Chapter Text
I - quiet
He was getting desperate.
Though, he had always been desperate.
Hadn’t he?
Yes, and no.
He was more often than not, filled with sickening desperation. An indelible yearning that danced on the tip of his tongue, nestled deep within the darkest crevices of his painfully ingenious mind.
He met Chuuya, and the infallible vagaries that accompanied such a meeting took their toll in a manner one could maybe call lovingly.
Attempts grew passive in frequency and intensity.
The stringent need to die softened, lightened, lessened.
Everything lessened.
A will to live would be a far and inaccurate categorization of this newfound shift, but his energy was limited and put simply, interest took precedence to existential dread.
The curiosity high lasted longer than anticipated, a fact he attributed to Chuuya’s penchant for annoyance more than anything else.
The dictum of common knowledge claimed Dazai’s predictions disgustingly accurate, leaving him infrequently surprised. Meeting Chuuya, a teenage vessel for a literal God, was an unanticipated phenomenon.
A surprise.
At the young age of 15, Chuuya was the most human person Dazai had ever encountered. Certainly more human than himself. Though odd, inexplicable comfort lingered in the back of his mind at the mere thought of someone who doubted their own humanity to that of Dazai’s extent. That said, even this comfort came with the invective reminder that their respective self-doubt originated from very different places. Chuuya’s being his stolen childhood and Dazai’s being an inescapable, vindictive emptiness.
Dazai had no concept of morality, only mortality.
With his general being the way it was, internal isolation was unavoidable. The ever-constant, persistently present reminder that he was, at his very most, inhuman. The Demon Prodigy fulfilled a self-fulfilling prophecy, swimming neck-deep in his disqualification from humanity.
Each ability has one soul, and any soul that is capable of hosting an ability can have a single ability. The only exceptions being those like Chuuya, whose abilities were partially tied to an artificial component, and those who were gifted an ability from someone else.
Dazai figured this out at a fairly young age, acutely aware of how numb his soul must be to possess the one ability that cancels all others. The one ability that rips away a piece of someone’s soul for the briefest of moments. The ability that, by all means, is a constant contradiction.
It was no wonder No Longer Human chose him.
His dog kept him entertained for a year or so. Mori was pleased to see the decrease in attempts, though they still happened.
Then, he met him.
The most intriguing person the mafia had to offer. The complete antithesis of Chuuya, Odasaku emanated calm. He was quiet incarnate. Where Chuuya yelled and stomped, Odasaku pondered and observed.
From the very moment they met, Dazai knew this person would be his favorite favorite. A catalyst for an unknown. Just their initial meeting, the weeks he spent under the man’s care, that time alone gave him a reason to stick around. The father figure Mori could never be, the older brother he hadn’t deserved, and the closest friend he never knew he wanted, Oda was special.
Oda wanted him to live, making it apparent in every single conversation, even when the sentiment was left unsaid.
But even the most special people can’t protect us from the demons that lurk within the hellish depths of our own minds. Dazai learned this the hard way.
Despite his trio with Oda and Ango, the delectable bickering with Chuuya, and all the power he could ask for, it wasn’t enough. There was a hole inside him. An infinite, abysmal black hole, sucking the life out of him and the fearless ones who dared come near.
Though fearlessness lived in tired confusion, a fact with which Dazai was well-acquainted. A fact derived from direct correlation to the mafia.
A fact that whittled away at his self-esteem.
The hole grew, consuming anything and everything in its path, eating away at the boy until he wondered if there was anything left.
The changes were subtle.
So subtle, one might write them off as trivial.
Until subtlety became stark. An obvious.
It began with the look in his eyes, as if the flickering light bulbs that had recently occupied the space had finally gone out.
His behavior grew impulsive, even more than it already was, a feat in itself. Constantly throwing himself into the line of fire and actively attempting to off himself during missions. Chuuya had panicked more than once as he witnessed Dazai eyeing the water from their spot on a bridge, only to jump in the split second Chuuya blinked. He jumped off balconies, slit his wrists with broken window panes from their battles, and swallowed an incomprehensible number of pills directly before Mori would send them off on new assignments.
Mori despised this new behavior.
He needed a placid Dazai, a pliable one that would do as he asked, as he commanded.
A Dazai that felt threatened and scared.
A Dazai he, at one point, crafted carefully through delicate torture.
After all, he was only a man and how could one such as him ignore the appeal of an effeminate, youthful face?
