Chapter Text
Depending on where you start, it was a story about a prophet.
That’s the word whispered through the streets.
A prophet from the South. He speaks of calamity.
It’s rare that many nobles give any attention to the mutterings of the masses, but not Mori Ougai. He knows better than most how the power of the common people comes not from their individual influence, but by their number.
A god was only a god if the people thought of him as such.
Mori is no god, but the throne he sits on wasn’t built for him – it was earned. He only sits there because no one has had reason to try and remove him yet.
(Technically, if one were to address it directly, it was taken – but Mori is anything before he is direct.)
Mori values the everyday of the people. If someone undermines his authority, disrupts his trade routes, falters in their loyalty, their punishment is swift. But if someone threatens his land, causes problems for those who pay him tribute, then his people can rest assured that it will not go undealt with.
As a noble, he is beloved and feared in equal measure. Mori is not kind, but he will do right by what is his. A delicate balance that, somehow, the people seem grateful for.
Dazai Osamu is perhaps too much like his uncle. An only son, orphaned young, viciously clever. A little too smart, a little too suspicious. Far too aware of the world around him, far too skilled in molding it to his vision, and all the darker for it.
Their only possible destinies were to love each other or hate each other, and only they seem to know which side they land on.
Dazai is his ear to the ground, his spy, his saboteur.
His usurper, someday. Probably. If he were to ever show an interest in politics, or anything at all.
It’s a boon, Dazai’s bleakness.
The one way in which he and Mori differ so extremely.
It’s why Mori keeps him so close. It’s why he keeps him busy, gathering information and making swords out of it. Dazai’s mind needs stimulation, or else he will tear himself to pieces, taking the world down with him.
So when Dazai comes before him, blankly informing him of a rumored prophet in his lands that has his people whispering amongst themselves in his streets and hanging dead birds outside of their kitchen windows for protection, Mori is surprised when he asks to investigate the matter personally.
If it’s just a rumor, you lose nothing by investigating. But if it’s real… well, I’m sure I’m only the first to hear about it.
There’s a spark in Dazai’s eye. He tries to hide it, shrugging as he rocks on the balls of his feet in front of his uncle’s desk, and that should be enough of a reason for Mori to say no.
Instead, he gives him one month and the stables’ finest carriage.
╚══《✧》══╝
News travels fast along the trade routes, gossip flowing from a merchant’s mouth and into a housewife’s ear faster than missives during wartime.
By the time Dazai’s “entourage” sweeps past the gates of Suribachi, they have only been on the road for a week and the small farming town is already alight with chatter. Even just being one carriage strong, the make and the markings lining the fine wood are enough to draw the eyes of the populace. Children gawk at them from street corners. Old wives scrutinize them from open doorways, always in sets of three.
“Do they know who we are?” Atsushi asks, peeking through the small gap between the curtains. He’s hunched down in his seat, making himself small even if no one can actually see him. An old habit that he – not shockingly – still has yet to shake.
“Mm. Probably.”
The boy purses his lips, unimpressed, as he turns to look at his employer.
There’s a long, lanky body stretched out on the carriage bench opposite him. Lord Dazai has been lounging there for the better part of their trip, legs kicked up against the carriage wall to make up for the poor bench that is far too short to contain his gangly form. Gravity pulls the legs of his trousers back, rumpling him, giving Atsushi a scandalous flash of his gray stockings.
“That’s not funny,” Atsushi scolds, only to receive a shrug in reply.
Dazai smiles, not comfortingly. “If you knew the answer, why did you ask?”
“I don’t know, I just… Should we be concerned?”
“Concerned about what? Farmers and priests?” Dazai says by way of an answer. His coat stays hitched around his waist, unbuttoned. He looks like he could be in a perpetual state of having just rolled out of bed. “Isn’t that what you’re here for? Bodyguard, and all?”
