patch me up 'til I bleed no more

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at [Link]

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Category: M/M
Fandom: 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs
Relationship: Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs)
Characters: Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray Dogs), Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray
Dogs)
Additional Tags: Teenage Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Teenage
Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray Dogs), Teenage Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou
Stray Dogs), Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Post-Stormbringer
Light Novel (Bungou Stray Dogs), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending,
Feelings Realization, Mafia Soukoku | Double Black (Bungou Stray
Dogs), POV Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray Dogs), POV Nakahara Chuuya
(Bungou Stray Dogs), Unreliable Narrator, Misunderstandings,
Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Dazai-Typical Suicide Mentions
(Bungou Stray Dogs), Developing Relationship, Character Study, Trust,
Suffering Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray Dogs), Suffering Nakahara
Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Caring Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray
Dogs), Caring Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Nakahara
Chuuya Uses Corruption (Bungou Stray Dogs), Canon-Typical Violence,
Introspection, Guilt, Bonding, Loneliness, Escapism, Skyscrapers,
Mutual Pining, Dazai Osamu is Bad at Feelings (Bungou Stray Dogs),
Dazai Osamu is a Mess (Bungou Stray Dogs), Nakahara Chuuya is Bad
at Feelings (Bungou Stray Dogs), Nakahara Chuuya is a Mess (Bungou
Stray Dogs), Slow Burn
Language: English
Collections: SOUKOKU REVERSE BANG 2023
Stats: Published: 2023-09-24 Completed: 2023-12-02 Words: 18,934 Chapters:
4/4
patch me up 'til I bleed no more
by neon_toad

Summary

Chuuya blinks and stares into Dazai’s dead eyes. The fact that he can see both, feels like he’s
looking at something he shouldn’t, like he’s peeking into his soul, like he’s being let in on a
secret that will become yet another burden on his shoulders.
It’s too honest. Too raw. He doesn’t want it.
“You’re awake,” Dazai says expressionlessly.

or

It’s been a year since the King of Assassins incident, and Chuuya still can’t get back to
normal. Meanwhile, Dazai’s loneliness is getting unbearable. Can they get each other out of a
dark place?

SKK Reverse Big Bang 2023 collaboration with @fishpocalypse

Notes

Hi everyone!

It's been a while since I last posted, and I'm happy to be back with the collaboration with
awesome @fishpocalypse!

Check out their artwork below and make sure to reblog and retweet it! There is an extra one
in the text and I'm absolutely in love with it as well <3
You need not wake me again
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Drip.

A ripple goes through Chuuya’s vision. It obscures his line of sight, and he rapidly blinks to
make some sense of what’s in front of him.

Drip.

His cheek is burning, an unfamiliarly distressing hot sensation irritating it. His already foggy
mind is in a whirl, his brain trying and failing to comprehend anything that's going on around
him. Had he been struck? How come he hadn’t noticed? He tries to raise his hand and touch
his cheek to assess the damage, but his arms refuse to cooperate, hanging limply alongside
his body.

Drip.

The sharp, cracking sounds of bones breaking are accompanied by inhuman howling that
stops almost as abruptly as it starts. The monster stops mauling the - person? Animal? - and
dumbstruck in front of it, Chuuya watches a drop of blood slowly roll down its sharp tooth.

Drip.

Chuuya’s gaze follows the drop's path down, hypnotised by how it rips through the crimson
pool on the ground. His eyes slowly travel across the mess — the blood and guts mixed with
the grime on the dirty warehouse floor are revolting, yet he can’t stop looking.

Destruction truly is mesmerising.

Wide-eyed, Chuuya looks up at the beast no matter how much his stomach is turning. Its
bloody scaly leg with the remains of some sort of a string wrapped around it is shining under
the cold spotlights on the warehouse ceiling, the beast’s clamouring roar a fanfare heralding
its absolute victory.

Chuuya knows he’s got to try to lunge and attack the beast before it mauls him, but he can’t
even move a finger. Something shiny rolls out of the monster’s mouth and falls on the floor
with a soft clang. A silver chain. Guivre is just like a dragon sitting on its priceless treasure
guarding it with its life. Like in these stupid fairy tale books for children.

Wait. Guivre?

Oh, right. It’s the monster’s name.

But how does he know it?

The last remaining bits of consciousness in Chuuya’s brain scream at him: charge, attack,
destroy it, but his legs are glued to the ground, poisonous lead lazily flowing through his
veins, and the only thing he can do is whisper no, no, no. The desperate no repeated dozens,
hundreds of times sounds like a death knell, and still, Chuuya can’t quite pinpoint for whom
the bell tolls.

Chuuya gags when his eyes dart to the mangled bodies in front of the dragon again. An IV
stand sticks up like an awkward flagpole waiting for Chuuya to put a white flag on it. There’s
even something that seems like a white cloth nearby — it’s spattered in blood, but Chuuya
can make do with it. Why is there even an IV stand at a place like this? Maybe it’s from the
Port Mafia infirmary. Maybe from someplace else. Why can’t he remember?

Guivre stomps its legs with a deafening roar. As the ground rumbles under the beast’s feet,
Chuuya mentally braces for it, his still lethargic body ready to be ripped apart joining the
twisted mess on the blood-soaked floor.

Strangely enough, his mind becomes eerily tranquil in the face of death.

There is something beautiful in the way the monster opens its enormous wings making the
small detritus from the floor swirl in the air. Eyes wide open, Chuuya stares at the dragon
towering over him. Its body heat is making Chuuya’s skin burn, and yet, this is the most
peaceful he’d felt in a very long time.

The beast roars again and Chuuya closes his eyes.

A second passes.

Two.

Three.

The placid waters of his mind are disturbed by another ripple of realisation when no attack
comes and Chuuya snaps his eyes open. What he sees, shatters the peaceful bubble he’d
found himself in, bringing him back with a sobering jar to the cheek.

The dragon is already far away.

It’s heading toward Yokohama.

“No!” Chuuya shouts, or at least he thinks he does. He takes a step forward, determined to
catch up with the monster before it’s too late, but he loses his balance and nearly falls,
awkwardly trying to stay upright on his useless legs.

This helplessness is killing him.

He can’t save anyone. Not anymore.

The people of Yokohama have no idea they only have mere minutes left to live.

“Chuuya!”
Dazai’s voice is muffled, nearly muted as if it reaches Chuuya’s ears through a distorted
water barrier. It feels like he’s drowning, with failed expectations and broken promises
pouring down on him like a waterfall.

His lungs are rapidly filling with a bitter viscous liquid, so quickly he doesn’t even have a
chance to cough it out, but really, there’s no use in trying any longer. His limbs stubbornly
refuse to move as if water pressure pins them down, the relentless force of nature mocking
Chuuya’s gravity manipulation ability rendering it completely and utterly useless. He used to
protect those he cared about, but now… He can’t save anyone anymore. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.

His legs give in and the whirlwind of cold water knocks him off his feet.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Dazai’s voice gets louder as if he’s screaming right into
his ear and Chuuya jerks, wincing at the rough texture of the concrete floor his cheek is
rubbing against.

Oh, wait.

Dazai is screaming into his ear. There’s a jagged broken-off piece of plastic on the ground,
but the earphone he’s wearing still works and Chuuya can hear Dazai’s voice screaming
commands at someone else.

At least the fucker isn’t yelling at him anymore.

He’s so tired. Why can’t he just take a nap?

Chuuya absentmindedly touches his head trying to locate the source of sharp pulsing pain and
his fingers touch something warm and sticky, his hair unpleasantly damp. He blinks and
looks at his fingertips suddenly painted crimson and he squeezes his eyes shut to escape the
colour so vivid and aggressive, that it feels like his eyeballs are being gouged out.

He can’t hear anything Dazai’s saying anymore - maybe he’s finally left him alone. He jerks
and lifts on his elbow when dozens of armed Port Mafia members enter the building, their
machine guns flashing like fireworks over Chuuya’s head shooting at…

Who are they shooting at? Surely not at him? Certainly not at Guivre — he’s far gone,
probably destroying the outskirts of Yokohama at this very moment. He opens his mouth to
shout — No! You’re in the wrong place! Go and save the city!

No words come out, and each deafening gunshot sobers him up more and more until he
finally realises.

Fuck.

The mission.

The enemy — Vladimir Mayakovsky, an Ability user capable of turning his poetry into
concrete blocks flattening his enemies before they even realise what got them — smirks and
recites another line of a poem. An intimidatingly large grey slab appears over three members
of the backup team, a horrible squelching noise making Chuuya’s stomach turn as it crushes
them mercilessly in the blink of an eye. Another group starts shooting at him, but the poet
just summons another slab as effortlessly as the previous one, using it as a shield and
propelling it forward to crush the armed men against the now exposed steel reinforcements of
the wall. Line after line, he passionately recites the poem, and even though Chuuya can’t
understand a single word, its sound is disturbing, its uneven flow along with the cacophony
of gnarly sounds of death making him nauseous. He’s an unwilling spectator to the massacre,
watching it happen in front of him in slow motion, and each crashing noise makes Chuuya’s
body jerk, as one after another, the man keeps flattening the backup crew members as if they
are nothing but a line of ants, his booming voice filling the entire building until there are only
two people left standing.

They pull the triggers.

They click.

There’s nothing.

Stunned, Chuuya stares at a twisted and mangled leg sticking out from underneath one of the
grey blocks, a pool of blood slowly flowing from underneath it. Something faintly
resembling a human, reduced to nothing but a lump of disfigured meat, is oozing crushed
guts, and no matter how hard Chuuya wants to look away, he just can’t. He’s more than
aware of what’s happening now, but the cacophony of sounds keeps drowning his thoughts
out. Everything’s happening at the same time and it’s just too much — Mayakovsky’s voice,
the backup crew’s members’ screams as they charge toward Chuuya to at least try and get
him out (Yuki and Satoshi, hardened members of the Mafia, as he notes in the back of his
mind watching them run toward him), Dazai’s annoying voice in the earphone screaming…

“…rruption!”

Chuuya blinks.

“Use Corruption, you useless slug, if you don’t want to get us all killed!”

What is he on about? Chuuya thinks. “Corruption” sounds vaguely familiar, and he can swear
he can almost remember what the hell it is, but the recollection is so faint and hard to
pinpoint like he’s trying to catch a fish in a brook by its tail, but it keeps stubbornly slipping
out of his hands. Mayakovsky roars in triumph and at that moment the enormous beast
appears in front of Chuuya’s eyes again, its thunderous rumble booming in Chuuya’s ears in
unison with the poet's.

“Chuuya! Corruption!”

Oh.

Corruption.

Huh.
Right.

He turns to Mayakovsky passionately reciting another long, fervent line of a poem. The man
is lost in his own world, but little does he know his world is about to be crushed by
something a million times stronger than his fucking Ability could ever be.

“O grantors of dark disgrace…” Chuuya whispers, his throat weirdly sore.

A concrete slab casts an ominous dark shadow over him and the two men as they yank
Chuuya upright.

“…you need not wake me again.”

•••••••

It's so uncomfortable.

Everything is not quite right. Chuuya is cold and sore, and the world around him is eerily
quiet.

He tries to open his eyes, but it is too much. He can’t do it. His eyelids are as heavy as lead
and he just doesn’t have it in him to lift them. After a few tries, he ceases to keep struggling.
What’s the point of opening his eyes anyway if the only thing he’s going to see is the opaque
glass of the tank he’s confined within?

A jolt of pain goes through his head and he winces.

Oh, and he’s so, so hungry. He feels like a skeleton. He’ll never grow tall if he doesn’t eat.
Dazai will keep mocking him forever if this happens.

Wait…

Who’s Dazai?

Slowly, Chuuya opens his eyes feeling how it drains the last of his energy out of him, and at
the same time, somebody’s fingers let go of his scalp.

Somebody’s warm brown eyes are looking down at him. A mop of unruly brown hair covers
most of the boy’s face, loose bandages are hanging from his neck like a bizarre fashion
accessory, and he looks exhausted, too. Maybe they could both use a break. He looks
Chuuya’s age. Maybe they could be friends.

Oh, wait. Yeah. No.

This is Dazai.
Chuuya blinks and stares into Dazai’s dead eyes. The fact that he can see both, feels like he’s
looking at something he shouldn’t, like he’s peeking into his soul, like he’s being let in on a
secret that will become yet another burden on his shoulders.

It’s too honest. Too raw. He doesn’t want it.

“You’re awake,” Dazai says expressionlessly.

Chuuya opens his mouth about to ask Dazai where the hell they are when the memory of
their mission starts washing over him.

