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celestialholz · 1 year

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ok you already know what TF is going on!!!!

tm 45 venoshock (evil). tm 146 grass pledge (gay). tm 95 leech life (divorce snail). tm 156 outrage (eviler). tm 115 dragon pulse (because if nobody else does it i will).....tm100 dragon dance (🥰). do not feel obligated to do them all these are just a compilation of the concepts we talked abt

Oh Austro, darling. I'm about to murder you in cold blood. ;) A tale in three parts for you, my good pal. The last one of these three was also requested by dear @xfriki26, and the other two here will be under a read more to respect space. Cross-posted to AO3 here as chapters five, six and seven respectively, welcome to a miniature saga of just about every genre going, which we shall begin with by killing y'all stone dead with:

TM115: Dragon Pulse

Beep.

Brassius thinks he may be going mad. He’d thought that a multitude of times during his ice-cold, static darkness, but this is a different form of insanity: a hammering, a fractured, desolate, desperate despair.

Beep.

He wants the beeping to shut up almost as deeply as he cherishes its rhythm, its sheer brilliance. He could wax artistic lyrical on how fervently he cherishes the machine that affixes his sun to its true orbit at his side, paint it in the yellows and oranges of joy and the purple of dragons for its remarkable cleverness – wide, tender brush-strokes, gentle gratitude poured into every trembling sweep.

Beep.

How ironic, he muses darkly, that Hassel’s heart should be the thing to fail – that loyal, stalwart, core of sunshine, that is so achingly full of acceptance and understanding and vibrance, that had dragged his beloved back from the depths of the shadows.

Between them, now, they can barely make a decently functioning pulmonary system. The breath of life, the heart of the matter – both irreparably scarred, merely patched over with bandages and craft glue and hope and the most blinding, frantic adoration. They’ve operated upon his love, as though he is a mere tapestry, sown and stitched and patched -

Hassel is not meant to be fixed. He should never be broken in the first place. He’d thought they understood one another very well, after fifteen years together. You stand tall, querido; I fall, me. Not you. Never, ever you, because how am I supposed to -

He chokes back a panicked breath, squeezes dull, greyed eyes closed. He doesn’t have contingency for this – he was never supposed to make any. This isn’t his role. And perhaps that makes him the world’s most selfish bastard, perhaps he’s awful and leech-like and unworthy of such light, but perhaps he’s also saved because he would swap them, swap them every single damn time – you already have my lungs, take my wretched heart as well, it’s better than watching this –

Beep.

… He hasn’t even gotten around to asking him to marry him, after all this time. They’d had forever - what was the rush? The gap in Hassel’s family is glaring, he doesn’t want to invoke painful memories of people who would never wish to attend, and they are husbands in all but name nevertheless, promise rings long since sculptured from crystals and worn against their hearts anyway.

He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected the chance to be possibly lost for all time -

Beep.

Gods, how the hell does he deal with this every time it happens in reverse? How many hours has his world watched his own slowly fade away?

“It doesn’t matter,” Hassel had told him once, tears glistening in warm, adoring eyes. “It simply doesn’t matter. You are worth every moment of the agony, darling. You coming back each time is the only thing that counts.”

He tries, physically shaking, to hold such sentiments against his core, because his dragon’s always been entirely right. He is damaged goods too, now – he can empathise, now. And later, when muted sun meets frosty moon once again, all will be harmonious in the celestial sphere. The stars do not lament; they celebrate a joyous reunion, the return of gravity to a uncertain universe, an essential dual orbit.

Beep.

His role, flipped, is now to support – to shine himself, to endure, to treasure a recovery Hassel will make. You will make it. I need you. Always have done. And I will look after you, smotheringly, achingly. Oh, you’ll hate it, even though I will see the smile in your beautiful gaze and understand that you love it.

He breathes a quivering laugh, stumbling across his own tongue.

… Well, it is night-time. It’s his shift anyway.

Beep.

He clings to his sunshine’s hand as though it’s all that tethers him to the earth, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Come back to me,” he pleads, infinitely soft. “Come back and be my husband, won’t you dearest?”

