Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As the winter sun broke through the dead trees and reflected off the powered snow, Atsushi Nakajima was stuffing all of his belongings into a rucksack and getting ready to leave everything behind. This overcrowded orphanage was everything he had ever known — the lean meals, the threadbare clothes, small moments of warmth and comfort between fear and pain, and eventually resignation. And the mistress of the house constantly reminding him that he should be grateful, he should be thanking her for taking him in. Now, he was thanking her by way of heading out on his own.

It was nearly ten years to the date since he had been deposited on the doorstep of an orphanage a dozen miles outside the city. Ten years to the date since political upheaval had uprooted the long-reigning royal Fukuzawa family and replaced the monarchy with something akin to a military rule. It had uprooted many other families, too, including Atsushi’s own. Though he did not remember them.

Without a past, his name was something that was partially from the orphanage mistress, partly himself. Atsushi because that was apparently what he’d told them when he arrived at eight years old. Nakajima, because he wanted a family name of his own, taken from the author of a book he’d read into dust.

Atsushi zipped up his patchwork bag and combed his hand through his pale hair, an unruly bowl cut with long bangs. His fingers danced along the strange black strand among the white locks, almost like a stripe. Like a tiger. He was the only one here at the orphanage with it, the only person he had ever seen with it. Eight was an old enough age to be left here that he must have had a family before; perhaps they, like the royals, had been killed. Or had to find work elsewhere and could not support him. Or, of course, there was another reason to leave him behind. He wondered they had this mark as well, one that meant he was a little bit different than most. Because it marked him as a tiger.

Atsushi had an extraordinary and terrible ability, and curse: at the full moon, he transformed into a large, powerful tiger, with sharp teeth and glinting claws. Another reason for the mistress of the house to hate him — she was forced to lock him in the basement every month, lest he hurt himself or others. And of course she swore him to secrecy. Not that he wanted anyone else to know . . . but it was the only clue he had about who he might have been before . . .

“Atsushi!” came the sharp voice of the mistress. Atsushi flinched, the shrill sound cutting through him. God, he was not going to miss that. “You’re going to miss your ride!”

Atsushi threw his bag over his shoulder and turned to the door to find a middle-aged woman in third-hand clothing leaning in the doorway, her arms folded over her ample chest.

“I swear, if you think you’re going to just stay here and leech off us,” she started, her eyes narrowing.

Atsushi shook his head and quickly threw on his coat. The massive jacket nearly swallowed him, but he would be thankful for the warmth in these freezing winter months. Especially if he was unable to find work.

The revolt had left the country a mess, economically and socially, the Secret Police strict and terrifying. Work and money was hard to find except in the cities, and so Atsushi was headed to the capital to see what he could be put to do. He wasn’t good at anything; but he was a pair of hands and a young, strong body, and so he was sure someone would want to hire him.

“I’m not, I’m not,” Atsushi assured her, giving what he thought was a friendly grin.

But she looked almost sad as he hurried down the stairs and out towards where a horse and cart awaited. He was catching a ride with the neighbor who was headed down for the weekly supplies, and so he couldn’t dwell any longer. Atsushi took a breath and turned to say goodbye at last — and he was actually surprised when the mistress hugged him around the neck.

Atsushi flinched again; it was rare her touch was kind rather than cruel. But any moment, he would be done with that. He would be free to find his future. Find his past.

“Godspeed, little tiger,” she whispered, sighing. “Go give someone else hell. Good luck on your journey.”

“Erm, thanks,” Atsushi replied.

He peeled away, frowning, but he waved a fond farewell before jumping onto the back of the cart. She had kept his secret for all these years, but he wondered if she would one day turn him in. Because in addition to stricter laws in general, the revolution had also made it illegal to have an ability. And so while Atsushi was looking for work, he was mostly looking for money — for a way out of here.

That’s where his family would be, he knew it. Somewhere else. They must be like him — tigers, or cats, or some other sort of powers — they had a magic, a skill, an ability, that was ingrained in them and no longer welcome. No longer allowed. And they had probably left him here because his ability was uncontrollable, untamed — it would give them away as they fled the country that wanted them dead.

Atsushi sighed as he pulled his coat tighter across his skinny frame, watching slowly as the larger buildings and busy, winding streets came into view on the horizon. And there, in the center, rising above everything else by a mile, was the royal palace. It had long been in disuse, not since the uprising, but it still stood proud, its golden columns and ornate domes bringing a bit of color and life into the clay and grey of the subdued citizens. As Atsushi watched it grow larger, more life-sized the closer they got to the city, something about it sparked in his memory. Had he been inside before? Maybe a family member had been part of the guard or one of the many servants the Fukuzawas must have kept. Or maybe he had just seen it in paintings.

The bumping cart was lulling him gently, and Atsushi closed his eyes, drifting off into a strange dream. A memory.

Ten years ago, the cobwebs and dust that settled in the royal palace had been cleared away, its long snuffed-out lanterns alight with dancing flames, filling the main hall with joy, laughter, and life. The room was actually still a mess, with banners hanging askew from the rafters and the sides littered with stacked chairs and cornered tables. Last night had been a banquet, one of the large balls that the King liked to throw for his people, both for social and political reasons.

Tonight, however, it was just the close family. Yukichi Fukuzawa, patriarch of the family and father-in-law of the King, sat among his relatives, looking fondly around at them. But his eyes never strayed too far from the youngest. Atsuki.

It was a miracle Atsuki had been with them this long, and his nerves still stood on end any time King Souseki threw one of these parties. He was a perfectly behaved boy, polite and shy, if not a little bit of a troublemaker if his cousins put him up to it. But since the day he was born, they had to be very cautious about him.

He had an extraordinary ability, or curse, however you looked at it. Atsuki could transform into a white tiger, which would give him both the strength and agility of the animal, and the transformation itself would heal him of any and all injuries. But he could not control it — it manifested when he was anxious, scared, with it most out of control on the full moon. If tamed, Fukuzawa was sure this would be an asset for the young man in the future, especially since Atsuki was the first and only in the direct line of succession and would one day be king himself. And Atsuki was not the only one in the world with abilities, though they were rare and still a source of mistrust among the public.

Fukuzawa watched Atsuki as his cousin Kyouka asked to practice dancing with him, his careful treads, his boyish ease. He remembered vividly the few weeks after Atsuki had been born, what a time of change it had been for the family and the entire country. The childbirth had been difficult for Fukuzawa’s daughter, long and complicated, and while the doctors were able to save the child, they were not able to do the same for his mother. A national day of mourning was called for the Queen’s death, and only a few days later it was the full moon and the boy’s powers first manifested. King Souseki was thrown into a panic, and called all his closest advisors: should Atsuki be hidden from the public eye?

It was Fukuzawa who stepped forward, surprised at his own determination. The Crown Prince would inherit the throne. It would do no good for him to start his life hiding something this big from the people. And, in fact, Fukuzawa was sure it would gain them favor among the small groups of citizen ability-users, who were already ostracized.

For years, he had been working to better the positions of ability-users around the country. The work was difficult and did not always yield results: the general public was still wary, if not outright hostile towards them. But Atsuki was beautiful and kind, and it was difficult to dislike such a sweet boy.

The party last night had actually been a political mixer for the royal family and the small league of ability-users in government positions and high society. It had included some of their children as well, including a couple of young boys around Atsuki’s age. They had spent the party playing, chatting, and it gave Fukuzawa hope for the future.

Before the revelries, Fukuzawa had held a meeting between Souseki and the group leaders, strategizing ways to assure ability-users were considered just like other citizens, to assuage the fear and disgust of them. More than anything, Fukuzawa wanted to ensure that Atsuki inherited a country that loved him, not one that hated him.

Only it might already have been too late.

Fukuzawa frowned as he watched Atsuki and Kyouka actually start to argue, and he beckoned Atsuki to sit in his lap. Atsuki shuffled over, his round face blushing red, but he allowed himself to be picked up by his grandfather all the same.

“What happened there?” he asked mildly. “Did Kyouka not like your dancing?”

Atsuki shook his head, not answering right away. From a young age, he had been taught to be careful with his words, and so he always took an extra moment to reply.

“No, I’m good at dancing,” he said boastfully, which actually made Fukuzawa laugh. Atsuki was not. “I got upset because Kyouka said . . .” He trailed off, gathering his words. “Kyouka said you were leaving us for real. That your trip to Paris is . . . you’re not coming back.”

Fukuzawa sighed, pulling Atsuki closer into in lap. His political trips to other countries were also a point of contention with him and Atsuki; perhaps he doted on the boy too much, maybe they were too close, too attached.

“I’ll be back,” Fukuzawa said honestly. “I’m going to meet with some ability-users in France to see how they are integrated into society.” When Atsuki was older, Fukuzawa was hoping the boy would be able to come with him. “I hear,” he added conspiratorially, “that there’s someone there who can control gravity. And he’s the owner of a hat store in Paris. Isn’t that amazing?”

“Wow, really?” Atsuki whispered back. He put his hands on his head. “I wish I had a hat.”

Fukuzawa laughed despite himself. “I’ll have to get you one. And one for the King, to cover up his balding spot,” he added, and Atsuki giggled.

He truly hoped this trip would help give him some insight as to how other countries dealt with ability-users. Especially because there had been whispers in the underground, in the back alleys, of a military group who hated ability-users and wanted all of them dead. And last night, he had heard they were gathering a lot of support, thanks to the work and propaganda of an emerging leader. A young man named Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

The name had actually rung a bell. It was familiar to the Fukuzawas . . . but only as a legend. An ancient enemy from their oldest ancestor, a crusader and radical. Though the modern-day antagonist sounded a similar foe, it couldn’t be the same man — unless this Dostoyevsky was over 100 years old. That wasn’t possible, was it?

Fukuzawa tried to shove his fears and upcoming work aside and just enjoy his last night with the family before his train tomorrow. At least they had each other.

A loud, pounding knock suddenly echoed from the front door and resonated through the main hall. Fukuzawa set Atsushi down and got to his feet, alarmed. Who in the world would be knocking on the palace door at this hour? And when the guards at their posts should have been the ones to announce a visitor . . . ?

King Souseki didn’t seem as concerned and sent one of the royal guards to see what was going on. Meanwhile, Fukuzawa looked around the room hurriedly, his mind working overtime. No, this was wrong, there was something very wrong here, and he stepped forward to gather everyone behind him, went to summon the guards to get their weapons, when the unmistakable sound of a gunshot rang out. Followed by the sound of footsteps — hundreds of footsteps, pounding on the palace floor, making their way closer and closer.

Souseki jumped into action at once — he knew as well as Fukuzawa what was coming. Quickly, he called his personal guard to take the children out the back. Fukuzawa watched as the kids were corralled, hidden behind walls of armor as they left the main hall. Souseki tugged on Fukuzawa’s arm.

“Yukichi,” he started, “go with the children. You’re not expendable.”

But Fukuzawa shook his head, drawing his sword. This was their realm; this was their home. He would be dead before he let the rebels take over without a fight.

“You’re the one who needs to go,” Fukuzawa said, pushing him towards the back. “Go, Souseki. The country needs you alive. If they kill you—”

He had no sooner said the words than another shot rang out and the King stumbled backwards. It took too long for Fukuzawa to notice the red stain in the middle of his forehead. And Souseki collapsed, dead.

There was no time to scream, there was no time to cry. Only fight, as a swarm of rebels all dressed in a black uniform tipped with gold marched into the ballroom. And at their front, leading the pack, was a man with chin-length black hair and red, red eyes so frightening they nearly paralyzed.

Their arms were drawn, and the guards ran forward, their swords clashing with guns, their paltry armor not nearly enough. Fukuzawa joined the fray and cried out, making for the man in front, the man who had impeccable aim, like he had been guided by providence — just who the hell was he? Fukuzawa raised his sword, bringing it down, just as the rebel leader raised his own sword.

The two of them swung at each other, matching each other hit for hit, and with each blow that missed, Fukuzawa wondered more and more about Dostoyevsky, if he could really somehow be that demon incarnate, that same crusader and radical, because how could a mere man take them down so quickly, so thoroughly —

Not thoroughly. The children.

Fukuzawa chanced a glance around the room, searching for any of his other family members — he didn’t see any, and prayed that meant they had escaped, but there were bodies he could not analyze — and then he saw —

The white-haired boy standing off to the side, trying to get away. Atsuki was not being targeted — he was very small — but the fighting was overwhelming the space, and he was stuck between two groups clashing, any second he could be trampled or run through —

“Atsuki!” Fukuzawa started, but he couldn’t get away, the soldier was strong, and if he moved without thinking, he would be sliced himself —

But Atsuki was caught in the fray, surrounded by the rebels, stuck in the crush of the crowd as the guards tried to deflect their ire from the family, tried to protect them, but instead they were being backed into that small, fragile figure — if only Atsuki could control his power, he could fight back —

Fukuzawa’s eyes widened in horror, a terrible realization hitting him. It was his fault, he had prioritized his pride over his family, and because of that Atsuki, his heir, his joy, was about to be trampled. He shut his eyes as a tear trickled down his cheek and summoned his strength to push back against the solider. It was enough to unbalance him, and Fukuzawa kicked him back, down onto the ground, and he turned to gather up Atsuki, except —

He wasn’t there anymore. Fukuzawa quickly scanned the room and saw his white head poking out from between the arms of man in a rebel uniform. Fukuzawa gritted his teeth and ran after them. But as he approached, he saw the rebel was shorter than the rest — young, not much older than Atsuki himself. And as he got even closer, he recognized the child: soft brown hair and similarly colored eyes, skinny and bandaged. This was one of the kids from the party yesterday, one with an ability. And indeed, Atsuki looked at ease with him, their hands were clasped as the young man hurried Atsuki away from the crowd. What was he doing among the rebels?

He spotted Fukuzawa and raised his eyebrows, putting a finger to his lips before he grabbed the old man’s wrist.

“Come with me,” he hissed. “I’ll get you out.”

Fukuzawa pulled away, glancing around the room for backup, for help. But no one was giving them a second glance, the rebels were busy fighting the guards, and it must look to them like the royals had been captured. Had that been this boy’s intention, to infiltrate the rebels so that he could bring them to safety? Or was this all a trick?

“I know,” the young man said ironically. “Why trust me, right? But I don’t see what other choice you have.”

The absolute gall of him, and the most appalling thing was that he was right. Fukuzawa looked at Atsuki, his terrified and round eyes, and his hand clutching at the young man’s hand, the young man holding his back. He couldn’t believe a boy this age could be capable of such calculated deception, to be gentle with Atsuki to gain his trust only to turn them back in to the rebels. There wasn’t time to analyze him. Fukuzawa conceded.

The boy took the both of them, making a show of manhandling them, and steered them towards the back of the room, then he brought them towards a large tapestry covering the wall. Quickly, he lifted it, and Fukuzawa suddenly understood why this room was so damn drafty all the time. Between the corners of the wall, the masons who built the palace had left a small gap, just enough for a person to slip through. It led out to the side garden.

Fukuzawa did not hesitate. He shoved Atsuki through the hole before following himself. The gap was covered again as the boy dropped the tapestry, and Fukuzawa heard him bellow, “they’re heading out the back! Quick!”

Fukuzawa lifted Atsuki up and ran, away from his ancestral home, from the rest of his family, and to the crushing crowds of the train station. A few of the guards had made it there before them and were shoving some of the advisors on the train. Fukuzawa could not think about how many of them were left, how many had been killed, only that they needed to leave and leave now.

Fukuzawa saw one or two guards ahead of them, and they grabbed as his clothes, shoving him aboard, and in the chaos, he nearly lost his grip on Atsuki. But he managed to maintain his hold, and he tried to push his way inside, as the train began to steam, as the wheels began to turn.

They had made it. They had made it. Only —

There was a scream, more cries from the crowd, and Fukuzawa felt a wrenching at his clothes. He looked down to find that Atsuki had a dozen hands on him, as the rebels had caught up and the boy was being pulled, tugged from his arms, from safety.

“No!” he cried. “Atsuki! Get off him, get off!”

He attempted to draw his sword again, but the train was too packed, his arms would not move fast enough. Fukuzawa lunged forward, nearly throwing himself from the train, his hands reaching, clawing. He grabbed Atsuki’s vest, and he pulled, but the fabric slipped through his fingers, and soon he was grasping nothing but the night air.

The train blasted steam into the air and picked up speed — for a moment Fukuzawa considered jumping off and going after him. But it meant death. And the end of his line. If . . .

A hand fell on his shoulder, comforting and stable, and the messy black hair of his teenage ward, Ranpo Edogawa, appeared.

“We need to retreat,” said the young man. He was cleverer than any of Fukuzawa’s adult advisors, and also more blunt. “We’ll come back for him, sir. He can defend himself.”

Fukuzawa followed his gaze up towards the moon, which was bright and full in the sky. Of all nights . . .

Fukuzawa let himself be led inside the train to gather himself and consider his losses. He could have sworn he heard the boy scream into the night as the train sped away from the city, but he lost sight of him long before that. All he could do now was find his allies in France and figure out how to get his grandson back to him.

Tears trickled down his cheeks as he looked out the window and saw the smoke rise and curl off the palace, the great domes getting smaller and smaller on the horizon. There was work to do yet. And maybe, one day, they would be able to come back home.

The palace remained abandoned, scorched and untouched for the next five years. Until one morning, two young men looking for a place to dwell that was off the beaten path, slipped in through the hidden garden entrance and took up residence.

Osamu Dazai only started to languidly get out of bed when the morning light went directly into his eyes, combined with the sound of his business partner yelling at him. He rose in the old bed, coughing at the unsettled dust his motion kicked up. As he looked around the room too ornate for someone of his upbringing, his eyes passed over the place beside him in bed. It was empty, but it certainly had not been when he went to bed . . . which meant . . .

“Oh, crap,” he muttered, and finally tuned in to the words his partner was yelling at him.

Quickly he dressed, an easy task since he only had a few outfits to his name, and then drew back the velvet drape that cordoned off his section of the abandoned ballroom.

A tall blonde man in nicer clothes than his own was staring down at him, hands on his hips, a vein twitching in his forehead. So, a normal start to their morning for the two of them.

“Ah, good morning Kunikida,” Dazai chimed merrily. “You know, you’re spending an awfully long time yelling outside my door when we have a lot to do today.”

“You’re the one sleeping in late!” Kunikida shouted back. It was so easy to rile him up. It was a wonder they hadn’t killed each other in the past five years. “I heard you up late last night. And you’ve brought home another woman to our hideout — again. What’s the point of keeping a low profile if you’re going to philander around and just bring people back here?”

“Calm down, it’s not like it’s really a secret,” Dazai sighed, stretching and looking around the room.

The palace ballroom was still grand, if not an absolute mess. It had been abandoned completely after the royal family was ousted ten years ago, the rebellious and militaristic government that replaced them finding the whole building opulent and a gross show of wealth disparity. The doors and windows had been nailed shut, and it had barely been touched since that night. When Dazai and Kunikida had moved their base of operations here, they’d had to remove quite a few old and rotting corpses. Keeping some of them around kept the thieves and bounty hunters at bay.

Though if pressed, Dazai might call himself a bounty hunter. In truth, he and Kunikida made their money helping those who might have a bounty on their head change their identity and get whatever they needed. Their motivations were sometimes in opposition — Kunikida wanted to help people like themselves, with abilities, who had to hide who they were. That meant that if a truly terrible murderer came by, Kunikida was more inclined to turn them in for the bounty. Dazai didn’t mind that, since it gave them some brownie points with the cops, garnered a little bit of trust. In truth, Dazai didn’t care if he was helping criminals or citizens, as long as he was paid up front. Neither of them could complain about any of their customers — they couldn’t afford to.

But over time they garnered reputations for being able to turn one person into another, being able to produce any legal documents or small objects, be able to gather little snippets of information. And though they had hoped that reputation would help them get a lot of customers, what it really did was get them a lot of heat. They needed to get the hell out of this country.

“It really won’t be a secret if you can’t keep it in your pants,” Kunikida sighed. “Just be more discreet from now on, alright? We won’t be here much longer.”

And we won’t have to deal with each other much longer, Dazai read between the lines. He smirked.

“You don’t think she was a spy for Fyodor, do you?” Dazai mused, only half-joking.

