Welcome to the Dark Side

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Vanitas was sharp like the metal of his knives.

He was strong like tungsten and brilliant like silver glinting beneath the sunlight. Moreover, the man was powerful, as powerful as the astermite that ran so much of both the vampiric and human world.

Vanitas was not delicate.

He was not fragile, like porcelain. Did not shatter the way that a ceramic plate did upon hitting the floor. Most certainly was never vulnerable to the elements like copper that oxidized due to exposure to air.

And logically, Noé knew this. Knew that his partner could withstand harsh treatment, knew that he could survive cruel words and even crueler blows. Knew that, despite being a human, Vanitas was strong. Like tempered steel.

It was hard to remember that, though, when the blue eyed man dropped like a stone to the ground. When the swing of the cursebearer's fist made a solid crunch! upon contact with the man's face. When it was his human who lay defenseless at the ill vampire's feet.

Noé saw red. It was with frightening speed that he appeared before his partner's body, raining strikes on the attacker. He snarled, pushing the vampire far enough back that Vanitas would have room to recover. In the back of his mind, he registered quiet groans, a sure sign that the doctor was still kicking. And thank the gods for that.

"Noé!" said vampire quickly comprehended Vanitas' request before the man uttered it, and he swept the cursebearer's legs out from beneath her. He turned, pinning the struggling woman to the ground so that the inverse operation could be started. As usual, the shining light of the Book of Vanitas enchanted him, and Noé listened to his partner's smug declaration of the vampire's true name. He rose, extending a hand to Vanitas' patient.

The white haired vampire gave a brief explanation as to what happened to the newly cured one, keeping an eye on his partner through his peripherals. The man never much liked speaking to his patients when he had finished treating them, and Noé suspected that many of the vampires Vanitas had helped before they met never knew his name. Well, that was the doctor's own choice, albeit a strange one, and it would irritate him if he mettled.

"C'mon, mon cher," Vanitas, ever impatient, called over his shoulder. "I don't want to be here a minute longer."

"Coming, coming," Noé soothed, taking a couple larger steps to catch up to his partner's stride. He couldn't blame the man for wanting to leave - he wasn't exactly welcome in Altus Paris after the stunt he pulled with Lord Ruthven.

As they walked towards the border, the vampire couldn't help but let his violet eyes roam over the human's body. Every time he looked, the contradictions that were ingrained in Vanitas seemed all the more notable.

Noé understood well that humans were weaker than vampires. In fact, when he had first witnessed Vanitas fight, he had been impressed by the man's fortitude. The longer he spent with the doctor, though, the more he wondered just how Vanitas functioned the way he did.

For one thing, the human was very slight. His figure was slim, and he often did not eat. In fact, Noé could probably count the amount of times he had seen Vanitas eat on one hand. While that didn't mean that the man was not dining alone or with others, for that was very much possible, he thought that he should've definitely seen this more. So that was strike one against his health.

Strike two was Vanitas' refusal to let others help him when he was injured. At the moment, his gait was slightly impaired by a limp from the previous fight and bruises had begun to bloom across his cheek. There was a scrape across his forehead that was slowly closing, and the glove that typically concealed his left hand in was torn, which revealed more cuts up his forearm. Noé knew that Vanitas healed quicker than most humans due to the blood of the vampire of the blue moon in him but that didn't mean that he didn't need to care for himself.

That led to strike three. Overall, Noé had concluded that Vanitas was bad at caring for himself. Rejecting help, ignoring food, not sleeping (another thing on Noé's list of Vanitas' irresponsibility), all things that would further lead to the human's demise. And it was not as if accepting such things was absurd. Why could the man not allow someone to tend to him? For being such a brilliant doctor (though he was uncertain as to the validity of the other's credentials regarding human doctoring), Vanitas was certainly thick-headed when it came to his own needs.

And that led Noé back to his earlier thoughts.

Vanitas was not fragile. But, sometimes, it was hard to think otherwise. Especially when he had just seen his partner crumple like a sack of flour. The vampire withheld a sigh. They would talk about this back at the hotel.

~

"Mon cher," Noé turned, noting an edge in the undertones of Vanitas' voice. He hoped they weren't about to fight, but he also wouldn't be shocked if his roommate had come to pick a bone with him. The doctor had disappeared to the rooftop when the two had returned to their current residence, likely done so to escape any concern the vampire might express. Noé had grown use to the routine after the first month or so when he had made the mistake of hovering around the man. Vanitas was skittish like a horse when it came to his wellbeing, and his partner's fawning had overwhelmed him. "Look at me."

Violet eyes rose to meeting striking blue ones, taking in the dark shadows painting the undereye. There was wariness in that gaze, a silent threat that he could and would run if even one wrong move was made. Vanitas approached the white-haired man's bed and set his medical bag at the foot of it much to Noé's surprise. He noted the other man's state of undress, night clothes covering his thin body. He didn't think he had seen his partner in fewer layers than his just his overcoat off.

