Archive of Our Own ^beta

He doesn’t like it. 

Not this, of course, the outfit he adores. 

It’s just… his face? He pinches the side of his cheek.

No.

Perhaps, his body? He’s been putting on some weight. 

No.

His reflection trades cobalt acrimony with him as though he’d been vexed with this life, when in all, there simply stood anatomy warped to the bone, and nearly half there. He let a stale breath free from the confines of his chest, but with that sudden liberation to breathe normally again came a searing, caustic ache rippling from the center of his heart— as though he’d been poked by a cattle prod at the highest degree.

Ugh, he wants to claw his eyes out.

Seems he’s not cut out for anything today.

Chuuya stares at himself in the mirror and— yeah, if you asked the nearest stranger what they thought of his appearance, they’d absolutely gush over him, an attractive young man with looks that compliment every color and accessory. 

Because, in reality, he always looks stunning in the whole decorative and elegant attire. 

Fashionable themes he learned how to love after spending so much time under the wing of the most sophisticated person he knows, an expert in the art of pulchritude. His mentor, his big sis. 

He shouldn't complain. 

The seamstress did a wonderful job.

The top is a sterling grey, cropped tailcoat with embroidery made up of aureate vines. The satin lapels are stitched with black thread, which pairs nicely with the ruffled underblouse and steel-boned corset, strung tight with the silver clasps and lace running down the middle. His slacks are of the same color and the shoes are an oxford brand, with 1-inch heels shined to a tee. 

Attached to the collar of his blouse is a winged chain, ruby pendant in the center.

Everything is the perfect length. Subtle enough for movement and the ideal wear to conceal the comfortable weight of his knives underneath. An excellent cut across the shoulders, and with lines around the waist, accentuating his features in a way some might describe as exotic.

Chuuya has never liked that word. 

It establishes a false conception. That certain people are meant to be regarded in society for one purpose and one purpose only. It implies he is an object, all dolled up and good for nothing else except smiling and waving, sometimes at the cost of his own dignity. 

Often, he doesn’t understand it, or where the feeling of apprehension even comes from when he’s dealt with more than enough ugly company who underestimated him. 

Those who look at Chuuya and see something delicate and feminine; that they could so stare in such petty leering and notice only the thin waist, the curve of hip and thigh, the long red hair; that they can stand there with him in full view and not see the lean, whipcord muscle of a fighter shifting beneath a deceptively petite frame, the conviction of restrained power in every movement, the truly, dangerously beautiful form of a man.

And… he does look like a man today, doesn’t he? 

His boyish features don’t hold him back from the framework of maturity. He won’t be treated like he’s something other than human, much as the chasm of his soul wails at the prospect that has always tried to convince him he is not. 

Especially after… after that day.  

An environment that lacks, for whatever reason, the emotional security human babies are born to need, produces a sense of insecurity. Not surprising, considering his entire background with the mafia and that shitshow he endured, only to deny the closure he desperately sought after. 

But he’s one of the lucky ones. He’s recovered. He is a different person now, yet the same, his own being. He is confident, happy, and self assured. Not exactly glad he went through hell but still accepting of the truth, the reveal of missing candor from his heart.

Slowly but surely, he tries to progress in that direction every day, battling for his self worth against the yawning pyros that threaten such beliefs. 

Because he’d blink one moment and in the next, he’ll see the flesh melting off his bones, just as it had before, replaced in his memories by the body of another who looks just like him. Who once deserved this form, limbs overturned and inspected to the very last margin. 

And his hand would fly up to his mouth, prepared to wretch up the contents of his stomach as his eyes go wide and his breath hitches.

But nothing comes, it’s always the same story.

[𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝?]

There's a unique pain in tearing yourself apart from the inside out, the horror that lurks inside your bones and calls itself by your name, just more… ancient, more sinister.

Control is fleeting, and Chuuya loathed that fact— he always has. 

When you’re bound to a seat in the audience watching a play, you have no tethers to how the characters on stage will speak or move in front of or behind the curtain. Even if he were to interject with his own variety of managed chaos, with fists and brawn, a roulette of morals, it would be futile; he would still be left an outsider, eclipsed in the dark.

Shut up.

Chuuya’s lip curls as his fingers clutch the edge of the sink so tightly, his knuckles tinge white.

He doesn’t understand why He chose today of all days to be a constant plague among the hollow of his mind. It's a fact that He’s been stirring and, albeit restless, ever since they landed in this foreign country, nothing less than jealous and vengeful towards the unique things Chuuya’s experienced here thus far.

There’s that time he first had a glimpse of this beautiful city.

There’s that time he first had a glimpse of a warm, inviting home.

There’s that time he first had a glimpse of the ideal called love. 

But there’s usually a bigger reason for it, so—

[𝙰 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊, 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞?]

Arahabaki laughs. 

Something guttural and disjointed, like choking on liquid. A flash in front of his closed eyelids, one silhouetted figure casted in scarlet mist, a shadow under protruding guile, glint in the eyes, lazy, and moves as if he has no bones at all, slinking, oozing, bleeding eternal darkness and carnage. 

The figure leaps in a fury, smoke swirling, and his eyes shoot open.

Chuuya doesn’t gasp, he doesn’t flinch, he merely breathes on a heavy sigh. 

Damn, he has a fucking headache. 

The thing with fear is that it's not always rational. You can explain it away, you can put it into simple and easy terms, you can dissect it with logic until it's all pretty squares, easily tucked in. But that doesn't mean it will ever go away, not if you're not ready to let it go.

He’s not entirely fearful of the monstrous calamity, the god who inhabits his vessel, at least not anymore. The redhead is learning to deal with Him in his own right, choosing to ignore the deity when He resurfaces to act as the persuasive, negative conscience on Chuuya’s shoulder. 

Still, Arahabaki leaves him uneasy, even unsure sometimes. 

And that’s what he hates. 

To be shaken, forced to heed the unknown.

When triggered, it is so difficult to maintain everything. He’s doing the actions, his behavior, but it's as if the gas pedal has gotten stuck and in that acceleration, in that momentum, the steering wheel gets all jammed up too. It's all fight or flight, a struggle to override, and so disappointingly primitive that he has to stifle a hysterical scoff each time. 

However, he still clings to their praxis, knowing that the god has no power over him when Corruption is not in effect and that he cannot linger for too long, since eternal slumber is like prison to him without a command. So yes, he may prattle on with his whispering taunts and spiritual wishes to rain destruction over the world, but only Chuuya has the authority to make those decisions, to give into temptation. 

He thinks he does a pretty good job of fending it off, but well… it’s not always by his stubborn will to refuse submission before anyone or anything, that he’s able to get through the day. 

Much as it’s a bit distasteful to admit, his partner has his uses aside from being an evil genius pain in the ass. 

As Chuuya inspects himself in the mirrored glass once more, he adjusts the high ponytail atop his head, fingers tucking the wild orange strands behind his ears while his piercing gaze jumps from one flaw to the next. 

Grumbling, he runs a gloved hand over the intricate mask sitting on the counter.

A gradient of black and red, a large jewel displayed on the top, with little diamonds encrusted above the eyelids, and a pattern of wired swirls that meet at the crown. 

His hat, he abstains from wearing.

Tonight, he needs to focus. 

The young man slides his fingers over the bridge of it, other hand drawing the elastic string taut and sliding the mask over his head until it settles across his face like Chuuya is the main protagonist of a fairytale novel. A mysterious prince with a piercing gaze who comes and goes in phantom glances, unnamed and untamed. 

His imagination amuses him. 

And when he opens his eyes, he’s no longer standing in the bathroom. 

“Chuuya?”

The night is brazen. 

It never sugarcoated, jested, or left you pondering on its intentions. Similar to that of the Port Mafia and Chuuya himself, he always found the nighttime to be the most opportune creature to be vulnerable with. Transfixed on tire-burnt asphalt, city lights that drown out the risen moon, and blazing stars that spill like salt across a black canvas of sky.

He turns to Dazai, who wears a mirrored version of his outfit. 

The difference mostly lies in color, for his cropped tailcoat comes in a shade of powder blue and the mask gradient is white and blue instead of black and red. His blouse is a ruffled white button down which is tethered like a ribbon at the torso, the tight undershirt also being a contrasting black, and with white trousers that are secured with a belt. He wanted to forgo the odd, sapphire dragon pendant worn around his neck, yet thought better of it in the end, mostly thanks to Chuuya’s insistence.

But Dazai’s words string him through, and he finally looks up to address the gaze of his partner. 

Lost in the paradise of daydreams and spacing out, Chuuya almost completely forgot he wasn’t here alone, that his expressions and mumbling reached the ears of another body who could misinterpret them just as much as he did, fodder for humiliation. 

That’s not important right now. 

Truth is buried under layers of dirt, cooling magma, pressed within the layers of the Earth to fossilize and stay. Yet, they were beginning to dig, with vigor and valor, tearing through cooling embers with bloodied hands to see for themselves, the root of their work, the purpose of their survival. On a night meant to vanquish a pesky spider queen who has spun way too many webs for their liking.

Yes, the tranquil twilight is surrounding the two boys and they would have to share the night’s candidness for the next forever hours they inhabited it. 

“I’m here.” He replies, tone sharper than a knife, filed to a tip, before melting away into nothing like ice. “It’s not something to harp on, just a glimpse into the past is all. You ready?” Chuuya nearly forces his lips to curl up slightly in amusement, nudging his partner’s arm with his own, composing himself with a slow, inward sigh. 

Though his fists are still curled, leather creased against skin. 

“I am,” he says, and the redhead almost forgets to speak again. 

Seeing Dazai in brighter colors is admittedly strange, but not unwelcome. 

“Good. Because our ride’s here.”

A taxi pulls up to the curb at the very moment those words leave his lips. It’s not the traditional yellow and checkered vehicle you typically see in overrun cities. This one is a sleek black cab with the insignia scribbled onto the front of the hood and bolted roof. But that’s precisely what he appreciates about it, relishing in the texture beneath him as he runs his fingers along the cooled interior seating. 

Now, the drive from Strasbourg to Paris is a little more than 4 and a half hours. 

The fare for a taxi is €33.48 per hour, including wait time and kilometer distance.

As usual, Dazai is reluctant to pay for anything himself, which is absurd because his salary is even heftier than Chuuya’s with him being the mafia’s main breadwinner and all. The only difference is that when he does blow a sum, chances are it’s being wasted on useless crap he can’t be bothered to name. 

Still, Chuuya doesn’t wish to spend more than necessary, and especially not when their cabbie is a blabbermouth who can’t shut his fucking piehole for more than five seconds at a time. 

Worse, Dazai engages the man with his own randomized input in manners which the redhead is entirely sure are on purpose, solely to grate on his nerves. 

But not for long. Oh, no. 

To save him both the money and his sanity, he only books the taxi for two of the four hours. 

And the confused look on his partner’s face after they step out onto a pathway that is nowhere near Paris is absolutely worth the extra effort. 

He walks leisurely toward the rack of bikes, sat erect in front of an apartment complex. 

Upon closer inspection and a quiet but hastened removal of a weather resistant tarp; a motorcycle is revealed. Bending down beside the harley and rubbing his thumb across the rear, it seems as though the stark maroon color is glimmering with surprising novelty in the moonlight. Chuuya’s mouth twists surely into an astounded smirk, and with no further blockage, he stands the vehicle upright and rolls it out of its hanger. 

“What on earth are you doing?” 

Dazai whispers in a hushed, almost scandalized tone as the breeze picks up. 

Chuuya swings his leg over the bike that is slightly higher than his waistline, wrapping two gloved hands around the gear handles. The ignition cylinder stares at him, empty and devoid of life without a key. 

He tilts his head. 

“What does it look like? I’m borrowing it.”

The other boy brushes off his excuse with a sneer that chalks it up to a dreadful sight.

“Just say stealing. Modest isn’t a good look on you.”

“Like you’re one to talk about modesty. I’m not stealing, you indecent freak.”

“Potty mouth.”

“Screwball.”

“Useless hatrack.”

“Teenage angst.”

“Teenage mutant ninja turtles.”

