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astxlphe-fics · 1 year

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flowers on your grave

Characters / Relationships: Mori Ougai & Elise

Summary : Mori Ougai dies, and they grow flowers on his grave.

(Rintarou and Elise after the Port Mafia)

Tags : Fake Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Retirement, Growing Older Together, Future Fic

Listen I think they should be able to retire and live peacefully in a small town in the countryside, which is what this fic is all about

Everyone with a passing familiarity with the Yokohama's underworld hears about Mori Ougai's death.

On a Thursday morning, the Port Mafia-issued car commonly used by the boss explodes. They find a body in the debris, wearing a black coat and a well-known red scarf.

They wait until the body is formally identified before they organize the funerals, which happen the following Tuesday.

On Wednesday, the Port Mafia has a new boss.

By the time the week is over, it goes back to business as usual.

-----

Twenty-seven years is a long time to lead the Port Mafia.

It’s very long time and, Mori decides, definitely long enough.

He’s not tired, not exactly. But he’s sixty years old and, looking at the youngsters, he figures his job here is done.

Elise is the first to bring up the idea. It must have been in his head for a while if she speaks up about it. To be honest, it’s a wonder he has the opportunity at all because Port Mafia boss isn’t exactly the kind of job you can just quit. He is supposed to get his throat slit by an ambitious and resourceful youth, not decide when he wants to leave.

She watches him as he prepares the files needed for the transfer of power. He does this quietly, carefully, he doesn’t need anyone to know about this, especially not Natsume.

Knowing the man, he would try to convince Mori to stay. They’ve known each other for over forty-five years now, and he doesn’t doubt Natsume would find a way. And while Mori has always been a determined man, pushing away sentiment for the sake of practicality, it’s always a little difficult to refuse his old mentor.

Elise goes to fetch Kouyou and bring her to his office. In the past decades she has been one of his most steadfast supporters, and never stopped pointing out each of his shortcomings with what he once dared to suggest to be fondness.

“Exasperation, more likely,” she replied dryly that day, with a shadow of a smile. “What would you do without me, I wonder.”

“I’m afraid I would be quite lost,” he said then.

He smiles at the memory when Elise shuffles back in, holding Kouyou’s hand. The woman is well into her forties now, her red hair starting to grey slightly, but her blade and eyes still as sharp as ever.

“You called for me?” she asks. “Is something the matter? Elise is strangely quiet.”

She has been quiet, uncharacteristically so, for the past month, to be fair. Since he took his decision. It’s like she’s been waiting in silent anticipation, helping him put his affairs in order.

“Yes,” he says. He pats the files on his desk and pulls out an expensive bottle of whisky. “Would you like a glass?”

“It’s rare for you to drink anything but wine. What is the occasion?”

He gives Elise her own glass and fills it with a soda. It’s not great, but it’s what will mix best with the whiskey.

The shared senses have gotten sharper as the years went by.

“Do we really need one?” She sends him a look, and he admits: “Yes, there is an occasion.” He looks through the window at Yokohama's skyline. “I’m not sure where to start, to be honest with you.”

Elise sends him a judging stare, and snaps: “Come on, out with it already!” Then, without waiting for him to reply, she turns to Kouyou: “Rintarou is going to retire.”

A second of silence, and then—

“Oh dear,” Kouyou says. “I think I’ll have that drink.”

-----

Three people know about the death of Mori Ougai.

The first is Ozaki Kouyou. She wears a black kimono and a red scarf at his funerals. The very next day she takes her place in the highest office of the Port Mafia.

The second and third are Elise and, of course, Mori Ougai himself.

They planned this moment with a lot of care, after all.

-----

“Good luck” Kouyou texts him.

“You will need it more than we do” he replies.

He pulls out the sim card from the phone and crushes it under his foot. Then, Elise slips her hand into his, and with one last look to Yokohama, they leave.

The train moves and moves and moves away from his beloved city, and all he feels is light.

-----

There is a learning curve.

“Oh, good morning!”

Rintarou tenses, and his hand goes into his pocket, looking for the handle of a scalpel. “Good morning,” he answers, seemingly unbothered.

Elise stops putting apples in the paper bag.

“You are the man who moved in town last week, is that right?” When he nods, the old lady’s smile widens. “Welcome!” Then, she looks down to Elise. “Oh, is this your daughter?”

Sort of. Not exactly. They have never been very good at describing their relationship.

“I’m Elise,” she pipes up.

The woman is not a threat, but he still can’t help the small knots on in his stomach that he learned to associate with danger. He makes himself let go of the scalpel to shake her extended hand. “I’m Rintarou.”

“I'm Kanae. Where do you come from?”

“Tokyo,” he lies easily.

“That’s quite a distance away. What brings you here?”

“Retirement.” He doesn’t lie, this time, every good story has a grain of truth in it. He ads another sprinkle of veracity: “I used to be a doctor.”

“That’s wonderful!” She takes a box of strawberries, and puts it in his hands. “Here, for the young lady.”

She winks at Elise, and Rintarou blinks, before he smiles back. “Thank you.”

Elise tugs on his coat. “Rintarou,” she says, “I saw a stall with candies, let’s go!”

“Of course!” he nods apologetically. “Thank you again for the strawberries.”

The woman waves as they leave. It’s only once they’re out of sight that he feels Elise relax and the shared part of their mind ease into a new sense of security. There is no danger, just a kindly woman welcoming a new face in a small town where everyone knows each other.

At candy shop stall, the owner greets them enthusiastically. He smiles down at Elise and, like the woman, offers them a treat.

They both take a candy. It tastes like lemons and freedom.

-----

There is no doctor in the village. They learn this when Kanae shows up with an apple pie and her grandson with a twisted wrist.

She apologizes profusely, citing the lack of doctor in town, and asks of he could help her out just this once – her car is currently being repaired and unusable, you see, so she can’t take him to the city.

Elise is sitting on her armchair, doodling in a notebook, when Rintarou stands to look into their emergency medical supplies for what the boy needs.

“I don’t have much,” he says, “but this should do.”

He fumbles a little in his movements and the boy winces. He doesn’t find the right words so easily, and is a little too rough for a regular child. Soon enough, much to his dismay, the boy is sniffling.

“I’m very sorry,” he tells Kanae as the boy grows upset. “I’m not used to treating children and I —”

“Rintarou was a military doctor before we lived in Tokyo,” Elise explains, and Kanae’s eyebrows shoot up all the way to her hairline. “That’s why he’s so clumsy.”

Gentleness is not something that comes easy.

When they leave, Rintarou sighs, his exhaustion echoing in Elise’s own made up bones. He settles on the couch, and looks at the homemade apple pie.

“Well, who knew a single child could be so tiring. Let’s have a piece of that pie, all right?”

“Tiring?” Elise snorts. “You’re just getting old, Rintarou.”

He sends her a hurt look. “I’m wounded, Elise,” he whines. “So mean to your oldest friend, what did I do to deserve this?”

“You looked really funny fumbling around. I made a drawing of it, look.” She tilts her notebook towards him, showing him a grimacing stick figure with long dark hair and a doctor’s coat.

He laughs, and offers to put it up on fridge. Elise grins back.

Gentleness is not easy, but they will have to learn.

It feels like planting flowers on your own grave.

-----

It happens repeatedly. More precisely, Kanae tells her friend that Rintarou is willing to lend a hand despite “his clumsiness”, leading to the word spreading all over town and several people a week dropping by to ask for medical help.

Elise, when Rintarou was a child, existed only as a voice in his head. This was her base form as Vita Sexualis, which she abandoned for something different, something new: the shape of a human girl.

When she took this appearance, it was because he needed protection she couldn’t provide without a physical form. Her shape, roughly the same age as Rintarou at the time, stayed the same as long as this function was to be fulfilled.

As Rintarou grew, her appearance made people around them ignore or underestimate her, giving her the advantage in battle. It had been kind of an annoying job, and she wished Rintarou didn’t need it, but she had done it anyway.

It is very obvious, today, as she watches Rintarou offer candy to another sniffling child, that providing him with protection is no longer necessary.

It hasn’t been since the death of “Mori Ougai”, since he went back to just being “Rintarou”.

Still, some of her usual role remains, because he turns to her and asks for her help, so she rummages in his supplies until she finds the tool he’s missing. It brings her back to the days they worked as an underground doctor, except there is no Fukuzawa Yukichi guarding them, no outlaws and no mission.

Considering this, she could, if she wishes, simply go back to being an intangible voice in his head. It would be easy, she would just have to want it.

She doesn’t have time to finish this line of thinking. Rintarou stills, but the strange anxiety suddenly pooling in her mind is not his alone.

She pushed herself, long ago, to be something she wasn’t supposed to be, and yet today she has grown to love her physical appearance.

The physical form is not what is unnatural for her, she just wasn’t supposed to be the fighter she became out of necessity.

Such necessity no longer exists. Her duty is finished, like Rintarou’s, and now she can just be his friend and all she feels is light.

------

The following April, a couple of months since they settled in, everyone in town is in a frenzy about the blooming cherry trees.

Elise never really saw them, neither her or Rintarou ever taking the time to enjoy them. Well, now has never been a better time, so she pinches Rintarou's arm one morning to attract his attention.

(She doesn’t actually need to do that, to be honest, she could get his attention through their shared mind, but it’s funnier this way.)

“Take me to the cherry blossoms,” she demands. “Everyone is talking about how great they are, I want to see them!”

Rintarou rubs his forearm and smiles. “Of course! Whatever sweet Elise wants!”

She makes a gagging sound, and goes to put on her shoes. They feel strangely uncomfortable today, her toes squished at the end of it, but for now she ignores it in favor of grabbing Rintarou and dragging him along.

He stumbles after her, his coat halfway on and his hair undone. It has been a long time since he let it loose. He always tied it when he worked, and kept the habit in his retirement.

The town’s park is lined with cherry trees, and with the wind the flowers rustle and the petals fly, and Elise stares at them quietly.

Rintarou watches her, not the flowers.

For the first time in many years, they don’t need to worry about dangers, or hidden assassins.

They both know that something within them as changed, though he can’t word exactly what and how.

He has never been the best at figuring things about himself on his own.

Maybe she can help a little. “My shoes are a size too small.”

-----

Elise is growing up.

It becomes obvious when they go to the next city over, where they’ll find more shops where Elise can find shoes she likes. They’re a size larger than the ones she usually wears.

When they get home, he has her stand against the wall and, with a black pen, marks her height. She is, so far, one meter and forty-nine centimeters, which is the average for a twelve years old girl, but still one centimeter over her usual height.

Rintarou doesn’t know what to make of it.

It shouldn’t be possible, because she is not actually a twelve years old girl. She’s a supernatural entity of unknown origins, probably older than Rintarou, who is merely pretending to be a twelve years old girl.

“Are you sure you’re not doing it on purpose?” He asks.

“Do you think I’m lying?” she shoots back, narrowing her eyes.

“Of course not! Elise would never lie to me!” He isn’t even sure they could lie to each other, considering the shared mindspace.

Elise puts her hands on her hips, pouting. “I bet it’s because of the retirement. We have been acting different than before, so I’m also becoming different from before.”

Rintarou has been acting different from before, for the most part. He has been trying to integrate them into the small community they now live in, perfecting the persona of a retired, well-meaning but clumsy doctor living with his daughter.

“Very well,” he says. “Just let me know when your clothes get too small so we can get new ones.”

----

Elise’s personality changed a few times in the past: when they joined the military, when they met Yosano, when they met Natsume, and after meeting everyone who has been important to Rintarou on a personal level. Her core always stayed the same, but her actions were different.

Then, they retired, and for the most part she stays, like Rintarou, the same. Instead, what changes is her appearance, and it’s a completely new territory for both of them.

As it turns out, teenage girls grow up by several centimeters per year. Rintarou may have worked with teenagers in the past, but it still takes him completely by surprise.

“You are now a meter and fifty-one,” he declares, putting a new line above the first one.

She wrinkles her nose. “Well, this is fast,” she says. She looks down at her long sleeves, reaching just short of her wrists. “I’ll need a new shirt.”

“We will go in the city for a couple of new clothes this Saturday.” Seeing her grimace at the perspective of having to try on clothes, he ads: “I promise we will go for desserts right after!”

“Ugh, fine!”

In the end, Elise doesn’t know how to navigate this new situation either. Neither of them has seen it coming, and they’re both learning.

He takes his attention off her when someone knocks at the door. When he opens, Kanae is here, one of her now famous apple pies in hand – she has been around a few times a month recently, always bringing with her a few treats and pastries she knows both Rintarou and Elise enjoys.

Elise makes a discreet face at Rintarou when he asks her to bring out the teacups, and he watches her go.

How would he fare, he wonders, if he was alone?

Beyond the fact that he would’ve died before he even reached adulthood, would he have even thought about retiring if she hadn’t been there?

Maybe not. He doesn’t think so. Being on his own is a foreign idea, he tries to imagine enjoying his retirement without her and comes out with nothing.

The teacups are set, he serves everyone tea, and he takes a moment to offer his visitor of genuine smile.

Next to him, Elise does the same, and when Kanae leaves she gifts her one of her candies.

They’re learning. It may take a while, and with the blood on his hands he may not deserve this chance, but one day they’ll get there.

(They grow slowly, like flowers, on Mori Ougai’s grave.)

-----

They have a small garden attached to the house. When they first moved in, it was somewhat abandoned, but as a way to put their mind off Yokohama they quickly start to clean it up.

They cut the grass to an appropriate height, and Elise picks which flowers she wants to plant.

Rintarou, on the other hand, selects a few trees. Cherry and apple ones, for a start, hoping it’ll give them some fruits.

It takes a long time for it to start looking like a proper garden.

Even more time for them to figure out which plants are suitable for which season, so they have several failures before they finally find a book about gardening at the local library.

It’s not enough. Rintarou feels like there is a metaphor here, about failing to bring about life after only dealing with death or something of this caliber.

When this also fails to bring good results, it turns out the librarian has a friend who is the neighbor of a retired gardener who is willing to lend a hand.

It takes almost a year but after careful tending, pretty, colorful spots start appearing in their garden.

Rintarou looks at them bloom with wide eyes, and Elise sits on the grass to draw them.

From the corner of her eyes, she watches his face break into a smile. All flowers, even metaphorical ones, she remembers, need care and effort to make them grow.

-----

The doctor and his daughter are a strange pair.

The man, Rintarou, speaks very little about their past. He eludes questions easily, talks circles around the most curious, gets people to talk about themselves instead.

On the contrary, Elise is loud and, without a doubt, spoiled rotten. She looks nothing like him, she doesn’t go to school (“she’s homeschooled”, the doctor says) and doesn’t get along at all with other children.

They have no last name, at least none they’re willing to share, and never receive anyone at home or even mention friends or colleagues which, for someone who supposedly had a long and fulfilling career as a doctor in Tokyo, is quite strange.

They keep their distance, at first. They’re difficult to talk to, and the first time Kanae brings him her grandson out of emergency they’re tense and rough.

But it’s obvious, to Kanae, that they’re trying.

He tries to make his smiles gentler, and the girl is more and more willing to share the stash of candies she has hidden in the doctor’s desk.

(She spots several scalpels in there one day, and she thinks of all the times the doctor kept at least one hand under his desk.)

While Kanae is terribly curious, when she looks at her grandson, sporting the plaster with a cartoon dinosaur that Doctor Rintarou gave him for the nasty cut he got from falling from a tree, she can’t help but think it’s not that important.

-----

“One meter sixty now,” Rintarou says, and squints. “Well, almost. Fifty-nine, which is the average for a fourteen year old.”

It’s been two years, and Elise is still not an actual teenage girl, but they’ve gotten used to this growing up thing now.

