There's a sour taste in Dazai's mouth. He knows it's because he has to face the person who knows the second most about him; Mori takes the cake, obviously, because he made Dazai into the person he is today.
The glowering sunset illuminates his small room. It's the same view as earlier in the day, bustling people trying to find their way to their homes. It must be nice, Dazai muses, to have a home. The playground across the road is the same one he and Chuuya found themselves drunk in. It lacks any presence as it did all those months ago - a bad location to have a playground in.
"You almost died," A voice says to him from the doorway.
Dazai turns around to meet Chuuya's warm eyes, the brown specs mixed into blue that dance around his irises. A characteristic frown descends onto his face.
"And you weren't supposed to save me," Dazai spits. Betrayal is the worst type of emotion, something that clings to a person like a cobweb, something that he was well aware of.
"Yeah, well I did. Mori told me all about your friend. He also told me about that multiquirked man and his doctor associate that you didn't bother to explain."
His breath hitches. Mori and Chuuya were conspiring against him.
"Can't you take a hint, Chuuya?" Dazai explodes, fists clenching the fragile sheets. He fears that they are going to rip under his grasp. "First, you're abandoned by those doctors, then the Sheep, and you just can't stand for me to leave too. Even better; that doctor Mori told you about, he worked on the Arahabaki project." Dazai smiles, something cruel. "He abandoned it. He stopped caring about you because even in your inhuman state, you weren't important anymore. He chose me. That's why he left. That's why - "
"Stop it," Chuuya barks. "You're trying to get me to get mad and leave. I know how this works, Dazai. I'm not falling for it."
"You couldn't possibly understand," he argues, desperate as sweat drips down his temple. His vision blurs. "You don't belong anywhere, Chuuya, you're just some leech to the people around you. The poor Sheep. I bet Shirase wishes he had killed you that day."
"You don't think that," Chuuya replies, eyes roaming Dazai's figure. "You don't think any of that. Just let me help you, Dazai."
He reaches a trembling hand out to the figure in the doorway.
"I can't do it - "
"You don't have to do anything," Chuuya says, full of conviction.
It takes a moment for Dazai to realise that something is wrapped around him. Chuuya's body is warm against his notoriously cold skin and bone, something so unfamiliar to him that he freezes for another moment. The sun highlights Chuuya's back as he brings a hand to the other's bright orange hair and leans in, resting his chin on the other's shoulder.
"Thanks," Dazai whispers into his ear. "But I still wish I had died that night."
"I know. I know Dazai, I've always known," Chuuya whispers back, something small yet strong, threading his hands through Dazai's matted curls. "I'm not going to watch you kill yourself and be alright with it. Sometimes you're cruel, but it's just so you can hide yourself from the world. I know what it's like to grow up pretending to be something you're not."
Dazai has no defence on the tip of his tongue, no lies trying to worm themselves out. He simply sighs - an unlikely action for someone like him. The stitches on his arms itch. His hands are cold, and he's so tired.
Dazai finds himself with his head leaning on Chuuya's shoulder as they watch the final wisps of light dissolve into the horizon. The stars are, as usual, slighter brighter than Yokohama's smog-blocked ones in the sky - they dance among the sky like ballerinas. The traffic is welcome to fill in their silence.
Chuuya makes Dazai promise not to leave yet.
He'd usually just disregard whatever Chuuya had to say - but this time, he decides to stay. He's meant to be good.
Good - what is it? Dazai finds his mind circling back to that question over the next few days, urging his mind to find some sort of finite answer. Donating to charity? Smiling at strangers? It feels insignificant and shallow. It feels fake.
It is, though, isn't it? It's all fake.
Dazai wants a drink.
The apartment is incredibly impersonal. Dazai finds this out when he traverses past the bathroom and into the main area when nobody is around, finding a kitchen looking out to a sofa. No dining table by the looks of it, but there are a few stools facing the kitchen island. What a lonely little apartment.
He discovers a few homecooked meals in the fridge a day after Chuuya leaves with smiley face post-it notes on them. They can't be from his partner, because he'd never put a post-it note on food, and neither from Aizawa, because the man cannot cook at all.
Dazai gets one out and watches the container spin around in the microwave through the little dots on the window. When it dings, he opens it and lets the steam travel up into his face, then lifts up a small chunk of rice with his chopsticks.
It's good. He hadn't eaten for so long that he'd almost forgotten what rice tasted like.
It's the small things in life that motivate us.
Could Aizawa's words hold truth to it? He's always been pressured to search for something, something that would fill his heart and make him human. From such a young age, he was called everything other than normal. Dazai looks at his bandaged arms. The stitches stick out slightly against the smooth fabric, creating an uneven pattern. It's ugly.
Even if nobody else did, I saw some light in you.
The only explanation for the situation is that Dazai had deceived everyone once again. He doesn't feel good about it - he doesn't feel good about anything, these days, except a hollowness in his chest and a heart that used to beat.
His fingers itch to hold a cigarette.
Just let me help you, Dazai
Let me help you
Let me help
The container falls out of his hands, and shatters into a million pieces.
