Chapter Text
Shuji Tushihima has been a member of the wealthy Tushihima family since he was born. It was a wealthy family with seven older brothers and sisters, and they owned so many villas that they could sell 20 of them and still have dozens left. Shuji was a good child, obedient, intelligent, but also quiet and described as a bit creepy compared to his peers. That summer, Shuji and his family were going to Russia, as both his mother and father intensely hated the heat of Japan during those specific months. They had a house in Russia, of course, and it was also a villa, close to other villas. Of course, Shuji didn't know what to expect. He had studied Russia from his older brother's books, but he had never been very interested, as it was too cold for his tastes, and after all, he was skinny and too pale, covered in bandages, even; being in the cold wasn't exactly exceptional.
The family traveled comfortably on public transport, but in Section A, and soon arrived in Russia. Sure, Shuji was dressed well enough for Moscow's cold climate, with black cotton pants, leather shoes with thick wool socks underneath, a warm black wool sweater, and a long, closed coat that made him look even younger and more elegant than he should have, complete with a flat black hat, similar to the French ones his mother liked, but... He was following his father's shadows, after all. As they headed to the more opulent vacation homes, no one would have expected that Shuji, dressed so sumptuously, would attract the attention of some homeless man with bad intentions. So, while everyone ignored the taciturn little brother, he was grabbed from behind and slammed against the cold wall of the alley. The homeless man was bearded and dirty, but surprisingly fat. The corners of his mouth were smeared with frozen saliva, and he was dressed worse than Shuji.
“You spoiled kids have no place here, especially you, little Japanese!” the man teases, laughing and spitting on the ground. Shuji looks at him with surprised eyes, but silently analyzes the situation. Alone, in an alley, a homeless man with obvious bad intentions, older, more experienced, local. Shuji was absolutely screwed. The man reaches for the boy's coat, squeezing it.
“You're handsome, for a boy, you know?” The man grabs his chin and raises it, moving closer. Shuji is afraid. Anxiety wells up in his gut, but he doesn't move, because, alas, he recognizes that perhaps he can escape after the man leaves, satisfied with his filth. He was ready, not entirely, but ready nonetheless to see the man on top of him, like those maids at home, when suddenly the man spat blood on the ground.
He fell.
....
What?
Shuji looks around in confusion, searching for the culprit of what happened, or rather, his savior. ...not that Shuji needed help! He was stronger than those other children. Or at least that's what his grandfather said.
What he saw, however, was a little boy, almost as tall as him, white as snow, wearing a traditional Russian hat and a stoic face. He was wearing warm clothes, better than Shuji's, so he easily deduced that the boy was Russian, and, since he had no ranged weapons and no one else was around, that the boy was a bit like him: an ability user.
“You saved me,” Shuji said, in fluent Russian, because yes, he had been studying it for years with his older sister.
“You're lost,” he said. The Russian boy's voice was as stoic as his face, but after all, it suited him. It wasn't a question; in fact, the boy was sure of what he was saying. 100%.
“Yes. You?”
Shuji answered carefully. There was no point in lying, since he knew nothing about the roads to his parents' villa. And besides, I had helped that boy, even though his ability was dangerous.
“No. Don't tell me what happened,” the Russian replied once again. Suspicion. The other's ability was probably deadly: perhaps it was activated by a look? Or by close encounters?
“You're an ability user,” Shuji said, as if affirming. The other opened his eyes slightly, surprised that Shuji knew what they were.
“Do you have an ability?” the Russian asked.
...
“What's your name?” Shuji demanded, because his father always demanded the names of those he was speaking to. So would Shuji. “Fyodor Dostovesky.” Shuji decided to keep his name private, because his father certainly didn't want to be mixed up with people he didn't know. He remembered a book about popular names from years past.
“Dazai Osamu. Call me Dazai.” Fyodor narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but then shrugged and nodded slightly.
“Call me Fyodor.”
Dazai nodded and approached Fyodor with cautious but silent amusement. Honestly, Dazai didn't want to return to the mansion. He didn't want to return to his family, or to a house where the maids were annoying. Sure, he didn't trust Fyodor, but he could sense intelligence. "Fyodor, you killed that man, didn't you?" Dazai said calmly, moving closer, and Fyodor found himself face to face with the dark-haired man. "Yes. To purge the sins of the world. People like him don't deserve to exist." "Oh, I see. Your skill kills. With a touch?" Dazai simply deduced, and Fyodor no longer looked as surprised as before, so he nodded and looked at Dazai with hidden curiosity.
