Archive of Our Own

Chuuya nearly misses the gas station when it passes into view.

He’s been driving for four hours now and it’s the first time he’s ever regretted buying a sports bike instead of a more conventional one. The ache had settled into the small of his back less than an hour into the trip and had been crawling up his spine with every mile that passed. And just over halfway into that, the highways and twisting city streets packed with cars had channeled down into long, curving roads with nothing but fields and trees as scenery. A car would ride towards and past him every now and again, but apart from that, it was both too quiet to keep his mind busy enough to block out that ache and not quite monotonous enough to start planning for when he finally arrived; having to steer this way and that to follow the road and weave past the odd roadkill or fallen branch frequently enough that it had him grounded in the now and the pain digging into his spine.

So when the gas station crops up, its outline shadowed by the trees around and above, Chuuya nearly drives right past it despite the clear view. As if it’d sunk and disappeared into the trees around it as the ache blurred Chuuya’s senses.

He doesn’t though, but only just. He breaks hard and has to take a sharp turn to backtrack the last few meters he’d overshot, but the sudden jolt comes as a distraction from his back. Parked, keys pocketed, kickstand out, Chuuya can’t pull off his helmet fast enough.

The country air is a balm both for his overheated face and the lungs that’d been breathing in that same, regurgitated heat the last few hours. It soothes down his throat and he only has to take one breath in before he can let it out slowly, body relaxing already. Parked further in and next to the shop instead of the clearing for the gas pumps, there’s a thick covering of shade below the trees. A few pinholes of light dance across him every time the wind ruffles the leaves, but other than that, Chuuya is able to lean against his bike as he cools down under complete cover.

Helmet propped up between his hand and hip, he taps at the bike’s fuel gauge. Just as suspected, it’s still over half full. He could easily keep going, but…

Chuuya tugs off his backpack so he can do the same with his jacket, stretching into the breeze to fully appreciate the lack of constriction now. His skin instantly feels the relief just as his lungs had, an actual benefit of the countryside, he guesses. A nice little novelty compared to how thick the air in Yokohama could get. Not that it’d ever been particularly awful, but compared to this? The freshness of the air is undeniable.

One last stretch to crack his back and Chuuya eyes through the shop’s window walls. Even with a quick glance, it’s obvious how small both the interior and its stock must be. There’s only one shelf to split up the inside, and double sided it may be, but there’s only the walls opposite the cashier and door that have any other items to show. It’s difficult to tell from outside, but the store looks completely still and empty apart from the cashier. Chuuya can’t imagine they’ll have much of a variety, nevermind any of it being particularly good, not like back home. Honestly, what’s the point of a basic like fresh air if you can’t have the pleasures of something fancier?

Chuuya sighs, feeling the surprise novelty already washing away. His eyes do catch at something further burrowed into the store though.

Behind the cashier is another, much smaller, shelf. Chuuya can’t quite see the whole thing from this angle, but if he were to guess, that’d be where the cigarettes are kept. Maybe alcohol too if he’s lucky. Cigarettes though are a must, or else he’d have to have a firm word with Mori about sending him off here.

Regardless, Chuuya snatches out the lock for his bike from his backpack and secures it quickly. Smokes or not, he needs to at least take a small break now. His bike may not need refueling, but he certainly does.

Despite it being summer, when Chuuya walks into the store, there’s no sound of an AC or even a small, portable fan to be heard. Somehow though, it isn’t actually hot. It’s pleasantly cool and when Chuuya thinks about it, outside wasn’t actually that hot either, not after he took off most of his riding gear.

One look around the store and it’s as empty as Chuuya had expected. As if it’d been empty for quite some time, the cashier perks up from where he’s hunkered over a white shirt, fabric in one hand and sewing needle in the other as he mends. His overgrown blond hair bounces with the motion, getting in his eyes for a moment before he brushes it aside. The man’s— no, far too young, must be minding the shop for a relative— boy’s face breaks out into a grin.

“Welcome!” The boy beams as he speaks, and then without skipping a beat, “If you’re looking for that diner place, this isn’t it!”

Chuuya stares at him, blinks once, twice, all without saying anything. He thinks it should be obvious enough, how his face is saying, ‘yes, I can quite obviously see that.’ Apparently, it isn’t obvious. The boy continues as if the silence was clearly from shock.

“You’ll need to go back the way you came, to the big road you came from a few miles back, and then just keep going for a few more minutes. Then you’ll find the diner!”

“Diner?” Chuuya stares at the boy, but realising the likelihood that this would only lead to another misunderstanding, he changes the subject quickly. “Actually, wait, ‘way I came’? How did you know which way I came?”

It’s true that the boy could have seen his bike coming from outside the window, but with how focused he’d seemed on his sewing work? He’d looked caught off guard just with just someone walking in. Not to mention the slight… head-in-the-clouds air he gives off.

The boy takes that as his turn to give Chuuya his own dismayed look, though his eyes are wide and more curious than tired. Chuuya is wondering if that’s just how he looks normally.

“Well,” the boy starts, slowly like he’s the adult here and Chuuya’s the child, “not many people come here, not many from outside the village anyway. And I definitely don’t recognise your face. The only place this road takes you is to the village, and most of the people who come here are looking for directions for somewhere other than here. It’s a long road, the main one leading into this one.”

“Ah,” Chuuya says, nothing more, nothing less. That explains it, he guesses. Looking over the store again, he quickly spots a corner of a shelf, stacked with small meals and snacks. The udon ready meals look particularly good, but he doesn’t exactly have anything to warm up the water. “And you just send them over to a diner on the highway, when you’ve got food here?”

The boy looks at Chuuya, still with those big eyes. It’s impossible not to notice the gold of them, only slightly darker than his hair.

“I mean,” he says, and then simply, “yeah.”

Chuuya can’t help but scoff at that, although quietly. With the way the boy continues to smile at him, he either didn’t notice or didn’t take it badly.

“It’s not like I don’t let them buy anything,” he continues, “but if they’re going that way anyway, then why not tell them about it?”

Chuuya eyes the boy, trying to work out his game.

“I’m not going that way,” Chuuya says and watches the boy’s brows furrow slightly, puzzled.

“Well, then you’ll just have to get something from here or go back to the diner you passed, but I don’t know why you passed it in the first place—”

“I’m not—” Chuuya cuts himself off to take a breath in through his nose, deep and noisy. He feels his shoulders untense, though only by a little. “I’m going this way, to the village, okay?”

And the boy’s eyes light up.

“Oh!” he shouts, but not out of sudden realisation. It sounds more like excitement. He barely looks like he’s staying sat, so much energy running through him. It’s so clear, written in everything he’s doing, that it’s difficult for Chuuya to look at him. Chuuya tells himself it’s secondhand embarrassment. “The kitsune udon is good!”—and before Chuuya can open his mouth about not enjoying cold udon, or maybe because the boy sees him opening his mouth to say so—“I can heat it up for you, we have a microwave!”

And that? That’s a nice surprise that has Chuuya blink and clamp his mouth shut. He opens it again only to say that yes, that would be very nice.

The udon isn’t anything special, Chuuya can tell that much even before the boy opens it up to mix everything in between heating it up. But the boy points out a small, wooden table and bench outside, just off to the side and still under the shade of the trees, and then goes on to say how Chuuya can leave his helmet and jacket here while he eats if that’d be easier.

