Chapter Text
Year: 993
The Dark Forest is anything but dark, and fifteen-year-old Nakahara Chuuya has always wondered why it was named as such since the dawn of ages. During the day, even in the winter months, the sun peeks through the leaves, glances off of moist leaves, and basks the canopies and soils in a soft, golden glow that makes his dull red hair look oddly alive. During the night, the moon leaves a healthy husk of blue hues enough to illuminate the forest without even the need for a lamplight or firefly. If anything, Chuuya would name it The Light Forest—still, it is a trivial thing to be hung over, he knows. Some questions simply don’t have a satisfactory answer; or any answer at all, for that matter.
They say that because of the extinction of Mages outside the Aegis a thousand years ago, Charmed places also ceased to exist for a lack of purpose. But Chuuya is certain that if any magic exists out here still—any at all—then this would be the place. Something about the forest, its calmness, its peace, its light, leaves something to be desired beyond mere mortal capabilities.
As if it’s calling…
Waiting…
“Chuuya!”
Suddenly, Chuuya stops in his tracks—he’d been sprinting without even realising it. Now he whips around to find his friend, Shirase, hobbling behind and trying desperately to catch up. He’s a sharp-faced, grey-haired troublemaker back at The Pit, not so far behind Chuuya’s own reputation—together (including Yuan and Akira, of course) they make for a delinquent, although loved, ragtag group of children called The Sheep.
“Sorry,” Chuuya says guiltily, a grin on his face as Shirase shoves past him with a playful side-glare. “I promised Paul that I’d be back before sunset.”
“You’re lyin’, aren’t you?”
“Of course not.”
They know they’re getting closer to the Dark Stream when the soil gives way to wet rock and the soft, distant sound of flowing water enchants their ears. Creatures ranging from glittering beetles to fast-moving wormpogs scuttle by their feet; riverbed flowers of pink huckleberry, colour-shifting camellias and black ponice are in pure bloom as they trek closer and closer, the sound of rushing water intensifying meanwhile.
“Alright,” Chuuya says when they get to the Dark Stream. It’s as charming as ever: large, slippery rocks, canopied by tall trees casting shifting shadows, and strong water rushing down the riverbed, almost as if running from something. “You harvest some flowers, and I’ll collect the fish.”
Shirase nods happily. No one in the The Pit knows how to collect fish from the fast-flowing Dark Stream, so the job is often delegated upon Chuuya, who is known to be strong, agile and smart—perfect fish-entrapping qualities.
“Make sure to plant the seeds, too,” Chuuya shouts over to his friend as they separate to get to work.
“Yes, Sir Sustainable!” Shirase shouts over to him.
Chuuya flips him the bird; his friend laughs.
They engage like that for the subsequent twenty minutes: of course, flower-picking is a much easier and quicker practice then fishing with your bare hands, so Shirase completes his task within ten minutes, after which he kicks back and relaxes on the riverside. Meanwhile, Chuuya has his feet planted securely two-feet below the river edge to make sure the current can’t carry him away; he’s bent over, hands cupped in the water—as soon as something slimy makes contact with his hands, he’s on the move, capturing it from the stream and throwing it over his head into the half-full bucket behind him with perfect accuracy.
He captures several different types of fish that night: char, trout and even sweetfish. It should be quite enough to feed The Pit for a day or two—a job well done, he reckons.
But then his hands make contact with something else. It’s not velvety like the trout, or frictionless like the char, or rough like sweetfish—no, it’s something else entirely. It feels far too smooth, even too metallic—
“Shirase!” Chuuya yells, a grin on his face as he grabs the fish—a surprisingly large, heavy fish—”I found a mackerel!”
And then he lifts it, and—
With a scream, Chuuya drops the very unconscious human-shaped mackerel back in the stream; luckily, he finds his wits quicker than usual and quickly stops the body before it can be carried any further down. Panting, the redheaded boy grabs the pale-faced person and heaves them out of the stream as quickly as he can.
