grossweirdthing
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Dazai dies on the Wednesday, and Chuuya grieves like a dog waiting at an open door.
The force of it nearly kills him.
Bookmarked by grossweirdthing
29 Jan 2026
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Bookmarker's Notes
I dont think ive ever read a fic that made me this sad. hits a little too close to home!
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I could do so much more with you, he’d sworn, studying Sheep-stained bracelets — longing for a claustrophobic place in his skeptical ribcage. To wound from the inside.
See?, he would have said, from that carcass. You bleed too.
Or: Soukoku, in three acts.
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Watching Chuuya anguish over lost causes makes Dazai want to teach him a lesson in humility. Lines are crossed, accusations are made, but Chuuya isn't a dog one can simply kick around.
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Inmate 0853 has found a new plaything. He is determined to chew on it until it breaks.
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Fyodor is eight, when he meets Dazai. He’s at a chess tournament and Dazai is the only one who has made it worth it. Made it interesting. He’s the only one who is playing at the same level as Fyodor. Fyodor loves chess but he hasn’t felt challenged in what seems like a long time. Not until Dazai, that is.
They’re in the final game. Dazai and Fyodor are two children lost in a world that has nothing to do with anyone but them. Dazai has one of his eyes covered with a bandage. His hair is almost but exactly not the same color as Fyodor’s. He plays aggressively and recklessly and so carefully measured Fyodor feels it all the way to his toes, swinging in their too tight shoes, unable to touch the ground.
They draw.
“I’m Dazai.” Dazai says afterward. Like Fyodor, English is slightly stilted on Dazai’s tongue, rounded awkwardly around different syllables than it should be.
“I’m Fyodor.” Fyodor responds. Dazai mouths Fyodor’s name to himself. “It’s Russian.” Fyodor explains quietly, used to other children not being able to say his name, teasing him.
“Fyodor.” Dazai repeats. “You’re good at chess.” He adds bluntly.
Fyodor feels something stronger than happiness, quiet and content, low in his soul.