Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Legend has it that a red string connects those destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstances.

The string may stretch or tangle, but never break.

Until now.

Yokohama, page 231

He was on his knees. The chains held him pinned to the wall, rendering him helpless and stripping him of his ability. He was no more than a discarded toy, a broken doll.

No more—

       Nothing.

His wrists were bloodied; the metal had sliced through his skin, exposing bone and leaving deep trails of blood across his arms, and his strawberry-blond hair was tangled and stuck to his skull, obscuring his face.

Nakahara Chuuya.

As if sensing a presence lurking in the shadows, he lifted his head. He blinked, dazed. His vision was blurry, and he could barely see out of his right eye but it was enough. A muscle in his face twitched as he realized he was surrounded. His subordinates, his friends.

His shoulders jerked violently, and a hollow, empty laugh tore from his throat. He yanked at the chains and growled until his vocal cords were shredded.

They meant nothing to him.

Not far off, someone began to pray, while another fled towards the stairs in terror.

A shot cracked through the air.

A body dropped.

Prototype A2-5-8:

Arahabaki.

Dazai Osamu stepped forward, silencing the murmurs around him. He held his gun as if his life depended on it. Once his prey, now his predator. Chuuya could only tilt his head in interest.

His stomach dropped.

Red lines like roots etched across Chuuya’s skin, curling into patterns that made no sense. Death had kissed his soul, and there was nothing Dazai could do. His right eye was burned from pupil to sclera, but his left remained blue—the same color as the waters of Yokohama—but dull, lifeless. He was his Chuuya and yet not.

His bloodied mouth twisted into a deranged smile when he recognized him.

Only 2,383 lines of code.

Not human.

Dazai’s heart skipped a beat. For a brief, he thought he saw a trace of sorrow in his gaze. Time was running out, the clock ticking mercilessly against him, and the ink smudging beneath his fingers. Still, he let himself falter, just this once. A soft “Chibi”, no more than a whisper, escaped his lips. Yet, it was enough to push Chuuya over the edge.

“Motherfucker! I’ll kill you! I swear—!”

It wasn’t real.

Chuuya was nothing more than an empty shell, a wild beast at the mercy of the god within him. A monster.

Just another failure.

It was over.

This Chuuya was too broken to fix.

This world was no longer worth saving.

“Goodbye, Chuuya, my love.”

One shot, another, and another.

Dazai dropped the gun and his subordinates took a cautious step back. Chuuya’s head hung at an odd angle. A tear of blood slid down his cheek, and the floor, now a field of red camellias, wobbled beneath his feet.

His fallen angel,

         his soul in pieces.

Dazai lunged forward, and his knees buckled. His trembling hands captured Chuuya’s face one last time. He pressed his lips on his tousled curls. Someone approached him, landing a hand on his shoulder. Dazai swallowed the bile rising in his throat. Chuuya, Chuuya. He couldn’t fall apart. Not yet.

“Do you give up?”

“Never,” he replied, his voice echoing through the dungeon.

The pen tore into the page once more.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Unknown, page 243

Chuuya woke up with a scream lodged in his throat and death’s claws digging into his shoulder blades. He shivered, his clothes clinging to his sweaty skin, and the cold seeping into his bones. He rubbed his arms to warm up and then ran a hand through his messy curls, wiping the moisture off his face.

As he lowered his hand, his breath caught. Blood.

His heart raced as he scrambled to get out of bed, but the chain around his ankle held him back, jerking him sharply. A searing pain shot up his leg, and he cursed under his teeth. He pulled at the metal until it cut into his skin. The sound of a tray crashing to the floor made him snap his head up so quickly that his neck protested.

Danger. Danger. Danger.

He bared his fangs at the intruder, but as soon as he saw the familiar mop of black hair, he restrained himself. His nostrils flared as he took in the scent of chamomile, tarte tatin, and fresh lavender.

It was Rimbaud, not Verlaine.

“There’s blood,” Chuuya explained, his words tangling on his tongue as his head spun. He didn’t speak often, and no one expected him to, so organizing his thoughts always felt like a struggle.

He pressed his lips together to hide his fangs, letting his messy curls fall over his forehead.

Rimbaud’s eyes widened, but he said nothing. Ignoring the tray, he walked over to the bed, not touching Chuuya—he wasn’t allowed to—but his gaze slid over his face, his body still covered by a thin sheet, and the chains that bound him.

Chuuya showed him his palms. He wrinkled his nose, confusion twisting his features. His skin was scarred and calloused, but it was clean.

It made no sense.

He brought his hands to his face again, rubbing at it urgently, not even realizing what he was doing until Rimbaud caught his wrist with a firm grip, shifting the weight of the mattress as he did so.

Chuuya flinched at the skin-to-skin contact, but still craved it.

“Are you hurt, mon trésor?” Rimbaud asked, worried.

Rimbaud removed the sheet, gently checking for any wounds, but found none. Something felt different there, something that stirred Chuuya’s pulse and made his chest ache. He didn’t dream—he couldn’t—but when he closed his eyes, he remembered a warm hand cradling his cheek, the rough but familiar sensation of bandages against his skin, and silence.

Chuuya knew no silence.

His security bracelet buzzed with an annoyed hum. Rimbaud’s face darkened. Chuuya clenched his fists in his lap and turned his gaze away, focusing on a point over Rimbaud’s shoulder.

He gulped the urge to scream.

It was the least he could do for those who had saved him. Rimbaud made no comment. His attitude spoke for itself, he didn’t agree with Chuuya’s role in the organization. The man picked up the tray’s remnants. Chuuya gave him a sidelong glance as he placed it on the bedside table.

“I’m gonna to release you,” Rimbaud informed, his voice soft and loving. Chuuya clasped his wrists together. Rimbaud doubted before handcuffing him. Chuuya forced a tiny smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, trying to reassure him. It didn’t work. “I’ll only be a moment.”

It never was.

Rimbaud slipped a beige cardigan over Chuuya’s shoulders, braided his hair, and secured it with hairpins, as he did every day. Then, he helped Chuuya put on his boots. Useless. Chuuya didn’t need this show of humanity, but he indulged Rimbaud anyway.

The man tucked a few curls behind his ear.

“Beautiful.”

“Nonsense,” Chuuya muttered, embarrassed.

Rimbaud chuckled softly, and warmth spread in Chuuya’s chest.

They were underground, in a high-security British government military compound. He was unaware of the exact location, and frankly, it didn’t matter. On the rare occasions he went out, it was for a mission, and they always made sure to put him to sleep beforehand. For his safety, of course. Chuuya despised the compound—the reinforced walls, the strict security, the lack of sunlight, the contemptuous stares—but the alternative made his stomach churn.

At least there, locked in his room, he was safe. He posed no threat; no one could hunt him down. They walked in silence until they reached their destination. Two knocks and a “Go ahead” were enough to fray his nerves. Fortunately, inside was only Verlaine, and on the desk sat a red vial.

Rimbaud removed Chuuya’s handcuffs. Chuuya dug his nails into his palms to keep from lunging toward the vial. His blood was singing, and saliva was pooling in his mouth.

Paul Verlaine’s lips curled down in a subtle frown. He didn’t look happy. Good. Avoiding his stare, Chuuya focused on the cufflinks on Verlaine’s black shirt sleeves. An old gift from his creator, or a reminder, according to him. Unnecessary tackiness, according to Chuuya. Rimbaud had no opinion.

Chuuya arched a brow. Nothing about the double agent seemed different. There was nothing to justify the knot in his stomach or the fear prickling the skin on the back of his neck. Still—

The mission.

“Who?”

“Your medicine.”

Chuuya gritted his teeth, his fangs piercing his lower lip.

“Who?” he growled low. Rimbaud stepped behind him, while Verlaine clicked his tongue in annoyance but finally met Chuuya’s gaze.

He didn’t like what he saw.

Verlaine opened the drawer to his right, pulling out a confidential Europol file and placing it on the table next to the vial. Time was escaping from between Chuuya’s fingers, and the monster inside him was starting to stir.

He needed that vial—the familiar burn sliding down his throat, cooling his insides—but there were still a few minutes left, he could cling to his pride for just a little longer. When he opened the file, a photo slipped out onto the floor. He bent to pick it up. His stare lingering on the bandages and strange red scarf. They didn’t seem threatening, but if someone had gone to the trouble of paying his fee, they had to be.

His heart stumbled as he read the words scribbled on the back. Whoever hired him, whoever had the resources and the nerve to do so, had chosen a strange password to communicate with him. They rarely did. No one wanted to be tied to an organization that harbored a monster.

Verlaine kept talking, but Chuuya didn’t hear him.

“...Japan.”

Chuuya raised his head so quickly that he became dizzy. His blood hummed under his skin, and the monster whispered promises in his ear. Rimbaud touched his elbow gently.

Verlaine crossed his arms.

“Take your medication. We don’t want to worry our hosts,” Verlaine said dryly.

“Paul,” Rimbaud scolded him.

“Did you say Japan?” Chuuya insisted. He shook off Rimbaud’s grip and staggered toward the desk. His hands slammed onto the wood, splintering it. He closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it. Again, he had the feeling that something was wrong. “Me alone?”

Verlaine didn’t answer. He grabbed Chuuya’s wrist and put the vial in his palm.

“Don’t make me force you.”

Chuuya snorted in disbelief.

It was a pointless struggle. He needed that vial. Without it, he’d lose control. It would happen slowly, like water dripping until it overflowed. The last time, he was a child. He remembered the crater that formed around him, the tears on his cheeks, and the heat that burned through his veins. The fear. The death. The despair.

He didn’t want to relive that. He didn’t want to hurt the people he cared about.

He drank the vial in one gulp.

Rimbaud helped him sit up.

“What about my medicine?” Chuuya rasped.

“Don’t worry. We’ve accounted for the time it’ll take to complete the mission and return,” Verlaine said, opening a black briefcase. He extracted four vials. “Four doses. Four days.”

Chuuya grimaced.

Nakahara Chuuya, aka Arahabaki, was once a failed experiment. Now, an expensive and infallible weapon in the service of the Order of the Clock Tower, his saviors and his jailers. But always a ticking time bomb. He wiped his chin with his thumb, and a mocking, almost malicious smirk blossomed on his face.

He was a monster in sheep’s clothing.

He tapped the file with his nail.

“Dazai Osamu,” he murmured, tasting his name like it was a slice of his favorite pie instead of his next target. He moistened his lips. Then, he leaned toward Verlaine. “Consider him dead, mon frère.”

It was what everyone expected of him. Everyone under the Tower’s protection had a role to play. Chuuya was unaware of Rimbaud’s and Verlaine’s there. He doubted they were simple, considering who they had been before ending up there. However, Chuuya had not dared to ask.

“When?”

“First thing tomorrow.”

He had twenty-four hours to learn everything he could about Dazai Osamu.

He closed the file.

“Chuuya,” Rimbaud called to him. Chuuya turned to him, his expression softening. Rimbaud cupped his face, and Chuuya melted at the touch. “Mon chéri, I’m so sorry. I promise it’ll be the last time. I swear.”

Chuuya shook his head, pressing his hand to Rimbaud’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. They were alive; he, Verlaine, and Rimbaud. The rest didn’t matter.

His soul didn’t matter.

“I’ll be back,” he promised, as if he had any other choice.

Rimbaud’s eyes flooded with tears.

“Chuuya, I—”

“It’s okay,” Chuuya reassured him. “Don’t feel bad. You did what you had to do. Both of you.”

It was pointless to drown in false promises. The Tower would never release him from his chains. As long as he needed his medicine and no one out there could offer him an alternative, he was trapped.

Chuuya couldn’t dream, but during his flight to Japan, he dreamed of his voice.

Yokohama, page 244

Dazai Osamu, 22 years old, the Port Mafia’s boss.

Chuuya caught the straw between his lips and took a generous sip of his slush. He hummed in satisfaction and grabbed the file, now covered in annotations. The bastard was fucking handsome. With a finger he traced the line of his jaw. The bandages gave him a certain charm. Too bad he had to kill him.

The chair creaked as Chuuya leaned back. According to inside sources, Dazai had murdered the previous boss shortly before coming of age. Within months, he had taken control of the Port Mafia. Recently, he’d met with the region’s most powerful clans and rumor had it that he’d pissed off the wrong people with his expansion plans.

He took another sip. People like them didn’t tolerate greed. Such hypocrites.

He tapped his chin with his index finger. Getting to him wouldn’t be easy. He couldn’t just track him down and slit his throat while he slept. Dazai had eyes and ears everywhere. He lowered the file and adjusted the brim of his hat. If he wanted to maintain the element of surprise on his side, he had to tread carefully.