At least she’s growing at the same rate as a regular human, which is nice, because otherwise there would be some explaining to do.

Still, it’s the first time the change is gradual.

Rintarou used to change almost all at once, putting on a new mask to fit into a new role — the medical student, the military surgeon, the underground doctor, the Port Mafia boss. Anyone who knew him at those times would have a hard time seeing the true Rintarou, instead of the one he wanted them to see.

Now Rintarou changes slowly. There is no need to put on a mask everyday so her guess is that he’s truer to himself than he has ever been before.

It’s a new identity, someone he’s developing all on his own. Elise too then, changes slowly, figuring out who she can be after all this.

(Flowers planted on your own grave. Bury the old you and make someone new out of it.)

“Rintarou,” she says, very seriously, and the man peers at her from behind his glasses.

She’s been mocking him a lot for these glasses, and she thought he would be frustrated about his lowering eyesight, but instead he’d taken it in stride.

“It would have been a problem if I was still working but…” He shrugs. “I’m old enough to have presbyopia, I suppose.”

“What is it?”

“I want you to cut my hair.” She tugs at her long blonde curls and nods decisively. “Right now.”

“Let me see if the hairdresser can take an emergency appointment —”

“No, no, you don’t get it. I want you to do it.” She could do it herself, to be honest, poof the excess hair out of existence, but it’s better if Rintarou does it.

“All right.” He smiles, and goes to the bathroom to get the scissors. She follows him there to wet her hair, and then sits on the chair outside, waiting, arms crossed. “I’m so glad Elise-chan trusts me to do this,” he ads, chuckling.

“If you mess it up I’ll kill you.”

“I know, I know~”

He starts cutting, shortening it to her mid back first. He doesn’t accidentally pull or tug, making an effort to be gentle, and stays focused on his task while Elise zones out.

When he’s done he dries her hair with a towel and lets the summer heat do the rest of the job. Soon enough, Elise’s hair is back into its ringlets, falling just short of her shoulders, and she hums in approval.

-----

The topic of birthdays is brought up several times before they decide it’s time to give Elise one.

The other people in town know that Rintarou's is in February. He mentions it when asked, but every time they ask about Elise they have to elude the question because, well. She doesn’t have a birthday.

It’s harder than expected, mainly because Elise is quite picky about it.

“August?” Rintarou offers, looking at the calendar. She already refused June and July (too rainy) as well as October (wet and gross). “The weather is always nice in August, we could have a garden party.”

“August is too hot.”

“Well, maybe April then? Cherry blossom season, you love cherry blossoms.”

“Uhm.” Elise makes a face, unconvinced. “I don’t know.”

She doesn’t even have a favorite month. She tries to remember the date she first manifested, but both their memories fail her.

A date similar to Rintarou’s would make more sense. She leans over the table where Rintarou has the calendar open, and flips it over to February.

“January,” she says, “I think end of January would be nice. Or maybe early February.”

It would be strange to pick to 17th, the same as Rintarou, or people would wonder why they never celebrated together.

“January 31st?”

She considers it. “All right.” She nods, tapping the date with her fingertip. “January 31st. It’s in two days.” She rest her chin on her hands, grinning. “So, what’s my gift?”

This puts Rintarou on the spot, and she can feel the gears turning in his head. She sees him go through pretty dresses, dismissing them almost immediately, before settling on the image of Elise in the garden, drawing on loose sheets of paper or small notebooks.

“It’s a surprise,” he says, even though he already knows it’s anything but. “You’ll have to be patient.”

She is, for once. On top of her gift Rintarou also asks Kanae to come, and she brings a cake. The candles declare her fifteen years old — a completely made up but realistic age considering her appearance. It’s decorated with roses made of sugar, and Elise takes the first opportunity to stuff one in her mouth.

It tastes like pure sugar, and she sticks out her tongue at Rintarou when he wrinkles his nose at the sensation.

----

“Do you miss Yokohama?”

Elise looks up from her notepad. Her drawing tools have been updated since her first birthday, two years ago, to a set of watercolor pens, which she sets down to twist her body, facing Rintarou.

“What are you talking about now,” she asks.

“Well, as you are often so happy to point out, I’m not getting any younger, and like every old man I tend to think about the past.”

“You shouldn’t, idiot.” She frowns. “No, I don’t really miss it. I liked Chuuya and Kouyou, they were fun, but...” She shrugs. “We are doing okay here, why would we miss it?” Then, she narrows her eyes, looking at him, into him. “Rintarou, what is this really about? You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

“No, I’m not.” He sighs. The truth is, he has not once regretted leaving all of this behind. Kouyou is probably doing perfectly well as Port Mafia boss, and between her, Chuuya, and Akutagawa’s Black Lizards, he is confident that they can deal with whatever is thrown at them. His true concern is not with Yokohama, for they both know the city is in good hands.

But this – the retirement – seems too good to be true, especially for someone like him. Someone who may not have enjoyed causing harm, but who did it anyway because he considered it the best possible option.

Maybe it’s a little late to worry about it, five years down the line, but he can’t help but wonder if he has the right to live in peace, after all he has done, if he actually deserves this, and—

Elise throws her pencil at him. “Quiet!” she snaps, and he flinches when the wooden instrument hits him.

“Ouch, Elise—”

“I don’t want to hear about your stupid reasoning. Who cares about deserving, anyway?”

“Ah, you heard that—”

“If you didn’t think so loudly maybe I wouldn’t have.” She groans, slumping back into the couch. “You’re so annoying, since when do you even care about that sort of things?”

He blinks, considering her words. “I—”

“And since when do you take in consideration what other people think you deserve? Have you gotten soft in your old age?”

“Maybe,” he admits. “It’s not so bad, you know?”

“I know.” She still glares at him for a couple of seconds. “If it makes you feel any better, Kouyou thought we deserved some peace and quiet.”

Her tone makes him laugh, and he slumps down too, leaning towards her. She leans back, her head resting against his.

“You’re happier like this,” she says in a whisper. “I’m glad.”

“I love you too,” he says back. It has never been something easy to say, but he loves her with the kind of love you hold only for your oldest and closest friend, your partner.

Five years ago he wouldn’t have said it, telling himself that she knew anyway.

Her hand squeezes his softly. She may have known but it doesn’t mean she doesn’t like to hear it.

-----

There are fireworks in town. It’s a community effort to make it happen, and Rintarou and Elise even participate.

Rintarou uses a bit of his Port Mafia savings to help with collecting funds.

Well, it’s put to better use here than in whatever the Port Mafia usually dips its fingers in.

Blood money some cute and fancy fireworks, which take funny shapes when they go off, a cotton candy stall, and an outdoor bar serving punch for the adults and soft drinks for the children.

Rintarou laughs to himself when he thinks about it. How retirement has changed him.

He almost doesn’t see Elise for the full day. She’s out and about helping setting up the stalls. She never warmed up to any of the town’s children, but she tolerates the adults better now.

She joins him when the sun starts to set. They find themselves a little secluded spot, and sit in the grass next to each other, waiting for the show to start.

It does, with a long whistling and a bang that, five years ago, they would have initially mistaken for a gunshot.

There are no guns, no bombs, no dangers here. There is just Rintarou and Elise trying to live peacefully.

“I think I understand what you meant,” he tells Elise, “about deserving.”

Rintarou spent most of his life harming and taking advantage of others in the name of causes bigger than himself.

It doesn’t matter if those causes weren’t always good, moral or law-abiding. Someone had to do the job and since that person ended up being him, he did it as best as he could, pulling Elise along with him.

(Elise who wasn’t made for battle, Elise who still had to learn in spite of her gentle nature, Elise without whom he wouldn’t be alive).

Objectively, he knows a good amount of people would take issues with him walking away so easily, and would rather see him dead or in jail, for rather good reasons.

Even then, he will still follow his selfish desire for a quiet life with Elise.

“Took you long enough.” Her laugher is clear and light and everything it should be.

-----

Elise never expected to see Rintarou grow old.

She believed, just like him, that one day he would get murdered and that his murderer would take his spot as Port Mafia boss. Rintarou hoped it would be Dazai, though Elise didn’t like him much, but they were both prepared for it to end this way.

It’s usually what’s coming to people who do this kind of work. Most think it’s a well deserved fate, but Elise doesn’t think any of it is about deserving.

Not even this. Rintarou doesn’t deserve to retire peacefully, by usual standards, but it’s about whether or not that silly man is willing to take the chance.

Thankfully, she stands in a small town far away from Yokohama, looking up at fireworks. Rintarou sits next to her with his graying hair and glasses and the laugh lines that have started appearing on his face and at their feet the flowers bloom.

#bsd #bsd mori #bsd elise #mori ougai #fic #gen #writing #look it's basically domestic / family fluff

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astxlphe-fics · 1 year

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He says hi!!

#genshin impact #dottore #genshin dottore #my art #il dottore #*kisses his cheek*#webottore next maybe

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astxlphe-fics · 1 year

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>:3

Pink Flowers // Fukumori

Mori had his feelings for Fukuzawa cut out of him years ago. Hanahaki AU

Word count : ~1700

CW some blood, one murder, one medical malpractice

Keep reading

#im really glad this fic is still being read despite being 2 years old tbh #i hope you enjoyed reading it!

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astxlphe-fics · 2 years

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Made by hand

Characters / Relationship: Mori Ougai & Elise

Summary : Vita Sexualis starts out as a whisper, a soft murmur at the back of his mind. It becomes so much more.

(Rintarou and Elise over the years, and how they make each other)

Word count: 4.922

Content warnings: blood & violence, child abuse, minor character death

Vita Sexualis starts out as a whisper, a soft murmur at the back of his mind.

He’s just a child then, learning how to make himself as unobtrusive and unassuming as he possibly can. He’s not as good at it as he will become, and is not above making the flooring creak or speaking out of turn.

On good days, he and his father just avoid each other and go on their own businesses.

That day, however, was not a good day.

So, it’s alone in the dark that he curls up on himself, hoping to merge with the shadows and be forgotten. He holds back a sniff and closes his eyes tightly, his lips quivering – his cheek stings, and tomorrow his arms will have purple marks all over them.

(Tomorrow, his dad will also make him extra breakfast, apologize profusely, promise it won’t happen again and remind him to wear his long-sleeved uniform for school.

“It's okay, dad,” Rintarou will say, hugging the man tightly, knowing very well it’s not the last time. “It’s fine, really.”)

It’s at this moment that the Something makes itself known.

A Something that hums with a voice that he can’t exactly describe, like it’s unfinished and ever-changing. A work in progress. Hello, hello, hello, hello.

He blinks, slowly, and wipes his eyes with his sleeve. He tilts his head slightly, eyes still closed but much more relaxed, as he listens to the Something’s quiet voice.

He is not scared.

He whispers back, as low as he can to avoid alerting anyone in the house: “Hello to you too.”

The Something's voice goes quiet, and for a second he thinks he scared it off, or dreamed it up. But then, after a short time of silence, it echoes back: hello to you too. hello to you too. hello to you too.

He smiles, focuses on it, clings on to it until his mind is at ease and he can finally rest. The Something chuckles and hums.

No, he is not afraid. For the first time, he doesn’t feel alone.

---------

Many years later, Mori Ougai will look straight into a teenager’s only visible eye and think: this boy wants to die.

It’s an easy thing to spot.

Mori doesn’t want to be the kind of person who makes children want to die. He used to want to be like his mother, or what he remembers of her, anyway (she was a doctor, she was kind, and she died when he was too young to remember what she looked like).

But it’s not in his nature to save people. It’s not by lack of trying – why else would he become a doctor, if not for a profound desire to help – but life has a thing for getting in your way.

He fails to truly save Dazai, of course. He can, however, keep him from dying.

(Those are, he found out once, two vastly different things.)

---------

The Something seems to fill a hole in his chest he didn’t know needed filling.

Just a little bit on the right of his heart, just a little lower than that. It feels like he could touch it if he opened himself up and plunged his hand into his own ribcage to take a look.

He cherishes the Something with everything he has. It still can’t speak properly, barely able to string words together in a full sentence, so he buries himself in books, hoping it learns.

At his age (he’s a whole eight years old at this point), speaking only in his own mind is a habit that takes a while to set in.

It sets him apart from his peers even more than usual – he’s already a lonely kid, without many friends. He speaks little, socializes even less, and he can’t think of a time at school when he had a friend.

In any case, he cherishes this strange companion of his, even if it turns him, in the eyes of others, from the quiet kid to the strange kid who sometimes speaks to himself.

The library is a good place to be alone, and that’s where he spends a lot of his free time, trying to teach the Something how to speak properly.

It’s not because it’s unable to speak to him in full sentences that it’s stupid or illiterate. Quite the opposite, actually. It’s less like it can’t speak and more like it can’t speak his language yet – he thinks that, perhaps, this Something already has its own language that Rintarou doesn’t known and learning Japanese is the only way for them to communicate.

This has implications that, as a child, kind of go over his head, but that he’ll mull over for some time in later years.

As a result, the Something has a favorite story. It hums happily every time Rintarou thinks about it, which in turns brightens his mood and reminds him that he wants to read it again. They share more than a mind space, so it is also Rintarou’s favorite.

The bright colors of the short story compilations cover first draw Rintarou to it, then the first few pages suck them in. Every now and then, the Something in his mind perks up and demands: read it again .

So, Rintarou picks the book up again. “Okay,” he whispers, taking a moment to look at the cover – featuring a lovely blond girl in red. “As you wish.”

---------

The Dancing Girl follows him all the way to his adulthood. Nowadays, it sits in his personal shelf, though it’s not the original copy he stole from the library the day he left (ran away from) his hometown.

He meets Yosano Akiko when she saves his life – he’s looking through the debris of a bombed building, maybe for survivors, when he’s shot by an enemy soldier with a bullet Elise isn’t quick enough to save him from.

The young girl presses her hand on his chest, blood seeping through her fingers, eyes wide. The world blurs and Rintarou thinks the last thing he’ll ever see is her and the gold, shiny butterfly at the edge of his vision.

She saves his life with her ability – one Elise calls, in their head, Thou Shall Not Die – and he can only think of one thing: how many more could she save?

A couple of weeks later, she’s properly enrolled in the military medical staff and he quietly gives her the book he didn’t have the heart to leave behind as a boy.

She probably threw it away by now. It’s better this way. First, there is no reason for her to want a keepsake from their times during the war, and second, it still has the library stamp on its back cover, so a dedicated detective could, realistically, find out who he used to be before he was “Mori Ougai”.

He’s not particularly sentimental about not having the original copy anymore. It’s just an object – what matters is the story.

Yosano was always someone special – he’s not sure how, but she changed Elise to her very core.

When he became a doctor, he hadn’t wanted to be the kind of person who made children want to die. He’d wanted to be a proper one, not like his father.

But there are dreams and there is reality — the dream is to save as many people as possible. The reality is that there is a war and they are losing. The reality is that for one soldier he saves two more die and another can no longer fight. The reality is they need doctors and surgeons as much as they need soldiers.

The reality is that if they want to win they need to give up on their own morals, and Mori’s responsibility and desire change– it is no longer to save the soldiers, but to keep them alive. To keep then fighting.

He doesn’t notice when he stops caring about them as people and starts thinking of them as assets. It just how things are now.

In front of this task, he needs a specific kind of Elise – the no-nonsense, effective, straight to the point kind. She shifts accordingly, letting go of most of the personality she’s built over the years.

Looking back, maybe that’s how: Elise is not a fixed being, she changes and evolves depending on Mori’s needs and the things and people they encounter together. Maybe this shift leaves an empty spot in her, room for something more, and so she becomes like Yosano.

