Archive of Our Own

I found the rooms between
the violence of comets. I threw myself into anything’s path. Even the sky
bent around me. How lonely to be something that nothing wants to kill.

—so I locked myself inside a star for twenty years, Jeremy Radin

seven

Chuuya was awakened by a soft whisper—Chuuya? At first he thought it was Dazai, but no. Dazai was still dead to the world when Chuuya opened his eyes and rolled over in bed to check on him. He looked disquietingly innocent, all his sharp lines smudged soft by sleep. His mouth was slightly open and he was drooling, and Chuuya could hardly believe this was the same man who had killed fourteen people earlier that day, the same man who had whispered filthy promises into Chuuya skin just hours earlier. 

But there was no one else in the room. Just him and Dazai, and the cool crisp pre-dawn light filtering through the cracks in the drawn curtains. Where are you? he thought. 

Here. Right inside you. 

Right inside—Arahabaki? Chuuya couldn’t believe it. Arahabaki hadn’t spoken to him in years, not since he’d tripped into Dazai’s bed at seventeen. He hated Dazai with a burning passion, and for two years Chuuya had shared it. And then...things had changed. I thought you’d given up on me. 

I thought about it, Arahabaki said. His vast presence lurked at the edges of Chuuya’s mind. Once, Dazai had asked him how he bore it, how he didn’t snap under the weight. Chuuya hadn’t understood the question—he wasn’t the one carrying the weight of Arahabaki. That existed in another realm. In this one, there was just Chuuya, one of the walls that hemmed in his mind torn away so that Arahabaki would always have room to come and go. And I did. But then— 

Then? 

There was a long pause. Chuuya took stock of his surroundings. He kinda wanted to piss, and he was thirsty, and this was a conversation he wasn’t too willing to have this early in the morning without at least a cigarette. He sighed and hauled himself out of bed. His wounds—a bullet graze to the shoulder and a bruise on his lower back—had healed during the night. Of course they had. Even without Arahabaki to take care of him, some remnant of his power had stayed around, guarding Chuuya from harm—a sign that he was not as alone as he felt. Even endless cigarettes and bottles of wine hadn’t put a dent in it. 

He brushed first, pissed, walked himself to the kitchen for water and then from the hall out onto the balcony. The sun was just peeking out from behind the horizon. Throughout, Arahabaki did not say a word, but he was there. Drifting and waiting. Chuuya lit up, leaning against the railing, before he poked Arahabaki again. Well? Out with it. 

When Arahabaki had first left, Chuuya had spent months begging him to come back. Offered everything short of leaving Dazai for the god to say a single word to him, to even acknowledge his presence beyond the use of his powers. All he’d gotten in return, though, was silence—endless, echoing silence, like Chuuya was alone in his body. 

Dazai had been the one to hold him through it. Dazai had stayed up all night if he had to, letting Chuuya cry in his arms, or rage uselessly against every hapless object in their house, or drink himself into oblivion. He’d let Chuuya ravage his body on the nights when he desperately needed reassurance that he wasn’t alone. And on the nights when Chuuya just barely had the strength to lie on the floor and breathe, Dazai had read to him. 

It was a gentleness he hadn’t thought Dazai capable of. He’d never considered the idea of falling in love with the mackerel before, but after all that, how could he not? Dazai had not once held it against him or brought it up in a fight—even though they had many of those. He was still an idiot, still a ruthless bastard with no morals, but his quiet devotion to Chuuya had cemented his place in Chuuya’s heart. He couldn’t replace Arahabaki—no one could. But he’d eased the pain of abandonment, and eventually he’d managed to convince Chuuya that he could live without Arahabaki. 

He had been right about it, too. Months had passed, and Chuuya no longer missed Arahabaki's voice in his head. 

And now the bastard decided to make a reappearance. Well, Chuuya wasn’t going to complain. He’d grown past his bitter rage. 

I was thinking— 

Took you long enough. Okay, maybe the rage wasn’t quite gone yet. 

Do you like relying on him for control of your powers? 

That gave Chuuya pause. There was only ever one him between him and Arahabaki, and he was asleep in another room right now. I don’t have a choice, so whether I like it doesn’t matter. 

But if you had one? 

What are you saying, Arahabaki? 

I’m saying, he isn’t your only option. 

How so? Chuuya’s free hand was gripping the bannister so hard he’d leave a handprint in the metal. He couldn’t even bring himself to care past his excitement. But Dazai would frown at it whenever he found it, and Chuuya didn’t want to explain this to him. 

Arahabaki shook himself off, shifting a little further into Chuuya’s mind. He doesn’t control me, you know. No Longer Human’s influence does not reach to gods like me. He controls you, and through you, me. Controls our access to each other, building a wall between us that collapses as soon as he stops touching you. 

I know all this already. Get to the point. 

But he wouldn’t be able to control me if there was no you, now would he? 

Chuuya threw Arahabaki out of his mind so fast he felt sick for a moment at his own hollowness in the absence of the god. How dare you, he shouted mentally, gritting his teeth. How fucking dare you?! 

Calm down, Arahabaki shouted back, but he still wasn’t stepping into Chuuya’s mind. That’s not how I meant it. 

How else could you have meant it? 

It doesn’t have to be permanent! You can let me take over for a while, and I’ll shield your mind—be the vessel and the power. If he can’t get through to you, he can’t cut us off. He can’t separate me from me, after all. 

Arahabaki, Chuuya softened. Are you really so afraid that he’ll rip us apart? He won’t—he can’t. 

I don’t trust him, Arahabaki said sulkily, a common refrain. Besides, with his powers, who knows? It’s not just the Gifted he affects. When you get him flowers, they die within hours. 

Chuuya’s stomach lurched with disquiet. Arahabaki was right, even Chuuya had noticed that particular detail. But he didn't want to think about it. You’ve been paying attention, haven’t you? he said, half in jest and half in honest wonder. He’d believed himself abandoned. 

Only to make sure he doesn’t kill you in your sleep. 

He wouldn’t. He’s had plenty of chances. He’s not interested in me dead. 

And that’s the only thing keeping you alive? Is this what love means to humans? No wonder y’all keep trying to kill yourselves. 

No, that’s just him. Most humans aren’t so desperate for death. 

Arahabaki snorted, and Chuuya laughed. He’d missed this, he’d missed this so much. Arahabaki had been a friend as long as he’d been in Chuuya’s head, friend and companion and protector. He’d saved Chuuya over and over, and some part of him still regretted choosing Dazai over Arahabaki. It wasn’t fair to either of them. 

No, it wasn’t, Arahabaki said, and for the first time in a long time Chuuya truly heard the hurt that lay under the long silence. It wasn’t fair at all. 

I’m sorry, Chuuya thought. I should’ve done better by you. 

You still can, Arahabaki murmured. 

When Dazai woke up a few hours later, Chuuya was alone.

one

Dazai tried so, so hard to keep his heart out of Chuuya’s hands. It was difficult, because some days standing next to Chuuya was like standing next to a black hole, and even the gaping void that plastered Dazai’s insides couldn’t stop him from wanting to crumble into Chuuya’s orbit. He wanted to give Chuuya everything, and that meant he couldn’t give Chuuya anything—because there was a shadow at his back in the shape of the man who had killed Dazai’s parents, and he would kill everything Dazai let himself care about. 

But around the time Dazai was sixteen Mori simply lost interest in him. 

“It’s not that you’re not interesting,” he told Dazai late one night. “But you used to be so much less cynical, and I liked that more than this.” 

