Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The day of Chuuya’s birth is marred with shooting stars and crusted scars.

Dazai is seven at the time. He sits on the ledge of his bedroom window, legs swinging heavily and fists gripping his blanket tight, watching in wonder as the sky lights up. The sun has already set, but the sky is exploding with reds, oranges, pinks, greens. Purple washes over them all, and the meteors rocket past, tens of hundreds of thousands. He’s never seen anything like it, and while a small part of him is scared of it all, there’s a larger half that yearns to touch, to see it up close, to become a part of the world. But the bandages covering every inch of his arms, fresh and thick and swelling with blood, say otherwise. He is mortal, they seem to remind him, taunting behind wicked whispers. He is human. There is blood running through his veins, no matter how much of it he loses every day. He is human.

He is human, unlike the heavens.

He can hear the servants behind him, whispering with covered mouths, fear shuddering through their voices. He never bothers to listen to their gossip—it bores him—but this once, he finds he just might. There goes the birth of that demon, they say, harsh edges creeping over the final word. He’s back, then, is he? I wish he’d just stay away. That monster.

It’s only a few seconds before the sky returns to normal, greys and blues and pale whites. The servants’ gossip becomes boring again. Dazai is young, and over time, he forgets all about it.

Ougai likes to keep him busy.

He stands in the doorway, back straight, kimono crisp and clean and smelling of money. His hair, for all his riches, still falls limp and greasy into ruby-red eyes. His shadow is a spindly thing, reaching out with sharp claws and digging into Dazai, pulling him back, forcing him into training and lessons he doesn’t want to do. He’s an influential man, or so the village claims. He’s an important man, built from powerful people. His last name is Mori, an established clan in the land. His ancestors were the ones who first settled this land, descendants of the stars and wielders of ancient magic. There are many artifacts displayed throughout the house, a casual show of wealth, a sharp reminder of strength. Dazai’s favourite is the doll sitting on the small shelf in the dining room. She wears a red dress and striped tights, her tight curls and blue eyes the epitome of youth. Sometimes, he likes to pretend she’s real. He’ll sit and talk to her for hours, telling her all about his day. In his mind, she’ll reply in kind, and they’ll have all sorts of adventures together, rather than being stuck inside Ougai’s stuffy house all day.

Ougai is not his father. He never has been, and he never will be.

He hails from the Tsushima Clan, his tutors tell him. A clan just as powerful as the Moris, although it’s been years since they’ve last existed. He’s the last one, they say, sorrow shining in their eyes. The death of a titan. Nobody could have ever seen it coming. People of such prowess, such force, dead before the night is over. Dazai was not even one. They were the ones who hung the moon, who placed the sun in its everlasting rotation, who were granted blessed gifts from the ones beyond the stars. Late at night, he asks himself how they could have ever left him behind like this. In the darkness of his own room, he wonders what he could have done to the universe to deserve a fate like this. When nobody’s looking, he whispers the name to himself. Tsushima, Tsushima, Tsushima. It doesn’t make him smile, but it doesn’t make him cry, either. He hasn’t felt a connection with the name in years. By the time he was three, Ougai had taken to calling him Dazai, Dazai Osamu. A more neutral name, he says. Not yours, not mine. Dazai doesn’t have much of an opinion on it.

He doesn’t have much of an opinion on anything anymore.

Six months later, the sky bursts into flames again.

This time, it’s in the middle of the day. Dazai sits in an empty room, table in front of him, blank paper and inkwells placed in front of him. His tutor is attempting to convince him to write out basic kanji he already knows. Ougai stands in the corner of the room, observing with a strange smile. Dazai’s eyes are on the window, dulled with boredom, but they widen when the room is enveloped in warm glows. The sky brightens with every color of the rainbow, before settling on red. Cracks of lightning ripple through the air, leaving no trace on the earth. The sun seems to largen, but that might just be his eyes. Then, in a flash, the trance is broken, and everything returns to normal.

His tutor’s skin is ashy and pale. Ougai’s expression is colder than ever.

Dazai wants nothing more than to embrace the sky. He wants to dance with the sun, to sing with the moon, to cradle the stars. He feels a pull, deep inside his chest, as if he belongs up there, just another constellation in the night.

The birth of that demon. He’s back, then, is he? 

Monster.

This time, he doesn’t forget.

He asks Ougai about it, later, when they’re alone. They sit in the empty dining room, silent save for the sound of chopsticks scraping against bowls and the slurping of noodles. He catches the doll’s eyes, and nods once. She agrees with him, in his mind. She pushes him to speak his mind, and so he does.

“Such trivial matters are not important to people like us, Dazai. Do not preoccupy yourself with the servants’ gossip, or I will need to adjust your schedule. Do I make myself clear?” He does not even look up from his dish, as if Dazai has asked the most stupid question he could. It brings fire to his bones.

“They called it the birth of a demon,” he tries again. “We’re the rulers of this land, are we not? Is a demon not a problem to us?”

Ougai sighs. He places his chopsticks down. “If I answer your questions, will you stop pestering me about such things?”

Dazai is all too quick to agree. His blood hums. It sings as it rushes through his body, and he can feel himself growing with anticipation. 

“The sky is controlled by the firm hands of clan members,” he begins. “But this control can be stolen by demons, as you know. The deaths of the Tsushima Clan—” Dazai doesn’t miss the tightening of his hands, “—caused issues amongst control of the sky. My father, the ruler at the time, had been weak, and allowed the sky to be stolen by a demon. His name is Arahabaki, and he rose for the first time in centuries seven years ago. I managed to suppress him, but it appears he’s back for vengeance.” He takes a sip of green tea, not even fazed by the story he spins. “Once again, you need not worry yourself with this matter. I will take care of it. Do I make myself clear?”

Later, Dazai will have wished he had asked more. But he’s young, and generally uncaring, so he stays silent. The humming under his skin has ceased, and the incessant tug has vanished. For the next year, he remains silent, following Ougai’s orders, sharpening himself into the perfect weapon.

Then Yumeno is born.

Things change, then. Ougai grows even colder, if such a thing was possible. He backhands Dazai early one morning, and he’s certainly awake from the sting of the slap. You will only refer to me as Mori, he says. It’s not the first time Dazai has been struck, but it’s the first time it’s happened outside of training hours. He’d thought that during these periods of lull, he was safe.

Clearly, he’d been wrong.

Yumeno is still a baby, and they haven’t done anything to wrong him, yet. Still, Dazai finds himself resenting them, resenting the way his house has changed with their appearance. More and more tutors hired, more and more quitting or being fired. Yumeno is a difficult baby, the servants whisper. A demon of a child.

Whenever he hears them speak like this, it brings back memories of Arahabaki. On the day of Yumeno’s birth, the sky had not exploded, not even a tiny bit. Granted, Dazai hadn’t been there—Yumeno was stolen away from a young maiden not even twenty, fatherless and alone—but he’s sure he would have felt something, like he did with Arahabaki. Instead, there was nothing.

Not even a whisper.

Training grows more harsh. The rumours surrounding Yumeno’s birth and their difficult demeanor are growing, and Mori seems to be taking his anger out on Dazai. His blood levels creep lower and lower. The doctors begin to warn him, claiming that he can’t take much longer before they’ll drop to worrying levels. Mori doesn’t listen, and Dazai doesn’t care enough to protest. Life has never been the nicest to him, and Dazai’s never cherished it the way most people do. With the way things have been going recently, he doesn’t think he’d really mind if he bled out, red stark against pale skin. In fact, he thinks he’d look rather beautiful. Mori keeps trying to get him a portrait. He’d much rather get painted in the tragedy of death.

But everything passes, and these difficult years do, too. Yumeno turns four, and Mori starts their training (they’re contracted to a demon, it turns out, which explains the lengths Mori went through to take them. Children being contracted is rare). Dazai is thirteen. It has been six years since Arahabaki’s first exploit. Yumeno’s behaviour only seems to grow worse with time, and while it drives Mori to the brink of murder, Dazai’s enjoying it, really. It brings a sort of entertainment to the cold, empty house. Yumeno is larger than life, and now that the two of them aren’t separated, Dazai finds himself caring about his younger sibling.

“Where did you come from?” he asks, one day. Yumeno is playing with a doll, bald and wrapped in bandages lent to them by Dazai. In his own hands lies the blonde doll, whose name is Elise, he’s learned. 

“What do you mean?” they reply, voice muffled by their doll. “I came from a village so small there’s no name. Where did you come from?” Dazai finds himself fighting a smile. Yumeno is mature for their age, really, but there are still moments when childishness shines through.

“Well, if you really want to know, I’m from the all-powerful Tsushima clan,” he says dramatically. “My ancestors created the moon! Do you really think you can compete with that?”

Yumeno is quiet. They sit there in silence, eyes never straying from their doll, cheeks growing more and more red with every passing moment. “My mother used to call me a protector,” they say finally, so quiet Dazai can barely hear them. “She used to say I would bring peace to the land. That's all I can remember about her.”

Their words hit harder than he’d intended. The question had been one of boredom, but the answer had been more thoughtful than a four-year old should be able to conjure. Yumeno is not like the others, he tells himself. They’re strong. Stronger than he is, that’s for sure. He doesn’t doubt for a second they have the strength to protect the land.

A protector. 

A ruler.

