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Chapter Text

[The Year 2096]

The soft hum of the shower echoed through the large, dimly lit bedroom as Chuuya stepped inside, arms full of freshly laundered clothing. He placed the neatly folded garments on the edge of the grand bed, smoothing them out with practiced hands. The scent of lavender detergent clung faintly to the fabric, blending subtly with the ever-present hint of old wood and cologne that lingered in the room — the scent of his master.

It had been nearly 700 years since Chuuya had first been bound into service, and yet, he could not bring himself to resent the life he lived now. Not anymore.

Dazai Osamu was not like the others.

Vampires, as a rule, were cruel. Detached. Cold. But Dazai — for reasons Chuuya still didn't entirely understand — had never treated him like a beast. Certainly not like a pet. Their bond had shifted and twisted over the centuries, something deeper and more complicated than simple master and servant. Dazai didn't just see him as a werewolf meant to obey — he saw him.

And in all those years, despite the centuries that passed like days, Chuuya never truly felt like he had become just another tool.

Still, the collar remained around his neck — a silent reminder of how this all began.

{Seven Hundred Years Ago}

The heavy iron doors creaked open with a hollow groan that echoed through the marble hall like a cry from the past. Chuuya's body jolted as he was yanked forward by the chain wrapped tightly around his raw wrists. The guards — vampires, clad in black leather uniforms and marked by silver insignias on their shoulders — didn't even spare him a glance. They didn't need to. To them, he wasn't a person.

He was property.

Cargo.

Another beast being delivered into servitude.

He stumbled as they dragged him across the vast hall, his knees slamming into the unforgiving stone floor. The cold shot up through his bones, and the impact rattled what little strength he had left. But he didn't cry out. He didn't dare. Pain was familiar — a language he'd grown up with.

The air was thick with the scent of incense, dust, and something darker — old blood, soaked into stone over centuries of cruelty. The very walls of this place reeked of history. A history built on power, bloodlines, and the subjugation of anyone not born with fangs and immortality.

His hands, bound in silver-threaded cuffs, trembled as he caught himself. The metal burned faintly against his skin — not enough to scar, but enough to remind him constantly of what he was.

Not human.

Not equal.

Not free.

A beast in chains.

A thing.

And now, he was about to be handed over. Like a gift. Like a pet.

He stayed kneeling, his back straight but not proud, his breath measured. Shoulders drawn taut with caution. His ears, once so expressive with pride and attitude, now flattened low against the flame-colored mess of his hair. He wasn't trembling from fear — not exactly. It was hunger. Exhaustion. They'd starved him for days now, stripped him of dignity and food until his body teetered on the edge of collapse.

A common tactic.

Weaken the beast. Starve the pride. Dull the spark until it flickered like a dying flame.

It had worked on many before him.

But not completely on him.

Not yet.

He still had his name.

He still remembered the mountains of the north. The way the wind howled through pine trees. The warmth of a pack sleeping beside him. His mother's voice.

He remembered what freedom had tasted like.

Even if it had only lasted sixteen years.

He heard footsteps.

Two sets. One heavy and deliberate, echoing with centuries of command. The other — softer. Controlled. A quiet, almost effortless grace. The kind of walk that didn't need to declare authority, because it was simply understood.

Chuuya's ears twitched.

Two shadows stretched out across the cold floor in front of him. One belonged to a man shaped like a fortress — tall, broad-shouldered, and shrouded in the cold energy of the old bloodlines. The other, more lithe, carried with it something strange.

Not malice. Not boredom.

Something... unreadable.

"Dazai," the older man said, his voice deep and brittle like stone. "This is the one I told you about. Northern bloodline. Pure-bred werewolf. He's been broken in. Should be ready for service."

Chuuya kept his gaze locked to the floor, his jaw tense, breath catching in his throat. He wasn't sure which stung more — the idea that he was 'ready for service,' or the dull realization that part of him was.

They were wearing him down.

He let himself glance up. Just a little.

The first man — the speaker — looked to be in his mid-thirties, but Chuuya could feel the age clinging to him like smoke. His aura was cold. Tired. Eyes the color of dying embers. He had the feel of someone who had ruled too long, drained of all joy and left with only duty and dust.

But the second figure...

He was younger. Much younger. Or at least, he looked it.

Seventeen, maybe eighteen. A face far too calm for his age. Tousled dark hair framed sharp eyes, unreadable and quiet. His presence was different, not loud or commanding like the other. Subtle. Calculating.

Dangerous in a completely different way.

This was Dazai.

The vampire who would become his master.

Chuuya quickly dropped his gaze again, ears pressing flatter, every muscle wired with cautious tension. He could feel their eyes on him — especially Dazai's. Cool and steady, like moonlight through glass.

"He looks half-dead," Dazai murmured, not unkindly. Simply stating a fact.

"You starve all of them before delivering?" he asked, tone more curious than disgusted.

"It softens their temper," the elder vampire answered. "Makes them easier to mold."

Dazai hummed thoughtfully. "Hmm. Seems lazy."

Chuuya's chest tightened.

Lazy?

That wasn't the word he expected. Not cruel. Not righteous. Just... bored. Like this whole ritual was some inconvenience to Dazai rather than a moment of importance.

"What's his name?" Dazai asked after a moment.

"Chuuya," the older vampire replied. "Stubborn, I'm told. Smart. Feral blood, but it runs strong. He'll learn."

"I can hear you," Chuuya muttered under his breath, the rasp of his voice cracked and dry. Not quite rebellious. Not quite obedient.

Just... tired.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, footsteps again. Closer this time. Dazai crouched directly in front of him, resting his elbows on his knees, peering at him like one might study a painting — not entirely sure what they were looking at, but intrigued nonetheless.

Chuuya stayed still, despite the instinct screaming to recoil.

"You have sharp eyes for someone on his knees," Dazai said quietly.

