#the man trap when he was slapping the monster in the form of bones’ former lover to snap bones out of it

[beam-meup-scotty]

spock , roughly two seconds before doing something so unhinged no one else has even thought of it : good thing i’m a vulcan and i would never do something irrational or illogical lmaoo

[yukiwrites]

Byleth, Asking Questions

Thank you for the support as always, @xpegasusuniverse​! I hope you like it!

Summary: After retrieving the Lance of Ruin from Miklan, Byleth wonders alone in his tent about the origin of the Heroes Relics. Sothis’ reaction to the questions only makes Byleth delve deeper into his musings, to the point of bringing it up to Rhea...

Commission info HERE and HERE!

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Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 -  Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10  - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15 

The loud noise of the rain shaking the outside of Byleth's tent only made the silence inside of it to ring in the professor's ears more with each passing second.

Sitting on his bed, the former mercenary held the recently recovered Lance of Ruin in his hands, observing it intently. The ancient weapon had many intricate details, from the crest stone so carefully carved into it to the forgotten language etched all over it.

Not to mention these... moving spots.

The lance itself behaved as though it were a living being -- when wielded by someone with the right crest (namely, Sylvain), it glowed in a vibrant red, much like the Sword of the Creator did whenever Byleth himself brandished it. However, different from the Sword, one could feel something akin to a faint heartbeat once they harnessed the power of the Lance of Ruin.

The bone-like structures close to its tip would move ominous and disgustingly, honestly giving Byleth the creeps.

Frowning, the professor placed the dangerous weapon on the floor in front of him, promptly placing his own Sword of the Creator by his lap. He took it upon himself to once again observe the weapon, as though he could figure something out if he stared at it intently.

The pommel, shaft and hand guard were all so well made they've yet to see decay even after withstanding the use of a thousand years. Trailing his fingertips through the blade, Byleth narrowed his eyes, deep in thought, towards the abandoned Lance on the floor.

The moment his fingers reached the flexible structure on the Sword, his eyes reached the creepy, bone-resembling bits of the Lance, making realization hit him almost like a slap on the face.

"Hey, Sothis?" He closed his eyes so as to see his mind roommate, needing but a moment of concentration to be able to see her in the waking world, even after opening his eyes.

The young-looking green-haired girl floated in front of him, descending towards the Lance as her expression turned somber. "Still thinking about that terrible happening at the Tower?" She whispered, forlorn. “That man... His form was changed. It was as though that lance was swallowing him whole. Upon that sight, it makes sense that your students were upset. I wonder if those Relics truly hide such power? Yet even still, that power seems familiar. That form as well... As one who wields the Sword of the Creator... Does that mean you possess that power too? It is not a wonder you've left the Lance on the floor -- what sort of danger could you be at risk of encountering should you keep it too close for more than necessary?"

Byleth once again trailed his hand through the Sword. "Well, that's not exactly what I was thinking about, though I confess it did cross my mind."

Sothis looked at him from her apparent seat on the floor. "Oh? Enlighten me."

It took the professor a moment to gather his thoughts, the frown growing deeper by his brow. "It's just... these weapons are a millennia old, yes? Apparent gifts the goddess bestowed upon mankind in its time of need?"

"Or so the Church says, indeed." Sothis bobbed her head to the sides. "Get to the point already! I'm beside myself with curiosity."

"But these are clearly bones, Sothis. Look, here," he activated the Sword's extension by twisting his wrist, watching how it apparently broke into several parts, joined by a whip in the middle. "This is a spinal cord, no way around it. And these?" He pointed to the shapes close to the Lance's tip, "don't they look like spatulas to you? What kind of benevolent Goddess, Progenitor of all life, gives weapons made out of bones to protect the ones devout to her?"

"Not a good one, apparently." Sothis mused, placing one hand under chin in thought. She stared intently at the Sword of the Creator, watching how it flickered bright red simply by being close to Byleth. "This is... making me feel utterly uncomfortable." She declared, her expression turning bitter with each word.

