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He is reclined in his wicker chair as usual when it happens. A worn paperback in hand, he thumbs through the yellowing pages without really registering the words. No matter what kind of commotion shakes the world outside, it’s always quiet down here, tranquil in a way that seems to denote the absence of even time.
Time. He has far too much to know what to do with all of it.
A communication device sits on the small table in front of him, letting the occasional report flow through its static-filled feed. As a member of the organization, he has a duty to stay up to date with the state of affairs outside. That being said, he’s gotten used to filtering out most of the news that comes in, and he’s already lost interest in the feed as his attention returns to his terribly boring book.
That’s when another line cuts in—frantic shouts layering over each other, urgent requests for backup interspersed with deafening explosions, but most importantly, one keyword that instantly seizes his attention.
Corruption.
An ear-splitting crash from the other side of the receiver, a metallic crunch, and the feed abruptly cuts out.
Tossing the book aside, he rises smoothly from his seat and makes his way over to the door. By all appearances, it’s a well-secured place. Heavy-duty ability-resistant metal, password-enabled electronic locks, all manner of biometric scanners—there is no shortage of protections on the entrance to his chamber.
From the outside, that is. For him, leaving is as simple as dipping the handle of the door and pushing out into the vacant hallway. A draft greets him, carrying with it the musty scent of underground. His footsteps are light and purposeful as they click down the dust-filled corridor past empty cells and training rooms.
It’s been three years since he entered his self-imposed isolation. Three years since he’s spoken at length with anyone. And, more importantly, one year after Dazai Osamu defected from the mafia.
For the first time since he shut himself away, he walks towards the stairs with the intent of heading outside.
***
Losing Guivre is not something Verlaine has ever regretted. That inhumanity of his, and his raging animosity towards life itself had been a constant source of anguish for him. A way for others to control him.
He never wished for great power. It’s enough that Rimbaud’s precious gift flows through his veins even now. And yet, if there is one thing to lament about losing that detestable power, it’s that he can no longer use it to stop Chuuya’s rampage.
The wind whips past him, made all the more violent by the vortex of abnormal forces surrounding them. Chuuya—or rather, Arahabaki—thrashes beneath his hold, causing his skin to tear where gravity rams into counter-gravity. Verlaine grits his teeth, forcing out every bit of ability available to pin Chuuya down. It’s as futile as trying to contain a hurricane. The moment he lets go, everything in the vicinity will be destroyed. But even if he manages to prolong the stalemate, sooner or later, Chuuya will break through his restraints.
Praying for his strength to hold out, Verlaine reaches with his mind into the whirlpool of chaos that is Chuuya’s soul. Every noise, every gash and gale, every sensation becomes a pinprick, and with a rush, silence engulfs him. An oppressively still silence, suspended within the heart of the storm.
Before him stands Chuuya’s gate. Like his own, it towers over him, decorated in rune-like markings and radiating waves of angry red energy. Large, imposing doors lay blown wide open before him.
He sets a hand on one of the doors, feeling something inside him surge and flow out towards the point of contact. Resonance. Just as with the previous two times, he reaches deep within himself, past his already depleted reserves, towards the source of his life itself—his singularity.
And then he sets it ablaze.
There is the fever-heat of his being burning like a nuclear core, the scorching wood beneath his fingers lapping up raw energy, and there is a keen ringing in his ears, a blinding white encroaching on his vision. His temperature rises and keeps rising. The torrent of energy escaping out of him drowns out all thought, until the only thing holding him together is the few hundred lines of code that make up his personhood.
At last, the doors slam shut.
Reality crashes back into place—irregular gravitational fields dissipating into night air, a body going limp in his grip, his own hitting the ground shortly after. Exhausted and sore, he lays there in the midst of the crater and catches his breath. There isn’t a part of him that doesn’t ache. Something—an organ, a bone, a ligament, maybe all three—is broken, courtesy of Chuuya nailing him with a sonic-speed kick during their tussle. And yet, he can only sigh in relief.
