"Randou, I will never betray you."
Asou Akiya soothed Randou's unease with that promise, his fingertips gently touching the furrow between the other man's brows.
As for the matter concerning Ozaki Kouyou, Asou Akiya told Randou everything exactly as it was, explaining that she was a pitiful little girl under the Boss's control, someone he regarded as a younger sister, as a child of a daughter's generation. If he did not make it clear, he was afraid that Ranpo—who took perverse delight in disrupting domestic harmony—would excitedly blurt it all out himself.
His honesty.
His love.
These were the things he was doing his utmost to prove to Randou, after casting aside the deception at the very beginning.
Their period of abstinence had not yet ended, and life conducted in the name of love was so pure it resembled heaven, something that could easily calm a person's heart.
Randou believed Akiya's words, falling asleep with the sweetness of love in his chest, along with a faint, lingering sense of dissatisfaction.
He loved his soul more than his body.
After he fell asleep.
In his dream, Randou thought hazily: from whom had he heard a similar promise before? Who had once said they would never betray him? Who had claimed that they were the closest people to each other? Chasing that faint, indistinct feeling, Randou plunged into an abyss. Within the chaotic, disordered fragments of memory, he seemed to see those blue eyes once again.
A man's eyes, blue like the Aegean Sea, gazing steadily at him.
Such a romantic hue.
Why…
Are they so distant, as though they lay at the edge of the sky… impossible to grasp…
Randou wanted to say something, but no sound would come out. Joy and chill seeped forth from his very soul, surging toward him all at once.
Cold…
It swallowed his soul…
So… cold…
"Randou?" Asou Akiya, a light sleeper, sensed that something was wrong.
He propped himself halfway up, and in the pale moonlight of the night, looked down at the long-haired young man trembling in his arms. Randou, who had lived with him for more than two years and whose mental state had long since stabilized, was having another nightmare.
This time, tears seeped from the corners of Randou's eyes.
Tragic, and pitiable.
It was as though he had returned to the period shortly after the explosion, when Randou lived day and night in a state of terror. No, this was even worse than that.
Asou Akiya searched his memory for what he might have said to trigger such a reaction, and realized that only one phrase stood out: "I will never betray you." He firmly believed that he would never betray Randou. Material gain could no longer tempt him; in his relationship with Randou, he had obtained a depth of spiritual fulfillment beyond anything he had imagined, and he was willing to spend the rest of his life at the other man's side.
And yet, in this world, there had once been another person who made the same promise.
That person betrayed Arthur Rimbaud, leaving Arthur Rimbaud with a spiritual wound that would never heal.
They had once been partners, close as hands and feet, as brothers… as lovers.
"It's all right."
Asou Akiya held the trembling Randou in his arms.
"Whoever betrays you, you kill them. Don't show mercy—me included, if I ever betray you."
"There are so many beautiful things in life."
"You are Rimbaud, after all."
"You are the free wind, unbound and unconstrained. In the future, you will return to your homeland in France."
"Your dream has only just set sail."
In the real world, thirty-seven-year-old Rimbaud developed a severe synovial sarcoma. With no one to care for him on the road, he returned to Marseille, France, and brought his adventurous life to an end. He had risen to fame young, been a poet, slept on the streets, endured public scorn; driven by poverty, he had sold keychains and shoelaces. He had also been a sailor, a translator, a trading company manager, a coffee merchant, and more—whenever a profession bored him, he would seek out the next one.
He had ventured deep into Ogaden in search of ivory, encountered the most vicious bandits and ethnic groups who killed and castrated their victims, crossed one dangerous region after another, and had even smuggled and traded arms.
He was arrogant enough to believe he could accomplish anything he set his mind to.
Before his death, Rimbaud still gazed longingly toward the sea route out of Marseille's harbor, wishing to embark on another journey, but his body could no longer support him in going any farther.
—He died of exhaustion.
The final words Rimbaud left to his sister were deeply mirrored in the Bungou Stray Dogs world:
"It is already autumn, the season of leaving. Let's go, I need the sun, the sun will heal me."
So where, then, was Rimbaud's sun?
