It was late at night, but two lonesome souls were drinking in a peaceful silence at a bar. It was routine by this point, even as the youngest of them was covered in bandages that threatened to be soaked in red. Normally there was a third party with the others at the bar, but not tonight. Not this time around. So two mafioso were left to drink, one sipping on sake and the other cheerfully swirling whiskey around in their cup.

Bandages were tightly wound up each of the teeanger’s arms, and a hollowness was present within their molten amber eyes. Lifeless hues of the autumn sun or the remains of decaying leaves, something like fear haunting a person for what it was worth. That child’s name was Osamu Dazai, and they used their pain as a shield from prying eyes.

They were the demon prodigy of the mafia, the child who had witnessed a man by the name of Ougai Mori overtake the throne of the mafia and become ‘king’. They sat upon heaps of bodies and hummed songs that would soon be forgotten, but nothing more changed about them. The amount of bandages they had grew like spring flowers and their smile only grew more and more fake, but that was to be expected of a child who grew up in an organization as cruel as the mafia.

The man who sat beside them with a cup of sake in hand was a low member of the organization. A man by the name of Sakunosuke Oda, one with a history of killing people but no longer did so. Death sat nearby on a plate of poison, waiting to be consumed. But between the two of them, the younger teenager was sure to try and drink the bile first.

Silence held the two of them together, but the strings that actually connected them were not about to be cut or spliced. There would be no point in doing so, not when Osamu was a tactful person who did not like to change themself for anything but what was worthwhile. They would not leave the bar with the intention of never speaking to this person again, and nor wouldOdasaku ever expect them to. So neither didn’t.

“Dazai,” The man said, after an hour was spent in comfortable silence. They had both greeted one another like always, but not every night was full of talking. Sometimes it was easier to just hang around and listen, breathe in the same air as another person who was alive and not half-dead. The sixteen year old hummed, looking away from their drink and back at their comrade. “Are you alright?”

Confusion sprouted within their mind, and subtly they glanced at their arms. The bandages were wound thicker, yes, but that was it. The dark red lines underneath weren’t bleeding through, and it wasn’t as if the executive had been acting differently.

“Yeah, of course I am!” Osamu replied, smiling brightly as if they were the sun. Perhaps in another universe they could be more than a dying prodigy who could take away what could make someone feel human. Here, though, they weren’t that kind. There was blood on their hands from other people’s deaths, as well as his own failed attempts. They tilted their head in a childish manner, looking at the other mafioso, “Why wouldn’t I be, Odasaku?”

Odasaku did not reply, only lifting his cup of whiskey to his mouth and taking a sip. The bar hummed melodically, peaceful and without any gore tearing at the seams of this little sanctuary. It was a nice place, quiet and thrumming with minimum amounts of life. The bartenders were silent and did not come close when people talked, staying in the back so the customers could talk without worry. Maybe the reason was because this was a mafia-oriented bar, somewhere close to the port.

When it became obvious that the executive’s friend would not answer, the sixteen year old huffed. It was something utterly childish, but Tehy had long since learned to use their mocking words and cunning smiles to their advantage- To use what they had once learned and use it well. They knew how to run with things just as they knew ho to control the situations they were shoved into

“Ah, come on,” Osamu whined dramatically. They waved one hand, and a feigned smile appeared on their face. It wasn’t the realest thing that could be offered, but it was genuine enough to make their friend turn his head in their direction. Dark brown eyes met amber colored ones, and suddenly there were decaying hues of autumn clashing together.

The older man exhaled after awhile, and he turned fully to look at Osamu in the face. He looked as if he was contemplating something more than just a regular topic, and for some reason it made Osamu wonder what could possibly be on Odasaku’s mind. They waited, eyes half-lidded with curiosity.

After a few more moments, ones that were drawn out but not entirely tense, the lower ranked mafioso spoke. His tone was serious, just like they always were. “You have thicker bandages today.”

The executive’s mind fell short for a moment, scattering itself in many directions before running back together and colliding like cars spinning in the middle of a road. A crash, one that forced Osamu’s mind to try and put itself back together at a rapid rate. They knew that their bandages were wound together today, just as there were more layers involved, but they also hadn’t expected Odasaku to comment on it.

