Chapter Text
He’s almost at the point of collapsing when confusion reanimates him. Fyodor comes around and offers a hand. The paleness of his skin matches the same color of the drifting snow that's been falling all around them. The trees are quieter here, as if there had never been an alien invasion happening in the first place.
Dazai doesn’t have any funny remarks or any irritated snaps. His hand finds the gloved palm of Fyodor's, and in a minute, his feet are on the ground. His thighs roar with a sore ache, and his feet, which he can no longer feel, give a dull buzz.
Fyodor says something out loud, which is not in Japanese, which greatly convinces Dazai that he’s dead. It’s only a loud moment when he remembers that Fyodor’s lineage isn’t exactly pure Japanese. The gates are slowly opened by two men draped in a bland white, nothing compared to the shade Fyodor’s wearing.
Dazai’s not sure if it’s the blast of cold air that makes him desperate to cover up. Compared to the warm clothes everyone’s wearing, Dazai is very much an outsider.
Before he can mentally scream how cold it is, something furry and trapped in warmth drapes over his back. The feeling makes his hand snap to his gun, not caring that there are no more bullets left and that it's freezing, with leftover water clinging to it.
“Relax, angel. I’m not the one at risk of dying from hypothermia.”
“Well, it’s not every day I visit another unfamiliar House, is it?”
Fyodor laughs; it sounds like a child laughing at a cat's joke. Dazai rolls his eyes, however he still clings to Fyodor's coat.
Coated soldiers lead Dazai and Fyodor through the streets, moving closer to a large building similar to the PM’s.
People stay away from them, not out of fear but out of something that resembles respect. A child is pulling their mother towards a shop. The Door is coated in snow, but there's a faint yellow glow from behind. On top of that, there's yellow text, but Dazai can’t read it.
“I thought we made Japanese the main language after the fall,” Dazai mumbles out loud, still trying to squint, because obviously this wasn’t the kanji that Mori had taught him. Fyodor’s mouth creeps into something that is supposed to be a smile.
“The House of Rot is very isolated. So we took it into our hands to restore our ancient language.”
Dazai furrowed his eyebrows, ignoring the body parts that were currently turning into ice. He can finally understand why everything feels... off.
The people running around and talking aren’t doing it in the familiar language. Some say the language very rough, while others say it at a high level of complexity. All are familiar with it, except Dazai.
Fyodor hums, and Dazai suddenly glares at him. That’s why he’s so confident that Dazai cannot snoop, because Dazai cannot literally understand.
Haha… Die.
As they approached closer, the snow began to clear on the path. Then the large white-coated building appeared. The base was added with fake snow that was crystallized in a beautiful pattern. Of course, it was also made to be much fancier with religious prospects. Noting the large biblical cross that was raised in the center of the base, glass seems rare here, and so should food. So Dazai wondered how everyone here seemed well-fed when trade was no longer active.
“I know what you're thinking,” Fyodor monotonously said, and Dazai shuddered. He didn’t leave Mori to find another Mori.
“No, you don’t. You just think you do, but you don’t.”
Fyodor spares a glance to stare at the mess Dazai was in. Everything was self-healing already; his bruises were no longer vibrant, but instead a fading yellow-purple. And his shallow cuts were building scabs. His throat was rather tricky on the ride; he drank lots of creek water and had to scavenge the bushes quietly for herbs.
Inside is not much cooler. It’s like everyone thrives off the cold; if the sun were to come out, all of them would just melt away.
“It gets easy to adjust. The cold becomes bearable for the freedom offered here.”
“Freedom?”
Fyodor’s mouth twists into an eerie smile, and the soldiers ahead of us stop in their tracks. Fyodor dismisses them with a wave, and they promptly leave.
“That’s not weird, Demon-Fedya.”
“Please, Angel. We both find our nicknames ridiculous and formal.”
“Don't be a hypocrite.”
Fyodor raises an eyebrow. Angel isn’t really something Dazai fancies.
Fyodor walks again, and Dazai internally screeches at him. Each step feels like walking through cold water.
The room Fyodor leads them into suddenly bursts into warmth as he opens the door. In fact, it’s so relieving that Dazai’s legs give out right there and then.
Fyodor balances Dazai’s weight with some struggle. He moves him to a chair in front of a fireplace for Dazai to peacefully die in.
“I had them start a fire in here, expecting you to handle the sudden shift in weather terribly. I know you prefer it mildly cold, but I thought a bit of heat wouldn’t bother you at the moment.”
Dazai let out a scoff, he ‘knows.’
Dazai slouches into a large blanket as he rests in front of the fire. His hands are opening and closing with glee, and it only hurts his toes for a second when he’s able to move them again. Fyodor waits for him to regain color, sitting in silence and only watching Dazai’s every move.