A demon.

Later that night, he lies in bed, watching the moon through his window. And he wonders which one of these three titles he’d most like to have.

He finds, early the next morning, he can’t decide.

+

The day of Chuuya’s birth is seared in unstoppable fires and unimaginable pain.

He’s seven at the time. He had been nothing, and then suddenly, he had been fabricated into something. His skin peels, lit on fire, as he pulls himself from the cracked sky, dripping with molten stars and sticky clouds. Blood pulses tightly beneath it. Strands of red fall into his eyes, blurred and running with tears. With a war cry, he gives one final push, and the sky gives one final crack.

He falls.

He falls through clouds, towards the trees, towards the water, towards the earth. The sky stares back at him, plain and dark and normal, as if he hadn’t broken free from its cage only moments before. The light that accompanied his arrival has vanished, as has the pain. The fires on his skin still rage on, but inside, all he feels is the same nothingness he was before he existed. He hurtles towards the ground, and not a single tree bends to break his fall. He slams into the earth, forming a crater the size of a young boy. A child, really, not even an adult. Although, can most children say they were birthed from the unending fire and the unbending sky? Can most children say they were forged from the deepest regrets and the most haunting fears?

He doesn’t think most adults can say that, either.

There is nobody to help him as he picks himself up from the rubble. The earth around his sleeping form is cracked and splintered. He gives this place, his first settlement on the ground, one final look, before turning his back and walking away. He wears a red yukata, dusted and dirty from his crash landing. Luckily, all the constellation mucus seems to have evaporated in his descent. Looking like nothing more than a young boy out playing too long, he starts his journey to find humanity. He knows they don’t want him. The demon inside of him is cruel, he knows, and demands to be let out, to chew up and spit out the people of this land. After all, he worked so hard to find an appropriate vessel. The least he should do is be appreciative, and give up his body.

But Arahabaki has underestimated Chuuya’s will to live. It burns in his chest, a deep, carnal desire to be known, and he refuses to do anything until he’s formed a makeshift life for himself. And so Arahabaki is shoved down as deep as he can, the trunk lid locked tight, and he comes across a small village.

The people there are nice. When he shows up, shoeless and motherless, they instantly take to him, washing his hair and cleaning his clothes and putting warm rice in his stomach. There’s a vote to see who will take him in. It ends when a young woman, hair a bright beacon and eyes a kind rose, steps forwards. A hush falls over the village. She’s draped in colorful silks, and an extravagant kimono much too nice for the situation at hand. She must be powerful, Chuuya thinks. Rich. Why in the world would she ever want to take care of somebody like him?

But for whatever reason, she does, and when she places an arm around his shoulder, something just… clicks. Kouyou Ozaki is a strong woman. The Ozaki Clan is a minor one, but she’s the most gifted member they’ve had in centuries, and she wears this with pride. The Diviner of the West, they call her. Or so she says. But Chuuya has heard a different title, one from a time long passed, a time when the world was a dangerous place and Kouyou was a ruthless woman, doing anything to survive. The Golden Assassin. She made a contract with a demon, the old women at the market say, one who slaughters anybody in her path. She did it for love, they whisper, nothing but fear in their voices. She did it for yearning. She did it for the young woman with amber eyes and a haunted shadow. They never get too far in their stories before Kouyou shows up, lips pursed and eyes full of hate. Chuuya doesn’t mind. Kouyou is kind to him, and he’s never met anybody like her before (not that he’s met many people in his short-lived life). She treats him like her own son. She might only be twenty-six, but Chuuya doesn’t care. Sometimes, he believes he was made to meet her. The sky mangled his limbs and broke his mind, but it was all worth it, because now he sits on a tatami mat, head in her lap, watching the sun set. He wouldn’t give this up for the world.

Six months later, Arahabaki breaks free.

He doesn’t know how it happens. One moment, he’s comfortably relaxed, wearing soft silks given to him by Kouyou; the next, his nerves are on fire, there are ants in his hair, and the house is on fire. The demon inside of him has broken the lock, and emerged large and powerful. His skin is red, he realizes, a deep crimson, that looks eerily like blood. There are horns cracking out of his skull. They hurt, he thinks belatedly. Everything hurts. The sky, bright and swirling with colors, calls out to him. He reaches out an angry red hand, sharp claws instead of fingers, and clamps down. 

The world becomes red in the blink of an eye.

Somebody screams. It’s not him. It sounds distinctly female, and while he knows it’s not Kouyou, he snaps out of it all the same. He has to fight this. He can’t let the demon inside win, or everything will be lost. He is more than a vessel. He is more than a monster. He is more than a demon.

He is human. He is human, human, human. It’s about time he acts like it.

Somehow, amid the mess of it all, he manages to command it. Arahabaki is shoved down once again, this time with several locks on the trunk. He promises himself not to lose control again. He can’t afford it. The house is untouched, pristine walls and clean floors. He could have sworn that moments ago, the entire place was alight with flames, but the less damage he does, the better off he is. So he forgets all about it, forgets about the horns protruding from his head, the scarlet of his skin, the claws on his hands. The servants have all turned and run. He supposes his secret’s out, then. He begins to pack. It’s only a matter of time before Kouyou comes to kick him out.

“Where are you going, lad?”

He stiffens. She’s faster than he expected.

“Leaving,” he says quietly. “You must have uncovered my secret. I doubt you’re still willing to let a demon like me stay in your house.” The words are more bitter than he’d intended, but there’s nothing to do about it. This is just the way his life goes. 

“Are you so sure about that?” she replies smoothly, as if they’d been discussing what’s for dinner tonight. “I’m much more… accepting than others in this village may be.”

He scoffs. “Accepting enough to let a world destroyer live under your roof?”

“Not everything the vendors at the market say is wrong, Chuuya.” Her voice grows soft, and if he turned around, he’s sure he would see her eyes crinkling with kindness, hands held out in front of her. “I have fought in the past. I may be nothing but a Diviner at the moment, but there was a time…” she sighs wistfully. “There was once an age where I stole lives. I was death’s first lieutenant. In fact, you’re not the first demon I’ve ever met. I held a contract with one, once.”

Now, this surprises him. Yes, the people talk, but he was never one to listen. However, Kouyou confirming the rumours herself? He finds himself drawn in, intrigue wrapping around him like a warm blanket. “What was their name?”

“Her name was Kin,” Kouyou whispers. “She was known as the Golden Demon. Once upon a time, she had been my best friend.”

And just like that, he finds that he understands. Chuuya doesn’t much like Arahabaki, especially with all the problems he causes, but he can’t deny a feeling of kinship amongst the two of them. When it comes down to it, really, it’s Chuuya and Arahabaki against the world. There’s only one thing who can guarantee to stay by his side, and it’s the demon inside of him. The situations may be slightly different, but deep down, he knows he understands. Kouyou does, too.

He begins to unpack. Kouyou lets out a broken laugh of relief. The servants continue to avoid him, scared half to death and whispering awful stories. He doesn’t go out as much, and Kouyou begins to train him in the art of killing. For self-defense, she claims. Chuuya doesn’t argue. The only reason there hasn’t been a manhunt for him yet is because of Kouyou and the influence she wields. In order to survive, he’s going to need to know how to fight. After training sessions, he sits in her lap, and she reads him fairy tales. Time passes. He turns ten, a milestone he didn’t think he would ever hit. They celebrate with a trip to the mountains, to the northernmost peaks. Chuuya finds he quite enjoys the nature. Arahabaki does, too. They form a sort of understanding, even if he’s not sure how it happens. But the demon inside of him doesn’t try to break loose again, so he considers that a victory.

Then along comes Kyouka.

He turns thirteen when it happens. It’s been six years since his impromptu birth. He’s spent the entire time with Kouyou, tucked away in her mansion behind the village, ignoring the scornful stares he receives from the townspeople. He’s been training long enough that he could kill a man twice his size with ease; he’s even worked out a contract with Arahabaki, just like the one Kouyou once had with Kin. In order for a taste of human blood, he can use some of Arahabaki’s infinite pools of energy, drawing strength from his destructive magic. In small doses, it’s extremely useful, and Kouyou claims he’s even stronger than her, stroking his hair with perfectly manicured nails. Whenever he uses it, he feels stronger than ever, a part of something he had never been before. Electricity sparks across his skin, and the sky calls out to him. He begins to make a life for himself. It’s quiet, it’s calm, and it’s comfortable. Chuuya’s very happy with the way things are going.

Kyouka arrives in a whirlwind of death, intrigue and gossip. She’s cursed, the people say. She summoned a demon to kill her parents, they whisper vengefully. The Izumi Clan ends with her. A blessed end. Chuuya listens to them all with boredom. He doesn’t really care if his new sister’s a murderer. After all, he’s the demon prophesied to steal the sky, so he can’t really complain, can he? He just hopes she’s a talker. It grows boring, all alone in this large house, with nobody but Kouyou—bless her—for company.

“Hello,” he says, putting on his brightest smile. “I’m Chuuya.”

“Kyouka,” she says in return. She’s five. Her kimono is a pale pink, and her hair is short, pulled into two puffy pigtails. Her eyes speak of death. It unsettles him.

“You’ve seen death, haven’t you?” He doesn’t know what on earth possessed him to ask that. Kyouka doesn’t, either, if the dimming of her gaze is anything to go by.

