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A boy lies in a pool of blood.
The blood is not his own, yet it stains his pale skin all the same. It spills upon a marble pedestal, spilling through its cracks and claiming the earth underneath. It tarnishes the small, yellow flowers which surround the altar, stubbornly blooming despite the weight upon them. The smell of ichor wafts through the midnight air, sparing no individual the mercy that is ignorance of its presence. Figures with bloodstained hands and torches surround the gory scene, the shadows of the night weighing on their shoulders not unlike their shabby cloaks.
“O’ grantors of dark disgrace,” a deep voice booms, “we humbly wake you to offer this sacrifice of wrath and calamity.”
Cold wind blows. Torches flicker, but stay stubbornly lit.
“O’ eyes that open doubtfully,” another voice follows, shakier, pitchier, “to feed your heart, we return to you this demon.”
The boy upon the altar cries, a piercing shriek that cuts through the howling wind.
“O’ expectations,” a final one croaks, slow and careful, just loud enough to be heard over the youth’s weeping, “we ask you to take it, to leave our souls safe, outside of its cursed grasp.”
The wind stops howling, abrupt and disorienting. The boy’s crying cuts out, an eerie silence replacing the noise. A suffocating stillness dawns. Heavy breathing starts to fill it as it stretches, fear and anticipation thickening the atmosphere.
It’s a count of five before darkness descends, all flames flickering to nothing precipitously.
Under the moonlight, the figures’ movements stutter—then they scatter, swift and desperate on their feet.
Under the moonlight, the sound of footsteps eventually fades into one with the whistling of the wind.
Under the moonlight, the night stays peaceful. The boy does not wail again.
Dazai Osamu grows up in solitude.
It isn’t as bad as it sounds, truthfully. Growing up on sacred land is far from an unlucky hand to be dealt in life, nor is making a deity’s temple your home. Dazai does not take his luck for granted as he ages. He maintains the temple, cleans and repairs it. He prays to the deity that inhabits it. He accustoms himself to the world that, to him, is confined to holy ground. He does not leave—he does not wish to.
His god is merciful. Dazai cannot factually prove the divinity’s existence, but nor can he find it in his heart to doubt it. He cannot, for in return for his deeds, his prayers, his worship, he is kept undeniably safe, satiated, satisfied.
Dazai spends years growing from a fragile adolescence into a healthy young man. During these years, not once is his life threatened—in spite of all the factors which, at first glance, may seem undoubtedly deadly.
Despite being a youth left upon a bloody altar in the freezing air of winter, only a thin sheet upon his body to cover him, he does not suffer. His body rejects the imminent death by the hands of bitter weather, does not allow illness to infect his veins. Despite being a boy of barely eight years, who has never hunted for food in his short life, he never starves. Animals are simply drawn to him—plentiful with their spoils, calm under his care, brave under his blade when their end arrives. Plants flourish under his touch, growing the only finest fruit to grace his fingertips. Despite occasionally injuring himself with his own clumsiness, sometimes with his curiosity, he never bleeds—not truly. Despite the lack of other human presence, clothes that fit him—or materials for such—appear when he wakes from slumbers. Despite having never learned how to light a fire properly, each inept strike of sticks caused by his hands summon a flame to keep him warm. Despite having no bed, every bit of ground he rests on feels soft enough to sleep upon.
Despite being abandoned by his own kind, his kin, his original home—he does not weep.
It takes him months to familiarise himself with the temple, when he first awakens. He spends hours exploring it, admiring each polished surface. He traces his fingers along the tall pillars of white marble, slides along its floors that never seem to dull. He spends the following years memorising every crack and crevice. He leaves no stone of his now-home unturned, nothing undiscovered by him, nothing unknown.
Thoughts of leaving, journeying beyond the blessed land, only linger for the first year. He is naturally a curious child—one with a spirit that is both bold and inquisitive. He does not lose his thirst for knowledge as he matures, but he does not yearn to quench it beyond his home’s boundary, anymore. He is smart, whether that is for better or for worse, and he knows he does not rightfully belong to the temple: he knows he’s been forsaken—sacrificed, by those who gave him life in the first place. He knows that he is not welcome amongst his kind, so he does not dare to return to it.
He gets used to a life of routine, only his thoughts, animals, plants, and patron god to keep him company.
It’s not until he’s fifteen, a young man at best and still a juvenile at worst, that this simple life of his is breached.
Dazai’s life of solitude has him unused to humans. He’s heard groups of them pass by the land before, heard their footsteps and chatter. But they’ve never breached the boundary and he’s never dared to look, never let himself get too curious lest he regret it. Logically, he knows they must look just like him—both from his own reflection and what his very limited memory tells him—but he’s unsure if they are truly one and the same. If he has been discarded, rejected…is he still human, the same way he used to be?
Nevertheless, his unfamiliarity with his own supposed kind is why he instinctively startles at the sight of another human being. A human, one fully grown unlike him, is within the boundary. It hasn’t noticed Dazai yet—in fact, it looks thoroughly confused. There is a sword clutched in its hand, the weapon much bigger than anything Dazai has ever brandished. It dons a knee-length cloak, one almost as black as the night sky, though it lacks the sky’s stars, the shining dots of hope Dazai’s come to find so beautiful. A hood covers the majority of its head, but its face when it turns to face Dazai is clear as day, as are the eyes that widen upon landing on him.