It would be an easy way to infiltrate them, honestly. Immediately, Kunikida clapped a hand over Dazai’s mouth, and Dazai swallowed. Kunikida was rather superstitious around the military leader who had led the rebellion that took down the monarchy. There was definitely something supernatural about the man, how he seemed to have spies in every corner and his men knew everything. It was Fyodor who had designed this new reign they were in, set on a foundation both of wealth distribution and racial purity. In short, it was illegal to be rich, and it was illegal to have an ability. Dazai and Kunikida had survived this long by being very good at hiding theirs, and the luck of the draw of having abilities that were not easy to detect.

Dazai pushed his partner away and rolled his eyes. He liked to tease Kunikida, dismiss his fears as silly folktales, but the truth was that Fyodor did scare him. And the more illegal items they procured, the more chances for the police to intercept and find out that they did in fact produce them out of thin air, and it wouldn’t take long to put two and two together. And then they would be dead. But along with all the other underground rumors of spies and abilities had trickled in a rumor that would solve all their problems.

“No, probably not a spy,” Kunikida admitted. “She said she had to go to work, so I let her out the back window. But I thought with a haircut, she might make a convincing Prince Atsuki.”

“Oh, ha ha,” Dazai muttered. “She was blonde, but not nearly blonde enough. I think.”

He didn’t really remember. He wouldn’t have remembered what the long-lost Prince Atsuki looked like either except that the ballroom was full of paintings of him. Wide-eyed, white-haired, round-faced. Ten years later, he would have aged into a young man, face filling out, eyes more proportional, probably objectively beautiful. It was impossible to know for sure — but today, their job was to find someone who could only possibly be the missing Prince.

After nearly ten years of no news, ten years of the military rule and the one living Fukuzawa family member off in exile, a bounty had come through. Kunikida had heard it from the milkman, who heard it from the farmer, who heard it from the train conductor: Yukichi Fukuzawa had put out a reward for anyone who could find and bring him his grandson.

It was perfect. They needed to leave the country and also needed a lot of money. With their skills, and abilities, they could get the paperwork they needed and transform one person into another. Into Prince Atsuki. As soon as they found someone who would be willing to work with them and play the part.

“Pay attention, will you?” Kunikida sighed. He tossed Dazai an apple, which he caught, and then his coat, which fluttered onto his head. “He’ll be 18, white hair, slight build. If he’s been in hiding, he’ll probably be skinny, too, but who knows. We have time to invent a backstory as to where he’s been all these years.”

Dazai stuck the apple in his mouth and shrugged on his coat, and the two of them set out the secret servant’s entrance through the garden. They were on their way to the old theater, where they had rented out space to hold their tryouts. Officially, it was for a play, a satire of the royal family. But most of their potential princes knew the truth.

They sat at the table by the stage, readying themselves. Dazai glanced over at Kunikida, actually surprised by how meticulous he was being, how much he had thought this out. Because he had needed quite the nudge into agreeing to this scheme.

“You want to try and con the former King?” Kunikida had said, when Dazai suggested the ruse. “Into reuniting with a fake grandchild? That’s low, even for you.”

“Think of it this way,” Dazai replied. “We’re making an old man happy and a young man rich.”

“What about the real prince?”

“The real prince is dead,” Dazai said flatly.

He didn’t remember a lot of the details of that night, but one scene stood out starkly in his mind, the busy station bright and clear in the full moon. The young Prince grabbed by the rebels, pulled back into the crowd as the train and his grandfather went on without him, passed among the treasonous hands like a football, shackled among their ranks and marched to the river. And Dazai had only looked away for a moment, no longer able to stomach watching him struggle, he heard a cry from the crowd — and when he looked back, the boy was gone. Thrown off the bridge to drown.

Was it possible the boy had survived? Sure, just as it was possible Dazai would swear fealty to the military and join the Secret Police. But realistically, there was no fucking way.

“It doesn’t hurt anyone,” Dazai had insisted, “to give the old man some hope. And help ourselves in the process.” He had softened his tone. “We need to get out of here,” he said firmly. “We can do this and help someone else escape, too, or we can just steal the money and run.” And not have the fun of the ruse. “What’s your preference?”

And Kunikida had conceded. They didn’t always see eye-to-eye, but in the end, they did work well together.

They settled into a rhythm as they embraced their own roles, both as casting directors and concerned citizens. Dazai put on his game face and headed to the front of the theater, expecting the wannabe Atsukis to trickle in throughout the day. With the apple back in his mouth, he flung the doors open.

The apple promptly fell from his lips. A line of blond and white-haired young men wound from the theater, down the block, and out of sight.

This was going to be a long day.

Chapter Text

The palace was beautiful but the city was at once overwhelming. Atsushi hopped off the cart and was immediately made dizzy by all the activity around him. He weaved through crowds to what looked like the town square, trying to find postings for work, and found a post littered with flyers. None of the jobs were particularly interesting or lucrative, but more importantly, he had no idea where any of these places were. Why had he thought the city would be easy to navigate?

A man in a military uniform stood on the edge of the square, his watchful eyes scanning the people. Atsushi approached him, intending to ask for directions, when he spotted a large poster plastered on the side of a nearby building.

See something? It said. Say something! Report any supernatural abilities to your local police officer and be rewarded!

Atsushi stopped, his heart pounding as he stared at the wall. There were several of these flyers posted among the surrounding buildings, and there were others as well.

Abilities are not natural, one said. Save our children. Keep us pure.

They’re coming for you. Come for them first.

Atsushi felt a lurch in his gut. Asking for directions was innocuous; but the police were not his friends. And he’d never been somewhere before with such a large presence. Was it a bad idea coming here in the first place? Did he look suspicious?

Moving quickly but not too quickly, Atsushi headed down the nearest street and ducked into the first empty alley he found. He leaned against the brick wall, taking a deep breath and running his hand through his hair. Between his fingers, Atsushi twirled his singular black strand, looking at it. In his panic, he was sure that it marked him, it was too obviously a tiger stripe. Carefully, he traced the lock up to his scalp, to his roots. And he tried to tamper his breathing as he did one of the two things about his ability he could control.

The tiger manifested at the full moon, but he had been trying to talk to him, trying to tame him. And slowly, the tiger had talked back. Byakko, it called itself. He had always felt its presence, even during the day, but little by little he was also communicating with it. And the tiger had assured him it was protecting him . . . but that he was not yet ready for its full strength. However.

On his sixteenth birthday, Atsushi had been gathering wood and had gotten tangled in a thornbush. Any attempt at getting free only made him more tangled: if only he had an axe or something sharp. In desperation, he closed his eyes and spoke to the tiger, asking for its aid. He tried transforming his hand into a claw . . . and it worked. Ever since, Atsushi was able to summon that power if he tried.

And so in the alley, afraid the black stripe of hair would make him a pariah, he summoned the claw once again. And in one quick swipe, he cut the lock.

The lock of hair laying abandoned on the ground made him sad, but it would grow back. He would only have to do this until he had enough money to get out of here.

He stepped back out into the street, deciding he would simply walk block to block until he found something. Since he would take anything at all, surely an able-bodied young man would be able to find work fast enough. But after two hours of nothing, Atsushi was starting to feel disheartened. An hour longer and he was starting to get depressed. One more hour and he was beginning to panic. Maybe he was going to have to approach that police officer after all.

Atsushi turned another corner and saw a long line of young men, stretching from the back doors of a building and winding neatly around the corner. Could it be that there were finally jobs here?

Atsushi tentatively joined the queue, noticing that nearly everyone was similar in build to himself, or at least similar in age. That was probably a good sign; at the very least, he could blend in here.

“Erm,” Atsushi said finally, as they all moved a couple of steps forward, “sorry. What’s this line for?”

The young man in front of him turned around dramatically, eyeing Atsushi suspiciously.

“The audition?” he said obviously. He had striking eyes, actually nearly as striking as Atsushi’s were. On closer inspection, the man was wearing a very bad wig. It almost looked like it was tied with strands from a mop-head. “For the role of a lifetime? And a ticket out of here?”

“A — ticket— ” Atsushi started.

What was he talking about? Auditions for something that would — get him out of here? A traveling troupe of some sort? Could it be he had accidentally stumbled into a place that would skip over all the years he would have to labor and just get him to his goal? Atsushi was no actor . . . but if this play or whatever would help him escape . . .

“You clearly don’t have what it takes,” the man snapped. “You shouldn’t waste your time. If you don’t even know anything, you’re not going to get it. I hear Dazai is picky. Has some sort of insider knowledge but he won’t tell anyone what it is. But I know.” He grinned. “So you should just go home, kid.”

He turned his back to Atsushi, facing the front again, and Atsushi considered he should just go home. Or he would, if he had a home.

He folded his arms across his chest, that panic starting to fill him again, when there was a tap on his shoulder. The gig was so popular there were now even people standing behind him. And he came face to face with a friendly-looking young man with light yellow hair.

“Don’t mind him,” the boy said. “He’s a bit of a diva. Known around the acting community.” The boy lowered his voice and Atsushi leaned in. “You’re a threat to him. You really look like the part. The hair . . . is it natural?” Atsushi touched his hair, wondering if the boy was talking about the bit of black root he probably still had. “In any case, nice job. If you can sell it, Dazai will pick you for sure.”

It was the second time he had heard the name. “I . . . who is Dazai?” Atsushi asked.

“Oh, you’re new here?” the boy replied. “Osamu Dazai. He can help you get anything you need. Anything at all. For the right price. But you’d better get it quick, because he’s trying to leave the country, and he’s taking only the prince with him.”

The word prince scratched something in Atsushi’s memory. Of a palace. Of a fatherly figure in regal attire. Of an older man with grey hair, smiling affectionately at him.

“The prince Atsuki,” he said, the words coming out of his mouth before they registered in his mind. He must have heard the stories at the orphanage.

“Yes,” the boy confirmed. “Rumors are he is still alive. And there’s a reward for his return. But,” he added, putting a finger to his lips, “keep it quiet.”

Atsushi nodded, and turned back to the crowd in front of him. This line was long . . . how long would it take before he even was able to talk to this guy? And after all that, who could say this Dazai could even help him? Well, he would have to take this time to really, as the kid behind him said, sell his story. Why was he deserving of the spot over everyone else?

He was just starting to assess some of the other people when there was a stirring among them. It started quietly, some murmurs and shifting, rippling up from the front and spreading out, first like embers, then like a conflagration, as the disturbance turned into a full-on panic. Nearly half the line scattered, running off into the streets in any direction, the rest of them compressing towards the front and attempting to squeeze into the shelter of the theater. Atsushi felt the crush of the people behind him, pushing him forward, and he glanced up towards the sky, wondering if a storm was brewing. But the clouds of the morning flurries had cleared. Then . . .

“It’s the Secret Police,” the boy hissed. “Should have known this would draw their attention. Dostoyevsky’s coming, we gotta get out of here.”

Atsushi opened his mouth to say, once again, “who?” But he did know who Dostoyevsky was, from whispers in the orphanage, from stories in the newspaper. Only he hadn’t quite been convinced the man was real, more a figurative boogeyman of a Secret Police commander.

From down the block, Atsushi saw a small unit of uniformed men, decked out in black wool with gold trim, looking neat and authoritative, their heads all topped with flat-topped caps. They all looked like indistinguishable grunts, but an image flashed in Atsushi’s vision, of a tall, lean man with chin-length black hair, a smile playing around his thin lips.

Atsushi shook the vision from his eyes, trying to calm that fear the image conjured. And then someone bumping into him from behind snapped him back into reality, and he followed a couple of the stragglers as they ran, heading for cover.

Atsushi started to hum to himself unconsciously as he ran, a song or an epic tale, some story he had been told about . . . it had to be a different man than this Dostoyevsky. Unless this one was over 100 years old.

But he was quickly brought back to his present situation as someone turned off to hide behind a parked horse and carriage, and Atsushi followed.

Atsushi caught his breath, kneeling on the cobblestone street beside another light-haired actor. He could still see the theater around the corner, and some of the bolder young men were standing their ground, speaking calmly with the police, but the tensions were brewing. He wondered exactly what they had all done wrong, but if this Dazai was getting illegal paperwork, then some of them at least must be up some sort of criminal activity.

Atsushi watched warily, waiting for the smoke to clear before getting back. Because he had been finding nothing but dead ends all day, and Dazai was his first real lead. But if he lost it now . . .

There was a sharp inhalation, the unmistakable sound of pain suppressed. Atsushi looked over at the other man, slightly older than himself but with much darker hair, much wider shoulders. He was not kneeling because his leg had a deep scratch on it and it was bleeding profusely.

“Crap,” the man cursed.“Tripped on the curb,” he added for Atsushi’s benefit.

Atsushi was not a doctor, but he’d seen his share of scrapes and broken bones in the orphanage — some caused by the administrators, some just the falls of children. He knelt down and looked at it, reaching into his coat for his handkerchief.

“May I?” he asked.

The other man hesitated; but Atsushi looked up at him, and something in the stranger’s eyes softened. He nodded. Atsushi used the handkerchief to wipe up the blood before he pressed it to the wound. It was a deeper gash than he would have expected, and it needed to be stemmed. He removed his threadbare scarf and tied it around the man’s leg — he winced as Atsushi tightened it, but did not flinch or complain. Atsushi looked it over before he moved to stand up . . . and he could see it was already starting to bleed through the cloth. Not a good sign.

He hesitated. He knew it was dangerous, he knew it was the one thing he was not supposed to do. But this man had been running from the police with him, they even vaguely looked alike, surely they were kindred souls.

Please, Byakko, he asked the tiger. He could feel the tiger’s reluctance, but as he got older, his will had also grown stronger, more persuasive. And eventually, Byakko relented.

He laid his hand gently over the wound — the man winced again — and his fingers glowed briefly. The second thing he could do — minor healing, but it was certainly better than nothing. He needed to stop the bleeding. And it was over fast enough that Atsushi hoped that the man had not quite realized what he was doing.

“That should do it,” Atsushi said quickly, getting to his feet. But the look on the man’s face gave him away entirely. Oh, he had noticed. And he was not happy.

“What — what did you just do?” the man asked, his voice shaking.

“Nothing,” Atsushi said quickly. Oh no, oh no. “I . . . I wrapped the wound, just wrapped it—”

“No, I saw — you used some—magic — ”

“No, I— it was just some first aid.”

Atsushi’s insides twisted, this was exactly what he was afraid of, why had he thought to help? He shook his head, turning to run, but the man grabbed his arm, pulling him back, dragging him out from behind the carriage.

“Sorry, kid, nothing personal,” the man whispered as they limped out into the open, “I just need the heat off me. Oi!” He shouted, and several heads turned, including at least one officer. “This kid’s got an ability!”

No. NO.

Panic took over and Atsushi kicked back into the man’s wounded leg, wrenching himself from his grip. He ran back towards the theater, towards the lingering Atsukis, wondering if that cover would be enough, or if he would just be getting someone else in trouble.

He dared a look over his shoulder and saw that a few officers had followed, but the circle of many similar-looking men had slowed them down. Instead, they were looking one by one through them, making inquiries, slowly coming towards him. Atsushi’s heart hammered, and he inched towards the theater, hoping to be able to duck inside and plea his case — when two other figures walked out.

Immediately, all the blonds outside descended on them, and Atsushi lost sight of them in the chaos.

“No more auditions today,” said one of them, whose voice was a mild, pleasant tenor. “Come back tomorrow.”

Atsushi ducked into the sea of princes, weaving through as they dispersed, some looking disheartened, others looking downright angry. It was all well and good for anyone who could come back tomorrow . . . but Atsushi needed to talk to them now.

The setting sun aided him as he followed them quietly, clinging his coat closer to himself as he did, the wind chilling him and reminding him of just how little he had. An entire day wasted. And he did not even have anywhere to return to. He wondered where these people lived, and was a little bit encouraged that following them might at least lead to somewhere he could sleep, when the two young men approached the palace in the center of the city.

The large, ornate double-doors were barred shut with wood and iron, as were many of the windows on the first floor. But the men were not deterred, and they headed onto the palace grounds without hesitation, and somehow disappeared.

A gap in the wall?

Atsushi did not know where that thought came from. But he waited a moment, glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was not being followed, and then strode across the grounds himself. In a trance, Atsushi touched the smooth palace walls, tracing his fingers along the outside, slowly walking around the perimeter, until he reached the garden. Or what used to be a garden, but was now full of overgrown shrubs and weeds. Atsushi’s hand carefully pried around a corner, where there was a rounded shape that looked to be a decoration or ornament. As he slid his hand around it, he found not solid marble but air. Nothing. A gap.

He slipped inside, his thin frame helping him ease inside. For a moment, he saw nothing but darkness, felt a heavy weight on one side of him, and wondered if he had just snuck into a crawl space and would be trapped. But the weight was a large tapestry, and he followed under the fabric until it let out into a large, abandoned ballroom.

If nothing else, he could find a corner to curl up in here to rest and try again tomorrow. But after a moment, voices kicked up from down the hall. He heard that soothing tenor again, and he went to follow it.

“That was a waste of time and money,” Kunikida sighed as they counted their losses. He folded his coat, trying to make the place more habitable, especially if they were going to have to stay here longer than expected.

“We’re just going to have to think of something else,” Dazai replied. Easier said than done, as he was usually the idea man, and the tryouts was his foremost idea. All those willing and able young men and not one of them was quite good enough to pass. He glanced over their notes, putting the pen nib in his mouth. “You said that girl from this morning looked a bit like the prince?”

“Really? That’s what you’re stooping to?”

“At least with a cute girl as our ward, it’d be more fun,” Dazai muttered, almost to himself. “Instead of a royal brat.”

There was the sudden sound of a loud crash coming from the foyer, followed by soft footsteps. Both the young men jumped to their feet, moving quickly to grab their weapons. Kunikida had a stun gun, an item he had all but created using his ability. Dazai was more old-fashioned with his fists, and a pistol.

“One of your conquests come to get her payment?” Kunikida chimed.

“Ha ha,” Dazai replied, unamused. “I don’t have the money to pay for that, Kunikida. More likely we’re getting robbed or raided.”

The raiding was less than likely. Dazai had been so bold with the audition because he knew he was being watched, that the secret police were waiting for the right time to strike, until he did something overtly illegal. And there was only one set of footsteps that echoed off the high ceiling — and they sounded almost tentative. So probably a robber, a desperate soul. Honestly, Dazai thought, they could kind of use a desperate soul right now. He lowered his weapon to his hip, and crept forward. A large curtain or sheet divided their quarters from the rest of the haunted house, and he curled his fingers around it, drawing it enough to peer into the dark room.

It was a slight figure, a skinny boy draped in a coat too big for him, looking around as though lost. Likely one of the actors looking for another shot — how he’d gotten in, Dazai had no idea, but he probably wasn’t dangerous. He put his gun away and stepped out, eyes adjusting to the dim light.

“Barking up the wrong tree, kid,” he said, striding into the room. The boy looked startled and took a step backwards, towards the large painting on the stairs, but he stood tall and defiant as Dazai approached him. “We only have time for the crown prince, so if you’re not him, you’re just wasting our . . .”

His vision adjusted to the dim at last, and with it, the painting came more into focus. Dazai trailed off and his eyes darted between the painting of Atsuki and the young man in front of him. The hair, the build. He was a spitting image. What were the odds?

He licked his lips, which had suddenly gone dry. Better still play coy to bait this kid. But his heart hammered.

Jackpot.

“I . . .”

Atsushi’s mouth went dry, but he pulled his courage back up. He wasn’t sure what he had expected with Dazai — an old banker or dirty criminal, maybe. But Dazai was young, tall. Very handsome. The tiger was raising its hackles, though, like a warning, and he tried his best to calm him down.

“I’ve been told you have passports,” Atsushi said sternly. “I need one. I need . . . as soon as possible. What do I need for you to get me one?”

Dazai folded his arms, unimpressed. God, even his pout was handsome. Atsushi blushed despite himself, hoping to brush it off as annoyance.

“Sorry,” Dazai said blandly. His voice was a mild tenor, a lilt to it that said he was joking even when his face looked downright serious. “As I said, we only have enough passports for the crown prince, Atsuki. If you’re not him, we’re not interested.”

