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Chapter Text

After the judge ordered him to YRS, Chuuya had three last nights at home. 

On the last of those three nights, his whole family sat around the rickety kitchen table, each with a sullen expression etched onto their faces. 

His older half-brother, Paul, simmered with a rage that wrapped around his body to cloak his anxiety. His breaths were deep and slow in a shallow attempt to stay calm and mentally present, but the way his gloved hands clenched into shaking fists on the table gave him away.   

Paul’s boyfriend, Arthur, who had gently tip-toed into the family over the past two years, shivered more violently than usual with pale cheeks and blue lips, bundled up in a tasseled, dark red scarf. He sat next to Chuuya and across from Paul, naturally gravitating to whoever was the most heated. 

And of course, Chuuya, like his big brother, glowed with a royally pissed-off aura to hide how panic swirled in his chest. His heart thumped violently, and his mind was a ransacked garden of everything and absolutely nothing. 

Lastly, their parents stood deathly still, smiling softly in their poplar picture frame. 

If it weren’t for the picture, Chuuya would’ve forgotten what his maman and papa looked like years ago. He was grateful for the picture, grateful that he could see maman’s quiet smile and papa’s knitted eyebrows (he wasn’t wearing his glasses and the flash of the camera caught him off guard) before being sent off to some delinquent kid prison. 

Chuuya was… scared. And angry, too. Really fucking angry.

In the silence of their post-dinner family “meeting”, Arthur put his arm around Chuuya’s shoulder while the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling hummed with old age. Arthur was touchier overall than Paul, which nobody minded, and let his head rest on Chuuya’s, acting like an ice pack for the pissed-off little firecracker. 

Arthur was a nice addition to their little family, Chuuya thought. He was glad that his brother wouldn’t be alone when he left. 

And Paul knew Chuuya had a weird habit of thinking like that. He presented himself as a tough guy – which, admittedly, he learned from Paul, and look where that got them – but at his core, he did nothing but fuss over other people. Paul was almost 25 for fuck’s sake, and Chuuya was over here worried about loneliness when he was about to get shipped off hours away to a shady-ass reform school! Quesquecette merde?! Occupe toi de tes oignons!

Paul took a deep breath – Chuuya watched him from across the table as Arthur shivered and sniffled – and tried to calm himself. He tended to shift toward outbreaks when he didn’t really get his emotions, and he’s learned the hard way what kind of consequences it brings. He should’ve done better raising Chuuya to avoid that sort of behavior.

That was how Paul was supposed to care. Arthur gave hugs and Chuuya would talk your ear off – Paul was supposed to teach and lead by example. He was supposed to keep his little brother (who he just learned existed only two years ago!) safe and out of trouble. The kid spent enough time on the streets dealing with shit. Paul was supposed to give him better.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Chuuya cut in, eyes pointed like a dagger in Paul’s direction. “You weren’t the one who choke-slammed a kid into a table.” 

Paul couldn’t help but smirk. “I’ve seen the security footage, kid. It was hardly a choke-slam.” 

“That’s not the point,” Chuuya spat out, semi-embarrassed. “It was my choice to step in, so don’t you dare take away from it. My actions, my pissy fucking mood. End of story.”

“Watch your damn mouth, you little fucker.” There was a wisp of laughter in Paul’s voice that split a smile across the two brothers’ faces. 

“You two are impossible,” Arthur added with a small grin of his own. 

The picture frame remained still in its spot beside Paul, staring at Chuuya as he found something else to laugh at. There was a softness about the whole situation that wasn’t there before, a small trace of it’s okay, little one. We’re here. You aren’t doomed. You’re far from it.

Chuuya tried his best to hold onto that.

The government car arrived at seven o’clock the next morning. 

The officer driving was a chain-smoking old man with gray, swept-back hair, a mustache, and a short beard ending in a spike. His eyes were violet, with a monocle over the right one, secured by a gold chain, and Chuuya already wanted to kill him. He had a mean and sour stick-up-the-ass aura that Chuuya sure as hell didn’t want to deal with on the way to his new prison – that, or Chuuya was just really bad at reading vibes. Maybe he was just pissy about the whole reform school thing in general. 

Well, whatever. He was fifteen. With all the good he’d done, beating up bullies and whatnot, he should be allowed to take his anger out on the wrong people every once in a while. 

The officer plucked out his cigarette when he talked, which was not often. He said two or three things to Paul and Arthur before he handcuffed Chuuya to a metal bar that ran behind the front seat and didn’t speak for two hundred and seventy-five miles.

Chuuya was itching for conversation the whole way, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. He had to be – he was in the backseat of a cop car for fuck’s sake.

About five hours into the drive, the officer pulled over and let Chuuya out to pee. They stopped at a shitty gas station in the middle of nowhere, and the old fart nodded to the doors. “This is your bathroom break, kiddo. Be quick,” the officer said, blowing out a thick cloud of smoke. It wafted over Chuuya’s head and into the sky; it was almost dark out, the kid noticed. 

When Chuuya was finished, he trekked back to the cop car. He considered running – considered it a lot more than a normal person would – but decided against it. He spent a good amount of time surviving on the streets, but he was as good as dead in the woods up on the mountain. And with the feds on his tail? Yeah, fuck that.

So Chuuya was obedient and climbed into the back of the car, cussing himself out in his mind. The officer filled their tank and situated himself behind the wheel, sighing big and loud the way all old men seem to. 

“Glad to know you aren’t planning on running,” the officer said, flicking the ashes of his cig into an ashtray on the dashboard. Chuuya furrowed his eyebrows in the backseat. “Here, eat up.” The old man pushed a plastic bag through the iron bars separating the back and the front. “It’s the last good food you’re gonna have before YRS gets to you,” the officer warned. “But you seem like a good kid. You’ll be out soon enough. Consider this a ‘good luck’ gift.” 

In the bag was a pre-made ham sandwich and a bag of sour gummy worms. Chuuya beamed.

“Thank you,” Chuuya blurted, fighting the urge to tear into the food like a rabid animal. 

“No problem,” the officer answered. “My name is Hirotsu, by the way. Ryūrō Hirotsu. Just in case you need a voucher sometime down the line.”

Chuuya had no fucking clue what that meant, but he thanked the crazy old man once again before digging into his gas station meal. 

Officer Hirotsu didn’t bother refastening the cuffs.

Chuuya had imagined Yokohama Reform School with imposing stone walls and menacing coils of barbed wire, so what greeted him instead felt like a slap across the face. Instead of walls, the campus sprawled openly, meticulously maintained on healthy green grass. Two- and three-story buildings of red brick punctuated the landscape, nestled among towering cedar trees and ancient beeches that cast swathes of comforting shade. It was, without a doubt, the most inviting property Chuuya had ever laid eyes upon—a genuine school, a beacon of excellence, fucking over the nightmares of the slaughterhouse he’d been preparing himself for. 

They drove up the long road to the main administration building and Chuuya caught sight of a baseball field where some boys scrimmaged and yelped. In his head, he’d seen kids attached to balls and chains, something out of cartoons, but these guys were having a great time out there, thundering around on the grass. He thought about jumping from the car with a wicked smile and joining them. 

“Careful now,” Officer Hirotsu murmured, turning up into the main building’s driveway. “The warden doesn’t like smiles.”

Chuuya scoffed. What kind of cliché shit was that? Though to be fair, it’s not unrealistic for a reform school and “frown town” to have quite a bit in common.

Inside the building, the officer waved down a secretary who took them into a yellow room lined with wooden filing cabinets. There were desks and chairs lined up in classroom-style rows, but Officer Hirotsu nudged him to stand up in front of the blackboard with his hands behind his back. The dread was setting in by this time; Chuuya fought to keep his face indifferent. 

It was silent, and the silence stretched on for ages. The secretary left a couple of minutes later, half bored and half busy, while Hirotsu sucked the life out of his last cigarette, stubbing the bud on one of his metal bracelets and tossing it into the trash. Chuuya’s foot started tapping against the linoleum-tiled floor halfway through the five-minute mark, but a sharp look from the officer had him still as a statue.

When the warden entered, the silence came to a screeching halt. Not because the man was loud – no, not that at all. It was his presence that spoke, drenching the room with ear-splitting screams. Chuuya stood at attention fully against his will. 

The man was fairly tall and had a slender physique, cloaked in a sharp suit: a white button-up, a black pinstriped suit jacket, black shoes, and black trousers. He had straight, chin-length black hair slicked back, leaving bangs on each side of his face, and eyes that slipped pills into unprotected drinks at the local bar (at least, that was Chuuya’s interpretation of the unnaturally passionate and predatory gaze). 

“Thank you so much for delivering our new student safe and sound, officer,” the warden began. 

Officer Hirotsu bowed, awaiting further instruction, which Chuuya found curious because Officer Hirotsu didn’t work under the warden at all – he was an officer of the Japanese government. What the fuck was he following orders from this guy for?

“Now, if you’ll excuse us,” the warden continued, “I’d like to interview the young man privately before I send him off. Would you mind calling one of the boys from Dormitory B down here? I’ll have one of them show the new student the ropes when we’re finished here.”

The officer hesitated, dark eyes flitting over to Chuuya’s direction. It didn’t last long, though, because Chuuya was shaking in his boots like a wet noodle, and the warden was staring with that awful smile, thin and bitter like ginger licorice. 

“No time to dilly-dally, officer,” the warden chuckled. “I know you have places to be.” He waved the officer off as if he were a little kid and not a man with a handgun and taser secured to his belt. Chuuya found a morbid sense of admiration in that sort of power-induced confidence, especially after Officer Hirotsu gave a final swift nod and left the room. 

The admiration vanished when the officer closed the door on the way out. 

Chuuya stood like a blade of grass in the front of the class-like room. The warden took a seat at the frontmost desk, eyes grazing over the boy as if he’d have to draw him from memory a week from now. 

When the warden finished his odd visual scan, he folded his hands on the desk and let out a satisfied hum. “Tell me about yourself, boy.” He caught the way Chuuya’s brows knit together and waved away the obvious confusion. “Don’t overthink it. Imagine you’re introducing yourself to a room full of your peers. What would you say?”

“Uh, well… my name is Chuuya Nakahara, I’m fifteen years old, my favorite color is red, and… I like dogs and playing video games.”

“Lovely,” the warden beamed. “I’ll go next: My name is Ougai Mori, but you will only ever refer to me as ‘Mr. Mori,’ ‘Warden,’ or ‘sir.’ I’ve been in charge of Yokohama Reform School for four years, my favorite color is blue, and I like caring for children who behave–” The warden’s tone dropped to something sinister. “–and guiding those who don’t.”

Chuuya felt his stomach drop.

“It’s my understanding that you’re a fighter,” Mr. Mori said, tilting his head almost innocently. “Is that true, Nakahara?”

“Uh, just Chuuya is fine.”

“I asked you a question, boy.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry,” was Chuuya’s awkward answer. “I just like standing up for what’s right, sir.”

“Right.” The warden laughed. “You’re an interesting character, little one. I’m excited to see how far you make it at this school.”

A gentle knock at the door brought their conversation to an end. A boy with long, braided white hair and a scar over his eye peaked his head in the room, curious and cautious and borderline mischievous. “Hello, Warden. I’m here to show the new guy around.”

“I know what you’re here for,” the warden laughed. “I called you here.”

“Ah, hehe, right. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Mr. Mori turned his attention back to Chuuya who felt so awkward he might pass out. Like those goats that faint when they’re frightened, which Chuuya hated to admit. “Chuuya, this is Nikolai Gogol. Nikolai, this is Chuuya Nakahara. I expect you to clue him in on all YRS customs, expectations, and routines. If he’s caught stepping out of line in the next two weeks, you’ll receive double the regular punishment for his actions.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good. Take him to tour the dormitories first, then the mess hall. Return here before dinner so we can get little Chuuya his altered uniform.” 

Chuuya imagined socking the guy right across the face for that comment. He overheard the secretary mumbling about needing to contact some tailor to make adjustments to his uniform, so of course the warden knew about it, too. Damn it, Chuuya knew he was small, but he was only fifteen! Paul said he didn’t get his growth spurt until seventeen. That’s two full years! Two!  

Snapping Chuuya away from his mental fussiness, the warden stood, brushed the wrinkles from his suit coat, and left with a subtle nod. The two students felt themselves physically relax. Why that conversation was so tense, Chuuya wasn’t sure, but he was more than happy to follow the goofy kid out of this place. Hell, he was willing to follow him into Mariana’s Trench if it meant putting space between them and the freaky warden.

“Well, you heard the man,” Nikolai exclaimed, skipping over to link arms with the new kid. “Let’s start your tour, shall we?”

Chuuya cringed but obliged as the white-haired boy tugged him out of the building and into the grassy field. A little ways away, past the baseball field, were three two-story brick buildings that Nikolai labeled the dormitories.

“You’ll be in Dormitory C,” Nikolai explained, “because you’re new. Get enough points and you’ll move up to B with me and Fedya. Dormitory A is for the most well-behaved kids – the ones who’ll finish their sentence or turn 18 soon.” 

Chuuya nodded. “So how do I get points?”

Nikolai laughed like a goddamn psychopath from an episode of The Twilight Zone. “Of all the secrets slipped and kept in the cracks and crevices of YRS, that has to be the most coveted.” He unlocks their arms and twirls around, skipping backward so Chuuya can see the wild look in his eyes. “Welcome, Chuuya,” Nikolai cackled, “to Yokohama Reform School, your own personal hell.”           

Chuuya stood in the doorway to Dorm C’s laundry room with his arms folded over his chest. He wore his new YRS uniform: a gray work shirt, denim pants, and brown brogues boots and watched as a kid with cinnamon-red hair put Chuuya’s old clothes in the wash. Their house staff, Mr. Ango, was there, too, talking Chuuya through the schedule.

Every kid had to attend school, he said, that was a rule. “Other reformatory schools might not strike that balance between reform and education, but YRS made sure that their charges did not fall behind, with classroom instruction every other day, alternating with work details, Sundays off.”

Later, Nikolai would re-explain the schedule: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday were school days, which meant sleep, heal, and fuck around and find out since a lot of the boys couldn’t read. What did work days look like? Well, that depended on what dormitory you were in. Dormitory C – the new kids and the bad kids – worked out on the fields under the hot sun; decently behaved kids (like Nikolai, supposedly?) in Dormitory B worked as indoor cleaners; and the good and/or soon-to-graduate kids were assistants to on-campus staff like secretaries, nurses, and teachers.

“You’ll have the next two days off to get adjusted,” Mr. Ango continued, pushing his big circle glasses up on the bridge of his nose. If Chuuya was asked to describe the man, he’d say something along the lines of a cross between a twiggy baby deer and a wise old owl – which, considering his neatly combed hair and pale brown double-breasted coat, wasn’t too far off the mark.

“He gets two days off, but I have to babysit him for two weeks?” Nikolai groaned. Even while complaining, a pointy smile etched into his pale face.

“Yes, that seems to be the case,” Mr. Ango hummed. “I’m not sure why he’d give that task to a Dorm B student, though…”

“Probably ‘cause he’s gonna get bumped down soon,” the cinnamon-haired kid snickered. Chuuya noticed a white adhesive bandage on the bridge of his nose and wondered what it was for. “That kid is tied to Dorm C like teenage girls are to abortion clinics.”

“Tachihara, watch your damn mouth,” Ango snapped. “There’s a reason you haven’t moved onto Dorm B in the eight months you’ve been here.”

“Eight months?!” Chuuya blurted, eyes nearly popping out of his skull. “Putain! You carrying this sentence to term or what?”

“Dude, shut it,” Tachihara snorted, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand in a weak attempt to hide his growing smile. “We already got a sarcastic witty ginger and you’re looking at him.” 

“Uh-huh, whatever you say, Juno.”

“Aw man,” Nikolai cried. “Tachihara already stole my new friend!”

Tachihara rolled his eyes. “You’re not even in this dorm, dude. Why don’t you go play with your Russian boyfriend or something?”

“Oooh, sounds fun! Our favorite game is string the asshole ginger up by his unraveled large intestine!”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Mr. Ango cut in, his voice heavy with annoyance. “Gogol, report back to your dorm and tell Mr. Hawthorne I’m reassigning the new student to Tachihara. It seems you need some time to calm down and re-center.”

“Damn it!” Nikolai groaned. “But the warden gave this task to me, not fuckboy cinna-ginger!”

“For the love of god,” Ango muttered under his breath. “It’s either you head back to your dorm, or you spend the night in solitary.”

“Solitary?” Chuuya squeaked.

“Solitary?” Nikolai echoed with a flat, bored tone (contrasting comically to Chuuya’s horrified shock.) “Are you too scared to beat me like the other staff, Mr. Ango?”

Mr. Ango scowled. “I’d prefer not to, but if you deem it necessary, I have Mr. Fukuchi on speed dial.”

Nikolai sighed, dragging himself toward the door and weaving past a still shocked Chuuya on his way out. “Fine, fine, whatever. Bye-bye, Tachi. See ya, Chuuya.”

“Later, weirdo.”

“Bye, Nikolai.” 

A little while after Nikolai left, Mr. Ango excused himself to take a phone call, and Tachihara took it upon himself to explain Dorm C’s layout to the new student. The first floor of the dorm was taken up by a small kitchen, an administration office, and a large assembly room. (It’d be called a family room in another lifetime, but here, the couches were replaced by creaky wooden benches, and there wasn’t a singule electronic device – let alone a TV – in sight.) 

On the second floor were the dorm rooms, two of them for the highschool-age students and one reserved for the younger kids. Each room had 12 bunk beds in it, storing 36 students total, but right now only 30 were being used.

The top floor was where Mr. Ango and the other Dorm C staff member, Mr. Fukuchi, lived, plus some utility rooms. “We’re not allowed up there, obviously,” Tachihara said. “I couldn’t care less about the rules, but even I avoid it. Ango is pretty chill when it comes to discipline, but if you’re ever caught by Mr. Fukuchi…” He left the rest unsaid, which Chuuya silently appreciated.  

As the sun creeped down below the treeline, the students trickled back from the mess hall and into their respective dormitory houses. Chuuya declined the offer of grabbing a quick bite and instead hung with Tachihara in the East assembly room. The rule was that none of the boys were allowed up to their rooms for the night until one of the dorm staff took attendance, just to make sure nobody made a break for it.   

“Honestly, YRS isn’t too bad if you know what you’re doing,” Tachihara said, playfully bumping shoulders with Chuuya as they sat side by side on the bench. “If you got any questions, I’m your guy. I don’t doubt you can hold your own in a fight, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. The best advice I got is to mind your business and try to stay goal oriented. This place isn’t forever for us, y’know?”

Chuuya nodded. He hadn’t even finished his first day yet, and his throat was already sore with homesickness.

Tachihara noticed, and after an awkward second of courage building, he wrapped an arm around Chuuya’s shoulders. It wasn’t as soft and comforting as Arthur’s, and Tachihara’s gaze wasn’t as protective and understanding as Paul’s, but it was something, and for that, Chuuya was grateful.

“Ayo! Ryuunosuke!” Tachihara called, unlatching himself from Chuuya as a couple more students shuffled into the assembly room. “C’mere! Come meet the new guy!”

Begrudgingly, a thin kid with dark hair, choppy bangs, and the palest skin Chuuya had ever seen dragged himself over. His uniform was a bit more tattered than Tachihara’s, confirming Chuuya’s theory that today had been a work day. Upon closer inspection, the vampiric kid’s eyes were the color of charcoal, and the tips of his hair were dyed a gray-ish white color. There was a hint of a snarl in his gravelly voice when he talked.

“What do you want this time, Tachihara?”

“Aw, don’t be like that, Aku. Say hi to Chuuya Nakahara, the new kid! Chuuya, this is Ryuunosuke Akutagawa, Dorm C’s whiny goth guy. I mainly started hanging out with him because I’m into his sister, but turns out he’s a pretty cool kid,” Tachihara said.

“Don’t call me kid,” Akutagawa mumbled. “I’m older than you.”

“Yeah, by like four months,” Tachi snapped, waving the pettiness away. “And either way, it doesn’t matter. I’ve been here longer and therefore I’m cooler and smarter and tougher and – most importantly – in charge.”        

“Uh-huh,” Akutagawa yawned, dripping with sarcasm. “How interesting. You’re truly mind-blowing.”

“Funny. Your sister said the same thing when I–”

“I will kill you, Tachihara.”

“Not if you don’t want solitary, you won’t!”

Chuuya furrowed his brows, shifting his weight on the bench. He did his best to look less disturbed than he was. “What the hell is this ‘solitary’ thing, anyway? Is it actually, like…”

“I don’t know,” Tachihara admitted, stretching his arms over his head. A tag on the back of his uniform’s collar stuck out awkwardly, poking a tuft of hair that also went against the norm. “I’ve never been. Aku, what was it like when you went?” 

Akutagawa shrugged. He took his time stepping around the bench to sit on Tachihara’s left. The assembly room was almost full with about twenty-five kids littered around the space, and the smell of outside dirt and grime was stinking up the place. Yeah, it had definitely been a work day.  

“Actually, nevermind,” Tachihara said, clapping Akutagawa a little too roughly on the back. The dark haired boy sputtered out a cough and glared at him. “Sorry. You don’t gotta talk about it if you don’t wanna.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Akutagawa scoffed. “They just put you in the empty work shed for the night. The worst part about it is the cold.”

“That sounds…” Chuuya frowned. “Really illegal.”

Tachihara nodded. “You’re gonna see a lot of that here. Just… remember my advice, ‘kay?”

“What? To mind my business? They’re abusing kids here!” Chuuya hissed, balling his hands into fists. He’d never been great at controlling his emotions, but at least he remembered to drop his voice to a pained whisper, channeling his urge to strangle someone into his sharp scowl. 

“Well, it is a reform school,” Tachihara muttered back. “If you expected them to pamper us in designer clothes and fancy chocolate, you should transfer to the asylum down the road. The best thing we can do is keep our heads down and keep making progress. It’s every man for himself in YRS, Chuuya.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes, leaning forward and turning his attention to the dark-haired boy. “Akutagawa, right? If you don’t mind sharing, what did you do to get solitary?”

“Chuuya–” Tachihara started, picking up a panicked tone.

Akutagawa’s answer was served with a side of cold, dead eye-contact. “I made the mistake of speaking to Dazai.”

“Akutagawa, seriously,” Tachihara snapped. “Stop.”

Chuuya ignored him. “Who’s Dazai?”

“He’s–”

“Attention, boys!” came the house staff’s booming voice. By process of elimination, Chuuya knew it was Mr. Fukuchi; he was a tall older man with light, spiky hair, two strands falling in front of his face, and an upward mustache. Unlike Mr. Ango, Mr. Fukuchi wore a more military-like outfit instead of a suit with the sleeves rolled up and white half-palm gloves. The man carried himself with a bitchy, authoritative aura, and if Chuuya hadn’t already met the warden, he’d assume this guy was head of the whole damn school.

Every student in the assembly room shot to their feet as soon as Mr. Fukuchi spoke; Tachihara dragged Chuuya up by his upper arm, stabilizing him when he wobbled in his too-big boots.

“Tachihara, who is that you’re clinging to?” Mr. Fukuchi practically yelled.

“I’m Chuuya Nakahara,” the boy in question answered. 

“Was I asking you, Chuuya Nakahara?”

“Uh, no, but–”

“This is Nakahara, sir,” Tachihara blurted. “It’s his first day. Mr. Ango assigned me to show him the ropes.”

Mr. Fukuchi nodded. He seemed pissed and pleased at the same time, which made Chuuya tick. What an asshole. “Alright. I trust that you know what you’re doing and the consequences if any more mistakes are made.”

Tachihara stood a little straighter, and Chuuya followed suit on instinct. “Yes, sir.”

“Moving on,” Mr. Fukuchi said. “You all know the deal. If you hear your name called, respond with ‘here’ and head to your dorm.”

30 names later, it was just Mr. Fukuchi and Chuuya alone in the assembly room. 

“Before I send you off to bed,” the staff began, “I want to make one thing very clear: in this Dorm, you do not speak unless spoken to. You’re not here to have fun or make friends. You’re not here to make a difference or change the world. You’re here because you’re a delinquent who needs to be reformed. Do not make this behavior a habit. Understood?”

The urge to spit in his face was crushing Chuuya like a boulder thirty times his size, but using his incredible power of self-restraint and self-preservation, he managed with a quick nod and a mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now head up to bed, young man. You have a long day ahead of you.”

Chuuya had never been much of a crier, but he’d taken it up since the arrest. The tears came at night, when he imagined what YRS held in store for him. When he imagined his big brother in their shitty apartment, fussing around, opening and closing things because he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Arthur was probably sitting on the edge of the bed, or the couch, or standing idly in the doorway with a lost expression. And all of it was Chuuya’s fault – because had to jump into some random unfair fight and knock some bully’s lights out. Because Chuuya couldn’t mind his own damn business for once in his life. 

He knew he couldn’t let the other boys see him cry, so he turned over in the bunk and put his pillow over his head and listened to their voices: the jokes and taunts, the stories of home and distant cronies, the juvenile beliefs about how the world worked and their ridiculous plans to outwit it.

Chuuya was almost asleep when he heard the chuckles and snickers die out completely, replaced by a scream that belonged in a horror movie. A rush and a whoop, and more screams, followed by everlasting, nightmare-inducing sobs.

“That’s the worst part about being in Dorm C,” one of the kids muttered to Chuuya in the dark. He couldn’t see the kid, couldn’t even make out the silhouette. “You can hear loud and clear when the warden takes his kid out for ice cream.”

Mr. Ango knocked on the door of room 2 and yelled, “Time to get up!” His voice was a little awkward – it was comically clear he wasn’t a guy who liked to yell – and the students saluted another morning at YRS with groans and cussing. They lined up two by two for attendance and then marched to the bathroom in their single-file lines. 

Next came the two-minute shower where the boys furiously lathered with the chalky soap before their time ran out. Chuuya put on a good show of acting unsurprised by the communal showers but had less success hiding his horror at the frigid water, which was absolutely fucking merciless. What came from the pipes smelled like rotten eggs, as did anyone who bathed in it until their skin dried. 

“Now it’s breakfast,” said the kid beside Chuuya as soon as they finished dressing themselves. Chuuya recognized the voice as the kid in the bunk beside him who muttered something about ice cream last night. Chuuya had originally deemed him a lunatic like Nikolai, but upon closer inspection, the guy seemed relatively normal… Well, as normal as a girl dressed up like a guy can be.

She had straight dark hair that reached just above her shoulders and perfectly trimmed bangs. Her eyes were a deep magenta, and peaking out from her gray work shirt was a golden chain necklace with a matching butterfly charm. 

Chuuya was absolutely baffled, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. What the hell was a girl doing in an all-boys reform school? What kind of lunatic would sneak into a fucking reform school?! Before he could blurt out any of his racing thoughts, the girl slapped her hand over his mouth.

“Shut it. I have my reasons for being here. If you tell anyone, I’ll break your nose. Hit on me and I’ll stab you.” She let her hand drop from Chuuya’s mouth and offered it out for a handshake. “Akiko Yosano.”

Chuuya’s head was still spinning on his shoulders, but he took Yosano’s hand and shook it. “I’m Chuuya Nakahara,” he said, dumbfounded.

“I’m only talking to you because you were talking with Tachihara,” Yosano explained, “and I owe him one. Also, it’s nice to finally have someone around that’s shorter than me.” She delivered the last line with a wicked grin.

Chuuya scoffed, but his face was painted with a smile of its own. 

“You can ask three questions,” Yosano said as they made their way downstairs and through Dorm C’s main door. It was a quarter mile walk to the dining hall, and while Chuuya was originally planning on walking with Tachihara and Akutagawa, he couldn’t pass up this odd situation. 

Yosano had ruffled her bangs and tied her hair back on her way out, and she used a broken mirror shard to apply dirt-like contour as they walked. Chuuya had way more than three questions.

“Are you trans?” Chuuya blurted.

Yosano shook her head. “I’m a cis girl, just here on business.”

Chuuya’s nod was slow and clearly not understanding. “How come you haven’t gotten caught?” he asked as Yosano blended her not-makeup with the hem of her shirt. “No offense, but a matching outfit and a hair change isn’t really enough to pass as a guy, especially in an all-boys reform school.”

“Well, makeup helps,” Yosano said, completely unbothered. “And I don’t really need to pass as a guy. I just need to fool some of the staff.”

“But why?”

“That’s not a question I can answer right now, carrot top. Try something else.”

Chuuya scoffed. “Okay… How many people know about your… identity?”

“All the dorm C boys know, but most of them don’t give a shit. And even if they did, Ango works with my boss and hands out solitary to every asshole that makes it a big deal.”

Chuuya ignored the way his stomach knotted and the word boss. Tachihara’s advice was playing on loop in his mind, but his stupid mouth was going a mile a minute. “So Ango knows you’re…?”

“Yes, dipshit, Ango knows I’m a girl.”

“Okay, damn,” Chuuya murmured. “You don’t need to be a bitch about it. I’m guessing Mr. Fukuchi doesn’t?”

Yosano laughed. “He sure as fuck does not.” She tucked the mirror shard into the empty space in her boot and messed up her short ponytail a little more. “I think you and I will get along pretty well,” she said. “Don’t be a stranger, Chuuya. I might need your help soon.” 

Before he could ask, the quarter mile walk to the dining hall was up, and the two students got separated in the line. When Chuuya looked for a place to sit, Yosano was nowhere in sight. 

The mess hall was loud and rowdy, full of all the boys serving up their morning round of nonsense. It reminded Chuuya of his junior high years when he was still a kid on the street, making a mess of things just because he could. He didn’t hate the scene as much as his migraine instructed him to.

Tachihara caught him off guard, slapping him on the back while holding his own tray up with one hand. “Chuuya!” he cheered. “Man, I’m so glad to see you survived Mr. Fukuchi last night. I thought your ass was grass. He didn’t give you any lashes, right?”

Chuuya blinked back his confusion, trying to zone in on the conversation. “Huh? Oh. Nah, no lashes.” 

Tachihara grinned. “Good. C’mon, let’s go sit before the Dorm B psychos get here.”

Chuuya followed Tachihara to a long wooden table near the back half of the cavernous room, and they sat down in rickety chairs around the center. It wasn’t too long before Akutagawa joined them, taking a seat next to Chuuya. 

“Here, Ryuu,” Tachihara said, reaching over to grab Akutagawa’s bowl of cinnamon-oatmeal slop. He took his spoon and scraped a little over half of his own food into Akutagawa’s bowl before pushing it back in front of the dark-haired kid. Before Chuuya could ask, Tachihara said, “Aku’s got a medical problem that fucks with his lungs and muscles, so everyday I give him a little bit of my food so he can stay healthy.”

“That’s nice,” Chuuya said. He decided not to point out that three quarters of a bowl didn’t qualify as a little bit. Instead, he took his spoon and dug out a heap of oatmeal to plop into Akutagawa’s bowl. 

The pale kid’s blush was comically obvious. “You didn’t need to do that,” he murmured. “It’s not like I’ll die.”

Chuuya shrugged. “If you’re sick then you can’t work, right? And if you can’t work, that means there’s more work for me and Tachihara to do. So think of it as me looking out for myself.”

Tachihara beamed as Akutagawa gave in, getting to work on his nearly overflowing breakfast.

“So,” Chuuya started. “Uh… I was talking to Yosano this morning.”

Tachihara choked on his bite of oatmeal slop. “You what?”

“She came up to me and told me to ask her questions and–”

“Slow down, Chuuya,” Tachihara cut in. “First, Yosano is undercover, so use he/him before you get yourself killed.”

Chuuya nodded. 

“Okay. Second, do not get involved with him. Chances are he came up to you because he wants to use you for some crazy next step in his plan. Yosano’s working with outside forces, and that’s the sort of stuff that gets people killed.”

Chuuya let the conversation die out. He had a feeling Yosano was working toward exposing some bullshit at YRS, and Chuuya already made up his mind about working with her. He had every intention of burning this place to the ground.

The YRS schoolhouse was older than the dormitories, one of the few structures that dated back to the opening of the school. There were two classrooms upstairs for the younger kids and two on the main floor for the older kids. Tachihara steered Chuuya into their homeroom, which had fifty desks or so crammed inside, and the two of them squeezed into the second row. Chuuya was swiftly appalled – The posters on the walls had owls hooting out the alphabet next to bright drawings of elementary nouns: house, cat, barn. Little-kid stuff. 

“I thought you were kidding about most kids not knowing how to read,” Chuuya whispered.

Tachihara laughed. “Wish I was. This whole place is a fucking joke.” He scooted his chair forward a little, folding his arms on the desk and laying his head on top. The other kids were either doing the same or picking out board games to play from the cabinets in the back. “At least the teacher is cool. You’ll like him, Chuuya.”

The teacher’s name was Mr. Sakunosuke Oda. He was a tall man with dark brown eyes and short hair with a reddish tinge. He wore a loose, black-and-white pinstripe shirt under a beige-brown coat with brown buttons on the cuffs. To Chuuya, Mr. Oda looked like somebody’s aunt’s boyfriend that showed up once at a cookout and blended in a little too well.

Mr. Oda took attendance silently; he knew all the boys’ names and checked them off with a stubby No. 2 pencil. 

“Looks like they haven’t put you on the roster yet,” Mr. Oda said, glancing in Chuuya’s direction. Had the boy not been watching the teacher’s every move, Chuuya wouldn’t have heard him at all. 

The teacher stepped forward and pulled out a chair in front of Chuuya's desk with an unbothered, uninterested expression. His voice was the opposite, though. Slow, melodic, and kind – a real contrast to Mr. Fukuchi last night.

“My name is Mr. Oda,” the teacher said. “Mind telling me yours?”

“It’s Chuuya Nakahara, sir,” the student answered. “But just Chuuya is fine.”

Mr. Oda jotted the name down on his notepad. “Nice to meet you, Chuuya. Can you read or write?”

“I’m fifteen, of course I can,” Chuuya snorted. “I don’t know how people get this far without it.”

Mr. Oda cracked a smile at that. “You and me both, kid. Anyway, welcome to YRS. Most kids take this time to rest or socialize, but if you’re interested in doing anything academic, just let me know. I’d be happy too–”

Mr. Oda was cut off by a twiggy brunette kid wrapped in bandages and drenched like a dishrag. Instead of denim paints and a gray shirt, the kid wore a white button up, black tie, black slacks, and a heavy black coat over his shoulders – all of which were dripping water onto the school’s old wooden floorboards. The dozen other kids in the class paid him no mind, but Chuuya couldn’t pry his eyes away from the oddity standing in the doorway. If Mr. Oda was a bodyguard, this kid was without a doubt the spoiled brat in question.

To confirm the theory even farther, Mr. Oda excused himself and ushered the boy out into the hallway. 

“Before you ask,” Tachihara groaned, turning his head to look at Chuuya. “Yes, that’s Dazai.”  

Chapter Text

Chuuya didn’t see Dazai again until the next day out on the field. He sat under a tree with his face in a book, lounging in the shade while Chuuya and the rest of the team hacked at tall weeds with the dullest scythes known to mankind. Honestly, Chuuya hadn’t even considered the fact that scythes were a real thing until Mr. Fukuchi tossed one at him and yelled “Get to work, boy!” 

And to make matters worse, Chuuya was separated from Tachihara, Akutagawa, and Yosano, forced to slave away under the hot sun without any decent company. Dorm C was split into two groups, digging and weed whacking, and Chuuya just happened to be in the latter. 

Dazai, though. He was doing nothing. He sat like a corpse, knees pulled up to his chest and a copy of Hamlet in his delicate hands. He looked so disinterested, too, and it pissed Chuuya off to no end.

Oh yeah, and Nikolai was there. Apparently he got kicked out of Dorm B and sent back to Dorm C for misbehavior. 

“It was definitely worth it,” Nikolai rambled, swinging his scythe a little too loosely. Chuuya let the white-haired lunatic have plenty of space, only half listening to the long-winded story. “I’d jump out of a window a million times to see that look on Fedya’s face again.” Nikolai’s sigh was dreamy and in the clouds as he leaned on his scythe like a lovestruck teen in a 60s musical. “He’s beautiful. The most beautiful guy in the whole world, I’m certain of it.”

“Uh-huh,” Chuuya snorted. “I’m sure he is… Wait, you jumped out of a window?!”

Nikolai rolled his eyes, swinging his scythe up on his shoulder like a baseball bat. His lashes fluttered sarcastically as he rocked on his heels, taunting Chuuya with an oncoming smirk. “Do keep up, darling. If you’re going to replace Sigma then you’ve got to keep your head in the game.”

Chuuya frowned. “First off, you’re crazy. Second, uh, who the fuck is Sigma?”

“They were a dear friend before the incident,” Nikolai lamented, just as melodramatic as ever. “This upcoming Friday will mark two weeks since they were locked in solitary. It’s truly devastating… They were such a warm soul–” He sniffled, dabbing the inner corners of his eyes with the hem of his work shirt. “–taken from us much too soon.”

Chuuya’s jaw dropped halfway to hell, making him sputter out his words as if he were the crazy one. “Two weeks?! That has to be breaking some sort of law.” 

Nikolai’s demeanor completely changed in a matter of milliseconds, and he focused in on his work, slashing at a thorny weed that grew up to his hip. Chuuya, confused at first, followed suit, ducking his head as soon as he noticed the adult walking by in his peripheral vision. 

A moment later, the boys visibly relaxed when the adult spoke, raising a gentle hand and addressing the team. “No worries,” Mr. Oda said. He sat down beneath the oak tree, right beside that Dazai kid on the grass. “You kids know I don’t mind if you talk amongst each other. You’re just as human as anyone else as far as I’m concerned.”

Chuuya beamed, turning to Nikolai with a loopy-looking grin. He hoped the other kids adored the teacher as much as he did, but instead of a warm grin, Nikolai’s face was scrunched up into a look of disgust.

“What’s the matter with you?” Chuuya scoffed, loud enough for only Nikolai to hear. “That teacher is probably the only sane adult in this whole damn school. You coulda picked any staff member to dislike, and you picked Mr. Oda?”

“You don’t get it,” Nikolai grumbled. “He’s not supposed to be here.”

Chuuya scowled. “You’re damn right I don’t get it. Do you plan on explaining, shithead?”

The scythe was as efficient as a guillotine, decapitating every weed in Nikolai’s path mercilessly. Accompanied by the misplaced whimsy, Nikolai’s sudden mood swings and demeanor changes were only adding to Chuuya’s mental “This Guy Is A Fucking Lunatic” evidence folder.

Twenty seconds and a few feet of gnarly chopped weeds later, Nikolai sighed and morphed back into his clown-like personality. “This is a place where broke punks, stupid orphans, and unloved children with a good sense of humor get sent to live out the rest of their childhood,” the boy monologued. “Only the shittiest of us make it past the first two weeks, and only the coldest of us make it to the finish line. If you’re ready to have manual labor suck the life out of you like an American pornstar trying to pay off her student loans, you’re in the right place.” And again, his expression hardened, glaring at the teacher under the tree. “He’s not one of us, Chuuya. You can tell by the way he carries himself. Sakunosuke Oda is not in the right place.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes, getting back to work with his own scythe. “I think you’re being dramatic,” he said. “Mr. Oda might not be a broke orphan or an unloved punk, but he’s a decent guy. ‘People like us’ need as many decent people as we can get.”

Nikolai huffed out a breath of laughter. “You and Sigma are so alike and yet so, so incredibly different.”

“I could say the same about you and the local court jester arrested for mass murder.” 

“As I said,” Nikolai grinned, “It’s us unloved children with a good sense of humor that make it the furthest in this shithole. As long as you don’t kill yourself or try to run away, you’re gonna do just fine.”

The days passed agonizingly slow. A cruel wake-up and torture showers followed by walks with Yosano to the mess hall, meals with Tachihara and Akutagawa, and then off to either the schoolhouse or the fields. Chuuya spent school days trying to decipher English poetry and plays from the Renaissance, and work in the fields was a battle between sore muscles and the anomaly that is Nikolai Gogol. 

After a week passed, Nikolai packed up and settled back into Dorm B, and Chuuya had given up on the English literature works. He worked alone under the hot sun and slept on his desk next to Tachihara; work days left him cramped and drained, and with the warden “taking his kid out for ice cream” every night, it was impossible to sleep.

Yosano was still yet to explain what that meant, but every time Chuuya asked, her expression shifted into something warmer. He was getting closer to some sort of answer, and that might be the limit of the progress he can make here at YRS.

Mr. Oda didn’t always show up on work days, and Chuuya lamented every time he didn’t. Without his bodyguard keeping him distracted and entertained, Dazai got bored of his books quickly and turned his attention to the boys at work. When he was really bored, he’d whistle and throw a rock, making the nearest boy go fetch.

Chuuya, disturbed and annoyed, let the lunatic be.

That was until Dazai decided it was Chuuya’s turn to play.

“Hey, ginger slug!” Dazai called, grinning ear-to-ear. Chuuya, bewildered, snapped his fiery eyes in the scumbag’s direction. The scumbag in question held a stubby branch in his pale hand and waved it around, whistling and fighting back laughter. “You’re a pretty dog, aren’t you, boy? Here!” He jumped up to his feet and threw the stick as far as he could, watching as it soared over the hill and into the nearby pond. “Go fetch.”

Contrary to popular belief, there wasn’t a god or a magical force of the universe to keep Chuuya morally straight. Rage flashed through him, jaw clenched and hands curled into fists. The scythe was tossed to the side without a care, and the footprints Chuuya left in the grass looked like craters from a meteor. 

Things happened quickly. Too quickly. Dazai’s collar was yanked forward, and a fist connected with his left cheekbone, knocking him backward. But the hand on his shirt stayed, and the first hit was far from the last. He felt a knee jab into his midsection like a dull knife, forcing a cough from his lips. By the time Chuuya was finished, the redhead was breathing heavily and the brunette was barely breathing at all. 

The stick bobbed in the pond’s murky water.

Mr. Fukuchi gave him ten lashes and a week in solitary. 

Dazai was rushed to the infirmary by two Dorm C kids who were motivated only by the high chances of earning merits for helping out the warden’s favorite. Time moved quickly and not at all simultaneously. He felt hands grab his arms, his legs; hands steadied his head, covered his eyes, hugged his midsection. When the hands peeled off his clothes, the panic truly set in. 

Dazai just caused a scene. He miscalculated. He made a mistake, and now he was on his way to the infirmary – to the warden, and holy shit he was screwed, absolutely fucking screwed–     

Dazai's mind raced, and his heart hammered against his chest like a caged bird. Each touch, each movement sent shockwaves of terror through his already frazzled nerves. As his clothes were peeled away, his breaths came in shallow gasps, his chest constricting with each inhale. He was going to die. He was sure of it. This was it, this was the end. 

Hyperventilation made him light-headed, though, so after a little while, Dazai couldn’t focus on anything, let alone panic. His mind flitted from picture to concept, from color to smell, and swirled down the drain like a dead fish. It was like watching a horror movie through a small, foggy window.    

Sometime between the start of his panic and the mental swirly he was giving himself, a face mask ventilator was strapped to his face, blowing and sucking air in and out of him. He was able to collect his thoughts a bit and regained the basic functions of his senses: the room was bright. His mouth tasted metallic and bloody; the cot he was tossed onto was stiff and cold; it smelled antiseptic and unnaturally, chemically clean; and a familiar woman’s voice dripped through the cracks in the ceiling, slowly filling the floral-scented room.

Miss Kouyou was an intern who worked for Mr. Mori eight years ago, before he became the warden of Yokohama Reform School. He had taken ownership of his family’s clinic, and teenage Ozaki Kouyou was looking for a summer internship before classes started up again in the fall. She found Mori – or Mori found her – and she decided to quit school to work as his assistant and general manager. When the position of warden opened up at YRS, Kouyou followed her boss without question.

She was a kind-hearted woman, though that was hidden under a layer of cynical judgment and passive-aggression. Dazai enjoyed her company, despite the feeling being far from mutual.     

“The warden is almost here,” she said, dabbing the sweat from Dazai’s brow with a rose-colored handkerchief. The breathing mask was still secured over his mouth and nose, and a headband pushed his dark curls out of the way so Kouyou could work her magic. The boy couldn’t see well – his right eye’s sight was impaired anyway, but the bruises and splits littered over his face certainly didn’t help. Instead of babying him, though, Miss Kouyou just sighed and headed off to fetch an ice pack.

Dazai stared up at the ceiling, trying to keep himself lucid enough to deal with the oncoming train.

“He won’t be happy,” Miss Kouyou continued as she returned with a Ziploc bag full of ice. “And I’m not pleased, either. After all that fussing I did to have you allowed outside, you went and got yourself beat up. One of these days you’ll have to learn, Dazai. You must live in the space provided to you. Nothing more, nothing less.” She took her seat by the cot and pressed the ice to the boy’s battered face. “I hope one day you’ll realize that you’re not making any progress this way. You’re only hurting yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Dazai choked out, adding as much disdain as he could into his words. They were muffled by the ventilator, but Kouyou heard him all the same. “It’s him. Don’t you see? He’s the one doing all of this!”

“Hush up, lad,” Kouyou scoffed. “He saved your life more times than either of us can count. Mine as well. We owe him everything. The least you could do is play house for a little while longer, no? When you’re grown up, you can do whatever you’d like with your life. But first you have to repay your debt.”

Dazai rolled his eyes as much as his bruises allowed him to. It wasn’t Kouyou he was mad at but rather the whole system that brainwashed her into thinking this way. Dazai didn’t know much about abuse and what it looked like – neither did he care, actually, but he knew that he wanted to die and that damn warden was making it impossible. 

“Be grateful for what you have, Dazai,” Kouyou whispered. “Out of all of us who are forced to dwell in the dark, I’d say you have it the best.”

That made Dazai’s stomach churn.   

When the warden entered the infirmary, his magenta eyes flared with concern. He made a swift break toward Dazai who laid still as a stone and gathered the beaten boy into his arms.

“Are you alright, doll?” the warden gushed, pulling back to inspect Dazai’s face. He pried off the ventilator and held the boy’s head in both hands, turning it side to side to observe the damage. “Oh, what did they do to you, my love? What did they do?”

“I’m fine, boss,” Dazai grumbled, trying and failing to push the hands away from him. “Don’t touch me. I don’t want to be touched.”

“Nonsense,” Mori snapped. “You’re just a child, Osamu. When children are injured, they need attention more than ever. I understand your upbringing may have influenced your perspective, but I'm here to support you. Always.” The warden turned to Miss Kouyou, offering up a warm smile. “I’d appreciate some privacy while I tend to my son, Miss Kouyou.”

“Of course, sir,” Kouyou answered. She gave a small bow before swiftly leaving the room, pulling the curtain behind her.

“Tell me who did this to you,” the warden ordered. “Who ruined my precious doll’s face?”   

Dazai frowned. “I hate it when you call me stuff like that,” he murmured.

“Now is not the time for attitude, young man,” Mori warned. “Cooperate or there will be more consequences than what I already have planned.”

Dazai felt sick. “The new kid. The one with orange hair.”

Just thinking about him dragged Dazai back into the moment. Vibrant orange hair, a little knotted and cut a bit jagged. Originally he was just curious about what the pretty boy was like, but once he marched up to him, Dazai knew the taunting was all worth it. 

Freckles covered his whole face, odd and unorganized, more condensed around his nose and under his eyes. Oh, and his eyes. His left eye was a cloudy blue with flecks of a darker muted brown, and the right was a pond of golden brown as deep as the one Dazai fell into a week and a half ago. There was something about that short ginger, something Dazai couldn’t put his finger on.

That fact in and of itself was something out of this world. Something fascinating, enchanting. Mesmerizing. 

The last time Dazai met a person so unpredictable was when the warden first allowed him to join the class with the other boys. There he met Mr. Odasaku, his first friend and ally in this pathetic existence. To learn that there were more unpredictable anomalies? To learn that there were unpredictable anomalies so small and so feisty and so beautiful–

“Chuuya Nakahara. I knew that boy was no good,” the warden mumbled, jerking Dazai’s chin upward much rougher than needed. “He was a powder keg about to explode. And look at what he’s done to your beautiful face…”

Dazai groaned, shifting as far away from the warden as possible. Of course, his attempts were in vain. Warden Mori pressed his palm to Dazai’s chest and slammed him back down onto the metal table.

“You are not innocent in this situation either, Osamu. I told you time and time again to leave those worthless vermin alone, and here you are provoking them,” Mori hissed, adding pressure to his hand on Dazai’s chest, creeping it up toward his neck. “I thought you said this behavior would cease if I allowed that low-life grunt of a teacher to join you on work days. Was that extension of kindness a waste of my time?”

“No,” Dazai sputtered. The warden’s hand reached his throat but no more pressure was added; Mori allowed him this chance, watching with an apathetic stare, waiting for the child to defend himself. “Mr. Oda keeps me out of trouble. He keeps me focused on my studies, it’s just–”

“He wasn’t around today,” Mori interrupted. “Yes, I’m aware. But I expect you to behave without a babysitter, Dazai. You are fifteen years old and acting like a toddler. Would you like to be treated like a toddler? Is that it? Would you like to return to your life indoors?”

“No! No, I–”

A palm cracked like a whip across his face, ruining the constellation of bruises and splits left behind by Chuuya’s fury. “You do not raise your voice at me,” Mori seethed. “You know better.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Dazai whispered. He refrained from touching his cheek, forced himself to ignore the stinging sensation. “It won’t happen again.”

“It better not.” Mori sighed, letting his hands rest in his lap. Then his voice melted into something sympathetic, something buttery, almost fatherly, and Dazai felt the nausea return slowly but surely. “Please… If you keep acting this way, I’ll be forced to dismiss Oda from his position as a teacher here. You don’t want that, do you, sweetheart?”

“No sir,” Dazai hiccuped. “No, I- I’m sorry.”

Mori pulled him close once again, wrapping his arms around the boy’s small frame. Dazai’s urge to cry nearly tripled. “I know you are, doll. I forgive you.” The warden adjusted him in his lap, cooing softly and petting his dark hair. Mori pushed the curls back and pressed a kiss to the boy’s forehead. The bandages around his right eye were discarded during the earlier attack out on the field. “However, I’m not sure your attacker can be forgiven. That little cunt had the audacity to hurt my little boy? My property?” The following curses evaporated on the warden’s tongue, and Dazai stilled in his lap, frightened on the ginger’s behalf.

“What’re you gonna do to him?”

“I’m having Mr. Fukuchi handle it,” Mori answered. “Ten lashes and a week in solitary for now, until I figure out what to do with him. Had this situation occurred a few months from now, we could’ve disposed of him, but his family is still hovering. It’ll take a little while for them to forget about him.” The warden sighed. “What do you think we should do, doll? I will do anything in my power to make you feel safe.”

Dazai ignored how ironic that statement was. Practically all of his torment came from the warden himself, and yet the man threw a temper tantrum when a kid his age issued a fraction of the same treatment. 

Still, the power was nice. Dazai had a lot of say in how his life and the lives of the students around him went, and that was part of the reason he bothered sticking around – at the school and in life overall. Odasaku was a kind and unique friend, and Kouyou had a point about sucking it up and paying off his debt, but Dazai’s selfishness was a beast hidden under his skin. Living with Mori meant power. If Mori was the king, Dazai was the prince, and if he wanted to make someone suffer…

“Double it,” Dazai murmured, nuzzling against Mori’s chest. “Twenty lashes and two weeks in the shed. I want him to regret ever laying hands on me.”

The warden kissed the boy’s head and grinned like a lunatic. “Your wish is my command, doll.”

Mr. Fukuchi dragged Chuuya by the upper arm about a third of a mile to the work shed. Chuuya didn’t fight, didn’t scream; he didn’t do anything, couldn’t do anything. His body was frozen, and his mind was moving thousands of light years per millisecond, diving into the deepest darkest corners and violent endings and damp alleyways and hungry stomachs, forcing himself not to cry, not to cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t–

He was tossed on the ground like a ragdoll, crashing into the uncut grass and thorny stems and branches from unfinished games of fetch. Mr. Fukuchi loomed over him, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms. He was preparing for something, preparing- preparing to- to–

The man pulled a leather strap from his bag. The last victim’s blood was still crusted to the material. 

Chuuya’s pleas to not cry left as quickly as they arrived. Fukuchi forced the boy’s shirt off, and the leather strap came down. Again. And again. And again. 

Chuuya counted ten, his breath heavy and thick with agony. His throat was sore from screaming, and the skin on his back was burning, slick with blood.

“Old age must be getting to me,” Mr. Fukuchi complained, exhaling as he stretched out his arms again. “Ten lashes used to be a walk in the park. Unfortunately for both of us, you decided to attack the warden’s kid, meaning we still have more to go.” He flicked his wrist in a lazy attempt to rid the leather or excess blood. There was so much, and Chuuya wasn’t breathing, not really. “I warned you, didn’t I, boy?” SLAP. “Being a hero will only get you killed.”

Chuuya fainted after 13.      

When he woke up, Chuuya was lying flat on his stomach in the cold. Beneath him were rough wooden floorboards, their surface worn and splintered from years of neglect. The air was thick with the scent of must and decay, suffocating him with its stale embrace, and Chuuya became acutely aware of the searing pain radiating from his back as consciousness slowly seeped back into him. 

His shirt and shoes were tossed just out of his reach, and his first instinct was to stand up. He tried, but his vision swam and sent him crashing down on his hands and knees. Outside, he could hear birds chirping and a light wind rustling the leaves. It was morning, meaning Chuuya had slept through the entirety of yesterday afternoon and all throughout the night – probably thanks to Mr. Fukuchi’s leather strap. 

Giving up on standing, Chuuya forced himself to sit up and surveyed his surroundings through a haze of pain. The tool shed was small and dilapidated, its walls adorned with cobwebs and rusted tools long forgotten. Like the staff’s weapon, blood from who knows when was crusted into the floor, and shafts of sunlight filtered through the cracks in the wooden panels, casting a soft glow on the ancient gore.

Despite the oppressive atmosphere, Chuuya felt a surge of relief flood through him as he realized he was alone. No enemies lurking in the shadows, no imminent threat poised to strike. He let himself relax his muscles before the dread set in. 

He was alone. All alone. The wounds on his back were left untreated. He couldn’t even move his arms without pain. He was alone, and he was going to stay alone for a while. A long while. 

How long did Fukuchi say he’d be stuck in here? Did he give a number?

Would Chuuya be fed? Or would he be forced to starve?

Akutagawa said the worst thing about solitary was the cold, but Chuuya had only been awake for five minutes and could already name twelve things worse than the goddamn temperature. 

He ended up drifting in and out of sleep, his body absolutely drained. He laid on his stomach in a weak attempt to keep dirt and dust out of his wounds and did his best to think of happy – or at least neutral things. 

