pointed her red, long nail at Dazai. “doesn’t.”

“I’m offended.” Dazai muttered under his breath, though just loud enough for vampire senses to catch.

“Do you remember anything else?” Kouyou turned to Dazai. “Something characteristic?”

Dazai hummed, his expression thoughtful, gaze drifting toward the ceiling like he was actually reaching back to a memory that didn’t in fact exist.

“Not much,” Dazai said. “It all happened quickly, the whole thing is fuzzy at best. I remember pain, the blur of his face, but most clearly, probably his voice. French accent, like I said.”

“High? Low?”

“Something in between.”

Chuuya kept quiet, every word they spoke feeling like blades under his skin. He hated this. Hated how close Kouyou was to the truth, and how he was the reason she was heading straight toward the wrong one. But what else could he do now?

“What did he say?” Kouyou asked. “Do you remember anything in particular?”

“He told me not to scream or move before he bit me.” Dazai said. “I think it was this compulsion thing because I physically couldn’t do any of those after that. Then after my very smart remark later, he precisely gave me the list of the things I won’t be able to do, until he personally takes it back.”

Chuuya watched as Kouyou’s expression changed, from calculating and steady to something too close to frustration.

“That’s nothing like him.” she finally said. “It doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

For a moment, Chuuya wanted to snap. To spit it all out, what had happened two years ago, what happened just a few hours ago, everything. For a moment the weight of lying to Kouyou felt like it could crush him and he wanted nothing more than to break, to spill it all, fix whatever still could be fixed and beg her not to report him to Mori or any of the older vampires.

But how would she look at him then? Knowing he had even tried to lie, had concealed the truth from her— her —after all those years, after they’d promised each other honesty, no matter what? Chuuya was too much of a coward to find out.

“Maybe it wasn’t him,” he said quietly.

Kouyou didn’t answer right away. She glanced once more at Dazai, who was watching her with that same challenging glint in his eyes.

“We have to do something with him,” she muttered.

“Thank you for your concern,” Dazai replied with a smile that was all fake politeness, “but I can manage perfectly fine on my own.”

“We are not letting you walk around like that, human.” Kouyou said firmly. “You know too much.”

“That’s great, because I have a wonderful idea on how to silence me.” Dazai smirked, his eyes were empty, as he spoke. “Just kill me.”

Even Kouyou was caught off guard for a moment by the blunt straight-forwardness, because she cleared her throat delicately before finally responding.

“I’m not killing you,” she said. “You might be useful later.”

“Come on, I told you everything I remember,” Dazai said, shrugging slightly. “What else could I possibly be good for, other than being a burden?”

“The vampire took interest in you back then,” Chuuya cut in, voice steady, eyes locked on Dazai. “He might again.”

Dazai gave him that same insufferable smile—the one Chuuya wanted to punch straight off his face.

“Oh, he definitely might.”

“That’s why we need to keep you alive for now.” Kouyou interrupted.

“Well,” Dazai said, voice almost bored, “I’ve been called worse than bait before.”

“That’s not what she meant,” Chuuya said defensively.

“That’s what she implied.”

“Calm down,” Kouyou’s hand landed on Chuuya’s shoulder before he could bite back another retort. “We just need to keep an eye on him if we want to avoid reporting this to the elders.”

“How?” Chuuya huffed. “I don’t want him under my roof. Can you imagine him in the middle of our living room?”

“No,” Kouyou said simply, shaking her head. “That’s why you’ll be staying here.”

“Excuse me?!” Chuuya and Dazai exclaimed at the same time.

Chuuya had expected this conversation to go in a hundred different directions—he’d probably played out half a dozen scenarios in his head on the way here—but not like this .

“You can’t be serious,” he said, turning to Kouyou. “I’m not a damn babysitter.”

“No,” she agreed calmly, “but if this really is Verlaine, and he decides to come back for him, you’ll be the first one to sense him. It’s a logical move. And someone needs to keep this guy in check.”

Chuuya stared at her, searching her expression for any hint of a joke. There was none, of course there wasn’t. Kouyou didn’t joke about things like this.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered.

Without another word, Kouyou took him by the wrist and pulled him to the corner of the room, away from Dazai’s earshot.

“Chuuya,” she said, quieter, impossible for Dazai to hear, but enough for a vampire’s senses to catch. “I know more people than you do. I’m more experienced and I promise, I’ll find the vampire responsible for this, but I need you to keep me updated on this one. I trust you.”

Something broke inside Chuuya upon hearing those words, but he nodded regardless. Kouyou gave him a small smile before letting go of his hand, letting it fall uselessly to his side as she turned back to Dazai, who in the meantime flopped onto the couch, his legs hanging lazily on the armrest.

“Decided who’s getting custody?” he asked mockingly.

Someone please watch over me if I have to survive another few weeks with this bastard, Chuuya thought.

“I’ll message you later.” Kouyou said to Chuuya, ignoring the remark. “And feed tonight, Chuuya. I’m not dragging you out of another three-year depressive spiral just because you lost control again.”

“I know.” Chuuya said quickly. “Take care.”

“You too.”

As the door clicked shut behind her, Chuuya let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, eyes flicking to Dazai who was watching him with a lazy but unreadable expression.

“Well, looks like we are roommates now,” Dazai smirked.