“Why do you ask?” There’s something low and dangerous in the way she speaks. He should choose his words carefully, she says. One wrong move and there’s no telling what might happen.

“I don’t plan on hurting you, Kyouka.” he whispers. “I’ve seen death before, too. Kouyou saved me from a fate of killing. I’m sure she’ll be able to do the same for you.”

Her eyes had brightened, then. Just a bit. But for a moment, Chuuya had thought he could have seen galaxies flash in those blue eyes. Blue, just like his. He’d thought that nobody else in the world could understand him the same way Kouyou does, but here Kyouka stands, young and hurt and understanding. She has a demon, too. He can feel it. A contracted one, although he’s sure she doesn’t know about it. Over time, he’ll help her grow—with it and without it. He places an arm around her shoulder. After a moment of hesitation, she leans in, and he smiles. Yes, he thinks. Things will be just fine.

+

The first time Dazai meets Chuuya, he’s thirteen and six months.

Really, their first meeting isn’t anything beautiful. It’s not dramatic, or elegant, or tense in a way that grabs intrigue. It’s life-changing, of course, but story-worthy? He’s not quite sure about that.

“We’ll be having visitors this weekend,” Mori tells him over breakfast. It piques his interest. Even when they do have visitors, Mori doesn’t usually bother to tell him. These people must be important, he thinks. Finally. Some entertainment around here. “Be sure you’re dressed properly and acting politely.”

“Who are they?” he asks, keeping his voice neutral. “Clan members? Relatives?”

Mori’s face sours. “No, nobody you would know. Ozaki Kouyou, member of the Ozaki Clan. A minor one, but Kouyou has always been strong for her position. She’s bringing with her two wards.” He glances at Dazai with an expression that’s almost indecipherable. “One of those wards is rumoured to be the human vessel of Arahabaki.”

Dazai nearly drops his mug.

It’s the only thing on his mind all week. After all, Arahabaki is important to him, even if the two of them have never met; those visions of the sky entranced him, and won’t let him go. Sometimes, at night, he fantasizes about what the world would be like if the demon stole the sky. He pictures Mori, a gaping hole in his stomach, dying before his eyes. He pictures a beautiful, colorful night, with thousands of shooting stars rocketing past. He pictures Yumeno, living a life in the wild, laughing brightly. He knows that’s not what would actually happen—he’s not stupid, thanks—but he can still dream, can’t he? Arahabaki planted a seed inside of him, and Dazai’s been letting it fester for six and a half years. It’s all coming to fruition now.

The day of Ozaki Kouyou’s arrival, Dazai is outside.

He’s been ordered out of the house. It bustles with servants and people from nearby towns, decorating and cleaning and cooking. Not to mention Yumeno’s tantrum they decided to throw that morning, which has taken up all of Mori’s time. Dazai doesn’t want to get struck for simply getting in the way, so he slips out as quietly as he can. The forests are quite nice this time of year. He wears a servant’s yukata, perfect for getting muddy, and traipses down familiar paths. His mind is old, wise enough to be considered that of an adult’s, but he is still a child, no matter how many people forget it. Running through forests still gives him an exhilarated rush. The dirt beneath his feet, the clean, calm air, and the surrounding stillness is all he could ever—

A chest runs into his, and he falls to the ground with a thunk. Mud soaks into the back of his yukata. He doesn’t make a sound—from this angle, the sky looks very pretty, and he tilts his head to try and look at it. The mud has moved past his yukata and into his hair. He finds he doesn’t really care.

“Oi, you! Kid! Watch where you’re going!” An angry voice calls out. Oh, that’s right, Dazai thinks. Somebody ran into me. I should probably see who it is, and give them a piece of my mind.

But the sky is so pretty, and the ground is so comfortable. “I’m too tired,” he whines, and stays in place. “Let me sleep.”

“On the mud? Are you insane?”

“Yes,” he replies. “Now leave me alone.”

A scoff. Dazai can hear footsteps moving. Yes, that’s good, he thinks. Away from me. Walk away from me.

They stop right next to him. A hand, rough and calloused, grabs his. He’s on his feet in seconds. He’s never felt that light in his life. As he rights himself, rubbing his eyes with muddy hands, the boy in front of him comes into focus. His eyes widen. Hair the color of autumn leaves, so vivid it nearly burns to look at. Strands of liquid fire fall into blue, blue eyes, so bright he might pass out. He wears a kimono, much more elegant than the one Dazai’s currently wearing. His whole body looks like it’s in technicolor, with how bright he is. The energy that rolls off his body in waves reminds him of something, he thinks. The sky. Bright blue, dark navy, piercing orange, deadly red. A birth six years ago. A demon of prophecy. Ozaki Kouyou brings with her wards, Mori whispers in his mind.

Oh, he thinks. Oh. I know who this is. He’s Arahabaki’s vessel.

Dazai is entranced.

The kid tilts his head. “Hello? Why are you just staring at me? Are you ever gonna say anything, asshat?”

“Sorry, I was just admiring how spectacularly ugly your face is,” he replies without pause. Somehow, his face remains neutral, but inside, he’s screaming. Why? Why would he say that? He was thinking the exact opposite. What on earth possessed his mouth to say that?

The boy’s face turns a shade of red. “Haah? Well, at least I’m not wrapped in bandages like you! Weirdo,” he mutters. “And my kimono isn’t covered in mud.”

“Who’s fault is that?” Dazai replies, arching his brow. “Last I checked, you ran into me.”

“No way! You totally ran me over! Your fault. I’m telling you.” The boy speaks with a passion Dazai’s never seen inside anybody else. The only person he’s ever met who even comes close to the impression he’s currently making is Yumeno. Even then, they fail to reach the level of raw power Dazai can sense inside of this boy.

Dazai chuckles. “If you want to believe lies, then go ahead—I’m not going to stop you. In fact, I’m actually running late. I have… more important things than to converse with a homeless forest boy.” With a final shrug, he turns around, heading back for the tree line. He’s won this conversation, he’s sure of it.

“What? Homeless forest boy? I’m a member of the Ozaki Clan, you fartface! I hope you trip and choke on mud and die like the drowned rat you are!” The boy’s voice has reached a new octave. Dazai freezes in his tracks.

That was the most colourful insult he’s ever received.

He turns around to retaliate, but the boy is already gone, leaving nothing but rustling leaves and muddy footprints in his wake. Dazai can do nothing but stand there and gape. This is the first battle of words he’s ever lost.

It starts to rain. The sky is mocking him. Slowly, he picks himself up and returns home.

+

The second time Chuuya meets Dazai, he’s enraged.

Somehow, he manages to return to Mori Ougai’s house before the rain begins. In his hand, he clutches a wooden bracelet, holding it tight to his chest. It belongs to Kyouka, given to her by her mother, and when she’d lost it in the forest, she’d tried to act brave, but Chuuya could see the tears welling up. So he’d bowed his head, whispered soft promises, and ducked back into the shadowed forest, searching high and low for the wooden thing, which blended in perfectly, unfortunately for him.

He’d just grabbed it when that idiot ran into him and ruined his whole day.

“I’m sure he wasn’t that bad,” Kouyou says with a smile. “Village boys are always a tad… uncultured. This one wore a servants’ yukata, you said?”

“Yeah,” Chuuya replies with a frown. “It was so weird. I thought all the servants were supposed to be working. And he had the nerve to insult me! Me ! If I ever see him again, I swear, I’ll punch his lights out.”

Kouyou laughs. “Oh, I’m sure you will. Now, come along. The meeting will begin in a few minutes, and we don’t want to be late.” Kyouka holds her hand, silent and wide-eyed. Kouyou extends her other hand to Chuuya, who takes it with some hesitation. After all, they are heading into a meeting with the ruler of this land, and his two children. A few weeks ago, when the visit was planned, Chuuya had asked Kouyou why they were even attending. They had never gone to any other Clan meetings, he said. What’s so special about this one? Kouyou had merely smiled, but her lips were tight and her face was tense. This meeting is in discussion of the control of the sky, she replied. It’s in discussion of you. Due to the rumours that you possess Arahabaki within you, Mori insisted that we participate. He’s never seen her act with such strain. It makes him wonder if she’s met Mori before.

Mori Ougai’s house is grand. Chuuya had thought that Kouyou’s house was unparalleled, but Mori’s house is on an entirely different level. Everywhere he looks, there’s an ancient artifact, created by an ancestral clan member, imbued with some form of magic and devastatingly powerful. His eyes linger on a katana placed on display in the entrance, held in a midnight-blue sheath studded with sewn-on stars. It seems to call to him, beckoning to the darkness he holds within him. For the first time in years, Arahabaki stirs, and Chuuya can feel him stretching out clawed hands, digging into his insides, tearing him apart—

They arrive at the meeting room. The doors are shut. Guards, wielding katanas, block the entrance. They regard him warily. The three Demons of the West, he’s heard the servants call them. The name brings a smile to his face. It makes him sound powerful. He quite likes it.

Eventually, the doors open, and Kouyou glides in first, the epitome of grace and beauty. Chuuya has been learning from her for six and a half years now, and while he is wild and short-tempered at heart, he has learned to kill with elegance, and walks in after her. Kyouka stands behind him, demure and as still as a porcelain doll. They kneel in front of the chabudai in the center of the room. Mori kneels on the other side, and beside him are his two children—one young and lively, around Kyouka’s age—and Chuuya’s entire world stops at the sight of his eldest son.

