Dazai finds an engagement ring in a shoebox in Chuuya’s closet—what could possibly go wrong? | part 6
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | final part + ao3 link
When he was nothing but skin and bones and ended up on the street, he quickly learned not to expect anything good.
Good things never lasted; they slipped through his fingers like sea foam, nothing more than salt crusted under his nails. Just a mirage. Like the old woman who fed the stray cats and let him stay in her house without asking questions, or the freshly graduated detective who tried to help him and believed that returning him to his parents was a good idea.
He shuddered just thinking about that rainy afternoon. His clothes clung to him uncomfortably, the cold seeped into his bones, but it was the face of his late father—the man who had used him as a weapon until he turned against him—that froze his blood.
No, good things didn’t last.
The old woman disappeared, abandoning her cats to their fate, and the young detective—who had seen fear reflected on a child’s face—took the easier road, the smoother one.
He saw the fear and ignored it.
He saw the money and accepted it.
Dazai didn’t often think about that time; he didn’t waste energy on people who could no longer hurt him. His mother had turned her back on him, prioritizing her other children, and his siblings looked at him with pity, or fear, or a mix of both, but always from a distance.
Dazai was the odd one out, the anomaly.
Until everything burned.
Dazai quickly got used to good things having an expiration date, or rotting between his fingers if he held onto them for too long.
It would hurt less.
Or so he thought, because it hurt the same.
It hurt worse.
Spending his work hours at the café, shamelessly flirting with the waitresses—especially the most senior one (she had his kind of humor, and her dark, daring comebacks were invigorating)—and wasting time analyzing the clientele, both the regulars and the passersby, was part of his routine.
The reason he endured an eight-hour shift.
Lucy Montgomery wasn’t of any interest to him at all; her gaze was sharp, and she avoided Dazai like the plague. Dazai didn’t know if it was because of his ability, his peculiar sense of humor, or because she could sense the darkness looming over him.
Silent, dangerous.
Dazai didn’t blame her. Why would he? No one wanted to be near someone with blood on their hands, with death’s shadow lurking. Elusive, yet ever-present.
He was idly playing with a strip of gauze when he heard a shriek from the other side of the café.
It wasn’t a threat, but he leaned out from the booth anyway.
Lucy looked happy, chin high, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. Kyouka appeared indifferent as she finished her milkshake, but Kenji was clearly staring, wide-eyed, at the waitress.
The scream had come from Higuchi.
Dazai grimaced.
He was about to ignore the commotion when something bright caught his eye from the corner of his vision. His heart seized, faster than his mind, twisting in its cage as if gripped by strong fingers, and his blood flow stalled.
He didn’t get dizzy, but the world faltered, incomplete in its turn.
There.
Right there.
He wasn’t aware of what he was doing until the chair clattered to the floor and Higuchi’s hand shot to her waistband, all traces of genuine amusement erased from her face.
Dazai’s fingers clamped down on Lucy’s wrist. She paled at the cold grip of his ability, her knees buckled, and a small gasp—half fear—escaped her parted lips.
Dazai hated physical contact (and craved it) for exactly this reason.
“Dazai?” Kenji asked, confused.
Kyouka, ever loyal, kept her eyes trained on the blonde.
Dazai couldn’t care less. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t hear anything over the deafening buzz in his skull.
And he couldn’t see anything except the thin golden band on Lucy’s finger.
It made no sense.
He tightened his grip and the girl shivered; fear—familiar, bittersweet on his tongue—swirled in his gut like a thorned vine twisting and tearing.
“What is that?”
His voice came out cold, low.
“My ring?”
Dazai locked eyes with the terrified waitress. She couldn’t defend herself—she probably wasn’t sure she could, not here, not on Agency territory.
Helplessness
Desperation.
Panic.
Something pulled his lips upward, his demons baring their hungry teeth. The ease with which he could fall back into old habits would torment him later, but right now he could only think—Chuuya, Chuuya, Chuuya.
Why you?