The boy’s mouth twists into a frown, and he looks back to the window. “I’d like to prevent a fight from breaking out at all,” he says. “But people this far south aren’t exactly fond of the lordship. If they know who you are, or if they find out… there might be trouble.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky, and we’ll get chased down by a mob. Imagine the look on my uncle’s face.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
Atsushi huffs, shaking his head. “It’s not.”
Dazai doesn’t bother to respond, letting the inevitable argument die before it can fester, as much as stressing Atsushi out amuses him. Luckily for the other boy, there are more pressing matters on the young lord’s mind.
The carriage pulls to a stop outside of the inn, marked by a small, inviting sign protruding over the door. The inn stands tall above all of the other buildings in Suribachi, the one sign of city influence in the small town. The building itself isn’t grand, but it is well-decorated and clearly cared for. The porch and the wooden rails out front are polished to perfection. Through the windows, deep red curtains woven and accented with shimmering golds can be seen, drawn tight for privacy. A cottage aspiring to be a palace.
When Dazai steps down from the carriage into the light of the nearly-setting sun, he is immediately met by the sweet scent of flowers. Sure enough, there are garden boxes at every window, their blossoms meticulously pruned and flourishing. He inhales deeply, savoring the fresh, open air of the country. He hasn’t been in the countryside proper in years, Mori deeming his mind better put to use in dealing with the undercurrent of city politics.
Behind him, Atsushi sets about unloading their baggage. With one arm, he hefts one bag over his shoulder, and another under the other, before hurrying to Dazai’s side with a quickened skip in his step. The boy is deceptively strong, hiding his lean muscle behind poor posture and an unassuming disposition. Despite the juxtaposition of an unassuming bodyguard, Dazai has never questioned Atsushi’s abilities. Not only is he loyal and very capable, but there are other qualities Dazai values in him. Ones that are less obvious to the position of bodyguard.
Someone clears their throat, and Dazai turns to find a woman shadowing the doorstep to the inn, her arms folded over her chest. She’s tall, perhaps as tall as Dazai if she wears heels. Her red hair is tied up in a bun on her head, affixed with ornaments and ribbon to keep it in place. Her dress is practical for someone on their feet for large portions of the day, but the way she holds herself gives her an air of elegance.
Dazai meets her narrow gaze with a smile.
“So you’ve stopped at my doorstep, then,” she says, voice clear from a distance even without raising it. “Good evening.”
“Good evening,” Dazai replies. “You sound as though we were expected.”
“Expected, though not anticipated. Does your lad need help?” she asks, gesturing to Atsushi who has stopped dead in his tracks just over Dazai’s shoulder.
Atsushi blinks in surprise at being addressed, glancing to Dazai, only to find his employer looking back at him expectantly.
Quickly, the boy shakes his head. “Oh! No, I’m – I’m alright. Thank you. Ma’am.”
The woman looks him over, head to toe, before smiling to herself in a way that wasn’t entirely unwelcoming.
“Well. Come in, then.”
Atsushi shifts a bit under her gaze, but with a nod from Dazai, he follows the man up the steps.
They make it about four steps up before there is a commotion from inside the inn. The woman straightens suddenly, turning to the side just in time to not be barrelled over by two small forms hurdling out of the inn with reckless abandon. Dazai reacts quickly, sidestepping, just barely managing to catch himself on the railing to avoid tumbling back down the steps gracelessly.
Atsushi is not so lucky, freezing in the face of the two unstoppable objects. One checks the hip on the side of his raised arm, knocking him off balance. His foot slips, sending his top-heavy body tilting backwards. Atsushi’s expression morphs into one of abject fear, his backfoot searching desperately for the step below. He finds it, but his heel catches awkwardly on the lip of it, and he stumbles down a few steps before crashing into the other railing.
“Children!” the woman reprimands. “Kenji!”
The second shape to run out of the end stops suddenly, and Dazai makes out a head of blond hair that snaps to attention at the sound of its name. A young boy, no more than ten or eleven, skids to a halt. Immediately, he notices Atsushi, and abandons his chase of the other quickly retreating child to scramble back up the stairs towards the struggling bodyguard.