It’s the fucker from the woods earlier. The one who dared to call him a homeless forest boy.

Oh, the universe must just hate him at this point. He knows he houses an evil demon hell-bent on stealing the sky, and he knows that he broke out of the sky’s heavenly cell six and a half years ago, but really? This feels too much. Of course the number one person he hates is the future ruler of the land. Of course, because that’s just his luck.

Mori begins the meeting with false pleasantries. Chuuya has never met the man before, but even he can tell that he doesn’t truly smile once during the entire meeting. His knuckles are white against the table surface, and there’s something deadly in his eyes that Chuuya doesn’t like. Of course, then there’s Kouyou beside him, whose actions are a dead giveaway to the hatred between these two. She looks like she’s one second away from killing the ruler of the entire land, and the patriarch of the Mori Clan. At least he’s confident in his ability to stop her if she tries. They discuss the appearance of Arahabaki six years ago, and Kouyou smoothly and deftly draws the conversation away from Chuuya. He’s sure that Mori knows the truth—with the way the man is looking at him, there’s no way he doesn’t—but to save face, he doesn’t comment on it. They part with the decision to do whatever it takes to stop Arahabaki, and an alliance between the Ozaki and Mori Clans. 

Dazai doesn’t drop this fake, sneering smile the entire time.

It bothers him. It bothers him a lot. He’s used to people hating him—in fact, he’s pretty sure that Kouyou and Kyouka are the only people who don’t—but he’s not used to them saying it to his face. Most of them are scared of him, and while they whisper nasty things about him behind his back, at least they acknowledge his strength and the fact that he could crush them in seconds if he wanted to. Dazai doesn’t. He speaks straight to his face, which is giving him whiplash, and then he has the nerve to speak as if he’s better than Chuuya. As if he has more important things to do than converse with a literal demon. He’s prophesied to steal the sky, away from people just like Dazai. And he has the nerve to call him a homeless forest boy? No. He won’t stand for it.

Dazai Osamu has just made a number-one enemy. And Chuuya won’t forget about this for a long, long time.

+

The problem with being so naturally gifted and smart is that it leads to others feeling inferior.

Dazai didn’t mean to make so many tutors quit. Really, he didn’t. It’s not his fault they were all just stupid, and cried when he told them so. He turns fourteen in a month, and he’s been through that many tutors since he turned three. At one point or another, they all get sick and tired of his antics, or he turns out to be smarter than them and they take the blows to heart. 

This is exactly why he doesn’t think this latest one will last very long.

His name is Oda, or so Mori says. Oda Sakunosuke. Apparently, he used to be very respected, especially during the time of Arahabaki’s first rise. He will not tell Dazai more. Not that he particularly cares. All of his tutors are ‘respected’, and none of them ever make it a full year. He trudges into the classroom he’s known all his life, bandages scratching angrily against his cuts, shoes scuffing the floor. He’s almost fourteen, for gods’ sake, and he’s a thousand times smarter than anybody else in the land. He really shouldn't need a tutor, and he’s going to make that very clear to Mori—by making this Oda Sakunosuke quit before the week is up.

Hmm. It seems the man is already here. Mori isn’t, but he’s sure he’s got some form of watching their first class. He always does. He claims that his Clan’s magic has nothing to do with information-gathering, but Dazai doesn’t really believe him. The magic belonging to the Mori Clan has been a mystery for centuries. Honestly, he’s not sure how they keep it a secret, given that they rule over the land, but somehow they do. The stars blessed them with ancient, powerful magic, and they don’t even do anything with it. A waste, in his opinion.

“Hello,” Oda begins. “My name is Oda Sakunosuke. Call me Oda.”

Strange. There’s not an ounce of fear or distrust in his eyes. They’re blue, Dazai realizes, as he takes a seat. Not the same shade as Chuuya’s, though. Nobody’s eyes are the same shade as Chuuya’s. Still, it’s strange. He gets the same unblinking confidence from Oda that he once got from Chuuya. It puzzles him. As a boy not easily puzzled, this quickly grabs his attention and locks onto it.

“Dazai,” he replies warily. “Dazai Osamu. Let’s get this over with, shall we? I have a new suicide tactic I want to try.”

Something flashes in those unreadable eyes. He can’t help a smirk. Talking about suicide always scares them off. They see him, and his dead-eyed expression and self-sacrificing words, and they run in the opposite direction. Not that they’re lies, anyways. A few months ago, he watched in fascination as one of the servants slit his throat. The blood had been sticky, he remembers. He’s always been intrigued by blood. This man’s blood was nice, but nothing compared to the feeling of his own blood. Later on, he’d discovered that the man had committed suicide. He’s been attempting it ever since.

Not a single attempt has been successful yet. Unfortunately.

“Suicide, you say?” Oda says casually, thumbing through the history book on the chabudai. “Have you read The Complete Guide to Suicide? A friend of mine recommended it to me a while back. I think you’d find it interesting.”

Dazai blinks once. Then twice. Then three times. Slowly.

He’s never met anybody who’s encouraged his passion for suicide.

“You don’t think suicide is bad?” he demands, nearly knocking over the chabudai. “You don’t think it’s a despicable act?”

Oda looks up from the history book, eyes meeting Dazai’s. He’s nearly knocked over with a wave of indifference. “It’s your life,” he says simply. “Do what you want. I won’t stop you.” He continues to thumb through the book. “Of course, I don’t think you really will commit suicide. I’ve seen the look in your eyes before, and it’s not one of a boy trying to end his life. It’s one of a boy trying to find meaning to his life.”

That’s all he says on the matter. He immediately moves on to finding the right history chapter, unaware that with a single sentence, he’s destroyed all of Dazai’s plans. He’s right, of course—Dazai doesn’t really want to die, rather he wants to stop this meaningless life of his—but he was able to read him in a matter of instants. The man across from him is unlike anybody he’s ever met. Mori was right, it seems, as much as it pains him to admit—Oda Sakunosuke is certainly somebody to respect.

He leaves the class still struggling to comprehend what just happened. When Mori asks him about it at dinner, he deflects as best as he can. The next day, he arrives early to class. Oda is already there, sifting through a strategy textbook, this time. This little dance of theirs continues on for weeks. Over time, Oda begins to open up, to speak to Dazai about his personal life. Dazai is hooked. He has never felt the way he feels about Oda. He asks if he can call him Odasaku. Without even blinking, the older man says yes. He delivers the Complete Guide to Suicide on their thirtieth class. Odasaku is married, Dazai learns. To a man named Ango Sakaguchi. He’s the one who first read the Complete Guide to Suicide, according to Odasaku. Dazai would like him, apparently.

It only takes three months for Odasaku to become Dazai’s best friend.

Odasaku invites him to join him and Ango at their weekly meetings at Lupin, a tavern in the middle of the woods that’s almost always empty. He accepts. Ango is pessimistic, skeptical and worrisome, not to mention constantly annoyed by Dazai and his stupid antics. Dazai loves him like a father. His suicide attempts slow down heavily. He’s never been one to have parental figures, but now that he has Odasaku and Ango, he thinks he gets what it would be like. Things begin to improve.

People notice, of course. Yumeno simply smiles, and claims they’re happy he has his own ‘Dazai’ to look after him, just like they do. It brings tears to his eyes, and he hides them by burying his face in Yumeno’s hair. Mori grabs his chin harsher than necessary and whispers that if he does anything to ruin his reputation, Odasaku and Ango will never see the light of day again. It shakes him, and he even tries avoiding them for a few days. But doing so is harder than he expected, and he caves within three—at which point they manage to convince him that they can take care of themselves. Odasaku’s stronger than he looks, Ango whispers. Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to him.

It makes him wonder just what Odasaku did during Arahabaki’s first rise. He realizes he doesn’t really want to think about it.

Suddenly, he’s turning fifteen in a few months, and he’s known Odasaku for almost a year. It’s been almost two since he met Chuuya, and no matter what he does, he can’t stop thinking about the boy with constellations for eyes. He tells Odasaku and Ango about it, stupidly. They both laugh at him. Somehow, it makes him feel better. Things are looking up for him. But in Dazai’s experience, what goes up will eventually come crashing back down. 

He doesn’t really want to be around when that happens.

+

It’s the middle of winter when the townspeople start to get restless.

Chuuya doesn’t know what to do about it. He hasn’t done anything to warrant their hate recently. He supposes he did go to the market the other day, and that trip did end with him getting chased off with a broom, but he didn’t think it was that bad. Clearly, though, he’s wrong, because the servants are so much more vile than usual, and at night he slips into Kyouka’s room and holds her tightly to his chest as they can hear the shouts outside. He’s afraid that one day, they’ll do more than just shout, and he’ll wake up to a house on fire and his family dead. If that ever happened, he doesn’t think he would be able to control himself. 

He speaks to Kouyou about it as soon as he can. She’s aware of it, and her lips are pursed, but there’s not much she can do. The townspeople are afraid of her and her reputation, but this fear could turn into hate very quickly. Coupled with the fact that she’s harboring the most dangerous person in the land, and a girl accused of murdering her own parents, she doesn’t wield much power in this village of theirs. She tells him that she’ll be able to handle it, but he’s not entirely sure about that. Still, he trusts her, so he makes himself scarce, hiding inside and playing games with Kyouka.

