Chapter Text
It’s the middle of the night, but Dazai’s wide awake.
No one else is at the ADA’s office at this hour, but Dazai sneaks into Yosano’s office on silent feet anyway; his nervous system’s lowest setting is overclocked. There, he throws the makings of a rudimentary first aid kit into a backpack, along with a few more specialized precautions–a bottle of morphine and a six-pack of bandage rolls. He’ll be able to reimburse Yosano-sensei when he gets back. If he gets back.
The last of his limited supplies packed, he shrugs the backpack on over one shoulder and slips back into the hall, where he comes face to face with Ranpo.
If this were a different day, a different time, or a different situation, Dazai would have smiled and laughed and tapped out his song-and-dance routine to smooth things over. But today, that mask has cracked, and the blood-red gaze of the Demon Prodigy glares through.
“You had to know I’d find you here,” Ranpo starts, “Didn’t you?”
“Then you must’ve also figured out that you can’t stop me.”
“ Won’t , Dazai,” he frowns. “I won’t stop you.”
A tense moment passes, serpentine green clashing with bitter blood. Then Ranpo gives a long-suffering sigh, head dropping back as he runs a hand through his greasy black hair, unwashed after many days of stress.
“No, I’m not here to try and stop you. I know I’d have to kill you or drug you to do that. I came here to give you this.” He pulls a pair of syringes out of his pocket, filled with translucent, blue fluid, needles safely capped with plastic. “Megane-san sent them. They’re the Special Ability Department’s best guess at an antidote for whatever cocktail of drugs Dostoevsky’s using. Keep them hidden somewhere you can use them on yourself, quickly, in case you need it.”
Dazai doesn’t soften a fraction, even as his hand reaches out to take the syringes with the slow, steady control of prey—ready to bolt. But when his hand wraps around them, Ranpo speaks again.
“Dazai,” he says, stare sharp through the glint across his glasses. “You’re putting him in more danger this way. You’re playing into Fyodor’s hands so he can use you against—”
“Thank you for your help, Ranpo-san.” Dazai cuts him off before stowing the syringes and shouldering past him.
With a clenched jaw and a heavy heart, Ranpo watches him go.
Dazai had booked the earliest plane, but now that he’s on it, all he can do is wait and for the love of god try not to think.
Around him, other passengers on the sparsely-populated flight are yawning, reading, or sleeping.
And he hates them.
He hates every single one of them.
They scurry about their little lives with their little problems and bemoan their little predicaments without the slightest understanding of the dark, complex world thrumming beneath their feet, in the skyscrapers above them, on the streets around them. Stupid, pointless, blessedly ignorant fools who cannot be bothered to confront the darkness on the rare occasion they face it, let alone help themselves. Yet they reap the peace wrought by the blood sacrificed in the dark world as though it’s their birthright or the fruit of their own pathetic labor.
He hates them.
He hates the tiny, cold windows.
He hates the sterile, white walls.
He hates the compact cabin.
And more than any of it, he hates that it drags his mind back to the chilling folds of Meursault.
“I’ve been thinking of ways to kill Chuuya every day for the last seven years!”
Water trickling, rushing, gushing. Too much, too fast, too soon.
“I suppose there were moments when our hearts reached out to one another…”
He’d seen the light flickering back into Chuuya’s eyes, had known his determined little dog was fighting from the moment he’d spotted him.
You’re almost there, Chibi.
The water splashed under Chuuya’s chin.
I’ve set the stage.
“Just kidding! There weren’t any!”
The water swallowed Chuuya’s head.
The Queen is most powerful at the end of the game.
And then…it all went wrong.
"Damn you, Dazai you bastard! This is your fucking fault! It always is!"
The remembered scream screeches through his head, unbidden. Then the images. The blood. And Dazai jolts awake, clutching the front of his shirt as he wrestles his heart rate back under control. He can’t let his mind wander. He can’t lose his focus. Fyodor is already expecting him. He has to be one hundred percent on his game. More than one hundred. Double that.