Byleth felt nauseous, surely because he channeled what Sothis was feeling at the moment. "Sothis-" The nausea and light-headedness made the professor wince in pain, quickly lying down to regain his balance.

"Enough! No more of this!" Sothis panted, holding her head with both hands. "This topic- it is not right. You should not delve deeper into this lest you regret what you might learn!" She huffed before disappearing, certainly to rest.

It still took a few minutes for Byleth to start feeling better, though he never took the Heroes Relics out of his sight, his mind set on what he was going to do next.

It took their party another three days to return to the monastery due to the bad weather -- although the cold season was still a ways to come, the rain in Faerghus stung as hard as a snowfall, and was just as cold.

Weary from the trip yet still resolved to finding out more, Byleth trudged directly towards the Archbishop's audience chamber. His clothes still drenched and travelling supplies hanging all around his belt and back, the professor marched in holding one Relic in each hand.

Rhea gasped with relief upon finally seeing that Byleth had returned, quickly trotting to him so as to offer him her handkerchief so he could at least dry his face.

"Professor, you have returned." She flashed a motherly smile, "The goddess is indeed generous with her protection. I have already read Gilbert's report on the matter -- see that you keep all that happened to yourself. We would not want panic to spread amongst the students or populace regarding the misuse of a Hero's Relic."

"Of course," Byleth nodded in compliance as the Archbishop carefully approached to dry his forehead. "I have, however, a question mostly unrelated to the matter."

"Oh?" Rhea stepped back to give the professor his space, watching how he placed the Lance of Ruin between the two of them.

"The Church teaches that the Heroes Relics were gifts bestowed to mankind by the Goddess herself, yes?" He asked, not waiting for an answer, though receiving a nod of confirmation. "How did she come by these weapons, though? They clearly look as though they were assembled from the bones of some sort of... creature."

That statement made Rhea blink in surprise, her expression changing from shock to disgust before quickly reverting back to her serene mask. "There were, ah, many a question regarding this matter throughout the ages, dear Professor. I cannot claim to understand what the Goddess was thinking the day she blessed the land with her presence, however, I can promise you that: the Heroes Relics were made using very powerful... materials." She narrowed her eyes as though retching what she had just said, looking down to the tip of the Lance of Ruin.

"You fool!!" Sothis screamed at full capacity, startling Byleth out of his skin. "Do not go asking questions you might regret hearing the answer to! Stop talking this instant! I feel sick already!"

Yet, that only spurred the professor further. "Materials, Lady Rhea?" He lifted the Sword of the Creator overhead, focusing his conscience in it so it would glow blood-red. "The spine cord of a powerful monster is the secret of the strongest Relic in history?"

"Monster?!" Rhea hissed, forgetting her composure for a moment. "Ah! Forgive this outburst of emotion, I-"

"Stop talking, stop making questions! Aren't you feeling this gut-chilling fear that's shaking my very soul? Do not utter another word!!" Sothis yelled and, true to her words, Byleth did feel light-headed and scared out of his wits. Forcing himself not to sway on his feet, the professor shook his head as Rhea kept on speaking.

"I am rather tired due to all of this excitement, do you not, Professor?" Rhea shook her head in distress, color leaving her face. "The Church will formally return the Lance to House Gautier, so if you would..." She reached out to the Lance Byleth inadvertently used as support once he started feeling dizzy.

Hesitating, the Professor simply gripped harder on the lance for a split of second.

"Give it to her! Get away from here this instant! I cannot bear this conversation any longer...!" Sothis begged in his head and Byleth knew that if she had a physical body, she would be kicking him on the shin right there and then.

Ultimately, Byleth let go of the Lance, dutifully handing it to Rhea.

"Thank you, Professor," she smiled weakly, the color still far from her face. "I knew I made the right judgment in trusting you with this mission."

"Of course," Byleth bowed slightly, staggering so faintly it escaped Rhea's watchful gaze. "If I may, I wish to come back and ask more questions regarding this matter... another time, of course."

Rhea frowned slightly. "Another time, indeed."