It wasn't mockery. It wasn't praise. Just... a truth.

"I like that."

Chuuya swallowed hard. His chest burned with something between pride and caution. He wasn't broken. Not yet. But maybe that was dangerous too.

"Look at me," Dazai said softly.

Chuuya didn't move.

"I said look at me."

This time, the words didn't grow louder — they grew deeper. A command that slid through his bones like cold water. Something ancient stirred in the syllables. A vampire's command, laced with the quiet weight of power.

Chuuya's body betrayed him.

His eyes lifted.

Blue met brown.

And everything fell quiet.

Dazai's face remained unreadable — no cruel grin, no twisted sense of ownership. But his eyes were sharp, cutting, inquisitive. He wasn't looking at a creature.

He was studying a soul.

Chuuya braced himself for hatred. For revulsion. For the sick, heavy stare of a master who believed himself above everything.

But what he saw in Dazai's gaze shocked him more than anything else.

Recognition.

"I'll take him," Dazai said, rising smoothly to his feet. "He stays in my wing."

The elder vampire frowned. "He hasn't been fully—"

"No chains," Dazai added, as if he hadn't heard.

"That's unwise. He's not... ready."

"He'll learn."

There was a faint smirk tugging at the corner of Dazai's mouth as he turned to walk away, his coat flaring at the edges.

"Besides... I don't want him tamed."

He looked over his shoulder.

"I want him honest."

Chuuya stared, stunned into silence.

That wasn't how vampires spoke.

That wasn't how any of this was supposed to go.

The collar snapped into place around his throat moments later. Cool leather, silver threading — the mark of ownership. He didn't fight it. He didn't flinch. Just let it settle against his skin.

But something inside him shifted.

For the first time since being torn from his home, he didn't feel rage.

He didn't feel despair.

He didn't even feel hope.

Just... curiosity.

Who the hell was Dazai?

And why did he look at Chuuya like he wasn't just another servant?

Chapter Text

{Weeks Later}

The first few weeks were... difficult.

Not in the way Chuuya had expected. There were no whips. No cages. No cruel games of dominance played for sport. No forced obedience drilled into his bones with agony. And yet, somehow, this was harder in a different way.

Because no one told him what he was supposed to do.

There were no rules. No commands. No expectations.

Just silence.

And silence, he was learning, could be far more suffocating than orders.

When Dazai didn't need him — which was often — Chuuya would just stand quietly outside the vampire's door, not daring to wander too far. He never wanted to be caught somewhere he shouldn't be. He didn't know the rules, but he'd been punished before for less. So he waited. Sometimes for hours. Back pressed against the cool wall. Eyes heavy. Hunger gnawing steadily at his insides like a dull blade.

He hated how pathetic it made him feel.

The hunger was getting worse. Not the sharp, immediate kind that claws at your ribs — but the slow, constant ache that wears you down, day by day. He'd only managed to eat once in those first weeks. And while his kind didn't need to eat often, they still needed.

And now, his body was starting to turn on him.

He sat on the floor of the library, legs curled under him, shoulders slumped as he tried to stay upright. Dazai, perched like a cat in the large window alcove, sipped slowly from a blood pack while flipping lazily through a book — some thick, ancient-looking thing filled with more words than pictures. The late afternoon sun filtered through the stained glass, throwing fractured reds and golds across the floor.

Chuuya's stomach twisted. He didn't even look at the blood anymore — it made his gut churn.

He'd only seen the other master of the house — Mori — a few times. But even in those brief encounters, Chuuya knew one thing:

He didn't like him.

While Dazai was quiet, unreadable, and strangely... gentle, Mori was everything Chuuya feared in vampires. Cold. Calculated. Eyes like a butcher choosing meat. Mori didn't speak to him — not really. He spoke about him. Like he wasn't there. Like he was a broken tool to be handed around when needed. And Chuuya had seen it — in the halls, in passing — the way Mori handled the other servants. Like they weren't real. Like they weren't people.

Chuuya couldn't say why Dazai was different.

But he was grateful. In a quiet, cautious way.

He knew better than to trust kindness too quickly.

Still — it was easier to breathe when Dazai was around.

Another wave of hunger rolled through him suddenly, sharp and unexpected. It punched the air from his lungs, and before he could stop himself, a small, pitiful whine slipped from his throat.

The sound echoed louder than it should've in the quiet room.

Chuuya instantly regretted it. His body tensed, flinching, ready for punishment — but when he looked up, it wasn't anger that greeted him.

Dazai was staring at him, book forgotten in his lap.

"Is everything alright?" he asked — not stern, not demanding. Concerned.

Chuuya blinked, startled by the softness of the question. He quickly nodded, hoping to end the moment before it grew into something he didn't understand. "Yes, master."

But Dazai didn't look convinced.

"Have you eaten yet?"

The question landed like a stone in his chest. He shook his head slowly. "No, master..."

Dazai tilted his head, almost thoughtfully, before lowering the half-empty blood pack in his hand and holding it out toward him.

Chuuya froze.

The gesture... it was genuine. He could see that. Dazai wasn't mocking him. Wasn't toying with him. He was offering.

And that was the problem.

Because the very idea of drinking that made bile rise in his throat.

But he didn't want to be ungrateful. Dazai was his master — and not a cruel one. He didn't want to offend him. So, with trembling fingers, Chuuya took the offered pack, pressed the straw between his lips, and forced himself to sip.

It was warm. Metallic. Sweet in the way rot is sweet.

He managed one swallow. Maybe two.

But the second gag hit harder than the first, and he had to press a hand over his mouth, coughing softly.

Dazai blinked, confused. "Do you not like it?"

Chuuya hesitated, unsure if this was a trap. Slowly, cautiously, he answered.

"It's not bad, master... it's just... blood isn't really a sustainable thing for me."