For the rest of the flight, Dazai chews his lip and gazes out the porthole at the blackened world beneath him. Lights flicker here and there. But over all, it’s still, and he tries not to see a deep, dark body of water, and a single hat floating on top of it.
He imagines the glass breaking and sucking him out into the cold sky, then falling thousands of feet to an instant, peaceful death.
A week earlier…
“You must have some idea of where they took him! Surely you don’t believe that bastard at face value.”
“I’m sorry, Ane-san, but the option remains on the table until disproved.”
Kouyou glared at Dazai through sharp eyes. Her red eyeshadow had the effect of warpaint, concentrating her murderous intent until it almost pricked the surface of Dazai’s numb cocoon. Almost.
“We’re doing everything we can, madam,” Kunikida started, ever the gentleman even under strain. “But with Atsushi and Kyouka still out in the field we’re shorthanded. And with the destruction of Meursault, even Ranpo-san didn’t find enough information to pick up a trail.”
“I’m not interested in your excuses,” she bit, jaw clenched. “Call me the moment you have anything actionable. As soon as this ‘Bram’ bastard is neutralized, the rest of my resources will be available to you. Good day.”
She swept toward the door in a flash of colors, but stopped when the receptionist spoke.
“Dazai-san? This just arrived for you.”
Haruno held a single, small package out toward him, and the room froze. She bit her lip, a worried furrow between her eyes, as she waited for Dazai to take it.
Dazai straightened on stiff legs from where he was leaning against his desk and reached out one, shaking hand to take the package.
It was lighter than he expected, and about large enough to hold a paperback. But there was no label or return address on it.
Ranpo frowned at the package before barking orders. “Haruno-san, get the VHS player, then wait in the break room. Kunikida, hit the lights and close the blinds. Nothing we see or hear leaves this room.”
Dazai carefully peeled the package open and found that it did indeed contain a VHS tape. Its exterior was also devoid of any useful information, only a plain label with a single line of writing, in shaky, smudged ink: To Dazai. Beside it was a vaguely mouth-shaped smudge of red lipstick.
He looked up to find Ranpo’s eyes on him, morose, but otherwise inscrutable.
Blinds closed, lights off, and VHS player rolled in on its stand with a chunky old TV hooked up to it, Dazai again looked to Ranpo, who nodded, before pressing the tape into the player.
“Hello, Dazai-kun. I wish we could have this conversation in person, but look who I have here with me.”
Dazai’s blood pressure spiked so high he felt his pulse hammering in his throat, behind his eyes.
“Say hello, Chuuya.”
A few days later…
Chuuya awoke to a profound chill. His hands and feet were completely numb with it. The sharp burn of frostbite prickled his skin, and everywhere that wasn’t numb burned with pain. Pain of both the skinned-knee split-lip type, and the deep-seated, sore, fuck-I-need-to-see-a-doctor type. Distantly, he could hear the echo of a drip, drip, drip.
“Ah, is our guest awake?”
A voice jabbed through his groggy senses. His head ached, although not in the usual, hangover sort of way. It offered a distinct, bloated dizziness: the sense that he had three heads, all slightly different sizes, all spinning slightly different directions, all wobbling on slightly different axiis, leaving him entirely unsure where his real skull was and where the illusionary ones began.
“How are you feeling, now that you’re able to use words again?”
Opening his eyes was like wrestling elevator doors open with his bare hands, but once he did, he wished he hadn’t. There was only one, glaringly bright light overhead which definitely called to mind an alien abduction scenario. A sharp stabbing sensation throbbed at the back of his eye sockets, eliciting a full-body cringe and a groan.
“Hm, it would seem Sleeping Beauty could use a few more hours.”
“Fuck you, bastard.”
Chuuya tried to activate For the Tainted Sorrow , but then…nothing happened. It must have shown on his face, since Fyodor smirked.
"Anti-ability alloy. Very difficult to get your hands on, but very convenient once you have it."
Chuuya struggled in the restraints, flexing, tensing, straining against the thick, metal bars wrapped snug around most of his joints.
“It’s not going to work, but you’re welcome to tire yourself out trying. It’s quite entertaining.”