Chuuya insists he’ll be fine carrying around the jacket, but neither say anything as Chuuya does indeed settle his helmet down on the counter. He may be athletic, but it’s not like a helmet as well made and sturdy as Chuuya’s is light. The boy simply smiles over at him, just slightly shorter than Chuuya, as he glances at the helmet before holding out the finished meal.

“Careful, it’s hot!”

With a polite nod and taking both the chopsticks that came with the meal and the meal itself, that’s how Chuuya finds himself sitting outside at the bench and taking in the scenery whether he wants to or not. The food is indeed hot, although Chuuya didn’t need the boy’s warning or to try testing it out himself to know. The visible steam rolling up from it is far more than enough. With it though comes the smell, the subtle but unmistakable scent of the broth quickly finding him. It makes his mouth water.

For now though, he stirs the udon with his chopsticks, absentmindedly looking over the area as he waits for the food to cool.

Just as before, the spots of sun that make it through the leaves above skitter about along with the breeze. Unlike before, Chuuya not only has the time to watch it, but it’s the only thing he can do right now. It’s nice, if he has to admit it. It’s not as if it’s anything particularly interesting, but it makes a pretty view. Like a natural light show of greens that reminds him somewhat of the more active parts of Yokohama with all its lights, both normal and neon, at night.

The bushes and trees around him don’t seem overly maintained apart from keeping them away from the parking and gas area and the store, but it’s not like Chuuya’s ever been a particularly neat person. It’s not that he isn’t, but growing up with little in the way of material objects had meant that he didn’t have the possibility of being messy in the first place. Nowadays, he’s steadily growing a wardrobe, and leaving clothes out would only wrinkle them. Apart from that, his apartment — what used to be his apartment — stayed just about empty apart from the basic necessities and food.

Getting to sit back and watch the strangely ordered disorder of the scene around him is relaxing. It brings to mind how he used to watch the push and pull of bodies in a crowded street or market, though that was calming more for its familiarity. This, now, is calming simply because it is.

The leaves continue to rustle all around him in the wind, light and quiet, and Chuuya finally pulls up a single udon to test. It’s still hot, but not enough to burn him. He takes the first noodles up slowly, letting it cool down in the air as he zones out to the bushes ahead of him fluttering.

“Oh.” The last inch of the noodle disappears into his mouth with the noise. It must be quiet, no louder than the small slurping noise he’d been making, because the sight before him doesn’t startle.

There’s a fox, slender and pale red, almost brown, sitting directly in front of him. Chuuya isn’t sure when it got there, but he’s certain it wasn’t there a second ago. It’s sitting under the outreaching branch of a larger bush, but the animal is far from hiding and while its colouring may be useful against soil and autumn leaves, the red of it would stick out here like a sore thumb even if it were trying to.

Chuuya gets the impulse to slow his movement, stop the slurp of his eating, so it won’t be scared off. Except the fox is sitting there languidly, ears relaxed, as it looks Chuuya directly in the eye. He’s tempted to throw out a piece of his udon to see if that’ll coax it closer, but that thought is pushed down the moment it enters his head. The fox continues to watch him, almost looking smug as if it believes it can indeed persuade Chuuya to give in to his prior idea through sheer (mediocre) cuteness.

That’s what decides it for Chuuya, that he’s not even going to leave what he can’t eat for it.

He’s heard enough reasons as to why you shouldn’t feed wild animals, and just because this isn’t the city, it doesn’t mean the basics have completely changed. And just looking at the thing, eyeing up Chuuya as if he’s a very literal meal ticket, Chuuya is sure at least some of the locals must be feeding it.

“Oi!” The fox doesn’t move, but its ears do perk up slightly. Yeah, Chuuya thinks, they’re definitely feeding it enough that it isn’t scared of people anymore. “Fuck off, I’m not giving you any! Go hunt or something, like a proper fox!”

He’s about to look down to the ground for a stone he can throw close enough to scar it when the fox finally looks away, ears flicking irately. It stands, slowly but surely, and looks Chuuya’s way once more as if wanting to make sure he’s watching.

It’s then that it finally leaves, disappearing behind the bush in a rustle of leaves. When the bush quickly settles again, once more only disturbed by the calm breeze, Chuuya relaxes back into his seat.

He continues to eat, staring out at the scenery much the same as before, while mentally reassuring himself that the peculiar feeling he has is simply from the foreign countryside environment and not from any sense of (self-imposed) isolation.

“Oh.” It hits him then, though not the thought he was avoiding. He’s forgotten something, but…

Looking down at his half eaten meal, his forehead creases in thought. It’d been something to… refresh himself, maybe? The food itself is doing a pretty good job though. The broth has cooled down enough that Chuuya is able to slurp it up alongside udon and swallow down bits of tofu without anything more than a cursory blow of breath. If anything, it’s passing right over from refreshing to relaxing, enough that Chuuya’s feeling somewhat lethargic.

Chuuya’s sighs. A drink. He’s missing a drink. Something with caffeine, preferably. The broth may work on its own to wash the food down, but Chuuya’s going to need a bit more of a pick-me-up than flavoured water.

Grabbing his wallet again and leaving everything else where it is, Chuuya walks back over to the shop. It’ll give his food a little more time to cool down anyway. When he walks through the door this time, the boy’s head jerks up once more from his sewing, though his eyes look a little less wide in surprise.

“Hi!” He’s as chipper as the first time though, maybe even more so now that he’s a little familiar with Chuuya. Chuuya finds it somehow less grating than he did when he’d walked in ten minutes ago. “Did you need something else?”

“Uh”—Chuuya looks around the store, scanning the shelves before he finds a slimly built refrigerator in the corner—“yeah.”

“We have a coffee maker in the back as well,” the boy says before Chuuya can even start walking over to where the cold drinks are kept. Chuuya turns his head to the boy, watching him simply smile at Chuuya for a moment.

“I…” Chuuya starts, thinking about questioning the boy all over again like he did before, and then stops because honestly, that offer sounds amazing. “Yeah. Sure. It do lattes?”

It turns out that the coffee machine doesn’t do lattes, the fanciest thing to its name a white. But one smell from the mug — there’s a cow on one side, unmistakable despite how it was obviously painted by a child — and Chuuya can’t grumble, even internally. It smells strangely sweet, almost like berries.

He takes a sip, barely cool enough that it doesn’t burn his tongue, and savours the taste. It’s just as it smells. He feels the warmth of it run through him and sits comfortable in his bones, already making him feel a little looser and like everything is easier to move.

The next second, Chuuya jerks his head back up from the cup, realising he has yet to both pay and thank the boy for the drink. The boy, though, is only smiling, sitting back in his seat already as he watches Chuuya enjoy the coffee.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” he asks Chuuya. Chuuya nods simply, setting the mug down on the table so he can get his wallet out. Counting the change and finding he has the exact amount needed, he slips his wallet away again, and that’s when he finally takes note of the shelves behind the boy. They’re lined with a few drinks — spirits — but mostly different kinds of cigerrates. The itch returns again, the same ache as before when he’d looked down at his meal and known he’d forgotten something; the one he’d had when he’d finally parked his bike.