He braced himself for anger. For disappointment.

But Dazai just... nodded. Like he'd learned something new. Like it mattered.

Chuuya watched, puzzled, as Dazai slid down from the window and wordlessly walked past him. He scrambled to his feet and followed, his bare footsteps light against the stone. Dazai didn't look back, but his pace was slow enough to follow easily.

They entered a room Chuuya hadn't seen before — large and bright, with counters of polished stone and gleaming utensils. The kitchen.

A human man — the chef — turned at the sound of the door, and immediately stiffened in surprise. His hands wiped down his apron instinctively, eyes wide with nerves.

"Dazai-sama... What can I do for you?"

Chuuya saw the way the man bowed his head — not out of respect, but fear.

"Would you be able to make something for him?" Dazai asked, pointing casually in Chuuya's direction.

The chef blinked. Then nodded quickly. "Of course."

Chuuya didn't know what to say. He didn't even know how to feel. He just stood awkwardly near the doorway, watching the quiet exchange.

Dazai didn't linger.

"Just come find me when you're done eating," he said simply, and then turned on his heel, disappearing back through the hall.

Leaving Chuuya alone in the kitchen.

The chef got to work without a word, moving efficiently — not out of passion, but precision. Like he was used to doing everything perfectly the first time.

Chuuya took a hesitant seat at the small table in the corner.

After a moment, he cleared his throat.

"Dazai-sama... doesn't get out much, does he?"

The chef paused, then glanced at him.

"No," he said quietly. "Mori-sama prefers keeping him inside."

Chuuya nodded slowly, eyes lowering.

The plate that was placed in front of him a few minutes later smelled incredible. Warm, savory. Real food. His mouth watered before he even lifted the fork.

"Thank you," he murmured, but the chef was already gone, leaving only the quiet clatter of kitchen tools behind him.

Chuuya took a bite.

Warm. Real. Alive.

For the first time in weeks, he felt the haze in his mind begin to clear. He felt strength begin to return to his limbs. He felt... present.

Not just a beast in a collar.

And somewhere, at the back of his mind, a question began to root itself in the soil of his thoughts.

Who exactly was Dazai?

And why — in a world built on cruelty — did he look at Chuuya like someone worth feeding?

Chapter Text

He walked around the place for a while before he managed to find Dazai again. The halls all looked the same, dimly lit and echoing with silence, and his sense of direction in the large estate was still far from reliable. But eventually, tucked away in one of the more secluded wings, he found him-his master sitting on the same wide windowsill as earlier, a thick book resting on his knees, posture lazy and unfazed by the time that had passed.

It seemed today would be an easy day if his master was just going to spend it reading. Chuuya let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, quiet steps taking him across the room before he sat back down on the floor at Dazai's side. The wooden floor was cool beneath him, but not uncomfortable. He rested his head lightly against the edge of the windowsill, ears still drooped flat against his head - though no longer from fear, just residual caution. He wasn't as tense now. His body was feeling heavier, the weight of food in his stomach making him sluggish. It wasn't unpleasant - just unfamiliar.

Now that the gnawing hunger wasn't eating him from the inside out, fatigue was taking over, slowly but surely. His limbs ached from weeks of underuse, his mind drifting in and out of fog. He would've liked to take a nap... but he wasn't sure if that was something he was allowed to do. The rules here were unclear. No one had told him what was expected - not really. And he didn't want to be punished for stepping out of line.

His ears twitched when he heard his master shift slightly. A beat later, long fingers gently carded through his hair. His entire body tensed up for a moment, breath catching. The instinct to pull away was strong - sharp and trained through years of violence. But he stayed still, just barely keeping himself from flinching. Hoping. Waiting.

The touch remained gentle. Soothing. It wasn't rough or condescending - it didn't carry the weight of control or ownership. It was... kind. Comforting, even. When the fingers scratched lightly behind his ears, he couldn't help the soft sound that escaped him - a small, involuntary whine. Embarrassment tried to crawl up his throat, but he was too tired to push it down. Too tired to care. His body slumped just a little more against the window as the tension bled out of his muscles.

For once, he wasn't thinking about how to protect himself. He was just existing.

Eventually, the haze of sleep crept up on him - soft and slow like fog rolling in. He didn't remember actually falling asleep. One moment, he was listening to the sound of a page turning; the next, the world had shifted.

When Chuuya opened his eyes again, the golden warmth of sunlight that had filtered through the window earlier was gone - replaced by the cold glow of moonlight. Pale silver shadows danced across the floor, casting long lines across Dazai's face, who still sat in the same spot, the book now resting closed on his lap.

The hand in his hair hadn't stopped completely - it was still there, now just lazily petting his head. The slow, mindless motion stirred something soft and aching in Chuuya's chest. He blinked sleepily and let out another small whine, quiet and unintentional.

"I'm sorry for falling asleep, master..." he mumbled, his voice thick from sleep. As soon as the words left his mouth, the hand was lifted from his head, and a low whine of dissatisfaction followed before he caught himself and forced it down. He didn't want to seem ungrateful.

"It's quite alright, don't worry," Dazai said gently.

Chuuya gave a small nod, sitting up a little straighter, trying to look more presentable. His gaze lifted toward the other, lingering just a little too long. There was something about the way the moonlight curved along Dazai's jawline and softened the lines of his face. Chuuya blinked and quickly looked away, ears twitching slightly.

His master was... beautiful. That was something he couldn't deny. Not just in the way he looked, but in the quiet, unexpected ways he moved - the way he hadn't raised his voice once, the way he hadn't forced Chuuya into anything, the way he touched so gently, like he knew what it was like to be hurt.

"Is something the matter?" Dazai's voice broke him out of his thoughts.

Chuuya shook his head, a small, hesitant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "No, master... nothing at all."