Getting hurt was merely a part of the mafia lifestyle. Anyone who was in the organization was sure to know it, even if it made them sick to their stomach. It no longer bother the brunette as much anymore, though, not when they were roaming freely without anything chaining them to reality. It they wished to pop pills like candy, they had all the power and stability to do so. The only one who could actively stop them would be Mori, but it wasn’t like Osamu was stupid enough to do anything like that near the doctor. It never ended well.

“Oh,” The mafia executive blinked, and for once, they had actually been caught off guard. They looked down at their arms, mulling over what to say for a millisecond. They had always been good at making quick second decisions, but today their brain was fuzzy with whiskey and their head was pounding. So instead of coming up with an elaborate excuse, a story of falling down or getting hurt due to one careless mistake, they smiled again.

There was a bitter note remaining in the corners of their voice as they spoke, but that was normal for them, “It’s nothing big. It’ll be fine in a few days.”

The cuts on their arms would be healed in a week, and then by that time there would be new ones to replace the old and cover up the thin white lines that made them feel more like a broken doll than anything else. Humans could bleed just as they could die, and that was enough for them. But humans could not be called demons, so they weren’t human. Osamu Dazai could not be a human if they were a demon, a prodigy, first.

The blood they tasted, even hours later after it had been washed out and scrubbed off of their tongue, it still haunted them. They couldn’t get rid of everything that tried to eat them alive, but they could try. There was pain from within the depths of their eyes, but that pain was so worn out and waned thin, it was as if it wasn’t even there at all. It was too similar to what their happiness looked like, the strange waves of relief that would make them tremble as blood bubbles past their wounds.

The injuries they acquired were never anything major, either. A knife in hand being pressed to the flesh of their arms or thighs, that was normal. The way it burned and festered, the way the air would make the wounds sting. They were familiar with that type of feeling, familiar with the sensation of being so upset and frustrated that pain was the only way to escape those emotions.

Drowning in rivers could get them nowhere, not when they were so used to the feeling of their wounds being soaked with icy water. Underneath bandages were red lines and bruises that covered old and ugly scars, white lines and nicks that ruined the canvas of their body. Sometimes the bones that made up their lanky frame would be the only thing left to break, if not their mind. So they’d break their bones too, ignore the feeling of death latching onto them greedily.

They’d wait until hiding those injuries became more of a burden than a normal thing, and once it became too much to bear, they would have someone properly tend to the wound. They tried not to go near Mori anymore than they had to, but some reckless nights left them achy and bloody, and sometimes that was all that they knew how to describe.

Once or twice they had thought about going to Odasaku or Ango, perhaps even Chuuya. They had always decided against it in the end, mostly for the fact that their injuries were not pretty nor could they be explained by any mission. They wouldn’t even want to show someone that side of them, no matter who that person was. The idea of asking anyone to essentially take care of them made Osamu want to hurl.

Their injuries grew with each day, like a flower that simply refused to die. But they weren’t pretty, and each petal they possessed was just another retelling of why they carved the end of life more than finding something good to devour. The rain in the sky caused gloom to spread through their body, but it chilled the burning agony in the back of their head and made long days feel just a bit shorter.

So they indulged in the tiny things that weren’t a big deal to them. The blades they kept in every other drawer within their home, the way they had a gun in several compartments despite not actively needing one right beside their head, the way they had enough chemicals in their closet to kill an entire group of hitmen. They had medication stored in every place one could imagine, in false-drawers or under sinks or in coat pockets that hung in their wardrobe, entirely untouched.

“Odasaku?” They asked. The bar was quiet and peaceful, but now there was a strange loop that had Osamu’s thoughts repeating within their head. Their mind was muddled with one too many glasses of alcohol, but for a teenager they had a high tolerance.

They were going to say something else, going to laugh again in hopes of breaking the silence, but had no time to do so before their friend was speaking. Odasaku looked away from his glass of sake, “Do you have any other ways to deal with stress?”

Osamu closed their mouth, eyes fracturing into several pieces for a moment or two. Stress. Being the youngest mafia executive in history wasn’t stressful, nor was being Mori’s puppet. There wasn’t anything to be stressed about, nothing that mattered. Maybe their broken limbs or bleeding arms, or the bruises on their knees and jaw from careless little things. Maybe the cuts on their thighs, or the tiny little lines on the inside of their biceps and forearms.