Chuuya lies next to him in a peaceful slumber, the signs of Arahabaki’s influence having receded back into the depths of his soul. Despite the havoc he had been wreaking only minutes ago, with his eyes closed like this, his face free of that semi-permanent scowl, he looks far too much like a child for comfort. Like someone he wasn’t allowed to be.
A stray strand of hair slips out of place, falling across his dirt-covered face. Without thinking, Verlaine reaches over to tuck it back. But just as quickly, he pulls away, as if the contact might sting.
Rising unsteadily to his feet, he carefully gathers Chuuya up in his arms. A few mafia grunts are peeking at him past their covers of bent tree trunks and singed bushes. He casts a disinterested glance their way before handing Chuuya over to one of them—a large, stocky one who tries not to flinch as their eyes meet.
“Take care of him,” Verlaine orders, and before the grunt can stammer out a response, he is already walking off, making the long trek back to headquarters alone.
He’s been out too long. It won’t do for more people to catch sight of him.
***
He gets there faster the second time, but only because he’s started keeping tabs on Chuuya’s assignments. Mission details, meeting transcripts, wiretaps—the Boss has been somewhat indulgent in answering Verlaine's requests, handing these over with an amused glint in his eyes.
It’s a logical course of action—if another Arahabaki incident breaks out, all eyes will be drawn to their organization, and then it’s only a matter of time until Verlaine’s survival comes to light. For someone who shouldn’t exist, in more than one sense, that would be the worst case scenario.
To preserve this life that Rimbaud gave everything to save, helping Chuuya is only logical.
The rampage has just started when Verlaine arrives at the scene, judging by the pockmarked earth and the few damaged trees, bent in silent lament. With ability-enhanced gravity at his heels, he shoots towards Chuuya like a bullet. Free of hostility, free of bloodlust, as if he were simply rushing up to greet a dear friend, he closes the distance between them, his hand settling lightly on Chuuya’s chest before the other can even react.
This time, the gate closes instantly. Like a marionette freed from its strings, Chuuya goes slack and falls into his waiting arms. For a moment, Verlaine stands there, shoulders sagging with the knowledge that the crisis has been averted.
He had been afraid it wouldn’t work—the command sequence he encoded on himself to close Chuuya’s gate upon physical contact. Much like the one he’d written into Chuuya’s programming years ago, he’d created this sequence as a countermeasure against Corruption. Without Guivre as his core, there had been a chance of a compatibility issue, but in the end, the risk had been worth it.
Chuuya snores lightly in his hold, as if he hadn’t just leveled the area mere seconds ago.
An exasperated smile tugs at Verlaine’s lips as he shifts the boy into a more comfortable position. “Must you be so reckless?”
He brings Chuuya back to headquarters, where he drops him off at the infirmary and leaves like the next coming breeze.
***
“You know,” Ozaki drawls, picking at an invisible thread on the sleeve of her kimono. It’s a pointless action, since her upkeep is never anything less than meticulous. “You could at least stay until he wakes up. He’s been looking for you.”
Verlaine ignores her remark in favor of refilling their cups with tea. Visitors are rare for him, but Ozaki is one of his more frequent ones, dropping by from time to time to ask about a subordinate’s progress, or to bore him with her inane chatter.
At first, he had suspected ill-will on her part, considering how protective she had been of Chuuya during their first encounter. But after months passed, and all she brought with her were tea snacks and mid-afternoon gossip, he’d come to the conclusion that she was simply bored.
That being said, neither of them are particularly fond of each other.
“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Verlaine says, before sampling a bit of his tea—an offering that one of Chuuya’s henchmen had delivered with a stiff nod following his initial reemergence. It’s a bit too grassy for his liking, and he finds himself wishing he’d made coffee instead.
Ozaki narrows her eyes, as if she’s contemplating running him through with Golden Demon. She can go ahead and try. It might make for some light exercise.
“If you mean to help with the Corruption situation,” she continues impatiently, tapping a manicured finger against the table between them. “At the very least, speak to the boy. There’s nothing to be gained from avoiding him. He already knows you’ve been cleaning up after him.”
