Thread by @asvndre

a life into pieces. It is not a defensive weapon. It is not a piece of steel that normal people would think of as something made to /protect/ yourself.

It’s a weapon that makes even hardened detectives shiver in sympathy, because that thing was made for /gutting/.)

RANPO:

You’re not in a good position here, buddy. You were found, soaked in blood, only a few /blocks/ away from a fresh murder scene. Murders that, might I add, were caused with a /blade/— and this one was found on you. You’re looking at the /death sentence/, so you better start

cooperating and answering our questions.

(Dazai raises a dark eyebrow. There’s a slit in it, and marks of what might’ve been a healed-over eyebrow piercing.)

DAZAI: Have you asked me any questions? I hadn’t realized.

(Kensuke bristles. He’s always been a /protective/ man, and

the way Dazai is /looking/ at his partner, the twin dimple piercings in his cheeks moving slightly like he’s running his tongue over the inside of his mouth is /eerie/. Especially when combined with the fact that it’s almost /positive/ this man violently murdered two young girls

just /hours/ before—

And doesn’t seem /bothered/ about it. Doesn’t seem remorseful or even /care/ that he’s been caught or even trying to /pretend/ to care.

Criminals that /want/ to be caught are inherently the most dangerous ones, because they will do /anything/ to catch the

attention of the police.

And Kensuke finds himself /certain/—

This man /wanted/ to be caught. He wanted to be here. He wanted to be arrested and to be brought into this room to be questioned.

Thé interrogation rooms always feels like a trap in the detectives favor— it’s

designed to keep dangerous people /contained/, with metal tables bolted to the floor, rings designed to hold cuffed hands and feet, audio and visual surveillance and a door that only opens with specialized keycard access— but since this /murderer/ so obviously wants to be here…

Kensuke can’t help but feel that his own trap is being turned /against/ him, and it makes him /nervous/. Makes him want to bare his teeth and /hiss/.)

KENSUKE: What were you doing in the Kanagawa ward two hours ago?

DAZAI: Running a few errands.

RANPO: What kind of errands?

(Dazai shrugs, and the fact that he can be so /blithe/ while cuffed to a table in front of two detectives is /infuriating/.)

DAZAI: Nothing that concerns you.

(Everything about him concerns them now.

Kensuke shoves the ID’s over, forcibly tapping at them until Dazai /deigns/

to look down at them.

Kensuke has only met a serial killer /once/ in his life, and it was when he was still a police trainee. Didn’t even talk to the guy, just saw him through the thick plexi-glass as his supervisor walked his class through basic interrogation practices.

But

if he ever had to relate the sheer /apathy/ in Dazai’s eyes to someone else, it would be to Tsutomu Miyazaki, all those years ago.)

KENSUKE: Do you know these girls?

DAZAI: Not in any real sense of the word.

KENSUKE: So why did you target them? Why did you /kill/ them? You

just see a couple of young girls walking around and what? Need to prove yourself a big shot, /strong/ Alpha or something? You get off on things like that? Why’d you do it?

DAZAI: Why shouldn’t I? No one could /stop/ me.

KENSUKE: We stopped you.

(Dazai leans back further in

his chair, seemingly unbothered that his hands are cuffed tightly to the table. If anything, he looks /bored/ and like he’s craving a cigarette.

He looks over at Kensuke for the first time in a while—not because he seems /frightened/ by him, but rather because he seems to know

that the real danger in the room is /not/ the tall, broad, /aggressive/ Alpha—

But rather, the smaller, quieter one in the back.)

DAZAI: Did you stop me?

(It is these words that will haunt Kensuke for /years/ to come. Words he will mull over, /obsess/ over for the rest of

his life, when the Kanagawa police department is practically /gutted/ for failure to keep one of their most dangerous inmates /inside/, when one of his /children/ goes missing, when it’s /finally/ and glaringly obvious that Kensuke never stopped Dazai Osamu—

He just played

right into his hands.)

RANPO: Is that a confession?

DAZAI: If you still need a confession, I would be sorely disappointed in the state of the Kanagawa police. Do I need to do your job for you as well as making it /disgustingly/ easy?

(Ranpo leans forward then, his sharp

green eyes not captured on film.)

RANPO: Why /did/ you make it so easy? You didn’t cover your tracks well; you didn’t even dispose of the /murder weapon/. You were literally found /loitering/ outside of a convenience store. You didn’t struggle, and while you’re kind of being a

/dick/ about answering questions, you’re not denying anything. You were given the option to ask for a lawyer, you are entitled /not/ to answer any of our questions— it’s almost like you /want/ us to find you guilty. So my question is /why/?

(Dazai looks up then, and even though

no one ever /told/ him where the cameras were in the room, he somehow manages to find the one facing him and look directly into it.

His smile is slow, full of sharp teeth and hidden intentions.)

DAZAI: We all have our secrets, don’t we?

——— +

ONE YEAR LATER.

Chuuya /tries/ to eat his toast, he really does. It's not that he doesn't /want/ to-- he does, he's hungry for breakfast, and Agatha made it for /him/, so he doesn't want to be rude by /not/ eating it-- it's just...

It's burnt. Not even a /little/ burnt, but /really/ burnt. So

burnt that it feels like /charcoal/ in his mouth and he can't even taste the egg or butter that's on it. All he can taste is /burnt/.

He doesn't understand /why/ Agatha insists on cooking all his meals for him, because he loves cooking. He's not a /chef/ by any means, but he

knows his way around the kitchen and /enjoys/ making new, delicious dishes.

Agatha, on the other hand, self-admittedly hates cooking, and she's, quite frankly, /terrible/ at it, so he's not sure /why/ she basically runs him out of the kitchen whenever she catches him in there.

She says it's because that's /her/ part of the house, but Chuuya honestly doesn't get it.

It's also not worth arguing about because if he hurts her feelings she /cries/ and goes running to his mother to complain about his behavior, and his mother will tell his step-father. He'll

spent the next /two weeks/ arguing back and forth with his parents on how he could treat his fiance so /terribly/ and /Agatha/ will be giving him the cold shoulder, and eventually he'll just give in because it's not /worth/ it.

It's just fucking toast. It's really not worth

starting an argument over, even though his food expenses bill has shot through the /roof/ because he's gotten into eating breakfast secretly at a cafe.

At this point in his life, Chuuya is more concerned about making /others/ happy so that they leave him in /peace/. He's

/exhausted/.

His literary agent has been /hounding/ him for a new manuscript, his family has been pushing him into taking up a /real/ career in his step-fathers insurance company, his /fiance/ is constantly wondering when their engagement is going to evolve into a /real/

marriage. He hasn't written in /months/ because his mind feels strung out, which only adds to the general exhaustion and it's just--

He needs a break. He needs something /new/, needs something /exciting/, needs something to remind him why he /stays/ instead of just disappearing

from his life and starting fresh somewhere new.

The only /uncomplicated/ thing in his life right now is his best friend, Oda-- who's texting him right now and telling him to turn on the news.

Intrigued, Chuuya turns the TV onto the news channel--

And the first thing he sees is

the inside of the courtroom, one that's become semi-familiar to him over the last year, because it's become /popular/ over social medias.

On screen, the focus of the camera is on Dazai Osamu, Japan's most famous and most /controversial/ murderer. He's wearing prison-orange, his

hands cuffed to his belt. He has a /muzzle/ on, one of those ones that seem more for /show/ than anything else, because of the wedge between his jaws that keep his teeth proudly displayed but unable to snap shut, thin lines of saliva covering his chin.

He doesn't look ashamed or

bothered or /irritated/ in the slightest. In fact, he almost looks like this is /fun/ for him, watching the proceedings from his chair. Like this is all just a circus made to entertain /him/, a show he's seen a dozen times before.

And he /has/, because he's been brought /back/

to this court for the /eighth/ time since his initial arrest, all for the same general reason.

The headline scrolling along the bottom of the screen says:

tw / mentions of sexual assault

DAZAI OSAMU, SERIAL KILLER, MURDERS FELLOW INMATE, A SERIAL RAPIST NAMED OKITA NORI.

Chuuya winces because he /recognizes/ that name. The brutality of those assasults are /still/ talked about to this day,months after his capture. He can't imagine what the surviving victims must be feeling right now.

Naturally, the press isn't allowed to publicize the proceedings

of the court, but they have a reporter outside on the courthouse steps reporting on the story:

"Hello. Today I am reporting from Kanagawa Courthouse, where serial killer Dazai Osamu is receiving yet /another/ life sentence. This brings his total sentencing up to four hundred and

thirty seven years. This is his /ninth/ confirmed victim from his stay in prison, all of whom are convicted rapists and serial pedophiles. This brings his total victim count to a confirmed /ten/ people, with an unknown amount of previous victims. Estimates run all the way up into

hundreds, but no confirmation has been made.

"Reports say that prosecutors are still pushing for the death penalty, but the defendants are citing a clear case of mental illness. It is likely that today's hearing will not decide if Dazai Osamu will be put to death for his crimes.

From the information we were able to gather, today's hearing is sentencing for this crime, and Dazai will be returned to Kanagawa Prison later today.

"However, this brings up a controversial point. By now, it is obvious that this man will /not/ stop killing, even in the supposed

safety of prison. Some prosecutors are claiming that the state is using him to /assassinate/ criminals whose lives are viewed as worthless and dangerous.

"Even with this man in prison, it is clear that /no/ potential victim of his is safe."

Agatha comes into the living room

then, her morning cup of tea rattling loudly on it's plate. When she sees what's on TV, her nose wrinkles in disgust. "Why are you watching that /beast/? It's much too early to be witnessing someone so depraved and /disgusting/. It's going to ruin my appetite."

Chuuya chews his

food thoughtfully because /truthfully/…

He’s in the middle of things. Convictions for crimes like rape and pedophilia are already abysmally low, partly because of the societal stigma that faces those victims. A lot of victims are too /ashamed/ or frightened to come forward

about their assault, especially when how /difficult/ it is for the victim to go through with the case and all the trauma it brings to /constantly/ be talking about it.

Add onto that the fact that even convicted pedophiles and rapists often spend /no/ prison time at /all/.

The ones that /do/ get a sentencing often spend /half/ of it, and /most/ of them get out on parole in a few years.

Put all that together, and it’s perfectly reasonable why many victims never speak up and never get justice for the crimes committed against them.

And, truth be

told, he thinks Dazai is doing the world a /favor/.

Is murder okay? No, absolutely not.

But is the low sentencing for rapists and pedophiles okay? Also no, absolutely not.

And in some way, he feels like a /serial killer/ is stepping in and providing justice to victims that

the government has historically refused to provide.

So yeah, the man /is/ a feral beast, the government is a /fool/ to keep putting him in the same quarters as his preferred victims, but Chuuya can’t say he’s not doing /some/ good. Hell, he’d probably give this man a /salute/ on

his way to the death penalty.

It’s also /interesting/ because it’s not like Dazai could ever be called a /moral/ person— that chance went out the window when his /second/ victim in prison was found with his /throat ripped out/ by those lethal fangs of his, which is why he’s now

/required/ to wear a muzzle when anyone is /unarmed/ around him— but the murders /are/ justifiable, in a sick, twisted, /extreme/ way. He always plays it off like he murdered them for /fun/, and not because of /justice/—

But his victims, at least the ones in prison, are

always the same type.

It really makes Chuuya wonder /why/. Why murder those two girls— who are presumed to be /innocent/ so far— and then spend his entire prison career brutally taking out the /worst/ criminals? It doesn’t make sense.

On screen, there’s a flurry of movement.

The courthouse doors open up, and out comes a /squad/ of policeman, all of them armed and alert. It’s hard to tell if they’re protecting the people or protecting the /lone/ person in the middle of their ranks from the people outside.

“There he is now,” the reporter mutters,

taking a step closer only to be pushed back by an oncoming policeman. She pushes her mic out into the crowd, shouting to be heard over the din, “Dazai Osamu, do you have any words?”

The /look/ he gives her /screams/ of how absolutely idiotic he finds the question— he /still/ has

the muzzle on which is /not/ conducive to speaking— but he /does/ raise his handcuffed hands in answer. He spreads the first two fingers of his hand in a V, bringing it to his mouth and sticking out his tongue in a /clearly/ obscene gesture, winking into the camera just in /case/

the crowd doesn’t /get/ it—

The picture freezes there, a picture of Dazai making a /suggestive/ gesture into the camera, the tattoos of a twisted dragon eating its own tail on his cheek and the tattooed /hands/ around his throat clearly visible.

The next sip of Agatha’s tea

is clearly disgusted. “What a disgusting beast,” she mutters, “He should have his teeth filed.”

Chuuya winces, his own fangs aching in sympathy. Sure, the gesture isn’t /appropriate/ by any means, especially considering the man he recently murdered, but even he would say that

filing down his fangs is a /drastic/ measure.

Filing includes anesthetizing the patient and using a /drill/ to file down the fangs until they’re too dull and flat to be harmful. A quick, relatively painless procedure that often leads to /lifelong/ dental issues.

Alpha’s have

increased nerve endings in their teeth, an evolutionary left over. When their fangs are filed down, even if done properly and /humanely/, it leaves their teeth horribly sensitive with the nerves exposed. It can lead to dietary problems, jaw problems, a possible need for

/reconstruction/ in order for the Alpha to live a normal life again.