He wondered what Paul and Arthur were up to. Had they been worrying about him over the past week and a half? Maybe they were better off without a delinquent kid who only offered another mouth to feed.

Chuuya tried not to think at all. 

Hours later, Chuuya assumed, though time seemed elusive in his little prison, he stirred to the grating sound of the work shed's padlock jangling. His muscles tensed instinctively, a sharp reminder of his battered state. As the shed door creaked open, he jolted upright, and quickly regretted the sudden movement, wincing as pain surged through him.

“Yosano?!” His voice came out way too strained, a mix of relief, caution, and embarrassment.

The girl chuckled softly, the sound gently rippling through the barely lit space. “Shut it short-stack,” she said with a hint of amusement. “You don’t wanna get caught, do you?”

The laughter was contagious, and on Chuuya’s end, a little manic. Despite the situation, Chuuya couldn't help but feel a rush of absurd amusement. “You must be out of your fucking mind coming out here.” 

Yosano closed the door with a soft thud and set down her duffle bag, taking a seat opposite Chuuya on the dusty floor. “I talked to my boss,” she said. “He agreed that you’re the right man for the mission.” She unzipped the bag and took out a first aid kit and a fancy lunchbox. Inside it were two raw potatoes and a head of broccoli. 

The smile Yosano offered seemed to carry a weight of its own. It almost made up for the fact that Chuuya was bleeding, being forced to choose between eating raw food and starving half to death while locked in an old ass musty-dusty wooden shed.

“Sorry,” Yosano said, sounding a little embarrassed. “This is the best I could get without drawing attention to myself. I’d get into a shit load of trouble if I got caught coming to see you.” The first aid kit was opened up, and Yosano helped Chuuya maneuver around so she had access to his wounded back.

“So?” Chuuya prodded, his curiosity outweighing his discomfort. He did his best to ignore the stinging feeling of the alcohol wipe. “What’s this mission you’re talking about? And who’s your boss?” He ripped a chunk of broccoli off the head and popped it in his mouth. The crunch was more satisfying than he expected.

Yosano sighed, her fingers deftly navigating the contents of the first aid kit as she tended to Chuuya's wounds. She set the alcohol wipes aside and grabbed a pair of tweezers to pluck out the bits of grass that got stuck in the wounds during the beating. “Promise to listen to the whole thing before you make up your mind, alright?”

“Okay well now it sounds less interesting. Don’t tell me we’re gonna overthrow the government or die trying or something. I mean, I’m down with the message, but I’m not really in the best condition to–”

“We’re breaking Dazai out of YRS.” 

The declaration hung heavy in the air. Chuuya' paused, breathing frozen, his thoughts racing as he grappled with the implications.

“...Who the fuck is ‘ we’?!” he gasped. “I sure as fuck will not be doing anything to help that arrogant, spoiled, obnoxious little–”

Yosano reached forward and slapped her hand over Chuuya’s mouth, hoping he’d feel the scowl aimed directly at the back of his head. “What the hell did I just say about listening to the whole thing? Also, unless you want a dozen more lashes, you better shut up for real.”

Chuuya relented, peeling Yosano's hand away as he listened intently to her explanation. “Fine. Whatever. Sorry. Go on.”

Yosano huffed. Her recounting of their mission was punctuated by the scrape of tweezers against skin, the sting of antiseptic a harsh reminder of their reality. As she spoke, Chuuya found himself caught in the web of her words, each revelation a knot tightening around his resolve. “My boss, the one I keep mentioning, his name is Yukichi Fukuzawa. He’s a social worker that used to be in cahoots with Mori before that bastard became the warden of YRS. Mori was a doctor and owned a clinic in a pretty dangerous area. Most his patients were either criminals or children of abuse because Mori so skilled and knew how to keep his mouth shut. But it didn’t take long for Fukuzawa to see how fucked the whole thing was.

“I was ten years old when Mori offered me a job as an unpaid intern. I accepted – ‘cause I was ten – and I learned what kind of man Ougai Mori was. Long story short, a genius patient of Mori’s, who also just happened to be Fukuzawa’s adopted son, spent five minutes with the doctor for his first checkup and reported him.

“Without evidence, it was impossible to convict him. I wasn’t willing to testify because my parents didn’t want to deal with the aftermath. Like I said, he was friendly with all the local criminals. So nobody was willing to help take him down. Nobody except Fukuzawa and his kid.

“I ended up being adopted by Fukuzawa, and I like to think of him as my boss. I still plan to go to med school after I graduate, but working as a mini under-the-table social worker with Fukuzawa is a passion of mine. When I heard Mori was taking over a school full of ‘deliquent’ children, I knew we had to do something.

“Convincing Fukuzawa to let me go undercover was a pain in the ass. He insisted on doing this the proper way with a whole investigation, but we all knew Mori would come out unscathed with his sheild of connections. So I–”

“Wait,” Chuuya cut in. “How come Fukuzawa’s son didn’t go?”

Yosano shook her head. “Ranpo can’t lie for the life of him. He’s a genius, and if he thinks someone is stupid, he’ll say it. Also, his pain tolerance is pathetically low.”

“Oh,” Chuuya said. “That makes sense, I guess. These punishments are no fucking joke.”  

Yosano laughed dryly, moving to take out some ointment and bandages. “Anyway, here I am, undercover in a boys’ reform school, searching for evidence to use against Mori, and that’s when I hear about Dazai. When that Akutagawa kid got solitary just for speaking to him, I knew he was connected to Mori somehow. I don’t know much about him, but I know people that do. People that won’t talk to me, but will talk to you. And now that you’ve got Dazai’s attention, we can get water right from the source.”

“What the hell do you mean? I didn’t get his attention, I just beat the shit out of him!” Chuuya cried. He was grateful Yosano couldn’t see the way his face burned. (He was unaware that the flustered blush ran all the way up his ears.) 

“Quiet, dumbass,” Yosano laughed. “And yeah, that got his attention. You should’ve heard what he said after Fukuchi dragged you away. He’s totally smitten with you, babes.”

“Huh? What the fuck did that bandaged bastard say about me?!”

“Chuuya! Shut! Up!”

“Sorry, sorry…” He mumbled. “What did he say?”

“And I quote, ‘Fuck, he’s incredible. This might be true love’ .”

Chuuya’s jaw dropped halfway to hell. “You… You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Yosano cackled like the devil. “It’s way too good to make up. Congratulations Chuuya, you punched your way into a relationship with a suicidal sociopath. Now it’s up to you whether you use this power for good or for evil.”  

“So you wanna use me as an information collecter?” Chuuya tsked as Yosano began to wrap the bandages around his midsection, covering up his back. “Is that all?”

“For now, yes. Not only does Mori need to go down, but Dazai needs help. Fukuzawa and Ranpo are doing everything they can, and I’m in the process of negotiating with Ango to help me properly document things while in here. I need you to squeeze info about Mori out of Dazai, and maybe information about Dazai out of Mr. Oda.”

“Christ,” Chuuya murmured. “This is… a lot.”

“I know,” Yosano said. “But you can handle it. You already publicly proved yourself to be a badass, and there are people that need our help. Everyone here is some kind of fucked, don’t you think?”

Chuuya nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. Yosano shifted around, reaching to grab his shirt without creaking too many floorboards. She helped Chuuya wiggle into it without moving his arms too much. “I want to get out of here with my dignity still intact,” Chuuya said. “And I want Akutagawa and Tachihara out of here, too. I want everyone to make it out of here.” He looked up at the girl as she stood, fighting the urge to cry. He really didn’t want to be left alone again.

Yosano smiled down at him, somehow hearing his panicked thoughts. “I’ll be back,” she said. “I’d offer to bring your friends along, but I don’t want to risk getting caught.”

Again, Chuuya nodded. The words felt stuck in his throat. 

“Try to get some rest, alright? You’ll be out before you know it, Chuuya. I promise.”

“Thanks, Yosnao,” he managed to choke out.

“No problem.”

The next time the shed door opened was five agonizing days later. Chuuya had done his best with rationing the two potatoes and head of broccoli he got from Yosano, but his stomach was begging for more and he couldn’t make it stop, a relentless gnawing ache that refused to be ignored. He was so damn hungry that the sound of the shed door creaking open was almost overshadowed by his own empty stomach.

When Dazai slipped into the room, Chuuya almost didn’t recognize him. (Not that he knew the boy well, but still.) He still adorned all the bandages on his arms and legs, but the one usually covering his right eye was replaced by a white eye patch. Instead of the sharp suit and tie and heavy black coat, Dazai wore baggy Ninja Turtle pants and an oversized Sanrio hoodie. The pockets were stuffed with Pop-Tarts and two juice boxes.

The bruises Chuuya gifted him had faded a little bit but not nearly enough to be unnoticeable. To Chuuya’s surprise, he didn’t seem all that upset about the whole ordeal.

“Tell whoever visited you to work on their lock picking skills,” Dazai said, sitting down in front of Chuuya with a dopey smile. “There was a chipped bobby pin stuck in there. I had to use a magnet to get it out.”

“What…” Chuuya coughed. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Dazai pouted. “You beat the living shit out of me, I come here bearing gifts, and that’s how you greet me?”

“Oh, shut the hell up. You’re the one that got me locked in here to begin with.”

“Last time I checked, teasing you with a game of fetch is not worthy of broken blood vessels and public humiliation.”

Chuuya scoffed. “You know what you are?”

“Genius billionaire playboy philanthropist?”

“An asshole. You’re an asshole, Dazai. The fact that you were treating us like dogs in the first place is fucking nuts.”

Dazai shrugged. “Mori said you like dogs so...”

Chuuya paused, horrified. “What?”

Dazai paused, too. When he planned the conversation in his mind, Chuuya was flattered that Dazai took time out of his day to learn what Chuuya liked. This sort of reaction wasn’t in the maladaptive daydream.  

“Did you just say that you were forcing those kids to play fetch with you because you heard I like dog?! Putain! Are you fucking crazy?!” 

“Chuuya, hush, you’re gonna get us caught,” Dazai giggled. “And no, I didn’t say that. I just said that Mori said that you like dogs. You pogo-sticked to that conclusion all by yourself, chibi.”

“You’re insane. You’re actually clinically fucking insane.”

“I prefer the term unique, but that works too,” Dazai said. “But honestly, I thought you would’ve found it charming.”  

“Charming?! You were bullying kids – who were already forced to do hours of slave work under the hot sun – and you thought I’d be charmed? Dazai, that’s mean . That’s a mean thing to do to someone, and I’m not the type of person who would just sit back and take it.”

Dazai grinned. “After meeting you, I think I might be.”

“Wha– Ew! You’re a fucking pervert, too?!”

Dazai rolled his eyes, laughing softly in the dusty shed. Their only light was the waxing moon that seeped in through the murky window, but it was a perfect spotlight for the bandaged freak, Chuuya thought. As he gazes at him, his heart unexpectedly quickens its pace, a realization dawning upon him with startling clarity. Even with the bruises, Dazai was pretty. The delicate curve of his jawline, the softness of his features juxtaposed with a hint of underlying strength. His eyes, a shade of warm brown, and the gentle tilt to his lips, a subtle quirk that suggests an oncoming joke so terrible that Chuuya might laugh from hysteria alone.

“If you keep staring, I might turn to stone,” Dazai teased, reaching forward to flick the ginger’s forehead. “Medusa was a ginger, after all.”

Chuuya, fighting back a flustered blush and homicidal thoughts, balled his hands into fists. “You’re so… so fucking annoying.”

“Yeah,” Dazai winked. “I get that a lot.”

Chuuya sighed, giving up on anger for the time being. He was too hungry and too low on energy. “You didn’t answer my question. What’re you doing here?”

“Well you didn’t greet me properly,” Dazai pouted. He shifted his weight, straightening himself out so he sat directly in front of the other boy, eye-to-eye. “How about we start over, yeah? Then I’ll give you these Pop-Tarts.”

Chuuya was physically incapable of not frowning. But he remembered what Yosano said about helping people and Dazai’s weird little crush, and… “Fine,” he said. “I’m Chuuya Nakahara, but everyone just calls me Chuuya. It’s… nice to meet you.”

Dazai’s smile, Chuuya was hesitant to say, made his heart flutter like an infatuated middle schooler, like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. “I’m Osamu Dazai. It’s nice to meet you, too.”

Chapter Text

When Dazai left the work shed that night, he was lost in the clouds, high on life. He had experienced quite a bit in his fifteen years of life, and so far, the redheaded enigma covered in freckles sat at the top. If it were up to Dazai, Chuuya Nakahara would be labeled the eighth wonder of the world.  

After Dazai snuck in and convinced Chuuya not to bite his head off, they talked for hours about the most random things two teenage boys could think of. Chuuya had circled back to Dazai’s Tony Stark reference, and they bickered over which character deserved the title of “strongest avenger.” Later, they gossiped about the YRS staff – apparently nobody else knew about Ango’s massive crush on Odasaku, so Dazai spent half an hour trying to prove to Chuuya that, yeah, Ango’s crush was ginormous.  

When Dazai laughed, it was airy and soft. He made sure to keep his volume down so he could hear the symphony that was Chuuya Nakahara. There was so much wrapped into his little body, and Dazai was absolutely fascinated. Every second spent with him was painted on the walls of memory lane, a permanent mural to forever admire.

But there was more to it, too. Chuuya was handsome, of course, but there was more, and Dazai was obsessed. Even talking to Odasaku wasn’t as thrilling as talking with Chuuya. The conversation flowed not like a steady stream but like a rushing river, plowing through mercilessly, and Dazai rode it like an Aussie adrenaline junkie.

Chuuya was fun. He was spirited and action-packed. But he was also secure. Even locked in a wooden shed in a reform school hundreds of miles away from home, Chuuya offered a safe space for Dazai to unfold into.     

There was no urge to control the situation, to manipulate Chuuya into social submission. There was no panic flooding Dazai’s senses, no fear that he had said the wrong thing. They made jokes over Pop-Tarts and juice boxes as if they were two normal kids, hanging out in a skatepark after school or something. It was perfect.

Dazai told the ginger prisoner that he’d better leave before his eight wives started to get lonely. Chuuya had called him an idiot in French and made him promise he would come back, said his head got fuzzy if he went too long without eating. Dazai smiled, blew a kiss, and promised.

He promised. 

But unfortunately, he miscalculated. 

The window Dazai slipped out of was open when he returned to it. Immediately he froze, gears churning at the speed of sound to find a way out. His first instinct was to run – he hadn’t entered the warden’s quarters yet. He could make a break for it, get as far as physically possible and hide out, maybe ask Mr. Odasaku for help – but the idea was shot down a second later. The warden would find him. And even if he didn’t, he’d find Odasaku. He might even find Chuuya. With so much to lose, running was not an option.

Alternatively, Dazai could lie. There was no proof that he had snuck out to meet somebody. He could lie and say he went out for a walk. Or maybe to jump in the lake again. Would the warden believe him if he said chickened out of another suicide attempt? Would Dazai be able to sell it? If he needed to fool Fukuchi, Fitzgerald, or Hawthorne, he sure as hell could. But the warden?

No. The last time Dazai tried fooling the warden ended with him in a full body cast – not because he was injured, but instead to restrict his movement for a while. Mori was creative with punishments when he was truly upset, and lying made him truly upset.

So what could he do? If he told the truth, he risked being locked up again, and Odasaku could lose his job, and Chuuya could be punished even further. 

(His feelings toward Chuuya revealed their complicated true selves the more distance he put between them. The boy was handsome, and he made Dazai feel normal, but Dazai wasn’t sure if he liked feeling normal. Chuuya was a drug that Dazai wasn’t ready to be addicted to.) 

Anyway, generally speaking, while Dazai was in his right mind, he didn’t want anyone to get hurt.

But Mori was waiting. And Dazai didn’t have a plan.

Cussing under his breath, the brunette hiked toward the building and made his way up the wall. The warden’s quarters, like all the other buildings (minus the shed), was two stories of red bricks and an asphalt shingle roof. Some bricks along the East wall poked out enough for Dazai to climb them, and he made use of this over the past four years that he’d been trapped with the warden. He often felt like a princess, locked away like this, but sometimes he felt like a queen ruling alongside her king. 

Dazai led a very conflicting life. 

(The warden preferred it this way.) 

When Dazai reached the window, it was opened just enough for him to squeeze through. The lights were off, but he knew better than to assume the warden was asleep. He landed with a small thud and closed the window behind him. His feet were silent on the carpet.

Mori waited in the dining room, and when Dazai shuffled into view, he started Piano Sonata no. 11 on the vinyl player beside him on the table. 

“Welcome home,” the warden greeted. His ever-present grin toed the line of insanity. 

Dazai hung his head, waiting. He learned that crying was counterproductive – because Mori loved it when he cried – so he shut down his tears as fast as possible, choking them back like a bad cough. He was still in the process of learning to calm his other physical reactions, like his shaking shoulders and trembling hands. He knew Mori liked it, liked seeing him small and weak and in need of guidance, and he hated giving Mori what he wanted.

Dazai bit the inside of his cheek, clenching his hands into fists. He expected to be hit. What he got instead was much worse.

Mori wrapped his arms around the boy’s thin frame and pulled him close, tucking the head of brown curls into his chest. It smelt like metal and smoke, and Dazai couldn’t breathe. Snakes curled around his arms, talons raked through his scalp, and the kisses to the top of his head were scorpion stings laced with venom. Dazai tried to breathe, he really did, but he was suffocating. He was trapped in a room, in a bed, in full body cast, in the clutches of the devil’s darker twin, and he couldn’t- he couldn’t–  

“You know I love you, right, Osamu?”

Dazai didn’t even know why he wanted to cry. Weren’t good fathers supposed to say things like that? Wasn’t Dazai supposed to like those pretty words? 

“I only want you to be the best version of yourself, to learn how to live in this wretched world. Every move I make is with your best interest at heart. So please remember that as I guide you toward the right path.”

Maybe he was crying because he didn’t deserve a good father. Maybe Mori was doing everything right, but Dazai knew he didn't deserve it, so he cried. Maybe that was it. It didn’t help him hold the tears back, or help him breathe any better, but at least it was an answer, right?

“When I set rules and expectations for you, they are to keep you mentally awake and morally straight. I allowed you to leave home and enter school with Mr. Oda because you convinced me doing so would improve your sullen mood and defiant behavior. However, you’ve made it clear that this exposure is not helping but instead hurting you. And the last thing I’d want is for my little boy to be hurt.”

It didn’t make sense. None of it made any sense, and Dazai was too tired and too sad and too scared and too numb to figure it out. He didn’t bother figuring out where the tears came from anymore. He let them free, like a criminal releasing hostages for the police, and let them sink into the dark void of Mori’s clothes. The arms around him melted his skin into the bone, and the world disappeared when he was scooped up like a baby – like a bride. 

Mori loved it when Dazai cried because he liked to see the emotions he needed to torture away. 

The night was long. Usually when his clothes were stripped and his hands were tied behind his back, Mori let him dissociate. But this time was different. This time, when the sky was dark and the crickets sang and the students were fast asleep, the warden made sure to keep Dazai mentally awake. If he noticed Dazai slipping, he added a day onto Chuuya’s time in solitary. 

So Dazai stayed present. He felt every hit, every laceration, every stream of blood that soaked his naked skin under the pale moonlight. He felt the grass, freshly cut by the now sleeping boys in dorm C, crumple under his knees and tightened fists as the devil pressed into him. He heard everything that the warden whispered to him – the “I love you”s and the “good boy”s and the cusses and curses littered between. He heard himself scream and sob and beg – for mercy, for someone to save him, for Mori to just kill him and get it over with – and he felt the warden ignore him again and again and again.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair.  

But he deserved it, didn’t he? Mori set clear boundaries, and Dazai crossed them. All he had to do was not cause trouble, to stick to his studies and mind the business that paid him, and he did the opposite. He went out of his way to get the attention of some stupid meathead delinquent kid and got Mori’s doll all busted up. Mori was nice enough to let Dazai have a friend, but Dazai got greedy. He saw Chuuya and he wanted.  

He didn’t even know what he wanted – maybe just to have Chuuya in his life. He wanted someone passionate, someone daring, someone with a backbone and a brain and a heart. He loved Odasaku, but he wanted more. A group of friends? A family, maybe?

Mori told him a while ago that kids like him were held to a higher standard. He was made to follow a different set of rules. Dazai’s selfishness was going against nature – and more importantly, going against Mori. 

“You have spent your life resisting the desire to end it. You do not deserve to connect with others, and if you try, the universe will tilt and rock and shake. It will do everything in its power to take those people away from you. I’m only trying to protect you.”     

Mori never lied, so why was it so hard to listen?

Dazai didn’t visit the next night. Chuuya sighed, scowling at the door across from his spot on the dusty floor. He really enjoyed talking with Dazai last night; he thought the two of them got along well and became something close to friends, at the very least. 

Chuuya trusted Dazai to return, to fulfill his promise, and he didn’t.

It wasn’t fair. 

Chuuya’s weeks in solitary passed quicker than he expected it to. Each day bled seamlessly into the next, marked only by the relentless pangs of hunger that gnawed at his stomach. Yosano visited twice more, feeding him raw potatoes and treating his wounds, but Chuuya was too out of it to really remember. Eventually, the wooden shed’s door creaked open for the last time, and Chuuya, weary and depleted, was led out into the fresh air.

It was Mr. Ango who half-carried him into the outside world, doing his best to shield the boy’s eyes from the sudden assault of the high noon sun. But emerging from the darkness of his two-week-long confinement into the blinding brightness of day was bound to overwhelm Chuuya's senses. The raw intensity of the moment overtook his relief, and he passed out before Ango could get him to the infirmary. 

He woke to a woman with light, scarlet hair tied into a traditional Japanese bun looming over him. Faintly, he heard the woman introduce herself as Miss Kouyou, Yokohama Reform School’s primary nurse.  

Chuuya recalled a one-off conversation he had with Akutagawa about the nurse: Apparently he used to spend a lot of time in the infirmary due to his illness, and he witnessed firsthand how rare it was for Miss Kouyou to like any of the students she treated. Kouyou despised the filthy little brats, and if it weren’t for her odd “connection with the dark side of humanity” (Warden Mori included), she would’ve been long gone, probably in Italy or Portugal. 

However, Chuuya saw none of that cynical behavior. When he blinked himself fully awake (or at least as awake as physically possible for a starved teenager recovering from a beating), Kouyou took a moment to register his identity. She turned to Ango, who stood awkwardly to the side and gestured to Chuuya. “This is the one that gave the warden’s son a beating, correct?”

Mr. Ango pushed up his glasses and stifled a cough. “Yes, ma’am. This is Chuuya. Chuuya Nakahara.”

Kouyou hummed. A smile knitted itself over her cherry-pink lips. “Wonderful.”

“Pardon?” Ango snipped.

“Oh nothing, just… thinking out loud. Please have a seat, Ango. This will take a bit.”

Much to Kouyou’s surprise, Chuuya’s wounds were already cleaned and wrapped. There were two or three lacerations that should’ve been stitched up, but it wasn’t hard to peel the gauze away and inspect it. Because of the high chance of infection, Kouyou decided to clean the wounds and leave them to air out. Any more condensed moisture could make things ugly. 

Kouyou did her best to explain Chuuya’s condition without passive-aggressively teasing the boy’s house staff, but Ango was a good (awkward, but good) sport, and things went along fine. “I’m not sure where the bandages and such came from,” Kouyou admitted, “but it’s a good thing they’re there. With the severity of his wounds, especially these two–” She pointed to the two deepest, ignoring how Ango recoiled. “–where the weapon hit multiple times, the pressure of the bandages stopped a lot of bleeding. Not to mention all the wounds were cleaned properly with no cross-contamination. Whoever healed him knew what they were doing.”

Ango had a feeling he knew who snuck into the shed, but that was a can of worms he wouldn’t open in front of the bitchy-ish school nurse. Instead, he directed the conversation elsewhere. “What should we tell the warden?”

Kouyou hummed, scanning the redhead boy once again. When she imagined the notorious fighter in her mind, he wasn’t a five-foot-tall string bean with an abundance of freckles and mismatched eye colors. He was an interesting kid, Kouyou decided, and she was excited to see more of him – well, she was excited to see him knock some more sense into Dazai. The right way, not whatever sick way Mori got off to.

Half an hour later, Ango thanked the nurse and left with Chuuya, a bottle of painkillers, a bottle of protein gummies, and vitamin C tablets to combat his malnourishment and assist his natural healing process. It was the first time she ever gave medicine to the boys to take home, and Ango had a feeling it’d be the last. 

Chuuya really came to his senses around dinner time. He’d been floating in and out of the dream realm for five-ish hours, but when Tachihara found him after his day at school, feeling drowsy wasn’t an option. 

“I thought you were dead!” Tachihara laughed, practically tackling the shorter boy in the assembly room. “I’m glad you came back in one piece, man. Just next time listen when I tell you to mind your damn business, ‘kay?”

Chuuya chuckled, playfully punching Tachi’s shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I survived, didn’t I?”

“Barely,” Akutagawa chimed in. “You look like shit.”

Tachihara snorted, elbowing Akutagawa in the ribs. “He missed you like hell,” he told Chuuya. “Don’t let him convince you otherwise.”

Yosano found him on their march down to the mess hall, grinning ear-to-ear. “Looks like you made it,” she teased, tugging his sleeve. “Not too bad, right?”

“I think I’d rather make out with Nikolai’s crazy ass,” Chuuya grumbled. “Solitary sucked.”

“Careful what you wish for,” Yosano taunted. “Nikolai’s a listener, you know. And you wouldn’t want your boyfriend to see you kiss another lunatic.”

“Boyfriend?!” Chuuya sputtered. “Fuck that. Just because he visited me doesn’t make him my boyfriend.”

Yosano’s eyes widened with amusement, a twisted smile snaking over her face. “Oh? Care to spare a little more details, darling?”

Chuuya flushed red with embarrassment. “Shut up. It wasn’t like that. He came to start over or something, I don’t know. I only let him stay ‘cause he brought me Pop-Tarts. Which were a lot better than raw potatoes, by the way.”

Yosano rolled her eyes, waving away that last comment. “Okay, Your Highness, I’ll make sure to bring a better offering to your altar next time you’re locked up.”

“Don’t even speak that into existence,” Chuuya cringed. “If they try to put me in that damn shed again, this whole place is going up in flames.

The girl laughed. “Alright, Chuuya darling, whatever you say. Have fun at lunch. We’ll talk on the way back, and you’re gonna tell me all about your little late-night date with the warden’s boy, m’kay?”

“Oh my god, it wasn’t a– Ugh, okay, whatever, Yoyo.”

Chuuya didn’t see Dazai for another week. Was he worried? Of course not. Dazai was the one who broke his promise after all. He was the one that didn’t show up. Honestly, Chuuya should’ve seen this sort of behavior coming a mile away from a guy like Dazai. He was spoiled, bratty, sadistic, and clinically insane. 

But was Chuuya worried? Honestly?  

…Yeah, a little bit.

Dazai was a condescending asshole and a total brat, but he didn’t seem like the type of guy to go against his word. He risked a lot by breaking into the shed in the first place (unless he was immune from punishment which was likely) so Chuuya could have enough decency to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just overwhelmed with the whole thing. Feeling guilty, maybe.

When Dazai finally returned, it was on a school day. His white eye patch still replaced his face bandages, and instead of his suit, he wore mesh shorts and a graphic T-shirt two sizes too big. If you ignored the bandages wrapped tightly around his arms, legs, and neck, he looked like a normal sick kid on a Saturday morning, roused from his bed to take some medicine. 

Except Dazai looked frantic. He looked like he was running from something, and Chuuya’s first instinct was to take down whatever the thing in question was.

Not really because it was scaring Dazai but because it was scaring somebody, and Chuuya had an odd tendency to protect people with violence. Paul had called it a vigilante complex while Chuuya called it human decency. They agreed to disagree. 

Despite Chuuya’s instincts, though, Mr. Oda was the first to react. He ushered Dazai into the room and guided the boy toward a tall cabinet near the back of the room. The cabinet was a head taller than Oda himself, and inside it were four shelves. The bottom was empty, and Dazai wasted no time squeezing himself inside, ignoring all the eyes watching him. 

Mr. Oda closed the cabinet and addressed the full class. “Not a word,” was all he said before taking his spot by Chuuya where he continued to help the boy dissect an epic poem.

Fifteen minutes passed. After that, things happened quickly: a security guard stormed into the room, gun out. He pointed it at the teacher with narrowed eyes. Everyone froze.

“Where is he?” barked the cop. 

“I don’t know,” was Oda’s bland answer. Somehow, he kept a straight face, and Chuuya was truly astonished. He would’ve been throwing hands if a cop pointed a gun at him. When it boiled down to fight, flight, or freeze, it was ingrained into Chuuya’s blood to pick the first one. 

The cop scoffed and swung the gun to the left, pointing at some other poor soul in the room. “You. Where is the warden’s kid?”

“We don’t know,” the boy choked out. “It’s just us in here.”

The security guard snarled, marching into the room to look under every desk. Nobody moved a muscle besides Mr. Oda, keeping his eyes pinned on the cop as he searched. After almost twenty minutes of pacing the room, gun out, the cop left empty-handed with a sour expression. Mr. Oda waited another five minutes before helping Dazai out of the cabinet. 

They whispered to each other for a minute or two, and the class failed to hide their nosiness. When they finished, Dazai looked at Chuuya and offered a weak smile. His bruises were gone.

And then Dazai left.

“Well that was weird,” Tachihara said as they headed toward the mess hall for lunch. He seemed refreshed from his nap and genuinely disinterested in the odd situation, but he mentioned it for Chuuya’s sake which the redhead appreciated. He’d lose his mind if he couldn’t talk about what the hell just happened.

“Dazai gets himself in those sorts of predicaments all the time,” Akutagawa said. He coughed into his elbow, and Tachihara rubbed his back. “I don’t see why this is any different than the time he jumped in the lake. Or the time he had a seizure in the mess hall. Or the time he tried to hang himself in the bathroom–”

“Wait, wait, slow down,” Chuuya cut in, absolutely bewildered. “Dazai is actually suicidal? I thought that was a joke!”

Tachihara blinked. His usually expressive face was set like stone as he tried to level with Chuuya. “Why would we joke about that, man?”

“I don’t know! Normal people aren’t usually this casual about a person trying to off themself!”

Tachihara and Akutagawa exchanged looks and shrugged nonchalantly. “I mean, it’s not a secret. That guy tries to kill himself like every day. He’s really screwed up,” Tachihara explained, “and I guess everyone is just used to it at this point.”

“We can’t do anything about it,” Akutagawa added, “so why fret?”

Chuuya couldn’t hold back his glare, balling his hands into fists. His blunt nails dug crescent-shaped indents into his palms, and he called upon every nerve in his body to keep himself sane. Due to some divine miracle, he managed to shut his trap all the way to the mess hall, and by the time they got their food and sat down, Chuuya’s muscles were lax once again. He decided to save the information – and irritation – for Yosano. 

“Anyway,” Tachihara said as he grabbed Akutagawa’s bowl. He poured half his soup into the other boy’s bowl and slid it back across the table before continuing, turning his attention to Chuuya. “The Tournaments are coming up! Did I tell you about the Tournaments? Shit, I don’t think I did.”

Chuuya laughed as he scooped a meatball from his soup with his plastic spoon and let it plop into Akutagawa’s. “It’s fine, man. What’s it about? Is it like the Olympics?”

“Kinda,” Tachihara beamed. “Basically, the three dorms send out five kids each to compete in five different activities and we call it the Tournaments. The chosen five, a total of fifteen, are called the contenders. Tournaments happen twice a year and whoever wins the most activities gets three merits for every kid in the dorm.”

“Holy shit!” Chuuya blurted. 

“I know, right?” Tachihara laughed. “It’s the only concrete, guaranteed way to earn merits and work your way out of here. Last year there was a tie between Dorm C and Dorm A so they went to sudden death. I think it was an arm wrestling match, but I’m not sure. I was new back then and the first two weeks always pass like alcohol through the system. Whatever it was, Dorm A kicked C’s asses and they took their merits. For half of them, it was enough to pack and leave the next day.” 

“I had the wonderful opportunity of chatting with Nikolai the other day,” Akutagwa said, dripping with sarcasm. “He’s been here for two years, give or take, and he said Dorm C has never won the Tournaments. Ever. I wouldn’t be surprised if the older kids found a way to rig the system to speed up their graduations.”

“Okayyyyyy but this year we have a secret weapon!” Tachihara declared, slapping Chuuya hard on the back. “You’re strong as a motherfucker, man!”

“Hell yeah I am,” Chuuya grinned. “So how do we decide the five contenders? Do I just volunteer?”

“The warden gives us one day free of work to figure it out. I’m not sure what the other dorms do, but C has a vote,” Tachihara explains. “You’ll see. Our voting day is in three days.”

Chuuya nodded, turning back to his soup. If he wanted to win anything, he’d have to gain his strength back. Solitary was no joke. 

That night, the warden’s kid didn’t get any ice cream. The boys in Dorm C slept peacefully, free from the haunting screams and shattered sobs – most of them, at least. Chuuya laid awake, staring at the bunk above him, arms behind his head. It was quiet. Too quiet. Chuuya’s mind swirled and curled and sank like an anchor in the sea, slowly but surely hitting the sandy bottom. He tried to think of something – anything else, but his mind was made of metal and Osamu Dazai was the ultimate magnet. 

Was he really suicidal? Tachihara and Akutagawa could’ve been making that up to keep Chuuya away, right? But they seemed way too casual to be lying. And when he mentioned it to Yosano on the way back from the mess hall, she didn’t give him any answers. Dazai was covered in bandages all the time. Was that why he lived with the warden? Because he tried to off himself all the time? That’d explain why he was taunting the boys on that one work day. He wanted to get beat up. He was just waiting for the right delinquent to fall for the trap.

And Chuuya fell for it.

Okay, but even if all that was true, why? Why did Dazai want to die? Why did everyone think it was normal? Why did the warden put in so much effort to keep Dazai protected? They couldn’t be related, could they? Sure, their mannerisms were the same, and the demonic smile and empty eyes, but that’s where the similarities ended. Dazai was lankier with brown hair, thicker and curly, while the warden had thin, pin-straight, jet-black hair. Dazai’s fingers were longer, his nose was rounder, and his eyes were more almond-shaped. Dazai looked like a sick kid with sociopathic tendencies, and the warden looked like a polished demon. They couldn’t be related.

Which meant Dazai wasn’t the kid getting ice cream every night. 

Right?

He couldn’t be. Dazai was a crazy brat who planned out everything and got anything he wanted. If he had to, he’d manipulate his way out of punishment in no time. Dazai wouldn’t let himself be abused.

But his eyes. The way he scrambled into Mr. Oda’s room, breathless and terrified. He was terrified. Master manipulators confident in their skills weren’t that desperate to find help. And while Mr. Oda was a very caring person, Chuuya seriously doubted he’d help a delinquent hide from a security officer. 

And why the hell was a security officer after Dazai, anyway?

Chuuya had too many questions and not enough answers. He missed home. He missed Paul and Arthur, and his friends down the street, Shirase and Yuan. Things were so complicated at YRS. And scary, too. Chuuya wasn’t used to being scared. He hated it. He hated it here.

That night, Chuuya dreamt he was helping Paul and Arthur cook up a storm for his sixteenth birthday party.

When voting day arrived, Mr. Fukuchi let the boys stay in the mess hall after breakfast. He conducted one last roll call before retreating to his quarters on the third floor of Dorm C. Dorms A and B had already departed, heading to their respective areas for the selection of their contenders. Ango remained with his Dorm C charges in the mess hall, attempting to guide the process, but the boys seized control instantly. Yosano took the opportunity to pull Ango to the side, giving her spiel on why he should help with their undercover mission, and in the meantime, the vote began. 

A tall skinny kid with short brown hair and dumb purple goggles leaped onto one of the long tables, raising his arms to the heavens as if the holy spirit was calling upon him. Chuuya looked around to see if anyone was laughing — because he sure as hell wanted to — but the majority of the boys were just watching the show with amused smiles. 

“The moment is upon us!” declared the goggle-boy from his impromptu stage. "Life has handed us lemons, and it's time we concoct some explosive lemonade!"

“Kaiji,” Ango snapped, tearing his attention away from Yosano. “What did I tell you about mentioning explosives? If I hear that kind of talk again, you’ll be sleeping in the shed tonight.”

Tachihara laughed, and the familiar friendly sound rang through Chuuya’s ears. “Chill out, Ango. We all know Kaiji’s bomb stuff isn’t for real. He’s a wacko like the rest of us.”

“Ohhh boy!” Kaiji grinned enthusiastically. “Looks like someone doesn’t know the true beauty of lemons and bombs! Of lemon bombs!”

“Kaiji, dude, c’mon,” Yosano cut in. “We gotta vote for our contenders. You can talk science later, okay?”

Kaiji beamed, nodding furiously. The lemon boy’s crush on Yosano was as painfully obvious as Yosano’s disinterest. It was a strange reminder that yeah, everyone else knew Yosano was a girl too, but they all did an amazing job of keeping the secret from Mr. Fukuchi and the other not-cool staff – even Kaiji. Chuuya was thoroughly impressed. 

“Moving on,” Kaiji continued, adjusting his goggles. They really clashed with his YRS uniform, but he clearly didn’t mind as he rambled on. “As you all know, we need to elect five students from our dorm to compete in the biannual YRS tournaments. For activities…” A folded paper was handed to him, and he read aloud from it. “First, a foot race from the west tool shed to the east oak tree. Then, a battle of brains with rapid-fire trivia questions. Followed by retrieving a gold coin from the bottom of the lake, and then a rope-climbing match. Pretty straightforward, right? But the last activity is a bit unexpected. It's a suggestion straight from the warden himself!"

Kaiji paused, scanning the paragraph in his hands. He lifted his goggles, pushing them up on his forehead like a headband for his bangs. "Instead of arm wrestling, the selected contenders from Dorms C and B will engage in a three-round boxing match. The winner will then face the chosen contender from Dorm A." He scanned the paper again, blinking dumbly, then chuckled like an old man. “Huh. Who woulda thought?”

“What the hell?!” one of the students in the crowd blurted. 

“The warden wants us to fight each other?” another scoffed. 

“I just got out of solitary for that shit!” Chuuya cried. “Putain! Fighting is what got me put in this shit hole in the first place!”

“Yeah, fuck that,” Tachihara grumbled. “And why does Dorm A get to go last, anyway?!”

“I know, I know,” Kaiji chuckled. “Don’t shoot the messenger, okay, guys? Bottom line is, we’ll need someone who can throw a good punch.” 

“Alright,” Ango addressed the group, stepping away from Yosano. From her subtle smirk, it was evident she had successfully converted Ango to the cause – whether he knew what he was getting himself into or not was unclear, but maybe that was part of Yosano’s plan. Use the chaos of voting day to make Ango agree to whatever in order to get back at the cacophony at hand. “Thank you, Kaiji. I’m going to take over now, but I’m glad you were able to have your five minutes of biannual fame.” 

Kaiji took a bow and hopped down off the table. The crowd of 30 humored his theatrics with an applause. 

Ango took his spot in front of the table Kaiji jumped off of and cleared his throat, summoning his leadership skills. He was a very intricate man and, according to Yosano, spent a decent amount of time working directly under the Japanese government. How he ended up being a babysitter at a reform school was beyond Chuuya’s level of comprehension, but the students were unanimous in their fondness for him. Ango was sharp and quick-witted while also being a total dork with a heart twelve times too big for his twiggy body. 

So even though his voice lacked the strictness of Mr. Fukuchi’s, the boys listened when Ango spoke. "As Kaiji explained, we need five students to compete in the tournament activities. I'll announce each activity, and if you wish to volunteer, come up to the table. We'll vote by a show of hands, and the student with the most votes will represent us in that activity. Clear?"

"Yes, sir!" echoed the crowd, their faces alight with anticipation.

Ango failed to hide his own subtle grin. “Perfect. First, the foot race. It’s a medium distance on a slightly hilly domain. We’ll need fast runners with good legs.”

Three kids pushed through the crowd and hopped up onto the table.

“All those in favor of nominating Tatsuki Fujimoto, raise your hand.”

Eight hands went up.

“All those in favor of nominating Koyoharu Gotouge, raise your hand.”

Only two hands were raised.

“And all those in favor of nominating Suehiro Tecchou, raise your hand.”

Seventeen hands shot up into the sky.

“That settles it. Tecchou, you’ll compete in the foot race from the east oak tree to the west tool shed. Next…”

The vote went on and somehow all 30 students stayed patient and attentive. Tachihara whispered to Chuuya that it didn’t matter who they nominated for the trivia game because a kid named Fyodor in dorm B was sure to cook them all. Still, dorm C decided on some socially awkward nerd with dark hair and circle glasses to compete. His name was Katai Tayama, and he looked absolutely miserable. 

After that, Saigiku Jouno was chosen for the swimming activity, and Tachihara was picked for rope climbing. When it came down to the boxing match, only one person volunteered: Chuuya Nakahara. 

“You sure are ballsy,” Yosano laughed. 

“Somebody’s gotta do it,” Chuuya answered as he climbed up on the voting table. “What, would you rather send Akutagawa’s sickly ass out there?”

A kid in the crowd shrugged. Chuuya couldn’t see his face. “I mean, Akutagawa can throw a pretty mean punch. He broke my nose two months ago and I was sneezing blood for weeks.”

“Okay, enough,” Ango sighed. “If no one else is going to volunteer, Chuuya will win by default.”

Chuuya scoffed. “You guys act like I’m not the best fighter we have. You all saw me kick the shit out of that Dazai brat two and a half weeks ago, yeah? I’m our closest shot at winning.”

“You’re not wrong, Chuuya,” Ango replied, “but this isn’t going to be an easy feat.”

“Yeah,” Tachihara chimed in. “The kids in the other dorms are way stronger than the suicidal punk that refuses to work. But also, Chuuya’s a badass. He could probably take on Fukuchi and live to tell the tale.”

The crowd filled with chatter after that comment; Chuuya stood on the table and grinned ear-to-ear.

“Quiet, everyone,” Ango cut in. He turned to Chuuya, eyes serious. “If you feel you’ve recovered enough and if you’re confident in your fighting capabilities, the match is yours. It’s up to you, Chuuya.”

“If I wasn’t confident in my capabilities, I wouldn’t be here,” Chuuya snapped back. “Let’s kick some ass, yeah?”

From his spot hidden in the mess hall’s kitchen, Dazai grinned. If anyone was going to make a dent during the Tournaments, it was going to be Chuuya.

Chapter Text

Another week passed, and the wounds on Chuuya’s back slowly morphed into puffy pink scars, eerily similar to the ones etched onto the backs of his peers. Neither Tachihara nor Akutagawa ever got lashed, but Dorm C’s morning shower routine let Chuuya know he wasn’t alone in his recovery. Backs tattered and tainted with raised and flat scars, colored pink, red, and brown, told stories not unlike Chuuya’s own. Dark stories, where the characters are beaten, bruised and bloody.

Stories where children are taken out for ice cream but are still left hungry.

As soon as Chuuya made it out of Yokohama Reform School, Mori and his staff were as good as dead. 

When the tournaments rolled around, Chuuya did his best to hide his surprise. To him, the days had blended into mush – like the slop dumped into their bowls and served in place of actual meals. Chuuya woke up, showered, walked with Yosano, ate with Akutagawa and Tachihara, worked on the field or slept at his desk, trudged back to the dorm, and then tried his very best to fall asleep while some poor kid was tortured under the moonlight. (Chuuya hadn’t entertained his theory that the kid in question was Dazai. He selfishly didn’t want to know the answer.)

Every day was the same, and time was a train that never came.

The tournaments came after a rainy day. Mud stuck to the bottom of Chuuya’s heavy work boots as he dragged himself from the mess hall and into the schoolhouse, a migraine building behind his mismatched eyes. Yosano was nowhere to be seen, and Chuuya wondered where she went during these times. She materialized at Chuuya’s side while they walked to and fro but dissipated just as quickly when it was time to work or learn.

Whatever. Chuuya was too tired to really mull over it. Tachihara found him as they trudged up the schoolhouse’s wooden steps and Akutagawa mosied behind him, coughing heavier than usual. Instead of parting ways into their respective classrooms, the entirety of Dorm C pattered into Mr. Oda’s room, tracking mud, grime, and cut grass onto the old rug and floorboards. Chuuya and Tachihara took their usual seats, and Akutagawa snagged an open spot on Chuuya’s left. 

Barely anyone spoke a word, but the energy in the room was high, crackling and sizzling like a growing fire. In place of barred teeth and gloom looks were subtle grins and glimmers of excitement. The tournaments were a chance for these kids to move up, Chuuya remembered. The results of today could punch their ticket home. 

He had to win.

When Mr. Oda entered the room, his presence accompanied by Ango, Yosano, and Dazai, it caught the boys of Dorm C off guard, their eyes widening in surprise. Under normal circumstances, Dazai wasn’t the kind of regular student that followed a staff member’s directions. Even Mr. Oda, his liaison, had to wrestle him into coming and going at normal times, and god knows Dazai would rather die than follow a schedule. 

Yosano acted in a similar way, disappearing and reappearing whenever it was convenient. After his talk with her in the work shed, Chuuya assumed she was meeting up with her boss and his son, but nobody knew for sure. She could be sprinkling poison into the warden’s tea for all the other boys knew. 

It wasn’t totally off brand for Yosano, but Chuuya liked to think she was a little more creative than that. 

Standing in the front of the room, Yosano's gaze swept the room, finally landing on Chuuya, crowned with brilliant orange hair. With a determined tug, she pulled Dazai by the wrist (that act alone could get a regular student a week in solitary, but the only response was a gasp from Akutagawa) and maneuvered him to sit beside them.

Akutagawa stiffened, his eyes darting downward as the pair drew near, while Tachihara's brows furrowed into a scowl at Yosano's audacious perch on his desk. She ignored them, as expected, and instead turned her attention to Chuuya, offering up a mischievous, shit-eating grin. Chuuya, though, couldn’t tear his gaze away from Dazai, who settled onto the floor by his feet, hidden under the desk. Dazai’s formal attire was back, minus the black coat, and his once prominent bruises had vanished – along with any trace of emotion, leaving nothing but a blank slate. 

Like a stick bobbing in a murky pond. 

Lifeless. Or trying to be. Had Dazai ever tried to drown? What would his unconscious body look like, floating face down in the lake?

A wave of nausea washed over Chuuya at the thought, and lightheadedness crept over him like a ghostly veil, its tendrils weaving through him with delicate insistence. And even worse, Dazai noticed. He saw Chuuya fighting to get a hold of himself and in response, scooched closer to him under the desk, laying his head on Chuuya’s knee – an oddly comforting gesture that caught the boy off guard.

Before Chuuya could dwell on the oddity that was Osamu Dazai, Mr. Oda intervened, capturing the boys' attention with two loud claps of his calloused hands. Chuuya resigned himself to being talked at; it was easier to sit and listen than it was to decipher whatever the fuck Dazai was up to.  

“As you all know,” Mr. Oda began, “today is the Tournaments. Ango told me you’ve already selected your contenders which makes this process a lot easier. So Ango is going to take attendance, then all the contenders will come with me up the hill to the west tool shed so we can prepare for the first activity.”

The students gave a verbal affirmative, a practiced response learned from their time under Mr. Fukuchi's tutelage. Mr. Oda, though usually mild-mannered, struggled to hide his displeasure. The teacher wasn’t exactly secretive about his irritation with how the other staff members handled the students – and if it was up to Chuuya, Mr. Oda would be the highest in command and every scumbag that ever neglected or laid a hand on the students of YRS would be publicly executed.

Well, Mr. Oda probably wouldn’t be on board for execution, but Chuuya could settle for life in prison if it meant ending this fucked up cycle of abuse.

When Ango finished attendance, Tachihara snapped Chuuya out of his revenge-fueled train of thought with a brotherly clap on the back. Chuuya grinned and pushed out his chair, waving a quick goodbye to Yosano and Akutagawa (and Dazai, maybe?) before they followed Mr. Oda out the door. Yosano playfully blew them good luck kisses, while Akutagawa conveyed his support with a curt nod.

Dazai shifted slightly under the table, watching Chuuya go. But the minutes disguised themselves as seconds and before anyone could stop him, Dazai was suddenly in motion, trailing after Chuuya with determined strides.

It wasn't until they were halfway to the tool shed that Chuuya realized Dazai was tagging along. He was very obvious when he squeezed between him and Tachihara, linking arms with the shorter boy. Chuuya’s immediate response to the intrusion was a scowl, but it wasn’t nearly as vicious as the look Tachihara gave. Still, Tachi knew how to pick his battles and instead chose to catch up with Tecchou and Jouno a second later, leaving Chuuya alone to conquer the bandaged freak.

The bandaged freak that promised to return when Chuuya was in solitary and never did.  

“You made your point, you crazy prick. You can let go of me now,” Chuuya snapped, gesturing to their interlocked arms. 

Dazai’s grin was sweet as sugar and still somehow venomous. He didn’t budge. 

“Fine, whatever,” Chuuya sighed. He actually didn’t care all that much, but he was still agitated with Dazai. First the bastard provoked him into a fight, then showed up to make amends, and then ghosted him without a crumb of explanation. Now he wanted to be all buddy-buddy again? Yeah, right. “What’re you doing here, anyway?” Chuuya continued. “You’re the warden’s kid, right? You don’t have to compete in the Tournaments.”

“Nah,” Dazai answered, his voice much quieter than it needed to be. He seemed almost anxious, but Chuuya didn’t want to acknowledge it. “I’m here to keep my dog safe, ‘s all.”

“I really hope you’re not referring to me,” Chuuya growled, “because I’ll rip your damn throat out and hang you from the oak tree with your own ratty ass bandages.”

Dazai laughed, breathy and shallow, and Chuuya despised more than anything that he missed the sound. “Ah, Chibi should save that energy for his fight.”

He couldn’t help but roll his eyes; most of his energy went toward stopping from grinding his teeth. “Fuck you. I’m sick of everyone thinking I can’t fucking handle this. I’m a good fighter. I’m an awesome fighter, actually. I don’t need luck or extra strength or–”

“I know that,” Dazai cut in, clarifying himself with a sharper look. “I’m the last person you have to convince when it comes to your abilities, Chuuya. I know you’re strong.” 

Chuuya paused, breath caught in his throat. Oh how he hated when Dazai made his heart skip a beat. Hated it. Who the hell did this guy think he was, anyway? Talking like a Greek God and looking like a swamp monster. Hate it, hate it, hate it. He’s dumb and ugly and annoying and–     

“It’s not the fight itself I’m warning you about.”

Chuuya’s attention shifted swiftly to his scars from Fukuchi’s leather strap, currently rubbing against the rough fabric of his work shirt. His stomach grumbled with hunger from the two weeks he spent rationing raw potatoes just to keep himself strong enough to stay awake. 

Dazai slowed his pace down to an unhurried stroll, keeping Chuuya with him and letting Mr. Oda and the other contenders head towards the tool shed. It was similar to the work shed but instead of being empty and reserved for solitary confinement, the tools shed had actual tools inside: scythes, shovels, a wheelbarrow and whatnot. 

Still, Chuuya cringed seeing it, feeling sick to his stomach. Sick in his bones. Heavy and panicked and tired and sick.  

He decided to focus on Dazai, which was easier than he expected, irritating as the brat may be. 

“I wanted to help you out,” Dazai said. “And before you start yapping like the little dog you are–” Chuuya kicked him. “–remember I owe you one. This is just me repaying my debt.”

Chuuya scoffed. “So you’re gonna help me cheat at the Tournaments but you couldn’t have brought me a damn poptart while I was starving in solitary?”

Dazai frowned. He didn’t look at Chuuya, and Chuuya wanted to interpret that as anything but what it was: guilt. “Something… something came up,” Dazai mumbled. “Just listen because I don’t have a lot of time, okay?” 

Chuuya frowned but nodded. If the warden’s kid went through the trouble of seeking him out, there must be something bad lurking behind the corner.

“Your first match is against Nikolai Gogol,” Dazai said. “You know him, he knows you. He’s a good fighter but he relies on his high pain tolerance. His punches are relatively weak, so as long as you don’t burn out, you’ll win. The problem with beating Nikolai comes after your victory. Nikolai has worked very hard to capture the attention of another boy in Dorm B: Fyodor Dostoyevsky. And unfortunately for us, he succeeded. Fyodor will make you pay for defeating Nikolai, but since we know he’ll be after you, it shouldn’t be too difficult to prevent. You just focus on fighting Nikolai, and I’ll deal with Fyodor.”

Chuuya stared at Dazai, who still didn’t look at him, feeling absolutely bewildered. Dazai didn’t seem to mind, instead chugging on with his information spiel. 

“Your opponent from Dorm A is a guy they call Albatross. I’ve done as much research as humanly possible, but even with access to the warden’s files, I wasn’t able to find his real name anywhere. Albatross is part of a Dorm A gang called the ‘Flags’. The Flags are always the ones to compete in the Tournaments, and they always win, but for some reason, they don’t graduate. I think they have some sort of deal with their house staff, meaning there’s a good chance the staff member in question will seek you out before the match.”

Chuuya scoffed. “It’s gonna be pretty obvious that a staff member intervened with the fight when I come stumbling out with blood soaking the back of my shirt. Even if he does approach me, he can’t do anything that’ll give it away or the Dorm will be disqualified. If I’ve learned anything in the past month and a half, it’s that YRS is sneaky with their corruption.” 

Dazai grimaced. “You’re not wrong,” he went on, “but a staff member won’t forget, either. He can punish you after the fact with no repercussions on his end. Because nobody is gonna look twice when the best fighter at a reform school is disciplined. We need to be careful after you win, but for now, we’ll focus on the fight itself.” 

Chuuya hummed. He wasn’t thrilled about getting disciplined again, but Dazai was right. They needed to focus on winning before anything else. Dorm C needed those merits. “What kind of fighter is this Albatross guy?” Chuuya asked. 

“He’s cheap. Rowdy. Comes across as uncoordinated, but he’s not. Keep an eye out for low blows, scratching, biting, and all that stuff.” Dazai paused. “You know, you’ll be safer if you lose.” 

Chuuya had opened his mouth to protest, but Dazai stopped him. 

“But I know you won’t. And honestly, I don’t want you to. I want you to get these merits and do everything you can to get the hell out of here. You’re too good for this place.” And for the first time during their conversation, Dazai looked at him. Really looked at him. “Too human.” 

Chuuya’s words were stuck in his throat, lodged like a dull knife. He didn’t even know why Dazai’s words were stuffing him so full of pride and joy. It was good advice, sure, and it was nice, but nothing worth butterflies in the stomach – nothing worth feeling the arrow of admiration shot through his heart.