“Sorry, Miss Kouyou,” he says, unphased as he catches Atsushi by the back, pushing him back upright with surprising strength.
“It’s not me you should be apologizing to,” the woman, Kouyou, scolds.
Kenji looks up at Atsushi. “Sorry, sir!” he says cheerily, grinning wide, and scurries back down to chase his supposed playmate.
Kouyou sighs, gesturing Dazai and Atsushi forward, shaking her head. “I apologize for the… children,” she says. “You can set your things inside.”
Atsushi places the bags by the front door. He stops to take inventory of himself and catch his breath, obviously still shaken from the incident outside.
Meanwhile, Dazai clasps his hands behind his back and follows Kouyou to her place at the front desk. She walks around to the other side of the counter, not bothering to sit as she flips open a registry with her delicately manicured nails.
“How long will you be staying?” she asks.
“How long will you keep us?” Dazai answers, gaining him an arched brow in response.
“I suppose that depends on what you are here for.”
The lord hums. “Well, we aren’t here to cause trouble.”
“That’s what all the newcomers say,” she says. “And yet, trouble always follows you.”
She talks like Dazai is one step away from being kicked out onto the dirt at any given moment.
He likes her immensely.
“We’re following up on some rumors coming out of this town,” he answers vaguely, waving the implications away with his hand. She doesn’t seem impressed.
“And who is ‘we’?”
“Ah!” he says, clapping his hands together. “We failed to introduce ourselves. My name is Tsushima Shuuji, and that’s Atsushi.”
“Tsushima,” she says, testing the name’s weight in the air between them. “And what kind of rumors might you be following?”
At this, Dazai leans in close over the counter, conspiratorial as he lowers his voice. Kouyou leans back slightly in response, lips curling in distaste.
“Surely, Miss Kouyou, you must know the answer to that. What kinds of rumors travel so far out of small towns like this that they catch the attention of traveling aristocrats?”
Her expression cools somehow even further, and Dazai is hit with the revelation that before, she must have been looking at him kindly.
“Surely, as such a lovely innkeep, you must know all kinds of gossip.”
“It is Miss Ozaki, to you. Mind your manners,” she diverts, shooing him back to his side of the desk. Then, before he can respond: “Is something wrong with your coat, lad?”
She lifts her head to look behind him as she speaks. Dazai follows her attention to Atsushi once again, the boy sitting on a set of luggage as he presses a hand to his side. He jumps when he realizes she’s talking to him once again.
“Nothing, I just…” he begins, trailing off as he chews on his lower lip. Then, carefully, he removes his hand. “I’m sorry, I just… I think it must have snagged on the railing earlier. When we were outside..”
Atsushi exposes the side seam of his dark coat, where the fabric is usually cinched in towards his waist. Instead, the seam has been ripped open, exposing the gray inner lining and a bit of Atsushi’s white blouse underneath.
“Don’t apologize so feebly,” Kouyou tsks. “Especially not for something that was my children’s fault.”
She scribbles something down in the registry, before flipping the book shut with a flick of her wrist. Then, she opens another book – a blank one, from what Dazai can tell – and tears a piece of parchment from it. She writes something on that, too, before holding it and a small key out to Dazai.
“It’s late. You will pay for a week’s stay. Once that period ends, we will discuss further charges. Get your boy to the seamster a few streets down in the morning. You’ll want the older brother, the younger one is a cobbler. If I hear back from them that I sent rude customers their way, you can sleep in the stables with your horses.”
Dazai takes them from her, unfolding the paper briefly to see a short note of referral written in an elegant, looping script.
“Thank you, Miss Kouyou.”
“Ozaki.”
He holds his hands up placatingly. “Miss Ozaki.”
She grunts at him in a very dignified manner.
Dazai slides the necessary payment across the counter before he turns to leave, helping Atsushi with the luggage. As he does so, Kouyou clears her throat behind him. Atsushi tenses in trepidation.
