Chapter Text
It’s just his luck that the day he finally gathers the courage to throw himself off a building someone is already there.
The metal doors behind him close with a slam and the figure huddled by the chain linked fence jumps to his feet, their back to Dazai. He notes the white lab coat the person is wearing, leading him to believe, for a single second, that this person works in the hospital. But then he sees the apparent lack of shoes, the short stature and the slight quiver to tense shoulders. The lab coat is also filthy, brown spots on the hem, and spatters by the sleeves.
He cocks his head to the side. Is this person a patient here that escaped? Is he trying to jump off as well?
He frowns, noticing that the chain linked fence is tall, double his height. Without pliers there’s no way this stranger is getting through to the ledge. There’s no way in hell Dazai is climbing that thing either, that’s too much effort and too undignified for him. He can already imagine himself scrambling to reach the top. It’s enough to make him cringe. Not romantic or beautiful at all.
There goes his entire plan for the evening. The moment is ruined.
The stranger is still there, and hasn't moved an inch. Dazai wonders if they’re also pissed that a person has ruined their suicide. Dazai can understand the sentiment.
“You can still jump, you know.” Dazai sighs. “I’m not climbing that thing. Too much work. Maybe I’ll go find a dramatic tree on a hill and hang myself. Fingers crossed a ‘Good Samaritan’ doesn’t cut the rope before the deed is done.”
The stranger does not respond and does not move.
“How rude,” Dazai frowns. “You know, it’s only polite to respond when a person is talking to you. Not even that, you’re not even facing me!”
Nothing in the world pisses him off more than being ignored, and this person, this nobody, thinks he can get away with it? Hell no. Dazai takes just one step forward, ready to whip out his pistol and make the person understand who he is disrespecting. The sheer audacity. After Dazai graciously let this stranger have the roof for his suicide!
His shoes barely scruff the ground before the guy turns and throws a knife directly towards his jugular. It’s only instinct, beaten into him at an early age, that saves him. The dagger embeds itself into the steel door. What the fuck?
Dazai swerves to face the person again, his brain categorizing him now as a threat. His heart beats loudly in his ears, and without his say so, a smile spreads over his face.
“What the fuck,” he whispers.
Now facing each other Dazai can confirm the stranger is nothing more than a boy. Though from the stature alone he had already deduced as much. The dark bags under his eyes tell of a life without rest. The sheer murder in them, the beaten knuckles—red and bleeding—the gash on his left leg, the shaky and small frame elaborates on this story. This is a runaway. But not a regular teenager that is fed up with their parents. This is something a little more up his alley. More towards the illegal side of the spectrum.
Not to mention this person’s mystery ability. Maybe it’s something associated with strength, or aim?
Dazai readily classifies the boy as an anomaly, a puzzle to be solved. Still a threat, but one that he can afford to leave be until his quench for knowledge is satisfied. He can play with his food just this once, right? He’s been good. It’ll only be until he gets bored. After that, all bets are off. Mori won't even have to know.
There’s an itch under his skin, and with the same demented smile, Dazai scratches his arms, digging his nails until they break skin. A hazy buzz filters over his senses, filling the space between his ears with cotton. It’s the same type of thrill that accompanies each suicide attempt, like ants roaming inside him, like he’s come back to life if only for a moment. Like he’s been underwater for so long but for just one moment he can resurface and breathe.
The boy has yet to move, gauging Dazai’s every minute shift. So he’s a defensive fighter, huh? He locks that bit of information for later use. Slowly Dazai brings up his hands, aiming for placating but missing by a mile based on the boy’s pinched expression.
Fake assurances never make it out of his mouth, the knife that had been embedded against the door rattles. Dazai has half a second to turn and duck before the knife goes flying back to the boy’s waiting hands. He twirls it in his hands with ease, blue eyes not straying for a second.
Dazai’s eyes widen.
New clue. An ability that controls objects like telekinesis. Interesting.
The buzz intensifies.
They’re at a standstill. Every time Dazai moves, the boy attacks. Even if he were to concede, he doesn’t think the boy would take that chance. Dazai has to look for a way out, without moving, and using only his words. The thrill is addicting, and his possible downfall makes it that much sweeter.