"Do you know what special abilities are? Are you well informed or do you possess one, Dazai-san? I've heard that in Japanese culture, san is respectful."
“Call me Dazai-kun, too! I have a special ability, indeed, it nullifies other people's powers, it's called no longer human.” Dazai boasted lightly, waving his gloved hand in front of Fyodor. He watched intently as Fyodor's eyes moistened and widened as his ability was detected. Fyodor had almost changed mood in three seconds flat. He raised his head higher, regarding Dazai with newfound attention. Dazai strutted under the rare attention he never received.
“Nullifying other people's abilities? That's fantastic.”
Dazai smiled slightly, boasting. “Yeah, so your ability, unfortunately, won't work on me!”
“Unfortunately?”
“Well, yes, my only wish is to commit painless suicide!” Fyodor looks taken aback for about ten seconds before nodding.
“I see. Come with me, I'll buy you something to eat at the tavern next door. I was headed there before meeting you, Dazai-kun.”
“A tavern? Do you go there often?” Dazai was curious now, because after all, Fyodor was the same age as him, and Dazai had never traveled across Japan to a tavern. Not that he knew the city; his father never let him go out.
However, Fyodor unexpectedly took Dazai's hand, and Dazai could feel the no-longer-human awakening beneath the other's palm, nullifying Fyodor's deadly ability.
Dazai calmly accepted the hand, allowing himself to be carried like a child (which he was) to the tavern where Fyodor was headed before saving him.
They walked through the snow, Dazai cold, Fyodor hot, and sooner or later they reached a wooden tavern, which radiated heat from the outside, with a small, carved sign that spelled out, not entirely clearly, the tavern's name: "The Great Snow" in Russian. The two young men enter, Fyodor first, and immediately the heat intensifies as they walk, and they immediately attract the attention of the bartender, who greets Fyodor calmly, before lingering on Dazai, and then on their intertwined hands. He looks away. Fyodor sits on a stool and leaves one next to it for Dazai, who sits down immediately after.
“I'd like the usual newspaper and vodka, for my family,” Fyodor says seriously.
The bartender nods and goes to the back with habit. Fyodor turns to look at him, and Dazai blinks at the intense gaze.
“Dazai-kun, do you believe in God?” The Russian's voice puts Dazai on a bit of alert, but he nods anyway. His father believed, so Dazai was made to believe too.
“I understand. I am his disciple, I follow his shadows. As you know, my ability is not a sin, because I use it for the absolute good.”
“And yet you kill; doesn't that seem against God's ideals?”
“You don't know him as well as I do, Dazai-kun. However, my goal is to eliminate all sin from the world, and so I'll start with the abilities.”
“I see, it must be because you can't stand your own skill, right?”
“You're right, but I only do it for God's mission.” Dazai nods slightly, as the bartender returns with a discreet bottle of vodka and the newspaper. Fyodor takes it without hesitation, flipping through the pages discreetly, stopping at the second-to-last before closing the newspaper again. He turns to Dazai, intent on opening, but failing, the vodka.
Fyodor wrinkles his nose, but speaks stoically as always.
“Abilities aren't always desired by their owner; they kill both others and the user, therefore, they're a sin and a curse. I don't know anyone who loves their abilities.”
Dazai nods, because in the end, no longer human, had effectively made him inhuman. “I don't think you should act violently; perhaps you can find an antidote for abilities.”
Fyodor smiles, for the first time since they'd met in the alley, now a few hours earlier.
“I know two antidotes. One is permanent, and the other, temporary, is you.”
No longer human, it took away the humanity of the users, sure, and it was obvious that Dazai was considered an antidote for that. But what worried Dazai was more the fact that there was something permanent that Fyodor held close to his chest, that took away abilities and never gave them back. Dazai had seen the expressions on ability users' faces when he stripped them of their humanity, and they weren't the best.
"Permanent, huh? So that's what you're looking for."
"Not yet, Dazai-kun. But I want you to stay by my side, because God brought you here, to me."
Dazai frowns, but sighs and nods. “Only if you find a painless and functional death for me, Fyodor-kun. But don't make me suffer, or I'll abandon you.” At those words, Fyodor smiles, more calmly this time, and nods.