"If you'll excuse me," Byleth bowed once again, turning on his heel to leave. The next time he was to approach Rhea on this subject, he should be better prepared -- with at least more Relics to study the pattern of the bones (or bone-like structures, one could never say) and figure out what they truly were.

He felt that the answer to these questions were directly related to Sothis and the reason she was trapped inside his heart -- seeing and truly feeling what she felt whenever the matter was mentioned only proved that there was something relating the girl with the power of the Relics… And Byleth was going to find out what, no matter how long it took.

Sothis was a precious presence and friend to the professor by that point, and doing whatever he could to help her regain her memories was the very least he could do, even if it meant going against her immediate wishes from time to time.

[lenin-it-to-win-it]

“I’m Here”

Summary: After escaping Poe’s book, Chuuya struggles- and fails- to come to terms with the fact that  Akutagawa has been killed.

Notes: HOLY SHIT ANGST ALERT, in case that summary didn’t clue you in. Normally, I try to keep my Chuuaku fics pretty light because Chuuya and Aku have suffered enough already, but I came up with this scenario after the latest chapter came out, and I just had to write this. Welcome to suffertown!

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I

It was summer.

Sun beat down on Yokohama with a ferocity that blurred the air, burning the city into submission. Sweat streaked Chuuya’s forehead, but he shivered. His mind had detached itself from his body, had sunk to some dark, unfathomable place where the physical sensation of heat was forgotten and feelings were dulled by distance. Chuuya stared at the ring in the palm of his hand, too numb even to cry.

He had meant to give it to Akutagawa weeks ago, once the guild had been defeated, but Akutagawa was so drained from his fight against Fitzgerald and brief encounter with Dazai that Chuuya didn’t want to risk overexciting him. There would be plenty of time to propose later, he thought, once Akutagawa was feeling better.

How stupid of Chuuya to forget that a mafioso’s “later” was a promise written on water.

Something came up. Something always came up. Fyodor and those wretched rats, the destruction, the chaos, the missions upon missions upon missions that seemed tailor-made to keep Chuuya and Akutagawa apart.

Then the book.

Chuuya was stunned when he found out he had only been gone a few days when it felt as if he had been trapped inside the book for months, but he was relieved. If only a few days had passed, Akutagawa should be fine. That wasn’t enough time for him to have gotten seriously hurt, right?

Wrong.

Chuuya bit his lip to keep from crying out. Even alone, he didn’t want to admit weakness.

Wrong, wrong wrong. . .

Chuuya couldn’t remember the moment he found out. He didn’t remember who told him, or where, or what he had been doing before, the words they had used. He didn’t remember shaking his head, denying, laughing as tears streamed from his eyes then collapsing to the ground, sobbing, believing, letting the terrible truth sink in.

All he remembered was the last time he and Akutagwa had been together. Chuuya had to leave in the dead of the night for a mission, but Akutagawa had looked so soft and peaceful in sleep that Chuuya couldn’t bear to wake him up. Instead, he settled for giving Akutagawa a quick kiss on the forehead and leaving in silence. He never said goodbye.

What was the last thing he had said to Akutagawa? What were Akutagawa’s last words to him?

Chuuya dragged his hands through his hair, tearing out copper strands. The ring slipped through his fingertips and clattered on the ground. Chuuya didn’t bother picking it up. What did it matter now? Akutagawa was gone.

No, he wasn’t gone. Chuuya could admit as much to himself. “Gone” made it sound as if Akutagawa had merely decided to leave, but that wasn’t what happened. Akutagawa didn’t leave.

No.

Chuuya’s body suddenly went cold

He was murdered.

Akutagawa had been murdered, and Chuuya already knew the culprit.

The virus ability user. . .

Chuuya kneeled down and picked up the discarded ring, cradling it in the palm of his hand for a moment before clenching his hand into a fist and striding out of the room, bent on revenge. The cold metal of the ring dug into the flesh of his palm.

It was blazing hot outside.

II

It was winter.

That was how Corruption always felt to Chuuya, like winter.