He zeroes in on the boy, going over all the details in his head. He’s wearing a hospital gown, but it’s not clean and not new. It’s used, it’s dirty, there’s blood spatters there too. There’s soot and dust, darkening the light blue color, muting it. The pants, made of the same material, are in a similar state. The lab coat, too.
Furthermore, those are not the standard scrubs used in this hospital’s pediatric ward. The one the boy wears is foreign; it’s nondescript, plain and old. Even if the boy was admitted as an adult, which Dazai doubts, the scrubs given to him are too different from those given to patients over the age of eighteen. Instead of a v-neck shirt, the boy has a gown; the slim strings tied around his neck lead him to believe that it has an open back. The pants are standard enough but they’re not the same model used here. Instead of a loose hem, they’re cinched at the ankles, with enough extra material that it’s obvious they’re too long for the boy. Dazai is willing to bet that it’s tied extra tight at the waist.
This kid is not a patient here, but he’s not a beggar kid either. He’s in trouble, that’s for damn sure. He’s doing something he’s not supposed to do. He’s on this roof without proper authorization. The hospital staff can’t know he’s here, no way.
The mystery around the boy gets more and more enticing.
“There are bad people looking for you, aren’t there?”
He says ‘bad people’ on purpose, even if he doesn’t know for sure. He says so to calm the boy, make him think Dazai is on his side, that it’s them against the bad guys. In reality Dazai has not yet determined if he’s on the kid’s side. That decision will come later once he has all the details.
The boy’s panic shows on his face clearly, a sharp intake of breath and a clenched fist around the knife is all it takes for Dazai to say, “Ah, I’m right, aren’t I!”
The boy shuffles backwards, until he hits the fence.
“I’m not gonna turn you in, promise!” He stops and thinks. How can he make this boy spill the truth? “You know, I’m a pretty powerful figure here.”
The boy is unimpressed, raising his brows. Skeptical.
The quick change in demeanor makes Dazai laugh a bit. “No need to look so suspicious! I’m telling you the truth; I’m actually a mafia brat. Next in line after the current boss.”
The boy’s expression doesn’t change.
“Fine, you don’t believe me! Fair enough, if you had I would have doubted your intelligence.”
The boy huffs, exasperated. He lowers his knife wielding arm.
“Regardless if you believe me or not, you can trust that I know my way around this city. Born and raised, never left this dump.” He pauses. “If you tell me who’s looking for you, I could maybe, possibly help you.”
The boy is done with the conversation before Dazai is even done talking. He silently turns around and climbs the fence. Too easily the boy gets to the top and drops on the ledge on the other side. Too fast, too smoothly. An ability related to strength or agility? No, that wouldn’t explain how the knife sailed through the air and back into his hand. It could be an ability that affects objects? Maybe the strength the boy possesses is directly linked to his ability to move objects at will. Maybe it’s not only objects that he can control. Maybe he can even control his own body, move it around as he likes.
From what he’s seen, this boy is not looking for suicide. He has the eyes of a wild animal desperate to survive. Dazai feels uncharacteristic anxiousness with the boy so close to the edge, even though he has concluded in his head that if the boy actually jumps, his plummet won’t be one ending in death.
“Wait, wait!” he shouts anyway. The boy is just about to throw himself, but refrains. He tilts his head to the side in a ‘go ahead’ gesture.
“You don’t have to tell me anything.“ ‘ Yet,’ goes unsaid. “But let me help. I can give you the address of an abandoned place no one would think to look for you.”
The boy thinks for a bit. He shakes his head.
Dazai’s nonexistent heart plummets. He takes a few hurried steps forward, but stops when the boy goes to jump again. “Ah shit, wait one damn second!” It’s not often he gets frustrated and loses his temper but this boy is just so damn finicky! And how he longs to know what he’s hiding. “Where are you going? You’re not gonna kill yourself, are you?”
Another shake.
Called it.
Dazai’s shoulders slump. “Do you ever talk?”
A shrug.
“Am I gonna see more of you around here?” he asks quietly.
The boy stills, fingers curling around the chain linked fence. Without looking in his direction, he nods and jumps.
Weeks pass and Dazai is swamped with work, with assignments and reports and constant fucking emails.
He gets an office when he’s promoted to executive, small mercies. At least now he doesn’t have to pretend to work in front of Mori. He can laze around and lord off his responsibilities to his underlings.
