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Today’s sky is brushed with the bone-white smoke from the mountains of piled-up corpses being burned. Mori-san’s conquest spreads like a sickly oil spill, tainting everything in its wake. As the one at the helm of operations, Dazai is intimately familiar with the sight of creatures being forced to heel in front of unquestionable power.
…It’s all terribly boring.
There is no excitement in war, something that only has two outcomes. Even the brief friendship he’s managed to find only had two possible outcomes, and now OdaSaku’s name is buried amongst the statistics of war, the casualties that will be spoken of in rousing speeches, but forgotten all the same as the ash scatters to the wind.
He feels terribly hollow, it’s a wonder he’s able to move away from their forces’ current fortress in Yokohama, a crumbling spindly tower that points its claw-like roofs towards the skies. Today is a brief respite from the onward spread of destruction, for even Mori-san hasn’t devised a logical and efficient way to complete the catalogs and corpse-burying and bureaucracy in a mere day.
There are some rumors that this place harbors some powerful weapon arsenals, and Mori-san will cannibalize that into their forces so they can grow even more powerful.
Next week, they march northwards, and then north and then north and then north, until the swell of their forces meet with the army from the Continent that is busy with their own brand of conquest. Dazai’s mind is the only thing that hasn’t become completely empty, plans and strategies whirring out of him with steady clockwork precision. And yet, even that is becoming terribly boring.
Terrible, terrible, terrible.
Dazai’s footsteps click against the stone floors, his coat sweeping behind him like a cloak made of shadows. The soldiers stationed around the fortress are quick to salute him and avert their eyes—there’s a rumor about people dying as soon as they meet his eyes. Preposterous but ultimately useful, which is the only reason he’s allowed such a rumor to continue existing without excising it from its source.
He continues walking forward, stone-walling Akutagawa’s offer to shadow him as his guard, until the click of his heels are muffled by the soil instead. Outside the fortress, Yokohama’s earth is slick with blood and tears. The scent of smoke permeates every area, the pyres burning brightly despite the light drizzle offered by the smattering of rainclouds overhead.
Nobody dares to stop him or trail after him, dissuaded from their curiosities by the grim line of his mouth and the dispassionate gaze from his eyes. If his unwelcoming expression isn’t enough, then the pins decorating his coat as the Chief Commander, rank second only to Mori-san’s, serve as ample deterrent.
Fallen twigs crunch underneath his heels as he makes his way towards a certain lake. There is a certain beauty here, seemingly untouched by war. Dazai calls it a ‘lake’, but it is akin to a murky, poisoned swamp in reality, with thick outgrowth of mangroves lining the circumference of the water. The water itself is unnaturally clear, which only serves to deter any onlookers from taking a dip in it, for the clear water makes it easy to see that the lake is a bottomless pit, a dark abyss sleeping underneath.
There is no shortage of legends about this place.
There are some expunged records about this being a part of an artificial island, created solely to house covert research facilities that aim to create artificial beings made from fusion of humans and supernatural beings. There are some folktales about this being a place where a god has descended, a beastly god with silver eyes that melted every living being in its surroundings into their very bones. There are some speculations about how this is a place created by human scientists who are hiding a superweapon underneath the waters of the lake. There are some whispered tales about this place being so deadly that not even demons or dragons or golems could withstand its poison, even if this is a place that is untouched by any encroachment of outside forces.
…All of those don’t matter to Dazai, really.
It’s just that he’s terribly tired and bored of living, so he wants to try a cheerful and painless suicide. He can’t die on the battlefield and he doesn’t want to die with his body parts hacked all over the place anyway. There isn’t anything that can bring him cheer in this world, so a cheerful way is out of the options. Death by drowning fits his aesthetics quite nicely, and if he does it on some place hidden from view, then he can deprive Mori-san of the option of seeking the help of necromancers to bring him back to life and work him to a second death by raising him up to be a zombie.
“Ah, I hope I die quickly,” Dazai murmurs, as he prepares to jump into the lake. With him gone, he’ll snuff out the bloodline of humans who have demon blood in their veins, along with the inherited capability to nullify supernatural beings. It really would put a crimp on Mori-san’s plans, and it’s a thought that brings a smile to his face, as he plunges into the water’s depths.
— — — — —
Dazai feels something cold and slimy wriggling over his mouth. His first thought is that he’s somehow swallowed a slug, and the fact that he’s still capable of feeling—despite his extremities seemingly unresponsive—and thought processes jolts into him.