“Fight like your life depends on it, Chibi,” Dazai said, “because it kinda does.” He unlocked his arm from Chuuya’s, smiling wide. “I’d wish you good luck, but I’d rather not ruin my pretty doll face.” He stood like a wife waving goodbye to her soldier husband drafted for war. “Try not to miss me too much, okay?”

Chuuya snickered, continuing up the hill and toward the tool shed. “Yeah, right. How about you try not to ghost me and we’ll see how far we get.” He didn’t wait to see Dazai’s reaction before speeding up to a jog, catching up to the rest of his dorm members. 

When he finally looked over his shoulder, Dazai was nowhere to be seen.

When all the contenders were gathered up by the tool shed, a man with short middle-parted ash blonde hair, with a part of his bangs covering his right eye, took another round of attendance. The other students gathered around in poorly organized crowds, already cheering on the contenders from their respective dorms. Sure enough, Chuuya spotted Nikolai among the Dorm B contender line up and felt a fire start in the pit of his stomach. 

He had to win. 

“Alright, listen up, everyone!” announced the ash blonde man. Every student in attendance silenced themselves immediately. “For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Mr. Ace. I’m the one and only house staff for Dormitory A. If you manage to survive long enough to make it to my dorm, you’ll witness firsthand how I keep rowdy young criminals like you all quiet and obedient. But for now, you’ll just have to take my word for it. If I see any misbehavior, consider your dorm disqualified and your privileges stripped.” 

Mr. Ace cleared his throat, projecting his voice further to announce the contenders. “As you all know, this season’s Tournaments will be similar to the last. We’ll begin will begin with a race on foot from here to the east oak tree where Mr. Fukuchi is waiting to declare the winner.” Mr. Ace turned toward the group of contenders bunched up by dorm. “Running contenders, stand in a straight line in front of the shed. You must be touching the shed in some way, shape, or form before I say go.”

Three boys, one from each dorm, shuffled forward. The crowd of delinquents roared as Mr. Ango began to introduce them: “From Dorm C, Suehiro Tecchou! From Dorm B, Mark Twain! And from Dorm A, Lippmann!” 

The boys settled into running stances, each with their non-dominant hand reaching back to touch the shed, fingertips grazing the wood. “On your mark!” hollered Mr. Ace. “Get set! GO!”

The atmosphere exploded with the sharp crack of Mr. Ace's command. The earth beneath the runners’ feet became a blur of chaos almost instantly, and Chuuya felt the energy in his veins. Tecchou, his lanky frame coiled like a spring, launched forward with predatory swiftness, seizing the lead. His feet pounded the dirt path, kicking up clouds of dust that swirled in his wake. The Dorm C crowd’s roars burst like fireworks into a feverish cacophony of cheers, matching the wild tempo of the race.

Mark Twain, his face a mask of fierce determination, kept hot on Tecchou's heels. Chuuya could see how every muscle in his body screamed with the effort — he could almost feel it on the guy’s behalf — but his eyes were locked on the slender figure sprinting ahead of him. Mark’s breath came in harsh, ragged gasps as he pushed his limits, the gap between him and Tecchou narrowing with each stride.

Chuuya let his voice join the cheers for Tecchou. For Dorm C. 

Lippmann, seemingly left behind, was a picture of focused intensity. His strides were methodical, powerful, each one eating up the ground with mechanical precision. He seemed unperturbed by the leaders — which Chuuya hated but also respected in a twisted way — conserving his energy, waiting for the opportune moment to make his move. Stalking the prey, almost. 

The east oak tree loomed ahead, a towering beacon signaling the impending end of the race. Tecchou, still leading, glanced over his shoulder, expressionless even as he saw Mark catching up. But shit hit the fan when Mark lunged forward with a surge of adrenaline-fueled desperation. His foot shot out, bumping Tecchou's ankle, and the slight contact was enough. Tecchou went sprawling into the dirt, his lead evaporating as he tumbled and crashed to the ground.

Chuuya screamed.

It was Dorm B’s turn to explode with fervor, watching their ticket home blast to the oak tree. Mark surged forward, now leading, his eyes wild with triumph. But his victory was short-lived – from seemingly nowhere, Lippmann rocketed forward with startling velocity. His earlier reserve paid off, his body still fresh enough to unleash a burst of speed that neither of his competitors could match.

With the finish line mere meters away, Lippmann overtook the race, the crowd erupting into pandemonium. He crossed under the sprawling branches of the east oak tree, arms raised in a victorious salute as Mr. Fukuchi declared him the winner. 

As the dust settled and the echoes of the crowd's frenzy faded, Lippmann turned, his chest heaving with exertion, to offer a hand to help Tecchou to his feet. The fallen runner let himself be pulled up, glaring at Mark who stood breathless beside him. No words were exchanged, but the three of them knew exactly what happened: Mark tried to cheat and ended up handing the win to Dorm A on a silver platter.

The next activity required the students to trudge back across the campus and toward three chairs, three desks, and a chalkboard on wheels. On each desk was a chunky crayon and a small stack of scrap paper. Chuuya was dizzy with all the commotion, but he kept up without breaking a sweat, following Tachihara over to the contenders’ spot. They sat in the grass off to the left of the odd scene while the rest of the student body plopped onto the ground behind the chairs. 

Mr. Oda stood by the chalkboard, his expression as impassive as always. When everyone was seated, he wrote the three contenders’ names on the board, preparing columns for a tally chart. “Welcome to the second activity,” he announced. “Katai Tayama from Dorm C, Fyodor Dostoyevsky from Dorm B, and ‘Doc’ from Dorm A, have a seat in a chair of your choice.”

Katai shuffled, Fyodor strutted, and Doc marched; Katai fidgeted, Fyodor rested his hands calmly in his lap, and Doc crossed his feet at the ankles. Each of them looked sickly but in a slightly different way: Katai was antsy and green in the face, shivering like a single lady’s sex toy; Fyodor was unnaturally calm and pale as a ghost, with long dark hair that reached his shoulders and tired yet sharp eyes; lastly, the guy named ‘Doc’ was disturbingly skinny with black hair cut like Kajii’s and a stitch on his upper right cheek, just below his eye. 

Chuuya was morbidly curious to see how this would play out. 

“Without further ado,” said Mr. Hawthorne, a house staff member from Dorm B, “let us begin. This activity will work like one of those game shows on television you kids like so much.” 

The boys had to beat their laughter back with baseball bats wrapped in barbed wire.

“I’ll ask a question, and the three contenders will have thirty seconds to write down an answer. If they guess correctly, Mr. Oda will add a tally mark under their name. The contender with the most tally marks after ten questions will be declared the winner of the activity. Understood?”

A hum of understanding came from the contenders, varying from serene to over-confident to anxious out of his mind. 

“The first question: it is said that God gave great wisdom to this king who approached the Lord as a humble, obedient servant and was rewarded for his meekness with a wise and understanding heart. Thirty seconds.”

Chuuya sat absolutely fucking dumbfounded. He whipped his head to look at Tachihara who answered with his own meek shrug. 

Thirty seconds later, Fyodor and Doc each earned a tally under their name. “The correct answer was King Solomon, also known as Jedidiah. Next question…”

They went on like that for about seven minutes, and the tally chart had every student leaning forward with a puzzled expression carved into their grimey faces. Katai had scored only 2 points for Dorm C, which was expected; the real shock came from the look on Doc’s face – Fyodor was winning and Doc looked just as taken aback as the rest of the students. 

On the tenth question, it didn’t matter if Fyodor got it right or wrong. Doc had 8 points while hadn’t missed a single one. Thirty seconds after that, Mr. Hawthorne declared Fyodor, and by extension, Dorm B, the winner.

“I knew Fyodor was gonna crush Katai,” Tachihara murmured as they trudged through the grass and toward the lake. “But beating Doc? That’s insane.”

Chuuya nodded, equally shocked. Even though he had silently asked the question before and only received a shrug in response, he still turned to Tachihara to ask again: “What was the deal with all the biblical questions? Is YRS a Christian school or something?”

Tachihara’s answer was more or less the same. “Your guess is as good as mine, man. Maybe Dostoyevsky paid Hawthorne off or something. Even Mr. Oda seemed confused about it.”

Before they could dive into the matter any further, the contenders reached the infamous lake, right beside the tree where Dazai usually sat while the Dorm C boys worked the fields – the tree where Chuuya beat the shit out of Dazai because he threw a stick in the lake. Which, now that Chuuya was giving it a good look, was really more of a pond.

“For the next activity!” announced another staff member, this one blonde and quite obviously American. Tachihara whispered to Chuuya that the man was Fitzgerald, the second staff member for Dorm B. He raised a gold coin above his head for the other students gathered around the lake/pond to see, shining under the aggressive sunlight. “I’ll toss this gold coin into the lake, and our three contenders will dive in to find it. Whoever returns to me with the coin shall be declared the winner.” He turned to the contenders in question with a wild smile. “Boys,  come introduce yourselves. And speak loudly for everyone to hear.”

The Dorm C kid went up first, smiling softly with his eyes closed. “My name is Saigiku Jouno. I’m from Dorm C.”

“Is it true you’re blind, Jouno?” Fitzgerald exclaimed almost comically. 

Jouno’s response was a simple smile. 

Chuuya, again, turned to Tachihara. “Is he actually?” he whisper-yelled. 

Tachihara nodded, grinning. 

Before Chuuya could dive into that topic, Jouno strode off to the side and up came the next contender. “I’m from Dorm B, and my name is Tasuhiko Shibusawa. It’s a pleasure to be competing and I wish you all the best.” He walked away before Fitzgerald could fire a question at him, but the staff member didn’t seem to mind. 

The contender from Dorm A looked so pissed off Chuuya thought he’d kill somebody. He introduced himself as Iceman – and he was oddly soft spoken despite how standoffish he seemed – but nobody could pry their eyes away from the vertical scar running perpendicular on his closed right eye. 

A few minutes of shuffling later and the contenders were stripped down to their boxers. Fitzgerald held the coin up, counted to three, and chucked it into the center of the lake. The contenders dove in without hesitation, and Chuuya didn’t see any of them for the next three minutes.

“You think someone will drown again this year?” Chuuya overhead from a contender behind him. 

“I bet it’s gonna be the blind kid,” another responded, laughing to himself. 

“Yeah, no doubt. What the hell were they thinking, putting a blind kid up to find a damn coin. Dorm A is gonna win again this year for sure.”

Chuuya frowned. Tachihara answered his question before he could even ask it. “Jouno is blind,” he said, “but he’s not gonna lose. You just gotta trust him.”

Chuuya groaned. He was getting antsy. Just as he was about to ask another question, Shibusawa emerged from the water, a crossed look painted on his delicate features. He said nothing as he made his way toward the pile of clothes on the ground, finding his and dusting the dirt off before slipping back into them.

Iceman came out next, shaking his hands to dry them and then swiping the water off his face and forehead. Fitzgerald grinned, reaching for Iceman’s wrist to throw it up and declare the winner, but the Dorm A kid side-stepped out of the way. “Couldn’t find it,” he muttered.

Fitzgerald paled. “What?”

“He said he couldn’t find it,” Shibusawa echoed. “Neither could I.”

The silence was eerily loud. All eyes were locked on the lake, the water that was unnaturally still.

And then Jouno emerged with the golden coin.

The rope climbing activity was pathetically short. Three thick ropes were strung up from the beams in the ceiling in the mess hall, and the three contenders stood at the base, waiting for Ango to set them off. Chuuya had smacked Tachi hard on the back before sending him off, shouting about how they got this, without a doubt. The Dorm B contender was John Steinbeck, an easygoing guy with an average height and build, short blonde hair, and obnoxiously blue eyes. No way he was beating Tachihara, who, despite his thin build, was strong as a tank.

The Dorm A contender, Piano Man, didn’t seem like much of a challenge to beat, either. He was tall with long slender fingers and tree-like legs, and his pale face was framed by a white bob. He seemed excited, with a loopy grin, but again, Tachihara was burning with a fire that Chuuya started, and no one on the face of the planet was a better fire-starter than Chuuya Nakahara.

Chuuya was, however, proven wrong when Piano Man won the activity in about forty seconds. Though, to be fair, Tachihara got second place, slapping the ceiling beam only a second after Piano Man did. Steinbeck did okay, too, but it didn’t really matter. So far Dorm B had 1 point, Dorm C had 1 point, and Dorm A was leading with 2.

It was up to Chuuya.

Fighting Nikolai was something he hadn’t even considered before Dazai force-fed him all that information a couple hours ago, but standing in front of the white-haired lunatic, Chuuya didn’t feel the slightest bit unprepared.

According to Dazai, (who, though Chuuya hated to admit it, was always right) Nikolai had weak punches and relied on his high pain tolerance to outlast his opponent. Chuuya’s fighting style, on the other hand, was a perfect blend of strength and strategy. He was a quick thinker and even quicker on his feet, making good use of every part of his body for momentum and power, assuring that every punch was backed up by every fiber in his being. He knew how to kick, how to dodge, and how to take a rough hit to the face, which made him notoriously lethal in the world of fist fighting. 

Chuuya could do this. He knew he could. And even if he couldn’t, he had to. There was no other option. 

Mr. Fukuchi introduced the fighters, Chuuya Nakahara from Dorm C and Nikolai Gogol from Dorm B, and continued on to explain how the winner of the first fight had the opportunity to win two points for their dorm instead of one like every other activity. Each fight was worth a point and because the two lower dorm contenders had to fight twice (once against the other lower dorm and once against the Dorm A contender) there was a chance to grab two points instead of one. 

Chuuya saw the clown-ish smile on Nikolai’s face and felt icy goosebumps trail up his arms, cold water curling and freezing around his lungs. Chuuya was strong, but Nikolai was wily. No matter who was declared the winner, neither of them were coming out of this battle unharmed.

But Dorm C was tied with Dorm A with two points each. Victory wasn’t a figment of his imagination anymore. It was real. This was real. 

Shirase, a friend Chuuya made years ago while living on the street, had taken boxing classes before his parents left him to rot. He taught Chuuya the basics of stance and guard and how, for shorter boxers, a crouching stance or semi-crouching stance proved to be most effective: slightly bent forward with the hands raised covering the face. The stance provided a ton of protection for his face and body while still allowing him the ability to deliver powerful blows to his opponent. Plus, switching in and out of the stance created perfect unconventional angles during a fight. Chuuya rarely got hit.    

But Nikolai… Chuuya hated the way Nikolai looked at him. Like no matter what, Chuuya was screwed. 

And maybe he was, but Chuuya had to coax himself out of panic mode. He didn’t have the time or luxury to think about himself right now – this fight wasn’t about him, not really. He was fighting for Tachihara, Yosano, and Akutagawa; for Akutagawa’s sister back at home and Yosano’s boss and their cause. He was fighting to take down the warden and free the stupid bandaged idiot genius, Dazai; to get back home to Paul and Arthur, who were probably worried sick about him.

Chuuya took a deep breath. Steadied himself. Closed his eyes, rolled his shoulders, fixed his stance. He exhaled, slow and balanced. He had this in the bag. 

Mr. Fukuchi counted them off, and as soon as Chuuya got the greenlight, he dived forward with a right hook. Nikolai dodged sloppily, ducking and hitting Chuuya’s stomach with a sharp jab. But Dazai was right: Nikolai’s hits were weak as hell. The pain fluttered away just as quickly as it came.

Chuuya took his time. He was calculated but not rigid. Right cross. Lead kick. Side step. Left cross. Side step. Right hook. Lead kick. Jab. Jab. Side step. Jab. He was hyper focused but not unaware.

After a hit to his left eye, Nikolai looked dizzy, but he never dropped that damn smile. It made Chuuya want to hit him even harder – so he did.

The match passed quickly, way quicker than Chuuya thought it would. Nikolai got three good hits in – a right hook at Chuuya’s jaw and two kicks to his ribs – but he was light headed and wobbling on his feet within minutes. Chuuya wrapped the fight up with a classic uppercut and used his left foot to swipe Nikolai’s ankles, making him crumble to the ground. 

He was breathing heavily, and the crowd of delinquents around him was like white noise against the sound of his own heartbeat. Slowly, when he was sure Nikolai wouldn’t get up again, he spun around to find his friends’ faces in the crowd – to find Dazai’s face, for some reason he couldn’t decipher.

And there he was, grinning like the dork he was, standing next to Yosano who threw her arm around his shoulders. She was cheering, but Tachihara beside her was louder, red in the face with pride and joy. Even Akutagawa was enthusiastic, in his own awkward, Victorian era vampire kind of way.

Mr. Fukuchi grabbed Chuuya’s wrist and held his hand up in the air. “Chuuya Nakahara,” he announced, albeit reluctantly, “congratulations.”  

Dazai was right. 

Well, Of course he was. He was Dazai, after all. The warden’s kid, the devil’s right hand man, and a child prodigy rivaled by only god himself, should the bastard ever show his face. Dazai was crafty and clever and smooth, and it was very, very rare to witness him being wrong and unprepared for wrongness. And he liked it like this. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

That was until he met Chuuya. That tiny firecracker made Dazai’s bones ache with a craving for everything wrong. Chuuya was trouble – he was loud and fierce and self-assured, and in YRS, that spells trouble. But fuck, if Chuuya wasn’t freedom than Dazai didn’t know what was.

So when he followed Ace around the back of the mess hall to a secluded area where the staff member planned to “chat” with Chuuya about the upcoming match, Dazai cursed himself and his genius, analytical mind. More than anything in the world, Dazai wished he had been wrong.

He could see it now: Ace was going to threaten Chuuya into losing on purpose, and Chuuya was going to flip out and get himself in trouble. If not now then tomorrow, and if not tomorrow then the day after. If Chuuya freaked, he was going to get himself killed. And as much as Dazai chased after death, he’d live a thousand lifetimes if it meant Chuuya could live his to the fullest. Not suddenly going missing, buried behind in an unmarked grave at a shitty reform school. 

Fuck, if Ace laid a hand on Chuuya, Dazai was going to intervene. He couldn’t help it. Something about the redhead, who could without a doubt handle himself, make Dazai wild with fervor. 

Blinking hard to clear his mind, Dazai listened in, switching open the pocket knife he swiped from Mori. He could deal with unpacking his feelings later. 

“I’m impressed, Nakahara,” Ace started, a sick smile slithering onto his lips. He leaned back against the mess hall’s brick wall, scanning over Chuuya’s small frame. The bruise Nikolai gave him was blooming on his jaw, and Dazai didn’t even want to think about what his ribcage looked like. “You defeated Gogol in record time. Brute strength is your greatest talent, boy. Fighting is your calling.”

Chuuya scowled. It was an expression that made Dazai’s stomach flip, and he had to fight these weird new-found emotions like a wild animal in order to stay focused. “Thanks,” Chuuya replied dryly. There was more sass on his tongue, ready to be spit, but he held it in, choosing to pick his battles and not die on this hill. Figuratively but also a bit literally, too. Dazai felt relief bloom in his chest. Little chibi was learning. 

“As you know, next you’re going to fight a student from Dorm A. I can tell you’re full of fire, young man,” Ace continued, “but remember, sometimes good sportsmanship means letting the other team win. It’s like when a tree branch has to bend a bit so it doesn’t break. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Nakahara?”

Chuuya crossed his arms over his chest, blue and brown eyes narrowing, thoroughly unimpressed. “Yeah, I think I get it. You’re telling me to get my shit rocked on purpose because you want your dorm to win.”

Ace frowned, eyebrows furrowed, and Dazai clutched his knife a little tighter. “I wouldn’t put it so crudely,” Ace snubbed, “but yes, more or less. The Tournaments represent so much more than just a fun day off work. We as a school are devoted to reforming misguided young men, and because Dorm A boys are closer to leaving than Dorm C boys, the guidance they went through must be reflected in the Tournaments. It’s only fair.”

Dazai had never been a religious guy, but in that moment, he prayed harder than any priest, Imam, bhikkhu, or pandit out there. Just agree, Chuuya. Just say okay. Just placate him and move on. Please, please, please. Please God let Chuuya shut his stupid pretty little mouth, let him be silent for once in his stupid tiny fucking life, please, please, please–

“Fuck you.”

Goddamn it! 

“Excuse me?” Ace roared. 

“You heard me,” Chuuya snapped back. “Fuck. You. We deserve those merits way more than the Flags. They’ve been here forever and they seem fine, but there are kids in Dorm C that are literally dying, that want to see their families again before this place fully decays their minds and souls. So no, I’m not gonna lose. I’m gonna kick this guy’s ass and I’m gonna get me and my friends out of here.” 

Dazai squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his heartbeat to slow down. The knife in his hand was trembling, but he had to steady it, he had to, because Chuuya could get himself hurt – or worse – and that couldn’t happen.

But when Dazai opened his eyes, he didn’t see the incredulous look of pure rage on the staff member’s face. No, instead he saw a warm, amused smile. Playful, almost. “Then that settles it,” Ace said in a sing-song tone. “You’ll win and you and your friends will move up to Dorm B. Congratulations in advance, Chuuya Nakahara.”

And Dazai knew they were truly, utterly fucked.

Chapter Text

When Ace dismissed Chuuya to prepare for his upcoming fight, Dazai considered stepping out and stabbing the man in cold blood. There was nobody there to stop him, nobody to protect the bastard. Or at the very least Dazai could threaten him, warning the staff member of what kind of hell waited for him should he decide to hurt Chuuya Nakahara. 

But Dazai refrained, ever the good boy contrary to popular belief. Chuuya had been right about Ace being unable to do anything before the match — if the staff member had done something now, it would have gone against the school’s intricate web covering up the abuse, airing their dirty laundry for all the world to see. Unfortunately, the same rules applied to Dazai – if he killed Ace now, people would know. And chances are, Chuuya would face the repercussions.

Puffing out a short breath, Dazai flipped his switchblade closed and stuffed it into the pocket of Mori’s heavy coat. He shot one last glare at the staff member, safe and unseen from his hiding spot around the corner, before trotting after Chuuya.

The redhead didn’t hear him following, which Dazai made note of. Chuuya was very sloppy when it came to observing his surroundings, probably because of his confidence in his fighting abilities, but as strong as he was, even Chuuya couldn’t push past a staff member’s violent blow to the back of the head. If Chuuya was going to survive YRS, (which was a goal Dazai was ready to dedicate his life to, and no, he did not know why. Perhaps boredom? Intrigue, maybe?) then he needed to learn how to stay on high alert at all times.

It was a tricky skill to learn. Dazai could thank Mori’s strictness for his understanding of the practice. But anyway, that could wait. They had bigger fish to fry at the moment. 

Finally, Chuuya heard the crunching twigs under Dazai’s feet and spun around, eyes wide. His shock deflated quickly, but Dazai could still hear his heart beating violently against his chest. The bruise on his jaw was more prominent now, but it didn’t take away from his beauty, sharp lines drawn into a pouty glare, red brushing the tips of his ears and his chewed-on bottom lip.

“You better be here to congratulate me,” Chuuya blurted, snapping Dazai out of his mini-trance. “I don’t have the energy to listen to another one of your crazy ass info-dumps.”

Dazai gasped more dramatically than he needed to, slapping a hand over his heart as he stumbled forward, finally side by side with the shorter boy. “You wound me, Chuuya. My info-dumps are sculpted to perfection for your benefit, you know. I expected more respect from you.”

Chuuya huffed but didn’t disagree, nibbling off the workings of a smile. He hadn’t been lying when he said he was out of energy, Dazai noticed. His redhead looked exhausted – but awake enough to let him suppress the paradoxical fury and delight that came with Dazai’s quips and banter.

Looking forward, Dazai fell into step with Chuuya, lazily strolling back toward the group. It was around noon and the students crowded in the mess hall, begrudgingly devouring the school’s slop and mystery meat. They had an hour for lunch on Tournament days, double the time they’d usually get, and most boys cherished this time like it was the last day before a harsh winter. 

It’d be best if Chuuya got something to eat before his next and final match… but Dazai wasn’t allowed in the mess hall (Mori’s orders) and he really didn’t want to part ways just yet. 

Was that selfish of him? Did he care about hiding his selfishness?

The answers were yes and no respectively.

“Say… I could really go for a spicy mango rice bowl right about now,” Dazai hummed, a smile twitching its way onto his lips. “What do you think, Chibi? Spicy mango rice bowl?”

Chuuya punched him in the side, and the boy wrapped in bandages yelped like a cat who got his tail stepped on. “Don’t tease me, shithead,” Chuuya grumbled. “I get it. You’re a spoiled brat and the rest of us have to eat shit. You don’t have to rub it in.”

“I’m not teasing, I swear!” Dazai squeaked, rubbing his side where he was sure to get a new bruise from Chuuya’s firecracker fists. “I was asking you to have lunch with me, you stupid little mutt. Aren’t dogs supposed to have good hearing?”

Another punch nestled itself into Dazai’s gut, but this time he erupted with laughter upon impact, and Chuuya couldn’t help but follow along, stubborn violence melting into an odd sort of physical affection. The last time Dazai was touched so casually by a person other than Mori had been… God, he didn’t even want to think about it. Chuuya’s hand rested on his shoulder while they doubled forward, laughing at who-knows-what. 

And that was the best kind of laughter, wasn’t it? The kind that stems from the soul, from the pit of a person’s being. They were laughing just because their souls demanded it, because there was a giddy feeling bubbling within them that needed to be released – to be shared.

A little while later, Chuuya and Dazai strolled onto satan’s land, still somehow dizzy with bliss. Why Dazai decided it’d be a good idea to bring Chuuya to the warden’s quarters, the redhead had no idea, but they kept going anyway, looping around the back of the brick building, avoiding landmines that weren’t even there.       

Chuuya frowned, turning to Dazai with irritation lacing his brows together. “There’s no back door,” he stated.

“Yes, I’m well aware of that, Chuuya. I do live here, after all.”

“Well then how the hell are we going to get inside?”

Dazai smirked. He said nothing but gestured for Chuuya to follow as he headed toward the brick. Silently, he climbed the wall, slotting his feet on top of protruding bricks and hoisting himself up. Thankfully, Chuuya caught on quickly, and it took less than three minutes for them to scale the wall and slip through Dazai’s unlocked window. 

Dazai’s chest heaved and he plopped onto his carpeted bedroom floor, and Chuuya responded with an eye roll and a comment on his pathetic stamina – which Dazai turned into a clever innuendo. After another pelt to the side, Dazai let Chuuya pull him to his feet and lead him to the kitchen. 

“I hope you know how to cook,” Dazai said, feet soundless even against the creaky floorboards. “Because I sure as fuck don’t. And make it quick because we only have…” He glanced at the clock on the oven. “45 minutes.”

“What the hell, Dazai?! That’s not enough time to cook, clean, and eat!” Chuuya snapped. “And what do you mean you can’t cook?!” 

Dazai laughed, propping himself up on the counter beside the microwave. “I mean exactly what I say, short stack. Mori decides what I eat and when I eat, if it happens at all. I’ve never had to learn to cook. Spoiled brat, remember?”

Chuuya grimaced, pacing further into the kitchen. An apology danced on his tongue, but nothing stopped him – perhaps the anxiety curling around his throat, being in the heart of the enemy’s territory. If he was caught here, he’d get a punishment much worse than some lashes and solitary confinement.

Would the warden give Mr. Fukuchi the green light to kill him? Tachihara had hinted that working with Yosano and any other outside forces could get him killed, but was he serious? Was there actually a chance Chuuya could die at this school?

“Whatever you’re thinking about,” Dazai cut in, “stop it. We’re not gonna get caught. Mori is always gone for the whole day during the Tournaments. He likes to visit his daughter in the city.”

Chuuya blinked, feeling a little stupid. It always caught him off guard when Dazai read him like an open book. Still, his words were comforting, so Chuuya didn’t complain. “I didn’t know you had a sister,” he said instead, channeling his inner info-hungry detective. Yosano would be so proud.

Dazai’s smile was bitter, accompanied by a shallow laugh. “I don’t,” he said, dry as the desert. “Are you gonna make us some food or will I starve to death before I can watch my faithful dog win the Tournaments?”

Chuuya furrowed his brows, grinding his teeth to hold back his own backhanded flattery. Or, well, blatant insults is a better word. Chuuya had never been good at wordplay or sugarcoating. He busied himself with examining the fridge, looking for something he could whip up quickly. Setting his sights on some frozen vegetables and bacon, the redhead got to work. 

Dazai watched, still with a pained expression. “How’d you come to that conclusion, anyway?” he blurted.

Chuuya cocked his head to the side. “Huh?”

“That Mori is my father.”

Chuuya blinked, processing. “Oh. Uh, well, the other guys in the dorm call you ‘the warden’s kid’ so I just assumed.”

Dazai nodded. He was agitated, Chuuya could tell. 

“If you’re not related,” Chuuya pushed, “why do you live with him? Shouldn’t you be in one of the dorms or something?”

Dazai pushed himself off the counter, tucking his hands in his pockets. “I’m gonna go take a piss,” he said in a sing-song tone. “Don’t peek, Chuu~ya!” 

He threw a half-thawed head of broccoli in Dazai’s direction, cursing the bastard when he dodged it and slipped into the bathroom.

On their way back to the mess hall, Chuuya and Dazai shared the pieces of bacon they couldn’t finish at the warden’s quarters. The rest of their lunch was as naturally fluid as any other time they hung out (for lack of better words) and if Dazai felt awkward or intruded on by Chuuya’s earlier questions, he didn’t show it. They talked about comic books and music, small things that somehow filled their otherwise muddled minds.

Chuuya felt the weight of the Tournaments fall on his shoulders as they meandered back to join the group. The moment of truth was approaching quickly – if Chuuya lost, then all of Dorm C lost. And if he won, he’d have to face the wrath of the Dorm A staff member, Mr. Ace. 

They arrived too soon, and Chuuya was astonished to realize he’d rather be in the warden’s quarters. He turned to Dazai, suppressing his nerves behind a cocky smile. “Ready to watch me kick this guy’s ass?”

Dazai grinned, and Chuuya wondered if his right eye, covered by bandages, was lit up the same way his left eye was. Dazai didn’t answer verbally, but Chuuya didn’t need him to. Their connection was like a language of its own, spoken in the silent exchanges of glances, the gentle brush of fingertips, and the shared moments of quietude. In each other's presence, they found a sanctuary where words were unnecessary, where the depths of their souls resonated in perfect harmony. It was insane how after only two months of knowing each other, Dazai and Chuuya had become two stars in a vast universe, their souls dancing in perfect harmony. 

Chuuya cleared his throat, trying to hide the way Dazai’s nonverbal response made his heart skip. Instead of dwelling on the boy’s genuine smile or the warm flame flickering in his charcoal eyes, Chuuya gave him a punch goodbye before trotting off to join Tachihara and Akutagawa, emerging from the mess hall’s main entrance. 

“Yo, Chuuya!” Tachihara exclaimed, clapping the shorter boy hard on the back. “Where were you, man? We got actual ham today at lunch.”

“Yes, it was edible,” Akutagawa added. “Almost enjoyable.” He narrowed his dark eyes, tipping forward a bit as he scanned Chuuya’s face. “Did you run off with Yosano?”

Tachihara frowned, turning to Chuuya. “Dude, seriously? Do you just block out everything I say? You’re digging your own grave.”

Chuuya smiled, feeling oddly confident. “I wasn’t with Yosano,” he said, relishing in Tachihara’s relief. Of course, that relief vanished when Chuuya added, “I was in the warden’s quarters with Dazai.”

Tachihara nearly burst a blood vessel, hands curling into fists at his sides. “What the fuck, Chuuya?!” he whisper-yelled, jerking Chuuya forward by the collar of his gray work shirt. “What were you thinking?! You know they could really bury you out back, right? People get killed here! For real!”

Chuuya shrugged him off, scowling at the dirt. On the bright side, his questions from earlier were answered. 

Akutagawa observed quietly with his chapped lips parted into a small ‘o’, somehow growing even paler by the second. Chuuya had a sneaking suspicion Akutagawa resented him for so easily mingling with Dazai – the one time Akutagawa had tried got him a week of solitary, and here Chuuya was, prancing around with the prick. 

And yeah, no matter how buddy-buddy Chuuya got with the guy, Dazai was still a prick. He was annoying, whiny, manipulative, and self-entitled, clearly influenced by his time spent with the warden. Just because Chuuya didn’t blame him didn’t make Dazai any less screwed up.

(Did that stop the butterflies in Chuuya’s stomach from erupting and nibbling at his organs when Dazai so much as looked his way? No. But that was a whole other issue.)

“I appreciate your advice,” Chuuya said to Tachihara, “but I can handle myself.”

Tachihara nodded numbly. “I know. Just… be more careful, okay? The warden’s kid is unstable and dangerous as fuck. And if the warden catches anyone getting too close, consider yourself dead.”

It seemed like the warden would be more upset if Dazai made friends rather than enemies, which didn’t make sense. Chuuya made a mental note to mention that to Yosano.

Tachihara sighed, letting the tension slink off his shoulders and melt into the muddy grass. “Anyway,” he went on. “You ready for this final match?”

Chuuya grinned. “Might as well pack your bags, guys. After I win this, we’re heading to Dorm B.”

Albatross was the most recognizable of the Flags, despite not being the leader. Messy blond hair was his trademark, especially the little braid hanging down from behind his right ear, and besides Dazai (if he counted), Albatross was the only student to have an altered uniform: over his gray work shirt, he wore a sleeveless hooded leather jacket and donned rimless, tinted, oval-shaped glasses and small hoop earrings on both of his ears. 

‘Tross was known to be talkative and outgoing – obnoxiously so – and the sound of his laughter ricocheted through every pair of ears within a thirty-kilometer radius. Still, he was efficient, always winning his activity swiftly (aside from the boasting, jeering, and electric stage presence).

Chuuya observed the older blond kid as he made his rounds through Dorm A, contenders and regular students alike, earning claps on the back and ruffles to his feathery honey-colored hair. He seemed like a fun person to be around and, if the smiles from his peers were genuine, a very good friend, too. Chuuya felt the guilt swirl around in the pit of his stomach, brewing like a witch’s potion – was it immature of him to want to befriend Albatross, too?

“You got this, Chuuya,” Tachihara said, slinging his arm over Chuuya’s shoulders. “We’re rootin’ for you, man.”

“And even if you don’t win,” Akutagawa added, “you’ve brought us farther than we’ve ever been before.”

“We’ll be proud of you regardless,” Yosano chimed in, practically popping out of nowhere. She dragged the three boys into a group hug while Mr. Fukuchi was distracted, giving Chuuya’s orange locks a ruffle of their own. “Knock ‘em dead, loverboy.”

The students of Yokohama Reform School crowded around the same patch of earth where they’d been an hour before during the first round, acting like a wall around the relatively small central area. Here, in the makeshift ring, in place of the grass was an oddly shaped oval of dry dirt like a bald spot on the school’s otherwise lush territory. There was enough room for both Chuuya and his opponent to go wild during their fight, but fleeing was definitely not an option (Chuuya hadn’t considered it, just observed.) 

“Welcome, boys,” announced Mr. Ace, arms thrown wide to assist his theatrical introduction, “to the second round of the fifth and final activity. Our current scoreboard is as follows: Dorm B with one point earned by Fyodor Dostoyevsky; Dorm C with two points, one earned by Saigiku Jouno and the other by Chuuya Nakahara in round one; and Dorm A also with two points, earned by their victors, Lippmann and Piano Man.” Ace’s grin was malicious, lips curling up at the edges. “This means the victor of this final round will decide the true winner of the Tournament.” 

The area erupted into cheers, and a chant of “CHEW-YA!” and “AL-BUH-TROSS!” blared from the young men. Chuuya didn’t bother fighting back his own giddiness, spinning around to wave at his friends – and at Dazai, who stood a little further away, resting under the shade of an oak tree. Beside him were Mr. Ango and Mr. Oda, each with a pleasant smile of their own on their faces.  

Albatross took his time bathing in the glory as well, kicking up dirt and riling up Dorm A’s side of the crowd. He even did a cartwheel, earning bouts of laughter along with the encouragement.

When Ace silenced the crowd, Chuuya knew he had to focus. It was now or never. He needed to prove his worth. He was ready to claw his way out of this hell hole and back home. 

He hoped Albatross’s determination wasn’t as strong as his.

“From Dorm C,” Mr. Ace announced, “Chuuya Nakahara!”

“FUCK YEAH!” screamed a boy (Tachihara, though Ace didn’t need to know that) from Dorm C’s side.

“And from Dorm A,” the staff member went on, “Albatross.”

Albatross laughed, swinging his head over to point at the other Flags. “I expect a loud cuss of encouragement, too, you assholes,” he teased. It was met with an overwhelmingly positive response, despite the annoying lilt of his voice. 

“You know the rules,” Mr. Ace said once he knew he had the two contenders’ attention. “Make your opponent lay flat on the ground for five seconds and you win. Are you ready?”

Chuuya and Albatross nodded.

Ace stepped back. There was poison in his gaze and it lingered over the redhead longer than it should’ve. “Begin.”

Albatross swung first, shifting his left foot and diving forward. Chuuya attempted to dodge, but the older boy grabbed his shirt and attempted to drag him down onto the dirt ground. Thankfully, Chuuya was able to pry away and regain his balance. He hit ‘Tross with a right kick to his middle, but it wasn’t as effective as it should’ve been. Albatross took the blow and came back quickly, landing an open-handed hit to Chuuya’s already bruised face.

“Really?” Chuuya spat through his dry laughter. 

Albatross grinned, nodding like a bobblehead. “Really.”

Chuuya came at him with a right jab, and Albatross side-stepped out of the way before spinning around and kneeing Chuuya right between the legs.

“Bastard!” the redhead screamed.

It was Albatross’s turn to bark a laugh. He spun around to the crowd, cupping his hands around his mouth to project his voice: “In case anyone was wondering! Chuuya Nakahara is PACKING down there!”

Chuuya tackled him from behind like a linebacker, making them both crash into the dirt. 

“You’re a feisty one, kid,” Albatross said, gasping as Chuuya wrapped his hands around his throat. “Ever thought of going pro?”

“You’re a dick,” Chuuya snapped back. “Ever thought of selling streetside?”

Tross laughed and flung the younger boy to the side like a ragdoll. Chuuya skirted, skinning his palms, elbows, and knees, while Albatross worked his way back up onto his feet. He stalked over to Chuuya and grabbed a chunk of his hair, yanking him upwards. He landed a hard punch to his ribs and then leaned forward to whisper in his ear:

“I get nosebleeds real easy,” the Dorm A contender mumbled, “so if you can land a hit on my nose, I’ll play dead for five and you guys can take the win.”

Chuuya, admittedly, was a stubborn little shit. The last thing he wanted to do was win because his opponent handed it to him – but realistically, Chuuya was more malnourished than he’d ever been in his whole life, even when he was living on the streets, and Albatross had been relaxing and saving up energy while Chuuya wrestled with Nikolai. No matter how strong Chuuya was, Albatross had an advantage simply because of all the other factors at play.

Chuuya’s stubborn, but he’s not stupid.

“But you gotta work for it,” Albatross added with a teasing glint in his eyes. He went in for another punch, but Chuuya weaved around it, fire in his chest, feeling the older boy’s hand loosen up in his hair. He took a page from Albatross’s book and kicked him square in the balls with all the energy he could muster – and while Tross was bent forward in a silent scream, Chuuya landed a sharp jab on his nose.

Albatross collapsed. Chuuya didn’t even bother guessing whether the boy crumpling to the floor was genuine or not. His head was spinning, and his breath was so thick in his throat. He whipped his head around to find a familiar face, sighing with relief upon seeing Yosano and Tachihara screaming like they were possessed by something. Honestly, their cheer after he beat Nikolai looked like a game of telephone compared to now: jumping, crying, dancing, spinning. As if Chuuya just ended a 100-year-long war. Even Akutagawa was up and moving, which Chuuya was shocked he could even do.

But Chuuya kept looking. He scanned the crowd circled around him, seeing Dorm B clapping and the Flags cheering, and… and under the oak tree, Mr. Oda and Mr. Ango had sad smiles. Dazai was nowhere to be seen.

And now that Chuuya looked back, neither was Dostoyevsky.

Dazai hoped Kouyou’s prayers for him were legitimate because as he dragged the bleeding Russian student by the hair, he was sure he’d need them. He had planned his confrontation with Fyodor delicately and with much consideration, and yet here he was, hauling the anemic psycho with his long fingers twisted into previously silky raven-colored hair. His meticulously crafted confrontation now felt like a fragile house of cards collapsing around him, leaving him grasping desperately at the strands of control slipping through his fingers.

Dazai had never felt out of control before, not even with Mori, who used and abused him regularly. Even with Mori, Dazai knew he could make some sort of dent. This situation, though, was horrifically different.

The karma of protecting Chuuya Nakahara, he supposed.

The worst part was Fyodor’s reaction: he was unbothered, pressing his stab wound with his left hand and observing Dazai with a quiet smile. Somehow, the Russian boy made it seem like he was the one in control. 

As they approached their destination, Dazai's mind raced, frantically rearranging his strategy with each passing moment. Chances were Fyodor would disguise his offensive moves as defensive ones, redirecting claims and such – which Dazai could admit was an effective strategy. Fyodor would likely mention Chuuya to get Dazai out of his reasonable mind and into his newly developed emotional mind, and maybe, if the Russian was feeling bold, he’d bring up the warden, no doubt having connected the dots.

Dazai grit his teeth, forcing himself and the body in his clutches onward. He really didn’t want to listen to Fyodor lay his ass down right now, but alas, Dazai decided to make a premature move and it was time to reap what he sowed.

With a surge of adrenaline, Dazai shoved Fyodor against the rough wooden wall of the work shed, the sound echoing through the empty fields. Dazai watched with sick satisfaction as the blood seeped from the wound on Fyodor’s side. 

“Must you be so cruel?” Fyodor croaked with an obnoxiously sweet lilt in his accented voice. “Stabbing me was not necessary, друг.”     

Dazai scoffed. “I wouldn’t consider you a friend, Dostoyevsky.”

The boy chuckled, slumping his shoulders from his spot on the ground. Blood seeped from the wound, spreading like oil over water on his gray work shirt, staining the palm of his pale hand. They could hear the cheering of the student body acres away. Chuuya must’ve won.

Dazai made a mental note to congratulate him before slinking back into the warden’s quarters for the night.

“You wound me, Dazai,” is Fyodor’s soft yet melodramatic response. “Will you at least tell me why you’ve attacked me? Losing a chess match is not a reason to kill, понимаешь.”   

Dazai scowled. “You know exactly why.”

“Oh, I do?” He laughed, breathy and soft. “Enlighten me, дорогая.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Dazai stepped backward, letting Fyodor sit in his own filth with a tad bit more space. The bloody switchblade was heavy in his coat pocket. “I watched you whisper to Mushitaro Oguri during Chuuya’s match. What are you planning?”

“You misunderstand me, Dazai,” Fyodor said. “Mushitaro is a good friend of mine.”

“No, he’s not. You don’t have friends, and the only people you allow yourself to mingle with are Nikolai and Sigma.”

Fyodor’s smile was a crack in a polished mirror. “Cruel as always, Dazai.”

“Tell me what you’re planning.”

“Why does it bother you what I’m doing? You have always been the kind to sit back and enjoy the show. You are like me, Dazai. Alone, tormented, and despicably smart. I do not understand why you insist on meddling with us rats.” 

Dazai could feel the temperature dropping. It was getting late, the sun inching down behind the treeline.

“Perhaps the warden is slacking in your training. You are losing touch with yourself, Dazai. Do you not think it is time for some self-reflection?”

“I stabbed you once,” Dazai seethed, “and I’ll do it again, you fucking sociopath.”

“Ha… You do know what they say about glass house residents throwing stones, no?”

“Tell me what you’re going to do to Chuuya or I’ll have the warden bury you out back with the rest of your filthy rats.”

Fyodor’s demon eyes sparkled with leverage, and he pounced like a lion onto Dazai’s slip of the tongue. “If you were worried about Chuuya, you could have simply told me. There was no need for the violence. You may not consider me a friend, but I consider you one, Dazai. I would have told you.”

“I don’t have time for mind games right now,” Dazai blurted. “Tell me what you told Mushitaro or consider yourself and your trio disposed of.”

“The warden would be so proud,” Fyodor hummed, “seeing you rely so heavily on his power. Kill me if you must, Dazai, but I am truthful when I say no plans to harm Chuuya have left the prison of my mind. You are simply losing your touch.”

“I’m not,” Dazai muttered, really against his own will. His hands trembled at his sides, and he hated it.

“You never would have needed to stab me and corner me to figure out my plans before,” Fyodor laughed. “The redhead fighter is draining you, друг.”

“I’ll take you to the infirmary,” Dazai said, “and in exchange, you will call off whatever you set in motion. If Chuuya is harmed in any way, shape, or form that can be traced back to you or one of your allies, your demise will be slow and painful.”

The crack in the mirror returned. “Of course.”

Chuuya didn’t see Dazai again for the rest of the day, and as the sun crept back into its den for the night, he accepted it with an irritated shrug. Dazai’s disappearance made his chest squeeze even as Dorm C threw a makeshift party for their once-in-a-lifetime victory – even Mr. Fukuchi gave the boys some slack, clapping Chuuya hard on the back and turning a blind eye when Ango ordered the boys real takeout to devour in their shared room.

He hoped Dazai was safe. 

And he hoped that bastard was suffering for ghosting him. Again. 

Who did that bandaged freak think he was, anyway?! He was the one who singled Chuuya out and fed him information to help him win in the first place. What kind of prick builds a bridge just to whip out his dick and piss all over it?!

“There ain’t no reason for you to be mad right now, man,” Tachihara cackled, hanging himself off Chuuya’s shoulders. “Lighten up! We won! Ango got us some real nice greasy food, Kaiji swiped us some booze, and we’re closer to the end of this shit-stained tunnel.”

Yosano bumped his shoulder, a smile of her own painting her lips. She hadn’t been trying as hard to conceal her feminine features, so Chuuya had a feeling Mr. Fukuchi knew and was, again, turning a blind eye. He wasn’t too surprised, though – if anyone could whip that guy into a nicer shape, it was Yosano Akiko. “Tachihara’s right,” she said. “You deserve a break after everything you accomplished.”

“Did I hear that right, Yo-Yo?” Tachihara blared, laughing like a lunatic. “Did you just say I’m right?!”

Yosano’s retort was snipped and cold, swaddled in an illusion of friendliness. “You better zip it before I rip that tacky ass bandage off your crooked nose, babe.” 

With a shit-eating grin – because Tachi knew Yosano’s sassy threats were playful – Tachihara untangled his arms from their place on Chuuya’s shoulders and skidded over to Kaiji’s bunk where the stolen booze (from where, no one knew) was being unpacked.

Yosano patted his shoulder, her smile melting into something fond. “Seriously, Chuuya,” she said, “don’t fret too much, at least for tonight.” She moved her hand up to ruffle his orange curls, eerily similar to how Paul used to. And if he was being honest, Chuuya enjoyed the memory, despite how bittersweet it was. “I’m going to check in with Akutagawa before I head out for the night,” she told him. “I should be back tomorrow afternoon.” Before Chuuya could fire a question, Yosano held up her palm, silencing him. “My boss is in town and I need to give him a report on what I gathered so far. I managed to pry some things from Ango, and even though Dazai made it increasingly difficult, I think I have enough to let Fukuzawa get involved. But I’m not sure. I’ll tell you how it went when I come back.”

Chuuya nodded, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his pants, still dirty from his two fights. He hated that he had to wait until morning to shower, if you could even call it that. 

Yosano found Akutagawa on his bunk with a paper box of plain rice, and Chuuya turned his attention to his own space. His arms, legs, and stomach were sore, and the bruise on his face was throbbing. He’s had much worse, but the injuries didn’t make sleeping on his rock-hard mattress any easier. 

As the moon crept up and the boys of Dorm C got increasingly tipsy, sleep weighed down almost every pair of eyelids in the room. It wasn’t long before everyone was fast asleep – besides Chuuya, who stared at the dust particles in the air, still with the same ache in his chest. 

The sound of creaking floorboards made every muscle in his body go limp, eyes closed in an attempt to look asleep. The only thought in his mind was that staff member from Dorm A – Mr. Ace, coming to punish him for his disrespect and victory. If he was lucky, he’d just get a couple lashes. Chuuya would take the leather strap over the work shed any day.

But chances were he’d get both. Or something worse.                

“You know they could really bury you out back, right? People get killed here!”

He hoped Tachihara was bluffing. 

The voice that whispered his name didn’t sound anything like Ace. It wasn’t Fukuchi, either. Or Ango. It was something breathier, something with an obnoxious, sing-songy tone. 

“Chuu~ya… Wakey-wakey, little slug.”

“Dazai?!”

“Shhh!” the boy whisper-laughed. “Try not to get us caught, okay?”

Chuuya sat up in his bed, ignoring Dazai’s request as he shuffled around under his scratchy blanket full of little holes. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Dazai crept onto Chuuya’s bed, sitting across from him with a mischievous grin. Chuuya felt his heart skip every time the mattress dipped under Dazai’s weight. “I didn’t get to congratulate you,” he said simply. “I couldn’t see the end of your fight, but I heard the cheering. You did well, Chuuya.”

Chuuya felt so stupid with the words caught in his throat like this, but Dazai’s voice was so gentle, so unusual to his normal teasing tone. Goosebumps spread like wildfire of his freckled skin, and he swallowed down the urge to run and leap forward at the same time. Instead, he muttered a “Thanks” and turned his attention to the other boys sleeping soundly around them.

“You were right about Ace,” Chuuya said. “He cornered me before the match. Some shit about good sportsmanship or something. I told him to go fuck himself.”

“I know,” Dazai laughed. “I followed you guys.”

Chuuya’s face shriveled up like a baby tasting a lemon for the first time. “You’re nuts.”

Dazai responded with a silly face, pulling his eye and sticking out his tongue.

“Whatever. Where’d you go during the match? Did the warden call you back?”

Dazai shook his head, and Chuuya did his best to ignore how his movements went rigid at the mention of Mr. Mori. “I was right about Fyodor, too. I saw him muttering something to another kid in Dorm B, Mushitaro. It’s a good thing I caught him because Mushitaro is a dangerous guy. He’s one of the only students in the school who knows how to get around surveillance and bribe the staff into looking the other way. If Mushitaro got to you, especially with a plan from Fyodor, there wouldn’t have been anything I could do.”

Chuuya scoffed. “How many times do I have to tell you that I can take care of myself, jackass?”

“I don’t know, how many times do I have to tell you I know that?” Dazai blurted. “But you can’t power your way past a bullet to the fucking skull. Is it so difficult for you to accept my help?”

“Take your own advice, Dazai,” Chuuya mumbled. “You’re strong enough to get away from the warden if you really want to. I know Mr. Oda would help you. Ango, too. And Yosano has–”

“Stop it,” Dazai snapped. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Chuuya narrowed his eyes, balling his fists into his blanket. “I know that the warden abuses you,” he said through gritted teeth. “Everyone knows it. We can hear it almost every night. You want to help me out of this shithole?” Chuuya let himself catch his breath, heart beating rapidly as he watched Dazai pale at his words. “Well I want to help you, too.”

The conversation hung heavy in the air like a dense fog enveloping the room where Chuuya and Dazai sat on the lumpy bottom bunk. The tension crackled between them, palpable and suffocating. The redhead shifted uncomfortably, the blanket in his fists becoming his only anchor in the swirling sea of emotions. He wanted to reach out, to bridge the chasm that seemed to widen with each passing moment, but he didn't know how.

He didn’t know if Dazai would let him.

Dazai's gaze was fixed on some distant point, his features etched with a mixture of frustration and resignation. Chuuya could almost hear the wheels turning in his mind, the internal battle raging behind those cold, calculating eyes.

He wanted Dazai to want to get better. 

Was that selfish of him?

“Why did you come here, Dazai?” Chuuya asked. He knew he was on thin ice, but he was never the type of guy to coward away, even from a feral animal, especially one in desperate need of help.

Dazai took his time with his answer. He knew Chuuya wasn’t talking about his abrupt, late night arrival at Dorm C. He was talking about the warden, how he ended up under the thumb of such a rancid man.

“You first,” Dazai landed on, voice still crumpled like a wet napkin. He hated the way Chuuya made him feel – so much and all at once – but he couldn’t leave even if he wanted to. Dazai wasn’t aware of how freezing he was until Chuuya gifted him a fire. He couldn’t go back, not after the past two months. Not after this. “Tell me why you’re here, and I’ll tell you why I’m here.” 

Chuuya nodded, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Yeah. Okay, that’s fair. Where do you want me to start?”

“Where all stories start, Chuuya,” Dazai chuckled. “The beginning.”

Chapter Text

“You don’t have to stay with him, you know.”

The classroom was empty. Dazai was fourteen, a year before he met Chuuya Nakahara, and suffering from thousands of ills from hundreds of lives he had never lived. Odasaku had just recently befriended him by this point, offering him unspoken aid after the natural disaster that was the warden. They sat in the classroom and chatted over cheese and crackers while the delinquent students were off having lunch in the mess hall. On the desk between them, were three items, excluding the platter: a Rubix cube, a roll of bandages, and a faded photo.

The cube was solved, a pathetically easy feat for Dazai; the roll of bandages was an untouched gift from teacher to student; lastly, the photo sent an odd pang of feeling to Dazai’s chest. Tight and achy and unnamed. There were seven kids in the photo, all with big smiles and messy hair, piled on top of a slightly younger Oda Sakunosuke. He wasn’t sure what the feeling was.

“I could get you out of here,” the teacher continued. He had explained who these children were a while ago – foster kids, Dazai recalled faintly. They had escaped unsafe, abusive households and were delivered to Odasaku’s doorstep. They lived with him for two years before they found stable, healthy homes, close enough to allow them to visit each other. And Odasaku visited them, too, as often as he could. 

Until he lost his job. 

It was a miracle Yokohama Reform School was looking for a new teacher.

Dazai stared at the youngest kid in the photo who sat triumphantly on Odasaku’s shoulders. The unnamed feeling was clawing at him. 

“You would lose your job,” Dazai said quietly. “If you helped me, you would lose your job.”

It had been quite a long time since Oda had heard such quietness from the boy. The warden had got him pretty bad a few days ago, and Oda had to track the kid down in order to have this conversation. His heart squeezed in his chest.

“You could lose your life,” was the teacher’s rebuttal. “I could get another job. You can’t get another life, Dazai.”

Dazai shook his head. He didn’t fear dying — often craved it — but going against a man like Mori was a death sentence for both of them. Dazai would lay motionless under Mori’s hands a thousand times before he let Odasaku, his only friend, suffer trying to save a suicidal boy’s life. 

The bandages around his right eye were soaked with blood. It was a new wound, and it made both of them sick. 

“I want you to live, Dazai,” Odasaku continued. “And I want you to enjoy living. That’s not possible when you’re living under the same roof as him.”

