Magic Mirror on the wall who's the cherished one of all?

Trigger warnings: suicide, murder, depression

ℷ

Fingers grasping, reaching, stretching—

Bells chiming, ringing, screaming—

A breath caught, choked, lost—

Shattered.

I was shattered.

I was me, then I was not.

I had no sight, no voice, no sensation.

It was dark and it was light. A kaleidoscope of things in my mind, all in between something and nothing.

If my mind was a mirror, someone had taken a sledgehammer to it and ran off with bits of the broken pieces.

Dead, dying, or alive?

I couldn't tell you.

Words came to me, but some of them had no meaning behind them. Empty placeholders.

Disjointed, disquieting, unsettling, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong—

I was not me.

And then I—

—was gone.

Awareness came to her like a fog rolling off a chilly bay. Slowly, a cold sensation came to the tips of her fingers and toes. Light pierced through her closed eyes. She was weighed down by an unknown force, unable to move or speak for several minutes.

Her eyes slowly creaked open. Blinded by the bright sky above her, she quickly shut them again and screwed up her face in pain. More time passed and eventually, she could move more than her eyes.

Fingers grasped the ground beneath her. She was on cold dirt, the granules getting stuck in her nails. With a great amount of effort, she forced her eyes open again and pushed herself into a sitting position. The world spun around her; everything blurred and tilted as she struggled to focus on what she saw.

It was bright, blindingly so.

She ached. Heavy pain and fatigue sunk into her bones like sand falling through cracks. She couldn't move at all for a very long time.

Only when things became less bright did the pain subside enough for her to open her eyes.

Large things jutted out of the ground. They were large, jagged, reflective, and oddly colored. Her foggy, fumbled mind struggled to find the word for them. She stared at them for several minutes, unable to form coherent thoughts as she searched for the right word.

Crystal.

They were some kind of mirrored crystals. She could see a reflection inside them, and on the outside they were varying shades of purple, blue, white, and tiny hints of green. They towered above her, splintered from the ground.

She reached forward, her fingers touched one of the crystals. She realized what was inside was her own reflection, and when her fingers grazed across the surface, it rippled. She pulled her hand back in surprise, not understanding how something solid could feel like cold water.

The girl stared hard at the reflection in the crystal.

She was

c

o

l

o

r

l

e

s

s

As if someone had drained her of all life, she was a blank page from the top of her white hair to the tips of her toes. The only part of her that resembled anything to the world around her were glassy iridescent eyes that were very similar to the dozens of crystals around her.

Who… am I…?

It was the first sentence she thought. When she considered it, her mind drew a blank.

She could feel, retrospectively, that something was wrong with her. She instinctively knew she was fractured. As the crystals had destroyed the surrounding building, something had ruptured her memories and scattered them into the winds.

She knew words—at least some—and she understood she was a child, but specifics were impossible to grasp.

Who was she? Where was she? What happened?

She could tell she had been in a building, and then something occurred. The crystals destroyed much of it. She looked down at her body, examining the odd scratches and marks. There were wires stuck to parts of her. She peeled them off, letting out a hiss of pain when needles were pulled out with them.

What am I doing?

She didn't know.

She did not feel like she could stay there, but she was not certain where to go.

The girl stood up, her legs wobbled and throbbed. She had no direction, no purpose, yet she felt compelled to move away from where she had awoken. The longer she was conscious and aware of her surroundings, the more certain she knew she had to leave.

The building was thoroughly destroyed. Wood, stone, glass, and everything in between were scattered about the crystal mirrors. Electricity sparked from loose wires, and she could faintly smell something burning and sweet in the air.

She hobbled at first, her body weak and tired. She wanted to lay down, yet she felt she could not.

She wandered into the night, not able to understand why her chest felt so tight and water leaked from her eyes. She put one foot in front of the other, walking forward with no sense of direction. She stepped over broken glass, gravel, and metal.

One foot in front of the other.

It was dark. Too dark to see. Her feet throbbed with such fierce pain she was forced to stop. She collapsed onto the ground, shivering from the cold and discomfort. Her hands stretched out on instinct, grasping at something unseen.

A crystal mirror appeared beneath her, and she fell through it like a stone dropped in a pond. Her world was a blinding kaleidoscope of pale colors and shimmering light. Blood rushed to her head, thrumming in her ears as she fell through a world unseen by reality. Her body was too heavy to do anything else but fall.

She closed her eyes.

ℷ

She re-opened her eyes. A white ceiling was above her. Her fingers twitched. Her body didn't hurt as much as before. The crushing weight that had pressed upon her was gone, replaced with a dull pain in her head. She shifted around, realizing she was in something—

Something—

What was the word?

It was cushioned, and there were scratchy white blankets on her. What was she in?

It squeaked underneath her when she sat up, her mind blanking on the word.

The sound of footsteps neared her. The curtain that surrounded her was pulled aside, and a woman with tanned skin and dark hair smiled at her.

The girl could read a name tag on the woman that read: Dr. Mimi Suno.

Dr. Suno reached forward and placed a hand on the girl's forehead. "Good morning, snowbelle. How are you feeling?"

The girl licked her dry lips, swallowing roughly. How did she feel?

"Tired," she rasped.

"I can imagine." Dr. Suno pulled up a stool to the bed—bed! That was the word!—and grabbed the clipboard that was at the foot of the bed. She unpopped the cap off a pen. "Do you remember what happened?"

The girl mutely shook her head.

"You were found by one of our locals," the doctor kindly explained. "What can you remember?"

She pursed her lips, her brow furrowed as she thought. "I fell."

"Did you hit your head when you fell?"

"I dunno."

"Okay snowbelle. Can you tell me who you are?"

The girl opened her mouth. She closed it. She shook her head. Dr. Suno's brow creased with concern. The doctor continued to ask the girl several more questions, but she was not able to answer any of them.

The doctor, at least, was able to answer some questions the girl had.

The girl felt better because the doctor had put a vitamin and antibiotic IV in her. The girl was malnourished, and had been fighting off an infection which the doctor treated. Her feet were heavily bandaged because the girl had several lacerations covering the bottom, three of which required stitches. She needed thirty-six stitches in total on her feet.

The local who had found the girl found her passed out on his porch. She had been bruised, bloodied, and not wearing anything. Because of how much blood was lost, she had to undergo a blood transfusion as well.

She would make a full recovery, but she would need to stay off her feet for at least a month until the stitches could be taken out. Dr. Suno spoke slowly, pronouncing each word carefully as she gauged the girl's reaction. Every time the white-haired child looked perplexed by something the doctor said, Dr. Suno added more context or explained it differently.

After a little over an hour of talking, Dr. Suno was called away by a bubbly nurse who had a skip in his step and a sparkle in his gaze. He brought food over for the girl to enjoy and kept her company while Dr. Suno tended to another matter.

Eventually, he too was called away and for the first time since waking up again, the girl was left alone.

She tried to wiggle her toes. The action felt stiff and weird, her skin stretched tenderly. She tugged on the hospital gown they had put her in as she found it uncomfortable and itchy. She flexed her fingers, staring down at the small little nicks on them.

She pulled down into the air, grasping at something only she could feel.

Iridescent crystals materialized in front of her, trailing behind her fingers.

She touched the bed she was in, and a smooth mirror formed underneath her. She fell through the crystal mirror, the crystal glossed over her skin like a cold force. She slipped into an odd world of iridescent lights and white voids. As she fell, the heaviness of gravity eased its pressure upon her and her descent transitioned to lackadaisical.

She stretched out her limbs, her glassy eyes wide as she looked around in a world she had created.

Crystal mirrors of varying sizes, shapes, and luminosity floated around her. They were scattered and fractured, not unlike her mind, and each one reflected a different picture.

The same way she knew how to walk, she knew each reflection was somewhere else in that colorful world.

Her world, that world of crystals and mirrors, was separate from the one where Dr. Suno resided.

Gently, carefully, she sat down on a white crystal mirror. Her eyes were wide as she peered through the reflections of dozens of mirrors around her. Some of them moved to hover in front of her, and others receded from her sight.

This was where she belonged.

Watching from afar.

An observer.

She did not remember why she had ever left her special little world in the first place. She could not remember anything past waking up in that destroyed building and being in pain. Whatever happened was lost to her for the moment.

She closed her eyes.

The doctor said she would have to stay monitored, but the girl felt more at ease in her mirrored world than at the little clinic.

She would return once a day, but she would not be willing to stay.

ℷ

Dr. Suno was sweet and considerate. The good doctor was relieved to see the girl all right, more than she was angry that she had left in the first place. It was a small clinic, only a few patients came in throughout the day, so the girl was mindful to return when things were quiet.

Dr. Suno dutifully checked after the girl, keeping up with her treatment to ensure the girl's fever would not return. The girl was enamored by the good doctor, smiling with warmth every time she was affectionately called snowbelle.

Although the girl was fond of the doctor, it was not so strong of an attachment she would stay out of her mirrored world.

In truth, the girl loved to watch people.

As long as there was a reflection, she could peer through and witness what was on the other side. All over the world, from the faded reflection on windows, to the distorted views on puddles, the girl observed humanity.

She watched children play together; men and women helping strangers with large to small tasks; the joy of friendship and family; the empathy shared between one another. There were bad things, too, but so much good.

People who went about their daily lives, doing their best to put one foot in front of the other and absolutely beaming over seemingly small things. She saw a little girl shriek with joy when someone bought her ice cream. She saw an old man burst into tears when someone sketched a picture of his departed wife. She saw a man buy another man lunch because he was in a slump that week.

Kind.

They were so kind.

She loved them. She adored them.

For a month, the girl was beside herself with happiness. The benevolent doctor took care of her a couple hours in the day, and in the rest of her waking moments she watched the beauty that was humanity's compassion.

Friends reuniting after a long time apart; schoolmates playing games and inviting the new kid to join them; a woman saving an animal from a life of misery; a man helping an elderly cross the street by stopping traffic with his motorbike; a teacher going out of their way to bring joy to one of their students—

All of those little acts of kindness filled the girl with love.

After a month, her stitches were all gone, and she was at a "healthy weight" for a girl her age. The doctor guessed she was about six, maybe seven, but neither could know for certain. The girl had a rudimentary education. She could understand two different languages–Japanese and German—but she could not read anything other than Japanese, and her writing was absolutely atrocious—completely illegible. She could count up to fifty, her mind blanking out on how to reach the numbers after that (although she knew they existed). She could add small numbers, yet had a hard time with subtraction.

Her memory wasn't the best. She had overheard Dr. Suno describe her as ditzy because of how little spatial awareness she had—she would frequently overshoot when grabbing something, or miss her mouth when trying to eat, or literally walk into a doorway because she had underestimated when to turn.

Dr. Suno had broached foster care with the girl a few times by that point. She had no identity, and the doctor could only take care of her as long as she was a patient, but even that had a limit.

She was clearly a child, and children needed guardians. Dr. Suno and her husband were both foster parents and had several children under their care. The girl had a feeling the doctor was hinting at including her in their family.

The girl had no desire to be tied down. She preferred her mirrored world, and while she cared for the doctor, she did not want to forfeit her freedom.

The girl had been torn on what to do–she did not want to leave the doctor outright and yet it seemed like she would need to in order to stay free.

As fate would have it, though, circumstances forced her to adapt.

One evening the girl caught a conversation she was not meant to hear.

Reflections of people she thought about always hovered near her in her mirror world. The girl had been pondering about Dr. Suno, and unintentionally listened to a conversation between the doctor and her husband.

"We need money, what are we going to do?" she heard them whisper. "How are we going to get enough to keep this place going?"

"I don't know… but I'm sure we'll figure something out."

"We have to. If they shut us down, the children will be separated again and—"

"I know, I know—"

The girl's gaze shifted away from them, to another reflection.

It started off innocently enough.

The kindly people who had looked after her ran into some trouble. The situation spiraled out of control and one of them ended up in too much debt to handle. Mean and scary men started to come around, frightening the family that had so generously looked after the girl.

Money was what they needed.

Money and the mean people would leave.

So money was what she would get them.

Into her world she went. She searched through the reflections, staring at hundreds—thousands—millions of different options until she could find one with cash hanging around. She reached out her hand and plucked a few here and there. Bit by bit from a variety of people. Never enough to cause stress, or truly hurt.

For days, she plucked.

She stole.

She knew it was wrong. She knew it was bad. She did not mean to hurt anyone—she only wanted to help, truly.

She told herself over and over that it was for a good cause, that it was for good people so it was okay. That the sick feeling in her gut would go away once it was over.

It never did.

She left the money on their kitchen table. It spilled over the edges, falling to the floor without a sound. It towered above her, constantly climbing as she continued to drop more and more of it out of her mirrored world. She could not even see the counter behind the table anymore, nor most of the kitchen floor since so much had fallen over.

It took over everything.

She stared hard at what she had done, an icky ooze bubbling in her gut.

She left.

The discomfort inside her stayed with her, gnawing at her. She could not bear to look at what she left, unable to stomach the inherent wrongness of the situation. She returned to that fractured world, curled into her knees and stared listlessly out at the world.

She watched a man and woman dance in celebration of their marriage, their reflections shiny and distorted against the champagne glasses.

She watched a boy play with his dog, the two so deliriously happy neither could stop grinning.

She watched a father and son reunite after years of being apart, both choked for words.

Only when her stomach started to hurt for different reasons did she tear her gaze away from their happiness. Hunger pains nipped at her, and she was left with a dilemma. She could not bring herself to return to the nice; kind clinic. The shame of her act—no matter how well intentioned—burned her from the inside out.

She did not think she was good enough to stay. They—like so many others—were good people who deserved to be near equally good people.

What was she to do?

For days she stayed in her world, too stubborn to make a decision. The hunger clawed her from the inside out, accompanied by her shame and guilt. Her head throbbed, her limbs felt weaker than melting pudding, and needles dug into her gut with each breath she took.

She realized, in her hazy state, that she would die if she did not reach a decision.

It was that that spurred her hand forward, to reach through another mirror and grab a plate of food that looked too decadent to ignore.

It was not a conscious thought, not a dramatic shift in opinion or anything so powerful.

She did not want to die, it was that simple.

For while she had come to love people, she had also come to love life.

She loved witnessing the kindness in others. She loved watching the flowers bloom. She loved feeling the grass between her toes. She loved the sensation of wind caressing her. She loved the warmth of the sun on her skin.

She loved life.

She could not undo the bad she had done, nor could she accept her justifications. Especially because she would do it again in the same situation. There was no apologies nor regret for her action—only the shame and guilt associated with it.

It was a one time thing. She thought she would never do it again, but time proved that to be untrue. She wanted to live, and to live she needed to eat. She had no name, no home, no plan. She stayed in her mirrored world, and when she could no longer stand the pain in her gut she plucked a plate of whatever looked delicious and she ate her fill.

Again and again, for months.

She stole to eat, and each time she did the guilt and shame dulled in doing so.

I need to eat, she thought. It's only food. It's okay, right?

She only left her world when she needed to relieve herself, or she wanted to clean herself.

Then, in those months, she realized the clothes given to her no longer fit. They were worn down from the repeated trips into streams to clean herself, and tearing at the seams. They could no longer cover her enough for her to be considered decent.

It's only a dress… surely it won't be missed?

It was always small in the beginning. She did her best to take things when she saw there was excess around, and never from anyone who appeared to be hurting or in a bad situation. With each thing plucked, the discomfort she originally had turned numb.

I'm only doing this because I need to. I'm not hurting anyone, so it's… okay, right?

No.

She knew that, in the back of her head, what she was doing was wrong.

But she couldn't stop, couldn't see a way out of her situation.

For years that was how she lived. She would step out into the world more often as the years went by. For the most part she kept to herself.

She loved people. She truly did. She didn't want to disrupt them more than she already had, and so she felt it was best if she stayed out of their lives as much as she could.

It was not an easy life, she had to admit. It was her life though and she did enjoy it as much as she could.

She walked barefoot on sandy beaches; befriended strangers for only a day and left them when the moon rose; she climbed mountains to see that beautiful sunrise from a different perspective.

She had no name, no home, and everything she owned was stolen.

But she loved it.

ℷ

One of her favorite past times was watching classes. She loved art and music especially.

She couldn't attend any schools—no identity—but that didn't stop her from listening in on certain classes. She stole paints, oils, brushes, canvases, sketchbooks, pencils, and so on, and she would follow along in various lectures.

She wasn't talented in it, and didn't let that stop her. It made her heart smile.

