Passive | BSD [soukoku]

Part 1

Author's notes:
- This fic is inspired by the song Passive by A Perfect Circle and there will be song lyrics integrated throughout the fic
- This takes place before Dazai met Oda

Trigger Warnings:
- Violence/murder
- Major character death
- Underaged drinking/smoking
- Mental illness/breakdown
- Drugging/psychiatric treatment/needles
- Vomiting
- Self harm
- Gore/blood
- Suicide attempts/suicide

When the nuclear apocalypse wipes out civilization, the only remaining life on Earth will be Chuuya and a load of cockroaches; Dazai believes that with every fiber of his being. To name a few instances of his breathtaking persistence, Chuuya has made it out alive from beatings, stabbings, torture, all types of crashes, intermittent bombings, as well as his own ability trying to tear him apart from the inside. Though Dazai can only take credit for a handful of Chuuya's misfortunes, he's always looking to further his collection of attempted homicides. It's become an amusing game for the feared duo known as Soukoku, trying to off each other.

It started out as haphazard attempts, the kind that are only meant to maim rather than kill: Dazai magically disappearing when Chuuya needed his help in a fight, or Chuuya pushing Dazai into the bay (and then having to fish him back out). Through trial and error, Dazai was fascinated to find out just how resilient Chuuya was. Over time, his attempts became more and more lethal. And still, Chuuya persisted. They are a lot alike in that way; no matter how hard Dazai tries to end his own life or Chuuya's, he is never successful. It's the only two things he can't accomplish . And he can never decide which of the two is more maddening. It's as if Chuuya continues to exist fueled only on the fumes of spite.

It's perfect, in a vicious sort of way.

He's perfect.

Dazai is intelligent, more intelligent than the majority of the people around him, which is what makes it so hard for him to acknowledge that his perception of reality is just that: a perception. He is, regretfully, not immune to insidious delusions, still only being human even if he refuses to acknowledge that unchanging truth.

But the thing with delusions is that they can't last forever. Reality, bleak and harrowing, seeps into coddled perception like water invading cement cracks only to freeze and shatter the rock into pieces.

It's late, or early depending on how you look at it. There are fewer hours before the sun rises than when it set. The full moon makes the dead of night seem bright, almost welcoming as it shines down on the godless activities happening in a warehouse parking lot below. Dazai watches Chuuya break a man's neck silently, the only sign of his work a faint burst of scarlet. The body drops to the ground with a dull thud. It's electrifying watching him complete a job; he never tires of it.

"You're getting sloppy," Dazai breathes, unable to stop himself from provoking the man.

That is the sixth man Chuuya has taken down in a span of only a couple minutes. He could have lowered the body to the ground to prevent the sound from carrying like he did for the others. It doesn't look like anyone is around to hear it, though. He has taken out all the guards in sight.

"Shut the hell up, Dazai, I'll fucking kill you," the redhead replies quietly, lifting his hat up to rake a hand back through his hair.

Dark shades of smeared blood cover his face and trail down the visible strip of white shirt peeking out from his jacket, none of it being his own. Chuuya had chosen to take a knife to a few of the men; for nothing other than a bit of variety, Dazai suspects. It's equally effective to hold their jaw shut with gravity as he cuts their throats, though a lot messier. Dazai can taste metal in the humid night air. It's delicious.