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[anticidic]

trick or treat!! 🎃

The witch's cauldron is abubbling, but no matter how you peer into its gooey depths, you make little out except for toxic waste staring back at you in all its neon glory. But you do not smell anything where you expected noxious fumes. Temptation gets the best of you and you reach in, farther and farther until your arm is buried in the pot and all you can think is how wet and cold it is. There is no pain. But then you feel something, and you yank your hand out to discover some sort of treat?! 👻

“The night gives cover to her messengers wherever the people go, sir. It’s not unusual to hear lots of screams in the middle of a night,” Dazai said as he pulled on the sleeve of his kimono. “Or a gunshot. There’s a few of those too, but they’re hard to make out over the loud music coming from the nearby clubs.”

Chuuya traced the rim of his wine glass with a finger, lost in thought. Condensation dripped down the side and to the table, a water ring forming around it. He strained to hear beyond the tea house walls but came away with little other than the sounds of their voices and soft vocals from down the hall in the common room where a worker danced on stage, heels quiet against polished wood. “I really insist that you just call me Chuuya,” he started, lifting his gaze to meet Dazai’s, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “If I have to pay you to call me by name instead of your uptight formalities, I will. Name your price.”

Dazai’s eyes widened, his mouth silently moving a few times before pressing them into a fine line. When he blinked, he averted his gaze to the nearby window, swishing around the champagne in his glass. Beyond the veil of a homely tea house that prioritized confidentiality and comfort of workers and clients alike, shadows outside passed them by—in pairs, in groups, but never alone. Laughter came and went. A bottle crashed to the floor somewhere in a trash-filled alley. Young adults stumbled out of basement clubs; middle-aged men leaned on one another for support.

Mostly, red lights colored Dazai’s face. Dark reds. Brilliant ones. Ruby-infused ocean waves. A walking danger with alarm bells ringing if Chuuya had ever seen one, but Dazai was another one of many who belonged to the night.

A muffled shout cut through their silence.

“Nonsense,” Dazai finally said and waved his free hand. A jingle and a sparkle caught under the low light, bracelet sliding up the length of his bandaged arm. “Sir. You are a very important person here, and it’s important to me that I treat you with the dignity and respect that you deserve. Money doesn’t change that. It won’t buy me your graces.”

“And your comfort doesn’t matter?” Chuuya shot back.

He saw it. He saw it all: the guarded way Dazai sat, curled in on himself, hands and metaphorical cards kept close to the chest. Every time his sleeve hiked up just barely past the wrist, he’d tug it down with a force that could tear the cloth, as if beyond annoyed, but angry that it had to be like this. Dazai would tuck a lock of hair behind his ear and undo it in the same beat. He’d clear his throat and look away for the fifth time that night since they went back to his room, staring at the wall behind Chuuya, staring off to the side where a lone framed photo sat on an empty dresser, then to the roaring nightlife outside.

Anywhere else.

“Kabukicho comforts me.” A pause. “I’m free to love this little stain on the country like no one has ever loved it, Chuuya-san.”

Whatever tiny victory Chuuya gained of that was crushed by the bitter look of someone staring back and deep, deep down wanting to be spirited away to some other place in time.

Anywhere but here.

ask box trick-or-treat (fic writer edition)