Dazai does the only thing that comes to mind in that moment. He books it in the opposite direction.
He runs as fast as his long legs can manage, disappearing behind the temple. He doesn’t dare to hide inside of it—he doesn’t want anyone other than him to witness the beauty of its interior or defile its shiny marble. He presses his back to the cold surface of the rear wall, instead, legs shaking. His heart pounds in his ears, loud and unyielding. Frustrated tears start to build in his eyes as he attempts to will the organ in his chest to quiet down, to let him listen for danger.
It doesn’t. Dazai clamps a hand over his mouth, hoping—praying—that the unfamiliar human is smart enough to leave. Really, it’s a futile hope. He knows that humans are selfish creatures, and that the one hunting right now is no exception. Dazai has seen animals be prey before. Small, meek critters that run for their lives, scurry away or attempt to defend themselves before falling victim to the predators who will stop at nothing to satiate their hunger.
Dazai has seen prey. He’s never been the prey.
He wonders, absently, if this is how rabbits feel when they see a fox across the clearing. If their heart also beats a million miles an hour, if they also start crying and have to keep quiet. If they also hope, however fruitlessly, that their fate will change.
Dazai’s unsteady breath catches in his throat at the unmistakable ruffling of cloth. The sound of footsteps follows and his body freezes, spine straightening as he attempts to melt into the smooth wall behind him. He should run. Turn and sprint again. Try to survive, use his speed and youth to his advantage.
But he can’t bring his limbs to move. He knows it’s not worth it. There’s nowhere to go, not truly. The only building on the sacred land is the temple and the forest that surrounds it is no longer holy ground—even if he loses his pursuer in there, he will never be safe underneath the leafy canopies.
I don’t want to die, yet, he thinks, a desperate thought, a plead to only himself. There’s so much to find out, still.
Then again, he was supposed to die seven years ago. He was supposed to perish away as a sacrifice on a stone cold altar. He was never supposed to live and flourish. He only did because of his god. His god, that has been keeping him safe and healthy on this land, ever since. His god, that has never let anyone else stumble across the temple since Dazai’s arrival. His god, that has supplied him with resources that he never deserved.
Maybe, just maybe, this is simply his god reaching the end of their mercy. Maybe, it’s his god realising he’s a no-good charity case. Maybe, it’s his god finally accepting the sacrifice that rightfully belongs to them—that has been rightfully theirs, since seven years ago.
Strangely, these thoughts calm Dazai down significantly.
He still doesn’t want to die. It’ll probably be painful to be stabbed with a sword so sharp. Dazai hates pain, even if his injuries never truly last. He hates when his palms sometimes get cut on sticks, or on flint. He hates when his knees hit the temple’s floor a little too hard. He hates when fire burns his fingers. He hates when nettles sting him. He hates being in pain.
But if his pain—his death—satisfies the god he’s been worshipping, then he doesn’t hate the idea as much. He doesn’t hate thanking his god. He doesn’t hate bringing his god joy. He doesn’t hate the thought of being used as a gift. He doesn’t hate the concept of truly, rightly, finally being a sacrifice.
By the time Dazai is faced with his hunter once again, his heart is no longer racing. His ears are clear of his thundering pulse, and his breathing slows, softens.
The shadow cast by the temple falls over the pair of humans. Still, Dazai can make out the sneer that adorns the hunter’s face.
“You,” the human—man—hisses, pointing the sword at Dazai. Dazai instinctively attempts to take a step away, not willing to be held at sword-point against a wall, but stumbles. He falls backwards, landing gracelessly on the grass below him. The man’s sword follows him down, and the sharp tip of the blade ends up at Dazai’s throat, tilting his chin up. Dazai meets the man’s gaze, watches as fury clouds it.
“You are the reason for our village’s misfortune,” the raspy voice of the man accuses. His knuckles are white with how strongly he grips the sword. “You—demon. You were supposed to die. Your blood was supposed to grace us. Your death was supposed to keep up safe.”
The man’s hand shakes with barely bridled rage. Dazai feels a sharp sting at his neck, feels some blood pour down to his collar. He refrains from swallowing lest he prematurely slit his own throat.
“I see, now,” the man continues bitterly, “leaving you there was a lapse in judgement. The sacrifice was incomplete. We should’ve spilled all of your blood ourselves, let it stain our hands. You cost us years of misery!” His voice booms in the otherwise quiet clearing. He pauses, collecting himself, stilling his unsteady blade. “But no matter. I will not make the same mistake again. You die today, demon.”
Dazai holds his gaze, keeping his own blank. He doesn’t grace the man with any words. He doesn’t plead, or beg, or grovel. He simply stares.
The man is undeterred by his silence. If anything, the disgust in his eyes only grows stronger. “O’ grantors of dark disgrace,” he says, enunciating every word, letting his voice ring out. “I humbly wake you to offer this sacrifice of wrath and calamity.”
Dazai closes his eyes, letting the familiar words wash over him. So, that’s it, then. Finally, the true sacrifice.
The wind in the clearing suddenly picks up, sending goosebumps down Dazai’s spine. It howls in his ears, brushes his face almost like a caress.