A waitress with pretty pink hair pulled back in a ponytail and a bright, friendly smile approached his table to check if he wanted anything with his slushie.

Chuuya hid the file and removed his hat.

“I’m good, thank you.”

“You have a peculiar accent.”

Chuuya let out a faint chuckle, and a few strawberry-blond strands falling into his eyes as he cockedhis head playfully. The girl blushed.

“I’m not from here,” he admitted, amused.

“Oh, and what brings you to Yokohama?”

“I’m here for love,” he told her confidently. The girl’s eyes widened, and she bowed toward him as if it were a secret. Chuuya lowered his voice on purpose. “He doesn’t know it yet, but I’m gonna surprise him.”

She took a deep breath, covering her mouth with both hands. Her eyes shone with excitement, and it looked like she might jump up and down. Chuuya didn’t even know why he’d said that, but it wasn’t a lie. In fact, he was there for love.

The love of the only family he had ever known.

The girl gave him a bright smile, holding her thumbs up.

“I wish you the best of luck!”

“Thanks.”

He had chosen that coffee shop for its strategic location. It was far enough away from the core of the mafia’s territory, yet close enough to catch a glimpse of the five black towers crossing the city.

There was something oddly familiar about Yokohama that unsettled him. He ignored the smell of the sea in the air and the strange sense of belonging that seemed to take root in his chest. He’d never been here before but it felt like he knew the city like the back of his hand.

He took another sip.

His gaze wandered down the street, past tall brick buildings, businessmen in freshly pressed suits on their way to work, teenagers chattering loudly while waiting for their order, and an elderly couple holding hands and strolling leisurely, as if they had all the time in the world.

His heart sank.

He stirred his slushie with the straw. He grimaced when he took another sip; it suddenly tasted too bitter. The monster inside him stirred restlessly. There were still hours until his next dose, but jet lag was making him uneasy and the sun was starting to get hot. He tugged at the collar of his shirt to fan himself. Then, to ease his creeping migraine, he massaged his temples.

At that moment, he felt the air shift. It was subtle like the flutter of a butterfly’s wings.

Chuuya stood up. Someone was watching him. He lowered the brim of his hat to bid the waitress goodbye and walked toward the crosswalk. First, he would check who was following him, and depending on that, he’d act accordingly.

He hadn’t gone far when someone cleared their throat behind him. Aware that he was in the middle of the street surrounded by innocent civilians, Chuuya glanced over his shoulder. To his surprise, he found a girl in a red kimono, her hair tied in two low pigtails.

He turned to face her. His skin tingled with anticipation. The girl greeted him with a small bow. Her dark eyes were cold, unreadable.

Chuuya smirked.

“Hello, sweetheart.”

“The boss is expecting you.”

His smile faltered. Fuck. He took a step back. A car honked, and someone shouted at him to move. His vision blurred. He couldn’t move. His head began to spin, and his mouth tasted like ash. He could barely hear the god in his head, as if an insurmountable wall stood between them. What was wrong?

The girl grabbed his sleeve, her lips moving.

The waitress.

If he could, he would have burst out laughing.

Yokohama was Dazai Osamu’s playground. Of course.

Everything went dark.

Silence, his beloved silence.

When he regained consciousness, he found himself chained to the wall. Great, just fucking great. His muscles felt stiff, but nothing seemed broken. For now. He wrinkled his nose; the stench of urine, excrement, and blood lingered in the air. He tested the resistance of the chains, but a searing pain shot through his body, bending him in half and blurring his vision.

He swallowed the scream biting his tongue. Blood flooded his mouth, and he tried, without much success, to breathe slowly. It hurt. He probably had some broken ribs. Shit. The pain was too much.

His eyelids were heavy from the drug he had ingested and the lack of light didn’t help. He could feel his ability inside him, but it was too far out of reach to use without facing consequences. Just hold on a little longer. You can do it.

A noise to his right, a scratching sound, like little paws against the wall, startled him. A rat? He pursed his lips in disgust.

Footsteps, murmurs, and then a harsh light. Silence spread through the dungeon. Death lurked in the corners, and the familiarity of the scene sent chills down his spine. He’d never been here before, never been in this situation, but still… He blinked, trying to focus. He picked out dark, elongated shapes. Fear chilled his bones.

He was surrounded. Just a little more.

He pulled on the chains and wrapped his hands around them. They were ordinary chains.

A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. They didn’t suspect about his identity. Maybe, just maybe... Slow, heavy footsteps echoed, and his pulse quickened. The tingling in his skin promised danger, the kind that flooded his veins with adrenaline and made his lungs yearn for air. He lifted his head, eyes searching.

Everyone around him dropped to their knees, bowing their heads in respect.

Or in terror.

It was him, it had to be him.

He knew it before their gazes collided like two opposing forces of nature. He felt it in his gut, that sickening sensation of something eating him from the inside, rotting everything in its path. It was visceral, dizzying, far more intense than manipulating gravity. Chuuya ran his tongue over his fangs, tasting blood, his skin.

Bandages.

A red scarf.

And a smirk that stirred something deep inside him.

Dazai Osamu.

His prey.

         Or his predator.

Chuuya grinned back, wider, feral. Before anyone could utter a word, before he could question how conveniently things were turning out, he crushed the chains with the force of gravity and halted the rain of bullets in mid-air.

With a twist of his bruised wrist, the bullets clattered to the ground.

“It’s not you, it’s me, darling,” Chuuya sneered, his voice dripping with malice.

Dazai didn’t flinch. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, powerful and untouchable. His dark, tousled hair with slightly wavy ends framed his angular face. His clothes didn’t reveal much else, but every report agreed that Dazai was deceptively thin, and very cunning and sneaky. His right eye glinted with something that Chuuya couldn’t decipher.

Maybe curiosity? Or was it something else? It didn’t matter. He was going to devour him.

More shots, more bullets wasted.

Dazai barked an order over the gunfire; his voice rumbled in Chuuya’s chest, and the memory of a blood-soaked apology nearly destabilized him.

Chuuya lunged toward Dazai, grabbed him by the neck, and slammed him into the wall.

Dazai gasped and spat blood. Tears pooled on his eyelashes. Chuuya leaned in, feeling drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Dazai was beautiful, and he would be even more so once Chuuya had crushed him. The bastard spread his legs and bent his knees to meet his height. An invitation.

Chuuya licked the blood from Dazai’s chin, stealing a moan from him.

“A masterpiece worth billions.”

And just like that, he lost his balance, his center of gravity. It happened so quickly that he didn’t have time to process it. It was as if someone had drained the air from his lungs or pushed him into the void.

Dazai, with bloody teeth and an unhinged gleam in his uncovered eye, laughed through his nose.

Chuuya couldn’t hear the god. He couldn’t even feel it.

He tightened his grip around Dazai’s neck, slamming him to the ground, and straddled his chest.

He didn’t need Arahabaki to finish this.

“Chibi, buy me dinner first,” Dazai scoffed, his voice constricted.

“Ha!? You weirdo—”

And as if his life weren’t hanging by a thread, as if he were the master pulling the strings in this play, Dazai cupped Chuuya’s cheek so carefully that it sent a shiver down his spine. His thumb caressed his cheekbone, and his mouth curved into a sweet smile. Chuuya’s breath hitched. He studied Dazai’s face—his nose, his lips, and the longing in his near-crimson iris.

He couldn’t think. His chest rose and fell erratically. His ears rang, yet he could clearly read Dazai’s lips.

His grip faltered.

“And that’s why I love you so much.”

No. No. No.

“Who the fuck are you, you freak?”

Dazai’s smile deepened, no longer sweet but sharper, predatory.

“Rest, Chibi.”

A prick in his neck, and once again, the world around him began to fade. Goodbye, my love. Chuuya tried to resist, to summon his ability, to release Arahabaki, but to no avail.

Someone cradled him in their arms, brushing his hair from his face, and pressing their lips to his forehead—a touch, a promise, a threat.

“You belong to me, Arahabaki.”

The dripping was getting on his nerves.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

Dazai grimaced. The bandages were suffocating him, and his clothes bothered him. Too many layers, too tight. Three of his four executives were embroiled in such a ridiculous argument that he couldn’t summon the energy to care anymore. They looked like they were one step away from a full breakdown, gesticulating wildly and babbling incoherently. Pathetic.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

He crossed his legs and began drumming his fingers on the table, his patience fraying. He gritted his teeth. His skin burned, the ink spread. If he had to sit through another minute of the clock’s ticking, hammering on his skull, he might lose what little sanity he had left. Which wasn’t much.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

“An assassin!” Ace exclaimed in horror, slamming his palm on the table. Dazai raised a brow, unfazed. The executive’s face flushed, his nostrils flaring as he trembled. It would’ve been comical if Dazai’s temples weren’t throbbing. “An assassin as a bodyguard? That’s insane!”

Plop. Plop—

“My pet,” Dazai corrected, his voice sweet as honey.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

Ace peeled back his lips to retort, but no sound came out. The tiger clicked his claws in warning, a step behind. Ace paled. Dazai slowly shifted his gaze toward the other executives, silently inviting them to continue. They all fell quiet.

Good. They were a bunch of cowards, but at least they knew when to shut up.

“He’s mine.”

No one dared to contradict him. The chair between them and the fresh corpse hanging from the ceiling was enough of a statement. This—this emergency meeting, this pointless waste of time—was just a formality.

Dazai was their boss, their master.

“And you intend to put him in charge of Pianoman?”

Dazai inhaled roughly. Of course, she would have the last word.

“That’s the plan.”

“Pianoman still has allies,” Kouyou pointed out, her voice thick with disapproval. She didn’t even try to hide it. “Do you really want to hand him a weapon when his loyalty is… questionable at best?”

Dazai laced his fingers together and leaned forward. His smile was bitter, heavy with everything he couldn’t say, but that still burned inside him. The tiger tensed beside him. More blood dripped onto the table, staining the scattered papers pink as it furrowed the wood.

The smell was unbearable.

For a moment, Dazai wasn’t there but was hiding under the desk, curled in a ball with his hands over his ears, while the madman ordered the disembowelment of those he once considered his property.

Dazai closed his eyes. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t—

His Captain moved. Dazai raised his hand to stop him.

“Is there a problem, Ane-san?”

Kouyou twisted her lips into a faint sneer.

“All right,” she reluctantly conceded, flicking open her fan with more force than necessary. She snapped it shut against her palm. “I’ll tame it for you.”

His smile grew.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, dismissing her offer with a flick of his wrist. “I don’t expect that of you, my dear Ane-san. I’ll handle it.”

He placed his palms on the table and stood up.

“And the rest, do me a favor. Clean up this mess. I have a puppy to feed.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dazai saw death lurking.

Smudged ink, wasted pages

Chuuya woke up drenched in sweat.

Frantically, he felt his neck, torso, and abdomen, searching for wounds. He found none. His ribs, while still sore, looked fully healed. However, someone had taken the time to wrap his wrists in bandages. He slipped his fingers under the gauze, loosening it, and, with his teeth, freed his left wrist. His skin was sore and reddened from where the chains had rubbed against him. He did the same with his right.

The place didn’t look familiar, but it was far from a grimy dungeon. It was a spacious room with a view of the sky, a desk, and a king-size bed filled with cushions, pillows and... What the hell was that?

It was a giant plush crab with bulging eyes and an angry expression. Very orange. He ran his hand over it and brought it closer to his face. It smelled new. Then, he squeezed it between his hands.

It was cute.

He turned it over. It looked like one of those stuffed animals you win at claw machines in malls. Nothing special about it, nothing that should explain the strange warmth that washed over him or the odd feeling of familiarity stirring in his guts.

He tucked the stuffed animal between the cushions, then crawled to the edge of the mattress. Aside from the fluffy rug surrounding the bed, there was no sign of his shoes. His hat was on the nightstand. His eyes landed on a pair of slippers, and a frown formed between his brows.

Better than walking around barefoot, he supposed. He hesitated, though, biting his lip. He lifted his foot and wiped the bottom of it with his hands. It was pointless; he didn’t need to be nice to his captors. Still, he felt bad. The slippers looked comfortable and elegant. He didn’t want to ruin them.

His hair stood up just as he heard a click. He raised his head just as Dazai closed the sliding doors behind him.

His heart thundered.

Without thinking, he bared his fangs and curled his fingers into claws. He wanted to tear Dazai apart, rip his throat out and bathe in his blood. But still, he didn’t move. It would do no good.