“You don’t like me because I’m not a kid any longer,” Dazai threw back at him. Mori laughed, and made no attempt to deny it. 

“Nevertheless,” he said a few days later. “You need another reason to live. Something better, more lasting.”

“You were never a reason to live,” Dazai told him. “I hate you. And I want to die.” 

“I can’t let you die,” Mori replied. “Not yet, I’m sorry.”

“The fuck you are.” 

“How about Chuuya-kun?” Mori continued, ignoring him. 

“What about him?” Dazai asked, pretending to be baffled by this turn in the conversation. 

“You need a reason to live. And you like him enough already.” 

“No I don’t!” It was true, he didn’t need a reason to live. He’d live whether or not he wanted to—it was only how much living hurt that changed. Mori knew this. 

“Who are you trying to lie to, Dazai?” 

Half a year and one birthday later, Dazai kissed Chuuya for the first time. He’d been stabbed just moments ago, and Chuuya was angry enough to melt glass. And it was exactly like being drawn into the gravity of a larger and brighter star. 

He hated that it worked so well—hated that Chuuya’s ability was but an extension of his personality. 

Who are you trying to lie to, Dazai?

eight

Dazai woke up alone. 

It was instinct to reach for Chuuya first thing in the morning. To want to open his eyes only when he knew the first thing they’d land on would be Chuuya. Dazai usually woke up before him even now that he slept through most of the night—he simply didn’t require as much sleep as Chuuya did. And even if he had, he’d have gladly sacrificed it for the chance to trace Chuuya’s features while he couldn’t look back. Dazai kept his sketchbook by the bed these days, and when it was light enough he’d try to capture Chuuya and never really succeed. Something about his mouth, something about his eyes. Dazai had not yet gotten that right. 

(He’d never get it right, because a dead thing like him would never quite catch and pin down something as living as Chuuya.)

He padded through Chuuya’s apartment—still his, even months later, because Dazai was careful to leave around as little of himself as possible. But it was just him. Nothing, not even a note, to indicate where he could find Chuuya. 

Dazai was at the Tower by nine, stalking down the corridors looking for his boss. “Where is he?” Dazai demanded. 

Mori was still slouched over his desk, trying to drink coffee without lifting his head or moving a muscle more than necessary. “Huh?” 

“Chuuya,” Dazai said impatiently. “Did you send him somewhere? Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Oh,” Mori said groggily. “Uh, no. Don’t think I sent him anywhere. Would’ve sent you too, if I had.” 

“Yes,” Dazai said. He usually tried to be more tolerant of Mori’s lazy morning habits. But something within him was off-balance, the yawning empty pit he carried within himself trembling at the edges and considering expanding. It wanted Chuuya as much as Dazai himself did. Wanted Chuuya because it was hungry and cold and desperately lonely. Because Chuuya held the edges of it together like no one could. 

Something was wrong. Chuuya wouldn’t have left without telling him. Chuuya cared about him, didn’t he? He’d told Dazai as much, time and again. 

Of course I care about you, Dazai. How can I not? After all you’ve done for me…

“You send me with him every time,” Dazai said. “But he’s gone, and I’m still here. What gives, Mori?” 

“Maybe he left on his own,” Mori said slowly. 

Dazai froze. “He wouldn’t.” 

Mori laughed softly. “I thought I taught you better than this, Dazai. Did you really let your emotions cloud your ability to see the world for what it is?” 

He didn’t have an answer to that—what could he possibly say? What could he do— 

“I’m going to find him,” Dazai decided. “Wherever he is.” 

“Alright,” Mori said. Dazai was already turning to leave—he didn’t see the cool sadness in Mori’s eyes, the way they lingered on Dazai’s retreating back in pity.

two

Dazai was a strange and skittish thing. 

It wasn’t that he’d refused to make nice with Chuuya at all over the years—they worked together, and that needed a certain kind of professionalism and grace that Dazai had in spades. No, it wasn’t Dazai that was the problem—it was Chuuya, with his hot head and blazingly powerful hands. 

Chuuya was the one who shouted at Dazai after missions, who fucked things up, who ruined everything he touched. 

Corruption. 

Dazai, Dazai kept his head down. He did what he had to do, killed who he had to kill. He spoke softly, because unlike Chuuya he didn’t need to shout to be heard. People took notice when the Demon Prodigy spoke. 

And as much as Chuuya hated him, he couldn’t help notice things about him. Little things like the way he walked sometimes, the way he broke slightly in Mori’s presence, the way the air around him was cold. That his hands shook a little when he bandaged Chuuya. And although he didn’t want to, he also noticed the things Dazai did for him, quietly and unobtrusively. That when Chuuya got a case, it was always with Dazai at his side, and always Dazai telling him what to do. Most other young executives took jobs from whoever was willing to give them out, and at first Chuuya was madly resentful of Dazai for standing in his way. 

But later he’d realize that a case without Dazai at his side was a case that ended with him unconscious and bleeding at the mercy of someone he didn’t know. That Dazai’s refusal to let that happen was calculated and deliberate, and some part of Chuuya would always hate being dependent on Dazai for control of his ability, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be sensibly grateful. 

Dazai looked shocked when he brought it up, and for a second Chuuya was afraid he’d committed some unintentional faux pas by mentioning it at all. The feeling passed when Dazai smiled at him, guileless and sweet and as untrustworthy as any snake. “I’m the only one allowed to manipulate you, Chibi,” he said easily. 

Chuuya believed him—not about the manipulation. Other people had tried. But that Dazai believed that about them—it made sense. Of course Dazai would choose to be a possessive bastard about Chuuya, like Chuuya was something he could possess. Like anyone was allowed to pin him down. 

At the time he said, “I don’t want anyone to manipulate me,” and ended up sounding sulky. 

Dazai laughed and ruffled his hair. “Too bad! This is what you get.” 

Years later he would see the scars that lined Dazai’s body and think, thank you. But the words would have long since lost all meaning by the time he got there. 

nine

Europe was beautiful, but Chuuya wished Dazai were here with him. Wandering the streets of Prague would have been more interesting with his mackerel to lean into and push into dark alleys that they could kiss in. He kept looking at buildings and planning ways to rescue Dazai should he choose to throw himself off of them. 

But you have me, Arahabaki sulked. 

Yes, Chuuya said hastily. And I’m so glad I do, really— 

Yeah, yeah. You miss your boyfriend. Despite Arahabaki’s flippant tone, Chuuya could feel the strain of hurt, of Am I not enough for you? He was all too familiar with it himself, after all. Dazai had been painfully cold and distant towards him for two lonesome years before he flipped a switch and decided Chuuya was worth everything to him. 

Chuuya was grateful, and he loved Dazai, but god forbid he understand the man. 

Wait, boyfriend?! 

Oh, wow. You really are the stupidest of the three of us. 

Wait, shouldn’t it be four and not three? Chuuya asked suddenly. He’d never really thought about it before; Dazai didn’t talk about his ability and Chuuya didn’t push. 

No Longer Human is a void, Chuuya. It’s not an ability—it’s the empty space that would be left if someone ripped out an ability. But he sounded uncertain, and Chuuya didn’t have a response. Wished he knew enough to reassure himself one way or another. 

Chuuya was starting to feel sick. Prague was beautiful, sunlit, but all the architecture and charm of it couldn’t shake the memory of coming home one night to find Dazai asleep already, curled up on their bed with arms and legs sticking into himself like knives. Like he was cold, like he was afraid, and Chuuya had thought, Is this what you are without me? And in his head Arahabaki’s voice echoed, saying, how pathetic. 

