#enewrites

Dazai doesn’t get it. He knows he should be patient, but he can’t—not when Chuuya’s right there, close enough to touch, after four long years.

He pushes, keeps pushing until Chuuya explodes.

“I thought you were dead, you piece of shit!”

It’s absurd, the words spilling from his mouth, the fire blazing in his mismatched eyes, the grief twisting his face. Dazai hears static; his lips part, but no sound comes out.

Chuuya grimaces, shakes his head, and walks away. Nothing left but dying embers.

Dazai doesn’t understand, or maybe he does, and just doesn’t want to. He knows he should give him space, more time but... it’s been four years apart and it hurts. It stings, deep under the skin. He needs Chuuya. He needs to know they can still go back. Not to the way they were, maybe—but to something better.

This time, he doesn’t push. He stays on the sidelines.

Day pass. Then weeks. Months.

Their meetings are rare—a cool breeze in the middle of a suffocating day. And it feels like maybe they’re okay again, but it's only in the midst of the fray: wild grins, the glint of battle, and looks that say everything but really say nothing.

Until it passes.

Two fists collide.

Two shoulders brush.

Hesitation.

A drink.

The time that stretches between the end of a mission and the inevitable goodbye.

Step by step. There are missteps, Dazai pushes too far, and Chuuya hides—until he doesn’t anymore.

Until they finally talk.

Dazai doesn’t understand—and it eats at him—that Chuuya, who once read him like an open book, who got under his skin, took root, and rotted everything, would believe he was dead. It makes sense, in a twisted sort of way but it still hurts.

“I don’t read minds, Dazai,” Chuuya said, drained. There was no anger in his voice, just something else. Something hollow.

Dazai wanted to claw at it, that feeling crawling damp and sticky over his skin. His fingers tightened around his glass.

“How could I have known? You left. You disappeared. I couldn’t find you.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice was a whisper. Empty and flat, and somehow still full.

Chuuya’s lips pursed.

It won’t be easy, but they’ll learn to know each other again. They’ll take wrong steps, they’ll stumble, and Chuuya will probably never fully trust him outside of battle again—but they’ll get there. Slowly but surely.

Dazai has made up his mind.

As always, right?

He will stay and fight for Chuuya. They might be on opposite sides, the world might turn against them—but as long as Chuuya leans toward him, flashes that half-smile, or his eyes spark or darken when they meet his, it will be worth it.

All of it will be worth it.

Dazai bumps his shoulder against Chuuya’s. It’s tentative—barely a touch—and Chuuya clicks his tongue in irritation. But there’s something else there. Softer. More knowing.

The word “partner” dies on Dazai’s lips—too tender.

But not for long.

When his phone buzzed in his pocket, and “Mackarel” in all caps greeted him, Chuuya knew his night was ruined.

Dazai didn’t call, never.

“What the hell, Shitty Dazai?”

The silence stretched on the other end. It wasn’t heavy—it didn’t feel like a weight on his shoulders—and that, more than anything, set him on edge.

It wasn’t Dazai.

He parted his lips, fury igniting his veins, and—

“It’s Atsushi, from the Agency.”

And the flame was extinguished so quickly that Chuuya felt his knees give way. He was too old for this kind of shock, especially after what had happened in Meursault. He leaned against the wall and looked up at the starless sky. Not far off, his subordinates worked efficiently.

He rubbed his chest.

"Weretiger, where is your mentor?"

He hoped he didn’t sound as anxious as he felt. Dazai never left his phone unguarded.

“Can you... I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to call. Kunikida and Yosano are out of the city on a mission. Ranpo... Well, Ranpo told me to use this phone, and... I didn’t know... You’re his emergency contact.”

His heart stumbled.

And a million catastrophic scenarios flashed through his mind.

“What happened?”

Atsushi fell silent. That kid had saved the city. Hell, he’d saved the world. Chuuya had to give him some credit, but it was hard to trust anyone else, especially if it involved that damn waste of bandages.

“He’s drunk too much—”

His brain short-circuited because “Dazai” and “drunk too much” made absolutely no sense together.

His first thought was that it was a joke, some kind of distraction tactic. It wouldn’t be the first time. Dazai loved causing chaos, especially when he was bored. Dragging his subordinate into some twisted plan just to mess with Chuuya seemed plausible.

Dazai had only gotten drunk twice. The first time, shortly after Chuuya joined the mafia. Dazai had shown up with an expensive bottle and that grin of his—the one that promised trouble and made Chuuya longed to punch out.

"Is Chibi a baby?" he’d mocked, the smugness in his voice making Chuuya sick.

It had been a provocation.

He wasn’t a baby, goddammit.

Sure, he still needed to sleep with a little light on, and yeah, sometimes he’d wake up drenched in sweat, calling out for a mother or father whose existence he wasn’t sure of.

Chuuya had snatched the bottle from him. It was heavy, and smelled strong. He couldn’t hide the grimace or the cough that came when the sour liquid burned down his throat.