“Your stress is just as real as anyone else’s,” He said, and Osamu stayed silent for once. They stared at the former assassin, eyes unblinking but voice unknown. Dark brown eyes met hollow ones, and something far too similar to a frown appeared on his face. It made Osamu feel confused, and it wasn’t fair that such an expression was directed at them at all. “I understand you won’t ever admit it with the intention of being honest, and I won’t make you, but do you have any other ways of getting through something?”

I could certainly try to die, They thought, and although the words in their head had started off as humorous, they ended with a sad note. Bitter resignation, something clawing at the insides of their chest; Carving a gaping hole that would never be filled. Darkness shrouded them in this life, and it was practically destiny that they would be shrouded in it during their next life too. But you wouldnt understand what I mean by that. I don’t have an answer to give you, not now that would be pleasant to hear. Tolerable, even.

The mafia executive couldn’t bring themself to be serious. They didn’t want to acknowledge where this conversation was going, or how quickly it had gone into territory that they would rather stay out of. They laughed, just a bit, “Ah, Odasaku is worried about me-”

“Dazai,” Odasaku cut them off. His voice wasn’t unkind, but it was firmer than it had been a minute ago. The sixteen year old looked away from their drink and back to the man they called their friend. When their eyes met the mafioso’s again, something must’ve slipped through that Osamu had not mentioned to reveal, because Odasaku’s gaze softened by the slightest margin. His voice was lower, too, both in its level of dismay as it was in its level of volume. “I mean it.”

Odasaku always meant what he said, though. He wasn’t one to lie, not over anything. He kept true to his word and didn’t ever go back on it, trying to stay within the border of what was and wasn’t terribly personal. He didn’t cross boundaries that someone warned him not to, and so like a snake did Osamu try to rattle their tail and spread their mouth to show fangs that gleamed. But that didn’t do much, for their friend wasn’t scared of them.

He saw through some of the masks that Osamu wore, saw through the sheen of red and black that was painted under their eyes and dropped down their mouth and neck. Of blood and bile, the mafia executive could heave it all up with stuttered breaths and a faux smile made of honey and poison. They were a threat to only those who were threats to them, and that would never be Odasaku.

There was nothing to be scared of, maybe, not when you stripped Osamu away from everything they held close to their broken and bleeding little black heart. That wasn’t much at all.

Osamu was quiet, so awfully quiet. Only one word came forth past their lips, “Oh.”

You care too much, They thought, and Osamu wished that it was easier to ignore. They wished that the signs of self-hate and loathing that accompanied their skin and presence weren’t so obvious some days. They wished that Odasaku wasn’t as honest as to point them out and ask if he could help in some way, even if the question was the most indirect thing on the planet.

They weren’t sure what they could do to tell Odasaku to stop caring. They weren’t sure that they even wanted to, not when no one else was ever as direct as the man beside them. Perhaps Chuuya could come close with his aggressive yelling and grabbing of Osamu’s hands, dragging them to a safe house and groaning about the executive’s lack of preservation. That was different from Odasaku, though, far different.

There was fire clashing with ice and water in their head, something like a war going on underneath their skin. Their blood flowed and their heart still beat, even though they often wished it wouldn’t. There was a haunting feeling stuck inside of them, clinging onto their limbs no matter how bony they became. Their lack of sleep only added to their bad health. Skipping meals was something so commonly done that it was just what they considered their normal.

“I promise, then,” They said after a long pause. They looked at their cup of whiskey, watching the ice melt ever so slowly, and then continued to swish it. What can I even promise him? There’s nothing that will stop me if I decide to do something. There’s no repercussions. They swallowed down that train of thoughts with an inaudible gulp, instead humming and looking to their friend.

Odasaku blinked, in something between doubt and mild confusion. Masked by a layer of icy calm was uncertainty, far beneath the remaining sheen that was present on his face. He didn’t push the executive in a corner, and even then, it wasn’t like Osamu would ever let him. Not to an extent as great as this, for the wounds that they inflicted onto their body was something that they didn’t talk about to anyone. If Odasaku was able to keep pushing, just tiny little jabs, then it must’ve meant something.

