Chapter Text
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??? months from now;
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As though a countdown to doomsday, there’s a slow tick-tock of leather heels against dark stone floors—tempered down by time and blanketed against the winter’s chills with a carpet of blood and entrails. It’s a slow meandering walk all the way from the grand hall’s entrance, the sound echoing easily inside the large cavernous dome that serves as a throne room.
…Or what used to be a throne room, at least.
“So this is your grand coronation?” The question is poised with a certain sort of affected disinterest, in order to radiate an impression that the person asking doesn’t really care for the answer. So unlike the usual configuration of the voice—which is either poisonous apathy and syrupy flirtatiousness and absolutely nothing in-between.
The recipient of the question sits on the cold throne embalmed with the ambitions and greed of the people who’ve held on to the throne to all means possible. It’s a throne embellished in gold and encrusted with diamonds, flavored well with splashed blood and various other fluids. Seemingly without care for the health hazard of the environment, the throne’s occupant merely raises an eyebrow at the other’s seemingly aimless approach. With a dose of apathy that doesn’t lose out to the other, he replies with a light shrug, “I guess.”
Dazai Osamu’s lips twitch as he stares pointedly at the surroundings. The grand throne room is mostly empty aside from the lavish throne and the imposing statues behind it. There’s a huge glass window to his right, moonlight streaming inside in a crimson-tinged halo, as the glass has been elevated to a ‘stained-glass’, reds and pinks in wild designs over it.
“Surrounded by all these corpses?”
“Those don’t matter with this crown on my head.”
Nakahara Chuuya shrugs again, the action not enough to jostle the gold crown practically acting as a discoball with how many gems are in it. It’s a crown that’s more symbolic than practical.
…Dazai thinks that the crown fits Chuuya’s head better than those tacky hats, not that he’d ever say it aloud.
Instead of saying something like how the sapphires on the crown fail in comparison to the twin gems on Chuuya’s face, Dazai twists his mouth and says, “You’d be the shittiest king ever.”
Chuuya’s gaze is narrowed as he observes Dazai with suspicion. “You’re already failing your right-hand duties.”
The suspicion is well-deserved. Dazai approaches with the grace of a panther ready to tear out an opponent’s throat. It’s been a long couple of months and he’s long been looking for a chance to finally kill Chuuya once and for all. His dreams have long bled into his waking moments, various imaginations about how Chuuya would look with his throat torn out with his own teeth, the arterial spray sure to paint an alluring red over the other’s fiery visage.
It’s a thought that makes him lick his lips in hunger.
The fact that Chuuya is aware about his desire to kill him—and doesn’t make it a secret that he plans to tear Dazai’s body with a truly staggering amount of violence—only makes things more interesting.
…And because it always invites a sour expression on Chuuya’s face whenever he alludes to their lovers charade before:
“I thought I was going to be your Queen?”
As expected, Chuuya’s expression looks ugly. Dazai congratulates himself for yet another success.
With an utterly flat tone, Chuuya says, “…I did not think you’d have the balls to say that out loud.”
“Becoming a Queen without having to lift a finger…” Dazai sighs as he twirls in place, a dozen steps away from Chuuya. If he stretches his foot and ends up kicking one dislocated head towards the throne in an effort to splash blood on Chuuya’s own feet… well, it’s just a happy accident. “It’s not so bad, eh?”
A beat of silence.
The flatness becomes even flatter. “That would entail us getting married.”
Dazai narrows his eyes as his twirl slows down to a stop—so that he’s back to facing Chuuya head-on. Because of the way the throne is elevated, Dazai has to actually look up to meet Chuuya’s eyes. How utterly distasteful.
“And you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Chuuya laughs, the sound reverberating throughout the ancient stone that makes up the castle—Camelot’s stronghold—and rattles all across Dazai’s bones. There’s no mirth in the sound, only the hollowness that comes with a victory that’s all been guaranteed beforehand.
With an arched eyebrow and a pointed stare, Chuuya slowly shifts so that his legs are spread rather enticingly on the throne, slouching a bit to make it seem like he’s relaxed—relaxed, because he doesn’t think that Dazai is a worthy opponent that needs 100% of his vigilance.
…It makes Dazai’s hackles rise, but he keeps his face devoid of any expression.
“Aren’t you projecting your feelings to me?” Chuuya continues, a drawl that’s way too similar to how Dazai used to tease him with—before. “After all, you’re the one who’s been stalking me all over the Continent over the past few months, aren’t you? Isn’t that pretty much your declaration of love for me?”
