Soukoku One-Shots

Eight of Petals

a/n: just another friendly reminder that any unhappy endings are labeled accordingly so don't be scared <3

Alternate Universe

Age 16

Dazai collapsed onto the ground, clutching the wound in his chest as hot blood stained his fingers.

Everything hurt.

He and Chuuya succeeded—they always did—but they'd grossly underestimated the enemy's taste for bloodshed, and Dazai didn't account for the time it would take Chuuya to break their lines of defense. The woman assigned to torture him was almost as good as he was, and now he was a bleeding mess on the grass thanks to it.

"Shit," Chuuya hissed from somewhere nearby and then Dazai heard footsteps, just before Chuuya crouched down in front of him with worry written in the crease of his brows and the thin line of his lips. "What the fuck happened to you?"

Dazai waved his question off with a lazy hand. "Nothing serious."

"You got stabbed."

"Among other things, yes."

Dazai guessed that Chuuya would have punched him if he wasn't bleeding out at his feet.

"I'll call Hirotsu; just keep putting pressure on it 'til he gets here. Use that." Chuuya tossed a torn strip of cloth at him, which Dazai didn't reach for until it fell onto the bloodstained grass. While Chuuya began walking toward the building (or lack thereof, now) for what Dazai assumed was better service, Dazai pressed the fabric scrap to the slice in his stomach, pressing down hard enough that he had to bite back the grunt that caught between his teeth.

That's when he felt it.

It was only a small sting in his chest at first, pinching his ribs and tugging on nerves. But then it began spreading, up to his lungs and into his throat—an itching sensation he'd never felt before, like something was blooming in his chest. His entire body ached and blood continued to stain his shirt where he'd been sliced, enough that he almost missed it.

Something bubbled up in his throat, small and thin and tasting vaguely like dirt, and Dazai spat out whatever it was with blood still sticking to his tongue and teeth.

He paused.

There in the grass, stained red and mocking him with its delicate innocence, was a pink petal.

Dazai stared.

"Oi, mackerel! The fuck are you doing?"

The voice was close—so much closer than Dazai thought it would be—and he grabbed the petal before he could think.

Chuuya's brows were furrowed as he studied Dazai's bloodstained face. "Hirotsu sent an extraction team over, they'll be here in a few. What do you—" He cut himself off with a string of curses and knelt to grab the forgotten cloth in the grass. He threw it at Dazai with a scowl. "If you bleed out and die, don't cry to me about it."

Dazai peeled the fabric from his face and tried to swallow the sensation that scratched at his chest. There was something—what he could only assume was another petal—itching his throat, but he tried to keep from coughing it up as a thousand questions beat themselves against his skull.

It was all so loud.

When the extraction team arrived, Chuuya helped Dazai into the car before giving him a wary once-over. "You sure you're gonna be fine?"