It’s a drastic measure, and one that’s considered /inhumane/ to do without the express desire of the patient or as a medical necessity.

And the entire /world/ knows— Dazai’s Osamu’s teeth work /very/ well.

“It’d probably be better if they just stopped putting him in the same areas as the people he obviously likes to target,” Chuuya counters, shrugging. “It’s almost like he’s being set up. Everyone knows he’ll keep killing if he keeps being given the chance.”

“Honestly, they should

just put him down,” Agatha sighs, reaching over and forcibly changing the channel on the TV, “Rabid dogs should be put down before they taint the bloodline.”

That’s…a /harsh/ way to look at it, one that completely removes Dazai’s humanity and puts him on the scale of something

/lesser/.

Like an animal. Not that he thinks Dazai is particularly /humane/ and a good person worthy of kindness and consideration—

But he /is/ still a person.

(And Chuuya will, eventually, be /very/ protective of his ‘bloodline’.)

Besides, the death penalty in Japan is

a /controversial/ topic, especially in regards to someone who is so /clearly/ not mentally stable. With how hard that humanity rights groups have been pushing the government to change the /outdated/ execution method of /hanging/, it’s incredibly hard to sentence a criminal to

death row these days.

“Anyways,” Agatha pushes on before he can come up with a response to that, “enough of that nonsense. Have you talked to your father recently?”

“Kensuke?” Chuuya asks, frowning. “Not recently.”

Well, not since their scheduled bi-weekly lunch meeting. That

went well, no arguments and barely any tension, and he’s actually looking forward to their /next/ lunch, because Kensuke said he was going to show him to this lovely new restaurant he found—

“/No/, silly. Your /real/ father.”

Honestly, Agatha’s penchant for insinuating that

his biological father—Kensuke— isn’t his /real/ father while his step-father— Verlaine— /is/, is irritating.

He understands /why/— Agatha comes from a semi-broken home, just like he does, and he doesn’t blame her for the resentment she holds toward her biological father— but

sometimes it feels like he’s being /pushed/ into hating Kensuke for what he did all those years ago.

And he doesn’t /want/ to hate him. Sure, it was shitty for him to leave his wife and kid, but Chuuya /understands/, now that he’s an adult and has his own understanding of mental

health and relationships.

That’s still his /father/. He still loves him, still /wants/ to love him, even if things are messy and complicated.

“No,” he sighs, not pushing it, choosing instead to take out his phone again and text Oda back. “I haven’t talked to Verlaine. Heard

he was going on a business trip with some of his colleagues though.”

Agatha takes a pointed sip of her tea, elegantly shaking her long mane of hair out so it tumbles down the length of her straight spine. “He called me the other day, to say that he’d /love/ for you to come. I

really think you should go. It would be fun! Bonding with your dad, getting to know the business more…”

Chuuya makes a /face/, because he knows damn well that ‘business trip’ for Verlaine just translates into a group of middle-aged men betting on Mahjong games, and he’s not

interested. Not only because that sounds /boring/ to do for three days straight, but also because he’s /really/ bad at Mahjong. He’s not trying to lose all his money, even if he /did/ become a gambling man like his step-father.

(A trait that will both harm him and /help/ him.)

Besides, he already made other plans for his next three days off work.

“Can’t,” he says, shooting off a text, “I already promised Oda I’d help polish his latest manuscript so he can send it off for final editing. His agent wants it before next week.”

Which isn’t a /lot/ of

time, but he’s been editing Oda’s writing for years now. They have a system and everything.

“Oh, you’re still on that?” Agatha sighs, like hearing the fact that he’s /still/ interested in writing is a pain to hear. “I thought you’d finally given up on that silly dream and was

/finally/ focusing on your career.”

/This/ is exactly why he hasn’t written in months, even though his own agent has been /hounding/ him for another manuscript he promised.

When he was busy finishing up college—two years ahead of his class— he somehow managed to push out

/three/ manuscripts. Two of which managed to sell semi-well, and gained him the reputation of an up-and-coming horror novelist.

And he /liked/ that. It wasn’t enough to make a full-blown /career/ of—at least, not yet— but there was something so genuinely satisfying whenever he

walked into a bookstore and found his books tucked somewhere near the back. He wasn’t as /popular/ as Oda was—understandable because romance is a much more popular genre than horror is, especially because Fyodor is helping him turn a few of his ideas into /mangas/— but it was

still so /satisfying/. It felt /so/ good to get recognition for his hard work, to see all those hours of half-crazed writing in the middle of the night /finally/ getting some recognition and exposure.

And maybe he would never make a /career/ out of it. That’s fine, he wasn’t

expecting to go in and make /thousands/ of yen writing books. It’s a hobby, something he’s enjoyed doing for years, and a stress-reliever.

A stress reliever that he hasn’t had /access/ to in over a year, because his parents are pushing him to further his career in order to

provide for his future family, and Agatha views writing as some sort of time-wasting superfluous hobby.

Plus, she /really/ does not enjoy horror as a genre, so it makes it hard to look for inspiration material. At this point, he’d even watch shitty horror movies just to /feel/

something. Just for a /spark/ of inspiration.

“Yeah,” he mutters, cleaning up his dishes so he can start to get ready to go. “Plus, I haven’t seen Oda in a few weeks. I’ve missed him. It’s about time we had lunch together.”

Agatha, at least, has the grace to not comment on

what she thinks about Oda.

They had a /lot/ of fights in the beginning of their relationship because she thought Oda was a /bad influence/ who was keeping him /distracted/ and from fully committing to their relationship.

Chuuya was /firm/ in that he would /never/ give up his

best friend and that, even though they might be /closer/ than two Alpha’s might be, it didn’t /mean/ anything.

And then Oda came out as trans, and while Chuuya doesn’t really….understand it, per se, his emotions tangled and confusing and too /much/ whenever that conversation

comes up, he was /supportive/ and Agatha was… not.

But eventually she learned that while she can wear Chuuya down on /most/ things, especially when she has support, this is the one thing he won’t waver on, and she learned to let it go.

“How long are you going to be out?” She

asks instead. “I was going to make dinner for you and your mother tonight.”

Now doesn’t /that/ sound delightful. Chuuya loves Rimbaud, he does, but he’s the eldest child and the only Alpha and he’s /overbearing/. Always fussing over Chuuya like he’s still a child that needs to

guided through life instead of the full-grown adult he is. Always gossiping with Agatha about ‘omega talk’ and asking Chuuya if he /remembered/ to ‘sign up for that website he sent him a few weeks back’, fussing over him making friends with the “other alphas”.

When he was

a young boy, that was helpful and he thought that’s what /all/ parents are like. So involved in your life they might as well be trying to /be/ you, like some weird first-person video game.

But then he moved away for college, met a few friends—some of them he has to this day— and

they were pretty up front about the fact that his mother’s obsession with him and his life was /weird/.

Especially because he’s the /only/ child Rimbaud is so involved with. His two younger sisters are basically ignored most of the time.

Chuuya won’t lie, being the favorite

child /does/ have its perks sometimes. When he needs money, for example, or a reference from his father.

But for the most part, Chuuya just wants to /remind/ everyone that he’s a perfectly capable adult.

“I’ll be back in time for dinner,” he mutters, dropping a kiss on Agatha’s

forehead as he passes.

He doesn’t want to argue or upset her or avoid her—

He just wants to spend some time with his best friend.

—— +

Their hang out spot today is Oda’s house. Chuuya actually /likes/ it there, much more than he likes his own house, surprisingly.

It’s

mostly because of the sense of /comfort/ and relaxation that radiates from the entire house. Oda isn’t a messy person by nature, but he’s a /nester/. His entire house is basically an extension of his nest, every sitting surface lined with soft blankets and so many pillows Chuuya

could build a fort in every room. There’s personal touches /everywhere/— pictures of him and Oda, pictures of Oda and Fyodor, little figurines of whatever show the couple is enjoying, an entire bookshelf with the middle, premier shelf dedicated to Chuuya’s and Oda’s books, little

plushies scattered all over the place, some of them so old that Chuuya was there when Oda bought them /years/ ago— but the best part about it is that Oda isn’t /protective/ or strict about his space.

Sure, he’s clean and there’s /some/ things he doesn’t let anyone but himself

and Fyodor touch—

But he doesn’t get upset when Chuuya picks a spot on the couch and drags over a few blankets and pillows to curl up with. He’ll even get /more/ blankets for him if he wants different wants, and watches Chuuya claim his spot with a knowing, bemused look in his

eye.

Back home, Agatha gets practically besides herself if Chuuya so much as moves the blanket that’s usually draped aesthetically across the back of the couch. She’s /incredibly/ strict, and it honestly just makes Chuuya feel like a guest in his own home. He’s not allowed to

spread out or make a comfy little spot for himself without upsetting her.

Meanwhile, Fyodor brings them /both/ hot chocolate when Oda and him are spread out in the living room and talking shop about writing.

Oda beams up at his fiancé, leaning into him and putting when he gets

a kiss dropped on his forehead.

Chuuya looks away, wrinkling his nose at the smell of pure, unadulterated infatuation, and looks back at the chapter he’s reviewing for Oda.

Really, proofreading for Oda is more of an excuse to hang out than anything else. Oda has a wonderfully

strict agent that triple-checks every word Oda writes, and Kunikida is actually /qualified/ for the job.

Chuuya has just been reading Oda’s stuff /forever/. Even the shitty fanfics he wrote before they even met, when his writing was so underdeveloped it was almost embarrassing

to read it.

It’s been /such/ a privilege to see how far he’s come. To see him grow from a quiet boy writing in his spare time while he was studying to become a teacher, into the sturdy man who knows what he wants and who he is and is making a life with the things and people he

loves.

He’s /happy/ for Oda, he really is, it’s just—

It’s just /hard/ sometimes, because Chuuya’s life isn’t going the way he always thought or wanted it to. He’s in a job he doesn’t /really/ enjoy, hasn’t written a word in months, agreed to propose to his girlfriend to keep

his family and Agatha happy.

This is not where he wanted to end up.

And seeing Oda—popular, /loved/ Oda who has so many fans it makes Chuuya feel /unseen/ by comparison— thrive when Chuuya feels like he’s just trudging by makes him /jealous/.

He loves his friend. He does.

He just wishes he was as happy, popular and /loved/ as Oda seems to be.

But to do that, he needs to /write/ again.

“I think I’m going to interview that one serial killer in prison,” he announces without preamble, taking a sip of his hot chocolate and looking at Oda over the

rim.

Oda’s curled up at the living room table with his laptop open, answering some questions online from his fans.

At least, Chuuya thinks so. He’s been /sneaky/ about his social media lately, and Chuuya has a sneaking suspicion he has a secret /fan account/ somewhere. Maybe

he’s writing fanfics again.

“What serial killer? And /why/?” He asks, shooting him a confused look.

Honestly, he’s not /wrong/ to be confused. Most of the people who want to communicate with serial killers are either investigative journalists or one of those freaks that have a

strange attraction and obsession with murderers.

(This line of thinking will become ironic /later/.)

Since Chuuya is neither of those, it doesn’t really make sense for him to want to /talk/ to a criminal. Much less one as dangerous and infamous as Dazai Osamu.

“Dazai,” he

says, glad when Oda /instantly/ recognizes that name so he doesn’t have to explain, “And ‘cause— well, I don’t /know/, really. I just need some /inspiration/ and I don’t know where else to get it.”

“Don’t you usually watch horror movies or listen to those true crime podcasts for

inspo? Why do you need to talk to /him/, of all people?”

Usually, those sources /do/ work for him. The idea for his first novel was inspired by a horror movie he was watching late at night, and it just snowballed from there. True crime is always /horrific/, even more so because

it’s /true/.

Normally, Chuuya wouldn’t give a real criminal so much attention— because he knows, from his extensive research that a /lot/ of serial killers get off on the /attention/ it gets them— but Dazai’s case is so new that not even the psychological reports on him haven’t

been released to the public yet. Even the details of the case are mostly kept under wraps, /especially/ the people that Dazai… tore apart in prison.

Like an /animal/. All teeth and /wrath/.

“I tried those,” Chuuya says, sighing. “Agatha hates horror movies and I’ve already

listened to /most/ interesting podcasts these days. I’m beginning to lose interest. I need something more…real.”

More /visceral/.

And there’s nothing more /real/ than coming face to face with a killer, right? Nothing more fear-inducing, nothing more /risky/.

Oda frowns at

him. “Is he even taking interviews? I thought he was rejecting /everyone’s/ requests for an interview. I don’t think he’s written a single letter in prison.”

Placing his hot chocolate on the nearby table, Chuuya flops on the couch in frustration. That’s true. Dazai’s been

/notoriously/ reticent with everyone remotely interested in his case.

He’s gone so far as to represent /himself/ in the court of law, so not even a /law firm/ has a lot of information on him and his case.

It was impressive, actually. Chuuya watched that court hearing. What he

could of it, anyways, because most of it wasn’t permitted to be televised.