“One more thing,” she calls, and Dazai turns his head to listen. “I would be careful who you go asking for rumors. Country folk get nervous when outsiders come snooping about their business.”
Dazai gives her a cordial, blank smile and a nod, before he and Atsushi disappear up the stairs towards their room for the night.
╚══《✧》══╝
The next morning, Dazai sends Atsushi on his way with his folded, torn coat, and a healthy coin purse to pay for repairs.
“By myself?” Atsushi balks, clutching the coin purse close to his heart, like he does any time Dazai hands him money unexpectedly. “What about you? I can’t guard you from the other side of town!”
Dazai clicks his tongue and pats Atsushi’s shoulder good-naturedly. “Oh please, when have you known me to get an early start, hm? I’ll stay in a while longer until you get back. How long can a simple seam stitch take?”
Atsushi – ever loyal, trusting Atsushi – considers the proposal for a moment.
“And you swear?”
“On my life, Atsushi.”
At that, the boy narrows his eyes. He turns to Kouyou, once again at her place at the counter. “Will you please not let him leave until I get back?”
Kouyou hums noncommittally. “Of course.”
Atsushi sighs, but takes the answer for what it is. “Alright… I’ll be back in just an hour. If it takes longer, I’ll send someone to let you know. Okay?”
Dazai nods once, twice, three times, already ushering Atsushi towards the door. “Yes, yes, now get going! The sooner you leave, the sooner you can come back to save me from my loneliness.”
“I – Okay, but – Seriously, Lord Da – Tsushima, one hour!” he states one final time, glancing hopefully towards Kouyou, before the door closes behind him.
From the window, Dazai watches as his bodyguard lingers nervously on the porch, before finally hurrying down the steps and flowing into the morning foot traffic of the town. Once he’s at least three buildings down, Kouyou speaks.
“Tsushima,” she says.
“Hm?”
“Why do you want to see him?”
Dazai doesn’t turn to look at her. He doesn’t have to. “I have questions.”
“No, you don’t,” she says. “Not for him. No one does.”
“Why? Because he ‘foretells doom’?” Dazai asks, clicking his tongue again. “Then I definitely have questions for him.”
“He likely won’t see you. He isn’t interested in revenge plots, or trade wars, or real wars, or whatever it is you want him for.”
“Oh?”
“He doesn’t hurt people,” she insists.
Dazai doesn’t move, doesn’t change his stance at all. He remains relaxed.
Kouyou huffs in annoyance. “I hate stubborn men.”
“Really? I love stubborn women.”
“Manners.”
He laughs. “Sorry.”
“No you’re not,” she sighs. “Should I alert the boy, then?”
“Hm. I’m the one who’s paying you, right?”
Kouyou answers, a rueful smile undeniable in her voice, “Yes, you are the one who paid me.”
“Good,” Dazai says, tossing her another silver, which she catches easily. “Now, which way to destiny?”
And with that, Dazai is out the door as well.
╚══《✧》══╝
Kouyou’s directions lead him to the edge of town, but not to the road. Instead, they take him past the churchyard and around the main market, until the buildings give way to grassy hills. And just there, barely twenty yards from the furthest building, is a small section of treeline.
They’re oddly nonspecific instructions at first, and Dazai has to kneel down in the dirt by a large oak tree that juts out from all the rest, searching amongst the tree roots to find what could be considered the “largest.” He makes his best guess, figuring that he must have a little room for error, given the circumstances.
The trees are dense here, denser than they are further north or even in other areas surrounding Suribachi, where loggers harvest the wood for sale and artistry. Here, the trees are tall and thick, their bark old and cracked with age. Some root systems jut out of the ground entirely, twisting and coiling through the air before plunging back into the earth.
He understands, suddenly, why Kouyou pushed the importance of not deviating from one direction. Without her warning, he might get lost in the directionless mass of moving forest.
He might still.
The thought passes through him as humor, but the further he goes – climbing over fallen logs and circumventing large puddles of long-accumulated rainwater – part of him twinges with worry.