“Please.” Atsushi stepped forward, his hands clasped together. “I’ll give you everything I have.” Nevermind he didn’t have anything save a few coins from the orphanage and the clothes on his back. “I . . . you must understand, too, what it is to be . . . outside the law.”

It was a guess, but they must be some sort of criminals to be selling passports and living like this. Dazai stirred but was unmoved; but there was a second voice from behind the curtain, this one much deeper.

“Why does that sound like a child, Dazai?” the man said, exasperated. “Throw him a crumb, for god’s sake. Listen, we can . . .”

The man manifested. He was even taller than Dazai with long, blond hair and a set of square glasses on his nose. He was also handsome, though he didn’t make Atsushi blush. Not that he had any time to consider these feelings because the second man had also trailed off and was staring at him, open-mouthed. Atsushi withdrew, wrapping his arms around himself. What was this look?

“How old are you?” the second man started, and he took a step forward as Atsushi took one back. He picked up on the discomfort quickly, and softened his stance. “I’m Doppo Kunikida. I’m sorry for the graceless twit Osamu Dazai. You are . . .?”

“Atsushi . . .Nakajima,” Atsushi said firmly. “And I’m eighteen.”

“He’s the right age,” Kunikida said bluntly. “And he does look . . . the hair and the build. It’s striking.”

He looked curiously over Atsushi again, circling him. Atsushi followed his gaze, turning with him, becoming more and more uncomfortable until Kunikida finally backed off, apologetic again.

“Yeah, he’s the right age and build like half the people we saw today,” Dazai sighed. “What do you need a passport for? What are you running from?”

“I . . .” Atsushi started again. Never, aside from the orphanage mistress, had he told anyone about his ability . . . and he was not ready to tell two strangers, either. Not when they could easily turn him in to the Secret Police like the actor had. He took a shuddering breath, and Kunikida made a small sound.

“He doesn’t . . .” he started. “Dazai. Don’t. Look at him. He could have come from any number of places.”

Dazai did consider him, but he continued to frown.

“You think he looks like the prince, I think he looks like trouble,” Dazai muttered. “We’re not just looking for some kid who resembles the Prince. This passport is for him only. Don’t you get how Passports work?”

Atsushi bit his lip, his hands trembling. He didn’t appreciate Dazai’s tone, but he understood his point.

“You don’t have any leads to where the prince is,” Atsushi said boldly. “I saw the auditions today. They were a wash. Don’t you need me, too?”

Something like a smile quirked at Dazai’s lips. But he wasn’t yet swayed. He, too, walked slowly around Atsushi, eyeing him up.

“Interesting,” he said, nearly to himself. Atsushi turned with him, becoming a little dizzy. “You know, you are closer than anyone else we saw today. What’s your story? Where are you from?”

“I don’t . . . I’m from the countryside,” Atsushi said. “But only since I was eight. I don’t remember . . . I don’t know my family. I just know . . . they’re probably outside the country.”

Dazai stopped at that, and he made eye contact with his partner.

“Ten years ago?” he repeated.

“Er, thereabouts.”

Dazai tilted his head, and he actually knelt to see Atsushi eye-to-eye. As if he were a show dog, Dazai took his face in his hand, moving it from side to side, analyzing his features. Dazai’s face so close to his own was giving Atsushi a strange feeling in his gut, and he wanted to wrench away, run away, but this was his ticket out of here. If they could help him . . .

“Atsushi,” Dazai said quietly. “Have you ever considered that you might actually be the prince?”

Atsushi laughed aloud at that, a nervous chuckle.

“Me?” he said, his voice higher than he wanted. “I’m nobody. I’m just . . .”

“You think the missing prince was galavanting around in luxury the last ten years?” Dazai said pointedly. “The most likely explanation is that he was taken in to an orphanage, maybe. Forgot who he was. But knows their family is out of the country, because . . .”

He stopped in his tracks, and Atsushi watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. Something passed between them, and Atsushi felt a chill up his spine. He wanted to ask if Atsushi had an ability. He could not ask this out loud. And Atsushi would not answer in the affirmative anyway. But if he knew . . . if he knew something about abilities . . .

Wait. Is he implying the royal family had abilities?

Atsushi had never really given it any thought. He vaguely knew the military regime taking over had coincided with the outlawing of abilities . . . he supposed it made everything fit together. But . . . if abilities were rare, and the royal family had them . . .

Could I . . . could I really be . . .

“All of this ringing a bell, Atsushi?” Dazai pressed.

“Y - yes,” Atsushi said, finding his voice. “I . . . I’m . . . the lost prince?”

“I can’t believe it, either,” Dazai admitted. “But . . . it sure sounds like it. So I guess, get used to us. Because we’re about to go on a long journey together.”

“What I think Dazai means,” Kunikida added smoothly, “is, welcome to the team, Atsushi Nakajima.”

Something bubbled up in Atsushi’s chest, something he had not felt in a very long time: hope. The hope that he had a way forward, that he might soon know who he was, that he would find his home and family, that he was that much closer. And he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Dazai.

Dazai stiffened, then tentatively patted him on the head like a cat before peeling away.

“Thank you,” Atsushi said sincerely.

“Don’t thank us yet, Prince,” Kunikida replied as Atsushi moved to hug him, too. Kunikida at least accepted normally, hugging him back. “We still have a long way to go. Speaking of which,” he added hastily as they pulled apart. “We’d better turn in. The train leaves pretty early tomorrow . . . and we need to plan for the unexpected.”

He made knowing eye contact again with his partner, and Atsushi felt another chill. He didn’t know if they had something specific in mind when they said “unexpected” . . . but he had to believe it was better than the uncertainty of anything else that lay ahead of him.

The three of them headed to an area where a couple of curtains were drawn to divide the space into what could be called bedrooms. Atsushi wondered if the other two men would share one so he could get his own, but that idea had not even crossed his companions’ minds. It was one of many symptoms Atsushi would experience of their somewhat friendly animosity.

“Kunikida, he should stay with you,” Dazai insisted. “Since you’re more responsible and can get him up on time.”

“I would . . . except,” Kunikida shot back, raising an eyebrow. “You’re the one with the double bed, Dazai. How convenient. Just the perfect thing for an overnight guest.”

Atsushi could have sworn Dazai blushed, but he turned away in a fit before Atsushi could actually tell. As Kunikida went off on his own, Atsushi awkwardly followed Dazai’s lead.

Dazai parted the curtain to reveal a messy bedroom, mostly taken up by a mattress, but with a dresser and a nightstand shoved on the far side. All the flat surfaces were covered in papers and books, and the dresser had on top of it several teacups and a half-full decanter of some amber liquid.

“You’d better not be a bed-hog,” Dazai sighed, stripping. “And if you snore, I’ll put you out in the hallway.”

Atsushi snorted. It was as if Dazai forgot who he was talking to. But Atsushi would not let him forget.

“Is that how you talk to your prince?” he shot back boldly. “If anyone should sleep on the floor, it should be you.”

“Don’t get cocky.” Dazai had his hands on his bare hips. Beneath his shirt and vest was a swath of bandages, starting at his neck and wrapping around his upper torso. Atsushi felt a lurch, wondering what had happened to him. Did he get into a lot of fights or something? “Remember, I’m the keeper of the passports. Be nice to me.”

Atsushi was a little bit cowed and decided not to rile Dazai up just as he was starting to warm up to him. He stayed silent as he, too removed his clothes and lay down on the bed. It was blessedly comfortable, far better than the one he’d had in the orphanage, and he could swear the pillows had a faint scent of cloves or lemon. Dazai lay beside him and turned over to look at him, as though analyzing him further. Atsushi’s stomach dropped as he did, still nervous Dazai would dismiss him at the last minute as a fraud. But he inched a little closer, and that scent of cloves became stronger. It wasn’t the pillow that smelled sweet; it was Dazai. Atsushi’s breath caught, wondering what in the world Dazai was doing. He wasn’t . . .

“You have a pretty face,” Dazai said quietly, matter-of-factly. “Innocent. You should use that to your advantage if we run into trouble.”

Then he turned over and tried to settle into sleep. It took Atsushi’s heart a moment to calm back down, but he was not awake much longer. It had been a long time since he’d been in a bed this soft. Exhausted from the day, he had barely closed his eyes when he sank into a deep and fitful sleep.

* * *

Memories swirled within his head, music and flame, warmth and light. In this very room, far away, long ago, a young boy around six was sitting in his grandfather’s lap. He was begging him to tell again the story his father had forbidden him from sharing again until he was older, because it always gave him nightmares. The story of the Fukuzawa ancestor, Bram the Brave, and the demon Fyodor.

“Please, grandfather,” the boy begged. “I promise I won’t tell papa.”

Fukuzawa was indulgent of his only grandson. It didn’t take him too much persuasion to concede. Besides; he should know the legend.

“Long ago,” he started, combing Atsuki’s wayward hair behind his ear, “before I was alive, before even my grandfather was alive, before this palace was erected, Bram Fukuzawa ruled the people. It was a simpler time, and the country was only in its infancy. He wanted to cultivate peace among his people, among the many families, some of whom had been there for generations. This included people of all faiths, of all colors, and also included people with abilities.”

Atsuki had grinned at this, for his grandfather would sometimes garnish the story by describing all kinds of fantastic abilities. Fukuzawa went on for a moment before he continued in a low tone.

“But like today, not everyone agreed that abilities were something to be celebrated. Some people feared them . . . or even hated them. And one group in particular sought to erase them completely. This was led by a man called Fyodor.”

Here Fukuzawa would often make a face, bend his hands into claws, give himself horns, while Atsuki clapped in delight.

“Fyodor the demon they called him. Only he was not really a demon, not yet. He and his crusaders made their way to Bram’s city, bent on taking out the ability-users of his people. But Bram would not allow that. He went out to the city gate to meet Fyodor and engage him in battle. For you see, Bram had an ability of his own.”

“A curse!” Atsuki chimed in. Fukuzawa shook his head.

“Only a curse to those who hated abilities, like Fyodor,” Fukuzawa corrected sternly. “Bram’s ability was about connection. Connecting with his people, with his family, with animals, with plants. But he took all of his power and he bound himself to Fyodor.

“’As long as there is a Fukuzawa alive,’ Bram said, ‘so shall you too be.’ It was, in fact both a blessing and a curse. To have such a long life would be to see all your loved ones die, over and over. But in doing so, Bram had hoped to teach Fyodor empathy, to teach him how precious life is. Instead, he created a monster.

“Fyodor was shunned by his crusaders and fled. And he has only been seen in passing ever since, in the shadows, in the darkest corners, in the deepest caves. They say that to this day he is cursing the Fukuzawa family back, he is the cause all of their troubles, from a papercut to an untimely death.”

Fukuzawa paused as Atsuki delighted in the tale. Perhaps he was too young to understand the story was supposed to teach the future leaders not to be too hasty, that rulings made without understanding the situation could only come back to haunt you. That not everyone could be redeemed.

As Fukuzawa sent Atsuki off to bed, he wondered. It was supposed to only be a tale, but with the death of Atsuki’s mother, his daughter, he was truly feeling the brunt of the curse. And with the rise of the anti-ability sentiment . . .

Could Fyodor be real after all?

In the hall, through the quiet and peaceful slumber of the three young men, a shrill giggle cut through the silence. Perched near the rafters with a full view of the rooms sat a man clad in the military uniform, but white, with a checkered hat. His long white hair fell in braids down his back, nearly tangling in the cape draped over his shoulders. He watched the youngest white-haired boy with interest as he slept, trying to get a better view of him.

“That one’s a good bet,” he muttered to himself. “Only he doesn’t have the little stripe in his hair. I suppose Dazai’s going to paint it in or something.”

His hand flitted down to a vial tied around his neck, one of blood. All of the Secret Police had one hidden beneath their uniforms, and he played with it mindlessly. He had been tasked with keeping an eye on Dazai and Kunikida, ever since they had moved in here; and it was even more interesting when they decided to look for the missing prince. Dazai was a curious enough man, too clever at times; it was worth waiting to see if they would just actually find the boy instead of interfering. Less work for Dostoyevsky. But instead, it seemed like they had just picked up some kid and were going to pass him off. Well, good riddance, anyway.

Not that they’d leave the country alive.

The checkered man felt a strange vibration resonating up his hand and looked down — the vial was humming, it was singing, it was reacting to someone in the room. It was, of course, filled with Fyodor’s blood — it was a detector, supposed to do something should they run into someone from the old royal family. But it had never actually done anything before. And then something behind him began to stir.

He felt it in his bones before he felt it brush against his skin. Beneath his cloak of many tricks, two hands pushed through the darkness, two arms manifested from it and encircled his chest, his waist. It could only mean one thing.

“No way,” Nikolai cursed. “That little twerp . . .he’s the prince?”

Nikolai got one last look of the grand ballroom before he was pulled backwards into the void, tumbling heels over head through the darkness, through hell itself, and he landed at the feet of a man with chin-length black hair and red, poisonous eyes. Nikolai inclined his head and knelt before Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

Chapter Text

Fyodor Dostoyevsky crossed his legs, sitting back on his elaborate chair in a nearly empty bunker and surveying the man who had just appeared out of thin air in front of him. Over the many decades and centuries he had been alive, he’d had many right-hand people, but Nikolai Gogol had proved to be one of the most useful. Also one of the most bloodthirsty.

For the first few decades, he had cursed the Fukuzawa family under his every breath, outraged that he had been outmaneuvered and afflicted with this ability that he did not want. But over time, he started to realize that having this long life meant he had the time, if only he could conjure the patience, to enact many of his ambitious plans. And finally things were starting to come to fruition. He had managed to quietly take out most of the royal family, put himself quietly in charge, and started implementing the outlawing and slaughter of those disgusting ability-users. He should really be thanking them . . . they had unwittingly played a hand in their own destruction.

“Sir,” Nikolai started, getting to his feet only to kneel again, “it’s — the Prince has been found.”

Fyodor’s lip twitched into a smile; another tree that was bearing fruit. He had left that obnoxious Osamu Dazai to his own devices, sure that one day he would lead him to something bigger . . . never mind that the man was an annoying thorn in his side, and that he had no insight as to what his ability was . . . but indeed, he’d found the crown Prince for him. Unwittingly, it looked like, but the result was still the same.

His goal of murdering all the Fukuzawas had long since lapsed — his fate was tied to at least one of them being alive, after all. And though he loathed abilities in general, he had learned that some ability-users could be rather useful. Nikolai, for one. And the Prince . . .

The boy was not just a mere tiger but a god-like presence. If he could tame him or at at the very least force him into submission, he would strike fear into every being on the planet. Not only would he have subjugated this powerful ability, but he would have at his beck and call a royal pet.

Dazai had managed to track him down. And now Fyodor had the means to subdue him.

“Very good news,” Fyodor said mildly, leaning comfortably on his hand. “Let us set Phase Three into action. A quiet arrest at the checkpoint. Or if that does not work . . . perhaps we can engineer a little train trouble.”

Kunikida was forced to more or less herd his two companions to the train station along with their luggage earlier in the morning than any of them cared to be up. But Dazai was dragging his feet and Atsushi was awed and distracted by everything he saw. Dazai was only a little bit charmed by his innocence — he had just told him to use that to his advantage, after all — but he could only explain what every little thing was for so long. It was exhausting, and he was already exhausted from having shared a bed.

They managed to pass the first checkpoint with little to no hiccups — Atsushi had forgotten the name he was traveling under, but he played it off like the guard misheard him — and they piled onto the half-full train that would carry them over the border and into a country that looked more favorably on them.

The three of them found a partition to sit in, and Dazai made automatically for the window seat. He stared at the passing pine trees, going over his mental list of all the things they needed to discuss with Atsushi before he was ready to even look at Fukuzawa. The hair stripe was easy enough, teaching him the family tree was something they should get started on, and how the Prince had escaped . . . Dazai was hoping Fukuzawa would not ask that, since the former King had been there, too, and the memory of them getting separated was likely painful for the old man.

But the question of abilities . . . the real Prince had one. If Atsushi had no ability, Dazai had prepared a handful of ones that could be faked. His own wasn’t easily provable, after all, and a little pantomime and sleight-of-hand could do wonders. The real problem was if Atsushi, in his fresh-out-of-the-orphanage immaturity, didn’t know the Prince was supposed to have one and was instilled with bigoted rhetoric. If that was the case, Dazai thought, they would just kick him to the curb and cut their losses, see who they could find in France.

His thoughts were disturbed by Atsushi leaning across his lap to gaze out the window, his golden eyes wide and his mouth open in awe. Dazai made a face and pushed him away. Was he really eighteen?

“Excuse me,” he said sharply, “your highness. Gentlemen don’t lean across their companions like lapdogs.”

“Sorry,” Atsushi said quickly, blushing. He sat up straight. “I just . . . I’ve never seen so many mountains . . . they’re really extraordinary.” He stared at Dazai meaningfully, who recalled Atsushi’s odd boldness last night and did not particularly like where this was going. “Let me have the window seat?”

“No,” Dazai replied. Maybe it was his abrasion to authority in general or maybe he didn’t want this kid he just met trying to pushing him around. “I need it to think.”

“If you need a window to think, that explains a lot,” Atsushi said.

Dazai shot him a look; Atsushi blanched, seeming to realize he had gone too far. He, too had automated responses. They’d both been without socializations for too long. But Atsushi stood his ground.

“Dazai,” he started, “if you really think I’m royalty, you should be treating me as such. If you don’t respect me, others will follow suit.”

Dazai narrowed his eyes, then glared at their third companion. That line had definitely been fed to him by Kunikida, and Dazai made the mental note never to let them be alone. Kunikida pushed up his glasses and continued reading the book he’d brought, feigning innocence.

“Fine,” Dazai sighed. “Your highness. Your beautiful, perfect, shining gem of a prince who I would walk over glass and fire to bring a cup of water if he was thirsty in the middle of the night.”

He shifted to the outer seat, the back of his knees brushing against Atsushi’s legs, and he glanced out down the corridor. It was almost time to enact the first part of their plan.

“I need a smoke,” Dazai muttered. “Come out with me, Kunikida.”

Kunikida put down his book, and made to follow. Atsushi also started to slide over, but Dazai stopped him.

“No need for your delicate royal legs to needlessly stand up,” he said pointedly. “Relax, your highness.”

Atsushi looked annoyed but did stay put as the other two stepped into the corridor and closed the partition door. Kunikida only raised his eyebrows, an odd look sparkling behind his glasses. It was akin to that concern that came over him whenever he thought Dazai was doing something stupid.

“What?” Dazai folded his arms. “I just can’t believe that little shit’s our ticket out of here.”

Kunikida only stared, that concern becoming more prominent.

“What?” Dazai pressed again. “What’s that look? Why are you looking at me like I’m flirting with the wrong person?”

Kunikida sighed. “Nothing.”

Dazai leaned back against the partition door, lighting a cigarette. Atsushi really was their best bet, but he was kind of getting on his nerves. He only hoped he wouldn’t get in the way of this next part.

Far down the train, many cars towards the front, several porters were making their way through the passengers, checking their paperwork. And they were accompanied by members of the Secret Police. Dazai glanced conspiratorially at Kunikida, who gave him that knowing look back, and they took a deep breath before springing into action.

Kunikida took a stroll down towards the front as though making his way casually to the dining car or just to see the view. Meanwhile Dazai took a moment to analyze Atsushi again from afar, figure out what they had to do with him to make this work. Painting the stripe in his hair was easy, explaining it away to Atsushi was more difficult. Maybe he could pass it off as fashion. As for the ability . . . well, they would have a few days in Paris to reconnoiter and make inquiries as to what the prince’s ability was. If they were lucky, Kunikida could manifest something to fake it . . . or they could say the Secret Police did something to the prince that got rid of it.

Dazai frowned at that thought, not putting it past Dostoyevsky’s dogs to try and develop something like that. But he was distracted from that dark road by Kunikida suddenly running back into their train car, looking quite panicked.

“The passports,” he breathed, his voice a stage whisper and actually quite loud. “What color are they?”

“Color?” Dazai mused. “They’re yellow, aren’t they?”

“No — they’d better not be,” Kunikida growled. “The ink, Dazai. What color is the ink?”

“I dunno, blue or something,” Dazai said. He ducked into their partition and grabbed the paperwork, flipping through it. “Yeah, blue.”