“Huh—” Chuuya’s brows furrow together in frustration. “Y’know how ‘bout you just shut your mouth? Ever think of that?”

Dazai pretends to actually think about it for a moment, thumb to chin. Then, has the audacity to tut at his partner. “Mm… I appreciate your advice, but I don’t have much respect for you, sooo~ I’m not going to take it!” 

The asshole appears almost disappointed with the lack of further response before he rounds on a steaming Chuuya, stepping into his personal space and reaching a hand towards his head. 

He’s about to bring his knee up from the bike and into the asshole’s balls and bark at him to back the fuck off when Dazai shifts a little to the left. There’s a knowing grin on his face. 

“Ayy, that’s no way to treat a guy who has but an innocent inquiry for you.” 

Chuuya can feel his jaw open, sputtering wordlessly for a moment, before he forces it shut with an audible click. Deciding instead to resolutely ignore the bastard’s shitty behavior rather than give him the satisfaction of the reaction he wants.

“Well,” he sighs begrudgingly, “if you must know, a guy I hit it off with at the forum a few days ago, said I could take it out for a spin if I needed to.”

The brunette regards him with a decidedly unimpressed and unconvinced glare through the slits of his mask, foot tapping jerkishly against the pavement. “Now why would I believe a story like that? Nobody just hands their prized possession off to a stranger, trust takes time.” 

Chuuya deliberately does not point out that their own trust was cultivated not even a day after meeting and gambling their two pathetic lives in the presence of a powerful enemy. He smooths his palms over the handles with a groan, keeping on his toes to balance the harley between his thighs. 

“Think of it this way,” he shrugs. “People love me.”

It’s a half-truth. 

He was well regarded among the crowd, most of them surprised at how knowledgeable and charming a foreigner could be. But the bastard in question was obnoxiously observant and a very clear victim of false egomania during their conversation about the auction, so Chuuya took advantage of the opportunity when he learned he ran an automotive company and would also be present at the event. 

Dazai snorts, annoyingly perceptive. 

“Oho~ so the little mafia has been infected with delusion. I always knew the air around here smelled funny.”

“What are you even saying? I think you just like to hear yourself talk.”

“How could I not?” Dazai blinks coquettishly across from him in the scant light, hands clasped together and pulled to rest at angle under his chin. 

Chuuya rolls his eyes. 

“I would give you a whole list of reasons but unfortunately, we don’t have time for that right now.”

Dazai hums in distaste, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it’s washed away with the bland apathy Chuuya knows and detests so well. Abruptly, it morphs into a somewhat evil, cheeky glare as the mafioso turns his attention forward again, “Well, this is more your line of work than mine, have at it!” 

“Tch.” He raises a brow and crooks his finger impatiently while the idiot blinks at him, entirely uncomprehensive. “Well, don’t just stand there. Make your lanky ass useful and fetch me the keys for this thing, should be in the lobby. Just mention my name and they should provide you with what you need.” 

“Ugh,” Dazai merely huffs at the request, inferring that his partner is somehow being unreasonable, but magnanimously wanders off in the direction of the complex, and the redhead is left to ponder in the merciful silence. 

Being around a densely rural part of the metropolis, there is only the lulling trill of cicadas, a little world that is quite astonishing when you tear your way out of the mire of dysfunction. That conflict between the soundless and the singing soothes his mind, in some strange way. 

It’s a nice counterpoint to the memories, as his distant gaze takes in the shape beneath him, the color, the model, each miniscule detail lost to the flaming polaroids of a time long gone. 

His original vehicle, the beautiful cherry red motorcycle he had rode into the battle of 88 days, and the one that was seemingly destroyed after the gifted explosions… well, only some parts were able to be salvaged. 

Chuuya has never forgiven himself for that, knowing Albatross had left him with something so precious in his last moments and he’d been careless against forces that could have easily been avoided. But he’s been determined to repair it ever since then, forging a way through his past and the kind people who granted him a seat at their table, a reason to value friendship.

Looking at the current bike at his disposal in this reality, makes everything all the more somber and before the boy knows it, there’s a lump in his throat, his vision obscured to a misty reverie.

There is no use harping on a part of you that has died in another world, despite the fact that such a world existed only one year ago. Feels like longer.

Light years away sits this young spirit, troubled and nearly lost in the preamble, unprepared for the epilogue. There was no forecast calling for the complete devastation of a mere 16 year old. For the shunning of his body to a well, where he would become one with the dripping madness and forever quiet dusk where even dreams and nightmares avoided infesting. 

So, Chuuya looks back once more, locking eyes with smiling corpses, with that restless child who depended upon all the wrong things for survival. And, with valor, he closes the door, shutting and clicking the metaphorical deadbolt into place.

“Jingle, Jingle.” 

He blinks, refocusing on the key ring dangling in front of him. 

Dazai is smiling a cat-like grin, ever the lazy cheshire perched along the branches of a brittle boned tree. Such a shame he cannot decipher what that expression entails. 

“Chuuya’s thoughts are so loud.”

With a promptness that could be held akin to a certain bashfulness and warmth in his face from embarrassment— Chuuya snatches the key out of his partner’s hand, huffing. 

“They’re only loud cause you’re being nosy, stop reading me like one of your damn books.” 

“Eh? But how else am I supposed to entertain myself, if not with your personal misery.”

“Hell if I care, just quit it.”

On the first click of the key, the small dashboard lights up, various symbols and dials springing to life. The engine turns over, rumbling for a second more before the purring of the cycle through its back cylinders wakes into a subdued timbre. 

And so the redhead at last casts his attention over towards his rather tetchy companion, a mischievous glint in his eyes and a roguish smirk taunting his lips up. He’s absolutely brimming with a passion not nearly as deadly as his average instinct to command gravity, but most certainly is it more hungry, and more jovial. Anyone could see it clashing and then swimming in those two energetic oceans, the ones with tides that rose and fell just as quickly during any torrent of emotion that would threaten his esteem.

But the brunette immediately looks upon Chuuya with disdain at such a wild concept, assessing the moving deathtrap with a wary glare that he instantly reads as; There’s no way I’m getting on that thing— that monstrosity. 

As per their usual ignorance, he glosses over it with a sigh.

“You gonna keep ogling or are you gonna get on?” 

Dazai shudders. 

“I’d rather die.”

“Yeah, I fucking guessed.” He deadpans, “Either you get on this bike, or I drag you by your throat.”

“Oh, spare me the horror.” 

“Think I’m joking or somethin’?”

"No,” he mumbles in reply, circling around the rear with a hmph, “But I’m starting to wish you were, always so aggressive and for what? Maybe if you tried asking me nicely, I’d be more likely to cooperate. All this pent-up anger and now you’re making threats that don’t even make sense, you really are losing your intellect to a brain eating monster.”

Chuuya revs the engine once, twice, three times. 

"This is why I have to keep my stupid mutt in check. And y’know I never thought there'd be anything worse than dying by your hands but here we are—!" 

Dazai squawks indignantly when lowering himself onto the sturdy bike seat, immediately tossed forward with a vengeance after the redhead kicks it into gear. It's obviously an instinct, a flight response to catch himself. Which he does without fail, face jammed up against a splay of red hair and arms bruisingly tight around Chuuya’s ribs so as not to fall from grace. 

He’s rendered to baffled silence not even a moment later, much to Chuuya’s delight. 

Heh.

The first thing to know about riding a motorcycle is that when driving, it performs as an extension of you. It’s almost cybernetic, the way your mass and balance fuses with machine, the way it transmutes your sense of your surroundings and the surface you’re driving on, the way of the bike itself and how it’s performing.

However, it’s slightly different with a passenger, to ride pillion is to ride as wild as its pilot.

There’s a lot of trust and teamwork involved, which takes place at a kinesthetic level. It feels a lot like dancing, or maybe partnered sports, where the collaboration is happening at a tangible, bone-deep level that often skips right past the conscious intellect. 

And traveling on a bike is one of those things that’s also a very physical experience, so if you haven’t ridden before, then there’s a lot you will naturally not be aware of. 

Ubiquitous in fact, to the point that if one hasn't been there to learn the contrary themselves, it’s natural to assume that simply swinging your legs up and holding a certain position is all to how it works.

They must lean into each turn and veer on every halt, zipping between cars and racing illegal stoplights. The blazing automobile smokes and puffs beneath Chuuya like a beast ready to run; the gate is down, the world is made just for it and it for this world. 

He felt maroon electricity bounce in his veins and set his heart to a marching pace; the motor raved, the stars watched with twinkling encouragement. He prepares for maddening exemption, for the lawlessness his ability often pushed him towards inconsequentially, only now is his usual performance over fallacious wheels hindered by another soul.

Though the eye is still there in the distant hue of the hearth; at the end of the tunnel it stares at Chuuya with turmoil etched into the plans of his emancipation. His lungs become greedy with the night’s air, and he feels that usual searing burn line the insides of his skin; the kettle is screaming on the stove and he must run, run, run until the wind might numb it to silence.

But of course, fire cannot survive without oxygen. 

Slim hands akin to clouds dousing the desert in a drought engulf his torso; the fire ravaging his body is smothered, and the embers that remained sang with elation; the final smoke they exhaled left Chuuya’s body in one, deep, scorching breath. 

Admittedly, he hadn’t gathered the intimacy that was required for this freedom ride; he was too misplaced in his immediate wonder to imagine it. He runs his mouth often before he can think about what might actually be served to him.

And served to him is this: the chin and jaw of a lanky body being melted into the junction of his shoulder, the shaggy brown locks that ghosted his cheek and smelled like a different time but a familiar place, the pair of legs that cradled his hips and clung on, fearlessly, like Chuuya is life. 

Dazai has touched him before. 

How does it feel so omnipotent, so infuriating, every single time? 

The young redhead realizes then that he’s been starving and burning his flesh for eternity. Until now, during these rare instances where red strives to meet blue, where the lines drawn in sand become obscured by fleeting youth, where a rabid animal is put to rest by its tranquilizer. 

The two of them watch in wonder as the sky parts with a beam of moonlight, something soft and boundless flickering in shadowy expressions. Words are not needed to understand. This...it feels like a moment lost to eons– a glimpse of something in a past they never had, in those countless universes they’ll never get to experience. It settles him into that painful feeling of peace, letting it seep into the empty spaces carved out inside his chest. 

He listens to the sound of Dazai’s subdued breathing, feels the phantom touch of fate upon his skin, and the vibration of the engine under his spine. He envisions that single shaft of radiance shifting across the planes of the other’s face, caressing his cheekbones and lighting his hair to burnished copper. 

Together, the birds fly into the night. 

He feels calamity run from his tired bones as he lets the machine guide them far, fast, and boundless for 2 straight hours. 

And despite the cobbled road beneath them causing an occasional and brief lift into the air, everything is fluid. The rawness of their choices that led them to this moment stacked up in Chuuya’s chest until it formed a sky-scraper, bursting past his lips in the form of solaced laughter. 

Pure fun, with just a hint of naivety before adolescence is stifled by a dangerous reality.

“You faring well back there?” Chuuya calls into the wind in an effort to implore his partner. He shifts his face to the wayside just slightly into Dazai’s own resting securely on his shoulder. 

“You’re awfully quiet for once. Maybe I ought to drive forever!”

He hears something vaguely akin to a huff of annoyance. 

Now, he could lie and lament about a peaceful ride ruined by the mouth of a witty comrade, first unusually (and nearly quite adorably) silent and then all of a sudden gabbing on and on about the figments of Chuuya’s mind and demands for the bare minimum. Because that pouty chin is suddenly digging further, almost childishly ignorant into his sharp shoulder blade, responding to his partner's comment with a barely audible, yet appropriately Dazai-esque hum. 

“This ought to be considered reckless endangerment. It’s taking far too long. Plus, this monstrosity is heavy and deliberately recalcitrant despite its supposed lack of sentience, swerving unpredictably to one side or another when all it should do is move in a straight line!”

“Blah blah blah,” Chuuya parrots, rather amused. He wrinkles his freckled nose to adjust the ceramic edge of the mask itching his skin as he makes another turn. 