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June 2019, one month from now;
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Dazai Osamu sits like untouched stone on the rooftop of a five-story bookstore. Of course, given that this area is being redeveloped into a playground for the wealthy and the immoral, this building has already been covered in yellow lines of ‘DO NOT ENTER’ and various notices of demolishment in order to make way for a ritzy casino to be rebuilt from its ashes.
For now, at eleven in the evening, he’s accompanied by the small scattering of snow and the tiniest wink of moonlight, while the streets five floors below are occupied by tourists and locals alike, with varying alcohol content inside their bodies and inside their purses. The people inside the popular club directly across the closed-down bookstore are all busy with gyrating hips and sweat-slick bodies and the haze of intoxication. Nobody pays attention to the guy who’s been observing the entire place for the past three hours from beyond the scope of a rifle.
Of course, it’s not like Dazai is interested in just anyone.
For the past three hours, he’s only been on the lookout for one figure, without paying attention to the fact that there’s already a blanket of snow over his coat and his hair, and the fact that his shoes are already rooted to the ground with mini-igloos on top of them. He hasn’t so much as twitched and if not for the fact that his chest rises and falls in intervals, he’d have appeared as a statue to anyone who actually pays attention.
“…Wearing such a tacky hat and such a loud color combination, really?” Dazai mutters as he shifts ever so slightly to adjust his scope to match the other’s movements. “Is he afraid he’d get swept away by the crowd if he doesn’t manage to find a way to stand out? Pfft, then again, is that being smart of him? He’s too small to be seen without a microscope, so he’s all about donning such an ugly outfit? How embarrassing… has he always been like this? Have I done him a great favor over the past year by getting him to dress up for me? Tsk… I should have strangled him with a scarf or suffocated him with a stupid fedora before…”
Dazai continues to mutter a series of very deserved complaints about another person’s fashion sense—or lack thereof.
After five minutes of this, there’s a cough from the other end of the open communication line.
The light static isn’t enough to mask the laughing disbelief from Nikolai Gogol when he says, “…Dazai-kun, I only asked about the status of your mission.”
“As agreed before, I’ll finish it by 0030,” Dazai responds flatly before unilaterally closing down the line.
Before, Fyodor’s never used to keep tabs on his actions this overtly. Now, he’s assigned his favorite assistant to irritate Dazai every so often when it comes to missions. Really, Dazai shouldn’t have agreed to return to Russia. Being in the same country as these people never bodes well for him.
…But then…
It’s not like there aren’t any advantages to his return to this country.
Dazai’s mission this time is to assassinate the prodigal son of one of the lower mafiya groups that are competing with them. There’s an oddly staggering number of places he could have arranged the assassination in, as the target is a very busy man who has amassed power and loyalty by being in touch with the common grunts.
It just so happens that Dazai feels like hanging out on a rooftop of a snowy June night.
It just so happens that Dazai has sniffed out some as-of-then unverified information about a certain someone’s appearance in Russia. Camelot’s influence is far and wide, but it doesn’t have a strong foothold in Russia.
It just so happens that this is the club is the one nearest to the hotel that a certain cockroach is staying at.
It’s only keeping track of an enemy. It’s only so that he can be one step ahead. It’s only so that he can be one step closer.
The moment that he’s seen that red hair and blue eyes enter his rifle scope—
Well.
All operatives working for Fyodor have chips that monitor their vitals.
Let’s just say that there’s been an abnormality detected in Dazai and that had prompted Gogol to contact him before the agreed-upon time.
Gogol claimed that his breathing had suddenly stopped, his heartbeat had suddenly nearly-doubled and his body temperature had suddenly spiked.
Dazai dismissed all those as a buggy malfunction.
The moment that he’s seen that red hair and blue eyes enter his rifle scope—
All Dazai could think is that—
“And yet you love me.”
—Chuuya had said it with so much conviction and confidence. Such a tiny body that had blushed and moaned for him so prettily. Such a person who had looked at him with stars in his eyes. Such a person who said his name with his heart in his throat. And then he ended up being the world mafia’s most powerful creature, who actually had the gall to think that Dazai was really in love with him.
Dazai clenches his fist.
Really.
It’s been a month since he’s last seen Chuuya.
It’s been a month since he’s last seen Chuuya outside of the reports that he’s poured over, outside of the plans that he’s been baking inside his head.
It’s a relief to finally see him again.
A slow smile spreads on his face, as Dazai continues to follow Chuuya’s movements.
“I can’t wait to finally kill you, Chuuya.”
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May 2019, now;
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“Such a gloomy country,” Chuuya murmurs as soon as he steps into the cold Russian land.