Beep.

TM146: Grass Pledge

Beep.

“… Br…”

Brassius snaps awake from a light doze on their fifth night in the hospital, as though bidden by hope alone, to find a weak Hassel staring straight at him. Sunlight stabs at his frozen heart, piercing its outer shell instantly, and he breaks, fragments of ice shattering down around him.

“D-dear,” he whispers, heat pooling immediately in his gaze. “You’re here, you’re back -”

“Mm,” his beloved murmurs, coughing softly. “Just… just about…”

Water is poured by trembling hands, held to lips, tipped up ever so gently even as Hassel blurs before him, rendered briefly invisible by tears and heat and relief and gods, thank you -

"Br..." Hassel clears a now lubricated throat, and Brassius immediately meets his gaze - sunshine swathed by shadows, the darker moments before sunrise. As deeply grateful as he is to see the light, he curses its lack of luminence.

"Yes, my love?"

"... You okay?" He coughs again, and despite the sun's dimness, his concern is clear as day. "You... are too pale."

Brassius stares at him for a second, aghast, before dissolving spontaneously into tearful laughter, exasperation and absolute joy, and he's trembling, and dear heavens, why would it matter what he looks like -

"The sun came back out," he tells him eventually, as a weak hand clings to his as tight as it can, as he's watched with soft worry. "I'd been beginning to think it would never stop raining. I'll... I'll be fine, now."

"Good," Hassel murmurs, reassured; even as his eyes droop closed once more, and a thread of anxiety rushes back up his lover's spine, a gentle thumb runs against his in silent promise. Alright, now. "Wouldn't do... for us both to be old and broken, d-darling."

"You are no such thing," Brassius protests immediately, heart rebelling against the mere thought. "Look at you, querido. Sunshine incarnate."

Hassel murmurs a small laugh, cherishing the water that he's once more offered.

"Funny, you say that," he whispers after a further drink, a wonder held in his gaze. "I only... see one source of light, here."

Even as he's tenderly kissed, even after he drifts back off to much-needed rest, inspiration strikes his beloved, a sparkling of genius.

Oh, you clever, wonderful, miracle of a man. You conductor of moonlight. Where the sun meets the moon...

He makes plans, as he falls asleep himself: gentle, loving, delightful schemes, tears slipping beneath closed lids as he nods off.

/////////////

He prepares quietly, when they get home; sets the stage as Hassel recovers, buys the equipment, purchases the perfect jewellery, bides his time. Doting on his beloved is by far the more pressing matter, and thus it takes him weeks, but eventually...

They finish a homemade casserole lovingly prepared, just as day begins to shift; just as it begins to turn to night, he asks his beloved to head outside with him, into the garden that overlooks the shimmering beauty of the East Paldean Sea.

"My dear, where on earth are we g -"

Hassel stops instantly at the sight before him; at the ring boxes, at the arch strung over with vines and lights, at the strands of green and purple cord that sit between it all, tearful eyes slowly drawing to his nervous partner's.

"Is that...?" he swallows a sob, utterly rapt.

"It is," Brassius confirms, eyes scanning him, gauging his thoughts, reading softly a man he knows the soul of better than his own. "Should you wish it to be, anyway -"

He gets no further for a long minute, damp kisses pressed to his lips, over and over.

"'Should I wish it,'" he repeats, laughing shakily in disbelief. "And at dusk, no less. Where the sun meets the moon, you brilliant, brilliant individual."

Brassius chuckles, similarly breaking. "You'll forgive me my poetry, I'm sure."

"I will forgive you anything, my darling." He chokes down tears, conscious of time, conscious of his lover's artistic vision. He can cry later, and he will - oh, he will. He doubts he'll stop for hours.

"So, you will, then -"

"Yes, I will," Hassel tells him clearly, fondly, adoringly, trembling hand coming to a precious, flushed cheek. "Arceus himself could drag neither of us away, despite his best efforts."

They marry, as the warmth of ambient sunset glazes over them; hands wrapped in cord of alternate colours, the draconic for the biological and vice versa; they whisper nonsense vows, straight from their cores, babbled and pure and perfect; they adopt glistening emeralds or dazzling violets as the moon takes reign, and there are tears enough to proclaim the sea that spectates them flooded.