Yes, although the two partners seem to be high off whatever minuscule peace that abides within the fleeting throes of strange comfort among damnation, they are well-prepared for whatever awaits them– their focus, defense, supplies, all requisitioned from the hotel and stored beneath their suits or in a compartment under the motorcycle, leaving them with a suitable excess in most respects. 

Of course, that doesn’t take into account the pitfalls and unexpected problems that doubtlessly lie in wait, to be triggered during such a risky endeavor, but honestly, he’s invigorated with a future unforetold. 

A life painted in obscurity. 

-·=»‡«=·-

Beneath the star-studded canopy of a Parisian night sky, the City of Light takes on a new, enchanting persona. The horizon is streaked with ambition as the streets of Paris come alive with a subtle, timeless charm that has captured the hearts of countless dreamers. 

The iconic landmarks, bathed in the soft glow of golden lampposts woven through its expanse like veins, create a picturesque tableau that breathes life itself. The Eiffel Tower, a latticed masterpiece, stands tall like a sentinel, its iron frame illuminated and casting long, intricate shadows on the Champ de Mars below. 

Café terraces spill onto the sidewalks, inviting patrons to sip on rich espresso and savor flaky desserts while the world passes by. The historic architecture of Paris, from the grandeur of the Louvre Palace to the charming facades of Montparnasse, takes on an ethereal quality under the moon's gentle embrace. The cityscape is a blend of old-world elegance and modern vibrancy, where centuries of history coexist with contemporary magic. 

Night in Paris is a time for lovers to stroll hand in hand along the river, for artists to find inspiration in hidden courtyards, and for the city itself to reveal its timeless allure as a place where beauty and days of yore intertwine under the spell of the moonlit sky.

However…. beneath the romantic facade, where tourists flock to sightsee and savor gourmet cuisine, lies a shadowy underbelly that thrives away from the prying eyes of the public. In the bowels, where history mingles with secrecy, illicit affairs unfold in the hidden corners and dimly lit alleyways. 

One of the city's darkest secrets, as nearly any capital these days, is its underground world of organized crime and illegal enterprises. In discreet back rooms and clandestine meeting places, deals are struck, contraband goods are exchanged, and powerful figures from the criminal underworld pull the strings of hidden empires. 

The elegant boulevards and charming establishments that Paris is known for can hide the most sinister of dealings, from smuggling and drug trafficking to money laundering. The city's elaborate catacombs, with their labyrinthine tunnels and ancient crypts, provide a haven for those who wish to remain unseen. In these subterranean depths, secretive gatherings and forbidden rituals occur, far removed from the watchful gaze of the law. 

Everything serves as a backdrop for a thriving nightlife that caters to the desires of the discreet and the deviant. Underground clubs, speakeasies, and private parties offer a world of decadence and indulgence, where the boundaries of legality blur and aspirations are exploited. 

Furthermore, Paris has a record of espionage and espionage-related activities that continue to this day. Intelligence agencies operate in the city, some gifted, others not; conducting covert operations, often with the aim of safeguarding national interests or uncovering international secrets. 

In this dualistic setting, the contrast between the public's perception and the hidden truths is stark. 

While the world may see it as the epitome of romance and culture, those who delve deeper will discover a city with a darker side, where frenzied undoings occur among the blackness, hidden beneath the nose of unsuspecting innocents.

The warehouse they are looking for is located on the outskirts of the town’s industrial sector. It was abandoned after the initial company who arranged to design it as a casino had downsized and the building inspectors cited a few flaws in the construction. Technically, by rumor, it was supposed to be torn down a few years ago, but strangely, the demolition keeps getting delayed. 

Or, well— 

Someone keeps pushing it back.

Chuuya stood at the threshold of the concealed warehouse, every sense heightened to a razor-sharp focus. The air around him is heavy with a mixture of anticipation and unease, a feeling that clings to him like an invisible shroud. He could practically taste the tension in the atmosphere, a metallic tang that hinted at the treachery that lay within. His mind raced, thoughts flickering like flames as he braced himself for what lay ahead. 

That sharp gaze flicks to his partner, whose usual air of carefree indifference had given way to a steely resolve. They exchanged a wordless glance, an unspoken acknowledgment of all that awaited them within the masquerade. 

The scent of the place, a mixture of aged wood, stale air, and the faint trace of expensive perfume, washes over him. Each step they take toward the entrance feels like a descent into the unknown, a plunge into a world of lies, secrets, and hidden agendas. 

As they pushed open the heavy door, slipping their access passes under a tinted window, Chuuya's uneasiness simmered beneath the surface of his skin, a coiled tension ready to spring into action. 

The sights, sounds, and sensations of the impending reveal enveloped him, and he knew that the night ahead held a promise of intrigue, with every instinct attuned to the subtlest of cues.

In the opulent heart of the abandoned casino, excitement hangs heavy in the air as the elite of the underground gather for a uniquely illicit event. This isn't your typical high-society auction; this is a sketchy gathering where fortunes change hands, and secrets are bought and sold with a silent nod and a discreet exchange of funds. 

The room is adorned with black-out curtains, poker tables, gilded chandeliers casting an eerie green glow, and a palpable sense of interest that envelops the attendees. The centerpiece of the evening is the auction block, a polished mahogany stage adorned with velvet ropes and dim spotlights. 

As the emcee takes the stage, impeccably dressed in an artful tuxedo, a hush falls over the room. He introduces each item with cryptic descriptions, revealing nothing of their true nature. 

Bidders, their faces concealed behind ornate masks, raise their paddles with a mix of anticipation and trepidation. 

Among the items up for sale are rare contraband artifacts, encrypted data drives containing classified information, and a selection of highly sought-after weaponry. The buyers, draped in anonymity, engage in intense bidding wars, their fortunes quietly transferred through encoded channels. It's a dance of power, where the highest bidder secures not just an item but the upper hand in a world of violence and subterfuge. 

The evening would continue no matter what, deals struck in whispered conversations, alliances forged, and dangerous liaisons hinted at. The high-stakes allure creates an atmosphere where anything is possible, where the shadows hide as much as they reveal, and where the line between luxury and priority blurs. This extravagant, yet sinister event serves as a reminder that beneath the veneer of elegance, a mad world thrives on the hidden edges of another realm. 

The two mafiosos blended seamlessly with the masked and cloaked audience. The emcee's voice droned on and on as they moved gracefully through the crowd, their disguises rendering them unrecognizable even to those who might have, for some reason, known their faces. 

Dazai's sharp wit and Chuuya's keen senses guide them as they observe the items on display and any suspicious figure standing out from the rest. 

His partner is gone from his side before he can even blink, much less breathe, left to his own devices with a plan he no doubt already has prepared in advance. 

That’s fine, it grants the redhead a chance to explore.

He steps forward, embracing the violent smells of roasted pig, spiced wine, and concocted fragrances worn by men and women alike. The combination, although pleasant, gives him a headache.

Chuuya strides purposefully towards the refreshments table. He is obligated to be here, yes, but he is not obligated to attend sober. Of course, he knows his limits and can very much hold his own for a glass or two. 

Besides, as he surveys his options, he is already well aware that he’s being watched. 

The looks being thrown his way; he sees him, with a chin as strong as the alcohol on his breath; him, wearing a suit that tries very hard to accentuate slender curves; him, whose eyes are alight with poison and void to the world, two drinks away from oblivion; and him especially, watching Chuuya with that piqued gaze and slight smile.

The person who waits to see what kind of behavior the savage, yet beautifully foreign outsider who borrowed his motorcycle will demonstrate this time. 

Grumbling, Chuuya reaches out and chooses a glass of wine, his hand shaking slightly. He feigns aloofness, accidentally bumping into the decanter, which causes a small amount of clattering— but nothing actually spills. The quickly muffled laughter, barely audible above the music, stung his back like nettles in the forest. 

He reaffixes the veil over his eyes, straightening up, yet when he turns to gaze silently at those who had giggled to themselves, they could only spot a mask. 

These animals will never be able to see his face, but he can see theirs. 

Their own masks are feeble indeed, for their every expression is visible to Chuuya.

It's normal to be human with a monster mask if that's what it takes to survive. It serves as a guise to protect yourself, knowing that you're still somewhere under there, the striving little child you always had to be. The problem in the previous world, this one, and even the next, is the kind of people who sell their souls to purposefully become the opposite.

Monsters with masks made of human skin instead, with crooked smiles on mannequin faces to mimic the warm hearted, always hiding under the bed or in the closet with skeletons. 

Perhaps one day, he hopes, they will forge a world safe enough for everyone to be humans with human faces, to feel at one with who they really are, their true natures, and with nature herself.

Even then, does that future reside only in a dream.

He travels across the lacquered flooring, polished to a brightness that almost hurts his eyes.  

Still, the boy searches for an alcove from which to observe the layout. He steals a sip from his glass as he does so, the sour-sweet tang of liquid filling his nose and mouth with its essence.

Ah, there it is. 

A little den away from the oppressive hawks of the main lounge. Nobody notices Chuuya there, nobody bothers him there. 

But someone is already waiting. 

“Isn’t the point of attending an auction to bid for items, to eat and dance with people?” 

The man from before asks first, his voice thick with a slavic accent, and a haunting smile still carving its way across his youthful face. There's a glass of vodka that is almost entirely full on the table in front of him. 

When did he get here? Why did he come here?

“I’m not one for such things, especially dancing,” Chuuya replies, dredging up all the polite etiquette and wordsmithing he’s learned to adapt into his behavior. “I was never taught quite how to dance for grand events like this.” 

The man seemed greatly amused, long black hair swishing around his temples and the corners of his swan-white mask as the smile took on a sardonic shadow. “Grand? They are of high quality, yes, but ‘grand’ may be too spontaneous.” 

“There is much grandeur in the details, in the little things,” he responds again, taking a seat opposite of him. Chuuya places his wineglass down. As it stands, his cup is only slightly emptier. 

“Oh? That’s a fair argument, I suppose.” The man says, curious. 

There was no argument in the first place, Chuuya mentally rolls his eyes.

The man shifts in his chair, crossing one slender leg over the other and leaning back. His deep silver waistcoat, patterned with black and purple embroidery, hugs his figure without crossing the line into obscenity. The center of his collar is white and there’s a necklace with a golden cross that dangles over his chest. 

His grin widens. Then, he takes up his tumbler of vodka, the fine crystal structure faintly reflecting the side of his crisp, European features. “I see you’ve accepted my gift,” he notes, “Did you have a nice drive?”

Their two glasses are equally full now. 

Chuuya sighs, and turns to stare at the vibrant setting outside of the alcove. Despite its violent, neon green bustle, it is more restful to gaze upon than the face of the mysterious man. 

“Fine. The engine showed no sign of any catastrophic defects, everything appeared to be where it should be, keys were easy to palm, and the tank was full. So, that tells me it wasn’t some cheap scam meant to kill me, no wiretaps or trackers either, I checked.”

The man’s eyebrows lift, and his dark eyes widen slightly. “I did not expect you to be so knowledgeable about motors, nor have such a strong sense of distrust,” he says, like his offer wasn’t from that of a complete stranger and the criminal underworld is a chummy ol’ thing.

He takes another sip of alcohol, placing it directly adjacent to Chuuya’s, tainted crimson vs pure translucence. When he looks back to his face, his eyes are tightened and his mouth is slightly curved upward. 

The mafioso exhales again, tipping the wineglass onto his tongue so that the glasses are even for another time, an invisible sort of power play at work. “How sad,” the man prompts, “It seems it was not enough to qualify this as a friendly drinking session yet. Am I really such bad company?” 

The fact that he says yet is telling. 

He’s just playing the game, not actually interested in who Chuuya really is, but what he can provide. There isn’t any desire for depth, an uncanny aura that’s similar to Dazai. 

He’s disappointed now, but really shouldn’t have expected anything different. He will play along, however, no telling if this guy’s involved with the big boss or not, especially when he’s so interested in Chuuya and seemingly very intelligent. 

The man uncrosses his legs and leans forward, placing his head on one hand and tracing a series of circles on the table with the other. He looks at him from under obscured, dark eyelashes, trying to ensnare the boy in his hypnotic violet eyes. 