The night after the biggest snowfall of the year, Arthur and Paul arrive.

They’re foreigners, there’s no doubt about it. Arthur’s long, wavy hair and delicate features speak of faraway lands, not to mention his averseness to the cold—Chuuya suspects he’s come from the south. Paul’s hair is fair, and his bones are beautiful, but he moves with a grace not accustomed to this part of the world. They don’t even need to speak for Chuuya to know they’re both Clan members. Clearly powerful ones at that. Arahabaki is nearly salivating at the strength they both emit. Personally, it scares Chuuya. Arthur feels like he’s been blessed by the darkest of nights, with magic so ancient it doesn’t even feel real. And Paul—

—Paul feels just like he does.

He’s sure that to anybody else, he just looks like a regular Clan member. But after a few moments of understanding, he comes to the realization that Paul is not a Clan member at all, but rather a demon just like him. Arahabaki thrashes around in his cage. Brother, he calls out. Brother. Brother. Let me out. Let me out. I need to see brother Guivre.

So his demon’s name is Guivre, then.

Interesting.

Kouyou hosts them with lethal hospitality. The knives are cleverly hidden, ready to slip out at any occasion. She may not be contracted to Kin anymore, but she doesn’t need a demon to kill. Besides, she’s got Chuuya. He’ll always fight for her, no matter what happens.

With her warmest (fake) smile, she asks what brings them to the north. Paul replies with an equally kind (fake) smile, claiming they’re just a couple of travelers wishing to see the world. Arthur does nothing but shiver and burrow deeper into his blanket. Chuuya shifts uncomfortably. Kyouka is as still as a statue beside him. Arahabaki won’t shut up, and his stomach is starting to feel sick from the amount of times the demon has kicked him. He hasn’t felt this uncomfortable since his meeting with Mori, Dazai and Yumeno. Just thinking about that awful day makes him feel even worse. 

Calm as a pond, dangerous as a demon, Paul mentions the townspeople. Why do they hate you so much? he asks. Did you do something? You’re a remarkable woman, Ozaki. So powerful and regal. What reason could they have to dislike you? He smiles, a gaping maw revealing knives and lies. He knows the truth, Chuuya’s sure of it. Why else would somebody like him—a demon like him—have come here? If not to communicate with the demon of folklore, the demon prophesied to steal the sky? He’s baiting them into telling the truth. He hates that it’s working. Paul Verlaine is somebody to be feared, clearly. He’s convinced of that, if nothing else. He turns to Kouyou. Her smile is frozen in place, and she drips with murderous intent. They hate me because I am a powerful woman, she finally replies. They’re afraid of what I can do to them. They know of my magic, and it’s abhorrent to them. She does not mention Chuuya at all. Arthur’s eyes flick to him once in a while. He doesn’t like the sensation of his gaze. It makes his skin feel itchy, like he should be able to peel it off and cleanse himself. He really, really doesn’t want them to stay.

Kouyou asks them to stay. Paul graciously accepts.

Chuuya doesn’t blame her. How could he? In a place where her power is already balancing on a precarious ledge, she can’t afford to make anybody else dislike her, especially not powerful and rich foreigners like Paul and Arthur. Besides, this is entirely his fault. If Kouyou had never taken him in, she would never have had to deal with this. He tells her this, sometimes. Asks if she ever regrets it. She simply places a soft kiss on his forehead and holds him tight. I wouldn’t regret this for the world, she says. You are my world. Her words make him feel warm inside, like a fire has been lit, pushing all the darkness away.

Especially when that darkness is out to get him in real life.

The weather is finally stable when he deems it safe to go out again. It’s only been a month since his last visit to the village, and it went disastrously, but everybody knows that Paul and Arthur endorse him, so he shrugs his shoulders. Things should be alright.

Of course, though, the universe holds a grudge against him for freeing Arahabaki from his constellation cage, and nothing is alright. It turns out they’ve been preparing for his return, and the first villager to spot him shouts loudly. It takes mere seconds for them to grab flaming torches, pitchforks and blades. He’s running in an instant. Maybe he can lose them in the forest, he thinks. He’s stronger than they are. He should be able to fight them off.

They burst through the tree line, trampling everything in sight. There’s too many of them for Chuuya to get away unseen, and they quickly surround him, shouting obscenities. They want to burn him. To stab him. To step on his bones until they crack. Monster, they call him. Demon. Sky Stealer. Humanity’s end. They might actually succeed, he realizes. He might not make it out of this alive.

That is, until Paul’s voice, suited to politics, rings through the crowd. A hush falls over the townspeople. The foreigner saunters over, places a hand on his shoulder, delivers a sweet little speech to the townspeople. He’s seeking the help he needs, he promises. When he returns, that demon will be gone, cast out of his body. Somehow, this appeases them, and the mob disbands. But Chuuya’s still stuck.

What does he mean by ‘when he returns’?

“Oh,” Paul says, smile never faltering. “Kouyou hasn’t told you yet? You’re going to return to the south with Arthur and I. In order to properly train your… gifts. Don’t worry, everything is sorted out. Your bags are being packed as we speak.”

He falls to his knees. Distantly, he can hear Paul continue to speak, but the words don’t go through. He’s gone numb, and he can’t think about anything other than this. She’s sending me away. She’s finally had enough. She’s sending me away, and I’m losing my family. Kouyou. Kouyou. I love you. Please don’t do this to me. Kyouka? You won’t let this happen, will you? Please. I’m your big brother. I love you. Please don’t let them take me away.

They don’t answer. Slowly, he gets back up on his feet. Paul’s arm slips around his shoulders as they return home. His skin crawls. But he’s too tired to say anything.

When they return home, Kouyou’s shaking. She takes his face in her hands, tears slipping down her cheeks, and pulls him into a tight hug. I thought I lost you, she whispers. I thought I had lost my boy. Never scare me like that again, okay? If you ever die, I’ll kill you. He lets her hug him. He doesn’t say anything about it. He doesn’t move. He just stands still.

“Is it true I’m going?” he says flatly, once she’s hugged him, once Kyouka’s patted his cheeks. “Is it true you’re sending me away?”

And Kouyou’s face just falls, and god, if that isn’t the saddest thing he’s ever seen.

“I meant to tell you myself, lad,” she sighs. “I really did. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I don’t want to think about your laughter not being present in this house anymore. I was afraid if I spoke up about it, I would just cry and cry until I flooded the land.”

“But you’re… sending me away. You don’t want me anymore. Why would you cry over that?” He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand. She’s done with him, so why does she care so much? It’s confusing him, and he doesn’t like it.

“Oh, Chuuya,” her voice breaks. “I never meant to make you feel like this. Of course I still want you. We both still want you,” she says softly, pulling Kyouka close. “It pains me to do this, but you need to learn. You need to train. It’ll only be for a year, I promise. By the time you’re turning sixteen, you’ll be back home, where you belong. And we’ll miss you every single day in between.”

Oh.

Chuuya gets it now.

Tears slip down his cheek. His shoulders begin to shake. He’s still wanted. He’s still loved . He still has a family. His life is not over yet. Oh, he’s so grateful. He’s so, so thankful that he has two people in his life who will always be in his corner, no matter what. He should be used to this, he knows, especially given it’s been seven years since he first met Kouyou, but the imposter emotions will always be here, he thinks, even until the day he dies. He just needs to remind himself, every once in a while. He’ll write letters. They’ll write back, hopefully. He’ll do whatever he can to keep this. He’ll do anything. Anything, even train in the south with a demon like Paul. He sleeps in Kouyou's bed that night. Kyouka joins them, and the three of them sleep until dawn, until Chuuya has to pick himself back up and pack a bag. Paul's smile never drops, and Arthur never stops shivering. Kyouka hugs him tightly, and he sees a few tears escape her eyes. Kouyou cups his face and whispers soft promises. He spends the entire trip looking back.

It’s only for a year. He’ll survive.

+

Dazai turns fifteen on a cloudy, stormy day.

It’s fitting for a pessimistic nihilist like him. He doesn’t deserve a day full of sunshine, nor does he really want one. In fact, he’d really like to spend his day in bed, but of course that couldn’t happen for him. Odasaku had asked him earlier in the week to meet him for lunch, and he can never say no to Odasaku. Especially with the added enticement that Ango wouldn’t be there. Don’t get him wrong, he loves Ango, but sometimes… he could be a little much. Still, Dazai’s very much looking forward to seeing him later, in the evening, when he’s tired enough to tune out Ango’s most annoying ramblings.

He arrives at Odasaku and Ango’s house, much smaller than Mori’s but much nicer, in Dazai’s opinion. It’s warm and cozy, and spending time in it makes Dazai feel like he’s enjoying a nice, hot soup. There are ancient relics all over—Dazai had had to coax it out of him, but it turns out Odasaku is a Clan member, too. The final one, just like Dazai. The Oda Clan was small, he’d said, but fierce. They were respected fighters and kind souls. There had been a soft smile on his face at the time. Dazai felt like he was intruding on a private moment.

