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You didn't expect DAZAI to do anything for Valentine's Day. He had a certain edge to him as the holiday approached, and as much as you wished to celebrate with him, you decided against it. Perhaps you'd make another day, an ordinary day, memorable instead—a day for just the two of you. At least, that's what you thought was going to happen.
But, of course, he managed to surprise you.
You had received a voicemail before you even awoke that morning.
You hold your phone to your ear, straining to hear his voice through the rushing wind.
"Hello, gorgeous! I have a super special surprise for you. I'll text you the details. See you at 3!"
To the untrained ear, one would assume has was planning something sweet for the occasion. But there was this dangerous lilt to his tone—not mischievous or cocky in preparation for a prank.
No.
It was the same tone that told you he'd be standing on the side of a bridge.
You race there the moment you set the phone down.
If he's planning something self-destructive, you'll be there to stop him.
Arriving at a graveyard does nothing to soothe your nerves.
You pace along its pathways with no idea where he could be. It's only through sheer luck that you spot tufts of brown hair hidden behind an isolated headstone.
"Dazai," you pant, bending down to catch your breath.
He doesn't bother to turn around, resting his eyes as he leans back against the grave, not flinching when you sit beside him.
You'd think he was dead if you didn't know any better.
"Do you like it?" he mumbles. "The view is truly to die for. One day, I hope I'm buried somewhere just as beautiful."
"One day that is far in the future."
But you can't argue with him.
The view is beautiful. Whoever lays here is cared for deeply, even after death.
The perfect place to house a weary soul.
"Do I have to ask?"
Dazai hums a familiar tune.
It makes your skin crawl.
"Who was he?" Your hands respectfully brush against the stone. "You've never been the type to seek out a grave that isn't your own."
He chuckles dryly at your not-so-subtle jab but surrenders to defeat. And you don't know what that defeat means besides understanding that it's a part of some carefully crafted plan. And you are inclined to believe you'll not like how this one ends.
His bandaged hand smooths against the headstone's surface, catching against its roughened texture.
"This is Sakunosuke Oda. He is the reason I left the Port Mafia."
And he tells you everything. Everything.
The friendship forged between three unlikely men—the inevitable betrayal of one and the predictable demise of another. The only future left up in the air was his own.
But as he describes Oda—his closest friend, he claims—his voice holds a reverence you've never heard spoken from his lips. He draws a line between himself and the late man, holding him as a person so pure of intention, even with their shared past of blood.
Unlike him.
Dazai knows he is a monster.
He has committed crimes far more violent than you could imagine, all without an ounce of remorse. He used to revel in the rush of a bloodbath, the actions of his youth forever tainting his soul. He may not belong to the mafia anymore; his former allegiance simply resulted from bored complacency, but one thing remains certain.
He does not deserve someone like you.
Sometimes, you're hard to look at. You remind him too much of the man buried beneath you, making his hollow heart ache. Neither you nor Oda are perfect people, but you both so earnestly try to be better—it was human.
And he wonders—if you stay with him for any longer, will you eventually become stained by the crimes he's committed? Or will you end up like Oda, a lesson for him to reflect on in the lonely years to come?
He can't stand the thought of either.
"You give him far too much credit."
Like a record scratch, his mind halts, honing in on your voice as it melts into an unfamiliar, somber tone. One that holds so much raw honesty it makes him sick.
"I may not have known him, but if he was truly your closest friend, then it's impossible he didn't see what I do."
He scoffs.
"Oh, really? And what's that?"
You choose not to mind his sardonic tone. There would be a time.
"That you have potential far beyond what you envision for yourself."
You take his hand, tracing abstract images in the bandages of his limp palm as you ignore his hardened stare.
"You have a particularly stubborn way of viewing things, even with your intellect," you muse. "You craft roadblocks that only exist within the confines of your mind, limiting yourself to the future you think you deserve."
And when you meet his gaze, your eyes sear through him.
"You're not a good man. But you're not as bad as you claim to be."
Flashes of memory, of every life shattered and of every corpse trampled underneath his feet, beg to differ.
"If you knew the extent of what I've done, you wouldn't be saying that."
And in reply, you flick his forehead.
"You seem pretty set in thinking for me, Osamu." Your voice is scolding but holds no bite. "I'd be offended if I couldn't easily see why."
And a whisper embeds a chill within his bones, seeping through the flesh and tingling down to his fingertips.
"Do you really think I'll turn tail and run the second you revert to your old ways?"
His slackened hand seizes your wrist, almost bruising. Almost.
"You should if you know what's good for you."
