El día que recogí a Dazai [Side A] | ESPAÑOL - Parte 1
Traducción jpn-eng: Popopretty
Traducción eng-sp: yanase
**NO RESUBIR ESTA TRADUCCIÓN**
"El día que recogí a Dazai" es una novela escrita por Asagiri Kafka como bonus para la premier del live-action "Bungo Stray Dogs The Movie: BEAST"; cuenta dos partes, el lado A y el lado B.
Créditos especiales a Popopretty por permitirme tomar su traducción al inglés.
Partes: [1]
El cadáver ensangrentado de un joven está tirado frente a mi porche.
Miré hacia el cadáver, después frente a la casa. Es una mañana tranquila. El apartamento de enfrente proyecta una larga sombra en la acera frente a mí. Las enredaderas de trompeta en el seto susurran con la brisa unas a otras de una forma que el ser humano no puede descifrar. En algún lugar a la lejos, puedo escuchar el sonido de los camiones de larga distancia rozando el firme. Y ahí está el cuerpo en medio de las escaleras frente a mí.
En cualquier caso, a nuestros ojos, un cadáver es siempre una presencia extrañamente exagerada. Pero esta ocasión es diferente. Este cadáver se confunde con el paisaje, haciéndose uno con la pacífica mañana cotidiana. Después de un momento, noto el motivo. El pecho del cadáver se mueve hacia arriba y hacia abajo débilmente. No es cadáver, está vivo.
Miro al joven. Está todo de negro; una gabardina negra de cuello alto, un traje de tres piezas, una corbata negra. Las cosas que no son negras son su camisa abotonada, y las vendas alrededor de su cabeza. Esta es un color moteado de blanco y rojo. Este patrón de colores me recuerda a algunos ominosos caracteres proféticos chinos. El lugar en el que está echado, es en medio de las escaleras frente al porche. Las manchas de sangre que continúan bajando por las escaleras de concreto agrietado parecen haber estado gateando.
Pregunta. ¿Qué debo hacer con este casi cadáver frente a mis ojos?
La respuesta es simple. Si lo toco con la punta de los dedos de mis pies y pongo algo de peso sobre él, simplemente rodará hasta el suelo. Si hago eso, entonces no estará en mi propiedad. Estará en la vía pública, el territorio del país. Todos aquellos que están en problemas en territorio nacional deben ser ayudados por la misericordia de la patria. Un mensajero ordinario como yo debe ir a casa y tomar un refrigerio.
No estoy haciendo eso porque soy un hombre frío y sin corazón. Estoy haciendo esto porque es una necesidad de supervivencia. Las heridas del joven son claramente de bala. Le han disparado varias veces. Probablemente hay más agujeros en su cuerpo de los que puedo ver desde aquí. Y para colmo, sostiene un montón de billetes nuevos en su mano izquierda.
¿Qué puede significar esto? Nada. Esto no significa nada, excepto que su existencia es un gran problema y que nada bueno saldrá de involucrarse con él. En otras palabras, claramente no es alguien con quien un ciudadano promedio deba involucrarse. Otra persona normal en su sano juicio debería haber huido a la próxima ciudad al verlo. Tal como lo haría Jonás en la Biblia la segunda vez que se encuentra con un pez gigante en un mar tormentoso.
Miro al joven, a la carretera, y al cuelo, y lo vuelvo a mirar a él.
Y entonces comienzo a actuar. Primero, me acercó al chico y lo levanto por los costados. Luego lo arrastro por los talones hasta la casa y lo acuesto en la cama plegable. Es mucho más ligero de lo que parece. Llevarlo solo no es un gran problema. Compruebo sus heridas. Hay muchas heridas profundas y el sangrado no es habitual, pero si recibe un tratamiento adecuado de inmediato, no es como si fuera a morir.
Saco mi botiquín de primeros auxilios del fondo del armario y les doy simples tratamientos. Puse una toalla debajo de la parte superior de su cuerpo, corte su ropa con unas tijeras para exponer las heridas, y compruebo si quedó alguna bala dentro. Para detener el flujo de sangre, aplico presión en los puntos de presión: debajo de las axilas, la parte interna de los codos, los tobillos, la parte posterior de las rodillas y los ato firmemente con un paño limpio. Luego puse torniquetes desinfectados en las heridas para detener el sangrado. Afortunadamente para él, puedo hacer este tipo de primeros auxilios incluso con los ojos cerrados.