He quickly stifles a scowl; keeping his face neutral. 

Despite excellent acoustics in the building, the music seems distant, and the people appear like objects in a clockwork mechanism behind a carver’s shop window. Only the beverages, the table, and the man feels real to Chuuya right now. 

“No, I wouldn’t say that, though it was convenient. I still appreciate a generous gesture when it happens,” he remarks, his words layered with thinly veiled skepticism.

The man’s lips curl, his eyes shimmer with a knowing glint. 

"Generosity is a relative concept, Kashimura, was it?" he replies, his tone as cryptic as ever. "Sometimes, a gesture can be a prelude to something more... intriguing." 

Chuuya couldn't help but bristle at the vague insinuation. 

"Intriguing, you say?" he retorts, his posture tinged with a touch of hostility. "I'm not one for cryptic games, sir. If you have something to say, then I suggest you say it."

But the other’s smile remained, undisturbed by Chuuya's urging. "All in good time, you’ll see," he speaks with infuriating calmness. "For now, let's just say that we share a mutual interest in the mysteries of this life." 

Chuuya, unable to decipher his true intentions, decides to play along with his own brand of charm in the fleeting moments of investigation, highly confused. "Well, let's hope that interest doesn't lead to any... unfortunate complications," he quips, an edge to his words as he grits his teeth. 

Their conversation continues in this odd and tense manner, each word carefully chosen, and the underlying tension between them boiled, a duel of wits and agendas in the secretive world of the underground.

"Can I ask something of you?” 

Chuuya is taking a risk with this, something so direct. It violates the rules of the game these people play, and that might displease the man. He raises his eyebrows, surprised. Then glances down at the wine glasses, his eyes flickering almost faster than Chuuya could catch. He tilts his head to the side. 

“Of course, маленькая лиса,” the man responds demurely. He’s expecting a question, and of the many the mafioso has, there are two that stand above them. He can only ask one. “Why are you interested in me? You’ve watched me from a distance, conversed with me at the forum, but this is the first time we’ve ever spoken to each other alone.” 

He laughs lightly; a small, amused laugh that lacks true depth of emotion. “I’m afraid there is no particular reason,” he smiles at Chuuya. “At least, none that I can currently think of. But you are certainly more worth my time than a few measly relics of which have failed to compare with what I actually desire.” 

The stray lock of hair that falls over the bridge of his nose and the shadows of the alcove obscure the opposite sides of his face, framing it in vivid darkness. His pale skin is luminous in the light, and those irises are piercing cold. 

He should have known that he wouldn’t answer that question. “Might I ask you something, in return?” The man suddenly requests. 

And Chuuya doesn’t refuse.

“Tell me,” he begins, his voice low and contemplative, "What would you do with the power to change the world itself? How far would you go to protect what you hold dear?"

That’s….

Chuuya hesitates, caught off guard by the weight of his question, so thrown out of the loop that his puzzled expression might as well be a flashing sign on his face. He glances down at his feet for a moment, leg bouncing as it always does, and his mind racing with too many thoughts to name. All this has done is set off alarm bells, something that compels him to turn tail and run, convinced this man may just be another accomplice meant to corner him. 

“What—” He looks up, rubbing his temple. “Okay, look. I’m not sure what kind of fuckery is going on here but I don’t even know your name, much less the answer to any philosophical crap I’m supposed to think on.” 

The redhead prepares to leave, fingers twitching and legs willing his body to stand. 

“Well, I was wondering when you were going to ask.”

Chuuya raises a brow, palms curving into the fold of his elbow, grounding himself. 

“My name is—” 

But just as the syllables were to form on his lips, a sudden interruption shattered the moment. 

Chuuya feels a wave of frustration wash over him as Dazai materializes from the shadows. His partner's presence is unexpected, and Chuuya can see that he is very clearly upset, his usually playful demeanor replaced by a glare that was icy and intense, before it dissolves into a strained grin.

"D— Shuuji," Chuuya corrects, "What's going on?" 

“There you are, I’ve been looking eeeverywhere for ya~ I was almost convinced you lost your way again. Sorry, but I’ll be taking him now, food’s getting cold!” Dazai moves with swift determination, whisking Chuuya away from the conversation with the strange man, who merely leaned back in silence, wearing the same smile, hands steepled on his lap. 

Nothing less than perfectly composed as he fades out of sight. 

The brunette’s grip on Chuuya's arm is firm, and as they retreat from the nook, Dazai's expression remains tense and enigmatic. It’s only when they are at a safe distance that he finally speaks, low and guarded. "I suspected it was him who lent you that deadly contraption. Listen to me, he’s none of our concern right now so just… stay away from him, got it?”

Chuuya wrenches his arm out of his partner’s grasp, letting out a baffled scoff.

“Excuse me? You’re telling me you know him?”

Dazai grimaces. 

“‘Know’ is a strong word. But we’re acquaintances, yes. Fyodor Dostoyevsky is not a man you want to trifle with, he’s a slippery bastard and he’s likely here for a very different reason than what you’re thinking. So please just listen to me and ignore his existence just like I try to do with you every day because I can barely see— ouch!” 

The boy instantly yanks his leg up to pet his aching shin from where Chuuya had kicked it, though a nudge would be the more correct term.

He sighs, if this Fyodor really is such a formidable character, then he has to keep an eye on him in the near future, just to make sure he won’t slither too far out of the light. Though, based on Dazai’s reaction, he’s almost completely sure his partner truly and most definitely despises the Russian. 

He wants to protest against his unreasonable behavior and vague warnings, but well (he chews on his lower lip) trusts Dazai. 

The asshole never says “please” unless he’s absolutely serious about something. 

Still, Chuuya didn’t know if it was humanly or even supernaturally possible to want to wring somebody so thoroughly by their neck while also, in the same beat, throw his arms around them and never let go. 

But as long as the city was green, his thoughts rang strong and true, or however that ancient saying went, some jumbled historic play swirling around in his limited memory. Bullshit, all of it. Dwindled art, faded words. Chuuya’s expression is as flat as the land, blinking doubtingly and disapprovingly up at Dazai, the person of which he was experiencing this congealed love-hate contradiction. 

“Alright, fine. But I don’t need you to…” he gestures his arm in the air, “protect me, idiot. I’m fine, you’re acting like a baby.” He flicks the boy’s shoulder for good measure, rolling his eyes so intensely it almost hurts. 

Though, there was a fleck of relish, maybe not a fleck, but a spot, a soft one in his soul that harvested in the center of his chest. This was stupid, he thought stubbornly, but Dazai had cared enough to slide up next to him, to mock and chide, to (try) and lure him away from a force the brunette deemed to be… deceitful? Problematic? Dangerous? All of the above? It’s stupid, he thinks again, and locks the thoughts loosely away in the back of his mind, because efforts like that are never solely for Chuuya’s benefit.

There’s a truth to seize, but whether it would help or injure them, not even fate could tell. 

Fate is fickle. 

But, Chuuya isn’t.

From then on, the two agree to keep their distance to survey the patrons once more. During his time away. It seems Dazai had already placed a few bids himself, if only to keep up the act, there’s nothing really substantial that the Port Mafia hadn’t already bought into ahead of time. 

It’s all standard issue, but still fairly valuable, if this were under different circumstances, then the whole place would be cleaned out and drained of its merchandise in a heartbeat. 

At this point, however, he’s not really sure what they’re supposed to be looking for. 

He’s too distracted by the achingly familiar clacking of wooden poles against the cue balls, pacified by the stench of heady cigars, and carefully resigned to any intimacy occurring between the grinding figures around the poker game he’s currently fixated on. He’s not usually a gambler but he needs to occupy himself, sitting on a chair flipped around to his chest, with his elbows resting over the back of it, and a promising deck of cards at his disposal. 

Later, when someone asks him to dance, he politely declines. Then, experiences a momentary lapse in judgment when he makes the mistake of searching the crowd for a certain lanky brunette. 

He swallows the uncomfortable lump in his throat.

Amidst the sultry ambiance of the old casino's masquerade dance floor, Dazai and Chuuya engage in a captivating duel of disgust. 

Their eyes, like magnets drawn to one another, met in fleeting glances across the opulent expanse of the room, perhaps fishing for more than just information. It’s a cruel allure that neither could escape, an electric tension crackling between them, like a storm on the horizon that threatened to engulf their steadfast refusal. 

Dazai moved with a fluid grace, his steps as precise as his words were enigmatic. He twirled partners in and out of his orbit, but his gaze always returned to Chuuya, as if compelled by an invisible force. And Chuuya, equally entrancing in his regal attire, vowed to never lose. His hardened blue eyes smolder with a mix of irritation and foreign longing, his movements sharp and controlled when trying to contribute to their unspoken competition, stealing the hand of another. 

As they danced with various figures, their chemistry seemed palpable, their every action dripping with sensuality and forbidden desire that their respective partners adored to have in their favor. 

Yet, two young men were blind to it all, stubbornly clinging to masks of indifference; Pulcinella, the clever deceiver and Pierrot, the wary believer.  

Their banter laced with biting sarcasm and veiled innuendo unknown to only them. It’s a dance of push and pull, where the music's rhythm mirrored the synth of their lives thus far and warehouse which provides the perfect backdrop for their complex relationship— a realm of unsolved mystery, beautiful lies, and hidden brokenness. 

Proximity has never been quite associated with Chuuya’s founded name. He’s far too enflamed with a serpent’s fiery venom for anybody to dare come near enough to look him directly in the eyes, like staring down the cylinder of a firearm. He doesn’t want them near him either if he can avoid it. 

However, there is always that single exception. 

For an annoying asshat, he has his moments.

Dazai is cool, contradicting, in every possible sense of the word. In group nature, he is incredibly witty, speaking like he turned the world by hand, which in itself makes other peoples’ fear dissipate. His brilliant solutions form swiftly in chaos, he’s calm under pressure’s fatal hand, and he moves as freely as though he knows the plot that is forthcoming, like a fortune teller who never reveals their own method. 

Yet, being alone with Dazai in a room full to the brim with faceless people, bore a rare sliver of a beating heart, something that felt so personal it was as though the man saw right through the metaphorical wall constructed to keep out anybody who may try to climb over it. 

And Chuuya, well…. the first of many cracks in his defense starts now, when warm bodies are transferred for too long, left to reach for the nearest foundation of an outstretched palm until you’re crashing into another study chest meant to lead you. 

He should have chosen a different path. 

"Fancy meeting you here," that chirping voice is dripping with so much amusement, it makes him physically sick to his stomach.

“You’re in my way, Dazai.” The elder glares, fingers pressed into the panes of a clothed chest.

“Ne, Chuuya, are you always this rude to your dance partners?” 

“There’s no way in hell I’m dancing with you!” He whispers in a hushed demand as the surrounding patrons flash by in a world of forgotten shapes and colors. 

What Chuuya really doesn’t expect, for once in a millennium, is the slim, cool fingers wrapping around his wrist, and tugging him forward as if he were nothing but one with the chill breeze of an industrial fan. 

“Oi you—”

“Focus, Chuuya. Loosen up a little, hm?” He turns his nose, a cheeky smirk playing on his lips. 

“You’re always so tense, it’s seriously driving me up a wall. Don’t you know you’ll get more wrinkles if you keep frowning throughout your teenage years?” His finger pokes against the solid mask where there would be a crease just above the ridge of his brows. 

Such a small point of contact freezes Chuuya to his very core.

Within the new inches gained between their faces, the redhead, wide eyed and dumbstruck, sees stories upon stories written over Dazai’s skin and in his molten irises.  

He’s seen that face before, so many times, he’s lost count. Has loathed the fact that he’s come to recognize every invisible, eclipsed pattern telegraphed into Dazai’s character. But right now, he might be actually looking this time, without bias, without the first word out of his mouth translating to add insult to injury. 

Some stories are only realized at night, beneath the covers of the moon, when fated souls test closeness with one another in a wooded building that could collapse with the wind at any given moment. 

He knows this story, plays a part in it too, but will he ever witness the ending?

Could he write between the margins in order to preserve his role?

Or perhaps, erase it entirely?