Verlaine lets out a troubled sigh. And here, he thought he’d been doing Chuuya a favor by staying out of his hair. “If he really does mean to seek me out, as you say, then wouldn’t he have stopped by already?”
After all, it’s been a few months since the first Corruption incident without Dazai, and things have been completely silent on the other end. Verlaine would prefer to keep it that way.
“He’s simply too stubborn to admit that it bothers him, that one.” Ozaki lifts her cup to her lips, her brows knitted together in a show of exasperation. “He’d rather curse out your name than come running to you. It would make him seem like he’s giving in, and you know he hates to lose. In some ways, you two truly are cut from the same cloth.”
If Verlaine could still find humor in the situation, he would have snorted. He and Chuuya, the same? A few years ago, he might have believed that preposterous idea, but not anymore. Chuuya, with his unwavering conviction and earnest drive for life, couldn’t be more different from him. Far from a lonely comet, he’s more like a supernova. And Verlaine would surely taint that brightness of his if he drew any closer.
“We’re nothing alike,” he says dismissively. “In the first place, what reason would Chuuya have to associate with me? He should despise me.”
“He welcomed back a louse who once stabbed him in the back,” Ozaki reminds him, hiding her disgust behind a silky sleeve. “Why do you think? He’s soft. That boy can’t turn his back on someone who saved his life. No matter what they’ve done to him since then.”
Verlaine sets his cup down on the table with a bit more force than necessary. “That foolishness of his will cost him his life someday.“
It has always baffled him, the way Chuuya continues to trust people even after everything he’s been through. Despite himself, Verlaine feels irritated—at Chuuya for being so stupid, at those so-called friends of his for betraying him, at himself for being no better than them.
“So do something about it,” Ozaki snaps, as if reading his thoughts.
“What exactly do you want me to do?”
“You can start by getting out of that chair.” Retrieving her parasol from the foot of her chair, Ozaki heads for the door. Busy as she is, her visits never last more than a couple minutes. Enough time to exchange lukewarm pleasantries and the occasional barbed words.
Before she makes her exit, she shoots him one last disapproving look. “If you care for him, then show it. Watch his back. All of this…” She makes a vague gesture with her hand, then lets it fall back by her side. “…hovering and brooding is of use to no one. Do try to be the mature one for once.”
And with that, she shuts the door, leaving him alone with thoughts he’d rather not entertain.
***
Nothing good comes from getting involved with others. That is what he often repeats to himself.
He might not hate humans anymore (how could he, when Rimbaud had been one of them?) but he has no interest in them either. There is not a single person he wishes to be close with. That is what he often repeats to himself.
Even if he opens his heart to another person, he will only ever ruin them—with his inability to trust, his overbearing nature, the endless brutalities he would inflict on them. That is what he often repeats to himself.
So why then, is he sitting on a creaky old stool in the Port Mafia’s infirmary, peeling apple bunnies?
Score the skin in the shape of an inverted V. Slide the knife beneath the skin, moving it along the V shape. Remove the leftover skin and soak the apple slice in saltwater to prevent browning. The result—an apple slice in the shape of a bunny, perfect for a child’s bentou.
A cute sight that will surely make Chuuya’s eye twitch in irritation.
The person in question lies in bed beside him, swathed in bandages and deep in the midst of a post-Corruption sleep. The aftermath is as ghastly as always, there in the whiteness of his face and the purple-blue splotches blooming beneath his skin. Aside from that, his thin frame speaks of hectic schedules and skipped meals. One look at that sickly appearance, and Verlaine had begrudgingly pulled up a stool and started peeling apples.
Human or not, their bodies still need to be maintained. If Chuuya falls ill, that’s one less person who will visit Rimbaud’s grave and carry on his memory. That’s all there is to it.
He gets a nice army of bunnies assembled on a plate by the time Chuuya cracks open a dazed eye. The surprise that flits through Chuuya’s expression at seeing him there quickly morphs into bewilderment as he looks from Verlaine to the plate of apple slices and back. He quirks an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.