Después de terminas con los tratamientos, miro al joven y me cruzo de brazos. Su respiración se ha estabilizado. Su sistema respiratorio y huesos parecen estar intactos. Pero él no parece estar despertando. "Ya está bien, sólo échalo". Puedo oír la voz en mi cabeza. No hay nada más estúpido que tratar así a un chico sospechoso. Supongo que debería escuchar esa voz. Eso es lo que haría un hombre sabio.
Antes de seguir el consejo del ángel, miro de nuevo al joven. No reconozco su cara. Probablemente no sea alguien que yo conozca. Digo probablemente, porque los vendajes que cubren la mitad de su rostro hacen que sea casi imposible distinguir sus rasgos. Pero es mucho más joven de lo que pensé al principio. Probablemente sea lo suficientemente joven como para pasar por un "niño".
Entonces recuerdo el fajo de billetes que sostenía. Él todavía los está sosteniendo. Si en realidad es tanto como parece, debe ser una fortuna para alguien con un salario miserablemente bajo como yo. En este situación, debería estar bien tener algunos de ellos transferidos gentilmente a mi bolsillo como agradecimiento por salvarle la vida, ¿verdad? Pensando así, recojo el fajo de billetes. Y ahora finalmente me doy cuenta de que soy el idiota más grande en esta ciudad.
Siento un sabor amargo extendiéndose dentro de mi boca.
Es un fajo de billetes sin usar. Hay algo de sangre en ellos, pero la correa de papel, la prueba de que son nuevos, está ahí. No hay nombre de banco impreso en la correa. No hay impresión de ningún tipo. Y los billetes están perfectamente alineados por números de serio en orden ascendente.
Siento como si alguien me pegara en el estómago.
Hay dos posibilidades que se me ocurre. En primer lugar, este paquete de billetes ha sido retirado del Banco de la Reserva de la Casa de la Moneda de Japón, antes de que llegara al mercado. Eso significaría que este hombre es una plaga. No hay posibilidad que de una persona común pueda tener en sus manos algo así. Los billetes impresos en la Casa de la Moneda de Japón se envían primero al Ministerio de Finanzas, donde se escanean sus números de serie para convertirlos en billetes utilizables. Luego serán enviados en vehículos de transporte de efectivo a las sucursales del Banco de Reserva. A partir de ahí, continúan subdividiéndose y distribuyéndose a los bancos de la ciudad. En ese momento, las correas se intercambiarán con las de los bancos de la ciudad.
Sin embargo, no hay impresión en su trampa en absoluto. La única forma de poder llevar a cabo un fajo de billetes en ese estado es robándolo del Banco de la Reserva. La forma más probable es atacar un carro de transporte de efectivo. ¿Podría ser que acaba de regresar de una incursión como esa?
Pero si es así, simplemente acariciaré mi pecho con alivio y volveré a hacer café en mi cocina. Los ladrones de autos en efectivo son tipos violentos, pero solo violentos. La violencia por sí sola no puede hacer una tormenta.
Hay otra posibilidad.
Estos son billetes falsos. Saco una lupa del fondo de la habitación y examino cuidadosamente el fajo de billetes que tengo en la mano. Me quedo completamente helado porque me hormiguean los dedos. Intento compararlos con mis propios billetes en la billetera. No puedo notar la diferencia en absoluto.
Un super billete.
Me siento mareado.
Si ese es el caso, lo que tengo en la mano en este momento se ha vuelto tan peligroso como una pequeña ojiva nuclear. La moneda falsa es una herramienta de guerra que se ha utilizado mucho antes que los arcos y las flechas. Si uno puede llevar una cantidad de moneda falsa bien hecha a un país enemigo, el valor de esa moneda caerá debido al aumento de la cantidad de dinero en circulación, provocando inflación. Un país es, en cierto sentido, su propia moneda. Al alimentar hábilmente la desconfianza en la moneda de un país, es posible destruir la economía y derribar a toda una nación. Por esa razón, la Agencia de Seguridad Nacional siempre está atenta a los billetes falsos. Si este nivel de un billete se va a llevar al mercado, no sería asunto de la policía de la ciudad. Es mucho más grande. La Agencia de Seguridad Nacional, o las Fuerzas Armadas.
Dejo el fajo de billetes en mi escritorio como si los estuviera tirando. Ya no quiero dejar mis huellas dactilares en ellos. Me dirijo al teléfono. Si reporto el incidente de inmediato, podría argumentar algunas circunstancias atenuantes con la autoridades. No hay tiempo que perder.