Although the girl didn't understand how she was always covered in smudges of paint or ink or graphite at the end of every lesson. She wished she could be tidy like the teachers. Somehow she would always end up with a huge mess.

Music was cleaner in comparison, but a lot harder for her to follow along in lessons. She had no one who could listen to her and tell her if she was off-key. She did her best, although she was unable to find the confidence that what she was doing was correct.

One day a sly idea came to her when she realized one of the music teachers she watched was being substituted.

She borrowed a school uniform, and approached the teacher during a break to perform and ask for pointers.

A good thing, too. She had, evidently, been developing some bad habits.

Every time a substitute or brand new teacher was introduced to one of the music classes she watched, she took the opportunity to test her skills.

It both amused and abashed her when one of the teachers would ask a student about her and they'd be clueless about what to tell the teacher.

ℷ

Then, one day, she saw something beautiful glistening in one of her mirrors.

It was shiny, sparkly, and looked like a little night sky caught in a sphere. There were people surrounding it, speaking a language she did not understand. They admired the item, and she could not help but agree with them.

She only wished she could take a closer look. The reflection was blurry and hard to see the finite details of the beautiful object. So when no one was looking, she plucked it from that world and held it close.

She had no intention of keeping it—truly, really, and sincerely!—She was going to put it right back, but when she was done admiring it she realized that they had removed the glass case around it and thus the reflection was gone.

Alarmed, she searched through many more mirrors, hoping to find another spot near. Evidently none were available.

It took her some time, but she did find a police station with officers speaking the same language. When they all had their heads turned, she dropped the pretty rock onto the front desk, using the reflection of a monitor that had been turned off.

She would learn later that what had transpired made international news.

The rock she had stolen was the world's largest natural black diamond and it was stolen from the Louvre Museum in a place called Paris, France. It was stolen before the exhibit even opened up, and in seconds from when no one was looking… only to turn up many towns away at a police station in Marseille, France.

It was an exhilarating mystery, and it made her heart flutter to think she was the cause of it.

She tried to put her mind from it, but every so often for the next few weeks it would pop in her head. It amused her. A harmless prank could cause such a stir.

No one was hurt. No one was fired over it—although there was a pending investigation. It amazed and baffled many, and it inspired so many to look into.

So… she did it again.

She plucked something shiny and valuable from a place with many witnesses in a moment when no one was looking, and she dropped it off at another random police station.

Oh! The world was abuzz and she had a good laugh over it.

She did it one more time until she realized she'd have to be more careful. They had obtained "partial fingerprints" and people were more on alert.

That girl, now ten, had a big smile on her face.

She loved people.

And now she was starting to love this little game.

Can you solve this mystery?

Can you find who I am, when even I don't know?

She adored it.

Ah, humans were truly delightful! Life was amazing!

Over the year, her game became more elaborate. At first, she only plucked from her world—from safety—but her childish desire to test the limits spurned her to take more and more daring risks. It began as visiting the place the day of prior to her thievery. She would dress up in a variety of disguises, enjoying every minute undercover.

Then it evolved to her stepping fully out of her mirrored world to steal it.

And then it turned into a full on nightly event.

She plucked the items from a variety of places, and always returned them by morning into police custody.

For a long time, she would go undiscovered.

Until one night, her boldness got the best of her.

And her life was irreparably changed.

ℷ

It was meant to be a party. Some private, wealthy businessman, was opening his floor up to many, many associates of equal power or wealth. The girl had caught a bit of the information here and there from some officers.

The police were certain the man had illegally obtained a valuable piece that was stolen from a museum years ago. They did not have enough to arrest the man, nor search his premise, and they were bemoaning the fact that he was hosting a party in celebration of his lawyers.

So she decided to see for herself.

She had gotten the hang of pulling up certain reflections she wanted to find. If she had a general idea of where she wanted to go, the reflections near that area would take over the mirrors nearest to her.

She had a vague idea of where the man lived, and during the day leading up to the party she searched her mirrors to find a spot to enter.

When the sun went down, and the moon had risen above the skyscrapers in the city, she left her world. She had chosen a fancy dress for the party, one that would let her stay hidden in plain sight should anyone notice her.

While her eyes were not "normal" they were not so strange to cause more than a second glance. In that world there were people known as Gifted. Humans with special abilities or powers. There were plenty of them that had physical characteristics to make them stand out.

Gifted humans were rare enough to be valued, and common enough that the average civilian would know about it.

The girl lightly stepped onto the smooth hardwood floor.

There was a loft area not easily accessible. It overlooked the party and held many of the pieces the man was proud of. She stepped into the loft. Immediately she was greeted by the sweet bubbly smell of champagne, along with the savorier spice of a buffet. Loud, boisterous, energized voices were muffled below her. The volume of the noise was enough for the barefoot girl to feel the vibrations against the cool wooden floor.

The room she had stepped in was completely dark, with drapes tossed over many things. She had anticipated something more, but to her surprise, it appeared to be shuttered off with many items already packed away.

In the center of the room was a large hole with a railing around it. She stepped to it, peering down and witnessing the party in full swing. She looked up and noticed a skylight above the hole.

I see, she thought. The hole was there to not obstruct the view of the skylight? She shrugged. Then why not live on this floor? Why do you need so many floors anyway?

People can be so silly.

She walked quietly, admiring some works. She pulled the blankets up to better view them, marveling at how she recognized many stolen pieces. The police had been right about their hunches. The man clearly had a hand in the black market. She couldn't understand why he felt the need to hoard such things.

Beauty should be shared with others, no?

Art and music were universal connections between people. It was a language everyone knew. Stealing such valuable pieces and sequestering them away… the girl shook her head. She could not understand the motive.

A gush of wind startled her, blowing through her long white hair. She turned to where the wind had come from, surprised it was an open balcony. A boy stood at the edge of the balcony, teetering dangerously. Like a doe taking off, her heart jumped into her throat.

She moved instinctively, rushing to him as he started to tilt forward. She grabbed the boy by the back of his black jacket and threw him to the ground. As he flew past her, she got the faint smell of lilies from him.

He stared at her.

She stared at him.

A boy near her age with messy chestnut hair, and dull brown eyes. He had a nice black sweater vest with a white dress shirt underneath and wore black dress pants. The boy looked up at her, eyes wide.

She wondered what she looked like to him to make him stare at her that way. Did she look too out of place with her white hair and iridescent eyes? Was it hard to see her face under the moonlight behind her? Did the wind mess up her hair? Was her dress too strange?

Or did she look—?

"What are you doing?" she whispered harshly to the boy. "You could have died."

"That was the point," he said. "You shouldn't be here."

She gasped, suddenly remembering her entire purpose. Worried that the boy might suddenly call for others, she rushed to silence him. She pinned him beneath her, placing a hand over his mouth and shushing him.

"Will you be the one to kill me?" he asked with a sardonic smile.

"What?"

It slipped out without warning, alarm shot through her. She removed her hand from his mouth. The words were strange, certainly, but it was the intent she felt underneath them that threw her off-kilter.

"I—I'm not going to kill you," she whispered harshly, indignant.

"Ehh? Then there's no bite to your threats?" he asked, dark brown eyes cold as he sneered.

"I wasn't threatening you," she argued. "Just—shhh. Please."

"Wow. I've never been asked please by someone who just assaulted me—"

She put her hand back over his mouth. "... Please hush. I don't want us to get caught."

The strange boy slowly nodded. She held his gaze for over a minute, and once satisfied he wouldn't start screaming for others, she removed her hand again.

"What are you even doing here?" she asked, perplexed by the boy.

What am I going to do about him?

She had never had a witness before.

What was she supposed to do?

"I was going to jump," he said, glancing at the balcony.

Her heart skipped a beat from the sheer horror of that statement.

"You're joking," she whispered.

But no.

He did not sound the least bit amused by it, and that cold, dead look in his eyes—

He means it?

Her stomach dropped faster than a sinking stone. Coldness set upon her as a starved wolf would pounce on prey.

"Why would I joke about that?" he asked her, his smile stretching wider and wider in spite of the terrible words he said.

WHAT?!

"You—You can't!" she blurted out, panicking. "D-Don't throw your life away."

"Why not?"

WHAT KIND OF RESPONSE IS THAT?!

"You—You—You have so much to live for!" she fretted. She sat up and wildly gestured with her hands in her panic. "Um, um, um—and—you—movies! You won't get to see any new movies in the theater, or, or, try new food, or, or find a good book, or, um, f-f-fall in love, or, or—Family! What about your family?"

"Don't have any," he said.

"Friends?!"

"Nope," he said.

AHHHH WHAT DO I SAY?!

"You—You still can't!" she cried out. "Your—your life is too precious."

He laughed without warmth. "To who?"

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH?!

"UM. UM." She gripped her head, white hair bunched together in her fingers. "ME!"

"Oh really now?" he laughed louder. "What's my name?"

"I don't need to know that!" she exclaimed. "If you—if you die I'll cry! I'll be devastated."

"Devastated," the boy repeated in dispassionate bemusement.

"Truly," she said, eyes wide and glistening already at the thought. "Life is such a precious thing. You are precious."

"Why?"

She gestured to the art around. "All of this can be remade or replaced." She pointed to him. "You cannot. You are irreplaceable. P-Precious. S-So of course I'll cry if you do something so painful as throw it all away."

"All the reasons you've pointed out are incredibly selfish," he said. "I should live for you? Because you will be sad? How entitled can you be?"

She bit her bottom lip, thinking fast. "Then—then I—I—I'll help you find a reason, okay?! So don't—don't give up!"

"Why? Is there any value to living?"

"Yes! LOTS!" She hadn't meant to shout that part, and as soon as she realized how loud she sounded, she covered her mouth with her hands.

The boy's eyes narrowed. "I don't agree."

"I—I'll prove it to you," she said. "I—"

"Hello?" a voice sounded. The door to the loft had opened up and a man's voice echoed not far from them. "Did someone come up here?"

She sucked in a sharp breath, hopping off the boy. "I'll—I'll find you tomorrow."

"Sure," he mumbled. She fled to the balcony, jumping over it and falling into a crystal mirror conjured below.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

Although she had made a promise to the boy, she was a little lost on how to go about fulfilling it.

Oh she had no qualms of thinking up how wonderful life was.

She simply did not know where to start.

There were so many incredible things. She didn't understand how anyone could say there was nothing good in life. It boggled her mind.

She knew there were bad things—she had witnessed horrors in her mirrors—but the good outweighed the bad. With every fiber of her being, she believed that people were inherently good and kind. When given the chance, most humans would want to be the hero in their own story. They craved love and positivity. Even when things looked difficult or upsetting, they found a way to plow through.

Truly, what an admirable species.

She had a feeling the boy did not think the same way.

So… start small?

She picked a bouquet of her favorite flowers. She didn't know all their names, but she did learn two of them—brunnera and delphinium. They had such weird names she couldn't forget them even if she tried. They were pretty and blue and smelled faintly of clean air in the mountains.

The first time she visited the boy since making that promise, she stepped out of the reflection of a window.

She had met him in what she assumed to be his bedroom. It was a large room with only a couple pieces of furniture inside. There was a bed with gray sheets, a nightstand beside it, and a dresser. There was nothing else of note there in spite of how large it was.

He was nonplussed by her arrival, his eyes overcast with bleak somberness. He laid on his bed, not moving, still in the clothes he had worn from the previous night.

His room had a lot of floor-to-ceiling windows in it, but most of them were covered by heavy curtains that did not let a shade of light in. The ones that were drawn back had a tint so intense they were almost black mirrors. The only light in the room poured behind her from her mirror world.

"You came," he said quietly. He continued to stare up at the ceiling.

"Mm-hmm." She quietly approached his bed, holding the bouquet of flowers loosely in her hands. She sat beside him. "Are you sleepy?"

"I'm tired," he quietly said.

"I won't keep you long then," she said. She held the flowers out to him with a smile. "I brought you these."

"Plants," he flatly said, clearly unimpressed.

"They're pretty, aren't they?" she asked excitedly. "And they smell really nice. Go on, take a sniff."

He obediently took a sniff. "And?"

"This is one thing to look forward to," she perkily said. "There's whole fields of them, you know. I'll take you to my favorite one if you like. It smells great, and when you walk barefoot across it, it tickles."

"Walking barefoot is how you get worms and parasites," he dismissed with scorn.

The girl thought of the wiggly brown worms she had seen at the base of flowers. She wasn't aware of what a parasite was, so she made a mental note to look it up later. "... I suppose? Do you like worms?"

"Who likes worms?"

"Worms help flowers grow," she said. "Without them, we wouldn't have these."

He took a deep breath, then rolled over to turn away from her. "Whatever."

She looked around his dark room. "Um, should I get a vase?"

"Don't," he said with surprising sharpness. "Don't go out of this room."

She tilted her head. "Okay. Would you like to hold them? They feel nice to hold too."

He sighed. The boy sat up. He tiredly grabbed the bouquet, and when he did she noticed his wrists were covered in white bandages. She wondered what he did to get hurt. "I'll take care of these so you can—you can leave."

He did say he was tired, she thought.

"No jumping out balconies while I'm gone?" she asked.

"No balcony high enough here," he dryly retorted.

She winced. "I hope the flowers brighten your day when you get up. Sweet dreams."

She hopped off the bed. She walked across the white carpeted floor to return to her mirror world. The reflection in his tinted windows shimmered, her world opening up like a curtain being drawn.

"Your name?"

"Name?" she repeated, pausing at the question.

No one had asked for a name before. She hadn't thought about one either. She turned back to face him, her head cocked to the side like a curious cat.

"I don't have one," she said.

"I see."

"And you?" she asked. "You have a name, don't you?"

"No," he said with such certainty she had to believe him. She nodded, accepting that answer. Perhaps some people simply didn't have names.

She smiled, happy to have that in common with him. "Goodbye for now, fellow no-name. I'll see you tomorrow."

He did not respond as she left.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

The next day she brought food from her favorite places. Danishes, sweet rolls, potato soup, fresh bread and so on. All of it was warm and comforting to eat. His room was still dark, but at least he had a lamp on when she came to visit.

She noticed he had finally changed out of his clothes from the party two nights prior. He laid on his bed and stared up at the ceiling when she came by.

"I brought food," she said as she stepped out of her mirrored world.

"I'm not hungry," he said. His stomach betrayed him by letting out a loud gurgle as soon as he smelled the hot food. He clicked his tongue. The small boy sat up, managing something close to a glare. "What did you bring?"

"A lot of stuff that always makes me smile when I eat it," she said, pushing in the cart she had stolen. She rolled it up to his bed. She uncapped the potato soup that was in a thermos and poured it into an awaiting bowl. She offered the bowl and a freshly baked bread roll to the boy, who reluctantly accepted them. She glanced around the barren room, wondering where he put the flowers.

He must have guessed her thoughts because he said: "They're dead. A beauty short-lived."

"Dead?" she asked, glancing over at the vase he put them in. It was on the nightstand opposite of the single lamp in the room. She stepped closer to it, and was greeted by an itchy, burning smell.

He put them in bleach?

She had to admit they were certainly wilted. She put a hand over her mouth as she thought through her memories. Did she know about any flowers that could live in bleach? No.

Wait—wasn't bleach used—

She beamed, turning to him. She delightedly folded her hands together in front of her, her entire demeanor jubilant."You didn't drink bleach!"

The boy incomprehensibly stared at her. "No?"

"I'm glad," she said. "You chose not to drink bleach. A shame about the flowers, but they were pretty, right?"

He paused. His dark coffee-colored eyes narrowed in thought, as if he were trying to predict what she would say next. He reluctantly said, "Yes. And now they're dead."

"In a way," she said, "but they'll stay in your memories. They'll always stay pretty in your mind."

He was incredulous. "What does that matter?"

"It's a good memory," she said brightly. "I'll give you more good memories. So much more! Until all the good memories outweigh the bad, I'll fill up your heart and mind with all that I can give."

"You're filling up something that's got holes at the bottom," he said. "You shouldn't waste your time."

"Spending time with you is far from a waste." She sat beside him on the bed, gesturing to the food. "Eat, eat! Warm food will warm your heart up, you know?"

He petulantly muttered, "What if I like being cold?"

She smiled. "I can work with that. Dress warmly for tomorrow, okay?"

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

The next day she prepared a special surprise for him.

Out of the mirror they stepped into snow. Their feet crunched into the soft white ice.