Chuuya sits besides them on his knees as he pants, eyes wide with disbelief.
What the hell…
A human…
It’s… a boy…
“Hey! Chuuya! What is that!” Suddenly, Shirase is jogging over, shocked equally to find a random, drenched-through, half-alive boy on the floor besides Chuuya. “Who in the world—”
“We need to save him,” Chuuya says, quickly doffing the unconscious boy’s outer blazer.
Chuuya tries not to focus on the boy’s pale face, but it’s far too difficult: his skin is parched white, lips a rosy red. One of his eyes has a bandages around it, concealing, perhaps, an empty eye socket beneath it, or an ugly battle scar—dark, drenched hair clings to his temples and cheeks. He’s dressed oddly too, in an attire far too professional for anyone outside of the Citadel.
Shirase watches, shocked, as Chuuya begins pushing down on the boy’s chest with clasped hands. “Wait—” he begins, though his redheaded friend does not wait, “—he doesn’t look like one of us.”
Chuuya ignores him.
“Chuuya, he’s from the Citadel—”
“—I don’t care.”
The boy remains motionless beneath Chuuya’s desperate attempts at resuscitation. Meanwhile, Shirase bends down and picks up a soaked-through red-and-white book from the near-death boy’s loose grip.
He’s not the most literate, but he can make out some words thanks to Chuuya’s recent teachings—
“A Guide to… Suicide,” Shirase whispers, his brows furrowing with confusion. “By Dazai Osamu.”
He looks up at his friend still trying to bring the boy back from the dead. “Wait, Chuuya, I think he wanted to—”
Suddenly, the boy erupts in a fit of coughing.
Wide-eyed Chuuya scuttles back a little, watching warily as the Bandaged Mackerel Boy sits up, coughing without respite; salty stream water sputters out of his mouth onto the soil below. He looks disoriented, freaked out—and when he looks up and meets Chuuya’s eyes, Chuuya feels a deep chill run down his spine.
“Who…” the dark-haired boy begins in a coarse, injured voice. “Who are you…?”
But Chuuya, gobsmacked, doesn’t respond quick enough.
The Bandaged Mackerel Boy falls unconscious again, though this time, at least, he’s breathing.
Without wasting any further time, Chuuya orders Shirase to carry the fish and the flowers, to which he quickly obliges;
Himself, he tasks to carry a dripping-wet washed-up odd-looking boy the entire five-mile route back home.
With a million questions in his mind. And a bizarre, bittersweet feeling in his chest, screaming at him that nothing will ever be the same henceforth.
When he awakes, it is not as he expected.
It is strange. He does not know exactly what his eyes are seeking, but it is not what they fall upon: where there should be high-rise marble ceilings, he sees only low-rise wooden planks above his head. Where there should be a soft, clean sheet underneath him, he can sense only scratchy fabric and a hardened mattress. Where there should have been ten doctors surrounding him in pristine lab coats and surgical masks, he finds only a disreputable woman tilting her head curiously down where he lies.
Everything feels wrong… different.
He does not feel like himself. Is that why he cannot remember anything?
“Hello,” the woman says, her voice delicate but stern alike.
“Uh…” the voice comes from his mouth, a little hesitant, but oddly blank despite his confusion. “Hello.”
Suddenly, there is a rustle sounding from outside whatever odd, dilapidated hut he is currently situated in; then the door is thrown open, and in its frame arrives someone.
A boy.
A boy with red hair, a stark face, and a short stature. A familiar one, if he recalls correctly, from the riverside—
“You—” he begins himself, before suddenly the redheaded kid is rushing over to him and—
He grabs him from his lapels. The sharp expression bends closer down to him, and suddenly is demanding, “Who are you?!” rather harshly.
