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It is said that his ancestors have completed a deal with a demon. In exchange for having impeccable luck, strong magical reserves and daunting longevity of their Clan’s influence: all members of the Tsushima Clan are fated to be killed by the person they love most.
Of course, Dazai thinks that it’s a simple fairytale propagated by the Elders. It’s true that a lot of their clan members are murdered, but he supposes that blaming an ancient demon for infighting is one way of appearing pristine and blameless in the eyes of others.
That said, it doesn’t really matter to him.
Life or death doesn’t really matter to him. His only stipulation about being killed is that he doesn’t want it to be painful or annoying.
A simple, quick demise.
It’d be nice if it can be interesting—dying with a smile on his face is a nice thought. It’d be even better if he’s surrounded by beauty while it happens. A beautiful face being the last thing he sees—that would make his entire stay in this earth as a human being to have some sort of meaning, probably.
All that said, it’s nigh-impossible to attain his wish.
After all, it seems that he really has acquired impeccable luck, strong magical reserves and daunting longevity. It has come to the point that he doesn’t even have to lift a finger, and a magic barrier will automatically surround him and protect him against an attack.
Worse, now everyone in the Tsushima Clan is accusing him that he’s that ancient demon appearing to collect on his dues.
“So,” he claps his hands together after explaining his situation. “I’m going to stay at your house for the time being. Your bed is tiny, but that will do.”
A bookbag is swung towards the direction of his forehead. Dazai feels the automatic formation of the magical barrier, but the person in front of him is such a brute that not even superior magic wants to be in direct contact with him.
The bookbag bumps his forehead, and it’s with a strong-enough force that he winces and makes moaning sounds of distress.
“Quit whining, you big baby. I didn’t even hit you that hard!”
He raises his hands to his face, rolling all over the bed while exclaiming, “Tiny gorilla! Tiny ogre! Tiny slug!”
“Stop calling me tiny!”
The violent chibi in front of him is the tiniest human he knows who has the same age as him. Before Dazai has escaped from his clan, he used to just laze around and occasionally attend school so he doesn’t get bored out of his mind.
School is boring, but he doesn’t really care for the lessons. Making Kunikida-sensei’s veins pop is interesting. Listening to Atsushi’s crush to the sleeping beauty in the infirmary is amusing—especially since he hasn’t seemed to notice that Akutagawa isn’t a girl. It’s even funnier when there’s Higuchi who also hasn’t seem to have noticed that Gin isn’t a guy.
Most interesting of them all: the sports jock plus delinquent stereotype, who also is somehow the top student and the type who’d help grandmas cross the road.
Chuuya could play any sports with ease, could send different sports teams to the Nationals, could beat up anyone who’d try to bully anyone from their school, while also maintaining the best grade in the whole cohort.
When asked how he can do it, his only reply is a befuddled face and a, “Ha? It’s easy once you just do it.” Instead of getting stabbed for such an irritating answer, this has only increased his prestige.
…Anyway, Dazai likes mooching off him. And annoying him in the process. Now, he just wants to be a more permanent mooch, that’s all.
Even though he has the best grades in the cohort—not counting Dazai, of course, but that’s because he doesn’t even bother writing any answers in his tests—the slug’s brain is quite small. So, it’s important to explain things to him in a way that’s easy to understand.
“But Chuuya! You already feed me lunch and occasionally dinner—”
“—against my will! You keep on stealing my bento’s contents!”
“—so, it’s not that much of a change if I just stay here, and you permanently give me three meals, a roof over my head, wifi for my games, money for snacks and other purchases,” he finishes past the other’s interruptions.
Sputtering full of disbelief. “That’s a lot, oi!”
“Yup,” he agrees with another clap of his hands. “So you have to work hard, chibikko!”
“You bastard—!!!”
Despite this bickering, Chuuya doesn’t actually try too hard to kick him out of his house. It’s fairly big, but it doesn’t feel lonely even though the shorty’s parents are apparently too busy with their jobs abroad. The two-floor house always feels vibrant and alive, with the chibi’s rock band posters on various walls, with his yelling crystal clear even from three rooms away.