Dazai hums and takes off the draped coat from on top of him and sets it on the opposite chair. “Do you all just like to suffer in the cold then? Is that a foreign thing?”
“Don’t be unintelligent. The cold is something we all adapt to, but each home can access a fireplace.”
“It was a joke.”
“Ah, I don’t joke very often.” Fyodor’s eyes watch Dazai’s bandages unfold before his eyes. So far, and hopefully never again, there is nothing on Dazai’s neck that he doesn’t have to hide. Maybe some scars and self-inflicted wounds, but nothing that would make Dazai jump to cover something Fyodor doesn’t already know.
“I can see that,” Dazai takes it in him to joke. He feels himself coming back, and soon, a sigh of life comes from his mouth.
Fyodor stands, and Dazai cocks an eyebrow at him.
“In that closet, there are some new clothes for you. I’ve arranged them to suit your… ‘style,’” Fyodor makes his way to the door, and Dazai is left like a piece of wood.
“Wait, what are you talking about, Fyodor? Where are we? Whose room is this?”
Fyodor pauses an inch away from the door, and he looks backwards in a slow, cold turn.
“Your new home.” Something in his tone made Dazai tense, “I’ll send a subordinate to take care of you. I’ll see you later, Angel.”
The door closes in a gentle maneuver. Dazai opens his mouth, then closes it. Well, it all worked out in the end, didn’t it? At least I didn’t have to say my cheap ass speech.
He stays there for a while, sitting and absorbing the heat. After a long period of time had passed, his mind finally defrosted. Letting out a groan, he gets up and heads towards the closet. It’s a smooth and polished wooden closet. The amount of perfection in it makes Dazai twitch. It was similar to the smooth doors in front of Mori’s office. The idea of its intention having the purpose of something so puny instead of something meaningful makes Dazai want to rip something apart.
That is- until Dazai closely looked at it. There’s one single splinter that looks forced, out of place.
The idea of it makes Dazai relax, but the person behind it makes Dazai’s stomach fall. It’s intentional, and Dazai doesn’t want to keep looking at it deeply.
Instead, he grabs the clothes that were neatly hung. Everything was the same color except the shirt. The color matches Fyodor’s, a royal bold white. Its lining is embedded with a dark purple that matches the inside of the coat. On the back, there’s an animal fur hoodie that, even with it off, warms the neck of Dazai. The animal’s fur is painted over a, maybe, orange color. At the end of the hoodie, its head’s still attached. The dog thing has a long snout and triangular ears; he’s sure that if Chuuya saw this, he would rage over the mistreatment.
The dark black shirt that Fyodor gave was darker than Dazai had ever seen. It looked too nicely made for a time like this. The white vest came with sketchy looks. Dazai knows he’s skinny, but it seems Fyodor truly thinks he’s the size of a page. Along with it all is a clip with a golden fish-looking symbol.
Putting it on was easy, besides the vest, which came with difficulty, and the tucked-in hair came with impulsivity.
There are no mirrors in the room; a winter wonderland makes it hard to find or produce glass. Including the fact that nobody is willing to trade with you since you're literally everyone's enemy.
Dazai’s tugging and small grumbling at the hems of his outfit doesn’t help with coping. He can’t tell if he looks like a giant Snowball or if he at least looks decent. The only good thing that comes with this outfit is the layers that Fyodor had installed. Suddenly, he no longer liked the cold. People like the cold until it’s too cold, and Dazai was one of those people.
Towards the door, his shoes click with every step he takes, horrible for sneak attacks, amazing to the ego. Outside’s wind hits him; this time, it’s bearable with the layers. There’s supposed to be someone here-
“Hello friend!” A loud voice chirped from beside, Dazai’s hand twitched to his side for a gun, not like he had one.
The man is taller, his hair is longer, and his build is fuller. His skin is light, and his smile seems stuck in one form. His clothes alone are the definition of weird; of course, he is also dressed in a blinding white, but this one doesn’t exactly match the royal vibe like Fyodor’s and Dazai’s. Like it’s almost there but not quite. His outfit seems perfect for the idiosyncratic style this man has going on. He’s in black and white, his pants in stripes, while his vest is half and half. His cap is long and also has an animal fur cap attached to him, except this one is a weird-looking dog, its face has big ears and a long snout, and its originally black and brown fur is painted to be black and white. However, there are still its teeth attached to the ends of his hoodie.
Dazai takes a while to respond; the urgency and uplifting tone of his voice are very out of place.
“Hi?” is all he can respond with.
The man takes off his small, tiny hat that’s attached to his vest. One of his eyes curves upwards, while the other is hidden behind a square eyepatch. “The name is Nikolai Gogol! And you must be Osamu, I was sent to collect the new free bird!”
Dazai frowned, “Osamu?”