But there /was/ something fascinating at watching Dazai Osamu walk around the court room in an ill-fitting suit that he somehow made look /good/, talking the prosecutors in circles until he trapped them

into contradicting themselves, managing to make the evidence against him look /unimportant/, convincing the jury to his side—

Only to plead guilty to all counts at the very last moment, in the biggest display of arrogance and /ego/ Chuuya has ever seen.

Because he /could’ve/

won that day. He could’ve convinced the jury that he wasn’t guilty of /murder/, and haggled his sentence down to a few /years/ instead of a life sentence.

But he didn’t. He just wanted to /price/ that he could. Prove that he was smarter and more capable of /all/ of them, even

with all their evidence and all their education.

The fan girls on social media had a /field/ day with that footage. Chuuya saw no less than /ten/ fancams of Dazai in a suit almost as dark as the ink peaking out under his collar, hair messy and smirking arrogantly at the camera

as he suddenly flipped the script and decided to /confess/ to the entire court.

(Chuuya will never admit this to anyone else, but he watched a certain fancam of Dazai laughing manically and having the bit of a muzzle shoved between his sharp fangs no less than fifty times. What

can he say?

It was /sexy/. In a dangerous, taboo, /wrong/ sort of way, one that he would never admit to anyone else.)

“I don’t think he is,” Chuuya admits, “But I can ask my dad if he can get me an interview.”

Admittedly, perhaps using the detective that /originally/

arrested Dazai isn’t the smartest option but—

Kensuke and Ranpo have been the only ones that Dazai has any interest in. In fact, Kensuke has had /four/ meetings with Dazai.

The criminal seems almost fascinated by him.

There’s no harm in /asking/ right? Most likely Dazai will

tell him no, and Chuuya will go back to his boring little life doing whatever he’ll be doing until he finds something /worth/ doing—

“Fuck it. Go for it then, if you think it’ll be worth it,” Oda says enthusiastically. His worst problem is that at his /heart/, he’s an enabler.

— and even if Dazai /does/ say yes and agrees to meet him, it’ll only be /once/.

Chuuya knows better than to meet a beast /several/ times. Once, just to spark some ideas.

(Twice, because the beasts claws are stickier and sweeter than he ever imagined.

Thrice, because the fall

was so /easy/.)

—— +

Yosano is bluffing. The corner of her mouth always twitches when she’s bluffing, exposing just the golden /tip/ of her right fang.

Dazai stares at her over his handful of cards, making sure to keep the arrogant smile she /hates/ on his face.

Between

them, lay their prize:

An entire /handful/ of cigarettes. Prison currency, the only thing between these concrete walls that holds any real value.

Dazai isn’t much of a smoker himself— he does smoke, but he finds it more useful in social situations than as an addiction to get

stuck with— but /Yosano/ is. She’s chewing on a toothpick now, going for the cool, casual air—

But Dazai knows. She wants to /win/, just as much as he wants to hold the power over her.

He also wants a /haircut/, and she’s the only one in this entire building that he’d trust

near his throat.

Plus, he doesn’t know /where/ she gets a shiv sharp enough to keep her undercut nicely shaven, but he’s jealous. He gets strip searched practically every day.

Luckily, his strongest weapon is /attached/ to him. He runs his tongue over his teeth, pressing

down until it stings.

Yosano tilts her head, eyeing him over her hand. “You heard there’s a new inmate today?”

Dazai hums, putting an expression on like he’s /thinking/ about his hand when he’s actually holding a straight flush. He’s always been too good at poker, and /much/

too lucky as a man like him deserves to be. “No.”

“Heard he’s in for assault with a deadly weapon. Gang-affiliated,” she says, pushing the last of her small stack of cigarettes into the pile. She’s /cocky/, her fatal flaw.

But, to be fair—

There’s not /many/ people in this

city who could ever match an Alpha like her. Anyone who comes face to face with her scalpel is in a fight for their /lives/.

After all, they don’t call her the /butcher/ of Yokohama because she /cooks/ well.

Dazai calls her bluff, pushing his own pile of cigarettes into the

like, but Yosano isn’t paying attention anymore, her gaze fixed on something just over Dazai’s shoulder.

The golden caps covering her fangs glint in the light when she smiles, slow and evil. “Looks like they let him play with the big boys today.”

That’s /bad/ news for the

newcomer because—

Well, everyone here is a dangerous criminal and the /general/ consensus is that it’s much more fun to /play/ with their food.

If he isn’t careful, he might end up in the plate of an Alpha much /meaner/ than the newbie is.

The guards picked a bad day to

introduce the new inmate to the general population of the prison. Neither Dazai /or/ Yosano are supposed to be /out/ right now.

They’re supposed to be locked away in solitary confinement, where they can’t hurt anyone else. Where they aren’t a /risk/.

But the guards are easily

bribed and Dazai wanted to play a game of /cards/. The only one worth playing with was Yosano but /now/—

He sighs, watching as Yosano’s dark eyes, glinting red-purple under the light, eagerly watch the newcomer as he approaches. If the entire space wasn’t /drenched/ in scent

blockers, he would be able to smell the intense salty smell of her interest.

She’s /hunting/.

And it looks like their prey is coming right to them, making a ruckus as he storms over to the pair of people he probably thinks are the /kings/ of this prison.

The newcomer isn’t

/wrong/— Yosano and Dazai do run this place— but he’s obviously /new/ to being a prisoner, because there’s a /hierarchy/. A pecking order, if you will.

Prison isn’t like the outside world, where dominance is established by individual power, skill and bravery. There’s no

posturing here, no idiotic displays of dominance, no flashing of teeth to see who has the bigger fangs.

It’s simple, really. Yakuza bosses are the /top/ of the power structure, as they usually are. Then serial killers, because even the most /hardened/ of criminals rightly fear

those who kill for sport.

Somewhere in the middle are the regular, every day crimes. Theft, manslaughter, fraud, embezzlement. Boring things.

At the /very/ bottom, the food which everyone above picks on, are pedophiles and rapists. Dazai’s /favorite/.

Yosano doesn’t have a

preference—

Well, that’s not /strictly/ true. She prefers arrogant Alphas, anyone who can be brought down a few pegs. Prison’s basically her prime hunting ground, full of people who believe they are the /best/.

Dazai’s sure she would kill him if she could. Given the chance and

opportunity, she would /absolutely/ go for his throat.

Luckily, she likes him better /alive/. They get along well, for the most part.

A large hand slaps down on the table between them. Neither of them jump.

Yosano licks her teeth, a smile on her face. Dazai doesn’t react,

tipping his handful of cards towards his face to keep them hidden.

“I thought I’d come introduce myself,” the newcomer /sneers/, arrogance pouring off him with so much obviousness that Dazai doesn’t even need to smell it. “Name’s Matsuo. Who are you two?”

Oh, so not only is he

arrogant—a crime that alone would get him killed in this sphere— but he’s also /ignorant/. Dazai’s and Yosano’s faces have been practically plastered all over the morning and nightly news ever since they were caught.

Granted, they /do/ look different. All of Dazai’s piercings

have healed up, including all the more obvious ones, like the ones in his face. The slit he normally cuts in his eyebrow has grown out, the decorative caps he sometimes wears over his fangs is gone. Most of his bandages are gone, revealing the plethora of ink that crawls down

his body like black snakes, twisting and curling and writhing.

Yosano also looks /marginally/ different— her hair is longer than it’s ever been before, and the throat tattoos that she usually keeps covered up are on full display, a macabre butterfly with wings made of bone and

gore that looks like it might fly off her skin every time she swallows— but still, it’s not enough for someone to /forget/ who they are.

Unless they never knew in the first place, in which case Matsuo will learn his lesson /very/ quickly.

Dazai wonders who will make the first

move. He has always had more patience than Yosano, but lately he’s been feeling /on-edge/. Irritable, his fangs consistently panting with a dull ache even though he knows his rut won’t be coming anytime soon.

He’s /bitey/.

Matsuo gives an exaggerated sigh when neither of them

deign to answer him, going about their card game. Well, Dazai is still going about their card game—

Yosano is staring at the newcomer like he’s her newest meal.

“Should’a known a bunch of wimps like you wouldn’t say a word to me. They got you hopped up on those suppressants?

Bet you’re drugged out of your minds, can barely even /think/ for yourself.”

He’s not /completely/ wrong. Every Alpha in the ward is force-fed a diet of heavy suppressants. The prison claims it’s to keep everyone from rutting— understandable, because quite a /few/ people in here

are far more dangerous and aggressive during their rut cycles, Dazai and Yosano included-- but it's /really/ to keep everyone docile.

Alpha suppressants double as mood stabilizers that make it /very/ difficult to feel more than a mind-numbing fog of apathy. The higher the dose,

the harder it is to react and /feel/ something. Feel /anything/.

In a misled attempt to keep Dazai out of trouble and keep him contained, he's been on the highest dose they can legally give him for months now.

It might've worked,if Mori hadn't put him on these /years/ ago, when

he had first presesnted.

After being on them for years, he’s used to them now. Can think past them, can separate the lethargic fog they cause and push it to the side if needed.

He’s just waiting for the best moments, and playing nice while he waits.

And then Matsuo makes his

/next/ mistake:

He turns his back on Yosano completely, obviously deciding that Dazai is the bigger threat and focusing all his attention on him.

That—

That makes Dazai’s teeth itch. There’s something so intrinsically /egotistical/ about dismissing someone as a threat based

on preconceived judgments on things as small as someone’s sex. It’s /foolish/.

Dazai does not suffer fools lightly, and doubly so when they’re only a feet away from his face and /sneering/ at him.

“You gonna say anything, big boy? Cat got your tongue or did you never learn to

/speak/?”

Mistake two: incorrectly assuming Dazai is stupid.

He doesn’t like being called stupid. Makes memories he’s not fond of recalling scratch at the back of his head. Like the scratch of a child on a locked door, a sound he knows all too well.

A sound that he has never

forgotten.

Dazai puts his cards away. “Did you say something worth replying to? I wasn’t aware. I thought you were jabbering to yourself.”

Mistake three: Matsuo bares his teeth at Dazai.

It’s meant to be an /intimidating/ gesture but all Dazai can see is how /small/ they are.

Barely average-sized, dully gleaming in the light, and /yellow/.

Dazai looks at his fangs and then looks him in the smile, making sure to keep his own teeth hidden as he smiles meanly. “I can see why you have an inferiority complex.”

Yosano /laughs/.

Matsuo snarls at him, as

frightening as kitten puffing itself up to make it look bigger. “I don’t see /you/ flashing fang. You scared I’m gonna put you in your place?”

Folding his cards with a slight sigh, Dazai holds a hand up to silently stop Yosano from /lunging/ at the insult.

“You have a very big

mouth,” Dazai says, shaking his head in mock disappointment. By his estimates, this boy— barely an adult by the look of him— probably only presented recently, and has yet to learn that just because he’s an /Alpha/ doesn’t mean there aren’t people that can put him in his place.

That’s the problem with teaching young Alphas that they can do no wrong—

It’s up to someone /better/ than them to keep them in line.

Luckily for everyone, Dazai considers himself to be a teaching man.

“You want to know my name?” He asks pleasantly, and based on Matsuo’s

expression, he’s starting to finally realize that /bullying/ is not the way to get what he wants in here.This is probably his first time spending /real/ time in prison, and thought it was an extension of the real world, where being aggressive was a surefire way to get whatever he

wants.

In here, things run a little /differently/.

“My name is Dazai. You might know me as the demon prodigy—“

Matsuo’s face pales so quickly he looks like he might pass out entirely and only Yosano’s hand clamping over his shoulder keeps him close.

Looks like he recognizes

his /name/, but it’s far too late for him now.

“As for my /teeth/—“ Dazai’s lips peel over his fangs, finally exposing their gleaming lethality, and revels in the terror in Matsuo’s expression, “— let me introduce you.”

Reaching forward, he anchors one hand in the collar of

tw gore

his brand-new orange jumpsuit, yanks him over the steel table towards him and viciously sinks his teeth into his cheek.

Matsuo /shrieks/, so loudly that everyone in the room freezes in reaction. There’s a shout from the bodyguards, wondering what’s going on.

The

taste of blood is as familiar to him as the taste of his own tongue, rotting iron and hot salt spilling into his mouth. It makes his jaw clench down harder instinctively, a predator unwilling to let its prey escape its teeth.

Matsuo shrieks again, a flood of tears joining the

wet mess pouring down his face.

It only takes one quick jerk of his neck to have him tearing free,a chunk of Matsuo’s cheek coming with him. His disgusting prize for being forced to deal with this, and a lesson Matsuo will never be able to forget.

He does not swallow, gingerly

spitting out the chunk as he shoves Matsuo backwards again.

Disgusting. He hates getting his mouth dirty, even if it does feel /so/ satisfying to bite down until someone is screaming.

Hands clutched to his face, Matsuo tumbles to the ground. He won’t stop screaming, so loudly

that his voice is going hoarse and everyone in the outside ward is scrambling.

“Do remember your place next time,” Dazai says pleasantly, wiping a smear of blood off his cheek with his fingers. “I won’t teach it to you again.”

Yosano /cackles/, looking deranged and almost

/pleased/ by the sight of blood pouring between Matsuo’s fingers. “Man, you really got him! What’s he taste like, boss?”

Dazai doesn’t bother answering, flicking the blood off his fingers onto Matsuo’s face, a small sign of disrespect that just adds insult to injury. “Get him

out of my sight. He’s too loud.”