“O’ eyes that open doubtfully,” the gravelly voice above him continues over the sound of the wind. “To feed your heart, I return to you this demon.”
The pressure at Dazai’s neck increases, sending waves of pain through his body. He inhales sharply, but keeps himself stubbornly still. He keeps his eyes closed tight. He doesn’t cry.
“O’ expectations,” the human recites, “I ask you to take it, to leave our souls safe, outside of its cursed grasp.”
The wind that had steadily been increasing in strength comes to an abrupt stop. Silence fills the clearing, replacing the chirping birds and rustling leaves.
Dazai braces for the pain, for the impact against his neck. He prepares for the worst experience of his life, and for whatever may come after.
It never comes.
Dazai continues breathing shallowly. His heart continues to beat in his chest. He continues to think. He continues to live.
How oddly disappointing.
The utter silence starts to unnerve him after a few moments. He doesn’t think a simple slitting of the throat should be such a monumental task, no matter how incompetent a human may be. He sits in anticipatory stillness for several suffocating seconds before he notices that the pressure at his neck has disappeared—he can still feel blood sliding down his neck and the dull pain from the initial cut is still there, but the weight of the sword is gone. Curious, he dares to peel his eyes open.
What he sees is far from anything he could’ve ever predicted.
Above him, standing between him and the man in a defensive stance, is another person. Another human.
Dazai can only see the new human’s back, but even from here he can tell that they’re on the younger side. Dazai’s age, maybe, or at least close to his height. He can see a short mop of hair, coloured similarly to the copper that lines some of the altars inside the temple. Draped over their frame and reaching just below their knees is a white robe that bleeds into red at the bottom, and a thin gold belt around their waist.
It’s a heavy contrast to how shaggy the hunter looks. The new human looks ethereal—almost divine.
Infatuated with this development, Dazai tilts his head just enough to glance around the new human, catching sight of the man now on the ground. His face is twisted in an ugly scowl, looking up at the interceptor with fury.
The interceptor who is now holding the sword. By the blade. With their bare hands.
Which isn’t an impossible feat, in itself—but Dazai doesn’t see a single drop of blood.
He watches in wonder as the new human tosses the weapon aside with ease, letting it clatter onto the ground. The man’s gaze follows it, almost desperately, but he doesn’t make any attempt to chase after it.
“You have no business with the God of Calamity, nor his protected,” a voice says, curt and commanding, and Dazai startles. It comes straight from his saviour, the new human above him. The words leave Dazai with many questions but he files them away for later, instead choosing to glance down at the hunter again. He watches with a sense of morbid satisfaction as the now-disarmed man turns whiter than the temple’s marble, practically oozing fear.
This reaction is either ignored or dismissed by Dazai’s copper-haired saviour. “Leave,” they announce, voice even louder than before. Perhaps, if Dazai was the one in the man’s place, it would’ve filled him with dread. As it stands, the sound only fills him with eagerness.
Dazai observes the man, watching as the hunter becomes the prey right in front of his eyes.
The next few seconds pass in a blur. The man scrambles onto his feet, scurrying away not unlike a terrified rabbit. He does not look back, does not even dare to collect his weapon. He disappears into the forest, beyond the sacred ground of the temple, leaving Dazai alone with his saviour.
He can’t help the small sound of relief that leaves him, a quiet breath of air.
This sound has his saviour turning to him, instantly crouching down to his level. The human—boy, Dazai realises, his age estimate being likely correct—is suddenly all up in Dazai’s face, concerned etched into his features as he scans Dazai from head to toe. His eyes are a light shade of brown, but the way they glisten reminds Dazai of gold: not unlike the boy’s belt. There’s a scattering of freckles that cover the apples of the boy’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His copper hair frames his face almost too perfectly, complimenting but never obscuring his features.
Dazai’s first thought is, maybe ethereal is too tame of a descriptor.
His second is, he smells like apples.
His third is, oh, he’s touching me.
He’d been so busy cataloguing the boy’s facial features that he hadn’t noticed the hand that’s now at his throat. The boy’s fingers graze over the bleeding wound, Dazai shivering under its ministrations. Strangely, though, he feels no pain as the cut is touched—in fact, the pain seems to melt away under the boy’s hand.
“There,” the boy says, taking his hand away from Dazai’s neck. He looks up to meet Dazai’s gaze. His voice is significantly gentler than before. “You okay?”
The question makes Dazai feel warm. He nods wordlessly, distrustful of his voice, right now.
Speaking of.
He brings a hand to his own throat, feeling around for the injury. Instead, he finds just healthy, smooth skin. No pain blooms from the point of contact, either. When he pulls his hand away, there’s no blood tainting his palm.
The wound is just gone.
Fascinating.
The boy in front of him nods in return, giving Dazai another once-over. Then he sighs, sounding content. “Good,” he says, “that’s good.”
Without another word, he rises from his crouch, Dazai’s gaze following him up.
Then, he starts to walk away. To leave.
“Wait,” Dazai blurts, voice quiet from disuse and hand half-way raised—an aborted movement. “Who are you?”
His brain is whirring, thoughts coming to him faster than ever before. It’s erratic, in a way that Dazai’s mind rarely is. There’s so many questions left unanswered: where did this boy come from? How old is he, really? Does he have a name? Is he also a follower? How come he knows about Dazai’s god? Why did he save Dazai? How did he hold the sword by its blade? How did he heal Dazai’s wound?