"This is about Dazai, isn't it?" Chuuya glowered. He never did like beating around the bush.
"What makes you say that?"
"It always is. Bastard makes deals with the devil, and everyone around him takes the consequences."
“Can’t I simply desire your company for myself? Why should Dazai get all the handsome young men?”
“The fuck? …I mean, I knew you and Dazai were a little, uh, intense, but I didn’t know you were that into each other.”
Fyodor made no attempt to defend himself, only smiling a coy little thing—a smile perhaps for himself and not for Chuuya.
Chuuya couldn’t turn his head to look, but he could hear light metallic clatters, like when the dentist sets a tool down on that stainless steel tray beside the chair. The one light hanging over him made it difficult to make out much beyond his own legs, but he could see a couple shelves loaded with tech and a long, thin table to his right and mostly out of sight.
Then Fyodor approached from Chuuya’s periphery with a needle and rolled up Chuuya’s sleeve.
"Don't you– DON'T YOU DARE! DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE! DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME! YOU SON OF A BITCH!"
“Relax, it’s only a saline IV. You’re quite dehydrated, haven’t you noticed?”
His thin fingers were cold on Chuuya’s skin. Chuuya jerked wildly, desperate to keep the man’s hands off him. But the needle sank in despite his resistance and Fyodor attached the IV.
“There, was that so bad?“
“You’re a filthy fucking rat.”
“Aren’t you quite the charmer? Is this the personality that bewitched Dazai?” He ran his fingers up and down the length of Chuuya’s forearm. “I heard you kicked him in the face the first time you met.”
“And how the fuck would you know that?”
“There are rats in every city, dear. But I’d like to know what you think of Dazai, as well. Were you as suddenly smitten with him as he was with you? ”
“Yeah, sure. Smitten with the desire to kick his fucking teeth in.”
“Fiery creature. Now was it more of a physical attraction or emotional?”
“The hell? Do you consider ‘rage’ an emotional attraction?”
“And what does it feel like when his ability neutralizes yours?”
Chuuya couldn’t immediately answer, drawn back into those moments long gone now.
“Not just For the Tainted Sorrow , but your advanced state—Corruption, I believe it’s called?”
“It feels like none of your fucking business,” Chuuya finally grit out, fed up.
“Testy,” Fyodor lilted. “Have I touched a nerve?” At the same time, Fyodor curled his finger up the underside of Chuuya’s chin.
“Fucking hell, is this how you torture people? You just make yourself insufferable until they break?”
“It wasn’t my plan, no, but I might file the idea away for future reference. But no, right now,” Fyodor lips split in a saccharine mockery of a smile. “I think I’d like to break you.”
"Hah? I won't do shit for you."
"My, my, brave words. But I will break you, Chuuya."
Chuuya hissed through gritted teeth. "I. Don’t. Break."
"Oh you will," Fyodor intoned, almost bored. "I’ll break you, Chuuya, and break Dazai by extension. Not immediately, no, but now that I have you he'll make a mistake. And then another. And another.”
“Heh,” Chuuya jerked his head out of Fyodor’s grasp. “And here I was thinking you were smart. The bastard doesn’t care about me. He doesn’t care about anyone. He’s a heartless shit, and he’s sure as hell not gonna lose any sleep over me.”
“Is that what you think?” Fyodor lilted, a private smile playing on his lips as he strolled around the table, a single finger trailing along its edge. “The man doesn't know his own weaknesses. I've spent more than enough time with him to know. And now...I get to spend some time with you, Chuuya dear. Find out what makes you tick, why a man near my own caliber would be so interested in something like you. What are your weaknesses, hmm?"
"Here's a freebie: I get a killer migraine from interacting with arrogant asshole bastards like you."
“That could be useful, I suppose. Although I was hoping for something a little more, mm, sensitive .” Fyodor cupped Chuuya's seething face. “You see, I can't seem to stop wondering what this face would look like dripping with tears."
“I’ll rip your fucking throat out.”