That’s what they’re there for, right?
Mori doesn’t call him to his office to dole out punishment so he thinks it’s alright. It’s not like he’s just sitting pretty the whole day, he has actual important work to do out in the field. It’s just the paperwork that he will never, ever do willingly.
Unless of course circumstances call for him to suffer and write down a report by hand because of a fucking power outage that reaches the whole damn city.
He’s in his office that Thursday night, alone in the wee hours of the night—morning?—using his phone’s flashlight to see clearly. His head aches, thumping to a steady beat against his eye socket.
After finally finishing he has a momentary feeling of accomplishment.
It is promptly crushed under never-ending nihilism caused by his god-awful continued existence and shitty mental wellbeing. Even if he leaves now, once he gets to his ‘home’, if it can be called that, it’ll be another sleepless night with nothing to occupy his mind. It’ll be the same four walls surrounding him. The same fucking routine.
No one is waiting for him back home—no one is waiting for him, period. He has bosses and he has colleagues and he has subordinates. But no one he could actually tolerate for longer than a work day.
The next day extends long before him, as painfully dull as today. And it will go on and on and on. Until he dies. Jesus, the last time he talked to someone, truly talked like a normal human being, it was with that boy. The stranger with the lab coat. And the kid hadn't even talked back!
Dazai frowns down at his desk. The boy had promised. He’d promised Dazai would see him again.
Liar.
It's so depressing, bordering on pathetic. Dazai hardly ever talks to people about shit that isn’t work. And when he does it’s just mundane conversations with work related subtext. He wonders if anyone is living such an unfulfilled life, the way he is.
Maybe…
Maybe today is the day.
Dazai grabs his coat from the back of his chair, shrugging it on as he takes the stairs to the roof. The door is locked but it’s too easy to break it open. The wind is brutal tonight, easily penetrating through his coat and past all the layers underneath. He burrows inside it a bit more.
Christ, if the fall doesn’t kill him, the sub-zero temperature will.
As he looks around he notes that maybe the roof is not open for a reason. There’s nothing up there other than AC units, ventilation systems, the water pump and electrical shit he has no interest in. Walls surrounding the perimeter reach high up. From a short visual assessment it'll be too hard to climb. This was Mori’s plan probably.
An easy suicide with a risk like him around? No way.
He’s come prepared though, with an ace up his sleeve. As it turns out, in this very roof there’s a storage unit, with a very old lock that barely manages to keep the steel trap doors closed. He aims a kick to the lock and it falls apart under his heel. Hefting it open he finds a wooden ladder that has seen better days.
Dragging the rickety thing to his preferred location is a pain but his fingers are going numb and he’s beyond caring. He leans the ladder against the high walls and huffs.
It’s just his luck that in that one moment of quiet… he hears a shuffle.
On alert, he takes out his gun, not yet aiming. No one else is supposed to be here, the door was literally closed before he came here. Unless someone followed him up here. An underling with orders from Mori to tank his suicide attempts. Damn that old bastard.
“Whoever is out there, I won’t shoot if you come out!” he says cheerily, flicking the safety off.
A shift to his right, the slightest sound. Dazai aims and shoots.
Bang!
But there's no sound of a body hitting the floor.
The bullet he fired, against all odds, floats in front of a boy’s face.
No. It's not just a boy.
It's his boy! Looking startled, with wide eyes.
Wait.
Fuck.
The bullet falls, the sound of it hitting the ground is lost under the wind. Dazai lowers his gun, heart in his throat. The boy is crouched half behind a ventilation unit, half out. In the back of his mind Dazai is impressed with his own aim. Even further back in his mind he’s relieved the bullet never made it to its target. He pockets his gun behind his back, tucked into his waistband. Slowly Dazai brings up his hands.
“Hello,” he says, trying for a joke. “Come here often?”
The boy nods too honestly, the cheesy pick up line going over his head.
Dazai laughs a bit and the boy frowns. “That was a joke.” The boy keeps frowning. “Ah, whatever. What are you doing here? Gonna ruin another one of my attempts?”
He stands up.