“Whatever it is you think you’re doing, you need to stop,” Verlaine says firmly, running his knife under the skin of another apple slice.
“…huh?”
Removing the triangle section of skin, he drops the apple slice into the bowl of saltwater on the nightstand. “Without Dazai-kun around, you no longer have a way to cancel Corruption. I suggest you stop activating it so haphazardly, if you value your life.”
He had planned on staying uninvolved, but Chuuya’s reckless actions weren’t making it easy for him. A scathing lecture probably won’t change anything, but with this, he can at least say he tried. (And maybe Ozaki would finally get off his back.)
Chuuya shifts into a sitting position, eyeing him warily. “Wasn’t even my fault this time,” he grumbles.
Certainly, they hadn’t accounted for that enemy ability user making For the Tainted Sorrow spiral out of control. It had been a very lackluster ambush before that, nothing to write home about. And yet, when Verlaine finally arrived at the scene, there hadn’t been much of anything left aside from Chuuya’s tattered form, falling apart as it rained black death upon the land.
And maybe that sight had scared Verlaine more than he could have known.
“One exception is hardly an excuse,” he says. “What about all the other times? Were you also conveniently struck by an ability then too? Or did you open your gate despite not having any way to close it, like an idiot?”
“It’s fine, isn’t it? You’ll just stop me like you always do.” Chuuya gives a careless shrug, then winces when the action strains a torn muscle.
Wiping the knife down with a napkin, Verlaine lets a humorless smile surface. “You say that as if you expect me to show up.”
“Because you will.”
His hand comes to an abrupt halt, nearly catching on the blade of the knife. With painstakingly slowness, he lifts his gaze to meet Chuuya’s. Those eyes he had been avoiding, for fear of the rejection he would find there—what’s reflected back now is earnestness, and the ghost of something he has only ever received from one other person. A glint of trust.
How utterly unfathomable.
“And how are you so sure of that?” he asks, his voice calm despite the unrest stirring inside of him.
“You’ve been showing up, haven’t you? That’s more than I can say for the shitty mackerel.”
“I killed your friends.”
Chuuya’s expression hardens, his fist bunching up his blanket. “And I won’t forgive you for that, not in a million years. I’d never be able to face Pianoman and the others if I did.” The tension seeps out of him as his focus falls to the hand on his lap, to a small graphite mark on the underside of his wrist that looks curiously out of place among his other scars. “But I don't hate you. Not anymore. After all, you tried to help me all those years ago, when you took me out of that lab. Did a shit job of it, but can’t say I don’t appreciate the effort.”
“…I don’t understand you,” Verlaine says with a sigh. “It’s one thing to no longer hate me, and another thing entirely to seek me out.”
“Nothing lasts.”
At the seemingly unrelated statement, Verlaine‘s frown deepens.
“Nothing lasts,” Chuuya repeats, staring off into the distance, and he sounds almost unsure of himself. Lost. “The Sheep. Shirase. Adam. That waste of bandages. People are always coming and going. That’s just how it is. But you show up, making these grand claims about saving me, and just run away? Take some responsibility, why don’t you? Or are you just gonna leave too, after saying all that?”
Chuuya has always been a mystery to Verlaine. His reactions, his words, his capacity for hope—all of it runs counter to what one would expect from someone of his origins. But the look on his face now is achingly familiar, and Verlaine wonders why it took him so long to notice.
Dazai Osamu. The youngest executive in Port Mafia history, a genius of unparalleled intellect and cruelty. For as many people as there were that respected him, an equal number feared him. The night that demon left, taking with him his double-edged ambitions, it was as if the organization had let out a collective breath.
But Chuuya had thought of Dazai as a partner. Someone to entrust his back to. The same way Rimbaud had trusted Verlaine.
And that partner had tossed aside Chuuya, leaving without a single parting word. The same way Verlaine had tossed aside Rimbaud.
Swallowing down the bitter taste in his mouth, Verlaine sets his knife aside.
