Chapter Text
As the child’s severed head hits the floor, Dazai can’t help but think the blood splatters hitting the walls make for a beautiful bouquet of flowers.
“Asshole.” Chuuya steps over the river of blood streaming from the mother’s corpse down the slanted floor to stand next to Dazai, both of them staring down at the child’s separated body and head. “You didn’t have to kill the kid.”
“Mori didn’t want any chance of this information leaking,” Dazai explains, bending down to dip his finger in the rapidly growing pool of blood. “For simpletons like you, that means no survivors.”
Chuuya snarls. “I gathered that much, bastard. That didn’t mean you had to saw his head off. This is just… uncouth.”
“Uncouth?” Dazai asks, testing the word in his mouth. It lingers with a bad aftertaste, like the medicine he forces down his throat when the world gets a little too quiet and his mind gets a little too loud. He brings his finger to his mouth and tentatively tastes the blood. “Personally, I think it’s rather beautiful.”
“Of course you’d think something like that,” Chuuya scoffs. “Disgusting. Only something as monstrously inhuman as you could pull this shit.”
Dazai has to hold in a flinch; Chuuya always hits Dazai better than anyone else. “Aww, thanks! Chuuya always knows how to make me feel special!”
“Let’s just get outta here. This shit’s gonna start stinkin’ soon, and Mori’ll want to see us for a debrief.” Chuuya walks out of the room without glancing back at Dazai or the cooling corpses. A thump follows a second later; he must be allergic to the ground with how often he uses that flashy ability of his to show off and jump around. Or maybe he just gets tired of being so close to the ground all the time that he does it to feel bigger than he actually is. Dazai’ll have to add that to his list of insults when he gets a chance.
Dazai takes his time leaving. He stands up slowly, stretching his arms as he does so. His gaze winds along the gory trail of liquid, up to the mouth of the blood river where the mother’s body lies, and he allows himself a moment to admire the abstract cuts and carvings that paint her skin. Chuuya truly does artful work when he so desires; it’s unfortunate that he finds it distasteful most of the time. Dazai steps towards the door but hesitates in the entryway, turning back to look at his and Chuuya’s handiwork. The boy’s neck is still spurting blood half-heartedly, while his head lays some distance away staring blankly at the ceiling. The mother’s hand stretches out towards her son’s corpse, as if she could have somehow prevented him from facing the same fate post-mortem. Their blood flashes in the industrial lighting and intermixes at the drain installed into the slanted floor, joining them together even after death. If Chuuya couldn’t appreciate this, the palpable presence of death and the petals of blood coating the walls, then it’s his loss. A creature so close to humanity, yet he scorns humans in their most unrestrained and candid forms.
“What a waste,” he says to the flowers drying on the walls. With that, he leaves.