Cuando levanto el auricular, escucho una voz débil. No viene del teléfono.
—Cuelga el teléfono.
Me giro hacia la dirección de donde vino la voz. Antes de darme cuenta, el joven ha abierto los ojos y me está mirando con esos ojos. Miro al teléfono y al joven a su vez. Entonces digo: —¿Qué pasa si no lo hago?
—Te mataré.
Esas palabras son tan mediocres como los paquetes sobrantes sin vender que se alinean en una tienda de delicatessen, al menos para este joven. Puedo decirlo al mirarlo a los ojos. Cuando pronuncia la palabra "matar", no es más que una palabra ordinario para él. Como cortarse las uñas, o salir a comprar más cigarros, ese tipo de palabras.
—¿Cómo? —dejo el teléfono, pero no le he devuelto a su base. Entonces, digo —. Tienes agujeros por todo el cuerpo. No te puedes mover. Te estás muriendo por todas partes. Ni siquiera tienes un arma. Para matarme en esa condición, se necesitarían doscientes de ti.
—No necesito tantos —dice con una voz helada—. Soy de Port Mafia.
Esas palabras solo son suficientes.
—Port Mafia —elijo cuidadosamente mis palabras antes de decir—. Entonces no tengo más remedio que obedecer —luego me tomo mi tiempo y en silencio cuelgo el auricular.
—Excelente —se ríe.
Si realmente es de Port Mafia, tendría que tener cuidado incluso al levantar o bajar una cuchara frente a él. Cuando el oponente es Port Mafia, sinónimo de oscuridad y violencia, incluso si informo esto y logro escapar hoy, no se sabe lo que vendrá después. Un ser humano tiene un total de unos doscientos huesos. Pero no sería extraño si fuera triturado en tantos pedazos de carne.
Lo miro fijamente durante unos tres segundos. Luego voy a la cocina. Mantengo la puerta abierta para poder verlo desde allí. Empiezo a hacer café en la cocina. Pongo la tetera al fuego y mojo la varilla con un poco de agua. Agregó el café en polvo y vierto agua hirviendo.
—Si no puedo llamar a la policía, ¿qué pasa con el médico? —digo, manteniendo mis ojos en el agua.
—Lo que he hecho son solo primeros auxilios de emergencia en el mejor de los casos. Si no te revisa un médico adecuado, morirás pronto.
—No te preocupes —el joven habla con una voz ligeramente estirada—. Esto no es gran cosa. Estoy acostumbrado a las lesiones.
—¿En serio? Entonces obedeceré —revuelvo el café y pongo un temporizador—. En cualquier caso, no hay forma de que un cartero normal como yo pueda ir contra los demonios de Port Mafia.
—Ser un cartero obediente es bueno. Entonces...
De repente, el joven comienza a toser y vomitar sangre. Rápidamente corro hacia él y giro su cabeza hacia un lado para que no se ahogue con su propia sangre. Compruebo dentro de su boca. No puedo decir de dónde es el sangrado en esta situación. Podría ser solo un corte dentro de su boca, o podría ser una lesión interna. No sé.
—Vamos al hospital. Recibirás tratamiento. Realmente vas a morir —declaro.
—Es perfecto entonces —habla como susurrando—. Solo déjame morir así.
Miro al joven. Solo está mirando al techo. Sin emociones, sin intenciones. Solo una expresión plana, como alguien que solo está diciendo su edad. No puedo creerlo, ni siquiera siento que haya un humano allí. Si fuera tarde en la noche en lugar de una refrescante madrugada, pensaría que era un fantasma o una alucinación.
Cosas extrañas siguen pasando hoy. Parece que mi vida está a punto de arruinarse.
—Bien entonces —digo—. Si quieres morir, simplemente muere, es tu vida y no te detendré. Pero estaré en problemas si mueres aquí. Si mueres aquí, nadie podrá testificar que no soy yo quien causó tus heridas. Podría ser arrestado.
—Ser arrestado o ser asesinado por Port Mafia, ¿cuál es mejor?
Lo miro fijamente mientras digo, —Esa es una pregunta difícil.
Vuelvo a la cocina, espero el temporizador y apago el fuego. Luego saco la lata de crema y pregunto, —¿Quiers un poco de café?
No responde.
—¿Cómo te derrumbaste frente a mi casa?
Sigue sin responder.
—¿Qué diablos son esos billetes en tu mano?