Something about the way Yosano slithers to the floor is /animalistic/, crouching down beside Matsuo with one hand to brace her weight and her sharp, feral grin only inches from his face.

“You heard the boss,” she /purrs/, lunging to grab his

collar when Matsuo goes to scramble away from her. “He doesn’t want to play with you anymore.”

She drags him closer, sticking her tongue out and licking one broad stripe up his face, uncaring that her tongue digs painfully into the fresh wound.

There’s extra guards already

swarming the yard, frantically cuffing any prisoner they can get their hands on in an effort to prevent a riot. Most inmates go willingly but the few who do fight cause a ruckus do so with great relish.

Yosano won’t have that much time with him, but that doesn’t seem to bother

her. She's already dragging Matsuo away with the grip she has on his jumpsuit, ignoring his feeble struggles.

There's a small smear of blood on her face, and she looks at /home/ with it.

Dazai touches another wet spot on his face, sighing when he brings his hand down and sees

his fingers covered in red. This is going to land him in solitary confinement again.

Not that he has a /huge/ problem with that-- he's always been forced to keep himself company, although the sheer amount of days locked up in a tiny cell he can barely lay in does begin to fray

the threads of his self-restraint.

The /main/ problem is that he'll be rooming near /Akutagawa/.

------ +

As one of the newest recruits to the prison inmate guards, Atsushi is lowest on the power structure. He's the /grunt/, yet to prove himself and yet to earn the more

delicate or /better/ options.

Like watching the security cameras, for one. That's an /easy/ job.Not a lot of urgency or danger. No supervisors coming to stare at you,and as long as nothing suspicious is going on then it's basically a ten-hour-shift of sitting down and relaxing.

/That's/ the job Atsushi wants.

But, as he is the youngest and newest recruit, he gets the /shitty/ jobs:

Guarding the solitary confinement ward.

It's not as frightening as it sounds-- it's nearly impossible for the prisoners to break out, and even more impossible for them to

actually injure a guard-- but it is /horrifically/ creepy.

The lights never go off in this ward, and it creates this /endless/, dragging day that makes time stretch out in long sticky tendrils. The lights are all dull LED's, the kind they use in hospitals, and in the silence of

the hallway, they buzz.

There’s no clocks down here, no windows. No sense of time passing, beyond the odd flickering of the lights and the /occasional/ sound drifting down from the rest of the prison above. The only way to tell that time is /actually/ passing instead of standing

still is from outside sources.

On his first day,Atsushi didn't have a wristwatch and thought he might die rom how agonizingly long his shift felt. He hasn't forgotten his watch since.

This place is /built/ to strip the humanity from your bones. The prison wards say it's to keep

the most dangerous prisoners locked away from everyone else-- and that /is/ the overlying purpose-- but once Atsushi spent a little time down here, he realized...

This place makes monsters out of men. Strips them down to their bones and teeth, covers them in wet-earth rot, and

takes away everything that makes a person a /person/. It teaches you, with carelessly cruel certainty, that all the things that are integral to a person's health-- someone to /talk/ to, good food, the ability to sleep when wanted, the ability to make your own decisions--

Down

here, that's all just a /privilege/.

Not that these people /deserved/ that privilege, but still.

Atsushi can't look at the solitary confinement ward with it's cells that are too spaced out for inmates to talk to each other, heavy padded doors that require a key card and a buzz

from another security guard to open, doors that shut down in case of a power outage, it's lack of windows, it's /long/ concrete hallways that are always disgustingly damp and empty, it's recycled stale air and artificial lighting--

And think that this is /any/ place for a human.

Perhaps worst of all is the /singing/.

It's Akutagawa in his cell, far down the block. He's a near-permanent inmate in the solitary confinement ward, because he's a danger to everyone around him. He's ruthless, merciless and /lethal/.

Honestly, he should be kept in an asylum

for the criminally insane because--

There is something /very/ not right with him. From the tattoos crawling over him that were specifically designed to look like kanji written in blood, to the way he slices up his victims, to the way he /screams/ sometimes in the middle of the

night.

There is something /very/ not right with him, and Akutagawa obviously needs professional help--

But that costs more /money/ than just keeping him in solitary confinement, and the counselor that interviewed him when he was first arrested declared that he /wasn't/ insane,

so. He stays here and rots.

"Hey, kid," Atsushi's supervisor, Fukuchi, interrupts him by shoving a pair of handcuffs and a muzzle in Atsushi's hands, "Go get Dazai. He's got a meeting today, room 4."

Atsushi clutches the items to his chest, gulping. He doesn't like going near

Dazai. Not because the man has hurt him or even implied that he wanted to, but because he's /sneaky/.

People like Akutagawa, who's issues are so abundantly clear, it's hard to /forget/ the things they've done. It's unfortunate, but it's hard to look /past/ their issues to the

person underneath.

But Dazai? He's /sneaky/. He's /civil/. He's /friendly/ and charming and it's so /easy/ to let your guard down around him. He's /manipulative/ and there's no way of knowing if what is coming out of his mouth is true or a lie or a /deception/. Every one of his

actions is carefully calculated, either action or reaction, feeding information to get the reaction he wants.

Akutagawa is dangerous because he's /twisted/.

Dazai is dangerous because he can pretend he's /not/, and by the time his victims realize, they've already stepped into

his trap.

"Um," Atsushi hesitates, not /wanting/ to disobey, but also not wanting to deal with Dazai, "Isn't he not allowed to have interviews when he's on solitary confinement?"

Fukuchi waves a hand. "Special circumstances. Go get him, bring him to room four."

Just like that

his supervisor is gone, off to do his rounds in checking in with the other guards.

Atsushi swallows hard, clutching the metal handcuffs as he turns to make his way down the hallway.

// Butterfly, butterfly... //

Dazai is in the second cell on the left, the first inmate on

the block. There’s two cells before him, but they haven’t been filled yet. Most prisoners have been on their best behavior lately, ever since Dazai got released from his /latest/ sentencing.

Behind his cell and even further spaced apart are the cells built to contain ability

users. Yosano is down there, sentences for four days for tormenting one of the newest inmates. Akutagawa’s cell is down there too, and from his comes the sound of /singing/.

// Stop on the leaf… //

Atsushi shivers. He wishes he wouldn’t sing nursery rhymes, especially not the

ones the caretakers used to sing at the orphanage.

It makes his stomach feel squirmy, the tiger inside scratching at the collar Atsushi wears around his neck. Makes him feel stretched thin, his teeth aching.

// If you get bored with the leaves… //

At least /this/ song is

marginally better than the ones Akutagawa sings when he’s rushing, all of his words tumbling over themselves in an effort to get them out, like he’s afraid if he doesn’t speak /now/, he never will again.

// Play with the cherry blossoms.. //

Atsushi fumbles with the ring of

keys on his belt, struggling to open the metal-barred door. There’s three in this hallway total, but he only needs to open this one to get to Dazai’s cell.

// On the blossoms of the cherry blossoms… //

With a loud buzz, the door slides open mechanically, letting Atsushi into

the next section of the hallway.

It slams behind him immediately, with a final metallic ring that makes him jump.

He hates feeling caged. Especially down /here/, when he's more likely to be trapped than anywhere else in the prison. If the power goes out, or the security guard

watching the cameras refuses to buzz him through, there's every chance he'll be /stuck/ down here.

It makes his skin crawl. Every one of his trips down the ward,whether he's escorting inmates or he's bringing meals,is wracked with anxiety.

// Stop and play and play and stop. //

Every step of his seems to echo endlessly. Akutagawa won't stop singing that last line,faster and faster and faster, his voice raising to a ringing pitch.

It's like something out of a horror movie.

The cell doors have only the tiniest window to view inside. Atsushi has to lean

up on his toes to peer inside, trying to see if he can see where Dazai is in the cell.

Even with the lights on-- they're /always/ on, they never shut off, there's never a /break/-- he can't see him. Not even a shadow to trace back to him.

Even though it's surely /impossible/ to

escape maximum security lockdown, his heart jumps with anxiety, wondering if Dazai is /gone/.

(It's not impossible to escape. Just /very/ tricky, and requires quite a bit of leg work and preparation.

Anyways, Dazai is right where he wants to be.)

His hands shake slightly a he

opens the cell, letting the door swing open and poking his head inside--

Only to find Dazai sprawled out on the floor, his hands tucked behind his head and his legs propped up on the wall near the door. He looks like he's on /vacation/, his eyes closed with a pleasant smile on

his face.

Fuck. He didn't follow the routine. "Uh-- the wall. Get on the wall. Hands where I can see them."

Dazai cracks a single eye open, glowing red under the artificial lighting. "Is that any way to treat a friend, Atsushi?"

They are /not/ friends, and although Dazai is

friendly enough to guards, Atsushi is all too aware of how quickly the situation can turn against him.

Dazai's mouth curves, and his eye closes again. The tip of one lethal fang pokes out from under his lip, shining innocently. "Akutagawa's cell is five down."

Atsushi flushes.

His… /empathy/ towards Akutagawa hasn’t gone unnoticed, even though he’s /tried/ to be subtle about it.

He can’t help it— he thinks the man is /fascinating/, and it makes him sad to see him go without the help he needs. Even in a prison full of criminals, he’s treated like a

monster in and of himself.

Not /undeserved/, because Akutagawa made /international/ news with the mass-murder bloodbath he committed, but /still/.

No one—

No one /talks/ to him, or tries to understand him or tries to understand /why/ he did something like that.

They’d

prefer just to throw him away in a forgotten closet, the place where all monsters go when their teeth lose their sharpness.

Atsushi’s not /too/ worried about Dazai noticing his… kindness.

After all, he might occasionally give Akutagawa a small piece of the chocolate bars

he brings for lunch and spends a little /too/ much time checking out his cell in nighttime rounds but—

He gives Dazai chocolate squares too, and he eats them. Surely he wouldn’t deny himself something like that right? The meals the prison makes are so /bland/.

Graciously

ignoring his smug attitude, Atsushi closes the door enough so he can slam it shut if Dazai makes a wrong move, and reminds him, “You don’t get to go to your interview if you don’t let me cuff you.”

Something about the reminder makes Dazai’s eyes light up, flaring hot with

interest.

“Right, right,” he says, rolling smoothly to his feet. He backs away from the door, and Atsushi lets out a small breath of relief.

Dazai’s never caused /him/ trouble— in fact, he’s only ever been docile with Atsushi, maybe even /playful/— but that doesn’t mean he’s

not a /danger/. That friendly mask hides a mouthful of teeth that he knows how to /use/ and Atsushi can never forget that.

He might /die/ if he does.

Dazai goes over, laying his palms on the wall and widening his stance. He throws a glance over his shoulder, winking at him

exaggeratedly. “Should I assume the position or do you want to bend me over yourself?”

Atsushi /knows/ he said it just to get a reaction out of him— attention is what Dazai /thrives/ on, the bigger the better— but he can’t stop his face from going red. He’s never met someone so

shameless and /direct/.

“Shut up,” he mutters, approaching cautiously with one hand full of his cuffs and the other on his baton.

Dazai laughs at him, but doesn’t move. He’s the prisoner here, but there’s something about him that makes it seem like he’s the /king/ of this

place, like a lion deigning to let his prey approach.

Atsushi takes a short breath, gritting his teeth as he reaches up and catches one of Dazai’s wrists in his hands.

Immediately, the feeling of being plunged into ice cold water crawls up his spine.

Atsushi’s been over every

report, file and case with Dazai’s name on it. They all say the same thing: he does not have an ability. He’s been tested /twice/, and both have come back negative.

But Atsushi /swears/ he does because touching him is like touching a live wire, hot-cold electricity that makes

his teeth ache. Makes his head go static-numb, buzzing in a way that just illustrates how hollow he’s suddenly become.

Dazai watches him over his shoulder, pliant but /alert/. He looks at him like he knows something.

Perhaps it’s a secret kept between them that neither of them

mention.

Atsushi has an ability that no one knows about. Dazai /might/ have an ability that’s somehow managed to stay under the radar. They don’t talk about it, soak up the mutual benefits.

Or maybe Atsushi is just going crazy. This place will do it to you; that’s what it’s

designed for.

Cuffing Dazai’s hands behind his back is the /easy/ part. The next part is the hardest, the most dangerous:

The /muzzle/.

It requires putting his fingers near his mouth, trusting he’ll be able to pull away fast enough if someone /bites/.

He might not be. One

of his fellow guards, Tachihara, has a chunk missing out of his hand from when one of the other inmates managed to sink her teeth into him.

She's been transferred now, and nothing has ever happened /since/, but Atsushi is still wary. Especially when he knows that Dazai can and

/will/ use his teeth. They're /weapons/ for him, and very effective ones.

Smirking, Dazai lets himself be turned around. He licks his teeth, making sure they're gleaming lethally in the low lighting and just...

/Stares/ at him, with a playfulness that borders on arrogance as

Atsushi reaches up to secure the muzzle over his mouth.

All things considered, it's one of the /kinder/ restraints. Some of the ones in the supply room are /mean/, forcing open a person's mouth so wide that it must hurt their jaw. Forcing their teeth to bite down painfully on

metal bars that restrain their tongues so they can’t even speak, bits that fill up the entire mouth and make it hard to breath.