Ahead of them was a frozen lake, solid and obsidian black. It was sheer and shiny; smooth and polished to reflect the night sky above them. Around them were stony mountains with snowy tops.

There was no sound, no movement, no signs of life anywhere to be seen. They were far away from civilization in an isolated, frozen land.

Across that wide ebony surface reflected something strange.

In the sky above them were stars—numerous amounts, more than any the boy had ever seen in person—but more than that there was light. A soft, ethereal glow that snaked its way across the sky in shades of green, blue, and everything in between.

They could see their breaths with each exhale, the puffs of air lingered for a moment before disappearing into the quiet night.

She tugged him forward, and that was when he noticed a small little spot had been dug out in the snow at the edge of the lake. Pounds of snow had been shoved aside with blankets to help insulate.

His eyes were wide, a moment of genuine surprise showed on his face before it was gone.

Or perhaps hidden.

"I've heard freezing to death is painful at first," he said. He had spoken softly, but the words echoed loudly in the still quietness. He grimaced upon realizing.

"No one's going to die tonight," she said as she continued to pull him forward. She wrapped a blanket around him, then a blanket around herself. The girl sat in the dug out on more blankets. She patted the spot beside her, her smile warm. "Come here. This is what I wanted to share with you today."

He made a great show of reluctance. His face twisted in disdain, and he grumbled about how uncomfortable the ground was as he sat beside her. "What's the point of this?"

"This," she said. "This view—this memory. Isn't it beautiful?"

"They're lights."

"Yes," she agreed. "Aren't they the loveliest thing?"

"They're lights. Replace a bulb in a kitchen with green and you'd get the same effect," he derisively dismissed. He sneezed. "Ugh. And it's freezing."

She felt bad that he was cold. He hadn't dressed warmly despite her warning. She got up from her spot, and pulled the blanket off him. He protested, but his words fell silent when she sat behind him. She draped his blanket over his legs before she sat down, and as she sat down, she pulled him into her. She wrapped both of them in her blanket, and she hugged him closely from behind.

The back of his head rested against the crook of her neck. She grabbed his hands—so cold—and started to gently rub them to help circulate the blood.

"Warmer?" she asked him, smiling again.

He blankly stared at her for several seconds, his expression impossible to read. She counted to thirty until he spoke again.

He averted his eyes to the night sky as he mumbled, "Yeah."

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

For three months, her showcase went on. She brought him a variety of things that made her happy, hoping to elicit a smile from the boy. So far nothing worked.

She thought that was all she had to do to help him.

At the end of their first few months together, she realized how horrendously wrong that assumption was.

She entered his room, and immediately felt something was wrong.

A mixture of acrid and saccharine stench assaulted her. Her face reflexively scrunched up in disgust at the same moment queasiness dropped into her stomach. His room was eerily quiet, and dark. The only light was from her mirror world behind her, casting everything in long shadows.

She spotted the top of his head on the other side of his bed. She quietly walked around, feeling the carpet against her bare feet. Rounding the bed she found him sitting on the floor, his back against the bed. It was hard to discern in the darkness—it took her a few seconds to register what she was seeing—and when she realized she paled in horror.

His left hand was burned and bleeding. There was blood dripping down the left side of his face. Discarded near his left hand was a gun that looked slightly mangled.

It did not take her long to conclude that it was a backfired suicide attempt.

Her entire frame shook with agonizing anxiety. She was cold, colder than she had ever been in her entire life. All the air had left her and she was speechless, stunned into silence.

He did not look at her. He did not pay her any mind.

He lifelessly stared ahead at the wall, an emptiness so deep it seemed impossible to fathom in his eyes.

One second.

Two seconds.

At three seconds, she started to move.

She drew open the curtains, letting in the evening sunlight so she could see. He flinched at the light, squinting to readjust. She picked up the gun, and used her mirrors to drop it into the ocean. She searched his bathroom for bandages, and upon not finding any, she plucked—stole—them fresh from a factory, along with ointment and disinfectant.

He hissed in pain when she started to wipe away the blood with the disinfectant, but did not make any moves to stop her.

He did not say anything.

She did not say anything.

To treat his hand, she had to unwrap the bandages on his arm. She took a deep breath when she found the angry scars that were dug into his skin.

One breath.

Two breaths.

She cleaned them up, then wrapped everything in fresh bandages. The gash—burn—in his head was too big to have a bandage slapped on it, so she had to wrap the gauze around his entire head.

She threw out everything that was dirty. She picked up his room. He never moved, never reacted, did not do anything in response to her actions.

Once everything was taken care of, she turned to him. She hadn't stopped shaking. She was sick. So damn sick. She wanted to throw up. Wanted to cry. She was out of her mind with fear, with terror at what had nearly happened.

She wanted to ask that same question the first time they met.

Why?

But the silence in that room was oppressive and draining. It weighed her down, keeping her voice firmly suffocated.

One step.

Two steps.

She picked him up. He was light. Too light for a boy his height and age. She placed him into his bed, crawled in beside him, and hugged him as tight as she dared. She clung to him, shivering from a chill that emanated deep within her.

It was the first night she spent outside her mirror world, and she spent it holding on to the boy out of fear that if she let go, he would be successful on his next attempt.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

In the morning, she woke up far earlier than he did. She laid beside him, the nameless boy, as anxiety cruelly seized her.

She had never felt so helpless.

What do I do? The girl's thoughts circled around this question. What did she do? How could she help?

She didn't—

She didn't want him to die.

She felt like if she couldn't find a way to help him, to—to—

She was so scared. Out of her mind with fear at the thought of walking into his room again to find him successful.

The fervent terror etched into her mind from last night spurred her forward.

She had thought—she had so stupidly, so mistakenly thought—

She hadn't realized—hadn't truly accepted—

She was wrong.

What she had been doing before was wrong.

The things that made her happy clearly didn't do the same for him. There was—there was a chasm between them. An invisible wall he had erected that she had no idea how to break through. The emptiness, the apathy, in his eyes was not something she knew how to deal with.

It both humbled and horrified her how utterly wrong she had been.

What was she to do?

She couldn't—she couldn't bear the thought—

Her stomach was a pretzel knot when she thought about the scars on his arms, their first meeting, what he just tried to do—

She didn't know what to do, and so she went to libraries across the world to hopefully find answers.

How do you fix a broken heart? How do you make someone happy?

Her questions led her to books thicker than her arms and filled with words she did not understand. The books threw words around like monoamine oxidase, enzymes, neurotransmitters, norepinephrine, and so on that she couldn't wrap her mind around. Even when using a dictionary afterward, she was only left more confused.

She wandered between aisles and libraries, wanting to cry out of frustration. Every so often she was overcome by her terror that she trembled like a leaf caught in a storm. She only wanted to help him.

He said he wanted to die—he wanted to jump and she thought—she thought—

Oh, how wrong she was.

Her heart broke and she wept. She cried quietly into the books she had piled on a table at a library, unable to stop the burning tears. An older gentleman approached her and offered her a handkerchief as he asked her why she was crying. She hiccuped as she explained she couldn't find a way to make her friend happy.

The man looked over the books she had laid out, his face darkening into sympathy. He said he would be back, and he left for a scarce few minutes before he returned with something else.

"Battling Depression."

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

The following morning, she arrived with bags full of stuff. She dumped it onto the edge of his bed.

He was still asleep, not even stirring.

She opened up his curtains, and he groaned softly into his pillow. Sunlight poured into his bleak white room. The blood stains from his attempt yesterday were a dull brown spot that she found difficult to ignore. It made her shiver.

"What are you doing?" he mumbled. He yawned as he sat up, stretching.

She sat on his bed, crawling over to him. She pulled out a brush from one of the bags and started to brush his hair. Her voice cracked, a heavy burden stuck in her throat as she said, "I'm—I'm going to take care of you."

"What?"

"In the mornings. I'm—I'm going to help you start your day," she said. Being in that room and seeing him covered in bandages hurt. Her eyes burned, and a chill colder and more intense than any blizzard she'd been in settled its way in her heart.

To think that he was hurt so badly—

Her hand gripped the hairbrush tightly. She bit hard on her bottom lip, willing herself not to cry again.

Habits were healthy. Routine was healthy. Maintaining yourself was the first step.

That was what the book said. The first step in recovery was self-care, but she had never—ever—seen the boy take proper care of himself. He showered only when he smelled bad enough to cause her to bulk, and only changed clothes if he was leaving.

She didn't think she could persuade him to follow those steps. Not the surly boy who bickered and complained over everything else. A lot of the books said he needed professional help—a therapist, or a psycho-something who could give him medicine.

She had a gut feeling that wouldn't sit well with the boy, however, and she did not think she could force him.

Conventional means were out, and so she turned to the unorthodox.

He wouldn't take care of himself, so she'd do it for him.

It was something she could do. Something small, and yet it was a vital step in the recovery process.

She wasn't going to bat around, or only focus on the positives.

She'd do everything she could to help, from the ground up.

He yawned again—which made her yawn—and said. "Oh, really?"

"Yes," she said. "That's—that's fine, right? You don't care, right?"

"I don't care," he tiredly confirmed. "Do whatever you want."

"Mn."

Once brushed, she changed his bandages. She laid out clothes for him that he stared blankly at. When she realized he wouldn't get dressed on his own, she started the process for him. He sighed irritably halfway through and shooed her away so he could change his pants.

"Now what?" he dispassionately asked.

"Breakfast," she said, holding out a hand to him. "Come on."

"And then I can go back to sleep?" he asked.

"No. Then we're going for a walk.

He turned to face her, atramentous eyes bored into hers. She almost flinched when she saw how dark they were.

"A walk," he faintly repeated. "For fun?"

Although his words were not harsh, she felt an edge in his voice when he asked.

"Yes," she said, stretching out her palm. "In the sun."

"I hate the sun," he muttered as he accepted her hand.

"I know," she said, "but it's good for you."

"Why are you even doing this?" he asked.

"What?"

"You don't know me. You have no reason to go this far."

Her brow furrowed. "What do you mean I have no reason? You're in pain—you're unhappy. That's reason enough."

"I'm nobody."

"That's not true," she said. "You're somebody to me. I see you're—you're not happy. I want to make you happy."

"But you're scared. You were scared last night. You're still scared," he said.

"Of course I'm scared," she whispered. "I'm terrified for you."

He was silent, face closed off and unreadable to her. She could keenly feel that distance between them. The shields he had raised were nigh impenetrable. She wondered if she could ever breach them, ever lower them to reach him. There was a dull ache in her chest, a pang of something she did not understand.

And then he spoke as he turned his head away from her. It was so quiet, so soft, that she wondered if she had imagined it.

Because surely the boy she had known would not say those words?

Surely he did not say—

"Thank you," he whispered.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

He was a ragdoll.

Obedient. Quiet. Detached.

The invisible gorge between them was thin enough she felt like she could reach him if only she could stretch her arms far enough, and yet she couldn't quite cross. He dazedly accepted and followed her commands in the mornings and evenings.

She wasn't sure what he did during the day when she left him. She had spied on him a few times on occasion, and found him in random places she didn't recognize or sitting alone in his room. He didn't attend school. He didn't have friends. He didn't have family.

He had a big house that was mostly empty, and once a month a man would come by and drop off cash. The boy had stacks of cash laying on a kitchen counter that had accumulated from past visits. It was a strange situation. She wanted to inquire more about it, but the boy had a sour expression on his face whenever she asked about his "home."

The only time she saw him become enraged was at the mention of his parents.

So she kept quiet. The book said to not pry if they weren't ready to talk.

In the morning she'd open his curtains to let in sunlight, brush his hair, help him get dressed, take him out to breakfast at a random restaurant in the world, and then the two of them would either go for a walk or relax at a scenic location. She left him during the day at his request, and return in the evenings to have dinner with him, make sure he took a bath, change his bandages, and keep him company until he dozed off.

Sometimes they would do more. Sometimes that was all he could handle.

Patience.

The book stressed she had to be patient with him. It was an illness, and it was something that had to be fought for years.

They settled into the routine for a few months, and he remained a ragdoll.

"What do you do?" he asked her one evening after dinner.

It was rare for him to talk. Even rarer for him to be the one to initiate conversation.

The girl tilted her head. "Do?"

"Besides playing nurse," he said.

"Oh, um… I like to explore," she said. "I like to visit a lot of different places and meet people. I like to listen in on classes… I really like music and art."

"Do you play?"

"Mm-hmm. I've started learning the piano," she said, smiling at the thought of playing the piano. "Would you like to try?"

He shrugged.

She glanced at the alarm on his nightstand. She had gotten it for him to help track their routine. She wanted to make sure he woke up and went to bed at a regular time to try and help him find a sleep schedule. According to the books she read, maintaining a sleep schedule was crucial for the body's internal clock. With a well-regulated internal clock, anyone could fall asleep and wake up easier, and it drastically improved the quality of sleep.

He always said he was tired, yet he would be more than willing to sleep for thirteen hours a day if she let him. He clearly wasn't getting good sleep, and having a schedule would help with that.

The clock read that it was almost eight at night. That would be around the time she would usher him into the bathroom so he could go to bed at nine and be asleep by ten.

Some leeway should be fine for tonight, she thought. As long as it wasn't a regular break and they returned to the schedule tomorrow, she figured it'd be okay.

She conjured a crystal mirror that reflected a room she frequented after he went to bed. The two of them stepped through.

She brought him to an empty music room. It belonged to a school, and since it was well past school hours no one was there. It was the music class she had watched many times, and where she practiced on their instruments when no one was looking.

She was careful to not let anyone see her, but she wasn't perfect. Some students had heard her playing late at night. As a result, the school thought they had a ghost in the music room.

Thankfully, none of the students had been able to set up cameras that she couldn't avoid.

It was a nice music room. Large enough to fit a variety of instruments without being too crowded, while also being small enough to feel cozy when a full class was in session. She really liked the teacher for it as well, as they were clearly passionate in what they preached.

She sat at the piano, eagerly patting the spot on the bench beside her.

The boy plopped beside her.

"I'm not very good at reading sheet music," she bashfully admitted. "But I've practiced songs I like."

She tapped the keys slowly, softly at first; warming up her fingers, and checking to ensure none of it sounded out of tune. Satisfied with what she produced, she began to play Midnight Waltz. It was a song best heard as an orchestra—the class was practicing it—but she loved it so much she learned the notes for the piano, violin, and flute.

From there, she moved into playing Slavonic Fantasy, then to Merry Go Round of Life.

As she played, a smile bloomed across her face. Jubilantly, her fingers gracefully tapped each key. She couldn't resist exuding delighted elation as she played, loving the sound and sway of the music. She subconsciously swayed her body side to side, not realizing she was doing so until she accidentally bumped into the boy when she grew too enthusiastic.

She was startled. "Oh! I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," he said quietly, his expression difficult to read. Brown eyes met her own, and perhaps it was wishful thinking on her end, but they did not look as distant as normal.

"Would you like to try?" she whispered.

He looked down at the keys. "... Play that first song again."

She did, and halfway through he reached his hand out to play alongside her. He played one half of the piano, and she played the other half. From the first song, and into the second song, he kept pace with her.

She wondered how often he had practiced the piano to play so well with her. She looked over to ask him—

When she looked over, she saw it.

Tiny.

Small.

And so… so… precious.

More dazzling than any gem she had stolen. More beautiful than any painting. More mesmerizing than any orchestra. Her heart thumped, her fingers hesitating for only a brief second as she was utterly enraptured by what she saw.

The boy was smiling.

He was smiling as he focused on their fingers.

It wasn't a fake smile, nor was it filled with scorn. It was sincere.

Small, awkward, and lovelier than any flower.

Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked rapidly to clear them away.

It was only for that song, and neither commented on it, but that was okay.

That smile was everything to her.

She couldn't afford to lose.

Side by side, shoulder to shoulder, the two continued to play lullabies into the night.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

At the end of their first year together the boy reached a kind of epiphany.

He left early in the morning and did not return to his bedroom until late. She was about to go looking for him when he returned in a black coat and said, "I found something to do."

She beamed. "Congratulations!"

He smiled. It was not a nice smile, and it threw her off for a few moments.

She didn't understand why he had smiled so darkly, nor why his eyes seemed colder than normal.

But come the next day she would.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

"I killed someone today."

He said it calmly, as if remarking on the weather. He was so nonchalant, she didn't believe she heard him correctly. She said, "Pardon?"

"I killed someone today," he said. "Part of my initiation, you see."