He gives him plenty of time to reply, but due to his memory being at a fault, the boy can only respond with, “Uh…”
“Give him some space, Chuuya—” the young woman begins, but the boy—Chuuya—does not oblige. He shakes him instead by the lapels, up and down, with borderline desperation.
“Citadel scum,” Chuuya grits in his face, eyes alight with something akin to hatred. “Are you here to spy on us?!”
The boy feels his lips spreading out into an unamused scowl. “Let go of me, you midget.”
“Who are you callin’ a midget, bastard?!”
“Chuuya—”
“—I’m calling you a midget, because you are one.”
“You—you—you’re a stinky fish washin’ up ashore! Go back!”
“Are you not the one that saved me? How is that any of my fault?”
Chuuya clenches his jaw. “Yeah, so you can get up and leave! Why are you still here after a goddamn week?! You can only be spyin’ on us!”
The boy feels himself falter, for a second—but it seems it is in his nature to keep up with appearances, to not give much away, because he knows he covers it up perfectly, and this Chuuya kid suspects nothing in return. “I am not spying on you,” he insists, bored.
“You even speak like them,” Chuuya hisses.
“Let go of me. I will not ask again.”
“Chuuya, come on,” the young woman insists, prying Chuuya’s fists off of him. “He just woke up—give him some space, will you?”
“Don’t trust him with anything,” Chuuya demands of her, even though his weird grey-blue eyes are still trained on the boy lying on the bed relentlessly.
“I won’t,” the young woman laughs. “I’m the adult here, y’know, not you. I know what I’m doing.”
“He looks sly.”
“I am still here, you know—”
“—Don’t worry, Chuuya, I have this handled.”
“…Okay,” the Chuuya kid relents, half-sulking as he crosses his arms across his chest, leaning his weight onto one leg.
Gosh. He looks like a wannabe delinquent—how embarrassing.
“I’m sorry for that,” the young woman says, taking a seat down next to the injured boy. “My name is Yosano Akiko. This is Nakahara Chuuya—he’s the one that brought you here.”
He doesn’t need to look at Chuuya anymore, so he doesn’t—seeing him once was enough to engrave his abhorrent, otherworldly look into his mind. Instead, he stares right into Yosano’s eyes.
“I’m a doctor,” Yosano continues. “Can I ask what your name is?”
The boy hesitates. “I do not know,” he answers honestly.
“You don’t… know?”
“No.”
“You fuckin’ liar—!”
“—Chuuya.”
“Sorry,” the redhead replies in a bitter mumble.
“…Anyway,” Yosano continues, glaring at Chuuya for good measure before returning to the boy. “Do you know anything at all, then? Your age? Who you are? Where you’re from?”
He doesn’t hesitate this time. “No,” he answers again.
“Do you know where you are?”
“No.”
“You’re at The Pit—do you know what that is?”
“No.”
“Okay…” Yosano looks a little confused, concerned. But she continues onwards. “Do you know what year it is?”
“I believe so. Is it nine-ninety-three?”
“Yes. It is.”
From the side, an impatient Chuuya tuts, marching forwards. “You’re lying,” he insists, eyes alight with hatred deeper than possible for someone he just met. “Tell the truth, you spy!”
“I am not,” he answers calmly. “Get away from me, child.”
“I’m the same age as you!”
This time, Chuuya stares at him instead—they are the same age, right? Yosano had said he looks to be around fifteen years of age. But then what’s this weird look in his eyes? Even the way he lies down, stiff, uncertain—it’s the type of odd calculation that only comes from cunning middle-aged men. Not a dying, apparently amnesic teenager.
Regardless, Chuuya does not believe him at all. He wasn’t raised to be so trusting or stupid. He is well aware of the Citadel’s reputation for being sugarcoated liars, undercover murderers and blatant spies. A fair share have stumbled across The Pit before under the guise of beggars, children, elderly—but never under such a guise of amnesia. It’s odd, elaborate, and bizarrely desperate. Immediately, Chuuya feels a sense of trepidation. As if something larger is at play here.
