Chapter Text
Unconsciousness bleeds into awareness, blacks and bloody reds fading into the white light of a full moon and the blinding pain of a broken body.
An involuntary groan slips past Chuuya’s lips, cracking and pitching up into a reedy whine as he forces his body upright. The world spins around him, a blur of blues and greens and a headache that throbs in time with his heartbeat. Chuuya squeezes his eyes shut, heaving with battered lungs, and ribs bruised black-blue protest with every inhale.
Pain thrums beneath his skin and shoots through the hollow of his bones, copper blooming bitter across shredded taste buds. Chuuya feels flayed open; a raw nerve exposed to the elements, and it’s excruciating.
He inhales once more, a desperate gasp for air, but his breath catches in his throat and he coughs up blood. Wet and thick, crimson coats the torn flesh of his throat, gore splattering onto the fabric of his pants and the soil beneath him.
When the coughing fit subsides, Chuuya fills his lungs with oxygen and cracks an eye open.
Reality slams into him like a semi-truck.
Leaves, trees, brush and crickets, a clearing that served as a battlefield, craters splitting the earth, blood spotting fabric and staining freckled flesh; the fog clears to reveal an ugly truth and another betrayal. Mismatched eyes, rimmed red and bloodshot, open wide, finding nothing but desecration.
Dazai left him here, Chuuya realizes. Dazai left him injured, bloodied and bruised, weak and vulnerable and aching with the aftermath of a false God’s wrath. Dazai left him, a promise unfulfilled, and Chuuya should be angry, shaking with fury and shimmering red beneath the light of a full moon, but Chuuya doesn’t have the energy to be angry. Exhaustion carves a hole in his heart, bleeding black and gold as if ichor.
Chuuya turns over and pulls himself up so he’s sitting back on his haunches. And with his head bowed, arms resting limp over his thighs, Chuuya waits. He waits for the screams to die out, for the debilitating pain to ebb away, for the trembling to cease, for the ache in his chest and the anxiety swirling in his gut to subside.
No such luck.
Chuuya lifts his head, a choked sob escaping the back of his throat on a shuddering exhale, salt burning at the corners of his eyes. Tears fall unbidden, dyed pink with the remnants of blood along his waterline, and those tiny pools of sorrow sink into the earth, soaking into the tattered cuffs of his shirt and cutting paths through the apples of his cheeks. Though he’s quick to brush the tear tracks off his face when his brain catches up to his body, because Chuuya doesn’t cry, hasn’t cried since he was eighteen with a bottle of Pétrus wine in hand—and even then, it was but a few tears brought on by drunken thoughts and poor emotional restraint.
Chuuya gathers up his personal belongings, situating his hat atop a mess of curls and clutching his coat close to his chest, and pulls himself to his feet. He keeps his head tilted up towards the starry sky, stubborn in his efforts to keep the unwelcome flood of tears at bay, and begins the agonizing trek to the extraction point.
It was never this bad, Chuuya thinks—or maybe it was, and time has softened the sharp edge of pain in his memories—but right now, he feels as though he’s about to shake out of his skin or dissolve into nothing. And Chuuya would never admit this aloud, but he is scared. He’s alone, there’s distorted whispering muddling together with his own thoughts, his eyes threaten to roll back into his skull, and the trees seem to stretch high above, looming over him.
Chuuya hates being called tiny, but he really does feel small at the moment.
After stumbling his way through the forest, tripping over protruding roots and fallen tree limbs and flinching at every twig snapping beneath his weight, Chuuya finally comes out the other side. A gentle breeze rushes up to greet him, kissing the flushed skin of his face and rustling the tattered fabric of his clothes. He looks this way and that for a sleek black car with illegally tinted windows, and ends up choking on his distress when he finds nothing of the sort.
Hirotsu was supposed to be here. Dazai was supposed to be here. But there’s no one, nothing but the grumbling of a caged beast and the whistling of the wind. Chuuya’s been left alone— again, his brain unhelpfully supplies.
Chuuya pulls his phone out of his back pocket. The screen is cracked in multiple places and the back is dented, but it works and that’s all Chuuya needs. He unlocks it and scrolls through his contacts, pasty red fingerprints left behind on the glass, and his thumb is hovering over the call button when twin lights appear in the distance.
Chuuya almost sags in relief.
The car grinds to a halt in front of him, tires squealing. Hirotsu rolls down the passenger side window, nodding politely at him, and Chuuya yanks open the back door and crawls inside without further preamble. Hirotsu doesn’t say anything as he drives off, but he does spare Chuuya a glance in the rearview mirror as he sprawls out across the backseat, cheek pressed into the cool leather.
Chuuya aches with the rocking of the vehicle, but the motion soothes him all the same.