He hopes to scare you.
To shake your unwavering resolve.
To fracture the foundation of those beliefs that lead you to foolishly place your trust in him.
But you laugh.
He tries to pull back, but you hold him there tighter.
"You truly don't see how much you've changed. God, you are stubborn."
His breath catches—you're at once calamitous, the wild embodiment of a zephyr with no reins.
"But unluckily for you, so am I."
Frosted flurries linger in the tresses of your hair, untamed strands framing the electrifying expression that pulses in the upturn of your lips and the brightness of your eyes. So wonderfully unpredictable, so woefully disastrous for a soul he never believes he deserves.
Only in this world is a snowstorm the key to thawing his frozen heart.
"I can't deny I would've loved to meet him." You lean against the stiffened curve of his shoulder. "Anyone who can manage to change your mind must've been remarkable."
Every inch of him feels aflame, but he can't bring himself to move.
"In life, people are categorized as one thing or another, and in death, their actions are simplified to an anecdote or forgotten entirely," you say, an undeniable somberness returning with a softness as you let frost nip at your skin. "The best that can be done is to watch the results of their influence when they're no longer here."
And, for the first time, his hand responds to your repetitive ministrations with a subtle squeeze.
You smile.
He pauses at the deafened sound of a sniffle, lost in the sight of the tears that roll down your cheeks without a word.
"But I want to know everything."
Your arm intertwines with his, fearing he'll run at the first chance.
"Every sin that stains your soul mafia black, every mistake that convinces you that you can only be who you once were."
He has made hundreds, thousands of mistakes—a running list tallied in his mind, repeated over and over on his worst days and subtly whispering reminders on his best.
How can he possibly taint you with even the mention of such things?
Your voice echoes in a whisper, only for him to hear.
"I want the chance to look at you, all of you, and still love you the same."
He is stubborn, but so are you.
He allows himself to press one kiss against the top of your head, but he should've known. Indulging once only leads him to indulge again, and again, and again—he pulls you closer, dotting reverent, blistering kisses across your cold, heated skin. His lips trace the apples of your cheeks, marking the pathway of your tears with the devotion to soothe them.
"He would've loved you as much as I do."
His voice breaks, but you say nothing.
Content to remain in his arms, comforted in the knowledge that you'll always be one of the few who can change his mind.
Out of all the proposed plans for the day, you didn't expect CHUUYA to ask you to meet somewhere far outside the city. It was weird waking up alone in bed with only a text on the phone with an address and time. But you went with it, not knowing what to expect.
You would've never guessed a graveyard.
It sits on a cliffside, enclosed by a canopy of trees that gives the sight a sense of privacy. The graves aren't neat or well-kept, but for some reason, you have a feeling that is a measure of how loved the place is.
And there is Chuuya, sitting on top of a gravestone.
"Isn't that a bit disrespectful?"
Chuuya's attention darts away from the setting sun.
"Not like it matters," he scoffs, jumping off of it. "Deserves it for being such a pain in the ass."
But he doesn't move to come near you, so you settle for glancing at the graves around you, full of unfamiliar names you are sure he recognizes. Some are far more recent than you assumed, but that brings you back to reality.
"Why'd you call me here?" Your face shifts into an awkward smile. "Not that I mind the scenery, but a graveyard isn't quite the first thing that comes to mind when I think of a date."
But you falter once you note the downtrodden look on his face.
You're not stupid, far from it. You know him well enough to know when he has something to say—the way he fiddles with his fists as they're tucked into his pockets, how his foot taps against the ground at an irregular tempo. Someone less knowledgeable would assume he is just agitated.
But you know better.
"Is everything alright?"
Your voice is soft—not hesitant, calming like a balm over a wound. It carefully treads through as you try to dissect the reason behind his demeanor.
He sighs.
"There's something I've gotta tell you."
And you don't prod, simply nodding at him.
"Then let's sit down."
You find yourself with the perfect view of the sunset. Despite your earlier jest, this would be a beautiful date spot, but you don't linger on the thought for long. You don't want to be nervous but can't help it. There's a key difference between his normal stoicism and genuine seriousness.
And he is serious.
You fiddle with the grass beneath your fingers, trying not to overthink it.
Chuuya is careful as he sits down, not completely next to you, but close enough that he can see enough of your face. He feels the words clogged in his throat, instead taking in the sight of you in the glow of the setting sun. The most beautiful person he has ever laid eyes on. He watches for another fleeting moment as the ocean breeze tussles your hair.
But sunsets aren't meant to last.