Dazai is a curious child. Dazai has questions.
The boy turns around, though he doesn’t stop moving. He walks backwards slowly, looking right at Dazai. He tilts his head in consideration.
“Chuuya,” he answers, gradually increasing the distance between them. “My name’s Chuuya.”
Chuuya.
Dazai tosses the name around in his head. It’s a nice name. Easy to remember. And it fits, definitely.
Only then does Dazai realise that Chuuya is still walking away. An odd sense of panic overtakes him—Chuuya can’t leave yet, he still hasn’t answered all of Dazai’s questions! If Chuuya crosses the boundary now, Dazai will likely never know the answers, left in uncertainty. Despite this, he can’t quite will his body to move in time. His limbs feel strangely heavy, like something is holding him down, and he can only watch as his saviour disappears into the very same forest that his hunter did.
Dazai stares at the spot where Chuuya melted into the darkness. By the time his body stops feeling heavy, the sun has started to disappear, leaving the clearing in the golden glow of the evening. Finally deciding to look away from the forest, Dazai turns to where the sword had fallen—maybe he could use it for something.
But it’s gone. Just like Chuuya, the weapon is nowhere to be seen.
Dazai slowly rises to his feet.
“Chuuya, huh?” he says, to only himself once again. The name feels right on his tongue. Sweet, almost, not unlike the fruit he eats. “Chuuya,” he repeats, “I hope you’ll be back.”
With an excited smile on his face, Dazai turns to walk back to the front of the temple. He has a routine to follow, after all.
Chuuya doesn’t return for three years.
It’s slightly disappointing, sure, but Dazai can’t find it in himself to be any kind of bitter. He had lived seven years of his life without Chuuya, and as much as he hopes for his mysterious saviour’s return, Chuuya is just another thing he’s curious about.
He keeps a lookout, of course. He’s more vigilant of the surrounding area than in the past, cataloguing any movements within the forest. He remains safe within the temple’s boundary, but gets more bold about nearing it.
Time passes the same way it always does. Dazai follows his routine, comfortable under his god’s protection. He grows taller, stronger, wiser. He finds things in the temple that he had missed in the years prior: under the marble slabs that make up the floor are hidden books. Dazai was a smart kid, and continues to be an intelligent young adult—reading the books proves to be no problem. He figures out words he’s never come across before using context, expands his vocabulary with every page turned. The books contain tales of old, of gods and their devotees, of history. Some are about gods Dazai has never heard of, but most of them are about the god whose temple Dazai has made his home.
Arahabaki is their name. The God of Calamity.
The tales within the books are a sharp contrast to the god that Dazai’s familiar with. While he’s obviously never met his deity, he knows that the god that protects him is gentle—keeping him warm, safe, fed, happy. The god in the stories, in the recounts from survivors of their wrath, is nowhere near gentle. They’re a god worthy of the calamitous title, one worthy of fear and respect both.
And while Dazai doesn’t doubt his god’s capabilities and certainly respects them, he doesn’t ever share that fear.
The boundary is not crossed from the outside again, either. It is entirely undisturbed, not allowing any more hunters to enter and attempt to take Dazai’s life. Humans still pass by, still chatter, still exist—but never enter.
Dazai’s eighteen when he finally makes a risky decision, one that would change his life.
On the tenth anniversary of his sacrifice, he attempts to venture outside of the sacred land’s border. He’s grown from a curious child to a curious man—and while he’s anxious to leave his home, his place of safety, he wants to know what’s beyond it. He wants to explore, if only a little. He wants to see if anything is different. He doesn’t plan to stray far—at least definitely not now. Just far enough to satiate his curiosity, but close enough to ensure that he can turn back any time he wants.
So, with a handmade pouch full of spare food attached to his waist, Dazai pushes the thick branches of the trees surrounding the border aside, and steps outside of the boundary. At first, he feels nothing. The grass beneath his feet feels the same, and the air is still fresh.
Then, for the first time in ten years, he feels properly cold.
Not freezing, not even enough to really bother him—but it’s been a long time since he felt cold in a way that was harsh rather than soothing. Within the temple grounds, any kind of cold is used to counter extreme heat, and usually brings relief. This cold, though, while not yet dangerous, feels like it could grow into something deadly if left unchecked.
Dazai feels oddly enthralled—it’s a bit scary, sure, but it’s new. That’s what he wants.
There’s a small smile on his face as he wraps his coat a bit tighter around himself, keeping the cold at bay. He ventures forward, slowly increasing the distance between himself and his home.
He barely manages ten full steps before a familiar voice hits his ears. A very familiar voice, one that he hears in his dreams more often than he’d like to admit.
“Leaving, are you?”
Dazai whips around comically fast towards the voice. Its owner isn’t far, leaning casually against one of the nearby tree trunks.
“No, don’t let me stop you,” Chuuya—Chuuya!—continues, eyebrow raised in a cocky expression.
Dazai has no idea where Chuuya came from, nor how he hadn’t heard any footsteps. But those questions are shoved into the back of his mind as he examines his saviour, finding that he looks…largely the same. His hair is still the same copper colour, even if it’s slightly longer. His eyes are still brown. His freckles are still present. He still wears the same white and red robe, with the same gold belt. But…
“You haven’t grown,” Dazai blurts, more of an observation than anything else.