Gogol tilted his head, his eyebrows curving with confusion. His fingers tap multiple times against his thigh, while his long braided hair followed the thinking head of his.
“Did I say something wrong, free bird?”
Dazai’s eye twitched. Does everyone here adore nicknames? Or was it just the crazy ones? Dazai liked to ignore the irony that came from his mouth. Like he wasn’t crazy, and like he also didn’t give nicknames as well.
“Dazai, you can call me Dazai.”
Finally, Gogol clamped his hand against his palm, “Oh, right! You all must be traditionalists still, following the ways of the past. You see, here we don’t say last names; first names are most commonly used. So please, call me Nikolai.”
Dazai perked up at the thought. Using his first name was chilling. “Then please, call me Dazai.”
Gogol- or Nikolai- pauses, his eyes sharpen. Almost as if Dazai had just refused to listen or convert. “If you want, bird.”
.....
Gogol walks in a fast, happy tempo, almost like he’s following the steps to a dance. Dazai walks behind him, barely keeping up with him. It makes him much more aware of the shorter people who are forced to keep up with Dazai. Rot’s base is similar to Haven, except it’s much clearer. If they’ve killed people in this hallway, then they’ve successfully made sure there is no evidence.
“Where are we going?” Dazai asks, his hands tiredly swinging beside him. Gogol tilts his head to look back, his good eye wide with excitement.
“To the rest of the decay of Angels. There we’ll meet the others, and if were lucky, Fedya will be there!” He cried with excitement and even walked faster. Dazai let out another groan.
Fedya?
Going through the twists and turns, the place starts feeling more like a labyrinth than a base. Gogol starts complaining about the work he gets and the daily chores that a man named Sigma gives him. The more Gogol talks, the more it really reveals a small veil of secrecy. Like there’s a blanket of tension that runs through all of them: A lack of trust.
Dazai stays silent; it’s only occasionally that he cracks a joke, where Nikolai laughs or talks to him at all.
Otherwise, the two don’t talk.
Dazai looks around to find people wearing darker white and grey funny hats or gloves. It seems the lighter your white color is, the more power or influence you have. So why-
Dazai looked down at his own outfit, and a blinding white overtook his whole personality.
Why did you give me this outfit?
Dazai gave a small scoff that had Gogol turned back to question, “Say, bird. Where did you come from? Fyodor comes to be very secretive when it comes to you! You don’t mind, do you?” There’s a sharp tone that cuts through the air. Even though his smile says one thing, his eye says another. Dazai’s mouth twitches.
Now it makes sense.
Dazai gives him an empty smile, his eyes digging into a fake, playful persona.
“No matter, I come from the house of Haven, which means I’m from across the circle.”
Gogol pauses; you can tell from the misstep of his dance.
“I see!” He continues his unnatural defying steps.
“Is that a problem?”
Gogol lets out a chirp, in response he says no. Dazai doesn’t want to push, but it’s obvious he has a history with Haven, or maybe he grew up with a belief about it. Something personal, but not his main goal in life.
Gogol leads him into a white door with a golden doorknob. There were two painted white crosses beside the doors, both of which Gogol bowed and prayed to. The action made Dazai roll his eyes. This was gonna be hard to take seriously.
You can hear the talking on the other side of the door- Dazai doesn’t even have to open it to hear a familiar face yelling at a fat man. Although clothing is a bit different, Dazai confirms with a heavy nod that this is the same man from the Grand meeting.
His hair is cut in a weird short-to-long style. His coat was a dark color, but white dots sprinkled underneath to appear as stars. His pants are long and coated in a black or white color similar to Gogol’s. His hair is split into two colors: white and a light lavender. His suit is the same white as Gogol's; there are lines of grey, but the overwhelming blinding white shows he’s of high status. The detachable hood is not a predator, but instead it’s a bunny, but for some reason, the bunny looks much more masculine. Its ears and snout are longer, while its dark eyes are thinner.
His finger points in the direction of the horizontally challenged man. He doesn’t get an animal hood; his coat is a light grey with a big, puffy extra. He seems like he’s powerful, just not as powerful as these people.
They’re speaking a different language again; it’s hard to pinpoint it, and Dazai can’t figure it out. It’s easy to make up a new language, but it’s hard to decipher one with no prior knowledge at all.
“Sigma-kun, what’s the problem now? The frowns that are always on your face are bound to develop long-lasting wrinkles!"
The man’s head snaps towards Gogol with a startled glare. However, the presence of Dazai seems to absolutely crush this confidence he has.
“You!-”
“This man here is the guest Fedya was talking about! Can you believe??”
Gogol puts a hand on Dazai’s shoulders, causing a tense reaction. Dazai looks at the man and offers a small smile, “Right, I saw you at the Grand meeting, right?”