"Initiation…?" she numbly repeated, her mind going blank at what he said. "You—You murdered someone?"

"Yes," he said, turning to look at her. Empty , dark coffee eyes stared at her. There was more than hollowness in his gaze. That day there was something twisted and cold. As soon as his eyes met hers, she felt like she was an organism under a microscope.

He was studying her, gauging her reaction.

And how was she supposed to react to that?

It was baffling. Completely unexpected and she honestly didn't know what to feel. A part of her was in denial that a boy so young could be so… callous. She understood he did not like his life, but she had not expected he did not like life period.

No… wait…

That wasn't quite right either.

Cold, empty, and apathetic were words to better describe the boy. He did not have an active hatred or disdain for others. He just… didn't care. He didn't care about his life, and so, she supposed, he did not care for the life of others.

She knew he was not right, but to go so far as to murder someone—

"Do you still think I should live?" he asked her. "Do you still think my life is precious?"

Her mouth fell open, stunned by his question. "Wrong actions don't invalidate your life."

"I'll kill again," he said with a smile. It was a sick smile, more of a self-depreciation sneer.

"Why?" she asked, unable to comprehend his thought process.

"Why not?" he asked in return. "I know why you won't, but I don't think the same way. Not all life is precious. Not everyone is valuable." He pointed to her. "You are worthless in society's eyes. You contribute nothing. If anything, you're a nuisance—"

She squashed his cheeks to keep him from saying anything else. Hot anger surged from her gut. She was enraged, brimming with fury at his audacity. Where did a boy who hate himself become so arrogant he felt entitled to take a life? She couldn't understand, couldn't fathom his thought process. How did he get from point A to point B?

He was miserable and in turn wanted to make others miserable?

No, no, that couldn't be right. She saw no hatred in him.

Only detachment.

Her bafflement fueled her anger.

She glowered at him. "All life is precious. Everyone born into this world was meant to be loved. Everyone is precious to somebody."

"I'm not," he flatly said, slapping her hands away and glaring at her.

"You are," she snapped, incensed from that boy.

"There is not a single person who would agree with you," he retorted. "Not. One."

The boy was smiling.

He was smiling as he focused on their fingers.

It wasn't a fake smile, nor was it filled with mockery. It was sincere.

Small, awkward, and lovelier than any flower.

"I don't need anyone else to agree with me. I know I'm right. I care about you. I want you to live and be happy. You are precious to me."

"Oh really?" he mocked. "The next person I kill, I'll be sure to brag about that. A nobody cares about a monster. Kudos to the world."

"You shouldn't k—"

"Shouldn't, couldn't, wouldn't," he laughed mirthlessly. "It doesn't matter. What's done is done, and I've chosen this path. You can't stop me unless you kill me."

"Why?" she whispered.

"Because," he said, "I want to see it." He looked away from her, out his bedroom window and into the city on the horizon. "It's something I can only see there, and to stay there I have to do this."

She didn't understand. She bit her tongue to keep from pressing. She knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't tell her unless he wanted to, and if he wanted her to know he would have already explained it. The fact that he was being vague and talking in circles meant he would never tell her. Her hands curled into fists, frustration nipped at her patience. "That doesn't give you the right to kill people."

"I never said it was a right." He turned back to face her, sharply studying her. "Well?"

"What?"

He smiled coldly. "Aren't you going to show me something new today? Another reason to live? Or… will you let me go?"

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

She didn't understand. She wasn't sure she even wanted to at that point. To so callously end someone else's life over a whim was bizarre and appalling. She was furious that he had done so, and evidently done it without a second thought. And he planned to do it again!

Turning away meant abandoning him. It would validate everything he had been arguing up to that point—that his life no longer held meaning.

He would try to kill himself again, and he might very well succeed.

Leaving him then would be tantamount to forfeiting his life.

As a thief she had no leg to stand on to condemn him for breaking the law, even if they were (to her) wildly different things. Stealing items and murdering someone felt leagues different, but in many cultures they had similar punishments. Morally she found it reprehensible and damning, but she knew that if he cared about that in the first place he wouldn't have done it.

He barely had motivation to take care of himself.

Energy to care about others? Certainly not.

He had to learn to care for himself.

Once that was done, maybe he'd be able to empathize with someone else.

Maybe.

After reading so many mental health books, she couldn't be certain of anything regarding his mind.

All she could do was try.

Try to help him. Try to help others.

Just… try.

Small, awkward, and lovelier than any flower.

She took another deep breath, breathing out slowly. She re-opened her eyes, and marched up in front of him. She grabbed him by the collar and yanked him down to meet her gaze. She glared defiantly at him.

"Murdering is wrong. It will always be wrong. What you did—and what you claim you're going to continue to do is wrong." Her grip tightened on his collar. "But it doesn't make you any less of a person—any less valuable. All life is precious. I'm going to teach you that. No matter how long it takes, I'll get it through your stubborn head."

She released his collar. She took another deep breath and let it out slowly.

She was still angry with him. It would take time to not be, but she wasn't going to let her rage stop her from helping.

"We're going to an arcade," she said curtly, struggling to keep from snapping at him again. "And we're going to play video games together."

"Fun," he said dryly, straightening out his shirt.

"That's right," she agreed. "We're going to have fun doing things that other kids enjoy. Kids who don't murder."

"Murder can be fun."

"Please stop before I do something I regret."

He stared at her. Then he grinned rather mischievously. "When I killed—"

She squashed his cheeks together, glowering. "Are you trying to piss me off?"

"Yeth."

"Why?!"

He never answered.

She wasn't sure he even knew why.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

He was bitter.

Some days it would flare up and he'd snap at her to leave him alone already.

It showed in his actions and his tone. It wasn't prevalent right away, but she noticed the change ever since he joined whatever it was. Port-something?

In the mornings he was quiet, still half-asleep. He did not speak to her while she helped him get ready for the day. He was dutifully obedient, letting her move him around like a stringless puppet. He never protested when she wiped his face, combed his hair, changed his bandages, or helped him get dressed.

There was a dullness in his gaze that made her heart hurt, and she was nervous to let him go.

However.

When they met up again in the evenings, she could see a darkness beneath that apathy.

Bitterness. Anger. Resentment.

Some days it would be shoved down and he would indulge her in whatever suggestion she had for him to try.

On terrible days—which were blessedly very few—he'd say something cruel that would bring her to near tears. He'd scream at her to leave him be, even threaten to physically force her to leave, but she could read that look in his eyes—

If she ever left on those bad, bad days, he'd make another attempt.

So she stayed. She stayed even when he was awful, and when he ran out of steam he'd collapse in a tired heap.

She'd pick him back up, and tuck him into his bed.

For months this was their new routine until a cool fall evening.

That autumn evening, she arrived earlier than expected. She was excited to show him a new game. He had recently become interested in platformer games, so she had spent the day hunting for highly rated games for him.

He walked in and immediately she smelled blood. Her head whipped around, eyes wide as the memory of his failed attempt flashed in her mind. She rushed to him, stopping short when she saw the gore that was caked onto his form.

Her heart stopped. She dropped the bag of video games she had retrieved earlier.

She could not tell what was his or not.

"Are you hurt?" she whispered. Her voice cracked.

He shrugged. "I'm alive."

For how long?

One breath.

Two breaths.

She switched gears.

Lets get him out of the bloody clothes—how do I—

"Let's—let's take a bath tonight," she exclaimed brightly, forcing cheer into her voice in spite of her anxiety. She was shivering. "A bubble bath! Have you had a bubble bath before?"

"No," he said, a sardonic smile on his face.

"Then—then let's do that!" she said, thinking quickly through her hideouts.

She rotated using several vacation homes. All of them were luxurious, remote, and belonged to absurdly wealthy people who would never be inconvenienced by her using them without their knowledge. She really only used the homes' bathrooms, since she preferred to sleep in her mirror world.

There was one home that was a beautiful modern-day manor in heavily forested mountains. The bathroom was big enough to fit an entire classroom in, and the tub had luxury jets. The bathroom was already stocked with salts and weird fizzy balls that turned the water different colors when dropped in. A few of them even turned everything bubbly and sudsy.

She guided him to the bathroom. She shakily (accidentally) dumped double the amount of stuff inside the tub before turning the hot water on.

She turned to him. He was looking around the bathroom with absent interest. "Is this yours?"

"Oh, no," she said. "I just use this place… the owners only come here for barely a week in the year."

"I see." He noticed something odd by the tub. She followed his stare. "What are those for?"

Oh.

There were a few tiny water pistols. She had gotten them to play with in the tub. She would shoot the rising bubbles. The memory made her smile. She reached for one, pleased to see it still had water in it. She pointed it at him, squirted it so the water hit his chest, and said, "Pew, pew."

He stared at her.

She stared at him, smiling expectantly.

He took one of the other pistols, and squirted the water at her. In a voice mimicking hers, he said, "Pew pew."

She giggled, and his lips twitched. The somber darkness in his eyes dissipated at her giggle, like the sun clearing away morning fog.

"I had no idea you liked to play with guns," he said, an odd half-smile on his face.

"Only the ones used to pop bubbles," she said, nodding to the bath. Already bubbles were floating up from the steaming waters.

She pointed to one of them. She tried to shoot one as she went, "Pew pew."

She missed horribly.

"Allow me," he said, shooting at the bubbles. "Pew pew."

He missed horribly.

She laughed, and he let out something that sounded suspiciously like a giggle.

In spite of the blood, and the stench of death that clung to him, he still smiled at her. It wasn't a big grin, or one that mirrored her own, but it was still precious. A small, awkward, fleeting thing that warmed her heart.

That was it.

That was her reason to stay, and it was the only reason she needed.

Things did get better from that night going forward. He continued to change slightly while in that organization. The unfathomable emptiness behind his gaze was accompanied by other emotions, and she believed that was a good start. At first, it was only bitter anger, but after that night she got to see more.

He stopped yelling at her. He was no longer cruel to her.

He started to smile more often, a combination of fake platitudes and his awkward sincere half-smile.

It wasn't enough to show he was happy—she could plainly see he was not—but it gave her genuine hope that he one day could be.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

She entered his bleak bedroom, her hands holding a bouquet of flowers. The new year meant flowers had stopped blooming around them, and so she had taken wild flowers from various meadows to place in his room.

He didn't seem to care one way or another. She loved flowers and she wanted to share them with him.

That evening he sat on the edge of his bed, his hands folded together. He looked up when she came in and said, "We're moving."

She blinked, surprised at his use of we. "Where to?"

"In the city," he said. "I was promoted."

"In the Port Mafia?"

"Mm-hmm." He stood up, walking up to her. He used to be the same height as her, but throughout the winter he sprouted taller than her. She thought he was still too thin, and when she asked how often he ate he evasively changed the subject. She had a sneaky suspicion he didn't eat lunches.

Her mouth twisted between a grimace and smile.

The boy reached her. He stretched out a hand and cupped her face.

He had been touching her more and more often in the past few weeks. Previously, she would have had to initiate.

She wasn't sure what brought on the change. She wasn't bothered by it so she never brought it up.

In fact, she rather enjoyed it. Sometimes it would even make her heart flutter pleasantly.

He smiled, although it did not reach his eyes. "You don't have to congratulate me."

Her lectures fell on selectively deaf ears regarding his occupation. She wouldn't hurt him, and she hadn't found the words to convince him to not hurt others. It was a tender subject, and something she hoped to find a way to resolve.

She figured the first step was getting him to appreciate life.

"Where in the city?" she asked instead, not able to bring herself to celebrate his elevated status. She didn't want to know what he did to earn a promotion so quickly—and while so young—in such a cruel organization.

He held out a hand to her. "I'll show you after dinner. It's finally furnished."

"You're not taking the stuff here?" she asked in surprise.

A flicker of disdain tainted his expression.

"I want nothing to do with this place," he said. "It'll be gone by the end of the week."

"Okay," she said, taking his hand. "Where do you want to have dinner?"

"Your pick."

She happily obliged.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

"There are places open across the world right now, aren't there?" he asked, idly swirling his drink around after dinner.

"Yes," she said, thinking for a moment. "Six here… it'd be ten in the morning in England."

"Let's go there after this," he said, pulling out a card. "I need more clothes." He looked over at her, eyes narrowed. "And so do you."

She blinked. "I do? I like this sweater."

"You wear your clothes until they fall apart. You should get rid of things after the first hole."

She puffed up her cheeks. "I don't want to hear that from someone who kept underwear so long that—"

He reached over the table and pinched her cheeks. "Huh? What are you going to say?"

She glared playfully at him, pinching his own cheeks.

They went shopping after they finished eating. She couldn't speak or understand English, but the boy was somehow fluent. Not for the first time, she found herself wondering what kind of past he had before they met.

He needed almost a completely new wardrobe. Not surprising considering how little he had.

What did surprise her was how he shepherded her into clothes shopping as well. They shopped all day—night?—until the girl was struggling to keep her eyes open and swaying on her feet.

Then he told her the address of his—their?—new apartment and they stepped out a reflection from the windows.

It was luxurious.

Shiny marble flooring, a glistening glass chandelier, an assortment of stylish furniture laid about. Her iridescent eyes widened in surprise upon seeing the apartment and furniture because—

"This is all the stuff I circled," she exclaimed with a gasp.

A month ago the two were enjoying a walk through a lepidopteraium (a conservation for butterflies) their topic slowly transitioned into homes. She had admitted to him that she didn't have a good concept of homes since she had lived separately in her mirror world for so long. She had said she thought she would never want to settle down, but—

"I like spending time with you, so maybe it'd be fun to have a home with you?"

The topic was then steered into types of homes and what to fill it with. She didn't know much about it, so the two got a few magazines and they would take turns pointing out things they liked.

Well.

It was mostly her saying how nice things looked, and he would agree or disagree.

"It looks wonderful," she said.

The boy shrugged.

She swayed, exhaustion pressing upon her. She had been up all day and night by that point.

"Time to sleep," he said. "Come on."

"It's fine," she said. "I have a bed in my world. Good night, my friend."

She didn't notice his expression slip as she fell into her mirrored world.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

In the next morning she was surprised that the boy was already dressed and waiting for her.

She stepped out of her mirrored world, pleasantly surprised. His hair was messy but knot-free, and he had clean clothes on. It was a pair of blank pants and a white dress shirt they had purchased yesterday. Accompanying it was the thick black jacket he was given since joining the Port-thing.

As she wasn't as exhausted anymore, she got a better look at the apartment. It was classy. There were a lot of little touches she liked. So many vases to put flowers in!

I'll fill them all up with flowers, she thought, happy by that. And—

"Is that a piano?" she blurted out.

"You comment on the piano before me?" the boy asked. His tone sounded mockingly offended, but there was no pain in his eyes.

"Sorry," she said. "It's—it's just so beautiful."

It was. A beautiful white grand piano only a few paces away from the fireplace. It practically sparkled in the morning sunlight.

"Instead of sneaking into classrooms, just practice on this one," he said.

"R—Really?" The girl gaped. "Really, really?"

"Why do you think I got it?"

"But playing the piano can be loud, you know," she said. "Won't that bother you?"

"It's fine," he said. "It makes you happy."

She folded her hands together, brow creased. His words were lovely—indeed, she ought to be happy he was being so considerate—but she knew him well enough to doubt that sincerity. There was now warmth in his tone, and while his gaze was not as dark as normal, it was far from kind.

She found it hard not to be suspicious of his motives, although she genuinely tried to squash that reaction.

Could a boy who found no value in living, suddenly place value in another person's happiness?

He reached forward. He poked at her furrowed brow. "Stop making that face."

"I'm sorry," she said. "But… why?"

"I've asked you the same thing," he said. "Why do you persist with me?"

"Because I want you to be happy," she said. "I want you to care about living. To care about yourself, and to care about others."

"Why?"

She… didn't have an easy answer. The fact of the matter was, it was simply what she wanted. She did not have an elaborate scheme, or some buried motive. She met a lily-smelling boy who was in a bad spot, and she wanted to help him out. To her, she didn't need any other reason. She wanted to do it, and so she did it.

Relaying that desire, however, was difficult because he could never accept it. She had a feeling he could not accept it.

She supposed that made sense. Had he ever wanted to help someone before? Had he ever had the desire to be kind regardless?

How could he understand something if he had no reference?

Or maybe she was overthinking it. Maybe he kept asking her why to tease her or something.

"I want to," was all she could say in response.

"For such a flimsy motivation, you go through so much," he muttered.