The comment earns him a glare from those golden brown eyes. “It’s only been three years, I can still grow,” Chuuya defends. His voice, while mostly unchanged, is so much sharper than Dazai remembers. Perhaps Dazai’s memories had twisted it to appear gentler than it truly is. Or maybe Chuuya just speaks less gently, now. Either way, it pulls a quiet chuckle of disbelief out of Dazai. Huh.
“Where have you been?” he asks, before Chuuya can say anything about his laughter. “It has been three years.”
“That’s none of your business,” Chuuya replies, “why does it matter?”
Dazai frowns at the defensiveness. “Well, you saved my life,” he reminds Chuuya, “am I not allowed to be curious about the person who suddenly appeared in my home, saved my life, and then just disappeared?”
Chuuya stands up straight, no longer leaning on the tree behind him. He crosses his arms and regards Dazai carefully. “Your home?”
Dazai shrugs. He doesn’t see why that’s the part of his sentence Chuuya chose to focus on, but whatever. “I’ve lived in the temple and on its grounds since I was eight,” he explains, glancing at his home. It’s just about visible past the thick border of trees. “I’ve never been outside of its boundary until…well, until right now.”
“You think of the temple as your home?” Chuuya questions immediately, startling Dazai. “And what of the god that apparently lives there, too?”
Dazai’s frown deepens at the sudden interrogation. “What about them?” he refutes, mirroring Chuuya’s pose and crossing his arms. “The god’s never done anything to harm me. The opposite, actually. I’ve lived there peacefully and safely—aside from that one time, when you saved me.”
He pauses, giving Chuuya a long, meaningful look.
“Nothing has happened since then.”
Is that your doing? he wants to ask, but bites his tongue. Not yet.
Chuuya’s shoulders loosen and he snorts. “Yeah,” he replies, his tone turning more cocky. “And who do ya have to thank, for that?”
You? Dazai thinks.
“Not you,” Dazai deadpans, strangely unwilling to give Chuuya the gratification of his actual thoughts.
Chuuya’s expression twists and he lets out an affronted squawk. “Hah?” he exclaims, hands landing on his hips in exasperation. “What do you mean not me?! Ya said it yourself! I saved your damn life!”
“Well, yes,” Dazai agrees. “Once. But since then? What have you done?” Feeling cheeky, he gestures to Chuuya, emphasising his short height. “You’re far too small to scare anyone away…ah, you remind me of a crow!”
To Dazai’s great amusement, Chuuya’s eyes narrow in further annoyance. “Watch your mouth,” he says through gritted teeth. “Whose fuckin’ temple do ya think you’ve been stayin’ at?”
Dazai’s amused expression falters at the question. Shouldn’t Chuuya know that? You have no business with the God of Calamity, he’d said, back when he saved Dazai’s life. He eyes Chuuya carefully.
“The Calamity God’s,” he answers emphatically, “what does that have to do with anything?”
He watches as Chuuya’s eyes widen briefly in surprise. He’s not sure what’s so surprising about his answer. He also isn’t sure why Chuuya’s expression then melts into something smug, eyes sparkling and sly grin in place.
“I see,” he says cryptically, tilting his head. “Well, a lot more than you think.”
“Are you always this vague?” Dazai mutters. Leave it to Chuuya to reappear and give him more questions, rather than answers.
Chuuya straight-up laughs in his face, sharp and merciless. “Nah, this is just payback for all the shit you tell me in the middle of the fuckin’ night. You should sleep more.”
Dazai briefly wonders how he ever thought of Chuuya as angelic and gentle. Then Chuuya’s answer actually processes in his mind.
“What?”
Chuuya’s grin just widens and he takes a step towards Dazai. “What?” he echoes, “who did ya think you were talkin’ to, every time you spoke in the temple? Every time you prayed? The air?”
“The Calamity God,” Dazai says smoothly, “I’m not an idiot. The temple belongs to them, so they hear the prayers.”
It’s a fact, one that Dazai is sure of. While he can’t prove his god’s existence physically, he knows his prayers are heard. If he prays for something, he usually gets it. It’s one of the reasons he’s managed to survive so long. And, well, it has always given Dazai a sense of reassurance and companionship, knowing that someone, deity or not, listens to him speak. That he isn’t completely alone, living in that temple.
Chuuya doesn’t back down, nodding at Dazai’s answer. “Correct. So, if I hear your bullshit, what do you think that means?”
“You’re stalking me.”
Chuuya scowls at the blunt reply. He shoots Dazai a scornful look. “And here I thought you were smart. Try again.”
Dazai’s eyebrows furrow in concentration. What exactly is Chuuya hinting at, here? How could he hear everything Dazai says, even at night, despite not being there? Could he talk to animals, perhaps? It certainly wouldn’t be the most insane thing in the world. Perhaps he also has some kind of connection to Arahabaki, a blessing or something of the sort. Perhaps—
Oh.
Oh.
Realisation hits Dazai harder than a bull’s horns.