He opens his eyes and he’s greeted by the sight of heavenly skies.
Ever since an all-out war against supernatural beings have started in this world, the skies haven’t been clear or sunny enough to be this shade of ever-blue. In fact, Dazai can’t quite remember seeing the sky be this vibrant.
He blinks. The sky blinks as well, and then the slimy feeling disappears.
…Oh.
Dazai tries to move his hands, to wipe at the sticky wetness on his mouth. He finds himself mostly numbed, which is the most likely explanation as to why he can only stare dumbly at the creature that has apparently spoiled his suicide attempt.
…It’s strange.
More than the fact that he’s the last of his bloodline—of humans who have somehow tricked a demon into giving up a portion of its blood so they could gain a certain nullification Ability—it’s the fact that his mind is infinitely smarter than anyone else’s that made him so valuable to Mori-san’s war campaign. And yet, right now, his mind is coming up with a blank.
What is this creature in front of him?
Supernatural beings are powerful, but they’re unable to hide from humans because their forms glow a certain way depending on what they really are.
Creatures that siphon energy off from nature mostly shine in evergreen: like fairies, nymphs and elves. Creatures that are powered by wishes and desires are vibrantly blue: like genies, sirens and mermaids. Creatures that are borne from ancient, deep-rooted beliefs shimmer in gold: like phoenixes, dragons and kitsune. Creatures that derive energy from purity are clad in white: unicorns, seraphs and wraiths. Creatures that obtain their energy from two forms have orange-brown glows: like golems, werewolves and centaurs.
Creatures that are made stronger by blood and catastrophe are supposedly bathed in red. Creatures that live off manipulation and darkness are supposedly marked in purple; while creatures whose energy comes from unknown sources are said to be cloaked in black.
And in the legends passed on in careful whispers: creatures that possess a silver-gray spark are gods.
The creature in front of him is a myriad of clashing colors.
Wide eyes that seem to have swallowed up the heavens, curly hair that seems to drip blood born from flames, sharp, porcelain-white teeth that seem to be able to crush bone easily, bared skin that seem to shimmer with gold with each breath.
A face more beautiful than any of the women that has warmed his bed during his quest to chase something as futile as passion in the face of nothingness.
“You’re awake,” the creature finally says, stating the obvious. And then, that face twists into something that can only be childish annoyance, as Dazai’s head is unceremoniously shoved off its previous resting place—apparently the creature’s lap—and into the moist soil of the lakeside bank. “Took you long enough, asshole! Why the fuck were you swimming in my lake?! Isn’t it obvious it’s not meant for swimming?!”
Nobody’s even dared to raise their voices at him. Even in the battlefield—especially in the battlefield, because everything quiets down to a silent murmur whenever he’s around, allies and enemies alike treating him like a god of death.
There are so many ways Dazai could have reacted to the creature making an earnest attempt to blast off his eardrums with all the shrieking. And yet, he chooses to say: “You say it’s your lake, but I don’t see your name written anywhere… chibi.”
Blue eyes blink at him, looking so surprised that someone’s actually talking back to him. An arrogant brat, too used to getting his way then. Dazai stomps down on the feeling that he’s describing himself too—it’s unbearable enough that his suicide has been thwarted by this creature, it’s going to be downright insufferable if he has to live with the idea that he’s somehow similar to this angry brat.
“My name isn’t ‘chibi’!” The creature protests hotly, like it’s unfathomable for anyone to dare call him with such a nickname. “My name is Chuuya! Nakahara Chuuya!”
A full name. Dazai spares a brief moment to be surprised by the other’s rampant stupidity. “Listen here, Chuuya. Are you actually stupid?”
“Ha?!” Even the curl of the other’s snarl looks beautiful, eyes blazing as the other draws up to his full height—not that it’s much. Dazai’s still lying flat on the ground, but he can see that the other’s only tall enough to rest his ears against his ribcage. Small, but as he observes the surroundings that seemingly shake in fright with one stomp of that tiny feet, powerful. “I’m not stupid, you’re the stupid one here! Who the hell tries to swim in my lake anyway?!”
“Not only stupid, but you’re terribly short too, huh,” Dazai says with a sigh.
As expected, Chuuya bends down and then drags him upwards by the lapels of his overcoat, so that he’s mostly standing by virtue of leaning his entire weight against the shortstack. Chuuya’s eyelids tick, as he’s drawn up to eye-level, but his feet drag on the ground. “Call me ‘short’ one more time, and I’ll—”
“—what, kill me?” Dazai asks, tilting his head to the side. Motion is starting to return to his extremities, but it doesn’t seem like he can win against this creature in hand-to-hand combat. “Better make it painless, chibi.”
