Archive of Our Own ^beta

Humans hurt.

Torn flesh, 

Crimson blood,

White hot pain,

Cauterized gashes. 

Humans suffer.

Tears of sorrow, 

Infected grief,

Chronic injuries,

Traumatic pasts.

Humans conflict. 

Justified retribution, 

Terror incitement,

Parasympathetic triggers,

Cold manipulation.

Humans thrive (on value).

Practical worth, 

Gracious actions, 

Harmonious minds,

Savior complexes.

Humans feel.

Unavoidable temptation, 

Elusive endorphins,

Cortisol spikes,

Shaking hands.

Humans appreciate.

Dilated pupils,

Upturned lips, 

Tranquil souls, 

Dopamine hits.

Humans bond.

Mutual understanding, 

Skin touching skin,

Elevated oxytocin,

Shared eyes.

Humans hurt.

Crimson drops pitter into the sink, mixing to transparency with the running tap water. A red haired boy hunches over the sink, illuminated brightly by the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. He’s wearing a white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The shirt is partially untucked from his pants and a few buttons at the neck are undone. A pair of black gloves sit off to the side of the sink. He holds his Bowie knife in his right hand, the blade reflecting sharply in the light. A large gash on his left palm continues to drip blood into the deeply stained sink. The air in his small bathroom apartment smells metallic. It’s not too often he sees his blood, and the view brings with it a sense of ease. I’m still capable of bleeding. The gash itself doesn’t hurt very much, possibly due to the sharpness of the blade. He runs the hand under the tap and feels the sting of water passing through the wound, causing him to let out a groan.

Feeling truly alive has lately become a challenge for Chuuya Nakahara. While the average person might occasionally engage in reckless behavior to achieve this effect, his entire career has been built atop adrenaline. There are only so many people you can kill or buildings you can jump off before it becomes just another task to complete. His passion for his work is slowly slipping away from him, just as the moon gradually moves away from the Earth. Without it he feels empty. Nothing. It’s not something he likes to admit, but every once in a while, while nobody is around, he tries to induce that feeling of living. Really living. He has never made a habit of cutting himself, but lately his options have been running low. Chuuya chose the palm of his hand knowing that the cut would be hidden by his gloves. If Dazai, the suicidal menace to society, gets wind that he had cut, well, he will never hear the end of it. He grimaces at the thought.

Chuuya flicks his wavy ginger hair to the side as he continues to rinse the cut and the blood splatters off the white porcelain of the sink. As the flow of blood slows, he grabs a bandage from the cupboard and wraps it around his palm. As he wraps, his eyes catch a small darkened scar on his wrist. A few months ago this would have given him a bit of relief, but now it seems just the same as everything else. This small piece of evidence feels ...inadequate. It creates more questions than it answers, really. Uncomfortable questions. What if there’s another explanation for the mark? What if he got the scar more recently and just doesn’t remember? Chuuya looks into his own dark blue eyes in the mirror and can see a deep rooted exhaustion in his expression. He sighs heavily as he makes his way out of the bathroom, flicking the lights out behind him. 

Humans suffer.

All he feels is wet. And empty. If empty can truly be classified as a feeling at all. He opens his eyes to find himself on the side of a grassy embankment. He’s alone. It’s dark but the area is dimly illuminated by a nearby streetlight. He lays on his stomach with his head turned to the side, sucking in laboured, pathetic breaths. His white shirt, smeared with dirt and grass stains, is soaking wet and clings transparently to his skin, showing the bandages beneath. The realization that he’s survived jumping off the bridge into the bay brings him absolutely nothing. Though he does wonder if he got here on his own or if someone pulled him out. Dazai sighs heavily as he places his hands next to his body and pushes himself off the grass. His black hair drips water down his face, causing trails of clean skin through the smudges of dirt. Upon standing he coughs a few times, spitting a substantial quantity of water onto the ground in front of him. He inhales deeply after he’s caught his breath. The night air smells of petrichor and bile.  

“Now what am I supposed to do?” he mutters to himself as he begins walking along the waterfront, a trail of water droplets behind him. “The mood is completely ruined.” 

Humans conflict. 

“It’s our only option,” Dazai says, to his partner’s disdain.  

Chuuya has learned to hate those words. They mean that he is going to have to do something he doesn’t want to. He pulls on the brim of his black hat and grits his teeth. The two of them are currently sheltered behind an overturned table as bullets and flames fly by. A nearby wall is on fire and the cabin is becoming uncomfortably warm. Chuuya is holding a hand to the table, deflecting the bullets that strike the surface on the other side. Dazai is casually sitting cross legged on the wood floor next to him, black coat resting over his shoulders, not seeming bothered at all by the heat. Their mission of tracking down a mafia defect went south pretty fast when an unknown ability user joined the fray. The ability user in question can control both fire and ice. It isn’t a great match with Chuuya’s gravity manipulation or Dazai’s nullification. Neither of them can get close enough to touch him, and he’s able to incinerate projectiles. 

“Can’t we just trick him into letting his guard down and then you can nullify his ability?”

“How are we supposed to do that with the extra men out there?” 

“Tch.”

Thunk.  

The tip of an icicle penetrates the surface of the table and stops an inch away from Dazai’s bandaged head. The black haired boy doesn’t so much as blink in response. 

“Hey, concentrate,” he says seriously. “I would hate to die here with you.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes and silently weighs his options, biting at the inside of his cheek. While corruption has always been their trump card, it isn’t exactly comfortable for him to use. Each time he activates it he essentially has a front row seat to watching Arahabaki destroy his body. The lack of control is deeply unsettling, but it’s the internal struggle that plagues him the hardest. The memories always come back to him while he can’t do anything but watch. The black-blue void. The way that boy, no, the way he had choked for air as he vomited blood. The feel of electricity passing through his organs. The smell of his own burning flesh. Who is he kidding? There are no options to weigh. If Dazai says it’s their only option, he has to do it. He can feel beads of sweat on his brow as he bites the tip of the glove over his middle finger and pulls it off begrudgingly before moving to the other. 

“Oh, Grantors of Dark Disgrace. Do Not Wake Me Again,” he grumbles in a low tone. 