His urges, his need to control and mold and maim the young executive: they emerged, unrestrained.
Dazai was getting desperate.
He didn’t just want to die, he needed it.
Every attempt was failed or foiled and desperation bared its fangs.
Though he had laxed his rule of a painless suicide, he had no intentions of an actively painful one. A moderate mix was acceptable, but even the idea of botching something like shooting himself in the head sent him into a spiral of dread. No, he could allow for some pain, but only if the success rate out-weighed the backfire of failure.
The desperation gnawed and clawed and ate away at him, tearing the skin on his arms, bruising his knuckles, and emptying his stomach.
Mori refused to let him die. Even his shipping container had been placed under surveillance.
He could not escape.
His privacy violated, any entity remotely resembling a will to live diminished, and violent desperation all on his side, he had no choice but to take the long way out.
Slow burn wasn’t Dazai’s specialty, but the perfectionist of a prodigy knew there wasn’t room to disappoint. Besides, the game he was playing was one at which he was too good. It was easy to hide the emotional effects, even easier to hide the behaviors. Everyone knew Dazai would do whatever Dazai wanted, no one would dare challenge a behavior they considered bizarre.
No one with a brain, that is.
“Why didn’t you come to lunch yesterday? Mori’s gonna chew you out, ya idiot,” Chuuya yelled, launching his attack.
They were on the battlefield.
“Since when does Chibi care about me getting in trouble? Loyal dogs are so annoying~”
Dazai shot back, an instant K.O.
He was winning, as he always did with these games.
“You’re such a jackass—I don’t care about you getting in trouble, I just don’t want to deal with your whiny ass moping around for a week the way you always do when he scolds you.”
Dazai scoffed, considering a rematch.
He always won, though whether or not he cheated was up for debate.
In his book a win was a win, no matter the methods.
“You’re bad at this game.”
It was something he learned even before joining the mafia, a lifestyle that always kept him on top.
“You shitty mackerel!” Chuuya yelled, slamming his fists on the neon-colored console, “How the hell did you even do that!??”
Dazai laughed, “What can I say, there’s a reason I’m the brains of our team, you know?”
Chuuya grimaced and as their previous conversation was abandoned, Dazai knew he won yet another game.
The physical distress was harder to hide.
Dazai’s jabs were flat and lacked the edge that typically sliced his proverbial victims to flailing pieces.
The exhaustion that clung to him like a well-tailored jacket wove its tendrils tightly, pressing against his chest to the point of intolerable.
His skin was dry and face a deathly ash gray.
“Dazai-kun,” the sucrose that only Mori could produce enveloped his name, “When was the last time I gave you a check-up?”
He was frozen, and this was bad.
“Recently.”
He was frozen, and this was very, very bad.
“Hmm. Not recently enough, as it looks like you’ve fallen ill,” crimson eyes bore into him like an x-ray, scanning aggressively and tearing through all physical barriers the copious layers of bandages and clothing allotted.
“I feel fine Mori-san,” Dazai hummed, “just can’t sleep.”
The older Mafioso pondered. He couldn’t read all of Dazai, but certain tells had become clear to him, such as the trill of truth. Mori couldn’t detect every lie, but he almost always knew when Dazai had poured an ounce of truth into his sentences.
When Dazai discovered this, he began peppering his lies with truths and his truths with lies.
Yet, exhaustion sunk its teeth in Dazai’s neck, betraying his purporting nature.
(Un)lucky for him, his insomnia was no lie.
“Well then, we can’t have you falling asleep on the job, can we?” Mori joked, a terse grin gracing his pink lips.
“No, I suppose not.” His responses were mechanical, rolling off the tip of his tongue by muscle memory alone.
“Perhaps we should try another mood stabilizer?” Mori cooed. Dazai’s head whipped up in an instant.
“No.” His voice was firm, the most awake it had been their entire conversation.
“Why not, Dazai-kun?” There was a pause as Dazai chose not to answer. “They worked wonders just a few months ago.”
Wonders. So that’s what complete lack of bodily autonomy was considered these days.
He wasn’t anti-medication, just anti-Mori.
“Would you prefer an anti-psychotic?”
No. No. No. No. No. No.
“Mori-san, I want sleeping pills.”
Dazai opted for directness. Mori laughed, a humorless echo on maniacal lips.
“Dazai-kun! You do crack me up these days,” sighing, he cleared his throat and continued, “glad to know you still have a sense of humor.”