Dazai had seemed fascinated when Chuuya slammed the bottle into his chest.

“An indirect kiss!”

“Ha?!”

That night ended in the infirmary.

The second time…

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Send me the address.”

The bar wasn’t on mafia turf, but it was close enough that it wasn’t a coincidence. He scanned the room until his eyes landed on the weretiger, but the knot in his stomach—the discomfort lodged in his chest—didn’t ease until his gaze fell on the slumped figure curled up on the bar.

Dazai hadn’t changed much in those months, except for the cane.

As if a thread pulled them both, Dazai lifted his head, and a goofy grin tugged at his lips. Chuuya had spent the entire trip thinking about what he’d do—whether he’d play along until one of them ended up with a bleeding wound, or if he’d just kick his ass for wasting his time.

There was a reason he avoided meeting with Dazai unless it was a joint mission.

He felt exposed. Vulnerable. And damn it, Dazai was supposed to be the one at a disadvantage.

“Chibi!”

“I’m not in the mood for your nonsense.”

“My puppy came for me!” Dazai wrapped his long arms around him. “Chibi’s here!”

It was hard to maneuver with a particularly clingy Dazai, but once, Chuuya had been an expert. The bastard buried his nose into the curve of his neck, pulling him closer. Chuuya tried to push him away, a curse on the tip of his tongue. Atsushi seemed ready to leave.

Chuuya didn’t drag out the torture longer than necessary.

“I’ll handle this.”

Atsushi didn’t need to be told twice. He practically flew toward the exit in gratitude.

“Let’s go, Mackarel, time to sleep.”

“No,” Dazai whined. “Chibi, Chuuya, do you hate me?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“When do you ever do something right, damn it?”

Dazai pouted.

His eyes were glassy, his cheeks flushed, and his lips were bitten. Jesus.

“Will Chibi carry me like a princess?”

Chuuya took a deep breath. “If I refuse, it’ll be worse, right?”

His smirk promised trouble.

Dazai threw his arms around his neck.

“Chibi.”

Chuuya hummed noncommittally. He’d parked just at the end of the street.

“Do you hate me?”

“Of course.”

“I’m serious.”

“And so am I, idiot.”

Dazai didn’t respond.

“I miss you.”

It was worse than a stab. Chuuya stopped.

And Dazai twisted the knife.

“Can you give me a second chance?”

“Second?” Chuuya scoffed, barely holding back.

“Or third, or fourth, please.”

“Dazai, shut up. You’ll regret this tomorrow.”

Meursault had been hell.

Pretending to be a vampire and dancing a waltz whose steps he thought he knew hadn’t been the worst part.

It was the motel where they took refuge, the bloodstained bandages, the whiskey that burned his throat and dulled his senses.

It was Dazai.

Dazai telling him he loved him, that he’d loved him since the mafia, but still hadn’t been able to stay.

Dazai talking about Odasaku.

“I love you,” he repeated, squirming in his arms. Chuuya cursed aloud, and Dazai’s face contorted in pain as he put weight on his bad foot. “I love you. Why isn’t it enough?”

“It wasn’t enough five years ago! Why would it be now?!”

He hadn’t wanted to snap, not with Dazai in that state.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh,’ damn it.”

“Chuuya, but that had nothing to do with you.”

“We’re not having this conversation here.”

Dazai rejected the cane but agreed to sit on the step of a closed store with his injured leg stretched out. It hadn’t healed properly, and Chuuya didn’t know all the details, but he knew enough to realize it was partly his fault.

“I couldn’t stay, Chibi.”

“I know, damn it. You made that pretty clear in Meursault.”

“And it had nothing to do with you. It was never about you.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Dazai looked more lucid now, but his movements were slow and awkward, and speaking seemed to be a struggle, as if connecting two thoughts together was hard.

It wasn’t the right time.

But when would it be?

“Chuuya, Chibi, I couldn’t stay for you, and I couldn’t ask you to come with me.”

Chuuya exhaled sharply, turned his glance toward the road. He couldn’t look at him, tears gathering under his eyelashes, choking his throat. He wouldn’t cry. It wasn’t worth it.

“Please, come here,” Dazai pleaded.

“For what?”

“Because it hurts.”

“And why the hell should I care?”

Still, despite knowing he shouldn’t, he moved closer.

Dazai wrapped his arms around Chuuya’s waist, resting his cheek against his stomach. Chuuya’s hands ended up in his hair. In that shitty motel, crammed into a too-small bathtub, sharing a bottle of whiskey, Dazai had talked to him about Odasaku. But tonight, with barely any space between them, he opened himself up.

“Every day away from you was agony.”

“Don’t exaggerate.”

“I knew Mori wouldn’t hurt you. You were too valuable for him to take it out on you. But still, I woke up with fear in my bones.”

“Mori isn’t—”

“Don’t defend him,” Dazai interrupted, tightening his hold. “Mori and I have a complicated relationship, and you know it. I can’t hate him, but—”

“Alright.”