And just like that, his body isn’t his own. He feels a scream leave his lips as he rises from behind the table, red marks spiraling across his skin. Bullets, fire, and ice all rush towards him, but Arahabaki casually redirects their gravity with a flick of Chuuya’s hand. Two men are taken out by the returning fire, like a strong gust of wind to a candle. Their bodies slam with a crunch into the cabin walls and fall to the floor, broken. Chuuya can’t do anything but watch the terrified expressions on the remaining men’s faces as he walks closer, a singularity forming effortlessly in the palm of his hand. Out of the corner of his eye he can see that Dazai is also watching him. His usual bored expression has changed to something that Chuuya can’t quite put a word to, though he doubts it can be anything good. The ability user sends a wall of flames towards Chuuya but they are easily sucked away into the singularity, leaving not a single ginger hair singed. The air inside the cabin smells heavily of smoke. Make it stop. Before he can make another move Chuuya feels his arm swing, hurtling the singularity at the ability user. It hits him in the knees, obliterating his lower body and causing an explosion of matter annihilation. As the dust clears, the man's unmoving upper body can be seen amongst the debris, violet and crimson entrails spilling out onto the rubble. Only one man remains conscious. He crawls away from Chuuya across the shattered floorboards. Nonetheless, another singularity begins to form in his hand, bigger than the last, as he feels a demonic laugh leave his lips. 

“M-monster! Stay away from me!” the man on the floor whimpers. 

There it is. That word again. Monster. 

Chuuya’s skin is crawling as he throws the black void at the man, obliterating him so thoroughly it’s like he never existed to begin with. The resulting explosion blows the roof off the cabin, sending flame and sparks into the clear night air. The moon has set, allowing the vibrant stars to be the heart of the sky. All the men are either dead or unconscious, but even still, 2 new singularities, one in each hand, begin to form. No more. He feels a hand clasp around his wrist and with it, the power coursing through his veins drains away; replaced with asthenia that feels as though it penetrates his very existence. 

“That’s enough, Chuuya,” Dazai says calmly, keeping a firm hold on his wrist. 

The pale blue light of No Longer Human encompasses the two of them casting shadows over the decimated cabin. First Chuuya’s knees buckle before he collapses face first into the floor. He feels as though he’s been hit by a train. His vision begins to fade and he hears Dazai continue to speak but he can’t make out what he’s saying. 

“I was hoping you would eventually be able to stay conscious…” Dazai says as he watches Chuuya pass out cold on the floor. 

Leaving him there, the bandaged boy walks over to the men to ensure they are dead. A job is a job. While none of them are moving, he picks up a gun and, without a moment's hesitation, puts a bullet in each of their heads. 

Bang. Bang. Bang.  

The man they were hunting down is sprawled lifelessly near the burning wall. Dazai hums a tune as he walks over and stomps the man’s face into the floor as hard as he can. The body doesn’t so much as twitch as the man’s nose crunches into the floor and a pool of blood begins to creep out, running along the cracks and natural grain of the wooden floorboards. Unfortunately there are no curbs to be found in the forest. His breath is heavy but his expression is neutral as he flips the body over by the shoulder, presses the gun to the chest, and shoots the already lifeless corpse 3 times. Crimson droplets spray upwards across his chest, staining the white fabric of his collared shirt. How many men has he killed like this now? He’s lost count. 

Tossing the gun aside like a toy he’s grown bored of, he continues humming as he makes his way back to the table they had used as cover. He picks up the black gloves left on the floor and walks back to the unconscious Chuuya, still face down where he left him. Dazai flips the redhead onto his back before grabbing a wrist and lifting it up. He begins to slip one of the black gloves back onto the boy's hand, but pauses part way through, halting his humming, when his eye catches red. There’s a large cut on one of Chuuya’s palms. One of his eyebrows twitch as he gazes at the mark. He hadn’t taken his eyes off him while he was using corruption. Nobody had touched him. The gash spanned the length of his palm ranging from red at the edges to a deep violet at the center. Drops of blood dribbled from a few cracks in the scab. It’s a day old. He wipes the droplets of blood away with his sleeve before he slips the glove on and moves to the other hand. They hadn’t been in any fights yesterday.  

Preparing to leave, Dazai pulls Chuuya’s body onto his back, his arms falling limply over Dazai’s shoulders. 

“Don’t get used to this, Chibi,” he mutters as he adjusts Chuuya against him. 

He’s surprisingly light and Dazai wonders if he has lost weight since he last had to carry him like this. He begins walking with some difficulty through the dark forest on a trajectory for the extraction point. The forest is silent, contrasting the recent loud explosions and gunfire. Dazai’s ears ring from the eardrum abuse. He can feel the rise and fall of Chuuya’s peaceful breaths against his back as he walks.

“It must be nice to sleep during a mission…” he murmurs.

He’s not sure when it started, but he seems to have developed a habit of talking to the red haired boy when he’s unconscious. It is comfortable in a way he can’t describe. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. The night forest air smells of pine and moisture. Suddenly Chuuya twitches. His breaths become short. Laboured. 

“...not human… I wish…” mumbles the unconscious Chuuya. “...everyone’s afraid… can’t… remember…”

His head hangs as deadweight over Dazai’s shoulder as the occasional intelligible word slips from his lips into a bandaged ear.

Though there is no visible change in Dazai’s expression, realization washes over him. So that is still bothering him, after all. 

Humans thrive (on value). 

Chuuya takes a step out into the road, holding his hat down on his head, as a black car with tinted windows slows down in front of him. The bright sunlight causes him to squint. He opens the rear door and slips gracefully inside, his dark coat disappearing last. 

“Sleeping beauty has finally awoken,” the black haired boy on the other side of the backseat murmurs with a hint of a smirk on his face. 

“Shut up, you know better than anybody that it takes me a while to recover,” Chuuya replies, straightening the black jacket draped over his shoulders. “I’m lucky it ended so quickly or it probably would have taken even longer.”

“Are you sure you don’t just like to sleep?” Dazai asks, his smirk widening, causing the bandage on his cheek to crease. 

“Fuck off, Dazai,” Chuuya explodes, crossing his arms in front of him and staring out the window. 

“Is that any way to speak to one of the new executives?” 

Chuuya opens his mouth to continue arguing but thinks better of it before closing it. The car drives in silence for a few moments as he watches buildings flick past the window before he lets out a heavy sigh, touching a hand to the back of his neck. 