Dazai never looks bothered either way, but Atsushi never makes him put on the /mean/ muzzles. Maybe it’s a coincidence, but Dazai has always been the

most docile and cooperative for /him/.

All the other guards complain about how /creepy/ Dazai is, how he teases and twists words and pokes at them until they get out their batons but Atsushi’s never had a problem with him.

The muzzle gets locked into place without incident.

Dazai works his jaw to shift it into place comfortably, the sound of his breath echoing off the metal cage.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Atsushi takes Dazai by the elbow and leads him out of the cell. “Come on,” he mutters, “You’re gonna be late for your meeting.”

It’s a slight

dig for information because Atsushi doesn't know /who/ he's meeting. He didn't have time to look up the details on the computer before he was being shoved out of the door, and he's not typically important enough to be included in the guard gossip ring.

They all think he's

/weird/ for treating the prisoners like /people/ instead of the criminals they are, and he often eats his lunch alone. He doesn't have a lot of friends, and no one willingly includes him.

But whatever it is, it must be /very/ important. Dazai rarely takes interviews-- in the six

months that Atsushi has worked here, he's only taken /one/, which is quite a ways with how many /requests/ he gets. Out of all the letters and interview requests that come to the prison, Dazai gets the most by /far/.

Even that lone interview was with Detective Nakahara-- the

detective who's been working on his case the /entire/ time, even though he has no need to anymore-- so perhaps that doesn't even count as an interview. That's more of a...interrogation that Dazai has the /right/ to refuse now, and for some reason, doesn't.

So what's different

about this request? Dazai always has a /reason/, even if he never reveals that to anyone.

Dazai hums, sounding like he's taking a leisurely stroll down the block instead of being escorted through the prison facility. "I don't think he'll mind," he mutters, shooting a

conspiratorial glance down at Atsushi. "What do you think of Nakahara, anyways?"

So it /is/ another meeting with Detective Nakahara. That explains why Dazai is allowed to meet with him even though he's supposed to be locked up in solitary for another ten days.

"I don't know

him well," Atsushi says, blinking. It's true; there's always been a sense of /condescendation/ in the way that most police detectives look down at prison guards. Most of them think they're /better/ than the guards, because they /actually/ go out and hunt down criminals instead of

guarding the one who've already been caught. "But he seems like a nice guy."

Detective Nakahara is always /brusque/ but never mean.He just looks like a very busy, very passionate man.

Atsushi nudges Dazai, turning him down one of the quieter hallways. He's grateful that guiding

him to room two means they can skip walking him through the more populated areas of the prison. The other prisoners /howl/ when they see Dazai, in some form of animalistic respect and acknowledgement that's as creepy to witness as it sounds.

Atsushi shivers.

Dazai tilts his

head, humming again. "I see. But you misunderstood me-- I meant the /other/ Nakahara."

Atsushi blinks. "Who?"

----- +

The question is:

What does one wear to an interview with a known and very /shameless/ serial killer?

It's not a /date/, obviously, but appearance is always

important. The professor of the single journalism class Chuuya was allowed to take in college was /insistent/ on that.

It wasn't /just/ about professionalism, which was certainly important enough in it's own right, but also about building a /scene/. Building an /act/ that

would subtly influence everyone in the room.

Dress like a successful, experienced businessman, and one would automatically garner more respect. Dress like a young upstart, one might be treated as naïve and inexperienced.

Each one had their own pros and cons, and it all

depended on what kind of response Chuuya wanted to gather. Depended on what response would be /best/ for the thing he wants to achieve.

Based on the fact that Dazai has been exceedingly tight-lipped in regards to other reporters and even other lawyers wanting in on his case,

it probably wouldn't do to dress like a /professional/.

It's not like Chuuya is there in any official capacity anyways.

There's a /small/ part of him that reminds him of one of the true crime documentaries he listened to, where a reporter /deliberately/ presented himself in

line with the victim type of some of the famous American serial killers in order to get more information out of them...

Chuuya shivers. That sounds /terrifying/, deliberately putting himself in the eyes of the beast.

Besides, it's not like Dazai actually /has/ a type that he

can emulate. Besides, well, /horrible/ people, and he's not going to /pretend/ to be anything like that.

Eventually he just settles on a pair of nice slacks and a button-down. Presentable and professional, but not demanding respect by flexing his position or power. Approachable,

someone you might /talk/ to.

He also /drowns/ himself in scent blockers, because he's nervous as fuck, and he's got a horrible voice in the back of his head that keeps reminding him that predators can smell /fear/.

It's one thing to contemplate conducting an interview with a

serial killer. Another to convince his dad to use his status to ask Dazai to give him an interview and promise to watch the kids for a day while dad and Ranpo go out in exchange, all while fully expecting to be rejected.

It's /another/ thing to get a /yes/. Another thing to have

a time set up, /another/ to get dressed and ready for it, and yet another to actually /show up at the prison/.

Yet another thing to /sign away/ his rights to get into the interview room, promising not to sue the prison if he somehow manages to be harmed, signing his name and

date at the bottom of a dozen different official papers that all amount to the same thing:

Anything that happens in that room will be his responsibility.

He'l be on his own.

His palms sweat as he follows a prison guard down a long,concrete hallway. Due to the nature of Dazai's

crimes, he's not allowed to socialize with the other inmates.

Which means they get a /private/ room together, which is as frightening as it is exciting. It means there will be /some/ form of privacy-- even if Chuuya's sure that all rooms have audio and video surveillance-- and

they won't be distracted by all the other inmates or activity going on.

They'll /also/ be trapped in a room together but--

The guards said he'll be cuffed. Unmuzzled, because it's hard to speak with those on, but Dazai will be cuffed to his chair and unable to move. If anything

happens, there are two guards that are posted right outside the door who will intervene at a moments notice.

Nothing's going to happen. It's just an /hour/ of conversation,monitored and safe. It's fine.

"Nervous?" The guard leading him asks, jolting Chuuya out of his thoughts.

He's a nice enough guy, looks maybe a few years older than Chuuya. The nametag on his uniform says 'Tachihara'.

"A little," Chuuya admits, shoving his hands in his pockets. He had brought a notepad and pen to the meeting, but he wasn't allowed to take anything in. He'll have to

remember everything that happens in the interview.

It's a good thing this is about creative inspiration and not a report he'll have to turn in to someone.

Tachihara hums, stopping at a large metal door. There's another guard already lounging outside of it, looking bored.

This

is it. Nerves thrum through Chuuya and if it weren't for the fact that he'd be inconveniencing /several/ people, he'd probably back out right now.

"Well, you're lucky. Dazai's a good guy, usually," he starts, cutting himself off with a laugh when he notices Chuuya's expression.

"Weird to be describing a criminal like that, right? Anyways, as long as you don't piss him off, he's usually pretty calm. He's on his best behavior today."

Chuuya hesitates outside the door, reigning in his adrenaline. "Didn't he kill a bunch of people?"

"Yep," the guard says,

taking his keycard and scanning it on the little machine near the door. "But no one that didn't deserve it."

That's /certainly/ an opinion, but before Chuuya can even begin to respond to that, Tachihara is pushing open the door.

"In you go. I'll come get you in an hour, and if

you want to leave before that, knock on the door three times. We'll be right outside if you need us."

Right. Chuuya takes a breath for confidence, squares his shoulders and enters the lair of the beast in all it's artificially-lit and scent-scrubbed glory.

It's time.

His first thought, when he enters the the door shuts /loudly/ behind him and is followed by the even /louder/ sound of the locks—

Is that he /severely/ overestimated himself. He is in /way/ over his head.

Because Dazai is—

He’s /staring/ at him, with a smile that’s a little

too empty to be strictly polite. His /eyes/ though, are twin points of black that are fixed on him with unwavering, unnerving interest. There’s something about it—the way he doesn’t /blink/, the way the light seems to bounce off his eyes rather than brighten them— makes Chuuya

feel /pinned/ in a way. Vulnerable, seen.

Like Dazai knows /exactly/ where he is in the room, and exactly how much space he takes up. Knows exactly how much his chest expands on a breath, how his fingers are suddenly trembling.

But it’s more than that. More than the fact that

he can see the points of Dazai’s teeth behind his smile and they are every bit as dreadfully—wonderfully— sharp as they are on camera. More than the fact that he’s staring at Chuuya like he can see every thought in his head before he can even think it. More than the fact that he

can’t smell him or himself or anything other than recycled air and the faint silver tang of metal, and he never remembers how much he relies on scent to govern social interactions until it’s /gone/—

It’s the fact that Dazai feels like /dead space/.

Chuuya’s ability— unnamed

unregistered and /typically/ unused— gives him a certain… awareness of everything around him. Everything in the world is touched by gravity, even /air/, and his ability to manipulate it means he can taste the pressure relentlessly crushing down on everything. If he reaches, he

can almost feel the shape of things, the weight of them, how easy it'd be to curl his fingers around the gravity of them and make it bend for him.

It's a sense Chuuya tries to ignore, because it has a tendency to overwhelm him, but it's also something that comforts him when he

feels out of his element.

And now he's /reaching/, and he can feel the walls, the chair, the air floating around him--

But not Dazai, or the chair he's sitting on, or the table he's touching.

There's something /wrong/. He hesitates, fighting with the sudden urge to /flee/,

because there's something different here, there's something /wrong/, he didn't expect or prepare for this.

Dazai seems to sense his unease, because his smile grows even wider, fangs on full display. If it's a smile meant to comfort, it has the opposite effect, because Chuuya is

only struck with the realization of how easily his throat would fit between those teeth. "Hi, Chuuya."

The /casualness/ of that greeting has Chuuya reeling again, because--

Well, he wasn't really expecting Dazai to be /normal/? He was fully expecting the sly, cunning,

manipulative behavior of the first video he ever saw of him, or the smug, brutish attitude from the /latest/ court case, or maybe even the deranged violence that his crimes suggest.

He did not expect /normal/.Didn't expect Dazai to tilt his head invitingly to the chair opposite

him, and continue with alarming friendliness, "Can I call you Chuuya? Nakahara is such a /mouthful/, and I already know one. Wouldn't want to get you two mixed up."

He even /winks/ at Chuuya, like this is a /date/ and he's not sprawled in a hideously orange jumpsuit with the

sleeves ripped up and rolled up to expose muscled and /inked/ biceps, sitting on a metal chair in a room that's almost completely empty.

Chuuya is in /way/ over his head. "Yeah,that's fine," he says, because he's not going to deny an infamous serial killer /anything/. He manages

to walk over to the table without making a fool of himself,but he can swear Dazai can /hear/ his pounding heart anyways. "Do you prefer Dazai or Osamu?"

And--

He's flustered and scrambling to collect himself and running on autopilot, so he automatically sticks his hand out for

Dazai to shake.

The Alpha looks at it, then /slowly/ drags his eyes up to make eye contact. A single eyebrow arches, making the tattooed dragon on his cheek stretch slightly. His shoulders roll, followed shortly by the rattle of chains, making it /obvious/ why he can't shake his

hand.

Right. The /handcuffs/. Something Chuuya is /grateful/ for, but he doesn’t meet many criminals— any, really, despite what his dad does— so he almost forgot about them entirely. His fingers curl back awkwardly, fist dropping to his side.

“Dazai is fine,” is his response,

brown eyes watching avidly as Chuuya sinks into his own chair stiffly. “You know, I was very surprised when I got your request for an interview.”

Chuuya keeps his hands under the table, hoping Dazai can’t /sense/ the way he’s fidgeting with them. “Oh? I was under the impression

you got a lot of interview requests.”

“Oh, yes,” Dazai shrugs, “but none of them of them like /you/. They want to turn me into a sensational story to air on the news, but you’re /different/.”

The way he says that makes it sound like there’s a second, hidden meaning behind it.

Personally, Chuuya doesn’t think he’s /that/ different, considering he /literally/ wants to turn Dazai into a sensational story but—

Who is he to argue?

“Speaking of,” Dazai continues, leaning forward with an intensity that’s restrained by the cuffs around his wrists. His

shoulders are moving, so he must be fidgeting although Chuuya can’t see his hands underneath the table, “Why /did/ you want to interview me? You’re a fiction author, aren’t you? I wouldn’t think someone like me would catch your interest.”

That makes Chuuya pause, stalling out in

surprise. “You know about that?”

Maybe his dad had told him? Chuuya used that excuse to convince Kensuke to even /agree/ to ask for the interview, so it’s possible he mentioned it but—

He’s only published /two/ books, so he’s barely an author and /very/ not well known. He’s

surprised Dazai knows about that at all.

In fact, Dazai seems to know a /lot/ about him, more than he expected, and it’s throwing him for a loop.

“Of course. I read your book— ‘Corruption’, wasn’t it? It was very good,” Dazai says, head tilting, “Though some parts of it were…

inaccurate.”

Chuuya cringes. Not only did a /real-life serial killer/ know about his story about abilities and mafia murders written with his immature writing skills, but he /read it/. God, he should’ve done so much more research on murder instead of just winging it.

“Is that

why you wanted to meet with me? A better source of information? I have /lots/ of experience,” Dazai grins at him, running his tongue suggestively over the points of his teeth. They gleam in the light.