…Have they found out about Atsushi? Is that why they’re here?
“So clearly, your memory is impaired,” Yosano continues, fingers intertwined in her lap. “But how about your physical wellbeing? Do you feel ill at all?”
The dark-haired boy shrugs. “I always feel somewhat unwell.”
“Anything out of the ordinary?”
“I do not believe so.”
“Okay,” Yosano says, jotting something down on a notebook in her lap. “And your name… you really have no idea what it could be?”
“None at all,” the boy replies without care.
Yosano stands up from her seat. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Both of you behave, okay? I don’t wanna hear any shouting.” And then she’s gone, slipping out of the hut, on the hunt for someone—most probably Doc, one of The Flags, who is considerably more experienced than her.
Chuuya stares the Boy down.
Without a care, the Boy hums, curious eyes glancing around the room. Blank. Calculative.
Suddenly, the door swings open again—
Instead of Yosano, in pile Chuuya’s friends: Akira, Shirase and Yuan. Chuuya watches the Boy at first, at the way his plain brown eye glances over their appearances. Their tattered clothes, unwashed faces, dry hair and short, malnourished statures. Stupid, judgemental Citadel scum.
“Hello,” Yuan says to him, offering him an insincere smile. “I’m Yuan. What’s your name?”
The Boy looks annoyed at having to answer this for the millionth time. “I do not know,” he answers.
“I do not know,” Akira mocks with a mean laugh. “That Citadel dialect never gets old.”
The Boy looks unfazed buy the jab—he simply stares.
Yuan nudges Akira. “Play nice,” she hisses at him.
“If you don’t have a name,” Shirase says, stepping forward, “how about we give you one for now?”
Akira scoffs. “Or not. It’s not like he’s stayin’ here. He’s probably got a cushy little mansion to head back to.”
“No, I think we should,” Shirase says—only then does Chuuya notice his friend’s evil grin and vengeful eyes. They all have their own dark stories with the Citadel, and Shirase has experienced his fair share too, but… “How about Buta?”
Buta. Or pig.
The Boy still looks unfazed lying there, if not for the mild annoyance in his flat face. He doesn’t seem to be getting offended, but simply as if he’d rather have silence where the four of them are taunting him.
Chuuya interrupts the childish jabs with a scoff. “Nah,” he says, stepping forward—the Boy finally looks at him in the eye, the same as earlier, when it sent a shiver down his spine. He seems to be waiting for a jab from him, too. “We’ll call you Dazai. For now.”
“What does that one mean?” Akira asks, as if it has to have some underlying meaning.
“Nothin’,” Chuuya answers simply, still maintaining eye contact with Dazai. “It’s some guy’s name. The one that wrote his suicide manual.”
“That’s boring,” Shirase complains.
“Dazai,” the Boy says from the bed, tasting the letters on his tongue, the way his voice moulds around it. He’s still staring at Chuuya, as if he doesn’t care for his friends’ presence in the slightest. “I do not love it. But it will do.”
“Oh, you don’t love it?” Akira snaps. “We can always call you a Buta, you Citadel cow—!”
“Get out,” Yosano snaps from where she materialises in the doorframe, eyes shooting daggers at Chuuya and his friends. “Get out and grow up, you little shits.”
Yuan blushes with embarrassment. “We’re sorry, Yosano-san! It won’t happen again!”
One by one, the four friends pile out of the Healing Hut—
Chuuya is the last to leave. He glances over his shoulder to glance at Dazai, only to find him staring right back emotionlessly.
Yosano slams the door in his face.
The Pit is the largest village in central Buvi. Housing over four-hundred citizens, it is made up of a variety of people—most see this as a weakness, but to the Pitters, it is a simple strength. Whereas most villages are smaller in number and specialised in a skill—hunting, alchemy, research, enhancements—The Pit hosts several categories of skills, ages and personalities. Sure, it makes them easier to antagonise by Citadel scum when they stumble across on the way from Outbound ‘missions’, but it’s a small price to pay for their ever-increasing independence from them.
