#bsd fic

I don't remember a lot but I know that in the end show Chuuya going to the ADA (something related to work etc, etc, I don't really remember that much) and say he is 23 (24???? I don't know the exactly ages of the fic because I forgot) so Dazai, who said he was 22 (23???) earlier, says he is 23 (24???) now and Kunikida is just so confused.

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dazai Osamu/Nakajima Atsushi (Bungou Stray Dogs) Characters: Nakajima Atsushi (Bungou Stray Dogs), Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray Dogs), Yosano Akiko (Bungou Stray Dogs) Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Secret Relationship, Humor, Dazai Osamu is Whipped (Bungou Stray Dogs), Yosano Akiko is a Menace Summary:

The next chapter is posted, and we return to Fyodor’s point of view.

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death

Relationships: Fyodor Dostoyevsky/Nakahara Chuuya

(Inspired by the Beast universe and the additional scenes in the movie adaptation.)

Fyodor's goal has yet to come to fruition, but thankfully, he's been blessed with a long life, leaving him plenty of time to seek out a solution to the world's sin in service to his God. But the death of that Port Mafia boss, Dazai Osamu, has thrown a wrench into his understanding of the universe. Returning to Yokohama after coming up empty through his travels trying to find answers to some of his questions, he takes a walk through a park and comes across something interesting.

Additional tags under the cut:

The walk back to the twins' home was a chaotic mess of Andimi trying to get the adults to listen to him and Orwen telling him to shut up. Dazai found himself enjoying the view. Andimi skipped ahead, his voice a constant, high-pitched stream of words about the "gold boat" and the "tomato-man," while Orwen trailed slightly behind.

Dazai noted the way Orwen’s hand never left Andimi’s. It wasn't just a gesture of comfort; it was a grip—tight, possessive, and unwavering. Orwen’s eyes darted toward the treeline every few seconds, his posture rigid, as if he were the only thing standing between his brother and a world that wanted to swallow him whole. Dazai smiled to himself. The level of codependency was exquisite.

Their house was a weathered, salt-sprayed cottage that looked as though it were being held together by sheer willpower and a few layers of peeling white paint. As they stepped inside, Dazai’s mind immediately began cataloging the interior. It was a hoard. Stacks of yellowed newspapers, bundles of dried herbs, and piles of mismatched fabrics cluttered every available surface. It was a fire hazard's dream, and the air smelled of brine and old dust.

As they settled in, the truth emerged not through a confession, but through the quiet gaps in the boys' conversation. Dazai watched Orwen meticulously arrange a few meager belongings for their guests, noting the absence of any adult presence. There were no photos of parents on the walls—only a single, faded sketch of two adults tucked away in a drawer, half-hidden by a stack of brass coins.

Orphans, Dazai concluded. Completely alone on a rock in the middle of the ocean.

He leaned against a cluttered table, watching the twins. He felt a flicker of something—not pity, for Dazai didn't do pity well—but a profound sense of amusement. These two were a fascinating study, two kids somehow surviving with no sort of support or guidance. He decided, right then, that he wasn't finished with them. They were far too interesting to leave behind; they were like a puzzle he wanted to see unfold.

Beside him, Chuuya was unusually quiet. He stared at the boys, his expression unreadable, but the aggressive tension in his shoulders had vanished. Dazai knew that look. Chuuya had always been a sucker for the discarded—a remnant of the street rat he had once been. He wouldn't admit it, and he’d probably kick Dazai in the ribs if he brought it up, but the sight of two thirteen-year-olds surviving on brass coins and sheer desperation had triggered that stubborn, protective streak of his.

"Right," Chuuya cleared his throat, his voice returning to its usual abrasive volume. "What's for dinner?"

"Stew!" Andimi cheered, leaping toward the hearth. "And bread! Orwen makes da best stuff in da whole world!" Dazai watched as the "kitchen"—which was essentially just a large stone hearth with an open fire—became the center of operations. Andimi began "helping" by tossing handfuls of random, unidentified herbs into a pot of simmering water, while Orwen tried to reheat some stale bread over the flames. Dazai’s eyes wandered to the surroundings. Dry paper, old curtains, and several gallons of lamp oil sitting precariously close to the heat. He could almost smell the smoke already.

"Are you kidding me?" Chuuya barked, stepping forward. "You're cooking over an open flame in a room that's basically a giant matchbox! Move over, you idiots, before you burn the whole island down!"

Chuuya shoved his way into the cooking space, his movements efficient and commanding. He began moving the flammables away from the fire, his voice a constant stream of corrections. "Andimi, stop putting those weeds in the pot! Orwen, don't hold the bread directly in the fire, you're just charring the outside!"

Andimi pouted, leaning his head on Orwen’s shoulder. "But da weeds make it taste like da forest!"

"It makes it taste like dirt!" Chuuya snapped, though Dazai noticed he gently nudged Andimi aside to stir the pot. Seeing Chuuya actually attempting to be helpful was far too boring for Dazai's taste. He drifted over, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Oh, Chuuya, you're being so strict. I think the stew needs a little… flair." Before Chuuya could react, Dazai reached over and dumped a generous amount of an unidentified powder from a nearby jar into the pot.