"Why now?" Hassel asks his husband afterwards, tears still glistening in his eyes, his forehead gently pressed upon his beloved's. "All these years..."

"I thought we had forever," Brassius tells him simply, voice thoroughly raspy by this point, clinging tightly to him, as though he might fall to his doom should he ever let go.

"We do, my love," comes the replying whisper, the utter certainty. "I'm sorry, for frightening you so deeply..."

Brassius sobs into him, believing him with his whole heart, and shakes his head.

"You were worth every moment of the agony, dearest," he promises him truthfully, burying himself into soft folds of fabric, and the softest man of all.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

TM100: Dragon Dance

It’s difficult to practice for a celebration, when one’s heart or lungs have had their cracks filled in as though via liquid sunshine; an astral kintsugiri leaves one less willing than they might have been to put their beloved through physical stress.

“Well,” Hassel notes tiredly as they take seats together, “come the moment, darling husband, we could just vibe with it.”

Brassius glances at him, bewilderment strewn through his grey gaze.

“You know, as in do our collective best, dependent on our emotions at the time?” Hassel’s expression creases in thought. “I think that’s what my students mean by it, anyway…”

The pair burst into soft laughter, hands automatically finding one another’s and gripping on tight.

“Everything will be wonderful, querido,” Brassius whispers, “because you will be there, and I will be right there with you.”

Hassel takes a gentle breath, and melts into his side, stinging eyes closing as he smiles warmly.

“Indeed,” he murmurs, content. “That’s all I’ve ever needed.”

“And I.”

Hassel kisses him, swallowing his tremulous voice, assuaging his lingering anxiety.

/////////

It is beautiful if mad, their celebratory dance. They don’t say vows – they already have, the words for them and them alone, sparkling in the intimacy of the dusk. They simply host a small gathering, fairy lights strung up across their whole garden now, Grass types mingling between fauna, guests somewhere between buffet tables, wine refills and comfortable garden furniture. Lilligant develops a quiet, blushing crush on Katy’s dear Heracross, who flexes happily for his smitten acquaintance; a far too competitive Breloom attempts to spar with a far too competitive Staraptor, who promptly and triumphantly puts the bird to sleep the moment he gets too feisty; Flapple doesn’t leave the side of her fathers, chirruping happily as a laughing Hassel feeds her cake with a wink and an indulgent promise that she’s only allowed a little.

“Have a heart, kid,” Larry announces dryly, as he plucks her phone from a whining Iono, who has been attempting to livestream the event. She tries to snatch it from the air, which goes about well as such a height difference might imply.

“Awww! Just tryna share the joy!”

“Enjoy it, instead. Live in the moment. Pick up tips for the future, when someone feels like putting up with you for long enough.”

“Hey!”

He smirks down at his pseudo-daughter, his face softening. “Trust me,” he mutters, glancing warmly at Katy, who’s giggling at her Heracross. “If I can find them, anyone can.”

It’s endearingly awkward and inaccurate when their dance comes, when they take centre stage; steps misaligned at points, gentle amusement tripping from their lips. Shoes are stepped on, but the twirls are dramatic, and the audience appreciates their stars nevertheless, cheers, sobs and applause raising from their friends.

“Doing well, my love?” Brassius whispers as he swept up from their bowed finale, being drawn into a gentle, loving kiss.

“Doing perfectly, my darling,” Hassel promises tearfully after a moment, nuzzling his forehead to his husband’s. “And you?”

“Can’t complain,” he teases, and they both burst out laughing until tears stream down their faces in utter joy. Breath is briefly pulled from lungs, exhaustion reigns, but nothing ruins their harmony, their victory, their perfectly imperfect wedding reception.

They may have to take tomorrow slow; they may have to take the rest of their lives at an easier pace, a gentle stroll into forever instead of a sprinting wildness - but take it together they will, every step of the way.

Got a request for The Technical Festival, which celebrates Ephemeralart and Vanillacupcakes through the medium of TMs? Take a look here; my askbox is open!