It keeps trying to fill itself, Arahabaki continued. It’ll eat anything that comes too close. 

Not true, Chuuya said immediately. I’m okay. 

Are you? 

Chuuya stopped walking. The sky seemed dimmer, suddenly.

three

Kissing Chuuya was as devastating as Dazai had thought it would be—perhaps more. He was surprisingly—unsurprisingly, authoritative about it. Although it had been Dazai who initiated the kiss, he found quickly that he had little power between them. 

Chuuya had a hand in his hair, and another one cupping his jaw and tilting his face so he could better kiss Dazai. His mouth was hot. 

“Are you crazy, mackerel?” he murmured, right before biting Dazai’s lips. 

Dazai whimpered, and failed to answer. They were in some stupid little alley, and Dazai didn’t want to be here. He wanted to be at Chuuya’s apartment, or somewhere quiet, somewhere he could put his mouth to good use making Chuuya groan. He could make Chuuya pull his hair, exactly like that but harder. He could— 

But they were in some stupid little alley and Dazai was going to have to settle for rough bricks against his back and Chuuya’s angry, angry kisses. 

“Stop,” Chuuya gasped, pulling away suddenly. “You’re bleeding, and we have to go back—” 

Dazai swallowed. His mouth tasted like Chuuya. “We don’t have to go anywhere. It’s not that serious, frankly; I’ve had worse.” 

Chuuya slanted him a look. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you wanted to stick around so I’d kiss you.” 

“Nonsense,” Dazai said, chest tightening with panic. “We can kiss back at the Headquarters too. More sneaking around, very exciting. Your adrenaline junkie ass should love it. Oh, we can do more than kiss.” He winked suggestively. 

Chuuya laughed, anger evaporating like mist in the sun. “More than kiss, huh?” He touched the throbbing wound at Dazai’s side with the tips of his fingers. “That can wait. We should take care of this first.” 

Had Dazai been the type to grasp at straws, he’d have attempted to convince himself that Chuuya had said you and not this. He might not have succeeded—he was far too smart for that, but a game attempt would have been made. “Are you concerned about me?” he drawled. “Why, Chuuya—” 

But Chuuya’s eyes were bright blue and steady and gentle and Dazai ached with how much he didn’t deserve what was before him. So when he said “Come,” Dazai came, and didn’t complain. 

ten

Chuuya had bought tickets to Prague. 

It didn’t take too long to find him, honestly, and Dazai wondered if that was deliberate or Chuuya was just being dense. He was easily visible in airport footage despite his height—people parted for him when he walked past them. What he lacked in physical size, he more than made up in sheer goddamn presence. 

Anyway, Prague. Tickets. Flights, fuck, was there anything Dazai hated more? And this time he didn’t even have Chuuya by his side to hold his hand and murmur gently to him during take-off, to ease the tight thorny ball of anxiety in his stomach. The little childish voice in the back of Dazai’s mind that was more child than rational, was begging for Chuuya and begging to know why he’d left. Just fifteen hours, he told it, and felt a hysterical anxiety paint his insides. Fifteen hours too many. 

Dazai didn’t have answers. He’d made himself so sick envisioning possibilities that he’d actually puked before boarding the flight. Now he was just trying not to think about it. 

But what if he got tired of us? You know he hates being pinned down, and you’re dead weight. You’re supposed to be dead and you never die and you can’t blame him for getting bored and leaving. Maybe he just wanted a vacation without you. Maybe he found someone else. We’ve never been good enough for him and he’s just realizing it and you’re now too selfish to just let him go. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic— 

Enough, Dazai snapped. You’re not supposed to talk to me. 

But I’m bored, No Longer Human whined. 

Go bother the other one. I don’t have time to deal with you. 

You never have time for me, No Longer Human said testily. He was right to leave. If you treat me like this, after all I’ve done for you…

Dazai pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. 

Besides, it’s no fun taunting it. It just cries. 

I know. Dazai swallowed. His other ability—it didn’t even have a name, not really. It wasn’t even an ability. It was just a wreck, the ghost of the child Dazai had never been. No Longer Human hated it, but not as much as Dazai did. 

Would things be different for it, for all of them, if they had let Chuuya see them as they truly were instead of how Dazai wanted himself to be? Dazai didn’t know but he wanted to. He’d have traded Chuuya every secret he had left for him to come back. 

He’d find out soon. 

Or not. Fuck. 

Although Dazai’s abilities gave him little in the way of powers that didn’t end where his skin did, he was skilled at tracking down Gifted. It was a feature of No Longer Human, who could, if they both tried very hard, sense the slick trail of power that Gifteds left behind themselves like snails. 

It wasn’t very accurate, though. 

Hence, an alleyway, and Fyodor fucking Dostoevsky, standing before him and smiling like a sleaze. Why, of all the people in the world who loved causing trouble for Double Black, did it have to be him? 

“Why here?” Dazai asked, faking nice to buy time. 

“Oh,” Fyodor said, sounding surprised. “I didn’t bring him here. I followed him. Didn’t expect to see you apart, either.” 

“Ah,” Dazai realized. “You were hoping to catch us off-guard.” 

“So you’re not on vacation? Pity. You look like you could use it.” Fyodor had a knife in his hands, and was turning it over idly in his fingers. 

“Well,” Dazai said dryly. “Evil never sleeps, and all that.” 

“Speak for yourself, I get eight hours a night.” 

“With dark circles like that, you’ll forgive me if I don’t quite believe you.” 

Fyodor shrugged. “I don’t care if you believe me.” 

Dazai sighed. “I’m leaving.” He turned around, only to come face-to-face with Fyodor’s maddened clown. “Ah, I see.” 

“Do you now?” Fyodor said, stalking closer behind him. “What do you see, little two-faced rabbit?” 

Dazai didn’t even get a chance to respond before he was shot. His last thought before blacking out was, how rude. 

One unpleasant morning Dazai could deal with. Two in a row was testing his patience. 

His wrists were chained to a wall, for starters, and there was a pipe pressing into his lower back. He thought he might have been in the back of it, because he couldn’t see a door nearby but there was a tiny window set high into the wall in front of him, letting in a lone shaft of light. He hadn’t been tied for very long if it was still daylight, but the place was small enough that he knew Chuuya would have hated to be in here—he was claustrophobic enough on his own, and Arahabaki just compounded the problem.  

Dazai was pretty uneasy himself; Fyodor had taken his bandages away, and his skin was so raw and sensitive it was driving him crazy. No Longer Human hummed and skittered through his blood. He tried to kill you, she whispered. The other one stopped him. 

Dazai sighed. She continued to chatter away about inane things—the weather outside, how she thought Fyodor’s ability would taste if she could just sink her teeth into it. Usually he did a better job of shutting her up. Usually, he had Chuuya around to keep her occupied. 

Every few seconds, she’d lapse into a brief silence in order to go terrorize the other ability that inhabited Dazai’s body. 

He was too tired to mediate between them, though, and allowed it. 

Eventually footsteps padded in; Fyodor again. He was holding his cap in his hands. “Dazai! You’re awake,” he called. 

“Yes,” Dazai said. “I have been for a while, thanks for noticing.” 

Fyodor shook his head. “I can’t pay attention to you all the time, much as I’d like to. I was busy tracking your boyfriend.” 

Boyfriend. The way Fyodor’s mouth shaped the word made No Longer Human pause for a second inside Dazai. It was an odd feeling, like his blood had frozen still. Dazai swallowed. “I see. And did you find him?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Fyodor chuckled. “No, actually. But—” he smirked. “Soon.” 