There was an audible sigh from Kunikida — and an audible gasp from the people in the next seats over.

“Thank goodness,” Kunikida said, clutching his chest dramatically. Overselling it, but it’s not like anyone was watching them all that closely. “I thought they changed it last-minute . . . looks like we got in on time.”

“Oh good,” Dazai shrugged. “So it’s blue, then—”

Kunikida took his cue and suddenly grabbed Dazai by the front of the shirt.

“Shh,” he said, still in a stage whisper. “We don’t need anyone trying to hound us down to buy our papers if they have the wrong ones.”

“I mean,” Dazai said, jokingly, “for the right price, I would trade and deal with the police.”

Kunikida made a sound of annoyance that he’d had plenty of real practice with, and he opened the partition door again.

“Just get inside and shut up,” he said, shoving Dazai back inside.

It didn’t take very long. Dazai was actually glad to have the aisle seat now so he could hear the stirring in the next partition over in real time, hear the passengers beside them hurriedly look through their own papers, hear their gasp of panic, and hear their vague murmurs on what they were going to do now. It was only about five minutes before he heard a knock on their door.

Dazai glanced at both of his companions curiously, as though he had not manipulated these circumstances. Shrugging, he slipped out the door to negotiate.

Ten minutes later, he slid back into his seat, not only now with the right papers, but also several coins richer. Kunikida barely nodded in acknowledgement, turning back to his book, but unfortunately, Atsushi had been watching the entire exchange. Ugh.

“What — what was that?” Atsushi said, sitting up. “What did you just do?”

“Got us the right papers,” Dazai said blandly. This was the obvious drawback to conning the kid as well. He was asking too many questions. And he had a moral compass. “The Secret Police like screwing people over, so we made a contingency plan.”

“So what, you’re screwing over other people instead?” Atsushi pressed. His face was right up in Dazai’s; there was a crease between his eyebrows, a little bit of fire in his eyes, and there was, in fact, something regal about his seriousness. “I can’t believe you — that you would do something like that —“

“You know how I really know you’re royalty?” Dazai placed his hand delicately on Atsushi’s chest and pushed him back. “It’s because you don’t have any attachment to reality. You really have no idea what it’s like out there. It’s eat or be eaten, your highness.”

He sat back in his chair, unbothered, but Atsushi continued to stare at him. Usually Dazai was content enough to partner up with people who loathed him — Kunikida for one — but something compelled him to try and ease Atsushi’s worry, get on his good side.

It’s just because it’s easier if we get along, he told himself.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dazai sighed, resigned. “They have other identifying paperwork. They’ll be detained but ultimately let go. If they’re smart, they’ll blame us outright and say we stole their papers, and we’ll be far away by then.”

“But—”

“That’s more than I can say for us if we were caught with the wrong papers,” Dazai said. “Is that what you want?”

“Of course not, but I don’t — I don’t want to sacrifice other people for my own gain,” Atsushi insisted. “Isn’t that the right thing to do? Isn’t that what I should be doing, as the prince? Thinking of my people?”

“It’s good that you’re thinking like this, Atsushi,” Kunikida said gently, “but being a sympathetic ruler can only get you so far. Being a king is making the hard choices. There is no such thing as advancement without sacrifice.”

That at least seemed to give Atsushi something to think about, and he sat back further in his seat, his arms folded, a little pout on his porcelain face.

A sudden hand on Dazai’s knee gave him a start, and he realized he had been staring at the Prince — long day, he supposed — and he got to his feet with Kunikida.

To pull this off successfully, they needed to be further away from their marks when the porters and police came through. Dazai thought Kunikida’s words had actually permeated because Atsushi didn’t complain or say anything as they gathered their belongings and headed to the furthest car up possible, right behind the engine. And when their papers were checked at last, they were glanced over and returned to them without incident — though Dazai could not help but eye the officers as they continued through the train car until they were out of sight.

At the sound of the car door sliding closed, Dazai sat back with a sigh.

“That’s one checkpoint down,” he muttered, leaning over Atsushi to watch the officers disembark. “We should be in the clear until we get to the end of the line.”

Under normal circumstances, he would be right. But with the real Prince in tow, he was absolutely wrong.

Three officers of the Secret Police stepped off the train at the edge of the country, huddling quietly before letting it go off again. They would not have jurisdiction once the train crossed the border, and so if they were going to act, they needed to act now.

“Orders from Dostoyevsky not to let them leave,” one of them said pointedly. “But we did not find anyone with the papers and descriptions he described. The ones we detained are obviously not correct.”

A second one nodded, his breath curling up in a fog.

“But we only need the Prince,” he replied. “As for the others, did Dostoyevsky say not to let them leave? Or did he say not to let them leave alive?”

The third one gave a wry smile.

“Get ready to give a hand at the next checkpoint,” he said quietly. “Someone on this train is about to have a terrible accident.”

The coniferous trees of the north were fading out into more deciduous ones as the train chugged its way to the south, towards warmer climates and broad-leafed plants. Dazai mostly enjoyed the view over Atsushi’s shoulder, having half a mind to trick him into changing seats, when the train gave a sudden unpleasant lurch.

“The hell . . .”

Kunikida put his book away, looking out to the corridor in alarm. The train now seemed to be operating smoothly, but he stood up, glancing towards the engine curiously. Dazai sat back, putting his arms behind his head, not wanting to get involved in anything more. It should be smooth sailing until they had to make Atsushi presentable.

The door to the engine creaked open and four officers walked out calmly, shutting the door behind them. Without a word, they continued down the train until they got to the car door and swung this open, too. And Kunikida startled, grabbing Dazai’s shoulder.

“Ow.” Dazai gritted his teeth. “What are you—”

“Those officers are those ones who checked our papers,” Kunikida hissed. “They have blood on their hands.”

“What?” Atsushi sat up in alarm, his white face going paler. “But . . . they didn’t when we spoke to them a few minutes ago. . . what does that mean? How did they even—?”

“Ughhh.” Dazai groaned, getting to his feet. Only they could run headfirst into a conspiracy on what was supposed to be a normal passenger rail. “Come on. Maybe they’ve knocked the conductor about for information and we can get some ourselves by pretending to be undercover officers.”

Atsushi shot him a look at once, as he had been doing all day. This one, though, was a little different. More afraid than annoyed.

“I’m joking,” Dazai assured. “I don’t hit people unless they deserve it. Let’s go see what the trouble is.”

Atsushi put a hand on his arm.

“Why us?” he asked. “Should we . . . I don’t know . . . tell someone?”

Dazai couldn’t hide his disdain fast enough. Maybe this kid really was royalty for all his naivety.

“Who are you going to tell, your highness?” he asked pointedly.

He didn’t need to say any more. Atsushi fell angrily silent, his face in a cute little pout, and he followed as the other two gingerly walked into the engine room. But when they stepped inside the stifling iron car, Dazai considered they should have listened to the little prince.

Fyodor changing the color of the proper papers last-minute had been an inconvenience meant to distract them. This was the real trap.

A man in wool uniform pants and jacket was lying on the floor, face down, his head facing towards them, his eyes open and vacant. And in the middle of his forehead, under his short-brimmed engineer’s cap, was a single hole leaking blood.

“Ah, crap.”

Dazai cursed under his breath. Atsushi clung to his arm, clawing at his sleeve. Kunikida also grunted, and he reached into his pocket for his notebook. His weapon.

“We’re being framed for murder,” Dazai muttered, clenching his fists. “Fyodor’s determined.”

“What?” Atsushi said sharply, but the three of them heard pounding behind them and turned quickly around to face the door. Dazai was not surprised when the heavy iron door swing open again and the very same officers that had been here before starting yelling for their arrest.

Their stances changed at once. They couldn’t give the police time enough to draw their weapons, because at this point, the cops might just kill them if they got the chance. Kunikida charged forward, kicking at the officers’ wrists, knocking one of them off his feet with a sweep. Dazai grabbed Atsushi and shoved him in the corner behind a large container of coal.

“Stay here,” he ordered. “Stay down.”

“You’re going to fight them?” Atsushi asked. He didn’t sound incredulous, only curious, and he followed up with actually something smart. “Then what?”

“We’ll get to that when we get to that,” Dazai replied quickly. “I’d like to not get us killed first.”

Atsushi started to protest, but there were far more pressing matters. Dazai joined Kunikida in the fight, dodging punches, landing blows when he could, but they were twice outnumbered and were forced back further into the train car. The heat of the engine beat at their backs, and Dazai looked at his partner, who was similarly inclined. If they were going to get arrested for having abilities, they might as well use them.

There was a glow in Kunikida’s hand, and a piece of paper he had drawn from his notebook transformed into a stun gun. Before the officers could register what it was, he fired it at them, and one of them immediately fell to the floor, twitching as electricity pulsed through him. He dropped it and plucked another paper from his pocket, this time summoning a small club, using it to beat them back.

Dazai’s ability was not helpful for fighting, but he was well-versed in combat. He grinned and simply jumped on one of the officers, knocking him to the ground, and he began punching him in the face.

“Dazai!”

Dazai heard Atsushi’s voice behind him and his stomach sank — did they get to him? — but he felt rough hands grabbing him under his arms and pulling him to his feet —

Wham!

There was the sound of metal reverberating and whoever had been dragging Dazai up dropped him suddenly and then fell to the ground. Dazai looked over his shoulder to see that Atsushi had grabbed the coal shovel and swung it across the man’s head.

They looked at each other, wide-eyed, and Dazai nodded at him before he heard more commotion beside him.

Kunikida was fighting the last one, and the man had managed to wrenched the stun gun away from him — and it didn’t matter that this sort of thing didn’t really exist, because the officer had seen how it worked. Dazai lunged forward, his arm outstretched, reaching for the stun gun, and his fingers wrapped around the barrel just as he felt the electrode brush his skin — and the gun disappeared, negated. Holding nothing, Dazai stumbled forward, falling on the ground and leaving Kunikida an opening to clock the last officer with his club.

They were now surrounded by four unconscious officers on a train that had no living engineer.

“Okay, now what?” Atsushi pressed. “This looks worse than it did before, doesn’t it? A dead engineer and four unconscious officers?”

“Shut up,” Dazai let slip. But obviously Atsushi was right.

“We need to get off this train,” Kunikida said, clear-headed. “The snow should cushion our fall.”

Dazai nodded — it had been their backup plan if the scheme with the papers hadn’t worked. But Atsushi looked nothing less than flabbergasted.

“Are you serious?” he squeaked. “Jump from a moving train?”

“It’s fine,” Dazai said dismissively.

Once again, Atsushi was right, but he really felt like being contrarian. He threw the car door open and leaned out of it, watching the speeding landscape as they rode through. Over his shoulder, Atsushi followed his gaze; Dazai expected him to look smug, but he only looked nervous. Then determined.

“We need to slow this down,” Atsushi said quickly. Practically. He ducked back into the engine and searched the coals as though they could give an answer. “If we cool the coals, it should help . . . but we don’t have any water . . . do we?”

Dazai made brief eye contact with Kunikida — he could make water if pressed. But Atsushi would see very plainly how his ability worked.

When neither of them responded, Atsushi made a sound of frustration and grabbed the shovel once again.

“Fine,” he said, and he plunged the spade deep into the coals in the furnace. “The only other thing to do is take the coals out.”

Dazai almost let him toss the coals little by little into the snow outside, potentially setting fire to the surrounding forests, but he’d only taken out a scoop when there was a loud hissing — Kunikida was dumping a small bucket of water into the furnace, and had a paper out, ready to prep a second one. And Atsushi was staring at him, wide-eyed, open-mouthed.

Hell.

Without addressing him, Kunikida threw a second bucket on the fire and Atsushi stood up straight, dropping the shovel and making towards him.

The train lurched — cooling the coals worked almost too well, and while they were unsteady, Dazai took the opportunity to interrupt them.

“Come on!” he said loudly, “Before anyone else comes!”

He grabbed both of their hands and pulled them out of the car, and the three of them edged along the outside of the train car. It had slowed, yes, but the train was still moving at a clip, and Atsushi looked nearly sick as he saw what they were supposed to do.

“Tuck and roll,” Kunikida said simply, yelling over the wind. “Land on the ground already curled up and ready to go with the momentum.”

Atsushi swallowed hard, gathering his courage as he made to jump off — and he stumbled.

Almost in slow-motion, his arms flailed like windmills, his feet slipped under him, and he sank into oblivion.

Reflexively, without thinking, Dazai leapt after him as he fell, launching himself off the train, his arms outstretched. He felt his chest hit Atsushi’s shoulder and he clamped his arms tightly, wrapping himself fully around Atsushi and bracing for the impact. He landed on his shoulder, the cold snow soft enough to help rather than hurt, and they rolled, leaning away from the train, coming to rest a dozen feet away.

Dazai picked up his head, catching his breath, propping himself on his arms to check on their prince. Atsushi was directly under him, gazing up at him wide-eyed. It was weird, in the darkness, in this position, that Atsushi did kind of look like the woman from a few days ago . . . but Dazai pushed that thought away and sat up on his knees.

“You — you saved me,” Atsushi said, stunned.

“Of course I did,” Dazai said dismissively. “Do you think I’m some sort of monster?”

But he bit his tongue at his own words, remembering what had happened in the engine. And that maybe Atsushi kind of did.

The sound of the train chugging away from them faded out and died and was replaced by nothing as the three of them sat quietly in the snow, ruminating on who would break the ice first. And Dazai and Kunikida would find out if, after bypassing passport problems and a murder charge, would they still be in a lot of trouble?

The cold snow was not doing much to help calm the adrenaline pumping through Atsushi’s veins as he wondered what to say to his companions. His companions who, as it turned out, had abilities. Just like him.

He’d never met anyone else with them, only vaguely remember stories from the orphanage of how evil they were, colored by descriptions of awful and violent abilities. And though he’d seen Kunikida make a weapon, it was to save them, and Dazai . . . he didn’t quite understand his, but he had done something to keep Kunikida being shot at. His head was swimming. Meeting two other ability-users in the flesh was akin to meeting a storybook character, like meeting childhood heroes. Except these two men were not really heroes in the conventional sense.

“So . . .” Kunikida was the first to break the awkward silence. “Atsushi. You probably noticed we’re . . . uh . . .”

“We’ll explain ourselves, but we’re not going to apologize,” Dazai said defensively. “If you’re afraid of us, you should just leave now because it’s only going to get harder for you to deal with.”

“Not helping,” Kunikida cut in. “Listen, Atsushi. Abilities are not the danger that you’ve been fed. We’re normal people, just like everyone else, but with . . . a little extra. It’s nothing dangerous inherently. And we . . . don’t mean you any harm.”

“You made a gun,” Atsushi said numbly. He wasn’t being coherent, but he couldn’t gather his thoughts fast enough. “Out of thin air.”

“Out of necessity,” Kunikida said quickly. “We wouldn’t have gotten out alive if I hadn’t.”

Atsushi shook his head, sitting up. “That’s not what I —” He cut off with a sudden realization, and his body started shaking. “That’s why — Fyodor is after you. The Secret Police, you had to hide from them because of your abilities — that’s why you had to leave the country!”

Really he was just putting the pieces together, saying aloud these thoughts as he figured them out. But as he looked between his companions for confirmation, he realized that it sounded accusatory. They did not look cowed; but they did look somewhat abashed.

“It’s — a factor in it,” Kunikida admitted. “The bounty on the Prince was an excuse to expedite our exit. And we . . . if the Fukuzawa family came back, we might not . . . our existence might one day no longer be illegal.”

He swallowed, but Atsushi was still looking at the snow-covered ground. Still gathering his courage.

“Well.” Kunikida sounded defeated. “Where do we go from here, then, if you want to part ways?”

“He doesn’t,” Dazai said quietly. Atsushi looked up at him in the dim moonlight. He was sitting up on his knees, hands kneading his legs, staring at Atsushi. “You’re running from them, too,” he whispered. “Aren’t you?”

Atsushi had noticed the odd change in him, from that sharp anger to something akin to mellow reverence. He nodded once, and Dazai shuffled over to him, clutching his face in his hands.

“I knew it,” he said, grinning. “I knew it. Oh that is going to make our lives so much easier.”

“What are you talking about?” Kunikida stepped in.

“He has one, too,” Dazai replied. “He’s one of us. Damn, I wish I could have asked you outright in the palace but . . . ugh. Tell me,” he added excitedly, pulling him closer as though he could see it embedded in his skin, “what is it? Do you make ice, or do you glow, or have some sort of powerful attraction charm?”

“What? No,” Atsushi blurted.

He pushed Dazai away, but couldn’t help but laugh at his weird guesses. Dazai laughed back and settled into the grass beside him, Kunikida tentatively joining the circle. Atsushi combed his hair behind his ear, taking a breath.

“I . . . I can’t exactly control it,” he started, “but basically I . . . turn into a tiger at the full moon.”

Slowly, Atsushi tried to gauge their reactions, but neither looked particularly afraid or amazed. Kunikida looked quizzical, his hand on his chin as though thinking. Dazai was looking at the moon — was he calculating when the next full moon would be?

“Do you not believe me?” Atsushi pressed.

“Oh, no, I definitely do,” Dazai replied. “I just want to prepare for it. Lucky for you, we’re well-matched, you and I.” Atsushi flushed before Dazai continued. “Our abilities. I wonder if you can guess.”

“Dazai, we don’t have time to—” Kunikida started. But then Dazai lifted his hand and laid his fingers across Atsushi’s cheek and Atsushi did not hear anything else.

He immediately lost his track from trying to discern Dazai’s ability because Dazai’s hand was warm and Atsushi could swear there was something tingling from his fingertips. Was that part of his ability? Or was it just . . . did he just like the feel of Dazai’s fingers along his jaw, the touch of Dazai’s skin against his?

What was this?

“Do you feel any different?” Dazai asked playfully.

Yes, Atsushi thought, but he was certain that whatever this escalation in heartbeat was, whatever this fluttering in his stomach was, it wasn’t what Dazai meant. Atsushi tried to concentrate on his ability instead, and he closed his eyes and tried to communicate with Byakko.

Something was wrong. Not bad, just different. Byakko wasn’t gone . . . but he was quieter. And that clawing beneath his skin that was the tiger pacing in him, it was almost indiscernable.

“Suppression?” Atsushi tried. “You . . . stop abilities.”

“Mm-hmm,” Dazai hummed. “So you wouldn’t have to turn into a bloodthirsty tiger this month. As long as I’m touching you. Aren’t you lucky?” Atsushi’s heart started to beat faster at that, but what was lucky was that Dazai hadn’t noticed. “I’d still like to see it. I bet you’re a gorgeous tiger.”

Atsushi raised his eyebrows, and Dazai immediately backpedaled.

“I mean — big cats are strong, lithe. I’ve never seen a tiger up close! That’s all.” Dazai threw up his hands. And in doing so, noticed something on top of Atsushi’s head.

Atsushi was distracted once again by Dazai’s fingers plunging into his hair, the light scraping across his scalp pleasant and soothing, and he struggled not to lean into it. What would Dazai think if he started to be affectionate to someone he had just met and who had mostly been abrasive towards him? But Atsushi could not deny that it felt . . . really nice.

“What’s this?” He felt the fingers digging around towards his crown and remembered that he had cut the black strand from his hair. Atsushi’s pulse picked up, though that fear that it would out him was no longer founded. He was in safe hands. “A little dye job?”

Dazai paused, his limbs becoming a little stiff.

“How did you get into the palace, again?” he asked carefully. “Did you say you came to the audition?”

“I . . . yes,” Atsushi admitted. “But you weren’t seeing anyone by the time I got there . . . so I followed you.”

Dazai laughed aloud. He withdrew, brushing his pants off and finally standing up.

“You little cheeky sneak,” he said merrily, pulling Atsushi to his feet. “I thought we’d come across you by chance. Clever, Prince.”

Atsushi tilted his head as Dazai and Kunikida assessed their surroundings, furrowing his brow. Did Dazai think he’d dyed his hair to pretend to be the Prince — that he was just another one of the actors? So . . . did Dazai not truly believe he was the actual prince?

Was he being conned? Did Dazai believe he was actually a nobody, but one who could be manipulated into . . .

“There’s a town a few miles up the road,” Kunikida said, already sounding exhausted. “From there we can grab a carriage to the port and still catch our ship. We’ll have less days to rest, but we should be alright.”