His fingers twitch slightly where he’s holding the money. He places the coins down instead of reaching back for his wallet. He thinks, this is nice. Maybe, it’ll all be nice, just like this.

“Thank you,” Chuuya says, finally. He wonders if he sounds warmer or if that’s just because he’s finally had something to soothe his throat, broth notwithstanding. He clears his throat, determined to make the next part as polite as possible. “Would it be too much trouble if I took this to the bench with me? I’m still finishing the udon.”

The boy’s smile — his whole face — falls at that. Chuuya can’t help but fear his attempt wasn’t quite as soft as he’d wanted it to be.

“I can pay for the mug if—”

The boy shoots up from his seat. There’s none of that child-like, unrestrained energy though; no, instead it’s a precise movement that has him peering out the window in the blink of an eye.

“You really left it out there— oh.” He interrupts himself before Chuuya can follow his gaze, but Chuuya does see the way the boy’s shoulders fall, a sadder droop than he could have imagined possible for the cheerful boy.

Chuuya wrinkles his brow but follows the look, a slight but nonetheless strange tinge of relief towards how he hadn’t been accidentally rude. He looks past the glass pane, stepping to the side just right so he can see past the trees and bushes to the small table, and—

The relief morphs to the much more familiar feeling of rage.

There, sitting on the table and looking just as at home as it had under the bushes, is the fox. It’s not logical, not really, but Chuuya’s anger can’t help but make him believe it’s the exact same one and it’d planned this. Its nose is buried into the takeaway bowel, under no rush as it eats up Chuuya’s udon. And when its eyes look up and it doesn’t pause in its meal even as it meets Chuuya’s eyes straight on, Chuuya is certain his thoughts are all too correct.

He’s not sure if a fox is capable of any expressions other than a baring of teeth, but Chuuya swears he sees the thing smirk.

“Oi!” He’s rushing out before he can even think of how ridiculous he must look, ignoring the boy’s shouts to wait. “Hey, you bastard, that’s mine!”

It disappears just as quickly as before. Except this time, when Chuuya finally makes it back to the bench, he finds that it’s done so with every piece of udon to Chuuya’s name as well.

Chuuya feels the phantom tap in his fingers, an almost reflexive jerk of his fore and middle finger. It’s one he’s willed down to just the fingers though, instead of the entire arm movement of bringing a cigarette up to his lips regardless of whether or not he has one in the moment.

A stress response. He hadn’t needed Mori to point it out for Chuuya to make that connection, but the man had done so anyway all those years ago. Nowadays, Chuuya has managed to cut back on smoking except for special occasions. Or particularly bad ones.

The two fingers twitch again, meeting no resistance but air as they close around nothing.

Before he’d left the shop properly, he’d eyed up the cigarettes once more as the boy had spoken to him.

“I’m so sorry! Dazai just does that sometimes. Or, well, all the time!” The boy had laughed at his own words. Chuuya had only raised an eyebrow.

Dazai. He thinks back on it again. A name for the fox. So they were feeding it, no doubt about it. No other reason to have named such a menace. He’s half tempted to regard it in pity; it isn’t healthy for an animal to eat human food after all. Then he remembers that furry face, muzzle buried in his udon and looking right at Chuuya with what Chuuya swears was a twinkle in its dark eyes, and decides the same thing as he had in that moment: if the god damn villagers weren’t feeding it in the first place, this never would have happened.

The novelty is already wearing off faster than he thought it would. Maybe, just maybe, a smoke would help, but...

He’d been ready to ask for his usual pack, but the boy had beat him to speaking. And had offered to get him a new meal, for free. Chuuya had snapped his mouth closed, chewing over his words. The, ‘Yes,’ to that was already formed but, well.

“When I got here, you brought up the diner. There’s no other place people ask directions for, on an apparently busy road like that?” he’d said instead.

The boy had blinked at the question instead of an answer. And then, simply:

“You looked hungry.”

Chuuya had decided to pass on the cigarettes in the end, too much potential trouble if the boy was — and Chuuya was certain of that more than he was now certain that animals could indeed have a sadistic streak — a minor.

He still feels the nag in his bones for one though, a flex of his hand, even as he’s halfway up to the tree he’d seen not five minutes into arriving properly at the village. It’s large, trunk thicker than two of him combined, and Chuuya knows it must be old to have grown so well. It’s at the centre of a clearing off to the side of the road, the smaller, numerous trees seemingly in a semi circle around it, as designed as such.

He’s still by his bike, a fair ways away, but he can already see the deep, jagged lines of the bark and a rope — shimenawa, he guesses — wrapped just above the base. A shrine, maybe. Though he’s sure the instructions Mori had given him made it out to be further in than this. Chuuya doesn’t think much of it though as he pushes from his bike and takes his helmet from his head. There’s something tugging at him from the sight, greater than even the need for nicotine. Unlike nicotine, he does nothing to resist it.

There are a few small objects underneath, huddled under the tree’s shade. They’re plain though, impossible to tell what they are while still so far away. What does catch his eye, unmissable as he gets closer despite how he isn’t quite sure what he’s looking at, is a long, spidering stretch of the tree’s bark that’s a deeper, vibrant brown. It’s thin, almost entirely covered by the rest of the bark around it. It reminds Chuuya of a scar.

“Oh,” he says as he reaches the tree. He’s almost tempted to pinch the bridge of his nose, but he makes do with the hard press of the helmet in his grip instead. He knows it’ll easily withstand the force, he’d paid good money for it to withstand worse situations. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” He is tempted to chuck it though, at least at one of the small plates of rice littering the area around the trunk.

There’s more that he can see just peeking out from behind as well. And he swears, Chuuya swears, he sees chunks of meat in one of them—

Storming over, circling the tree, he’s almost convinced himself that he’s going to kick one of the plates. He won’t though, not even he — the new shrine ‘caretaker’, first medium in a long time for Arahabaki — is going to mess with a sacred place. Even if the nearby people are using it to worship a god damn fox over the place’s actual purpose.

Some of that anger quells though when he sees the shrine behind the thick tree, a little further into the distance and almost hidden in the covering of the smaller but numerous trees there. At least he’s found where he’s meant to be staying for however long Mori wants him here.

Chuuya feels that tug towards the tree still as he walks forward, towards the shrine ahead, but he doesn’t linger on it. It’s peculiar, it should be the shrine of all things that would be calling to him, but he doesn’t longer on the thought — doesn’t want to. Mostly just because it definitely was meat he’d seen on that plate, and a lot at that.

He really hopes he won’t have to keep an eye on his food if he simply puts it down for a second. When he spots the fox statues instead of the usual komainu, he feels like he may have to.

Has the entire shrine been repurposed since the last medium? When was the last medium even? Mori had never told him, that was for sure. And if Mori had never told him then Chuuya had never thought to ask.

Regardless, it comes as a surprise when he does end up bumping into another person.

He’s only just stepped inside — looking around the room because honestly, it’s so small, does Mori really expect him to make a home here? — when he hears the low sound of someone clearing their throat.

It nearly has Chuuya jump in place, jerking his head to the side only to see a man, no older than himself, in the far corner just off to the entrance’s side. He has a stack of plates in his hands, and already looks annoyed.