Trust only existed in the depths of pitch-black dreams, during days where all Osamu could do was think about what they had to offer and what they were actually willing to give to someone else. Control was tightly wound across their neck, and if they wished to jump off while still attached to it, then they would surely die.

“Pinkie promise with me?” They smiled, albeit bitterly, but there was an emotion that could not be identified within the depths of their gaze. Some things were better left unsaid, unspoken about and unmentioned. They lifted their free-hand up, eyes closing momentarily. When they opened them again, they saw the former assassin staring back at them.

“You don’t have to promise,” Is what he said, but Osamu chose to promptly ignore it. Today wasn’t the day they wished to discuss their suicidal tendencies, not when Odasaku was serious about wanting to help. The mafia executive wasn’t sure what help even looked like, not after spending two years under Mori’s watchful eye and having nearly anything that might’ve made them human be ripped away from their grasp.

The mafioso took what Osamu said seriously, and that was something that they didn’t understand. Their stories about falling down were never exactly true, not in the literal sense, but their friend was still concerned. Worry hidden behind blank eyes, words that were carefully spoken. Osamu tried to ignore the genuine disquietude that he would embody, hoping to anything that existed past human comprehension that Odasaku would stop caring as much as he did.

“I promise I will try and do better,” Ignoring his prior words, they smiled and hoped that the bitterness from before wasn’t as obvious as the effort they were trying to put forth. The two of them both knew what Osamu was trying to say here, but neither would ever admit it directly. They laughed, a small chuckle present on their lips, “That way you won’t worry as much, right?”

He stared with unreadable eyes, and after several moments, Osamu was sure that Odasaku was trying to piece together a puzzle. How far could someone like this teenager go in order to try? Perhaps very far, for the teenager in question was Osamu Dazai, or perhaps not far at all. Maybe if they tried, maybe if they just tried to say they would ‘do better’, their friend would not ask these types of questions any more.

Ango never knew what to say when Osamu made jokes about failing in another attempt, nor did he ever pry. Sometimes he would just sigh, groaning and muttering about something that Osamu would cheerfully laugh off. Other times, he stared with a hollow expression, something too similar for Odasaku’s own. The three of them would drink in peace, chatting aimlessly, but that had never made up for the fact that both of the executive's friends were worried within their own ways.

Even Chuuya, to an extent. By that matter, Osamu did their best to piss the shorter person off more and more; Simply hoping that he would stop being so nosy after a while. No, it’s none of his business if Osamu was bleeding out in their bathtub. Just like it wasn’t any of Osamu’s if the auburn haired teenager was binding unsafely. The two of them had no right to try and help the other, not when they snapped at each other’s necks and budded heads over the most casual of things.

“If it’ll help you,” The older mafioso said, and although a trace of concern still remained, his voice had molded into something assured. It was nice to hear the concern disappear, for the prior discomfort that had climbed up the sixteen year old’s spine faded away a bit too. They weren’t sure if Odasaku actually believed them, not this time, but maybe that was a good thing.

“Haha,” They snickered, and when Odasaku lifted his own hand up and locked pinkies with Osamu, something oddly cold settled within the teenager’s gut. They smiled nonetheless, hiding the tension with a grin that did not belong on a child’s face, “One can only hope, right?”

—

It had been a trying few days, the weight of things that Osamu couldn’t even identify resting heavily upon their shoulders. There had been more files to do and things to listen in on, missions pent arguing with Chuuya and nights spent drinking whiskey in the silence of one of their many safe-houses.

Two months of constant bullshit, constant self-loathing that varied from something almost nonexistent all the way to something too much for them to handle. It had felt like they were suffocating the first night it happened, and curling up like a flower that no longer bloomed had not assisted them. The refusal of life that went through them had been aggravating, threatening to tear them apart from the inside.

Nausea had come and gone with the moon, and daybreak had made their mind turn sour and fuzzy. The rivers had tempted them to take a trip downstream, to drown on what might’ve once brought them relief. And yet, they hadn’t been able to jump in like they normally would have.