Mori’s tone darkened violently, “we both know I would never allow that. No, no I think we should try an anti-psychotic this time around.”
Red eyes looked him up and down.
“Even the negative side effects might do you some good.”
The euphoria surprised him.
To be empty all day every day, despite the expectation of misery, there were often pockets of pure pleasure.
Dazai rejected Mori’s drugs, instead basking in his own newfound high.
The high that came with adrenaline and renewed confidence.
The high that made him feel invincible, funny, and well-liked.
The high he never expected to experience, but refused to let go.
The high that was accompanied by treacherous lows.
“Someone’s in a good mood?” Odasaku remarked as Dazai sipped his whisky, chattering about Soukoku’s latest victory.
“It was the most fun I’ve had in months, you should have seen their warped faces in the flames!!” He laughed, smiling a smile that for once appeared genuine.
“Sounds thrilling,” Ango commented, less enthusiastic.
Dazai downed his drink, swaying slightly in his seat.
“O—da—sa—kuuuuuu?” Dazai asked, drawing out each syllable of his companion’s name.
“Yes Dazai?” Oda asked, straight-faced as ever.
“Can we play that fun game again tonight!?” Ango gave Oda a pointed stare, concerned by anything Dazai considered a “fun game”.
“Sure, why not?” Oda responded, oblivious to Ango’s glare.
“What game?” The other man asked.
“It’s this really really fun game that I can only play with Odasaku!!!” Dazai chimed, giggling with mania.
“You seem… excited,” Ango noted, giving Odasaku yet another look. This time, Oda noticed.
“Because I can win most games by using my ability to look into the future, we started playing a game where, if I’m using my ability during whatever we’re playing, Dazai can use any method he wants to cheat too.”
“Uh… any method?” Ango’s eyes narrowed, a portrait of concern painted upon his features.
“What are you so nervous about Ango-chan!?”
Ango twitched at the honorific.
“I only play this game with Odasaku and you know I’d never do anything too awful to him! Though we got into an argument because I think dying in the middle of a game automatically makes you the winner, so I said suicide is a valid form of cheating but Odasaku was so meeeeeean to me and disagreed!!”
“It’s not mean, logically I don’t think death should contribute to someone’s win or loss in a board game,” Oda defended himself. Ango grimaced, then looked closely at Dazai.
For as bubbly and enthusiastic the boy was, something seemed different. His motions were upbeat and lively, but jerky and unnatural. Though he was always svelte, it looked as though he was practically swimming in his trench coat. Bandaged hands shook as he fiddled with his empty cup and dark eyes were wide with frenzy.
“Hey, Dazai, are you drunk? You’ve barely had two drinks.” Ango asked, genuinely curious to hear the boy’s reply. Dazai tilted his head to the side, smiled, and laughed off the question.
“Ango’s funny tonight!”
“Answer the question Dazai,” Ango hissed, irate. Dazai hummed and said nothing, kicking his feet back and forth under his barstool.
“Ango has a good point, you’ve never had trouble holding your liquor. Are you hungry? We should get dinner,” Oda added. For a millisecond, Dazai’s carefully controlled facial features slipped. The combination of horror, confusion, anger, and an unidentifiable emotion quickly dissipated, but did not go unnoticed.
“Oh, no thank you Odasaku! I already had lots of crab. I think it’s the new medication Mori is forcing me to take,” Dazai thought to himself before continuing, “come to think of it, I distinctly remember reading and ignoring the warning about drinking alcohol while taking it…”
Ango shook his head and Oda’s brow furrowed.
“What medication does Mori have you on? You need to be careful with that,” Oda prompted.
“Careful!? That’s so funny!!” Dazai smiled a massive grin, “I don’t need to be careful when I just want to fucking die all! The! Time!”
“Dazai…I think you should call it a night,” Ango suggested, eyes kind and voice one of concern.
The boy’s face fell instantly.
“Oh. Okay.”
The atmosphere shifted as a strange, mournful tension filled the space.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to bother you guys.”
Though Dazai had apologized to Odasaku in the past for all sorts of things, Ango rarely received apologies of any sort from the executive and the act of receiving one threw him off entirely.
“You’re not bothering us,” Ango reassured, “we’re just concerned.”
Dazai looked up, blinking his wide doe-eye with the appearance of a small child.
“Ango’s… concerned about…me?”