Dazai lifted his head, and Chuuya brushed the hair from his forehead.

“Chibi, when I was finally free, the first thing I did was look for you. I needed to know you were okay, safe. But I couldn’t get too close without risking you finding out.”

“I would’ve killed you,” Chuuya laughed.

Dazai shook his head.

“The first time I saw you, my resolve shattered.”

“What?”

“Isn’t it pathetic?”

“Dazai.”

“I needed this, my path to the light, to work. I couldn’t see you. I couldn’t risk it. It got easier when I joined the ADA, but there were nights I found myself in mafia territory, too close to you for it to be a coincidence.”

Chuuya wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, or if he even wanted to hear it through.

“Chuuya, you gave me a reason to live when we met, but Odasaku gave me a purpose. I couldn’t fail him. And look at me, I like saving lives.”

“The light looks good on you, bastard.”

Dazai didn’t shut up, continuing to dissect his thoughts as if it were easy. As if exposing his heart didn’t take Herculean effort. It hadn’t been like this in the mafia.

Being with the ADA had saved him in more ways than one.

“Will you give me a chance? Not now, not tomorrow. When I’ve earned it.”

“Tomorrow, you won’t remember any of this.”

Or you’ll pretend not to, more like.

“Tomorrow, I’ll still feel the same,” he assured, and Chuuya made a face. His heart—his stupid heart—wavered. “Chibi, we’ve already wasted too much time. If it weren’t for Fyodor, I... I was going to apologize sooner, but everything got complicated, and I was scared that—”

“I can protect myself, goddammit.”

“I know, I know, my mind knows, but—” Dazai pulled away, though he kept his hands on his hips. “I don’t want to wait anymore. There will always be a bigger threat… a reason to wait, but I refuse. Five years of longing are enough.”

“Stop saying nonsense.”

“I’m serious,” Dazai insisted, his eyes burning with determination. Chuuya faltered. “I’m tired of waiting. And I’ll prove it to you every day until you believe it.”

Chuuya made a strangled sound.

“We’ll see.”

“I’ll make Chibi eat his words. You’ll fall for my charms!”

“I won’t let you break my heart again, Shitty Dazai.”

“I won’t do it again. I won’t stay away. I won’t let anyone separate us.”

“You’re too intense.”

“But you don’t hate me, do you?”

“I can’t stand you!”

Could it work? Would Dazai keep his word? Chuuya had his doubts, but a part of him—the same part that had let him go when they met again in the dungeons and followed that bastard to a French prison—had already made up its mind.

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | final part + ao3 link

Dazai found the ring by chance (read: hidden in a shoebox at the bottom of a closet Chuuya used exclusively for storage), and his brain short-circuited.

It was a ring. In a heart-shaped box.

An engagement ring.

It was ridiculously cheesy—he would’ve puked up last night’s dinner if it weren’t already stuck in his throat while his mind boiled.

A fucking engagement ring.

His first instinct was to shove it back in the box, steal it, and toss it into the river.

Maybe he’d jump in after it—to drown his thoughts and, if he was lucky, finally meet Death, his most elusive mistress.

But he didn’t do any of that. Instead, he clutched the box until the cardboard gave under his grip, and when the oven beeped and startled him, he flung the box to the back of the closet.

He had to get out of there.

He needed to—

"The oven," Dazai reminded himself, like a mantra. One task at a time. One step at a time, or whatever. First the oven, then the crisis that was about to bring him to his knees.

No, not on his knees.

He turned off the oven and stared through the glass at the tray. The lasagna was ready. Perfectly cooked. And Dazai wanted to ruin it—just like his foolish Chibi had ruined his heart.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t take out the tray. Didn’t stand there to check if dinner was good, or if it even mattered, or if—

Chuuya had a ring.

Chuuya wanted—

Dazai ran.

It’s the only thing he knows how to do, right? When something’s too much, when things slip out of his control—he lashes out, draws blood, or just vanishes.

But he couldn’t vanish forever. His Chibi was stubborn, and worse—this time, he wouldn’t chase him. If Dazai ran, Chuuya would stop.

Chuuya would let go. For good.

But he needed time.

He needed—

He didn’t even know.

His fingers wandered to the collar of his shirt, brushing over the bolo tie. His breath hitched. He stumbled, catching himself against the brick wall, and when he looked up—vision blurred—he realized he’d made it to his dorm.

He’d left Chuuya without saying anything. That was fine, right? Not the end of the world but—

Slug: Mackerel

Slug: Why isn’t the lasagna in the fridge?

Slug: And where the hell are you?

Slug: Look, fine, whatever, but don’t sleep in your bandages and eat something, bastard.

Slug: I’m here if your stupid ass needs me.

His phone screen dimmed, and Dazai dropped it on the futon before curling up, hugging his knees.

His Chibi was worried. He could feel it deep inside, where Chuuya had rooted himself almost eight years ago. And Dazai—no matter how hard he tried—had never managed to pull him out. If he had only done it when he had the chance—a kick, debris, and sunset-colored hair—maybe he wouldn’t be curled up in his dorm, mourning his existence and questioning the last few years of his life.