No hay respuesta para esto, por supuesto.
Me siento como si estuviera hablando con un hada del viento. Un personaje de un libro ilustrado que de repente llegó a mi casa en una mañana tranquila. Solo que está cubierto de sangre y quiere morir.
Sirvo el café en dos tazas y agrego la crema. Observo el vapor, espero un rato y empiezo a remover. Entonces me doy cuenta de que ya no puedo sentir la señal de nadie en la habitación de al lado. Ni siquiera puedo oírlo respirar. Tampoco hay indicios de muerte a la deriva.
Asomo la cabeza por la puerta, las tazas todavía en mi mano. El joven se arrastra hacia la puerta principal. Si pudiera mover las piernas, simplemente saldría caminando Pero parece que no ha recuperado tanta fuerza, por lo que simplemente tiene los brazos enganchados en el suelo y se arrastra lentamente hacia adelante. Como un prisionero que se escapa de la celda en esas viejas películas de guerra.
Se da cuenta de mi mirada, y luego, como se hubiera dado por vencido, una sonrisa burlona aparece en su rostro.
—No querrás que muera en esta casa, ¿verdad? Entonces, si me voy, no tendrás nada que ver con eso. No hay necesidad de ayudarme. No hay necesidad de reflexionar sobre nada. Solo quédate ahí y observa.
Le pregunto, todavía sosteniendo el café, —¿Tanto quieres morir?
—Por supuesto que sí. Me uní a Port Mafia, pero todavía no hay nada —responde el joven con una voz que suena como jadeo privado de alma—. Lo único que quiero ahora es la muerte.
Luego comienza a gatear de nuevo.
Tomo un sorbo de mi café mientras veo eso. Su progreso es patéticamente lento. Tomo otro sorbo. Sigue moviéndose sin descanso. Ya no tiene intención de mirar hacia atrás.
Solo hay una cosa por hacer.
—No sirve de nada detenerme —el joven parece notar mi movimiento. Dice con los ojos mirando hacia adelante—. Nadie puede ir contra Port Mafia. Y nadie en Port Mafia puede ir contra mí. En otras palabras, nadie puede... ¡¡¿¿quéééééééééééééé??!!
Es tirado hacia atrás.
Lo envuelvo con una sábana y lo levanto. Luego giro los dos extremos para amarrarlo. Como un envoltorio de caramelos. Luego lo pongo boca abajo y lo llevo de vuelta.
—¡Duele, duele, duele! ¡Mis heridas se están abriendo! ¿Qué diablos estás haciendo, idiota? ¿Quieres que te maten?
—No quiero que me maten. Pero tampoco quiero dejarte morir. Si sales en ese estado, definitivamente morirás. Solo una inventa una historia de muerte sin mí en ella cuando te mejores.
Como parece que va a soltar más quejas, sacudo el trozo de tela.
—¡Ay, ay, ay! ¡Para! ¡¡Odio el dolor!!
—¿Entonces te rendirás?
—¡No!
Trato de pensar en una manera de lidiar con eso y lo consigo. Vamos a atarlo a la cama.
Lo dejo en la cama y abro el paquete. Traigo una toalla grande y la envuelvo alrededor de sus brazos, que están cruzados frente a su pecho, junto con su torso. Tomo el cordón decorativo del marco de la puerta para unir sus piernas y atar los extremos a los herrajes metálicos de la cama. Levanto las almohadas, cambio la manta por una nueva y abro la ventana para que entre el aire fresco.
—Por el momento, hasta que tus heridas hayan sanado, haré que te quedes así —miro al joven y le digo—. ¿Hay algo que quieras?
—Me pica la nariz —me mira con resentimiento mientras retuerce sus dos brazos que ya no están libres.
—Pobrecito —regreso por el café en la cocina.
Los insultos del joven resuenan a mis espaldas. Pero este barrio está escasamente poblado, por lo que no hay necesidad de preocuparse por molestar a los vecinos. Disfruto mi café de la mañana.
Y así comienza la extraña y corta vida en común de Dazai y yo.
[Translation] Bungou Stray Dogs Projection Mapping (in collaboration with Kadokawa Culture Museum)
This is a projection mapping displayed on a huge bookshelf inside the Kadokawa Culture Museum. The projection lasts for about 5 minutes, with a short conversation between Dazai and Atsushi, of which the script was written by Asagiri Kafka specially for this collaboration. Videos and recordings are not allowed inside so I can only share some photos and the translation of the scripts here. Please note that it is based on what I heard and remembered so there might be some mistakes. Also the collaboration started from August 2022 so it might or might not relate to the recent events in the manga, it’s all up to your interpretation.