Fyodor hummed, expression falling flat. “Then you leave me to my own devices.” He sighed, turning away and stepping towards the shelf covered in tech—dripping cords, cables, mostly covered in shadow.
“I believe our mutual irritant has seen our first little snuff film by now, but, just in case, I thought we might make a second. For posterity, or at least to pass the time.”
“A second… A second what?”
“Oh, you don’t remember? Strange. I suppose we’ll just have to see if the memory loss is a permanent effect or not. But…I do have some ideas to help jog your memory.”
Fyodor slid out of the way just enough for Chuuya to see an old box TV flicker to life, screen staticy until Fyodor slipped a black VHS in. It started to play.
“Say hello, Chuuya.”
He watched a doll-like image of himself with red, unseeing eyes hover behind Fyodor with obedience that made his blood catch fire.
Horror, terror, humiliation all crept up Chuuya’s spine and out along the length of each vein in his body until he was completely rigid.
“Ah, that’s right, you can’t. Foolish of me.”
Then Fyodor took him by the chin, gently turning his face this way and that with artistic scrutiny before fussing with Chuuya’s hair like some stuffy haute couture designer.
“I wonder if he knows his haircut is uneven. I might have to trim that later.”
Taking Chuuya by the chin again, Fyodor produced a tube of red lipstick and applied it to Chuuya’s lips. Then he leaned back appraisingly, eyes scrutinizing every detail.
“He’s pretty, I’ll give you that, but what is it that makes him such a fixation? What could he possibly possess that would transfix a man near my own caliber? I suppose I’ll just have to find out for myself, now won’t I?”
Chuuya watched helplessly as Fyodor removed his jacket and vest, unbuttoning his shirt beneath his holster before running a hand over his bare chest the way one might peruse a magazine rack. Chuuya’s empty eyes were utterly unreactive, unaware and permissive as Fyodor’s gaze and hands roved his body.
"What? What the hell? No. No! NO!!! YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" Chuuya thrashed in the restraints, rocking the table violently.
"Quiet now, you'll miss my favorite part."
Chuuya couldn't help looking at the screen. Here, Fyodor took a seat in a wide chair, making himself comfortable as though it were a throne. At the same time, he dragged Chuuya down to his knees in front of him and fixed a bondage gag on his head with a hollow center.
"I’m not generally the kinky type, but we can't have those pointy canines getting in the way, now can we?"
He pulled Chuuya’s head into his lap, parting his legs to draw Chuuya in closer. The chair was angled such that the camera wouldn’t get a complete, explicit view. But everything would be clear from their positions.
Chuuya watched, cringing, as video-Fyodor’s arm moved in motions that implied unzipped pants and self-pleasure, before grabbing Chuuya by the hair, and…
Chuuya didn’t realize how hard he was clenching his teeth until he heard a crack. But he didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, couldn’t look away. If he'd been himself– if he hadn't been– if he'd just– if it were any other circumstance he would have ripped Fyodor in half. Instead he could only watch and silently beg the universe to let the video be a fake. Maybe Fyodor had placed the chair that way because he wanted it to look like he was doing something he wasn’t.
Chuuya finally flinched, eyes snapping shut, when he heard Fyodor moan through the tinny speakers. His wrists strained against the straps, desperate to punch the screen, strangle Fyodor, even just to cover his ears– anything to make it stop.
“Oh? You don’t want to watch? You’ll miss all the fun, you know.”
“Son of a bitch,” Chuuya seethed.
The sounds became…wetter. He shuddered with rage, humiliation, trying not to picture his own spit-slick chin. Endless minutes passed as Chuuya waited for it to end. His chest was so tight he thought his skin might rip in half.
A tinny, choked-off moan indicated that Fyodor had finished.
Chuuya dared to peek at the video and he saw his gagged self yanked out of Fyodor’s crotch and flung at the camera. His reflexes had clearly been dulled by the mind-control, but he did catch himself and push up to a drowsy all-fours position. What he saw had him nauseated with rage.
"I suppose I should’ve told him to close his eyes.” Fyodor’s amused voice crackled over the speakers. Then he took Chuuya by the chin and removed the gag so he could dab Chuuya’s mouth clean with the loose fabric of his prison sleeve.