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sensitiveheartless · 2 months

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Written followup to the horrors comic! It got away from me lol. Most of it's under the cut, cause this part is also a bit long.

~*~

Minutes passed by on the quiet moonlit dock.

Despite the renewed serenity of the night, Chuuya’s heart continued to race sickeningly fast. It hammered away in his chest, as if unable to fully grasp that the danger had passed.

His clothes were heavy and waterlogged, so cold against his skin that he could barely keep from shivering. Icy trickles ran down the back of his neck and dripped from his hair.

Closing his eyes didn’t help. There were far too many twisted corpses engraved in the darkness whenever he blinked. So he kept his eyes open, staring at the planks beneath them as he tried to steady his breathing.

Don’t think about it, Chuuya told himself. Don’t think about them.

Instead, he forced himself to remain in the present moment. Beneath the planks, he could hear the swell of the ocean waters, each wave lapping at the posts in a quiet rhythm. Salt filled his lungs with every breath, the heavy tang of the sea-soaked wood wafting around him.

And against his chest was Dazai’s head, a steady and grounding pressure. His ear rested over Chuuya’s heart, his arms still tight around him.

In that position, Dazai must have been able to hear how hard Chuuya’s heart was pounding—but surprisingly, he didn’t remark upon it. He remained utterly silent.

In return, Chuuya didn’t say a word about the almost crushing strength of Dazai’s arms where they wrapped around his middle. Dazai’s fingers were digging into his ribs, twin rows of sharp pressure, and Chuuya could feel them shaking.

Dazai’s hair was coarse where Chuuya’s cheek rested against it. Back in the day, before Dazai’s defection, he never bothered with conditioner. It seemed some things never changed, even in the light.

For one wild moment, Chuuya wished that he wasn’t wearing a pair of gloves—then he could bury his bare fingers in Dazai’s hair and see if it was as tangled as it looked. And, perhaps, warm himself up. Dazai was like a radiator against him, heat seeping through Chuuya’s drenched layers of clothes at every point of contact, but his gloves remained cold, the sodden leather chilling him to the bone. His joints ached as he uncurled his fingers from around Dazai’s shoulders.

Perhaps it would be worth it to just…indulge for a moment, if only to have something else to needle Dazai about. Really, the man needed to learn how to groom himself properly one of these days.

As Chuuya’s hand hovered indecisively over Dazai’s head, however, he realized that his heart rate had already evened out. While he was reminiscing about Dazai’s damn mess of hair, of all things.

Ridiculous. But that meant that there was absolutely no excuse for the two of them to remain wrapped around each other any longer. Dazai’s shivering seemed to have calmed as well.

“We should—” Chuuya’s voice cracked when he tried to speak, so he paused and cleared his throat before going on. “We should make sure it’s really gone. I don’t want that thing getting the jump on me again.”

Dazai tensed, and his grip tightened so much that for a moment Chuuya could scarcely breathe.

“Oi. C’mon, you need to let me up,” Chuuya wheezed, swatting at Dazai’s shoulder. He strained his neck to look down at the head buried against his chest, a pang of something that was surely exasperation tightening his throat. “I need to be able to reach it, Dazai.”

Dazai remained still for another long moment, then abruptly loosened his grip. Instead of letting Chuuya up, however, he pushed him down to sit on the damp planks, and rose to his feet himself.

“I’ll go,” Dazai said quietly, and strode past Chuuya towards the small, oval mirror where it lay shattered on the dock.

Right. It did make sense to have Dazai touch it first, in case it was an ability that could be nullified.

…But what if it’s not? What if it’s something like Lovecraft? Dazai will be defenseless, Chuuya thought, and instinctively started to his feet as well.

“Stay back,” Dazai said sharply, without even turning to look. He was standing over the mirror, staring down at it. “Don’t move forward until I say so.”

Chuuya scowled, but remained in place. He watched as Dazai bent down and extended a careful hand towards the shards of glass.

One tap, with the tip of a finger. Then another, less cautious tap against the side of the wooden frame. Then another, and another, Dazai’s touches moving systematically across every inch of shattered glass and broken wood.