“You could at least take off your shoes,” he says to Chuuya. Despite how his tone sounds level, Chuuya notices how the man’s brow twitches slightly as he looks Chuuya over. “You didn’t even use the purification trough, did you?”

At that, Chuuya almost unconsciously stuffs his hands in his pockets because no, he hadn’t. He’d walked right past it. He’d left his helmet outside so he could rest from the weight of it, but now he’s glad of the choice just so he can hide slightly now.

Maybe he could have left his shoes along with it, but, well. It was his own damn shrine. Or, apparently it was. Chuuya looks over the man in front of him as he goes back to collecting stray plates not dissimilar to ones at the tree. His hair is blond and short everywhere but the bottom where it’s held in a thin ponytail and his clothes are anything but traditional, but from the task he’s performing, it’s obvious he’s some sort of caretaker.

“When did they change it up?”

The man looks over at Chuuya again, having finished piling up each stray plate from the ground. He still looks annoyed but if anything, maybe slightly less so when Chuuya calls his attention away from the used dishware again. He does look confused though, brows scrunching together slightly.

“It…” the man starts off slow, inspecting Chuuya all over again, “... hasn’t.”

The man sighs then, placing the dishes back to the ground in one simple move.

“Can I help you?” he asks. “You’re obviously not from around here and no one mentioned someone visiting. Are you looking for something in particular?”

“Kind of.” The man’s brows only scrunch more at that, some of that annoyance still there. He’s obviously wanting to get back to his cleaning, but Chuuya needs to figure out what’s going on first. “I’m Chuuya, by the way.”

“Kunikida,” is the man’s — Kunikida’s — reply along with a curt nod.

“So, this shrine…” Chuuya walks further in, chewing on his words. He looks around at the basic decorations inside. Despite the sizable amount of plaques hung up and holding wishes, the only thing for Chuuya to really look at is the offering box. He walks over, feigning interest as best he can as he mulls over his words.

He can’t exactly outright say what he wants to. Yes, hello, Kunikida-san, I’m a medium for Arahabaki and I’ll be needing this shrine now. Thank you and bugger off. Or, well, he could, but Mori wouldn’t exactly be happy with that—

He makes it to the offering box, only for his thoughts to come to a sudden stop. There, the small space between the back of the box and the wall is littered with empty ceramic cups. When he bends down to pick one up, he already has Kunikida’s attention again. A glance behind and the man’s expression already looks more annoyed than Chuuya had seen it in those first few minutes as he walks up to Chuuya.

Chuuya sees the small bit of liquid still clinging to the bottom of the cup and takes a whiff.

“Oh.”

It’s the only thing he can say when the strong scent of sake hits his nose, almost punching him back with how unexpected it was. It’s also the only thing he has time to say before Kunikida’s snagging the cup away and bringing it to his own nose. His entire face crumples to match his brows, a deep scowl twisting his mouth. His eyes though stay wide, and only get wider when he leans over to look behind the offering box himself.

“Dazai!” he shouts, and that does have Chuuya jumping. Kunikida is barely restraining himself from throwing the cup. “You goddamn bastard!”

“Dazai?” Chuuya repeats, peering over at Kunikida. Kunikida, though, is already busy leaning down over the offering box and Chuuya can hear the loud clack of porcelain hitting porcelain. And then another, louder one of porcelain hitting floor.

“Sure, sure, they never stopped telling me about the deity part,” Kunikida’s mumbling to himself, as sharp as his scowl. He doesn’t stop trying to collect all the dishes together though, determination clear in his annoyance. “But clearly the laziness of that damn man wasn’t important enough for a cursory word.”

Chuuya sighs, watching Kunikida trying and failing to collect all the pots at once. Pulling his other hand from his pocket, there’s nothing to do but bend down himself and help the man. Dazai, huh? Maybe he’s talking about someone who feeds that damn fox and then never cleans up the mess, and everyone simply took the name to mean the fox too.

Seeing how enthusiastically the damn thing had eaten Chuuya’s own lunch, it’s not too difficult to imagine. The annoyance Kunikida is clearly feeling is also not too difficult to imagine. Kunikida simply quirks an eyebrow as Chuuya starts picking up the cups that Kunikida can’t, though he stays silent.

Chuuya has several stacked in his arms soon enough, Kunikida now able to make short work of collecting both the rest and then the plates again with Chuuya’s help. He waits at the door after, idling as if waiting to see what Chuuya plans to do next. Chuuya nods, polite and quick.

“Got somewhere to take them?”

“Of course,” Kunikida scoffs, though sombers quickly at the realisation that Chuuya is indeed planning to help. He sighs, and this time it leans more into relaxation than not. “I clean them up at my house before I put them back up here so people can come collect theirs again. If you don’t mind?”

“I don’t think I can say no at this point, you weren’t exactly hiding how you were ready to explode a minute ago,” Chuuya says. Instead of going right back to annoyed though, Kunikida manages to look sheepish, averting his eyes for a split second. “Lead the way?”

Kunikida nods and does just so.

Stepping out into the sunlight and the clearing, it’s now much easier to get a good look at Kunikida. The man’s wearing simple, light coloured jeans, a white shirt under a smart blue jacket, and shoes in a matching colour. Nothing about it stands out, apart from how obviously well kept the outfit is despite being so normal and the dark blue gem hanging around a necklace. It glints in the light, catching Chuuya’s eye even as he tries to focus on not tripping down the few, but uneven, steps.

“You’re not too different.” Kunikida’s voice interrupts his staring, Chuuya snapping his eyes back ahead to pretend he wasn’t. When he processes the words though, he looks back at Kunikida, questioning. Kunikida keeps walking, eyes ahead as he leads Chuuya. “He’s already messed with you too, right? You sounded more angry than curious when you said his name.”

“Dazai?”

“Yeah.” Kunikida’s mouth twitches as they pass the tree, still littered with its own plates. “Dazai.”

And it makes sense, at least to Chuuya. At least after witnessing that furry bastard stealing his lunch with such audacity.

“The ones at the shrine are fine,” Kunikida continues as they reach back onto the road, “but the tree is a bit much. Really, what are people thinking? The shrine is more than enough. I guess it just gives off a certain energy, being as old as it is.”

Chuuya nods, listening along. It’s not as if he’s met many of the people here yet — in fact, he’s only met two — but he suddenly feels like he’s not the only sane man around.

“All things considered though, that’s not even that bad.” Kunikida breathes in, cups sliding noisily against the plate surface, as they get closer to the first row of homes. “I have to go over to this one place every now and again, and clean up the offerings outside it. Dazai knows how much time it takes out of my day, I swear, the plates and cups there are always completely emptied no matter how often I check. And I’ve tested that!”

Chuuya only listens, somehow feeling his own annoyances from the day melting away in the face of the late afternoon sun and Kunikida’s own complaints. A kindred soul, maybe.

“I don’t even know how everyone found that old shrine in the first place, it’s been abandoned for as long as I can remember. Looks it too.”

Chuuya’s face creases and then he blinks slowly, as if waking up.

“Shrine?”

As it turns out, Mori’s instructions had been as accurate as always. Chuuya almost feels idiotic for even doubting the boss as Kunikida explains the shrine further out the opposite side fo the village. He consoles himself in the fact that it’s been a stressful, long day and the sun shining high above over his riding leathers has most likely not helped his thinking ability.