As much as the Citadel mutually despises them, they also rely on the Outer Villages. On their skillsets and trades—there are certain things only the Mageless can do, since they’re not so reliant on their privilege to get them by in life. To maintain a somewhat healthy relationship with them, the Citadel is ‘generous’ enough to provide them with the occasional Copper and Bronzepens. A clear underpayment for their hard work, but they take what they can get. However, if the Citadel get pissed off enough, if they want to take revenge for something… they will simply pillage the villages.
The last village to be pillaged were The Crows down south years ago—their main skillset was Metalworking. The villagers secretly formed several dangerous weapons, some with Enchantments against the Mages of the Citadel, one of the most severe crimes you can commit, especially as an Outsider. They attacked the Citadel and lost badly. In the end, the Citadel razed down the village and killed everyone—even the youngest, a newborn Mage. Newborn Mages in the villages are either kidnapped or killed by the Citadel during the annual Gleaning. That is how they maintain the balance of their hierarchy—to make sure the Villages never acquire a Mage.
How they have managed to keep Atsushi a secret for the past decade… Chuuya will never know.
But they have. That’s the important part. And they will continue to do so, until their last fighting breath if they must.
“Chuuya-san!” the grey-haired boy exclaims as he jogs over to where the redhead is carving wood into spears. “I heard the Citadel boy woke up!”
Wiping soot off of his forehead, Chuuya glances up at Atsushi—at his hopeful face and lively eyes. “He has,” he answers with a grin. “You wanna go see him?”
“Yeah. Can I?”
“Um… I think so. Doc must be finished up with him. “
“What’s his name?”
“I dunno. We’re callin’ him Dazai for now.”
“Oh. Do you need help?”
Chuuya smiles at the eleven-year-old boy. At his young age, he doesn’t yet know how to control his powers—and although none of them yet understand what exactly he possesses, they do know that brute strength beyond natural capabilities seems to be one of them. So, of course, Chuuya has to say, “No, I’m good. Thanks.”
A few years ago, when Atsushi had been seven, Ranpo had allowed him to help with building a revolutionary irrigation system for their soils during the dry season—when tasked with turning a lever, Atsushi had unintentionally broken it off with a light flick of his wrist.
Needless to say, he was never tasked with a hands-on job ever again.
“Chuuya!” a familiar voice suddenly yells—both Chuuya and Atsushi whip around to face Akira. A black-haired, green-eyed boy, the tallest one for his age in the entire village. He can be snarky and defensive, particularly against the Citadel—but when he loves, he loves hard. And he certainly loves both Chuuya and Atsushi.
“Yosano’s calling for you,” Akira says when he finally catches up. Two young children, Izuku and Cho, are running after him—most probably trying to drag him back into whatever game they were playing. Akira’s face scrunches up with minute disgust before he says, “I think it’s to do with the Citadel scum.”
Chuuya frowns. “Why me?”
“I don’t know,” Akira shrugs. “I’ll come with ya, if you need.”
“No, I’ll go with him,” Atsushi perks up happily.
“Thank God,” Akira sighs with relief. “I don’t wanna be around that guy—he stinks of Citadel.”
He doesn’t. He washed up here, completely drenched, and has been changed out of his clothes since—he no longer smells of anything.
Chuuya drops the wood and walks over to where Shirase and Yuan are sat cross-legged beside each other. He’s certain he’s been sensing… something private blossoming between the two of them. So he tries not to disturb them often. Sure, it’s disgusting to be getting affectionate when you’re supposed to be friends, but Chuuya supposes it’s only natural to eventually fall in love one day.
“Hey,” he says to Shirase. “I have to do somethin’, can you two take over the spears for now if you ain’t doing anythin’?”
After they nod yes in confirmation, Chuuya walks over to the Healing Hut with Atsushi in tow.