Dazai’s lip wobbled, tears pressing at the waterline of his only seeing eye. Odasaku was right. He was miserable here. He was in pain, and he hated it. If he ever wanted to learn how to feel like a normal person, he needed to leave. 

But if he tried to escape, Odasaku would suffer. And there was a chance they wouldn’t even win the case.

“I won’t make a move until you tell me to,” Oda whispered. “But I’m here for you, kid. I’m here, and I care about you, and I want you to be happy.”

The tear slipped from his left eye. A drop of blood from his right.

“Can you promise me you’ll reach out when you’re ready?”

Dazai nodded and relished in the relieved smile he got in response. The rest of the day, even when the students returned, was spent playing Candy Land in Mr. Oda’s classroom, and when Dazai had to drag himself back to the warden’s quarters, Odasaku went with him. 

Dazai thought about that meeting as he laid side by side with Chuuya on the lumpy bottom bunk in Dorm C. The redhead had coaxed him into staying with the promise of telling stories they kept close to their chests, and now they found themselves only millimeters away, breathing in each other’s exhale. Chuuya was flat on his back as he spoke, and Dazai rested on his side, turned toward him, admiring the different shapes and colors that created Chuuya’s portrait.  

“I was seven when my mom left,” Chuuya began. “I don’t really remember it, but I do remember digging the letter she left us out of the trash after my dad tossed it. Apparently she had already been married when she met my dad, and they had a kid and a fancy house in Metz.” 

 Chuuya’s mother was a loving soul, kind and soft-spoken, he said, but she was a liar. She had a happy family out in France, a husband named Nicolas-Auguste Verlaine and a healthy son whom they called Paul.

The month after Fuku’s departure was tortuous for Chuuya and his father. The man didn’t utter a word throughout the entire four-week period, and after Chuuya was cracked across the face, he stopped trying to figure out what was wrong – why the parents he’d known had disappeared. 

“I lost a lot of sleep after she left,” Chuuya said. Dazai could tell he was underexaggerating. The truth was that Chuuya didn’t know how to drift off without his mom’s gentle singing, her thin fingers carding through his hair. He couldn’t sleep, and this quickly developed into not speaking, not eating, not moving.

His father was a short-tempered man. He didn’t know what to do with a son who sat silent and decaying like a thrown-out science project.

So Kensuke followed the tug in his chest: sold the house, left the country, and eventually died from alcohol poisoning on a rooftop in Whales. 

Chuuya was left to fester alone on the streets of Japan.

From ages seven to thirteen, he learned to survive by sticking with the other street kids, nicknamed the “Sheep.” He met a boy named Shirase, a year older than him, and a teenager whose name Chuuya couldn’t remember. “Yuan joined our group later on, and as we got older and more capable, she, Shirase, and I migrated away from the Sheep, acting alone as a trio. Honestly, it was pretty fun.” His laughter was a whisper to the stars. “We thought we were the shit back then.”

Chuuya was thirteen when he stumbled into Paul Verlaine. Apparently the man had just moved from France and was looking for a young boy by the name of Chuuya Nakahara. “His parents had died in a car crash,” the redhead said, “and all he had was a wad of cash, a framed photo of his parents, and a beat up car his mom’s will said was a gift for her Japanese bastard son.” 

Chuuya rattled on about how he helped Paul and Paul’s partner, Arthur Rimbaud, find an apartment in the city. He told Dazai the stories Paul told him about their parents – his brother’s memories that Chuuya would consume and make his own – before winding down with an embarrassed flush.  

The rest, Chuuya explained, was history.

Dazai took a moment to process the story, chewing on the idea of Chuuya being a street rat. He had quite a few run-ins with kids living off scraps and sleeping under tarps and bridges, but it never crossed his mind that they, too, had their own thoughts, feelings, and experiences – their own reasons for living the way they did.

Dazai was too busy trying to die.

“As for how I got sentenced to YRS,” Chuuya went on, “that’s less dramatic. I saw this bully beating the shit out of a smaller kid, so I stepped in and rocked his shit. Turns out that bully was the son of some politician who wouldn’t be satisfied until I was behind bars for assault or something.” Chuuya scoffed. “If that old bastard put half that amount of effort toward raising his kid right, this wouldn’t have happened in the first place.”

Dazai was still eerily silent. Dazai, who could talk Chuuya’s ear off – and often did – was silent. It wasn’t an awkward silence, but it was unusual, and Chuuya found himself combing back through his story to see if anything he said could’ve been taken the wrong way. (Accidentally insulting people or unintentional insensitivity was an ongoing struggle for little Nakahara.) When he replayed his words and found nothing that could set Dazai off, he furrowed his eyebrows and stared at the top bunk, waiting impatiently for Dazai’s response.

Finally, the boy spoke up, dark eyes still dancing with something far away. “Your brother,” Dazai said, “does he look like you?”

That was probably the last question Chuuya expected him to ask, but his answer came quickly and casually. “Nah, not really. He’s pretty tall, and he’s a blond. No freckles. And both of his eyes are blue.” He pointed to his right eye, the color a deep black instead of honey brown in the darkness. “I’ve got one brown.”

Dazai hummed, letting his eyes linger on Chuuya’s shadowed figure a little longer. This was the first time he had ever laid in bed with someone who wasn’t Mori, and while there was tightness in his chest, it was nothing compared to the feral panic he had expected. Dazai could feel every inch of his skin buzzing under his bandages, and he didn’t feel cornered – he felt alive.

“I suppose it’s my turn,” Dazai murmured, doing his best to contain the feeling.

Chuuya’s response was a shift in position. He rolled over and tucked his hands under the pillow they shared, now face-to-face with Dazai in the darkness. The bandaged boy’s heart skipped a beat, distracting him enough to let the words roll off his tongue.

“Let’s start with my parents,” he said. “Despite what most people here at the school think, Mori is not my father. Not biologically, anyway. He’d very much like to be, and often, when my brain is slipping like it usually does around him, I start to believe it. But the fact is, Mori is not my father. It… disturbs me,” Dazai managed to choke out with a crinkled look of disgust, “when people call me that. His kid, I mean. I’m not… I’m not his.”

Chuuya nodded his agreement. “You’re not anybody’s,” he emphasized. 

And oh, Dazai thanked the god he didn’t even believe in for denying Chuuya mind-reading powers. Because Dazai most definitely belonged to someone – someone shorter than their own fiery temper with a face full of freckles, a head full of orange hair, and a pair of mismatched eyes like the mangy mutt he was. 

“Moving on,” Dazai sputtered. “Before Mori, I lived with my parents. They were rich on illegal money – from what, I wasn’t sure – and they had very little time to deal with little ol’ me.”

Chuuya frowned. Dazai offered a smile to combat it.

“I was self-sufficient enough,” he said in a weak attempt to ease Chuuya’s displeasure. “The pantry was stocked with enough canned food for the apocalypse, and I had plenty of books to entertain me. The loneliness only became a problem once my fascination with suicide reared its old head.”

“Why….” Chuuya cleared his throat. “How old were you?”

“Eh… nine, maybe?” He shrugged. “I don’t entirely remember, and it’s not that important. The biggest thing was my desire to end my life and my parents’ refusal to take it seriously. Perhaps if I had gotten help back then…”

He stopped. He didn’t want to entertain the idea of an imaginary world where he wasn’t so royally screwed up. He didn’t want Chuuya to, either. 

“When I would hurt myself,” Dazai explained, “my father would drop me off at Doctor Mori’s clinic. I’m sure Yosano told you a bit about the business he was running there: the only doctor in the area that accepted both criminals and their illegal money. Not to mention his medical expertise…” He puffed out a breath. “It was a pot of gold at the end of the blood-soaked rainbow for people like my parents.”

Chuuya’s mouth flopped open like a fish as he processed Dazai’s words. “How’d you know I talked to Yosano about the warden?” he hissed. “Were you stalking me again?!”

Dazai laughed, tilting his head forward so it landed in the nook of Chuuya’s neck. His cold forehead rested gently against Chuuya’s warm collarbone, and even when his giggles died down, Dazai let himself stay, siphoning the heat. “No, Chuuya, I don’t make a habit of following you. That only happened four times.”

“Huh?! Four times?!”

“Shhhh,” he chuckled. “Yosano and Ango have become something like business partners, trying to collect dirt on Mori to shut the school down. And Ango is infatuated with Odasaku, so the information is sent to me through the grapevine.” He smiled, nuzzling into Chuuya, testing how far he can go. “It’s very brave of them, I must say, though their efforts are in vain. Nobody can beat Mori.”

Slowly, tentatively, Chuuya raised his arm, circling it around the back of Dazai’s head, gently carding his fingers through the brown curls. They interacted like two wild animals from different species, searching for comfort, careful to avoid any landmines. 

Dazai let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He sank into Chuuya completely.

“Maybe we can’t beat him,” Chuuya said, “but we can make sure he doesn’t hurt you anymore.”

Dazai’s smile was featherlight. “We won’t win that case, slug. Mori has a backup plan for a backup plan. He’s determined to have me be the next warden, and he’ll kill me before he lets me run free.”

Chuuya let the silence hang heavy in the air. He wouldn’t fight this fight tonight. Instead, he waited for Dazai to continue his story, still raking his nails gently, methodically, against his scalp.

“Mori presented a deal to my parents,” Dazai went on. “He wouldn’t charge anything for patching me up after my attempts, and in exchange, my parents would look the other way when he… experimented on me. My parents accepted without a second thought.”

Chuuya pulled him a little closer.

“A year or so went by, and Mori took a liking to me. He presented another deal, and this time my parents had the decency to think about it for a second or two. Mori was offered a job at Yokohama Reform School, and the pay was unparalleled. He wanted to take me with him, so he offered my parents a huge sum of money.” Dazai sighed. “If I didn’t have a little brother, they probably would’ve said no. They needed an heir to the business, and even though I was the first born, Yozo wasn’t trying to kill himself every twenty minutes.

“Sometimes I really hate him. If Yozo was never born, I never would’ve been sold like a cheap whore to a psychopathic pedophile. I think that’s why I don’t hate Mori as much as I should,” Dazai admitted, “because all that anger goes toward Yozo. And it’s not fair, I know that, but he got to stay with our parents and I…”

Chuuya’s arms were shaking, curled around Dazai’s thin torso. He knew his story was a lot to take in, even for the vast majority that wanted him dead and gone, but he promised Chuuya the truth – and now that it was out in the open, Dazai realized how much he’d been wanting to tell somebody. He felt himself deflate fully against Chuuya’s chest, arms circling him the same way the redhead’s circled him. Their legs tangled together under the scratchy blanket, and their hearts beat in a steady, synchronized rhythm. 

So many things were said in this silence between them: I hear you, I’m here for you, you’re not alone, it’s going to be okay.

Things that Odasaku had tried to convince him of years ago, things that Dazai never let himself believe.

That was until Chuuya, of course. 

In the morning, he made Chuuya promise to keep his secrets – both of his origin and the tears he shed as they fell asleep, grieving a smart little boy who grew up to hate himself.

It took two days for Ace to retaliate. 

Chuuya sat with Tachihara at breakfast, waiting for Akutagawa to arrive before they dug into their bland bowls of oatmeal. They talked about Mr. Fukuchi – Kaiji was trying to convince the man to shave his mustache – and how today out in the fields was going to be a breeze. Instead of being split up across the acres, all the Dorm C kids were going to clean and repaint the wooden accents of the school’s brick buildings. 

“I was talking to Jouno, and he said they do outside touch-ups once a year,” Tachihara explained. “I think I’m gonna ask Aku to sit out. If all of the C kids are working together, nobody’ll care if he takes a nap in the grass, right?”

Chuuya nodded his agreement. “Yeah, and I don’t mind doubling my share to make up for his.”

“We’ll split it half and half.” 

A beat of silence passed over them.

“Where is Akutagawa, anyway?” Tachihara asked. 

Chuuya felt his blood run cold. “Did he sleep in?” It was a stupid question, choked out between semi-trembling lips. They both knew it was impossible to sleep in at YRS.

“He could be with Ango,” Tachihara offered. That, too, was a pathetic excuse.

Chuuya swallowed the sick feeling on his tongue and rose from his seat. After winning the tournaments, he felt comfortable enough to stalk over to another Dorm C kid’s table, slapping his hand down and peering into his soul with his brown and blue eyes. “Do you know where Akutagawa is?” he asked the kid in question. Katai, he remembered faintly. 

“Nope,” Katai quickly, anxiously, replied. “Uh, Karma might know. The new kid. Over there.” He pointed to a short, lanky kid with washed-out red hair and an X-shaped scar beneath his right eye. Chuuya quickly turned his focus, eyes narrowed.

“I saw one of the staff members taking him to the shed,” Karma sputtered.

Chuuya’s hands clenched into fists, nails digging into the meat of his palms. “Which staff member? What did he look like?”

“Short blond hair with bangs on one side–”

Chuuya didn’t bother listening to the rest before making a break for it. The doors to the mess hall practically crumbled out of his way, and in a matter of seconds, he was on his way to the work shed.  

The only person who ever saw Ryuunosuke Akutagawa cry was his younger sister. She held him close and kissed his forehead the way she saw mothers do on TV, ignoring the way her heart squeezed in her chest. It was unfair, she thought, that they didn’t have anyone but each other. And when Ryuunosuke was sent off to reform school, they didn’t have anybody.

Gin knew her brother was sick. Lung cancer, a doctor had said months ago, back when the siblings were still being cycled through the foster care system. They couldn’t pay for surgery or chemotherapy, so the best they could do was hope – hope that Ryuunosuke was one of the 20% to live past a year without treatment.

He was diagnosed seven months ago. He was shipped off to YRS three months ago.

He was going to die soon. He knew that.

But here? Away from Gin? Behind a piece-of-shit shed at a reform school?

What kind of god would let that happen?

Ace was rough with him, dragging the boy by a fistful of his hair, forcing him to stumble behind. The staff member used his leverage to smash Ryuunosuke’s head against the shed’s wooden wall, smiling as he crumbled to the ground shortly after.

“You kids are too easy,” Ace began, rolling up his sleeves. He pulled a long, thin branch decorated in thorns from a spot in the grass by his feet, testing its endurance by giving it a good swing. Ace had planned this, and the realization made Akutagawa gag. 

Ace cracked the leather across Akutagawa’s pale face, laughing as the blood gushed from his cheek. 

“Shall we kill two birds with one stone?”

The student’s lungs burned. He gasped and coughed, desperate for air, but as soon as his mouth opened, the blood from the lash on his cheek rushed into his mouth. Was this how it felt to drown?

Ace gave him two more lashes, one across his nose and another on his neck, before dropping the branch and wrestling Akutagawa out of his clothes. 

“You’re one ugly creature,” Ace cackled, forcing the boy to his feet. He poked the protruding ribs and caved in stomach, howling with laughter. “God, they really don’t waste any food on you stray dogs, do they?” 

The student was pushed against the wall, another gasp leaving his bloody lips. If he could breathe, he’d be sobbing.

“Arms up,” Ace ordered. “Let’s see how many hits it takes to see the white of your bones.”

Akutagawa crumpled after the eighth. 

Around the nineteenth, he caught sight of bright orange hair. 

When he would eventually sit down with Yosano and Tachihara to explain how he did it, Chuuya would be rendered speechless. One moment he was pushing open the doors to the mess hall, and the next he was ripping a bloody thorn branch out of Ace’s hands, jumping on his back like a wild animal, and curling the branch around the man’s neck. 

Ace screamed, and Chuuya dropped to the ground. Just for good measure – and for revenge – he kicked him as hard as he could right in the stomach, then stomped the heel of his boot into Ace’s nose.

But once he got a taste, he couldn’t stop. Again, and again, and again. 

He didn’t stop until he heard a whimper from a dark-haired half-corpse off to his right. 

Akutagawa’s blood wasn’t as warm as it should’ve been. His breath was sputtering like a car that should’ve been ripped to scrap ages ago. Still, Chuuya scooped the bloody child into his arms and forced himself to remember which one of these hellish brick buildings was the infirmary. 

The warden returned the day after the Tournaments with stacks of paperwork to do. Visiting his daughter was a tedious thing, despite its rewards, because her mother – a young lady Mori met when he was in college and she was in high school, someone he had never spoken to again before learning he had impregnated her – was a thorn in his side. Refusing to give the man even just partial custody of his darling Elise, Shige demanded that if Mori wanted to see their daughter, he needed to provide legitimate bank statements proving the money he intended to spoil Elise with was legal. On top of that, there were contracts to write and sign, checks to write and sign, business licenses to fake, and hordes of lawsuits to cover up. 

Shige was a headstrong, demanding young woman, but to see Elise – to be alone with her even for just half an hour – Mori would burn the whole world down.

Dazai’s favorite times of year were when Mori left to see Elise. It happened during every major holiday, including the YRS Tournaments, and the two days afterward when the warden was swamped with work, Dazai was practically free.

Under normal circumstances, the warden would’ve noticed if Dazai snuck out to sleep over at Dorm C and did a walk of shame back home at four in the morning. But he got away with it! It was the best feeling in the world.

He wanted to tell Odasaku all about it as soon as possible. 

When the warden finally dragged himself up at ten and locked himself in his study on the second day after his return, Dazai took his escape route through his window and headed to the schoolhouse. 

It was a work day today for the students, so the classroom would be empty. Perhaps Odasaku would already have the tea brewed and the board game set up. Maybe Ango would be there as well. And Dazai wouldn’t complain if Yosano joined them, too. Would it be too outrageous to ask if Chuuya could come, too?

Dazai skipped into Oda’s classroom with his bandages snug but not tight and his tie untied. The coat Mori gifted him was abandoned on his bed, and Dazai felt freer than a bird in flight. 

Mr. Oda, on the other hand, looked extremely distressed. There was no tea, no board game, and no guests joining them. 

“Dazai,” Odasaku said, a hint of surprise. He picked his tan coat off the hanger by the door and slipped it on. “It’s nice to see you’re okay.”

Dazai frowned. “Where are you going?”

“The infirmary,” the teacher answered. “Ango told me there’s been an emergency.”

“It’s not Chuuya,” Dazai whispered, “is it?”

“Nakahara is there, but he’s not injured, I don’t think. Not yet, at least.” He led Dazai out of the classroom, and they walked briskly to Kouyou’s infirmary a little ways away. “Ango was frantic over the phone,” Odasaku explained. “If I heard him correctly, then Chuuya interrupted another student’s punishment and attacked a staff member.”

Dazai felt his heart drop to his stomach. That was more than enough information.

Chuuya's heart hammered against his ribcage, each beat a thunderous reminder of the dire situation unfolding before him. He could barely contain the tremble in his hands as he clutched Akutagawa, blood seeping from wounds that seemed to multiply with every passing moment.

“Miss Kouyou, please,” Chuuya choked out. His voice cracked, the desperation palpable in every syllable as he fought to steady his breath, and he hated it – but even more, he hated how weak Akutagawa looked, limp and bloody in his arms. Wrong was the only word in his mind. Wrong, wrong, wrong, this was all wrong. “Please, please treat him. He’s- I can’t–”

“Breathe, lad,” Kouyou said in a hushed tone. Her voice was a soothing balm amidst the chaos, and Chuuya didn’t protest when her practiced hands carefully accepted Akutagawa from Chuuya's trembling embrace, her touch firm yet tender as she laid him out on the stiff and cold cot.

As Kouyou swiftly moved to stem the tide of blood, Chuuya felt a surge of gratitude mingled with a profound sense of helplessness. He hovered nearby, unable to tear his gaze away from the scene unfolding before him. The metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air, mingling with the antiseptic tang of medical supplies as Kouyou worked with unwavering focus.

“I will treat him,” she assured Chuuya, “but you have to explain how this happened. Go pour yourself a cup of water while I tend to your friend.”

Reluctantly, Chuuya tore his gaze away from Akutagawa's mangled form, his steps heavy as he made his way to the small kitchenette area. His hands trembled as he reached for a paper cup to fill under the water bubbler. He shouldn’t be this shaky. This is wrong, this is wrong, this is–

The creak of the infirmary's front door shattered Chuuya's thoughts, each groan of the hinges echoing like a harbinger of doom. Fear clenched his heart in an icy grip as he braced himself for the inevitable punishment he believed awaited him beyond that threshold – this had to be it. He was going to get taken out back and beaten to death, buried in a nameless grave his brother would never be able to find. 

“Mr. Ango,” Kouyou greeted with a syrupy sweet tone, unknowingly lifting tons of anxiety off the redhead’s shoulders. Relief washed over Chuuya as he realized he wasn't about to face the wrath of Mori's enforcers—at least not yet. “How lovely of you to join this train wreck. I’m hoping you have an explanation for this because the half-dead and thoroughly traumatized children under your care certainly don’t.”

“I take full responsibility for what happened,” Ango choked. His eyes flickered toward Akutagawa on the cot. “Is- is he…”

Kouyou scoffed. As she tended to Akutagawa's wounds with practiced precision, Chuuya couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude mingled with a gnawing sense of helplessness. It was a weird feeling. “He’s alive, though having trouble breathing,” Kouyou answered. “I just finished hooking him up to the face mask ventilator. He’s lucky Chuuya got to him in time.”

“Chuuya’s here?” blurted another voice. Yosano, Chuuya recognized. Compelled by his friend’s arrival, he shuffled out into the open, clutching his cup of water like a lifeline. Yosano hurried over to him, and following behind her was an unfamiliar boy with dark hair dressed in a brand new YRS uniform. “I’m so happy you’re alive,” Yosano gushed, pulling the redhead into a hug. She pulled back, resting her hands on his shoulders with a more stern look. “You’re an idiot. A ballsy, brainless idiot. But I’m happy you’re alive.”

Chuuya was still a bit too shocked to clap back with some teasing of his own. His focus was being pulled in a million different directions – Akutagawa unconscious, Ango on the phone trying to explain the catastrophe, and of course, the black-haired boy Yosano was yet to introduce.

“You can ask, y’know,” the boy in question quipped. It sounded like he had something in his mouth. A cough drop? A piece of candy?

“Ask what?” Chuuya blurted.

The boy laughed. “Wow, Yo-yo. He really is an idiot.”

“I’ll fucking kill you, kid!”

“Enough,” Yosano sighed. “Ranpo, this is Chuuya Nakahara–”

“I know who he is. You know I know who he is, so why–”

“Because manners, Ranpo,” Yosano hissed, jabbing him with the pointy bone of her elbow. “To be polite. As smart as you are, I would’ve thought you’d know a thing or two about how to interact respectably.” She puffed out an angry breath, ignoring Ranpo’s childish face of mockery, and turned back to Chuuya. “Chuuya, this is my older brother and business partner Ranpo Edogawa.”

Chuuya took a moment to process the information. How these two could hold a normal conversation with the heavy stench of blood – Akutagawa’s blood – permeating the room was beyond his comprehension. Even though he had his back to the horrid scene, the smell was enough to cloud his mind; Chuuya could barely recall his lengthy conversation with Yosano about her brother’s role in the plan. Honestly, his head was spinning.  

“Slow down, he’s overwhelmed,” Ranpo muttered to Yosano. Chuuya couldn’t make out what he said, but he knew from Yosano’s response that it was about him. 

“Sorry, this is a lot all at once,” she said. “Let’s take this one thing at a time. Can you tell us anything about what happened to Akutagawa?”

Chuuya finished his water but held onto the empty cup as if it were full. “Ace,” he murmured. “He cornered me before my fight against Albatross. This was probably him getting back at me.”

Yosano frowned. “But why go after Akutagawa?”

“Well, Akutagawa is sick, right?” Ranpo proposed, “So maybe he was trying to check off two boxes at one time.”

Kill two birds with one stone.

Chuuya found faulty solace staring at the infirmary’s wooden floorboards.

“What matters now is that he’s alive,” Yosano assured. “You’ve saved our asses once again, Chuuya. We owe you.”     

A few steps away, Ango ended his call with Mr. Oda and turned his attention back to Miss Kouyou who worked diligently to keep the sickly student alive. She and Ango were two adults in the YRS bubble that were as similar as they were different. While Kouyou forced herself to justify Mori’s actions in order to keep her sanity, Ango was known to tiptoe around the man in charge and make subtle changes where he could, where it wouldn’t come back to bite him in the ass. 

Both of them knew the disgusting paths Mori took with the students under his care – especially Dazai – and the violent measures he allowed and even encouraged the house staff to take with their punishments. Kouyou and Ango were the quiet, cynical type who spoke with knowing glances and hushed warnings, hoping to keep things as peaceful as possible.

Until Ango made a decision. He made a move.

Yosano had spent weeks begging Ango to lend her his phone for a reason he was entirely clueless about. Eventually he caved (he wasn’t sure what else to do) and a few days later, he was receiving messages from a man named Yukichi Fukuzawa. He was a social worker who had custody of Yosano and wanted to know Ango on a personal level to make sure his daughter in disguise was kept safe.

It was weird, but Ango obliged. There was no harm in communicating with a concerned parent, especially in Yosano’s odd and unique case.

But then things began to spiral. Slowly but surely, talking to Fukuzawa and even keeping Yosano’s secret forced Ango to re-evaluate his morals and humanize the children his boss was torturing, starting with Chuuya’s first punishment and ending with the massacre of Ryuunosuke Akutagawa.

Ango had to make a decision. He had to make a move.  

He tucked his phone in his back pocket and turned back toward the nurse. Her hands never stopped working even as a look of disappointment crossed her sharp, cherry-esque features.

“Oda is on his way,” Ango told her. 

Kouyou hummed, unimpressed. There was no teasing, familiar lilt in her voice this time around. “No need to send your attack dog on me, Mr. Ango. I said I’d treat the boy and I meant it.”

Ango shifted. Kouyou was a ticking time bomb wrapped in pink velvet. “I know,” he said. “You are many things but a liar isn’t one of them. I trust your word, Miss Kouyou.”

“As geniuses and fools alike usually do,” she countered.

The house staff felt his expression harden. The metallic scent of the room made him dizzy, but he was sure to hide it behind his glasses. “I know where your loyalties lie,” Ango began again, “and I would never ask you to betray them–”

“Because you know I wouldn’t. And if you don’t know then you should, darling.”

“–but let me ask you this one favor,” Ango continued. “Help me keep these children safe. Just for a little while longer until I can figure something out.”

The nurse scoffed. She peeled back soaked gauze on Akutagawa's chest and replaced it with a new pad, not bothering to look at the man standing before her. “It’s unlike you to beg, Ango.”

“It’s unlike you to treat a student like a person, Kouyou.”

She scowled. “My humanity is just as pathetically broken as it always has been. I wouldn’t have gotten this far if it wasn’t,” she snapped. “I’m not sure what you’re asking me to do, but I can tell you this: I’m swamped with work pertaining to that little demon Dazai, so I won’t be reporting to the warden about other matters for a while.” Her jaw clenched as she removed and replaced her sterile gloves, realizing the choice she was making. “Three days. That’s all you get from me. Understood?”

“Yes, I understand,” Ango said on his exhale. His thanks were given through a slight bow Kouyou barely caught out of the corner of her eye.

Withholding information from the warden could get her fired, but – and though she hated to admit it – even Kouyou didn’t have the heart to truly neglect these children.      

When Oda arrived, it was with a pocket full of fidget toys and Kouyou’s least favorite child. The nurse had clogged all of Akutagawa’s actively bleeding areas and cleaned the surrounding areas with a saline solution. She was preparing an IV to hook up to the boy on the cot so he wouldn’t feel the tug of the medical needle and thread. 

Chuuya, Yosano, and Ranpo watched silently, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the ground, backs pressed against the wall.

When Chuuya caught sight of Dazai, half the stress and tension melted away in an instant. He didn’t bother fighting the urge to leap at him – within the second, Chuuya had sprang upwards and wrapped Dazai in a tight hug.

Dazai was tentative, but he hugged back, letting his fingers curl into Chuuya’s hair, hoping his scars and pale skin would melt into Chuuya’s calluses and freckles.

The last time they saw each other was only two days ago during their impromptu sleepover, but it felt like eons had passed since Dazai felt the radiating glow from the miracle named Chuuya.   

“Based on his wounds,” Kouyou explained to Oda while Dazai and Chuuya sank into each other, “I’m assuming Ace got to him.”

Oda nodded, solemn. Chuuya pried himself off of Dazai, keeping only their hands intertwined. He felt like there was a ball of cotton shoved in his mouth. 

Kouyou turned to the redheaded boy, a stern look on her painted face. “You know the punishment for disrupting a punishment isn’t pretty, lad.”

Chuuya gulped down the sob in his throat. “I know,” he croaked. “But I had to. I couldn’t let him do that to Ryu. He was going to… Ryu could’ve died.”

“I think that was his goal,” Ango stepped in. “All the house staff are aware of Akutagawa’s condition, and lord knows children’s weaknesses are a magnet to Ace’s sadistic tendencies.”

Dazai squeezed Chuuya’s hand, his one visible eye flickering between all the adults in the room. “Not to mention Ace’s vendetta against Chuuya,” he added. “He cornered Chuuya before the final match and tried to threaten him into losing on purpose.”

“And I’m guessing Chuuya didn’t take that lightly,” Yosano laughed.

The boy in question flushed red with embarrassment. “Uh- yeah. I basically told him to suck his own dick.”

“Language, Chuuya,” Ango sighed, visibly disturbed by the profanity. “That was a very dangerous move you made. You would’ve been better off serving him your own decapitated head on a platter.” 

“Ace is a dangerous, dangerous man with a lot of power,” Kouyou seconded. “You lot are lucky to be alive and well.” 

Ranpo hummed with delight, popping another piece of hard candy into his mouth. “Now that I think about it,” he started, “we don’t need to rush into an escape plan for the time being. Cherry lady? Have you decided how long you’ll wait until you snitch to your boss?”

Kouyou scowled at the teenager but otherwise remained indifferent. “Three days,” she murmured. 

“Great!” Ranpo cheered. “So we’ve got three days to figure out what to do. In the meantime, what kind of sweets do you guys have here?”

Everyone’s eyes whipped to the black haired boy sitting pretty and happy beside his sister on the ground, legs stretched out and arms folded behind his head. “What are you talking about?” Ango pressed. “Ace is almost definitely reporting the incident as we speak. If you’ve been paying attention, you should know about his hatred for the students and Chuuya in particular–”

“Blah blah blah… I get it! You guys are stupid, but do I really have to spell it out for you?!” 

As Yosano shot another jab to Ranpo’s side with the blunt end of her elbow, the adult staff members exchanged looks of concern. “We’d appreciate some elaboration,” Mr. Oda said on behalf of both himself and Ango – and Kouyou, who listened in while she continued to work diligently on Akutagawa. 

Ranpo sighed, pulling himself to a standing position. “You guys just need to slow down and think,” he said. “You think Chuuya just waltzed over and asked nicely for Ace to stop his beat down on Ratagawa?” He turned his laser-focused gaze to the redhead in question. “Why don’t you tell the class what you did, carrot top? Or you, bandage boy. I’m sure you figured it out the second your teacher got the call from Ango.”

“I didn’t kill Ace,” Chuuya snapped. 

A teasing grin wiggled its way onto Ranpo’s sugar-stained lips. “I never said you did.”

Dazai tilted his head, eyes wide with awe and admiration. “This guy is pretty good,” he whispered to Chuuya.

“Not just pretty good,” Ranpo countered. “I’m the best. It’s nice to finally meet you, Osamu Dazai.”

The warden’s kid felt his mouth tick up into a smile eerily similar to the man who raised him. “You as well, Ranpo Edogawa.”

“If you guys are done measuring dicks,” Yosano scoffed as she pulled herself to her feet, “then we should really make a game plan.”

“I just said we have three days to plan,” Ranpo whined. “I don’t wanna do it anymore.”

“Zip it,” Yosano scolded. “No offense to Miss Kouyou, but Akutagawa needs more extensive medical attention that can’t wait that long–”

Ranpo sighed, disinterested. “Well sorry, I thought your priorities were with the redhead and his boyfriend.”

“Everyone is a priority,” Oda said. “The goal is to get everyone out alive.”

“Why don’t we just pile into Ango or Mr. Oda’s car and drive out of here?” Chuuya asked. “That way we’d at least be off campus and wouldn’t have to worry as much about getting caught.”

“Well, since I couldn’t contact Fukuzawa in a while, he thought it’d be a good idea to send in Ranpo to check on me,” Yosano explained, “so the little bit of security YRS has, including the other house staff, is going to be patrolling heavily.” 

“They always are when we get a new student,” Ango added.

“But honestly, our biggest concern is the warden. He was extremely suspicious when he interviewed Ranpo, and I wouldn’t be surprised at all if he was keeping a close eye on him,” Yosano went on. “We wouldn’t be able to leave without some sort of distraction.”

“I can stall him for you,” Dazai offered, his hand twitching slightly in Chuuya’s grasp. “A few hours, maybe. Enough time for you guys to get out.”

Chuuya felt his blood run cold. “Absolutely fucking not.”

Dazai glared at him. “You’re such a pretentious little brat,” he grumbled. “I know you can’t hear me that well from all the way down there, slug, but I’m trying to help you.”

Chuuya stomped on Dazai’s foot, glowering at him . “You can help me without making yourself a martyr for the cause. If anyone’s a pretentious brat–” He lifted his foot and aimed a kick directly at Dazai’s shin, earning a yelp from the taller boy “–it’s you!”

“I’m with Chuuya on this one,” Mr. Oda chimed in. “You’ve suffered enough, Dazai.”

He rolled his eyes, stifling a jagged insult. “If I knew I’d be plotting against my psycho guardian with a bunch of pussies, I would’ve brought my spray bottle.”

Chuuya smacked the back of his head. 

“Okay, so we know what needs to happen,” Ango continued while Dazai cried fake tears for sympathy. “Akutagawa needs a hospital, Chuuya needs a safe place to stay before Ace recovers enough to report or Kouyou’s three day grace period is up, and we need a distraction for the warden that doesn’t involve Dazai.”

Yosano turned to Ranpo, pulling another treat out the pocket of her school issued pants. This time it was a chunk of chocolate fudge wrapped in plastic. Ranpo took it with stars in his eyes and began talking once he finished inhaling the gift/bribe. “I say we let Chuuya get caught,” Ranpo declared. “He’ll get, what, ten lashes? And then he’s in solitary, basically untouchable. Yosano can sneak in again and fix him up.” He grinned, shooting a knowing – taunting – look Dazai’s way. “And if the carrot top needs a kiss goodnight, I’m sure we have someone who is more than willing to volunteer.”

“You’re lucky you’re so smart,” Dazai scoffed.

“Ha! I know.”

“I think that’s a terrible idea,” Ango cut in. “We’re not sending Chuuya to get whipped out back and possibly killed.”

“But they wouldn’t kill him,” Ranpo countered. “The only person who would is Ace, and he’s out of commission. Chances are it’ll be that old man, Fukuchi, and he won’t give Chuuya more than he needs to.”

“How can you be sure?” Oda questioned. 

“Fukuchi was a friend of my dad’s,” Ranpo explained. “I trust my dad more than anyone in the world, and he said Fukuchi is bound to duty before all else. He will follow the rules he’s given, no more and no less.”

“But I know Mori,” Dazai objected. “And if he’s the one deciding what punishment Chuuya is getting, it’ll be gruesome. He’ll tell Fukuchi to hit him until we can’t even recognize him anymore.”

“Can you scumbags not talk about me as if I’m not right here?!” Chuuya fumed.

“Sorry,” Ango said. “We just want you to be safe.”

“Thanks, but I can take care of myself,” Chuuya spat. “I can handle Fukuchi. I got twenty lashes from him and survived two weeks on nothing but half a pound of raw vegetables and a Pop-Tart.”

“And it’s not like we have another choice,” Yosano said. “If we want to keep everyone safe and get more time to plan…”

“I’ll talk to Mori,” Dazai said. “We don’t need to tell him exactly what Chuuya did. I’ll make something up, something less extreme, and see if I can get him to skip the lashes.”

“Don’t be too obvious,” Oda advised. “Stay smart.”

He winked, squeezing Chuuya’s hand again to keep them both stable. After this whole mess was sorted out, maybe then he’d try to evaluate what all the intimate touches meant, but for now, he had more important things to think about. “I’m always smart, Odasaku.”

Chapter Text

Odasaku offered to walk with him to the warden’s quarters, but Dazai declined.

“You sure?” the teacher pressed. “I don’t feel great about you going by yourself.”

“I’m a big boy, Odasaku,” Dazai said, both prideful and teasing. “Save your gentleman skills for that silly weasel Ango.”

Oda frowned. “I wish you’d stop deflecting,” he said. “It’s okay to be scared, Dazai. You’ve been through hell and we’re asking you to walk right back into it.”

“I’m fine,” Dazai pressed. “Seriously. Mori isn’t anything I can’t handle—“

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Oda cut in. It was rare for the teacher to ever speak sternly, especially with Dazai, but when he did, it was very different from the stone-cold punch-to-the-throat tone Mr. Fukuchi held. Oda’s sternness was the humming buzz of the old fluorescent lights in his classroom; it was a street post weathering the storm, held up only by its inanimate will. 

And even though neither of them were the type to crave physical touch, Dazai melted into the steady hands his teacher rested on his shoulders.

“You’re strong,” Oda whispered, “and you’re freakishly smart. But you are a child. Feeling things, be it fear or happiness or anything in between, doesn’t take away from those things. I am offering my support because I care about you and I want you to know you aren’t alone. I care about you, Dazai. I want you to be safe.”

Even more rare than Odasaku’s sternness were Dazai’s hugs – the first and only time he clung to someone other than the warden was two days ago in Chuuya’s bed, accompanied by secrets and unshed tears. As much as he trusted, admired, even loved Mr. Odasaku, this hug was the first.

(Because Dazai had a sinking feeling this would also be his last.)     

As surprised as Odasaku must’ve been – since Dazai did everything he could to avoid any physical contact, let alone hugs – he didn’t let it show on his face, which worked well for both of them. Odasaku wasn’t a big fan of hugs, either, but there was something screaming in his chest, telling him not to let his kid go just yet. 

Odasaku ruffled his hair, letting the boy cling to him like a toddler.

“If I actually make it out of here with you guys,” Dazai murmured against the teacher’s tan coat, “I… I want to be one of your foster kids. Like those brats in the picture you showed me.”

Oda’s heart seized in his chest. He was a man of honor and strict moral code, but the warden was going to have hell to pay for ruining this kid’s childhood. “I’m sure that can be arranged,” the teacher managed to say, barely holding onto his calm demeanor. He could feel Ango (and perhaps Kouyou and the students) watching them from the infirmary window. “I had a feeling you’d ask one of these days. I’ve got an empty room waiting for you, kid.”

Dazai choked on his surprise. “You do?”

“Of course,” Odasaku chuckled. “I’ll see if I can convince Ango to take us shopping on our way out of this hellhole. That way you can decorate your space however you’d like.” 

Dazai fought the urge to sob. His grip on his teacher’s coat was near violent, desperate like a feral child.  

“It’s almost over, Dazai,” Odasaku said, arms wrapped protectively around him. “Just hang in there a little longer, okay?”

He nodded into Oda’s coat before prying himself away. He filled his mind with thoughts of a new home as he dragged his feet in the direction of hell’s capitol – maybe Chuuya could come shopping, too, and help him pick some stuff out.

Like normal kids do. Happy kids. 

The front door to the warden’s quarters was unlocked. Dazai barely opened it, opting to squeeze through the small crack instead. The hinges groaned softly, as if warning him to turn back. His feet were light as ever on the floorboards, but Mori was nowhere to be seen – meaning he was expecting Dazai. Upstairs. 

In his bedroom.

Dazai felt his entire body shake as he forced himself up the stairs, clutching the railing like it was the only thing keeping him from sinking down to hell. Each step creaked under his weight, the sound echoing through the empty hall like the tolling of a death knell. His breath came in shallow, rapid gasps, and he had to fight the urge to bolt back down the stairs and out the door.

Even before he was allowed outside, Dazai never felt this sick when meeting the warden. All he could think about was how painful this would be if he didn’t play his cards right.

Physical abuse. Rape. He used to be tolerant of those things, but now…

He wanted to hide behind Odasaku like a little kid. He wanted to sneak into Chuuya’s room and tell stories and jokes and laugh so hard tears bubbled up in their eyes. He wanted to be somewhere else, somewhere safer – somewhere Mori was determined to keep him away from.

“It’s almost over.” Oda’s words were an anchor.

“You want to help me out of this shithole?” If Oda was the anchor, Chuuya was the ship. “Well I want to help you, too.”

He could do this. He had to. Lying came easy to him, didn’t it? He just needed to fool the man who taught him how. 

“Welcome home, Osamu,” the warden greeted, sweet as honey. He sat at his desk, the chair pulled out enough to allow Dazai to inch onto his lap. Obeying the silent command, he crossed the room and took a seat atop the man’s thighs, skin crawling as Mori's hands settled on his hips. 

“I missed you,” Dazai whispered. A lie, of course, but he needed Mori to believe his training was going well. “How is Elise doing?”

Mori smiled into the crook of Dazai’s neck, his breath hot and sticky against his skin. He snaked his arms around the boy’s thin waist, his fingers tracing patterns that felt like spiders skittering across Dazai's flesh. “Your little sister is doing wonderfully,” the warden cooed. “I showed her your pictures. She wants to meet her big brother very much.” He sighed dreamily, and Dazai shivered. “I’ve had so many fantasies of my two children playing together. I’d like nothing more than to unite my wonderful family.”

Palms clammy and fingers fisted into the sleeves of Mori’s coat, Dazai asked, “Are you any closer to gaining custody of her?”

The warden hummed, a deep, contemplative sound that made Dazai’s heart pound louder in his ears. “Not exactly. I’ve told you about how much of a stubborn bitch her mother is. I’ve considered contacting a friend to dispose of her, but I know Elise loves her tenderly. It’s a delicate process, as most things are.” Dazai flinched as the stubble on Mori’s chin scraped against his skin, a kiss pressed to the nape of his neck. “What do you think of it all, doll? How can I bring your little sister home?”

This was a test, and Mori didn’t even bother disguising it. 

Something was off. 

“It’d be most efficient to frame it as an accident,” Dazai offered, “but in order to truly gain Elise’s love, you’d have to distance her from her mother beforehand and center her attention on you. Glorify life here in the quarters and bring attention to the things she dislikes in her day-to-day life with Shige.”

Mori rewarded him with a kiss for his answer, lifting the boy and turning him around, positioning him so he straddled the man in the chair. Dazai felt like vomiting. “Fantastic,” Mori praised, pulling his mouth off of Dazai’s. “You’re fantastic, Osamu. My fantastic little prodigy. My perfect son.”

“You’re not anybody’s,” Chuuya's voice rang in his mind. 

“You don’t have to stay with him,” Odasaku’s said. 

Mori chuckled, a low, menacing sound that sent a shiver down Dazai’s spine, pulling his attention back to the present. “You’ve been out while I’ve been busy,” he commented. “There must be something you’d like to share, yes?”

Another test. This time, the sadistic flicker in the warden’s magenta eyes told Dazai he'd be punished if he answered wrong. The man’s gaze was piercing, dissecting every twitch and tremor. It hadn’t always been this bad, had it?

“Yes,” he began, tentatively. “I went to meet with Mr. Oda for a game of chess this morning, but we were interrupted by a call from Mr. Ango. The same brat who attacked me two months ago had gotten into a fight with another Dorm C kid. Tachihara, I believe. There were no serious injuries, but it was enough to ruin my morning.” He hoped his pouting was enough to convince the warden, and maybe as he trailed his hands up the man’s chest and let his arms slip around his neck, pulling them closer together, Mori wouldn’t notice how Dazai’s heart squeezed with anxiety in his chest.

But he did. Of course he noticed. Dazai was good, but he wasn’t better than the man who taught him.

A smile slithered onto Mori’s face, and he leaned forward, his breath tickling Dazai’s lips. “Is that so?” he murmured. “A fight between two Dorm C students?”

Dazai nodded, dipping his head into Mori’s collarbone as a last-ditch effort at distraction. The warden’s scent was overpowering, a mix of rich cologne and something darker, more sinister. “That’s what Ango reported,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “That Chuuya–”

Mori’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into Dazai’s sides, sending a jolt of pain through his body. “Tell me more,” the warden commanded, his tone dangerously soft. The threat in his voice was clear – one wrong word and Dazai would pay dearly.

He knows. He always knows. I need to leave, I need to get out of here–

His gaze darted around the room, searching for an escape, but there was none. The only way out was through Mori, and that was a battle he couldn't win. Think. You have to think, c’mon, THINK–

Mori’s hands found themselves under the waistband of his pants, nails digging into the flesh on his hips. Dazai choked back a sob, ripped from his thoughts, tears threatening violently to spill down his face.  

“Power struggle in the lower dorm,” he blurted, mentally cursing himself – he’d been able to keep quiet through much more painful experiences. What was it about right now that made him break?! “Ch-Chuuya won the Tournaments, and the other students– He was causing trouble again, a-and Ango said... he said it was nothing serious, but I thought you should know–”

Without warning, Mori grabbed him by the throat and slammed him forward, cracking the back of Dazai’s head against the mahogany desk.

He knows he knows he knows he knows he’s gonna- he’s going to–

“That story may have tricked a lesser man,” Mori seethed, draping his body over Dazai’s on the table, “but not me, doll. I’m offended you’d even attempt to fool me with such a pathetic lie.”

Gasping for breath, eyes wild with panic, Dazai clawed at Mori’s hands, desperate for a lick of air, but the warden only squeezed harder, dragging Dazai forward and repeating the violent collision. 

“I’m disappointed,” Mori growled, tightening his palm around the boy’s airway. Heavy, heavy, everything felt so heavy. “Very disappointed in you.” 

Dizzy and disoriented, Dazai barely felt Mori lift him upward and toss him across the room. Or the heavy boot that stomped into his ribcage, or the cracking sound that came from somewhere within his battered body. 

The assault continued, kick after kick, choking, slapping, bones creaking and snapping. When Dazai began to sob, Mori pinned him to the bed and bit his collarbone until blood bubbled against his lips. And then he moved down, and down, and down, and when Dazai’s defenses were properly stripped, Mori ruined him. 

He ruined him. It was the first time Dazai had ever begged Mori to stop, pushing him and punching him as hard as he could while broken and bruised and covered in blood. He screamed for someone– for Odasaku, for Chuuya, for anyone to come and save him. 

“Please,” he cried. “Help me, someone help me, it hurts! Help me, help, I–”

Mori didn’t even bother gagging him. Both of them knew it was pointless. Even if they could hear, they weren’t stupid enough to cross Mori, especially for a waste of space like Osamu Dazai.

He was getting exactly what he deserved, right? 

The room seemed to shrink around him, the walls pressing in, suffocating him. He tried to focus, to think of something – anything – that could calm him down, but his thoughts were a jumbled mess. Chess. Think about chess. Moves and strategies. But even the familiar comfort of the game couldn't pierce through the fog of panic. His vision blurred at the edges, dark spots dancing in his peripheral, and he could feel Mori's breath on his face, hot and oppressive, muttering the cruelest things a person could conjure – in a language only two demons could understand. 

Slowly but surely, thoughts of his new room at Odasaku’s place and shopping with Chuuya were replaced by the feral craving for self-annihilation.  

He wanted to kill himself. He needed to. He needed this to end now .

It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts stop stop it stopstopstopstop–

When Mori was finished – finally, finally finished – his grip loosened, and Dazai felt a flicker of hope. He forced himself to breathe deeply, to steady his racing heart, even as the pain and panic continued to claw at him from the inside. 

The worst of it was over, he told himself. He just needed to breathe.

Or kill himself. 

The sound of jingling metal caught Dazai’s attention. Mori fished out a pair of handcuffs from the top drawer of his dresser, still crusted with blood from the last time they were used. Dazai tried to fight it, but with three broken ribs, a fractured hip, and blood and other fluids seeping from places he really didn’t want to think about, the best he could do was whine and writhe away, pain shooting through every bruise and bloody bite mark.

“No no no nononono, stop, stop, STOP IT! GET AWAY FROM ME!”  

Mori cuffed him to the bed, tight enough to rip another wave of sobs from his chest.

“I’m very disappointed in you, Osamu,” the warden seethed, echoing words he had repeated earlier, during the height of the abuse. Dazai could barely hear him over the sound of his own blood rushing. “I did not raise a liar, nor did I raise a traitor.”

He tried to speak, tried to tell Mori, no, no, I’m not lying, I’m not betraying you, I swear, but all that came out was a sharp inhale, a painful cry, and a pathetic sob. 

“You will remain in this room and endure your punishments until you’ve redeemed yourself.”

Dazai swallowed a clot of blood in his throat and blinked away his tears. Ignoring the way his ribs screamed, he squirmed around in the bed, choking on his cries. “You can’t, you can’t, you can’t,” he garbled, “I’m sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, Mori please, please don’t leave me, it hurts, I can’t, I- pl-please, please pleasepleaseplease–”

Mori slapped a large hand with slim fingers over Dazai's mouth and nose, blocking his airways strategically and aggressively. “You will remain in this room,” he repeated hauntingly, “until I think you’ve learned your lesson.” 

Akutagawa was unsteady on his feet, as expected from a malnourished, cancer-ridden child who had just barely escaped being beaten to death. His legs wobbled with every step, threatening to give out beneath him. Yosano was kinder than he expected her to be, letting him use her as a crutch, practically carrying him back to the dorm. She murmured words of encouragement, her voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves, while her arm wrapped firmly around his waist to support his weight. 

Ranpo trailed along behind them, chewing on a wad of sugary bubblegum, hands fidgeting with his half-empty plastic water bottle. His eyes were distant, deep in thought, and if Akutagawa were lucid enough, he’d catch the tidbits of information the older boy shared aloud every now and then.

“Three days,” Ranpo said halfway to the dorm. “Two adult allies, two and a half if the nurse comes around…” 

Yosano perked up and listened, despite Ranpo not making much sense, while still hauling Akutagawa along. Her brows knitted together, trying to decipher Ranpo's cryptic musings.

“...Too many student enemies to be effective. Stay alert. No candy source, no brain fuel.” He sighed, the sound weary and resigned. “Keep an eye on Ango... Akutagawa will need a hospital soon…” He rambled some more, as if rereading notes from the meeting and trying to piece together an unknown. He mentioned something else about Ango, then more about Akutagawa’s flimsy stitches and the condition of his lungs, and then some on Chuuya. “We have three days, but Chuuya might have less… Fire hazard, if they’re up for it…”

When they reached Dorm C, Ranpo fell silent. 

Apparently, Ranpo and Mr. Fukuchi had already met each other, and if the tentative glares were anything to go by, their meeting hadn’t gone smoothly. Still, as the three students dragged themselves inside, the staff member turned a blind eye and allowed them to hobble up the stairs and into the bedrooms. The other students would be returning from the workday soon and gathering for nightly attendance, but Ranpo, Akutagawa, and Yosano congregated around Akutagawa’s bunk near the back of the room, taking full advantage of the privacy.

Yosano helped Akutagawa ease onto his bottom bunk before pulling a ziplock bag of white oval-shaped pills from the pocket of her worn denim pants. Ranpo offered up the remainder of his water, and Akutagawa choked out his thanks, accepting the painkillers without a second of doubt. The pain was duller than it had been earlier, but the stitches provided an uncomfortable warmth and steadily throbbing ache across the healing wounds, just enough to keep his eyes open while Ranpo and Yosano spoke.

“When will that Tachihara kid you were telling me about get here?” Ranpo asked, settling himself on the wooden ladder of Akutagawa’s bunk bed, the springs creaking slightly under his weight.

“Soon,” Yosano answered with a tired sigh. “Less than half an hour. But if we can’t catch him tonight, there’s always tomorrow morning.” 

It went unsaid, but the three of them were well aware of how taxing the day had been. It was only this morning that Chuuya attacked Ace and rescued Akutagawa, and only a few hours ago that Ranpo officially arrived on campus, but now the sun was setting and the blanket of stars pulled itself over Yokohama Reform School and all its unfortunate inhabitants. 

“Well let’s hope we can talk to him tonight,” Ranpo said, referring to Tachihara. “We need to fill him in on what happened. And I have a feeling he has some information for us, too.”

Yosano raised a brow at that, curious. “What could he possibly tell us that we don’t already know?”

Ranpo’s lips quirked into a knowing smile. “Being a great detective means digging all around the X, not just where the treasure is buried.”

She scoffed, though Ranpo’s smile was contagious. “You’re a dork,” Yosano replied.

“Uh huh,” Ranpo beamed, “and a genius.”

When Mr. Fukuchi finished the nightly attendance, Ranpo and Yosano made themselves comfortable on the bed above Akutagawa’s where Tachihara usually slept. There were no official assigned beds in the rooms, but even touching a bunk claimed by someone else could earn a new kid a black-eye-and-split-lip combo, so camping out on a claimed bed wasn’t the safest route, especially since Yosano and Tachihara weren’t exactly friends. 

But Ranpo weighed the pros and cons, and Yosano trusted Ranpo with her life. 

“He cares more about Chuuya than his pride,” Ranpo had said. “He knows protecting his ‘territory’ is important for his reputation, but based on what you’ve told me, Chuuya comes first.”

And like always, Ranpo was correct. 

Instead of being pissed as he saw two people sitting on his bunk, Tachihara wore an expression drenched in worry – if Yosano, the girl in disguise with connections outside, made an appearance to speak with him, it meant something was up. The last time she had a serious conversation with him was when Chuuya got solitary…

“What happened?” Tachihara blurted as he approached the bunk. He took a quick peek at Akutagawa, fast asleep wrapped in his scratchy blanket, before scaling the wooden ladder and sitting in front of Ranpo and Yosano on the top mattress. “Where’s Chuuya?” He shot a glare in Ranpo's direction. “And who is he?”

“Ranpo Edogawa,” Yosano said. “My older brother.”

“And your friend, Chuuya,” Ranpo answered, “is in solitary.”

“Motherfucker,” Tachihara hissed. “How long? What did he do?”

“That’s where it gets complicated,” Yosano sighs. “After Chuuya ran out of the mess hall during breakfast, he interrupted Ace attacking Akutagawa. According to the warden’s kid, Ace had a vendetta against Chuuya for winning the Tournaments, and according to Ango, the staff have been debating on getting rid of Akutagawa for a while now, since his condition isn’t improving.”

Tachihara paled. “They were going to kill him?”

“And they might try again,” Ranpo said. “Chances are, when Ace recovers enough to get back on his feet, probably sometime tonight, he’ll go straight to Kouyou to treat whatever injuries Chuuya gave him. We made a deal with the nurse to give us three days before she reports the incident to Mori, so we can count on her to both keep Mori at bay and keep Ace in the infirmary.”