Dazai notices he’s in different clothes. Instead of the lab coat and gown from before, he has a thin long sleeve shirt; dark in color but from the lack of light Dazai can’t see what shade. Without meaning to, his brain takes note of the details. The boy is still barefoot, he has the scrub pants on, he’s shivering, his hair is disheveled, constantly getting in his face from the wind. Arms curl around his side, hugging himself. His head tilts to the side curiously.
He’s not scared of me, he thinks.
“Are you cold?” Stupid question, dumbass. Dazai tries again. “Wanna go inside for a bit? This suicide attempt is ruined anyway.”
He doesn’t mention that the boy’s presence has erased any impulse to jump and end it all. For now.
The boy awkwardly rubs a hand up and down his left arm. Finally, he nods.
Dazai turns around and leads the way back to the stairwell. He holds the door open for the boy who jogs the last few paces. Dazai closes the door. Mori will probably increase the security up here. There’s no way to un-break the lock from before, the ladder he left will also serve as damning evidence that he tried to jump again. Dying this way will not be possible for the foreseeable future. Ah... What a waste.
The boy is down one whole set of stairs before he stops and looks over his shoulder. He blinks a few times, then ascends, takes the edge of Dazai’s coat sleeve and tugs him forward. As they get closer and closer to the Executives-Only floor, Dazai takes the lead. He jogs to the door and props it open with his foot, once more keeping it open for the boy to pass through. As opposed to the concrete stairwell, the ornate halls inside are warm.
The boy passes him.
Dazai blue-screens stupidly, caught up on the fact that the boy barely reaches his chin.
The second bare feet meet the soft carpet of the hallway, the boy instantly lights up. He looks down at his feet, shuffling in place then crouching down to touch the, no doubt, expensive rug. The door to the stairs slowly closes and slams shut, startling the boy.
Dazai snorts into his hand.
The boy shoots him an irritated look.
“I’m not allowed to laugh?” he asks, still giggling a bit. “It was funny!”
The boy stands up and socks him in the shoulder, Dazai dramatically falls to the floor, acting like the barely noticeable sting on his shoulder is more like a terminal, mortal wound. With his back to the floor and three dramatic twitches later, Dazai slumps and plays dead.
Preoccupied with his theatrics he doesn’t notice the boy panic, dropping to his knees and trying to shake Dazai into opening his eyes. The quiet sounds of distress prompt him to open one eye. The boy’s lips are pressed into a thin line, and the edges of his eyes are red, like he’s about to cry. The sight alone causes something to squeeze in his chest. Dazai opens both eyes and sits up suddenly. The boy flinches back, falling on his ass with a gaped mouth and wide eyes.
They stare at each other for one tense moment. Then the boy’s face scrunches and he punches Dazai in the gut. It’s not hard to act like he’s dying this time.
“You’re so mean!” he whines, clutching his side. “It was clearly supposed to be a joke! It’s not my fault you don’t get what pranks are.”
The boy scoffs. He forcibly lifts Dazai back on his feet by the lapels of his coat.
Dazai keeps rubbing his stomach on the way to his office, leading the stranger. It’s still dark as fuck inside the building proper. There are no windows inside the hallway, but he’s accustomed enough to the lack of light to get to his door without any problems. He kicks the door open and steps inside, going directly to his desk. He drops unceremoniously on his chair, swiveling from side to side using his foot on the floor.
Dazai observes the boy investigating his office.
It takes the stranger a fortifying second to actually enter the office but once he’s inside the boy is enraptured by all there is to see. The bookcase is the first thing under scrutiny. A slim finger runs down the spines. A scrunch of the nose follows, due to layers of dust puffing upwards.
“What’s your name?” Dazai asks suddenly.
The boy looks at him, then back to the books. He shrugs.
“You don’t know?” he asks incredulously. “What do people call you when they’re addressing you? Like, when they wanna get your attention.”
That sparks something inside the boy. He excitedly walks up to his desk, swipes his hair to the side and presents the back of his neck to Dazai. Written in neat black letters are a series of numbers and letters. Dazai barely manages to read the last series of numbers before the boy turns again, waiting patiently for a response.
“I’m not gonna remember that.” A lie.
The strange boy rolls his eyes and goes back to exploring.
The puzzle seems a bit clearer now.
There are only a select few reasons a boy like this would not know his own name, and be branded like cattle on the back of his neck.
“You can understand what I’m saying but you don’t speak. Is that because you can’t physically talk or is it a mental block.”