TRANSLATION AND IMAGES UNDER THE CUT
The projection starts with Atsushi climbing up the bookshelf and falling off it.
Atsushi: Oh no. I have to put them back!
Dazai: Huh? Are you sure it is here? The book that has an impact on Atsushi-kun?
Atsushi: Dazai-san? Yeah, I’m sure it’s a book from this shelf but… I can’t find it now.
Dazai: Without that book, we might not have won that battle against the enemies, right?
Atsushi: Yeah…
“In days gone by I never repented of my acts. I was sorry only for what I didn’t do.” Had it not been for the words from that book, I might have not been able to make the right decision. What is it called again…? I can only remember the title was like, something written by someone…
Dazai: Pft… In other words, you don’t remember anything.
Atsushi: Sorry… You came all the way here with me yet…
Dazai: Nah, if you cannot remember, maybe now’s not the right time to remember it. Books sometimes behave as if they are testing us, that’s why.
Atsushi: Testing us?
Dazai: Have you never experienced that? You happened to come accross a book you didn’t know nor have any interest in. Then you picked it up and what’s written in it stayed unforgotten in your heart till years later. That kind of experience.
Atsushi: Dazai-san, do you read too?
Dazai: Huh? You thought I didn’t? Without reading, there is no intellect. It’s the daily consumption of foods that makes our bodies. But it is the letters and words that builds our souls. When you stand here, you will understand what it means. Look around you.
Atsushi: You’re right. There is something very…
Dazai: Yes, remember this well. Books, at times, behave like intelligent life forms, beyond a mass of paper and ink… If Atsushi-kun hadn’t read that book, we would not have won that battle. We must not take books lightly. Because there are some switches that can only be pressed through reading a book, quietly hidden in the darkness we think we are in.
Atsushi: Ah, I see. That book I read… it would be exaggerating to call it a fated encounter, but I feel like there is an important meaning to it.
Dazai: That’s what I thought. Atsushi-kun, maybe there is a reason you have a special role in there as well.
Atsushi: What kind of reason?
Dazai: It will reveal itself sooner or later... Well, now that I have achieved my goal of showing off as a senior in front of my junior, guess I’ll go back and sleep (yawning)
Atsushi: You didn’t come here to help me search for the book at all, did you…
The projection ends with Trash Candy playing on the background and a very cool presentation of the characters' skills. It is such a shame that I can't share a full videos with everyone, but live photo is a lifesaver this time.
One last thing, even though the BSD collaboration will officially end today, the museum also does regular projection mapping on the same bookshelf and it is just equally cool so if you ever have chance to visit this museum, please give it a try. You will find a lot of BSD goods and related stuff around this area too <3
With a snap, he unconsciously thrust the knife in and out with his fist. The western-style building, which was seen on the opposite side of the lane on the way, will soon be visible on the left this time. He wondered if there were humans living there, every window was plunged into darkness like ruins. A building next to the street passed him, as if it were intimidating.
"......?"
He involuntarily looked back at the building that he hadn't even looked at.
He saw a small light in the window of the room on the second floor…it was the window of his original room. He could see a slim figure in the light.
"Hmm? What's wrong? Fushimi!"
Kusanagi let out an upset voice and slammed on the brakes, just as Fushimi spun the safety latch, flung open the door, and jumped out of the moving car.
He tried to run in the direction he had come from, but momentum pushed him back. He took momentum, but rolled backwards about three times. He landed on his foot and immediately used his ability to reverse jet the sole, somehow killing the speed. The soles of his shoes scraped against the asphalt, giving off a burning smell.
He crouched down and looked out the window, but the light had already gone out. He couldn't see a person's shadow on the pitch-black window.
As he breathed lightly, he couldn't take his eyes off the window for a while.
He felt him look into his eyes. Watching him from the window, he rolled his eyes and smiled.
"Fushimi! How dare you jump out of a moving car, you, idiot!"
Kusanagi parked the car at the side of the road and ran back.
"Are you okay? Here, hold on."
"I'm fine."
Without borrowing Kusanagi's hand, he caught his breath and stood up on his own. It looked as if he had been scraped with asphalt, and small stones were poked into his palms. He turned his expression off and shook his hand.
"Damn, what the hell are you doing? Come to think of it, you used to live in this area."