He knocks on the door, and it swings open in seconds. Odasaku smiles when he sees him, and gestures to enter. Graciously, Dazai steps in. The kids are all at school, Odasaku says. Dazai frowns. A shame, really, he always has a fun time when he sees them. What’s for lunch? he asks boldly, grinning when Odasaku tells him it’s a secret. He gasps when a gift is presented to him, clumsily wrapped in extra fabric, tied with a fishing rope. It’s a book, one entitled Life: The Mediocrity of it All. Dazai doesn’t know how they stumbled upon such a gem. Ango found it, Odasaku says with a soft look. We knew immediately we needed to get it for you.

He feels the tears before he sees them. It’s perfectly normal, he tells himself, to cry when your parental figures get you a gift. It’s okay. He’s okay. Everything is okay.

Odasaku ends up making curry. It’s the best curry he’s ever had, even if it is super spicy and nearly burns his tongue off (it’s not his fault Odasaku has no taste buds). He reads the first chapter of his new book aloud. Time passes like a leaf drifts to the ground. Odasaku is an anchor, strong and caring and grounding Dazai. He thanks him profusely for everything he’s done for him. Odasaku just tells him to stand up. Then arms are wrapping around Dazai, and he’s being called a gift to humanity, and a few more tears weep from his eyes.

He leaves with a new book, a full stomach, bright eyes and a thousand weights lifted from his shoulders.

The walk back to Mori’s house is uneventful—or, at the very least, should be. Whether he actually returns without a scuffle is a different story. It is a cloudy, stormy day, even in the middle of June, so naturally somebody would choose a day like this—where they’re protected under the cover of bad weather—to try and mug him. A hand slaps over his mouth and drags him into an alleyway, shoving him into a wall. He’s completely and utterly bored. It’s only when his mugger speaks that he gets sparked with interest.

“Hand over all your possessions, or suffer a fate worse than death,” they say. Dazai doesn’t doubt they’re speaking the truth. But the voice is young, so, so young. Thirteen, if he had to guess, maybe younger. He sounds like Chuuya once did, standing in a clearing, throwing insults back and forth. It gives him pause.

Maybe he’ll let this child live.

“Do you really believe you could kill me?” he laughs, deep and throaty. “Do you know who I am, kid?”

“No, and I don’t care,” the kid snarls. He lets go of Dazai, but by the time he whirls around, he’s grabbed by the throat by another point of interest.

The kid’s got a contract with a demon.

Now, you don’t see those very often anymore. They were common during Arahabaki’s first rise, when there was no choice. It was fight, or be killed. Those who were Clan members did their best to protect their villages, but they can’t save everybody. Anybody who could find one made contracts with demons, and civilians began to fight back, too. There was a time when it was considered strange not to possess a demon. Of course, the second Arahabaki was sealed behind the skyline, those ties with demons were severed. Even people like Ozaki Kouyou, who had grown quite fond of her demon, broke those ties. And now, here stands a thin, orphaned boy of barely thirteen, who was not even alive during Arahabaki’s first rise, fist tightened around a demon.

“What’s his name?” Dazai says cheerfully. “Your demon?”

The kid stills. “Why do you care? You’re going to die anyway.”

“Oh, but I don’t think I will,” he says lazily, baring teeth, sharp as spears. “What would you do if I told you I’m a Clan member? Would you continue to fight me then?”

Something must click in the boy, because his skin pales (if that’s even possible, he was already as white as a sheet) and his eyes darken. “His name is Rashomon,” he grinds out. “Are you going to arrest me for this?”

Now, that’s a good question. Mori would probably want him to. After all, anybody caught with a demon in this day and age, when Arahabaki lurks about unseen and unheard, would most certainly be murdered by a mob, if not by the law. But there’s something about this boy that gives him pause. Maybe it’s the way his chest heaves, or the frequent coughs dotting his speech. Maybe it’s his stance, ready to run at the sound of danger, or the look in his eyes, reminiscent of an animal being hunted for sport. Or maybe it’s the way he reminds Dazai of Chuuya, desperate for a chance to live and willing to do anything to keep it. Whatever it is, a plan begins to form inside of his mind. The cogs are beginning to turn.

His smile grows. The boy shrinks. “Actually, no. There’s something better I could do. What’s your name, kid?”

Black eyes, darker than midnight, meet his. “Akutagawa.”

He extends a hand. “Well, Akutagawa. It’s a pleasure to meet you. How would you like to move in with me?”

He says yes, of course. Dazai knew he would. A boy like that, starving and on the streets, has nowhere to go but thievery. A stable home, steady food supply and warm clothes is like heaven for somebody like him. Besides, Dazai’s quite interested in his demon—he doesn’t look like any other he’s seen, more beast than human. When they arrive at Mori’s house, Akutagawa’s jaw goes slack. Mori accepts his preposition with nothing more than a poisonous smile and a thinly veiled threat. Dazai shows him to his room, two doors down from Yumeno’s and one door down from his. Akutagawa stares at the laid out kimonos like he doesn’t know what to do with them. After sighing in exasperation, Dazai bends down and helps him out. He’s actually pretty cute, he thinks to himself. Once all that dirt was cleaned off. All he needs now is a personality adjustment, plus some hard training, and he’s all set.

With every passing second, Dazai grows more and more sure he didn’t make a mistake.

+

The south is a dreadful place.

Really, it depends who you ask. Paul breathes in the air with a calmed smile, arms extended to the sun, preaching how happy he is to be back. Children race down streets, screaming and laughing, frolicking in meadows and lakes. Arthur sheds his top layer, no longer shivering violently. But all Chuuya feels is a sense of discontent. There is no Kouyou, no Kyouka, in this land. There are no heavy snowfalls that result in wading through the streets, feet frozen from the cold. Here, the ruling clan is the Christie Clan, not the Mori Clan. Even his mortal enemy, Dazai, isn’t here. And if that doesn’t sting, he doesn’t know what else will.

Paul and Arthur lead him to a large house, so very different from his home up north. The walls are made of stucco, and they’re painted a bright yellow. The roof is made of red tiles, and it’s right by the sea—the smell of salt sweeps in with every gust of wind. Not to mention it’s incredibly large. He had known Paul was rich, but this house rivals even Mori’s for size. There are servants bustling about, dressed in gray frocks and white aprons. They all speak in hushed tones, conversing in a tongue Chuuya doesn’t recognize. It makes him feel like an outsider, which he supposes he is—but things never felt like this back home. Paul and Arthur both speak his language so fluently he’d just assumed it was spoken everywhere. Clearly, though, a sinking feeling growing in his stomach, he’d been wrong.

“This is your room,” Paul says cheerily. “Arthur and I are six doors down. Call if you need anything.” Then they’re gone, and he’s all alone in this foreign land, with no ability to speak and nobody to talk to, even if he could. He drops down onto his bed with a thud, staring up at the ceiling. Even the beds here are different. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like any of it.

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, before the door slips open. It’s more silent than a shadow, and he watches in awe as somebody steps inside, footfalls impossible to hear. Their hair, darker than a moonless sky and swaying softly in the breeze, entrances him. They close the door, satisfied that nobody's heard them, only to freeze once they spot Chuuya on the bed.

“Hi,” he says, waving. They clasp their hands over their mouth and jump three feet into the air. He’s up in seconds, waving panicked arms. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you!” He slips into his native tongue easily, even though they probably won't understand. “I just got here, and this is my room…”

The person bows their head profusely, turning into a deeper bow that confuses Chuuya. He didn’t think that people in the south bowed like that. “I should be the one who’s sorry,” they confess. “I wasn’t aware this room had been given away. I often train in here.”

Chuuya’s jaw goes slack.

They just spoke his language.

“You’re from the north?” he nearly shouts. “I haven’t met anybody in this stupid place who speaks my language! Oh, man, this is great!”

Their head tilts. “You must be Chuuya,” they whisper. “Paul told me you would be coming. I should have realized.” They bow their head again. “My name is Gin. Akutagawa Gin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

A grin spreads across his face. “Nice to meet you too, Gin.” And he means it. At least there’s somebody in this house who can understand him.

Weeks pass by, and Gin quickly becomes his closest friend. They’re an assassin, he learns, picked up by Paul on his last visit to the north, and ushered down here to train. In their spare time, they teach Chuuya how to speak the south’s native tongue. They’ve been here one year, they admit. They have a brother up north. They haven’t seen him since, and they miss him terribly. Chuuya asks why they don’t just leave. Surely you’ve done enough training, he says. Gin shakes their head vehemently. It’s never enough, they say. I need to protect Ryuunosuke. I can’t allow myself to return until I’ve gathered the strength to do so. Chuuya thinks he understands that. After all, the only reason he’s down here is so he can train his demon, in order to protect his family. And train he does. The days are long and arduous, filled with exercises meant to help him ‘control’ Arahabaki. Time passes, and nothing seems to change. He’s able to manipulate the gravity of objects around him, but only to a certain extent, and a very small one at that. Any more and he’ll lose control. He wants Paul to open up, to tell him about Guivre and how he wrestled down his own inner demon, but the man stays silent. Chuuya doesn’t want to be the one to begin the conversation, so he keeps his mouth shut, letting the anger ferment inside of him.

Everything comes to a head three months into his training.

“You’re not doing it right, Chuuya,” Paul tuts, shaking his head sorrowfully. “You need to energize, not expel. Take it from within, rather than exploding outward. Does this make any sense to you?”