Hirotsu offers himself as a crutch a short ten minutes later, and Chuuya mumbles his thanks, dragging his feet all the way to the Port Mafia infirmary.
Chuuya’s hat and coat lie forgotten in the backseat of a Mafia vehicle.
Chuuya lies forgotten in a hospital bed.
Morphine eases his pain and drags him under the surface, but the restless creature inside of him continues to gnash its teeth against the bars of its cage.
————
Two days. Chuuya sleeps for two days, but unrest clings to him like a parasite.
With puffy eyes, stiff limbs, and creaking bones, Chuuya is discharged. Mori sends him home with a bottle of painkillers and a plastic smile.
The door to his apartment clicks shut behind him, and Chuuya stares at the wall, swaying where he stands before kicking off his shoes.
His awareness fades in and out from then on.
Chuuya’s standing over the sink, he’s in the shower, then he’s on the floor with a towel wrapped tight around his torso. He’s in his bedroom, fresh bandages over aching wounds and clean clothes soft against sensitive skin, then he’s in his kitchen and there’s a bowl of soup in the microwave. Porcelain shatters, and he’s curled up on the couch with his hands clamped tightly over his ears.
“Shut up.” He pleads into the silence of his apartment. Arahabaki screams, garbled words and muffled curses. It spent the past four years dormant, merely a tingle beneath Chuuya’s skin, but just seven minutes of release has it hungering for freedom, for more.
Chuuya thinks he might just crash and burn and never wake up.
But Chuuya can’t not wake up if he never falls asleep in the first place.
Chuuya spends the next forty-eight hours wandering aimlessly through his apartment and staring blankly at a popcorn ceiling. Sleep does not claim Chuuya.
He returns to work on day three, bruises beneath his eyes and a bottle of painkillers in hand. He swallows one every few hours. The pain doesn’t go away. Arahabaki continues to scream.
Kouyou messages him, a request to meet for tea. Chuuya declines. Five hours pass in ten minutes; it’s midnight and the bath water is cold. The chill of it seeps into the marrow of Chuuya’s bones, but his skin is feverishly warm. His body is numb, but it aches all the same.
Chuuya crawls beneath his covers, clad in flannel pyjamas, and drapes a heating pad over his abdomen. He shivers despite his efforts.
Chuuya does not sleep.
The birds sing, the sun rises.
Chuuya does not go to work.
Shadows linger in his peripheral vision, hiding in doorways and peeking around corners. Angry marks are left behind on Chuuya's skin with the bite of his nails, scratching away the phantom sensation of hands grabbing at him. Arahabaki’s screeching continues to ring in Chuuya’s ears.
Chuuya does not believe in the Gods, but he closes his eyes and prays for sleep.
Sleep does not take him.
Chuuya sobs, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. The sleeves of his shirt collect the tears that follow.
He just wants to sleep.
“Please...”
Chuuya thinks he’s going insane.
————
The thread snaps somewhere between the ninety-fifth and the ninety-sixth hour, and the television screen cracks with the impact of an empty mug. Chuuya’s breath stutters in his lungs, oxygen feeding the flames that burn white-hot in his chest. There’s a crazed glint to his empty eyes, one that screams danger.
Emotions bubble, climbing up his throat and crawling beneath his skin, and Chuuya shakes with the urge to destroy—to raze Yokohama to the ground. But Chuuya can’t do that, so he puts his fist through his television and yanks it off the wall instead. His fury is devastating, etched in the hard lines of his face and dwelling in the space between his ribs, and its next victim is the glass coffee table. Chuuya throws it at the empty television mount, glass shattering and wood splintering. Crystal shards litter the floor of his living room, pinging as they bounce and scatter.
Chuuya goes for the bookcase, next.
He rips novels off the shelves, tearing some in half and tossing some violently at the floor, pages fluttering. The vases follow suit, porcelain breaking, then Chuuya’s knuckles turn white around a photo frame and his eyes begin to swim. His chest rises and falls rapidly, heart beating so quickly in his chest that it feels like it's not beating at all, and the bitter taste of bile burns in the back of his mouth. Chuuya gags, then he turns to the side and heaves, bringing up acid and blood and flesh, and a wheezing sob slips past bitten lips. The fight drains out of him so quickly that he is dizzy with it, and Chuuya crumples in on himself like a puppet cut loose from its strings, surrounded by destruction of his own making and tortured by the whispers of Calamity itself.
The faces of his friends stare up at him, toothy smiles frozen in the grain of a photograph, but all Chuuya can see are the blood-splattered walls of Old World and the broken bodies of his friends. He tosses it to the side so he doesn’t have to look at it, and the memory lands in a pile of jagged glass. Memory, because everything and everyone is a memory to Chuuya; an aftertaste or a fleeting thought, another tombstone or the flowers placed atop freshly turned soil.