"It's nothing. Excuse me. Let's go home."
He started to head back to the car, but looked up at the second floor of the building for the last time. The lights from the cars on the street were incessantly illuminating the red brick outer wall and passing by, but the lights in the windows were definitely off.
He couldn't be there. The man who died two years ago in the winter. If he was, wouldn't he be a ghost? A spirit bound to the earth? A man who just came home when he felt like it, but why would he be grounded in that house? It was stupid.
He heard it had been sold, but it was soon put up for sale again and still had no buyers. Land prices should be high out there, so owning it as an asset costs money.
"Okay. It's nothing... huh?"
He could hear Kusanagi muttering with a sigh.
Fushimi tilted his head and looked at Kusanagi. Kusanagi only showed a weak smile that he hadn't seen before, as if he had given up on something.
"You're hurt. Let's go home and I'll heal you." He said as he walked back to the car.
Uncomfortable, Fushimi sat quietly in the passenger seat.
As he leaned forward to close the door, which had been left wide open, his gaze once more focused on the building.
The front door of the mansion, in which he thought no one lived, opened. A small white light slipped through the crack in the door. He floated up and down like he was swimming in the dark, and disappeared in the direction the car was driving away.
++++++++++
When he returned to the bar, there was only Suoh. Totsuka and Anna who are the executive level members and the others had been sent home. Hayato, who was deeply injured, was taken to a room on the second floor of the store. It seems that Akito never left Hayato's side. Suoh and Anna live on the second floor, but Kusanagi said that he would take Anna to his apartment while the twins were still there.
He put his easily sterilized hand in his pocket, and walked back to his room, feeling somewhat disinterested.
Two years ago in the winter, Yata and Fushimi built a hideout on the first floor of that multi-tenant building. However, the first PC he installed and the Internet line were not connected to each other. Collecting dust in the corner of the attic.
Should he talk about what he saw today, or what should he do? He couldn't make up his mind until he stopped in front of the door. Thoughts were swept away by the smell of food emanating from inside. Now that he thought about it, when he was about to have lunch, he was dispatched for the sake of the twins, so he ended up not having anything in his stomach for the whole day.
"Oh, how was it, Saruhiko?"
Yata, who was eating curry at the kotatsu table, looked up. It stands in the middle of the room, regardless of the season, and the two of them picked it up in the late winter of their first year living there.
The concrete floor is covered with tatami mats. Compared to when there was nothing in the beginning, life had become a bit more chaotic.
Fushimi took off his shoes and stepped onto the mat. His shoe hit the door that closed behind him.
"Nothing, no progress. We're going to be carrying those twins around for a while."
"Have you eaten? Why don't you eat it? While you and Kusanagi-san were out, Totsuka-san told me to cook rice for Akito. He started throwing away the shark fin that Kusanagi-san had saved and the wine extremely expensive. If Kusanagi-san finds it, he'll be struck by lightning, so Kamamoto and I split up and we were forced to bring it home to destroy the evidence, but I'm sure he'll find out tomorrow anyway."
He twirled the spoon in his hand, spewed out grains of rice, and started talking like a machine gun. Curry was on the menu so why did they make more curry? Are they stupid? That was stupid.
"I don't need it."
It was also troublesome to grasp the utensil. He tried to head to his territory, the loft, without even making eye contact.
"But you don't like shark fins or anything fancy, right? That's why I told you it only contains meat, so you can eat it."
Yata didn't seem to care, he stood up with a spoon in his mouth and hurried back to the kitchen with a small pot.
"Sit down."
"......"
He stood there silently, but he suddenly sat down in front of Yata. There is also an electric rice cooker on top of the kotatsu. "Oh, it's still there. You're a cat-tongued person, so this is perfect." Fushimi reached under the kotatsu and stared at the plate for a while, then reached out a hand and began stirring the curry and rice with a spoon.
(Don't think that just worrying about food will cause you a lot of trouble.)
"You can't eat it without spoiling it, as usual."
While he was scolding him, Yata also started to put curry in his mouth again.
"Have you met the "Blue King"? Have you talked to him? He has a bad personality. First of all, the glasses seem to be insidious."
"Don't lump everyone with glasses together. I wear them too. That blue clothes isn't necessarily a villain, right? He is one of the Seven Kings, just like Suoh Mikoto."
"Idiot, he's completely different from Mikoto-san."
"In what?"
Fushimi looked up from his plate and asked, seriously questioning the immediate denial. Yata looked dumbfounded, as if he didn't expect to be asked, and then he began to speak vigorously.
