A part of Dazai left with Chuuya as he disappeared into the bay.

In his absence, the wind began to pick up until it was roaring in Dazai's ears, as though trying to tell him something in some long-forgotten tongue.

It didn't take much longer until the wind was accompanied by the sound of footsteps.

Chuuya was gone, but Dazai was not alone.

"Dostoevsky," Dazai greeted, his voice grating and clipped.

Slowly, he turned around.

"Dazai," Fyodor returned with an infuriatingly polite inclination of his head.

Next to him stood Sigma and Gogol.

Both of them were scared. That was easy for someone like Dazai to figure out.

One of them hid it behind the veneer of being someone they weren't. Someone courageous and confident. Someone formidable and firm. At the end of the day though, they were none of those things. The truth was they didn't even know who they were. Life terrified them because if they held no identity and lacked so much that others seemed to so easily grasp, then who were they to live?

The other tried to hide it by joking and laughing amid and at trauma. That person was so very damaged, yet would never speak to it. Of course with the single exception of said trauma being caught up in the rhythm of a joke, only to be quickly moved on from. They were much too scared to face life's monsters, so they laughed in the face of fear as though it could make it disapparate.

Perhaps someone better than Dazai would want to help. Perhaps someone better than him would care.

But he didn't. These people didn't matter to him and regardless of their reasons, they were in league with Dostoevsky.

To be in league with someone so cruel… well any reason that they might've had would never be good enough. Not for him. Never for him.

Dazai even believed that knowing their respective reasons as to why they were here now with Dostoevsky.

Purpose for Sigma. Freedom for Gogol.

And yet, was that what he'd truly given them?

The answer was obvious just by looking at them.

Gogol had even realized it at one point and so had Sigma. They had become aware of lies that could only span so long and yet, Dostoevsky was never one to slip up for very long.

He'd drawn them back into the fold.

Still, while Dazai could not bring himself to emphasize, perhaps he could give them that of which Dostoevsky continued to fail to deliver.

Perhaps he could give them purpose and freedom.

The purpose and freedom of fate.

But first, he had a much more pressing matter.

Dazai drew Ango's gun, lining his aim up right between Dostoevsky's eyes.

"Don't move," Dazai demanded, his voice low and cold.

He expected Dostoevsky to ignore him entirely. To push the boundaries. Except something was wrong because instead of doing anything, Fyodor just stood there for a long moment looking like Dazai had shot him already.

Fyodor was scared… or perhaps not quite scared. He just looked wrong. So wrong.

But why?

And then he realized.

"Don't move," Dazai demanded, in slightly accented Russian. His voice was low and cold because it had to be.

He had to do this for his grandfather. These two people before him were just unfortunate casualties.

If he didn't deliver results… well he didn't want to think about that.

"Hey, we're cool," the man standing before him tried to reason, "you're just a kid. You don't want to do this."

He didn't. The man was right by that standard, but what he wanted didn't matter. It never had and never would.

"This is my brother, alright?" The man continued. "His name's Fyodor and I'm Mikhail. We're not a threat and we don't want to hurt you. So just put down the gun, okay? Please?"

The man, Mikhail, had now managed to push his younger brother behind him.

He was protecting him.

A pang of jealousy echoed in Dazai's fragmented heart.

Why did this kid get to have someone who cared about him while he didn't get jack shit? It wasn't fair. It was fucking fair.

And then Mikhail began walking towards him. Like he thought Dazai wasn't a threat. Like he thought Dazai was just some kid who had no clue what he was doing.

Dazai knew exactly what he was doing.

How dare these people underestimate him. How dare they care about each other. How dare they have something Dazai could never have.

"You're lying," Dazai said.

Then he pulled the trigger and everything erupted into chaos.

The rest was a blur of guilt and regret.

The kind that he never wanted to address.

The kind that he wanted to forget about.

It took several more moments before Dostoevsky had recovered from the breaking of his usual façade. At least from the fear aspect.

Where the fear had dissipated there was anger. An inferno that raged in the depths of his irises.

"I shouldn't be surprised, you always did seem to have a thing for killing in front of children."

From the shadows emerged a small girl, who Dazai was quite surprised he'd only now noticed. However, as soon as her presence made itself clear, Dazai was quick to fit the pieces together.

This was Camille's kid, Yuan, the daughter of the Meursault guard. She'd been corrupted by Bram Stoker's ability and for some reason, Dostoevsky had kept her in his presence.

His mind was an empty chamber that regaled no answers, as fear began to thrum through his veins knowing that this child being here couldn't mean anything good.

Why couldn't he think? Why was he becoming so useless?

He hated it. He hated whatever this was.

"Why is she with you?" Dazai gritted out, a hidden flood of shame filling him.

Dostoevsky smiled. He knew.

Dazai's finger tightened on the trigger.