“In the meantime,” Yosano picked up, “we need to find a distraction for the warden and the patrolling staff so Mr. Oda and Ango can drive us out of here. Miss Kouyou did her best with Akutagawa’s injuries, but because of his condition, he’ll need to get to a hospital as soon as possible. And who knows what they’ll do to Chuuya once Mori finds out what really happened.”

Tachihara frowned. “Why not have the warden’s kid pull another suicidal stunt or something?” he suggested. “If he’s missing for long enough, Mori will lose it and send every available staff member out looking for him. And once he’s found, Mori will be busy doing whatever weird shit he does to the kid.”

“Not an option,” Yosano snapped. “Dazai has suffered more than enough.”

“And chances are Mori’s ‘weird stuff’ will be a lot worse once he finds out about Dazai and Chuuya.”

Tachihara looked skeptical, confused as hell. “Dazai and Chuuya?”

Ranpo nodded. “Y’know. Their… relationship.”

Now even Yosano looked confused. “They’re official?”

The older boy shrugged. “Does it matter? Mori will be pissed either way.”

“True.”

“Okay, so Dazai isn’t an option,” Tachihara sighed. “I would say we could use that psycho Nikolai Gogol, but I think he’s got solitary, too.”

“What?” Yosano blurted. “What happened?”

Tachihara paused, eyebrows furrowed. “You didn’t see him follow Chuuya out of the mess hall this morning?”

Yosano shook her head, the blood rushing from her face. “No, I was with Ango getting Ranpo’s paperwork processed. Did Nikolai get to Ace?”

Tachihara shrugged. “I dunno. I couldn’t risk losing the merits I earned from the Tournaments so I just went about the day like usual. And now that Nikolai’s in Dorm B again, I wouldn’t have seen him all day anyway.” He paused. “Do you think he’s in trouble, too?”

“The opposite, actually,” Ranpo murmured. “We need to get to Dazai. Now.”

As Mr. Oda led Dazai away, Chuuya stood beside Yosano, his posture tense and rigid, fingers fidgeting and curling into fists at his sides. There was an empty feeling in his chest when the boy and bandages left his side – but Chuuya was a master at replacing emptiness with boiling fervor.

He collected all his fears and anxieties and compressed it, squishing it down until it was nothing but anger. Specifically toward Ace and Mori, the bastards that lit the fuse on this shitshow. 

“We’re up next,” Ango said softly, nodding to Chuuya. He turned his gaze to Yosano and Ranpo, an illusion of confidence he hoped no one could see through. “You two should wait another hour or so before you take Akutagawa back to the dorms.”

Ranpo scoffed. “Don’t talk down to me, Glasses. I’m not stupid.”

“Apologies,” Ango sighed. “Just… be careful with him, please. We have to make Kouyou’s quick work last the next three days.”

“We got it covered,” Yosano replied. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Ango.”

The staff member nodded, suppressing a smile. “Of course. You’re good kids, all of you. I’m more than willing to do anything I can to keep you safe.”

“Don’t make this sound like a goodbye,” Chuuya cut in, following Ango to the door with purposeful steps. He waved to Yosano and Ranpo, and Akutagawa who was slowly gaining consciousness on the cot, a promise of return. “I’ll see you guys later. On our way out of here, yeah?”

“Damn right,” Ranpo cheered. 

“We’ll be waiting for you, Chuuya.”

Ango escorted Chuuya across the campus field, ignoring the dirt paths that cut through the freshly watered grass. His heart pounded in anticipation, each step bringing them closer to their destination. And even though he knew his solitary would last only a few days, Chuuya still felt his blood run cold upon approaching the work shed. 

He really, really didn’t want to spend another night in this cesspool of pain and bad memories. 

As they got closer, Chuuya saw blood splattered across the grass and the east wall, dried and crusted. Akutagawa’s blood, no doubt. Cringing, the student turned his eyes away, catching sight of the thorn branch off to the left. Near that was…

“What the hell is he still doing here?!” Chuuya hissed, jumping back as if he were burned. Ace’s unmoving body laid face down in the drying mud. “Did I… Holy shit, is he- is he dead?!”

Ango bent down and pressed two fingers to Ace’s wrist, keeping an impassive face as he listened to his coworker’s dull pulse. “He’s alive,” Ango said, rising back to his standing position. “But you must’ve hit him pretty hard. He’s been knocked out for almost five hours by this point.”

Chuuya hated the quiet yet ever-present urge to finish the job. After all the pain he caused – Akutagawa’s blood was everywhere, and Chuuya felt his organs twist and knot in his stomach – Ace deserved much worse than a moderate brain injury. 

Did that make Chuuya a vengeful, bloodthirsty monster? Or did that make him pathetically, nauseatingly human?

Did it matter either way?      

“Come on,” Ango whispered, placing a gentle hand on Chuuya’s shoulder. “The longer we stand out here, the higher the chance someone sees us.” 

Nodding numbly, Chuuya allowed himself to be ushered into the shed. 

“Yosano will most likely come back to check on you,” Ango told him. “You’ll be in here no longer than three days, I promise.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to baby me,” he said. “I’m not a suicidal, self-destructive maniac like Dazai. I can handle some solitary. I’ve done it before. I’ll be fine.”

Ango frowned. “I know how capable you are, Chuuya. I just want to make sure you know I’m on your side.”

That was a weird way to word it, but Chuuya appreciated the comment nonetheless. He muttered his thanks as he plopped onto the dusty ground, curling his knees up to his chest. Ango offered him one last nod before closing the door and fastening the lock. 

And then Chuuya was alone. 

Inside the cramped space, the creaky wooden walls seemed to groan with every gust of wind, echoing the everlasting unease. The shed offered nothing but dust and dirt, and the cold seeped into his bones, chilling him to the core despite his best efforts to keep warm.

As the hours stretched on, Chuuya's senses remained on high alert, every sound amplified in the silence of the night. The faint rustle of leaves outside, the distant hoot of an owl – each noise sent a shiver down his spine, a natural reaction that he hated. He was anxious, sure, but not because he was scared. He was just… worried. His fate was left in Dazai’s hands, and if Dazai didn’t give the warden a convincing enough story to hold him off…

Well, Chuuya was as good as dead. 

He had to trust Dazai’s ability to lie, which… wow, the irony was almost enough to make him laugh. He couldn’t wait to tell Paul and Arthur all about this mess as soon as he got home. 

The cold got worse as the night went on. The wind picked up and the temperature dropped even further. Chuuya huddled in the corner, hands tucked under his armpits and forehead resting on his knees. He thought about Dazai (because why fucking not? He gave up trying to keep the bastard out of his mind) and how cold he felt two nights ago, even when curled up against Chuuya beneath their blanket. But that cold didn’t last. Dazai defrosted, and they melted into one another, cozy and comfortable. 

He thought about his older brother and his older brother’s boyfriend. If they were here, Chuuya would be wrapped in Arthur's scarf while Paul tried to kick the damn door down – and actually, Chuuya would probably be kicking with him while Arthur sat and shivering, smiling like a soft-hearted moron.  

He wondered what Paul would think of Dazai. If Chuuya was being realistic, they’d probably hate each other. Dazai was too sketchy and defensive, and Paul was too skeptical and nosey; Dazai had too much to hide, and even if Chuuya demanded he be accepted, Paul would die before he let an “omissive scumbag” into the Nakahara-Verlaine household.

Chuuya sighed. He was getting ahead of himself. There was a chance they didn’t make it out of here at all.

Ugh. He hated being pessimistic. He sounded like Dazai. 

Damn Dazai.

As the first night wore on, Chuuya’s thoughts dragged him closer and closer towards sleep. He had been exhausted since he woke up – for months, actually. He was drained of all his energy on his first day. And while sleep couldn’t restore the energy he lost, it didn’t hurt to drift off…

CLANG.

Chuuya shot up, awake and full of panic. He had only closed his eyes for a second, maybe two. There was no way Yosano was already here to check on him.

But who else could it be?

For a moment, hope surged within Chuuya's chest, the possibility of rescue sparking a glimmer of relief. But as the door creaked open, revealing the shadowy figure of an intruder, fear replaced his fleeting hope.

“You’ve really done it now, boy,” Fukuchi scoffed, leather belt in hand. “Get up. Warden says you’ve earned yourself forty lashes.”  

Yosano, Ranpo, and Tachihara left Akutagawa with a hesitant ally, a boy named Karma who had recently taken on the challenge of copying everything Chuuya did. Nightly attendance was over and Fukuchi had left for the night, though none of them were sure where he was going, especially since his sleeping area was on the third floor of Dorm C. 

Ranpo made note of that but didn’t stop on his way to the east assembly room. Tachihara, though, skid to a stop, pointing toward the front door of the Dorm. “Aren’t we going to Dazai?” he asked, out of breath from sprinting down the stairs.

“Yes and no,” Yosano answered. “Storming into the warden’s quarters in a death sentence. We need to find Ango.”

“Or that teacher guy,” Ranpo added. “Just some adult that can give us some cover.”

Tachihara nodded, picking up his pace and following the dark-haired siblings. 

When the east assembly room – and every other room in the Dorm – turned up empty, even Ranpo began to panic. Tachihara tried to calm him with a hand on his shoulder while Yosano cracked open a floorboard in the bathroom where she kept her emergency duffel bag: first aid, spare clothes, a little bit of food, and a blanket. She hurried back downstairs and shoved the bag into Ranpo’s arms.

“There’s a clearing in the woods west of the schoolhouse,” she said. “You two get there as fast as possible.”

“What about you?” Tachihara snapped. “You can’t seriously think we’re gonna run off while you stay to get yourself caught and killed like some sort of fucking martyr.”

“Careful, Tachi,” Yosano teased. “It almost sounds like you care about me.”

“Just answer the damn question,” he grumbled.

“I’m going to get Akutagawa,” she said. 

“Then I’m coming with you!” 

“Don’t be an idiot,” Ranpo cut in. “We need as many of us off campus as possible so our escape plan can flow more smoothly. And I’m guessing Yosano has a spare phone stored somewhere in the clearing?”

“You guess right,” Yosano said. “It doesn’t work nearly as well as Ango’s, and the only number I can call is Fukuzawa, but it’s a safer route than waiting around for Ango to save us from whatever else is coming our way.” 

Tachihara sighed. “Okay. Okay, so… We’re going to the woods?”

Yosano nodded. “And as soon as the rest of the boys are sleeping, I’ll meet you there with Akutagawa.” She pulled the two boys into a hug, startling Tachihara who, just before this, thought she was a crazy impulsive bitch. “Don’t die,” she whispered. 

After hearing a small verbal affirmative, Yosano let them go and they parted ways. She headed up the stairs, and Ranpo and Tachihara took their chances crossing the campus field. 

Chapter Text

The clearing in the woods was hard to find. Tachihara sprinted across the field like there was no tomorrow, and Ranpo did his best to keep up, clutching Yosano’s duffel bag close to his chest. It was dark out, dark enough to cloak the two boys in shadows as they darted across the fields, growing grass tickling the exposed skin on their ankles.

On a normal night, Mr. Ace would be patrolling the grounds to prevent any delinquents from escaping, but tonight, he was spending his time in the infirmary healing from a moderate brain injury. (Chuuya Nakahara was to blame for that – or to thank, really.) This left the fields wide open and empty, free range for any delinquent soul brave enough to cross it.

(Well, only Ranpo, Yosano, Tachihara, Dazai, Chuuya, Oda, Ango, and Kouyou knew that Ace was out of commission, but the range was still free.) 

As they ran, Ranpo suspected that Ace wasn’t the only staff tasked with keeping an eye out for runners, and he wasn’t wrong. A security guard meandered around the mess hall, not too far from Dorm C where Tachihara and Ranpo had just escaped, and it took several moments of breath-holding around the building’s corner to keep out of sight. 

Thankfully, their destination – the beginning of the woods west of the schoolhouse – was in the opposite direction, so once the guard turned his back, Tachihara and Ranpo were off. 

The journey continued, but Ranpo was still stuck in his mind. Open fields, no cameras, no walls or fences blocking in the campus, and only two adults keeping watch for runaways? It was almost like the warden wanted them to run.

To run, and get caught, and get punished. To allow Mori Oguai to indulge in his sadistic fetishes of watching children writhe in every shade of pain. 

Ranpo felt sick. 

Making it to the treeline was an easy feat. The difficulty came when they were fully submerged in the woods, the darkness curling around their high-alert senses. Tachihara grabbed Ranpo’s wrist without thinking and tugged him along, stepping over twigs and logs and such.

“I used to play in the woods a lot when I was a kid,” Tachihara explained, answering Ranpo’s silent question. Of course, the older boy could’ve figured that out if he wanted to, but Tachihara sounded like he wanted to share, so Ranpo didn’t stop him. “My brother taught me all about staying outside before he went off to the military. The trick is to squeeze your eyes shut for a few seconds so that when you open them, things look a little brighter. Trick of the light or whatever.”

Ranpo nodded, humoring him. His mind was running a mile a minute and honestly, he didn’t feel like bullying Captain Obvious right now.

It took a little bit to find the clearing, but once they did, they were met with… another student. And a raccoon. Sitting beneath a tree.

Said tree had a noose dangling from one of the thicker branches. Neither the student nor the raccoon seemed to notice. Or mind. 

“Ah! Shit!” sputtered the mystery boy as Ranpo and Tachihara slowed their sprinting to an exasperated jog. The exclamation was in English, but as he scrambled up from his spot at the base of a tree, the boy cleared his throat and spoke in near-perfect Japanese. “My apologies. I didn’t know other people knew of this place. You must be friends of Yosano’s.”

Thankfully, Tachihara’s scowl was hidden by the darkness, but the irritated twinge in his voice made both of the other students well aware of his hot-headed nature. “Yeah I guess you could say that,” Tachihara scoffed. “What the hell are you doing out here in the first place?”

The mystery boy let his tone harden, shifting to a more defensive stance, though still subtle. Ranpo, admittedly, was quite enamored by him: tall, lanky, with an aura of intelligence he couldn’t find in most people. Of course, the mystery boy was still nowhere near Ranpo’s level, but it was still impressive. And, if Ranpo’s eyes weren’t tricking him, the guy was considerably pretty: messy brown curls covering his eyes, long slender fingers…

“My name is Edgar Allan Poe,” the mystery boy said, cutting off Ranpo’s train of thought. “I’m an ally of Yosano’s. In exchange for some knowledge I’ve collected from the other students in my dorm, she supplies me with treats for Karl.”

“Karl?” Tachihara echoed, unimpressed. 

“My raccoon,” Poe answered, equally as annoyed. “Your abrupt arrival frightened him.”

“Our bad,” Ranpo chimed in. “Anyways, I’m Yosano’s brother, Ranpo. And this idiot is Tachihara, another ally of ours.”

Ranpo swore he saw stars twinkling in Poe’s eyes, hidden behind his bangs. “Yosano has told me so much about you,” he whispered, offering a slight bow. “It’s wonderful to meet you in person, Ranpo.”

Yeah, Ranpo’s initial deduction was correct: this guy was perfect. 

Tachihara sighed, clearly distressed, and ripped Yosano’s duffel bag out of Ranpo’s arms. “While you guys keep drooling over each other, I’m gonna figure out what kind of shit Yosano packed in here. If you feel like you’ve satiated your eye candy feast, feel free to look around for that burner phone she mentioned.”

Ranpo only laughed, and Poe admired the sight. 

In ten minutes, Tachihara had found some heating pads and a couple of blankets for the three of them; Poe’s raccoon returned with a happy chitter, and Ranpo dialed his dad’s number into the trashy old flip phone Yosano had nestled between two large roots. 

Fukuzawa picked up on the third ring. 

“Yosano?” he said, sounding panicked. “Are you alright? Is everything okay?”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Ranpo chuckled, sucking on his last piece of hard candy, “but it’s Ranpo, your favorite and more intelligent child.”

Fukuzawa’s eye roll was almost audible. “It’s nice to hear from both of you,” the man said. “How is everything going?”

“Well…” Ranpo frowned, maneuvering the candy to the other side of his mouth. “We’re in some clearing in the woods that’s just off campus, waiting for Yosano to get here with the injured kid. Chuuya’s still in solitary, and Dazai is…”

Fukuzawa’s tone was sharp. “Is he with the warden?”

“Yeah,” Ranpo answered defeatedly. It wasn’t a tone he carried often, if ever. “We have no way to get to him without a getaway driver. Yosano and I agreed to rendezvous in the woods while we wait for Ango to return. Safer for us that way.”

Fukuzawa paused. “Is Ango not with you?” His tone was disturbingly worried. 

“No?” Ranpo blurted. “I assumed he was with you, or maybe the teacher. I was gonna ask you to pass the message to him that we need to get out of here as soon as possible.”

“I told him to stay with you kids at all times,” Fukuzawa explained through gritted teeth. “If he’s not with you, then I have no idea where he is.”

“What about Mr. Oda?” Tachihara cut in. “They could be getting the cars to drive us out. Maybe he just forgot to tell us.”

“Unfortunately, that isn’t possible,” Fukuzawa said his next sentence slowly, now taking on his own sigh of defeat. “Mr. Oda was fired earlier this afternoon.”

Dazai was tired. More tired than he’d ever been in his entire life. 

It had only been about a day since Mori began the punishment, but Dazai had already decided to kill himself as soon as he got the chance. 

The handcuffs were not removed since they were first fastened, and Dazai’s shoulder ached from the awkward way his right arm was held above his head, linked to the bed frame. It hurt to breathe because of his broken ribs, and it hurt to blink because of the puffiness around his charcoal eyes. His ass was sore, too, but that wasn’t anything new – though lying flat on his backside, untreated and unclean, for hours after the assault certainly didn’t make it any easier. 

And worst of all, the warden never left his side. When he read reports from his employees, drafted his responses, called Shige and manipulated her into allowing him to speak with Elise, Mori stayed planted beside Dazai on the edge of the bed. Often his palm would rest on Dazai’s thigh, caressing the exposed skin like a widowed mother or digging his nails into the plethora of bruises and bite marks littered like dead flower petals. It wasn’t uncommon for Mori to lean onto Dazai’s broken ribs while clacking away at his computer, but the man preferred to sit on the edge of the bed and massage Dazai’s private parts while listening to voicemails from associates, humming to the tune of his son choking back sobs. 

Dazai really, truly wanted to die. 

There was no admiration of suicide this time around. The childlike wonder he adorned when daydreaming about the act had melted into an animalistic need for self-destruction. He didn’t care about making it pretty or memorable or meaningful. He just wanted this to be over. 

Please, please let it be over. Let it be over.

I’ve suffered enough, haven’t I? 

When Mori finished reviewing Fukuchi’s summary notes of the previous month’s events, (searching for hints of disobedience, hoping to find an unlucky soul to relieve some more stress, Dazai guessed) he turned his full attention to his son, handcuffed and injured, begging to be murdered. 

The smile on the warden’s face was disgusting. Predatory.  

“I have good news for you, doll,” Mori hummed.

Dazai couldn’t pry his eyes away from the window, still stinging with boiling hot tears. Would the curtains be long enough or strong enough to hang himself with? Or was he better off strangling himself with the delicate fabric?

“Listen here, Osamu,” Mori cut in with a more stern tone. “Won’t you look at me when I’m speaking to you? This ridiculous dissociative act you put on when you’re mad at me truly breaks my heart. It’s way too childish for a mind as magnificent as yours, my dear.”

To think a sick and twisted compliment wrapped in sweet pet names like that used to make the hollowness in Dazai’s chest bloom with warmth was enough to push the tears settled on his waterline down his cheeks. Oh, how he hated that man. How he hated him and himself and this horrible life he was living. How he hated God for putting him here and Odasaku and Chuuya for not getting him out. 

And himself again for becoming so attached. And himself a third time because of his toxic relationship with emotions making it difficult to even want to be saved. And himself and himself and himself. 

Mori cradled Dazai’s face in his hands, brushing away the fallen tears with his thumbs. “I know, baby,” he cooed. “I know you’re scared, but it’s okay. It’s all going to be okay. Do you want to hear the good news I have for you?”

Dazai hated himself even more for falling for the comforting fatherly tone, for the warden’s serpent smile he’d spent too much time with. He forced himself to hold onto this odd fragment of hope, imagining Mori’s fist coming down hard enough to wake him from this nightmare. He’d blink his eyes open, still heavy with sleep, and see Chuuya’s freckled face only a few breaths away. 

“It’s okay, Shuuji,” he’d say. “I’m right here, and I’m going to make sure you’re okay.”

“Do you want to hear it, Osamu?” 

He nodded, eyes clamped shut to keep the tears at bay. Please let it be over.

“All those monsters who wanted to take you and undo all my progress are now being disposed of,” Mori whispered, and Dazai could feel his breath against his neck. There was an almost manic chuckle threaded through his words as he went on. “Soon you’ll be back to normal, all perfect and all mine. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”

His dead eyes snapped open. “What?” he murmured, voice still hoarse from the previous day’s choking. “What do you mean?”

He moved to pepper kisses all over Dazai’s horrified face. “I’m so sorry I let this happen to you, Osamu,” Mori gushed. “It was wrong of me to let you mingle with the vermin outside before you were perfected. I’ve been a terrible father, but I promise to make it up to you for all our years to come–”

“No,” Dazai hissed, jerking his face away as much as his aching body allowed. His right wrist dug into the metal cuff; his chest screamed as his breath became erratic. “No, no, no, no–”

“Hush, boy,” Mori snapped, his loving gaze turning cold once again. “You’re going to hurt yourself if you throw a tantrum now. This is for your own good. They’ve ruined you–”

“You ruined me!” Dazai cried. “You did this! All of this! What did you do to them? What did you do to them? What–”

With two hands, Mori grabbed each side of Dazai’s torso and forced his broken ribs to bend and crack even more. When the boy screamed and thrashed, Mori released him, careful not to push any fragments of his broken bones into his heart. That would be a tricky surgery he’d like to avoid. Instead, he took hold of Dazai’s throat, hovering over him like a sleep paralysis demon. 

“You will get yourself truly hurt if you speak to me that way again,” the warden sneered. “Keep your tongue in check or I will carve it out.”

Dazai choked, pushing back his tears, and glared with all his might at the man above him. The glossiness of his eyes was water over coal. 

“If you must know,” Mori went on, pulling back his hand and letting Dazai suck in a proper breath. “I fired that oaf of a teacher. And your little firecracker will soon be put down like the rabid dog he is.”

Dazai felt the air rush from his body, and his breaths came in ragged gasps. Mori had to be lying, he had to, he had to he had to he- he- 

The room was too bright, too loud, too everything. He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on the feeling of the bed beneath him, solid and real.

Oda was fired. He left and he couldn’t take Dazai with him and there was no one to blame besides Dazai himself.

Chuuya was going to be murdered, buried in an unmarked grave, and it would be Dazai’s fault–

“No,” he gasped. “No, no, no. No, Mori, you- please, you can’t, you can’t kill him, YOU CAN’T KILL HIM–”

“I am SICK of you telling me what I can and cannot do, Osamu,” Mori seethed. “I am your superior. I am the head of this entire academy. I am your father, and I can do anything I want to you or anyone else in this scho–”

“NO!” Dazai screamed. His throat burned with the force of it. He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t feel anything, he just knew he needed out, get out, get away, away, “You’re not! You’re not–”

“I’m not in charge?” Mori blurted, eyebrows raised, a hysterical smile painted on his face. “Have you finally gone mad, boy?”

“You’re not my fucking father,” Dazai swore, barely catching his breath. “You- you kidnapped me! I don’t belong to you, I don’t. All you do is beat me and rape me and lock me away–”

“I’m not having this conversation with you,” Mori sighed, finally standing up from the bed. “It’s clear you’re not in the right state of mind. I understand you’re upset about losing the people you considered friends, but you should know everything I do is only to help you become the best version of yourself.”

“You’re lying!”

The warden brushed the wrinkles from his dark slacks as his son thrashed around, a mess of broken bones, blue-ish bruises, and blood seeping from where the metal handcuff dug into his flesh. When Dazai began his begging again, a knotted string of “please” and “I’m sorry,” Mori answered with another displeased sigh. 

“It wouldn’t be this painful if you weren’t so insistent on self-sabotaging yourself,” he said. The man reached the door to his room, laptop tucked under his arm, and turned to look at the boy over his shoulder. “I’m going to the infirmary to check in with Kouyou. I expect you’ll have sorted yourself out by the time I return.”

The door closed, and Dazai sank into his solitude, defeated. 

When Chuuya woke, it was to the smell of burning wood. 

He had half a mind to attempt to wiggle away, but after forty lashes from Fukuchi, he didn’t have enough strength to get anywhere, let alone out of the hands dragging him across the wooden floorboards. What he did manage, though, was a half-groan, half-scream sort of sound, which earned him a sweaty palm slapped against his mouth.

Somehow the small shed he’d been confined to for the past two days morphed into a mile-long obstacle course as he was tugged through the smoke. Chuuya gave up fighting not too much time later, prioritizing getting out in one piece over keeping his dignity intact. Whether this person carrying him was friend or foe, he didn’t know, but at least they were taking him away from the heat of the flames.

Eventually, he felt the fresh air rush into his lungs like an airbag filling up, and then he was hoisted onto someone’s back. In his delirious state, he felt like a Western cowboy galloping through the dirt streets of a rundown town. The smoke made his eyes burn and water, but as Chuuya and his unknown captor/savior hurried in the opposite direction, he was able to blink himself into a more alert state of mind. 

Slowly, his senses trickled back into his custody. The air. The person carrying him and the slight limp in their steady jog. The softness of the sky, orange and pink like the fire engulfing the shed behind them, spanning over the sky. It could’ve been a beautiful morning if Chuuya wasn’t submerged in hell.

He felt each of his scabbed-over wounds from Fukuchi’s leather strap tear and gush bloody tears. The beating had embedded bits of his shirt into his skin, and with every movement, the fibers ripped an opening for the blood to escape as if inside his body wasn’t where it belonged. Almost as annoying as it was painful.

“Almost there, kid,” the savior/captor huffed. They were sprinting, Chuuya realized, not just jogging, and it was in the direction of the dorms. He was confused, but the dizziness and nausea took over. His eyes fell closed and he slumped forward, hiding his head in the crevice of this stranger’s neck.

The next time he woke, Chuuya was a bit more lucid. He laid flat on his stomach on a lumpy mattress with about half a dozen older boys looming over him. 

Gritting his teeth, Chuuya tried to sit up, but his back screamed in protest, forcing him face down on the mattress. “Putain de bordel de merde, ca me casse les couilles putain–”

“Quite a mouth you’ve got, kid,” said a relatively tall guy with a white bob. Piano Man, Chuuya recalled. The unofficial leader of the Dorm A Flags. 

Eyes widening with realization, Chuuya attempted to push himself up again, but before he could shoot out another curse, another member of the Flags kept him down with a freezing cold hand on the back of his neck. “Easy, firecracker,” he chuckled. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

“I’d like to see you fucking try,” Chuuya seethed. “Now get your hand off me before I bite it off, sac à foutre.”

“See, I told you!” the blond boy shouted. Chuuya recognized him as Albatross, the one he fought in the Tournaments. “He’s feisty as hell, haha!”

“Quiet down, ‘Tross,” said a guy with a vertical scar over one of his eyes. Iceman. “You’re gonna get us caught.”

“Fuck you, Ice,” Albatross cackled in response. “Ace ain’t nowhere to be found, and we’re on the second floor. Nobody can hear us for miles.” Turning back to Chuuya, Albatross narrowed his eyes, pushing his sunglasses up on his forehead. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything ‘bout that, would you? Mr. Ace going missing, I mean.”

Chuuya grunted a half-assed response, ignoring the way Albatross scowled at him.

“Don’t forget you owe me one, kid,” the blond said. “I let you win the Tournaments, didn’t I?”

“Still have no idea why in God’s name you’d do such a stupid thing,” Doc laughed. “Ace has been pissed as all hell for weeks ‘cause of it.”

“I think he’s taken a liking to the little redhead,” Lippman hummed. “What do you think, Ice? Has our untameable pet Albatross finally grown a heart?”

Iceman snorted a laugh, leaning on the frame of the bed Chuuya was sprawled on. “Maybe,” he said. “Though I can’t blame ‘im. The kid seems pretty tough.”

“I’m so fucking sick of people talking about me like I’m not here,” Chuuya sneered. “Either shut up or tell me what’s going on here!”

At this, Albatross let out a wild laugh. Piano Man stepped in to explain with an amused smile of his own. “After you beat ‘Tross in the Tournaments–”

“I let him win!” the blond cut in.

Piano Man rolled his eyes. “Whatever. After the Tournaments, Lippman overheard Mr. Ace chatting with the warden outside our dormhouse that night. Something about wanting you taken care of. We talked it over and ‘Tross convinced us you’re worth fighting for in hopes of joining us in Dorm A someday.”

Albatross grinned like a madman, ruffling Chuuya’s head of bright orange hair. “I can only spar with Iceman so many times before I get bored,” he said.

“Bored?” Iceman echoed with a cold laugh. “Or tired of getting your ass handed to you?”

“Anyways,” Piano Man cut in, “we made a little deal with your friend wrapped in bandages hoping to score a little while also keeping you protected until you got enough merits to join us in A. He got us goods from the warden’s quarters, and in exchange, we kept a close eye on you, which we were gonna do anyway.”

“But Iceman heard they were going to take you out back tomorrow night,” Doc reported. “So we knew we needed something big to distract Fukuchi, the warden, and the rest of the staff.”

“So I swiped a match off Fitzgerald and ‘Tross and I lit up the shed,” Iceman explained. “And now you’re here.”

It took a second for all the information to process in his mind, but even after it was all registered, Chuuya still had a thousand and one unanswered questions. He began by asking, “How did Mori find out I attacked Ace? Dazai was supposed to cover for me.”

The Flags exchanged glances. “We didn’t know you attacked Ace,” Piano Man answered. “We assumed it was Fukuchi you went after, since Ace isn’t your house staff. Though I guess it does make sense he’d corner you. Like Doc said, Ace was rather pissed after we lost the Tournaments.”

“I only attacked him because he was going to kill my friend,” Chuuya grumbled. “I planned on ignoring him and his dumbass haircut up until then.”

“A friend? In Dorm C?” Lippman grinned. “Boy, you’re just full of danger, aren’t you?”

“If that’s how you wanna put it,” Chuuya muttered, “then yeah, I guess I am.”

“That’s enough info-dumping for tonight,” Doc cut in with a scratchy yawn. “It’s almost wake-up time, I’m nauseous, and I need to stitch this kid up before I pass out and die.”

“Pfft, alright Doc,” Albatross chuckled. “I’m gonna head out and see if I can find that Dazai kid before breakfast. I’ll keep ya updated, P-Man!”

Piano Man waved him off, and the five of them, Chuuya included, fell into a comfortable silence. Iceman and Piano Man took a seat on the floor and sprawled out some documents to review while Lippman laid down to catch an hour or so of sleep. Doc pulled out his makeshift first aid kit, inching closer to Chuuya still lying flat on his stomach.

He muffled a scream into the lumpy pillow beneath him, train of thought cut off as Doc began stitching him up. “I don’t have any numbing stuff,” he said with only a fraction of sympathy, “so you’re gonna just have to bear with me for a little bit, ‘kay? It won’t take too long if you stay still.”

Chuuya groaned but obeyed, biting into his fist whenever the needle poked through another section of raw flesh.

“What do you mean, Oda was fired?!” Tachihara fumed, snatching the phone from Ranpo’s hand. “What the hell happened?”

Before Fukuzawa could reply, Ranpo grabbed the phone back, shooting a glare Tachihara’s way. “I assume you know where he is, right?” Ranpo asked. “He isn’t the type of person to just go radio silent after a setback. Especially when he knows Dazai’s safety is in jeopardy.”

“You’re right,” Fukuzawa said. “I only just learned he was fired a few minutes ago. He messaged me, and I excused myself from a meeting to call him.”

Ranpo sighed. “Okay, well, you can call him after you tell us what the heck we should do,” he grumbled. “I have a couple different plans, but all of them require some sort of sacrifice and- ugh, Dad, this sucks.”

“I know,” Fukuzawa consoled, “and I don’t think it will get any easier. But you’re the smartest person I know, and I will do everything in my power to help you and your friends. Now, what does your situation look like right now? What variables are we working with?”

Ranpo chewed on the inside of his cheek, unable to calm his nerves. “Well, we’re in the woods, technically off campus but not outside of the school’s search radius. Yosano’s still on her way to us. I’ve got no clue where Chuuya is. And Dazai is trapped with Mori, probably getting the shit beaten or raped out of him, or worse–”

“Ranpo,” Fukuzawa scolded. “You don’t have to be so vulgar.”

“I ran out of candy!” the boy cried. “I’m- I’m stressed. This is probably the worst case I’ve ever had to work. It’s like no matter what I do, someone has to suffer.”

“I understand,” his dad whispered. “It’s a terrifying line of work we’re in. Those feelings don’t make you anything but human. But painting such vivid images with your words isn’t going to make things better. For now, wait until you have Yosano with you, and then get as far from the campus as you can. You’ll be useless if you aren’t safe.”

“But what about Chuuya?” Tachihara cut in. “If Dazai’s compromised, that means the warden knows the truth, and Chuuya…”

Ranpo paused. “What was the name of the kid Chuuya fought during your little festival thing?” he asked.

“Huh? Oh, you mean the Tournaments?” Tachihara answered. “It was Albatross. One of the Flags.”

Ranpo combed through his mind for fragments of information Yosano reported to him through letters during her stay. The Flags… they were the gang from Dorm A. If Chuuya beat one of them in a fight, they’d at the very least break him out of the shed to get back at him, roughing him up a bit before he was dragged out back and killed. It was a flimsy chance and Ranpo didn’t have enough information to make things any more concrete, but he was willing to trust it.

“Chuuya will be fine,” he told Tachihara. Before the boy could cough up some hotheaded protest, Ranpo added, “Chances are Dazai put in some precautions to keep him safe and buy us a couple more days.”

Tachihara gritted his teeth, scowling. “You don’t know that,” he snarled. “If we leave him here, he’ll die.”

“We’ll come back,” Ranpo urged. “But my dad is right. We’ll die, too, if we aren’t careful.”

“I’ve had a few run-ins with the Flags,” Poe chimed in. “I know the one called Iceman is very impressed by those of equal or near-equal power. Ranpo is correct to assume they’d value Chuuya’s safety enough to use their resources to interfere with his execution.”

“Ranpo,” Fukuzawa said. “I need to hang up now. Keep the phone off to save as much battery as you can. If you run into trouble, call me immediately and I’ll send whoever I can.”

“Okay, I’ll see how far we can get,” Ranpo replied. 

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” his dad told him. “I’m going to leave tonight, so worst case scenario, I’ll be there tomorrow morning. I love you, son. And tell Yosano I love her too. Be safe.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

Ranpo hung up and stayed still for a few moments, collecting his thoughts. Yosano would be arriving soon with Akutagawa. Chuuya was probably fine. And Dazai… He sighed. They’d just have to hope Dazai could hold on long enough for them to come back and save him. 

“So what now?” Tachihara asked. His voice was quieter, softer than Ranpo remembered it being. “We just… wait?”

“That’s all we can do,” Ranpo said, letting his eyes fall closed. “Wait and hope and wait some more.”  

When Doc finished his stitches, Chuuya’s body felt like molten lava. The Flags tidied up the place and organized all their contraband, including the files Piano Man and Iceman had been shuffling through. Doc limped across the room to pull on his other set of school-issued clothes while the rest of them headed down to the showers, claiming the water would only make his sickness worse.

Chuuya said nothing and instead let himself sink into the same mattress he’d been sprawled on for the past couple hours. As the school and its inhabitants woke, they’d quickly become aware of the fire raging out by the shed. Albatross claimed Iceman put a thick ring of sand around the fire to stop it from spreading too far, but Chuuya had his doubts. 

“I guess we’ll find out later,” ‘Tross had said with a laugh. “If the woods are charred and the Dorm C kids are lined up for a pat down, then we’ll have our answer.”

Chuuya groaned, tucking his face into the bed. He felt so guilty for enjoying his short time with the Flags. They were fun and carefree – trapped, but not strapped down. He kind of liked the idea of joining them and the wild lifestyle that came with. There was so much personality in Dorm A, and Piano Man was right when he said Chuuya would fit right in. When ‘Tross had come back a few hours ago with no sight of Dazai, he and Chuuya somehow managed to trip into a conversation about Super Smash Bros: Ultimate. 

And it was fun. It was probably the most fun Chuuya had since he arrived at the Reform School. While his time with Dazai was unparalleled in other areas, Chuua would be lying if he said it was fun.

But once his mind latched onto Dazai, there was no going back. Despite the nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach, Chuuya really doubted Dazai would rat him out just for the hell of it. If nothing else, Dazai was selfish, and tattling on Chuuya would get them both hurt. Dazai knew better than that. 

However, if Dazai didn’t tell, that meant someone else did. Did Mori already know what Chuuya did before Dazai had even presented his lie? Maybe he had set the whole thing up, using Akutagawa and Ace as bait…

But no, that didn’t make any sense. If Ace wasn’t acting alone, he would’ve had a leather strap similar to the one Fukuchi used, or at least something that would kill Akutagawa faster. Also, Tachihara told him that the boys who were “sentenced to death” were taken out back, referring to somewhere in the woods that surrounded the campus. Mori wouldn’t let Ace kill Akutagawa in broad daylight, somewhere anyone else could see. 

So Ace was acting alone to get a rise out of Chuuya, and Mori didn’t know about it. But he found out sometime between Chuuya dragging Akutagawa to the infirmary and Dazai returning to the quarters to cover for them. Unless Mori had a student spy…

“Uh, Chuuya?” Albatross cut in, peeking his head into the room. “We’re gonna head out for our school day, but there’s some girl carrying a corpse here to see you.”

“Huh? What–”

Yosano trudged into the room, carrying Akutagawa over her shoulders like a firefighter. Her right arm wrapped around the back of Akutagawa’s right knee, and her left hand held onto his right hand. From what Chuuya could see, Akutagawa was passed out. 

“Morphine,” she said, answering Chuuya’s silent question. “One of his wounds got infected last night, and I didn’t have much to work with. He’s okay, just in a lot of pain.”

“You don’t look too great, either,” Chuuya blurted. 

“Yeah, well, life hasn’t been smooth sailing the past couple of days.” She shifted, clearly strained. “Can you walk? We need to meet up with Ranpo and Tachihara, like, now.”

Chuuya paused, experimentally pushing himself upward. Immediately his body screamed to collapse and shut down, but this time he was able to push through, dragging himself onto his hands and knees on the mattress, and then slowly bringing his feet to the ground. “It’s not terrible,” he said as he wobbled to Yosano by the door. “Running isn’t an option, but I can move.”

Yosano let out a long breath, somehow both disappointed and relieved. “Okay,” she sighed. “We can work with that.”

“Where’s Tachi and Ranpo?” Chuuya asked. 

Yosano walked with him out of the Dorm A bedroom, and the two of them descended the stairs like slugs. “In the woods,” she answered. “Dazai is stuck with the warden, and Ango is nowhere to be seen. I’m banking on Mr. Oda, but for now, we just need to get to Ranpo.”

Chuuya nodded, clinging to the wooden railing for dear life. “Did the Flags tell you about the shed?”

Yosano grinned. “Yeah. You really hit the jackpot with these guys, Chuuya. With any luck, the fire will be a good enough distraction to let us sneak off without any commotion.”

As they made their way down the stairs, each step a laborious effort, Chuuya's mind raced. The urgency of their situation weighed heavily on him. Yosano tightened her grip on the unconscious Akutagawa, and the trio emerged from the dormitory, the cool morning air hitting their faces. It was still dark out, but the students were clearly up and about, probably showering and taking morning attendance. The faint smell of burning wood tickled his nose, and Chuuya took a moment to steady himself, leaning heavily on the back door to Dorm A they snuck out of.

"Which way?" he asked, his breath slowly melting into something more steady.

"West," Yosano replied, jerking her head towards the schoolhouse. Thankfully, Dorm A was the closest to it, and it was only about five minutes of speed walking later before they reached a narrow path leading into the dense woods. 

They moved slowly, each step a careful negotiation with the terrain. The forest floor was littered with fallen branches and damp leaves, making their progress even more arduous. Chuuya's legs trembled with the effort, but he refused to let them give out. Yosano led the way, her eyes scanning for any sign of danger, while Chuuya followed closely, his gaze flickering between the path ahead and the unconscious form of Akutagawa draped over Yosano's back.

Minutes felt like hours as they trudged deeper into the woods. The towering trees above them formed a canopy that blocked out most of the blooming sunlight, casting eerie shadows that danced with every breeze. Chuuya's heart pounded in his chest, each beat a painful reminder of his own fragility. He hated feeling so weak, but his mind was already too full of panic to worry about himself.

Suddenly, Yosano halted, her eyes narrowing as she peered ahead. "We're close," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rustling leaves.

Chuuya squinted, trying to see what she saw. Through the thick underbrush, he caught a glimpse of movement. His pulse quickened. "Is it them?"

Before Yosano could respond, a figure emerged from the shadows. It was Ranpo, his ever-present grin glinting in the dappled sunlight. He waved them over, his expression a mix of relief and urgency.

"Over here!" Ranpo called out softly, beckoning them to hurry. “You’re late, Yo-Yo. I thought you were a goner.”

With renewed determination, Chuuya and Yosano pressed forward, closing the distance between them and Ranpo. As they reached him, Chuuya could see Tachihara standing a few paces behind, his eyes scanning the perimeter for any threats.

"You made it," Tachihara said, his voice tinged with relief. "Is Akutagawa okay?"

Yosano offered a soft laugh of her own, stepping over a few branches before fully emerging into the small clearing. She noticed Poe and greeted him with a tired smile while Tachihara helped get Akutagawa down. 

"He will be," Yosano replied, carefully lowering Akutagawa to the ground. She explained the infected wound the same way she had to Chuuya, adding, "He needs rest and proper medical attention. I did what I could with what I had."

“Thanks,” Tachihara said. “Seriously. I owe you one.”

“Just one?” Yosano teased. 

“Fine, whatever, I owe you a fucking million.”

Chuuya laughed, and Tachihara’s eyes flickered his way. Without a word, he planted himself at Chuuya’s side and acted as the shorter boy’s crutch. 

Ranpo knelt beside Akutagawa, his keen eyes assessing the situation. "We need to move him somewhere safer," he said after a moment. "The warden's men will be searching the area soon." 

“The Flags bought us some time,” Chuuya reported. “They lit the work shed on fire, so we have at least a day.”

“Christ,” Tachihara chuckled. 

“I know, right?” Yosano chimed in. 

“What about Dazai?” Chuuya pressed.

The group went silent. Chuuya hated it. 

“We’re not just gonna leave him here,” he went on. “We all know what kind of shit the warden will do to him. I can’t- We can’t leave him.”

Ranpo stood up, brushing the dirt from his pants. “We don’t really have a choice.”

The color drained from Chuuya’s face. “What the fuck? What the fuck is wrong with you?! I’m not leaving him with that psycho!” He whipped his head in Yosano’s direction, desperate for validation. “We can’t,” he urged.

Yosano opted to stare at the ground. Exhaustion was heavy on her face. “I agree with you, Chuuya,” she whispered, “but I don’t know what we can do.”

“What about Mr. Oda?” Chuuya pushed. “All we need is a car, a way to get out fast enough. Oda will help us without a doubt–”

“He was fired,” Tachi cut in. “And Ango’s missing. It’s just us.”

Silence fell over them once again.

Chuuya shattered it. 

“I’m not fucking leaving him,” he growled. “I’ll take forty more lashes if I have to. I’m. Not. Leaving.”

Ranpo sighed, covering his eyes with the palm of his hand. “You’ll die if you do that,” he mumbled. “The only way we can get to Dazai is if the warden is completely out of the picture, or if we have a way to overpower him and not deal with the consequences of it. We need a getaway driver, and we don’t have one.” He glared at the burner phone in his hand. “We have to leave now, Chuuya. We can meet up with my dad once we’re–”

“Ferme ta putain de gueule! Did you hear a word I said?” Chuuya fumed. “Get it through your thick fucking skull, you annoying piece of shit. The only way I’m leaving that bastard behind is if you shoot me in the fucking skull and drag my corpse behind you.”

“Okay, fine!” Ranpo snapped. “Did everyone catch that? Chuuya is going to be the pretty lady Dazai wants to kill himself with! Glad we got that all cleared up.” The green in his eyes sharpened into emerald daggers. “Yosano. We need to go.”

The girl sighed, pressing her eyes closed. “I know you’re probably right,” she said, “but there has to be another way. Dazai has suffered–”

“I know,” Ranpo cut in, exasperated. “I know Dazai has suffered, and I’m sorry, I really am, but there’s nothing we can do besides trust that Dazai is strong enough to hold on for a few more days.”

“You’re supposed to be the good guy, the leader of the angels here to save us,” Chuuya scoffed, “but you’re just a heartless fucking monster and a pathetic waste of time. You’re a coward, Ranpo. A selfish fucking coward.”

“Leave him alone,” Poe cut in. “You act like he wants Dazai to suffer. If you would just think rationally–”

“Think rationally?!” Chuuya screamed. “You have no fucking clue what you’re talking about!”

“Chuuya,” Tachihara cut in. 

“No. Fuck all of you bastards,” he seethed. “Yosano, come on. We’re going to get Dazai.”

“Wait, Chuuya,” Yosano snapped. “They’re right about this being a suicide mission–”

“You–”

“Just listen! For one fucking second!” she cried. “I want to save Dazai, too. But the plan we have will only work if we have a safety net to fall back on.”

“Mori has too much power and too many resources to just barge in and hope for the best,” Ranpo said, his voice unnaturally shaky. “If Oda and Ango are out of commission…”

“Is there anyone you know that could make it onto campus with a car and drive us all out?” Yosano asked. “We can call Fukuzawa and have him call whoever.”  

A few beats of silence passed. Chuuya raked through all the adults he’d met in the past two and a half months while at YRS. Ace, Fukuchi, Ango, Oda, Mori…

“I know a guy,” Chuuya blurted. “A police officer. I- I don’t know his number, but his name is Ryūrō Hirotsu.”

“Hirotsu?” Tachihara echoed. “Wait, is he an old dude with a pointy little beard?”

“Uh, yeah?” Chuuya choked, “Why? Do you know him?”

“Dude! He used to be my neighbor before I moved! Like, forever ago. He used to babysit me after my brother enlisted. I had no idea he was a cop!”

The laugh Chuuya coughed out was near hysterical, and before long, Ranpo was punching buttons in the rusty old flip phone, calling Fukuzawa to call Officer Hirotsu to be their getaway driver.

It was a stretch, but if the officer agreed, they were as good as free. 

Hang on, Dazai. It’s almost over.

Chapter Text

It was Ango who delivered the message from the warden to Mr. Oda two and a half days ago.

His knock on the door had been polite. Timid, almost, which wasn’t a word Oda would ever use for his calm, composed, and disciplined coworker and friend. Still, the teacher welcomed him into the classroom, gesturing to the open desks and chairs in case Ango wanted to rest his legs. It had been a work day for the students, (besides Akutagawa, who rested in the infirmary; and Chuuya, who was just put into solitary; and of course Yosano – the girl had a way of maneuvering around YRS’s rules that even Oda didn’t completely understand – and her brother, Ranpo, who had just enrolled a few hours ago) so the classroom hadn’t been used. 

“My apologies for bothering you,” Ango greeted, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. He eyed the desks but his feet remained planted a few steps from the door. “I know today has been quite busy already.”

Oda couldn’t help the smile that worked its way onto his lips, noticing the way Ango tried to hide his nervous stimming by tucking his hands in his pockets. It was adorable, Oda had to admit, but he knew Ango would prefer to go without hearing it. 

Instead of following the track his mind set up for him, the teacher leaned back on his desk, once again offering his space, waiting for Ango to stop picking at his lip and continue talking. 

Ango cleared his throat, brushing imaginary wrinkles out of his brown suit. “Please listen to everything I have to say before making any sort of opinion on me,” he said, eyes angled downward. The flusteredness in his voice melted into pure anxiety, contagious enough to make Oda tense up as well. 

“Relax, my friend,” Oda hummed, “You trust me, correct?”

Ango nodded without hesitation.

“Then I trust you, too. There is very little you could do that would make me think ill of you,” the teacher continued. “I’m here to listen. Always.”

Behind his glasses, Ango squeezed his eyes shut, releasing a shaky breath. “I spoke to the warden last night,” he whispered. “He- he’s firing you, Oda. Effective immediately. He says you need to be packed up and gone before midnight.” Ango’s exhale was shaky and broken; his hands curled into fists in his pockets. “I’m- God, I’m sorry, Oda. I’m sorry.”

Oda's heart sank, the room suddenly feeling smaller, suffocating almost. His gaze dropped to the floor, his mind racing with a whirlwind of emotions — anger, betrayal, grief — all crashing against the shores of his consciousness.

He fought to maintain his composure, to keep the storm within from spilling out and consuming him entirely. But it was a losing battle, the waves of despair threatening to drown him in their icy grip. It had been a long, long time since Oda succumbed to a panic attack, and thankfully he learned over time the best ways to minimize the sudden, sharp pain. Deep breaths through the nose, deep enough to make his stomach expand and press against the hem of his pants, and then a longer exhale out of his mouth to fully expel the carbon dioxide. And then repeat. 

Slowly, he raised his head, meeting Ango's gaze with a mixture of sadness and resignation. "I see," he managed to whisper, hollow and defeated.

Ango's expression twisted in anguish, his hands fidgeting nervously at his sides. "Oda, I..." he blurted, seemingly frustrated with his own stammer. "I should've told you sooner, I know I should've, but... but I was scared, and I didn't… know how to..."

Oda’s expression sharpened, his lungs stilling in his chest. “Told me sooner?” he echoed. “How long ago did you speak with him?”

Ango’s eyes widened, glossy and uncharacteristically terrified. There were secrets behind those glasses, behind those dark shiny eyes. Conversations held in private, blackmail, misplaced loyalties, and regret and regret and regret. Ango was a towel soaked in regret, forced to continue drying things around him, no matter how pointless it truly was. 

All of it. Pointless. Why even bother when you know how it’s going to end—

Oda shook his head in a weak attempt to clear his mind. What a hypocrite he was: time and time again he had lectured Dazai about the dangers of existential pessimism and yet here he was, crumbling under pressure. 

It’s not pointless, the teacher told himself. There is light in this world that is worth fighting for. This is not the end.  

Oda forced a weak smile onto his face, hoping to shape his rigid frame into something more welcoming. "It's okay," he said, reaching out to place a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder. "You… you did what you thought was best, and I can't fault you for that, can I?"

Ango choked, fighting back a cry as he inched forward, eventually collapsing against Oda’s chest. “I thought he’d change his mind,” he sobbed, “once Dazai spun his lie, I thought he’d see- Fuck, Oda, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I should’ve- I should’ve been braver, gotten the kids out of here sooner, or just fucking reported him, but I–” His shaky words crossed the line into shallow breaths, and Oda held him close, resting his head on top of his.

“It’s going to be okay,” Oda whispered. “The kids are going to be okay. You are going to be okay. We’ll- we’ll figure something out. We always do.”

Ango’s laugh was sarcastic and wet with tears. “I hate your optimism,” he murmured. “You need to be angrier, Sakunosuke. This man fired you for who-knows-what while he sits on his sadistic ass and orders violence on children. And Dazai… Christ, Dazai…”

“He’s going to be okay,” Oda assured, only half believing himself as he hugged Ango a little tighter. With conviction, he added, “I promised him his pain would be over soon, and I meant it. I will do everything in my power to keep that kid safe.”

“Your kid,” Ango corrected. 

Oda smiled, but it was full of sadness. “Yeah. To keep my kid safe.”

Ango left shortly after that, pulling himself together and splashing his face with cold water from the rusty drinking fountain. Oda waved him goodbye and promised he’d be in touch, but as the house staff disappeared out onto the campus field, headed back toward his dorm, all Oda could do was cry.

He wasn’t a man who usually shed tears. Not because he didn’t think he should but rather because he never felt the need, not since he was a teenager. But as he moved to begin packing his belongings, he felt the water stinging his eyes, blurring his vision. He cried silently, holding his head in his hands.

The only thought in his mind was failure. 

I failed, I failed, I failed. 

Dazai will think I abandoned him.

The teacher lept up to vomit in the trash can by the door.

After catching his breath and rinsing his mouth, Oda settled back into the chair behind his desk. He took a pen from the cup and pulled a piece of lined paper from a notebook off to the left. He wrote to the students, and then he wrote to his kid.

On his way out of the schoolhouse, Ango weighed his options in his mind: he could either A) stay undercover as a house staff and wait for the greenlight telling him it’s safe to pack up and drive the kids out of here or B) leave now and take the warden’s student spies with him, whom he still didn’t know the exact identity of. 

It was a gamble. On one hand, Yosano, Ranpo, Chuuya, and Dazai depended on him to escape. On the other, Mori could do so much more damage if he had snakes in the student body. Plus, Ango had a pretty good idea of who was reporting back to the warden. 

Ango sighed. He’d never been a good gambler. 

But what choice did he have?

As the sun began to set, Ango crossed the fields and headed toward Dorm B. 

After calling Fukuzawa and informing him of their plan to utilize Officer Hirotsu as a getaway driver, the students sat silently in the clearing, awaiting a second call.

Chuuya sat with his knees pulled up to his chest and arms wrapped around his legs. His back was throbbing but adrenaline sucked the pain from him and replaced it with fury. Beside him was Tachihara, stone-faced and pissed off, and beside Tachi was Akutagawa, laying his head on Tachi’s lap. 

Across from those three were Yosano, Ranpo, and Poe, silently and solemn. The trees loomed over them and the wind whistled threats through the sickly leaves and winding branches.

“Let’s go over the plan again,” Ranpo suggested, rubbing his temples with the pads of his fingers. “We don’t have any room for error.”

The other kids nodded.

“Yosano and Tachihara are currently our fastest players,” Ranpo explained, “since Chuuya is injured and both Poe and I have the stamina of a popsicle stick. However, Chuuya is the only one out of all of us who has been inside the warden’s quarters, so it’d be best to take him along.”

“I wouldn’t let you guys go in without me anyway,” Chuuya grumbled. “I need to make sure Dazai is oka–”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it,” Yosano teased. “We’ll get your boyfriend back fair and square, you dork.”

“He’s not my–!” Chuuya huffed, giving up before he embarrassed himself too much. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Keep going, Ranpo.”

Ranpo smirked. “So Chuuya, Tachihara, and Yosano will go in the quarters to retrieve Dazai while I meet up with Hirotsu, and Poe causes a scene big enough to draw the warden outside.”