Really, it was supposed to be just another one of the Double Black missions they had
completed dozens of. The Port Mafia’s intelligence found out that Vladimir Mayakovsky, one
of the members of the Futurist ability users group, came to Japan for seemingly unknown
reasons, strolling through the Port Mafia territory as if he owned the place and making
friends in Port Mafia-affiliated bars asking way too many questions.

Something smelled fishy here.

As always, Dazai came up with a flawless plan, and Chuuya was supposed to use his power
to capture the poet and hand him over to the Port Mafia for interrogation. They couldn’t risk
a foreign Ability user group interfering in their business.

Except, Chuuya did jack shit.

“Is Mayakovsky…”

“Dead,” Dazai says blankly.

“And Yuki and Satoshi?”

“Who?”

“The backup crew people. The last ones standing.”

Dazai breathes out heavily and shakes his head. Chuuya can’t quite understand the emotion in
Dazai’s eyes as unreadable as ever, his dark brown irises keeping all their secrets behind a
hundred locks. Is it sorrow? Desperation? Disappointment?

“You used Corruption, Chuuya.”

Chuuya squeezes his eyes shut. The last thing he remembers before his mind shut down and
his body succumbed to Arahabaki is how Yuki and Satoshi tried to drag him away from
harm’s way. These poor guys stood no chance. At least their death was quick.

“So… we failed the mission?” he croaks, his eyes burning. He doesn’t need to ask. He knows
the answer.

He knows the answer, but still, it never comes.

“Oi.” Say something, mackerel. Something. Chuuya doesn’t even know what exactly he’s
hoping to hear. He doubts he’ll like the answer either way. Dazai’s words could never make
him feel at ease — so why would they now?

Dazai sighs and shifts, Chuuya’s neck getting uncomfortable

as Dazai moves his bony legs. “Maybe you should tell Mori.
Or Kouyou. Don’t know.”

“Tell them what?”

Dazai swallows. He hesitates, and hesitation is not a good

look on the Demon Prodigy. It’s like he’s trying to find the
right words, tries to filter what he’s about to say, sugarcoat
even. Chuuya furrows his brow and Dazai looks away.
“That you’re… struggling,” he says cautiously.

Chuuya tries to sit up but he falls back onto Dazai’s lap

when a dizzy spell hits him. He groans in frustration — he’s
not used to this choking helplessness. He has always been a
fighter, a protector, and whatever this is… It’s just plain
wrong. This is not him. This is not Chuuya. This is not what he exists for.

“That Verlaine incident was too much, yeah?” Dazai says quietly, his fingers tentatively
burrowing into Chuuya’s hair again.

“Shut up,” Chuuya grunts through his teeth and smacks Dazai’s hand away. From the corner
of his eye, he can see Yuki’s white hair stained with blood and dirt. What he assumes is- was
Satoshi is an unrecognisable mess.

They wanted to get him out. They died because of Chuuya.

No.

He killed them.

It’s his fault.

“You have to do something about it, Chuuya.” Dazai’s voice becomes muffled as Chuuya’s
mind starts drifting away again. How did that even happen? How come he froze mid-fucking-
fight again? And for what? A hallucination? He thought he was past-

“Fucking mackerel,” Chuuya growls, trying to push these thoughts away, “are you saying I’m
not fit for this?”

Silence is hanging in the air crackling with electricity. Chuuya can feel Dazai’s body stiffen
and breath hitch and Chuuya wants nothing more than to scream, to grab Dazai’s shoulders
and shake him to get him out of this state, bringing back the cold pragmatic Demon Prodigy
that always has an answer.

“I’m saying that we’ll keep failing missions,” Dazai says in defeat.
“I don’t give a shit about missions.” Chuuya knows it’s a lie. Chuuya also knows he can’t
admit that Dazai is fucking right.

Dazai says nothing. This long, deafening pause makes Chuuya’s stomach turn. If that asshole
Dazai, the person with no filter whatsoever can’t find the right words, something must be
deeply messed up.

Finally, he speaks again. “More people will die for no reason if this keeps happening.”

A traitorous sob leaves Chuuya’s throat, each word feeling like a stab in his chest. More.
People. Will. Die.

There he is.

Even shitty Dazai says I am to blame.

Another cry inadvertently leaves Chuuya’s mouth as he slams his fists on the concrete floor.
He hopes he bleeds. He hopes he shatters his bones, and if only his ability wasn’t cancelled
by lying on Dazai’s lap, the shock of the impact would have been strong enough to break his
skin and bones. What’s the point in his fists anyway if he can’t fight?

“Let’s do something about it,” Dazai reiterates, his voice quiet. Not only quiet — it sounds
weirdly gentle. It makes Chuuya sick. How pathetic — the phoniest person he knows
pretending to care. As always, Dazai’s full of shit. As if he gives a fuck about anything other
than getting his ass kicked by Mori-san for failing the mission.

“Fine. Fine!” Chuuya growls and clenches his teeth. “I’ll take the blame. Your ass is safe. I’ll
tell Mori-san what happened. It’s my fault.”

“This is not what I…”

“I fucking know you, Dazai. Stop with your mind games. I’ll take the blame.”

“It’s not mind games, Chuuya. You’re not okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“You weren’t like this bef-”

No. He’s not listening to any more bullshit from Dazai. Dull, persistent pain is overwhelming
him as he scrambles to stand up, Dazai’s body stiffening again at Chuuya’s sudden
movement. The world around him keeps spinning, his post-Corruption fatigue attempting to
knock him off his feet again. Despite all that, the need to get away from here, away from the
bodies, away from the fishy bastard that’s probably cooking up another plan to torture
Chuuya as they speak, is immeasurably stronger.

“Chuuya, you need help,” Dazai says looking up at him, his eyes looking adamant, and, for
fuck’s sake, serious. He really is willing to go to any lengths to trick Chuuya into believing
him, isn’t he? Nice try, fucker.
He really does hope that the intensity of his stare will be enough to incinerate Dazai on the
spot, but much to Chuuya’s irritation, he seems to be impervious to the daggers Chuuya’s
shooting at him.

It takes Chuuya all his strength not to look away cowardly, faced with two eyes staring at
him. It’s just. Too. Much. Dazai isn’t blinking, looking at Chuuya intently, and only if
Chuuya hadn’t known Dazai that well… He could have even fallen for this trick.

“Do me a favour and fucking kill yourself,” Chuuya spits, eager to erase this look from
Dazai’s face with a hard punch. He could easily make Dazai look just like the mangled bodies
on the ground, making sure his shitty mouth spews no more nonsense ever again. Who the
fuck does he think he is to tell Chuuya what he should do? His little delusions of Chuuya
being his dog have come too far.

With a groan, Chuuya stomps his foot and Dazai starts, instinctively covering himself with
his arm, but still, he stubbornly refuses to break eye contact, his eyes glinting as he watches
Chuuya lift in the air surrounded by a red glow.

He clenches his fist, but Dazai keeps looking, unfazed by the danger looming over him.

He swings his arm and Dazai twitches again, Chuuya easily noticing the motion that could
have easily gone unnoticed by a casual onlooker.

He lunges forward, a desperate scream leaving his mouth, frustration fused with resentment
overcoming him as Dazai doesn't move an inch, doesn't break eye contact, doesn't leave
Chuuya alone.

The stench of blood reaches Chuuya’s nostrils and his knuckles eager to crush Dazai’s face
relax as he doubles over. He gags, covering his mouth with his hand as the memory of the
vision from earlier today flashes before his eyes.

Gone. They are all gone.

Soon everyone will be.

He falls to the ground, wincing when his knee bashes against a small rock, the brown eyes
boring through his skull searing into his consciousness.

No, he can’t waste time teaching Dazai a lesson.

He can’t stay here and wait for the pick-up crew to bring him home.

He needs to leave now.

“Chuu-”

His name coming out of Dazai’s mouth makes his stomach churn, and before Dazai manages
to finish whatever bullshit he was about to say, he bolts toward the city in a rapid red flash.
The warehouse, the bodies, the destruction, fucking Dazai — all of these are left behind, and
Chuuya would be lying if he said the growing distance between them doesn't fill him with
relief.

Maybe his power is not enough to be a strong fighter, but at least it can get him the fuck out
of here.

What a waste.

For a few minutes, Dazai sits motionlessly until he can’t see the red dot on the horizon
anymore. The warehouse is still and quiet, yet, it feels louder than the commotion that
happened here just a few hours ago. The clouds he can see through the broken roof of the
warehouse are as silent as ever, and even the birds from the surrounding forest seem to have
fled, scared off by the destruction the god of calamity was causing here.

It’s too silent.

He hates silence so much.

With trembling fingers, he takes a walkie-talkie out of his pocket and presses the button.

He sure as hell hopes the base doesn’t notice the slight quiver in his voice. He can always
blame it on the poor audio quality of walkie-talkies, though. The Port Mafia should probably
invest in better equipment.

“Please tell the pick-up crew to hurry up,” Dazai says and swallows. “Over.”

He counts seconds. Birds flying over his head. Faint train whistles emanating from the
railway a distance away. Anything to occupy his mind, anything to stimulate his brain that he
knows would otherwise bring him to a place darker and scarier than any battlefield could be.

1682 seconds, 11 birds and 4 train whistles later, the silence is finally broken by the faint
chopping sound of the rotors of the approaching helicopter. Hurriedly, he dabs his eye with
his sleeve and stands up, brushing the dust off his trousers and wrinkling his nose at the hem
of his coat soaked in blood.

Another bird flies over his head and, distracted by its elegant flight, he stumbles on a rock on
the way to the helicopter. Awkwardly, he regains his balance and his eyes lock with the
pilot’s.

It was probably funny as hell seeing the top strategist of the Port Mafia nearly wiping out on
a fucking rock.

The pilot doesn’t even crack a smile.

No one would dare to.

Dazai takes one last look at the battlefield and steps into the aircraft.

It’s time to go home.

Chapter End Notes

Hope you liked it, please let me know what you think in the comments!

Next chapter is coming out next week, I can't wait to share it with you :)

My twitter: [Link]
Fed up with me
Chapter Notes

Oh boy, this was painful to write. Dazai is such an interesting character with so much
internal turmoil to explore, and I hope I did him justice.

Enjoy!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Dazai has many faces.

There are millions of masks in his arsenal, human-like features gracing each of them with
their eerie realism. He can draw them quicker than he can draw a gun and plaster them over
his face, always ready to deceive, to trick, to manipulate.

The problem is… He’s not very good at keeping things.

Over the years of conniving machinations, his masks got so mixed up, that he now has no
idea which face is his real one. When he looks in the mirror, the sullen face looking back at
him hasn’t a scintilla of the real person behind the tired eyes. Is there even a real face? Did he
use to have it? Or was he born with a blank canvas on the front of his head, eternally doomed
to hide his grotesque disfigurement from others?

Who is he?

A genius. A puppeteer. A ruthless mafioso. Dazai-kun. Mackerel. Scumbag. So many names,

yet, sometimes he wonders what it would feel like just to be Osamu. A regular person, just
like the kind he despises so much, with simple desires, simple needs, simple plans, simple
everything. What would he do instead of scheming 24/7? What would he wear? What will
occupy his thoughts in a lonely hour? What would his name sound like uttered by someone
who cares?

If he tries hard enough, he can almost pinpoint a faint recollection of his mother calling him
by his name, her hand gently ruffling his hair as her smile lit up his whole world, the only
thing he remembers about her.

Osamu.

He absentmindedly wraps his arms around his body, hand automatically rubbing his shoulder.
It’s a warm memory. It’s a fuzzy blanket protecting him from harsh winters and the
unspeakable horrors of the world.

It’s such a distant one, he knows it will vanish into dust in no time.
Maybe he made it all up.

At this point, he doesn’t even know.

His eyes are wide open, but no matter how hard he strains, he can’t get used to the pitch-
black darkness around him. It’s still fairly light outside but the thick metal of the closed
container door doesn’t let a single ray of sun in, his so-called home a cold crypt, a sneak peek
into the deliverance he craves so badly. Maybe he’s long dead and he’s now in the hell his
father used to tell him he’s going to. If this is so, then the blinding darkness suits him like
nothing else. Dead people need no light, after all.

Unfortunately, he knows like no one else he’s not dead.

Perhaps, he could get up and open the door to change the stuffy, stale air and let some light
in, but he knows that even if he does, it’s not really gonna get any better. He knows it’s not
about the sunlight his shipping container lacks — it’s about the darkness in his heart that has
long become an integral part of him, with its scraggly roots intertwining with his veins, black
tar becoming one with him and replacing his once human soul with a suffocating void.