"In what, you say? Mikoto-san has a man's way of life. They are clansmen who came together for their coldness. But being there, isn't it like getting a job? It's completely different, right?"
"We entered because we admire Mikoto-san."
"Huh? It's obvious, did you forget?"
He was really angry at Yata, who spoke with a simple face.
(You're the one who forgot. stupid. Bird head.)
"I want power... Saruhiko."
Even though he was saved by "Homra", if he could receive power, anyone would have been fine. Even if it wasn't Suoh Mikoto, if the person he knew at that time was the "Blue King", he would be fine.
"The "Blue King" said that he wants a concealed weapon user as a member of his clan."
He shoved the stirred curry into his mouth, puffed out his cheeks and muttered (It's strangely bitter! You guys are really stupid putting this up.). Munakata said "I wouldn't mind having", he didn't say "I want it", but he probably wanted Yata to feel danger so he overdid it.
"I cannot believe it!"
Yata immediately expressed his anger.
"Ah, a concealed weapon user, is that about you?!"
"That's right." He answered as directly as possible.
"Hey, the "Blue King", he's smaller than I thought since he's envious of people. Well, even if he imitates us and looks for him somewhere, it won't be a big deal. As Homra members, Saruhiko, we're not going to lose to someone like that."
"Eh?"
He didn't understand how the story ended that way, and he went blank.
What happened? Something was terribly wrong. As he scooped the curry into his mouth, Yata was yelling incomprehensible complaints, laughing, but Fushimi couldn't understand what he was laughing at all.
It was boring. So he thought. He didn't remember having an interesting conversation with Yata recently. What did they talk about in the past? They used to talk endlessly about things like trying to shock the world. Thinking about it, now that he knows firsthand a world where there are "kings", he couldn't help but wonder where that omnipotence comes from... but, if he didn't like it, it had the power to destroy it, because there was such a thing, well, he had come to think that it was okay to live that way.
Yata's voice sounded like a dog's barking and it hurt his ears. A dog that lifts its nose wagging its tail, showing tricks and stroking it. He was completely satisfied with that kind of thing.
At that time, he had nothing he wanted to destroy.
It was boring.
"I'm sleepy."
He put a spoon in his mouth and stood up.
"Huh? You haven't eaten anything, right?"
"I don't want it. It's really bad."
"Hey, Saruhiko, don't say things like what everyone did is bad."
"What's wrong with saying it's bad? It doesn't matter who did it."
"You're a child?"
"Wait, what?"
Who said that he wanted to be an adult?
He hated even yelling and arguing. He clicked his tongue as Yata looked up with a puzzled look on his face and turned around.
As he put his foot on the attic ladder, "Ah, Saruhiko, Your PDA. Isn't that an email?" A vibrator hit the top of the kotatsu. Leaping down the ladder, grabbing the PDA with the momentum that made Yata jerk back, he went up to the loft.
The loft ceiling was too low for a bed, so he placed the rug directly on the floor and used it as a bed. Without changing his clothes, he turned to face the wall and climbed into the futon.
He looked at the PDA on the futon. In the dark, an email notification appeared on the standby screen, emitting a white light through his eyes. It looks like it's from someone who hasn't registered, so it's just a simple address, but it's an address he had an idea about.
Maybe it was because he was stuck in his head about what happened that day, so he somehow got excited and opened the content of the email.
Static electricity ran through his fingers, and for a moment he almost slipped the PDA.
The text was blank. There was no evidence that there was an attachment.
"That's how it is."
He cursed and deleted it.
"Hey, Saruhiko."
The stairs creaked behind him and he heard Yata's voice from the same height as the floor.
Fushimi decided to ignore him as he stared at the wall. He had come early. It has been like this for a long time. Even when he wants he to leave him alone, he talks to him without reading the background. No matter how many times he pushed him, he didn't back down.
"Come on. Turn this way, Saru."
He touched his shoulder and shook him. It was getting boring to keep getting angry, so he muffled his voice from inside the futon.
"Misaki, today..."
"Huh? Huh, what's up?" Yata's voice grew closer as he leaned forward with his elbows on the ground.
"I saw the front of that house."
"That house?"
What was he talking about? After hesitating...
"...I saw a ghost."
The coldness of that time returned faintly to the center of his body and he stiffened on the futon.