The other one stirred and whined. All of Dazai loved Chuuya beyond words, but there was something different, special, about its love for Chuuya. And it was worried; Dazai didn’t blame it. Even No Longer Human was seething, sparks skittering uncomfortably in blood. 

Fuck, but he missed the security of his bandages. His blood wasn’t meant to be so close to the surface. 

“In the meantime,” Fyodor continued. “How about you and I have a little talk?” 

“I’ll pass,” Dazai said at once. “I’d really rather be alone.” 

Fyodor smirked. “But you’re never truly alone, are you?” 

Dazai rolled his eyes. “None of us are ever truly alone.” His fingers itched to draw air quotes around the words. 

“You are less alone than most—curious, for one as lonely as you.” Fyodor’s voice was casual, but his eyes were sparkling with interest. “I have a friend who is most interested in your...unique circumstances.” 

“Good for him,” Dazai said tonelessly. 

“What I want to know is, how did it come to be like that?” 

Dazai hesitated. He wasn’t quite sure, actually, how he’d come to have one ability more than most. His childhood was...murky. Hell, he wasn’t even sure which of his abilities was the spare. No Longer Human insisted she was the correct ability, but that didn’t sound right at all—the other one screamed when they attempted to bring the matter up, and its anguished crying unfailingly left Dazai with a migraine that lasted days, so they’d all collectively chosen to drop the matter. 

Sometimes No Longer Human forgot that resolve and poked at it for answers, and Dazai would spend the day in bed shivering madly and flinching away from any light that poked through the bedsheets. 

“I’ll let you know when I find out,” he said, privately promising himself he’d never do that. 

The sparkle in Fyodor’s eyes was now a crazed light. “I have a few theories.” 

four

Dating Dazai was nothing like Chuuya thought it would be. 

For one, he’d never have predicted this—this devotion. The way Dazai threw himself recklessly, unquestioningly, between Chuuya and danger. 

Okay, maybe not recklessly. Dazai didn’t work like that. He planned every encounter down to the last possibility, and his plans were spiderwebs that trapped anyone unfortunate enough to be his target. It was sort of brilliant, being at his side and watching those threads tighten around them while leaving them untouched. 

Chuuya wasn’t foolish enough to think he was untouched by Dazai’s plans. But he trusted Dazai, and found himself changed for the better by it. 

Arahabaki hated him for trusting Dazai, though. For letting him in. He was viciously angry these days, and even more so around Dazai. And Chuuya liked being around Dazai, so more often than not he found himself reaching out to touch him without reason, just so he wouldn’t have to deal with Arahabaki incensed raging about how Dazai was the fucking devil. 

He’s not, Chuuya would shout at Arahabaki, late at night when he couldn’t sleep. You’re treating him exactly like everyone else does! 

Why wouldn’t I, Arahabaki yelled back. He comes between us, Chuuya. There’s something rotten in him. You know it, you see it every time he kills someone. He finds far too much pleasure in it— 

And you don’t? You’re going to claim the moral high ground here, you useless old relic? I know your joy when you get to kill. I’ve been inside it. 

That’s how I know, Arahabaki said. No one human takes that much pleasure in death. 

He’s as human as me. 

He’ll kill you. 

No he won’t! He loves me. And I love him. So shut up. 

Unfortunately, Arahabaki took that bit of advice to heart. It didn’t matter what Chuuya said, or how he said it. Didn’t matter what he promised. Arahabaki stayed quiet. 

On one hand, the silence was a relief. On the other, Chuuya had never been so lonely in his life. 

eleven 

Dazai, Chuuya thought abstractedly, probably knew this guy. 

He looked Russian, pale and gaunt. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and he seemed tired. But he spoke steadily, with a hint of mischief in his words. “Do you know he followed you here?” 

Of course he did, Arahabaki grumped. He can’t leave us alone, can he? 

Of course he did, Chuuya thought back. He was probably worried. 

Arahabaki snorted. 

“How do you know that?” Chuuya asked. “Who are you, anyway?” 

“Fyodor Dostoevsky,” the man said. The name was familiar—he remembered Mori and Dazai talking about him months back, arguing whether he was a threat and what could be done to counter him, arguing about the Detective Agency, debating the relative merits of treaties with various international organizations. Although Chuuya didn’t think he was nearly clever enough to be a part of these discussions, Dazai insisted he sit in on them, and sometimes threw balled-up bits of paper at him when he wanted Chuuya's opinion. 

He always took what Chuuya said into consideration, as did Mori, which Chuuya found more amusing than anything. “Why should I trust anything you say about Dazai?” 

Fyodor smiled. “You shouldn’t, perhaps. But I have things to say that might interest you.” 

“I’m not interested in lies.” But Arahabaki was curious, and certain he could handle anything this man might throw at them. 

Do you remember what his ability is? Chuuya asked silently. 

Dazai didn’t mention it, but I think he said something about not getting close enough to touch. 

Alright then. Chuuya nodded. “Lead the way. I presume you don’t want to talk out in the open.” 

Fyodor led him to a small, cold warehouse, all leaden pipes running exposed down the brick walls and a damply rotting floor. It was empty, but still barely large enough for Arahabaki to feel comfortable; he growled a little inside Chuuya, but settled quickly when Chuuya soothed him with a gentle murmur about sunlight and open fields. And fuck, he loved having Arahabaki back, loved how they’d slipped right into their earlier easy camarederie and loved how he could give Arahabaki things no one else could—and vice versa. They were meant for each other. 

Fyodor leaned against the wall. Arahabaki fizzled down Chuuya’s veins, wrapping him in slick-hot red light. Protecting him. Chuuya’s confidence was never faked; it didn’t have to be. He had nothing and no one to fear. 

Except Dazai, Arahabaki said sourly. 

Shut the fuck up and focus. We’re here because you wanted to be. Chuuya flexed his fingers. “Well, Russian? You wanted to talk, so start talking.” 

Dostoevsky sighed. “How much do you know about Dazai’s abilities?” 

“Enough to get by. What does that have to do with anything—wait, abilities?” 

A shiver-inducing smile. “Oh, yes. He didn’t tell you about that, did he? Two abilities, and only one of them his.” 

Chuuya’s spine prickled with suspicion. “I know you can steal abilities, but I’m not sure how he could steal anything with No Longer Human inside him.” Arahabaki was growling softly—he was regretting asking to come. 

Do you think he’s lying? Chuuya asked silently. 

Arahabaki snarled softly. Not lying. But not the truth. Not even close. 

Two abilities, Chuuya repeated wonderingly. How did we not know? Arahabaki stuttered slightly. There was an ice pick in Chuuya’s heart. You KNEW? You knew and you didn’t say anything? 

I didn’t know! Arahabaki protested. I felt something. I didn’t know what. I chalked it down to his lack of humanity. 

You’re stupid and disgusting and I hate you. But even in Chuuya’s mind the words felt childish. What do we do? 

Arahabaki slid through him, lightening his blood. But Dostoevsky spoke before they could do anything. “He killed his mother for that ability, you know. The one that isn’t his.” 

“The one that isn’t his,” Chuuya said mockingly. “You sound like you don’t know which it is.” 

“I know there’s two,” Dostoevsky said smoothly. “No Longer Human, and another ability which grants him immortality. Such a mundane thing—don’t you wonder why he never told you?” 