The boy stares at him blankly.
“Okay, smaller words then. Is it impossible to talk or do you not want to talk.”
No response.
“Can you write? Read?”
A book is slid off the bookcase; the boy flips it open, delicately running his fingers over the pages. From afar, Dazai can barely spot the contents inside and it looks like a history book. As evidenced by the glossy pages and the pictures, higher in quantity than the standard university-level textbook.
It was there before Dazai got his office; he never attempted to read it, seeming like a waste of time.
The boy sways a bit while he observes the pictures, and Dazai knows he’s just looking at the pictures, his eyes stay rooted in one place, absorbing the details of a battlefield.
“Is the battle of Sekigahara that interesting to you?”
Again, the boy shrugs.
“That’s what you’re looking at, I think. You’re too far, so I can’t say for sure.” The illustration is primarily a yellow hue, if he squints he can see it being divided up in six panels. The text crowded around the picture is sparse, the illustration takes center stage.
The boy shuts the book, keeping his finger trapped between the pages. He approaches Dazai like before, and opens the book once more. He hands it to Dazai, showing off the illustration.
“Ah. I was right, see? Up here it says the title of this chapter.” There’s a red banner spanning the top of the two pages, on each page it says the chapter number and the topic at hand. “The battle of Sekigahara,” he reads. The boy follows Dazai’s fingers tracing over the words, fascinated.
Dazai throws his entire weight on the back of his chair, closing his eyes as he stretches. “It was painted by Tsukioka Yoshitoshi, in 1873. It happened on October 21, 1600 in what is now Gifu Prefecture. Sometime around the end of the Sengoku period.” Dazai looks up at the boy, he laughs at the surprised expression thrown his way. “No need to make that face, I have a photographic memory, it’s not impressive.”
The boy thinks otherwise, he thrusts the book into his hands and hops on top of his desk, hands in his lap, staring at him expectantly. Endearingly, he begins to kick his feet.
Dazai hesitates though.
Isn’t this like homework? Reading a history book that is. He’s not in school for a reason, he’s too smart for that. And yet look where he is now. Sitting in his office, open textbook in hand. Well, there’s nothing else he would be doing with his time anyway. Might as well humor this strange boy. He takes out his phone, still with the flashlight on.
“We should probably start from the beginning.” He closes the book and quickly leafs to the start, opening it again.
Dazai reads the introductory passage smoothly. His monologuing is interrupted more often than not though. The boy gently nudges his leg if he has gotten lost under the flowery language, forcing Dazai to try his best to explain in simpler terms.
As it turns out, it’s not a history book at all, it’s art history.
The author makes it a point to explain the intricacies of creative literacy. 'The arts are as important as anything else,' it states. 'Stories, poetry, paintings and music, it’s what makes us special in the grand scheme of things. The arts serve no grand purpose, it is not medicine or science, it is not math or physics. It is merely made to be enjoyed, to be felt and heard and touched.
Art, in its many shapes, can serve as a looking glass into the past. It ties us together across centuries. A past long forgotten.'
Dazai reads, “Children years ago painted the walls with their fingers. Children today smear paint in the same way. Does that not mean we’re not so different after all?”
They’re both quiet after that passage, digesting the words spoken into the dark.
Dazai continues, weirdly interested in what this author has to say. ‘The arts,’ as it’s referred to in the book, was never an option for him. Dazai always had too much potential, made for much greater things. Why waste his intellect on painting or writing when he could become a successful doctor or a lawyer or a businessman? Art is a hobby, hardly worth the effort. It’s too abstract to measure its perfection, there’s no way to truly pit each creation against the other. Depending on genre and technique, in the creative field, anything goes.
His parents didn’t like the lack of rules.
As he reads on and they get into the first real chapter of the book Dazai has to turn the book around for the boy to see the illustrations. It becomes tedious after the tenth time. The boy keeps the book too long, almost as if he’s attempting to memorize it. Meanwhile Dazai just wants to continue.
The boy senses his irritation and rolls his eyes—he does that a lot—hopping off the desk and kicking Dazai’s leg until he hesitantly makes room in the chair he’s occupying. Admittedly the office chair is big, and Dazai is not even the average weight for his age, making the empty space he leaves on the chair even bigger—though not enough to leave even a sliver of space between them when they settle in.