He didn't know how to explain the quiet warmth in his chest. The safety he felt. He'd spent most of his life expecting pain - and with vampires, that was almost always guaranteed. The things their kind had done to his people over the centuries were unspeakable. Brutal. And yet... Dazai didn't seem like the others. He didn't act like a master. Not in the way Chuuya was used to. And that... that confused him more than anything.

"I'll be heading to sleep soon," Dazai said after a long pause, his voice tired.

Chuuya nodded, already moving to stand. That was his cue. It meant preparing the bedroom - another part of his routine he had fallen into. He didn't mind it. There was comfort in knowing what to do. So he padded quietly to the master's room, pushing open the door with practiced hands.

He sighed softly to himself and got to work. The room smelled faintly like lavender - probably from the incense one of the other servants had lit earlier in the day. The scent was calming. Familiar. He straightened the bed, fluffed the pillows, and laid out the nightclothes Dazai would wear. He knew vampires didn't really need sleep - they could function without it perfectly fine. But from what he'd learned of Dazai in these past few weeks, his master's mind wasn't always kind to him. Sleep, Chuuya guessed, helped him escape.

He never said anything about it. Just did what he could to make things easier.

He was just smoothing out the last corner of the blanket when the door opened again. Dazai stepped inside, his expression unreadable, though there was a trace of fatigue in the set of his shoulders. Chuuya stepped back quickly and bowed his head slightly.

"Goodnight, master," he said softly.

Dazai gave him a brief nod before walking further into the room, and Chuuya stepped out, gently closing the door behind him. He paused, unsure of where to go. There was no real instruction for what he was supposed to do once Dazai went to bed.

So he sat down on the floor again - just outside the door, legs folded beneath him. The hallway was quiet. The shadows long. And for a while, he simply stared off into space, the events of the day lingering in his mind like the remnants of a fading dream.

He wasn't sure what this place was yet.

But maybe... maybe it wasn't hell.

Not this time.

--------

It had been a few hours since he was sitting here, and he was shivering. The hallway was just as cold as it had been since the day he arrived - stone floors that never held warmth, and a draft that always managed to find its way down the back of his neck. He hadn't yet gotten used to it, though maybe he never would. He hadn't been shown a room, after all. The others, he knew, shared spaces. Slept huddled together in the servants' quarters. But no one had ever told him where he belonged.

So he assumed he wasn't allowed to belong anywhere at all.

His body ached from sitting too long, joints stiff, and the thin clothes he'd been given did little to keep the chill at bay. He yawned again, curling in tighter, tucking his knees closer to his chest to preserve whatever warmth he could, tail wrapped tight around himself. He was trying not to doze off again - that could be seen as disrespectful - but his eyelids were growing heavier with every second.

He didn't have enough time to get up when his master's door opened.

"Master-" Chuuya scrambled to his feet, heart leaping into his throat. He stood quickly, stumbling a bit before finding his balance, and bowed his head in shame. His ears immediately flattened back against his head as Dazai stepped forward, silhouetted by the soft light from the room behind him.

This was it, wasn't it...?

The moment he was going to be punished for his behavior.

He knew this was coming. He should've known better than to fall asleep where he wasn't supposed to be. He should've been invisible. He should've kept moving, found a corner where no one would look. Not right outside the master's door like some lost mutt. His throat tightened and he lowered his gaze, bracing.

But... the punishment didn't come.

Dazai didn't yell. Didn't strike him. Didn't even raise his voice.

"Why are you still out here?" he asked instead, voice low and laced with something Chuuya couldn't quite read. Surprise, maybe. Or... concern?

Chuuya hesitated, hands clenched at his sides. "I... I wasn't told where I'm meant to sleep, master. I didn't want to intrude anywhere I wasn't allowed..."

Dazai stared at him for a long moment. Then, without a word, he stepped aside and held the door open.

Chuuya blinked, uncertain. He didn't understand what was happening - was he being called in for punishment instead? That would make sense. Maybe the silence was part of it. Make him think he was safe before-

"You'll catch a fever out here," Dazai said, interrupting his thoughts. "Come in."

Chuuya swallowed thickly and stepped inside, heart racing. The room was warmer, softer, filled with the low golden flicker of the fireplace in the corner. It smelled like wood smoke and the faint remnants of incense. He didn't know where to stand - didn't dare get too close to the bed or the fire - but Dazai just closed the door quietly behind them and walked past him without another word.

"I don't mind if you sleep here. On the carpet, by the fire," Dazai added as he gestured lightly in that direction.

Chuuya stared at him for a second too long, confused by the lack of catch. But... he didn't see a lie in the man's face. Didn't feel danger in the room. Only that same strange, distant kindness Dazai had been showing him since the start.

"...Are you sure?" he asked cautiously.

Dazai just nodded and sat down on the bed again, picking up the same book from earlier and flipping it open without looking at him. "Try to rest. It's warmer here."

Chuuya hesitated again, but the pull of the fire was strong. His body was so tired - more than it had been in days. And the warmth... gods, it already felt like it was sinking into his bones just being near it.

He crept over quietly, lowering himself down onto the thick rug that lay in front of the hearth. It was softer than the floor in the hallway. Not luxury, but something safe. Something gentle. He curled up, tail wrapping around himself again, but this time not out of fear - just instinct. The fire crackled softly a few inches away, casting flickering light over the room.

For the first time since arriving here, he felt... comfortable.

No one was yelling. No one was forcing him to do anything. No harsh eyes on his every move. His master - this vampire he had feared so intensely at first - was now across the room, silent and calm, and hadn't so much as raised a finger against him. The contrast to what he'd known before was so stark it almost didn't feel real.

He rested his head on his arm, ears twitching slightly as his breathing slowed. His body still ached, but it was dull now - distant. He let his eyes drift closed, lulled by the warmth, by the quiet, by the knowledge that maybe... just maybe... he was okay for tonight.

