Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chuuya Nakahara had always known the art of killing. It wasn’t just about ending a life; it was a symphony of precision and finesse, an exhibition of skill that left no room for error. He moved through the world like a shadow, invisible yet always present. Each murder was a masterpiece, a macabre ballet choreographed with an expertise that left the authorities bewildered and the public in terror.

Tonight, Chuuya returned to his apartment, his mind already anticipating the next kill. He slipped through the door, the familiar creak barely registering as he entered his sanctuary. Everything was as he left it—meticulously clean, orderly. Except for one thing. A faint, almost imperceptible scent of someone else. Someone had been here.

Chuuya’s eyes narrowed, every muscle tensing as he scanned the room. He moved silently, checking for signs of intrusion. A shadow shifted behind the curtains. Without hesitation, Chuuya lunged, knife in hand, ready to confront the intruder. But as he pulled back the fabric, he was met with an unexpected sight.

Dazai Osamu stood there, a bemused smile playing on his lips. His eyes, dark and intense, met Chuuya’s with an almost affectionate gleam.

“Hello, Chuuya,” Dazai said, his voice smooth and calm, as if he were greeting an old friend.

Chuuya’s grip on the knife tightened. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my apartment?”

Dazai raised his hands in mock surrender, his smile never wavering. “Just a fan, really. I’ve been following your work for some time now.”

Chuuya’s eyes flicked over Dazai, assessing him. He was tall, lean, with an air of nonchalance that suggested he wasn’t afraid. “A fan?” Chuuya repeated, incredulous. “You break into my apartment and call yourself a fan?”

Dazai chuckled softly. “You could say I’m more than just a fan. I’m an admirer of your… artistry. The way you kill, Chuuya—it’s breathtaking.”

The words hung in the air, thick with an unsettling admiration that sent a shiver down Chuuya’s spine. He had encountered many kinds of people in his line of work, but this was new. This man was not afraid. He was… enchanted.

“How long have you been stalking me?” Chuuya demanded, stepping closer, the knife still poised.

“Long enough,” Dazai replied, his eyes never leaving Chuuya’s. “Long enough to appreciate the beauty in what you do.”

Chuuya’s mind raced. This man had seen him kill, had followed him, watched him. Yet he hadn’t reported him to the authorities. Why?

“What do you want?” Chuuya asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Dazai’s smile widened. “To watch. To learn. To be close to you. Your work—it speaks to me in a way nothing else ever has.”

Chuuya took a step back, the intensity of Dazai’s gaze unsettling him. This wasn’t fear. This was an obsession. The realisation hit him like a punch to the gut. Dazai wasn’t here to turn him in. He was here because he was drawn to the violence, to the darkness that Chuuya embodied.

“You need help,” Chuuya said, his voice a mix of disgust and fascination.

“Perhaps,” Dazai admitted, his tone almost playful. “But don’t we all, in one way or another?”

Chuuya lowered the knife, but didn’t let his guard down. “If you think I’m going to let you follow me around, you’re mistaken.”

Dazai shrugged, a gesture so casual it was almost infuriating. “I don’t need your permission. I’ll be around, watching, whether you like it or not. I will be lurking in the shadows.”

For a moment, silence filled the room, the tension palpable. Then Chuuya did something he hadn’t expected. He laughed. It was a short, bitter laugh, but it broke the spell of the moment.

“You’re crazy,” he said, shaking his head.

Dazai’s smile softened, and for the first time, there was a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. “Maybe. But I know what I want. And right now, that’s you.”

Chuuya didn’t know what to make of this man, this stalker who had turned his life upside down in a matter of minutes. But one thing was certain—Dazai was dangerous, not because he was a threat to Chuuya’s life, but because he understood Chuuya’s darkness. And that, more than anything, was terrifying.

“Fine,” Chuuya said finally, his voice hardening. “But if you get in my way, I won’t hesitate to kill you.”

Dazai nodded, his expression serious. “Understood.”

As Chuuya turned away, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his life had just become infinitely more complicated. The hunter had become the hunted, and in this twisted dance of death and obsession, there were no rules.

In the weeks that followed, Chuuya found himself constantly aware of Dazai’s presence. He would catch glimpses of him in the shadows, always watching, always smiling that infuriating smile. It was unnerving at first, but gradually, Chuuya began to adapt. He became more careful, more precise. He knew that Dazai was there, observing his every move, and in a strange way, it pushed him to be even better.

One night, Chuuya found himself in a dark alley, a fresh victim at his feet. He wiped the blood from his knife with practised ease, his thoughts already moving to his next target. But as he turned to leave, he felt a presence behind him.

“Dazai,” Chuuya said without looking back. “How long are you planning to follow me?”

“As long as it takes,” Dazai replied, stepping into the dim light. “You never cease to amaze me, Chuuya.”

Chuuya sheathed his knife, turning to face Dazai. “And what if I decide I’ve had enough of you?”

Dazai’s smile widened, but there was a flicker of something darker in his eyes. “Then I suppose our dance would come to an end. But I don’t think you’re ready to give that up just yet.”

Chuuya stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “What do you really want, Dazai? This isn’t normal. You’re not normal.”