Others can probably feel it. Like all animals, humans are drawn to fellow humans, after all.
It’s only natural no one wants to be near him.

His forearms are itching, and there’s nothing he craves more than to indulge in cutting sharp
neat lines into his skin, the sweet hit of pain flowing through his veins making everything
better, easier. How ironic — the pain he hates so much is the only thing capable of bringing
him this short-lived solace. Isn’t life funny?

Still, he can’t bring himself to get up and pick up the blade languishing on his desk, fatigue
pinning him down like he’s one of these unlucky bastards crushed by that Mayakovsky guy’s
Ability.

Chuuya’s words keep replaying in his ears like a jammed tape. Do me a favour and fucking
kill yourself.

“Yeah,” he whispers into the dark, skin eager to meet cold metal, his body begging for a
bloody rendezvous with the sharp blade. “Just give me some time.”

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

He can hear the beating of his heart resonating against the tin walls of the shipping container,
the steady, but relentless sound serving as his perpetual reminder.

Tick.

Blessed be the day you finally run out of time.

Tock.
He’s right, Dazai thinks, slowly loosening a bandage on his arm. He’s right. It’s as simple as
that, no matter how loath Dazai is to admit that for once, Chuuya and his tiny slug brain
managed to form a coherent, logical thought. This unadulterated honesty feels refreshing. In
his life, honesty is scarce. It’s a luxury he doesn't get to enjoy very often, and really, it feels
like a breath of fresh air.

He chokes up, chest heaving as he swallows and evens his breathing.

It’s refreshing.

Really, for Dazai, death wishes sound way better than any cheesy birthday or New Year wish
could ever be. These are phoney, fake, insincere, like faded plastic flowers on forgotten
graves. Death wishes come straight from the soul. No one ever uses them half-heartedly, they
are always a manifestation of one’s true emotions, the pure expression of honesty, of
humanity Dazai can’t quite comprehend.

Besides, it’s only fair to get this response after Dazai, in a way, gave himself the privilege of
dictating whether Chuuya lives or dies, his touch being the only thing that separates Chuuya
from the oblivion the raging singularity inside him tries to pull him into.

Corruption is a fascinating thing.

When he first witnessed Chuuya use it on the battlefield, it was truly a quasi-religious
experience, the sheer amount of power and grace colliding in an intricate dance of destruction
rendering him absolutely speechless. Chuuya’s mastery in a fight had always been
unmatched. Corruption brought it to a completely different level as a devastating
manifestation of pure power, becoming another card up the Double Black’s sleeve they could
use if the situation got way too dire. It was their trump card, but still, it was Chuuya’s, and
only Chuuya’s decision whether or not he’s going to do it.

Dazai had never forced Chuuya to activate it.

Until today.

He turns on his side and brings his knees to his chest. It was the only way, really. When
Chuuya froze mid-fight and collapsed, Dazai knew that he would have to rework the mission
plan completely, especially when the backup crew option failed as well, with dozens of Port
Mafia members crushed under unforgiving concrete blocks in a matter of seconds. What a
waste of human resources.

Corruption was the only viable choice.

A sharp pain pricks his chest nevertheless as a quiet voice in his head keeps pestering him —
really? what if there was another way, and you just picked a simpler, not a better way out?

Dazai knows exactly how it feels to have decisions made for you. No wonder Chuuya got so
angry. He kind of had it coming.
He also seemed upset about… What were their names? Yato and Shouji? Dazai sighs and
rubs the bridge of his nose. Truth be told, he doesn’t really care about these two or anybody
else who died in that mission. Losing men is annoying and it’s gonna be a pain in the ass to
train new recruits properly, but ultimately… Who cares?

He’s kind of bummed they lost Mayakovsky — it would have been really fun to interrogate
him. Interesting how people start spilling the beans after some time spent with Dazai in the
interrogation room even if they don’t even speak the same language as him. A small smile
breaks out on his face. Pain is a universal translator, he thinks and absentmindedly rubs his
forearm, ripping off an old scab.

Maybe he should have known better. After all, the King of Assassins incident a year ago had
put Chuuya out of commission for quite a while. However, it wasn’t the time he spent in the
infirmary that turned out to be a problem.

It was Chuuya’s state after he was allowed to go on missions again.

After the first time Chuuya froze on the battlefield, staring at the Ability user charging at him
like a deer in headlights, Mori assumed it was a one-off occasion due to the lack of practice
after a long period of inactivity.

“After all, Chuuya-kun is just a kid,” Mori blankly said to Dazai back when they left the
infirmary leaving Chuuya in the hospital bed. “He’ll grow out of it.”

A kid.

Chuuya would have thrown a tantrum if he heard it.

He nodded, but still, his stomach turned with an unsettling, nauseating feeling. The lack of
practice could have been a viable explanation for what had happened if it wasn’t for the
primal, raw fear Dazai saw in Chuuya’s eyes as he stood motionlessly, the predator turned to
prey in a matter of seconds. The fear that Dazai had never seen before and never expected to
see. The fear that was contagious.

Then the same happened for the second time.

Then the third.

The fourth time was the last time they failed a mission nearly destroying a village in
Fukushima prefecture because of Chuuya’s sudden stupor. Dazai had to personally interfere
back then, getting injured as well, and that was the last straw for Mori.

When he called them to his office, Dazai was positive they’d be dragged out with matching
bullet holes between their eyes, their bodies fed to fish in Yokohama Bay, the story of Double
Black ending on such a trivial, anticlimactic note.

Strangely enough, the boss opted for placing Chuuya on compulsory leave for a few months
instead, and seemingly, this extensive period of rest made chibi normal again.

They were back in action.

Again, until today.

Dazai grits his teeth and rolls over to the other side. Tossing and turning on the thin mattress
is fucking exhausting as if he’s lying on a bed of nails, unable to get comfortable, each move
causing him immense discomfort. Wrong. It’s all wrong. The gears in his brain are grinding
again even though it’s the last thing he wants. They feel rusty, making a horrible screeching
noise in the silence of his home. It’s hurting him. He hates pain so much. He needs pain so
much. He takes off another scab and winces when it comes off along with a thin strip of
healthy skin.

It’s too late to think what he should have done differently and how he could have factored in
Chuuya’s possible… issue.

It’s also, in a way, Chuuya’s own fault. Right? He did say so himself. Another reasonable
thought from Chuuya seems unbelievable, but here they are. Shouldn’t he finally get his shit
together? It’s been a year.

Nevertheless, a little voice in Dazai’s head keeps stubbornly whispering to him, making the
hairs on his neck rise. What kind of strategist are you? Were you really just trying to wing it?
Was your plan C just destroying everything with Corruption and calling it a day?

“No,” he says into the darkness. The darkness is still, silent. Dazai fears one day it will talk
back to him.

He’s so fed up. Living is exhausting. Being the Demon Prodigy is exhausting. Being relied on
for the smooth operations of the Port Mafia is exhausting. Is he really fit for it? He might be
good at playing real-life chess using people as his obedient pieces but really, he lacks what it
takes to do it right.

A soul.

Ultimately, everything boils down to it.

1 syllable, 4 letters, 21 grams, and still, it weighs more than anything else in the world.

The black hole in his chest seems to be sucking everything around Dazai in, crushing his
rusty shipping container as if it is nothing but an empty soda can and ripping him limb from
limb.

Being a good strategist requires caring.

Dazai doesn’t really care.

Chuuya’s sob rings in his ears again. These two guys — Yuuri and Satsuma — were just two
of many other low-ranking Port Mafia members. Just goons, pawns, easily replaceable if
needs be. Knowing Chuuya’s sensitive ass, he’s not surprised he got so upset, but still… It
feels off. Dazai knows virtually everything about him. His likes and dislikes. The way he
prefers his breakfast. The cigarette brand he smokes. That his left foot is slightly bigger than
his right. His friends — living or dead, and as far as he’s aware, Chuuya didn’t even really
know these two. They certainly weren’t friends. Not even acquaintances.

It’s kind of funny, the way Chuuya is. Chibi spends so much time doubting his humanity, and
yet, he does the most human things imaginable. He might not see it, but the more Dazai gets
to know him, the more confident he is that no artificial string of code can be so stupidly
sentimental. He keeps stupid keepsakes in a shoe box under his bed like a giggling schoolgirl.
Sends himself postcards from missions abroad. Wears the snail pin Dazai gave him for his
sixteenth birthday on his backpack, too stupid to recognise an obvious jab. Hell, he spends
the weirdest amount of time sitting by the Flags’ graves and talking to the tombstones, his
weekly ritual equally odd and fascinating. What’s the point? Cold gravestones can’t hear
anything anyway. They won’t talk back. They won’t provide any consolation. It’s just a waste
of time only overly dramatic idiots like Chuuya can justify.

Too goddamn sensitive, Dazai thinks, remembering Chuuya sitting in front of five neat
gravestones last time, the last resting place of the Flags decorated by fresh flowers and
spoiled by Chuuya’s sullen mug.

Dazai didn’t stay long that day. It was starting to rain and his lookout point on the branch of
one of the nearby trees started to get way too slippery.

He left. Judging by Chuuya’s annoying cough and sniffling the next day, he stayed. No
wonder — slugs like moisture.

Hell, he’s probably bawling his eyes out over these two guys right now. Maybe Dazai should
have packed them in a few ziplock bags and given them to Chuuya along with the bouquet of
their bones. The bastard would have probably been on cloud nine from such a present.

Was he lying when he said that more people will die for no reason if this keeps happening?
He was nothing but honest. More people will die. It’s as simple as that. Like all these
pancaked fuckers. Like that villager in Fukushima. Like that stupid couple of civilians that
decided there’s nothing more romantic than having a date at an abandoned dock.

If Chuuya cares so much about people dying, he should have listened to Dazai instead of
flying off the handle. Maybe being so blunt to the king of melodrama was not the best of
ideas, but it was supposed to be effective. Right?

It was his last resort — not quite a manipulation in Dazai's book, but a push in the right
direction, something that hopefully could have shown the hat rack he’s losing his fucking
mind. It was a last resort.

It was an attempt to… help?

It would have been the first one. Frankly, he himself has no idea what kind of help - how can
a miserable leech like himself be of any use to others?

In any case, it didn’t work.

Probably because dogs are not capable of critical thinking.

Something unpleasant pricks Dazai’s chest again. If he was capable of feeling shame, that
would have probably been it.

Good thing he’s unable to.

Sometimes it feels like there’s a devil sitting on his shoulder and relentlessly whispering vile
things into his ear. It bears Dazai’s face, albeit distorted and it keeps gnawing at him with its
sharp teeth laden with poison. No worries, this is not it, it says, its intonation sweet like
honey and bitter like cyanide. You need a soul to feel shame. Dazai flips on his stomach and
buries his face in the pillow, a silent cry barely escaping his mouth. He doesn’t have it, yet
this phantom pain where his soul is supposed to be is overwhelming him, and at this point,
he’d do anything to make it stop.

He’s used to how every single day of his life is filled with suffocating anguish, but it starts
getting too much.

He’s so fed up with it all. With responsibilities. Expectations. People.

The confrontation from a few hours before flashes in front of Dazai’s eyes again. There’s
nothing but resentment in Chuuya’s eyes as he shouts at him, and the words he’s spitting out
are the most genuine thing he’s ever heard — he’d expect nothing less from someone as
human as Chuuya.

Do me a favour and fucking kill yourself.

He shouldn’t even have tried to help. Honesty is refreshing, but it doesn’t seem to do him any
good.

He takes a deep breath, running his hand through his hair.

He’s so fed up with people…

…But what’s more important, people are fed up with him.

The demon’s voice gets louder. It shouts in chorus with Chuuya, their voices in his head
merging into a distorted, jarring cacophony. It hurts too much. Honesty is refreshing, but
coming from Chuuya it’s just…

No.

This skeleton is buried six feet under. It doesn't matter anymore.

Nothing does.

The itch in his forearms is overwhelming, taking over his entire being as he stares
unblinkingly at where he knows the desk in the corner is. He doesn’t need any light on to
navigate across his shipping container and grab the blade, so heavy and pleasant in his hand.

It always brings him relief — it can bring liberation, too.

He just needs to find the strength to stand up. Hell, he’d even crawl there if his feet refused to
cooperate. Just a few meters, a few strokes, a few minutes — and he’ll be-

Bang.