“Huh?!” Poe blurted. “I’m an intelligence player and an information broker, I can’t cause a distraction!”    

“Of course you can!” Ranpo said with a loopy grin. “You’re in Dorm B, right? Well, I’m sure Fitzgerald is dramatic enough to call the warden if a raccoon with rabies happens to break in and attack a student.”

Poe frowned, clutching Karl to his chest. “He does not have rabies.”

“It’s called acting, sweetheart.”

Yosano, Chuuya, and Tachihara faked a gag, giggling and eye-rolling as Poe practically drooled over the half-pet name, half-insult. 

“Sounds like a plan,” Yosano finally said, cutting through the soft laughter. “Where should we meet you once we have Dazai?”

“We’ll be right outside the warden’s quarters waiting for you,” Ranpo answered. “The officer will be driving a police car, obviously, which matches the security guard’s vehicle.”

“Efficient and avoiding suspicion,” Poe cheered. “My dear Ranpo, you are quite the genius.”

When Fukuzawa finally called again, his usually impassive voice was hesitant and slow. “Officer Hirotsu said he’ll help,” Fukuzawa reported.

Ranpo grinned. “When’s the earliest he can get here?”

Fukuzawa sighed. “Well, it’s about noon—“

“I know what time it is, Dad, I’m not an idiot—“

“Behave yourself, Ranpo,” Fukuzawa scolded before continuing. “It’s noon, and the officer won’t be off work until 8 tonight. Expect him to arrive at one in the morning tomorrow.”

Ranpo pouted. “One am? That’s later than I expected,” he murmured. 

“We’ll have to think of a different distraction,” Yosano added. 

“No,” Ranpo said, “chances are they’ll be asleep. We’ll just have to rely on stealth.”

“Whatever you do,” Fukuzawa cut in, “be safe. And before you remind me of your intelligence, let me remind you of Mori’s tastes. ”

Silence fell over them. It was a little cruel of Fukuzawa to be so blunt — they both knew Mori preferred intelligence, mouthy children with thin frames and easily broken bones, and even further, Ranpo’s awful experiences with abuse before Fukuzawa rescued him. It wasn’t nearly as graphic as what Mori would do, and the thought made Ranpo nauseous. 

“Do not, under any circumstances, get yourself caught,” Fukuzawa continued sternly. “I will not be able to get to you in time to stop him.”

“Okay,” Ranpo whispered. He refrained from telling him that Yosano was going to be the one actually entering the warden’s quarters and decided to save the girl from a similar lecture. Out of all of them, besides Dazai, Yosano knew what it was like to exist under Mori. 

“I love you, Ranpo,” Fukuzawa said, “and tell your sister I love her, too. Officer Hirotsu will be there at one in the morning, and I’ll meet you up with you not too long afterward.”

“Alright,” Ranpo said. “Love you too. Bye.”

He hung up and then slumped onto Poe’s shoulder, earning a yelp from the boy. The raccoon chittered, too, jumping from his place on Poe’s other shoulder to nuzzle into Ranpo’s dark hair. 

“What did he say?” Chuuya blurted. 

“The officer will be here at one am tomorrow morning,” Ranpo yawned. “So we have to play our cards right. Poe, you don’t need to do any distracting, but Yosano, you and the single-brain-cell gingers have to be really sneaky.”

“Fuck you,” Chuuya scoffed. 

“Well, this works out better, right?” Tachihara said. “Chuuya can’t run because of his injuries, and the warden’s kid is probably…”

“Don’t call him that,” Chuuya cut in. 

“Call who what?” 

“Dazai. Don’t call him the warden’s kid. He’s Dazai. Just Dazai.”

Tachihara nodded solemnly, sending his mistake. “My bad, man. We’ll get Dazai out of here safely.”

“Damn right we will.”

Mori flitted in and out of Dazai’s sight, hazy and distant. He had probably drugged him, pumped his veins full of some shady concoction while he was in and out of consciousness, but Dazai wasn’t as uncomfortable with it as he should’ve been. The higher he was, the farther he was from the warden – and from himself. 

Still, every flash of orange caught his attention. A potted flower on the window sill, the flame dancing atop the vanilla candle, the fall-themed background of Mori’s desktop computer. None were as lively as the orange of Chuuya Nakahara, but it gave Dazai false hope anyway, making his broken and bruised chest swell up with heat – with warmth. 

Warmth. Gentle warmth. What a strange sentiment. What an out-of-place sensation here in the pits of hell.  

And even though it only happened once, Dazai missed sharing a bed with Chuuya, siphoning his body heat on the small and lumpy mattress. He liked being close to Chuuya, which was a feeling he was still yet to understand.

Not that it mattered. Dazai already came to terms with his ending: here, alone with his abuser, injured and ruined and cold. 

Mori returned from who-knows-where with a plate of blueberry pancakes and a glass of ice water. Dazai hated how his mouth watered. He hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in… Two,  maybe three days? However long it had been since Mori locked him up. (Well, technically even longer than that, since his love-hate relationship with food was more hate than love, but he was too dizzy to calculate properly.) The sweet smell wafting through the room made him painfully aware of how empty his stomach was, craving for sustenance. 

Not empty, remember he stuffed you full of his–

He jerked forward, disgusted by the beat of cold sweat running down his spine. He forced his mind to power down; he only wanted to placate his animalistic hunger and tear into the plate of pancakes. No need to torture himself any further.

Mori grinned at him and took a seat on the bed with his back leaning slightly against Dazai’s midsection. He winced but endured, eyeing the glass as Mori placed it on the bedside table. The two ice cubes winked at him as they clinked and bobbed in the water.

“Good morning, Osamu,” Mori hummed. “How are you feeling?”

Dazai shifted as best he could with the handcuffs and injuries locking him to the bed. His entire body throbbed and stung; his inner forearms were begging to kiss a blade of some sort; his throat cried for a noose. “Fine,” he sputtered. There was no syrup on the pancakes, but there was a generous dollop of whipped cream, fluffy and white as untouched snow. Dazai wanted it so bad he could cry.

“That’s good,” the warden replied. He picked up the fork off the plate and used the side of it to cut off a bit of pancake, leaving the whipped topping untouched, and slid the bite into his mouth much slower than necessary. He was teasing, which meant he wanted something. 

Dazai felt sick, swallowing the bile climbing his throat. He hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was. His entire body was limp and sore, and if Mori forced his legs open again, he was sure the damage would be irreparable. 

Mori shifted slightly, turning so Dazai could see his artificial smile. “Fix your face, child,” the man chuckled. “I am not planning on punishing you today.”

Dazai deflated, but only slightly. He was hungry, but Mori was, too. Dazai could see it in his eyes. 

“You’ve calmed down quite a bit since your outburst,” the warden continued. “It’s only fair that I reward your obedience with something sweet, yes?” 

“Yes,” Dazai numbly echoed.

Mori cut off another chunk of pancake, this time guiding it to Dazai’s mouth. The boy accepted it eagerly, savoring the sweetness as he rolled the food around in his mouth. “While you eat, there are a few things we need to discuss. I trust that your obedience means you’re lucid enough to participate?”

Dazai swallowed the pancake before it was fully chewed, rushing the process to give his verbal affirmative. “Yes, sir,” he said. Mori rewarded him with another bite, this time with a bit of whipped cream. 

“In the past two days during your punishment, I’ve been in closer contact with my darling Elise and her terrible mother, and we’ve reached an agreement. In exchange for a decent sum of money, Elise will be joining us here at the quarters. Every other weekend, Shige will come up to visit her, but as soon as Elise has fully transitioned, I plan to eliminate Shige altogether.”

Dazai was only half hearing the man, focused more on the food being carefully shoveled into his mouth. Nothing existed outside of each bite, but still, he was present enough to nod along.

“I had originally planned to have you stay here while I went to retrieve her since your condition is sure to raise suspicion,” Mori went on, “but I’m not sure if I feel comfortable leaving you alone for so long.” He set the plate and fork down and grabbed the water, holding Dazai’s chin with one hand as he tipped the glass forward. When the glass was half empty, Mori put it back down on the side table. “I will give you two options,” he said. “Either you stay here with Kouyou, or you come with me to pick up your sister.”

The coldness of the water soothed Dazai’s throat quite a bit, so his voice lost some of the pained raspiness it had earlier. His mind hummed with a small bit of regained energy. “If I stay, will my restraints be removed?”

“No,” Mori answered. “Kouyou will treat you as best as she can in your current state. However, if you come with me, I will take you to my old clinic and give you more extensive care.”

Dazai bit the inside of his cheek, calculating. He didn’t have much of a choice, did he?

“I am indifferent either way,” Mori said. A lie, but Dazai wouldn’t call him out on it. 

“Okay,” he whispered. “When do we leave?”

Mori grinned. “Tomorrow morning.”

Thankfully for Chuuya and friends, Fukuchi refrained from reporting the students’ absence to Mori. Ranpo had suggested it was out of embarrassment – “I wouldn’t wanna tell my boss I lost five kids on the job, either,” he chuckled.

So instead of alerting the warden, the house staff sent out the Dorm B kids to track them down on their work day – according to Poe who journeyed back on campus to gather intel. “Fukuchi and Fitzgerald proposed it like a bounty. The first Dorm B kid to find one of you will be granted three merits,” Poe reported, nuzzling his fingers under Karl’s dense fur, “but they won’t start until the next work day, so we’re all set to follow through with tonight’s plan.” 

“Thank you, Poe,” Yosano said. “Your help is very much appreciated. I’ll be sure to get Karl some super fancy treats once we’re out of here.”

Poe beamed, nodding his head in agreement like a kid on Christmas. 

Chuuya watched the interaction, only half present. His thoughts circled Dazai like some sort of ancient ritual, curling around the breathy image in his mind. He hoped more than anything that Dazai was okay, but there was a chance they were already too late. Dazai was crafty and clever – if he wanted out, he’d find a way. 

If he gave up, they’d be going on a suicide mission for a boy who already committed. 

“Chuuya,” Tachihara said, lightly punching his shoulder. “Keep your head in the game, man. Everything is gonna be fine.”

Chuuya only nodded, much less enthusiastic than Poe had a few moments ago. He, Ranpo, and Yosano were rambling on about logistics, but Chuuya couldn’t get out of his head, even with Tachihara nudging him. Akutagawa laid still in Tachi’s lap, previously asleep but slowly blinking himself awake, picking up on bits and pieces of the plan. When Chuuya gestured to Akutagawa’s groggy form, Tachihara snapped his attention to the dark-haired boy and helped him sit up, leaving Chuuya alone with his thoughts once again.

If Dazai was dead, Chuuya was going to make sure Mori wouldn’t be too far behind. He was going to rip that man to shreds with his bare hands, and nobody will be able to stop him. 

When the sun prepared to set and the students departed into their dorms for the night, Ranpo said goodbye to Poe, and Yosano called Fukuzawa to confirm everything once over. 

It was 11 pm, and Officer Hirotsu would be here at 1 am. They had two hours to break in, get Dazai, and get out. Any later Hirotsu would be found out – any earlier and they’d be stuck without a ride.

“Are you ready?” Tachihara asked as he helped Chuuya to his feet. 

Chuuya nodded, brushing the dirt from his pants. The adrenaline numbed his injuries just the right amount, but Yosano still glared daggers at him if he tried to move too suddenly. Fukuchi was really no joke when it came to punishments.

“Don’t rush,” Ranpo told them. “You’ve got plenty of time.”

“Slow and steady wins the race, motherfuckers,” Tachihara cheered. 

Yosano chuckled, flicking his forehead playfully. “Sure, Tachi.”

Akutagawa choked out a “good luck” as Ranpo wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and with that, Chuuya, Yosano, and Tachihara made their way out of the woods.

The closest building to their secret clearing (if you didn’t count the tool shed) was the schoolhouse. Chuuya’s heart splintered as he thought about Mr. Oda being fired. Did Dazai know? Would Mori tell him, torture him with it? What if that was his final straw, and–

Chuuya cursed under his breath, brushing the thoughts away. He needed to focus.          

The three students moved through the darkened woods with purpose, the only sounds being the soft rustle of grass beneath their feet and the occasional snap of a twig. The night was their ally, the shadows providing cover as they crossed the fields and approached the warden’s quarters.

He could feel the bandages Yosano applied on his back pulling slightly with each movement, a dull reminder of his own injuries, but he pushed through the discomfort. He wondered if Dazai would be wearing his usual bandages. Would his eye be covered with them or with that white eyepatch? Did Mori even let him cover up the way he wanted to?

Ugh, the more Chuuya thought about it, the more his blood boiled. His mind was already a storm of worry and anger. 

Dazai’s face lingered in his thoughts, and every muscle in his body ached with a burning determination to reach him. How he formed such a bottomless connection with the same bastard who treated him like a dog only a couple of months ago was beyond Chuuya’s comprehension. One thing Yokohama Reform School did well was its ability to strip away logic, leaving nothing but pure and painfully raw emotions.

Emotions in the defensive, paranoid looks from new and old students alike. Emotions in each crack of the leather strap, in each stream of blood running down the nameless victim’s back. There were emotions weaved into the acres of grass they cut every other day, and emotions buried deep in the unmarked graves around the back of dormitories. 

The best way to survive at YRS, Chuuya learned, was to exhale logic and breathe in emotions. Become fluent in things that don’t make sense but feel so real – real enough to kill a person, or real enough to save one. 

Tachihara stopped outside of the warden’s brick building, ducking behind a trimmed hedge. He was designated to act as their lookout, and he motioned for them to stop as they neared the front door. The building loomed ahead, an imposing structure surrounded by a high fence but otherwise unguarded. Tachihara peered through the darkness, scanning for a safe path. 

“We’re clear,” Tachihara whispered, gesturing for them to follow.

They snuck around the back of the building and slipped through a gap in the fence, their movements synchronized and silent. Tachihara took up his position behind a tree, his eyes sharp and vigilant, while Yosano and Chuuya continued toward the building, the same spot Dazai had taken him during the tournaments. He clenched his fists, his eyes narrowing in determination.

Yosano’s gaze was focused and calm. Chuuya held onto her shoulder for stability, and they crept along the side of the building. The protruding bricks Dazai had led him up were still there, but upon closer inspection, metal stakes were bolted into all four corners. “Motherfucker,” the redhead scoffed. 

“What is it?” Yosano asked. 

Chuuya pointed to the window. “That’s where Dazai’s room is, but I think it’s bolted shut.”

Yosano cursed. “We need to find another way in. What about the window below it?”

“I don’t know the layout of the other floors,” Chuuya hissed. “I’m just gonna climb up and see what we’re actually working with.”

Yosano looked reluctant, but she didn’t fight him on it. “Be careful.” 

Chuuya nodded and began his ascent, his fingers gripping the cold brick as he hauled himself up. The pain in his back flared, but he gritted his teeth and kept going. When he reached the window, he felt a surge of frustration. The window was bolted shut, just as he had feared.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath.

Yosano, still on the ground, could sense his frustration. “Is it locked?” she called up softly.

“Yeah, it’s bolted from the inside,” Chuuya replied, his voice tinged with anger. “We need another way in.”

Yosano scanned the area, her mind racing for alternatives. “We could try the main entrance, but it’s too risky. We might alert the security guards over at the administration building.”

Chuuya’s eyes burned with determination. “We don’t have time for another way. I’m breaking the glass.”

“Chuuya, wait!” Yosano hissed, but it was too late.

With a swift, forceful hit with his elbow, Chuuya hit the lower right weak point and shattered the window, a trick he learned from his time on the streets. The sound of breaking glass echoed through the night, and almost immediately, lights flickered on inside the building, and a distant alarm began to wail.

A voice shouted from within, and the panic began to settle in the pit of Chuuya’s stomach.

“Go, go!” Yosano urged, “I’ll catch up!” 

Chuuya swallowed around the dry pain in his throat and climbed through the broken window, avoiding the glass shards as best as he could. Dropping onto the carpeted floor of Dazai’s room with only a few scratches, he could hear the commotion as who he assumed was the warden scrambled out of bed to respond to the noise.

Across the hall in the master bedroom, Dazai stirred. He kept his eyes from fluttering open until Mori rose from the bed, wrapping his dark silk robe around himself and hurrying out of the room to assess the commotion for himself. 

He listened to Mori rush down the hall and pick up the phone, probably contacting the two security guards stationed at the administration building. Dazai couldn’t hear the conversation from his spot cuffed to the bed, but he imagined the secretary telling Mori that the guards would be sprinting over in just a few minutes. 

Whoever broke in would need to be swift about it. 

Dazai weighed his options. It could be one of the students either he or Mori pissed off broke in to get revenge, probably wielding a rock found outside somewhere. Alternatively, it could be one of Dazai’s allies. The chances of it being his favorite ginger were slim considering what Mori had told him – that Chuuya was going to be taken out back within the next day – but still, there was a chance. And even though Dazai was one to trash the idea of blind hopefulness, he wanted it to be Chuuya coming to save him, and that want was stronger than his disgust for getting bludgeoned to death by a random delinquent. 

Satisfied with his hazy-minded decision and the distance between himself and the warden, Dazai forced his body to move, toeing the office chair near the desk. The stretch burned every muscle, but he needed his savior to know where he was, so he persisted, kicking out his leg and hooking his foot around the chair’s armrest. After a bit of scooting and pulling, the chair tipped over and crashed to the carpeted floor, and in rushed his redheaded angel. 

“Took you long enough,” he croaked. And as weak and ruined as he sounded, his voice was so unmistakably Dazai that Chuuya almost burst into tears. He laid flat on his back with his hands above his head, handcuffed to the frame, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and a few bandages wrapped around his thighs. The darkness did its job and hid Dazai’s right eye, but the pink and white scars running up and down his arms were on display for mismatched eyes to see. “Stop just standing there and come get these stupid cuffs off of me, you dumb slug.”

Chuuya cursed at him (in French and under his breath) but quickly obeyed, stepping over the fallen chair and plucking a paperclip from the warden’s desk. It took a bit of struggling and a bit more of Dazai explaining how to effectively pick a lock, but eventually Chuuya set him free. Immediately Dazai dropped his arms to his sides, feeling the excruciating burn in his shoulders. Three days in the same position was torture in and of itself. 

“Can you walk?” Chuuya asked as he helped Dazai to a sitting position. 

“Does it matter?” he croaked back. Chuuya just groaned and hoisted Dazai up, carrying him like a bride across the hallway. The boy in bandages winced, his midsection screaming to be laid down again. God, and his ass was killing him, too. Mori didn’t even bother cleaning up after himself, probably assuming he’d get to enjoy a sensual bath at the hospital or something – and now Dazai was nothing but a broken stick slathered in every bodily fluid known to man. 

He forcefully held back the urge to slit his throat with a shard of broken glass as Chuuya carried him through the room and toward the window.

“I don’t know how we’re gonna do this,” Chuuya admitted, adjusting Dazai in his arms. “I don’t know if I can carry you and climb down at the same time.”

“Well we’re gonna have to figure something out,” Dazai hissed through his pain, “because it’s not going to take Mori long to realize what’s going on and come up with a plan on how to get rid of you–”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Chuuya muttered. Gently, he lowered Dazai onto the twin-sized bed (that was technically Dazai’s but rarely ever used) and brushed away as much of the glass shards as he could with his hand, pathetically covered by his stretched sleeve. When the sound of heavy footsteps got louder, Chuuya ditched the careful act altogether and heaved Dazai over his shoulder. 

“Fuck, Chuuya!” Dazai hissed. “Be careful, I’ve got like four broken ribs and an ass as sore as a college pornstar!”

“My bad, jackass, I’m kinda prioritizing getting us the fuck out of here,” Chuuya snapped back, ignoring the implications of Dazai’s vulgarity. As quickly as he could, Chuuya slipped through the broken window, twisting and ducking to avoid the jagged glass to the best of his ability, and held onto the window sill with his one free hand. Dazai hung over his shoulder like a sack of beat-up potatoes, gritting his teeth and holding his breath as they descended. Every step of the way, Dazai thanked the gods for Chuuya’s strength which they somehow packed into such a tiny body. 

Like clowns in those itty bitty cars. 

Dazai laughed at his own mental joke, and Chuuya cursed again. This bandaged idiot was probably high on fucking elephant sedatives or something. 

He didn’t have the pattern of stuck-out bricks memorized, but after using it about three times, Chuuya was able to scale down the wall relatively quickly. It was a miracle the security guards were so terrible at their job – they could thank Mori’s stinginess for that, refusing to hire anyone qualified (or anyone with a brain) in fear of being reported. 

And Ranpo had been right about not needing a distraction. Mori was groggy as he snapped at the secretary over the phone, barely seeing as he shouted at the approaching security guards. Had the warden been a little more put-together upon abruptly waking up, Chuuya would’ve been killed for real. 

Speaking of, how many times had he dodged death so far in this year alone? Way too damn many, that’s for sure. An impressive amount, and probably something to brag about later, but way too damn many for a high school kid. 

Once again, he thanked adrenaline for pushing him through. The starkness of his back injuries didn’t kick in until he handed Dazai off to Yosano and the four of them – him, Yosano, Dazai, and Tachihara, who offered himself up as a crutch for Chuuya – looped around the building to the parking lot on the other side.

This was it. 

Officer Hirotsu’s car was parked up at the administration building. Didn’t Ranpo say they’d be right outside the warden’s place? Chuuya heard Yosano curse, adjusting Dazai in his arms, and shout for them to continue up the hill. It wasn’t steep – they could see Hirotsu’s silver cop car – but Chuuya felt like he was going to collapse. 

He heard a man shouting at them. Security guards, he assumed. He didn’t look back. 

The first gunshot missed. The sound alone was fatal. Don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back.

The warden screamed, and Dazai went catatonic at the sound, his nails digging into Yosano’s shoulders hard enough to make the girl cry out. But she didn’t stop running, neither did Tachihara, and neither did Chuuya.

The second gunshot ripped through Tachihara’s shoulder, and the boy screamed loud enough to make Chuuya stumble forward, barely keeping his balance. Numbly, he tripped his way over to his friend, crumpled on the ground, holding his shoulder. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Chuuya heard himself say, dragging his friend forward. “You’re alive, you’re alive, it’s alright, man, c’mon, we gotta go, we gotta keep running, c’mon–”

The third shot knicked Yosano’s ear. Both she and Tachihara were crying now, fat tears rolling down their sharp features. Blood dripped from Yosano’s earlobe, and she choked back a sob; Tachihara was hyperventilating, curled up on the ground, his blood soaking into the cut grass.

The security guards were closing in on them, but Tachihara wasn’t getting up, and neither of them could breathe right. Yosano screamed for them to hurry, but the best Chuuya could do was stagger to his feet, dragging Tachihara up by his torso and faltering up the hall.  

They were almost there. Chuuya could see Ranpo in the passenger seat of Hirotsu’s car devouring a chocolate bar and squeezed beside Poe. With a wheezy laugh, Chuuya hoisted Tachihara onto his back, biting back the scream as he felt his wounds rip open, and bolted forward. Yosano had already thrown the car door open, and somehow they all fumbled into the car. 

The gunshots continued, bullets hammering like raindrops against the vehicle. Ranpo and Poe put their heads down; Yosano covered her ears, crouching on the floor of the car; Akutagawa sat closest to the left window with his knees pressed to his chest, and Dazai found himself curled up on Chuuya’s lap. Near the other window, Tachihara sat with his left shoulder and arm soaked in blood. Chuuya helped him apply pressure to the wound, but he didn’t feel in control of his movements – he felt as still and lifeless as he did in the work shed. 

Hirotsu didn’t say a word as he swerved out of the parking lot. Two bullets dove into the car’s rear window, but cop cars are hard to break. 

Chuuya checked over his shoulder, heart pounding.

They made it out.         

Hirotsu stopped at the same gas station he brought Chuuya to two months ago, before he officially enrolled at Yokohama Reform School. The seven kids packed into the cop car, four of which sporting injuries that required immediate medical assistance, climbed out into the crisp night air, stumbling as they went. 

Dazai couldn’t stand, but his body refused to let him sit down. For some reason, it craved to be in the same position it had been for the past three days: lying on his back with his hands above his head. To combat this, he clung to Chuuya, not caring how obsessive and pathetic he looked as they entered the tiny, beat-up store. 

Chuuya didn’t mind, even though his own injuries were screaming at him. He could feel the blood dripping down his back; the lashes Fukuchi so kindly gifted him had been ripped open during their escape – which, if he was being honest, Chuuya didn’t really remember. His mind was swimming, not processing, barely existing. 

Dazai tugged on his hand, silently asking to lace their fingers together. Chuuya obliged, despite the sweat and blood caked into their palms. The skin-to-skin contact made him feel a little more grounded, a little more human.

It was bizarre. This whole thing was just… bizarre. 

Paul and Arthur are going to love this story, Chuuya thought with a small grin, he was sure of it. 

So at two in the morning, Officer Hirotsu led seven runaway children into a 24/7 gas station in the middle of nowhere. He bought three bags worth of first aid supplies, working with Yosano to figure out what they most desperately needed, and then migrated to the family bathroom. (Poe decided to buy some cleaning supplies as well so they could avoid the diseases that usually came from public gas station bathrooms.)

“Dazai, we should treat you first,” Yosano said, rummaging through one of the bags full of supplies. She was still trembling, and her ear was crusted over with blood, but if Chuuya squinted, she looked as professional as she did before. “I think your injuries are the worst, so–”

“No,” Dazai cut in. Yosano paused, staring at him in shock. “I can’t- Ugh, fuck, just- Treat someone else. Seriously, I can tend to my own shit.”

“Dazai–” Yosano began.

“Please,” he snapped. “Please, just- Just leave me the fuck alone.”

Yosano scoffed but listened, feeling a little sick as she turned her attention to Akutagawa. Hirotsu had already taken over the task of treating Tachihara since, as a cop, he knew a thing or two about gunshot wounds. Plus, he wanted to catch up with his old neighbor and figure out how the hell the kid ended up at a reform school. Maybe a good story would lighten the mood a bit.

Dazai was half-laid on Chuuya’s lap, using his thighs as a pillow and stretching out his legs across the floor. Chuuya’s hands were shaking, but he did his best to steady them as he gently carded through Dazai’s matted curls. “You’re not in good enough shape to treat your own wounds,” he said, loud enough for only Dazai to hear. “And we don’t have the luxury of waiting until we get to the hospital to help you. We gotta do something now.”

Dazai shook his head, grip tightening on Chuuya’s legs. “Can’t,” he mumbled.

“Can’t what?”

“I don’t want people to touch me,” Dazai whispered, almost pleading. “I can’t do that yet. Just give me a little bit, a little bit more time.”

Chuuya sighed, and it was full of ache, exhaustion, and sorrow. “I hear you, Dazai. You’ve been through hell and having hands on you right now will feel really uncomfortable. But you’re injured really badly, and if we don’t do something, it’ll just get worse. You hate pain, don’t you?”

“I hate hands even more.”

Chuuya retracted his fingers from Dazai’s hair, but instead of a relieved sigh, Dazai gave him an irritated whine. “No, Chuuya, you don’t count. You don’t- you’re different.”

Chuuya’s stomach flipped – was it from sweetness or sickness? He didn’t know nor did he care. He let his hand travel back to its place, nuzzled into Dazai’s hair, and relished in the soft sound of Dazai’s exhale. “How about if I treat you?” Chuuya offered. “I’ll be gentle. I promise.”

Dazai scoffed. “Chibi shouldn’t baby me like that. I’ll bite him.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes, chuckling under his breath. “I’m trying to help, idiot. C’mon, sit up. We need to fix up your bandages. Maybe that’ll help keep your ribs in place or something.”

“Here,” Yosano cut in, tossing him a bag of ice, and then another. “Put that on them, too. Should help with reducing inflammation and a little pain.”

“Thanks.”

Chuuya went as quickly as he could, turning so he blocked everyone else’s view of Dazai as he worked. He had done his best not to look closely at the scars, but being this close, he didn’t have much of a choice. He sat behind Dazai, both of their backs facing the group, and pressed a bag of ice to each side of his midsection. Dazai remained silent, but he wasn’t as stiff as he was when Yosano was carrying him up the hill, or even a few moments ago. As per Dazai and Chuuya’s unspoken tradition, they melted into one another, absorbed in the strange unbridled trust they shared. 

When Yosano seemed satisfied with Akutagawa’s treatment, she fished out some gauze and skin adhesive and turned to Chuuya. “I’m going to work on dressing your back wounds,” she said, “so just hold still. It won’t take long since they’re just reopened…”

True to her word, Yosano finished cleaning, closing (to the best of her ability), and covering Chuuya’s wounds before Dazai pushed the ice bags away. Yosano verbally guided him through how to wrap Dazai’s ribs with bandages, and then they sent Poe and Ranpo to go buy a splint for his broken wrist. 

“It won’t fix anything,” Yosano said, “but it’ll keep things from getting worse.”

Dazai nodded. “Can you grab an eye patch while you’re at it?” he asked. 

Yosano seemed a little confused, but Ranpo only nodded, popping another piece of candy into his mouth as Poe followed him out of the bathroom and back into the main store area.

“What’s the plan after we finish up here?” Chuuya asked, primarily to Hirotsu who was just finishing covering up Tachihara’s wound.

“We need to get to a hospital so you kids can be properly treated,” Hirotsu answered, “but Fukuzawa should be meeting us here within the hour. If I’m not mistaken, he’ll have that staff member with him, too. Ango, was it?”

Chuuya nodded. He glanced briefly at Dazai before asking, “Do you know where Mr. Oda is? He was the teacher helping us to get out, but Mori fired him two days ago.”

Hirotsu sighed. “I’m not sure, though it’s safe to assume Fukuzawa knows where he is.”

“Mr. Oda wouldn’t abandon us,” Tachihara said through gritted teeth. “He’s a good guy.”

Dazai deflated, leaning back and letting the back of his head rest on Chuuya’s collarbone. “Odasaku is more than just a good guy,” he whispered to the ceiling. “Mori is as good as dead for firing him.”

Chuuya grinned, tilting his head to rest on top of Dazai’s. “Damn right.”             

Chapter Text

Dazai fell asleep almost immediately after he and the other students packed themselves back into Hirotsu’s car. Curled up on Chuuya’s lap with his legs bent, knees pressed against his chest, Dazai let out a soft sigh as Chuuya’s arms wrapped around his back. The embrace wasn’t firm or demanding, just enough for Dazai to feel both supported and respected. As he settled in and rested his head in the dip of Chuuya’s collarbone, the redhead began to think Dazai preferred it over an actual seat.

Still, Chuuya smiled when Dazai’s eyes fluttered closed, his breath evening out like small waves kissing the shore of the lake, consistent and unhurried. 

Chuuya tried his best to remain still and not disturb the boy in his lap, sinking his semi-treated back against the cop car’s leather seats. On either side of him, Tachihara and Akutagawa both rested their heads on their respective windows, eyes skimming over the abundant trees and rolling hills. Whoever built Yokohama Reform School all those years ago, even before Mori took the position of warden, knew what they were doing. Miles and miles of forest between the school and the nearest town? Hell would freeze over before anyone heard what was happening within YRS’s toughened brick walls. 

Yosano was to thank for their escape, Chuuya concluded. If it weren’t for her, the thought of actually escaping would’ve died with Chuuya when he would eventually get taken out back for fighting or something. Yosano gave him a goal – and Dazai annoyed him into reaching it. 

He hoped his gratitude was conveyed through the gentle way he untucked Dazai’s hair from the eye patch’s elastic around the back of his head; and to Yosano, he hoped the subtle grin shot her way held the thanks she deserved.

Yosano answered with a soft laugh, smiling as she rested her head on the palm of her hand. Her spot was on the floor behind the driver’s seat and in front of Tachihara, who had his legs bent awkwardly to give Yosano enough space to be semi-comfortable on the car’s floor. 

Up front, Hirotsu was tense behind the wheel, gesturing to the glove compartment when Ranpo, who sat on Poe’s lap in the passenger seat, demanded another candy bar. Tachihara asked the cop to play music, and after a breathy laugh, Hirotsu let some divorced dad rock trickle through the speakers. 

“Officer Hirotsu?” Poe squeaked. The cop lowered the volume to hear him better. “Will you be going back to the campus to help more students escape?”

The car went silent.

“I’m not sure,” Hirotsu admitted. “I’m hoping to work with that social worker, Fukuzawa, to abolish the school altogether. Ideally, the students would be transferred to a juvenile detention center for a few months, regardless of their sentences, and then be released.” He flicked his cigarette butt out the window, eyebrows furrowed. “Why do you ask?”

“I have a few friends I’d like to see,” Poe said. “One of which being Karl, my raccoon.”

Hirotsu smirked. “I’ll see what I can do. For now, though, do we have everyone who knows about this little escape plan with us in the car?”

Chuuya was quick to say yes, but Ranpo cut him off, swallowing a chunk of his chocolate bar to speak quicker. “There’s that one kid, Nikolai, who knows Chuuya beat up Ace, but I don’t know if he knows about our escape plan.”

“Huh?” Chuuya blurted. “How the hell does Nikolai know anything?”

“Tachihara saw him follow you out of the mess hall that day,” Yosano explained. Tachihara confirmed with a nod. 

“Well, if none of you are on campus, there’s not much he can do, right?” the officer said. That seemed to placate the students enough, and they sank back into their seats, exhaustion rolling over them. 

While Dazai slept, Chuuya observed him. He didn’t care much about being seen as creepy, not when Dazai snuggled into his chest, making himself as small as possible to fit into the pocket of space Chuuya provided. It was cute, but knowing what they had just escaped from, Chuuya was fighting to bite back his fury. Mori’s abuse was no secret, but feeling Dazai, the insanely intelligent and obnoxiously charismatic wonder of a human being, trembling in his arms made Chuuya sick to his stomach. He could not comprehend why a person would do something so cruel to another person – how an adult could justify doing this to a child.

Chuuya’s humanity had been tested over his almost sixteen years of life, and he could admit he had done things he was not proud of, but never had he even considered doing a fraction of the things Mori had done to Dazai.

“Chuuya needs to calm down,” the boy in question murmured against Chuuya’s neck. “His heartbeat is too fast.”

Chuuya flushed red, partially from annoyance but mostly from embarrassment, realizing Dazai was close enough to feel his heart. “Well, I’m pissed off,” he grumbled, “so you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

Dazai hummed with a semi-playful lilt. “Chuuya would benefit greatly from anger management classes, wouldn’t he? Maybe we should send him to a dog trainer.”

“Back to this dog shit again?” Chuuya groaned, half-laughing. “You’re fucking ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous is a simpleton’s term for enchanting.”

“Enchanting is a drama queen’s term for obnoxious.”

“Chuu-ya!” Dazai gasped, exaggerating the syllables as he lifted his head from where it rested. His left eye sparkled with life, and even though the other was covered by a cheap eye patch, Chuuya felt his heart skip – with annoyance, of course – when his eyes met Dazai’s beaming face. “You take that back, you stupid ginger brute! I am not obnoxious!” 

Chuuya laughed, gently pushing Dazai’s head back down into the nook of his neck. He’d lose his mind if he had to look at that pretty face any longer. “Fine, but only because I’m too tired to bicker with you. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

Dazai huffed, pouting like a little kid. “I wasn’t sleeping. I was just resting my eyes.”

“Uh-huh,” Chuuya grinned, “Whatever you were doing, you should get back to it. We still have another hour before we reach the hospital.” 

“Actually!” Ranpo chimed, “Only forty-five minutes!”

“I’m going to die if I have to be in this damn car any longer,” Yosano complained. “That gas station food made me nauseous as hell.”

“Same,” Tachihara seconded. “And this car smells like blood.”

“That’s, like, 90% your fault,” Chuuya chuckled. 

“Nuh-uh!” Tachi countered. “There’s five of us injured if you count Yosano’s ear, so technically it’d be 25%.”

“You’re too stupid to be talking like a nerd,” Akutagawa rasped. “If there’s five divided by a hundred is twenty, not twenty-five, you moron.”

“Yeah,” Chuuya laughed, “and you’re the only one with a real bullet wound which bleeds a hell of a lot more than some scratches or reopened scars.”

“My bullet wound feels pretty fucking real, Chuuya!” Yosano snapped from the car floor.

“Shut up, Yo-Yo,” Ranpo cackled, “yours is like an ear piercing.”

“Do you know what an ear piercing feels like, you psycho? Or what being shot feels like?!”

Dazai’s grin was nothing much pure mischief. “Ugh,” he groaned a little too loudly, clearly looking to aggravate a certain someone, “women, am I right?”

Yosano punched Chuuya in the leg, making the redhead spit out a curse. “Your boyfriend is too injured to get hit again, so you better keep him quiet unless you want to lose a leg,” she sneered.

Before Chuuya could respond, an AC/DC song came on, and every person in the car sang along like they were white-girl-wasted at a karaoke bar. 

Forty-five minutes later, the escapees met up with Fukuzawa and Ango at the hospital. Yosano and Ranpo nearly tackled their dad onto the parking lot, wrapping their arms around his torso with enough force to kill a weaker man. Fukuzawa returned the energy, lifting the two kids, one on each arm, as if they were toddlers instead of teenagers.  

Meanwhile, Chuuya slapped away Ango’s attempt at a handshake in favor of pulling him in for a hug. Tachihara and Akutagawa joined, each spitting curses and complaints as Ango muttered his apologies. A moment later, Ango pulled away with a soft laugh, and Chuuya took the opportunity to turn back to Dazai, helping him out of the car. His legs worked just as well as a newborn giraffe’s, but he managed with Chuuya as his crutch, and they refocused with Fukuzawa a moment later. 

“I’m so glad everyone is okay,” Fukuzawa began. “You are all so incredibly brave, and your efforts will not go unnoticed. However, before we properly discuss the next steps, those of you who are injured will be treated inside.” 

Dazai looked like he wanted to object, but Fukuzawa gave him a curt nod.

“Officer Hirotsu and I will handle the paperwork, so there’s no need to worry. You won’t be able to be traced by these records. Just focus on healing your injuries as much as possible and let us handle the rest.”

The boy deflated, but only slightly, still with a crease in his brow. Instead of speaking out like he wanted to, Dazai held onto Chuuya as the group migrated inside. 

Fukuzawa's words echoed in the sterile air of the hospital lobby, where the scent of antiseptic mingled with the hushed whispers of nurses and the occasional beep of medical equipment. The walls were a cool shade of blue, adorned with motivational posters and framed certificates, attempting to soften the clinical atmosphere.

Dazai's reluctance to enter the realm of doctors was obvious – and worrying. His grip on Chuuya tightened, the unease etched on his face sharpening into something colder, defensive, and arguably dangerous. 

Chuuya, steadfast and unwavering, understood this fear quicker than the nurses guiding them and even Ango, who acted as their guardian figure for the time being. Chuuya, too, had a rough history with doctors and hospitals, so as the nurses tried to explain a few things, Chuuya let Dazai cling to him, ignoring the adults’ attempts to separate them. They were each others’ lifeline in this unfamiliar territory.

They tried to pry him off using force, but Dazai refused, kicking and screaming when they neared. The sound caught Chuuya off guard, but he sided with Dazai, jerking away when Ango reached for him. Dazai demanded to be treated in the same room as Chuuya, and eventually, Ango turned to the nurses and advised them to comply, hoping to avoid any more turmoil. The kids weren't in a clear state of mind, anyway. 

Inside the examination room, Dazai tensed up immediately, pressing himself closer to Chuuya’s side. The stark white walls closed in on him, triggering memories best left buried. Chuuya's touch was a partially effective antidote, a grounding force amidst the chaos threatening to overwhelm his senses, but even Chuuya was unsettled, hanging onto Dazai just as much as the boy was hanging onto him.

“I don’t want them to touch me,” Dazai hissed, voice shaking with raw demand, his eyes darting warily at every approaching figure in scrubs. “I swear to god I’ll kill them if they do. Don’t let them near me, Chuuya, or I will kill them.”

Gently, as if calming a wild animal, Chuuya rubbed Dazai’s back with an open palm, then brushed stray curls from his forehead. Comforting Dazai gave him something to focus on, something to keep himself calm, as well. “I know it’s scary, these randos are scary, but you need to let them treat you,” he said. “I’ll be right here the whole time, I promise. They’re gonna treat me, too. They’re not gonna hurt me, so they won’t hurt you, either.”

Dazai gave up his fight verbally, but his eyes were still wide and manic, glaring daggers into the hearts of every medical personnel who approached him. Ango stood in the corner explaining things to the head doctor while Chuuya did his best to ease Dazai’s panic. Unfortunately, Chuuya’s words of comfort didn’t stop Dazai from flinching away from every nurse who attempted to pry him off of Chuuya’s arm, and even screaming at one who suggested they sedate him.

“No drugs,” Chuuya snapped. He turned to Dazai, mismatched eyes full of worry. “You have to let them treat you, Dazai. C’mon, what can I do to help? Tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it.”

Dazai softened ever so slightly, his deathly grip easing up on Chuuya’s forearm. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Just- fuck, sorry, just stay with me. Stay next to me. A-and keep talking. Tell me about your brother or something.”

Chuuya nodded, gently slipping from Dazai’s grasp as he helped him move toward the hospital bed. He rambled on about his older brother, recalling that time last Christmas when Paul put a hole through a wall, falling off a ladder trying to hang lights.        

  Slowly, Dazai began to relax, the tension in his shoulders easing as Chuuya's anecdotes washed over him like a soothing melody. The two nurses, one blonde and one bald, sensing the shift, worked with practiced efficiency, respecting Dazai's boundaries while attending to his injuries. 

The blonde nurse turned back to Ango while the bald one left the room, presumably to call in the doctor. They chatted for a bit, mostly the nurse asking Ango questions about Dazai’s medical history – questions that Ango didn’t have the answers to.

Before either of them could develop a migraine from the lack of answers, the doctor entered the room and did her own quick assessment of Dazai’s condition. Fukuzawa had requested an all-female staff when treating Dazai, and it seemed like the hospital complied, which worked well for all parties involved. 

While the doctor assessed Dazai, the blonde nurse tended to Chuuya, asking him to remove his shirt so they could evaluate his back injuries. Apparently Yosano had done a good job and only four of the lashes needed proper stitches. 

When the doctor finished with Dazai, she thanked him for his cooperation and crossed the room to speak with Ango. The two boys, sitting on the hospital bed, held hands and listened in. 

“Just from the quick assessment, it looks like his injuries are severe,” the doctor explained. “We’ll need to do an MRI to determine the extent of the rib fractures, though that process is long and will require excess paperwork beforehand. Ideally, we’d finish the paperwork tomorrow and conduct the MRI in two days. As for his wrist, we can take him in for an x-ray in about half an hour to see how bad it is, but as of right now, I’m guessing it’s just a buckle fracture. The bruising around his wrists looks concerning from a Child Protective Services perspective, but from a medical one, there isn’t much to worry about.”

Dazai scoffed. “I should’ve known Mori knew what he was doing,” he hissed. 

Chuuya didn’t know how to respond, so instead he squeezed Dazai’s hand a little tighter, ignoring the way the paper beneath them crinkled as he scooted a little closer. 

“Thank you so much,” Ango said to the doctor with a slight bow. “The social worker and police officer in the lobby will be handling the paperwork, so if you could have someone relay that information to them, that would be ideal. Thank you again for seeing us on such short notice.” 

“It’s not a problem at all,” the doctor said. “I’m happy to help.”

Soon, all the adults trickled out of the room, leaving just Chuuya and Dazai alone. Ango left to check on Tachihara and Akutagawa, and the two boys cherished the space.

Unsure of what to say, Chuuya turned to look at Dazai, bronze and blue eyes peeking at muddy brown ones. “Are you doing okay?” he asked, quieter than he needed to.

Dazai huffed, though a smile played on his lips. “What did I tell you about babying me, chibi? I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes, the tension dissipating. “I just want to know how you’re doing, asshole. They said you’ll need an MRI. Have you had one of those before?”

He nodded. “It’s fine, it doesn’t take long.”

“...What if you need surgery?”

Dazai laughed, messing up Chuuya’s hair even worse with his knuckles. “Then I’ll get surgery, you idiot.”

“Don’t tease me! I’m just anxious!” Chuuya snapped, swatting Dazai’s hand away. Neither of them had full motion of their arms, but they made do, teasing and cussing and caring and such. 

“I’m happy you’re the one that came to get me,” Dazai admitted after a moment or two passed. Chuuya froze, the playfulness evaporating as he calmed his body to listen. “Mori told me Fukuchi was going to take you out back. I thought that was it for you, Chuuya. I thought I’d never see you again.”

Chuuya let his head fall on Dazai’s shoulder, his muscles relaxing on instinct. There was something about Dazai that soothed him, despite their restless bickering. There were moments like these, where Dazai peeled back his broken ribs and let Chuuya observe the exact tempo at which his heart beats, that made Chuuya feel unbreakable. So comfortably indestructible, so seen and heard and loved, so valued and trusted. So human. 

God, Chuuya could spend forever with this royal screw-up. His response was whispered, the words knit together with a careful authenticity. “I’m happy you were alive when I found you. I thought you might’ve given up already.”

Dazai chewed on the inside of his cheek, fidgeting with his hands in his lap. Chuuya reached out and laced their hands together. “If it weren’t for those goddamn handcuffs,” Dazai said, “I would’ve done it.”

“I’m happy you didn’t.”

“I’m happy you’re happy.”

Chuuya snorted. “Dork.”

Dazai hummed. He let a beat of silence pass. Then: “Chuuya?”

“Yeah?” Chuuya didn’t move his head from where it rested on Dazai, ignoring the metallic smell of dried blood and the rough fabric of his tattered, oversized shirt, and the poorly wrapped bandages beneath. 

Dazai sighed, shaky and anxious, preparing himself. “I’m gonna tell you something about me that’s kind of fucked up.”

Chuuya couldn’t help but chuckle. “We’ve got a bunch of messy secrets between us already, man. Shoot.”

Dazai smiled, but it was half-hearted. “This one isn’t really a secret, just… something, I guess. You might find out soon anyway because of the paperwork and stuff, but I want to be the one to tell you. I owe it to you after the whole saving my life thing.”

“You don’t owe me shit,” Chuuya scoffed. “You saved me from Ace, and I saved you from the warden. We’re even, so tell me whatever you want. I’ll listen.” 

Another steadying breath, and he began. “My name isn’t actually ‘Osamu Dazai.’ That’s a name Mori and I came up with after my parents sold me. He wanted to make sure I couldn’t be tracked. A lot of my legal documents have been changed or forged that way, and I helped do it. I guess it was the closest Mori would let me get to killing myself. But if I’m really done with Mori, then I should, y’know...”

Chuuya sat silently, processing, for a few moments. Dazai let his mind go, listening to the gears churning, and answered the simple question: “Can I ask what your real name is?”

He smiled. “Shuuji Tsushima.”

“...Do you want me to call you that? Tsushima?”

His face flushed red, and he had to clear his throat before he spoke. “Just call me Shuuji. That way we’re both on a first-name basis now, Chuu~ya!” he teased. 

“Pfft, okay, you dork,” Chuuya chuckled. “Are you gonna tell anyone else? I can tell them to call you Tsushima if you want, if you don’t feel like saying it.”

He thought about it for a moment, but decided to shake his head. “No, I think I’ll stick with ‘Dazai’ for a little while longer. I’m not… entirely ready to let it all go just yet.”

Chuuya grinned, squeezing Dazai’s hand in his. “So I can call you Shuuji and no one else can? I must be pretty damn special.”

Dazai flicked his forehead, and all was all the response he got.  

The more heavily injured students spent that night in the hospital while Fukuzawa, Yosano, Ranpo, and Tachihara (who turned out to have a clean, in-and-out gunshot wound, avoiding any bones, arteries, and nerves) slept at a hotel. Ango stayed at the hospital a little while longer, keeping Akutagawa company and letting him use Ango’s phone to call his sister. Once Akutagawa fell asleep, Ango left to try and locate Odasaku.

Dazai had bullied the nurse into rolling a second bed into his room so he and Chuuya could sleep near each other, but after about half an hour, Chuuya ended up climbing into his bed, anyway. It was a tight fit, but the bed was bigger (and more comfortable) than the beds in Dorm C, so Chuuya and Dazai had very little trouble making it work. 

The TV was on, and for a little while the boys were distracted by Regular Show, but around three hours later, Chuuya pushed Dazai’s hair from his one-seeing eye and looked down, a frown painted on his face.

Dazai got the memo and pushed himself up off of Chuuya’s chest, maneuvering the best he could so they were face to face, lying on their sides. 

“Shuuji,” Chuuya began. Dazai’s hand found his, and Chuuya rubbed his thumb in small, therapeutic circles over the cold skin. “I still have a lot of questions.”

“Okay. Shoot.” 

“You’re a good liar, right? How did the warden figure out you were lying?”

“I’m flattered,” he said with a dry laugh, “but my lying skills don’t work great when it comes to Mori.” Though, now that he thought about it, Mori seemed to already know the situation before Dazai had even spoken a word to him. Dazai hadn’t put much thought into it over the past six days since everything had been moving so quickly, but Chuuya was partially right – he had lied to Mori in the past and gotten away with it, even just temporarily. And even if Mori knew Dazai was lying, how would he know exactly what Chuuya did and who was involved?

“I hate it when you do this,” Chuuya groaned, half-kidding. “I can see you thinking a mile a minute, and I’ve got no idea what you’re thinking about. Share with the class, you nerd.”

Dazai rolled his eyes but obliged. “I think Mori already knew about the whole situation before I went to see him,” he said. “I was under the impression that Fukuchi and I were his main sources of intel, but he likely had someone else acting as his eyes and ears.”

“Could it have been Kouyou?” Chuuya suggested. “She knew everything since both me and Akutagawa were in the infirmary with her. And Ace, too, that night.”

Dazai shook his head, pulling himself a little closer to Chuuya. He felt antsy and a little nauseous. “No, if Kouyou gave her word, she wouldn’t back on it. Plus, she wouldn’t benefit from telling Mori, and she kinda has a soft spot for you.”

Chuuya frowned. “Then was it another staff member?”

“It had to have been a student.” Dazai furrowed his eyebrows, racking his brain for any sort of clue from the past week. “Chuuya, can you think of anyone else, besides everyone who was in the infirmary that day, who saw you save Akutagawa?”

It took a moment, but the conversation they had in Hirotsu’s car when Dazai was “resting his eyes” struck him like lightning. “Nikolai,” he breathed, voice laced with anger. “Tachi said he saw Nikolai follow me out of the mess hall. That fucker couldn’t get back at me for beating him in the Tournaments, and it’s no doubt you pissed off his Russian boyfriend. Those annoying pricks probably teamed up with the warden to get back at me. Sa mère la pute, I’m going to fucking kill him!”

Mori paced back and forth on the front steps of his quarters, fingers digging into the roots of his jet black hair. The two security guards left not too long ago, chasing after that unknown officer’s car, and Kouyou had joined him just a few minutes after that, leaning on the front porch’s railing as she watched her boss fall apart. 

“You knew about this, didn’t you?” the warden snapped, dark eyes burning holes through the nurse as he whipped around to face her. “Osamu was planning an escape, you knew about it, and you didn’t tell me. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have you fucking killed–”

“You’re spiraling,” Kouyou interrupted, her voice just a bit too sweet for the occasion. “You’re never going to find that boy if you lose it now.”

Mori snarled at her. “I am not losing it.”

Kouyou hummed. “Then stand still. And quit screaming at me, that asshole Ace gave me a migraine.”

The warden scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. It was a fight to keep himself still, but he wouldn’t admit that to anyone, no matter how obvious it was. And even though he was, by definition, losing it, Mori Ougai could hold his insanity like liquor, sobering himself up with nothing but willpower.

“To answer your question,” Kouyou continued, pushing off the railing, “yes, I knew about their plan to escape.”

“And why didn’t you report this back to me?”

“I assumed you already knew,” Kouyou said simply. “And even if you didn’t, I thought you’d be more on top of things than you were. Pardon my informality, boss, but you confirmed that the child you had meticulously groomed for years lied to you in order to protect a student who had already proven to be a disobedient brat. Then that student, along with several others, goes missing, and you don’t even bother to intervene?”

 Mori hissed a curse under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose to hold back a vicious headache. “You’re right,” he sighed. “I was preoccupied with Elise and Shige, and I neglected my responsibilities as warden. However, how we got here is not important. Order must be restored to the school, and Osamu must be brought home. Can we put out a missing persons report for him?”

Kouyou furrowed her brows. “We could, but if there’s anyone who remembers him prior to the illegal adoption and name change, we’d have a whole new set of birds to stone.”

“Anyone who knew of Shuuji Tsushima is dead and gone,” Mori scoffed. “I am not messy enough to leave loose ends on my work. My concern is with the government. ‘Osamu Dazai’ does not exist. Will they look into it, beyond the false documents we have?”

“They might,” the nurse said. “It’s better to be safe rather than sorry. For now, our best bet is to wait for our security guards and see where they get, and then work on tidying up the school itself. There are quite a few students who aided in the escape but didn’t make a move to leave.”

Mori paused, turning to look at the woman. “Oh?” he pressed. 

Kouyou’s smile was superficial and shallow. She knew that Mori knew she was only playing along for her own safety, and if it weren’t for her skill, she would’ve been trashed the second he found out about her indirect disloyalty. Now, if she were to give Chuuya’s allies’ names, she would cross the line from a neutral party to an enemy of the victims. The possibility of making her own escape would be decimated. 

However, if she refused to aid Mori, she’d be making him an enemy of her own. That was not an option.     

“The Dorm A boys,” the nurse said on a breathy exhale. “The Flags. According to a student source, they were responsible for burning down the work shed and freeing Nakahara.”

Mori grinned, and the sight was horrific. “Thank you for your cooperation, Kouyou.”

“Of course, sir,” she nodded. “What are your plans now?”

The warden sighed. “As much as I hate to leave when my son is on the loose, I have to go pick up Elise before her mother turns back on the deal. I’ll only be away for a day or two, but I’ll keep in touch. I want school days removed for the next week and work hours extended for as long as possible. As a matter of fact, cut the students’ lunch break. Dusk till dawn, I want them working out on the fields, all of them. Has Ace recovered?”

“Mostly,” Kouyou reported. “His worst injury was a concussion.”

Mori hummed. “Get the whip from my office and have him supervise the children with it. Fukuchi as well.” He paused. “I also want a tracker put on that teacher I fired,” the warden continued. “There is no doubt he knows where my Osamu is, at least where he’s heading. Do not rest until that man is pumped full of bullets. Am I clear?”

Kouyou took a deep breath. “Yes, sir.”

“And here I thought you wanted nothing to do with me,” Oda teased as he rested on the hood of his beat-up truck. It was early in the morning, but as soon as Oda woke up that morning, he was bombarded with texts and calls from an unknown number, demanding he meet in the parking lot of a random fast food place somewhere not too far from the nearest hospital. Turned out Ango had bought a new phone to contact him with, so despite the sun barely being up, Oda rushed over and waited not-so-patiently for his friend to arrive. “Please tell me you have good news,” the former teacher chuckled. 

