Chapter Text
Spellbinding ( adjective )
: holding one’s attention :
: Describes something so captivating it holds your attention completely .
In a room devoid of decorations, a broken window allowed cold air to roam and cling to every crevice. As the bed creaked from exertion due to the writhing of an individual, bated with dull breaths, the moon gleamed almost sinisterly.
A man, merely 22, lay sickly on his bed without sheets. His head lolled to the side as he let out sharp gasps; a man with the name Dazai Osamu.
The face of Dazai was one of bitter acceptance as he whined pitifully, his teeth clenching and eyes squeezed shut. And almost in response, the cracks scattered across his skin spread, as if mocking him in his sorry state when faced with death.
The pitiful man had always thought, the joy that’ll take me before I die, will be monumental.
But now, gaping for low breaths and gazing at a white wall, he feels a bit crazed. His body’s colder than usual, and he can feel his fingertips tingle with something akin to pain. Not that he’d be able to tell, his body has grown far too numb for that.
His usually active brain feels like useless mush, making his moves sluggish. As he takes his sight away from the disgustingly white wall, why hadn’t he painted it?—and gazes upwards, he finds himself looking at the ticking clock that's always loomed over him.
Mocking him.
The hands of the clock ticked rhythmically. Although he’d seen the sight a hundred times before, it somehow felt different this time around.
Terrifying.
05:01.
05:00.
He can feel himself coughing, and can see the blood splurge on his bed. But still, nothing. He feels nothing. No sorrow, no pain, no anger.
Nothing.
Letting out a weak laugh, Dazai sorrowfully wished that in his inner turmoil, the room was anything but silent. The tranquility of a white room reminds him of an asylum. And he’d fought tooth and nail to leave the insanity allegations behind him.
Not that his appearance helped his case much.
04:48.
Distantly, he notes that maybe if he’d tried just a little harder to connect himself with others, he wouldn’t be encased in cold silence. But instead, surrounded by love and the soft, pitiful cries of his peers.
But he’s never been the one to wallow in the past before, so the thought disappears as quickly as it came as he begins to smile.
It’s a disgusting thing, certainly, with all the blood covering his lips, and his pale body sheen with sweat and the aftereffect, musk.
Disgusting. He thinks.
Disgusting. The clock agrees as it ticks further, faster than before. Or maybe that was just his imagination, the clock is significantly lower, but time’s slowed.
03:28.
He wonders what his mother would say if she saw him now, what face she’d make as she stared upon her ‘cursed’ son, the one doomed from birth. Would Father have to restrain her again, stop her from lashing out? From breaking everything in sight as she cried? Would he be forced to demobilize her, to stop her from cradling his soul, the flimsy object, in her hand before she’d crush it once more? On instinct, he cast a glance over to the cracked object. One half of a damaged moon, twitching helplessly almost to match him.
How angry his mother had been to see such a thing come out of him.
The way his body glowed and rose, displaying his soul for all to see, the silence as everyone paused. How sorrow had overtaken his mother's face, and how his father had merely shaken his head, as if expecting such a thing. How mother had cried, screamed, and begged—
Absent-mindedly, he begins to whisper the words he’d never forget. “ Not my— “
“ —Osamu ! No! How could my sweet boy bear such a curse?”
— his head throbbed, causing him to cringe once more. The sight of his mother clutching the object in her hand as tears streamed down her face, how, in a moment of insanity, she’d thrown the frail object—one half of a moon, his soul. The screams of the doctors and then—
Black. Black, black, black as cracks began to form on his skin, copying the now damaged moon, the pain of it all. A whine leaves his mouth; how much more will this world curse him? For what purpose did they make him remember such a thing? What reason did they have for cursing him in such a way?
He wheezed, “ I’m sorry— “
“ —ma’am .” Pain, throbbing, his head hurts, his body hurts. “But there’s nothing we can do, fate has decided.”
A loud sob, one filled with obvious distress. “But why? Why my son, why mine? ”
The plush covers of the hospital trolling, his little whines. “He’s in critical condition; at this rate, he won’t make it!”
“Medics, medics!”
“My son, not my son, I’m sorry, I’m so, so, sorry. You shouldn’t have been born! ”
“Please, ma’am, let go.”
“I can’t, please, I won’t be able to—! I can’t allow myself to be absent as my baby grows, please, please.”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry—“
A dry laugh interrupts it all as Dazai throws his head against his wall. The sound is manic, a promise of something demonic, but that could also just be the rasp of his throat and the blood clogging. Once the laughing starts, it’s almost impossible to stop it. The man goes on and on as the clock ticks down.
He’s not sure when he stops laughing, and when sorrow replaces insanity. He’s not sure if the heat trailing down his Face is blood or tears, but it works all the same.