A blizzard.

Cold and capricious winds dragged icicle claws into the bellies of storm clouds above until snow bled from their wounds. Silent snowdrifts swept through his mind like static as snowflakes struck the ground with cannon-fire bombast, falling in time to the distant pounding, thrumming, buzzing deep in the core of bones Chuuya could no longer feel. The wind shrieked as if it was wounded, roared as if angered, whimpered as if grieving.

Trapped in the icy embrace of Corruption, Chuuya felt nothing as his distant body laid waste to everything around it. He remembered nothing, not the heat of vengeance nor the warmth of love. Chuuya had dropped the wedding ring long ago. He had given himself over to the storm.

Then the storm ended, and Chuuya was instantly, crushingly aware of every searing pain, every bone-deep ache tormenting the body it appeared he still possessed after all. He gazed at his shattered surroundings through unseeing eyes, unable to make sense of the blood-splattered ruins of a place he did not know. Even as he tried to make his eyes focus, the world seemed to fade to white at the edges. A cold hand gripped Chuuya’s shoulder, causing him to scream in pain.

“Calm down, partner,” whispered a familiar voice. Long arms slipped beneath Chuuya’s knees and around his shoulders, lifting him into the air. “It’s over now.”

Chuuya couldn’t make out the details of his face, but he would have recognized that voice anywhere. “Dazai?” he hissed, struggling to speak through the tightness of his throat. Chuuya couldn’t tell if he had spoken or not; all he could hear was the pounding in his head. “Put me down! I don’t want you-” Chuuya gasped, tearing up as another wave of pain struck. Before he could break away from Dazai, Chuuya fell unconscious, as helpless in Dazai’s arms as he had been in the storm.

***

Dazai’s apartment was a wretched little place.

Chuuya sat on a worn-down couch, wrapped in a moth-eaten blanket, holding but not drinking a cup of pre-packaged bile Dazai insisted was tea, listening to him explain what had happened, a look of total impassivity on his usually expressive face.

“-and then I arrive to find everything destroyed, everyone dead, etcetera, etcetera. Of course, I predicted you’d go after him once you figured out what happened,” Dazai said with a hint of smugness.“So, naturally, I had to be there, too.” Dazai took a sip of tea, then smiled. “My Chuuya is so high-maintenance.”

Chuuya gripped the teacup almost hard enough to shatter it. “I’m not yours.”

Dazai seemed a little put out. “You could at least say thank you,” he huffed, drumming his abnormally long fingers on the rim of his teacup. “I did save your life, after all.”

“Thank you!?” Chuuya leapt to his feet, throwing his teacup to the ground. Almost as soon as he was standing, Chuuya lost his balance and collapsed back onto the couch. The seismic throbbing in his head mounted, beating back his thoughts the instant they began to form. Chuuya cradled his head in his hands, willing the pain to go away.

Dazai reached toward Chuuya’s face; Chuuya smacked his hand away. Weakened as he was, the slap could not have been very painful, but Dazai drew back his hand as if he had touched a hot stove. “I’m just trying to help you,” said Dazai, annoyed. “Chuuya, I can’t do anything for you if you’re just gonna keep pushing me awa-”

“I don’t want you do to anything for me!” Chuuya cried, digging his fingernails into Dazai’s hideous couch to keep himself from attempting to gouge Dazai’s eyes out. “I don’t want anything from you- you ruin everything you touch! You’re a monster!”

“Monster?” Dazai looked pained for a moment, but his genuine emotion was quickly masked by cold anger. “Last time I checked, I wasn’t the one who murdered for a living,” he said, his words as cool and clipped as flurries of snow whipped into a frenzy by the wind, stinging like shards of glass as they struck the skin.“You might not remember what you did to all those people while you were using Corruption, but I saw it, I remember. If you want to see a monster, Chuuya, I’d suggest looking in a mirror.”

Chuuya refused to take Dazai’s bait. “This isn’t about me, and this isn’t about those damn rats I killed either,” he growled. “This is about you, and what you did to Ryuu.”

