Bungo Stray Dogs Oneshots

Once Upon A Time

I didnt proofread this prepare for mistakes

WARNING:

Gruesome stuff

Dazai being insane ig

Mentions of blood

Weapons

Corpses

Uh

Disturbing stuff????

You have been warned

Once upon a time I found you, or perhaps it's better to say that you found me.

The pen stills atop the dot at the end of the sentence, dripping perhaps a little too much ink into it. The slender fingers holding the pen tighten their grip, then slacken—the heavy fountain pen slips right through the writer's grasp. Black ink slices a violent line across the page as the hand drops without resistance. The writing device clatters across the desk and rolls to a halt.

Dazai picks up his pen again.

I don't know how you did it. I don't know how you found me. I don't know how you made me happy. I don't know anything about...

The curtains are closed firmly, and beyond the window panes is the darkness of night. Dazai writes in the faint light of a burning candle. His desk is just barely illuminated, allowing him to see the fountain pen gliding along, guided by his touch. He's barely looking at the words, barely noticing that he's writing them in the first place.

Just beyond the circle of light cast by the candle sits his phone, the case half cracked. A dark blob of what appears to be a black trench coat is rolled up messily beside it, thrown there carelessly by tired hands.

The walls, if they had been visible, could have made anyone leave the room screaming. Plastered all over with paper, they're Dazai's personal canvas. Taneda had made him put up the paper after the fifth time he'd come in to find that Dazai had written or painted something on the wall, and ever since, the most grotesque and dark of things have graced those four walls.

Taneda tries not to walk in as much as he can.

Did you know, Chuuya, I only noticed your blue eyes after the first year?

Taneda is odd, to say the least. A government official, harboring a wanted criminal? Then again, Ango is apparently behind the entire ordeal. Dazai doesn't like feeling indebted to the traitor.

Once upon a time you found me...

On the numerous shelves in Dazai's temporary room in Taneda's house are books, rows and rows of them, from Dracula to Light, Wind, and Dreams. Squeezed in at intervals are the jars filled with rodents and insects, usually dead, but sometimes living. He studies them when he's bored, picks them apart, glues them back together, drips blood all over the floor and gets a scolding from Taneda. Lately, he's been debating whether or not he would be able to drag a corpse up to this room on the second floor without being seen.

Abruptly, Dazai's pen comes screeching to a halt. Ink flicks messily, dotting the page like blood after an amputation. The half written word, chopped through the middle by a jerked line, glistens with undried ink.

Dazai throws his fountain pen, more ink spraying from the tip, against the wall.

His face shows nothing. He makes not a single sound.

The pen hits the wall and drops to the floor.

Words of a madman, words written by an author who has forgotten when or where he wrote them. The ink has not yet dried yet Dazai has no recollection of these words, no remembrance of ever even thinking them.

His breath comes up short, then calms.

His fingers trace the swollen ink of the word found, blurring and smearing the black across the page until the letters are merely a smudge.

Dazai drags his eyes over the piece of parchment before him in the dim candlelight, trying to dredge of some kind of reason for why he would write something like this.

Nakahara Chuuya, is written at the top, the letters neatly printed in his own handwriting.

The letter—for can it be called anything other than that?—trails on densely through descriptions of mid spring flowers and of the first time Chuuya kissed him. Paragraph after paragraph of softly longing prose.

"Hah . . ." Dazai breathes out a laugh.

The Demon Prodigy of the Port Mafia, going insane . . . ! Mori would cry if he heard such a thing was really occurring.

B̸̨̻̪̱͇́́̇̓̔Ứ̷͔̥̗̥̪̐̽͂̎́͠ͅT̵̛̥̟̪̳̯͉̮̾͆̑́̿ ̸̰̞̖̪̲̪̖̇̏̏́̂̃͋̏͝D̵̨̖̺̲̳̩͇̻̯́̃͒̊́A̶͖͌͆͂̊Z̴̨̡͈̺͚̻̝̥̃A̶̛̛͈̪̯̻̍̈́̽͛̄̐̓̕I̶͍͎͕̼̳͈̠͖̎̅̐̉̓̀̂̚ ̷̛̮̟̘̳̔̊͐̍͘Y̸̧̡͕̙̦̜̙̲͇̊͊͜Ó̸̬̫͔͌Ų̸̳̤̘̈́̐̃̔̔̐̽́͆͘ ̷̙͖̭̪̩͓̟̯͙̰̓̔͂̃͋̅͐̉͒̔W̴̯̺̻̙̬̻̠͍̦̄̎͆̊̒͐̒̓̿͜E̵̝̓̐̌̎́͌̅̽̂̕R̷̨̛̛͎̯̪͉̻̥͈͌̇͌̆̉̎E̴̡̬͚̩̹͕̬̲̥͛̈̾̔͆̚͝ ̵̼̺̖̦̼̲̻̬͈̑̑́A̵̡̛̦̰̗̭̗͙͍̒̏͌̒͐̈́̔͝͝L̴̢̪̝̞̮̺̒̅͛͑̑̓̋̾̈́̂W̴͉̎Ą̴̤́Ÿ̷̧̢̥́̀̽̽̽̃̕̚̕͝ͅͅS̷̢̙̪̮̣̠̺̣̈́̊̎͌͛͛̅̎͜͜ ̵̼̙̝̐Ì̵̡̛̺͍͋̓̀̽͊N̴̢͇̺̣̗͕̪͛ͅS̷̬̥͕̤̅̀̐͆͘̕Ȧ̸̡̼͇̯͚͙̓͋̌͗̉͝N̴͖͓̉͑Ẻ̷̲̪̲̺̬̞̇̆̑̽—̸͙̭̲͑̈̊͋͊͝

Ropes are hanging from the ceiling, tying his arms, tying his legs, binding him to the chair.

Dazai claws at his neck, his nails digging into his skin through layers upon layers of pristine white bandages. The inner layers are soaked with red, though, and if anyone inquires after the state of those inner wrappings . . . he hasn't thought that far. Perhaps he'll kill them. He does require a corpse, after all. There's one particular jar on his shelf that deserves a human heart in it. If only Dazai could find a way to keep a heart beating even after it was torn out of the flesh it once resided in, then that would certainly be interesting.

He can't even experiment on himself. He suspects the beating in his hollow chest is merely from a ticking clock, counting the seconds from the day he stopped being human. Such a thing could hardly be called a human heart.

The fountain pen is collected with shaking hands as Dazai strains across the room, the ropes dragging him backwards with all the force they can muster.

"Get the fuck off me," Dazai mutters, disgruntled, and they wrap tighter. "AT LEAST GRAB MY NECK, GODDAMMIT!" he screams, stabbing the fountain pen into the wood of his desk.

The tip shatters and ink spills over the wood.

From his pocket, Dazai pulls a knife.

He draws a line over his skin—many lines, till the red liquid is pooling over old scars and torn bandages.

He dips the tip of the knife into the blood.

He sets it onto the page.

The words written in black ink are crossed out by red, scribbled over, until Dazai can start the letter anew.

The blankness in his eyes has returned, the words of the madman once more crashing over him like tidal waves.

The ropes are binding him harder.

Dazai writes.

Once upon a time I lost you...