“Well, tell me about the job,” he says impatiently. 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Dazai perk up and lean forward towards him, resting his hands on the car seat between them. 

“It’s a hostage situation, with children involved.”

There’s something unsettling about the way he says it.  

“Why do you seem so excited about that, you freak?” Chuuya replies with disdain. 

“It’s just a different type of job than we usually do,” Dazai replies with a shrug. 

He is right about that. With the combination of gravity manipulation and nullification they were usually sent on missions that involved a lot of fighting. Hostage situations were a lot more …delicate. Strange.  

“So who is the hostage?”

“A couple of orphans that were under the Port Mafia’s protection. They were living at one of our safe houses when a man came in ranting about making the Port Mafia pay. He shot the store owner and took the kids. We later received word that he wanted to meet at a specific location to make a deal.”

“Where?”

“The harbor.”

“Hmm,” Chuuya rests his head on the back of the seat. “And do we know who this guy is?”

“That’s the problem, we can’t find any information on him. There were cameras in the safe house but his face didn’t come up in any identification searches. It’s as if he doesn’t exist,” Dazai says thoughtfully, touching a hand to his chin. 

Chuuya’s eyes widen a bit as the other boy speaks. They always had information on the people they were dealing with. He never really knew how Dazai did it, but he always managed to dig something up. Could this be some type of ability?  

“So it’s a trap,” Chuuya replies after a pause. 

“Naturally,” Dazai says cooly. “So let’s just assume they are going to try to kill us when we arrive.” 

The Port Mafia doesn’t usually make deals with abductors. Certainly not when the people abducted were not even family members, but Chuuya understands that this is a matter of principle. This man, whoever he is, has taken something that belongs to the Port Mafia, and in doing so he may well have signed his own death certificate. 

“Mori has asked us to take him alive, if possible,” Dazai continues, as if he could hear Chuuya’s thought process. “Since we don’t know his goal, we will need to extract information from him. We don’t know if this is just one man or an organization at work.”

“Right.” 

With that, the two boys return to watching the scenery out their respective windows with nothing but the rumble of the car as a backdrop. A quarter of an hour passes and the car comes to a stop a few blocks from the harbor. 

“We are going to walk in so that we can try to get a better understanding of what’s going on before we are noticed,” Dazai says as he shrugs off his jacket and begins rolling his sleeves up, exposing his bandaged forearms. 

Chuuya begins to remove his jacket as well. If they are trying to avoid being seen, the black jackets will stand out. That’s as far as he’s willing to go, though. He keeps his hat on. 

The two boys exit the car and make their way down to the oceanfront. The embankment should keep them mostly hidden from view, but they keep their heads down as they walk in silence towards a warehouse in the distance situated on the edge of the bank. It’s a clear sunny day, which doesn’t give them much cover. Chuuya assumes the timing is probably intentional. 

“We will look in one of the windows to try and get an idea of what we are up against,” Dazai mutters as they walk. 

The location of the meeting is at one of the harbor warehouses. The building in question is a large, rectangular, single floor structure constructed of grey cement. They quietly scramble up the side of the embankment towards the closest window. Chuuya takes off his hat and moves his head just far enough in front of the window so that one of his eyes can see in. It’s dark and it takes his eye a minute to adjust. The warehouse appears to be lit from sunlight coming through the windows alone. There are pallets of boxes strewn around the warehouse, but luckily none are obstructing his vision. In the center of the warehouse he can see 2 chairs sitting back to back with small people on them. A dark figure paces nearby, and Chuuya can make out the silhouette of a beretta in their hand. 

“The kids are there, I can only see one-” Chuuya stops muttering abruptly as a door across the building opens, illuminating the hostages and the figure with light. 

The figure appears to be male with black hair. His face is obstructed by a white plastic mask; the kind one might wear on Halloween. He’s wearing black pants and a fitted black turtleneck. The children are not as young as he expected. The bigger of the two, a boy, looks to be only a couple years younger than Chuuya. As his eye adjusts to the bright sunlight streaming through the door he gasps, snapping his head around to look behind him. He’s alone. 

“You idiot,” Chuuya groans as he looks back through the window to see Dazai stepping into the warehouse through the door. 

He never has any idea what that bandaged maniac is thinking. 

The man immediately takes on a defensive position, pointing his gun at Dazai. The boy raises his arms to show he is unarmed. Though he can see his mouth moving, Chuuya can’t hear anything they are saying.

“Fuck,” Chuuya grits his teeth as he considers his options.  

He could cause a diversion, but he can’t risk Dazai getting shot. The best course of action is to get between the two of them. Bullets don’t work on him, afterall. He abandons the window and begins running around the building towards the door. 

Bang. Bang.

Two gunshots break the silence of the empty harbor, sending an uncomfortable jolt through Chuuya’s body. Not good. Chuuya scoops a pebble off the ground as he runs with all his might, applying gravity to his own body to accelerate himself further. He reaches the door to see Dazai on the ground with the man still pointing his gun at him. The warehouse has a familiar musty sweet smell that Chuuya can’t quite place. The man immediately lifts his gun up and shoots twice at Chuuya, but the bullets never reach him. Instead they slow down, a red aura appearing around each. He kicks them swiftly upwards into the ceiling, causing broken glass to rain down on them before throwing the pebble in his hand. He has applied just enough gravity that it should knock the man out but not kill him. The pebble nails the man between the eyes of the mask, cracking it in half and causing him to drop to the ground, unconscious, if he’s estimated correctly. Chuuya runs past Dazai in order to kick the man’s gun far into the warehouse. Once it’s spun across the floor into a dark area, he quickly returns to Dazai, dropping to the floor next to him. He barely feels the glass shards under his knees.  

“Chuuuyaa~” Dazai says faintly. “I feel cold, but… it also feels kind of nice.”

There is blood pouring from one of his shoulders, staining his white collared shirt a deep crimson. Chuuya rips off the sleeve of his own white shirt and ties it tightly around the wound. Dazai lets out a gasp as Chuuya cinches the makeshift bandage. 

“You’ll be fine, just like you always are,” Chuuya says as he secures a blood stained knot in place. “Don’t move.”

He rises to deal with the children next. They have been oddly quiet this whole time, but then again, they must be scared. As he approaches the two sitting in chairs, he can’t help but feel there is something not right about this situation. 

