Chapter Text
The river was a hungry thing. It swallowed the unwary, the foolish and the heartbroken without a second thought, offering only cold silence in return. Nakahara Chuuya had known this since he was a small boy, learning to cast his woven nets into its rushing, foaming depths. His father had taught him the ways of the currents before the winter fever took him, leaving Chuuya to navigate the treacherous waters alone.
The isolation had hardened him, forging a fierce independence that kept him alive through brutal winters and lean springs. He lived in a solitary cabin on a rocky bluff, a sturdy structure of heavy pine logs and mud-chinking that smelled perpetually of woodsmoke and dried herbs.
It was a semi-historical age, a time when myths still clung to the edges of the dark woods and the world was lit by lantern fire and the silver gleam of the moon. People in the nearby village spoke of spirits in hushed tones, offering prayers to shrines built of moss and river-stone, but Chuuya was a practical man. He had no time for ghosts or gods when there were fish to catch and a roof to mend. He worked his hands to the bone, trading his catches for rice, wool and oil at the village market down the valley. As a fisherman, Chuuya respected the water, but he did not fear it. He knew its moods, its sudden swells and its quiet, glassy dawns.
The morning the world changed was cold, the sky was the colour of bruised iron. The wind howled through the skeletal branches of the pines, biting at Chuuya's exposed cheeks as he stood on the rocky precipice overlooking the gorge. He pulled his thick woollen scarf tighter around his neck, shivering as the damp chill seeped into his bones. He could barely feel his fingers inside his heavy leather gloves, but the traps needed checking. The water was exceptionally violent today, churning into a frothing white fury as it battered against the ancient stones.
Chuuya was hauling his traps near the rapids, his muscles straining against the thick, soaked hemp rope, when he saw it–a dark shape tumbling through the turbulent white water. A coat. A pale hand. A man.
For a split second, Chuuya thought it was a trick of the light, a piece of driftwood masquerading as a corpse. The river was known to play tricks on weary eyes, especially in the gloomy light of dawn. But then the body slammed against a jagged rock and Chuuya saw the sickening limpness of human limbs being tossed like a ragdoll.
Without a second thought, Chuuya abandoned his nets. The heavy rope slipped from his calloused palms, sinking into the dark water along with a week's worth of catch. He didn't care. A human life was worth more than a hundred silver trout.
He dived into the freezing shallows, the shock of the icy water punching the breath from his lungs. The cold was an absolute agony like a thousand needles piercing his skin, but adrenaline fueled his desperate strokes. He fought the vicious current that threatened to sweep them both over the gorge, his powerful arms slicing through the water. The river seemed to fight him, pulling back with a jealous and possessive undertow. It roared in his ears, a deafening cacophony of rushing water and breaking waves.
He grabbed a fistful of soaked fabric, his knuckles turning white as he hauled the lifeless weight toward the muddy bank. The current dragged at them, a desperate greedy force, but Chuuya anchored his boots against the riverbed.
“Come on, damn it!” Chuuya gritted out, his jaw locked in determination. Panting, shivering so violently his teeth rattled, he dragged the man onto the stones and fell to his knees beside him.
The stranger was breathtakingly ethereal with dark, curling hair plastered to his pale face and bandages wrapping his neck and wrists. He looked less like a drowning victim and more like a fallen prince, his features carrying a sharp, aristocratic beauty even in his unconscious state. The contrast between the violent, muddy riverbank and his delicate features was stark. But he was entirely unresponsive. His lips were tinged blue and his chest was deathly still.
“Fuck," Chuuya cursed, a harsh panicked sound in the empty valley. He ripped his heavy, soaked gloves off with his teeth and tossed them aside. He pressed his bare hands to the man's chest, pushing down with a desperate rhythm.
"Don't you dare!” Chuuya growled, his voice rough with panic. “You're not dying today, you bastard. Breathe!”
He pushed again, putting his entire body weight into the motion. One. Two. Three.
“Come on!” Chuuya shouted, slapping the man's freezing cheek. “I didn't lose my best trap just to watch you die in the mud! Breathe!”
Water erupted from the stranger's lips. He coughed violently, his body seizing as he rolled onto his side, hacking up mouthfuls of river water. Chuuya let out a breathless laugh of relief, slumping back on his heels pushing his dripping auburn hair out of his eyes. His chest heaved, adrenaline slowly giving way to bone-deep exhaustion.
The man's eyes flew open. They were the colour of dark amber, deep and unfathomable, holding an ancient, terrible stillness. For a moment, those eyes looked at the grey sky and the profound, heartbreaking disappointment washed over the man's features. It was a look of pure, unadulterated exhaustion.
“I survived,” the man whispered, his voice smooth but hollow, scraping against his raw throat.
Chuuya grabbed him by the lapels of his sodden coat, hauling him slightly upward, furious at the man's blatant disregard for his own life. “Are you an idiot? You were drowning!”
“That was rather the point,” the stranger replied, offering a faint mocking smile. “I was hoping the river would finally take me.”
Chuuya froze, his fierce blue eyes scanning the man's face. The raw dismissal of life shook him. He hated death. He had seen too much of it, lost too many to disease and the unforgiving elements. He remembered watching his mother fade, her breaths growing shallow in the deep winter and then his father, leaving him to fight for his survival alone. The memory of their still, silent forms was a brand on his soul. He wasn't angry at the stranger's desire to die; he understood, in a quiet, empathetic corner of his soul, that the world could be impossibly cruel. This man must have had his reasons. He must have suffered a pain so immense that the freezing depths seemed like a warm embrace.
“Well, your plan failed,” Chuuya said, his tongue softening just a fraction, though his grip remained firm. “I'm Chuuya. And you're coming with me. You're not going to die on my watch.”
The stranger–who introduced himself only as Dazai–blinked. He was fascinated. He was the River Spirit, an immortal deity bound to these very waters, attempting yet again to destroy his own indestructible vessel. He had spent the last three days submerged, trying to force his divine lungs to fill with water and expire, only to be rudely yanked onto the shore by a mortal in muddy boots.
Yet here was this fierce, vibrant mortal, so full of life, dragging a god from his own domain. Chuuya's eyes were practically burning with defiance, completely ignorant of the sheer cosmic absurdity of his actions. It was utterly absurd. It was… entertaining.
Very well, Dazai thought, a spark of dark amusement flickering in his chest. I shall play the broken human. He observed the way the mortal’s hands trembled, not from fear, but from the freezing cold. Let’s see how long this little fisherman's fragile heart lasts. He thinks he can fix a shattered eternity with a warm fire and a scowl. This will serve to pass the agonizingly slow decades.
“Lead the way, my valiant rescuer,” Dazai murmured, allowing his eyes to flutter shut as he feigned a swoon.
“Hey! Stay awake!” Chuuya grunted, catching him. He hauled Dazai up, wrapping one of the stranger's arms around his own shoulders. Chuuya bore the brunt of his weight, dragging them both up the treacherous, muddy incline.
“Just put one foot in front of the other. Don't go dying on me halfway up the hill.”
Dazai let his head loll against Chuuya's neck, highly amused by the sheer, stubborn exertion of the human. He could have walked up the hill with the grace of a panther, entirely unbothered by the cold, but he chose to stumble, forcing Chuuya to work harder.
Yes, Dazai mused, listening to Chuuya's ragged breathing. This will be a very entertaining game.