It’s a funny thought, because… 

Chuuya will never get a chance to hold the pen.

-·=»‡«=·-

In retrospect, he will realize the drastic change from point A to point Z is as bizarre as it is hilarious but, it’s not unusual that Chuuya Nakahara's life remains a battleground of conflicted circumstances, upsides and downsides, a swirling storm of contradictions that raged and laughed and sometimes… worked in his favor. 

Beneath the veneer of snark and defiance that he often wore like armor, there were depths of feeling that he couldn't easily dismiss. At the heart of his turmoil was Dazai Osamu, a man who simultaneously infuriated and fascinated him. Chuuya's pride and stubbornness clashed with a growing awareness of their dreadful partnership. 

His fiery exterior concealed a vulnerability he was reluctant to show, a vulnerability born of his complicated views on the enigmatic other half who played the part of a ringmaster. Thus, both of them possess a tapestry of emotions that defied easy categorization. 

One minute, there were bandaged hands around his waist, and they burned.

He doesn’t like that devilish glint looking down on him. Dazai looks taller like this, a little older than the boy he once knew, once kicked into a wall and shattered the bones in this same arm that cradles him today. A little different. 

Colder. Wiser. Emptier.

The music's tempo had shifted, the notes guiding steps into a faster, more intense rhythm. In the subdued glow of the masquerade's ambiance, their masks seemed to become less of a disguise and more of a reflection of the intricate dance they had begun to share. 

One gaze met another, and for once, their words fell silent. 

Meanwhile, Dazai's hand had tightened ever so slightly around Chuuya’s, a subtle gesture that conveyed a deeper, convoluted sentiment they couldn’t quite place and wished to run from the horror of anonymity. But the song continued, and they danced, stepping on each other’s toes, butting heads, pressing knee to thigh, sparking rivalry in the midst of a job. 

The partners remained an ugly pair, their dynamic as unpredictable as the shifting notes of the beat, and a shared history too complex to unravel in a single evening.

Then, in the next minute that followed, a booming voice broke them apart. 

This time, the man looks different.

In the auction hall, a scandalous murmur rippled through the audience as the new emcee took the stage and introduced himself. 

Pierre Leclerc, a tall and distinguished figure in a finely tailored suit, stepped up to the podium. 

His crisp French accent added an air of sophistication to the proceedings, replacing the previous emcee who, he explained, had fallen ill unexpectedly. 

The audience exchanged curious glances and discreet whispers as they eyed the mysterious wooden box now on display, adorned with a strikingly familiar symbol, a black snake ensnared among thorny roses. 

Only five items remained in the vault, and anticipation hung heavy in the air. 

As Pierre began to explain the rules per protocol, Chuuya leaned closer to Dazai as the crowd formed a half-circle along the floor. 

"The box," he mutters, his gaze fixed on the container of which preserved an inky serpent he had once seen imprinted on the cheek of a ruffian he fought on that runaway train. Dazai, with his usual air of nonchalance, simply nodded, but Chuuya could sense the underlying tension in his partner, recognition of his own.

It was a tension that reached its peak when the bidding for the special box commenced. With a flourish, Pierre called for the opening bid. 

Before Chuuya could even react, his shock was compounded as Dazai, seemingly unfazed, instantly shot his paddle into the air with an extravagant flourish, bidding high prices on the lot. His voice cut through the air like a blade; murmurs of surprise echoed through the audience, but his determination was unwavering and steely. 

Someone else in the room, a rival bidder whose identity remained concealed behind a porcelain mask, accepted the challenge and raised the stakes. The bid-and-counter-bid escalated, creating an electrifying tension in the room as the price skyrocketed, climbing to staggering heights. 

Chuuya, with his jaw clenched, watched in disbelief as the brunette and the mysterious rival locked eyes in a silent battle of wills, their determination palpable. The audience held its breath, waiting to see who would emerge victorious in this high-stakes duel. 

In the end, it was Dazai’s indomitable resolve that prevailed. With a final, sporadic bid, he outlasted his opponent, claiming the enigmatic box with the significant symbol. A wave of applause and admiration washed over the room, mingled with whispers of intrigue. Though the mafioso couldn't help but feel a mixture of exasperation and begrudging relief for Dazai's audacity. 

“Sold! For ¥1,000,000 to number 19 in the blue!”

As the small, palm-sized item was brought to them, he knew that whatever secrets it held would be worth everything. 

So, that’s how they find themselves here, nearly 10 minutes later, point A to Point Z. In a secluded room with only an empty table, a cup filled with liquid, and an unfortunate victim of Dazai’s brutality gagged and bound to a rickety chair. 

The man had surely come to with a thudding headache, eyes closed against the dull pain. He bit out a curse and moved his hand to inspect the damage– except that it didn't move. How could they, with the restraints? His arms, his legs, too, are immobilized.

The violent thrum of electricity streaking through the air is another reason they chose this room, for even the slightest noise would assault a battered head and bleary face, calling forth a grimace of agony. Blackness continued to engulf him, for a bag covered his entire head and a  tremor of panic vibrated in his core as he thrashed, causing the legs of the chair to screech against the concrete ground. 

He is blind, sightless, motionless, trapped. As good as dead in the eyes of a starving demon, a lamb awaiting slaughter. Poultry breathing its last lungful before the knife would steal it forever more. That slight tremor increased in intensity until he physically shook in time with it.

He tried to wrench his arms free, but the narrow straps dig into his flesh. He cries out in pain once more and keeps wrestling them with his forearms. They sawed in deeper and drew blood, but he was too far gone to notice it. It’s human instinct that forces him to fight this unseen enemy, to escape these bonds, to run free.

Dazai had resorted to a clever but cruel tactic to extract information. He had secretly administered laxatives to Jiro’s beverage earlier in the night, causing the man to become violently ill and unfit to continue as the original emcee of the auction. Thus, he was an easy target to take down in his weakened state and even easier to capture without anyone noticing his absence. 

At the door, Chuuya stands guard for any unwanted company and protects the box marked with the symbol. His suitcoat billowed around him as he watched the proceedings, his back upright and alert. 

He knew Dazai's methods could be unorthodox, but he trusted his partner's cunning, however warily. 

As he took the stage, his focus remained unwavering. 

The metallic scent of blood mixed with the stench of excretion, like fingers of decay forcing their way down Jiro’s throat and lodging in his heart. His strength was beginning to ebb; his poundings came at longer intervals; his feet beat the painstakingly slow rhythm of a burial march. He drew in ragged breath after another, inviting the foul fingers back down his throat again and again– a demented adult film of sickening proportions. 

“Don’t move.” 

Says Dazai, voice clear-cut and sinister. An authority one should not disobey.

The implications of this request wouldn’t have time to register in the victim’s mind before a hard, bandaged fist wrenches the rough bag from his head. He gasps out as bright illumination wormed its way through his eyes and into his brain, eating away at his nerves, biting them raw. Blistering scabs have ripped open inside his head as the parasitic rays of light feasted upon his flesh, flaying him bloody from the inside. 

Chuuya nearly winces at the sight, familiar with the art of torture. Though this is nothing compared to what’s been done to him.

“Who.. are you? Please don’t, p-please don’t—!” 

The poor guy is so deluded with fear that he doesn’t even know what he’s pleading for. His stomach growls again, loud and lurching. He tries to close his eyes, but some invisible force is keeping them open. Froth danced on his lips, and his whole form shivered in faint spasms. 

“Please don’t what?” Dazai demands, a hysterical purr falling from his mouth as he tilts Jiro’s chin toward his no doubt blurry face. “I can’t help you if you don’t speak clearly, it’s quite rude.”

The man swallows thickly, trembling and sweating. 

“Did.. you poison me?”

His partner bursts out laughing, as if he’s said something so hilariously absurd. 

It sends chills creeping down Chuuya’s nerves. 

“Poison? Don’t be silly, I wouldn’t dare tarnish my reputation as the Port Mafia’s most skilled torturer if I chose something so bland. No, I intend to end each session with results. And how do I get results? Well, I know you must be thinking—” Dazai steps away, only to return with a solid lead pipe that had been propped against the moldy wall, playfully brandishing it in the direction of his face as though it were a harmless baton. 

It twirls between dexterous fingers and he smiles. 

“—That I’m the type to beat my hostages senselessly, into a bloody pulp until they beg for mercy and give up any information they might’ve had the courage to withhold. Isn’t that right?”

Jiro pales, eyes flickering wildly around the room, eventually landing on Chuuya.

He meets that frightened, hopeful gaze with one of resignation, he cannot do anything for him. 

Nor does he wish to.

His thoughts always take a dark turn when he witnesses Dazai slip effortlessly into his Demon Prodigy persona. It’s a transformation that had always unnerved him, a reminder of the depth of his machiavellian cruelty, and the twisted power he holds over their world. As the boy’s smile grew more sinister, Chuuya couldn't help but feel a disgusting mix of dread and fascination. 

He’s an entirely different entity when his mindset latches onto something darker, destructive, and sadistic. A labyrinth of twisted thoughts and devious schemes, and it is in this persona that those thoughts are most starkly revealed.

His once expressive eyes, usually filled with a hint of mischief, take on an eerie vacancy, like windows to a soul lost in a bottomless abyss. 

The lines of his face, usually relaxed and casual, sharpen, becoming rigid and cold. His lips, that often curved into a sly smile, curl further into a chilling grin that sends shivers down the spines of those who observe it. 

It was a smile that promised malevolence, a cruel joke at the expense of others. In these moments, Dazai's voice too, which could be smooth and persuasive, turns into a weapon, laced with a deadly promise.

His words strike like daggers, his tone devoid of empathy or remorse, as he reveled in the torment of his catch. His actions become calculated and methodical, a master manipulator pulling the strings of those unfortunate enough to be caught between his paws, a feline predator batting around a helpless baby bird. He delves into the darkest recesses of the human psyche, extracting fear and anguish with an innate precision that is as terrifying as it is alluring. 

In this state, Dazai Osamu is a force to be reckoned with, a walking embodiment of the shadows that lurked within even the brightest of souls. His capacity for darkness is as boundless as his brilliance, a reminder that beneath the facade of charm and wit, there is a mind capable of descending to the point of no return when the situation demands it.

Chuuya knows that Dazai's genius is undeniable, that his ability to manipulate and control is second to none, but it’s during moments like these that he truly understood the extent of his darkness. The way he found home in chaos.. 

The redhead couldn't help but wonder how someone so gifted could be so utterly corrupt. It’s a twisted fascination, a sickening paradox that left him both repelled and drawn in. In this moment, Chuuya's thoughts were a tumultuous whirlpool of loathing and morbid curiosity. He couldn't tear his gaze away from Dazai, even as he felt his own sense of unease grow. 

He swipes the metal pipe down with a delayed motion to add an air of theatrics, narrowly avoiding the man’s nose as he yelps in response and jerks his face away.

“Just kidding~” 

Dazai tosses the lead away and it clatters to the floor, renting the air with a loud metallic clang.

“Or maybe you’re thinking that I don’t have such patience, that I don’t want to hurt my poor and innocent wrist by repeatedly beating stubborn flesh which takes soooo long to break.” He sighs, almost boredly, and before anyone could move, Dazai is drawing his gun from where it’s tucked away in the belt under his blouse. 

He aims the weapon at Jiro’s temple and cocks the hammer.

His elbow twitches. 

“BANG!”

Dazai shouts the single word at top volume, allowing himself a callous chuckle when the dark-haired victim flinches reflexively yet again, eyes going wide in disbelief.

“Just kidding again~”

Comes that same sing-song tone, turning on his heel to circle back around the table as the redhead rolls his eyes, unable to contain his stupidly exasperated smirk, Dazai answers his mirth with a grin and another flippant wave of his hand, as if the man now sitting in stunned silence is no longer of any consequence.

“Quit fuckin’ around, we don’t got all night. Look at him, he’s pathetic.”

“On contraire, my chibi companion!” The boy rolls his tongue with a scoff, turning to glare a warning into the seams of Jiro’s resolve. “He’s faking.”