His tone is condescending, patronizing, and Chuuya lies on the dusty dirt, pale skin littered with bruises and chest heaving with a feeble attempt to breathe. Arahabaki roars inside him, and suddenly his veins are filled with the fire that once created him. He’s angry. He’s angry he can’t see Kouyou and Kyouka anymore. He’s angry Gin can’t see their brother anymore. He’s angry he has to suffer in the south, while Dazai gets to sit on his stupid throne with his stupid smile. He’s angry Kyouka’s parents aren’t around anymore. He’s angry he didn’t get a childhood. He’s angry Kouyou had to leave Kin behind. And he’s angry that Paul just stands there, mocking smile on his face, giving Chuuya advice that isn’t even fucking helpful. He’s sick of it. Tired of being treated this way.

“No,” he spits out. “No! I don’t get it! Why am I even down here if you won’t teach me properly? Why won’t you tell me about Guivre? I’m fucking done! Teach me what you really know, or I’m out of here!”

And Paul stills. The energy inside of him stills. The demon that creates a whirlwind in his stomach goes deathly silent. For a moment, Chuuya thinks he’s made a mistake. He thinks, this is the moment I die. He takes a step back. And then Paul begins to laugh. It’s a deep, maniacal laugh. He throws his head back, and Chuuya watches with bated breath. Paul is strong, he knows. Paul is dangerous. And this laughter might just be the scariest thing he’s ever seen him do. He can feel Guivre beginning to stir, once again. Slowly, the laughter stops, and he becomes scarily still again. Chuuya takes a second step back.

“Very well,” Paul says quietly. “I will tell you about Guivre. I will teach you my method. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. It will be difficult. You will want to die. Do you still accept it?”

He doesn’t have any other choice than to say yes. He won’t ever be able to grow unless he understands, first. Paul begins to explain. Guivre is an ancient demon, he says. Powerful and strong. The antithesis of Arahabaki—calm where he is rash, controlled where he is explosive. They are brothers, he says. Which makes the two of them brothers as well. The very thought makes Chuuya’s skin crawl. Were you born with Guivre? He asks. Yes, Paul replies remorsefully. I was born as a sacrifice to the gods, and they sent me down as a demon instead. But Guivre and I have worked out our problems over time. I’m sure you’ll be able to, as well.

Paul was right. Training is impossibly difficult. Chuuya is pushed to his limits, and then shoved even further. He returns to his room black and blue, insides screaming in pain from Arahabaki’s claws. Gin often waits up for him with bandages and medicine, eyes frowning in anger when they see him. He loves them so, so much. Arahabaki grows bolder. Their agreement crumbles to dust. He has to fight not to let him out.

Paul shows no such sympathy. He merely tells him to get up, to stop whining like a pampered brat. Chuuya knows he’s right, he knows he asked for this, but still, he’s angry. He’s fifteen years old and angry at the world, with a destructive demon boiling inside. Not exactly a recipe for peace. But he perseveres, no matter how many times he ends up in front of the toilet bowl, mouth stained with puke, thoughts of death floating around in his mind. He pushes through, no matter how many times Paul kicks his bloodied, limp body with nothing more than a scoff. Kouyou and Kyouka are waiting for him, and he can’t let them down.

The worst part of it all is he understands. He knows why Paul is so cruel, and why he hurts others with such glee. The world has beaten him down until he became nothing more than a limp pebble in a vast sea. Guivre is hard to manage, and he has faced discrimination and hate since his childhood. When you grow up in an environment where emotions are only negative, it’s hard to look for the positives. Chuuya understands it all. He’s experienced it all firsthand—the pain that comes with being a vessel for a demon. He wonders if Paul’s birth had been just as traumatic as his. He wonders how he became such a strong and influential man, how he learned to control Guivre in the first place. He has a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with Arthur, who Paul clings to like a lifeboat.

Still, it doesn’t excuse his actions; doesn’t excuse anything. And it all comes crashing down three months after his fifteenth birthday.

“This isn’t working,” Paul says bitterly. “You aren’t understanding. Demons are bloodthirsty creatures, Chuuya. You need to accept a part of that bloodshed. Oh, what can I do to make you understand?”

Just then, a window opens with a clatter, and Gin scrubs furiously at the edge. They don’t seem to notice the attention they’ve gathered, too busy in their daily chores. Paul begins to smile. And Chuuya is oh, so afraid.

It’s just a test, he says. To help you accept the bloodshed. Gin won’t be harmed, no, I promise. He ushers them forwards with a chilling smile. Chuuya just looks at him with murder in his eyes. Gin is as silent as a shadow, but their eyes pace back and forth between Chuuya and Paul, Arahabaki and Guivre, demon and demon. Brother and brother. Chuuya really, really hopes this goes well. If it doesn’t, something terrible is going to happen, and he doesn’t want to be the one responsible for it.

And so—when the sun is high in the sky, its rays waving down with blessed energy—they begin.

Paul starts it off, summoning high amounts of energy and sending them to Chuuya. He accepts them with a thud and a groan, pulling it into his own core and releasing it. Weaker than Paul’s had ever been. Gin stands off to the side, and Chuuya can tell they’re nervous. He would be, too, if he had the chance to watch a pair of demons spar. Not that this can be called sparring—no, it’s more like Paul dancing around Chuuya, laughing at him, mocking him. They don’t stand on equal ground, and while he does everything he can to improve, it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

After a while, Paul makes a head-jerking motion that chills him in his core. In a flash, Gin stands between them. They’re shaking, Chuuya can see it, but they won’t move. After all, they’ve been ordered to—and they don’t hold the power here. Neither of them do.

As for Chuuya—

—he doesn’t have the time to stop, doesn’t have the time to slow down, and the energy explodes out towards Gin, a bullet made of black holes ready to swallow them up. He can’t let this happen. What about Ryuunosuke, all alone in the north, waiting for his sibling’s return? What about Gin’s future, their hopes, their dreams? He won’t let them be crushed like this. So he reaches down, down, down, into the depths of his soul, to the one place he’s been too afraid to look.

You want my help, now, do you?
Funny. I recall being locked up by you only a year ago.

This is a last resort. I’m willing to make a trade.

Oh? I’m all ears.

Save Gin’s life. Help me… control you. And in return, I’ll give you my life. 

Hmm… interesting preposition, young one.
You’re certainly fierce. Caring. They’re good qualities to have.

Will you accept it or not?

Yes, I suppose I will. Your wish has been granted, Nakahara Chuuya.
I wish you all the best in your remaining time.

He wakes back up in a cold sweat, jerked into a standing position, arms outstretched. Time slows to a crawl, and he watches helplessly as the bullet jerks towards Gin, back to him, towards Gin again. He’s about to scream, to retreat to the recesses of his mind once more and pummel Arahabaki to the ground for breaking his promise when it swerves, passing Gin, hitting Paul square in the chest.

Time speeds up.

Blue eyes, wide and shocked, meet his. This is the first time he’s ever seen fear in Paul’s eyes. There’s a gaping hole in his stomach, and with one final step, he crumbles to the ground. The screams he lets out are the worst Chuuya’s ever heard. He’s returning to the sky, Arahabaki seems to whisper. He’s returning my brother to his prison. Exactly where he belongs. His body seems to disintegrate in a cloud of pain and suffering. Gin doesn’t move, not a single step, and neither does he. The house is silent. The ocean has stopped roaring its waves. Arthur is not around to witness the death of his lover. It’s poetic, in a way. Paul’s life, explosive and grand in a way few are able to achieve, blinks out in a matter of seconds. Chuuya took his life. His hands are stained with blood, now. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to go back to the way he once was.

In the end, all that’s left is a top hat. Numbly, Chuuya picks it up. Gin helps him pack a bag. There’s nothing left for him down here in the south. He’s controlled Arahabaki, he’s sure about it. Paul’s death had not been in vain. If it had, he doesn’t know what he might have done. He died for a reason, he tells himself. It was his time. I had no choice. I didn’t want to. I didn’t mean to. Forgive me, Arthur, Paul. Forgive me. That sentence runs through his head like a mantra. It’s the only thing keeping him from going insane. Under the cover of night, Arthur still out on a scouting mission, he disappears along the crowded traveling roads. Gin waves him goodbye, with a promise to check up on their brother. He jumps in the back of a cart, carrying sacks of rice and other goods. To these people, he’s nothing but a child, looking for a place to stay. Nothing but a boy on his way back home.

The way back, he mourns. He mourns for Paul, a man who was dealt a shitty card and made the most under those circumstances. He was angry, and bitter, but Chuuya understood him, and thinking about him makes his heart ache. He mourns for Arthur, a man who’s done nothing but love, and who will return home to an empty home and absent arms. He’s a kind man with a selfless heart, and Chuuya knows that Paul’s death will break him. Last but not least, he mourns for himself, a boy not yet sixteen who’s already become a killer. He mourns for the person he once was, happy with Kouyou and Kyouka, before the south changed him. He mourns the life he might have had, once, if Arahabaki had never claimed him as a vessel. He mourns for time lost. But there’s no point in watching the past, wondering what could have happened differently. There is only moving on, becoming stronger, growing up.

So he puts the hat on, curls up in the back of the traveling cart, and falls asleep.