The door of the container bursts open and hits the wall with a deafening crash, shattering the
harrowing silence and making the door hinges whine in protest. Dazai’s eyes widen as he
looks at the blade on the desk glinting with the rays of the fading sun that start pouring into
the room the first chance they get, and he snaps his head around to look at the uninvited
visitor. He sits up, squinting at the sudden change of lighting, his hand inadvertently darting
to his chest.

His mouth curves in a shadow of a smile when he looks at the tiny person standing in the
doorframe, ridiculously small even compared to the unassuming size of the shipping
container.

Chuuya being so short will never stop being funny.

Why is he here? Dazai thinks, amusement quickly replaced by crippling fear as he tries to
read the expression on Chuuya’s face. His brows are furrowed, arms crossed on his chest, and
he’s bouncing his leg as if in anticipation of something. Of what? Getting his revenge? What
the hell did he forget here? Weird how Chuuya, normally so boisterous and confident, is
looking so lost, like a child forgotten in the crowd.

Even post-Corruption he can easily kill me, Dazai thinks, staring at his partner. Well… If he
does, it’ll just make things easier, won’t it?

“Oh no,” Dazai groans, his voice hoarse, “is there a mouse infestation?”

Whatever happens, playing on Chuuya’s nerves is always a lovely idea. Even if a taunt is
going to be his equivalent of the last meal of a death row inmate, he’d gladly eat it up.

“Where’s pest control when I need it?” he mumbles, loud enough for Chuuya to hear and
quiet enough to hide the small quiver in his voice. His legs start traitorously giving out from
under him, but when his eyes lock with Chuuya’s, the unreadable look in blue eyes makes
him forget the crippling feeling, a question beating in his chest in unison with his heart. Why
are you here?

He has always been an open book. Double Black has had this uncanny ability to understand
each other without needing words since day one, yet, he just doesn’t understand.

Why are you here? Dazai restates his silent question, but instead of giving him an answer like
they usually would, the blue eyes finally give up, Chuuya’s gaze dropping to the dirty floor
instead.

There is no answer. Will there ever be? More questions start flooding Dazai’s head as he
watches Chuuya put his hands in his pockets, slumped shoulders making him look even
smaller now.
For some reason, it’s not funny anymore.

Why are you here?

As if answering Dazai’s silent question, Chuuya steps into the shipping container. The metal
floor rattles under his foot, and the aura of menace is shattered in an instant when Chuuya
finally speaks, the unsettling, meek timbre of his voice somehow making Dazai even more
confused, his brain short-circuiting when he finally comprehends the question Chuuya’s
asking him.

“Drink?”

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think in the comments <3

The next chapter goes up next Sunday, 8th October.

Follow me on twitter for writing ramblings and skk threads:

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Doomed forever to lick my wounds
Chapter Notes

Alright, so now it's Chuuya's turn to suffer before everything gradually gets better for
both of them! Fun fact, this was originally chapter 1 when I first started writing it in
April, but then it all changed, haha.

Hope you enjoy this chapter, please let me know in the comments what you think :)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Chuuya reeks of death.

He lathers shampoo into his hair and carefully works conditioner through it, but when it
dries, he can still smell a faint but persistent hint of pungent smoke deeply ingrained in it.

He sprays himself with the cologne Kouyou gave him for his 17th birthday, but instead of the
delicate scent of cardamom and jasmine, all he can smell is the nauseating stench of blood.

AC/DC is booming out of the speakers and he sings along, his vocal cords hurting from the
strain, but the desperate last screams of his friends, enemies and everybody else in between
ringing in his ears are always louder.

He gets dressed and freezes in front of the mirror. For a moment what he sees in it almost
makes him snort. Maybe to an outsider, the boy in the reflection would look like a regular
kid. Maybe to a fucking dimwit, that is.

He blankly stares into the mirror, his reflection looking back at him with curiosity. Pretending
to be a normal 17-year-old looks forced. He looks like he’s wearing a human costume, but to
him, it’s dead obvious that this lousy camouflage could never hide the truth. It could never
hide that no matter how human he looks, he’s nothing but a death machine. A defective death
machine.

The beating in his chest always amuses him. Something as sophisticated as a heart wouldn’t
suit him, and whatever is rattling behind his ribcage, is not it. Some kind of a manmade
pseudo-heart busy pumping blood in his veins has nothing to do with what humans have.
Blood he does have, that he knows for sure. Still, every time he patches up his wounds, he
can't help but wonder — what if it is ersatz, too? What if it is nothing but an elaborate
imitation made of iron, water and crimson dye?

What if even all this suffering is nothing but a predetermined sequence of events dictated by
hundreds of lines of code inside his head?
His reflection hesitantly touches the left side of his chest scrunching the t-shirt under his
white knuckles.

Fraud.

A shroud would have been a better look on me, Chuuya thinks.

His reflection changes for a split second.

He’s clad in black. His coat is ridiculously oversized, it’s slumping off his shoulders making
him look like he’s drowning in it. Red hair frames his bandaged face, white gauze looks
completely out of place covering his right eye and arms, peeking from underneath the cuffs,
his visible eye dull and lifeless, bizarrely matching the one of the person he despises.

He blinks.

The normal Chuuya in the reflection is back. He’s doubling over, pointing his finger at the
real one and bursting out in a deafening fit of laughter only silence can hear. Look what
you’ve become.

Chuuya grits his teeth and rips his gaze off the reflection in the mirror. Unfazed by a dull
ache in his muscles, he strides to the front door and slams it behind him.

His house has always been his safe haven, but now there’s nothing he craves more than to
escape the paradise turned into a scorched wasteland. Corruption marks underneath his t-shirt
rub against the fabrics, skin made tender by the raging singularity inside him a stubborn
reminder of what happened earlier. As if to add to the persistent pain Chuuya’s body is in,
Satoshi’s frantic face is still lingering in front of him. His eyes burn as if the last look of the
man is still being branded on Chuuya’s retinas, the scorching sensation unbearable,
inescapable, accusing.

Some things, as Chuuya had realised a long time ago, can never be forgotten no matter how
hard he tries.

And boy, did he try to forget.

Alcohol. Meditation. Drugs. Sport. So many things other people use to escape, be it healthy
or destructive, didn’t work on Chuuya one bit. A single jagged cut on his thigh did nothing to
soothe his pain either, only adding to it when a then-fresh wound rubbed against the fabric of
his jeans. When it faded into nothing, leaving no trace behind, Chuuya was somewhat
relieved — at least there was one thing less reminding him of his failures.

He can never forget.

He can never forget, but at least, he can simply… run away.

Chuuya clearly remembers his first all-night stroll as if it was yesterday. It was the first time
he went on a mission after his long recovery period. The first time he fucked up big time in
his Mafia career. The first time he froze in the face of danger like an absolute fucking moron.
“Sorry boss,” he said to Mori-san back then, furrowing his brow and lowering his voice to
somehow make up for how pathetic he looked lying in the hospital bed. “Wasted too much
time in the infirmary. Won’t happen again.” He could feel Dazai’s eyes on him the whole
time. He could tell Mori-san didn’t buy it one bit, either.

Sneaking out of the infirmary for the night with fresh wounds hurt like hell, yet, it was the
most free he’d felt in a very long time.

He’s still wondering if anyone could see the exact moment his euphoria from joining the Port
Mafia which kept him afloat for so long, ran dry. It seeped out of his wounds on that
battlefield a year ago and soaked into the ground, ripped out of him with the deafening power
of Corruption, leaving nothing but harrowing emptiness inside him.

This burden never gets lighter, and Chuuya has long stopped wondering if it can ever be
relieved. The answer is obvious in the way the invisible noose on his neck gets heavier with
each passing day, a multi-tonne rock tied to it pulling on it and making it tighter.

Chuuya knows that one day it will cut off his oxygen supply for good.

He wonders if it’s going to happen any time soon.

He wonders if the sweet tranquillity of death will be his only remedy for the persistent,
excruciating memories haunting his days and disturbing his nights.

Nevertheless, as for now, he’s still breathing. His body still works, albeit poorly, and his feet
are the only things he needs to get lost in the busy cobweb of the city streets. This fragile
soap bubble illusion of freedom is refreshing. The city is far from friendly, yet, it opens up to
likewise lost souls, protecting and soothing them in its vibrant embrace. The city is his drug.
It’s his escape. It’s the last frontier of his sanity.

He never knows where his feet will bring him.

Sometimes he finds himself drinking the night away in some sketchy bar on the outskirts of
Yokohama, where the bartender wouldn’t even bother checking his ID, other bar patrons
paying him no heed.

Sometimes he spends the whole night at an arcade, music blasting in his headphones isolating
him from the outside world, making him lose himself in the world of bright lights and upbeat
music.

Sometimes he aimlessly wanders around the city, speeds down deserted streets on his
motorbike, dances in a club like there’s no tomorrow, or just sits on the top of a port crane
smoking one after another, the mysterious glint of Yokohama Bay under the moonlight
hypnotising him with its soothing aura.

Chuuya doesn’t really care how exactly he spends the night. He’s perfectly content as long as
he can become yet another unremarkable face in the crowd, the city graciously letting him
blend in, camouflaging him from everything he’d like to run away from.
Chuuya Nakahara is death. He is arguably the most powerful Ability user in the Port Mafia,
and even gravity manipulation aside, his martial arts skills make him the perfect fighter,
quick and effective in his ventures - when he’s not spacing out in the middle of a fight, that is.

Chuuya Nakahara is death. He’s a weapon. This is the way the world is.

He’s broken, but still, he’s the Port Mafia’s best asset.

Still, he’d give anything to just be Chuuya for at least a short while.

Yokohama kindly lets him grant this little wish, even if it’s just for a few hours.

This secret is his, and only his to keep. He’s holding on to this thought like a drowning man
clutching at straws, the last remaining bits of his sanity kept afloat by this reminder.

It’s mine.

It’s just for me.

No one else.

The air is chilly. He takes a deep breath, savouring the cold air hitting his lungs. Despite the
mild discomfort, it’s refreshing, and even though it’s far from healing his fatigue, he feels just
a little bit more awake.

He puts his hands in his pockets and confidently starts walking toward a bar that has recently
become one of his favourites. It so happens to belong to a rival organisation, which makes it
even better — at least Chuuya isn’t very likely to see any familiar faces there. The last thing
he wants right now is to get stuck conversing with people he has the misfortune to know.

He stops when he sees the familiar sign, old faded red chipped paint on weathered wood
welcoming him in, intoxicated voices of bar patrons coming from behind the slightly ajar
door a sneak peek into the carefree night. A few drinks and a couple of overheard
conversations sprinkled with a hint of small talk with a bartender is a recipe for normalcy.
Craving normalcy is not something he’s used to. Yet, here he is.

Suddenly, he feels the bitter taste of gin in his mouth and Lippmann’s face flashes before his
eyes. Excitedly, he’s telling Chuuya everything about his carefully curated collection of
luxurious alcohol, bottles purposefully placed on the shelves of his drink cabinet. That day
mostly faded from his memory and he can hardly remember any details, but the enthusiastic
spark in his friend’s eyes that still shines even through death is enough to make his stomach
turn.

“We’ll drink this one when you become an Executive,” Lippmann said back then, lovingly
looking at the label on one of the bottles of wine. “Hopefully you will be of age by then,” he
added and winked. “Kind of weird to get drunk with children.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes at the joke back then.

Now, he’d do anything to get him to make another one.

I’m afraid we won’t, Lippmann, he thinks bitterly.

He swallows, stubbornly ignoring the lump in his throat, taking another step toward the run-
down bar. Suck it up, he tells himself.

The thing is, everything reminds him of the people he’d lost. He has to start accepting it.

The whirring of his motorcycle has a hint of Albatross’ boisterous voice in it. Dancing with
girls in clubs makes him feel like he’s about to see the familiar pink hue of Yuan’s hair on his
shoulder. Whenever he loses in a game of pinball, he groans and instinctively turns to bitch
about his bad luck to Shirase only to see no one there.

His secret strolls are his.

This secret he gets to keep to himself keeps the faint flicker of light inside him awake.

Yet, at times it gets just a little bit too lonely.

The ghosts of his past are all around him. Even though he can feel their presence, they remain
perpetually silent, muted by the curse of bad luck looming over Chuuya.
Every single person unfortunate enough to meet Chuuya is bound to meet their untimely
demise sooner rather than later. It’s an axiom.

He can still feel Yuki and Satoshi’s hands on his arms as they try to stand him upright. The
bruises their fingers pressed into his skin are the only physical evidence that these people
were ever alive, and even they will soon fade. Chuuya wonders if their families already
know. Did they have siblings? Children? Wives? Is there someone crying over them right
now? Does someone else now have this endless void that the death of a loved one leaves in
their hearts, never to fully close?