Finally, he spots a gap in the trees.
Calling it a path would be generous. It’s a slim, foot-carved trail through the trees, worming through the dirt. Dazai sticks to it like a lifeline, finding the few places it breaks thanks to piles of leaves or erosion, only to pick up again a few feet away.
The forest is hot, and humid, and it rapidly becomes impossible to tell time with the sky obscured. Daylight begins to dim, but Dazai can’t tell if it’s because time is changing or because the leaves overhead are just growing thicker the deeper he goes.
Still, he can’t be walking for more than fifteen minutes before the path ends suddenly, fading quickly into the unmarred forest floor. Dazai walks past it, searching for the familiar, well-worn streaks of the path continuing. He hops over a small ditch dug out by some wildlife, turns, walks backwards as he scans the floor behind him. He couldn’t have missed it, can’t lose himself after coming this far –
The ground suddenly turns flat under Dazai’s feet, and before he knows it, light bursts across his vision as the canopy breaks.
He freezes.
It can’t be that easy, he thinks. It can’t have been that easy.
He’s broken the treeline. He can see the edge of the forest in front of him, and he turns, slowly.
The first thing he sees is the tree – trees, he corrects himself, because it can’t just be one. Multiple trunks – at least three – twisting over and over themselves at the far end of the clearing like angry, coiling serpents caught in an eternal struggle. They loom over the rest of the forest, bark almost bleach-white, leaves red and brown and untamed. Even from a distance, Dazai can tell that their true size is unfathomable. The kind of giant that makes one shrink back from the idea of getting too close, or else be unable to comprehend its true enormity.
Grass stretches on before him unhindered, dotted only by what look like a handful of personal farming plots. Crops are just breaking through the soil, guarded by handmade stone fences. Nestled at the base of the trees, almost merging into it like a core, is a modest cabin, surrounded on all sides by what look like half-finished odd projects. A pile of lumber, a half-constructed dining table, a stack of boxes piled onto a delivery cart.
But somehow, every single aforementioned oddity falls away into the background as Dazai’s gaze finds the one thing that truly matters.
In front of the cabin, unmoving since Dazai stumbled into the clearing –
Stands a boy.
All of the stories paint a picture in Dazai's head of a pale, reclusive hermit in a cloak. Maybe waving a gnarled, wooden staff to curse children sneaking around his cabin.
But when he gets there, the first thing that strikes him is –
The prophet is awfully small.
Even though it’s unfair to the man, being dwarfed by the giant, towering trees behind him, Dazai can surmise that if they were to stand side-by-side, he might barely reach Dazai’s collarbones. And that’s with Dazai being uncharacteristically generous. Dazai might almost call him slight –
That notion is quickly dashed as he watches the man heave an ax overhead, arm muscles straining as he brings it down on two large pieces of firewood, splitting them clean in half.
The second thought he has is that, for a forest spirit-faerie-prophet, the man looks surprisingly grounded. No cloak or crystal ball, but rather a sensible set of work boots pulled over a pair of worn trousers fitted to his frame. He’s dressed rather lightly for late fall, with a red, sleeveless tunic cinched at his waist by a black belt. The front is unbuttoned, baring his chest to the cool autumn winds. He’s not pale, either, with a healthy tan settling across his skin, sunburned across the bridge of his nose and the tops of his shoulders.
Hair the color of crushed autumn, carelessly tousled and blazing bright under the harsh sunlight.
Cold blue eyes land on Dazai, pinning him from across the clearing.
Oh.
Two thoughts in quick succession:
He’s beautiful.
And–
He’s looking at me.
"Oi!" the boy calls, and Dazai blinks rapidly, unaware of how long he had been staring. "Are you fucking lost, creep?"
His voice is rough and abrasive. Nothing like the delicate, careful lilt of a nobleman’s hiss.
Dazai falters at the sound of it.
“Excuse me?”
“Are you deaf, too? I asked if you were lost!”