A small part of him, one buried deep beneath the fear and instinct, hoped this would happen again.

Not the cold hallway.

But this. The fire. The peace. The feeling that maybe he didn't have to be on edge every second.

That maybe... being here wouldn't be so bad.

Chapter Text

Chuuya didn't know what had woken him.

It was still dark - the fire had burned low, its warm glow now just soft embers glowing red and gold beneath the faint crackle of settling wood. The room was quiet, the kind of quiet that didn't feel heavy or tense, just still.

His body felt strange - not in a bad way, just... unfamiliar. Warm. Rested. The ache in his joints had dulled into a kind of pleasant soreness, like his muscles weren't used to being allowed this much rest. The thick carpet beneath him had imprinted into his skin, and the fire's warmth still lingered on the side of his face.

He shifted slightly, blinking the sleep from his eyes, ears flicking with the sound of a page turning nearby.

He turned his head toward the noise - and there he was.

Dazai, stretched out on the small couch a few feet from where Chuuya lay, one arm resting behind his head, the other holding an old, worn book loosely in his hand. The moonlight slipped in through the tall window, casting pale silver over him, softening the sharpness of his features. His eyes were fixed lazily on the page, but there was no urgency in the way he read - like he was simply passing the time. Like there was nowhere else he needed to be.

Chuuya stared for a moment, unsure if he should say something or pretend to still be asleep. He wasn't used to this. Being watched while he rested would usually mean something bad. But Dazai wasn't even looking at him. He didn't seem bothered at all.

"...Master?" he asked quietly, voice rough with sleep.

Dazai's eyes flicked over to him, and a small, barely noticeable smile pulled at the corner of his lips. "Hm. You're awake."

Chuuya sat up slowly, pulling the blanket - when had he been given a blanket? - tighter around his shoulders. "I didn't mean to fall asleep so long..."

"You needed it," Dazai replied simply, setting the book down on his chest but not moving from where he lay. "Your body's been under stress. It's expected."

Chuuya looked down at the blanket again, fingers curling into it. It smelled faintly of cedarwood and something clean - not like the scratchy linens used for the servant beds he'd seen before. Something told him it had come from Dazai's room.

"...You're still awake."

"I don't sleep much, even though I try," Dazai said with a shrug, eyes going back to the ceiling. "Too many thoughts. Reading helps."

Chuuya nodded slowly, not knowing what to say. He didn't want to overstep, but something about this moment felt different. Less like a servant-master interaction, and more like something... human. Or at least something quiet. Honest.

"...Why are you being kind to me?" he asked before he could stop himself. His voice was small, and he hated how it cracked, but the question had been weighing on his chest for days.

Dazai didn't answer immediately. He blinked slowly, and when he looked over at Chuuya again, his gaze was unreadable. Not cold - just distant, like he was weighing the answer in his head before speaking.

"Because I can be," he said finally. "Because I don't see the point in cruelty for the sake of it."

Chuuya didn't know what to do with that answer. He just nodded again, tucking himself back under the blanket and lying on his side. His back faced Dazai now, but he could still hear the soft sound of the pages turning every so often. That, and the low, rhythmic breath of someone who wasn't trying to dominate the silence - just live in it with someone else.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Chuuya didn't feel afraid of falling back asleep.

Because someone was nearby.

And somehow, that made him feel safe.

The morning came slower than he expected. When he stirred again, the fire was long dead and faint golden light was beginning to push its way through the curtains, soft and barely warm against the carpet. The spot beside the couch where Dazai had been was now empty. His book was gone too.

Chuuya sat up slowly, still wrapped in the blanket he'd been given the night before, taking a second to ground himself. His body didn't ache the way it usually did when he woke up on stone or tile - the carpet had done its job, and he actually felt... rested. As if his muscles had finally stopped bracing for something.

But the peace didn't last long.

A servant - one of the quiet ones who avoided eye contact - came to fetch him shortly after sunrise, murmuring that Dazai was already in the dining hall. That alone wasn't unusual. What made Chuuya's stomach twist slightly was the added information:

Mori-sama is with him.

The walk to the dining hall was short but heavy. His limbs didn't move the same after sleep; they felt slow, reluctant. And the weight pressing on his chest didn't help. He knew he was supposed to present himself properly - head bowed, posture obedient, eyes downcast - but his nerves made everything feel wrong, slightly off.

The large double doors to the dining hall were already open when he arrived, and he immediately spotted them.

Dazai sat at the long table, calm and poised like always, a steaming cup of tea resting in front of him and a mostly untouched plate of food nearby. Mori sat across from him, dressed in deep crimson robes, fingers steepled together as he spoke with the kind of passive authority that made Chuuya's skin crawl. The room was cold despite the sunlight.

Chuuya approached silently, lowering himself into the kneeling position beside Dazai's chair without needing to be told. His hands folded neatly in his lap, knees pressed into the polished floor. His gaze stayed fixed downward.

He could feel Mori's eyes on him immediately.

"As punctual as ever," the older vampire commented, voice smooth and sharp like polished glass. "Your little servant's been quite obedient lately, hasn't he, Dazai-kun?"

Dazai didn't look down at him, but Chuuya could feel his presence - solid, unmoving.

"He's been adapting well," was all Dazai said.

"Mm." Mori stirred his tea with a slow clink of the spoon against porcelain. "I've been thinking lately - we've been underutilizing these creatures. For all their strength and senses, it seems a waste to just keep them as decoration or personal assistants. Don't you think?"

Chuuya's ears twitched slightly, but he kept his expression blank. His eyes stayed on the ground, but he felt something low and cold bloom in his chest. He hated the way Mori spoke. He always spoke about him - never to him.