He needed his medicine back first.

Dazai rested casually against the door, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black pants. His glance was sharp and unreadable. He’d lost his coat somewhere. His dark gray shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, and his arms were wrapped in bandages, loose at the wrists. His dark hair was slicked back, except for a lock that fell across his face.

The scarf, though, was still draped over his shoulders, falling to his thighs. Chuuya licked his lips as his mind wandered to the thought of wrapping his hands in that rich red cloth, then using it to strangle Dazai until he couldn’t breathe.

Dazai’s uncovered eye twinkled.

“You,” Chuuya barked, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

“Your master,” Dazai replied, a mocking lilt in his voice.

Stunned, Chuuya didn’t know how to respond. He opened and closed his mouth. His ears were burning. How dare he? Dazai sighed exaggeratedly, as if this situation bored him to no end. He stepped away from the door, not toward him, but to the desk. There, with his back turned, he opened a drawer and took out a black folder.

He waved a paper in Chuuya’s direction; it had the Tower’s seal on it.

Chuuya gaped like a fish out of water.

It was true, damn it.

“You hired me to kill you,” Chuuya said slowly. However, it sounded more like a question. Dazai hummed noncommittally. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“Do you want to read the contract?” Dazai asked, holding out the copy.

Chuuya didn’t back down when he approached. His mere proximity made him sick, but he wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

“Are you insane?” Chuuya couldn’t believe it. His mind was racing. He ran a hand through his hair and snorted, incredulous. “Did you pay to get yourself killed, you suicidal maniac?”

Dazai pouted.

The damn mafia boss pouted.

“You can’t undo the contract,” he warned, hissing. His blood demanded payment. Arahabaki stretched like a cat inside its cage, in agreement.

Dazai tilted his head.

“I know, I know,” he replied, sounding bored. Chuuya tensed as Dazai took a step toward him, lips curving into a sly smile. “It’s written in your code, little phenomenon.”

Son of a bitch.

“Who the hell are you calling—?!”

His expression darkened. Chuuya backed up until he hit the wall, which cracked under his touch. Dazai closed the distance between them, trapping him, and his gaze fell on his work.

“Bad dog,” he scolded, grabbing a handful of his disheveled curls. Chuuya grunted, baring his fangs, but didn’t attack. Dazai yanked his hair until his neck was exposed. Then, he placed his open mouth on Adam’s apple. His teeth brushed against his skin. Chuuya panted. “You belong to me.”

Dazai raised his head, meeting his eyes.

“And if you look at the contract, there’s no expiration date.”

Chuuya’s world rocked.

This had to be a nightmare, some fucking joke. He didn’t have enough doses to survive beyond a couple of days. He swallowed, the fear climbing up his back, making him dizzy. Dazai slid his other hand down his arm until he reached his wrist.

For a moment, he thought the bastard was trying to intertwine their fingers. But no, the grip on his wrist was steel, and the cold that wrapped around him in the dungeon hit him hard, his knees buckled.

Dazai didn’t let him fall.

“You’re mine until I’m sick of you.”

“Fuck off.”

Dazai smirked and leaned in, his hair brushing his cheek.

“And don’t worry about the god in your head,” he whispered against the shell of his ear. Chuuya shuddered and hated himself for it. Dazai laughed. “It’s mine too.”

Chuuya squirmed in fury. Dazai let go of his hair and, with his hands raised, stepped back. The mockery on his face only fueled the rage and helplessness inside him.

“Bad dog, do you want me to tie you up again?”

A boy with white hair and an unusual, short cut barged into the room. He had a velvet case in his hands. Dazai motioned for the boy to come closer. Inside was a black choker with a silver buckle in the center. Chuuya felt something churn in his stomach.

Repulsion.

Dazai took the leather piece between his fingers.

“I need you.” Chuuya was left breathless, his heart pounding in his chest. Dazai moved closer, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear and cradling his jaw. With his thumb, he brushed the lower lip, cutting himself on his fang. Dazai’s blood tasted sweet on his tongue. “Help me clean up Yokohama, take over the region. Chuuya, pet, help me, and my death will be yours.”

Their mouths were so close.

“The Tower won’t like it,” Chuuya replied, his voice hoarse.

Dazai lowered his hand to his shoulder.

“Why not?” he scoffed. “I’m not breaking the contract. It’s a win-win.”

With one hand, Dazai gathered his hair—soft waves the color of the sunset—and placed the chokeraround his neck, fastening it with the buckle.

“Beautiful.”

“Your death is mine.”

“That’s what I said. Is my doggy deaf now?”

Chuuya covered his neck; the leather felt right against his skin. Disgusting.

“It will be slow and painful,” Chuuya promised.

Dazai wrinkled his nose.

“I hate pain.”

“Better.” Then he smiled, feral, and his eyes gleamed. “Why should I listen to you? Why would it help you? What’s stopping me from destroying this place to its very foundation and burying you alongside your pretty towers?”

“Don’t make it harder on yourself.”

Chuuya grabbed the scarf with both hands, twisting it, and stood on his toes.

“Make me.”

“I don’t need to make you, pet. You belong to me, and you need me. Without your vials, you can’t control yourself, can you?”

Chuuya paled.

Dazai brushed his face with his knuckles.

“Do you hear it?” Chuuya frowned in confusion, and Dazai leaned in again. “It’s the silence. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Fuck you, asshole.”

“I’ll tie your god up for you,” he promised. His pulse quickened, and hope—oh, hope was a bitch—broke through all of Chuuya’s defenses. “You have my word.”

It was a pity his word wasn’t worth shit.

Ozaki Kouyou greeted him with a steaming cup of tea and a katana pressed to his neck. The cold blade drew a curse from his lips. She smiled, a hint of satisfaction dancing in her reddish irises. Damn bitch. It was her ability—a lady made of curling smoke—that brought him to his knees.

Chuuya let out a low snarl. Blood stained the collar of his shirt. He’d paint the walls of this place with her insides.

Kouyou silenced him with a glare. Then she set her cup down on the side table and motioned for the lady to step back.

The smoke lady sheathed her katana.

Chuuya stood up reluctantly. He didn’t bother to ask about why he was there. It was that man with the ridiculous haircut who had brought him in, along with ten guards. He hadn’t exactly had a choice, not without the vials. The choker around his neck was humiliating enough.

Kouyou poured him a cup of tea.

“I refuse.”

His stomach growled, loud and shameful. Cheeks flushing, Chuuya averted his gaze to his feet, but not fast enough to miss the faint smirk on her porcelain features.

That feeling again—familiarity—washed over him, leaving him unsteady.

He snatched the cup, it almost slipped through his fingers because it was scalding.

“Merde.”

Luckily, his ability kept him from making a mess. Wait. He studied his palms as if the answers to his problems were written there. He squinted. His ability had failed him in the dungeons and in the room, but not now.

Kouyou didn’t look pleasant, which only worsened his mood. She reminded him too much of Verlaine.

He forced himself to ignore the bitter taste of tears gathering on his tongue.

Not worth it.

One problem at a time.

“Who taught you manners, kid?” she asked, jaded. As if him getting burned by tea was some catastrophic failure of etiquette.

Kouyou stood, smoothing invisible creases from her kimono, and walked over to the bar cabinet. She went on, openly criticizing his manners, whining about how long it would take to fix them and how he wasn’t worth the effort. It stung, of course.

Except for Rimbaud and Verlaine, no one had ever bothered teaching him those things. Yet, it wasn’t until Kouyou brought up his progenitors—a mole at the corner of a woman’s mouth, a heavy hand on a child’s head, a lullaby slipping through his fingers—that Chuuya snapped.

He shot to his feet, knocking the chair over. He barely registered the smoke lady unsheathing her katana, waiting for the signal. Before he could even react, Kouyou’s fan struck him hard between the shoulder blades, throwing him off balance. Then she swept the back of his knees, and he hit the floor.

“I don’t trust you.”

“It’s mutual, bitch.” Another blow, harder this time, landed squarely on his side. Chuuya recoiled, nearly knocking over the side table. The tea set rattled, and Kouyou clicked her tongue in disapproval. “It’s your fault! Stop hitting me!”

This time, he saw it coming.

Or so he thought. Kouyou didn’t move; the lady had.

“Golden Demon,” Kouyou clarified. Then she held out her hand. It was tempting to ignore it, but he wasn’t sure what would happen if he did. He took it. Kouyou helped him up. He was sore. “Show some respect, kid. I’m older than you.”

Chuuya curled his lips.

“Whatever you say, ma’am.”

This time, he was ready. He ducked, planted his left hand on the floor, and swept the floor beneath Ozaki Kouyou’s feet. For a moment, her eyes widened. The mask of cold indifference slipped.

She didn’t fall, but it was still satisfying.

“Try that again, kid, and I’ll slit your throat.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“No, you’re a wild beast.”

Chuuya sneered, exhaling through his nose. Kouyou clearly didn’t appreciate the smug look on his face. She shook her head and muttered something that sounded dangerously like “If you want me to treat you as an equal, earn it.”

“I don’t want to be here,” he muttered through clenched teeth. Though he sounded like a kid, Kouyou didn’t mention it.

“Tough luck.”

“I was hired to kill him!”

Kouyou dithered.

“Is that okay with you?” he asked, irritated.

“If the boss wants to keep you alive, so be it.” Before Chuuya could protest, Kouyou tapped him on the small of his back. “Stand up straight.”

Another blow.

Kouyou kept hitting him until Chuuya adopted a proper posture. She hummed, eyes narrowing in silent judgment.

“What are you—” Another blow, another curse, and another blow. “Stop it! I’m not your fucking punching bag!”

“Watch your language, and I’ll stop.”

“You’ll hit me anyway!”

He could block her, but Golden Demon was still behind him and he wasn’t eager to get skewered by a katana. Kouyou’s hands landed on his shoulders, then his back, and finally his hip.

He jumped, flustered.

Kouyou raised a brow, eyes crinkling with amusement.

“What are you—?”

“Kid, is it really that hard to stay still for a few minutes? I need to take measurements.”

“For what?”

“I don’t like you,” she reminded him, as if that answered his question. Then she sighed. “The boss wants you as his date tonight.”

And I want his blood on my hands, but here we are.

He didn’t say it out loud, but Kouyou could read it on his face anyway. The murderous aura he had sensed earlier intensified. Chuuya braced himself for the first strike. Arahabaki—numbed by Dazai’s touch—stirred, just barely.

Kouyou closed the distance between them.

“It’s a major event. Full of big shots and piranhas who can smell blood for miles away,” Kouyou said, bowing low. The faint sweetness of her scent made his head spin. She smiled, but it wasn’t kind. It was a warning. A threat, dressed in silk. “You’ll cover his blind side. You’ll stay alert. You’ll speak only when spoken to. Under no circumstances will you turn your back—”

“What do I care?” he cut her off.

Kouyou grabbed his chin and yanked him to her. Chuuya clenched his jaw, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a sound.

“I won’t let some brat drag us into a diplomatic disaster.”

“Diplomatic?” he sneered, twisting in her grip. She let him go with a rough shove. He massaged his jaw. “You’re mobsters. What the hell are you talking about?”

Kouyou slapped him.

Chuuya didn’t flinch. He just laughed, tasting blood in his mouth. He wiped it from his lip and spat on the floor.

“A little makeup and a pretty dress should do the trick.”

“Excuse me?”

“Maybe green? Or the blue in your left eye? O dark red.”

Kouyou gently touched his cheek.

“You’re delusional if you think I’m gonna be your little doll.”

“Can you choose?”

Chuuya pressed his lips together, drawing a thin line. Kouyou calmly began fixing his hair, brushing the strands away from his eyes with skilled, graceful fingers. Chuuya scrunched his nose, unsure if the feeling was disgust or discomfort, or both.

“It’s pretty,” she admitted, running her fingers through the soft, reddish waves. “Strawberry-blond. Is it natural?”

“Shall I pull down my underwear and check?”

He deserved a slap for that, but Kouyou ignored him as she worked through his hair. She removed the hair stick from her own cherry-red mane, letting it cascade down her back, smoothing out her features and making her look a few years younger than she was.

Kouyou took a step back.

“Beautiful,” she said. Chuuya shifted his weight from one foot to the other, fingers fiddling nervously with his hair. Kouyou gently caught his wrist and guided him toward the full-length mirror. “See?”

Chuuya gasped.

Kouyou had pulled his hair back into a low bun, revealing the curve of his neck. Soft waves and loose curls framed his face. He covered his right eye—the burnt brown one—highlighting the vivid blue of the other. Kouyou lowered his hand to hers, leaned in, and brushed her lips against his ear.