Dazai’s expression softened, and for a moment, he looked almost vulnerable. “I’ve spent my whole life searching for something, Chuuya. Something to make me feel alive. And then I found you. Your darkness… it’s beautiful. It calls to me.”

Chuuya studied him, trying to understand the depth of his obsession. He could see the truth in Dazai’s eyes, the twisted admiration that bordered on love. It was disturbing, yet there was a part of Chuuya that couldn’t help but be intrigued.

“You’re insane,” Chuuya said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Maybe,” Dazai admitted. “But I’ve never felt more certain about anything in my life.”

Chuuya turned away, unable to meet Dazai’s gaze any longer. The intensity of his feelings was overwhelming, and it scared him. He was used to being in control, to being the one who instilled fear. But Dazai… Dazai was different.

“Just stay out of my way,” Chuuya said finally, his voice cold and distant.

Dazai nodded, his smile returning. “As you wish. But I’ll always be here, watching. Waiting. If you ever need me, I will be there for support.”

As Chuuya walked away, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of relief. Despite everything, there was a part of him that was glad Dazai was there. It was a dangerous game they were playing, but for the first time in his life, Chuuya felt like he wasn’t alone in the darkness.

Months passed, and Chuuya’s killing sprees continued with Dazai always a step behind, watching with rapt attention. They never spoke of it, but an unspoken understanding had formed between them. Chuuya would kill, and Dazai would observe, captivated by the beauty of his violence.

One evening, Chuuya returned to his apartment, exhausted from a particularly challenging kill. He stepped into his living room and froze. Dazai was there, sitting on his couch, a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other.

“Welcome home,” Dazai said with a smile. “I thought we could celebrate.”

Chuuya frowned, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Celebrate what?”

Dazai poured the wine, handing a glass to Chuuya. “Your latest masterpiece. It was exquisite.”

Chuuya took the glass, studying Dazai with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. “Why are you really here, Dazai?”

Dazai’s smile faded slightly, and he looked down at his glass. “Because I can’t stay away. Because I need to be close to you. Your presence captivates me. It allures me. I always need to be around you.”

Chuuya sighed, sinking into the chair opposite Dazai. “You’re a strange man, Dazai. But, you do intrigue me.”

“Maybe,” Dazai said softly. “But you’re a strange man too, Chuuya. And in a world full of ordinary people, we found each other. Fate has a way in our life, looks like fate made us met. Almost, like if it was our destiny to meet eachother, to coexist with eachother.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of their unspoken connection hanging in the air. Despite the danger, despite the darkness that surrounded them, there was a bond between them that neither could deny.

As they drank their wine, Chuuya couldn’t help but feel a flicker of something he hadn’t felt in a long time. It wasn’t quite happiness, but it was close. For the first time, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t alone in his darkness. And that, more than anything, was the most unexpected and (un)pleasant surprise of all.

Chapter Text

The night air was heavy, soaked with the sharp scent of rain that pounded relentlessly against the apartment windows. It was as if the world outside had been swallowed up by a storm—a ceaseless, drumming barrage that blurred the city into a mass of wet, swirling shadows. Chuuya Nakahara stepped inside, his boots making a soft click as they hit the polished hardwood floor, a sound that seemed far too loud in the silence of his apartment. The weight of his coat, still damp from the downpour, hung heavy on his shoulders, the dark fabric a stark contrast against the warmth of the room. He paused for a moment, his back to the door, and let out a quiet, long sigh, as though trying to shake off the fatigue of the day.

It was just another evening, another late return to his sanctuary. Or so he thought.

But something was wrong. A strange, unfamiliar stillness hung in the air, oppressive and unsettling. The usual comforts of home—the lingering scent of his cologne, the faint trace of gunpowder from older missions, the warmth of the dim lighting—felt like a distant memory in the presence of an unspoken threat.

Chuuya’s body went still, his eyes narrowing as his senses screamed at him that something was out of place. His fingers twitched instinctively toward the comforting weight of his gun, but he stopped himself. He didn’t need to rush into action just yet. His heart beat steady in his chest, but there was something else—a quiet alarm echoing at the edges of his mind, a sensation of being watched, of being expected.

The silence pressed in on him, thick and stifling, as he moved through the apartment. His gaze swept across the familiar room—nothing seemed amiss at first. His hand brushed along the back of the sofa, the cool leather smooth under his fingers. But as he rounded the corner into the living room, his heart skipped a beat.

There, sprawled across the hardwood floor, was a body.

A man—bloodied, broken, and barely clinging to life.

Chuuya froze, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene before him. The man’s body was contorted in grotesque angles, limbs bent in ways that defied logic, a bloody pool spreading beneath him. His clothes were tattered, stained with crimson, and his face was battered, a mess of cuts and bruises. But despite the horrific state of the body, there was still movement—a faint, shallow rise and fall of the chest, like a broken machine struggling to keep going. The man was still alive, but barely.

Chuuya’s breath caught for a moment, his pulse quickening as his eyes scanned the room. It didn’t take long for him to recognise the telltale signs, the familiar bloodstains, the darkening pool spreading across the floor like an ominous stain. This wasn’t some random attack. This was deliberate. A message.