Chuuya hesitated. He did wonder—he’d always wonder about the secrets Dazai kept from him. The way his eyes went glassy when Chuuya touched his neck, his nightmares and headaches. Chuuya had his own secrets. His parents, the depth of his relationship to Arahabaki, his dreams after the Mafia. They still worked fine together. “I don’t care,” he said doggedly. 

“Lies. You both care. I can see it in your eyes, Nakahara Chuuya—” 

Chuuya’s eyes flashed red, rage boiling through him. He hated being manipulated, and he could feel the strings tangling around him; Dostoevsky trying to turn him against Dazai, and he wasn’t doing a half-bad job—had Chuuya felt less guilty about abandoning Dazai without warning, it might even have worked. 

The thought terrified and sickened him. He’d always considered Dazai to be the most important thing to him—was it really just that easy to turn him against Dazai? 

And then he forced himself to calm down. He could—it wouldn’t be wrong to extract information from Dostoevsky before he killed the man. It would, in fact, have been the smart thing to do—it would’ve been what Dazai would have told him to do. “You have five minutes to justify yourself,” he said coldly. 

“Admittedly, no one knows much about your boyfriend’s past. His mentor went out of his way to destroy records, but people talk. People always talk. His second ability he stole from his own mother, killing her in the process. Osamu’s career—” 

“Don’t call him that.” 

“Dazai’s career as a killer started early.” 

“How early?” Chuuya asked, refusing to believe anything he heard. It didn’t sound implausible; abilities could be passed on. Stealing them…he’d never heard of it, but it wouldn’t have been beyond Dazai’s skill. “How old was he when she died?” 

“That’s where the records fail me. She died young, though, barely twenty-five.” 

Dazai could not possibly have been more than seven, then, when she died. Arahabaki was bristling at the thought of naming a child a killer, even if the child in question was Dazai. You don’t like him—what changed? Chuuya asked. 

I like this bastard less. 

Fair enough. “Time’s up, motherfucker,” Chuuya said. Turned into gravity, because he could. Because he was half-god, more than mortal. Just like Dazai. 

Speaking of which, Arahabaki said, wrapping protectively around Chuuya, where is he?

Chuuya didn’t have time to think of a response to that, though he too wondered. Fyodor stood casually against the far wall, seemingly unaffected by Corruption—even though Chuuya damn well knew he was radiating enough power to at least knock the skinny fucker off balance. It was chillingly familiar. “What did you do with him?” he roared. 

Fyodor smiled, all teeth. “Nothing but a vial of his blood,” he said smugly. “He doesn’t need it.” 

“What did you do with him?” Arahabaki snarled, and suddenly Chuuya was in the passenger’s seat of his own mind. 

It was exhilarating and terrifying. Like being on a rollercoaster with no way out, and Chuuya could only hope that Arahabaki’s grip on him was secure enough to protect them both. Wait, he thought suddenly, and god it was weird to think without talking. If he ingested a vial of Dazai’s blood, did it suppress his own ability too? 

Do you want to find out? There was a mad glee in Arahabaki’s voice. Corruption rose around them, cloaking the world in sweet bloody red. The next gust of not-wind knocked Dostoevsky off balance. 

He looked satisfyingly startled by it. “I will ask one last time,” Arahabaki said, voice deep and calm and somehow all his despite being Chuuya’s. “Where. Is. He.” 

The Russian was trying to fight Corruption, Chuuya realized. He couldn’t have predicted how much more he saw when he didn’t have to see and do. But right now he could see the faint strain in the man’s sharp, ratty face, and the way his muscles were tensing under his clothes as he attempted to fight gravity itself. It worked, he thought, awed. You found a way around No Longer Human. Mother of fuck. 

I told you so, Arahabaki returned smugly. 

Fyodor had a hand on the wall, trying to keep his balance. “Bleeding to death,” he smirked. “Go ahead, kill me. It would be a pity if he died, but you know how it is. The price of a demon’s life is another demon—and this way you’ll be free. Forever.” 

“Tell me where Dazai is,” Arahabaki snarled. “And maybe we’ll let you go.” 

“Oh, but what does it matter to me whether you kill me? It’d be an honour to die at the hands of a fellow god.” Fyodor tilted his head, a sickened fire dancing in his eyes. 

“Do it,” a voice rang out. “Give him what he wants, Chuuya.” Dazai, limping into the room through a wall that wasn’t as solid as it had first looked. There was blood dripping down his hands, although the sleeves of his red-soaked shirt concealed the origins. He was barefoot, bloody footprints tracked in his wake. Chuuya’s heart lurched at the sight of him. 

Dazai tilted his head, surveying the scene before him. He was so pale; he’d lost far too much blood, and his mouth was tight with strain. “Hello, Arahabaki.” He turned to face Dostoevsky before either of them could register their surprise. “You didn’t really think a little pain would stop me, did you?” He sighed dramatically. “But you’ve always thought you’re the only ability user with a tolerance for pain.” 

“You realize,” Dostoesvky said slowly. “You realize that your little speech served no purpose? You’re going to die here.” 

Chuuya had no idea what was going on. He could follow what they were saying, but the sentences seemed to have no connection to the situation at hand. But he knew what you’re going to die here meant. Anger surged through him. Dazai would not die on him now. He wouldn’t allow it. 

Dazai grinned lopsidedly. “Arahabaki, kill him.” 

“But,” they both started. 

“I’ll be fine,” Dazai said, not taking his eyes off of Dostoevsky. “Kill him.” 

You will not be fine, Chuuya thought despairingly. You’ve got as much blood inside you as out. But there were times when he questioned Dazai’s insistence that he was alright and times when he didn’t and now was most definitely not the time or place. 

Chuuya didn’t know if it was him or Arahabaki that made that decision. Corruption surged again, a power the size of the ocean squeezing through a funnel barely strong enough to contain it. Blood roared in his ears, but he thought he still heard Dazai’s soft gasp as he gathered it up, forcing it through that funnel, directing it right at Fyodor Dostoevsky. 

The last thing he saw was the way in the red light, Fyodor’s eyes looked blue. 

five

It was one thing, Dazai thought, to put himself endlessly in harm’s way, to court death like a man courted prospective girlfriends. One thing to be so depressed that getting out of bed was often more trouble than it was worth, not worth the effort of slogging through another day where the food tasted like ash and his body was a broken-used husk occupied by a ravenous monster. 

It was quite another to watch Chuuya sink with him. 

Dazai’s panic when he noticed what was happening was so sharp and painful that it made him lightheaded. Chuuya was supposed to be better than him, better than this. How could he use his ability, use himself, like he didn’t matter? How could he treat himself like trash when between the two of them, there was one useless bastard, and it certainly wasn’t Chuuya? He’d thought Chuuya knew these things. 

Judging by the way he snarled at Dazai when he pulled Chuuya out from the middle of a firefight with an ability user who could most certainly have damaged Chuuya if Dazai hadn’t knocked him out from behind, he didn’t. 

“What the fuck,” Dazai snapped as he dragged Chuuya away. “What the fuck were you thinking. Actually, don’t answer that, because you weren’t thinking. You never do, these days, and it’s killing me. You’re killing me, Chuuya.” 

“I wish you’d die faster,” Chuuya said viciously. “Let—go of me—” 

“Absolutely not,” Dazai replied. And he didn’t, not until they were back in Chuuya’s small apartment. “Now, talk to me.” 

“What’s there to say?” Chuuya muttered, stalking off to the kitchen and rubbing his wrist where Dazai had gripped him. He was probably getting himself a drink, and Dazai hated that. He hated that Chuuya was going the same way his own dad had. 