“Your beauty can be a very effective weapon, kid. Don’t hide.”

He furrowed his brow.

She pinched his side.

“What’s that for!?”

“You’ll get wrinkles,” she replied. She walked over to the dressing table and held up a pair of earrings, one shaped like an hourglass with a sapphire, the other a ruby teardrop dangling from a thin silver chain. “You have very pretty eyes. We can cover your freckles—”

“I'm not your pet."

“No, dear,” she agreed, lowering the earrings. “Unfortunately, you’re Dazai's.”

No, ‘boss,’ but ‘Dazai’

Chuuya folded his arms.

“My freckles don’t touch.”

“As you wish” she relented, clearly unimpressed. “Get undressed. The clock’s ticking.”

His heart faltered.

“Or do you need me to give you a hand, kid?”

He hated her.

Chuuya took a quick glance at the garden to assess the risks. It was a pointless gesture, driven by habit. Still, it did nothing to calm the nerves gnawing at his core. He stepped down the last stair and blended in with the rest of the guests. Instantly, fake laughter, overlapping voices, and the clinking of glasses filled his senses.

He felt out of place. His palms were sweating, his body tense and hunched. The earpiece in his left ear was uncomfortable, just like Akutagawa Gin on the other end of the line. He frowned even more when they recited a list of names. He picked up a glass to keep his hands busy.

The dark liquid swirled in the bottom, tempting him.

The discomfort in his belly grew as the minutes passed with no sign of the red scarf. This was a charity event bringing together the region’s leading figures. In theory, nothing should go wrong, but Kouyou had warned him—while one of her little minions finished his makeup—that there would be agents from the Special Division. It wasn’t far-fetched to think they had something planned.

“Listen up, kid,” Kouyou had insisted, her grip on his arm like steel, her nails leaving crescent-shaped marks even through his clothes. “Don’t take your eyes off Dazai, no matter what.”

And what had Chuuya done the moment he got out of the car? He squeezed the glass tighter and cursed under his breath. Kouyou would kill him.

Through the earpiece, Gin confirmed the bastard’s location. A familiar reddish glimmer caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He downed the glass in one gulp—sweet in his mouth, slightly fruity—and found Dazai Osamu halfway across the garden.

Positioning himself on Dazai’s blind side, Chuuya grabbed his arm with enough force to break a bone. He softened his expression the moment he felt the guests’ gazes land on them, offering a flirtatious smile.

Just a pretty face.

He felt ridiculous, like a doll to be played with. In fact, the whole situation was utterly absurd. Maybe no one there knew who he was, but dressing him in a nice dress—one that didn’t hide his muscles, scars, or Arahabaki’s marks—high heels, and a bit of makeup didn’t make him seem harmless in the eyes of others.

Dazai touched his earring; the silver chain glinted in the light, and the ruby stood out against his skin.

Their gazes locked.

“Pretty,” he whispered, like a phantom caress.

Chuuya turned his face.

Dazai stopped him, holding his chin with two fingers, and leaning in close enough that Chuuya could feel his breath against his skin. Chuuya wrinkled his nose in disgust. Dazai smelled of nicotine, whiskey and something deeper, more familiar.

Dazai’s eyes wandered over him, and Chuuya didn’t miss the desire that darkened his crimson iris, nor the way he swallowed when his glance settled on his lips.

“Do you like what you see?”

“You’re quite the threat, Nakahara Chuuya.”

The heat swirling in his lower abdomen had little to do with how the brunet pronounced his full name, as if it were something precious and delicious, and everything to do with his proximity.

It was nauseating.

“Don’t ignore me,” Dazai warned in a low voice. His hand slid down the curve of Chuuya’s neck, not tight, but insistent. Then, he slipped a finger under the choker. “You belong to me, remember that.”

“For now,” Chuuya hissed between gritted teeth and caught Dazai’s wrist. He dug his nails in. His pupil dilated, and Chuuya’s breath hitched. “You’re disgusting.”

Dazai’s glance lowered to his plunging neckline, which barely left anything to the imagination, and then further down. Chuuya shifted under his scrutiny. But no matter how badly he wanted to knee him in the balls, Gin’s voice in his ear reminded him that they were in public.

Chuuya composed himself as best as he could. He urgently needed another drink, but Dazai was much quicker. He tugged at his grip and slid an arm across the lower part of his back, pulling him even closer.

His hand was dangerously near to his ass. Chuuya pressed his palm to Dazai’s chest to push him away.

They locked eyes, and his heart thundered in response. The heat surged up his neck, flushing his cheeks bright red, and his cock pulsed. Shit, shit.

The damn smirk Dazai flashed told him everything he needed to know.

“I was warned about your taste for pretty things, Dazai.”

Dazai closed his eyes and took a deep breath before loosening his grip around Chuuya’s waist, masking his emotions with a careful facade. Chuuya straightened himself up. Taneda Santouka, a man in his mid-age, seemed harmless enough with his affable smile, but he was one of the most dangerous men in the city.

Beside Taneda stood a much younger man, dressed in a more modest suit. Chuuya squinted. There was something about him, maybe his feigned nervousness or the way he looked at Dazai, as if he wanted to reach out and grab him. Something was off.

“The pretty things that are deadly,” Dazai corrected, then grinned, but it was a controlled smile, not reaching his eyes. It was chilling. He raised a hand, and a waiter quickly rushed to serve them. Dazai took two glasses and handed one to Chuuya; their fingers brushed. “Director Taneda, let me introduce you to my new acquisition: Nakahara Chuuya.”

Chuuya nearly choked on the wine. His blood boiled. Sakaguchi Ango—Gin had informed him through the earpiece—looked horrified. Taneda, on the other hand, burst into delighted laughter, clutching his stomach.

“Chuuya, pet, this man is a pain in my ass.” Ango adjusted his glasses and shook his head. “Taneda is the director of the Special Division for Unusual Powers.”

Dazai twisted his mouth when his attention landed on Taneda’s companion.

“I expected the director to have better taste in his whores.”

“Dazai!” Ango admonished him. Without hesitation, Chuuya stepped forward and bared his fangs. Taneda’s smile widened, but it now had a darker edge.

“You’ll have to forgive him,” Dazai lamented, his voice dripping with false sweetness. “My dog is still untrained.”

Dazai caressed Chuuya’s arm, and Chuuya shivered. With his cheeks flushed, he lowered his eyes to the ground.

“Well then, gentlemen. Shall we enjoy this lovely evening or finally talk business?”

That caught his attention. Business with the Special Division?

“That depends, Dazai. Will you finally surrender without resistance?”

The air grew thick.

“I suppose it won’t be tonight,” Dazai feigned regret, placing a hand over his chest. “I truly hoped that tonight, on this delightful evening, we could sign a truce.”

Oh.

“We don’t negotiate with the mafia.”

Dazai dramatically widened his eyes.

“What an ugly word, don’t you think, director? After all, if my memory serves me right, it wasn’t that long ago you made a deal with the infamous Armed Detective Agency.”

The silence that fell over them was heavy and suffocating. Taneda tucked his hands into his sleeves and flashed a restrained smile. Chuuya felt the eyes of the guests on them.

Was it some kind of trap, or were they so hungry for gossip that they didn’t mind ending up in the crossfire?

“You know perfectly well it’s not the same,” Ango responded on his behalf. Dazai didn’t even look at him.

“Nonsense. We do exactly the same. Have you spoken with Natsume-sensei lately, director?”

Chuuya’s hair stood on the back of his neck. He didn’t need Gin’s hissed warning in his ear. He knew they were walking on shaky ground. He shouldn’t care, but he still stuck even closer to Dazai’s side to remind him that they weren’t there to cause a scene.

Dazai pouted.

“C’mon, it’s no big deal”, Dazai jeered.

“Someday,” Taneda remarked, mildly amused.

The conversation died down shortly after.

Chuuya downed the drink in one go and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He grimaced as he saw the red smear.

“I help you.”

“I don’t need—”

Dazai cupped his neck and with his thumb, fixed Chuuya’s lipstick.

“Do you want to die that badly?” Dazai looked at him quizzically, as if he didn’t understand him. Chuuya got pissed off. “You’re not invincible.”

“Y’sure?” Dazai touched Chuuya’s lower lip. “This is what you would look like after sucking my cock.”

Chuuya gagged.

“I’ll gut you like a fish, you creep!”

“I dare you.”

The dagger strapped to his left thigh called out to him, his blood sang. Yet, the threat lurking at the corner of Dazai’s mouth prevented him from acting. It was his touch—his ability—that somehow kept the god under control. Whether he liked it or not, without his vials, he needed him alive.

Dazai extended his little finger.

“What the fuck are you doing now?”

“A pinky promise.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Chuuya folded his arms.

“All right,” Dazai said, pretending to give up. “I’ll behave myself. You have my word.”

“I wipe my ass with your word.”

Dazai snickered.

“Wouldn’t you prefer my tongue?”

Chuuya made an obscene gesture to him.

Much to his surprise, Dazai kept his word.

The event continued; first, the speeches—empty words, an act whose audience was not the orphans who would receive the funds, but rather the Yokohama newspapers and media—and then, the charity auction. Exaggerated pomposity, eardrum-bursting applause and sycophants who wouldn’t hesitate to stab each other in the back.

Dazai danced to his own beat. He donated an exorbitant amount of money and refused with faux politeness to have his picture taken with the other patrons.

“Dirty money,” Chuuya mumbled, lips over the glass.

More applause.

At times, Dazai engaged in trivial conversations with some guests, flirting shamelessly whenever the opportunity arose, and he skillfully dodged anyone trying to flatter him. His hand would linger on Chuuya’s lower back, tracing shapes with his fingertips, teasing him. 

And, of course, if someone noticed Chuuya, Dazai introduced him as his pet.

The bastard was a mystery. People either avoided him or worshiped him; there was no in-between. He was dangerous; the head of one of the most important criminal organizations in the region. Even the Special Division measured distances with him. Chuuya found himself studying Dazai in silence, lost in the small details that meant nothing, yet attracted him like a moth to a flame—the length of his lashes, the tiny, whitish scar on his chin, and the dimple in his cheek that accentuated itself when he smiled.

Chuuya could not—and should not—underestimate him. No one got to his position without getting blood on their hands. But he wasn’t just anyone; he brought the cup to his lips as he wandered his eyes across the gardens and weighed his limited options. He was the vessel of a god, his prisoner. As if he could read his mind, Dazai slipped his arm around his waist and pulled him close.

Chuuya adjusted to him. Dazai lowered his head.

“Looking for trouble?” he asked, dipping his nose into the curls that escaped his bun. Chuuya didn’t answer. Dazai brushed his ear with his mouth. “Empty your pretty little head. Whatever you’re planning, forget it. It’s not worth it.”

“Banging your head against the appetizer table, maybe?” he wondered, still staring off into the distance. His mind was floating; he was running out of wine, and his senses were growing groggy. He turned to Dazai. They were very close, close enough for him to stand on his tiptoes and wrap his arms around Dazai’s neck. “Hmm, I’m bored.”

“Should I entertain you?”

Chuuya grimaced.

“Tanaka Itadori,” Dazai whispered against his ear, his hands resting on his shoulders, his chest pressing against his back. He guided Chuuya’s body so he would focus on a short man with his hair tied back in a low ponytail. “He’s a slippery snake. Waiting for the right moment to sink his fangs... and not in a pretty way, pet.”

“Go to hell.”

Dazai’s laugh caught him off guard. It was unexpected and hoarse, probably due to lack of habit, Chuuya thought, but it was open and lightly melodic. He staggered, while Dazai wiped away the tears that had gathered on his eyelashes.

For a moment, there was no one else. They were alone.

Just for a moment.

“You’re crazy,” Chuuya stated.

A moment that Chuuya shattered.

“About you, pet.”

“Too bad,” he replied viciously. “I despise you.”

Dazai’s smile faltered, the amusement that had colored his face slipping into cold indifference. What had changed? He closed the gap between them, grabbing a fistful of Chuuya’s hair, undoing his hairstyle, and drawing him closer.

His lips at his ear.

“Your cock had a different opinion.”

Dazai’s other hand moved down his body, barely touching it, like a ghostly caress. His bare back, his side... His breath caught. And his body betrayed him, bending toward Dazai. Chuuya squirmed, shoving him.

Dazai let him go, raising his hands.

It was a mistake, striding away from him and stealing a bottle from one of the waiters.