Ango didn’t answer. He practically slammed his car door shut, stomping over to Oda and collapsing against his chest. His glasses smushed awkwardly on his face when he pressed his cheek against Oda’s collarbone, but it was worth it, inhaling the sturdy scent of gentle detergent and wisps of whiskey.

Oda held him, even brushed a few dark strands of hair away to place a kiss on his forehead. “I’m happy to see you, too, Ango,” he murmured, full of something tender that Ango couldn’t quite make out. 

Finding his composure after an onslaught of embarrassment, Ango stumbled back, face flushed red. Thankfully, there was no one else in this parking lot, so the only person to witness his sentimental nonsense was Odasaku himself. 

“So?” Oda pressed, monotone but somehow warm and welcoming. He had a way with words, yes, but also a way with emotions and comfort that nobody could truly grasp. “Is everyone okay?”

“Yes,” Ango managed to squeak out, now feeling oddly insecure under Oda’s patient gaze. “Dazai is alive. He’s in the hospital with some pretty bad injuries, but nothing fatal and nothing permanent. Chuuya is with him, and the other students are safe, as well. Akutagawa, Tachihara, Yosano, and Ranpo. Officer Hirotsu was able to drive them out after you left.”

Oda frowned. “You didn’t drive them out?”

“I needed to take care of something,” Ango explained. “I found out how the warden was getting his information, like how he knew about Chuuya’s attack on Ace and your part in the escape plan before Dazai ever went back to speak with him.”

“Ango,” Oda cut in, “regardless of the circumstances, tell me you didn’t hurt any students. They’re just children–”

“I didn’t, I promise,” Ango said. “Nikolai Gogol and Fyodor Dostoyevsky. I had them transferred to a crisis stabilization unit, where we’re supposed to send kids who are a short-term danger to themselves or others. It won’t hold them for long, but it was enough to give the kids more wiggle-room during their escape.”

Oda’s sigh was full of relief and admiration. “You’re quite clever,” he said. 

Ango bit back his smile. “Thank you, Sakunosuke. Now, I’m sure the kids would like to see you and make sure you’re okay. Especially Dazai.”

“Of course,” Oda said. He took two folded pieces of paper from his pocket and handed them over. “Here, give these to the kids. One for the group, and one for Dazai. I’ll be at the hospital in a couple of hours, I just need to meet with this real estate broker.”

“Real estate broker?” Ango echoed. 

“Yeah, I’ve been saving up for a house for quite a while,” Oda explained, “and now that I’m out of YRS, I don’t have much of an excuse not to look deeper into it. If Dazai is really willing to be adopted by me, then I have to have a proper place for him to stay, yeah? A shitty two-bedroom apartment won’t cut it.”

Ango was practically beaming on Oda’s behalf. “Well, you should try to find a place down south.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s closer to where Chuuya’s family is,” Ango explained. “I doubt Dazai will willingly part ways with him after all this, and after witnessing their scene last night with the nurses, the feeling must be mutual.”

Oda chuckled. “Alright, I'll talk to the broker. Mind telling me where your place is?”

Ango grinned. “Don’t tease me, Oda, or I might just leave you for real.”

It was noon when Dazai woke up the next morning. As expected, he was using Chuuya’s chest as a pillow, lulled by the sound of his beating heart, and under the blankets, their legs were tangled together, siphoning heat. At first, Dazai was content with lying still, pretending to be asleep as Chuuya cuddled him like a lanky teddy bear, but the sight of a folded note on the side table caught his attention. 

“To Dazai” was written across it, and the handwriting made Dazai’s heart drop to his stomach: Odasaku.

He did his best to reach over Chuuya without waking him, snatching the note and nearly tearing it open.

It read:

Dazai,

There had been a time of extreme solitude in my life, a time where I thought there was nothing more beautiful in the world than the art of resisting. As righteous as you and Ango think I am, reality is that I’m a child of nothing who grew up searching for this nothingness that birthed me.

But I’ve reached a point in my life where nothingness doesn’t appeal to me anymore. Somehow, while I wasn’t paying attention, I became a man that other children of nothing depended on. Perhaps it’s because I am like them, only an older and wiser version. 

For you, Dazai, I have put extra effort into being something. You are the smartest, most clever and interesting person I’ve ever met, and every time a person tries to blow out the candles in your mind, I feel myself draw back into my nothingness just a little more. You deserve people in your life who you can love, trust, and enjoy; you deserve people who enjoy, trust, and love. 

I will never stop fighting to restore what has been taken from you. I will offer you a home, a space of your own, and a makeshift family consisting of me, Ango, and my kids who come visit every other weekend. I will protect your relationship with Chuuya Nakahara because I know how much you care for him and how much he cares for you, and I will never, ever let anyone hurt you ever again, not for as long as I live. 

I’m so tired of waiting for the world around me to become good and beautiful and kind. So I will make my own world, I will write it, and in it, I will hold you, my friend, and tell you the things I know:

“Everything is going to be okay, sooner or later.”

“You are smart, you are strong, you are safe, and you are loved.”

“I will be here for you, always.” 

I’m not sure when I’ll see you next, but I ask you to hold on. I promised your suffering would not last forever, and I meant it. Give me time to prepare this world for you, and then you and I and Ango and your lovely little redhead can explore every inch of it. 

Sincerely,

Odasaku 

Chapter Text

Chuuya woke up to the sound of Dazai singing. 

Was it any good? No, absolutely not. 

But that didn’t seem to stop Dazai as he limped across their shared hospital room, ballroom dancing with an imaginary woman on unbalanced feet, chasing an imaginary beat with his god-awful vocals. 

“And as you tie me to the bed for good I sayyyy… That I want you in the most uNrOmAnTiC wayyyyy…”

Slowly, Chuuya sat up, easing himself into consciousness. He scowled, clenching his teeth, as Dazai did a twirl at the foot of his bed and sashayed to the left, picking up the volume. 

“You're tOrTuRiNg mE with a beautiFUL faceee… Come on, I thought we had a damn good thingggg… penny in the couch and a DiAmOnD ringgggg–”

“Shuuji,” the redhead snapped. “I’m going to kill you if you don’t shut the fuck up. What the hell are you even doing? And why are you up this early?”

Dazai grinned, slowing himself and his invisible dance partner to a lovey-dovey sway. “You’re so grumpy, Chuuya. Look out the window, see the beautiful flowers blooming under the morning sun.” He sighed dreamily, abandoning his dance in favor of sliding over to the window and resting his palms on the sill. “It’s gorgeous out! I just know today is going to be spectacular.”

Chuuya cringed. Sure, things were looking up. Neither of them were trapped in the reform school, their injuries were being treated, and they were together… but spectacular didn’t feel like the right word. Chances were, the government would get involved since they literally broke out of their government-assigned punishment for whatever crimes they committed — and even if they didn’t, the warden was almost certain on the hunt to get Dazai back. 

Not to mention their injuries. No amount of cuddles could heal either of them overnight. Hell, Dazai alone still had multiple broken ribs that needed an MRI scan, plus a fractured wrist wrapped in a fresh cast. And that wasn’t even counting how skeletal he looked from years of malnutrition.

But still, Chuuya couldn’t make himself disagree out loud, not when Dazai had that ridiculous, glowing smile on, gazing out the window like a line in a poem.

(Poetry had always been enticing to Chuuya, though most people couldn’t tell just by looking at him. Secretly, he wished Dazai was one who could.)

Dazai’s bandages had been freshly replaced, clean and lightweight fabric hugging his neck and arms, spiraling down his legs. Both of them had changed into clothes Fukuzawa brought them last night, which belonged to his kids. For Chuuya, he brought a pair of Ranpo’s gym shorts and a loose tank top to avoid any irritation on his back; Dazai was given a pair of fluffy red pajama pants that belonged to Yosano, since he was too tall to fit Ranpo’s stuff. To cover his bruised chest, Fukuzawa had brought him a Star Wars themed t-shirt, also fitting loosely, as well as a worn, brand-less zip-up hoodie that belonged to Fukuzawa decades ago. 

Dazai’s bandages peeked out around his ankles where his short socks didn’t cover the length Yosano’s pants couldn’t quite reach. Fukuzawa’s hoodie, though, swallowed up his arms, hands, shoulders, and collarbones, leaving only his neck bandages exposed on his upper half. 

What caught Chuuya’s attention, though, was Dazai’s right eye, the one he usually had covered. Technically Chuuya had seen it before when he first rescued him, and again in the gas station, but now was his first time getting a good look at it under the hospital room’s fluorescent lights. 

The soft brown-gold color was the same, warm like honey under the sun, but the curl of his lashes was less obvious on that side, and its responsiveness was noticeably slower. It took a moment for Dazai’s right eye to latch onto things as quickly as his left, but what stood out to Chuuya most was the pupil, which was much smaller than the other. 

“You’re staring,” Dazai cut in, pushing himself away from the window. “You can ask about my eye if you want to, you know. It’s not that big of a deal.” He cracked a smile, clearly teasing. “You don’t need to be so freaked out, baby.”

“I’m not freaked out, asshole,” Chuuya snapped back. Dazai wasn’t using the word baby as a pet name but rather as an insult — Chuuya knew this, but he was having a hard time communicating it to his face, furiously fighting the redness rushing to his cheeks. 

Dazai looked smugly unconvinced.

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter! Are you gonna tell me why your eye looks like that or not?!”

Dazai chuckled at the redhead’s bluntness, easing himself onto the end of Chuuya’s hospital bed. “Such a brute! Do the ladies like that in a guy nowadays?”

“I don’t give a shit about what the ladies like,” Chuuya huffed. 

“Careful, now. Misogyny is so last century.”

Chuuya practically fumed, his whole face now the same color as his firey hair. “I’m not misogynistic, you prick! I’m gay!”

A beat is silence rolled over them. Dazai seemed to be mulling over the new(?) information in his mind. Chuuya, on the other hand, was dying of embarrassment. Did he really just come out of the closet? Right now? To Dazai? Like THAT?! 

“Just! Tell me about your eye,” Chuuya said.

Dazai had the audacity to smile. “Okay. It’s called anisocoria. Like I said, not a big deal. I attempted suicide by opioid overdose last year, and my right pupil hasn’t dilated normally ever since.”

“Does it hurt?” Chuuya asked, nearing a whisper. “Is that why you keep it covered?”

Dazai shrugged, caught a little off guard by this sudden change in tone. “No, not really. It just makes it a little harder to see when the lights are too bright or too dim, so I cover it.”

Chuuya nodded, slightly unsatisfied with the anticlimactic explanation. He expected Dazai to have a missing eye or maybe just a huge scar. A failed suicide attempt was tragic, but after everything they’ve been through in just the past three months alone — well, he couldn’t say there was no reason for it. 

He could, however, ask more questions. It was a specialty of his, according to his older brother. 

“Why do you have it uncovered right now?”

“Why not?” Dazai countered, pulling his legs up onto the mattress to sit criss-cross as a smile slipped onto his face. “I don’t feel like covering it, so I’m not going to. And I can tell you don’t care either way.”

Chuuya reciprocated the wide smile shot his way. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said.

Dazai winked. “I always am.”

“Okay, enough of your bullshit,” Chuuya laughed. “Tell me why the hell you’re up singing and dancing with yourself like some sort of lunatic. It’s creepy as hell, y’know. You’re lucky I didn’t call a fucking exorcist.”

Dazai gasped, melodramatic and hilarious, slapping his hand over his heart, clutching his non-existent pearls. “Chuu-ya!” he exclaimed, once again separating the syllables for dramatic effect. “I can assure you I am no lunatic!”

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “Uh-huh, sure, whatever you say, Shuuji.”

“But if you must know,” Dazai pouted, hiding the blush creeping up the tips of his ears upon hearing his given name, “then I suppose I’ll tell you.”

“Alright, go on, then.”

“Odasaku is gonna adopt me!” Dazai cheered. “Isn’t that awesome?! I’m gonna live in a house! With my own actual room, my own space! And I already decided that you’re gonna come with me to go furniture shopping because you’re gonna spend a lot of time in my room, too, so it’s only fair I get some stuff that you like, too. And we can get posters and plushies and—“

“Woah, dude, slow down!” Chuuya chuckled. “That’s awesome, but I can’t understand you when you ramble like that.”

Dazai’s smile didn’t drop even a millimeter. “That’s okay, I didn’t expect my chibi dog to keep up with my genius brain anyway.”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean, jackass?!”

“I would explain, but your dog brain is just too small.”

“You’re lucky you’re injured or I would’ve punched you.”

Dazai hummed, his eyes sparkling. “I must be the luckiest boy in the world to have such an honor bestowed upon me.”

That comment earned him a flick on the forehead.

When Oda finally arrived, Dazai almost broke another rib with how fast he bolted out of his room and into the hospital lobby. It took Chuuya a second to understand what was happening – Dazai had seen Oda through their window, getting out of his car along with Ango – but he caught up with Dazai not too long after. He was there just in time to see the boy with the broken ribs tackle a man over six feet tall to the ground. 

“Dazai!” Ango screamed, rushing in after Oda. “Jesus christ, be careful!” 

Dazai, of course, ignored him, clutching onto Oda like the world depended on it. Oda laughed as he sat up, holding Dazai close with one hand on the back of his head and the other between his shoulder blades. “It’s alright, Ango,” Oda announced, diffusing the situation. He waved off the hospital staff who had rushed over as well, dismissing them with a warm and apologetic smile. He then turned his attention to Dazai who had his face hidden in Oda’s chest, still as a ghost. 

His grip on the former teacher’s tan coat was near violent, but besides the way his hands trembled slightly, Dazai didn’t move at all. 

“Hey,” Oda whispered, gently uncurling the boy’s fists. “You alright?”

Dazai nodded but otherwise remained still. 

Oda sighed, a soft smile on his lips, and pulled both Dazai and himself to a standing position. Dazai took to wrapping his arms around Oda’s midsection, adamant about latching, hiding his face, and staying put. Chuuya watched with a humored smile, though a little envious. He hoped Paul would hold him like that when they finally reunited. 

Dazai murmured something into the tan coat that only Oda was able to catch. His response was a soft chuckle, ruffling Dazai’s dark curls. “I missed you too, kid.”

Finally, Dazai pulled away, and Chuuya caught sight of the tears welled up in his eyes. He held Oda’s hand like a toddler in a grocery store as he turned to look at Chuuya. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, chibi,” he warned. But Chuuya was too busy smiling to entertain him, hurrying over to take Dazai’s other hand in his own. 

A couple of minutes later, Fukuzawa, his kids, and Tachihara arrived. Ango and a nurse escorted everyone to Akutagawa’s hospital room in the back wing, and when they arrived, the nurse left with a request to keep the noise to a minimum. “Technically we aren’t allowed to have so many people in one room,” she said, “but as long as you guys aren’t too disruptive, I’m sure nobody will mind.”

“Thank you,” Fukuzawa said. The nurse left, and he turned his attention back to the group before him. Chuuya glanced around, curious as to what the social worker was assessing, and saw the exhausted yet determined faces of his loved ones. He still held onto Dazai’s hand, and Oda held onto the other, both standing tall. Ango was on Oda’s other side, fidgeting with his fingers but otherwise composed, and in front of him was Tachihara, his arm in a sling and a grin plastered on his face. 

Across the room and beside Akutagawa’s bed, Fukuzawa was the pillar and foundation of the room, a calm and comforting dominance over the wreckage and ruins. His kids sat on the two chairs a little behind him, with Ranpo leaning his head on Yosano’s collarbone and Yosano’s arm wrapped around Ranpo’s shoulders as he chomped his way through a Mars chocolate bar.

“First and foremost,” Fukuzawa began, “how is everyone doing? Akutagawa, I know your injuries and illness have been exceptionally severe, and I applaud you for your strength and determination.”

“Thank you,” Akutagawa croaked out, quite obviously embarrassed from being put on the spot. “Did you hear back from my sister?”

Fukuzawa nodded. “I spoke with her and your mother not too long ago, and they’re scheduled to arrive in a few hours.” Akutagawa’s shoulders slumped with relief, and Tachihara gave him a bright smile. “Next, Dazai. You and I still have a few things to discuss regarding the paperwork for your treatment, but because of the severity of your injuries, we were able to schedule your MRI for tomorrow morning. Other than that, how are you feeling?”

Chuuya felt the way Dazai squeezed his hand. “I’m good,” he sang. “It feels good to be out in the real world. I can’t wait to go to a real arcade. I haven’t been since I was an itty bitty little kid. Like Chuuya’s size!”

“Fuck you,” Chuuya grunted. 

“Alright, that’s enough, boys,” Ango sighed. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Dazai.”

Dazai nodded, and Fukuzawa continued his rounds. “As am I,” the man said. “Yosano, Ranpo, I already checked in with you guys at the hotel. Is it safe to assume all is still well?”

Yosano nodded while Ranpo gave an optimistic thumbs up. “Poe made it home safe,” Ranpo added. “He just texted me to tell you he says thank you. He’ll probably be back when we go back to the school so he can get his raccoon friend.”

Fukuzawa nodded. “That’s fine with me. Moving on… Tachihara, your shoulder wound isn’t causing you any additional trouble, is it? I’m no doctor, but that sling looks a tad loose.”

“Nope,” Tachi reported. “I’m all good, man. The bandages are keeping it all together. I guess Dazai had the right idea, haha. Oh, and I called my mom on Ango’s phone, she said she’ll be here ASAP. Keep me updated, though. And let me know if I can do anything to help.”

“I will, thank you,” Fukuzawa answered. He turned to Chuuya next, metallic grey-blue eyes stern and piercing. “How about you, son? How is your healing going?”

Chuuya suddenly understood why Akutagawa felt so awkward under this man’s telescope. It was obvious he cared a lot, but the compassion mixed with the assertive, stern, leader-like aura was pretty overwhelming. “The doctor did good on treating my back,” Chuuya blurted. “I’ve got a lot more range of motion than I did before, so I’m not complaining.”

Fukuzawa’s smile was almost non-existent, but it didn’t take away from its authenticity. “That’s good to hear.” Lastly, he turned to Oda and Ango. “Before anything else, I’d like to thank the both of you for doing all that you did to keep my children safe. If there’s any way I can repay you, just say the word. My gratitude is infinite.”

“He really means that,” Ranpo chimed in. “He’ll probably write you a blank check if you ask for it.”

Dazai beamed, pulling on Oda’s wrist. “Odasaku! Ask him to help us find a house next to Chuuya’s!”

Oda chuckled, not bothering to act surprised at the fact that Dazai knew he was house-shopping. “Not the time,” he whispered. Turning back to Fukuzawa, he offered a slight bow to show his own gratitude. “Thank you, too, Fukuzawa, for giving my students and my kid a real goal to pursue.”

Chuuya caught the way Dazai practically beamed at that, excitement simmering beneath his skin. 

As the adults wrapped up the check-ups, the kids fell into their own conversations. Tachihara, Akutagawa, and Chuuya dived into a discussion while Yosano tugged Dazai over by the ear to chat with her and Ranpo. Oddly enough, there was a sense of serenity that blanketed this hospital room, a comfort that the kids were forced to part with in the past months. Chuuya had spent a little over three months at the reform school, (while Tachihara had been there eleven months, and only god knows how long Dazai spent in that hell hole) and the numbers alone made his head spin. 

He was so relieved to end this horrific era of his life and move forward, hand-in-hand with Shuuji, keeping in touch with Tachihara, Akutagawa, Yosano, and Ranpo…

And then the nurse returned with a worried look on her face. Everyone in the room froze. 

“There’s a woman in the lobby asking for Oda Sakunosuke,” the nurse said. “She says her name is Kouyou Ozaki.”   

Mori had only been gone a couple of hours when it happened. 

He left Kouyou in charge, despite her subtle protests, and ordered her to “tidy up” the school. After two cigarettes (which she was ashamed of, since she had done her best to quit in the past five years. But with Mori and his sadistic bullshit came a ridiculous amount of stress, so it couldn’t be helped) Kouyou stood up straight, putting distance between her and the wall she was leaning on, and started toward the administration building.

The secretary, a young woman with blue hair, greeted Kouyou with a warm smile upon her entrance. Mizuki Tsujimura, the plaque on her desk read. Kouyou remembered her as one of the only genuine staff members at YRS. Like the other secretaries, she only worked part-time, and most of her work was done off campus. But occasionally, Miss Mizuki would be in charge of overlooking the administration building and answering any phone calls (most of which were from students’ families with questions and concerns). She had a bit of a bad reputation as a snitch after speaking out about the students’ bad working conditions, but Mori had sent her off with a warning, claiming her ignorance overruled her nosiness and obnoxious sense of justice. 

“We’re lucky she doesn’t know about anything else,” he had said, chuckling dryly, “else that girl would be off to the police. But of course, she’ll be in a casket before I allow such a thing could happen. Unfortunately, people like Miss Mizuki can’t understand our efforts at true reformation. ”  

“Hi, Miss Kouyou,” Tsujimura said. “It’s nice to see you. Is there anything I can help you with?” 

Kouyou hummed, taking a seat on the small couch across from the secretary’s desk, elegantly crossing one leg over the other. “It’s nice to see you as well, darling. Would you mind checking for any behavioral reports from the Dorm A house staff?” 

“Of course,” the secretary answered. She made quick work of checking her inbox, and when no new documents showed up, she turned her gaze back to the school nurse. “It looks like there’s nothing new from Mr. Ace, but maybe it’s just because it’s late. Surely he’ll have his weekly report in by tomorrow morning.”

Kouyou nodded. She didn’t actually care about the weekly behavioral report deadline. That was Mori’s job. But she did want more information on the Flags and how they were doing. Because the Dorm A boys had so much freedom and influence around YRS, they were rarely injured, and so Kouyou never had reason to meet them. She knew Doc, partially, because Kouyou let him purchase extra medical supplies when she was feeling generous and he was feeling desperate, but when it came to the boys as people, her knowledge was limited. 

Kouyou wanted to know what kind of souls she sold to the devil, but that sort of curiosity was dangerous. 

“Um, pardon me if the question is a little invasive,” Tsujimura spoke up, whisking Kouyou away from her thoughts, “but can I ask about what happened earlier? You know, the security guards shooting and the warden yelling…”

Kouyou furrowed her brows, a small smile forming despite the anxiety building in her chest. She didn’t know much about Miss Mizuki, either, but she knew she needed an ally right now – one that wasn’t a bloodthirsty, power-hungry sadistic pedophile. “You know the warden’s son, correct?” the nurse began. 

Tsujimura tilted her head, eyes wide with confusion. “Yes…? Sorry, I don’t really know why that’s relevant. Everyone affiliated with the reform school knows about young Dazai. We’re all trained on how to handle his attempts in case of an emergency.”

“Right,” Kouyou affirmed. “Well, he ran away. Successfully. He and a handful of other students managed to drive off with the help of a police officer from another district, and as you can imagine, Mori is not taking things well.”

“Oh,” Tsujimura faltered. “That’s… understandable, I guess. But a police officer? How…”

“It’s quite the story,” Kouyou answered honestly, biting back her snarky comments. She didn’t have much of a heart for Dazai, but as time went on, she had been growing more and more irritated with his guardian, the warden. This inner turmoil made it difficult to push aside the abuse she had been ignoring for nearly five years, so instead of sitting idly, she talked. “To put it lightly, Dazai was not being treated with care, and some of the students, who were also being severely mistreated, found a way to connect with someone on the outside and set up a proper escape. The warden had been preoccupied with the custody transfer of his daughter who had previously been under her mother’s care.”

Miss Mizuki nodded, processing the information bit by bit. “I see… Is that why you’re here in administration?” she wondered aloud. “To work on getting Dazai and the students back?”

Kouyou smiled, but it was painfully bittersweet. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I’ve worked under Mori for over half a decade, even before he became the warden. I know the consequences of going against his word could be devastating for me. But I…” She frowned, voice wavering just enough to barely be noticeable. “I’m not sure.”

“May I offer my opinion?” Tsujimura asked. After earning a nod from Kouyou, she went on, “Any system or person in power with a lack of humanity, respect, authenticity, and/or intelligence is a system or person that needs to be taken down. I know I’m new to the reform school and I’m only a secretary, but I work hard and care about the students here. If you’re not confident in the warden’s actions, and if you’re sure these kids would be better off without the current system in place, then I’ll follow you in whatever plan you come up with to make a change.”

Kouyou’s laughter was soft. She covered her mouth with her hand, cherry eyes sparkling with delight. Even though her guilt of turning a blind eye hadn’t dissipated, it was the first time in a long time she felt she was doing the right thing. “Thank you, Miss Mizuki,” Kouyou expressed. “It’s rare to meet a person with a wonderful mind as well as a genuine heart. I do have a rough draft of a plan that I think will help things, at least a little bit…” Kouyou went on to explain Mr. Oda, the teacher Dazai trusted and admired, who Mori fired a week prior. “I’m not the right person for the job when it comes to protecting the youth,” she admitted, “but if I can offer my help to him, I’m sure we can accomplish something.”

“Okay, sounds like a plan!” Miss Mizuki declared. “Is there a phone number I can call or something?”

Kouyou shook her head. “We’ll need to bend the rules a little bit in order to get ahold of him. There should be a file somewhere on your computer that has information on every staff member at YRS. I need you to find it and give me an address, or even just a license plate, so I can meet up with him.” The reason for that, though Kouyou didn’t say this out loud, was because she knew Oda wouldn’t answer a call with a YRS caller ID, but also because she needed to get off campus. She could name a handful of dangerous staff members who were all loyal to Mori and would kill her if they found out she was betraying him.

“Alright,” the secretary said. “I’ll see what I can find. In the meantime, are you going to tell any other staff? Is there someone trustworthy we can put in charge of the students?”

Kouyou brought her hand to her mouth, anxiously biting one of her manicured nails. “There’s Ango Sakaguchi, but he disappeared with the students. I suppose I could talk Fitzgerald into holding things together, since he’s not inherently evil like the rest of those scumbags, but it’ll take some convincing. And perhaps some money.”

“Let me know if there’s anything else I can help you with,” Miss Mizuki said. “And good luck, Miss Kouyou.”

Kouyou thanked her and quickly left the administration building. She had a plan in mind now, hurrying over to Dorm B with more fervor than she’d had in the past five years. 

It was late, late enough for the students to be in bed, but not too late that the house staff would be unavailable. Just as she was taking out her master key to unlock the door, she caught sight of a student stumbling out of Dorm A’s front door. 

He was blond and thin, staggering, holding his side, and moving with an awkward limp. Usually, Kouyou would bury any feelings of pity for the students she saw in pain – there was so much pain here in the darkness of YRS, and she’d drive herself mad if she let herself care about it all – but something in her didn’t allow it. She stuffed the master key back in her pocket and hurried toward the injured student who seemed to be heading toward the woods.

“Hey, kid,” Kouyou called, rushing over to him. “Slow down. What’s going on?”

“Shit,” the kid choked out, “please, I didn’t do anything wrong, I’m just- I just needed some air, yeah? You don’t gotta report me, you don’t, don’t punish–”

“I’m too exhausted to entertain the idea of reporting you,” Kouyou scoffed, taking the boy by the upper arm. “Come this way, let me treat your wounds while you explain to me what happened.”

The kid looked anxious, which, again, Kouyou was used to. However, since he rushed out of Dorm A, it was safe to assume he was part of the Flags. Those kids didn’t have much to worry about compared to the miserable things in the lower dorms. Something was off.

“Let me take you back to the infirmary,” Kouyou insisted, pulling him forward. He staggered, but Kouyou held him upright. “It’s disgusting out here. What’s your name, lad?”

“It’s ‘Tross,” he grunted, awkwardly shifting his weight as he walked with the nurse. “Albatross. Why are you… why’re you hel-helping me?” He was out of breath, huffing and panting just to gather enough air to speak and walk at the same time. “I thought you were uh- thought you were a total bitch. Shit, do you wanna get freaky or something? I knew this place was packed full of f-fucking pedos–”

“I prefer women,” Kouyou snapped, “and I don’t like children. You have nothing to worry about. Now, instead of talking nonsense, you might as well tell me what I’m dealing with as we walk.”

Albatross sighed, shaky and sick. He was trembling, Kouyou noticed, and even in the darkness, she could see the layer of sweat covering his body. His face was deathly pale, and his eyes flashed around, paranoid, as they walked. There wasn’t a moment he didn’t glance back over his shoulder, checking to see if they were being followed. “That old guy from Dorm C,” the student began. “Fuku-something. I fucking forgot. He broke into uh- broke into our, um, our dorm and started… Fuck, man, he started kicking the door to our room… he- he had a knife, and I think they’re dead, I think he- he killed them, holy shit I think he killed them all–”

“Slow down,” Kouyou interrupted, slowing to a painfully slow pace. She moved in front of the boy so she was walking backward, holding his trembling hands in her own. “Focus on your steps, Albatross,” she told him. “One foot in front of the other… Good, good. Now your breath… Expand your stomach on your inhale, then let the air out through your mouth–”

Stab.

The boy’s eyes widened, his mouth opening as his knees buckled. Kouyou saw the tip of the knife poking through his grey shirt and watched horrified as the dark red seeped out from the wound, soaking it. He sputtered, coughing up a blood clot, and then the knife was ripped out of him. His hands slipped from Kouyou’s, and then he crumbled to the ground. 

Fukuchi sighed. “Annoying brat… Ah, apologies for bothering you, miss. I got last-minute orders from the warden and didn’t have time to take them out back. I hope he didn’t didn’t cause you too much trouble.”

Kouyou’s tongue felt like sandpaper in her mouth. She couldn’t pull her eyes away from the boy on the ground, wetting the grass with his blood. He twitched a few times, eyes wide and staring at nothing. The blood kept spreading, and spreading, and spreading like an oil spill over a great lake. After a few more spasms of his neck, Albatross finally fell still.

“Miss Kouyou?” Fukuchi repeated, suspicious. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Kouyou answered, sounding colder than she expected. She brought her eyes back up and faced the child murderer before her. Had the school always been this cruel? “I’m just tired, is all. It’s been a long day.”

Fukuchi’s smile was everything but real. “It has.”

“Next time, do give a lady some warning, would you? You nearly got blood on my new coat.”  

The house staff chuckled. “Will do.” He hoisted the corpse up and held it over his shoulder like basic cargo. Blood dripped down his uniform. “You have a nice night, miss.”

“Thank you, you too.” 

Kouyou watched him leave. The blood had turned the dirt by her feet into mud. 

This is how the school has always been. This shouldn’t be any different.          

But it was. It really, really was.  

“Kouyou?” Dazai echoed, his voice breaking the heavy silence that hung in the room like a suffocating fog. His eyes darted from face to face, searching for confirmation, for any sign that this wasn’t real. “What?”

The nurse hesitated, her gaze avoiding Dazai’s desperate eyes. “Yes, a woman with scarlet hair by the name Kouyou Ozaki. She’s requesting Oda Sakunosuke,” she finally replied, her words weighed down by the gravity of their implications. “She’s here, and if I’m not mistaken, that’s…” Her eyes flicked towards Odasaku, who stood frozen, as if struck by an invisible blow. “...you.”

“Yes, that’s me,” Odasaku managed to say, his voice strained. “Tell her I’ll be out in just a moment. Thank you.”

The nurse nodded quickly, exiting the room and leaving behind a palpable sense of dread. The air felt thick with unspoken fears, the tension coiling tighter with each passing second. 

“You can’t go see her,” Dazai blurted out, his words laced with urgency. “She’s here to kill you.”

“We don’t know that,” Odasaku reasoned, though uncertainty shadowed his eyes. “Maybe she’s here to warn us of something.”

“Yeah, maybe she finally turned on Mori,” Tachihara chimed in, his voice tinged with a hint of hope. 

“But what is the likelihood of that?” Fukuzawa countered, his tone grave. “Considering the past events of this week, she could very well be here to take a life.”
“I just got you back,” Dazai whispered into Odasaku’s coat. “I’m not letting them take you again.”

Odasaku’s frown deepened, but he pulled Dazai into a reassuring hug. “I’m not going anywhere, kid,” he assured him softly, his gaze flickering towards Chuuya, who stood silently, fists clenched at his sides. “But we need to understand what Mori’s planning next. It’s better for us if we know his next moves so that way we can keep you safe.”

“But Dazai’s right,” Ango interjected, breaking the heavy silence. “None of that matters if she kills you.”

“I don’t think she’s here for that,” Chuuya added, his voice tight with anxiety. “But we can’t risk it. Can’t someone else go? Someone she’d talk to?”

“You should go, carrot-top,” Ranpo suggested with an unsettling calmness. “She has a soft spot for you, right?”

“Me?!” Chuuya blurted. “Are you nuts? I’m one of the runaways.”

“Did you hear what I said, idiot? I said she has a soft spot for you.”

“Chuuya’s not going either,” Dazai cut in, his protectiveness flaring. “He’s not, so don’t even think about it.”

“She won’t hurt him!” Ranpo retorted. “If you won’t send the teacher, then carrot-top is our second best option if we want any relevant information. They’re on good terms.”

“That doesn’t mean shit when I broke the goddamn law!” Chuuya cried out, his frustration boiling over. “Fuck good terms! She’ll fucking crucify me on Mori’s orders!”

“Enough,” Fukuzawa interjected firmly. “Ranpo, I hear your reasoning, but I’m not risking the safety of any children under my care. And Chuuya, there’s no need to be so profane. Watch your language.”

“Sorry,” Chuuya muttered, his shoulders slumping. 

“Then who are we sending?” Tachihara asked, breaking the tension with a practical question. “If none of the kids can go, and Dazai will kill us all if we send Chuuya or Mr. Oda…”

“I don’t mind meeting with her,” Ango offered quietly. “As awkward as it is, I’ve worked with her for quite a bit. We know each other well enough, so we might get some answers.”

“I’ll accompany you,” Fukuzawa decided. “I have questions of my own.”

“Alright,” Ango affirmed. “Then let’s go.”

As the two adults left, Mr. Oda motioned for the kids to stay put as the adults spoke, ignoring their pleas to go eavesdrop. Tachihara sat on the edge of Akutagawa’s bed (Aku had fallen asleep sometime between the check-up and now, which was expected due to his worsening condition) while Yosano and Ranpo remained in the chairs. Oda and Chuuya took seats on the floor while Dazai laid down between them, his head on Chuuya’s thigh and his legs in Oda’s lap – partially because it was painful for him to sit crumpled up for too long with his ribs, but mostly because he would have a panic attack if he wasn’t making some sort of contact with both of them. 

He kept scratching at his arms and neck, mumbling something about keeping everyone alive, and Chuuya didn’t have the heart to say anything. He was silent as he gently pried Dazai’s hands away to a safer place.

Oda made simple conversation with Chuuya, but he knew it was mostly to help Dazai realize they were okay. Still, Chuuya kept his gaze fixed on Dazai, his mind racing with worry over Kouyou’s unexpected visit. Odasaku’s calm demeanor provided some relief, a stark contrast to the storm raging within him, but Chuuya’s responses were mechanical since his mind was too consumed by fear to fully engage.

After what felt like an eternity, Ango returned alone. Yosano and Ranpo sprang to their feet, their eyes searching for Fukuzawa. 

“He’s fine,” Ango reported, his voice strained, “he just had some more questions for her that I couldn’t stick around to listen to.”

“What is she here for?” Tachihara blurted out. 

“How did she find us?” Chuuya added, just as informally. 

Ango squared his shoulders, avoiding Chuuya’s gaze. “She claims she’s no longer loyal to Mori,” he began cautiously. “If she’s telling the truth, then we’ve earned ourselves another ally in our goal to abolish the reform school.”

“Do you believe her?” Yosano protested. “How do we know this isn’t just a step in Mori’s plan?”

“We don’t,” Ango admitted, “but your father will decide our next move. I trust his judgment.”

Yosano nodded. She couldn’t argue with that. 

“What’s the bad news?” Chuuya demanded, his voice cracking. His heart pounded in his chest, a sense of impending dread gnawing at him. “Did Mori contact our families or something? My brother doesn’t ever answer his phone, so I doubt he was able to reach–”

“It’s Dorm A,” Ango sighed heavily. “The Flags. The warden sent Fukuchi to… take them out back, and while Kouyou tried to intervene…” He faltered, his words trailing off as he met Chuuya’s anguished gaze. “It had been too late.”

Chuuya felt every drop of blood in his body turn to ice. “He’s dead?” he whispered, voice barely audible. 

Ango nodded solemnly. “I’m sorry.”

“Albatross is dead?” The words felt wrong on his tongue. “The Flags? All of them?”

“Chuuya…” Dazai murmured, his voice thick.

“Even Piano Man? And Doc? What… what about Lippman and Iceman? They couldn’t’ve just- no, they wouldn’t just–”

Dazai shuffled around, maneuvering up so he could hold Chuuya’s face in his cold palms. He sensed the moment Chuuya’s composure crumbled and pulled him into a hug. 

The room was silent as the firecracker burnt out.        

“What is she here for?” Dazai demanded. His voice was borrowed from the devil himself, but cold as the dark side of the moon. 

“She wants Oda’s help to take down Mori,” Ango answered quietly. “She thinks he’s our best bet to get through to the kids.”

Dazai tightened his hold on Chuuya, nuzzling into his head of wild orange hair. He remained silent. 

“I don’t think there’s much I can do,” Oda admitted, his voice heavy with resignation. “The safest option is to turn the case over to Fukuzawa and the police. Plus, I have house-searching to do. Before we go dismantling any systems, I want Dazai to have a stable home. Not to mention the rest of these kids. They need to see their families.”

Ango nodded thoughtfully. “I agree. If Kouyou knew where to find us, it’s safe to assume the warden does as well. We should head south, put as much distance between us and Mori as possible.”

“My dad planned on taking over things from here anyway,” Ranpo supplied. “‘Cause you’re right. Distance and safety come first.”

“Ranpo and I will stay here with our dad,” Yosano said. “And Tachihara, you said your mom will be here soon to pick you up, right?”

Tachihara nodded. “Yeah, and Akutagawa’s family will be here soon, too. I don’t think he’ll be discharged, but at least he won’t be alone.”

“I want to go home and see my brother,” Chuuya blurted out, his voice raw with pain. Dazai still held him, protective but gentle, even as Chuuya turned to look at Oda, his mismatched eyes glossy with unshed tears. “We live down south. Can you give me a ride if I tell you the address?”

“Of course, kid,” Oda answered softly. “Dazai wouldn’t leave without you anyway.” He shifted his attention to Ango, who still stood in the doorway. “Are you coming with us, Ango?”

Ango smiled, a rare warmth in his usually stoic expression. “Am I invited?”

“Always, my love.”

“Then I suppose so.”

Tachihara dry heaved dramatically, and Yosano’s eyes widened in surprise. “When the hell did that happen?” she asked incredulously. 

“I dunno, but Tachihara owes me,” Ranpo cackled. “Pay up, bandaid boy!”

“Aw, fuck you!” Tachi scoffed. He pulled a bag of Jolly Ranchers from his pocket and tossed it Ranpo’s way. “I’m broke, so consider that your payment.”

“Where the hell did you get Jolly Ranchers?” Yosano laughed, her tension momentarily eased by the absurdity. 

Ranpo grinned, tearing into the bag. “He stole ‘em from the gas station, and I wanted some ever since.”

“Okay, that’s enough out of you guys,” Ango chuckled. “Chuuya? Now is the time to exchange phone numbers so you can keep in touch. The sooner we leave, the better.”

Chuuya nodded numbly. The shock of the news still lingered, but having a small task with a clear goal made it easier to get his body moving, even if his mind remained a whirlwind of grief and confusion. He dragged himself over to Tachihara and swiped a marker off the side table. Uncapping it, he scribbled his number and his brother’s number onto Tachihara’s and Yosano’s hands, as well as Akutagawa’s arm, careful not to wake him. 

“Hey, now that I’m free, can I get a phone?” Dazai beamed, a glimmer of his old self shining through his somber mood.

Oda ruffled his hair affectionately. “Sure, I don’t see why not. We might not be able to get you a super fancy one since we need to focus on finding a house, but we can definitely get you something.”

“Yay!” Dazai cheered. Chuuya shuffled back over to him after passing the marker to Yosano and melted into Dazai’s side, hiding his head in the boy’s bandaged collarbone. Dazai hummed, wrapping his arms around Chuuya’s back. The most wonderful thing about Dazai and Chuuya had to be their ability to understand without speaking a word.

“Alright, it’s time to go,” Oda said, breaking the moment. “You all have both me and Ango in your phones, so feel free to call us if you need anything.”

“Tell Fukuzawa to call me as soon as things are stable enough,” Ango added. “Just because we’re leaving doesn’t mean we’re abandoning the case. We’re still going to help in any way we can.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Ranpo laughed. “We get it. You don’t have to over-explain. Have fun shopping, guys! We’ll see you around!”

“Bye!” Yosano and Tachihara cheered in unison. “We’ll miss you!”

Half an hour later, Ango, Oda, Dazai, and Chuuya were on the road, heading towards Chuuya’s home. The journey felt surreal to Chuuya, his mind replaying the news of the Flags’ fate over and over, each repetition more painful than the last. His stomach churned with grief, and the world seemed to cave in around him, but he held onto a sliver of hope that seeing his brothers would make things more bearable. 

Either way, Dazai held him throughout the whole ride, singing in that terrible fucking voice of his. (Chuuya wouldn’t trade it for the world.)

Chapter Text

To say that dinner was tense would be the understatement of the century. 

The moment Chuuya stepped inside, he was engulfed in a spine-crushing hug from Paul and Arthur, and though their embrace was a reminder that he was home and safe, the warmth of their welcome quickly gave way to the sting of reprimand.

“Putain, where have you been? And what are you doing here? Vous décidez de vous présenter maintenant, après nous avoir ignorés pendant des mois?” Paul rambled, pissed off and red in the face. “Do you have any idea what we’ve been through? J'ai failli perdre la tête quand cette foutue école ne répondait pas à mes appels–”

Arthur stepped in to reel Paul back, resting a ghostly hand on his shoulder. As Paul simmered, Arthur began a stern lecture on the perils of risky behavior that felt like a monologue in a darkened theater, each word echoing with the weight of his worry. “We’re happy to see you, Chuuya, but understand that your brother and I are a little overwhelmed right now.”

The understatement sent Paul into another fit of fury, and it was obvious that there was nobody in the room who felt comfortable with the situation – not even Chuuya, who had convinced himself back in the work shed that he missed his older brother’s unconventional parenting style. He glanced over his shoulder at Dazai, Oda, and Ango who stood awkwardly in the doorway, offering his best effort at an apologetic smile. 

Turning back to his brother and brother’s partner, Chuuya braced himself, his muscles taut with a blend of guilt and frustration. He had longed for this moment, yet now, under the harsh light of his brother’s scrutiny, he felt exposed and small. “I know this is all super fucked up,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But there’s a good explanation, I promise.”

Upon hearing Chuuya’s tired voice, Paul gave up and caved in, pulling the redhead into a warmer, softer embrace. “How many times must I tell you to be safe, mon petite monstre? I just want you to be safe.”

“I know,” Chuuya said, his words muffled in the fabric of Paul’s dark cashmere sweater. “I- I missed you guys a lot, and I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay, mon loulou, I’m just happy you’re okay.”

“Apologies for the theatrics,” Arthur said to the three guests still looming awkwardly in the doorway. “The boys have always been a bit rowdy.”

“I understand,” Ango replied with a hint of a smile. “This is a big moment. And either way, we’re all quite used to it.”

Arthur grinned. “Would you three like to join us for dinner? It’s the least we could do to repay you for all you’ve done for Chuuya, le petit loup de mon furet chéri.”  

Dazai tugged on Oda’s sleeve, silently pleading for them to accept the offer. Oda sighed softly, the fatigue evident in his eyes. “Sure. A home-cooked meal couldn’t hurt.” 

It was after that soul-binding acceptance and an hour of resting on the couch that Dazai, Oda, and Ango landed themselves at Chuuya’s rickety kitchen table, which groaned under the weight of the meal and the collective exhaustion of its occupants. They dined on côtelettes d'agneau, haricots verts, and gratin dauphinois, but the food did little to ease the tension. Paul’s death stare bore into Oda, Ango, and Dazai, each bite feeling like a battle. 

“Okay, enough,” Chuuya finally snapped after a long, oppressive silence. “I know you guys have a lot of questions–”

“Pas de merde,” Paul hissed. “Qui sont ces étranges inconnus? Et pourquoi le monstre affamé avec des bandages continue-t-il à vous regarder?”

“Sois gentil, mon amour,” Arthur scolded gently, a soft laugh escaping his lips. He turned to Chuuya, adjusting the bulky scarf wrapped snugly around his neck. “You’re right, we do have a lot of questions. However, I think it’s only natural for us to be concerned about you. This is the first we’ve heard from you in three months, and it’s to find out you broke out of the reform school, accompanied by people we’ve never met before.”

Chuuya scowled, digging his nails into his palms. “Okay, fine. I get that’s probably really weird for you guys, but that doesn’t mean you can burn holes through them with your eyes. We’re all tired and freaked out and still recovering from our injuries–”

“You’re injured?!” Paul practically screamed. “Where? Who did this?!”

“I’d be happy to give an explanation,” Oda cut in gently, though his face remained stoic. “But Chuuya is right. The kids have been through the wringer, and they’re exhausted. The last thing we can do to help is force them to relive everything they went through.”

Oda’s words seemed to settle Paul a bit, and instead of snapping back, he turned to Arthur, squeezing his hand under the table. They had a silent conversation, communicating through eyes and subtle gestures, a way Chuuya had seen them do countless times when things were serious. Afterward, Paul turned his attention back to Oda, bowing his head slightly in a gesture of respect. “Okay. We can revisit this matter later, but when we do, I want the full truth and nothing but the truth.”

“Of course,” Oda said. 

With that, they finished dinner, and the four adults worked together to get the kitchen cleaned up. Dazai sat with Chuuya on the worn couch, his head resting on the shorter boy’s shoulder as they decompressed and unraveled in the cozy and decently decorated sanctuary. Dazai was marveling at the paintings on the wall when Chuuya startled him with a question. 

“Do you want to stay here for a little while, Shuuji?” Chuuya whispered. “At my place, I mean. Mr. Oda and Ango can stay, too. We have an extra room, and I think it’d be more comfortable than a motel. And cheaper.” 

Dazai didn’t realize he heard their conversation about living arrangements since Chuuya slept through most of the car ride. Buying a house was going to take a lot longer than Oda expected, so in the meantime, he and Ango were planning on renting a small, one-bedroom apartment as soon as possible. Ango had been searching online in the car, but nothing within their budget was available. They decided on finding a cheap motel room for the week and figuring out where to go from there. 

But now Chuuya was opening the door to his home, literally and figuratively. Sure, it wasn’t lavish or anything: a three-bedroom, one-bathroom place on the outskirts of the city, but it was Chuuya’s space, his family’s home. Dazai was extremely new to the concept of family. 

He shifted his head a bit, tucking his nose into the crook of Chuuya’s neck. He felt the wispy ends of vibrant orange curls brush against his skin. He hoped Chuuya would grow it out.

“Just until you guys find an apartment,” Chuuya added.  

Dazai nodded, and hesitantly, he asked, “Will your brother be okay with that?”

“Yeah,” Chuuya answered. “He’s not as scary as he tries to act. He’ll do anything it takes to protect people who need and deserve protecting.”

Dazai didn’t like the idea of needing protection, but he couldn’t exactly argue. “I’d have to talk to Odasaku,” he said.

Chuuya beamed, his smile a ray of light in the dim room. He wiggled away from Dazai and helped him up to his feet. Hand-in-hand, they meandered into the kitchen where the adults were cleaning and chatting.

“Hey, kids,” Oda greeted, more casually than expected, considering the circumstances. “What’s up?”

“Is everything okay?” Paul added, concern lacing his words.

Chuuya nodded. “I was wondering if they could stay over for a little while.”

“Just a couple of days,” Dazai added quickly, feeling the need to reassure them. “Until we figure out our living situation.”

Paul and Arthur had another silent conversation, and this time, Oda and Ango mirrored them, telepathically whispering or whatever it was adults in love did to communicate. Chuuya wondered if he and Dazai would be like this when they grew up.

Not that they were in love or anything. Chuuya decided to lock up that train of thought for now and instead zoned back in on his brother who seemed to have come to a conclusion with Arthur. 

“It’s not necessary,” Ango blurted. “We know how much of a burden three extra people are. Oda and I have already applied for jobs in the area, so if money is an issue–”

Paul sighed, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Stay as long as you need,” he said. “Our Chuuya is a good judge of character. Anyone on his side is on my side.”

The relief that washed over Dazai was almost overwhelming, and he clung to Chuuya’s hand a little tighter. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to relax, knowing they were safe and welcomed.

“We can discuss finances later,” Arthur said. “There are more important things on the radar, oui?”

Oda and Ango nodded with gratitude.

“Chuuya? Why don’t you and your friend start setting up the guest bedroom?” Paul said. 

Chuuya didn’t waste another second before tugging Dazai down the hallway, leaving the adults alone.

The house was finally quiet. After the tense dinner and the relief of knowing they could stay, Dazai found himself unable to sleep. The weight of everything pressed heavily on his chest, making it hard to breathe, let alone rest. He tossed and turned on the makeshift bed in the guest room, his mind racing with thoughts of the past and the uncertainty of the future.

Unable to stand it any longer, Dazai slipped out of the small futon and fluffy blankets he was given, careful not to wake Oda and Ango who shared a much larger futon across the guest room. With practiced stealth, Dazai crept down the hallway, the floorboards creaking softly under his feet. He paused outside Chuuya’s door, taking a deep breath before gently pushing it open.

Chuuya was lying on his bed, staring at the star-shaped glow-in-the-dark stickers on his ceiling. They provided no real light, but Dazai could still see the flecks of color in Chuuya’s mismatched eyes thanks to the moonlight streaming in through the window. Chuuya turned his head as Dazai entered, those entrancing eyes widening in surprise.  

“Shuuji?” Chuuya whispered, sitting up. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Dazai closed the door behind him and crossed the room, sitting on the edge of Chuuya’s bed. He didn’t say anything at first, just stared at his hands in his lap. He tried to think of a witty comment or a joke of some sort to ease the obvious worry on Chuuya’s face, but he couldn’t shake the heaviness weighing him down. 

Chuuya reached out – like he always did – and placed a hand on Dazai’s shoulder. “Hey, you can talk to me. No secrets, remember?”

Dazai grinned and took a shaky breath, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re such a dork, Chuuya.”

The redhead flicked him in the forehead. “Fuck you. I don’t care if I’m dorky ‘cause I know you’re dorkier. Now are you gonna tell me what's the matter or should I go back to sleep?”

“You weren’t sleeping,” Dazai countered. 

“I was trying to,” Chuuya huffed. He lifted the blanket and patted the space beside him. Dazai took the silent offer and climbed beside him, snuggling under the heavy comforter. Somehow, they drifted together like magnets, and Dazai found his head on Chuuya’s chest, his arm wrapped around Chuuya’s middle, enjoying the weight of Chuuya’s on his back.

“I like your dorky stickers,” Dazai whispered as his eyes flickered over the ceiling.

“If I wasn’t so comfy, I’d flick you again,” Chuuya teased. “But thanks, I guess. Do you have any other thoughts you’d like to share?”

Dazai grinned. “Promise I won’t get flicked?”

“I promise, but only because I’m tired and lazy right now.” 

Dazai sighed. He imagined melting into Chuuya and becoming one amalgamation of a being. Would he get to feel this kind of warmth all the time? That sounded like a life worth living. 

Chuuya seemed to do that a lot: make Dazai imagine a world where he enjoyed the life he lived. What used to be a foreign concept was now personified into a short ginger kid with heterochromia and a face full of freckles.  

“I’m thinking about our future,” Dazai murmured, surprising even himself with the suddenness of it. “What comes next after this, Chuuya?” 

Chuuya hummed, trying to steady the way his heart thumped against his chest, begging to be closer to the boy snuggled up against him. “Fukuzawa is working on taking down the reform school,” he answered, “but we’re gonna have to give a witness statement or something. If we want to get rid of Mori for good, you’ll have to testify in court. And then Mr. Oda will do the formal adoption stuff, and he and Ango will find a place for you guys around here, and then me and you will go to high school together.” 

“What about me and you?” Dazai asked. “What happens to us next?”

Chuuya craned his neck, trying to get a glimpse of his bandaged brunet. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, will we be able to lay like this even when the healing is done?”

“I don’t think the healing will ever just be ‘done.’” 

“You know what I mean, short stuff,” Dazai groaned. “What are we? What do you want from this thing we’ve got going on?”

Chuuya’s heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t expected this conversation, especially not tonight, but he knew it was important. And rather sooner than later, right? He took a deep breath, gathered his thoughts, and snuggled Dazai a little closer under the blanket. “Honestly, I don’t know. We’ve been through a lot together, and I care about you more than I can say, but... if you’re asking if we’re... together, like... a couple…”

“It’s fine,” Dazai cut in, retreating. “I know being with me... um, I didn’t expect you to–”

“I was gonna say,” Chuuya snapped, “that I think that’s something we need to figure out as we go. Are you ready to be romantically involved with someone after… what you went through?”

Dazai frowned. “All I know is that I like you,” he stated, “and I don’t want you to be with anyone else but me. I’m screwed up and I’m annoying, but I do like you, Chuuya. A lot. I want my first relationship to be with you, and if I’m honest, I want it to be my only relationship.”

Chuuya grinned, feeling a warmth blossoming in his chest. “I like you too, Shuuji, but I think it’s a little early for marriage proposals.”

Dazai scoffed. “Shut up, pipsqueak, I’m being nice.”

“I know,” Chuuya beamed. “I like it when you’re nice. I like it when you’re honest, too. If you think you’re ready, then yeah, I’ll be your boyfriend. We can handle what that actually looks like later on.”

“Okay.” Dazai’s frown didn’t go away, so Chuuya waited patiently for him to continue. “Chuuya, I…” His shoulders tensed, and he took a deep breath, voice trembling. “This is fucked. What I’m about to say is seriously fucking sick, but I want you to hear it. No secrets.”

“I’m listening,” Chuuya said softly. “Take your time.”

Dazai sighed. “Part of me... part of me misses Mori.” 

Chuuya’s eyes widened in shock. “What the fuck? Why?”

Dazai shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes. He hid it well in the darkness. “I hate myself for it, but... he was the closest thing I had to a family for a long time. Even if he hurt me, even if he was cruel... there were moments when he made me feel... needed. Like I was important and… like I was loved.” He sniffled. “That’s fucked up, right? I’m so fucked up.”