A twisted message from one person.

Dazai.

Chuuya let out a soft, bitter laugh under his breath. The man was always watching, always lurking in the shadows, pulling the strings of a game that never seemed to end. It had been months—years, even—since they first crossed paths, but Dazai’s presence never truly left. He was always there, just out of reach, always with a twisted grin, always playing some new game. And this? This was another gift from the shadows, another of Dazai’s sickening reminders of who was really in control.

“Dazai, you bastard…” Chuuya muttered, his voice low and filled with something between annoyance and fascination. He hadn’t expected anything less, but he still couldn’t quite rid himself of the strange pull that Dazai’s actions had on him. It was an intricate web, a dance of violence and games, and Chuuya was too tangled in it to break free.

His gaze flicked down to the body on the floor once more. The man was twitching now, a feeble, broken sound escaping his lips. His face, still half-buried in the blood-soaked wood, twisted in pain as his fingers clawed uselessly at the floor. Chuuya watched him for a long moment, his eyes impassive, as if watching a dying insect struggle in its final moments.

“Who… did this…” the man rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper, the words hoarse, as if every breath was a struggle for survival. His eyes, though half-lidded and barely focused, flickered toward Chuuya in a mix of fear and desperation.

Chuuya knelt down beside him slowly, his boots scraping the wood, his body moving with an eerie, deliberate calm. His gaze met the man’s eyes for a long moment, unblinking. The air in the room thickened, the weight of what was about to happen hanging in the silence.

“You really don’t know, do you?” Chuuya’s voice was low, almost mocking, as if the question were beneath him. “The bastard who did this… is always watching. Always.”

The man’s breathing hitched, his body jerking slightly as if his mind couldn’t comprehend the words. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Chuuya didn’t wait for him. With a swift, almost casual motion, Chuuya stood up, his gaze moving to the counter where a small, crumpled piece of paper lay, stained with blood. The edges of the paper were jagged, like it had been carelessly discarded in a rush, but Chuuya recognised the handwriting immediately. His stomach twisted as he reached for it, unfolding it with a sense of inevitability.

The note was simple, almost cruel in its simplicity. A few short lines, written in a precise, almost playful hand that was unmistakable.

"Happy Anniversary, Chuuya.
I thought you’d appreciate a little reminder… of how perfectly we fit.
Isn’t it curious, how we always end up here?"

-Dazai :)

Chuuya's lips curled into a twisted grin as he stared at the words. The blood that had stained the paper only added to the sickening irony of it all. Anniversary. What anniversary was Dazai referring to? The anniversary of their first encounter? The anniversary of their first clash? Or was it something far more sinister—an anniversary of pain, of games played, of lives destroyed? The thought made Chuuya’s chest tighten, but he didn’t allow himself to dwell on it for long. He didn’t have time to analyse Dazai’s sick sense of humour. He was beyond that now.

Instead, his gaze shifted back to the man on the floor. The sound of the man’s shallow, desperate breaths broke the stillness again, the rasping noise almost unbearable in the quiet of the apartment. Chuuya’s gaze softened for a brief moment, but only for a moment. His hand moved to his side, slipping effortlessly around the familiar hilt of his knife. The blade gleamed in the low light, its cold steel catching the faintest reflection of the overhead light.

Chuuya knelt once more, his eyes locking with the man’s for the final time.

“Help you?” Chuuya repeated, his voice cold, distant. “You should’ve thought about that before you became a part of his little… message.”

Without another word, Chuuya’s knife sliced through the air. It was a clean, efficient strike—too quick for the man to even react. A burst of blood sprayed across the floor, and the man’s body went limp in an instant. His breath, which had been shallow and struggling, ceased entirely, leaving the room in a suffocating silence.

Chuuya stood over him for a moment longer, his eyes scanning the still, lifeless body. There was no regret in him—only a cold detachment. This was the price of being part of Dazai’s twisted games. And Chuuya? He had long ago accepted the cost.

The quiet that followed was thick, almost suffocating. Then, as if the silence had been waiting for the right moment, Chuuya’s phone buzzed from the counter.

A message.

His gaze flicked to the device, his heart skipping a beat. He could already guess who it was from. He walked slowly toward the counter, the sound of his footsteps eerily soft against the hardwood. His hand hovered over the phone, almost as though he were hesitating for a moment. But then, with a resigned sigh, he picked it up, his eyes scanning the screen.

"I know you’re busy, but thought you might want to know I’ve left you a gift. I’ll be in touch soon."

Chuuya’s grip tightened around the phone, his fingers curling against the cold screen. The words were so casual, so deceptively simple. But there was something about them that made Chuuya’s blood run cold.

A gift.

From Dazai.

Chuuya let out a low, dark chuckle, the sound hollow in the otherwise silent apartment. This was far from over. Dazai had set his piece in motion, and now it was up to Chuuya to respond in kind.

With a final glance toward the lifeless body, Chuuya slipped the phone into his pocket, his eyes dark with a promise.

"I’ll be waiting," he murmured to no one in particular.

And somewhere in the dark, Dazai was watching, waiting for the game to continue.