Did Chibi want...?

His futon felt wrong—too hard, too cold. Everything felt off, from his clothes to the bandages wrapped too tightly.

When had this happened? His dorm used to be fine. Running water. Heating. People who cared. When did that stop being enough?

When did Chibi’s apartment, with all its unnecessary luxuries and comforts, become theirs?

He’d let his guard down.

He’d let Chuuya take root, poison his bloodstream, infect everything.

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | final part + ao3 link

He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping—he wasn’t even sure what—for a hole to open up and swallow him whole. A new threat.

Something, anything, an excuse to stay away from Chibi and his intimacy, his domesticity, his need for—

Don’t leave me out. Never again. It’s the only thing I ask of you, Shitty Dazai. Fidelity? Your love? I don’t care, just—

His phone buzzed again.

Shit, shit.

Heart caught in his throat, he picked the phone up off the floor. The screen was too bright.

Slug: Good night.

Attached was a blurry selfie of Chuuya, half-asleep. Dazai pressed his lips together. He needed to cut him out—rip him from his chest—so it wouldn’t hurt. But—

Mackerel: You have snot on your face.

Slug: I love you too.

He was too selfish.

Dazai had long accepted that he couldn’t escape his dog and that he wouldn’t let anyone, except Chibi himself, pull them apart.

He bit the inside of his cheek, the taste of blood blooming on his tongue. His grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles went white.

What was he doing?

They were two imperfect pieces that fit together because they weren’t good. Yes, Chuuya had a big heart, filled with old scars, but his Chuuya was also stubborn and cruel. And Dazai... Dazai wasn’t any better. They complemented each other in a completely wrong way.

They worked because they shouldn’t.

That’s why Dazai kept clinging to him.

And now—

Now there was a ring in a heart-shaped box inside a shoebox, waiting—

Dazai wasn’t ready.

He never would be.

He wasn’t made for this, for belonging.

And he’d been the first to forget that.

He felt something wet on his cheeks.

He wasn’t crying.

Tears weren’t carving paths down his face, soaking the bandages around his neck—the ones Chuuya took off every night, sometimes with laughter, sometimes in silence.

His throat wasn’t tightening. He wasn’t choking on the weight of it all.

A ring was too much.

The promise behind it, what it meant—he wasn’t built for that.

The “I love you, but I don’t know if I can” rotted on his tongue. He just hoped Chuuya would understand, even from a distance, without touching him, and would stay away.

No.

That wasn’t what he wanted, but then again, what did he want?

He stretched out his hand, flexing his fingers open and closed.

A ring.

A forever.

An “us.”

He brought his hand to his chest.

Did he deserve this? A ring on his finger, the promise of a home, of forever, a place to always return to? Did he deserve Chuuya?

Did he deserve this?

He sat up, fear coiling in his gut, his demons twitching under his skin, holding him still. But losing his Chibi—what they had built together on the ruins of his old relationship—was much worse.

“Think, think,” he whispered, running a hand through his hair. His lips twisted, maybe into a grimace, maybe a grin. “He’s not gonna ask now, is he? Or tomorrow? Chibi’s too cheesy. I have time. I have...”

His phone lit up in his lap, and his shoulders dropped.

A breath. A chuckle.

Slug: I can hear the gears turning in your head.

Slug: No pressure, okay?

Slug: I’m here. Come down if you want.

Slug: And if not... just don’t leave me freezing out here. Say something.

Slug: You don’t have to talk.

Slug: But you don’t have to be alone either, right?

Slug: We’re a team.

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | final part + ao3 link

He hugged himself to keep warm; the temperature had dropped sharply, and winter was closing in fast. Yet it wasn’t the cold that pinned his feet to the ground, but the silhouette faintly visible on the other side of the half-collapsed wall.

Chuuya, his Chuuya.

The redhead had his hands shoved deep in the pockets of that stupid leather jacket, worn thin from time and abuse, and his nose buried in a scarf too big for him.

Dazai swallowed.

The knot was still there, clawing at his throat.

He could still turn back, retreat to the safety of his dorm.

He could run.

He could—

Chuuya looked his way, and something climbed across his face. Not a smile, not even close. More like a “Hey, you came” that made him stumble, that tugged him toward his partner.

The redhead didn’t move.

He just waited.

Hadn’t it always been that way? Chuuya waited, and waited, and waited—and the world kept hurting him. Dazai kept hurting him.

And as if he could read Dazai’s thoughts—he had that superpower, the damn shorty—Chuuya sighed, kicked at the air, maybe at a pebble, maybe whatever kept them apart, and turned his whole body toward him.

An invitation.

“Coming?”

Dazai shivered.

And Chuuya’s eyes widened.

(Dazai hated the lack of light, that the streetlamp kept flickering and failed to do justice to that electric blue—the blue he’d gladly drown in.)