"That depends. I was looking for someone important, but all I’ve found is a squeaky field mouse."
Dazai can see the way the boy bristles, and victory stirs in his chest.
" Hah?! What did you just say?!” the redhead barks, burying the blade of his ax into the trunk with one heavy swing.
Dazai eyes the motion appreciatively before he meets his gaze, simmering with annoyance. "I said, I’m looking for someone.”
The boy doesn’t seem satisfied with his deflection, crossing his arms over his chest, one hip cocked to the side in a very no-nonsense kind of way. “Well, tough shit! This is my property, and I don’t want you on it! So get out of here before one of these tools gets lodged in your thick skull, and I hang you upside down in the garden to ward off any other dumb assholes who think they can just wander in unannounced!”
It’s a direct, bodily threat – the kind of which Dazai has never actually experienced before, and it actually makes him tuck his chin into his chest in surprise. The mental image that the redhead has so eloquently conjured up making him wince.
“What an unpleasant way to go,” he mutters to himself.
“What’s that?” the boy shouts again. “Quit your mumbling already!”
“Well, do you want me to leave or do you want me to speak up?” Dazai calls back.
The boy groans, rolling up his sleeve with a violent march forward. “That’s it – ”
“Do you know where I could find a prophet?”
Just as soon as his march starts, it stops. Across the clearing, blue eyes flash wide enough that Dazai can see the whites.
“What?” he blurts, raw with shock. “What prophet?”
Dazai claps his hands together, eyes wide and brimming with hope. "The one the town won’t stop talking about? The one whose prophecies always come true?”
The boy squints. “A prophet?”
Like opposing poles, when Dazai steps forward, the other steps back. Something like disappointment stirs in Dazai’s gut. He wasn’t expecting it to be so easy to make a prophet back down.
“Is that you? Or not?”
It’s then that the boy seems to finally take Dazai in, looking him up and down twice, evidently finding no shame in doing so. Like Dazai is a statue that walked right up to his doorstep.
When Dazai steps forward again, the boy’s hand curls around his ax, dislodging it from the wood with one purposeful tug.
(With that one motion, Dazai realizes his mistake – confusing retreat for anticipation.
He doesn’t hurt people, the innkeeper’s voice echoes in his mind, and Dazai wonders how well she actually knows him.)
“Who the fuck are you?”
He grins, shrugging one shoulder at the little prophet.
“I’m someone looking for a prophecy, obviously. I thought that much would have been clear.”
The other boy squints at him, and the expression he gives is somehow both intimidating and endearing.
“I don’t know you. You’re not from town. How’d you find me?”
“The innkeep. Miss Ozaki,” he says with all of the respect he reserves for the most well-married women at court. “She sent me.”
“Ozaki?”
“Don’t you know her?”
The boy purses his lips and looks away, something like a grimace passing over his face. “Not by name,” he grumbles, and turns back towards his cabin. From behind, Dazai watches as he rolls his shoulders, working out some of the tension that Dazai had put there. He hangs his head, having some sort of internal debate that Dazai can only humorously guess at, before his shoulder sag.
“Fine,” he says. “Get your ass inside. We’ll make this quick.”
With quick, sure strides, the boy climbs up the makeshift staircase to his home. He doesn’t wait for Dazai to catch up, not that the brunet minds, using his long legs to his advantage to close the distance.
The inside of the cabin is much like the outside. Well-loved and hand-tended, smelling of earth and the open air. There are patches in the wall sealed over with wood planks and dry clay. Stone pots hang from hooks in the ceiling, overflowing with herbs. The boy places his ax by the door, picking up a pestle and mortar from an overloaded kitchen counter. The space is cramped and cluttered, but the way he moves around, picking up and putting away the tools he needs without error, makes it not seem messy.
“Why would a prophet live so far from town?” Dazai asks, tracing a budding vine of climbing spitfire.
“Stop calling me that,” the boy huffs. “It’s Chuuya.”