Close proximity is strange, regardless of how it comes, even in the shape of a cute boy that doesn’t talk.
It’s a tight fit, their legs pressed against the other’s. The boy’s shoulder digs into his arm and his hip will surely be bruised tomorrow from the way the arm rest is digging into the skin. Dazai elbows the boy a bit to make more room for himself, and receives a slap to the back of his head.
“This is my chair, shorty! Make room for me before I throw you off!”
Honestly, he thinks exasperated.
A bit of awkward shuffling later and they find a mildly comfortable position, with the boy’s right leg resting on his lap and Dazai's left arm around the boy’s shoulders. The closeness makes him itch, and he can’t tell if it’s the good kind or the bad. Instead of ants under his skin, Dazai finds the more fitting analogy to be flies fluttering around in his stomach, their paper thin wings tickling him from the inside.
The boy huffs impatiently and shoves the book into his hands.
“Alright! Alright! We can keep going, don’t get your panties in a twist.”
That earns him another slap to the head.
“Oh, so that you get? You know, you're suspiciously selective about what you understand.”
The boy huffs.
Dazai decides to ignore the sass. Instead, he clears his throat and on the reading session goes. It’s a bit less annoying now that the boy doesn’t boggart the book in his hands. While Dazai reads he can tell that the boy has all his attention on the pictures, observing to his heart’s content. They move faster this way.
By the time they reach chapter three Dazai is yawning uncontrollably. He rubs his dry eyes tiredly and shuffles around a bit. His ass is numb and his arm has pins and needles all over. Not to mention his dry throat.
Unsympathetic to his woes, the boy levels him an annoyed glare when he stops, indignant that Dazai is not sucking it up and continuing to read.
“I’m too tired,” he defends. “And my throat kills.” He hasn’t slept in more than twenty four hours, and the last time he got some shut eye was for about three hours, maybe less, in his office’s uncomfortable leather couch.
Dazai untangles himself from the chair and the boy glued to it, tossing the book on his desk and stretching his arms up high until something pops. Maybe if he hurries home he can just manage to hold on to his always fleeting tiredness. The more pressing matter however, is currently looking at him expectantly with big blue eyes. He sighs, knowing what he’s about to do can’t be all that smart.
“Where have you been sleeping?”
No response, naturally, but the shiver running up the boy’s back is telling enough. He’s been sleeping anywhere that is deemed safe enough. Dazai’s attention is once more drawn to the pair of bare feet—filthy and wounded. Scratches halfheartedly attempting to heal, red and angry against the boy’s pale skin.
Dazai sighs again, rubbing a hand over his entire face. “Wanna come home with me?” he asks wearily. He knows how that sounds out of context, but based on the blank expression on the boy’s face, the double meaning goes over his head, as it tends to do.
A few seconds later, the boy comes to a decision. He quickly gets to his feet, stretching as well.
Dazai is deep in thought, occupying his jittery limbs by tidying his office. This damn power outage is a pain to deal with. His phone is already at the end of its life, the flashlight will shut off any minute. Dazai finishes finally and makes his way out, the boy following after him like a puppy. Dazai closes the door and locks it. The walk down the stairs to the lobby is silent, and as he predicted, the flashlight turns off once they reach the last flight of stairs. The sudden plunge into darkness throws him off a bit, and Dazai grabs the railing from a sudden onslaught of vertigo. Next to him the boy hesitantly shuffles on his feet.
He blinks a few times, waiting for his eyes to adjust. When it’s well enough to see, thanks to the neon exit sign by the door, Dazai descends again.
He stops upon realizing the boy hasn't followed. Looking over his shoulder he sees the problem. The boy's eyes haven’t adjusted yet and he’s cowering by the corner like a scared bunny rabbit.
Sighing heavily Dazai goes up the few steps, grabs the boy’s sleeve and tugs. The boy falls in step naturally and even goes as far as grabbing Dazai’s arm with both of his hands. The warmth that explodes like fireworks crawls up his arm and invades his face.
(The flies get hysterical.)
The rest of the way down is even more uneventful, they exit through the ‘staff only’ door in the back. Once outside the boy lets go of his arm and Dazai can think properly again.