It also helps that Kunikida offers him a cigarette as they walk, finally something to calm his nerves.

After helping the man clean, Kunikida offers him another and then a glass of water, maybe able to pick up on the lingering tail ends of stress. Chuuya declines both, but he takes the next offer of filling up his water bottle without hesitation. And he’s glad he does, because after he walks the distance and finally steps into the abandoned shrine, it sets off a coughing fit that has him grasping for the bottle before it’s even settled in his throat.

The outside may have been a bit more overgrown than the village proper, with the plates Kunikida had referenced scattered about the front door, but it all looks almost welcoming compared to the inside. Not to say that the inside is messy, per se. In fact, it’s almost the complete opposite.

When the cloud of dust settles around the front door, what Chuuya sees is one open, empty space, the light shining in looking almost murky from how dirty the windows are. Chuuya places his helmet down more gently than usual to avoid kicking up any more dust.

Chuuya thinks he may have been better off just putting the helmet back on, sliding open a smaller set of doors to another downfall of dust. He’s at least somewhat prepared this time, the coughing stopping sooner as he covers his mouth.

With a quick sweep of the room, it seems to be the last one in the building. There’s a kitchenette in one corner, bare apart for a couple of spare plates, and a crumpled futon in the other. All of it is covered in as much dust as the prior room. Chuuya almost curses, thinking about how badly airing out the futon, nevermind the entire room, is going to go.

One more glance around the room and it’s clear the light is fading, even with how murky it is through the windows. He also notices the light switch though, and the bare bulb hanging above. Walking up to the switch, he flicks it with a quick finger and—

And nothing.

He flicks it back, and then again just once more. Still nothing. If anything, it feels like the light from outside dies just that little further. Chuuya glances at his phone, waking the screen: 20:14. He sighs. It looks like he won’t have time to rest up if he wants to clean under something other than the light of his own phone.

He shrugs off his jacket only to lay it as gingerly as possible over the kitchenette counter, careful that only the outside of leather is sitting on the dusty surface. He doesn’t want to have to clean up his own clothes more than needed as well as the shrine. With a stretch and the roll of his back, he gets to work.

Opening the windows does work better than he thought it would, already airing out the room. It’s less pleasant smells coming in and more the musty, stale one leaving, picked up by the light breeze outside. There is, however, a slight sweet tang that wafts in, spurring Chuuya on almost as much as the simple freshness.

The dust is a bit more difficult to deal with. Chuuya decides to only clean up the bedroom area for now, leaving the offering room for tomorrow, though he makes sure to open one of the smaller windows to leave overnight too. He takes to retrieving his backpack from his bike, leaving the room be in the meantime to let it air out a little longer.

There’s mostly just clothes in it, a few outfits to last him until Mori is able to visit with the rest of his things. He digs through them, pushing to the side a phone charger and the few toiletries he was able to fit in, to finally pull out a rag. He usually uses it for his bike, just something for on the go in case it gets particularly dirty or anything of that sort. Looking around at the room though, the cloth looks far too small to get much of the dust without having to clean it off every few minutes.

Chuuya sighs for what feels like the millionth — and hopefully the last — time of the night. He pulls at his shirt, looking down at it, and decides he won’t be needing it tonight if the weather stays so comfortably warm. There’s also no way he’ll be wearing it tomorrow with how much walking and driving he’s done in it today.

“Well,” he says to the empty room, “better than nothing.”

He slips it off, taking a moment to feel the breeze from outside cooling across his skin, before turning the fabric over to one of the large windows and dusting it thoroughly down. Once done, he leans out and beats the shirt a few times, cleaning off some of the excess dust for its next use. Before that though, he has a futon to take care of.

It’s luckily nothing too thick or extravagant, light as he picks it up; barely a double. It’s easily small enough to hang over the window side after shaking it down, happy to find the inside cleaner than he expected. The rest — walls and counters and then floor — are also easier than he expects, the layer of dust thinner than he thought it’d be.

There’s a few breaks in the dust already, from his own walking and a few more against the sides and corners of the room, obviously from small animals. It’s a wonder to him how none of the villagers, not even the children or teenagers, must break in here for an easy hideout. But then again, if the village gives so many offerings to the inari shrine (and that damn fox), he supposes it isn’t that surprising. A deeply shared sort of respect.

The rest is easy enough to dust off, though it’s tedious work that leaves his muscles aching, not from strain but simply from the drawn out, repetitive motions of it all. By the time he’s done, the room looks just as empty but far more habitable already, though his body feels as worn out as his shirt looks.

There’s a faint gurgle from his stomach, but he’s ready to fall asleep regardless of how hungry he is. Turning to his phone to see that just over an hour has passed, already closer to 10 than 9, he doubts any shops would be open by the time he got to them anyway.

The futon feels heavier than before when he manhandles it back into place and he can’t find himself too worried over whether or not it’s quite clean enough, falling softly into it. He has just enough consciousness left to notice the plug nearby, reaching out to his bag for his charger. Plugged in, his phone does indeed start charging, a pleasant surprise — it’s only the light bulb he’ll be needing to replace then, nothing more.

Chuuya falls asleep to the sweet smell of ozone and rustling bushes, not as put off by the lack of cars and street activity than he thought he’d be.

Waking up, though, is a different matter.

It’s dark and at first Chuuya feels more constricted than he should be. It takes a moment for him to come back to himself, but in his bleary mind, he remembers. He’s not back home, he’s in a small futon instead of his normal queen sized bed, and that must be why.

After blinking his eyes against the sleep and heavy darkness though, and moving to grab his phone, that feeling only heightens, arm feeling stuck and—

And there’s something. Something blocking the way. Something on top of him.

He blinks once more, opening wide and his body is struck into rigidness. He’s staring above himself, at what should be the ceiling, and his vision clears so quickly it almost feels like whatever is above him has come crashing down against his chest. And that something comes into focus as a man, directly above him and holding something above Chuuya’s head, as if about to strike down. The man’s expression almost looks surprised in the split second before Chuuya moves.

Chuuya swings his other arm up, instinctively aiming for the man’s stomach. His fist connects, the sheet cover doing little to pad the punch as he feels his knuckles sink into soft flesh. The man drops to the side even quicker, sprawling out onto the ground with a heavy sound. Whatever he was holding goes with him, a metallic ring filling the room as it hits the floor. Another sound follows, almost like splashing or—

Chuuya jerks his head to the object, finally able to see clearly and yes. He’s right. It’s a bucket, with water now spreading over and settling into the floor.

What the fuck.

A groan from his side snatches back Chuuya’s attention. He’s clambering out of the futon before he can take in the man’s appearance and properly assess him. Chuuya doesn’t have the time, not unless he wants to create more of an open than he already has.

Chuuya moves fast and wide awake despite how he was sleeping a minute ago, something he puts down to the uneasiness of a new place. A tired out body can only do so much towards getting deep sleep after all. Regardless, the punch seems to have put the other man out of commission; there’s barely anything more than a quick, futile struggle before Chuuya’s over the man, straddling him where he’s lying sprawled out on his side and groaning. Barely a second more and Chuuya’s secured the man’s hands, pressing them roughly into the wet floor by the wrists.

Overall though, it takes far too long for Chuuya to realise how young the man looks. Young and almost delicate.

