Chapter Text
Crushed by a weight he didn’t know he couldn’t withstand, Dazai found himself on his knees in front of a demon.
Was he that desperate?
The question rang in his head, but the terrible feeling in his chest put words in his mouth as he tried to convince the demon to please, please, please remove the painful and the bittersweet.
Please, make him forget .
Every last one of it.
Wipe it all clean.
He knew that those memories were sweet before they soured, the time spent was fondly remembered before it became an object of regret.
But did it matter now?
He can’t live with this suffering.
He can live with any other kind of pain, but not this.
Not this .
Thus, he had sought out the demon that has been a constant presence in his life, always standing at the edge of his vision, the unchanging entity that perpetually watched over his every day.
Dazai hoped beyond hope that maybe, maybe Chuuya can help him.
Maybe Chuuya can save him.
Because he wanted―no―needed for this pain that strangled him since that day to vanish.
Since the day a mentor disregarded what was precious to him.
Since the day a friend betrayed.
Since the day a friend paid with his life because of that betrayal.
He didn’t want to be stuck in this seemingly bottomless pit―in the dark and alone with the remembrance of how he was too late and of moments that shall never be again.
What was the use of having prodigious talent, if he cannot use it to save the ones he cared for most?
Chuuya keeps quiet, looking down on him, and he tries to endure it more.
He knows that the demon won’t just take any mundane possession of his in exchange for a wish.
So he offers the only thing left to him: himself.
Everything and anything―be it his limbs, his heart, even his soul if it still even existed.
Chuuya scoffs at that.
He keeps talking, asking, pleading, but the most Chuuya did in reply was open his mouth only to close it again.
But still he stays there, in that gesture of supplication; some may say it is humiliating for a former Port Mafia Executive, but he doesn’t care.
His dignity matters far less than what he is wishing for.
That is, if he even had dignity left.
Anyway, demons don’t take what they don’t want, so no matter what Dazai says―no matter what he offers―he knew Chuuya will only speak if it favours him, but Dazai is quickly losing options, his words running dry.
The longer Chuuya remains silent, the shorter Dazai’s patience is, but he wills himself to stay because the alternative is―
Dazai watches as Chuuya’s expression changes―first, a smile; then a toothy grin.
It wasn’t anything new to him, that kind of face.
After all, he had seen all sorts of people wear that facade all his life, himself included, so there was nothing to be afraid of.
He waits, and Chuuya seems to wait for him too, a momentary deadlock of wills.
But Dazai does not falter.
No matter what the price, he is willing to pay it.
And he knows that the price will cost him much.
"Very well, you may have what you want. But I will not take your offerings."
At that, a part of him whispered that perhaps this was a bad idea, that maybe the demon will trick him―no, it is certain that Chuuya will―and he purses his lips.
“What I get from this contract is of my own concern.”
Taking that as a sign that Chuuya is now inclined to entering a contract, Dazai rises on his feet and straightens his back, looks down on Chuuya.
If he was to enter a deal with a demon, he might as well try to make the terms favour himself.
Because Chuuya never spoke to him in his own language in all the years they’ve known each other―that language that binds a contractee’s fate.
Once Chuuya utters the words that will seal their contract, there is no going back.
"Is it really a contract if only one side knows the clauses?" he tries to reason.
Before he even finished his sentence, he could see Chuuya’s expression shift again, already considering the words to use to counter.
“You cannot control or even demand anything from me, Dazai," the demon says, and Dazai knows it is true, "And you won’t receive anything from me that I don’t want to give you.”
Dazai replies, “And at the same time, you get what you want from me.”
A nod from the demon.
Of course.
He was a fool to even try bargaining.
“I can only get so much," he sighs, "Isn’t that right?”
That is, the undeniable genius that paved his way through the Port Mafia ranks.
Dazai had always wondered why Chuuya stuck around him when they had no relationship whatsoever, when he could have sought out another human to forge a contract with.
In his mind, that left only one possibility―
“Yes,” Chuuya answers.
―his talent is the "gift" from the demon, and he himself, his being, is the "price" for the previous contract Chuuya undertook.
He thinks, tries to find loopholes, a piece to play―but finds none. Reviewing over the events, what he has, what Chuuya would be able to take―he readies himself for what is to come.
Chuuya watches.
This is the point of no return.
And the phantom hands that squeeze at his heart and claw at his throat and bang at the crevices of his mind reminds him why he asked for this.
Why he needed this.
With a sigh, he closes his eyes, and says softly, "Very well."
He doesn’t know what will become of him afterwards, but still―quietly to himself―he says goodbye.
Goodbye to the familiar places.
Goodbye to the familiar faces.
Goodbye to the joys and the pain of losing that same light.
And he immerses himself in the language the demon speaks, those words that are strangely both gentle and damning.