Dazai furrowed his brow. “Akutagawa-kun? I didn’t kill him, and I assume you know that, since you set out to kill the man who did.”

“You can’t be this stupid!” Chuuya snapped. “Do you really think Ryuu would have gone on that mission if you weren’t the one sending him?”

“If I hadn’t sent him to catch the virus user, Mori-san would have,” Dazai replied with a shrug. “I figured at least with Atsushi-kun, he would have someone to watch his back.”

“You fucking idiot!” Chuuya was unable to keep a bit of hysterical laughter from bubbling up in his sandpaper throat. “You stupid motherfucker.” He gave one more manic giggle, then relapsed into rage once more. “Who do you think made Ryuu that way in the first place? Every mission he’went on, he went on because you made him.”

Dazai stared down at Chuuya with eyes carved from ice. “I made him stronger.”

“You made him broken!” Chuuya clenched his hands into fists, cutting his palms with the jagged edges of his fingernails. “You beat him, tortured him, made him need you. You shot him in the face! He was just a kid, Dazai! A fucking kid!”

“I don’t have to take this from you.” Dazai took a slow sip of tea. “A current mafioso has no right to lecture a former mafioso on right and wrong.”

“I’m not saying I haven’t done worse, but at least I have the common-fucking-decency to regret it!” Chuuya cried, eyes blazing. “If I treated a kid- hell, any subordinate, anybody under my care- the way you treated Ryuu, you can bet your ass it would keep me up at night. But you-” Chuuya savagely swiped at the tears stinging his eyes. “You’re proud of what you did, aren’t you, bastard? Even now that you’re Mr. New and Improved, strutting around that stupid agency of yours like you’re a changed man who serves the greater good-” Chuuya snorted with derision. “You’ll never apologize for what you did to Ryuu. He’s dead, and not only will you not admit that it’s your fault-” Chuuya sniffled, wiping his nose on Dazai’s blanket. “-but even if you did, it wouldn’t bother you. Not for a goddamn second.”

Chuuya stood, clutching the edge of the couch to steady himself, and began walking out of the room. He was still weakened by Corruption, and his vision swam, blurred by pain and tears, and every nerve in his body ached, but he would have walked ten thousand miles on a path of broken glass as long as it led away from Dazai, who made no effort to stop him.

Sooner or later, Chuuya found himself in Kouyou’s arms. She said nothing, but led him to bed, gave him a warm cup of proper tea, and stroked his hair until he managed to sink into a restless sleep haunted by terrible dreams.

Weeks passed as one nightmare faded into the next seemingly without end. Chuuya ate little and spoke less, only leaving bed when Kouyou made him. Even then, he didn’t leave the house, but only laid on the couch staring blankly at the ceiling.

Revenge had done nothing. Yelling at Dazai had done nothing. There was nothing Chuuya could do to bring Akutagawa back.

Tears pricked Chuuya’s eyes. Without Akutagawa, life was nothing.

Then, on a day like any other, Chuuya left bed of his own accord and informed Kouyou that he was leaving. “Business to attend to?” she asked, effortlessly keeping her tone nonchalant even as her eyes shone with relief.

“Close,” Chuuya replied. His voice held none of its former passion, but he was speaking. His eyes had not lost the appearance of being haunted. “I’m going to visit a friend of mine.”

III

It was fall.

Summer had given way to autumn, and the world was fading, already anticipating the arrival of winter with a prolonged exhalation. A chilly gust of wind rustled the dying leaves on the tree just outside the window, but Edogawa Ranpo was concerned by far more pressing matters.

Ranpo rolled his eyes. “I’m telling you for the last time, Poe, ‘sepulchered’ isn’t a word.”

Poe crossed his arms, sulking and staring down at the Scrabble board. “It’s called literary innovation, Ranpo-kun.”

“Literary innovation, my ass,” Ranpo retorted. “I don’t need my ultra-deduction to know that’s a load of-” A knock at the door cut Ranpo short.

Poe vaulted across the table, knocking over the Scrabble board, and darted into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. “I’m not here,” he called.