The yacht that he’s… borrowed from the Port Mafia docks is now tied to a local dock under Mori Ougai’s name. Aside from making trouble for the Port Mafia, it has the added bonus of attracting attention.
Of course, he has a number of things that he has to do and there’s no point in dragging a spotlight over his head. But all that time sailing alone with only his thoughts and the stars above for company… he’s had a lot of time to think about things.
With only himself, the clothes on his person and a wallet, Chuuya sets off for his first stop.
With his charm, it’d be easy to get himself a place to stay; with his strength, it’d be easy to beat up some gang members and get their money.
With his instinct for bloodlust, it’d be easy to track down a certain person.
It doesn’t take long.
He picks a bar that looks like it doesn’t follow any government regulations for hygiene, liquor distribution or anti-drug trafficking laws. It also doesn’t look like it cares about the consequences of going blatantly against the law. In short: it’s perfect.
Chuuya sits on a wobbly barstool and orders a mug of mint kvass and gets scornfully laughed at by the bartender. Instead of the drink that has too little alcohol content that it’s considered non-alcoholic, Chuuya instead gets served with two shot glasses of dark red liquid so gooey it looks like fermented intestines.
He doesn’t make a move to touch it.
The bar slowly fills up with various people. Most of them are burly men practically bursting out of their clothes with muscles and poorly-hidden weapons.
Chuuya continues to not make a move to touch the shot glasses. He doesn’t have a phone so he can’t busy himself with playing a couple of mobile games. So instead, he closes his eyes and leans his full weight against the arms that he’s folded over the bar countertop. His ears pick out the muffled conversations in gruff Russian, along with the steady tick-tock of bullets and the steady swishes of cloth over guns and daggers. His nose scent out the bloodlust and the sweat from the adrenaline filling up the bar to the brim.
Nearly fifteen minutes later, there’s a palpable change in the air.
Chuuya grins.
Nearly noiseless in his approach, a person occupies the bar stool beside Chuuya’s.
Chuuya opens his eyes and side-glances at the Pakhan of the Russian Mafiya, the leader of the House of the Dead, Fyodor Dostoevsky.
Dostoevsky, for his part, doesn’t bother hiding his blatant staring.
“Welcome to Russia, Nakahara Chuuya.” His voice is dull and completely without a hint of welcome. “This might sound a bit rude, but would you mind leaving the country immediately?”
A raised eyebrow. “That is certainly more than just a ‘bit rude’, isn’t it?”
“It is a ‘bit’ rude.” Dostoevsky smiles blandly. “Being completely rude is to send you off in a body bag without letting you taste this bar’s specialty.”
Chuuya’s eyebrow raises even more. “Fermented intestines?”
“It’s blood.”
“I heard you’re anemic,” Chuuya says offhandedly. As though it isn’t top-class information that’s not supposed to be privy to just anyone. As a matter of fact, it’s unlikely that even Dostoevsky’s heir or assistant know of it. “Maybe you should drink my share too.”
Dostoevsky’s smile grows teeth. “If you could give me the Book’s whereabouts, I can consider giving you a leeway.”
“Pfft. You don’t need to ‘give’ me anything.” Chuuya unfolds his arms and the muscled men in the bar all tense up. “I can just take it.”
“Is that how you plan to deal with my dear heir?”
“…Urgh. Goosebumps. That shitty bastard isn’t ‘dear’ anything.”
“And yet you long for him so,” Dostoevsky deadpans. “To the point that you’re willing to get the ire of the entire world focused on your back.”
“Hold up. There’s a huge misunderstanding here.” Chuuya raises a hand and tilts in his seat so that he’s face-to-face with Dostoevsky who’s been facing him the entire time. “My plans are mine alone, they have nothing to do with that asshole!”
“Is that why you’re here, in a country far away from anything that has to do with Camelot’s major affairs?”
Chuuya’s nose twitches. “Why the fuck would I explain my methods to you?”
“Careful there,” Dostoevsky’s facial expression copies something close to consideration. It looks fake and odd on his face. “Your hatred for me is becoming obvious.”
A dubious tone, “It’s not obvious before?”
Dostoevsky chuckles, before moving to grab a shot glass. His fingers brush by Chuuya’s gloved hand, in a teasing warning. “If you plan to stay in this country, you might want to attend in a birthday party one month from now.”
Quietly, “…June 19th?”
“Dazai-kun will be reborn.” At this point, Dostoevsky’s smile can’t even be called a smile in good conscience. It’s more akin to a shark with a bloody corpse in-between his jaws. “I’m sure that you’d love to see it.”
Still quietly, “Yet another memory brainwashing on him?”