A storm about to break loose.

That’s how his chibi looked.

“Where the hell is your brain, shitty Dazai?!” Chuuya burst out, his raspy voice doing unspeakable things to his chest, stealing his breath. In two strides, he closed the distance, his gloved hand clamping down on Dazai’s shoulder. “You’re freezing, damn it. What were you thinking? No, don’t answer.”

Chuuya unwound his scarf and draped it around Dazai’s shoulders. His fingers, gloved though they were, brushed the bare skin the bandages couldn’t cover, making him shiver. He hadn’t changed them. Chuuya knew, and Dazai knew that Chuuya knew, but the redhead didn’t say a word.

His eyes burned—ignis fatus—but it wasn’t anger dancing there. It was something else, something that filled Dazai’s mouth with ash.

“Gimme your hands.”

Chuuya didn’t wait; he caught them and rubbed them between his own.

Dazai’s heart faltered.

“Let’s go home. It’s late.”

Home.

When had it happened? When had that apartment, so big and so empty (and now brimming with life), become home? Whatever Chuuya saw in his amber eyes was enough; he laced their fingers together and tugged him gently toward the motorcycle.

Dazai hated that damn machine.

But his arms found their way around his Chibi’s waist, his thighs braced his smaller body, and he buried his nose in those reddish curls. He melted instantly, fitting himself against his partner as though his body knew its place faster than his mind ever could. Chuuya didn’t protest; a chuckle slipped up his throat, warming Dazai’s chest.

He was home, wasn’t he?

“You’re a mess,” Chuuya said fondly, starting the bike. “Hold on tight, Mackerel. Don’t let go.”

Never.

And that, all by itself, was a revelation.

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | final part + ao3 link

“What.”

Kouyou kept speaking, moving her lips, but he couldn’t hear a thing. His head buzzed violently.

“Are you listening? Chuuya’s not well. You have to come with me, he needs to see you before—”

“Before what?”

His voice came out thick, as if stuffed with cotton.

Her expression softened.

No, no, no, no, no.

“It was only a matter of time,” Kouyou said with exasperating calm.

But it was a false, artificial calm, practiced in the darkness of her rooms, where no one could witness the pain gnawing at her.

Dazai wanted to vomit.

“We knew. His body— His body’s rejecting the singularity. We thought limiting his use of Corruption would be enough, but Mori believes that because the symbiosis isn’t perfect, it’s consuming him from the inside. His ability is devouring him.”

Dazai staggered back.

“No.”

Kouyou drew a deep breath to steady herself.

“We’ve run tests. Mori’s consulted the best specialists but—” She shook her head, sniffled, and wetted her lips. “He didn’t want to tell you. He was stable, we let him go because— I don’t know what happened, I’m not blaming you, but we have to hurry.”

“What happened,” he heard himself ask, distant, far too distant.

“He collapsed and—”

It’s your fault.

Kouyou kept speaking, stumbling over words, tears streaming unchecked down her face. She looked so small, so fragile, so broken that Dazai wanted to scream.

Chibi is dying.

“Tests,” he whispered, cutting her off, like a switch being thrown.

Dazai lunged forward and wrapped his hands around Kouyou’s throat. She gasped but didn’t fight back. He didn’t squeeze, at least not yet.

Kouyou wasn’t the problem.

“What kind of tests?” he hissed, furious. “The containment room? Specialists? Chuuya hates hospitals, you can’t lock him in one! What the hell has Mori been doing to him!?”

Kouyou sobbed, and that was enough for Dazai to let her go.

“Mori’s keeping him alive,” Kouyou rasped, voice raw and frayed. “Do you really want to waste time on this when Chuuya might—?”

Dazai shook his head.

“Would you visit my grave, Chibikko?”

“Ha!?”

“Is that a no?”

“I already wasted a Petrus on you, you idiot.”

“Still not a yes.”

“And you? Would you visit my grave?”

The containment room was not a pleasant place.

Mori didn’t use it often. Honestly, Dazai couldn’t remember the last time it had been used. It was reserved for unstable ability users, prone to losing control or becoming a threat. They were escorted there in dense silence, Dazai hardly saying a word the whole way.

A beep startled him.

Mori was there, his hands shoved into the pockets of his white coat, his black hair, straight and lifeless, tied back any old way, and his face gaunt.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

How long had this been happening? How had he not noticed? The signs had to be there, but no matter how he wracked his brain, no matter how many times he went over it, he couldn’t find anything in Chuuya’s compartment or routine that would have given him a clue.

The damn ring.

It was all that ring’s fault.

“Move aside.”

“Dazai, it’s better if—”

“Move aside or I swear—”

Mori sighed but said nothing more. Dazai stumbled forward, his heart in his throat. He clutched the doorknob and his knees almost buckled when he saw a gaunt Chuuya in a hospital gown.

Or maybe it was the hint of a shy smile, his glassy, almost unfocused eyes, and the soft, nearly silent, “Mackerel, you’re here,” that escaped his dry lips that brought Dazai to his knees.