He went after Chuuya. “I don’t know, talk about the fact that you’re acting so weird even I noticed it. Talk about the fact that you’ve been angrier than usual lately, even when you’re touching me, drinking like you’ll die if you don’t and throwing yourself into danger like you don’t care if you do. This isn’t like you.” Dazai panted to a stop, realizing a bit too late how nakedly anxious he sounded. No Longer Human had spent years gnawing through Dazai’s ability to have and express emotions, but somehow Chuuya, being around him, knitted him together just enough to make himself vulnerable. 

Chuuya smirked at him, taking a long swig from the bottle in his hands. “Why, you sound worried. The Demon Prodigy has a heart after all. Who’d have thought?” 

Tears blurred Dazai’s eyes, turning Chuuya into a hazy shape of red and black. He wanted to snap back, wanted to dig his fingers into every soft and fragile part of Chuuya—he knew where they were, he knew how to break him. He could have done it. 

It wouldn’t have helped. If he snapped now, Chuuya would throw him out, and then he’d be on his own. 

They’d both be on their own. 

“I thought you’d be the last person to be surprised,” he said steadily. “Tell me what’s wrong, Chuuya. Maybe I can help.” Maybe I can do for you what you do for me every day. 

“You’re wrong,” Chuuya said venomously, but he turned white when Dazai flinched at that. “Sorry,” he said hastily. “I’m sorry, Dazai.” 

Dazai swallowed and shook his head. “It’s fine.” It wasn’t, but he’d deal. “Talk to me,” he begged. 

“I—” Chuuya started. Put the bottle down on the counter, brushed a hand through his hair. “I don’t know where to start. Arahabaki isn’t talking to me.” He sounded hysterical, suddenly, near tears, and Dazai ached for him as badly as he had for himself, just minutes back. Arahabaki, Dazai knew, had been Chuuya’s only companion for many years. No wonder he was losing his shit, if they were no longer talking. 

“Do you know why?” Dazai asked helplessly. He moved closer to Chuuya without thinking of it, wrapping an arm around Chuuya’s shoulders. He didn’t really think before touching Chuuya these days, didn’t stop to ask himself if Chuuya would be okay with something like Dazai that near him. He was, he’d proven it to Dazai over and over. 

Chuuya shook his head, squeezing into Dazai’s side. “I think—I think he’s angry at me.” Dazai stayed quiet. “Angry at me because of—because we’re dating, and he didn’t like it, and he asked me to stop and I said no.” 

The world tilted on its axis, rearranging itself around Chuuya. If he’d wanted to cry before, it was nothing to what he felt like now, nothing to how badly he wanted to never let go of Chuuya. He’d have given anything to not lose this, anything to protect Chuuya from what sought to hurt him. Even if the thing hurting him was inside, and couldn’t be gotten rid of. He turned his head, pressing his lips to Chuuya’s strawberry-scented hair. 

No one, he thought, had ever picked Dazai before. And no one had ever picked Dazai over their ability. He probably didn’t deserve this. “Chuuya,” he whispered. “Why me?” 

Chuuya laughed wetly. “Of course it’d be you, dumbass. It would be you every time.” 

I’ve done nothing to deserve you, Dazai thought despairingly. There was a hole inside him begging to be filled, but it seemed to have frozen still. Nothing I ever do will make me worthy of you. There was a pause, where Dazai tried to work out how to convey his gratitude and failed miserably. Instead he said, “Perhaps there are more sensible ways of channeling your frustration than putting your life in danger.” 

“Sensible won’t cut it, though. It’s not fun if it doesn’t drive everyone crazy.” 

Dazai sighed. He’d thought Chuuya would say something dumb and shitty like that. “Can’t believe I’m the more sensible one between us,” he mused. “How do you feel about fucking up your furniture?” 

“It would cost quite a bit to replace so—hell yeah.” 

Dazai nodded. “Go wild, then.” But neither of them made an effort to move. Chuuya had probably done himself out for the day, anyway, and Dazai—Dazai didn’t know how to say I would help you destroy the world if it’d make you feel better. I would help you destroy me if it would make you smile. 

He didn’t have to say it. Chuuya didn’t know, but he acted like he did, and that was the important thing. And inside him, the quiet pining thing that kept him alive despite his best efforts whimpered and twisted, straining towards Chuuya’s light. 

twelve 

Dazai was not fine. 

The yammering in his head had reached a critical threshold around the time Fyodor’s not-as-insane-as-he-seemed-at-first-sight clown had driven an ice pick into his thigh. The IV drip in his arm that Fyodor had used to draw his blood (the man probably thought a transfusion would briefly protect him from abilities, and he wasn’t wrong, but it wouldn’t work as well or as long as he probably needed it to) had pushed No Longer Human right over the edge from moderately annoying to the equivalent of having four music concerts blowing through his brain at once, a screaming that zipped through his blood far faster than his heart could keep up with and so afraid it made him sick. The other one, shielded from No Longer Human by Dazai, was keeping track of the conversation he didn’t have the energy to pay attention to—the one Fyodor was having with Chuuya, some fifteen feet to their left and back. 

Its distress was mounting, and combined with No Longer Human, had pretty well driven Dazai out his mind. This was an advantage, because at least he couldn’t really feel Gogol wrapping fine barbed around his arm. 

He’d been unchained at some point, to better facilitate being tortured. Gogol wouldn’t stop talking to him. Dazai’s head was swimming with overstimulation. 

But the next words cut right through the foggy suffocating hell of pain he was trapped in. “What did you do with him?” That was Chuuya’s voice, all Chuuya, but it didn’t sound exactly like him. It sounded deeper, stronger, wilder. More. 

No Longer Human was still screaming. The other one whimpered at him, begging him to do something. 

What can I do? he snarled. I’m occupied. 

Fight, it suggested. 

Dazai snorted mentally. Yeah, right. 

Save him, it said urgently. Can’t lose. 

I know. But there’s nothing we can do. You know this. 

There was a long pause. Dazai suffered through the pain, the noise, the fucking awful feeling of blood leaving his body. Life and a void, it said slowly. Her and it. 

Her and you? What do you think will happen? 

Death. Like the other. 

The idea was repulsive. We cannot. There will be consequences. But even as he said it, he knew there was no other way. 

Nobody knows. It vanished, leaving him to deal alone with No Longer Human. 

He sighed, forcing his breath into an even cadence. Forcing her to slow down on her mad rush through his body, as she inspected every exit point on his body. Screaming all the time. She probably thought this was a fun, the blood ability equivalent of an amusement park joyride. Pay attention, he snapped. 

Your blood is leaving, she informed him brightly. Soon you will have very little left. And then you will die. She punctuated this with a scream, sharp and high; it felt like someone driving an ice pick in the base of his skull. 

We’ll die if you don’t listen to me, he snarled. 

She paused, swirling thoughtfully. Fear and joy, pain and hatred—little really mattered to No Longer Human. Only the intensity of it registered, and the more the better. Yes? 

Life and a void, he repeated. It could get us out, if you cooperate. 

She screamed again, zipping around his body. Gogol was tightening the wires now. Dazai almost wanted to roll his eyes, because as adept as he was, he couldn’t hold a candle to the kind of pain Mori had put him through, every week for years. And Gogol was doing it to break him, but Dazai was already broken. Not a person so much as the remnants of one, held in shape by Chuuya’s love. 

But who cared. It still hurt, and it would always hurt, and they’d die here if No Longer Human didn’t listen to him. Which would be just fine, but then Chuuya would die too. That would be bad. 