There’s a simple answer to all of Dazai’s questions about Chuuya: both the ones from the past three years, and the ones he just gained. Why he hears Dazai’s prayers, why he seems to disappear and reappear, why Dazai never hears him coming, why he didn’t bleed when holding a blade barehanded, why he healed Dazai’s wound with just a touch, why he seemed so angry that Dazai was threatened, why he’s so mysterious…
The shock clearly shows on his face because Chuuya’s smug grin returns full force.
“You,” Dazai manages, staring at Chuuya incredulously. “You’re the God of Calamity. You.”
“I guess,” is Chuuya’s response, thrown casually as if it isn’t insane. “Really, just his human vessel. But sure, in a way.”
Dazai can’t do anything but stare. Chuuya. His saviour. His biggest source of curiosity. His god. Arahabaki.
Chuuya.
It makes sense. Dazai hates that it makes sense. Hates that he didn’t realise it sooner. Chuuya doesn’t say anything, simply watching his reaction. After a few tense moments, Dazai shuts his eyes tight and waves his hand dismissively in Chuuya’s direction.
“No,” he denies, even if he knows its true, “you’re no such thing. No. I don’t believe you.”
But he does. He really, really does.
“Uh-huh,” is all Chuuya says.
Then there’s silence. An eerie, strangely familiar silence. It’s the same silence that surrounds people who give offerings to the god. The same silence that fills Dazai’s ears whenever he offers things, no matter how small. The same silence that filled the air the night Dazai was sacrificed.
Dazai doesn’t rise to Chuuya’s bait, at first, keeping his eyes sewn shut. He gives no outward reaction, doesn’t yield in the face of the quiet.
…But he’s a curious man.
It’s not long before that curiosity gets the better of him and he pries his eyes open. “Chuuya?” he says, narrowed eyes looking all around. There’s no Chuuya in sight, though. Not even any imprints on the grass he had stood on.
It doesn’t surprise Dazai that Chuuya managed to silently disappear again, especially given the new information he’s received. But it doesn’t make him happy, either. Really, he just feels a bit annoyed. Peeved. They didn’t finish their conversation, after all.
“Wow,” he drawls, unimpressed, “leaving again, are you? How original.”
He waits for a few beats, listening for any kind of answer. He receives nothing. Not even a gust of wind.
“No,” Chuuya says, voice cutting through the silence. Dazai’s head snaps up to the trees’ canopies. Sure enough, the man (or god, Dazai supposes) is there, idly sitting on a thick tree branch. One of his legs is propped up on it while the other dangles, and he looks down at Dazai with a smirk. “Just wanted to prove a point.”
Dazai scoffs, frowning up at him. “Congratulations then,” he says unenthusiastically, “point proven.”
Chuuya grins at him victoriously, the expression all teeth and little warmth. Dazai sticks his tongue out at him in response, respect be damned.
“Come down, now,” he says, then, beckoning Chuuya down with his hand. “You being taller than me feels wrong.”
“Fuck you,” Chuuya hisses, not moving from his position. “You’re mortal, I’m not. You deserve to be below me.”
Dazai considers asking what Chuuya’s godly policy on cursing is, but refrains in favour of another thing on his mind. He raises a judgemental eyebrow.
Chuuya doesn’t seem to like the scrutinising expression and scowls defensively. “What?”
“Well, you claim not to be mortal,” Dazai tells him, lip quirking up into a smirk. “Yet you’re so small…surely you could make yourself bigger?”
Chuuya looks genuinely stunned for a brief moment, then schools his features and shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I am Arahabaki and Arahabaki is me.”
He says it with such finality that Dazai almost believes him. Almost, because something still doesn’t sit right with him. “You said something else, earlier,” he points out, placing a hand on his hip. “You said you’re the god’s vessel, not the god itself.”
“I wasn’t lying either time.” Dazai startles at the sound of Chuuya’s voice next to his ear, spinning around to find the culprit standing there with his arms crossed. He glares at him, but Chuuya just meets it levelly. “We have different streams of consciousness,” he explains, “but we’re still the same merged being, in the end.”
Interesting. So, God of Calamity aside, Chuuya is his own person, with his own thoughts and feelings. That explains some things about his behaviour.
“Okay,” Dazai says, scanning Chuuya’s face. “And? That doesn’t make you any less short.” He ignores Chuuya’s agitated frown, looking him up and down. “If you talk, look and act like a human, then you’re human, no?”
“That’s not how that works.”
“Right,” Dazai replies disbelievingly. Time to push. “If you’re so…godly and majestic as you claim, why’d you only protect me that day and then leave without a trace? Why’d you come back now, of all times? Why’d you protect me in the first place? Why have you never shown up before that?”
He leans further into Chuuya’s space with every question, letting them all roll off his tongue. Chuuya doesn’t retreat, standing eerily still. By the time Dazai utters his last question, they’re practically breathing each other’s air.
“Yeah, that’s a lot of questions,” Chuuya says, shoving his palm into Dazai’s face and pushing him away. Dazai grumbles, but ultimately relents and returns to his previous position.
“Are four questions too much for your ‘higher being’ brain to handle? Do you even have a brain?” Dazai asks, adding appropriate air quotes.
“Ugh, shut up,” Chuuya hisses, “yes, I have a brain. Obviously. And it can definitely handle four fuckin’ questions.”