Nothing happened.

Dazai breathed out, and stepped back. “There. You are now welcome to crush it into dust,” he said lightly, waving Chuuya forward.

His head was still downturned, his eyes cast in the shadow of his bangs as Chuuya walked past him to do the deed.

It was with deep pleasure that Chuuya pressed each little bit of the mirror into nothingness, grinding it down with the overwhelming weight of gravity.

After it was done, Chuuya scattered the dust into the ocean waters below. “What the fuck was that thing, anyway?” he asked, turning back to face the other.

When he turned, however, he found Dazai had moved to sit on the edge of the dock, his legs dangling off the edge.

His back was facing Chuuya. It seemed deliberate.

At first, Dazai didn’t respond to Chuuya’s question. The silence stretched long enough that Chuuya began to shiver again, the cold wind cutting through his damp clothes.

“…A Face Like Glass,” Dazai said at last. “That’s what the ability was called.”

“So it was a gifted,” Chuuya muttered. He walked to Dazai’s side, and dropped down beside him with a heavy sigh. “That mean the user is still out there somewhere?”

“No,” Dazai said softly. “She died some time ago, I’m afraid.”

Chuuya looked at him sharply. “What?”

There wasn’t much light by which to see, but Chuuya knew Dazai’s face like the back of his own hand. Better, probably. And he could tell that the detective’s features had gone unnaturally still.

It was how Dazai looked whenever he was unsure of how much he should give away. Typically his poker faces were more natural, but when he was strongly conflicted, he would simply go blank.

“Explain,” Chuuya said, crossing his arms. “That thing almost killed me, I think I ought to know what it was.”

That got a reaction. Dazai’s lips twitched downward and he looked away, hiding his face from Chuuya once again.

After another lingering pause, however, he finally began to talk.

“A Face Like Glass was the ability of a woman named Hardinge,” Dazai said, as blandly as if he were reciting a history lesson. “She could reflect the darkest thoughts of anyone who looked into that mirror of hers, and give those thoughts physical form. Quite literally a nightmare to deal with, as one can imagine. She was the terror of England. However, after she rose to prominence, the mirror began to behave a bit oddly.

“The more renowned Hardinge became, the more people began to fear her ability. She kept the exact details of the mirror shrouded in mystery, so her enemies were always speculating what horrors it might do to them next.

“Naturally, over time, their darkest thoughts became consumed with fear of the mirror itself. And when Hardinge reflected those thoughts, manifesting them into reality…well. You can imagine what happened.”

Chuuya’s hands formed fists in his lap, so tight the leather of his gloves creaked. His fingers were somehow even colder than before. “A runaway effect,” he said. Despite his best efforts, his voice came out rough. “A singularity.”

“Quite,” Dazai said. “The heights of human imagination should never be underestimated. The more powerful anyone imagined the mirror was, the more powerful it became. When their fears manifested, their imaginations ran ever more wild with terrifying possibilities. Which it would also reflect. And so on, and so on. The only one who could control it was Hardinge herself, stopping the runaway cycle by covering the mirror. She acted as a control for the ability for many years, preventing it from going too far.

“But one day, one of her enemies had the dubiously clever idea to turn the mirror back on Hardinge herself. Which, ordinarily, would have been a mere scare tactic. I’m sure their only intent was to make her hesitate to use the mirror by making her own fears manifest.

“However, that is not what happened. Keep in mind, Hardinge had been watching this ability of hers grow with each battle she fought, gaining strength after strength, only barely containing it with her efforts. Sometimes it must have seemed so powerful that it nearly eclipsed her own self.

“Anyone would be frightened of that. It can’t be surprising that her darkest thoughts contained the fear that her mirror would one day consume her.”

Silence stretched, frigid and fragile as ice.

“…So her own ability ate her,” Chuuya said flatly.

“Yes,” Dazai said. “And without anyone left to contain it, the mirror was unleashed.”

Chuuya rubbed wearily at his temples. “Okay. Then how did it get here? To Yokohama?”