What's the point of all his suffering if it one day goes away?
He curls up in a ball and doesn't get up with only his uneven breathing as company.
The front door opens with a creak. It's a worn old thing, paint scraping off the sides. The door is the only thing in the house that feels personal; a dark reminder of what the past used to be.
"Oh, Dazai," A soft voice whispers, something kind.
He doesn't look up from where his head is buried into his thighs. It's too cold to move anyways - he feels his hands tremble.
A hand pulls him up, where he meets Yamada's eyes. They burn through his own. He thinks he should care, but he's too tired, so Yamada leads him to the couch and wraps a blanket around his shoulders. Dazai wonders if he deserves it. The glass of the broken container crinkles under the Hero's shoes as he sweeps it to the side.
Unlike Aizawa and Chuuya, Yamada refuses to speak about the events. He doesn't offer Dazai reassurances either. He just busies himself with the glass on the floor, whistling a low tune as he does so. Dazai watches him through half-closed eyes.
Eventually, the man comes back with a hairbrush in his hand and a hair tie around his wrist.
"Can I...?" he holds up the brush.
"If you want." Dazai shrugs.
Yamada nods with a strained smile, sitting behind Dazai. He's still - like a puppet, or a toy - as the couch contorts itself to fit Yamada's form. He begins to slowly sift through his hair that hasn't been touched in days - not since he woke up.
The soft action reminds him of the time the man checked him for a concussion at the USJ. Such a different time, it feels like years ago, back when the three of them still met up for drinks. Dazai finds himself relaxing involuntarily at the movement on his scalp. He feels like a child - at least, what he thinks a child should feel like.
"Shouta's never been one for expressing his care for others," Yamada explains as the brush cascades through his knotted hair. "We lost a good friend when we were your age."
"I see," he replies, slowly.
"His name was Oboro. He died during our second year internships, and we were never the same after that. It hurts, doesn't it?" He smiles bitterly. "It feels like there's a hole in your heart that has been viciously clawed out. Unfortunately, you can't prepare to lose someone."
The brushing in his hair comes to a stop. He reaches up to his curls, noticing that they're lighter than they've been in a long time. Dazai doesn't speak.
"I came in here ready to see a villain," Yamada admits. "I wanted to blame you and prove that you were just faking it all." He sighs. "You really are just a child, though."
"You should be more careful," Dazai defends himself, harsh and tense, yet so soft it would be difficult to even hear.
"Shh. We can talk about this another time. Why don't you get into bed? It's late," Yamada whispers, hands posed on Dazai's shoulders.
He offers Dazai a kind smile.
Dazai looks outside, at the blanket of darkness and the few stars in the sky. It really is late.
—---------------
The dorms are lonely.
Well, lonely wouldn't be the best way to describe the situation. It's more lively than it is at home, and his friends are all there! Izuku's never really lived away from home - in any school trips, he was avoided like the plague due to his quirklessness. UA is almost like some fantasy. But 1-A has two empty spots, and the space lingers like a ghost. The dining table has 20 chairs, after all.
It's a home with missing pieces.
"I still think Deku's room was the cutest," Uraraka argues fiercely, throwing an accusatory finger at Ashido, who slouches over the couch.
"My - mine?" Izuku squeaks, face reddening.
She leans in mischievously. Tsuyu tilts her head at the display and Ashido snickers. They're all gathered in the common room around the couches. Sato is already baking something new, judging by the smell wafting from the kitchen, and the quieter members of the class like Tokoyami and Shoji chat quietly with him.
"Obviously! You're the ultimate All Might fanboy!" she replies with a grin. He smiles back awkwardly.
"I do have to agree," Iida interjects. "Midoriya's dedication to Heroes is truly astonishing."
He sits on the couch in the free spot next to Izuku. Iida carries himself differently now, more guarded.
"It's just a jumble of bright posters though..." Kaminari whines. Jirou jabs him with an earphone jack, and he yelps, but they still lean on the wall next to each other.
"I think mine shone brighter than anyone else's!" Aoyama declares haughtily.
"Yeah, yeah, your room was like a disco ball." Kaminari rolls his eyes.
"It wasn't round though..." Todoroki says quietly nearby, confused.
"I thought everyone's rooms were equally cool! It's very interesting to see everyone's different aesthetics and how they've customised their spaces," Izuku says brightly. "Right, Dazai?"
The room falls silent. Izuku watches, in horror, as Iida's expression darkens and Uraraka's smile dims into something sadder. A few of his classmates look around awkwardly. Some give him pitying looks, others look distinctly uncomfortable.
"Midoriya..." someone says, but he's too occupied by the blood rushing to his face and the heartbeat in his ears.
"Oh," he starts, struggling to find the words. "I'm sorry, I forgot - it's just been such a short time, and we were all together having fun, and - " his breath hitches at the uncomfortable expressions of his classmates.
He didn't mean to.
"I believe we should all be going to bed soon," Iida says, not unkindly, but the occupants of the room take it as their queue to leave.