Dazai’s grip tightened further, his nails seeking her blood.
“It’s her engagement ring!” Higuchi blurted out from her seat, terrified. She hadn’t been around when he was in the mafia, but she could see his black blood, feel it in the charged air, and she knew his story.
Dazai staggered.
“It’s her engagement ring,” Higuchi repeated, calmer now, her gaze fierce. “Do you have a problem with that?”
Dazai let go.
He was trembling; he hadn’t realized until someone touched his shoulder and he stumbled back. His head boiling over—Chibi’s crooked smile, his freckled cheeks, his laugh, hoarse and broken that warmed his chest, and his promises, the ones he’d clung to like an anchor that now dragged him straight to the bottom—and he opened his mouth for a gulp of air.
His hands went to his throat, tugging at his shirt, his fingers brushing the familiar gauze but it wasn’t enough. He needed to hold himself together, he needed to breathe, to take air in, hold it, and let it out.
Think.
He needed—
Someone was speaking, probably Kunikida, and though his voice had a soothing effect, wrapped in concern, in that moment it felt wrong.
That wouldn’t last either.
Nothing lasted, and he had forgotten.
Chuuya and his fierce, loyal, pure love—love Dazai had rejected for years, kept at arm’s length so he wouldn’t ruin it, shatter it, destroy it—and yet it had burrowed under his skin and carved out a space in his chest, between his ribs, and now it writhed against him.
It couldn’t be true.
Why? Why?
They’d never promised eternal love, their love wasn’t pure, and their relationship was a disaster built on the ruins of their old partnership, nothing more than rubble and half-raised walls.
It wasn’t real.
It wasn’t meant to last.
Dazai had known it in the mafia. He should have known it now.
He choked, collapsed to his knees against the hard pavement, claws digging into his chest over his clothes. A hollow laugh—more strangled noise than laughter—climbed his throat.
It didn’t make sense.
It was the same ring.
Chuuya would never buy one that wasn’t unique—his elitist, extravagant chibi.
It didn’t make sense, but—
Sharp eyes and pressed lips.
One brow raised.
“Problem, Chibi?”
A bad day. A terrible one.
“You want to sleep with some girl? Fine, do it. But not in our apartment.”
Blood, he sought blood—and found understanding. Dazai twisted it into a weapon.
“Can I?”
His face softened, love tinged his irises with a deeper blue.
“Osamu, I love you and you love me. Nothing else matters.”
“Nonsense.”
“My name is here.” A hand pressed against his chest; Dazai barely managed to contain his frantic heartbeat. Lower, a touch that burned. It wasn’t love—it was panic. He had wanted to hurt and feared he would. “You’re mine, and I’m yours, as long as you want me.”
“I didn’t sleep with her.”
“Good.”
“I just wanted—”
“I know.” His hand slid up to cradle his neck, and Dazai melted at the touch, a moan slipping past parted lips. “Don’t hurt us by hurting yourself. I’m here.”
His hand slid lower again, circling his throat.
Dazai gasped.
Fingers tightened.
Ridiculous.
But true, until it wasn’t—because a ring wasn’t a one-night stand, or a careless mistake, or an act of spite. It was a forever where Dazai had no place.
He wanted to ruin it the way Chuuya had ruined him, and at the same time, he only wanted to disappear.
Chibi had told him he was his.
Chibi had told him it was enough, as long as they had each other.
Lies.
Lies, lies, lies.
He flexed his fingers against the brick wall, nails broken, heart in shards. His phone buzzed in his pocket—maybe Kunikida, maybe his Chuuya—who wasn’t his, and would never belong to anyone.
He picked up.
Slug: can we talk? Slug: something happened and—
No.
Slug: I wanted to tell you first. Slug: I don’t want to say it here, samu.
Mackerel: on my way.
All good things came to an end.
All good things turned against him, rotting between his fingers or poisoning everything.
It was fine.
He would be fine—once he tore it all apart.
His heart. Chuuya’s heart.
—divider by @cafekitsune