"What was that?!" Chuuya yelled, spinning around.

"I don't know! It looked spicy!" Dazai chirped, his expression one of fake innocence. Orwen started screeching incoherent words and Andimi just shrugged.

"You moron! You'll ruin it!" Chuuya lunged for the pot, but in his haste, he bumped into Andimi, who was trying to "help" by adding more water. The pot tilted, splashing hot liquid across the hearth, which immediately ignited a small pile of old newspapers.

"FIRE!" Andimi screamed, though he sounded more excited than scared.

"GET BACK!" Orwen yelled, instinctively throwing himself in front of Andimi to shield him from the sparks, his arms wrapping around his brother with a sudden, fierce intensity.

Chaos erupted. Chuuya was frantically stomping out the fire with his boots, Dazai was laughing hysterically while trying to "help" by throwing a wet rag on the flames—which only succeeded in hitting Chuuya square in the face—and the twins were caught in the middle, a whirlwind of white hair and shouting.

Andimi was cheering, Orwen was panicking, and Chuuya was screaming every curse word in the book. Dazai found the entire scene delightful; it was the most life he'd felt in weeks.

When the smoke finally cleared and the fire was extinguished, the four of them stood in a panting, soot-covered circle. The kitchen was a disaster; the curtains were singed, the floor was damp, and Dazai had somehow managed to get flour in his hair.

Slowly, Chuuya looked down at the pot.

Despite the splashing, the mysterious powder, and the near-arson, the stew was still simmering. He dipped a spoon in and tasted it. His eyes widened. "It's… actually good?"

"I told ya da weeds worked!" Andimi beamed, clutching Orwen’s arm.

Dazai grinned, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms. "See, Chuuya? My 'flair' was the missing ingredient."

"Shut up, Dazai," Chuuya muttered, but he didn't move to kick him. Instead, he reached over and handed a piece of slightly charred bread to Orwen. "Eat up, brats. Tomorrow, we're cleaning this death trap of a house."

They moved to a small wooden table that was clearly made for the twins, but they managed to cram around it. The air was still thick with the scent of singed curtains and smoky broth, but the tension had shifted from the frantic energy of a fight to the calming feeling of a meal. Dazai leaned back in a chair that creaked ominously under his weight, watching the twins. Andimi was vibrating in his seat, eating with a gusto that suggested he hadn't had a proper meal in days. Between mouthfuls of stew, he began to chatter, his voice filling the small room.

"It's so great ta finally have guests!" Andimi exclaimed, waving a piece of charred bread for emphasis. "Usually, da only people who come over are da ones trying to sell us things we don't want, or Zula!" Chuuya, who was currently trying to figure out how to eat stew without getting it on his pristine clothes, paused. "Zula? Who the hell is Zula?"

Andimi beamed, a look of genuine pride crossing his face. "She's a friend! She lives up in da richer part of town—da section with da big houses and the gardens dat actually have flowers in them. She brings me books sometimes, and she knows all da best places to find sea glass!"

"A friend, huh?" Dazai murmured, his eyes twinkling. A small smirk slid onto Orwens face as he said, “His crush.”

Everything stopped for a moment, the only sounds coming from the creaking of the floor. Andimi froze, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. Slowly, a deep crimson began to spread across his pale cheeks. He froze up, his energy from before evaporating. He simply stared at his brother with an expression of utter betrayal, his mouth hanging open.

"Orwen!" Andimi finally shrieked, his voice cracking. “Why would ya—? Shut up! Just—shut up!" He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking, though whether from embarrassment or a desire to scream, Dazai couldn't tell.

Chuuya let out a short, barking laugh. "Hah! Looks like the little brat's got a crush. Who knew?"

Dazai laughed along, but slowly stopped. His gaze drifted away from the table. He looked at the peeling wallpaper, the holes in the floorboards that had been haphazardly covered with rags, and the whole state of the cottage.

Then, he thought about the "uptown section" Andimi had mentioned. This wasn't a hidden sanctuary. The house was visible from the main path; it wasn't tucked away in some secret valley. It was right there, on the edge of a town that had a "richer section" with gardens and books. Dazai’s mind began to piece together the silence of the island. Two albino children, orphaned young, living in a fire-trap of a house, surviving on scavenged brass and "weeds," yet they spoke of the town as if it were a place they merely visited, not a place they belonged to.

The town was just as bad as the underworld in Yokohama, the specific kind of cruelty in that—not the loud, violent kind that Chuuya fought against, but a quiet, systemic neglect. The town had looked at these two strange, pale boys and decided they simply didn't exist, leaving them to rot in a salt-sprayed shack while the "uptown" people tended to their gardens.

Dazai looked back at Andimi, who was still trying to hide his face, and at Orwen, who was calmly eating his stew, completely unfazed by the chaos he'd caused.