Ranpo shook his head, but there was a smile on his face. Athough the agency had more or less accepted Poe, he still insisted on hiding every time someone came to visit Ranpo, more out of shyness than necessity. However, in this case, the visitor wasn’t from the agency at all.

Ranpo raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Fancy Hat? What brings you here?”

Chuuya looked up at Ranpo with shadowed eyes, silent.

“You should sit down,” Ranpo said, linking arms with Chuuya and leading him into the living room. He let Chuuya have the softest chair and sat on the coffee table across from him, studying his face and waiting for him to speak.

Chuuya wrapped his arms around himself and stared at the ground. “It’s cold in here.” His voice was fainter than Ranpo remembered it, and he shivered despite the warmth of the room.

Ranpo shrugged off his pancho and draped it around Chuuya’s shoulders. “Does that help?”

Chuuya’s only response was a blank stare. Then, some light seemed to flicker on inside for a moment, and he nodded. “Thanks.” He slouched over so that his forehead was practically touching his knees, crumbling in on himself, as if his bones were turning to dust beneath his flesh.

“So, Nakahara-kun, any, um, reason you’re here?” Ranpo asked, scratching his head.

Ranpo and Chuuya had bonded in the time they had spent together in the book; they had to, in order to keep their sanity in Poe’s literary labyrinth, in that shifting world populated by unrealities. Chuuya had a passion and dedication Ranpo could admire, even if those qualities were often the cause of his greatest weaknesses, and the fiery young mafioso had in turn grown to respect Ranpo’s intelligence. Grudging respect had given way to a sort of comradeship over time, but Ranpo had not expected to see Chuuya again, particularly not with Chuuya looking as if he had just crawled out of his own grave.

“He’s dead.” The words came out of Chuuya’s mouth in a short, percussive burst that seemed to leave him breathless for a moment. “Ryuu.”

It took Ranpo a moment to realize Chuuya must have meant Akutagawa, the mafioso Dazai had paired up with Atsushi, the one who had been killed by the virus ability user. “You never mentioned him before,” Ranpo said in a feeble attempt to break the oppressive silence. “I didn’t realize you two knew eachother.”

Chuuya made an effort to lift his head and look Ranpo in the eyes. “I loved him.”

Ranpo felt his mouth go dry. “Oh. Yeah, that’s. . . that hurts.” Ranpo was at a loss; he had lost his parents before, and he understood the depth of pain and grief Chuuya must have felt, but he had no idea how to communicate any of this to Chuuya. “Sorry.”

“Remember in the book,” said Chuuya, abruptly flaring back to life. A manic gleam stole into his tear-swollen eyes. “Remember being surrounded by all those people?”

“Characters,” Ranpo corrected.

“They felt real, didn’t they?” Chuuya insisted, leaning forward so his face was inches for Ranpo, his fingers tigging into the plush arms of the chair. “Like real people? Remember? Remember how it felt after a while when one of them was murdered? Like a real death? Like a real world where real people lived and died?”

Ranpo felt a shudder of apprehension trail down his spine. “Nakahara-kun, I-”

As suddenly as the burst of energy had struck, it faded, and Chuuya sank back down into the chair, his eyes dulling like dying embers. “I miss it in there,” he whispered, allowing his eyes to close. “I felt lighter there. My head was quieter.”

He was talking about Corruption. Ranpo wasn’t sure what that had to do with Akutagawa dying, but, figuring Chuuya wanted to change the subject, decided to go along with it. “Well, I mean, you know it’s different with my ability,” said Ranpo with a shrug. “It sets me apart from everyone and makes it hard to connect, but it’s a part of me- without my ability, I’m lost. I don’t know who I am.”

“That’s it! That’s it exactly!” Chuuya eyes burned with manic fire. “I don’t know who I am without him! All the best parts of me were tied up in Ryuu, and now- a-and now-” Chuuya’s shivering had grown more intense until he shook so violently that the chair creaked and groaned in protest beneath him. “I don’t want to be who I am without him.” Chuuya stared up at Ranpo through haunted eyes. “Ranpo-kun, your friend, with the books, do you think he could-”

“No!” Ranpo exclaimed, horrified. “Nakahara-kun, you can’t be serious!”