“That sounds human, to me,” Dazai tells him.
“Shut up,” Chuuya repeats, firmer this time. Then he sighs, running a hand down his face. “I left because my direct intervention was no longer necessary. Once the guy was gone, you were fine, weren’t ya? I healed your wound…” He trails off slightly, eyebrows pinched as if trying to recall the relevant memory.
Dazai stares at him incredulously. “You did,” he confirms, gesturing to his throat. “But really? You left just because I was fine?”
Chuuya’s face morphs into confusion. “Well, yeah? I had no reason to stick around.”
Dazai huffs. What a moron. He ultimately decides not to comment. He has a feeling telling Chuuya that maybe, just maybe, Dazai would’ve enjoyed the company, isn’t the best idea, right now.
Chuuya takes his silence as a prompt to continue. “I’m back now because you’ve left the protected land.” He gestures behind him, at the temple. “So, I’m here to protect you in-person, instead.”
“Protect me?” Dazai asks, tilting his head.
Chuuya snorts. “Yeah, you cheeky bastard. What, you think I’m just gonna let ya get killed out here, after spending so long making sure ya survived? Fuck no.”
“First of all, if anyone’s little here…ow!” Dazai whines, rubbing his forehead where Chuuya just flicked it. He shoots Chuuya a glare, being met with an eye-roll.
“Shut up, you twat.” Chuuya reclines his hand. “I’m older than you. You’re little to me.”
Dazai makes a face. “Really? You don’t look much older than me.”
Chuuya’s face twists in turn as he considers this. Dazai watches as Chuuya chews on his bottom lip—such a human habit, really—before sighing. “Well, I’m not, I guess,” he admits, not meeting Dazai’s gaze. “The vessel is—I’m—basically the same age as you. A little under two months older. Arahabaki, on the other hand, is thousands of years old.”
“So you are different—”
“—which makes me older than you, either way.”
Dazai huffs. “Right. And about protecting me?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Chuuya hums. “The temple is enchanted, you know. Hidden to all outsiders. Defends you from threats and anything with malicious intent. That one time that I interfered, it was because that bastard had somehow broken through…” His eyes cast downwards, staring intently at his own feet. He frowns before continuing. “But now, you’ve left the land that the enchantment covers.” He looks back up at Dazai. “Which means you’re vulnerable. Which means I have to be here to protect you, myself.”
Dazai scowls at the explanation. Vulnerable? He’s not fragile. He waves a dismissive hand in Chuuya’s face. “I can protect myself,” he says, turning on his heel, his back to Chuuya. “I don’t need any itty-bitty gods, or humans, or whatever else to defend me.”
He pauses, setting his jaw. Then adds, quieter, “I’m not a child.”
Silence hangs for a long moment.
“Neither am I,” Chuuya finally says, and Dazai’s proud to say that he doesn’t startle when the god-human-vessel appears suddenly in front of him, again. “I didn’t say that you need my protection. I just said that I’m giving it. Two very different things, buttercup.”
Buttercup?
Dazai shakes his head. “Why?”
Chuuya shrugs. “Because I want to?”
“Not good enough,” Dazai replies, petulant. Chuuya doesn’t even sound certain of his own answer and it makes Dazai uneasy. “You’re apparently a god, or whatever. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do. More important than following some guy who crashes at your temple around.” He shakes his head again, emphasising his disapproval.
Chuuya just snorts and suddenly, there’s a hand in Dazai’s hair, keeping his head still. Chuuya forces Dazai to maintain eye contact. “I’m not exactly givin’ you a choice here. I’m keepin’ you safe whether ya like it or not.”
“How chivalrous,” Dazai deadpans, “are you this obsessed with all your followers, or am I special?”
“Follower?” Chuuya repeats, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not a follower, Dazai, you’re a sacrifice.”
Dazai’s breath catches, blood rushing to his ears. That’s right, he thinks, I’m a sacrifice. Chuuya’s sacrifice, technically.
“You,” Chuuya enunciates, a grin playing on his lips. Dazai swears he sees a flicker of an unnatural red, in those eyes, a harsh colour to break up the soft gold. “Belong to me. Paint it however you want, call it whatever you like. But you were given to me, so you’re mine. And I keep what’s mine safe.”
Those words should creep Dazai out. They should make him scared, at least a little. They should intimidate him. They should make him disgusted. And maybe he does feel slightly sick at the prospect of being owned, maybe he does feel a bit afraid of what that entails.
But really, his primal feeling is warmth. He feels warm.
He feels like he might throw up and he feels ill at the thought of having someone constantly watching him and he doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to put up with Chuuya and he’ll definitely be having words with Chuuya about his phrasing and he’s certainly not thrilled to be the possession of a God of Calamity but…
He does feel safe.
It almost annoys him how safe he feels, with Chuuya next to him.
“You’re strange,” he manages, just above a whisper.
Chuuya snickers. “And you’re not? Get over yourself. I saw that look.” He finally releases his hold on Dazai’s hair, lightly pushing him back. “Listen, Dazai, I don’t know where you’re off to—”
“Uh, well—”
“—But I’m tagging along, whether you like it or not. Get used to it.” He crosses his arms, stares at Dazai as if daring him to disagree.