"Well, it's quite funny actually. Children of ability users often carry abilities of their own and Yuan, well her ability turned out to be quite convenient. You see, Yuan can manipulate space, which makes this whole thing doubly funny because how long has it been since Chuuya dove into the Bay? At least two minutes, right?"

Dazai's heart stuttered in his chest and the gun trembled in his grasp.

He'd forgotten. How had he forgotten? He was supposed to keep track of things like this. He always had. He always did up until recently and now Chuuya, who was the most important person in his life was in danger because of him.

How had he not noticed? How had he gotten so wrapped up in this interaction that he stopped paying attention to the person who mattered most?

He promised that he wouldn't let him drown. Not again, and yet…

He needed to save him. He needed to make up for the unforgivable thing that he had done.

So Dazai did what he needed to do.

In less than a moment, Dazai altered the angle of his gun ever-so-slightly and pulled the trigger.

The bullet slammed straight into Sigma's chest.

Or at least it would have if Gogol hadn't warped himself in front of Sigma at the last moment, just before the bullet could make its mark.

Gogol crumpled to the ground like a puppet cut from its strings and Sigma let out a wail that sounded a bit like "Nikolai," before sinking to his knees. His hands were trembling over the body that had already gone still.

"Whatever you're having that girl do. You need to make her stop and bring Chuuya back now."

Seemingly unbothered by his fallen comrade, Dostoevsky just met Dazai's gaze levelly and unafraid.

"I'm afraid that I can't do that."

Dazai fired his gun again.

This time the bullet made its mark. Sigma keeled over and then was no more.

"Bring him back!" Dazai yelled as he turned his gun on Yuan and took a dangerous step forward.

"Or what," Fyodor snapped back, "you'll kill a little girl just like you murdered my brother. Like you murdered Mikhail!"

Fyodor's voice cracked uncharacteristically upon uttering his brother's name, but Dazai did not care. At least that was what he told himself.

Chuuya was in danger. He had to save him no matter the cost.

A gunshot echoed through the air.

Except his gun had not been the one to make such a noise.

There was a burning feeling in his hand from where Dostoevsky had somehow managed to shoot straight through it in all but an instant. Dazai hadn't even had time to see him actually draw the gun.

His own clattered to the floor and with it, he felt Chuuya's life slipping through his fingers.

His hand burned, but such a feeling was hardly new. He'd been in many similar situations in the past, but he'd always managed to come out on top.

So why couldn't he move? Why did he feel so trapped?

He had to run. He had to fight. He had to save Chuuya. Except for some reason he couldn't, as instead his breathing only began to quicken and he felt so incredibly small.

He was frozen in place.

Why couldn't he move? He needed to move.

"Sigma and Gogol weren't pure. I agree that they had to die," Dostoevsky mused, as he began to approach Dazai. The gun in his hand was smoking, like the smoke that had risen off that facility so long ago. "But a child?" Dostoevsky pondered. "how could you even think to kill a child to save someone who is just another murderer like you."

Chuuya was going to die. Why couldn't he move? Why couldn't he act? Why was the weight of the world crushing him so?

Dostoevsky raised his gun, pushing it straight into Dazai's forehead.

He no longer said anything and neither did Dazai.

Anything else they needed to say the other already knew.

Memories of Chuuya filled his mind in what he was now sure would be his final moments.

Why was he so weak?

"Stop!" A voice rang out through the air.

Dazai's eyes flickered away from Dostoevsky, to see a figure beginning to make his way toward them, a gun in his hands pointed at the back of Dostoevsky's head. It was only the slight grimace on his face and faint tremble of his hands that said the man had recently been injured.

That and the fact that Dazai immediately recognized who the man was. His gait, his voice. Everything.

It was Ango.

What was he doing?

"Put down the gun," Ango instructed and surprisingly Dostoevsky did. Something was wrong though because now the bastard was smiling as though a truly devious thought had entered his mind.

Dazai couldn't find it in himself to worry about it now though, as suddenly with the presence of backup, strength seemed to return to his body and his panic faded into the distance.

Ango could take care of Dostoevsky while he saved Chuuya. It would be alright and whether or not that was actually true didn't matter because it just had to be.

He had to save Chuuya. It had been three minutes now and if he waited any longer, Dazai was scared that this time he wouldn't be able to bring Chuuya back.

Dostoevsky was right though, he couldn't kill the kid. Chuuya wouldn't want that and honestly, in his heart, he didn't think he wanted that either. Still, he needed to incapacitate Yuan, so approaching her with a speed only borne of desperation, he made the blow quick.

She would be out for the foreseeable future and would only bear a bruise from the encounter.

Still, that didn't change the fact that he'd just hit a kid, but there was no time for dwelling upon that. Not with Chuuya's life on the line.

Dazai dove into the water.

It was freezing, but Dazai barely noticed as he desperately searched for the only person who had ever truly understood him.