“I'll do what you like, but you'll stay until I finish my divine task. In the meantime, yes, I'll find your death painless and give it to you as a gift from heaven.”
“Okay. Fine, Fyodor, lead the way whenever you like.”
“I couldn't help but listen to you, Dazai-kun.”
Fyodor stands and takes the bottle of vodka with him, which seems a bit out of place given the ages of the overly intelligent kids. Dazai followed him and waved with false happiness to the bartender, who didn't respond, but nodded with his chin. Dazai discreetly took the newspaper and walked away alongside his new partner, Fyodor.
"Dazai-kun, we'll do many things together," Fyodor said, squeezing Dazai's hand firmly, but his cold, pale hands only evoked a strange tenderness in Dazai, while the no-longer-human energy spread through the other's veins like air.
Dazai nodded, because yes, it would be a nice twist on his boring life.
(After 5 years)
“Dazai-kun, why are you on the fan?”
“If I hang myself on the fan, my body will spin forever! Don't you think that's amazing, Fedya-kun?”
“Not really, the fan would stop working and I'd end up suffering from the heat.”
“Cruel! You call me fat!”
“You weigh 45kg, Dazai. I don't think you can call yourself that.”
“Ah! As if you were better!”
“I never said I was.”
...
Dazai now had curlier hair, even without product. He was paler, and had been a teenager for years now.
He had a more curved chin, dark circles under his eyes that were too dark and purple, and darker eyes with longer eyelashes. He was beautiful, and like his almost skeletal, malnourished body, only Fyodor found him beautiful, just as he found his bandages classy and important, after all.
Still, he had a rather muscular body, somehow. Fyodor had black hair, straight as before, but longer and more carefully groomed; his white hat was cleaner, and his nose was sharper than before. His skin was pale, almost sickly, with dark circles under his eyes that almost beat out Dazai's .
He was less muscular than Dazai, and the fact that he was anemic didn't help Fyodor at all. Anyway, the two were sitting on the floor of their small apartment in St. Petersburg, even though the couch was right behind them. Dazai was lying down, while Fyodor sat, the Bible on his lap as he tried to read it.
That evening, they would go on a small mission for Fyodor's goal, to rid the world of evil, little by little. Of course, Dazai came there just for fun and boredom, and perhaps even just for Fyodor, but it was still a nice gesture, according to the Russian.
The antique TV hummed Russian children's cartoons, which made Dazai wonder what strange child was watching TV at 1:00 AM, but after all, he was watching.
Fyodor calmly stood up, but the gesture alone told Dazai it was time for the mission. He was a little amused by the situation, because Fyodor always let him kill some enemy, so he enjoyed every time he came.
They were wearing normal clothes, or rather, Fyodor was in his weirdo religious clothes while Dazai was in a normal black suit.
The two calmly exited the apartment, Dazai discreetly slipping the silent pistol into the heavy Russian coat that Fyodor had given him (stolen and then given away) for his 15th birthday. Dazai, for Fyodor's 15th birthday, had blown up one of St. Petersburg's prisons, since Fyodor always complained about how justice was being served! What good friends.
They walk through the snow, because yes, it almost always snowed in February, but they were used to it by now; in fact, Fyodor had never gotten used to it; he was born with snow in his veins.
So, after 15 minutes, they arrived at their destination, calmly entered the abandoned warehouse, and hid between the thick walls of the building.
Muffled voices can be heard.
“What are you talking about? These... these shouldn't be shared!”
“But... but it's an exceptional discovery, with your ability we can... we can change the world! There, everyone has abilities, we can raise an army and put all of Russia under our feet!”
“Who do you think I am?! Us? Ours? You've always overestimated yourself.”
“What...? What?!”
“I'd say I'm sorry, but that's not true. You're just a scientist, and I'm an ability user, you're nothing compared to them!”
Dazai almost laughs, because he's pretty sure no one is anyone in a world that isn't theirs, but okay.
So, Fyodor had come here for that arrogant man, right?
Or... no, it seemed too easy. This was too quiet.
Fyodor turns to look at him, because he, too, seemed to be on edge that hadn't been there before.
“Me? Me without powers? No, no, you don't understand anything, you bastard! Your power isn't...it's nothing!”
And then, Fyodor's eyes widened, taking Dazai by the hand.
Only then, Dazai looked back and what he could see was a huge black hole beneath the entire building, before falling in.