But she doesn’t entirely give up on what makes her Vita Sexualis, on what makes her Mori’s best friend and anchor.

(You like her, Vita Sexualis says in his mind.

Yosano is bright and stubborn and rude and lot livelier than everyone in this military base put together.

Yes , he thinks back. And so do you .

Vita Sexualis pointedly ignores him. In the outside world, she quietly accepts the candy Yosano gifts her. Its strawberry flavor lingers on Mori’s tongue when she eats it.)

Everyone has their moments of doubt, of weakness. Mori is not spared from this either. The raging war and the prospect of failure and the rapidly approaching death of his compassion scare him.

…yet Vita Sexualis stands by his side, and as he feels her small hand slip into his like they were made for each other, he can breathe.

He is no longer afraid.

(And they were , he realizes at this moment. They made each other and now there is no one whose hand will fit into his like this).

---------

“What’s your name?” he asks, and immediately feels guilty for not asking before. After years of it being with him, within him, he figures he took the presence for granted.

“Vita Sexualis.”

The answer comes without pause, like it didn’t have to think about it at all. It solidifies something within Rintarou’s mind: Vita Sexualis was not born with him. It is something very different from him – something that already has its own name, speaks its own language, something with its own consciousness.

Whatever it is, Vita Sexualis is a being in its own right. It’s simply tagging along with him.

“Humans call us abilities,” it supplies helpfully. “I’m your ability, in that way.”

Now, Rintarou knows what an ability is. Special powers, few people gifted with it. All of them are different, unique.

And Vita Sexualis, the voice in his head, is one of those things.

“If humans call you abilities,” he goes on, “what do you call each other?”

Vita Sexualis chuckles, and Rintarou can almost feel it pat the top of his head. “By our names, silly.” Then, before Rintarou can answer: “Be careful."

Rintarou stops dead before he can bump into the furniture. The stack of plates on it is dangerously close to the edge. Carefully, Rintarou picks it up and sets it back at a safer distance.

“Dad would’ve killed me.” It would’ve made so much noise, and woken him up, and Rintarou wasn’t supposed to be up at this hour. But he is hungry and had to skip dinner, so sneaking to the kitchen is the only option.

He grabs some bread and leftover in the fridge, before he tiptoes out of the kitchen, quietly making his way back up the stairs.

“Don’t worry. As long as I’m here, I’ll protect you.”

Rintarou pauses, looking at the mirror in the hallway. He is alone in his reflection, and there is no trace of Vita Sexualis in the real world. “But you’re not really here.”

He can feel Vita Sexualis hesitate, as it realizes he is right, before it finally decides: “I will find a way.”

---------

Vita Sexualis learns and changes depending on Rintarou. She is (definitely a she, she picks it herself) made by him, but it doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a hand in making him too.

You can’t have a lifelong companion, someone living through you since you were seven years old, and not being made by them.

She is the one who helps Rintarou be less afraid, even as an adult.

The plan to kill the Port Mafia boss and take his place is, to this day, his most ambitious project. Even during the war, with the Immortal Army project, he had the backing and encouragements (financial or otherwise) of his senior officers, in spite of his young age.

Becoming the Port Mafia boss is an entirely different challenge. There is no one backing him, Natsume only greenlights this plan as well, giving him the cat equivalent of a “good luck” and a thumb up.

Even Fukuzawa doesn’t know about this, because when Mori mentioned the old plan – the Immortal Reglment plan – the man...didn't like it.

Unethical and immoral, he called it. He added a “bastard” at some point, probably, but for fuck’s sake, where he is going Mori cannot afford things such as morals.

(He gave those up a long time ago anyway.)

In any case, it is an insane plan, made up in a hurry and that needs to come into fruition quickly, because the Port Mafia is still killing people by the dozens for no apparent reason and someone has to put a stop to it. Someone has to kick off the Tripartite Tactic.

Fukuzawa is currently building his agency, and Taneda has already taken his own position. There is only Mori left.

The plan goes like this: rumors have it that the Mafia boss is sick and doesn’t seem to get better. Mori’s reputation as a skilled doctor who knows very well how to keep his mouth shut is unquestionable. It’s just a matter of dropping the right words in the right ears for Hirotsu Ryuuro to come knocking at his door.

Let them think bringing him into the Port Mafia is their own idea.

He is summoned to the Port Mafia boss’ office and chambers with the express order to make sure this man stays alive.

There is nothing scarier than giving up your own freedom, but Mori must do it. The moment he walks into this building he chains himself to this man, because from this moment on he works for him and thus belongs to him.

So long as the Mafia boss is alive, that is.

In the meantime, it would take just a misstep to condemn him to death.

Elise — her personality different since the war, wilder, messier, but still every bit of Mori’s best friend — is with him every step on the way.

It lasts months – enough time for Mori to build trust, smiling sweetly and pretending to agree to everything he did, giving him just enough advice and insight for him to know to listen to his judgement. Appearing at his side often enough to be recognized as someone the boss trusted.

She’s there all along, even if she doesn’t like this situation at all. He’s too close to danger, always on the brink of being discovered.

“Let’s just kill him.”

“No. It’s not time yet.”

“We talked about you being stupid like this before.” She pinches her lips, and kicks him in the shins. “I can’t be here all the time to protect you.”

He winces, and laughs between his teeth. That lesson had been a painful one. “I know.”

Finally, the day comes, and Mori slits the man’s throat with a scalpel. Blood splatters, on his face, on the wall, and some drops even splash on Dazai Osamu’s face.

“He died of illness and left the Port Mafia in my care,” he says out loud, turning to Dazai. “You’ll attest to that, won’t you?”

Dazai nods quietly. He’s fourteen, and staring at a dead body, not bothered in the least.

(Later, he sits in what is now his office, on the last floor of the Port Mafia office building, overlooking the entire city, and he breathes freely for the first time in months.

He looks to Elise, for whom he set up her own desk with paper and crayons, where she can draw to her heart’s content. She may not look back, or even stand close to him, but her mere presence is enough.

He’s done it. He has killed the previous, mad boss and he is now at the head of the largest crime syndicate in the country, and it’s up to him to make them into what this city needs.

It’s his responsibility to keep this organization a viable business and turn it into one of the three pillars that will keep this city safe.

And yet, he isn’t afraid.)

---------

Sometimes, he wonders what Natsume thinks of him.

Not just as Mori the Mafia boss, but of the ways he’s changed over the years. They met when Rintarou was a thirteen years old runaway, barely a year after he and Vita Sexualis left his father’s body to cool down in the living room. When Rintarou was a hopeful teenager who sincerely believed that he could one day be the kind of person who helped.

He himself thinks back on the awkward twenty-something who preferred being a cat to being human, on his face when he understood that Elise was not a real girl as Rintarou grew up and she didn’t.

Years later, he strolls out of the military headquarters and finds a cat waiting for him in a nearby alley. It’s on his way, so he takes the turn, and the cat follows him quietly until Mori asks:

“Do you regret it?”

Then the cat is no longer a cat, and Natsume’s cane clicks on the ground.

“Regret what?” he asks in return.

Mori’s smile turns thin. “You are the one who helped me go to medical school – if you hadn’t put in a word for me at the time, I wouldn’t even have been able to sit for the exam.” He shrugs, gesturing at himself. “And look at me now – I’m now legally forbidden to practice medicine for the rest of my life.”

“You got off lightly,” Natsume points out, which is true.

“Maybe. It’s just so funny, isn’t it? How the people who approved and funded everything I’ve done, who signed every piece of paperwork needed for it, are the same people condemning me today?”

Said paperwork went mysteriously missing, all traces of the origins of his fundings were gone, and they pretended they didn’t know a thing about what was going on there.

“They offered me a deal, you know?”

“Did they?”

“They could bury the entire thing. I would stay a military surgeon, keep my rank, and it wouldn’t even appear in my records."

The others took the deal, he’s sure. That’s how they got away with it so completely. That’s how they got to deny even knowing him when he had some of those people over the phone every morning.

“And what did they want in return?”

“For me to work on their newest pet project.” They didn’t go into the details, but Mori stole a look before leaving – something about human and ability enhancement surgeries.

“You refused?”

"Obviously." They're not going to get him twice, the little bastards. And he's not going to give them more things to hold over his head.

What saves Mori from harsher consequences, he supposes, is the ungodly amount of dirt he has on everyone involved. It always pays to be prepared.

“What are you going to do?”

“Oh, well, I —"

“You are avoiding the question,” Elise suddenly pipes in, her sharp blue eyes on Natsume. She scowls, before turning back to Mori. “And you! If you ask a question at least make sure it’s answered!”

Natsume almost stops, and looks down at the small girl in something close to disbelief as Mori laughs sheepishly.

“You’re right, Elise-chan. I forgot.” His attention goes back to Natsume. “So?”

“I don’t believe this can be answered with a simple yes or no,” Natsume just answers. “Do you?”

“I did what I thought to be my duty as a military doctor. I looked at all the possibilities and picked the one I believed would work best. There is nothing more to it.”

“None of this exclude the possibility of regret.” When Mori doesn’t answer, he goes on: “You made your own choices and forged your own path. It may be one I could have never brought myself to walk, but no, I don’t have anything to regret.”

To Mori’s surprise, he smiles at him. “I still wasn’t expecting this from the bright kid who just wanted to help. You youngsters are always so surprising.”

“You’re not that old.”

“I am, in cat years.”

Mori shakes his head with a small laugh. “My turn to answer your question then: I thought something like this could happen with the end of the war, so I prepared something in advance. Come on, follow me.”

Natsume follows him through the streets towards another part of town – a hot spot for gang activity, and yet still mostly left alone by the police. Mori leads him to an abandoned building, its door closed with chain and a lock.

Elise procures a key from her dress pocket and hands it to him, so Mori unlocks the door and lets them in.

It’s empty.

“What is this place?”

“Eventually, it’ll be fully furnished to be a functioning emergency room and medical office,” Mori says. “Legally, I’m not longer allowed to practice medicine anymore,” he smiles turns smug, “but legality is a little overrated, don’t you think?”

Natsume turns on his heels, taking in the building, thinking . “How long will it take?”

Mori sighs. “Probably a couple of months, getting all the material takes some time. Maybe a year and a half at most.”

“I can get it done in a week.” His hand digs in his coat's inside pocket. “How much do you need to get started?”

Mori stares. “Excuse me?” Natsume wants to fund his illegal practice? After what they’ve just discussed?

“What’s the catch?” Elise asks.

“This place sits in the middle of a disputed territory between gangs and organizations, even the Port Mafia doesn’t have a handle on it. It would be quite easy to make it into neutral grounds.”

“Yes, I picked it for this reason.”

“With the end of the war, there is an increase in activity from people wishing to disrupt the city, they see it as an opportunity. I wish to keep them from causing trouble, and for this –“

“- you need someone to collect information on their activities,” Mori finishes, “and eventually intervene.” He and Elise glance at each other. “You could get any doctor to do that for you.”

“I need a doctor like you .”

("Someone I can trust", goes unsaid. So does "Someone who is willing to get their hands dirty for the job", but this one is understood anyway.)

It’s a dangerous position, Elise says.

I think we can handle it, he answers. In the worst-case scenario, I can fight, and so can you.

Natsume is not privy to their conversation, and waits for him (them, unbeknownst to him) to come to a decision. It takes a bit of deliberation, but in the end Mori nods.

“I think we have a deal.”

---------

Rintarou is twelve the first time he sees a dead body.

Maybe at one point, he knew the reason behind his sudden bout of rage. It happened often, for any reason, any toe over a line that seemed to shift constantly. Could’ve been a broken glass, or the library’s late fee, or, or….

This one had been exceptionally violent, and yet as an adult Mori will be unable to remember why .

It doesn’t really matter, does it?

His entire body feels heavy, his head hurts, and when he wipes his nose with his sleeve it comes out bloody. The blow he takes sends him stumbling on the floor, and he stares up at the man – he’s never seen him like this before, usually it’s already over by then and he has already started with the apologies.

Fear grips his stomachs and he knows, without a doubt, that this time is different.

“You’re not really here,” he told Vita Sexualis once.

“I’ll find a way,” she answered back then, and that day she does.

Rintarou doesn’t want the man dead – he'll say he doesn’t hate him enough for it, that he could just leave and never think of him again, never look back. It would be a lie, he supposes. In any case, he personnally doesn’t really want him to die.

Vita Sexualis, though, is another story. (It might surprise some, but of the two of them, she’s the most vindictive.)

He doesn’t need to see exactly what happens to know. He knows, through her, that she manifests herself as a physical being, that she takes advantage of his father’s shock to make her move, and out of pure luck, Vita Sexualis stabs him in the throat.

The blood splatters on the wall, on her dress, and on Rintarou’s face. She drops her weapon, which disappears before it hits the ground, and turns to him, reaching out one of her hand, which didn't exist until this exact moment. The glow of her eyes dims.

The knots in his guts disappear. He reaches back, letting her pull him back on his feet, and it’s only when he’s standing and holding her hand that he can look away from the body.

She’s taller than Rintarou, so she looks down at him, blue eyes glaring at the blood on his face, and her free hand rubs his cheek a little too hard. It’s the first time she touches something, so he doesn't protest.

It's the first time she speaks, so her voice is a little rough, a little shaky: “It’s okay, don’t be scared.”

Her hand feels warm around his. He is not afraid.

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd mori #bsd elise #mori ougai #fic #gen #writing

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astxlphe-fics · 2 years

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#zhongxiao #genshin impact #zhongli #xiao genshin #genshin fanart #i love them!!! so much!!!#they're in love your honor #click for better quality

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astxlphe-fics · 2 years

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Ceci n'est pas une pipe

Rintarou, Elise, and the things they share

Word count: 2.237

Content warning: mentions of Mori and Yosano's backstory

Every day I think about Mori and Elise's relationship so this more of a headcanon dump with a side of character interactions.

Elise knows she’s not the first, real Elise.

Mori Ougai is not the true Rintarou, and Vita Sexualis is not the true Elise. She simply chose her face out of Rintarou's most treasured memories, the memories of a blond girl in a blue dress, laughing and dancing with him by the riverside.

Rintarou loved Elise, at the time, and now he loves Vita Sexualis who lives in the shape of Elise, but is not her. People sometimes find it quite disturbing, but Vita Sexualis is an ability — she’s his ability — it’s not her job, or her concern, to appease people who do not understand.

She is not the first Elise, but she is an Elise, who first opened her eyes in a makeshift war hospital when Rintarou himself was barely an adult, a response to his deep need for someone.

Anyone.

That day, she took this face and, she figured, she might as well take the name too. She came to like it a lot over the years.

Maybe she thought such a familiar appearance would be reassuring. She did not understand him, back then.

She picks a sweet from the box and throws the paper on the ground when she’s done unwrapping it.

Other abilities have no idea what they’re missing out on, cooped up in the minds of their humans like this.

More for her. That's the privilege of existing as a separate entity.

In the center of the office, Rintarou is giving Akutagawa his orders for the night. The boy is standing straight, shoulders tense, taking notes of every word. It doesn’t mean he’s going to obey when it comes down to it, but at least he is listening.

Rintarou always liked the rebellious ones, to an extent. Akutagawa, she can tell, reminds him of Dazai in that way (“it’s like herding a bunch of particularly aggressive puppies” she hears him think, “they’re content to do what they’re told until something catches their attention and they're off doing their thing, not listening to you”), so he’s happy to let him off his leash once in a while.

It’s entertaining, and kind of funny. She smiles to herself, humming quietly, and Higuchi glances at her from her post on Akutagawa's right, looking mildly worried.

Her crayon traces a red line through a doodled Akutagawa’s neck. Higuchi grimaces.