The man has his eyes squeezed shut in obvious pain, dark brown waves of hair sticking to his forehead, wet from the water. Half his face is the same, almost shimmering under the patch of moonlight that’s snuck into the room. He forces himself to open one eye brearily, and no matter how dark it might be and how scrunched up the action is, Chuuya locks onto it immediately. The eyes is brown, a rich colour a tad more vibrant than his hair. He stares up at Chuuya, unfocused from pain up until the exact second it’s not.

Chuuya barely catches the hand he jerks free, just as it scrapes across Chuuya’s neck. Chuuya holds it there, digging into the man’s forearm while the heel of the man’s palm digs its own place into Chuuya’s neck. It’s just shy of actually painful, pressing up against Chuuya’s Adam's apple. With a swallow, the pressure intensifies for a moment before it passes.

The pressure in the rest of Chuuya’s body does no such thing though. He feels the tension and adrenaline in his muscles, the ache from before forgotten. The only thing he feels is the skin below his own, flexing his fingers for something to do in the stillness they’ve fought themselves into. And that’s when Chuuya notices it isn’t skin.

His nails sink into cloth, a glance over to it confirming it’s a wrap of bandages snaking out from a yukata sleeve all the way up to the man’s hand. And that has Chuuya snapping his eyes back up because, yes, the man is in fact wearing a darkly coloured yukata of all things, more bandages peeking out the collar and over his neck.

He’s also wearing a smirk now, all signs of pain seemingly gone. Looking over him again, Chuuya realises it isn’t quite delicateness he saw but instead a sort of calculated, carefully crafted sharpness. He can see it now in the line of the man’s cheekbones, the keen, almost animal like glint of his eyes, both open now and smirking just as much as his lips, and above that—

Chuuya blinks. And when that doesn’t change the sight in front of him, he thinks about pinching himself but the almost pain still threatening his neck is more than enough.

The man below him has two pointed ears, and not from where they should be at the side of the face, put atop his head. They’re tilted directly at Chuuya, covered in an auburn fur. The man’s grin widens, sharpens, as if he’s noticed that Chuuya has noticed.

“Well,” the man says in a low, lilting voice as he looks Chuuya over and Chuuya is suddenly very aware that he’s shirtless. He feels a chill run through him as whatever this man is takes in the sight of Chuuya’s body like he’s eating it up, leaning back into the floor as if relaxing, as if he’s not being held down by Chuuya’s wrath and fists. His eyes travel right back to Chuuya’s, daring and smug, and the surreal feeling of deja vu takes over him before he realises— “Good evening to you too, Arahabaki.”

Chuuya feels a spike of annoyance fueled adrenaline at that, more so than anger. It’s all he needs to finally prise the man’s — the kitsune’s — hand from his throat. He takes one last glance at the bucket, lying still on the ground far more innocuous-looking than when it’d been held up above his head, it’s contents spilt out all around them. Calming down a bit, Chuuya is suddenly far too aware of the water seeping into the knees of his jogging pants.

So, the kitsune hadn’t been planning to hurt him, but…

He throws the kitsune’s hand with enough force that it’s knocked into the ground, right beside his trapped one, before Chuuya pulls off of him. Standing up and away from the kitsune — and the mess of water — Chuuya scowls. His joggers stick to his skin, unpleasant and clammy in the previously comfortably warm night air.

“There’s nothing good about this, you shitty fox.” Chuuya picks at the fabric to find that, yes, they’re just as soaked through as they feel and look. “It’s not even evening.” He goes for his phone then, the clear, star filled sky telling him nothing other than ‘night’. The splash of water had somehow, luckily, completely avoided his phone, not even a fleck warping the screen’s light or worse.

He checks and it’s just as he thought; the middle of the night. barely past 2am. Chuuya turns the screen back off just to look over at the kitsune once more.

The kitsune is standing up and the irritation Chuuya feels at the kitsune being taller — he doesn’t know why that irritates him so much, it’s not as if it’s an unusual occurrence — is quickly washed away when he sees that his yukata is far more soaked than Chuuya’s joggers. The entire back, sides, and a few patches at the front are stained darker than the rest.

And there, trailing around further back and dripping too, are five bushy tails. They sway about, flicking off bits of excess water in their annoyed movements. Chuuya suddenly feels rather stupid for letting the creature free. Sure, the kitsune had only been trying to prank Chuuya and he only had five tails, half of the possible number. But that’d translate to roughly 400 years in age, and no creature lives that long (especially while being this annoying) without a few dangerous tricks up their yukata sleeve.

“Ew.” With that, the kitsune makes an expression so childish — tongue out and face scrunched up far too much for Chuuya to take seriously — that it’d rival any four year old. “I’m all soggy, how am I supposed to go back out like this?” He picks up one side of yukata, showing nothing more than more bandages underneath, only to let it fall back down with a wet slap.

Chuuya feels the knot in his brow deepening with the water that smacks out onto the already soiled flooring. He’d just cleaned that, dammit.

“Well, thankfully for you, it’s hot enough that you won’t freeze to death.” Chuuya tries to say that with as little a scowl as possible, but the scandalised look the kitsune gives him tells him he didn’t succeed.

The kitsune lets out a whine that would be pitiful if it weren’t so obviously played up.

“Arahabaki is even meaner than I was told he was going to be.”

“Than you were—!” Chuuya cuts himself off. It’s obvious that the kitsune is purposefully goading him. Unfortunately, Chuuya can’t fully help himself either. “Stop calling me Arahabaki! My name is Chuuya, not that.”

Then, with a voice so smug and satisfied that he sounds like Chuuya just gave him a present on a platter, like he’d won at whatever game he was playing, the kitsune says, “Then Chuuya is even meaner than Arahabaki.”

Chuuya already regrets giving the kitsune his name.

“I’m Dazai,” the kitsune — Dazai — says. He smirks down at Chuuya, all fake innocence like his wet clothes are now as good as forgotten, eyes scrunched up from the motion. Chuuya doesn’t know why the name takes him by surprise, especially after his own experiences with the supernatural and further teachings from Mori, but the confirmation that the fox from earlier is indeed the man before him still has his mind stuttering for a second. Mostly though, Chuuya just wants to punch the look off Dazai’s face. But first…

He looks back at the floor and the water slowly seeping into it. Technically he can afford to get the whole thing replaced, in the literal, economic sense, but he’s not about to have this be the first big news he reports to Mori when the man visits. Chuuya sighs and grabs for his backpack, looking for one of the two towels he was able to bring with him before picking up the dirty shirt he’d thrown aside earlier.

Doing this by phone light isn’t going to be fun, or easy, but there’s not much else he can do.

“Throw me some spare clothes.” Dazai’s voice cuts him off before he can get to work. “Oh, you don’t happen to have any bandages, do you?” Chuuya glares up at him only to see Dazai picking up the same side of his yukata, squeezing the fabric hard enough that it’s dripping water onto the floor.

“Hey! Stop that!” Chuuya shouts, ready to throw the shirt right at the bastard’s face before he thinks better of it. He needs it to clean up, god dammit. “Go do that outside! What, aren’t you house trained?”

“Says the one with a home plainer than his looks!”

