022

The quiet rustle of paper echoed in the infirmary room, broken only by the occasional creak of a leather seat as you turned a page.

The book in your hand was a recent gift from Elise. Something she picked up based on the cover alone.

You didn’t mind. You weren’t picky.

The story, drenched in morally grey characters and obsessive love masked by poetry and violence, fit well with the atmosphere of the Mafia.

You read it for the romance. You were interested in the way it dissected people for a loved ones. How it turned affection into possession.

You were curious.

Halfway through a chapter titled "If You Leave, I'll Bury Us Both", the door opened with a soft knock that wasn’t really waiting for permission.

Chuuya stepped inside.

He looked… pleased.

Too pleased.

You didn't move, only flicked your eyes upward.

He looked like he was about to burst with some exciting news.

You blinked at him slowly. His emotions were always painfully easy to read.

"Yo," he said, stopping beside your bed.

You said nothing, simply stared.

"You look like shit, but hey, at least you’re alive," Chuuya said with a lopsided grin.

You tilted your head slightly in silent inquiry.

Chuuya chuckled under his breath, leaning one elbow onto the bed's edge. His grin sharpened.

"You're gonna love this," he said, voice practically vibrating with poorly hidden satisfaction.

He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder toward the door, like gesturing toward some invisible prize.

"Dazai’s back."

You stared blankly.

Chuuya's grin widened, canines flashing. "Captured. He's rotting in the underground cells right now. Guess workin’ for the Detective Agency didn’t make him invincible after all, huh?"

You blinked again, slowly.

Captured.

You let the information settle, distantly curious.

Chuuya crossed his arms, cocking a brow at your lack of reaction.

"If you’ve got anything to say to him, better do it quick. I'm killin' the bastard after this," he said casually.

But the glint in his eye wasn’t murder, it was something far more complex.

History. Rivalry. Vindication. Maybe even pain.

“I don’t think you will,” you said plainly.

Chuuya scoffed. “Tch. Never know.”

He turned to leave, but paused when you reached toward the side table and handed him the novel you’d been reading.

He took it, eyebrows raising. “This for me?”

You gave a faint nod. “Finished it. It's Elise's. She has...interesting taste.”

Chuuya flipped it over and read the title aloud, expression slowly turning into a mixture of horror and disbelief.

“Devotion in a Glass Coffin: When He Loves You So Much, He Preserves You”

You leaned back into the pillows, watching his reaction with blank indifference.

Chuuya sweatdropped. “What kind of romance novels are you into?”

“It's... fascinating. This kind of love.” You muttered.

After a second, he grunted and tucked the book under his arm.

"Whatever. Hurry up, yeah? You’re still on break but..." he jabbed a thumb back again.

"Don't miss your chance. Dazai might be worm food by tomorrow."

You slid off the bed, the stiff soreness in your limbs barely registering as you grabbed your coat.

There was no rush in your movements.

After all, you had nothing better to do.

And seeing Dazai... might be slightly interesting.

Just slightly.

The way down to the underground cells was a familiar one.

Dimly lit halls, the faint metallic tang of blood in the air, and the distant hum of the Port Mafia's heartbeat thrumming through the concrete walls.

You descended steadily, hands tucked into your coat pockets, footsteps soft but unhurried.

Halfway down the corridor, you caught sight of a figure storming up from the deeper levels.

Akutagawa.

His black coat flared behind him like an extension of his anger, each step sharp and vicious. His face was twisted into a scowl, jaw tight, eyes dark and volatile.

He looked ready to tear someone, or something apart.

You stopped, letting him approach. He slowed when he saw you, nodding his head once out of politeness, though his body still radiated tension like a drawn wire.

You didn't need to ask.

You could guess exactly what had happened.

Still, you spoke, voice low, even, indifferent.

"Don't take his words seriously."

Akutagawa stiffened, a flicker of shame or rage, or both, crossing his face.

"I understand," he said, voice clipped and brittle.

You knew he didn't.

You also knew it didn't matter.

Akutagawa would either break apart or grow stronger. It wasn't your job to coddle him.

Without another word, you passed him, continuing down the stone staircase as his stormy presence retreated behind you.

The deeper you went, the colder it became.

The underground cells were a place forgotten by warmth.

You stopped before a heavy iron door, keying it open without ceremony.

Inside, slumped against the far wall, wrists shackled by thick iron cuffs bolted to the stone, was Dazai Osamu.

His head lolled forward, messy brown hair falling into his face, his breathing soft and slow.

Sleeping.

Or pretending to.

You stepped inside, the door closing behind you with a heavy clang.

The air was stale and still.

You approached without hesitation, boots clicking quietly against the stone floor.

The sound would be familiar to him. You knew it.

He had always been attuned to your presence, like a hound recognizing its master.

Stopping a foot away, you studied him.

He'd changed.

Grown.

Filled out his frame more, lost some of the hollowness that once clung to him like a second skin.

His clothes were different, too. Lighter colors, less oppressive fabric.

As if the light of the Agency had burned some of the darkness away from his surface.

But not entirely.

Never entirely.

Your eyes lingered on the bruises marring his skin. One on his cheekbone, faint red blooming across pale flesh. Likely Akutagawa’s parting gift.

You reached out without thinking, the tips of your fingers brushing through his hair.

Soft.

Still the same texture as you remembered.

You tucked a stray lock behind his ear, brushing knuckles against the side of his face as you did.

Warm.

Alive.

Your fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary.

Perhaps you should have felt something.

Anger. Pity. Affection.

But all you felt was nothing. But somehow, it's pleasant.

Maybe it wasn't nothingness you felt. Maybe it was...a sense of ease. Calmness.

Dazai didn't move.

But you felt it. The almost imperceptible tension under his skin. The way his breathing caught, just slightly.

He was awake.

Of course he was.

You dropped your hand.

"You’ve gotten soft," you said, voice barely above a murmur, as if commenting on the weather.

You turned your back to him, facing the iron door once more.

"You won’t last long here if you stay that way."

You walked to the door, fingers brushing the lock, but paused.

Without turning around, you spoke again, tone distant, final.

"You’re still the same selfish child, Dazai."

You stepped out, the heavy door clanging shut behind you.

Leaving him alone with the bruises on his skin and the faint, fading warmth of your touch.