gloombound

[gloombound]

The desert doesn’t sleep, but it grows quiet. The kind of quiet that presses against the skin and gets into the lungs like dust. You lie still in bed, clutching around the silver cross you haven’t taken off since you were an innocent child until your knuckles go white.

Simon’s breathing is steady and he’s too close. He always is. Some part of you aches for it, waiting for the shift of his weight on the mattress beneath you two. It’s wrong, all of it, and you know it deep down in marrow and scripture. You try to recall what you’ve been told for years, something about temptation being a test, not a sentence. To suffer for righteousness’ sake was to be blessed.

There’s nothing blessed about the way Simon’s hand runs along your chest as if it belongs there, as if this is normal. There’s no holiness in the heat between you two, in the way your sweat mixes.

Filthy and forbidden.

This isn’t passion, it’s punishment.

You know the verses, you grew up on them, sharp edged and sanctified. You used to scribble them in the margins of notebooks and mutter them like armor.

Man shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination. (18:22)

If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination; they shall be put to death; their bloodguilt is upon them. (20:13)

You knew the word before you knew what it meant. Still, you don’t move, don’t pull away. Simon exhales at the base of your neck, and you flinch like it burns. Maybe it did, maybe that’s what this is, a kind of marking, invisible but searing. The devil doesn’t always wear horns or drag chains behind him; sometimes he comes quiet, with calloused hands and a voice that settles in your bones like ash.

You can’t help but squeeze your cross tighter, the edges biting into your palm until you feel the skin give. The blood doesn’t surprise you.

You deserves worse.

You told yourself it wouldn’t happen again. That the first time was a mistake, an anomaly cracked open by too much death and not enough sleep. The kind of thing that lives in the silence after gunfire, where adrenaline crashes and there’s nothing left but two men trying not to come apart.

But it did happen again. And again.

Always when no one was looking.

Simon doesn’t say much, he never does. The look in his eyes isn’t confusion, it’s clarity. That makes it worse somehow. You could live with sin if it was mutual damnation, but Simon doesn’t look damned. He looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping him human. That’s the part that burns.

It would be easier if Simon were cruel. If he grabbed you and dragged you into hell with hands as calloused as your conscience. But he’s gentle, always. That gentleness scalds. It peels back the armor you’ve built, layer by layer, until you’re left bare and ugly in the eyes of God.

You shower with your backs turned, silence thicker than the steam. You pretend not to notice the way Simon’s eyes linger just a second too long on you, pretend your stomach doesn’t clench, that the shame doesn’t crawl up your throat like bile.

You scrub your skin raw, as if you can wash away what you two had done, what you’ve done. As if the water will rinse the sin from your bones. It never does.

It clings.

One night, beneath a sky torn open like old wounds, you feel Simon’s gaze settle over you. Not like a burden, but like gravity. Constant, certain, and unyielding. You want to scream. You want to grab him by the collar and demand answers. Why him, why this, why now. Why couldn’t it have been someone forgettable, someone who wouldn’t make his chest ache with something that feels too close to reverence.

But you don’t scream, you break.

The kiss lands rough, guilt tangled into it, like you’re trying to exorcise the feeling out of your own body. Yet Simon kisses back like it’s the most natural thing in the world, as if he’s already made peace with the fire.

When you’re tangled together in a mess of gear and regret, you stare at the cracked ceiling of the bunker and imagine hell. You used to fear fire, imagined it as a place of torment. Now you think maybe it’s quieter than that. Maybe it looks like this, peaceful, warm, and lined with the kind of love that gets you damned.

You pray.

Not for absolution, but for the strength to carry the weight of a sin you’re not sure you regret.

Simon sleeps with one hand draped across your chest. You don’t know if it’s protection or possession. Either way, you let it stay.

In the morning, you will hate yourself again. You will wear the mask, lace up your boots, and walk like nothing is unraveling beneath the surface. You will stand beside Simon, rifle in hand, and act like you don’t remember.

You’ll bleed into your prayers, whispering salvation into the wind and hoping the sand will bury it before God hears. But for now, just for now, you clutch the cross in your hand and let it cut you.

Because pain is the only thing that still feels holy.

[gloombound]

The rain drizzles down in Yokohama, leaving a mist that clings to the dim glow of street lamps. You stand by the edge of the dock, staring out over the water, thoughts drifting aimlessly. The solitude, the bleakness of it all, suits you entirely.

Footsteps approach, soft but not hidden, without even looking, you know it’s him. There’s only one person who would casually appear beside you at a time like this.

“What a romantic place to die, don’t you think?” Dazai’s voice lilts, honey sweet with a hint of dark amusement. “You have an eye for these things.”

You don’t flinch, nor do you turn. “You call it romantic. I call it, simple…Quiet.”

His gaze lingers on you, most likely trying to read your expression, but you keep your features carefully neutral. It’s the best way to handle him, not giving him the reactions he wants—or expects.

“Oh, come on now, don’t tell me you’re already giving up on the beauty of it! I’d expect someone as mysterious as you to appreciate the finer points of self-destruction.”

You finally give him a sidelong glance, raising an eyebrow. “You make it sound like art.”

Dazai grins as he leans against the railing beside you, a hand brushing your arm as if by accident. “Well, for some of us, it is. I happen to be very dedicated to my craft.”

There’s that smile, the one that’s both charming and dangerous, and you can’t quite decide if it’s infuriating or magnetic.

“Why are you here, Dazai?” you ask, voice low and almost challenging.

“Why, to save you, of course! Or maybe to jump together…Or maybe just to talk.” He shrugs, feigning a nonchalance you know hides something deeper. “It depends on you, really.”

You don’t respond, choosing to let the silence linger instead.

It’s a silence he fills easily.

“Say,” he murmurs, closer now, his voice dropping, “We’re not so different, you know?”

Your gaze sharpens. “I’d rather not be compared to you, if that’s what you mean.”

Dazai chuckles, undeterred, his eyes glinting with a strange intensity. “Ah, but that’s exactly why I like you. You take life’s misery so seriously.”

“Shouldn’t I?”

“Maybe,” he says, his voice softer than usual. “But sometimes, it’s the comedy in all this misery that keeps us going. You just haven’t learned how to laugh at it yet.”

The comment grates on you, but something about it also strikes a chord. And Dazai, the perceptive, irritating bastard that he is, seems to sense it.

“Why don’t we get a drink?” he offers, voice playful again. “One glass can’t fix everything, but it might help make life’s absurdities…bearable.”

You sigh, finally giving in, and mutter, “Fine, but just one.”

Dazai’s grin widens as if he’s just won something. He turns, guiding you away from the docks and into the lights of the city.

You’re not entirely sure how, but in the end, it’s Dazai’s peculiar charm, the twisted way he sees the world, that makes you stay by his side a little longer, if only to see just what strange beauty he finds in the darkness you both share.