He’s not sure how well Yosano is going to take it, brining Atsushi with him… but he’s sure it can’t be good.
Which is all but confirmed when they come to face Yosano five steps outside of the hut. Pale-faced, she pulls them both aside to demand, “Why are you bringing Atsushi-kun here?!” to Chuuya.
Chuuya shrugs. “He wanted to see Dazai.”
“Well, he can’t!” she says—but her voice softens immediately upon noticing the soft, guilty look on Atsushi’s gentle face. He already takes far too much caution with everything he does. “What if the Citadel boy realises he’s a Mage? He’ll kidnap him.”
Chuuya scoffs. “With me there? I’d like to see him try.”
“He could be a Mage, too! You can’t take him on if that’s the case.”
“I can,” Chuuya insists. “And I will.”
“Okay, fine,” Yosano relents, crossing her arms across her chest. “Let’s say you can. But Dazai can still run off and alert the Citadel—what then?”
“I’ll kill him before he can.”
“Oh, my God, Chuuya!”
“What?” Chuuya says, half-calm and half-snarling, already pissed. Not at Yosano, but at the situation—at the Citadel still getting to control every single thing they do, every single thing this poor young boy has to do. “If we control Atsushi more than the Citadel, then what’s he really getting out of bein’ here? He might as well live a better life there. We have to let him do things, right?”
Yosano pauses. She stares at him, then at Atsushi—
She may be only nineteen of age, but the stress of their life weighs heavy on her shoulders.
The woman sighs. Pinches the bridge of her nose. “…Fine,” she mumbles. “Go. Before I change my mind.”
Chuuya smiles—and although she tries not to, Yosano is smiling back soon enough. She has to put up this mature, by-the-book attitude more often than not, especially since Doc is just recently beginning to trust her with the ins and outs of patient care—but deep down, the boy knows of her rebellious spirit. It doesn’t take long to convince her of bad ideas. Only thing is, she doesn’t like bullies. Much like Chuuya in that sense, too.
“He asked for you, y’know,” Yosano says right outside the door. “You specifically.”
Chuuya frowns even harder. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Think he took a liking to you.”
“The feeling’s definitely not mutual.”
“Be nice, okay?” she asks. “He doesn’t remember anything. It can’t be easy.”
Reluctantly, Chuuya nods.
He pushes open the door.
Dazai is sat up now, back against the headboard. He’s dressed in his washed and dried clothes that he’d arrived in: a posh white button-up, black blazer, black slacks. His left eye, bandaged up, hair messily falling down his face. It’s an objectively pretty face. The kind of delicate prettiness that should be usual for the Citadel, but it seems to surpass even that—there’s something haunting about it, something intricate. Especially in that brooding brown eye. Wherever it looks, it seems to leave behind a hollow pit in its wake.
Dazai smiles meanly when he sees Chuuya. An oddly emotionless smile. “You came,” he says. “Much like my very own puppy.”
Chuuya frowns, brows furrowed harshly. “You don’t wanna test me right now, y’got that?” he snaps.
“And who is this with you?” Dazai asks, eye sliding over to the grey-haired boy watching him curiously by Chuuya’s side.
“Uh,” Atsushi says, smiling. “I’m Nakajima Atsushi. It’s nice to meet you, um…”
“…I cannot remember anything. But I think I have been named Dazai.”
“Okay. It’s nice to meet you, Dazai-san.”
Dazai nods. “Likewise, Atsushi-kun.”
There’s something calculative in his gaze as it rakes down Atsushi. As if he can peel his skin off of him—see the power thrumming under his skin. Do Citadel scum have X-rays in their eyes? He looks like he can tell everything from one single look, and it’s far too unnerving.
“C’mon,” Chuuya snaps, forcing Dazai to break his eye contact with Atsushi to look at him. “You can walk, right? I gotta show you around, I think.”
“I can walk,” Dazai says simply.