A sob rattled in his chest.

“We’ve managed to stabilize him,” Mori commented from behind, keeping a prudent distance. “But the attacks will increase with time.”

He didn’t need to be told what that meant.

His system would fail.

His body would give out.

Dazai barely registered his words, or what was hidden behind them. He closed the distance, stopping only when his knees bumped against the edge of the bed. Chuuya clutched the sheet tightly.

He looked so fragile.

He was alive. That was all that mattered.

His Chibi was still alive, hooked up to a stupid beeping machine and pale as a ghost, but alive. Chuuya bit his lower lip, hesitant. He looked at him as though Dazai might shatter, as though he couldn’t read him the way he always had, as though Dazai was the one standing at the edge of a cliff.

Dazai parted his lips but closed them again before anything wrong could slip out. He had a lump in his throat, or maybe it was the shards of his broken heart pounding there. If he tried to speak, would he bleed? He blinked hard to chase the tears away.

“I refuse,” he exhaled.

Chuuya scrunched his nose in confusion and reached for him. No gloves, and the IV lines kept him from making contact. He frowned, frustrated, and squinted. Maybe a warning or maybe a threat. “Mock me,” he seemed to say. “Mock me and I’ll kick your ass.” Dazai almost laughed, but the sound came out strangled and he sank to his knees. He caught Chuuya’s hand, kissed his bruised knuckles, traced the uneven scars circling his wrists and vanishing beyond.

He kissed his palm.

Chuuya smelled wrong, like hospital.

“I refuse,” Dazai repeated, on the verge of tears. Chuuya tensed under his grip and Dazai searched his face. “I refuse, do you hear me? We’ll find a way.”

“I wanted to tell you.”

Dazai shook his head, pressing his nose to his palm.

“I really did, but I was afraid that—”

“It’s okay.”

Chuuya growled and tugged at his hand.

“No, it’s not okay, damn it.”

“Don’t push yourself.”

“I won’t break,” he cut him off, furious, as if this, Dazai worrying for him, for his well-being, was unacceptable. His damn stubborn Chibi. Dazai bristled, and Chuuya must have seen it, must have seen the spark flare in his face and decided it wasn’t worth it. He sagged even more. “I won’t break.”

It sounded obstinate.

“Is that a threat?” he whispered.

And Chuuya nodded firmly.

“I won’t break.”

“Don’t break,” Dazai pleaded, leaning in to cradle his face in his hands. He was cold, slightly damp, as though he’d been crying himself dry, and Dazai rested his forehead against his. Chuuya melted at the contact. “I won’t go see you. I won’t.”

“See me?”

“I won’t visit your grave, Chibi.”

Chuuya broke, and Dazai caught him in his arms. Or maybe it was the other way around.

“I don’t want to die,” he sobbed.

“I won’t let you.”

Chuuya clung to him hard, as if trying to hide inside his arms, and Dazai wished he could. He tangled his fingers in those sunset-colored curls and ran a hand down his back. It was a sad consolation.

Dazai climbed onto the bed, not caring what Mori or Kouyou might think, and Chuuya curled up beside him, one arm draped over his waist, his head on his chest, and their legs tangled together. Not close enough, never close enough, but enough for now.

“I’ve got you.”

“Don’t leave me again.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dazai promised, tightening his arms around him. “Never again.”

“I won’t forgive you if you do,” Chuuya warned, his voice in shreds. He pushed himself up to meet his gaze. The fierceness, the determination burning in his eyes froze Dazai in place. “I don’t know what the hell happened before, but never again, shitty Dazai.”

Dazai brushed the hair from his face.

“You’re my ruin, Chuuya.”

“Good.”

It was just a coincidence, but let’s pretend I’m making you pay for your beast skk from earlier!

It’s not my best work, and writing this has felt like tearing the words out of me... I hate how adulting drains all my energy.

Enjoy it!

The nullifying chains dulled his senses. It felt as if thousands of needles burrowed into his insides—not quite pain, just an unpleasant tingling spreading through his body, keeping him from reaching his ability even though it lay right there at his fingertips.

It was frustrating.

Or it should have been, if he cared enough because the truth was he didn’t give a damn.

He grimaced.

It hurt like hell—shattered bones, wasted muscles, and oozing wounds. They would heal, maybe today or in the coming days, if he lived long enough.

Arahabaki remained silent.

Not enough.

It wasn’t the familiar cold that seeped beneath his skin when he touched him—and that, more than the fury coiling in his gut like thorned vines, more than the emptiness in his chest, tightened his throat and blurred his vision.

He pulled the chains.

Not far away, something moved like tendrils of shadow, catching his attention. His heart lurched and his pulse surged. The bulb overhead flickered once, twice, then died, surrendering him to darkness and a cold hand cupped his cheek.

No, not a hand.

A blade.

His laugh—broken, hollow—filled the cell, lodging itself where the emptiness became unbearable. He paled, and a hiss of pain escaped his bruised lips as the knife tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Smile for me one more time.”