Sigma stays silent; he glances at the fatter man in front of him. He says a word, and immediately the curious man fumbles his way out of the room.
“Yes, we did meet there. If I remember, you were a Haven representative. What do we owe the visit?” His voice is calm and level, but Dazai sees it. He can see the way his knuckles are sweating, the way his thumb is scratching at the hem of his sleeve.
His foot hides behind the other, and his mouth is tightly pressed together.
Hm
“Yeah, but I’m not anymore. As you can see!” he mischievously twirls his hood.
Sigma’s eyes blink a bit, confused. Dazai doesn’t blame him, he’s not really in profession Port mafia mannerism as of the moment. “Forgive me if I’m not as serious. I almost died from hypothermia, so now I’ve decided that I’d rather not go down that rabbit hole.”
Gogol coughs out a not-so-amused laugh and sits right next to Sigma with a loud plop sound. He says something to Sigma in the other language, and the man nods a bit hesitantly.
“What language is that?” Dazai pushes, and the two focus their eyes on him.
“It’s a language from the old times,”
Dazai lets out a fake chuckle, “I know- but what is it called?”
Sigma scrunches his face, unsure if he should say anything; in fact, he doesn’t say anything. Gogol though? The biggest yapper.
“Oh, well, you see it’s called Russian! Fyodor’s ancestors used to speak this language from where they’re from. In reasonable and heroic acts! The Dostoevsky family has successfully brought back their own version of the old home; they opposed the rules and demands that the other Houses inflicted! How daring don’t you think?”
Dazai had zoned out halfway, “yep! Daring. Agree.”
Sigma sighed, and his hand nervously rested on his forehead. “If you do not mind…um.”
“Osamu Dazai.”
“Nice to meet you, I’m Sigma.” Dazai frowned. He cleared his throat.
“What’s your family name if I can ask?”
Sigma’s guard rises even more. “I don’t have one. My name is just Sigma.”
Dazai grumbles, guess he’ll have to call him by his first name.
“If you don’t mind… Dazai, may I ask where you received such clothes?”
Dazai brought his eyebrows down, and he glanced down at the same color they all wore. “Fyodor gave them to me, which I’m confused about. Why the hell is it so bright?”
Nikolai- Gogol, coughs out a loud laugh. “Fedya gave it to you? How interesting!” That same sharpness in his tone.
Sigma spares him a side eye before responding, “The brighter the white is, the higher you rank.”
I know
“It’s supposed to mean innocence. Think of it like divine rule: the more innocent you are, the more power.”
This fucker.
Dazai’s smile twitches, and Gogol catches this. His smile fades into a tight smile; he suspects something Dazai doesn’t want him to.
“Great. That’s great.”
Sigma raises an eyebrow at him.
Someone knocks at the door, and the three of them turn. Gogol, this time, calls something foreign, and the door opens. From behind the door is a tall woman, her hair is long, and her color is a shady grey. Her legs look slim from being covered in a comfortable but tight outfit. Her hood is over her head, so her raven-like hair falls in front of her face.
When she talks, Dazai can’t understand her. The way she speaks isn’t rough at all, but instead smooth and almost soft.
Sigma nods and dismisses her.
“What did she say?” Dazai asks before she can leave, her eyes blink confusingly at Dazai.
Something about her attractiveness bubbles something in Dazai’s stomach. Something dark that he wishes wouldn’t start right now.
Sigma purses his lip, “She said that Fyodor had a change in plans. He wishes we would meet him in his office.”
Hm, did she say that though? This might be a problem.
As they walked out, Sigma was the lead. The woman lingered. Her blue eyes don’t leave Dazai’s. The color of them makes Dazai shudder; they’re almost familiar. He offers her a smile, and a shade of pink flashes on her face. Quickly, she runs off, embarrassed.
Dazai’s hand twitches. Gogol lets out a snort before throwing a hand over Dazai’s shoulder. “A looker, huh?”
Dazai smiles in response, “My love for women cannot be undermined. I’ll admit, Rot has many lookers.”
Gogol chirps. He leans closer into Dazai’s ear. His warm breath almost makes Dazai lean in; the familiarity of someone being too close makes Dazai almost embarrassed. “Well, there are many ways to get warm here. Trying the different beds here particularly helps.”
Dazai’s mouth twitches at that, not from amusement and unnecessary knowledge he learned about Gogol’s life, but from a satisfaction he’ll most likely use.
A flash of ginger hits his peripheral view. His head quickly whirls around to see who had just passed them, but there is no one there.
Gogol stands next to him with wide eyes and a smile, “Bird?”
“Sorry- I thought I had seen someone. No… I’m fine. I just like looking.”
“I see…” Gogol’s voice gets lower, “A shame then.”
Dazai cannot believe his own words.
Just like to look?
This mission is going to be the death of him.