He couldn't lose Chuuya. If he did, he didn't think he would ever recover.

So relief filled him, as he finally caught sight of ginger hair.

However, the feeling didn't last long as he swam closer and noticed that Chuuya's body was limp and unmoving, turning his blood to ice.

He had to act fast. Before it was too late.

Perhaps it already was.

Grabbing Chuuya and The Book, which had been clenched in his hands, Dazai propelled them to the surface with the sheer willpower of his panic and fear.

Dragging Chuuya out of the water, Dazai threw The Book to the side, as his hands desperately searched for a pulse.

Nothing.

He did not breathe nor did his heart beat.

Someone so loud and extravagant reduced to this.

Dostoevsky, Ango, and everyone else left his mind. All the world was gone and only Chuuya remained.

"No, no, no, no, no. Chuuya wake up!" Dazai begged as he began the rhythmic pulsings of CPR on Chuuya's painfully still body. "I can't do this again. I'm sorry that I couldn't save you sooner. I'm sorry that I lied. So please just come back to me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please Chuuya, I'm sorry!"

A rib cracked, then shattered.

Terror pierced through Dazai's heart.

He couldn't lose him. Not again. Not now.

Another rib caved under the pressure of the compressions of his desperate hands.

But then just as Dazai was beginning to lose all hope, Chuuya jolted upwards letting out hacking coughs as water spilled from his body.

Chuuya's eyes were haunted and hollow, as Dazai pulled him forward in a tight embrace. He held on to him as though Chuuya could fade away and vanish at any moment.

"I'm sorry," Dazai sobbed, pleading for forgiveness, "I'm so sorry."

Chuuya hugged him back, but no words left him as painful coughs continued to tear through his trembling diaphragm.

Finally, after several more moments, the coughing stopped and Chuuya slumped further into Dazai's embrace.

"Not your fault," he murmured, his voice sounding weak. Still, Dazai saw the way he had his body leaned ever-so-slightly away from the direction of the bay.

That fear. That terror. That had been his doing.

It was undeniable and the proof of it was right there.

But now wasn't the time to argue.

Dazai pulled Chuuya closer to him, only loosening his grip as a slight whimper of pain left Chuuya's lips.

"Shit, your ribs, I'm sorry. Fuck Chuuya, I-."

"Dazai," Chuuya said, his voice raspy from all the strain his body had been put through, "I… I told you it's fine. I don't... I don't really want to talk about it right now. So, what the fuck happened?"

That question made reality snap back into focus. That question made Dazai remember that losing Chuuya wasn't the only thing that he should be afraid of. That question made him remember him.

Self-hatred coursed through him as he realized that this was the second time that night that he had failed to be fully aware in the wake of dire happenings.

"Dostoevsky, Ango," Dazai murmured absentmindedly, only now realizing how odd it was that he'd heard from neither of them.

Looking around, he was quick to realize that Dostoevsky was gone, along with Yuan.

So instead of the devil and the child, all his eyes met were three bodies, laying still upon the cold, barren ground. Their blood mixed in with the darkness of the night, the oxygen having fled from it.

Except that wasn't right…

There only should have been two bodies.

Sigma and Gogol.

So who was the third?

Such a question was pointless. He already knew. It was just that he didn't want to believe it.

"I'll be… I'll be right back," Dazai said, his voice sounding distant, as though it were a hundred-year-old echo persisting through the vastness of a neverending cave. The voice was one of someone long since gone, who'd become nothing but a fragment of who they'd once been.

Dazai stood.

Slowly, he began to approach the third body.

The world faded away as he walked and his ears felt as though they'd been stuffed with cotton.

Why was his mind providing him answers when he desperately wanted to deny them? Why was it in the moments of true agony that he felt trapped within his own flesh?

The truth couldn't be right. It just couldn't. He had to be wrong. He needed to be wrong.

Then, the body was before him and the truth. The goddamn undeniable truth stared straight into his eyes and no longer could he even attempt to push it away.

He felt like he was 18 again. Back in Mimic's Base. Except for this time, he didn't get closure. He didn't get to share this person's final moments with them. He didn't even get to say a simple goodbye.

As much as he'd hated Ango, he'd still cared about him.

Deep down within his terribly shattered heart, he'd wanted to have what they'd once had. He'd wanted that bond to just fucking come back.

And maybe that was why he just continued to run even farther away.

Because he was scared. Scared that he'd only be left behind again.

And would that have happened? Maybe. But maybe not.

Now, he would simply never get to know.

In his heart though, he thought he had an answer. Ango had snuck out of a hospital with a gunshot wound, found him, and saved both him and Chuuya.

It was one hell of an apology if he'd ever seen one. Without what he had done Chuuya would be dead by now and so would Dazai.

So he did what he never could while Ango had still been alive.