“A-are you going to get us out of here, mister?” the black haired girl asks with large grey eyes.

Her eyes are red and there’s tears staining her face. In contrast, the boy’s facial expression remains neutral. As if he were bored of the situation.  

“Yes, I’m going to take you guys back to the safe… house,” his eyes fall on a box containing a sizable bundle of red cylinders positioned underneath the chairs as he speaks. 

Curled wires of various colors hang in a complex net over the bundle, and there is a large digital timer on top counting down from 2 minutes. The smell… is nitroglycerin. He should have known. His eyes fall next on the chains. The kids are chained to the box. There are 3 different padlocks locking the chains tightly closed. The type of locks that are beyond his ability to unlock. Normally he would just break the chains, but he can’t risk hurting the kids or prematurely detonating the bomb. 

“DAZAI!” Chuuya yells. “Don’t you fucking dare pass out right now!”

He runs back to the boy, still laying crumpled on the floor, and begins slapping his cheek. 

“Hey, wake up, you have to wake up,” Chuuya says hurriedly. 

He can feel a cold sweat beginning on his skin. This is bad. Dazai blinks a couple times. 

“Oh Chuuya, I was just having the most wonderful dream. A beautiful woman was slapping me in the fa-”

“There’s no time,” Chuuya yells, pulling him upright. “You need to pick these locks right now.”

“But I want to continue my dream,” Dazai whines faintly. 

“RIGHT NOW!” Chuuya shouts as he scoops Dazai into his arms and sprints over to the kids. 

He sets the blood drenched boy down on the floor. The clock is now counting down from 1 minute. Chuuya picks up Dazai’s weak arms and touches them to the first lock. Upon feeling the lock in his hand he perks up a bit. 

“Oh I left my lockpicking stuff in my jacket,” he says listlessly. 

“WHAT!?”

He raises a hand, a small metal pick sits between his pointer and index finger. 

“Just kidding,” Dazai mutters through pouting lips. 

“Errgg,” Chuuya has to refrain from hitting him or else he really will pass out. 

The black haired boy takes the first lock in his hand and inserts the pick inside the keyhole. He holds his ear to the lock as he works. 

0:45 remaining.

The first lock pops open and Chuuya quickly throws it to the side before directing the boy’s weak hands to the next lock. He’s struggling to hold up his arm on the side of his wounded shoulder, so Chuuya supports his elbow as he works. His head nods forwards as if he were falling asleep as his fingers maneuver the pick. The black haired girl chained to the chair begins to cry again. 

“Are we going to make it?” she asks tearfully. 

“Don’t worry, it’ll be fine,” Chuuya says in his best attempt at a comforting tone, despite the amount of doubt that’s currently running through his mind. 

0:40 remaining.

The second lock pops open and Chuuya, again, throws it quickly out of the way. Dazai’s head is hanging over his chest, but somehow his limbs still have life in them. Chuuya directs his hands onto the final lock. Come on. He holds his breath as he watches blood stained feeble hands work. 

0:35 remaining.

The small metal pick clinks against the floor as Dazai’s limp hand falls to his side, the other still held in place by Chuuya. 

“Dazai, wake up, you have to wake up,” he begins shaking him. 

No response. 

A loud smack echos through the warehouse as Chuuya backhands him hard across the face. Dazai’s eyes flutter open in surprise as an angry red mark blossoms on the boy's cheek.

“Chu-”

“Shut up,” Chuuya says, putting the pick back in his hands. “Finish this. Now.”

Dazai grasps the metal sliver and begins to clumsily work at the lock. It springs open nonetheless. Chuuya pulls the heavy chains from around the kids and effortlessly throws Dazai over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. 

0:15 remaining.

“We have to run,” he says to the kids, grabbing the girl by the hand. “NOW.”

The three of them run as fast as they can across the dirty cement floor and out the door of the warehouse. They don’t look back. Dazai’s blood seeps down Chuuya’s clothing as he mutters incoherently against his shoulder, the occasional laugh leaving his lips. The blast wave comes some seconds later, knocking them all down onto the pavement. Heat and small pieces of debris run over Chuuya’s body, leaving a few small cuts. He looks back to see a plume of fire and smoke rising from what used to be the warehouse. So much for taking him alive. After he catches his breath, he pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and signals the driver for pick up. 

“Are you alright?” he says to the boy, still holding his hands over his and the girls head. 

“I think so,” the boy says, sounding surprisingly unbothered as he lifts his head up and straightens his plain brown sweater. “Thank you for saving us. My sister and I would be dead if it weren’t for you.”

“Thank you, mister,” the younger girl says gratefully. 

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Chuuya replies dismissively. 

This is his job, after all. 

The car arrives and sirens can be heard in the distance as they pile into the back seat. Chuuya unloads the now completely unconscious Dazai onto one seat before sitting next to the kids on the other side. 

“Take us to headquarters, Dazai needs medical attention right away,” he says quickly to the driver as he feels the car begin to move.

“My name’s Chuuya, by the way,” he says to the kids as he leans back in his seat; an attempt to relax the tension in his body. 

It’s not exactly an ideal introduction with Chuuya covered in blood and soot. The boy has black hair that's longer in the front that curiously fades to silver at the ends. He has his arm wrapped around the girl with long black hair next to him. Both their faces are smudged with soot from the explosion and their skin is mottled with knicks and scratches from the blast. 

 “I’m Ryunosuke, and this is my sister Gin,” the boy replies neutrally. 

Humans feel.

Dazai lies in his hospital bed in the medical area of the Port Mafia headquarters. It is a private room with a decent view overlooking Yokohama, not that he pays much mind to that. A glass of water and a novel titled “The Wild Geese” sits on the bedside table nearby. He’s wearing a light blue, short sleeved hospital gown that’s tied closed at the back. The bullets hadn’t hit anything vital, so they only needed to be extracted from his body and the wounds stitched shut. A couple of blood transfusions later and he is well on his way to recovery. Nonetheless, his left shoulder really fucking hurts. 