"Why is it flimsy?" she asked. "Because you can't understand it?" She placed a hand over her heart. "How I feel is how I feel. I don't need any other reason. I want you to be happy, and you can't do that if you're too miserable to appreciate life."

"Misery seems too strong of a word," he said.

"Detached," she amended.

"Aren't you the same?" he asked in return. "You view this world through a mirror without ever really experiencing it."

She gave him an amused look. "I've done more things than you, I bet."

He had a ghost of a smile. Small, and gone in a flash. "At the rate you make me try things, that won't be true for long."

She giggled briefly. "I hope that will be true."

He nodded to the piano. "Will you play for me?"

"If you'd like," she agreed. As she moved to the piano, a chiming sound filled the apartment. It startled her, she flinched which elicited a chuckle from the boy.

"Door's unlock," the boy called out loudly. There was a click and someone new swept in.

The man wore a white labcoat, and a dark dress shirt with a red tie. He was tall and had short, combed, raven-black hair. His eyes, however, kept the girl's attention.

She was so accustomed to seeing dull eyes that meeting someone with such vibrancy threw her. THe man before them had a lively gaze, although she did not think it was kind. Rather—

—cold.

Goosebumps crawled down her spine like a centipede.

He was detached like the boy, but not in the same way. The boy viewed himself and the world separately, and did not care for it. Whereas the man viewed the himself and the world separately, and like the world was a specimen under a microscope. The girl felt an uncomfortable shiver down her spine.

She walked over to the boy, nervously reaching to him. She intended to push him behind her, to protect him, but as soon as she was close enough he grabbed her hand. The boy pulled her sharply to his side, hard enough it hurt her arm and she stumbled into him.

The man looked vaguely amused by the action. He promptly dismissed them and looked around the apartment.

"I don't want to know how you afforded all of this," the man exasperatedly sighed.

She blinked. "Wasn't it because of his promotion?"

The man's expression soured. "Exactly how much do you think a promotion in a decaying mafia will get you?"

Decaying—?

"Irrelevant," said the boy. "The apartment was a gift to me."

"With what money?" the man muttered crossly. He then smiled, "Dazai. You haven't introduced me to your friend."

Dazai?

"Can't introduce someone I don't know," said the boy.

"Aren't you too young to start one-night stands?"

The girl flushed, her ears burned. "I'm not—we're not—and who are you?"

The man's smile curled into something smug. He jokingly bowed. "Ōgai Mori. You can call me Dr. Mori."

"Dr. Mori," she said. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to pick up Dazai. The boss is asking for him," said Dr. Mori. "And Dazai is notorious for ignoring phone calls."

"Only when I'm off duty," said the boy softly.

"Dazai…?" the girl glanced over at the boy. "Why is Dr. Mori calling you that? I thought you said you didn't have a name."

The boy blankly stared at her. "And you believed me?"

"Well, yes…?"

He was incredulous.

Mr. Mori cleared his throat. "Dazai."

"We'll talk later," said the boy who the girl suspected was named Dazai. He reached out with his hand, and curled his fingers through a strand of her hair. His other hand still held hers, and he squeezed it once before he let go. He stepped away from her.

He left with the doctor.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

She lingered in his apartment for that day. She was consistently surprised when she opened a drawer, or cabinet and found it filled. The boy had kept such a barren room inside that nearly empty mansion, it was strange to associate him with all of those items.

She had thought that he, like her, was a minimalist. Although hers was because she didn't have any money and felt too ashamed to steal more than what she deemed necessary. The only non-essentials she indulged in were art supplies.

Even with essentials she was careful to only take from those who would not be burdened by the loss. When she stole her mattress years ago, she stole it from a factory that was going to destroy it anyway because it was "defective." Her clothes were taken from the closets of rich girls near her age that wore them once then wanted something new. All of her food was taken from restaurants bustling with enough business they would not notice a missing plate now and then (and she always returned the plate after cleaning it).

Her companion did not have the same restrictions. He had money to burn, although where it came from she did not know.

The girl picked up and examined the vases. Some were white like her hair, and others were iridescent like her eyes. She wondered if he did that on purpose, or if he simply bought whatever was recommended.

At the thought of him picking things out for her because of her, she smiled shyly to herself. Her cheeks warmed, and a pleasantly tingly electric zing shot through her.

He returned home after dark. He smelled of cigarettes and something strangely metallic that she couldn't identify. He slunk into the apartment with an air of heavy exhaustion. She had been marveling at the view of the city from the windows—they were very high up—when she suddenly felt his warmth behind her.

He did not hug her. He kept his arms to his side as he rested his chin atop her head and pressed against her back.

"Welcome home," she whispered, her heart thumping loudly.

Through the reflection in the window, she saw him close his eyes.

"I'm home," he whispered in return.

"Are you hungry? Did you eat?"

"No and no," he said. "Do you want takeout?"

"Did you eat breakfast? Lunch?"

"I had coffee."

Her face scrunched up into a disapproving pout. The boy's lips twitched.

He teasingly said, "Coffee is better than nothing."

"I would disagree with you on that."

"Mmm… take out?"

"Only if it's healthy."

It was his turn to have his face scrunch up in displeasure. He stepped back from her, his head tilting back as he groaned. "Healthy? I'd rather die."

"Should have eaten better before," she said, unbothered by his protest. He would verbally complain, but he never ignored the food she placed in front of him. His word choice, however, did make her want to pinch him.

"Fine, fine," he said. She turned to face him, folding her hands behind her back. Unreadable dark brown eyes met her gaze.

She shifted her weight to the back of her heels. "Is… Is your name Dazai?"

"Yes. What is your name?"

"I told you, I don't have one," she said, her head tilted as she peered at him.

He stared at her in surprising disbelief. His brow creased, and his tone raised a pitch higher. "You were serious?"

She said with exasperated fondness in her voice, "Why would I lie?"

"Lots of reasons," he said, as he stepped close to her. He cupped his chin, his dark eyes narrowed as he stared at her. "Really? What did your parents call you?"

"I don't know, I don't remember having parents," she said. "I don't remember anything after I woke up in the forest."

There was a shift in his demeanor. He leaned back, his eyebrows raised as he let out a quiet, "Hooo…"

Silence.

"Should I give you one?"

She jerked, startled by that offer. Her eyes were wide like saucers, her mouth fell open although no words coming out. She floundered, her palms outstretched and held up. "I—I couldn't bother you—"

"You're selfishly forcing me to live, and yet you won't let me choose your name?" he dramatically bemoaned. "You really are so cruel, bella dona."

Her shoulders twitched at the sudden nickname. He had only ever addressed her as you. Having a nickname immediately reminded her of the kind doctor who called her snowbelle. She was taken aback, memories of that simpler time mingled in her mind.

The thought of the boy being so kind to her and affectionately calling her something similar made her feel warm inside.

She shyly lowered her eyes. "I—I'm sorry. If… If you have a name for me, I'll gladly accept it."

He cupped her right cheek, his thumb brushed over his lip. He tilted her head up to force her to meet his gaze.

"Zauberspiegel an der Wand, wer ist der Geliebte von allen?" Dazai asked.

Snow White's eyes widened at him speaking in German. She hadn't told him that she also understand German.

"Magic Mirror on the wall, who's the cherished one of all?"

Dazai mistook her surprise for confusion.

"Have you heard of this story? Once upon a time there was a beautiful maiden who captivated the hearts of nearly all who found her," Dazai said, his eyes held a dark gleam to it. The girl frowned, leaning into his hand.

His words and voice were kind and contradicted the wickedness in that gaze. "Even a hunter who was ordered to kill her. She was an unworldly beauty anyone would be envious of—"

His smile twisted.

"She had a heart as lovely as her appearance," he finished. "Does the tale sound familiar?"

She shook her head. She had heard bits and pieces of conversation about princesses—Disney princesses in particular—but she could not think of any story that fit the scenario described.

"Snow White," he said. "There's a magic mirror in that tale, too. Don't you think it fits?"

He removed his hand to brush back her hair.

She blinked, the name ringing a bell.

Wasn't she the girl who ate the poisoned apple?

The tale she recalled was something closer to a story about a girl being naïve and trusting to the point of putting herself in danger. Pretty, certainly, but lacking in intelligence. She couldn't even do anything on her own, always needing to rely on someone else.

She had a feeling he was mocking her again.

And you call me cruel.

She smiled at him nonetheless. "I'll gladly accept that name if it's the one you choose for me."

His smile softened into something sweeter.

A small, awkward, fleeting thing that warmed her heart.

It was so rare for him to smile like that. Although he was teasing her by giving her that name, it still made him happy which in turn made her happy.

She wasn't one to be attached to materials, or something transient like a name. She genuinely did not care what he called her. Names and items could be interchanged or replaced.

A memory could not be.

He could not be.

She took his hand that still cupped her cheek, and she twisted her head into it to affectionately kiss the palm of his hand. "Let's go get dinner, okay?"

"Okay," he agreed, a glimmer of light in his gaze.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

For a month things fell back into a routine.

Snow White was unaccustomed to her name, so when Dazai called out to her it took a few tries before she realized he was addressing her.

The times he had to get up for his job varied, and in turn the nights he came home were also inconsistent. Some nights he was gone entirely until morning.

She was always hesitant to find him when she knew he was working. She didn't… she didn't want to see what he did.

Still, the inconsistencies in his routine perturbed her. She was anxious every time he was late to return, and every time he had to leave before she arrived. It manifested in her fluttering and hovering over him when he was home. Her hands constantly roamed over his form to find his latest injuries. Dozens of destroyed shirts were tossed aside, and the way he went through bandages forced her to obtain them in bulk.

On a late evening he gave her a cell phone with his number already in.

"I'll tell you when I'm going to be late," he said. "Wait patiently here. If you get too nervous, you can text me."

Wait patiently here.

"Then you'll definitely come back?" she asked him.

"As long as you're waiting for me," he said.

"I promise I will."

The phone was awkward to use at first—she had never held one before, let alone used it—but after a few weeks in she was fervently grateful he got it for her.

It helped her stay apprised of his well-being without risking using her ability to spy on him. He didn't want that any more than she did.

And as agreed, she did stay in his apartment for the majority of the day. There was an extra room he gave to her that she set up her easels and paints in. She would watch classes through her mirrors as she painted alongside them.

She couldn't stand to stay cooped up entirely. She adored the world and any time she caught a glimpse of something fascinating or beautiful in her mirrors she wanted to visit right away. There were times where she craved cheerful conversation with strangers, and to innocently play games with highschoolers.

Ever mindful of her promise, however, she always returned before him so she could welcome him home.

Their life wasn't traditional in any sense. She was certain many people would find it odd. Dr. Mori—whenever he visited—would always comment on how strangely devoted she was. More than once he asked what their relationship was and she struggled to define it.

Friend felt too… small.

They weren't lovers. They weren't really family either.

What were they?

Dazai didn't know any more than she did.

Or if he did, he didn't tell her.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

It was well past midnight when he returned home one evening. She had the fire going, the flames crackling in the otherwise silent main room. He had texted her when he was leaving so she went and picked up food to have it waiting for the both of them.

She unlocked the front door for him, and he tiredly stepped inside. He carried a small paper bag. He barely spared a glance to the new flowers she filled the vases with, or the food she had laid out on the coffee table in front of the fireplace.

Snow White guided him to the couch where he slumped into it. He plopped the paper bag on the coffee table beside the food.

"Long day?" she asked.

"Not especially," Dazai said. He picked up the chopsticks and plucked a dumpling from the steaming basket. "An expected ending."

"Ending?" Snow White glanced over at him, curious by the word choice. "What ended?"

"There's a new boss for the Port Mafia now," Dazai said. "Dr. Mori."

Snow White's eyebrow rose. "A doctor is a mafia boss? Don't they take vows to save lives?"

Dazai chuckled darkly at that.

They ate their late dinner in silence. With a full belly, a warm fire, and the relief that Dazai made it home safely, Snow White felt her eyes grow heavy. She couldn't go to sleep yet—she had to make sure Dazai went to bed first, otherwise he was liable to stay up all night playing video games and then be super grumpy the next day—but the temptation was strong.

The two were seated side by side on the couch, their legs pressed against each other. Dazai leaned back in the couch. He casually brushed some of her hair back.

"Did you ever stop to think I might never change?" Dazai quietly asked, his eyes closed. "That I'm… permanent."

The fire crackled, the wood inside split.

"No," she said.

"Really?" he asked, turning to face her. "What if I'm tired in a way that you can't fix? I'm exhausted. More than mentally. More than physically." He wryly smiled, and in the warm light of the fire, his dark brown eyes almost looked like a burning orange. "If I believed in souls I'd say I'm tired in my very soul."

"Even so," she said, brushing her white hair out of her face. "I'll just find a way to help your soul, or something."

"Heh." He brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek. "You're the weirdest person I know."

"Wow, that says a lot coming from you," she teased.

He smiled, eyes brightening ever so slightly. "Yes… some people have called me crazy, you know?"

"No, really?"

He genuinely laughed briefly. It was a sound unused by him, so it came out rusty, sharp, and jagged. He ran his fingers through his messy hair. "Ah. That's right. I got you something." Dazai reached into the paper bag he had brought and pulled out something shiny. Snow White leaned forward, curious to what he brought. "Here."

He placed it into her hands.

It was heavier than expected, and cool to the touch. It was a hairbrush made out of either glass or crystal, she couldn't be certain. Regardless, it was awfully pretty. The way the fire reflected off it made it shine. She smiled and held the brush close to her chest. "Thank you, Dazai. It's beautiful."

"Sit," he said, gesturing to the spot on the floor in front of him. "I'll brush your hair."

Her eyelashes fluttered in surprise. "O-Oh? Okay."

She sat on the plush rug. His fingers ran through her hair, gently pulling out the ribbon she had used to tie her bangs back with. He took back the brush, then gently guided it through her long, soft white hair.

He was slow, and gentle with each stroke. The cool bristles were pleasant against her scalp, and his methodical movements relaxed her.

She was already tired before. Dazai brushing her hair broke the last bit of her resolve. In minutes she was dozing on his knee.

For the first time since he moved in, Snow White slept at Dazai's apartment.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

She had a feeling he was doing it on purpose.

He kept offering to brush her hair right after they ate, and since he was so consistently out late they normally couldn't eat until nearly midnight. Snow White was sleepy when he came home, and coupling that with a full belly and his peculiarly sweet care, she couldn't resist dozing.

She didn't want to refuse—it felt amazing—but she wasn't sure why he kept doing it.

It did astonish her that he was able to carry her to bed without waking her. He was still scrawny for a boy his age, but then again so was she.

Each night he took her to bed with him, and she woke up being essentially used as a body pillow.

Sometimes he'd be asleep on her belly, and other times he'd be nuzzled into her neck. The first few times it happened, she blushed so hard she was surprised she didn't glow in the dark. It made her giddily happy in a way she couldn't put into words. She was concerned that if she verbalized what he did, he'd stop doing it, so she never brought it up.

Her enjoyment aside, she had to admit it was a strange situation to be found in.

Well.

Perhaps strange wasn't the right word.

From a boy who was so unbothered and uncaring about the world to initiate such affection was—

—something.

Hopeful?

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

Snow White drew the brush across the canvas, a vivid color trailed behind it. Her iridescent eyes were narrowed in concentration as she focused on what was in front of her. She had a vague sense of what to paint, and with each stroke the vision became clearer.

The oil paints were heavy and slick, the air filled with their subtle scent. She shifted her weight from side to side as she stood in front of her easel.

"What a piece."

She let out a squeak. She jumped and turned around in fear of the sudden voice. It didn't belong to Dazai, so she was instantly alarmed that someone had come into their apartment without her notice. Her heart thumped painfully.

She recognized the man. It was Dr. Mori, a coworker of Dazai. She slumped in relief, sighing. "Oh. Hello, Doctor. What are you doing here?"

"I came to invite you out for lunch," he said, smiling. He wasn't in a lab coat that day, but rather a long black coat with a red scarf draped over his shoulders. Underneath was an expensive business suit, and he had pristine white gloves.

Snow White glanced down at her hands. They were covered in paint. She had a heavy apron that was heavily stained, but it didn't keep her entirely clean. There were paint splatters on her bare legs and feet, and she was certain she had paint on her face again.

She really didn't understand how she always got paint on herself.

"Um," she said. "I'd be happy to, Doctor, but I need some time to clean up."

"That's fine," he said. "I know this is sudden."

