blood money || YANDERE!Chuuya Nakahara

Fourteen: Birthday.

It is Chuuya's sixteenth birthday when he brings up the idea of a friends-with-benefits relationship.

At this point, you were beginning to drift away from Mori, regaining some of your consciousness that he had tried so hard to alienate you from. You could feel your bones whenever you slammed yourself against the wall, you could hear others voices and their different lilts and emotions when they spoke, you could adjust your clothing however you wanted when you were on missions. There were bits and pieces you were picking up just from socialising and speaking to Chuuya, and everytime you looked in a mirror, a part of you was filled in, piece by piece.

And it was liberating.

You were slowly being replaced by Elise, a manifestation of Mori's ability: Vita Sexualis. She was unlike you: she was sadistic, spoiled, and short tempered. She had a fire in her that entertained Mori; she was the opposite to what you were. In her presence, you felt very small, as if she was taking up more space than you were inhabiting in your own body; as if she was stealing bits and pieces of your solemnity in favour of saving your life from Mori.

A part of you liked going against Boss; and he liked that too. It gave him a reason to punish you. Send you on more dangerous missions with more bloody executions. But you liked going behind his back and gaining control of your body. A silent fuck you. A sign of growing up.

"Well? What do you say?" Chuuya proposes. His hair is growing out behind him, resting on his shoulder. You're swirling apple juice in your glass, watching the amber liquid splash against the crystal with boredom. A hand is propped against your cheek, your eyes lost in some other world, in some other better existence.

What a miserable life yours has been.

If you ever had a beautiful thought, felt fine and noble, performed a so-called good act to yourself, Mori would bare his teeth at you and showed you with bitter scorn how laughable this noble show was in the eyes of a beast like yourself, who knew well enough in your heart what suited you; then, wolfishly so, all human activities seemed horribly absurd and misplaced, stupid and vain. You were now disobedient and disorderly; or in other words, human, and that was a call of extinction for you against Mori. But humanity be damned; with what you've done, you were simply a beast with only a thin veneer of a human.

Boss. What a damned word for you now. You sigh.

"A what?" You say, breathily, through the rim of your glass.

"A friends-with-benefits relationship," He repeats, and turns his head towards you, "We fuck. And remain friends."

You contemplate that for a moment.

A man of power is ruined by power, a man of money by money, the submissive man by subservience, the pleasure seeker by pleasure. You were ruined by your own bloodthirst. Your own subservience to Boss. You stood amongst the ruins of your girlhood, stranded and alone, with all that was left being your title of being Boss' Scalpel. It is your bitter fate. It was. But in the midst of your freedom from being detached from Mori, did you become incredibly aware of your own solitude, and that freedom was death and you stood alone. You began to suffocate slowly in the rarefied atmosphere of remoteness and loneliness, the weight of the world becoming harder and harder to hold up.

The bloodied world that you had created.

Your hands would forever be stained with blood that you had mindlessly shed without even blinking an eye, and now that you were free did you begin to comprehend the horrors of what you had done, through proxy of Chuuya, who had shown apprehension when you had returned from a mission, bloodied and bruised, with a femur bone in your hand that you had cut out.

It still had viscera, veins, and filaments swaying from it like talismans in the wind when you had brought it back to HQ.

Would companionship help you escape the pain you were in, this two dimensional world you were in?

"Sure," You finally say, putting your glass down, "Sure. Let's do that."

"Great," He says, pulling out his phone. He could barely hide his excitement, "Hand me your phone."

"For what?"

"To call each other if we need each other," He says, as matter-of-factly. You tilt your head at that phrase: Need each other.

Did you need another person?

Could you imagine yourself and see yourself, instead of something and someone being barely there?

It is winter when Chuuya, on his sixteenth birthday, proposes the idea of a friends-with-benefits relationship. Perhaps you will be useful again, like a scalpel no longer being used to cut flesh open but cut food open. To serve. To help.

"Do you think it'd help me?" You ask. You're in his room now, his luxurious room decorated with French aesthetics—Neoclassicism—from gold to diamond window frames, he had gained a fortune from as young as sixteen for his brutality in his missions. His curtains were of light turquoise. Above the large gold-framed doors were golden cherubs, welcoming you with their trumpets frozen in their gleaming shine, flanked by pillars that were sprouting lions and angels at the top, connecting them to the ceiling. In the centre of this room was a large, crystal chandelier, whose shadow lay dappled and spotted from the light refracting off its tear-like diamenté droplets, tinkling gently at the incoming breeze, the noise like a diminutive laughter of the divine.

Everything about the place reeked of luxury.

"I don't know. But you seem impressed with my place," He boasts.

"Mine is just a room," You say, inspecting the chandelier above your head with a finger on your chin, "I've got a white futon."

"No bed?"

"Bed sheets give off too much personality. What pattern? What colour? Too many variables to count," You say, turning your gaze back to him, "The usual problems."

He laughs. He tosses his head back and laughs, "You're fucked, you know that, right?"

You smile at him, your lips cracking and bleeding from its foreignness, "I know. I know."