It’s then that their captive appears to be somewhat in control of his hampered functions, gritting his teeth in anger and choking on a cough. “I don’t know anything, I swear. So let me go, you fools!” 

“Now, who said we assumed you knew anything? What if I just like torturing innocents for fun? I don’t, of course….” Dazai’s hair falls into his face, obscuring the top half of his expression. 

The redhead frowns. 

“But nevermind, you’re right, you’re here because you do know something. Otherwise, why would you attempt to replace this box here with a different item?” 

That particular detail piques Chuuya’s interest, fingers curling around their prize. 

“What are you talking about?” The man accuses weakly. 

“Open the box, Chuuya.” 

He obeys, albeit with reluctance, unclipping the latch and flipping open the lid to reveal a blue, cushy interior. Resting in the center, lies a tattered cord that connects to a key with a mysterious number etched onto the surface. 

Dazai continues, gesturing to the small object when the redhead dangles it between his fingers. 

“I saw you near the vault backstage. There’s a clipboard with pages detailing each lot and what time they are supposed to be put up for the auction, but you were tampering with one, erasing it and scribbling something new into the margins.” He takes four long strides, hands placed against the table as he stares him down, picking apart his very soul. 

“But you weren’t quick enough, Pierre caught you in the act and you got into an argument. I have full faith you were planning to kill him… had I not intervened. You needed to cool off, so I laced the wine and had a server bring it to you out of good will, a peace offering, mere bait.” 

Dazai's mind is like a well-oiled machine, processing the victim's words and reactions with razor-sharp precision. His questions and statements are strategic, probing, and he seemed to anticipate the answers before they even left the man's trembling lips.

The brunette tilts his head, simmering with implication, the groundwork already laid.

“So, this key was clearly something important. It wasn’t supposed to be present in tonight’s event, an accident that you will pay dearly for because of your boss, am I wrong? Yes… such idiocy is familiar to me, you used to belong to the remaining few of Takasekai too, didn’t you? After all, you’re not even French, your accent is terrible.”

The hostage, sweat beading on his forehead, could only stutter in response to Dazai's relentless barrage of inquiries and facts. It was as though he had already unraveled the web of secrets hidden within the man's mind, leaving Chuuya, once again, annoyingly agitated by his partner's insane deductive skills.

“I— I don’t know! I don’t know!” 

He thrashes and coughs sporadically, his pants soiled and the stench almost unbearable.

Hm. 

Dazai is not going to like that. 

And, as he predicted, the other boy exhales, nodding to himself slowly. 

“Alright Jiro, I’m growing a little impatient with you and I think I’ve been rather nice. So tell me, why have I not acted upon any brutal torture methods to extract information from you?”

He hesitates, jaw opening and closing like a fish out of water, looking blue in the face.

“Because—”

“It’s because a physical means of torture is not always the most effective. Fear and imagination are excellent motivators. In psychological terms; the moment you have this ability to look into your own future, you realize that at some point you’re going to die and there’s nothing you can do about it. I bet you’re envisioning all the gruesome ways you’ll be torn apart from the inside out, huh?” 

Dazai lifts his hand and gently nudges the cup of clear liquid that has been sitting on the table since they started, towards him. 

“A study found that the brain shields us from existential fear by categorizing death as an unfortunate event that only befalls other people. But that’s why humans are so flawed, because they believe they are untouchable. I’m here to disprove that.” Dazai stresses each syllable while Chuuya continues to inspect the key, trying and failing to block his partner out when he figures where this is going. 

“You are a dying man. The amount of laxative I’ve given you is almost enough to qualify as an overdose, thus, without the proper treatment, you’re as good as gone. So, here’s what’s going to happen.” 

Dazai claps his hands firmly.

“In this cup is a gamble, it’s not a full cure but a mix of potassium bitartrate and sodium bicarbonate act as a temporary antidote for the side effects until you can get the help you need. However, there’s a risk, because it might just be laced with more of the bad stuff that got you here in the first place, only further progressing your death.”

He watches as the man goes stricken with the prompt of a near impossible choice. 

“You know what that means. Either you stop feigning loyalty and tell me the significance of this key to earn a 50% chance at living, or die a coward.” 

Chuuya fights the urge to scoff. 

It’s all a big fat lie. 

There’s nothing in that cup but water, plain and simple.

And Jiro isn’t dying, the laxatives used were just a stronger, more long-lasting type. 

But that is the brilliance of the placebo effect, isn’t it?

“Alright, alright I’ll tell you! Just.. please! I don’t want to die.” 

It’s gross. 

The tears. The snot. The shrill whining. 

But Dazai’s patience had worn thin, and annoyance flickered in his gaze like a smoldering ember as he grabbed a fistful of the man's hair and wrenched his neck back before forcing his head down with a sudden, forceful motion. 

The corner of the table is level with Jiro’s wide eye, a horrid threat. 

“Dazai,” Chuuya warns sharply, skin prickling with unease. But he ignores him.

"Enough of that," Dazai says, his voice dripping with calm reservation, smothering a yawn. 

"You're trying my patience, and that's not a good place to be." The man, still gasping in pain and shock, stammered quickly. "Okay, okay! I can’t tell you much about the key, all I know is that Madeleine was very protective of her belongings, including the box. Something… something about the authorities wanting it for some reason or other— a memorial.”

Dazai's grip on Jiro’s hair tightens, and he leans in close, a dangerous whisper. 

"Yes, I’ve heard about that from her mother, but I want to know why. Eleven years have passed since she faked her own death, why would they concern themselves with things of little relevance outside of her capture for aiding traitorous figures?” 

“I don’t know, I swear I’m telling the truth!” Jiro rambles mindlessly, the veins in his throat bulging to painful degrees as he tries to strain his head out of the boy’s grip. “B-But I can give you the coordinates for the boss’ manufacturing lab, you might be able to discern whatever answers you need from her oldest employees. If anyone knows anything, it’s them!” 

With a satisfied hum, Dazai finally releases his grip on the man's hair, a wicked grin playing on his lips as he backs off. The tension in the room eased slightly.

"Very well," he murmurs, unconcerned and final. "You've made the right choice." 

Jiro, visibly shaken and desperate to end his ordeal, reaches trembling hands for the cup of clear liquid on the table after his binds are cut loose. His fingers fumbled with it, and for a moment, it looked as though he might spill the contents. 

His breath quickened, and his panic intensified. Chuuya watches with a mixture of pity and detachment as the man finally manages to bring the cup to his lips, taking frantic gulps. His pupils expanded in realization, and he shuddered as the juxtaposition of survival and fatality slammed into his subconscious. 

In the aftermath of the harrowing experience, Jiro’s panic only grew, his breathing erratic as he grappled with the sudden gaps in his awareness. He clutches the cup as if it were a lifeline, the fear in his eyes reflecting the unsettling uncertainty of his situation. 

He’s worrying himself sick.

Dazai observes the man's distress with a twisted peace, only deepening as he reveled in the control he had exerted over the situation. Jiro looks at him suddenly. Then, he looks at the cup. 

It was almost empty. 

“I drank it all.” He winces, ill and hurt and winded all at once. 

“No you didn’t.” 

He tries to sit up straighter, but he loses his balance. 

He makes himself stand. 

And stares at the cup again. 

“God, I drank it all.” 

He staggered, clearly nauseous. 

Cursing and clutching his stomach. 

Dazai traces the rim of the cup and lifts it to show him with a look of amusement. “No, no, look. See? There’s still some left. You didn’t drink it all. I drank some too so it’s safe, don’t you remember?” 

Even then, Jiro wouldn’t know the truth. He was falling now. Falling away from the world, falling and running. At last he’d found the escape he sought, but there was no control to it, and this time it felt instinctively lethal. 

“You’re… crazy!”

He stops, lost, confused and violently sick. Then, he bent over and dropped the cup, the rest of the water splashing across the concrete as he appeared to hit the ground in slow motion, taking forever to feel the earth rush up to smack him in the face. 

It did little to sober him from fear. 

He is nothing.

Perched on fours and hacking with his whole chest, clumps of discolored fluid mixed with blood dribbling down his chin and puking up on the ground below him. 

But the Demon doesn’t let him off the hook until he spills the information he promised.

Chuuya vaguely recalls another one of Dazai’s creepy psychology lessons, about how the brain’s incorrect perception of an idea could very well lead to a heart attack or something so unbelievable that it would trick the body into dying from shock.

Whether this was the case currently happening right now, in front of him, it was no longer their problem. And some part of him detests such a fact.

“We’re done here.” 

-·=»‡«=·-

As they left the warehouse, Chuuya rushed ahead and ripped off his mask, his anger palpable in every step he took. Dazai, now also maskless, was trying to catch up with him, and called out. 

"Chuuya, wait!" 

But he didn't slow down.

When the other finally manages to catch up to his partner, his expression is cool and composed despite the tension in the air. "You know I do what needs to be done for the greater outcome," his voice is steady and suspiciously soft. "Sometimes, I know it's not pretty, but it's necessary." 

Chuuya turns to face Dazai, his eyes blazing with affliction as he sighs. 

"Necessary or not, you don't have to enjoy it so much…”

Whether this comes from a place of trauma and horror from being on the receiving end of things, neither of them would know. It’s always impossible to spell out boundaries in their relationship, even more so when it comes to deciphering emotions that have the potential to destroy oneself. He’s practically built his life around the thought of landmines in the ground.

Chuuya reaches for the door handle. 

Before Dazai could respond, however, their discussion is interrupted by a glimpse of how the weather had shifted while they were inside. Dark clouds were gathered overhead, and a rumble of thunder echoes in the far distance. The air is heavy with the weight of rain and droplets continue to shower the city, for who knows how long now, the noise both comforting and incessant. 

Dazai and Chuuya look up at the storm, their conflict momentarily forgotten in the face of nature's power. The rain, a symbol of cleansing and renewal, seemed to cast a soothing spell over their heated emotions.

Chuuya sighs, his shoulders slumping as he runs a hand through his disheveled hair, removing the elastic band and flinging it somewhere. "Damn it. We can continue this later. Let's just hurry before we get soaked." 

The brunette nods wordlessly in agreement, a hint of a relief settling into his posture. 

“Shit, I wish I had an umbrella,” Chuuya peeks out of the threshold to measure the distance between them and the bike. He can use his ability to deflect the rain droplets but that’s so tedious.

“Here, just use my coat.” Dazai began, his tone dripping with faux sympathy, "I couldn't help but feel bad that you're about to turn into a drowned rat. So, how about I be a gentleman for once and offer you some compensation?" 

He shoots him a withering glare and the mafioso’s grin only widens as he dramatically procures the heavy covering, making a show of it by twirling it over his head like a matador's cape.

"Ta-da! Your knight in shining armor, ready to protect you from the elements," he announced theatrically. Chuuya couldn't help but roll his eyes, surprised he doesn’t get whiplash from how quickly they shift back into their usual routine banter.

A safety precaution. To protect themselves. Cloaked in the familiar. 

“Where the hell did you get that?”

Dazai shrugs, implying that he stole it off the clothing rack near the front entrance of the auction hall, while the redhead glares at him in suspicion. 

“I mean— Aren't you gonna get soaked? Not that I care.”

“Yeah, but one of us is bound to get drenched anyways.”

“Then let's Rock Paper Scissors for the coat,” Chuuya proposes somewhat uncharacteristically. 

“I offered it to you first. You have to take it. Legally.”

“Alright, then I'll tell you what sign I'm gonna play for Rock Paper Scissors.”

Dazai gives him a bewildered look, lips parted dumbly; “Doesn't that defeat the purpose? Or do you not know how this game works?” 

He grumbles spitefully in response, with a wrinkled brow. “I'm giving you a choice, asshole.” 

But his partner just snorts at the notion.

“There is no way you are giving me the illusion of free will.”

"All I'm saying is that you have an opportunity to take the coat for yourself.”

“But you would know that I took the coat.”

“You never know, I might lie about what I'm playing.” Chuuya shrugs, “Take a few pages from your book.”

“Then what's the point of playing your game when I can't trust you?”

“Well, I never told you that you had to trust me. You just have to make a choice based on if you believe that I truly, deeply, do not want the coat. Especially from you.” 