The nurse has been giving him morphine if he complains enough, but she is always stingy about it. He unwraps the bandages from his left arm before he pulls a bottle of morphine that he swiped off the nurse from underneath the blankets and begins loading a syringe. Flicking the syringe a couple times, he plunges it into his forearm and injects the clear liquid into his veins. He groans as he leans back on his pillow, his eyes flutter upwards as the wave of euphoria washes over him. He only has a few moments to savor the rush before the door to the room bursts open violently to reveal an angry Chuuya. He’s wearing his usual outfit; short black jacket over a vest and collared shirt, but he’s left the trench coat behind somewhere. His gloved hands are balled into fists and there's fire in his narrowed eyes.  

“Mori just asked me-” he starts angrily but cuts off upon seeing the needle still protruding from the boy's arm and the pile of bandages hanging off the side of the bed. “What are you doing?”

“Oh Chuuya, I think visiting hours are over, you’ll have to come back tomorrow,” Dazai replies in a singsong voice, his words slurring slightly. 

“Bullshit. You know as well as I do that we don’t have visiting hours here.”

“You could have at least brought me flowers, I almost died after all,” he smirks as he sits up and tries to remove the syringe from his arm, but instead knocks it clumsily onto the floor. 

Chuuya watches the syringe roll towards his feet.

“You want to die, though,” Chuuya shoots back. 

“Not like that! I don’t like pain,” Dazai says, crossing his arms. 

“You seemed like you were enjoying it well enough yesterday. It’s your own fault for taking off without me anyways.”

“Chuuya is so mean,” Dazai whines.

“Well, anyways, I came here to ask you about the mission. Mori just asked me about it. As in, he wasn’t the one that ordered the mission,” Chuuya continues suspiciously. 

“That’s certainly odd,” Dazai says neutrally.

He can’t be sure that he’s holding as good of a poker face as usual given the dose of painkiller he just took. 

“Out with it, what the hell was that mission yesterday?” Chuuya growls. “Things aren’t adding up.”

A grin appears on Dazai’s face and he scratches the back of his neck. The best lies have some truth to them. 

“Well the thing is… that man was one of my subordinates,” he starts. “He had it out for me so he kidnapped my orphans.”

“ Your orphans?”

“Yes… I picked them up from the slums recently. The boy has an ability that I believe will be great, with proper training, of course.”

“OK… so we killed one of our own men?” Chuuya replies with uncertainty. 

“Technically he killed himself,” Dazai replies casually. “But you saved the orphans, and me, doesn’t that feel good? You’re a hero.”

Chuuya stares at the boy sitting upright in the hospital bed, eyes unfocused from whatever the hell he just injected himself with. Though Dazai’s tone didn’t contain any sarcasm, he can’t help but feel a malicious intent. What is he playing at?  

“I… guess?” Chuuya replies with disdain. 

He has never seen himself as a hero. In his younger years, The Sheep had told him it was his duty as the strongest to protect them. It was simply expected. Flash forward to now, he is a member of organized crime. Though sometimes the jobs align with saving someone, there are almost always casualties. Not to mention that the people he has saved aren’t good people, nor are the casualties necessarily bad people. Being called a hero makes his skin crawl. He can’t decide if Dazai is intentionally trying to fuck with him or not. 

“Oh… I see,” Dazai replies, his facial expression neutral. 

The two of them remain silent. Dazai, looking out the nearby window groggily, and Chuuya, standing several feet from the bed. Chuuya isn’t sure what to say, but something still feels off. 

Dazai is a pathological liar. Most of the time his lies are advantageous to a greater goal. Some of the time his lies are simply to entertain himself. Shocking even to himself, his current lies have been for neither of those reasons. If the conversation were to end right now, Chuuya would never understand his true intentions, and that is the way Dazai prefers it. Unfortunately for him, the drug is making it hard for him to hold his tongue, leading him to speak one sentence too many.

“Don’t people usually feel good about that sort of thing?” Dazai asks quietly. 

“Is that what this is about?”

Dazai’s only response is to close his eyes. There’s another brief silence as the realization hits Chuuya. 

“Dazai, you didn’t,” he says, outrage building in his voice.  

Silence. 

Chuuya lets out a sharp huff of air. 

“You make me sick,” he says through gritted teeth. “You use everyone around you to get what you want, but this was too far. You literally shot yourself. You just about blew us, and those kids, up!” 

His voice raises with every word, eyes narrow and glassy. As he speaks a red aura appears around him and the floor begins to creak. 

“You can’t just decide how I get to feel about situations. I’m not a computer for you to program.”

“I… must have miscalculated,” Dazai mutters. 

Chuuya laughs humorlessly, glaring at him with contempt. 

“The miscalculation was thinking this was a good idea to begin with. You always just do whatever you want. It’s annoying as fuck.”

Dazai lays back in the hospital bed, focusing his attention on the high white ceiling. He is feeling… something. Due to the drug it feels far away. Hard to place. Though that’s often how his emotions feel anyways. Through the soft caress of the drug there is a heaviness in his chest and heat in his cheeks. 

“Chuuya-” he starts, turning his head back to the boy but the room is empty. 

He sighs heavily and closes his eyes as he continues to consider the situation. It feels as though he is floating in a warm ocean, gentle waves cradling him from side to side. Dazai has been partnered with Chuuya for quite a while now, and as uncomfortable as it is to admit, the red haired boy probably knows him better than anyone else. He’s not used to having someone around who understands him. Really understands him. This never would have happened with another coworker. But then again, he wouldn’t have done this for anyone else. He feels uncomfortable and shifts onto his side to find little relief. He’s known from the beginning that Chuuya is tormented by his murky past, specifically his status as a human. Having Arahabaki contained within him seems to only complicate Chuuya’s mind further. As someone who barely considered himself a human being, Dazai isn’t able to fully understand Chuuya’s struggle, but he does understand humans. They are clay and he is the sculptor. Humans like to feel important and needed; it makes them feel good when they help others. As such, Dazai decided to fabricate a mission that would leave that impression on Chuuya. But it didn’t work. Chuuya isn’t like the others. His stomach suddenly feels too full and pressure creeps up his chest. 

This feeling is… disappointment. 

He leans over the side of the bed and retches, vomiting bile onto the floor. He lays down with his head leaning partially off the side of the bed, the taste of acid on his tongue as he continues to bask in the sweet caress of morphine. 

This is going to be more of a challenge than he thought. 

Humans appreciate.

It’s dark and the forest smells of fallen leaves and morning dew. 

Chuuya bats a branch out of his face irritably. His ginger hair is half plastered to his forehead, the other half is sticking up at weird angles. The wind has blown it into a mess. Up ahead he can hear Dazai crashing through the bushes. 