At least no one will have to mourn him when he-

Chuuya groans and clenches his fists, his fingernails pushing into the flesh, sharp pain
bringing him back to his senses.

Well… there is one person who keeps sticking around no matter what. The person whose
twisted mindset Chuuya, unfortunately, seems to have adopted.

Maybe being a suicidal bastard is contagious.

Dazai is like a cockroach — it seems like even a nuclear blast won’t wipe him off the face of
the Earth — he’d probably just kick his legs in the air in the wake of the shockwave, jump
back on his feet and go about his annoying business like nothing ever happened.

His disgusting craftiness and vitality are, in a way, remarkable. In a way, they’re infuriating.
Chuuya doesn’t trust him one bit, yet he’d put his life in Dazai’s hands without thinking
twice. He hates how much of a clown he is, yet he keeps getting impressed by his impeccable
plans. He’d throw a Yokohama-wide party when the bandage waster finally kicks the bucket,
yet-
Do me a favour and fucking kill yourself.

His vocal cords are still sore, the strain put on them vibrating, echoing in his throat, repeating
these words over and over in his head. Words are just, well… Words. They can’t kill.

Then why, uttered by him, do they feel like a weapon?

Chuuya is used to telling Dazai vile things. The relationship that started with a kick and a
foot firmly pressing on Dazai's chest couldn't go any other way. Endless bickering started to
accompany their turbulent relationship from day one, becoming their default way of talking
to each other.

It’s normal.

Besides, Dazai had it coming, acting all condescending and pretending to give a shit. What is
a death wish for him, anyway? Knowing him and his macabre obsession with death, the
fucker probably saw it more like a love confession.

Whatever.

He said what he said. Hell, he’d say it again in a heartbeat. Who cares? Why is he even
worried about it?

The last thing Chuuya wants right now is to think about the bandaged bastard.

Yet, he can still see Dazai’s eyes boring into his own, the slight glint in them veiling the
unfaltering determination. The phantom touch of Dazai’s fingers lingers on his skin, the
evening breeze ruffling his hair just like Dazai’s hand did a few hours ago, the cold air
mimicking the electric tingling of No Longer Human. The wind dies down, leaving Chuuya
feeling somewhat robbed of the soothing comfort. That was a nice fee-

“You coming in?”

Chuuya looks up. A man with an unlit cigarette in his mouth is holding the door open,
looking at him questioningly. Chuuya didn’t even realise he’d been standing on the porch this
whole time with his hand extended toward the door handle.

“Oh.” Chuuya drops his arm and takes a step back. The inviting sounds of cheerful banter
coming from the bar are calling him, the promise of careless merriment pulling him in like a
magnet. “No. Sorry,” he says and turns on his heel, hurrying down the street away from the
bar, turning the corners and heading to the place that smells the most fishy in this city.

If he’s not getting any sleep tonight, he might as well drag Dazai along.

He’s not the best company, that’s for sure. His quirks and mannerisms make him a
particularly insufferable person to be around. He is a pale caricature of a friend. Calling him
such would be blasphemous, desecrating the very notion of genuine human connection.

Still, even a caricature is better than the forgotten empty canvas that his mind is.
Besides, what right does he have to crave for anything human?

Humans are drawn to fellow humans. This is a known fact. This is one of the reasons why he
and Dazai could never — and never will be able to — get along.

“Opposites attract”, they say. Chuuya calls bullshit on this ridiculous statement. The opposing
magnetic poles are supposed to stick to each other as well, but, as Chuuya has noticed over
the years, this is not the case in real life. His ability defies the laws of physics — and so does
he.

Humans are drawn to fellow humans.

He is simply not human enough.

Dazai has many flaws. Hell, he is one big flaw walking on two legs wearing a ridiculously
oversized black coat, wandering the world resembling a stray black cat in search of a can of
crab to devour. Frankly, Chuuya is glad he’s so unlike Dazai.

Still, the only thing that stings, the only thing that sends him into an uncontrollable fit of
jealousy, is how human Dazai is.

He is flawed.

But so are all humans.

He is complicated.

But so are all humans.

Dazai feels - he feels so much, that his utterly human soul just can’t fit it all within. Chuuya
wonders what would it be like if he could feel as much. His anguish, his pain, his turmoil are
so raw, that Chuuya cannot fully comprehend it. Dazai’s pain appears on his body in the form
of fine lines covered by layers and layers of bandages, it leaks out of his heart in his
passionate tirades about the meaning of (or rather, the lack of) life, and his bleeding soul
shines brighter than anything, making Chuuya feel like he is being blinded by the unfiltered
humanity, his artificial heart silent, inadequate in comparison with Dazai’s.

Having such an intricate soul must be a horrible burden.

He has enough of his own.

Maybe it’s for the best he is not human.

Fetching Dazai is a shit idea, honestly. The laws of physics will undoubtedly be defied again,
making them forcefully repel as soon as Chuuya sets foot in Dazai’s home. Still, there is
something calling him toward the junkyard, his feet stubbornly carrying him to the place
where he knows he won't be welcome.

He could try. He could take him to that bar. Get him a drink as a peace offering. He’d
probably scrunch his nose and complain that the colour of the chairs is too ugly or that the
whiskey is watered down, or that the wood texture of the bar is too rough, but in the end,
they’d just laugh it off and establish some kind of a truce.

(Not that Chuuya really cares, though.)

Knowing Dazai, he will probably make some stupid joke. Chuuya will roll his eyes at it.
They’ll find themselves discussing some nonsense, and Dazai would sway his arms like two
giant noodles and Chuuya would sway on his chair because he would probably have drunk
too much by then, and if he happens to fall off it, Dazai would first screech in glee like a mad
seagull and then try to pull him up, only to fall down as well, his lanky legs traitorously
giving up on him. Then they’d laugh, and laugh, and laugh until they can’t breathe anymore.

Or maybe they won’t.

Chuuya doesn’t care.

Why would he? They are not friends. Again, calling Dazai a friend is simply laughable. They
might be forced to be unfortunate coworkers, but really, that’s about it. They work together.
Go on missions. Occasionally- rarely- once in a blue moon- they do spend time together
despite the turmoil their relationship is, but really, for both of them, it is the last resort to
battle the Mafia-induced stress.

Chuuya can't help but wonder how much willpower it takes for Dazai not to show his
contempt for him when they bicker in their arcade.

Chuuya hates it, too, after all.

Still, today could be one of these forced-to-hang-out-together days, right?

Chuuya's stomach turns at the memory of his outburst.

Thinking back about it, replaying this moment in his head, makes him, in a way, scared of
himself. These words left his mouth with such ease, feeling so natural and right, that Chuuya
can’t help but wonder — what if he did, in fact, mean it?

Did he?

Or did he not?

Seeing Dazai’s fresh cuts always fills him with the sort of emotion he can’t quite
comprehend. Dazai always averts his gaze when Chuuya notices them. Knowing his fucking
destructive tendencies, Chuuya does hope Dazai didn't take his words as a call to action.

If the bastard is to die any time soon, it better be at Chuuya’s hand, anyway.

Besides… Chuuya just can’t bear to have even more blood on his hands. He can’t bear to
have another ghost of the person he used to know looming behind him in eternal silence.

Silence doesn’t suit Dazai.

Chuuya snaps out of his thoughts when a rusty metal gate blocks his way. He scrunches his
nose and winces at the persistent stench of decay.

He’s not sure how on Earth Dazai manages to live in such a grim place even taking into
account his self-destructive tendencies and other quirks. Maybe he really is a cockroach in
disguise.

He pushes the gate and it opens with a screeching noise. Accompanied by the disturbing
sound, Chuuya steps into the junkyard. The outline of the shipping container in the distance
is a beacon of despair calling him toward it, a lighthouse in the sea of junk, a lonely satellite
standing still with no planet to orbit. It’s a sinister sight. Still, for some ridiculous reason, it
fills him with something akin to hope.

He raises his fist to knock on the door. As is held in place by an invisible force, his arm
refuses to cooperate, a slight tremor buzzing in his hand spreading to his whole body. The
noose on his neck gets tighter again, and together with the pungent smell of the junkyard,
Chuuya feels like the air in his lungs is slowly being replaced with poison.

I don’t owe him any apology, Chuuya tells himself.

He knows he doesn’t, yet it feels like a decent thing to do. A human thing to do. Since he’s
pretending to be one, it would only make sense to act like one.

I don’t want to see this fucker.

He doesn’t. That is true. He doesn’t want to.

The problem is… He needs to.

“Shit,” he hisses through his teeth. “Shit!”

Before he knows it, his leg is up in the air, his powerful kick bursting the door open, and for a
moment, Chuuya’s concerned the flimsy shipping container is going to collapse from the
sheer force of the impact.

To say the least, Dazai looks fucking pathetic sitting on the bare mattress thrown on the dirty
floor and the way he gapes his mouth at the uninvited guest makes him resemble a mackerel
washed ashore even more. The pause seems to last centuries when Dazai finally regains the
ability to speak.

“Oh no,” he says with a small voice, “is there a mice infestation? Where’s pest control when I
need it so much?”

He sits still, fear pooling in his eyes as he stares at Chuuya like he’s a rabbit about to be
devoured by a wolf, and now it's Chuuya’s turn to freeze. The hell is wrong with him? What's
with that voice? Since when is Dazai afraid of him?

This look is too much. This is not the Dazai he’d gladly beat up physically and at an arcade.
This is not the brain of the Double Black. This is not the partner he’d gone to hell and back
with.
This is a scared child.

Feeling his insides freeze, Chuuya cowardly breaks eye contact, sceptically eyeing mould on
the floor. A nauseating sensation takes over him as he steps into the container.

It’s now or never.

“Drink?” Chuuya says nonchalantly. Hesitantly, Dazai blinks and rubs his forehead with the
sleeve of his shirt.

The “hah?” Dazai lets out is so quiet, that it’s easy to miss.

“A fucking bar. Let’s go. It’s on me.”

How pathetic is he to try and buy Dazai’s time just to save himself from the prospect of being
alone for another night? How pitiful is he, begging for company from Dazai, out of all p-

“I’ll pass,” Dazai croaks after a few seconds.

Chuuya’s heart drops.

Hesitantly, he meets Dazai’s eyes again, watching the fear in them being gradually replaced
by confusion. It’s too much. It’s too hard to bear the pure feeling emanating from Dazai. Why
did he even come here?

“Uh. Arcade, then?” Chuuya wheezes.

What is he talking about? Dazai thinks, desperately trying to keep calm, his heart beating like
crazy at the danger looming over him in the form of a redhead shortie. Is he here to beat him
up? He’s been expecting it. Is he here to kill him? Hell, he’s been longing for it, albeit in
slightly different circumstances. Then why is he scared? Why can’t he understand Chuuya’s
motives? Why is he here? What is going on?

“Oi.”

“What arcade?” Dazai finally says, desperately trying to find logic in Chuuya’s actions. Is
this some kind of a distraction strategy? Will his next step be delivering the fatal blow?
Kicking him to the next prefecture? Or simply snapping his neck?

“Our regular one!” Chuuya snarls and Dazai starts. “I’ll even let you cheat once,” he adds,
quieter this time, moving his gaze to the corner of the room.

Dazai clicks his tongue and falls onto his back, his head making a thumping noise against the
hard floor. Is there even any reason to fight it? He is done. He is done with it all. Being
mauled by a rabid chihuahua would be an embarrassing death, but really… At this point, he’d
take it.

He takes a deep breath.

“How rude of you to assume I ever cheat,” he languidly says.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re Mr. Fair Play here,” Chuuya says with a chuckle. “How dare I ever
accuse you of something like that. Let’s go.”

Dazai says nothing. The slight furrow of his brows is a shield he’s put between him and the
world, as impenetrable and indiscernible as his soul. Chuuya opens his mouth, but nothing
comes out, all jabs and playful taunts forgotten as he stares at Dazai’s half-lidded eyes, the
blank stare rivalling his usual one.

Banter has never failed to lighten the mood before. There’s no better superglue for their
shattered relationship than a cavalcade of ridiculous insults they throw at each other until
they both forget why they fought in the first place.

The superglue seems to have dried out.

Is he going to be alone tonight, after all?

Dazai closes his eyes and Chuuya shakes his head, taking another step closer. “Let’s go,” he
says again, prodding Dazai with his foot. He hates himself for it. He hates that he keeps
trying, as if he doesnt see that he does not belong here. Does not belong anywhere.