Few cars are on the street, even fewer people. The walk to the docks is chilly, the wind slaps them relentlessly, his ears burn from the cold. The boy hugs himself but dutifully follows, stubborn. Dazai looks down again, this must be hell on the boy’s feet. The cement of the sidewalk is akin to ice in this weather.
He stops and the boy stops along with him, shifting from side to side, hugging himself tighter when another gust of wind comes. Dazai burrows into his coat, he’s not willing to part with it, but at least he can do one little thing.
He toes off his shoes in the middle of the street, nudging them towards the boy.
His incredulous face says it all. ‘What in this fresh hell are you doing?’
Another gust of wind. “Put the damn shoes on and let’s go. I’m not picking up your frozen toes when they snap off from frostbite.”
The boy cringes at the thought, obediently putting on the shoes. They’re a bit big on him; Dazai can see the gap between his heel and the back of the shoe. They’re dress shoes, real leather, very expensive. From his body heat they’re warm, unlike his socked feet that are freezing at an alarming rate.
They should hurry, Dazai doesn’t have heat in his place but at least it’s shelter from the wind.
Dazai walks quickly, the boy stumbling along. His storage unit is a sight for sore eyes, which doesn’t happen often. Scrambling, they go in and they’re finally out of the cold. Kind of. He has a portable heater at least, though a centralized heating unit would come in handy now. Dazai turns the small device on, flopping on his futon unceremoniously. He’s too tired to give the boy the grand tour, there’s not much to see anyway. A studio apartment would have more room, he thinks.
His socked feet are pressed against his heater, and feeling returns slowly. The boy, meanwhile, pokes around, curious as always. From afar the shoes look comically big, like clown shoes. It’s not easy to walk in them, so the boy shuffles without taking his feet off the ground.
It’s such an amusing sight he can’t help but laugh.
The boy shoots him another irritated glare—his signature look.
That just makes him laugh harder, throwing himself back against his bed. A foot nudges him in the ribs. Through the tears in his eyes, he giggles at the boy’s angry frown.
“Are you going to prohibit me from laughing ever again? It’s not my fault you’re so amusing.”
The boy huffs, blowing his fringe from his eyes. Deciding there is not more to see, the boy shuffles closer to Dazai, and curls into a ball next to the heater. His fingertips have turned an angry red, and a shiver racks up his slim back. Dazai should probably give him some clothes, right? Like a jacket or something. Definitely some socks. But the last few hours have been exhausting and there is nothing more he wants to do but sleep.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “See that drawer over there? Go get yourself some socks or something. At this rate I’ll be burying a shorty instead of housing one.”
Painfully reluctant, the boy stands, rubbing hands up and down his arms. The drawer is opened, and there’s not much inside. But Dazai knows there’s something useful there… probably.
The boy comes back with dress socks, thin and long but better than nothing.
“You’re not gonna get yourself something to wear? Some pants maybe?”
The other makes a sound of pure disgust.
“What?! What’s wrong with my clothes?”
There’s a momentary pause, the boy looking for words he doesn’t have. Instead he makes do with awkward gestures. When that doesn’t work he tugs the dress pants Dazai is wearing between two fingers, rubbing the fabric between them. He then shows off his arm and scratches aggressively.
“It itches?”
A nod.
“How the hell do you know that? You’ve never worn anything that wasn’t hospital shit.”
An unimpressed stare. ‘If you don’t like my answer then why did you even feel the need to ask,’ his face says. Though perhaps that’s too complex for this clueless shorty—Dazai simplifies his expression in three words: ‘You’re an idiot.”
Dazai rolls his eyes and burrows deeper into his sheets. He’s filthy, and it sucks not to have a damn shower here but he’s tired, so fucking tired. Maybe, for a few hours at least, he can cease to exist. His eyes close, uncaring of the lone light bulb dangling from the ceiling, still on.
He’s melting into the mattress and slowly but surely sleep claims him. Next to him there’s some shuffling, then the mattress dips. Hair tickles his face so he turns around. Warmth crawls up his back, two socked feet wedge themselves under his legs.
A finger pokes his back.
“Mm?”
Quiet.
Then, whispered, “Chuuya…”
Dazai is suddenly very awake.
“My name… is Chuuya.”
"Nice to meet you, Chuuya." He smiles. "I'm Dazai."