Yata swallowed hard. After a tense silence, Yata began to speak in an accelerated manner: "Ah... Is that house?! When Totsuka-san helped me pick mushrooms and went to the mountains, Kamamoto saw something in the house of the mountain we passed over and started making a fuss."
He clicked his tongue with all his might. Yata had not understood anything. "Eh? Sorry, are you talking about something else?" Yata said, but Fushimi lost the will to continue.
Here you go. This is from Chuuya’s point of view. From CODE;03.
...
How much longer can I endure this?
Of course. For as long as it is. I will endure this forever. I can do it.
But for what?
“That's why I have been telling you all the time, Chuuya.”
A voice suddenly came out of nowhere. Chuuya looked up. He remembers that voice. That’s the voice of the person he hates the most in the world.
“The fact that you were born itself was sort of a mistake. Just like me. What is the point of clinging on to a fake life if you have to endure such pain?
Said the voice with a mocking tone.
“Shut up!”
Chuuya spat out his response. He knew that he was just speaking to himself. It was probably the effect of the drugs he was given that caused auditory hallucination. There was no-one there. But the voices went out of his heart’s control and he couldn’t stop them.
“Fuck you, Dazai!”
“That clichéd counterargument is the only thing you can come up with?”
The voice spoke right to his ears. Chuuya wanted to cut off his own ears. He saw that thing that looked like Dazai’s shimmering shadow right next to him and wanted to gouge his eyes out too.
“That’s the proof that you have started to believe my words. Deep inside, you are just the same as me.”
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! I am me. I’m not the same piece of crap like you!”
I really like this part about Dazai so I decided to translate it. I don’t mind it if you re-translate it but mind that I don’t speak either Japanese or English as my first language, and my vocabulary is pretty limited in both.
I may post something else later, but I cannot promise anything.
Ok, so here is Bungou Stray Dogs Wan! the “Mafia goes to public bath” episode. I will typeset the other 3 pages later, but for now this is page 2. See you… OR IS IT?
When researching for the mackerel thing Chuuya said above (the actual is something like blue mackerel) I came across a section of the Dazai Osamu Novel. AFAIK it’s a sort of commentary on his life from the point of view of Kazuo Dan, one of his friends and colleagues. I still can’t find a full version anywhere, but here’s the thing: in December 1934, Dazai, Kazuo and a few more writers came together to publish a literary magazine called Aoi Hana. It did set back his suicide attempts for like a year (the magazine was discontinued after one issue) but that was when Dazai Osamu first met Nakahara Chuuya, and boy is it a pickle.
This is long so I’ll put it under a read more, and note that I will refer to IRL Nakahara Chuuya as Nakahara and BSD Nakahara Chuuya (if any) as Chuuya. I don’t think you’ll need any distinction between RL and BSD Dazai.
(Having to repost since I’m sure I accidentally deleted the original. We’ve searched for hours, and I finally wanted to add the AO3 Link to it, but it’s gone. So. I’m sorry if you’ve read this already.)
I’m also aware you may have read the thing, but I can’t find my og Tumblr post anywhere!
Clout Tag List: @less-than-wholesome-shipper @peterparkerisaslut-x
WARNINGS:
This contains necrophilia. It’s the darkest thing I have ever written. This is dark. This is heavy. It’s straight-up necrophilia.
Please think about it before going ahead and reading this one. Please. If you do read it, please do not flood to my box in order to send hate. I don’t care.
You’ve been warned.
Please, for the love of Starker, read the fucking tags. Really think about what you’re gonna read if you click on this fic. Please, just read, and take a moment, read again, and really think about it.
I wanna write a quick disclaimer, if you’re gonna click on this just to write hate, just read this okay:
I do not usually write things like this. It’s not my thing at all. At ALL. This was simply a SpiteFic due to anti’s on Tumblr. I wrote this to purely spite. I just thought about the worst thing I could think of and wrote it. That’s all there is to it. So, if you’re gonna send hate, be my guest, but I really couldn’t give a single fuck. I just don’t. I obviously do not agree with this or condone this behavior in real life.
Do me a favor if you’ve read this far… Go back, read the tags one more time, you can still turn around, close this down and not read it. Really think about what you’re gonna read here.
Also, some descriptions might be inaccurate, I studied the stages of decomposition when studying biology and law, but that was a few years ago, so, I could be wrong, but… you really should not know how body decomposition goes down…
Also, send prompts. I meant what I said when I say I’ll write anything!
snowghoul
janainaart
ellievsbear
jacobvanloon
blakekathryn