"I've begun drawing up plans," Mori continued, the clinking stopping, replaced by the faint sound of paper being unfolded. "Specialized work groups. Physical labor, of course, but perhaps also field testing. Combat training. We can breed loyalty and obedience into them if we start early enough. Imagine - trained packs, conditioned to follow command without resistance. It would change everything."

Chuuya's stomach tightened. He didn't move, didn't flinch, but his pulse had quickened slightly, and he was glad his head was bowed. They were talking about werewolves like livestock. Like tools.

"Of course," Mori went on, voice soft with amusement, "we'll need more data. We've had... mixed results in the past, but the new batch seems hardier. Easier to mold."

Something cold ran through Chuuya's veins.

He felt Dazai shift slightly in his seat, a movement so minor most people wouldn't have noticed - but Chuuya did. There was a tension there, like something coiling just beneath the surface. A silence fell between the two men that seemed to stretch just a little too long.

"...That's not really my area of interest," Dazai said finally, tone even but lacking warmth. "I prefer quiet."

Mori chuckled under his breath. "Yes, yes. I suppose you've always had your own way of doing things. Though I must say, your servant seems quite attached to you already. That kind of trust could be useful in training methods - if you're willing to share, of course."

Chuuya's heart gave a single, heavy thump in his chest.

"I'm not," Dazai replied flatly.

There was no anger in his voice, but the edge in it was unmistakable.

Another beat of silence.

Mori clicked his tongue but didn't press the issue. "Ah, well. It's still early. You may come around yet."

The conversation shifted after that, the topic moving on to other things - estate finances, new blood shipments, minor nobles requesting audience. Chuuya remained kneeling, silent and unmoving, but his thoughts had grown louder by the minute. The tightness in his chest hadn't gone away. Neither had the fear. But through all of it, he found himself clinging to one thing:

Dazai had said no.

He hadn't hesitated. He hadn't offered him up for experiment, hadn't treated him like a thing. It was strange, maybe even foolish, but those words, - "I'm not" - settled deep in Chuuya's heart like a stone tossed into still water.

He didn't know what it meant yet. Not fully.

But he knew it meant something.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

A week had passed since that quiet morning in the dining hall.

Now the grand estate was alive with music and chatter, the polished floors reflecting chandeliers that cast soft golden light over the throng of nobles and guests. The air was thick with perfume and silk, the sharp scent of expensive wine lingering beneath it all, mixing with the faint, ever-present undercurrent of cold stone and shadow.

Chuuya knelt quietly by Dazai's chair, eyes lowered, ears pressed flat against his skull. He kept still, blending into the background like a ghost, his muscles tight with the habit of silent observation. The soft rustle of silk gowns, the clink of glasses, and the murmurs of polite conversation surrounded him - a world he was part of, yet so apart from. Here, among these privileged faces and practiced smiles, he was still no more than property.

The moment came all too soon.

A young woman, draped in a gown of deep crimson silk that caught the light with every step, approached with a calculated smile that didn't quite reach her cold eyes. Her perfume was heavy, cloying - the scent of privilege and possession that clawed at Chuuya's senses like a bitter reminder.

"Osamu-sama," she began, voice smooth and practiced, but edged with an impatience that made Chuuya's skin crawl beneath his fur. "It's been difficult to find a moment with you tonight. I'm sure you understand how important these gatherings are for... forging alliances."

Her gaze flicked past Dazai, settling briefly on Chuuya. She smirked as if inspecting an object, a token - something to be bargained or discarded. "And your... companion. He seems rather devoted. Does he serve you well?"

Chuuya's body stiffened involuntarily, ears flattening further against his head, tail twitching with restrained tension. He fought the urge to shrink away, to disappear entirely beneath the weight of her assumptions. To her, he wasn't a person with a name, a past, or feelings - he was an accessory, a sign of status, a prize to be evaluated.

His heart pounded painfully beneath his ribs, a slow fire burning behind tired eyes. But still, he said nothing. He didn't dare meet her gaze. Silence was safer. Submission was safer.

Dazai's eyes met hers with an icy calm, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Chuuya serves me as he should."

The noblewoman stepped closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper but carrying the weight of entitlement. "Surely you don't keep him merely as a servant? I've heard werewolves can be quite... useful in other ways. And loyal, if trained properly."

She smiled too wide, a predator's smile, her words laced with unspoken threats and promises. "You could do much better, Osamu-sama. One day, I might convince you to consider a more... advantageous match. It's what families like ours do, after all."

Chuuya clenched his fists tightly in his lap, jaw hardening. The sting of her words echoed a history of cruelty - centuries of subjugation and slavery. The world outside Dazai's calm gaze was one where he was broken, traded, used without mercy.

Yet, here he knelt. Here he existed in a fragile space carved out by his master's quiet defiance.

Dazai's hand shifted slightly, coming to rest on the armrest beside where Chuuya knelt - a subtle boundary, a silent claim. The gesture was small, but to Chuuya, it was everything. It was protection. Recognition. A tether to something that might be more than chains and orders.

"I value loyalty," Dazai said smoothly, voice steady and commanding. "And Chuuya's loyalty is not something I intend to trade."

The woman's smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of irritation that she masked quickly with practiced politeness. "Of course. I merely wished to offer my services - and my family's - should you ever need them."

Dazai's gaze remained unmoved. "Thank you. But I'm quite content."

With a small curtsey, the woman stepped back, eyes flickering once more to Chuuya with a mixture of disdain and calculation before slipping away into the crowd.

As the music swelled again, the laughter and clinking glasses washing over the room, Chuuya exhaled slowly - the tension in his muscles loosening ever so slightly. The ball continued, a swirl of light and shadow, of power plays and whispered schemes. Yet to Chuuya, everything felt quieter now, as if he'd been given a moment's reprieve from the weight of his existence.

Dazai's hand remained close, an unspoken promise and shield all at once.