Chuuya falters, definitely not expecting his enthusiasm about death. His face goes through a variety of expressions, each one more vivid than the last, until it settles on a mix of disgust and disbelief. With a voice that’s hushed and small, like his unfortunate height, Chuuya asks, a bit uncertain: “…Were you… were you actually trying to kill yourself?”
“I wouldn’t be somewhere tacky like this otherwise,” Dazai says primly, shrugging at the surroundings filled with so much desolation. This place is labeled as the ‘Lake of Death’ according to the maps they’ve seized from the locals—and it is a fitting, if dramatic, name. The surrounding foliage are all dead, a barren wasteland. A loop of dead tree branches intertwined together form a roof over the lake, so that there’s hardly any light around.
“…you’re not here for…” Chuuya looks gutted, lost, as he trails off, his grip slackening over his lapels. It causes Dazai to collapse against the other’s chest, relying on the other to prop him up while his lower half can’t move yet.
“I’m definitely not here for you,” Dazai nips that kind of accusation in the bud. “And again, how do I know this is your lake, huh? Your name is nowhere scrawled around here!”
“Everyone knows this place is mine,” Chuuya retorts, but lacking any of the flashes of heat and irritation from earlier. “You’re really not here for…?”
Dazai is mildly irritated at the way Chuuya seems to avoid completing his sentences. He consoles himself with the thought that it’s just because the other is too stupid to know how to speak properly. Chuuya, seemingly sensing his uncharitable thoughts, grips him by the shoulders and shakes him a bit.
The motion brings their bodies closer together, dragging Dazai’s gaze towards the bared collarbones, the pale pink nipples that stand against developed pectorals, and a light dusting of reddish hair that seems to blaze a trail downwards towards a naked groin.
Dazai shakes his head slightly to rid himself of the trance. “I’m just looking for a place for a cheerful, painless suicide. Now, if you’d unhand me so I can try again…”
“You are a very weird human,” Chuuya tells him.
Dazai is about to respond with something about how he’s considered to be no longer human, but then his words are stuck in his throat, for Chuuya blocks his mouth, suffocating him on a wriggling tongue. It should feel disgusting, like he’s being kissed by a slug, but instead it feels like he’s on the cusp of flowers about to bloom, like he’s breathing in the crisp air of untarnished mountaintops, like he’s being splayed open with the slice of a stream flowing against bedrock. Chuuya kisses him with a purpose, the sweep of his tongue bordering on methodological, but then there’s the little things, the way Chuuya’s fingertips dig against the knobs of his shoulders, the way Chuuya’s breaths stutter whenever their tongues brush against each other, the way Chuuya’s mouth spills out sighs and moans the longer they keep kissing.
Lung capacity doesn’t seem to be a concept in whatever type of creature Chuuya is, but Dazai feels himself going lightheaded despite knowing how to breathe through his nose in-between kisses.
Maybe this is Chuuya’s way of killing him—certainly painless and definitely closer to cheerful than drowning.
And then Chuuya stops drowning him in kisses. Dazai would rather choke on his own tongue than admit that he feels tingly all the way down to his toes and that he’s already looking forward to more. Sometime in-between their kisses, Dazai’s legs have regained locomotion, so that he’s towering over Chuuya and bending down to keep their point of contact.
Even shadowed by Dazai’s face, Chuuya’s eyes glow even brighter.
And then he’s pushing him away slightly. Dazai sways on his feet, but before he can ask further questions, Chuuya walks backwards, slow, steady steps towards the lake, their gazes meeting and catching hold of each other.
“You—” Dazai starts to call out to the other creature, the split-second before Chuuya’s bare feet hit the water. Dazai’s only had to take one step and the lake has pulled him in, as though the water is sentient and hungry to devour anyone who dares approach.
Now though, he watches Chuuya floating off the lake’s surface.
No, not exactly float.
The lake’s surface trembles as Chuuya’s feet make contact with it. The water seems to be afraid of Chuuya’s presence, and it shies away from his body, rippling outwards and upwards, forming a sphere of nothingness around Chuuya, the water circling him as though to protect everything else from his presence.
Dazai can’t take his eyes off him.
But, it starts to make sense, pieces falling into place inside his mind. The border-like way the trees grow around the lake, the dome-like shape the treetops have amassed as though to shield the sky. The way this place is like a barren wasteland.