“Chuuya,” Dazai repeats. “Why would Chuuya live so far from town?”
“None of your damn business.”
Dazai hums, unperturbed. “What sorts of things do people come to you for?”
Chuuya twists off a sprig of some star-shaped herb with no small amount of frustration, dropping it into his bowl. “Look. Can we just stick to the magic shit?"
"If you like."
Tossing a few more herbs into his bowl, he drops the thing unceremoniously onto the table in front of Dazai again. "Put your hair in this."
Dazai plucks a strand of his hair, and obediently drops it into the bowl.
"I can't predict anything about myself, and the visions come in when I sleep. Those are all the questions I'm gonna answer for you."
"How do you differentiate between regular dreams and your visions?"
"Did you not just hear what I said?" he snaps, grinding his pestle into the mortar viciously.
"I'm curious!" Dazai insists, bending to lean his elbows on the table. "I've never met a proper prophet before. I'd like to know how it works."
"Don't. Call me that."
"Little oracle?"
"I'm not fucking little , you oversimplified beanpole."
Dazai has to bite down his amusement, but that doesn't stop Chuuya from scowling like he can see it anyway.
"Just ask your question. What do you want to know about your shitty future?"
Dazai breathes in deep, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. He leans forwards, into the prophet's space. Chuuya doesn't step back this time, instead staring down his nose at him in wary disdain, much to Dazai's delight.
"I would like you to predict a death."
Immediately, without missing a beat, "No. I don't do deaths."
Dazai grins, sharp and childlike all at once. "It's mine."
Abruptly, the grinding stops.
Chuuya's eyes widen, darting up to find Dazai's for the first time since he stumbled through the clearing.
They stare at each other in silence, understanding passing between them in waves. Dazai is simpering silently. He studies the crease of Chuuya's eyelids, the stubborn downturn of his mouth. He has a dimple, even when he frowns.
Finally, Chuuya's expression hardens. He tosses the bowl into a random corner of his kitchen, sending herb-and-hair mush spilling out onto the floor.
"Get out of my house."
Dazai jerks to attention, quickly backpedaling as Chuuya stalks around the counter and towards him. "Goodness! What's that reaction for? I'm more than willing to pay."
"I don't want your money. I don't do deaths."
"Why not?"
He shakes his head. "Because I don't indulge in the whims of suicide-perverts. It makes me sick. Now," he says, knocking Dazai's shoulder as he brushes past him. He marches to the door, throwing it open so harshly that it swings around and bounces against the outside wall with a thud, "get out of my house."
When Dazai doesn't move, Chuuya snatches him by the lapel, and drags him to the doorway. Quickly, Dazai grabs the door frame before he can be forced out.
"Get out."
Quickly, regretfully, Dazai fumbles for his trump card. The strategy that always works when you have power and money and a legacy behind you.
"I can't, Chuuya. You can either do this, or someone else can come find you in my place."
Threats.
Just like everyone else, Chuuya falters.
"What?"
"You said it yourself. I'm not from town," Dazai says. He wraps a hand around Chuuya's forearm, the one pressing against Dazai's chest with a surprising amount of strength. He leans his head down close, lowering his voice into a promise. "How do you think I found you? The only reason no one else came first is because I didn't want them to."
Chuuya balks at him, and Dazai wonders if anyone has directly threatened him, either. He wonders if that's out of respect, or fear.
The prophet grits his teeth, shaking his head. "Like I'd believe that. You're not gonna scare me."
"Aren’t I?"
Outside, a chorus of crows cry from the trees.
“Don’t get so full of yourself,” Chuuya says.
“I’m not. I’m saying nothing but the truth. I’ve been careful. Considerate, even.”
Chuuya squeezes his eyes shut, turning his face away from Dazai. He shoves harder.
"Just – Shut up. Stop talking."
A strong gust of wind rattles the walls of the cabin, and Dazai’s foot nearly slips. He digs his heels further into the ground. "I can tell them there's nothing here, Chuuya. That they're wasting their time. Isn’t that worth one measly stranger’s life?”