“From what I hear, Hardinge was not popular with the Order of the Clock Tower,” Dazai said. “She had gone into hiding here when her ability overtook her. The Special Operations Division then sent out operatives to contain it.”

Chuuya raised his head. “Oh. They’re involved? Wait, does that mean…was that ex-drinking buddy of yours the one who told you all this?”

Dazai nodded, and Chuuya could faintly make out a crooked smile on his lips in the darkness. “Ango called to warn me of its escape. They had done everything they could to keep it locked away so it could be studied, but all it took was one researcher fearing that the creature had the ability to get out of its cell, and it immediately had that power,” he said, leaning back on his bandaged palms. He gave Chuuya a sidelong look, heavy with significance. “Then, of course, while Ango was briefing me on A Face Like Glass, I also got word that a certain tiny mafioso had gone out to fight an unknown monster that was terrorizing the shipyards.”

Chuuya met his stare with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah, so?” he said. “It was scaring my subordinates. Someone had to do something.”

Dazai’s gaze darkened further. “Chuuya, you went alone,” he said. “You tried to face it all by yourself, without even knowing what it was. You could have —” He broke off, and looked away once more. His nails were digging into the wood of the dock, his shoulders stiff.

Hiding again, Chuuya thought.

For a moment, Chuuya considered pointing out that there wasn’t anyone for him to call for help. Very few of the other mafia members could stand up to an otherworldly threat—and even those who could, like Akutagawa, were not anyone who Chuuya would want exposed to a fear-monster. Everyone in the mafia had far too much darkness to reflect.

Besides, Dazai had no room to scold Chuuya when he was the one who had left him without a partner in the first place.

But even as Chuuya contemplated speaking those cutting words aloud, he found himself unable to.

Because even though Chuuya hadn’t called, Dazai had come anyway.

And, if the reflections of that ability could be believed, one of Dazai’s darkest thoughts was losing Chuuya to Corruption. Right alongside Dazai’s fear of his own past self, and his fear of disappointing his old friend. That…changed some things.

Chuuya sighed, releasing a long-held weight. Then he prodded Dazai’s shoulder with a cold, gloved fingertip. “Hey,” he said. “Look at me.”

Dazai’s shoulders hitched higher, but he didn’t turn.

“What’s your deal?” Chuuya demanded, poking him again. “You don’t have to hide from me, idiot. What, you think I’m gonna make fun of you for having emotions?”

That, apparently, surprised Dazai enough to glance back at Chuuya, his brow furrowed.

“Because I won’t,” Chuuya said. “Not about this. I mean…look, before you showed up, that mirror motherfucker had already reflected a lot of people at me. The Flags, the Sheep, Murase, even N. That’s how it got close enough to me to grab me and drag me under in the first place. So if you’re embarrassed of breaking down or some shit, you shouldn’t be. I did too.”

“It’s not that,” Dazai muttered, his eyes darting away across the dark ocean waters once again.

“Then what?” Chuuya prompted impatiently, leaning closer.

“I froze,” Dazai said, his lips twisting in disgust. “Under the slightest amount of pressure, I broke. You could have died, just because I couldn’t bring myself to fire at a poor imitation of my friend.”

Chuuya blinked. “What’s wrong with that? I broke too. And you were there to pull me out of the water. I saved you, and you saved me. That’s what partners are for, right?”

That finally got Dazai to face him, whipping around so quickly it must have hurt his neck. His eyes were wide, his lips parted in surprise.

Chuuya knew why. It had been years since he had called Dazai his partner.

All too aware that his cheeks were beginning to heat, Chuuya reached out to pull the infuriating man into his arms, tucking Dazai’s head against his shoulder. “Not a word,” he growled, squeezing Dazai tightly in warning. “Make fun of me for this and I’m kicking you into the ocean.”

Dazai let out a choked noise, and suddenly he was clinging to Chuuya just as tight, his fingers practically clawing into his back.

He was shaking again. Or maybe they both were.