“So we have to walk?” Atsushi asked, distracted.

“It sucks,” Dazai admitted, shrugging. He started walking and the other two walked along. “But I don’t see what other choice we have.”

Atsushi stopped, an odd ripple going through him. I don’t see what other choice you have. The same words in the same voice. Where had he heard them before?

“What did you say?”

“I said we don’t have a choice but to walk to town,” Dazai repeated. He looked at Atsushi quizzically, then gave a teasing grin. “You know, I said you should use your cute face to your advantage, your highness. I bet you could get someone to give us a ride.”

Chapter Text

A loud, piercing screech echoed in the underground bunker where Fyodor jumped to his feet, furiously pacing. Nikolai had just received word that both of the incidents on the train had resulted in failure so the Prince was still on his way back to France. Fyodor wasn’t happy about that; and when Fyodor wasn’t happy about that, Nikolai wasn’t happy about that, and that displeasure was translated and doled out into corporal punishment on the cowering messengers.

“Enough.” Fyodor said mildly, coming to a stop in front of the two subjugated officers.

He had watched the elder Fukuzawa for long enough to understand the gist of his ability . . . an ability the old man didn’t seem to know he had. If Atsuki — or, Atsushi as the boy was now calling himself — was reunited with his grandfather, taken into his custody, the prince would regain control over his ability. And Fyodor would not be able to take him as easily.

But . . . the boy did not understand his own power. He was still quite trusting, quite sweet. And he did not yet know Fyodor or Nikolai’s faces. They could use that to their advantage. He was not lost yet.

“They are not out of our reach quite yet,” Fyodor hummed, curling his fingers into a fist. “You two will go on board the ship and spread rumors about this cursed beast. We will incentivize some citizens to throw the boy overboard. And you, Nikolai, will be waiting with a lifeboat to rescue him, make his little innocent heart be thankful for you. And then you will return him to me.”

The soldiers bent their heads and headed off. Nikolai gave a last backwards glance at his commander before following, and leaving Fyodor alone once again.

Soon, perhaps, he would never be alone. Not with Byakko at his side.

“Tyger, tyger,” Fyodor whispered, “burning bright, in the forest of the night. And what shoulder, and what art, could twist the sinew of thy heart?”

They did, in fact, make their ship, thanks to Atsushi managing to flag down a ride. Though they barely had enough time to replenish their supplies and rest before they had to climb aboard. Outside of Fyodor’s reign, embarkment was much easier, much less nerve-wracking, though Atsushi was visibly more subdued, less in awe and wonder of the new places ever since the incident on the train.

Dazai had been a little bit concerned Atsushi would not fare well at sea. But as soon as the ship pulled out of port and they were on their way, he seemed to come alive again, the salt air and wind, the open ocean improving his mood.

They had a small cabin deep in the passenger decks — this time with three beds, thank goodness — and so spent much of the daytime up on the upper deck for fresh air. Dazai watched as Atsushi held the railing on the observation deck and breathed in deeply. He both shook his head at Atsushi’s inexperience and was oddly charmed by it.

“So are you ready?” Kunikida asked, slipping around Atsushi’s other side. “To meet your family?”

Atsushi folded his hands together, leaning over the railing and looking out to sea like a wizened old salt.

“I guess I have to be,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to waste any more time being afraid . . . but . . . is it really going to be as easy as just meeting him?”

Kunikida shook his head. “Not so easy. The old king has an advisor who’s been scanning the candidates. See, he has a lot of people claiming to be his grandson, for the money. The advisor knows more about the Prince than anyone other than Fukuzawa himself, and he’s smart to boot.”

Kunikida glanced briefly at Dazai, something silent passing between them. There was something Ranpo Edogawa knew that they didn’t, something that made him often immediately dismiss other potential princes. They assumed it was regarding the real Prince’s ability . . . and once they made landfall, Dazai’s job was to find out exactly what that was.

“But it won’t be too hard,” Kunikida added quickly, fixing his lips into a kind smile. “Since you are the Prince, after all. But we’ll spend some time on the ship teaching you some of the basics of the family history, things the Prince would be expected to know.” He clapped Atsushi on the shoulder. “I imagine you’ll naturally be able to fall into a rhythm. Right, Dazai?”

“Oh, yes,” Dazai chimed, not paying attention. He must have been tired, his eyes were once again overly focused on Atsushi’s hair. “The perfect Prince.”

“There’s some nice chairs on the lido deck,” Kunikida said. “Let’s head over there and get started. Just give me a moment.”

Atsushi nodded, giving a quick stretch, his arms reaching above his head and revealing a small bit of navel under his shirt, before he trailed off to the stairs. Dazai watched him go, wondering how big of a road block Ranpo was going to be, and considering that he should make a contingency plan. With three powerful abilities, could they make an easy living in France if it all didn’t work out?

Dazai realized too late he had accidentally been including Atsushi in his contingency plan. But he was interrupted before he could give that any further thought.

“Hey,” Kunikida said sharply, vaguely penetrating Dazai’s daydreaming. “He’s off-limits.”

Dazai turned quickly to look at him.

“Excuse me?”

“Stop looking at him like he’s your next conquest,” Kunikida replied matter-of-factly, his voice low. “Do you really need more attention from the police? And it’s . . .cruel,” he added. “If we’re planning on parting ways once we receive the bounty. So don’t lead him on.”

“What are you talking about?” Dazai replied obviously.

Surely he couldn’t have been looking at Atsushi like that . . . it was just that he was objectively pretty, and sharing a bed with him had crossed some wires. He realized too late it sounded like denial, but he decided to double down.

“Maybe if he was a girl,” Dazai shrugged, “I might be interested. But that’s not my cup of tea. You’re right, we don’t need that heat.”

“Good.” Kunikida nodded at him. “That appointment with Ranpo’s about week from now, so we’ll have to make ourselves presentable before then. He and I grew up together before he escaped, so he’s willing to hear me out . . . he doesn’t have an ability, but he does have a preternatural sense for the truth. It’s really him we’re going to have to convince, so . . . prepare yourself.”

“I know,” Dazai sighed. He glanced once more after Atsushi despite himself, suddenly craving the solitude of their cabin. “Why don’t you go start talking to him about what he needs to learn? You’re a much better teacher than I am.”

Kunikida’s lip twitched, knowing that Dazai was sucking up to him to avoid work, but also knowing he was a better teacher.

“And what are you going to do?” he asked accusatorially.

“Figure out what to do about Ranpo,” Dazai replied, folding his arms. “How to get around him if he isn’t quite as smart as everyone thinks. And what we can do if he is.”

Kunikida shrugged and went after Atsushi, while Dazai returned to the cabin, feeling like his mind was in a haze. He was vaguely vindicated by the fact that other people seemed to be looking at Atsushi as well, and so chalked it up to the boy just being naturally charming. Maybe there was something about the tiger that lured people in . . . if that was so, maybe it would help them slip past Ranpo’s sharp gaze.

Atsushi thought he was doing alright at these so-called Prince Lessons, but all this information at once was dizzying. Some of it he had learned in school, or by osmosis at the orphanage, but some of it was beyond him.

Although parts of it, especially around the layout of the palace and the events of the night of the rebellion, that all sounded very familiar. After hearing it once, he was able to recite it back, sometimes in even more detail than Kunikida had taught him in the first place. He didn’t know if it was memories, dreams, or just something he once heard, but the more they spoke, the more Atsushi was starting to think that it didn’t matter whether or not Dazai truly believed he was the Prince. Because he thought he really might be.

All he needed now was to convince Ranpo. He was sure that if he could get past the advisor, once he met Fukuzawa, once he saw his grandfather, they would know each other.

Of course, he still first had to get through the rest of this journey at sea. The fresh air was enjoyable and the stars were beautiful, but there was not a lot to do. Dazai had also been fairly preoccupied, stuck in the ship’s library for long periods of time and a little bit distant at mealtime.

Atsushi wondered if Dazai had noticed his lingering gaze: the way he flushed a little bit when Dazai’s collar was exposed, the way he watched Dazai’s legs cross and re-cross as he read, the way he looked at Dazai’s lips when they sat together at dinner. He was sure Dazai was keeping away from him as to not encourage this behavior . . . and Atsushi knew he wasn’t supposed to feel this way about another man, but what was the difference when he was illegal in a different way anyway? And it wasn’t like feelings could be controlled.

The days on the ship went by quickly as he concentrated on the lessons and on distracting himself with thoughts of Dazai. He nearly withdrew to the cabin a couple of days when he noticed a few other people staring at him, whispering and pointing, but maybe it was just his unusual hair color. Or maybe he truly did look like the Prince?

Or, as he would learn late one night, he had been outed as an ability-user by a white-haired madman.

The stars were overhead and the moon was high on the horizon. Atsushi was trying to sleep in the cabin, the other two sound asleep nearby, but something was bothering him. Earlier that day, he had accidentally bumped into another passenger, and she had shrieked as if he’d stabbed her. He’d apologized, but she wouldn’t calm down, and he had to leave the deck while her companions helped her. The sound of her shrill voice, the way he tried to explain himself but would not be heard, it reminded him sharply of how it was in the orphanage. And with this journey, he was hoping to leave that awful era of his life behind him.

He turned over to try to drift off when he heard what sounded like a light knock on the door. Curiously, he picked up his head to see a shadow flickering in the hallway light. And something slipped under the door.

Atsushi reached for the paper note and stepped out into the hall to read it. And his heart beat in overtime.

We know your secret. Come up to the deck or we will tell the Captain.

Atsushi shut his eyes at the unfairness of this, that he had just escaped this persecution only to be found again. He wondered for a moment whether to wake his companions, but decided they didn’t need to be outed as well. In a worst-case scenario he would run back down to his cabin and lock himself back inside.

Byakko, protect me, he thought, and felt the tiger pace around inside him. Fortified, he headed up to the main deck.

The seas were rougher now, the stars covered by clouds, the signs of an oncoming storm. Atsushi thought he should only stay up here a few minutes, enough to try and talk himself out of trouble. Use that innocent face of yours. He tried to screw up his face to look cuter, but when he walked out onto the deck, he didn’t see anyone at all.

There were only a few lanterns placed strategically under large walls and by stairs and railings, but it was utterly dark, especially with the moon obscured. Atsushi squinted around, trying to search for movement, trying to ask Byakko to borrow those night-vision cat’s eyes. For a few moments, his vision became clearer and he scanned the deck. His heart hammered in his chest like a snare drum, wondering who he might find, how many people. And then his internal alarms went off, his hackles raised as a crowd descended upon him.

“Get off!” Atsushi struggled against his captors, but as soon as he pushed one away, another grabbed him, and soon he was encompassed on all sides.

Atsushi screamed as hands clawed at him, surrounding him and immobilizing him. His arms were pinned to his sides, someone was covering his mouth, and that crush around him became even tighter as ropes were strapped across his chest. The heat of the many bodies around him was stifling, suffocating, and he struggled to breathe as he tried to fight them off.

“This is for our safety,” came a hiss in his ear, a feminine voice. “The curse must be purged!”

“Purge the curse,” came another echo from the crowd. “Send it to the bottom of the ocean!”

Atsushi’s breath was knocked from his chest, his blood icy cold. Those stares he had been getting the past few days — it was just as bad here as it was back at home. Someone had seen his ability somehow and worked the other passengers into a fearful frenzy. Was there no safe haven for him? Would the only true freedom for him lie in the depths of the sea?

No, he thought, remembering Dazai and Kunikida, and possibly his grandfather waiting for him. His country waiting for him. He continued to struggle as the crowd started to move him towards the railing, pushing him with more strength than he could resist with.

“Stop!” he cried. “I’m not — I’m just a person, like you!”

“Not like us,” someone from the crowd muttered. It was their justification. Fear had driven them mad.

Rain began to fall, beating cold drops against his skin as they moved across the deck. And Atsushi felt the iron of the railing hit his hip as they made it to the edge of the ship. With just a push, they would tip him over the edge and he would drown.

Atsushi looked into the abyss of the crashing ocean below, and he felt something shift in his memory. Raging waters below him, a mob holding his hands immobile, ready to toss him into the depths for something he did not understand. A bridge. And a palace, a familiar and beautiful building, with black smoke pluming from it over the horizon.

This had happened to him before. And just like the last time, he let the tiger take over.

It wasn’t the full moon, but it was getting close, and he was able to summon his strength to knock the crowd away, summon his claws to tear the rope to shreds. He turned from the edge of the ship, crouched on all fours with his back arched angrily as the crowd stared at him aghast. He knew he didn’t look like a tiger right now, but he probably looked feral. They were afraid, but they weren’t afraid enough, and they came at him again.

“Atsushi!”

A familiar voice followed by another. In that moment, as Dazai and Kunikida came into view, Atsushi’s heart stopped. And he realized that another reason he wanted to live was to see Dazai again.

He had never seen Dazai look so angry, and he held no punches. He was filled with a righteous anger as he very quickly assessed what had happened, and he fought his way through the crowd to Atsushi’s side, stepping in front of him.

“What’s wrong with you?” Kunikida yelled. The rain was starting to pick up now, the deck becoming slick, visibility becoming severe. “He’s just a kid!”

But what were two other people to fight off now? The crowd descended on Kunikida and Dazai, who struggled to fight them off without hurting them. Atsushi tried to help as well, mostly pushing people back, slapping hands away and knocking people onto their backs.

“Oi!” came a cry from afar. One of the shipmates had appeared, his figure mostly a shadow in the dark, his angry face illuminated by a single lantern. “What do you think you’re doing over there?”

Where was he ten minutes ago? Atsushi thought in annoyance.

“Help us!” Atsushi cried. “We’re being attacked!”

“Atsushi,” Dazai hissed as he ducked another clumsy punch, “you’re going to get us in—”

The crowd was not a match for Dazai, but he was simply outnumbered. The brief distraction caused him to slip, allowing a trio of passengers to push him backwards away from them. In the dark, they maybe didn’t see it was towards the railing. But Atsushi did, and he saw Dazai hit the railing and tip backwards.

“No!”

Atsushi nearly flung himself off the side of the ship, not thinking about what he was doing, his arms outstretched like Dazai’s had been when he fell off the train. His fingers caught Dazai’s, their hands entwined, and they both jolted as they hung off the side of the ship. But Atsushi’s other hand grasped at nothing . . . he turned to look over his shoulder and saw that he had manifested a tail, curled around the railing. Byakko saving him once again.

Dazai said nothing as Kunikida pulled Atsushi and both of them yanked Dazai back onto the deck. Dazai was sprawled on all fours, catching his breath, coughing as though he was the one who had nearly drowned.

The crowd had scattered when the mate appeared, not wanting to be known. The action over, he now loomed over them with a lantern in his hand, assessing them.

“What was that all about?” he asked angrily. “I won’t have passengers endangering other passengers, you know. I’ve half a mind to throw you overboard myself.”

Atsushi looked up at him from the deck, angry himself that they were being blamed for this — when he remembered Dazai’s words. He fixed his expression and widened his eyes, tilting his head imploringly.

“It was a misunderstanding, sir,” he said softly. He blinked the rain from his eyelashes. “It won’t happen again.”

“Oh.” The mate looked at Atsushi a moment, then gave a gentle smile. “Yeah, these things happen. Some of the people have never been on a ship before, makes them a little crazy. You know how it is. You gents better get back to your room.”

All three of them were soaking wet, and the continued rain was not helping. He thought for a moment Dazai would argue or say something stupid, but even he read this as a situation where it was better to keep his head down.

Back in the ship’s interior, Kunikida made a detour to seek out extra towels from a porter while Dazai and Atsushi ducked into the cabin.

Atsushi turned his back to Dazai as he peeled off his wet clothes, feeling instantly better as he dried off. But he was abashed despite himself, even though only days ago he was able to strip in front of Dazai like it was nothing.

Stop it, he told himself firmly.

Nothing good would come of this crush. Dazai had just wanted an excuse to leave the country and get some cash, and Atsushi was his ticket. That was all. He was only nice when he had to be. He had only rescued Atsushi to protect his investment.

Okay, so look at him, then.

Atsushi counted to three and glanced over his shoulder. Dazai’s back was to him as well, and he had taken off his shirt and pants. But those bandages that peeked out from under his clothes had gotten soggy and hung off him like limp vines. Atsushi turned around and watched him as he removed them fully.

Even in the low light of the cabin, Atsushi could see the scars that criss-crossed Dazai’s back, some wrapping around to his shoulders, and there were more along his arms. It was a map of not just one instance, but years of abuse. Atsushi couldn’t hide the little gasp that escaped his lips, and Dazai turned around to face him, revealing a few more marks on his chest.

“What . . .” Atsushi started. He took a step forward, his hand lifted in front of him as though to touch them before thinking better of it. He had nearly said what happened to you. But he knew the answer, because it happened to him, too. “Are you also an orphan, then?”

Dazai let out a small laugh.

“Not exactly,” he said. “I was raised by my uncle. He had a lot of high standards that I didn’t manage to live up to most of the time.”

Atsushi nodded.

“It was . . . it was that way at the orphanage, too,” he said quietly. “Punishment for questioning the mistress. Or being too slow. Or daydreaming. I’d always thought if I had a family, it would have been better. I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry that’s not true for you.”

Dazai didn’t reply, his lips thin, his eyelids heavy. Atsushi swallowed and took another step forward, this time gathering the courage to brush a finger over a gash along Dazai’s ribcage. For a single, solitary moment, with both of them undressed, standing skin-to-skin, Atsushi’s heart pounding in his ears, he thought something might happen. That Dazai would pull him closer, that they would be wrapped up in each others’ embrace, that Dazai would lean down and whisper in his ear. But instead, Dazai reflexively snapped up his wrist, stopping him from pressing further. But Atsushi had pressed too far now to go back.

“If you want,” he started, “I can heal them for you.”

Dazai’s grip, tight on his arm, loosened significantly. He didn’t speak for a moment, those brown eyes studying Atsushi as though he were looking for a trick, piecing out something. Then Atsushi’s hand glowed, and Dazai’s eyes went wide, understanding that he meant it quite literally.

“No,” he said, and he gently lowered Atsushi’s hand away from his body. “They’re . . . a reminder. Of what I left behind, and what I’m working for moving forward.”

Atsushi withdrew gently, taking a step back. Dazai made a strange face, almost sad, and then he opened his mouth.

“Thank you, though,” he blurted. “That’s . . . some ability you have.”

“If . . . you’re not hiding them,” Atsushi said quietly. “Why the bandages?”

Dazai made a scoffing noise but it was less scathing than usual.

“To add an air of mystery and in the meantime assuage pity,” he said. “I don’t need yours, Prince.”

“I don’t pity you,” Atsushi replied swiftly. “I’m just trying to understand you. I know those walls you’ve built are how you’ve survived all this time . . . and I’m not trying to break them down, just . . . I wish you wouldn’t reinforce them every time I try to ask a question.”

Dazai opened his mouth to retort, but the door burst open and Kunikida finally returned with the towels. He looked between them, mostly undressed and still damp, and he quickly thrust a towel into each of their arms, effectively pushing them apart. Both of them fell silent and dried off, quickly dressing once again. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dazai winding a new set of bandages around his neck and chest, and for a moment fantasized that he was helping him, his fingers tracing along his ribs and spine, feeling that warm skin.

Stop it! Atsushi scolded himself again and climbed into bed, trying to distract himself. Tomorrow they would make landfall in France and take a train to Paris. The city where his only kin awaited him. If Fukuzawa remembered him . . .

More images danced around in front of Atsushi’s closed eyes, forming into hazy memories. The tapestry in the palace. The gap in the wall. An army of soldiers, all running at him with weapons drawn. And one of them, covered in bandages, had taken his hand.

“I . . . I remember . . . bandages,” Atsushi said aloud into the dark.

From the bed in the corner came a sharp reply.

“What?” Dazai said, annoyed.

“You . . . you asked how I . . . how I found my way into the palace. Long ago . . . someone showed me. Someone with bandages.”

Atsushi did not know what he expected with that, but it wasn’t a long, strange silence. Finally, Dazai made a noise.

“Go to sleep, Prince,” he muttered. “It’s a long journey yet.”