The lake water is climbing up as though to form an entirely upturned sky itself, until Chuuya reaches the middle of the lake and something rises from the bottommost part of the lake to meet him. An elevated platform, where a throne-like seat made of shadowy water with oil-like sheen emerges.
All of the supernatural creatures despise being so bared in front of others, because their forms and skins betray the secrets to their powers and natures so easily. All creatures, really, aside from Chuuya. It’s with fluid grace and unquestionable confidence in his skin that he settles on his throne, maintaining eye contact with Dazai the entire time.
The entire area pulses with force, and it’s only with sheer willpower that Dazai manages to convince his shaky knees to hold on, because it’s an irritating thought to crawl like a worm in front of the chibi. The fact that Chuuya tilts his head as he whistles in appreciation upon seeing him remain standing when the water and the land seem to scream in pain at withstanding his presence—well, it’s a nice, little bonus.
“I am the god of calamity and destruction,” the creature intones, as black shadows rise up from his throne and start to crawl all over his skin, slipping in-between his toes and his fingertips and curling into his gums and sighing against the curls of his hair. The blue of his eyes fade and is replaced by the silver of a guillotine about to lop off one’s neck. “I accept the contract with you, human with the name Dazai Osamu.”
As he says these words, the shadows from his throne slither in front of him, solidifying itself into a crude blade without a proper hilt, black with a glint of rust: a blade made from the blood of the enemies it has slain.
“I am capable of destroying the seas, the land and the heavens,” comes the declaration. “Now, tell me, human. What should I destroy first?”
More than his bloodline that allows him to resist the effects of supernatural creatures, it’s his mind that’s his most powerful weapon of all. Cold, hard logic that allows him to furnish thousands of plans. All of that escapes him this moment, as he witnesses the awakening of something truly terrible.
“You’re not here for—”
The lost expression on that chibi’s face as he says those words. Like he’s already resigned himself to only meeting other creatures who come for him—to this place that reeks of so much loneliness—because they want his power, because they want to form a contract with the god that he’s housing inside of him.
It’s the most annoying sight he’s ever witnessed.
“First, get rid of that stupid way of speaking. It doesn’t suit you.”
Silver eyes glow. “…Human, how dare you—”
“The one I kissed is the silly chibi, not whoever you are,” Dazai says brazenly, keeping his eyes on the other, even as the god of calamity and destruction flies towards him, the dark blade swinging towards his neck in punishment for his insolence. Dazai keeps eye-contact, even as the blade nicks into the skin of his neck—so he witnesses the exact moment heavenly blue bleeds over mercurial silver.
“You’re crazy,” Chuuya gasps out as he barely manages to stop the god inside him from killing Dazai right then and there. “You’re absolutely crazy.”
“You like me that way,” Dazai says with a certainty that’s not born of logic or meticulous observations. It’s a truth that feels true and untouchable. “Plus, since you’re now my dog, I command you to only talk to me in barks!”
“Dog?!” Chuuya shoots him a dirty look, but takes away the blade by absorbing it back to his skin. “Shitty Dazai, how dare you—”
Dazai raises a finger and pokes Chuuya’s nose with it. “Did you read my mind during our kiss, is that how you know of my name?”
Chuuya blanches and blushes, looking so innocent compared to the display of power from earlier. “I, I just wanted to make sure!”
“Of my intentions?”
“Yes!” Chuuya looks relieved.
So of course Dazai drawls a, “By sticking your tongue down my throat?”
“Urgh, I wanted to see if you really didn’t have plans to obtain Arahabaki!”
“By sticking your tongue down my throat.”
“You kissed me back,” Chuuya accuses him like it’s a bad thing.
“Maybe you should kiss me again,” Dazai suggests. Excitement curls inside his stomach—a strange, fluttery feeling that’s very new to him. He’s gone to this place fully intent to die because he doesn’t see any reason to live another day, but maybe, maybe, deciphering and understanding this mysterious creature in front of him… It’s interesting enough. Maybe enough that he can stick around for a while.
“…Oh. Okay.” Chuuya looks like he’s cautiously excited too, in that same way that people approach things that they fear will be taken away from them if they’re not careful. “Only because I want to read your mind and see what shitty plan you’re planning for me, okay?!”
“Sure,” Dazai says and robs the rest of Chuuya’s words away from him.
Above them, the darkness breaks and the skies start to clear.
-
end