He shut his eyes tight, ignoring the sting of a wound that shouldn’t exist and the blood running down his cheek—hot and thick, far too real—praying the hallucination would shatter. It didn’t. The knife cut mercilessly, ripping a scream from him, and the grip on his chin turned to steel.

But it was the breath against his skin that sent a shiver through him.

“I gave you an order.”

He blinked, adjusting to the dark, and shook his head to break the grip.

“You’re not real, bastard.”

And Dazai, who was no longer Dazai, because nothing remained of him but a mangled ruin in the hands of the Special Division, a red scarf choking the air from his lungs and an emptiness impossible to fill, a wound that would bleed until Chuuya put an end to it—

Releasing the god should have been enough, but he had underestimated the Special Division.

“Really?” Dazai drawled, mocking, brushing the knife tip across his lips. “Let’s play one more time, shall we?”

He was his toy.

His bodyguard.

His hound.

And his wh0re.

Chuuya had allowed it, he would have allowed anything if Dazai had asked. He knelt before him and bowed his head in submission. Sometimes Dazai felt generous, tangling his fingers in his copper curls and scratching his scalp.

A rare display of affection—and another twisted way to shame him.

And sometimes, almost always, when the darkness closing over him became suffocating, Dazai would fasten a leash around his throat to show the world the redhead was nothing.

Another cut.

“Break the chains.”

Chuuya snorted, exhausted, and Dazai—the hallucination, the thing, whatever it was—answered with another cut, deeper. This time on the right corner.

Ah, the knives.

His favorite game.

Dazai would mark him in front of everyone, bind him to the wall and carve trenches into his skin. But beneath the bandages, when no one was watching, in the privacy of their rooms, the boss of the Port Mafia became his canvas.

He was his.

They belonged to each other, or so he had believed. He wouldn’t fall for his tricks again.

“Will you let them lock you up again?” Dazai asked softly, though the irritation staining his voice didn’t escape Chuuya. “Let them cut you open to understand you? Use you?”

He was provoking him.

Or provoking himself.

Dazai wiped the blade on Chuuya’s wounded cheek and fisted his hair, forcing him to look up. There was nothing there, only misshapen darkness and death waiting. He could feel it, a phantom caress, and taste it, bitter and earthy on his tongue.

Just like his irritation.

Oh, irritating Dazai was still delicious.

“Let’s be honest,” Chuuya said with a strangled laugh. Dazai tightened his grip and brushed the blade across his throat, where a collar should have been, pressing just enough to draw blood. “What bothers you, what really boils your blood, is that someone else owns me, you selfish bastard.”

Their mouths crashed violently and death slid down his throat. Chuuya writhed, panic tearing through him, and bit down until earth and blood flooded his tongue.

Dazai laughed against his lips, the sound of the knife clattering to the floor ringing in his ears, but it was the nails digging into the corners of his mouth that drowned out everything else.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he taunted, delighted, his presence and touch radiating a paralyzing cold. “A smile suits you better. Let me leave with your smile.”

He didn’t realize he was crying—not until the tears slid hot down his cheeks, mixing with the blood—until Dazai leaned in to kiss them away.

Not real.

He rested his forehead against Chuuya’s.

Impossible, wasn’t it?

“Maybe in another universe,” he hummed, kissing him again. “Maybe in another life.”

“You can’t—”

“Smile, or I’ll make you smile.”

And his voice—the tone wrapped around the words, the promise inside them—made him shudder.

Dazai dug his nails into his wounds again.

“Smile.”

Maybe he did.

Maybe he forced a smile, grief lodged in his throat spilling out, distorting his features. The world would kneel for him, they would pay for his loss. The chains groaned. The walls trembled. Dazai didn’t comfort him; he never had in life. Of course he wouldn’t now—hallucination or not.

A deranged laugh roared in his chest as chaos erupted. Emergency lights bathed the cell in red, and security protocols snapped into motion seconds later.

Useless, whatever they had prepared.

Dazai wasn’t there. He had never been.

The chains broke.

Gravity cracked.

And he grinned—a blood-soaked smile—as the world surrendered to his power.

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 final part + ao3 link

The floor was frozen.

Dazai rolled onto his side and curled up into a smaller ball, his eyes unfocused. He couldn’t think, not with the splinters of his heart tearing through his insides. He was bleeding out, the pain was unbearable, but he still felt.

The void hadn’t claimed him yet.

He rolled again and stretched out. He didn’t belong here. The apartment seemed huge without the barking of a certain dog. It was a cage, too big, too empty, and crowded with ghosts.

There was nothing left but ghosts, echoes of a life he should never have craved, a life that was never meant for him—domestic bliss, what a strange concept—and yet he had clung to it like a starving madman.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

His vision blurred with tears his lashes barely held back, pooling in his throat, choking him, and burning everything on their way down.

He didn’t want to cry.

He had no strength left.

