#kitsunechuu

He studies Dazai in silence—the slight curve of his mouth, the glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, that stray lock of hair that keeps getting in his way and that he constantly tucks behind his ear. There’s something—he’s not sure what—that draws him in like a moth to light, something that makes him think forbidden thoughts.

Dazai catches him staring. His eyes narrow, amusement melting the amber of his irises, and his lips curve upward. Chuuya blushes and curls in on himself even more. If not for the illusion wrapped around him, his tails would be wagging nervously and his ears would be flattened. He might even transform just to escape.

Dazai closes his book, steps around the counter, and comes closer. Chuuya doesn’t lift his head, not even when the human’s feet touch the couch.

"Go away," he mutters. "I’m trying to sleep."

Dazai’s hand ends up in his hair, startling him, and their gazes collide.

"Caught you."

"Idiot."

"Shall we go home?"

And home is a strange concept, bittersweet on his tongue. He hasn’t had a home in a long time, and yet his home is this village, the forest surrounding it, and his small refuge where no one can reach him—where he has hidden himself, with spirits as his only unwanted guests.

Here's to the day we met. To the weeks after. And to all the years since we've spent together, Chuuya. Things haven't been the same since, and I don't think they ever will be. Here's to the same world made anew spending it together. Unlike our lives, our memories are not infinite. They replicate and replace. Inconsequential ones get forgotten to make way for newer, more important ones. The day we met. The weeks after. The birds sitting in the tree overlooking the shrine and leaning toward us with interest as if we were worthy of gossiping about. And maybe we are.

A few times a decade Dazai and Chuuya spend months apart as Dazai makes the journey across Japan back to where it all began and where they first met: his shrine on a lonely mountaintop.

In the time spent apart, they chronicle the passage of time and seasons through letters delivered across the land by their pigeon Peeko, lamenting the day they would reunite. Time passes together in seconds and an eternity apart. But it all eventually comes to an end and he returns.

Written for @laugandraws as part of the skk mixtape exchange event!

2,651 words (chapter 1 of 3)

Explicit

The infusion was growing cold.

With one elbow resting on the counter and his chin propped in the palm of his hand, Dazai doodled absently in his notebook while the rain tapped incessantly against the windows. He scribbled a line out until the text became unreadable, and even then—pressing the pen hard between his fingers—he felt nothing.

The emptiness in his chest was a ravenous beast.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t hear the bell that announced a new customer—did it even ring when it was the mysterious redhead who only seemed to exist when they were alone?—nor when said redhead, tired of watching him from between the gaps in the shelves, finally crossed the distance between them.

His heart didn’t flutter when the redhead braced his forearms on the counter and offered him a crooked little grin. Dazai blinked, startled, and his eyes wandered from the ink hugging the man’s biceps to his freckle-dotted face.

He was beautiful.

And he reeked of danger.

Dazai appreciated beauty, and the redhead’s features were imperfectly unique. As if the artist had devoted flesh and soul to polishing every tiny detail so it would stand out, from the crooked nose to the tempting curve of his mouth.

His throat went dry, and he shifted uncomfortably when the redhead arched a brow at him.

It was a trap.

“Let’s make a deal, pretty boy.”

The shift in the air was subtle. Dazai squinted suspiciously, tilting his head.

The redhead tucked a rebellious lock of hair behind his ear. Despite the nerves surrounding him, his eyes sparkled with renewed determination—a spark capable of starting a wildfire—and the blush igniting on his cheeks tickled Dazai’s stomach.

It wasn’t enough.

Nothing seemed to be enough lately.

And just as the sky split in two and the storm swept in, majestic and severe, Dazai thought he saw something move behind the mysterious customer. It lasted only a second, he blinked and it was gone, but whatever it was took root inside him.

I know you.

“If you guess my favorite book, you can take me out to breakfast.”

Dazai frowned, slightly confused, almost forgetting what had just happened, and then he burst out laughing. A clumsy laugh that scraped his throat on the way up and was born deep in his stomach.

When was the last time he laughed like that?

It hurt pleasantly.

“Take you to breakfast?” he teased, wiping tears from his eyes.

The redhead winked.

“You want to take me to breakfast,” he pointed out with a light hum, trailing a finger along Dazai’s sweater neckline. Nothing more than a casual touch—yet when he looked up at him through his lashes and Dazai caught the hint of a fang peeking past his lips, it became overwhelming. His pulse quickened. “I’m just giving you a little push.”

His first instinct was to run.

He was in the forest bordering the village, the one no one should enter once night fell. The trees leaned in, blocking his path, roots burst from the earth trapping him, branches dragging blood across his skin while the starving beast howled in delight.

He shook his head.

His mouth tasted of petrichor and something earthier, slightly sweet on his tongue. A warning, one he was more than willing to ignore.