“Fuck.” Chuuya sniffles. He scrubs his hand down his face, hastily wiping away snot and tears, and glances around the room, bleary eyes taking stock of the damage. Chuuya doesn’t care much for the television or the coffee table, for the books or the vases—they’re easily replaceable.
But his favorite mug lies in a heap of jagged porcelain on the floor.
It’s just a mug, hand-painted and a gag gift of sorts. It’s just a mug, it shouldn’t hold as much sentimental value as it does, but sometimes people bury themselves in your heart and you can never bring yourself to dig them back out. Seeds sprout, then flowers bloom in the shape of feelings—and Chuuya has a lot of feelings towards Dazai. Most of them unpleasant.
Chuuya lowers himself to the ground, kneeling in shattered glass, and inspects the pieces of a broken keepsake. The orange slug remains fully intact on a jagged shard of porcelain. Chuuya smiles a sad smile, bottom lip wobbling.
He’s going to skin that fishy bastard alive.
Wiping the tears off his face is futile, they’d be replaced within seconds, so Chuuya just lets them fall, spotting the fabric of his bloodstained pants—bloodstained because his knees are all cut up. It hurts, but it’s a good hurt and it quiets everything just a little bit so Chuuya doesn’t move. He should get up, though. Chuuya should stagger to his feet and clean up the evidence of his little temper tantrum, but his limbs feel like steel rods, heavy and stiff, and Chuuya doesn’t think he can move—
Click.
Chuuya’s gaze snaps towards his front door. It’s silent for a moment, and Chuuya waits with bated breath for something to happen. Is the doorknob twisting? Or is this just a product of Chuuya’s imagination? He’s not sure, and that’s far scarier than any intruder.
The door creaks open, hinges squeaking quietly, and the devil himself steps over the threshold. They lock eyes, cobalt blue and honey brown on charcoal black, and the room itself seems to stop breathing.
Dazai freezes the moment he spots Chuuya. He looks surprised, lips parting the slightest bit—as if breaking into Chuuya’s apartment and finding that very person in their living room is astonishing.
Dazai isn’t one to be surprised. This isn’t real.
Chuuya bites back his anger and swallows it down. He fixes his attention on Fake Dazai’s bolo tie, digging blunt nails into the skin of his thighs. It’s not as satisfying as the pain in his knees, dulled by the barrier of cloth his pants provide. “If you were real, I'd beat you black and blue, knock a couple teeth out and break your ribs. I hope you know that, shitty Dazai.” He says, voice trembling and eyes burning.
There’s a sharp intake of breath, floorboards creaking as Fake Dazai shifts his weight. “What?”
“I hate you.” Chuuya says resolutely, and the silence that follows is palpable. Chuuya can feel it closing in on him, invisible hands wrapping themselves around his neck. “I hate you.” He says again, but it doesn’t sound too convincing this time.
“…I know.” Fake Dazai whispers back, closing the door gently. He takes a few tentative steps towards Chuuya, glass crunching beneath his loafers.
He’s not real.
“What happened?” Fake Dazai asks, crouching down to sit back on his heels. There’s a note of concern hidden in his voice, and it makes Chuuya sick because it’s not real. “Chibi usually keeps his home nice and tidy.”
“I was angry.” And now Chuuya’s living room is just as messy as his brain. “I’m tired.”
And he’s talking to an illusion.
Chuuya really is going insane.
Something flickers across Fake Dazai’s face in Chuuya's peripheral vision. “Why doesn’t Chuuya take a nap?”
“Can’t.” It comes out thin, strained. Something is clogging Chuuya’s throat, refusing to budge. He risks a glance at the Fake Dazai’s face, bangs partially obscuring his vision.
He looks… troubled. Very Dazai-like.
Chuuya’s head spins, heart thudding against his ribcage. “It’s loud. I’m tired.”
“Will you let me help you?” Fake Dazai asks, eyes swimming with something foreign. Chuuya chokes on a laugh.
“Help me? What— are you gonna leave me alone in the middle of a forest again?” Chuuya snaps, bitter. But there’s really no point in throwing insults at this Dazai, he’s not real.
He’s not real, but Fake Dazai’s gentle smile falters the same way his would.
Chuuya’s breath rattles around in his lungs. He chokes on a whine. “Just—”
“Sleep, Chuuya.” Fake Dazai says, barely above a whisper, but then a very real hand brushes Chuuya’s hair back from his sweaty forehead and No Longer Human washes over him in a wave of pleasant cold. Chuuya’s eyes roll back into his head, eyelids fluttering shut.
“We can talk later.”