“You’re not arguing my point,” Chuuya shoots back, not arguing against Dazai’s either. His looks are nowhere near plain, that’s obvious, but, well. While there’s a clear reason for this house not being decorated up yet, it’s not like he ever had anything more than something that resembled a show house even back in Yokohama. Agreeable, but too much so. So much so that it always felt like anyone could have lived there. Like it wasn’t his. At least the plain-ness of this wasn’t in the same vein. “I saw your shrine. That guy isn’t here to clean up after you and I sure as hell aren’t going to.”

“Ahh, Kunikida-kun sounded so angry,” Dazai says, reminiscing. “You technically already have cleaned up after me though, haven’t you? You helped him after all.”

“Shut up,” Chuuya says back, bunching up the shirt in his hands before he’s crouching down to place it and soak up the worst of the water. He pushes on it a little harder than needed as he thinks over Dazai’s words, some of the sponged up water squeezing out between his fingers. “You shitty— You were hiding outside and waiting for him to find it, weren’t you?”

“I guess I do have to thank you for that.” Dazai sits back down as he says that, still either unaware or unbothered by the obvious wetness clinging to his yukata. Bastard just plays up whatever he wants when it’s convenient to him, huh?

“Funny way to show your thanks.” The one benefit to the phone light is that Chuuya can’t really see Dazai’s smug face anymore. Although, he swears there’s a slight glimmer from how the kitsune must be smirking; perhaps his teeth are just as sharp in human form as they are in fox form. And really, that was just unfair.

“I mean,” Dazai stretches out the first bit, apparently only satisfied to continue when Chuuya looks up at him, “you did throw a rock at me.”

“Ah.” Chuuya balks a bit because he had indeed thrown a rock at that fox just as it’d disappeared (for good, but also not for good) into the shrubbery. So, Dazai had noticed that. “I wasn’t actually aiming for you,” he tries.

“Chuuya could have broken one of my legs! How would I have fended and hunted for myself then?” Chuuya tenses his jaw at that, willing himself not to reply that so far, he’d seen Dazai doing no fending nor hunting, very much the opposite. “Not an hour into arriving and the terrible medium for Arahabaki would have killed the village’s friendly, good luck kitsune!”

“You wouldn’t have died.” Chuuya decides to argue that instead. Glaring over at Dazai, there’s no way the man isn’t soaking a whole new patch into the carpet. Even worse, he looks far too at home and comfy doing so. “And just like you wouldn’t have died from that, you’re going to get out and not die from this either!”

“Kunikida-kun won’t even be able to find my body, how cruel.” Dazai keeps going, hunkering down where he is, looking uncomfortably cozy in the wet yukata. “You better help him find me, who else would be able to? I know exactly where I want to be buried, it’s this lovely little—”

“Ugh.” Chuuya rolls his eyes along with his shoulders, stretching. He watches Dazai pretend not to follow the motion with his eyes even as he continues to grumble. “I’d say you’re more of a bad luck kitsune, but so far, every shitty thing you’ve done to me was planned. Nothing bad luck about that.” It’s a certain thing now: Chuuya is far too awake. It’ll probably take him a while to get back to sleep even after he throws Dazai out.

He turns to directly face Dazai, crossing his arms over his bare chest and looming over the man. He’s certain if there was actually some proper lighting right now, there’d also be the satisfying stretch of his own shadow covering Dazai’s tall but skinny form. “Come on, out. Before I go get your owner.”

Dazai simply looks up, toning down his smile until it looks lazy, like he doesn’t even need to try anymore.

“Oh, interesting, I’ve never met someone who’s into petplay before—”

A heavy clap of thunder interrupts Dazai before Chuuya gets the chance. They both jump slightly in place, and then look at each other, a silent compromise. They both seem to come to the agreement to not mention the other’s reaction by the time the next clap of thunder sounds a moment later.

The rain follows right after, pelting against the windows and roof as if some force above was launching it at the small shrine. Maybe it was Arahabaki himself, Chuuya thinks, angry that some bratty kitsune had broken into his home.

The runaway thought almost makes Chuuya feel sorry for the villagers; the idea that they have to put up with such storms whenever Dazai manages his way in here. That, though, was a stupid idea. Chuuya is here as a medium specifically because Arahabaki can’t affect this world using only his own will.

“Ah,” Dazai says, face twisting slightly as he looks outside. The windows are already blurred by the rainfall and, when Chuuya squints past it, a distant bolt of lightning rips silent through the sky. “It’s been a long while since it rained this badly. Your little god seems to be the one bringing the bad luck, ne?”

Another loud crash, maybe closer this time, and Dazai’s ears twitch in Chuuya’s peripheral. And, actually, now that he’s looking again, Chuuya can see the slight damp sticking to the ends of the ear fur, weighing the hair down where it should be pointing directly up into a point.

Looking past that though, the rest of the fur isn’t that much better. There’s bent or disarrayed hair more than occasionally, sticking in the wrong direction, and the base of the ears are a mussed mess. The hair on Dazai’s head isn’t much better, Chuuya now noticing how the strands are more than due a trim, more of a thick mop than hairstyle.

It’s somewhat nice though, the way it’s drying into loose, fluffy waves. Chuuya decides then, a favour for a favour.

He chucks the towel over at Dazai before he walks over to the window, wringing the shirt out in as small of an opening as possible.

“Help mop up and you can hang the yukata up to dry.”

Dazai does put up a fight, at first at least. But it’s also the smallest one Chuuya has seen the man throw at him in the one day he’s been forced to suffer him. That doesn’t mean he stays quiet though, still throwing out goading comments whenever things go quiet for long enough that Chuuya starts to zone out.

It’s as if the kitsune can sense when Chuuya’s attention is waning, kicking him right back to the here and now with a sharp jab. He does clean up efficiently enough though, at least not dragging that part out. Chuuya is thankful for that when the last patch is dried up enough to hopefully not cause water damage.

Chucking the shirt to the side, Chuuya doesn’t even care about folding it up this time. He still feels sluggish from lack of sleep but also far too aware from not only the unfamiliar surroundings, but also from the unfamiliar and frankly fantastical company.

Dazai, on the other hand, is acting far too chummy for Chuuya’s liking, even if it’s with a sharp edge. Chuuya feels almost like a schoolgirl getting her pigtails pulled on whenever Dazai pokes at him. He rolls his eyes at both Dazai and the thought.

So when the probing carries on as Dazai works the obi free, Dazai goes to his own joggers. It’s then that Dazai’s words taper off though, washed out by the rain and thunder. Chuuya is still folding the joggers up when he glances back.

Even in the dark, the stark, unnatural whiteness catches his eye where the yukata is half pulled down from Dazai’s back. It takes Chuuya a second to realise it’s more bandages, wrapped intricately to cover every bit of skin. He can’t even imagine how long it must have taken, especially with how tight they seem, dipping in along with the spine and with sharp edges where Dazai’s shoulder blades must be.

Although, Chuuya guesses, it’s probably partly due to the water; making them cling to his skin like that.

“I don’t have any spare,” Chuuya says. Dazai jolts then, jerking the fabric back up. It moves heavy, still drenched as Dazai pulls it back over himself. Chuuya raises a brow. “I wouldn’t get those bandages even more wet if I were you, I don’t have any here. Not like I thought I’d need a first aid kit so soon.”