"Like what you see?" Vanitas was quiet, the tease in his remark not quite genuine. He was tense, and, if Noé was allowed to note, seemed uncertain. It was a strange look on the human. He didn't know if he liked it.

"Vanitas...?" He trailed off, also keeping his voice low. He thought he saw trace amounts of vulnerability in those blue eyes. The younger man twisted strands of inky hair between fingers. He remained silent a few moments before shoving his medical bag into Noé's arms. The vampire stared at the bundle, startled. He raised a questioning gaze to his partner.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," Vanitas scowled, though there was no real malice in it. "You're always pestering me about my health despite it being outside your grasp. If you're so damn insistent, I suppose you can deal with it yourself."

The man glared at the floor, a slight pout on his face. Noé let out a chuckle, a soft smile adorning his own. Vanitas flicked his glance towards the vampire, a faux annoyance creeping into his expression.

"Thank you, Vanitas," he said and began to work.

Noé was not nearly as skilled as Vanitas when it came to this. His fingers tangled the bandages and his nose scrunched at the smell of the rubbing alcohol. He tenderly swabbed at the scratch on the other's forehead and arm. The vampire went about it slowly, methodically, mildly afraid that he would somehow mess it up and make things worse. He kept his touch gentle.

Vanitas' reaction was predictable, but not something Noé had the foresight of considering.

In a second, the cloth was snatched from him by pale hands that immediately doused it in more disinfectant then scrubbed harshly at the cuts. Noé raised his eyes to take in the ire on Vanitas' face as the man hissed at the sting of the hydrogen peroxide. His ministrations were much rougher and faster, yet he still moved about with a grace that the vampire lacked. A particularly sharp inhale noted the treatment of a gash on his shoulder. The wound was no longer bleeding but still needed to be cleaned. Noé grabbed the doctor's wrists, halting him.

"Let me do this," he said, seriously. The look he leveled on the shorter man roused a glare from him. "You said you would let me do this."

"And you proceeded to treat me like porcelain, Noé," Vanitas sneered. There was contempt in that retort. "Je ne suis pas verre, mon cher. Besides, I have no need for your pity."

"It's not pity, Vanitas," the vampire insisted, frustration creeping into his tone. "Treating you nicely isn't done out of pity, Vanitas. Don't you believe that you deserve some gentleness too?"

Dammit, Noé thought, biting his lip. That was sure to push the man to flee, at least for the night. Maybe most of tomorrow as well. Seriously, dammit. The human stared at him, stunned almost. As if that wasn't something Noé would say. He sighed. Well, he hadn't bolted yet, so maybe he could reason with him a little bit.

Carefully, the white-haired man took the cloth from fisted hands. He scooted back on the bed to give him some space.

"Vanitas," Noé said, studying the smaller one carefully. "Kindness isn't born out of pity. The way I tend to your injuries is not born out of pity.

"Et je sais. Je sais que tu n'es pas verre. Je sais.

"Please listen to me, Vanitas. I do not pity you."

The silence was tense. Noé wondered if Vanitas had listened to anything he had just said. He wondered if the human would still run away.

A hand suddenly grabbed the soft material of his nightshirt and yanked him forward. Noé stared into Vanitas' eyes, his own wide with surprise. Something raw and vulnerable rested on his face, and the vampire knew his words had reached him to some extent. Noé let himself be observed and taken apart and put back together by Vanitas' gaze. Stayed quiet as he was examined intently. Then, supposedly satisfied with his analysis, the doctor let him go. Handed him a roll of bandages.

"Je ne suis pas verre," Vanitas muttered.

"Oui, mon chéri," Noé smiled and thanked whatever beings might exist that his stubborn human was finally accepting his help.

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A/N:

Hello!

So, my French is not great, and I apologize for any and all grammatical, cultural, and spelling errors I made. I am in the process of learning the language, so unfortunately, what I wrote will likely contain inaccuracies. However, I hope you enjoyed this oneshot!

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Some days, Dazai Osamu wished he was never born. Some days, Dazai Osamu wished he was dead. And some days, Dazai Osamu was okay with living.

This was not one of those days, though.

Dazai Osamu did have to admit that his days seemed to be getting brighter. No longer was he constantly hounded by the sins of his past nor was the tune of the suicide song playing in his mind. His desire to commit double suicide was slowly lessening (though his hunt for a beautiful maiden had yet to cease), and he did not find the arms of the river quite as comforting as before. Finally, to everyone's surprise, he had even started coming to work on time. Whether he was productive during the day was still up for debate, though. All in all, Dazai was seeing improvement.