His ability didn't activate, because there was no contact with the ability, and the only thing he smelled, and saw, was Fyodor's scent of roses, and his sweet, cold hand in his.
Fyodor opens his eyes slowly and immediately feels the change in air.
It wasn't the cold of St. Petersburg, no, not at all. He sits up, and the dawn makes his sensitive eyes blink a couple of times. Day. How long had he been there?
So he turns, seeing, with regret, the body of his Osamu on the dirty concrete of this garbage-filled alley, his hair scattered and his face slumped: fortunately, not injured.
He takes the other's face and places it on his lap, checking his pale face.
Yes, definitely no new injuries. He sighs.
He shakes his head, taking his Bible from the pocket of his clothes. Luckily, it was still there. He begins to read, determined to seek hope from God until Osamu wakes up.
He is distracted, however, by the drop of blood falling on his Bible. Whose-oh.
His. He hadn't realized he was bleeding from his head. What a shame, his Bible had been stained, once again by a mortal's blood.
He touched his head, and his hand became soaked in blood, which began to run down his pale face.
....
Please let the sky help him. After a sigh, something moved among the surrounding buildings.
If Fyodor wasn't an expert, he would have thought it was a bird, but no, those were human legs. Strange. Since when did people jump from rooftops? Maybe Osamu knew something about that.
He looked back at the face on his legs and blinked, admiring. Yes, it was beautiful for a madman like him.
Something moved again among the rooftops, and this time Fyodor decided that person was actually focusing on the two in the alley, so, calmly and with hidden protection, he spoke.
“Come out, I know someone’s here,” he said, his Russian strong, but his voice fainter than usual. (Stupid head wound.) Surprisingly, someone emerged from the rooftops and landed with calculated grace right in front of the two.
Fyodor examined him carefully. Black hair, quite long, dirty, unkempt, unkempt face, around 35/40 years old. The scarf could have been a weapon, agile, probably good at fighting. Dark circles under his eyes: insomniac. He has a job, because he doesn’t want to be here, obviously. So he worked nights? Yes. He was probably finishing his work now.
...
The man spoke.
“Are you Russian? Do you know Japanese?” he said in Japanese. Oh. So he and Dazai weren't in Russia, but in Japan. Perhaps the woman's cursed ability was teleportation. Plausible.
To Fyodor's delight, he could admit he knew Japanese, since Osamu had taught him everything about the language early on.
"I speak Japanese," he said, his accent horrendous, but the man had to be okay with It. And he was.
"Your head was injured. What happened? Were you attacked by a villan?"
Villan?
"Yes, I'm hurt." He replied, ignoring the other part of the question to think it over.
Dazai had probably fallen like him, but he wasn't hurt. So—oh, sure. The man the scientist was scolding was indeed the type to beat up strangers.
So, that guy had been teleported there with them too. ... Meanwhile, the strange man in front of them approached cautiously.
“If you're hurt, I have to take you to the hospital. No, you don't even look like adults. What's your name? Do you remember anything about how you were hurt? Is your friend hurt?”
The man was genuinely worried or just stupid. And then, to the hospital? Dazai? Him? What a joke. They had to get back to Petersburg as soon as possible.
“I'm sorry, but mind your own business. Who are you, anyway? Are you a criminal?” he said, but his eyes flicked to Osamu's blinking face. He was waking up, fine.
"I'm an underground hero, don't worry," he says, pulling out an ID card with "Pro Hero" written underneath, and Fyodor was about to snort at the man's idiocy. Even though...
Dazai slowly wakes up, and immediately senses that he's no longer human, already activated, and also recognizes Fyodor's ability. Okay. So he was practically safe. Dazai wouldn't admit he was relieved at the thought, so he opened his eyes wider and, as expected, found himself faced with purple eyes, cold as ice. Speaking of ice, it was hot in here.
They weren't in St. Petersburg, were they?
He raises his head slightly and sees a homeless man (yes, it reminds him of the homeless man from 5 years ago, but no—this homeless man was... a fighter, probably, and he seemed worried, so he wasn't a pedophile either.)
But better yet, why was he worried? Suddenly he remembers what happened: the black hole, the scientist, the man... what the hell had happened? Had they been teleported?
“A pro hero? So you're a schizophrenic cop?” He mutters the words he'd heard just after waking up, a few moments earlier.