And in that moment, kneeling there, eyes lowered but heart pounding fiercely beneath the surface, Chuuya felt something he hadn't allowed himself before - not ownership, but protection. Not chains, but the fragile possibility of safety.

The noblewoman's perfume still lingered faintly in the air even after she disappeared into the crowd, leaving a sour taste in Chuuya's mouth. He tried not to let it show - the unease, the shame, the tiny thread of fear that still coiled tightly inside his chest like a waiting snare.

He kept his posture straight, hands resting lightly on his thighs, trying to focus on the low hum of voices and the lilting strings of the quartet in the corner. But he felt raw, exposed - like her eyes had peeled back the thin layer of safety he'd started to wrap around himself since coming here.

Dazai hadn't said anything else, but his presence was grounding. Chuuya didn't look up, didn't speak, but he stayed close, letting the familiar scent of his master - subtle notes of ink, leather, and blood - steady him.

The ball continued on. Nobles danced in slow circles across the polished floors, their laughter ringing too loudly, their smiles too sharp. Behind every silk gown and polished shoe, Chuuya could see it - the truth of this world. A place where people like him were ornaments, tools, bargaining chips.

And yet...

"Come," Dazai's voice was soft, just above the music, directed only at Chuuya.

He blinked, heart skipping, and quickly stood, bowing his head as he followed a step behind. Dazai didn't offer an explanation as he walked through the crowd, ignoring a few calls of his name, a few eyes that followed with quiet curiosity.

They exited through the side of the ballroom and stepped into one of the long hallways, the muffled sound of music fading behind the heavy doors.

The silence was a relief.

Dazai walked ahead a few paces, his hands loosely folded behind his back. Chuuya trailed quietly behind, keeping his gaze low.

"You're quiet," Dazai said eventually, his tone unreadable.

"I didn't want to speak out of place, master," Chuuya murmured. His voice felt small in the vast corridor.

Dazai paused, then turned slightly to glance at him. "You're allowed to speak. Especially when something bothers you."

Chuuya hesitated, unsure what answer was safest. The last thing he wanted was to seem ungrateful - not after everything Dazai had already done for him. But...

"I didn't like the way she spoke," he admitted finally, voice barely above a whisper. "Or the way she looked at you. Or... me."

Dazai looked at him a moment longer, then resumed walking. "Neither did I."

They didn't go back to the ballroom. Instead, Dazai led them to the library, the familiar scent of old paper and quiet peace washing over Chuuya like warm water. The fire had already been lit here, crackling softly in the hearth.

Without being told, Chuuya moved to the thick rug near the fire and knelt down again, his tail curling slightly around his side as he sat. It had become a comfort spot of sorts - his place.

Dazai took the lounge nearby and picked up a book from where he'd left it earlier, though he didn't open it right away.

"I've never been interested in marriage arrangements," he said quietly, eyes watching the fire. "Not even for show."

Chuuya listened closely, his ears twitching slightly.

"They like to think they can trade power the way they trade servants. That loyalty can be bought. That obedience is the same thing as respect."

He finally opened the book, flipping to a marked page with slow fingers. "It's all so dull."

Chuuya wasn't sure why, but something in his chest ached at those words.

For a while, they both sat in silence - Dazai reading, Chuuya watching the flames flicker. The tension that had wrapped itself around Chuuya's shoulders all evening slowly began to slip away. Here, in the quiet warmth of this room, it was easier to breathe again.

A gentle, drowsy haze settled over him, his limbs heavy from the long day. His body curled slightly closer to the fire, not quite laying down but no longer tense.

He could feel Dazai's presence close by - not looming or threatening, just... there.

Safe.

Maybe it was foolish to think that way. Maybe this moment would pass, and tomorrow he'd be reminded that he was still just a servant in a house ruled by ancient, cruel traditions.

But tonight...

Tonight he could pretend he was something more.

Not free. But not entirely caged, either.

And that was enough.

 

---

 

The fire had dimmed to a soft glow now, casting warm shadows over the room and making it easier to pretend the outside world didn't exist. Chuuya sat curled on the carpet near the hearth, his tail loosely wrapped around his legs, ears flicking subtly with every creak or pop from the logs. He hadn't meant to stay awake, but something in the stillness made it hard to let his guard down fully.

Dazai was stretched along the couch behind him again, not sleeping either. A book rested on his chest, one hand loosely draped over it, his gaze cast upward toward the high ceiling.

They had barely spoken since the ball. Chuuya didn't know if he was supposed to. He was still uncertain about the rules — if there even were any. Still, being allowed to rest here by the fire, warm and undisturbed, had been... kind. It made things more confusing.

"Do you miss them?"

The voice broke through the quiet like a stone dropped into still water. Dazai's, soft, almost unsure. Not demanding, just... curious.

Chuuya tensed slightly. It was rare for anyone to ask him anything — much less something that personal. His voice came out quieter than intended.

"...my family?"

Dazai didn't reply right away. The silence that followed didn't feel pressuring, only patient.

Chuuya shifted his weight, arms still loosely wrapped around his knees. "Of course I do," he murmured. "I had a place. I had people who knew me. I didn't have to guess what was allowed and what wasn't..."

His ears lowered a bit as he stared into the fire, feeling the ache creep up again in his chest. He didn't talk about this — hadn't dared. But something about the way Dazai asked didn't feel dangerous.

"They fought for me, when they took me. It didn't matter. I still ended up here."

He hadn't meant to say that much. It slipped out.

Dazai sat up slightly on the couch, the book now forgotten on the cushion beside him. "I'm sorry," he said. It wasn't pity. Just quiet sincerity.

Chuuya gave a small shrug. "You didn't do it."

"No," Dazai said. "But people like me did."

That made Chuuya turn slightly, cautious but curious. Dazai wasn't looking at him. His eyes were fixed on the fire now too, his voice quieter than before.