It was a mistake, and it was exactly what Dazai had been looking for. Gin called for his attention through the earpiece. Chuuya ripped it off his ear and let it fall into a random glass.

Time was running against him. As the hours passed, it became harder and harder to leave without facing the consequences. His eyes burned, his throat stung. The bottle slipped from his fingers, and Chuuya cursed aloud as he hurried to grab it before causing a scene.

He clung to it, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His chest ached, and his head spun. Chuuya looked up at the sky, which was filled with colors. Fireworks. When he looked down again, his stomach sank at the realization that Dazai was nowhere to be seen.

He kicked off his heels and slammed the bottle into the chest of the first person who crossed his path. He stumbled into someone when a red flash caught his attention. That person grabbed his elbow gently, and a shiver ran down his spine.

Their eyes collided.

“Careful, solnyshko.”

Dark, long, messy hair that reached his chin. Sharp eyes, almost black-purple. And a charming smile.

Chuuya felt dizzy. The man widened his smile. With his thumb, he traced shapes on Chuuya’s elbow before letting him go. Chuuya threw his arm back. He had no time to deal with another weirdo, so he brushed past him, feeling his gaze follow him until he disappeared into the crowd.

He found Dazai in a secluded spot by the service entrance. He parted his lips to snap at him, holding onto the hem of his dress to keep from tripping when he realized Dazai wasn’t alone. He stopped dead in his tracks. Dazai was leaning against the wall, ankles crossed, hands in his pockets.

Nothing about him suggested otherwise, but Chuuya noticed anyway—the tightness in his shoulders, the curve of his mouth, how he kept his hands deliberately hidden. He was uncomfortable. Taneda’s ass-kisser ignored all the signals, invading his personal space.

Chuuya heard static.

And saw red.

The red of his ability flaring around him.

The red of blood pulsing in his ears.

The ground cracked beneath his feet. The air grew dense, heavy, almost suffocating. Dazai noticed him as if an invisible thread were connecting them. He raised an eyebrow in his direction. Chuuya grabbed Ango by the shoulder, spun him around, and lifted him off the ground by his neck. He bared his teeth and slammed him against the wall.

Dazai stepped back, surprise crossing his face. Chuuya barely paid him any attention, charging toward Ango and sinking his teeth into the crook of his neck. He broke the skin, causing he to cry out in a scream that tasted glorious to Chuuya.

“Chuuya!”

Chuuya wiped the blood off, glancing at Dazai over his shoulder while holding Ango with his other hand.

“What?” he grunted, his voice reverberating in his chest.

“Pet, as much as I hate Ango, and believe me, I do, I need him alive.”

Chuuya hesitated. He stretched his fingers, releasing Ango, who slid down the wall and sat on the floor, pressing his hand to his neck to stop the bleeding.

“Drama queen.”

Dazai kneeled beside Ango to check the depth of the wound. It didn’t seem serious because his shoulders were shaking. Chuuya took a beat to understand that he was laughing.

It wasn’t the same laugh as before. This one dripped with disbelief and something else Chuuya couldn’t quite place. Dazai stood up, dusted off his clothes, and turned toward him.

His pulse raced and his feet were stuck to the ground. Dazai brushed the hair out of his face, combing through the curls with skilled fingers. Chuuya didn’t move, barely able to breathe. Their eyes met, and his knees buckled.

“Clean your mouth,” Dazai ordered.

“Pardon me?”

Dazai didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he played with his hair, tangling the strands between his fingers and pushing it to one side with a gentleness that gave his goosebumps and shattered all his defenses.

“Do it.”

“Fuck you, you weirdo.”

Dazai grabbed his face with enough force to leave a mark. Chuuya resisted like a wild beast. The brunet wiped the blood from his mouth until it hurt. Before Chuuya could protest or bite him, Dazai pressed their mouths together, taking the air from his lungs.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a theft.

Dazai wrapped an arm around him, holding him close to his body. Chuuya’s heart stopped and then began beating wildly against his ribs. A tear ran down his cheek, helplessness pinning him down.

He didn’t respond to the kiss. He couldn’t.

Dazai caught his lower lip between his teeth as Chuuya gasped for air. A moan escaped his lips. Blood flooded his mouth, and Dazai’s tongue tangled with his.

Chuuya clutched at the collar of Dazai’s shirt, digging his nails into the skin not covered by bandages. A growl erupted from his chest, and Dazai smirked against his mouth. He pushed away, and a trickle of saliva connected them for a few seconds. Chuuya leaned forward unconsciously, his face bathed in tears and the heat settling in his lower abdomen. It was too much and, yet it wasn’t enough.

The desire on Dazai’s face made him queasy. Chuuya felt like vomiting as Dazai’s gaze descended down his body, a fierce smirk breaking out on his face.

“Do you want to get relief?”

Chuuya lost his head and tried to slap him, Dazai captured his wrist tightly but Chuuya kneed him in the balls. Dazai let go of him and bent over himself.

“Eat shit and die, you bastard!”

When they returned to the towers, Chuuya hurried out of the car before Dazai could say anything. Outside, the weretiger escorted him to his rooms.

A part of Chuuya expected they would head to the dungeons, but the elevator didn’t descend. When the doors opened, Chuuya stretched out a hand to stop the boy from moving forward.

The boy flinched.

“Are you going to tie me up?”

“What?” He looked as confused as hell, his eyes roaming the rooms as if he expected to find the answer there. “Huh, no? The boss didn’t order me to.”

Chuuya squinted.

“What if I try to escape?”

His expression would have been comical if Chuuya wasn’t so damn exhausted. There was something else. He turned on his heels and inspected the place. He hadn’t had much time to familiarize himself with his rooms. The place lit up. The boy still stood awkwardly by the elevator, shifting his weight from foot to foot, glancing quickly at the elevator.

“Well?” Chuuya pressed, not turning around.

The boy jumped.

“Well?” he doubted, his voice barely a whisper. When Chuuya glanced at him over his shoulder, he straightened up. Chuuya raised a brow at him. “You won’t escape. Dazai says you’re smarter than that.”

Touché.

He needed the vials or Dazai’s touch to keep his mind intact. He blushed at the thought, and his body reacted to the memory. He despised himself for it. The boy cleared his throat. A faint blush colored his cheeks.

“Do you need anything else?”

“Get out.”

“Oh, sure. Yeah, um, night.”

“Wait.”

The boy froze.

“Yes?”

“Your name.” The boy didn’t react, looking at him as though he’d asked for something completely absurd. “Is it a State secret?”

“Atsushi.”

“Good, Atsushi. Get out of my sight.”

The boy nodded and the elevator doors closed behind him.

A shiver ran down his spine. He glanced at the sliding doors separating the bedroom from the rest of the room and narrowed his eyes.

There was someone else there.

He slammed the doors open, and there, by the window with a view of the city, stood a man in a black trench coat, white hair with black streaks, smooth and shoulder-length. He turned and grinned at him, and that smile promised danger.

“Nakahara Chuuya, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

His mistake was underestimating him.

A trigger to his left, and a loud cackle to his right.

The man turned and extended his hands.

“Welcome to your new home.”

Chapter Text

Suribachi City, page 247

Saying Elise was upset to see him didn’t come close. She was furious.

“Rintarou!”

It might’ve been funny if not for the ringing in his ears.

“As charming as ever,” Dazai muttered.

The doctor paid them no mind, his attention fixed on the vial, no larger than his little finger. He held it up to the light, examining the contents—a reddish, almost black substance, neither too thick nor entirely liquid. A quiet hum of appreciation escaped him as he jotted something in his notebook.

Dazai spun his chair around, thoughtfully, but the whir of the fan made it impossible to focus.

He exhaled, irritated.

“I’ve already analyzed it.”

Elise exploded, slamming her palm on the desk. “Then what are you doing here!? Rintarou, this wasn’t part of the deal!”

Dazai stilled, a mischievous smile tugging at his cracked lips.

“Shall I make you vanish?”

“What’s going on?” the doctor asked, before Elise could throw a tantrum. Judging by the way her cheeks flushed crimson and her eyes narrowed like knives, it would’ve been epic.

Teasing her was just as fun as he remembered.

Dazai bit back the urge to stick out his tongue and instead replied, “Nothing.”

The doctor blinked, lowered the vial, and a spark of interest ignited in his dark eyes. Dazai felt a chill creep low in his spine, drying his throat and quickening his pulse. Just for a moment, the man standing in front of him—with his rumpled white coat, hair loosely tied back, and scruffy stubble—wasn’t Rintarou, the orphanage’s director but his former boss.

The monster who built an empire on the ruins of a dying one.

Mori Ougai.

Dazai forced himself to look unimpressed, like jeopardizing the deal they’d struck four years ago was nothing more than a game.

“It’s a placebo,” he stated.

Mori nodded.

“And you say he needs it to control his ability?” he questioned, as Elise clicked her heels in annoyance. “Poor lad.”

Dazai dismissed the comment with a flick of his wrist. They both knew Mori didn’t pity anyone.

“It’s psychological”, Dazai clarified, despite knowing it was unnecessary, that whatever they were doing was merely an act. “They’ve messed with his mind so he’s dependent on them. A perfect weapon, obedient and loyal. And as much as I’d love to reduce that place to rubble, I don’t have the resources.”

In the end, it always came down to that.

To the ink running beneath his skin, to the hands of an invisible clock pounding in his skull.

He couldn’t rush this, not this time. He couldn’t play his cards—the ones he’d stolen, stained with dried blood, and the ones he’d been given—without knowing the rules of the game. And as much as he despised showing his hand to Mori, he didn’t have many other options left.

Mori watched him in silence, the weight of his gaze scraped him beneath the bandages.

“What are you really doing here, Dazai?”

It was a simple question, and yet the answer kept slipping through his fingers.

He dug his nail into the leather of the seat until it gave.

They had a deal.

“I'm gonna fumigate the region,” he said, voice flat. “Until there’s not a damn cockroach left.”

And it was a good deal, or had been four years ago. But now, with ink staining his fingertips, pages scribbled on, wasted and torn out, and days blurring into meaningless nothingness, he needed something more risky. Something that would finally shift the balance in his favor.

A leap into the void.

A sacrifice.

He couldn’t rule out Mori so easily this time.

“And I need your help.”

Mori tapped his pen thoughtfully against his notebook.

“Have you heard of Project Guivre?”

“Should I have?”

Mori met his gaze, slowly and deliberately. They were both lying, playing a game too old to be thrilling and yet, Dazai’s blood was racing.

“Tell me about it.”

He spun the vial before setting it down on the desk between them. And for a moment, they weren’t in that crumbling office, or a consultation room, but somewhere else.

Mori leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and interlacing his fingers.

“Tell me about your ability user,” he said. “And I’ll tell you a story.”

Dazai’s skin burned, the urge to rush in overwhelmed him, but this time he would do better.

He had no more chances left.

If he had to bring the devil back to save Chuuya, then so be it.

Yokohama, page 249

A knife tore through the air, narrowly missing him. Chuuya pivoted in a swift arc, but the sting in his right ear told him he hadn’t been fast enough. He cursed under his breath and wiped the blood away before it could stain his clothes. From the couch, Albatross let out a loud cackle. The jerk was standing on the cushions with a chocolate stick dangling from his lips, ridiculous Sponge Bob socks in his feet, and a sharp blade in hand.

A savage smile crept across the corner of his mouth as the red glow of his ability flared around him.

“I’m gonna pluck you, bird,” Chuuya hissed.

Albatross twirled the knife in his hands and winked at him over the rim of his sunglasses. The handle was wrapped in worn gauze, and the blade flashed as it caught the light filtering through the curtains.

It was exciting.

“I’d like to see you try, doll.”

And exasperating.

Chuuya responded with a grunt.

“Guys,” Lippmann called from the kitchen, leaning against the counter with their ankles crossed. They were on their second martini and looked worried, if the crease between their brows meant anything. “It’s too early for this—”

Chuuya ignored them, far more interested in taking down the blond idiot strutting around with his stupid knives and his even stupider grin, like the whole thing was some kind of joke. He charged, clenching his hand into a fist and using his gravity manipulation to propel himself forward, just enough to wipe that smug look off his face.

And Albatross, like the absolute fool he was, didn’t dodge or even use an ability, if he had one. He opened his arms.

He was completely insane.

And that’s exactly why Chuuya liked him so damn much.

These last few days had been a confusing blur of emotions he couldn’t quite untangle like everything was happening to someone else, or to another version of himself. A better one. It had been a damn roller coaster. And somehow, as he skillfully dodged Albatross’s throws—knives, both long and short, a cushion, even a book—and ignored Lippmann’s constant warnings, he’d grown used to it.