By the way, Heroes? The man seemed serious as he said it, and he had some kind of license there with him.
Maybe... maybe the scripture ability was different from teleportation, perhaps more complicated... he'd heard of an ability that takes you into the writer's books, where you're forced to solve the book's mystery to get out. Maybe this is similar? He should tell Fyodor.
I'm not schizophrenic. You really don't know about Heroes? Are you kids kidding me? I swear, they don't pay me enough for this...” the man sighs. Suddenly, Fyodor seems to remember something and nods slightly to himself.
That's when Dazai notices the huge bloody patch in the other's hair, and his controlled heart skips a beat. He doesn't say anything, because the homeless man is nearby, but he wants to give him his spare bandages right away, because, as beautiful as Fydor is in blood, the thought of the only person close to Dazai, and so interesting, dying... makes him feel strangely oppressed.
Not that Dazai cares all that much, mind you, but...
Pathetic.
Fyodor stands up.
“Not the hospital. I’m sure you know someone just right for my wounds, if you really are a hero,” the Russian said in Japanese.
Oops. How absentminded, Dazai hadn’t even noticed that everyone (including him) was speaking Japanese. He must have hit his head.
“Sure, I know a doctor who can help you in a hurry, but he’s far from here. I’ll catch you with the scarf. Don’t be too scared, I won’t let you fall,” he said, untying the scarf around his neck.
Dazai was so sure it was a capture weapon! If Dazai had such things, he would hang himself from a pole! Ah, how lovely! With a new joy, feigned but excited nonetheless, he takes Fyodor by the hand and pulls him up with him, hopping toward the scarf and getting himself tied in it.
“What happens if I vomit?”
“I'll let you go.”
“Grumpy...”
“What?”
“Nothing!”
Not that Dazai had food to vomit.
Fyodor sighed at the thought and let himself be carried across the rooftops, leaving the examination to Dazai, because he, truly, had never felt so weak.
Dazai watched Fyodor relax, his eyes narrowed but relaxed against his.
He took the time to look around, and the first thing he noticed was the technology.
There wasn't any of this in Russia...moving photos? And what the heck was that invisible-but-visible thing called a photo? Sure, let's leave advanced technology for tomorrow and tomorrow's vodka. For now, Dazai begins to scrutinize what the moving, flying photos indicate: advertisements, propaganda, probably. Advertisements for so-called heroes, heroes, heroes who sell soap, heroes who create charitable homes, heroes, just heroes again. Maybe the man carrying them wasn't schizophrenic. Maybe Dazai was. The fact that it was more likely was absolutely unthinkable. But whatever.
"Mr. Hero! Tell me, where are we and what day is it?" Dazai squeaks in a singsong voice, and whether the man is irritated or not, only the man knows.
“Mutsafu, 2145, February 5th.” The man says mechanically, as if he's been counting every day, waiting for the work to end sooner or later. Dazai almost laughed at the thought that it probably actually happened, then decided against it due to the absurdity of the man's words.
So, it was confirmed that they were in Japan, Mutsafu, but that wasn't the concern. The worry was the year. The last three digits, because just a day ago, it was 1986.
That explained almost everything, but it was too absurd. Too far away, too far into the future, that a slight, real fear nestled in Dazai's veins for the first time in a while. They were in a totally unfamiliar world. Totally. Only the language was the same. But from the way the man spoke, you could tell they had a dialect, so Osamu was completely out of place. And Fyodor, too. What a tragedy, he wants to jump into a river, like, right now.
He continued to think, as a huge H-shaped building approached as the man ran and jumped like Spiderman across the rooftops.
Heroes. ... So, the scientist's ability was teleportation, but to the future. Dazai wondered if she could also teleport to the past, or if it had explicit limits.
Since he hadn't been able to eliminate the ability, the only way to return to his time was probably to find the scientist or the arrogant man who had most likely also injured the sound, Fyodor-kun.
Even their clothes were too old; once considered new, they now seemed truly out of place. The man's clothes were made of a different, comfortable material, while in Dazai's time, men only wore suits like his and cared a lot about their appearance.
This man would have been attacked, in his time.
Ah, he already missed it; he wonders if Petersburg is the same.
Dazai looks up and sees they've reached the walls of the building. It was made entirely of glass, like the twin towers. It was huge, so the owner was incredibly rich. Also, it looked like a school.
Hm.
Interesting.