“You’ve lost your damn mind,” Chuuya grumbles. 

“Isn’t this the sort of thing a normal person would enjoy? An early morning hike through the forest?” Dazai says from up ahead. 

For the bandaged boy, this is more of a late night than an early morning.

“I think you know that neither of us is normal,” Chuuya shoots back, slashing at a bush with his Bowie knife. 

The knife isn’t exactly suitable for this type of work, but it’s all he thought to bring. 

“Have you ever done this before?” Dazai asks, and Chuuya can’t detect any sarcasm in his tone. 

“No,” Chuuya admits, rolling up the sleeves of his leather jacket to his mid forearms. 

Despite the cool morning air, his skin feels hot. Sticks and leaves crunch under each of the boy's steps on the sharply sloped terrain. 

“Then how do you know you won’t enjoy it?”

“I’m not enjoying it now.”

Chuuya can hear a snicker coming from up ahead in the darkness.  

“Me neither,” Dazai replies softly. “It shouldn’t be that much further.”

They continue slashing their way through the bushes, branches catching at their clothing. There was a path they could have taken but Dazai, always having to do things his own way, insisted that this was a short cut.  

It’s been about 2 months since the previous disaster occured. Summer has turned to autumn in Yokohama, bringing with it colorful scenery and cooler temperatures. They had not been called out as a team to deal with any cases, due to Dazai’s condition, in that time. During the down time, Chuuya was assigned to other tasks around the Port Mafia headquarters and Dazai was confined to bed rest. Chuuya had been grateful for the break from his partner. It gave him time to cool off. Though the idea of Dazai trying to manipulate his emotions still sends a shiver down his spine, he’s fairly certain the boy meant for it to be a kind gesture. No matter how ill-placed the scheme may have been. The mind of Osamu Dazai certainly is unorthodox. 

They emerge through the trees at the top of a large hill overlooking Yokohama. The residential areas are largely dark, with only the streetlights dim illumination. Farther to the left, the city center is brighter with many illuminated windows within businesses and skyscrapers. The black towers of the port mafia are also splattered with light. Beyond the harbor, the ocean expands vastly outwards to the horizon. 

Dazai sits down cross legged in the dewy morning grass. His usual white collared shirt is stained with smears of dirt and his sleeves are pushed up unevenly, exposing his bandaged arms. He pulls at the black tie around his neck to loosen it as he breathes heavily. Chuuya sits down a few feet away, knees bent in front of his chest. A faint ember glow of the horizon fades to a soft ginger before the lapis night sky swallows it. The brighter stars in the sky can still be seen, fighting through the growing light of the sunrise. The two boys sit in silence as early morning birds sing songs around them. Chuuya’s eyes feel sore. The kind of feeling where you feel wide awake and tired at the same time. He hasn’t been up this early in years given that a decent portion of his work duties occur in the evening. He wouldn’t be up right now at all if the newly appointed executive, Dazai, hadn’t ordered him to be. He hugs his arms around his knees. 

“Are you going to be ordering me to do things like this often?” Chuuya asks with a touch of exasperation.

“Hmm,” Dazai touches a finger to his chin. “Well, you are supposed to be my dog, after all,” he replies cheerfully.

Chuuya can’t become an executive himself soon enough. 

“Doesn't it feel good? To exercise in the morning? You like exercising,” Dazai continues. 

Chuuya can’t help feeling like this is somehow a trap.

“Not like this,” the red head grumbles. “Is this another one of your plans?”

“No, not this time,” the boy replies, sounding lost in his own thoughts. “I simply… wanted to see what all of the fuss was about.”

“And?”

“Oh look, it’s starting,” Dazai points towards the horizon where a sliver of gold has peaked over the ocean. 

The sky has lightened, snuffing out more stars and displaying a brilliant pallet of fire orange mixing with the blue of the sky and the ocean. They continue to watch the glowing sphere emerge into the sky. Chuuya has never cared much for nature or scenery, but he is surprised by the sense of peace this is bringing him. Not that he would ever admit that to anyone. 

“S-” he goes to make another snarky comment but he stops as soon as he sees the other boy's face. 

Dazai’s deep brown eyes gaze glassily at the sunrise, a look of awe on his face. The corners of his mouth tremble. It looks as though he might cry. 

“Chuuya, it’s beautiful,” Dazai says softly without a trace of sarcasm in his tone, his eyes locked onto the sunrise. “I… had no idea.”

As if this reaction wasn’t surprising enough on it’s own, Chuuya is suddenly exceptionally aware of his own heart beat. He has been working with the boy sitting on the grass next to him for over a year now, and has never witnessed something like this before. No contempt in his eyes. No wicked smile on his lips. Not a trace of malevolent aura about him. For once, he truly seems like a 16 year old as his eyes catch the ember dawn, lips parted in reverence. 

“Y-yeah,” Chuuya says, looking back out at the golden sphere. 

He’s grateful that the morning light has a distinct orange tint to it. Dazai shouldn’t be able to see the flush in his cheeks. 

Humans bond. 

“Stop saying that, it’s creepy,” Chuuya says irritably as he walks a few steps ahead of Dazai down a dim alleyway. 

His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his black leather jacket and he hunches forward a bit in aggravation. 

“It’s true though, your fighting skills are excellent,” the boy replies. “You looked so cool kicking the shit out of them with your hands in your pockets.”

The redhead immediately removes his hands from said pockets. 

“Arrgg,” Chuuya presses on down the alley as he feels heat rise in his cheeks, gloved hands balling into fists at his side. 

Dazai smiles as he follows along, a spring in his step and his black coat trailing behind him. He’s recently learned how flustered Chuuya gets when he praises him, and he’s not one to let an opportunity like this pass. They have just finished a job; a relatively straightforward one. They were sent to scare off a rival gang from Port Mafia turf. It hadn’t been much of a fight before Chuuya had crushed them all into the floor. There hadn’t been any other ability users present, so Dazai mostly just watched, providing him with a great deal of material.

“Let’s drink now that we are finished,” Dazai suggests excitedly.  

“Hm? Where?” Chuuya tilts his head back at the boy.  

Being part of the Port Mafia, the two are no stranger to drugs or alcohol, but they are still under the legal drinking age in Japan, which means they can’t buy alcohol or go to the bar. Without causing a scene, anyways.  