Do they know, she wonders, that Mori Ougai is only the part of himself Rintarou is willing to show them?

"Rintarou" is not someone they need to know. He's not for anyone but Elise.

Finally, Akutagawa bends into a sharp bow before taking his leave, and Rintarou leans back into his chair, stretching. He pulls out several files, looking over some paperwork, while Elise continues to play quietly.

Then, he starts falling asleep.

She first feels it when the taste of the candy fades from her tongue, and the crayon falls through her hand. His consciousness and mind are about to let her go, right here on his own desk.

She wrinkles her nose — that won’t do. He’ll wake up with a terrible backache.

Letting the rest of her things drop on the ground, she gets up, dusts her dress as if any dust could stick to it in this state, and marches to the desk. She climbs up, sitting in the middle of the paperwork, pushing them to the side.

Her hand comes to rest at the side of his head. She’s usually mean and petulant, poking fun at him, because he liked someone like this once.

Yosano was a doctor, just like the Elise who was once by Rintarou's side.

Well, almost. Yosano wasn't a doctor on her own accord. Elise stood by Rintarou’s side as he pushed her, forced her into being a doctor for soldiers who weren’t allowed to die. She remembers Yosano becoming one of the building blocks of the Elise she is now, both due to Rintarou, and due to the kinship Yosano seemed to feel for her despite not being human.

Rintarou didn’t love her like he’d loved first Elise as a child, but he’d liked the way she was, and so it is the way Elise is.

It doesn’t matter if no one else understand, if they all think of her as a real child, or a convincing fake. All that truly matters is that she and Rintarou understand each other.

One day she'll get him to quit the wine though. She's not sure what he likes so much about it, the thing tastes foul.

Now, he’s a bit too tired, so she leans down to kiss the top of his head. Then, she grabs a strand of his hair.

“Rintarou.” And she pulls sharply. “Wake up!” she calls, her free hand on her hip. “I’m hungry!”

He blinks blearily, straightening himself in his armchair. His back does a strange sound and he winces. “Ouch, Elise-chan—” He whines, letting himself being pulled forward by the hair.

“My sweets are finished,” she declares. “I want more.”

He offers her a lopsided grin. “Of course, let’s go! Maybe we can find you a new dress too!" She sends him a flat look — has she mentioned his doubtful sense of fashion too? "Let’s see, who is open at this hour—”

The guards at the door jump when it flies open. Elise hurries down the stairs with Rintarou on her heels, and their subordinates who are on the night shift stare at them — one of them even laughs, telling a joke about the boss and his spoiled daughter.

He read the name “Ougai” in a book, once, before entering medical school. To this day, he still can’t remember the title of the book or its author, but the name stuck out to him.

And none of them truly sees Rintarou and Elise.

It just...sounded nice, so he kept it in mind. For later.

As someone whose attachment to his identity and past was flimsy at best, it was only logical that he would adopt it one day.

He took on the Mori name while entering school, and named himself Ougai when officially hired as a military doctor.

And so, just as Vita Sexualis became Elise, Rintarou became Mori Ougai.

Elise who knows him. She is the last one who truly does, and she’s the last one he can be “Rintarou” for.

There is a lot of Yosano in her attitude, unapologetically loud and snappy and ready to kick at a moment notice, but she takes aafter Fukuzawa and Natsume in the way she scolds him when she has to save him, and has a little of Dazai when she’s mad and doesn’t want to talk to him.

Nowadays though, there are things that are just hers.

“What kind of candies would you like tonight?” He doesn’t really need to ask. He already knows. She’ll want strawberry, chocolate, and caramel and he’ll get it for her, obviously. Those have been her favorites for years.

“Strawberry,” Elise demands. “And chocolate. And caramel!”

The first Elise didn’t like candies.

Neither do Fukuzawa and Dazai, while Natsume likes liquorice, of all things.

Rintarou has a memory — though he’s fairly sure it’s not his memory — of her being handed sweets, many years ago, by Yosano. He even remembers what they tasted like.

(“Do you want some candies? I still have some from the shop I worked at.")

He doesn’t bring it up with her. It’s no use deconstructing what makes her herself, what matters is that they still understand each other.

Besides, she gets cranky when he tries to pick at her personality and the differences between her, the first Elise, and everyone else.

And on those days, he sees even more clearly the truth of “Elise”. Despite starting out as barely more than a name and a face, evolving from a construction of idealized memories and of people he’d come to like over the years, the jigsaw puzzle she once was has long since become a full picture.

He isn't sure if she was supposed to develop this way.

Maybe it's his favorite thing about her. She is so much more than what she was supposed to be.

How could he not love her in the way you can only love a lifelong friend and companion?

“The 24/7 candy shop should be open,” he tells her, looking at his phone. “It’s quite further than our usual, but I believe you will be satisfied.”

“Good enough,” Elise grabs his hand and drags him forward with a strength that doesn’t fit her size, and she laughs at him when he almost trips. “Don’t be slow, Rintarou!”

The laughter is all hers too. He doesn't remember ever meeting someone who laughs like this, and the sound both resonates outside and echoes inside of his own head.

Like a soft bell ringing and reminding him that she is always here.

He walks faster to keep up with her, looking for the street signs to make sure they’re going in the right direction.

Until….

“It’s closed.”

They stare at the sign on the door, and Elise frowns, scowling deeply. “Why is it closed?”

“I believe,” he answers, looking at the sign taped to the window, “that they are making renovations.” He sighs deeply, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t say anything, glowering at the sign. “Fine! Let’s go home.”

“I’m sure we can find somewhere else —”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I want to go home now.”

She is not lying, but it takes little efforts to feel her frustration. He will find something at home to give her instead of candies, maybe some hot chocolate? The idea seems to appease her, and she nods without either of them needing to say a word.

Their connection runs deep, and is not something Rintarou will ever share with anyone else.

There is nobody in the world who will know him like she does, and the idea of losing her is...well, he remembers, clearly, the night the fog rolled into Yokohama and, inside him, the emptiness that soon followed.

Like a hole in his chest where she should have been, and when she nested herself once again when Fukuzawa sliced through the gem in her forhead.

“You’re right, let’s go home.” And as she stalks off, Rintarou chuckles, following her, waving apologetically at a passerby he barely avoids colliding with. “Elise-chan is so cute ~”

“Stop saying that!”

Last time, he laughs it off in front of Fukuzawa, saying she was too cute to fight with.

They’re already home, and Rintarou is fishing the chocolate powder out the cupboard, when his phone rings.

But, if he is a man of logic, ready to commit, unflinching, the most cold-blooded crimes for the sake of duty, why could he still not go against her that night?

It’s Akutagawa.

Immediately, he straightens himself, picks up. “What is the problem?”

Elise, pulling two mugs off the shelf, stops in her movement to stare at him.

Rintarou listens intently to Akutagawa’s report. The boy is noticeably furious, his tone fast and snappish, regularly interrupted by coughing.

“I see,” he says when he is done. “Bring the survivors to the Headquarters' cells. Leave them here until tomorrow, then we’ll make them talk.” Then: “And, Akutagawa-kun, don’t forget to bring yourself and Higuchi-kun to the infirmary, you are of no use if you are too injured to function properly."

Akutagawa agrees half-heartedly. He must be tired; Rintarou rarely gets such a positive reaction when telling him he needs to be taken care of.

"So he's not dead?" Elise asks when he hangs up.

"No, he's very much alive."

"Ah." She blinks slowly. "Maybe next time then."

"Elise-chan, Akutagawa-kun is a valuable asset to the Port Mafia. For now, let's not wish the boy an unfortunate end, alright?"

She rolls her eyes. "You're no fun, Rintarou."

Leaving the phone on the kitchen counter, he finishes preparing hot chocolate, before he shrugs of his black coat to set it on the back of a chair. He runs a hand through his hair, undoing his ponytail. Elise joins him in the living room, sitting next to him on the couch with her mug.

Forgetting about his hot chocolate, he watches her, feeling her calming down in the depth of his mind.

She has taken off her shoes, legs crossed, as she drinks, letting off a silent, familiar warmth. The chocolate leaves a dark mark on her upper lip and a sweet aftertaste on Rintarou’s tongue, and she wipes her face with the back of her hand.

“Rintarou,” she says once she’s finished. Her voice is quieter, and she puts her mug on the table. “Let’s dance.”

Rintarou blinks. His own cup is still untouched, but he smiles, eyebrows drawing together. “Of course.”

He puts it next to hers and stands, extending his hands. Elise stretches her legs and joins him, her much smaller fingers slipping between his.

“What would you like to dance to?”

“I think you know.” She closes her eyes. "Think of it and I’ll hear it too.”

He closes his eyes as well, and she hears it in her own head. The music.

They do not dance with the same steps Rintarou danced as a child. They have, since then, made their own tune.

(That night, when Rintarou finally falls asleep in a proper bed, Elise will still be within his mind and together they will share dreams.)

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd mori #bsd elise #gen #writing

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astxlphe-fics · 2 years

Text

words unsaid

Pairing: Fukumori

Word count: 1.433

Summary: Fukuzawa and Mori aren't the kind of people who ask the other to stay. Good thing they don't need to.

Fluff / taking care of each other

Content warnings: mention of blood and injury

The moon is high when they stumble back in the underground doctor’s infirmary. The light bulbs emit a sickly yellow light, but in the man’s office the window lets in the soft white glow of the moon.

“Do not,” Fukuzawa Yukichi growls, dragging Mori inside, “ever do this again.”

He dumps Mori on the bed, and the man winces. “Ouch — this is unnecessarily cruel, Fukuzawa-dono. You shouldn’t be so rough to a wounded man.”

“I don’t care. You let yourself be injured.”

“You would be terrible as a doctor.”

“Keep quiet, and don’t move until you’re healed.”

Panting, Mori lets go of his wound to inspect it. He’s pale, his face bruised in some places, but it’s nothing compared to the bloody gash on his side. He pats it, grimacing. “I’m afraid it’s not quite how it works.”

Elise giggles as she rummages through the drawers, getting some antiseptic and bandages. She carries them to the bed, handing them to Mori to clean his wound. Fukuzawa watches as he takes his coat off and opens his shirt and proceeds, eyes narrowing when the younger man’s nose scrunches up in pain as he dabs it with the antiseptic.

Then, he sighs. “Let me.” He’s not a proficient caretaker by any means, but his job history means he’s capable of dressing a wound rather efficiently, at least on himself. He also had to do it to Ranpo on occasions, though the teen’s injuries usually aren’t any more severe than a couple of scratches.

“Taking pity on me?”

“I’m only doing my job.” He sends him a deadpan stare. “Natsume-sensei would be upset if you died on my watch, especially so stupidly. Now raise your arms.”

This has the merit of making Mori laugh, and Fukuzawa’s face softens at the sound. He finishes cleaning the gash, making sure it wouldn’t bleed anymore, and as he wraps Mori’s abdomen with the bandages, they both fall silent.

Fukuzawa doesn’t really notice it, not until he’s done and looks up at Mori. The doctor is staring at him with an expression Fukuzawa doesn’t recognize — something soft and almost sweet that he wouldn’t think belonged on his face.

Then, Mori blinks, and Fukuzawa shakes his head, pulling back and getting on his feet. “There. Will you survive the night?”

“I believe I will.”

“Good.” For a moment he stands there awkwardly, wondering if he should leave or not, while Mori dresses himself again. He still has to go back to Ranpo, after all, he can’t exactly leave the kid without news. Though knowing him, he’s probably already guessed the reason behind Fukuzawa’s lateness. “I should —”

“You could —”

They both fall silent again. “Do you want me to go?” Fukuzawa ends up asking.

He doesn’t even know if he wants to stay, he’s had his fill of the doctor for today — especially of his nasty habit of considering a being cut open by a butcher’s knife is a small price to pay to fulfill their mission. He’s not sure his heart can handle another round of that.

“Don’t you have a boy to feed with murder cases?”

“He has enough sense not to go gallivanting at night, looking for dead bodies, without me.” Hopefully. “So?”

It’s obvious, at the moment he asks, that Mori is about to blow him off and pretend he doesn’t care. But whatever he is about to say doesn’t make it out because the door bursts open. Fukuzawa’s hand is on his weapon in a split second, but the visitor skids to a stop, catching his breath.

“Doctor,” he manages to say, hands on his knees. “There is — gunshot wound— we need you now!”

Without missing a beat, Mori is on his feet. “Show me the way,” he orders, voice firm and unwavering. The visitor nods, running back through the door. Mori follows him and —

— and then he doesn't exactly stumble, but he grimaces, and his hand rests on the door frame for a little too long. It lasts for barely a second before he pulls himself together, but Fukuzawa sees it, and when Mori glances back at him there is the shadow of pain in his eyes.

He will not ask Fukuzawa to stay — he’s not that kind of man, or at least doesn’t want to be — but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it. It’s up to Fukuzawa to guess what the man truly wants, and he’s been getting better at it lately.

Ranpo will be fine, he decides.

“Wait.” He joins him at the door, standing close enough for Mori to know he’ll catch him if he falls. “I’ll stay with you tonight.”

Mori’s eyes widen, and his face seems to get back its colors. Almost unoticably, he reaches out, fingers grasping at the end of Fukuzawa’s sleeve, and that’s how he is sure the guessed the doctor’s wishes right.

Then Mori’s mouth stretches into a pained but somewhat grateful smile. “Well, my dear bodyguard, let’s go, then.”

“I’m almost done,” Mori says. It’s the middle of the day but he sounds exhausted, which isn’t surprising. Fukuzawa himself is tired. The entire affair with the virus, and then their fight, are taking their toll. “You could have asked Yosano-kun to fix it up for you, I hear she is a capable doctor.”

Fukuzawa glares at him. Or at least he tries, but his head is too uncomfortably bent for him to hit his target. “I won’t trouble her with something you are responsible for and perfectly capable for fixing yourself.”

“You just don’t want to be on the business end of her knife, don’t you?”

He doesn’t grace the remark with an answer, so Mori goes on. “The cut was quite deep; it’ll take some time to heal.” He finishes wrapping the bandage with ease. He doesn’t lack practice, Fukuzawa knows, with the patients he still occasionally takes — limited to his subordinates, nowadays.

It’s nice to know that, despite not being technically a practicing doctor anymore, Mori hasn’t lost his skills.

“You haven’t lost your touch,” Fukuzawa comments.

“Which one?” Mori smiles thinly. “Taking care of wounds or cutting throats?”

Both. It goes without saying, so Mori just nods knowingly. Then, he pats his shoulder, standing up, and concludes: “It might scar."

“It’s not my concern.” He already has many scars, one more won’t change anything. He watches Mori as he collects his first aid supplies and puts them back in their case. His eyes linger on the man’s face, and he remembers the strange emotion he caught a glimpse of as his scalpel cut his throat.

Something like regret.

“I suppose you have to go back to your office?”

Mori chuckles, and stretches like a cat, spine extending to what seems to be impossible extents. “I couldn’t if I tried. Hirotsu and Kouyou were quite clear that I was to rest for the day. I will probably take Elise-chan shopping, and buy her some sweets. She deserves it, after all I’ve put her through those past few days.”

“I see.” He glances at the tea set on the shelf, and wonders for a second if he should invite Mori for tea.

On the other side of the wall, the office is empty. They’ve all gone to the café below, so they won’t be back for another hour, so they won’t notice if Mori stays for a little longer.

He scratches at his neck, feeling the thickness of the bandage and the careful ways it has been tied.

Mori stares at him in silence for several seconds, before he crosses the room to the tea set. He has the time to take two cups and start the boiler before Fukuzawa asks: “What are you doing?”

“Since you don’t intend to invite me,” Mori answers, his voice tinged with false offense. “I’m inviting myself and staying for tea. Do you still take it with two sugars?”