“Why?” Dazai asks phlegmatically, opening his eyes and tentatively looking at Chuuya.

Because I can't bear to be alone tonight. Because I’m tired. Because I need a person who
understands.

None of these can ever leave Chuuya’s mouth. Never in a million years. Chuuya clicks his
tongue and extends his arm toward Dazai lying on the floor like a starfish, making him
twitch, and this barely noticeable move makes Chuuya’s heart drop.

“Does it matter?” he beckons. “Just come with me. It’s not like you have anything better to
do anyway.”

“I was having a lovely time until you showed up.”

“You were lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling.”

“Exactly.”

Impatiently, Chuuya clicks his tongue and leans down, grabbing Dazai’s arm and forcefully
yanking him upright. Dazai whines in protest and cradles his arm, kicking Chuuya’s shin and
taking a step back.

“Leave me alone,” he mumbles, a weird mixture of disappointment, relief and something else
mixing in his chest. “I have better things to do than walking a dog.”

As Chuuya looks at Dazai’s frowning face trying to find at least a morsel of understanding in
it, he feels the rock tied to his neck get heavier. A quaver tries to escape his mouth as his
oxygen supply diminishes again, but he gathers all his willpower not to let it be heard.

If only he could use gravity manipulation to relieve himself from this unbearable weight.
If only Dazai wasn't such a stubborn ass.

This pause seems to last centuries.

They never needed words to communicate. As cliche as it sounds, their level of mutual
understanding transcended the mere need to speak, as if there was a telepathic channel of
communication established between them allowing them to read each other’s thoughts with
ease.

It seems to have been cut.

“Fine,” Chuuya finally says through his teeth, shooting Dazai a look of contempt. “Enjoy
your shithole, bastard.”

He turns on his heel and storms out of the container, not bothering to shut the door behind
him. His usual anger with the shitty mackerel is overcome with sorrowful bitterness flowing
through his veins, frustration ignited by the killed hope blinding and choking him. How
stupid was he to even have any hope? Why would someone like him even have the privilege
of being something other than a pathetic lonely bastard?

Fuck this shithead, Chuuya thinks, desperately trying to push the creeping feeling of
disappointment aside. His eyes burn again, and really, he wishes the scorching sensation
would somehow relieve him from the pain his artificial heart is in.

It doesn’t relieve anything. It only adds to the unbearable torture of being.

Regretting his actions is not new.

It’s one of the few constants in his life.

And he is so tired of it.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading!

Writing conflicted and miserable Chuuya was so fun. Poor kid :'')

Kudos and comments are always appreciated, they mean the world to me <3

My twitter: [Link]
All the songs we've yet to write
Chapter Summary

Aaaand, here it is, this story is finally complete! Thank you for sticking around and I
hope you enjoy it!

The artwork embedded in the text is @fishpocalypse's reverse big bang entry that
inspired the whole thing, please give it some love here:
[Link]

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Drip.

The junkyard exit is no further than a few dozen metres from Chuuya and, at the same time, it
feels like a marathon distance away, each step seemingly increasing the distance between him
and the gate.

Drip.

His legs are barely responding to him as he stubbornly makes his way toward the exit from
this disgusting place, wishing nothing more than to get the fuck out of here, leaving the
godforsaken shipping container and the bastard inside it behind for good.

Drip.

The burning in his eyes is unbearable—somebody, take the fucking brand away—and the
closer he approaches the rusty gate, the tighter the noose on his neck gets, white flies
swarming in front of his eyes as if winter decided to come early, something inside him nearly
reaching boiling point, ready to blow up at any moment.

He’s done. He’s so. Fucking. Done.

Drip.

It’s consuming him whole — something bigger and heavier than any monster can be, gnarlier
than any bloody mess he’d seen and any scream he’d heard, as if Corruption is taking over
him without granting him the salvation of the comatose delirium.

A bandaged hand slaps him on the shoulder and Chuuya has to suppress a wince when the
painful awareness of the fresh wounds jerks him back to reality.
He clenches his fists and quickens his pace, focusing his eyes on the road and trying to blink
away the traitorous burning. The hand slips off his shoulder, fingers grasping the air where
Chuuya’s shirt was just a moment ago, but the phantom touch lingers, the sensation
stubbornly refusing to fade. The touch meant to bring anything else other than destruction is a
luxury Chuuya knows he is not able to afford, and the dull pain caused by the hand meaning
little harm feels almost like a gesture of affection.

It is nauseating.

“How unexpected of you to visit me here, Chuuya.” Dazai’s voice is hoarse. The shadow of
smugness in it is so flimsy, it is strange that it comes out of the mouth of the master
manipulator. It’s eerily odd.

Chuuya doesn’t care though.

“So rude of you to nearly destroy my humble home like this. You know, a text message
would have sufficed. I would have said no, but still.”

Chuuya stops in his tracks and clenches his fists.

“Thought you didn’t want to come with me? Leave me alone,” he hisses through his teeth.
The phantom hand squeezes his shoulder again, trying to forcefully tug him and make him
face Dazai.

He resists.

A beat of silence passes.

“I’m not coming with you,” Dazai says. “Just taking a walk.”

It doesn’t sound like a statement. More like a question, really, with the way Dazai’s voice
quivers and goes up in pitch as if he is a smelly preteen. Mentally, he definitely is. Fucking
clown.

“Taking a walk,” Chuuya echoes and moves on. Taking a walk my ass, he thinks. He can feel
Dazai staring at him. His gaze feels like it’s about to leave a scorching mark on his face,
branding him with yet another hideous wound — but at least, it seems to have alleviated the
unbearable burning sensation in his eyes.

Still, Chuuya doesn’t grant him a look.

He is done.

Dazai keeps babbling away.

“I just happen to be walking in the same direction. Coincidences happen, Chuuya.”

Coincidences! Bullshit, Chuuya thinks, stubbornly looking in front of him and booting the
gate open, happily visualising Dazai’s face where his shoe meets the rusty metal. The back of
his head is burning, Dazai’s eyes are threatening to drill a hole in it, and Chuuya has to gather
all his strength not to look back.

…He hates himself for wanting to look.

He hates himself for the modicum of relief he felt when the lanky mackerel appeared next to
him. He hates how the ghost touch on his shoulder feels like a caress, like a reassurance, even
though he knows like no one else it’s not.

If he, hypothetically, were to look, what would he see? Would that unfamiliar expression
linger in Dazai’s eyes again? The one that frustrated him so much a few hours ago when he
was lying on the ground in his post-Corruption state? The one that, for some reason, made
itself home in Chuuya’s mind, an odd island of peace among the horrific memories forever
etched in his brain?

He hates himself for that, too.

“Whatever,” Chuuya quietly grumbles and puts his hands in his pockets. It’s a chilly evening.
He is a bit cold. He can’t let Dazai see how his nails dig deep into his palms, leaving
crescent-moon-shaped marks, skin about to burst from the pressure.

The apprehensive silence is hanging over them like the sword of Damocles as they make their
way toward the city through deserted industrial areas. Giant factory buildings surround them
with their silent might as their tall chimneys slowly puff out steam. Still refusing to look at
Dazai, Chuuya can nonetheless see his lanky, hunched stature by his side with the corner of
his eye. The sight of Dazai’s long arms swinging is particularly annoying, and Chuuya grits
his teeth.

He doesn’t want him here.

He could just make Dazai get the hell away from him. Couldn’t he?

A litany of curses always works like a charm to get the message across — and still, Chuuya
doesn’t trust his own vocal cords.

He simply can’t be sure that instead of the avalanche of insults, an utterly embarrassing,
humiliating word won’t leave his mouth.

Stay.

Chuuya remains silent.

The closer they get to downtown, the busier the city gets. Life is slowly starting to bustle
around them, the rhapsody of the evening city replacing the menacing silence hanging
between the two boys walking in step with each other. Cars honking. Seagulls screaming over
their heads. Clicking heels on the sidewalks. Rustling of bicycle tires. Humming of electric
motors. People chatting to each other, bits and pieces of their conversations sewing into
patchwork blankets of lives and destinies. Dazai absentmindedly humming and snapping his
fingers, a wannabe drummer inadvertently adding rhythm to the ridiculously harmonious
cacophony.

This odd music is calming. It always is. This is what Chuuya loves about Yokohama.

Gently, melodically, the city blends you in. It lets you get lost among millions of other
people.

And it is incredibly soothing.

Chuuya relaxes his jaw and lets out a deep sigh he never realised he was holding in.
Tentatively, he turns his head and his eyes immediately meet Dazai’s. The bandages on his
face are hastily back on, and some part of Chuuya is glad he doesn’t have to face him
unguarded like that time. On the other hand, the curiosity in him is itching to take another
glimpse not at one, but at two dull brown eyes. Dazai blinks and Chuuya turns away with a
scoff.

Fine. He’ll try to tolerate the shitty mackerel tonight.

He can’t guarantee anything, though.

In unison, they turn the corner of another block.

••••••

“Did you know that a flea can jump 350 times its body length?”

After a few minutes, Dazai breaks the silence, assiduously brushing dust off his tie. He hates
how high-pitched the timbre of his voice is. He hates how he knows that it will never escape
Chuuya’s attention.

Still, even if the only reaction he is going to get from Chuuya is another scoff or a scream…
he’d gladly have it.

Such eerie quietness does not suit his fiery, short (fused) partner. It is too unnerving. Too
alien. Chuuya is an embodiment of life. He is always on the go. He always has something to
say, and even when he chooses not to, it is worth a million words. Sometimes those rare quiet
moments they shared even made Dazai think that maybe he doesn’t hate silence that much.

Now, however, it is the opposite of comforting. Akin to the ringing silence of his shipping
container, it is deafening. Haunting. Oppressive.

Dazai swallows and looks at his shoes, studying a thin layer of dust covering them, and sends
a small pebble flying with his toe.

Chuuya says nothing.

Dazai steals a glance at the sullen boy walking next to him. He is lost in his own thoughts,
and probably, he didn’t even register that Dazai had said something.
He clears his throat.

“Did you know,” he says again, louder this time, lightly smacking Chuuya’s arm, “that a flea
can jump 350 times its body length?”

Chuuya stops in his tracks and finally looks at Dazai. His eyebrows are scrunched as if he is
trying to comprehend what he’d just heard, blue eyes murky with confusion. A beat of
silence passes and Chuuya tilts his head.

“Hah? What the fuck are you on about?”

Dazai’s breath catches in his throat. Why is he even trying to fix it? It’s broken beyond repair.
It’s illogical.

Still, even the Demon Prodigy can allow himself to make no sense once in a while, right?

Too late to backpedal, he thinks and swallows.

“I said,” he muses, staring at Chuuya deadpan, “that a flea can jump 350 times its body
length.”

Chuuya opens his mouth, the baffled look on his face spelling out in big bold letters: you are
fucking insane, shitty Dazai. Stubbornly, Dazai refuses to break eye contact, no matter how
many untold insults he can see in Chuuya’s eyes.

Insults are child’s play, after all.

He’d seen worse.

After what feels like an eternity, a corner of Chuuya’s mouth twitches, the defensive
apprehension in his eyes mellowing.

“That’s a very strong fucking flea, then!” he blurts out and hurriedly walks down the street,
his pace increasing with every step he takes. He is staring at his shoes, but when Dazai
catches up, he finally sees what he has been trying to summon on Chuuya’s sullen face all
along.

A shadow of a smile is gracing his lips, and even though his eyebrows are still scrunched, his
guard seems to be just a little bit more down. He’s just a little bit more open. Just a little bit
more Chuuya.

Dazai’s plan has almost worked.

It just needs one final touch.

“So, Chuuya,” he chirps, his voice starting to regain its usual confidence, “if I were a flea, I
would have been able to reach the Yokohama Bay Bridge in only five jumps. Six, tops. Isn't
that sick?”
“Uh-huh,” Chuuya hums and scratches the back of his head. His lips are tightly drawn
together, traitorous lines appear in the corners of his eyes as he tries to keep his brows
furrowed, and Dazai can swear he can hear Chuuya’s facade rapidly breaking. The cracking
of the fortified walls is poorly concealed by Chuuya’s heavy footsteps, and Dazai just knows
– it is now or never.

“For you, it will be more like twenty though,” Dazai chirps, nonchalantly waving his hand.

Chuuya stops in his tracks with an oh-so-familiar “HAH?”

“Twenty?!” he roars.

“Twenty.”

“TWENTY?!”