It felt wrong, hearing Dazai so…
Lost.
Ango nodded and continued, “Yeah, I am. You’re acting… well weirder than normal. Have you been sleeping ok?”
“Or at all?” Odasaku added, fairly certain of Dazai’s response even without the use of his ability. Dazai blinked again.
“Oh. No. I don’t do that anymore.”
“Don’t do what?” Ango prodded.
“Sleep! I stopped a few weeks ago. Along with some other things,” the new grin that arrived on Dazai’s mouth was doll-like, fake and hollow.
“What do you mean ‘along with some other things’?” Oda asked, growing increasingly nervous.
“Odasaku, can we go and play the game like you said we would? I’m bored.”
As high as his highs were, the low of his lows rivaled.
He sat in the bathroom, lights off, shaking, shivering, afraid of the hole burning inside his chest. He clawed at the bandages wrapped around his arms and screamed without making a single sound.
Shipping containers don’t have bathrooms, so he was “borrowing” Chuuya’s while the Mafioso was out.
“Borrowing” meaning sneaking in through the window without permission.
The bathroom was full of all sorts of fun toys Dazai wasn’t allowed to own under Mori’s supervision. Pills and scissors, razors and cleaning chemicals, a bathtub. The shipping container may have been a home by Dazai’s own design, but Mori’s recent surveillance since his executive promotion made it increasingly difficult to own any of the toys at Chuuya’s disposal.
The game of Dazai’s freedom was akin to cat-and-mouse with Mori, always a chase in the least thrilling of ways.
His fingers itched with the need to distract. To hide from the wallowing and self-pity and disdain that coursed through his veins. Dazai went for the medicine cabinet but quickly stopped at the sight of his reflection.
In that brief moment, he realized just how long it had been since he last looked at himself in the mirror.
Even in the darkness, he could see his hair, unruly, slightly more on the brittle side. Single open eye was red and dull. His cheekbones and jawline were jutting out, sharp enough to kill. He was hollow, and that alone stirred some new sensation.
Joy.
Pure, unadulterated joy.
He grew curious.
And being the burnt black cat he was, he couldn’t resist that addictive call.
Article by article, he stripped.
When showering or changing over the past few weeks, he kept his eyes shut tight, unwilling to look longer than a few seconds.
Now, he needed to see.
Five minutes later, pale skin was painted red, unshed tears became dried with self-hatred, and all that joy he had experienced was replaced with sinful regret.
He hated it.
Loathed it.
Disgusting and gross and humiliated, Dazai looked around at the shards of a now-broken mirror that accompanied him on the ground. Each piece of his reflection mocked him from below.
Shattered, inside and out.
Dazai had planned to be at Chuuya’s for a short period of time, just long enough to shower and make a little mess. He never expected this outburst, or for Chuuya to end up in the middle of it.
“Dazai, what the actual fuck?” Chuuya barked as he burst through the bathroom door. Seeing the window left wide open, clearly on purpose, Chuuya knew what he was in for. As one of the mafia’s most valuable executives, Dazai could have anything he wanted, including his own penthouse suite—but of course he chose to remain in his shipping container for reasons unknown.
The shaking, barely clothed, bloody boy looked up at Chuuya, lost and so clearly not in his own body.
“Kill me Chuuya, please?” He asked, a plea so gentle and hurt that Chuuya almost wanted to oblige, if only to help the small child in front of him be free from pain.
“What happened?” Chuuya pressed on, taking time to assess the situation in its entirety.
Dazai had always been thin, but Chuuya hadn’t realized just how sickly he looked. Hidden by layer upon layer, covered in bandages, and engaging in every bad habit under the sun, Chuuya had never thought twice about his partner’s health. The emaciated frame was covered in scarlet bandages, full of new and reopened scars.
“I want to die. I need to die, Chuuya please I need to die, I can’t take it. Please, kill me. Kill me, Chuuya.”
Dazai pleaded with more vigor than before. Chuuya breathed heavily and forced the irritation out of his tone.
“Either let me patch you up, or I’m taking you to Mori. Your call.” Dazai’s eyes flew wide at the mention of Mori’s name. A concerning reaction.
“No! No. No no no no. No—” Dazai repeated his mantra until Chuuya stepped in, reaching for his first-aid kit under the bathroom sink.
“Okay! Okay, I’ll patch you up. But you’re paying for my fucking property damage.”