Ever since he came to Japan, he has done nothing but cause Chuuya pain. Despite that, here is Chuuya, offering him a place in his life. As if he isn’t only clinging on because he has lost too much to be picky about what he keeps.
“Trying to save you—that was just my arrogance,” Verlaine eventually says. “I didn’t understand anything about you. I just convinced myself I did. The one I really wanted to save…was probably myself.”
He pauses, waiting for…what exactly, he isn’t sure—an accusation, some sort of pushback, anything to validate the notion that the world would be better off without him. But Chuuya only looks at him expectantly.
Verlaine sighs. “But I’m not planning to go anywhere. If you want me to stay…”
“Stay.” The command, quiet as it is, rings with fervent insistence. “Just be there. Stay. That’s enough for now.” For the first time since waking up, Chuuya shows a wry grin. “And come running like a dog when I call for you.”
It’s acceptance, and an obvious attempt to get on his nerves, and a challenge, all rolled into one. Verlaine could almost laugh. “Impudent brat. You’re already ordering me around?”
“Comes with the territory of having siblings, shitty aniki. Or are we already done with that setting?”
“You won’t shake me off that easily, dear brother.” Taking the invitation, Verlaine allows his expression to mirror Chuuya’s. It feels like a poor imitation, but maybe he could get used to it again. “Since you insisted, I’ll be watching your every move to make sure you stay in line.”
“Ugh, I almost forgot what a psycho you were.” Chuuya blanches, though his tone is lighthearted enough. “I’ll keep you up to date on my missions, so don’t you fucking dare spy on me.” Leaning away, he retrieves his phone from the stand on the other side of the bed and tosses it over. “Put your number in there and I’ll send you a message later. You can communicate like a normal person, right?”
Verlaine flips open the phone, running a thumb along the chipped paintwork. It would be laughably easy to scan through the call log or insert a bug to intercept messages. But that wouldn’t exactly inspire trust.
“Of course,” is all he says, punching in his number on the keypad.
He doesn’t think about whether someone like him is deserving of another chance. If it’s a request from Chuuya, he’ll answer it, no matter when or where. For the sake of someone who would rely on him, that’s the only answer he can give.
When he finishes entering his information, he hands the phone over, along with the plate of apple bunnies.
Chuuya wrinkles his nose, predictably offended. “The hell is this?”
“I cut them for you, since you’re lacking in nutrition. You won’t grow any taller if you don’t eat more.”
“Fuck you.”
“Love you too.”
Nothing good comes from getting involved with others. That is what he often repeats to himself. But he has always been at the mercy of his emotions—a trait that Rimbaud has chastised him for more than once—and there is a part of him, buried deep beneath the hollowness and self-loathing, that wants to stay by Chuuya’s side.
***
Cloudy skies. An evening breeze rustling the treetops. The glow of the full moon behind him. As he walks through the clearing, his eyes slip disinterestedly past these long forgotten sights. It’s been a while since he’s experienced the outside world, but admiring the scenery isn’t what he came for.
Past a massive crater carved into the earth in cracked radial lines, in the shadow of a cluster of scorched tree trunks, lies a small figure, sprawled out like a starfish. Despite his battle-ravaged body and the dried blood caking his fingers, his sleep is peaceful. Dreamless.
Crouching beside the unconscious figure, Verlaine wipes at a spot below the man’s chin. When he retracts his hand, the tips of his white gloves are stained in dull red. Corruption. How fitting.
Chuuya’s own gloves have been tossed carelessly to the side, next to his folded coat and his favorite hat. A hat which now bears an unflattering footprint on top.
“That brat…” Verlaine can’t help but mutter.
Not only had Dazai left his brother behind instead of bringing him back to the base, he’d also trampled Rimbaud’s hat. Were it not for the promise he’d made to stay out of Chuuya’s business, Verlaine would have strung up that bandaged upstart by now.
Of course, that would be playing right into Dazai’s hands. No doubt the human leech had deposited Chuuya here expecting Verlaine to come fetch him. He had implied as much that day he dropped by with his unpleasant little smile and an advisory for approaching conflicts.