“Yup.” Dazai stops a few steps away and looks at Chuuya with the most innocent look he can
muster. “Twenty jumps. Maybe even twenty-fi…”

“Oh, fuck off! I’m not that short!”

Dazai’s breath hitches when he sees the familiar mischief in his partner’s eyes, a certain
sparkle lighting up his irises, the kind that only Chuuya seems to possess.

Getting Chuuya to shout at him has never been as comforting.

Hard to believe that the voice now tinted with a hint of fondness screamed something
completely different at him just a few hours ago.

Do me a favour and fucking k-

“Fleas!” Chuuya finally breaks out laughing and lightly punches Dazai’s chest. “Stupid
mackerel… The shit you say.”

“Aren’t you happy you got to learn something new today?”

“New? I’ve always known you were an insufferable moron.”

“How rude! Is this your payback for the valuable flea fact I’ve shared with you?”

“My payback will be destroying your ass at Tekken.”

“Ew. I don’t want Chuuya anywhere near my ass.”

“Stop twisting my words.”

“Anyhow, have you ever won against me?”

“Yes.”

“That time my joystick broke doesn't count.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes and pushes Dazai with his shoulder. Accompanied by the bandage
waster’s indignant whining, they turn the corner of yet another block. In the distance, Chuuya
can see the bright sign of the arcade calling them in, just a few dozen metres separating them
from getting lost in another world for the night. The ambient clacking of the buttons on the
machines, upbeat music and voices of other visitors merging into a continuous hum always
feel like a cooling balm on a stinging burn. Everything about the arcade feels just right. Dim
lights and neon signs over a scruffy couch. Competing at who can drink Coke in fewer gulps.
Non-stop bickering as they try machine after machine.

There is nothing like the arc-

Slowly, Chuuya raises his head. The street they are walking on has been feeling eerily
familiar — and now he understands why. His eyes dart up to a familiar high-rise, one of
many peppering the city and his heart misses a beat.

••••••

“It better be worth it,” Chuuya groaned, rubbing his sore calves. Walking 40 floors up barely
counted as an exercise in his book, but still, his muscles were definitely not happy about the
strain they got put through all of a sudden. Yuan, however, seemed completely unfazed by the
long ascent, even somewhat amused by Chuuya’s struggle.

“We gonna stand here all day or what?” he asked.

Yuan rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath. Knowing her, whatever it
was, it was definitely not a compliment. “Hold my beer,” she commanded and took a gun out
of her purse.

“Very sneaky, Yuan,” he chuckled, taking a sip out of her can and looking at the girl aiming at
the dangling lock on the metal door leading to the roof. “No one’s gonna hear a gunshot in a
narrow fucking stairwell.”

“You’re so stuck-up, Chuuya,” she pouted and put the gun back into her purse. “I was only
joking. This door is never locked. And anyhow, since when are you worried about getting in
trouble with the law?”

With that, Yuan took off the lock and pulled the door open. She stepped out on the rooftop,
the cold wind coming from the sea instantly messing her hair. Chuuya followed her, shut the
door with a loud bang and zipped his jacket up, trying to protect himself from the wind that
seemed to have been blowing from every direction at the same time.

It wasn’t a particularly pleasant day to be so high up, without any shelter from the elements.

Still…. Something was thrilling, almost magical about having this island of solitude in the
middle of the bustling megalopolis. Something that no one else knew about.

Yuan pulled his sleeve.

“Shirase’s gonna come soon,” she said, leading Chuuya to the edge of the roof. “He’s
finishing some business.” With that, she plopped down and swung her legs, unfazed by the
hundred-metre drop underneath her feet. She looked up at Chuuya and smiled.

She patted the spot next to her.

“Sit. I love this place.”

••••••

I love this place.

The same thing he had said so many times as years went by. As seasons changed. As he
changed, along with the people around him. So many friends and acquaintances, so many
people dear to him he shared this spot with.

He lost them all.

The skyscraper still stands. Its windows gleam in the pale evening light, red flashes blink on
the roof as a warning — or, perhaps, an invitation. Maybe the lock is still broken. Maybe
they’ve fixed it. He doesn’t know.

Frankly, until now he had forgotten that this rooftop had even existed.

He had explored every nook and cranny of Yokohama during his night walks, and yet, the
thought of going up the familiar few hundred steps hadn’t crossed his mind in more than a
year. It turned into a no-go zone. To be fair, maybe it’s for the best he forgot about it. Does he
really want to be greeted by all the ghosts of his past waiting for him on that rooftop?

The curiosity is still eating him alive.

Is it going to feel the same?

Maybe there will be no ghosts waiting to torment him with bitter reminders of what he used
to have. Maybe, on the contrary, the part of him that he thought had vanished along with
everyone he loved is still stuck there, on the windy rooftop, waiting for him to come back.

Dazai pokes him in the arm and Chuuya slowly moves his gaze to him, an idea forming in his
head as he watches Dazai’s lips move as if in slow motion, his brain not registering a word he
is saying.

He had lost everyone.

Everyone, but one person.

Dazai is not someone dear to him — hell, comparing this cockroach to his actual, true friends
would tarnish their memory and make them all turn in their graves or sneeze all day long, but
still… It wouldn’t hurt to check it out since they are already around, right?

“Chuuya.”
“Hah?”

Dazai stops and looks at Chuuya with puzzlement. “I said, I heard they fixed their DDR
machines, so-”

“Wait.”

Chuuya swallows and takes another glance at the skyscraper. He can swear he can see a flash
of pink at the very top. He blinks and it disappears. I love this place, Yuan’s voice echoes in
his head.

“Um. I was…” He clears his throat. Why is he so nervous again? Why are his legs starting to
feel like on that battlefield with Mayakovsky, muscles suddenly turned to jelly? Dazai is still
looking at him expectantly, streetlights reflecting in his eye, the yellow light turning the
brown irises into a deep shade of amber.

“I… I don’t know,” Chuuya breathes out.

“What do you want?” Dazai reaches out and touches Chuuya’s shoulder. He winces when
Dazai’s fingers touch a Corruption wound underneath the fabric of his t-shirt again, but at the
same time, the nullifying effect of No Longer Human brings him back to the ground, the
honey shine of Dazai’s eyes keeping him in place like an anchor of gold.

“I don’t know,” Chuuya says and looks at the skyscraper again. “I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

Dazai tilts his head and squeezes Chuuya’s shoulder. With the familiar analysing look in his
eye, he is scanning Chuuya head to toe, as if to see-

“I’m not having a moment!” he snaps. Dazai hums, the calculating look still unwavering. “I
was just thinking… Wanna go to a rooftop?”

Dazai raises his eyebrows and drops his hand. “A rooftop?”

“Did I fucking stutter?”

Dazai glances at the glowing arcade sign. It’s so close. It is a foolproof way to have a
somewhat pleasant night. It makes sense.

“Eh,” he says and scratches his head. “Don’t know what you’re planning, but I’m sure not
doing a double suicide with you.”

“I wasn’t going to offer. Don’t think too highly of yourself.”

Dazai takes a glance at the skyscraper. It blends in with other buildings around it, almost
getting lost between them, just one of many glass and metal trees in the concrete jungle of
Yokohama.
It’s plain. Bland. Boring. It’s nothing like the majestic Yokohama Landmark Tower or the
mighty Port Mafia skyscrapers. The building Chuuya is staring at with a certain longing in
his eyes is simply one of many — grey and unremarkable.

He doesn’t get it.

“It used to be my place,” Chuuya mumbles. He’s not sure if Dazai heard him at all.
Nevertheless, he feels the tips of his ears starting to burn.

My place, Chuuya thinks. What the fuck was that? Get a grip, you idiot. He swallows and
hastily puts his hands in his pockets, almost feeling naked when Dazai finally looks at him
and opens his mouth.

My place, Dazai replays in his head. Chuuya’s voice, as raspy as usual, is tinged with an odd
bitterness. Is it sadness? Disappointment? Nostalgia? What does he mean when he says “my
place”?

He had never had anything he could call his. Shipping container? He just stumbled across it
by chance a while ago and stayed, simply to have a place to sleep somewhat sheltered from
the weather. His scant belongings in it? It’s just useless crap. He wouldn’t bat an eye if it
went. His office in the Port Mafia? It’s just another room. Just another place. Just another job.
Yokohama as a whole? The city is way too special to be called his — despite the common
belief, he does have some humility left in him.

One’s place. It’s such a special thing to have. Such a human thing to have.

Chuuya rubs the bridge of his nose. “Never m-”

“Yeah,” Dazai blurts out. “Sure.”

Maybe it will help him see what it’s like to be human. Maybe he’ll even figure out how to
mimic one.

Chuuya blinks. Dazai was never quite normal enough to warrant any resemblance of
fondness from him. Still… the rock on his neck just got a little bit lighter, the noose
loosening up a little and allowing him to take a deep breath, the oxygen hitting his brain
intoxicating, dizzying.

“Let’s go,” Chuuya whispers before he gets the chance to change his mind and grabs Dazai’s
wrist, his hand acting quicker than his brain. His fingers tingle at the warmth of Dazai’s body
he can feel through the fabrics, and for some reason, this sensation, however small and
insignificant, overwhelms Chuuya with euphoria he hasn’t felt in so fucking long. Even
though he was positive he had long forgotten how to, his lips inadvertently widen into a
smile, cheeks hurting from the unfamiliar strain, and there is nothing he wants more than to
scream, the anguished howling he’s so used to replaced by cries of pure unadulterated joy.

As they dash down the street, Chuuya keeps snapping his head back as if not trusting his own
hand and double-checking if Dazai is still here, and each time Chuuya looks at him, Dazai’s
puzzled expression gradually morphs into something different. A smile lights up his usually
sullen features to mirror
Chuuya’s beaming face, his
usually dark eye shining warm
amber even brighter, the
dimples on his cheeks as the
final touch that finally erases
the last of the Demon Prodigy
aura surrounding him.

It’s new.

It’s unexpected.

And it’s a secret Chuuya's

happy to find out.

They might be in the middle of

a busy street, narrowly avoiding bumping into passers-by and running through the
crosswalks, paying no mind to red traffic lights, bright headlights and shop windows blinking
around them. Still, as they laugh at the honking cars and annoyed pedestrians, they are not
here. The outside world fades away like images on a film exposed to the sun, but what’s more
important…

They’re not the notorious Double Black anymore — they’re just Chuuya and Dazai.

Shit, Chuuya thinks, squeezing Dazai’s wrist, I needed this. I needed this so fucking bad.

He wonders if Dazai feels the same.

He wonders if Dazai’s skin tingles with electricity the same way his own does.

They are both out of breath when they finally make it to the top of the stairs and through the
unassuming metal door with the still useless padlock onto the rooftop of the building. Paying
no mind to Dazai’s dramatic wheezing, Chuuya walks to the edge and stalls for a brief
moment. Yuan. Shirase. The Flags. So many friends, so many people — but none of their
ghosts are here. The rooftop is barren, with nothing but the wind and Dazai’s wheezing, its
empty floor like a runway waiting for Chuuya to pick up speed and take off.

He squeezes his eyes shut and plops down, his legs dangling over the precipice. He looks up
at Dazai, his arm extended, and furrows his brow.

“Sit,” he grumbles, patting the spot next to him. “And shut up.”

••••••

Lady Yokohama has put on her little black dress, lit up windows of dozens of high-rises
shining like diamonds on her neck, the stars in the unusually clear sky a faint shimmer on her
body. Another diamond briefly lights up with a flickering noise and Chuuya takes a long drag
of his cigarette. He is not a big fan of it. If anything, he hates how the smoke imbues itself
into his clothes and hair, leaving the persistent stench behind. Each drag shortens his life, as
alarmists keep yelling, and at the same time reminds him that he is alive. That he is still
around. That he will probably be here to live another day. The dichotomy is as ironic as life
itself, but Chuuya is used to it.

I love this place, Yuan’s voice echoes in his head. He still remembers how he felt the first
time he came here, even though now it feels like it was aeons ago, in his previous life — and
perhaps, it was. The lab, the Sheep, the Port Mafia — where is Chuuya’s real place? Where
does he belong? Does he belong anywhere?

The light in the office on the top floor of the central Port Mafia tower goes off. The five
skyscrapers in the distance are looming over them, dominating the entire city, the crimson
illumination of their slender walls a menace, a warning, a statement.

Chuuya swallows, and he is not sure if the cigarette is to blame for the bitterness in his
mouth. He looks down. Under his feet is a busy street, with people and cars looking surreally
insignificant from such a distance. They are so high up and at the same time, this place is, to
put it mildly… Unremarkable.