Chuuya’s heart ached. He couldn’t fully understand the twisted bond Dazai had with Mori, but he could see the pain and confusion in his boyfriend(!!!!)’s eyes. So Chuuya scooted closer and wrapped his arms more protectively around Dazai’s frame, thinking of anything that would help ease the pain. “It’s okay to feel that way. It doesn’t make you fucked up. I mean, you are. We both are, but you’ve been through a lot, and I think it’s natural to have complicated feelings, right?”

Dazai clung to Chuuya, his body trembling. “I don’t want to miss him. I want to move on and be happy with you and Odasaku and Ango. But sometimes, it’s like I can’t escape him. He loved me, Chuuya. He knew every sick and twisted thing about me, and he still loved me.”

Chuuya tightened his hold, resting his chin on top of Dazai’s head. “That was not love, Shuuji. He didn’t love you.”

“I don’t…” he shuddered. “I don’t know what it even means.”

“Love?” the redhead asked. 

Dazai nodded. 

Chuuya let out a shaky breath, the tension in his body slowly easing. “Then I’ll show you. Everyday. I’ll listen to you ramble about things you like, and I’ll make sure you eat three meals a day, and I’ll do everything I can to make you feel respected and equal and human. I won’t stop teasing you because it’s just too much fucking fun, but I’ll make sure you know just how much I enjoy having you around. And when the sun sets, I’ll reflect on the day and realize you did the same for me.”

“And then will we do it again?” Dazai mused.

Chuuya beamed. “We will. For as long as we want to, we will.”

Dazai laughed, and Chuuya’s smile was so genuine that it hurt. “I’m glad I found such a loyal dog.”

And of course, Chuuya flicked him. 

Fukuzawa paced the small, cluttered office, his phone pressed to his ear. The social worker had been working closely with Hirotsu and a few other officers and detectives tirelessly to track down Mori’s employees, but so far they only found grounds to arrest Ace and Fukuchi on the grounds of child abuse thanks to Akutagawa’s testimony. As soon as his family arrived at the hospital, Fukuzawa was quick to urge them into pressing charges, and then he wasted no time riding with Hirotsu to have those bastards detained. Finding the dead bodies in Dorm A was an unpleasant surprise, but it allowed them to take every other adult there into custody, as well. Hirotsu called for backup to help transport all the students (just about a hundred) to a Child Protective Services holding facility.  

Now, Fukuzawa was focused on finding the warden. 

Kouyou provided a good lead when he spoke with her back at the hospital, reporting that Mori left to retrieve his daughter, Elise, but she wasn’t able to find an address. 

He cursed under his breath as he sipped his coffee, focusing back on the phone call. 

“–n’t have her surname, so we can’t find an address, but there’s good news,” his contact on the other end said. “We got a report of a domestic disturbance involving Mori Ougai about two hours away. A woman named Shige Tsuji called the police after an altercation, and the police detained Mori at the scene. He’s being held at the local station right now.” 

Relief washed over Fukuzawa like the first rain after a drought. “I’m on my way.”

The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the quiet suburban street. Shige stood in the doorway, her fingers trembling as she twisted the edge of her apron. Her heart pounded as she stared at the sleek black car parked outside her home. Mori Ougai stepped out, his face a mask of calm determination. The very sight of him sent a chill down her spine.

“Elise!” Shige called, her voice strained. “It’s time to go, sweetheart!”

There was no answer from upstairs, just an eerie silence that seemed to stretch on forever. Shige bit her lip, glancing nervously at Mori.

“Elise,” she called again, louder this time. “Come downstairs, please.”

Mori’s eyes flickered with impatience. “She knows the arrangement, Shige. She should be ready.”

Shige forced a smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ll go check on her. Please, just wait here.”

She hurried up the stairs, her heart hammering in her chest. The hallway was dimly lit, the door to Elise’s room ajar. She pushed it open and found the room eerily empty. Panic rose within her as she scanned the room. Then she heard it—a faint, muffled sobbing coming from the closet.

“Elise?” Shige whispered, rushing to the closet. She flung open the door and found her daughter huddled in the corner, wrapped in her favorite blanket, her face streaked with tears.

“Mommy,” Elise whimpered, her eyes wide with fear. “I ch-changed my mind. I don’t wanna go with Daddy anymore.”

Shige’s heart broke at the sight. She knelt down, wrapping her arms around her daughter in her fluffy pink cocoon. “It’s okay, sweetie, you’re okay. Can you tell me why you changed your mind?”

“Daddy is mean,” the ten-year-old choked out. “He’s mean and annoying.”

Shige nodded, pushing Elise’s bangs back to kiss her forehead. “I know he is, baby, but we need this money to help Grandma.”

Her mother immediately regretted her words as soon as she said them. Elise’s sobs wracked her whole body, forcing her to curl in on herself even more. “I don’t wa-wanna go!” she cried. “I can’t, mommy, pl-please I can’t… go, I can’t go, don’t make me go–”

“I won’t, Elise, I won’t,” Shige said, quickly soothing the girl. “I won’t make you go, I promise. You can stay here with me, and I’ll protect you.”

“He hurt me, mommy,” Elise wept. “He took- he took me to a r-room and made me take off my dress–”

Before her daughter could finish, Shige heard the creak of the stairs behind her and covered Elise’s mouth with her palm, hoping she had time to hide the girl in the closet and think of a way out of this. Unfortunately, Mori was already standing in the doorway when Shige turned, his expression dark and menacing.

“What’s going on?” he demanded, his voice low and threatening. “Why isn’t Elise ready? I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

Shige took Elise into her arms, holding the girl on her hip as if she were a toddler again. “I changed my mind. She’s not going with you.”

Mori’s eyes narrowed. “I think you’re mistaken, darling. You don’t have a choice. We had a deal.”

Shige shook her head, holding Elise tighter. “I don’t care about the deal. My daughter is terrified of you, and I won’t let you hurt her again.”

“I don’t know what she told you,” Mori seethed, “but it isn’t true. I would never hurt my little girl.” The warden took a step forward, his hand reaching out to grab Elise, but Shige jumped back. “You’re making a mistake, Shige.”

“If you don’t leave,” the woman blurted, “I’m going to call the police.”

Mori’s face twisted with anger, but he hesitated. He knew the trouble he could get into if the authorities got involved was astronomical between Elise, his practices at the reform school, and Dazai, who was most likely already out reporting him. Mori knew he could win the case against Dazai’s fragile mental state, but if Shige testified against him, he’d be screwed.

Sighing, Mori took a step back, his eyes cold and calculating. “This isn’t over,” he hissed, turning on his heel and storming out of the house.

Shige sank to the floor, holding Elise tightly as tears streamed down her face. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. He’s gone.”

“You gotta call the police, mommy,” Elise urged through her tears. “He’s gonna get nii-chan, you gotta stop him.”

And even though Shige had no idea what her daughter was talking about, she still dialed the three numbers, gave her address, and put a target on the predator that was Mori Ougai.

Blue and red flashing lights arrived only a few minutes later. 

The judge, an imposing figure clad in black robes, sat at the elevated bench and struck the gavel with a resounding thud. “The court is now in session,” he declared, his voice echoing through the courtroom. “We are here today to hear the case of People v. Mori. The prosecution may begin with their opening statement.”

The prosecution team had two lawyers at their disposal: Teruko Ōkura and Louisa May Alcott. Ms. Louisa was a short woman dressed in a long skirt and matching blazer, and Ms. Teruko, who rose from her seat with purposeful determination, smoothed the creases in her dark maroon suit. 

Teruko’s gaze cut through the room like a blade, her voice a commanding force that demanded silence. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she began, her tone resolute and unwavering, “today, we embark on a journey to uncover the truth. The defendant, Mori Ougai, stands accused of heinous crimes — child abuse, child abduction, and rape in the second degree. The evidence we will present is compelling and unassailable, and the testimony you will hear will paint a clear and undeniable picture of guilt.

“We will call upon multiple witnesses, each bringing critical pieces of the puzzle. Among them is Osamu Dazai, a fifteen-year-old whose life has been irreparably harmed by the defendant's actions. His testimony will be a testament to the courage it takes to stand up against such atrocity and will highlight the gravity of the defendant’s misconduct.

“You will see documents, hear expert analyses, and witness firsthand accounts that will corroborate the charges brought against Mori Ougai. Each piece of evidence has been meticulously gathered to leave no room for doubt about the defendant’s culpability.

“However, this case is not just about the facts and the law. It is also about justice for the victims and the protection of our community. As jurors, you hold the power to ensure that the truth prevails and that no one else falls prey to such crimes.

“I urge you to listen carefully, to weigh the evidence with both your mind and your heart, and to consider the profound impact of your decision. The path to justice is clear, and it is your duty to ensure it is followed. Thank you.”

As she took her seat, a tense silence gripped the room. The judge nodded towards the defense. 

Johan Liebert, the defense lawyer, stood up, his expression one of calculated concern. His brows furrowed, and his tone was smooth but firm. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “we are here today to seek the truth and deliver justice. The prosecution will present a case that seems compelling on the surface, but I urge you to look deeper. The allegations against my client, Mori Ougai, are grave and disturbing, but they are also founded on the testimony of a young, vulnerable, and mentally ill child.

“The evidence will show that the prosecution's narrative is built on a series of misunderstandings, assumptions, and, quite frankly, the misconstrued fantasies of a troubled youth. We do not make light of the suffering that the alleged victim has endured, but we must be clear that these sufferings do not stem from the actions of my client. We will delve into the background and state of mind of the key witness, Osamu Dazai. You will hear from psychologists and other experts who will explain how his mental health issues have influenced his perception of reality and how these issues have led to the false accusations against Mr. Ougai.”

Chuuya grimaced, turning to Paul, who sat beside him, and tugged on his sleeve. “Are they allowed to do that?” he asked. “Isn’t that, like, defamation?” 

Paul shook his head, frowning. “Not if they have the evidence to prove it.”

Mr. Johan continued. “As you listen to the evidence, I ask you to remember the principle of ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ It is the prosecution's burden to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Mr. Ougai committed these crimes. We are confident that once you have heard all the evidence, you will see that this burden has not been met. I implore you to keep an open mind and to critically evaluate all the evidence presented. The decision you make will have a profound impact on Mr. Ougai’s life and the life of the alleged victim. It is your duty to ensure that this decision is based on facts, not on fear or sympathy. Thank you.”

The courtroom buzzed with an uneasy energy as Johan returned to his seat. He leaned over and whispered something to Mori, who responded with a curt nod. 

“The prosecution may call their first witness,” the judge declared, his voice breaking the tension.

Louisa nodded and stood. “I call Osamu Dazai to the stand.”

Inside the witness waiting area, a police officer nodded to Dazai, who sat on a plush couch beside Odasaku. The boy felt his heart surge up his throat, and his vision was spotty as he stood. He wasn’t allowed to hear anything related to the trial besides what questions he would be asked while on the stand, and it did very little to ease his anxiety.

The waiting room, though furnished comfortably, felt oppressive. The walls seemed to close in on him, and the ticking of the clock on the wall grew louder with every passing second. Dazai’s fingers trembled as he clutched at the fabric of the couch. He could hear faint murmurs from the courtroom, but the words were indistinguishable, leaving his imagination to fill in the blanks with worst-case scenarios.

Odasaku assured him it would be fine, his calm presence a stark contrast to Dazai’s inner turmoil. “Remember, Dazai,” Odasaku said softly, “just tell the truth. That’s all you need to do.”

Dazai forced himself to nod, though his stomach churned with a sickening mix of fear and dread. The officer leading him away offered a reassuring smile, but it was the equivalent of a bandaid over a bullet wound. 

The corridor to the courtroom felt interminable, each step echoing ominously in his ears. Dazai’s breath came in shallow, rapid bursts, and he felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. He had spoken to both his lawyers, but he much preferred Ms. Louisa May Alcott. She was a kind lady, Dazai had come to learn, who smiled softly at him as she approached, subtly blocking his view of the monster on the defendant’s side.

Louisa’s presence was a small comfort, her gentle demeanor a lifeline in the sea of his anxiety. “You’re doing great, Dazai,” she whispered as they neared the stand, her voice steady and warm.

He had spoken to both his lawyers, but he much preferred Ms. Lousia May Alcott. She was a kind lady, Dazai had come to learn, who smiled softly at him as she approached, subtly blocking his view of the monster on the defendant’s side. 

The bailiff’s voice was gravelly and monotone. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

Dazai grimaced. He was an atheist. “I do.”

“Please state your name for the record.”

He paused. They wouldn’t know, would they? Did they need to know? Dazai looked back at his lawyer for help, but she seemed confused by his confliction. He didn’t dare look at Mori. “I’m going by Osamu Dazai right now,” Dazai said, “but my name is Shuuji Tsushima.”

A collective gasp rippled through the courtroom, hanging in the air like a dense fog. Dazai really, really wanted to see the horrified expression on Mori’s face, but his lawyer was smart, and she somehow kept the man blocked with her slim shoulders and auburn blazer. She wore a smile so soft that Dazai almost forgot what a beast she was. “Your name. That seems like a perfect place to begin,” the district attorney said. “Can you tell me why you changed your name from Tsushima to Dazai?”

The boy on the stand closed his eyes. It made things easier to pretend he was alone with Chuuya, whispering secrets under a blanket of stars. “Osamu Dazai is a name Mori and I came up with after I was sold to him by my parents. He wanted to make sure I couldn’t be tracked and taken away.”

“So Mori isn’t your real parent?” the lawyer asked. 

Dazai felt like throwing up. “No.”

“How did you meet him?”

“He was my doctor. I had a lot of… self-harming tendencies when I was younger, and my father was too scared of CPS to take me to a real hospital, so Mori was the one who always stitched me up.”

Lousia nodded. “What was it like being Mori’s patient?”

Dazai took a deep breath, his voice trembling. “It was… He was nice in the beginning. Very touchy. He gave me lots of gifts. Candy at first, then stuffed animals, then fancy clothes and shoes... He said he always wanted me to look my best.”

“Did he stay that nice?”

Dazai shook his head. “No, after a while, he… he ended up, um… taking a liking to me, I guess. He presented this deal to my parents.” He squeezed his eyes a little tighter. “He said he wouldn’t charge anything for patching me up after my attempts if my parents would ignore it when I came home… wh-when I came home all… messed up.”  

“Can you elaborate on that?” the lawyer asked. 

Dazai’s blood ran cold. His voice was barely a whisper. “Do I have to?”

The judge nodded solemnly. 

Dazai bit his lip, his hands trembling in his lap. “He would… touch me. Put things in my– uh, in me. Medical supplies a-and other random shit. And he’d cut me up a lot, too. He liked to carve book quotes into my back with his scalpel and see how tiny he could make the words.”    

Louisa’s eyes softened with genuine empathy. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. How did you end up living with the doctor? Did this continue?”

“Yeah,” Dazai muttered, his voice hollow. “About a year later, Mori offered my parents a bunch of money in exchange for custody over me.”

“Was there any legal documentation?”

“No.”

“Did you want to go with Mori?”

Dazai ducked his head, maybe hoping to hide behind his bangs. His lawyer still blocked his view of the warden, but he could feel the piercing magenta eyes burning through his skin. “No, I didn’t.”

“This is my last question for you, Dazai,” the lawyer said. “I know this has been hard for you, but can you tell me… Has Mori ever forced you to have sex with him?”

Dazai felt like dying. He felt like tackling the nearest cop, ripping the gun from its holster, and shooting himself in the head. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to do this. 

“Answer the question, young man,” the judge said.

The boy’s voice was a broken whisper. “Yes,” Dazai said. “He did. A lot.”

Louisa nodded, a mix of sadness and determination in her eyes. “That’s all, Your Honor,” she said, returning to her seat.

Johan Liebert rose, his posture stern and confident. He stood in a spot that let Mori dissect Dazai with his eyes and somehow also blocked Dazai’s sight of Chuuya in the gallery. It was too calculated to be a coincidence. “Shuuji Tsushima,” Johan began, his voice smooth and mocking, “you said Mori forced you to have sex with him?”

“Yes,” Dazai replied, his voice tense.

“Was there ever a time you enjoyed it?”

Chuuya nearly jumped out of his seat and strangled that man. Thankfully, one of Dazai’s lawyers beat him to it – legally, but it was still satisfying to watch.

“Objection!” Teruko’s voice rang out. “Relevance, Your Honor. Regardless of his answer, Dazai is underage and therefore unable to give consent. This question is extremely inappropriate and absolutely disgusting.”

Johan turned to the judge, his expression one of calculated calm. “Your Honor, the question pertains to the psychological and emotional state of the witness at the time of the alleged incidents. Understanding whether there were moments of perceived enjoyment can provide context for Dazai’s relationship with Mori, which is crucial for the jury to grasp the full complexity of the situation.”

The judge paused, then nodded. “Overruled. But don’t drag this out, counselor.”

Johan smirked. “Of course not, Your Honor.” He turned back to Dazai. “So?”

Dazai really, truly wanted to die. “He made me. He made me like it. I didn’t- I didn’t want to.”

“Right, right,” the defense lawyer mocked. “You testified that your parents dumped you at Doctor Mori’s clinic every time you hurt yourself, correct?”

Dazai nodded, his jaw clenched. 

“And when you would go there, the doctor would, allegedly, assault you?”

“It wasn’t alleged,” the boy snapped. “He fucked me in the ass with an ​​otoscope when I was nine years old.”

“And yet you went back,” Johan pressed. “He did all these awful things to you, and yet, as soon as you got home, you’d cut yourself up again so you could go back and see the doctor.”

“I was trying to kill myself!” Dazai cried. “I didn’t want that stuff to happen! I hated it!”

Johan chuckled, a cruel glint in his eyes. “You know, my daughter has this silly crush on the mailman that delivers to our house every Sunday. She’s eight years old, and every Sunday, without fail, she’s outside, playing in the yard. More than once, she pretended to trip and fall so that way the mailman would help her up. And I can’t even count how many times she ran to her mother saying that the mailman asked to marry her.” He grinned at Dazai, relishing the boy’s discomfort. “You see, I think you wanted Doctor Mori’s attention. I think you made yourself into this damsel in distress so the doctor would come running to save you.”

“That’s not true,” Dazai seethed, tears of frustration welling in his eyes. “He was hurting me.”

“Yeah?” the lawyer quipped. “Then why didn’t you tell anyone? If you knew what he would, allegedly, do to you, why didn’t you stop hurting yourself?” He paused, letting the question hang in the air, savoring Dazai’s distress. “That’s all, Your Honor.” He returned to his seat, leaving Dazai trembling as he hurried off the stand and back to the witness waiting room.

Odasaku held him tightly as they waited for the trial to end. 

The next person called to the stand was the mother of Mori’s only daughter, Elise. She ushered herself to the witness stand (coming from a separate room from Dazai and Oda) with determination and self-reliance, glaring at her daughter’s father every step of the way. Chuuya was sure she would’ve spit on him if she could’ve. 

“Please state your name for the record.”

“Shige Tsuji,” the woman declared. 

“Ms. Tsuji, what is your relationship with the defendant?”

“He and I hooked up when I was eighteen and he was finishing up getting his doctorate. I ended up having his baby, but I didn’t tell him until about five years ago when I filed for bankruptcy. I couldn’t afford to take care of Elise all by myself.”

Teruko nodded. “Can you describe to me the relationship between Elise and Mori?”

Shige’s expression darkened. “He was very hands-on with her. Hugging, hand-holding, and all that. There wasn’t a week that went by when I didn’t get a call from him, begging to come see her. It was annoying, of course, but after a while, I felt very unsettled by his persistence.”

“And how did Elise act around him?”

“Elise is a very sociable and extroverted little girl. She always speaks her mind and can be very spoiled. When she first met her father, she would often demand things like snacks or new crayons or something, but as she got older, she started to physically distance herself from him. On her ninth birthday, I watched her hit Mori in the face with a doll because he wouldn’t let go of her. I made him leave immediately after.”

“It sounds to me like Elise didn’t enjoy Mori’s attention all that much,” Terukomused. “With that sort of behavior, I don’t blame her. Did you always put extra effort into stopping Mori from crossing boundaries?”

Shige nodded. “I needed the financial support, but I wasn’t neglectful. I did my best to never let Mori be alone with Elise.”

“Did it work?”

Shige frowned. “Yes, for a while.”

“What changed?” 

“Mori started to offer me more money if he could take Elise out for the day, like to the movies or the spa. I declined, of course, but he kept pressuring me. Soon it became a matter of not paying me at all if I didn’t comply. So I… I let him take Elise out for a few hours once a month. I didn’t realize the mistake I made until just a few weeks ago.”

“Tell the jury about your deal with Mori, Ms. Tsuji,” Teruko said.

“I made a deal with Mori,” she began, her voice shaking, “about custody of Elise. N-nothing official, just… between him and I. My mother’s health has been getting worse and worse, and I’m the only relative she has, so I needed money to pay for her hospital bills. Mori knew this. He said he’d cover all the expenses if I let him have Elise for a month.”

“And you accepted?”

Shige bowed her head. “Only the devil would make someone choose between her mother and her daughter. I tried to be as reasonable as possible, but it boiled down to either letting Elise go for a month or letting my mother die. I accepted because it was the only option I had.”

“What happened next?” the prosecution pushed. “What made you change your mind and call the police?”

“When Mori arrived to pick up Elise, he seemed extremely distressed. I knew he worked at a reform school, so when he was stressed or irritated, I could cut him some slack. But this… It was unnerving.” Shige sighed. “I called to Elise from downstairs and told her it was time to go,  but she didn’t answer me, so I went upstairs to check on her. We had talked about the arrangement, and she had been unnaturally quiet but otherwise didn’t refuse.

“I found Elise in the closet, wrapped in her favorite blanket. She was crying, hyperventilating, begging me not to make her go. She told me that Mori had hurt her–”

“Objection!” the defense lawyer exclaimed. “This is hearsay, your honor.”

“Let me remind the court of the ‘tender years’ exception,” Teruko scoffed. “It allows the use of an out-of-court statement by a young child in an abuse or neglect case if the time, content, and circumstances of the statement provide sufficient indications of reliability.”

“Sustained,” the judge said. “Go on, Ms. Tsuji.”

Shige nodded. “Elise told me that Mori had hurt her before on their last outing, and she couldn’t go with him or she’d get hurt again. I asked what she meant by ‘hurt’ and she said he took her to a hotel room to have a dress-up photoshoot, and then he put…” Shige choked back a sob. “H-he put something inside of her… Jesus Christ, that man is a monster! He raped my daughter!”

“Thank you for your testimony, Ms. Tsuji,” Teruko said, returning to her seat.

Johan stood up for his counter-questioning, but Chuuya zoned out, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. Shige’s testimony continued, the tension in the courtroom palpable. Eventually, Shige was escorted out, breaking down in tears as she left.

Johan Liebert stood and adjusted his tie, his face a mask of calm confidence as he addressed the courtroom. “Your Honor, the defense calls Dr. Reinhard Lang, a licensed clinical psychologist, to the stand.”

A distinguished man in his late forties, Dr. Lang walked to the witness stand with measured steps. His salt-and-pepper hair and wire-rimmed glasses lent him an air of authority. Once he was sworn in, Johan approached with an almost predatory grace.

“Dr. Lang, could you please state your credentials for the court?” Johan began.

“Of course,” Dr. Lang replied, his voice steady and professional. “I have a Ph.D. in clinical psychology from the University of Berlin. I have been practicing for over twenty years, specializing in personality disorders and trauma. I am currently employed at the Yokohama Psychiatric Institute.”

Johan nodded. “Thank you, Dr. Lang. Now, you recently conducted a psychological evaluation of the witness, Osamu Dazai, correct?”

“Yes, I did,” Dr. Lang confirmed. “I interviewed Dazai over the course of several sessions last week.”

“And what were your findings?”

Dr. Lang adjusted his glasses. “Based on my evaluation, I concluded that Dazai exhibits significant symptoms consistent with Borderline Personality Disorder, or BPD. This includes intense fear of abandonment, unstable relationships, impulsivity, self-harm, and severe mood swings.”

“Could you explain how these symptoms might affect Dazai’s testimony?” Johan asked, his tone measured.

“Individuals with BPD often struggle with a distorted self-image and have difficulty distinguishing between reality and their perceptions,” Dr. Lang explained. “They may misinterpret events or perceive them in a way that aligns with their emotional state. This can result in unreliable or exaggerated accounts of their experiences. In Dazai’s case, his history of trauma and abandonment from his biological parents before being taken in by Doctor Mori could exacerbate these tendencies, making it difficult to discern the truth from his perspective.”

“Dr. Lang, are you saying that Dazai’s testimony might be unreliable?” Johan pressed.

“In my professional opinion, Dazai’s testimony should be approached with caution,” Dr. Lang replied. “While I do not doubt that he believes in his account, the nature of his condition means that his perception of events could be significantly skewed.”

Johan nodded, a small, satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you, Dr. Lang. No further questions, Your Honor.”

Teruko rose for her cross-examination, her expression calm but determined. “Dr. Lang, you mentioned that Shuuji Tsushima’s perception of events might be skewed. Does that mean his experiences and feelings aren’t valid?”

“Not at all,” Dr. Lang replied. “His feelings and experiences are very real to him. However, the interpretation and recollection of those events may not align with objective reality.”

Teruko nodded thoughtfully. “Is it possible for someone with BPD to accurately recall traumatic events?”

“Yes, it is possible,” Dr. Lang conceded. “While their perception may be influenced by their emotional state, individuals with BPD can still accurately recall traumatic events. It is just that their interpretation of those events can be influenced by their disorder.”

“Thank you, Dr. Lang,” Teruko said. “No further questions.”

As Dr. Lang stepped down from the stand, Johan smirked at Teruko, who returned to her seat with a resolute expression. The tension in the courtroom was palpable, a silent battleground where the truth seemed just out of reach.

The judge looked at the clock and then at the attorneys. “The court will adjourn for a brief recess. We will reconvene in thirty minutes.”

As the judge banged the gavel, Chuuya let out a shaky breath. He felt Paul’s reassuring hand on his shoulder, a small anchor in the storm of his emotions. 

“Shuuji isn’t crazy,” Chuuya muttered. He didn’t know who he was saying it to, but he knew it needed to be said.

“I know, mon loulou,” Paul whispered, rubbing his younger brother’s back. “I know.”

As the courtroom reassembled after the recess, the judge called for silence. "The defense may call its next witness," he announced.

Johan Liebert stood again, his presence commanding the room. "The defense calls Fyodor Dostoyevsky to the stand."

Chuuya’s eyes widened in shock as Fyodor, a thin young man with sharp features and cold, calculating eyes, entered from a side door and made his way to the stand. Fyodor’s dark hair was neatly combed, and his expression was a mask of calm detachment. Chuuya’s heart pounded in his chest with a mixture of anger and anxiety; he hadn’t expected to see Fyodor here.

After Fyodor was sworn in, Johan approached with a measured, deliberate gait. “Mr. Dostoyevsky, could you please state your relationship to the defendant and to the witness, Osamu Dazai?”

Fyodor nodded. “I attended the same reform school as Dazai. Mori Ougai was the warden of the school at the time.”

“And how would you describe Dazai’s behavior during your time at the reform school?” Johan asked.

Fyodor tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as if recalling unpleasant memories. His accent was softer as he spoke. “Dazai was a troubled student. He didn’t work like the rest of us and instead tended to lash out at others, often resorting to threats and violence. I assumed he was just bored, but as time went on, his mental distress became clearer and clearer. There was an incident where he attacked me, convinced that I was plotting against an acquaintance of his, Chuuya Nakahara, despite the significant lack of evidence.”

Johan raised an eyebrow. “Can you elaborate on that incident?”

Paul glanced at Chuuya, who held his breath, still as a statue.

“Certainly,” Fyodor said, his voice calm and even. “YRS holds a tournament once a season, I suppose to boost morale. Dazai’s friend, Nakahara, had won against a close friend of mine, and because of this, Dazai accused me of plotting to get revenge against them. During the tournaments, he cornered me and stabbed me in the side, then dragged me by the hair to one of the sheds on campus. He injured me badly and threatened to do worse if I didn’t admit to plotting against him.”

“And were you plotting against him?” Johan asked, his tone neutral.

Fyodor shook his head. “No, I wasn’t. In fact, I was trying to be a friend to him. I knew he was troubled and needed help. I reported his behavior to Warden Mori in the hopes that he would receive the support he needed.”

Johan nodded thoughtfully. “So, you were acting in Dazai’s best interests?”

“Yes,” Fyodor replied. “I was. I acted as a sort of liaison between the students and the warden. I wanted to keep the peace and help Dazai, even if he couldn’t see that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dostoyevsky,” Johan said, a satisfied gleam in his eyes. “No further questions.”

Teruko stood for her cross-examination, her eyes sharp and focused. “Mr. Dostoyevsky, you mentioned that you acted as a liaison between the students and Mori. Can you explain what that entailed?”

Fyodor’s expression remained calm. “I would report any disturbances or issues to Warden Mori and try to mediate conflicts among the students. It was a way to maintain order and ensure that everyone was safe.”

“And did Mori ever ask you to report on specific students?” Teruko inquired.

Fyodor paused, then nodded. “Yes, he did. He wanted to make sure there were no troublemakers causing problems.”

Teruko’s eyes narrowed. “Did Dazai know you were reporting to Mori?”

“No,” Fyodor replied. “It would’ve caused him to distrust me.”

“And why’s that? Did he not want the warden to hear about what he was doing?”

Fyodor scowled. “He, like most teenagers, doesn't like it when their parents know about their leisure activities.” 

Teruko hummed. “Have you ever plotted against Dazai?”

“No,” Fyodor said smoothly. “I had no reason to.”

Teruko studied Fyodor for a moment, then nodded. “No further questions.”

As Fyodor stepped down from the stand, he glanced at Chuuya, his eyes flickering with a hint of something unreadable. Chuuya clenched his fists, his mind racing. Fyodor’s testimony was a carefully crafted web of lies sprinkled with flakes of re-molded truth, but it had been delivered with such confidence that it would be hard for anyone to disbelieve him. Damn that clever bastard.

"The prosecution may call their next witness."

Louisa stood, her expression resolute. "The prosecution calls Oda Sakunosuke to the stand."

Odasaku and his perpetually calm demeanor made their way to the stand. Chuuya felt a sense of relief wash over him as he watched his boyfriend’s guardian, his teacher who had been an anchor to both of them during their turbulent time at the reform school, take his place.

The bailiff spoke, catching everyone’s attention. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do,” Odasaku said.

“Please state your name for the record.”

“Oda Sakunosuke,” the man said. He sat with an air of quiet determination, and eventually, Louisa approached him with a respectful nod. 

"Mr. Sakunosuke, could you please state your relationship to the witness, Mr. Dazai, and the defendant, Mr. Mori?"

Oda's voice was steady and warm, a stark contrast to the coldness that had permeated the room. "I was a teacher at the reform school where Dazai was a student. Mori Ougai was the warden during that time, my boss."

Louisa nodded. "And what was your relationship with Dazai like?"

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Oda's lips. "Dazai and I formed a close bond. He was a troubled kid, but I saw potential in him. He’s unbelievably smart and very silly once you get to know him. He’s a joy to be around, I wanted to help him find a way out of the darkness he was trapped in."

Louisa's expression softened. "Can you describe any interactions you witnessed between Dazai and Mori?"

Oda's face grew solemn. "There were times when Dazai would return to class after meeting with Mori, looking pale and shaken. He would often be withdrawn, his behavior erratic. It was clear to me that something was deeply wrong."

"And did Dazai ever confide in you about his experiences with Mori?" Louisa asked gently.

Oda nodded. "Yes, he did. He told me that Mori would give him a lot of physical attention, and he found himself being coerced into enjoying it. He described feeling scared, trapped, and very frequently suicidal. It was extremely disturbing to hear from a student who was exceptionally intelligent and who I knew had a rather bubbly personality."

Louisa nodded. “Was Dazai a student serving a sentence at the reform school?”

“No,” Odasaku answered. “Much to his distaste and mine, Dazai was referred to as ‘the warden’s kid.’ He did no chores or fieldwork because the warden wouldn’t allow him to. It took a year for Dazai to even be allowed outside and into my classroom.”

“Thank you,” Louisa said. “No further questions.”

Johan stood for the cross-examination, his demeanor unflinching. "Mr. Sakunosuke, have you ever seen any markings on Dazai? Any bruises, cuts, or injuries caused by someone else?”

The teacher remained solemn. “No. Dazai always wears bandages wrapped around his entire body, including half his face.”

Johan hummed. “Right. Isn't it true that you were fired from the reform school?"

Oda's eyes remained calm, though a flicker of pain crossed his features. "Yes, that is true."

"How can we be certain you weren’t the one who groomed Dazai, and now you're trying to shift the blame onto the warden?" Johan asked, his voice cutting. “After all, Dazai seemed to spend more time with you than him. Mori wanted to keep Dazai away from you, and when you didn’t comply, he fired you. To me, it sounds like Mori was protecting his son from the unusually kind teacher preying on him.”

Oda's gaze hardened. "Your assumptions are false, sir. Mori is a kidnapper, a pedophile, an abuser, and a cold-blooded monster, and Dazai is not his son. I was fired because Mori found out I was helping Dazai realize he was being abused and trying to get him out of that prison. I would never hurt or take advantage of a child the way Mori has."

Johan's eyes narrowed. "So you're saying that you had no ulterior motives?"

“No," Oda replied firmly. "I saw him being tortured every day, and I made it  my personal mission to get him out of that facility and away from his abuser.”

“Well, congratulations,” the defense lawyer mocked. “Now you have little Dazai all to yourself. I wonder what you’ll do with him now that Mori isn’t around to stop you.”

“That’s enough, counselor,” the judge snapped.

"No further questions," Johan said, a note of frustration in his voice as he sat down.

Louisa gave Oda a grateful nod. "Thank you for your testimony, Mr. Sakunosuke."

As Oda stepped down, he caught Chuuya’s eye and gave him a reassuring smile. 

Chuuya couldn’t have been more grateful for it.

The courtroom settled back into a tense silence as the judge called the court to order once more. Louisa stood, the weight of the next witness's testimony evident in her composed demeanor. "The prosecution calls Kouyou Ozaki to the stand."

This time, it was Mori’s turn to look astonished, his jaw dropping just enough for Chuuya to laugh. 

As always, Ms. Kouyou exuded an air of quiet strength, her gaze unwavering as she was sworn in. Chuuya watched her closely, his heart pounding. He had high hopes for the woman who helped save his and his friends’ lives time and time again, no matter how disinterested in a happily ever after she seemed. 

Louisa approached Kouyou with a respectful nod. "Ms. Ozaki, could you please state your profession and your relationship to the reform school?"

Kouyou's voice was smooth and clear, resonating with a calm authority. "I am a nurse, and I was the primary physician at the reform school where Osamu Dazai was a student. I worked under Mori Ougai, both before and during his tenure as the warden.”

Unsurprisingly, Louisa's expression was one of empathy. "Can you describe the nature of your work at the reform school, particularly concerning the injuries you treated?"

Kouyou's eyes darkened with the memories. "The students often came to me with injuries from being overworked—sprains, strains, and even fractures. When the students were punished, I dealt with treating the lash-like wounds on their backs and chests. Fainting and excessive vomiting from malnutrition were also common. It was a harsh environment, and the physical toll on the children was significant."

Louisa's voice softened behind her glasses. "And what about their mental health?"

Kouyou hesitated, a pained expression crossing her features. "The warden forced me to ignore the mental health of the students, especially Dazai. He was very controlling, dictating what I could and couldn't do. I convinced myself over the years that staying quiet and enduring it all was for the best, and I admit that I tried pushing this idea onto the students, Dazai included. But I am human, and any human in my position would want to help the children. It wasn’t until that little firecracker, Chuuya Nakahara, came to the school that I realized my hands weren’t tied as tightly as I had thought."

The lawyer’s tone grew more inquisitive. "Can you elaborate on your experiences working under Mori?"

Kouyou sighed. "Mori was a manipulative and controlling figure. He often coerced me into doing things I didn't want to do. Even before he became the warden, he held a significant amount of power over me. I had no choice but to follow his orders. Mori's influence loomed over everything."

"And how did this affect your ability to care for the students?" Louisa asked.

"It made my job incredibly difficult. I could treat their physical injuries, but I couldn't address their emotional and psychological needs because I couldn’t risk going against Mori. It was selfish of me, but the heartbreak of seeing the children suffer and knowing that I couldn't do anything to truly help them came to be more painful than standing up."

"Can you tell us about your interactions with Dazai specifically?"

Kouyou's expression softened slightly. "Dazai was a bright and troubled boy. He often came to me with injuries, and it was clear that he was struggling. I knew the most about what went on within the warden’s quarters, and at first, Dazai would confide in me. But as I said, I was terrified and selfish, and I tried to convince him to lay low and wait it out. I was certain Mori would get tired of him eventually, and when that day came, I would help Dazai escape. Obviously, he ended up escaping on his own." She chuckled fondly. “That clever bastard. God bless him.”

"Thank you, Ms. Ozaki. No further questions."

Johan stood for the cross-examination. "Ms. Ozaki, isn't it true that you continued to work under Mori despite your objections to his methods?"

Kouyou met his gaze with a steely resolve. "Yes. I had no choice. Quitting would leave me jobless and make me an enemy of Mori’s. That was not an option.” 

Johan's eyes narrowed. "So you're saying you were complicit in Mori's actions?"

"I did what I could to mitigate the harm," Kouyou replied firmly. "I stayed to provide some form of care and support to the students. Leaving would have done more harm than good for everyone."

Johan's voice was sharp. "And yet, you claim you were powerless to stop him?"

“​​Mori held all the power. I did what I could within the constraints I was given."

"No further questions," Johan scoffed.

As Kouyou stepped down, she cast a sympathetic glance at Chuuya. He smiled at her.

The courtroom murmurs quieted as the judge called for order once again. "The defense calls Mori Ougai to the stand."

The room held its collective breath as Mori stood, a figure of composed elegance. His every move seemed calculated to project an image of calm and control. He approached the stand with an air of confidence, his gaze flickering briefly to Chuuya, who sat tense and pale, his hands clenched in his lap.

Mori was sworn in, his expression serene. Johan approached him, his demeanor respectful yet probing. "Mr. Mori, can you please state your occupation and your relationship to the defendant?

Mori's voice was smooth, almost soothing, as he replied, "I am the warden of the Yokohama Reform School. Osamu is a boy I have cared for deeply. I consider him my son."

Johan nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Can you explain to the court how you came to take Dazai under your care?"

Mori's expression softened, a touch of sorrow creeping into his voice. "Osamu came to me as an orphan. He crawled into my clinic, beaten up and abandoned like a stray cat, and begged me to kill him. He was desperate and alone, and like any compassionate person, I couldn't turn him away. I offered to treat him, both physically and mentally, and before I knew it, he was attached to my hip. He never gave me his real name, so I had no way of officially adopting him, but nobody ever came to get him, and there were no missing person reports with his face on them. I decided to treat him as my own, providing him with all the care and support I could. When I was accepted for the position of warden at YRS, where I’d have to live on campus, I brought Osamu with me per his own request."

Johan's voice was even, but there was an edge to his questions. "And did you ever harm Dazai in any way?"

Mori's gaze flickered to the jury, his eyes filled with what seemed like genuine affection. "Absolutely not. I could never hurt my little boy. Everything I did was to protect him and give him a better life."

Johan paused, letting the weight of Mori's words settle over the courtroom. "So you claim that Dazai approached you, and you took him in out of the goodness of your heart?"

Mori nodded, his expression earnest. "Yes. He was depressed and suicidal, and he needed help. I did everything in my power to provide that help for him. I wanted to give him a safe place to call home."

"And what about the accusations from the other witnesses? The injuries, the psychological trauma?"

Mori's face took on a pained look as if the very suggestion wounded him. "I can only speak to what I know. I never saw any signs of the kind of abuse that is being suggested. Osamu had his struggles, but I did my best to help him overcome them. Any injuries he had were from his own clumsiness, and either I or Ms. Kouyou treated them to the best of our ability. I can say his mental health declined when I hired that teacher, Oda Sakunosuke, but again, I did everything I could.”

Chuuya’s knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the bench, his eyes wide with disbelief. Each word from Mori felt like a dagger, twisting deeper into the wounds that should’ve been left to heal.

Johan nodded thoughtfully, turning to address the jury. "No further questions."

Teruko stood, her eyes fierce with determination. "Mr. Mori, you claim to have cared for Shuuji like a son. Can you explain why there were no legal documents regarding his custody?"

Mori's gaze was steady, his tone regretful. "As I said, Osamu never gave me his real name. Without that, I had no way of legally adopting him. I did what I could with the information I was given."

Teruko’s eyes narrowed. "And yet, you managed to secure significant financial support from his parents, as other witnesses have testified. How do you reconcile that?"

Mori's expression didn't falter. "I never asked for money. It was offered to me, and I used it to provide for Osamu and the other children at the reform school."

“So you did know his parents?” Teruko said. “You were in contact with them?”

Mori frowned. “Not until after I had brought him to the reform school,” he lied. “They didn’t want custody of him, anyway. I may not have properly testified about Osamu’s mental health, so let me explain. He has drastic suicidal tendencies. He is manipulative, sadistic, masochistic, anti-social, and without empathy. I have calmed him down from several hallucinations, delusions, and nightmares. I have watched him turn on the stove and leave his hand on it until his flesh melts into the metal. I have scooped him out of rivers, pulled him back off of ledges of buildings, and pried countless knives from his blood-soaked palms. Osamu is by no means easy to take care of. I love him, but I do not blame his biological parents for not wanting him.”

If it weren’t for Paul holding his hand, Chuuya would’ve pried Mori’s teeth out with his bare hands and shoved them into his eye sockets, watching as the man screamed until his throat bled.

“If all of this is true,” Teruko went on, “then surely you must’ve put Shuuji into therapy, right? Was he ever taken to a psychiatric hospital? Or any hospital, for that matter?”

Mori glared at her. “I am a doctor,” he reminded the lawyer. “I can treat him just fine.”

“So you never got Shuuji any external support?”  

“No,” the warden scoffed. “It would’ve been unnecessary.”

“Sure,” Teruko said, her voice sharp and lethal. “Though I’ll remind you that refusing to take a child, who is clearly suffering from extreme mental health issues, to any hospital, be it psychiatric or traditional, is a form of child abuse. Have you always been this controlling over Shuuji Tsushima?”

“I wouldn’t consider it controlling,” Mori replied, easing his furious tone into something more calculated. It was clear the mention of Dazai’s real name was getting to him. Teruko fought the urge to smirk.  

“The testimonies of Ms. Tsuji, Mr. Sakunosuke, and Ms. Ozaki say otherwise. They all described your behavior as controlling and manipulative, especially when it comes to your so-called children."

The composure on Mori's face began to crack. "I had to maintain order at the reform school. It was a difficult environment, and sometimes strict measures were necessary. But everything I did was for the welfare of the children."

Teruko’s gaze bore into him, unrelenting. "Including forcing Ms. Ozaki to ignore the mental health of the students?"

"I made the decisions I thought were best. Mental health is important, but physical health was the immediate concern. I did what I could with the resources available."

“So you say,” the lawyer snapped. “And what about Shuuji? When he finally escaped, he was found in terrible condition, both physically and mentally.” She retrieved the file from the stack of evidence on the prosecution’s table. “It says here that Shuuji Tsushima, admitted by Yukichi Fukuzawa, was treated at a hospital 120 miles from the reform school. He had four fractured ribs, a fractured wrist, anal tearing, and bruises on his hips, thighs, upper arms, and wrists, not to mention the extensive malnutrition. The doctors theorized that a fifteen-year-old boy could only reach and maintain such a state if he had been purposefully underfed for years.” Teruko dropped the file back down on the desk, scowling at Mori as she crossed her arms over her chest. “How do you explain that, Mr. Warden?" 

Mori looked directly at Chuuya, his eyes an inferno of rage. "He is suicidal, insane, and desperate for attention.”

“Answer the question,” Terko sneered. “Did you or did you not physically and sexually abuse Shuuji Tsushima?”

Silence washed over the courtroom. Mori broke his threatening gaze from the bandaged boy behind the prosecution desk and turned his focus back on the woman in front of him. “No, I did not,” the warden testified. “Any injuries he has were self-inflicted to draw attention to himself. He is a deeply troubled, masochistic, mentally ill child. I did everything I could to protect him, but Osamu Dazai’s greatest enemy will always be himself."

Teruko turned to the judge. "No further questions, Your Honor."

The courtroom was thick with tension as the jury filed back into the room, their expressions a mix of grim determination and solemnity. The judge rapped his gavel, bringing the room to a hush.

"Has the jury reached a verdict?" he asked, his voice echoing in the silence.

Dazai, finally allowed into the courtroom, stood between Odasaku and Chuuya. Ango was present, as were Paul and Arthur, and Fukuzawa and his kids. 

The foreman of the jury, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, stood and cleared her throat. "We have, Your Honor."

The judge nodded. "How do you find?"

The foreman glanced at the paper in her hand, then looked up, her voice steady and clear. "We, the jury, find the defendant, Mori Ougai, guilty of all charges: child abuse, child abduction, and rape in the second degree."

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Dazai's breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst from his chest. A mix of emotions surged through him — panic, relief, disbelief, and more unnameable, unmovable things that made him want to shout, cry, vomit, laugh, and cheer all at the same time. He gripped the edge of the bench, his knuckles white, tears springing to his eyes.

Mori's composed facade finally cracked. His eyes widened in shock, his mouth opening and closing as if he wanted to say something, but no words came out. He turned to Dazai, his gaze pleading, but Dazai couldn't meet his eyes.

The judge's gavel came down again, a sound of finality. "Mori Ougai, you have been found guilty. Sentencing will be scheduled for a later date. Court is adjourned."

As the room erupted into murmurs, Dazai felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Oda, his calm presence a steady anchor in the storm of emotions. Oda's eyes were warm and reassuring, a silent promise that everything would be okay.

He stuck by his word, didn’t he?

Dazai's knees felt weak as he stood, the weight of the trial finally lifting off his shoulders. He looked around, his vision blurry with tears. Louisa and Teruko were packing up their things, a look of satisfaction on their faces, though with varying degrees of intensity. Johan Liebert, the defense lawyer, was speaking urgently to Mori, whose shoulders were slumped in defeat.

Dazai took a shaky breath, feeling the panic recede, replaced by a growing sense of relief. Chuuya clung to his side, arms wrapped around his torso, and when Dazai looked down, he saw that the little firecracker was crying tears of joy.

Dazai grinned and pulled him even closer. 

“I’m so, so proud of you,” Chuuya whispered. “So fucking proud.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. This was how it felt to win, huh? He watched Mori get escorted out in cuffs and felt a few splinters get plucked from his trembling heart. He could get used to a feeling like this.   

*-*-*-*

One afternoon, as Chuuya was packing up his books after a long day of classes, his phone buzzed with a new message.

mackerel❤️‍🩹: r u done with school yet? ಠ╭╮ಠ

Chuuya smiled, quickly typing a reply.

sluggy💪🏼: yeah just finished. wsp?

mackerel❤️‍🩹: bored

mackerel❤️‍🩹: ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ

sluggy💪🏼: 15 mins fucker, i’ll be there

mackerel❤️‍🩹: (~￣³￣)~

True to his word, Chuuya arrived at the apartment fifteen minutes later, his backpack slung over one shoulder. Dazai greeted him at the door, a rare smile on his face.

“Hey, Chuuya,” Dazai said, stepping aside to let him in. “Did you have fun at puppy playcare?”

“I’ll kill you, shitbag,” Chuuya snapped half-heartedly, dropping his backpack by the door. “But anyway, school was the same old bullshit, different day. Shirase got his ass handed to him by one of the third years. I stepped in to stop him from getting killed, but Yuan still made a shit ton of cash by selling her recording of it.”

“Woooooowww,” Dazai drawled, sarcasm obnoxiously obvious. “Sounds like I missed one hell of a day.”

“Quit your whining,” Chuuya scoffed. “You’ll get to go to school soon enough, and you’ll love it. You’re way smarter than all those other fuckfaces, so you’ll have a blast humbling them. I’ve got a few names of people I need you to humble, actually.”

“Why not just beat them up?” Dazai inquired, grinning like a madman. 

“Last time I beat up a snobby smart kid,” Chuuya recalled, “I got sent to a reform school.”

Dazai couldn’t help but laugh, even when Chuuya made his way over to him for a hug. 

They spent the rest of the afternoon together, talking about everything and nothing. Chuuya told Dazai about his classes, sharing stories about his friends and teachers. Dazai listened, the familiar rhythm of Chuuya’s voice soothing his frayed nerves. In return, Dazai shared some of the books he’d been reading, and they debated the merits of various literary characters. One thing they did agree on without any argument was how Percy Jackson would absolutely mop the floor with Harry Potter. 

“Hey,” Dazai said after a few hours had gone by. The sun had just begun to dip below the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow through the windows of Dazai’s living room. The apartment was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the wooden floorboards and the distant hum of traffic, since both Odasaku and Ango were working. The boys had migrated to the couch, sprawled out and flipping through manga books, when Dazai popped his question. 

“Yeah?” Chuuya replied just as lazily and languidly as Dazai had begun. 

“Wanna take me to the mall?”

Though he hated to admit it, Chuuya’s heart did skip a beat. Still, he did his best to play it cool. “Uh, sure, what for?”

Dazai smirked. “Oh, y’know. A date.”

Oh, this sly son of a bitch. “A date?” Chuuya echoed. 

“Uh-huh. I need to get some decorations for my new room, and I thought I’d drag you along. I know how much you love showing me around and explaining things. C’mon, it’ll be so romantic! We can even share headphones like they did in Strobe Edge!”

“You watched Strobe Edge?!” Chuuya cackled.

Dazai threw his shoe at him, absolutely fuming with embarrassment. “Don’t ruin my moment, Chibi! I’m trying to be cute!”

“Okay, okay,” Chuuya laughed. “Sure, let’s go on a date to the mall.”

The next day, Chuuya found himself pacing around his room, trying to decide what to wear. It wasn’t like this was a lavish date or anything, but he still wanted to look decent. After settling on a casual outfit — a dark red hoodie and his favorite pair of jeans — he grabbed his jacket and headed out the door. 

He arrived at the mall a bit early and waited by the entrance, checking his phone every few minutes. When he finally saw Dazai approaching, he couldn’t help but smile. He was dressed simply in a black turtleneck and jeans but still managed to look effortlessly handsome.

“Hey,” Dazai beamed, his eyes lighting up when he saw Chuuya. 

Chuuya did his best to look nonchalant. He echoed the greeting and took Dazai’s hand in his own. “Ready to go shopping?”

Dazai nodded with an adorable sense of determination, and Chuuya led him inside. 

The mall bustled with the usual weekend crowd, a mixture of families, teenagers, and shoppers moving in a dance of consumerism. Chuuya and Dazai made their way through the throngs of people, their palms pressed together the whole time. Neither of them were all that fond of public places and large crowds, but the energy in the mall was nice enough to keep them focused on the good feelings. 

“Okay, first stop,” Chuuya declared, pulling Dazai towards a clothing store. “You need some new clothes. Those bandages might be your signature look, but you can’t wear them forever. Let’s see if we can get you some thin athletic sleeves or something.”

Dazai smirked, a playful glint in his eye. “Are you saying you want to see more of my impeccable fashion sense?”

Chuuya rolled his eyes but smiled. “Yeah, sure, if that’s what you want to call it.”

Inside the store, they rifled through racks of clothes, picking out shirts, jeans, and hoodies. Dazai tried on various outfits, and Chuuya offered his honest opinions. They laughed and joked, the weight of their troubles momentarily lifted.

After choosing a few new outfits, they headed to a home decor store. Dazai looked around, slightly overwhelmed by the sheer number of options. “So, what should I get for my room?”

Chuuya thought for a moment. “Well, what do you want your space to feel like? Cozy? Minimalist? Full of personality?”

Dazai shrugged. “I guess... something that feels like mine. Something that makes me feel at home.”

Chuuya nodded, understanding. “Okay, let’s start with some basics. Maybe a few posters, a lamp, some shelves. We can always add more stuff later.”

They picked out a few items, Dazai slowly becoming more enthusiastic about personalizing his space. With bags in hand, they left the store and made their way to a local bakery Chuuya had been raving about.

The bakery was quaint and smelled of freshly baked bread and pastries. As they entered, Chuuya noticed two familiar faces sitting at a table near the window. Kunikida and Atsushi, two kids from his school, were deep in conversation.

“Do you know those kids?” Dazai asked, following Chuuya’s gaze.

“Yeah,” Chuuya said, a bit surprised. “I’ve seen them around at school, but we haven’t really talked much. I’m kinda surprised they’re here.” He turned to Dazai, a small smile playing on his lips. “Wanna go talk to them? It’d be good for you to make some friends before you enroll.”

Dazai huffed, feeling a bit embarrassed. “Yeah, sure, but you better be a good dog and start barking if they start asking me weird questions.”

Chuuya flicked Dazai’s forehead – a Pavlov-like habit he developed – before tugging Dazai over to the semi-strangers’ table. “Hey, Kunikida, Atsushi. Mind if we join you?”

Kunikida looked up, his expression wary. He knew Chuuya’s reputation as a troublemaker and seemed unsure about the sudden approach. Atsushi, on the other hand, smiled warmly. “Sure, go ahead!”

Chuuya and Dazai sat down, and after a few moments of awkward silence, they started chatting. Kunikida was cautious at first, but as the conversation flowed, he began to relax. They talked about school, hobbies, and their favorite places in the city. Dazai’s charm and quick wit helped to break the ice, and soon they were all laughing and joking like old friends.

As they finished their pastries, Kunikida pulled out his phone. “This was fun. We should hang out again sometime. Can I get your numbers?”

They exchanged contact information, and Chuuya felt a sense of accomplishment. It was nice to make new friends and see Dazai getting along with others.

They took the bus back home, the sun beginning to set and casting a golden hue over the city. When they reached their stop, Chuuya walked Dazai to his apartment.

“Thanks for today,” Dazai said, his voice soft. “It was... really nice.”

Chuuya smiled. “Yeah, it was. We should do it again sometime.”

As they stood there, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves on the nearby trees, Dazai took a step closer to Chuuya. “Chuuya, I...”

Before he could finish his sentence, Dazai leaned in, his lips brushing against Chuuya’s in a soft, tentative kiss. Chuuya’s eyes widened in surprise, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into the kiss, feeling a warmth spread through him.

When they finally pulled apart, Dazai’s cheeks were tinged with a faint blush. “Goodnight, Chuuya. Text me when you get home, okay?”

Chuuya smiled, his heart pounding in his chest. “Yeah. Goodnight, Shuuji.”