"Shut up," he hisses.
This time, it doesn't feel directed at Dazai.
"Chuuya – "
With a growl, Chuuya’s eyes snap open, wide and unseeing. “Goddammit, stop saying my name!” he shouts, and Dazai loses his footing.
No.
The ground moves.
Like a wave of wood and earth, a sheet being whipped out, the floor of the cabin creaks and splinters as it rolls. It lashes out at Dazai, and the entire house arches and tilts forward, like it’s spitting Dazai out. He feels himself thrown back, Chuuya’s fingers slipping from their grip in his coat. And then, he’s falling.
He can see the three coiling trees fly past his vision, the sky and clouds speeding by, and then the forest canopy as it blocks out the sun. Pinpricks of light scatter across his vision as light breaks through the trees in small bursts, zipping past as he falls horizontally. He can’t move his arms, can’t cover himself as he whips past stray branches and vines, the forest battering his body as he’s flung into its waiting arms.
He hits the ground hard, shoulder first and ass second. He bounces and skids, rolling across the grass. He breaks the treeline much less controlled this time, only stopping because of the merciful nature of gravity.
Once he stops, he gasps, only to regret the immediate, searing aftermath in his lungs. He curls onto his side, cradling the spot on his ribs where a particularly unkind rock had acted as his cushion during the fall. He coughs, racking his frame with pain.
When he rolls onto his back, he can see the sky again. The clouds are painted with the colors of sunset, the sun lower in the sky than it should be by his estimations. And Dazai’s estimations are always accurate.
After he’s sure he isn’t going to throw up, he lifts his head. Like he suspected, he’s back on the other side of the forest. Suribachi stands behind him, the inn just a short five minute walk away.
Chuuya stands behind the treeline, one hand on the large, sturdy oak that first served as Dazai’s guiding point. Bathed in shadow, his eyes are still wide – furious, but fearful. If Dazai had to put a name to it, he would say Chuuya probably hated him right at that moment.
“Stay out of my fucking forest,” he snarls.
And within the timespan of a blink, he’s gone.
Like the trees swallowed him whole.
The breeze sounds like laughter.
╚══《✧》══╝
The walk back to town is more of a stumble.
He's dirty, and injured (albeit superficially), and disoriented.
He feels awful.
He feels alive.
He finally loses strength on the staircase leading up to the inn. He leans back on the very banister that tore poor Atsushi's coat, his knees giving out from under him as he slides down into a sitting position. He tilts his head back to the wood, and he feels his heart beat.
That's how poor Atsushi finds him.
The boy is a mess, panicking and teary when he comes into Dazai's field of view. He looks exhausted, and it's barely been half a day.
Then again, for Dazai, it's barely been an hour. But he got thrown through time and space by a woodland prophet, so in a competition, he thinks he would win.
Behind Atsushi is another boy, tall and slightly imposing, but unintentionally so. His rust-colored hair protrudes like spikes behind Atsushi's head, otherwise Dazai might not have noticed him.
Atsushi swings aimlessly between concern and scolding, checking Dazai over for bruises while simultaneously threatening to add to them.
"Where were you? You promised you'd stay in the inn!"
"I promised I'd relax – ow," he whines when Atsushi tugs a little too hard at his blouse. "I just went for a little stroll."
"Did you fall down a mountain?! Twice?!"
Dazai laughs.
He winces.
He huffs another laugh through grinning teeth.
"I found my prophet, Atsushi."
Atsushi's hands stop moving, hovering over a dark spot on his ribs as he stares, processing. The rock-wound. Of course.
"Oh shit," says the boy behind Atsushi, and they both turn to look at him.
He still stands, lingering oddly over the crouching pair, lantern in hand. He scratches the bandage over his nose, eyes brimming at Dazai with impressed recognition.
"Congratulations, man," he says, amused, and it's unclear what exactly he means by that. "He sure did a number on you, huh?"