“Brainwashing makes me sound quite evil,” Dostoevsky says slowly. “I’d prefer to use the term ‘destroying his feelings for you so he can be a useful heir’.”
Chuuya laughs, before grabbing the remaining shot glass and making a move to bash it against Dostoevsky’s eyes.
Of course, killing Fyodor Dostoevsky isn’t something that can be done this easily.
The bartender leaps from the other side of the bar and smoothly picks Dostoevsky up and carries him a short distance away, all done in a span of a few seconds.
Chuuya ends up exchanging places with him, as he jumps towards the other end of the wooden bar after his failed attempt at Dostoevsky’s life. With a considering glance, Chuuya greets the bartender, “So you’re the rumored assistant, The Clown, Nikolai Gogol.”
“Whoa, I’m popular, huh~” The scornful tone from earlier fades away to give way to an almost giddy voice. It’s very disconcerting to hear a voice like that and to see a childish grin like that on the face of the serious bartender. A disguise, huh? “Dos-kun, we’re becoming popular!”
Dostoevsky’s expression doesn’t change, even when he’s currently in a princess-carry in front of his subordinates and his opponent. Still with the same shark-like bloodlust, he says, “Nakahara Chuuya. If you insist on not tasting the drink that Kolya here made for you, I’m afraid your only other chance to do so would be when you’re licking your wounds.” A short pause, before, “That is, if you’re still alive.”
“You should learn a little bit of humility, Demon.” Chuuya scoffs as he changes his stance to something that provokes his enemies to come at him. He even cocks his head and wags a finger for the entire bar to attack him altogether. “Mark my words – I’ll get that shitty Dazai away from you.”
Nikolai Gogol laughs in delight. “Oh. Dos-kun, Dos-kun! Is this how people from the Continent show their hate?”
Chuuya rolls his eyes. “After all the trouble I got, I’ll be the one to kill that bastard slowly using my own hands. That’s all.”
Dostoevsky doesn’t leave without saying the final word. “We’ll see if you can continue providing me with entertainment, Prince of Camelot.”
“Oh, just fuck off already and leave me to wipe the floor with your lackeys!”
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June 2019, one month from now;
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Inside a hotel room, there’s a man sleeping quite soundly while wrapped up in three sets of blankets. There’s a cheap fever-patch pasted over a clammy forehead. By the bedside table, there are six bottles of energy drinks; five of them are completely empty while another’s contents is poured out haphazardly over the carpet. There are bandages wrapped around the feverish man, the sweat making him look very disheveled. The rest of his clothes are by the foot of the bed, removed without a care for creases or wrinkles. His clothes are cold and soaked by melted snow.
Inside a hotel room, there’s another man who slinks inside said room from the ventilation vents. He lands on the carpeted floor without a sound. He immediately makes an expression full of disgust when he sees the status of the room’s occupant. On the exposed skin of the second man’s wrist, there’s a faint impression of the fluorescent tag for the club that he’s been in for the past couple of hours. It’s the most popular club in the area and the sea of people would make it difficult for the patrons to discover the fact that there’s a corpse occupying one of the bathroom stalls. The corpse belongs to the heir to the only other mafiya group in the area aside from the House of the Dead.
“…You could have killed him earlier today, when it wasn’t snowing.” Chuuya scolds the feverish person on the bed. “Now you’re here, all stupid from your brain being fried from staying out in the snow for hours. You’re so fucking stupid.”
Despite the fact that Dazai has refused to drink any antipyretics (probably in an attempt to maintain his mental acuity), he’s all conked out like an idiot.
Truly stupid.
Chuuya huffs as he replaces the fever patch bought from the shitty 24-hour clinic two blocks away with a more expensive and effective one that Chuuya stole from a hospital five blocks away. Chuuya’s actually considered stealing a full dextrose kit so he can have an excuse to stab Dazai’s wrist over and over again, but there’s not a lot of fun in sneaking in and killing Dazai without him knowing.
And so, Chuuya stays there, by the foot of the bed, rubbing the heels of his shoes all over Dazai’s clothes and cursing Dazai’s shitty fashion choices at wearing bandages.
By the time that daybreak’s sunlight is starting to filter in to the room, he checks Dazai’s temperature again and congratulates himself for picking the best fever patch. It seems that Dazai’s fever has already broken.
Chuuya leaves via the same vent after debating with himself for a few minutes.
…After all, if he stays behind, it’s still not so interesting to deal with Dazai if he’s groggily recovering from his fever.
“…I’ll find you and kill you if I don’t fall in love—huh.”
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end arc 03, chapter 01: doubled longing
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