“It—it had been so long since I heard his voice,” Dazai cried against Chuuya’s neck, muffled and damp on his skin. “I don’t want that to be how I remember him, I don’t, I hate it…”

Chuuya closed his eyes and saw Albatross laying on the ground in pieces, staring up at him in betrayal. He let out a slow, careful breath, and held Dazai closer.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know. I get it.”

Dazai was still so warm. And Chuuya’s hands were still so terribly cold.

Making a reckless decision, Chuuya pulled off his soaked gloves and tossed them aside, then sunk his fingers into Dazai’s mess of curls without hesitation. He felt more than heard the sharp inhale against his neck, and the quiet questioning hum that followed. Chuuya ignored it and continued to card his fingers through Dazai’s hair.

“…Chuuya?” Dazai breathed.

Chuuya tugged absently at a knot. “Tangled,” he grunted. “It was bothering me.”

“Mm,” Dazai hummed, and his hands slid up the back of Chuuya’s jacket. “Chuuya’s cold.”

“No shit,” Chuuya said grumpily. “I fell in the fucking ocean, and it’s freezing out here.”

There was a soft laugh, then a strange sensation ghosted across the side of Chuuya’s neck just above his choker, almost like a pair of lips had pressed there. Chuuya’s hands tightened in Dazai’s hair, stiffening in surprise. He could only wonder if he had imagined it, unable to comprehend any other possibility.

He certainly didn’t imagine what Dazai said next, however.

“Come home with me,” Dazai whispered, his lips brushing against Chuuya’s skin once again.

Chuuya made a very strange noise, somewhere between a shriek and a gasp, and used his grip on Dazai’s hair to haul him away just enough for their eyes to meet. “The fuck?” he spluttered, face burning. “What do you mean, where did that — hah?”

Dazai’s eyes were rimmed in red, dulled with weariness. One of his hands wandered up to Chuuya’s cheek and rested there, circling the blush with his thumb. “I don’t want you out of my sight right now,” he said quietly. “That’s all.”

Ah. Right. The reflection of Corruption.

Well. Chuuya couldn’t really deny that he wasn’t looking forward to a night spent alone in his own apartment. He might not dream, but that didn’t matter if he couldn’t even get to sleep. Having someone beside him might help.

And beyond all that—this was the first time that Dazai had ever asked Chuuya to stay with him.

So, dazed and still a little flushed, Chuuya abandoned all common sense and replied, “Okay.”

Dazai captured one of Chuuya’s hands between his own, and brought it to his lips to brush a kiss across his knuckles. “Good,” he murmured, and pulled Chuuya to his feet. A slight smile flitted across his features. “I think I spotted Chuuya’s dreadful hat further towards the shore. Shall we find it first?”

Chuuya’s knuckles were still tingling. “Okay,” he repeated, strangled and utterly bewildered. His thoughts were chasing themselves in circles like a pack of confused terriers, but he allowed Dazai to tow him away towards the lights of the city.

And if Chuuya’s fingers ended up intertwined with Dazai’s as they traversed the shadows…well.

The streets were too dark for anyone to prove it.

“…Wait, is there even room at your place? You’re still living in that shitty dorm, aren’t you?”

A familiar grin and a pair of twinkling eyes turned back to him as they passed through a dimly lit alley. “Hmm? Chuuya has been tracking where I live? How sentimental of you, slug.”

At least he’s getting back to normal, Chuuya thought. “Oh, shut up,” he grumbled aloud. “Of course I’d keep an eye on your annoying ass.”

A scandalized, yet delighted gasp. “Chuuya likes looking at my ass?”

“…?! Shut up! That is not what I said—!”

#...possibly I should also put this on ao3 for ease of reading #do I know what I'm doing? nope #no thoughts only vibing #but anyway I hope this was an enjoyable explanation of the Creature in the horrors comic!#'A Face Like Glass' is a book I absolutely adore by Frances Hardinge :D It's got a lot of mind-bending concepts in it!#so it seemed like a fun thing to turn into a bsd oc monster #can you believe this started as an attempt to give Chuuya hugs lol #technically succeeded! but at what cost #the horrors comic #bsd #bsd dazai #bsd chuuya #soukoku #skk #senhart's writing

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