Truth be told, Chuuya wasn’t concerned by the broken mirror, he had more than enough money to buy a new one. Still, he was pissed and needed to maintain a semblance of normalcy if he had any chance of calming his partner down from his feckless state.
Despite best efforts and intentions, Chuuya’s patience wore thin.
He attempted to clean the boy’s undeniably self-induced injuries, but was met with an onslaught of screams and kicks with a strength one so sick shouldn’t possess.
Chuuya tried again and again to de-escalate, but was only met with revile.
“Dazai—”
A shriek sounded as the boy fell into hysterics.
The battle was interrupted by the sharp sound of flesh hitting flesh.
Instant regret crawled in the crimson of Chuuya’s face. The panic that previously swam in his chest transformed as guilt and genuine remorse infiltrated.
Dazai clamped shut, not even reacting to the pain that bloomed on his soon-to-bruise cheek. He went limp.
“Shit, Dazai I’m sorry I didn’t mean to… I shouldn’t have…” Chuuya searched for the right words to apologize, but a dictionary of “I’m sorry”s seemed insufficient. Dazai couldn’t hear him anyways, he was far, far away.
“You fucking cheated like you always do,” Chuuya snapped after losing to Dazai for the fifth time in a row.
Dazai shrugged, yawning.
“Fighting you’s so boring! I’d rather electrocute myself in the bathtub with a microwave.”
“Hey! It was your idea to come to this place in the first—”
“Chibi, can I borrow your bathtub?” Dazai interrupted, looking not excited, but something similar.
“Fuck no, you suicidal maniac!” Chuuya rolled his eyes, “After your last stint in my bathroom? No way in hell am I letting you in there unsupervised.”
“Slug is so boring. Unless slug is volunteering to chaperone? What a fun game that would be~”
There it was again—the dull ache that couldn’t be covered up by even his most prodigious masks. It sucked the bite out of his jest and made all his comments seem desolate.
“Hey, Extra-Shit-That-Comes-with-Bandages,” Chuuya called, “what’s up with you? Are you high right now?” Chuuya’s tone was skeptical as Dazai flashed his famously fake smile.
“I wish~” he replied wistfully, “but Mori—”
He stopped suddenly, mouth still open, eyes staring off into a place Chuuya could never see.
“But Mori what?” The redhead asked, inhibitions crushed by curiosity. Dazai closed his mouth and averted his gaze instantly. He smiled and chuckled with an empty air.
“Chuuya, I’m tired.”
Chuuya moved to reply with a snarky remark, but stopped upon locking eyes. The gaze was startling and Chuuya couldn’t help but be taken aback.
His eyes reeked of decay and exhaustion. Dazai himself looked like the personification of death, the harsh glare of the incandescent arcade lights only perpetuating the aesthetic, if one could call it that. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes and Chuuya could have sworn his face seemed even more narrow than before.
“I—” Chuuya began, but was cut off once more.
“I’m leaving,” Dazai said blankly, turning towards the door, standing slowly.
Something was wrong. Or more wrong than usual considering nothing was ever right with the executive.
“Let’s get lunch—” the invitation tumbled out of Chuuya’s mouth before he could think it through. Dazai paused and sighed.
“Unless it’s bleach, I’m not interested,” he thought for another second before continuing, “Chuuya, do you have any bleach in your apartment? I guess I could just go looking myself…”
“You asshole! Even if I did I would keep it far away from your shitty face!”
“Hmm,” Dazai hummed.
“Look… I’ll… I’ll pay,” Chuuya muttered, still regretting the offer but unable to stop himself.
“No thanks,” Dazai replied with nonchalance, strolling out the door. Perhaps out of genuine concern or residual guilt from the bathroom incident, Chuuya felt himself chasing after.
“What about a drink then?” Chuuya asked with a cemented scowl. Dazai stopped and turned, mildly entertained in a way Chuuya couldn’t help but find pleasantly surprising.
“Chuuya is that desperate to spend time with me?” Dazai questioned in a devilish tone.
“No—ah—” Chuuya stuttered, quickly recovering, “I’m just not interested in fishing your ugly-ass body out of a lake tonight.” His tone was stand-offish and though Dazai knew it was a lie, he didn’t care enough to pick it apart.
“You’re paying~” is all he said, before pivoting and walking in a different direction.
“Fuck you,” Chuuya muttered under his breath, following in spite of his reluctance.
He waited for a retort that never came.