"I forgive you," Dazai said after several moments of standing there encased in waves of grief. A few tears made their way down his cheeks, which he was quick to sweep away, "and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that it had to end like this."

Then, doing his best to compose himself, Dazai turned back towards Chuuya, leaving yet another fragmented piece of his past behind. Simply because there was no other option.

However, as Dazai got closer to Chuuya he noticed that something was terribly wrong. Chuuya was frantically searching for something despite it quite obviously sending jolts of pain through his body with how it jostled his broken ribs.

Another pang of guilt made its way through Dazai's body. He had done that. He had hurt Chuuya. So, it didn't matter what he said. This was his fault. All his fault.

"What's wrong?" Dazai asked, upon finally reaching him.

Chuuya looked up at him, his eyes wide with fear. He never had been much good at hiding his emotions with all of the power that his ability held.

"The Book. Did you grab it when you found me? Cause it's not fucking here, Dazai. I mean, if you did, it's… it's fucking gone and we did all of this shit for nothing. Oh fuck, Dazai. I just... I can't, I- fuck!"

Suddenly, everything made sense. If Ango was dead that meant that he hadn't been able to fully stop Dostoevsky. So if The Book was gone…

"What have I done…"

Ango awoke to an emerald clearing encompassed by surreal gray lighting.

The smell of fresh morning dew flooded his senses and the ground was soft as he made his way to his feet.

He was dead. He knew such a thing was as certain as the pain that had flooded him when Dostoevsky had grabbed him.

In his escape from the hospital, while he'd managed to procure a firearm through questionable means he hadn't had time to grab ammo and Dostoevsky had quickly seen through his bluff.

But why was he here? In this transcendental place with a sky full of protective darkness and an iridescent white sun.

He didn't deserve this.

As much as the thought of what he knew he deserved terrified him, he knew that it was where he ought to be. There was no question about that.

He deserved to be tormented for the pain which he had put so many through. He deserved to be treated as how he had treated others in his life.

Waking up in that hospital with his final memory being betraying Dazai and in association, Chuuya, he'd felt terrible. More so than he had ever felt in his life. So, he'd done what he had to, in order to find them and buy them time from that monster.

Still, saving Dazai and Chuuya, in the end, was hardly enough to be considered redemption, He had done so many unforgivable things in his life. Things that were so far past the point of return that hope of redeeming himself had long since fled from his life.

So the question begged to be asked again.

Why was he here?

He didn't deserve to be somewhere so beautiful.

"Ango," a voice sounded out from behind him, cutting through his thoughts with the sharpness and precision of a chef's most prized knife.

Ango froze and time seemed to stop if it had ever even existed in this place in the first place.

He knew that voice almost as well as he knew his own. Perhaps even better. It was a voice that he clung to, that he made sure to never forget. Even as the details of the person's face and mannerisms began to dissipate from his mind, he made sure that he never forgot their voice.

"Odasaku," Ango breathed, turning around to see him standing there for the first time in over four years.

Oda's ginger hair waved in the wind and his kind brown eyes bore into Ango's in a way that was just so warm and welcoming that he almost broke down right then and there.

How could Oda look at him in such a way after everything that he had done? How could he not hate him?

It wasn't that Ango wanted Oda to hate him. In fact, he rather wanted the opposite.

The thing was though that he didn't deserve that. Ango deserved contempt. He deserved scorn. He deserved disdain.

Yet, despite all that, Ango found that he couldn't quite hold himself back.

He'd missed Oda so much.

So before he knew it, he was running.

So was Oda.

They met in the middle, wrapping their arms tightly around each other, as the rest of the world faded away until it was only them. Just them.

"I'm sorry," Ango said, his voice shaking, "for everything. I'm so sorry."

Oda pulled back at that, his hands settling on Ango's shoulders. For a terrifying moment, Ango was horrified that he would now see him as he truly was and leave. However, he only searched Ango's gaze for a moment before shaking his head.

"We've all done terrible things, Ango. It never made me love you any less. We did what we had to, in order to survive. Besides we hardly had the best circumstances, to begin with."

He loved him.

Oda loved him.

Even after all that he had done.

"I love you too, you know?" Ango replied, his eyes glassy and a shaky laugh leaving him as the shattered fragments of hate and fear buried within him were stomped down into oblivion.

"Well, I'm glad," Oda said, his voice trembling with emotion, "or that would've been pretty awkward."

Tears flooded down both of their cheeks but for the first time in forever real smiles pulled at their cheeks and Ango placed a hand gently against Oda's cheek, before pulling him in closer.

In response, Oda's hands snaked around his waist, filling his chest with what could only be described as pure, unadulterated love.

He watched as Oda's eyes briefly flickered to his lips before he shut them.

Ango quickly followed suit, as Oda closed off the remaining distance.

They kissed.

For the first time in his life, Ango was home.