In the back of their mind had been a promise, and although Odasaku would never know if Osamu had stuck to it or not- The sixteen year old hadn’t been able to break it. Not at first. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, not if their friend never became aware of what had happened. The bandages that Osamu wore were tight and more often than not, suffocating. They kept the teenager under wraps quite literally, hiding the truth from prying eyes.

Some eyes were more prying than others. They had learned that purple eyes were the sharpest, and blue in a close second. Dark brown followed without a second thought.

“Dazai,” Odasaku spoke up, and the peaceful silence that the two of them were used to was replaced by an engaged one. Tired eyes peeled themselves back open, and dizziness climbed across their skin underneath the layers of bandages underneath their coat. If Osamu wasn’t good at keeping themself awake even when exhausted to the point of no return, perhaps they would have passed out a few minutes ago.

“Yeah?” Osamu hummed, staring at the cup of whiskey that they always ordered. Ango wasn’t here again, off doing something for the newest records that the mafia needed to file and sort. It was a shame, really, for none of them had met up in the last two months. The last meeting had been when they and Odasaku had made a promise, but even so, Ango hadn’t been present. Wait until the next time.

“Is your hand alright?” He asked, and really, the sixteen year old should have expected that. They should have seen that coming, because they were always good at knowing what to expect and how to conquer it. They were good at avoiding confrontation, but not when it came down to chilling nights in a bar with their friend.

Concern came shouldering through the barriers that they had put up, and it was both kinda relieving to know that someone cared just as it was terribly confusing. Doubt came forth like the ocean threatening to swipe Osamu off their feet, and it wasn’t exhilarating when the voice of worry came from Odasaku. With someone else, it would probably amuse them. Make them laugh it off and tease the other.

“Ah,” Osamu glanced at their hand, seeing what was left of their skin. Most of their hand had been wrapped with new bandages, covered to the point only a few spots of skin were left exposed. All of their fingers were exposed too, beside their pinkie. Alas, their hand was fine. Nothing would be left unfunctional after all, so the little bit of pain meant nothing. They shrugged, “Yeah. It is.”

They remembered the burning feel of alcohol in their throat, mixing along with stomach acid. They remembered heaving up their dinner into the toilet, one eye stinging and the other perfectly unaffected. They remembered being unable to move, unable to breathe. Life had danced across their fingertips, and yet a broken promise had been slit into their wrists as blood flowed.

There had been shock. There had been real, uncontrolled shock. It had surged through their veins and made their breath get tangled up within their throat, hands coated in red and mind scattered past any and all recognition. Desperation had latched onto them like a parasite, and they had choked down the bile that had climbed into their mouth without an invitation.

Breaking promises was not Osamu’s style. It had never exactly been something they liked doing, not when it came down to those who sat on pillars of value around them. They hated the idea of having to say that something would happen, or that they would do something, only to not follow through.

Chuuya was on one of those pillars, stretching high up into the sky despite how much the two of them bickered and said they hated one another. Odasaku was even higher, practically standing on the tallest one that could ever be created. Those pillars weren’t made of sand, not like how Osamu’s was. They would not waver, would not crumble and be broken apart. They all had value, far too much value- And sometimes it was sickening to think about.

The sixteen year old remembered how the mission had gone badly, or the aftermath of it had. They remembered drawing lines into their skins with a knife rather than a pen, remembered the way that panic had settled into their shoulders rather than relief.

They had raised the knife and tried to chop their promise off, the blood spilling as a limb was nearly hacked off. Panic was not Osamu’s style, but that had been the only thing they had felt that night. Blood had been spilling quickly from the wounds they had been unable to keep away from their soul, and the broken promise that had been kept for two months had come crumbling down.

The sixteen year old could recall Mori stitching them back up, bandages wound tightly and sharp eyes cutting into what remained of Osamu’s resolve. They could still see the glint in the doctor’s eye as he spoke, words keen and mocking. “Another failed attempt to die, Dazai-Kun?”

Odasaku was silent for a while, but after a few minutes, the executive caught onto where he was staring. They looked down too, back at their hand. The former-assassin's voice was quiet and not even close to prying, but worried all the same. “Is your pinkie, then?”