“I can’t live without him,” Chuuya whispered, at last allowing his gathered tears to fall. “I can’t live knowing I failed him. I have to see him again! I need him! Ryuu!”

As Chuuya began to cry in earnest, Ranpo leaned forward and wrapped his arms around his friend’s shoulders. “Hey, don’t- it’ll be- I-” Everything Ranpo could think to say sounded hopelessly impotent in the face of Chuuya’s raw emotion, so he fell silent, holding Chuuya and hoping physical gestures alone would give him some kind of comfort.

Though the crying gradually slowed to a halt, Chuuya never lost the haunted look in his eyes. He ran out of tears; his pain was unending. “Ranpo-kun, look at me,” Chuuya breathed. “Can’t you see I’m not the same?”

Much as Ranpo hated to admit it, even to himself, Chuuya was right. The broken man before him bore little resemblance to the Chuuya he had known in the book. In the span of a few weeks, Chuuya seemed to have aged decades, to have lost the spark of passion that sustained him, that kept his eyes burning even in the darkness of life. The Chuuya Ranpo knew would have threatened and coerced and stopped at nothing to get what he wanted; this Chuuya wept and pleaded and seemed seconds from total surrender.  

What would happen to this Chuuya in the mafia? Without that guiding flare in his heart, the drive that carried him so far, how would he survive? Ranpo doubted the mafia would take kindly to this version of Chuuya; sure, they had tolerated him up to now, but sooner or later, they would try either to re-ignite his flame by imbuing him with a lust for vengenace or, should that prove unsuccessful, he could be found a liability and disposed of.

Ranpo sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll talk to Poe.”

IV

It was spring.

A soft breeze rustled the trees, and pale flower petals descended through the air like angels cast out of heaven, spiralling toward the ground, toward ruin. Without knowing how he understood, Chuuya knew it would always be spring here. Never again would summer sear his soul, nor harsh winter air grate against Akutagawa’s fragile lungs; here, they could always be together, always at peace, always safe and always in love in this world of eternal spring.

When Chuuya lowered his gaze from the flowers above, he saw a dark figure standing alone where the trees began to thin out, staring at the edge of the sky as it faded into the sea. Akutagawa had always admired the ocean from afar although he despised the cacophony of crashing waves up close. As if on cue, Akutagwa turned around, offering Chuuya a soft smile. “I’ve been waiting for you, Nakahara-san,” he said, his voice a bit gentler than it had once been. “Don’t you want to come over here?”

Chuuya’s breath caught in his throat, and his heart began beating so suddenly and wildly that it felt as if it was beating for the first time. Tears clouded his eyes, but he swiped them away, desperate not to lose an ounce of clarity as he gazed at Akutagawa’s pale face, imbued with a look of peace it so rarely had in reality. “R-Ryuu-” Chuuya tried to smile but his lips were trembling. Despite his best attempts to keep himself from crying, tears started falling. “Oh, Ryuu!”

Akutagawa’s eyes widened as he took in Chuuya’s tears and he began moving toward Chuuya, not walking so much as gliding, like a ghost, but when he put his hands on Chuuya’s cheeks, they were every bit as cold and rough as Chuuya remembered. “Nakahara-san, what is it?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”

Chuuya shook his head. “I’m okay. I just-” Chuuya sucked in a deep breath. “-I was thinking about what would happen if you died.”

“Why would you think about that?” Akutagawa’s voice was tinged with annoyance, but his hands were gentle as they stroked Chuuya’s hair. Akutagawa sighed, wrapping his arms around Chuuya. “Well, no matter, Nakahara-san. I’m here.”

No, you’re not.

Chuuya managed a shaky smile, and he wrapped his arms around Akutagawa, pressing his face close to his bony chest and inhaling his familiar scent. “I know, baby. I know.”