Worse.

Much worse.

Because some part of him craved this—the laughter bubbling up in his throat, growing harder to suppress with each passing day; the adrenaline setting his blood on fire; the chaos that reigned there, one that smelled of fresh coffee, burnt toast, and fancy drinks—and he wanted to keep it. Bury it deep in his soul and never let it go.

Oh, he was screwed, wasn’t he?

Because this—whatever this was—wasn’t real.

He focused his power into his fingertips. The air around him crackled, and the god within him stirred, stretching like it had just woken up, nearly knocking him off balance.

If he wanted to, he could crush Albatross and reduce him to nothing more than a bloody smear on the carpet. Nothing could stop him. Not the nullifying cuffs around his wrists. Not a gun to his head. He could push through flesh, muscle, bone, and grind his heart to dust.

He could do it slowly. Or so fast none of those manipulative jerks would have time to blink.

He could—

A whistle cut through the air.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible. A click.

Chuuya narrowed his eyes to slits, frozen mid-motion with one foot on the couch and his fingers closing on nothing. Shit. Albatross jumped off, swinging his arms, and slumped against the cushions, sulking because the fun, whatever they were doing, was over.

Not this time.

Pianoman was a tough one to crack. Chuuya wasn’t even sure if he had an ability but the truth was, he didn’t need one. He was fast, cunning, and dangerous in a way that didn’t rely on tricks. Chuuya tensed his jaw. He had been trained to be a weapon, sure, but no one had bothered to shape him into something sharp and precise. So here he was, rushing in again.

He lunged to grab the thread flying toward him, even if it meant tearing open his palm. It would be worth it, as long as the other man hit down. The gleam in Pianoman's eyes intensified.

Albatross shouted a warning.

Too late.

He didn’t register his mistake until he was flat on the floor, Pianoman’s knee pressed to his chest, white hair falling like a curtain over his face, and the thread looped tightly around his neck cutting off his breath, close enough to slice skin.

A roar rose from his chest, twisting his lips into a snarl.

“P, you’re such a killjoy! We were having fun!”

“You were destroying the room,” Lippmann called out.

“Do you surrender?”

“Never,” Chuuya spat.

Pianoman sighed, resigned, and shook his head, loosening his grip. There was something softer in his eyes now, almost affectionate.

Chuuya wanted to shatter it but instead, his heart faltered.

Pianoman unspooled the thread and held out his hand. Chuuya took it, fingers wrapping around his wrist. The urge to strike, to lash out, still writhed just beneath his skin, and he savored it. But if he’d learned anything in the past few days, it was Pianoman wasn’t leading a squad of assassins just because of his pretty face.

Underestimating him would be a mistake.

Pianoman draped an arm over his shoulders, pulling him close. Chuuya tensed.

“Welcome to the Young Bloods!”

“Happy first anniversary, Chuuya!”

The heat ran up his neck.

“What?” he croaked, taking a breath.

Albatross threw himself on top of them, nearly knocking them over. His blond hair tickled Chuuya’s cheek.

“Chuu, you're one of us now!”

You're my jailers.

“Don’t be a barbarian,” Pianoman chided, but his voice held no real reproach and he made no move to let go.

They were too touchy-feel.

Chuuya couldn’t stand them.

Albatross pouted again, sunglasses sliding down his nose. He was worse than a hyperactive husky puppy.

“Breakfast?” Lippmann suggested.

And, as if they’d rehearsed it just to irritate him, the elevator dinged open with a beep. Iceman stepped out, holding up a paper bag.

“I brought churros.”

Albatross ran toward him, nearly skidding, trying to steal the bag, but Iceman, probably used to his boundless energy by now, sidestepped him with practiced ease on his way to the kitchen.

Chuuya didn’t understand them. And just when he thought he might be starting to, they did something even more baffling.

Why were they acting like this? Why were they acting as if—?

The god writhed.

Pianoman rounded the counter and gently cupped Lippmann’s cheek before pressing a kiss to it. Then he turned on the coffee maker—a gift from Iceman, who had declared the old one a crime against good taste—and Lippmann grabbed mugs for each of them. They moved in perfect sync.

They all did.

They fit together.

Albatross slung an arm around Chuuya’s shoulder again. His voice echoed in Chuuya’s ears but his presence, far from giving him hives, felt like an anchor in the middle of the ocean.

Why did this feel so—

“Chuu?”

—familiar?

“Huh?”

Albatross gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You’re pale. And sweating.”

Chuuya reached up, touching his face.

“’Tross,” Pianoman called, drawing both their attention. “Give him some space.”

Albatross immediately whined in protest. “But we have to celebrate!”

“You’re overwhelming him.”

With a dramatic groan, Albatross released him. As soon as he did, Chuuya staggered back and the room blurred.

Shit, shit.

How long had it been since his touch? It burned, his skin burned from the inside out, and the world tilted beneath him.

He grimaced.

The bandaged bastard was doing it on purpose.

“Breathe with me.”

Pianoman's voice came to him like a breath of fresh air, barely a whisper, but just loud enough to cut through the noise in his head. Chuuya met his glance, and his expression, far from calming him, made his blood boil.

They weren’t friends.

“I’ll kill you if you lose control.”

It was a threat. A promise.

A jolt of electricity shot up his spine. He couldn’t think. Didn’t have the chance. He lunged forward, bloodlust clouding his mind, and his fingers—claw-like—closed around Pianoman’s neck as he slammed him to the ground. The dull thud his body made was almost satisfying, delicious between his lips. The silence that followed was final.

A cold barrel pressed against his temple.

“Chuuya, dear, let him go.”

A voice like honey too soft, too sweet.

Drawn to it, Chuuya tilted his head. Lippmann stood a few feet away, a slight smile on their porcelain face. Dressed in elegant clothes, they looked harmless. Almost angelic. But even without having seen them fight, Chuuya knew.

Lippmann was the most dangerous of them all.

Chuuya’s grip loosened. Only then did he notice he was trembling, his entire body shaking. Someone draped a blanket over his shoulders.

Iceman.

“Don’t make me shoot you.”

Chuuya clung to the blanket and bowed his head.

He shouldn’t care.

He shouldn’t care what those people thought, that little group of weirdos who kept teasing him as if he were one of them instead of a bomb about to explode. Pianoman sat down, crossing his legs, and smoothed out the invisible wrinkles in his clothes, like nothing had happened.

Like Chuuya hadn’t just tried to strangle him. Or worse.

Chuuya pressed his lips into a thin line.

His gums stung. If he looked down, he’d probably find his nails torn again. Just a monster on a leash. Shame coiled in his chest, and tears gathered on his lashes.

“He’s late,” Pianoman noted with a hint of annoyance.

Albatross dropped to the floor beside him with a churro hanging from his mouth and offered him the bag.

“Sweet or salty?”

“What?”

“If you’re gonna deal with the boss’s mind games, it’s better to do it on a full stomach. Everything’s better with food.”

His expression was so open, so genuinely free of malice, that Chuuya could barely react. He took a churro from the bag. Albatross's grin widened, dimples and all, and the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Take a big bite.”

Pianoman stood.

“I’ll be right back. Try not to destroy anything while I’m gone.”

“No promises!” Albatross shouted after him, and Iceman sighed as he arrived with two mugs. “Ice, sit with us! Lipp, is there any Nesquik?”

And as if it were some kind of secret—like Chuuya could have secrets in this place—Albatross leaned in, invading his personal space.

“They won’t let me drink caffeine,” he whispered. “So boring, right?”

Chuuya blinked, confused.

“Why not?”

Albatross shrugged, cheeks sprinkled with sugar. “They say it’s addictive. And shit like that.”

It didn’t make any sense, but who was he to judge?

He’d never had anything like this before.

They were sprawled out on the floor, the air thick with the smell of fresh coffee and Albatross’s nonstop chatter. Chuuya looked down, pinched the churro between his fingers, and took a small bite.

He couldn’t swallow. His throat tightened. His eyes stung.

“And Doc?” Iceman asked.

“In the bathroom,” Albatross replied.

“Since when?”

“Uh…”

“Damn it, ’Tross.”

“What am I, his babysitter?!”

“Doc!” Iceman called. “You better not be doing anything weird in there!”

Albatross pushed himself up with one hand on the floor. “Having fun? Need a helping hand? I volunteer!”

Lippmann grabbed him by the ear.

“Behave.”

“Lipp! That hurts! And not the good kind of pain!”

Lippmann let go with a sigh. “Why do you have to make everything sound obscene?”

Albatross rubbed his ear and ran his tongue across his bottom lip.

“Because it’s more fun that way.”

This wasn’t right.

“Don’t you like it?”

Chuuya’s head snapped up so fast his neck protested.

It was Lippmann.

“The churro,” he clarified, half-smiling.

“Ah.”

“I imagine you’re used to more substantial meals,” Lippmann added, watching him carefully.

Chuuya flushed.

“Not really.”

He wasn’t stupid. Lippmann’s interest wasn’t real. None of this—spending time with him—was genuine. They had a mission, each of them, and they were following orders because they had no choice.

They weren’t here to get to know Chuuya, the boy buried beneath the monster’s scars. They were here to monitor him, to gather information.

His chest sank.

Before Lippmann could say anything else, before Albatross’s cackling could drive him over the edge or he found out what the hell Doc was doing in his bathroom—it's not your bathroom, damn it, none of this belongs to you—he stood up.

Every gaze in the room landed on him.

He was ready to fight if they confronted him.

“I’m gonna find the bandaged bastard myself.”

He wasn’t supposed to.

He couldn’t walk around the towers as if he belonged there, as if any of this belonged to him, but no one tried to stop him. As soon as the elevator doors slid shut, Chuuya didn’t press a single button. He looked up at the security camera, and a sly smirk blossomed on his face.

“Take me to your boss.”

Nothing happened.

Then, the elevator moved.

He traced his back with his fingers, memorizing every mark—scar, mole—as if it were the first time. And wasn’t it? Four years apart, a chasm between them that had once felt impossible to cross, and that they now fought to bridge every single day, could make everything feel new again.

When the redhead writhed under his touch, he left a trail of kisses from the nape of his neck down to the waistband of his pants.

He straddled him, his thighs tightening around his waist, and leaned in, planting his hands on either side of his head. Their lips met.

He tangled a hand in his curls, and a moan escaped his lips.

“You ruined me, Chibi.”

“Nakahara is in the elevator without supervision and is requesting your presence, boss,” Gin informed him through the communicator.

Their tone didn’t sound particularly pleased, though it was hard to be sure. Unlike their brother, their self-control was impeccable.

Dazai hummed indifferently.

Pianoman remained unfazed, kneeling on the floor, head lowered, and his right hand pressed to his chest.

Boring.

And painfully fake.

But the reality was, no one skipped protocol, the chain of command. No one demanded to see the boss and got away with it. Dazai leaned back, tilting his head slightly. He could have demanded Pianoman’s life as punishment for not keeping his pet on a tighter leash. Ane-san would have agreed, but she wasn’t here, and Dazai had no intention of getting rid of Pianoman in this chapter.

“Let it go.”

Gin didn’t respond, and the connection was cut.

Pianoman lifted his head, surprise flooding his face. It would have been comical if it weren’t so predictable. Not even four days had passed, and the executive had already grown fond of the wild beast. Dazai smiled slightly, no more than a grimace, but it was enough for the other man to remember his place.

“You may leave.”

“Boss.”

Dazai turned his chair away from him.

“You may leave too.”

There was no reply, nor did he expect one. He could almost picture Gin squirming in their seat, if they were still listening, which, knowing Gin, they always were. As Dazai’s deadliest sword and head of security, Akutagawa Gin hated the idea of Dazai being alone, even if it was in his office.

Too bad he had other plans.

Without thinking, Dazai removed his earpiece and disconnected the phone.

“I despise you.”

—is requesting your presence, boss.

“Eat shit and die, you bastard!”

It wasn’t until he felt an itch on his left wrist that he realized what he was doing. He twisted his mouth in disgust. There was blood under his nails. Blood, and bits of gauze. He pressed his palm against the bruised area just as he heard footsteps approaching.

Four days.

Four days of glaring looks, silences that felt like insurmountable walls, and insufficient touches.

And now—

He buttoned his sleeve, hiding his emotions behind a hooded smile and an unimpressed expression. But even though he’d braced himself for this moment, and despite the countless wasted pages and ink, his heart still skipped a beat when their eyes collided.