“What?” The sixteen year old blinked. It was as if they couldn’t think about what was going to be said next. Something was making them lag behind and they did not like it. They stared blankly at their comrade, and when nothing else was said, the mafioso replied with an answer. In the depths of dark eyes was concern, and in the depths of an inhuman’s was something far too similar to unease. “It’s wrapped.”

“Oh,” They paused, swallowing. It wasn’t anything too bad, but the wound would surely scar. It would be an ugly reminder until nothing would be left in the world, or until nothing would be left to be called the demon prodigy. A severed limb was different from one that was reattached, something self-inflicted. Their gaze was guarded when they looked back up, something that Odasaku surely took note of. “It’s.. It’s not too bad.”

It wasn’t any worse than the damage that they had done to the rest of their body; The damage that practically no one knew about. The scars on their ribs or chest were left unknown to most people, and the ones on their legs and arms were simply unspoken of. Not even Chuuya dared to ask questions on the occasions he was to see anything he wasn’t supposed to, quick to look away and utter about something entirely different.

With Mori, it was different. Painfully so. Osamu tried to ignore most of those interactions, shoving them into the depths of their mind and never looking back on them. Those recollections of events weren’t important as long as they said they weren’t, and so the sixteen year old would never admit how much those things fazed them.

“Did something happen?” Odasaku asked softly, and it made the executive freeze. Something had happened three nights ago, after a long mission. There had been poison and drugs involved, and they knew that Chuuya had been able to leave the scene quicker after reporting to Mori. He had sent Osamu a withering look, but it hadn’t possessed any heat.

Osamu remembered being so angry, being so upset at themself for something that wasn’t even that important. They remembered feeling wrecked, feeling horrible and nothing would help.

They had tried walking in circles, had tried staring at nothing and racking their brain for better things to do. They had tried anything at all, had tried picking at the edges of loosely tied bandages or the scabs on their palms and cheek bones. They had tried pressing down harshly on the bruise that was horrifyingly prominent on their jaw. They had tried breathing in through their nose with their eyes closed.

They remembered repeating words to themself, things spoken in a hoarse and raw voice that had been scraped raw of everything and anything that might’ve once remained. It had been a bad night, a bad mission. It had been agonizing enough to make Osamu think about throwing themself off a bridge and actually dying, rather than pulling themself up onto a bank and laying there for hours until the sun came up and dried them off.

The day had worn them thin, and the night had only add to the fire that burned within their skull. It had made them wish to cry, but crying had never been good for thwm, so they hadn’t done so. The idea of death had been so tempting, the idea to grab a bottle and down all the pills. To mix bleach into a cup and drink that instead of a new bottle of sake. But they knew better they knew what would happen if they were caught half-alive, coughing up what was once in their stomach.

Mori would force them to cough it all up, perhaps shove them off into the hospital ward of the mafia’s main base for a week with nothing to do. The blood that would spill from their wrists would not be worth cleaning up if that doctor saw, no, not ever again. It would not be worth the misery, not that type of agony.

Drowning would have been easier than cutting, They thought, quietly. They stared at the whiskey in their hand, not moving or saying anything. Their mind whirled from within their skull, and of their hand tightened around their glass, Odasaku was kind enough not to comment. He was good at waiting and knowing when not to say anything, when not to pry for answers that a person could not give.

They couldn’t die, not in any way that mattered. Chuuya would lose his shit if he actually found out that Osamu actually succeeded, and they knew better than to think leaving Odasaku alone without answers would ever be considered merciful. Why would someone who wishes to die, so bored of this world, want o vanquish themself in such a cold and cruel manner?

Drowning would chill their soul, if they even had one after they had killed so many. But they couldn’t drown on anything anymore, not properly. The rivers of Yokohama pushed them onto the shore, made them gasp and cough wetly. The sake they had access to, the richest and most fine alcohol that no minor should be drinking, not even that could make them fall ill in a way that actually fucking mattered.

So instead, they mauled their skin off. A razor blade in hand, they drew lines into their arms. It was easy, it made the burn go away. It made their mind stop spinning, made the drums and dead bodies flicker away. Dying sounds of people, the people screaming as they walked forth and the bandaged individual could only look over a sea of crying and bloody mafioso. Victims counting their days, and god forbid if Osamu were to come forth and say that they were one of those victims.