"There was a time when I did what I was told. Killed when I was ordered to. Drank from whoever they gave me. I didn't think about it much... until I couldn't stop."

Chuuya frowned slightly.

"I was thirteen. They gave me someone to feed on. Said they were nothing, just a thief caught in the wrong place. But they screamed like anyone would. They begged. And I—" he exhaled, eyes still fixed forward. "I couldn't stop once I started. I drained them."

The silence thickened.

"They clapped, afterward," he added bitterly. "Told me I was finally becoming a proper heir."

Chuuya's ears lowered again, unsure what to say. This wasn't a conversation he expected to have with a master — especially not his master. It felt dangerous. But Dazai didn't sound like he was confessing something to manipulate. He sounded like someone trying to understand himself.

"That's why you don't drink from people," Chuuya said, more to himself than anything.

Dazai gave a faint nod. "I can't trust myself to. Not anymore. Even when I'm starving. The blood packs are... safer."

The firelight flickered, soft against Dazai's face. Chuuya looked down, the soft fibers of the carpet warm beneath his palms. He felt the strange weight of this shared stillness — not quite comfort, but something close.

"I don't know what you want me to say," he admitted after a pause.

"You don't have to say anything," Dazai replied. "I just... wanted someone to know. Someone who wasn't part of that world."

Chuuya gave a slow nod, gaze lingering on the fire again. "I'm not part of it. Not really. I'm just here."

Dazai didn't reply, but the quiet between them didn't feel cold.

And maybe, for now, that was enough.

Chuuya pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, finally letting his weight lean a little more into the rug beneath him. Not quite relaxed. Not yet. But less guarded than before.

When he finally closed his eyes, the crackle of the fire and Dazai's steady breathing were the only sounds he heard.

He didn't feel safe. But for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel entirely alone either.

The morning light filtered through the tall, arched windows in pale streaks, casting a muted silver glow across the wooden floors. The fire in the hearth had long since died down, leaving behind only a bed of warm ashes that faintly pulsed with the last remnants of heat. The room was quiet — peaceful in a way that still felt unfamiliar to Chuuya.

He stirred, the thick carpet beneath him soft against his side. His ears twitched with the faint sounds of movement behind him — the rustle of fabric, the shifting of boots. He blinked his eyes open slowly, squinting against the low light before lifting his head just slightly.

Dazai stood near the wardrobe, back turned, slipping his arms into the sleeves of a black coat that hung elegantly off his frame. His shirt hung open at the collar, the ends of the sleeves still unbuttoned as he moved lazily through the motions of dressing.

Chuuya didn't speak. Not yet.

He remained curled on the carpet, one hand absently tucked beneath the blanket that had been draped over him again — he still didn't know if Dazai put it there each night or if it had been left over from before, but he always found it over his shoulders when he woke. A small, quiet kindness.

He was getting used to it — this place, this room, this strange in-between that existed somewhere between servitude and something else. He hadn't been told to leave the room at night. He hadn't been forced to kneel by the door or sleep on the stone floors outside. And the more nights he spent on this rug, under the flicker of the firelight, the more his body began to relax before sleep — not entirely, not yet. But it was progress.

Dazai finally glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable but soft in that distant way of his.

"You're awake," he said simply.

Chuuya gave a small nod, sitting up a bit straighter. He smoothed the blanket over his lap, not quite sure if he should already be up and moving.

"You didn't flinch in your sleep," Dazai added after a moment, buttoning his cuffs.

Chuuya stilled. That was something he hadn't realized. And it made something uncomfortable and vulnerable twist inside his chest.

"Sorry, master" he muttered, out of habit.

Dazai shook his head faintly. "That wasn't a complaint."

Chuuya didn't respond to that. He shifted a bit, running a hand through his hair, ears still angled back slightly. It felt too quiet. Too exposed.

"You've made this your usual spot now, haven't you?" Dazai's voice was light, but not mocking. There was something close to amusement in it, though not in a cruel way.

"I didn't think I was allowed to sleep anywhere else," Chuuya said honestly. "You didn't say no."

Dazai gave a small hum at that, slipping a ring onto one gloved hand. "If I wanted you gone, you'd know."

That should have sounded threatening, but it didn't. It was just Dazai — blunt and dry, as always. Chuuya gave the barest hint of a smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

He watched his master move across the room, pulling a silver chain around his neck and tucking it beneath his collar with a kind of practiced grace Chuuya would never understand. Vampires were always composed like that. Like nothing touched them.

"You have a task this morning," Dazai said, now standing in front of the tall mirror by the dresser. "You'll be accompanying me to the west wing. There's a delivery arriving from one of Mori's suppliers. I need you there to help carry and check the inventory."

Chuuya blinked. He wasn't often given tasks beyond his quiet routine — preparing Dazai's room, fetching things, keeping silent company.

"...Alright," he said after a pause. "Should I change?" he added, glancing down at himself. His shirt was rumpled from sleep, collar slightly askew, and the dark trousers he'd been wearing were creased.

Dazai turned, taking him in for a moment longer than necessary. His expression didn't shift much, but something softened around his mouth.

"There's a uniform in the closet. Black. Folded neatly on the third shelf. It should fit."

Chuuya stood slowly, stretching his arms and tail carefully before padding barefoot toward the corner wardrobe. He hesitated a moment before opening it, still unused to the idea that there were clothes waiting there for him.

Dazai moved past him toward the door, stopping only briefly. "I'll wait in the entrance hall. Come find me when you're ready."

And with that, he was gone, leaving Chuuya alone again in the quiet of the morning — the echo of soft words and the faint warmth of the fire lingering behind.

As he pulled open the closet door and found the folded uniform waiting just where Dazai said, Chuuya couldn't help the small, uncertain feeling that tugged inside him.

He was still a servant. But... for now, it didn't feel as much like a cage..