+

Dazai should have known things wouldn’t stay the same.

His friendship with Odasaku and Ango was going too well. They still go to Lupin every week, and they make him so indescribably happy he knew it wouldn’t last. Dazai’s never been the happiest child in the world—he thinks the bandages wrapped around his arms speak for themselves—but spending time with Odasaku and Ango makes life worthwhile, he thinks. It’s the first time he’s ever said this. He finds it funny that the only friends he’s ever made are both significantly older than him, but he’s always found adults easier to converse with. He’s mature, they say. Too mature for his age. It used to sound like a compliment, but he’s not so sure anymore.

Things are going well with Akutagawa, as well. Dazai had been right—his demon is unlike any he’s ever seen, a creature bound by cloth and darkness, fighting to survive, to control, to eat. Her hunger is insatiable, and she’s tried to bite his hand off at times, to no avail. Control her well, Dazai advises. She is powerful, but one wrong move and your ally has been defeated, not your enemy. Do you understand? Akutagawa always nods. Dazai’s not sure whether he actually understands, or whether he’s just eager to please. Because, for whatever reason, the young boy seems to have developed an admiration for him, despite him not deserving it. Dazai is a monster, cruel and unable to exist as a human being. A boy like Akutagawa, resilient and careful and desperate to live, does not have a place following a creature like him. So, he does all he can to dissuade him. He mocks him, patronizes him, hurts him even, if it comes to that. After all, that’s what Mori once did to him, isn’t it? Training isn’t supposed to be easy. Training is supposed to be hellish, and Dazai emerged from it stronger, with a better perspective on life. A better perspective on Mori. He emerged with a deep hatred for his guardian, and so if he does the same to Akutagawa, then he shouldn’t revere him anymore, right?

Even Yumeno seems to be doing better. Their attitude has only grown crueler and more wicked the older they become, and now, at 7 years old, they spend their free time pulling the legs off of bugs and scaring the servants. Mori does all he can to reason with them, but Yumeno is inconsolable—even his usual tactic of physical violence fails in the face of his second ward. It’s their demon, Dazai supposes. Naishin is a cruel creature, and he’s always there, one hand on Yumeno’s shoulder, whispering vile things into their ears. He wants to shield his sibling from it, all of it—the magic is making him different, and he doesn’t like this—but surprisingly, he seems to be turning out fine. For the last few weeks, he’s been skipping around, picking flowers and giving them to Dazai. They always manage to make him smile.

Despite all of this, he knew something had to give.

It begins when Ozaki Kouyou shows up at Mori’s house unannounced. She’s wearing a simple kimono, plain-colored, and her hair falls into a loose ponytail. Izumi Kyouka clutches one of her hands tightly, dressed in similar casual wear. They sport twin expressions of distress that tell Dazai nothing good will come of their visit. This is only confirmed when Mori bars him from their meeting, warning him of the dangers of spying.

He finds himself sitting with Kyouka. 

Yumeno and Akutagawa have both been ordered out of the house, and are most likely getting into an argument outside. Dazai doesn’t really care. Kyouka is only a year older than Yumeno, but she looks much calmer and more mature, much more docile than his own sibling. He’s sure she’ll have some insight on Ozaki Kouyou’s impromptu visit.

“It’s Chuuya,” she tells him. “He’s gone missing. Kouyou doesn’t know where he is. They say he killed a man, down south. I don’t know if it’s true. I don’t really care either way.”

She leaves him alone after that, moving herself to a more spacious couch and braiding her long pigtails. Dazai doesn’t move an inch. He’s frozen in place, mind racing. Chuuya. Chuuya Nakahara. Chuuya Nakahara, ward of Ozaki Kouyou. Chuuya Nakahara, a boy he once met in a muddy forest. Chuuya Nakahara, the strongest person he’s ever encountered. A murderer. A killer. A boy rumoured to be a demon. The people will run wild with this information. They’ll hunt him down and they’ll kill him, he’s sure of it. His heart twists at the thought. They may have only met for a few minutes, and Dazai may hate him more than the majority of people, but he’s still the same person whose birth brought him an indecipherable urge to jump up with joy. He’s still the same person who made his eyes go wide and swept the air out of his lungs. In truth, Dazai hasn’t stopped thinking about him in nearly three years, and he doesn't think he ever will.

Suddenly, he becomes a lot more interested in the outcome of this case.

Kouyou leaves barely an hour later. Mori ushers her out with a charming smile and words of assurement, and she grips Kyouka tight as she hustles back to the carriage she came in. Dazai watches them go. Yumeno and Akutagawa stand, surrounded by Rashomon and Naishin, like scolded children. It takes him a while to gather the strength to turn around and ask Mori what the verdict is.

“It has been nearly sixteen years since Kouyou has been under my control,” his guardian says, bloodless lips curling into a smile. He looks happier than Dazai has ever seen him, if somebody like him can even be considered happy. “Now, finally, I have the chance once more. You’ll be receiving a bodyguard, Dazai. And I will be receiving a personal assassin.”

His blood runs cold. He knows exactly who Mori’s referring to. Sunset hair, eyes full of sky, and a small body filled to the brim with power. A killer, he tells himself. A monster. A demon.

He goes to bed that night without another word. The sheets are cold beneath his skin, scratching against his bandages. The moon rises steadily outside his window, and he can’t peel his eyes off of it. If he looks closely, a face begins to form within. He’s a boy made from the sky, Dazai remembers. A human unlike any other. He’ll be here soon enough, holding hands with his fiery guardian and dangerous little sister. He’ll be in Mori’s house again. He’ll be in Dazai’s house again.

It’s a bad thing, he tells himself. A very bad, horrible thing. Yet he can’t bring himself to believe it.

+

When he returns to his village, he slips in through the back.

Under the dead of night, he creeps through the forest, avoiding the main streets entirely. He doesn’t know which rumours have made it up here yet, but it took him nearly a week of hitchhiking to return north, and Paul spent a fair amount of time up in this small village. The snow crunches beneath his feet, and his breath comes out in frosty puffs. No matter how horrible he might be feeling, returning home is cathartic, and he realises just how much he’s missed the feeling of ice and cold air. He makes it to Kouyou’s house without being spotted, and slides open the door as silently as he can. Her carriage is out front. He thinks she’s traveled recently. He’ll scrounge up some food, since his stomach is growling like the monster inside of him, and then he’ll wake up his guardian, he thinks. Kyouka as well. It’s been so long since he’s seen them, and he can’t wait to see how—

They’re waiting for him at the front entrance. 

He pauses for a moment, feet numb from the cold and cheeks a ruddy red. He stares at them, and they stare back. Kouyou looks more haggard than Chuuya’s ever seen her. Kyouka’s eyes widen the smallest amount, but it’s enough to make his heart soar. It’s a split-second, maybe, but he has enough time to brace himself before they bowl him over, and soon enough they’re all hugging, and there are salty tears staining his threadbare cloak, but he couldn’t care less because he’s back, his family is here, and maybe—just maybe—they’ll make everything okay again. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to escape this mess he’s created unscathed. I’m sorry, he blubbers incoherently, I’m so, so sorry. I never meant to hurt anybody, Kouyou, you have to believe me, he was going to kill Gin, I never meant to hurt anybody, please. She looks at him with a tender gaze of love, and whispers back, everything will be okay, child. Everything will be alright. I have you. I’m protecting you. Just stay here with us, lad, and everything will be okay. Kyouka doesn’t speak, just wraps her arms even tighter around his stomach. He hugs back with everything he’s got.

Kouyou leaves him to sleep, she says, we’ll catch you up in the morning. He thinks it’s a good idea—he’s deathly tired, and he’s not sure he’s in a position to learn right now. Kyouka walks upstairs with him, ever silent. That is, until she’s not.

“We visited Mori Ougai yesterday,” she whispers. “Kouyou does not want you to know yet. But I felt I should warn you.” Her hands shake. Chuuya wants to smooth them down. He doesn’t. He’s in a state of shock, he thinks, and this isn’t particularly helping. Because Mori means Mori’s house, which means that horrible forest, which means Dazai Osamu. It’s been almost three years, but he hasn’t forgotten. In fact, he thinks the little shit will stay in his mind forever if he doesn’t do something about it.

“Was it about me?” he asks quietly, because amidst all of the chaos, he’s still killed a man, and a very important one at that. Coupled with the rumours already swirling around, and he’s painted a very nice target on his back. Besides, nobody is better at solving problems than Mori Ougai, ruler of the land. Nobody.

“Yes,” Kyouka replies. “They say you killed a man.” She’s silent, and then— “I don’t care if you did. You’re still my brother, Chuuya. I have killed as well. This makes you just like me.”

The tears well up in his eyes again, and he pulls her close to his chest. He goes to bed that night full of bewilderment and disbelief. After a year of warm weather, impossible training and homesickness, he’s finally returned home—that is, a murderer who’ll certainly be lynched if he’s seen in public— and he can hardly believe it. This isn’t the end of his troubles, he knows. Mori Ougai is a slimy man, and he’s dangerous, anybody can tell. Chuuya isn’t excited to learn what he has in store for him.

But all of this is a problem for tomorrow’s Chuuya, and he’s tired. For now, he curls up on the silk sheets, tries to ignore the ache in his heart, and falls asleep.