(Underneath the table, there’s a soft /pop/ that’s too low to hear.)

Chuuya

spreads his hands over the table, debating what to say. He doesn’t want to get /too/ personal and reveal things about himself he doesn’t want Dazai to know or encourage a personal relationship—

But he doesn’t want to lie either. Doesn’t want to piss the other man off.

“No,”

he eventually decides on, "Believe it or not, complete accuracy isn't a hugely important part of writing. Not a lot of picky on the details. No, the reason I wanted to speak with you was because... I've been looking for inspiration for my next piece. My normal sources aren't

working for me, so I was looking around...and found you. You...inspired me."

Dazai /stares/ at him, the permanent dimple-scars from earlier piercings deepening with the way he seems to be holding back a smile. It's--

Chuuya came into this meeting with the knowledge that Dazai

was attractive. It wasn't hard to see, it wasn't hard to admit to himself-- he's well aware that gay people exist and /supportive/ of that, even if trying to apply the label of gay or even bisexual to /himself/ makes him feel weird and squirmy in a distinctly /wrong/ way-- and

while he doesn't /dwell/ on it,he can /admire/ him without drawing too many conclusions from it.

He can recognize that the other Alpha is hot and /not/ be attracted to him. It doesn't mean anything; it just means he has /eyes/.

But he didn't realize that the little dimple scars

on either side of his mouth would be… surprisingly /charming/. Or the way the dragon eating its own tail inked on his cheek looks intimidating—until it’s being scrunched with the way his cheeks move with his smile. Or the way his hair keeps falling into his eyes boyishly, or the

way he /looks/ at him like he’s seeing through him, like he’s seeing /everything/ about him.

“I mean,” Chuuya continues when Dazai doesn’t answer immediately, seemingly content to wait for an explanation, “You’re a /character/. You’re the moral monster. You’re somewhere between

good and evil. No one would ever call you a /good/ man-- but many people would say that the things you do are justified. You have /fans/. It's fascinating, how you can do such abhorrent things, and yet there are people in the city that feel /safer/ after finding out about you."

Dazai leans backward, his head tilted to the side. He seems more relaxed now, sprawling in his chair comfortably, taking as much room as he wants. Underneath the table, his standard-issue shoes knock against Chuuya's, and he doesn't move when he realizes what's happened. "And do

/you/ feel safer? Or do you like me better leashed and muzzled?"

Chuuya /certainly/ likes him better muzzled, because he's seen some of crime scene photos that were shared on the news, and he knows very well how /sharp/ this man's teeth are, and how well he uses them. Even now,

the gleaming tips of his teeth poke out of his small smirk, warning and temptation and danger all in one.

It makes Chuuya want to tuck his chin and lower his head, to display his own teeth to show how much smaller they are.

He forces himself to shrug nonchalantly. "Mostly I

just find you fascinating. Clearly, you have some sort of working moral compass, and you're /not/ some unhinged, insane monster like the media likes to portray. You seem like you could be a reasonable man--so I just wonder /why/. Why do you do it?"

With another tilt of his head,

Dazai makes deliberate and unrelenting eye contact. It’s intimidating, and Chuuya can tell it’s /meant/ to be— his eyes are focused, the glint of reflecting light giving his irises a distinct red gleam, the perfect picture of a nocturnal predator. Maybe it’s the lighting, or the

way his bangs fall over his forehead, but his eyes are so dark Chuuya can’t tell what is iris or pupil. It’s just pure, glittering black-red, focused on him with unerring intensity, watching his every breath, his every twitch, taking in every detail of him and devouring it.

A

certain smugness radiates off Dazai when he notices Chuuya swallow hard and visibly fight off the urge to look away first. It’s /hard/ to keep himself still and calm when he’s being /stared down/ like this.

Without looking away, Dazai leans forward again. His elbows get propped

up on the table, chin cupped in his palms.

(There is something /wrong/ about that picture that makes an alarm start to blare in the back of Chuuya’s mind, but he’s too focused on trying not to flinch away that he doesn’t think about it.)

“Because, love,” Dazai drawls, his voice

a rumbling purr that shivers down Chuuya’s spine, “who can stop me?”

Chuuya supposes that /is/ a good argument. Even though he’s been in prison for over a year and reportedly in solitary confinement for most of that— he still somehow manages to get his hands on more victims.

It doesn’t seem like anyone /can/ stop him. And yet—

“But they did catch you,” he points out, because that counts for /something/. It’s not a perfect solution, but he has been convicted.

Dazai’s teeth flash in a confident smile, dimples deepening. “Did they?”

Chuuya pauses. “Did they what?”

“Catch me.”

Silence stretches between them like sickly-sweet sugar, fraught with tension. Dazai’s smile grows bigger with each moment that passes, inked fingers drumming against his cheek absentmindedly as he waits for him to process that

sentence.

Because it sounds like…

It /sounds/ like—

“Do you /want/ to be here?”

With a quiet chuckle, Dazai gestures to the room around them with a sweep of his arms. “Why would I want to be /anywhere/ else, love? I’ve got all my friends in one place, my food delivered

to me on a silver platter,”— somehow, Chuuya doesn’t think he’s talking about the mediocre prison diet— “and I get to talk to lovely little reporters like you. What more could I want?”

Chuuya is starting to get a bad feeling about this. It’s one thing for someone like Dazai to

take the loss of his freedom and rights in stride and continue to make trouble despite it.

It is another thing entirely for him to view imprisonment as—

As some sort of /vacation/.

What /kind/ of man is Dazai?

“I’m not a reporter,” Chuuya manages, latching on to what is

probably the least important part of that whole declaration, mostly because he doesn't have any idea of what to say to the rest of it. He came in here with a basic idea of what he wanted to accomplish,what questions he was going to ask, what he was going to talk about, and now he

feels like he's completely losing control of the situation. He's lost the thread, he's lost the power he had over the conversation, and he's being sucked into Dazai's twisting, turning phrases and sly glances.

It shouldn't be like this. They're in a secure cell, with guards

posted outside the door ready to come in if Chuuya calls out for help, he had much more time to prepare than Dazai did--

So why does he feel like he's losing control? Why does he feel like he's being backed into a corner,being hunted down like a defenseless animal?

"Yes, yes, I

know," Dazai says, waving away his correction, "but that's why I find you so /fascinating/, Nakahara Chuuya."

The way he says it is almost deliberately mocking, his name falling from his tongue like a savored promise. Chuuya fights back a shiver, shifting back in his chair and

pulling his feet closer to himself.

It feels like a concession to Dazai taking up his space, a silent acknowledgement to the idea that if the other alpha pushes,Chuuya /will/ retreat and adjust to accommodate. He's not sure if that means he's lost whatever game Dazai is playing

with him.

Dazai's hands get placed back on the table, and now he's almost sure he's deliberately testing his boundaries; his arms are stretched out far, his hands clearly on Chuuya's side of the table, like he's reaching for him.

The tattoo on the middle finger of his left

hand-- an almost disturbingly realistic and accurate rendition of all the bones in that finger done in red ink -- flashes as he drums his fingers against the table. There's chipped remains of red nail polish on his fingers, in a dark enough shade that Chuuya thinks it's blood at

first.

"You're /fascinating/, Chuuya," he repeats, "because you shouldn't be here. There are so many people who have wanted to speak with me because of what /I/ can do for /them/. They want the story, the career boost that comes with getting the chance to personally report on

the most dangerous man in Tokyo. I've been bribed and threatened and coerced by people far more powerful and connected than you."

He's not that surprised by that information-- it's common information that the media is /dying/ from a personal story from Dazai, and several people

are jockeying for the right to be the first one to publish a book detailing Dazai's life.

But Chuuya's not really thinking about that, not really. His attention is caught by the slow, rhythmic movement of Dazai's fingers, the elegant pull of tendons in the back of his hand, and

wondering why the sight of it feels so /wrong/.

There's something about his hands. They shouldn't--

"And despite everything you've heard about me-- from good sources, too, I bet, due to your father-- and despite the fact that you know very well how dangerous I can be, you are

not afraid."

That startles Chuuya out of his thinking because he /is/ afraid. He knows what Dazai can do, and he absolutely doesn't want to be on the receiving end of it.That's the reason he's been so polite, so complimentary. Also the reason that his usual red-hot temper hasn't

made an appearance.

He opens his mouth to protest--

"No, don't protest," Dazai cuts him off. He's on a roll now, hitting his stride, talking without letting Chuuya get a word in. "You're nervous, yes. Anxious.Uncertain. But afraid? No. Not really."

This time Dazai stands /up/,

leaning over the table to get in Chuuya's face, and there it is, that's what's wrong, that's what he was missing, this is what he missed--

The /cuffs/. Dazai's not wearing them any longer, must have had them sitting in his lap because there's a loud clatter of metal falling to

the floor and Chuuya doesn't even have a second to panic about that realization-- about the fact that he's been sitting here having a conversation with a mass murderer who is /free/-- because Dazai is inches from his face, smiling into his eyes, fangs close enough to touch.

"I

have a very good nose," he murmurs, his voice deeper with how quiet it is, filling the scant space between them with tension and electricity. "I can /smell/ you, Nakahara Chuuya."

Then he opens his mouth, running his tongue slowly over the points of his teeth to illustrate how

sharp they are, not that he needs to. He takes a slow, deep breath through his mouth, very obviously dragging in Chuuya's scent to taste it, to roll it over his tongue and pick out the individual flavors.

He put on scent blockers this morning. Even to himself, he doesn't smell

like much of anything beyond the muddled scent of blockers.

But Dazai scents him like he's not wearing anything at all.

Chuuya freezes in his chair, heart pounding in his chest. He's not sure what to do. He's not sure what he /can/ do.

He needs to leave the room as quickly as

possible, he knows that. The guards need to be alerted. He needs to get out of biting range, he needs Dazai to back off, he needs to stay calm, he needs to get control of this rapidly escalating situation, he needs to /leave/.

The worst part is that he can't smell anything from

Dazai in return. It's something that this prison in particular does-- gives the Alpha's regular shots of hormonal blockers to muffle their scents on a biological level, in an effort to lower inmate aggression.

It means the only thing Chuuya has to anticipate Dazai's emotions and

reactions is his body language. Something that doesn't feel reliable /or/ safe, and something that he can't even take advantage of because Dazai is /inches/ from his face and the idea of looking away is terrifying.

The self-eating dragon inked on Dazai's cheek moves when he

smiles, seeming to swallow more of it's own tail. "There you are," he murmurs quietly, sounding very pleased with himself.

It's not out of the realm of possibility that he /wants/ Chuuya to be scared, that he thrives on his fear. That's something he has learned from his father's

lectures on psychopaths and the criminally insane--

Most often, they thrive on attention, on pulling out desired reactions. The desperate ones will do whatever it takes, and giving them what they want just encourages them.

Swallowing hard and fighting to keep himself calm and

collected, Chuuya keeps his voice level out of sheer willpower. "Is that why you do those things? Kill those people? Because you can, and you like to see people begging to talk to you?"

Mentally, he calculates the distance between his seat and the door. It's probably only five

feet, but the problem isn't the distance. The problem is the door only opens from the /outside/, and even if he managed to outrace Dazai to the door, there's no way he'd have enough time for the guards to open the door.

He wasn't allowed to bring anything in with him, either. He

doesn't even have a single pen to defend himself. In a pinch, he could use his ability, but that's risky. That comes with questions and consequences.

Better that than letting Dazai sink his teeth into him, though.

Dazai tuts at him like he answered a question wrong in class.

"No," he says simply, "but the question you should be asking isn't why I do something-- but what has driven me to do it in the first place."

/That/ is a rabbit hole that Chuuya doesn't particularly want to dive into, not with Dazai uncuffed and unrestrained.

"I suppose I'll

think on that as homework," he hedges, trying to subtly end the conversation so he can get /out/ of here. If Dazai leans any farther forward, they might be knocking teeth together.

The other alpha pouts at him, his lower lip sticking out in such childish drama that it's almost

funny to witness. "Leaving so soon? We were just starting to have fun."

Superstitiously, Chuuya glances at the watch on his wrist, and feels an intense wave of relief when he sees that the time is approaching the end of his allotted appointment. His heart is pounding so hard in

his chest he's sure Dazai can hear it. His legs are shaking-numb with adrenaline, torn between fight or flight.

Carefully, he shows his watch to Dazai. He doesn't even look, eyes locked unwaveringly on his face. "Our time is up. I have somewhere to go after this, so while I'd

love to stay and talk, I must be going."

Honestly, Chuuya has no idea what he's /saying/. He's pulling frantically on the details his father mentioned about Dazai,trying to keep himself from tripping Dazai's aggression instinct while also removing himself as quickly as possible.

He remembers that Dazai doesn't like when people are /rude/ to him, or treat him like he's stupid, or are too afraid of him--

But precious little else.

It seems Dazai accepts his reasoning, because he's backing off a few inches. "That's a shame," he sighs, and Chuuya feels

jittery with anxiety and relief and /hope/.

It doesn't seem like Dazai wants to hurt him. He could have, this entire time, lunged across the table before he even realized that he was no longer wearing his cuffs, but he hadn't.

Does that mean he doesn't /want/ to hurt him, or

he's too invested in playing with his prey to let the game end early?