The Arthur Rimbaud of Bungou Stray Dogs feared the cold to such an extent.
Asou Akiya hoped he could live a little longer, longer than thirty-seven years, and go on to see more landscapes, more of the world.
"My dear," he whispered, "I want to be your sun. If I burn myself to nothing, would that be enough to keep you warm?"
The black-haired young man pressed his forehead against Randou's, gently kissing away the tears at the corners of his eyes.
Randou's tears no longer fell.
He woke up, hearing Akiya's words… whatever he had seen or heard in the dream had already faded beyond recall.
All he remembered was that the person before him loved him more than anyone else ever could.
"Mm."
Akiya.
A man who carried a love so scorching.
In the latter half of the night, Randou could no longer fall asleep. He curled up beside his lover, their fingers interlaced, absently rubbing the ring between them. Asou Akiya spoke to Randou in a low voice, gentle and attentive, his gaze also falling upon his own ring.
The diamond was small, bearing the weight of two years of time.
Asou Akiya was beginning to forget the moment he chose the ring, the careful scheming with which he had approached the other man. In those memories of solitude, Randou's figure seemed to have always been there, as though they had loved each other like true lovers from the very beginning. At Randou's collarbone, a thin chain could be faintly seen, its pendant set with a peridot.
He hoped his love would never fade, like a gemstone that kept its color forever.
"Next year, we'll buy a villa and move into a bigger home. Every room will have the fireplace you like. Our shared study will be filled with our works…"
Asou Akiya spoke softly, painting the picture bit by bit.
Randou listened as his lover planned their future.
A life like this could go on for many years—until the day one of them finally grew weary of it.
...
Northeastern France, the Moselle department.
Near the border with Luxembourg lay a town called Metz. In the Middle Ages, it had been the capital of the Kingdom of Austrasia, and since ancient times it had served as a major thoroughfare linking Roman Italy to Reims in France.
Beyond that, it was also one of France's key military regions, with certain high-level restrictions only being lifted after the war.
Paul Verlaine was born here.
As—
a humanoid weapon.
Casting aside government affairs on a whim, Paul Verlaine returned to his hometown to spend the winter.
The charcoal in the fireplace burned without pause, radiating warmth through the glass. Both its design and style were classic enough that it would never look outdated, even if used in a villa for decades. A blonde-haired young man curled up in a chair, his waist bent with the pliancy of a drawn bow. He dozed lazily, utterly devoid of energy.
It was an antique chair, draped with a vividly colored woolen blanket. When one leaned back, the broad wooden frame emitted a creaking sound—strangely enough, it was rather pleasant to the ear.
The fireplace had been chosen by Arthur Rimbaud.
The chair was something Paul Verlaine had bought while on a business trip abroad.
As for the blanket—it was a free gift that came with their shopping.
Winter, a season the French often regarded as poetic, was nothing but dogshit in Paul Verlaine's eyes. The government only ever dispatched him on missions during the worst seasons, at the worst possible times, without a moment's delay.
They would usually offer their thanks under a banner of gratitude:
"Thank you for your hard work. No one else is willing to go."
An excuse that never went out of fashion.
Yes—other Transcendents had the right to refuse. Only he remained like an unerasable name on a standby list. Wherever there was a need, he would be sent there, as though they meant to bind his personality, his body, and his soul completely under their control. After all, the man called "Paul Verlaine" was one of the government's masterpieces—and also their most reliable trump card.
As these thoughts surfaced, a ripple passed through Paul Verlaine's eyes. Every country had its own characteristics, but the vile things they produced were all the same. He had realized this after infiltrating a Japanese military base.
That small Far Eastern nation was likewise attempting to seize the power of a "god," to manufacture the same kind of vessel.
The difference was that France had succeeded, while Japan was still in the exploratory stage.
In the end, an explosion destroyed Japan's research entirely.
Paul Verlaine let his thoughts wander idly.
"If France hadn't discovered that project… perhaps a counterpart of mine would have been born as well? Someone like me… using a human body… wielding inhuman power…"
He looked out through the floor-to-ceiling window. Winter in France was drier than in Japan, and Paris's climate was slightly kinder than that of Metz.