“Obviously," he confirms, trying very hard to not let his disbelief bleed into his words

“Wonderful," Mori pours the hot water into the cups and brings them over to the desk, pushing one towards Fukuzawa before dropping two sugars in it, barely making any ripple in the liquid.

The detective takes. It’s hot under his fingers, so he blows lightly on surface, and he takes a sip. In front of him, Mori does the same, closing his eyes as if it helps taste the drink better, and Fukuzawa smiles to himself.

He would have never asked the man to stay on his own, and he is glad that after all those years, he still doesn’t need to.

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #fukumori #bsd fukuzawa #bsd mori #writing

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astxlphe-fics · 3 years

Text

let me live (let me die)

The end of the fight with the Chevalier, and the start of something between Astolfo and Noé.

Chapter 5/?

< Chapter 4 || Chapter 6 >

Content warning : character death (OC), violence, mentioned character death, implied medical abuse (? Doctor Moreau is talked about)

Noé wants to ask Astolfo many questions, specifically regarding Antonio. Something is bothering him, but it’ll have to wait.

Right now, their focus is the Chevalier Ténèbre.

He still can barely believe that anyone would, on their own will, murder someone’s whole family. There has to be an explanation, a truth neither of them is aware of.

They let him come to them, and the Chevalier has no trouble finding them.

From his perch on the roof, Noé glances down at Astolfo, hiding against the wall at the street corner, a flash grenade held tight in his hands. He is utterly still, for now.

“This is getting rather tedious, though not entirely unexpected,” the Chevalier says. “The Granatums have always been a plague upon vampire kind.”

The glow of his eyes is bright enough that Noé can see it. The shadows move around him, muting his footsteps. It seems to lose some of its density when hit by the moonlight, though not entirely.

So, their suspicions are correct.

Astolfo rips the pin off the grenade, arming it, and lets it drop in the street, where it rolls down the pavement. At this time of the night, when people have either gone home or run away from the fight already, the sound it makes is too loud.

The Chevalier’s head snaps towards it and recognizes it with ease. He takes a few steps back, trying to protect his eyes, but it blows before he has the time.

Noé covers his face, closing his eyes as the bright flash of light explodes through the streets. It feels like it burns through his eyelids still, making him a feel somewhat dizzy, though not as much as if he took the full brunt of it.

The Chevalier isn't so lucky.

He screams, the light snaps his control over the formula, destroys the shadows around him, and Noé winces in sympathy. Having been subjected to an earlier version of the Aegis grenade, he knows it isn’t a particularly good feeling.

Not to mention, any chasseur out and about will be attracting to the flash like moths to a streetlight.

Astolfo darts out of his hiding place, quick enough to come close to the Chevalier while he’s still distracted. Meanwhile, Noé shakes his head to get rid of the lingering nausea, waiting for it to fade before joining the fight.

It looks like Astolfo doesn’t truly need him, though he won’t bet his life on that. He is fast on his feet, striking quick and getting out of range even quicker. Without the distance advantage a spear usually gives him, he has to force himself into his enemy’s space, push him to act before he can think.

Astolfo always was a smart fighter, though Noé supposes he has to be when.

Finally, his vision clears, and reinforces his body before he lets himself fall from the rooftop. His knee collides with of one of his shoulders, sending him tripping forward.

“You’ve brought a friend,” he hisses. “Afraid of facing me on your own?”

The shadows still have trouble reforming around him. The Chevalier’s hands shake as he tries to get them back under his control, and they shift and bubble while Astolfo dashes again. The Chevalier manages to avoids him, but barely, staggering,

Still, Astolfo staggers as well and seems to have forgotten all about Noé’s presence as he turns on his heels and runs straight into him. Noé’s balance wavers, and he grabs onto Astolfo to avoids the both of them stumbling over each other. “Be care—“

But Astolfo shoves his hand off. “Out of my way,” he snarls, pushing him away, “I’ll gut him—”

Noé shoves him out of the way as the Chevalier, having found his lost balance, comes at them. “Be careful!” he calls out again.

“Let—”

Noé’s hands grabs on the Chevalier’s wrist. “A vampire?” the Chevalier says, “no, worse, an Archiviste , helping a Granatum, of all people? Well, I thought I had seen everything.”

“Did you—” The Chevalier tries to rip his wrist out of his grip, but Noé is barely shaken by the struggle, his prosthetic arm holding on tight. “Did you kill his family?”

All Noé needs is a word — a single word that would suggest this man did not do it on his own volition, that something else is at play. Then maybe— then maybe—

Instead, the Chevalier laughs . “And we did our kind a favor ,” he answers, lips curling into a smile. “They deserved it after the what they did —”

And Noé shoves his knee into the vampire guts before he twists his arm until its bends. Then, he kicks his legs, throwing him down on the ground.

The shadows, back in his control, writhe and wrap around his ankles. Noé tries to move to pin him down but they trip him and he almost falls.

Running past him again, Astolfo drops on the Chevalier’s stomach, forcing him to stay down, raises his blade and plunges it deep in his chest.

The vampire howls and trashes, almost throwing Astolfo off but the younger man holds on and, with all the strength his human body can muster, stabs him again — and again and again and again and again , until he stops trashing and the shadows at Noé’s feet fade.

Still, Noé doesn’t move, staring wide eyed as Astolfo doesn’t stop. Blood sprays his face, seeps between the cobblestone squares of the street and his face twists with rage.

“Astolfo,” he calls gently as he pulls on the young man shoulder. “We need to go.” He can hear footsteps coming their way — the chasseurs. If they’re caught here, they’ll be in trouble. But Astolfo doesn’t react, dagger dragging out of the Chevalier’s body with a squelching, wet sound that sends a shiver down Noé spine. “Astolfo, he’s dead!”

He pulls harder at Astolfo’s shoulder, dragging him back on his feet, and the younger man stops. He jerks himself out of Noé’s grip, his blood-streaked face relaxing as he wipes it with his sleeve.

“He is.” His tone flat, he stares, unblinking.

Noé’s eyes linger on the very bloody, very dead vampire on the ground, nausea coming back full force.

Maybe following Astolfo around isn’t Noé’s brightest idea. He isn’t quite sure how many brutal murders he can handle, and as he sends Astolfo a sidelong glance he can’t help but focus on the splatters of blood on his clothes and in his hair.

Astolfo looks back at him, eyes dark — darker than every time the younger man has snapped at him in the past few days, darker than when he’d exploded in anger. But he hides his trembling hands in his wide sleeves and his lips quiver and his shoulders shake as if he’s about to retch so Noé asks:

“Are you okay?”

It takes almost a full minute for Astolfo to answer:

“He killed my mom.” Very audibly, Astolfo gulps and takes in a deep breath. “That night someone — someone was holding me down and I watched him murder my mother. She was— she was screaming and begging and he—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but Noé has a pretty solid guess.

She was screaming and begging and Jean Ténèbre laughed.

Then, swiftly, Astolfo kneels back down. He shoves his fingers into the vampire’s mouth as his body starts turning into dust, ripping one of his fangs out with ease. “Let’s go back,” he says when he stands back up, slipping the tooth in his pocket. “I need to clean up.”

-------------------------

With a sigh, Astolfo allows Noé in his hotel room.

Back inside, with the lights on, he looks even worse — dirty and bloody, eyes tired. He drops his dagger in the sink and shrugs of his coat, while Noé sets his own, along with his hat, on the back of the chair.

Soon enough, Astolfo disappears into the bathroom, leaving Noé alone with his thoughts.

In all their years fighting alongside Vanitas, he never killed anyone. He always knew he was capable of it, and made sure it didn’t happen, even by accident. He never settled for Vanitas’ justifications of “it’s too late”, always believing in an alternative. But those vampires were cursed, they did not control themselves. It had not been their fault.

The Chevalier Ténèbre is not one of those vampires and, thinking back on the smug grin stretched on his face, on Astolfo’s exhaustion and despair — to the point of asking someone he dislikes for help — he can’t bring himself to feel sorry for the man they left dead out in the night.

Someone knocks on the door before Astolfo gets out of the shower, and Murr hisses in warning. Still, Noé stands and opens, finding himself face to face with the old chasseur he’d barely the time to great earlier that day.

He’s wearing his uniform, a sword very much apparent at his hip, and doesn’t look pleased at all.

Noé’s heart speeds up, and t. What is he doing here? How did he find them? Is he here for Astolfo? He glances back at the bathroom door. The water is still running, and with all the blood and grime, it’s unlikely Astolfo will have finished cleaning up soon.

In the end, a form of anger or annoyance prevails at the memory of his exchange with Astolfo, how he talked and looked down on him.

“Good evening,” Noé still greets politely, wondering if he should be ready for a fight. The formula around him crackles and shifts slightly, unnoticed by the human, and strengths builds up in his limbs.

“It’s very much not a good evening.” One of his hand rests on the handle of his sword. “I’m here to see the boy.”

“He’s not here?” Noé lies, terribly so.

Antonio pinches the bridge of his nose. “If you tell me he’s dead I will chop your head off, vampire.”

“He’s not!!” Noé immediately affirms, shaking his head quickly for emphasis. “He’s unavailable, but alive and mostly unarmed!” Antonio doesn’t seem to be looking for a fight, but he still doesn’t let go of the formula. “And my name is Noé.”

So many people showed up before him seemingly peacefully and the night still ended with beating the shit out of each other.

Antonio looks him up and down critically from behind his glasses. He notes Noé’s guarded stance, the metallic glint of his wrist peaking between his glove and his sleeve, Murr’s raised hackles, the weapon in the sink. “So, you are the one who killed Jean Ténèbre.”

“Uh? No, I —” he hesitates — would it make a difference? The accords between humans and vampires are still recent, less than a year old, and some terms are still being discussed by the Senate, so he isn’t quite sure yet what would happen to Astolfo if they realize he’s the one who killed the Chevalier Ténèbre.

He could claim it was in defense of his life, which would be close enough to the truth and difficult to prove wrong.

Turns out he doesn’t have to think about it for a long time.

“What are you doing here?”

Noé didn’t even notice Astolfo coming out of the bathroom. He looks fresher already, wearing clean clothes and his wet hair a mess, though his eyes are red and somewhat puffy.

He scowls as he sees Antonio, narrowing his eyes as if to hide that he’d been crying. “What,” he repeats, “are you doing here?”

“Someone,” Antonio answers just as coldly, glaring at Noé, “killed a vampire we were planning on arresting and handing over to Altus Italy, like the new accords stipulate .”

“I’m the one who killed him.” His scowl deepens. “It appears that I didn’t need your assistance in finding him,” Astolfo goes on, chin tilted up. “He came to me on his own, and attacked me. I merely defended myself.”

“You stabbed him seven times in the chest in self-defense.”

“Exactly.”

He stares at Antonio, challenge in his eyes, daring the man to refute him. But his hands, closed into fists, shake slightly and tension settles in his jaw, so Noé steps up, moving closer to Astolfo.

“Unless you have something else to tell us,” he says, “I think you should leave.”

Antonio stays quiet for a short moment, before he sighs. "First of all, I wanted to apologise for some of the things I said to you yesterday. It was—" he pauses, looking for the right word. "Unecessarily harsh." Astolfo doesn't comment on that, simply crossing his arms, face blank. "And I promised you a talk. About Moreau.”

Blood pounds in Noé’s ears at the familiar name, and he pulls on Astolfo’s forearm, dragging him closer. He clearly remembers the man, the experiments, the way he referred to people as numbers, what he did to Vanitas and Mikhail.

Was Astolfo another one of his test subjects?

“What about Moreau?”

“I thought— he was interested in your marks —”

“So you thought it was an excellent idea to send me over to him so he could study them up close.”

“Do you really believe I wouldn’t have chosen another solution if there had been? You are my best friend’s son ."

Astolfo somehow met the doctor, Astolfo somehow got into grabbing distance of the doctor, and it was this man’s doing.

“No one in the world knew better how vampires worked, how marks worked. He said —” The man falters, and for a moment Noé can see his walls fall apart, see the anger and the guilt. “He promised he would find a way to erase them—”

“And you believed him?” He crosses his arms, raising a disbelieving eyebrow.

“No one had any reason to suspect him at the time — and he was the only option that didn’t involve making my twelve years old godchild a soldier.”

That...makes sense, actually. At least, to Noé it does, but he’s not the wronged party here and it’s not his place to say so. Astolfo hisses under his breath and takes a step forwards, seemingly ready to go for the man’s throat. Noé’s hold on his forearm tightens, so he settles for glaring at the man, not trying to fight Noé’s grip.

“I think you should leave,” he says again, though not as friendly. He bares his teeth, and Murr snarls.

Antonio glances between the three of them and shakes his head, resigned. “You should leave the country as well. I’ll do my best to come up with a slightly more believable story. Be grateful, there won't always be someone to cover for you.”

“We will manage.”

He doesn’t slam the door behind him but might as well have. The silence following his departure feels loud, and Noé doesn’t dare ask Astolfo about anything.

Astolfo suddenly relaxes, his shoulders sagging, and as he drops down on the bed Noé lets go of his arm. He stares up at Noé, wide eyed, shaken. “I didn’t want you to hear this.”

“Is it something you talked about earlier?”

The younger man nods. “I didn’t want you to—”

“I know, and I didn’t want to be here when you two aired your dirty laundry and yet here we are.” He sighs. “I thought you were going to attack him.”

Astolfo’s nose wrinkles as he grimaces. “I suppose I must thank you,” he mutters, and falls silent again. “For your assistance against the Chevalier and for holding me back.”

"You're welcome." Noé sits down on the desk chair, still facing him, and he lets out a small, closed eyed laugh. Astolfo narrows his eyes at him.

“What is it now?”

“You said we too .”

“Excuse me?”

“You said we would manage,” Noé says again, and grins. “As in you and I .”

“I—” he stops himself and sighs. “I guess I did say it.”

“I’m glad.” He is , truly, because it means that Astolfo has accepted his help, that he’s willing to let Noé work with him for the time being. “We should rest, then decide what to do next.”

#vnc #vanitas no carte #astolfoé #astonoé #noe archiviste #astolfo granatum #writing #story: let me live (let me die)

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astxlphe-fics · 3 years

Text

let me live (let me die)

In which Noé wanders off and meets someone new. Meanwhile, Astolfo faces Jean Ténèbre

Chapter 4/?

< Chapter 3 || Chapter 5 >

Content warning : mentioned character death, violence

Of course, Noé wanders off — he wouldn’t be Noé Archiviste if he doesn't wander off. He’s curious and restless, and no matter how long he tries, he just can’t stand there and wait.

So, when he’s kicked out of the room, Noé starts wandering off.

This Antonio doesn’t seem willing to just give out the information they need, so maybe Noé can find it himself. In the past few years, he learned that sometimes, the best way to get information is to avoid asking, but sneak around and find out by yourself.

Better apologize later than ask for permission and being told “no”.

Murr in tow, he goes to explore.

He, somehow, manages to find the archives they passed a few minutes earlier. It’s quiet, and he takes the opportunity to look quickly through the shelves, hoping to find something on the vampire they are looking for.

There are records about him, but nothing recent enough. All he finds are reports upon reports, spanning decades , of a former Chevalier gone rogue with his brother, a thief and conman with a taste for blood, human and vampire alike, who was last seen 6 months ago near the coast, though the operation targeting him failed due to “outside intervention”.

“This is what Antonio referred to earlier, right?” he asks Murr, who sends him flat look, and Noé's eyebrows knit themselves together in worry. The file with the details is missing, along with several others, leaving several empty spots on the shelf, so he can’t be sure, but this is definitely something Astolfo would do.