Dazai just blinks at him. At least he can cross ‘omnipotent’ off the list of Chuuya’s supposed powers. “I wasn’t planning to go far,” he admits, “really, not even far enough to lose sight of the temple, you know…”
“Oh,” Chuuya says. Dazai just about catches the tips of his ears turning rosy, starting to blend into his hair. Cute, he thinks, as Chuuya shuffles on the spot, attempting to hide his sudden embarrassment.
“Yeah.” Dazai grins. “You’re free to stick around anyway, though. Around the temple, too.”
Chuuya frowns. “What?”
“What?” Dazai echoes, shrugging. “It’s only fair. You said you’d protect me because I’m yours. Are you not mine, as well? My god?”
“What? No—what?!” Chuuya sputters, taking a step back. His hands shoot up and he waves them around frantically. “You’re ridiculous. I’m only protecting you ‘cause you’re outside the temple.”
Dazai regards the flustered vessel carefully. He hums, feigning serious thought for a moment before smiling wide. “So, you’ll stick around if I stay outside of it?”
“Well, yeah,” Chuuya mumbles, significantly calmer. He eyes Dazai warily, though, as if watching for an attack. He slowly lowers his hands, after a moment. “When you’re outside, I’ll protect you.”
“I see.” Dazai nods, hand on his chin. “Okay. I just won’t go back, then.”
The declaration feels strange on his tongue. He’s never been outwardly blasphemous, so he doesn’t know how it feels—but if he had to imagine it, it would be this. His nose scrunches as soon as the sentence passes through his lips. He doesn’t retract it, though.
Chuuya shoots him a stern look. “You just want me to follow you around,” he accuses.
Dazai sticks his tongue out at him. “You’re the one who’s obsessed with following me around.”
“I’m protecting you.”
“You’re a weird stalker who clearly just wants my wonderful company. No need to deny it, Chuuya, I’ve figured you out.”
“Maybe I should’ve let that guy kill you.”
“Maybe I should’ve committed heresy more often.”
Chuuya laughs at that. “Sure, whatever.”
Dazai beams at him. Protection aside, travelling with someone like Chuuya might just prove to be the most entertaining part of his life. He’s never had anyone to make laugh before. It’s a nice feeling.
“Well, buttercup,” Chuuya announces, cutting Dazai’s smitten thoughts off. He snaps his fingers and a weight appears in Dazai’s arms. He startles but catches the item dropped on him—a map. Not the first one he’s seen, but certainly the first one that’s up-to-date. He glances down at it, then back up at Chuuya. “Don’t look at me like that,” Chuuya says, raising an eyebrow. “We need some kinda direction.”
Then he vanishes, as silent as ever. Dazai barely blinks before Chuuya’s peeking over his shoulder, instead, his voice directly at Dazai’s ear. “So, where to?”
Dazai scans the map. It’s scattered with names he doesn’t recognise, symbols that he’s only seen in the occasional book. The temple sticks out like a sore thumb, though, drawn in the bottom right corner. Many small drawings of trees surround it. Just outside the forest seems to be a river and across the page, in the bottom left—
Dazai rolls the map up, perhaps with a bit more force than necessary. Chuuya leans away, standing to Dazai’s side with his head tilted in bafflement. Dazai shoves the roll of paper between his tunic and his belt, keeping it snugly strapped to his waist, right next to his food pouch. He looks up at Chuuya.
“Which way is the nearest village?”
Chuuya scowls at him like he’s an idiot. Then he points off to his left. “That way. But you knew that. Ya just looked at the damn map.”
“I don’t know why you think I know how to use a map properly,” Dazai tells him, snickering as Chuuya’s eyes widen. “It’s fine, I can learn. I just want to avoid that village.”
“Avoid…?” Chuuya starts, lost, before his face flashes with recognition. “Oh.”
Dazai nods sullenly. “Yeah, oh. I doubt I’d exactly be welcome.”
The surprise in Chuuya’s eyes bleeds into protective anger. “They wouldn’t hurt you. Not while I’m there.”
“Well, they’re your—Arahabaki’s—worshippers.” Dazai shrugs. “So, no, they probably wouldn’t. But I’d rather not see them, regardless. Although…”
The villagers that worship Arahabaki, the ones that sacrificed Dazai, all those years ago, did it for protection. They had deemed Dazai a demon, that much he knows. He’d been mistreated even while he was living there, for those eight miserable years of his life. Those people were—are—terrified of him. And they’re even more terrified of Chuuya, he’s sure.
Maybe, just maybe, this could be a prime opportunity to get the vengeance he’s owed.
“Although?” Chuuya parrots, but Dazai can tell that Chuuya knows where his thoughts have gone. The bloodthirsty grin on his face is a dead giveaway.
Dazai takes a step forward, grinning in return. “I know they’re your worshippers, and I know they’re the ones who gave me to you, but I technically suffered because of them. I don’t like them.” He locks his gaze with Chuuya’s.
“So, you’ll protect me, won’t you?”
The laugh that rips out of Chuuya is different from before. It’s louder, less boyish. More imposing, more threatening. There’s almost an echo to it, one that shouldn’t be quite possible. It’s divine.
It’s exhilarating.
“Well.” Chuuya grins, unnaturally pointy teeth on show. “Now you’re speaking my language, buttercup.”