Dazai squints, “Then I'm gonna play scissors.”

“I'll play paper. And then you get to keep the coat for yourself.”

“Then I'll switch.” He counters, but Chuuya stubbornly refuses. “I'll switch too."

“I would beat you to it, you’re easy to read.”

"Tch, stop playing your mind games on me!” 

Dazai's signature smirk danced at the corners of his lips, and his dark irises sparkled with mirth, the very picture of someone thoroughly enjoying the moment. Chuuya's own expression is a mixture of irritation and begrudging amusement. He couldn't deny that the other’s antics had a way of getting under his skin, but there is something weirdly endearing about it. 

Chuuya finds himself unable to stay too mad at Dazai, not when his partner's infectious laughter and lighthearted demeanor after such a gruesome scenario are so hard to resist. 

That makes him pissy.

“If you take the coat, I'll pay for the next meal,” Dazai says suddenly, taking him by surprise.

“Fine,” he agrees, “But If you take the coat, then I'll pay for the next meal.”

“Pfft. So whoever loses, wins? Chuuya is so persistent.”

“Yeah. And I never lose, obviously.”

“Aren’t you trying to lose in this game?” 

“But if I lose, I win. So therefore, I never lose.”

“Then do you trust me?” Dazai asks, and it’s a careful, fragile thing. As if holding some sort of deeper meaning. “What if I break your trust? Do you think I'll take advantage of you, or you'll take advantage of me?”

Chuuya glances away, wetting his lips in thought.

“We do it all the time anyway, and besides… trusting you is my choice. Proving me wrong, is yours. So, what’s wrong with taking advantage of each other?”

The boy hesitates, shrugging. “I don't know, morals? Values?” Which is ironic coming from him.

“As of tonight, there are no morals, they're all just made up shit. All I know is that I never back down from a challenge, I don’t want the coat. So you take it.”

“We still have to play the game,” Dazai huffs.

“Fine. On the count of three.”

They extended their hands, ready and waiting. "One, Two, Three, shoot!" the partners chimed in unison, their hands forming shapes in rapid succession. They simultaneously revealed their choices, and Dazai's hand formed paper while Chuuya's took the shape of scissors. 

His scissors cut through his paper, and the redhead grins victoriously. "Hah! Looks like I won, now you have to take the coat.”

Dazai chuckles, feigning disappointment. "Oh, how sad. But it looks like the rain is clearing, I still appreciate you letting me have it though.” He trills playfully, draping the coat over his shoulders until it comfortably ensconced him, slender fingers buried in the fabric.

Chuuya blinks in disbelief and then turns his gaze upward. Much to his dismay, he realizes that the raindrops had indeed become less frequent, and the dark clouds were beginning to break apart. "Wait, are you serious!? Did you know it was gonna clear up?" He stammers, a flustered and irritated expression flashing across his face. 

“Yeah. Thanks for paying for my dinner tonight!”

“I can't believe you'd take advantage of me. Don't you feel bad?”

“Hey! I take advantage of you all the time. And plus, you’re the one who said there are no morals and that they're made up.”

“They exist now, because I said so.”

Dazai’s features twist in distaste and he flicks his damp hair with the sense of a diva, “Don’t care, too late.”

“You should feel disgusted with yourself,” He sneers, stomping his foot.

“Oh no..... free dinner... I'm completely and utterly distraught…”

“I always buy it for you either way— Ugh! You know what? I’m not driving you back home. Have fun walking.” Chuuya flips him off and starts forward, hands in his pockets.

Dazai deadpans, beginning to follow him, probably already thinking of their next moves for the mission but for now, allows them this one moment. 

“Wow, chivalry is dead.”

“You got to keep the coat.”

“And for that, my dear partner, I'll be forever grateful and in your debt. Just not debt from the bill.”

"You're insufferable," he mumbles, but Dazai surely sees his grin, unfazed by Chuuya's exasperation.

"Only for you," he replies, almost without thinking, as they sought refuge from the after-rain, their playful banter providing a moment of lightness beyond the storm that Chuuya is definitely not stuck thinking about.

-·=»‡«=·-

The night is potent, shady, challenging in a way that burns so soft it canceled out Chuuya’s stark ambition to senselessly choreograph physics, to run away, to cling, and to stay all at the same time. He decides he would remain here for however long the night wanted to last, however long the moon made home in the sky, and the sun was decamped on the other side of the planet, and however long the body beside him chooses to linger. 

Nevertheless, there’s always the first bird that has to take flight before the other; they rarely ever go together. 

Yet, all the second bird can do is choose to stay secure on their wire, or to follow momentarily and blindly after their companion, who might have been around for a few weeks or a hundred years in lifetimes past. 

There’s nothing to gain from the coming conversation. 

Dazai will pretend he doesn’t remember anything in the morning. He’ll put up a wall. And so will Chuuya. 

But for now, alcohol is loosening his tongue and sweetening his words. 

Together, the boys sit criss-crossed on the roof of a car, motorcycle parked on the top floor of the parking garage and a plastic bag of goodies passed between them. They changed in the bathroom of an old store, tired of the fanciful garments and opting instead for slippers, baggy hoodies and sweatpants to melt into during the witching hour.

They settle into a pleasant silence, the only sound being the distant traffic below and the occasional whisper of the night breeze across the neon cityscape. Coursing through soft hair and loosened clothing, smog blossoming upon the cloud like gentle blooms. 

For a moment, they are just two individuals, lost in their own heads, their connection deeper than words could express. Face aglow with the rays of light, Dazai’s lips bear the semblance of a smile, just enough to show that he is enjoying his thoughts, whatever they may be. 

Though, he still breathes with the pride of someone unwilling to yield to sobriety. The little tells in his behavior give away his intoxication. Not much, but enough to smudge the precision of his gestures and slow him down; it's a subtle undertone in Dazai's posture and in the way he wobbles just a little as he repositions himself. 

He pitches his voice to its most dramatic (if slightly quieter than normal) whine. 

“Ne, Chuuya? It’s so boring here.” 

Chuuya leans back on his palms, temporarily gazing at the harrowing nighttime stretched out beyond their fingertips, eloping the fragmented city in a tranquil ever-calmness. His partner’s shoulder continually touches his, bumping together like asteroids in the same sphere, a sensation that would normally cause Chuuya to fuss over and perhaps inflict pain upon the bandaged body next to him. 

But, right now, he could only feign annoyance, and revel in the hospitality of the quiet milky way where two figures share the light of the moon. 

A somber mood spoils the air as he responds with a heavy question, his gaze fixed on the bustling horizon. “I don’t think so,” he begins softly, in a contemplative tone. “Don’t you ever envy them, down there?”

Dazai's expression, usually a mask of indifference, shifts to one of quiet reflection as he follows his gaze to the world below. The lights twinkled, and the distant sounds of childish laughter and fleeting conversation drifted up to their perch on the summit. 

He takes a moment to consider Chuuya's question, his mind as complex and enigmatic as usual. "Sometimes," he eventually admits, his voice carrying a hint of hesitation. "But I couldn't imagine a life of normalcy." 

Chuuya nods in understanding, sounding rather melancholy. "I get that, but there are times I can't help but wonder what it would be like to have a simpler existence. You just tortured a man, damn it, and that’s… been the most tame thing I’ve seen a seventeen year old do. Pretty fuckin’ sad, don’t you think?" 

They sit in silence once more, the weight of their sentences hanging in the air like an unspoken truth. In the midst of it all, they grappled with their own desires and regrets, their partnership a fragile balance between the chaos they were drawn to and the simple happiness they might’ve yearned for if they were different people.

“I don’t really care all that much anymore. For some reason, I find myself caring very little when you’re around.” Dazai murmurs, taking another sip of his drink and tossing his dirty napkin into the bag with a slight hiccup, all while the redhead can only huff weakly from his chest. 

“Well, you should. You know what happens when you let your guard down.”

“It wouldn’t matter.”    

“It would.”

“Careful, you’re starting to sound a little more bearable.”

Chuuya, caught off guard by this unusual display, frowns. Dazai, who is usually the master of wit and charm, appeared uncharacteristically earnest. And his smile, though tinged with sadness, remained genuine for a scary second. 

“Liar.”

“I’m honest.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Aren’t those two the same thing?”

“They aren’t. The ‘samu I know is never honest.”

Dazai's reaction, slowed by the effects of alcohol and the weight of the moment, was marked by a momentary pause. He blinks at Chuuya, his molten eyes momentarily clouded with an unreadable emotion. It was as though he had momentarily forgotten how to respond to his own name, as if hearing it from another’s lips had thrown him off balance.

Chuuya regards him with a perplexed expression in return. He was used to their banter and witty exchanges, but this version of Dazai is unfamiliar and left him feeling uncertain. It was as if the alcohol had stripped away the layers of pretense, revealing a starker, more complex side of his partner. 

Or perhaps the opposite. 

Their inability to properly express themselves, their shared struggle to navigate the emotions they rarely acknowledged, came forth in an unbidden spiral. 

They had grown up in a world of backstabbers and deception, vulnerability is a foreign territory neither of them is accustomed to. 

But they’re learning. They’re trying. 

Chuuya takes a sip of his own drink, attempting to find the right words again. "You know, you don't have to be so... cryptic all the time." 

Dazai's gaze shifts with something unknown, and he reaches out to gently pat Chuuya's thigh, a gesture that speaks volumes in its own way. "I’m aware of that. It’s just easier to be cryptic than to confront the things we'd rather not say."

In this moment, their shared understanding transcended words, their complex relationship existing in the unspoken decibels that defined them. 

He knows, by now, that Dazai usually talks about him as if he’s a walking headache, even though he doesn’t necessarily mean it, maybe. The utter lack of inflection causes icy shivers to trickle down Chuuya’s spine. Dazai sounds at peace with this information, and there’s something ancestral and unhinged that kicks in his body when the boy says cruel things like that. 

Though it’s fair, because he’s right. They wouldn’t make things harder for themselves if they can avoid it, he talks about Dazai as if he’s a nuisance better off dead and doesn’t mean it, either. 

At least not always.

Dazai’s words managed to penetrate his memory, like a wrecking ball against brick, shattering his lamentable reminiscence. Sapphire stares solemnly up at his partner, two oceans of other worlds laying against the cold warmth of candid amber, holding him to the ground as if gravity laid in Dazai’s gaze, reversing his own impossibly. 

Stubbornness laid heavy on his tongue, choking back any words of vulnerability that might chip away at his self-worth, one of the only ideals he had left of his own. 

This is why he’s never been a huge fan of introspection, why it’s a habit to jump headfirst before considering what he’s doing. A torrent of thoughts raged within him, like a tempest that threatened to overwhelm his lax demeanor. 

Tonight’s unusual atmosphere only served to amplify his internal woes.

Chuuya's jaw clenched as he stared aimlessly, his mind a whirlwind of anger and frustration. He’s always prided himself on maintaining control, both over his abilities and his explosive emotions, but now, he feels the burden of his own anger threatening to consume him. 

“Aw, don’t tell me someone’s getting shy on me,” Dazai bumps his shoulder. “Chuuya?”

His words come quick, and without much thought. 

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a fucking child.” Their eyes continued to clash, like pelting rain on bruised soil. Almost two seconds after the words left his lips, however, Chuuya is releasing the stale breath from his chest. “Sorry.” He says, voice much quieter. “I’m fine.”

Of course, he’s fine. 

He has to be fine. If he wanted to stay in control, being fine is the only option. There is no choice, not when they are on edge, fighting for the very breath in a world that doesn’t give a shit about them, and with the wrath of a god flourishing in his veins at such obscurity. What would conspire when his guard was let down? Who would suffer, who would die, who would lie? 

“It’s just— Do you think it’s possible to be born angry?”

“Hm?” 

“I don't know what it is. Sometimes I feel like my anger is something inherent. Something that’s been flowing in my veins, since forever. It's just stuck there, like a fucking pest. Always lingering. Looming over my head and just waiting for me to lose it. He’s mocking me.”