“Your apartment?” Dazai suggests naturally. “I’ll shoplift a bottle on our way.”

“Hmm.. OK but I want red wine,” Chuuya replies. “The good kind.”

It’s been a long time since they have drank together.

“Chuuya is so picky,” Dazai teased, sticking out his tongue. 

“Don’t act like you’re not!” the red head shouts back. 

They emerge from the alley and continue down a main street until they come to a grocery store. A few tables of produce sit outside the sliding glass doors of the entrance. Though they don’t speak before entering, they both know the plan. Chuuya pretends to browse some of the fruits layed out near the entrance of the store, while Dazai makes his way down an aisle to the alcohol. Though Chuuya can no longer see him, he knows that the other boy is shoving bottles into the lining of his trench coat. Chuuya casually walks over a bit closer to the aisle to get a better look. There doesn’t seem to be any store workers nearby. So far so good. Moments later Dazai returns from the aisle and heads for the exit. Out of the corner of his eye the redhead sees a store worker following behind Dazai, causing him to sigh heavily. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to do this. It’s so embarrassing. 

“Ahh!!” Chuuya yells as loud as he can as the produce tables collapse, sending fruits and vegetables careening throughout the grocery store. 

He had applied enough gravity to the top of the table to crush the supports and has positioned himself underneath one of the tables so that it appears it fell on him. The store worker that was following the shoplifting Dazai changes trajectories and dashes to Chuuya, currently buried under asian pears. 

“What kind of a place is this!?” Chuuya yells, trying to act as though he’s in pain.

Multiple nearby shoppers have frozen in place, their attention drawn to Chuuya and the table. Dazai slips out the door unnoticed by anyone else. 

“I’m so sorry, sir, let me get that off of you,” the store clerk, a man only appearing to be a few years older than Chuuya, brushes away the pears and lifts the table off him. 

Chuuya climbs out and pats off his black pants. 

“You’re lucky I don’t sue,” he says bitterly, glaring at the clerk as angrily as he can muster. 

Every visible person in the store is staring at him right now. I hate this.  

 “I’m so sorry, let me get you my boss’s phone number,” the clerk says with panic rising in his voice. 

“No, just forget about it,” Chuuya replies bitterly. “I’m not hurt. Just make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

“Of course, of course,” the clerk stammers. 

He’s still apologizing profusely as Chuuya exits through the sliding glass doors, cheeks burning with heat. He walks about a block before Dazai pops out from behind a bush. 

“Chuuya is such a talented actor,” he says in a singsong tone. 

“Shut up, what kind of wine did you get?” 

Dazai produces a bottle from his jacket and Chuuya wrinkles his nose. It’s a cheap merlot. 

“Did you expect the grocery store to have a lot of options?” Dazai asks in a part-amused-part-condescending tone. 

“Whatever,” Chuuya shrugs. “It’ll get me drunk just the same.”

He takes the bottle and twists off the lid, exposing the cork plug in the neck. He touches the cork and applies gravity, launching the cork upwards out of the bottle and, intentionally, into the side of Dazai’s head. Blue light emanates from Dazai’s temple as the cork loses its artificial gravity and falls to the ground at the normal gravitational acceleration of 9.8m/s2. 

“Impatient are we?” 

“I just made a scene in front of a store full of people. That was fucking embarassing and I need a drink,” the redhead shoots back before drinking directly from the deep violet bottle. 

The two of them continue walking in the direction of Chuuya’s apartment. Dazai balancing along any walls or objects he can jump on, and Chuuya taking the occasional swig of wine from the bottle. The occasional inconsequential conversation topic passes between them, only some of which turns into an argument. When they arrive in front of Chuuya’s apartment, he can already feel a bit of a buzz setting it. It feels like relief. The two of them enter and set up camp in the living room, sitting on the floor in front of the plain black coffee table with a couple of glasses. The living room is a plain space, consisting of a black leather couch, the coffee table, and a TV that Chuuya doesn’t use much. He’s never thought much about decorating the place. Chuuya sets his hat and gloves on the table, and Dazai extracts a bottle of whisky from his jacket, taking a swig before making a face of disgust. The whisky is cheap too. They have been spoiled with expensive liquor as members of the Port Mafia. He pours some into a glass regardless.

“Hey Chuuya, why don’t you ever talk about yourself?” Dazai says, resting his head on the table to stare through the side of his whisky glass. 

“What’s there to say?” Chuuya shrugs, leaning back on his hands. “You never talk about yourself either.” 

Dazai is silent for a moment before he pops his head up and he’s looking excited again. 

“Let’s play a game. We take turns asking questions and if you don’t want to answer the question, you drink.” 

Chuuya considers the suggestion. Knowing Dazai, it could very well be some kind of trap, but he doesn’t think so. Not this time. After all, if he doesn’t want to answer the question all he has to do is drink, and he wants to drink anyways. 

“Alright, but I get to go first,” he replies with a smirk. 

Dazai nods enthusiastically, his black hair bouncing over his forehead and bandages. 

“Where did you come from before you joined the Port Mafia?”

Dazai’s excited expression falters a bit. 

“Chuuyaaa… this is supposed to be a fun game,” Dazai pouts. “Let’s not talk about that.”

He takes a sip from his glass, making less of a face this time. 

“My turn! I want to know what you do in your spare time.”

This is not the question that Chuuya was expecting him to ask. He’s taken aback by the normalcy of it. It couldn’t hurt to answer one question…

“Well… I like to write,” he replies simply, brushing a strand of red hair to the side of his face. 

“Really!?” Dazai leans forward on the table in excitement. “So do I!”

“Really?” Chuuya replies skeptically, his eyes narrowing. 

“What type of things do you write?” Dazai continues his line of questioning enthusiastically. 

“Hey, it’s my turn to ask a question now.”

“Oh, right!”

“I’m stealing your question. What type of things do you like to write?” Chuuya asks with a touch of sass. 

A deep relaxation has washed over him thanks to the wine. He leans an elbow on the table and props his head up with a hand. 

“Oh, this and that. Short stories, I guess. Other people’s lives.”

Not a very satisfying answer, but an answer nonetheless. 

“What about you?” the black haired boy asks. 

There’s a sparkle of hope in his eyes. 