“Anyone here?” someone calls out from deeper into the archives. Noé winces. He didn’t think anyone would be here, but now that someone is calling out to him, he realizes that archives should have an archivist.

He puts the files back where they belong and, accidentally knocking a chair down on the way, sneaks out of the room, turns at the nearest corner and finds himself into another.

This one seems to be the guardroom. It’s empty and, not for the first time, he wonders where all the chasseurs have gone. They are, though, several pieces of spare equipment in the closet, some which are small enough to fit in his pockets. He takes several, just in case.

He breathes in deeply. Everything is okay, he hasn’t been—

A yelp catches him by surprise.

— caught.

He turns on his heels, hands raised. “Wait, I—”

Another order given in Italian, which he is sure means “ don’t move”, or at least something along those lines.

He stares at the young woman in front of him, her skin a warm brown and dark hair shaved short, a file tucked under her elbow. She stares back at him, black eyes narrowed, then she swiftly slips something out of the sleeve of her white coat and points it at him, still speaking to him in Italian.

Something about not moving, again.

“I’m not an intruder— I mean, yes I am, but I came with Astolfo and I— uh — got lost?”

She narrows her eyes at him suspiciously, lowering the blade — a scalpel, Noé notices. “Astolfo? Astolfo Granatum?” When he nods, she lowers her makeshift weapon. She raises her free hand to about ear level, and changes language to French. “Are you sure?”

Is he sure he is with Astolfo? What kind of question is that? “He’s about this tall,” he says, hand raising up just a little under his shoulder. “With pink hair?”

“God, I can’t believe Astolfo is back.” She nods, tense, and her weapon disappears back in her sleeve. Then, she shakes her head from side to side. “Although I’m terribly sorry for the rudeness, if I had known...” She shakes her head again, pinching her lips. “In my defense, I’ve never seen you here before, and who would except him to bring a friend —”

“We’re not,” Noé corrects and when she glances at him with a raised eyebrow, he explains: “We’re not friends, I don’t even like him, we are simply travelling together for a while. He’s meeting with someone called Antonio.” He smiles at her, reassuring. “So, don’t worry about the rudeness, mademoiselle. I wasn’t very polite myself, intruding into your headquarters with no warning. I’m sorry.”

“He’s meeting with Antonio?” she repeats, all offense forgotten, her lips pulling down into a concerned frown. “This can’t go well. They haven’t been getting along, lately.”

“It wasn’t going well when I was kicked out.” Noé sighs. “He told me they were friends, but it doesn’t look like it.”

“They used to be close, but not anymore, not since—” She grimaces, and her shoulders slump. “Astolfo has changed a lot since he went to Paris, in good and bad, and when he came back a few months ago—” She trails off, and goes quiet.

“What happened when he came back?” Noé asks. The woman doesn’t seem willing to elaborate, and she looks at him again with renewed suspicions.

“Why do you want to know?”

“We’re working together.” It doesn’t sound like enough of an explanation. “He’s looking for the Chevalier Ténèbre, and I want to help.”

Hearing those words, she makes a face. “Oh no. I—” She grabs the files she keeps under her elbow. “Since they’ll be moving out against him soon, I’ve been studying those to prepare for the next round of injuries. I’m Isabella, by the way, I’m the doctor here.” She draws out her hand, and Noé shakes it, hesitant. As if she senses his unease, she goes on: “Don’t worry, I'm a regular doctor, I don't do experiments.” Her eyes take on a determined gleam. “I think you will understand better if I show you.”

Taking the file as she hands it out to him, he flips it open. It’s a report, stamped with a bright red “archives copy”, and the medical report attached has Astolfo’s name on it – a word is scratched out with black marker where his first name should be, an “Astolfo” written by hand in a big, looping handwriting just above it. It’s probably the files missing from the archives’ shelves, and Noé can’t believe his luck.

It’s curiosity that pushes him to look through it. Another page confirms his suspicions with heavy injuries and near death and descriptions of bloody wounds and torn flesh and an infection.

“That idiot ,” he mutters, the worry quickly shifting to frustration, and Isabella hums in agreement.

“He really is. It didn’t look pretty. I’m— I’m the one who took care of him, it took days before he was well enough to get out of bed and he left before I discharged him.” She glares hard at the words printed on the papers. “I hadn’t seen him in at least six years. Can you imagine? Your friend leaves for over six years, doesn’t even send a letter, and then – when they brought him in, I thought he was dead ." Her voice breaks slightly on the last word. "I had never seen Antonio look so scared, either.”

Of course, Astolfo didn’t tell him. He has no obligation to do so, Noé knows, but he can’t help but feel the slightest resentment and frustration at the memories of Astolfo’s claims of being able to handle himself when there is definite proof that he can’t .

But no, he’s Astolfo Granatum and doesn’t need anyone for anything. He is just going to keep walking straight to his death until he actually dies.

“Antonio?” he asks. “I didn’t think he would be so worried for Astolfo.”

“Are you kidding me?” She snorts. “Don’t let his attitude make you think Antonio doesn’t care; he seems to believe that the harsher he is, the further away from here and the Chevalier Astolfo will stay. It doesn't work, obviously." No, it doesn't look like it does, it just seems to make Astolfo more persistent. "Additionally, he has just been so angry since Marco died.” She pauses, looking at him quizzically. “Have you heard about Marco?”

“I’ve met him a few times.” He didn’t know him well, but he seemed kind, at least kind enough to somewhat temperate the explosive Astolfo.

She frowns. “Wait, how long have you known Astolfo?” Her question about Marco, Noé figures, lets her appraise how close he is to Astolfo, but his answer isn't what she expected, so she must have assumed they met in the past six months. Noé admitting to knowing Marco though, gives her a different time scale and more questions about their potential relationship.

“Three years.” When her eyebrows raise in disbelief, he elaborates, running a hand through his hair and smiling sheepishly. “We hated each other at first. We still don’t get along, but I think we’re past the attempted murders and limb cutting phase.” He wiggles the fingers of his left hand, and the joints click and clack with the movement.

“The what now?” she groans. “I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s always strange to hear about what he got up to in France.”

A door slams shut in the distance, cutting him off before he can answer, and he skims through the rest of the file, trying to find anything useful on the Chevalier before he regroups with Astolfo.

“You said they were going to move out again soon?” he asks, trying to get them back on track.

Isabella nods. “Uhm — yes— it’s supposed to be tonight. In a few hours. Hopefully, Antonio will get Astolfo out of the city before it starts.” She looks up to Noé with severe eyes. “You two need to leave.”

She’s the second person who isn’t so happy to see Astolfo back, but it’s the gravity of her tone that makes it click. “He is in Florence, isn’t he?”

The Chevalier Ténèbre has last been seen in this very city. In Florence. All the chasseurs on duty are patrolling the area before he makes more victims here, which explains the headquarters’ persistent silence.

He is way closer than they thought.

Noé needs to find Astolfo, and fast.

He grabs both of Isabella’s hands in his own. “I’m very sorry, but I need to go now. Thank you so much for your help!”

“You’re going to help him, right?” He nods, so she continues: “He won’t listen to us, but maybe you will: I know he says he’ll be okay, but he can’t fight the Chevalier on his own.” She looks straight at him with gravity. “He will die.”

“He won’t. Not on my watch. I promise!”

And she bites her lower lips, unsure. “I hope you’re right. Do you need help finding your way back to Antonio’s office?”

Noé stops right at the door, hesitant, and Isabella laughs. “Come on, I’ll guide you.”

“Thank you!” He turns to Murr. “Let’s go.”

The cat looks up at him in exasperation.

“Sorry,” Noé tells him with an apologetic smile, though he can feel the worry building up inside him. “But we need to find Astolfo, before he runs into the Chevalier Ténèbre on his own.”

Knowing Astolfo, he could very well stumble upon him by accident.

“It won’t go well if he faces him alone.”

This seems to decide Murr, who sniffs disdainfully and starts walking.

-------------------------

Without Louisette, or more generally speaking, a spear, and the enhancement drug the chasseurs usually have, Astolfo can’t fight as well as he used too. He’s always been smaller than the average boy, both in terms of height and weight. He made up of for it, back then, by choosing a long-range weapon and relying on speed, dexterity and high mobility. With it, he could make his size an advantage, even though it also allowed his enemies to throw him around with more ease if they grabbed him.

The spear allowed him to hit his target while staying away. Now, all he has is his own natural speed and a short weapon which requires him to get in his enemy’s arm reach.

The dagger rips through the Chevalier’s clothes and nicks at his skin, but the vampire grabs him by the collar, pulling him off his feet, and throws him away. His back hits a wall with a thud and, as he falls, he sees stars, the pain spreading through his body in short waves.

He pushes himself back on his feet and picks his weapon. He grins, the rush of the fight coming back to him, warming him up. His focus is solely on Jean Ténèbre, and the humans running away, the chasseurs he is sure are on their way, Noé Archiviste’s departure — all of this is nothing but background noise. None of it matters .

Jean Ténèbre here stands in front of him and this time, nothing will stop Astolfo from taking his life.

Adjusting his grip on his weapon, he lunges, intentionally leaving his side open. The Chevalier takes the bait and Astolfo dodges, slipping under his arm and aiming his ribs. The vampire stumbles when Astolfo’s blade lodges itself right between two of them and he swings his arm, elbow hitting the side of his head.

Astolfo manages to roll away, once again out of range. He breathes hard already, but he can’t stop smiling, face flushed, his weapon bloodied.

“I failed to end you once,” he tells him, laughter bubbling at the back of his throat. “I will not fail again tonight.”

He remembers that night very clearly — every detail of it etched in his mind forever. The night this vampire and his companions slaughtered his family and laughed.

Just as Astolfo prepares to attack again, something catches on his leg, making him tumble down on his knee. He pulls, hard, but his foot is rooted on ground, something dark swirling around his ankle. He tries to pull it off, but it’s immaterial.

“You don’t learn, do you?” The Chevalier’s eyes seem to glower in the darkness, pupils shifting to strange, eerie spirals.

He cannot touch it and no matter how much he tries; it paralyses his ankle. He stands again, trying to force his leg to move, to wrench it off the ground, but it only spreads, keeping him from bending his knee until he’s immobilized all the way up his waist.

Around the Chevalier, shadows twirl and swell, growing more solid, more textured under his power.

All vampires have the ability to alter the very nature of this world, the formula. Some of them learn how to control this power, and some of them specialize. The Chevalier Ténèbre, staying true to his name, decided on darkness .

It wraps around him, taking a hold of his arm, squeezing his wrist until it cuts the skin and makes him drop his weapon. The dagger clatters uselessly on the ground.

“You come to me, in the middle of the night, when I am at my strongest, and you can barely put up a decent fight.” He sighs, sounding disappointed, standing just in front of him. He pats his cheek with a barely there smile that Astolfo wants to rip off his face with his bare hands. “To think my beloved brother lost to that. ”

The touch would make Astolfo shiver if he could move at all and he grits his teeth. He hasn’t changed at all. He is still, without the chasseurs, a weak and helpless child.

Once again, he realizes, Antonio was right. He keeps overestimating himself, trying to make himself believe that he’s still strong enough to take the Chevalier like he took his brother years ago.

Move , he tells himself as the Chevalier’s shadow creep up. Move , as he tries to push it aside. If he doesn't, Astolfo will be hacked to pieces by disgustingly solid shadows, and he can’t even move . Like six months ago, and like when he was eleven and pinned down by those same shadows as fangs dug into his skin.

The thought is what finally kicks him into action.

Astolfo snaps his head, catching, between his teeth, the fragile skin between the Chevalier’s thumb and index finger, and bites down. His teeth sink in. Blood pours out, staining his lips and chin.

The Chevalier yelps, his focus shifts, and his control snaps. Astolfo pushes him back, throwing his balance off. He dives to the ground to grab his weapon and drives it down into the vampire’s foot, before putting distance between them.

His chest rises and falls with his heartbeat, fast and uneven, and he wipes his face with his sleeve, spitting out the blood on the ground.

Then, snarling, the Chevalier comes for him again, faster, and Astolfo won’t have time to move out of the way — but before anything can happen something grabs him around the waist, pulling him off his feet and out of the way.

“Are you alright?”

And he finds himself carried like a sack of potatoes over Noé Archiviste’s shoulder as he turns several street corners, until they lose sight of the Chevalier.

“What—”

“I learned the Chevalier Ténèbre was here so I came looking for you. But you found him without my help, it seems.”

“I—” Astolfo lets out a strangled sound of surprise, before he truly realizes what position he is in and kicks his feet in the air. “Let me down!”

“Oh, right.” He puts him back on his feet. “There.”

Now back on the ground, Astolfo regains his bearings and huffs. “What took you so long?” he demands as if he hasn’t been scared out of his mind, in a difficult position just a minute ago. “Did you wander off again?”

“What do you mean, again ?” the Archiviste protests. “I even brought something that could be useful.”

He rummages through his pockets and takes out several pouches, which Astolfo easily recognizes. “Are those chasseurs belt pouches?”

“I found them in the guardroom in the headquarters. I figured you could find some use for it, since you don’t have access to those anymore.” He looks back over his shoulder, making sure the Chevalier Ténèbre isn’t catching up yet. “You can’t fight him on your own, Astolfo. At least not without some extra weapons.”

The "you’re a regular human now" hangs between them, unsaid.

“Look—”

“Mademoiselle Isabella showed me what he did to you last time.”

There is something in his tone and in his eyes looking too much like a mixture of fear and worry that make Astolfo want to give up arguing.

It's not like he’s up for an argument anyway. He’s tired, from the last year’s search, from his previous encounters with the Chevalier, from the argument with Antonio, and from the fight, so he just takes the pouches without a word. He doesn’t ask how he even knows Isa, and opens them. They all contain Aegis flash grenades, brand new and polished, warm under his fingers.

All in all, they have four of those.

“This is what you disappeared for?”

“Well, it wasn’t what I was looking for but—” He rubs the back of his head. “Sometimes you take what you have on hands.” He points at the cat still sitting across his shoulders. “Murr helped too.”

“I—” he gulps. “I was under the impression you—”

I thought you left for good .

“You thought what?” the vampire asks, confused.

“Nothing.” He looks away, face pink in embarrassment, recalling his rather childish outburst.

“Are you sure?”

He nods, and focuses back on the equipment Noé brought back. He picks one of the grenades, weighting it in his palm. “This will be useful. The Chevalier Ténèbre can control shadows,” he explains.

“We will be able to counter it with those, then.”

Astolfo blinks, taken aback. He always imagined himself facing the Chevalier alone, fighting alone until who or whatever is in front of him kills him. “We?”

"Yes, we." Noé takes off his coat and hat, which he neatly places on a windowsill, before he sets Murr next to them. His sharp fangs glint in the moonlight as he grins, flexing his fingers, and Astolfo is suddenly reminded that, under his sweet exterior, the vampire is as much as a fighter as any chasseur. “I’m your shield now. You can count on me.”

#vnc #vanitas no carte #astonoé #astolfoé #noé archiviste #astolfo granatum #writing #story: let me live (let me die)

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astxlphe-fics · 3 years

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#bsd #bungou stray dogs #morikou #mori x kouyou #bsd mori #bsd kouyou #drawing #wip

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astxlphe-fics · 3 years

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what if...they held hands...under the cherry blossoms

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #dazaku #bsd dazai #bsd akutagawa #drawing #i posted it a month ago on twitter but forgot to put it here

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astxlphe-fics · 3 years

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Faustluna / Luna will never tire of hearing Faustina say their name.