They have pretty much complete reign for the entire house. The only place that they never dare touch is the bedroom of Chuuya’s parents. He’s only heard about them from the chibi’s stories, but his fathers are apparently working in top-secret government work. Dazai doesn’t want to deal with nasty surprises if he ever sneaks in there, so he’s left it alone.
Plus, there are other ways of vexing the slug than deliberately messing with his parents’ belongings.
After a week of permanently staying in Chuuya’s home, he points out, “Oh, you haven’t really questioned whether I was speaking the truth about magical powers.”
“I believe you,” is the shorty’s easy answer.
They’re on the opposite ends of a two-seater sofa, game consoles in their hands. Today, they’re actually playing in co-op mode instead of fighting each other—which means that their team hasn’t progressed much, given that they’re still trying to trip each other’s characters.
He raises his eyebrows at this reply. He shifts so that he’s looking at Chuuya more closely, the silly chibi resolutely staring at the screen while biting his lower lip in concentration.
“Wow, are you trying to act cool?”
“You’re such a gloomy person and you absolutely have no imagination.” A heavy eyeroll. “You wouldn’t have been able to craft such a background story for yourself.”
He makes a protesting noise, but he remembers all the times that he’s just copied Chuuya’s creative writing assignments. Oops. “But I’m smarter than you, so I could just lie and your tiny mind can’t catch it.”
“Then there’s no point suspecting you,” retains its easy tone. “If I wouldn’t be able to know the difference anyway, then it’s just the same as believing you.”
His eyebrows rise higher. “Such a pessimistic answer doesn’t sound right coming from you.”
“It just means that the end result is the same.” A shrug. “Piss me off too much and I’ll just beat you up.”
He frowns at this reply, but it does sound more like the slug. Someone straightforward enough that he wouldn’t bother thinking and fretting about manipulations, because he’s strong enough to just kick the problem to the ground if necessary.
On the next school day, he skips his morning classes after walking Chuuya to his desk and planting several pranks on it.
He sneaks back to the stronghold of the Tsushima Clan. At the cloying heaviness of spells woven all over the area, he wrinkles his nose. Magical power isn’t something that most humans will ever manage to know in their lives.
It’s a lot more common in the past, but a lot of the things that can be done by modern technology also seem like magic. ‘Seem’ being the operative word. There’s something more primal in actual magic, one that opens the doors to the supernatural.
Ghosts, demons, ogres, vampires, kitsune, sirens—those are just a few of the things that exist in this world while unnoticed by most humans. Supposedly because of that old deal with a powerful devil, the Tsushima Clan has attained the height of magical power that can be wielded by humans.
Previous generations have worked as diviners, as spiritual doctors, as fortune-tellers, as shrine maidens. They’ve been employed by the most powerful leaders and businessmen, in order to help bolster the fortune of their dealings.
Dazai has no interest in such boring things. Really, being suspected that he’s a demon and subsequently being chased out has done him more good than harm.
…Anyway, the only reason he snuck back here is so he can get the rest of his important belongings. He didn’t bring much when he decided to mooch from the slug. He doesn’t have any great attachments to a bunch of things, but he’s buried 27 notebooks full of grievances about Chuuya in the backyard nearest to his old room.
He doesn’t want to let anyone from the Tsushima Clan to touch it. After all, those grievances are just between him and the slug.
It’s easy enough sneaking in, but—
“Oh, it’s Dazai-kun,” is said with just the right amount of dull surprise. “Can you still be called ‘Dazai-kun’ when you’re surrounded by such heavy demonic aura though?”
Dazai smiles sweetly. “I think that you’re just smelling the scent of your own bullshit, Fyodor-kun,” before he hops away in a whirlwind of magic on his feet.
Several strips of talismans are flung towards his forehead. He dodges them easily, because they’re not casted with maximum strength. The intent is simply to seal his movements—that kind of softness can be evaded easily.
He diverts his path towards several strings of parks and playgrounds. The inherent cleansing energy of flora and fauna also helps dull any trace of one’s own magic signature. The bright and loud energies amassed from smiles and laughter—something in abundance amongst the youth—also work in muting one’s presence.