Chuuya looks down at his ungloved, naked hands. His palms, once smooth and unblemished, bore the harsh imprints of his past. Thin, white lines intersected with raised ridges, forming a map of his experiences etched onto his flesh. Some scars are faded, barely visible reminders of long-forgotten struggles, while others are fresh and vivid, a stark testament to the dangers he faced in his line of work. 

His fingers, nimble and dexterous, maintain marks of countless clashes, memories of violence and disorder that has become a constant companion in his life. The skin around his knuckles too, is rough and calloused and as he flexes them, the scars seem to come to life. These hands, once symbols of potential and innocence, had been transformed into tools of power and destruction. 

He closes them tightly.

“And I'm sure you're thinking that it doesn't take much, right? I’m already a short-tempered person and I snap easily, but that's not real anger. If it was real anger, I’d raise a building to the ground every time you and I argue.” 

“Well…" 

“I’m in control, alright? I’m always in control. This thing, this destructive being inside me, the one who craves irreparable violence, you— you have no idea what I’d look like without my control. I don't have much else, and I still hate it.” He sighs. “Does your anger ever feel this way?” 

Dazai is quiet for so long, he can’t stand it, the static all too loud and unrelenting in his head. 

“I don't think anyone’s anger feels the way yours does, Chuuya…”

That. Right there.

Puts him at ease, and he doesn’t even know why. A whisper of clarity fell over him. He acknowledges it with a vague hand signal, one Dazai can understand. 

Which is good because the next noise that graces Chuuya’s ears is like an old song, nearly triggering some sort of instinct to make his heart pound, for his lungs to fill with dense air. He looks at what the boy has suddenly pulled from their stash, and his eyebrows raise instantly, as if colliding again with an ancient friend. 

“Heh,” his question is rhetorical, “When did you sneak these in here?” With nimble fingers, the redhead reaches inside the paper carton to seize a chemical stick, the feeling all too familiar between his middle and index fingers. 

He takes the scrapped lighter from Dazai’s open palm, temporarily running his thumb over the base before placing the cigarette between his chapped lips, flicking the fork once, then twice, and then a few more times until a stubborn flame weakly arose from the hood. He cups his hand around the butt of the cig, preserving the flame there until the paper holding the nicotine crackled and caught fire. 

Mist curls through the air and wafts heavenward, an artistry of white rings and grey skirts. His nostrils flare lightly at the acrid stench, woody and aromantic as it filters through the space between two bodies in order to mingle with their breath like sentient fog.

Truly, the smoke that climbs down Chuuya’s throat is silky and rough at the same time, burning only for a moment, simmering in the bottoms of his lungs before it’s dispelled into the night air from the cavern of his mouth. 

This could be something he missed, couldn’t it? Stealing packs from the gas station, slinking in alleyways sharing thin chemical cylinders between different lips in a forgotten memory. 

Chuuya shifts toward him slightly, cigarette now burning a bright orange hue, it’s nearly pitch black, but Dazai’s face is almost clear when he is all but four inches from it, the cigarette between his pale fingers offered forward as a subconscious afterthought.

“I’ll tell you what, partner, this ain’t so bad.”

“Mm, I predicted as such,” Dazai coos, brushing hands with Chuuya as he accepts the offered cigarette and hovers it before the gap of his lips, looking a bit lost. He slots his mouth over the cancer stick to smother a grin and takes one long drag, hollowing his cheeks to inhale every vapory tendril within his lungs. 

Chuuya watches it dance in the nighttime air, escaping towards the moon, flickering delightfully with the essence of a harsh, synthesized substance, toxic in both chronic and acute use. Yet, the inorganic cigarette eroding in a double suicide of ash and paper smells exactly like where he wants to be. 

Living in the disarray is far better than resting in the unmoving tidiness of tyrannical injustice.

The buzz of it relaxes the tension of his partner’s muscles, replacing sharp edges with soft cotton. He cherishes silence, more than he thought he would, and when it gets passed back to him, Chuuya takes the burning stick without looking.

His chest heaved inward. He let the black fumes simmer in his chest for a long fifteen seconds, before tilting his head towards the sky and letting it escape, just as Dazai’s head hits his shoulder. 

Unwilling to spark another battle, he takes it for what it is– an act of wordless camaraderie. It still feels strange, still feels new, this odd co-dependency that exists between the two of them, the quiet need to be close to another person whom they can trust, to soak in the blind companionship without need for words to sully the space and muddy a bridge already aged beyond mortal comprehension. 

“Tch, clever bastard.” 

He holds the cigarette out for Dazai once more, a few long inches from the boy’s face.

He’s silent for the seconds that follow, as the soothing weight of Dazai’s head practically morphs into his shoulder, equivalent to the progression of their two storm-tossed souls over this strenuous period.

Slowly, he tips his head back as Chuuya’s shoulder blade digs into his cheek, guiding his wrist forward so that the cigarette graces the cavern of his mouth without the need to do it himself. Surely tasting both earthy notes and the ashen skin of his bare fingers pressed against the brunette’s lips, smoke stalling, only to spiral up and out through his nose in a vigorous exhale like the repressed ire of a bull. 

“Yeah, yeah.” He chuckles, sighing as he stares at the vast scenery above them. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

Dazai’s words land on his flesh, spoken in hot breaths of smoke against his fingers, and they fester there as an admirably unnerving revelation at their continued insignificance, even on a planet where they are the last sane-minds salvaged amongst the rest, futile and extraordinary at the same time.

I’d sit here on the edge for every midnight in any world if the promise of your presence lingered near, came his drunken thoughts. 

But, how was he supposed to ever even think to utter those words, when at any moment, the rug can be pulled out from underneath his feet in spite of his ability, and condemn him to another decade chained to a dungeon of iniquity? 

Chuuya feels lured and secured by the night he faces eye-to-eye on the fringe of the parking garage building, like tides working in opposite directions against each other, pushing, pulling, immersing, and eventually… drowning. 

The winds respond by compelling against his face. 

“Ugh, this view is too good. The drop is so long and tempting that it’s even got you entranced, it’s not nice to flaunt your fortune y’know. Chuuya is lucky because he can increase his density for an optimal suicide once he makes impact with the ground.” Dazai’s eyes are alight with some twisted sense of humorous joy as he sits up, appealed by the idea in theory.

“You’re such a freak,” he mumbles, turning his chin to grimace in abhorrence. “Besides, I’d kill you before you even got the chance to set one of your toothpick legs on the edge of any cliff. I’d at least let you perish with an ounce of rationality.” 

Chuuya prepares to shove him away, when he sees it. A streak of orange-white, bursting with luminous flames, brilliant in its bountiful trek across the obsidian sky, like a star had suddenly decided to take a leap down to Earth. 

His entire body rigidifies, held in place by merely the heavenly smear of traveling light, like a fire burning through paper, slicing the world in half. He struggles to speak, nearly breathless, and only a shallow breath escapes his lips when he tries. 

“How considerate, truly. But being pummeled to death doesn’t interest me in the slightest, there’s nothing rational about you.” Dazai’s willful deadpan, albeit waggish, flickers with something more remnant of allure after a passing moment and if he focuses hard enough,  would feel his partner’s awestruck, hooked on the way Chuuya’s posture varies in minute degrees. 

Unconsciously, does his arms wrap around himself, like he might fly to pieces to be scattered upon that same capricious wind, cast off into the abyss that lies below. Hinged on that very sight, slowly, he cants his head, unsure of himself to ask Chuuya;

“Did you wish?”

Chuuya has never put faith into artificial beliefs. But he couldn’t help but wonder if omens are real, if fate shows in streaks of illusion that are so actual you almost want to believe they are counterfeit. 

How could something so beautiful ever measure up to showing itself to this world? To something so dangerous, so flammable, so inhuman and unnatural? 

As quickly as the star entered the atmosphere, gracing its artistry upon their eyes, it retired to the line beyond the horizon, continuing its journey to the other side with such ease that the mafioso felt jealousy thrumming in his joints, an urge to impossibly follow something that seemed so immortal. 

He is reminded where he is once his partner speaks, luring him back down to the ground, away from the tempting escape into the sky. It’s in instinct when he speaks, as if holding a flimsy shield up to a charging, roaring army. 

Why would he admit something so fickle? Even if he did make a wish, which, surely, he must have subconsciously, wouldn’t it be so obvious to Dazai? Anybody here that had an ounce of rationality would wish this whole world away, toss it into the fire, burn it to its core and start anew, start fresh. But, would Chuuya do that? Would he have wished for that? Did he wish for that? 

“No.” He speaks with a certainty that almost seemed compulsory, a protection of compassion. His eyes move to his partner at last, softened by the absence of the star and the dull whiteness left by the moon. “Did you?”

He already knows the answer.

“No.” 

Dazai whispers the word like it’s some clandestine rite of passage. Still, he sighs, shaking his head with all that of a disappointed parent. “You really are as slow as a slug, aren’t you Chuuya?” 

The boy sniffs, crossing bandaged arms as he fixes his partner with a quizzical look, ill-intent brightly glistening behind that gaze. “You were supposed to jump and point and squeal like an excited 6 year old and tell me what you wished for, before I would politely correct you on the fact that it doesn’t come true if you say it out loud.” 

If Dazai were an inch closer, Chuuya could have reached him easily with his fist if he put his drink down, and it would have hurt, and he would have liked that, and Dazai would have laughed joyously into the night anyways because why would any partially sober, staid moment between them ever be followed by anything other than jest and amusement through gritted teeth? 

Fuck it.

Chuuya punches him anyway, his partner’s sharp shoulder bone against his knuckles— though it feels like nothing but a near-human graze. “Idiot…” he scoffs, pupils like magnets towards the sky that looked more empty without the falling star. “Can’t take a single fucking moment seriously, can you?” 

Though, it fell on deaf ears, surely including Dazai’s, for Chuuya’s words ring with half truth half bluff. He extends the cigarette vertically at an arm's length, lining the flaming orange hue with the white moon, making it look like a new, massive asteroid descending upon the ravaged land. 

He grins, big and stupidly. 

“Let’s play another game while we’re feeling nice.”

“Okay,” he yawns.

“What’s one thing you like about me?”

“I like that sometimes.... you shut up.”

“Hey, we have to do this.”

“What, be nice to each other?”

“No!” Chuuya bristles. “This is a one time thing. A sort of experiment just to make sure we don't blow the rest of the mission.”

“Or we could lie like spies do and skip this whole 'ten things I like about you' thing.” 

“Oh come on! There's got to be something.”

Dazai grumbles. 

“Fine. Fine. I like that... you have eyes.”

“I have eyes?” 

“Yes, you do,” he smiles as Chuuya narrows them.

“That's not a compliment.”

“To someone with no eyes, it is.”

“Take this seriously.”

“No.”

“Come on. Am I so awful?”

Dazai seems to consider it for a while, grating on his nerves. He wets his lips then, establishing a certain composure about himself. “Fine. I— when you aren't being annoying, you sometimes have the occasional tendency to stay marginally on task and I admire your efficiency.”

“...Thanks?”

Not what he was expecting but Chuuya will take it.

“Now you go.”

“What?”

“You go. What's one thing you like about me?”

“....You have ears,” is what he ends up blurting.

Dazai's response, however, is odd. Instead of his usual witty retort, he bursts into laughter for the nth time. Chuuya tongues his inner cheek, his awkwardness deepening as he wonders if he had said something wrong. 

"Oh boy, your sense of humor is getting better. My ears? That's what you like about me?" 

Chuuya scowls, his face growing red with heat.

"Well, I... I thought it was a compliment." 

Dazai's laughter subsides, and he smiles at Chuuya, skin crinkling at the corners of his features. 

"But my comment about your eyes, wasn’t?”

“It would be if you added an adjective or something.”

“What, like ‘pretty’?” 

“You sayin’ I got pretty eyes?” Chuuya smirks, his previous embarrassment now transformed into a playful tease.

But Dazai, always quick with a comeback to protect himself like armor, shrugs nonchalantly. 

"Well, even I have my moments of appreciation. Shame they’re all lies to make people feel better about themselves.”

“You asshole.”

“Bite me,” he sticks his tongue out.

Oh, to be seventeen and free. 

Even for a short while.