Gathering all his courage-- because there's a large part of Chuuya that just wants to roll over for Dazai, wants to just curl into a ball until the threat has gone away-- he slowly starts to stand up. His legs

are shaky, and it takes too much concentration to make sure he doesn't wobble.

Dazai watches him, and he's /terribly/ amused, his smile growing bigger with every second of Chuuya's struggle, until it's a bit too big, a bit too unhinged, a bit too inhuman.

"It's a shame," he

repeats, letting him take a step away, two steps, three, four, now he's closer to the door, only a few strides away, Chuuya just has to reach the door and knock to ask to be let out, then say goodbye, he's so close, only a little bit--

"Because I'm not done talking to /you/."

Before Chuuya can even progress what he said, before he can even flinch, Dazai is leaping over the table in one jump, landing on the other side with a solid thump.

He lunges for him, long-fingered hands catching his elbow and yanking him off balance. Chuuya yelps instinctively,

trying to jerk away and only succeeding in twisting his weight in Dazai’s grip.

Before he can scream or call out for help, a palm is slapped over his mouth. It’s heavy and large, fingers digging into his cheeks hard enough to grind against his teeth. His palm covers from nose to

chin, almost completely blocking off his airway and mercilessly cutting off his ability to breathe.

And at the first touch of Dazai’s skin to his own, Chuuya’s world—

/Shifts/.

His perception of the world has never been ‘normal’. He’s aware of gravity in the same way that

most people are aware of their clothes; something light and easily ignored, something that generally registers with him only when he’s thinking about it. He can pick out the weights and fields around an object if he focuses, but most of it is all background noise.

But at the

first touch of skin, the world comes crashing down on top of him, like being dropped into a pool of water after a long slide, the air going heavy and thick and weighty around him. His knees buckle at the shock of it, his eyes going wide as his breath stutters in his chest at the

stunning feeling of no longer having a body that functions in lower-than-normal gravity.

The shock, unfortunately, means Dazai has enough time to spin him around and shove him spine-first against the wall near the door. He pins him there with one hand on his wrist, holding his

hand above his hand. The other is still crushingly tight on his face, forcefully tipping his chin back to make him look up at him.

It was hard to tell before— having only seen Dazai on video or sitting down— but the other alpha is /tall/. Looming over him easily, so tall that

he has to move his head back to look up at him, so tall that he blocks out the rest of the room and replaces with ink and skin and wild hair and /teeth/ and gleaming eyes.

“Oh,” Dazai says, for the first time sending genuinely surprised. He stared at where his palm is covering

his mouth. He flexes his fingers, like he’s testing out the sensation, fingertips pressing into his teeth.

Chuuya’s skin feels buzzing-numb with the sudden absence of gravity beneath his skin. Instinctively, one of his hands patches onto Dazai’s wrist, a primal fear of being

suffocated racing through him.

Under his fingers, Dazai’s forearm is leanly muscled, firm and merciless. He doesn’t even see to notice the nails digging into his skin—

Or maybe he does, because he’s leaning closer again. They are not on the same level, so it’s more like him

bending down towards Chuuya’s tipped-up face.

He stares up at him, wide-eyed,so terrified it feels like his bones are vibrating with it,heart tripping in his chest,unable to breathe. His body is thrumming with the frantic need to /run/, struggling against his grip unconsciously.

“Pretty little thing like you keeping secrets?” Dazai murmurs softly, a dark edge of amusement curling through his voice. “My day just keeps getting better and better.”

That’s all Chuuya needs to hear to understand that he /knows/. He must know about his hidden ability, because

he has one too, and whatever it is, it cancels his out.

It's jarring and terrifying in a way Chuuya has never experienced before. Even without his ability, he has enough martial arts training to hold his own in most situations. With his ability, he's damn near untouchable when

he wants to be.

And yet Dazai has him pinned nearly effortlessly, barely seeming to register his struggles.

He's /never/ been overpowered before, and it's awful in a way that has his stomach hollowing out inside him and his ears ringing and his legs jumping with the need to

flee.

A short, whimpered sound escaped through his nose. It's /mortifying/, but Chuuya is half-convinced he's going to be ripped to pieces right here in this interview room, and it's /petrifying/.

When Dazai uses the grip on his face to turn his head to the side until his

cheek is brushing against the cool cement, Chuuya squeezes his eyes shut. Is this it? Is Dazai going to bite him?

Is it going to /hurt/?

Hot breath washes over his cheek, and if he had room to flinch, he would. But he doesn't, so all he can do is tremble in place as soft,

slighty-chapped lips follow soon after, brushing feather light over the skin of his cheek. He can feel the curl of Dazai's smile.

"Don't scream," he says directly into his ear, and for all that is voice is whisper low, it's as strong as any command. An order, filled with the

throbbing expectation of being /obeyed/.

Swallowing, he opens his eyes again, looking at him from the corner of his vision. He can't nod with how hard he's being held, but he blinks in a silent signal of /yes, he won't/, deliberately and willfully relaxing his body to show his

acceptance.

After another long moment where Dazai clearly debates on whether he's going to believe him or not-- like he would /ever/ deliberately disobey him or piss him off when he has his hands on him-- then his palm is slipping off his mouth.

It doesn't go far, switching to

a grip just underneath his jaw, fingers pressed against the hinge of his jaw like Dazai wants to feel his body move and flex under his hands as he speaks. His head is guided to face forwards again, held in place as he's once again subjected to intense and unrelenting eye contact.

"You have an ability," Dazai starts, dashing whatever hopes he had of playing this off. Dark eyes flick to the door and back, so quickly it would've been easy to miss. "They don't know. They would have never let you in here with me if they knew."

Chuuya doesn't say anything, but

his silence is answer enough.

"Don't worry, love. This can be our little secret," Dazai soothes, offering him a sweet smile and shaking him slightly by his chin,like Chuuya is just being /silly/ by being terrified out of his skull.

The idea of sharing a secret with Dazai is not

a comforting one. A psychopath serial killer who /cannot/ be stopped having any sort of power or control over Chuuya is horrifying. Who knows what Dazai would do with his secrets?

It's not the end of the world if his ability gets discovered-- but it'd be a pain. It'd disrupt his

life, change his future, put him on a government watch list.

There's a reason he doesn't broadcast his ability, or use it beyond necessary.

"You're strong," Dazai notes, sounding almost proud. Without looking away, the hand on Chuuya's wrist starts to move up, pulling his arm

above his head until his shoulder begins to strain. He watches Chuuya rock up onto his toes to relieve the pressure with dark amusement.

Chuuya fights the urge to squirm under his gaze, torn between fear and anger and embarrassment and-- /and/--

"I can feel it," he continues

smoothly, like he's not actively tormenting and teasing him. "I can feel you under my skin."

God, what does he /say/? What does he /do/ in this situation? What is he supposed to do? At this point, he doesn't know if he's in imminent danger,or if he's being played with like a cat

bats around a mouse until it dies.

Shouldn't someone be watching the camera feed in the room? If he doesn't ask to be let out at the end of his allotted time, will someone come for him?

Does he /scream/ or does he stall?

He blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. "You

have an ability too."

There's no other explanation for this, for why he /still/ can't access his ability and why it feels like one of his senses has been muffled.

Smiling at him like he just put together the last pieces of a puzzle, Dazai denies it. "If I did, don't you think

that would've shown up on any of the tests?"

Possibly. He doesn't know enough about testing to say for sure, but there's /got/ to be some way to trick the system, and if anyone's cunning enough to do it, it's Dazai.

Instead of arguing that point--because Dazai might be verbally

denying it,but they both know the truth, they can both feel the way they affect each other--, Chuuya goes straight for the question that's really bothering him:

"Are you going to hurt me?"

Perhaps that's the wrong question. Maybe he shouldn't even be reminding him that he /can/

hurt him right now, or revealing that Chuuya is worried about it, or addressing the situation at all--

But he's scared, freaking out and he has to /know/, even if he tells him a lie.

Silence, again, for several long moments. Chuuya /can't/ look away, and Dazai seems to be

enjoying watching the tension draw him tighter the longer it goes on.

They've only known each other for not even an hour yet, and yet it's already blaringly obvious that Dazai finds pleasure in putting Chuuya off-rhythm, in watching him squirm and stumble.

"Am I going to hurt

you," he repeats again, drawing the words out like he's asking himself as well.

His hand tightens on his face, squishing his cheek with his thumb.

A devilish smile grows on Dazai's face, silver tongue and sharks blood. "Let's find out."

Then he bends down, and he kisses him.

(It has been nearly an hour since Dazai has last been touched. Even that had hardly counted, because it had been the rough hands of the prison guards on his elbows and arms over the clothing of his jumpsuit.

He hates that he keeps track of the time. Hates that he /still/ counts,

even after all this time. Hates that no matter how old he gets, how much control he takes, how much he self-medicates, it still feels like there's a small, wavy-haired child crouched in his mind, clutching a stuffed bunny to his chest and counting down the minutes since he was

last touched.

Fucking hates it. Nothing makes him feel so /angry/, so out of control.

When he reached out for Chuuya, it was for fun. He liked scaring the little alpha, liked watching his eyes widen and his body twitch even as he strove to outwardly keep himself calm. He had

wanted to push the boundaries, make him cry, make him shake, wanted to torture him a little bit.

After all, he probably wasn't going to come /back/, so what was the harm in /playing/ with him? He wasn't going to hurt him, not really. Doesn't want to.

Well, perhaps that would be

a lie. He does want to hurt him, just not in the way Chuuya probably thinks he does.

He wants to hurt him in the same way Dazai wants to hurt all the things he wants. Wants to sink his teeth into his skin until all he can taste is the muddled-wine-and-pomegranates smell of him,

wants to bite down until there's no way he can escape without leaving a piece of himself behind, a piece that would always belong to /Dazai/. Wants to hold him down and mark him up with bruises in the shape of fingers and teeth and nails,until he's blooming with physical evidence

that Dazai was /here/, that he has touched and been touched, that he will continue to touch and be touched. Wants to strip those offensive scent blockers off, layer him in Dazai's own blood-salt and caramel scent until everyone who so much as looks at him knows that Dazai was

here. Knows not to /touch/, knows not to take him away.

It's a dangerous thing, to be wanted by Dazai. He's self-aware enough to know that, to know that his sickening urges to /taketaketake/ are not exactly healthy. He's never learned how to let go.

Still, despite how pretty he

finds him, he didn't plan on /actually/ doing anything. It's neither the time nor the place, and Dazai is certainly not a moralless beast to force himself on someone who doesn't want him, despite what some articles might say about him. There will always be someone else to fuck,

and Yosano is always up for the challenge whenever he's feeling particularly mean and bitey.

So the /intent/, when he initially reached out for him, was just to play. A mean game, but a game nonetheless.

And then his skin touched Chuuya's, and he has an /ability/. A strong one,

something that he can feel practically surging beneath his skin and pouring into him until Dazai is buzzing with it. And it's /wonderful/.

He can feel every ability he nullifies.What they feel like generally depends on what the ability is and how strong they are. Touching Yosano

feels like a strange mix of stinging pain and cold-numbness,like a needle injecting anesthetic. Akutagawa's ability feels like there's something /else/ inside of him.

But Chuuya's is more than any of those,filling all of his empty spaces until he feels newly, uniquely, strangely

/whole/. It pushes against his skin, settles comfortingly heavy in his bones, like a weighted blanket has just been draped over him and settled him nicely back into his skin.

It's lovely. Is this how Chuuya feels, all the time?

He wants more, and Dazai has never done well with

self-restraint.

So he kisses him, feeling driven by an unhinged desire to swallow him whole, keep him between his teeth, drink him down and gorge on the ability-taste-smell of him. He's small and pliant in his grip, the perfect size to loom over and kiss into submission.

For

the first few seconds, Chuuya doesn't move. Dazai is half-expecting him to bite him, is prepared to smell the sharp curl of anger that always entices him in ways it shouldn't.

That's not what happens. Chuuya doesn't bite or struggle or growl at him.

What he does, instead, is

kiss him /back/. His breath hitches in Dazai's mouth, and there's a heavy swallow, and then his mouth moves to meet the next kiss.

It's almost a shock, a small surprise on top of the overflowing sensation drenching Dazai from head to toe. Every inch of his skin feels electric,

laced with pure sensation, frenzied. Viscerally and brutally and unceasingly alive.

Chuuya twists in his grip-- perhaps an escape attempt, perhaps just shifting his weight, perhaps pushing closer-- and a low growl is unconsciously slipping out of Dazai's chest. It's low, more of

a rumble than an actual sound, on the warbling edge of inhuman. It vibrates through his teeth and ends up muffled by Chuuya's mouth.

He goes still again, giving a tiny squeak that is swallowed up easily. Good.

Tilting his head back using the hand on his chin, Dazai sinks his

teeth into his bottom lip. Satisfaction surges through him when he feels Chuuya's pulse jump in reaction and the way his breath stalls. He bites down hard, uncaring if he draws blood, wanting the imprint of his fangs on the inside of his lip.

Behind that, he can feel the shape

of his own fangs. They're nicely shaped but much smaller than Dazai's, and he finds the sight of them /cute/. Adorably useless against him. He bets they wouldn't even hurt if Chuuya bit him.