Dazai was never more happy to be back on dry land, and be back in lodgings with more space. They had another day before meeting with Ranpo, so Kunikida had gone back to the Prince Lessons, drilling Atsushi on royal family members and the day-to-day of the palace, the basics of horseback riding, fencing, table etiquette. He seemed natural in the role like he had been born a schoolteacher, and Atsushi, too, seemed to enjoy being a student. The two of them got along in a way that Dazai and Kunikida never had, probably because Atsushi did not needle him and accepted his authority. He was very nearly jealous and mostly left them to their own devices while he scouted out the city and ran errands. But jealousy was not the foremost emotion he had towards Atsushi. He wasn’t sure what it was.

That night on the ship had been nothing less than intimate. He had stood spellbound in the cabin as Atsushi touched him, and he attributed it to his exhaustion from the night rescue. But he couldn’t let something like that happen again. First of all, Kunikida was right, he shouldn’t lead him on, especially if he didn’t feel the same way that Atsushi did . . . and after that night in the cabin, he was certain the Prince was harboring feelings for him. And he didn’t feel that way, he had never looked twice at another man. Second, he still wasn’t certain he could trust Atsushi.

That black streak in his hair had first gotten him excited that they were on the same page, then set off alarm bells when he realized they definitely weren’t. Atsushi very much believed he was the Prince, with their gentle nudging, or at least it was a convincing act. So then what was the costume about? It was hard to believe he might be playing them right back, but if so, to what end? Could Fyodor’s attacks have just been a distraction and . . .

And the passageway. He said he’d followed them, but then last night, he had mentioned . . . a boy with bandages? Dazai had gone over that memory dozens of times, if he had messed up in some way that led to the boy’s death. But how did Atsushi know Dazai had infiltrated the rebels to help the Prince escape? Or someone like him, at least. Had he been muttering in his sleep?

None of it made any sense and nothing was quite adding up. But Dazai remembered the look of real fear on the boy’s face last night, how he had risked himself to save Dazai, and that warm, aching longing in his eyes . . . for a moment he had the half-brained idea that Fyodor had sent the boy to seduce him.

Come on, Osamu.

Maybe Atsushi was right about the walls around his heart. Being wary had kept him alive. But it had made him very lonely.

At last, they dressed up in their best attire and headed to the center of the city. The old King had taken up residence in the penthouse apartment atop a high-class hotel, one where they normally would not even be allowed to step into the lobby. But Ranpo and Kunikida had known each other before the former had fled the country with the King, and so Kunikida had pulled some strings — Dazai understood it was mostly obvious bribery — to get Ranpo to meet them downstairs.

Dazai had also last met Ranpo Edogawa ten years ago, when they were teenagers. Ranpo was older but one wouldn’t know it from talking with him. He loved sweets and cute things, and was fairly fixated on being right, and making sure people knew he was right. Though he was extraordinarily and uncannily observant. Not a lot could get past him. Dazai had hoped he might be able to convince Ranpo that even if Atsushi wasn’t the real Prince, he was close enough that it was better for everyone if he was just accepted as such. But that seemed unlikely.

“Kunikida!” Ranpo cried, spotting them from across the room.

His dark hair stuck out and clashed with his brown suit, and his loose tie flopped on his chest as he ran to wrap Kunikida in a tight hug. Kunikida was startled but quickly fell into a forced enthusiasm, patting Ranpo on the back.

“Good to see you again, Ranpo,” Kunikida said smoothly. Quietly, he passed Ranpo a small bag of sweets they had picked up earlier. The bag disappeared into Ranpo’s vest somehow. “So, is Lord Fukuzawa prepared to meet with us?”

Ranpo tilted his head, looking confused, and Dazai felt his stomach sink. Another complication?

“Today?” Ranpo asked obviously. “No, not today.”

Kunikida and Dazai looked at each other, and then to Atsushi, who looked equally upset. Dazai instinctively put a comforting arm around his shoulder, recognizing too late it would be suspicious to snatch it back.

“Not . . . today?” Kunikida repeated. “But don’t we . . . have an appointment?”

“Yes, we do,” Ranpo confirmed, pointing between himself and the other men. “I thought we might catch up! I could show you around the city. We haven’t seen each other in ages, after all, Kunikida.”

Kunikida couldn’t argue that, but surely Ranpo knew they were here for one reason only. Clumsily, Kunikida indicated Atsushi, who stepped forward with a wave.

“Erm, we have with us the Prince Atsuki,” Kunikida said. “As I wrote to you in the letter. It’s imperative he get to see his grandfather as soon as possible. We’ve had a very long journey, and . . . uh . . .”

He trailed off as Ranpo’s attention fixated only on Atsushi. Atsushi stood up straight, his arms snapping to his sides as Ranpo circled him, inspecting him. Ranpo examined his hand, his hair, getting right into his face, and Dazai felt something lurch in him that he wasn’t sure was anxiety or something else. All he knew was he didn’t like anyone else looking that closely at Atsushi. Finally, Ranpo stepped back, his lips in a thin line, his expression unreadable.

“He certainly looks like Atsuki,” Ranpo said. “But it’s not time yet. Lord Fukuzawa will only see self-proclaimed Princes one time a month. It’s . . . easier this way.” He swallowed, and behind his serious eyes was a softness that spoke of Fukuzawa’s heartbreak and how this bounty had turned into an ordeal. “Besides,” he continued, “now we get to explore the city! We’ll try all the best restaurants and make you look more presentable, and then tonight, we can go to the Paris Opera! You’ll pay for all this, right?”

Kunikida, who at first seemed nearly excited to follow Ranpo on an adventure, paled at that, but Ranpo grinned.

“I’m kidding,” he said simply. “Your jacket has been darned ten times over. Obviously you have no money.” Ranpo briefly glanced at Atsushi. “And you, Prince,” he said, voice heavy a bit on the Prince. “I don’t see why you would have had a penny to your name anyway, even after selling the heirloom necklace. Unless you kept it.”

He glanced curiously at Atsushi’s neck, and another stab of something hit Dazai, wanting to push Ranpo’s gaze away from that delicate collarbone. Atsushi seemed flustered at once, clearly racking his brain for what the hell heirloom necklace Ranpo was talking about. But either Kunikida had taught him well or he had enough confidence that he really was the Prince that he soon calmed.

“I don’t . . . I don’t think I ever had a necklace,” Atsushi said. He closed his eyes a moment, his eyelids fluttering as though in a dream. “I . . . I did have a crown,” he said gently, miming a circlet on his head. “A small ring of silver. I think it had opals? But I wasn’t . . . I never had that after the rebellion.”

When his eyes opened again, Ranpo was still staring at him, unmoving.

“That was a test,” he said, grinning. “Oh, good. We won’t know for sure until the right time, but you’re the best one so far.”

Dazai tried for the rest of the day to puzzle out what Ranpo meant by “we’ll know when it’s the right time.” It had to be something about the Prince’s ability, and if he could figure out what it could be, then he could help Atsushi fake it enough to pass. But he kept getting swept back into conversation, back into the mad colors and lights and joy of the city, of seeing people using abilities out in public, of couples arm-in-arm, of culture and beauty. The food Ranpo took them to was excellent, the street performers lovely. And all the fun Dazai was having was multiplied by Atsushi’s joy. The way he savored everything, every bite, every song, made Dazai see just how good life could be, if he let it in. Dazai decided, in this comfort and ease, that maybe he didn’t care anymore if Atsushi was conning him back. The boy genuinely wanted happiness and he should be allowed to have it.

The final stop before the opera was a tailor. Ranpo had Kunikida and Dazai borrow some suits, but he sprung to have Atsushi get one custom made. The other two men waited for what felt like hours until Ranpo peeked out from behind a curtain.

“Presenting,” he said dramatically, “the crown Prince Atsuki Fukuzawa.”

He drew back the curtain to reveal Atsushi, white hair combed, face washed, hands manicured, in a three-piece blue suit, dark blue with a lighter vest, silver detailed with a golden tie. And Dazai felt the entire world drop from under his feet.

The suit really complimented his lighter features, the gold tie bringing out the golden rims around his eyes, and the tailoring was impeccable, accentuating his slender frame, his shapely neck, and his long, strong legs . . .

And that gorgeous face, breaking out in a genuine smile that lit up the room. He looked fucking beautiful.

Dazai could feel the blood in his face, feel it pounding in his chest and the rest of his body. He had felt this before: one of the nicer nights in his life, he’d just gotten paid and took out the woman he was seeing to dinner. She had managed to find a red dress with a thigh-high slit and he had spent the dinner fully distracted by her beauty. It was the same here, the way his heart skipped, the way he could not look away, that he wanted to drink Atsushi in like he was an oasis in the desert.

There was no denying it anymore. He’d fallen for his mark. And for a man. Everything he had felt over the last few days had been jealousy, desire; things that indicated he was deeply, terribly in love.

He took a step forward, trying to compose himself, his mind working overtime. What did this mean?

“Very regal,” Kunikida said, bringing Dazai back to reality and keeping him from spiraling. “What do you think, Dazai?”

“Yeah,” Dazai said, attempting to be nonchalant. “Who would have thought the little kitten we picked up off the street could transform into a real Prince?”

Atsushi smiled wider, finally taking to Dazai’s teasing, and Dazai allowed himself to ruffle Atsushi’s hair affectionately before smoothing it neat again. He wanted to pick Atsushi up in his arms right now and hold him, wanted to take him dancing until they were both dizzy and collapsed onto each other, wanted to peel that suit off layer by layer and just look at him inch by inch before he dared to cross the threshold for a touch.

Could he? Could they? Here in France it seemed love was a little more free, and in the privacy of the bedchamber nobody would bother them. But even though Atsushi seemed to have feelings for him, too, there still was the problem that they were presenting him as the Prince and were planning to part ways after that.

What if he didn’t, though? What if he stuck around and became the illicit lover of a false Prince? But there was another possibility, too. If Ranpo didn’t actually fall for their deception, they would have to find another way to make a living. And then . . . then he and Atsushi could possibly settle down here together. If he wanted to . . .

Dazai brushed his fingers gently across Atsushi’s cheek, and Atsushi grinned up at him, blushing.

Atsushi . . .

“Dazai.” Kunikida said warningly. “The show starts soon.”

It was a warning of a different kind. Be careful not to fall for your mark. It was something he was supposed to always be vigilant about, something Kunikida had told him aloud many times. What was he thinking, wanting the con they had worked so hard on to be a failure, just so that he could have a romantic ending for himself? What was happening to him?

But . . . they could maybe enjoy this one night together, pretend to be a happy couple.

Dazai looped his arm through Atsushi’s as they headed to the opera house, and Atsushi leaned on him under the star-studded sky. The moon was nearly full, and he fantasized briefly of that upcoming night, of the promise he had made before he had accepted his own feelings. Of Atsushi wrapped in his arms, pressed against him, skin to skin, of them embracing the entire evening from dusk to dawn. Would something come of that? Or would it be, as Kunikida had said on the ship, too cruel to caress his back soothingly, to kiss his forehead gently?

He allowed himself the indulgence of holding Atsushi’s hand as they were led to their seats, Atsushi still taking in all the sights excitedly. Ranpo had given them Fukuzawa’s box, and Dazai and Atsushi took the front two seats. He would have honestly preferred being in the back row where he might sneak a sweet whisper in Atsushi’s ear, but Kunikida had positioned him here so he could eavesdrop.

Their companions were quiet for most of the first act, but Kunikida asked a couple of questions about Fukuzawa and how they had been living here the past decade, Ranpo offering elaborate answers as he was clearly not actually all that interested in the opera itself and was seeking a distraction. But though the information was interesting, Kunikida got to the meat of the issue during the first act’s climax.

“Ranpo.” Dazai heard Kunikida’s voice low from behind them. “We’re friends. So I have to be frank. Atsushi . . . we’ve vetted him in a lot of different ways ourselves, and I am certain he’s the Prince, but . . . I need to ask what makes you so sure that the Prince wasn’t killed that night? He was taken by the rebels, wasn’t he?”

There was once again that silence that indicated Ranpo was making a confused face, implying Kunikida was stupid. Dazai snickered to himself at it, but he looped his arm through Atsushi’s to pretend he was paying attention to the show.

“Yeah, but they couldn’t have done anything,” Ranpo hissed obviously. “I already told you. It was nearly exactly ten years ago, next week. The same kind of night. The same kind of moon.”

He seemed to cut himself off before he said anything more straightforward. But even those words made Dazai’s blood run cold. Was he implying . . .?

“As Lord Fukuzawa says,” Ranpo continued quietly, “Prince Atsuki was blessed by the moon. Protected by it. He wouldn’t have been able to be harmed on a night like that.”

“Ah.” Kunikida’s tone said to Dazai that he didn’t actually understand, but was going along with it like he did.

But Dazai understood.

On the stage, a soprano started to sing a loud, long aria, and he felt warm skin slide over his own as Atsushi took his hand and nestled his head into his shoulder. But Dazai couldn’t process any of that right now, his eyes wide and staring off into the distance, a wave of realization rolling over him and rendering him helpless.

The Prince was blessed by the moon. Meaning, he had an ability that manifested during the full moon.

So did Atsushi.

A were-tiger. The Prince was a were-tiger, and so he was able to fight off the rebels who were trying to drown him.

It wasn’t just his hair or his age or the similar name or the escape story he’d vaguely mentioned on the ship. The ability, too. Atsushi was the actual, real, missing prince.

And Dazai was in love not only with a man but with the fucking prince.

He was absolutely doomed.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky gripped the infernal cape in his hand as he dragged Nikolai around the bunker, storming furiously at his failure, at the repeated disappointments his officers had been handing him. His plans were great. These men were useless. He pulled harder, trying to tear the cloak away, and Nikolai’s cries filled the empty space, only he was laughing, the madman. Ability-users were truly something else.

At last, Fyodor had enough and wrenched the cape away, looking at it suspiciously, trying to figure out how it worked.

“As they say,” Fyodor muttered, “if you want something done right, you must do it yourself.”

He glanced at Nikolai, still on the floor on his back, laughing. And that laughter infected him somewhat, and he managed a smirk. One thing Nikolai had revealed was the strange bond developing between the lost Prince and Fyodor’s other enemy, that incessant Dazai. He still did not know the man’s ability, but now he did know the man’s weakness.

“I thought Dazai was a well-read man,” Fyodor sighed. “So he should know that star-crossed lovers are always destined to be torn apart. And that the audience always applauds when they both die at the end.”

Chapter Text

Yukichi Fukuzawa stared out into the street from the top-floor penthouse he’d resided in the past ten years, nearly to the date. Languidly, he parted the golden curtain from the full-length window, peering down into the plaza outside the hotel. He was really feeling his age these days, especially with the strain the bounty was taking on his heart: all these young men and older men and sometimes women coming out of nowhere to grab at his sleeves, looking into his eyes and crying, grandfather, grandfather. How they could look him in the eyes and lie like that was beyond him; how they could tease an old man like that. All he wanted was his grandson back, but these parasites would stop at nothing to get his money.

He’d had enough of the heartache and had to put his trusted companion to verify the constant claims — and thus far no one had gotten past him. Ranpo was sometimes callous and sent these young men crying in frustration, but it was a kindness to his highness to do so. Tonight, Fukuzawa knew Ranpo had another one of these supposed Princes coming by, this time brought by a trusted friend.

Through the polished glass, Fukuzawa could see them speaking in the street, four of them. He recognized the tall blond man, knew him as young ability-user from the night before the rebellion. Fukuzawa remembered Kunikida as a mostly polite and polished young man, even when he was a kid he was a rule-follower. If he was still that sort of man, perhaps his long wait was finally over.

Don’t, he reprimanded himself. It was too painful to hope like that. Yet, he allowed his eyes to pass over the other two young men, searching for Atsuki.

The white-haired boy they’d brought with them was absolutely the spitting image. His hair was rougher, and he was scrawnier than was healthy. If he was an imposter, they’d done a thorough job. Fukuzawa watched the boy for a minute, talking animatedly and excitedly . . . and then the boy’s eyes looked up at the hotel, and Fukuzawa felt that opal gaze pierce right through him.

He placed a hand on his heart, blinking rapidly as the boy looked away. Could Kunikida have truly found the Prince? Ten years ago, he would have called the young man trustworthy, though that manifestation ability of his could often land him in trouble — especially since he could easily be roused by another one of the boys . . .

And Fukuzawa’s heart sank once again as he looked at the third visitor. Beside Kunikida and the supposed Prince was a lanky brown-haired man, bandaged to the nines and always with that devil’s smile. He remembered Osamu Dazai, the antics the boy would get into around the palace, the tricks he would play on the children and the adults alike. And now he’d heard rumor that the man was nothing short of a con artist, lying for a living. Fukuzawa wasn’t surprised; but he was disappointed. Because he also remembered those bandaged hands leading him and his grandson to safety.

He was grateful for Dazai. But he did not trust him. This boy was likely no more Atsuki than the rest of them. Left in Ranpo’s hands, he would never have to speak with another false Prince again.

Fukuzawa grabbed both curtains and pulled them shut with a single motion.

Oh no.

Oh no.

Dazai’s heart hammered in his chest so hard he thought it might jump out of his throat and run away from him. After all this time, he had actually found the bounty. The entire world was looking for this young man who may or may not exist, and he was in Dazai’s hands, and in his head, and in . . .

He pressed his hand to his chest. What exactly would have been his endgame otherwise? He and Atsushi would get the reward money, and then they would . . . run away together to live as outlaws, living a life of sin and . . .

Happiness. Complacency. Completion.

Atsushi clearly had feelings for him, too. But he was the goddamn Prince, and there was no way in hell he would be allowed to be with Dazai. And once he was reunited with his grandfather, his royal family, there was no way he would look upon any regular citizen with that eye. Even if Dazai were a woman, he would be, rightfully, shunned.

He hadn’t even gotten to be with Atsushi romantically, they had not been given the chance to embrace, to kiss, to sit happily in each others’ company. Dazai shut his eyes, angry at Fyodor, at the world, at himself, as his heart broke.

But this wasn’t about him, anyway. This was good. This was amazing. The Prince with the ability was back in the picture. Atsushi had political standing, he would have money and power, he would be able to do so much more than Dazai and Kunikida had done to fix their stupid country, to fight the fascist regime and liberate their fellow ability-users. With his return, life could soon be better not only for Dazai but for all of their kind.

He was barely able to contain himself as the curtain fell and they made their way to the lobby for the intermission. He gave Atsushi the slip, letting him steer a conversation with Ranpo, while he beckoned Kunikida urgently into a supply closet. Kunikida was visibly unhappy at this confinement, his arms tight against himself, trying to keep the various cleaning implements from touching his borrowed suit.

“This better be important,” he said simply.

Dazai inhaled sharply, and Kunikida looked at him concernedly.

“Atsushi actually is the prince,” Dazai said quietly, the words bursting out of him.

“I get it,” Kunikida said, annoyed. “I’m not convincing enough. I’ll try to act better.”

“No — no,” Dazai insisted. He grabbed Kunikida’s shoulders and shook him lightly. “No, he actually is. Do you get it? The moon — the stupid moon. And my—”

He swallowed. He’d never told anyone this story before. It was possible Kunikida would slap him and never talk to him again after this, but it was something he would have to risk.

“The last night on the ship. He said . . . he remembered someone with bandages showed him the passageway in the palace. That was me. I . . . I was there the night of the rebellion. I joined the rebel army so that I could get into the palace and . . . get them out.”

He looked aside, not wanting to see his partner’s face. They had exchanged stories, once, long ago, about where they were the night the royal family fell. Kunikida had shared his heartfelt tale about how his father had shut him and his cousin in a closet with enough supplies for a week and then hid himself, but badly, so the rebels would find only him and not bother to look elsewhere. They stayed in that closet for two weeks. And Dazai had lied, he’d made up a story about his slain uncle who died protecting him, when the truth was that he had joined the army not only to infiltrate the palace, but to get away from his abusive guardian. The foundation of their friendship was bonding in trauma, trauma that Kunikida was now learning had been a lie.

“You . . .” he began, his seams beginning to unravel. “That night. You were there?” There was a silence, but miraculously, Kunikida at last cracked a smile. “No wonder you’re so messed up.”

“Ha ha,” Dazai said hurriedly, smirking back. “Forget about me, Kunikida. Atsushi. Atsuki. He’s real.”