Snow White pulled her apron off and draped it on a nearby stool. She she put away her paints and brushes, Dr. Mori stepped further into the room to admire some of her artwork. One piece in particular caught his attention, and he nodded to it. "Impressive work."

"Thank you," she said.

"Very… ethereal," he said. "Fantastical. Do you sell them?"

"I haven't given it any thought," she said. "Why? Do you want one?"

He gestured to the largest canvas. It was two meters wide and two and a half meters tall. It was the night sky with a shooting star. It was not an accurate depiction of their sky, but something far prettier with vibrant nebulas. "I like this one."

"You can have it if you want," she offered as she used a wet cloth to wipe the paint off her face.

"I'll gladly accept it. Before I do, though, I'd appreciate it if you signed it," he said.

"Signed it…?"

"You've got a name now, don't you?" Dr. Mori asked.

"Ah! Yes." Snow White smiled, using another wipe to clean her fingers. "I'm Snow White. Um… where would you like me to sign it?"

"Somewhere visible," he said. "How about here?" Dr. Mori tapped the bottom right corner.

"Are you sure? I can write on the back—"

"No need," he insisted. "I'll have someone pick it up later tonight. Are you ready?"

"Yes," she said, checking that her shorts didn't have any paint on them. "I think. Do you see any stains?"

Dr. Mori tilted his head. "Turn around."

She did.

"No, you're clean."

She brightened. "That's a relief. Where would you like to have lunch? Is Dazai joining us?"

"Dazai's busy, and I was going to let you decide. Do you have a favorite restaurant?"

"Actually I do. There's this cute little shop in Milan that has the best calzones," she said cheerfully.

The doctor seemed surprised by that. "Milan—?"

Snow White stretched out her hand, a large thin, crystal mirror formed in front of her. Its reflection shifted until it showed the bustling shop. It was three in the afternoon in Japan, which made it eight in the morning in Milan. One of the reasons she liked the restaurant was that it opened early so she could usually time it perfectly.

She tapped at her back pocket in her denim shorts, checking to make sure she had the black card Dazai had given to her. Satisfied it was still there, she offered her hand to Dr. Mori. "I'll help you through the mirror, Doctor."

Dr. Mori accepted her hand, his expression brightening to that of amusement. "You're a plethora of surprises."

"I think I'm rather ordinary, Doctor."

For some reason he laughed at that.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

Dr. Mori was a weird man, Snow White had decided.

He was similar to Dazai in how they were both detached. His gaze was never apathetic, however, and always ranged from cold interest to playfully polite. He came by a few times in the week to take her out to lunch, always delighted at each new shop she took him to. He graciously paid for their meals, and was excellent company.

He had a way to keep the conversation going even when Snow White ran out of things to say. He was never rude, and at times she found him to be rather charming.

However she couldn't dismiss his eyes.

There was a darkness in them, like Dazai.

He had become the Port Mafia boss for a reason. He must have taken lives. The thought made her uncomfortable.

She couldn't fathom ever wanting to do something so… extreme. Unlike Dazai, the man wasn't disinterested in life.

Quite the opposite.

It was because he was interested in life that he took actions against it.

A "rational" conclusion as he casually referred to it.

When she flinched at that, he laughed and said, "What's someone like you getting entangled with a kid like that?"

"Having different views doesn't mean we can't get along," she said in retort.

The doctor laughed again.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

She held his hand as they walked along the beach. Both of them were barefoot, the warm sand crunched underneath them. The waves of the ocean lapped gently against the shore, some of the tides reached up to wet their feet.

While she was in a swimsuit, he stayed in his black pants and white dress shirt. Although she did convince him to roll up his pants and sleeves, and discard his tie and jacket. He had taken all of his bandages off.

He had gone an entire month without getting injured, or hurting himself. She was inordinately proud of him. In her good mood, she brought him to a deserted island she had found so they could enjoy an evening picnic and watch the sunset.

"You can't give Mori any more paintings," said Dazai.

Mentally, she had stopped calling Mori a doctor. Although he had a degree, the man clearly had no intentions to save lives.

Snow White cocked her head. "Huh? How come?"

"He's getting too smug about it."

Snow White giggled. "How can someone be smug about it?"

Since the first time she gave him one of her paintings, Mori had requested a few more. She didn't have a strong attachment to them, so she freely gave them when he asked. Even if they fundamentally disagreed on the value of human life, he was pleasant company.

Snow White did not have many consistent relationships. She enjoyed the anonymity of meeting strangers and befriending them for a brief time. For years Dazai had been the only one she returned to, and so "befriending" Mori over the past few months was a nice change of pace.

As long as the topic of ethics relating to life didn't come up, the two got along swimmingly.

Although privately, she had the impression their friendship was shallow. She couldn't explain it, but she had the distinct feeling that he saw her as a tool. A tool for what, she couldn't say.

"You haven't given me any paintings," Dazai muttered petulantly.

"You haven't asked."

Dazai swung their hands back and forth. "That's a flimsy excuse."

She giggled louder at that. "Excuse? That's the reason."

Dazai sighed loudly, tugging her around so her back was to the ocean. Suddenly a huge wave came in and crashed up against the back of her legs. She let out a small scream of surprise, not expecting the cold water to suddenly reach so far up her legs.

He snickered from her reaction. "Why are you shocked? It's natural to think you'd get wet at a beach."

Snow White narrowed her eyes. She pointed accusingly at him. "You pulled me into the wave."

"Obviously."

"That's it," she said. "It's your turn."

Dazai grinned, stepping back. "I don't think so."

He turned and ran. She squealed and ran after him. Tragically for her, since joining the mafia Dazai had regularly trained in self defense. That, coupled with her forcing him to eat healthily and take care of himself, meant that the once stick-figure-thin boy was officially toned and exceptionally fast.

They ran along the beach, Dazai taunted her along the way. Several times she was close enough to graze his shirt, but he twisted his body out of the way each time and teased her while doing so.

She was determined to catch him and tackle him into the ocean!

Her pursuit was immediately halted, however, when she saw something horrifying pop up from the sand. She screamed, stumbling to a halt and jumping back in alarm.

Dazai immediately turned around, chocolate eyes wide. Then he noticed what she was screaming at.

He burst out into laughter. The sound was sharp, loud, and uneven. He clutched at his gut, doubling over.

"WHAT IS THAT?!" Snow White shrieked in terror, dashing around it to hide behind Dazai. "Is it an alien?!"

He was wheezing. "Snrrrk."

It was long, wrinkly, and squirmy. It was thick, fleshy-colored, and the way it popped up out of the sand completely scared her. Suddenly the hole at the very tip of it spurted out wet sand.

"It's a—hehehe—it's a—ahahaha—c-c-clam," Dazai wheezed out. "Your face—ahahaha—"

"That is not a clam!" Snow White insisted. "Clams come in shells!"

Dazai continued to laugh. Her face heated up in embarrassment. Flustered, she continued to argue, "It's—it's not a clam."

His laughter slowly died down to snickers as he walked over to the wiggly thing. He dug into the sand and pulled out a long shell with a gross, wiggly, fleshy, thing squirming out of it. "C-Clam."

"That—that's a mutant clam then," Snow White whispered, staring in abject horror at the strange creature. "R-Right?"

"No," he said. "Heheh. You poor thing. Seeing a clam must be so traumatizing."

Her cheeks burned. "Sh-Shut up."

"What a monster," he mocked, waving it at her. "Want to hold my hand again? Do you need a nightlight tonight?"

"D-Dazai stop it," she warned, flinching when he brought it close to her face.

"Or what?" he cooed. "Going to scream again?"

"I warned you," she said.

Dazai smirked. "Oh no. Are you going to faint now?"

She tackled him, body slamming him into the tide.

"Oof," he said, and a wave crashed into both of them. She pushed her wet hair out of her face, and wiped the water out of her eyes. Dazai's hand rested on the small of her back as he sat up with her still in his lap from tackling him. He said, "That wasn't nice."

"You're not nice," she muttered rebelliously.

He smiled with mirth. Her chest tightened, she reflexively smiled back.

He said, "You're right. I'm not."

Then he flipped her over as another wave came in, effectively using her as a shield.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

Yokohama.

The most prominent port city in Japan located in the Kanto region. At the heart of the city stood five massive black skyscrapers that was the base for the Port Mafia. A skyscraper for each executive and their operations. Of course with five executives and and one boss overseeing them all, that meant that the boss shared a building with one of the executives.

Dazai had purchased an apartment in the building that Dr. Mori mainly operated out of. He wasn't an executive, but was practically considered Dr. Mori's right hand. Dazai was the lead strategist and assisted—guided—numerous groups. In spite of his age and lack of experience, many members would defer to him or treat him with respect.

Snow White came to learn all of that second hand from Mori. She was conflicted on if she should feel proud of his accomplishments, or disheartened at how invested he had become.

She didn't want to give up hope that he could move out of that life.

After all, when she first met him he never smiled and now she could get him to smile at least once a week. Sometimes even laugh!

He was getting better—or—or at least…

She hoped he was.

One morning she was painting in her art room. What was once a blank room was filled with paints, brushes, buckets, canvases, and so on.

She was painting with warm colors on the edge a white canvas. The center of it was blank. It was meant to be a piece of love, and at the center she'd put what she loved most.

The issue was she hadn't decided on what exactly that was.

Flowers? She loved flowers. She was especially fond of lilies.

Food? It was true she thoroughly enjoyed a good dinner.

Maybe a scenic view of one of her favorite spots?

The white piano she loved to play? Maybe a few lines from one of her favorite songs?

There were so many wonderful choices, she struggled to pick only one.

Procrastinating her choice, she laid out a dozen jars of her favorite colors. She hoped she'd be able to narrow her decision if she picked the color first. Snow White squinted as she peered at her options. She stared hard at a pastel blue, pondering on if she wanted to go in that direction or not.

Something cold and wet touched her cheek. She turned her head to the source.

Dazai had used a paint brush to splatter paint against her cheek. She hadn't even noticed him enter the room. He was in a casual shirt and pants, and barefoot. He had that day off because he worked until dawn. Snow White was barely able to get him to eat something before he passed out in bed. She hadn't anticipated he'd be up so soon since he was only asleep for a few hours.

She swatted the paint brush away from her cheek. "Hey!"

He swiped the paint over her nose, deadpanned.

"Hey!" she yelped, using her brush to try and swipe at him. He jumped back and out of the way. She gave chase, following him out of the art room and down the stairs. She lost sight of him when he turned the corner and she sped up.

She reached the corner, however, he jumped out and swiped her arm with paint. She used the opportunity to fling wet paint at him. It flicked across his face, creating an odd whiskered pattern that made her laugh.

As soon as she started to laugh, he smiled. The darkness in his eyes abated for merry mirth.

The hunt was on. The two chased each other around the apartment, making brief stops in the art room to refuel on paint. Within an hour they were covered in paint, out of breath, and filled with fondness.

"I think it's time for another bubble bath," Dazai casually said as he examined his thoroughly painted hands.

"Pew pew?" she teased.

"I got the new SuperSoaker™ and—" Dazai nodded to a paper bag with the logo of a candle on it. "—fresh bombs."

Did he anticipate taking a bubble bath together? Snow White wondered. He always had a knack for picking up a new water gun, or new bath bombs whenever they got dirty enough to warrant an impromptu bubble bath. It was like he had a sixth sense for it.

Huh.

Actually, once she thought about it, he was always the reason they got so dirty in the first place.

She asked, "The kind that makes the floaty bubbles?"

"Yeah."

"Shoot off rematch?"

"You'll lose again."

"I'm getting better," Snow White bluffed. She was not. She was a terrible shot.

He smiled slyly. "Sure."

At his smile—

Small, awkward, and lovelier than any flower.

—not so awkward anymore?

Snow White's gaze softened with warmth. Affectionately, she reached forward and took his hand. "Before we clean up, can I ask a favor?"

"What do you want?" he asked.

She guided him back into the art room. She gestured to the opened cans—more had been open in their spontaneous game—and said, "Pick a color. Pick your color."

"My color…?" Dazai mused. He looked around the room several times until he settled on a dark scarlet. Snow White guided his right hand into it, immersing it in paint. She chose a pale blue for herself. She motioned Dazai to stand by her and her current canvas. He did so dubiously, curiosity in his eyes.

She pressed her hand paint-covered into the center of the canvas, and using her free hand she grabbed Dazai's and pressed his over top. His fingers slid between hers. His hand was larger than her own, so his fingers stretched above hers. She pressed both of their hands together into the center of the canvas for several long seconds.

Satisfied with the imprint, she pulled them away and admired what was left.

Because they already had paint on their hands, their chosen colors were splattered and intermingled with other vibrant hues. With the paint still wet, some of their outlines bled into one another. It wasn't bad enough to make it indescribable, but it was noticeable enough to draw attention to where they were together.

"I think," she said, "this one is my favorite."

"You know," he said, "I think it's mine too."

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

Snow White sang a song to herself as she carefully clipped the wild flowers. It was time to replace the flowers in the vases as they had wilted away.

She did consider planting flowers and trying to raise them, but she enjoyed the unpredictability of finding wild flowers in strange places.

Her phone dinged.

Only two people in the world had her number. Mori, and Dazai, neither of which were the kind patiently wait for her. Mori would tease her if she was late, and Dazai would severely tease her if she was delayed in responding.

Last week she had been out playing soccer with some random high schoolers when she missed a message he sent to her.

In retaliation, he dumped a bucket of geoduck clams on her while she slept. She screamed and bolted out of the room, she tripped over the bedsheets and face-planting. He howled with laughter.

Snow White pulled out her phone, opening it up to see a message from Dazai.

Dazai: Come here.

Dazai: Bring coffee.

Dazai: *picture of exhausted cat*

Snow White smiled fondly. On long or rough days, Dazai would ask her to bring him things. Snow White straightened up and brushed out the grass that had gathered on her dress. She adjusted her grip on the trimmed flowers. She returned to their apartment to place the flowers in a vase. Once done, she picked up a cup of Dazai's favorite coffee—along with hers—and then used her mirrors to meet up with Dazai.

Dazai had been waiting for her at a dingy arcade. It was loud, and halfway filled with children and teenagers. Dazai stood out from the crowd due to his nice suit and grumpy demeanor.

Snow White smiled serenely at him. She held out his coffee. "Here."

"Thank you," said Dazai, accepting the warm cup and taking a sip.

"Huh? You ordered coffee?" a boy scoffed. He was a boy close to their age with deep gray-blue eyes, and curled orange hair. His eyes narrowed as he glared at the other cup in Snow White's hands.

Snow White glanced between the two of them, perplexed that Dazai was with another boy their age. There weren't any other teenagers in the mafia, and Dazai vehemently detested spending time with civilians. Snow White was the exception, he had told her, not the standard.

"I need it to deal with your tantrums," Dazai sneered.

"Deal—? Are you two working together?" Snow White was curious.

"For the moment," sighed Dazai.

Snow White perked up. She held out her coffee to the boy. "Um, here, please accept this. It's my favorite. Oh, um, I'm Snow White."

The boy warily looked at the coffee. "Blatant poison?"

"If we wanted you dead, do you honestly think we'd poison you?" Dazai groaned. "Stupid brat."

The boy glowered, his cheeks red with anger. Wanting to appease him and make nice, Snow White took a drink from the coffee. She then held it out again with a smile. "See? It's safe."

The boy grimaced as he accepted it. He took a sip from the drink, his sour expression lifting to incredulous delight. "Huh. This was yours, wasn't it—ehh—Snow White?"

"Yes," she said. "Do you like it?"

"'S'not bad," he said. "I'm Chūya Nakahara by the way."

"It's nice to meet you, Chūya," said Snow White.

Chūya nodded to Dazai, his gaze never left Snow White's. "You really friends with this asshole?"

"He's dear to me," said Snow White. "Are you two working on a mission together?"

"Something like that," muttered Dazai. "You can ignore him, Snow White. He's not worth your energy."

"Huh?!" Chūya angrily growled. "Why are you so pompous, you arrogant shithead?"

Dazai scoffed. "For starters I know more than you."

"Like what?"

"Why would I tell you anything?" Dazai tapped the arcade machine beside him. "You haven't beaten me once."

"That's it!" Chūya snapped. "Last round. Winner takes all, and the loser has to obey a command."

Dazai wickedly smiled. "Promise?"

"Promise!"

"Fine," Dazai sung smugly, radiating an aura of smugness.