Why was he still here? Why insist on staying? It made no sense. Chuuya was gone, Chuuya had looked at him like he didn’t recognize him, as his mere presence caused him physical pain, as he were a damn mistake.

Chuuya looked at him as if he were the problem, when he was the one who had ruined everything.

He covered his face with his arm, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Was it because of the tears running free? Because of the muffled sob thundering in his chest like a broken drum, threatening to shatter him into irreparable pieces? Because of the visceral pain that wasn’t enough to numb his senses?

He needed—

His fingers pressing into his spine, his soft lips mapping his scars, barely a touch, a joke.

He needed—

His half-smile, his crooked fang, his blue eyes locked on him as if Dazai—Osamu, he was always Osamu beneath the sheets, in the safety of that place they foolishly called “home,” and when the world came crashing down, and yet they collided, because they were destined to find each other no matter what—were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He gripped the fabric of his shirt, clenched his fingers, digging broken nails in, as if he could tear through the fabric, through the bandages, and rip out his heart before it was too late.

He needed to cut himself open and rid his body of every shard, every piece of himself that cried out Chuuya’s name, that longed for him and clung to him.

His phone buzzed in the pocket of his coat, dragging him out of his stupor.

He ignored it.

And ignored it.

And ignored it again.

Hours passed, or maybe it was just a blink. Night fell like a heavy blanket, darkness crept in until it devoured the living room, until it covered everything, and still, it wasn’t enough to silence the ghost of them.

The radio was on, a song playing they weren’t paying attention to. It wasn’t catchy, like the ones Dazai liked, or loud, like the ones a certain barking dog preferred, just soft, too soft.

They laughed, Dazai wrapping his arms around Chuuya’s waist to pull him close, playfully nibbling the back of his neck while the redhead tried to cook. Chuuya groaned and pouted when Dazai’s nose dragged along his skin and his teeth grazed tender skin within reach. Even so, he made no move to push him away.

“Am I bothering you?”

“What do you think, genius?” Chuuya shot back, though without his usual bite. He managed to turn slightly and lifted his head to meet his gaze. His eyes gleamed, joy and something softer, gentler danced in them.

He was beautiful.

And he was his.

Dazai leaned in to capture his lips in a kiss. Chuuya cradled his face, taking control. His tongue brushed Dazai’s lower lip, a silent question, and Dazai welcomed it eagerly. His Chibi tasted like the chicken-and-vegetable broth he was making, and like something entirely different, something that screamed “home” and “love” and rooted itself deep in his chest, nestled between his ribs.

Chuuya tangled his fingers in his hair.

Dazai drew him closer, his hands tracing his sides, sliding down to the curve of his ass. Chuuya bit his lip and giggled into his mouth when Dazai pouted.

That day, they ate cold broth.

“I hate you,” Dazai whispered, his breath ragged. He wasn’t sure if it was that Dazai who had said it, or if he was forcing those words onto the memory—rewriting it—so it hurt less. He shut his eyes, too dry, too sore, and forced the memory once more. “I despise you.”

Chuuya was mocking him, up on tiptoe with his hands resting on Dazai’s shoulders. He was beautiful, his tousled hair tied up with a chopstick, except for a few curls that fell gracefully across his face. A crooked grin and eyes narrowed with the laugh he was trying to hold back.

Beautiful, dangerous, and not his.

Not anymore.

He blinked heavily, sleep sinking its claws into his shoulder blades when a dull thud startled him. Then another. It took a heartbeat to realize someone was knocking at the door, and half a beat more to react. Too slow. He lurched to his feet so quickly his knees gave out, gravity asserting its pull.

The knocks continued.

Chibi, only it wasn’t him.

Kouyou stood at the entrance, her red hair like tongues of fire hidden beneath the hood that didn’t suit her. But it wasn’t the odd choice of clothing that made his pulse race and painted catastrophic scenarios in his mind, nor the lack of makeup, nor the murderous gaze blurred by a sadness he couldn’t quite read.

It was the ferocity radiating from her as she lunged at him, her fists gripping the lapels of his coat, their noses nearly colliding, that threw him off balance.

“Are you an idiot!?” Kouyou raged, or maybe sobbed. Dazai wasn’t sure, but he forced himself to redraw his features, to mask the raw emotions slipping through his fingers until they were unrecognizable. “You had one thing to do! Just one! How could you—!?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

She shoved him and raised her hand to slap him. Dazai braced for an impact that never came.

She was trembling, tears soaking her cheeks, distorting her face.

It was devastating, wrong.

Ane-san didn’t cry.

Ane-san was a pillar.

“You’re—” Kouyou shook her head, and lowered her fist. “We’re leaving.”

“Yes,” Dazai agreed, clearing his throat and smoothing out the wrinkles in his coat. “You your way, me mine. We’ve no reason to be here.”

Something flashed across her face.

“You’re coming with me to headquarters.”

A chill ran through him.

“I’ve no business there, dear Ane-san.”

“Chuuya is in the containment room.”