So, he delves into the details of this place—its significance in creating the man he is today. But he quickly skips the more unimportant details. These are stories he can tell you with ease. Some are a pain in his heart, yes, but it is a pain he trusts you with. One he knows you can handle—and pain he allows to be shared, even if momentarily.
The origins of his ability are a different story.
Those are more complicated than petty betrayals and mafia rivalries.
The descriptions of experiments are enough to chill you to the core, forcing you to swallow your nausea at the thought of them being conducted on the very man you love.
"Once that power is unleashed, my body is no longer under my control."
He removes his hat, his gloved fingers straining around its edges.
"I become a beast hellbent on destruction." His voice dips with an irritated edge, and you can guess the next few keywords before he says them. "And I'm forced to rely on Dazai to nullify it. That bastard enjoys showing up at the worst possible moment just to toy with me."
You laugh a little, but he doesn't have the heart for your usual back and forth.
"But without him, anyone in my path is in danger."
That laughter fades into something silent, contemplative.
"And even if that doesn't happen, there are many who would gladly give anything for a fraction of the power I possess, to the point that they would use anyone under my care as leverage. I couldn't possibly keep count of how many die simply for being my subordinates, much less..."
He cuts himself off.
You are smart enough to know the rest.
So he waits, and he doesn't truly know what for. He just knows what you should do. You should run far away from him and anything he touches. If you run fast and far enough, you can save yourself from the danger of being his.
His eyes catch the way your hands fidget, nervous, and he can't help but feel the same.
"I don't think I say it enough..." Chuuya's eyes dart to the outline of your lips, a breath of cold air escaping them. "But you truly are the most resilient man I've ever met."
He huffs.
He knows that stubborn tone of voice anywhere. But this isn't some stupid argument over the best type of wine or an attempt to stop him from splurging on new clothes—he'll shoot your stubborn attitude down for your own good.
"But you're such a hypocrite."
What.
He can barely hide his shock, and your fond, cheeky smile begins to sour.
"Do you honestly believe I wouldn't brave that danger?" you sneer, your voice hot with anger. "I know you would if it were me!"
You whip your head around, your brows furrowed, and your lips curled into the beginnings of a snarl.
"So why the hell do you think I wouldn't do the same?!"
He can't quite come up with a response.
You are right.
If your roles were reversed, he wouldn't leave. It wouldn't matter to him if he lived or died as long as you were together. But this isn't your reality, and you are in danger.
And he won't stand for it.
"You're in danger." His voice is low, scolding. "If those bastards find out you're with me, they'll do whatever it takes to end your life. If something happens to you, I'll regret it for the rest of my life."
"Do you regret them?"
He pauses, frowning.
"Who?"
"Them. Your friends."
You level his gaze.
"Do you regret them?"
He doesn't want to think about it.
Think about them.
He can still see them, or at least the flashes of what remains of them. Shells of the vibrant people they once were snuffed out with ease.
"If it wasn't for me, they'd still be alive today."
"That's not what I asked," you reply, the coolness of your voice raising goosebumps on his arms. "Do you regret them? Were those bonds not worth the grief that followed their passing?"
"Of course not!" he exclaims, his frustration palpable. "But that's not the point."
"Do you think they'd regret you?"
His mouth goes dry at the look you give him.
You are like an ephemeral, deadly storm. Your eyes match his in force and shine with the knowledge that you have him cornered.
And he cannot look away.
You are always beautiful to him—it amazes him how someone can be so breathtaking. But you have never been as radiant as you are now.
You take his hand into your own, holding it tight.
"Do you think I could ever regret you?"
He freezes.
Your fingertips are like fire as they trace the exposed skin of his wrist.
"You don't consider the agency of the people you care for."
He shudders as your lips brush his skin, your thumb inching beneath the fabric of his glove.
"Risk is a guarantee for every interaction we have. Especially when it comes to those we hold closest."
You slip the glove off.
"But that risk is a two-way street." You smile. "And if those friends are anything like me, then they'd agree with one thing."
"And what's that?"
His response is without power, and there is no fight left within him.
Your hand overlaps his own as it cups your face.
You squeeze gently, leading him to truly look at you.
"You're worth that risk."
He doesn't know who leans in first, but before he knows it, his lips are on yours. You cannot be close enough, even as he pulls you onto his lap, groaning at the delicate touch of your fingers in his hair.
In this moment, he allows himself to forget.
The danger. The risk.
He allows the storm to weather him.
And as you part, heavy breaths passing between you both, he is forced to surrender.
"I hope you're the last sight I ever see."
If it is for you, it is worth the risk.