They had clawed at previously healed scars, and red lines that were only present in their mind. It had hurt, the guilt that had unexpectedly sprung up right after the injuries had appeared. They had been two months clean of harming what little they had left of their body, and they had felt somewhat okay. It had been tolerable. Two whole months.

Or maybe they had only been clean of a knife’s edge on their flesh, maybe that was all they had been able to resist. They had gotten reckless during missions and drank themself until not even their limbs could be felt, but that was something they always did. It wasn’t harmful anymore, because it was normal. They pressed on bruises harshly and skipped meals with a mindless shrug, saying after days without eating.

Chuuya had lost what calm he possessed when he found out that they had not eaten. It had been a rough mission that day, but an even rougher evening with the teenager’s harshly muttered words about ‘health’ and ‘passing out’. He had grabbed Osamu by the wrist, dragging them to a small take-out joint. He had bought something random, some cheap crab if Osamu was remembering correctly, and ate in a tense silence at a park with them.

The taste had been salty and nauseating on their tongue, but Chuuya had watched with calculating blue eyes. A rate thing for the redhead, something that they had teased about in order to gain a sense of control. They had ended up heaving that meal up when they got home, but something like guilt had haunted them after doing so.

Osamu had tried to be clean of damaging what remained of themself, then. They had made a promise. It had been hard to stick to, but they had put in effort. Long nights spent doing nothing, humming something that was only distantly recalled from a radio. Odasaku hadn’t told them to make a promise, nor had he proved for answers when Osamu kept their mouth shut with a playful smile- But he surely had known that something had changed.

The bandages had been lightly wrapped for two months. Still horribly tight, perhaps even suffocating rather than concealing, but that was different. That was something that only Osamu could understand and know about, for they knew what it was like to be strangled by their own damn actions. The burning of acid in their throat, or the tang of poison on their tongue as they heaved up food that did not belong in their stomach.

Nothing had been bleeding through, and nothing had been out of the ordinary. The world had kept spinning and time had kept moving on, and even if it made Osamu’s hands shake horribly as their nails pressed into the palms of their hands, those indentations had always been healed by the next week. No injuries remained, and so Odasaku never had to know.

They had been clean, and then they had fucked that up- They fucked everything up after a while, even if they didn’t want to. It just happened.

“Odasaku,” Osamu said finally, and there was something resigned in their eyes. It burned and blistered near the edges, curling into a smile that had no place to be on the mafia executive’s face. It was sad, really, if one were to look close enough in hopes of finding answers. Maybe in another world Osamu would have hidden it better, maybe they would have thought things over and known that this person would have still figured it out.

Normally they hid everything, kept injuries out of the prying eyes of Mori and ran along with life. They weren’t scared of death, they actively sought it out in the strangest forms. The most bizarre ways to die; Jumping into rivers or mixing strange contraptions that made their body convulse and mind shut down in the late hours of night. They couldn’t sleep, so they drank far too sweet coffee or bitter liquids that were made of sheer caffeine.

Missions were spent with blood on tenor hands and mocking voices in their ears, death and gore haunting their mind. They ran with what was given to them because it was the easiest thing to do, the simplest choice among everything else. They knew how to get away with murder, knew how to get away with being alive even though they badly wished to die. Slices on their arms, acidic marks across their palms from spilt chemicals that they had stolen from Mori.

They knew how to drink the pain they were given, knew how easy it was to lift a glass to their lips and drown in the contents of alcohol that they should not be drinking. No one particularly cared, but perhaps that was because no one knew. They kept everything hidden under their bandages after all, a feigned smile present on their lips. Careless sighs, constant gestures to death and how nice it would be to no longer exist. They wished to fall fast and deep, wished to breathe one last breath and then let the world go achingly numb.

Osamu’s eyes were half-lidded as they swirled their cup of whiskey, pain blossoming under thickly wound bandages on their arms. Their voice was awfully quiet, but the smile on their face did not go away. Their tone didn’t match their expression, and it cracked through the barrier of what could be considered stable.

Their words were softer than freshly fallen snow, but stung so horribly. Like salt being rubbed into the wounds that Osamu had accidentally inflicted onto their friend’s soul, they whispered, “I broke our promise.”