It was devastating.

Ignis fatuus.

A storm trapped in his irises, ready to burst into fury, and beneath it all—the fiery hair, the anger blurring his features, the almost unreal beauty—there was fear. The same fear that coiled in his chest, the one Dazai had foolishly believed he’d managed to tame.

“Hey, pet, haven’t you been told it’s rude to show up without a leash? You’re putting my subordinates in a tough spot.”

Chuuya narrowed his eyes, two slits of pure fire.

Dazai couldn’t help but wonder if the embers would burn. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his chin resting between his interlaced fingers. He hated the way he looked, the way others saw him.

But it was necessary.

“Should I punish Pianoman?” he asked, almost bored, his words laced with mockery.

Chuuya didn’t react, or maybe he did. His shoulders stiffened, and Dazai noticed the clenched fists. He moistened his lips, almost touched by his reaction.

“I told you to wait like a good boy, and what have you done? Scared my subordinates.”

Time was running out, dripping like spilled ink. For him, yes, but especially for Chuuya. It made Dazai sick to see him like this, barely holding himself together, his composure slipping as fear took root in his chest. The chains he had blindly accepted only held him tighter, while the so-called god who was never a god—because there was never one—grew stronger.

Chuuya was shrinking, weakening until he was nothing more than a mirage of what he was meant to be.

Pathetic.

“Enough games,” Chuuya barked.

“That’s for me to decide, don’t you think?”

A shadow crossed Chuuya’s face, fleeting, but enough to make the fire crackle in his eyes, and enough to fracture his facade.

It was only a matter of time.

“You want me to destroy the city, you filthy maniac!?”

Dazai pretended to think about it.

“Don’t you think you’re exaggerating?” he asked, his tone curious. The air between them felt charged, almost electric. “Do you think so little of yourself? You can handle it. Do it for me, pet.”

“This isn’t a fucking game.”

“But here you are,” Dazai pointed out, bored, leaning back in his seat, amusement coloring his voice. “Waiting for my signal, like a good trained dog.”

Chuuya exploded.

He lunged forward, one gloved hand slamming onto the desk—splintering it beneath his touch, proof that he was about to lose control—and the other reaching toward Dazai. He let him get close, easy prey in his eyes, before pushing his chair back.

Chuuya roeared, and the sound that seemed to come from deep within him, echoing off the walls.

Damn it.

With his hands clasped behind his back and a smirk curling his lips, Dazai waited for his prey to take the bait once more. Because this—the chase, the hits and dodges, the taste of danger on his gums, the heat rising in his lower abdomen, the rush of adrenaline filling his chest—was what he had missed.

“I’m gonna kill you.”

The air crackled, heavy and electric. Chuuya hunched over, his shoulders shaking, and there was barely a hint of humanity left in his eyes, almost consumed.

“You’re repeating yourself like a broken record. Don’t you have anything better to say?”

It was a dance.

Chuuya attacked, Dazai dodged, but not fast enough.

“I expected more from the most powerful weapon man has ever created.”

“Son of a bitch!”

His voice sounded wrong—too broken, too hoarse, almost inhuman—but Dazai swallowed the pain threatening to overwhelm him and turned it into something else, something sharper, more lethal.

He tilted his head, running his tongue over his lower lip in a mocking gesture.

“Do you want me to destroy the city?”

“As interesting as that would be to witness, I’ll pass.”

“Then stay put!”

“Catch me if you can, Arahabaki.”

Chuuya shouted, a visceral roar that tore through the air and bent gravity to his will, a hole ready to swallow everything. Dazai heard banging on the doors, but before he could order a retreat, Chuuya reached out, shoving some of the furniture aside to create a barricade.

“Scared?”

It wasn’t Chuuya anymore, but a part of him was still there, Dazai could feel it.

“More like bored. Is that all you've got?”

Chuuya was shaking, his body giving in, muscles and bones unable to withstand the power of a god.

Dazai gritted his teeth.

“Chuuya, I need you to listen to me.”

The ground trembled beneath them.

“I need you to breathe with me.”

Maybe he’d gone too far.

Maybe—

Dazai reached out a hand, and Chuuya hesitated. Just for a second, but his eyes widened.

“I’m here, come to me,” Dazai said softly.

Fight the god. Show who’s in control.

Chuuya opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat.

“You’ve got it, I believe in you, Chibi.”

The blows kept coming, and soon they’d call Atsushi, if he wasn’t already on his way. Dazai closed the distance between them, pulling Chuuya—the storm, the god about to take control—into his arms. Chuuya gasped, as if starved for air, and his hand found its way to the back of Chuuya’s neck.

Chuuya collapsed, and the two of them ended up on their knees on the floor.

“Breathe with me,” he insisted, stroking his neck, his thumb pressing against his pulse. “That’s an order, pet.”

Chuuya’s fingers curled like claws into Dazai’s shoulders.

He was here. He was still here.

“Shh, it’s over.”

“I detest you,” Chuuya spat, breathless.

Dazai grinned crookedly.

“Really? I’m flattered.”

Chuuya lowered his hand, a soft caress that sent a shiver through Dazai, before grabbing a handful of his shirt. Fierce, as though he hadn’t just been teetering on the edge of losing control, Chuuya bared his teeth. They were so close, so close that Dazai could count the freckles that dutted on his skin and lost himself in the depths of his eyes.

Blue.

And the murky brown that gripped his chest and left a sour taste in his mouth.

“Why?”

“Why what? You’ll have to be more specific, pet.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” Chuuya growled, his voice cracking toward the end, wet. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’ll teach you.”

“What?”

Dazai leaned forward, his forehead brushing against Chuuya’s.

Lower.

“I’ll teach you how to control it.”

The doors were ripped from their hinges, crashing into the walls, and the tiger knelt in anticipation.

Chuuya bristled.

“Oh, Atsushi, I’m glad to see you,” Dazai greeted him with feigned cheer, standing up and offering his hand to Chuuya. He subtly stepped between them. “But I won’t need your services today. Chuuya and I have somewhere to be.”

“Us?” the redhead whispered, bewildered.

Dazai clasped his hands together.

“We have an appointment.”

Gin stepped forward, sword drawn, and positioned himself beside the tiger.

“Boss.”

A greeting and a warning in one.

“What the hell are you talking about!?”

And his Chuuya—who wasn’t really his, not that it mattered—was back.

“We’re going to the Armed Detective Agency, of course.”

Gin’s face went pale.

And the clock kept ticking, its hands moving mercilessly forward.

Chuuya paced back and forth in the hallway, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his shoulders hunched, the tension slowly breaking down his defenses. With each turn, his patience thinned, and the urge to kick down the door and strangle that sick bastard grew stronger.

How dare he—?

Another turn.

How dare he treat him like—?

Another turn and another.

A muscle in Chuuya’s face twitched as the memory of Dazai’s shitty attitude hit him. The bastard had done it on purpose. As soon as he stepped out of the elevator, Dazai stopped him, clicking his tongue in annoyance and raising a hand to silence him, all in front of everyone.

“Wait here, and don’t make a mess, pet.”

Like some stray mutt tied to a lamppost, wagging its tail in oblivious happiness, waiting for its owner to return. That’s how he had felt. That’s how he felt now.

He stopped abruptly. Dazai had planned it all. He’d brought him there, told the security team that Chuuya would be in charge of protecting him—some kind of field test—and then dismissed him as if he were nothing more than a common whore.

His jaw clenched.

Dazai’s finger pressing his lips, his treacherous heart doing strange things against his rib cage, and the spark of malice he caught flitting in his crimson iris.

A deception.

A cheap trick.

“Be good, can you do that for me, pet?”

And a whisper that tickled him, nothing more than an order disguised as a request, stealing his heartbeat.

It had been hard not to hit him, not to close the distance between them—just a few inches—knock him down with a kick, and rip the air from his lungs with his hands. Just thinking about it, his hands wrapping around Dazai’s bandaged neck, or tangled in the rich red fabric of his scarf, made his stomach flutter.

Maybe he would.

Maybe he would slip out that night, crush his guards—anyone who stood in his way—and sneak into Dazai’s rooms, straddle his chest, and slit his throat. He didn’t need his stupid ability for that, and fuck the vials. Losing control, dying at the hands of a god, it would be worth it.

“Suffocate me with your thighs, Chibi.”

“I hope they kill you in there, you fucking bastard,” he hissed, face flushed with rage.

The click of a door to his left startled him.

Shit.

Unlike a certain suicidal maniac, Chuuya hadn’t forgotten that the Armed Detective Agency (seriously, what kind of name was that for a clandestine organization?) seemed to have a deal with the Special Division of Unusual Powers, allowing them to operate freely in Yokohama.

They were in the lion’s den.

However, as he turned around, ready to face a horde of suited users carrying nullifying weapons, Chuuya stumbled.

There was no horde, just a burly man with a paper bag in his arms.

Chuuya tilted his head back.

He was really tall.

The guy lit up when he noticed him, “You must be Chuuya!”

“Huh?”

The man hurriedly reached into the paper bag, which had a picture of a duck—or maybe a goose?—wearing a top hat, and then stretched his arm toward him, palm up.

“For you.”

It was a chocolate bar.

Chuuya’s throat suddenly tightened, and his heart did something strange, a triple somersault.

“Oh, you don’t like chocolate?”

“I—”

“I thought— Never mind. I mean, who doesn’t like chocolate? My mistake.”

Before Chuuya could respond, before he could put into words whatever was upsetting him, the doors opened, and the detective who looked like he’d walked straight out of a 19th-century novel peered in, a bored expression plastered on his face.

He didn’t know the guy’s name; no one had bothered to introduce them.

“Where are my snacks?”

Chuuya tensed up.

The raven-haired detective grabbed the other man by the collar before he could lunge for the paper bag. Chuuya didn’t pay attention to them, nor to the weird lovebirds, nor to the woman in the white coat. He only paid heed to Dazai—a shadow, a blot of ink and blood on a canvas that was far too colorful.

He didn’t belong there and even though he seemed unbothered, Chuuya could tell he was furious. Whatever had happened inside hadn’t gone the way Dazai had wanted.

Well, fuck you.

“Let’s go.”

“Dazai,” said the blond guy with glasses. He couldn’t have been the brightest if he dared to address the head of a criminal organization like that.

Chuuya couldn’t really blame him, though. Dazai had that effect on anyone who crossed his path. The brunet raised a hand, dismissing him without even sparing him a glance, as if he were nothing.

“If you don’t want me to let my dog loose, save your stupid excuses, Kunikida.” The silence that followed was sharp, but not as biting as the murderous aura that suddenly surrounded them. Chuuya froze, instinctively on guard. Dazai didn’t seem to care at all. “I’ll meet your president when I’m in a better mood.”

The detective in the ridiculous clothes smirked, and the doctor grimaced, but the raven-haired man—who reminded Chuuya of someone, though he couldn’t place who—patted him on the shoulder, silencing him.

It was Kunikida, adjusting his glasses, who dismissed them with a nod on behalf of the president.

Chuuya ignored them.

The sooner they left, the better. He didn’t like that place; it gave him the creeps.

However, just before the elevator doors closed, the guy with the paper bag caught up with them. His movements were mechanical, yet strangely elegant. Dazai didn’t flinch when the guy held the doors open, sticking half his body out, doing nothing more than raising a brow and looking deadly bored.

Seriously, would it kill him to act like he had blood in his veins? It was irritating.

Chuuya’s hair stood on end when the guy tossed the chocolate at him.

“It’s Adam.”

“Adam?”

Adam nodded, looking genuinely happy.

“I’m glad to see you, Chuuya!”

It didn’t make sense. His words were laced with a bizarre affection. And there it was again, the feeling of belonging that seemed to eat him up from the inside.

“Of course,” Dazai chuckled, ruffling his hair.

Chuuya blinked, snapping out of his trance.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

The elevator made a strange noise before descending.

“It’s a supercomputer,” Dazai replied, shaking his head.

There was a wild gleam in his uncovered eye. But it wasn’t that which caught his attention, nor the sudden nervousness that seemed to hang around him, but the ink splatter on the left sleeve of his shirt.

He didn’t realize what he was doing until Dazai slapped his hand away.

“Don’t touch me without permission, pet.”

Chuuya dug his nails into his palm.

“I’d rather stick my hand in a shredder than touch you voluntarily, you bastard.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Outside, they hurried to the armored car. The assigned driver greeted them with a tip of his hat and opened the door. Chuuya parted his lips, maybe to thank him for his work or maybe to throw an insult at the bandaged jerk, but the latter didn’t give him the chance.