"Deku?" Uraraka asks, ever so slowly, and puts a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"It's alright, Uraraka." He gives her a smile. "I'll be fine."
The look she gives him makes him think she probably doesn't believe him. It's alright. He doesn't know if he believes in himself either. Izuku stands up quickly. He's ready to run back to his room and curl up in a ball, but a hand grabs his wrist.
Yaoyorozu hesitantly looks around and pulls him closer. A wave of determination falls over her face.
"I want to talk to someone about Kamino," she says, then lowers her voice. "and Dazai."
Izuku gulps. He thinks about it all - the kidnapping, All for One, All Might and the murder. Shigaraki's eye, his brains, his blood, all the blood that stained the ground and the rocks and the rubble -
Izuku bends over with a hand covering his mouth. He feels sweat drip down the curve of his face, watching as a drop splats onto the ground just like Shigaraki's blood -
When the nausea passes, he lifts his head shakily.
"Should we really be talking about it?" he asks hesitantly, avoiding her knowing glance.
"I'd like to. If you're alright with it, that is."
Yaoyorozu looks almost pained to think about it. That's right, she was there too. Todoroki stared at the bloodshed with a pale expression while Yaoyorozu whispered in hushed tones to Iida and Kirishima to not look under any circumstances. She shook as she told them, tears in her eyes for the villains that had tried to kill them. Izuku had cried, too.
Kacchan had refused to talk about it.
Yaoyorozu leads him outside to a pale oak tree, creating a towel with her quirk. She lays it over the grass. The result is a sort of lumpy-shaped rectangle due to the branches underneath the dirt, but Yaoyorozu pays it no mind as she makes herself comfortable on it. Izuku follows suit nervously.
"Iida and Todoroki have made their minds up about Dazai," Yaoyorozu muses, head turned toward the new dorm room. "Iida has been insistent on his villainy from the moment he left the summer camp. Todoroki... well, I've always known that he's had a rather black-and-white view like Iida. It probably comes from Endeavour."
"Kirishima won't listen," Izuku adds. "Kacchan refuses to say anything except that Dazai is dangerous. It's like he was never their friend in the first place."
"It's jarring. Dazai was the first person I really interacted with in 1-A," Yaoyorozu recalls fondly, sadly. "During the Battle Trials, I was so nervous about being at UA, but he made it... fun. He was joking around the whole time like it wasn't important." She takes a deep breath in. "He somehow helped balance out my anxiety during all those important events. It's... weird to think that he killed someone. I feel like I'm a villain for wanting him to come back."
"He was very sad, I think," Izuku murmurs. "I wanted to save him at Kam - " The blood staining the ground, their blood. "Kamino. You saw how he looked right?"
"Scared."
"I was scared too," Izuku's eyes blur as he looks down at his thighs. "I was so scared."
A soft pair of arms wraps around him. He's hesitant to return the embrace - she's a girl! - but decides to disregard his embarrassment when he hears a few sniffles take up the quiet of the night. He sobs back, openly, mourning the loss of a friend.
"There was so much blood," Izuku cries, tears dripping down his face. "I know the League was bad, but to die so brutally, so quickly... it was inhumane. I've never had to watch anybody die before, and I knew I would one day have to, but it was just so terrible. I kept thinking if only I could have saved at least one of them..."
"Oh, Midoriya... I was just glad it wasn't us. I kept imagining that power coming down on me, Iida or Kirishima or you who marched up to All Might and called out to Dazai. It was like a God ripped apart the villains." Yaoyorozu pulls away, wrapping her arms around her bare legs.
Izuku notices how little she's wearing. She must be cold, he thinks. He feels hot in just his shorts and t-shirt from all the crying. She hands him a tissue.
"Soukoku..." Izuku mutters, quietly, as his brain whirrs and he watches the silhouette of Kacchan in his room doing sit-ups. Dazai and the redhead. The brutal methods. How in sync they were.
"Soukoku? The feared villain of the Port Mafia?" she asks with a tilt of her head, willing him to continue.
"No, Yaoyorozu. I think Soukoku is two people, and Dazai is one-half. The other was that short boy that was with the League," Izuku explains, tapping rapidly. He itches for a notebook.
"It's a stretch, logically," Yaoyorozu reasons.
"I've never seen or heard of anyone having as much power as that redhead though. They were in sync and everything."
Yaoyorozu hums. "I think all the answers are in Yokohama," she says. "I want to go back. We all live under the same sky and sun, yet it's like we live in two different worlds. It's really not that scary over there. Is it bad of me to have those thoughts?"
Don't kill him
Don't kill him!
....
Dazai picks up his scalpel, plunges it into the man's neck, and watches the blood spray like a fountain onto him.
He didn't listen. Those cold, soulless eyes stare deep into his own.
"We've seen something most people haven't," Izuku replies, tired. The weight of blood makes him more wary, more leaden. How does Dazai do it?
She pulls Izuku in for another hug, and this time he wraps his arms around her straight away. Even if nobody else understood, at least she did.