Please, he whispered. For him. 

No Longer Human halted again. I don’t want to. 

I know. Will you, anyway? 

She sulked. But she went through his mind, finding it hiding in the back. What’s the plan? 

He left them to it. Opened his eyes. “Hey, aren’t you tired?” he said softly. Speaking took great effort. 

Gogol chirped out a laugh. “A little, but His Holiness told me to break you! So I have to, you see.” He smiled gently at Dazai. “This would go easier on you if you just told Him what He wanted to know.” 

“It’s fucking weird how you refer to him,” Dazai said. “Does he know you want to deepthroat his boots? Or is he just very good at taking advantage of you?” 

Gogol blushed. “I wish to be of use to Dos any way I can,” he said, stiff and high. 

“Cool,” Dazai said. “So like, a crush.” He paused, taking stock of the situation inside his head. Swallowed. “Do you know how you could help him?” 

Gogol licked his lips, considering. Then he shook his head. “My God told me not to trust you, demon.” 

“I’m only suggesting you do what he already did,” Dazai said, voice low. “My blood will protect you from abilities. You could help him. He’s so close to his goals, and he needs you at his side—even if he doesn’t know it yet. Imagine how pleased he’d be if he succeeded with your help. How pleased he’d be with you.” 

“What do you know?” Gogol asked. He sounded unhappy about asking. 

“My blood grants immunity from abilities,” Dazai murmured. It was a struggle to remain present. 

There was a hot little fire in Gogol’s eye. “I must ingest it.” He hesitated. 

You arrived at that conclusion all by yourself, Dazai said mentally. Remember that. Nodded encouragingly. “You only need a sip or two, but it must be fresh. As fresh as possible.” He let his eyes slip to the ice pick lying a few feet away, then snatched them back to Gogol. 

The clown nodded decisively. Went up to get the ice pick. Dazai’s heart was hammering, but everything inside his brain was silent, blissfully silent. C’mon. 

A quick slash on Dazai’s palm, pain that made No Longer Human squeak with outrage. Gogol kept a suspicious eye on Dazai as he leaned down to lap at his hand. You really are a perfect little dog. I should give you to Mori. 

Now! 

Power fizzled down his spine and arm. Gogol barely had time to swallow before the combined strength of two abilities froze his heart, ate his life away. He didn’t even have time to look betrayed. His body dropped, limp and dead. 

Well done, Dazai thought grimly. Now for the hard part. 

We did good, No Longer Human said excitedly. Right? 

You’re such a child. Shut up. 

Oh I see how it is. We help you and not even a thank you? She started screaming, again. 

I’ll kill you, Dazai snarled. He shoved himself to his feet, lightheaded with pain and blood loss. He wouldn’t die, but he could come really fucking close. Time went strange when he couldn’t feel anything but pain, seemed elastic. He gritted his teeth and began to walk. 

Chuuya swayed in place. His hair was wild, messed up by the air travel first and then however-long of wandering the city. The idiot probably hadn’t even bothered to get a hotel room. Corruption swirled around him, a cloak of gravity and destruction. 

Dazai stumbled forward, forcing his feet over the last of the distance between them. Wrapped his arms around Chuuya and clung, suddenly all out of energy. “Why did you leave?” he asked, feeling childish in the weight of his pain and betrayal. Chuuya was steady as rocks under him—solid and sure, the only person Dazai had ever allowed himself to burden with his trust. But he felt shaky now, hurt by everything he’d heard and trying not to be. Or maybe that was the bloodloss. 

Chuuya’s arms came up to cradle him. “I shouldn’t have. It’s a long story.” He tilted his head slightly to kiss Dazai’s shoulder. “C’mon, love. You need to get to a hospital, you’re dying.” 

“Mori,” Dazai said dazedly, before remembering that they were in a different country. “Need blood, that’s all. Stitches. Call Mori.” Chuuya rubbed his back gently. Corruption was fading slowly out of the air around them—Dazai had lost far too much blood for his abilities to work as they usually did. “How come Arahabaki’s back?” Fuck, he was so dizzy. Everything hurt. 

Everything hurt, but at least he had Chuuya. 

“I’ll tell you everything,” Chuuya promised. “And you’ll tell me everything too. But only after we get you all better.” 

“Can’t die,” Dazai giggled. But he allowed Chuuya to lift him and carry him out. Between one step and the next, he passed out. 

six

Despite Dazai’s best efforts, Chuuya found himself getting increasingly violent and angry. 

The worst part was that, when he was truly enraged he didn’t want to stop being angry, and he resented Dazai’s attempts to distract him with kisses or food. 

Dazai never stopped trying, though. He did stop flinching when Chuuya raised his voice or threw things around him, and employed a discreet cleaning service to clean up Chuuya’s messes. Miraculously, because Chuuya knew he could be a right asshole, he never once lost his patience. 

He’d never have pinned Dazai to be the one between them with a saint-like tolerance for bullshit, but it certainly wasn’t going to be Chuuya, so. He was far too depressed, far too lonely and angry, to be patient. 

Sometimes he wondered if Dazai was unhappy—it couldn’t be pleasant, spending his days cleaning up the shitshows Chuuya made. Did he resent Chuuya for it? 

But in the quiet moments, when he they curled up together to kiss or fuck—Dazai more graceful and knowledgeable than him, strangely, even though he was younger than Chuuya and had no discernable way of having gained that experience—he thought Dazai was happy, or as close to happy as he could come. His eyes were brighter, softer, and although his laughter was still as precious to Chuuya as it had ever been, it was no longer as rare. 

And Chuuya missed Arahabaki like a hole in his soul, a hole Dazai would never fill. But he was slowly carving out his own space in Chuuya’s heart. Worming his way in with every rainy night he spent reading to Chuuya, every time he smiled at Chuuya over food they’d cooked together, every single time he stopped moving for a split second when Chuuya touched him before he relaxed, opened up, gave in. 

Chuuya was the only person who got this side of Dazai. He couldn’t ask for more.

thirteen 

Getting Dazai to the hospital wasn’t the hard part. Chuuya checked him in, digging his passport out of his pocket (it was bloodstained, but readable enough to suffice—thank fuck for wallets). The hard part was acquiring information when his Czech was nowhere near as good as Dazai’s—he kept having to ask people to repeat themselves in English, and it was immensely frustrating to not be able to interpret the words flying around. Any of them could have meant he’s dead, your boyfriend is dead, or he’s in a coma and we don’t think he’ll wake up. 

Arahabaki was tired too, but he remained in Chuuya’s mind, preventing his anxiety from coming up with outlandish situation after outlandish situation. If he’d been less tired, he’d have demanded Arahabaki explain the events of the past year. Or even the past few days. 

As it was Chuuya barely got through a call with Mori without having a fucking panic attack. Arahabaki counted breaths for him after he got off. Said, you should eat something, and held him together long enough to suffer through a visit to the hospital cafeteria. 

It wasn’t just the sight of Dazai bleeding and tortured and still walking towards him that had him so shaken. He’d known Dazai was no stranger to torture—the scars that landmarked his body proved that well enough. 

It was the entire thing. Leaving, and being found within a day. Fyodor fucking Dostoevsky, and whatever the hell he’d been doing to Dazai. 

The fact that Dazai had flown here alone, when he needed Chuuya to hold his hand through every second of any flight they’d ever gotten on. I should never have left, he thought despairingly, and this time Arahabaki didn’t respond. If I hadn’t left him, none of this would have happened. 

If you hadn’t left, you’d have lost me, Arahabaki grumped. 