Atsushi, the much kinder one, helps Dazai off the bed: a hand supporting his arm, slipping shoes in front of him, adjusting his blazer around his shoulders. Dazai thanks him, and although his voice lacks much sincerity, Atsushi seems to notice something underlying to it—something real. He smiles at Dazai as if to say no problem, and begins to lend him his body to lean on as they walk, in case he seems to be in need of it.
“Uh… this is the farm,” Chuuya explains when they get outside. The sun is high in the sky and blaring heat down upon them—yet, Dazai seems unfazed by it. He seems to simply be soaking in the views around him: dilapidated huts, hardened soil, squealing, happy children, wary gazes of teenagers—a lot to soak in, Chuuya is sure, but also, he doesn’t care. It’s the least Dazai probably deserves. “This, right here—we’ve got carrots, potatoes, all sorts. That tree grows bananas, I think—right, Atsushi?”
“Yes,” Atsushi says eagerly.
“This here is the training facility,” Chuuya says, pointing to a row of targets and strung bow and arrows waiting to be used. Two kids begin mucking about with it, so of course, the redheaded boy has to jump in with, “Hey! You can’t be usin’ them without adults around! Piss off!”
“Sorry, Chuuya-san!” a little girl squeaks, abandoning the bow and arrow to run off. Her friend runs after her, laughing as she does so.
“Fuckin’ kids,” Chuuya grumbles, though there’s a small smile on his face—Dazai stares at him. “You don’t know how many accidents we get with ‘em. But we still keep it up—better they know how to defend themselves against Citadel scum.” Grey eyes side-eye Dazai at that, evaluating his face: will he get offended by the jab? But his face remains as impassive as ever, looking back without any care at all.
Chuuya continues taking him on a tour around their modest village. The Research area, the Healing Huts, the homes, the storage, the numerous orders they pack for only a few Copperpens by the opulent Citadel. He shows him the cottages, the small Shrine for a god who no one even knows, but they pray to Him anyway for the simple sake of it. He shows him their local shops and the very humble educational spaces; it would be overkill to call them ‘Schools’ as they do in the Citadel. It’s a single-floor, single-room classroom that is always cramped with kids being taught from tattered, old, misinterpreted books.
“That’s it… I think,” Chuuya says as they walk along the outer fence of The Pit. “Whaddya think?”
He whips around to face Dazai.
Only to find him—
“Hey!” Chuuya yells, stomping over to him— “Did you seriously fall asleep?!”
“Huh?” Dazai mumbles, eye fluttering open, body relaxed entirely against an eleven-year-old Atsushi that is holding him up with no fuss. “Oh, sorry—I was just so bored!”
“Bored! Bored?! I can show you boring, you fucking—”
“—Blah, blah! Can you stop screaming in my ear?”
“You goddamn—I took time outta my day to show you around, y’know!”
“Did not ask, do not care,” Dazai whistles, poking his own ear with his pinky finger and yawning extra loud. “Say, Atsushi-kun, do you mind taking me back to bed?”
“You—you—stinky little—!”
“—Yes, of course, Dazai-san. Sorry, Chuuya—”
“—I’m gonna beat this bastard up!”
“—Oh, little pup, you should not pick on injured men—”
“—Man?! You’re a joke of a man—!”
Chuuya does not stop scolding Dazai Osamu all the way to The Healing Hut.
Exhausted and fed up, Dazai’s agitation soon turns into completely ignoring him, which—for some reason—riles up Chuuya even more, which then riles up Dazai, and before they know it, they’re arguing until the sun sets, and Atsushi watches the whole thing whilst anxiously biting his nails.
Thus starts the teenage tale of Nakahara Chuuya and Dazai Osamu.
They were together now. They would be together for a few years.
But life is funny. Especially in a Charmed world. And soon enough, far too many secrets will be revealed for them to ever go on like they are now.
But for now—
Let us enjoy their childish youth.