—Tempests are on the horizon, Verlaine-san. Make sure to keep a tight leash on the chibi, lest he be swept away by the currents.
Dusting off the hat, Verlaine sets it on his head. It’s been years since he’s worn it, but the weight of it is as familiar as ever. A reminder, from down the currents of time, to remain himself. Smiling a little to himself, he picks up the folded coat, drapes Chuuya securely over his back, and heads off.
A weretiger with a seven billion yen bounty on his head. Attacks by gifted organizations from the West. Soukoku’s temporary revival. The winds of change are picking up speed, rushing towards a massive storm. Soon, his turn will come as well…
The arms slung around his neck stiffen, and then the weight on his head disappears as his hat is lifted off.
“Rise and shine,” Verlaine says by way of greeting as Chuuya stretches out behind him.
Silence, a head turning this way and that, and then a groggy groan. “So that fucker did leave me here after all. I swear to god, the next time I see him…”
“I take it he’s well then?”
“Hah!” Chuuya slumps against Verlaine’s back, and it’s a testament to his exhaustion that he doesn’t even try to escape the compromising situation. “He’s disgustingly lively for a suicidal bastard. Makes me sick. Servant of the public, my ass. He might dress like a goody-two-shoes, but the inside’s as rotten as always. He hasn’t changed a bit. And he admitted to planting that bomb under my car four years ago! I knew it was that slimy mackerel…”
There it is—the infamous Dazai rant. Known and feared by all unfortunate enough to have lent Chuuya an ear for his grievances. Once he starts, he’ll go on for hours. The frequency of the rants had gone down after Dazai deserted the mafia, but with their recent scuffle in the dungeons, Chuuya’s ire had come back in full force.
“You must be glad to see him in good health,” Verlaine interrupts, amusement coloring his tone.
Chuuya grinds an elbow into his shoulder blade. “I’ll be glad when he’s six feet under!”
What an unruly younger brother. Maybe he should drop him.
“Let’s make it a reality then,” Verlaine suggests. “Set up a trap to rid yourself of Dazai-kun once and for all. Name a time and place and I’ll be there.” He might not be great at giving comfort, but he is never without several creative ways to commit murder.
Chuuya hums like he’s considering it, before letting out a displeased huff. “Can’t. Boss just set up a temporary alliance with the agency fuckers. Not to mention the conflict with the Guild. If we kill Dazai, it’s over.”
It seems the only option left is to break his spirit, little by little.
“How about we send a large shipment of jumbo-sized dog plushies to Dazai-kun’s apartment? That’s sure to make him squirm. If we’re lucky, he might even cry a little.”
“What the hell? That sounds like the thing Tachihara and the others were up to last time with the giraffes…Have you been listening in on Black Lizard?”
Verlaine feigns innocence. “I have a duty to oversee Gin-chan’s training.”
“Training, my ass! I thought you were over your stalkerish tendencies!” Suspicion creeps into Chuuya’s voice as he gives Verlaine’s ponytail a sharp tug. “You haven’t been eavesdropping on me again, have you?”
A shrug of the shoulders. “Of course not. I removed all the bugs I placed on you way back.” His voice drops to a mutter as he continues. “But you never said anything about the people around you.”
He tilts his head to the side as a fist swings out at him, and then he’s breaking out into a sprint. Chuuya’s indignant yelp is cut short by the sudden acceleration, his arms wrapped tightly around Verlaine as he hangs on for dear life.
“You bastard, when I can use my ability again, you’re dead!”
“Hold on tight or you’ll fall off, Chuuya.”
Like celestial bodies tugged this way and that by tidal forces, their lives are in constant turmoil. Their tiny pebble of a planet continues to hurtle through the expanse of space. Somewhere in a distant galaxy, another star goes out. A moon strays too far from its orbit and loses its beloved planet.
Nothing lasts.
But for now, the night is tranquil, and only their lively banter accompanies them home.