“Poetry,” Chuuya says. “Nothing special, just whatever happens to be in my mind at the time.” 

Dazai nods at the answer and looks at him expectantly. It’s Chuuya’s turn again. 

“Why do you wrap yourself in bandages?” he asks evenly. 

He can’t quite place why he just asked this question. Is it because he knows Dazai won’t answer the question and will therefore have to drink, or does he actually want to know the answer? 

Chuuya can feel the mood shifting as the boy lets out a small laugh, a singular huff of air, before he lifts an arm and begins unwrapping the white strips of fabric. As the bandages fall away, a mosaic of scars comes into view. Some are white and milky, some are pink, and some are fresh, angry, and red. They aren’t just on his inner wrists but the top of his forearms as well. They run up his arms and disappear under the remaining bandages. Chuuya can’t say he’s surprised by this but he still lets out a small gasp upon seeing them. They look… awful. Painful. 

“Why?” Chuuya asks as his eyes grow wider. 

“It’s my turn to ask a question,” Dazai says softly. 

“O-oh, right.”

“Why did you cut your hand?”

It’s Chuuya’s turn to let out a small breath of laughter. The boy who has sliced himself to bits is worried about one cut? Though he has been waiting for this to come up in conversation ever since he woke up from using Corruption with his gloves back on. He briefly glances at the soft pink scar on his left palm. 

“It seems you already know the answer to that,” Chuuya says with a bit of irritation. “I was trying to prove something to myself.”

“That you’re human?”

“Yes.”

“Me too,” Dazai says, gazing at his mutilated arm. 

Before he can suppress the impulse, Chuuya reaches across the table and runs his hand lightly over the scars on the top of his forearm. The boy doesn’t flinch or move his arm away at his touch. His skin is warm and the scars feel unevenly ridged under his fingertips. 

“Did it help?”

A stupid question, but Chuuya can’t think of what else to ask. 

“I think it did the opposite,” Dazai’s voice is quiet. “If I’m human, why do I… enjoy it? Why can’t I stop myself?”

He sighs heavily and takes a sip of whisky even though he’s answered the question. 

“Humans aren’t supposed to want to hurt themselves,” he states sadly. 

His words are profoundly rhetorical, and the two of them sit in silence for a few moments before Chuuya retracts his hand.

“Chuuya?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you read me one of your poems?” he asks candidly. 

There’s something uncharacteristic about the way he’s spoken. It’s not like Dazai to be so genuine. Chuuya is taken aback by his raw vulnerability. His deep brown eyes appear to be a touch misty as they meet with his own deep blue ones. Though Chuuya has never put much thought into sharing his work, he feels compelled to nod his head. 

“Alright, just let me go get my journal,” he says, pressing himself up from the coffee table. 

Chuuya leaves the living room briefly to retrieve his writing journal – a small leather bound book, from his bedroom. His body feels light as he walks through the apartment; not an uncommon feeling for a gravity manipulator, but he isn’t using his ability at this time. When he returns he finds Dazai laying on the floor staring at the ceiling. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to begin drinking on empty stomachs. He returns to sitting on the floor next to Dazai. The boy hasn’t bothered to rewrap his arm, and a long bandage, still attached somewhere beneath his shirt, trails across the floor. 

“Are you still awake?” Chuuya asks. 

“Of course,” Dazai mumbles softly, rolling over so his forehead rests against Chuuya’s hip. 

“I’ll start reading, then.”

Chuuya opens his book, and begins reading the most recent poem he has finished. 

Young Beast’s Song

Dark night in a field of deep grass;

a beast in a jar, 

striking flint, made stars;

mixing winter, the wind moaning.  

Then, the beast didn’t look at anything

apart from the castanets and moonlight, 

cuddling the stars that never awoke,

inside the jar, receiving blasphemy. 

The words flow smoothly from Chuuya’s lips, soothing his soul. He speaks in a manner that is slightly different from his normal speech; a low, even tone. Poetry has always brought him a great sense of peace. Emotion touches his eyes as they follow the lines of words with glassiness. Dazai hums happily next to him, allowing Chuuya’s words to wash over him.

Memory became a lamp like after rain, 

hugging the wind’s shoulders, waving. 

Ah, a bewitching tale - 

and the slave became as beautiful as a queen. 

The young prince’s smile like an eggshell and

the dull-witted child’s white blood cells

in their way made the beast scared. 

In the dark night, in the field of deep grass, 

a beast’s heart was smoldering.

In the dark night, in the field of deep grass - 

in antiquity, even soliloquy was beautiful…!

Dazai hums again, his eyes closed, when Chuuya finishes. 

“Are you the beast?” he asks sleepily. 

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Chuuya says softly, taking his eyes off the page to look at the ceiling. 

Dazai lets out a laugh, his forehead pressing harder into the redhead’s leg. 

“It’s a good poem,” he says with a bit more coherence, his brown eyes flicking up at Chuuya. “Will you read me another one?”

Like some type of fucked up bedtime story, Chuuya flips through his journal and recites a few more poems with Dazai drunkenly listening at his side. His responses get quieter until he’s asleep on the floor. Chuuya puts his journal down on the table and takes a look at him. He’s moved into a fetal position now, still curled towards Chuuya. He doesn’t look particularly warm in just his white collared shirt and black pants, but the alcohol is likely taking care of that. 

“You could have at least moved to the couch, idiot,” Chuuya says quietly, moving a piece of his black hair out of the way of his eye. 

He grabs the boy behind the shoulders and legs to move him onto the couch. 

“Ne Chuuya, I think I can feel it,” Dazai mumbles, his head hanging to the side as Chuuya lifts him up. 

“Feel what?” Chuuya asks. 

“I feel… human,” the black haired boy breathes sleepily, a grin on his lips. 

He’s asleep again before Chuuya can even consider a reply. He sets the boy down on the couch and throws his black trench coat over top of him. Out the window of his apartment darkness hovers around the streetlamps, bringing with it the stillness that only night can hold. Chuuya takes one more look at the boy sprawled over his couch. When sleeping he seems so innocuous. So fragile with his damaged body. So…  human. Looking at him now, it is hard to fathom his atrocities. Just as I am. He flicks the lights out as he heads for his room, plunging the apartment into blackness. 

The breeze on the night air sings of nurtured souls.