Even as off-rhythm as Dazai is, he knows that they don't have a lot of time. Chuuya was

right about the interview being almost over, even if he was just using it as an excuse to leave when he /finally/ noticed that he slipped the cuffs. The guards monitoring the surveillance might be on his dime, but the guards outside the door can't push the time constraints.

They'll be knocking on the door soon enough, and then coming inside to collect them both individually. They'll come to put Dazai back in his cell, and Chuuya will be safely removed from the property.

If they come in now, they'll see him pinning the smaller alpha and kissing him.

Which, ah, Dazai doesn't /mind/--

But it'll cause problems in the future, and he /just/ spent so much time buttering Atsushi up to get him to let his guard down. If he gets into too much trouble, they might reassign his guards, and he'll have to start all over.

It's nothing

that he can't work with, but he's been /testy/ lately. With the drugs they force on him, it's been a little over a year since his last rut, and the lack of pressure-relief has his patience growing thin as a garrote wire.

As evidenced by the fact that part of the reason he kissed

Chuuya was because he wasn't /afraid/ of him.

His wrists itch. His jaw aches. He wants to bite something.

Someone.

It takes more effort than it should to remove his teeth from Chuuya's lip, and break the kiss. It takes a forceful exhale to put some distance between them so he

can look at him properly.

Chuuya looks back at him, eyes huge, pupils dilated from excitement or fear, his bottom lip obviously swollen and a bit too red to be normal. He must've drawn blood.

Absentmindedly, he slides his tongue over his lip, wondering if he can pick up any

lingering taste of him. Sour-sweet wine curls faintly over his taste buds.

"Look at that," he says smoothly, forcing his hands to let go of him and ruthlessly controlling the voice in his head that snarling and shrieking in protest at the idea of letting him /leave/. "It seems

that you have survived."

Unbelievably, Chuuya /scowls/ at him, which looks so adorable with his bitten-swollen lip that Dazai is laughing automatically. So much attitude for someone that kissed him /back/ and didn't even put up a token struggle.

Turning to move back to his

chair, he throws a smirk over his shoulder. "I hope you got everything you wanted out of this interview."

Maybe he shouldn't be teasing him so much, but then again, he's pretty sure this will be the first and last time that he's ever going to see Nakahara Chuuya. As interesting

as the little alpha is, Dazai is a very busy and a very watched man. He can still extend his power outside the reach of the prison, but it's more difficult and riskier every time he does it. Better to save it for stuff he actually needs or wants.

And while Chuuya might be a

reckless man-- what /normal/ person interviews a serial killer for inspiration?-- there's no evidence to suggest he's suicidal. There's no way he'd willingly come back to lock himself in a room with someone who has proven that restraints don't work. There's no way he'd come back

after he has personally experienced how much danger he's in whenever Dazai is the same room as him.

After all, he didn't hurt him this time-- but that doesn't mean he /can't/ or wouldn't, and his temper is a delicate and fraying thing. Who knows what would happen if Chuuya

pissed him off, accidentally or otherwise?

With a quiet breath, he picks the cuffs up off the floor and sits in his chair. It only takes a few quick twists of his wrists to have the metal locking securely around his arms, like he never took them off at all.

He tilts his head

to look at Chuuya again, who is still pressed against the wall and looks like he's still trying to come to terms with what happened. Every so often, he licks his lip and winces every time.

Gesturing to the door with his chin, he says, "Go on, love. Knock."

After one last angry

look and a twitch of his mouth that makes Dazai think he wants to bare his teeth in irritation at him, Chuuya leans over and knocks solidly on the door three times.

Sprawled insolently and giving the guards an innocent grin when they come in, Dazai watches Chuuya out of the

corner of his eye as he's escorted out. He's probably never going to see him again.Ah, that's probably for the best. No matter what his instincts say.)

--- +

TWENTY YEARS EARLIER, AGE SIX.

Before Araya Sora knocks on the door, she takes a final, steadying breath and makes sure

that her clothes are straight and wrinkle-free one last time. She's chosen business casual today, a light-blue silk blouse and a modest dark blue skirt.

She doesn't dress up a lot, so she keeps fighting the urge to check her reflection to make /sure/ that her shirt is tucked in

properly for the hundredth time this hour. And while applying for a job as a nanny might not /require/ a business casual dress code--

This house is one of the richer parts of Yokohoma. It's an entire house, with a front and back yard, a novelty in a jam-packed city. It's almost

**tw implied severe child neglect to the point of abuse**

two hours outside of city limits even by train, closer to the countryside than to the city. She had to take a taxi from the train station just to get to the right neighborhood.

It's far. Almost too far, but the parents

offering the job are paying an /obscene/ amount of money. Enough to make it worth the travel,and enough that Sora will be able to quit her other part-time job without worry.

Based on how big and spread out the houses are, it is certainly a salary the family can afford. She wants

to make a good impression; she wants this job.

With one last inhale for courage, she fixes a pleasant smile on her face and knocks on the door. The sound echoes loudly in the quiet of the neighborhood, gaining the attention of a small child that's playing in a yard with a dog

two houses over. She stares at Sora with childlike curiosity until the dog brings back the toy and gets her attention again.

From inside the door, there’s a muffled voice and then the sound of footsteps approaching leisurely. Sora pushes her nerves down one last time.

The

door opens with a quiet clock, swinging wide to reveal a slim figure just inside.

Margaret Mitchell. An American woman who had married Gen’emon Tsushima a few years ago and had taken his then-infant son under her wing. She’s slim and pale, with bright eyes that look almost

unnatural.

Sora has spoken with her on the phone, for a preliminary interview and setting up a meeting time. Margaret’s Japanese is passable, if slightly rudimentary and heavily accented. Her English is better, but she speaks in way that sounds polite but leaves Sora feeling

slightly stupid, like she’s missed some sort of subtle insult.

“Hello!” Margaret says cheerfully, going straight for English.She sticks her hand out with a pearl-bright grin, her mint-green nails painted to match her shirt.

Sora doesn’t mind speaking in English—being bilingual

was part of the job description and she’s been studying ever since she was in primary school— but it’s a little discomforting as always, speaking a non-native language.

She reaches out, taking the offered hand and is surprised by how /limp/ Margaret’s handshake is. “Hello. I’m

Araya Sora— we spoke on the phone last week?”

“Oh yes, darling, I remember you,” Margaret gushes, taking a step back and gesturing her inside. “Come inside, let me show you around the house.”

The weirdest thing about Americans and their homes is the fact that they don’t have

house slippers, Sora thinks, hesitating just inside the doorway. Margaret is wearing four-inch heels and doesn’t take them off, clicking her way through the foyer without giving her a single clue on what she should do.

After a frantic internal debate, Sora quickly toes her shoes

off and darts after her.

“So this is the house,” she starts, waving her hand to point out the shiny-white marble tile on the floor and the rounded entryways. “We just had it remodeled so everything is new. Through there is the kitchen, and there’s the dining room. This is the

living room. That’s where we usually hang out the most, and Osamu’s toys are kept in the basket over there…”

As Sora is led on a thorough tour of the house, she comes to two conclusions. The first being that Margaret is /clearly/ the woman of the house, making most of the

decisions and designing the house as she sees fit. And the second conclusion is that she clearly prefers American architecture and layouts, so it’s a very western home.

Why she just doesn’t live in America instead of Japan is none of Sora’s business.

“So, we would expect you to

be at the house from 8AM to 6PM every weekday. Sometimes we will ask you to watch Osamu on weekends, but you will be informed ahead of time and compensated very fairly.”

With travel times, that means very much early mornings and very little time with her own children— a fact

that troubles her deeply, but is the name of every single working mother. At this point, her kids are being raised by their myriad of babysitters more than they’re being raised by their mother.

Still, even if it’s a lot of time, it’s still a lot of /money/. Maybe she won’t have

spare time to relax and hang out with her children-- but she will have enough to feed them, and send them to school, and pay their doctors bills, and that's what truly matters here. "I understand."

Margaret smiles at her, the pearl earrings in her ears matching the picture-white

of her smile. They've come around to the back yard now, which has pristine grass that looks like it's never been touched by a pet or a pair of running feet. "Your main job will watching over Osamu, of course. Making sure he eats, that he's meeting with his teachers on time-- he's

homeschooled-- and keeping him company. He's a good boy, but he's a little shy and he doesn't make friends very well."

Despite herself, the corner of Sora's mouth twitches in a fond smile. Her oldest, Shirase, was like that-- a friendly boy that was just a little to

self-conscious to make most playground interactions easy. Luckily, it's something he's started to grow out of as he's gotten older and more confident.

Hopefully Osamu will be the same way. Sora loves kids, and it would be wonderful if she was able to stay long enough to help the

little boy.

"You might be asked to run some errands for the house, but you will be reimbursed for any purchases," Margaret continues, leading them both back inside and heading for the set of stairs. They're plush and carpeted, and the handrail is smooth and pleasant under her

hands.

"Let's go meet Osamu, shall we?"

Sora perks up. Most of the interview had been conducted earlier through emails, and obviously she did well enough that she was invited for an in-person interview, but she's hoping that she can have any of her less than satisfactory

answers overlooked when Margaret sees how well she works with children.

Sora might not have the best background, the best education or the best work history-- but she /likes/ kids and they like her. Finding character references for her resume might be stressful, but introducing

herself to a small child is something she can /do/. Something easy, something familiar, something she's done hundreds of times before.

Margaret leads her down a long hallway. She doesn't point out which rooms are behind the closed doors, but this appears to be the lived-in part

of the house. Where the bedrooms are. Sora doesn't exactly need to know what Margaret's bed looks like.

In the middle of the hallway, there's a closed door, painted white. It looks exactly like every other door in the house, but Margaret stops in front of it and rests a hand on

the doorknob.

For the first time, she looks slightly hesitant. She doesn't do anything as obvious as fidgeting, but she keeps looking over Sora like she's trying to predict her reaction to whatever she's going to say next.

Sora relaxes her shoulders and widens her smile,

trying to project the silent aura of non-judgement.

Perhaps it works.Maybe a little too well.

"Now," Margaret starts,her voice quieting.Maybe she doesn't want her son to overhear them. "There is one condition for Osamu's care that I have come to understand upsets some people."

She fights the urge to arch her eyebrow. Everything in the interview has led her to believe that Osamu is a healthy and ordinary little boy. If he needs extra support or special care, that's /fine/,but she would've appreciated more warning than being told right before she's about

to meet the boy.

After all, caring for an unwell or strange child is quite different than a healthy one.

"He is aware of this rule as well, and he is a good boy. He listens and he knows the consequences if he does not. But under no circumstances are you allowed to touch him."

Sora blinks, confused. What does /that/ mean? She's heard of some odd rules before-- one of the mothers in Yuan's class insists that her child /cannot/ go on the swings, for whatever reason-- but no touching?

"Oh, I don't believe in physical punishments," she responds awkwardly

after a long pause, hoping that's what she means because surely there's no way she's suggesting that--

That Sora would touch him /inappropriately/?That's disgusting, she would /never/.

Before answering, Margaret is pushing the door open and revealing the room inside.

If Sora

didn't know it was a child's room, she never would have guessed it. It's plain, with no pictures on the wall or decorations. There's a desk with books stacked on it, books that seem far too advanced for a boy of six. The bed looks like a miniature version of a hotel bed, with

plain blue sheets and two pillows.

And in the corner, in perhaps the only part of the room with /toys/ in it-- even if they look more educational than fun-- is the boy himself. Osamu Tsushima.

He's a scruffy little thing, much taller than he should be at six years old. He's all

knobby knees and sharp elbows and wild, curly dark hair that covers one eye. He looks up at the sound of the door opening, his eye huge and brown, but doesn't say anything or move forward to greet them.

There's a stuffed bunny in his arms, with long legs and arms. With one arm,

he’s holding it clutched to his chest; with the other, he’s petting it’s head in slow, absentminded strokes.

Normally, this is where Sora would go up to him. Would crouch down to get on his level, would offer to shake his head, and introduce herself. Talk to him like a tiny

adult and let him know that she cares about his opinion and that he’s important.

But now— with /“you are not allowed to touch him”/ ringing in her ears— she’s not sure what to do. Osamu doesn’t help her either, silently staring at her from across the room like he’s not sure what

to make of her. Like he doesn’t often get introduced to strangers, and so he doesn’t know what to do except just—

Stare at her, eyes huge and distrustful under his bangs, his hair sticking up in all directions like a wild animal puffing it’s fur up to make itself look bigger and

more intimidating. His chin is dipped slightly, like he’s trying to protect his throat.

And through the entire thing, he doesn’t say a single word. He doesn’t happily show off his toys like Yuan would or instantly start doing tricks for attention like Shirase, or anything else.

/Can/ he talk?

Why isn’t she allowed to touch him?

“You misunderstand,” Margaret says, gesturing Osamu forward so he can say hello properly. He follows her directions hesitantly, the hand petting the bunny moving faster in anxiety. As he comes closer, the milk-sweet smell of

baby follows him.

It smells… off.

“You are not allowed to touch him at all.”

(No one is.)

(It has been 148 days since Osamu was last touched. He has not learned to count that high yet.)

—— +