"When I win," Chūya said, taking a position at the arcade. "You're going to tell me everything."

"Not a chance," Dazai flatly rejected.

Snow White moved to stand behind Dazai as the two boys chugged their coffee then loaded up the game. It was some kind of fighter game. They picked their characters and the game began. She guessed they must have played it while waiting for her since the game was already loaded.

Unfortunately for Chūya, Dazai completely beat him. As soon as the machine let out a K.O. Dazai grinned ear to ear. The boy cooed, "Remember our promise? The loser has to obey an order from a winner like a dog."

Chūya slammed his head into the machine, groaning.

"Now, what should I have you do?" Dazai continued gleefully.

"I was so sure I would win!" Chūya bemoaned loudly.

Dazai said, "The strength of your ability is your downfall. It's so strong that you never learn to be cunning or to think tactically, whether it's video games or riddles."

"Riddles?" Chūya slammed his hands on the arcade. He bristled with anger. "I don't remember ever doing riddles, let alone losing!"

Dazai's tone was drenched in mockery. "Then let's have a contest to see who can catch the perpetrator first. If you win, we can call off the bet we had. But if I win, you're my dog for life."

Chūya snarled, "You're on, I'll do it. I'm neither cunning nor tactful? Why would I ever show you what I have up my sleeve?"

"Hoo~" Dazai leaned into Snow White. Snow White couldn't resist running her fingers through his chest brown hair. She had combed it earlier that morning, yet it was already disheveled.

The orange-haired boy looked ready to retort when he noticed something behind them. He grimaced, pulling up his hood and ducking behind the arcade. Snow White leaned over the machine. "Are you okay?"

"Shhh," Chūya hushed her.

Dazai tugged on her sleeve, nodding to the door. "Those two?"

There were two more teenagers entering the arcade, one boy and one girl. They, like Chūya, were dressed in casual attire. Chūya was dressed in a simple jacket with jeans, an outfit that would easily let him blend in with a group of teenagers. The two new teenagers that entered, however, wore louder clothes.

The girl had dyed pink hair that Snow White was immediately fond of. Snow White always liked pink hair. From how the girl dressed, it was clear she was mindful of her appearance and put a lot of thought in all of her accessories and clothes.

The boy had gray hair, although Snow White did not think it was dyed like the girl's. It was heavily gelled and sculpted to maintain a "just got out of bed" style. That, in conjunction with his accessories and gangster-like clothes told Snow White he was a boy who cared about appearances as well.

Dazai said, "The blue bracelets they're wearing… they're members of the Sheep, aren't they?"

The Sheep were another gang in the city, mostly made up of teenagers. They were rivals to the Port Mafia. Snow White didn't know much more about them other than that.

"Are you in trouble with them?" Snow White worriedly asked.

"No—not—not like that," Chūya said. "But this wouldn't be a good look for me. A Sheep working with the Port Mafia?"

Chūya's a Sheep? Snow White thought. Then why's Dazai working with him?

Dazai blinked once. Loudly, he said, "Hey, Chūya Nakahara! Let's get to work! BOSS'S ORDERS."

"You idiot!" Chūya whispered-shrieked while Dazai stuck his tongue out at him.

"Dazai," Snow White chided. Dazai sighed and buried his face in her chest. He loosely wrapped his arms around her waist. Snow White patted his head while giving Chūya an apologetic look.

"Chūya!" the teenagers had spotted him and rushed over to where they were. The boy said, "We were looking for you."

Chūya cleared his throat, his flustered panic evaporating as he coolly said, "Oh. Hi."

The boy urgently said, "Akira and Shougo were abducted by the Port Mafia. Let's go to their base and give them some pain."

Snow White could feel Dazai smirking against her. He pulled away to smugly watch Chūya's reaction.

Chūya didn't bat an eye as he said, "Don't worry about that. We're dealing with that right now."

"Dealing with it—?"

"Yeah, dealing with it," Dazai cut in, never dropping his smirk. "Never mind that. Could you tell me what you learned about Arahabaki?"

"Ara-what?" Snow White whispered.

Dazai pinched her side lightly, causing her to jump. She bit her tongue to keep herself yelping at the ticklish sensation.

"Who're they?" the boy asked, looking over at Chūya.

"Are they interested in joining?" the girl inquired, warily staring at Snow White.

"Something like that," Chūya flatly responded. "Sorry, but would you mind answering his question?"

"Sure, I guess," the boy said slowly. He turned to face Dazai. "Based on our investigation, rumors about people seeing the previous Port Mafia boss or the black flame have exploded in the past week."

What? Huh? Snow White blinked vapidly, not following along with anything that was being said. She could only infer it was related to the mission Dazai and Chūya were on. It was clearly something important enough that even a member of the Sheep was working with the Port Mafia.

Snow White had very little knowledge about the Port Mafia's previous boss, and what she did know was told to her in off-handed comments.

The Port Mafia's previous boss was ruthless. An extreme killer who thrived on chaos and bloodshed. His reign descended into that of pure terror in the last few years because he became increasingly paranoid and delusional. He was nothing short of a monster wearing human skin. It was a good thing he died before things got too out of hand. Dazai mentioned once that if the previous boss stayed in charge for even a year longer, the city could have been utterly destroyed.

If the supposedly dead boss had been spotted, that was cause for concern.

Dazai asked, "What's the oldest confirmable rumor?"

"Probably eight years ago," said the boy. "The giant explosion that created Suribachi City at the end of the war. Arahabaki didn't cause any damage prior to that."

Suribachi City. It was on the edge of Yokohama's territory. Eight years ago, at the end of the Great War, there had been an explosion that created a massive crater. The city was built into that crater. Snow White hadn't had the pleasure of visiting the city in person. By the time she was made aware of its existence, Dazai had sternly warned her to stay out of it. It was crime-ridden, and dangerous for someone as "oblivious" as her.

"I thought so," said Dazai, leaning more into Snow White. She had to adjust her arms to better support him, he almost had his entire body weight pressed into her.

"Are these kids really wanting to join the Sheep?" The girl was blatantly suspicious.

"More importantly, let's come up with a plan to get our guys back," said the boy. "They were abducted from the factory road past the river."

"Hang on," Chūya sharply said, standing up. "You went past the river?" He scowled, harshly scolding them, "You went to steal booze again?! So close to the Port Mafia base?! We're in the middle of a gang war, it's like asking to be abducted."

"Please don't shout," the girl cried out.

"We're upholding our defensive policy, aren't we?" the boy argued back. "Besides, this is a good opportunity. Lay your hands on the Sheep and we hit back a hundred times harder. Right? Isn't that what you always say? That anyone who has the means others don't, they ought to fulfill that responsibility. Fulfill your responsibility as someone who is Gifted. Please."

"Interesting," commented Dazai. "You two sure are fascinating. He's the one with the strongest power, and he behaves like a sheep in the eyes of wolves. It seems leading an organization is a lot harder than you'd imagine."

"Bastard," Chūya muttered, coldly glaring at Dazai.

Dazai smiled callously. "You can't take him with you. He's busy carrying out the Port Mafia's orders right now."

"Hey!" Chūya yelped.

"That's impossible," the girl retorted. "Right, Chūya?"

"You're with the Port Mafia?!" the boy asked, staring at Dazai and Snow White with disdain. He pulled out a knife, pointing it at them. Snow White immediately tensed, and Dazai's arm around her tightened.

"Wow, I'm so scared," Dazai cooed. "You got me. I'll do anything. Just don't kill me. I know! I'll ask Mori to release the hostages, so please spare me."

Dazai casually pulled out his phone with one hand, still leaning against a flustered Snow White who couldn't take her eyes off the knife, and called Mori.

"D-Don't call him! Wh-What are you doing? H-Hey, are you listening to me?" the boy asked, his voice drenched in fear.

"Hi Mori! Mm. Yeah, we're almost done. Regarding that, I want to ask for a favor. Could you release the Sheep hostages? Yup, that's right. Immediately. Unharmed. Huh? No. No. Absolutely not. Mn. Mn. Fine. Bye."

Dazai closed his phone, and slipped it back into his pocket. Shortly after, the Sheep teenagers received messages on their own phones. The boy said, "The guards are contacting me."

"They've all been released…?" The girl was astonished.

"What are you playing at?" asked the boy.

"Are we done here?" Dazai returned. He stopped leaning on Snow White to stand up. He grabbed her hand. "We have work to do, let's go."

"Work?" the girl scoffed. "Chūya doesn't do work for the Port Mafia." She hopped over to hook her arm through Chūya's. "Come on, Chūya."

The girl tugged on him, but he wouldn't move. "Sorry. You guys go without me."

"Huh?"

"What are you saying?!"

"Arahabaki comes first. I made a bet with him that I'd find it first."

"Everyone's waiting for you to beat down the enemy!" the boy shouted.

"Lay off him already," said Dazai. "He has the ability to choose for himself how to use his power. Even a kid could figure out that much. There's nothing to discuss here."

Dazai started to walk away with Snow White. Chūya followed behind them.

"Chūya! Stop!"

"Don't you dare forget! You had no family or relatives when the Sheep accepted you!"

Snow White stopped walking.

"Oh dear," sighed Dazai, letting go of her hand.

Snow White turned around to face the two teenagers. "I'm sorry, how you worded that sounded wrong. The Sheep took in Chūya? Out of kindness?"

"That's right!" the girl said. "Out of the kindness of our hearts."

"And he owes the Sheep because of it?" Snow White asked, wanting to confirm she wasn't misunderstanding.

"Exactly," said the boy. "He's a Sheep."

"Kindness is freely given. If you do something with the expectation of getting something in return, you didn't do it out of kindness," she said. "You did it for your own selfish purposes. Holding that over someone else's head isn't right."

"Get off your high horse," snapped the girl.

"Every life is precious," she said. "Everyone deserves to be happy. Chūya has that right as well. If you're his friends, you should support him."

"Support him? When he's working with the Port Mafia?!"

"You don't have to agree with every decision," said Snow White as she turned away. "But you can't call yourself friends if you can't be supportive."

When the three of them left the arcade, Snow White turned to Chūya. "I'm sorry for butting in like that."

"Don't worry about it," Chūya shrugged.

"Have you two eaten yet?" she asked. She smiled. "If not, why don't we—"

"No," Dazai deadpanned. "I refuse to share the table with a snot-nosed brat—"

"HUH? I wouldn't want to eat with a narcissistic bastard like you anyway!"

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

Much to Dazai's exasperation, Chūya ended up joining the Port Mafia before the end of the week. Dazai complained about it to Snow White all throughout their dinner together.

"He was supposed to be my dog, not my equal." Dazai huffed.

"But now he can be your friend."

"Don't you dare suggest that to Mori," Dazai warned. "I'll soak your underwear in hot sauce again."

Snow White reflexively crossed her legs, flushing. "Stop stealing my underwear."

"Guard it better," he dismissed. "Or would you rather I spray IcyHot on it?"

She gasped in horror at the very idea.

"He's nothing but a pain," Dazai continued. "Ugh." Dazai flopped over into her lap, burying his face into her thighs. She ran her fingers through his hair.

"I hope you two will get along," she said.

He muttered crossly.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

The next day, Snow White decided to meet with Chūya. She teleported to him a little after noon, and smiled brightly at him.

His casual clothes were replaced with black suit pants, a white dress shirt, and a stylish long black jacket that he draped over his shoulders. She rather liked his dress hat. He definitely looked like a member of the mafia now.

"Hello Chūya," she said. "Would you like to have lunch with me?"

Chūya warily looked at her. "Aren't you friends with that bastard?"

She blinked. "Does that impact food somehow?"

"You're not going to invite him are you?"

"No, just us," she said. "I thought it would be nice if we could become friends."

"Why?"

Because I think you'll become friends with Dazai, she thought. Anyone who could elicit such vehement emotions—negative or positive—from her normally apathetic companion would catch her attention. Dazai was someone rarely upset, and yet Chūya consistently aggravated him.

Snow White knew it wasn't to any extreme negative degree. If Dazai truly resented Chūya, her friend was clever enough to ensure he wouldn't have to associate with Chūya. Whether by skillful manipulation of the mafia, or… hurting him.

But Dazai didn't do any of that.

So Chūya annoyed Dazai, but in a good way.

Snow White had seen Chūya's temper and knew better than to say that. For some reason the boys adamantly refused to acknowledge they could get along.

Mori told Snow White that he thought they'd become friends.

Snow White hoped so. Dazai could use more friends.

And… well… so could she.

"I want more friends," she answered honestly. "I like having friends. You seem like you'd be a good friend." She smiled in earnest. "It's okay if you don't want to."

The orange-haired boy seemed taken aback for a few moments. He glanced away, clearing his throat. "Uh, no… that's fine. Sure, let's have lunch."

Snow White beamed.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

When Dazai found out, he set up a trap on the toilet to spray IcyHot on her bum when she sat down; and when she went to go eat her ice cream in comfort while her bum burned, she learned the hard way he replaced her tub of ice cream with mashed potatoes.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

Her circle of consistent contacts grew since then.

Dazai. Mori. Chūya.

She had three friends, all with wildly different viewpoints than her own.

Dazai, who was apathetic; Mori, who was obsessively rational; and now Chūya, who was stubbornly impulsive. There were fundamentals they could not agree on, but that didn't stop them from enjoying her company and vice versa.

LIke with Dazai, Chūya was mindful to keep the Mafia-related conversations to a minimum.

For a year things were nice. Every day she got to spend time with one or more of her companions, all the way she spent her free time practicing art or music. She continued to explore the world and would help random strangers she met along the way.

She watched over the happiest moments humanity had to offer and her heart continued to swell with love.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

She had a tiered bento box prepared for her, Dazai, and Chūya.

About once a month she could get them to agree to lunch together with her. They'd bicker the entire time, and would complain about it afterward.

Yet they still agreed to it the next month.

For that meal she found a beautiful spot in an abandoned park. She brought them both to the gazebo that overlooked the forested park. The grass was a lush dark green, and there was a nearby creek so the sound of clean running water could always be heard. It hadn't been used by humans for a few years by that point so there was no trash and the plants were only a little overgrown. There tall blue hydrangea bushes mixed in with azaleas that tinged the air with their floral scent. As the three of them stepped out of her mirrored world and into the gazebo, a gentle rain fell.

They were shielded from the water under the gazebo. Chūya grimaced upon seeing the rain. "It's raining."

"Wow, really?" Dazai sardonically asked. "Ugh. Let's go somewhere else, I don't want to get wet."

"You won't get wet," Snow White said as she set the bento box down on the only table. "Isn't it nice?"

"It's wet," Dazai deadpanned.

"Uh-huh. And pretty." Snow White looked over the park with fondness. "I like it."

"You like everything," Chūya dismissed.

"That's not true. I don't like clams."

Dazai smiled slyly at that.

"Come on," said Snow White. "Let's eat up, okay?"

"'Kay," they said. Chūya started to unpack the box, grinning when he noticed some of his favorite foods had been chosen.

They enjoyed their lunch together. Or at least Snow White did. Dazai and Chūya kept making snide remarks to one another. In between their conversations, the rain persisted. The smell of the wet flowers and grass was crisp and refreshing.

With full stomachs, it was then time to pack up the lunch and return to work. Snow White put her empty cups in the box. Instead of continuing to help, she felt drawn to the environment. She daintily stepped away.

She leaned against the podium. She stared down at the mud puddles forming on the grass. She guessed it must have been raining for quite some time.

Hmm…

She bent down and tugged off her shoes. She jumped into the mud, feeling its cold squish between her toes. She giggled at the sensation, lifting her head up to see the rain slowly fall. Dazai and Chūya glanced over at her.

Dazai said, "You're going to catch a cold."

"That's fine," she said.

"Dumbass," said Chūya.

"Uh-huh," she said as she bent over. She grabbed two handfuls of mud.

The boys went back to packing up their lunch.

She threw the mud at them. It hit their faces.

Their reactions were immediate. Chūya immediately flushed with anger and loudly shouted, "WHAT THE HELL?!"

Dazai, on the other hand, stared at her in disbelief. "I didn't want to think you would be that childish."

Snow White giggled, scooping up more mud. "Whatchya gonna do about it?"

"Considering how awful your aim is, nothing," Dazai said. "That was your only shot."

"Mmm… Chūya, are you really going to miss this opportunity?" Snow White teased. "Dazai's completely helpless and there's so much mud."

"Do. Not," Dazai hissed.