“Ah, don’t worry, I’ll just take the payment of a new set at a later date,” Dazai says.

“You bastard, it’s your own fault they’re wet! How much would that many bandages even be? I can’t see even a sliver of skin on you apart from your face.”

Dazai glances back, still bundled in his yukata, and gives Chuuya a peace sign in dramatic flare, lips pouted out like he’s posing for a picture.

“Is a human’s eyesight in the dark really that bad?”

“Ugh.” Chuuya takes then to place his joggers down, not wanting to pay more attention than he needs to to Dazai’s attempts at initiating bickering. “You know what I mean, taking my words so literally just to piss me off.”

When he stands back up, he throws a glare Dazai’s way only to catch the kitsune staring, and not at Chuuya’s face.

“Oi, eyes up here, bastard.”

Dazai at least has grace to blush at that, looking somewhat sheepish before it’s washed away by the annoyingly easy going expression Chuuya’s getting far too used to.

“I mean, it’s still ‘eyes down there’ from where I’m standing.”

“Shut up before I do kick you out.”

Dazai says no more at that, looking almost smug. Except his hands are still fluttering around the obi and Chuuya can’t tell if the nervous movements are Dazai trying to get himself to undo it fully or wrap it back up. Chuuya wonders if Dazai knows himself.

“For a being that spends half its time running around naked as a fox,” Chuuya says, “I’m surprised you’re this much of a prude.”

“You’re calling me a prude? The one who can’t take a little bit of ass ogling?”

“There’s a difference between prudeness and pervertedness!”

“Hmm, a perverted prude. Does that really sound like me?” Dazai says easily. And then, as the room goes still again, less easily: “It’s just been a bit. Since someone could see me.”

Chuuya looks over at the kitsune then, squinting through the dark. Thinking about it now, it’s obvious; the low bend of Dazai’s tails, nearly melding parallel to the floor and his ears twitching to press against his head. Almost like he’s afraid or overwhelmed. Chuuya almost feels—

“And now it’s just my luck that the first person in centuries who can see me is someone who hurts my neck just looking at him.”

“Okay, I don’t care if you sleep with the yukata on or off, but if you don’t go to sleep right now, I’m actually kicking you out.”

Dazai takes it off in the end. Or, at least, Chuuya is pretty sure he does. After everything, all Chuuya wants to do is get back into his futon and close his eyes, and so that’s exactly what he does. All he really hears as he tries to clear his mind to sleep is the rhythmic hammering of the rain and Dazai shuffling about in his clothes.

While the rain keeps up as if there’s no end to it however, the noises from Dazai quickly peter out.

And then he stays as such; quiet. That kicks Chuuya further from sleep than the noises from another person in his home do. He’d expected, well, at least some complaining about the lack of anything other than the futon Chuuya was already using.

He ignores it, at first. Tries to. But now his head is anything but empty and ready for bed.

Dazai had said ‘centuries’. He’d said it so easily, glossing over it as if it wasn’t a big deal. He could be lying, Chuuya knows, but…

It’s resonating strangely with Chuuya, having just moved to such a sleepy village from Yokohama. Chuuya doesn’t think he’s ever gone so long without seeing or hearing another person. But that?

Oh, Chuuya thinks.

That sounds almost sad.

Chuuya barely turns over, just enough to find Dazai’s silhouette in the dark. And it’s there, all right, curled up on the floor far away from the drying patches. The kitsune looks relaxed, comfortable where he is, and that somehow makes Chuuya feel worse. It’s as if he’s used to sleeping like this. Even with so little lighting, Chuuya can tell how skinny Dazai is under the bandages. He looks away before he can think about that too much, settling in again in the same position so hopefully Dazai wouldn’t notice.

“No point sleeping in here to get away from the rain if you’re just going to give yourself a bad back,” Chuuya says. “Wouldn’t that just bring more bad luck?”

There’s silence, long enough for Chuuya’s words to hang in it, stewing.

“You and your Arahabaki are the ones behind this,” Dazai replies. He sighs though, and it sounds almost frustrated, though if it’s with Chuuya or the situation in general, Chuuya isn’t sure.

“Look, I’ll stay on my side, and you stay on yours?”

The silence stretches on for longer this time, enough that Chuuya starts to think that Dazai has actually fallen asleep like that, naked apart from bandages and underwear (and Chuuya realises he never actually got a proper look and he really hopes the kitsune’s wearing underwear, holy fuck) against a thinly carpetted floor.

And then there’s movement, so subtle it’s both exactly what Chuuya expects from a man who can break into his house without waking him but also so against the dramatics of the kitsune.

“Fine.” Dazai’s voice is close now and Chuuya can feel the sheet moving after he slides to the far end to make space. “You better not roll over in your sleep.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The futon settles and there’s a warmth now behind Chuuya. Dazai must be lying facing towards him because Chuuya doesn’t feel even a whisper of tail fur against his own bare skin. It’s a bit weird to think of, Dazai looking his way even if he must have his eyes closed, but Chuuya guesses it makes sense. A kitsune’s power is supposed to be in one of their tails afterall. This isn’t that smart of Dazai in the first place, it would be even less so to then give someone such an easy opening to his tails.

But, Chuuya guesses, this isn’t exactly a smart move for himself either. A yokai known for its trickery, and not completely unknown for violence. Dazai seems more annoying than dangerous though, and maybe a good night’s sleep will make him more agreeable. It would certainly make him look a bit fresher, and that’s not something Chuuya is going to argue over.

It’s not as if the kitsune is hard on the eyes as is anyway.

He falls asleep like that, strangely comfortable despite how he’s squashed up into one half of the futon, dreams quietly preoccupied with a cuter kitsune who’s actually nice over breakfast as the storm rages on outside.

The actual morning answers neither of that dream’s two points.

Chuuya awakes, the dripping sound not from rain but simply from water falling off the leaves and roof and down below. He moves, stretching before he can think it over, and he’s met with something but not the body of a well rested kitsune.

There’s warmth still buried in the sheets, a little closer than Chuuya is sure Dazai needed to have slept. The air feels just as hot as it did yesterday morning, packed in his leathers, but the warmth there somehow fails to take him over the edge to stifled.

Chuuya thinks, in the blur of his sleep muddied brain, that it’s been so long since the last time he felt the other half of his bedding warmed by another. The other half of anything, really.

He slips from the futon and pads his way around to the room’s door with only those thoughts to accompany him. It feels strangely nostalgic, despite how that’s the one thing he isn’t nostalgic about. Chuuya had always been so focused on work, on the tasks Mori gave him as a possible medium for Arahabaki, that he’d never really had time for anything more than a fling.

He knows that that wasn’t going to change back home, no matter how long he spent there. And he’s also sure that it isn’t about to change just because of a difference in scenery. He decides that as he opens the door, hoping to see no kitsune on the other side so he can put an end to such foolish daydreams.

And that’s when, actually, one of the dream’s points is answered. There, written in one of the dust stained windows of the shrine’s actual offering room:

Yukata wasn’t dry yet. Took some of your clothes. For such a shortie, you sure have a bulky build.

There’s a smiley face to the side of it, and despite the stickman-esque quality, Chuuya can feel the even more Dazai-esque smugness radiating from it.

Dazai is definitely not any more agreeable after a good night’s rest.