It scared him.

Running, lying, fighting, that was all in his blood. And even if it was not there naturally, he had spent enough time being injected with violence and the need to die for his entire life. He was a criminal, a demon sent straight from hell, a monstrous sinner (and a lost child attempting to navigate adulthood). Dazai Osamu had no right to live, no right to happiness.

And today, these thoughts had driven him from work and family, from some foreign brightness back into the embrace of a not-so yet all too familiar darkness.

The alley he strode through brought him little peace, tortured screams echoing in his mind. Blood dripped from every nook and cranny, and if he ran his hand over the wall he would witness that non-existent crimson staining his palm. He saw bullets embed themselves into innocent, clean flesh. The air reeked of death, a friend Dazai could never leave behind.

So lost in thought, the brunette man missed a piece of a shared past and found himself stumbling into the wall. The brick was rough against his palms, and the uneven asphalt bit into his knees through his pants. He scowled, turning to catch sight of an accessory he had always hated.

It was that dumb slug's hat.

Dazai pushed himself against the wall, glaring at the pork pie as if it had personally offended him. The ugly, little hat stared right back at him, growing more and more unsightly as the silence stretched on. Disgust worked its way onto his face, memories of a certain red-haired man resurfacing. Damn that bastard. Why'd he have to leave that nasty thing right where he was going to be? What was the world scheming today? Well, whatever it was, he didn't like it. Still, something pulled him to his ex-partner's topper.

The world of yesterdays rushed over him, and he was left victim to the recollection of the days following Odasaku's death.

Mori Ogai was too much. Too violent, too deceitful, too cruel, etcetera, etcetera, the list went on infinitely. Well, not infinitely seeing as there were far too few words to describe that horrendous man. Osamu could see that clearly now. His escape to the 'good' side would soon be upon him, and he wished to take no remnants of his mafia days with him. Nothing other than the mark of death, of course. It was not as if he could wash himself of that branding so easily. What a pain fleeing the Port Mafia was going to be.

Snoring interrupted his thoughts, and his gaze was directed toward the slightly noisy man resting in his bed. It had been a long, hard week, and Dazai hadn't had it in him to kick out the slug, a change he hoped the other would never notice. Indeed, he had been getting softer and softer on his fiery partner as the months had passed, and when his rusty haired friend had left him, Osamu had been able to express his grief to him.

Nakahara Chuya continued to slumber peacefully, a rare treat for him.

A silent sigh slipped through his nose, and he resisted touching the man's calloused palms with his own, both drenched in unseen blood that was not stoppered at the wrist. He wondered, briefly, at telling Chuya, at convincing the other to come with him, at searching for forgiveness together. Death was also a heavy weight on the ginger's mind (Osamu knew this well enough after seeing him drink once a mission was finished). It could be nice, just the two of them, fulfilling Odasaku's wishes. Saving orphans, guiding the lost, all things that that strange man had been so good at, so devoted to. And maybe, just maybe, they could both be rescued, they could both find salvation.

Dazai Osamu was not an idealist, though.

Nakahara Chuya, his partner in crime, was just that. His partner in crime. He was bound to the Port Mafia, swathed in chains of brainwashed loyalty and threatened with praise. He was the organization's dog, always at Mori's beck and call, always eager to prove himself. The red-head's chance at freedom had been stolen from him years ago and, ironically, that damned thief was Dazai Osamu himself, the demon prodigy preparing to desert.

Osamu caught sight of an especially hideous item resting on the nightstand. The hat, a gift of Mori's, tempted the arsonist within him. He was already planning on feeding his coat to the flame, why not toss the slug's accessory too? He glowered at the pork pie, yet another bond that tethered Chuya to the organization. The stupid thing meant too much to his partner, a representation of the mafia claiming to be his home. And that dumb boy had accepted that dumb assertation. Dazai hated him for his choice, but it was not as if he could do anything.

He was, after all, the one at fault.

Nakahara Chuya knew something was off. The air of the penthouse was just barely saturated with something musty, something familiar. The smudge on the left most window seemed a little larger than it had been yesterday, and the softness of the carpet had been disturbed. The red head narrowed his eyes, pinpointing the wooden coffee table. Someone had been in his house. Chuya crept forward on silent feet, that eerie red glow, which signified his power, surrounding his lean figure. Carefully, he rounded the white couch and focused on the item left on the glossy surface.

His hat sat innocently before him, no sign of another's touch to be seen. A relieved sigh exited from his lips; he had been looking for the damn thing since sun down of yesterday. Chuya lifted the pork pie, eager to feel that comfortable weight on the crown of his head yet again when a small slip of paper fluttered out from the hat's opening. Curious, he picked up the note and opened it to read.

"For the dumb slug. I thought you couldn't go anywhere without your brain. -D.O."