Enough, Chuuya snapped back. I refuse to pick between you and him anymore, and if you have an ounce of respect for me you won’t make me. You’re important. So is he. I want you both and I will have you. 

Arahabaki paused for a long moment. You’re half-god yourself, you know that? 

Chuuya snorted. No, that’s you. I’m all human. But he didn't feel nearly as confident as he managed to sound. 

Whatever you say. 

Mori got there in under ten hours. Chuuya had no clue how he did it, but the man had always been willing to cut apart heaven and earth for his Demon Prodigy, no matter how much they argued or how much bitterness Dazai held towards him. 

Chuuya also didn’t know what they were doing to Dazai. The nurse had told him something about needing blood, which made sense, and then something else about complication due to old injuries (Chuuya had always known all those untreated wounds would one day come to bite Dazai in the ass—or in this case, seeing as he was asleep—Chuuya) She’d also told him he’d be fine. 

The Boss spoke fluent Czech. Chuuya didn’t even have the energy to be surprised. He tolerated the cool, considering look Mori gave him, didn’t flinch back when he placed a cool hand on Chuuya’s cheek and inspected his eyes. 

Higuchi still walked him off to a hotel. Chuuya attempted to protest, but they both gave him a quelling look, and Arahabaki refused Chuuya’s plea for help, so off he went. 

But once they were at the hotel, Chuuya didn’t even bother stripping off his clothes before he crashed into bed and slept. 

He slept for hours. 

Dazai was there when he woke up. 

Chuuya shrieked. He hadn’t expected to see Dazai immediately, let alone looking like even more of a bandaged freak than usual. He was sitting in an armchair next to the bed, dozing slightly, but he woke up at Chuuya’s startled cry. “Hey,” he said wanly, offering Chuuya a small smile. 

“What the fuck,” Chuuya replied. “Come to bed, asshole.” 

Dazai nodded, winced, and shifted. He moved gingerly, in a way Chuuya had only known him to under extreme pain. Chuuya’s heart ached. 

They leaned together against the headboard, Dazai’s face white. 

Chuuya placed a hand on his unbandaged thigh. Dazai shifted slightly in order to list into Chuuya. “How come they discharged you?” 

“I, uh. They didn’t want to let me, but Mori insisted I wouldn’t make a full recovery in a hospital, and he’s a doctor as well as my father on paper, so they had to let me go.” He paused for a second to recover his breath. “Pretty certain Fyodor’s bastard clown poisoned me.” 

“Clown,” Chuuya repeated, bemused. Dazai exhaled, a small laugh. 

Arahabaki was twisting and untwisting in the back of Chuuya’s mind. He wanted something, and of course he didn’t know to ask for it. Chuuya waited for a long minute before saying, “Arahabaki says sorry, by the way.” 

“To me?” Dazai said, surprised. “For what?” 

Chuuya listened. “Because you deserve me as much as he does, but it took him a while to learn how to...share.” 

“Did he say that?” Dazai sounded amused. Chuuya looked at his hand against the black of Dazai’s pants, how slender even his thighs were compared to Chuuya’s densely muscled ones. “Doesn’t sound like him.” 

Chuuya laughed at Arahabaki’s offended squawk. “Don’t worry, he apologized to me too. And I coached him through saying that, even if he came up with the details all by himself.” 

“Did he now,” Dazai said. “Well, tell him I accept his apology, and that I’m sorry too.” 

Hear that? Chuuya asked. Do you still think he doesn’t deserve us? 

What more do you want, Arahabaki said sulkily. 

“Speaking of apologies,” Dazai said. “I owe you one too.” 

“I don’t think you do,” Chuuya replied. “I left you, not the other way around.” 

“Not for that.” He sounded pained and sad. “I’ve been keeping secrets from you for a long time.” 

Chuuya closed his eyes. “Dazai…” 

“Let me finish. What you heard from Fyodor, about me having two abilities—he wasn’t lying. I’ve always had two, but for a long time even I didn’t know that. I thought I heard voices and chalked it up to being lonely as a child. We—Mori and I—only learnt about the second ability when—” Dazai paused, gasping for breath, and suddenly Chuuya realized he was as close to tears as he’d ever seen him. He rubbed Dazai’s leg gently. 

“When?” 

“He tried to kill me,” Dazai said softly. “I’d been begging him to try for weeks and weeks, and he finally ran out of excuses. Strapped me down, morphine in hand—” He sobbed, a low and broken sound. Chuuya reached for his hand, squeezing. “I came back.” 

“You...came back,” Chuuya repeated, stunned. 

Dazai tried to collect himself. “That time, we thought it was a fluke. But over and over, no matter how close I came, either something, or someone—” he nudged Chuuya “—stopped me, or I died and came back.” 

“But you died,” Chuuya said, awed. “You’re immortal?” 

“It feels horrible,” Dazai said vehemently. “Imagine being ripped from yourself and thrown into somewhere dark and empty and cold and then being forced back into your body. Over and over.” He was crying through the words. “All the time.” 

Chuuya shifted slightly, wrapping his arms around Dazai. Dazai wept into his neck, hurting and ugly. He’d never heard Dazai cry before, not really, although Dazai had seen him cry plenty of times. It was a little galling how unprepared for this situation Chuuya was. He could only hold Dazai, murmur soothing nonsense to him until he could breathe properly again. Until Chuuya could shift them both so that Dazai’s head was in his lap and he was lying down. “So, two abilities. No Longer Human and…?” 

“And?” Dazai said blankly. Chuuya stroked his hair. It was just so fluffy. 

“Does it have a name?” Chuuya said impatiently. 

“Ah...no.” Dazai looked a little ashamed. At least he wasn’t crying anymore. “It was my mother’s ability.” 

Chuuya blinked. “I didn’t know you could pass on abilities like that.” 

“Well,” Dazai said, shrugging slightly. “You can if you’re willing to...you know. Die.” 

There was a pause. Then Chuuya started to laugh. It wasn’t even that funny, but something about the way Dazai said it broke through the numbing strangeness of the past few days and made him unable to stop giggling. 

Dazai smiled too. “My mother died giving birth to me,” he scolded. “This is not a laughing matter...oh, do that again,” the last at the way Chuuya had started to scratch under his chin. 

“Do you miss her?” Chuuya said, when their laughter had subsided. 

Dazai shrugged again. “I don’t remember her, and neither does her ability. Which is fucking crazy, anyway. It’s never made a lick of sense—only cries a lot, and hides from No Longer Human.” There was a lurking bitterness in his tone, like he resented his crazed ability for keeping him tethered to life against his will. 

Chuuya surprised himself by saying, softly, “I love it.” 

“You what.” 

“I love it,” Chuuya repeated, with more feeling. It was, astonishingly, true. He could feel the strength of his sudden and endless love for Dazai’s other, unnamed ability coursing through his nerves, making his hands shake slightly as he touched Dazai’s cheek. “It kept you alive all these years, long enough for me to find you. And it will do that for a long time yet. How could I not love whatever keeps you alive?” 

Dazai bit his lip, possibly to keep himself from crying again—his eyes were wet. “Chuuya,” he said quietly, at last. Tilted his head slightly into Chuuya’s hand. 

It was easy to lean down and kiss him; nothing new, they’d kissed before and would again. But this time felt like more, something about the burning awareness that Dazai was more than he seemed. His lips were soft, pliant. “You’re mine,” Chuuya said quietly, fiercely. “No one else can have you.” 

“That’s fine by me,” Dazai said, and tilted his head in for another kiss.