The words penetrated slowly, and something dawned on Kunikida’s face as that reality filled him. The surface excitement of them getting their bounty money; of reuniting a family; and everything that someone of Atsushi’s standing could do.

“He’s real,” Kunikida repeated. “It’s a miracle. And you,” he added, scowling. “You look like you’re heartbroken. What, do you want to keep him for yourself or something?”

“No,” Dazai said mockingly, pouting. “Shut up.”

“I told you,” Kunikida scolded, lowering his voice into a hiss. “I told you not to get too close to him. Instead you’ve been as close to him as possible all damn night — you’ve blatantly—”

“I know!” Dazai interrupted quickly, putting another hand on his shoulder. Kunikida finally stopped. “I know,” Dazai continued, shaking his head. “I’ve been selfish. I . . . you may not believe me, but I’ve never felt . . . God help me, I think I really am in love with him. ” He pressed on as Kunikida opened his mouth again, refusing to be admonished more. Kunikida did not need to tell him what he already knew. “But the Prince’s return . . . it’s an incredible chance for us to take back our country.”

For the first time in what felt like years, he offered Kunikida a real, true smile.

“Next week,” Dazai said softly, “our fight for freedom can truly start.”

“Next week,” Kunikida echoed, “we can start a new era.”

It was hard, going back to the Opera, sitting beside Atsushi and now denying himself the comfort of his touch, being more distant than he wanted to be. Atsushi was still reaching for his hand as they stepped out into the street and the cool evening air, and he saw the clear hurt on his face when he casually refused him. But Atsushi was better off without him. He would soon have everything he ever wanted, servants and money and a beautiful silver circlet that shone on his crown, and probably would have dozens of rich suitors. And a family.

Ranpo wanted to take them to a patisserie that was only open at night, so despite the late hour, they still wandered around the cobblestone streets, still alive with throngs of people. Dazai studied the crowd as they waited in line, wondering how many people among them had abilities, enjoying the novelty that they might be able to be open about it, when he saw something that made him do a double take, then quickly look away.

Somehow — though it was just their luck, really, that was how — someone in a black uniform with gold trim was standing in the shadows. Dazai was sure of this, sure he had seen one of the Secret Police lurking around the corner. A ripple of fear ran through him; he wasn’t safe here, either. They weren’t safe here, either. They needed to get Atsushi into the security of the Fukuzawas, get their money, and get out of here.

Not next week. Now.

Quickly, he told Kunikida what he had seen. Kunikida paled, knowing as well as Dazai did what these people were capable of. Dazai slid through the crowd towards Ranpo, his heart in his throat.

“Ranpo,” he said quietly, “listen to me. I understand why Fukuzawa wants to wait until the full moon — but we need to see him as soon as possible. Tonight.”

“Impossible,” Ranpo said dismissively, not paying Dazai any mind. “His majesty was very clear on his orders.”

“You don’t understand,” Dazai said hastily. He tried cutting in front of Ranpo to get his attention, but the older man was very good at ignoring him. “Have you heard the name Fyodor Dostoyevsky?” Something in Ranpo stirred, but whatever emotion rippled through him quickly disappeared. But Dazai knew he had gotten through. “He’s been after us ever since we left. And if you know him, you know what he wants. We need to get the Prince—”

“He has no power here,” Ranpo insisted stubbornly.

Dazai could not believe he was that naive, that Fyodor’s Secret Police would give a single shit about their jurisdiction when presented with the opportunity to kill them. Fyodor would sacrifice a hundred of his men to another country’s penal system if it meant the end of three ability-users.

“You can’t be serious,” Dazai muttered, putting a hand on Ranpo’s shoulder. “Listen to me—”

“No, you listen to me, Osamu.” Ranpo’s green eyes flashes seriously, his childish demeanor nearly melting away. “I can see plainly who this boy is. But Lord Fukuzawa has been through a lot, too. He’s like a father to me, and I can hardly disobey his direct wishes. His direct wishes that he not be disturbed inside his home with this Prince business until the right time. His home that, at this point in the evening, he would only leave during an emergency.” Ranpo’s cold gaze met Dazai’s and a chill ran through him. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Dazai stared right back, fighting the grin that wanted to emerge. He was very glad they had the real Prince in their hands because Ranpo would have seen right through a ruse. After all, he had met Dazai for half a day and already knew exactly what kind of person he was. What kinds of things he would do to achieve his goals.

“I understand,” he said quietly.

“It should take about 30 minutes to get our cake,” Ranpo said simply, and he ran back to take his place in the line.

Dazai followed tentatively, looking over his other two companions, heart lodging in his throat. He could have sworn he heard Atsushi call his name as he slipped away, but he couldn’t look back now.

Goodbye, my Prince.

I love you, Atsushi.

The darkness felt like it was surrounding him as he walked alone, heading quickly towards the hotel. The crowd acted as a distraction as he slipped into the alley behind the building and waited by an exit door. In his pocket, almost literally burning a hole, were two items he had borrowed from Kunikida: a ball of wool kindling and a flint striker.

If the former king would not come out except during an emergency, then Dazai would create an emergency.

Fukuzawa awoke suddenly in the parlor chair, his neck stiff and his back aching. He’d fallen asleep reading again, a book of old folk tales surrounding the white tiger god, Byakko. Something about that boy’s eyes had gotten him nostalgic, and had a sudden urge to re-read them, as if he wanted to remind himself of them to tell them again to his grandson.

He groaned and closed the book, angry that he was only setting himself up for heartbreak again. He’d better go to bed properly and forget about the whole thing.

Fukuzawa stood up slowly, his old bones protesting, but he stopped suddenly, hand on the back of the chair. Something . . . was wrong. He inhaled sharply, sniffing the air. Was the heat on too high in the fireplace? Or . . . was he smelling smoke?

The thought had no sooner crossed his mind than the door to the parlor burst open and three of his guards ran inside.

“Sir, there’s a fire!” one of them called. “We need to evacuate.”

Fukuzawa grabbed the small bag under his bed of family heirlooms and allowed himself to be bundled out into the cold night. As they ran down the stairs, he had an odd notion that he was glad he hadn’t changed for bed yet after all.

The suit, the food, the Opera, the company of a beautiful man — everything tonight had truly made Atsushi feel like a Prince. Except right now he felt less in control of his life than ever before, more confused and angry. What was going on with Dazai? One minute, he was practically kissing Atsushi’s hand, the next he refused to even look at him. Atsushi couldn’t tell if it was something he’d done or something related to the upcoming meeting with the old King, or if Dazai just couldn’t handle love at all. He vaguely recalled Kunikida saying something about Dazai being a philanderer, a serial womanizer. Maybe he simply didn’t want be with a man, despite their obvious attraction, despite all they had been through together. Despite the way their hearts beat in sync when they looked at each other.

Atsushi shook these thoughts from his head as they left the patisserie laden with cakes that Atsushi did not have the stomach for. He shouldn’t care about Dazai’s mysterious motivations. Any day now, he would be reunited with his family . . . and that ache, that longing for a past, for a meaning, he had no words for how much his life might change soon. He was disappointed they would not be able to meet with the former king for several days, but there was so much to do here in the city that he was sure he would be happily preoccupied.

The plan was that they would drop Ranpo back off at the hotel and then head back to theirs, hopefully meeting up with Dazai again — wherever he went. Part of Atsushi wondered painfully if he was chasing some woman. But he was brought back to present as they approached the hotel to find a crowd gathered outside among police officers and other emergency services.

“Ooh, was there a fire?” Ranpo wondered aloud in a such a way that made Atsushi think he had insider knowledge.

“A fire?” Atsushi repeated.

He scanned the crowd curiously, both awed and cowed by how clean, how pristine, how beautiful all the upper-class customers were. And then his eyes fell over an older man with long grey hair and dressed in what he could only describe as regal attire. The old man turned his head to Atsushi as though he felt his gaze. And Atsushi was transported back in time.

A large room with polished floors, adorned with paintings and gold, figures dancing gracefully as he sat beside this man, a decade younger and a decade warmer, the man explaining the dance to him as he watched the twirling wide-eyed. Waking up in the middle of the night, wandering through a large kitchen to see this man sitting at the counter and offering him a surreptitious slice of cake.

“Don’t tell your father,” the man said with a wink.

This man tucking him in at night. Holding him in his lap and telling him stories. Rubbing his back as he cried at something his cousin had said.

“Yukichi,” Atsushi breathed, and as though drawn to a beacon of light, he made his way towards him.

Behind him he heard Kunikida protesting and making after him, Ranpo following. The old man’s eyes widened and he turned, moving further into the crowd, going towards the edge to where the police were stationed, but Atsushi was slowly gaining on him. And just as Fukuzawa was about to slip away from him, several things happened at once.

A figure appeared from the alley, blocking his path. Fukuzawa bumped into Dazai and they fell into a tangle, and Fukuzawa quickly got back to his feet, his face growing red with anger. He turned back to face Atsushi, who had his hand outstretched, reaching for Fukuzawa’s sleeve. Atsushi’s fingers brushed against him, and Fukuzawa stumbled back, pulling out of his grasp, and Atsushi begged Byakko to help him, because if he could just talk to him, if he could just see, he would know —

There was a sharp tearing sound, and Fukuzawa let out a small cry. He fell once again. This time Dazai caught him, but his sleeve was torn through with three jagged lines as though from a tiger claw.

“Get off me!” Fukuzawa cried. Just as Ranpo and Kunikida caught up, so did the guards, and Ranpo tried to talk them down before they seized the three intruders. “What are you—”

“I’m so sorry,” Atsushi said, horrified. “I — I didn’t mean to — are you alright?”

But Fukuzawa was no longer berating him, his mouth open aghast, staring at the tears in his sleeve and then at Atsushi’s hand . . . which was no longer a hand.

“Byakko,” Fukuzawa said quietly.

“Yes,” Atsushi confirmed. “I . . . it’s one of the few things I can do outside the full moon. I . . . I didn’t mean to hurt you, I just saw your face, and. . .”

“Lord Fukuzawa, sir.” Ranpo stepped forward, offering a bow. “Presenting Atsushi Nakajima, found by Doppo Kunikida and Osamu Dazai. But . . . I think you know as well as I who he really is.”

Fukuzawa stared at him, looking at him from head to foot, and Atsushi couldn’t see anymore past the tears that welled in his eyes as the old king stepped forward and embraced him.

“Atsuki,” Fukuzawa whispered, and Atsushi’s entire body shuddered. He was wanted. He was loved. He was home. “My little prince. You’ve grown so much.”

* * *

With the hubbub outside, Fukuzawa had his guards speak with the police and they were granted access into a private conference room to speak further. No one really knew what to say, as Fukuzawa kept getting sidetracked to simply look at Atsushi, and Atsushi kept getting sidetracked to look at Dazai. Dazai who had not even acknowledged his presence since he appeared from that alley. Atsushi swallowed, taking comfort in his grandfather’s hand that had not left his as though he might disappear for a decade again.

“Forgive me,” Fukuzawa began, “as you caught me off-guard. I had not expected to see you for another week. But . . . though I don’t condone your methods, I am not regretful to . . . be with my grandson a little earlier.”

It hit him anew every few minutes, that his entire life was changing, that he really was a Prince. That he had a loving family. And money. And servants. And whatever he wanted.

Whatever I want. . .

Dazai was standing quietly at attention, his focus on Fukuzawa only, his face set and serious. Atsushi looked away from him.

“So I had promised a bounty,” Fukuzawa continued, business-like. “And you shall have it, if you want. But I had wondered as well if you would like to stay in the city and work with me. There is still work to be done for the rights of ability-users here, and elsewhere.”

He looked between them eagerly and Kunikida actually stepped forward. With his hands to his sides, he offered a deep bow, and then he knelt.

“Sir,” he said seriously, “I would be happy to serve you and work with you and Ranpo on these endeavors. Let me know how best I can be of service.”

Atsushi grinned, and Kunikida smiled back as he got to his feet. He hadn’t expected that, but through learning with Kunikida, he knew the man was soft-hearted and wanted to do good. He was glad to have at least one familiar face in this brand-new world.

“And you?” Fukuzawa addressed Dazai.

“Sorry,” Dazai said plainly. “Serving the royal family isn’t really for me. And I’m afraid I can’t stick around,” he added. “This place is for the wealthy. Us regular people can’t really afford it.”

“I can put you up for a couple of days,” Fukuzawa said generously. “Since you risked so much to bring my grandson here safely. And if you just take some time to think about it, I think you might — ”

“Thank you,” Dazai interrupted, “but I can’t. I’ve been a prince’s escort for too long; I should let you royals sort yourselves out.”

Atsushi could not help but scowl at Dazai’s words, and his heart sank into his stomach. He didn’t understand why Dazai wouldn’t even look at him — did he really have so much contempt for the upper class that as soon as he truly believed Atsushi was the Prince, he put those walls back up, locked the doors, chained himself up again? When he was beginning to think . . .

Idiot, Atsushi thought, admonishing himself. Of course Dazai was still using him. Still only wanted the money. He didn’t understand if he had been seduced, or for what purpose if so. Maybe Dazai just wanted to sleep with him for bragging rights.

“I see.” Fukuzawa said, his lips tight.

He glanced over at Atsushi as though expecting him to object, but Atsushi said nothing. What would Dazai say or do if he begged him to stay? If he flung himself at his feet and declared his love? Did Dazai want to make the prince debase himself like that?

“In that case, please, speak with Ace,” Fukuzawa said, indicating a middle-aged man in a suit. “He can sort that out for you. Thank you, Dazai, nonetheless. And I will be here if you change your mind.”

Dazai bowed politely, and as he stood up, finally, finally, his brown eyes flickered to Atsushi’s. They were cold and stony.

“Goodbye, Dazai,” Atsushi let slip. It was all he could manage before his throat closed up.

“Goodbye, Prince,” Dazai echoed.

And he turned and left the room, as though removing himself from Atsushi’s life.

Dazai thought his heart might burst from his chest with how hard it was hammering. It hurt, it cut, the way Atsushi looked at him with such contempt. Atsushi hated him now. But it was better this way.

With what he was planning, there wasn’t a point to getting the full reward money. And he couldn’t ask for it anyway: when he opened his mouth to negotiate with Fukuzawa’s personal banker, the amount that came out was only enough for the next ship out and a couple of meals. Even when the banker pushed back, Dazai insisted, because he could not concentrate on anything else other than what he had to do.

He’d been so stupid. Of course Atsushi was the Prince. And so of course all the problems they’d had with Fyodor along the way had been because Fyodor knew Atsushi was the Prince. And even though Atsushi was now under the protection of his grandfather and guards, why should that stop the ruthless demon Dostoyevsky? He was in the city now, Dazai had seen him. And Dazai was going to find him and get rid of him once and for all.

Fyodor was just a man. A powerful, ruthless man, but a man. The pistol nestled in Dazai’s pocket would be more than enough, if delivered with a surprise. It would be over . . . for both of them. Dazai held no illusion for what his future held after murdering a man. Prison. Or death.

Dazai made his way back to the square where he had seen the Secret Police officer, looking around for him carefully. Finally, he spotted him, that uniform unmistakable, and his adrenaline surged. For the prince, he thought. He followed the black-and-gold back through alleys and around corners, trying to keep his distance, hoping he would lead him back or that he would cause enough of a fuss by killing this man, too, that it would draw out Dostoyevsky . . .

He was so distracted by his righteous rage that he didn’t even detect he was being drawn out himself.

Dazai took a step forward into an alley and was suddenly jerked backwards as an arm hooked around his neck. He made a noise and fought against his captor, but soon fell limp as he was dragged backwards and thrown into what looked like a storage basement. There were dirt floors and a single sconce burning, and everything was covered in dust. But Dazai’s focus centered on a man with black hair parted in the center, curtained over his red, venomous eyes. At last, Dostoyevsky.

“Fyodor,” Dazai spat, and he tried to reach for his pistol, but his hands were literally tied.

As far as he could tell, Fyodor was the only person in the room, but he peered over his shoulder to see hands emerging from what looked like a blanket or cape. Some ability?

Fyodor somehow found himself ability-users to work for him? Dazai scowled, his resolve to kill this man in cold blood only strengthening.

“Goodness, you were easy to bait,” Fyodor said calmly, tightening the knot himself before stepping away. “All it took was going a few feet within your precious Prince. That’s the thing about love, it makes your moves so predictable and so obvious. I’d once thought of you as a worthy rival, Osamu Dazai. But your affection for the white-haired princeling has made you weak.”

“Should I be flattered or insulted you thought me worthy of you?” Dazai mocked. “What a sad man you are, thinking love is for the weak.”

“It is a plain fact,” Fyodor continued. “You’ve evaded me for years. Not only because I let you live, but because you are actually quite clever, especially when it comes to your own survival. But now, look at you. You’ve become boring. A sacrifice for a Prince? What has he ever done for you?”

Dazai swallowed hard. Fyodor probably knew he was getting under the skin, to his ingrained biases against the upper-class, against authority. Only days ago he had felt the same way, happy to leave the royals to their own messes. Until he had met Atsushi. Now he wanted nothing more than to be completely wrapped up in them.

“See?” Fyodor teased when Dazai didn’t reply. “You’re a stray dog begging at his feet.”

Fyodor seized Dazai’s hair and pulled his head back, exposing his throat. In his hand, a knife glinted, the cold silver blade gliding across the thin skin under Dazai’s jaw.

“Once I dispose of you,” he whispered, “I’ll take the tiger as my own.”

A wave of nausea made Dazai’s vision go black for a moment.

“You can’t take him,” Dazai growled, surprised at his own vehemence. “I won’t let you.”

If he could do one last thing, it would be enough to take Fyodor down with him and keep Atsushi safe.

“Well, you’re right that he’s got protection now,” Fyodor admitted, shrugging. “That little tiger will soon find his claws. And he has the royal guard at his side. But he has that same weakness that you do.” Fyodor slid the knife up his chin, bringing the blade slowly closer to his face. Dazai shut his eyes, braced for the pain, but instead he heard a strange snip sound as Fyodor sliced off a lock of his hair. “If he believes you in trouble,” Fyodor hummed, “will he come to your aid?”

No, Dazai thought desperately, gritting his teeth.

He clenched his hands and knocked his head forward, head-butting Fyodor away. The knife clattered and Fyodor stumbled back, but Dazai had cut his forehead on the sharp edge of Fyodor’s badge. Dazai shut his eye as the blood dripped into it and made it sting.

Fyodor stepped over to him once again, raised his foot, and kicked him in the chest. On his back, staring at the dark ceiling, Dazai heard his footsteps echo and then disappear as he slipped into the Paris night.

A desperate tear slid down Dazai’s cheek to join the streak of blood. But he reached into his back pocket and took out the flint from earlier, hoping the rope would be easy enough to burn through.

The hotel suite where Fukuzawa made his residence was more elaborate than anywhere else Atsushi had ever been, aside from the Palace itself. But while Atsushi was distracted by the ornate decorations and high ceilings, Fukuzawa was preoccupied staring at him.

Atsushi was not used to this attention and flushed. All the words he had always envisioned saying to his imagined family, all the conversations he played out when he couldn’t sleep or when he was nursing a new bruise from the orphanage, all of that fell away as he held the hand of his real grandfather.

“You look so much like your mother,” Fukuzawa started.

“Your daughter,” Atsushi said automatically, those lessons he had with Kunikida falling from his lips. But he also had his own words, from his heart. “I know. You would tell me that every time I had to dress up for company. I used to think it made you sad, and so I didn’t like to dress up.”

Fukuzawa chuckled. “Oh, I wondered why you were always so fussy. I thought one of the cousins had ingrained some bad habits in you.”

Atsushi laughed back. “They did do that. Kyouka was the best at finding all the good hiding spots, the Palace was so big. I sometimes used them when I didn’t want to go to bed, or when Father was trying to make me eat green beans.”

Fukuzawa smiled and tucked Atsushi’s hair behind his ear, but his fingers lingered on the shorn black strand.

“Your stripe,” he said quietly. “Who did this to you?”

“I . . .I did.” Atsushi moved out of reach, uncomfortable. “I was afraid someone would see, and would know . . . what I am. It was so terrible there. Is it true ability-users here can just . . . be who they are?”