Eeeh this is messy as hell but I've wanted to write this ship since forever. This is a mix up of headcanons and weird theories stacked up into a fluff one shot, since i don't have enough canon to have a proper idea of how they would interact.

regarding Luna I think they use he/she/they but for this fic I stayed with they/them. Might change if I write them again.

this is just experimenting with how to write them so probably on the ooc side.

The boys are in bed, and Vanitas – well, Luna now — allows themselves to breath.

Children. What in the world has taken over them, deciding to care for children? It’s not something they know how to do, and there isn’t a day where they don’t doubt. What if something happened to the boys because of them?

They sit at the table, looking out through the window. The moon shines at them from over their head, round and white as it often is in the human world. It makes them miss the other world, the beautiful red moon hanging in its night sky. As red as her eyes.

They have only been to Altus a handful of times, hoping to catch a glimpse of this new world tailored for vampires and, maybe, of a certain person — but they could not, and given up.

Luna doesn’t like vampires, in general. They, themselves, are not quite the same kind of vampire as the rest, and they know they’re not the only ones. That there are others, out there, living in and outside of Altus, born under the blessing of the blue moon, vampires for whom blood is the gateway to the soul.

There are footsteps and a knock, and Luna stands, hand closing round their staff as they open the door. Their eyes narrow as they recognize the smaller, white figure in front of them, pale hair and skin and red eyes stark against the night.

“You Highness,” they greet, and Faustina, Queen of the Vampires, tilts her head. "I didn't know you were well enough to travel."

“Vanitas,” she greets back — if you could call that a greeting, but neither of them had the opportunity to be friendly those days, even if Luna knows it’s not quite her fault. The queen blinks. “I have my moments. Are you not inviting me in?”

“I would rather we spoke outside, actually.” They smile, deceptively wide. “The moon is full and the stars bright, Your Highness.” They close the door behind them, leading the Queen further away from the house. “We should enjoy it while it lasts.”

Displeasure flickers across her face. “I’m not here as the Queen,” she says. “I'm here as a friend, if you accept it.”

And who would Luna be if they didn't? She hasn’t come to them in decades, maybe even centuries — it’s getting difficult to keep track of those things. She isn't entirely free to do as she likes, always followed by guards, under the watchful eyes of the aristrocracy waiting for a moment of weakness.

“In that case...” Luna relaxes, and they chuckle. “As if I could ever refuse my dear Faustina. Would you like something to eat? You have come a long way.”

Like by magic, Faustina's open expression as she heard her name gives way to a slight grimace. “I would rather not, I did eat before traveling and—”

“Ah, you still worry about my cooking, don't you? You shouldn't, I didn’t prepare a thing — it’s all leftovers from lunch, the boys—” they trail off. As a friend, Faustina should be allowed to know about the boys. Besides, it might concern her one day. The books are not Luna's alone, and to this day Faustina still periodically loses herself to the curse that Luna themselves, in a moment of anger, set on them. “Well, we made it together.”

“The boys?”

“My kin.”

“Your—” Faustina’s eyes go wide, and Luna settles on the grass with very little grace, patting the spot next to them. The staff almost falls to the ground and they yelp, catching it and carefully setting it down. “Come on, sit, it’s quite the story.”

Faustina sits as well, her hair falling in gentle curls around her, over her clothes, and on the grass. She looks at Luna curiously and, Luna can tell, a bit of suspicion. “Tell me.”

And so, Luna does. “The humans had, for a reason or another, secured our books and a sample of my blood. Then, they—” They pause, looking over to the house. “I assume the blood was injected, and that they were looking for a way to use the books.”

“Those boys you spoke of—”

They nod. “The scientists made two human children my kin, and I took them in. What else could I have done?”

Faustina stays quiet for a minute, frowning. “You could get rid of those books, for a start.” Her lips pull down into a frown as Luna laughs out loud. “This is serious. If the human chasseurs could get their hands on something like then, then who knows what else they could do? Vanitas —”

“I go by Luna now, actually.”

“Oh." Faustina stops, silently mouthing the name. "Since when?”

“Three nights ago. One of the boys call me Father, but the other named me." They grin. "Do you hear this, Faustina? I have a name of my own now! And I like it.”

“And I am glad for you, but—”

“Come on, use it,” Luna demands, voice rising higher in excitement. “I would like to hear it from my dearest Faustina!” They could feel the flush of their face, probably now colored a dark blue, and Faustina’s own cheeks turns a cute, unexpected pink.

“Luna,” she calls out, voice barely above a whisper, and Luna’s heart, if it beat with the same kind heartbeat as the other's, would skip and stutter.

“Again.”

“Luna,” Faustina says again, louder this time, and adds, hesitant: “And you say the boy gave it to you?”

Luna chuckles, nodding. “Of course – it was so sweet, I immediately loved it. Why?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Tell me now. Are you jealous?”

“What in the world —”

But Luna claps their hands together, giddy. “I’m sure they could come up with a good name for you too, if you dislike your current one. You would have to wait until morning though, I will not wake them for you. They’re young, and need their sleep.”

“I’m not jealous—”

“Then are you upset that you were not the one who chose my name?” Faustina has always been a possessive one, and the one time she decided to be selfless, to put the needs of others before herself, they lost each other.

Faustina stares resolutely at the grass. They are each other’s oldest friends, the very first to discover just how deep the changes were within them. “We gave each other our true name,” she whispers. “And you gifted me with the name I use every day. It would have been more fitting for me to choose another name for you, wouldn’t it?”

Neither of them knew, at the time, how much this simple act would bind them together. And yet, as time went and more vampires appear, as she became a queen and they became scorned, their common true name kept them linked.

“It would have,” Luna agrees. “But you didn’t, because when the time came to do it, the others already cast me away and named me Vanitas . And you didn’t stop them.”

“I should have.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I am of another kind entirely, after all.” They have long since resigned themselves to the fact that they didn’t belong with the vampires, with Faustina’s people, with Faustina herself. They can’t walk into Altus and the palace, can’t stand by Faustina’s side every day as they did once.

If Luna and Faustina hated each other, both for abandonement and for the curse, for Luna's insistence that they kept looking for what made them different, they've long since left this resentement behind. What is left now is a curse running unchecked, unable to be stopped, independently from Luna's own will.

“It suits you,” Faustina says instead of acknowledging the truth. “Luna, the moon.”

“Good, because I’m not changing,” Luna answers proudly. It’s their name, one not given out of hate or fear. The moon seems to glow brighter above them, approving. Vanitas has always been more of a warning than a name, a reminder to vampires that they may not be humans, but that they were vulnerable and mortal all the same. Luna is different. Luna fits. “Again.”

Faustina sighs, but she smiles and indulges them. “Luna,” she repeats. “Your name is Luna. Luna, like the moon. My Luna. L—”

Oh, Luna is never getting tired of hearing it from Faustina's mouth. Still, they lean down and like something they’ve already practiced thousands of times — no, not like, is something that they have done many, many times before — she kisses her, because she is right and they love to hear it.

Luna is Faustina’s and Faustina is Luna’s.

“Thank you, my dearest.” They lower their head, rest their forehead on her shoulder, and Faustina's hands carefully combs through their hair. She can’t see their face, which is fine, because if she saw she would know that this may be the last time they see each other. Luna is old, and they can tell the end is coming one way or another. Hopefully, their death will not affect their dear Faustina as much as they fear. Their bond runs deeper than any other, and it would not surprise them if Faustina felt them die, even all the way to Altus. “I love it even more when I hear you say it.”

“Then it is the only name I’ll ever call you from now on, Luna."

#vnc #vanitas no carte #faustluna #vnc luna #vnc faustina #votbm

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astxlphe-fics · 3 years

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The world as Dazai knows it ends when he is 26 years old, taking everyone else's memories with it. Even Akutagawa's.

However, Dazai isn't the kind of man who lets go.

For Dazaku Weekend on twitter. It’s kinda soft, actually

Word count: 2238

Content Warnings : none

There are only a handful of customers in the pub when he arrives. It’s well past one in the morning, but a group of three is laughing loudly at a table. The door doesn’t make a sound as it closes behind him, and Dazai stands in the entryway, rain dripping down the bottom of his coat, and he stares at the bartender filling up yet another round of beers.

One of them picks up the drinks and the bartender looks away from them, scanning the room, until he spots Dazai.

Immediately, Dazai grins, pretending he hadn’t been staring, and walks to the bar counter.

When Dazai is 26 years old, the world dies.

The memories of it are clear. Carefully combing through the floor plans of the facility Atsushi and Ryuunosuke needed to infiltrate. It took less than a second; enough time for him to look down, pointing at an entrance through the vent system, look up again, and finding himself alone.

The office empty. The plate at the door now proclaiming it to belong to an accounting company. Phone numbers nonexistent, or belonging to people he doesn’t know. No Agency, no Port Mafia — at least not the way he knew it — no abilities, and yet this world still seemed the same and went on unbothered.

It doesn’t go out with a bang. It comes with no burning pain and no infernal flames. There isn’t even a gust of wind. No, the world dies because of a handful of words written on the pages of a book.

Dazai settles on a stool, leaning his elbows on the bar counter — it’s been almost two full years now, and he’s become something of a regular here. Now he knows exactly when to come to get the bartender alone, but took him months to even gather the will to walk in. “The usual!” he calls out, just as the group of friends starts moving, chair scraping on the floor.

Soon enough they’re gone. Dazai always has perfect timing.

The man — what a terribly familiar face this man has — considers him for a second and, without even pretending to be happy to see him, sets an empty glass in front of him and drops a large ice cube inside. “What kind?”

“Whichever you feel like giving me.”

The bartender’s lips pull down into a slight scowl and grabs a bottle from the shelf, seemingly at random. Dazai rests his chin on the palm of his hand, watching the man as he fills up the glass. “Here.”

Taking a sip, Dazai’s empty grin fades into a sigh. “It’s a good one,” he says. “I’m growing on you, aren’t I? I knew you liked me, Akutagawa.”

For weeks, he would slip up and call him “Ryuunosuke” by accident.

He remembers, still, the embarrassed blush the first time it happened, the way they both looked away, avoiding his eyes, for days after — and, years ago, the way his Ryuunosuke’s fingers squeezed at his own as the habit settled in.

Akutagawa pauses, momentarily forgetting about the cork he’s supposed to put back on the bottle, before he shakes his head. "I do not.”

“You do~”

“And you are delusional.” As Akutagawa rolls his eyes, Dazai finishes the drink, and pushes the empty glass towards him.

“Another!”

The whiskey pours out of the bottle and Dazai’s eyes slide from Akutagawa’s hands, steady and unmarked save from the tattoo peeking from his sleeve, to his face, softer, much less guarded than his Ryuunosuke’s. His eyes catching the light, his scowl eases on its own as he can’t bring himself to pretend to be mad at Dazai for too long.

But then again, without abilities, there is no Mafia, maybe less slums — or even no slums at all — and that must help.

On a whim, just as Akutagawa puts the bottle back down, Dazai reaches out and takes a hold of the other man’s wrist. He doesn’t flinch at his touch, only yanking his hand away when Dazai undoes the sleeve’s buttons. “What are you doing?” he hisses.

“I’ve always been curious about your tattoo.” He goes to grab his wrist again, but Akutagawa avoids his hand, lips pinched, annoyance written all over his face.

“Is that it? You know it’s considered polite to ask,” he scoffs, rolling back the sleeve himself, carefully folding it back over his elbow. “There.”

Dazai whistles appreciatively, not expecting it to spread across his whole forearm. “Nice. And they let you be a bartender with those?” Bosses don’t really like tattooed employees, or so he’s heard. Especially big tattoos.

“I have long sleeves.” Akutagawa shrugs. “And I take the night shifts.” He looks at his own arm, extending it so Dazai can see the tattoo better. “I had it inked two years ago.” He shifts on his feet awkwardly as Dazai traces a black line until it reaches a red spot with the tip of his finger. “Satisfied?”

His forearm is decorated with black ink, from the inside of his elbow to his wrist, forming familiar patterns within them — harsh line and a dragon, or maybe a hound, with patches of red ink instead of eyes. Rashomon, or what is left of it.

Two years ago . When the old world died and this one began. It’s hard imagining his Ryuunosuke with these, he’s never been one for frivolities like tattoos or jewelry, even if Dazai always thought it would suit him. He resists the urge of a “I told you so” that would only leave Akutagawa confused.

He lets go, and grabs his full drink. “Very satisfied.”

“Wonderful, I’m delighted.” Akutagawa answers dryly, and starts pulling his sleeve back down, not looking particularly delighted.

“Come on, don’t hide it!”

“I’m not supposed to show it. It’s unprofessional.”

“It’s just the two of us here. Besides, what’s life without a bit of unprofessionalism?”

“I’ve been unprofessional since I met you,” Akutagawa grumbles, but doesn’t try to hide his tattoo again. “I’m not supposed to speak this much with customers either. I have work, you know.”

“Glad to know I’m a corrupting influence in your life. It’s not like your boss is ever going to know about that, anyway.”

“Right.”

“Any other tattoos I should know about?”

“None.” Shaking his head in exasperation, Akutagawa turns away to wipe the counter. “Any reason why you are so nosy?”

“I’m just curious about you.” He turns his drink a little until the ice cube makes a tingling sound as it hits the glass. “I mean, we have known each other for what, two years? I’m allowed a little bit of curiosity.”

“You already know more than all the other regulars put together.”

Which amounts to almost nothing — his name and his sister‘s, both Dazai already knew, job, which is not exactly hidden, doctorate subject, and now his tattoo — but this is not what Dazai hears. “So, what you are saying is—” Dazai pauses, grin back in full force. “— that I’m a special customer ."

There is a faint flush on Akutagawa’s cheeks, and Dazai is well aware of what that means.

On the day he walked into this pub, he wasn’t too sure what he was hoping for . Maybe for him to be Ryuunosuke, to ask him what the hell is going on, what kind of world is that, why aren’t abilities working? Or any other question that Dazai could’ve answered, anything that would’ve made him feel like he knew what he was doing, that the situation was manageable, that he wasn’t alone .

But it didn’t happen this way.

That first day, Dazai sat at the bar counter, asked for a whiskey, and Akutagawa gave him his drink, not a hint of recognition in his eyes.

This, maybe, hurts more than the loneliness.

The whiskey burns his throat. He smiles all the way through it.

A lifetime ago, Dazai fell in love with Ryuunosuke. He’d waited for years, unsure of what his feelings meant, or if they were even worth exploring. After everything that happened between them, did he have the right to want this from him? Did he deserve it? Was it a good idea?

The answers were, of course, no, no and no. He made his move anyway.

On the other hand, today all they have is a blank slate, beyond Dazai’s late night drinking. Akutagawa is the same person, with a different set of memories, and he makes Dazai’s heart do summersaults in the same way as Ryunosuke did. So, what is the point of worrying over it now? And what does he have left to lose? His dignity?

Akutagawa?

No. That’s safe enough. He can read Akutagawa enough to know the risks are low and it doesn’t hurt to try. And if he’s wrong, which he highly doubts, he can back down anytime he wants. He is, after, a silly man, who wouldn’t be above making such a joke, right?

He sets the glass, half finished, back on the counter and it makes a decisive thump as it hits the wood. "Kiss me.”

Just a little over three years ago, in a universe that no longer exists, it goes like this:

“Kiss me,” Dazai demands.

In front of him Ryuunosuke stiffens, gaze briefly focusing on his lips, and Dazai can see all the fantasies playing in his mind. “Excuse me?”

“Come on.” He knows he has feelings for Ryuunosuke, and knows that Ryuunosuke returns them. The only thing he doesn’t know is how to address them in any other way. “I know you want to.”

“I—” His eyes go wide, and his voice catches in his throat. “Why?”

Dazai shrugs, smiling, unperturbed. “I thought I made myself clear. I want you to kiss me.”