Paris…
The house at 289 Rue Jacques—was it still there?
That person preferred spending the winter in Paris and was almost unwilling to come with him to Metz, always complaining that Metz was too cold, that the heating systems broke down all the time, and that once you came here, you were indirectly placed under military jurisdiction.
"Why am I thinking about him again?"
The blonde-haired young man frowned, complaining in a tone that would have suited a movie star on the silver screen.
"I said I didn't want to think about him."
"From the very beginning, I was nothing more than the French government's assigned babysitter for him. They called it being partners, but whenever something went wrong, a natural Transcendent-class ability user was more valuable than I was. If something happened to him, I would be punished. If something happened to me… he would probably be just fine. The surname 'Rimbaud' had been aristocratic long before."
"He was so arrogant. I only wanted to see the look of surprise on his face. Even after being betrayed, he reacted so quickly, dodging my attack—stronger and sharper than I had imagined."
"What a pity…"
"You still understand nothing at all, my dear friend."
"For the sake of the nation, you were willing to turn your blade against me, choosing to kill me."
He shifted his body, and the blanket slipped loose, revealing bare skin brimming with unrestrained, decadent allure.
An old-fashioned telephone rang.
"Hello?"
Barefoot, his toes resting on the carpet, Paul Verlaine lazily reached out to pick up the landline beside him.
Several minutes passed—perhaps half an hour.
A French intelligence agent directly under Paul Verlaine reported, "In Yokohama City and the surrounding areas, we have found no trace of the individual you are searching for. On the land of the Yokohama foreign settlement, a district known as Suribachi City has been built. There are rumors that the explosion back then was caused by the vengeful spirits of those who died within the military base, giving rise to the Japanese god 'Arahabaki.'"
Paul Verlaine curved his lips into a faint, ambiguous smile. "A god, huh."
The intelligence agent did not understand the meaning behind his tone and replied respectfully, "There are no remains left at all. We cannot find any clues."
Paul Verlaine fell silent for a second, then spoke again in a light, almost casual voice, "You can return to France. There's no point in staying there anymore. Everyone knows he's dead. The French government has given up as well. I merely thought there might be the slightest bit of hope."
After hanging up the phone, he sank back into his languid state, staring vacantly at the flames dancing inside the fireplace.
—Looks like there's no need for a finishing blow.
"He died cleanly, without leaving a trace. If you were still alive, you would have long since fought your way back to the country."
To be honest, he was not entirely confident about having truly defeated Arthur Rimbaud. Illuminations was a spatial-type ability, and his own ability… unfortunately, was also spatial-type. Even the names of their abilities were similar, like collections of poetry. If someone who didn't know any better saw this, would they think the two of them were reincarnations of poets?
An inexplicable hint of melancholy surfaced.
Probably just an illusion.
Paul Verlaine closed his eyes and softly hummed a French folk tune. With a casual motion of his hand, he tossed a volume of Jean-Nicolas's poetry into the fireplace. The flames surged upward in an instant, swallowing the thin patriotic collection whole.
A strange thrill of destruction burst forth in his chest.
Who would ever fall in love with this country?
Fight, then. Fight on. Drag the entire world into war if necessary—wars that come to a halt are truly unbearable.
"My dear friend…"
"The look on your face when you were betrayed by me… it was exquisite."
On the chair, Paul Verlaine, leisurely passing the winter, wrapped himself once more in the blanket. His hand slid over his own body, and faint goosebumps rose on his warm skin, as though he had, in a moment of haze, realized something.
He was clearly not afraid of the cold, yet unconsciously mimicked the posture of someone who was.
From now on.
He would never have a second partner again.
How wonderful—he had preserved the other person forever at their most beautiful moment, by killing the one he loved.
How wonderful—he could finally feel the fleeting intensity of human emotion as it burst forth.
…
Anguish
I've no belief in God, I renounce, forego
All thought, and as for the old, pale
Flawed Irony, Love – none of that show.
Weary of living, scared of dying; a tale
Of a lost brig, toy of the ebb and flow,
My soul for dreadful shipwreck sets sail.
—Paul Verlaine.