Chuuya looks at the five towers and takes another drag. He puffs out the smoke, watching it
momentarily obscure the shimmering stars above him. He can feel Dazai’s gaze drilling into
his face again. Their shoulders nearly touch and that along with the intense stare makes
Chuuya feel like he is being engulfed in flames. He is so tired of burning alive. Life is
nothing but an inferno — which flames Chuuya is willingly feeding. The events of the day
fast-forward in front of his eyes. The monster, the helplessness, the fighting, the blood, and
the gnarliest of all: the screams — the victims’, Dazai’s, and his own, the most deafening of
them all.

He looks down again. It is almost like he can reach down and pick up any car from the busy
road and play with it like a toy, crushing and throwing it away when he is bored with it. He
can stomp his feet in a childish tantrum and crush the people going about their business like
they are mere bugs, he can go on the rampage, reducing the world to rubble and going out
like a firework, bringing everyone down along with him, erratically, mindlessly, not sparing
even those closest to him.

Chuuya can easily make the monster inside of him finally match him on the outside.

He doesn’t want to be like this.

He needs to grow up.

He takes another drag and slowly puffs out the smoke, closing his eyes to protect them from
the burning the toxic smoke brings along. His chest feels heavy — and still, despite the
squeezing sensation in it, he dares to hope for the tight noose on his neck to vanish into thin
air along with the cigarette smoke.

“Sorry,” Chuuya croaks.

“Huh?”
Chuuya looks at Dazai. The other boy is patiently waiting, his hand fiddling with the gauze
on his wrist, his skin reddened and dry where his nails have been scraping the skin.

“This place is shit,” he says loudly, his brash voice silencing the thoughts roaming in his
head. He coughs. “Should have gone to the arcade.”

“Oh.” Dazai looks around and shrugs his shoulders. “I think it’s alright.”

“It’s nothing like the Port Mafia skyscrapers,” Chuuya stubbornly continues, his voice
betraying him with the faint ringing of frustration. “Can’t see shit from here.”

With a sign, Dazai takes the cigarette out of Chuuya’s hand and takes a drag. When was the
last time he smoked? He normally steals Chuuya’s cigarettes — so must have been after
some particularly rough mission. Or was it on the day when he broke into Chuuya’s
apartment a while ago to give him a scare, only for Chuuya not to show up all night? He can’t
really remember. It is nasty. The smoke invading his throat feels oppressive, agitating his
nerve ends and making him want to cough his insides out until no trace of the poisonous
fumes is left inside him. He slowly puffs out the smoke and takes another drag, savouring
every bitter bit of it.

In a way, Chuuya is right. From between the Port Mafia buildings in the distance, Dazai can
see the glint of Yokohama Bay, but otherwise, the only view they get from this point is other
high-rises, some shorter, some taller, their windows shining in an uneven pattern. It is nothing
like the view from the top of the Port Mafia skyscraper where they used to sneak up to every
now and then, the whole city at the feet of Double Black, the self-proclaimed Kings of
Yokohama.

This place is unremarkable.

But as Dazai thinks… there is beauty in the unremarkable, too. There is beauty in simplicity.
In honesty. And… Is this really about the view?

“Well, yeah. It’s not the mafia,” Dazai finally says. “Isn’t this the whole point?”

His whole life he was nothing but remarkable. The heir. The Demon Prodigy. The young
genius. Labels, labels, labels, each one of them putting more and more of a burden on him,
his back cracking from the pressure.

A slight breeze ruffles his hair and he absentmindedly rubs the gauze on his right eye. It had
gotten loose as they were running through the city streets toward the high-rise, and carefully,
he unwraps it and pulls it down.

Here, in this unassuming place, can he just be… himself? At least for a short while? He rubs
his shoulder, the unfamiliar, yet comfortingly melodic notes of a woman’s voice brought to
him from somewhere afar — Osamu.

With the corner of his eye, Dazai can see Chuuya shuffle and nod. He takes one last drag and
flicks the butt down, watching it fall until the tiny white speck merges with the headlights of
cars far below their feet.
“Why did you come with me?” Chuuya’s question drowns in the barely audible sounds of the
big city reaching them from dozens of metres away, and still, the deafening volume of these
six words makes Dazai’s ears ring. Chuuya’s cheeks glow red under the pale moonlight, a
stark contrast with his white knuckles as he holds his own hands as if his life depends on it.

Dazai swallows and opens his mouth.

“I said — just taking a wa…”

“Cut it out, Dazai.” The look in Chuuya's eyes when he finally turns to him is almost
desperate, as if he is longing for the answers he is never hoping to hear. “I’m serious.”

Dazai says nothing. Absentmindedly, he touches his face. His fingertips are so used to the
rough bandages covering half of it, that soft skin feels alien. He is a man of many faces — so
why do his masks fall so easily with Chuuya around? Why does lying feel so out of place
when the blue eyes are looking at him with such resolve? Why, despite that, he can’t bring
himself to tell the truth?

“Why?” Chuuya reaches out and covers Dazai’s hand with his, clutching it as if he is trying
to squeeze at least a modicum of truth out of the most cunning man in Yokohama. It feels like
fire on Dazai’s perpetually cold hand, a force of nature leaving a scorched wasteland behind
in the part of his brain where he keeps his endless lies and tricks.

“Why?”

His lips barely move. The question is a flutter of a butterfly’s wings. It’s a rumbling of distant
thunder hundreds of miles away. It’s a wake-up call, fresh like snow and clear like water in a
mountain stream.

“Because you understand,” Dazai breathes out. “You are like me.”

Chuuya’s heart skips a beat.

You are like me.

The words that used to be his biggest nightmare merely a year ago now sound oddly
comforting. The light in the pools of brown resembles Chuuya’s own aeons ago, the honest
look in his eyes making Chuuya think that he might just let himself be a fool for once and fall
for the elaborate tricks of the sleaziest person he knows.

You are like me, he thinks.

And I am like you.

He squeezes Dazai’s hand lying motionlessly underneath his palm, unusually still for the
person who always moves like an eel on a frying pan. The icy cold of his skin slowly thaws
under the freckled hand and Chuuya’s breath catches again when the tight rope on his neck
dissolves into nothing, letting blood flow freely through his jugular, sea breeze rapidly going
into his windpipe.
It’s an avalanche, a waterfall, a downpour finally breaking free from the constraints of heavy
clouds after years of build-up. An endless torrent of unspoken truths and fears hidden behind
a hundred locks pours through the rubble the broken dam left behind as stars slowly move
across the horizon, the Moon and her entourage of constellations veiled in thin gauze peeking
at the two boys talking in hushed voices. Yokohama’s diamonds flicker on her neck as lights
in the buildings around them go on and off, the headlights of cars below their feet as
sparkling flowy tassels on the edge of her dress, the city sounds as her nonchalant humming.
Chuuya and Dazai know she is listening in — and yet, they trust the city to keep their secret
safe with her.

So much has been said and there is so much left to say, a short summer night inadequate for
fitting everything the two boys on the rooftop have been bottling inside them for so long.
There are many doors with keys long lost that are waiting to be opened. So many airtight
rooms that even Chuuya and Dazai themselves have never peeked in.

“Thank you,” Dazai says when bursts of peach pink and pale orange colour the sky in wide
watercolour strokes, the lazy morning sun hesitantly pouring its golden light on the higher
floors of the tall buildings around them. Yokohama is changing from her flashy night attire
into the dainty daytime dress, classy and powerful at the same time, as bold as a bulldozer
and as sly as a fox. He squints his eyes to protect them from the sun curiously exploring his
face.

“For what?”

He hesitates. In between the Port Mafia skyscrapers, far away, Yokohama Bay glistens, its
waves warming up for its relentless daily work.

“For coming for me.”

Their eyes meet again. The raw look in Dazai’s eyes is still there, unwavering like a few
hours ago, as adamant as on the battlefield when his hands were burrowing into Chuuya’s
hair. With the tender sky as a backdrop, Chuuya can’t help but feel that he simply can not get
enough of the secret he is witnessing. Brown eyes with a hint of amber. Cheeks that look so
soft without the ever-present bandages. Barely noticeable dimples. A mole under his right eye
he never knew existed. The sun never shines on the Demon Prodigy — it’s an axiom. He is a
black hole sucking any light in, all of it disappearing the moment it touches his skin.

On the contrary, the boy in front of him is showered with timid morning light. He is shining
so brightly that, for a moment, Chuuya wonders if it’s the sun’s doings or if it is his own
glow.

It is all so clear now.

This is no Demon Prodigy.

This is Dazai Osamu .

“Dazai,” Chuuya whispers and reaches out, covering his cheek with his hand, and its
unexpected warmth takes him aback for a split second. He used to easily go into a fight with
just his fists and wits, going against a dozen armed mercenaries and returning unscathed, and
yet, the sensation of a fellow human under his fingertips, so warm and real, terrifies him to no
end like nothing ever had. It’s a different terror — so unlike the adrenaline rush from fighting
the enemies the Port Mafia has plenty of, or the perpetual roaring of the singularity in the
back of his mind, it’s so unlike the slippery, cold horror that started to take over him a year
ago.

It’s a different kind of fear.

It’s the one Chuuya can easily defeat, no gravity manipulation needed.

“What are you doing?” Dazai finally breathes out. He is frozen in place, eyes full of
confusion, and yet, he is not trying to push Chuuya’s hand away, and this is all he needs to let
the words flow freely out of his mouth.

“I’m coming for you.”

Chuuya’s other hand slithers across the rooftop and he covers Dazai’s cold palm. “Your hands
are fucking freezing,” he mumbles, feeling a traitorous blush creeping onto his cheeks again,
grateful that the early morning will sure keep this secret. “Guess you really are a fish.”

Dazai chuckles, the soft sound shattering the last remaining bits of apprehension inside
Chuuya. The fear is gone. Once Chuuya made this jump, once he breached this barrier, once
he stepped on the thin ice and never heard it crack, he knew he was doing the right thing. The
low roaring of Arahabaki in the back of his mind gets softer, as the wave of something else,
more powerful than any Ability floods his heart and takes over him.

Dazai’s eyes are wide open, and Chuuya drinks the honest expression like a thirsty man
drinks water from an oasis in a desert, savouring the glimpse of something he’s never seen
before in them.

That’s it.

The deadbolt on the fence that guards Dazai's soul is undone. At first glance, the gate is still
closed, but now Chuuya knows that all he has to do is reach out and gently push it open.

And reach out he does.

The timid touch of lips on lips is a question.

The bandaged hand gently squeezing the freckled hand on the cheek is an answer.

The only sound Dazai can hear is his own heartbeat, his ribs barely constraining it as it tries
to pop out of his chest, all other senses muted in favour of feeling Chuuya’s lips on his. Such
a gentle, timid movement is unexpected from the personification of fire, but, as Dazai thinks,
stroking Chuuya’s hand with his thumb, it suits him really well.

Chuuya pulls away. His eyes are still closed, blush in full bloom on his cheeks, and Dazai
takes in the view of dozens of freckles covering his nose and eyelids, his light eyelashes
fluttering like the wings of a butterfly.
Absentmindedly, Dazai puts his hand on Chuuya’s chest. It is dancing in his ribcage just like
Dazai’s, and it makes him crack a small smile.

You are like me.

And I am like you.

Chuuya opens his eyes. The hues of blue look absolutely striking, his lips are parted, and
Dazai can’t help but lean in, the drumming under his palm turning into cannon fire.

There are so many doors to open. Issues to unfold. Songs to write.

They will have all the time in the world.

At this moment, what really matters is now.

The wind brings the faint sounds of the slowly awakening street below their feet. The sky
slowly changes colours, pastels giving way to brighter hues as a silent reassurance that a new
day has come. Zestful seagulls roam high above singing their mismatched songs.

The sky is so busy and full over the heads of the two boys huddled next to each other, but
they pay the vibrancy no heed. Their fingers are intertwined, their warmth contagious, hearts
beating in unison, spelling out in drum-like cadence and beats of silence:

Maybe I don’t have to be alone anymore.

The end

Chapter End Notes

So, here we are! Please let me know what you think - I've put a lot of blood, sweat and
tears into this story and I am thrilled to see what you've got to say about it. I loved
writing skk slowly but surely opening up to each other - they still have so much to learn
and recover from, but this is definitely a good start for their healing journey.

Again, thank you so much for your kudos and comments both here and on twt, thank
you for subscribing to this story and my ao3, and special thanks to Marr and Lily on
twitter for reading the last chapter and helping me perfect it.

Until the next time,

Toad xoxo
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