The sight he makes is surely nothing short of lonely, but the man finds he doesn’t care. The only ones who’re capable of judging him now are the gods.
01:00.
He wonders if heaven and hell really exist, if gods truly roamed the earth decades ago. If they’d shaped the world into what it was now.
Sick, lonely.
He finds himself wanting to meet one, to study it, take in the differences. Caress the ancient being, and if possible, hold it in the palm of his hand. Be able to move it like a puppet as he—a mere spectator—gazed as much as he liked. Watching the expressions dance across the celestial’s face, or lack thereof.
This sick curiosity is a result of a project months earlier, one centered around a specific God; one of everlasting beauty, the definition of such. The strongest god, rumored to be one who’d led the wars against the demon race, and bestowed victory among his men. He remembers being enraptured with the being, despite there being no visual representation of it, unlike the other gods.
00:30.
He found himself without breath when met with his tales, a bow and arrow with the shape of the moon raining down on his enemies as he let out battle cries.
00:20.
The god of both the sun and the moon. The god that shaped the earth.
00:10.
The god with an unknown name, but even so, with tales that are recognized all around the world. Dazai still remembers the phrase that's been associated with the god when at its best, the saying that’d made him freeze in his seat when he’d first heard it.
00:05.
00:04.
00:03.
00:02.
00:01.
“O acquaintances, grantors of dark disgrace, do not wake me again.” The words came broken and quiet, yet they still carried enough strength to make Dazai’s world shake.
00:00.
Or perhaps that was just—
A scream interrupted him, loud, pained, manic.
It’d taken Dazai longer than expected to learn that it was his own. The cracks increased, rising in quantity and shape. They started from his toes and slowly raised to his head, causing bits of his skin to drop.
Desperately, he felt his hand raise to grasp for something—anything—this pain was like nothing he’d ever felt before. It grew, it clawed at his inner walls, forcing tears to build in his eyes and fall.
And Dazai, in his last moments, heard himself utter words he’d never even thought before.
“Help me…it hurts.”
And before the man felt himself whiter away, a figure loomed over his line of sight, slowly cupping his hand in its. It opened its mouth slowly, and soon, a light mist flew out. It was hot, unlike the rest of him. And for the first time in years, Dazai felt warm.
“Sleep.”
And with that feeling, Dazai blacked out.
“Osamu, Osamu. My sweet child.” The woman’s soft voice rang, accompanied by a light chuckle. “When you’re born, I shall cherish you.”
“For you are my God, my everything.”
“My Osamu.”
“My Osamu.”
“Osamu!”
With a low gasp, Dazai rose, throat sore and his body drenched in sweat. Cupping his neck in anguish, he swallowed dryly only to cringe. When turning his gaze over to his desk to grab a drink of water, the man paused.
Around him, his room was a mess, cracks were scattered on his walls, and his furniture had been tossed over. Silently, Dazai thanked the stars he wasn’t assigned a roommate.
“Fuck,” he cursed, “my head is killing me.” He gritted, cupping his aching head. Ruffling his hair, Dazai winced when a new wave of pain lanced his skull. Slowly, the man brought his hand down to set it on his lap.
For a while, he sat staring at his hand. Mind slowed, inspecting the body part before he gasped. “What the hell…” he muttered, looking down at his hand free of crack marks.
“They…” He muttered. “The due date was soon… so why—?” He asked no one, inspecting his hand closely. His nails were still intact, the skin perfectly clear with no signs of breakage…but that wasn’t possible. His time had been set from birth, the day when he’d finally break into two.
So why?
Why…
“SHIT!” He yelled, looking up at the sky only to see…nothing. The clock was gone, almost as if it were never there. Looming over him and ticking down every second, reminding him of his fate.
But now there was nothing but empty air.
“Last night,” he remembers, “last night it hit zero.” He opened and closed his palms. “But, I’m still here? Why?” He brings his nails to his mouth, slowly biting on one in anguish. And soon, that tick turned into him rolling frantically in his bed while trying to think. Eventually, he stops, spotting something sitting at the edge of his bed, glowing. He squints his eyes, moving to get a better look.
“Eh?” He says, because something isn't something, it's someone sitting at the edge of his bed, glowing a bright yellow . The figure has its back turned to him, and that only gives him an angle of literal wings sprouting from its head. Its hair is the color of fire and is as wavy as such. It beams and glimmers softly as it scatters. Dazai can almost feel the heat emanating from it now.
He’s so enchanted by the sight, he doesn’t notice himself beginning to reach out to touch the creature. As he begins the action, the creature turns, as if sensing him. And if the back of it was interesting, the front is captivating. Dazai gasps as those eyes settle on him; one a dark brown and the other a vast sea blue. But they share one thing in common: they simmer with something akin to constellations. Even as they narrow in distrust, they burn bright. Its lashes seem to be flower petals. He wonders what flower they belong to, cradling the creature's glare to make it seem almost soft. On some bits of skin on its face, marks of red orbs dance before swimming to a different place, as if alive.