Dazai wet his lips and leaned closer to the redhead.

“Mmm, your favorite book is…”

The possibilities were endless—like sand slipping through his fingers—yet the title that crossed his lips felt right. They’d had this conversation before, maybe in another life, or maybe they would have it later. For a fraction of a second, the redhead faltered; his eyes widened softly, and his smile shattered.

Just for a heartbeat.

Then his laughter—rough and raspy—filled the small bookstore.

“Wow, you win,” he feigned a dramatic sigh, hand over his chest. Or maybe he wasn’t pretending, maybe he was playing the same game Dazai was. “I’ve got a sweet tooth.”

He was lying.

Dazai knew it, and the redhead knew he knew. Their connection, even back then, was already strong.

“There’s a little café at the end of the street. Best pancakes around.”

“And milkshakes?”

Dazai snorted.

“And the best chocolate milkshakes, obviously.”

“You better hope so,” he teased mischievously but before Dazai could reply, walk around the counter, and join him, the redhead stopped him. Doubt darkened his irises, turning them a deeper blue, and a shiver ran down Dazai’s spine. Another bolt split the sky. “It’s okay to cry, you know? To let it all out.”

Dazai staggered. What was he talking about? He couldn’t know…

“Cry? I’m not—”

The redhead softened, brushing his gloved fingers against Dazai’s cheek—and even through the leather, the touch was devastating. Suddenly they were no longer in that tiny bookstore that didn’t belong to Dazai, with death creeping in from the corners and whispering in his ear, but standing in the middle of the night.

On the bridge of his hometown.

He was drowning. Death wrapped its claws around his throat, stealing the air from his lungs, filling his eyes with burning tears and pushing him into the abyss.

Falling, falling, falling.

“It’s Chuuya.”

“Huh?”

And the redhead—who nobody in that tiny village seemed to know, who only existed when Dazai was alone, in that bookstore that wasn’t his yet with every day spent there felt more and more like it was—pulled him back.

His hand closed around Dazai’s wrist, claws scraping his bandages, drawing a hiss from him as he tugged him upward, trapping him in his arms.

“I’ve got you.”

His shoulders shook violently, and he folded in on himself. The sob tearing its way up his throat, shredding his vocal cords, echoed in the little bookstore.

Chuuya held him tight.

“Everything will be alright,” Chuuya whispered, fingers weaving into his hair and stroking his back. Dazai clung to his clothes, burying himself in the warm space between Chuuya’s shoulder and neck. He smelled sweet. “I’m here. I’m with you.”

He didn’t want to cry. He didn’t know how. He didn’t know how to stop—and he needed to be strong for Odasaku—but it was too much and he was so, so tired, and the emptiness in his chest was devouring everything in its path.

I’ll do anything.

He held onto the redhead like an anchor in the middle of the ocean. Chuuya had climbed onto the counter to reach him—but instead of making Dazai laugh, because it was absurd and ridiculous (everything about Chuuya seemed to be), it struck him right in the chest.

It was too much.

Everything was.

Chuuya soothed him, whispering warm words and a soft, unfamiliar melody. It felt… good.

“Everything will be alright, I promise.”

Let’s make a pact.

He shouldn’t believe him.

Take me instead! Odasaku is good, he has a beautiful life ahead of him. I have nothing. Take me!

It wasn’t the forest that claimed him when night fell.

It wasn’t death lurking at the edge of his vision.

It was Chuuya.

A god lies face-down in a puddle of something like his own tears and Dazai thinks this is what it’s like to go from having everything to being nothing. It’s his turn to pity Chuuya, whose kimono is soaked all the way through and sticking to his body. He looks small suddenly, shivering and clawing at the muddied ground trying to get back up.

Dazai pities him, but he does not turn away like the crowd did. They’re alone and it’s silent except for a fist pounding against the earth. He extends a hand out and waits for a few seconds until Chuuya’s regained his composure.

“Hey,” Dazai finally says in a quiet voice. He’s not laughing at Chuuya’s sorry state or the fact that he took a harsh fall. If anything, it’s relatable. Even a divine being is not immune to the pitfalls of humanity. “Take my hand.”

Chuuya looks up then, his face and hair dripping. No expression crosses his features, and Dazai thinks that despite h ow far he’s fallen he’s doing an impeccable job at keeping it together. There are leaves and petals and handfuls of grass lying in the puddle and when Dazai continues to look, he notices that Chuuya does not have a reflection. That’s the only thing that separates them in this moment.

“Thanks.” Chuuya sounds as neutral as ever as he reaches for Dazai’s hand and gets back up, the flowers rippling in the water. He has a pale pink lotus clinging to his hair refusing to fall, and it reminds Dazai of the pond lotuses by his shrine. Without a second though, Dazai plucks it free from Chuuya’s hair.

“You okay?”