“I—” he tries again. It’s not every day that Ryuunosuke is at loss of words. Despite his hesitation, Dazai already knows he won’t say no. There are things Ryuunosuke is ready to refuse him, especially since the vampire debacle and the cementing of his partnership with Atsushi, but not this. He won’t need to insist, because Ryuunosuke wants it as much as Dazai does.

When you know someone as long as Dazai and Ryuunosuke have known each other, that kind of things becomes easy to tell.

“Very well,” Ryuunosuke ends up saying, nodding to himself. “I’ll do it.”

It’s cute how he steels himself, how his expression turns determined, like he has just been given an important mission. He brings himself on his tiptoe to, clumsily, press a kiss on the corner of his lips.

He pulls back, the red of his face steadily spreading to the tip of his ears. “Was it what you wanted?”

Was it? “No.” Dazai shakes his head, and Ryuunosuke’s nose wrinkles in disappointment. “I meant a real one. Like this.” And he pulls him forward, one arm snaking around his waist to hold him tighter, into a full, proper kiss.

Ryuunosuke welcomes it, fingers grabbing onto his arms, he presses himself closer, until Dazai lets go of him and he takes a step back, breathing hard, starring at him, eyes like focused on Dazai and Dazai only . His phone vibrates in his pocket, but Ryuunosuke pays it no mind, having even forgotten why they were meeting in the first place, that they have work waiting for them, because all he can see and think about right now is Dazai .

Dazai always loved having Ryuunosuke’s undivided attention.

“So? Wasn’t it much better?”

“Let me try again,” Ryuunosuke demands, ignoring his question, and Dazai grins, “so I can give you a proper one.”

The world he knew is gone, no matter how Dazai will miss it and the people he used to know. Even finding the Book and writing in it won’t bring it back the way it was.

But Akutagawa abandons his cleaning to stand in front of Dazai, answering questions about his week as prompted, with a hint of a smile, and right now Dazai can’t quite bring himself to feel lonely.

So, today, in a universe which did not exist two years ago, it goes a little different:

The bar is still empty. It’s why he comes so late, after all — Akutagawa takes all the night shift, at this hour they have the pub to themselves, and even in this world Dazai still has Akutagawa’s complete attention.

“Kiss me,” he demands.

Akutagawa pauses for a short second, eyes straying first to the unfinished drink, the ice cube slowly melting into what is left of it — wondering if Dazai is drunk, maybe, but he has seen Dazai finish at least one more glass of that whiskey before being buzzed — before settling on his lips and lingering there a little too long.

Then, he slides the drink away, and before Dazai can protest he tucks one strand of hair behind his ear, leans over the bar counter, and kisses him.

The kiss is short, but firm, Akutagawa’s lips on Dazai’s without a moment of hesitation. No overthinking, no second guessing his action — a little like Ryuunosuke’s once he got used to kissing, but this is their first time and there is confidence in it that Ryuunosuke did not always have.

Not exactly like Ryuunosuke, but exactly like Akutagawa.

It lasts both forever and no time at all. Akutagawa pulls back, leaving Dazai missing the sensation and struggling to remember how to breathe.

“Bartender,” he manages to say, voice low, throat dry. “I would like another.”

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #dazaku #bsd dazai #bsd akutagawa #writing

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astxlphe-fics · 3 years

Text

let me live (let me die)

Astolfo meets with Antonio, the head of the Florence chasseurs. It doesn’t go well.

Chapter 3/ ?

< Chapter 2 || Chapter 4 >

Content warning : mentioned character death, mentioned Moreau

This whole affair is, to Noé, quite reminiscent of his days with Vanitas. The entrance to the chasseurs’ headquarters is, just as in Paris, under the cathedral, though they don’t access it, this time, through a hidden switch.

No, it’s a plain old wooden door, which he supposes is the main entrance, and since Astolfo has a key on him they don’t have to sneak in.

It’s also an old key, and the state of it makes Noé thinks it’s at least thirty years old, maybe even older. Scratched and damaged, though not rusty, it looks well taken care of. Remnants of an old cord looped around the bottom of it shows that it might have been worn as a necklace once. Yet, old and scratched as it is, it does the job it’s supposed to do and opens the door, revealing stone steps going down in the darkness.

Astolfo leads him down the stairs and to the city’s underground. The quiet whispering of the city at night fades into the background, leaving them with a strange, unsettling silence filled only with the sound of their footsteps.

It’s almost as if the whole place is empty.

Astolfo seems to know his way, walking with confidence and speeding through the hallways like he’s done this every day of his life.

“You have been here before, haven’t you?”

He nods stiffly. “I grew up here. The chasseurs in my family were historically based in Florence. My father took my sister and I to headquarters many times when we were children." He falls silent as they turn into another hallway, leaving Noé to guess.

As children. Noé catches himself thinking of a young Astolfo, smaller and rounder faced, running with an even smaller girl along those cold, empty stone corridors. Laughing, maybe, even though he has trouble imagining what Astolfo's genuine laughter sounds like.

Then, Astolfo stops walking, eyeing another door at the end of the corridor. He stares at it, before turning back to Noé, hesitant. “You keep quiet,” he ends up ordering, keeping his voice low. “I don’t want a vampire to ruin my chances to get information, and I don’t trust you not to wander off.”

Noé doesn’t need to be here when Astolfo is negotiating, but he remembers the look on his face as he asked if he was sure the chasseurs would help. As Astolfo hissed that he had friends, defensive, in a way that makes Noé think it's much more complicated than he pretends. To be perfectly honest, Astolfo is difficult to like on his best days, and Noé has a hard time picturing him having friends.

So, he simply acquiesces, though the former chasseur eyes him suspiciously.

There is no denying there is something reassuring in having backup when being about to have a talk with Antonio, of all people.

Antonio used to be family. Astolfo remembers, as a child, the man lifting him and carrying him up on his shoulders, then the two of them racing his father and Marco down the headquarters' corridors. He remembers with clarity playing hide and seek with Louisette, Isa, and Antonio in the archives, squeezing himself into small spaces, holding back giggles, waiting to be discovered. Antonio and Marco coming over for diner as guests of the Granatum household, hugging his mother, clapping shoulders with his father.

He’s been tempted, several times, to go looking for the Granatum family house, where his parents and Louisette are buried. To this day, he still hasn’t gathered the nerves to actually do it. To walk back on this old path, to look upon his abandoned, probably now decrepit home, to stand before what remains of his family, is something he doesn't feel strong enough to do yet. Maybe, once he's done, while the vampires he led into his own house as an overly trusting child are dead, he will be able to stand before their graves.

Still, somehow, after everything, Florence feels a little like home. The soft chatter of the crowd around him in his native tongue is familiar, the city's air lifts his spirit and takes him back to simpler, happier times.

A distracted grunt answers Astolfo when he knocks. He takes it as an invitation to come in and pushes the door open, slipping into Antonio’s office with the vampire behind him.

Antonio sits behind his desk, in full uniform, sword resting against the arm of his chair, which means he's ready to leave, either for a simple patrol or a larger operation. He quickly riffles through several papers, which he settles to the side when Astolfo comes in.

It feels like forever since he stood there. Yet it was only six months ago, though their meeting was brief and the consequences dire. Before that time, he was twelve years old when he was last called into this office, just a few months after losing his family, right before leaving for France and not expecting to set foot in this room ever again.

Antonio was not happy to see him months ago, after the mess in Paris, and he will not be happy to see him today, that much is obvious. Astolfo shoves his gloved hands in his pocket, nervous, trying to reassure himself.

Friend, he called the man when talking about him to the vampire, but it’s a bit of a stretch considering how their last conversation went. Considering everything . He tries to look surer of himself than he really is in front of the Archiviste, but he will not be surprised if Antonio is mad at him. He has good reason to be — and, to be fair, Astolfo has a good reason to be mad at Antonio too.

But Antonio is also the only one who can point him in the right direction so Astolfo swallows his pride, hoping he’ll share what he knows, if only to get him out of his office faster.

“Good evening,” he says.

“I’m glad to meet one of Astolfo’s friends!” The vampire smiles brightly. I’m Noé—” he stops himself when Antonio looks up, and scowls.

“You again?” He also raises an eyebrow at Noé Archiviste’s presence, though doesn’t comment on it, focused on Astolfo. “What do you want?”

If Astolfo isn’t surprised by the tone, the vampire falters, smile dropping, and he sends Astolfo an uncertain glance. Are you sure? it seems to wonder.

“The same as during our last meeting: the last known whereabouts of the Chevalier Ténèbre.”

The man tenses, standing it up and walking around his desk. He’s tall — way taller than Astolfo, probably taller than the Archiviste — so he has to tilt his head back to keep looking at him in the eyes. Being on his shoulders used to be like sitting on top of the world, his head almost brushing against the ceiling and his forehead knocking on the lowest doorframes by accident.

“Do you realize what mess you’ve caused here, Astolfo?”

This time Astolfo winces, and he feels the vampire tense up at his side.

“Astolfo—” he starts, but Astolfo shakes his head no. He stays quiet.

Marco and Antonio were always, to Astolfo, very similar. First, because they were brothers —he can still find Marco’s gentle features and kind disposition in Antonio. They also both were among the first to give him the chance to have his revenge, to support him when he asked to be a chasseur.

Antonio signed the papers that would send him up to Paris. Marco, unable to stand seeing him leave on his own, followed. They both saw him, at twelve years old, determined to become a chasseur. Now, at nineteen years old, Astolfo stands before Antonio, a vampire in tow.

“You knew where to find him six months ago; can you tell me where he is now?” He stops for a second or two, then adds: “Please.”

“I don’t know,” Antonio drawls out. “Are you planning to go after him on your own, ruin a chasseur operation several months in the making, and come very close to getting yourself killed? In that case, it’s a no.”

Next to him, the vampire startles, but before he can try to say anything again Astolfo snaps back:

“I’m healed now. I have— I can take him. Just tell me—”

“You’re not a chasseur, boy. You were stripped of that title for a reason . Good God, the only reason you are walking free is because someone insisted you were a child and were manipulated and chose to do the right thing in the end.” He scoffs, and Astolfo is sure he can hear traces of rage and grief in his voice and can’t blame him for it. “Leave it to people who actually know what they’re doing.”

“That’s—”

“Quiet,” Astolfo cuts him, shoving his elbow into the vampire’s ribs. His stomach turns and his breath comes out short, and his eyes burn with frustrated tears, because Antonio is, ultimately, right.

Astolfo trusted the wrong people. Astolfo made the wrong choices. Astolfo lost his title as a chasseur and thus every way he had to find his family’s murderers and it is his own fault.

Astolfo got Marco killed.

He can’t let it stop him. Not now, not after all these years — after all, what sense does it make to stop now? None. His revenge has been his goal for so long, past the vampire elimination and past the church's teachings.

“You know what,” he decides, turning to his vampire companion. “Wait for me in the corridor.”

“But—”

“This conversation doesn’t concern you.” There are so many things he doesn’t want him to know, some things that will be brought up today and he would rather not have to explain. Not now. Not ever. “I don’t want to talk about it.” This the vampire seems to understand, and he nods, although reluctant. He leaves the room, though not before sending Antonio a suspicious glare. "And don't wander off," Astolfo calls after him.

Once the vampire is gone, he faces Antonio again, who simply watched the exchange in silence. “A new friend, then?”

“Travelling companion,” Astolfo corrects. “One I can’t seem to shake off.”

“A vampire.”

“Don’t change the subject.” He takes in a deep breath. “You owe me this, Antonio.”

“How dare you?” Astolfo takes an instinctive step back as Antonio snaps at him, glowering. “Not only I already answered you once, and after you promised to be careful you still interfered. And even before that— After everything I did for you—”

Once again, Antonio is entirely right, but there is nothing in the world that'll make Astolfo admit it out loud. “I'm talking about Moreau," he snaps, and Antonio hesitates, paling. "You did not send me to Paris to become a chasseur and we both know it — I earned that title, through my own skills — because you were just as opposed to it as Roland! You sent me because Doctor Moreau asked.” He grimaces thinking back on what he saw and heard down there.

Thinking about ghostly boys, skinny and bruised. About the screaming.

Astolfo had been lucky. His marks, in a way, saved him.

The truth, and the point, in the end, were that Antonio lied. Antonio pretended to support him, pretended to understand why he needed to become a chasseur.

Antonio only sighs, tired. “I’m not going to argue with you on this now, Astolfo. I don't have the time. Now, leave the city before you interfere in another operation. If you want to argue, we can do it later.”

“I'm not going anywhere before you tell me about the Chevalier."”

Grabbing Astolfo’s arm, Antonio pulls him back towards the door. “Leave now,” he says again. “I don’t want to end up with a dead civilian on my hands. I don’t want you dead.”

“Don’t say that—”

The door slams shut behind him and Astolfo is back in the corridor, frustration making his blood boil. He has half a mind to turn around and kick the door down, but he forces himself to settle down.

Fighting more with Antonio won’t help. At least he didn’t take his key. Maybe he doesn’t even know Astolfo still has it, or he knows Astolfo won't separate himself from it. It's precious, not only in its usage — opening the door to the chasseurs' Headquarters — but also in its significance — the last thing Astolfo's father ever gave him, whispering in a conspirator's tone that one day, maybe, when he's bigger, he'll find some use for it.

“Let’s go,” he tells the Archiviste, and stops, staring out at the empty hallway. One if his eyebrows twitches. “Is this a joke?”

He walks back the way they first came from. He isn’t even sure the vampire knows how to go back outside, but hopefully he has the presence of mind not to wander off in here, of all places. Maybe he had to leave to avoid being caught — but then again it doesn't make sense, all he has to say is that he's with Astolfo, or that he wishes to meet with Antonio.

His pace quickens as he speeds up the stairs and leaves the building, only to find himself alone outside, on the side street where the back entrance is. Looking around, he still can’t find the vampire.

“Hey!” he calls out. No answer.

Maybe he finally understood that Astolfo doesn’t need him and he left.

The thought doesn’t sit that well with him.

He could have at least told him he was leaving.

“Noé?” He hates how hesitant his voice comes out.

Still, no answer. “Fine!” he snaps, stomping his foot on the ground in anger before striding back to the main street, not caring about sounding childish. “Good riddance. I don’t need you, and I hate you anyway!”

The main entrance of the cathedral is a little more crowded, with only a handful of people mingling around due to the late hour. None of them is the vampire, and Astolfo lets out an annoyed huff, leaving the square to walk back to the hotel.

It’s fine.

Tomorrow, he’ll find another way to get the information on the Chevalier Ténèbre and kill him on his own, like he’s been planning to do from the beginning.

It is fine.

“Well, isn’t that—”

The voice catches him off guard and he freezes — it’s not a voice he’s about to forget. His breath stutters and, when he looks up, it’s to a tall gentleman whose face is overshadowed by the brim of his top hat.

A pale hand gently pushes Astolfo’s hair back behind his ear, before flicking at his fang earring. It dangles without a sound, and the man grins. “That’s what I thought — I noticed it last time, but I couldn’t be sure.” His fingers close around it.

Sharp, stinging pain makes Astolfo hiss between his teeth as the jewelry is ripped off his ear, and he slaps the man’s hand away. His heart speeds up, echoing in his chest like it’s in a hollow cave, in a mix of fear and rage and excitation. “Chevalier.”

“This,” Jean Ténèbre simply says, charming smile still in place, holding the fang between now bloodstained fingers, “belonged to my brother. But I assume, Astolfo Granatum, that you already knew this.”

#vnc #vanitas no carte #astonoé #astolfoé #noe archiviste #astolfo granatum #writing #story: let me live (let me die)

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