And then, the figure opens its mouth. But Dazai can only focus on how razor-sharp its teeth are.
“You should not do that, human.” The being said suddenly, eyes still closed, causing Dazai to flinch at the sound.
“You—huh?” He gaped, not expecting the creature at the end of his bed to be able to use the human language. Scratch that, to be able to speak in general.
“You could die, the heat radiating off my body could kill you with a single touch,” he threatens, but Dazai doesn’t find himself scared in the slightest.
The only thought running through his mind is—
“Interesting…” He mutters, and the creature’s eyebrows furrow and his eyes widen before narrowing even further.
“Watch it, human,” he growls, and as if to back up his claim, the wings on his head flutter.
“Are those butterfly wings?” He asks, ignoring the threat once again.
The being’s face twists with disgust before confusion paints it over. “You are a weird human. I threatened you twice, yet you haven't flinched at all.”
Dazai only hums as he gets closer; the creature does not stop him, only gazes at him with even more confusion. Slowly, his hand reaches out again to cup the wings. The creature flinches, but Dazai’s arm does not burn off like he claimed it would.
“I didn’t burn,” he says, caressing the wing. It’s no doubt a butterfly wing, the structure’s the same. But a question still stands: how’d he get it embedded in his head? It’s completely attached.
The creature scoffs. “That is because I allowed you to touch, human.” The man sounds confident, but the way his hands fiddle with an unknown object tells Dazai all he needs to know. Looking down at his hand, Dazai freezes at what’s cupped between his fingertips.
“Hey…” He blinks. Staring down at his soul the creature decided he wanted to play with. Normally, he doesn’t care for the flimsy object. But…it no longer looks flimsy. It’s without scars and gleams almost healthily. “That’s mine…?”
“You don’t sound so sure,” the man snorts, dipping his thumb into one of the holes of the moon. Dazai shivers, not used to anyone caressing his soul with such kindness.
He gulps. “I’m sure,” he reaches down to grip the object, but he pauses halfway once he realizes the man has no clothes on. And as if a switch flipped, Dazai realized that there was a creature in his apartment not documented anywhere in the Learn your Mythical Creature’s catalog, said creature has his soul in its hand, and is also naked.
Huh, definitely a male, is what crosses his mind before he screams (the sound is very manly, what’re you talking about!?), backing into the wall at the top of his bed. At the sound, the creature startles, looking around frantically. “What, what is it?” He asks, panicked.
Dazai only points at him as he backs away further. “What the hell are you doing in my dorm? Actually, what the hell are you?!” He looks down. “Damnit, you don’t even have any clothes on!”
And like a flip is switched for the creature too, his brows furrowed, and the calm exterior he had before leaves as he yells. “HAH? You only realized that now? Are you an idiot, human?” He growls, the red marks on his face expanding and his—extremely large, now that Dazai thinks about it—wings flutter again, this time more violently.
“I’m not an idiot!” Dazai pouts before realizing he’d gotten sidetracked. “Quit ignoring my question. What are you? What’re you doing here? Don’t tell me you’re some pervert, mythical looking to prey on some young, beautiful human blood!” He covers his body with his arms as if he were an innocent virgin.
The creature’s eyebrows tick, and Dazai finds himself thinking anger looks good on him. “Pervert? You dare call me that? You summoned me, idiot human!” He growls, standing up to face Dazai, and the man has to fight the urge to cover his eyes when met with a very toned body. “I am a God, for Pete’s sake!”
“As if I’d summon—” Dazai pauses. “You, excuse me?” He asks again, wondering if he heard him wrong. “You’re a what?”
“A God,” the man says smugly.
Dazai frowns. “Bullshit.” He says. “God’s left this earth billions of years ago.”
The being scoffs. “As if. That is just something you humans made up, as always.” He scowls. “You humans never understand our sacrifices and assume that we are the ones who abandoned you instead of yourselves. You were always such selfish creatures.”
Opening his mouth to counter, Dazai pauses. It’d make sense if that were the case. After rumors of gods abandoning the earth, there were much less temples devoted to those gods. It wouldn’t be impossible if that were the reason Gods didn’t roam anymore.
And—
“We died and fought for your people, yet you decided to abandon us and our legacies.” The god clenches his fist, his face downturned.
—he seems quite emotional about this topic. And even with his expert level of magic, Dazai’s not sure he can take a god. Best to leave it alone.
He gulps. “So…I summoned you?” He asks, and the God raises a brow. “How?”