“Mostly true,” Fukuzawa replied. “You can never account for deep-seated bias, and some people will hate you no matter what. But there is no law against us. In fact, Ranpo and I have even been working to introduce protections into the legislation . . . oh, I’m boring you.”

“No, no,” Atsushi assured, though the word legislation had made his eyes glaze over. “I should be learning about all of this.”

“Later.” Fukuzawa put an arm affectionately around Atsushi’s shoulder. Atsushi let himself fall into his grandfather’s warm embrace, savoring in it. He could still barely believe this was real. “ Tell me. The story of your journey. How you came back to me again.”

Atsushi swallowed, not wanting to recall all the horrible things that had happened to him along the way, not right now, when he was finally safe.

“It was . . . difficult,” Atsushi said at last. “We ran into a lot of dangers. But . . . we made it. And now we’re out of Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s territory.”

Under his head, Atsushi felt Fukuzawa’s body stiffen. He sat back up to find that his grandfather’s eyes were wide, almost in terror.

“The demon Fyodor?” Fukuzawa said seriously. “He’s . . . he tried to get to you?”

“Yes,” Atsushi replied. The stories came back to him as he looked at Fukuzawa’s face, of this cursed man who was tied to their family, who swore to take down the Fukuzawa family and all ability-users. “He came after all of us, tried to slow us down, keep us from leaving. I thought he was after my companions . . . but he was really after me, wasn’t he?”

“He was,” Fukuzawa affirmed. “He is. Atsuki, it is nothing less than a miracle that you’ve made it to me. But . . .” He opened his mouth, then closed it, before pulling Atsushi once again into a hug. This one was tight, as though he were afraid to let go. “I won’t let him get to you,” Fukuzawa muttered, his voice muffled in Atsushi’s hair. “I’ll protect you with everything I have.”

Something pounded once in Atsushi’s chest as Fukuzawa pulled away. Why did it sound like he was not safe here after all?

Atsushi was about to press more when a servant rushed into the room, a letter in hand.

“Sir,” the servant said hastily. “Prince Atsuki. I have . . . I have an urgent message for you.”

Atsushi tentatively took the letter, wondering who in the world it was from. But he did not miss that the outside was streaked with blood.

He unfolded it carefully, pulling up the top flap to see blank paper. With the second unfolding, however, something brown fluttered to the floor.

“What . . .”

Atsushi bent down to pick it up, nearly thinking it was a mouse. It was soft, but not as soft as an animal, and it wasn’t moving. As he lifted it back up, Atsushi saw it was a lock of human hair. Familiar hair. He could almost smell the cloves.

“Isn’t that . . . Mr. Dazai’s?” the banker posed. Atsushi paled in an answer. “What does this mean?”

“I . . .” Atsushi was ready to cry with the way his heart tugged at him in every direction. “He probably just wants to extort more money from us. The bounty wasn’t enough.”

“But, Prince,” said the banker, “erm, Mr. Dazai didn’t actually take the bounty.”

A soft buzzing was in Atsushi’s ears, and he was sure he’d heard the man wrong.

“What?” he blurted.

“Mr. Dazai, he only negotiated for money for the ship out,” the banker insisted. “A little more than that. He insisted.”

Atsushi’s mouth fell open, not understanding. Why would he not take the money? Even if it was supposed to be some romantic gesture, he would still need capital to live. Unless . . .

Is he planning not to live?

“Oh my god,” Atsushi said aloud.

The walls were closing in around him as he suddenly understood. Dazai also now knew Fyodor was after the Prince, and would stop at nothing to get to him. And so he was going after him himself, and he was not planning on coming back from that.

But he didn’t know. He didn’t know Fyodor was not an ordinary man at all. He could not simply be killed.

“I — I have to go,” Atsushi said swiftly.

With one last look at his grandfather, he fled out the door and into the night.

* * *

He wasn’t sure where to go, where to look, all he knew was that Dazai was in danger, that Fyodor was out there, and he had to do something, anything, to stop him. He ended up by a bridge by an iced-over lake leading to a river, drawn by the memory of the rebels trying to drown him. It wasn’t the same place, but it was similar enough. Perhaps this was where Fyodor would try and kill him once again.

He should have guessed that the danger would find him no matter where he went.

“Hello, little tiger,” came a soft voice over his shoulder.

Atsushi’s hair stood on end like an angry cat, and he veered around to see a young man with black hair and pale skin. But it was his eyes, his horrible red eyes, that gave him away as a demon from another world. At last, he was face-to-face with the man who haunted his past, haunted his present. He would not let him continue to haunt his future.

“Fyodor,” Atsushi breathed. “Where is he?”

Fyodor took a step forward, his tall boots traipsing easily through the high grass around the water.

“So predictable,” he sighed, twirling a knife in his hand. “Running out here on your own trying to save your boyfriend. So let me offer my own cliche, Prince.” He grinned. “You’re so concerned about Osamu Dazai when you should be worried about yourself.”

He lunged, faster than Atsushi had anticipated, slicing right through the rose at his lapel. The petals fluttered the ground and Atsushi could do nothing else but dodge as Fyodor’s knife swiped right, left, up at his face and leaving him with a shallow cut on his cheek. He fell onto his back and kicked with both feet as Fyodor came back at him, scrambling back up and running into the high grass for cover.

Atsushi crouched by the riverbanks, feeling his tiger self, trying to heighten his senses. He could almost smell Fyodor, sweat and blood and age, like an old paper book, like a musty attic. He had lived for hundreds of years. Years and years to plot his revenge, years to get good at combat.

Atsushi tried to summon Byakko and he sprung forward like a cat, pouncing on top of Fyodor and wrestling him to the ground. For a few fleeting minutes, Fyodor struggled under him, his wrists pinned, sweat forming along his pale crown; but then he grinned, and pulled Atsushi against him, rolling them both sideways until he was back on top.

Fyodor straddled him, his knees pressed down to immobilize Atsushi’s arms, that lank black hair brushing against Atsushi’s face, and that haunting smile creeped across his lips again as he drew out his knife. Atsushi knew from the legends that Fyodor needed at least one of them alive . . . then what was he going to do?

He got his answer as a stabbing pain ripped the breath from his lungs. Fyodor had plunged the knife into Atsushi’s stomach, under his ribcage, trapping the blade beneath his bones. The pain was shooting, up through his spine and into his head, fogging his vision. Fyodor breathed out, the scent of decay, of death, surrounding him, and it filled Atsushi’s nostrils as he leaned in close.

“Submit to me,” Fyodor whispered. “Let me rule over you, give me your power as mine to use at my will. And you can have your prize.” Atsushi shook his head, but Fyodor pressed the knife deeper. “I’ll be benevolent, little tiger. I’ll spare Dazai, and I’ll even let you keep him.” A creeping smile grew on his thin lips. “Do you honestly think your grandfather will do the same if he finds out?”

“No!” Atsushi cried, trying to push back. The knife was jammed in his ribcage, if he jerked away too recklessly, it would tear his insides. “I won’t. I won’t. Not to you, not to anyone.”

“Then I’ll kill him slowly,” Fyodor continued, twisting the knife. “Like this. I will cut him one thousand times, I will tear him limb from limb in front of you. And then I will do the same to your friend Doppo Kunikida. And Ranpo Edogawa. And then old man Fukuzawa. Unless you submit.”

Atsushi shut his eyes, turning his face away.

“No,” he said quietly.

Fyodor seemed to be getting angry now. “Submit! You stupid piece of filth!”

“No!” Atsushi screamed. He tried to breathe deep, scared the knife would hit his lungs, tried to center himself to channel his ability.

Help me, Byakko.

Atsushi!

For a moment, he thought he hallucinated the tiger calling him by name. But it grew louder and louder, and Atsushi recognized the voice outside his mind: Dazai.

“Get off him!” Dazai cried.

Fyodor’s attention wavered as he turned to look at his new enemy. Atsushi took that moment to knock the knife from his hand, push him away, and roll back into the grass.

And then Atsushi finally felt Byakko’s answer.

His whole body felt like it was on fire, and he could barely see as light filled his entire being. Slowly, he began to change, his muscles shifting, his limbs getting stronger, his jaw wider. It was the same as when he transformed for the full moon, only his mind was still his. Somehow, he had gained control over his ability.

Fyodor looked nearly afraid as a huge, white tiger now stood before him, but he quickly gritted his teeth. Atsushi growled at him, lashing his tail angrily, taking a step forward.

“Oh,” said a quiet voice to his left. It was Dazai. “You really are a beautiful tiger.”

Atsushi dared a glance at him. He was covered in cuts, his hair matted with sweat, his borrowed suit a mess. But his eyes were filled with nothing less than love.

“Shut up,” Fyodor spat, frustrated. “Your incessant talk of love. You inhuman ability-users don’t deserve love, you don’t deserve to live. And I will gladly be the one to strip you of your lives.”

He lunged again, but this time, Atsushi was ready, his tiger senses sharp, and he swiped at Fyodor with a claw. Blood dripped from a deep wound on Fyodor’s shoulder, and he gave an angry cry before he lunged again as if he was not injured. Atsushi was faster, but now he was also a larger target, and he struggled to dodge every blow.

“Atsushi!”

Arms wrapped around his waist as Dazai dove for him, returning him suddenly to human form just as Fyodor’s knife was about to graze his tiger chest. Instead, Fyodor fell through the air, landing facedown with an audible oof.

Dazai quickly got to his feet, reaching into his coat for an old-fashioned pistol. And without thinking, he fired.

The bullet hit Fyodor’s shoulder, but he was barely slowed down. Fyodor languidly stood up, walking slowly towards Dazai like a living corpse as he shot again, and again, to no effect.

“He can’t die!” Atsushi said as Dazai seemed to be coming to that conclusion himself. “He’s — it’s a curse. He can’t die while . . . while I’m alive.”

Fyodor offered a wicked grin. He laughed, his teeth bloodstained, his eyes blazing red.

“How about that, Dazai?” Fyodor mocked. “If you want to kill me, you must kill your beloved. This is what I mean when I say you’re weak. That you even hesitate a moment to do so shows me your resolve is inadequate. So let me just put you out of your misery!”

Fyodor tackled Dazai to the ground, and they grappled. Atsushi tugged at Fyodor’s uniform, trying to pull him off Dazai, but the tangled limbs kept hitting him in the face, in the ribs. Finally Dazai managed to push them both off him, and Atsushi fell back, both him and Fyodor rolling away into the grass towards the lake.

“Atsushi,” Dazai said hastily, “the lake. The ice.”

Atsushi nodded, understanding. Fyodor couldn’t die. But he could be contained.

He transformed and grabbed Fyodor by the scruff like a cub, tossing him into the middle of the iced-over lake. Fyodor scowled, cursing as he struggled to get back up.

“This is your plan?” he scoffed, moving slower. “Slow me down on a slippery surface to give yourself even a small chance at survival?”

“No,” Atsushi said. “It’s to let nature take care of you.”

He tried a new transformation, just his arms as strong, powerful tiger claws, the rest of him human. And he summoned all of Byakko’s strength to smash the ice.

A crack formed on the surface, and as Atsushi hit it again, he saw how to make that crack move towards the center. Towards Fyodor.

“This is for my father,” Atsushi cried, slamming the ice with his claws. Fyodor could see what he was doing, but the ice was too slick for his boots, and he fell, desperately trying to get to his feet and failing, flailing. “And for my cousins.” He smashed the ice again, the cracks working to the lake’s center. “And my grandfather. And Ranpo.” With each name on his lips, he gave another blow, and the lake cracked more and more. “And for Kunikida!” he added heartily. “And for Osamu Dazai. And this,” Atsushi breathed, looking at Fyodor in his red eyes, “this one is for Atsushi Nakajima.”

Atsushi slammed both his claws into the ice, and the cracks splintered out, finding where the weight was uneven. There was a short beat where it seemed like nothing had happened; and then the ice collapsed beneath Fyodor and he splashed into the water, the frozen stream pulling him under. Exactly as he had tried to do to Atsushi ten years ago.

The sounds of his screams faded out as he was washed down the river, echoing into the night. And Atsushi and Dazai both collapsed on the bank, their chests heaving.

It was done. For now. Fyodor couldn’t die; but through the winter, he would be trapped beneath the stream, and it would give them time to plan their next moves. Time to . . .

Atsushi was pulled away from the lake by warm arms around him, pulling him close, and he breathed in Dazai’s scent. Atsushi’s fingers searched Dazai’s face, running over those new scars, those new cuts. His fingers glowed, and this time, Dazai let himself be healed, let Atsushi’s ability run through him.

“I thought you’d left.” Atsushi said pointedly.

Dazai swallowed. “No. I . . . Fyodor was after you, I couldn’t just . . .”

“What happened to letting the royals sort themselves out?” Atsushi spat back.

“Why must you remember every stupid thing I say,” Dazai muttered. “It isn’t a full moon, I thought you couldn’t fight him off yourself. Do you really think I would leave you to get killed?”

“I don’t know!” Atsushi cried. “I don’t understand you at all, Dazai! You lied to me, you manipulated me, and I never — I can’t read your intentions. How can I — ”

Dazai’s fingers grasped Atsushi’s cheeks and pulled him forward. A burst of warmth, wet and hot, spread out on Atsushi’s lips, pressing against them in a fit of passion. Atsushi’s heart jackhammered: Dazai was kissing him, out in the open, and it was so warm, it was so good.

“Can you read that intent?” Dazai teased, his voice breathy. “I love you, idiot.”

“That’s . . .” Atsushi started to reply, but he was dizzy. He felt drunk. “That’s Prince Idiot, to you.”

“His Royal Idiot,” Dazai echoed. “If you insist.”

“No.” Atsushi laughed and then shook his head. “Atsushi. Please.”

“Atsushi,” Dazai said quietly. Atsushi shuddered at his voice, his tone reverent. Devout. Dazai tightened his hold, his eyes needy, yearning. “My Prince.”

Atsushi’s pulse thrummed; oh, that would do. He wanted nothing in this moment but Dazai, and he shut his eyes, head tilted, his lips parted.

The second kiss was even warmer, and Atsushi let himself be carried away, let Dazai’s mouth take small tastes of his, let his hands wander into Dazai’s hair while Dazai’s clutched at his jaw. Dazai was not gentle and Atsushi did not want him to be: he pushed Atsushi’s lips apart, thumbs chafing at his skin as he pulled him closer, wanting. That scent of cloves and sweat was filling his senses, a heady mixture of cologne and desire.

“What is going on here?”

Atsushi recognized his grandfather’s voice, but he was lost in Dazai’s light and only languidly pulled away. But Dazai snapped into action, and for once, Atsushi felt him trembling. For the first time, Atsushi was the one with the real power here. And he could be the protector.

Dazai heard Lord Fukuzawa’s voice ring in his ears and he instinctively pulled away from Atsushi. He had been caught en flagrante before, but never like this, not with a man, and not with a royal, and real fear iced in his blood as he slowly turned to look at the former King.

Fukuzawa stood stiffly, his hands clutching his cane, looking between the two of them. His eyes were hard, serious, though he looked more concerned than angry. Not that he didn’t also look angry.

“Atsuki, are you alright?” he said quickly, taking a step forward. “You said Fyodor had followed you, and so I came to fight — only to find you — with this—”

“Your highness . . .” Dazai felt his heart pounding in his head, his guts dropping out of his body. God, he was about to lose his head, this time more physically. He took his hands back, quickly wiping the sweat beading on the back of his neck before shoving them in his pockets. Maybe he would be granted a little bit of grace, for having reunited them. For having saved his grandson. “It . . . it wasn’t what it looked like. I was only . . .”

“Yes, it was.”

Dazai turned his head towards Atsushi, hair whipping in his face. Atsushi grabbed Dazai’s wrists and pulled his hands back out, sliding his own down to entangle their fingers. He side-stepped in front of Dazai as though shielding him, though Dazai was still a head taller, even as Atsushi squared his shoulders to brace himself.

“Dazai protected me, he brought me back to you,” Atsushi started boldly. “He saved my life, and he . . . he saved my heart.” Dazai felt the fingers tighten around his, felt the pulse of Atsushi’s warm blood. “He’s my family, too,” Atsushi whispered. “I love him, grandfather.”

Fukuzawa looked between them, his sharp grey eyes hard. Impossible to read. He did not look happy; though Dazai had never seen the man look happy. But he had not called for guards, he had not attacked Dazai or threatened him, yet. And so Dazai decided he might as well go all-in.

“I love him, too,” Dazai said. “I know I don’t have any right. But what do my rights even mean now, in this world?”

The cold night wind was undisturbed, the silence ringing as its own entity after the chaos of Fyodor’s attack, of the hurried reunion, of the beautiful Paris evening. From the night, running to keep up, emerged Ranpo, his boots clicking jarringly on the wet pavement as he came to a rest beside the old King and took a breath, winded. He had only just come to a stop by Fukuzawa’s shoulder, hadn’t said a word, when Fukuzawa let out a loud sigh.

“There was a time I would have objected,” he began, closing his eyes gently. “It certainly wouldn’t have been allowed were the Fukuzawa family still in the palace, still in the public eye. Still needing to produce heirs. Even if you had been subtle about it, Atsuki, and had your servant boy behind my back, we likely would have arranged something for you, a public marriage to assuage any rumors. But I am an old man.” He opened his eyes again, and they did look a little bit softer. “Life is too short, too tumultuous, not to be with the ones you love, and to be in love openly and freely. I have my grandson. And he has me. And he has . . . you.” Dazai let Atsushi wrap his arms around his waist, and in turn he put an arm across his shoulders. “I can see clear as day that he makes you happy, Atsuki. Who am I to take that away from you?”

“Ah, romance,” Ranpo chimed in, grinning. “I think they’re kinda cute, Mr. Fukuzawa. You shoulda seen Mr. Dazai’s face when Atsuki was in that custom suit. He was beet red.”

“Oh, it’s . . .” Atsushi was blushing. “I don’t . . . I really prefer Atsushi, if it’s alright. I’ve been Atsushi for longer than I was ever Atsuki.”

“Atsushi, Atsuki,” Fukuzawa said quietly. “You’re still my grandson. My kin.”

Atsushi flushed and smiled, that beautiful smile. Dazai couldn’t believe he had ignored the way his heart pounded at that face, couldn’t believe he didn’t know at once that he was in love.

Fukuzawa embraced him again and Atsushi wrapped his arms around his shoulders, holding tight. Atsushi held him back, truly feeling loved. It was several full minutes before they pulled away from each other and the old king turned his attention to the Prince’s paramour.

“I remember you, Osamu Dazai,” Fukuzawa started, taking a step forward. Dazai felt Atsushi tense, but he stayed firmly by his side. “Little insolent brat you were in the palace. Always with some scheme or plan up your sleeve. Always seeing whose side is winning. But you saved me, and my grandson.” He smiled. “I have a proposal for you to put those skills to use. To use that infiltration you’re so good at and help your fellow ability-users. And keep my grandson away from Fyodor’s clutches.”

A few days later, a steam locomotive was making its way towards the South coast of France, one leg of another long journey for two young men, one with soft brown hair, the other with white asymmetrical bangs. This time all their paperwork was in order and their bags were packed with luxury goods they’d never even looked at in their previous life. For the next ten days, they would be doing nothing but basking in each others’ company in a sort of honeymoon. Legally, marriage was not an option. But they each sported a gold ring nonetheless, two royal heirlooms from Atsuki’s parents and imbued with his grandfather’s blessing.

After that short vacation, though, their real lives would begin. Fukuzawa had given them a letter of introduction to meet with some rebels outside the border of their home country. With Atsushi’s political standing and Dazai’s manipulation and combat skills, they would lend their expertise and aid. And maybe, soon, they would be able to launch their own revolution and take their country back.

“So,” Dazai said, changing the subject from their upcoming espionage. He leaned down to Atsushi’s ear, his lips brushing against it, and Atsushi shuddered pleasantly. “Now that you can control your ability, my Prince, does that mean you don’t need me to hold you tonight, during the full moon?”

Atsushi felt a tingling in his limbs, and he looked up at his paramour. His husband.

“I do need you,” Atsushi said quietly, folding Dazai’s hand in his own. “This is a direct order from your Prince, Osamu Dazai. You are to hold me, not just tonight. But every night, for the rest of our lives.”