“What do you think, little bird? Would you like to give Dazai a kiss?”
He took a blank, white sticker—a label—and pressed it to Chuuya’s mouth, still smeared with lipstick.
“There, how sweet,” then he turned Chuuya’s face one way and another, appraising. “He's pretty and all, but I really don't see the appeal, Dazai… Perhaps if he weren't my mindless slave I would find him more entertaining? I’ll give him another chance later, unless, of course, you bring me the Book."
Fyodor clicked off the TV, cocking his head as he turned to Chuuya with a pleasant smile.
“Do you remember now?”
Chuuya was seething , arms and legs trembling in the restraints. Yes, he remembered. But he wasn’t entirely sure where the video began and his memory ended. It was blurry, patchy. Maybe he simply didn’t want to remember. But he knew one thing without a single doubt.
“ I’m going to fucking kill you. ”
“That BASTARD!” Kouyou seethed. The pen in her hand had snapped, and blue-black ink spilled over her fingers like blood.
She was the only one who made even a single sound.
Then, as if remembering herself, she took a handkerchief out of her sleeve and began dabbing the ink off her hands.
“Well then, Armed Detective Agency,” she started stiffly, jaw tight. “Consider yourselves hired. If you are able to return him home in one piece, money will be no object, and your reward will be lavish.”
“But,” Kunikida started, visibly pale. “But, shachou, is this…are we…”
“Right now, that man is not our enemy,” Fukuzawa began. “As it stands, multiple people in this room are alive exclusively because of him—the entire city of Yokohama is still standing due specifically to his self-sacrificing actions during both the Dragon Head incident and Shibusawa’s second assault on the city. Right now, he is an innocent person in grave danger. Both he and Kouyou-san are now our clients. This heinous misdeed will not go unpunished.” He turned to Kouyou then, who met him with a narrow gaze, “of that, Kouyou-san, you have my word.”
Dazai slipped away the moment he spotted an opportunity to do so quietly. He went to the roof to breathe fresh air, and to let his hands shake without resistance. It had been a long time since he last craved cocaine this badly.
The door to the roof swung open and shut again, and he immediately knew from the click of heels that it was Yosano.
Click. Click.
Her shoes scuffed softly as she paused, perhaps surprised to see him up here when she herself had hoped to be alone.
Click. Click. Click. Click.
She came up beside him, not too close, and leaned her elbows on the low, brick wall around the edge of the roof, mirroring his own posture.
“Well I don’t know about you,” she started, “but I could use a drink.”
“Or two.”
“Or ten?”
“Or ten,” he nodded.
“Damned if we do, damned if we don’t.”
“Isn’t that the understatement of the century,” Dazai deadpanned, chest painfully tight. “If we do nothing, he’ll take it out on Chuuya. If we bring a decoy Book to his dropbox, he’ll take it out on Chuuya. If we bring him the actual Book, we all suffer, including Chuuya.”
“I probably shouldn’t be surprised that he’s a rapist,” she sighed, massaging her temples. “And yet I am, anyway.”
“I don’t think he is,” Dazai said, a little too quickly. “I mean, not habitually. He’s reading between the lines of something I haven’t quite made out yet, something that makes him think this will work, uniquely, more than anything else. He’s not historically the type to get his hands dirty, or, any other part of him.”
He felt Yosano’s pensive eyes on him.
“Why him, though?”
“Why Chuuya, you mean?”
“Surely anyone else would have been an easier prisoner. Sigma, or Poe even.”
“So why him…” Dazai murmured, and it wasn’t a question.
After an uncomfortable silence, Yosano continued. “I don’t know what history you have with Nakahara-san, and I don’t intend to pry. But please don’t waste your life, Dazai. Or his.”
He wondered, not for the first time, if his was a life worth enough to be considered ‘wasted’.
“I screwed him over for fun, for the most part…” Dazai mused. It wasn’t enough of an omission to be a half-truth, but it wasn’t enough of a confession to be the full truth. “And I fear Fyodor knows why.”