“Get in.”

Chuuya took a deep breath.

It was a spacious car, so he made sure to sit as far away from the other idiot as possible.

Dazai rested his elbow on the window, glancing at him through his thick lashes.

Chuuya shifted uneasily.

It was a short trip, just about fifteen minutes. He could endure it. Or maybe he could still sit next to the driver. He wasn’t sure if that was against any rules, but Kouyou wasn’t around to scold him.

Besides, if he had to spend another second with that psychopath, he’d lose his mind.

“Kiss me.”

“What?” Chuuya croaked.

“Kiss me until I’m sick of it.”

“Ha!? Have you gone mad, or are those bandages too tight!?”

“It’s an order, pet.”

No way.

“Dazai,” he hissed, clenching his fists in his lap.

“Boss,” he reminded him coldly, and a chill running down his spine.

Dazai leaned in, invading his personal space, one hand on his knee, the other pulling his choker to bring him closer. His breath brushed against Chuuya’s mouth, and his presence was suffocating, almost intoxicating.

It was too much.

“Kiss me, pet.”

...Chibi.

It was that—what he didn’t say, what hung in the air between them—that drove Chuuya to slap Dazai on both ears and yank his head forward, crashing their mouths together.

It was violent, vicious.

It was a struggle.

Chuuya caught Dazai's lower lip between his teeth, drawing blood and eliciting a hiss that soon turned into a moan of need. He ran his tongue over the inside of his mouth and pushed Dazai back against the seats.

A thread of saliva connected their mouths.

Dazai was a sight to behold—lips swollen and red and legs spread.

“Disgusting.”

“Did I tell you to stop?”

“Shut up.”

Chuuya straddled Dazai’s lap and joined their mouths in a careless kiss. Dazai's hands ended up on his hips, his thighs, and his crotch, tearing him apart. Every touch burned, searing itself beneath his skin.

Their tongues battled for control, a dance that shouldn't have felt familiar to him, yet its steps were ingrained in his memory.

It wasn’t enough, not by a long shot.

When Dazai wrapped his hand around Chuuya's clothed cock and grinned smugly against his mouth, whispering something that made no sense at the time but would haunt Chuuya later, he threw his head back. A muffled groan escaped his chest, and Dazai captured his mouth in a soft lunge.

“Rub yourself.”

Chuuya roared, but aligned his pelvis so that their cocks slid through their pants. Dazai grabbed his ass to pull him closer, leaving a trail of bites and kisses on his jaw, throat, neck, every bit of skin within his reach.

“Mine.”

Chuuya moaned shamelessly, moving his hips carelessly, holding onto Dazai's shoulders as he bit, sucked, and licked his skin from his neck to his shoulder.

Dazai's hand ended up in his hair.

Their mouths collided once more.

“Enough.”

“What?”

Dazai wiped his mouth.

“Get off me, I'm sick of you.”

“What?”

Dazai pushed him aside and Chuuya stumbled, hitting the backs of his knees on the seats.

Crossing his legs and settling into his seat, as if he didn’t have a damn erection pressing against his pants, his lips swollen and his breath ragged, Dazai sneered.

“Didn’t you say you’d stick your hand in a shredder before touching me? That I disgusted you?”

Chuuya dug his fingers into the leather seat, shaking.

“Yamato, could you hurry up? I need to wash my dog’s drool off me.”

Yokohama, page 251

Kouyou raised an brow the third time Chuuya dropped his spoon on the floor.

“Cut it out, lad. You’re making a mess.”

“I’m fine.”

“The twitch in your leg and the tension in your hands say otherwise,” she replied, her tone steady but the crease between her brows betrayed her irritation.

Chuuya snorted.

“Speak.”

“Is that an order?”

Kouyou blinked, the annoyance that had overcome her earlier dissipating, leaving only a trace of amusement.

“Do you want it to be?”

“I don’t trust you.”

She waved off his comment with a half-hearted shake of her head. “You do. You’ve been doing this for days. You drink my tea, you neglect your back. Sorry to break it to you.”

“No.”

“You do. Now, speak.”

He looked down at his cup to buy time, the amber liquid blurring his expression until it was unrecognizable. He didn't like what he saw, the sadness that seemed to have made his face its playground. He didn't trust that woman; he'd be crazy to do so.

Still—

“I don’t understand Dazai,” he finally admitted.

“Oh, you’re not the only one, believe me.”

“He’s baffling.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And exasperating, cruel, and manipulative.”

“Well, that’s what you’d expect from someone like him, right?”

He wrinkled his nose.

“I don’t understand him.”

Chuuya slammed the mug down hard, spilling some tea. Kouyou clicked her tongue but said nothing. Frustration gnawed at him, and his resolve was starting to crumble as he ran a hand through his hair.

His hand was shaking, so he hid it in his lap.

“He hires me to kill him. He makes all this fuss to— to what end? To turn me into his hunting dog? And why doesn’t he use me? Why take a risk on something—someone like me? Wouldn't it have been easier, I don’t know, to just put an ad online?”

Kouyou exhaled through her nose. Then she cleared her throat to compose herself, crossed her legs, and brought the cup to her mouth. From the slight blush on her cheeks, Chuuya would bet she was embarrassed by her slip-up.

“It would be less dangerous,” she agreed, though Chuuya wasn’t sure. The sparkle in her eyes and the half-smile playing at the corner of her mouth suggested otherwise. “Look, I’ve known him since he was a kid. He’s always been peculiar. But he’s damn good. If he makes a move, no matter how careless or absurd it looks to you, it’s because he’s seen and studied the whole picture. He has his reasons.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Language.”

“I didn’t say—!”

“And watch your posture. Back straight, head up. You’re not a dog.”

“Tell that to Dazai,” he muttered.

“And vocalize.” Kouyou sighed, set down her cup, and smoothed the fabric of her kimono. When their eyes met, she looked younger, as if she’d shed her role to be herself, or maybe she was just playing another part. Everyone here seemed to have a full repertoire. “Chuuya, act like you’re in control.”

“I’m a prisoner,” he said, the pain clear in his voice.

“I know. But don’t give anyone that satisfaction. Not even me.”

“I can’t do anything. I’m bound hand and foot.”

“Are you?”

“Of course—” He fell silent, staring at his hands, the reddish and whitish marks running across them like a map, then closed them tightly. “Are you testing me again? You can’t be suggesting that—”

She didn’t answer, not with words. The relief that washed over him nearly made him smile. Nearly.

He would have liked Kouyou if circumstances had been different, but the universe could be a real bitch when it wanted to be. Maybe, in another world, they could’ve been allies, maybe even friends, and this moment—sharing tea as the sun set and the city softened into muted tones before the underworld woke—would’ve felt different.

More real.

More gentle.

His heart ached just thinking about it.

He wiped up the spilled tea with a napkin just as two knocks sounded at the door. It was the signal.

“My time is up,” he said resignedly.

If Kouyou noticed the hint of sadness that clouded his words, settling deep in his gust, she made no comment.

“Try to rest.”

He nodded, not trusting his own voice, and said goodbye with two fingers pressed to his forehead. His escorts—a tall woman with inked patterns tracing unsettling shapes on her face, and a man with a scar disfiguring half of his—waited in the hallway. Chuuya swallowed the bitter disappointment of not recognizing them.

It wasn’t that he wanted to deal with Albatross’s restlessness at this hour, or tolerate the lemon boy’s sleight of hand, but he had grown used to having them around. These two didn’t seem particularly pleased.

“What about Atsushi?” he blurted.

The woman narrowed her eyes, radiating distrust, and reached inside her jacket.

What was she up to? Shoot him?

The man cleared his throat.

“The Captain has business to attend to.”

“Uh-huh,” Chuuya replied, eyes fixed on the woman.

“Excuse my colleague, she’s in a bad mood.”

“I can see that.”

Chuuya walked past them toward the elevator, then stopped and turned around. With his hands behind his back, he addressed his escorts.

“Weren’t you in a hurry, gentlemen?”

Chuuya didn’t dream, but since he boarded that plane, he couldn’t stop. All his dreams—sometimes hazy flashes, blurry brushstrokes that slipped through his fingers no matter how hard he tried to catch them, and others so vivid, so real that they felt more like memories than dreams—were imbued with a nostalgia, a longing, and a despair so overwhelming it constricted his chest and painting his face with tears.

He rubbed his eyes hard, getting rid of the last traces of sleep before the line between what was real—his bed, the sheets tangled between his legs, and his ragged breathing—and what wasn’t, blurred even further.

His smile, cracked lips pulling upward.

His laughter—soft at first, almost inaudible, visible only in the subtle shake of his shoulders—then rising, louder, erupting from his chest and filling the whole world, but only for him.

The breeze from the harbor tickling him, their hands close together—their little fingers playing hide-and-seek—and fleeting glances that meant everything in a city destined to corrupt them.

The world at their feet.

But it wasn’t real.

...Chibi.

He pulled his legs close, burying his face in them. His chest rose and fell with difficulty. He wasn't sure what had happened, he could hardly remember anything, but the panic remained, crawling under his skin and immobilizing him on the mattress.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

He got out of bed and grabbed his robe because. Even though the temperature was mild, the cold had seeped into his bones. He made his way to the living room with the intention of curling up on the couch, but somehow he managed to end up in the elevator. There, not daring to look up, feeling observed as if he were nothing more than an insect under a microscope, he paused.

What the hell was he doing?

He couldn’t escape.

He had a longer leash, spectacular views of the city, and every luxury one could ask for, but no matter how beautiful the cage was, it was still a cage.

He clenched his fist.

Biting the inside of his cheek to choke down the sob that threatened to break free, he leaned against the wall, letting himself slide to the floor. The elevator gave a warning jolt before beginning its ascent. Wonderful. He let out a bitter laugh, stretching his legs out in front of him.

What was the Tower waiting for? It was impossible that they would just hand over their precious weapon to someone like Dazai, with an abiluty that dangerous. He threw his head back as the elevator rose and rose.

He wasn’t in the mood to deal with that jerk, but he didn’t have the energy to stop him, either.

When the elevator stopped, Chuuya didn’t expect to find himself on the roof. The doors creaked open, and he instinctively covered himself with one arm as the cold air hit him hard. There, right on the edge, standing as if he were invincible—or simply not caring that gravity wasn’t on his side—Dazai gazed out over the city he had claimed as his own.

Chuuya’s heart contracted, because for a brief moment, it felt as though they weren’t standing there at all.

Instead, Dazai was lying on the ground, a pool of blood beneath him, his body shattered from the impact, and Chuuya... falling. Falling. Falling, because the gravity he wielded, that sat the blood in his veins on fire, had betrayed him.

His world had split in two.

He blinked, and the illusion—or nightmare—fall apart.

Dazai looked at him over his shoulder, his left eye free of any bandages.

He was beautiful.

And dangerous.

Chuuya took a wobbly step toward him.

“Do you still want me?” he blurted out.

Dazai tilted his head.

“Not exactly,” he replied, turning toward him with his back to death. “I wouldn’t say I want you when you already belong to me.”

Chuuya gritted his teeth.

“Temporarily,” he reminded him.

“Trivialities.” Then, his face lit up with a hint of curiosity. “Are you still angry?”

He made it sound as if the possibility was absurd.

“Would you mind?”

Dazai tapped his chin, pretending to consider it.

“Sit with me.”

Chuuya ran his tongue over his upper teeth, trying to hide the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. That bastard couldn’t be serious.

“Can I push you into the void?”

“Is that what you want?”

Was it what he wanted? He wasn’t sure. He dug deep inside himself but couldn’t find a clear answer. Because yes, he wanted to push him, wanted to break through the masks Dazai hid behind, to draw out something real from him for once. But at the same time... The very idea of seeing him fall made him sick. That was why he closed the distance between them.

Dazai offered him a hand.

“No.”

“I’m glad.”

His fingers closed around Dazai’s wrist, pulling himself up. Dazai’s arm encircled him, holding him steady, their chests colliding, their eyes locking, and there, on the edge of the tallest tower in the city, one step from the void, he somehow felt like they belonged.

Dazai moistened his lips.

“Sit with me, Chibi.”

Chuuya swallowed, and the brunette followed the movement of his throat.

Not Arahabaki.

Not pet.

Not Chuuya.

Chibi, Chibi again.

“Have you been hiding here all this time?”

“Sit with me, Chibi.”

“Huh?!”

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

“What? The smell of fish? What the hell are you looking at me for?”

“Chibi, please, sit with me.”

Tick tock.

Tick tock.