Chūya grinned wickedly. He took off his shoes, and while he was doing so, Dazai sprinted out of the gazebo. By the time Chūya had his shoes off, Dazai was already armed and lobbed a mud ball at both Snow White and Chūya with annoying precision.

Snow White giggled with glee and ran after him in the rain. Chūya gave chase shortly after.

Unluckily for Dazai, his shoe got cut in the mud so he stumbled. Snow White was able to catch up to him, and she tackled into his legs and gripped.

"I got him! I got him~!"

"AHHHH. NO, NO. LET ME GO! I LIKE THIS TIE." Dazai squirmed in her arms while Chūya grabbed an armload of mud. Dazai wasn't given enough time to react before Chūya dumped the mud right onto his face.

And so the war was on.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

During another joint lunch, Chūya was visibly annoyed.

Chūya and Dazai had recently been promoted to executives in the Port Mafia. WIth the increased responsibility, both of them had to work more frequently together. They were considered a powerful duo and given the most important missions.

Nonetheless, they didn't stop antagonizing each other. Dazai would set little pranks up against Chūya, and Chūya would retaliate with either violence or destruction.

The only times they behaved were in meetings, or in their monthly lunches together.

That lunch they decided to eat at Dazai and Snow White's shared apartment. Snow White picked up the food from their favorite restaurant and the three of them sat on the floor around the coffee table to eat.

"What's got your panties in a twist?" Dazai snidely asked.

"Drop off gone wrong." Chūya clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Kid in my group grabbed the wrong bag."

"How do you know?"

Chūya dumped the contents of a black backpack on the table. Books and papers spilled out.

"It was supposed to be filled with gems," Chūya muttered. "Now we've got to find some brat."

Snow White peered at the worksheet, surprised by what she saw. "That looks strange. Are these addresses?"

"What?" Chūya gave her a look of disbelief. "No? They're math equations."

"But there are letters in there?"

"Yes?"

"Math is numbers," she said blankly, not understanding why there would be letters. Did A mean a certain number? Was it a code that needed to be deciphered? Why would students need to learn that?

Chūya stared at Snow White for several seconds. He spoke slowly, deliberately, "Snow, what's eleven times twelve?"

Snow White blinked vapidly. "Eleven what? Times?"

"Eleven multiplied by twelve."

She stared at him. "I don't know…?"

"No fucking way," he breathed out. "You don't know how to multiply?"

Snow White gave Chūya an incredulous look. "Why would I need to?"
"That's—that's basic knowledge!" Chūya exclaimed, flabbergasted by her lack of knowledge.

Dazai was also looking at her strangely. He pulled out a notepad and wrote 8 ∙ 2 and 16/2. "Can you read these?"

"Eight dot two? What like ¥8.20? And the other one is… a date? February sixteenth?"

Chūya made an odd choking noise while Dazai gaped at her.

"You're almost an adult," Dazai whispered. "How have I never known this about you?"

"You need to learn this," Chūya started to insist, shoving the paper in her hands. "Get a tutor or something."

"Why do I need to learn this?" Snow White shook her head. "I've never needed to before."

"How do you handle money?" Chūya demanded.

"I don't," she said at the same time Dazai said, "She doesn't."

"Wha—how do you buy things?"

"Dazai gave me a card," she said, blinking slowly. "I know how to add, so I just make sure I don't use more than what he told me is on it."

Chūya whirled around, and jabbed an accusatory finger at Dazai. "Stop fucking babying her."

"I mean," Dazai began slowly, his eyes narrowed, "does she really need to learn—?"

"YES. THAT IS BASIC MATH. She should at least be able to read it!"

"Um, don't I get a say in this…?"

"NO."

Snow White pouted, her arms folded across her chest. She looked over at her oldest companion. "You don't think I need to learn that stuff, do you…?"

Dazai did not respond right away. He inhaled deeply as he cupped her face in his hands. His thumb brushed over her lips, chocolate eyes studying her intently for several silent seconds.

He finally said, "You're pretty."

At once her cheeks turned pink. She was acutely aware of how warm his hands were. "That doesn't answer my question."

He pinched her cheeks. "In a way, it does."

"What…?"

Chūya made an odd choking noise.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ

One evening Dazai came home with whiskers drawn on his face.

"Why—?"

"Lost a bet. Over something that should have been impossible. Stupid Chūya," Dazai muttered.

It was rare for Dazai to lose a bet. Exceedingly rare, really. The only time it happened was when something impossible to predict would occur. For example, one bet they had was when a certain shipment would arrive. Everything was going in Dazai's favor when the young, completely healthy, driver had a sudden aneurysm and instantly died. His death was a catalyst for a series of events that delayed—and ultimately destroyed—the ship from arriving.

There was no way for Dazai to anticipate that, and so his timing was off. Every time he lost, Dazai was pouty for a few days. He never took a loss well.

"Hmm."

"What?"

"What do you mean what?"

"That wasn't a hmm I'm sorry to hear that hmm, that was a hmm I'm not happy about something hmm," Dazai said. He squinted in suspicion.

"You always make bets with Chūya," Snow White hesitantly explained. "Never with me. I'm… well… I'm kind of jealous."

Dazai stared at her. "Are you serious?"

"Yes?"

"You're jealous of him?"

"Yes…?"

"But you're—" Dazai gestured to her. "And he's—" He made a rude gesture.

"You never make bets with me," she explained. "I want to have a bet with you."

"Okay, okay. If it means that much to you, we can have a bet." Dazai shook his head in amusement. "I don't understand the appeal."

"Really?" Snow White perked up. "Loser has to obey the winner for one order."

"Deal," he said, holding out one of his hands. "You can pick the game, too."

"Yay! I know the perfect one. Follow me." Snow White guided him through her mirrored world until she stepped out of a reflection where Chūya was nearby.

"Chūya! Do you have a moment?"

"Uh, sure."

"We're playing a game. Whoever wins gets to give an order to the other one," she said. "We need you before we can play though."

He raised an eyebrow. "I'll bite. Why?"

"Because the game is: Let Chūya pick the winner!"

"What?!" Dazai yelped while Chūya started to grin widely.

"I'm your guy," Chūya eagerly agreed.

"No way, that's not even a game," Dazai flatly rejected.

"You said I could pick. Are you going back on your word?"

The look of pain on Dazai's face made Chūya chuckle. Dazai reluctantly bit out, "Fine."

"Great. Three. Two. One. I pick Snow White. Eat shit, bastard."

"Yay!" Snow White cheered. "I win."

Dazai sighed heavily. "What do you want?"

"I want… you to make me a meal," she said, her demeanor perking up at the thought.

"Is that it?"

"Yes," she said happily, folding her hands together. "I've never had anyone make a meal just for me. I've always wanted one. Is that okay?"

Dazai was incredulous. "I would have made you a cup of ramen any time you wanted if you'd ask."

Snow White stared at him for a moment as she thought over what he said. She beamed. "I look forward to it."

"No, no, no, no," Chūya denied, shaking his head. "Don't make her instant ramen. She can't be happy with that!"

"She'd be happy if I boiled an egg for her," dismissed Dazai.

"That's cheap and you know it," Chūya accused. "Then again, what should I expect from a bastard like you?"

"Huh? Sorry, I can't hear you from all the way up here, chibi," Dazai taunted.

"YOU WANNA GO, ASSHOLE?"

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ დ

Another year passed.

He was warmer than before.

Not kind, but more vibrant than when she met him. There was darkness in his gaze, but at least it was not accompanied by cold emptiness. She was not exempt from that look in his eyes, but it was always paired with something… more intense.

She couldn't describe it. Sometimes when he touched her, it felt like he was holding a cherished treasure that would shatter at the slightest mishandling. It was nice in a way, but also very… possessive.

He always had to know where she was. Whenever she visited some place new, she'd take a picture and send it to him to share the moment. He was much more meticulous about who she encountered in the mafia. For the moment, only executives or high-ranking associates even knew of her existence.

And only a handful knew she lived with him, and which apartment was theirs.

He had floated the idea around giving her a security detail, but she rebuffed him. She wanted to freely move throughout the world on a whim and if she had to be mindful of guards she'd feel restricted.

And while he relented at the moment, it was a topic that kept coming up in various forms. It ranged from security detail, to self-defense training, to carrying a firearm, and so on. She didn't want any of his suggestions, and she couldn't understand why he was suddenly so insistent.

It didn't help that Chūya started to agree with Dazai on certain points.

"It's dangerous to go alone."

"You shouldn't talk to so many strangers."

"You need to learn how to stay safe."

It was exasperating.

"Fine!" Snow White exploded during one of their monthly lunches. "I will agree to one guard—ONE guard."

Chūya and Dazai exchanged looks. Chūya begrudgingly handed Dazai a couple yen.

"Did you bet on when I would cave?" Snow White whispered, mildly offended.

"Why couldn't you have given up a day earlier? Then I would have won," Chūya sighed.

Snow White reached across the table to boop his nose. When she leaned back she said, "It's conditional."

"What's the condition?" Dazai asked. He lifted his plate up and dumped the left over vegetables on her plate. Snow White gave him a look of tired acceptance.

"I don't want a guard that will take a life," she said. "No matter what."

"That's impossible," said Chūya. "There's no one like that in the Port Mafia."

"Actually," said Dazai, "I know someone." Dazai smiled faintly. "He's good. I'll bring him by tomorrow."

"Hmm," was all Chūya said.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ დ

The man Dazai introduced her to was a tall man named Sakunosuke Oda, but Dazai called him Odasaku. Odasaku had deep blue eyes, scarlet hair, and a calm air about him.

Snow White politely smiled at the man. "Hello. I'll be in your care."

Odasaku smiled in return.

From that day on, Snow White had a constant companion. Odasaku only left her side at the end of the day when she reunited with Dazai. Some days the three of them would even go out drinking at a small little bar.

And each day, Dazai smiled brighter and laughed a little louder.

Years slipped by as Snow White watched over the boy who once hated life so much he tried to end it. She watched him emerge from something cold and disinterested, to something cautiously curious.

From callous to all, to warm with his companions.

He even got better about avoiding his injuries. His longest streak was a whole two months!

Everything seemed to be getting better—improving—

Then it happened.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ დ

It started with a group invading the Port Mafia's territory.

Nothing too far-fetched.

She knew there would always be conflict in that blood-soaked group. However, it never really affected her outside of their continued argument over the value of life.

She never realized how far her friends went to keep it that way.

She didn't give it much thought.

Until it was too late.

When the group, Mimic, invaded Port Mafia they kidnapped one of their friends. For reasons not yet known, Mori assigned Odasaku to investigate and rescue him. Snow White was unceremoniously "grounded" to the apartment.

For the first time in three years, Snow White was without a guard.

So carefully protected, so meticulously blinded, she wasn't bothered by it. She had gone all her life without being put in a life-threatening situation in spite of her close ties to the mafia.

And so she, against what was advised, went out that day to purchase new paints.

She barely took a step out of the store when something hit the back of her head and her world went black.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ დ

She sunk into coldness that seeped into her bones.

Heavy clouds pressed upon her, vibrating with electricity that rang in her ears.

Tearing pain sliced through her chest, ripping her heart open.

Sensations and memories intermingled like ribbons in the wind. Her mind was a fog of incomprehension. Even when she was able to open her eyes, she couldn't focus long enough to see what was in front of her, let alone what was happening.

Was she asleep? Dreaming?

Did she die?

She couldn't move. Couldn't even open her eyes.

Her world was a ship sinking into arctic waters. She knew, in her hazy state, something was wrong yet she could not ponder what it was. Thoughts slipped away from her like foam on the waves.

Time was irrelevant.

Thoughts were inconsequential.

Nothing mattered.

No one mattered.

She—

"Magic Mirror on the wall, who's the cherished one of all?"

—opened her eyes at the sound of the voice.

The first thing she felt was a warm hand against her cheek.

The second thing was that her entire body hurt. It was stiff, her joints creaking louder than a rocking chair. Her eyesight was blurred, and the ringing in her ears made it hard to hear anything.

Only vaguely could she make out the familiar face above her.

"D… zai…" Snow White whispered.

He pressed his forehead against hers, gently brushing his nose against her nose.

"Sorry," she said.

"Shut up," he said.

Arms encased her. He held her close to his body as he did every night. He picked her up, the motion making her head spiral. She groaned softly into his chest.

"Go to sleep," Dazai said quietly. "You're safe now… you're safe…"

She closed her eyes.

And for three days the streets of Yokohama ran red with blood.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ დ

Snow White returned to reality after a long, dreamless slumber. She awoke in a bed she was unfamiliar with, but she knew the warmth of the body beside her.

Dazai held her close. He tenderly brushed her hair out of her face. Her iridescent eyes fluttered open, meeting with his warm coffee colored eyes.

"Good morning," he said softly.

"Good morning," she said.

"How do you feel?"

"Achy. Where are we?"

"A safe house," he said. "We're… not returning."

She blinked. "What? What do you mean?"

"We're leaving the mafia," he said.

Her heart lurched. At once, a fearsome hope surged inside her. She couldn't keep the awe out of her voice, "We—?"

"Good morning," came a familiar voice. Snow White sat up, her eyes widening when she spotted Odasaku entering the room. She only realized they were in a room she did not recognize. It looked like some high-end hotel. Her head throbbed and she clutched at her forehead, hissing in pain.

Dazai sighed as he sat up. "You should be resting, lay back down."

"What's—what's going on?" Snow White asked, letting Dazai push her back down. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine—we're fine," said Dazai. "Mori tipped Mimic off about you, though."

Horror slapped her. She trembled in his arms, and he tightened his grip.

She had always known that her relationship with Mori was shallow. He was pleasant company when he wanted to be, and while they fundamentally disagreed on the value of human life he never mocked her.

Mori was an extremely rational man. Even if he liked someone, if he needed to use them to achieve a goal he would do so without hesitation. Snow White was no exception to that rule. However, she could not understand how she could be used. She was not a member of the mafia. She neither contributed nor harmed the organization. Targeting her seemed as useful as targeting a random patch of grass.

For such a logical man, it struck her as bizarre.

"What?" Snow White whispered. "Why?"

"Because," he said quietly, "you're my weakness."

Her heart thumped.

Weakness? What did that mean? Mori had nothing against mafia members having a family. What did it matter what her relationship was with Dazai?

How could it be considered a weakness…? No. How could it be considered enough of a threat to justify killing her?

What did her presence, her life, mean to Dazai for Mori to view it as detrimental?

"I don't understand—"

"You don't have to," said Dazai. "It's done. We're leaving the mafia. You. Me. Odasaku."

"What—What about Chūya?"

"He'll be fine," said Dazai. "For now, just rest."

"I'll get us some groceries," said Odasaku. He left the room.

Snow White's chest was tight. "Are we—really—?"

"It's been something I've thought about for a while," he admitted. "This was… the final push."

Her eyes burned with hopeful tears. "Really…?"

"Oh stop," he said. "You haven't won that argument yet. Just because I'm leaving the mafia, doesn't mean I agree with your all life is precious nonsense."

"Then why—?"

"Because," he said, "your life is precious."

Warmth flooded inside of her. Pleasant and tingly, she wanted to shyly avert her gaze. She buried her face in his chest. She shakily whispered, "Are you sure?"

"Mm-hmm. I hope you realize what you did. You're making me live, so you better take responsibility for my life."

"I will," she said, lifting her head so she could meet his eyes. "I promise."

"My entire life," he stressed.

She smiled. "I know. I'll always be with you. Always and always."

"I'm counting on it," he said. "I won't accept anything less."

She brushed her nose against his and then gently kissed his lips.

"Ah," he said. "Well. Now you opened another can of worms. I hope you're ready for the consequences of that."

She giggled. "Worms I can handle. Clams? Not so much."

He laughed. The sound was warm and bright like the sunrise after a long, cold, winter night.

ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)ﾉℷ დ

Artwork done by Candy (Cantrona on TikTok). Wattpad & Ao3 versions of this story have better view of it if you want to try to spot the differences in the reflection.

This was a challenge. If this is ever turned into something more than a one-shot I'll include Odasaku's arc but this was already really long so I cut out a lot of the scenes. It was almost 100 pages. ;;

If people really want it, I'll include a second chapter one-shot of the Odasaku arc.

I wish we got a canon flashback of Dazai's childhood. Sorry if after this gets posted we do and it throws everything off.

For those wondering about Lilly… She's here. But she's not Snow White. ;)

Question: What would you want your Gift to be?

Reviews are love!