By the time he’s finished leading any pursuers astray, it’s already time for the last bell, so he shrugs and just makes his way back to Chuuya’s home. He texts the slug about wanting to eat crab hotpot, knowing that it will make the tiny man blow up at him, like always.
Perhaps there’s something about fate.
Today, Chuuya takes longer than usual to walk back home. Probably because without Dazai hovering around him, his dog ends up amassing a bunch of hangers-on, chatting with him without reservations. They’d probably insist on going to karaoke with Chuuya, or eating with him on the Lawson at the intersection.
Chuuya is many things, but selfish isn’t one of them. He’d try to indulge others as much as he could. He’d set a time upon which he’d need to really go, but he’d try to give everyone what they need, including his attention and care.
…How annoying.
Dazai jots that down as the beginning of his 28th grievance notebook.
Perhaps there’s something about fate.
The unpleasant encounter with Dostoevsky—apparently working now with the Tsushima Clan, blergh—and Chuuya being late in getting back home to him. Two things that are pushing at his boredom, at his desire to do something that would ease the hollowness creeping up inside him.
He has impeccable luck, strong magical reserves and daunting longevity. Even if Chuuya screeches at him later, he can just hug him until he runs out of steam.
With that in mind, he hops to his feet and goes to sneak into the one room that he’s never been to in this house.
Fiddling with the lock is easy enough. He pushes the door open with a yawn.
He stops, mid-yawn, eyes suddenly wide as he looks at the person in the middle of the room.
“It really is fate,” Chuuya says from behind him, and then his vision turns black.
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It’s a very ordinary room in a very ordinary home. Of course, rooms tend to have unique décor that hits the balance between the utility of said room, and personal quirks of the owner.
Chuuya reclines lazily against the bed’s headboard, one hand idly leafing through a pile of notebooks. He snorts at nearly all of the entries, gloves removed so that his fingertips can directly caress each line etched unto paper.
There’s an entire galaxy of runes written on the high ceiling. It spills like a stellar cloud to the walls, to the windows, to the floor. Aside from a bed, the only other thing inside this room is a floating glass coffin, with a shitty Sleeping Beauty inside it.
He has only done redecoration once here. That’s to replace a wingback armchair with a bed. After all, he’s not the type to deny himself comfort, especially while waiting.
Dazai’s unconscious and soulless body is laid out beside him. With his free hand, he plays with the other’s hair, occasionally pinching his nose and earlobes. He thinks about writing various things on his face—as payback for the other times that the other has done the same to him—but he’s quite engrossed with making disgusted faces at the grievance notebooks that he’s reading.
“I wonder what skill I’d learn next,” he murmurs to himself.
Living in this world for so long and there are still so many things that he hasn’t done at an expert level. He supposes that he can thank Dazai for this continued opportunity.
A long, long, long, long, long time ago—
Chuuya used to be a child that was sacrificed by a certain Clan, in order to make a deal with a devil. In exchange for the Clan gaining luck, strength and longevity, the child was to be devoured by the devil.
However, the devil was lazy and wanted to do anything else but staying as a devil. He tired of dealing with humans who couldn’t understand the concept of equivalent exchange.
And so, he made a deal with the child:
“Let’s fulfill each other’s wishes.”
Chuuya becomes the devil instead, and he gets to spend a long time exploring the world, something that he hasn’t managed to do while he’s been trapped by that Clan.
Dazai stops being a devil, and he gets to experience exciting and unexpected ways to die, courtesy of Chuuya.
The cycle repeats over and over again, a never-ending game that they enjoy for an eternity.
Eventually, he finishes reading through the notebooks. He feels Dazai’s face start to grow warm, which means that his reincarnation is about to be completed, his soul about to return to his body. Satisfied with this, Chuuya lies down and holds the other’s body close.
They have a running competition as to how fast can Dazai find him and worm his way into his life. On his side, his bet is about how unexpected he can end the cycle, especially with how much the fishy bastard likes surprises.
“I wonder how fast you’ll be able to find me this time?”
He can’t wait to find out.
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end